“Who’s bossing for C and L?”
“Fella named Tim Lomax. Know him?”
“I’ve heard of him.”
“Lomax is an old hand at freightin’,” Peewee added. “Used to make that run between Salt Lake City and San Diego all the time. That’s a tough haul, but Lomax never lost a cargo.”
“Few men do,” Buck reminded him gruffly. “Question is, how honest is he?”
“I reckon he wants to win this race as much as any of us,” Peewee said mildly. “I don’t know that he’d do anything crooked unless Herb Crowley or Anton Luce pushed him to it. Even then, I ain’t sure he would.”
“There’s not much he can do with a BMC rep riding along,” Milo said. “Anything shady would have to come from Crowley or Luce personally.”
“Like gettin’ to one of our drivers?” Peewee asked.
Milo paused, his eyes darting between the two men. “Something happen while I was gone?”
“No,” Buck said, “although with C and L so close, it’ll likely increase the odds. They’ll have to make a move to get around us sooner or later.” He glanced at Peewee. “No matter how honest their captain is.”
Peewee shrugged and started feeding twigs to the coals of their supper fire. Milo lifted his saddle from the molly’s back and dumped it beside the rear wheel of Peewee’s wagon. Rolling his shoulders, he said: “Boys, I’m frazzled. That was forty miles I rode today, or close to it.”
“Forty miles for your mule, too,” Buck reminded him without sympathy. “Go take care of her. We’ll have some supper ready when you get back. Tomorrow you can ride in one of the wagons and give that molly a rest.”
“Now I wouldn’t mind that a bit,” Milo said, his features brightening. “Either of you gents seen how Rossy’s got his bed laid out in his pa’s wagon? Got a little straw-filled mattress in there that’s cushioned with buffalo robes. Got a water jug and some biscuits for snacks. It looks mighty comfortable or I wouldn’t say so, and big enough to sleep both of us, if Rossy doesn’t flop around too much.”
“I think I’d rather you ride with Paddy O’Rourke tomorrow. Keep him from falling so far behind.”
The ramrod’s expression crumbled. “Aw, hell, boss!”
“While you’re at it, see if you can pry some information out of him. I’m real curious about what made him leave Arizona for Utah.”
“Nobody likes him,” Milo said, as if that explained everything. “He looks at you like you’re something to scrape off the bottom of his boots.”
“You don’t have to like him, just get him to talk. Find out where he’s from and what he thinks about Jock and the Box K.”
Milo shook his head in disgust but led his mule away without further argument.
Peewee chuckled as Buck lowered himself beside the fire. “You took the wind outta that boy’s sails real fast.”
“Milo’s got plenty of wind to spare,” Buck observed dryly. He nodded at a skillet sitting beside the fire. “Have we got any grub left over from supper?”
“I’m gonna warm up some beans and pan bread. He’ll have to do without coffee unless he wants to grind some beans. I ain’t his mama.” Peewee turned silent while he fussed with supper. It wasn’t until the food was warming that he spoke again. “I know I checked that eyebolt, Buck.”
“I believe you.”
Peewee nodded. He’d already known as much, but it was good to hear it again. He said: “Mitch Kroll’s making a stink about it.”
“What kind of stink?”
“What it boils down to is Kroll wants to be the bull of this here outfit. It rubs him wrong that you’re a green kid and I’m a runt who couldn’t keep a job if Jock didn’t take pity on me.”
Buck laughed. “Is that what he’s saying?”
“More or less. It’s a bucket of cow flop and the boys all know it, but Kroll keeps pickin’ at it like a scab. Thing is, if these accidents keep happenin’, he could stir up some trouble.”
“The hell with Mitch Kroll,” Buck said dismissingly.
After a moment’s silence, Peewee said: “Normally I’d agree with you, but Kroll’s got some of the boys sidin’ with him now.” “Who?” Buck asked.
“Mead, Lang, and O’Rourke for sure. Maybe Collins, and I ain’t completely sure about Little Ed Womack any more.” He looked up. “Was a time when I was.”
Buck frowned. When he’d talked to Milo last night, Womack and Collins hadn’t entered into the equation at all. Was this new, or was Peewee overreacting in the wake of two near-fatal accidents? “You figure we need to start worrying?” he asked.
“No, not yet, but it could come to that.”
“You mean a mutiny?”
Peewee nodded. “I’ve seen crews mutiny, and it gets real messy real fast … minutes, not days. Not even hours. It just blows up like a bomb was tossed into the fire.”
Buck shifted restlessly. “Well, we won’t lower our guard, but I’m not sure we can raise it much, either. A mule train is vulnerable in too many places … the stock, the men, the gear, even the cargo. If someone wants to slow us down, there are too many places they can target, and we can’t watch them all, no matter how much we try.”
He was silent a moment, recalling Tom Ashley’s description of the man Mase had tangled with in the International. Big, burly, with long greasy hair and worn-out clothing, not tall and slim and hunch-shouldered like the shadowy figure he’d chased after more than once now. What did it all add up to?
“They’s too many loose ends to pull this puzzle together all the way,” Peewee said quietly, as if reading his thoughts, “but we can sure as hell say someone wants this train stopped.” He met Buck’s eyes across the fire. “They want that bad.”
Buck nodded soberly. “I believe you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
It was past noon when Buck called a halt the next day at the old Hudson’s Bay trading post of Fort Hall, on the Snake River. While the muleskinners saw to their teams, Gwen and Dulce jogged their horses to the front of the column in search of Buck. The fort loomed before them like an ancient ruin, its pale adobe walls crumbling in places, weeds growing along its walls. Brown-skinned teepees were scattered around the outside of the post, and a mixed herd of horses and mules grazed on the hills to the south.
At one time, Fort Hall had been a major stop along the Oregon Trail, a bustling trade center that catered to Oregon-bound pioneers, local Indian tribes, and fur trappers who still hunted the surrounding valleys, but the post’s influence had waned with the completion of the Transcontinental Railroad. Now only a few independent traders used its spacious rooms, and although emigrants still stopped here on their way to the coast, their numbers were dwindling every year.
Gwen’s attention had been drawn to the hide lodges, set up in the post’s shadows. “I should like to visit these people,” she informed Buck.
He eyed the village thoughtfully. The hard-packed, barren earth surrounding the lodges was littered with dung, discarded bones, fly-blown deer skins, and empty whiskey bottles. The odor was stout but not unfamiliar and the worst of it kept down by the breeze off the river.
“I would consider it a crime if I came this far and didn’t explore the lifestyles of our nation’s aborigines,” Gwen added. “I have some knowledge of anthropology, you know.”
“No,” Buck replied with scant interest, “I didn’t know that. What is it?”
Gwen’s expression instantly became that of an indulgent parent. “Anthropology is the study of the lesser classes within their native habitat, similar to Darwin’s study of the species on the Galapagos Islands. Only with humans, of course.”
“Of course,” Dulce returned drolly.
“Maybe later,” Buck replied. “I’ve got some paperwork to catch up on.”
“Paperwork?” Gwen looked puzzled.
“Every captain maintains a daily log,” Dulce explained irritably.
“Let it go, Dulce,” Buck said. “She didn’t know.”
“She didn�
��t know because she hasn’t paid any attention,” Dulce fired back. “I would think a student of anthro-whatever would have noticed.”
“I don’t see any need for worry,” Gwen said to Dulce. “Surely I’d be safe withThad. It is full daylight, after all.”
Dulce rolled her eyes but said no more.
“These are blanket Indians, Gwen,” Buck explained patiently. “Their people call them Hangs Around The Fort, or Hang Arounds. A lot of them drink pretty heavily and afford it by prostituting their wives and daughters. Not that the women are any better. They just cut out the middle man when they want some booze. They’re a crusty lot, hardly an example of their tribe.”
“Shoot, they can’t be all that crusty,” Milo said, riding up and tipping his hat to Gwen. “I reckon I’ve got enough experience to escort Miss Haywood through this village. Miss Kavanaugh, too, if she’s inclined.” Noting the darkening of Buck’s expression, he hastened to add: “The mules are in the capable hands of young Roscoe Evans and associates, and I’m free as a bird on wing. Besides, this way, Eli be sober when the boys get back from their debauchery.”
“I doubt very much that any Box K driver will return debauched,” Dulce said coolly, “and as far as joining you and Miss Haywood, Fm afraid I have other matters to attend to.”
“Then it’ll be just me and Miss Haywood,” Milo said, his eyes lighting up at the prospect.
“It’ll be you and Gwen and Thad Collins,” Buck corrected the ramrod. “Stay close to the fort and don’t go down by the river where you can’t be seen from the wagons.”
Milo grinned amiably. “That’ll be just fine. I reckon Miss Haywood … Gwen … can study a redskin lodge up here as easily as she could from the cottonwoods.” He gave her a happy glance. “Shall we go?”
Gwen raised her hand to her forehead, parroting a salute. “With your permission, Captain?”
“Go,” Buck said, content to have the conversation ended, the two of them out of his hair for a while.
“You’re too indulgent of them,” Dulce said, after the pair had ridden away.
“Maybe,” Buck said, briefly recalling the many times he’d felt the same way about Dulce. He studied her closely, wondering what had become of her anger. Had it disappeared overnight, or did it lurk just below the surface, like a steel trap ready to snap?
Dulce returned his gaze evenly but he could read nothing from her expression, other than that she expected him to speak first. “Well,” he said after a pause, “I do have to catch up on that journal. I haven’t touched it since the other side of Malad.”
Dulce’s lips thinned as she started to rein away.
“Maybe later … ,” he started to say, but she cut him off.
“Yes, maybe later, when things slow down.” She kicked Beau in the ribs and rode off at a gallop, leaving Buck no doubts about her anger now.
Wearily he loosened the cinch on his saddle. By now, most of the muleskinners had turned their stock over to the swampers, and he wasn’t surprised when he spotted the lot of them approaching on foot. After pulling the saddle from Zeke’s back, he walked out to meet them. “You’ve got one hour to do whatever it is you think you need to do inside Fort Hall,” he said roughly, before anyone else could speak. “After that, I want everyone back here, sober and ready to roll. No exceptions, and, if anyone comes back drunk, I’ll dock them a day’s wages.”
It was the way Mase had handled it in the past, and it had always seemed fair to Buck, although he could tell that several of the independents—Kroll, O’Rourke, and Mead in particular—didn’t care for it. “No exceptions,” he repeated for their benefit, then gave the men a curt nod of dismissal and turned away.
Buck kept the Box K’s leather-bound journal in the iron-strapped box called the office, bolted inside the mess wagon. Unlocking the lid, he withdrew the journal and a fine-tipped lead pencil from one of the pigeonholes, then made himself comfortable against the front wheel.
Some wagon masters were verbose in their descriptions of the day’s activities, but Buck had never cared much for writing. A sentence was enough to record weather and road conditions; another could usually complete his observations of the stock and gear. Today it took a full paragraph to describe what had happened on top of Malad, then a second paragraph to detail his suspicions of a traitor among them, just to get it on record.
By the time he finished, several of the teamsters had already returned from Fort Hall. He saw Peewee and Ray sitting, cross-legged, in the skimpy shade of a wagon, smoking their pipes and chatting quietly. Nate Evans was also contentedly smoking his pipe, while Andy LeMay sat nearby, puffing luxuriously on a nickel cigar he’d purchased at the trading post.
It occurred to Buck that none of the old hands smoked cigarettes, although a number of the new men did. Milo had picked up the habit in Kansas, probably from Texas drovers, and O’Rourke had likely been exposed to it in Arizona, where it was popular throughout the Mexican-Spanish culture. Buck didn’t know where Lyle Mead had mastered the art of rolling his own. Cigarettes seemed more like a chore than a pleasure to Buck, who’d smoked a pipe briefly in his teens, then gave even that up as too much trouble. Most men he knew preferred pipes and cigars to the nuisance of fragile cigarette papers that tore easily in the wind and produced only a brief, uneven smoke.
When Buck figured an hour had passed, he walked over to where Peewee and Ray were lounging with an unobstructed view of the fort’s entrance. “Do you two know who’s still inside?”
Ray scratched his stubbled jaw. “Lemme see, I ain’t seen Mitch Kroll or Lyle Mead yet. Who else ain’t come back, Peewee?”
“O’Rourke ain’t. I don’t think Lang’s come back, either.” He looked up, his brows furrowed. “Do you want some help?” he asked quietly.
“No, you two stay put.” Buck’s heart was thumping loudly and his mouth felt dry. He’d expected this, yet still felt unprepared. “Keep the others out here, too. Kroll won’t consider it settled if this ain’t done man to man.”
Looking worried, Ray said: “They was all in Kendrick’s when I left, pourin’ it down pretty heavy. There won’t be anything settled if they all jump you at once and we ain’t around to even up the odds.”
“Kroll’s too proud to let that happen,” Buck replied, thinking that, if it did come to a knuckle-buster, that would be about the only thing he could count on from the burly muleskinner. He touched Mase’s bullwhip, as if for reassurance.
Peewee shoved to his feet, Ray close behind. “You watch yourself, Buck,” Peewee said tautly. “Use your knife or pistol if you have to, but don’t try to take that bastard down with your fists. He’ll fight dirty if you do.”
Buck smiled wanly. “I wouldn’t expect anything less,” he said, heading for the fort.
“Oh,” Gwen murmured, coming to a startled stop at the edge of the bank overlooking the Snake. The bulk of the Hang Arounds’ village was behind them now, but below them, hard by the river’s edge, remained a scattering of sagging hide lodges and brush shelters. Pointing out a brush abode with a gray-haired Indian woman sitting in front, Gwen announced: “I wish to speak with her.”
At her shoulder, Milo eyed the shelter doubtfully. “I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he said.
“Why ever not?”
“Something about it doesn’t look right to me.”
“Posh,” Gwen said dismissingly. “If you’re afraid of an old woman, stay here.”
“Gwen,” Milo said sharply, but she was already on her way, eager to meet this woman who looked as if she could have known the captains, Lewis and Clark, on their famous journey to the Pacific.
Gwen’s stride slowed as she neared the squat structure, perched on the sandy shore like a tangle of storm-shredded twigs caught in the weeds. A nauseating odor of decay seemed to emanate from the interwoven branches, causing Gwen to a halt several yards away. My Lord, she thought, wrinkling her nose, this is horrible. Then, affecting the brave demeanor of an anthropologist, she took anothe
r few steps forward. “Excuse me. I wonder if I might have a word with you.”
She thought the old Indian’s eyes might have flitted briefly toward her, but she couldn’t be sure. Moving even closer, Gwen repeated her question. This time, she was certain the woman heard her.
“Easy, Gwen,” Milo cautioned from the top of the bank. “There’s something wrong here.”
“Nonsense,” Gwen replied, but her conviction was wavering. Although only a few feet away now, the old woman refused to look at her.
“Ask her where her husband is!” Milo called.
“Hush,” Gwen scolded, but she was feeling suddenly lightheaded from the smell, and wished she’d heeded Milo’s advice to keep her distance.
Gwen glanced at the blanket-covered entrance to the brush lodge and wondered what lay behind it, then decided almost immediately that she didn’t want to know. Instead, she focused on the woman, sitting so still that she reminded Gwen of a portrait, done in shades of brown and gray. A leather dress sans any kind of native decoration clung to her thin frame, and her face had texture similar to that of a walnut’s hull. Her jaw was hanging slightly agape in a kind of obscene grin that exposed her rotting gums and the few blackened, corn-kernel stubs of teeth that remained. Her eyes were filmy and pitted, and, when Gwen peered closer, she saw gnats on the tiny, cataract-glazed pupils.
Gwen’s hand trembled as she reached out to touch the older woman. It was only when her fingers brushed the parchment-like flesh of the ancient crone’s cheek that Gwen confirmed her suspicions.
With a soft cry, Gwen backed away. It was as if the dead woman were communicating with her, laughing at the younger woman’s own fragile mortality. Then Milo’s hands were on her shoulders, pulling her around, breaking her brief connection between this world and the next.
“Come on,” he said gently. “Let’s get away from here”
“But … who will bury her?” Gwen whispered numbly. “Why is she just sitting there? Doesn’t anyone know … ?” Her voice broke and she twisted free of Milo’s grip, snapping: “Leave me alone.”
The Long Hitch Page 17