“Communicating with homing pigeons explains how Kingston knew which trail Rachel would be on,” John said. “I’ll bet the Hunt family talked about it at the house the night before they left. Someone overheard it and let Hawkins know. He sent a message to Kingston.”
“Homing pigeons?” Molly scratched her head. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
“We sometimes called them war pigeons.”
“War pigeons?”
“Yes, they were used in the war,” John said. “The Pinkertons have used them to communicate over long distances when there’s no telegraph available.”
“If we let them out, you say they’ll fly to some hideout, but won’t they fly to Casper instead?” Molly asked.
“My guess is these men have trained some to do one thing, some another.” John kept feeding the birds. “You let them nest somewhere for a while, and they claim it as their home, then you take them a great distance away and release them. They’ll fly back and forth. I’m not sure of all the training because I never did that part, but once they are trained, you can tie a small message to their legs. They can fly a message as far as a hundred miles, and they can make the trips more than once a day, depending on how far they have to travel. I spent a lot of time at sea, and we could take the pigeons and send messages to headquarters. No matter where the ship went to that pigeon would go home to headquarters.”
Molly came to his side and started helping toss handfuls of grain in the coop. “Six of them. You think we can follow them?”
“Yes, I hope so, if we release one at a time. Watch it, do our best to keep up, then if we lose it, we release another one. Most likely there are pigeons in Kingston’s house, too. We’ll need to go to Casper and take care of them.”
“Falcon can probably figure out which direction Hawkins headed.”
Falcon came in just as Wyatt offered his services, Cheyenne right behind. “We’ll get started searching out which tracks are Hawkins’s.”
The sheriff looked skeptically at the pigeons and said, “I’m a fair hand at tracking. I’ll help find Hawkins’s trail.”
“Let’s take all of the birds. We even have something to haul them in.” John pointed to a small wooden crate in one corner. “We’ll let the sheriff and Falcon lead us down Hawkins’s trail for as long as we can follow it, then let one pigeon go and just see. If they all head straight for Casper, then I don’t suppose they’ll be of any use. But if some go another direction, we’ll follow until we lose sight of it. If there are enough pigeons, we can keep releasing them until we reach our man.”
“Wyatt, is there a wagon here?” Falcon asked. “We can haul the crate more easily in that. If he’s got horses and livestock and he’s on the run, we’ll need to tend his critters.”
“He’s got chickens and a few pigs besides the horses and cattle. It doesn’t look like there’s a hired man on the place. Either they left when they realized Hawkins did, or he fired them all and abandoned his animals to starve in their pens.” Wyatt scowled. “I’ll see to a wagon, and Hawkins favors a chestnut mare. I should be able to tell if he chose that horse and can pick out her tracks.”
Wyatt, Cheyenne, and Falcon followed the sheriff as he left the attic, leaving Molly alone with John.
“A man like that, who hurts women”—Molly crouched down to pet one of the hungry birds—“he’s not going to be concerned with the animals God gave him to care for. Just the opposite. He may enjoy knowing he left them behind to suffer.”
“We’ve got work to do, and we need to be on our way soon.” John opened the crate and caught the pigeon that’d been loose. It was frantically pecking at the grain he’d tossed on the floor. He caged it and dropped in more grain. Though he closed the lid of the crate, Molly felt certain the tame and hungry bird would have stayed in the cage, lid open or not.
Gently, he transferred each of the birds from their neatly built coop to the crate. And with the bottom of the crate solid, he could pick it up and let them eat. A couple of them fluttered their wings, and there were some of the pigeons’ familiar coos. But they were more pets than wild, and they accepted the transfer as if it’d happened many times before.
Molly grabbed the other end of the crate.
Every few steps, Molly squeaked, but she kept coming. They went down three flights of stairs.
“Are the pigeons pecking your fingers?” John did the hard part, backing down the stairs, bearing most of the weight, though it was more awkward than heavy.
Molly grinned. “I’ve been ignoring it the best I can. I’m sorry about the squeaking. But my first reaction was to drop the crate, and I didn’t. Consider yourself lucky.”
“I wanted to drop it, too,” John said with a smile. “But I managed not to drop it or squeak so I’m feeling pretty good about myself.”
Molly laughed. She liked the Pinkerton agent and wondered about his family. How did they all manage such an unusual career?
They got outside just as Wyatt pulled a small buckboard up in front of the door.
Falcon came running in from the north, silent in his handmade moccasins. “The chestnut mare Wyatt mentioned headed northwest. Away from Bear Claw Pass and Casper. We can follow Hawkins’s tracks for now and only release the pigeons if we lose the trail.”
Twenty-Six
Abullet crashed through the window of the jailhouse. Sheriff Gatlin flew backward, slammed into the wall, and sank to the floor, a bright patch of crimson blood blooming on his chest.
Kevin grabbed Win as another bullet exploded. Spinning to protect her, he felt the bullet hit. Thinking only of her, he dragged her to the floor as Rachel dove behind the sheriff’s desk.
Falling, he covered Win to protect her, but his weight was out of his control, everything was. Then blood trickled past his face as it dripped from somewhere. He was foggy. He clawed at his pistol, dragged it out of the holster, and fumbled so it slid under the sheriff’s desk.
His eyes dropped shut. He sagged on top of Win.
The jailhouse door crashed open and thudding footsteps rushed in. Echoing as if from a long distance.
Kevin heard Win scream. He fought the odd weakness, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. Then Win was gone, jerked out from under him. He heard the prisoner holler, a happy sound for someone locked up.
“You got ’em both.”
“Move fast.” Kevin recognized Oliver Hawkins’s voice. “Folks in town heard the shots. Bring the women. No one’ll shoot through them.”
Kevin faded away to the sound of his wife screaming his name. Darkness pulled him under.
“Pure rock.” Falcon scowled at the ground.
“We’ve got a direction,” Wyatt said, “and it figures there’s a trail up.”
They’d been pushing hard all morning. Molly had watched a mountain loom closer with every mile. Her stomach twisting with dread that they’d have to somehow climb the monster. But if Hawkins rode through here, then it stood to reason there must be a way. But it was all sheer rock, steep and treacherous.
“If we release a pigeon, it’s just gonna fly straight over the mountain. It won’t help us at all.” The sheriff tore his hat off his head and whacked his leg.
“It’ll tell us if we’ve got mountain climbing to do.” John dismounted and came for the crate.
“Whatever else is ahead, there’s no trail a buckboard can handle.” Wyatt climbed down off the seat.
John opened the crate lid just a crack, reached in, and gently eased out one of the homing pigeons, then closed the lid quickly. He looked around. “Falcon, start up the mountain as far as a horse will take you before I release the bird.”
“I think I’m about as far as my horse will take me now.”
“Let’s give them their heads and see if they can pick out a trail,” Cheyenne said. “This horse I’m riding is a mountain-bred mustang, and he can climb almost like a mountain goat.”
She loosened her reins and kicked the horse, and it surprised her by turning to its left. Not do
wn like a horse might go when it could no longer climb.
Cheyenne looked behind her at Wyatt. Molly saw him nod. He said, “Give the critter its head for a while.”
The horse wandered along, so surefooted Molly marveled at it.
Then it chose a spot Molly certainly couldn’t see as a trail and headed up.
“I’m following her.” Falcon rode after his wife. Sheriff Corly went next.
“Wyatt, go tuck that buckboard off the trail somewhere, unhitch it, and bring the crate.”
Wyatt rolled his eyes at John’s bossy ways, but John didn’t notice. Instead, bird in hand, he swung up onto his horse and followed Falcon.
Wyatt was a while getting going, so Molly waited, thinking it only polite. She also didn’t think they should leave him behind.
They’d known they might end up leaving the wagon, so Wyatt came back into sight on his saddled and bridled stallion, the crate awkwardly balancing on his lap.
He smiled at her. A warm kind of smile that she was learning was just for her.
Wyatt drew up beside her. “We still need to have a talk.”
“Yes, we do.”
With a little shake of his head, he said, “Now’s not the time. You go ahead. I’ll bring up the rear.”
Molly turned to follow John. To her surprise all three lead riders had vanished from sight.
Her horse went along as if he could see them. He picked steps out of rough spots on a trail that looked sheer. The horse was calm and didn’t hesitate at all, as if the trail were wide and smooth. Molly did her best not to distract the horse by doing anything with the reins. The horse was definitely better left in charge.
From behind her, Wyatt said, “You knew where to find that safe, Molly. We really needed you, but I wish we’d left you back in Bear Claw Pass where it was safer.”
Molly smiled. “I always feel safe with you, Wyatt.”
Kevin came awake on a shout. He lurched to his feet. His head spun until he grabbed at the desk in the jailhouse to keep from falling back to the floor.
A man charged into the jail holding a rifle. The rifle made Kevin think of his gun. Hanging on to the desk, he bent low and fetched it from under the desk, then turned, ready to fight Hawkins and Kingston for his wife.
The man who came in was neither. The newcomer said, “I’ll send for a doctor. We’re gathering a posse to go after them.” The man wheeled around and was gone before Kevin got his gun leveled.
Then he saw the empty jail cell, door swung wide. He heard a moan behind him and looked around, still clinging to the desk, to see Sheriff Gatlin unconscious on the floor but alive. No sign of Win or Rachel anywhere.
Kevin straightened. Found his knees could hold him and staggered for the door. A posse was a great idea. But he wasn’t waiting for anyone to gather anything.
Outside, he yelled, “Which way did they go?”
One man pointed northwest. “Been gone a few minutes is all.”
Someone else said, “You’re bleeding bad, mister. Better let the doc fix you up.”
“They’ve got my wife.” He ripped the reins loose from the hitching post, swung up on his horse, and kicked the tough critter into a gallop from the first leap.
He bent low over his saddle, almost lying down. It helped the horse make good time and kept him from falling off. He needed both.
Storming out of town, his mind was wild with fear. Win, he had to get to Win. Her father had kidnapped her. The man was using his own child as a hostage. They’d known he was evil, but this twisted Kevin’s belly into a knot.
Groping for the source of the blood, he found a bullet crease in the back of his head. He’d had one of those before in this stupid territory. He tugged the kerchief off his neck and pressed it to the fast-bleeding wound. The pressure hurt so bad it nearly made him pass out. He clung to the horse, fighting for his vision to clear.
At last it did. He was a decent tracker and saw two horses that’d veered off the main trail he’d taken out of town. Fresh tracks, deep. They had Win and Rachel. Two men, each riding double, which would tire the critters out faster.
Dead ahead was one of the roughest stretches Kevin had seen since coming to Wyoming Territory. Honestly, Wyoming was shaping up to be little improvement over Kansas.
And then he thought of his wife. That was something he’d never had back home. He had to get to her, had to save her before her father did something no father should ever be able to do.
He’d’ve been flat out sick if he had the time.
Wyatt reached the top of a steep climb. The winter wind battered at him as he studied more steep climbing ahead, some down, some up. The wildest land he’d ever known. And he’d known plenty.
He realized he’d never been in this area before. The rocks they just climbed had seemed unclimbable by a horse.
Falcon and Cheyenne were both afoot, studying the rocks, hoping for any sign of a trail.
Looking up from where she’d hunkered down, Cheyenne said, “My horse just stopped. I hoped it’d keep going, maybe follow the scent of another horse that’d passed this way. Instead, it balked, and I knew not to push it. I might get it going in the wrong direction.”
Falcon rose, shaking his head. “It’s solid rock in every direction, the snow swept clear.”
“We’re going to have to release a pigeon.” John lifted the bird, which had settled contentedly on his lap for the whole climb.
“Are we ready?” John asked. “We all watch, pick up its direction, and go after it as fast as we can until we can’t see it anymore.”
Wyatt looked around at the rugged land. Straight ahead it went down some, then climbed again. To the left and right, they’d be skimming along some invisible trail, hoping their horses could walk on tiptoes.
Wyatt gave his chin a jerk of agreement. “Let it go.”
John released the pigeon, and it just stood there, content with the ride. “Hmmm . . . We might have a defective pigeon.”
John picked it up and tossed it in the air. It fluttered a bit, then took off like an arrow, straight ahead.
“It might not be far as the crow flies,” Wyatt said, watching the bird. Cheyenne and Falcon were after it, John next, their horses picking their way. They weren’t going to do any galloping, that was for sure.
“We couldn’t be less like crows.” Molly gave her horse a gentle kick, just enough to tell it to get going.
The pigeon crested the highest peak ahead and vanished. Wyatt made very careful note of where the critter was headed.
One of the crated pigeons in his lap cooed. Another fluttered. Wyatt looked down at them. Five more birds. Figuring some had been trained to go wherever the one they’d already released had headed and some would fly east toward Casper, they’d be real lucky, no . . . real blessed, if they found Hawkins before they ran plumb out of birds.
Was Kevin dead?
It’d happened so fast. Win had seen the sheriff fly backward. She’d heard a second shot as Kevin tackled her. Then her pa had dragged her out from under Kevin.
Win saw blood. She was frantic to help her precious husband, but her father dragged her away.
Was he dead?
No. No, she refused to give up hope. He’d survive, and he’d come for her. He’d bring the rest of his very tough family with him.
She just had to stay alive. Surely her own father wasn’t planning to kill her. But he’d given her to Kingston. Maybe that was his way of saying he didn’t want to kill her himself, but he’d stand by while his brother did.
Her pa held Rachel, who’d gone gray and slumped back against him. She looked unconscious. She hadn’t been out of bed long enough for this harsh, pounding ride.
Win had no idea how to help herself. Try to snatch Kingston’s gun? Throw herself to the ground?
That might work, but not now, not while Kingston was so alert and on edge. But she’d be prepared and take any opportunity that opened. Maybe she could find out where they were going.
A prison break . .
. two men shot . . . there would be help coming. A posse if Kevin wasn’t able to come. The thought sent a sob from deep in her chest, and she fought it. No time to cry. Now was the time to be alert and be ready.
Maybe talking would help. At least she might find out what was going on.
“So you’re my uncle. Is that right?” Win asked. All she could think of was that the blood of outlaws flowed in her veins. Her father a killer. Her uncle a thief. “And was Cl-Clovis Hunt my uncle, too?”
Sick, she realized that made her and Kevin first cousins. Was a marriage between first cousins even legal? Was it wise?
“Clovis is my brother, but Oliver isn’t blood kin to us.”
“Th-that’s why my father doesn’t have the same hazel eyes.”
“Yep, them brown eyes with the stripes of gold run strong in our family. Clovis had ’em, and me. Your pa, the youngest of us, is the son of one of my pa’s friends. When his friend died and our ma had died, Pa married his friend’s widow and took her boy, Oliver, in. I should’ve told him to run, risk starving and dying in the cold, but I wasn’t smart enough to spare him a new family.
“Oliver was the same as a brother to us. Clovis did his best to protect Oliver and me from Pa when he was sideways from the drink. Both of us looked up to Clovis.”
“Your accent is getting stronger as we ride. How did you and my father lose that Southern accent when Clovis had it so strong?”
“We were making a new life. We headed for Chicago, but Clovis met a woman and stayed behind. Oliver and me, we didn’t want anyone to know we’d spent time in that boys’ prison. And Oliver had plans to marry a fancy, rich woman. Not sure where he got that notion, but it was a good one. He said he’d never fetch one around if’n she knew he was a mountain boy. So we made ourselves into city toffs, invented an education and a background. While we were at it, we didn’t mention being brothers.”
“Is your name really Kingston or Hunt or Hawkins?”
“Clovis and I were named Hunt. We were half grown when our pa took Oliver in. Your pa’s real name is Jethro Pervis. We both chose new names, wanting to sound more like city folks.”
Love on the Range Page 19