“Monday!” Bardoul’s jaw stiffened. “That’s three days. It will be too late!”
He wheeled and walked from the tent, catching the reins of his horse as he left. Walking rapidly, he went down to a camp kitchen that still smoked lazily. The cook looked up. “Anything to eat?” Matt asked wearily.
“Sure thing!” The cook glanced at him curiously. “You look like you could use it. What’s the matter?”
Over a cup of coffee, Matt explained. The cook nodded, then jerked his head at the tent from which Matt had come. “What you might expect of him. He’s a stickler. Never makes a move unless he’s told to or it is covered by regulations.”
“How about making me up a pack of grub?”
The cook looked at him. “You going out again? The way you look?”
“You’re damned right I am! I’m riding out tonight.”
“Better get some rest. That horse of yours could use it, too. I’ll fix you a bit of grub, though. And say, there’s a carpenter over there, third building down. He’s got him a pair of Colt pistols, brand, spankin’ new. If you’ve got the money, you might buy ‘em.”
At daylight, the Colts slung about his hips and plenty of ammunition bought or borrowed from the carpenter in his saddle bags, Matt Bardoul rode out of camp on the zebra dun. He had no plan, only to come within striking distance of the wagon train, and to reach, if possible, some communication with Murphy or Stark. If he could get guns in the hands of a few of the honest men, there would be little to worry about. They would at least have a fighting chance.
All that day he rode, and the following morning he picked up the trail of the wagons once more. Washed, shaved and refreshed from his brief stay in camp, he was feeling ready for anything. The doctor who dressed his wounds had just looked at them grimly, and told him he was a fool for luck. Then added that he should have rest and quiet. “From the look of you,” he went on to say, “I doubt if you’ll get it. And you’ll probably live!”
They had grinned at each other, and the doctor, to whom he had told his story, added, “I wish I was going with you. It would be worth it.”
The dun took to the trail like he had reasons of his own for catching the wagon train, and as he rode, Matt tried the Colts. They were better balanced than his own guns, a beautiful pair of guns. He tried them on a couple of rabbits, then fed shells into the empty chambers and returned them to their places.
He rode and rested, then rode and rested again. When he rested he made coffee or soup, but for the most part he ate in the saddle. He rode into the ruins of old Fort C. F. Smith, near the foot of the mountains, and the first thing he saw was the body of a man, partly covered by brush. It was Ben Sperry. He had been shot three times after being brutally beaten.
Matt’s face was hard when he swung back into the saddle and headed south, riding swiftly. The trail turned up a creek toward a deep canyon that cut into the hills, and Matt slowed his horse to a walk. There could be no outlet in this direction for they were driving right back into the mountains, heading southeast. Then he was close, very close.
He had stopped to drink at the stream when he heard a groan, and wheeled, gun in hand. He was looking right into the eyes of Logan Deane.
The gunfighter lay on his stomach on the bank of the stream, a few feet above it, and his face was gray with pain. Matt caught him by the shoulder. “Logan! What happened? What’s the matter?”
Deane’s eyes focused. “Bardoul … kill him. Kill that … Massey.” His voice faded and Matt got up on the bank and knelt beside him, but only a glance was needed. How Logan Deane was even able to speak was beyond him. The man had been shot, not once, but at least five times through the stomach, and left to die.
“You … were right … he pulled …” Deane seemed to gather himself for an effort, “sneak gun on me. Get there … quick.”
Holding a canteen to the man’s lips, Matt gave him a drink, but Deane pushed him away. “Get … Massey!”
Suddenly, he heard a new sound. He straightened, listening. He heard it again … the ring of an axe!
Then he was close, very close. Matt loosened his guns in their holsters and waited, standing there, letting his nerves grow quiet and his senses poised.
12
What was taking place with the wagon train, Matt did not know. He knew that at last he had reached the end of the trail in more ways than one. Now, at last, there would be a showdown and he would face Massey as he had long wished to face him … with a gun. Yet there would be a difference between this and any other fight, for now the lives and happiness of others were at stake.
Because of that he must plan shrewdly and with care. Victory, if it was to be had at all, would have to come with a sudden strike, giving the renegades no chance to organize or get set for a battle. He must approach shrewdly, study the situation, and find some way of getting guns into the hands of the honest men.
First then, he must locate Buffalo Murphy, if he was alive, and after him, the Starks and the Coyles, and those whom he knew would be most resolute in the face of danger and gunfire. Then and only then could he risk a break, and then he must find and kill Clive Massey.
There was no other choice. Looked at calmly, it was Massey who must be destroyed. He was the brain and the hand, the brain that conceived and planned, the hand that enforced, and once he was destroyed the whole outlaw force might come apart at the seams.
The manner of the death of Logan Deane convinced him anew that Massey was a ruthless, sadistic killer. To gut shoot a man in that manner meant to leave him hours of torture, hours of suffering when time would drag on and there could be no hope of life, only the cruelty of endless agony. Massey had known this when he killed Deane.
Matt turned away from the fallen man knowing there was nothing he could do, and walking into the brush, he concealed his horse, tying it where the grass was good in a small glade surrounded with brush and trees. He took his guns then, checking the twinbelts to assure himself that every loop was full. Only then did he turn and start through the woods. He moved carefully, uncertain as to how the camp might be guarded, or how soon he would come up with the wagon train.
The lodgepoles towered above him in slim, erect columns, all of a size, and the forest beneath them carpeted with the fallen pine needles of many years. He walked steadily, his mind reaching ahead to plan for what he might find.
Suddenly, he had come to the edge of a cliff. Below him, no more than sixty feet, was a rock walled valley floored with green. At the upper end a waterfall fell from a gap in the cliff into a pool. Nearby, a number of men were building log structures, at least two of which were already completed. Around them Matt could see the outlaws on guard.
This then was why they were alive. Massey was using their labour until the very last. There was no evidence of the women.
Matt stretched out behind some manzanita and studied the layout with careful eyes. There was only one approach he could use, for aside from the entrance, undoubtedly guarded with care, the only way into the valley was at a place where the wall was broken by a long pine clad slope that let an arm of the forest reach into the valley. Even as he watched he saw several men, shouldering axes, start for that hill. Two guards accompanied them, and Matt decided this must be where they were cutting the timber for the cabins.
There was no other evidence of timber falling around, and he believed he could see where the logs had been snaked along the ground by oxen.
Getting to his feet he moved back into the timber and worked his way along the mountainside in that direction. It was no more than a mile, yet it required all of an hour to cover the ground without risking detection.
He heard the ring of axes before he reached the spot, but got into a good position in a thick growth of brush where he could watch the men at work, and see their guards.
Six men made up the group, and two guards, both of whom carried shotguns. Matt’s lips went dry when he saw them. It was no wonder the captives had made no effort to escape. No man gambles with a sh
otgun. A rifle or a pistol if one is desperate enough, but a shotgun? No.
Matt studied the group with care, and saw that one of the wood cutters was Jeb Stark. Even as he watched, two more men came through the trees from camp accompanied by a third guard. One of these men was Buffalo Murphy.
Lifting his head slightly, Matt gave out the lonely call of a loon.
His eyes were on Murphy, and he saw the big man straighten and mop a hand across his brow. Murphy had heard him … he knew!
Suddenly, Matt’s head jerked around and his Winchester lifted. A man with a rifle had moved out of the woods opposite him and behind the woodsmen. It was Phillips!
Bardoul waited, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. If Murphy had heard his call, then Phillips had also, and Phillips was armed, which implied that he was riding with the renegades. Any old Indian fighter would know that call. Yet the scout made no move, and gave no indication of awareness.
Murphy turned and attacked his tree from another angle, a move that brought him face to face with Bardoul’s position. He swung his axe, then straightened and brushed his hand across his brow, eager to let Matt know he was ready for anything.
Matt’s eyes shifted to Phillips, and he jumped when he saw the Indian fighter was gone!
Bardoul faded back into the brush and slid his knife from its scabbard. He moved stealthily from tree to tree, then crouched behind the earth matted roots of a huge deadfall. He had only to wait a minute or so when he saw Phillips.
The Portugee moved purposefully through the brush, but making no effort at concealment. When he drew near the place from which the loon call might have come, he paused and leaned his rifle against a tree. Turning then, he walked away some twenty feet and seated himself against a tree trunk. Taking out his pipe, he lit it.
His meaning was obvious enough. He was perfectly aware that Matt Bardoul or someone was in the woods near him, and he wanted them to feel there was nothing to fear from him. Matt waited, uncertain. After a moment had passed, Phillips took his pipe from his mouth and said, “If it’s you, Bardoul, ye can talk. That call sounded like yours.”
Matt spoke only loud enough for the Portugee to hear him. “You have been a good man, Phillips, but go against me now, and I’ll kill you.”
“I’ve a short gun under my shirt,” Phillips replied, “but you could beat me, and unless I’m some mistook you’ll have a knife handy that you could kill me with by throwin’ before I could get my gun into action. Come out, or stay where you are, but listen:
“The women are all right, but today is the last of their free time. I’ve spoken for them, arguin’ that the men would work better and make no trouble if their women were unmolested, but Massey’s restless and some irritated at that wildcat of a Coyle gal. She’s not been so easy as he’d expected.
“I’m with you, all the way. Murphy knows that, for we’ve talked it over some, and so does Stark, and we’ve a plan, but it is not such a good one.”
Bardoul moved out of the brush and Phillips grinned at him. “You look to have been through some grief your ownself,” he said, “and you’re right in trustin’ no man. In the past I’ve been a hard man at times, but once you’ve a taste of bein’ a hero, it makes things different somehow. It gives a man something to live up to.”
Matt set on his heels. “Phillips, if you’re right there is no time to waste. We had better get down there and take over this minute. We’ve got to get rifles and those shotguns in the hands of our own men, and this lot of timber fallers are as good as any we could find.”
“With luck we’ll do it all right. The rest of the guns are in the smaller of the two finished buildings. That’s where Massey is. The women are in the other building. He’s got thirty men down there altogether, and a rough lot they are, the ragtag an’ bobtail of the mountain country. He thinks I’m with him, and I’ve been hunting for the lot of them, getting them fresh meat.
“The man’s mad, Bardoul. He’s a crazy killer, that one. Safe for no man, and quick to kill. The way he killed Deane … I didn’t see the first of it. When I came up, Logan was already down and Massey over him, standing there cold blooded and shooting into him, slow, timed shots, picking his places.
“He’s mean to get along with as a ruttin’ moose, and he’ll kill anything or anybody that crosses him.
“Oh, he’s Sim Boyne, all right! He’s bragged of it! Talks of the killings along the Trace when he was a boy. There’s blood on his hands, and a sight of it.”
Swiftly, Bardoul outlined the plan he had worked out and Phillips nodded. Finally, he took his pipe from his mouth and scratched his cheek with the stem. “Maybe she’ll work, anyway, we’ve got to try. We’ve no choice, for Massey will be wild tonight. The Coyle gal got away from him last night and he finally gave up and went back to his own quarters, but he was as mean as a she grizzly with cubs.
“Bat Hammer, Stahl, and the rest of them are almighty worked up about Massey not givin’ them the Stark girls and that gal of Tolliver’s.”
Portugee Phillips got to his feet and started back toward the clearing and at a safe distance, Matt followed. Phillips went right into the clearing and crossed to Murphy and although Matt could not see the exchange of looks, Phillips must have given Murphy an almost imperceptible nod as he strolled by and engaged his guard in conversation. On cat feet, Bardoul worked through the trees and brush behind the guard.
Once, the man started to turn as though his ears had detected some subtle sound, but Phillips touched his arm and the guard looked back. Matt raised up behind him and put the point of his knife against the man’s left side. “Move,” he whispered, “and you’ll get this knife between your ribs!”
The guard stiffened as if struck, and Phillips reached up and took the shotgun from his hands, tossing it to Murphy. Then shielding the guard from observation with his own square built body, Phillips stripped off the man’s gun belts. Holding the knife with his left hand, Matt slipped his six-gun from its holster and slapped the man over the head. Coolly then, he dragged the man back into the brush and tied him.
The action had been swift and silent, occupying a few seconds only and nobody seemed to have noticed a thing but the ever wary Jeb Stark. He straightened from his work, and his eyes went from Murphy to Bardoul, and then he walked toward his own guard. Then he pointed, and said to the guard, “How would that tree over there be?”
As the guard’s head turned away, Matt and Murphy closed in on the remaining guard. The man gave a stifled gasp, and Jeb’s guard started to turn. The distance was too great for a blow, but Jeb held his axe with a grip close to the head. He threw it, butt foremost, hurling it with all his strength. It caught the guard on the temple and he went down in a heap. Swiftly, Stark bent over him, getting his guns.
The ring of axes stopped, but Buff whirled. “Work, damn you!” he said hoarsely. “Keep those axes going. There must be no warning now!”
Swiftly, as the axes rang, Matt distributed the guns among the men. The first four he ordered to hide their guns under their shirts, while oxen were hooked to the nearest logs. “Haul that load down where Barney Coyle and Stark are working,” Matt told them. “You walk alongside with Phillips acting as your guard.”
The whip cracked and the logs started to move, one man driving, the others trooping along behind. Matt waited, his Winchester ready, in case there was a sudden alarm, but there was none and all the men continued to work quietly.
Moving from tree to tree, Matt went down into the valley and circled the log house where Massey made headquarters. At any moment the battle would open, and he must get as close to Massey as possible when the showdown came. As he rounded the cabin he saw the logs stop near Barney and Stark, and their guard turned to look into a drawn pistol.
Clive Massey appeared suddenly in the doorway of his cabin, and stepped out, walking rapidly toward the building where the women were kept. He walked like a man who had made up his mind. As he got to the door of the other building, he turned and shouted: “Bat! Sta
hl! Come on, you two! You’ve been belly aching about the women, now …” Whatever else was said was lost to Matt’s ears as the two men drew nearer, and then all three went into the house.
Matt darted across the hard packed earth toward the wall in time to hear a cry of protest.
An outlaw walked around from behind the wagon where he had slept, all unaware of what was happening. He was a big man with his powerfully muscled shoulders bulging the inadequate cloth of his shirt. His face was a stubble of beard, and he looked irritable and mean.
He stepped out, rubbing his eyes, and then one hand stopped moving and his eyes flared wide. With an oath, his hand swept down for his gun. Bardoul was standing facing him one instant, and the next instant Matt’s gun was bucking.
His first bullet caught the big renegade in mid-stride and the man seemed to stumble, his gun half drawn, and then he took three, stumbling, halting steps forward before his knees buckled under him and he went to the ground. He turned as he fell, and uttered no sound.
With that shot the camp exploded into confusion. A man in a blue shirt charged around a building and was almost torn in half by a shotgun blast, smashing him back as if suddenly jerked from behind. With the roar of the gun echoing against the canyon walls, the man went to the ground, screaming in his death throes.
Hammer and Stahl lunged from the doorway of the cabin and Stahl ducked around the corner, but Hammer halted in the doorway, grabbing the jam with his left hand while he dropped his right in a sweeping draw. The draw was fast, but never completed, for Aaron Stark, bowie knife in his fist, hit him like a charging bull. Hammer cried out, and then they both flopped from the door to the earth, fighting like madmen. Hammer was the younger man, but the old man’s rage turned him into a fury, and Matt saw Hammer twist as the knife struck down again, and as Bat squirmed to free himself, the knife of the old mountaineer rose and fell again and again. Aaron Stark had seen his youngest son shot down brutally by this man, and he had waited for the moment.
Bardoul ran for the door just as Massey appeared in it, dragging Jacquine. Massey stopped there, his face scratched, his hair tumbled, and stared wildly about, seeming to see in one frantic moment the end of everything. With an angry cry he sprang back into the door, shoving the girl ahead of him, slamming it shut behind him even as Bardoul’s shoulder hit the heavy planks. The door held.
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 21
