“That’s what it comes back to,” Mac replied. “We must come out of this alive, even if it means losing the wagons and their cargo. If these men are renegades, can you imagine what they’ll do to the women, after we’re dead?”
“I can imagine it, but I won’t allow myself to dwell on it,” said Red.
There was a monotony to the days, for there was no scouting ahead, looking for sign and for water. Mac often rode with Red, Buck, or Haze, and occasionally with Trinity, and there was no trouble, but Lieutenant Nelson was always watching.
“He’s like a cat watching mice,” Trinity said, shuddering. “They don’t actually do anything, but all of us are afraid to take our clothes off, even in the wagon.”
“I don’t look for them to bother any of you, until they’re ready to take the wagons,” said Mac. “None of us remove anything but our hats when we sleep, and when they try to take us, they’ll pay dearly.”
“They laugh at us when we go to the bushes,” Trinity said, “like they know something that we don’t. I feel like they’re seeing right through my clothes.”
“We’ve been watching them watching you,” said Mac, “and the first time any of them follows, there’ll be hell to pay.”
The addition of a dozen men began to deplete their supplies, and their fifth day on the trail, Sergeant Embler managed to kill a deer.
“Fifty miles behind us,” said Red. “A hundred and ten more miles to Austin. Eleven days. By the time we’re five days out, I reckon we’d better not close our eyes. Damn it, the waitin’ is gettin’ to me. I reckon that’s the awfulest thing about the frontier. There’s so many ways of dyin’, you can’t rest even a minute. That old bony bastard with the scythe rides every trail, and you never know when you’ll come face-to-face with him.”
Even with the short rations, nobody complained. Mac suspected his outfit was more concerned with things other than food, and whatever Nelson and his men had planned, they apparently weren’t worried about provisions. Their sixth day with Nelson, Port Guthrie came to Mac with a complaint.
“Them blue bellies are grainin’ their hosses with what we brought for the mules. You know them mules ain’t up to pullin’ heavy wagons when all they got to eat is grass. What can we do?”
“I’ll speak to Nelson,” Mac said. “Without the mules, we can’t move the wagons.”
Lieutenant Nelson was becoming more arrogant and short-tempered by the day, and a complaint from Mac did little for his disposition.
“We’re not more than ten days from Austin,” said Nelson, “and our mounts are as essential as mules.”
He had nothing more to say, and recognizing the futility of further conversation, Mac said no more. Instead, he spoke to Guthrie and the other teamsters.
“First chance you get,” Mac said, “relocate one sack of grain somewhere within the wagons, even if it means concealing it under some of those Winchester cases.”
“I got a better idea,” said Gourd Snively. “Since firewood ain’t a problem, why can’t we stash some grain under the wagons, in the possum bellies?”
“That’s good, up to a point,” Mac said. “You can’t carry too much there, or the hide will sag, giving away the location. But that might be the best place for it, even if you can’t hide as much. Movin’ things around within the wagons would only attract attention.”
“We’ll take care of it tonight, durin’ our watch,” said Guthrie. “The varmints can’t take it if they don’t know where it is.”
Mac said nothing to the others of his decision. The hiding of the grain had given him an idea, and he began concealing other things upon which he might rely, if worse came to worst. He waited until the third watch, after Guthrie and the teamsters had secreted part of the grain within the wagons’ possum bellies. He then fully loaded his Winchester and slipped it into the possum belly beneath Trinity’s wagon. The venison from the deer had been tough, requiring knives. Mac had dropped his in a clump of grass, and he recovered it after dark. It would do in an emergency, and he slipped it into the sack of grain under Trinity’s wagon. But his stealth hadn’t gone unnoticed. Trinity mentioned it during the third watch, that same night.
“What did you do with your knife after supper?”
“If you’re missing one, how do you know it was mine?” Mac asked.
“I noticed your Winchester was missing from your saddle boot,” said Trinity, “and I just put two and two together.”
“Damn it,” Mac said, “I didn’t know I was that obvious.”
“You aren’t,” said Trinity. “I’m getting to know you pretty well, Mac Tunstall, and you’re as nervous as I am.”
“I wasn’t goin’ to tell anybody,” Mac said. “Those damn soldiers have been feedin’ our grain to their horses. Port Guthrie and his boys hid some grain under the wagons, in the possum bellies. I decided it wouldn’t hurt, havin’ some other things secreted away.”
“I won’t tell your secret if you won’t tell mine,” said Trinity.
“I can’t tell yours, because I don’t know what it is,” Mac said.
Turning her back to him, she raised her long skirt above her waist.
“It’s dark and nobody can see,” she said. “Put your arm around my waist and follow the string.”
He reached his arm around her and his fingers found the string, but he didn’t have to follow it far. Dangling over her belly, the string tied to its haft, was a stiletto. A long, thin dagger.
“How long have you carried it there?” he asked. “I didn’t see it when you were—”
“Carried away naked by outlaws,” she finished, “but it’s been there ever since we were rescued. I made up my mind I’d never be unarmed again.”
“I’m glad you have it,” said Mac, “but isn’t it dangerous, in that particular place?”
She laughed softly. “It would be for you. But I don’t have the same body parts, and the string is short.”
Their next day got off to a bad start. The left rear wheel of Lafe Beard’s wagon ran over a leaf-filled stump hole, and the wheel dropped with such force, it snapped the axle where it joined the right hub.
“Obviously we’re going to be here a while,” Lieutenant Nelson said. “Any idea how long?”
“Long enough to fell a tree and fashion a replacement axle,” said Mac. “Of course, we have to jack up the wagon, and the wagon jack’s somewhere beneath the cargo.”
“You’re not very amusing, Tunstall,” Nelson said, “if your remarks were so intended.”
“You asked a question,” said Mac, “and I answered it. You can laugh or cry, depending on how it strikes you.”
“It’s a good half a day’s work,” Port Guthrie said, hoping to defuse what might easily become an explosive issue.
“Then get started repairing it,” said Nelson. “You men may dismount.”
The soldiers dismounted, leading their horses downriver where the graze was better. Guthrie and the other teamsters began the back-breaking task of unloading the heavy and cumbersome wooden crates of Winchesters.
“Port,” said Mac, “some of us will cut a tree for the new axle. Any preference?”
“Oak, if possible,” Guthrie replied. “Get one as near the size of the old axle as you can, so’s we only got to fashion the ends.”
“Come on, Red,” said Mac. “You have a strong back and a weak mind.”
Mac took an axe from the disabled wagon and mounted his horse. Red followed. They rode several miles to the north, away from the river, before finding a suitable oak. Mac took first turn at felling the tree, surrendering the axe to Red when he was half through. When the tree fell, Red drove the axe into the stump and sat down to rest.
“That damn lieutenant—if that’s what he is—rubs my fur the wrong way, no matter what he says or does,” Red said. “He talked like you ought to of pulled a new axle out of your pocket, lifted the wagon and slapped it in place.”
“I’m learning not to let him get next to me,” said Mac. “This is the
kind of thing you can’t blame on anybody, and it takes a real smart mouth to try and make something else of it.”
“When we finally get to Austin, there ought to be somebody we can report Nelson and his highfalutin bunch to,” Red said. “I realize they stomped hell out of us durin’ the war, but that don’t give ’em a license to talk down to us like we was dogs.”
“The privates don’t talk much, so I’m not sure about them,” said Mac, “but I’d bet a horse that Lieutenant Nelson is a Southerner himself. Likely Virginia or South Carolina.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Red replied. “The meanest bastard around is always some varmint that sold out his own kind and joined the other side.”
“Let’s get this tree topped and trimmed,” said Mac. “If the lieutenant don’t hear the sound of the axe, he’s liable to cut himself a switch and come looking for us.”
When Mac and Red returned to the wagons, dragging the trimmed tree behind Red’s horse, Port Guthrie and the teamsters had found the wagon jack.
“We can’t raise the wagon with the jack under the old axle,” Guthrie said, “because we got to remove the old axle.”
“You’ve removed most of the load,” said Lieutenant Nelson. “Why can’t you lift the wagon with the jack under the wagon box?”
“Lieutenant, sir,” Port Guthrie said in a pitying manner, “there’s still enough weight on this wagon to drive the jack right through the wagon box. What we need is another tree that’s at least as long as the wagon box is wide. With that beneath the wagon box, and the jack beneath the tree, we can lift the wagon.”
“Will some of you fetch this man another tree,” said Nelson, “or must I resort to a direct order?”
“I ain’t military,” Red said. “Give me a direct order, and I’ll tell you where you can stick it.”
There was a chorus of agreement from Buck, Haze, and the rest of the teamsters.
“Come on, Red,” said Mac. “Port knows what he’s talkin’ about.”
The implication was that Nelson didn’t have the foggiest idea what he was doing. Mac took the axe and mounted his horse. Red followed, and they rode out.
“Port should of thought of this to start with,” Red said. “Then we’d have been able to make just one trip.”
“I believe Port is just trying to be ornery,” said Mac.
They found another suitable oak, not quite as thick as the first, but thick enough to support the heavy wagon without damaging the box.
“This one’s about right,” Red said, “but I reckon we ought to take our time. I’d not want the good lieutenant to start takin’ us for granted.”
“Oh, come on,” said Mac, “and let’s get it done. Delaying will just give the varmint cause to run off at the mouth.”
Mac felled the tree, Red trimmed and topped it, and they snaked it back to where the disabled wagon waited. Taking the axe, Port Guthrie flattened two sides of the log, one to rest against the bottom of the wagon box without rolling, and the opposite so that the jack wouldn’t slip when the weight of the wagon was upon it.
“Some of you hold that flattened log in place under the wagon box,” Guthrie said.
Four of the teamsters—two on each side of the wagon—held the log in place against the underside of the wagon box. Guthrie wrestled the wagon jack into position and, with help from Mac and Red, brought the wagon level, raising the wheel out of the hole. But an unpleasant surprise awaited them. The underside of the wheel rim was splintered, some of the wooden spokes dangling loose.
“Well, by God,” said Lieutenant Nelson, “how much longer is that going to take?”
“Lieutenant, sir,” Port Guthrie said coldly, “we ain’t workin’ by the hour. I reckon it’ll take till we’re done with it.”
When the wagon had been loaded, it seemed nobody had given any thought to the possibility that the spare wheel and wagon jack might be needed. More of the heavy crates had to be moved to reach the spare wagon wheel. Guthrie unbolted the old axle and placed it alongside the oak log of similar size.
“I don’t believe this,” said Lieutenant Nelson sourly. “You think you can fashion a new axle without tools, with only an axe?”
“You’d better hope I can,” Guthrie said grimly. “I’ve done it before and I can do it again, long as I ain’t distracted with fool questions.”
Guthrie began by cutting what was to become a new axle the exact same length as the old one. Taking the axe handle in one hand, near the head, he began the task of sizing one end of the new axle where it would go through the wheel hub. It required almost an hour of tedious work, before he was able to start on the other end. The sun was well on its way toward the western horizon when Guthrie believed the new axle was ready.
“Leave them U-bolts off,” said Guthrie, “until we know the wheels is gonna fit. Four of you hold the new axle in place under the wagon box. Mac, you and Red help me hoist these wheels into position.”
With Lafe Beard and Emmett Budd on one side of the wagon and Smokey Foster and Saul Estrella on the other, they lifted the new axle flush with the bottom of the wagon box until Guthrie, Mac, and Red could see if the wheels would fit. While the left rear wheel was a good fit, the right rear was not.
“Let ’er down,” Guthrie said. “I got to whittle off some more.”
While Guthrie continued working on the axle, Lieutenant Nelson folded his hands behind his back and paced the riverbank.
“Look at him,” said Buck. “You’d think he was late to somethin’ all-fired important, and it was all our fault.”
“Maybe that’s exactly what’s botherin’ him,” Mac said.
The women had kept their distance from the disabled wagon, and when Trinity finally approached, it was with a question.
“Are we going to be here for the night? Sundown’s not far off.”
“We’ll stay here for the night,” said Mac. “You can go ahead and get supper started.”
Lieutenant Nelson had approached just in time to hear Mac’s decision.
“An incredible waste of time,” Nelson said. “We could put another two hours behind us before sundown.”
“We could,” said Mac, “but we aren’t going to. The mules have stood in harness most of the day. Now we’re going to unharness them. They can use the extra time to rest and graze. Port, you go on with what you’re doing. Red and me will unharness your teams.”
The teamsters brought their wagons near the disabled wagon. Mac led Guthrie’s teams, and when his wagon was near the others, Mac and Red unharnessed the teams. The grateful mules immediately began to roll.
“We might as well take them to water,” Mac said. “Then we’ll put them out to graze.”
Trinity had brought her wagon near the others. Buck and Haze unharnessed her mules and took them to water. Except for Lieutenant Nelson, the soldiers sprawled on the riverbank and showed no interest whatsoever. Repairs to the wagon were completed and supper was prepared and eaten before sundown. The sun dipped behind a bank of dirty gray clouds, and the wind from the north-west brought with it a hint of rain.
“There’ll be snow on the high plains and rain for us,” Port Guthrie predicted, “and it won’t be long in comin’.”
“Exactly what does that mean to us?” Lieutenant Nelson demanded.
“Dependin’ on how much rain we get,” said Guthrie. “Rain means mud, and a heavy-loaded wagon mires down. It could slow us down as much as three or four days.”
“I think not,” Nelson said. “We will continue, keeping to high ground.”
“Mister,” said Guthrie, “you got somethin’ to learn about the freightin’ business, and I ain’t about to try an’ educate you. The mud will do that.”
Nothing more was said, and breakfast was barely over the next morning, when the rain started. As it became more intense, it was accompanied by thunder and lightning. The teamsters, anticipating such a problem, had their mules on picket ropes. The soldiers, having taken no such precaution, saw their horses go galloping m
adly downriver, running before the wind-driven storm.
“I never seen the like,” Port Guthrie snorted. “If ignorance was gold coin, that bunch would be filthy rich.”
“Here comes his highness, Lieutenant Nelson,” said Buck. “He wants something.”
“Since you obviously don’t intend moving the wagons,” Nelson said, “we’re going to need some of the mules to round up our horses.”
“Oh?” said Mac. “Are you asking or demanding?”
“At this point,” Nelson replied stiffly, “I am asking. Do not force the issue to the extent that it becomes a demand.”
“You’ll be allowed the use of our mules on one condition,” said Mac, “and that is that they be returned immediately after you recover your horses.”
“They will be returned,” Nelson replied. “Just for the record, I might remind you that the military can confiscate every animal you own, should such an act become necessary.”
“I don’t need reminding,” said Mac, “and for your sake, you’d better hope it doesn’t become necessary.”
Nelson stalked off into the storm, and swearing under his breath, Port Guthrie shook his head in frustration.
“I hate him,” Saul Estrella said.
“No more than I do,” said Lafe Beard. “I wonder what the penalty is for shootin’ a smart-mouth bluecoat?”
“More than you’d want to pay,” Mac said. “I wouldn’t swap one of you for him and his whole damn bunch.”
Trinity and her companions had remained in their wagon until Lieutenant Nelson and his men had taken mules and gone in search of their horses. Ignoring the storm, the four women joined the men who had gathered near Port Guthrie’s wagon.
“What will we do about supper?” Hattie asked. “There’s no shelter, no dry wood, and no place for a fire.”
“We have plenty of jerked beef, and there’s no shortage of water,” said Mac. “Nelson and his bunch will just have to make the best of it, like we will.”
“I’m sorry they ever showed up,” Rachel said. “I miss those camps where we found shelter, where there was a warm fire, and hot coffee.”
To everybody’s surprise, Lieutenant Nelson and his men managed to find every one of their horses. They returned, leading the mules on picket ropes.
The Winchester Run Page 23
