by Jory Sherman
She was unarmed and would die, like Luke.
Addie was determined not to make a mistake. She nurtured her cup of scalding coffee, careful to keep it from cooling. She watched the fire, kept Big John in her eyesight, listened to Oren, banging his pots. She knew just where Oren hung his pistol. Every night. In the same place. She judged the distance from her spot by the fire to where the gunbelt hung. She calculated the distance from the chuck wagon to the horses.
It might be that she would have to kill Oren. Or Big John. She kept herself from shuddering. She had killed before, but only for food. She had never shot at a man before. Her father, Forrest Malone, had taught her and Ted to shoot, to hunt. She was a good shot with pistol or rifle. She didn't even mind the messiness of black powder. She had cast balls and made a special grease for patching. Her mother, Caitlin, had never had a mind for such stuff and died young of consumption, her father following her to the grave a few years later. So, she had hunted with Ted and made do, and she knew she would have to summon up all her skills now. To survive.
The beans were still sitting by the fire on a stone. Steam curled upward from the iron pot, indicating that they were still hot. Addie watched the tendrils of vapor, her eyes glittering as excitement keyed her nerves. She felt the tingle of something in her veins, the excitement of getting ready for a shot at a buck or a rabbit. She looked over at Big John and saw that he was bringing out his makings. She had counted on his doing that, too. He always had a smoke after his evening meal, seldom at other times.
She shot a glance at Oren. His gun belt still hung on the wagon. It seemed to be the biggest thing in the universe at that moment. He was scooping up dirt in a small bucket to use to clean the pots and pans. He would get some ashes, she knew, to mix with water. She must act soon, before he came back to the fire. Both men were dangerous. She had to act fast and sure. She looked back at Big John. He was pouring the tobacco out of his leather pouch into a paper held in his hand. He was totally absorbed in this action.
Addie wet her lips with her tongue. Her throat was very dry. She longed for a drink of water. She looked quickly at the horses. She knew she would have to be very fast.
She reached down for the bean pot. She felt its warmth even before she touched it. Oren started toward the fire, carrying an empty can in his hands for the ashes.
It was time!
Addie grabbed the hot bean pot and scooped it through the fire. She flung the hot coals in one swift motion straight at Big John Lathrop. She stood up in the same motion as the man cried out in pain and confusion, his hands tearing at his burned eyes. His screams sent a spurt of sensation along her backbone, made the hackles on the back of her neck rise. She turned and hurled the bean pot at Oren, then ran for the wagon. She grabbed the gunbelt off its hook and drew the loaded pistol.
She raced for the nearest bridled horse, her heart in her throat. Behind her she heard the chilling cry.
"Stop there, girl, or die!"
Chapter Six
Matt thought he had it figured out. There was no use wasting any more time tracking close. If Carl was going anywhere, he was going toward the Tongue. A tracker had to use his instincts, play his hunches. A man could follow a sign only so long as it was consistent. Or, he could use his head and think like the hunted one. Matt did that now. He knew the country. He knew where a man would have to go if he was wounded and didn't want to stay close to forts or settlements.
He had picked up enough of Carl's tracks to know where he was most likely headed. The question was, would he meet up with his party or would he be alone? The cattle would need graze and water. The Tongue was a likely place and the timing would be about right. The Bozeman made good use of the creeks and rivers that abounded in the region. He knew he would have to be careful, though. Carl could be waiting for him at any spot along the way. Still, his best bet was to ride for the place where the Tongue met up with the Bozeman. He could circle until he cut sign or saw his quarry.
He spoke to his horse and checked his rifle and pistol again.
Matt's main concerns were Addie and Ted. If Roumal was behind all this, all their lives were in danger. And there was good reason to believe that Bull was back in the picture. They had crossed paths before, back in Cherry Creek, which people were now calling Denver. Matt had been there like many another man, but not after the grains of gold that snuggled in the Plattes or the St. Vrains or Cherry Creek itself. He had, as always, been a cattleman, a provider of food for the hard-pressed pioneers of the western regions.
Roumal had rustled then, but no one could prove it—until Matt came along and exposed him. Roumal and his bunch had been driving cattle in with three or four legally registered brands, all of them designed to blot or run on other legitimate brands. It was more or less an accident that Matt had found out the truth of Roumal's operation. The accidental part concerned a sick cow. The non-accidental aspect of Matt's discovery came about because he had a hunch and played it through to its conclusion. On any other day he might have passed up the opportunity, but he'd had trouble with Roumal's herd and drovers. They had continually chopped up the good grazing spots and let their herd drift into his, cutting out some of his cattle when they retrieved their own. It was enough to get his suspicions up.
Matt remembered the day he had made an enemy of Roumal. The events had crossed his mind several times since then. They were in his mind now, as he rode after another of Roumal's men.
There had been an urgency to get to Cherry Creek and the diggings there, he recalled. Roumal's bunch had pressed ahead on the last stretch, leaving some of their cattle in bad shape.
"Ted, let's take a look at that dying cow from Roumal's herd," Matt had said, riding off on a tangent from the rear wing of his own herd.
They rode over to the cow. Its tongue was lolling from its mouth, swollen, purple. Its eyes were glazed, its breath shallow. Matt drew his .44 and put the dying animal out of its misery with a shot to the brain.
"I want to check that brand close," Matt said.
Ted and he dismounted.
"It's a Double B, one of Roumal's," Ted said.
"Yeah, on this side it is."
Matt drew his Bowie knife and took off the patch of hide that carried the brand on the left hip. He scraped the fat off and held it up.
"No Double B there, Ted."
"Well, I'll be . . . the Double I brand!"
"Roumal's right hand with a blotter. Let's just take this into trail's end and see what this man Roumal has to say about it."
"That'd be trouble, Matt. I've heard he's a hard man." Ted was not one to push trouble. That's what Matt liked about him. He liked to think things out first, carefully. Matt was the same way. The habit had kept him alive.
"I've known Ike Inman for nearly ten years," Matt said. "He's had a hard time with rustlers. I figure he's got a stake in Roumal's drive. I aim to see he gets the proceeds from the stuff that's his. A man who'd use a running iron needs to be taken down a notch or two."
Ted looked at his partner and nodded. He felt the same way. The inner scars of the hide showed plainly what had happened. Someone had taken a reverse 3 and burned it into each I, making the brand a Double B, one of Roumal's, duly registered. Inman's spread on the Brazos was fairly well known. If Matt called Roumal there'd be trouble all up and down the trail. Ike had been losing cattle for quite a spell. Texans were proud men and they had long memories.
In Cherry Creek, Matt sought out the foreman of the Roumal herd at the stockyards below Larimer Street. This was a man named Ben Bartow, the source of the Double B brand. Matt made sure there was a crowd around as he pulled the cowhide out of his saddle bag.
"You left a dead critter a day out," Matt said coldly, unfolding the hide for all to see. "A skinning shows you blotted the brand."
There was a deathly stillness in the air. The stockyard foreman came up to Matt and grabbed the hide out of his hands. He turned it over. Twice. Other stockmen came over and examined the telltale piece of cowhide. The buyers
grouped around the bunch and viewed the damning evidence. Matt kept his eyes on Bartow.
"That's a Double I," Matt said, "underneath. Ike Inman's brand."
"You coulda run the brand yoreself," Bartow said coldly. "That don't prove nothin'."
"Cut another out, Bartow," Matt said. "I'll pay for the cow. We'll skin it out."
Bartow lost his composure for an instant. Men's eyes turned toward him. He let his right hand drift toward his gunbelt. He stood some distance from the milling men, in the open. He looked up at Matt, who was astride his horse. Matt didn't move a muscle. His eyes bored into Bartow's.
"These cattle are bought," said a man named Fred Whitehead. "I'm willing to drop one since everyone knows that Cord's cattle will bring less money on the market now that Roumal's herd beat 'em in. Carlin, cut out a Double B and slaughter it. Cut out the brand."
A cowhand jumped off the fence and two more men followed him. They split a Double B cow out of the herd. Carlin shot it between the eyes. One of the other men slit its throat and bled it. Carlin made a cut along its backbone and a semicircle around the hip brand. He scraped off the fat and blood, exposing the inner lining of the hide. He carried it over to the huddle of men and placed it alongside the hide that Matt had brought in. There was a ripple of muttering voices.
"Another Double I underneath!" someone exclaimed.
That's when Bartow went for his pistol. His reach was fast, but his hand seemed to move in slow motion when Matt's own hand blurred to his holster, came up full and bucking. Bartow's barrel hadn't even cleared his holster when the first ball caught him just above his belt buckle. A look of angry surprise spread over his face as the second ball brought a small puff of dust just off-center of his breastbone, burning straight into his heart.
Another Roumal cowhand started for his pistol.
Matt leveled his barrel at him.
"Two can be read over just as easy as one," he told the nervous man. The other's hand stopped moving. The man shook his head and stepped back.
"By damn, where's Roumal?" Whitehead shouted angrily.
"Over to the Silver Queen most likely," someone replied.
"A minute, Whitehead," Matt said, his voice booming. The crowd quieted. "Have you paid Roumal off?"
"I was just on my way to give him a draft now," the man replied.
"Check the brands real close. One draft should go to Ike Inman's account."
"I'll do that, Cord."
"Now, who gets top dollar for the rest of these cattle?" Matt asked coolly.
"Roumal's a cow thief!" a man shouted.
Whitehead whispered to the other cattle buyers. Matt kept his pistol out as he looked over the men around the corrals.
"You'll get top dollar for your herd, Cord," Whitehead announced. "Roumal's got some questions to answer."
Satisfied, Matt rode up to Larimer Street where the Silver Queen was located and tied his horse to the hitching rail. Word of what had happened at the stockyards preceded him. Roumal had gone, not out of cowardice as Matt learned, but because he had thought his cattle deal concluded, he had ridden out an hour before. Matt had never avoided Roumal, whom he knew on sight, but their paths had not crossed since. Until now. He was certain that the big man had bided his time and was now trying to exact his revenge. He grew more and more sure that Roumal had engineered the death of his brother, the theft of his cattle. He knew that the Lathrops were in cahoots with Roumal. Roumal was shrewd. He would use men like these for his own ends. He was sorry that he hadn't followed his trail back in Cherry Creek so long ago. None of this might have happened.
The tall man picked his way carefully along the Tongue, skirting the thick willows, threading his way through mountain alder and birch, leaving behind the aspen, spruce and fir as he neared the Bozeman. The thick trees gave way to open places where grew the yellow rose, puffed clematis and antelope bush, the signs of autumn already on the land, the grasses seared to a pale sienna, the quakies turning brilliant yellow among the evergreens.
He drifted off into shadows, following obscure game trails, stopping often, listening. He flushed a herd of bedded deer once, watched a raucous trio of crows taunt a hunting hawk. No man tracks caught his eye and the Big Horn mountains in the distance seemed to draw nearer. He watched beaver building a dam, oblivious to his presence. When he rode on, he heard the slap of a paddle tail. He jerked in the saddle and smiled. It had sounded like a gun shot.
Closer to the Bozeman, he began moving back and forth, looking for sign. If Carl was hoping to meet up with his bunch he wouldn't bother being too careful so close to his destination. Matt knew he would probably stay east of the Tongue since he, too, would be looking hard for sign now—sign of the stolen herd.
The tracks were fresh. No more than two hours old. Moisture beaded up in the hoof marks near the stream. They were easy to follow. Matt swung wide, trusting to his hearing and vision now. The Bozeman was not far off. He sniffed the air, hoping to pick up the scent of trail dust or the cattle. Instead, he smelled smoke.
Would Carl make a fire?
It was possible. A man might want to cauterize his wound. In this country, a man had to take care of such things himself. Matt edged into the trees and moved slowly. The smoke smell was elusive. He wet his finger and tested the faint breeze blowing in his direction. Even as he did this, the breeze shifted slightly. He looked up at the sky. Clouds were building up on the horizon. The breeze shifted again, coming up behind him. No doubt, he reasoned, there would be a storm that night or by morning, if the wind picked up.
He had to pick his way very carefully now. He avoided the brush and rock, keeping to the soft dying grasses underfoot. The smoke smell grew stronger. The horse seemed to sense the change in its rider. It stepped softly, its ears perked, nostrils distended. Matt whispered to it, soothingly. He patted its neck and spoke low in the Oglala tongue, baby talk, about its being a shunka chistala, a little dog, a shunka witko, wild dog, and a tashunka hoksheela, a horse-boy.
Soon, Matt spoke no more, not even in whispers. He ranged to a high place and looked over the country, the Tongue. He looked for smoke, not really expecting to see any, since his quarry no doubt would have built his fire where the smoke would be dispersed through the trees. Yet, it could be that Carl wanted the smoke to be seen. By his father and his brother. Or, as a trap for Matt himself.
Matt sat on his horse, still, for a long time before he spotted the faint wisps of smoke curling up into the darkening sky. He had to squint to make it out, a gray variation in the sky above the trees near where the Tongue narrowed next to the Bozeman. He estimated the distance. Less than a half-mile. He worked his way to a higher level, closer. The smoke now hung there as the breeze died down momentarily. He could no longer smell it.
He circled, climbing still more. Finally, he had a view of the trail in both directions. He looked off to the northwest and the clouds had moved across that section of the sky. He looked to the southwest and saw a telltale cloud of dust in the direction of Fort Phil Kearny. It wasn't much, only a different shade of sky, but it was enough. He started down, in the direction of the smoke on the Tongue.
When he was close enough, he stopped, got off his horse and tied the animal to a tree. He slid his rifle free of its buckskin scabbard and checked the cap. He worked his pistol in its holster. It slid back and forth easily. He took off his boots and pulled moccasins out of his saddlebag. He changed his footgear and put the boots in the bag. He crouched low, and began moving toward the smoke like a still hunter, stopping every few feet, changing direction, avoiding the noisy fallen leaves. It took him the better part of an hour to travel the quarter-mile that remained.
He was no more than a sussurant shadow through the trees. He crept to a knoll where he could lie low and see in three directions ahead of him. He slipped over the edge of the knoll and looked down toward the river. His lungs filled with air as he saw the small fire, the man lying next to it holding a knife next to his leg. Matt could almost smell the burning fl
esh. Carl winced with pain, but made no sound.
Matt brought his rifle up to his shoulder and scooted quietly toward a tree to use as a back brace. He wiped the sights of the .50 caliber Hawken, made for him in St. Louis by Samuel Hawken himself, not many years before. He sighted down the barrel and drew a deep breath.
He decided against setting the hair trigger. He wanted no sound to warn Carl Lathrop. He curled his finger around the front trigger and was about to squeeze when he saw Carl throw his knife aside and struggle to rise. That's when Matt heard the pounding hoofbeats of a horse. His head jerked to the left and he saw Addie Malone racing in his direction.
"Matt!" she yelled.
Time seemed to stop still in that instant.
Matt rose and swung his rifle back to Carl. That's when he saw it was too late. He brought the barrel down even as he saw a flash of orange flame and a puff of smoke from Carl's pistol. He squeezed off a shot just as he felt a sledgehammer whack into his shoulder and twist him around. All of the air was sucked out of his lungs.
A sickening wave of nausea rose up from his belly. Matt saw the sky twirl over his head as he rocked back against the tree behind him. He was dimly conscious of reaching for his pistol, drawing it, and firing in Carl's direction. Carl was a thin, scrambling stick moving away from him through a glazed and watery pane. Still, he felt the pistol buck in his hands, again and again.
He heard a sharp cry from somewhere nearby and then he fell forward into blackness.
Chapter Seven
Addie Malone watched Matt Cord fall face forward to the ground.
