Two days dragged by slowly, and in those two days they covered thirty miles. It was on the evening of the fifth day out that trouble started.
Herman Reutz, who had been spending more and more time with Matt, was sitting with him on a pile of rocks near the wagons, talking over the events of the day. Buffalo Murphy and Aaron Stark had come up to join them, and then Barney Coyle.
Suddenly a scream rent the air, and leaping to their feet, the men stared down toward the shadowed ravine where a stream, shallow but clean and clear, flowed over the rocks into a pool among the trees. As one man they started to run.
Matt was the first one through the brush, and what he saw brought a rush of anger to his face.
Sary Stark, who had evidently been bathing in the pool, was struggling, only half clad, with the huge, bearded Abel Bain!
With a lunge, Matt grabbed the big renegade by the collar and kicking him behind the knee, jerked him free. Then he hurled him staggering back into the trees. Stark took one glimpse and his rifle started to lift, but Reutz knocked it up.
Bain was on his feet, glaring at Bardoul. “I ain’t wearin’ a gun,” he said, “but if I was … !”
Matt shucked his guns and passed them to Reutz. Bain lunged at him, and there was a bright sliver of light in his hand! Bardoul ducked, blocking the knife with his left forearm. Then he slugged a wicked right into the big man’s stomach. Bain gasped, and Matt chopped him on the arm, forcing him to drop the knife. Then he stepped back and jabbed swiftly, three fast, knifelike punches to the bearded face. One ripped a gash over his eye, the other widened it, the third pulped his lips.
Bain was a big man and powerful, but he was no match for Bardoul. Fast, and smooth on his feet, Matt stayed in close, ripping the big man with short, chopping, brutal punches. In less than three minutes the big man was gasping for breath his face battered to a pulp of blood and beard. Then Bardoul swung a right, a low, lifting hook, half uppercut, to the body. It just cleared Bain’s belt. The renegade gulped and staggered.
Men charged through the trees. “What goes on here?” Massey was in the lead, his face dark with passion. “Drop your hands, Bardoul, or I’ll kill you!” he roared.
Four or five of Deane’s men were with him. All carried guns. “Like hell you will!” Stark covered Massey with his rifle. “You raise a hand an’ I’ll kill you! Bain’s gettin’ what he deserves! Rightly, he ought to be hung!”
Matt walked into the battered, reeling man and setting himself, threw another of those wicked punches, then a third. Bain sank to the grass, groaning.
“Bardoul,” Massey said, “you’re under arrest!”
“Just a minute!” Reutz passed Matt back his guns. “Hadn’t you better ask a few questions, Massey? This man Bain assaulted Sary Stark. Found her bathin’ here alone. Bardoul stopped him. I’d say hangin’ would be too good for Bain.”
“He’s had it comin’ for a long time,” Buffalo added grimly. “I’ll furnish the rope.”
“There’ll be no hanging here. You men all get back to the camp. Bardoul, you stay here.”
“What’s the matter, Clive?” Barney Coyle said. “Why are you so set on jumping Matt Bardoul? I think it was time we held a trial for Bain.”
Massey’s face was ugly, but his lips tightened. “I’ll say who’s to be tried!” he flared.
“No, you won’t.” Aaron Stark spat. “I reckon you’ve got some mistaken ideas about just who you are, Massey. Your men are to enforce the law, regulate peace, not to say who is to be tried and who is not. I reckon you all had better start with your own passel of men. Bain’s the guilty party here. Furthermore, I’m servin’ notice that no man is molestin’ my gals. You git rid of Bain, or I will!”
“I think,” Bardoul said calmly, “that we should have the trial of Bain. I think also we should have a meeting of all the people on this train and decide just where your duties begin and end, Massey!”
For a moment, Clive stared at him, hatred in his face. Then he turned abruptly. “Bring Bain to camp!” he said, and walked rapidly away.
Slowly, the group trooped back toward the wagon train. Barney Coyle fell in beside Bardoul. “I saw that,” he said. “I was right behind you, and saw that beast grabbing that girl, trying to tear her clothing! Why, Sis or nobody is safe with that kind of an animal around!”
“I’m glad you were there, Barney,” Matt said sincerely, “it begins to look like there is trouble ahead, and a lot of it. I have a lot of respect for your father, and for you and your sister. My warning that night was sincere. I knew Bain. He has narrowly escaped hanging for molesting women on several occasions.”
“You sure gave him a beating!” Barney said grimly. “I never realized a man could hit that hard with his fists! I couldn’t have beaten a man that way with a club!”
Matt grinned. “I had a good teacher,” he said, “an Englishman I met in New Orleans, name of Jem Mace. He used to be the heavyweight champion. I boxed some with John Morrissey, too.”
Buffalo Murphy, Stark and Reutz were waiting near Matt’s wagons. As Barney walked off, Murphy said abruptly, “I reckon this begins it! Ever’ man better keep a gun handy from now on.”
“You, Matt,” Stark said, “had better watch your back. Bain’ll kill you if he gets loose!”
“He ain’t getting loose!” Reutz said grimly. “I’m having a talk with Pearson and Coyle right now!”
But he did. In the morning Abel Bain was no longer with the wagon train. He had “escaped” during the night.
5
Company D led off on the following morning. The trail was bad, much the worst it had been at any time since they left Spearfish. Matt knew the terrain, and twice circled large hills. He was beginning his third swing when he heard a sound of galloping horses, and turned in the saddle to see Colonel Pearson and Clive Massey riding toward him. With them was Barney Coyle.
“What’s the idea?” Massey demanded irritably. “If we keep winding around all the time, we’ll never get there! You’ve swung over three miles north of the route we’re supposed to be taking!”
“I know,” Matt agreed, “and I’m trying to miss some hills. There’s a mighty rough spot ahead.”
Tate Lyon had ridden up. Massey turned on him. “Tate, is there a place up ahead that we can’t cross with our wagons?”
Lyon laughed, his eyes avoiding Bardoul’s. “Hell, no! Just like this, an’ a few low hills. Nothin’ to bother.”
“Then swing back on the route!” Massey ordered.
“No,” Bardoul said, “I won’t. If you or Pearson want to take the lead from here on, you can. I say you’ve got some nasty bad country ahead of you unless we go at least three miles further north of the route we are taking.”
“I’ll take the lead!” Pearson swung his bay. Bardoul shrugged and fell back alongside his lead wagon.
Tolliver glanced up at him. “Is it purty bad up there?”
“Rough country,” Bardoul said, “we’ll have to use ropes and chains to get the wagons down. Probably have to double up on the teams, too.”
He rode his dun back along the line of the company wagons, telling them what lay ahead, and explaining the procedure to be adopted when they arrived. Then tying the dun behind his head wagon, he got in and dug out of the pile of stores the necessary chains and equipment.
When he remounted his horse, Barney Coyle was alongside. “It looks all right up ahead,” he suggested, waving a hand at the waving grass lands.
Matt nodded. “Look, Barney,” he said, “watch the oxen. They are moving slower, leaning into the harness more. Notice their tracks. The hooves are digging in at the toes more than they did. There is nothing here by which we can judge other than that, but we have been climbing steadily for the last two hours. It will be that way for at least two miles further, and then the prairie will break off sharply.”
“You’ve been through here before?”
“Not exactly here, but I know there are miles of very rough country ahead of us, and we
should have sighted it. We might be lucky and find an easy way down, but I doubt it.”
The two rode on, side by side, then Barney suggested. “Why not ride ahead and have a look?”
“Good idea!”
Pearson stared at them as they cantered past, but said nothing. The grass was knee high to the horses here, and good feed. They were not far from the Belle Fourche River, but from where they rode, it could not be seen.
The break came suddenly, almost three miles from where they left the wagon train. The shelf of the prairie broke sharply off, and although they scouted the rim for a mile in either direction, they found no way down. Matt reined in on the edge and studied the steep hill carefully.
The rim was sheer for about six feet, and then sloped steeply away toward the bottom. It would be impossible to use horses or oxen here. They would have to be led down.
Matt had picked up a shovel before he left the wagons, and now he dismounted and trailing the bridle reins, began to dig away the lip, pushing the dirt downhill. After a few minutes Barney relieved him. By the time the wagons were in sight they had cut a runway through that first sheer drop so that it slanted steeply down to the main slope below.
Bardoul mounted and rode back. He reined in alongside of Pearson. “Colonel, I’m having my company wagons fan out on the rim up here, or a few yards away from the rim. The wagons will have to be let down one by one. I’d suggest the other companies find likely spots further along the rim. If we use one place, it is going to take much longer.”
“Is there really a rim up there?” Pearson demanded. He stared sharply at Matt, as if this were some plot of his.
“Yes, there is. It’s no more than three hundred feet to the bottom,” he added, “and the oxen could handle the wagons after the first half of that distance.”
His orders had already been given, so he dropped back and told Reutz what lay ahead. The German listened. “I see,” he said finally, “how do you propose to lower your wagons? By hand?”
“No, with a block. I have three in my wagons. I’ll keep one team up here to hold the block. Reeve a line through it and we’ll pay it off gradually, letting the wagons roll down on their own wheels, just using the line for a brake. I expect we could work at several spots, though, letting two or three wagons down at once, but I was afraid that would spread us out too far in case of Indians.”
When he got back to the rim his own wagons were already arriving and Tolliver had unhooked his oxen after swinging the wagon’s rear end toward the cut Barney and Matt had dug.
Shedd took his team down the cut to the bottom to pick up the first wagon that came down and start it moving. Then one by one the wagons were rolled back to the lip of the cut by all hands, and with the oxen doing the holding, the line was slowly paid out and the wagons rolled, one by one to the bottom.
It was gruelling work, despite the blocks they used. Yet the planning had prepared the way so there was little wasted time. Ahead of them the country looked rocky and rough with many shallow dips, a few dry stream beds, and some thick brush.
Glancing down the rim, Matt saw Coyle and Pearson standing with several of their men on the edge of the drop off, discussing ways and means. When the last of his wagons was on the bottom, only Herman Reutz had a wagon down. Bardoul’s wagons hooked up and they moved off in the gathering dusk.
A mile further along they camped, and as they sat around the fire eating, they heard the cursing of men and the sound of rolling wagons. It would be hours before they all made it to the bottom. Matt ate a few bites, then arose abruptly and walked to his horse which he had kept saddled. Then he rode back toward the rim where the men still toiled. After much searching he found Coyle.
The man had his coat off, his face was dirty and he was sweating. He looked up at Matt, and his mouth seemed to tighten.
“Howdy,” Matt said, “I’ve got some blocks. Want ‘em?”
Coyle’s irritation was close to the surface. He started to say no, then hesitated. “I could use ‘em,” he said lamely, “I guess this was one thing we didn’t plan for.”
Matt had brought two of the blocks along. He dropped them to the ground at Coyle’s feet. “If she’d like,” he said, avoiding Jacquine’s eyes, “your daughter could ride over an’ sit with the women from my company. They’ve got a fire an’ some hot food. That coffee tastes mighty good.”
He looked up, and his eyes met hers. For an instant, they held, then she nodded. “I think I will, Father,” she said coolly, “if there’s nothing I can do here.”
“Ride along with her, will you, Bardoul?” Coyle asked. “Since this morning I’m not sure I like her riding around alone.”
“You won’t need me here?”
“Thanks. With these blocks we’ll get along.”
They turned their horses and rode along the rim toward the cut he had made earlier. When they reached it, Jacquine reined in and turned a little in her saddle. “Well,” she said, “you were right about Bain.”
“He’s a frontier character,” he said noncommittally. “A lot of men know about him.”
“Clive didn’t.”
So it was Clive now? The thought angered him, but he said nothing. She waited for his reply, but when it did not come she said quickly, “You think he did know?”
“I don’t know whether he did or not,” Matt said quietly, “but Logan Deane knew. He is Massey’s right hand man. I should think if he knew he would tell Massey.”
“Just what are you hinting at?” Jacquine demanded, a thin edge of anger in her voice. “You advised us not to come. You said it might not be safe. Why?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted frankly. “I don’t know at all. I only know that from the first there has seemed to be something wrong here. My feeling was increased when Massey picked the men he did as his law enforcement group. They are a lot of outlaws!”
“He says they are not!”
“Well, I offer Bain as an example.”
“You can’t judge them all by one.”
“In this case you can. Some are better, and some worse than Bain. The fact remains that Massey claimed he did not know Bain was with the wagon train. Your father obviously did not know. Yet he was here, concealed until we left Deadwood. He showed his true colours at the first opportunity.
“Moreover, I see no reason why we should have ten men to enforce peace in a wagon train that is over half composed of men and their families. The only possible troublemaking elements are in that group themselves.”
“You don’t like Clive, do you?” Jacquine demanded.
“Frankly, no. However, that may be a matter of personalities. Some people simply can’t get along. Yet I think there is more to it than that. He didn’t want me on this trip. It was only Portugee and your father who made it possible for me to come. Why didn’t he want me? Was it because I knew too much about the Big Horns?”
“Perhaps it was because of your experiences with Colonel Pearson!” she flared, nettled by him, yet disturbed.
“Possibly.” He indicated the cut. “Shall we ride on?”
For an instant, she hesitated, then she started her horse down the cut ahead of him. At that instant he felt a sharp sting of pain along his shoulder, and the report of a rifle rang out!
He wheeled his horse and rode like a streak at the direction of the shot. There was another hurried shot, then a sound of falling gravel, Matt’s six shooter came up and he fired quickly, once, twice, three times in the direction of the sound.
Men came running, rifles in hand, but Jacquine was beside him first. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Somebody tried to kill me,” he replied shortly.
“Oh, you’re just being dramatic!” she protested. “Probably a rifle went off by accident!”
He swung his horse broadside to hers and grabbed her wrist roughly. With a jerk that nearly lifted her from the saddle, he took her hand and pressed it against his shoulder.
“Oh!” she gasped. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s all part of the drama!” he said roughly.
Massey, Coyle, Pearson and several other men had come up. “What’s going on here?” Pearson demanded.
“Somebody took a shot at me,” Matt replied. “In the morning I’m going on the trail.”
“An Indian, probably,” Coyle suggested, “maybe he figured it was a good chance to catch a straggler.”
“It wasn’t an Indian.” Matt’s voice was positive. In the darkness he could see Pearson’s head come up. “I heard the sound of boots on gravel.”
“Nonsense!” Pearson snapped. “Who would shoot at you?”
“At least a half dozen men, Colonel,” Bardoul said coolly, “on this wagon train.”
“You’re referring to talk of trouble between you and Logan Deane?”
“No. When and if Deane ever shoots at me it will be an even break. Say what you want to about him, he’s not yellow!”
“Thanks.” Deane had ridden up in the darkness. “Thanks, Bardoul.”
“I’ll wait until daybreak,” Matt said, “then I’ll get on the trail.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Massey flared. “This wagon train sticks all together. We can’t have each individual running off on errands of his own.”
“You heard me say I was going,” Bardoul felt anger mounting within him. He did not like Massey, and tried to fight against the feeling, knowing it interfered with the clarity of his judgment.
“I forbid it!” Massey snapped.
Matt shucked. “You forbid it? Then go climb a tree, friend Massey, because in the morning I’m going after that dry gulcher. If you want to stop me, come prepared for it!”
“Now, now!” Coyle interrupted nervously. “Let’s not start fighting amongst ourselves. We have trouble enough ahead. If he wants to trail the man, Clive, let him go. After all, it is his own business and if he doesn’t come back, the fault is his own, not ours.”
“All right!” Massey turned his horse. “Do as you damn please!”
They had made six miles during the day.
Daylight found them ready to roll, but Matt saddled the dun, then turned to Buffalo. “Lead them today, will you?” he said. “We’ll strike a big hill about noon. As we get to it, better bear off to one side. Have them double up the teams for that pull, it is going to be hard enough, and that will make it easier on the stock.”
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 8