Reining to a stop at the head of the column, Buck stared back down the line of wagons. All eyes were upon him, silent, expectant—awaiting his word. Buck’s fingers tightened on Zeke’s reins, his pulse quickened. Taking a deep breath, he waved his hat above his head and bellowed loud enough to be heard at the farthest reaches of the train: “Streeetch out! Stretch out! Come on, boys! We’re going to Montana!”
CHAPTER TEN
Sitting alone in a dark rear corner of the Hanover Saloon in Franklin, Idaho Territory, Nick Kelso had to struggle against the urge to have another shot of whiskey from the bottle sitting on the table in front of him. Although he still felt clear-headed, he knew he’d had enough. Maybe too much, he reflected, glancing at the bar where Arlen Fleck stood with one heel balanced atop the brass footrail, his elbows flopped over the counter like a pair of half-empty flour sacks.
“Worthless little turd,” Nick murmured, staring at Fleck’s hunched shoulders and sloping spine. He wondered if the scrawny dunce had any idea how close he’d come to dying last night. Nick’s jaws tightened as he recalled Arlen’s trepid approach in the lobby of the Utah Northern’s Ogden depot, the worn brim of his porkpie hat crushed in a white-knuckled grip, his voice high and quavery the way it got when he knew he was in trouble.…
“… he’s gone, Nick, just flat gone.”
“Who’s gone?” Nick had demanded, but in his heart he already knew.
“The kid.” Arlen had swallowed hard in the stony silence, then added: “There wasn’t nothin’ I could do. Hell, a man’s gotta visit the privy once in a while, don’t he?”
Only a station filled with witnesses had prevented Nick from wringing the little shitheel’s neck right then and there. Keeping his voice low, his temper delicately in check, he’d said: “Did you look for him?”
Arlen had nodded vigorously. “I sure did. Everywhere, but he’s just gone. Flat gone.”
Nick had exhaled slowly, but, after a moment’s reflection, he’d decided it probably didn’t matter any more. Still, he didn’t let Fleck off the hook too easily. “Go get yourself a ticket to Franklin,” he’d instructed the smaller man.
Arlen had looked suddenly wary. “Franklin? W—… why?”
“Just go get a ticket,” Nick had grated in a low voice. “When we’re in the car, I’ll sit up front and you sit in back. Stay close when we get to Franklin, but don’t come near me or try to talk to me. Keep your mouth shut until I tell you otherwise. Understand?”
Arlen’s head had bobbed rapidly. “You afraid someone’ll see us together?”
“No,” Nick had explained carefully. “I’m afraid I’ll cut your throat if I have to listen to any more of your mindless crap.”
That had shut him up, Nick remembered grimly, and kept him quiet until they’d reached Franklin shortly after 3:00 A.M. It was only then that Arlen had approached him once more, hat again humbly in hand.
“I know you’re mad at me, but there’s somethin’ else I gotta tell you, and you ain’t gonna like it.”
He hadn’t, either, but a wire to Baptiste LeBry, in Corinne, had confirmed the worst. The Box K was pulling out at first light, a BMC representative firmly in place.…
And who in hell, Nick thought angrily, would have ever considered the sister?
His gaze swung back to Fleck, draped over the bar as if he intended to homestead the spot. Hadn’t Fleck mentioned a sister, and hadn’t Nick told him to take care of her? He should have known better, he berated himself. Give Arlen Fleck a chore to do and he might pull it off. Give him two, and he was sure to bungle both.
The puzzling part was that Arlen still insisted there was no way the girl could have known the shape her brother was in when she left Ogden. Apparently little Eddie Haywood, BMC’s official agent, had a reputation for indulgences of the flesh, including a penchant for opium he’d developed while still in Philadelphia. It was because of that, Arlen claimed, along with a past history of disappearing for days at a time, that the sister hadn’t been overly alarmed by her brother’s absence.
Well, she’d thrown a hell of a wrench into his plans, Nick acknowledged bitterly, but there was nothing for it now but to continue on.
His eyes shifted to the Hanover’s front door, where the first rays of the morning sun were just starting to creep inside the sour-smelling saloon. Baptiste LeBry had insisted on subtlety to slow the Box K, but that obviously wasn’t going to work now. Nick smiled coldly. If LeBry’s way wasn’t getting the job done, he had his own methods to fall back on—harsher, true, but indisputably effective. And this time, there weren’t going to be any mistakes.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Box K reached Hampton’s Crossing shortly before 10:00 A.M. the next day. Buck settled the toll bridge fees with a company voucher, then crossed the Bear River for the last time until their return in another six to eight weeks.
The bridge company’s buildings and a stagecoach relay station sat on a narrow shelf of fertile bottom land along the Bear’s east bank. On the far side, the flat widened to almost half a mile, before the road scaled a steep dirt bluff that would lift the caravan out of the bottoms in a long, S-shaped curve. Buck kicked Zeke into a lope to get ahead of the train, then slowed when he saw Dulce cantering after him.
“Do you mind if I join you?” she called, reining her horse alongside Buck’s mule.
“Not a bit,” he replied. “How are you faring?”
“Splendidly. Did you know Miss Haywood has a collapsible cot that she sleeps on?”
Buck laughed. “No, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Does she snore?”
“Like a muleskinner,” Dulce returned blithely. Among the equipment the two women shared was an eight-by-twelve-foot wall tent, with an oriental rug to throw down over the wiregrass and sandburs. “I missed you at supper last night,” she added. “Do the drivers always eat separately?”
“Generally. Me and Peewee, Ray, Joe Perry, and sometimes Nate and Rossy, will share one fire. Chris Hobson, Andy LeMay, Lou Kitledge, and Charlie Bigelow share another, although we visit back and forth a lot. It’s easier to fix supper if you’re not elbow to elbow with everyone else.”
Dulce nodded thoughtfully. “I’d hoped you and I could dine together in the evenings, alone,” she ventured. “I understand that your responsibilities don’t end at sundown, but … is Peewee’s fire any warmer than mine?”
“You know it’s not. It’s just that things are always a little hectic the first few days on the road. Plus, we’ve got all these new drivers, then Gwen Haywood and her people.” Glancing back at Peewee’s leaders, he said: “Come on, I want to show you something.”
Dulce kept Beau close as they galloped across what remained of the flat. They slowed to a trot at the first tight bend of the long S curve, then a walk. The grade steepened as it climbed toward the second bend, nearly three hundred yards away. On their left the dirt wall towered high above them; on their right it fell almost straight down, but, near the top, a little jut of land offered an unobstructed view of the bottoms. Buck reined in there and Dulce followed, catching her breath at the vista that opened before her.
“This is one of the best places I know of to watch a team at work,” Buck said. “You can see the whole process from up here. It’s like riding on the back of an eagle.”
But Dulce’s eyes had been drawn to the river. “What a lovely sight!” she exclaimed, staring at the hotel and way station on the far side of the Bear.
Buck gave the scene a cursory glance, enough to take in the horses standing in the corrals behind the barn—relay teams for the stagecoaches that rattled north and south between Corinne and the mining camps of Montana and Idaho—and the half dozen or so milk cows grazing in a small green pasture to the south.
“It’s like paintings I’ve seen of Eastern farmlands/’ she said. “So perfectly tranquil.” Then the crack of a bullwhip cleaved the cool morning air, and Dulce jumped.
“Watch,” Buck said excitedly. From their vantage point they had a clear
view of Peewee’s leaders entering the first turn.
Recognizing what was about to unfold, Dulce’s voice deepened with concern. “Shouldn’t you be down there helping?”
“Not yet. I want to see how Milo handles himself.”
At the bottom of the bluff, Milo was hugging the inside of the curve, crowding Peewee’s eights—the fourth team from the rear—with his spotted molly, while the leaders and twelves were already swinging into the turn. In another minute the forward teams would be climbing in the opposite direction, their hoofs level with the tops of the wagons as they leaned into the grade.
A good teamster could make just about any kind of corner on his own, but Buck knew even an old hand like Peewee—especially an old hand like Peewee, with nothing to prove—appreciated help in situations like this, where the margin for error was so small. In any turn, but especially in tight ones along steep, narrow grades, it was critical that each individual team within the larger hitch did its part fluidly and without hesitation. It was just as important that whoever was assisting the muleskinner knew what he was doing. Give a team the wrong command, or confuse it with directions that ran counter to their own instincts or what they were receiving from the jerkline, and the whole hitch could crumble into pandemonium, threatening not only the wagons and its cargo, but the lives of the driver and his mules.
Although everything seemed to be going smoothly, Buck could feel himself tensing up. Even from here, he could see the fifth chain, running from the wagon to the doubletree behind the leaders, stretched tight along the legs of the offside twelves and tens, those teams directly behind the leaders.
“Dammit, Milo, get off those eights and move back on the pointers,” Buck rasped. It was vital now, right now, that the wheelers and pointers keep the wagons running straight, moving toward the outside of the curve. Otherwise, they’d pull the massive vehicles off the inside of the curve, straight into the bluff.
“He can’t hear you, Buck,” Dulce hissed sharply. “Milo can’t hear you.”
“He shouldn’t have to hear me,” Buck snapped, gathering his reins, but Dulce stopped him before he could wheel away.
“No, he’s doing it. See? Peewee’s calling him back, too.”
Buck lowered his reins as Milo whirled back down the line of mules, cracking his whip expertly alongside the pointers. “Jump ’em,” Buck urged. “Ease ’em over.”
Milo and Peewee were both popping their whips alongside the pointers, turning the air blue with threats and curses, and, with angry tossing of their heads, the off pointer and the off number six mule turned abruptly to face the fifth chain.
The fifth chain didn’t curve with the road. It remained in as straight a line as the body of mules would allow. It was up to the middle teams—five spans in a fourteen mule hitch—to jump the chain at the proper moment so that they continued to pull away from the curve until the wagons were in a position to begin turning without being dragged off the road.
Buck’s heart was pounding. Peewee’s rear mules were facing the chain, already pulled well above their knees because of the road’s steep, upward grade. But mules were born jumpers. Any farm boy knew that. Despite its height, the mules cleared the tightly drawn fifth chain easily, their long ears laid back, front hoofs tucked neatly beneath their chests, as if leaping a hedge.
Buck’s breath escaped with lusty exhalation. With those four extra mules now pulling straight with the wheelers, even as the leaders, eights, tens, and twelves were already well into the turn, he knew everything would be all right.
“They were beautiful,” Dulce exalted, “so exact in their precision.”
“It’s a sight to see, all right,” Buck acknowledged with a broad, happy grin.
“I never would have imagined it. From ground level it’s always seemed so chaotic.”
“From the ground, fourteen mules can look like they’re heading in fifteen different directions,” Buck agreed. “A bird’s-eye view gives it perspective. That’s why I wanted you to see it from up here.”
Dulce smiled her gratitude. “I’m glad you did. Thank you.”
Pulling Zeke around, Buck said: “I’d better get down there. It’s good to know Milo can handle the job, but it’ll be easier with another man.”
“I think I’ll stay up here and enjoy the view for a few more minutes”
Buck nodded absently, his attention shifting back to Peewee’s wagons, just coming into the long straightaway up the side of the bluff. Peewee’s mules were back in position along either side of the fifth chain, but it was obvious something was wrong. Then a startled shout from Peewee was nearly drowned out by the shrill ripping of seasoned oak ringing across the bottoms like the scream of a dying woman, and Buck swore and slammed his heels into Zeke’s ribs, racing back down the long grade.
Buck pulled up when he realized the load on Peewee’s lead wagon—the huge, two-ton telescoping smokestack—had broken free of its moorings and swung out with enough force to wrench the big Murphy violently to one side, even as it yanked a number of mules off their feet. The wagon had come to a shaky stop at the edge of the road, the front end of the smokestack hovering perilously over the rim of the bluff. Directly beneath it, Nate Evans was staring helplessly up at the looming mass, its shadow like a funeral shroud covering not only Nate and his wheelers, but the wagon where Rossy innocently slept.
“Sweet Jesus,” Buck breathed, dropping from his saddle. Peewee’s nigh-leader tossed its head in fright as Buck sidled past. “Easy, boy,” Buck murmured. “Take it easy.”
Peewee was still sitting his nigh-wheeler, his feet braced rigidly in the stirrups, the jerkline drawn tight in both hands. His mules were straining into their collars, hoofs dug into the hard-packed road like fence posts. Although only the front of the smokestack had broken loose, its weight was enough to twist the flatbed wagon sharply at its center, lifting the left front wheel several inches off the ground.
“She’s gonna go, Buck!” Peewee called softly. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Like hell,” Buck replied grimly, making his way down the narrow aisle between Peewee’s long hitch and the inside of the bluff. He stopped beside the nigh-wheeler, looking into the eyes of his old friend. They were wide with fear, unblemished by any need to appear tough.
“What’re we gonna do, Buck? If that damn’ smokestack busts another strap, the whole outfit’s gonna go over the side.”
“If it starts to go, you bail out of that saddle like your butt’s on fire.” He glanced under the necks of the wheelers, relieved to see that the caravan had ground to a halt, its crew rushing forward to lend a hand. Most of the men were with Nate’s rig, helping him get it out from under the bluff, and that was a relief, too. Buck wanted Nate and Rossy safely out of the way before they tackled Peewee’s outfit.
“Let’s give ’em a minute,” Buck said, gently patting the nigh-wheeler’s shoulder. Then one of the pointers jumped and snorted as if stung, and the whole line lurched backward nearly a foot.
“Aw, God,” Peewee moaned as the wagon’s left front wheel rose even higher. He looked at Buck as if he wanted to cry. “You tell Hannah that I love her, Buck! The kids, too. You tell ’em.…”
“Shut up,” Buck said raggedly. “Tell her yourself when you get home.”
“I might not.…”
“I said to shut up, and I meant it. Now hang onto that jerkline and don’t let it go slack again.”
“It didn’t go slack.”
“You just hang onto it. Start acting like you’ve handled mules before. You’re scaring your hitch.”
Peewee glanced at his mount. The mule’s agitation was obvious in the sharp, backward slope of its long ears, the trembling muscles in its shoulders. Taking a deep breath, he said: “All right.” Then, calmer: “All right, what’s your plan?”
“As soon as Nate’s out of the way and we’ve got some help, we’ll tie this load down enough to get you off this bluff. We can wait until we’re on top before we worry about sliding it back
in place.” He glanced at the muleskinner. “Can you handle things here for a couple of minutes?”
“Sure, I’ve got it.”
“I’m going to take a look at that smokestack. I want to see how bad it is.”
A strained smile appeared on Peewee’s face. “I’ll wait for you here,” he said, and Buck grinned and tapped the teamster’s knee affectionately with his fist before he walked away.
They’d strapped the smokestack down in four places after cradling it in a frame made of two-by-fours. It was the first two straps that had given away, allowing the bottom of the smokestack, the heaviest end, to swing out over the bluff. Buck’s throat went dry as he examined the last two straps, both of them taut enough to hum. Returning to the front of the wagon, he knelt to study the front wheel, floating about three inches off the ground. Putting both hands on the hub, he pressed down with all his strength, causing the wagon to dip tenuously toward the road.
“Hey, what’s going on back there?” Peewee demanded.
“Nothing!” Buck called, allowing the wheel to rise slowly back to its original position.
The drumming of hoofs drew Buck’s attention to the lower curve, where Milo was cantering his molly up the steep grade. Ray Jones was hanging onto the saddle horn and running alongside, taking ten-foot strides with the molly’s assistance. Just coming into the bend behind them was Joe Perry, Charlie Bigelow, Lou Kitledge, Andy LeMay, Chris Hobson, Little Ed Womack, and Manuel Varga, all of them on foot. Keho Kona came last, his broad, swarthy face as imperturbable as ever, although he was making good time for his bulk.
Milo whistled when he saw the cant of the wagon and the two remaining straps, pulled so tightly they looked like they could be twanged like banjo strings. Stepping down from his saddle, he said: “Lord A’mighty.”
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