The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  Buck let his hand drop away from the Colt. “What’s going on?”

  “Nothing. I saw you slip away and thought maybe there was trouble. When I saw your mule standing there alone, I wondered what you were looking at. It wasn’t until I got up here that it dawned on me that maybe all you wanted was some peace and quiet.” He came forward uninvited, his hat brim bobbing toward the distant fires. “They’re closing the gap.”

  “There’s only one outfit we need to worry about,” Buck said. “I figure that’s them off to the left.”

  “You reckon?”

  “We’ll know for sure tomorrow. Soon as it’s light, I want you to ride back and take a look. If it’s not Crowley and Luce, we’ll be in good shape. If it is, then they’re close and we’ll need to worry. A few more delays like the two we’ve already had and they could overtake us.”

  “I’ve been thinking that maybe it’s a good thing the boys know that what happened to Peewee yesterday day wasn’t an accident. It could help them keep on their toes.”

  “It might.”

  After a short silence, Milo said: “The reason I wanted to talk to you is that I’ve been getting the feeling you’re trying to throw a wrench into my romance with Miss Haywood.”

  “You don’t have a romance with Miss Haywood,” Buck told him. “Not while you’re ramrodding for the Box K.”

  “Now, I just might have to argue with that, boss. Truth is, I kind of like her, and not just because of those pretty blue eyes, either.”

  “Her daddy’s money wouldn’t have anything to do with it, would it?”

  Milo chuckled. “Well, that could account for some of it, I suppose, but the fact is, she’s got a spark I kind of like in a woman, and money’s got nothing to do with that.”

  “What happens when she goes back to Philadelphia?” Buck asked. “We both know she’s going to get tired of all this heat and dust. Sooner or later, she’ll want to go home and have her maid draw her a bath. Where do you think you’ll fit into her plans then?”

  Milo’s teeth flashed white in the gloaming. “Why, you never know. I might just talk her into staying. Or better yet, maybe I’ll let her talk me into going back East with her. I believe I could get used to a maid drawing my bath. If she’s pretty enough, I’d let her scrub my back.”

  “You might as well try to rope the moon,” Buck said, chuckling despite himself.

  “Shoot, you’ve been sparking Dulce too long. You’ve forgotten the thrill of the chase.”

  “You just leave Dulce out of this,” Buck said curtly, then fixed the ramrod with an accusing eye. “Why is O’Rourke falling behind again?”

  Milo’s smiled faded. “That Irish bastard’s been falling behind a little more each day. I’ve told you that.”

  “Dammit, don’t tell me, tell O’Rourke. I want him to keep up.”

  “I say we let the Shoshones have his scalp.”

  “No,” Buck said bluntly. “Not as long as he’s part of the Box K.”

  “All right,” Milo conceded. “I’ll talk to him tomorrow.”

  “Talk to him tonight.”

  The last of the good humor left Milo’s face, and his eyes went flat. He started to turn away, then swung back. “I figure you ought to know that some of the independents are starting to wonder if you’re going to have what it takes to get this train to Montana. Kroll’s saying a kid like you … a squirt, is what he’s calling you … won’t be up to the task.”

  “I know what Mitch Kroll thinks. It’s you I’m starting to wonder about.”

  “You got no cause to wonder about me, although I guess I can understand why you would, what with me being new and all the hard luck that’s been dogging us. But you need to know that Kroll’s going to challenge you pretty soon.”

  Buck felt as if another weight had been added to his shoulders. “I’d figured as much,” he said finally. “Has he picked a place yet?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Of course, I’m not privy to everything him and Mead and O’Rourke talk about.”

  “Where’d you hear this?”

  “Little Ed got it from Garth Lang, then told me.”

  “Kroll, Mead, and O’Rourke?”

  “Lang, too. He’s a part of that bunch. They’ll be a splinter in your butt until you fight one of them, convince them you’re more than Jock Kavanaugh’s pet wagon boss. I guess you know it’ll be Kroll you’ll have to fight, too.”

  “You tell O’Rourke that I want him to keep up with the train. Tell him that if he doesn’t, I’ll start docking his pay.”

  Milo shrugged. “I’ll tell him,” he said, walking away.

  Buck tarried a while longer, mulling over the strange connection between Kroll, Mead, O’Rourke, and Lang. Was it just coincidence, or something more? Sighing, he made his way down the rocky trail. Zeke was still at the bottom, having wandered off only a few yards in search of grass. Buck gathered his reins above the black’s withers and was stretching his toe for the stirrup when he noticed a solitary figure at the edge of the bench above the plum thicket. At first he thought it was Milo. Then the figure darted away and Buck realized it was too tall and slim for Milo, too slope-shouldered.

  “Hey!” Buck shouted, stepping away from his mule. “Come back here!”

  The figure dropped over the edge of the bench, disappearing into the shadows.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” Buck grated, drawing his Colt and sprinting after the fleeing form. He reached the edge of the bench just as the tall shape ducked into the brush along the river. Buck plunged after him, taking the steep bank in yard-long strides. The wagons were a hundred yards to his left, near the west end of the thicket. Buck approached the tangled growth of wild plums at an angle, hoping to cut off the bolter before he reached the train, but the thorny, loose-barked limbs were too entwined to force a swift passage, and when he finally stopped to listen, only the sounds of the distant camp came to his ears, muted, serene.

  Buck backed out the way he’d gone in, emerging scratched and bloodied, his shirt ripped from elbow to wrist along one sleeve from the sharp thorns. He clambered part way up the side of the bench until he could see over the top of the thicket, but there was no movement to give away the tall man’s escape, and Buck knew that whoever it was had either made it back to camp undetected or, if he wasn’t a part of the crew, had mounted up and ridden in the opposite direction.

  Returning the revolver to its holster, Buck tried to recall as much as he could of the fleeing suspect, but the moment had been too brief. Only one thing stood out clearly—that in flight, the tall figure reminded him sharply of the man he had seen running away that night along the Bear River, after taking a shot at him and Dulce.

  Buck couldn’t match the loping shape to anyone on the train. It could have been Lyle Mead or Garth Lang or even Thad Collins, but then it could have also been Joe Perry or Ray Jones. Even Lou Kitledge bore a slight resemblance to the hazy form locked in Buck’s memory.

  Returning to Zeke’s side, Buck stepped wearily into the saddle. But he didn’t rein immediately toward camp. He sat there a while, recalling that evening on the Bear, the yellow flashes of gunfire and the angry, wasp-like sound of bullets passing close. He thought of the two accidents that had already occurred, nearly costing Peewee his life. He recalled Mase’s death and the murders of Lotty Beals and Sally Hayes, and the shots fired at him last night by Nick Kelso, and he knew with a sickening certainty that before this was journey was over, before they reached their final destination, someone else would die. It seemed inevitable.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Arlen flinched and ducked as Gabe Carville’s scratchy voice came over the rim of the creekbank like a volley of razor-sharp pieces of flint. He hadn’t known the leathery old mountain man was back. Now that he did, a feeling of dread enveloped him. For a long time he had hated the way Gabe and Henry made him feel. Like he was not quite right, not quite human. That had changed drastically after last night.

  Runs-His-Ponies’s death wasn’t the first Ar
len had witnessed, but it was surely the most gruesome. Even now, he almost gagged on the image of the Indian’s corpse—the scalp lifted, ears severed, legs and arms split to the bone. And the Shoshones had stood by silently, allowing Gabe his ghastly play.

  “He’s earned it,” Henry had spoken into Arlen’s ear even as Gabe continued his mutilations. “These ol’ boys don’t like it”— he’d nodded toward the knot of warriors who hadn’t walked away after Runs-His-Ponies ’s death—“but they know it was an old feud ’twix Gabe and Runs-His-Ponies, and they’ll let it happen. Like I would’ve if Runs-His-Ponies had won.”

  Squatting now beside the nameless creek to fill a hide bucket with sun-warmed water, Arlen shuddered. Yesterday when he’d performed this task, the creekbank had been alive with women and children going about their own domestic chores. Today it was deserted, the flat above uninhabited save for their own miserable shelter of rank-smelling deer hides draped carelessly over a pole frame.

  The Shoshones had pulled out during the night, leaving behind only refuse, stone teepee rings, and the dark, dusty ground where Runs-His-Ponies had bled out.

  Gabe had been saddling his horse, threatening to wipe out the whole damned Shoshone nation, when Arlen awoke that morning, “I’ll bring back Tall Bear and his boys or know the reason why,” Gabe had declared loudly. “By God, them redskins owes me.”

  “They won’t calculate it that way,” Henry had drawled. “Not after the way ye gutted Tall Bear’s brother last night.”

  “Then mebbe I’ll just gut me a few more fer breakfast,” Gabe had replied defiantly, jerking his horse around. “Ye ’n’ dumb-ass get them ponies packed. We’re likely gonna haf to pull out quick when I get back.” He grinned wolfishly. “I gettin’ half froze fer a fight, Henry, by God if I ain’t.”

  “Go on,” Henry had said disgustedly. “Git it outta ye system. I got some ponderin’ to do.”

  “Wagh!” Gabe had roared, driving his heels into his mount’s ribs. “I’ll be back afore midmorning, boys!” he’d yelled as he raced away.

  Gabe was going after Tall Bear, whose countenance had nearly drained the blood from Arlen’s face the first time he laid eyes on the battle-scarred old warrior. Lord God, but no amount of argument could make him see the logic in that. It was like putting a noose around your neck and jumping out of a hayloft, convinced to your core that the center pole would break at the appropriate moment.

  Now Gabe was back, alive but unhappy. “I’ll kill that sorry-ass ’coon, next I see ’im,” Gabe was ranting. “Should ’a’ done it today.”

  “They’d’ve killed ye, Gabe, if ye did,” Henry replied reasonably. “Runs-His-Ponies was different on account of that Paiute squaw ye ’n’ him tussled over, but ye won’t walk away from that kind of fight again.”

  “I ain’t seed a redskin yet can best me in a fight, Henry … knives, fists, or powder-’n’-ball. Where’s dumb-ass?”

  Arlen cringed, gave fleeting thought to concealment, then sighed and stood. “Down here,” he said. “I was getting water.”

  “What’n hell’s takin’ ye so long?” Gabe demanded, then guffawed contemptuously. “Have trouble findin’ the creek, did ye?”

  “I was waiting for fresh.”

  Gabe shook his head at the absurdity of such a comment. “Fresh what, ye dolt? The snow’s done melted in these hills. Ye want fresh, ye’ll haf to ride to the high country fer it.” He spat. “Use that water to put out the fire, boy. We’s ridin’.”

  “Where to?” Henry asked.

  That savage grin again, like a man not only comfortable with killing, but partial to it. “Something Runs-His-Ponies said yesterday, ’fore he got persnickety. Said Jimmy Bonner ’n’ his boys is up on the Little Lost River. We’s gonna find ’em, Henry, get ’em to throw in with us.”

  Henry was silent a moment. “Ye give up on throwin’ in with a pack of redskins?” he finally asked. “Kelso made a good point when he said it’d help if folks thought Injuns was behind it.”

  “After what happened last night, I figure my welcome’s plumb wore out amongst the redskins in these parts. ’Sides, we’ll git a bigger share this way.” A smirk twisted Gabe’s features. “Ye ain’t goin’ yeller on me, are ye, Henry?”

  Reese shook his head. “Naw, I ain’t turnin’ yellow. Hell, no! Go fetch the horses while me ’n’ dumb-ass get the packs throwed together.”

  “Wagh” Gabe grunted with satisfaction, pulling his mount around.

  As he rode away, Henry wagged his head. “He’s a crazy damn’ fool, ye know that, don’t ye, dumb-ass?”

  “Who?” Arlen asked meekly, not sure if he should speak at all. “Gabe or Jimmy Bonner?”

  “Both, when ye come down on it. Bonner ’cause he’s Bonner, and crazy is what he is, and Gabe ’cause he wants to throw in with the bastard.” He glanced at Arlen. “I’ll tell ye this, too, I ain’t lookin’ forward to it. You shouldn’t, either. Jim Bonner ain’t as easy-goin’ as me ’n’ Gabe. That boy’s just pure-devil mean, and likely to get us all killed ’fore this is through.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  They made it through Portneuf Cañon in a single day and camped that night within sight of the towering cottonwoods that marked the junction of the Portneuf and Snake Rivers, several miles to the north. Buck ordered the train to camp on top of a rocky flat, then rode off alone as he had the night before. There was a low knob a couple of hundred yards to the east, and he dismounted there and loosened Zeke’s cinch so that the mule could graze more comfortably.

  Sitting on the knob with his elbows over his knees, Buck watched the caravan settle into its usual formation of two long columns, with a corridor down the middle that could be roped off in case they needed to corral the mules. From here, he considered the six men he thought could fit the shape of the man he’d seen running away last night. There was Lyle Mead, Garth Lang, Thad Collins, Joe Perry, Ray Jones, and Lou Kit-ledge. They were all tall enough and lean enough to match the fleeing form, but it was difficult to think of any of them as the man who had deliberately disabled Peewee’s hitch not once, but twice. They were all good hands, steady with their mules and quick about their evening chores. Even the two most sullen among them, Mead and Lang, had given Buck no cause for suspicion.

  He sighed, only half aware that he did. The sun was below the horizon, spiking the western sky with hues of fiery red, cotton-soft gold, and gentle turquoise. Zeke lifted his head and whickered questioningly as Dulce left the wagons and started toward them. She was on foot but wearing her pistol, a little .32 Smith & Wesson, in a holster belted tightly around her waist.

  “It’s getting kind of late in the day to go bear hunting, isn’t it?” Buck asked as she came up.

  Dulce smiled. “Papa insisted I bring it, and, with everything that’s happened of late, I decided I should start wearing it.” She stopped in front of him and he stood and wrapped his arms around her waist. “I’ve been wondering when you’ll come to supper,” she murmured in his ear, putting her arms around his neck.

  “I know. I guess I don’t have much of an excuse.”

  Her breath was warm on his neck. “You don’t need an excuse, Mister McCready, but you do need to make an effort. I’ve started to think you’re avoiding me.”

  “I’ve been pretty busy,” he said.

  “Apparently.” She leaned back to peer into his eyes, and he tensed defensively. “What do you think about all the time?” she asked. “Do you still believe a traitor lurks among us?”

  “I don’t think there’s any doubt of that.”

  Her expression lost some of its gentleness. “Do you have any suspects?”

  “Yeah, too many.”

  She tightened her hold on his neck. “Do you realize this is the first time we’ve been alone since we left Corinne?”

  “I know, I’ve been.…”

  “Busy,” she finished for him, lowering her arms. “Yes, I believe you’ve mentioned that.”

  He studied her as closely as the fading li
ght would allow. He wasn’t surprised by the abrupt turn of her mood, having witnessed it so often in the past, but it saddened him tonight, heaped on top of everything else he’d had to deal with lately. “It can’t be helped, Dulce,” he said patiently. “You knew what it would be like before we started.”

  “Perhaps the fault lies with your abilities as a wagon master,” she suggested acidly. “I wonder, are all captains so overwhelmed by their duties?”

  Buck let his hands drop from her waist. He didn’t know what had triggered her temper, but past experience told him it could have been anything if she was already feeling tired or put out.

  Turning away, she tossed aloofly over her shoulder, “Come to supper sometime, Captain. I assure you, I wouldn’t keep you from your all-important responsibilities overly long.”

  Buck kept his silence as she walked away. He supposed he should go after her. There were rattlers in the sage and cougars prowled the hills, half starved after the long, wet winter, but he decided to let those creatures fend for themselves if they should cross her path in the darkness. As for himself, he was too weary to attempt it.

  Milo returned around midnight, guiding his spotted molly between the wagons and dismounting at the first mess. Buck pushed his blankets back and quickly his boots. Peewee met them at the fire, already dressed. “Hungry?” the muleskinner asked.

  “Hungry enough to chew the rim off a wagon wheel,” Milo confessed, flipping a stirrup over the saddle to loosen the cinch. He nodded cheerfully to Buck. “Howdy, boss.”

  “Howdy,” Buck replied, shrugging into his jacket. “What’s news?”

  “What you figured it’d be. Crowley and Luce is the third outfit back, maybe twenty miles behind us but looking fresh as daisies. There’s a Salt Lake Freight and a Leavitt Brothers train between us and them. Leavitt’s is just inside the mouth of Port-neuf Cañon, hauling light and making good time. I reckon they’ll pass us in another day or so.”