The night passed without incident and the morning broke gray and dull with lowering clouds and a faint spattering of rain began to fall as the wagon train began to rumble out upon the trail toward the Tongue. Matt glanced down at Tolliver beside whose wagon he was riding. “If we had a way through those mountains, we could make the Shell easy. It ought to be just due west of us.”
“We’ve changed our course, haven’t we? Looks like we’re bearing more west.”
“That’s right. Northwest now.”
By mid morning Matt dug his slicker from behind his saddle and got into it. The light spatter of rain turned into a crashing downpour. The wagons continued, moving slower and slower, and scattering out to find firmer going away from the ruts of the other wagons which filled with water as rapidly as they were made.
Matt bowed his head into the storm and kept the dun moving up and down the line of his wagons, a line that grew more and more extended as the morning drew on. Where a wagon was stuck or having difficulties, he was beside it, putting a shoulder to the wheel, or moving obstructions.
Through the gray rain the Big Horns loomed like a monstrous wall, close on their left. Time and again he found his eyes straying toward them, remembering the green depths of their forests, the free running streams, the leaping fish, and the deer. This was a man’s country, if one had ever been built, and beyond the mountains was the basin. He was eager to be back, eager to have a place of his own and be working again at something he could build, something to last.
The rain drove against his face and rattled like hail upon his poncho. There was no time now for talk, for it was work to keep moving. Luckily, it could be no more than a dozen miles to the Tongue by the route they were following, and the day should be short unless too many wagons became stuck.
Squinting his eyes against the battering rain, he drew up and stared ahead. His own wagons were scattered over at least a mile of trail. Those of Coyle were some place further ahead, and Reutz must be behind. Yet both were lost in the rain. He bowed his head to let his hat brim shield his face and rode on.
There was no sign of a let up. He laid a hand on the dun’s wet shoulder and spoke to him. “Rough going, isn’t it boy?”
The horse cocked an ear at him and shook his head with disgust. Had it been left to him he would have turned his back on the rain and wind and cropped some of this good grass. Wet it might be, but it was grass and good. There was no sense in driving on into a rain, but then, when did men have horse sense? The dun plodded patiently ahead like a husband with a nagging wife, letting the storm blow by his ears.
Raising his head, Matt saw one of his wagons stopped, the oxen straining. He rode rapidly over the soggy prairie to lend a hand. It was Aaron Stark.
When the wagon was rolling again, he put his head in over the tailgate. “How are you, Ma’am?”
The girl lifted a hand, and then he heard her say, “All right, thank you.”
Matt walked back to his horse which he had left to one side and wiped off the saddle. He put a foot in the stirrup and swung up. His stirrup was twisted, and he bent to pull it around in place, feeling with his toe for it. He got it straightened, and looked up. A body of horsemen were riding toward him, and even as he straightened up, a gun flared and something struck him a wicked blow on the head, even as he felt himself falling, he grabbed for his gun, struggling to get at it under the poncho.
At the first shot, his horse had leaped frantically, and his precarious hold on the stirrup was lost. Another shot rang out, and he felt himself falling. Down … down … the ground hit him with terrific force and he saw a wave of blackness rolling toward him and fought desperately to stave it off, his hand fighting for a gun, and then he felt his hold on consciousness slipping, and as the blackness rolled over him, he knew he had failed.
Clive Massey had struck under cover of the rain when the wagons were scattered and without unity, and when everyone was busy fighting to keep moving. He had struck and struck swiftly, and there was no chance for concerted defense, no chance to use the ammunition they had recovered, no chance for anything but to fall and die, each man alone, each man fighting.
Rain spattered on his face as he lay sprawled in the mud and dimly, through the veil of the rain and his failing awareness he heard Stahl’s voice, grim with satisfaction. “Got him!”
“Who is it?” That would be Hammer.
“Bardoul! Matt Bardoul, by God! Drilled him right through the head, first shot!”
The rain pounded down upon the prairie, and the wagons rolled on as if nothing had happened, and the dun horse dashed off through the rain, stirrups flopping loosely. Behind it, face down in the mud, Matt Bardoul lay sprawled, and under him a darker stain began to mingle with the rain and stain the mud a deep crimson.
Then the sound of the wagons was gone, and the prairie was silent again but for the rushing, driving rain, battering at the soil and bending the grass before it, and through the gray curtain the dark loom of the Big Horns lifted high, strong, formidable.
Almost two miles away Ban Hardy lay on his back under the rain, face up to the clouds, riddled with bullets. He had been alone when he saw them coming, and he had reached for his gun, but he had no chance. Four men had opened fire on him at once and he tumbled from the wagon seat to the mud. Riding past him, Bat Hammer had let drive with two more shots.
It had been amazingly quick, amazingly simple. Nine of the honest men were killed, and only one of the renegades. Clive Massey, his dark face hard, turned to Logan Deane. “See? I told you it would be easy.”
“Where’s Bardoul?”
“Stahl killed him, damn the luck! I wanted that job for myself.”
“You might not have done it. He was fast, that one.”
Massey’s eyes glinted as he looked at Deane, and then his lips smiled. “I suppose he was,” he agreed, his eyes calculating, “I suppose he was.”
Massey turned to ride away. “What about the women?” Deane demanded.
“What about them?” Massey looked around.
“I wouldn’t be no party to bad treatment of them. We’ve got the wagons, and that was what we wanted.”
“The women,” Clive Massey said carefully, “are my concern. For the time being they will be left alone, but only for the time being.”
Massey rode on through the rain, and Logan Deane stared after him, and after a minute, he followed.
11
Night crept down the austere flanks of the Big Horns and stretched tentative shadows toward the trees along the river. The rain did not moderate, driving relentlessly into the lank grass and beating it into a thick carpet tight against the earth. Rain pounded against the black, glistening poncho of Matt Bardoul, stretched flat upon the grass, one arm outflung.
The rain slapped and whipped at his face, worried by the driving wind, yet as darkness came on the wind dropped to a few scattered gusts, and the drive left the rain and it began to fall lightly, easily, almost caressingly upon the wounded man.
The light touch of the rain did what the earlier, driving rain could not do … it brought him out of it.
Matt’s eyes fluttered open upon a world of damp and darkness. Nor did he move, just lying there, tight against the earth, his mind an utter blank. A drop hit his eyeball, and the lid blinked shut. The action seemed to arouse his thoughts, and they stirred.
At first, they came slowly. Where was he? What had happened? He had been shot by Spinner Johns! He was lying in the street! He … ! But no, that was weeks ago. Yet where was he? Why was he wet? What had happened?
Then he remembered … there was something he had to tell Jacquine. Something she had misunderstood. Jacquine … Coyle … the wagon train … Clive Massey… .
He had been shot.
He was wounded.
What had happened? And where was he? He drew his extended arm back, got the palm under his chest, and pushed up. He rolled on his side and the rain fell upon his face. He opened his mouth and let it wash down his throat, but there was
not enough to satisfy his great thirst.
Carefully, he lifted his right hand and moved it toward his head. Something was wrong there. He had been shot in the head. His fingers found a bulge there, and his hand came away sticky with mud and blood. He got his hands both under him, and pushed himself up to his knees, making his brain spin with the effort.
Waiting, while the dizzy spell passed, he took stock. He had been shot, but although wounded, he was alive. The wagon train had gone on. Had they taken it? Or had they just shot him down?
He saw his hat lying there and picked it up, but it would not go down on his head, so he let it rest where it was. Automatically, his hands reached for his pistols. They were gone. They had been stripped from his body.
That told him something. They had believed him dead, then. What happened to his horse? He stared around in the rain soaked darkness but could see nothing but the vagueness where he was. He got to his feet then, and stood swaying, trying to assemble his thoughts. He was weak, too weak to go far. Yet there was no sense in moving an inch until he knew where to move.
Methodically, he recalled his memory of the day. They had left Goose Creek, and they had crossed a small stream that emptied into the Goose. Hence, somewhere, not too far ahead, would be Wolf Creek. Beyond that was the Tongue. It could be no more than six miles away, or perhaps seven. Facing in what his mind told him was the northwest, he started to walk.
A long time later he opened his eyes to find himself lying on his face again. How far he had come, or if he had moved at all, he did not know. Yet he must move. Somewhere ahead of him was the wagon train and Jacquine, helpless in the hands of Clive Massey, or Sim Boyne, or whoever he was. He forced himself to his feet and carefully put his left foot forward, then his right.
That time he must have taken fully twenty steps before he fell. It was weakness, he knew, yet he had to keep going. He rested, then started again. He made six steps, twelve, twenty again, and then eight. Sometimes he only stumbled and did not fall from sheer weakness. Yet it took him a long time to get to the Wolf.
When he got there, he crawled to the rushing waters and took a drink. Heavy rains had swollen them, and the waters were muddy, but it tasted good. He drank, then drank again.
Crawling back near a huge tree, he cowered close to the trunk. There was some loose brush around, and he pulled himself up and wove some of the brush into the thick, low hanging branches. He fumbled with them for a long time, and contrived a partial shelter. Then he hunched the poncho around his ears and with his back against the bole he fell asleep.
When he awakened again the rain had ceased and the sky was gray. He was suddenly wide awake, yet when he moved he found he was very weak, and it was nothing less than a miracle that he was alive at all, to say nothing of the distance he had covered the night before.
Keeping his seat, he took careful stock of the situation. He must not even think of the wagon train nor of Jacquine. If he was their only hope, then he must regain his strength before attempting to face Massey or Deane. To do that he would need rest and food. There was no shelter anywhere nearby, and no food that he could get without effort on his own part. Yet despite the need for food, the less he moved for awhile, the better.
There were berries on some of the undergrowth, and he picked at them off and on for over an hour. Despite their smallness, they made him feel better. The sun lifted, and pointed an accusing finger at him through a rift in the clouds, yet the rift became wider, and the warmth began to dry his clothes. Steam lifted from them, and he leaned his head back, soaking up the growing warmth.
Somehow he fell asleep, and when he awakened it was almost noon. He picked more berries, then crawled to the stream for a drink. All through the day he rested there, alternately sleeping, eating berries and drinking. Finally, night came again, and he slept.
When Matt Bardoul opened his eyes in the morning he was very weak. In moving, he noticed that his clothing on the right side felt stiff. It was only then that he discovered his second wound. He recalled hearing the shot fired, but had felt no pain, and no shock.
Pulling off the poncho, he rolled it up, and then he examined his wound. It had closed up and although slightly inflamed, did not look bad. The bullet had gone through his side just above the hip bone. Searching his pockets, he found a heavy clasp knife he always carried, and with this he cut himself a good sized stick for a cane. Then tucking the poncho over his belt in behind, he got to his feet.
Then he started to walk. When he had made what he believed was a half mile, he rested and took stock. He did not feel badly, although very weak, and he needed food. Yet his best bet was to continue on to the Tongue. The closer he got to the fort, the better his chance was of finding help. Also, the closer he would be to the wagon train.
Once, about mid morning, he found a bit of biscuit dropped by someone in the wagons, and ate that. He fell asleep then close to a bush, and was awakened sometime later by a bawling mingled with angry snarls. Rolling to his knees, knife in hand, he saw four timber wolves attacking a buffalo calf. Nearby, several others were harrying the cow. Getting a firm grip on his club, he lay beside the bush until the wolves had pulled down the calf, and then he got to his feet and yelled.
Instantly, the wolves wheeled to face him. He started toward them, waving his stick. Three of them made off at once, but the fourth stood his ground, only backing a little and snarling. Matt continued toward the wolf, walking steadily, and the animal glanced left and right to reassure itself of an easy retreat. When no more than twenty feet away, Matt lifted the club once more and shouted. The wolf fled.
The calf was already dead, and he knelt over it, cutting up as much of the meat as he could carry. Then he moved back to the stream, and leaving his meat, returned for more. When he reached the stream after his second trip, he collected sticks and built a fire.
While he was broiling the meat, he studied the situation. For all his effort, he had made no more than two miles, yet once he had eaten, he should be able to do better. As he sat over the fire, his eyes kept noticing some dark object lying out toward the ruts of the wagon train, and finally he decided it was a man.
Thinking of that, he let his eyes wander over the trail, and after a bit, he picked out another. His lips tightened and he felt something well up within him that was between rage and hatred. He ate, his eyes averted. When he had eaten what he could, he rolled the rest of the meat in a haversack made of the poncho, and got to his feet.
He walked slowly, but directly toward the body lying upon the trail. It was Ban Hardy, and he was literally riddled with bullets. Matt knelt over him and went through his pockets. He found his wallet, containing a picture of Sarah Stark and a few faded letters. Matt stowed it away in his pocket, then got to his feet. It took time he needed, but he gathered a few stones and covered the body, then he went on.
The second body was that of Will Stark, one of Aaron’s sons. Will was only sixteen. He had been shot twice through the chest.
“There must be some back behind me,” Matt told himself, “but not many. I think I was pretty far back.”
He found two more bodies before reaching the Tongue. One was a man from Coyle’s company, and the other was Bill Shedd.
Shedd, too, had failed. He had set out to get Sim Boyne, and he had failed. How many more would he find at the Tongue?
By now, an idea of the situation was beginning to fit itself together in Matt’s brain. The attack had been premature because they had known something of the plans made by Bardoul and the rest. Massey had not waited for the Tongue, but had struck at once, taking advantage of the scattered wagon train when there was no chance of unified defense, and when due to the terrain and the travel as well as the driving rain, it was impossible for them to be together. It had been a neat piece of generalship, there was no question of that.
Yet it left Massey with a problem. He had still to get the wagons to a place where they could be hidden or disposed of, and he did not have drivers enough. For that reason if for no
other, few of the wagon train personnel would be shot if they did not offer any resistance. There was a chance no women would be annoyed for the same reason, as peace must be kept as long as possible to get the wagons out of reach of appeal to the fort.
That left the only chance the prisoners had for survival, to lie with an accidental meeting with an Army patrol, or Matt.
Of course, nobody on the wagons knew he was alive. In that lay his greatest chance of success, yet it gave the people of the wagons very little to hope for.
When he had crossed the Tongue, he was on the edge of what had been their camp for the night. He sat down and cooked more of the meat, and drank thirstily. After resting, he got up and made a careful survey of the campsite.
He found where a number of the men and women had been herded together for better guarding, and where they had been fed. A few scraps of food and many tracks in a close area, and very few tracks elsewhere aside from other, more scattered signs, proved this was the correct conclusion.
Bathing his head for the first time, Matt found that mud and blood had caked together to stop the bleeding. The bullet had curved around his head under the scalp, and was still under the skin on the back of his head. Taking a chance, he cut a slit in the scalp and forced the bullet out. Then he bathed the wound again and rested.
He was weak from loss of blood and shock, but despite the walking, he felt better. Yet he knew he had come but a short distance and the wagons, hurried by Massey, would have covered at least forty miles in the two days of travel. Without a horse he would fall farther and farther behind. Had he his full strength, he could have overtaken them on foot, but there was no chance in his present condition.
The course the wagon train was taking would lead them to the Little Big Horn, and from there they might strike across toward the Big Horn itself, or follow a route that would take them south between the river and the mountains. Yet he had no way of guessing their actual destination without following the trail.
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 19
