by Short, Luke;
Caskie, on silent feet, started a wide circle, intending to approach the meat from the other side and drive whatever was prowling out into the moonlight where he could get a look at it. It was inky black in the timber, but Caskie’s eyes were already adjusted to the darkness so that he could just make out the shapes of the trees and avoid them. Somewhere off through the timber toward the lake he heard a twig snap. He discarded the idea of finishing his circle, and with the stealth of an Indian he started in the direction from which the sound had come.
At that moment the night erupted with gunfire. It seemed to be coming from his very camp.
Caskie stood motionless for only an instant trying to comprehend what was happening. Then he began to move through the timber toward the camp. There must have been a dozen shots from two separate guns, he reckoned. He heard one man call and another man answer. The exchange was followed by more talk that Caskie couldn’t make out.
With the greatest care he approached the camp. Presently he could see the fire flickering. Someone was in the camp and had stirred up the fire. Infinitely cautious now, Caskie moved nearer until he made out the figure of a man holding up his blankets. He was talking to a second man, and Caskie moved a bit until he could see the two of them clearly. The man threw down the blankets as if in disgust.
Caskie’s curiosity now turned into comprehension. These two men by the fire had, for some reason unknown to him, tried to kill him in his sleep. Their coming had alerted the mules, and they had awakened him. A cold rage came over Caskie. A pair of bushwhackers!
He quietly cocked his carbine, knelt, rested his left elbow on his knee, and lifted his weapon. The flickering fire lighted only the legs and trunk of the man who had held the blanket. Caskie sighted on the legs, followed them up with his sight until the sight was barely lost in the darkness, and pulled the trigger. He heard the whomp of the bullet against its target and the legs moved sideways; at the same time there came an anguished cry of pain.
The second man apparently kicked the log off the fire, for the flames vanished. Caskie moved silently to his left, shifting his position in case the second man had seen his powder flash. When he halted again and listened, he could hear the groaning of the wounded man overlaid by the quick talk of the two men. That meant there were three of them, for nobody could talk and groan at the same time.
The realization of their number sobered Caskie. One remaining man he could hunt down and kill, but two men was another matter. He moved over to the edge of the moonlit park and hunkered down on his heels, his back against a tree. He listened to the night noises, to the muted protest of the disturbed birds and the distant chattering wails of a pair of coyotes. Every sense was alert as he waited.
It was only a few minutes before he saw a movement along the lake shore at the foot of the park. Caskie watched it a moment before coming to his feet and moving swiftly toward the camp along the edge of the timber. As he came closer, he made out the figures of two men carrying the third between them. It came to Caskie, before they disappeared, that if he wished, he could get at least another one, and the temptation was great, but he resisted it. He’d burned one, and that had pulled the other two off him.… But there was no guarantee they would stay off him.
Why in the hell did they try that, Caskie wondered. He had no enemies of any consequence, and he was too poor to bother robbing. Besides, if you wanted to rob a man you didn’t have to kill him first.
Caskie came to his decision then. If they wanted him dead—and apparently they did—there was no sense hanging around here. The thing to do was to get out of this piece of country as fast as he could. Right now was the time to do it, too, before they came back for him.
Caskie found his two mules at the head of the park. He took off their hobbles and brought them to the camp. Swiftly he packed up his gear and saddled up. As he wolfed down his stew, eating it with his bare hands, he speculated on where he should go. Obviously, if the man he’d shot was badly hurt, the other two would take him where he could be cared for. That meant they’d go down to where they could find help. His move then was to go higher, and to the west.
Traf, Sophie, and Deputy Sheriff Russ Dickey, following the tracks of the three unknown men, arrived at Williams Lake on a sunny mid-morning. The tracks led them to a bald ridge overlooking the lake and its outlet. Traf, in the lead, abruptly reined in and motioned Sophie and Dickey to stay where they were. He dismounted and slowly walked the few yards to the edge of the ridge, studying the ground. Then he went down the slope and vanished into the timber. Dickey, impatient now, put his horse to the point of the ridge to see what Traf had been looking at, which turned out to be boot tracks. When he saw Traf climbing back up the slope, he rode up to Sophie to wait.
Traf got his horse and joined them. “They’re hours ahead of us,” he said. “They split up just over the ridge, two of them took to the timber, one was headed for the shore line.”
“What do you figure?” Dickey asked.
“I figure we’ll find a dead man, Russ.” Traf looked at Sophie. “Have you ever seen a dead man, Sophie?”
“My father,” Sophie answered quietly.
“This won’t be the same,” Traf said grimly. “Let’s ride single file.”
They went down the slope, Traf in the lead, and entered the timber. Tracking in the soft pine needles was not difficult. A quarter of a mile into the timber, Traf’s attention was attracted by a racket made by quarreling whiskeyjacks. He moved over to the source of the noise and saw Caskie’s buck, upon which the birds were feeding.
When he went back to the trail, he saw boot tracks instead of horse tracks, and he said to Sophie and Russ, “Better let me go in alone.”
Afoot then, he followed the boot tracks till he came to a scattering of shell cases on the pine needles. Beyond was a freshly abandoned campsite.
Traf moved into Caskie’s clearing. There were separate sets of boot prints around the still warm fire. Over them were the prints of horseshoes and moccasins. Two sets of boot tracks headed for the meadow.
There was a story here if he could only piece it together. If all those cartridges had been shot and aimed at Caskie, where was the old coot? The one thing Traf was dead certain about was that Caskie’s moccasin tracks and the mule tracks were made later than the boot tracks. Finally, Traf saw where the mule tracks took off into the timber.
He went back to Dickey and Sophie, and Dickey said, “What’s the story?”
“They must have shot a couple of dozen times at him, but the old coot got away. His moccasin tracks and the mule tracks are on top of the boot tracks.”
“They could have killed him and loaded him on his own mule.”
“They went the other way, across the meadow.”
“It don’t make sense.”
“If Caskie got away, where would he go?” Sophie asked.
“I don’t know,” Traf said grimly. “All I know is that after this he’ll be damned hard to find.”
“Well, he’s gone, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Dickey said. “I told you all along it was a damn fool scheme.”
Traf looked at him with cold contempt. “You don’t know luck when you see it, do you, Russ?”
“You call this luck?”
“The best kind,” Traf said. “I expected to find Caskie dead, and I reckon you hoped we would. But they haven’t got him and we can still beat them to him.”
“You think they ain’t following him?”
“I don’t know, but there’s one way to find out.”
“How?” Sophie asked.
“Why, follow Caskie. We’ll soon know if they’ve picked up his trail again.”
9
Caskie had headed straight for the high country. There, around the timberline, it would not only be rocky and therefore difficult to track in, but the timber would thin out and this would enable him to watch his back trail. He reckoned it wouldn’t matter what sort of a trail he left down here; the thing to do was put as many miles between him and his three as
sailants in as short a time as possible.
During the hours till daylight his progress was extremely slow in spite of the moonlight. Since he didn’t have the hang of the country, time and again he found himself in brush-choked canyons that his mules could not negotiate, and he had to backtrack. Sometimes the mules balked at the steepness of the ridges, and he was thankful when daylight came, so he could judge the terrain.
He had plenty of time that day to try to make some sense out of what had happened. He knew how the men had found him, for they could only have gotten his destination from that pasty-faced relay-station agent down there at the creek. But why these men wanted to kill him was a mystery. He was a stranger in a strange country, and was minding his own business. Yet three men had tried to bushwhack him. He finally concluded sometime during the morning that he wouldn’t bother his head about it—he’d just get out of the country. But every time he thought about it, he got mad all over again.
It was mid-afternoon when he came to where the timber began to thin out, and Caskie could see the stony peaks above him. He came to a stream later on, and he decided that this was a good place to start covering his tracks. He put his mules into the stream and traveled its bed for half a mile. When he came to an open mesa which held enough browse to feed his mules he dropped back to the nearest timber, unloaded his gear, collected firewood, and then led his mules back to the mesa and hobbled them.
Afterwards, he came back to his camp, strapped on his shell belt and gun, took his carbine and, afoot, started down his back trail. Tonight he didn’t intend to be surprised in his sleep. When he came to the spot where he had taken to the stream, he chose a place above it, a pocket between two jagged rocks which overlooked the trail he had traveled and the stream. He reckoned there were three hours of daylight left. If nobody was following him, it would mean he’d have a safe night. If anybody was, they’d likely make camp by the water and he’d have a look at his bushwhackers. When the sun went down over the mountains Caskie was cold in the shadows, but he still had half an hour of daylight left.
He had almost concluded that he was not being followed when the faint sound of shod horses traveling came to him. Caskie listened, and he wondered why his heart was beating so wildly. He wasn’t afraid; he was just mad all over again.
He levered a shell into the chamber of his carbine and waited. The tables were turned now. He was the hidden bushwhacker. And it would give him the greatest pleasure to pull down on them without a word of warning. At least they were awake, not asleep as they had thought he’d been.
Presently the leader came in sight, and looking down at him from his vantage point, Caskie could only tell that he was a tall man on a good horse. The second man on not so good a horse was big and pot-bellied, and was leading a pack horse. When the third rider came into view Caskie stared. This was a girl riding sidesaddle on a good horse.
What in hell did this add up to, he wondered. Obviously, they had tracked him here and this was no chance meeting. Where had these bushwhackers got the girl? She wasn’t a prisoner, or she’d have been between them. Caskie watched as the leader reined in at the stream and let his horse drink. The other two did the same.
The leader swung out of the saddle, jumped the narrow stream, and started circling for tracks. If Caskie had any doubts that they were following him, they were resolved right then. He started to raise his carbine to his shoulder and halted midway, remembering the presence of the woman.
The man he’d shot last night had been hauled away by two men, not a man and a woman. Then, too, neither one of these men showed any sign of a gunshot wound.
Caskie came to his decision then. He drew a bead on the ground in front of the leader and fired. The leader whirled and the girl’s horse started to rear. The other man grabbed the bridle of her horse.
“Caskie, don’t shoot!” the leader shouted.
“Throw down your guns and be quick about it!” Caskie yelled in his high-pitched voice.
The leader lifted out his gun and tossed it on the ground. The second man pitched his gun and his carbine across the creek. The girl, whose horse had quieted, held up both hands, shoulder high, and Caskie supposed this meant she had no gun. Caskie levered a new shell into his carbine and came down the talus slope, rolling rocks and gravel ahead of him. Once on the flats, Caskie moved in on the upstream side, his cocked carbine held at his waist. He halted by the stream and said, “You that pair of bastards that shot at me last night?”
The leader said, “No, Caskie. My name’s Traf Kinnard.” He gestured across the stream. “That’s Sophie Barrick and Deputy Sheriff Russ Dickey.”
“What are you following me for?” Caskie demanded, his voice rising even higher than before.
Traf did not answer him. Instead, he looked at Sophie. “Is he the one, Sophie?”
“The very same,” Sophie said. She looked at Caskie. “Mr. Caskie, do you remember me? I rode on the caboose of that cattle train with you. Do you remember? I got off at Indian Bend.”
Caskie frowned. “I remember a woman gettin’ off.”
Traf said, “Take your gun off cock, Caskie. We’re friends.”
Traf picked up his gun, holstered it, then stepped across the creek and approached Caskie. The old man, still leary, said, “That’s close enough.”
“Can I get down?” Dickey asked.
“No.” Caskie looked at Traf. “You ain’t told me why you’re following me.”
“Tell me if I’m right, Caskie. You got off the train at Indian Bend and walked up past the depot. Did you see two men talking together on the platform?”
“Yeah.”
“You were past them when the whistle blew. You headed back for the caboose, then stopped and talked to a man, didn’t you? Then what, Caskie?”
“When I headed back for the caboose, I saw this man layin’ face down on the platform. The other man was kneelin’ beside him. I asked what the trouble was and this fellow said his friend had had a heart attack. He said he was goin’ for the doctor, and he run around the corner in a hurry. My train was movin’, and I couldn’t have helped anyway. So I run back to the caboose. I tried to signal the agent behind the window, but he never looked up.”
“Would you recognize this man if you saw him again?”
Caskie thought a moment. “Black Irish, I’d say. Dark skin, bright green eyes. Shorter than me. Built kind of stocky. Maybe thirty-five. Sure I’d know him. Why?”
“He’s one of the men that shot at you last night, Caskie.”
“Why?”
“Because he had just stuck a knife in the man you saw stretched out on the platform. You’re the only man who saw him, and he wants you dead.”
Caskie raised a hand and scratched his bewhiskered cheek, looking from Traf to Dickey and then to Sophie. “Is all that true, missy?”
“All of it, Mr. Caskie,” Sophie said. “The reason I’m here is to identify you as the man I saw in the caboose.”
Caskie shifted his glance to Traf. “How’d you know my name?”
“You bought a pair of mules at the feed stable in. Kean’s Ferry. The owner gave you a bill of sale made out to A. Caskie, he said.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Caskie said softly. “I know how you found out I was headed for William’s Lake on account of that fellow in the store by the creek. How’d you know I got off the train at Kean’s Ferry?”
Traf told him about telegraphing Benjy Schell, and of Schell telegraphing back. And again Caskie said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
Dickey asked then, “Now can I get down?”
“All right,” Caskie said.
“But don’t talk, Russ,” Traf said.
Caskie asked suspiciously, “Why can’t he talk?”
“Because it’s getting onto dark and I’d like to make camp. Where are your mules, Caskie?”
“About half a mile upstream. Why?”
“I think we better make camp with you. Just so last night won’t happen all over again. If we can find you, they
can find you.”
Caskie thought this over a moment and saw the sense in it. There were a lot more questions he wanted to ask, but they could come later. One thing he was certain of now was that he had nothing to fear from these three.
Only now did he let his carbine off cock.
While Dickey picked up his six-gun and rifle, Traf went to his horse and mounted, moved over to Caskie and drew his left foot out of the stirrup. “Climb up behind me, Caskie,” he said. Caskie handed Traf his carbine, put his foot in the stirrup, and swung up.
They reached Caskie’s camp as darkness fell. While Caskie made a fire, Traf picketed the horses and grained them. From out in the darkness, he could see Dickey leave the camp, his saddlebag trailing from one hand. Traf knew that under the cover of night Dickey would make up for the drinks he had missed this day.
Using their own provisions, Traf and Sophie prepared supper of bacon, pan bread, stewed peaches, and coffee, while Caskie and Dickey brought in more wood.
Caskie was silent during supper, and Traf guessed what was in his mind. Caskie was probably wondering what they were going to do with him. So far Dickey hadn’t been allowed to throw his weight around, but Traf knew that Caskie read the threat in the presence of a deputy sheriff in their midst. Also, Caskie was ill at ease in the presence of a woman, as was to be expected. He was, by the very nature of his work, a solitary man.
Supper finished and the hardware cleaned and rinsed in the creek, they seated themselves on blankets around the fire. Both Caskie and Traf fired up their pipes, and it was Caskie who took up the discussion where it had been broken off to make camp. He spoke now to Sophie rather than to the two men. “Well, missy, you found me. But what does it get you?”
Sophie glanced at Traf, and when he made no move to answer, she said, “I’ll have to go back a ways, Mr. Caskie.”
“Just plain Caskie,” the old man said.
Sophie smiled. “All right, Caskie.” She went on then to tell him of the Englishman, Braden, heir to a British title, and of the treatment he had received since he came into the Indian Bend country. She told, too, that his threat to bring the sheriff to Indian Bend had brought about his murder.
