by Short, Luke;
Caskie listened closely, and Sophie finished by saying, “You’re the only one who can point to the man that killed Braden.”
“What you’re saying is you want me to go back and get my head blowed off.”
Traf said mildly, “Think carefully, Caskie. Do you think those men that shot at you last night got a look at you?”
“One of them sure as hell seen me before. That was when I saw him.”
“But what about the other two?”
“I know damn well they didn’t, or I’d be dead. They’d just seen my blankets and my hat and figured I was sleepin’.”
“Then all they’ve got to go on is the description of you that storekeeper and the killer gave them. Is that right?”
“I reckon,” Caskie said grudgingly.
“So you trade in that wreck of a hat for a new Stetson. You buy yourself a new pair of pants. You trade in your moccasins for cowman’s boots. You swap that jacket for a vest and a sheepskin. You get yourself a haircut and a shave, maybe keeping a mustache. You hire on as a hand at some spread around Indian Bend—mine or Sophie’s. You think anybody would know you as A. Caskie, prospector with two mules?”
“If I wanted to be an old cowpoke, I’d be one,” Caskie said testily.
“Just for a week or two, or a month or as long as it takes you to spot Braden’s killer?”
“What do I owe Braden?”
“Nothing. Except that the man who killed him is trying to kill you.” Traf paused. “Would you kill him if you could, Caskie?”
“I tried, didn’t I? Sure, I would.”
“Then let the law do it for you.”
Dickey spoke up briefly. “And it will, Caskie.”
Caskie’s cob pipe had gone out, and now he picked up a stick, held it in the fire until it was burning, then raised it to his pipe and puffed the tobacco alight. “No, sir, it ain’t fair,” he pronounced. “All I want is to be let alone.”
“Nobody said it was fair, Caskie. But they won’t let you alone. You want more nights like last night?”
“No.”
“I think you’re taking a chance sitting around this fire right now, Caskie.”
Caskie looked startled, and his eyes widened. “You mean that?”
Traf said quietly, “They won’t let up on you.”
Caskie looked uneasily out into the night.
Traf went on relentlessly, “It only takes one shot, and who would we hunt?”
“By God, you can’t scare me,” Caskie said angrily, his high voice carrying an edge.
“You’re scared already, and I don’t blame you,” Traf said quietly.
“If I ride back with you, I’m just askin’ for a bullet in the back.”
Traf shook his head. “You won’t ride back with us, old-timer. Tomorrow you cut straight for Kean’s Ferry, not the way you came. Sell your mules, hit the barber shop, get yourself some new clothes, and take the train to Indian Bend. Ask for Bucksaw, that’s Sophie’s spread. You can walk it even with new boots.”
He paused a moment. “Now this is important, Caskie,” he went on. “You can tell Mrs. Barrick who you really are, and why you’re there. But tell her to introduce you to the crew as Benjy Schell’s Uncle Asa. Benjy is the Bucksaw ramrod. He’ll be in Kansas City when you get there. Naturally, you’d hang around until Benjy gets back. The word will spread and everybody will think it’s natural for you to be at Bucksaw.”
“Does Benjy Schell have an uncle?” Caskie asked.
“He has now,” Traf said dryly. “And now, Uncle Asa, take your blankets and get away from that fire.”
Caskie stood up, looked at Traf, and said, “You’re kind of a mean bastard, ain’t you? Still, you make sense.” He picked up his blanket roll and vanished into the darkness.
“You are, you know, Traf,” Sophie said. “That was the purest kind of blackmail.”
“I know I am, but he’s coming, isn’t he?”
10
Having traveled half the night, Farney Bartholomew arrived at Bar B’s main house in mid-morning. The big house, only a couple of years old, was built along the lines of a rich man’s concept of a hunting lodge. It was a rambling gabled two-story affair set well away from the outbuildings in a park of young, half-grown trees. Farney studied it incuriously as he headed for the log bunkhouse and adjoining office. Beyond these was a big horse barn joined to an intricate series of white-painted corrals. Tom Gore, mounted, was watching a couple of his hands breaking a horse, but when he saw Farney he put his horse in motion. They met in front of the office and Gore spoke first. “Save it for inside, Farney.”
Gore led the way into the office, stepped aside for Farney, then closed and locked the door. The room was full of the big-house castoffs—a roll-top desk with a swivel chair, a couple of easy chairs upholstered with untanned steerhide, and a narrow bed in the corner holding a disorderly pile of blankets.
Crossing the room toward the swivel chair, Gore asked, “What’s happened, Farney? Where’s Sam?”
“Dead by now.”
Gore halted and looked at him. “Where’s Jim?”
“With Sam.”
Gore moved to the swivel chair, sat down, and said grimly, “Tell me about it.”
Farney told him then of their traveling during the night, spotting Caskie’s fire, approaching it from two sides, and riddling what they thought was Caskie’s body—only it wasn’t. Caskie apparently had heard them coming and had ducked out of the camp into the darkness. From there he had shot Sam in the belly.
There was no hunting Caskie among that black timber. They had hauled Sam back to the horses, made a cold camp of sorts and tried to comfort Sam, who knew he was going to die. Sam was, Farney said soberly, out of his head with pain. Jim would stay with Sam until he died, then pick up Caskie’s trail. He would blaze it so Farney would find him. What was needed now was more men.
“What about Kinnard and Dickey and that girl?”
“We were ahead of ’em, but they’re on Caskie’s trail. I followed the creek down, so I wouldn’t meet ’em. But the storekeeper said they were only a couple of hours behind us. When they find Caskie, that’s three guns to our two, Tom. And after hearing Caskie’s story, they’ll be hard to surprise.”
Gore’s lean face was tight with anger, and he stood up and gave Farney a look of contempt. “You had him, and you let him go,” he said. “Why didn’t you wait him out till daylight? You had his horse, didn’t you?”
Farney bristled. “We had to help Sam, and his moaning would have tolled Caskie right down on us.”
Gore seemed not to have heard him. He stood motionless, thinking. “How do you know the old coot’s name is Caskie?” he asked suddenly.
“That storekeeper told me.”
Gore sighed. “All right. I’ll come with you and bring a couple of hands. But tell ’em nothing, Farney. Not the real reason we want Caskie. Just say you surprised him driving off some Bar B beef and you reported it to me. You got that?”
For the first time he noted that Farney’s eyes were red, and he wondered if maybe Farney hadn’t done some quite weeping over the loss of his brother. Gore said as he moved over to the gun rack, “Sorry about Sam, Farney. His number just come up, like it will to all of us.”
“Sure,” Farney said stonily.
“Go ask the cook to feed you while the boys saddle up.”
Fifteen minutes later Farney, Gore, Loosh Wegner, and Henry Kitchell, a runty sparrow of a man, rode out of Bar B, headed for Williams Lake and beyond.
11
During breakfast the next morning Sophie listened while Traf gave Caskie final instructions. It was pretty much a repetition of what he had said the night before, except for one thing.
“When you get off the train at the Indian Bend depot, Caskie, don’t get off on the depot side. The agent there saw you, and if he’s on duty he might recognize you. Though I doubt it if you fix yourself up the way I’ve asked you to.”
“He never got much of a look at
me.”
“Well, don’t give him another one. Walk toward the front of the train and cut across to the hotel. Ask your way to Bucksaw there.”
Traf had apparently thought of everything, Sophie reflected, and she looked at him over her raised tin cup of coffee. He badly needed a shave, but his beard stubble did not blur the sharp lines of his face as Dickey’s stubble did his. For a fleeting moment Sophie remembered that at one time she had thought she would be seeing this face most mornings for the rest of her life. Yet now, in these circumstances, it was almost the face of a stranger, and a stubborn one at that.
Caskie rose in the chill morning and headed upstream for his mules while Dickey and Traf saddled the horses. They had the pack ready and loaded by the time Caskie came down the stream riding one mule and leading the other. Traf helped Caskie set his pack, and then he came over to help Sophie with her horse. He gave her a leg up, handed her the reins, and looked at her searchingly with something like the old affection in his expression.
“Just one more night on the ground, Sophie,” he said, “and you’ll be in your own bed.”
“I haven’t missed anything except mother’s cooking,” Sophie responded. Then she realized what she had said. She felt herself needlessly blushing and saw the mild irony in Traf’s face before he nodded and turned away.
Traf led the way along the creek bank to the spot where they had met Caskie yesterday, and he reined in. Sophie came up on his right and Caskie on his left. The rising sun was so bright that Traf raised a hand to shade his eyes as he looked at Caskie.
“Here’s where we split, Caskie. Just watch your back trail. See you in—”
The crash of a rifle rang out in the morning stillness and Caskie’s mule bellowed, tried to rear, but instead fell forward, throwing Caskie. Two more shots came immediately on the heels of the first and they caught Caskie’s led mule square in the chest and it went down.
“Get back up canyon, Sophie!” Traf called. Traf spurred his horse, heading for Caskie, who was struggling to his feet. Traf leaned over in his saddle, and without even pausing, threw an arm around Caskie’s shoulders and lifted him, hugged him to his leg and turned up canyon.
Already Sophie was out of sight, and Dickey with a led pack horse was following her. More shots were searching out the brush that was screening them. Then, where the course of the stream bent, they were all sheltered by the canyon walls.
Traf let go of Caskie and called to Dickey, who had halted. “Russ, get your rifle and watch that back trail.” To Caskie he said, “Sure enough, it’s you they want, old-timer.”
“They got both my mules,” Caskie said incredulously.
Dickey passed them afoot, running back for the jut of rock that shielded them.
Traf looked at Sophie and saw she was white-faced and shaky. He looked around him. They had to get out of this canyon before they were trapped in it.
Traf dismounted, took his rope, and moved over to the led horse. He fastened a hackamore out of the rope, and beckoned to Caskie. “We’ve got to get out of here, old-timer,” Traf said. “Here’s your mount. We’ll scatter the stuff among us when we get to a safe spot.” He raised his voice then and called, “Let’s go, Russ.”
Dickey came hurrying back, and Traf moved his horse over to Sophie. “Keep behind me, Sophie.”
“There seems to be so many of them,” Sophie said. “Who are they, Traf?”
“I don’t know, but they mean business, Sophie. Come along.”
They retraced their route past their camp and when they reached the mesa where Caskie’s mules had been pastured, Traf halted them, and posted Dickey as a lookout. Then he and Caskie distributed their blankets and camp gear on the four horses. The breeze that came off the peaks was chill and clouds were beginning to pile up above them.
When they had finished, Traf led the horses over to Sophie and handed her their reins. “You’re the horse holder, Sophie. Caskie and I are going over to Dickey and make medicine.”
He and Caskie went to Dickey, who was kneeling peering over the rim of the mesa.
They squatted on the ground beside him, and Traf said, “Keep watching, Russ. How many would you say was in that bunch?”
“At least four,” Dickey said. “Them two shots that killed the second mule came too close together to be from one rifle. The last shot came from a different direction.”
“That’s the way I read it,” Traf said. “Get a look at any of ’em?”
Dickey looked at him in surprise. “God, no! Did you?”
“I was busy,” Traf said dryly.
Dickey, still keeping his lookout, said, “What do we do now, Traf? Split up?”
“They’d only split up too, and one of ’em would draw Caskie.” He turned to Caskie. “You know this country at all, Caskie?”
“Nope. It’s new to me.”
“You, Russ?”
“Same thing.”
“Same with me,” Traf said. “But I remember hearing something about it. It happened maybe ten years ago when I was out of the country. They struck gold at a place called Hanging Lake. That’s supposed to be north of Williams Lake, and higher up.”
Without turning his head, Dickey asked, “What about it?”
“We’ve got to find some place to fort up, Russ. And find it today. I figure there’s bound to be some buildings still standing at that old camp.”
Again Dickey looked at him in surprise. “Ain’t that what they want? Corner us and kill Caskie.”
“Sure. But you know what I want, Russ? I want to find out who they are?”
“They’ll never get close enough to let you find out,” Dickey said.
“But they’ll have to if they want Caskie.”
“I say split up,” Dickey said in a surly tone.
Caskie’s glance kept shifting from one speaker to the other. They were discussing him as if he weren’t there.
“Think a minute, Russ. Why do we need Caskie?”
“To identify Braden’s killer.”
“All right. Braden’s killer’s in that bunch, isn’t he? He has to be along to identify Caskie. You can bet he’s the man who fired the first shot down there.”
Dickey looked at him with anger in his loose face. “My God, we’re being hunted, and you say we ought to hunt them!”
“Now you’ve caught on, Russ.” Traf looked at Caskie. “Make sense, old-timer? If we get the man that opened up on you down there, you can sleep nights from here on in.”
“I’d like that,” Caskie said grimly.
Traf stood up and said, “Let’s go, Russ.”
Back at the horses, they mounted and Traf asked Sophie to ride beside him. They headed north, and as they went Traf explained his plan. Sophie accepted it without comment; and Traf, after waiting a while, said, “What are you thinking, Sophie?”
Sophie looked directly at him. “If I told you, you’d only make fun of me.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“All right. I can find my way back home, and not because mother’s there. It’s just that these men aren’t fighting me and they’ll let me pass through. Maybe I could get a look at them and when you get back to Indian Bend I can tell you who they were.”
“They’d scatter like quail on sight of you, Sophie. They mustn’t be seen, and they know it.”
“It was just a thought,” Sophie said.
“And a kind one,” Traf answered.
All through that long day they kept to the sparse and sometimes barren high country. In such open country they could see at a great distance the men who were following them, and they saw that they were five in number instead of four. If Traf had any thought of dropping himself or Dickey off to hide and identify them, he gave it up. They were in sight of the five men, just as the five were in sight of them.
By mid-afternoon they picked up an old wagon road coming from the east and following a stream, and Traf guessed that this would take them to Hanging Lake. They were almost to the timberline and just below the peaks
when they came in sight of the abandoned mining camp at the lake.
It was a small lake fringed by sparse timber, and on its far shore was a scattering of log buildings. Even at this distance Traf could see that most of the roofs and walls had been caved in by the deep snows of ten winters. Beyond the buildings and farther up the steep slope were mine tunnels easily spotted by the dumps of waste rock at their entrances.
They skirted the lake and halted among the wreckage of the buildings. While Dickey watered the horses, the others examined the structures. There were a couple with solid walls, but they were roofless. Traf halted by one and looked up the slope.
“What is it, Traf?” Sophie asked.
“This is no good,” Traf said. “They can put a couple of men up there and fire down on us.”
Caskie lifted his arm and pointed. “Not if you’re in one of them tunnels.” His high-pitched voice was positive.
“We’ll need wood, Caskie.”
“I’ll bet you’ve got it,” Caskie said. “Let me look.” He climbed to the nearest tunnel and disappeared inside. In a few minutes he came back down the talus slope and halted before them.
“Like I figured, it’s timbered. There’s a cross-cut in that one. Us and the horses will be out of the line of fire. I heard water fallin’ farther back in the tunnel, so we ain’t got that to worry about. It’ll take the horses too.”
“There’s our answer, Caskie. Is it dry?”
“In the cross-cut it is.”
When Dickey returned with the horses, Traf told him of the decision to fort up in the tunnel, and Dickey commented sourly, “Cornered like rats, just like they’ll want it.”
“That’s right,” Traf said easily.
Caskie went ahead up the slope, leading his horse, and the others followed with theirs. Caskie’s horse balked at entering the tunnel, and Caskie handed the hackamore rope to Traf.
“Now what, old-timer?” Traf asked.
“Tie your jacket over his eyes. I’m goin’ in and build me some fires. Come along when I call you.”
Traf handed the hackamore rope and his reins to Dickey, and then he followed Caskie’s instruction, tying his jacket over the horse’s eyes. The horse was then docile, and he led it into the tunnel.