Deadman Canyon by Louis Trimble

strode back to the dun and mounted.
    He left the cattle grazing and started down the trail leading to the meadow just below. A short distance along the trail, he reined to the right and forced the dun down a ridge that would bring them to the far side of the gorge where the sniper had hidden. He pushed the dun upslope until he decided he’d ridden as close as he dared to the deadfall. Then he left the saddle and went on foot.
    He made his way surely, drawing on childhood memories for the fastest and easiest route to the point he wanted to reach. He approached the top of the slope and stopped. He dropped to his belly and slid cautiously over a hump of rock.
    Now he looked down on the deadfall. There was no sign of movement, no sign of life. Clay climbed to his feet and worked his way from one barren upthrust of rock to the next until he reached the side of the deadfall. He squatted down, studying the ground carefully. It was hard packed but he could make out a long shallow gouge, as if someone had crawled along here, dragging the edge of his boot across the dirt.
    Clay followed the gouge. It made a twisting, turning path that carried him into the center of the deadfall. Here soil-packed roots made a room, the roof high enough for Clay to kneel under without having to bend his head. Directly in front of him was a narrow opening where dirt had been pushed from between entangled roots. He squatted down and peered through the opening. The narrow trail he had ridden on was directly across from this spot. He looked down, hoping to find an empty cartridge case, but as usual the sniper had cleaned up after himself carefully.
    Clay backed out of the deadfall and looked around speculatively. The man had gone westward, he decided. A narrow fold of land ran from the far end of the deadfall to a stand of stunted trees. By crawling west along this fold to the trees, the sniper could have got away without being seen from across the gorge.
    Clay followed the fold until it reached the stand of trees. The forest duff had been disturbed, and he felt he was on the right track. He hurried along the upward pitch of land and almost missed the heelprint outlined sharply in a spot of moist dirt. He stopped abruptly and went to his knees. It was the same sign he had found before — a worn heelprint with a small puncture in the center.
    Now he was sure he was following the sniper and he straightened up and moved on. He came out of the pines on top of a ridge. He saw where the sniper’s horse had been tied to a bush and his eyes picked out a nearby deer track that clearly showed the marks of fresh hoofprints.
    Clay trotted along the ridge until he came to a point above that where he’d left the dun. He plunged down through a tangle of brush to the horse. He mounted and rode back eastward. As he remembered this chopped up land, the trails the sniper had to use led down into the valley only after making a wide sweep to avoid the high cliffs that surrounded the south side of Deadman Canyon. If he was right, he could follow the regular trails down to the bench and take a shortcut from there that might put him in the valley before the sniper could reach it.
    He held the dun back until they were over the steepest pitches. Then he urged it to a faster pace until they were going at a hard gallop as they reached the level trail leading to the bench. Clay reined in at the far side of the bench, trying to recall the exact location of the shortcut he remembered. He turned to his right and rode downslope until a thick stand of timber blocked him. He backed the dun a short distance and circled the trees until he saw the faint, narrow track he remembered.
    Now he moved swiftly again, following the faint track as it twisted dangerously down through thick brush and then across a barren stretch and finally joined with another, equally faint trail.
    From here he could see a corner of his swampland and the judge’s dry south section. He looked down at the trail and