Novel 1968 - Brionne (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  What Ed Shaw must have seen was such simple signs as those for rivers, peaks, and trails. Perhaps there was a sign for silver, or for metal. These would have taken him into the area, and from there on he, too, must have relied on local signs.

  He had moved some distance from the camp when he heard a faint stir of movement behind him. It was Mat.

  “I got lonesome, pa.”

  “Sure. Come and sit down.”

  They were silent together, observing the country. After a while Brionne said, “You have to learn to see country, Mat, to pick out details, and to remember them. Some of the mountain men were educated men, but some of them could neither read nor write, but they had a perfect memory for the lay of the land.”

  “Have you been here before, pa?”

  “No…not right in this part of the country. But I have talked to men who have been here. I have talked to Kit Carson and to Jim Bridger…and to a dozen others. They knew the country and they told me what they knew, and I have not forgotten.”

  He had been aware for a few moments of something stirring at the edge of his vision, and he turned to look. “We have company, Mat. Don’t you move. Just sit very quiet, and watch.”

  Two riders had emerged from the trees and were holding a trail that would bring them not far from the cove. They were riding easily, and leading some pack horses. “See anything odd about the way the second one rides, Mat?”

  “Why.…it’s a lady!”

  “That’s right, Mat. She’s riding side-saddle. I think it is your friend, Miranda Loften.”

  He took up his field glasses and studied them. “Dutton Mowry is with her. Now what about that?”

  He watched them as they drew nearer, then as Mat started to rise, he put his hand out. “Don’t move…let them go by.”

  “But they’re our friends!”

  “Perhaps, but let them go and we can join them later if we like.”

  Brionne understood the boy’s disappointment. Mat had taken to that young woman as he did to few people, and he wanted to see her again. That she was honestly looking for a mine, Brionne did not doubt. About Dutton Mowry he was not so sure.

  The man had loafed around Promontory, had made no effort to find a job, yet he seemed to have more cash than any drifting cowhand was likely to have. And he wore his gun well…too well. He wore it like a man who had used it, and who could use it fast and well. If he was not one of the new breed of gunfighters, Brionne was much mistaken.

  He watched them pass, his eyes measuring their stock, their gait, trying to estimate the probable distance they would manage before sundown.

  After they had gone by and Mat started to get up again, Brionne put a hand on his arm. “Not now…wait.”

  The minutes passed, and still Brionne waited. When almost half an hour had gone by, his grip on Mat’s arm grew tight.

  Out of the trees came several horsemen. Startled, Mat looked at his father. Had he known they were coming? His father was watching them, counting them as they emerged from the trees.

  “Four…five…six,” he whispered. Six men, and all well mounted; but they were so far away he could not see their faces. Their gait was leisurely. Once they drew up to talk together. Obviously they were not trying to catch up to Miranda and Mowry.

  “There’s trouble, Mat,” Brionne said quietly. “Trouble for them and for us.”

  “Who are they, pa?”

  “I don’t know, but they are following your friend Miss Loften and Dutton Mowry. They are probably trying to locate Rody Brennan’s silver mine.”

  “What will we do?”

  “Go back to camp, cook something, and have a good meal. That’s what we’ll do.”

  After they had eaten beside their small fire, Brionne checked his weapons. He was under no illusions as to what might happen in the next few days, perhaps even within the next few hours.

  He could, of course, run for it. He could leave now, going back down the mountain and out of this region, leaving Mowry and Miranda to their own doings. But this would solve nothing. The Allards would still be around, always a potential threat. The way to face trouble, he realized, was to meet it head-on.

  He knew he could not leave Miranda Loften to Dutton Mowry alone. The gunfighter—if Mowry was one—seemed a tough, capable man, but Brionne knew what the Allards were capable of.

  It was afternoon before he led the way out of the cove. He and Mat dropped down on the flat to check the tracks of the horses, and then started at a trot to follow them.

  He knew he was taking his son into trouble, but the world in which they were living was one where there was bound to be trouble, and many a child on the frontier had grown up in Indian country, with all its dangers.

  After an hour or so Brionne pulled off the trail and went ahead with greater caution. Here and there the men he was following had also slowed. Evidently Miranda Loften was less sure of her trail now, and was taking her time.

  The air was cool and fresh off the snow-covered peaks. The streams, which they now encountered with greater frequency, were very cold and clear.

  The old feeling was on him again, the sense not only of stillness, but of keen awareness, of expectancy. It was a feeling that belonged to the wild country, to the lonely lands. James Brionne was not, and never had been, a man for desks and cities. He had lived that life because it was in large measure the life of his time and place; but always, deep within him, there ran a tide of fierceness, a touch of the primitive.

  “Keep your eyes open, Mat,” he said to his son. “You might hear or see something I might miss. We are riding into trouble.”

  “What shall I do?”

  “Watch, and learn. At your age that is all there is to do. Don’t be frightened. Above all, keep out of the way. Remember who those men probably are…don’t trust them—not for a minute.”

  “What about Miranda Loften and Mr. Mowry?”

  “I think they are both good people, Mat, but we do not know them well yet. Don’t trust anybody too much too soon.” He paused. “We are all human, and being human we can all make mistakes. There’s a silver mine up there; and when there is wealth to be had, even people who know better sometimes become too greedy.”

  “Do they think that way about you?”

  Brionne smiled. “If they don’t, they should. If they knew me better they would know I am to be trusted. I never wanted wealth that much, but they do not know that. There’s only one thing I want now…I want to see you grow up to be a fine man. I am a little afraid that anyone who tried to hurt you might run into quite a bit of trouble with me.…Now let’s move on, and we must be quiet.”

  The peaks began to point shadows at them. They were riding northeast now and some of the ridges were already behind them. They dipped down into the forest again, and their horses walked on needles, making no sound; there was only the creak of the saddles.

  Again and again Brionne drew up and paused; then suddenly he veered sharply into the trees. A lake was before them, and on the shores of the lake was a small fire.

  He studied the scene through his glasses. It was Dutton Mowry and Miranda Loften who were beside the fire. It was burning quite brightly, with no shelter of any kind around. Brionne was disturbed by this. The fire was too conspicuous. It was sure to attract attention.

  He started his horse, and Mat followed. They took a route that kept them well back under the trees, and went slowly in a semicircle that skirted the fire and more or less followed the lake shore. Once, because of an arm of the lake, they had to ride deep into the forest.

  When they reached a place where the canyon of Rock Creek was on their right, a ridge of the mountain on their left, Brionne drew rein. “We’ll wait for them here, Mat,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Mowry and your friend. They’ll be coming along in a very short time, unless I miss my guess.”

  They waited…the air grew colder. The wind came down from the higher peaks to the north. Several times something stirred down in the canyon. Whatev
er it was made the horses restless. “Mountain lion,” Brionne whispered to Mat, “or maybe a bear.”

  They heard the other faint sound before they realized they were hearing it. And then it was a gentle but definite sound that brought them sharply to awareness—the soft footfalls of walking horses.

  As they came nearer, Brionne began to sing softly, “We’re tenting tonight on the old campground, give us a song to cheer…”

  The sounds ceased.

  “…our weary hearts, a song of home, and friends we…”

  “A fella could get himself shot thataway.” Mowry spoke in a low, conversational tone. “He surely could.”

  James Brionne rode out into the open. “I was waiting for you,” he said, “and I thought you should have some warning before I came riding out on the trail.”

  “How’d you know we were comin’?”

  “We saw your fire, so we figured you’d be along in a little while.”

  “But how did you know it was us?” Miranda questioned. “Mr. Mowry was so sure we’d fool them—those men following us.”

  “I think you have. They don’t know Mowry here, and that’s just the sort of fire a romantic girl might build. By now, they’re probably safely bedded down and waiting for light.”

  “Romantic?” Her voice raised a little. “Why do you say I am romantic?”

  Brionne smiled into the darkness. “Put it down to too much reading of Sir Walter Scott.”

  “We’d best move on,” Mowry said dryly. “This here ain’t just the place for no tea-party talk.”

  They rode on, with Mowry leading. Brionne asked no questions, and made no comment. Obviously the girl was either so sure of herself that she could go on in the dark, or more likely the landmarks she was going by were so obvious they could not be missed.

  He dropped back until Mat was ahead of him. He knew the boy was tired, and he wanted him where he could see him—as much as anybody could be seen in such a place on such a night.

  If Brionne’s memory served him right, Deadhorse Pass was somewhere ahead of them, or to the east. Were they going to cross over the pass? Or was the mine on this side? If so, they were getting close.

  Tomorrow…tomorrow all hell might break loose.

  Chapter 10

  COTTON ALLARD DREW up and waited in the small clearing. As Hoffman, Peabody, Tuley, and the others closed around him, he indicated the trail. “They got together,” he said. “Brionne, the girl and whoever’s with her.”

  “The boy, too?”

  “Of course the boy. You figger he’d leave him somewheres on the mountain?” Cotton stared up at the peaks, not far distant now. “I never heard of no mines up this high.”

  He lit the stub of a cigar. “We got ’em. They ain’t got a chance.” He turned to a small wiry man with a patchy beard. “Cricket, you think they’ll cross over?”

  “I doubt it. This here leads to Deadhorse Pass, though.” He stared at the peaks, then spat into the damp earth. “That girl surely knows somethin’, Cot. She surely does. Now, you take the trail she’s been layin’ out—an’ we’ve seen from the tracks that more’n half the time she’s been the guide—she couldn’t have found that trail without she had some knowledge aforehand.”

  “You think there really is a mine?”

  “Well, she ain’t just goin’ for a ride. That Brennan must’ve told her somethin’. Or maybe he give her a map. Anyway you look at it, she’s got to know somethin’. Why, long as I been in this country I couldn’t have done better myself. She ain’t missed a trick.”

  “What do we do now, Cotton?” Tuley asked.

  Cotton Allard rolled the stub of the cigar in his teeth. “Why, we ride up there. We kill Brionne an’ that drifter she’s got wranglin’ stock for her, and then we make her talk.”

  “What about the kid?”

  Cotton shrugged. “Womenfolks are soft on kids. If she don’t want to talk, maybe what we do to the kid will make her feel like it.”

  “I never killed a kid,” Hoffman muttered. “I don’t like it.”

  Cotton turned his cold eyes on Hoffman and stared at him until the man shifted in his saddle and the sweat broke out on his forehead.

  “You been handy,” Cotton said, speaking around his cigar. “You been mighty useful, knowin’ about trains an’ such; an’ when the gold shipments start from Californy you’ll be handy again. Don’t you make us forget that, Hoff. I tell you what you do. When we start to work on the kid, you just go for a walk in the woods. But,” he added, his icy look fixed on Hoffman, “I wouldn’t go too far. We wouldn’t want to figure you runnin’ away now, would we?”

  They started on through the forest. The trail was difficult to follow, but the problem was not one to worry about, for there was simply no place for their quarry to go but straight ahead.

  The trees around them were spruce and alpine fir. Occasionally, when they rode out on some knoll, over the tops of the trees they could see the peaks and ridges above timberline. White streaks of snow showed on the bare rock, while above on the peaks themselves were the remnants of ancient glaciers, the ice and snow of many winters. Here and there a stunted fir or a lightning-struck lone tree would indicate an effort by the forest to advance beyond the limit set for it, an attempt to encroach upon the domain of the lichen and the moss.

  “We’ll come up with them before they get to the pass,” Cricket said. “It ain’t far now.”

  Hoffman was riding last. He was frightened. He had come from the same part of Missouri as the Allards, had known them for years, and when they found he had worked for the railroad they enlisted his help.

  At first they had stolen horses belonging to the stage line. They had raided a couple of railroad cars where Hoffman had told them there would be rifles, ammunition, food, and liquor. Once he had been able to indicate where there would be a chest of silver dollars to be used in paying off some Indians. He had told them, too, that there would be shipments of gold from the California mines, and that he could find out when the shipments were to be moved. He had used his friendship with the conductor, as well as a small cash payment, to get their horses into the baggage car, but he had bargained for nothing like this.

  Killing Brionne would create a stir, but they could survive that if it happened in some out-of-the-way place. Killing a young boy and a woman…well, that was something else again, and he did not like it. However, he was afraid of Cotton Allard.

  “We’d better pull up,” Cricket suggested suddenly. “We got to ride into the open up yonder, and I’d say we’d best look it over.”

  “You sit tight,” Cotton ordered. “I’ll do the lookin’.”

  *

  JAMES BRIONNE TOOK a cigar from an inside pocket, bit off the end, and lighted it, and then squinting his eyes against the smoke, he looked past the match toward the way they had come. As the day had gone on he had become somber and still. Again and again he delayed to study their trail, and he felt growing within him an old fierceness, a feeling he had had only once or twice since the end of the war.

  He had felt it on that awful night when he had come to find his house in flames, flames already dying down as day was coming. He had felt it during those months of search when he had thought of nothing but finding the men responsible.

  Now he knew they were behind him. They were back there, coming along his trail.

  Dutton Mowry had told him what he had suspected, and now once more that deep and terrible rage, never quite extinguished, was mounting within him. There was in him something of the old Viking berserker, who threw all caution to the winds and charged, blade in hand, thinking only to cut down his enemy.

  Devine had known that quality was in him, and feared for him. So had Grant.

  They were down there somewhere now, those men who had attacked his home, and who were responsible for his wife’s death. The men who had sent his son into hiding, and who now were trailing them.

  They would find him. He had already decided on that. He would find the right place s
omewhere farther on, and from that point he would go no further. If they wanted him, they were going to find him.

  He drew slowly on the cigar. It would not be long now…perhaps sometime later today, or the following morning.

  But he wanted them to know what was to come. He wanted no doubt about that.

  Beside the trail was a flat gray slab of rock. Dismounting, he hunted around over the remains of one of the old, lightning-struck trees to find a few pieces of charcoal. When he had them he stooped over the flat rock.

  After a few moments he mounted and rode on.

  *

  THE MEN HEARD Cotton Allard swearing before they came up to him, and when they drew alongside they saw the slab of rock.

  It was propped up, squarely in the center of the trail, and on it were the words: I shall be waiting for you.

  Tuley stared at it uneasily. “What d’you suppose he means by that?”

  “Well,” Hoffman said, “he knows we’re coming.”

  “I don’t like it, Cot,” Peabody said. “I don’t like it none a-tall.”

  Cotton looked at the words written on the rock, then looked ahead at the trail. He would not have said it aloud, but he did not like it either. There was no question of surprise now. They would be ready for a fight. He scanned the rugged slopes, the jutting crags, the tumbled talus, and the slabs of fallen rock. They might be anywhere up there…waiting.

  “What’s it mean?” Tuley said again. “Where’ll he be waiting? And what’s he waitin’ for?”

  “Got to hand it to him,” Peabody declared. “He sure don’t sound like he’s scared none.”

  “There’s nothin’ up there but two men, a girl, an’ a kid,” Cotton stated matter-of-factly. “An’ they ain’t goin’ much further.”

  “That’s a mighty tough man up there,” Hoffman said. “He was an Indian fighter before the war, they say.”

  “You scared?” Peabody sneered at him. “He won’t have no more chance than a treed ’coon.”

  Cotton looked again at the sign. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go get him!”