King Mabry got to his feet. He felt he should do something, but he did not know what or how. He could not just walk over and take her in his arms. He picked up his rifle.
“Going down to the creek,” he said.
He swore bitterly at himself as he walked away. Behind him, when he glanced back, the fire was tiny and alone. Janice sat where he had left her, staring into the flames.
Snow crunched under his feet, and he glanced at the sky, finding breaks in the clouds. Against the pale night sky the trees etched themselves in sharp silhouette. A star gleamed, then lost itself behind drifting clouds.
At the creek bank he stopped and rigged a snare, placing it in a rabbit run he had seen earlier. He needed no light. This he had done often enough to know every move. Out in the darkness a branch cracked in the cold, and some small animal struggled briefly and then was silent.
He had been a fool even to think of marriage to Janice. Now she would tie her life to his, and his destiny was tied to a gun. If they got out of this alive, there would be more trouble. And there was no assurance they would get out.
So far they had been fortunate. With the Indians they had been lucky, and only the fact that snow had come in time to blot out their trail had kept them alive. It was not his doing, although he had done his part, as had Healy. The real winner here was the very thing they were fighting now, the weather.
He listened into the night. There were only normal night sounds. On winter nights, if anyone moved within a great distance, it could often be heard. He shifted his rifle and turned back toward the campfire.
The fire had burned low, so he laid a foundation of several chunks of similar size and length, then shifted the coals to this new base and added fuel. When the fire was burning well, he cleared the ground where the old fire had been and unrolled his bed on the warm ground. It was an old wilderness trick, used many times.
How many such nights had he spent? How many such things had he learned?
Gloomily he walked to the horses and whispered to them, rubbing their shoulders. The black stamped cheerfully.
He tried then to visualize the trail ahead, to plan what could be done, and to put himself in Barker’s place. Of one thing he was positive. Andy Barker would come again. He would not give up while there was still a chance, and now he had three men to help.
After a rest, he took his rifle and scouted away from the fire toward the creek that separated them from the Nowood badlands. At times he was as much as a quarter of a mile out, but he saw nothing, heard nothing.
He was not relieved. Barker had to make his move. He dared not let them get to Montana and the settlements with their story. He must kill every one of them. And besides, there was that gold on the paint pony—or that would again be on it in the morning.
Barker had taken a leaf from Plummer’s book on that. The leader of the Innocents always had tipsters to advise him of gold shipments or sales of property. He knew when men left the gold camps with money, and few of them ever survived that knowledge. Somebody had tipped Barker to the gold that Healy carried.
It could not be far to Coulson, perhaps less far to the Fort. Tomorrow would be clear and they could get in a good day’s travel. And he would push hard, without regard to anyone. It had to be that way. It would be cruel for Maggie, but if Barker overtook them she would die, anyway. He had to gamble with one life to save any of them.
Once they reached the Fort, Janice could leave the company and the two of them could find a place to wait until spring and a trip into the Blues.
It was no life for a young and pretty woman, carefully reared as Janice had obviously been. Yet she had come from good stock and many such had taken to the pioneer life with ease and skill. And he knew a thousand ways to make such a life easier. Nor was he broke. His hand touched the money belt at his waist. It was not much, but in this country it was a stake.
There were cattle in Oregon. He could buy a few, and there was game around, so they could live off the country if need be. He would avoid riding jobs for other outfits and the risk of running into somebody who knew his reputation. That reputation had been built from Uvalde to Cimarron, from Durango to Dodge and Abilene. But west of Cheyenne not many would know him.
Returning to camp, he built up the fire and awakened Healy. “All quiet. Doesn’t seem to be anybody within miles. Let ’em rest until full daylight.”
Yet scarcely an hour later he was awakened suddenly by Healy’s hand on his shoulder.
“King?” Healy whispered. “Wake up! Something’s wrong! The snow’s melting.”
Mabry lifted his head a little. He could hear the steady drip of snow melting from the trees, and feel the warm softness of the air. He lay back on his bed, smiling. “It’s all right,” he said. “It’s the chinook.”
“I couldn’t figure what was happening.”
“It’s a warm wind, that’s all. By morning there won’t be a snowdrift in the country.”
Mabry stretched out again, listening to the lulling sound of dripping water. They could travel faster now. And it would simplify the feed problem for their horses. The snow had been getting deep even for mountain-bred stock.
When he awakened the sun was shining in his eyes and the sky was wide and blue.
Chapter 16
BY KEEPING TO the high ground where there was less runoff and so less mud, they made good time. The air was clear and they could see for a great distance. Nowhere was there any smoke, nor did they come upon the tracks of any party of horsemen.
Mabry scouted well in advance, studying the country. He knew all the signs, and watched for them, noticing the tracks of animals, grass bent down, and watching for any sudden change of direction in the tracks of animals he saw. Such a change might indicate the presence of men in the vicinity. At least, at the time the animal passed.
Yet by nightfall, when they came down off the hills to camp in a coulee, they had seen nothing, and had miles behind them. All were toughened to walking now.
It was Healy that saw the tracks first, the tracks of unshod ponies. Healy spoke quickly, indicating them. A moment later, they saw the Indians.
The party was large, numbering at least twenty. Even as they were sighted, the Indians started walking their horses toward them.
“It’s all right,” Mabry said. “They’re Shoshones.”
They came on, spreading out a little as they drew near, the leader lifting his right hand, palm out. He was a wide-shouldered man with graying hair. As they came together, he lowered his hand to grip Mabry’s palm.
“Me High Bear. Friend to Gray Fox. You know Gray Fox?”
“Knew him in Arizona,” Mabry said. Aside to the others, he added, “Gray Fox was the Indian name for General Crook.”
Mabry glanced at the dozen spare horses they were driving with them. Those horses could be an answer to their greatest problem. The point was, would the Shoshones trade? Yet he should know, he told himself, that an Indian loves nothing better than a trade.
“Trade horses with the Crows?” he asked.
High Bear chuckled. “We trade. This time they know it.” He glanced at the followers of Mabry. “Where you horses?”
Mabry explained, taking his time and giving the story as an Indian would tell it, in great detail and with many gestures. He told of the fight with the renegade Sioux on the Red Fork, and the flight of their party.
The story was more than a mere account. Mabry told it for a purpose, knowing well that the Shoshones were old enemies of the Sioux, and that they would read the story themselves if any tracks remained. So he told the story of their flight, of the shelter and the sick woman. It was a story most Indians had themselves experienced, and they listened with attention.
The story was also a prelude to a horse trade. The Shoshones, knowing they had fought enemies, would be more willing in a trade now than they might have been otherwise. The fight with the Sioux made them allies of a sort.
“Camp close by,” High Bear said. “You come?”
; Swinging in behind the Shoshones, they followed a half mile down the coulee to a camp of a dozen lodges. Indian children and dogs came running to meet them and to stare with wide eyes at the strangers. Within a few minutes they were all seated around a fire, eating and talking.
King Mabry brought the spare weapons from the horses and laid them out neatly on a blanket near the fire. He made no reference to them, but managed an effective display that drew immediate attention from the Shoshones. The rifles were in good shape, but the handguns were old and much used.
The Shoshones cast many sidelong glances at the weapons. Indians were always short of ammunition and rarely had rifles enough to go around. It was upon this that Mabry was depending. If a trade could be arranged, they might get horses enough to elude Parker and get to the Montana settlements in quick time.
High Bear picked up the fine-looking Winchester 73 that had belonged to Griffin and turned it over in his hands. He obviously had a fighting man’s appreciation of a good weapon. “You swap?” he suggested.
“Maybe,” Mabry admitted, without interest. “We could use three or four ponies.”
High Bear continued to study the gun. That he liked the balance and feel of it was obvious. Mabry picked up an older rifle and showed it to the Chief. “Two ponies,” he said gravely.
The Shoshone did not even glance at the rifle, but continued to examine the Winchester.
Mabry took out his tobacco sack and passed it around. High Bear rolled a smoke as quickly as any cow hand, but most of the Indians smoked pipes.
“That bay pony,” Mabry said, “and the grulla. I might be interested in them.”
High Bear put down the Winchester and picked up the nearest handgun, an old Colt .44. “No good,” he said. “No shoot far.”
Mabry reached for the gun. “Look.” He gestured toward a pine cone thirty yards off. It was a big cone, wide as a man’s hand, and longer. As he spoke, he fired. The pine cone split into many pieces.
“Waa-a-ah!” The awed Indians looked from the pine cone to Mabry.
Mabry picked three pine cones from the ground near the fire. “Throw ’em up,” he said to Healy. “Throw ’em high.”
Healy tossed the cones into the air and Mabry blasted the first two as they went up, then shifted the old gun to his left hand, palmed his own gun, and fired. The cone was dropping fast when the bullet struck. It shattered into bits.
The Shoshones talked excitedly, staring at the gun. High Bear took the Colt from Mabry and examined it. “You shoot fast,” he admitted. “Gun shoot good.”
He turned the weapon over in his hands. “Maybe all right. How much you want?”
For an hour they argued and protested, trading the guns from hand to hand. They shared the meal the Shoshones had prepared and Janice made coffee, which the Indians drank with gusto. Finally, after much argument, a deal was consummated.
In exchange for the Winchester 73, an old Spencer .50, and the worn-out Colt, they got three ponies. By distributing the packs among all the horses, none carried too much weight.
At daybreak, with a fresh supply of jerked meat traded from the Indians in exchange for extra ammunition and a blanket, they returned to the trail.
Healy rode up and joined King Mabry, who was once more riding the black. “That meat was mighty tender,” he said, “and had a nice flavor. What was it?”
“Venison.”
“I never tasted anything quite like it. How do they get it so tender?”
“Squaw chews it,” Mabry replied matter-of-factly.
“What?” Healy searched Mabry’s face for some indication that he might be joking, his sick expression betraying his own feelings. “You don’t mean to tell me—”
“Sure,” Mabry said. “Squaw chews the meat until it’s tender. Then she cooks it. Never cared for the idea, myself.”
High Bear had been interested in Mabry’s account of the renegade Sioux, and promised to backtrack the party and see if they could be rounded up. Knowing the ancient enmity between the Shoshones and the Sioux, and considering the sizes of the two parties, Mabry was sure that if High Bear found the Sioux, that would be one party less to worry about. But High Bear assured him his party had come upon no tracks of white men or shod horses.
All the Shoshones in the party had been among those who had served with General Crook under Chief Washakie at the Battle of the Rosebud. They were friendly to the white men, and had been fine soldiers in that battle.
Riding steadily north under a sky as balmy as that of spring, they found little snow remaining except on the hillsides away from the sun. Nevertheless, Mabry was uneasy.
Yet despite his wariness, the quietness of the country, and the reassurance of the Shoshones, they almost walked into an ambush.
Tom Healy was riding point, with Mabry scouting off a hundred yards to the left, when the Indians struck without warning. Suddenly, with no previous indication of their presence, a half-dozen Indians arose from a ravine. Only Healy’s shouted warning saved them.
Healy had been watching a bird, the only movement in all that vast sweep of land and sky, and he had seen it suddenly swoop for a landing in some brush at the ravine’s edge. When it was about to land it fluttered wildly and shot up into the air again.
Healy shouted and swung his rifle one split second before the Indians stepped into view. Healy had fired as he swung the rifle, and his shot caught the first Indian in the chest. The Sioux screamed and grabbed at the brush to keep from falling.
Dodie, who was still carrying the shotgun, swung her horse and rode swiftly forward, firing first one barrel and then the other. Mabry came in at a dead run, sweeping wide around the rear of the little column to draw fire away from it. Reins upon the pommel, he sat bolt upright in the saddle, shooting fast into the scattered Indians.
Suddenly they were gone. Mabry swung his horse. Healy was on the ground, his arm through the loop of the reins, his rifle ready.
“Cover us,” Mabry said as he swept by, and hurriedly he crowded the women over into a shallow dip in the hills away from the ravine.
How many Indians there were, he had no idea. At least two were down, but he was sure there were more Sioux than had revealed themselves, and that they were in for a fight.
There was no adequate shelter, no place to fort up. Just the hollow dip in the hills that was at least fifty yards across and twice that long. Then he saw an old buffalo wallow.
In a minute he had the three women on the ground in the buffalo wallow and had led the horses to the lowest part, where brush and high grass concealed them a little. Yet he doubted the horses would be killed unless by a stray bullet. The Sioux undoubtedly wanted the horses as much as anything else.
Healy came in last and swung down. The surprise attack had failed utterly, largely because of Healy’s alertness. Even Janice had ridden out with an old pistol in her hand.
Mabry glanced at her, but said nothing. Yet he looked at Dodie thoughtfully. “You’ll do to take along,” he said sincerely. “You put some shot into one of them.”
Janice was putting the pistol back into its holster. For an instant his eyes met hers and he smiled. “Another minute and you might have killed an Indian,” Mabry said.
“They were attacking us,” she said defensively.
“I know. That’s the way it is.”
There was a long time then of crouching in the sun in the buffalo wallow. Wind stirred the tall grass, lazy white clouds floated against the vast blue of the heavens. The horses stamped and blew.
“They’ve gone,” Janice said.
“No,” Mabry said. “We’ll wait.”
A slow hour drew itself by on the canvas of the sky. Mabry’s shoulder was damp where it pressed against the earth.
Three women, horses, weapons.…It was unlikely the renegade Sioux would abandon the attack so quickly.
There was no rush. There was no warning of sound, only a faint whisper in the grass that was not the wind and a sudden rifle barrel appearing on the ridge of the ho
llow. Yet Mabry caught the gleam of sunlight even as it appeared. He took a chance and held low against the earth atop that low crest.
He squeezed off his shot even as the rifle muzzle swung to bear on Healy. Mabry could see nothing but that muzzle, but his shot struck with a sullen thud. A Sioux lifted up, blood streaming down his face, then fell face down over the lip of the hollow and lay sprawled out on the grass.
At the same instant, bullets laced the hollow with deadly fire. Healy replied, shooting fast three times.
And then again there was silence.
King Mabry wormed his way out of the buffalo wallow and went up the slope to the dead Sioux. He retrieved his rifle and a small pouch of ammunition, then edged up to the hill. Looking through some grass, he peered over the edge. Before him stretched a brown grassy hillside, empty of life. The sun was bright and warm. The grass waved idly in the light wind, and as far away as the distant line of Nowood Creek, there was nothing.
He lay perfectly still, watching. His eyes searched the ground to left and right. Then, rolling over, he drew back a little and looked all around. He saw nothing. Yet the Indians were there. He knew they were there. And with each moment of delay, somewhere Barker was drawing nearer.
In the buffalo wallow, almost concealed from where he lay, were the others. And they had been too lucky. Too beautifully, perfectly lucky. Since the killing of Guilford and his own comparatively minor wounds, they had come through unscathed, aided by their elusive action and the weather.
Yet every hour increased the odds against them. The law of averages would not let them escape forever, and steadily the odds piled up.
Despite the warmth of the sun, the ground was cold. It ate into the hide, into the flesh and bone. It had lain under snow too long, was frozen deep, and the light air of the chinook could not touch the solid cold of the earth beneath them. Yet he waited, knowing well the patience of the Indian. An advantage, of course, was that these renegades were mostly young men, fiercely proud and resentful of the white man and eager to prove themselves as warriors. Dangerous as they might be, they were not so dangerous as seasoned warriors.
Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) Page 12
