by Short, Luke;
“He’s dead, I tell you.”
“Let’s go look in that tunnel.”
Gore nodded, and together they started up the slope to the tunnel mouth. Halfway up, they were halted by the rumble of sliding rock and the cracking of splitting timbers inside the tunnel. By the time they had reached the tunnel mouth, a fog of dust belched out of it. While waiting to one side of the tunnel, they heard more rumblings from inside.
Gore looked at Fears. “I don’t like this one damn bit. We go inside, we’ll likely stay there for good.” Even as he spoke, there was another rumble of falling rock.
Fears looked in the tunnel but he could see nothing. He shook his head. “I got to know, Tom.”
“Go ahead, but not with me.” He grinned, and added, “It’s been nice knowing you, Jim.”
“Quit it!” Fears said. “Got any matches?”
Gore reached in a pocket of his sheepskin and drew out a handful of matches, which Fears pocketed. Then Fears pulled up his neckerchief to just below his eyes, handed his rifle to Gore, and stepped into the dust-laden tunnel. Once inside, he wiped a match alight, and saw some twenty feet ahead of him a free fall of rock that filled the tunnel from floor to ceiling and wall to wall. He came two steps closer when he heard a new rumble and felt the earth shaking.
Without hesitating he turned and ran out of the tunnel to Where Gore was waiting.
Gore said dryly, “Sounds like you just made it.”
“She’s filled up with rock,” Fears said grimly.
“You can always come back with a shovel.”
“All right, all right!” Fears said angrily. He pulled down his neckerchief. “It’s my neck at stake, not yours.”
“He’s dead, I tell you,” Gore said flatly. He held out Fears’ gun to him, and said, “Give me back my matches, and then we better start looking for those horses.”
15
Grouse, rabbits, and a porcupine were Caskie’s food for the two days it took him to reach the stage road, where he flagged the eastbound stage. He spent that night sleeping under the bridge at Kean’s Ferry. Next morning he went about following Traf’s instructions.
First he bought himself an outfit of range clothes, including boots, then he headed for the barbershop. After a bath in the rear of the shop, he had his white hair cut very short, lost his beard, but kept his full white mustache. When he had finished, the barber’s mirror showed him as a lean-faced elderly man with a fine aquiline nose and piercing blue eyes under tufted white eyebrows, a really distinguished-looking man. By noon he was on the mixed train for Indian Bend, which he reached at half-past four.
He left the train on the opposite side from the depot and had gone a hundred yards when the train pulled past him and he headed down the side street toward the hotel. In a few minutes he was on his way to Bucksaw.
On his walk there he decided that as long as he had a new outfit, he might just as well, for caution’s sake, have a new name too.
When he reached the tree-shaded lane that led into Bucksaw, he was soon observing the trim, almost austere house. He could not remember seeing anything like it since leaving Kentucky as a boy. It had a freshly painted, well-kept look that proclaimed its owner a person of means. After he was through the gate, he saw he could take the brick walk to the front door, or the other walk to the back porch. He chose the latter.
As he rounded the corner of the house, he saw a woman sitting at a table on the back porch. She wore an apron over a light blue summer dress, and there was a dishpan on the table before her, a knife in her hand, and a basket of apples on the floor beside her. She heard Caskie’s footsteps on the walk and looked up at him. Caskie halted at the foot of the wooden steps, touched his hat brim, and said, “I’m lookin’ for Mrs. Barrick, ma’am.”
Maud Barrick didn’t answer for a moment, and then she said, “No, you’re looking at her. I’m Mrs. Barrick.”
Caskie noticed the lean, once pretty but now severe-looking face and he reckoned this was a woman with a mind of her own.
“Name’s Asa Hardy, ma’am. Your daughter Sophie told me to come. I’m the one she was huntin’, along with Traf Kinnard and Russ Dickey.”
Maud Barrick said flatly, “You couldn’t be.”
“Why’s that?”
“Sophie said the man they would be hunting was a dirty old prospector with a gray beard, buckskin jacket, and moccasins.”
“I lost all of those about four hours ago in Kean’s Ferry.”
“If Sophie sent you, why aren’t she and the others with you?”
“We had to split up,” Caskie said laconically.
“But where are they?”
“I left ’em in a mine tunnel at Hangin’ Lake four nights ago.”
Maud Barrick frowned. “Why did you leave them?”
Caskie wondered if he should tell her the real reason, but decided against it. What they had been through would not only alarm her, but Sophie’s continued absence just might panic her.
“Why, there was a piece of country I wanted to see. I promised ’em I’d look at it and then come here.”
“Then you really are the man who saw Anthony Braden’s killer?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And Sophie and Traf are on their way back?”
“They didn’t say, ma’am. But I’d reckon they are.”
“Are you hungry?” Maud Barrick asked then.
“No, ma’am,” Caskie lied. He didn’t want to eat under her pestering questioning.
Maud Barrick pointed with her knife. “That’s the bunkhouse down there next to the cook shack. Throw your gear in there. I imagine the cook will be ringing the triangle in fifteen minutes or so.”
“I was to tell you one more thing, ma’am.”
“Then tell it.”
“You was to introduce me to the crew as Benjy Schell’s uncle Asa. That would explain me hangin’ around here, and then visitin’ with him for a spell.”
“Has Benjy got an uncle?”
Caskie remembered when he had asked Traf that question, and he also remembered his answer. “He has now, ma’am.”
Mrs. Barrick rose, put down her knife, and said, “All right, come along.”
Caskie followed her to the gate, where she halted and looked around. “Mr. Hardy, where’s your horse?”
“I walked, ma’am.”
“From Kean’s Ferry?”
“I took the train, ma’am.”
Together they went toward the bunkhouse. He supposed Mrs. Barrick was a nice enough woman, but she had her share of curiosity. He half expected her to ask him to open his mouth so she could look at his teeth and tell his age, like a horse-buyer.
A couple of Bucksaw hands rode in from the south and turned their horses into the corral, while a third man forked down hay from a loft in an adjoining barn. Two other hands were doctoring a forefoot of a horse, and it was for this pair Mrs. Barrick headed. All the buildings and corrals, Caskie noticed, were in good repair; the wagons, buckboard, and buggy were under roof. This Benjy, his new nephew, must be a thorough and careful man, Caskie decided.
The two men let go of the horse’s forefoot as Mrs. Barrick approached.
“Al and Jessie, this is Benjy’s Uncle Asa. He’s to wait for Benjy and be around for a while.”
The two middle-aged punchers shook hands with Caskie, and Mrs. Barrick said, “There’s lots of room in the bunkhouse, Mr. Hardy. You’re welcome here, of course.”
She turned and went back for the house as the triangle sounded. The puncher Al led the horse toward the corral, while Jessie motioned Caskie toward the cook shack. Singly and in pairs, the other men moved over to the cook shack and began to wash up in the basins outside the door. When they were inside, Jessie introduced Caskie as Benjy’s Uncle Asa and he was politely made welcome. He sat down with the five hands at the big table. The cook was an old Negro who served up plenty of good food.
Afterwards, they moved next door to the bunkhouse where the overhead kerosene lamp was lighted.
A game of hearts, which Caskie was invited to join, was started. Most of the crew, Caskie noted, were middle-aged men, obviously steady and contented with their jobs. They asked him nothing about himself and he volunteered nothing.
It was full dark when they heard the sound of horses outside. The two hands closest to the door slid off the bench, and Caskie heard one of them say, “I’ll take ’em, Traf.” Traf said something which Caskie couldn’t catch, and got an answer. And seconds later, Traf appeared in the doorway. At sight of Caskie he halted abruptly and stared. And then a slow smile came.
“Mrs. Barrick tells me you’re Benjy’s uncle. My name’s Traf Kinnard.”
Caskie said unsmilingly, “Name’s Asa Hardy and I’m from Hangin’ Lake.”
Traf grinned and said, “Come on up to the house, Uncle Asa, and tell us where that is.”
Caskie threw in his hand, rose, circled the big table, and joined Traf outside, where they both headed for the house.
Traf said, “It’s going to work, Caskie. I spent three days with you, and I wasn’t sure it was you when I walked in the bunkhouse.”
“I took me a new name,” Caskie said.
“So Mrs. Barrick said.” He was silent a moment, and then asked offhandedly, “Why’d you cut out on us?”
“Well, if I stayed with you there was a good chance of Sophie gettin’ shot. You too.”
“That’s what we figured. And I’m glad you did it. How’d you make it here?”
As they approached the house where the lamps were burning, Caskie told him of his trek to the stage road and of getting outfitted before he took the train to Indian Bend.
Traf led the way to the back door and into the big kitchen, where Sophie and Mrs. Barrick were fixing supper. Sophie turned away from the stove, a pot in her hand, and when she saw Caskie she halted. Her mouth and eyes opened in amazement. Then she said, “No, it can’t be.”
“Speak to her, Hardy, and prove it.”
Caskie’s mustache lifted as he grinned and said, “Hello, Sophie,” in his high, gravelly voice.
“Yes, that’s your voice. You look like an ambassador, even if I’ve never seen one. I simply can’t believe it.”
“Well, you look kind o’ pretty yourself,” Caskie said.
It was true. Sophie was wearing the second outfit she had carried with her, and although her black divided skirt and long-sleeved blouse were not fresh, her face had a new color. Even after a long day’s ride from Kean’s Ferry, her dark eyes were bright and oddly peaceful.
Mrs. Barrick and Sophie dished up the food and they sat down around the big kitchen table. Caskie refused supper, but he accepted a cup of coffee and asked Mrs. Barrick for permission to light up his pipe, which was given reluctantly. Maud Barrick was wise enough to hold off her questioning until the edge was gone from their hunger. But when they had reached the apple pie, Caskie asked the question that opened the ball.
“How’s Dickey?” he asked.
“We left him at the Doc’s house in Kean’s Ferry. He thought he ought to watch him for a day or so.”
Sophie’s mother pounced. “Why? What was wrong with him?”
“He got shot in the shoulder, mother. No bones broken, but a deep gash.”
“Shot?” Mrs. Barrick exclaimed. “When he was with you?”
“Yes, mother, when he was with us.”
Mrs. Barrick looked at Traf. “Why, I never heard of such a thing! You let that happen, Traf?”
“Traf didn’t let it happen, mother. It just happened.”
“Where? Who shot at him?”
Sophie said calmly, “Five men, mother. Three of them are dead.”
Traf spoke then. “It was my idea. Sophie, let me tell her.”
At Sophie’s nod, Traf told of tracking Caskie, of coming on his deserted camp, and eventually finding him. While he told of the morning attack when Caskie’s mules were killed and of their flight to Hanging Lake and holing up in the tunnel, Maud Barrick’s face grew tight. When he was recounting the night rifle fight, Mrs. Barrick could stand it no longer. She put her hands to her ears and said, “Stop! Stop it!”
When Traf fell silent, watching her, Mrs. Barrick said angrily, “You took her along knowing this would happen, Traf. I’ll never forgive you.”
“He didn’t know it would happen,” Sophie said sharply. “And there’s nothing to forgive.”
“But you might have been killed.”
“So might Traf. So might—Hardy. So might Dickey. But we’re here, aren’t we?” There was exasperation in her voice that bordered on anger.
Mrs. Barrick looked at Sophie in surprise at her vehemence. She said in a cold voice, “You’re exhausted, dear. Why don’t you have a bath and go to bed?”
“I intend to, but not yet,” Sophie said firmly.
Maud Barrick shifted her attention to Traf, her eyes venomous. “Tell her to, Traf.”
“No,” Traf said.
Mrs. Barrick looked back at Sophie, and said, “I think this dreadful experience has unhinged you, Sophie.”
“Not unhinged, just shaken. Still, we did what we set out to do, mother.”
“I wouldn’t have dreamed of letting you go if I’d known this would happen.”
“Neither would Traf,” Sophie said calmly. Then a note of impatience crept into her voice. “It’s over and done. Everybody took care of me the best they could.”
Only belatedly did Traf realize that although, as always, Maud Barrick was trying to impose her steely will on Sophie, this time she was not succeeding. She had even tried to bundle Sophie off to bed as one might punish a naughty child—and Sophie was not having any of it.
Now Maud Barrick gave her attention again to Traf. She said coldly, “Trafton, don’t ever ask a favor of me again after this.”
Traf looked at Sophie and smiled faintly. “I don’t reckon I’ll have to ask you.”
Sophie’s face flushed, but she smiled at him. Her eyes seemed to say that if this had been her own private declaration of independence, Traf understood it and applauded it, and she thanked him for it.
Maud Barrick pushed back her chair, rose, and said to Sophie, “Run off to bed, dear. I’ll do the dishes.”
Sophie didn’t bother to answer her. She stood up, too, picked up some dishes, and went over to the sink by the black iron stove. She returned with the coffeepot, refilled the coffee cups, including her mother’s, and then sat down in her chair across from Traf. She reached out now and put her hand on Caskie’s gnarled fist and said in a low voice, “I liked your old name better, Hardy.”
“So did I,” Caskie said. “Still, I got a new face and a new outfit, so I might as well have a new name to go with ’em.” His mustache lifted slightly. “I don’t mind this so long as Benjy ain’t an orphan.”
“He’s got family up north,” Sophie said. “Now that’s settled, what do we do, Traf?”
“Wait for Dickey,” Traf said. To Caskie he said, “Dickey’s riding home by way of Bar B. Tom Gore—he’s foreman—has got some explaining to do about those two dead hands at Hanging Lake. We’ll see what story Dickey brings home.”
They were just finishing their coffee as Mrs. Barrick came up behind Sophie’s chair and put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. “Sophie, will you go to bed? Please.”
Sophie reached up and put a hand on her mother’s, and this time she spoke gently. “I will, mother. I’m tired.”
16
Deputy Sheriff Russ Dickey spent a comfortable two days in the hotel at Kean’s Ferry, most of it in the corner barroom. Wounded in the line of duty and requiring medical attention, his expense vouchers would be honored by the distant commissioners in New Hope without question, so he drank as much as he wanted.
On the third day, a bottle in each saddlebag, he headed south over the brown rolling foothills of the Gabriels for Bar B. The weather that had been so fine for the past ten days had changed, and it looked as if October was starting to growl. The Gabriels were hidden by low clouds and there was a s
teady pushing wind out of the west that would surely bring rain here and snow in the high country, Dickey thought.
He was better than halfway to Bar B when a fine drizzle set in. The sling that the doctor in Kean’s Ferry had made him wear in order to relieve the pressure on the stitches in his shoulder was a nuisance. As the rain began he had to dismount, take down his slicker, and spend minutes trying to buckle it up over his arm.
It was close to noon and raining hard when he rode into Bar B. Great sheets of rain almost obscured the big house, which looked as cold as Dickey felt, in spite of the whiskey he had drunk on the way.
He rode up to the bunkhouse door, where a slickered puncher was standing.
“Your boss around?” Dickey asked.
The puncher tilted his head and said, “In the office.”
“Where can I put my horse out of this weather?”
Perhaps it was the empty right sleeve of his slicker that prompted the puncher to say, “I’ll take him. You get inside.”
Dickey dismounted and moved over to the door of the office linked to the bunkhouse. He knocked, heard somebody call something through the thick door, and then opened the door and went into the room. It was a spacious room with a roll-top desk in the far left corner and a blanket-covered cot in the right. Three steerhide-covered chairs were grouped around the swivel chair in which Tom Gore sat in front of the desk.
At Dickey’s entrance Gore looked up and a fleeting surprise passed over his lean face before he rose and said, “Hello, Russ. Who in hell sent you out on a day like this? Why didn’t you tell them no?”
Before Dickey could answer, Gore asked, “What happened to your arm?”
“Bullet nick,” Dickey said laconically. He took off his hat and swept it against his leg, swinging the water out of it. After unbuckling his slicker, he shrugged out of it as Gore moved over to a table under the window which held a bottle of whiskey and several glasses. While Dickey threw his slicker and hat on one of the empty chairs, Gore poured two generous drinks. He gestured toward the armchair by the desk and gave Dickey the glass of whiskey. “Aren’t you going to ask me how I got it?”
“No, but you’re going to tell me,” Gore said.
