The Indians gathered near the edge of the butte and Taw could see them dotted along its rim in a close-packed line four hundred feet long. The wagon was a third of the way across the flat now; halfway; two-thirds of the way. Taw breathed a tight sigh of relief that the Sioux were going to let the Conestoga on by.
At the bridge the oxen slowed even more, unwilling to step out onto the strange contraption before them. The driver's arm arched high and came down as he tried to persuade them with his whip.
It was impossible for Taw to see whether or not Catlin was directly under the bridge and out of sight. He wondered if the wagon's weight and movement could set off the fused dynamite.
Finally the wagon jolted out onto the planks as the oxen moved ahead, and a minute later they had crossed to the other side.
Taw went down to his pinto and rode back along the ridge until he was above the abutment. The axes could no longer be heard. He dismounted and hurried down the sloping trail to the road. "Snyder!" he called.
"What?" The man's voice, raised to a ragged pitch, came up to him from the floor of the valley and Taw saw the three men coming out of a large clump of trees. "What's gone wrong?"
"There's a wagon coming. It's over the bridge now."
Snyder didn't answer. He sat down in the mud and slowly buried his head in his arms.
"Well, hell!" Charley bellowed. "Only thing on God's earth we can do is wait 'er out. We'll get the mules and horses outa sight in amongst the trees here, and see what happens." He walked toward the animals.
Jess shouted, "Everything else all right?"
"Seems so. War party's there."
Snyder stood back up and fumbled for his watch. He turned toward Jess, who nodded and called, "Coach is due in twenty minutes. How long will it take that wagon to get by?"
"A lot longer than that."
"Like I said," Charley yelled, pulling two mules toward the trees. "Nothin' to do but sweat 'er out and see what happens. Rain and mud might slow Old Ironsides. Anyways, she's been known to be late."
Taw rode back up the mountainside and went to his lookout point with his rifle cradled in his arm. The wagon was laboring up the slope toward Rabbit Ear Pass. Half an hour later it lumbered along the road directly below him. The rain lessened a little and Taw could hear a few high bars on a harmonica being played by someone under the canvas roof.
After the wagon had passed the high grade of the road and hit the downward slant, it began to make better time. It was out of sight for a while, but the road wound at an angle before straightening out to the long, downhill pull and the wagon came back into his line of vision.
Forty minutes later, when the wagon was half the size of a thimble in the distance, it approached the abutment. Taw tried to remember how deep the supports had been cut and to judge their chances of holding. He felt a sudden agony as he realized he could have stopped the wagon, warned the people in it of the weakened timbers ahead. But it was too late now.
The oxen rebelled halfheartedly once more at the planks. Then they shuffled out onto the wood. The wagon wobbled after them, the canvas top, it seemed to Taw, quivering more violently than it should. Through a breathless moment the framework held, and in a few seconds the wagon was safely over.
After the covered wagon had finally passed entirely from view, Taw turned his full attention to the route beyond Stony Flat. Endless minutes went by while he searched for any movement. On the faraway butte now, he could see only two Indians, and there never had been a sign of Catlin. He found himself wondering if the stageline had canceled the shipment at the last minute, or for some reason decided to try one of the other longer routes south.
He thought he saw a shadow of movement beyond the rain-drenched flat, and he searched to see it again until he had to close his strained eyes tightly for a moment. When he reopened them he could see two riders galloping up around the last part of the road that was visible to him where it curved in toward the flat.
Then, two hundred feet behind them and wide-spaced to each side of the road, two more pairs of riders swung into view.
Chapter Eight
WHEN the two guards riding point were a mile from Sawtooth Bridge with the four following horsemen holding steady formation behind them, the black, windowless stagecoach plunged into view, hurtling swiftly up and around the bend. Its eight flanking riders, four to a side, galloped at a tireless pace that matched the speed of the great, spinning wheels of the stage.
The pounding eight-horse team, manes flying, swerved smoothly into line for the dead straight run to the bridge, and the heavy, steel-paneled coach tipped slightly, straightening out behind the churning chaos of their mud-flinging hoofs. In a moment the two pairs of rear flank horsemen came around the bend, soon followed by the final two men riding guard at the far rear.
The thundering caravan swept out across Stony Flat, a mighty, onrushing armada on horseback, and passed the butte off to its right where the Sioux war party was hidden.
As though waiting for this moment, the storm now reached a peak of intensity, raindrops splattering like liquid bullets over the flat rock before Taw. He should head for the log now, carry it down the mountain and place it at the pass, but this rain would tear it to pieces within seconds. He had to wait, to gamble.
Taw wiped the stinging rain from his eyes and squinted down at the flat. Old Ironsides was less than a quarter of a mile from the deep gully now, the outriders to left and right beginning to edge in slowly in order to get through the bridge.
The sound of a hundred shrieking savages came through the rain as a nightmarish whisper to Taw's ears. The butte was suddenly alive with Sioux warriors thundering out from behind it in a breakneck charge. Not yet firing, they were saving their precious gunpowder until the range would be right. Instead, the braves waved their weapons and screamed their hideous war cries to terrify and confuse the enemy.
Spotted Wolf, his soaked war bonnet lying almost flat on his head, was far out in the lead on his magnificent blue roan, his warriors streaming behind him in a great, V-shaped wedge.
The guard lying down on the top of Old Ironsides and facing toward the rear was the first to fire as the Sioux plunged over the hill. His shot was followed by a roar of gunfire from the others as they unholstered revolvers or Winchesters, shooting from the still impossible range to tell the Indians unmistakably that they had a fight on their hands.
At the head of the column, the two lead riders brought their mounts to plunging, bewildered halts, swinging around to see what the danger was and to plan their own action. One of the foremost horsemen took instant charge of the situation. Seeing the open land across the gully free of any possible opposition, he waved frantically, signaling the other riders to fall back with him to between the coach and the attacking Sioux.
The driver's arm was working up and down swiftly now, lashing the coach horses to even greater speed as the onrushing war party with its rested ponies began slowly to overtake the smaller but formidably armed force, moving in on its right rear flank. All twenty of Old Ironsides' guards were now swinging into a solid, defensive body behind the coach, their guns making a steady, sullen roar as the stagecoach whirled closer to the bridge ahead.
At the last possible moment, one of the guards spurred his horse viciously, slowly pulling out and around the coach, and at last leading it in its wild race for the bridge.
Taw realized his lips were pulled tight in a grim, slanting smile. There had been no sign of Wes Catlin for hours. Was he hidden there in the gully, waiting and ready? The timing of the explosion would have to be split-second perfect. From where Taw stood, the first horse following the coach seemed to be almost pushing it along with his nose.
The lone horseman ahead of the coach flew into the mouth of the bridge and the lead horses of the stage were on the planks before he was off.
Old Ironsides plummeted onto the wood and whirled swiftly over the gulley. And then the bridge rocked and jumped high into the air, breaking into hundreds of lesser pieces th
at were tossed far away, as though thrown by giant, angry hands.
The bridge disappeared altogether, a large section of it falling into the gully, before Taw heard the raw, splitting blast of the explosion and a dozen quick echoes of it rumbling among faraway hills.
The horse and horseman nearest the bridge had been blown back in mid-gallop and smashed to the ground. Two other riders were thrown as their animals screamed in fear and reared over backwards.
The Indians and their ponies, though several hundred feet from the blast, were equally terrified. They stopped in their headlong flight and milled in frightened circles, some of them gesturing excitedly back toward the butte, urging retreat. Spotted Wolf plunged among them on his great horse, his hand raised high. For a brief time he whirled his mount in circles in the center of the braves. He lowered his hand, and when he brought it up again there was a rifle in it. He spun his horse then in a standing turn, and the warriors followed him as he sped again toward the men near what had been the bridge.
The guards had taken advantage of the Indians' confusion. The two men who had been dumped in the mud were now back in saddle, and another was helping the victim of the explosion to mount double with a man on a powerfully built gray.
They had no more time than that. The shrieking war party was now less than two hundred yards away, its confidence and courage regained. There was nothing else to do. The guards spurred their mounts into a dead run north along the gully, the howling Ogallala Sioux behind them.
One brave, fanned out from the others near the tail end of the party, was riding close to the gulley. He pulled his pony to a plunging halt and cried shrilly to several others who swung around to join him. They trotted smartly along the embankment for a few seconds, sending rapid arrows down into it. At last they hurried back on the trail of the main party.
Taw watched the gully where it shallowed out. Wes Catlin's riderless mule staggered out into sight, its neck and back covered with deeply imbedded arrows.
The horseman who had crossed with the speeding coach had now dropped back even with the stage to stare back at the raging, running battle. Taw brought the stock of his rifle up to his cheek, nestling the cold, wet, polished walnut softly against his jaw. The horseman was now in his sights. He moved the barrel a tiny fraction down and forward to line up the horse's chest, tracking the target as the horse lunged across the flat land far away and below. It was a long shot.
Taw allowed for distance and motion, and was about to squeeze off the shot when he realized it would be a mistake. If the horse went down, the coach driver would probably try to stop for the rider. As it was, he was giving the maddened horses free rein to get the coach away with all the terrified speed they had in them. And the stage had to keep moving at top speed or the driver might be able to slow for the log when he saw it.
Taw ran down to his pinto, and, shoving the rifle into its saddle scabbard, swung onto the paint's back. Two minutes later he was sliding downhill toward the low cave.
The paper log was about four feet thick and eight feet long, and nearly weightless. Charley had done a good job, cleverly twisting the supple wooden framework so that the paper was not a perfect cylinder, but a warped, slightly uneven shape that would easily pass as a tree trunk at a glance.
Holding it as carefully as he could, Taw hauled it out and hurried down the slope toward the road. The rain was dying down some, but the paper ate up every falling drop, becoming soggy and weak before Taw was halfway to the pass below. His foot slipped on a clump of wet grass and he almost fell, instinctively clutching the log more tightly. Under the pressure of one elbow, the paper broke and a tear started to work through the length of the sheet of wrapping paper.
By the time he got to the end of the pass where the log was to be placed, the paper was beginning to stretch and sag between points of the framework inside. There was a brisk wind in the pass, and the thing began to roll as soon as Taw put it down. Turning the log so that the tear was out of sight from the pass approach, he grabbed several stones and shoved them through the ripped hole, lining them along the bottom to hold the log in position. He could hear the rumble of the approaching stage as he ran out of the pass and scrambled up the steep slope.
Taw got to the edge of a rock seventy feet above the pass and turned in time to see the coach thunder into sight, the mounted guard galloping behind it. The horses were still crazy with fear, running as though hell itself were hanging to their tails. The stage was rocking and swaying with the incredibly swift movement, its invisible wheel spokes churning so fast the blinding blur gave them the appearance of revolving backwards.
Old Ironsides plunged around the bend in the pass and the driver saw the obstruction through the rain a hundred and fifty feet away. The paper was still hanging together.
For one fleeting moment he did nothing, instantly calculating his speed on the downhill grade and the horses' terror against his brakes and reins. The man beside him was already going over the side when he bellowed at the top of his voice, "Jump! Get clear of 'er!"
The guard on the top of the stage turned and saw the log as the driver futilely set the brake rod and sailed off to the side. He thumped his gunbutt on the roof and yelled shrilly, "Get out! Gonna crash!" Then he leaped, sprawling in mid-air and slamming shoulder first into the mud.
The doors instantly swung open on each side of the stage and the four men inside spilled out over each other, rolling swiftly as they leaped clear of the singing, smoking wheels.
Whinnying sharply, head high, one of the lead horses tried to rise in its traces and jump the thing before him. The stretched hoofs found nothing there as the sodden paper disintegrated at a touch. The framework was smashed to slivers as the horses' drumming hoofs slashed through it, and Old Ironsides rumbled furiously along the road, the whine of the brakes diminishing as the lining wore thin under the pressure.
"Christ! Has the whole world gone crazy?" one man yelled in mingled shock and fury, as he got to his feet. "That wasn't no log!"
"Hell it wasn't!" another shouted angrily. "I know a log when I see one. Hollow, or rotted, maybe!"
"What's goin' on?" A third man climbed to his feet, dazed. "Since when is Indians blowin' up bridges?"
"All right! Shut up, all of you!" Taw could see the big man who began roaring commands. "Simon, Gates! Go over and take a look at Jared. He may be hurt. Did any of you see any of that war party break off to follow us?"
"No. They all went after the others," the rear guard from the top of the coach said. "Ain't none of 'em behind us for the time being."
"All right. Grover, Haskin. You two get up the mountain to where you can see what's coming. Keep me informed. Holland, you ride that horse of yours fast! Go after that coach!"
Taw ran quickly up the remaining slope of the hill, out of sight of the men below, and jumped onto his pinto. He rode several hundred feet before reining up and taking out his rifle where there was a clear line of vision to the road three hundred feet below.
When the mounted rider galloped into sight, Taw's shot hit the horse just behind the eye. The animal died in mid-stride, falling so that it dumped the rider over its neck, his hands still clutching the reins. Before he could get to his feet, revolver in hand, Taw had disappeared.
After a seven-minute run the pinto reached a high, barren place from which the abutment could be seen. Taw held his horse in and waited. After a few minutes he saw Old Ironsides in the distance, a miniature toy with tiny, flapping doors, rolling quickly toward the lumber section of the road.
The horses were on the planks now, moving so swiftly that it seemed they would get over on the strength of sheer speed, before the timber would ever have time to give way. The lead horses were safely on the dirt beyond, when the coach tilted drunkenly to one side. Then the planking caved in entirely and the stagecoach plunged down. The lead horses clawed wildly at the earth for footing; then were pulled out into space with the others in the shrilling, pawing team. Turning, bouncing and rolling in grotesque, twis
ting patterns and shapes, the coach and team bounded down the mountainside, coming to a slamming halt at the foot of the valley.
Taw rode on, pushing his pinto as fast as he could along the ridge, until he was above the steep route down to the road.
Leaving the pinto above, he climbed down to the road where the remains of the abutment stuck out raggedly. In the valley below, Jess, Snyder and Charley were unloading small white sacks from the coach that rested brokenly on its side. Snyder was standing up in the open doorway of the now wheel-less stage, passing the bags to the other two. Though small, they were heavy enough to make each man double up with effort as he took his turn carrying them to the nearby mules.
Jess glanced up as he hurried to the coach and noticed Taw. His hand was on his gun before he realized it was his brother. "How much time we got?" he called, raising his face to the rain.
"Depends on how long the Sioux keep those guards busy. There are men on foot at the far side of the pass, but I don't think they're going anywhere just now."
"Wheeeeeeeeee!" Charley Hill yelled. "Look here at this beautiful stuff, Taw! Ain't it enough to pop your eyes right out of your head?"
The gold was loaded onto the mules and Charley had hauled himself up behind Jess on the black stallion, when Taw noticed tiny specks of figures moving far up the pass. "Looks like some of those men afoot are coming this way as fast as they can step it. They can't see you from where they are. Better get moving."
Snyder climbed onto his horse and the three men, leading the mules at a rapid trot, swung up and out of the valley and to the west. Taw hurried up the slope to his pinto and rode cautiously back along the ridge.
The rain was slowing, the gray sky above cracking into long, splintered fingers of hopeful blue, when Taw left his pinto and crept to the edge of the ridge. There were five men running on the road beneath him. As he watched, they stumbled to panting, shuffling walks to catch their breath. Then they broke once more into a run.
The War Wagon Page 9
