If Drum was crawling along the ledge he might be overanxious, he might fire on the shirt, especially if he came abruptly on the sudden color.
Chance might get a shot at him then.
But Drum was no fool. He might look for something like that. So far Drum had been a jump ahead all the way. He was cunning, too damn cunning. He knew what he was expected to do; then he would do the opposite, catching his opponent unawares.
All right, said Chance to himself, what do I think Drum will do?
The shoulder ached like hell now. That was good. He wasn’t going into shock.
He could take that kind of pain, plenty of it.
He would have to.
Chance leaned back against the wall of the arroyo, packed snow again against the wound he could reach.
Mostly he watched.
And thought.
Too wildly maybe.
He must be slow.
Leave out nothing.
Drum might expect the trick with the shirt, or something like it. Drum knew he’d been hit, that he wouldn’t be far, that he’d be laying low, and waiting. Given that much, the trick with the shirt, or something like it, would make sense.
Drum would reason that if Chance had done something like this he would have gone down the arroyo some yards, waiting for a clear shot when the Indian jumped for the bait.
In fact he would be right about where he was now, right about where he was.
Chance felt sick.
Drum knew his position, at least within yards.
But, Chance reasoned, Drum may not count on my knowing that he’s figured me out. He’ll try to trick me into firing, or into showing myself.
He can’t know exactly where I am.
A few yards could make a hell of a difference.
Suddenly Chance heard a sound from the arroyo, about a hundred feet from behind him. Chance swung the rifle around. He nearly stepped away from the wall to fire.
No, said Chance, don’t.
He stayed close to the wall.
It could have been, Chance thought, a rock, a rock thrown behind me, to pull me into the open facing the wrong direction. But it might be Drum, said Chance. I’ll wait, he decided, I’ll wait.
Chance sat in the snow, leaning against the wall of the arroyo.
He closed his eyes for a moment against the pain, the damned whiteness of the arroyo, the glare. When he opened them again they had blurred again. He shook his head. He wondered if he had lost consciousness for a few minutes. His eyes cleared. The world seemed very quiet, very bright, very cold, very pure.
He felt stupid sitting there, naked from the waist up, losing blood.
Somewhere in that bright, quiet, cold, pure world a man was hunting him, a young man but a good man, one who knew his business.
I can wait, thought Chance. Then he smiled grimly. I guess I can wait, he thought.
He felt tired, weak.
He thrust more snow against his arm, pushed back further into the snowbank. The cold numbed the pain; it slowed the bleeding.
He closed his eyes again.
Suddenly he opened them, startled, fully awake.
The shadow of a figure, a man with a rifle, was falling on the arroyo side opposite where he sat.
He’s on top, on the left, thought Chance, there!
Chance silently, painfully, gathered his legs under him, to spring to the center of the arroyo, turn and snap off the killing shot at the figure on the rim.
If I move fast, thought Chance, I’ll have one clean shot before he can bring his gun around.
Chance’s legs knotted under him like springs; he tensed to leap to the center of the arroyo, turn and fire; he stopped; he didn’t move.
Why would Drum stand upright?
Why would he let his shadow fall into the arroyo?
With his thumb Chance clicked back the hammer on his rifle.
He wanted Drum to hear the noise.
Then, with his back to the ledge where Drum must be, he stepped to the center of the arroyo, facing toward the shadow, away from the object which cast it.
He held the rifle painfully high, steadied in the crook of his left arm.
Chance stood that way for an instant, waiting for the bullet in the back.
The bullet did not come.
Chance smiled.
I have won, he thought, I have won.