“That’s prime!” Murphy beamed. “You an’ me an’ Portugee Phillips can handle any passel of Sioux that ever come down the pike!”
There were thirty men and a girl in the back room of Reutz’ store at nine that night. Buffalo Murphy pushed his way through the stacks of bales and packing cases to the meeting place. The girl, Matt saw at once, was Jacquine Coyle.
Sitting beside her was a husky, handsome lad with a reckless, goodhumoured smile and a quick, impatient way of moving. His face was just enough of a combination of Brian Coyle’s dark heaviness and Jacquine’s beauty to prove him a brother. After a quick glance, Matt turned to look over the crowd. If these men were to be his companions on the trail he wanted to see what manner of men they were.
His first impression was good. These were obviously a chosen lot. They had confident, intelligent faces, the sort of men who had done things and could do more. Yet as his eyes strayed over the group they hesitated more than once, for there were faces here of another type of man, and they were not faces he liked.
Portugee Phillips came up to him and held out a hand. This man Bardoul had known and respected for a long time. He was a surly, dangerous ruffian. Of a brusque and quarrelsome disposition, and never believed to be overly honest, he had become on one dark night and the three subsequent days and nights, an almost legendary figure.
In a howling blizzard and bitter cold, the temperature far below zero, Portugee Phillips had made a ride no other man would attempt. He had gone for help after the Fetterman massacre, riding two hundred and thirty-six miles, killing a splendid Kentucky thoroughbred in the process, through the bitterest storm in many years. He saved the garrison, but won the undying hatred of the Sioux, who had never dreamed any human could have done what he did.
Portugee grinned at Matt. “You come along, huh? We need you.” His yellowish eyes swept the room, prying, inquisitive, speculative. Matt sensed some under-current of feeling in the man, and in his words, and tried to catch his eye, but Phillips would not look at him again. “You come along,” he insisted. “We need good men on this trip!”
His expression and manner puzzled Bardoul. Probably he was just imagining things and Phillips had meant no more than he said.
Brian Coyle stepped up behind a large barrel and rapped on the head of it with a hammer. Voices died away and heads turned toward him. Somewhere in the room a man cleared his throat. Coyle glanced around, drawing all attention to him, and then he began to speak. He spoke quickly and well in a deep, strong voice that assured you the man knew full well the method of the public meeting.
“You all understand that you have been carefully selected and called here for a meeting whose purpose is not to be discussed beyond these walls. We expect our secret to get out eventually, but by that time we hope to be well on our way, and hence to arrive far in advance of those who attempt to follow.
“However, for reasons of secrecy we five who have called this group together do not intend to divulge our exact destination. We will only say that we are going west and that we expect to be at least a month on the trail, but all are advised to bring supplies and plan for at least two months.
“There is gold, and plenty of it, at the end of this trail. We have samples of that gold to show you. We are not calling you here to do you any favours, but because we know the danger of the country into which we go and that only a large party of competent men can hope to survive there. Your safety is our safety, and vice versa.
“If, after hearing our plans you do not care to join us, you may withdraw, and we only ask that you say nothing of our purpose until we are on the trail. Samples of the gold dust, some nuggets, and a few specimens of the ore have been brought here. We had an assay made of the ore and it runs to three thousand dollars to the ton!”
There was a low murmur ran through the crowd, and Matt frowned thoughtfully. That was very rich ore. Some richer had been found in California, but in very limited quantity. The listeners shifted their feet and leaned forward, very interested now.
“We think so much of this project that Herman Reutz is selling his store and I am closing out my business here. We intend to proceed to the site of the discovery, scatter out and stake the best claims, then build a town. In that town we will have a store, and each of you will be a stockholder in that store. We intend to sell shares here tonight, and while no man may hold over ten shares, each man must hold at least one.”
Elam Brooks arose from his barrel. “What else does a man need to get in on this deal?”
“There must be at least one wagon to every three men. However, we hope each of you will bring a wagon. We advocate stocking your wagons with goods the store can handle or that can be used in trade with the Indians. Each man must have a saddle horse and rifle, and the stock must all be sound and in good shape. Food and ammunition, of course.”
Coyle hesitated then, waiting for questions. When none were forthcoming he turned his head and waved a hand toward Colonel Pearson. “The Colonel here, Colonel Orvis Pearson, is a military man accustomed to command and the handling of large bodies of men. He will be in command of the entire wagon train and all personnel. After we reach the rendezvous, captains will be elected for each of the four companies into which we will divide ourselves.
“Where we are going there is good grass and plenty of water. There is timber for building, and plenty of game as well. As we will be well organized and led, there will be little to fear from the Indians. The original discoverer of this gold will be one guide, and Portugee Phillips, of whom you all know, will be the other.”
Listening, Matt Bardoul could see what an attractive setup it was. Certainly, nobody knew the Big Horns better than Phillips, and few knew them as well. The talk Coyle had made was emphatic and to the point, and offered much to be preferred to the usual haphazard organization of wagon trains which were more often than not badly planned and poorly led.
A big, rawboned man got to his feet. “Name of Stark,” he said clearly, thumbs hooked in his suspenders, “Aaron Stark, from Tennessee. What about the women folks?”
Brian Coyle smiled. “If you got ‘em, bring ‘em! I’m takin’ my daughter, yonder!” He waved a hand at Jacquine, who blushed at suddenly becoming the center of attention, but her chin lifted slightly and she glanced out over the room. Her eyes met Matt’s, and he smiled. She lifted one eyebrow very coolly, and glanced away.
Coyle faced the crowd. “If you’re all agreed,” he suggested, “just step over to Clive Massey there and he’ll take your money for shares in the company. Then all you have to do is have your wagons at Split Rock Springs, ready to roll at daybreak Tuesday!”
Several men stepped out in a bunch and started for the barrel, and that began it. Without further question the crowd lined up to a man, Matt Bardoul with them. He did notice, however, that the first four or five men who had stepped out were among those whose faces had arrested his glance when he first looked at the crowd.
As he neared the barrel where Clive Massey was taking names and money he got his first look at the man. Massey was as tall as he himself and a good twenty pounds heavier, a stalwart, handsome man with intensely black eyes and a finely clipped black mustache. He wore one gun, low down on his right hip. It showed slightly under the skirt of his black coat.
Matt had a haunting feeling he had seen Massey before, but could not place him. Massey wrote rapidly and as fast as the money was laid down and counted, he pocketed it.
When Matt stepped up to the barrel, he put down his money. “Mathieu Bardoul,” he said.
There was a sudden movement as a man seated behind and to the left of Massey turned suddenly to glance up at Matt. The man was sharp featured with a hooked nose. His slate gray eyes seemed to have no depth, and they were disturbing eyes, long and narrow under the straight bar of his brows and a tight skull cap of sandcoloured hair. The man stared up at Matt, unsmiling. “From Julesburg?” he asked.
“I’ve been there.”
Massey looked around. “You know thi
s man, Logan?”
Logan Deane!
Matt’s expression did not change. This then, was the killer, the man reputed to have slain twenty men in gun battles.
The man at Deane’s side was Batsell Hammer.
“Don’t reckon I do,” Deane said, keeping his eyes on Matt’s, “only there was a Matt Bardoul in Julesburg who was quite a hand with a six-gun.”
Clive Massey looked up. Somehow, Matt had the impression that Massey had been waiting for him, that he was prepared for him. Why, he could not have guessed.
Their eyes met. “Sorry,” Clive said, “we don’t want any gunfighters. Too much chance of trouble, and we want this to be a peaceful trip.”
The room was suddenly quiet, and men were listening. Into that silence Matt dropped his words like a stone into the utter calm of a pool. “If you’ll take a renegade like Bat Hammer, you’ll take anybody!”
Hammer’s face whitened and he came to his feet with an oath. “I don’t have to take that!” he shouted.
“That’s right,” Bardoul replied calmly, “you don’t.”
Silence hung heavy in the room, and Logan Deane, his thin, cobralike lips parted in a faint smile, watched Matt as a tomcat watches another. Matt was aware of the glance, but his eyes held Hammer’s and he waited, his hands hanging loosely at his sides.
Bat’s gunhand hovered over his pistol butt, and his eyes held Bardoul’s, then slowly his fingers relaxed, and his hand eased cautiously to his side. Abruptly, he sat down.
Massey hesitated no longer. “Who recommended this man?”
Buffalo Murphy stepped forward belligerently. “I did, an’ if he don’t go, I don’t. We need him bad. He knows the Sioux, an’ he knows that country.”
“With Phillips, yourself and Tate Lyon, I scarcely think we’ll need him.” Massey’s voice was final.
“We’d better take him,” Phillips said suddenly. “We need him.”
Massey glanced up impatiently. This man, Matt decided, disliked opposition, was impatient of all restraint. Massey was irritated now, and his face showed it.
A recommendation from Phillips who enjoyed the respect of all these men for his knowledge of the country and the Sioux was not lightly to be passed over, yet Bardoul was sure that Clive Massey intended to do just that, but before he could offer further objections, Brian Coyle interrupted.
“What are we waiting for?” he boomed. “Sign him up!”
Only an instant did Clive Massey hesitate, then he wrote down the name and pocketed the money Matt had placed on the barrel head.
Matt did not move.
Massey looked up impatiently, angrily. “Next man!” he said sharply.
“Not yet.” Matt Bardoul smiled down at Massey. “I want a receipt.”
Clive Massey’s eyes narrowed and temper flamed in his face. “Listen!” he snapped. “Do you intend to … !”
“This is merely business,” Matt interrupted, “no offense intended.”
“Give it to him!” Coyle said, waving a hand. “Why not? Come to think of it, I’ll want one myself!”
Clive Massey let the air out of his lungs slowly, but anger betrayed itself in his every movement. He wrote out the receipt, and then Buffalo Murphy followed. He demanded and got his receipt. Matt’s demand had set a fashion and every man who followed asked for his receipt. Even a few of those who had gone through before Matt did, returned, and asked for them.
If ever he had seen hatred in a man’s eyes it had been in Massey’s when he looked up at him that last time. From now on Matt knew he could expect no friendship from at least one of the leaders of the wagon train. Yet he could not escape the impression that he had been awaited and that Massey had planned to rule him out. Only he had not expected opposition.
A hand touched his arm. “Matt, don’t you remember me?”
He turned, and found himself looking into the grinning face of a sun browned young cowhand. “Ban Hardy! I haven’t seen you since we came over the trail from Texas together!”
Massey’s eyes were on them. He’ll remember us, Matt thought, that’s certain.
“Gosh, Man! It’ll be like old times!” Hardy exclaimed. Then he added, “In more ways than one!”
Murphy nodded. “I’m wonderin’ some my ownself. But if there’s a skunk up the crick, we’ll smoke him out!” He shrugged. “No matter. I was aimin’ to head back into the Big Horn country an’ this is as good a way to go as any!”
Already, Matt reflected, they were taking sides. Clive Massey, Logan Deane and Bat Hammer. There was more than accident in their sitting together, more than accident that Massey had been so determined to weed him out.
Why?
It was a question to which he could find no answer. One thing he did know, and that was that this was only a beginning, and that more was to come between himself and Clive Massey.
And he still had to face Colonel Orvis Pearson.
2
Why had Pearson failed to step forward during the altercation with Massey?
Bardoul puzzled over that the following morning as he sat at breakfast. He knew Pearson hated him and the man would certainly have no desire to see Matt Bardoul accompany a wagon train where he was in command.
Without doubt if he persisted in going along he would be surrounded by men with reason to dislike or hate him. Colonel Orvis Pearson would be in command, and Clive Massey was unquestionably one of the leaders, while Logan Deane and Batsell Hammer had no cause to like him. Yet on the other side of the ledger he had such friends as Buffalo Murphy and Ban Hardy.
Why had Portugee Phillips wanted him along? The two had never been particularly friendly in the past, although each knew and respected the other’s ability. Did Phillips know something unknown to the others? Or did he merely suspect something?
Regardless of enemies or danger, Matt knew he was not going to drop out. Jacquine Coyle was going along, and that was reason enough for him.
The tall girl with the red gold hair and blue eyes had upset him more than he cared to admit. Yet when he thought of her now he recalled some words he had heard once: There are in a man’s life certain ultimate things, and just one ultimate woman. When a man finds that woman he does not pass on, unless he is a fool.
“And I’m not passing on!” he said aloud.
Murphy turned his head and looked at him, then grinned understandingly. “Talkin’ to yourself, huh? I do it, myself. It means you’ve been alone too long!”
Matt nodded thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ve hit it,” he said, “and I think you have.”
He remembered suddenly and turned to look at the burly mountain man. “Buff, didn’t you have a squaw back in the Big Horns?”
“Sure did!” Murphy beamed at the memory. “Arapaho, she was an’ a durned good un, too! Most ways, that is. Bought her off ol’ Bear Paw Henderson! Give a dozen prime beaver for her, an’ a spotted pony I took off a Crow whose aim was bad.
“Nearly killed me, he did. Shot at me an’ missed. I shot at him an’ didn’t!”
Murphy nodded musingly. “Yessir! Quite a squaw, she was! Bear Paw, he had her from her Pa, ol’ Broken Hand, the Arapaho chief.”
“What became of her?”
“Her?” Buffalo furrowed his brow. “Let’s see, now. She was the one just afore the big snow … nigh as I can recall I sent her back to her Pa.
“Uh huh, that was it! I give her three buffalo hides an’ a couple of ponies … that steeldust was limpin’ in the off hind leg, anyway. Gettin’ crabby, that squaw was. Wanted to settle down with the Injuns!”
“Only one way to handle a woman, my old man used to say,” Ban suggested, “an’ that was to whup ‘em good with a trace chain the fust time you took ‘em home. Then whup ‘em good once a week for the fust three weeks, an’ after that all you have to do is just rattle the chain!”
Ban Hardy drained his coffee cup and got to his feet. “Got you an outfit yet, Matt? If you ain’t, I got me a German spotted who brought five wagons down from St. Cloud, up in Mi
nnesota. He’s got good teams, too.”
“Let’s go then,” Matt said, “I’ll need a wagon.”
“You buyin’ oxen or mules?” Ban wanted to know.
“Better git oxen,” Murphy suggested. “If’n you have to, you can always eat them. I never did cultivate no taste for mule meat, though I’ve set up an’ et it a few times, an’ mighty durned glad to have it, too! Oxen are much better, an’ there’s more meat on ‘em, an’ anyway, they pull better on ground where there’s no trail.”
Brian Coyle was obviously a leader, and an able man. Yet when Matt considered it he was afraid that Coyle’s leadership might extend only as far as the boundary of a reasonably civilized town or locality. He was a politician, an organizer, and a planner. He knew how to talk to men, but how good he would be out on the trail when the going got rough was yet to be determined. When faced with violence he might not have what was needed. And he might.
Clive Massey was a dangerous man. There was a reckless fury in him that was easily aroused, and that coupled with his driving strength and natural cunning would make him a man to be reckoned with.
Massey had seemed to sit too close to Logan Deane and Batsell Hammer to be completely honest, and while it was early to form any judgments, his actions and his tempers were unfavourable. The two men had been in Deadwood and this part of the west longer than Massey, and they might have been posted near him to render judgment on men whom Massey did not know.
Thus far there was no reason for suspicion. Nor so far had any visible opportunity for dishonesty shown itself. Nothing had been sold, nothing promised. It was all on a strictly voluntary basis. Yet his instincts and his knowledge of men warned him that something was amiss.
Of course, had he not made his own demand it was probable none of the men would have had a receipt for their money, but such things were of little importance as men seldom resorted to legal practices to make recovery of either money or property. Judge Colt usually presided at such disagreements and his decisions left no ground for appeal.
That a few of the men with the wagon train might be outlaws or the next thing to it was no cause for alarm. The west was not made up of noble, God-fearing heroes. Many of the men and women on the westward trek, and often enough the bravest of them, were criminals or worse. Portugee Phillips, of whom little good could have been said before his almost legendary ride through the blizzard, was one of these.
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 2