Mounting up, he led them away from the cave and along the steep path, and then he chose a dim trail that followed a bench covered with thick clumps of aspen. They crossed occasional meadows with scattered spruce. He was not very skillful at covering a trail, but he tried to leave as little sign as possible and several times went back to kick the tallest grass erect. They were about nine thousand feet up, he thought, judging by the plant growth, and there was ample cover. By noon they had reached the headwaters of a creek that he assumed was the Little Sweetwater. Behind a clump of aspen, sheltered from the higher slopes by scattered spruce, they dismounted.
There was little breeze, and they found dry wood, so he built a small fire behind some rocks. These were frontier women with whom he rode, but they had been out now for several rough days and he had no idea how much they could take. The rest and the coffee would be good for them. While they drank coffee and rested in the sun that found a chink in the clouds, he climbed to a shoulder of the mountain. The view to the southwest was partly obscured by a butte, but he could see glimpses that showed him the flat country sweeping away toward the Green River. Nowhere did he see any life, any movement . . . except for an eagle that soared far above on easy wings.
To the north he could see a broad blue expanse that must be a lake. The largest lake in this region of which he had heard was Christina Lake, and he felt they must be near the pass. Sioux Pass was to the south, but Brian had several times mentioned another pass that he thought was snowed in, but from this vantage point he could see only scattered patches of snow. If he took the pass above Christina Lake he could avoid well-traveled Sioux Pass and the risks of meeting Kelsey's men.
Slowly he walked back down the mountain. He could see the horses grazing on the grass below him.
For some reason he thought of Germany. He paused, resting the butt of his rifle on the ground .... Would he ever see Germany again?
He looked down to where the horses grazed . . . but they were gonel He looked again . . . there was no sign of them, nor any sign of the women either.
Quickly he caught up his rifle and took a long step off the rock on which he was standing.
It was the longest step he ever took, and the last.
Something struck him a wicked blow on the spine and, his leg outstretched for the step, he seemed to go sailing, on and on as if he had taken off in flight. Distantly, the sound of a shot came to him.
He hit the grass with a jolt and rolled over.
He looked up at the sky, and the sun faded. It was going to rain again, he thought, for it was suddenly growing dark. He thought of Belle Renick and Mary Devereaux then, and tried to get up, but there was no feeling in his legs. Suddenly Mary Devereaux was bending over him. "Christina," he said distinctly, and tried to point. "Please," he said.
And then, "I am sorry, ma'am" They were his last words.
Mary looked up at Belle. "He's dead," she said gently. "He was a good man, Belle."
Tenadore Brian opened his eyes into a shadowed stillness, aware only of the dull throb in his skull and of the silence.
His mind was not fuzzy. Miraculously, his faculties seemed unimpaired. He was lying on a bed of leaf mold under a thick bush. Above him were broken branches, and he assumed he had fallen through the bush, which had sprung back into place, offering complete cover.
He turned his head. Less than a dozen feet away was a cluster of rocks from which water flowed.
He wanted a drink badly, but he lay still, thinking about what had happened, trying to judge the time that must have elapsed. If he knew how much time had gone by he would have a better idea about his next move.
Kelsey's shot had hit him, but he did not believe he was badly hurt. His head throbbed, but whether it was from the bullet or the fall he did not know. By now Kelsey was gone and the gang might have scattered, hunting him . . . or they might be around, within hearing distance. They might have searched for him, but to have found him would have meant an almost inch-by- inch search of the area, hidden as he was.
Carefully now, he turned on his side, got an elbow under himself and raised up. He crawled out from under the bush, and in so doing came upon his rifle.
It had fallen into the same leaf mold and was apparently undamaged. At the spring, he drank deep, then bathed his head. There was a scalp wound over his left ear, but the blood had congealed and there was no bleeding now. When he stood up his head swam, and for a moment he caught hold of a tree for support. When the momentary dizziness had passed, he moved through the brush and trees until he came to a spot where he was about three hundred yards from the lean-to. The horses were gone and there was nobody in sight. Slowly, he looked around. He needed a horse, and he needed to know where his enemies were. Crouching there, he watched the lean-to for several minutes, but saw no sign of life. He stepped out of the brush then, waited a moment, and walked over to the lean-to. It was empty, and only dull coals were left of the fire.
The leave-taking had been hasty. The cards were scattered, there was a glove and a rolled up blanket someone had used for a pillow. Evidently they had rushed out, charged up the slope, and returning after a while, had found Kelsey gone, and the gold.
They would not doubt Kelsey at first-not all of them. Many of them had been with him for several years, all the way from Missouri. They would have heard the shots fired, and some of them might think he had been wounded or captured. But being the men they were, some would be suspicious that he had taken the gold and fled, and they would seek out his tracks. Brian roamed about the outer edges of the camp, studying the sign. Evidently some of the remaining horses had been stampeded, for he could tell that at least a dozen men had walked away from the lean-to, with frequent stops to look back.
Without horses, in Indian country, they would first attempt to secure horses, and the nearest ones were with the command of Major Devereaux. These men, experienced horse thieves, would not hesitate to make an attempt to get them. Once mounted, they would probably try to come up with Kelsey.
Surely Kelsey must know this. And if he knew it, he must have planned for it.
He could, of course, lie in wait. He might kill one or more of them, but then the others would stalk him, and the odds would not be in Kelsey's favor, no matter how good a fighter he was. So he must have a hide-out somewhere ahead, or he must have friends to whom he could go, friends who would also defend him.
In this country that would mean Indians . . . unless he had planned with some of his own men, using them to cover his retreat, and then to kill the others who were following.
As to the Indians, Kelsey might have made friends among them, or even lived among them at some time, and he might return there now. The Shoshones were friendly, so it would not be that tribe he would ride toward. More likely it would be the Sioux or the Blackfeet.
It seemed to Brian that the only thing for him to do now was to go back to the cave. He had lost Kelsey, lost his own men, and he had not found Ironhide. The payroll was getting further away all the time, so be ought to go back, get his horse, then get Mary and Belle Renick back to the command. After that, no matter how cold the trail, he must hunt down Kelsey and get back the gold.
He walked slowly, for he was very tired, and his head did not cease from aching. He knew he was in serious danger, for some of the Kelsey outfit would still be in these mountains, still searching for the girls or for him.
But his weariness and the throb in his head dulled his awareness, and when he stopped it was an effort to get started again.
Suddenly a pair of blue grouse burst from the brush almost at his feet, startling him so that he stumbled and almost fell. Crossing over a low shoulder, he came down into a pleasant little park among the trees.
A half-dozen yellow-bellied marmots were playing on the grass, but at his approach they ducked for shelter in a jumble of rocks that had tumbled from the ridge above. Stumbling, he went on across the park and paused to lean against a tree on the far side.
It would soon be night. He had to ge
t to the cave. Once he arrived there he could sleep. He could have some hot coffee. He started on and had gone a dozen feet before he realized he had left his rifle. Returning, he picked it up and took a slightly different direction, climbing higher toward the timberline. Twice he slipped and fell. At last he made the ragged fringe of trees where the long winds blew, and stood on the mountain top, watching the darkness close down around him. He went through a faint golden mist of avalanche lilies, startling a white-tailed ptarmigan. Somehow he got down the slope, somehow he found the canyon, but he was only vaguely aware of what he was doing when he started down it. In his eagerness and desperation he ran a few feet, stumbling and falling against the bank. Then he went on.
Then he saw the tree. He went on, dragging the butt of his rifle. He rounded the tree. The cave was a black hole in front of him, and he went in. It was empty. They were gone. His horse was gone, his pack was gone. He stood still, his legs spread to preserve his balance, his eyes blinking slowly, as he tried to comprehend. Suddenly, he shivered. The wind stirred through the canyon, moving like a presence. He dropped to his knees, fumbled some sticks together, and tried to get a fire started, but his fingers were clumsy.
At last he succeeded . . . a tiny blaze.
He hovered over it, coaxing it to life with crumpled leaves and bits of bark rubbed to rags between his fingers.
He was shaking with a chill ... was he sick? He had heard somewhere that a blow on the head sometimes disturbed a man's physical make-up and opened the way for other illnesses.
He put a little more fuel on the fire, and felt the slow warmth of it creep over him. He remembered putting his rifle down near the firewood in the corner, remembered drawing his slicker close about him, and then he remembered nothing.
He was awakened by a kick in the ribs. He started to rise, and was kicked again. He fell, tried to gather himself together, and a third kick missed his head and hit him on the shoulder, knocking him halfway around. He lay there in a nightmare of pain.
Slowly he became aware of his surroundings.
Half a dozen men were in the cave . . . Kelsey men. One part of his brain seemed fully conscious; the other part seemed numb, and confused comby delirium. "What kind of a setup is this?" one of the men snarled. "He ain't even got a horsel What's goin' on? You said there'd be women herel"
"They must've pulled out. I don't know who this one is."
"He's that lieutenant that Kelsey was talkin' about. The one he used to know."
"Hell, there ain't nothin' tough about himl Was Kelsey just leadin' us on?" One man was crouching over the fire, building the blaze higher. Ten Brian lay on the floor of the cave, shivering, but the side of his brain that could think was seeing it all with remarkable clarity. His ride . . . they had not seen his rifle. Nor had they searched him, and he was still wearing his pistol. The flap was buttoned down and it was underneath him. Their horses were outside.
Horsesl He lay very still, and they ignored him. He was ten feet from the rifle. It lay over there in the shadows beyond the pile of fireweed . . . if he could get to it. But he dare not move.
"You got the coffee, Jess? Let's get it started" "Take your time." The man over the fire was cool. "We been gone from camp for quite a spell. You given that any thought?"
"What dif'rence does it make?"
"Sixty thousand in gold. That there's a lot o' money, and I been thinkin'. Supposin' you had sixty thousand dollars right by you, and you had you a horse?"
Nobody said anything, nor did they need to.
Each man had his own picture, nor did any of them question what the others were thinking. . . they knew.
"What's that mean?" one of them asked.
"Well, s'posin' it happened to Kelsey, now?"
"Aw, Jess, forget it! Kelsey wouldn't leave no outfit like this! Anyway, he's got a good bit stashed back in Julesburg."
"Has he? How do you know where it is? How do we know where he is?" Brian's lips shaped the words first and then he spoke. "Gone. He's taken the gold and he's heading for Salt Lake."
They turned on him. One man-the same manbooted him in the ribs again. "What do' you know about it?"
He looked up, his lips fumbling clumsily with the words. "I . . . I saw him. He . . . he shot me."
The big man drew back his foot, but Jess stopped him. "Wait!" He looked down at Brian. "He's been shot, all right, an' we never done it. Fact is," he said calmly, "I think he's dyin'."
They towered over him, looking at him with mild curiosity. They did not care . . . he was no danger to them. If he died, so much the better.
Jess had a look in his eyes that might have been pity. "Where was this?"
"Camp . . . lean-to. He . . . he shot at me. Ordered them into the brush after me."
The speech had required too much effort.
Brian sank back on the floor of the cave and the others turned away from him. After a moment one of them spoke. "Makes sense," he said. "All but Salt Lake" "He wouldn't head for Jules . .
. the army's that way, and there's some of our boys in Jules, too. They'd ask questions."
"Kelsey would answer them. Did you ever see him fail?" They argued, drank coffee, and made another pot. Jess was cool, persuasive. They simply had to go back, pick up his trail, and stay with it. They'd get him.
The big man's name was Jube, and he liked none of it. He believed none of it. "He's lyin'," he said flatly.
Ten Brian eased himself over a few inches, then a few inches further. His brain was buzzing, and now he felt hot. He got his hand under his coat and laid hold of his six-shooter.
"Salt Lake," Jess said; "that don't make sense."
"It's closest. He could ride right past Bridger."
Brian made another few inches, then something in him seemed to cave in and he passed out.
When he opened his eyes his head was splitting with pain, his brain was foggy, and for a few minutes he had no idea where he was. "Ketched "em," a voice was saying, "Sam an" me. We seen "em with this sodger, so we kilt him an" we taken them." And then he added, more slowly, "An' they're ours."
Comprehension fought through the fog in Brian's brain and suddenly his thoughts seemed to focus. He was down, he was in bad shape, but he had his hand on his gun and the rifle was not far away.
He turned his head. Mary and Belle stood just outside the circle of light from the fire, and he could see a man's boots, the man who guarded them-probably Sam. These were the men who had wiped out the wagon train, who had raped, murdered, and mutilated women and children. No worse lot of renegades lived . . . and they had Mary.
"That's right," Jube said. "They're ours."
Ten Brian moved again and scored a couple of inches. He tried again, and moved a little more. He was closer, but the chips were down and unless he was mistaken all hell was going to break loose within minutes. "Don't you pull that, Jubel" Sam's voice cracked like a whip. "The young one is her that Kelsey was huntin'. You boys ready to cross him?"
There was a moment of stillness while this soaked in.
Sam said, "We ketched them-not him."
"You tell that to him," Jess said. "He'll be around."
Nobody had anything to say to that, and Brian inched a little closer to the rifle. The man nearest to him, with his back squarely to him, wore two pistols. Those pistols were better at this range than the rifle, so if shooting started he had to have those guns.
"Bring "em in," Jube said. "Let's see what you caught."
The girls were here. Kelsey was far away, and perhaps they would not see him again. Not even Jess would persuade these men to wait. There had been too much of that, and this was an undisciplined lot. There would be no mercy for Belle or Mary, and none for himself.
He knew what had been done to the women and children of the wagon trains. These men were more savage than any savage. Kelsey had deliberately chosen men who had no qulams, such men as only he could control. Easing himself a little, Brian got the pistol further forward, just under the cover of his slicker. Th
ere he lay, waiting. "Bring 'em in!" Jube yelled.
"Like hell!"
Suddenly the women vanished, jerked back out of the light by Sam. "Like hell," he said. "We got to have an understandin"."
"Sure, Sam," Jube said slyly, "we understand you. We understand everythin' you say. You just come in here an' put down your gun an' we'll talk this thing out, man to man."
Sam stepped back into the cave entrance. The other man, whoever he was, remained outside, guarding the women.
"We ketched those women," Sam repeated, "an' they're ours, to keep or trade as we want."
"We can talk this out, Sam. You just put down your gun an' set down." Sam hesitated, then shrugged. These were men he had fought beside, men he had gambled withand looted with, men he knew. He lowered his rifle and half-turned to lean it against the cave wall. When his eyes shifted back, Jube held a gun. He was smiling.
"You're too trustin', Sam. Don't ever let nobody talk you into puttin' down your gun least he does likewise. Now, what was we sayin'?"
Jess and the other men had moved back a little. Each watched Jube and Sam. "Now, Sam," Jube said, "you call the breed. Tell him to bring those women in here . . . now."
"Wait a minute, Jubel We was goin' to talk this over!"
"That was when you held a gun," Jube replied.
"You got no barga*' position now, boy. You done give it up. I can shoot you before you can get that belt gun out . . . you always did wear it wrong.
I can shoot you dead. You call that breed"
"I ain't a-goin' to do it," Sam said.
"We made a deal."
Jube chuckled. "Sam, you're a fool. You can't deal with a man that holds all the cards. All you can do is take what he offers . . . if you're lucky enough to get offered anythin'. You call that breed."
Under the Sweetwater Rim (1971) Page 11
