Ford became serious. "Too bad," he remarked with deep concern on his face. "That man's a bad actor. You're liable to hear from him again."
"That doesn't bother me," Bainbridge belittled. "I've a feeling that he's cooking up something for himself. I was going over to the hotel for my bag."
"Never mind, Bainbridge. I'll have one of the boys fetch it. It's almost time for supper."
They walked up the main street south. On either side of them were tent houses, the lights from which served as street lights. The five or six saloons were going full blast. It was more like a modern carnival than a real city. Through the open windows Bainbridge could see them weighing out gold dust in exchange for drinks. There was laughter, song, quarreling, the whine of fiddles, and dancing.
Ford was quiet, like a man worried and weary. A couple of hundred yards up the street they turned to the right through an alley to a neat log cabin, the home of Patrick Ford. It was the most pretentious of any in town. It actually boasted glass windows, freighted in from California. The doors and frames were made of whipsawed lumber.
Even at a distance Bainbridge could detect the aroma of coffee and sizzling bacon. If he had been shocked with the crudeness of the town and its rough inhabitants he was stunned at what he found inside this pioneer home. Mrs. Ford was young, hospitable, and, in comparison with the women he'd seen in town, she was very beautiful.
Her hair was just plain auburn. There was nothing striking in her slightly upturned nose or her soft brown eyes, but her smile was an inspiration.
A little girl of five, the replica of her mother's gentleness, was sitting at the dinner table anxious for the business of eating. She began excitedly reciting to her father her childish adventures of the day. All during the appetizing meal she chattered, nor did she cease until her mother tucked her in her crib.
Bainbridge was doing some serious thinking. It seemed as though he had always known these good people. He felt indeed like one of the family. He said to himself: "Here is a real citizen, the kind who makes history." His purpose was not a shot in the dark at the pot of gold; he was rooted to the very soil. Everything about his home had the appearance of stability and purpose. Even the crude whipsawed furniture bespoke the sturdiness of its maker.
After the light conversation of the meal they pushed back their chairs, and Ford addressed his wife seriously.
"Clara, I don't know what time I'll get in tonight. We are going to have that mass meeting at last."
Bainbridge caught the look of fear that came into her eyes at her husband's words, but it vanished almost as quickly as it came.
"I hope something can be done, Patrick," she answered seriously. "I feel much depressed with the idea of bringing little Clara up in a place like this." Suddenly the fear came back to her eyes as she continued, " Isn't there danger in what you propose--isn't there, Mr. Bainbridge?"
Her husband answered, much to the relief of Bainbridge.
"There is always danger, my dear, so long as there is life. But we must face the problems bravely, for Clara's sake, as well as our own, to say nothing of those who will come after us."
"I think so too, Patrick," she assented quietly.
"You must stop and think too," Ford continued, "this wild rush for gold will pass. Then will come fields of golden grain and corn; homes, schools, and even churches will be built. Factories and water projects will come, and the law will be established. We are the pioneers. It is our solemn duty to make this a place of safety for our women and children. Soon, Lincoln will create the Territory of Bannock and appoint its officers to direct its affairs. Until then, my dear, we must be loyal."
* * * *
On their way back to the saloon where the meeting was to be held, Bainbridge spoke what was on his mind.
"Pat--you don't mind if I call you Pat?"
"Of course not. All my friends do."
Bainbridge walked in silence for a moment, trying to figure out how to begin. "Since I went into your home two hours ago I've been doing a deal of thinking. I'd never thought of things the way you put them. I do think, however, in one thing you are wrong. You say that the advent of law and order depends upon you. I have my doubts. Back there is your kingdom. Why take the chance and the responsibility? Already you have a lot of enemies because of your activities. You have love, wealth, and a family depending on you. Get out of here while you are able. Leave this business of building an empire to younger men, single men. Oh, I know what you're thinking. But suppose you are wiped out? Who'll suffer then? Not you, but that lovely little woman back there and that charming little daughter."
Ford shook his head. "If I am, then some good man will take up the work where I left off. They will do for me what I'm trying to do for them."
"That's a manly decision, but none the less serious. You told me that there was only one thing on earth that the Innocents Gang is afraid of and will kill to prevent."
"Yes"' answered Ford, "the organization of the Vigilantes."
"Then, for her sake, don't take the chance. Let me take your place."
"Can't be done, Bainbridge. I can't permit a stranger who has no personal interest to come in and fight my battles. I appreciate your loyalty, my friend, but I can't leave it to you unless I'm wiped out."
Realizing the futility of argument, Bainbridge dropped the subject, but not without misgiving. Little did Ford know that their purposes were much akin.
They arrived at the saloon ahead of the time set for the meeting, but it was not long until men began to drop in by two's and three's. Thirty minutes later there were about thirty rugged serious men present.
Ford was ill at ease and leaned over to Bainbridge. "Look out for trouble. We don't know how many of these men are with us. It is certain that a part of them belong to the Innocents. I notice several personal friends of Hen Plummer."
Bainbridge nodded understanding, glancing about trying to read the quiet faces of these bearded men. Meanwhile he was asking himself, who were these men? How many would support the Vigilance Committee, and what would be the result of this meeting?
Ford stood up. "Men," he began seriously "the purpose of this meeting is to consider whether we are going to live in league with lawlessness or whether we are going to organize and put a stop to murder, plundering, and robbery."
Men shifted uneasily from one foot to the other, exchanging serious glances.
"You know," Ford continued, "what has happened as well as I do, and right under our noses, too, while we have been powerless to prevent it. We have no record of the appalling murders that have been committed in this country. But you do remember at least three incidents that should cause any true American to blush for shame for permitting them."
The panorama of faces was a puzzle of reactions at his words. Into some came the look of hatred, desperation, and murder. Others were gray with fear. Still others were seriously somber. Bainbridge, sensing what was coming, shifted his chair quietly into the corner where he could get a clear view of the room.
"Many of you have argued that it is not only dangerous but impossible for us to do anything, because we don't know where to begin. Well, here's a starting point. You remember six or seven months ago when a certain man by the name of Foxy Diamond came into our town, bringing with him a beautiful woman. He soon tired of her, bet her on a card game and lost her to Cherokee Bob. Cherokee abused her until he was finally shot at Florence. This woman was found dead a few days later. The last time she was seen alive she was with Three Finger Smith, one of the worst highwaymen who ever hit this territory."
Bainbridge's face was contorted from the raging tumult within. His body seemed a cold dead thing of fury. His hands were gripping the arms of his chair within an inch of his holsters. Suddenly the room seemed to disappear. Before him appeared the scarred face of Three Finger Smith. He ground his teeth, muttering to himself, "God! I saw him at the shindig and didn't wipe him out!" Vaguely he heard the voice of Ford still speaking. Already half the men had failed him and left the room.
Still he held on desperately.
"Yesterday, the body of Raymond Patterson, a mere boy, was brought into town. He had been murdered by some member of this same gang Think of it, men! This boy wasn't even heeled! The lad, in his dying breath, accused Three Finger Smith of firing the shot that did for him!"
At this juncture Cleveland stepped out from the corner where he had been standing. His manner was affable enough. He addressed the men in a cool manner, yet Bainbridge felt that it was costing him an effort.
"Men!" he began, "I'm as interested in stamping out crime as Pat Ford is, but I'm not in favor of this Vigilante business. In the first place, when we do this we openly charge that we haven't got any law and order. It'd be an insult to the deputies in Walla Walla. I admit we've had some bad killings, but no more than any other camp in this territory. I propose we send a committee to Walla Walla and demand the deputies try and run down the murderers who Pat claims are operating in the country hereabouts."
Pat Ford sprang to his feet again. "You know we did that very thing before, Cleveland, and you know nothing was ever done!"
Cleveland interrupted, "You know, Pat, I don't think there is an organized band of outlaws in this territory. The idea of the Innocents is gossip that seeped through from Rattlesnake country beyond the Lolo Pass. If there isn't any organized band, then we don't need a Vigilante Association, and if there is--then every one of the little Vigilante members would be marked for death."
Bainbridge was thinking fast. Cleveland's opposition was too obvious. Had he not been convinced from his own personal experience with the man, his speech was enough to condemn him. From the looks of the men he knew that Cleveland was surely gaining their sympathy and something must be done or the project would fail.
Cleveland was toying with the button on his vest. His sharp eyes were watching every move in the room. "You're not going to give any credit to the story of the stranger who brought the Patterson kid in yesterday, that the kid professed that Three Finger Smith shot him? Why, I have two men who rode in on the same stage who openly say there was no truth in what he says. I'm prepared to brand that story as a lie!"
Instantly Bob Bainbridge was on his feet. Men ducked. Cleveland's hand slipped to his armpit; his blue steel gun flipped into his hand. But not quick enough. Bob's gun roared and Cleveland's gun spun through the air. There was a mad rush for the door; men fighting, pushing, pawing. Cleveland disappeared with the rest.
Pat sank into his chair. Bob sheathed his gun and turned to Ford.
"Pat, that woman you mentioned was my sister!" Pat gasped, unable to speak. "There is a Vigilance Committee, and, by God, Pokerface Bob is it!"
3
EBB CLEVELAND HAD SHOWN HIS STATUS WITH the outlaw gang when he openly opposed the organization of the Vigilantes and threw a gun down on Bainbridge. Only the dexterity of Bainbridge with his guns saved him. There was no backing down now.
Bob Bainbridge was not erratic, in spite of the fact that he was sympathetic. He was grimily aware of the fact that he had baited and humiliated one of the leaders of the gang. He knew men well enough to realize Ebb Cleveland could never let the matter drop here. Their trails would cross again, and when they did it would mean gunplay and, of course, bloodshed. Well, it could come; the sooner the better. Bainbridge knew the rules of warfare. He had struck first and he meant to follow up his advantage. When Bob Bainbridge shot, he never stepped aside to wait for the smoke to clear; he stepped right through the smoke.
He deliberately removed his gun from its holster, extracted the empty shell, replaced it with another shiny peg, spun the cylinder, and slipped the weapon back into its place.
Ford watched the play seriously. He half reproached himself for having so ruthlessly apprised Bob of his sister's death. From the cold hard lines in Bainbridge's face, and the deliberateness of the spinning of that cylinder, he knew that it meant but one thing to the enemy. He put a hand on Bob's arm. The muscle was like a steel band.
"Bob," he said apologetically, "I'm sorry I gave you such a shock. You should have told me."
"It's all right, Pat," Bainbridge answered, with a trace of emotion in his voice. The fire in his eyes was like the spark in the leopard's when he is about to spring. "I'm glad I know. Anything is better than uncertainty. What became of Foxy Diamond? I want him first. Then I'll take them as they come!"
"Diamond was shot in a gambling brawl in Florence."
The cold statement was another blow to Bob Bainbridge, who for months had visualized the day when he would meet Foxy Diamond and strangle the life out of him for the wrong he had done his sister. Now, fate had stepped in; had snuffed out that miserable life to rob him of his satisfaction--his revenge. To add insult to injury, Cherokee Bob had gone the same route, but, thank God, Three Finger Smith was still alive.
His hand trembled as he picked up the bottle from Pat's desk. He poured himself a drink, gulped it down, and deliberately crushed the glass in his iron hand.
"God!" he groaned in righteous indignation, "what are we standing here for? What are we waiting for?"
"Take it easy, man," Pat advised calmly. "I'm with you, but don't forget we are opposed by the worst gang of cutthroats that ever forked a horse We're outnumbered twenty to one."
"Do you suppose I'm going to sit here and twiddle my thumbs because of that, while Three Finger Smith rides peacefully out of sight?"
"There would be more sense in that than to ride out alone and be shot for your trouble."
"There isn't a chance, Pat," Bainbridge belittled, with an impatient gesture.
"All right, Bob, what's your plan?"
"We're riding. We'll hit the shebang on Patoha Creek first. Three Finger Smith was there yesterday, Pat. I could have wiped him out! Think of it! I had him in the hollow of my hand! I could have crushed him like that glass--God!"
"Not too fast!", implored Pat. "Calm down--get your noodle to working Remember this is a hard country, and we must meet hard conditions with our chins up."
"Whose chin isn't up?" Bob shot back.
Pat purposely ignored his question. "We've got to have help; and then there's horses. We can't go to Patoha Creek on foot."
Ford's calmness had its effect on Bainbridge. His mind began functioning clearly again. He filled his pipe and lit it. "Have you any men we can depend on?"
"Yes, I think so; three, at least. Jim Dale, Shorty Windless, and Drake Burkley. Every man handy with the gun. Tell you what," he lowered his voice, "I'll slip out the back way, and in two hours from now," he looked at his watch, "that will be eleven o'clock, you will find a horse in the brush back of the saloon. We'll be waiting for you a couple of miles the other side of the Snake River. I don't need to warn you to keep under cover as much as possible. After what happened tonight there's sure to be some of the gang watching us. Our only hope is to surprise them by the suddenness of our attack before they have time to send someone to warn the men at the shebang."
This plan was agreed upon. After Ford had gone, Bob blew out the light, turned the key in the door leading to the bar, and took a place at the window. Becoming accustomed to the dark, he could easily discern any moving object outside, even though there was no moon. The back yard had been fenced in, and close up against the building a pile of beer barrels had been stacked.
For some time he sat intently watching the shadows and listening to the noise and clamor of the barroom. The inaction was galling. Every minute seemed an hour. It was almost a three-to-one shot the gang was anticipating their move; perhaps lying in wait to ambush them. He arose and began pacing the floor. How the time dragged!
Someone tried the door between the office and the saloon, then knocked. Bainbridge stood perfectly still. His hands rested on his gun butts. Then the knocking ceased. He went to the window again. This time as he peered out he caught a glimpse of a moving object near a small clump of trees just beyond the fence. Next there came a spattering of small gravel on the windowpane.
"It must be the signal," he decided. After wa
iting a few moments he cautiously opened the back door, slipped out, and softly closed it behind him.
He flattened against the wall, with his hands on his guns, listening. Only the breeze in the trees was stirring. He eased along the wall over to the fence. By stooping he kept from the view of anyone who might be on the outside. At the west end of the aperture he slipped through the bars and fairly ran to the clump of trees. There was his horse, a fine big gelding. He quickly climbed into the saddle. He had scarcely straightened up when the report of a gun boomed. A slug fanned his face, too close for comfort. In the split part of a second his own gun answered, shooting at the point where he had seen the flame. He didn't wait to see if he had registered a hit, but headed swiftly through the trees away from danger.
"Well, they failed that time," he complimented himself. "That pistol-whipper almost got my scalp, but I know now they are hep to us. We'll have to mind our p's and q's."
Being thus forewarned, he avoided the ferry. Instead, he plunged into the Snake River a mile upstream and came out a quarter of a mile below. He wondered if the others had been cut off, and if he would have to carry out his plans alone.
He crossed the main wagon trail diagonally and rode a quarter mile to the east. Occasionally he stopped to listen, but there was no sound save the blowing of his own horse. Traveling was slow on the unbeaten paths. He began to think that Ford and his men had gone on, if they had indeed made it safely across the treacherous river.
Presently he came out on an elevation overlooking a little coulee and almost stumbled into a Lapwai Indian camp. In front of the fire stood two horsemen surrounded by a dozen or more bucks. Bainbridge drew rein and, reaching forward, caught his horse by the nostrils to keep it from whinnying.
From the light of the fire he could see the grizzly faces. He was sure he had never seen either of them before. The situation looked dangerous.
"Got to get out of here in double-quick," he told himself. He back-tracked for a quarter of a mile and circled the camp. A half hour later he stumbled upon Pat Ford and his men, sheltered under a clump of trees.
The Bitterroot Trail Page 3
