‘Now are they all sure about that, Ed? He didn’t hit her, knock her cold, throw her over his saddlebow, hold her prisoner as he rode?’
‘Apparently not. Mind you, he has caused an awesome amount of damage. The wedding ceremony was wrecked, the banquet pretty smashed up, the bridegroom pissed and the bride gone.’
The sheriff’s grin widened.
‘Why, that’s terrible,’ he said. ‘Do we know who he is?’
‘Maybe. The bride’s father said his daughter had a kinda crush on one of those young actors they’ve had out at Fort Heritage all summer, posing as frontiersmen. You know?’
Lewis knew all about the fort. His daughter had taken his grandchildren out for a day and they had loved it.
‘Anyway, she broke off her engagement to Kevin Braddock because of this. Her parents persuaded her she was crazy and the engagement resumed. They say he’s called Ben Craig.’
The deputy went back to his statement-taking, and Sheriff Lewis was about to try to contact Fort Heritage when Professor Ingles came on the line.
‘This may be nothing,’ he began, ‘but one of my young staff has quit and run. During the night.’
‘Did he steal anything, Professor?’
‘Well, no, not as such. He has his own horse and clothes. But he also has a rifle. I had confiscated it for the duration. He broke into the armoury and took it back.’
‘What does he need it for?’
‘Hunting, I hope. He’s a nice young man but a bit wild. He was born and raised in the Pryor Range. His folk seem to have been mountain people. He never even went to school.’
‘Look, Professor, this could be serious. Could this young man turn dangerous?’
‘Oh, I hope not.’
‘What else is he carrying?’
‘Well, he has a bowie knife, and a hand-axe is missing. Plus a Cheyenne bow and four arrows with flint heads.’
‘He took your antiques?’
‘No, he made them himself.’
The sheriff counted to five, slowly.
‘Would this by chance be Ben Craig?’
‘Yes, how did you know?’
‘Just keep helping, Professor. Did he start a love affair with a pretty young schoolteacher from Billings who came out to the fort?’
He heard the academic conferring with someone in the background called Charlie.
‘It seems he developed a deep affection for such a girl. He thought she accepted him, but I am informed she wrote him to break it all off. He took it badly. He even asked where and when her wedding would take place. I hope he hasn’t made a fool of himself.’
‘Not quite. He’s just snatched her from the altar.’
‘Oh my God.’
‘Look, could he switch from horse to car?’
‘Heavens, no. He can’t drive. Never been in one. He’ll stay on his beloved horse and camp out in the wild.’
‘Where will he head?’
‘Almost certainly south, to the Pryors. He’s hunted and trapped there all his life.’
‘Thank you, Professor, you’ve been most helpful.’
He called off the roadblocks and telephoned the Carbon County helicopter pilot, asking him to get airborne and check in. Then he waited for the inevitable call from Big Bill Braddock.
Sheriff Paul Lewis was a good peace officer, unflappable, firm but kindly. He preferred to help people out rather than lock them up, but the law was the law and he had no hesitation in enforcing it.
His grandfather had been a soldier with the cavalry who had died on the plains, leaving a widow and baby son at Fort Lincoln. The war widow had married another soldier who had been posted west into Montana. His father had been raised in the state and married twice. By the first marriage in 1900 there had been two daughters. After his wife’s death he had married again and at the mature age of forty-five had sired his only son in 1920.
Sheriff Lewis was in his fifty-eighth year and would retire in two more. After that, he knew of certain lakes in Montana and Wyoming whose cut-throat trout would benefit from his personal attention.
He had not been invited to the wedding and entertained no sense of puzzlement as to why not. Four times over the years he or his men had investigated drunken brawls involving Kevin Braddock. In each case the bartenders had been well recompensed and had preferred no charges. The sheriff was pretty relaxed about young men in fist-fights, but less so when Braddock Junior beat up a bar girl who had refused his rather peculiar tastes.
The sheriff had thrown him in the slammer and would have proceeded with charges on his own, but the girl suddenly changed her mind and recalled that she had simply fallen downstairs.
There was another piece of information the sheriff had never divulged to anyone. Three years earlier he had had a call from a friend on the Helena City force. They had been at police college together.
The colleague related that his officers had raided a nightclub. It had been a drug bust. The names and addresses of all present had been taken. One was Kevin Braddock. If he had had any drugs he had got rid of his stash in time and had to be released. But the club had been exclusively gay.
The phone rang. It was Mr Valentino, Big Bill Braddock’s personal lawyer.
‘You may have heard what happened here this afternoon, Sheriff. Your deputies were present minutes later.’
‘I heard not all went according to plan.’
‘Please do not patronize, Sheriff Lewis. What happened was a case of brutal kidnap and the criminal must be caught.’
‘I hear you, Counsellor. But I have a sheaf of statements from guests and catering staff to the effect that the young lady co-operated in mounting the horse and that she had had a love affair with this young man, the horse-rider, before. That looks to me more like an elopement.’
‘Weasel words, Sheriff. If the girl had wished to break off her engagement there was nothing to stop her. This girl was snatched with physical force. The criminal committed trespass to get in here, kicked two of Mr Braddock’s staff in the face and did an impressive amount of malicious damage to private property. Mr Braddock intends to press charges. Will you bring this hooligan in, or shall we?’
Sheriff Lewis did not like being threatened.
‘I hope you and your client are not thinking of taking the law into your own hands, Counsellor? That could be most unwise.’
The lawyer ignored the counter-threat.
‘Mr Braddock is deeply concerned for the safety of his daughter-in-law. He is within his right to search for her.’
‘Was the wedding ceremony complete?’
‘Was it what?’
‘Are your client’s son and Miss Pickett actually married in law?’
‘Well . . .’
‘In that case she is not your client’s daughter-inlaw. She is no relation.’
‘Until further information she is still my client’s son’s fiancée. He is acting as a concerned citizen. Now are you going to bring this hooligan in? There is always Helena.’
Sheriff Lewis sighed. He knew how much influence Bill Braddock had with some legislators in the state capital. He was not afraid of that either. But this young man, Ben Craig, had undoubtedly committed offences.
‘As soon as he can be traced, I’ll be there,’ he said. As he put the phone down he thought it might be wise for him to get to the lovebirds before Braddock’s men. His helicopter pilot came on the line. It was nearly four, with two hours to go before sundown and the fading of the light.
‘Jerry, I want you to find the Bar-T Ranch. Then fly south towards the Pryors. Keep an eye open in front and to both sides.’
‘What am I looking for, Paul?’
‘A lone rider, heading south, probably for the mountains. There’s a girl mounted up behind him in a white wedding dress.’
‘Are you putting me on?’
‘Nope. Some saddle-bum just snatched the fiancée of Bill Braddock’s son from the altar.’
‘I think I like the guy already,’ said the police officer as
he left the Billings Airfield area.
‘Just find him for me, Jerry.’
‘No sweat. If he’s there I’ll find him. Out.’
The pilot was over the Bar-T five minutes later and set his course due south. He maintained 1,000 feet, low enough to give him a good view of any moving rider below him and high enough to cover a ten-mile-wide swathe to left and right.
To his right he could see Highway 310 and the rail line running south towards the village of Warren and on into Wyoming via the flat country. Ahead he could see the peaks of the Pryors.
In case the rider had tried to evade detection by veering west across the road, Sheriff Lewis asked the Highway Patrol to cruise down the 310 and keep an eye open on both sides of the road for the torso of a rider above the prairie grass.
Big Bill Braddock had not been idle. Leaving his staff to cope with the anarchy on his lawn, he and his security men had gone straight to his office. Never a man known for his good humour, those around him had still not ever seen him in such a towering rage. For a while he sat at his desk in silence. There were a dozen grouped round him, waiting for orders.
‘What do we do, boss?’ asked one eventually.
‘Think,’ snarled the rancher. ‘Think. He’s a man alone on a horse, heavy-laden. Limited range. Where would he go?’
The former Green Beret, Max, studied a wall map of the county.
‘Not north. He’d have to cross the Yellowstone. Too deep. So, south. Back to that replica fort in the hills?’
‘Right. I want ten men, mounted and armed. Go south, spread out over a five-mile front. Ride like hell. Overtake him.’
When the ten wranglers were saddled up he addressed them outside.
‘You each have radiophones. Stay in touch. If you see him, call for back-up. When you corner him, get the girl back. If he attempts to threaten her, or you, you know what to do. I think you know what I mean. I want the girl back, no-one else. Go.’
The ten riders cantered out the main gate, fanned out and broke into a gallop. The fugitive had a forty-minute start but he was carrying two riders and saddlebags, a rifle and heavy buffalo hide.
Inside the ranch lawyer Valentino reported back.
‘The sheriff seems pretty relaxed about it all. But he is going to mount a search. Patrol cars on the roads and probably a helicopter,’ he said.
‘I don’t want him to get there first,’ snapped Braddock. ‘But I do want to know what information he gets. Max, get to the radio shack. I want a band-sweep of every police channel in the county. Permanent listening watch. Get my own helo up in the air. Get ahead of the riders. Find the bastard. Guide them to him. We’ll need more than one. Rent two more out of the airport. Go. Now.’
They were all wrong. The professor, the sheriff, Braddock. The frontiersman was not heading for the Pryors. He knew that was too obvious.
Five miles south of the ranch he had stopped, taken one of his saddle blankets and wrapped it round Whispering Wind. It was bright red but it hid the glaring white of the dress. But he had never heard of helicopters. After the halt he slanted south-west towards where he recalled having crossed a long strip of black rock the previous spring.
At a mile, he could make out a row of upright posts with wires strung between them. They ran across his front as far as the eye could see. They were the phone lines running above the Burlington rail line that paralleled the highway.
At half past three Jerry called in from his hovering Sikorsky.
‘Paul, I thought you said there was a lone rider? There’s a goddamn army down here.’
Braddock’s pursuers, thought the sheriff.
‘What do you have, exactly, Jerry?’
The voice crackled over the distance.
‘I count at least eight riders abreast, galloping south. Ranch hands by the look. And they’re travelling light. Also, there’s another helo, up ahead, hovering over the foothills, close to that replica fort.’
Lewis swore softly. He wished now he were with the helicopter instead of stuck in an office.
‘Jerry, if the fugitives are up ahead, try and get to them first. If Braddock’s hoods get to the boy he won’t be worth squat.’
‘You got it, Paul. I’ll keep looking.’
In the ranch house the head of the radio operator came round the door.
‘Mr Braddock, sir, the sheriff’s helicopter is right over our own team.’
‘That makes an eyewitness,’ said Max.
‘Tell my boys to keep looking,’ snapped Braddock. ‘We’ll sort out any court case later.’
Sheriff Lewis was glad he had stayed in overall control in his office when a call came through at five minutes before five. An excited voice shouted, ‘Got ’em.’
‘Speaker, identify.’
‘Car Tango One. On the Three-Ten. He just crossed the highway, riding south-west. Caught a glimpse before he went behind some trees.’
‘Where on the Three-Ten?’
‘Four miles north of Bridger.’
‘Confirm the target is now west of the highway,’ ordered Lewis.
‘That is affirmative, Sheriff.’
‘Stay on the highway in case he doubles back.’
‘Ten-four.’
Sheriff Lewis studied his wall map. If the rider continued on his track he would come up against another rail line and the much bigger Interstate 212 running right through the mountains to Park County, Wyoming.
There were two Highway Patrol cars cruising the interstate. He asked them to move further south and keep their eyes open for someone trying to cross from east to west. Then he called up his helicopter pilot.
‘Jerry, he’s been seen. Well to your west. He just crossed the Three-Ten riding south-west. Can you get over there? About four miles north of Bridger. He’s back in open country again.’
‘OK, Paul, but I’m going to have a fuel problem soon and the light is fading fast.’
The sheriff looked again at the tiny community of Bridger.
‘There’s an airstrip at Bridger. Go to the limit of your fuel, then put down there. You may have to spend the night. I’ll tell Janey.’
In the ranch house it had all been heard. Max studied the map.
‘He’s not going for the Pryors. Too obvious. He’s heading for the Wilderness and the Beartooth Range. He figures to ride right through the range into Wyoming and lose himself. Clever. That’s what I’d do.’
Braddock’s operator told the ten horsemen to turn due west, cross the highway and resume looking. They agreed to that, but forbore to warn him that they had ridden their mounts so hard for fifteen miles that they were in danger of breaking down. And darkness was closing in.
‘We should get a couple of cars with men in them down the interstate,’ said Max. ‘He’ll have to cross it if he wants to make the Wilderness.’
Two big off-road vehicles were despatched with eight more men in them.
Approaching the interstate, Ben Craig dismounted, climbed a tree on a small knoll and studied the barrier. It was raised above the plain and a train track, another spur of the Burlington line, ran beside it. Occasionally a vehicle would pass, heading north or south. All around him were the badlands, rough country of creeks, rocks and ungrazed prairie grass, belly-high to a horse. He descended and from his saddlebag took his packet of steel and flint.
There was a light breeze from the east, and when the fire took hold it spread to cover a mile-wide front and moved towards the road. Billows of smoke rose into the darkening sky. The breeze bore them west, faster than the advancing fire, and the road disappeared.
The patrol car five miles to the north saw the smoke and came south to investigate. As the smoke thickened and darkened the patrolmen stopped, a mite too late. Within seconds they were enveloped in the clouds. There was nothing for it but to back up.
The tractor-trailer heading south for Wyoming tried really hard to avoid the tail lights when the driver saw them. The brakes worked perfectly and the semi stopped. The one behind it was not so luc
ky.
Tractor-trailers are very adaptable, until they jackknife. The second rig hit the first and both performed that manoeuvre, slewing across the centre line and blocking the highway in both directions. Given the escarpments on both sides, driving around the blockage was not an option.
The patrol officers were able to make one radio call before they had to quit their vehicle and join the truck drivers further up the road, out of the smoke pall.
The message was enough. Fire trucks and heavy lifting gear soon headed south to cope with the emergency. It took all night but they had the road open again by dawn. Messages flashed to Wyoming halted all traffic south of the mountains. Only those already on the road were marooned for the night.
In the confusion, invisible in the smoke, a single rider trotted across the highway and into the wild country to the west. The man had a kerchief across his face and the girl who rode behind him was shielded by a blanket.
West of the highway the rider dismounted. The muscles beneath Rosebud’s gleaming coat were trembling with exhaustion and there were ten miles yet to the cover of the timber. Whispering Wind eased herself forward into the saddle but she was half her lover’s weight.
She slipped the blanket from her shoulders and sat shimmering white in the dusk, her unleashed hair flowing to her waist.
‘Ben, where are we going?’
For answer he pointed to the south. In the last rays of the setting sun the peaks of the Beartooth Range rose like flames above the forest line, sentinels of another and better life.
‘Through the mountains, into Wyoming. No-one will find us there. I will build you a cabin and hunt and fish for you. We will be free and live for ever.’
Then she smiled, for she loved him very much, and believed his promise, and was happy again.
Braddock’s personal pilot had had no choice but to turn back. His fuel was low and the ground below was too dark to make out details. He landed at the ranch on the last of his reserve.
The ten riders limped into the little community of Bridger on their exhausted horses and asked for lodgings. They ate at the diner and made beds in their own saddle blankets.
Jerry put the sheriff’s helicopter down at Bridger airstrip and was offered a bed for the night by the manager.
The Veteran Page 32
