Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  The sun and the air made him feel better, although his face felt stiff and sore.

  “Tolliver,” he said suddenly, “what’s your connection with that wagon back there? With Joe and Joe’s brother?”

  Tolliver did not reply while the heavy wheels rumbled over twice, then he said, “I reckon my reason won’t interfere none with your wagon train. They are friends of mine, mighty good friends.”

  “Did you know the law was looking for Rosanna Cole?”

  His head came up sharply. “Don’t know no such person.” Then, inconsistently, he added, “She never done it nohow. She never killed him.”

  Matt Bardoul shrugged. He stared down at his swollen hands. If Logan Deane elected to make a fight of it now he could never get a gun in those hands fast enough. Not for Deane.

  “Personally,” he said, “I don’t care. They were asking about her at Fort Reno.”

  He rode in silence for awhile. “They picked a bad outfit to tie to. This wagon train is headed into a sight of trouble. What happened yesterday is just one phase of it. One of these days things will start happening mighty fast.”

  There was no sign of Jacquine. All day he rode around, keeping his eyes open for her. He wanted to talk to her, to explain … but what was there to explain? She had responded to his kisses, she had been with him all the way, and besides, she must know how he felt.

  Nor was there any sign of Clive Massey. Matt felt a grim satisfaction in that. No matter what happened now, he had given Massey a taste of his knuckles. The man had been whipped, and very thoroughly. He thought then of the deputy marshal’s commission in his pocket.

  What should he do about that? In a way, he was glad to have it, but in yet another way it placed him in a difficult situation. He was accustomed to doing things his own way, to answering to no one.

  No one came near him. There was no sign of Reutz. Brian Coyle stayed close to the head of his wagons and did not ride up to join Matt or speak to him. Neither Aaron Stark nor Lute Harless looked at him when he rode by. Anger burned in him, a slow, bitter anger. What was wrong with them? Surely they did not believe that ridiculous story about Sim Boyne?

  Or had something been said about his meeting behind the wagon with Jacquine?

  Once, far off on the flank, he glanced back. The light wagon drawn by mules was coming right along. Where it had been when the soldiers looked for it, he had no idea. Probably along the river, hidden in the brush or timber.

  It was a good day. The country was dry, but they were making good time and headed almost due north. Off on their left was the towering mass of the Big Horns, and at times a refreshing breeze blew down from them. He was lonely and restless. The pain in his side and the soreness of his lips and face did not prevent him from thinking.

  There had been enough of this, enough of loneliness, enough of single life. What he wanted now was Jacquine, and his own ranch in the Big Horn Basin. Had it been left up to him he would have turned off to the west and found his own route through, and let them have the Shell or the Rottengrass, wherever the gold might be. He wanted the grass lands and the long valley, and the green of the thick growth along the Big Horn.

  Several times he saw sign of Indians, and once, in the distance, a lone brave. Another time, two warriors and two squaws.

  Despite the discomfort of riding, he scouted around. For the first time he saw no drunks in Massey’s company. The men were riding in their wagons, every sense alert.

  He turned his dun abruptly and rode over to Brian Coyle. The big man’s head came up sharply, and there was cold hostility in his eyes. “I’ve nothing to say to you,” he said coldly, “nothing at all.”

  Anger brought hot blood to Matt’s face. “Regardless of that, I’m going to warn you. What you saw happen between Hammer and Sperry was the beginning. There will be more trouble, and a lot of it.”

  Coyle’s face hardened. “If there’s any trouble in this wagon train,” he said, “it will come from you. We know you now, Sim Boyne!”

  Matt laughed, but he was angry. “You’re a fool, Coyle! Nothing but a damned fool! There’s men on this train who have known me for years. Whoever started such a story as that, ought to be horsewhipped!”

  There was no backing down in Coyle. “We’ve got your description, right down to the last notch!”

  “May I see it?”

  Coyle pulled out a paper from his shirt pocket. “There!” he flared. “Read it! Won’t do you any good to tear it up, that’s just a copy.”

  “Over six feet in height, weight two hundred pounds or more, dark hair and eyes …” Matt chuckled. “This could be a description of more than one man. Why, for that matter it could be a description of Clive Massey!”

  “Massey?” Astonished anger flared in Coyle’s eyes. “Why, that’s absurd! It’s … !”

  “Is it?” Matt stared down at his hands. “Is it foolish? Think back a bit. Even your fine Colonel Pearson knows me. He knew me years ago … is there anyone on this train who knew Massey before he came to Deadwood?”

  The instant he framed the words, he became sure of their truth. It would explain his feeling about Massey, that he was a gunman, a killer. It would explain a lot of things.

  Brian Coyle was staring at him, his face wearing a mixed expression of doubt, dismay, and growing realization. “That’s absurd.” He repeated the words but there was no emphasis in them.

  Matt wheeled his horse and raced back to his own company. On the way he reined in suddenly alongside of Reutz. “Listen,” he said, “if you’re believing the same thing the others are, get it out of your head. Even Pearson will tell you you’re wrong. But Massey’s our man!”

  Dusk was coming by now and the wagons were circling for a halt. Riding swiftly ahead, he swung down and strode into the circle around the fire Jeb Stark was building. Quickly, he explained. He was still talking when a shot rang out.

  When they reached the scene of the fight, Elam Brooks lay on his face, blood staining the grass. Only a glance was needed to tell that he was dead.

  Bat Hammer stood over him, his eyes ugly. Beside him were Buckskin Johnson and Clive Massey.

  Massey’s face was horribly swollen and puffed. He glared around. “I saw it all,” he said flatly, “it was an even break!”

  “Where’s Elam’s gun?” Ben Sperry demanded. “I don’t see no gun.”

  “It’s under him,” Massey said. “It fell from his hand.” He swung his eyes around at them. “You all go back to your wagons. I will attend to this.”

  For a second, Matt hesitated. The commission in his pocket could be drawn out. In one instant he could take charge here. Yet actually, he knew nothing. Of course, if Brooks’ gun was not under his body, he could arrest Bat Hammer for murder, but that would only put the rest of them on guard. With the others, he turned away. He saw Ben Sperry staring after him, about to speak. Then he turned away and said nothing, so Bardoul walked back to his own wagons.

  His head throbbed, and he leaned both hands on the back of the wagon. For a long time he stood there, his head hanging.

  “Twenty-eight miles today,” Stark was saying, “the best we’ve done yet.”

  “What crick is this?” Jeb asked.

  “Fork of the Crazy Woman. By tomorrow night we should make Clear Creek if the going is this good.”

  Lute Harless walked up and joined them, glancing briefly at Matt. He hesitated, staring over at him, worrying about what he should do. The story that Matt Bardoul was Sim Boyne had swept the camp, and many had accepted it as gospel, never questioning the description they had picked up in Fort Reno. Somebody had started the story before they reached Reno, and when the description fitted, they accepted the whole rumour as fact. Lute Harless was troubled. He had liked Matt Bardoul and trusted him, and although he had heard the rumour, he remained uncertain. Finally, he sat down on the ground and waited for the food to be handed around.

  He was disturbed in more ways than one. Elam Brooks had been killed, and Lute liked and trusted Elam.
He was a staunch man, well known and liked, and his killing seemed to imply that all they had feared was to come about as they had expected.

  He was confused and irritated. Thoughtfully, he stole a look at Aaron Stark. Buffalo Murphy walked into the ring of light, not seeing Matt. He stared around belligerently, but nobody made any comment, so he dished up some food and sat down beside Ban Hardy.

  Matt’s side hurt him and he felt ill. The kicks in the head had given him a mild concussion, and his head throbbed.

  He scarcely saw the old Indian move past him and stop at the edge of the firelight.

  Murphy was the first to see him. He lifted a hand. “How!” he said, in greeting.

  The old Indian looked around. “How,” he said mildly. He gestured. “Many white man come. Too many.”

  Murphy chuckled. “That’s right as rain! This was a good country before it got all cluttered up with white men!”

  The Indian looked at him sourly. “No white man need tell me what my eyes can see. The white man came to a land of grass and trees, to a land of clear, cold streams where the buffalo roamed in their thousands and the beaver filled the streams. They came to a land rich and beautiful, and what have they done? They descended upon the land like starving wolves and they have slaughtered the buffalo for their hides and left the meat to rot upon the prairie, they swept the beaver from the streams and ripped the metals from the earth, and where the white man has been, the streams are fouled with mud and the poison from their mines.

  “Where there were forests there is now a wilderness of stumps and useless brush, and the rain washes out the soil from around the roots, and the few trees die. Where there was grass, there is desert; where there were buffalo, there are vast and empty plains swept by sun and wind. No longer does the beaver tail slap the water in quick alarm. His people are gone from the clear waters, his dams are broken. So my people are dying also, and you white men will sweep on across the land digging and killing and ripping up the long grass lands until finally you reach the waters in the west, and then you will wash back upon yourselves. You will return upon the land you have raped and looted, and fight like snarling, starving dogs filled with hunger and hatred.

  “Where you found forests, you leave desolation; where you found plenty, you leave famine; where you found prairies waving with tall grass, you leave a desert. Finally, you will turn back upon yourselves and fight over the scraps until all is gone and you turn and stare about in astonished wonderment at the land you have ravished, and you will say, ‘Great Spirit, what have we done?’ ”

  “He’s crazy!” Harless said, staring at the old man.

  Murphy tugged at his beard. “Maybe. I think the old boy makes sense.”

  “I have been to your great cities, White Men. I went with the great Red Cloud, but what did I see? Only a mad rush for wealth, all fighting and wrangling and hurry, and I found no contentment there, no peace. There is no calm in your people, there is no majesty, you are a people of thieves who sell your daughters for money and barter your souls for gain.

  “I shall not live to see the end, nor will you, for the land you have stolen from the Indian is rich, and the looting will take years. The spirit of looting within you will not end, and you will come to call your greed a virtue. You will call it energy and industry, and he who steals the most will gain the praise of his fellow man until finally a day will come when you will look back and see with eyes like mine, and then you will understand.

  “You came to our land: a people in search of homes, and homes are good things, but then homes would not content you. There must be more, and more, and MORE! Like beasts you slew my people, like beasts you looted our land, and now you praise yourself for your energy. This you said, is what a white man can do!

  “It was not your energy, White Men, it was the wealth you found when you came. Any man can appear rich if he spends all he possesses in a mad orgy! You are like the foolish young brave who found the skins of many animals, and draped himself in these skins, and said ‘See! What a great hunter I am! What a great warrior!’ but when the skins were sold or given away he had no more. His wealth was gone.

  “Some among you have talked of saving the trees, of keeping the grass, but they are a few small voices whispering against the wind. The men you send to speak in your councils speak for the greedy, and for this they are given a part of the spoils, and as they grow old and fat and lose their hair and teeth and the strength of their loins, they grow more rapacious.

  “White Man, you have destroyed my people; you are destroying my land; but a day will come when you must face destiny, when you will find the metal you made into cheap trinkets or into objects soon to be worn and tossed away, you will find that metal is the metal you need to survive. War and desolation will sweep over you, and you will be gone. The white man will go. He will die, not slowly like the Indian, but swiftly, suddenly, and then he will be gone.

  “The white man is not fitted to survive, for he knows not content. He knows not peace. Wars and more wars and bitter famine and pestilence shall end his pride. He cannot learn. Wherever he goes there is war. The Indian fought, but his battles were short and soon over, and the Indian returned to his hunting and his lodge and his squaw. But the white man lives in violence. Where he goes there is fury, and he will die, tearing at the agony of his wounds, crushed and bloody and wondering because in all his hurry and his doing he has never understood his world nor what he does.

  “My people will not be here, but when the fury of the white man is gone, the grass will return, and the forests will grow tall again, for at last, White Man, it is the grass that must always be the victor. It is the grass that made us, the grass built your cities, and the grass fed your flocks. It is the grass that made us, and it is the grass that will come back, sewing up with green thread and winding brown roots the gashes you have ripped in the earth, and the grass will save the water that trees may grow tall, and the flowers bloom again. And the grass will strain the mud from the rain water and the streams will grow clear again, gathering the soil from the desert into bounty once more.

  “The white man will be gone. Nothing of him will remain. His cities will fall to ruin, rust will gnaw his steel, and when the years have swallowed him, there will be nothing to mark his passing or the fury with which he looted this green and golden land.

  “I shall go, White Man. You have taken my Black Hills from me, the dwelling place of the Great Spirit. You soon will take the Big Horns. My chiefs have died to save their people, and we have fought well, but your ways of war are hard, and my people are not persistent in their hatreds. We have fought well with what little we have, and now we shall go, wrapped in our blankets and sorrowing that this must be an end.”

  Aaron Stark shifted and looked around. Then he got up suddenly and bent over the coffee pot to fill his cup. “Some of this land ain’t much good, nohow,” he said, “won’t grow nothin’. You get a good crop for a few years, an’ then it’s all gone.”

  Barney Coyle had walked up while the old Indian was talking. He looked up suddenly. “That’s right,” he agreed, “just like my poke. Spend a few dollars and then there isn’t any more.” He pushed his hat back on his head and grinned at Ban Hardy. “I guess the idea is to keep putting something in once in awhile.”

  “Huh!” Stark scoffed. “That sounds mighty good, but how you going to put anything into land? If it ain’t there, it just ain’t there, that’s all!”

  Matt straightened and felt the pain in his side sharpen. Holding himself against it, he walked slowly away from the fire. When he was a hundred yards off, he sat down on a stone and stared down at the water of the fork.

  It was still and dark, and now there seemed no movement except at intervals when he heard a sudden rippling of the water as though the stream were whispering to him that it was still alive. His head throbbed and he sat still, looking at nothing. At that, he felt better, and he could think better. Carefully, he felt of his hands, working his fingers to loosen them and make them pliab
le.

  Brian Coyle was sitting on his bed under his biggest wagon when Ben Sperry walked up to him. Sperry dropped to his haunches. “Brian, this here setup looks kind of funny to me. My wagon’s been gone through.”

  “Gone through? How do you mean?”

  “Somebody searched it. My ammunition’s all gone.”

  Coyle stopped with his boot half off. “Your ammunition? Stolen?”

  “Yes, an’ I think that’s why Elam was killed. I think he found Hammer goin’ through his wagon an’ found what he was after. He didn’t have no gun on him, Brian. Elam Brooks never carried a short gun. He was a rifle man. Carried a Winchester carbine.”

  Brian Coyle pulled his boot back on and got to his feet. He walked around behind his wagon. “Jacquine? Can I come in?”

  “Yes, I’m still dressed.”

  Coyle clambered in the wagon and began pulling things aside. When he got to the ammunition boxes, they were empty. He stared at them, his eyes hard and his face very serious. Slowly, he got out of the wagon.

  “Ben, how much ammunition have you got?”

  “Five bullets in my six-gun, an’ four or five shells in my Winchester. That ain’t very much.”

  “No, it isn’t.” Coyle stared at the ground. “Ben, you go back to your wagon and keep your eyes open but don’t mention this to anyone.”

  He reached into the wagon for his own gun and belted it on.

  “Father … ?”

  He turned at Jacquine’s voice. “Is there going to be trouble? Is something wrong?”

  Coyle hesitated. “I’m afraid something is very wrong, Jackie.” He spoke softly and gently. “I wish I had left you in Deadwood.”

  “Father, why don’t you go see Matt Bardoul?”

  Brian Coyle’s face stiffened. “No! I’d never … !” His voice died. “Maybe it would be best at that. I’d better talk to Herman first. You stay in the wagon.”

  Ammunition, of course, was valuable. Coyle started for the Reutz wagons thinking that. It could be a thief. Probably Hammer was a thief. The thing to do was to talk to Herman Reutz, to find out if theirs was an isolated case or if the ammunition had been removed from all the wagons. Of course, nearly all the men were still armed, and their weapons would be loaded. Bardoul’s whole idea had been preposterous, and there had to be a solution for this problem.