by Paul Lederer
‘Is your name McCoy?’ the other man enquired, speaking first. He was built sparely; his eyes were a faded blue. He wore northern-style chaps over black jeans and a lined black leather coat.
‘No,’ Casey replied very carefully.
‘I didn’t think so,’ the stranger said, briefly removing his hat to wipe back his thinning blond hair. ‘Trouble is, I never have seen him.’
‘Neither have I,’ Casey said honestly.
‘You’ve heard the name before, though – Gervase McCoy?’
‘I’ve heard it,’ Casey admitted, still alert for any trouble that might be lurking.
The stranger nodded, lifted himself a little from the saddle and rubbed the insides of his legs. ‘Do you mind if we step down for a minute? I feel like I’ve been aboard this nag for half my life.’
‘All right,’ Casey said carefully.
‘I can boil up some coffee in a few minutes,’ the stranger said, swinging from the saddle. ‘If it suits you?’
‘Suits me,’ Casey said, still mistrustfully.
The man nodded, went to his pack animal and quickly found a coffee pot and a sack of ground beans. The men broke up a few pine twigs, piled them together, and with snowmelt for water, started the coffee boiling.
Crouching beside the fire, the stranger said, ‘You seem a little uneasy, friend? Been Indian trouble up this way?’
‘Not that I know of. They say the Nez Perce have mostly gone up to Canada and the Lakota have ridden south following the buffalo.’
‘Well, that’s what we were hoping. You never know out here, do you?’ The stranger poured them each a cup of coffee and went on amiably enough, ‘I’m Bill Hampton. Point man for Reese-Fargo Shipping. That name doesn’t mean anything to you, I can see that.’ The stranger smiled at Casey. ‘Reese-Fargo has a contract with the army for bringing supplies upriver to the posts in the north country. Fort Union, Fort Peck, and our last stop, Fort Benton.’
‘Upriver …?’ Casey inquired, not quite understanding.
‘That’s right. You can’t haul army supplies overland. In this country! At this time of year! Reese-Fargo is a riverboat company, Mr … didn’t get your name.’
‘Casey.’
‘Casey,’ the man nodded, finishing his coffee. ‘The thing is, at this time of year we can’t get our riverboats through either! The river ices up and there’s no decent landing near Benton. Besides,’ he added, ‘the river’s dangerously shallow at that point. The army’s desperate to bring in supplies before the real Montana blizzards begin. Abandoning the fort is no option, since you never know when the Cheyenne or Sioux might decide to raid again and burn Fort Benton to the ground. They’ve done it once before. The army needs its supplies, and that’s the business of Reese-Fargo.’
‘You say your job is as “point man” for the river boat company, and that you’re looking for McCoy,’ Casey said thoughtfully, adding the dregs of his coffee cup to the embers of the small smoky fire they had built. ‘Do you mind if I ask what exactly it is that your position entails?’
Bill Hampton laughed pleasantly. ‘No, not at all. It’s no secret, Casey. I told you that our riverboats can’t reach Fort Benton once true winter sets in. The river freezes and is far too shallow. There’s no decent landing there. This man McCoy has contracted to construct a settlement at the last deep-water bend in the Little Missouri. From there, freight wagons can easily make the last leg of the trip to the fort. I just haven’t been able to find McCoy!’ Hampton laughed again. ‘Of course I’m two or three days ahead of schedule – we didn’t want to risk an early freeze, either. But I could find no sign of the building site, no trace of McCoy. I’m on my way to Fort Benton now to wait for him to arrive and explain matters.’
‘I see,’ Casey said slowly.
‘Do you? It’s fairly complicated; I hope I’ve explained it clearly,’ Bill Hampton said; rising once again.
‘I believe you have,’ Casey answered. ‘I believe you have explained it all too well.’
SEVEN
Bill Hampton still wore a vaguely puzzled expression as he again mounted his sorrel and, leading his pack horse, resumed his ride to the north. Casey watched the riverboat agent for a minute before swinging into Checkers’s saddle. He rode on with a greater sense of urgency, and stronger anger, but with more confidence. He need only to reach the river and guide Checkers southward and he would surely find Sundown – for Hampton had indicated that he had already visited the location, finding no one there, and it was in the direction opposite to the one the Reese-Fargo man was now riding.
But there was no one there!
What had happened to the wagon train? Had the snow bogged them down that much, or had the raiders come again?
Hampton had unknowingly substantiated some of Casey’s conjectures and had provided some new, vital information, all of it more than a little disturbing.
Upon reaching the Little Missouri, Casey swung down and again let Checkers drink his fill. The banks of the river were fringed with icicles. The smaller branches of the dormant willow trees were sheathed in ice. The river flowed past sluggishly, deep gray and muddy even where the sunlight fully struck it. Tall virgin pines crowded the riverbank. Here and there leafless sycamore trees stood, prepared to wait out the long winter. A single crow perched near the tip of a dark pine complained raucously about something.
Casey crouched, watching the horse drink, watching the river flow. All right, he thought. What do I really know?’ McCoy had learned something about the Reese-Fargo army contracts from some unknown source. He had sent Joe Duggan out to Sundown to find a suitable site for a river landing. Duggan convinced Jason Landis that this new section of land was the place for the harassed settlers to emigrate to.
Why involve the settlers? There were several answers. They had legal right to the land, for one thing. If they were allowed to reach Sundown on time, McCoy would play hell trying to claim the land for himself. Another reason could be found in the person of the ill-fated Virgil Troupe, the freighter. What did Troupe have that McCoy did not? Freight wagons and tons of sawn lumber which was as valuable as gold out here where no sawmill existed. The lumber Troupe and the other settlers meant to start their town with could be equally as well used by McCoy to build his riverboat landing. Letting Troupe and his crew transfer the lumber to Sundown for McCoy’s people was much easier than trying to steal the lumber and transport it themselves. And Troupe could always be gotten rid of later.
As he had been.
McCoy was cunning enough to know that if the wagons did not reach Sundown in six days, the land-hold reverted to the Territory. Then what was Mrs Troupe, widowed and with an infant at her breast, to do with the lumber? McCoy could have obtained it at almost any price he cared to name.
‘These are evil men,’ Casey said, taking Checkers’s reins once again, following the river southward toward where he hoped to find Sundown.
Mentally, Casey reined in sharply, although he let Checkers continue to pick his way through the pine forest. He knew why the wagon train had halted.
Bill Hampton was on his way to meet Joe Duggan at Fort Benton. Why did he expect to find him there? Because McCoy, who was a devious but careful planner, would have assured the Reese-Fargo Company that Duggan, his representative would be there to meet Hampton. What reason could Duggan have given the other settlers to wait for him while he rode for the army post? Why, that was simple – Casey had thought of it himself – Joe, fed up with the delays, angry at the Shadow Riders, would bravely set off to contact the army and plead for their assistance in reaching Sundown.
Except the army was never going to come.
Joe Duggan had entirely different business at the fort in mind, securing McCoy’s claim to Sundown and negotiating the riverboat company contract.
Casey felt his weariness slip away, his numb confusion turn to fury. He was right; he had to be. What sort of man was Gervase McCoy, driving the settlers from their land and now involving them in a plot to further enl
arge his empire, even if it meant killing some of them as examples, or for strictly mercenary reasons like the killing of Virgil Troupe seemed to have been?
Duggan had convinced the settlers that they needed to halt the wagon train while he raced to the fort, the safety of the women and children being paramount, even more important than a parcel of land – they could always find new land. The red-bearded Mike Barrow, his associate, would have been left in charge to counsel patience and caution until Duggan could return with army troops.
Colonel Landis would have seen through this charade. Perhaps he had had his suspicions much earlier. Casey believed more than ever that the first raid by the Shadow Riders had been a smokescreen to murder Jason Landis. Considering the number of men McCoy had, they hadn’t put up much of a battle in the attack once Landis went down.
The colonel might already have been wondering about Duggan and Barrow. Perhaps that was why he had chosen Casey as his new commander, a complete outsider who could be trusted more than long-time neighbors.
That Casey might never know. He could not guess if the colonel was still alive, able to tell him what he might have seen or suspected. He could only now try to keep the settlers from losing what they had labored for and dreamed of – their own land. He had to find the wagons, somehow break whatever hold Duggan and Barrow might have on the people there and convince them that they had to spur on toward their new landholding with all haste, because already the sun was lowering its head again, the shadows lengthening, and when the land settled into darkness there would be only one day left.
One day to Sundown.
As he rode on grimly through the deepening shadows, the heavy murmur of the river accompanying him on his ride, Casey found himself wondering – not for the first time – about Gervase McCoy. Who was he; what did he want? It seemed strange that he was not personally leading his men as important as this plan seemed to him. Underlings like Joe Duggan had been delegated even the most sensitive tasks: completing the agreement with Reese-Fargo, for instance. Did McCoy trust Duggan so much?
Casey wondered if McCoy was perhaps too old and feeble for this sort of ride; if he was a cripple. Perhaps he just enjoyed sitting in some great leather chair, drinking brandy like some lofty chess-master putting the world through its paces at his every whim.
Bill Hampton had never seen McCoy, which was odd considering how important the negotiations seemed to be to both parties. Thinking back, Casey could not think of a single person who had so much as described McCoy to him. He shook his head and continued on at a slightly faster pace. He had had more than enough of puzzles for a while.
It was time to get down to the business at hand.
The river flowed on freely, at times snaking away from the trail Casey was following southward through the pines, at times near enough to lap at the bank within yards of him. Daylight was fading in the river valley, although on the open prairie it should hold for another few hours. He had to find the wagon train. At nightfall, presumably, there would be cooking fires lighted unless fear or caution caused the settlers to make a cold camp.
It would not matter. They were still a day’s travel or more from the river. Halted in their tracks, they would lose all by delaying too long.
Casey saw the monument from the corner of his eye and held Checkers up. Frowning, he swung down to examine what he had found: a cairn of river stones four-feet high standing at the very edge of the river. Casey walked to it and crouched down.
The corner of a dark-yellow item, its color unnatural in nature, could be seen protruding from between a tier of stacked stones. Casey carefully removed several of the rocks and managed to tug the object free. It was an oilskin packet containing a single piece of folded paper which Casey smoothed out on his knee. The writing on it read:
North-west corner of Sundown homestead. Surveyed and placed by Colonel Jason Landis. No other subsequent claim will be valid after this date.
Dated, signed, witnessed by Joe Duggan, it seemed to legalize the homesteaders’ claim. Except they had not fulfilled the requirement that they take possession of the land!
Casey replaced the heavy oilskin envelope and rose to his feet, feeling exhilarated and defeated at once. He had found Sundown, but there were no settlers occupying it, and the following day their claim would fall back into legal limbo, into the status of open range. And Gervase McCoy had already made his plans to immediately claim the land for himself.
Casey rode on. There was a palpable gloom settling across the land. Behind him the evening sky was streaked with deep violet and a few tendrils of scarlet. Ahead, the shadows of the pines lengthened, deepened and pooled together. He raised his collar and tugged his hat down tightly. It was going to be another long, cold night.
Hour after hour passed as Checkers trudged patiently eastward. The land spread out before him might have been green and golden when the colonel had come upon it, but now it was deep in snow, featureless. Casey had slowed the weary Appaloosa to a walk, but its fatigue continued to deepen. Casey halted the big horse, patted its neck and let it blow. A flickering, twinkling object appeared before his eyes and Casey frowned, It was no brighter than a firefly, but where would you find fireflies in winter? Peering more intently into the distance, squinting his eyes in concentration, he saw a twin to the first sparkling object.
They were not near at hand, but far distant. Camp-fires. Casey tensed, half-rose in the stirrups as if that could help him to see better, farther. Then he settled back into the saddle and with a silent apology to Checkers, started on again. It was all he could do to contain his urge to rush toward the camp-fires, but to rush madly on would kill the horse under him. He would have to be patient, to take his time. Time, however, was one commodity they were rapidly running short of.
In another hour – or was it two? Casey had no way of knowing – he topped out a low knoll and found himself near enough to the dully flickering lights to be sure they were camp-fires. And around them, in the darkness, he could make out the indistinct shapes of gathered wagons.
Making his way down the snowy flank of the hill, Casey approached the camp with caution. He could now see that the fires had burned nearly to embers; it was a wonder he had been able to make them out at all, even in the dead of night. What flames still flickered painted the canvas tops of the wagons with wavering, smoky images. Checkers’s hoofs seemed to fall over-loudly even against the churned-up earth.
A man with a rifle in his hands stepped from behind one of the wagons and called out softly, ‘Stay still, friend. Who are you?’
‘Casey Storm.’
‘Storm …?’ the voice was deeply puzzled, ‘We thought you abandoned the train days ago.’
‘I’m back,’ Casey replied. Now he swung down heavily from the Appaloosa’s back and stood waiting in the darkness for his interrogator. The man who emerged out of deep shadows so that Casey could recognize him by the feeble firelight, proved to be the stout, uncertain Art Bailey.
‘Is the colonel all right?’ Casey asked. ‘I need to see him.’
‘I couldn’t say he’s all right,’ Bailey answered, ‘but he’s alive. You know his wagon.’
‘Who is it, Art?’ a voice Casey recognized as belonging to Doc asked from out of the darkness.
‘Casey Storm, Doc,’ Art answered.
‘Uh-oh,’ Casey heard Doc mutter, and he frowned deeply as he walked on toward the Landis wagon. He slipped in over the tailgate to find Marly kneeling beside her father, cooling his face with a damp cloth. She heard him and turned her head, her eyes wide and startled. By the dim lanternlight Casey could see those dark eyes soften and she rose, still holding the rag, to stand staring at him.
‘I thought you’d gone, Casey.’
‘What did I tell you when I left?’ he asked, approaching her.
‘I know – but all sorts of things can go wrong in this life, can’t they?’ She was standing stock still, her eyes searching his. A faint rasping sound from the bed caused Casey to break his attention away. Col
onel Landis’s eyes were barely visible behind the slits of his puffed, bruised-appearing eyelids.
‘Casey …?’ Landis said, beckoning with one finger.
‘Yes, sir.’ Casey handed his rifle to Marly and kneeled down beside the colonel.
‘What news?’ Landis asked as weakly as before.
‘Too much to fill you in on just now,’ Casey said with a shake of his head, ‘and not much of it good: I did find Sundown, Colonel,’ he went on. ‘You know that tomorrow is the last day.’
‘I know it … they voted to stop. To wait for the army to arrive to save more murders, the lives of women and children from the raiders.’
‘Yes. But there won’t be any soldiers coming, sir.’
‘Neither did I believe there would be,’ Landis said with extreme weariness, ‘but that’s what the people wanted. Casey … who’s behind it? I know we have traitors among us.’
‘Joe Duggan,’ Casey told him, ‘and I think Mike Barrow.’
‘I guessed as much … it’s all lost, then. All lost, Casey.’
‘I don’t think it has to come to that,’ Casey said, with a determination he did nor entirely feel. ‘Talk to them. You’re still wagon-master, Colonel. Or rather I still am, I suppose. Summon Doc, Art Bailey, Barrow, anyone else who has a vote in the matter. I believe, sir, I can still get us through to Sundown.’
‘How can we possibly do it?’ Marly asked, poking fingers through her unruly hair. ‘Time is up, Casey!’
‘It is not,’ Casey responded firmly. He rose to his feet and told them both, ‘We have until dawn. If we can talk everyone into hitching their teams – now – and we travel throughout the night, I think we can make it. They have to be made to understand that Duggan is not bringing cavalry soldiers back. It was only a pretext. He went to Fort Benton only to delay the wagon train as he takes care of some business for Gervase McCoy. Don’t ask me how I know that – it’s a long story – but I do know it for a fact.’
‘I suspected something like that …’ Landis said weakly. ‘But what could I have done?’
