lla.theburninghills-第1部分

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　On　a　ridge　above　Texas　Flat　upon　a　rock　shaped　like　flame；　a　hand　moved　upon　the　lava。　The　hand　moved　and　then　was　still。　In　all　that　vast　beige…gray　silence　there　was　no　other　movement　and　no　sound。
　A　buzzard　swinging　in　lazy　circles　above　the　serrated　ridge　had　glimpsed　that　moving　hand。　Swinging　lower；　he　saw　a　man　who　lay　among　the　rocks　atop　the　ridge。　He　was　a　long…bodied　man　in　worn　boots　and　jeans；　a　man　with　wide　shoulders　and　a　lean　tough　face。
　It　was　the　face　of　a　hunter　but　now　of　a　man　hunted。　A　man　who　lay　with　his　rifle　beside　him　and　who　wore　a　belted　gun；　but　the　man　still　lived　and　the　buzzard　could　wait。
　Below　and　stretching　away　from　the　very　foot　of　the　ridge　to　lose　itself　in　shimmering　distance　lay　the　glaring　white　expanse　of　the　lava。　Beyond　the　lava　and　even　now　riding　up　to　draws　that　would　eventually　open　upon　the　dry　lake　were　three　groups　of　horsemen　who　rode　with　a　single　thought。
　To　left　and　right　of　the　hunted　man's　position　the　b…like　ridge　stretched　away　like　a　great　wall　dividing　the　dead　white　of　the　lava　from　the　broken　lands　beyond。　Once　in　those　broken　lands　south　of　the　border；　a　man　might　lose　himself　in　any　one　of　a　thousand　canyons　and　might　himself　be　lost。
　It　was　a　land　virtually　without　water；　rarely　visited　by　white　men　and　roved　only　occasionally　by　Indians　for　whom　this　was　a　last　stronghold　and　at　whose　hands　no　white　man　could　expect　mercy。
　Great　tablelands　shouldered　against　the　brassy　sky；　lofty　pinnacles　loomed　higher　still　and　over　all　that　red　and　broken　land　the　sun　lay　hot　and　dead　heat　gathered　in　the　sullen　canyons。
　Far　and　away；　beyond　the　broken　land；　some　great　peaks　reached　at　the　clouds；　purple　with　distance；　cool；　remote　and　lost。　In　those　mountains　there　would　be　water　and　there　would　be　grass。　There　a　man　might　find　shade；　there　would　be　wild　game；　there　would　be　sanctuary。　The　hunted　man　had　not　turned　to　look　but　he　knew　the　mountains　were　there。　He　also　knew　what　lay　between。
　Yet　here　and　there　even　in　that　broken　desert　land　between；　if　one　but　knew　where　to　look；　there　would　be　water。
　Northward；　not　yet　within　the　range　of　the　man's　eyes；　moved　the　searching　riders。　Yet　the　buzzard　had　already　seen　those　moving　shadows　that　stirred　not　with　the　wind　but　of　their　own　choice。
　The　buzzard　saw　them　and　after　a　time　saw　that　these　were　men。
　The　buzzard　could　not　reason　but　he　knew　the　patterns　that　led　to　food。　His　entire　life　was　built　upon　such　fragments　of　knowledge　and　he　knew　that　where　such　groups　of　men　rode；　death　rode　with　them。
　They　were　hard　men　bred　of　a　hard　and　lonely　land；　men　with　eyes　red…rimmed　from　sun…glare；　faces　whitened　by　alkali　and　muscles　heavy　with　weariness。　Yet　they　knew　the　man　for　whom　they　searched　could　not　be　far　ahead　and　they　pushed　on；　riding　steadily　into　the　hot　still　afternoon。
　Trace　Jordan　could　not　see　the　riding　men　but　he　knew　they　were　out　there　and　he　knew　they　looked　for　him。　Once；　seven　hours　ago；　they　believed　they　had　him　and　his　blood…stained　shirt　revealed　how　close　a　thing　it　had　been。
　They　had　caught　him　in　the　rocks　above　Mocking　Bird　Pass；　brought　to　bay　like　a　lean　and　hungry　wolf　pursued　by　hounds。　And　he　had　fought　them　there；　a　lean　and　hungry　man；　red…eyed　and　dangerous；　a　man　driven　and　battered　and　hammered　but　a　man　not　beaten；　a　man　who　had　never　been　beaten。
　A　rifle　bullet　ricocheting　from　a　rock　had　ripped　an　ugly　tear　through　the　flesh　above　his　hip　and　he　had　lost　blood。
　They　had　seen　him　fall　and；　not　yet　knowing　the　manner　of　man　they　fought；　they　had　closed　in　for　the　kill。　They　would　be　more　cautious　if　the　chance　came　again；　for　upon　the　rocks　they　had　left　more　than　blood　。。。　they　had　left　a　man　dead　and　another　sorely　wounded　and　when　finally　they　closed　their　trap　they　found　nothing；　simply　nothing　at　all。
　And　then　they　began　to　see　the　fiber　of　the　man　they　pursued；　for　he　had　gone　soundlessly　from　among　them；　leaving　their　dead　behind。　Wounded　…　for　they　found　his　blood　upon　the　rocks　…　but　gone　as　if　he　had　never　been。
　Somehow　he　had　stopped　the　flow　of　blood；　somehow　he　had　left　no　trail；　somehow　he　had　vanished　with　the　desert　swallowing　him；　taking　him　back　as　one　of　her　own　into　the　wild　loneliness　of　canyon　and　lava。
　Lean　and　fierce　and　lonely；　Trace　Jordan　was　a　man　of　wild　places　and　far　countries；　a　man　fitted　by　his　experience　as　a　wild　horse　hunter；　cowhand；　buffalo　hunter　and　prospector　for　the　task　that　now　lay　before　him。
　His　empty　canteen　rattled　upon　the　rocks　when　he　moved；　so　he　lay　still；　trying　not　to　think　of　water；　his　heart　pounding　slowly；　heavily　against　the　rock　upon　which　he　knelt。　It　was　time　to　move　。。。　they　would　be　ing　soon。　He　could　not　see　them　but　they　would　seek　him　out。　And　he　needed　rest　…　rest　and　water。　He　must　find　a　place　to　hide；　to　wait　them　out。
　Sliding　back　on　his　belly　until　the　ridge　covered　his　rising；　he　got　awkwardly　to　his　feet。　He　swayed　then；　trying　to　focus　his　eyes；　gathering　his　failing　strength。　He　had　taken　precious　time　to　climb　up　here；　knowing　that　if　his　pursuers　happened　to　swing　north　or　south　he　could　gain　distance　by　riding　the　other　way。　And　time　and　distance　were　now　the　very　stuff　of　life　itself。
　When　he　reached　his　horse　he　took　time　to　roll　a　smoke　and　while　his　fingers　fumbled　at　the　cigarette　he　considered　his　problem。
　They　knew　the　country　and　he　did　not。　They　would　know　the　trails　and　the　hiding　places　and　moreover　they　had　with　them　Jacob　Lantz；　the　best　tracker　in　the　southwest。
　Jordan　knew　Lantz　by　reputation；　as　such　men　were　always　known　in　the　west。　Tales　were　told　over　the　campfire　by　drifting　cowhands　and　retold　at　bars　and　gambling　tables；　the　stories　of　gunmen　and　trackers；　of　tough　town　marshals　and　crooked　gamblers；　until　the　mind　of　each　western　man　was　a　storehouse　of　such　information。
　Jacob　Lantz　was　a　Dutch　Indian　…　his　father　a　Dutch　trader；　his　mother　a　Ute　squaw。　Lantz　was　a　man　who　tracked　with　his　mind　as　well　as　with　his　senses。　Even　as　his　eyes　spelled　out　the　meaning　of　a　trail；　his　mind　would　be　probing　far　ahead　to　seek　out　the　direction　and　destination　of　the　man　he　trailed。
　A　plan　was　a　dangerous　thing；　yet　a　plan　he　must　have；　a　plan　would　give　direction　and　purpose　to　his　riding；　and　as　soon　as　Lantz　had　time　to　solve　the　plan；　he　must　shift　to　another。　Yet　there　was　a　chance　he　might　lead　them　off　his　trail　by　such　a　plan。
　First；　he　would　need　to　point　himself　toward　an　obvious　destination；　a　way　out　of　the　country。　There　was　a　river　crossing；　one　of　the　few　crossings　of　the　Colorado；　far　to　the　northwest。　That　would　seem　logical　to　Lantz　and　to　the　others；　for　the　trail　would　avoid　towns　and　people　who　might　pass　along　information　of　his　passing　to　his　pursuers。　So　that　could　seem　to　be　his　destination。
　Well　along　the　road；　he　could　turn　suddenly　at　some　point　where　his　trail　would　be　hard　to　find　and　take　an　entirely　different　track。　Otherwise；　knowing　the　trails；　they　might　find　a　way　to　get　on　ahead　and　wait　for　him。
　Stepping　into　the　saddle；　he　walked　the　horse　down　the　arroyo。　Westward　the　country　was　a　series　of　towering　mesas　split　by　deep　canyons。　The　canyons　were　easy　of　access　and　easy　to　travel；　yet　any　one　of　them　might　prove　to　be　a　trap。　He　might　ride　for　miles　to　find　himself　up　against　a　dead　end　and　with　no　way　out。
　He　must　seek　out　a　trail　to　the　top　of　the　mesa。　He　must　ride　up　where　the　wind　blew　and　the　Indians　traveled。　Jordan　slumped　in　the　saddle；　his　body　smelling　of　stale　sweat；　his　clothes　stiff　with　sweat　and　dust。　Under　him　the　horse　plodded　wearily　and　Jordan　knew　the　poor　beast　was　drawing　on　his　last　reserves　of　strength。　Even　that　splendid　animal；　the　last　of　his　captured　horses；　was　being　defeated　by　the　tolling　pace　and　the　rough　country。　And　they　had　been　all　night　and　most　of　the　day　without　water。　A　faint　deer　trail　led　out　of　the　wash　and　he　took　it；　leaving　the　heavy　sand　for　the　easier　travel　of　the　mountainside。　For　an　hour　he　climbed　steadily；　riding　up　a　long　ridge　of　gravel　and　sand　sparsely　dotted　with　bear　grass　and　prickly　pear。　Before　him　the　shoulder　of　a　vast　escarpment　had　broken　down　and　among　the　falls；　some　of　it　huge　blocks　of　solid　rock；　the　deer　trail　led　steadily　upward　toward　the　mesa　top。　Hiding　among　the　rocks　and　favoring　his　wounded　side；　he　turned　in　the　saddle　and　glanced　back。
　He　was　amazed　at　the　distance　he　had　climbed。　The　blike　ridge　lay　some　miles　behind　and　for　a　second　time　he　marveled　at　the　good　fortune　that　enabled　him　to　pick　out　the　one　pass　through　that　wash。
　Trace　Jordan　assayed　his　position　and　found　nothing　to　like。　His　mind　now　worked　with　startling　clarity；　yet　he　distrusted　it；　knowing　this　clarity　was　the　beginning　of　delirium。　He　felt　his　weakness；　knowing　he　needed　rest；　water　and　time　to　treat　his　wound。
　He　needed　no　one　to　tell　him　the　caliber　of　men　who　followed。　Ruthless　and　relentless；　they　would　never　leave　the　trail　until　they　had　left　him　dead。　In　knowledge　of　the　country　and　in　numbers　the　advantage　was　all　theirs。
　His　trail　across　the　lava　would　be　obvious　to　any　eye　but　his　direction　along　the　wash　would　puzzle　them　for　a　while　and　every　delay　was　important。
　His　head　throbbed　heavily。