by Sam Clancy
Down below, he watched the wagon train snake along the valley floor. Nine wagons in all lumbered along the trail drawn by sturdy oxen.
From his vantage point, Ford could see both directions along the narrow, steep-sided valley and across to the far ridge line on the other side.
Both ridges were thickly wooded with fir, spruce, lodgepole pines and some aspen. Amongst them sat slabs of grey-faced rock, millions of years old like the valley.
Ford scanned the far ridge and could see nothing other than a large bull elk. The beast had the massive antler rack of an older male.
Ford sighed. The wagon train had been on the trail for two weeks and was now deep in the Bitterroots. In all that time, he’d seen nothing. He doubted whether anything would happen on this trip at all.
His attention was drawn back to the elk. It had moved and was faced back along the ridge where it stood. It remained still for what seemed to be an eternity before it broke into a sudden run and disappeared over the far side of the ridge line.
Ford frowned and steadily moved his gaze along the slope. Though he could see nothing, he was certain that the elk had seen or heard something to disturb it.
He watched patiently but still nothing moved. He didn’t like it. A cold chill washed down his back. There was something out there and he knew that sooner or later, he would find out what.
Ford stood up and walked back over the ridge to where his horses waited.
‘Good, he’s gone,’ said the first man with a hint of relief.
The second man nodded. ‘I was beginnin’ to think he’d seen us.’
Their names were Pike and Cross. Both men were wanted by the law in various parts of the west. They had killed before without compunction and would do so again.
‘What are we goin’ to do about him?’ asked the tall, thin Cross. ‘He’s obviously shadowin’ the train. That’s the second time we’ve seen him.’
Pike nodded in agreement. ‘Tonight we’ll deal with him. We’ll stay here until the wagon train is out of sight and slip across the valley. Once it gets dark, we’ll close in and get rid of him.’
‘Who do you reckon he is? Do you reckon he’s from the same place as that other feller who came snoopin’ around?’ Cross meant the first man the governor had sent into the Bitterroots. The man they’d buried amongst a stand of aspen in an unmarked grave.
Pike was a solid built man in his early thirties. He took off his broad-brimmed hat and ran a calloused hand through his straw-like brown hair. ‘It’s possible,’ Pike allowed. ‘Maybe more than possible. Maybe the governor done sent out another feller to keep an eye on this train and find his missin’ man.’
Without saying so, Pike thought that was exactly what had happened. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone started to seriously investigate the missing wagon trains.
It came as no surprise to him when the first man showed up looking around. Now Pike was beginning to think that maybe it was time to cut out before it all came crashing down around his ears. What would be next? The Army?
He decided that this would be his last train. After they were finished, he would leave quietly in the night and not return.
‘Did you hear me?’ Cross interrupted his thoughts.
‘What?’
‘I said the boss ain’t goin’ to like this.’
‘No, he ain’t.’
The small campfire crackled and popped as the orange-blue flames licked greedily at the dry sticks that Ford fed it.
Out in the darkness-clad wilderness, a wolf howled its low mournful sound. A great horned owl called from high up in a tall Douglas fir and was answered by another farther back in the forest.
Ford had found a place to camp behind the ridge and set up beside a small clear-water stream, which ran along the forested edge of the ridge’s slope.
He decided that the following morning he would cross behind the wagon train to the other side of the valley to see if he could find any sign of whatever had startled the elk.
He sat hunched over a steaming cup of bitter black coffee. Between each sip, he blew gently on it to cool it a little.
Ford enjoyed the solitude that accompanied working alone. Though he was partnered with Brady this time, his vigil over the wagon train was still a solitary affair.
The cessation of forest noise which had filled the still night was the first indication that he was no longer alone. One moment the air was filled with a myriad of sounds, the next, an eerie silence.
The owl, high up in the fir tree, took sudden flight in a flurry of frantic flapping wings. Then the roan snorted and stomped a hoof.
The cup, held in Ford’s left hand, paused on its way to his mouth. His right hand edged towards his Colt as his eyes searched the dark. There was no moon so the darkness was almost complete beyond the light of the small campfire.
The sound of a gun hammer going back spurred Ford into action. He lunged backward, threw the cup to one side and drew the six-gun from its holster.
Thunder filled the night as rifle fire exploded from the trees at the edge of the camp. Orange tongues of flame lanced out as deadly lead tunnelled through the empty space where Ford had just been.
The marshal landed heavily and the hard ground jarred his whole body. Another flurry of shots rang out and Ford composed himself enough to fire back.
His Peacemaker barked and lead scythed into the darkness where the shots had come from.
A loud cry of pain was followed by the sound of a thud as a body fell heavily to the ground. A muffled curse told Ford that there was still at least one more assailant to worry about.
More rifle fire sounded and the bullets furrowed into the earth around Ford’s feet. He rolled to the left and came up onto his knee, and fired two more shots.
Without warning, a man charged out of the darkness and into the firelight. His face was a mask of rage. He threw down his rifle and drew his six-gun.
‘Damn you!’ he shouted.
Ford took deliberate aim at the man and squeezed the trigger of his Colt. The gun bucked against his palm and the slug took the man dead centre.
The attacker stiffened and fell forward. He lay still, seemingly asleep in the campfire’s glow.
Still on edge, Ford braced for more gunfire to erupt from the surrounding darkness but all remained silent.
He ejected the spent cartridges from his gun and reloaded then holstered it. He moved towards the dead man.
‘Let’s have a look at you,’ he muttered.
Ten minutes later, Ford had the two dead men laid out beside the fire where there was enough light for him to see their faces. He knew them. Ford had seen the mugs of Pike and Cross before on wanted dodgers.
He couldn’t be certain that they were tied up with what was happening in the Bitterroots.
That they had startled the elk earlier in the day was without question. He was also sure that they had seen him shadowing the wagon train.
He thought about the possibility of their involvement in the bigger picture.
If so, they may not be out here alone.
Ford made the decision that the following morning he would ride down to the wagon train and take the bodies with him.
Chapter 5
Brady saw Ford first. The wagons were set to move out when he noticed the rider approach with three horses in tow. Once closer, he recognized who it was.
‘What the hell?’ Brady cursed softly.
He spurred his horse forward and rode out to meet him. He drew up and stared at the bodies. His eyes narrowed and he turned his annoyed gaze on Ford.
‘What the hell are you doin’ here?’ he hissed in a harsh whisper. ‘You were told to remain out of sight. And who are the two fellers?’
Ford ignored Brady’s open hostility.
‘Their names are Pike and Cross,’ he explained. ‘There’s paper on both of them. They decided to jump me last night on the other side of the ridge. What you should be askin’ is why they were shadowin’ the wagon train.’
Brady raised his eyebrows. ‘Were they?’
Ford nodded. ‘Almost certain of it.’
‘You didn’t happen to get a chance to ask ’em why?’
‘Nope.’
There was a shout from the train and Ford and Brady looked in that direction. Two men approached on foot.
‘Hell, that’s all we need.’ Brady sighed in frustration.
‘You might want to consider this, too,’ Ford said quietly. ‘That feller on the left. His name is Gibson, right?’
‘Yeah.’
‘He knows me,’ Ford said. ‘Had me a run in with him in Helena. He knows I’m a marshal.’
‘It just gets better, don’t it.’ Brady’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
‘Who’s the other feller?’ Ford asked.
‘His name is Hayes,’ Brady explained. ‘He’s the wagon master. Him and Gibson are friends.’
Ford frowned. ‘How do they strike you?’
‘Hayes seems to know what he’s doin’,’ Brady said. ‘Gibson, on the other hand, is trouble waitin’ to happen. A couple of times he’s had a run-in with a family man named Ellis. Has himself a daughter almost full growed. Gibson has taken a shine to her. One sided.’
Ford nodded. ‘Somethin’ tells me he’s bad all the way through.’
‘Yeah. You could be right.’
‘What’s goin’ on here, Brady?’ Hayes snapped as he stopped close to the two men. ‘Who’s this feller?’
The wagon master’s weathered face grew lines as he frowned and looked at the two bodies draped over the horses.
‘His name is—’ Brady started.
‘Is Ford,’ Gibson cut in. ‘He’s a US Marshal.’
Hayes’s grey eyes narrowed. ‘Is that so?’
Ford nodded. After all, there was no use denying it.
Hayes was a tall man, with a large barrel chest. Ford figured him to be aged around thirty-eight.
‘What brings you way out here, Marshal?’ Hayes asked snidely.
‘The governor was worried about a number of wagon trains that have gone missing of late,’ Ford said truthfully. ‘So I was asked to take a look. These two jumped me last night.’
Ford paused as Gibson moved around behind him to look at the bodies.
He turned his gaze to Brady. ‘You ain’t seen anythin’ suspicious on the trail, have you?’
Brady shook his head. ‘Nope.’
Ford looked across at Hayes, who diverted his perceptibly worried attention to Gibson.
‘How about you?’ Ford turned to him.
Hayes returned his gaze back to the marshal. ‘What? No, nothing like that.’
Ford hipped in the saddle. ‘Friends of yours, Gibson?’
Gibson stiffened a little but refused to look at Ford.
‘Never seen ’em before,’ he lied.
‘Are you sure?’
Gibson ignored him.
‘What do you plan on doin’ with the bodies?’ Hayes asked.
‘I’ll take ’em and plant ’em,’ Ford told him. ‘I was goin’ to do that when I spied your wagon train. I thought I’d see if anybody from the wagon train knew who they were.’
‘No one from this train knows ’em,’ Hayes said adamantly.
‘I could just take ’em over. . . .’
‘I said no one knows ’em, Marshal,’ Hayes said impatiently. ‘We got us women and children with the wagon train. They don’t need a sight like this upsettin’ ’em.’
Gibson’s hand dropped to his gun butt which didn’t go unnoticed. Ford shifted his gaze to Brady who’d done the same but his face remained passive in the face of growing tension. He looked back at Hayes.
‘All right then, have it your way.’
Without another word, Hayes and Gibson started back towards the wagon train.
‘Those two are mixed up in this somehow,’ Ford stated.
Brady nodded. ‘I think you’re right. But the question is, what are they mixed up in?’
There was a brief silence between the two. The void was filled by the sound of the wind in the surrounding trees and oxen bawling their protest at the coming day.
‘At least your cover is still intact,’ Ford said.
‘That’s somethin’,’ Brady said. ‘What about you? What are you goin’ to do?’
‘I’ll be out there watchin’ and waitin’,’ Ford told him. ‘Though I don’t think we’ll have long to wait. Those two dead fellers were here for a reason. I think the next couple of days will tell the story.’
‘I’d like to put a bullet in that son of a bitch’s guts,’ Gibson cursed as they walked back to the line of canvas covered wagons.
‘You’ll get your chance,’ Hayes assured him. ‘I have a feelin’ from now on, United States Marshal Josh Ford won’t be too hard to locate.’
‘What are we goin’ to do now Pike and Cross are dead?’
‘We’ll have to do it ourselves,’ Hayes informed him. ‘This afternoon when you head out to find fresh meat for the train, find Ford and kill him.’
‘What about Brady? Pike and Cross were meant to deal with him tonight while he was on watch. We’ll reach the valley tomorrow.’
‘We’ll take care of him tonight. You just make sure you don’t miss that marshal.’
Ford interred the two outlaws with all of their belongings then turned their horses loose.
Once finished, he went back to shadowing the wagon train.
For the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon, the landscape remained unchanged. A mix of tree-line ridges, clear water streams and verdant deep green meadows.
It was mid-afternoon when Ford found the signs of unshod horses. He examined the soft earth and made out five sets of tracks in all. The riders had stopped on the ridge.
Ford guessed that they’d watched the wagon train’s approach, then moved on in the same direction of travel. He decided to cut across the wagon train’s back trail and use the trees on the other side to continue. The last thing he needed was to run into a band of hostile Nez Perce.
He was halfway across when the whiplash of a Winchester cracked. His ears began to ring from the slug’s glancing blow, so he knew that he’d been hit. His head started to spin and the far off sound of the shot broke through the haze. He was unable to retain his balance atop the blue roan. He leaned to the left and toppled from the saddle and landed in the knee high grass he’d been traversing.
The sun was low in the sky when Gibson rode into the wagon train camp with a young elk draped over the back of his horse. He left it with one of the immigrants to dress and went to find Hayes.
He found him at the wagon the two had acquired for the arduous journey. It was filled with mining supplies, shovels, picks, pans and such, all of which Hayes had purchased before they’d left Helena. Gibson was its main driver but when he was away, Hayes took over the reins.
‘Did you find him?’
‘Yeah. I took care of it.’
‘Good.’
‘There’s a bunch of Nez Perce out there ridin’ around, too,’ Gibson informed Hayes.
‘How many?’
‘Not enough to worry us,’ he answered. ‘What about the scout?’
‘We’ll take care of it tonight,’ Hayes said. ‘Bend a gun barrel over his head and we’ll truss him up and put him in the wagon.’
‘Why not kill him?’
‘Maybe the boss can use him.’
Gibson nodded and asked, ‘What if these damned immigrants start givin’ us trouble?’
‘They won’t,’ Hayes spoke confidently. ‘You’ll see to that.’
Chapter 6
A sharp pain in Ford’s shoulder brought him back from the depths of unconsciousness. He turned his head groggily and came face to face with what could be misconstrued as a smile on the mean-tempered blue roan that had just bitten him.
‘Son of a bitch,’ he cursed and lashed out at the horse’s nose, rolling over onto his back.
Satisfied that it had done its job, the horse
walked away a few yards and began to crop grass.
Pain ran through Ford’s head. The dull throbbing ache made him feel nauseous. He opened his eyes and lay patiently as he waited for them to focus.
The first thing he noticed was the darkness. Overhead, the clear night sky held thousands of bright little pin-pricks of light which sparkled. The moon covered the landscape in a mantle of silver light.
Ford raised a hand to his head and gently probed the bullet furrow across his scalp. He was thankful to find it was quite shallow and not very wide. A very close call.
The world spun violently as he sat up slowly then lurched to the side and emptied the contents of his stomach onto the grass. He lay back, closed his eyes and blackness claimed him, the harsh throbbing of his head mercifully blocked.
Brady felt uneasy. He knew something was up but couldn’t put his finger on it. He sat beyond the wagon circle on an old stump with a Winchester rifle across his lap.
Maybe Ford was right. Perhaps something would happen in the next couple of days. Whatever it was.
The sound of footfalls behind him set Brady on edge. He thumbed back the hammer on his Winchester and turned from the waist to see who approached.
Hayes moved around to stand in front of him.
‘All quiet?’
Brady nodded warily. ‘So far, so good.’
‘Just keep your eyes peeled,’ Hayes ordered. ‘There may be somethin’ in what that marshal was sayin’ earlier.’
Brady remained silent, he didn’t have to be told.
‘There was somethin’ else today, too,’ Hayes continued. ‘When Gibson was out huntin’ up some grub, he came across some unshod pony tracks. He’s sure they were Nez Perce. Not many but enough to run off some stock.’
Brady sensed a movement behind him and whirled to bring the Winchester about. He was quick, but not quick enough.
A six-gun fell savagely and brought him to his knees. His ears rang and bright lights exploded in his head. Brady tried to rise to his feet but failed. The six-gun fell again and he descended into the dark chasm of unconsciousness.
Ford knew what was about to happen even though he was still in that foggy half state of not quite awake but no longer asleep.
