The Trail to Crazy Man

by Louis L'Amour

  “Don’t call me that,” Penn said fiercely. “I’m not wearing a gun, mister.”

  If Barkow heard the last words, they made no impression. His hand was already sweeping down. Penn stepped back, throwing his arms wide, and Bruce Barkow, his face livid with the fury of frustration, whipped up a gun and shot him twice through the body. Penn staggered back, uncomprehending, staring.

  “No … gun!” he gasped. “I don’t … gun.”

  He staggered into an Army wagon, reeled, and fell headlong.

  Bruce Barkow stared at the fallen man, then his contorted face turned upward. On the verge of escape and success he had been trapped, and now he had become a killer. Wheeling, he sprang into saddle. The gate was open for a wood wagon, and he whipped the horse through it, shouting hoarsely.

  Men had rushed from everywhere, and Rock Mullaney, staring in shocked surprise, could only fumble at his belt. He wore no gun, either. He looked up at Ann. “We carried rifles,” he muttered. “We never figgered on no trouble!” Then he rubbed his face, sense returning to his eyes. “Miss, what did he shoot him for?”

  She stared at him, humbled by the grief written on the man’s hard, lonely face. “That man, Barkow, killed my father,” she said.

  “No, miss. If yuh’re Charlie Rodney’s daughter, Charlie died aboard ship with us.”

  She nodded. “I know, but Barkow was responsible. Oh, I’ve been a fool! An awful fool!”

  An officer was kneeling over Penn’s body. He got up, glanced at Mullaney, then at Ann. “This man is dead,” he said. Resolution came suddenly to Ann. “Major,” she sad, “I’m going to catch the patrol. Will you lend me a fresh horse? Ours will still be badly worn out after last night.”

  “It wouldn’t be safe, Miss Rodney,” he protested. “It wouldn’t at all. There’s Indians out there. How Caradec got through, or you and Barkow, is beyond me.” He gestured to the body. “What you know about this?”

  Briefly, concisely she explained, telling all. She made no attempt to spare herself or to leave anything out. She outlined the entire affair, taking only a few minutes.

  “I see.” He looked thoughtfully at the gate. “If I could give you an escort, I would, but …”

  “If she knows the way,” Mullaney said, “I’ll go with her. We came down the river from Fort Benton, then up the Yellowstone and the Powder. We thought we would come and see how Rafe was getting along. If we’d knowed there was trouble, we’d have come before.”

  “It’s as much as your life is worth, man,” the major warned.

  Mullaney shrugged. “Like as not, but my life has had chances taken with it before. Besides,”—he ran his fingers over his bald head—“there’s no scalp here to attract Indians.”

  * * * * *

  Well-mounted, Ann and Mullaney rode swiftly. The patrol would be hurrying because of Bo Marsh’s serious condition, but they should overtake them, and following was no immediate problem. Mullaney knew the West and had fought before in his life as a wandering jack-of-all-trades, and he was not upset by the chance they were taking. He glanced from time to time at Ann, then, rambling along, he began to give her an account of their life aboard ship, of the friendship that had grown between her father and Rafe Caradec, and all Rafe had done to spare the older man work and trouble. He told her how Rafe had treated Rodney’s wounds when he had been beaten, how he had saved food for him, and how close the two had grown. Twice, noting her grief and shame, he ceased talking, but each time she insisted on his continuing.

  “Caradec?” Mullaney said finally. “Well, I’d say he was one of the finest men I’ve known. A fighter, he is. The lad’s a fighter from ’way back. Yuh should have seen the beatin’ he gave that Borger! I got only a glimpse, but Penn told me about it. And if it hadn’t been for Rafe, none us would have got away. He planned it, and he carried it out. He planned it before yore father’s last trouble … the trouble that killed him … but when he saw yore father would die, he carried on with it.”

  They rode on in silence. All the time, Ann knew now, she should have trusted her instincts. Always they had warned her about Bruce Barkow, always they had been sure of Rafe Caradec. As she had sat in the jury box and watched him talk, handling his case, it had been his sincerity that had impressed her, even more than his shrewd handling of questions. He had killed men, yes. But what men! Bonaro and Trigger Boyne, both acknowledged and boastful killers of men themselves, men unfit to walk in the tracks of such as Rafe. She had to find him! She must!

  The wind was chill, and she glanced at Mullaney. “It’s cold!” she said. “It feels like snow!”

  He nodded grimly. “It does that,” he said. “Early for it, but it’s happened before. If we get a norther now …” He shook his head.

  They made camp while it was still light, and Mullaney built a fire of dry sticks that gave off almost no smoke. Water was heated, and they made coffee. While Ann was fixing the little food they had, he rubbed the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.

  “Can yuh find yore way in the dark?” he asked her.

  “Yes, I think so. It is fairly easy from here, for we have the mountains. That highest peak will serve as a landmark unless there are too many clouds.”

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll try to keep movin’.”

  She found herself liking the burly seaman and cowhand. He helped her smother the fire and wipe out traces of it.

  “If we stick to the trail of the soldiers,” he said, “it’ll confuse the Injuns. They’ll think we’re with their party.”

  They started on. Ann led off, keeping the horses at a fast walk. Dusk came, and with it the wind grew stronger. After an hour of travel, Ann reined in.

  Mullaney rode up beside her. “What’s the matter?”

  She indicated the tracks of a single horse crossing the route of the soldiers.

  “Yuh think this is Barkow?” He nodded as an idea came. “It could be. The soldiers don’t know what happened back there. He might ride with ’em for protection.”

  Another thought came to him. He looked at Ann keenly. “Suppose he’d try to kill Caradec?”

  Her heart jumped. “Oh, no!” She was saying no to the thought, not to the possibility. She knew it was a possibility. What did Bruce have to lose? He was already a fugitive, and another killing would make it no worse. And Rafe Caradec had been the cause of it all.

  “He might,” she agreed. “He might, at that …”

  * * * * *

  Miles to the west, Bruce Barkow, his rifle across his saddle, leaned into the wind. He had followed the soldiers for a way, and the idea of a snipe shot at Caradec stayed in his mind. He could do it, and they would think the Indians had done it. But there was a better way, a way to get at them all. If he could ride on ahead, reach Gill and Marsh before the patrol did, he might kill them, then get Caradec when he approached. If then he could get rid of Shute, Gomer would have to swing with him to save something from the mess. Maybe Dan Shute’s idea was right, after all! Maybe killing was the solution.

  Absorbed by the possibilities of the idea, Barkow turned off the route followed by the soldiers. There was a way that could make it safer, and somewhat faster. He headed for the old Bozeman Trail, now abandoned.

  He gathered his coat around him to protect him from the increasing cold. His mind was fevered with worry, doubt of himself, and mingled with it was hatred of Caradec, Shute, Ann Rodney, and everyone and everything. He drove on into the night.

  Twice, he stopped to rest. The second time he started on, it was turning gray with morning, and, as he swung into the saddle, a snowflake touched his cheek. He thought little of it. His horse was uneasy, though, and anxious for the trail. Snow was not a new thing, and Barkow scarcely noticed as the flakes began to come down thicker and faster.

  Gill and the wounded man had disappeared, he knew. Shute’s searchers had not found them near the house. Bruce
Barkow had visited that house many times before the coming of Caradec, and he knew the surrounding hills well. About a half mile back from the house, sheltered by a thick growth of lodgepole pine, was a deep cave among some rocks. If Johnny Gill had found that cave, he might have moved Marsh there. It was, at least, a chance.

  Bruce Barkow was not worried about the tracks he was leaving. Few Indians would be moving in this inclement weather, nor would the party from the fort have come this far north. From the route they had taken, he knew they were keeping to the low country. He was nearing the first range of foothills now, the hills that divided Long Valley from the open plain that sloped gradually away to the Powder and the old Bozeman Trail. He rode into the pines and started up the trail, intent upon death. His mind was sharpened like that of a hungry coyote. Cornered and defeated for the prize himself, his only way out, either for victory or revenge, lay in massacre, wholesale killing.

  It was like him that having killed once, he did not hesitate to accept the idea of killing again. He did not see the big man on the gray horse who fell in behind him. He did not glance back over his trail, although by now the thickening snow obscured the background so much the rider, gaining slowly on him through the storm, would have been no more than a shadow.

  To the right, behind the once bald and now snow-covered dome, was the black smear of seeping oil. Drawing abreast of it, Bruce Barkow reined in and glanced down. Here it was, the cause of it all. The key to wealth, to everything a man could want. Men had killed for less; he could kill for this. He knew where there were four other such seepages, and the oil sold from twenty dollars to thirty dollars a barrel.

  He got down and stirred it with a stick. It was thick now, thickened by cold. Well, he still might win. Then he heard a shuffle of hoofs in the snow, and looked up. Dan Shute’s figure was gigantic in the heavy coat he wore, sitting astride the big horse. He looked down at Barkow, and his lips parted.

  “Tried to get away with her, did yuh? I knew yuh had coyote in yuh, Barkow.”

  His hand came up, and in the gloved hand was a pistol. In a sort of shocked disbelief, Bruce Barkow saw the gun lift. His own gun was under his short, thick coat.

  “No!” he gasped hoarsely. “Not that! Dan!”

  The last word was a scream, cut sharply off by the hard bark of the gun. Bruce Barkow folded slowly and, clutching his stomach, toppled across the black seepage, staining it with a slow shading of red.

  For a minute, Dan Shute sat his horse, staring down. Then he turned the horse and moved on. He had an idea of his own. Before the storm began, from a mountain ridge he had picked out the moving patrol. Behind it were two figures. He had a hunch about those two riders, striving to overtake the patrol. He would see.

  XVIII

  Pushing rapidly ahead through the falling snow, the patrol came up to the ruins of the cabin on the Crazy Man on the morning of the second day out from the fort. Steam rose from the horses, and the breath of horses and men fogged the air. There was no sign of life. Rafe swung down, and stared about. The smooth surface of the snow was unbroken, yet he could see that much had happened since he started his trek to the fort for help. The lean-to, not quite complete, was abandoned.

  Lieutenant Bryson surveyed the scene thoughtfully. “Are we too late?” he asked.

  Caradec hesitated, staring around. There was no hope in what he saw. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Johnny Gill was a smart hand. He would figger out somethin’, and, besides, I don’t see any bodies.”

  In his mind, he surveyed the cañon. Certainly Gill could not have gone far with the wounded man. Also, it would have to be in the direction of possible shelter. The grove of lodgepoles offered the best chance. Turning, he walked toward them. Bryson dismounted his men, and they started fires.

  Milton Waitt, the surgeon, stared after Rafe, then walked in his tracks. When he came up with him, he suggested: “Any caves around?”

  Caradec paused, considering that. “There may be. None that I know of, though. Still, Johnny prowled in these rocks a lot and may have found one. Let’s have a look.” Then a thought occurred to him. “They’d have to have water, Doc. Let’s go to the spring.”

  There was ice over it, but the ice had been broken and had frozen again. Rafe indicated it.

  “Somebody drank here after the cold set in.”

  He knelt and felt of the snow with his fingers, working his way slowly around the spring. Suddenly he stopped.

  “Found something?” Waitt watched curiously. This made no sense to him.

  “Yes. Whoever got water from the spring splashed some on this side. It froze. I can feel the ice it made. That’s a fair indication that whoever got water came from that side of the spring.” Moving around, he kept feeling of the snow. “Here.” He felt again. “There’s an icy ring where he set the bucket for a minute. Water left on the bottom froze.” He straightened, studying the mountain side. “He’s up here, somewheres. He’s got a bucket, and he’s able to come down here for water, but findin’ him’ll be the devil’s own job. He’ll need fuel, though. Somewhere he’s been breakin’ sticks and collectin’ wood, but wherever he does, it won’t be close to his shelter. Gill’s too smart for that.”

  Studying the hillside, Rafe indicated the nearest clump of trees.

  “He wouldn’t want to be out in the open on this snow any longer than he had to,” he said thoughtfully, “and the chances are he’d head for the shelter of those trees. When he got there, he would probably set the bucket down while he studied the back trail and made shore he hadn’t been seen.”

  Waitt nodded, his interest aroused. “Good reasoning, man. Let’s see.”

  They walked to the clump of trees, and, after a few minutes’ search, Waitt found the same icy frozen place just under the thin skimming of snow. “Where do we go from here?” he asked.

  Rafe hesitated, studying the trees. A man would automatically follow the line of easiest travel, and there was an opening between the trees. He started on, then stopped. “This is right. See? There’s not so much snow on this branch. There’s a good chance he brushed it off in passin’.”

  It was mostly guesswork, he knew. Yet, after they had gone three hundred yards, Rafe looked up and saw the cliff pushing its rocky shoulder in among the trees. At its base was a tumbled cluster of gigantic boulders and broken slabs. He led off for the rocks, and almost the first thing he saw was a fragment of loose bark lying on the snow, and a few crumbs of dust such as is sometimes found between the bark and tree. He pointed it out to Waitt.

  “He carried wood this way.”

  They paused there, and Rafe sniffed the air. There was no smell of wood smoke. Were they dead? Had cold done what rifle bullets couldn’t do? No, he decided, Johnny Gill knew too well how to take care of himself.

  Rafe walked between the rocks, turning where it felt natural to turn. Suddenly he saw a tipped-up slab of granite leaning against a larger boulder. It looked dry underneath. He stooped and glanced in. It was dark and silent, yet some instinct seemed to tell him it was not so empty as it appeared.

  He crouched in the opening, leaving light from outside to come in first along one wall, then another. His keen eyes picked out a damp spot on the leaves. There was no place for a leak, and the wind had been in the wrong direction to blow in here.

  “Snow,” he said. “Probably fell off a boot.”

  They moved into the cave, bending over to walk. Yet it was not really a cave at first, merely a slab of rock offering partial shelter. About fifteen feet farther along the slab ended under a thick growth of pine boughs and brush that formed a canopy overhead, offering almost as solid shelter as the stone itself. Then, in the rock face of the cliff, they saw a cave, a place gouged by wind and water long since and completely obscured behind the boulders and brush from any view but from where they stood.

  They walked up to the entrance. The overhang of the cliff offered a shelter t
hat was all of fifty feet deep, running along one wall of a diagonal gash in the cliff that was invisible from outside. They stepped in on the dry sand, and had taken only a step when they smelled wood smoke. At almost the same instant, Johnny Gill spoke.

  “Hi, Rafe!” He stepped down from behind a heap of débris against one wall of the rock fissure. “I couldn’t see who yuh were till now. I had my rifle ready so’s if yuh was the wrong one, I could plumb discourage yuh.” His face looked drawn and tired. “He’s over here, Doc,” Gill continued, “and he’s been delirious all night.”

  While Waitt was busy over the wounded man, Gill walked back up the cave with Rafe.

  “What’s happened,” Gill asked. “I thought they’d got yuh.”

  “No, they haven’t, but I don’t know much of what’s been goin’ on. Ann’s at the fort with Barkow, says she’s goin’ to marry him.”

  “What about Tex?” Gill asked quickly.

  Rafe shook his head, scowling. “No sign of him. I don’t know what’s come off at Painted Rock. I’m leavin’ for there as soon as I’ve told the lieutenant and his patrol where Doc is. You’ll have to stick here because the Doc has to get back to the fort.”

  “You goin’ to Painted Rock?”

  “Yes. I’m goin’ to kill Dan Shute.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Gill said grimly, “but watch yoreself!” The little cowhand looked at him seriously. “Boss, what about that girl?”

  Rafe’s lips tightened, and he stared at the bare wall of the cave. “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “I tried to talk her out of it, but I guess I wasn’t what you’d call tactful.”

  Gill stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Tell her yuh’re in love with her yoreself?”