“It’d take a heap of work to keep it fit for wagon traffic,” Buck agreed. He looked past the wash to the flat plain of the Ruby Valley still several miles away. They were over halfway there by now, and Buck thought that if they could reach the more forgiving ground of the valley’s floor before nightfall, they stood a chance.
They weren’t quite done when the caravan came up this time, but Buck waved for Peewee to stay with his wagons. It took only a few more minutes to finish the job, then he and Milo creaked back into their saddles. Buck was riding through a fog of pain and fatigue; nothing seemed real any more other than the throbbing of his tortured body.
The next two washes were relatively easy, and as the sun began its descent behind the western mountains. Buck’s hopes started to rise. But as they approached the last wash before the land flattened out, a sense of foreboding overcame him. Glancing at Milo, he saw the same expression of dread there, but it wasn’t until they reached the edge of the wash that the gravity of this final hurdle became clear to them.
“Aw, no,” Milo breathed, his shoulders slumping.
“Son-of-a-bitch,” Buck whispered in disbelief, staring mutely into a yawning crevice at least fifteen feet deep and no fewer than twelve across. It might as well have been a cañon.
“I guess this is it,” Milo ventured, watching Buck out of the corner of his eye.
Buck nodded dully. It had been a good race, but Milo was right. This finished it.
With the sun down and the train ground to a halt, the mules began to grow fidgety. They wanted to rest. Their bodies craved it, their spirits needed it, but Buck was reluctant to grant it. Squatting on his haunches at the edge of the gulch, he eyed the far bank for probably the hundredth time. Even with everyone working together, he knew it would take all night just to knock the banks down enough to squeeze a buckboard across. To hammer out a path stable enough to bear the weight of a freight outfit hauling up to six tons of cargo.… He shook his head in frustration. They’d gambled and it seemed they’d lost. Apparently it was going to be just that simple.
“What now, Buck?” Peewee asked gently.
“I reckon we’ll camp here tonight. We can decide tomorrow whether we want to backtrack or take time to carve out a crossing.”
“Carve a crossing?” Ray made a sound of disgust. “Hell, we’d need a bridge to get a wagon over this thing. Buck.”
“Well, we sure ain’t building no bridge,” Charlie Bigelow retorted.
“I didn’t say we was,” Ray snapped, his flaring temper reflecting the disappointment they all felt. But Buck was no longer listening. He was staring at the slopes of the Ruby Range. There were trees up there—tall, straight pines that could easily span this final obstacle. But it would take so long, he mused, recalling how hard it had been just to snake in the logs for their runners.
“Let’s get the mules hobbled and fed,” Milo said, stepping between Ray and Charlie before their spat could escalate. “We’ll run separate messes tonight.…”
“We could do it,” Buck said, standing. Milo shut up, and the rest of the crew turned to him with questioning looks. “We could do it,” he repeated.
“Do what?” Milo asked.
“Build a bridge.”
An uneasy silence greeted his declaration. Peewee said: “Sure we could. We can start first thing in the morning if that’s what you want to do.”
“Naw,” Buck said, his voice rising with excitement. “We could do it tonight, in a few hours.”
Almost as one, the muleskinners glanced at the darkening slopes of the Ruby Mountains. “They’re awfully steep, boss,” Milo said tentatively. “It’d be suicide in the dark.”
But Buck’s gaze was fixed on the gulch, not the mountain. Turning abruptly away from the shadowy chasm, he said: “We’ve already got the timber, Milo, if Nate is still carrying those runners.”
“They’re in my trailer,” Nate replied dubiously.
“They’d be long enough,” Peewee agreed, “but they ain’t gonna be wide enough.”
“We’ve got four of them,” Buck reminded him. “That’ll be enough.” Stepping away from the gulch, he said: “Nate, you and Ray run back to the mess wagon and fetch the toolbox. Bring some hammers and nails, too. Charlie, get someone to help you haul those runners up here.”
“Gawd dammit, Buck, them runners is too narrow,” Ray squawked. “They’re too light, too. You ain’t gonna get a mule to put one foot down on such a jury-rigged contraption.”
“Ray,” Buck said coolly, staring into the muleskinner’s faded blue eyes, “you go get those tools and do it quick.” He looked at others. “Gentlemen, we’re going to build a bridge, and I don’t want anyone else saying it can’t be done. Now let’s get rolling.”
Constructing a makeshift bridge to span the deep, V-shaped gulch wasn’t as complicated as Buck had feared, but it was time-consuming. They paired two runners next to each other with their flat sides up, then secured heavy oak sideboards from Nate’s wagons over the top to hold the runners together and in place, and give the wagons a flat, solid surface. They had to use the holes already drilled for wagon bolts for the nails, since the thick, seasoned planks were too hard to drive a nail through.
Rossy and Arlen drove foot-long iron stakes from the women’s tent into the ground on all three sides of each end of the runners to keep them from sliding out from under the wagons’ massive weight. Two-by-sixes pried from Peewee’s lead wagon, where they had been used to hold the smokestack in place on steep grades, were placed under each span for additional support, their lower ends pounded into the sides of the gulch with sledge-hammers. The result, when they were finished, was a pair of footbridges sixteen inches wide reaching from one side to the other. They were springier in the middle than Buck would have preferred, but not enough that he was willing to call off the operation.
While Buck and half the crew labored on the bridge, others lined up Peewee’s rig with the crossing, then unhitched his trailer so that the wagons could be hauled over one at a time. Meanwhile, Peewee and several others led a couple of teams above the ravine to the far side. They were an hour making the trip, having to climb well up the side of the mountain before they found a deer trail that would take them through the dark timber. With the arrival of full darkness, Buck ordered every lantern the caravan had brought up for light. Using a second fifth chain to reach the wagons, Peewee backed his hitch up to the brink of the gulch while Buck secured the finger-link between chain and pull-rod.
When they were finished, everyone backed off to view the end project—Peewee’s lead wagon on the west side of the ravine, his mules on the east, the two long fifth chains that connected them lying slack in between.
At Buck’s instructions, Rossy brought up a pair of heavy iron wagon jack handles with short prongs on one end that fit into the crank box. Buck took one of the jack handles and handed the other to Milo. “We’ll walk across just in front of the wagons,” he told the ramrod, “and use these to keep the tongue from whipping back and forth.”
Milo’s face paled when Buck’s words sank in.
“Hell’s bells, Buck, this ain’t worth risking anyone’s life over,” Peewee interjected. “If one of those planks break or a wheel slips off the edge, the whole damn’ outfit’d drop straight to the bottom. You’d both be killed.”
“If any kind of slack develops in that chain and your mules take it up too fast, that tongue’s going to whip back and forth like a snake’s head,” Buck countered. “That’d put a wagon over the side for sure, but a man on each plank might be able to prevent that from happening.”
“Or he might not,” Joe added. “Hell, what we’re doing is dangerous enough, Buck. There’s no sense in putting a man out there.”
Buck looked at Milo. “I won’t force you to do this. I could use someone on that other plank but I can handle it myself if I need to.”
Milo’s color was still wan, but he nodded gamely. Before he could speak, Mitch Kroll stepped forward, snatching the jack
handle from the ramrod’s hands. Grinning wickedly in the yellow light, Mitch said: “Ol’ Kansas here is too scrawny for that kind of work, McCready. What you want on the other side of that tongue is someone tough enough to make it mind its manners. I reckon that’s me.” He lifted the handle shoulder-high, like a lance. “This god-damn’ thing is gonna break in two before that tongue swings my way.”
“You’re not a Box K man … ,” Buck began, but Mitch cut him off.
“I am this trip. Besides, I intend to be waiting for Crowley and Luce when they pull into Virginia City. I still aim to make someone answer for what happened to Bigfoot.”
Buck shrugged, but he was too tired to argue. “Take the uphill side,” he said. “I’ll take downhill.”
“Uhn-uh, I’m stronger than you are. I’ll take the downhill side. If that tongue wags, it’s gonna wag that way first.”
“All right,” Buck conceded, then lifted his voice so that everyone could hear. “Let’s get this done. Peewee, get in your saddle. I want Nate, Rossy, Ray, and Charlie up front to help Peewee with his mules. The rest of you get the hell out of the way … just in case.”
Those men not assigned to a specific chore seemed to take Buck’s warning literally and quickly backed off. Only Gwen lingered a moment longer than necessary, staring at Buck with concern in her deep-blue eyes. Buck searched for Dulce and found her standing with the others, well back from the edge of the gulch. Their gazes met but nothing passed between them; it was like exchanging glances with a stranger on the street.
Buck’s mouth was dry as he approached the uphill plank. Beneath him, the shadowy gulch looked bottomless. Glancing across the empty space at Mitch, he saw fear in the big man’s eyes, making him feel better about his own rapidly beating heart.
Returning his look, Mitch said: “Long way down, ain’t it?”
“It won’t seem so far if this bridge collapses.”
“No,” Mitch returned soberly. “I expect not.”
“Ready, Buck?” Peewee called from the saddle of his nigh-wheeler.
Buck glanced at Mitch, who nodded tautly. “Stretch ’em out, Peewee!” Buck hollered. “Slow and easy, but keep ’em moving unless I tell you to stop.”
Peewee yelled at his mules and Buck’s attention was quickly drawn to the big Murphy wagon that seemed to loom over them in the distorting light of half a dozen lanterns. At his feet, the fifth chain stirred. He could hear Ray cursing steadily under his breath in lieu of prayer, and Nate praying openly.
“Easy!” Buck called as the chain slipped off the plank toward the shrouded floor of the ravine. It crept slowly back into view, swinging gently as the slack was removed. “A foot!” Buck shouted for Peewee’s benefit, then: “Six inches! Easy now!”
The chain rose as if by magic until it was level with Buck’s knees, then seemed to stretch languidly. The wagon’s running gear groaned and its wheels jerked abruptly forward, then stopped just as quickly; the chain seemed to hum as slack was given, then taken away.
“Easy, gawdammit!” Ray nearly screamed, all but drowning out Peewee’s muted: “Sorry.”
Buck swallowed hard and glanced at Kroll, but the burly muleskinner’s gaze was locked on the Murphy’s front wheels, creeping steadily toward the planks. The wagon’s tongue extended over the lip of the gulch like the probing appendage it was named after, its tip quivering as Peewee’s mules leaned into their collars.
“Here she comes,” Mitch breathed, reaching out with the pronged end of his jack handle to poke tentatively at the iron hardware bolted to the tip. Buck followed his lead, pushing on the weathered oak behind the wear plate. He figured they could control a small jump of the wagon’s tongue, but too much would likely send one or both of them plunging backward off the planks, leaving the wagon’s guidance to fate.
Despite the iron stakes on every side, the narrow bridges slid forward several inches as the front wheels nudged up against them. Peewee’s whip popped above the backs of his mules and the chain drew tighter. Then the wagon lurched unexpectedly and the front wheels rolled onto the planks.
Buck and Mitch stayed even with the front of the tongue, their iron prongs pressed solidly into the wood. The long planks sagged as the wagon’s massive weight reached the center of the bridge, and for a brief, sickening moment, Buck feared he’d underestimated the strength of the seasoned oak. Something cracked sharply below them and the bridge trembled. Buck cried out softly under his breath, then raised his eyes to Mitch, who was returning his stare across the abyss.
“You all right, boss-man?”
“Yeah,” Buck croaked. “Must’ve been something I ate.”
Mitch grinned weakly. Sweat sheened his broad, fist-scarred face. “I must’ve ate outta the same kettle,” he confessed. “I’m feelin’ kind of queasy myself.”
Side-stepping carefully, they were almost across when the wagon’s rear wheels struck the two planks like the blow of a hammer mill. Buck’s weak leg, the one Mitch had cut so deeply with his bullwhip, seemed to give at the knee and he swayed dangerously.
“Look out!” Nate shouted as Ray’s stream of obscenities crackled shrilly. Then Buck regained his balance and he and Mitch leaned even harder into the tongue. With all four wheels on the narrow timbers, the wagon began to roll more smoothly and in no time it bounced off the far end.
Buck stepped out of the way as soon as he had solid ground behind him. His pulse was thumping loudly and his palms were clammy. He drew a dirty sleeve across his parched lips and watched the lead wagon disappear into the darkness beyond the lantern light.
“I’ll be damned,” Mitch said quietly from several feet away. “I didn’t think we’d make it.” He was looking at Buck with new respect. “By God, McCready, you’ll do to ride the river with, and I’ll kick the ass of any man who says otherwise.”
“Don’t heap it on too thick,” Buck replied as chains rattled in the darkness and men prepared the next wagon for crossing. “We’ve still got twenty-seven more wagons to drag across this son-of-a-bitch.”
They fell into a rhythm after a while, although they didn’t let their guard down, not even when they hauled Rossy’s light coach over a couple of hours before dawn.
With the caravan parked safely on the east side of the ravine, Buck walked away from the lantern light to drop, cross-legged, on the ground. He was still there twenty minutes later when Gwen came up with his coat and a cup of coffee.
“There are some beans and side pork at the fire,” she said, handing him his coat first. She let her fingers rest lightly on his shoulders, then pulled them away as he shrugged into the heavy wool garment. “You were brave, Buck,’ she said softly. “I am in awe of what you accomplished tonight, what you’ve accomplish this entire trip.”
“It ain’t that much,” he replied dismissingly, then quickly changed the subject. “Anyone take Mitch some coffee?”
“Mister Kroll came to the fire,” she informed him. “You didn’t.” She sank down beside him, her shoulder brushing his. “It’s almost three o’clock. How long do you intend to remain here?”
“Not long. We’ll let everyone grab a bite to eat, then be on our way.” He could tell by the sounds that several of the muleskinners were already harnessing their teams, preparing to pull out. “We lost a lot of time tonight,” he said, almost to himself.
“Have we lost too much?”
“Maybe.” He took a sip of coffee, grimacing at its unexpected taste. “What did you put in here?”
“Bourbon from my own stock. I thought a bit of warmth might help combat the mountain chill.” She eyed him quizzically. “Are you not a drinking man?”
“Jock’s got a rule against drinking on the trail.” He hesitated, recalling the raw taste of the whiskey Peewee and Ray had given him back at Fort Hall, then regretfully returned the cup. “It’s tempting, but I reckon I’d better pass. I do appreciate the thought.”
“You are a difficult man to fathom, Mister McCready,” Gwen said, pouring the laced coffee deliberatel
y onto the ground. “I would say that your sense of duty is skewed. However, as you are still the captain, I shall honor your wishes … whether I agree with them or not. Tell me, is supper within the realm of possibility or have you decided to abstain from food as well?”
“I reckon I can eat,” Buck said, pushing to his feet. He took Gwen’s hand and pulled her up toward him. She came forward too fast and stumbled against his chest. Her lips were only inches from his and stray strands of her hair touched his cheeks.
“Buck,” she breathed, leaning more firmly into him. He felt her lips on his and responded hungrily, his hands running up and down her spine. Then he tore his face away from hers, sliding his hands around to her stomach to push her back.
“Why?” she demanded almost angrily. “Because of Dulce?”
“No.”
“My virtue then? Because if it is.…”
“I’s not your virtue,” he interrupted roughly. “I’s your position with Bannock Mining, plus my own with Kavanaugh Freight.”
She looked at him in disbelief, then lowered her arms from around his neck. “Don’t tell me your sense of ethics precludes even a kiss.”
“It does,” he replied raggedly, taking a step back.
“But Dulce is different?”
He nodded. “Something like that.”
“Very well, then I hope my rash behavior didn’t jeopardize … what exactly is it that you fear, Buck? Your standing with the crew? With me?”
He took a deep breath. “Neither,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I kind of like your boldness. It’s just not a good time right now. Maybe later, when we aren’t so hobbled by our jobs.”
The Long Hitch Page 29
