L'Amour, Louis - Novel 02

by Crossfire Trail

  “Well, I’m not stayin’,” Rafe told him. “I’m going to look for Tex Brisco.”

  The door was pushed open and they looked around. It was Pod Gomer. The sheriff looked even squarer and more bulky in a heavy buffalo coat. He cast a bleak look at Caradec, then walked to the fire, sliding out of his overcoat.

  “You still here?” he asked, glancing at Rafe out of the corners of his eyes.

  “Yes, I’m still here, Gomer, but you’re traveling.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You can wait till the storm is over, then get out, and keep movin’.”

  Gomer turned, his square hard face dark with angry blood.

  “You tellin’ me?” he said furiously. “I’m sheriff here!”

  “You were,” Caradec said calmly. “Ever since you’ve been here you’ve been hand in glove with Barkow and Shute, runnin’ their dirty errands for them, pickin’ up the scraps they tossed you. Well, the fun’s over. You slope out of here when the storm’s over. Barkow’s gone, and within a few hours Shute will be too.”

  “Shute?” Gomer was incredulous. “You’d go up against Dan Shute? Why, man, you’re insane!”

  “Am I?” Rafe shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m talkin’ to you. Get out and stay out. You can take your tinhorn judge with you.”

  Gomer laughed. “You’re the one who’s through! Marsh dead, Brisco either dead or on the dodge, and Gill mebbe dead. What chance have you got?”

  “Gill’s in as good shape as I am,” Rafe said calmly, “and Bo Marsh is gettin’ Army care, and he’ll be out of the woods, too. As for Tex, he got away, and I’m bankin’ on that Texan to come out walkin’. How much stomach are you boys goin’ to have for the fight when Gill and I ride in here? Tom Blazer’s gone, and so are a half-dozen more. Take your coat”—Rafe picked it up with his left hand—“and get out. If I see you after this storm, I’m shootin’ on sight. Now, get!”

  He heaved the heavy coat at Gomer, and the sheriff ducked, his face livid. Yet surprisingly he did not reach for a gun. He lunged and swung with his fist. A shorter man than Caradec, he was wider and thicker, a powerfully built man who was known in mining and trail camps as a rough-and-tumble fighter.

  Caradec turned, catching Gomer’s right on the cheekbone, but bringing up a solid punch to Gomer’s mid-section. The sheriff lunged close and tried to butt, and Rafe stabbed him in the face with a left, then smeared him with a hard right.

  It was no match. Pod Gomer had fancied himself as a fighter, but Caradec had too much experience. He knocked Gomer back into a heap of sacks, then walked in on him and slugged him wickedly in the middle with both hands. Gomer went to his knees.

  “All right, Pod,” Rafe said, panting, “I told you. Get goin’.”

  The sheriff stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his smashed nose. Rafe Caradec slipped into his coat and walked to the door.

  Outside, he took the horse to the livery stable, brushed him off, then gave him a rub-down and some oats. He did not return to the store, but after a meal, saddled his horse and headed for Dan Shute’s ranch. He couldn’t escape the idea that the rider with Shute might have been Ann, despite the seeming impossibility of her being this far west. If she had left the Fort within a short time after the patrol, then it might be.

  Chapter XIV

  DAN SHUTE’S ranch lay in a hollow of the hills near a curving stream. Not far away the timber ran down to the plain’s edge and dwindled away into a few scattered groves, blanketed now in snow.

  A thin trail of smoke lifted from the chimney of the house, another from the bunkhouse. Rafe Caradec decided on boldness as the best course, and his muffled, snow-covered appearance to disguise him until within gun range. He opened a button on the front of his coat so he could get a gun thrust into his waist band.

  He removed his right hand from its glove and thrust it deep in his pocket. There it would be warm and at the same time free to grasp the six-gun when he needed it.

  No one showed. It was very cold. If there was anyone around who noticed his approach their curiosity did not extend to the point where they would come outside to investigate.

  Rafe rode directly to the house, walked up on the porch, and rapped on the door with his left hand. There was no response. He rapped again, much harder.

  All was silence. The mounting wind made hearing difficult, and he put his ear to the door and listened. There was no sound.

  He dropped his left hand to the door and turned the knob. The door opened easily, and he let it swing wide, standing well out of line. The wind howled in, and a few flakes of snow, but there was no sound. He stepped inside and closed the door after him.

  His ears tingled with cold, and he resisted a desire to rub them, then let his eyes sweep the wide room. A fire burned in the huge stone fireplace, but there was no one in the long room. Two exits from the room were hung with blankets. There was; a table littered with odds and ends, and one end held some dirty dishes where a hasty meal had been eaten. Beneath that spot was a place showing dampness as though a pair of boots had shed melting snow.

  There was no sound in the long room but the crackle of the fire and the low moan of the wind around the eaves. Walking warily, Rafe stepped over a saddle and some bits of harness and walked across to the opposite room. He pushed the blanket aside. Empty. An unmade bed of tumbled blankets, and a lamp standing on a table by the bed.

  Rafe turned and stared at the other door, then looked back into the bedroom. There was a pair of dirty socks lying there and he stepped over and felt of them. They were damp.

  Someone, within the last hour or less, had changed socks here. Walking outside he noticed something he had not seen before. Below a chair near the table was another spot of dampness. Apparently, two people had been here.

  He stepped back into the shadow of the bedroom door and put his hand in the front of his coat. He hadn’t wanted to reach for that gun in case anyone was watching. Now, with his hand on the gun, he stepped out of the bedroom and walked to the other blanket-covered door. He pushed it aside.

  A large kitchen. A fire glowed in the huge sheet metal stove, and there was a coffee pot filled with boiling coffee. Seeing it, Rafe let go of his gun and picked up a cup. When he had filled it, he looked around the unkempt room. Like the rest of the house it was strongly built, but poorly kept inside. The floor was dirty with uncleaned dishes and scraps of food lying around.

  He lifted the coffee cup, then his eyes saw a bit of white. He put down the cup and stepped over to the end of the woodpile. His heart jumped. It was a woman’s handkerchief.

  Quickly Rafe Caradec glanced around. Again he looked at the handkerchief in his hand and lifted it to his nostrils. There was a faint whiff of perfume, a scent he remembered only too well.

  She had been here, then. The other rider with Dan Shute had been Ann Rodney. But where was she now? Where could she be? What had happened?

  He gulped a mouthful of the hot coffee and stared around again. The handkerchief had been near the back door. He put down the coffee and eased the door open. Beyond was the barn and a corral. He walked outside. Pushing through the curtain of blowing snow, he reached the corral, then the barn.

  Several horses were there. Hurrying along, he found two with dampness marking the places where their saddles had been. One of them he recalled as Ann’s horse. He had seen the mount when he had been at the store.

  There were no saddles showing any evidence of having been ridden, and the saddles would be sweaty underneath if they had bee:i. Evidently, two horses had been saddled and ridden away from this barn.

  Scowling, Rafe stared around. In the dust of the floor he found a small track, almost obliterated by a larger one. Had Shute saddled two horses and taken the girl away? If so, where would he take her and why? He decided suddenly that Shute had not taken Ann from here. She must have slipped away, saddled a horse, and escaped.

  It was a far-fetched conclusion, but it offered not only the so
lution he wanted, but one that fitted with the few facts available.

  Why would Shute take the girl away from his ranch home? There was no logical reason. Especially in such a storm as this when as far as Shute knew there would be no pursuit? Rafe himself would not have done it. Perhaps Shute had been overconfident, believing Ann would rather share the warmth and security of the house than the mounting blizzard.

  Only the bunkhouse remained unexplored. There was a chance they had gone there. Turning, Rafe walked to the bunkhouse. Shoving the door open, he stepped inside.

  Four men sat on bunks. One, his boots off and his socks propper toward the stove, stared glumly at him from a chair made of a barrel.

  The faces of all the mea were familiar, but he could put a name to none of them. They had seen the right hand in the front of his coat, and they sat quietly, appreciating its significance.

  “Where’s Dan Shute?” he demanded, finally.

  “Ain’t seen him,” said the man in the barrel chair.

  “That go for all of you?” Rate’s eyes swung from one to the other.

  A lean, hard-faced man with a scar on his jawbone grinned, showing yellow teeth. He raised himself on his elbow.

  “Why, no. It shore don’t, pilgrim. I seen him. He rode up here nigh on to an hour ago with that there girl from the store. They went inside. S’pose you want to get killed, you go to the house.”

  “I’ve been there. It’s empty.”

  The lean-faced man sat up. “That right? That don’l make sense. Why would a man with a filly like that take off into the storm?”

  Rafe Caradec studied them coldly. “You men,” he said, “had better sack up and get out of here when the storm’s over. Dan Shute’s through.”

  “Ain’t you countin’ unbranded stock, pardner?” the lean-faced man said, smiling tauntingly. “Dan Shute’s able to handle his own troubles. He took care of Barkow.”

  This was news to Rafe. “He did? How’d you know that?”

  “He done told me. Barkow run off with this girl and Shute trailed him. I didn’t only see Shute come back, I talked some with him, and I unsaddled his hosses.” He picked up a boot and pulled it on. “This here Rodney girl, she left the Fort, runnin’ away from Barkow, and takin’ after the Army patrol that rode out with you. Shute, he seen ‘em. He also seen Barkow. He hunted Bruce down and shot him near that bare dome in your lower valley. When he left Barkow, he caught up with the girl and this strange hombre with her. Shute led their horses off, then got the girl while this hombre was huntin’ them.”

  The explanation cleared up several points for Rafe. He stared thoughtfully around.

  “You didn’t see ‘em leave here?”

  “Not us,” the lean-faced puncher said dryly. “None of us hired on for punchin’ cows or ridin’ herd on women in blizzards. Come a storm, we hole up and set her out. We aim to keep on doin’ just that.”

  Rafe backed to the door and stepped out. The wind tore at his garments, and he backed away from the building. Within twenty feet it was lost behind a curtain of blowing snow. He stumbled back to the house.

  More than ever, he was convinced that somehow Ann had escaped. Yet where to look? In this storm there was no direction, nothing. If she headed for town, she might make it. However, safety for her would more likely lie toward the mountains, for there she could improvise shelter, and probably last the storm out. Knowing the country, she would know how long such storms lasted. It was rarely more than three days.

  He had little hope of finding Ann, yet he knew she would never return here. Seated in the ranchhouse, he coolly ate a hasty meal and drank more coffee. Then he returned to his horse which he had led to the stable. Mounting, he rode out into the storm and on the way to town.

  Gene Baker and Pat Higley looked up when Rafe Caradec came in. Baker’s face paled when he saw that Rafe was alone.

  “Did you find out?” he asked. “Was it Ann?”

  Briefly, Rafe explained, telling all he had learned and his own speculations as to what had happened.

  “She must have got away,” Higley agreed. “Shute would never take her away from his ranch in this storm. But where could she have gone?”

  Rafe explained his own theories on that. “She probably took it for granted he would think she would head for town,” he suggested, “so she may have taken to the mountains. After all, she would know that Shute would kill anybody who tried to stop him.”

  Gene Baker nodded miserably. “That’s right. What can a body do?”

  “Wait,” Higley said. “Just wait.”

  “I won’t wait,” Rafe said. “If she shows up here, hold her. Shoot Dan if you have to, drygulch him or anything. Get him out of the way. I’m goin’ into the mountains. I can at least be lookin’, and I might stumble onto some kind of a trail.”

  Two hours later, shivering with cold, Rafe Caradec acknowledged how foolhardy he had been. His black horse was walking steadily through a snow-covered avenue among the pines, weaving around fallen log; and clumps of brush. He had found nothing that resembled a trail, and twice he had crossed the stream. This, he knew, was also the direction that had been taken by the wounded Tex Brisco.

  No track could last more than a minute in the whirling snow-filled world in which Rafe now rode. The wind howled and tore at his garments, even within the partial shelter of the lodgepoles. Yet he rode on, then dismounted and walked ahead, resting the horse. It was growing worse instead of better, yet he pushed on, taking the line of least resistance, sure that this was what the fleeing Ann would have done.

  The icy wind ripped at his clothing, at times faced him like a solid, moving wall. The black stumbled wearily, and Rafe was suddenly contrite. The big horse had taken a brutal beating in these last few days. Even its great strength was weakening.

  Squinting his eyes against the blowing snow, he stared ahead. He could see nothing, but he was aware that the wall of the mountain was on his left. Bearing in that direction, he came up to a thicker stand of trees and some scattered boulders. He rode on, alert for some possible shelter for himself and his horse.

  Almost an hour later, he found it, a dry, sandy place under the overhang of the cliff, sheltered from the wind and protected from the snow by the overhang and by the trees and brush that fronted it. Swinging down, Rafe led the horse into the shelter and hastily built a fire.

  From the underside of a log he got some bark, great sheets of it, and some fibrous, rotting wood. Then he broke some low branches on the trees, dead and dry. In a few minutes his fire was burning nicely. Then he stripped the saddle from the horse and rubbed him down with a handful of crushed bark. When that was done he got out the nosebag and fed the horse some of the oats he had appropriated from Shute’s barn.

  The next hour he occupied himself in gathering fuel. Luckily, there were a number of dead trees close by, debris left from some landslide from up the mountain. He settled down by the fire, made coffee. Dozing against the rock, he fed the blaze intermittently, his mind far away.

  Somehow, sometime, he fell asleep. Around the rocks the wind, moaning and whining, sought with icy fingers for a grasp at his shoulder, at his hands. But the log burned well, and the big horse stood close, stamping in the sand and dozing beside the man on the ground.

  Once, starting from his sleep, Rafe noticed that the log had burned until it was out of the fire, so he dragged it around, then laid another across it. Soon he was again asleep.

  He awakened suddenly. It was daylight, and the storm was still raging. His fire blazed among the charred embers of his logs, and he lifted his eyes.

  Six Indians faced him beyond the fire, and their rifles and bows covered him. Their faces were hard and unreadable. Two stepped forward and jerked him to his feet, stripped his guns from him and motioned for him to saddle his horse.

  Numb with cold, he could scarcely realize what had happened to him. One of the Indians, wrapped in a worn red blanket, jabbered at the others and kept pointing to the horse making threatening gestures. Yet
when Rafe had the animal saddled, they motioned to him to mount. Two of the Indians rode up then, leading the horses of the others.

  So this was the way it ended. He was a prisoner.

  Chapter XV

  UNCOMPREHENDING, Rafe Caradec opened his eyes to darkness. He sat up abruptly and stared around. Then, after a long minute, it came to him. He was a prisoner in a village of the Ogallala Sioux, and he had just awakened.

  Two days before they had brought him here, bound him hand and foot, and left him in the tepee he now occupied. Several times squaws had entered the tepee and departed. They had given him food and water.

  It was night, and his wrists were swollen from the tightness of the bonds. It was warm in the tepee, for there was a fire, but smoke filed the skin wigwam and filtered but slowly out at the top. He had a feeling it was almost morning.

  What had happened at Painted Rock? Where was Ann? And where was Tex Brisco? Had Dan Shute returned?

  He was rolling over toward the entrance to catch a breath of fresh air whhen the flap was drawn back and a squaw came in. She caught him by the collar and dragged him back, but made no effort to molest him. He was more worried about the squaws than the braves, for they were given to torture.

  Suddenly, the flap was drawn back again and two people came in, a warrior and a squaw. She spoke rapidly in Sioux, then picked a brand from the fire, and as it blazed up, held it close to his face. He drew back, thinking she meant to sear his eyes. Then, looking beyond the blaze, he saw that the squaw holding it was the Indian girl he had saved from Trigger Boyne!

  With a burst of excited talk, she bent over him. A knife slid under his bonds and they were cut. Chafing his ankles, he looked up. In the flare of the torchlight he could see the face of the Indian man.

  He spoke, gutturally, but in fair English. “My daughter say you man help her,” he said.

  “Yes,” Rafe replied. “The Sioux are not my enemies, nor am I theirs.”