The Trail to Crazy Man

by Louis L'Amour

  Gill turned his head slightly. “Might not be a bad idea to take to the hills, boss,” he said carelessly. “There’s a trail up that-a-way … ain’t much used, either.”

  Caradec glanced quickly at the little ’puncher, then nodded. “All right,” he said, “lead off, if you want.”

  Johnny was riding with his rifle across his saddle, and his eyes were alert. That, Rafe decided, was not a bad idea. He jerked his head back toward Painted Rock. “What you think Barkow will do?”

  Gill shrugged. “No tellin’, but Dan Shute will know what to do. He’ll be gunnin’ for yuh, if yuh’ve shore enough got the straight of this. What yuh figger happened?”

  Rafe hesitated, then he said carefully: “What happened to Charles Rodney wasn’t any accident. It was planned and carried out mighty smooth.” He waited while the horse took a half dozen steps, then looked up suddenly. “Gill, you size up like a man to ride the river with. Here’s the story, and if you ever tell it, you’ll hang four good men.”

  Briefly and concisely, he outlined the shanghaiing of Rodney and himself, the events aboard ship, the escape.

  “See?” he added. “It must have looked foolproof to them. Rodney goes away to sea and never comes back. Nobody but Barkow knows that mortgage was paid, and what did happen was somethin’ they couldn’t plan for, and probably didn’t even think about.”

  Gil nodded. “Rodney must have been tougher’n anybody figgered,” he said admiringly. “He never quit tryin’, yuh say?”

  “Right. He had only one idea, it looked like, and that was to live to get home to his wife and daughter. If,” Rafe added, “the wife was anything like the daughter, I don’t blame him.”

  The cowhand chuckled. “Yeah, I know what yuh mean. She’s purty as a papoose in a red hat.”

  “You know, Gill,” Rafe said speculatively, “there’s one thing that bothers me. Why do they want that ranch so bad?”

  “That’s got me wonderin’, too,” Gill agreed. “It’s a good ranch, mostly, except for that land at the mouth of the valley. Rises there to a sort of a dome, and the Crazy Man swings around it. Nothin’ much grows there. The rest of it’s a good ranch.”

  “Say anything about Tex or Bo?” Caradec asked.

  “No,” Gill said. “It figgers like war, now. No use lettin’ the enemy know what you’re holdin’.”

  The trail they followed left the grasslands of the creek bottom and turned back up into the hills to a long plateau. They rode on among the tall pines, scattered here and there with birch or aspen along the slopes. A cool breeze stirred among the pines, and the horses walked along slowly, taking their time, their hoof beats soundless on the cushion of pine needles. Once the trail wound down the steep side of a shadowy cañon, weaving back and forth, finally to reach bottom in a brawling, swift-running stream. Willows skirted the banks, and, while the horses were drinking, Rafe saw a trout leap in a pool above the rapids. A brown thrasher swept like a darting red-brown arrow past his head, and he could hear yellow warblers gossiping among the willows.

  He himself was drinking when he saw the sand crumble from a spot on the bank and fall with a tiny splash into the creek. Carefully he got to his feet. His rifle was in his saddle boot, but his pistols were good enough for anything he could see in this narrow place. He glanced casually at Gill, and the cowhand was tightening his cinch, all unawares.

  Caradec drew a long breath and hitched up his trousers, then hooked his thumbs in his belt near the gun butts. He had no idea who was there, but that sand did not fall without a reason. In his own mind he was sure that someone was standing in the willow thicket across and downstream, above where the sand had fallen. Someone was watching them.

  “Ready?” Johnny suggested, looking at him curiously.

  “Almost,” Rafe drawled casually. “Sort of like this little place. It’s cool and pleasant. Sort of place a man might like to rest a while, and where a body could watch his back trail, too.” He was talking at random, hoping Gill would catch on. The ’puncher was looking at him intently now. “At least,” Rafe added, “it would be nice here if a man was alone. He could think better.”

  It was then that his eye caught the color in the willows. It was a tiny corner of red, a bright, flaming crimson, and it lay where no such color should be. That was not likely to be a cowhand unless he was a Mexican or a dude, and they were scarce in this country. It could be an Indian. If whoever it was had planned to fire, a good chance had been missed while he and Gill drank. Two well-placed shots would have done for them both. Therefore, it was logical to discount the person in the willows as an enemy, or, if so, a patient enemy. To all appearances whoever lay in the willows preferred to remain unseen. It had all the earmarks of being someone or something trying to avoid trouble.

  Gill was quiet and puzzled. Cat-like, he watched Rafe for some sign to indicate what the trouble was. A quick scanning of the brush had revealed nothing, but Caradec was not the man to be spooked by a shadow.

  “You speak Sioux?” Rafe asked casually.

  Gill’s mouth tightened. “A mite. Not so good, mebbe.”

  “Speak loud and say we are friends.”

  Johnny Gill’s eyes were wary as he spoke. There was no sound, no reply.

  “Try it again,” Rafe suggested. “Tell him we want to talk. Tell him we want to talk to Red Cloud, the great chief.”

  Gill complied, and there was still no sound.

  Rafe looked up at him. “I’m goin’ to go over into those willows,” he said softly. “Something’s wrong.”

  “You watch yoreself!” Gill warned. “The Sioux are plenty smart.”

  Moving slowly, so as to excite no hostility, Rafe Caradec walked his horse across the stream, then swung down. There was neither sound nor movement from the willows. He walked back among the slender trees, glancing around, yet even then, close as he was, he might not have seen her had it not been for the red stripes. Her clothing blended perfectly with the willows and flowers along the stream bank.

  She was a young squaw, slender and dark, with large, intelligent eyes. One look told Rafe that she was frightened speechless, and, knowing what had happened to squaws found by some of the white men, he could understand. Her legs were outstretched, and from the marks on the grass and the bank of the stream he could see she had been dragging herself. The reason was plain to see. One leg was broken just below the knee.

  “Johnny,” he said, not too loudly, “here’s a young squaw. She’s got a busted leg.”

  “Better get away quick!” Gill advised. “The Sioux are pretty mean where squaws are concerned.”

  “Not till I set that leg,” Rafe said.

  “Boss,” Gill advised worriedly, “don’t do it. She’s liable to yell like blazes if yuh lay a hand on her. Our lives won’t be worth a nickel. We’ve got troubles enough, without askin’ for more.”

  Rafe walked a step nearer, and smiled at the girl. “I want to fix your leg,” he said gently, motioning to it. “Don’t be afraid.”

  She said nothing, staring at him, yet he walked up and knelt down. She drew back from his touch, and he saw then she had a knife. He smiled and touched the break with gentle fingers.

  “Better cut some splints, Gill,” he said. “She’s got a bad break. Just a little jolt and it might pop right through the skin.”

  Working carefully, he set the leg. There was no sound from the girl, no sign of pain. Gill shook his head wonderingly.

  “Nervy, ain’t she?” Rafe suggested.

  Taking the splints Gill had cut, he bound them on her leg.

  “Better take the pack off that paint and split it between the two of us and the other hoss,” he said. “We’ll put her up on the hoss.”

  When they had her on the paint’s back, Gill asked her, in Sioux: “How far to Indian camp?”

  She looked at him, then at Rafe. Then she spoke quickly to him.


  Gill grinned. “She says she talks to the chief. That means you. Her camp is about an hour south and west, in the hills.”

  “Tell her we’ll take her most of the way.”

  Rafe swung into saddle, and they turned their horses back into the trail. Rafe rode ahead, the squaw and the pack horse following, and Johnny Gill, rifle still across the saddle bows, bringing up the rear.

  They had gone no more than a mile when they heard voices, then three riders swung around a bend in the trail, reining in sharply. Tough-looking, bearded men, they stared from Rafe to the Indian girl. She gasped suddenly, and Rafe’s eyes narrowed a little.

  “See yuh got our pigeon!” A red-bearded man rode toward them, grinning. “We been a-chasin’ her for a couple of hours. Purty thing, ain’t she?”

  “Yeah.” A slim, wiry man with a hatchet face and a cigarette dangling from his lips was speaking. “Glad yuh found her. We’ll take her off yore hands now.”

  “That’s all right,’ Rafe said quietly. “We’re taking her back to her village. She’s got a broken leg.”

  “Takin’ her back to the village?” the red-bearded man exclaimed. “Why, we cut that squaw out for ourselves, and we’re slappin’ our own brand on her. You get yore own squaws.” He nodded toward the hatchet-faced man. “Get that lead rope, Boyne.”

  “Keep your hands off that rope!” Rafe’s voice was cold. “You blasted fools will get us all killed. This girl’s tribe would be down on your ears before night.”

  “We’ll take care of that,” Red persisted. “Get her, Boyne!”

  Rafe smiled suddenly. “If you boys are lookin’ for trouble, I reckon you’ve found it. I don’t know how many of you want to die for this squaw, but any time you figger to take her away from us, some of you’d better start sizing up grave space.”

  Boyne’s eyes narrowed wickedly. “Why, he’s askin’ for a ruckus, Red! Which eye shall I shoot him through?”

  Rafe Caradec sat his horse calmly, smiling a little. “I reckon,” he said, “you boys ain’t any too battle wise. You’re bunched too much. Now, from where I sit, all three of you are dead in range and grouped nice for even one gun shootin’, and I’m figurin’ to use two.” He spoke to Gill. “Johnny,” he said quietly, “suppose these hombres start smokin’ it, you take that fat one. Leave the redhead and this Boyne for me.”

  The fat cowhand shifted in his saddle uncomfortably. He was unpleasantly aware that he had turned his horse so he was sideward to Gill and, while presenting a fair target himself, would have to turn half around in the saddle to fire.

  Boyne’s eyes were hard and reckless. Rafe knew he was the one to watch. He wore his gun slung low, and that he fancied himself as a gun hand was obvious. Suddenly Rafe knew the man was going to draw.

  “Hold it!” The voice cut sharply across the air like the crack of a whip. “Boyne, keep yore hand shoulder high! You, too, Red! Now turn yore horses with yore knees and start down the trail. If one of yuh even looks like yuh wanted to use a gun, I’ll open up with this Henry and cut yuh into little pieces.”

  Boyne cursed wickedly. “Yuh’re gettin’ out of it easy this time!” he said viciously. “I’ll see yuh again!”

  Rafe smiled. “Why, shore, Boyne! Only next time you’d better take the rawhide lashin’ off the butt of your Colt. Mighty handy when ridin’ over rough country, but mighty unhandy when you need your gun in a hurry.”

  With a startled gasp, Boyne glanced down. The rawhide thong was tied over his gun to hold it in place. His face two shades whiter than a snake’s belly, he turned his horse with his knees and started the trek down trail.

  Bo Marsh stepped out of the brush with his rifle in his hands. He was grinning.

  “Hey, boss! If I’d known that six-gun was tied down, I’d ’a’ let yuh mow him down! That skunk needs it. That’s Lem Boyne. He’s a gunslinger for Dan Shute.”

  Gill laughed. “Man! Will our ears burn tonight! Rafe’s run two of Shute’s boys into the ground today!”

  Marsh grinned. “Figgered yuh’d be headed home soon, and I was out after deer.” He glanced at the squaw with the broken leg. “Got more trouble?”

  “No,” Rafe said. “Those hombres had been runnin’ this girl down. She busted her leg gettin’ away, so we fixed it up. Let’s ride.”

  VI

  The trail was smoother now and drifted casually from one cañon to another. Obviously it had been a game trail that had been found and used by Indians, trappers, and wandering buffalo hunters before the coming of the cowhands and trail drivers.

  When they were still several miles from the cabin on the Crazy Man, the squaw spoke up suddenly. Gill looked over at Rafe.

  “Her camp’s just over that rise in a draw,” he said.

  Caradec nodded. Then he turned to the girl. She was looking at him, expecting him to speak.

  “Tell her,” he said, “that we share the land Rodney bought from Red Cloud. That we share it with the daughter of Rodney. Get her to tell Red Cloud we will live on the Crazy Man, and we are friends to the Sioux, that their women are safe with us, their horses will not be stolen, that we are friends to the warriors of Red Cloud and the great chiefs of the Sioux people.”

  Gill spoke slowly, emphatically, and the girl nodded. Then she turned her horse and rode up through the trees.

  “Boss,” Johnny said, “she’s got our best hoss. That’s the one I give the most money for!”

  Rafe grinned. “Forget it. The girl was scared silly but wouldn’t show it for anything. It’s a cheap price to pay to get her home safe. Like I said, the Sioux make better friends than enemies.”

  * * * * *

  When the three men rode up, Tex Brisco was carrying two buckets of water to the house. He grinned at them. “That grub looks good,” he told them. “I’ve eaten so much antelope meat, the next thing you know I’ll be boundin’ along over the prairie myself.”

  While Marsh got busy with the grub, Johnny told Tex about the events of the trip.

  “Nobody been around here,” Brisco said. “I seen three Injuns, but they was off a couple of miles and didn’t come this way. There hasn’t been nobody else around.”

  * * * * *

  During the three days that followed the trip to Painted Rock, Rafe Caradec scouted the range. There were a lot of Bar M cattle around, and most of them were in fairly good shape. His own cattle were mingling freely with them. The range would support many more head than it carried, and the upper end of Long Valley was almost untouched. There was much good grass in the mountain meadows, also, and in several cañons south of the Crazy Man.

  Johnny Gill and Bo Marsh explained the lay of the land as they knew it.

  “North of here,” Gill said, “back of Painted Rock, and mostly west of there, the mountains rise up nigh onto nine thousand feet. Good huntin’ country, some of the best I ever seen. South, toward the end of the valley, the mountains thin out. There’s a pass through to the head of Otter Creek, and that country west of the mountains is good grazin’ land, and nobody much in there yet. Injuns got a big powwow grounds over there. Still farther south there’s a long road wall, runnin’ purty much north and south. Only one entrance in thirty-five miles. Regular hole in the wall. A few men could get into that hole and stand off an army, and, if they wanted to hightail it, they could lose themselves in that back country.”

  Rafe scouted the crossing toward the head of Otter Creek, and rode down the creek to the grasslands below. This would be good grazing land, and mentally he made a note to make some plans for it.

  He rode back to the ranch that night, and, when he was sitting on the stoop after the sun was down, he looked around at Tex Brisco. “You been over the trail from Texas?” he asked.

  “Uhn-huh.”

  “Once aboard ship you were tellin’ me about a stampede you had. Only got back about sixteen hundred head of a two-thousand-head herd.
That sort of thing happen often?”

  Tex laughed. “Shucks, yes! Stampedes are regular things along the trail. Yuh lose some cattle, yuh mebbe get more back, but there’s plenty of maverick stock runnin’ on the plains south of the Platte … all the way to the Canadian, as far as that goes.”

  “Reckon a few men could slip over there and round up some of that stock?”

  Brisco sat up and glanced at Rafe. “Shore could. Wild stuff, though, and it would be a man-sized job.”

  “Mebbe,” Caradec suggested, “we’ll try and do it. It would be one way of gettin’ a herd pretty fast, or turnin’ some quick money.”

  There followed days of hard, driving labor. Always one man stayed at the cabin keeping a sharp look-out for any of the Shute or Barkow riders. Caradec knew they would come and, when they did, they would be riding with only one idea in mind—to get rid of him.

  In the visit to Painted Rock he had laid his cards on the table, and they had no idea how much he knew, or what his story of Charles Rodney could be. Rafe Caradec knew Barkow was worried, and that pleased him. Yet while the delayed attack was a concern, it was also a help.

  There was some grumbling from the hands, but he kept them busy, cutting hay in the meadows and stacking it. Winter in this country was going to be bad—he needed no weather prophet to tell him that—and he had no intention of losing a lot of stock.

  In a cañon that branched off from the head of Crazy Man, he had found a warm spring. There was small chance of it freezing, yet the water was not too hot to drink. In severe cold it would freeze, but otherwise it would offer an excellent watering place for his stock. They made no effort to bring hay back to the ranch, but arranged it in huge stacks back in the cañons and meadows.

  There had been no sign of Indians, and Rafe avoided their camp, yet once, when he did pass nearby, there was no sign of them. It seemed as if they had moved out and left the country.

  Then one night he heard a noise at the corral, and the snorting of a horse. Instantly he was out of bed and had his boots on when he heard Brisco swearing in the next room. They got outside in a hurry, fearing someone was rustling their stock. In the corral they could see the horses, and there was no one nearby.