L'Amour, Louis - Novel 02

by Crossfire Trail

  Before, Shute had tolerated Barkow. Now a definite break had been made, and with each mile of their escape, Barkow became more frightened. There was no way back now. He would be killed on sight, for Dan Shute was not a man to forgive or tolerate such a thing.

  It was only on the girl’s insistence that he stopped for a rest, and to give the horses a much needed blow. They took it, while Ann sat on the grass, and Bruce paced the ground, his eyes searching the trail over which they had come. When they were in the saddle again, he seemed to relax, to come to himself..Then he looked at her.

  “You might think I’m a coward,” he said, “but it’s just that I’m afraid what Shute would do if he got his hands on you. I’m no gunfighter. He’d kill us both.”

  “I know.” She nodded gravely.

  This man who was to be her husband impressed her less at every moment. Somehow his claim that he was thinking of her failed to ring with sincerity. Yet with all his faults, he was probably only a weak man, a man cut out for civilization and not for the frontier.

  They rode on, and the miles piled up behind them.

  Chapter XII

  RAFE CARADEC awakened with a start to the sound of a bugle. It took him several seconds to realize that he was in bed at the Fort. Then he remembered. The commanding officer had refused to allow the surgeon to leave before morning, and then only with an escort. With Lieutenant Ryson and eight men they would form a scouting patrol, would circle around by Crazy Woman, then cut back toward the Fort.

  The party at the Fort was small, for the place had been abandoned several years before, and had been utilized only for a few weeks as a base for scouting parties when fear of an Indian outbreak began to grow. It was no longer an established post, but merely a camp.

  Further to the south there was a post at Fort Fetterman, named for the leader of the troops trapped in the Fetterman Massacre. A wagon train had been attacked within a short distance of Fort Phil Kearney and a group of seventy-nine soldiers and two civilians were to march out to relieve them under command of Major James Powell, a skilled Indian fighter. However, Brevet Lieutenant Colonel Fetterman had used his rank to take over the command, and had ridden out. Holding the fighting ability of the Indians in contempt, Fetterman had pursued some of them beyond a ridge. Firing had been heard. When other troops were sent out from the Fort they discovered Fetterman and his entire command wiped out, about halfway down the ridge. The wagon train they had gone to relieve reached the Fort later, unaware of the encounter.

  Getting into his clothes, Rafe hurried outside. The first person he met was Ryson.

  “Good morning, Caradec!” Ryson said, grinning. “Bugle wake you up?”

  Caradec nodded. “It isn’t the first time.”

  “You’ve been in the service then?” Ryson asked, glancing at him quickly.

  “Yes.” Rafe glanced around the stockade. “I was with Sully. In Mexico for a while, too, and Guatemala.”

  Ryson glanced at him. “Then you’re that Caradec? Man, I’ve heard of you! Major Skehan will be pleased to know. He’s an admirer of yours, sir!”

  He nodded toward two weary, dust-covered horses.

  “You’re not the only arrival from Painted Rock,” Ryson said. “Those horses came in last night. Almost daylight, in fact, with two riders. A chap named Barkow and a girl. Pretty, too, the lucky dog!”

  Rafe turned on him, his eyes sharp. “A woman? A girl?”

  Ryson looked surprised. “Why, yes. Her name’s Rodney. She—”

  “Where is she?” Rafe snapped. “Where is she now?”

  Ryson smiled slightly. “Why, that’s her over there! A friend of yours?”

  But Rafe was gone.

  Ann was standing in the door of one of the partly reconstructed buildings. When she saw him her eyes widened.

  “Rafe! You here? Then you got away?”

  “I came after a doctor for Marsh. He’s in a bad way.” He tossed the remark aside, studying her face. “Ann, what are you doing here with Barkow?”

  His tone nettled her. “Why? How does it concern you?”

  “Your father asked me to take care of you,” he said, “and if you married Bruce Barkow, I certainly wouldn’t be doin’ it!”

  “Oh?” Her voice was icy. “Still claiming you knew my father? Well, Mr. Caradec, I think you’d be much better off to forget that story. I don’t know where you got the idea, or how, or what made you believe you could get away with it, but it won’t do! I’ve been engaged to Bruce for months. I intend to marry him now. There’s a chaplain here. Then we’ll go on to the river and down to St. Louis. There’s a steamer on the way up that we can meet.”

  “I won’t let you do it, Ann,” Rafe said harshly.

  Her weariness, her irritation, and something else brought quick anger to her face and lips.

  “You won’t let me? You have nothing to do with it! It simply isn’t any of your business! Now, if you please, I’m waiting for Bruce. Will you go?”

  “No,” he said violently. “I won’t! I’ll say again what I said before. I knew your father. He gave me a deed givin’ us the ranch. He asked me to care for you. He also gave me the receipt that Bruce Barkow gave him for the mortgage money. I wanted things to be different, Ann. I—”

  “Caradec!” Ryson called. “We’re ready!”

  He glanced around. The small column awaited him, and his horse was ready. For an instant he glanced back at the girl. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing.

  “Oh, what’s the use?” he flared. “Marry who you blasted well please!”

  Wheeling, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle, riding away without a backward glance.

  Lips parted to speak, Ann Rodney stared after the disappearing riders. Suddenly all her anger was gone. She found herself gazing at the closing gate of the stockade and fighting a mounting sense of panic.

  What had she done? Suppose what Rafe had said was the truth? What had he ever done to make her doubt him?

  Confused, puzzled by her own feelings for this stranger of whom she knew so little, yet who stirred her so deeply, she was standing there, one hand partly upraised when she saw two men come around the corner of the building. Both wore the rough clothing of miners.

  They paused near her, one a stocky, thick-set man with a broad, hard jaw, the other a slender, blond young man.

  “Ma’am,” the younger man said, “we just come in from the river. The Major was tellin’ us you were goin’ back that way?”

  She nodded dumbly, then forced herself to speak. “Yes, we are going to the river with some of the troops.”

  “We come up the Powder from the Yellowstone, ma’am,” the younger man said, “and if you could tell us where to find your husband, we might sell him our boats.”

  She shook her head. “I’m not married yet. You will have to see my fiance, Bruce Barkow. He’s in the mess hall.”

  The fellow hesitated, turning his hat in his hand. “Ma’am, they said you was from Painted Rock. Ever hear tell of a man named Rafe Caradec over there?”

  She stiffened. “Rafe Caradec?” She looked at him quickly. “You know him?”

  He nodded, pleased by her sudden interest. “Yes, ma’am. We were shipmates of his. Me and my partner over there, Rock Mullaney. My name is Penn, ma’am, Roy Penn.”

  Suddenly her heart was pounding. She looked at him and bit her under lip. Then she said, carefully, “You were on a ship with him?”

  “That’s right.”

  Penn was puzzled and growing wary. After all, there was the manner of their leaving. Of course, that was months ago, and they were far from the sea now, but that still hung over them.

  “Was there—aboard that ship—a man named Rodney?”

  Ann couldn’t look at them now. She stared at the stockade, almost afraid to hear their reply. Vaguely, she realized that Bruce Barkow was approaching.

  “Rodney? Shorest thing you know! Charles Rodney. Nice feller, too. He died off the California coast after—” He hesitated. “Ma�
��am, you ain’t no relation of his now?”

  “I’m Charles Rodney’s daughter.”

  “Oh?” Then Perm’s eyes brightened. “Say, then you’re the girl Rafe was lookin’ for when he come over here! Think of that!” He turned. “Hey, Rock! This here’s that Ann Rodney, the girl Rafe came here to see! You know, Charlie’s daughter!”

  Bruce Barkow stopped dead still. His dark face was suddenly wary. “What was that?” he said sharply. “What did you say?”

  Penn stared at him. “No reason to get excited, mister. Yeah, we knew this young lady’s father aboard ship. He was shanghaied out of San Francisco!”

  Bruce Barkow’s face was cold. Here it was at the last minute. This did it. He was trapped now. He could see in Ann’s face the growing realization of how he had lied, how he had betrayed her, and even—he could see that coming into her eyes too—the idea that he had killed her father.

  Veins swelled in his forehead and throat. He glared at Penn, half crouching, like some cornered animal. “You’re a liar!” he snarled.

  “Don’t call me that!” Penn said fiercely. “I’m not wearing a gun, mister!”

  If Barkow heard the last words they made no impression. His hand was already sweeping down. Penn stepped back, throwing his arms wide, and Bruce Barkow, his face livid with the fury of frustration, whipped up a gun and shot him twice through the body. Penn staggered back, uncomprehending, staring. “No-gun!” he gasped. “I don’t-gun.” He staggered into an Army wagon, reeled, and fell headlong.

  Bruce Barkow stared at the fallen man, then his contorted face turned upward. On the verge of escape and success he had been trapped, and now he had become a killer!

  Wheeling, he sprang into the saddle. The gate was open for a wood wagon, and he whipped the horse through it, shouting hoarsely. Men had rushed from everywhere. Rock Mullaney, staring in shocked surprise, could only fumble at his belt. He wore no gun either. He looked up at Ann. “We carried rifles,” he muttered. “We never figgered on no trouble!” Then he rubbed his face, sense returning to his eyes. “Ma’am, what did he shoot him for?”

  She stared at him, humbled by the grief written on the man’s hard, lonely face. “That man, Barkow, killed my father!” she said.

  “No, ma’am. If you’re Charlie Rodney’s daughter, Charlie died aboard ship with us.”

  She nodded. “I know, but Barkow was responsible. Oh, I’ve been a fool! An awful fool!”

  An officer was kneeling over Penn’s body. He got up, glanced at Mullaney, then at Ann. “This man is dead,” he said.

  Resolution came suddenly to Ann. “Major,” she said, “I’m going to catch that patrol. Will you lend me a fresh horse? Ours will still be badly worn-out after last night.”

  “It wouldn’t be safe, Miss Rodney,” he protested. “It wouldn’t at all. There’s Indians out there. How Caradec got through, or you and Barkow, is beyond me.” He gestured to the body. “What do you know about this?” Briefly, concisely, she explained, telling all. She made no attempt to spare herself or to leave anything out. She outlined the entire affair, taking only a few minutes.

  “I see.” He looked thoughtfully at the gate. “If I could give you an escort, I would, but—”

  “If she knows the way,” Mullaney said, “I’ll go with her. We came down the river from Fort Benton, then up the Yellowstone and the Powder. We thought we would come and see how Rafe was gettin’ along. If we’d knowed there was trouble, we’d have come before.”

  “It’s as much as your life is worth, man,” the major warned.

  Mullaney shrugged. “Like as not, but my life has had chances taken with it before. Besides”—he ran his fingers over his bald head—“there’s no scalp here to attract Injuns!”

  Well-mounted, Ann and Mullaney rode swiftly. The patrol would be hurrying because of Bo Marsh’s serious condition, but they should overtake them, and following was no immediate problem.

  Mullaney knew the West and had fought before in his life as a wandering jack-of-all-trades. He was not upset by the chance they were taking. He glanced from time to time at Ann. Then rambling along, he began to give her an account of their life aboard ship, of the friendship that had grown between her father and Rafe Caradec, and all Rafe had done to spare the older man work and trouble.

  He told her how Rafe had treated Rodney’s wounds when he had been beaten, how he saved food for him, and how close the two had grown. Twice, noting her grief and shame, he ceased talking, but each time she insisted on his continuing.

  “Caradec?” Mullaney said finally. “Well, I’d say he was one of the finest men I’ve known. A fighter, he is! The lad’s a fighter from way back! You should have seen the beatin’ he gave that Borger! I got only a glimpse, but Penn told me about it. And if it hadn’t been for Rafe none of us would have got away. He planned it, and he carried it out. He planned it before your father’s last trouble—the trouble that killed him—but when he saw your father would die, he carried on with it.”

  They rode on in silence. All the time, Ann knew now, she should have trusted her instincts. Always they had warned her about Bruce Barkow, always they had been sure of Rafe Caradec. As she sat in the jury box and watched him talk, handling his case, it had been his sincerity that impressed her, even more than his shrewd handling of questions.

  He had killed men, yes. But what men! Bonaro and Trigger Boyne, both acknowledged and boastful killers of men themselves. Men unfit to walk in the tracks of such as Rafe. She had to find him! She must!

  The wind was chill, and she glanced at Mullaney.

  “It’s cold,” she said. “It feels like snow!”

  He nodded grimly. “It does that!” he said. “Early for it, but it’s happened before. If we get a norther now-” He shook his head.

  They made camp while it was still light. Mullaney built a fire of dry sticks that gave off almost no smoke. Water was heated, and they made coffee. While Ann was fixing the little food they had, he rubbed the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.

  “Can you find your way in the dark?” he asked her.

  “Yes, I think so. It is fairly easy from here, for we have the mountains. That highest peak will serve as a landmark unless there are too many clouds.”

  “All right,” he said, “we’ll keep movin’.”

  She found herself liking the burly seaman and cowhand. He helped her smother the fire and wipe out traces of it.

  “If we can stick to the trail of the soldiers,” he said, “it’ll confuse the Injuns. They’ll think we’re with their party.”

  They started on. Ann led off, keeping the horses at a fast walk. Night fell, and with it, the wind grew stronger. After an hour of travel, Ann reined in.

  Mullaney rode up beside her. “What’s the matter?”

  She indicated the tracks of a single horse crossing the route of the soldiers.

  “You think it’s this Barkow?” He nodded as an idea came. “It could be. The soldiers don’t know what happened back there. He might ride with ‘em for protection.”

  Another thought came to him. He looked at Ann keenly. “Suppose he’d try to kill Caradec?”

  Her mind jumped. “Oh, no!” She was saying no to the thought, not to the possibility. She knew it was a possibility. What did Bruce have to lose? He was already a fugitive, and another killing would make it no worse. And Rafe Caradec had been the cause of it all.

  “He might,” she agreed. “He might, at that.”

  Miles to the west, Bruce Barkow, his rifle across his saddle, leaned into the wind. He had followed the soldiers for a way, and the idea of a snipe shot at Caradec stayed in his mind. He could do it, and they would think the Indians had done it.

  But there was a better way. A way to get at them all. If he could ride on ahead, reach Gill and Marsh before the patrol did, he might kill them, then get Caradec when he approached. If then he could get rid of Shute, Gomer would have to swing with him to save something from the mess. Maybe Dan Shute’s idea was right, after all! May
be killing was the solution.

  Absorbed by the possibilities of the idea, Barkow turned off the route followed by the soldiers. There was a way that could make it safer and somewhat faster. He headed for the old Bozeman Trail, now abandoned.

  He gathered his coat around him to protect him from the increasing cold. His mind was fevered with worry, doubt of himself, and mingled with it was hatred of Caradec, Shute, Ann Rodney, and everything. He drove on into the night.

  Twice, he stopped to rest. The second time he started on, it was turning gray with morning. As he swung into saddle, a snowflake touched his cheek.

  He thought little of it. His horse was uneasy, though, and anxious for the trail. Snow was not a new thing, and Barkow scarcely noticed as the flakes began to come down thicker and faster.

  Gill and the wounded man had disappeared, he knew. Shute’s searchers had not found them near the house. Bruce Barkow had visited that house many times before the coming of Caradec, and he knew the surrounding hills well. About a half mile back from the house, sheltered by a thick growth of lodgepole, was a deep cave among some rocks. If Johnny Gill had found that cave, he might have moved Marsh there. It was, at least, a chance.

  Bruce Barkow was not worried about the tracks he was leaving. Few Indians would be moving in this inclement weather. Nor would the party from the Fort have come this far north. From the route they had taken he knew they were keeping to the low country.

  He was nearing the first range of fopthills now, the hills that divided Long Valley from the open plain that sloped gradually away to the Powder and the old Bozeman Trail. He rode into the pines and started up the trail, intent upon death. His mind was sharpened like that of a hungry coyote. Cornered and defeated for the prize himself, his only way out, either for victory or revenge, lay in massacre. Wholesale killing.

  It was like him that having killed once, he did not hesitate to accept the idea of killing again.

  He did not see the big man on the gray horse who fell in behind him. He did not glance back over his trail, although by now the thickening snow obscured the background so much that the rider, gaining slowly on him through the storm, would have been no more than a shadow.