Crows cawed and squirrels scuttled through the knee-high brush.
“It's funny, you know, Ben," Jody said as they rode along through the trees, keeping an eye skinned on the tracks. "He doesn't seem to be heading anywhere."
"What do you mean?"
"His sign. It don't seem to be following any definite course."
Stillman nodded. "He doesn't seem all that hard to track, either."
"What do you think it means?"
Stillman shrugged. "He's either just trying to run our asses off, hope we play out and have to turn back, or..."
Jody looked at him. "Or what?"
"He's playing with us. Leading us into an ambush." Stillman turned to Jody. "Keep your eyes peeled. Don't let your guard down."
Later, they lost the trail in a tangle of cedars and junipers. When they found it again, their horses were exhausted. Stillman found a good place to hole up for an hour, at the base of a towering rock. He built a fire and fried potatoes, which they ate with some of the rabbit Jody had brought along.
When they and the horses were rested and fed, they resumed the search for Shambeau, following his evenly spaced tracks through ravines, along a briskly flowing stream cutting through the badlands toward the Missouri River, which lay about ten miles south, and out along a grassy plateau. It was a frustrating endeavor, for even on level ground, where they could ride faster than Shambeau could walk, they never seemed able to close the distance between them and the trapper.
They stopped for the day about an hour before sunset, in a dry creek bed enclosed on three sides by a high bank and pine woods. The snow was still coming down, no harder or slower than before, but it had gotten colder. Stillman figured the temperature was hovering around ten or fifteen above.
They built a fire, brewed coffee, and fried potatoes and the last of the rabbit
"You think the Bar Seven men went home?" Jody asked, buttoning his fly as he returned from the bushes.
Stillman poked the rabbit around in the skillet, the aromatic smoke wafting against his face. "If they know what's good for them, they did, but I wouldn't lay money on it. Hendricks is an old Indian fighter from way back."
Jody hunkered down across the fire, regarding Stillman with humor. "Would you really shoot him?"
Stillman looked at the young man pointedly. "After all the headaches him and his men have given me?" He grinned without humor and touched a finger to his forehead. "Right between that jasper’s little eyes."
When they'd eaten, Jody rolled into his blankets and Stillman took the first watch. He sat several yards out in the creek bed, away from the fire so he could keep his eyes well-trained on the darkness that fell over them like a cold, black glove.
The snow stopped, but the clouds remained, blocking the stars. In the distance, off toward the Missouri, wolves howled. They were soon joined by several coyotes and, later, by a hunting lion. Closer by, raccoons laughed in the woods.
The sheriff smoked and thought about Shambeau for a while, then about Fay, missing her keenly as he always did when they were apart.
He'd gotten out his makings sack and was about to roll a cigarette when a shrill scream cut the silent night jolting him so violently that he lost half his tobacco.
Ten minutes before Stillman had heard the scream, Bernie Phipps was perched on the hillside above the Bar 7 camp, manning the first night watch with his rifle in his arms.
Phipps hunkered down in his deerhide coat, his hat pulled low over his ears, and stared down at the campfire around which the other Bar 7 riders slept in blankets, heads on their saddlebags and saddles. They were all snoring loudly, but none louder than Hendricks himself.
To keep his mind off how cold and miserable he was, Phipps thought about how Dave Groom's demise, tragic as it had been, left a gaping hole in the foreman's job at the Bar 7. That hole would need to be filled as soon as Phipps and the others returned to the ranch, and who better or more qualified to fill it than Bernie Phipps himself?
If you were talking seniority, Phipps was next in line for the job, for he'd hired on at the Bar 7 only two months after Groom had. All the other riders—all that were still alive, that was—had come later.
Not only did Phipps have seniority, but next to the kid he was the best damn bronc buster on the roll. He was a hard worker and a straight shooter to boot. Unlike Groom, he'd never taken one of the Hendricks girls out to the bam.
Phipps grinned naughtily. The pitch he would give to his boss faded as he remembered how he'd caught Groom literally with his pants down, pumping away between Miss Megan's naked knees, her blouse bunched around her waist, her squealing like a—
What was that?
His thoughts kicking back to the moment, his wet-lipped smile vanishing, Phipps jerked around with a grunt. Something had rustled the bushes behind him. Because he'd been staring at the fire, he couldn't see clearly, but he thought he saw a branch move back in the woods.
There was a slight crackling sound, like soft-soled shoes on pine needles.
Phipps jumped, bringing his rifle up and frowning, blinking the red streaks from his eyes. Adrenaline shot through his veins and a chill jetted up his backbone. He cocked his head, listening.
Again came the sound, softer this time, of crackling pine needles.
Phipps glanced down the hill toward the other men sleeping around the fire. He considered calling them, but what if this turned out to be a raccoon or a porcupine or, hell, just his imagination? He'd look like a fool. Knowing the belligerent cuss ole Hendricks could be, it might even hurt his chances of securing the foreman's job.
He turned back to the darkness, gripped his rifle in both hands, and started forward, moving slowly, one step at a time, ears pricked and listening.
When he'd walked up the hill about twenty yards, ducking under pine and fir branches, he stopped.
About twenty feet ahead, a shadow slipped out from behind the black column of a tree trunk, then disappeared behind another about six feet to its right.
"Hey, who's that?" Phipps growled, keeping his voice low. "Shambeau... that you?"
He started forward again, aiming the rifle at the tree. When the tree was only ten feet away, Phipps stopped, took a deep breath, and sprang forward around the pine, the stock of his rifle snugged against his cheek.
Nothing, no one, was there.
"Well, I'll be god—"
Another shadow flitted through the trees ahead, disappearing up the hill. Phipps stared, scowling, pondering, wondering if it was Milt Polly or Condor pulling a prank. He wished he would have taken a closer look at the group around the fire, so he'd know if one or two of the boys had been missing from their hotrolls.
"Okay, you son of a duck," Phipps growled, walking forward, making his slow, cautious way up the hill.
The farther he walked, the harder and raspier his breathing grew. When he finally made the brow of the hill, he was puffing and mentally cursing his last cigarette.
Muffled footfalls sounded dead ahead, down the other side of the hill. Vowing to shoot whomever it was, whether it was the loco trapper or one of his own, Phipps started forward.
He'd taken two steps before something clutched his left foot, grabbing him around the ankle. He was going down with a yell when he heard a snap.
And then suddenly his left foot was yanked out from beneath him.
And then, just as suddenly, there was a great whooshing sound, and he was upside down and hanging from a rope tied to a tree branch. He lost his hat and heard the smack of his rifle hitting the ground beneath him.
"Ohhhh... God!" he bellowed in exasperated shock, completely dumbfounded, his mind a blur, watching the ground slide back and forth and feeling as though his hip were being wrenched from its socket, as though his blood were about to burst through his eyes and out the top of his head.
"Oh, Jesus... God... what the ... what the hell?"
Then something moved in front of him. It was a silhouette only slightly darker than the sky behind it.
&nb
sp; The figure of a man took shape. Phipps stared at it, feeling his guts flood with bile, a coppery taste filling his mouth. His heart was in his throat, mumping across his vocal chords, rendering him mute.
Bernie Phipps couldn't see the man's face, but he knew it was the trapper. The man wore a wolf-hide coat and a fur hat, and a pack was strapped to his back. He carried what looked like an Indian's bow in his right hand and what appeared to be an arrow in his left.
The man moved toward Phipps and stopped about ten feet away. Methodically he brought the arrow to the bow, notched it, and drew it back against the string, the bow making leathery creaking noises as it tensed.
Phipps licked his lips and found his voice and cried, "Oh ... no ... you son of a ...!"
He heard the snap the bow made as it released the arrow. He heard the whistle of the arrow slicing air. And, squeezing his eyes shut, he heard the thump of the arrow tearing into his thigh.
That's when he screamed.
Chapter Eighteen
JODY LIFTED HIS head from his saddle with a start. "What the hell was that?"
Stillman stood peering into the darkness, his Henry rifle in his hands. "A scream."
He walked slowly forward and stopped about twenty feet from the fire. Jody walked up beside him, clutching his revolver in his right hand, his hair mussed from sleep.
"One of the Bar Seven men?"
"Could be," Stillman said. "Whoever it was was in a hell of a lot of pain."
"How far away?"
"About a half mile, I'd say."
Jody looked at Stillman. "Think they found Shambeau?"
Stillman had opened his mouth to speak when another cry sounded, shrill with anger and anguish. The two horses nickered and fiddle-footed in the brush on the other side of the fire.
Jody started forward. Stillman grabbed his coat, holding him back.
"Hold on. Where do you think you're going?"
"Ben ..."
"There's nothing we can do. It could be a trap. Even if it isn't, the country's too rugged for night travel. We'll check it out in the morning."
They stood listening for several minutes. Stillman put his hand on Jody's shoulder. "You'd best get back to sleep. I'll wake you in a while."
Jody turned and walked back to the fire. He threw another log on the flames, then rolled up in his blankets.
Stillman stood in the darkness for several more minutes, wondering who was dying out there, and who was doing the killing. Deep down, he knew…
He'd returned to the fire and was pouring a cup of coffee when another cry lifted on the quiet night, causing him to slosh coffee over his cup rim.
Jody gave a start, lifting his head. "Jesus Christ! How long is he gonna scream like that?"
Stillman sighed and said grimly, "Till he's dead, I reckon."
"Isn't there anything we can do, Ben?"
Slowly Stillman shook his head. "By the time we got there—if we got there—it would all be over."
Jody pondered this, then cursed and threw his blankets back. "Think I'll have some coffee."
He sat with his back against his saddle, sipping his coffee and staring gloomily off in the darkness. Stillman did likewise, perched on a rock, his Henry standing between his knees. The night was utterly quiet, like a held breath. No wolves or coyotes howled, and nothing scuttled in the brush. Stillman had never known a night so haunted.
When he finished his coffee, he rolled a cigarette. He no longer wanted one, but the screams had agitated him, made him feel nervous and eager for morning when he could find out what in the hell was happening. He needed something to do with his hands.
He'd just lit the cigarette when another cry rose, less fervent than the last. Trying to ignore it, Stillman smoked his quirley down to a nub. He squashed the stub under his boot as the man who was being tortured moaned.
It was a single, hopeless, utterly despondent bay, and it quickened Stillman's blood even more than the screams had.
Jody didn't say anything. He sat with his cup in his hands, staring and listening, his eyes wide and troubled.
After a while Stillman said with a fateful sigh, "Well, that should be the end of it."
"I wonder why none of the others helped him," Jody said solemnly.
Stillman stood and turned to the lad. "You gonna be awake for a while?"
"I couldn't sleep after that."
"Well, then, I reckon I will." Stillman set his Henry against a log and headed for his bedroll. "I have a feeling tomorrow's gonna be another long one."
He lay on one of his blankets and drew up the other, but it was a long time before he finally slept. He relieved Jody two hours later, and when Jody had slept restlessly for another hour, they saddled their horses and, as the sky began to pale, headed southwest along the creek.
Neither said anything. The night had shot their nerves.
When they came to a spur ravine, they followed it westward through a canyon and up a cedar-spotted hill. Hearing a horse nicker to his right, Stillman touched the butt of his revolver and turned.
About fifty yards below, Walt Hendricks squatted by a smoky fire in which a black percolator sat. The rancher held a coffee cup in his gloved hands. His black Morgan was tethered to a nearby tree, shaking its head at Stillman and Jody, and giving another nicker.
When their own horses nickered back, Hendricks looked up sharply and dropped his cup. He climbed heavily to his feet, clawing at the revolver holstered under his coat. He froze when he saw who his visitors were and gave up the awkward hunt for his gun.
Scowling, he hunkered back down on his haunches and poured himself another cup of joe, which he sipped as Stillman and Jody approached.
"Shoot me if you're gonna shoot me and get it over with," Hendricks snarled, staring into his fire. "I didn't go home, and I don't intend to go home until the trapper's dead."
Stillman brought his horse to a halt and studied the frenetic-looking rancher, who seemed much older than the last time he'd seen him. But just as stubborn.
"Where are your men, Walt?"
"Out beating the brush for Shambeau. He paid us a visit last night."
"I heard," Stillman said with a nod. "Who'd he get?"
"Phipps."
"Where?"
Hendricks gestured with his thumb. "Up the hill yonder. They haven't cut him down yet. I wanted you to see Shambeau's handiwork for yourself." He glanced at Stillman, his eyes dark with disdain. "Murderin' damn half-breed," Hendricks grumbled, cutting his eyes at Jody, then bringing his cup to his lips.
A half-breed himself, Jody stared at the man from atop his buckskin. His brown eyes were hard, his face expressionless. His left jaw dimpled at the joint.
Stillman turned to him, said, "Come on," and started toward the hill.
Jody sat his horse, staring at Hendricks.
Stillman halted his bay and hiked around in his saddle. "Come on."
Finally, Jody turned his eyes from Hendricks and spurred his horse after Stillman, and they rode through a scattering of pines toward the hilltop.
They were about forty yards from the crest when Stillman halted his horse suddenly, staring straight ahead. Jody sidled up to him, following his gaze, and said, "Is that what I think it is?"
"I'm afraid so." Stillman gigged his horse into a lope up the hill and stopped before the body hanging spread-eagle and upside down from a long Cottonwood branch. Phipps turned gently in the breeze, the rope and branch creaking with the strain. The man's eyes were open and staring, his open mouth making a dark O. The terror was still in the drawn muscles of his face.
Arrows jutted from both thighs, both shoulders, and the dead center of his chest.
Stillman heard the thud of hooves and turned to see Hendricks riding up the hill on his big Morgan. The rancher had halted his horse and sat gazing up at the gently turning body of Bernie Phipps.
"We all wanted to help him, but I ordered the boys to remain in the camp. I had a feeling it was a trap. That maniac was using Phipps's screams to lur
e us onto this open hill, where he could gun us all down like ducks on a pond."
"No doubt," Stillman said. "Where are your men?"
Hendricks pointed south, where the Missouri River breaks spread out like a devil's maze of canyons and mesas under a chill opal sky. "That way."
Stillman lifted the collar of his buckskin mackinaw, said, "Let's go," and headed out, leaving the body of Phipps twisting and turning in the breeze.
"Why'd he do that, Ben?" Jody asked as they rode, Hendricks following. "Why did he kill Phipps like that?"
"What choice does he have?" Stillman said. "He's cornered, with nowhere to run. His only option is to turn and fight."
"So he's stalking us, now—is that what you're saying?"
"That's what I'm saying."
Dave "Condor" Ulrich walked his zebra dun along a limestone escarpment studded with cedars and small pines and blew into his hands to warm them. He didn't like wearing gloves when he might have to grab his gun and shoot. He'd heard of more than one cowboy shot to death because he'd been wearing gloves in cold country, and his hand had slipped off the gun he'd been trying to draw.
Condor Ulrich, so named because of his hawk nose, close-set, penny-colored eyes, and head that had been pinched in his mother's birth canal and had never regained its natural shape, knew he could very well need his gun at any moment. What had happened to Bernie Phipps last night was all the warning he needed.
Shambeau could appear anytime, anywhere, and any man unprepared, as Bemie Phipps had obviously been, was going to die.
Letting his horse steer itself along the meandering game trail, Condor shoved his left hand into the pocket of the coat he'd sewn himself from cured marten hides, the fur of which resisted frost, and returned his right to the butt of his Colt revolver. He peered up at the sky, where high, soft clouds had parted, allowing several shafts of washed-out sunlight to angle down upon the patchwork quilt of water-scored terrain surrounding him.
Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the tawny-green Two-Bear Mountains jutting from the rising northern prairie, slashed with troughs and ravines and spotted with still-barren aspen woods. He wanted to head back into those mountains, cross ole MacGregor Ridge, take the Sunnybrook trail around Devil's Coulee, and head back to the ranch.
Once a Renegade Page 14
