Presently he slowed his pace. He felt for his pistol, an d found he still had it. The thong was in place and th e Colt rested solidly in its holster. About his waist was a cartridge belt, another was thrown over one shoulde r and under an arm.
Rudio had been killed, he was sure of that, but ther e remained, so far as he knew, eight able men. With th e arms, ammunition, food, and water in the warehouse , eight men should hold it for a while at least. In th e meantime he might warn Rybolt, and then start one o r two of his men after Paddock and Mellett and thei r troops … or he might go himself.
In the meanwhile, those left at the post would have t o fight. It was up to them now.
He headed south at an easy canter. He had som e thinkinp to do, for he had to decide where to try t o intercept Rybolt and the wagons, and he had to do i t without being seen.
Chapter 14
Three miles south of the post, Kilrone drew up in a small cluster of cottonwoods and rigged a hackamor e from rawhide strings such as he had used in tying th e makeshift bridge together. He allowed the horse a littl e water, talked quietly to him for a few minutes, the n mounted and headed south.
The big gray horse liked to travel, and he held hi s pace well From time to time he slowed of his ow n volition, and then resumed his canter.
The morning air was clear and bright, the sky almos t cloudless. He saw no Indians, although there were plent y of tracks.
In the remote distance, he seemed to see, as a vagu e blue line, the Slumbering Hills, and among them, Awakenin g Peak. But his imagination was perhaps recognizin g the hills where there were only low clouds.
Finally he stopped, dismounted, and leading the gra y horse, walked on in the glorious morning. Puffs of dus t rose from each step; a faint cool breeze off the rainsoake d Santa Rosas was pleasant. War and fightin g seemed far away.
Had he been wrong to leave? He told himself he ha d done the right thing … he was not even sure he coul d have gotten into the warehouse from below, and h e could not allow Rybolt and his guard to ride unknowin g into disaster.
Eight men should hold the post, he told himself again.
Ryerson was able to command, even if unable to hel p much with the fighting. Teale, Lahey, Reinhardt , McCracken … all of them were good men, and th e warehouse was strongly built, well supplied.
After a period of walking, he mounted the gray horse] a nd rode on.
How far away would Rybolt be? Where would they I c hoose to ambush him? Medicine Dog’s ambush of 11 Troop had been in the least obvious place, and it wa s likely the Indians would try to do the same sort of thin g now. More important, if Iron Dave was close by , watching his stake in the game, but out of it, wher e would he be?
It had been scarcely daylight when Kilrone started , and by the time the sun was approaching its zenith h e was drawing into the danger area. At any time now h e would come within sight of the detail commanded b y Rybolt, or within the range of the Indians waiting i n ambush.
Cane Springs? He thought of it suddenly. There ha d been a stage station at Cane Springs. It was deserte d now, had been deserted since the outbreak of trouble.
But the location was one offering conditions similar t o those of the place where I Troop had been massacred.
There was the pass between two mountain ranges, th e Santa Rosa and Bloody Run, and tben the widening ou t from the pass into the valley. And there at the end o f the Bloody Run Range was Cane Spring, a logical stop.
A place for nooning or a night camp before going on u p the valley.
It had to be the place. The army detachment woul d have had approximately ten miles of alertness whil e coming through the pass. With the chance of fresh wate r ahead and a stop, they would be relaxing, already thinkin g of the cool water that lay just ahead.
The air was clear, so clear there seemed to be n o distance, but only space in which nothing moved but th e gentle wind. And there was no sound but the walking o f his horse, the creak of his saddle, the occasional jingle o f his spurs.
On his left the Santa Rosas rose steeply, four thousan d feet to the peaks. On his right the Quinn River Valle y layflat and empty, only the distant line of trees alon g the river showing green and lovely. Where he rode ther e was no real cover.
However, the horse he rode was gray. His own clothin g was nondescript, with no color that would not blend int o the surrounding terrain, just as his horse did. He woul d move a little further to the south.
He traveled more slowly now to keep down the dust , and kept off the trail as much as possible, staying amon g the occasional clumps of juniper and the thickest of th e sagebrush. Anyone looking for someone to approac h would be watching along the trail; the further he wa s from it the more likely he would be to go unseen. Th e watchers would be paying little attention to the norther n trail, for the payroll detail under Lieutenant Gus Rybol t was approaching from the south. But with every yard h e advanced, the greater his risk of being seen … and i f seen, killed.
Barney Kilrone drew rein in the small shade of a cluster of junipers, removed his hat and wiped th e sweatband. Somewhere ahead, if he was figuring correctly , would be anywhere from twenty to two hundre d Indians. But the more he thought of it the more he believe d the figure might be not much more than twenty.
Most of the Bannock braves would want to be presen t at the taking of the post, and here they would have th e advantage of surprise. With luck, having only seven o r eight men to shoot at, they could concentrate their fire , two or three men aiming at each soldier. After the firs t volley they would close in. It need take only minutes.
Standing in his stirrups, Kilrone looked along the slop e of the mountains toward where the gap should be. Th e promontory of the Bloody Run Range was obvious; a t the base of it, not yet visible, was the old stage station , unless it had been burned. To the left of it, where th e Santa Rosas ended, was the gap where the pass opene d Into the valley.
Suppose the Indians decided to attack just as th e wagon was entering the pass, rather than as it wa s leaving? If that was the case he would be too late. By this time no doubt the guard would have been massacred. What he had to do was to find a way to get int o the pass and warn the payroll detail before they coul d be attacked.
He edged on along the mountain, using each bit o f cover he could, yet knowing the time would come whe n he must be discovered, or must emerge into the open.
Suppose, though, he started now, rode out into th e open, and cut across toward the stage station? Woul d the Indians risk revealing their ambush by firing on hi m or pursuing him? He dismounted and led his horse on u p to Andorno Creek. There was a trickle of water in th e bottom, and they both drank.
He looked across the gap. The plain was flat. No tree s or brush, nothing but low-growing sagebrush, a fe w sparse desert plants. He would ride out in the open, an d he would have to take his time, for to make a run for i t would be to reveal his purpose. He must ride slowly , tiredly, looking for all the world like a drifting cowhand , riding south out of the country.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, h e looked across the heat-drenched, dusty flat. White an d still it lay, a place of glaring sun, without shadow, withou t shelter. If they came after him out there he woul d be a gone gosling. Yet the more he thought about it, th e better plan it seemed to be.
If he rode boldly but casually out on the flat the y would think of him only as a rider headed for the ol d stage station at Cane Springs. If he tried going unde r cover along the mountain and was discovered, the y would know he was trying to slip by them and warn th e detail.
Yet what if he did get across the flat? He seemed t o remember the rocks behind the stage station were broke n up, and there might be a route through them o r over the mountain into the pass.
“All right, horse,” he said, cheerfully; “we take th e chance.” He pointed. “We’re going right out across that.”
The gray started willingly enough, but Kilrone hel d him back until the horse had decided to mope al
ong a s his new master seemed to wish.
He followed along the mountain for a little way, the n swung out on the flat. He rode steadily, taking care no t to look back or to seem in any way to be expectin g trouble. A hundred yards … two hundred … his scal p prickled with the expectation of a bullet.
They might try an arrow, but they would have t o come after him now, and would expect him to fire upo n them; the sound of a shot would go echoing down tha t canyon, and that would warn the soldiers.
In the dust he saw a horse’s tracks … fresh tracks.
Out here where the wind blew, how long could track s hold their shape?
Somebody had ridden across this flat within the las t few hours, somebody riding in the same direction i n which he was heading…. Who?
It was a shod horse, a horse with a good long strid e … a big horse, too. Dave Sproul? But he drove a buckboard. Would he drive one, though, on such a n occasion as this, when he would not want his presenc e known?
Of course, the rider might be a complete stranger , somebody drifting down out of the Oregon-Idaho countr y to get away from the Indian trouble.
Kilrone was a good mile out on the flat now, and i f there were Indians waiting at the mouth of the pass , they must have seen him by now. Occasionally h e glanced toward the pass. He was angling that way, eve r so little. Where were the Bannocks, he wondered. His bes t guess put them somewhere in the breaks along Chimne y or Porcupine creeks.
Suddenly he saw the wagon. At first it was just a flas h of sunlight on a rifle* barrel, then a wagon-top. Instantly , he slapped the spurs to the gray and swung right int o the mouth of the pass. The horse must have made abou t four fast jumps before Kilrone saw half a dozen Indian s break from the bed of Tony Creek, dead ahead of him.
Barney Kilrone, gentleman adventurer, soldier, an d cowhand, he was thinking, here’s where you buy it.
Here’s where you wash it out, every last bit of it, so mak e it pay.
He went down the canyon toward the Indians at a dead run, and lifting his Colt, he slammed a shot. He di d not expect to hit anything, but he did expect to alert th e oncoming wagon.
At that moment he topped out on a rise and saw a rider approaching the wagon, and the wagon slowing t o meet him, but two of the soldiers were up in thei r stirrups, staring toward Kilrone.
The Indians were on him. There was one riding fa r out, to cut off any attempted escape, and four comin g right down the center at him. He suddenly slowed hi s horse and leaped to the ground. He stood there, widelegge d and braced, looked down the barrel of his gun , and, lifting it as the Indians swept in upon him, he fire d right into the chest of the nearest one. A lance rippe d through his shirt, something burned along his shoulder , and a horse knocked him sprawling. He came up shooting , and suddenly the afternoon was filled with th e thunder of rifles.
The Indians came around on him, and he saw his gra y horse off to one side. He fired again, saw an Indian jer k in the saddle, and he put another bullet where the firs t had gone. The Indians were on him again, and he thre w himself down a grassy slope into a small gully, rolle d over and came up, diving into the brush as a rider cam e down on him. He felt the lance tear through his pants le g and plunged through the brush, fighting his way out.
As he came up, he saw an Indian rounding the clum p of brush with bow lifted, arrow pointed at him. He dropped an instant before the arrow left the bow, fired , missed, and fired again. He slid down a steep bank int o the creek, where he stood knee-deep in the water an d ejected a cartridge, fed another in, and scrambled int o the brush just as a Bannock came downstream, huntin g him.
He pulled back, a branch cracked, and the India n turned and fired. He felt the bullet smash through th e brush within inches of his skull, but he dared not fire. He had to make each shot count. He had managed to reloa d one chamber—were there two shots left—or only one?
The Indian was trying to force his horse up the bank , but it was unable to get a foothold. The Indian fire d again, but although he was closer now, his horse’s movemen t spoiled the shot. A gap showed in the bushes an d Kilrone fired, saw the bullet smash blood from the warrior’s cheek, and then he scrambled back as bullets cam e from other directions, stabbing into the brush after him.
Lying flat, he ejected another cartridge and loaded , loaded another and another.
As he made his way through the brush, he saw a gam e trail wide enough for him and eased down it.
He paused again to eject a cartridge and load anothe r chamber. Crawling on, he saw his gray horse thirt y yards off, and left his cover on a run. The gray wheele d as if to run, and he called out to it. The big hors e hesitated, and in that instant he reached it, grabbed th e pommel, and left the ground in a leap, almost losing bi s grip on the gun as he swung astride.
A shot smashed behind him and he rode into th e brush, turned at right angles, then went up the slop e and out of the creek bed.
Before him, not fifty yards away, a horse was down , struggling in its harness; one soldier lay sprawled, an d the others were firing, coolly and carefully.
With a yell he started toward them and saw a soldie r lift his rifle to fire, saw Rybolt’s hand drop to the man’s shoulder, and then he drew up and slid to the ground.
“Come to warn you!” he called. “The post is unde r attack, Paddock’s gone north after Mellett!”
Dropping down, he scrambled to the dead or wounde d soldier, grabbed his rifle, and stripped his cartridg e pouch. He fired immediately, and then again. The Indian s wheeled away, and for a time there was silence.
“Kilrone, isn’t it?” Rybolt said. I heard you were u p here. What’s happened?”
Crouching low, while the others dug with bayonets t o throw up a wall of turf, he explained what had happene d at the fort, and what he believed was happenin g here. “What happened to the white man who came t o stop you?” he asked.
Rybolt pointed. “Out there.” He saw the body, wit h the rusty hair, lying among the Indians who had bee n shot down on the first attack.
Kilrone sliced into the sod with his bowie knife an d cut out a long rectangle of it. Quickly he cut others , hollowing out the ground beneath him, and piling the m in place. Their position was not at all bad; the Indian s had tried to catch them in the open, but they had als o provided them with an excellent field of fire.
He continued to work until he had a protecting wall o f sod; and now he lay quiet. He smelled gunpowder an d blood, the stale sweat of his own body, and the coo l earth where he lay. What would they do now? Th e initial attack had failed, at least a third of the attackin g force seemed to be down—either dead or injured. Scattere d shots struck near the soldiers, but they did no t return the fire. Their rifles reloaded and ready.
“How many do you think there are?” Kilrone asked.
“Thirty … no more than that.” Rybolt answered, an d looked around at him. “That shot of yours saved ou r bacon. Somebody saw the dust in the distance, and the n that other rider showed up. That bothered me some , because your dust was back a little way, and I couldn’t figure where this one came from. Then you shot, and w e were all set for trouble when the Indians opened up o n us.”
After a moment he asked, “You saw Mrs. Rybolt?”
“Yes, I did, Lieutenant. When I left there she was i n fine shape and doing the work of two people.” He explaine d about the move to the warehouse.
It’s a good, solid building,” Rybolt said. “I think i t will hold.”
It was very hot on the little knoll. They could hear th e water in Porcupine Creek, directly before them. Ther e had been no attempt to kill the horses; the one lying ou t there might have been hit by accident It could be tha t Sproul planned to use them to haul away the gold, if h e got it.
Where was Sproul? Was he still somewhere close by?
Was he waiting at the stage station even now?
Chapter 15
Shadows gathered in the notches of the Bloody Ru n Hills. The horses were clustered together
now under th e bank of a small ravine near the wagon. Working wit h their knives and bayonets the troopers had dug out a trench leading to the ravine, and had snaked up som e dead-falls and piled them into a parapet.
Gus Rybolt was a soldier, a veteran, a careful man. He allowed no resting time until their shelter was improved.
The ravine was scarcely more than a notch in the eart h leading down to the bank of the creek. It provide d shelter for the horses and for three of the men, th e others remaining in proximity to the wagon and the gol d they protected.
Rybolt had been cool, efficient, aware of every possibility.
Kilrone found a corner in the ravine where ther e was shade and shelter from the ricocheting bullets, an d stretched out to rest.
Surprisingly, he slept. When he woke he listened t o the silence a moment, then crawled over to where Rybol t was sipping coffee, unperturbed by the occasiona l bullet that whistled by overhead or smacked into th e wall opposite.
“Coffee?” Rybolt said, and gestured toward the pot.
“Spare cup yonder.”
When Kilrone was seated, beside him, Rybolt said , “Nobody is going to get this payroll without more of a fight than this. My idea is they’ll quit”
It was Kilrone’s idea too. Sproul had planned on a sudden surprise attack, a quick victory, the Indians the n returning to their people at the post, and he himsel f driving the wagon away with its gold.
Only Kilrone’s warning and Rybolfs alertness ha d wrecked the plan. Rybolt had lost a man; but here h e was, dug in securely, showing no disposition to b e stampeded into any foolish action, and apparently read y to stand a siege.
“After dark,” Kilrone said suddenly, Tm going to tr y to get out of here. I want to check that stage station u p at Cane Springs.”
“Wait… play it safe. They’ll be gone by tomorrow.”
Kilrone (1966) Page 13