Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0)
Page 13
At their noon halt they made dry camp once more and Herman Reutz walked over from his company. He nodded to Stark, then sat down beside Bardoul. “How much further to water?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know of any closer than Fort Reno, now. It’s on the river. Or near by. It’s another good day, and maybe a shade more. Will your stock make it?”
Reutz shrugged an expressive shoulder. “Maybe. I think so. But what comes after that? I’m beginning not to like this set up.”
“Neither do I like it,” Stark said. He forked up a slice of venison and loaded his plate with beans. “I don’t like anything about it. I’m for cuttin’ off to ourselves. I’m for a showdown.”
Harless shook his head. “Not yet. There’s no use us bringin’ something to a head too soon. Let’s see what happens. We won’t be took by surprise now that we’re warned.”
“If I could only place the man!” Bardoul said aloud. “I’d swear he’s a gunfighter and killer.”
Bill Shedd shifted his seat on the wagon tongue. “The Texas trails didn’t breed all the gunmen. You thought about the river boats?”
Bardoul swung around, giving Shedd all his attention. “You mean the riverboat gamblers?”
“Yeah. Some of them are mighty slick. Several of them most p’tic’lar slick. Dick Ryder, for instance, or Sim Boyne.”
Stark looked up. “I heard of him. The Natchez killer. From the Natchez Trace. Used to say he rode with Murrell, but he ain’t hardly old enough. He’s a mean one, though.”
Stark looked thoughtfully at Shedd. “You from that country?”
“Sort of. Lived along the Trace when I was a boy. I was raised up on stories of Murrell, Hare an’ two Harpes. First job I ever had was at Natchez under the Hill. Leastwise, the first job off the farm.”
“What about Ryder and Boyne?” Matt asked.
Shedd finished chewing a mouthful of beans and reached for his coffee cup. “Killers, the both of ‘em. No kin. Which was the worst, nobody could say. As late as the beginning of the War Between the States there was still a sight of money goin’ over the Trace, but Sim Boyne started there as a boy. Must have been about sixteen when he began killin’ travellers an’ robbin’ ‘em.
“Showed up in New Orleans, finally. Got him a job down there in a gamblin’ joint as as a gunman, from that he went to gamblin’ on his own. Durin’ the war he took out and went to South America.” Bill took a gulp of coffee, then put down his cup. “He come back, though, an’ took up with Dick Ryder and some guerillas. Done a lot of robbin’ and killin’ before the war was over. Ain’t been seen since.”
By the middle of the afternoon they began to see mountains. Matt Bardoul was riding off on the flank as usual and keeping a sharp eye out. Twice during the day he had seen fresh tracks, obviously made by Indian ponies. One of the groups must have been forty or more braves, and the other slightly smaller. Such a group might not attack the train, but they would try to run off stock or attack stragglers.
The peaks of the Big Horns were snow capped and they caught the brilliant sunlight, flashing it back into his eyes.
The grass was sparse now, and very parched. Dust arose in clouds. The air was hot and heavy and the oxen were making heavy going of it.
Brian Coyle rode over toward him. The big man’s face was dust covered and he looked tired. He shook his head at Matt. “Reckon we should have listened to you, Bardoul. How far off is that Stone Cup Spring?”
“Too far now,” Matt said with genuine regret. “It is over forty miles to the north of us. It is better now to keep right on to the river. We’ll hit it somewhere near Fort Reno.”
Coyle mopped his brow. “Those mountains look good. Are there trees?”
“You bet! Some of the finest stands of lodgepole pine you’ll ever see in this world! Lots of grass, too, and plenty of water. That’s a good country.”
“Jackie tells me you plan to start a ranch over there.”
“That’s right, back over in the Basin. Some fine grass land in there, and I know some of the Indians. I won’t have any trouble.”
“How about a market?”
“I won’t worry much about that for a couple of years. I want to stock my range well, first. After that I can always sell some beef to the mines in western Montana. Or drive to the railroad in southern Wyoming. A market won’t be any problem.
“Once I get my buildings set up, I’m going down to Cheyenne and contact some of the Texas cattlemen and get some cattle driven in here for me.”
“Sounds like a good investment.”
“In good times there’s none better. They increase very rapidly. The cattle business, unless you lose a lot by drought or bad cold spells, is a good business. I’ve had some experience with cattle. So has young Hardy.”
Elam Brooks galloped his horse over to them. The moment Matt saw his face he knew something was wrong.
The former stage driver reined in front of Brian Coyle. “Coyle, what’s going on in this wagon train, anyway? There’s hell to pay back there!”
“What do you mean?” Coyle demanded. “What’s the trouble?” He turned in his saddle to find his company was stopped and there was a dark bunching of wagon horses and men.
“Logan Deane an’ Bat Hammer took Ben Sperry’s guns off him!” Brooks declared. “Sperry had a fight with Hammer this mornin’ after he found Hammer goin’ through his wagon. Ben knocked Hammer down, an’ they fit for three, four minutes. Ben, he’s a strappin’ big bull whacker an’ Hammer had no business fightin’ him. He whupped Bat fair an’ square. Then a few minutes ago Hammer came up with Deane, threw a gun on Sperry an’ started takin’ his guns.”
They were riding swiftly toward the Coyle wagons. Worried, Matt noted that the other companies were moving on, although Massey’s men were lagging a little. Neither Reutz nor any of his own men appeared to have noticed the trouble.
Sperry was on the ground when they rode up. Blood was streaming from a cut in his head, and his wife was crying. One of Massey’s men was holding her back, and Bat Hammer stood over Sperry gun in hand. His face was livid with fury.
“What’s going on here?” Coyle demanded.
Deane swung around, his eyes shifting from Coyle to Brooks and Bardoul. They darkened a little and his lips thinned when he saw Matt.
“Just enforcin’ a little law,” Deane said bluntly. “Hammer was investigating Sperry’s wagon on my orders. Sperry found him at it, and beat him up.”
“On your orders?” Coyle’s voice was suddenly even, and Matt looked up at him. He was surprised, suddenly. All the good fellowship and easy congenial manner was gone. Brian Coyle was crisp and hard. “Just what reason had you to give any such orders, Deane? I’m in command of this company, duly elected by the personnel. If you had any complaint you could bring it to me.”
Bardoul’s eyes shifted suddenly to Deane, and he saw the gunman was disturbed. Coyle, he realized, had fooled him as well as Bardoul. Only a glance was needed to tell not only that Coyle was angry, but that he was not a man to be trifled with. Under pressure, Coyle had it.
“He’s been accused of stealin’,” Deane said. “Hammer was searchin’ for stolen goods.”
“Ben Sperry? Of stealing?” Coyle stared in blank and angry astonishment. “Logan Deane, I don’t know what your game is, but you’d better know this: I’ve known Ben Sperry for twenty years and a more hon-est man never lived. Hammer,” Coyle’s head jerked around, “you put that gun up and get out of here!”
“Just a minute!” Deane snapped. “I’m in command of the law enforcement on this wagon train! Hammer’s under my orders!”
“All right, then! You order him out of here!” Brian Coyle’s eyes were blazing. If he thought about Deane’s gunfighting there was no sign of it in his manner. Coyle, Bardoul realized, with a queer, leaping satisfaction, was the sort of man who would beard the devil in hell and feed him hot coals.
Deane hesitated only an instant, his eyes bleak. At least twenty of his men were behind him. B
rian Coyle was sided by only two, Elam Brooks, the hard bitten former stage driver, an Indian fighter and mountain man, and Matt Bardoul.
Yet Logan Deane was no fool. No doubt there entered his mind the thought that by tomorrow they would be coming up to Fort Reno and its soldiers.
“All right, Bat. Go back to your wagon!” Deane said.
Hammer glared at him for an instant as if he did not believe his ears. Then with an oath he stepped back and holstered his gun. Ben Sperry got slowly to his feet. “Not much man in you, is there? Pistol whup a man after he whupped you man to man! Hit him while that damn’ gunfighter holds a gun on him!”
“That will be enough of that, Ben!” Coyle said. He swung to Logan Deane. “Deane, when you have any complaints about the personnel of my wagon company, you come to me. If any wagons are to be searched, I want to be there to search them with you! I want the complaint to have a public hearing.”
“I reckon,” Matt said quietly, “that goes for my company too!”
Deane’s eyes shifted and his glance lay upon Bardoul like a rapier touch. For an instant their glances crossed, Deane cold and ready, Matt completely relaxed and smiling half amused. Yet his eyes were alert.
“Maybe,” Logan Deane said, “we’ll have something to settle one of these days!”
Bardoul smiled. “Maybe we will, Logan,” he said quietly, “maybe we will. An’ maybe again you’ll realize what a stinkin’ mess you’re walkin’ into of your own accord.” He reined his horse around. Then turned in his saddle, his right hand on the cantle, he said, “I have an idea, Deane, there’s a lot more honest man in you than most folks think!” Brian Coyle’s eyes shifted from one to the other, puzzled. Then as Bardoul started to move off, he moved up beside him. “What did that mean, Bardoul?”
“Nothin’, maybe.” He glanced over at the father of Jacquine. “I don’t want to ask for trouble, Coyle, but why don’t you put this alongside of that Bain affair and what I warned you about back in Deadwood? It might make some sort of sense.”
As he rode back to his own company he was scowling. He knew why Logan Deane had backed down. The answer, of course, was Fort Reno. On the other hand, what had Bat Hammer been doing in Ben Sperry’s wagon? It was unlikely that he would be doing any petty thieving at this stage of the game. If not that, then what could he be looking for?
Clive Massey had been up ahead with Barney Coyle. Had Massey been back there, what then would have happened?
One reason for the ending of the affair, and perhaps the only reason, had undoubtedly been Brian Coyle’s reaction. It was totally unexpected, and Matt Bardoul grinned at the startled look in Deane’s eyes, and the shocked expression of Bat Hammer when Brian Coyle interfered. They had all taken the man too lightly. This might be a new sort of life for him, but he might have a lot behind him. After all, he must have been through the war. When faced with a situation Coyle had reared right up on his hind legs and told them off. No wonder Barney and Jacquine had fire!
Somehow Matt realized, they were going to have to draw Coyle into their councils and acquaint him with their suspicions, for there was every chance he would put all this down to just a minor squabble and not to a symptom of something more serious.
Yet the lines were drawing sharper and cleaner now. The pattern had not yet displayed itself, but the cleavage had appeared, and the sudden strength of Coyle might cause them to rearrange their plans. However, there was small chance that anything would happen between this time and their leaving of Fort Reno. After that, it would be every man for himself unless he was greatly mistaken.
Dust arose in a cloud over the wagon train. The oxen moved with slow, ponderous steps, barely crawling over the Prairie that was almost a desert. In the distance the snowcapped peaks beckoned them with uplifted fingers. Dust caked the faces and lay in a mantle over the clothing of everyone in the train. Once, late in the afternoon, riding far off on the flank, Matt found a pool among some rocks. He filled his canteen, and a spare he was carrying just for that purpose. Then by the time the dun had drunk, the pool was only gray mud, slightly damp.
He rode back to the train and stopped it. Then carefully, they walked along, sponging out the mouths and nostrils of the oxen. With care, they succeeded in giving a little attention to all the oxen in the company. Then they moved on, crawling slowly along the flank of the main body.
It was almost dark when Matt Bardoul dropped back toward the light wagon that still lagged behind them. Joe and Joe’s brother sat side by side on the wagon seat as he came alongside.
“We’re pulling up to Fort Reno,” he said, “and we should make it shortly after midnight. Why don’t you join my company from there on in? We’d be glad to have you.”
Joe shook his head. Bardoul doubted if he were more than twenty, and his brother, if brother it was, looked even younger. “Thanks, we better stay to ourselves.”
“Then keep an eye open for Indians. This is the old Bozeman Trail country, and the Sioux never did like the white men coming in here. Now, they have resigned themselves to it on the surface, but whenever they get a chance, they attack and kill stragglers.”
“Thanks again, we will.”
He rode back toward his own wagons. There was something here that puzzled him, something he did not understand. Certainly, Joe’s brother might be a girl, but if so, why wouldn’t she welcome travelling closer to the other women of the train? Especially, after the fright she must have received from Abel Bain.
It was long after midnight before Matt, riding far ahead, sighted the first lights of Fort Reno. He turned then and rode back along the line of the wagons. The movement was painfully slow, and the drivers sat heavily on their seats or walked beside the teams, sodden with weariness. The big wagons seemed scarcely to inch along, each turn of the wheel a special effort, each step a dogged battle with deep lying dust and the cumbersome weight of the wagons.
Even Jacquine was in the saddle. She showed up beside him suddenly as he remounted after putting his shoulder to the wheel to get the wagon over a rock.
“Are we almost there?”
He nodded. “Right over that rise. Thank God, the last little way is downhill. If it wasn’t, I doubt if we could make it.”
“Two of Dad’s teams have stopped. The last three or four miles a lot of them have been dropping out.”
He glanced ahead. They were the first houses they had seen in days. They had come fifty-five miles without water.
Several uniformed horsemen were riding toward them. The officer in command reined in. “Are you in command here?” he demanded of Bardoul.
“Only of the company. Colonel Orvis Pearson is in command of the entire train.”
“Colonel Orvis Pearson? Well, I’ll be damned!” He noticed Jacquine. “Oh? I beg your pardon!” He looked back at Bardoul. “We’ve orders to search this train,” he said, “we’re looking for a woman, Rosanna Cole. She’s wanted for murder!”
8
“Rosanna Cole?” Bardoul shrugged. “Never heard of her. I’m quite sure that Colonel Pearson will lend you every possible aid, however.” Matt hesitated. “For murder, you say? Where did all this happen?”
“In St. Louis. She has been traced as far as Deadwood, but they lost track of her there.”
“Since when did the Army start doing police business?” Matt grinned at the young officer.
“The Army does everything out here!” He looked from Matt to Jacquine. “My name is Lieutenant Powell.”
Bardoul’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “My name is Bardoul, and may I present Miss Jacquine Coyle?”
“Miss?” Powell’s eyes brightened. “Say, that’s jolly! I was sure you two were married when you rode up! Something about the way you look.”
Matt grinned. “Sorry, I got that cut over my eye in a fist fight.”
The burly sergeant sitting behind the lieutenant spoke suddenly. “Sir?”
Powell turned. “What is it, Sergeant?”
“This man is Matt Bardoul, sir.”
Powell smiled at Jacquine. “I hope you can stay a few days, Miss Coyle. We see all too few women at Reno.”
The sky was already turning gray and the long shadows were drawing back reluctantly toward the snowcapped mountains in the west. The air was very fresh and cool, and without talking, Matt rode on ahead, Jacquine keeping pace with him. When they reached the stream they stopped and their horses waded gratefully into the water, drinking and blowing.
It was very still. A bird called in the aspens down stream, and the darkness that lay on the water lifted. There was a damp freshness in the air, and the smell of trees and some faint, barely discernible perfume from some blossoming vine hanging in the trees.
“You know,” Matt said suddenly, “sometimes I wish we could have met under other circumstances.”
Jacquine looked up quickly, then away. “What circumstances?”
“Oh, in the town you came from. In your home, at a dance, at another home. This way, well, there’s almost everything against us at the beginning. The things you heard about me, the dislike your father has for me … all of those things.”
“Maybe they aren’t important.”
“Perhaps not, but again they might be much more important than either of us realize. Now, in a few days, we will be nearing the end of our trip. We go north now, and then around the Big Horns into the Basin, and we will come to the Shell. Then or sooner, a lot may happen.”
“You think there will be trouble?”
“A lot of trouble. I think we may have things happening from the day we leave Fort Reno.”