L'Amour, Louis - Novel 02

by Crossfire Trail

  “Yeah,”—Joe nodded—“I did at that. I live in one of those houses over there with some of the other boys. Happened to see somebody ride up here in the dark and got curious. When you headed for the saloon, I got around you and went in. Then I saw you come in the back door. I slipped out just before the shootin’ started so’s I could beat you back here in case you got away.”

  “Too bad you missed the fun,” Brisco said quietly.

  Behind him the pursuit seemed to have gained no direction as yet. His mind was on a hair trigger, watching for a break. Which of his guns was still loaded? He had forgotten whether he had put the loaded gun in the holster or in his belt.

  “Who’d you get?” asked Gorman.

  “Tom Blazer. Fats McCabe, too.”

  “I figgered Tom. I told him he shouldn’t have shot the kid. That was a low-down trick. But why shoot Fats?”

  “He acted like he was reachin’ for a gun.”

  “Huh! Don’t take a lot to get a man killed, does it?”

  Brisco could see in the dark enough to realize that Gorman was smiling a little.

  “How do you want it, Tex? I let you have it now, or save you for Shute? He’s a bad man, Tex.”

  “I think you’d better slip your gun in your holster and walk back home, Joe,” Tex said. “You’re the most decent one of a bad lot.”

  “Mebbe I want the money I’d get for you, Tex. I can use some.”

  “Think you’d live to collect?”

  “You mean Caradec? He’s through, Brisco. Through. We got Bo. Now we got you. That leaves only Caradec and Johnny Gill. They won’t be so tough.”

  “You’re wrong, Joe,” Tex said quietly. “Rafe could take the lot of you, and will. But you bought into my game yourself; I wouldn’t ask for help, Joe. I’d kill you myself.”

  “You?” Gorman chuckled with real humor. “And me with the drop on you? Not a chance!. Why, Tex one of these slugs would get you. If I have to start blastin’, I’m goin’ to empty the gun before I quit.”

  “Uh-huh,” Tex agreed, “you might get me. But I’ll get you, too.”

  Joe Gorman was incredulous. “You mean, get me before I could shoot?” He repeated, “Not a chance!”

  The sounds of pursuit were coming closer. The men had a light now, and had found his tracks. “Toward the river, I’ll be a coon!” a voice yelled. “Let’s go!”

  Here it was! Joe Gorman started to yell, then saw the black figure ahead of him move and his gun blaze. Tex felt the shocking jolt of a slug. His knees buckled, but his gun was out and he triggered two shots, fast. Joe started to fall, and he fired again, but the hammer fell on an empty chamber.

  Tex jerked the slipknot in his reins loose and dragged himself into the saddle. He was bleeding badly. His mind felt hazy, but he saw Joe Gorman move on the ground, and heard him say, “You did it, damn you! You did it!”

  “So long, Joe!” Tex whispered hoarsely.

  He walked the horse for twenty feet, then started moving faster. His brain was singing with a strange noise, and his blood seemed to drum in his brains. He headed up the tree-covered slope, and the numbness crawled up his legs. He fought like a cornered wolf against the darkness that crept over him.

  “I can’t die—I can’t!” he kept thinking. “Rafe’ll need help! I can’t!”

  Fighting the blackness and numbness, he tied the bridle reins to the saddle-horn and thrust both feet clear through the stirrups. Sagging in the saddle, he got his handkerchief out and fumbled a knot, tying his wrists to the saddle-horn.

  The light glowed and died. The horse walked on, weaving through a world of agony and soft clutching hands that seemed to be pulling Tex down, pulling him down.

  The darkness closed in around him, but under him he seemed still to feel the slow plodding of the horse…

  Chapter XI

  ROUGHLY, the distance to the Fort was seventy miles. Rafe Caradec rode steadily into the increasing cold of the wind. There was no mistaking the seriousness of Bo’s condition. The young cowhand was badly shot up, weak from loss of blood. Despite the amazing vitality of frontier men, his chance was slight unless his wounds had proper care.

  Bowing his head to the wind, Rafe headed the horse down a draw and its partial shelter. There was no use thinking of Tex. Whatever had happened in Painted Rock had happened now. Brisco might be dead. He might be alive and safe, even now heading back to the Crazy Woman—or he might be wounded and in need of help.

  Tex Brisco was an uncertainty but Bo Marsh hung between life and death, hence there was no choice.

  The friendship and understanding between the lean, hard-faced Texan and Rafe Caradec had grown aboard ship. And Rafe was not one to take lightly the Texan’s loyalty in joining him in his foray into Wyoming. Now Brisco might be dead, killed in a fight he would never have known but for Rafe. Yet Tex would have had it no other way. His destinies were guided by his loyalties. Those loyalties were his life, his religion, his reason for living.

  Yet despite his worries over Marsh and Brisco, Rafe found his thoughts returning again and again to Ann Rodney. Why had she ridden to warn them of the impending attack? Had it not been for that warning the riders would have wiped out Brisco at the same time they got Marsh, and would have followed it up to find Rafe and Johnny back in the canyon. It would have been, or could have been, a clean sweep.

  Why had Ann warned them? Was it because of her dislike of violence and killing? Or was there some other, some deeper feeling?

  Yet how could that be? What feeling could Ann have for any of them, believing as she seemed to believe that he was a thief or worse? The fact remained that she had come, that she had warned them.

  Remembering her, he recalled the flash of her eyes the proud lift of her chin, the way she walked.

  He stared grimly into the night and swore softly. Was he in love? “Who knows?” he demanded viciously of the night. “And what good would it do if I was?”

  He had never seen the Fort, yet knew it lay between the forks of the Piney and its approximate location. His way led across the billowing hills through a countr marked by small streams lined with cottonwood, bow elder, willow, choke-cherry and wild plum. That this WAS Indian country, he knew. The unrest of the tribes was about to break into open warfare. Already there had been sporadic attacks on haying or wood-cutting parties. Constant attacks were being made on the Missou steamboats, far to the north.

  Red Cloud, most influential chieftain among the Sioux, had tried to hold the tribes together, and despite the continued betrayal of treaties by the white man, had sought to abide by the code laid down for his. With Man Afraid Of His Hoss, the Ogallala chief, Red Cloud was the strongest of all the Sioux leaders.

  With Custer’s march into the Black Hills and the increasing travel over the Laramie and Bozeman trail, the Sioux were growing restless. The Sioux medicine man, Sitting Bull, was indulging in war talk, aided a abetted by two powerful warriors, skilled tacticians and great leaders, Crazy Horse and Gall.

  No one in the West but understood that an outbreak of serious nature was overdue.

  Rafe Caradec was aware of all this. He was aware, too, that it would not be an easy thing to prevail upon the doctor to leave the Fort, or upon the commandant to allow him to leave. In the face of impending trouble, his place was with the Army.

  News of the battle of the Crazy Woman, after Ann’s warning, reached her that evening. The return of the triumphant Shute riders was enough to tell her what had happened. She heard them ride into the street, heard their yells, and their shouts.

  She heard that Bo Marsh was definitely dead. Even some of the Shute riders were harsh in their criticism of Tom Blazer for that action.

  While the Shute outfit had ridden away following their attack, fearful of the effects of sharpshooting from the timber, they were satisfied. Winter was coming on, and they had destroyed the cabin on the Crazy Woman. Mistakenly, they also believed they had killed Brisco and wounded at least one other man.

  Sick at heart,
Ann had walked back into her room and stood by the window. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the desire to get away, to escape all this sickening violence, the guns, the killings, the problems of frontier life. Back East there were lovely homes along quiet streets, slow-running streams, men who walked quietly on Sunday mornings. There were parties, theatres, friends, homes.

  Her long ride had tired her. The touch of Rafe Caradec’s hand, the look in his eyes had given her a lift. Something had sparked within her, and she felt herself drawn to him, yearning toward him with everything feminine that was within her. Riding away, she had heard the crash of guns, shouts and yells. Had she been too late?

  Where was her sympathy? With Shute’s riders? Or with this strange, tall young man who had come to claim half her ranch and tell fantastic stories of knowing her father aboard a ship?

  Every iota of intelligence she had told her the man was all wrong, that his story could not be true. Bruce Barkow’s story of her father’s death had been the true one.

  What reason for him to lie? Why would he want to claim her land when there was so much more to be had for the taking?

  Her father had told her, and Gene Baker had agreed, that soon all this country would be open to settlement. There would be towns and railroads here. Why choose one piece of land, a large section of it worthless, when the hills lay bare for the taking?

  Standing by the window and looking out into the darkness, Ann knew suddenly she was sick of it all. She would get away, go back East. Bruce was right. It was time she left here, and when he came again, she would tell him she was ready. He had been thoughtful and considerate. He had protected her, been attentive and affectionate. He was a man of intelligence he was handsome. She could be proud of him.

  She stifled her misgivings with a sudden resolution and hurriedly began to pack.

  Vaguely Ann had sensed Barkow’s fear of something but she believed it was fear of an attack by Indians. Word had come earlier that day that the Ogallala were gathering in the hills and there was much war talk among them. That it could be Dan Shute whom Barkow feared, Ann had no idea.

  She had completed the packing of the few items she would need for the trip when she heard the sound of gunfire from the National. The shots brought her her feet with a start, her face pale. Running into the living room, she found that Gene Baker had caught up his rifle. She ran to Mrs. Baker and the two women stood together, listening.

  Baker looked at them. “Can’t be Indians,” he said, after a moment. “Mebbe some wild cowhand celebratin’.”

  They heard excited voices, yells. Baker went to the door, hesitated, then went out. He was gone several minutes before he returned. His face was grave.

  “It was that Texas rider from the Crazy Woman,” he said. “He stepped into the back door of the National and shot it out with Tom Blazer and Fats McCabe. They are both dead.”

  “Was he alone?” Ann asked quickly.

  Baker nodded, looking at her somberly. “They are huntin’ him now. He won’t get away, I’m afeerd.”

  “You’re afraid he won’t?”

  “Yes, Ann,” Baker said, “I am. That Blazer outfit’s poison. All of that Shute bunch, far’s that goes. Tom killed young Bo Marsh by stickin’ a pistol against him whilst he was lyin’ down.”

  The flat bark of a shot cut across the night air, and they went rigid. Two more shots rang out.

  “Guess they got him,” Baker said. “There’s so many of them, I figgered they would.”

  Before the news reached them of what had actually happened, daylight had come. Ann Rodney was awake after an almost sleepless night. Tex Brisco, she heard, had killed Joe Gorman when German had caught him at his horse. Tex had escaped, but from all the evidence, he was badly wounded. They were trailing him by the blood from his wounds.

  Bo Marsh, now Brisco. Was Johnny Gill alive? Was Rafe? If Rafe was alive, then he must be alone, harried like a rabbit by hounds.

  Restless, Ann paced the floor. Shute riders came into the store. They were buying supplies and going out in groups of four and five, scouring the hills for Brisco or any of the others of the Crazy Woman crowd.

  Bruce Barkow came shortly after breakfast. He looked tired, worried. “Ann,” he said abruptly, “if we’re goin’, it’ll have to be today. This country is goin’ to the wolves. All they think about now is killin’. Let’s get out.”

  She hesitated only an instant. Something inside her seemed lost and dead.

  “All right, Bruce. We’ve planned it for a long time. It might as well be now.”

  There was no fire in her, no spark. Barkow scarcely heeded that. She would go. Once away from here and married, he would have title to the land. Dan Shute, for all his talk and harsh ways, would be helpless.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll leave in an hour. Don’t tell anybody. We’ll take the buckboard like we were goin’ for a drive, as we often do.”

  She was ready, so there was nothing to do after he had gone.

  Baker seemed older, worried. Twice riders came in, and each time Ann heard that Tex Brisco was still at large. His horse had been trailed, seemingly wandering without guidance, to a place on a mountain creek. There the horse had walked into the water, and no trail had been found to show where he had left it. He was apparently headed for the high ridges, south by west.

  Nor had anything been found of Marsh or Gill. Shute riders had returned to the Crazy Woman, torn down the corral, and hunted through the woods, but no sign had been found beyond a crude lean-to where the wounded man had evidently been sheltered. Marsh, if dead, had been buried and the grave concealed. Nothing had been found of any of them, although one horse had ridden off to the northeast, mostly east.

  One horse had gone east! Ann Rodney’s heart gave a queer leap. East would mean toward the Fort! Perhaps—but she was being foolish. Why should it be Caradec rather than Gill, and why to the Fort? She expressed the thought, and Baker looked at her.

  “Likely enough one of ‘em’s gone there. If Marsh ain’t dead, and the riders didn’t find his body, chances are he’s mighty bad off. The only doctor around is at the Fort.”

  The door to the store opened, and Baker went in, leaving the living room. There was a brief altercation, then the curtain was pushed aside and Ann looked up. A start of fear went through her.

  Dan Shute was standing in the door. For a wonder, he was cleanshaven except for his mustache. He looked at her with his queer, gray-white eyes.

  “Don’t you do nothin’ foolish,” he said, “like tryin’ to leave here. I don’t aim to let you.”

  Ann got up, amazed and angry. “You don’t aim to let me?” she flared. “What business is it of yours?”

  Shute stood there with his big hands on his hips staring at her insolently. “Because I want to make it my business,” he said. “I’ve told Barkow where he stands with you. If he don’t like it, he can say so and die. I ain’t particular. I just wanted you should know that from here on you’re my woman.”

  “Listen here, Shute!” Baker flared. “You can’t talk to a decent woman that way!”

  “Shut your mouth!” Shute said, staring at Baker. “I talk the way I please. I’m tellin’ her. If she tries to get away from here, I’ll take her out to the ranch now. If she waits”—he looked her up and down coolly—“I may marry her. Don’t know why I should.” He added, glaring at Baker, “You butt into this and I’ll smash you. She ain’t no woman for a weak sister like Barkow. I guess she’ll come to like me all right. Anyway, she’d better.” He turned toward the door. “Don’t get any ideas. I’m the law here—the only law.”

  “I’ll appeal to the Army!” Baker declared.

  “You do,” Shute said, “and I’ll kill you. Anyway, the Army’s goin’ to be some busy. A bunch of Sioux raided a stage station way south of here last night and killed three men, then ran off the stock. Two men were killed lyin’ over on Otter last night. A bunch of soldiers lyin’ not far from the Piney were fired on and one man wounded. The Army’s too bus
y to bother with the likes of you. Besides,” he added, grinning, “the commandin’ officer said that in case of Injun trouble, I was to take command at Painted Rock and make all preparations for defense.”

  He turned and walked out of the room. They heard the front door slam, and Ann sat down, suddenly.

  Gene Baker walked to the desk and got out his gun. His face was stiff and old.

  “No, not that,” Ann said. “I’m leaving, Uncle Gene.”

  “Leavin’? How?” He turned on her, his eyes alert.

  “With Bruce. He’s asked me several times. I was going to tell you, but nobody else. I’m all packed.”

  “Barkow, eh?” Gene Baker stared at her. “Well, why not? He’s half a gentleman, anyway. Shute is an animal and a brute.”

  The back door opened gently. Bruce Barkow stepped in.

  “Was Dan here?”

  Baker explained quickly. “Better forget that buckboard idea,” he said, when Barkow had explained the plan. “Take the horses and go by the river trail. Leave at noon when everybody will be eatin’. Take the Bannock Trail, then swing north and east and cut around toward the Fort. They’ll think you’re tryin’ for the gold fields.”

  Barkow nodded. He looked stiff and pale, and he was wearing a gun. It was almost noon.

  When the streets were empty, Bruce Barkow went out back to the barn and saddled the horses. There was no one in sight. The woods along the creek were only a hundred yards away.

  Walking outside, the two got into their saddles and rode at a walk, the dust muffing the beat of horse’s hoofs, to the trees. Then they took the Bannock Trail. Two miles out, Barkow rode into a stream, then led the way north.

  Once away from the trail they rode swiftly, keeping the horses at a rapid trot. Barkow was silent. His eyes kept straying to the back trail. Twice they saw Indian sign, but their escape had evidently been made successfully, for there was no immediate sound of pursuit.

  Bruce Barkow kept moving. As he rode, his irritation, doubt, and fear began to grow more and more obvious. He rode like a man in the grip of deadly terror. Ann, watching him, wondered.