He did not have to dismount to know that a band of Indians—how many it was hard to tell—had been ahead of him. The ponies were unshod; it was certain that no whites were in this part of the country in these numbers.
He rode on as the sun slowly dropped, coming at twilight to the shadow of Silver Mountain, the ravine plain to be distinguished. He slowed the pace of the willing mare.
It would never do to ride blindly into the ravine. He would attempt it at a slow, watchful pace, skirting the road, ready to go into the brush or among the trees, he thought, until the moment came when he should leave Mandy. It was a tremendous advantage to have a trained animal in this circumstance.
The breeze, which had been at his back, suddenly shifted, as it would do often in the canyons. Sounds wafted to his ears. There was a tapping, as of a hammer, beyond which was a high, keening wail issuing, he knew at once, from human throats.
He turned Mandy into the heavy brush, loosened her bit, and bade her stand. She nuzzled him and cropped at a green bush.
The light was failing fast. He moved along on the shoulder of the road. He had been a stripling when he spent time with friendly Apaches, but the old skills came back—had never been far away. He moved like an animal native to this habitat, making for the first of the sounds he had detected.
Soon he heard a cold, demanding voice. The rapping of the hammer did not cease. He edged deeper into shelter and slipped onward. He made no more sound than the wind in the trees. The voice ceased, the hammering continued.
The last vestige of sunlight vanished as if a blanket had dropped on the canyon. The hammering stopped. Sam could hear the distant voices, now not so far away, keening on a high note. He edged closer to the edge of the road. Lamps were being lit. He distinguished the outlines of a Conestoga wagon, saw the figures around a rear wheel, crept into heavy undergrowth on elbows and knees.
There were several lamps. A commanding figure stood apart. Sam saw the white hair and knew it was Lamont, the notorious gunrunner. The others were working on the wheel. The wagon was jacked up, the axle, well greased, protruding like a sore thumb. The leader stood aside. He took out a sack of Bull Durham and wheat paper and rolled a cigarette with one hand, an art of the cowboy seldom feasible to others. A ‘quirly’ was the name for it, and once Sam had learned the trick. He could taste the smoke blown from the mouth of Lamont, feel the relaxation it offered.
One of the men grumbled, “Hadn’t been for that damn storm, his wouldn’t of happened.”
“If the dog hadn’t stopped to take a dump, it would’ve caught the rabbit,” replied another. “Gimme a hand here.”
“What’s the name of that town?”
“Peapack.”
“They got vittles there. I could eat the beans and hardtack they had up in the Hole.”
“Never mind the bastid in the Hole. Get that spoke where I can handle it.”
The silent albino moved to the wagon, climbed to the seat. Sam moved in the brush to get a better look. There was another man, a big Negro, behind the wagon seat. Lamont offered him the sack of tobacco. In the light of the taper to ignite the cigarette the shape of the Gatling gun was dimly outlined. Sam whistled beneath his breath. The gun dealer was prepared for anything.
An animal suddenly moved in the undergrowth. Sam froze, hand on his gun. He knew what would happen if he were to be exposed spying on this bunch.
It was a coyote. It came close, nosed Sam’s leg. Now he had to move. The coyote would dine off a dead body. He essayed a cautious kick.
The scavenger creature emitted a sharp bark and darted away, making far too much noise. Sam squirmed to a new position.
One of the men said, “Better shoot.” A gun went off. Bullets sprayed the brush. Sam lay flat as a pancake and felt them whistle past his ears.
Lamont said, “That’s enough of that.”
“It coulda been those damn Injuns.” Lamont said, “They’re busy with Harvey’s firewater. Get that wheel back on.
Sam considered his options. He now knew that Lamont must have provided Harvey with guns, that the Indians were celebrating, that the gunrunner was heading for Peapack, that quiet little town where he would be invincible. He estimated that the Conestoga would not be moving for some time. He could retreat and carry his information to the Naughrights or he could go ahead and learn of the strength of the Sioux and the whereabouts of Harvey and his gang. It was simple as the alphabet to know what had transpired. Buntline’s money had gone to Lamont for guns and bullets. The guns were going to the Indians for access to the gold. It only remained to learn the whereabouts of Deke Harvey and his bunch.
In for a penny, in for a pound, Sam reflected. The old sayings always came home to roost.
He began a retreat. He snaked his way deeper into cover and headed eastward. The darkness was a help but also a handicap in that his elbows and knees encountered hard spots better avoided. He could hear the singsong voices more clearly, knew that the song was most likely a war chant of the Sioux. The way seemed interminable; he ached from the exertion. He had to be wary of outposts.
At long last he was close enough. He felt around in the dark for a tree he could climb. The stars were twinkling in the sky, but there were clouds over the moon. Suddenly he smelled smoke.
The drunken fools were starting a fire in a wooded area. It could destroy them. Flames leaped up and he could select a tall pine, reach the lower branches, and haul himself upward.
He then saw that the Indians were in a large clearing. Considering the recent rain, it was conceivably safe to have a bonfire if there were sober standbyers. Nestling in the tree, Sam looked down upon the festivities.
He saw at once that there were, indeed, sober Indians. Those dancing, naked to the waist, were young. None, however, were beyond their mid twenties excepting the biggest and a small Indian who sat next to him. These two were perched on long, dark boxes easily recognizable. Those boxes held guns and ammunition.
There seemed to be no liquor left; at least, none was going around. The Sioux were exulting in their acquisition. And on a fallen log sat white men.
Sam recognized only Rab Kirby. Which was Harvey, he could not know. There was a dark Spanish type, a big, cumbersome fellow, and one older than the others.
Then he saw the half-breed whom he knew through Buntline must be Hemlock. They were smoking and talking among themselves. They did have a bottle, which they passed back and forth.
There must have been two score and more Indians. Armed and well mounted, they were a case for the Sixth Cavalry. If they descended upon Big Jim and his neighbors, there would be peril indeed. Sam looked for the horses.
They were well apart from the scene below. There would be a young brave watching over them. Still, only one course of action occurred to Sam. He began to descend the tree, without the slightest notion of how he would accomplish his design. Branch by branch he felt his way back to earth. A twig cracked. He remained stock-still, almost ready to drop out of the tree.
The noise of the war dance seemed to have covered him. He clawed down the remainder of the way.
The whims of nature in the canyons were wild and unpredictable. Now the wind changed. There was a downsweep, which swirled around the bonfire. Then followed an upsweep, which caught sparks and wafted them into the trees.
All celebration ceased. The Indians, wise to such contretemps, climbed and swatted and broke branches and used them to douse little fires. The white men clumsily essayed to help.
Sam considered his options. He finally moved to the east of the cavayar. He circled, unnoticed by the people fighting fire. He came in behind the young Indian who had properly remained with the horses, knowing their fright at flame.
Now he was Apache. He moved with uttermost stealth and speed. He came in behind the youth. He circled his tan throat with his left arm. With his right hand he pulled his gun. In a jiffy the young brave was stretched out, oblivious to the world and its perils.
Sam picked up a rope end and slapped t
he flank of a horse obviously stolen, branded by the previous owner. It started westward. Sam swarmed aboard a nearby steed. Using the bit of rope, he drove at the herd. They stampeded.
Riding with his left hand in the mane of the Indian pony, Sam followed the run toward Lamont and his wagon. He swung the piece of rope with enthusiasm, increasing the speed of the horses as they approached the broken-down Conestoga of Pierre Lamont.
At the sound of the approaching hoof beats, clippety clopping on dirt, the men around the wheel of the wagon scattered. Sam lay low on the back of the cayuse and hoped not to be discovered. One shot would bring him down. He swerved the horse, slapping it with the rope, going into the cover where he hoped the trained Mandy would be waiting.
It was an exhilarating journey. He found himself welcoming the peril, enjoying it. He was, he told himself, far too old for this. It did not allay the exhilaration.
No shots were fired by the gunrunners. Either the surprise had stunned them or they had no desire to prevent the run of the Indian horses.
Mandy was trembling from the excitement, but she remained in place. He made a running dismount and ran to her and replaced her bridle and jumped into the saddle. He unlimbered the reata and pursued the pack of horses out of the ravine and onto the plain.
The high wind had performed its whilom way, pushing the clouds away, and the half moon threw a ghostly light. Sam heeled the mare to its best speed. His exuberance had not deserted him. He wanted to bring to the Naughrights a token. Possibly an Indian pony for Linda to tame. He reached for the reata.
In that instant the exuberance died. He took his hand away from the rope. He had set the Indians afoot. But he had led them in the direction of the plains where the good folks dwelt.
On the spur of the moment he had thought that sending them eastward into the ravine, of which he knew nothing, might lead them to a cul-de-sac, where they would be easily recaptured. Also, he had wanted to alarm Lamont, slow him down even more than at present. Now he was not so certain that he had been correct.
Now it was a sure thing that Walking Bull and Harvey would come to the plains by whatever means and would attack the ranchers.
That they would have done so under any circumstances was something he would never know.
He sped the black mare toward the NTN Ranch with all speed.
The Indians were prying at the boxes containing the guns and ammunition, the young ones howling, the elders standing aside with folded arms and furrowed brows. The youth who had been knocked out by Sam was moaning to the sky.
Rab Kirby said to Deke Harvey, “We oughta get our butts outa here right now. We got horses up at the Hole.”
“They don’t know that. So shut up.”
“They’ll kill us sure as sunrise.”
“Not if you keep your mouth shut. You want the gold, don’t you?”
“I want my scalp, too.”
“Look, they’re goin’ after their ponies. It’s their life. They’re hoss Injuns. That means they’ll be hittin’ the ranchers. We go along, we’ll get Judson.”
“If he’s alive.”
“If he ain’t, we keep goin’ until we find somebody to back us up.” He was obsessed; he had seen the gold.
Kirby started to respond, stopped as the thunderous voice of Walking Bull demanded silence of his followers. One of the long boxes had been opened. The young ones backed away from it as the chief interposed, lecturing them. Callo came to where the white men stood apart.
“Who set our ponies free?” he demanded.
“Geez, you think I know? Ours went, too, didn’t they?”
“White men always have ponies.”
“Hey, we got a couple up at the Hole,” blurted Kirby.
Harvey said quickly, “Just about to tell you. We can give you a couple. But we’re goin’ along with you.”
Callo considered. “You speak with honesty. You have obeyed the rules. Maybe we will accept your offer.”
“Maybe?”
“Walking Bull will decide.”
He turned and walked slowly to where the chief was haranguing the young ones.
Harvey said, “If you blew this deal, Rab, I’ll kill you deader’n Adam.”
“Suppose they found out we had the horses?”
Hemlock said, “He’s right. Best play square with ’em.”
Harvey did not answer. He was trying not to feel fear. He thought of the gold. It was all that mattered. Walking Bull and his band were the answer. If people had to be killed, it did not matter. He shifted his feet, nervous, itching at the delay. He had killed men for less than a chance at the fortune he saw glimmering in his future.
Finally Walking Bull uttered one word, “Horses.”
Silence ensued. Every Indian understood that word. The fire now burned low, two sober youths attending it. The moon barely bestowed slivers of light through the branches of the tall trees.
Walking Bull said the other word he loved, “Guns.”
He went to the open box. Harvey went with him. The rifles were packed with care. Harvey said, “Remingtons. Used in the War. Good, clean guns.”
Callo said, “The bargain is complete. Now the horses.”
“What’s in it for us?”
Walking Bull picked up one of the 1863 Remingtons. Ammunition was enclosed in canvas pouches, .58-caliber rim fire. The chieftain knew how to load it, Harvey saw. He said quickly, “Never mind. It’s a long walk. We’ll get ’em for you.”
Callo translated. Walking Bull selected three more rifles. He called three stalwart braves, handed them over, magazines loaded. No more needed to be said.
The white men traipsed off toward the Hole, the Indians a safe distance behind them, rifles at ready. Within a short walk Harvey and Kirby were limping. Cowboy boots with high heels were not made for hiking.
The only consolation was that it would be too late to make a move that night. The horses had to be watered and fed; the ride back to the clearing would be slow as molasses because there were not enough mounts to go around. Harvey grimly repeated to himself, over and over, “Gold in them hills. Gold. Gold. Gold.”
Tom Naughright was exercising his considerable amount of patience in the town of Peapack. Already armed and dreading the prospect of attack by the Sioux, everyone was now on the verge of panic.
Tom had been in the telegraph office off and on since his arrival. Old Josh Denton had been trying to locate the Sixth Cavalry without success. Evidently the troops were on reconnaissance. A message to the barracks had brought only the reply that a Colonel Ramsey would be notified as soon as possible. Tom was waiting on that message so that he could carry it back to the ranchers. There would be no necessity for him to go to the troop; he needed only a time element to consider.
Josh Denton said, “Sonny, you better get somethin’ in your stomach. Go on over to Miz Jenkins, and I’ll be there if we hear from the damn fort.*
“You’re right. I’m empty as a hollow log. Thanks, Mr. Denton.”
He went across the deserted street. The men who could do so were patrolling horseback for first evidence of an attack. The remainder were forted up. There was no one in Miz Jenkins’s restaurant.
Mary Jane greeted him. “Ma’s out back feeding the dog. What can I get you, Tom?”
“Anything that’s easy or ready,” he said. “I might have to ride out any minute now.”
“The town’s sure got the jitters,” she said. “Cold meat and biscuits and maybe soup?”
“Fine.” He followed her into the kitchen. Mrs. Jenkins came in and said, “You two go set down. I’ll handle this. Ain’t it scary, the Indians and all? I got me a shotgun loaded for bear, and Mary Jane’s got her pa’s six-shooter.”
Tom said soberly, “All the women should have pistols. In case, you know?”
“To keep from bein’ captured?” Mary Jane smiled and lifted a shoulder. “Women have lived with Indians.”
“Now, Mary Jane,” said her mother. “She’s got the craziest ideas.”
“The Sioux don’t treat ’em so bad, I heard,” said the girl.
“Mary Jane!”
“Maybe a chief would like me. I could be a number two wife or whatever.”
“Mary Jane, you stop that teasin’ right now. Tom don’t want to hear that kinda talk.”
“We had a Texas cowboy,” said Tom. “Worked for a man named Ben Price, used to tell a campfire story about a way station. Seems Pierce, the bounty hunter’s sister, was captured by Comanches, married a chief and liked it. Caused a lot of people to be killed.”
“I don’t have a brother,” said Mary Jane.
“You got friends,” said Tom. “You think we wouldn’t go tryin’ to get you back?”
Mary Jane looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, “That’s the nicest thing’s been said to me in some time, Tom Naughright.”
“Well, it’s true.” He felt himself turning pink. “There’s a heap of us’d ride out.”
“That makes a girl feel good.”
They had known each other since they were children. This was the first time he had ever looked her straight in the eye. He had perceived her, of course. His brother had once remarked, “Mary Jane’s got the lines of a good horse.” He wasn’t thinking of a horse right now. He felt the blush go down through him.
He said, “Hey, Mary Jane, everybody likes you.”
“But not enough.” She smiled but did not relinquish her steady gaze.
There was a challenge here, Tom knew. He was not quite aware as to how he should meet it, but he managed, “We don’t get to see each other enough.”
“Not near enough.” The eyes never wavered. She held him with them.
He said, “Look, Mary Jane, when this is all over, can I come callin’?”
“Why, Tom Naughright! That’s mighty nice of you.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m more than sure.”
Cemetery Jones 4 Page 13
