“He hired me to escort the women, Yates.”
“Yeah, and me to oversee the whole shebang. Charlie’s not a trusting man.”
Yates’ hands were on his hips, close to his guns, and now when he lifted his head his eyes were as gray and hard as steel. “Listen, Garrett, we’re in this together. You cut out by yourself and the Indians will come after you too because by now they know we’re in cahoots.”
Yates managed a cold smile. “When this is over and Charlie has his money, you can come talk to me again, you being such an Injun lover an’ all. But when the time comes, you watch your mouth, boy. I don’t take kindly to harsh words spoke at me.”
Anger flared in Garrett and he threw caution to the wind. “Here are some harsh words, Yates. You’re a sorry piece of white trash. Now if you want to shuck those Colts, have at it.”
“I’ve killed men for less than that,” the gunman said, his voice low and even. “But if them Indians come at us, I’ll need your gun.” He stepped closer to Garrett until their faces were just inches apart. “But I don’t take an insult lightly and I don’t forget, cowboy. From this moment on, consider yourself a walking dead man.”
Garrett opened his mouth to speak, but Yates brushed past him and faded into the night toward the entrance of the arroyo.
For long moments, Garrett stood where he was, his mind at work. His chances of getting the promised five hundred dollars out of Charlie Cobb were slim, and getting slimmer all the time. In any case, he did not relish the thought of cheating the miners. All things considered, maybe now was the time to cut his losses and head back to his ranch.
And, to his own surprise, he badly wanted Jenny Canfield to go with him.
Chapter 20
The four women were huddled together in the dark, Annie’s death hanging heavy on them. They had been in earnest, whispered conversation, but when they lifted their heads to look at Garrett, they fell suddenly silent. He could read nothing in their expressions, their guarded eyes looking like they’d been painted on the white faces of porcelain dolls.
Garrett sought Jenny in the gloom. She sat with her legs drawn up, her chin on her knees, the moonlight touching her hair.
“Jenny,” he said, his voice sounding too loud in the quiet, “can I talk to you?”
The girl studied him for a few moments, as though she was making up her mind about something. Then she rose to her feet, picked up her sketching pad and said, “Sure.”
Garrett put his arm around Jenny’s slender waist and led her toward a bend of the arroyo angled by deep blue shadow. The sky was aflame with stars, the moon riding high, and out in the badlands the ragged coyotes were yipping.
Taking time to build a smoke, Garrett lit the cigarette and inhaled deep before he said, “I want to ask you a question, Jenny. And I can’t give you much time to study on the answer.”
“I’m intrigued already.” The girl smiled. “Ask away.”
“Remember I told you about my ranch, about the mountains and the mornings so quiet and peaceful a man can hear his own heartbeat?”
Jenny nodded. “I remember. It all sounded so wonderful.”
“Will you leave this place and come with me, Jenny? Head for the mountains tonight and never look back?”
The girl made no answer. She opened her sketch-book and found the page she was seeking. Tilting the page so it caught the moonlight, she said, “Look.”
Garrett glanced down at the book—and saw himself. Jenny had drawn a wonderful likeness, only he looked grumpy and out of sorts, his mouth under his mustache drawn back in a tight, solemn line, his forehead wrinkled in a frown. The image was so funny he laughed with genuine humor. It was the first time he’d been able to laugh out loud since Zeb Ready had died and it felt good. “Do I really look that crabby?” he asked finally.
“Most of the time,” Jenny said. “Well, recently at least.”
“Does that mean you don’t want to share a ranch with a testy old grouch?” Garrett said. He had asked the question lightly yet feared the answer.
“Luke, you don’t know anything about me,” the girl said.
“I do. I know all about you. Annie told me.”
“And it didn’t trouble you?”
Garrett hesitated. “At first it did. Afterward I thought it through and decided I had some fast growing up to do.”
“Then you know why I never want to go back to that kind of life,” Jenny said. “I don’t want to end up a diseased line-shack whore, using morphine to ease the pain of waking up in the morning and still being alive. A few more trips for Charlie Cobb and I can support myself for a while in Boston or New York, hopefully long enough for my pictures to sell.” The girl’s eyes were damp with tears. “Luke, I can’t be a rancher’s wife. Don’t you see that?”
“I love you, Jenny. Does that make a difference?”
“Love has nothing to do with it, Luke. I want to be like Sarah Peale, find fame and fortune back east as a woman artist. That’s my dream and maybe it will never become reality, but I have to try.”
Garrett shook his head. “I’ve no idea who Sarah Peale is, but this much I do know—it’s all going bad. Annie Spencer is dead and I think we may be heading into more Indian trouble. It’s time to call off the whole deal.”
“I can’t do it, Luke. Charlie Cobb’s money is the only chance I’ve got. Maybe it’s not much of a chance, but it’s all I have and I can’t pass on it.”
Jenny stretched out a hand, her fingertips lightly touching Garrett’s chest. “Luke, if it’s any consolation, I could love you. I could love you very much. Who knows? Someday I might come looking for you, ride up to your ranch house in a fine carriage drawn by four high-stepping horses and ask for my man.”
Garrett nodded, the hurt in him deep. “I’ll be there, Jenny.”
The girl smiled. “You’ll have to tell me how to find you.”
“Just look for the mountains and follow the silence.”
It was shortly before midnight when Garrett relieved Yates at the mouth of the arroyo. The gunman, his expression surly, said nothing, stepping around the young rancher before walking into the darkness.
Garrett’s eyes searched the night. The moonlight touched the brush flats with silver and a million stars cascaded down the high arch of the sky toward the dark veil of the horizon. The coyotes were talking still, sleepless with hunger. He knew now he couldn’t leave.
Jenny had refused to become his wife, but he would not turn his back on her, not now, not ever. He was losing her because she was intent on reaching out a hand to clutch at the very stars that were hanging above him. But maybe when she discovered just how distant and unobtainable they were, and how cold, she would change her mind and return to him.
It was indeed a slender straw of hope, but he held on to it like a drowning man, all the time knowing how slight were his chances.
In the meantime he would not leave her to the mercies of a man like Temple Yates. The gunman was pure poison, spawned from hell, made even more malignant by a violent past. He was a rattler coiled and ready to strike, his venom lethal.
Garrett was not a fast gun and he knew if it came to a showdown he wouldn’t stand a chance against the sudden lightning strike that was Temple Yates. The thought brought him no comfort, only worry about tomorrow and the days after that.
Yates relieved Garrett once more, a couple of hours before dawn. When the young rancher walked into the arroyo, Lynette had just stepped beside the other women, smiling as she buttoned up her dress. The brunette’s eyes angled to Garrett, defiant and challenging, but he said nothing. What the girl did with a man like Yates was her own concern.
Garrett found a spot that was relatively free of rocks and lay on his back, his hat tipped over his eyes. To his surprise, Jenny left the others and lay beside him.
“Sweet dreams, Luke,” she said.
He didn’t answer. He didn’t know what to say.
They took to the trail again just after sunup. The Sweet Grass Hills stood
out in stark relief against a lemon sky streaked with bands of red and jade, the peaks looking very close but in reality still many miles distant.
Garrett took the point, ahead of the four women, and Yates dallied at the rear, his head constantly turning to check his back trail and the surrounding coulees. The man seemed to be on edge, as though he heard a rustle in every bush.
Smiling, Garrett was pleased. Let Yates sweat. If they ran into Indian trouble the fault would be all his.
But they saw no sign of Indians that day or the next when they crossed the loop of the low, sluggish Marias without difficulty and refilled their canteens with more silt than water.
Another uneventful day came and went after Garrett led them across Willow Creek, and they rode into pleasant, rolling country with plenty of buffalo sign but no trace of Indian presence.
Yates relaxed as he put more distance between himself and the Teton, though he and Garrett avoided speaking to each other whenever possible. The gunman preferred to spend his nights away from the others, fading into the whispering darkness with his arm around Lynette.
But on the morning of the fourth day, hell came to the Whoop-Up.
Chapter 21
Luke Garrett rode past the West Butte of the Sweet Grass Hills, just a few miles south of the Canadian border. The sky was a washed-out blue, shading to a pale pink at the horizon, where a last, laggard star stubbornly gleamed bright.
Around Garrett lay hilly grazing country, the slopes of the cone-shaped butte covered in buffalo grass and, except for a raw outcropping of rock to the east, scattered stands of juniper and mesquite.
Early in the morning the air was relatively cool and smelled sweet with pine and the newly blossoming sagebrush buttercup. The air was so clear Garrett could turn his head in any direction and see forever.
Jenny rode beside him, looking bright and clean as a new penny, the trail not seeming to take any toll on her. She sat astride her horse, her oval knees bare, and it was in Garrett’s mind that he had never in his life seen any woman so pretty and so alive.
As they rode, he pointed out to the girl the things he knew, a cougar track on the soft ground alongside the trail, stands of prickly pear where the pack rat made its home and hoarded its treasure, a collection of shiny pebbles and bits of metal, a dusty depression in the grass where buffalo had wallowed.
“Indians like fresh buffalo, but if there’s plenty of meat in camp, they prefer to hang their ribs and steaks until they start to decay, and then they’ll devour them and lick their fingers when they’re done,” Garrett told her. “I’ve seen the Blackfoot wait on riverbanks during the spring breakup and haul in rotting, bloated carcasses floating downstream. They eat those right away, and enjoy them just fine, even if their bellies are full of fresh buffalo.”
The girl was interested in anything and everything, her pencil dashing across the sketch pad as she rode, stopping only now and then to ask a question. A pleasant hour passed as they cleared the horizon to the east and the sun began its climb into the sky. Once a small buffalo herd walked out of an arroyo and headed north, toward the Milk River, the big, mature bulls out in front, on the prod and spoiling for a fight.
Garrett was telling Jenny about the problem of getting cattle out of slot canyons at roundup time, when an alarmed shout from Yates interrupted him.
“Garrett! Behind you!”
The young rancher turned in the saddle and saw a thick dust cloud rising to the south. As his eyes grew accustomed to the distance, he made out the naked forms of mounted Indians coming at a fast gallop, their faces painted for war.
“Jenny!” Garrett yelled. “The rest of you women, light a shuck out of here!”
Seeing what was coming behind them, the women needed no further urging. They kicked their horses into a run as Garrett faded back alongside Yates.
“This will be a running fight,” the gunman said. “Shuck your rifle and maybe we can hold them off.”
Garrett slid his Winchester from the scabbard under his knee and levered a round into the chamber. Beside him Yates did the same. They swung their horses around and galloped after the fleeing women.
Yates was turning in the saddle, firing steadily, but Garrett saw no hits. A warrior in a feathered war bonnet decorated with weasel tails was out in front, a rifle to his shoulder. Garrett drew a bead on the man and fired. The Indian’s pony went down, hitting the ground headfirst, and the warrior sailed over its neck. He was quickly swallowed by the swirling dust cloud kicked up by the horses of the other warriors.
A bullet split the air above Garrett’s head and he urged his black into a faster gallop. Beside him Yates looked grim, dust already settling into the seams of his face.
“They’re Bloods, Yates!” Garrett yelled. “And they’ll keep coming.”
Ahead of him he saw Jenny glance over her shoulder to look at him, her eyes wide. The land ahead of the women promised nothing, just shallow, rolling country stretching all the way to the border. There was no place to stop and make a stand, not a scrap of cover. Yates had been correct—this would be a running battle.
A bullet smashed into the pommel of Garrett’s saddle, ricocheting away with a venomous whine, and an arrow whipped past his head. He turned in the saddle, threw his rifle to his shoulder, fired and fired again. Another Indian pony staggered and went down, crashing head over heels into the dirt.
“Hold your fire, Garrett!” Yates yelled. “Put some distance between us and them. Then stop when I do.”
Garrett nodded and set spurs to his black. Gradually he and Yates, riding bigger, stronger horses, opened up the stretch between themselves and the Bloods. Bullets were still cutting the air around them, and now and again an arrow zipped past in a vicious blur of movement.
Yates slid his rifle into the scabbard and spurred his mount, the brim of his hat flattened against the crown. He turned and checked the location of the Bloods, then yelled, “Draw rein!”
Garrett yanked the black to a skidding halt. The animal’s rump slammed into the ground, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust. Yates swung his horse around and drew his guns with flashing speed. He hammered shot after shot into the Indians, so fast the roar of his Colts sounded like a drumroll.
“Pour it into them, Garrett!” he yelled.
Garrett threw his rifle to his shoulder and worked the lever as fast as he could, hardly taking time to aim. A couple of Bloods had dropped to Yates’ fire, and his deadly bullets had taken the steam out of their charge. The Indians split, widening out on each side of the trail. Wary of the gunman’s accurate Colts, they were now shooting at a distance.
“They’re trying to cut the trail ahead of us, Yates,” Garrett hollered. “Let’s get out of here.”
Yates holstered his guns, swung his horse around and charged after Garrett. Too late. A dozen or so Bloods were blocking the way ahead, others streaming after the women.
The Bloods may have expected the two white men to stop, perhaps turning and going the other way. But Garrett and Yates charged into them, their rifles flaring. The tactic surprised the Indians and they quickly tried to swing away from the deadly fire, their ponies crow-hopping in their haste to beat a retreat.
A big warrior, his entire face painted black, was right ahead of Garrett’s rifle, not ten yards away. Garrett fired into the man’s chest and saw him tumble off his pony. Yates was firing deliberately, trying for kills. One Blood went down, then a second.
A bullet tugged at Garrett’s sleeve, staining his shirt red, and then he was through them. Yates was right behind him, no longer firing.
The Indians had recovered from their initial surprise and were yipping their anger as they charged after the two white men. Holding his rifle in his left hand, Garrett drew his Colt, swung around in the saddle and emptied the revolver into the oncoming warriors. He scored no hits that he could tell and he hadn’t even slowed the Indians’ pace.
Looping the reins around his chewed-up pommel, Garrett quickly reloaded his Colt. Ahead of him a larg
e party of Bloods were closing the distance between themselves and the fleeing women.
He saw Jenny’s horse suddenly stumble and go down, throwing the girl clear.
Garrett swung toward Jenny, who was on her feet but looked dazed and bewildered. An Indian rode at her, a lance upraised in his right hand. Garrett got off a fast snap shot and the warrior reeled, a scarlet stain splashing his muscular brown back. The Blood continued to gallop toward Jenny, but when he was still several yards away, he slid sideways from his pony and hit the ground hard, dust kicking up around him.
The dead Indian’s horse tossed its head and turned broadside to Garrett as he rode closer to Jenny. His big black, outweighing the paint by two hundred pounds, T-boned the animal at a fast gallop and sent it flying. The pony staggered to its right and crashed onto its side, its legs flailing. Garrett swung past the downed paint and leaned from the saddle, his left arm extended as he rode closer to Jenny.
From somewhere he heard Yates yell, “Damn it, leave her!”
Garrett ignored the man. Without slowing his pace he scooped up the girl and lifted her onto the front of his saddle. Jenny said nothing, her face white with shock, and he felt her body tremble violently against him.
The black loved to run and despite its added burden it plunged ahead, its neck straight out, the bit in its teeth. Behind him Garrett heard Yates’ rifle slam, then slam again. Two Indians chasing after the other women tumbled off their ponies. Lynette was bent over the neck of her horse. Garrett saw an arrow buried deep in her back, six inches of shaft and the turkey flight feathers sticking out just under her left shoulder blade.
It was a terrible wound—a wound no one could survive.
A killing anger in him, Garrett drew his Colt and fired at the Bloods riding ahead of him. Yates’ rifle was hammering and their combined fire took its toll on the Indians. A warrior threw up his arms and tumbled from his mount, and another swung off the trail and pulled up his pony, his head hanging.
The Tenderfoot Trail Page 14
