Cris glanced at Halloran. "We'd better be movin' fast. You get to the fort and tell 'em to roust out some of your soldier boys and go after them."
"That's just it," Halloran objected, his long face very pale. "Two patrols of twenty men each went out this morning, one east and one west along the right--of--way. There aren't more than four or five soldiers left at the fort."
Cris thought quickly. "Rep, grab your horse and head west along the track, get that patrol started to sweep north along the river or creek or whatever, to meet the generals' party. I'll go direct to them. Hal, you'd best go east and start that patrol in the right direction, or get somebody to go. We've got to move!"
Halloran shook his head. "Cris, you don't know what you're saying. The officers in command of those patrols have their orders. You can tell them, and they may respond and they may not. We can only tell them what we know and let them decide."
"Tell them, man! Tell them now!"
Rep was already gone. Cris Mayo belted on his six--shooter, caught up his rifle and ran down the hall. Running hurt, but he did it. At the door of the hotel he glanced swiftly left and right. Men were scattered along the streets, talking.
He lined out for Brennan's place, and seeing him, men began to straggle that way, wondering what was happening; for now Gris was a well--known figure in Laramie. Brennan had just started out the door when Cris grabbed him. "Brennan, I need a horse! The best horse you can find!" Quickly, he explained.
Brennan roared out a bull's bellow: "Hank! Joel Hey, Swede! George! On the double!"
The men came running, others behind them. Cris heard the words, "... Parley. Grant and Sherman... ambush."
"I saw Holly on that bay horse this morning! But I never dreamed--!"
A man came around the corner of the saloon leading a fine black stallion. "Cris! There you go! Ride him, and good luck!" yelled Brennan.
"I'm goin' with him!" That was Joe Hazel, one of the men Brennan had called. Other voices joined in the shout.
"Go, boy!" Brennan clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll be right behind you with thirty or forty men! Why, there's a hundred ex--Union or Confederate soldiers in town that'd fight at your hat's drop, and all law--and--order men!"
Cris sprang to the saddle and turned the black horse. He was out of town at a dead run. The river lay to the north; the hunters could be no more than an hour ahead, and their progress would be leisurely, for they were in no hurry and they had a wagon following behind.
He thought quickly. He knew only what he had seen from the railroad, but he recalled various disjointed comments from time to time about the buffalo along the river to north and south of the fort.
He came to the tracks of the hunters. Almost at once he had a shock. There were the prints of Barda's mare! He knew them well. Was she on the hunt? Or was somebody else riding the mare?
Barda... she must be there. And Murray was with the outlaws.
Barda. He felt a pang of fear. Barda with Murray again... He looked to his rifle. It was loaded.
This was different country from that he had crossed before. It was less open, rougher, with more rock outcrops and more groves of trees. He followed the tracks of the hunting party with ease. Then suddenly he found another set that cut across them. The tracks of a fast--moving horse headed northwest.
A messenger to the outlaws?
Abruptly he decided, and leaving the trail of the hunters he turned along the route of that fast--riding horse. He rode swiftly, pausing before going over every hill to look at the country ahead of him.
Soon he found the trail of a number of horses, where they had met the rider Cris had been following. Now they were together and riding ahead on a course paralleling that of the hunting party. There seemed to be a great many of them.
He rode on, and he could smell dust. A mile or so away, he glimpsed a buffalo, then another. He topped out on a rise, going boldly forward. If he could do nothing else he could stampede their game, spoil the hunt, and so perhaps cause the generals to turn back.
He dropped his hand to his six--shooter. It was there, the grip on the butt a reassuring thing.
The trail dipped down into a wooded hollow and he did not like the looks of that. A man could be trapped in a place like that. He turned west, avoiding it; and as he rounded the edge, holding to the rim of the hills, he glimpsed the hunters a mile off as they, too, topped out on a rise.
He had no plan, no idea of what to do. Somewhere not far off were sixteen, eighteen, maybe twenty men or more, dedicated to the killing of all those in the hunting party, who rode unaware of the danger they faced, and in their midst, Barda McClean. The thought sickened him.
Crispin Mayo sat the black horse and looked carefully around, his eyes searching every bit of cover. His tongue touched his dry lips and he tapped the horse with his heels, moving forward at a slow walk.
He had the feeling that he was watched, that he was not alone. The hair prickled on the back of his neck. There were Indians in this land, but these men were worse than Indians, they were savages of another, more evil kind. Renegades. Butchers...
Before him the hill sloped down and there was a narrow path, a game trail, that led through trees and up the farther side. He hesitated, but saw no way around without riding too far from the people he was trying to warn.
Three buffalo appeared from nowhere before him, crossing his trail at a trot, then another. There were trees along the slope of the hill below him and on an impulse he swung the black horse down into those trees. There he pulled up and lifted the rifle.
Four men rode up the trail following the buffalo, and one of them was Murray.
Chapter Fourteen
The position that Cris Mayo had taken offered but little cover, and any glance in his direction might reveal him. He sat very still, whispering just a little to the stallion, praying that it would make no sound.
The four riders went on past, followed by their dust cloud, yet still he waited, his heart pounding. He needed no one to tell him how desperate his situation was. The men who were seeking to ambush the generals had equally as much reason to kill him; Murray had an even greater reason.
To the southwest were the Medicine Bow Mountains; nearer was Laramie Creek, and the hunting party of generals had ridden up toward its waters.
Cris knew nothing about the creek, or this land in which he found himself. Evidently Murray and the three other outlaws had been a scouting party, with the main group lying somewhere near the creek and the buffalo. No doubt Holly Barnes was even now guiding the generals closer to the river, and Cris could do nothing. They would be closely watched and if he attempted to join them and warn them he would be cut down at once by the outlaws.
He walked his horse cautiously up the slope and into the open. From the crest of the ridge, without skylining himself, he could see for miles. Not far off he saw a good--sized bunch of buffalo. Suddenly the idea came to him... suppose he could stampede them across the path of the hunting party? Or even drive them close enough to be seen, and therefore to be a potential target? Might that help? Well, it just might.
Dropping down off the ridge he rode fast, keeping to low ground between two lines of hills. When he came up, a few minutes later, he saw the buffalo not two hundred yards away. He started toward them, walking his horse.
One big old bull lifted a ponderous head and stared at him. The beast took two hesitant steps toward him, then wheeled and started back in the other direction. Cris walked the black horse toward them, and uneasily they began to move away. The Parley outfit were nowhere in sight, no doubt concentrating all their attention on the hunting generals.
He circled warily, for he knew nothing of buffalo except from the casual talk on the train, not all of which he remembered; and some comments made by Reppato Pratt; and the raging tide of them that had come at the red shack in the night, the night when he'd turned them. Cris Mayo wanted no stampede, only an alternative target that might lead the generals away from the ambush, which he felt sure would be
baited with buffalo.
If he could manage it, he might defeat Parley's crowd without a fight. He had no urge for a shooting match. Actual combat was a last resort. There were men out there whose lives were precious to their country, and there was Barda.
Cris pulled up and waited, watching the buffalo moving away. When they ran it was with a queer, loping gait, their heads bobbing, their long beards often touching the grass. Slowly, then, he walked his horse along a wide front, his appearance enough to keep the animals moving on.
The air was very clear, with almost no wind. Cris stood in his stirrups and tried to see beyond the low hills to where the hunting party might be.
There was nothing... only the shimmer of the clear, sunlit air, only the stillness. Somewhere a meadowlark called, and far overhead a buzzard swung in lazy loops, watching for what might develop.
He dismounted and walked on, leading the black horse. The buffalo he had started were moving across the line of march on which he had glimpsed the hunting party, and if they continued to move would offer an open target, away from the creek bottom where Parley's men must be waiting.
The wind was from him toward the buffalo and they drifted away as he approached, but because he was moving slowly, they did likewise. Where were Parley's men? He studied each fold in the hills, knowing that they were within half a mile of him, probably less, and. that any one of them would be willing to kill him on sight... only now they would be apt to hold their fire for fear of warning the generals.
Somewhere behind were Owen Brennan and his followers, whoever he had found in Laramie where there were many veterans of the war from both sides. Brennan would be riding by now.
Cris mounted again and began moving his horse forward, pushing the buffalo a little. Suddenly, some distance off, he saw the generals' party ride out of a draw and pull up. He could see the sun glisten on the flanks of their horses, but was too far off to make out details or numbers.
He cantered forward toward the buffalo, and after a look at him, they swung their big heads and moved off. Cris had been visible long enough for them to feel no great alarm at his presence, but they moved now at a more rapid pace, as he did.
A dozen were trotting... twenty or more, with others starting. They had been scattered upon the grass, now they bunched a little. He stared at the generals' party, shielding his eyes against the sun. They appeared to be hesitating, debating whether to follow the guide or try for this new lot who were coming at them.
The buffalo before him veered sharply to the north, shying from a crease in the hills that must be a coulee or draw. He took his rifle in his hands. His lips felt dry... well, he knew where some of the devils were, anyway. He started to swing wide of the spot, and three men appeared, as if from the ground.
They were on foot and not thirty yards away. What impelled him to do so he never could guess, but suddenly he kicked the black horse in the ribs and drove at them.
His action was totally unexpected, and the horse was in a dead run before they realized he was coming at them, not running away. He leaned out, taking aim at the farthest one, and firing on the jump. He missed... but he worked the lever, fired again, and then swung the rifle butt. And that time he did not miss.
He felt the shock of the blow clear to his spine, and at the same moment a gun went off almost in his ear and the ravine opened before him. He cut the black sharply away along the rim, glancing back. Two men were down but one of them was getting up, having either been upset by the horse or tripped in his haste to get out of its way. One of them was lifting a rifle, but at that instant the land dipped and Cris went into a low place and swung in and out among scattered juniper.
He heard whining bullets... or thought he did. At least he heard the reports, and then he was down even lower and making time away from them. When he finally topped out on the far side of the shallow place he was a quarter of a mile away and the men had disappeared. AH but the one he had hit with the gun butt, who still lay, a dark spot on the brown--gray grass.
Turning his horse, he saw that the creek was before him. Somewhere among those trees were the rest of Parley's men. He pulled up among some rocks and deadfalls and tying his horse in a sheltered place, walked quickly forward.
He did not know what to do, but they were somewhere in the brush down there and he wanted to smoke them out. He checked his ammunition... plenty. He looked down into the trees below and could see nothing, and much as it went against the grain to waste ammunition by throwing lead at an invisible target, he knew he must do something more to warn the generals, at least to move them away from the ambush.
He heard a voice raised down there in some kind of command. He knelt behind a fallen tree and resting his rifle barrel across it he began a searching fire into the woods. He had no target, only the necessity of stirring them up and creating a warning racket, so he fired, elevated the muzzle an inch or so, fired again. With deliberation he put ten shots into the area, searching along the patch of trees, hoping to get some action.
At the sound of the firing he saw from the tail of his eye the hunting party. They seemed to stop... he could imagine them swearing at the "damned fool" who was frightening the game, though as a matter of fact it only moved the buffalo toward them.
Justin Parley had held his file of men ready for a charge. Talk about Stuart, would they? Or Forrest? Or this upstart Yankee Custer? He would show them what a cavalry charge was like, and wipe them out in the process.
The frustration of his original plans had been gnawing at him. It had seemed a simple, dramatic gesture to grab Sherman, torture and kill him, and notify the world that he had avenged Atlanta, Then the added chance to kill all three, Grant, Sherman and Sheridan, had come. He would be a hero... a hero!
"Major," it was Watkins, a tough Arkansas rebel, "that damn Irishman is movin' the buffalo!"
"What?" Parley's daydreams of heroism, of the day when he would be the toast of all unreconstructed Southerners, were interrupted. "What was that?"
"The Irishman... the fighter. He's movin' the buffalo."
"Kill him!" Parley snapped. "You, Watkins, and Murray and Hardt. Get out there and stop him. Kill him!"
They had gone on foot for better shooting, but in the meantime Cris Mayo had ridden nearer, and their sudden emergence had put him right on top of them; and then, instead of running, the idiot had charged them.
Hardt was down out there, probably dead. Watkins and Murray, bitter with anger at themselves, their luck and Cris Mayo, dropped into the ravine. Watkins had been knocked down by a glancing blow from the horse's shoulder. Shaken, he had stumbled into the brush, following Murray.
Murray had scrambled back for the rifle he had dropped, then run to the sheltering brush. "Where'd he go?" he demanded of Watkins.
"Disappeared," Watkins growled irritably. "He was there, then he was gone. What's the matter with him, anyway? Is he crazy?"
"He ain't crazy," Murray replied shortly. "He's just got more nerve than any one man should have. That damn mick would charge Hell with a bucket o' water!"
Parley was ready. The hunting party would come no closer with the buffalo moving as they were, but they were less than half a mile off and partially screened by scattered juniper and brush. He would walk his horses the first couple of hundred yards, trot for a hundred, then charge.
"Ready!" His voice rang out. He lifted a sword. "Ready," he repeated, wishing he could remember the proper commands. In the irregular outfit he had served with, such commands were rarely used, but he would have liked to know them now. "Rea--/"
A bullet kicked dust thirty yards off and the hard crack of the rifle sounded close. A second bullet struck a tree and spat bark, another thunked into the dirt almost at his horse's feet.
"Charge!" Parley shouted. It was the first word that came to him, and not at all the one he wanted. The whole line of horsemen surged forward, up the bank of the coulee and into the scattered juniper and sagebrush beyond.
Mayo heard the wild shout, and the next inst
ant the riders came boiling out of the coulee, faced in the opposite direction. There must have been twenty--five of them. Whirling around, Mayo got off one quick shot, saw a rider fall, and then his gun clicked on an empty chamber.
Desperately, he began to reload. They were pulling away! He whipped up the rifle and pumped five shots after them, five that had no effect, and his gun was empty again. With quick fingers he again slid in cartridges, kneeling, determined this time to load the gun completely.
It was reloaded and he started to stand when he heard a footfall. He sprang up, turned, heard the bellow of a gun and a wild, angry, triumphant yell. "Got him!" And then the gun roared again.
He felt himself falling, threw out a hand to stay his fall but it caught nothing; tripped by the log, he fell over it and struck the side of his head hard on the ground beyond. He heard running feet and yelling, and he threw himself over into the ravine.
He was hurt, how badly he did not know, but his mind was confused and filled with panic. He had to get away, get away!
He hit some brush, pitched through it, struck heavily on something hard and then fell clear. He brought up with a jolt in the soft mud near a stream. He tried to get up, fell, and crawled. Half blind with dirt and mud, he saw a dark hole before him and scrambled toward it.
It was no hole... no safe place, only a dark hollow in the brush where some animal had crawled. He scrambled along it, his breath coming in great gasps. Above him on the bank over which he had fallen he heard shouting and swearing. "Get him, damn it! Kill him!"
He heard running feet. He suddenly emerged from the animal crawlway, staggered to his feet and lunged through the trees, bumping first one and then another. He felt a stabbing pain in his side, but whether from a bullet or simply exhaustion he could not say. His head was opening and shutting with fierce spasms of torment.
He fell down, got up. He had lost his rifle back there when he fell over the log. His horse was there, too. In the hands of the renegades by now, surely.
He ran a few steps, butted into a tree and grabbed wildly at the trunk to keep himself from falling. He turned, looking back. He could see nothing but leaves and brush. He ran on, desperately wanting a hole. Somewhere he heard a yell, then a volley of shots, but none of them came close to him.
the Man from Skibbereen (1973) Page 13
