Dead Man's Trail (9781101606957)

by Leslie, Frank

  The sun made a shimmering gold line along the stallion’s broad back.

  Even as he sawed the slender log stretched across the sawhorses, he was looking toward her, for he’d obviously heard her and Taos riding toward him. He had a shell belt and a holstered revolver slung over the corral, near his buckskin shirt, and a rifle with a brass receiver leaned against a post, below the pistol.

  His black, sweat-damp hair dangled to his broad, muscular shoulders, his skin the color of varnished cherry. Sweat glistened on his bulging arms and on the heavy slabs of his thick chest that formed a mantle beneath his stout brown neck. He’d been quite a vision working and sweating there in the midafternoon, high-country sunshine. He paused in his sawing to watch her and then, as she came on, feeling apprehensive but also curious, he resumed sawing the log, causing the ridged muscles of his shoulders, arms, and chest to ripple like sun-gilded waves, until the cut log tumbled off the sawhorse to lie at his moccasin-clad feet.

  She stopped Taos a ways from the corral and canted her head to one side, studying him, feeling miffed at first to find someone here, for she’d considered the cabin her own sacred refuge. But her annoyance disappeared beneath her fascination for the man, obviously a mixed breed, whom she was surprised to find here at work on the dilapidated corral.

  “Have you moved in?” she called.

  He’d picked up the cut log and was placing it between two corral posts, sliding it into two notches he’d made in the posts. He shook his head. “Buildin’ up the corral so we can corral some horses here next week.” His voice was deep, but it had the light ring of a white man, not the harsh tones of an Indian speaking English.

  He hammered one end of the new rail into the old post with the heel of his hand.

  “I usually stop here for water,” she said.

  The black stallion, turned sideways to her, was watching her and Taos obliquely, its ears twitching, its shaggy tail arched.

  “Help yourself,” the black-haired man said. “But you’d best let that palo cool off first.”

  “I know to do that,” she said defensively, stepping down from her saddle.

  She walked Taos in several broad circles in front of the cabin, watching as the big red black-haired man continued working, placing the one rail and then cutting another slender pine pole to replace another one that had rotted out. He didn’t look at her as she walked and he continued working. His black hair danced about his broad shoulders, and the banded muscles in his stomach expanded and contracted as he bent and stretched and squatted and sawed another length of log—a man at home in his own fine body, a man both accustomed to and adept at hard labor.

  Finally, when Taos had warmed down, she led the gelding into the corral. The two horses nickered curiously, a little warningly, and then Taos took his eyes off the arch-tailed black and dipped his snout in the rain barrel abutting the side of the cabin, in the swatch of purple shade there, and drew water.

  The man glanced at her, and she noted the sunlight glinting off his eyes like chips of jade embedded in a dark granite mountain wall. The stallion whinnied and came prancing aggressively over to the palomino. The palo lifted its snout from the water with a start, sidestepping and ramming Glendolene back against the corner of the cabin. She gave a groan as something cut into her arm, and she pushed the palo’s hindquarters back away from her with an angry grunt.

  “Easy, easy, boy!” the man said.

  The black shuffled around, bobbing its head half playfully, half territorially, and the palo lifted its own head and backed away, eyes nervous, fearful. The man stepped between them, rammed his left shoulder against the black, and turned the stallion away to go prancing, mane buffeting, around the corral, swinging and bobbing his fine head.

  “Don’t mind him—he’s just showing off.” The man moved to her, grabbed her arm. “Are you hurt?”

  She looked down at the large red-brown hand wrapped around her forearm as he canted his head to look at where a nail had scraped against her upper arm, tearing her white cotton blouse above her elbow.

  “Are you all right, Glendolene?”

  Her husband’s voice nudged her from the reverie and she found herself staring at the man sitting across from her in the lurching coach—a bearded prospector in a scruffy watch cap and muffler heading back to his home in Dakota for Christmas. The miner slept with his head tipped forward, snoring. Glendolene realized she was sort of half smiling, and an embarrassed flush rose in her cheeks.

  She glanced at Lee riding to her right, another married couple riding to her left, the four of them facing forward while four other travelers, including the prospector, faced them.

  “I’m fine,” she said, vaguely wondering why a smile would have Lee so concerned.

  Did she smile so seldom?

  She remembered that what had spawned the reverie was seeing the man who’d taken center stage in it as the coach had pulled out of Wolfville—the man whose name she’d never learned, and had never wanted to learn—and now a hollow feeling swept over her. The hollowness became a lonely ache, and suddenly she felt as though she was about to cry.

  She tried to suppress the feeling, but then it was aggravated by a feeling she’d woken up to several mornings in a row, terrifying her. It terrified her now.

  She squeezed her hands around the small leather traveling purse she held on her lap, fighting it, staring out the window. It wouldn’t leave her. In fact, she felt sweat breaking out on her forehead, and then her upper lip trembled until she felt as though she was about to convulse with a sob.

  She turned to Lee and tried hard to pitch her voice evenly as she said, “In fact, I do feel a little under the weather. Do you think you could have the driver stop so I could get some air?”

  The other passengers looked at her concernedly—all except the still-dozing prospector—as Lee said, “Certainly.”

  Lee removed his bowler hat and tilted his head out the window to yell up at the driver, “Mr. Adlard, can you halt the team? Mrs. Mendenhour is needing a break.”

  He had to yell several times before he could make the jehu understand him. When the stage had lurched to a stop, dust rising outside the windows, Lee opened the door and stepped out quickly, his eyes concerned. He took Glendolene’s arm as she rose a little unsteadily from the hide-covered seat and ducked through the door. She waved him off and did not look at the shotgun messenger, who said, “Everything all right, ma’am?” but merely nodded her head and hurried off through the boulders and shrubs lining the trail.

  Glendolene felt foolish, but she also felt genuinely sick. When the stage was out of sight behind her, she dropped to her knees, felt the nausea rise out of her belly, and retched in the rocks and gravel before her. When she finished, she opened her leather traveling purse, extracted a handkerchief, and wiped her lips with it.

  A woman’s voice said behind her, “Does he know?”

  Glendolene jerked her head around, saw one of the other two women from the stage standing behind her—a plain-faced, red-haired woman with expressive blue eyes and a long, thin mouth that smiled understandingly. A mole adorned her chin, a little off center. She wore a man’s striped blanket coat over a brown wool dress and short fur boots. She wore a green knitted scarp over her head, covering her ears against the wintry cold that had finally descended on the northern Rockies.

  “Does who know what?”

  “Does your husband know about your condition?” the woman said. She stepped forward and continued to smile kindly down at Glendolene. “Believe me, miss, I know the symptoms of pregnancy. You couldn’t have been regular sick, because it all happened so fast, and I’d say the morning sickness was brought on by a mood as much as all the bouncing around.”

  She hitched her skirts up her thighs, beneath the heavy coat, and dropped to a knee beside Glendolene. “I’m from Whitfield, over yonder. I helped Doc O’Reilly
out for years with his female patients. Had a few babes myself, though they all died.”

  Glendolene looked at her, feeling stricken. She’d figured she was pregnant, but this woman seemed to validate her fears, caused her now to stare at the cold, hard fact of her condition.

  “Oh,” the woman said understandingly. “It’s not as happy a time as it might be, is it?”

  Glendolene looked away as she dabbed at her lips, felt tears dribble down her cheeks. She felt lonely and hollow, and the breadth and starkness of the country around her—the rolling, sage-covered hills with occasional rust-colored rimrocks rising here and there seemed to intensify the emotion. Guilt racked her, as well, because the realization that she was undeniably pregnant also made her realize how much she didn’t want the child.

  Her unexpected confidante said, “I’m sure, once you tell him, he’ll be thrilled. All the men are!”

  “Yes,” Glendolene said, feigning an optimistic smile. “Yes, I suppose he will. . . .” And he would be, she knew, and that also made her feel guilty, because she herself was not.

  “Where are my manners?” the blond woman said. “I’m Lori. Lori O’Reilly. Dr. O’Reilly’s wife. His widow. Heart attack took him last spring, and I’m moving up to Montana now. One of my nephews is up there, offered to take me in. And you’re . . . ?”

  “Glendolene Mendenhour.”

  Lori O’Reilly frowned curiously.

  “Prosecutor Mendenhour is my husband.”

  “Oh . . . ,” Lori said, obviously impressed. “You live out at the . . . ?”

  “The Chain Link, yes.”

  “Nice place, I hear.”

  “It’s not bad,” Glendolene said, unable not to add, “A little isolated.”

  “I suppose it is. Especially for one in your condition.” Mrs. O’Reilly pulled a small flask out of her coat pocket and popped the cork. “Here, take some of this. Don’t worry. It’s just water, though it probably has a brandy taste to it. It’s the doc’s.” She smiled, and her smile contributed to Glendolene’s sadness because it told her how much the woman missed the doctor, whom she’d never see again.

  “Thank you.” She accepted the flask and took a sip. The water was still cold. It refreshed her, took some of the heat out of the uncomfortable flush she still felt in her face, and some of the pain from the dull ache in her head.

  She handed the flask back to Mrs. O’Reilly, who corked it and slipped it back into her coat. “I’m better now.” Mrs. O’Reilly took her arm and helped her rise from her knees. “I’m ready to ride, though the thought of it still makes me a little queasy, I’m afraid.”

  “We’ll be stopping again soon, Mrs. Mendenhour. The Eagle Butte Station is just a few more miles up the trail. They’ll have food there. That’ll put some color back into your cheeks.”

  Glendolene liked the woman’s open, almost salty demeanor. She didn’t seem like many doctors’ wives she’d known. Most of them were persnickety.

  “Please call me Glendolene.”

  “Only if you call me Lori.”

  The two women walked back through the rocks to the stage. Of the passengers, only Lee and the bearded prospector had destaged. The young married couple and two men who appeared to be traveling drummers were still on board, conversing in a desultory way. The driver and the shotgun messenger were standing up in front of the team, glancing down at one of the lead horses’ hooves and conversing, while the prospector stood near the stage’s front wheel, smoking a loosely rolled quirley and staring obliquely at Glendolene and Mrs. O’Reilly.

  “Feeling better, Glen?” Lee said, stepping forward.

  “Much better,” Glendolene said. She had turned to Mrs. O’Reilly to thank the woman for the water and the encouragement when a strained look crumpled the woman’s face and she lurched straight back with a scream. A quarter second later, before Glendolene had time to react, a rifle cracked hollowly.

  “Injuns!” the old prospector screamed, pointing along their back trail. “Oh, Lordy, it’s Injuns!”

  Chapter 12

  Yakima jerked sharply back on Wolf’s reins. As the horse ground its front hooves into the turf with an indignant whinny, the half-breed shucked his Winchester from his saddle boot and leaped out of the leather.

  Ahead of him, rifles cracked and pistols popped as a pack of Floyd Betajack’s and Claw Hendricks’s killers whooped and hollered, galloping toward the stage. The coach was stopped along the trail ahead and left of Yakima, about thirty yards away. The killers were on his right, galloping toward him and the stage. Both parties were below his perch on the shoulder of a steep bluff.

  Half an hour before, he’d been surprised to see the gang ahead instead of behind him. Apparently, they’d done fast work at the whorehouse and then taken a shortcut through rough country to work ahead of Yakima, getting between him and the stage. Soon after he’d seen them, he’d done his own working around. Now he dropped behind a boulder along the side of the bluff and planted a bead on one of the three riders racing toward the stage, expertly firing their rifles while at the same time steering their horses.

  Yakima squeezed the Yellowboy’s trigger. The rifle leaped and roared. The middle rider released his reins and his rifle at the same time and rolled off the back of his striding cream stallion.

  Again, Yakima fired and watched in satisfaction as the second of the three lead riders lurched sharply sideways, losing his own rifle as he reached for his saddle horn. His gloved right hand slid off the horn, and he gave a scream as he careened down his right stirrup and bounced along the trail behind his swerving roan.

  The third rider had only just glanced over his shoulder at his still-bouncing and rolling companions when Yakima unseated him, too, and turned his attention to two more riders galloping behind the first three, with the rest of the dozen-man pack feathered out behind them for nearly a hundred yards.

  Yakima had just planted a bead on a fourth killer when the man’s horse rammed a knee against the head of one of the first three riders Yakima had downed. The horse gave a shrill whinny as the knee buckled and it turned a somersault over the downed man while launching its own rider high in the hair to be battered by the horse’s flailing, scissoring hooves.

  Yakima drew another bead, but a bullet crashed into the boulder a few inches to his right, and his next shot sailed wide of the rider who’d shot at him—the next rider in the pack. Yakima cocked the Yellowboy once more and shot true this time, his bullet hammering through the rider’s face and snapping his head back sharply.

  The man’s arms fell slack. His hat blew off behind him. He sat suspended in the saddle for several seconds before he turned slowly to his left, then fell down that side of his horse, his left boot getting hung up in the stirrup. The rider’s horse dragged its dead rider along past Yakima’s position and then off the trail beyond him, swinging east.

  Yakima racked another cartridge into the Yellowboy’s chamber but held fire. The other riders were turning back, shouting and waving their arms at those behind them, apparently believing they’d been caught in a trap—one likely set by more than just one man.

  Since he was only one man against an entire pack, Yakima was glad they’d made the mistake. He doubted, however, they’d make many more.

  He turned to the stage sitting fifty yards away, two passengers crouched over a fallen one. The fallen one appeared to be a woman. A redhead, not a chestnut-haired beauty, as he knew the county prosecutor’s wife to be. Two men whom Yakima assumed were the driver and the shotgun messenger were each hunkered behind separate rear wheels, aiming rifles toward the pack that had attacked them, but also turning their heads slightly to frown curiously at Yakima.

  The half-breed glanced once more at the retreating killers, hearing their hoof thuds dwindling quickly, dust sifting, then turned back to the stage and waved his rifle in the air above his head.
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  “Haul ass!” he shouted.

  The driver and the shotgun rider looked at each other. Then the jehu, Charlie Adlard, shouted, “Who the hell are you?”

  Yakima cursed and then shouted louder, “Haul your asses the hell out of here now!”

  Shoving fresh cartridges through the Yellowboy’s receiver, Yakima walked back to where Wolf cropped at patches of still-green grass amongst the dried-up yellow buck brush, on the far side of the bluff, and mounted up. He slid the Yellowboy back into its boot and sat staring in the direction the riders had gone.

  They’d disappeared into a low area between him and a rise of dun hogbacks shrouded with leafless aspens. He thought a thin tendril of smoke lifted from around the base of the hill, but he couldn’t be sure.

  What the hell are you doing? he thought. You got out of one mess in Wolfville to put yourself into another one out here. You should aim Wolf at the Dakota territorial line and powder some sage, get the gold to Belle Fourche before you get caught out here in one storm or another, likely a lead storm.

  He knew from experience that those were even worse than snow.

  Yeah, I should.

  “But I’m not,” he grumbled aloud.

  Not only because of the woman he’d thrown down a few times with in the line shack. But because he couldn’t just ride on and let the killers do what they intended, because other innocent people besides her were likely to die. He owed Mendenhour nothing. But Betajack and Hendricks would likely make everyone else on the stage suffer for what they saw as the prosecutor’s transgressions. They’d leave no witnesses.

  Yakima would follow the stage as far as Jawbone simply because, with the lawmen in Wolfville dead, there was no one else to help. The jehu would find a lawman in Jawbone, another day up the line, and the law could take over the guiding duties, or hire a posse to see the coach safely to Belle Fourche.

  Yakima glanced at the sky. There were some broad masses of thin pewter clouds high above him, but around that benign mass was blue sky. Maybe he’d still get south to warmer weather before the snow boxed him in.