‘No!’ Angus recoiled with horror.
Olga Polanski placed a comforting arm around the girl’s shoulders and voiced soothing words in Russian.
Angus felt utterly sick. He wanted to block out from his ears, from his senses, what he had heard.
He gazed at his hand in disgust. He had touched Johnny Kypp’s hand. If what Arabella had said was true, he had shaken the hand that had violated Leah. Angry bile rose in his throat and he swallowed it back.
As Arabella was drying her eyes with the handkerchief that Olga had given her, he struggled to control his pounding emotions. ‘And my wee lass, Anna?’ he gasped. ‘Was it Johnny who stole her?’
Arabella nodded. ‘It was him, but he say to claim Glaswall did it. If Johnny or my husband knew I was here they would find me and kill me. Johnny is as bad as Glaswall doing those awful things to you. They are both evil as the devil and so is Linus! He say if I run away, he find me, drag me back!’
She lapsed into a hysterical bout of sobbing.
Ivan Polanski rested his hand on Angus’s shoulder. ‘It has been a shock for you, my friend. I will get you some whiskey — or perhaps vodka?’
Angus’s chest was heaving with wrath. ‘No, I can’t stop. I must find Johnny Kypp.’
‘You no tell Johnny I….’ Arabella cried out in alarm.
Angus cut across her. ‘I won’t breathe a word about you.’
Struggling angrily through the snow, Angus returned to Judas and untethered him. A moment later he was heeling him along the forest trail. He had no real way of telling whom to believe. Anybody could have inflicted those bruises on Arabella. The fact was that she was seething with hatred for Johnny, and such blistering hatred had not been previously evident.
Perhaps the real answer was that all three, Johnny Kypp, Duquemain and Glaswall, should stand trial before a proper judge and be hanged! But if the opportunity arose to kill them himself Angus knew what he would do. The time to ask questions would be after they were in their graves.
At first he was too preoccupied with his own thoughts to notice how the low night-clouds were reflecting a redness above the trees. It was only as he passed close to his old home, the ferry house, that he realized that the redness was caused by flames, and now the acrid smell of smoke tainted the night air. He turned Judas towards the house, along trails which were as familiar as the back of his hand.
Ten minutes later, he reined in and gasped with shock. The entire house was a crackling blaze, flames and sparks rearing high into the sky like furious red serpents, being drawn into an awesome vortex by the buffeting wind. He saw several figures dashing here and there, silhouetted against the blazing house. He recognized the Teutonic shouting of Otto Kruger mingling with the roar of cracking timbers. To one side of the house, safely back, he saw the Kruger family standing, the girls in their night clothes, clutching their dolls, watching their home disintegrate in the blazing inferno.
Angus heeled his reluctant sorrel forward. He wondered whether he might be able to provide assistance. Kruger was leading his panicking horses away from the fire, striving to calm them, his anguished features illuminated by the flames. He’d released his hogs, and they were scuttling about, desperate to escape the heat. He spotted Angus approaching and turned towards him.
‘You’ll pay for this, Angus Troon,’ he yelled, his cheeks puffed out with anger. ‘I won’t let it rest!’
Angus reined in alongside the German. ‘Pay … what do you mean?’
‘They are your enemies, not mine!’ Kruger cried, his bullish face shining with sweat. ‘They did this because they hated you.’
‘Who?’ gasped Angus.
‘They shouted out your name and started shooting at the windows, then they threw flaming torches onto the roof. One of them was shouting in French. There was nothing we could do, except hope they didn’t kill us as we rushed out, damn their souls to hell! They were after you, not me. You should have told me about the danger before you took my money, my life savings.’
Angus cursed. Clearly this was the work of Duquemain and most likely Glaswall. They must have believed that Angus still owned the ferry.
‘I’ll help you,’ Angus said.
‘Ja! You can help me. Get off my land! You’ll pay for this, or I’ll see you dead!’
‘Where are the two men now?’ Angus demanded.
Kruger waved his hand vaguely up-river, and then stamped away, leading his horses across the snow. Angus hesitated, then he shouted: ‘I’ll get after them.’
He heeled Judas in the direction that Kruger had indicated, anger dulling any thought of fatigue.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
‘Troon!’ The shout was barely discernible above the pound of Judas’s hoofs, the crackle of burning timbers and the bluster of wind. A few yards more, and Angus would have been unaware of it.
‘Troon!’ It pierced the night, stabbing at him like a knife in the back as he followed along the north bank of the Peigan. Reluctantly, he hauled on Judas’s reins, dragging him to a halt. He turned, gazed back along the way he had come.
A single horseman was approaching rapidly, waving his arm. It was Otto Kruger. He was gesticulating wildly as he drew close.
‘Troon,’ he shouted. ‘Hold on!’
Irritation flooded through Angus. Had the German decided to inflict retribution on him immediately, instead of waiting for a later moment?
Kruger halted his mount alongside Angus, the panted words tumbling out of him. ‘Like I said, you will pay for what has happened, but firstly, those swine have got to be tracked down, brought to justice. It is best we work together. Two guns are better than one.’
‘But how about your family? You can’t just leave them in the cold.’
Kruger brushed aside the objection. ‘Hanna is well able to drive a wagon. She will take the children to Pawnee Bend. We have friends there. Now let us get on. We must catch them, shoot them down before they do more harm!’
‘Ay,’ Angus said. ‘We’ll ride together. I figure they might have followed the river northward beyond the rapids. They won’t be able to cross over. They’ll probably make for the high country. We may be following the wrong trail, but I don’t think so. One thing’s sure. They won’t want to linger around here for long.’
Kruger grunted his agreement.
‘Let’s ride then! Let’s catch the swine!’
They slammed their heels into the flanks of their animals and they were away.
Fifteen minutes later, the glimmer of a camp-fire showed in the trees on their left. Both riders halted their animals, then Angus led the way cautiously forward. Soon the aroma of coffee came to them on the icy air. Closer in, they saw a small canvas-topped wagon drawn up, a horse wearing a nosebag close by. A man and a woman were huddled near the fire, over which a kettle hung on a tripod. The man was feeding wood into the flames.
‘Hullo there!’ Angus called from the concealment of the trees. ‘We mean you no harm.’
Both man and woman were on their feet instantly, their faces registering alarm. A gun had suddenly appeared in the man’s hands. But Angus called again calmingly ‘I’m Deputy Marshal of Pawnee Bend. We’re chasing after outlaws. Two men.’
As Angus and Kruger revealed themselves, the couple relaxed.
‘There’s coffee if you want it,’ the man said, his voice Russian. They were clearly immigrants, no doubt heading towards their fellows, intent on settling.
Angus nodded his thanks but said: ‘We haven’t time for coffee. Have any riders passed this way?’
It was the woman who answered.
‘Da! They didn’t stop. Two men riding fast, following the river. I do not think they saw us. We hadn’t lit the fire then.’
Angus nodded with satisfaction. ‘We must push on.’
They bade farewell to the Russian couple and forced their way through the night, following the river, seeing the dark hulk of the high country rising before them against the snow-heavy sky. A crazy thought probed at Angus. He reca
lled how he’d ventured this way before, and chance had drawn him to the deserted campsite at the top of an abyss. It was certainly a point that afforded an unrivalled view of the surrounding country and everything that moved in it. Was it possible that it was towards this that the two outlaws were now headed? He tried to dismiss the thought. It was too much of a coincidence. Fate had never been that kind to him! And yet, as they rode on, the idea persisted. And when they reached a point where the trail branched upward, away from the river and towards the soaring terrain, Judas turned that way, as if drawn by instinct.
They paused every half-hour or so to rest their flagging mounts. The going was hard through the snow. Judas was particularly weary after the long miles he had been ridden. Kruger remained uncommunicative, still apparently harbouring resentment against Angus and blaming him for all his troubles. But he seemed content enough to follow along and Angus did not hanker for conversation; he was too busy trying to align his thoughts with those of their enemies.
But all the reasoning he could muster did not save him from disaster.
The formal trail, almost indistinguishable beneath the snow, had long since petered out, giving way to boulder-strewn, treacherous slope. With the the dreary grey of dawn now upon them, Angus had overlooked the possibility that instead of being the hunters, Kruger and himself might find themselves the prey.
They entered a narrow upward-slanting ravine, shielded from the immediate fall of snow – a groove through the rock carved by some primeval upheaval. They were enclosed by overhanging walls of ice-cloaked stone. Angus was briefly aware of the chattering of Kruger’s teeth.
They had entered the perfect trap – as Duquemain and Glaswall, who had been aware of pursuit for some time, well knew. Guns drawn, they were ready and waiting.
The crack of gunfire created an awesome, echoing whiplash of sound within the narrow confines of the ravine.
Both horses were struck. Judas dropped to his knees and Angus was jerked from his saddle, plunging over the sorrel’s head, stunned by the swiftness of the attack. He lost track of Kruger’s fate. After a crunching fall, he rolled over in the snow, then his skull cracked against something hard and he lost consciousness.
He was unaware of Henri Duquemain and Silas Glaswall clambering down from their hiding-place to stand triumphantly over their fallen pursuers, slipping their heated pistols back into their leather.
The dark, silver-bearded features of Duquemain showed great concern as he stooped over Angus’s prostrate body. But as he leaned close and confirmed that the ferryman’s chest still rose and fell, he grunted with satisfaction. It was not part of his plan that Angus Troon should expire right now. That would be too easy for him. Duquemain had a far more gruesome fate in mind for this man – a fate far more fitting to avenge the wrong he considered the ferryman had done him.
‘Let us get zem up to ze camp,’ he said to Glaswall.
Glaswall nodded. ‘Reckon we’ll tie ’em up first. Don’t want them havin’ no fancy ideas of runnin’ off.’
When Angus groaned his way back to sensibility a paroxysm of pain nearly caused him to faint. He considered that his pain was too intense to bear, that, like a newborn baby striving to return to the womb, all he wished for was to lapse back into the bliss of his previous oblivion. But such mercy was not forthcoming. It seemed only death would bring respite.
Gritting his teeth, he struggled to move his limbs but found his efforts severely thwarted. His hands were fastened behind his back. He tried to reason out the exact nature of his predicament and could not.
He was sitting in an extremely cramped position. His chin was thrust hard against his knees. His head was forced to one side by the low roof above and, had he wished to turn his shoulders, he was so constricted that it would have been impossible. He felt as if he was in a tiny, sit-up coffin, more suitable for a dwarf than a six-foot man. Through narrow cracks he could see that daylight had come – but, beyond the narrowest gleam of light, he was unable to distinguish any other feature of the outside world.
His teeth were chattering with the cold.
Then he became aware of the outside wind gusting, and at the same time he felt the contraption that imprisoned him swaying back and forth. Suddenly the awesome truth exploded in his mind – a lightning flash revealing his darkest terrors.
That day when he was searching the mountains he’d crawled to the very brink of the soaring bluff. With his insides quaking, he’d gazed down into the vertiginous depths and been plagued by his compulsive fear of heights. Later, he’d examined the Osage contrivance for protecting meat from wild depredation – by dangling it by rope in the crate, suspended down the cliff-face.
He shuddered.
At the time he’d considered the crate big enough to take a man – just. Now he realized he’d been right!
In desperation he moved his head, forcing it against the side of his prison in an attempt to do the work that his bound arms could not. His effort was futile. Beneath him were dizzy depths, separated from him only by thin boarding fashioned by long-gone Indian hands; his life dependent upon meagre strands of rope which bore the weight of man and crate.
Panic lifted inside him like a suffocating, red sea and he screamed out.
It was then, as he lapsed back, panting like a dog, aware of cold sweat streaming over his face, that he heard the sound of scornful laughter from above him, and a voice, heavy with French accent, taunted him.
‘Mon bon ami, Angus Troon, I zink you wish you didn’t open your mouth in zat courtroom, eh? But you must suffer now. I ’ave my knife ’ere. I must say au revoir, and cut the rope. I ’ope you ’ave a pleasant trip and enjoy the ’eavy landing – ha!’
Angus felt a severe rocking of the crate. He grew rigid with dread. He guessed the knife was slicing into to the unresisting rope. Once it was severed he would be plummeting downward … downward.
It no longer seemed relevant, but he discovered a slight looseness in the rope linking his wrists. He strained against it, working on it frantically.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Old Linus Kypp lashed his decrepit mare angrily up the snow-slippery slope, cursing that she could not eat up the miles like she used to. Mind you, the going was tough as he circled a drift and passed through the tangle of aspen and spruce, the cold making the knife-scars on his cheeks stand out, while the brush clawed at his stumpy legs and left red streaks along the lathered flanks of the horse.
Linus had made a promise to himself. He was not going to let any two-timing female, especially one no more than a third of his age, make a fool of him. He had given Arabella the respectability of the Kypp name, provided her with a marital home and bed. He had even knuckled down to her constant tongue-lashing. She had repaid him by playing up to another man, and afterwards had run off, no doubt trailing after yet another fellow, meanwhile flashing her favours to all and sundry.
Of course at first he had figured that the affair with Johnny had been just a bit of fun, high youthful spirits and nothing more to it. But later he saw things differently. She’d had no compunction about cheating on her husband and benefactor. So he’d shown her that, although he was small in stature, he was still capable of whipping a female into shape. Nothing more than a few bruises and cuts, mind. He’d never guessed she’d go and commit the most grievous sin that any legally married woman can – run off.
Now it was pay-back time.
So Linus Kypp had trailed after her, determined to give her a another good whipping, then drag her back home and make sure she behaved herself. He’d hunted high and low, finding no sign, and almost figured he might have to go to Mexico to find her. Then an idea had come upon him. He’d reasoned that maybe Glaswall was the target of her lust. And knowing that Duquemain was at large once more, he’d recalled their old hideout – the cliff-top camp, once the haunt of the Osage Indians. He had in fact recommended the place to Johnny over eight years ago as a good hideaway if the law was after you. Johnny had, in turn, told Duquemain about it. Now it
was, most likely, where the Frenchman was holed up, Glaswall with him and, God willing, Arabella too. Linus felt quite smug with himself at having reasoned it all out.
So here he was, breathing the thin air as he kicked the mare higher up the slope. Eventually he spotted a saddled, stocking-foot sorrel on the flat of a mountain meadow, muzzling into the snow for grass. The animal looked familiar, but he couldn’t recall why. When he attempted to approach it it shifted off, not anxious to establish acquaintance. He noticed how its withers were glistening with blood. He debated whether he should put a bullet into the beast, but decided against it, as the sound of a shot would reveal his presence to unfriendly ears.
He rode on, the going becoming harder as the snow grew deeper, the breath of man and labouring beast clouding whitely. At last he topped out on the southern end of the great bluff. He figured he was about a mile from the camp and an old tingling in his water, an old excitement, barred any consideration that he might have got things wrong. Arabella would be there for sure, and if he had to kill Glaswall to get her back, so be it.
He leaned forward, unsheathed his mighty .50-calibre buffalo rifle from its scabbard, and satisfied himself that it was ready for when it was needed. He was thankful that he’d found his treasured weapon in the snow after he’d been tricked into dropping it by that slip of a girl who had a crush on Angus Troon.
Getting nearer, his keen nostrils picked up a taint of smoke on the frigid air and he grunted with excitement. It took him another half-hour to circle around and approach the campsite through the tumble of boulders and low, thorny scrub.
He slipped from his saddle and left the mare standing head-dropped in the snow. What he had to do was best done on foot. He was surprisingly agile for his age, moving on his stumpy legs, sure-footed over the slippery rocks and wind-packed snow, like a goat. He smiled as he heard the clink of sound from the concealed campsite. This told him two things: firstly, there was somebody there; and secondly, they weren’t expecting visitors.
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