The Breaking Point

For several days after his visit to the Livingstone ranch Louis Bassett

made no move to go to the cabin. He wandered around the town, made

promiscuous acquaintances and led up, in careful conversations with such

older residents as he could find, to the Clark and Livingstone families.

Of the latter he learned nothing; of the former not much that he had not

known before.

One day he happened on a short, heavy-set man, the sheriff, who had lost

his office on the strength of Jud Clark's escape, and had now recovered

it. Bassett had brought some whisky with him, and on the promise of a

drink lured Wilkins to his room. Over his glass the sheriff talked.

"All this newspaper stuff lately about Jud Clark being alive is dead

wrong," he declared, irritably. "Maggie Donaldson was crazy. You can

ask the people here about her. They all know it. Those newspaper fellows

descended on us here with a tooth-brush apiece and a suitcase full of

liquor, and thought they'd get something. Seemed to think we'd hold out

on them unless we got our skins full. But there isn't anything to hold

out. Jud Clark's dead. That's all."

"Sure he's dead," Bassett agreed, amiably. "You found his horse, didn't

you?"

"Yes. Dead. And when you find a man's horse dead in the mountains in a

blizzard, you don't need any more evidence. It was five months before

you could see a trail up the Goat that winter."

Bassett nodded, rose and poured out another drink.

"I suppose," he observed casually, "that even if Clark turned up now, it

would be hard to convict him, wouldn't it?"

The sheriff considered that, holding up his glass.

"Well, yes and no," he said. "It was circumstantial evidence, mostly.

Nobody saw it done. The worst thing against him was his running off."

"How about witnesses?"

"Nobody actually saw it done. John Donaldson came the nearest, and he's

dead. Lucas's wife was still alive, the last I heard, and I reckon the

valet is floating around somewhere."

"I suppose if he did turn up you'd make a try for it." Bassett stared at

the end of his cigar.

"We'd make a try for it, all right," Wilkins said somberly. "There are

some folks in this county still giving me the laugh over that case."

The next day Bassett hired a quiet horse, rolled in his raincoat two

days' supply of food, strapped it to the cantle of his saddle, and rode

into the mountains. He had not ridden for years, and at the end of the

first hour he began to realize that he was in for a bad time. By noon

he was so sore that he could hardly get out of the saddle, and so stiff

that once out, he could barely get back again. All morning the horse

had climbed, twisting back and forth on a narrow canyon trail, grunting

occasionally, as is the way of a horse on a steep grade. All morning

they had followed a roaring mountain stream, descending in small

cataracts from the ice fields far above. And all morning Bassett had

been mentally following that trail as it had been ridden ten years

ago by a boy maddened with fear and drink, who drove his horse forward

through the night and the blizzard, with no objective and no hope.