"Did you see their prisoner? Did you talk to him?" Barda asked.
"I seen him. He was some kinda sodger. A square--built, oldish man, carried hisself mighty well 'spite of the way they were treatin' him. They was sneerin' at him, callin' him 'William' and 'Tecumseh' and the like."
"They are thinking that he's General Sherman," Cris explained, "but they have the wrong man."
"They'll kill him. Sure as shootin' they'll kill him. I figure they want to burn him some before, but they'll kill him." The man stood up. He was about thirty, very tall, and very thin, with high, slightly stooped shoulders and big hands.
"What you considerin'? Goin' after a pack o' lobo wolves of that kind with a woman along?" The tall man looked sternly at Cris, his expression deepening to a scowl. "If they lay hand to her she'll wish she'd never been borned."
"She wouldn't go back," Cris said. "I told her, but she would not."
"The soldier you saw is my father," Barda said.
"Makes it no different. Leave the huntin' and fightin' to the menfolks. That's an awful mean crowd yonder."
"Nevertheless, I shall go. I must help."
"Ma'am, you surely do make it difficult. I want no more of that outfit. They struck me poorly from the start, an' I taken the first chance I seen to get shut of them. Now you ask me to go back."
"I've asked you nothing of the kind!"
"Ma'am, you surely have. If you--all go, I can't keep to runnin', I just naturally got to help. Man can't do nothin' else. And I'm of no mind to."
"We haven't asked for help," Cris Mayo said patiently. "You go along now, or sit here by your fire."
"It ain't fittin'. I'm all made up to run and now you--all come along an' shame me. I'll go yonder with you, for better or worse." He paused. "My name is Reppato Pratt. I'm from the Highland Rim country of Kaintucky."
When they had made themselves known, Cris indicated the packs. "If you have anything to eat, we'd be grateful to share it with you. We've had nothing today but water."
"I've no choice but to feed you, I reckon. When I lit out of there, I taken unto me one of their pack bosses, carryin' what I could lift on him, an' most of it is grub. I taken some bullets, too, not being wishful of lacking lead for shootin'."
Reppato Pratt stirred up the fire and toed the coffeepot further toward the coals. Taking out a huge hunting knife, he began to slice bacon into a skillet with amazing dexterity. It spoke not only of his skill but of the sharpness of his blade.
"They'll be headin' for Cherokee country. Leastwise, so it seems to me. That's southeast o' here, Mick. But I don't figure they'll keep the sodger long... soon's they've had their fill of vengefulness and meanness, they'll knock him in the head."
"Who's in command?"
Pratt shaved a few slices of bacon, then glanced up. "Now I done some ponderin' on that, Justin Parley, calls hisself Major Parley, he shows up front most o' the time. But there's two others a body would have to take into account. One of them is a gun--handy killer called Del Robb.
"This Robb is a good--lookin' man and a mighty fine horseman. He killed a couple of men down in Mississippi and headed west. For a time he shaped around down by the Sulphur River in East Texas, but he didn't get along with Cullen Baker, Bob Lee and them so he pulled out and trailed west.
"He killed a man in Fort Worth, shot one up in Beeville but that one lived, and then Robb trailed around down on the Neuces for a spell. That's all gossip I picked up when I was a--settin' by.
"Parley, he takes the lead, but Del Robb is right there to hand, and there's some among 'em believe he's the power.
"The other one is Silver Dick Contego. They call him that because of his silver--gray hair. He's a slender, quiet man who has the beautifullest hair I ever seen on a man, and he combs it all the time. He's got him a funny, old--fashioned comb with a round back to it. They make no move without him, but he never pushes on anything or anybody. He sets quiet, but nobody makes much of a move until he thinks it's all right. Silver Dick is a friendly--seemin' man but something about him makes me uneasy, an' I don't know why."
As Pratt talked on, Cris listened hard, and the picture slowly unfolded of a body of men most of whom were former guerrillas from the Civil War; few of them had been regulars, and some were just a rough lot picked up as they moved through the country, a band of cutthroats led by Parley with his two lieutenants. Such an outfit was basically unstable, usually held together by fear and greed.
He had known of such groups in Ireland. They often began as men fighting for liberty, and then the best of them pulled away or were killed and what remained were those who had lost perspective and thought only of murder and loot and their own image of themselves.
"You rode with them a time," Cris said. "How many are there?"
"Seventeen, but more are scattered 'round Fort Sanders, an' some comin' to jine up from Texas."
"Have you any idea where they'll camp the next two nights?"
Reppato Pratt considered that, then nodded. "I can figure one camp 'most for sure. Reason is, it's hid good, and there's plenty of water an' fuel. We stopped by there on the way up." He looked over at Cris. "You ain't figurin' to tackle them head--on?"
"No," Cris said, and a thought came to him as he spoke. "We must attack, we can't just sit back. But we can't take them by force, so we've got to be smart; hit them where it will hurt them most, and stop them from running. So we'll either steal or stampede their horses. Set the divils afoot."
Pratt nodded. "Now! Would you listen to that?" He looked over at Barda. "He pounced on the one thing we can do. We set 'em afoot and they'll... why, a man can't do anything in this country without a horse!" He considered. "Won't be easy. Won't be at all. They surely do guard them horses."
"You be pouring that coffee, and let us give the problem some thought. I want to know all that you know about that camp, and where they'll tie their horses."
Even as he said it, Cris was thinking that there were other things a man could do besides this one so hastily struck upon. The secret, his uncle had told him, was to attack, always to attack. The enemy was always vulnerable. Some place, invariably, there was a weak spot
Steal their supplies? Set a prairie fire? Cut off their water supply? It was not the size of the force you had that mattered, it was how you used it.
Cris Mayo sat beside the fire and ate the bacon and drank the coffee, relishing every swallow as only a hungry man can, yet as he sat he was wishing he had the skills he'd heard that the old Indian fighters possessed, skills they learned from the Indian himself. He could have used many more skills than were at his command... but of one thing he was positive, the first move must be against their horses. He must rob them of mobility, and then before they could recapture their mounts or get others, the cavalry might come. Or some other such miracle might occur, he thought wryly. At least, afoot, they might hold off on killing the colonel, for fear of the Army.
How he was to get the horses, well, he left that to the future. It all depended upon the situation.
Could he trust Reppato Pratt? He believed he could, but just the same he would ride behind. He told Pratt so as they put out the fire and prepared to mount up. "We don't know you, mister, so if you don't mind, you ride ahead with the young lady. I'll sort of trail along behind."
"Cousin, you jess do that! To ride beside Miss McClean is all anybody could be wishful for. I take it a privilege!"
Cris Mayo scowled. Damn it, what the fellow said was true, and why should he get all the luck and Cris none? However, he followed them a few yards behind, his rifle ready to hand. The trail was plain enough.
Over their meal Pratt had outlined the situation at the spring. It was in a hollow among low hills, whose rounded, grass--covered slopes were bland and innocent, and seemed to offer no route to anywhere in particular; there was a narrow, single--file trail that led through the bushes and into a small basin containing the spring, a few cottonwoods, and some willows, as well as other low brush. On one side of the small sl
ough was a thick clump of cattails. There was an opening out of the southwest corner through a cluster of cottonwoods, and it was near those trees that the horses would be placed at night.
"They let them graze?"
"That's earlier, but they take them through the trees for that and a couple of herders watch over them. They'll be in a long, low valley between the hills while grazing, and no way a body could get at 'em 'thout bein' seen. An' with that outfit, Mick, to be seen is to be shot... they don't figure to talk with anybody."
Cris was scared. He admitted it to himself, but he'd gotten in and he knew no way of getting out, not with the girl here, so determined and so vulnerable. Against the kind of men they faced they'd have only one chance, and they'd have to shoot first and straightest; and Crispin Mayo was only a novice at firing a gun. To relieve his feelings, he said stiffly to Pratt, "You'll do me the courtesy of calling me by my own name, or I'll have to lambaste you... which would be unpleasant, and you helping us so friendly and all."
Pratt chuckled. "All right. You call me Rep."
They had been riding for over an hour when the Kentuckian suddenly said, "Cris, you better give this a thought. That outfit ain't about to set still an' let us ride over the high prairie at 'em. They'll stick a man up in a cottonwood or atop a hill, and he'll see us comin' for miles."
Cris was irritated. That was obvious, and made him look the fool. He said, "Let's get yonder to the low ground, then."
Reppato Pratt led a winding way through connecting valleys among the rolling hills. Here and there was an outcropping of rock, and the land grew drier, the vegetation more sparse. Cris mopped the sweat from his face and shifted his grip on the rifle to dry his palms on his pants. Wouldn't be much left of his suit after this ride, and he had no other.
That was the trouble with being poor: a man could not make a move without thinking of the consequences. A man who had another suit or more than one extra pair of pants need only go to the closet or the wardrobe and pick and choose; but a man who had no more than he owned now could never cease from worry that he'd be left without any. This eternal riding was playing hob with his pants, and soon he'd be out at knees and seat, with only one extra pair to his name and them maybe lost or stolen at the end of track.
Holding to low ground, they rode slowly forward. They'd have to attack by night. That thought came to Cris and did not worry him. He was no red Indian but he'd done his share of poaching, and could move quietly and easily in the darkness.
It was nearing sundown when Pratt lifted a hand to stop them. He dismounted and walked forward, studying the ground. They were beside a small stream that flowed toward a river, easily distinguished by the tops of trees, only a mile or two away.
Pratt came back to them. "Couple has been through here," he said, "scourin' the country, no doubt, to see if they're alone. Outriders."
"You think they'd come back?"
"Ain't likely. None o' that crowd's over--ambitious. They'll be watchin' the land, but we've raised no dust an' we've held to low ground so there's a blame good chance they ain't suspectin' they got company. Right ahead of here, I seen it, there's some cover an' a spring of water. We'll just set down there an' wait for nightfall."
They had not long to wait. Cris Mayo took off his coat and folded it behind his saddle. He knew that what lay ahead would be dangerous and he might not come out alive, yet he had no idea of quitting. He was scared and jumpy, of course, and low in his mind, but he'd not quit.
He wasn't hungry, and he should have been. The stars began to come out in the still--light sky, a soft wind blew through the leaves and the grass. He went to the spring, drank, then bathed his face and eyes in the cold water. When he stood straight, Barda was beside him. "Cris," she said, "I'm frightened." She looked up at him. "Are you?"
"I am."
"But you're going on with it?"
"I am."
"I got you into this. If anything happens to you I'll never forgive myself."
"Too late for that now, Miss McClean. We're in it All three of us."
"I cannot believe this is happening to me. I cannot believe that those men would be as brutal as you and Rep say."
"Nobody ever believes it until it is too late. Everyone has the same idea: that it could not happen to them. It is always happening to somebody else, and you see it in the papers and don't credit it. Thieves, outlaws and the like, now, they are no braver than you, and most times less brave. They just figure you will be scared to a jelly, and will do nothing to defend yourself because you think they are so dangerous."
She was silent. He liked the nearness of her, yet he was no fool. This was a colonel's daughter and he was an immigrant laborer, a man with no future that anybody could see. Besides, back in Ireland there was Maire Kinsella. Yet Maire's features had faded somewhat in his memory, and that disturbed him, because it was Maire for whom he would one day go back to the old country.
"You're very brave," she said. "I will not forget what you are doing."
"If we get out alive," he said. "I am not all that brave, and they are better shots than me."
Reppato Pratt came softly down to the spring and drank. He got up, wiping off his bristly chin. "They'll be eatin' now, and soon they'll take in the horses."
Cris decided suddenly. "We'll go now. When they start to herd the beasts, we'll move."
Rep hesitated, then shrugged. Cris turned to Barda. "You stay close enough, and run with us when we run. We might not be able to get back here after you." Then they moved out until the enemy was in sight; and there they halted and watched.
The horse herd was three hundred yards or so from where they waited. The two men on duty were not mounted; shortly, they walked out to start driving the horses to the picketing site. The sun was down. The herdsmen were expecting nothing, and the horses began slowly, reluctantly, to leave the grass.
"Walk your horses," Cris whispered, "until they see us or we're within two hundred yards. Then let them have it!"
Steadily they went through the gathering darkness, that late twilight when all things become indistinct and shadowy. Cris held his pistol ready, and he spoke to the colonel's gelding that he rode. "Easy does it, boy, easy does it!"
The horses were beginning to gather, their heads pointed toward the narrow trail that led into the hollow where the outlaws were camped. "All right, now," Cris spoke just loud enough to be heard. "Let's go!"
His words ended in a shout and they slapped heels to their horses and charged, Rep's packhorse on a lead coming behind them. Startled, the outlaws' horses threw up their heads, nostrils wide, and saw four dark forms charging down upon them, the air ringing with yells.
Rep fired, and one of the herdsmen spun and dropped, staggered up, then fell again to one of Cris Mayo's slugs. The other man fled from what he evidently took to be a cavalry charge. Shouting and firing, the three riders raced after the fleeing horses. From the hill behind there was a shot, and Cris ducked involuntarily, having felt the whip of the air as the bullet passed, and then they were gone into the darkness, driving the horses ahead of them onto the vast plain.
He could not believe it. They had brought it off, and for the time at least the outlaws would be unable to leave. Far into the night they drove the horses, finally losing them as the herd began to lag and scatter. They made no effort to keep the horses bunched then, just let them go, confident that few would find their way back.
At the camp in the hollow Justin Parley waited for the report, and it could not have been worse. "Three or four riders," the lookout said, "and there might have been more. They got Wes Jackson with their first fire, an' Noble, he cut an' run."
"The horses?"
"Scattered over the prairie, every blamed one! We'll be lucky if we can round up half a dozen."
"Noble?"
"He's waitin'. Says he didn't have a chance. Swears it was the U.S. Cavalry."
"He's a fool and a coward. Get rid of him."
Silver Dick Contego glanced up from his coffee. "Giv
e it some thought, Major." Whenever Silver Did wished to be persuasive he always used the title. "Noble has kinfolk down yonder in the Indian country. He's half Cherokee, you know, an' we're ridin' right into his home base. They'll be askin' after him."
Parley hesitated only a moment. "Of course. We must not judge too harshly. By the time we reach the Cherokee country he may have given us reason to forget his error. In fact, we will give him a chance now. Noble?" he called.
The man was large, fat around the waist, heavy in the jowls. He was sweating as he walked forward, obviously frightened.
"You've allowed our horses to be stolen, Noble, but you're a good man. So good that you're going to prove it by going out there to recover them. Noble, I want you to leave now. Don't come back until you have at least four horses. With that many we can recover the others."
"But--"
"Now, Noble. This minute. I trust to your skill. Just bring them back to us."
The big man hesitated, trying to find words that would get him off the hook, but there were none. He turned and stumbled toward the second campfire, a desperate and frightened man.
The hawk--faced man who called himself Murray, squatting by the fire, spoke up as Noble came near. "Pete, you take a walk over that direction. That gray of mine, he surely did take to that grass at our last camp. He's apt to wander back there, and where he goes, others will."
Pete Noble nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Murray. I'll give it a try."
He walked off into the night, and Murray finished his coffee and stood up. Sometimes, as now, he wished he was back in Hannibal, loafing along the river front.
He considered Noble. The man was all but useless, so he had better go himself. He gathered some rations and extra ammunition, and turned to the men at the fire. "We'll need those horses. I'll have a try myself."
Let Pete Noble go on ahead; he would follow. Let Pete draw the fire. Pete would answer it while he could, and then Murray would get the horses.
"And then," Murray said aloud, "I'll--"
the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 5
