Just what had happened or how much she did not know. There had been little further contact to allow them to know each other, and on the other hand, there had been the obvious dislike on the part of Colonel Pearson as well as Clive’s subtle but biting comments. The stories she heard of Bardoul in Deadwood were not favourable, nor were those after she left Deadwood until Barney became interested.
Barney was very little older than she, but Jacquine, although she never said as much, had come to entertain a high respect for his judgment. She saw, too, that what Matt had said was true, that Barney was growing, that he was becoming a man in balance and judgment. Had he remained in the relatively safe and even tempered eastern atmosphere, he might have been eight or ten years acquiring the manhood he had acquired in eight or ten months.
At first she had dismissed Matt’s warning as sheer nonsense. She shared her father’s anger and irritation that he should go so far as to make such veiled accusations of men they knew and liked. Also, she felt it was a reflection on her father’s judgment if not his honesty. Yet the thought was planted, and her eyes opened. She began to look for evidence to refute his warning, to prove him wrong, and scarcely had she begun this observation than she became aware of a vague but increasing doubt within her.
The incident of Abel Bain’s attempted assault on Sary Stark she could dismiss. In the rough, new western world all kinds and types of men came together, and such things might happen. The fact that Matt Bardoul had warned of his presence in the wagon train and that Clive had dismissed his charge as unfounded, stayed in her mind.
Yet this was but one thing. Riding about as she was, she soon became aware of the subtle differences between the three companies of men commanded by Reutz, Bardoul and her father as compared with that commanded by Massey. The men of the latter group were an untidy, sullen, hard drinking crowd, and no women among them. It was from this group that Clive had chosen his law enforcement group.
She heard of all the disputes in the wagon train, for her father often discussed or complained about them. Barney brought her the rest of the news, and she was usually present when any discussion came up. She knew that Matt had warned them about the trail, and that this warning had proved correct. She noticed also that his wagons reached the bottom fastest and with less trouble than the others. She knew his loan of the block and tackle had helped her father and Herman Reutz.
Clive rarely talked about the gold fields any more. They had occupied a great part of his conversation while in Deadwood. Now she noticed that he was quieter, more watchful, but when he did talk to her there was a boldness and assurance in his manner that was new and different, nor did she like the change.
The following day, riding ahead of the train, she galloped up to join Colonel Orvis Pearson.
He was a fine figure of a man, tall and commanding. He rode as if perpetually on parade, and there was something dashing and theatrical in his manner. More and more she was becoming aware that he was merely a facade, a figurehead. It was her father and Clive Massey who directed the affairs of the train. And more and more she was aware of growing strain, and of the tendency for many of the men to draw closer to Matt Bardoul. Herman Reutz, for instance, had definitely aligned himself with Bardoul.
“Good morning, Colonel! The air is nice after the rain, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful! As you are beautiful, Miss Coyle! We should make a good many miles today, if this holds.”
Most of the rain had already sunk into the parched, thirsty soil, and before the day was over the sun would erase what little impression it had made. Several times as she rode beside him, Jacquine started to speak, to ask the question she was dying to ask.
“Colonel,” she said suddenly, “weren’t you and Matt Bardoul in the Army together?”
His face stiffened, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp and cold. “He was never in the Service! Bardoul is a disobedient, recalcitrant ruffian!”
He turned his head abruptly. “Has he been talking to you about me?” There was something in his manner that savoured almost of fear. “Has he?”
“Oh, no! Someone, I’ve forgotten who, just said you two had been in the Apache country together.”
“He was a civilian scout. I was in command. He should have been court martialed and shot!” Abruptly, he changed the subject. “Life in a frontier town will be difficult for you, won’t it? You know there are few of… .”
The conversation drifted on, but her interest was gone. When she could conveniently escape, she dropped back. Matt was far away on the flank, riding his zebra dun. Her curiosity was thoroughly aroused and she intended to get to the bottom of the story, once and for all. Her father had hinted that it was disgraceful, that Bardoul had been discharged in dishonour. Clive had hinted that in a panic of fear, Matt had fled from a battlefield.
Murphy was his friend, and would be prejudiced. Suddenly, she thought of Portugee Phillips.
She had never talked to him. Bits of information about him had drifted to her from time to time, but he held himself aloof, rarely talking with any of them. She knew him by sight, his black pointed beard, and his narrow, cynical eyes with a hint of ugliness in them. He seemed a surly, taciturn man. Yet she knew the story of his ride from Fort Kearny to Laramie, two hundred and thirty-six miles through a driving blizzard, hordes of Indians, and thirty degrees below zero weather.
He had staggered, half frozen, into the glare and gaiety of a dance at Laramie, told his story and fainted. That story started a relief expedition to Fort Kearny and prevented the Sioux from wiping out the small garrison. Phillips had nearly died, but his name had become a byword in the west.
She knew well enough what that ride must have been. Probably at no time could he have seen more than a few feet before him, yet unerring as a compass course, he had ridden through that blizzard, without wandering or circling. He had killed Carrington’s splendid Kentucky thoroughbred on that ride, and nearly killed himself, but the horse lasted until he reached Laramie and died at the steps of the officers’ club where they were holding a Christmas Eve dance.
Portugee Phillips was not a nice man. He had been reported by Malcolm Campbell to be dangerous and hard to get along with, but courage has never had anything to do with virtue. On that fatal night after the Fetterman Massacre when the dark fury of the blizzard swept down over Fort Phil Kearny, Carrington called for a volunteer to ride to Laramie for help. Phillips was the only one who would attempt it. And he did it. The run from Marathon was a child’s play by comparison. As a feat, it stood by itself.
Jacquine rode her spotted pony out to where Phillips lounged in his saddle, a half mile from the wagon train. He looked at her as she rode up, his eyes amused and somewhat cruel. Although now there was curiosity in them, too.
“You’ve been in the west a long time, haven’t you?” she asked.
He nodded. “I reckon.”
“Do you know the country west of here?”
“Some, no mor’n Murphy or Matt Bardoul.”
She looked at him quickly. “Do they know more about it than Tate Lyon?”
His yellowish eyes shifted to her, amused, calculating, ironic. “Yes,” he said, “they do. Lyon says he knows the route to Shell Creek or the Rottengrass. Maybe he does. He don’t know much else.”
“Do you know anything about the trouble between Bardoul and Colonel Pearson?”
He was frankly studying her now, and he grinned suddenly. “I take it your interest is personal,” he said.
For a minute or two they rode in silence, then he nodded. “I heard about it before I knowed either of ‘em. Couple of soldiers told me. They was there.”
He spat. “That Pearson! He’s no leader! Massey’s doing what he damn well pleases with this whole outfit! Pearson’s just along for the ride!”
Phillips bit off another chew of tobacco. “It was down Mexico way, ‘most to the line, right in the heart of the Apache country. Pearson was in command of eighty men, followin’ the ‘Paches to punish them for raidin’
some wagon trains an’ ranches. Matt Bardoul was a good bit younger then, but he knowed Indians, an’ he knowed the west.
“They come up with the Indians about sunup in the morning. Up to then they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of an Indian, only the trail. These Indians fired an’ then disappeared into a valley. Matt went up ahead, an’ he saw maybe fifty ‘Paches campin’ in the bottom alongside of a stream. He rode back and told Pearson, then warned him it was a trap.
“Pearson laughed at him. Said let them try! He’d show ‘em! Bardoul warned him again. Said it wasn’t Indian nature to camp so open like. It wasn’t Indian nature to be in camp that late in the morning when there were soldiers close by. Pearson told him flatly that he was either a coward, a traitor, or a fool, and he led his eighty men down into that canyon.
“Ma’am, you never fit Indians. They are uncommon shrewd folks. When the soldiers rode down into that canyon, those Indians vanished into the rocks, and then suddenly other ‘Paches, layin’ in ambush, opened up on the soldiers.
“Indians mostly was bad shots. But the first volley four of the soldiers went down. Matt, he yelled at Pearson to come on, wantin’ to make a run for it out of that trap, Pearson ordered his men to dismount and deploy. They did, and then they looked for a target, an’ no Indians in sight: Then the ‘Paches stampeded their horses, an’ they were trapped for fair. It was a good half mile of travel out of that canyon, an’ on foot they would have been slaughtered to the last man.
“Pearson, he was still all confidence. He’d show those Indians. Wait until they attacked!
“Only they didn’t attack. They had no intention of attackin’. The soldiers were there, they had no horses, very little food, and almost no water. Down in front of them, maybe a hundred yards from where they lay, was the stream. They could hear it runnin’ over the rocks. Right back of it were a lot of ‘Paches. Actually, there was more’n two hundred Indians there.
“Two more soldiers were killed, one wounded. They lay there, waitin’ for an attack. Matt, he warned Pearson they had better try findin’ a way up the cliffs. He volunteered, an’ Pearson ordered him to stay where he was. Pearson was still thinkin’ they would attack. Hell, Ma’am, them ‘Paches are fighters! They knew they could wait.
“That night three soldiers were knifed by ‘Paches that snaked up on ‘em through the rocks. The soldiers were scattered out wherever they could get cover.
“The second day passed, too. Water ran short, then gave out. It was all mighty hot. One soldier tried to get down to the stream for water, an’ the Indians shot him in the legs. A man started after him, and they shot him. Then they laid there, an’ ever now and again they would fire into that wounded man’s legs, tryin’ to get the soldiers to come after him.
“Pearson decided to try to charge ‘em. Bardoul told him not to, an’ they nigh come to blows. They tried the charge, an’ lost eight men. On the third day, Pearson couldn’t take it. He broke up.
“Matt, without waitin’, had been crawlin’ around back in the rocks, and he done found a way out. It was only a crevice, but it was a chance. So he went to Pearson with it, an’ Pearson was in no shape to give any orders. His second in command was dead, an’ there was only some noncoms left. Pearson ordered Matt back to his ‘post’ an’ said they’d stay right there. Actually, they all said he was half out of his head, he was so scared.
“Pearson’s like a lot of men. As long as things go well, he’s tough an’ tight on discipline, but when he gets into a situation that’s different, he doesn’t know what to do. What little sense he had left told him no soldier ran from an Indian. Only thing was, he never had much good sense at any time. He was a garrison soldier, not a fightin’ man, an’ there is a sight of difference.
“Matt Bardoul didn’t hesitate. He got four or five of the sergeants and corporals together. He told them flat what a spot they were in. That the Indians would pick them off one by one or let them die of thirst. It was move or else. He said he could take them out. They hesitated some, because it meant goin’ agin orders, but they followed Bardoul. When he told Pearson, the colonel frothed at the mouth he was so mad. Then started to shout, an’ Matt knocked him out with a six shooter, tied his hands an’ gagged him. Then he led them up through that crack in the rocks an’ out of the country.
“That is, out of that valley. They circled around and got at the stream up water of the Indians. They got a drink, an’ they filled their canteens. When they took stock, they found that of the eighty-two men who had ridden into that canyon, fifty-three had come out, almost half of them with some kind of a wound.
“The ‘Paches was mad. They trailed ‘em down, an’ Bardoul had got the soldiers back to a place where the stream banks were high, an’ they caught the ‘Paches followin’ their tracks. Bardoul had out figured them Indians. After they got some water an’ moved on, he had the soldiers stagger around on purpose. When they stopped he had them dip bandages in water, then rinse them over rocks to make it look like there was more wounds and more weakness than there was.”
Jacquine was watching her horse’s head, her mind far away, seeing them as they must have been, that beaten, bloody, bedraggled bunch of men in dusty, bloodstained uniforms, their leader still tied and gagged luring the ‘Paches into a trap.
“Well, Ma’am, she worked. Them ‘Paches, they weren’t used to soldiers actin’ like that. They figured sure enough the soldiers were all in, an’ they come after ‘em. Them soldiers was sore! Plenty sore! They opened up when those ‘Paches wasn’t no more than twenty feet away, an’ they mowed ‘em down.
“It was quite a battle, but before the last scattered ‘Paches got out of that creek bed, there was sixty of them dead. Bardoul took ten men an’ followed ‘em a little way, an’ they killed eight or ten more.”
“But what happened when they got back to the Fort?”
Phillips shrugged. “Pearson, he filed charges against Bardoul an’ several of the noncoms, but nothin’ ever came of it. After awhile Pearson was transferred east. They smeared the whole thing with white wash to cover up for Pearson. That’s the Army way. Sooner cover up a mistake than admit he was wrong.”
They had left the river now, and were moving out over the plains, travelling west by north. Jacquine rode alone or with Barney most of the day. Matt was keeping to himself, far out on the flank opposite his own wagons.
It was late afternoon before Clive came up to her on his fine black horse. “Looks like we’ll make twenty miles today!” He was beaming, and evidently very pleased. “We’re striking across toward the Powder now, and we should reach it somewhere near Fort Reno.”
“Are there soldiers there now?”
“I think so, but not very many. The Sioux haven’t been making much trouble since the Custer battle.”
“Clive, I’ve been thinking. You’ve never told me what you intend to do when we get to the Shell.”
“Do?” He looked at her as if he had no idea what she was talking about. “How? What do you mean?”
“Well, Father is opening a bank, and he intends to buy the gold the men get from the creeks. Mr. Reutz is opening a general store, and I heard Lute Harless was planning to start a freight line, and everybody I’ve talked to has something in mind, so I was wondering what you planned to do.”
“Oh, I’ll try working a claim for awhile, and keep my eyes open for something better.”
She accepted his answer without comment but was far from satisfied. Somehow she believed the question had never occurred to him, and for all Clive Massey’s temper and temperament, she knew he was ambitious, and it was unlike him to go into any enterprise such as this without some definite plan.
Of course, some of the business was to be cooperative. He might manage some of that. Yet she could find no solution to the problem that seemed to fit Clive Massey.
Riding along beside him, she began mentally comparing the two men. Matt Bardoul, tall, lean and quiet, his eyes faintly amused, his manner always thoughtful. She remembered the respect
and trust that men like Ban Hardy and Murphy had for him, and she knew from her talks with the Stark girls that Aaron Stark swore by him. Clive was even bigger, a powerful man, handsome, always perfectly dressed. He laughed a lot, and had beautiful teeth, but his eyes were level and hard.
“Where were you born, Clive?” she asked suddenly.
He laughed. “You’re full of questions today! Why, I was born in New Orleans.”
“In New Orleans? Oh, you should meet that big man who drives for Bardoul. He’s from New Orleans, too!”
Any enthusiasm in Massey’s voice was restrained. He glanced at her, and shrugged. “A lot of people live in New Orleans. It’s scarcely possible that I’ve ever met him. What’s his name?”
“Bill something or other. I don’t know.”
They made a dry camp at noon that day, the first after leaving the river. Matt found a pool that was partly filled with water from the rain, and led his teams to it. Stark and Harless watered their teams before the pool went dry. By a little scouting, they found two more shallow pools and watered the rest of the stock in the company.
In the afternoon the going was harder. The grass was high, and the ground smooth for the most part, but slightly uphill. Then after about an hour the grass thinned out and the land became more rocky. When they made camp that night it was near a slough, but the water was thick with green moss and unfit to drink.
Morning found them starting on. The going was very bad, and they were forced to make several detours and the day ended with just fourteen miles behind them, and they made a dry camp. Matt used their water sparingly, and strolling around the other companies, found they were in worse shape than his own.
The horses and oxen were very restless, their longing for water after the hard, hot day being reason enough. The moon was bright, so after a brief meeting of the captains it was decided to move out at one o’clock in the morning. It was a slow start, and a hard pull.
The only thought now was water. Matt used the last of what he carried in the barrels, and stared thoughtfully into the night. It was a clear, beautiful night, however, and after the first two hours they made better time. At about four o’clock they came up to the huge circular mass of Pumpkin Buttes. A rider from the Coyle company had found water but it was bitter as gall and white as milk. After a dry breakfast, they moved on.
Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Page 12