No one replied.
Chalking it up to his imagination, Glen went on. He held the rifle tucked tightly to his side, ready to fire at the vaguest hint of a threat to his life. Every few steps he stopped to look around. His skin crawled as if covered with thousands of bugs and his hands became clammy with sweat.
Glen covered fifty or sixty feet, then stopped. There was no need for him to go the whole mile and a half. None of the others would ever know if he simply waited a suitable interval and then returned to inform them he had not seen anyone. What harm could it do? he asked himself.
Five minutes went by. Glen began to feel guilty. He had told his wife he would go see, and here he was cowering among the cottonwoods. What sort of husband would deceive his wife? What kind of man had he become if he was so willing to lie to his friends?
Glen hiked deeper into the trees. An owl hooted to the south and was answered by another to the north. Yet another hooted to his rear.
That was strange, Glen reflected. He’d seldom heard so many owls sound off at the same time. It brought to mind stories he had been told about the uncanny ability of Indians to mimic animal cries. Turning, he sought some sign of the nocturnal birds of prey.
Above him, something rustled. Glen heard a creak and looked up in time to see a vague form swooping down on him from a branch. He tried to bring the rifle up but the form slammed into him before he could. The breath whooshed from his lungs as he crashed onto his back with a heavy weight astride his chest.
Glen was aware he had lost his rifle. He attempted to lift his arms but a knee kicked him in the gut, rendering him as weak as a kitten. Footsteps converged and his arms were seized. It all happened so fast that he was being held upright between two men in buckskins before he quite collected his wits.
“Well, what have we here?” said a tall specimen with a face as hard as iron. “You should have stayed in the States, pilgrim. The climate out here isn’t good for your health.”
Others laughed, and Glen realized there were five men, all told. “Who are you men? What do you want?” he demanded. He assumed they were trappers who had mistaken him for a prowling Indian and would release him at any moment.
The tall man tapped Glens head. “Not too bright, this one.” He poked Glen in the chest. “The name is Lassiter. I’ve seen you before. We’ve been following your little caravan for a while now.”
“Why didn’t you show yourselves?” Glen said. “We wouldn’t shoot at white men. I’m Glen Brandt, and you can take my word for it that all of you would have been welcome to enter our camp at any time.”
A tall man laughed. “Now ain’t you just about the friendliest idiot I’ve ever run into!”
“Idiot?” Glen said.
Lassiter shot Bear a sharp glance, then put on his best smile and gave the young man a friendly pat on the shoulder. “Don’t mind him. He’s been hit once too many times on the head. His thinker is puny.” Gesturing for Dixon and Kingslow to let Brandt go, he said, “I’m sorry for the rough treatment. We didn’t know if you were friendly or not, and a body can’t be any too careful in the wild.”
“Believe me, I know,” Glen said, happy the mistake had been remedied. He rubbed his sore stomach. “It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have been creeping about in the dark, but we’ve been afraid of tangling with hostiles ever since my wife spotted a savage.”
“Hostiles, you say?” Lassiter said. “If that’s the case, maybe we should join forces. We’re heading west too. With us along, you’d be better able to protect your womenfolk.”
“There’s an idea!” Glen said. With five more rifles to rely on, his party could drive off any number of hostiles.
Because of the darkness, the young farmer couldn’t see the sly grins that nipped at the mouth of every man there except the giant. Bear was befuddled by the talk of joining the pilgrims on their trek. After days and days of considering how best to wipe the pilgrims out, it was incomprehensible to him that Lassiter was acting so friendly.
“I don’t get it,” Bear said. “I thought you told us—”
Lassiter knew Bear well enough to foresee his blunder. Giving Bear a playful but hard elbow jab in the ribs, he forced a laugh and said, “Yes, I told you that we should swing on around the caravan and go on by ourselves, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“Oh,” Bear said dully, still at a loss to understand. But the cold look Lassiter gave him kept him from opening his mouth again.
Glen Brandt had paid no attention to the exchange. He had walked over to his rifle and picked it up. Delighted by his stroke of good fortune, he clapped Lassiter on the back and said, “Follow me. I’ll hail the camp so they don’t open fire.”
“We’d be obliged,” Lassiter said. He cannily waited until the young innocent had taken a few strides, then said, “Hold on just a second. I have to send someone for our horses.”
Gesturing for his men to gather close, Lassiter whispered, “Bear, you fetch the animals and keep your mouth shut. I don t want you spoiling things.”
“What about that shot we heard?” Dixon asked.
Snip stared toward the river. “That’s right. It must be a friend of that guy we strung up.”
“We’ll worry about it later,” Lassiter said. “Right now the pilgrims are all that matter. Keep your fingers on your triggers and be ready to follow my lead.”
Glen had stopped to wait for them. He wondered why they saw fit to speak so quietly. “Is everything all right? You’re not changing your minds, are you?”
Lassiter faced him, smiling. “Not on your life. Lead the way. We’ll be right behind you.”
It never failed to amaze Lassiter how gullible some folks could be. They were too damned trusting for their own good. They assumed everyone was as meek as they were, when anyone with half a brain knew that it was a dog-eat-dog world, every man for himself. The survivors were those who trusted no one, who preyed on weak fools like Brandt just as wolves preyed on flocks of sheep.
Lassiter was in such good humor that he whistled to himself as he strolled in the wake of the pilgrim. At the back of his mind was a speck of unease over the shot they had heard, but he put it from his thoughts for the time being. They would deal with whoever was out there just as they had dealt with Jeremiah Sawyer.
Presently fires flared in the night. Lassiter saw figures moving about, men, women, and children. The sight of the women made his mouth water.
Glen waved an arm and shouted, “I’m coming in! And I’m bringing friends! Whatever you do, don’t shoot!”
In the clearing, Katie Brandt saw the startled looks on the others. They were thinking the same thing she was—it might be a trick of some kind. Peter Ringcrest and Bob Potter moved closer to the edge of the clearing, their rifles at the ready. Katie joined the women and children at the Potter wagon. The girls hid behind their mother’s skirt while little Charley Potter had found a stick which he held as if it were a club.
Then Glen appeared, grinning happily. “We won’t have to worry about hostiles anymore,” he said. “I’ve met some trappers.”
Katie’s heart leaped into her throat at the sight of their saviors. They were as cruel looking a bunch as she had ever set eyes on. The tallest, in particular, gave her the same gaze she might give a haunch of beef she was fixing to buy. It sent a shiver down her spine.
“This here is Lassiter,” Glen said. “There’s one more but he went to get their horses.”
Lassiter offered his hand to the men. He listened with half an ear as they told him their names, his eyes lingering on the three women. The youngest was a genuine beauty, a vision of loveliness made real. Often he had dreamed of women like her, but never in his wildest cravings had he ever expected to make love to one.
“I’m pleased to meet all of you,” Lassiter said. He was also pleased to see Dixon, Kingslow, and Snip fanning casually out to either side. “Hope we didn’t spook you folks none.”
“Not at all,” Peter Ringcrest said, setting the stock of his rifle on the gro
und. “As the Bible says, we must love our neighbors. Make yourselves comfortable. We have plenty of coffee to share.”
Dixon looked expectantly at Lassiter but Lassiter gave a single shake of his head and moved over to a fire. Sitting cross-legged, he accepted a tin cup and grinned at the young woman, who came over to pour for him. “That’s right nice of you, ma’am,” he said.
“My pleasure,” Katie said, although her insides were balled as tight as a fist. Her every instinct shrieked at her to get as far away from the newcomers as she could, but she dismissed the feeling as childish. The other four had also sat down and were being just as gracious as their leader.
Lassiter made a show of scanning the wagons and the livestock. “It’s mighty brave of you to be heading for the Oregon Country with as small a party as you have,” he said, then took a sip. The coffee had been sweetened with sugar, a rare treat. He figured there must be bags of the sweetener in the wagons, enough to last him a year. And who knew what else?
“Have you been there?” Peter Ringcrest asked.
“Can’t say as I have,” Lassiter said.
“Well, I have,” Ringcrest said, “on the Lord’s work. And I’m here to tell you that mortal man hasn’t set eyes on prettier land anywhere. It’s as if the Lord gave the land his personal blessing.”
Lassiter arched an eyebrow. “From the way you talk, I gather you’re a religious man.”
“I’m a missionary,” Ringcrest said stiffly. “Dr. Whitman and I are associates.”
“Who?”
“Marcus Whitman. Surely you’ve heard of him? He was quite the sensation at the rendezvous.”
“Must have been a rendezvous I missed,” Lassiter said. The fact was that he had heard of Whitman and the holier-than-thou types who were determined to convert the Indians whether the Indians wanted to be converted or not. Their gall put a bitter taste in Lassiter’s mouth.
“We’re the first of a wave of settlers who will stream to Oregon now that the way has been opened,” Ringcrest said. “Dr. Whitman expects that within ten to fifteen years the territory will be able to apply for statehood.”
“How nice,” Lassiter said dryly.
“Maybe sooner, once all the tribes forsake their heathen ways and accept Christianity,” Ringcrest said.
“Maybe you should keep in mind that a lot of mountain men share those heathen ways, as you call them,” Lassiter said.
“To the ruin of their eternal souls. It behooves all of us to anchor ourselves in the Bible and not allow temptation to carry us adrift on the wayward seas of life.”
Lassiter swallowed more coffee to relieve the bitter taste, then said, “Whatever you say, Parson.” He could tell by the way some of his men were fidgeting that they were growing impatient, and he didn’t blame them. But the young woman and Bob Potter still regarded them suspiciously and he wanted all of the pilgrims off their guard when he made his move. “Are all of you missionaries?” he asked.
“Goodness, no,” Glen Brandt said. “I aim to be a farmer, and Bob is a tinker by trade. If your knives need sharpening, he’s the man to see.”
“Do tell?” Lassiter said, brightening as an idea occurred to him. Pulling out his butcher knife, he extended it, hilt first. “Then here you go, mister. I reckon all of us could use our blades honed.” He glanced meaningfully at his men. “All of us.”
Ben Kingslow was quickest to deduce Lassiter’s motive. “Ain’t that the truth,” he said. “Here’s my knife too. I want an edge sharp enough to split a hair.”
In short order Bob Potter had all their knives. He acted bewildered by their request, as if it was the very last thing he had expected them to do. His wife held his rifle since he had his hands full. “Mark my words, gentleman,” he said. “When I’m done, you’ll be able to shave with these.”
“Have at it,” Lassiter said, and he had to down more coffee to keep from laughing when the pilgrim headed for his wagon. The young woman, Katie, was still watching them warily, so he said, “First you share your coffee. Now you take care of our knives. We’d like to show our appreciation by doing something for you.”
“There’s no need,” Ringcrest said. “Sharing is reward in itself for those who walk in the steps of the Lord.”
“There must be something we can do,” Lassiter said. “If we’re going to travel together, I insist on doing our part to help out. We can hunt and cook for you.”
“You cook, Mr. Lassiter?” Katie asked skeptically.
“Sure, ma’am.”
“Most men regard cooking as women’s’ work. They won’t touch a pot or ladle with a ten-foot pole.”
Lassiter could be a charmer when he wanted, and he was his most disarming when he said, “Heck, Mrs. Brandt. When a man lives by his lonesome in the mountains, he learns soon enough which end of a ladle is which.” He was pleased when she grinned and turned away. At last the pilgrims were all convinced that he and his men were friendly. The fools.
“Matter of fact,” Lassiter said, “tomorrow, for supper, we’ll fix venison like you’ve never tasted before. You just leave the hunting, carving, and everything to us.”
“Why, aren’t you the perfect gentlemen?” Ringcrest’s wife said.
“We try our best,” Lassiter said. Lowering the cup, he held his right hand close to his thigh and wagged a finger at Dixon, who nodded and slowly stood. Kingslow shifted so he was facing Bob Potter. Snip swiveled so he could keep his eyes on Ringcrest, who was talking to his son.
It was a moment Lassiter savored. He was about to educate the unsuspecting pilgrims in one of the harsher realities of life, a lesson they would never forget during the short span allotted them on earth. It tickled him, having hoodwinked them the way he had. It confirmed his own opinion that he was smarter than most men.
Katie Brandt stepped to her husband and took his hand. As nice as the trappers were being, she couldn’t shake a troubling feeling that all was not well. Looking at Lassiter made her uncomfortable, as if she were gazing at the visage of a mad dog about to pounce.
Glen grinned at her. He knew her well enough to sense that something was amiss, but not well enough yet to pinpoint the cause. Squeezing her hand, he said softly, “What has you worried? Everything will be all right now that these men are here to help us.”
“I hope so,” Katie said softly so only he would hear.
Lassiter saw them huddled together and casually draped a hand on his rifle, which lay propped against his leg. “Well, I guess now is as good a time as any.”
“For what?” Peter Ringcrest asked.
“For this,” Lassiter said and shot the missionary through the chest. He acted so swiftly that none of the pilgrims had time to react. Then Mrs. Ringcrest screamed and Potters wife shrieked. Potter started toward him with a knife in hand, but drew up short when Ben Kingslow covered him. Young Glen Brandt went to lift his rifle, but froze when Dixon trained a muzzle on his wife. The children merely gawked, too stunned to think.
Lassiter rose and moved to the fallen man. Ringcrest still lived, his eyes wide in astonishment, his lips working feebly.
“Why? In God’s name, man, why?”
“I wanted to,” Lassiter said. He kicked the missionary in the mouth, then smirked when blood spurted out and Ringcrest writhed in agony. “You like to go around preaching love for all. Me, I like to go around doing as I damn well please. And it pleases me to take your life and everything else that belongs to you.”
“You monster!” The howl of outrage came from little Charley Ringcrest, who launched himself at Lassiter with his stick upraised. Lassiter got his arm up to deflect the blow. Spinning, he backhanded the boy across the face. Charley fell onto his side, gritted his teeth in fury, and rose to attack again.
Snip shot the boy through the head at near point-blank range. The back of Charley’s skull exploded outward, showering gore and brains all over Mrs. Ringcrest, who promptly fainted.
“Anyone else care to die?” Lassiter said, regarding each of the pilgrims in
turn. “I’d rather keep you alive for a while, but I’m not going to force you to live longer if you don’t want to.”
“You bastard!” Glen Brandt growled.
In two strides Lassiter reached him and struck with all his might. His fist crunched into the younger man’s cheek, splitting the flesh and flattening Brandt where he stood. Katie made a move to help, but Lassiter wagged a finger at her. “Don’t even think it.”
Katie blanched, scared to the core of her being, her wits scrambled by the terrible turn of events. “What do you want with us?”
“Why, I should think that would be obvious,” Earl Lassiter said, reaching out to stroke her long golden hair. His sadistic laugh wavered on the night wind.
Eleven
Winona King kept hoping against hope that her demented captor would turn his back or otherwise give her an opening she could exploit, but the crafty mountain man never did.
Until half an hour before sunset they wound southward along the same route they had followed north. Zach and she were leading pack-horses; Bill Zeigler was bringing up the rear, far enough back to drop either of them if they tried anything.
Zach was also alert for a chance to do something, although he had no idea what. Dashing off into the undergrowth would be pointless. He’d escape, but it would leave his mother and sister in Ziegler’s clutches. He had to slay the man, a hopeless task without a weapon.
Old Bill reined up on the north side of a narrow creek. “This is far enough for today,” he said. “I want both of you to climb down. And don’t try anything. I know all the tricks there are. You’d only get yourselves killed.”
Zachary eyed a parfleche draped behind his saddle as he dismounted. It contained, among other things, a small knife he used when whittling. Somehow he had to get his hands on it.
Zeigler had climbed down and moved to a convenient log. His rifle was pointed right at Winona. “Here’s the way it will be. You’ll fix supper, squaw. The brat will go gather wood for our fire. But first you put that cradleboard down over here by me. Keep in mind that if either one of you gets any contrary notions, I’ll shoot the papoose. And don’t think I won’t.”
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