Milo brought the train into King’s before 9:00 the next morning, and by 9:30 they had the wheels switched and the repairs made. While Peewee and Ray returned jacks and chocks to the mess wagon, Milo pulled Buck aside to relate Gwen’s story of a prowler outside the women’s tent.
“Is Miss Haywood all right?” Buck asked.
“Scared, but trying not to act like it.”
“Did she see who it was?”
“No, but apparently Collins heard something, too, and went to investigate. Gwen says whoever it was ran off when he heard Collins stirring.” Milo pulled the makings from his pocket and started a cigarette. “I don’t guess it necessarily means anything. On the other hand, maybe it does.”
“What time did this happen?”
“About midnight.”
“Who else knows about it?”
“Dulce, maybe O’Rourke. I didn’t talk to him about it because he was still in his blankets when I got there. I told Gwen and Dulce and Collins to keep it under their hats until I talked to you. I doubt if O’Rourke would say anything even if he does know about it. He doesn’t get along well enough with anyone to start rumors.” Milo struck a match to light his cigarette, then shook it out and dropped it in the dust. “Some of the boys are beginning to wonder about what happened back at Hampton’s Crossing, too,” he added. “No one’s asked about it yet, but I figure they will.”
“Well, I can’t say I’m surprised,” Buck admitted. “We won’t be able to keep it quiet much longer.”
“That could be,” Milo concurred, his cigarette bobbing between his lips. “There’s one more thing. Lou Kitledge was telling the boys last night that part of his harness might’ve been tampered with back in Corinne, right before we pulled out. He says a rivet in his off-wheeler’s breeching was pulled nearly through, but that he’d checked all his harness earlier and that everything was all right.” Milo shrugged. “A rivet’s an easy thing to overlook, but with everything else that’s been going on, I figured I ought to mention it.”
“Did he say anything about it at the time?”
“Nope, just fixed it himself, like I would’ve done. Like we all would’ve done. It’s interesting, though. A breeching strap on a wheeler would be about the last one you’d want to bust on a downgrade.”
Buck nodded agreement, but his attention was distracted by John King’s approach. “Get the wagons rolling,” he told Milo. “I’ll be along in a few minutes.”
“Sure,” Milo said, stepping into his saddle and pulling his mule around, his cigarette still riding in the corner of his mouth.
“I’ve been listening to some of your ’skinners,” John said, coming up. “They sound pretty jumpy.”
“They’re spooked after what happened yesterday, but they’ll feel better in a day or two.”
“What about you? Cookie told me what happened last night between you and Kelso.”
Buck shrugged. He didn’t know what to think of Nick Kelso. It could have been connected to the Box K’s recent troubles, or it could have been something as simple as a botched robbery attempt.
There was a shout from the forward end of the column, and Peewee’s voice filled the stilly dusty air: “Get up, Cassie! Pep-perjack, Diego, move out!” Similar calls began to echo up and down the line, punctuated by the cracking of bullwhips that shattered the warm air like fragile glass, but disturbed not a hair on a mule’s hide. Soon the whole outfit was in motion, a rumbling procession of men and animals easing into a familiar formation. Buck and John stepped clear of the dust and waited for the train to pass. Buck had already written out a check on Jock’s account for the repairs to Peewee’s wheel. He handed it to John now, accepting a receipt in return that he tucked in his shirt pocket. “We’ll see you on the way back,” Buck said, swinging astride his black mule. “Maybe things will have settled down by then.”
“Good Lord, I hope so,” John replied, and Buck smiled and pulled Zeke around, cantering after the train.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It was obvious to Arlen that the negotiations between Gabe Carville and the Shoshone chief, Runs-His-Ponies, weren’t going well. After two days of steady discussions, the two were beginning to look as testy as a couple of jilted bridegrooms. Gabe continued to harangue Runs-His-Ponies for a favor owed him from years past, but the cagey old Indian—Arlen reckoned he had to be on the shady side of fifty—wasn’t buying it. Runs-His-Ponies was of the opinion that helping Gabe and Henry attack the Box K mule train would lead to an all-out war with the white-eyes, something he wasn’t keen to risk.
“It ain’t like ye never stolt nothin’ from the white-eyes afore,” Gabe repeated at least once every hour, with an ever-growing tone of resentment. “I know damn’ well ye didn’t buy that needle-gun you’re totin’.”
Runs-His-Ponies wouldn’t deny that he’d filched an item or two over the years, including the trap-door Springfield he carried everywhere with him, but he’d never used the gun on a white man and had no intention of starting now. “No war,” was his dogged reply.
It didn’t help that there already existed bad blood between the two over a Paiute woman, the details of which had proven too complex for Arlen to follow. Gabe and Runs-His-Ponies were conversing in a polyglot of heavily accented English and an Indian dialect more reminiscent of breaking wind than spoken words, at least to Arlen’s untutored ear. The two bridged whatever gap in language that sprang up between them with sign talk.
Now, deep into their second night of talks, it was clear the parley was breaking down. Gabe and Runs-His-Ponies were sitting opposite each other over a small fire in front of Runs-His-Ponies’s lodge. Probably twenty or more warriors stood behind the scowling war leader, everyone armed with knives or clubs or tomahawks, and looking as grim as death as Gabe’s prattle became increasingly insulting.
Leaning close, Henry whispered: “Get ready, dumb-ass, hell’s fixin’ to pop.”
Arlen’s breath escaped like steam from a locomotive as the image of his skull, parting under the blow of a rusty tomahawk, lodged in his mind.
“If shooting starts, ye point your pistol into the thick of things and let fly, hear?” Henry added.
Runs-His-Ponies’s eyes were blazing as Gabe wrapped up his speech. The Indians behind him weren’t taking it well, either, and Arlen whispered a question to which Henry replied: “Called Runs-His-Ponies a woman and said he didn’t have the nerve of a rabbit.”
“Well, that ain’t good,” Arlen said, puzzled by the mountain man’s approach. “Won’t that just make Runs-His-Ponies madder?”
Henry looked at him and laughed. “Dumb-ass, ye be a wonder.”
Runs-His-Ponies took that moment to jump to his feet. Gabe followed, whipping out a long-bladed butcher knife. Runs-His-Ponies as well pulled a knife, and the crowd around the fire scrambled to get out of the way.
Gabe was snarling like a cornered wolf. “I’ll cut ye, boy, ye come at me. I’ll geld ye quick,” he told the husky Indian.
Runs-His-Ponies replied in Shoshone, eliciting quick grunts of approval from several of the braves behind him.
“Just these two is gonna fight,” Henry told Arlen, “though I wouldn’t get too relaxed. Things could still blow up in our faces.”
Gabe and Runs-His-Ponies moved away from the fire. The crowd closed in around them. Arlen found himself front and center, too fascinated by the unfolding drama to think of escape or his own danger.
The two old veterans circled cautiously, performing a dance as old as first man, each seeking an opening in the other’s defense. Runs-His-Ponies feinted. Gabe parried it with the practiced ease of a seasoned brawler. He moved in, feigned left, came back right, then darted forward like a striking rattler, but his knife caught only empty air. Runs-His-Ponies smiled tightly. No stranger to the blade himself, he appeared unintimidated. Gabe made three more attempts to pierce the wily Indian’s guard, but Runs-His-Ponies deflected each deadly thrust as if swatting away a fly. Gabe was growing more incensed by the minute, and Arlen c
ould tell Henry was worrying about that.
“Damn’ idjit,” Henry muttered at one point. “Can’t he see what Runs-His-Ponies is tryin’ to do?”
If it was to make Gabe careless through anger, Arlen thought it was probably working. The bearded mountaineer was circling faster now, his knife weaving erratically as he spat out curses like watermelon seeds. When Runs-His-Ponies finally drew blood—a long slash inside Gabe’s left bicep—Arlen didn’t think anyone was surprised. It was Gabe’s reaction that caught them all off guard. Without pause, the old trapper rushed in, taking a deliberate cut in his side in order to bring his own blade up in a long, vertical swipe. It came away from Runs-His-Ponies’s torso bright with blood, the old warrior staggering backward, eyes wide in disbelief. Gabe didn’t give him time to recover. Leaping forward, his knife flashed once more.
There was a cry of rage from the onlookers as Runs-His-Ponies’s knife tumbled from his fingers. The Indian’s right hand seemed to dangle helplessly from the wrist, the severed tendons gleaming white as bone in the firelight.
“Shit fire,” Henry grunted.
Arlen swallowed hard, feeling suddenly queasy.
Runs-His-Ponies tried to back away but Gabe wouldn’t let him. He kept crowding the old warrior, while the tip of his knife gouged one small hole after another into the Indian’s body.
“Why doesn’t … ?” Arlen started to say, but Henry jabbed him hard in the ribs and he shut up.
A murmur of angry disapproval rippled through the Shoshone spectators, but no one attempted to interfere. This was between Runs-His-Ponies and Gabe Carville, and to halt it now, with Runs-His-Ponies losing, would only bring disgrace to the old Indian. Even Arlen understood that.
When Runs-His-Ponies finally stopped backing away, Arlen thought surely Gabe would run him through with his long blade. But Gabe stopped, too, as a low, eerie wail bubbled from the Indian’s blood-pinkened lips. The crowd fell silent until only Runs-His-Ponies voice could be heard, growing stronger even as his body weakened.
“It’s his death song,” Henry explained to Arlen. “The old boy knows he’s goin’ under.”
Arlen couldn’t move, could hardly breathe. It was as if Runs-His-Ponies’s wavering song had cast a spell over everyone. Even Gabe had lowered his dripping knife to stand several feet away, his chest heaving. Runs-His-Ponies lifted his eyes to the twinkling canopy of stars overhead, and, in that instant, a falling star streaked across the night sky, brighter than any Arlen had ever seen. There was a gasp from the Shoshones as the light in the sky quickly faded. Then Runs-His-Ponies fell as if his soul had been sucked out of him, dead before he hit the ground.
At Arlen’s side, Henry Reese breathed: “Aw, shit.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Buck squinted into the blasting glare of sunlight. The land lay flat before him, the road a pale scar winding through the tall sage. His dry lips and parched throat reminded him that he would have to dig his canteen out of the mess wagon tonight and fill it at the Portneuf. Although still only April, the days were growing unseasonably warm.
He turned at the sound of an approaching horse, smiling as Dulce rode up, although her own expression was strained. “Is it all right if I ride with you for a while?” she asked.
“It would be my pleasure. I’ve been wanting to ask you about last night, anyway.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Is that all you wanted?”
“No, I like your company, too.”
His reply seemed to appease her somewhat, and her face lost some of its stiffness. “I suppose you’re talking about her highness’s latest disturbance,” she inquired.
“Milo says Gwen scared off a prowler.”
“She says she scared off a prowler. For all anyone knows, it could have been one of the men talking a stroll.”
“They ran off when Collins got up to investigate,” Buck reminded her.
“So you believe her?”
“If someone was sneaking around out there, they likely weren’t up to any good.”
“Unless Miss Priss was feeling neglected and looking for attention.”
Frowning, Buck said: “You think she made it up?”
“I think she’s been making up quite a bit of stuff,” Dulce replied coolly. “Including her position with Bannock Mining as its representative.”
Dulce had a point there. Buck thought. There was something out of kilter about Gwen’s presence in Corinne and her claim that she was there at her father’s request.
“Do we even know she is Robert Haywood’s daughter?” Dulce demanded. “For all we know, she could be a Crowley and Luce agent.”
“There’s something shady about the way she showed up,” Buck acknowledged, “but I’m not ready to brand her a spy just yet. She seems too spoiled for that kind of work.”
“Too spoiled, or too attractive?” Dulce broached.
Laughing, Buck said: “Don’t let Gwen Haywood get in your craw.”
“What makes you think she’s in my craw?”
“The way you look at me when I’m talking to her alone. Like you want to skin my hide and peg it to a wall. Besides, I’m thinking she just does it to annoy you. Gwen’s the kind of person who likes to smack a hornet’s nest with a club, just to see what comes out … as long as it’s someone else getting stung.”
“She can be so sweet at times,” Dulce admitted. “Almost like a friend, then.…” She made a growling noise in her throat. “Then she’ll do something so annoying I’d just like to grab her and give her a good shake.”
“Well, this trip isn’t over yet,” Buck said. “Maybe you’ll get your chance.”
“Wouldn’t that upset her privileged little apple cart?” Dulce replied, but when she looked at Buck, there was concern in her eyes. “You aren’t attracted to her, are you?”
“Naw.”
“That came out awfully fast. Have you been thinking about it?”
“The only thing I’ve been thinking about is getting this train to Montana in one piece.”
“She’s pretty, though, don’t you think?”
“Gwen’s kind of like a flashy horse, fun to look at but too delicate to ride. She’s fickle, too. That’d get old real fast.”
Dulce bit her lower lip. “Then what does that make me, if I’m not flashy? Am I an old nag?”
“I’d prefer to think of you as a good, stout Missouri mule,” Buck replied solemnly, then reached over to swat what he could of her bottom, planted in the saddle. “Made for the long haul and the big hitch,” he added, grinning.
“Buchanan McCready,” Dulce scolded, pulling her horse away. Her cheeks were flushed red, but Buck didn’t think she minded nearly as much as she let on. “Don’t you ever do that again,” she said, then lowered her voice, “not in public.”
“This ain’t all that public,” he protested good-naturedly, waving an arm toward the empty horizons. But Dulce was looking behind her now, and, when Buck glanced over his shoulder, he saw that she was staring at Gwen, and that Gwen was staring back.
They pushed on until late, and reached the head of Portneuf Cañon by nightfall. Leading the train to a piece of flat ground bordering the river, below the level of the wide plain they’d spent the day crossing, Buck swung his arm in a circular motion to indicate where he wanted the wagons parked, then got out of the way.
Normally Buck would have cared for Zeke first, then walked the length of the train to check with the crew, but he had something else in mind tonight, and jogged his mule to the southern end of the flat just in time to see Paddy O’Rourke coming in off the road. Reining over to where Ray was already unhitching his leaders. Buck said: “What’s going on with O’Rourke?”
“How would I know?” Ray tossed over his shoulder.
“Has he been falling behind again?”
“He’s back to his old habits, if that’s what you mean. Not that the son-of-a-bitch ever really gave ’em up in the first place. Bastard was a quarter mile behind me the last couple of hours, maybe more.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Buck promised, annoyed that Milo hadn’t already taken care of the problem.
“Be quicker to shoot him,” Ray opined, turning his leaders loose, then moving on to the next span. “He might listen better if he was dead. Sure as hell couldn’t do any worse.”
“I’ll talk to him,” Buck repeated, but reined Zeke in the opposite direction. He rode along the edge of a sprawling thicket of wild plums that were starting to leaf out until he’d put some distance between him and the wagons, then he climbed the steep bench to the south, topping out well east of the Montana Road. There wasn’t much light left by now. A few stars were twinkling in the east, but, behind him, along the narrow Port-neuf River, there was only shadow against shadow as the men cared for their stock.
Buck rode slowly through the short grass, grateful for the solitude. His destination was a nearby butte of volcanic rock. Butte, he supposed, was a bit of a stretch in everything except its classic form—sheer-sided, flat-topped, capped with a thin layer of soil grown over with grama and prickly pear. Barely wide enough to hide one of Ray’s big Schuttlers, it nevertheless offered a clear view all the way south to the Malads.
Leaving Zeke ground-tied at the bottom, Buck climbed a rocky trail along the butte’s north wall that he’d used before. On top, he walked to the far end, then stopped to stare back along the pale trace of the road. It was as he’d feared. From here, he could make out the fires of no less than five separate outfits coming up behind them. Two were about where John King’s roadhouse would be, at the foot of the Malads. Two more were still on the mountain, little pin pricks of yellow light against the low ridge. The fifth lay to the southeast, along the Franklin Road.
“So you finally made it to the race,” Buck said softly.
As if in answer, he heard a low scuff of leather on stone and whirled with his hand darting to his pistol, his pulse quickening. At the head of the rocky footpath, a figure paused uncertainly. “You wanting to be alone, boss?” Milo asked.
The Long Hitch Page 15
