“Ray, get up front and take the bits on Peewee’s leaders,” Buck ordered the puffing muleskinner. He glanced down the road to where Nate and Rossy were just coming around the bend behind Big Kona. No one else was in sight. “Where the hell are the rest of them?” he asked.
“Staying close to their rigs, I guess,” Milo replied, down on one knee to study the flatbed’s undercarriage.
“Sons-of-bitches,” Buck murmured, and walked to the edge of the bluff. Lyle Mead and Garth Lang were standing with Mitch Kroll and Bigfoot Payne, at Kroll’s lead wagon. Thad Collins sat his mount next to Gwen, close beside the mud wagon where Paddy O’Rourke was leaning back in his seat, smoking a cigarette.
“I want every one of you lazy misfits up here on the double!” Buck bellowed, anger adding strength to his voice. “Collins, that includes you and O’Rourke. Right now!” He glanced up the road to where Dulce had ridden part way down on Beau. “Get Zeke out of the way!” he hollered, and Dulce nodded and leaned from her saddle to collect the black’s reins. Buck tramped back to where the others had gathered around the left front wheel, all of them breathing hard from their run up from the lower flat. His mood lightened somewhat when he saw Milo and Joe up on the wagon bed, looping a rope around the forward end of the smokestack.
“Milo figures we can tie the rope to the front wheel and lever the stack sack that way,” Andy explained to Buck.
“Then let’s get it done.”
Andy nodded and reached for the loose end of the rope. Milo and Joe were fashioning a slipknot that could be drawn tight to the smokestack, yet quickly loosened in the event they needed to let it go in a hurry.
Buck pulled Chris Hobson aside. “How sharp’s your knife?”
“Sharp enough. What do you want done?”
“I want you up on the wagon, and, if I holler for you to cut those straps, you do it quick as you can, then get the hell out of there. Cut ’em both if you have time, but don’t let it take you over the edge. Jump if you have to.”
Chris stared at him for a moment, then said—“All right.”— and walked away.
Buck knew what he was asking of the muleskinner. If the load started to go, only Pee wee’s seat atop his tall nigh-wheeler would be more perilous. But cutting the straps in time could mean the difference between life and death for Peewee and his mules, and Chris understood that, too.
Buck’s expression was dark as he helped Andy secure the rope to the top two spokes of the front wheel. While they did that, Charlie, Lou, Little Ed, and Big Kona were busy unhitching Peewee’s trail wagon and chocking its wheels so that it wouldn’t roll backward. By the time they finished, the rest of the independents had come up. Buck quickly assigned them their tasks, putting the largest and strongest—Kroll, Big Kona, Bigfoot Payne—at the front of the wagon to help hold the wheel to the ground, then spread the rest of the men out along the line of mules to help keep them calm and pulling. Lyle Mead, protective of an injured left hand, was placed alongside Peewee with instructions to yank the muleskinner from his saddle if the wagon started to go.
With everyone in place, Buck walked over to Peewee’s side. “You gonna be all right?” he asked.
Peewee smiled bravely. “It’s crazy, but I was just thinking of Mase. He would’ve been proud of you, Bucky.”
Buck’s throat tightened unexpectedly. “Mase ain’t here,” he said. “It’s just you and me this time.”
Peewee nodded calmly. “That’ll be enough.”
There was a drawn-out groan from under the flatbed, and Milo said: “We’d better get moving, boss. This wagon won’t hold together forever.”
Buck and Peewee shook hands, then Buck turned away. “All right,” he called sharply, “let’s get this done!” He climbed onto the wagon with Milo. Chris was crouched at the rear end, his knife pressed lightly to the third strap. The two exchanged a long look, then Chris nodded and Buck said: “Slow and easy, Peewee, a few inches at a time.”
“Hup!” Peewee shouted to his team, and the flatbed jolted as the mules pushed into their collars. The wagon swayed ominously, the front wheel rising, then settling back under pressure from the men crowded around it. There was a loud pop from beneath the wagon, a moment’s wide-eyed paralysis among the men, then another forward surge that drew the rope to the smokestack tight.
“Easy,” Buck cautioned as the hemp line began to stretch and thin. The wagon rolled forward another few inches and the rope bit into the hub, but the smokestack refused to budge.
“Buck,” Milo whispered.
“Not yet,” Buck said quietly, the words thrumming his vocal cords. The wagon creaked forward another couple of inches. The rope moaned as if in pain.
“It’s gonna break,” Milo whispered.
“No, it’s not,” Buck said, as if he could prevent the strained fibers from parting by sheer will. His chest was tight and his ears roared, but he didn’t take his eyes off the thinning line or lose faith in the skills of his men. Just when he thought they could go no farther, when he was convinced the rope surely had to separate, sending the rig tumbling over the edge of the bluff, the smokestack shifted, scraping back toward the wagon a single, triumphant inch.
“Easy!” Buck called hoarsely. “Easy now. It’s coming. Just keep those mules moving slow and steady.”
Milo’s breath hissed loudly. They both knew the battle was far from won. The wagon crept forward, the iron rim of the front wheel only loosely gripping the hard-packed roadbed. Buck could hear the low squeal of stretching leather as the mules dug into the grade, their clopping shoes loud on the hardpan as they hauled the wagon forward another precious foot. The smokestack shifted again, then abruptly slid toward the wagon, the pressure lessening everywhere at once.
The was a muted cheer from some of the men, and Peewee shouted: “We’re doin’ it, boys! By God, we’re doin’ it!”
Buck glanced at Milo, sweat dripping off the end of his nose. “I believe the man’s right,” he said faintly.
It was pretty easy after that. When they finished securing the stack, Buck ordered the rest of the crew back to their wagons, keeping only Rossy, Manuel, and Milo with him. “Soon as we get up top, we’ll come back for the trailer,” he told the men. “When that’s out of the way, bring your own rigs up. We’ll lever that smokestack back into its cradle then.”
It took less than twenty minutes to get the big Murphy wagon on top and unhitched. While Peewee went back with Rossy and Manuel to collect his trailer. Buck climbed onto the flatbed to check the damage. He was expecting to find some flaw in the cradle’s workmanship that could be traced back to Jock’s yard master, Hank Miller, who had overseen its construction, but after several minutes of inspection, he found nothing incriminating. The cradle had been minorly damaged when the smokestack slipped, but there was no evidence there of what had caused the accident. It was Milo who discovered that.
“Take a look at this, boss!” the Kansan called from the other side of the wagon.
Buck walked around to where Milo was standing beside the right front wheel, stopping short when he saw the loose end of the strap clutched in the ramrod’s hand.
“This was no accident,” Milo said hollowly. “It’s been cut.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“But who would do such a thing?” Dulce asked in dismay. She was still in her saddle, holding Zeke’s reins.
“Maybe someone has a grudge against Peewee?” Milo suggested.
Buck turned the strap over in his hand. The flat, two-inch-wide woven hemp had been severed cleanly for more than three-quarters of the way across, leaving only a few thin strands to keep the heavy smokestack in place until the wagon started up the side of the bluff. Gravity had done the rest.
“Against Peewee or the Box K,” Buck mused aloud.
“The same people who killed Mase?” Milo asked.
“To someone determined enough to commit murder, I reckon cutting a strap on a wagon would seem like a pretty small risk,” Buck said.
“Two strap
s,” Milo corrected, holding up the loose end of the second tie-down. It had also been sliced nearly in two, both cuts made close to the turnbuckle, where the damage wouldn’t be easily spotted. “The question is, who did it?” Milo continued. “Someone with the train, or someone who slipped into camp last night while we were asleep?”
“It’d be pretty risky to sneak into a freighter’s camp,” Buck said. “A mule’s better than hounds for sniffing out strangers.” He glanced at Milo, the unavoidable conclusion lodging roughly in his brain. “We’ve got a traitor in our ranks.”
There was a distant shout from below the bluff, and Dulce said: “That’s Peewee. He’s got his trailer hitched.”
Buck nodded, coming to a quick decision. “Let’s get these straps off,” he told Milo. “Dulce can ride ’em out and dump them where no one will find them.”
“You aren’t going to tell the men?” Milo asked.
“Not yet.” Buck freed the hook from the wagon’s side bracket and began coiling the longer section along his forearm. “I don’t think anyone knows about this except for the three of us and whoever did it. That could be to our advantage if someone slips up and says something.”
It took only moments to free the two straps and hand them to Dulce, who loped out onto the plain and tossed them into a coulée. She was back before Peewee’s leaders topped the bluff.
It took an hour to repair the cradle, drag the smokestack back in place, then lash it down with new straps. Several of the muleskinners were curious about the accident, but Buck brushed it off as a faulty strap, and no one questioned him further or thought it odd when he told them to check their own tie-downs every morning from here on.
They left the Bear River for good after that, the land to the north stretching away flat as an ironing board. There were no farms or settlements in sight. Although still within the borders of Utah Territory, they’d left most of its population behind. From here on they would pass only relay stations for the stagecoach companies and an occasional trading post—some with tiny, rough-barked communities grown up around them—all separated by long, lonely stretches of high, wind-scoured deserts and snowy mountain passes.
Buck maintained a position about a hundred yards in advance of Peewee’s leaders, matching Zeke’s pace to that of the wagons. Dulce rode next to Peewee, the two of them chatting amiably like the old friends they were. Milo was in the sage off to their right where he could keep an eye on the entire length of the train. Gwen and Thad rode opposite him, also in the sage but paying no attention to the long line of wagons.
To Buck’s mind, the scene appeared as idyllic as that which Dulce had viewed from the jut of land above Hampton’s Crossing, but he knew the image was a lie that hid an undercurrent of malevolence. Perhaps even a killer. His hand strayed to the fancy bullwhip at his waist, and he wondered what Mase would do in such a situation, then shook the question away. This wasn’t Mase’s problem, it was his.
It was late enough in the afternoon for Buck to start looking for a suitable camping spot when he heard the drum of approaching hoofs. He glanced over his shoulder, expecting Dulce, but it was Gwen he saw galloping her tall chestnut after him. He nodded a cautious greeting as she pulled alongside. “Miss Haywood.”
“Might I join you for a while, Mister McCready, or does that privilege belong solely to Miss Kavanaugh?”
“You’re more than welcome to ride up here,” Buck said, his gaze straying to where Collins now rode alone through the sage. “I’m surprised your bodyguard didn’t come along.”
“Thad is quite serious in his commitment to my safety, but he is in my employ, Mister McCready, not my father’s. Thad does as I tell him.”
Buck gave her an appraising look. “You hired him? That wasn’t what I was led to believe yesterday, in Jock’s office.”
“Words do have a tendency to be misinterpreted in times of stress, don’t they?” she replied glibly. “Nevertheless, all that’s really important is that he does his job, wouldn’t you say? The purpose is the same, regardless of who pays his wages.”
“I’m afraid not, Miss Haywood. I need to know what’s going on in my train, anything and everything that might affect its safety. Knowing a man’s loyalty is imperative.”
“Oh, please, we are hardly in a state of war. I would venture to say that we are little more than highly paid delivery boys, no different than those lads who bring us our weekly groceries. And can’t we drop this silly formality of Mister This and Miss That, at least on the trail? It’s stifling and it creates barriers that”—she smiled sweetly, adding a tilt to her head that allowed the late afternoon sun to highlight the richness of her blonde hair—“to be perfectly honest, I’m not at all sure I desire to be there.”
Buck’s expression remained unchanged. “Are you always so bold in your conversations, Miss Haywood?”
“Gwen, please.”
“All right, Gwen, although I’m not sure a first name basis is going to change anything.”
“It’s a grand start though, don’t you agree?” Before he could respond, she quickly changed the subject. “I am simply staggered by the greenness of your desert landscape. I had been led to believe that we would be journeying through a wasteland of blowing sands filled with ferocious beasts.”
“It’s spring, Miss … Gwen. The dust will come soon enough, and we’re still too close to the settlements to see much wildlife. That’ll change the farther north we go. We ought to see elk, antelope, even grizzly bears, before we reach Montana. It wasn’t too many years ago that you’d find buffalo around here.”
“We saw bison as we crossed the plains. That’s their proper name, you know. They were so thick at one point they nearly darkened the prairies. They are ugly, though, don’t you think? I had thought oxen boring, but only a bloodhound casts a stronger shadow of homeliness than a bison.”
She was as full of herself as anyone Buck had ever met, filled with naïve self-confidence, yet he had to admit she held a certain fascination; he found her off-putting and shallow, yet strangely exciting in her directness.
“I reckon beauty is in the eye of the beholder, as far as buffalo are concerned,” he said finally. “I saw plenty of them when I was freighting across the plains, and I always thought.…”
But Gwen apparently wasn’t interested in what he thought of bison. Gasping in fake astonishment, she exclaimed: “Why, Captain McCready, you quoted Plato! And to think I expected only fringed leather garments and flowing beards from the male population out here.”
“Gwen, you are a hard woman to hold a conversation with. You got more twists in you than a green-broke mule.”
“I have not. I am a delightful conversationalist, and I’ve been told so by more than one suitor. I’ll have you know I’ve taken classes on the subject. Now, tell me how you became a student of Plato’s teachings.”
“If I was quoting him, I didn’t know it.”
“Ahhh,” she said with a knowing smile. “Then my original assumption was correct.”
“More’n likely.”
“Tell me about your mule. I would have expected a wagon master to ride a blooded steed, a stallion with a silver-studded bridle and saddle.”
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’ve got an active imagination.”
“So I’ve been told,” she replied throatily, giving him a sidelong glance, “but I was talking about your mule.”
Buck knew he should put an end to her tawdry flirtations. He’d worked hard to earn not only Dulce’s and Jock’s trust, but the respect of the Box K crew. He’d be risking all of that if he fell victim to Gwen’s little games of amour. But there was a challenge in her words and in the deep, penetrating looks she’d given him that spoke to the maleness within, an invitation as old as life itself; it taunted, daring him to follow.
“Father would be livid if he saw me riding astride,” she continued, once more abruptly changing the subject. “And Mother would be convinced I’ve ruined myself forever for children. She’s so old-fashioned
, my mother.”
“Most are, I reckon. I didn’t know mine very well.”
“Oh, no. She died?”
“When I was ten.”
“How horrible, but I’m sure she wasn’t as fuddy as my mother. She couldn’t have been.” Gwen smiled and shifted aim yet again. “What’s your mule’s name?”
“Zeke,” Buck replied, aggravated with himself for bringing up his past, vowing not to do it again.
“Is he fast?”
“He’s sure-footed, which is better out here.”
“I prefer speed,” Gwen pronounced. “There is nothing quite so exhilarating as a fleet mount.”
“I reckon,” Buck answered distractedly, glancing over his shoulder at the sound of hoofs.
“It’s Mister Newton,” Gwen said unnecessarily.
“So it is.” Buck reined off the road, waiting for Milo to catch up.
“Howdy, boss,” Milo said, then tipped his hat to Gwen, sporting a grin broad enough to span a small stream. “Miss Haywood.”
“What’s up?” Buck asked irritably.
“It’s more like what’s back.” Milo nodded toward the rear of the train, where Paddy O’Rourke had fallen nearly a quarter of a mile behind Ray’s trailer, the mud wagon looking almost like a child’s toy at this distance.
“What the hell’s he doing ’way back there?” Buck asked, his brows furrowing.
“Whatever it is, he was doing it yesterday, too. I kept telling him to catch up, but he just gives me a dirty look and doesn’t say anything. He’ll stay close for a while, then next thing you know, he’s fallen behind again. There’s sure no need for it. He’s got a good four-mule hitch and pulling just that light coach.” He gave Buck a sheepish look. “I’m getting tired of telling him. I thought maybe he’d listen to you.”
“Naw, go on and take care of it. Tell him that from here on, I don’t want any more than fifty feet between him and Ray.”
Milo shrugged but turned away without argument.
“Is my driver causing you problems?” Gwen asked in concern.
The Long Hitch Page 10
