Grant hesitated for one long moment on the opposite bank. Somewhere behind him Dagget was raging. Already the telegraph would be sending out its staccato warning and U. S. marshals and state law officers would be gathering on the borders to head him off.
To run or hide—the decision had to be made quickly. If he stayed here he would have to let the gelding go, for the animal would be a dead giveaway when Dagget's men came through this way. And they would come through soon enough.
He didn't like the idea of being afoot in the middle of the Creek Nation, without provisions, literally trusting his life to a man who owed him nothing. Yet, the dugout, if not warm, would at least keep him from freezing. And it was unlikely that Dagget would expect to find him in a place like this.
He beat his arms together, hunching into the bitter wind that swept down through the canyon of naked cottonwoods, realizing that he had to trust Valois. He could not fight Dagget's wrath alone.
With cool deliberateness, he rode the gelding on past the dugout and dismounted a hundred yards upstream. Here the ground was frozen hard as flint, carpeted with brown, brittle bunch grass, making a trail almost impossible to follow. With numb fingers he unbitted and threw loose the cinch, stripping his meager gear from the gelding's back. Without a moment's hesitation he cracked the black across the rump and stood for a moment watching the startled animal bolt upstream for perhaps fifty yards then turn slowly and start walking back toward Sabo.
The decision was made, and there was no backing out. The rest was up to Turk Valois.
Bleakly, he took up his saddle and roll and made his way back downstream to a log crossing. Carefully parting the curtain of weeds, he paused in front of the stockade door sagging obliquely on one leather hinge, and a kind of bitter humor welled up inside him as he thought of his hard-scrabble farm in Missouri. So much had happened that he hadn't had time to think back or feel regret. But he had plenty of time now, he thought wryly—it was all he did have.
He shoved the door inward and it ripped from its rotten hinge and went crashing to the ground. Gently he eased his rig to the ground and stepped into the cavelike darkness of the dugout. Once this place had meant hope to someone, maybe to some awkward cowhand like himself who had held visions of owning his own land, being his own boss, in some vague way hoping to make something of himself.
But from the looks of things, the man who built this dugout had come on bad luck, too. Likely the cavalry had routed him out of here, as they had so many of Captain David L. Payne's misguided Boomers.
Grant searched his windbreaker for a match and held the flaming sulphur above his head as he surveyed the place. A lot of work had gone into the building, a lot of useless work. First the clay creek bank had been dug out, and then Cottonwood logs had been cut and split to side the dirt walls of the cabin. A crude sod fireplace stood against one wall, and a chimney fashioned of sticks and mud had once reached up through the top of the dugout. And perhaps there had been furniture here once, homemade or hauled in by wagon, but the floor was bare now. Only the fireplace remained; the mud chimney had long since crumbled and disappeared. And dirt sifted down like sporadic rain between the huge log beams of the ceiling, and before long it would fall in completely and fill up with more dirt and no one would ever guess that a man—a family perhaps—had lived here once.
Grant dropped the match and let the flame go out. There was too much here that reminded him of himself and he didn't want to see any more of it.
In the failing fight from the outside he opened his roll and spread his blanket in the corner of the room; then he propped the door in place, blocking out the cutting wind, and a sheet of blackness came down on the only available light.
I'll wait, he thought. That's all I have to do. Valois helped me once—twice—and he'll do it again.
And he felt his way to the corner and sat on the thin blanket, cursing himself for not thinking to bring provisions. But there hadn't been time to think of provisions. There had been time to run and that was all.
He didn't want to think, but there was little else to do in the tomblike darkness of the dugout. He drew his revolver from his waistband and busied himself with cleaning it, but that wasn't enough to stop the aimless procession of thoughts that passed through his mind.
It was too late for regrets. He should have thought of that before robbing the bank in Joplin. Too late for anything now except to wait, and run when he got the chance. And he smiled grimly, rubbing hard along the barrel of his .45. Who would have thought that it would have ended like this?
It was early morning when he awoke with the steel-hard light of winter slanting through the cracks of the propped-up door. There was a new smell to the air, a sharpness that had not been there the night before. He threw off the thin blanket and got to his feet numbly, knowing what he would see even before he pulled the door inward.
A long shelf of slaty, stonelike clouds had slipped in from the north during the night, and a gun-steel case was on the sky. The wind had settled and an uneasy hush lay over the prairie, and a prickle of warning started at Grant's neck and worked its way up to his scalp. There was snow and sleet in those clouds, and the kind of wind that only the plains country knew. He stepped outside into the funeral-like silence, a silence so heavy that the nervous stirring of prairie chickens startled him.
Then, from a distance, he heard the sound of hoofs, and his heart pounded a little faster in the hope that it might be Valois. But when he climbed the creek bank and lay belly down in the tall weeds, he saw two Creeks driving a small bunch of cattle to the south, ahead of the storm. When they over on his back and studied the sky thoughtfully. Already, in the east, the slablike clouds were shredded with sleet and snow, and the horizon shimmered behind a gauzy curtain of ice.
In a way the snow was good—it would cover any tracks that he might have left. At the same time it might hold up Valois. And—despite his resolutions—he found himself thinking of Rhea again. There was no telling how long a norther would last—it might hold up construction of the well for days. And there, he thought grimly, would go Rhea's dream, wiped out in a storm of snow and ice, and Ben Farley would have his way, after all.
He lay there for a long time, feeling strangely empty. And the loneliness at that moment was heavier than anything he had ever known before.
Almost too late did he hear the approach of more horses-several of them this time, coming from the north. Grant lay motionless in the rattling stand of mullein as the six horsemen broke out of a thicket at the far end of the creek and rode a plodding crow line cross-country toward Sabo. Grant heard his compressed breath whistle between his teeth when he recognized the lead rider as Jim Dagget.
Evidently the marshal hadn't wasted time trying to trail Grant from the lease but had picked up a posse and headed for the border to cut him off. Evidence of failure was etched like saber cuts at the corners of Dagget's hard mouth. The other riders glanced warily over their shoulders at the gathering storm, or slumped heavily in their saddles, sodden with fatigue and cold. Only the marshal rode stiffly erect, his restless, flashing eyes gouging at every bush and thicket.
Instinctively Grant pressed harder to the frozen ground as the marshal reined up a scant hundred yards away, and one of the riders said, “You see somethin', Marshal?”
“No. But it would be better if we spread out on either side of the creek and follow the stream back to Sabo.”
The rider grunted uneasily. “That norther's goin' to hit any minute now. Don't you think we'd better stick together?”
“Any fool can find his way home by following the creek, even in a snowstorm,” Dagget said. He tossed his head like an angry mountain lion and sniffed the air. “Grant's out there somewhere, probably between here and Sabo.”
“If he is, the storm will get him.”
“I don't want the storm to get him!” Dagget turned in the saddle and raked the riders with his anger. “That's a job I set for myself!”
The horses tramped nervously, betrayi
ng the emotions of their riders. “Well,” one of the horsemen said at last, not returning the marshal's gaze, “I guess we can spread out until the storm hits.”
The voices carried like bullets on the still air, and Grant could see the puffs of frost as the men talked; he could almost smell the warm animal odor of the steaming horses. As the riders quartered toward the creek, below the dugout, Grant let out the breath that he had been holding. This was too close for comfort. The sooner he got out of the Territory the better he would like it, storm or no storm. For he had glimpsed the marshal's rage, he had felt Dagget's iron-hard determination on the morning air. Dagget was a bulldog. He would never turn loose.
In spite of the cold, Grant felt his palms clammy with perspiration as he eased himself back down the creek bank. Then another thought occurred to him. What if Valois had started out with the provisions? What if the runner ran into Dagget as the posse followed the creek back to Sabo?
Then, suddenly, the air was no longer still. He could hear the storm coming like the subdued purr of a powerful locomotive from a great distance. The tall buffalo grass bent before the first gust, the weeds rattled, and the naked cotton-woods clacked their arms. A scattered volley of sleet slashed like buckshot against the creek bank.
Quickly Grant skidded down the creek bank, grabbed up an armful of driftwood, and made it back to the dugout before the storm struck full force. He propped the stockade door against the wind and packed loose dirt against the bottom. And now the snow came, and the slashing sleet; a dazzling white sheet seemed to have dropped in front of the dugout door so that Grant could not even see the other side of the creek. In this kind of weather cattle lost their way and died going around in circles, men froze to death on horseback, even the coyote and lobo wolf became confused and sometimes died.
But Grant's instinct warned him that Dagget would not become confused and would not die. Somehow the marshal would last out the storm. And then he would come again, searching.
So the storm had postponed the end but had not changed it. Grant stood for a moment at the door, watching the sleet and snow clog and fill the cracks, banking up against the stockade slab until the dugout was practically airtight, sealed against the storm.
Grant broke up a small mound of driftwood in the sod fireplace, shredded some dry bark, and got it going with a sulphur match. He smiled grimly as the thin ribbon of smoke climbed up to the porous ceiling, toward the half-filled opening that once had been the chimney. No use now worrying about smoke attracting attention from the outside!
Then, almost before the thought was completed, he heard the small, insignificant puff of sound, all but lost in the lashing of the wind. Grant came rigid, listening until his ears rang, waiting tensely for two more pistol shots—the universal call for help. Then, quietly, almost matter-of-factly, another small blunt note punctured the raging wind. Then, after a brief pause, another. And Grant crouched before the small fire, listening hard, but the only sound was that of the storm roaring through the draw of Slush Creek.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
AFTER A FEW minutes of listening to the storm it was easy to imagine that he had never heard the shots at all. It could easily have been something else, he told himself—dry branches cracking in the wind—a lot of things might sound like pistol shots in such a howling confusion of noises.
And anyway, it was none of his business. If one of the posse members had got into trouble, there were five other members to give a hand. And if it was one of the Indians-well, the Creeks knew more about this country than the white man.
But it was not so easy to let the thought drop there. The longer he waited, the harder he listened for other sounds that might be mistaken for pistol shots. There were none. He had not been mistaken; it had not been the sound of cracking branches. And as he crouched there, his hands held out to the bright warmth of the fire, he fought a quiet but bitter war within his conscience.
Suddenly he came to his feet, swearing hoarsely. Buttoning his windbreaker tight at the collar, he kicked the dirt away from the stockade door and shoved it back against the powdery drift. I've acted the fool so long, he thought savagely, maybe it's got to be my nature!
Outside the dugout the cold was breathtaking, the sleet slashed and cut like knives. He leaned heavily against the door and shoved it back into place. He paused a few paces in front of the dugout, already confused in the swirling white sea of snow. The icy weeds stood like tall, white bones, cracking like icicles as he pushed through to the creek. Here he dragged a cottonwood log up on the bank, then laid a long stick of driftwood across it to mark the point of the dugout. Breathing hard, he drew out his revolver and fired a single shot toward the swirling sky.
A long minute passed. He beat his hands together and tramped a small, impatient circle, waiting. At last the answer came, a tiny mushroom of sound muffled under the blanket of snow. It came from downstream, but there was no way of telling how far; distances and directions could not be trusted.
His back to the wind, Grant clawed his way along the creek bank, slipping, stumbling, but always inching his way forward, with the creek itself as his only guide. He fired another round and again he got an answer, this time closer and slightly to the right.
He began climbing the bank, grabbing at roots and brittle weeds, his eyes slitted, almost closed, as he peered into that blanket of snow. Another shot led him away from the creek, away from his only touch with reality and direction. But now he heard a voice calling weakly, “Over here! Over here!”
If his face had not been frozen, leatherlike and stiff, perhaps he would have smiled with grim humor. The irony here was almost too much to believe, and yet he was not surprised. It was almost as though he had expected Dagget to be here, almost as though he had known all along and was helpless to ignore the warning.
“Sam, is that you?” Dagget called hoarsely. “My horse fell on my leg. I can't move.”
It was then that Grant saw the shapeless form lying in the brush, plastered on the windward side with a crust of ice and snow. “It's not Sam,” he said, kneeling down beside the marshal.
Dagget turned his head and stared. His blue face expressionless, his eyelashes tipped with ice, his hair powdered with snow and sleet, he looked the picture of a winter storm.
“How bad are you hurt?” Grant said.
“My leg's broke, I think,” Dagget said matter-of-factly, gazing steadily at Grant's face.
“What happened to the others? I saw five men with you not long ago.”
The marshal snorted with profound disgust, but that was his only comment.
Grant moved his numb fingers up Dagget's right leg, feeling the hump of the break a few inches below the knee. Then for a few brief seconds he held Dagget's bleak gaze, doing nothing, saying nothing. It would be so easy to go on doing nothing. The posse members had deserted or were lost in the storm. It would be a simple thing to return to the dugout and stay there till the storm was over, then make a run for it while the Territory dug itself out.
Dagget would die in a matter of minutes—but this was a game of life and death, with no consolation for the loser. Dagget knew that the day he first pinned on a federal star-he must have known that sooner or later this would come.
But this line—the logical line—of thought offered little comfort to Grant. Whatever he was, he was no murderer. He shoved himself to his feet and thrashed blindly through the brush. He ran straight on into a slender cottonwood sapling, and he grasped it in both hands and broke it across his knee.
The marshal looked up in surprise as Grant came blundering back through the storm. “I thought you were gone.”
“You do too much thinking, Dagget. Maybe that's your trouble.”
The marshal threw back his head and his mouth flew open as Grant grasped his broken leg and pulled it straight, but no sound of pain escaped him. He watched bleakly as Grant broke the brittle young sapling again and made two splints to fit on either side of the break.
“What are you doing?” Dagget s
aid, the words coming through clinched teeth.
“The leg has to be splinted or the broken bone will come through the skin. We've got a good piece to go, and it's apt to be a long while before you see a doctor.”
Dagget's mouth twisted into what might have passed as a grim smile. “You're wastin' your time. You wouldn't stand a chance of getting back to Sabo.”
“I'm holed up in an old Boomer dugout upstream. It's not exactly fancy but it's tight; we won't freeze.”
The marshal gritted his teeth and said nothing as Grant pulled his belt tight around the splinted leg, then he lay still for a moment, breathing hard. “You're aiming to take me back to your dugout,” he said flatly. “Is that it?”
“Unless you'd rather stay here.”
“Before you go too far, we'd better get something straight. I'll not be bought, not even with my own life. As long as I'm alive I'll be after you for robbing that Joplin bank.”
“I figured you would be,” Grant said harshly.
Numb and near blinded, their clothing crackling with ice, Grant dragged the marshal the length of Slush Creek until they stumbled over the cottonwood log crossed with brush. Both men paused, breathing hard, the marshal holding fast to Grant's left arm.
“We'll have to climb the bank here,” Grant said, almost yelling.
Dagget nodded, but at the first step his icy face went gray and Grant had to catch him in his arms. He stood for a moment, his mind as numb as his body. He surveyed the sheer creek bank as a mountaineer might gaze hopelessly up at Everest's highest peak. In Grant's mind Dagget had ceased to be a marshal, or even another man. It was almost as if this dead, bulky weight was part of himself, a useless appendage that must be dragged along wherever he went. Slowly he tuned his ears to the wind and to the noise of driving sleet as it ripped the bark from cottonwood and scrub oak. He saw himself, no longer standing, but sitting leisurely in the snow, waiting for the insidious cold to work its painless magic.
At last a slow, insignificant fear began to stir inside him, and he thought, “I'm freezing. This is the way it is when the temperature drops thirty degrees in as many minutes.”
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