Frank took the blows, but just as Trip was drawing back a fist to punch his chin, a man came up behind him and slapped firm hands on his shoulders, thrusting Trip to his knees. Then Frank delivered a backhanded swipe that wheeled him to the ground and a kick to the guts that lifted him off the dirt before rolling him into the feet of the circle of men.
Then the blows and kicks came strong and quick. Trip couldn’t get in any retaliatory punches and he had to devote all his efforts to fighting his way back to his feet. When he did, clear space had opened up before him.
He ran, but managed only two paces before someone swung a kick into the back of knees and sent him tumbling. Then hands raised him to his feet and held him firm. They swung him around to face Frank.
“Are you ready to talk while you still can?” Frank said, rolling his shoulders.
“I have nothing to say,” Trip said.
Frank sneered, so Trip took deep breaths as he searched for a way to talk his way out of this predicament. No ideas came to him and, as he wasn’t responding to Frank’s taunts, Frank strode in.
Frank gestured for the man holding Trip to release him and then hammered a solid fist into his cheek that cracked his head to the side and sent him sprawling into the man who had been holding him. That man pushed him on to another, who in turn pushed him on to the next man.
Each man delivered short punches and digs, and they grew in strength as they goaded themselves on to administer a sustained beating. Then one man delivered a blow that knocked Trip to the ground.
On his knees and surrounded by a forest of legs he judged that he had only one hope, and it was a dangerous one – the river. So he kept himself aware of where the river was as the next man dragged him to his feet and punched him on to the next man.
That man also wheeled him away to the next, but with each blow he tumbled a few paces when he was facing the river and stood his ground when he wasn’t. He rocked from one man to another, each time receiving jabs and punches, but each time getting nearer to the water.
When he was within ten yards of the water, one man hurled back his fist to hit him, but as that man had his back to the river, Trip threw himself forward and grabbed him in a bear-hug. He drove himself on, wheeling the man backward until he slipped and the two men came crashing down, the boggy edge of the river splashing away around their bodies.
The man grunted and levered Trip off him. Trip didn’t resist and let the man stand him straight, and when he pummeled his face, Trip staggered away into the shallows. Only three men were standing up to their ankles in the water.
Trip stomped to a halt and then circled his opponent until that man stood between him and deeper water. Then he moved in. The man threw a punch at his head, but Trip ducked it. When he came up, he hurled a huge pile-driving blow into the man’s chin that cracked his head back and knocked his feet out of the water before he tumbled into the other men.
All three men went down, leaving clear space between Trip and deeper water. This was the only opportunity Trip reckoned he’d get and he used his momentum to keep running. He vaulted the sprawling men and waded into the water until it was beyond his knees.
At this point, the river bottom fell away sharply and he threw both hands up and dove in. Biting cold hit him with solid force, as he threw out his arms trying to swim with strong strokes toward the surface.
When he broke the surface to gasp for air, the water swirled around him with too much strength for his wild strokes to be effective and the river took him downriver with Trip unable to control his movements. Frank shouted orders from the riverside and gunfire ripped out, but if it was well-aimed, he couldn’t tell as the water was milling around him.
The angry force of the water dunked him, his open mouth gulping in cold water and, although he then closed his mouth, the water was grinding so much he couldn’t tell if he was underwater or on the surface. He had to breathe or die and he thrust his arms and legs around, searching for buoyancy.
Long desperate moments passed without him gaining air, but then his thrashing about let his head break through the surface. As he gulped air, he found he’d already headed around the first bend in the river and Frank and the others were out of sight.
Then the strong current dragged him under again and he had to fight to avoid it sucking him down permanently. His efforts were to no avail, but then the huge shape of a boulder loomed ahead.
He fought to turn, getting his feet before him, and his boots hit the rock first, absorbing the impact. He was even able to kick off from it and fight his way back to the surface. As he filled his lungs, ahead were more boulders, strewn across the river, the water a moiling mass of white atop muddy brown.
Amid the boulders was the towering expanse of the bridge, the main twin stanchions transfixed in the middle of the river and giving him hope that there would be something ahead he could grab hold of.
Another boulder appeared in his path. He could do nothing but throw out his arms and he hit the boulder full in the chest. It blasted whatever air he had left in his body from him and he stood, treading water and transfixed, his arms and legs splayed.
He fought, searching for a handhold on the slippery rock, but the water rasped him away from the rock. Buzzing filled his ears, the noise masking the roaring of the water, his vision dimming and not just from the grinding water.
He needed to gather a full breath, but all he could claw into his tortured lungs was water. Then a bridge stanchion loomed ahead, large and solid. Trip fought his way to the surface, reckoning this would be his last opportunity to avoid the river sweeping him on to his death, but he would miss it, perhaps by just five yards.
He frantically waved his arms and legs, the force of the water not enabling him to deliver a full stroke. He didn’t think he moved himself toward the stanchion, but he did fight himself above the water for long enough to gather a huge breath.
He had moved perhaps a yard nearer to his target, but it was now just twenty yards downriver and he’d sweep by it in seconds. He thrust out again with his legs, aiming to throw himself through the water, but a solid object battered into his back.
It scraped against his cheek letting him confirm it was a broken bough, but although it pushed him underwater, he grabbed hold of the wood. When he came up, he threw himself over it, caught hold of smaller branches and hung on.
The bough slowed its journey downriver to swirl around in an eddy as it passed the stanchion, but he could do nothing other than let it drift by. With a hopeless feeling descending on his water-bloated guts, he faced downriver.
He still had one more chance – ahead was the stanchion that supported the other side of the bridge. Between them a plank connected the stanchions. As Trip floundered past his only possible way of escaping from the river, he thrust out a hand over the bough, kicking with his feet, but the plank was out of reach and already he was closing on the final stanchion and his last chance.
Then the bough shuddered. Trip stretched his neck and found that the end of the bough had caught in the mass of detritus that was clinging hold of the bottom of the stanchion. For a long moment, the bough held, keeping Trip stationary in the river with the powerful flow surging water over his body.
Then the bough started to break free. The force swung Trip with it, winging him away from the plank. Trip had just seconds before the bough resumed its journey downriver and he dragged himself down the length of the bough, pushing himself through the water.
He clawed through the thick mass of broken branches that had been temporarily captured until, just as the bough tore free, Trip threw up an arm and his outstretched fingers grabbed a clawing hold of the plank. As the bough swirled away, he held on.
He trod water, catching his breath, and then dragged himself out of the water. He lay on his back, enjoying the simple pleasure of breathing. Then he started to shake from the cold and the shock and that forced him to turn his mind to more practical matters.
Within minutes, Frank and the others would return to th
e bridge and although they might presume he had drowned, he couldn’t hide at the bottom of the gulch forever. Now was probably the only opportunity he’d get to sneak away.
So he scurried up the side of the gulch on hands and feet, hurrying to reach the top ahead of Frank. He leaned against each strut that dug into the side of the gulch and paused for breath before he moved on to the next strut, and quickly he reached the top.
His first sight on cresting the top was Grace. She had been left alone and was now sitting by their horses with her head in her hands, and from the way she was shaking, Trip reckoned she was crying. He confirmed that Frank hadn’t reached the top of the slope yet, and then broke into a run.
“Grace,” he shouted, but the water clogging his lungs only let his word emerge as a coughing and spluttering noise.
As it turned out, he had shouted loud enough for Grace to hear him. She put a hand to her mouth in shock as the dripping and staggering figure headed toward her, and then jumped to her feet and hurried to him.
“You’re alive,” she gasped, coming to a halt before him, her unfettered smile and watering eyes registering a mixture of joy and shock.
“I reckon that’s just about right,” Trip said. He staggered to a halt and coughed up water again. “At least you’re pleased to see me.”
“Of course I am,” she gasped, placing a hand to her heart. “They took my rifle and stopped me helping you. Then they . . . I thought they’d kill you.”
“Don’t worry. I know you’d have helped if you could.”
“I would have, but if we don’t get out of here soon, they will finish what they started,” she said.
Trip turned around as shouting came from beyond the edge of the slope. They had only seconds before Frank returned.
Chapter Twelve
AS THE SOUNDS OF FRANK calling to his men closed on the top of the slope, Trip and Grace ran to their horses. They mounted them and wasted no time in galloping away from the bridge. They chose to head toward Calloway’s Crossing and, as they reached a thin animal track that led through the trees and along which they’d have to ride single-file, the first men clambered into view.
Then the trees closed in behind Trip and cut off his view. He sighed with relief but then, through the trees, a loud cry went up.
“She’s gone,” someone shouted.
“There’s a trail of water over there. He got out of the river.”
Trip shook the reins, but the action ripped pain through his chest and he bent to the side to spit up more water. Despite the urge to put distance between himself and the gulch, he reckoned he needed time to recuperate and between coughs, he gave Grace a pained look that said he was in no condition to escape from a determined pursuit.
Grace pointed to the side of the trail and Trip nodded. They jumped down from their horses and led them into the undergrowth. They were only twenty yards from the treeline and they could do nothing but keep still and hope their lack of movement would stop anyone noticing them.
In the clearing, Frank grouped his men together. Trip heard their comments and he was pleased that nobody had picked up their trail from among the mass of everyone’s hoofprints. When they mounted up and thundered away from the bridge, they picked the route to Wagon Creek. As none of the workers stayed back, Trip and Grace uttered several sighs of relief.
“You can relax,” Grace said. “They won’t get you now.”
“With your help they won’t, but to be honest, I’m more pleased that you were worried about me,” he said. “Perhaps it means you do care.”
“Don’t say that, Trip Kincaid. Of course I care about you – as I would for any friend – and I hated thinking that my idea had got you killed.” She sighed and ventured a smile. “So if it helps, I’ll admit that helping Baxter was a bad idea.”
“I’m obliged you admitted that.”
“I’m a woman. I have no problem in admitting I’m wrong.” She turned to the clearing. “Now, as you’re not fit enough to go anywhere fast, I need to do some thinking and work out what we should do next.”
Trip also turned to the clearing around the bridge. No ideas came to him, but when he turned back to Grace, a terrible and unpalatable thought came to him.
“The last few minutes have been rough for me,” he mused. “I don’t want you getting all flustered, but I have a question and I’d be a fool not to ask it.”
Grace leaned toward him, wincing. “It isn’t about last night, is it? Because I’ve told you, I’m not getting serious about you.”
“It is about last night, but not about that.” Trip took a deep breath. A voice in his head told him to keep this thought quiet, but he couldn’t move on until he’d uttered it. “I don’t reckon you’d . . . I reckon you wanted. . . .”
“Spit it out, Trip.”
Trip lowered his head and his voice. “You’d shown no interest in me until that twenty thousand dollars was due to arrive, and then you distracted me and—”
“I distracted you!” Grace threw her hands high. “You reckon I was working with Baxter and I distracted you while he planted the money on you?”
“Like I said, I don’t want you getting all flustered, but I had to ask,” Trip said, already regretting letting the dangers of the last few minutes force him into voicing such a wild theory.
“I’ll get as flustered as I want, Trip Kincaid. There was me getting all serious about you and then you go and say that.”
Trip cocked his head to one side. “What’s that about getting serious? You said you didn’t want that.”
“Do you know nothing about women?”
Trip tipped back his hat. “It seems I don’t know nothing about this one.”
She swirled around to face the bridge and away from him.
“Then listen to this – I didn’t side with Baxter. I didn’t distract you.” She slapped her thigh and led her horse toward the clearing. “And I sure as hell won’t get serious about you now.”
Trip gave an apologetic smile to her receding back and then hurried on to catch up with her, leading his horse, but as he closed on her, three riders were heading across the clearing toward them. Grace and Trip drew their horses to a halt, but when Trip recognized the lead rider as being the portly form of Marshal Kaplan, Grace nodded and they headed out from the trees.
Standing side by side, they awaited his arrival. Trip searched for the right wording for his apology to Grace, but could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t make things worse. As the marshal rode closer, all thoughts of apologizing fled from his thoughts.
The marshal was scowling and had already drawn his gun. His deputies didn’t look happy either. Kaplan conferred with these men, after which they spread out across the clearing before them.
“Kaplan, have you heard what happened here?” Trip called.
Kaplan didn’t reply until he was twenty yards away.
“I sure have,” he said. “Somebody stole twenty thousand dollars.”
“Have you got any leads?”
“I’ve got one.” Kaplan gestured back at his deputies, who, as one, drew their guns and leveled them on Trip. “You.”
Trip took the only action possible and raised his hands.
“I explained everything to Frank Moore. It wasn’t me.”
“When we get back to Wagon Creek, you can explain everything to me.” Kaplan pointed back down the trail. “You can come quietly, or come face down over your horse. It’s all the same to me.”
“I’ll come quietly,” Trip said.
“Do you want me, Kappy?” Grace said while fluttering her eyelashes and leaning toward the marshal.
“From what I’ve heard, you were with him last night, so you can come.” Kaplan smiled. “But you don’t need to be quiet.”
“I am so pleased, but I really don’t want to go to Wagon Creek,” she simpered and thrust out her chest to its utmost. “I have business elsewhere. Last night, I was with Trip, but the missing money didn’t have anything to do with me. If you want, I can de
scribe what we did, but you have a good memory, I’ll let you work out the details for yourself.”
Kaplan slipped a finger under his collar and gulped. “I guess I can do that. You can go.”
“I’m obliged,” Grace said.
She mounted her horse and moseyed it past Kaplan, leaving slowly so that Kaplan and his deputies could linger their gazes on her. As she left, she turned to Trip, disguising the movement by flicking back her hair. After their previous argument, Trip couldn’t tell if her narrowed eyes meant she was leaving to help him, or was just leaving him to his fate.
“YOU DON’T NEED TO PUT me in a cell while you check out my story,” Trip said.
“You don’t need to tell me how to do my job,” Kaplan said, facing Trip through the bars.
“Then I’ll tell you what happened. Someone stole the money. I didn’t see who it was. I’ve got nothing more than that.”
“I haven’t arrested you for what happened this morning. I’ve arrested you for what happened yesterday.” Kaplan raised his eyebrows. “Ryan Trimble and four other men disappeared.”
Trip gritted his teeth. “I don’t know nothing about that.”
“I don’t suppose you know nothing about the note I received telling me to go to the woods a mile downriver from your saloon?”
“Who was it from?”
“That isn’t important. What is important is what I found.” Kaplan folded his arms and waited for a response, but Trip remained silent. “I found five bodies.”
“Ah,” Trip said.
A satisfied smile spread across Kaplan’s podgy features before he headed to his desk. He sat down, placed his feet on his desk, locked his hands behind his head and shuffled around to face Trip.
“So I reckon you should tell me everything, starting from the moment you left me yesterday.”
Trip lowered his head while he collected his thoughts, and then told the tale he’d rehearsed yesterday. When he’d finished, the marshal fetched himself a mug of coffee.
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