The Trail to Crazy Man

by Louis L'Amour

  Only the bunkhouse remained unexplored. There was a chance they had gone there. Turning, Rafe walked to the bunkhouse. Shoving the door open, he stepped inside. Four men sat on bunks, and one, his boots off and his socks propped toward the stove, stared glumly at him from a chair made of a barrel. The faces of all the men were familiar, but he could put a name to none of them. They had seen the right hand in the front of his coat, and they sat quietly appreciating its significance.

  “Where’s Dan Shute?” he demanded.

  “Ain’t seen him,” said the man in the barrel chair.

  “That go for all of you?” Rafe’s eyes swung from one to the other.

  A lean, hard-faced man with a scar on his jaw bone grinned, showing yellow teeth. He raised himself on his elbow. “Why, no. It shore don’t, pilgrim. I seen him. He rode up here nigh onto an hour ago with that there girl from the store. They went inside. S’pose you want to get killed, you go to the house.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s empty.”

  The lean-faced man sat up. “That right? That don’t make sense. Why would a man with a filly like that go off into the storm?”

  Rafe Caradec studied them coldly. “You men,” he said, “had better get out of here when the storm’s over. Dan Shute’s through.”

  “Ain’t yuh countin’ unbranded stock, pardner?” the lean-faced man said, smiling tauntingly. “Dan Shute’s able to handle his own troubles. He took care of Barkow.”

  This was news to Rafe. “He did! How’d you know that?”

  “He done told me. Barkow was with this girl, and Shute trailed him. I didn’t only see Shute come back, I talked some with him, and I unsaddled his hosses.” He picked up a boot and pulled it on. “This here Rodney girl, she left the fort, runnin’ away from Barkow and takin’ after the Army patrol that rode out with you. Shute, he seen ’em. He also seen Barkow. He hunted Bruce down and shot him near that bare dome in your lower valley, and then he left Barkow and caught up with the girl and this strange hombre with her. Shute led their hosses off, then got the girl while this hombre was huntin’ the hosses.”

  The explanation cleared up several points for Rafe. He stared thoughtfully around. “You didn’t see ’em leave here?”

  “Not us,” the lean-faced ’puncher said dryly. “None of us hired on for punchin’ cows or ridin’ herd on women in blizzards. Come a storm, we hole up and set her out. We aim to keep on doin’ just that.”

  Rafe backed to the door and stepped out. The wind tore at his garments, and he backed away from the building. Within twenty feet it was lost behind a curtain of blowing snow. He stumbled back to the house.

  More than ever, he was convinced that somehow Ann had escaped. Yet where to look? In this storm there was no direction, nothing. If she headed for town, she might make it. However, safety for her would more likely lie toward the mountains, for there she could improvise shelter, and probably could last the storm out. Knowing the country, she would know how long such storms lasted. It was rarely more than three days.

  He had little hope of finding Ann, yet he knew she would never return here. Seated in the ranch house, he coolly ate a hastily picked-up meal and drank more coffee. Then he returned to his horse that he had led to the stable. Mounting, he rode out into the storm on the way to town.

  * * * * *

  Gene Baker and Pat Higley looked up when Rafe Caradec came in. Baker’s face paled when he saw that Rafe was alone. “Did yuh find out?” he asked. “Was it Ann?”

  Briefly Rafe explained, telling all he had learned and his own speculations as to what had happened.

  “She must have plumb got away,” Higley agreed. “Shute would never take her away from his ranch in this storm. But where could she have gone?”

  Rafe explained his own theories on that. “She probably took it for granted he would think she would head for town,” he suggested, “so she may have taken to the mountains. After all, she would know that Shute would kill anybody who tried to stop him.”

  Gene Baker nodded miserably. “That’s right, and what can a body do?”

  “Wait,” Higley said. “Just wait.”

  “I won’t wait,” Rafe said. “If she shows up here, hold her. Shoot Dan if you have to, dry-gulch him or anything. Get him out of the way. I’m goin’ into the mountains. I can at least be lookin’, and I might stumble onto some kind of a trail …”

  * * * * *

  Two hours later, shivering with cold, Rafe Caradec acknowledged how foolhardy he had been. His black horse was walking steadily through a snow-covered avenue among the pines, weaving around fallen logs and clumps of brush. He had found nothing that resembled a trail, and twice he had crossed the stream. This, he knew, was also the direction that had been taken by the wounded Tex Brisco.

  No track could last more than a minute in the whirling snow-filled world in which Rafe now rode. The wind howled and tore at his garments, even here, within the partial shelter of the lodgepoles. Yet he rode on, then dismounted, and walked ahead, resting the horse. It was growing worse instead of better, yet he pushed on, taking the line of least resistance, sure that this was what the fleeing Ann would have done.

  The icy wind ripped at his clothing, at times faced him like a solid, moving wall. The black stumbled wearily, and Rafe was suddenly contrite. The big horse had taken a brutal beating in these last few days, and even its great strength was weakening.

  Squinting his eyes against the blowing snow, he remounted and stared ahead. He could see nothing, but he was aware that the wall of the mountain was on his left. Bearing in that direction, he came up to a thicker stand of trees and some scattered boulders. He rode on, alert for some possible shelter for himself and his horse.

  Almost an hour later, he found it, a dry, sandy place under the overhang of the cliff, sheltered from the wind and protected from the snow by the overhang and by the trees and brush that fronted it. Swinging down, Rafe led the horse into the shelter and hastily built a fire.

  From the underside of a log he got some bark, great sheets of it, and some fibrous, rotting wood. Then he broke some low branches on the trees, dead and dry. In a few minutes his fire was burning nicely. Then he stripped the saddle from the horse and rubbed him down with a handful of crushed bark. When that was done, he got out the nosebag and fed the horse some of the oats he had appropriated from Shute’s barn.

  The next hour he occupied himself in gathering fuel. Luckily there were a number of dead trees close by, débris left from some landslide from up the mountain. He settled down by the fire, made coffee. Dozing against the rock, he fed the blaze intermittently, his mind far away.

  Somehow, sometime, he fell asleep. Around the rocks the wind, moaning and whining, sought with icy fingers for a grasp at his shoulder, at his hands. But the log burned well, and the big horse stood close, stamping in the sand and dozing beside the man on the ground.

  Once, starting from his sleep, Rafe noticed that the log had burned until it was out of the fire, so he dragged it around, then laid another across it. Soon he was again asleep.

  * * * * *

  He awakened suddenly. It was daylight, and the storm was still raging. His fire blazed among the charred embers of his logs, and he lifted his eyes. Six Indians faced him beyond the fire, and their rifles and bows covered him. Their faces were hard and unreadable. Two stepped forward and jerked him to his feet, stripped his guns from him, and motioned for him to saddle his horse.

  Numb with cold, he could scarcely realize what had happened to him. One of the Indians, wrapped in a worn red blanket, jabbered at the others and kept pointing to the horse, making threatening gestures. Yet when Rafe had the animal saddled, they motioned to him to mount. Two of the Indians rode up then, leading the horses of the others. So this was the way it ended. He was a prisoner.

  XXI

  Uncomprehending, Rafe Caradec opened his eyes to darkness. He sat up abruptly
and stared around. Then, after a long minute, it came to him. He was a prisoner in a village of the Oglala Sioux, and he had just awakened. Two days before they had brought him here, bound him hand and foot, and left him in the teepee he now occupied. Several times squaws had entered the teepee and departed. They had given him food and water.

  It was night, and his wrists were swollen from the tightness of the bonds. It was warm in the teepee, for there was a fire, but smoke filled the skin wigwam and filtered out at the top. He had a feeling it was almost morning.

  What had happened at Painted Rock? Where was Ann? And where was Tex Brisco? Had Dan Shute returned?

  He was rolling over toward the entrance to catch a breath of fresh air when the flap was drawn back and a squaw came in. She spoke rapidly in Sioux, then picked a brand from the fire, and, as it blazed up, held it close to his face. He drew back, thinking she meant to sear his eyes. Then, looking beyond the blaze, he saw that the squaw holding it was the Indian girl he had saved from Trigger Boyne!

  With a burst of excited talk, she bent over him. A knife slid under his bonds, and they were cut. Chafing his ankles, he looked up. In the flare of the torchlight he could now see the face of a male Indian.

  He spoke, gutturally, but in fair English. “My daughter say you man help her,” he said.

  “Yes,” Rafe replied. “The Sioux are not my enemies, nor am I theirs.”

  “Your name Caradec.” The Indian’s statement was flat, not to be contradicted.

  “Yes.” Rafe stumbled to his feet, rubbing his wrists.

  “We know your horse, also the horses of the others.”

  “Others?” Rafe asked quickly. “There are others here?”

  “Yes, a woman and a man. The man is much better. He had been injured.”

  Ann and Tex! Rafe’s heart leaped.

  “May I see them?” he asked. “They are my friends.”

  The Indian nodded. He studied Rafe for a minute. “I think you are good man. My name Man-Afraid-Of-His-Horse.”

  The Oglala chief! Rafe looked again at the Indian. “I know the name. With Red Cloud you are the greatest of the Sioux.”

  The chief nodded. “There are others. John Grass, Gall, Crazy Horse, many others. The Sioux have many great men.”

  The girl led Rafe away to the tent where he found Tex Brisco, lying on a pile of skins and blankets. Tex was pale, but he grinned when Rafe came in.

  “Man,” he said, “it’s good to see yuh! And here’s Ann?”

  Rafe turned to look at her, and she smiled, then held out her hand. “I have learned how foolish I was. First from Penn, and then from Mullaney and Tex.”

  “Penn? Mullaney?” Rafe squinted his eyes. “Are they here?”

  Quickly Ann explained about Barkow’s killing of Penn, and her subsequent attempt to overtake Bruce, guided and helped by Rock Mullaney.

  “Barkow’s dead,” Rafe said. “Shute killed him.”

  “Ann told me,” Tex said. “He had it comin’. Where’s Dan Shute now?”

  Caradec shrugged. “I don’t know, but I’m goin’ to find out.”

  “Please.” Ann came to him. “Don’t fight with him, Rafe. There has been enough killing. You might be hurt, and I couldn’t stand that.”

  He looked at her. “Does it matter so much?”

  Her eyes fell. “Yes,” she said simply, “it does …”

  * * * * *

  Painted Rock lay quietly in a world of white, its shabbiness lost under the purity of freshly fallen snow. Escorted by a band of Oglalas, Ann, Rafe, and Tex rode to the edge of town, then said a quick good bye to the friendly warriors. The street was empty, and the town seemed to have no word of their coming.

  Tex Brisco, still weak from loss of blood and looking pale, brought up the rear. With Ann, he headed right for the Emporium. Rafe Caradec rode ahead until they neared the National Saloon, then swung toward the boardwalk, and waited until they had gone by.

  Baker came rushing from the store and, with Ann’s help, got Tex down from the horse and inside.

  Rafe Caradec led his own horse down the street and tied it to the hitching rail. Then he glanced up and down the street, looking for Shute. Within a matter of minutes Dan would know he was back, and, once he was aware of it, there would be trouble.

  Pat Higley was inside the store when Rafe entered. He nodded at Rafe’s story of what had taken place.

  “Shute’s been back in town,” Higley said. “I reckon after he lost Ann in the snowstorm he figgered she would circle around and come back here.”

  “Where’s Pod Gomer?” Rafe inquired.

  “If yuh mean has he taken out, why I can tell yuh he hasn’t,” Baker said. “He’s been around with Shute, and he’s wearin’ double hardware right now.”

  Higley nodded. “They ain’t goin’ to give up without a fight,” he warned. “They’re keepin’ some men in town, quite a bunch of ’em.”

  Rafe also nodded. “That will end as soon Shute’s out of the way.”

  He looked up as the door pushed open, and started to his feet when Johnny Gill walked in with Rock Mullaney.

  “The soldiers rigged a sled,” Gill announced at once. “They’re takin’ Bo back to the fort, so we reckoned it might be a good idea to come down here and stand by in case of trouble.”

  Ann came to the door, and stood there by the curtain, watching them. Her eyes continually strayed to Rafe, and he looked up, meeting their glance. Ann flushed and looked away, then invited him to join her for coffee.

  Excusing himself, he got up and went inside. Gravely Ann showed him to a chair, brought him a napkin, then poured coffee for him, and put sugar and cream beside his cup. He took the sugar, then looked up at her.

  “Can you ever forgive me?” she asked.

  “There’s nothin’ to forgive,” he said. “I couldn’t blame you. You were sure your father was dead.”

  “I didn’t know why the property should cause all that trouble until I heard of the oil. Is it really worth so much?”

  “Quite a lot. Shippin’ is a problem now, but that will be taken care of soon. So it could be worth a great deal of money. I expect they knew more about that end of it than we did.” Rafe looked at her. “I never aimed to claim my half of the ranch,” he said, “and I don’t now. I accepted it just to give me some kind of a legal basis for workin’ with you, but now that the trouble is over, I’ll give you the deed, the will your father made out, and the other papers.”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed quickly. “You mustn’t! I’ll need your help to handle things, and you must accept your part of the ranch and stay on. That is,” she added, “if you don’t think I’m too awful for the way I acted.”

  He flushed. “I don’t think you’re awful, Ann,” he said clumsily, getting to his feet. “I think you’re wonderful. I guess I always have, ever since that first day when I came into the store and saw you.” His eyes strayed, and carried their glance out the window. He came to with a start and got to his feet. “There’s Dan Shute,” he said. “I got to go.”

  Ann arose with him, white to the lips. He avoided her glance, then turned abruptly toward the door. The girl made no protest, but as he started through the curtain, she said: “Come back, Rafe. I’ll be waiting.”

  He walked to the street door, and the others saw him go, then something in his manner apprised them of what was about to happen. Mullaney caught up his rifle and started for the door, also, and Baker reached for a scattergun.

  Rafe Caradec glanced quickly at the snow-covered street. One wagon had been down the center of the street about daybreak, and there had been no other traffic except for a few passing riders. Horses stood in front of the National and the Emporium and had kicked up the snow, but otherwise it was an even, unbroken expanse of pure white.

  Rafe stepped out on the porch of the Emporium. Dan Shute’s gray was tied at
the National’s hitching rail, but Shute was nowhere in sight. Rafe walked to the corner of the store, his feet crunching on the snow. The sun was coming out, and the snow might soon be gone. As he thought of that, a drop fell from the roof overhead and touched him on the neck.

  Dan Shute would be in the National. Rafe walked slowly down the walk to the saloon and pushed open the door. Joe Benson looked up from behind his bar, and hastily moved down toward the other end. Pod Gomer, slumped in a chair at a table across the room, sat up abruptly, his eyes shifting to the big man at the bar.

  Dan Shute’s back was to the room. In his short, thick coat he looked enormous. His hat was off, and his shock of blond hair, coarse and uncombed, glinted in the sunlight.

  Rafe stopped inside the door, his gaze sweeping the room in one all-encompassing glance. Then his eyes riveted on the big man at the bar.

  “All right, Shute,” he said calmly. “Turn around and take it.”

  Dan Shute turned, and he was grinning. He was grinning widely, but there was a wicked light dancing in his eyes. He stared at Caradec, letting his slow, insolent gaze go over him from head to foot.

  “Killin’ yuh would be too easy,” he said. “I promised myself that when the time came I would take yuh apart with my hands, and then, if there was anything left, shoot it full of holes. I’m goin’ to kill yuh, Caradec.”

  Out of the tail of his eye, Rafe saw that Johnny Gill was leaning against the jamb of the back door, and that Rock Mullaney was just inside of that same door.