Alias-the-Blackbird-Chapter-04

“BLACKBIRD!” Captain Hammer was muttering. “Damned murdering Blackbird! I know you’re watching me. Blackbird! I can feel your sharp eyes—”

“You just rest easy, sonny,” Cedar advised patiently. “You’re in the police cabin of the Iron Mine District. Ain’t nothing going to hurt you here.”

Aided by the big trooper with the mashed face, Cedar had carried Hammer into the nearby police cabin. Amsel was gone, galloping off on Cedar’s white mule, to fetch the police surgeon, who was with the cordon of officers gathered about the Iron Mine District.

“Hope I’m not making too much trouble,” muttered Hammer.

His pale eyes moved restlessly. His wide lips were set in an attempt to smile. His head seemed to be rocking, like a cracked bell. He lay on his back, fists clenched on his breast; he was counting the cobwebs that dangled from the low raftered ceiling.

“Your Blackbird won’t get away,” promised Cedar. “The whole district’s guarded by men who know the woods, and there ain’t nothing that creeps or crawls going to get by them.”

“That won’t hinder the Blackbird, Sergeant,” said Hammer, with a sudden laugh.

“He come down, didn’t he?” argued Cedar sensibly. “And he ain’t gone up again. As you tell me, he needs a smooth clearing to fly off from. But there ain’t no stump-free fields in all this neck of the woods. Take my word for it, I know every inch of ’em.”

“He’s a sly one, I tell you,” insisted Hammer. “Watch out!”

“He’s down, with his plane,” said Cedar. “No place in the woods for him to hide. We’ll have him and his plane inside an hour, along with the sixty grand in gold he’s stole.”

“Damn it, the air’s stuffy in this place!” said Hammer, trying to sit up on Officer Amsel’s bunk. “Something makes me feel queer. Where did you say I am?”

“You got a compound fracture, fierce enough to make anybody feel queer,” said Cedar. “Besides which, you took a bump on your head, that’d have cracked a cannon ball. The surgeon’ll be coming soon.”

“Somebody’s gone to get him?”

“Yea, the Iron Mine officer hisself hopped on old Snowball and went tearing off like mad,” said Cedar, “when he seen us carrying you out of the woods. He ought to be back by now. But he’s a kinda tenderfoot yet, just joined up with the force and new to the woods, so maybe he lost his bearings.”

Hammer sank back. His broad brow was all a-sweat, but he tried to grin.

“Blackbird’s watching me!” he whispered. “Can’t fool me. I know, I know—”

Cedar Rudd sat there, watching and listening, while the injured man, muttering more vaguely, tossed off to sleep. Cedar arose quietly. He had heard a rustle in the grass outside the cabin’s rear window.

He knew the whispers of the wilderness, the sly tracks and furtive scents of its teeming, invisible denizens. For a moment he stood, alert. He stepped out of the door with the sinewy lightness and the silence of a wolf.

On the stoop the huge trooper was sitting, rocking his head back and forth, with hands clasped to his mouth. Cedar leaped down, clapping a friendly hand on the trooper’s shoulder, as he passed. Swiftly he went around the cabin to the rear window.

No one was there. Cedar’s nostrils quivered. Casting a glance on the dank, grass-covered soil, he pushed straight through a patch of breast-high sumac and sere goldenrod, emerging on a dump and ash heap behind the cabin. There he found Officer Amsel, squatting on his hams, diligently applying a match to a pile of paper refuse and garbage. Though Cedar had made no sound, Amsel swung around on his heels. Crouching, he turned up a quick bright glance at Cedar, shaking the black hair away from his forehead.

“When the devil did you come back?” asked Cedar briefly. “Why didn’t you report?”

“That damned big brute of yours threw me,” Amsel snarled. “I’d sooner ride a greased pig. Laugh at me—I knew you would.”

“Poor old Snowball threw you?” Cedar grinned. “Why, he hasn’t got a buck in all his fat hide. You must have bounced yourself off, Amsel. Where’s the mule gone?”

“He kicked up his heels and left me flat on the trail,” Amsel complained bitterly. “He almost broke my back.”

Cedar pressed aside the undergrowth and looked out on the level glade that extended from the cabin. At its far end, three hundred yards away, he spied the fat mule, browsing placidly on short grass.

“Snowball’s all right, so long as he doesn’t tumble down the old mine shaft,” said Cedar, chuckling as he turned back to Amsel. “And the old mule’s got too much sense to go exploring in such places, which is more than can be said for some humans. Did you get hold of the surgeon, Amsel?”

“On his way,” snarled Amsel.

He had grown sullen at Cedar’s laughter. His sharp face wore a malicious look.

“I got two casualties parked at your cabin,” said Cedar easily. “The other two poor birds that was in the wreck are a job for the coroner. They never knew what hit ’em. Keep your gun handy, Amsel, for the dirty crook that did it. He’s hiding somewhere in the woods now, and it’s sure he wouldn’t stick a minute at drilling any one of us through the back.”

“I’m not worrying,” said Amsel darkly.

“Maybe you’re not the worrying sort,” said Cedar gently. “But I’ve got only one hide on my bones, and I aim to keep it whole. I got my eyes open, and I ain’t going to give this killer a chance. I don’t mind saying that if he tries to spit at me he’s spitting at a rattler.”

Hands on hips, Cedar scanned the forest with narrow green eyes. The woods stirred. The wind made a rustling whisper. Amsel shrugged contemptuously. He leaned over and spat into the bonfire.

“He’s flown a million miles away by now,” said Amsel. “You’ll never catch him.”

“I’ll bet you my socks I do,” said Cedar grimly.

“I don’t want your filthy socks!” snarled Amsel.

“You ain’t going to get them,” said Cedar.

He turned and pushed through the high weeds. Then, with a sudden thought, he retraced his steps quietly. Amsel was still crouched before the bonfire, his glance moody, his lips sucked in.

“This guy, Hammer, keeps muttering and mumbling something about a blackbird,” said Cedar. “Sounds like he’s off his nut. Did he strike you that way, when you was watching him through the rear window?”

Amsel darted up a look with bright black eyes. His lean fingers clenched on his knees. A lump moved in his throat.

“Are you accusing me of spying?” he whispered.

“Hell, Amsel, your tracks was all over the grass,” said Cedar wearily. “Why didn’t you come in—afraid of me giving you the razz because Snowball threw you? Got such a thin skin you can’t take a kidding like a man?”

Amsel gripped his knees with hooking fingers. The lank strands of hair had fallen again over his eyes. He squatted like a bird upon a limb. His face seemed folded inward; only a thin sharp beak, only black eyes showing. He picked up a stick and poked at the bonfire.

“You’re a funny duck,” said Cedar kindly, laying a leathery hand on Amsel’s shoulder. “Don’t mind my joking ways. You and me’ve got different temperaments, I can see. But we wear the same uniform, and that ought to make us buddies.”

Amsel blew upon the fire. A sheaf of black smoke rose from it, dancing with sparks. A gust blew it into Amsel’s face. He was like a bird upon a branch, that shivers when the wind blows.