Near the foot of the hill he investigated a lone patch of brush and scrub trees that appeared to offer little if any concealment; but within it he found a hollow, maybe a dozen feet long and half as wide, where the earth had been gouged out at some far distant time. Here he left his horse, tied to the thick stem of a willow. Easing out between clumps of scrub, he paused to listen. Poaching had been good experience for this, for gamekeepers in Ireland were alert, ready to pounce on those who grew careless.
To go up the bald face of the hill was not a thing to which he looked forward, but there was no other way except through one of the two entrances, and first he must learn something of what lay within. Keeping low, he started up the hill. The grass was no more than five or six inches high, but there were occasional clumps of prickly pear, some boulders, and enough cover to offer an illusion of security.
At the top of the hill, easing to the farthest possible point, he looked over. Only one fire was still alight. Two others had burned down to coals, and around them he could see the dark forms of sleeping men. Three men bedded a little to one side would be, he decided, the leaders of whom Reppato had spoken.
He stared down at them, wondering what he was doing here. He had come west to work, to earn money, to build a life for himself, so how did he come to be here? Was it only the girl? That he feared for her? Or was it something else in him that pushed him into trouble? He had moved like this before, suddenly and on impulse, without thinking ahead, and it was no way to do.
He studied the layout below. Not much chance to get in there, not if he also wished to get out. The more he looked at it, the less he liked it. Nobody was going to go through one of those openings without being seen. And to go up or down the slopes was to be in full view of the camp.
He supposed he should be inventing some shrewd way of tricking them so he could get the colonel free, but he could think of nothing. Yet he was restive. He had come here to do something and he did not want to go back without at least a try. He felt sure Reppato Pratt would have come up with a plan.
The moments passed. He worried about the gelding waiting in the brush down there. Suppose it whinnied and they heard it? Or some animal came along? There were wolves, he'd heard, and panthers.
A man suddenly appeared, a rifle in the hollow of his arm, strolling toward the fire. The man bent over, added a couple of roots to the coals, then stood there, looking about.
The guard from the opening where the horses had been taken out, Cris supposed. Then if he was here, there, by the fire--! The opening was unguarded for just that long. He started to move, then stopped. The man was walking over to the prisoner, and he bent over him as if to test the ropes that bound him, but in that instant, Cris saw the flash of steel in the man's hand.
Was he going to kill the colonel? Cris moved his hand to his gun, but before he could decide, he saw firelight flicker on the knife--blade, then saw the man drop to his knees and the light caught the blade again, The guard was cutting McClean free. Now he was helping him up.
They turned and just enough firelight and moonglow touched the man's face for Cris to see that it was Reppato Pratt!
How in--?
He was helping the colonel toward the entrance when suddenly from behind them appeared the other guard. "Hey!" he called. "What's the idea?"
Rep turned swiftly and shot him, firing from the hip. And in an instant the camp exploded into action. Men leaped up. Somebody shouted, "McClean! Where's the colonel?"
Cris Mayo, settling his rifle against his cheek, knew the time had come for action. He opened fire.
His first shot was at the yelling man, and the bullet burned him or scratched him. The man jumped back, stung, and Cris fired again. That slug caught a man with a pistol in his hand who was knocked back into the fire. He screamed, leaped up, kicking over the coffeepot, his clothing ablaze. He staggered and several men rushed at him to put out the flames.
Cris tried a quick shot at the place he believed Parley to have been lying, and then fired again and again.
A bullet nicked a rock near him and whined angrily into the night. Rep and McClean had disappeared, and Cris decided it was high time he did also. Backing swiftly from the crest, he sprang to his feet and raced headlong down the hill, slowing only near the bottom so as not to frighten his horse.
The gelding was startled, head up, eyes wild. "It's all right," Cris said softly, patting the horse. "All right now," and he whispered a few words in the old Irish.
Prudently he took time to reload his gun, then untied the gelding and mounted. He rode out of the bushes, circled away, and listened. He could hear an angry murmur from beyond the hill, too far away and cut off by the hill to be distinguished. He walked his horse in the direction he suspected Rep would go, but heard no sound... nothing.
He turned then and rode back to their camp. All was still. He listened, moved carefully forward, every sense alert.
The camp was empty. They were gone.
Where was Barda McClean? Had she gone with Rep after her father? And if so, where were they now?
He led his horse to the water, then drank himself. He was puzzled, unwilling to believe that Rep would take Barda with him on such a mission, yet understanding how difficult she could be and how hard to leave behind.
He sat on the bank under the trees and waited, listening. The moon was down. He dozed, awakened, dozed again. Nobody came.
The sky grew faintly gray, sunrise was coming. He got up and walked back to their camp, some twenty yards from where he had been sitting... nothing.
He climbed the hill to look out over the prairie, but the vast plain, broken by occasional rolling hills, was empty.
What would the renegades do now? Attempt to recover their prisoner, no doubt, as well as their mounts. And to be revenged on those who had thwarted them.
He walked back to the camp, then stopped, suddenly, looking at some tracks. Not only tracks, but cigarette stubs. Two of them. Cris smoked but rarely, and then a clay pipe, and he had not seen Pratt smoking. Yet somebody had stood there, for there were marks of a man's shifting feet, rolling and smoking at least two cigarettes while he waited and watched.
Cris squatted on his heels, studying the tracks. A large man, worn boots, run--down heels, and a crack across the sole of one. Standing up, he looked through the willows at the spot that the man must have watched. Right before his eyes was where Barda had slept, or sat. He had chosen it for her himself as the most comfortable place to rest.
Suddenly, Cris was desperately worried. He had slipped off, saying nothing to anyone, and then Reppato Pratt had evidently done the same thing! Believing Cris Mayo was still close by, he had gone off to try to rescue the colonel, unknowingly leaving Barda alone.
Carefully, Cris studied the ground, but could make little of what he saw. The tracking he had done in Ireland had been little enough, only the deer he poached and an occasional lost animal. It was easier just to ask fanners or travellers if they had seen a lost animal than to attempt tracking it, except on the uplands.
The main thing, he supposed, was common sense. Men are far less inventive than they assume and whatever means they use to confuse a trail have inevitably been used before. And this man who had captured Barda McClean had probably not expected pursuit.
So what then? Who was he and where had he gone? Not back to the camp in the hollow or Cris would have seen them; where else? The lone man was probably one of the renegades, but not necessarily so. Assuming that he was, then the man had evidently decided to keep Barda to himself, or perhaps to ransom her by appealing to the railroad for money. This, Cris decided, was likely. There was little loyalty among such men as Parley had gathered about him, and each was out to grab as much as possible.
The morning was dull and gray. Cris felt restless, irritable, not knowing which way to turn yet eager to do something. He tried to follow the tracks of the man across the clearing, but failed. He circled warily, keeping an eye out for trouble but seeking any mark on the ground that might
give him a clue. Finally he went to his horse, mounted and walked him outside the camp. From the hill where he had been last night, a man with either very good eyes or a glass would see him, but he did not care. It was Barda he was thinking of. Barda was in the hands of this unknown man, and must be found, and at once.
He came upon the tracks suddenly and no credit was due to skill, simply to his patience and effort. They were the hoofprints of five horses, bunched well together, the tracks of one of them sunk deeper than the others. This he could interpret. A man had captured five of the scattered horses, was riding one and leading four of them. Cris started to ride on, then on a hunch turned and followed the trail of the horses.
It took him only minutes to discover that it was this man who had found Barda alone. He had seen something... perhaps Rep or Cris leaving the area... and he had investigated. Then he had either moved in, or waited until the second man was gone. The latter, probably, thought Cris, recollecting the two cigarette butts.
Near the place where the horses had been tied he found the big man's track and he also found the smaller, sharper cut of a heel into an earthy space between clumps of grass... Barda.
AH right, then. The fellow who had found the horses had also discovered Barda, but he had not gone back to the camp of Parley's men. Searching about, Cris found the tracks leading off toward the west, and holding to low ground. Six horses now, one of them Barda's mare.
He reined in and studied the land he must cross. He was gradually getting the feel of the country, learning to see, hear and sense better than he had. The railroad seemed far away now; beyond all reach, as far as County Cork.
His eyes took in the long sweep of the hills, the westward way. Touching a heel to the big gelding, he started off at a spanking trot. He carried the rifle in his hands, and the trail of the horses was easily followed.
He had one advantage, he thought: he knew his ignorance. That meant he should go slow until he saw the right move to make, then he must move fast and hard. So far he had done nothing, except that he'd opened fire to help Rep and McClean escape... if they had. Barda had been taken and the fault was in part his. He was out here, miles from anything familiar, following a man, who probably knew things he would never learn, into an unknown country. He decided that he was almost due south of the small red shack where he had left the train. By now there should be troops in the field, although it would take them awhile to get into this area.
Parley would be aware of that, and he also probably knew by now that his only chance was to find horses and get out of the country; so he and his men would leave their camp and march out to wherever they could expect to acquire horses.
The man who had Barda was holding a little south of west, and Cris Mayo stepped up the pace. He could go faster than a man with four led horses could go; unless that man chose to switch mounts, which so far he had not done, not knowing he was pursued.
The country was changing, the hills were higher, there were far more outcrops, and there were trees on some of the ridges. The land was drier, the vegetation stiffer, harsher, more gray than truly green. There was no difficulty with the tracks. In fact, when he topped out on a rise he could see them pointing a finger, a whitish streak across the mixed grass plains before him, pointing toward a rocky hill several miles off.
The man might be watching from over there but Cris decided he had no choice. He put the gelding into a gallop and started out for the hill.
Pete Noble was in a quandary. He had found the horses where Murray had suggested he might, and he had started back. He was within a couple of miles of the rendezvous when he saw a rider come out of the hills and start across toward their hideout. No one in the outfit had a horse like the one he saw, a splendid animal.
There was a good chance the man was a spy, and there was an even better chance that a force of men lay in waiting yonder where he'd come from. Pete decided to scout the area before returning. This was something Parley should know.
He was nearing rapidly when he saw the second man leave, leading a riderless horse, and now he was more than ever sure. This was a military detachment or a civilian posse. In either case, Parley must know, to avoid surprise.
Leaving his horses, Pete had closed in carefully. Although a big man he was half Cherokee, had spent much of his life among Indians, and could move with great skill and silence. He was not a brave man but he trusted his skill and so was not particularly afraid of being caught.
Then he saw the girl. She was lying down. He got a glimpse of her face in the vague moonlight and knew that she was young and attractive. He mopped his brow and upper lip. A girl... alone?
He rolled himself a smoke and lit it carefully, shielding the flame, as soon as he'd determined that she was alone. Only one horse was tethered nearby, a mare. Pete Noble thought hard, through that cigarette and then a second. Two men gone, one girl left...
She had been one of the three who drove off their horses! Justin Parley would be glad, and grateful to Pete, to have her a prisoner.
Parley? Why let him have her? Why not keep her for himself? He'd found her, not Parley. And who was Parley after all? Pete Noble did not need Parley. He had lived in the West for a long time before Parley came into the country. Half of his ancestors had lived here forever! Suppose he took this girl and ran with her? Who was to know?
He moved into the small clearing. The girl's eyes flew open. "Ma'am," he said, "if you yell I'm liable to shoot you."
Barda McClean was frightened but she also knew that she dared not give in to her fright. She sat up. "Why should I yell? I know you've come to guide me back to the railroad to receive the reward."
"Reward?" Noble was not the brightest of men, but he knew the smell of money. "What reward?"
"Why, the reward the railroad is offering for anyone who brings me back, or my father. I am Colonel McClean's daughter."
Chapter Seven
Pete Noble turned the matter over in his mind. Thinking had never been one of his attributes, and he was worried over the problem. He had a girl here, a girl such as he had never had in his life and would never be likely to have again.
On the other hand there was the reward. He knew of no reward, but of course he had been nowhere to hear of it, and it was likely that one had been offered. He was no fool and he realized well enough that Parley had been on the verge of having him shot. Parley had men killed for less than Pete had done.
So why go back and risk Parley's displeasure? Why not take this girl to Fort Sanders and pick up the money? In fact... why not tell them where Colonel McClean was? That would mean even more cash.
Barda could see the man was fretting over a decision and she said no more. Her eyes scanned the dark hills as they rode west, hoping for some sign of Rep or Cris. There was nothing. No matter what this man might decide, she knew that she was in trouble.
"My father was scheduled to be at Fort Sanders on the 23rd," she said suddenly. "There is a meeting there of Generals Grant, Sheridan, Sherman, and Haney, with Thomas Durrant and Dodge and some others. It has something to do with changing the route the railroad is following. So you will have no trouble getting your reward."
The gray morning dawned.
He said nothing. They rode on for several miles in utter silence. As they turned around the base of a hill, she took the chance to look back, but she saw nothing.
Her hopes fell. Ahead was a long, dark grove of trees; for the first time she felt real fear. This man was not only huge, but gross, more animal than man, and she had no weapon with which to defend herself.
Obviously the man knew where he was taking her, for it was a bowl--like hollow, walled around with rocks, and open only on the side toward the river. There was a spring there, trees, fuel, and good grazing for the horses. In the bottom of the hollow lay about forty acres of good grassland, and Noble led the way toward a ring of stones on one side. The ring was filled with the charred remains of old fires.
Dumping her on the grass, he led the horses to water. There was no
sense trying to escape, for he would track her wherever she went. Her one hope was to keep the idea in his head of taking her back. She sat herself up slowly, her hands careful.
Me was dangerous, dangerous because he was slow, dangerous because there would be something in him beyond the reach of reason. He had strength. She was not a small girl and he had plucked her from her mare's saddle as if she were nothing. It was a heavy power, yet he was cat--footed when need be, she had seen him move a couple of times with incredible swiftness, so she must keep him on her side. And he was... almost.
She must not confuse him with too many ideas, or dull their edge with talking. He had her now, he could have a reward by delivering her unharmed. This was enough for the moment.
She had lived around Army camps much of her life and knew what life was about; she also knew that the respect of men was something easily lost. She had this man's respect now, for she had moved carefully. She was a colonel's daughter, and she must never forget that.
When he returned he began to put a fire together. His movements were smooth and without fault. This was something he had done many times, and there was no waste motion. She knew what he had been thinking by his first question. "What you doin' out here, anyhow?"
"I was travelling with my father. He had business at Fort Sanders, as I said."
"I mean out here... on the plains... with them two fellers."
"I was looking for my father. I do not know one of the men, he met us out here." Then she lied for the appearance of it. "The other one is a railroad employee. I told him that if he didn't come with me I'd have him discharged."
He considered that. Bringing a few articles from his pack, he began to make coffee. Then he sliced bacon into a pan. His thick hands were dirty, but she knew she must not notice and deliberately she looked away. "The other man joined us on the prairie." A sudden thought came to her. "I believe he had heard about the reward. They have the wire fixed and they offered a reward for whoever found my father and me. I was not gone, but at Fort Sanders they thought I had been taken with him."
the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 7
