The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  “It ain’t bad,” Rossy replied self-consciously. “I can work well enough.”

  “So I noticed. How’d you like a promotion?”

  Rossy’s head came up cautiously. “What kind of promotion?”

  “Paddy O’Rourke’s dead. I need a linesman for the mud wagon. Think you can handle the job with a bum leg?”

  Rossy’s expression brightened, then just as quickly dimmed. He glanced around at his father’s approach. “Pa, I … Mister McCready offered me a job. That is, if you don’t need my help here.”

  “I heard,” Nate replied, staring hard at his son. “Now let me ask you somethin’. Just what makes you think I don’t need your help? You think I been draggin’ you along all these years ’cause I liked your cookin’?”

  Nate looked at Buck, scowling fiercely. “You actually figure this pup can handle that kind of responsibility?”

  “I figure he can,” Buck replied evenly.

  “And you’re gonna pay him for it?”

  “Pay him the same as any other muleskinner, sixty a month and enough work to make an old man out of him before he’s thirty.”

  Nate snorted. “Sixty a month? That’s top-hand wages, Buck. Ain’t you watched this boy work?”

  Rossy’s gaze rose to meet his father’s, his eyes swimming with confusion.

  “Yeah, I’ve watched him,” Buck said. “That’s why I offered him the job.”

  “And you figure the other drivers won’t quit when they hear how much you’re payin’ him?”

  Buck grinned. “Naw, I don’t think they’ll quit. You all right with this, Nate?”

  Now it was Nate’s turn to smile. He looked at his son with a warmth Buck found oddly disconcerting. Mase had never looked at him that way, not even when he was a peach-cheeked kid learning the ropes. Of course. Mase hadn’t been his father.

  “What about it, Roscoe?” Nate asked. “You want this job, or do you intend to ride your daddy’s coattails the rest of your days?”

  “I want the job, if you can get along without me,” Rossy said, hope glimmering in his eyes.

  Nate clamped a large, work-scarred hand affectionately on his boy’s shoulder. “Oh, I reckon I can muddle along. Might have to do what I was doin’ before you was hatched, like what everybody else around here does day in and day out without a pup gettin’ underfoot every time he turns around.”

  “Go get that coach hitched,” Buck said, laughing when Rossy hobbled off with a boyish yell, his limp barely slowing him.

  “No fancy stuff!” Nate hollered after him. “You’re a Box K man now, and Box K men’s got no need for showin’ off.” Nate sighed and looked at Buck. “It’s kind of discombobulatin’ to see your boy runnin’ off after his first full-payin’ job. Makes a man feel old and creaky.”

  “I reckon you’ve got another trip or two left in you,” Buck said, slapping the larger man’s shoulder fondly before moving away.

  Despite their troubles with the wind-skittish mules, the caravan got under way without trouble. It didn’t hurt, Buck supposed, that both mules and men were nearly worn out after their long ordeal with the Bonner gang.

  It was just past 4:00 A.M. when the train jolted back onto the Montana Road. The wind was at their backs now, but no less annoying. Buck kept the train rolling until noon, then called the midday halt. To the north, the distant peaks of the Rocky Mountains were clearly visible, their flanks dark with pines, their rounded summits capped with snow. From here, the mountains didn’t look all that intimidating, but that dulltoothed range was the backbone of the Rockies, the Continental Divide, and the Box K was going straight over the top. A heavy storm of either rain or snow could make the climb grueling—or stop them cold.

  Buck had put Arlen Fleck on top of the mud wagon with Rossy, with the promise that he’d kill the scruffy outlaw slowly and painfully if he so much as harbored a thought of harming the boy or escaping.

  Arlen had laughed at the seriousness of Buck’s tone. “Right now all I want is to live long enough to get back to civilization,” he’d assured the wagon master.

  Now, while the muleskinners lounged beside their wagons and the remuda spread out to graze under the watchful eyes of several armed guards, Buck tramped back to where Arlen was still perched on top of the mud wagon. The bandit held up his manacled wrists as Buck approached, rattling the short length of chain that secured the cuffs to the seat’s low, iron railing. “You boys surprised me!” he called. “I didn’t know mule trains carried their own shackles.”

  Buck stepped up on the front hub to free the chain’s padlock. “Get down,” he ordered.

  Arlen climbed over the side of the box and dropped to the ground. Leading him to the lee of the coach. Buck handed him some bread and bacon and a canteen of water. Arlen studied him curiously as he settled, cross-legged, beside the front wheel. “You ain’t gonna hang me, are you? Jones said you would.”

  “Ray Jones would. I haven’t made up my mind yet.”

  “Maybe we can make us a deal, McCready. I tell you what you want to know and you let me go?”

  “How about this? You tell me what I want to know and I won’t turn Ray and Mitch loose on you tonight. You’ve heard of Mitch Kroll, haven’t you?”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of him. That the big fella that rode in with us?”

  “That’s him.”

  “I didn’t know he drove for the Box K, but I don’t guess it matters. Dead’s pretty much dead. It don’t much scare me no more.”

  “One of your bunch killed Mitch’s nephew the other night and he wants you to pay for it.”

  Arlen shrugged as if it didn’t matter, but Buck could tell that he was wavering. “I didn’t kill anyone,” Arlen said quietly, staring at the ground. “I didn’t even fire my pistol.”

  “I doubt if that’d matter to Mitch.”

  Arlen’s shoulders slumped. “All right, what do you want to know? I already told you I didn’t see who killed Campbell.”

  “It ain’t Mase I’m asking about,” Buck said, squatting on his heels a few feet away. “It’s something you said yesterday, about

  Mexico.”

  Arlen nodded warily. “The Chihuahua mutiny?”

  “Yeah, tell me about that. Tell me everything you know.”

  They met Lew Walker’s returning caravan shortly before noon the next day. The two outfits passed with friendly greetings and good-natured ribbing between the muleskinners, but they didn’t stop. In freighting, success was measured in days rather than tonnage, and no train worth its axle grease would stop without good cause.

  Lew was a large man with broad shoulders and a horseman’s narrow waist and hips. He was in his sixties now, but he was still as quick and tough as a cougar. Breaking away from his caravan, he met Buck in the sage beside the road, his expression sympathetic as he shook the younger man’s hand. “I’m sorry as hell about Mase,” Lew said. “I reckon he was pretty much a pa to you.”

  “Pretty much,” Buck agreed, although it wasn’t Mase who came to mind with Lew’s use of the word pa, but the easy interaction between Nate and Rossy.

  “It had to be a rotten scoundrel who shot him,” Lew opined, his voice roughening. “You ever find the son-of-a-bitch, you let me know and I’ll help you kill him.”

  Buck nodded politely even as he was eyeing Lew’s returning wagons. “What have they got for us in Montana?”

  “I’m hauling lumber and rough-grade ore. I told Fred Sweeny you’d be along in another week or so, looking for a load to haul south. He said he’d put something together for you.”

  “What’s the road like?”

  “She’s rough as a cob going over Monida. It was all right northbound, but we pulled a lot of mud on the way back.” He glanced behind him at the sky. “I’m thinking it’s puckering up to storm. That’ll mean snow in the high country, and, cold as it is up there right now, it could dump a heap of it.”

  It was late April, but Buck had seen it snow in Virginia City in June more than once. “Well, I
reckon it’ll do what it does,” Buck said philosophically. The caravans had passed each other now, leaving the two captains alone with just the blowing wind for company. Pulling Zeke’s head out of a clump of grass, Buck added: “Have a safe trip, Lew. I’ll see you on the way back.”

  “Buck.…” The older man’s nostrils flared above his mustache. “You watch yourself, boy, watch your back. The whole damn’ road’s heard about the trouble you’re having, and whoever’s doing it, whoever killed Mase, they won’t hesitate to do the same to you. They’re running out of time and they know it.”

  “We’re watching,” Buck assured him. “All the boys are.”

  “Good,” Lew said gruffly. He thrust out a hand and they shook farewell, parting without further conversation. It would be like that the next time they met; too—a few shared words; then back to their jobs. They’d do that three or four times a year; before winter shut them down for the season.

  Buck loped after his own caravan, swinging wide through the sage to avoid the dust that billowed from the wagons’ massive wheels. The dust would have been nearly intolerable if not for the wind that swept it away, although Buck figured most of the crew would have preferred the fine grit of the road to the buffeting zephyrs that had been pummeling them the past couple of days.

  Monida Pass lay starkly before them, their last major hurdle. After that, it would all be downhill, five more days into Virginia City—assuming the weather held. As the train entered the broad mouth of Monida Cañon, Buck thought it didn’t look very promising. Twisting in his saddle, he motioned Milo up beside him. “Grab some supplies and ride ahead. I want to know how much of a lead Crowley and Luce have on us.”

  “Hell, they’ve got a good twenty-four hours on us,” Milo said.

  “They might’ve slowed down after they passed us the other day. I want to know exactly where they are.”

  When Milo was gone. Buck shucked his jacket and laid it across his saddlebows. It was less than half a mile inside the cañon when the walls abruptly narrowed, rising higher and steeper on either side. The road ran alongside a creek, crossing it from time to time, but even in the midst of spring run-off, its waters were neither deep nor threatening. The temperature inside the cañon was pleasant, the winds calm after the high desert tempest they’d left behind, but, after only a couple of hours, the thin, blue band of sky that ran a serpentine path above them began to dull. Clouds the color of dirty laundry water rolled in, and the air turned heavy and moist. It was warm, but Buck knew that wouldn’t last. Riding back to Peewee’s side, he ordered the muleskinner to pick up the pace. “We’re pulling on borrowed time now,” he said.

  Peewee shot him a worried look, but that was all. As Buck jogged back to his usual spot a hundred yards in front of the train, he heard the muleskinner’s whip popping loudly, urging his animals on at a quickened gait.

  They were barely halfway up the cañon when night fell. Retrieving a lantern from the mess wagon, Buck took a position just in front of Peewee’s leaders, guiding the mules with its light. In the darkness along the cañon floor, no one could make out much, but the muleskinners trusted their mules and the mules followed the trailers in front of them without fear. Buck kept them at it until midnight before he called a halt.

  The men cared for their stock, then retreated to their separate messes, already grumbling about the late hour and the early dawn to follow. Buck found Peewee, Ray, Charlie, and Joe at the first mess. “If we can get on top by noon tomorrow, we ought to make Red Rock Creek by dark. The trail will drop pretty quick after that.”

  “That’s a hell of a climb to make by noon,” Charlie rebutted, his expression sullen.

  “It can be done,” Buck said. “The sooner we get over the top, the better our odds of not getting snowed in. Even a few hours can make a difference this time of year.”

  Peewee cleared his throat hesitantly. “Fact is, some of us been talkin’, Buck, and we’re thinkin’ that pushin’ like we’re doin’ is gonna hurt our teams. You got to remember that most of these mules was run hard by Bonner’s men and never was given time to recover from that.”

  “No one’s reporting a lame mule,” Buck pointed out.

  “It ain’t what’s happened so far that’s worryin’ us,” Ray said. “It’s what’s gonna happen if we don’t slow the hell down. What we done today would’ve been too much on level ground, and this sure as shit ain’t level. Keep this up and we’ll have mules turning gimpy before we ever reach the top.”

  “I don’t think so,” Buck replied, struggling to keep his tone nonconfrontational. “The stock can take some pushing.”

  Peewee and Ray exchanged frustrated glances, and Joe said: “Buck, ain’t nobody going to hold our losing this race against you. Hell, we all know what happened. Most outfits would’ve still been stranded back there, after having their stock run off like we did. You’ve done everything Mase could’ve done and more.”

  Buck’s gaze narrowed dangerously above the dancing flames of the fire. “I ain’t Mase, Joe,” he said evenly, “and I intend to get this train through on schedule. We may not beat Crowley and Luce any more, but I plan to be scraping the mud off their hind wheels when we roll into Virginia City.”

  An uneasy silence greeted Buck’s blunt reply. He didn’t think any of the men were expecting it. Before anyone could respond, a gust of wind swept down the cañon, flattening their fire and stirring up a litter of ash. Holding out his hand, Buck felt a drop of rain glance off his thumb. He could hear it behind him, too, pattering lightly against the wagon canvas like mice in the attic. Lowering his hand, he said: “It’s raining, gents, and, like as not, it’ll be snowing by dawn. I’d suggest you eat your suppers and go to bed. We’re going to need all the strength we have before this is over.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Hawley City sat draped across the rocky brow of a low hill like a fallen flag. It was surrounded on three sides by thick forest, and to the west by a timbered mountain range still blanketed in snow. Despite its designation as a “city,” Hawley was little more than an overgrown mining camp. Most of its dozen or so businesses were constructed of canvas tenting rather than lumber, and its single street seemed to meander with no more forethought than that of a wandering beetle. Less than twenty yards to the north, the once pristine Pine Creek was lined with piles of earthen rubble, its water thick with silt.

  Guiding his horse down the middle of the street, Nick Kelso marveled at the miners swarming over their gravel heaps like frenzied ants, every damned one of them convinced that this would be their last season scraping their knuckles raw in icy streams. And every damned one of them a first-class fool, Nick thought. He knew their luck would never change. Born dumb, they would die the same way, still gullibly believing that one more season would see them rich beyond their wildest dreams.

  Nick had given up on such fantasies years ago, knowing that a wise man made his own luck—or took it from others weaker than him.

  Swinging down in front of the Nugget Saloon, he wrapped his reins around a crooked pine rail, then unbuttoned his coat to free access to his revolver. The Nugget was constructed of unpeeled logs, its sod roof grown over with grass and weeds that were being whipped about in the wind. There were no windows, but the lamplight that spilled past the propped-open front door looked inviting in the gathering dusk. Nick glanced briefly at the dark, turbulent clouds building up in the northwest and was glad he’d made it in tonight. He hadn’t been looking forward to another desolate camp alone on the high desert.

  Inside, he ordered a bottle of whiskey, then went in search of a place to drink it. He found a table in back that seemed barely sturdy enough to support the bottle, then sank into a chair that didn’t feel much stronger. A hungry gleam came into his eyes as he poured his first shot, and, for a moment, all seemed right. Then the image of Jim Bonner rose in his mind and Nick’s mood plummeted. He threw the drink against the back of his throat. “By God,” he rasped, glaring at the scarred table top, “I’ll kill that son-of-
a-bitch the next time I see him.”

  Arlen Fleck’s face swam before his mind’s eye, too, and the almost disdainful cast of the runt’s weasel-thin face as Nick rode out of the raiders’ camp made his blood boil. By God, there was another one he would look forward to killing.

  Nick slumped back in his chair, envisioning the look of surprise on Fleck’s face when his bullet drilled between the scrawny man’s eyes. Nick was still musing on the subject an hour later when a slope-shouldered whore with thin blonde hair approached his table.

  “Hidy, honey,” she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down. She was skinny as a bean pole and none too pretty, but Nick still might have been interested if she hadn’t just come from the side of a curly-haired buck in tattered clothes.

  “What’s the matter?” he growled. “That dirt-grubbing tin pan too broke to afford you?”

  She glanced at the young miner and shrugged. “His charms is lacking,” she allowed, “although he promised that, if I let him have a free one tonight, he’d pay me double as soon as his claim started paying off.”

  That struck Nick as funny and he laughed along with the whore at the curly-haired youth’s innocence. The boy looked their way as if he suspected they were talking about him, and Nick raised his whiskey in a taunting salute, causing the kid’s face to flush.

  “The world is full of idjits,” the whore said offhandedly, eyeing Nick’s bottle. Its level had dropped noticeably since he’d started drinking. “You wanna share a sip with a lady?” she asked.

  “First, you pay,” Nick replied, grinning brashly.

  The whore’s eyes flashed white-hot. “I ain’t buyin’ no damn’ drink when they’s plenty around who’d give me one for free.”

  “It’s just business, sweetheart,” he said. “Like the business you and I are going to conduct in a couple of minutes.”