With each step I became more assured that the moment was pinching off, that any luck that had ridden on my shoulder had reached the end of its rope. Any second a fusillade would pummel me, leave my big body jerking and snapping in the yard before flopping, blood leaking into the brittle fall grass from a hundred puckered wounds.
At least that was the grim notion that refused to unseat itself from my mind. In truth, I reached the house, climbed the six steps, each one with an audible will of its own, creaking and popping, and me matching them with winces and gritted teeth.
It felt as if a lifetime passed before I finally reached the top of the steps, and leaned heavily against the log wall and its relative safety.
If they had locked the door from the inside, I was sunk, and would have to resort to peering in windows. Maybe I should bluster in, full-force, with the revolver barking for me.
But no, the door was unlocked. Why wouldn’t it be? As far as they knew we were dead, so who else might pursue them? Perhaps they were waiting for the horse-faced man to return. They would have a damn long wait for that bastard to show his homely head again.
I slid the wooden latch, similar in construction to those on the barn, and with a fingertip pushed. The door swung inward and set up a grating squawk, long and loud enough to rouse a battlefield layered with dead men. Why don’t people oil their cursed hinges?
I waited a long while before peering in, and then I did it at a lower head height than anyone waiting inside might expect a head to appear. It would buy me an extra second should it come to a fight. Always do the unexpected, especially in times of tension. It’s a lesson I’ve learned the hard way over the years. I believe it has saved me a time or four. Or I have more of that feckless luck than any one man deserves.
When I finally peered into the dark room, I saw it as the kitchen and dining area, a big room running from the front to the back of the house. A large, fancy cookstove with nickel adornments hugged the wall separating the kitchen from the rest of the house. Beside it, a door stood nearly closed. To the left, a long dining table sat heaped with jumbled gear—cans, boxes, satchels, a sack of spilled flour. Some of the goods I recognized as mine or Jack’s. If there had been any doubt before—of which there wasn’t much—for certain we’d found our quarry.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dotting the table were several whiskey bottles, empties wedged every which way, a few on their sides, more on the floor. Beside those on the table stood several more, full and lined up as if awaiting orders, one half sampled. This might explain the sudden bucksaw snore from the far room. Whoever made it was likely hammering the depths of a deep drunk. I didn’t envy them the full morning light fast approaching.
As my eyes roved the large, dim room, I saw Thomas a good dozen feet away, at the far end of the table. He sat strapped to a tall-back chair, his head flopped against one shoulder, bent so far it appeared as if his neck had snapped. I almost could have believed that dire notion had it not been for the steady in-andout motion of his chest. He was breathing, probably asleep. Good. Any seconds I could gain not telling him to shush would be in my favor.
I paused, heard nothing at all save for the grating sound of a raven passing by the ranch on its way somewhere safer, no doubt. Then another ripping snore, then another, deeper in pitch, on its heels. Two folks then, dueling with snores. Had to be the man and woman. I could get the drop on them right then. Grinding my teeth together like I always do before I do something I know might be the last task I ever do, I inched my way into the gap of the open door.
It wasn’t wide enough for me, naturally. I gripped the door tight and pushed, hoping the pressure would shut those hinges up for a moment. No luck. I paused once more, listening, watching. The snores had stopped. I waited, no sound, not even a ticking clock. Then I heard a snore, and its warring counterpart chasing it. I stepped into the room, decided to hell with any sounds from the floorboards. I would rush the far room, catch them in their sleep.
I wished they sped up their snores, maybe I could time my steps to help mask my footfalls on what I guessed, based on the thin early light streaking in, was a pretty orange-pine floor. I tried to take in each dark corner of the room as I walked.
I’d made it halfway across the room when a shout to my left, in the near-dark, froze me. I spun and saw Thomas head upright and struggling, shrieking as if he were being fried alive. Damn that kid. I lunged for him, reached out, and muckled onto his face with one hand. I managed to shut him up, though he struggled and snotted on my fingers.
“Shut up! Thomas, it’s me, Roamer, now shut up!” I growled into his ear and it worked, he stopped thrashing. But as soon as he shouted, the dueling snorers in the other room came to life, thumping and shouting and crashing into Lord knows what.
The bedroom door whipped open, revealing a skinny man with gray hair tufting in all directions and bristly whiskers that had needed a trim a week before. He stared, arms wide, held out at the waist as if he were about to draw unseen six-guns. All he wore was a sweat-stained set of longhandles, pink-white in the early light.
“Hey! Hey!”
That seemed all he could say. Then as quick as he got out the words, a thick arm wrapped around him from behind and shoved him out of the way to pile up on the floor inside the dining area. The arm belonged to the woman, a plug shaped like an oak barrel, though she had sprung her stays in various places.
She wore little, her nightgown sheer from age, an unfortunate choice given that she was all rolls of fat and sloppy breasts. Atop them glared that face, the cruel visage I’d seen wearing Jack’s lynx hat and mocking me, sneering down as Horse Face had shot me.
All this happened in the time it takes to draw a breath and let it out again. I’d begun to level the revolver on her, but from the shadows to her side she whipped up a double-barrel shredder. I dove backward, dragging Thomas down to the floor with me as the shot churned wood in the wall behind me. I heard shattering sounds, saw shards of plates fly through the air, and guessed it was a hutch of some sort that stood behind me.
I dragged Thomas further into the dark corner. He was screaming again, rocking back and forth, thrashing and fighting my efforts. I wanted to clunk him on the bean with the butt of the revolver, but there was no time for such indulgences.
Though the room rang—at least my ears did—with the explosive boom of the shotgun, I heard her thumb back the second barrel’s hammer. That distinctive meaty clicking is no fun to hear if the snout of that gun is aimed in your direction.
There was a pause. I snatched up an empty whiskey bottle and tossed it toward the door. The scowling woman bit at the ruse and swiveled, touching off that trigger. Boom! Stink and sound warred for supremacy in the clouded room.
I didn’t wait for her to reload. I was about to stand and send a few shots her way when I noticed the man wasn’t there any longer. I figured he crawled back into the other room. The woman disappeared, too, but I heard her shouting and upending various items, no doubt looking for more shells.
Then thrashing and screaming, Thomas flopped into me. “I’ve been shot! Shot! Oh, God!”
All I wanted to do was barge into that room and put to rest those two bizarre creatures, especially that hateful sow of a woman. But if Thomas was truly injured, I had to get him out of there while I could. I also knew Jack was probably running across the yard, war cannon in hand, howling oaths that were turning the little valley’s morning air bluer than the smoky room I stood in.
With a growl, I snatched Thomas, managed a chest full of shirt, and remembered he was tied tight to that chair. I didn’t have time to cut him free—Jack had given me the girl’s knife to strap on for my little adventure here—and I darn sure didn’t want to waste the seconds I’d been given while the woman found more shells.
I dragged Thomas, in the chair, backward out the door, the revolver held poorly in my weak arm. When they opened up on me again, I’d have to figure out a different way of working. And I wouldn’t have long to wait. I’d gott
en Thomas out the door on the landing when she reappeared, shouting and sneering though the swirl of blue smoke. She raised the gun on me and I shoved Thomas down the steps, hoping he had sense enough to keep his head down below the tall spindles of the chair.
The shotgun blast blew the swung door half apart, exploding wood and driving splinters into my arms, legs, gut, and the back of my head. Thankfully I’d turned as I jumped for the ground. I wanted to drag Thomas out of the way and level off on her.
I crashed in a heap on the ground beside the greenhorn, who luckily hadn’t broken his neck when I tossed him down the stairs. He lay there moaning and wagging his knees back and forth. As for me, I landed poorly, and on my gimpy shoulder. Hot pain bloomed fast and sharp, but there was no time to give over to it. The woman was emerging onto the landing, kicking at the blasted wreck of a door and cursing bad enough to make Maple Jack blush. Almost.
I realized then I’d lost my revolver when I landed. It couldn’t be far, but I had no time to search. I flailed my good arm for the chair and shoved it and Thomas over, rolling on top of him like a shell on a turtle. I knew that was it, the next blast would peel my body apart. But maybe my bulk would finally be good for something, maybe it would save Thomas.
The blast came, a thunderous report, but not from the woman’s shotgun. It came from nearby, from the direction of the barn and moving closer, and followed by a volley of shouts and curses. Maple Jack, cursing out a woman as he’d never done, I’m sure of it.
“Get up off your backside, boy, ain’t no time for lallygagging. That she-devil won’t stay cowed for long!”
He gimped on over in that peculiar rambling, swing-legged gait of his and stood by, his big revolver trained on the door above. I got to my feet, kicked something as I stood. It was the revolver. I grabbed it up, and muckling onto the back of the top cross-piece of the chair, I hoisted the still-whining Thomas aloft, onto my back.
“I got ya, now git!” shouted Jack.
Luckily Thomas is a slender fellow and the chair a spindly piece of furniture. I believe the ropes they’d trussed him with went a long way to keeping it from falling apart as I stomped back toward the barn.
“Far side of the barn!” shouted Jack, running half backward beside me. Then he stopped, leveled off, and let loose with another shot. I heard it strike wood, and from his cackles of glee, I knew he’d sent the foul woman scrambling back into the cabin.
I didn’t waste time running through the barn, but kept on, reaching the far side from above. There stood Tiny Boy and Ol’ Mossback, both saddled, and two more beasts behind them, the horse Thomas had bought for the girl to ride, and the bay Jack had been riding. The bay was loaded with what scant gear of ours we’d found in the barn. I silently approved Jack’s choices.
I let the chair slide from my back to the ground, and caught it before it toppled to its side. I held it upright with one hand while I stuffed the revolver into the holster. I missed my own Schofield and gun belt. Had to be in the cabin. I’d fret over it later, but right then I had to contend with Thomas, who hadn’t stopped howling since the crazy woman opened up on us in the cabin.
I sliced through the ropes binding his legs at the ankle to the lower rungs of the chair. Bad mistake, as the young fool began kicking out with those dandy boots of his, landing a couple of shots to my calf and shin.
“Stop it, you fool!” I bellowed right in his face. I imagine it was a whole lot like when I’d awakened to find a huge old silvertip boar grizz huffing and chuffing in my face. And I bet my breath wasn’t any prettier than that bear’s, either. I didn’t care a whit, for it worked. The whelp kept his mouth shut, sobbing and hiccupping only when he couldn’t control it.
Jack made it around the corner of the barn, smiling, and glancing behind. “They’re holed up in there for the time being, tighter than a bull’s backside. Ain’t no way they’re going anywhere. Besides”—he mounted up—“I turned the other critters loose. Be a while before they catch ’em, if at all!”
He was enjoying himself, and even though I felt like I’d botched the entire affair, I couldn’t help but smile along with Jack. Of course, I had reopened my wound—blood had begun to sop through my shoulder bandage and show on my shirt—and got Thomas shot, or so he said (it sure didn’t affect his kicking abilities).
We already knew the route we were going to take, straight northward paralleling the river, still to our left. There was a rough-carved road there, and since it was the only one we’d seen on this trip, we guessed it led eventually to civilization.
We had hoped we’d have the rank couple as prisoners or draped over saddles, but given that Jack had mounted up and Thomas had settled himself in his own saddle, though still whining, I took it we were going to get on out of there for the time being, regroup our notions, and figure out what to do next. We were too frazzled to push the situation any more at that point.
At least Thomas was alive, I felt deep and tremendous relief at that. Despite the fact that he was annoying. We headed on up the road, confident we were not being followed. At least not by those two rascals. We’d gone a quarter mile or so when I said, “Whoa, whoa, hold up, Jack. I have to check on Thomas.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Said he was shot.” Even my tone expressed my doubt. I shrugged and rode the few paces over to Thomas’s horse.
“Where were you hit, Thomas?” I tried to sound concerned, though I don’t think it came across that way.
“Here, look!” He almost shouted it as he held up his right arm and pointed at a fleck of red on his upper sleeve.
I leaned forward, squinted, leaned closer. “My word, you have been shot. If we don’t get you professional medical help, you might not make it.”
He looked up at me then, his eyes tearing. Maybe he was hurt more than he appeared.
“Scorfano, where is Carla? You remember . . . the girl?” He looked down at the saddle horn, at nothing. “Where is she? How is she?”
When I did not answer right away, he looked at me again.
“Later, Thomas,” I said. “We’ll talk about it later. We have to make time now.”
We ranged another two, maybe three miles northward along the roadway, which by then bore sign of recent travel. It followed the flank of whatever arm of the Bitterroots these were, ranging up and away to our right, roughly eastward.
After my gentle ribbing and Jack’s not-so-gentle chiding, Thomas rode in sullen silence. I sent a few questions in his direction, but he was either so lost in his own mind he didn’t hear me, or he chose to ignore me. I let it be. There would be time enough for questions—and answers. We needed lots of each. And the kid owed them to us.
It was a few minutes later when Jack stopped, nodded northward toward a raft of separating clouds. “See them peaks angling off eastward? You see that shaded gap there? No matter, I can see it. That’s the pass, I reckon. It’s still a good day or so from here, but that’s it.”
“The pass the Pend d’Oreille use?” I was intrigued. I’d only ever been along that way in high summer, and then only from the east. And not all the way through, either. But it was a pretty journey, good fishing, plenty of game. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to do it in the winter, though. But if William Clark and Meriwether Lewis had traveled it, who was I to deny myself the experience?
“Yep. And that’s a saw that cuts both ways. If it’s as I suspect it is, and it is, then there will be a route west over Walla Walla way. Been on it a few times, trading and such. Hudson’s Bay Company used to have a fine setup that way, on the Columbia River. Gone now, but they was good times.”
“Jack.”
“Yep, I recall one haul of furs—”
“Jack.” I said it sharper this time, enough so that he stopped reminiscing and looked at me. So did Thomas. I nodded up the lane. Four riders headed toward us at a trot.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Jack and I spread apart a good dozen feet. We angled enough to cover each other, keeping Thomas beh
ind.
“What do they want?” said Thomas.
“Your guess is as good as mine, boy,” said Jack. “But I doubt it’s an invite to tea.” Jack drew his Dragoon, but kept it laid behind the saddle horn, cradled in his left hand.
They reined up close, about fifteen feet from us. Bold. The two outermost men, on the inside to my left, were working ranch hands. They wore sheepskin chore coats with large buttons, a few patches here and there, not uncommon, as ranch work had a way of snagging a man’s attire.
Two were clean shaven, the third was working on a beard, past the point where it looked stubbled and lazy. They wore decent hats, and two of them had gloved hands. The newcomers’ mounts were solid, a black, a roan, and two chestnuts, good saddle rigs, well tended.
I was used to taking in a man’s general appearance at a glance, sizing them up should a situation evolve or, more to the point, devolve, into moments of required quickness.
It was their gun rigs that I was most interested in—all three men had unbuttoned those chore coats casually and revealed there were two lefties and a right-handed man. They held their hands knuckled down on their thighs in a way no casual man ever would. They all also carried rifles.
The fourth man, who looked to be the clan boss, was a wide-shouldered, stocky man. On foot he couldn’t have stood more than five foot nine, wore a gray-and-green-plaid mackinaw with a turned-down sheepskin collar. His hands were gloved, and a fine, brown ranchman’s hat, low crowned, sat atop a pepper-haired head. He kept himself trim, no hair on his face save for eyebrows and lashes and the beginnings of hairs curling out of his flexed nostrils like spider legs. Same for his ears.
There was nothing soft about the man. His eyes, a blue-gray, were clear, and took us all in at once. I could almost hear them clicking from one of us to another. His face was seamed from age, cracks trailed out around his eyes. His mouth was a lipless cut with frown creases angled down toward a block chin.
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