She did not smile. “I don’t like to hear you’ joke about. your profession,” she said. “Great soldiers, who use their lives to take life, are honoured, but a doctor, who devotes himself to saving life receives—what?”
“All that every human being wins in the end—that,” he said flippantly, and pointed to the nearest grave.
“You are not yourself to-day,” she reproved.
“That’s the trouble—I am,” he replied cynically. “Forgive me, Miss Maitland; I sometimes talk, and act, like an idiot. What I really wanted to tell you was that I am going away.”
The colour came into her cheeks and receded; she had suddenly realized what this man’s absence would mean. It had begun in pity on her part for one who, still young and talented, was leading an aimless, sordid existence. A bed in a shabby hotel, meals at an eating-house, and many hours of every day in saloons; the tragedy of it shocked her. And now … She tried to speak casually:
“Are you going for good?”
“For my own good, I hope,” he smiled. “Would it matter?”
“I have not so many friends,” she told him, and there was a note in her voice which brought a gleam into his eyes.
“I expect to be away only some two or three weeks,” he said. “Where, when, and why, I am not at liberty to tell even you. The town—if it troubles to ask—will be informed that I have gone East, and supply its own reason—a debauch.”
“But—you have been—”
“Abstemious lately? Precisely, and therefore the wiseacres will argue that a breaking-out was inevitable.” He saw the fear in her glance. “No, it isn’t that; if it were, I would stay here and be damned to them.”
She smiled again; this was the old Malachi, reckless, contemptuous, but likeable. They spoke only of trivialities on the way to Rainbow, but when parting, Malachi said, “You will be glad when I return, Kate?”
“Yes—Philip,” she replied.
“That is all I need to know,” he murmured. “I shall come back—sane.”
The same evening, the doctor visited the Parlour Saloon, as usual, but drank nothing. He left early, and some time later rapped at the door of the Circle Dot ranch-house. Dover opened it, and conducted the visitor to the front room, where the rest of the party to go into the hills were assembled. Burke was also present, having taken his final instructions from the owner. After greetings had been exchanged, the doctor said: “I enquired about those two twenties, Dan; they were paid by the bank to Trenton a week ago, but they could have changed hands more than once, so it doesn’t prove much.”
“Mebbe it don’t, but it shore looks like he’d got news of our drive an’ hired some scallawags to bust it,” the rancher replied. “That’s my view, an’ I’m holdin’ it till I know different.”
“He wouldn’t risk usin’ his own men,” Burke contributed. “I’m obliged, Doc. Got all you need in the way o’ gear?” Dan went on, and receiving an affirmative nod, reached a bottle from a cupboard. “We’ll have just one li’l drink to success—it’s the last liquor we’ll see till we reach town again.”
“Leave me out, Dan,” Malachi said quietly.
“Me too; I don’t use it,” Yorky echoed.
They all laughed at this, save Hunch, sitting in one corner, a big revolver thrust through his belt, and the great axe between his knees. He took the spirit handed to him, tipped it down his throat with a single gesture, and replaced the glass on the table. The action was that of an automaton, no expression showed in the blank face. The doctor was studying him curiously.
Dover looked at the tall old grandfather clock.
“Gone midnight, Bill,” he said. “Might as well be on the move.”
One by one they stole out, secured their mounts, and with Hunch astride a huge rawboned bay as guide, and Blister, leading a pack-horse loaded with supplies, bringing up the rear, they were swiftly merged in the murk. Silence reigned, but for the far-off cry of a questing coyote, and the plaintive hoot of an owl in trees they could not see. There was no moon, but the velvet sky was pricked with a myriad pin-points of light which only seemed to make the obscurity more profound. They moved slowly but surely, the leader appearing to know his way despite the darkness. So far, all had gone well.
But no one of them had seen the lurking man in the shadow of the corral, who, having watched their departure, ran to his hidden horse, and stooping low over its neck, followed them.
The first news they had of him came as a finger of flame and the crack of a rifle. Blister reeled and would have fallen but for the quick clutch of the rider next him, Tiny. Sliding to the ground, the big cowboy lifted the hurt man down and laid him on the turf. Sudden raced in the direction from which the shot appeared to have come; nothing was to be seen, but he could hear the diminishing beat of hooves.
“On’y one of ‘em,” he muttered, and returned to his friends.
Malachi, by the light of an improvised torch, was making an exclamation. “Bullet struck the thigh and went through,” he said. “Nice clean wound, but it will keep you on your back for some weeks, my lad. Give me some water.” A canteen provided this, and he washed and deftly bandaged the injury. “He’ll have to go back to the ranch.”
“Shore, one of us will take him,” Dover agreed.
“Aw, Boss, there ain’t no need,” Blister protested. “Doe’s fixed my pin fine, an’ I can make it; I ain’t no kid. It’s just too bad, missin’ the trip, damn the luck.”
“I’ll go tuck him in his li’l cot, an’ catch you up,” Tiny offered.—
“You won’t know the way, an’ if that snipin’ houn’ has gone to wise up the Wagon-wheel, we can’t afford to wait,” the rancher said perplexedly.
“I don’t want no nussin’, specially from a ham-handed freak,” Blister declared. “Lift me into the saddle an’ Paddy will be loadin’ steak an’ fried into me in less’n an hour.”
Tiny obeyed, adding solicitously, “Rest all yore weight on the sound leg.”
“Awright, Solomon. Which rein do I pull if I wanta go left?”
“Neither of ‘em; you just naturally jump off, pick the hoss up an’ point him that way. Gwan—an’ take care o’ yoreself,” Tiny chuckled.
They watched him start, sitting straight up, but they could not see the lean brown hands clutching the saddle-horn, nor the clamped teeth as the throbbing pain of a damaged limb increased with every movement of his mount. Dan was anxious.
“Think he’ll be all right, Phil?” he asked. “I’d sooner lose the damn ranch than anythin’ should happen to Blister.”
“He’ll get there,” Malachi said confidently. “He’s got grit, that boy.” And added, under his breath, “He makes me ashamed.”
Zeb Trenton was awakened early by the announcement that a visitor was waiting to see him on urgent business. Going down to his office, he found Garstone, Bundy, and the bearded man from the Bend, whom he greeted with a frown.
“Well, Lake, you’ve been long enough comin’ to report,” he said aggressively.
“I’d nothin’ but bad news to bring,” was the sullen answer. “So you failed?”
“You can call it that. We stampeded the herd awright, but the beasts were too tired to run far or scatter enough. The punchers rounded ‘em up again, an’ they got one of us Benito.”
Trenton shrugged impatiently—the passing from life of a Greaser was of little moment to him. “Well?” he snapped.
“Havin’ lost the cattle, we decided to try for the money on the back trip,” Lake proceeded.
“I went on to the Bend, figurin’ to shadow Dover an’ give the boys word. It didn’t work out thataway.” He paused for a second or two, and then, in a voice which dripped venom, he told of the trick Sudden had played on him, and the subsequent abortive ambush. “Two of our chaps was crippled, an’ by the bastard who tied me up, a prisoner in a damned hotel bedroom for half a day—tall black-haired cowpunch, with a coupla guns. I’m a prompt payer, an’ I meant to git that hombre, so I goes to the Circle Dot an
’ lays for a chance.”
“Don’t tell me you downed him,” Bundy said. “He’s my meat.”
“He’s still yores—if I don’t see him first,” Lake replied. “I didn’t have an openin’—too many others around, but just after midnight I got on to somethin’ I figured might interest you: Dover an’ six more, with a pack animal, sneaked away from the ranch-house an’ headed for the Cloudy country. I follered, an’ sent ‘em a slug for luck; nailed one, for shore, but I’ll bet it warn’t the perisher I was after.”
The effect of his news was electrical. Trenton’s face grew purple, as he rose to his feet and stamped with rage. “Blast them, they’ve diddled us an’ got a start,” he cried. “You any good at trailin’, Lake?”
“I can read sign better’n most,” was the modest answer. “We’ll take you with us; you’ll be well paid, an’ have an opportunity of wipin’ out your score against Green. Is every thin’ ready, Bundy? Right, we set out as soon as we’ve eaten.”
In less than two hours they were on their way. Avoiding Rainbow, they cut across the wagon-road leading to the Circle Dot, forded the river, and rode in the direction of Dover’s western boundary. Presently they came to the spot where Lake had ceased his spying. It was daylight now, and the marks of a group of horses were easy to find. Lake pointed exultantly to some burnt-out matches, and a smear of blood on the grass.
“Told you I got one,” he cried. His eyes swept the ground. “On’y winged him, seemin’ly—they sent him back. Well, that’s one less to deal with.”
Trenton asked a question. “We’ll catch ‘em whenever you say,” was the confident reply.
“We don’t want to,” the rancher warned. “An’ it is important that they shouldn’t know we’re followin’ them.”
“I get you; tailin” ‘em will be just too easy,” the fellow sneered. “These cowthumpers don’t know nothin’ ‘bout hidin’ tracks.”
There he was wrong, for one of the despised “cowthumpers”—to which class he himself once belonged and disgraced—had the redskin’s skill in detecting or concealing a trail. Sudden’s childhood had been spent with an old Piute horse-dealer, who, in his sober hours, taught him the craft of his race. The puncher had never forgotten that early upbringing which, on more than one occasion, had stood him in good stead.
A mile or so later, the leader halted, and when Trenton wanted the reason, had to admit that the tracks had ceased on the edge of a small stream. Obviously the quarry had taken to the water.
“No call for that if they don’t know we’re follerin’,” Lake grumbled.
“O’ course they know,” Bundy said. “You told ‘em yoreself when you fired that fool shot.” He did not approve of the man’s inclusion in the party.
“How the devil was I to guess what was afoot?” Lake threw back.
A search of the banks of the stream in both directions resulted in the trail being again picked up, but not until considerable time had been consumed. A recurrence of these delays at frequent intervals soon showed that they were not accidental. and drew another caustic comment from the foreman.
“I’d say there’s a cowthumper ahead who’s smarter at blindin’ tracks than you are at findin’ ‘em,” he jeered. “Is there anythin’ yo’re good at?”
The little man glared at him through reptilian, half-lidded eyes. “Yeah, killin’ vermin,” he said quietly.
Garstone had early attached himself to Miss Trenton, and if he admired the trim figure in its neat riding-suit, the skirt reaching only to the tops of her high boots with their dainty silver-spurred heels, and the soft grey hat above the ebon curls, she too could not but admit that he looked well on horseback. As usual, he was carefully dressed: his cord breeches, top boots, loose coat, and soft silk shirt and tie, lent him distinction among the roughly-garbed others of her escort. She was full of curiosity about the expedition, for her uncle had told her little.
“Why do we have to wait about like this?” she asked, while the trail was being found again. “I understood it was to be just a pleasure trip.”
“Business and pleasure, especially the latter, for me,” Garstone smiled. “The fact is, Miss Trenton—and I tell you this in confidence—we are on a treasure hunt.”
“Really?” she cried. “But how exciting. “What form does the treasure take?”
“We don’t know—gold, money, or jewels, maybe all three. It is reputed to have been hidden somewhere in these hills by an outlaw named Red Rufe.”
“What became of him?”
Garstone shrugged. “Who knows? Probably returned to his old haunts for more plunder and got wiped out.”
“And Uncle Zeb knows where the treasure is?”
He smiled into her sparkling eyes. “No, it isn’t so easy as that; he has certain indications, but it may take time.” His tone grew warmer. “I hope it does.”
She reddened a little under his ardent gaze. “But why is it necessary to search for tracks; they cannot be Red Rufe’s.”
“No, others have got wind of our enterprise and stolen a march upon us; we want to know where they are bound for. You see, success means everything to your uncle. I have had a lean time for several years, and he is heavily in debt.”
“Poor Uncle Zeb,” she said. “I always thought him wealthy.”
“Most people think so—he has his pride,” Garstone returned. “I have a great regard for him, and after the fine fight he has put up against overwhelming odds, it will be too terrible if he should lose the Wagon-wheel.”
“Is it as bad as that?”
“Yes,” he replied gravely. “And your uncle has ideas for the development of Rainbow; it will break him up if he is not able to carry them out. He doesn’t talk of these things, but I am in his confidence.”
“Who are the others you spoke of?”
“Who but the Circle Dot? Dover would sell his soul to see your uncle ruined,” came the bitter reply.
She did not doubt it; Dan had shown his animosity plainly enough. “We must find that treasure,” she said.
“We certainly will,” he assured her. “I’m prepared to do anything rather than let Zeb go under.”
“I’m sure we all feel like that,” she agreed.
This being the admission he was waiting for, he dropped the subject, satisfied that he had done a good day’s work for his employer, and a better one for himself. Which was as it should be, according to the ethics of Chesney Garstone.
Chapter XV
Sudden was the culprit. He it was who devised those vexatious and time-eating problems which were exercising the wits of the bearded man, and fraying the tempers of his companions.
The Circle Dot puncher had little expectations of throwing the pursuers entirely off the trail, but the greater the distance between the parties, the more chance there was of doing so. So, whenever they encountered a rivulet, they splashed along it, either up or down, before crossing; patches of hard ground, which would record no hoof-prints, were traversed diagonally at the widest points, and once the tracks led straight to the edge of a morass and ended, with no turn to right or left.
This apparent miracle was accomplished by patience and the alternate use of blankets, of which each man carried a couple; the first was spread—from the saddle—at right angles from the trail, and the horse led on to it, then the second, and before the animal moved from that, the first again. By this means, Sudden, who took the lead, covered a considerable space without leaving a mark, and the others followed his actions exactly. When they had all reached him, he returned on foot, with a pair of blankets, and brought the pack-horse. The operation took time, but would cost those who followed much more.
“That was a smart ruse, Jim,” Malachi complimented, as they went on their way. “Do you think it will baffle them?”
“It’s an old Injun caper,” the puncher replied. “If Trenton has a real tracker with him, he’ll guess it, but they’ve still to find our trail again.”
Soon afterwards they reached the verdure-clad fo
othills and, plunging into the welcome shade, began a gradual rise. Hunch, jogging steadily along at Sudden’s elbow, spoke never a word, but his usually lack-lustre eyes were a little brighter as they neared his beloved forests.
Through an occasional break in the trees they caught a glimpse of the distant snow-capped peak of Old Cloudy, thrusting up into the azure sky.
As Dover had warned the doctor, they were breaking their own trail, winding in and out through thick brush, along stony ravines, climbing up-flung ridges of rock, yet making for a definite point. Once or twice, Sudden spoke to the old man, but getting only a gesture for answer, made no further attempt; his Indian training had taught him the value of silence.
Mile after mile they paced on, treading at times a tortuous path through tall timber, in a twilight due to the matted, leafy roof overhead. Frequently they had to turn aside to avoid a prone monarch of the forest, snapped off and thrown down to rot by a greater monarch—King Storm. Only in places where the trees thinned a shaft of sunlight came to tell them it was still day. There was little life in these dim solitudes.
The nearness of night found them on a grassy ledge hemmed in by vegetation, save at the back where a plinth of gaunt, grey stone rose straight up for a hundred feet. Here Sudden called a halt.
“Best camp here, Dan,” he said. “There’s feed for the hosses an’ the smoke of a fire won’t show against that bluff.’ The beasts were picketed, lest a prowling bear or mountain lion should stampede them. Hunch and Yorky soon had the fire blazing, and the music—to hungry men—of sizzling bacon mingled with the odour of boiling coffee.
“Likin’ it, son?” Sudden asked, as Yorky passed him with an armful of dead wood for fuel.
“I’ll say I am,” was the enthusiastic answer. “Why, Jim, this beats a dance all ter blazes.”
During the meal, Sudden asked how they were getting on.
“I reckon we’re about halfway, but it’s on’y a guess,” Dan told him. “What d’you think, Hunch?” He got the invariable nod for reply, and in a lower tone continued, “I believe he came up here with Dad, though he wouldn’t know for what purpose; that’s one o’ the reasons why I fetched him along. How you feelin’, Phil?”
Oliver Strange - Sudden Westerns 09 - Sudden Makes War(1942) Page 15
