There were no fences or marks to say where one man’s ranch ended and another’s began. Billy Sauls had been killed at the forks of the Big and Little Powder. Joe Gault claimed everything as far north as the cañon’s rim. From that, Montana knew he was not yet on Quantrell’s range.
“I’ll follow these tracks wherever they take me,” he thought, the conviction deepening in him that they were leading him either across the big fellow’s range or to his house itself. “And one answer is as dumb as the other,” he grumbled. “Quantrell wouldn’t draw the line at burning a man out if he stood to make a dollar by it, if I got him figured out at all. But this doesn’t make sense. And I can’t believe Reb would send a man all these Godawful miles out of his way to get back to safety when he could cover him all the way up the Big Powder.”
The climb became steeper. At last, he stood on the plateau that stretched away to the cañon rim. It was bare, save for a little dwarf sage. In fifty yards he lost the trail. Try as he would, he could not relocate it. The wind of the night before had scoured the high places clean.
“That stops me,” he muttered reluctantly. “I might have figured something of the sort would happen.”
The sun had climbed high. He got down from his saddle and squatted on his toes in the shade of his horse as he rolled a cigarette. A frown furrowed his brow as he smoked.
“Funny, losing the trail here within a mile of where Billy got washed out. Maybe it’s a coincidence—and maybe it isn’t.”
He had left the Box C with the secret intention of visiting the spot where the boy had been killed, in the hope that he might find some clue. It was still his chief purpose, and when he had finished his cigarette, he turned north toward the forks, following the rimrocks. Three hundred feet below him, the Little Powder broke white over its boulder-strewn course.
It was impossible to get a horse down to the floor of the cañon from the side on which he found himself. Half an hour later he reached the forks. He was looking down on the tops of a grove of aspens. A green park showed among them.
“I guess that’s where they got him,” he thought. “Laid up here on the rimrocks and picked him off.”
On hands and knees, he crawled back and forth, trying to find an empty shell or any other tell-tale sign that might aid him.
It was a futile search. Undaunted, he began the dangerous descent into the cañon. The dead yearlings lay where they had fallen. Beyond them he located the spot where the Bar S had found Billy’s body. The tender sweet-grass and wild timothy had been beaten down by their horses.
It was no more than he had expected. Reb had been very positive that the bullet had sped to its mark from the rimrocks. The wound should have left no doubt about that. On the other hand, the bottom was so choked with brush and cover that a man could have crept to within forty yards of the little park without being discovered.
Montana was still pondering the question when he sensed that he was being watched. Someone was hiding in the aspens behind him.
He felt his blood thin. He was a fair target where he stood. Whoever was stalking him could not miss at that distance, even if he succeeded in throwing himself to the ground before the other fired. Wisdom whispered that it would be suicide to reach for his guns if someone had him covered.
He listened without seeming to. It was still again—ominously still. Suddenly his jaws locked and his body tensed. As though on springs, he leaped into the air and whirled. When he came down his guns were in his hands.
It came so unexpectedly that it caught the man in the aspens off guard. Too late he tried to draw back behind a tree trunk. Montana caught the movement.
“Freeze or I’ll bust you!” he cried. “Now stick ’em up and come out of there!”
The man raised his hands.
To Jim’s amazement, Plenty Eagles, the Piute, stepped into view.
CHAPTER VIII WHEN TRACKS SPELL FRIEND OR DEATH
MONTANA felt a little foolish. He had leaped to the conclusion that he had either walked into a Bar S trap or been followed by Quantrell. To find Plenty Eagles facing him was a distinct surprise. The Piute wasn’t even armed. Jim told him to take his hands down.
“Where’s your rifle?” Montana demanded.
Plenty Eagles jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Back there with horse.” He seemed harmless enough, even frightened. All of his belligerency of that day in Wild Horse was gone.
“How long have you been here?”
“Waiting here mebbe half hour—mebbe hour.”
“Oh—! So you saw me come in, eh?”
Plenty Eagles nodded. Finding him there, it was perhaps only natural for Montana to wonder if he had had anything to do with rubbing out young Billy. There was a number of non-reservation Indians in that country. That their resentment over having their people removed from Squaw Valley had led them to take a hand in the strife was something he had not considered until now. If such was the case, they would be arrayed against both factions.
Jim thought, “It would have been just as easy for him to have crept up on Billy as he did on me. He could have set the fires, too. One man did it.”
He began to question the Indian, but at the end of half an hour he was as much at sea as ever. Plenty Eagles insisted that he had had nothing to do with either the fires or the death of the boy. He claimed he had driven one of Quantrell’s mule teams from Wild Horse north to Cisco and delivered it to the man who had purchased the freighting outfit. Cisco was situated on a branch line of the O. R. and N. that tapped the mining country around Iron Point in the Malheurs. In the old days, when the Adelaide mine had been a big producer, the owners had shipped their ore out via the Point and Cisco. Plenty Eagles said he had come in that way.
“What’s your business here?” Montana hazarded.
Plenty Eagles became less tractable. “Not can say,” he muttered. “Good friend of yours tell me say nothing.”
“Yeah?” Jim queried sceptically. “Who?”
“Graham Rand.”
“Oh!” Light was beginning to break on Montana. “Did he tell you my heart is good toward you and your father?”
“Say you my friend. Not thinking you send my people away any more. Not thinking your tongue is crooked.”
It was said with simple dignity.
“I had a long talk with the marshal,” Jim informed him. “The soldiers have gone now. Thunder Bird doesn’t have to hide in the mine any longer.”
The knowledge that Jim knew about his father won Plenty Eagles’ complete confidence. “Can tell you now why am here,” he said. “Bringing blankets and food for him. Buying them in Cisco.”
Jim found it difficult not to believe him. He asked to see his horse and pack. Plenty Eagles led him up the Big Powder. The blankets were still wrapped in the paper used by the Golden Rule Store in Cisco. Inside the bundle was the dated cash sales tag. It was a perfect alibi. Plenty Eagles could not have been in the valley before daylight that morning.
“Your tongue is straight, Cola,” said Jim. “I greet you as a brother. But there is war here now. Men are quick to suspect one another. Some would even accuse you of the things they do themselves. If it comes to that, nobody will believe you. The thing for you to do is to take your father up into the high places. There is an old cabin below the Needles. He’ll be safe up there. You know where I mean—above the mine?”
Plenty Eagles signed that he understood.
“Sometimes cold up there. So old man not hurting anybody,” he argued.
It took some patience on Montana’s part to convince him of the wisdom of what he was suggesting. Thunder Bird had promised to meet the boy there that morning. It was past noon now.
“Nothing happening to him, eh?” Plenty Eagles asked.
“He doesn’t know the soldiers have gone. I reckon he’s afraid to leave the mine before evening.” Montana turned things over in his mind for a moment. “Maybe I’d better ride up to the mine and get your father,” he said then. “If you’ll follow the creek through the gorge
, you’ll pick up my trail. Just stay with it until you get on top. I’ll climb out of here and go on ahead. You wait for us above. Reckon you’ll see us coming back about the time you get there.”
With one or two exceptions, Plenty Eagles had no reason to regard his white brothers with anything other than hatred and suspicion. Jim’s concern over his father touched him.
“All the time be thinking of this, Montana,” he said. “Never forgetting, me.”
It took Jim the better part of an hour to climb out of the cañon. In crossing Quantrell”s range he knew he was inviting trouble. It caused him no misgiving. After the Little Powder came out of the cañon he proposed keeping it between himself and the house until he was abreast the mine. If he ran into Quantrell or his men by chance, old Thunder Bird would be excuse enough for his presence there.
He was approximately half a mile above Quantrell’s house when he crossed the Little Powder. Cattle grazed on the hills, but he failed to catch sight of a human being. The country in general was swelling upward toward the Junipers to the west. The mine was located well up toward the head of a precipitous side cañon.
The old Adelaide had been a big producer for many years, until water had flooded the lower levels. No sign remained of the old camp, but the wood-road, over which tons of timber had been snaked down for shoring, was still serviceable. Montana turned into it and followed it around the hill.
Presently he was moving up the little side cañon. Someone, Quantrell possibly, had built a plank fence across it just below the mouth of the mine, evidently to keep cattle from straying into its several miles of tunnels and driftings.
He had almost reached the fence when he was surprised to see a little string of saddled horses standing in a pocket off to the right of the gate.
“That’s queer,” he thought. He looked again and recognized the horse Quantrell had ridden the previous evening. It caused him some uneasiness. “Got his whole bunch up here.”
He couldn’t understand what business they could have there, unless it in some way concerned the old Indian.
“Sure looks like I rode into a jackpot this time,” he muttered warily. It was too late to turn back. He knew if he hadn’t been seen already he would be before he could get out of sight.
Every sense alert, he slipped out of his saddle, and dropping his rein over his horse’s head, walked up to the fence. It was head high. Through the spaces between the planks he could command a view of the entrance to the mine.
He had been watching only a minute or two when he caught the sound of voices. He thought he recognized Quantrell’s surly drawl. A moment later, seven men stepped out of the mine. Quantrell was in the lead. He had old Thunder Bird by the shoulder and was hustling him along. Suddenly he gave the old Indian a shove that sent him headlong into the dust.
“Now clear out of here and don’t come back!” Quantrell raged. To give emphasis to his command, he used his boot on the Indian.
It made Montana’s fingers itch to let him have it. The odds were seven to one against him. And it was a hard-bitten crew that Quantrell had assembled. All were strangers to Montana, but by the look of them they were well-acquainted with the business end of a .45. Jim was fast himself.
“I don’t figure to have a chance that way,” he thought. “I’ll have to talk myself out of this.”
Thunder Bird dragged himself to his feet slowly. A trickle of blood stained his seamed cheek. Quantrell’s foot went back to give him a kick that would hurry him up.
“Wait a minute, Clay!” Montana called out. “You’ll scare him to death.” His tone was bantering.
It was a startling interruption that made them reach for their guns. It was a moment before they located Jim.
“What’s the idea?” Quantrell whipped out fiercely. “What business you got here?”
“Well, if you boys will put away your hardware,” Jim laughed, “I’ll climb over the fence and tell you. I got some news for you, Clay.” He was thinking fast.
“All right, come on over,” the big fellow grumbled suspiciously.
Jim perched himself on top of the fence and rolled a cigarette calmly.
“Let’s have it!” Quantrell prompted.
“No rush, Clay. Kinda surprised me to find you up here whanging that old buck. I knew he was here . . . fact I came up to get him for Graham.” The fiction had the desired effect on Quantrell. Jim saw indecision dawn in his eyes. Clay didn’t want any trouble with Rand. He exchanged a furtive glance with his men.
“That’s all right with me,” he said. “The quicker you get him out of here the better I’ll like it—and you can include yourself. Shorty caught him sneakin’ down to the creek for water this mornin’. I got enough to worry about without havin’ an Injun burnin’ me out some night.”
“Can’t blame you for being careful,” Montana declared soberly. “Some folks might find it handy to blame a fire on an Indian, but I guess we know where to look for the guilty parties, don’t we?”
He was watching him closely. A puzzled look flitted across Quantrell’s face.
“I don’t know whether I get your drift or not,” he drawled.
“I was referring to last night, Clay. Dave Morrow’s hay was fired. A little later, Jubal Stark’s house burned to the ground . . . Didn’t you know?”
“Why, no! The goddam skunks! They ought to be lynched, burnin’ a man out!” His surprise and indignation seemed genuine enough.
“I told you I figgered there wus a fire acrost the valley last night,” said one of his men.
“I remember your sayin’ it, Shorty,” Quantrell recalled. “I didn’t think it was any more than a little brush burnin’. . . . Can’t be any doubt about who did it.”
“It wouldn’t seem so,” Jim said without hesitation.
“Anythin’ been done about it?”
“I was out all morning trying to pick up their trail. Didn’t get anywhere to speak of. Reckon they came down over east and cut across the valley as far as the Big Powder and followed the creek north.”
“That’s about what they would do,” Quantrell agreed hurriedly. Jim thought he caught a note of relief in his voice. “Makes all your talk sound kinda foolish, don’t it?”
“Puts me on the end of a limb, all right. But I’m learning fast,” Montana added cryptically.
Quantrell seemed to melt to good-will. “I thought you’d come to your senses,” he said.
It was exactly the impression Montana wanted to leave. They talked about the fires for a minute or two.
“Guess I’ll be going along,” Jim said finally. He turned and spoke to Thunder Bird in sign language. The message he conveyed was unexpected, but the old Indian’s answer was only a toneless grunt.
When Jim had climbed into his saddle, Thunder Bird got up behind him.
Quantrell swaggered over to where Jim sat staring at the valley below.
“Quite a view from here, Clay.”
“Yeah! Lotta country down there.”
Montana raised his hand to shield his eyes.
“You can see the place where the kid was killed, can’t you?”
Quantrell was caught off guard. He craned his neck and stared with Jim. “Why, no—” He broke off suddenly. From the way his mouth tightened, Montana knew he had sensed danger. “Course all I know is what Reb said,” he corrected himself. “I understood him to say it was right at the forks.”
“I guess you’re right at that,” Jim murmured thoughtfully. He leaned over confidentially and lowered his voice to a whisper. “You don’t suppose old Thunder Bird saw anything, eh?”
Quantrell repressed a start of alarm. Out of the corner of his eyes he flashed a glance at the old Indian. Thunder Bird’s face was as expressionless as a piece of wrinkled parchment.
“Why, no; he’s half blind,” Quantrell muttered unpleasantly. “He couldn’t see anythin’.”
“He’s old, of course,” Jim nodded. “It was just a thought.”
Quantrell rolled a cigarette with e
xasperating care.
“Still playin’ around with the idea I got the kid?” he queried without looking up.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Jim’s tone was guileless. “The news bowled me over last night. But it will keep. Reckon I threw the grit into you pretty hard.”
“No hard feelin’s; my hide’s tough,” Quantrell laughed. “Anytime you can pin anythin’ like that on me—go to it.”
That was Montana’s intention, and their conversation had only intensified his suspicions. And yet, he managed a grim smile as he picked up his rein.
“So long Clay,” he said.
“I’d go down with you,” the big fellow volunteered, “if we wasn’t goin’ up in the hills lookin’ for strays.”
“All your boys, eh?” Jim queried, indicating the others.
“Yeah!”
“Looks like you’re going in on a big scale.”
Quantrell shot him a quick glance. Montana’s eyes were smiling, but in their depths he found a mocking light. It nettled him.
“I’m prepared for trouble—no matter where it comes,” he announced. “I don’t figger to take anybody’s back water.”
His men gathered about him as Montana rode away.
“Better make a bluff of combin’ the hills until he’s out of sight,” Quantrell advised. “I thought he was goin’ to be tough; but you heard the conversation. He won’t make us any trouble.”
“Don’t kid yourself,” Shorty grumbled. “I’ve seen his kind before; he ain’t half as dumb as he pretends.”
“No?” Quantrell dared. “Well, let him start somethin’. I’ll take care of him in a hurry. No time to begin croakin’ when we’re gettin’ all the breaks.”
The others agreed with him.
“I ain’t croakin’,” Shorty argued. He ran his fingers over the red bristles that fringed his chin. “That guy’s cagy—that’s all. But what the hell! Both sides are at each other’s throats right now. Whatever happens, they’ll blame it on the other fellow. If this gent gets rubbed out—what of it?”
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