Caradec stared at him. “Where’d yuh get that idea?
“Readin’ signs. Yuh ain’t been the same since yuh ran into her the first time. She’s yore kind of people, boss.”
“Mebbe. But looks like she reckoned she wasn’t. Never would listen to me give the straight story on her father. Both of us flew off the handle this time.”
“Well, I ain’t no hand at ridin’ herd on women folks, but I’ve seen a thing or two, boss. The chances are, if yuh’d ’a’ told her yuh’re in love with her, she’d never have gone with Bruce Barkow.”
* * * * *
Rafe was remembering those words when he rode down the trail toward Painted Rock. What lay ahead of him could not be planned. He had no idea when or where he would encounter Dan Shute. He knew only that he must find him.
After reporting to Bryson so he wouldn’t worry about the doctor, Rafe had hit the trail for Painted Rock alone. By now he knew that mountain trail well, and even the steady fall of snow failed to make him change his mind about making the ride.
He was burning up inside. The old, driving recklessness was in him, the urge to be in and shooting. His enemies were in the clear, and all the cards were on the table in plain sight. Barkow he discounted. Dan Shute was the man to get, and Pod Gomer the man to watch. What he intended to do was as high-handed in its way as what Shute and Barkow had attempted, but in Rafe’s case the cause was just.
* * * * *
Mullaney stopped in a wooded draw short of the hills. The pause was for a short rest just before daybreak on that fatal second morning. The single rider had turned off from the trail and was no longer with the patrol. Both he and the girl needed rest, aside from the horses.
He kicked snow away from the grass, then swept some of it clear with a branch. In most places it was already much too thick for that. After he made coffee, and they had eaten, he got up.
“Get ready,” he said, “and I’ll get the hosses.”
All night he had been thinking of what he would do when he found Barkow. He had seen the man draw on Penn, and he was not fast. That made it an even break, for Mullaney knew that he was not fast himself.
When he found the horses missing, he stopped. Evidently they had pulled their picket pins and wandered off. He started on, keeping in their tracks. He did not see the big man in the heavy coat who stood in the brush and watched him go.
Dan Shute threaded his way down to the campfire. When Ann looked up at his approach, she thought it was Mullaney, and then she saw Shute. Eyes wide, she came to her feet. “Why, hello! What are you doing here?”
He smiled at her, his eyes sleepy and yet wary. “Huntin’ you. Reckoned this was you. When I seen Barkow, I reckoned somethin’ had gone wrong.”
“You saw Bruce? Where?”
“North a ways. He won’t bother yuh none.” Shute smiled. “Barkow was spineless. Thought he was smart. He never was half as smart as that Caradec, nor as tough as me.”
“What happened?” Ann’s heart was pounding. Mullaney should be coming now. He would hear their voices and be warned.
“I killed him.” Shute was grinning cynically. “He wasn’t much good. Don’t be wonderin’ about that hombre with yuh. I led the hosses off and turned his adrift. He’ll be hours catchin’ it, if he ever does. However, he might come back, so we’d better drift.”
“No,” Ann said, “I’ll wait.”
He smiled. “Better come quiet. If he came back, I’d have to kill him. Yuh don’t want him killed, do yuh?”
She hesitated only a moment. This man would stop at nothing. He was going to take her if he had to knock her out and tie her. Better anything than that. If she appeared to play along, she might have a chance. “I’ll go,” she said simply. “You have a horse?”
“I kept yores,” he said. “Mount up.”
XIX
By the time Rafe Caradec was en route to Painted Rock, Dan Shute was riding with his prisoner into the ranch yard of his place near Painted Rock. Far to the south and west, Rock Mullaney long since had come up to the place where Shute had finally turned his horse loose and ridden on, leading the other. Mullaney kept on the trail of the lone horse and came up with it almost a mile farther.
Lost and alone in the thickly falling snow, the animal hesitated at his call, then waited for him to catch up. When he was mounted once more, he turned back to his camp, and the tracks, nearly covered, told him little. The girl, accompanied by another rider, had ridden away. She would never have gone willingly.
Mullaney was worried. During the travel they had talked little, yet Ann had supplied a few of the details, and he knew vaguely about Dan Shute, about Bruce Barkow. He also knew, having heard all about it long before reaching the fort, that an Indian outbreak was feared.
Mullaney knew something about Indians, and doubted any trouble until spring or summer. There might be occasional shootings, but Indians were not as a rule cold-weather fighters. For that, he didn’t blame them. Yet any wandering, hunting, or foraging parties must be avoided, and it was probable that any warrior or group of them coming along a fresh trail would fail to follow it and count coup on an enemy if possible.
He knew roughly the direction of Painted Rock, yet instinct told him he’d better stick to the tangible and near, so he swung back to the trail of the Army patrol and headed for the pass into Lone Valley.
* * * * *
Painted Rock lay still under the falling snow when Rafe Caradec drifted down the street in front of the Emporium, and went in. Baker looked up, and his eyes grew alert when he saw Rafe. At Caradec’s question, he told him of what had happened to Tex Brisco so far as he knew, of the killing of Blazer, McCabe, and Gorman, and Brisco’s escape while apparently wounded. He also told him of Dan Shute’s arrival and threat to Ann, and her subsequent escape with Barkow. Baker was relieved to know they were at the fort.
A wind was beginning to moan around the eaves, and they listened a moment.
“Won’t be good to be out in that,” the storekeeper said gravely. “Sounds like a blizzard comin’. If Brisco’s found shelter, he might be all right.”
“Not in this cold,” Caradec said, scowling. “No man with his resistance lowered by a wound is going to last in this. It’s going to be worse before it’s better.”
Standing there at the counter, letting the warmth of the big potbellied stove work through his system, Rafe assayed his position. Bo Marsh, while in bad shape, had been tended by a doctor and would have Gill’s care. There was nothing more to be done there for the time being. Ann had made her choice. She had gone off with Barkow, and in his heart he knew that if there was any choice between the two—Barkow or Shute—she had made the better. Yet there had been another choice. Or had there? Yes, she could at least have listened to him.
The fort was not far away, and all he could do now was trust to Ann’s innate good sense to change her mind before it was too late. In any event, he could not get back there in time to do anything about it.
“Where’s Shute?” he demanded.
“Ain’t seen him,” Baker said worriedly. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. But I can promise yuh one thing, Caradec. He won’t take Barkow’s runnin’ out with Ann lyin’ down. He’ll be on their trail.”
The door opened in a flurry of snow, and Pat Higley pushed in. He pulled off his mittens and extended stiff fingers toward the red swell of the stove. He glanced at Rafe.
“Hear yuh askin’ about Shute?” he asked. “I just seen him, headed for the ranch. He wasn’t alone, neither.” He rubbed his fingers. “Looked to me like a woman ridin’ along.”
Rafe looked around. “A woman?” he asked carefully. “Now who would that be?”
“He’s found Ann!” Baker exclaimed.
“She was at the fort,” Rafe said, “with Barkow. He couldn’t take her away from the soldiers.”
“No, he couldn’t,” Bake
r agreed, “but she might have left on her own. She’s a stubborn girl when she takes a notion. After you left, she may have changed her mind.”
Rafe pushed the thought away. The chance was too slight. And where was Tex Brisco? “Baker,” he suggested, “you and Higley know this country. You know about Tex. Where do you reckon he’d wind up?”
Higley shrugged. “There’s no tellin’. It ain’t as if he knew the country, too. They trailed him for a while, and they said it looked like his hoss was wanderin’ loose without no hand on the bridle. Then the hoss took to the water, so Brisco must have come to his senses somewhat. Anyway, they lost his trail when he was ridin’ west along a fork of Clear Creek. If he held to that direction, it would take him over some plumb high, rough country south of the big peak. If he did get across, he’d wind up somewheres down along Tensleep Cañon, mebbe. But that’s all guesswork.”
“Any shelter that way?”
“Nary a mite. Not if yuh mean human shelter. There’s plenty of shelter there, but wolves, too. There’s also plenty of shelter in the rocks. The only humans over that way are the Sioux, and they ain’t in what yuh’d call a friendly mood. That’s where Man-Afraid-Of-His-Hoss has been holed up.”
Finding Tex Brisco would be like hunting a needle in a haystack and worse, but it was what Rafe Caradec had to do. He had to make an effort, anyway. Yet the thought of Dan Shute and the girl returned to him. Suppose it was Ann? He shuddered to think of her in Shute’s hands. The man was without a spark of decency or mercy. Not even his best friends would deny that.
“No use goin’ out in this storm,” Baker said. “Yuh can stay with us, Caradec.”
“You’ve changed your tune some, Baker,” Rafe suggested grimly.
“A man can be wrong, can’t he?” Baker inquired testily. “Mebbe I was. I don’t know. Things have gone to perdition around here fast, ever since you came in here with that story about Rodney.”
“Well, I’m not stayin’,” Rafe told him. “I’m going to look for Tex Brisco.”
The door was pushed open, and they looked around. It was Pod Gomer. The sheriff looked even squarer and more bulky in a heavy buffalo coat. He cast a bleak look at Caradec, then walked to the fire, sliding out of his overcoat. “You still here?” he asked, glancing at Rafe out of the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, I’m still here, Gomer, but you’re traveling.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You can wait till the storm is over, then get out, and keep movin’.”
Gomer turned, his square, hard face dark with angry blood. “You … tellin’ me?” he said furiously. “I’m sheriff here!”
“You were,” Caradec said calmly. “Ever since you’ve been hand in glove with Barkow and Shute, runnin’ their dirty errands for them, pickin’ up the scraps they tossed you. Well, the fun’s over. You slope out of here when the storm’s over. Barkow’s gone, and within a few hours Shute will be, too.”
“Shute?” Gomer was incredulous. “Yuh’d go up against Dan Shute? Why, man, yuh’re insane!”
“Am I?” Rafe shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m talkin’ to you. Get out and stay out. You can take your tinhorn judge with you.”
Gomer laughed. “You’re the one who’s through! Marsh dead, Brisco either dead or on the dodge, and Gill mebbe dead. What chance have you got?”
“Gill’s in as good a shape as I am,” Rafe said calmly, “and Bo Marsh is gettin’ Army care, and he’ll be out of the woods, too. As for Tex, I don’t know. He got away, and I’m bankin’ on that Texan to come out walkin’. How much stomach are your boys goin’ to have for the fight when Gill and I ride in here? Tom Blazer’s gone, and so are a half dozen more. Take your coat”—Rafe picked it up with his left hand—“and get out. If I see you after this storm, I’m shootin’ on sight. Now, get!”
He heaved the heavy coat at Gomer, and the sheriff ducked, his face livid. Yet, surprisingly, he did not reach for a gun. He lunged and swung with his fist. A shorter man than Caradec, he was wider and thicker, a powerfully built man who was known in mining and trail camps as a rough-and-tumble fighter.
Caradec turned, catching Gomer’s right on the cheek bone, but bringing up a solid punch to Gomer’s midsection. The sheriff lunged close and tried to butt, and Rafe stabbed him in the face with a left, then smeared him with a hard right.
It was no match. Pod Gomer had fancied himself as a fighter, but Caradec had too much experience. He knocked Gomer back into a heap of sacks, then walked in on him, and slugged him wickedly in the middle with both hands. Gomer went to his knees.
“All right, Pod,” Rafe said, panting, “I told you. Get goin’.”
The sheriff stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his smashed nose. Rafe Caradec slipped on his coat and walked to the door.
Outside, he took the horse to the livery stable, brushed him off, then gave him a rub-down and some oats.
He did not return to the store but, after a meal, saddled his horse and headed for Dan Shute’s ranch. He couldn’t escape the idea that the rider with Shute may have been Ann, despite the seeming impossibility of her being this far west. If she had left the fort within a short time after the patrol, then it might be, but there was small chance of that. Barkow would never return, having managed to get that far away. There was no one else at the fort to bring her. Scouts had said that a party of travelers was coming up from the river, but there would be small chance that any of them would push on to Painted Rock in this weather.
Dan Shute’s ranch lay in a hollow of the hills near a curving stream. Not far away, the timber ran down to the plain’s edge and dwindled away into a few scattered groves, blanketed now in snow. A thin trail of smoke lifted from the chimney of the house, and another from the bunkhouse. Rafe Caradec decided on boldness as the best course and his muffled, snow-covered appearance to disguise him until within gun range. He opened a button on the front of his coat so he could get at a gun thrust into his waistband. He removed his right hand from the glove and thrust it deeply in his pocket. There it would be warm and at the same time free to grasp the six-gun when he needed it.
No one showed. It was very cold, and, if there was anyone around and they noticed his approach, their curiosity did not extend to the point where they would come outside to investigate. Rafe strode directly to the house, walked up on the porch, and rapped on the door with his left hand. There was no response. He rapped again, much harder.
All was silence. The mounting wind made hearing difficult, but he put his ear to the door and listened. There was no sound.
He dropped his left hand to the door and turned the knob. The door opened easily, and he let it swing wide, standing well out of line. The wind howled in, and a few flakes of snow, but there was no sound. He stepped inside and closed the door after him.
His ears tingled with cold, and he resisted a desire to rub them, then let his eyes sweep the wide room. A fire burned on the huge stone fireplace, but there was no one in the long room. Two exits from the room were hung with blankets. There was a table, littered with odds and ends, and one end held some dirty dishes where a hasty meal had been eaten. Beneath that spot was a place showing dampness as though a pair of boots had shed melting snow.
There was no sound in the living room but the crackle of the fire and the low moan of the wind around the eaves. Walking warily, Rafe stepped over a saddle and some bits of harness and walked across to the opposite room. He pushed the blanket aside. Empty. There was an unmade bed of tumbled blankets and a lamp standing on a table by the bed.
Rafe turned and stared at the other door, then looked back into the bedroom. There was a pair of dirty socks lying there, and he stepped over and felt of them. They were damp. Someone, within the last hour or less, had changed socks here. Walking outside, he noticed something he had not seen before. Below a chair near the table was another spot of dampness. Apparent
ly two people had been here.
He stepped back into the shadow of the bedroom door and put his hand in the front of his coat. He hadn’t wanted to reach for that gun in case anyone was watching. Now, with his hand on the gun, he stepped out of the bedroom and walked to the other blanket-covered door. He pushed it aside.
A large kitchen. A fire glowed in the huge sheet-metal stove, and there was a coffee pot filled with boiling coffee. Seeing, it, Rafe let go of his gun and picked up a cup. When he had filled it, he looked around the unkempt room. Like the rest of the house it was strongly built, but poorly kept inside. The floor was dirty, and dirty dishes and scraps of food were around.
He lifted the coffee cup, then his eyes saw a bit of white. He put down the cup and stepped over to the end of the woodpile. His heart jumped. It was a woman’s handkerchief!
XX
Quickly Rafe Caradec glanced around. Again he looked at the handkerchief in his hand, and lifted it to his nostrils. There was a faint whiff of perfume—a perfume he remembered only too well. She had been here, then. The other rider with Dan Shute had been Ann Rodney. But where was she now? Where could she be? What had happened?
He gulped a mouthful of the hot coffee, and stared around again. The handkerchief had been near the back door. He put down the coffee, and eased the door open. Beyond were the barn and a corral. He walked outside and, pushing through the curtain of blowing snow, reached the corral, and then the barn.
Several horses were there. Hurrying along, he found two with dampness marking the places where their saddles had been. There were no saddles showing any evidence of having been ridden, and the saddles would be sweaty underneath if they had been. Evidently two horses had been saddled and ridden away from this barn.
Scowling, Rafe stared around. In the dust of the floor he found a small track, almost obliterated by a larger one. Had Shute saddled two horses and taken the girl away? If so, where would he take her, and why? He decided suddenly that Shute had not taken Ann from here. She must have slipped away, saddled a horse, and escaped. It was a far-fetched conclusion, but it offered not only the solution he wanted, but one that fitted with the few facts available or, at least, with the logic of the situation. Why would Shute take the girl away from his home ranch? There was no logical reason. Especially in such a storm as this when so far as Shute knew there would be no pursuit? Rafe himself would not have done it. Perhaps he had been overconfident, believing that Ann would rather share the warmth and security of the house than the mounting blizzard.
The Trail to Crazy Man Page 20
