The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  “I’ve got a pocket knife in my left trouser pocket that ain’t hardly sharp enough to cut anything.” He was still watching Buck, waiting patiently for whatever was to come.

  Ray stepped back a moment later and tossed a small clasp knife into the weeds. “Piece of junk,” he announced. “He wasn’t gonna hurt nobody with that.”

  Buck kept his rifle leveled. “You saved my life, stranger, and I’m beholden to you for that, but I need some answers, and I’ll do what I have to do to get them.”

  “Yeah, you’re a Kavanaugh man all right,” the scrawny dude said mildly. “I been hearing about that incident down in Chihuahua.”

  Buck stiffened. “Who told you about that?”

  “It was just talk, back in Corinne.”

  “Talk from who?”

  The stranger shrugged. “Hard to say.”

  “We can hang his sorry hide from a tree limb and beat him with clubs until he looks like raw meat,” Ray suggested. “He ain’t worth a damn to us if he don’t start remembering.”

  “I already decided I was gonna die,” the stranger replied. “It don’t much matter any more how it happens.”

  Buck looked to where Mitch and Joe were working their way down from the side draw where the outlaws had picketed their horses. “By God, we cut hell outta them bastards,” Mitch chortled. Coming up beside Ray, he added: “Four dead, including the one that got hisself wounded the other night.” He glanced briefly at the stranger. “They took all the horses. Looks like they wasn’t too concerned about you.”

  “No, they wouldn’t be,” the small man said. “That one you wounded the other night is Jim Bonner. It was his gang that pulled out when he was killed. That one there”—he nodded to the corpse lying nearby, the one he’d tackled—“is Gabe Carville. Henry Reese is the one who tried to get into them trees along the creek. I couldn’t say who the fourth man is.”

  Joe whistled softly. “Damn, that’s a rough bunch.”

  “The only reason you all ain’t doorknob dead is because they got hold of some whiskey last night and was still mostly drunk,” the stranger said.

  Buck jammed the Remington’s muzzle into the man’s gut. “You’re going to be doorknob dead in a minute if you don’t start talking. I want answers, dammit. I want to know who you are and what you’re doing here, then I want to know who killed Mase Campbell, and why.”

  The stranger nodded compliantly. “The name’s Arlen Fleck. I don’t know who killed Campbell, but I was there when it was done and you don’t have to get mad about it, ’cause I’m gonna tell you everything I do know, and that’s gonna be a heap all by itself.”

  It was well after dark by the time they got back to the wagons with their prisoner. Coming over the last low ridge and spotting the evening fires of the Box K, the men kicked their mules into a lope. All save Buck, who pulled Zeke to one side to let the others ride ahead. Arlen rode behind Joe, his wrists loosely bound, legs dangling free. Of the four, only he refused to glance curiously at Buck as they cantered past. Arlen kept his gaze fixed on the horizon, as if the train didn’t exist.

  Dismounting, Buck walked over to the same rock where he and Dulce had crouched during the bandit’s raid.

  It wasn’t Nick Kelso that killed Campbell, Fleck had told them that morning. It was some stranger I ain ’t never seen before. A tall feller, kinda skinny. He came outta that alley there beside the International and stopped Campbell for a light for his cigarette, and as soon as Campbell lit it for him, that’s when he putted his pistol and shot him. Hell, Campbell never even seen it comin’. But I didn’t get a good look at the fella. It all happened too fast.

  Buck crawled on top of the rock and sat down. He felt sadder than he had since the day of Mase’s funeral. His gaze swept the horizon but there was nothing to see, not even the glow of campfires to the south. It was as if the Box K had the road to itself with nothing to stop it, nothing to stand in its way. But a land like this could hide a lot. Buck knew, as a similar country had once hidden more than a hundred Sioux warriors, bent on murder and mayhem. His own family had been the target of their destruction.

  They’d been bound for Oregon, the McCreadys of Indiana, although at the time, young Buchanan couldn’t have said why. At ten, the growing threat of war between the North and South or the rockiness of his family’s hillside farm across the river from Louisville, Kentucky, hadn’t made much of an impression. It had to his parents, though, and in the spring of 1860 they’d packed their meager belongings into a prairie schooner pulled by two yokes of oxen and set out for the far Northwest.

  Besides his father and mother, there had been two sisters— Kay, older by several years, and Becky, who’d turned eight on the day they crossed the Blue River in Kansas Territory—part of a train bound for the Willamette Valley. All except Buck had died on that fateful day his father allowed the family to fall behind the rest of the party so that Buck’s mother could tend a feverish child. Buck had wandered off to explore the Platte River bottoms by himself—they were less than a week out of Fort Laramie by then—while his father hunted the breaks for fresh meat. The Sioux had found his ma and sisters by the wagon, his pa along the river. Buck didn’t know a lot beyond that. He’d never asked, although there were folks who could have told him if he had. Those who’d helped bury the dead. Mase had been one of those.

  Buck could still remember the first time he’d seen Mase, there on the Powder River far to the north of Fort Laramie and not much more than a stone’s throw from the large Sioux village where Buck had been taken. He’d been scared half out of his wits the whole time, and thought maybe that was why he hadn’t cried out when he spotted Mase’s bearded face taking shape within a screen of buffalo brush growing along the river’s edge.

  Mase had lifted a finger to his lips to make a shushing sound, his cheeks puffing out comically, eyes wide as silver dollars. With so many Sioux coming and going around the village, it was a wonder Mase had been able to get as close as he had. Buck hadn’t known it at the time, but the military had lacked the resources to come after him; if he was going to be freed, it would have to be done by someone else, and quickly, before the Sioux retreated deeper into Indian country.

  Buck had been hesitant to follow the crazy-looking white man into the bushes, but too frightened not to. As soon as Buck had slipped from sight, Mase had clamped a hand over his mouth and scooped him into his arms. Buck struggled briefly until Mase snarled for him to quit fighting or he’d leave him behind for the Sioux to scalp. Buck already knew all he wanted to about scalping. He was pretty sure the warrior who’d carried him off had also been in carrying the hair of his oldest sister, Kay, tied to his saddle.

  Buck’s fear of being scalped had kept him quiet during Mase’s awkward sprint downstream to the saddle of a tall sorrel mule hitched to a sapling. Mase had jerked the reins free and stepped into the saddle without even taking time to catch his breath, then reined the animal into the river. When they got around the first bend, putting a ridge between themselves and the village. Mase had kicked the long-limbed brute out of the water and headed south as fast as that mule could carry them.

  If there weren’t many men who would have attempted what Mase had, fewer still would have done what he did afterward. The commander at Fort Laramie wanted to send Buck to an orphanage in the East, where attempts to locate his extended family could be conducted more efficiently than from an Army post gearing up for war, but Mase had told the officer he would look for the family himself, and the commander hadn’t argued.

  Buck could vaguely recall an aunt already living in Oregon, his mother’s sister, he thought, although he’d never met her and didn’t know her name. It had been a lead, though, and Mase had followed up on it. Keeping the youngster with him, giving him simple chores there were never any shortage of around a mule train, Mase had written to newspapers throughout the Northwest, explaining the particulars of Buck’s family, their destination and demise. He’d asked for the aunt to respond to the commander’s office a
t Fort Laramie, but no reply ever came. Buck was twelve when Mase finally quit writing. By then, it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Buck had already set his sights on a future that had nothing to do with farming.

  Over the years, Mase made an effort to instruct Buck in the fundamentals of writing, reading, and simple arithmetic, often using invoices and freighting contracts as teaching aids. More important, he taught the youngster just about everything there was to know about hauling freight, from the intricacies of front office politics right down to the rough and tumble world of freighters’ camps and end-of-trail celebrations that could cost a careless man his life. Buck had stuck it out, even excelled, and by the time he was sixteen, he could handle a rig as well as anyone in the business. Maybe even as well as Mase, although Buck never would have broached the possibility aloud. As far as Buck was concerned, there wasn’t a better man on Earth than Mason Campbell, and the younger man was willing to fight anyone who said differently. On more than one occasion, he had.

  Buck stayed with Mase for eight years, but there comes a time in every young man’s life when he needs to make his own way. It was no different for Buck. When Mase crossed the Continental Divide to go to work for Jock Kavanaugh, Buck declined an invitation to go along. He went to Colorado, instead, and hauled for Rocky Mountain Freight between Denver and numerous points south—Pueblo, Trinidad, Boggs-ville, even up into the high country as far as a wagon could get. He stayed with Rocky Mountain for two years, handling a company-owned twelve-mule jerkline hitch, until Mase sent word that a job had opened up in Utah for an assistant. He wanted Buck for the position and was offering top wages if he’d quit his job in Denver and come to Corinne.

  Even then, Buck had almost declined. He liked handling his own rig, and wasn’t all that sure he wanted the additional responsibilities that went with a ramrod’s position. It was only when Mase had written him a second time that he’d accepted the job. He’d arrived in Corinne in the spring of 1870, just after Jock had relocated there from Ogden, and had been working for the Box K ever since. At the time of Mase’s death, Buck had known the wagon master for fourteen years—four more than he had his own parents.

  Walking over to where Zeke was pulling up clumps of grass, Buck stretched his toe for the stirrup, grimacing as the stitches above his left knee were drawn tight. He swore softly and lowered his leg to flex out the stiffness. As he did, he spotted a woman standing alone by the wagons. The light behind her sharpened her silhouette even as it masked her face, but Buck would have recognized her anywhere—the color of her hair, the firm, compact body. He paused to return her stare for nearly a minute before she abruptly turned away, heading for the mud wagon at the rear of the train. Granite-faced, Buck swung into his saddle and pointed Zeke toward Peewee’s outfit at the opposite end of the train.

  “Crowley and Luce passed here yesterday,” Milo informed Buck, before Buck could dismount. “They were making good time and acted tickled by our bad luck. I followed them a good little ways, but they weren’t breaking any of BMC’s rules that I could see.”

  Buck slid from his saddle and nodded gratefully when Manuel came up to lead Zeke away. Turning to the fire, he found himself nearly surrounded by Box K muleskinners, silent but curious about what he would have to say about this latest development.

  “Of course, I don’t guess they need to break the rules any longer,” Milo added glumly, after a moment’s pause. “Damn em.

  Speaking for the first time, his voice raspy with fatigue, Buck said: “How’s Chris Hobson? I saw him shot off his mule this morning.”

  “I’m fine, boss,” came a reply from the rear of the crowd. Pushing his way to the front, Chris touched his side where a medium-size butcher knife with a shattered grip resided in a plain leather sheath. “The bullet hit this,” he said, touching the exposed, dented tang. “I’ve got a good-size bruise, but that’s all.”

  Buck smiled with relief. He’d feared the worst all day. “We’ll see if we can’t get Jock to buy you a new knife when we get back to Corinne.”

  Several of the old hands guffawed, imagining the look on Jock’s face at such a request.

  “Hell, that ain’t likely,” Chris said, but he was grinning, too.

  “Peewee,” Buck said. “Have you got any coffee left?”

  “Sure do. It’s fresh, too, and there’s ham and beans and bread if you want it.”

  “I want it,” Buck replied simply, heading for the fire. The muleskinners backed out of the way to create a narrow path for him to pass through, then fell in behind like a congregation of sinners. “Any more trouble while we were gone?” Buck asked Pee wee.

  “Nary a bit.”

  “What about the mules Chris brought back?”

  “They’re tired, and a lot of ’em’s got small cuts and such, but nothing much worse than what they’d get from one another in a corral.”

  “Are any of them lame?”

  “Nope.”

  Buck dreaded his next question. “How many did we lose?”

  “Not a one.” A grin like a tiny banner spread across Peewee’s face. “I told these boys, Buck, that the mules them raiders didn’t get’d come wanderin’ back on their own, and that’s exactly what they done. I’d like to see how many horses or oxen’d do that.”

  Laughter erupted from the crowd like a release valve on a boiler. It made Buck realize how long it had been since he’d heard genuine laughter from the crew, and reminded him that this had been a difficult trip for everyone.

  “We gonna try to catch up to ’em, boss?” Charlie Bigelow asked.

  “We ain’t gonna try, Charlie, we’re gonna do it,” Buck vowed.

  More laughter greeted Buck’s reply, and Charlie shouted happily: “By God, boys, don’t fold yer hands just yet! This race ain’t over, after all.”

  * * * * *

  It was a several hours later when Buck was making his way down the column of wagons that a figure stepped from the shadows. He jerked to a stop, his hand dropping instinctively to his revolver.

  “Might I have a word with you?” Gwen asked quietly. “It’s rather important.”

  Buck let his hand fall away from his Colt. “I’s past midnight, Gwen. We’ll be on the move by first light. Is it that important?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  He almost refused anyway, then shrugged and said: “All right, what is it?”

  “Not here.” She gestured toward the empty desert beyond the wagons. “There, away from large ears.”

  Buck motioned for her to lead the way. They were silent as they walked through the sage, stopping a dozen yards out. After a pause, Gwen said: “I’s occurred to me that I haven’t been very fair to either you or Dulce. I fear that she thinks I’m pursuing you, although that couldn’t be further from the truth.”

  “Dulce and I go back a ways,” Buck replied simply.

  “Yes, I recognized that some time ago, but I suppose I didn’t want to accept it. In the beginning, I was curious as to how you would react to the simple flirtations that are so common at home. I must admit I was disappointed by your lack of interest, even as I grew more intrigued by it.”

  “I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you,” he said absently. “I’ve had other things on my mind.”

  “You misunderstand. Buck, but, then, so does Dulce. I realized after Mister Trapp’s near disaster on top of Malad Summit that there is more involved here than my own little adventure. I’ve tried to convince Dulce of my change of heart, but so far I’ve been unsuccessful.”

  “Trust ain’t an easy thing to patch once it’s been broken.”

  Gwen’s smile faltered. “You Westerners are such a blunt people. That’s something I’ve yet to get used to. You realize, of course, that you can’t overtake Crowley and Luce without bending BMC’s rules.”

  Buck’s tone hardened. “You said you wanted to talk to me, but so far you haven’t said much.”

  “Then I shall come to the point. Ray Jones informed us of your prisoner’s confession this
morning, which I consider adequate proof of outside efforts to subvert the Box K’s chances of success. Even this Nick Kelso person was apparently hired by others. Based upon that and other events, I’ve decided to release you from your obligations to Bannock Mining’s rules. You are free to do whatever you think is necessary to win this contest. Mister McCready, and I shall stand behind whatever decisions you make.”

  Buck’s expression remained as hard as his voice. “I appreciate the offer, but I already made that decision on the morning we buried Bigfoot Payne. The Box K is going to Montana and it’s going to get there ahead of Crowley and Luce … and to hell with fair play.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  On the high desert, the wind never seemed to let up, but its temperament could change in a heartbeat. By the time Buck crawled out of his blankets the next morning, the oilcloth coverings on the tall freighters were popping crisply against their arched bows, and gritty sheets of wind-borne dust were swirling through the camp.

  It was a warm wind, peeled off the lower regions of southern California and Nevada, where summer had long since settled in, but those who had freighted this country for years cursed it as they went about their chores. They knew a storm was brewing—not in the southwest where the wind came from, but from the northwest, beyond the mountains. Even the mules sensed the coming change and were acting as flighty as green-broke colts as the men struggled to get them into harness.

  “This ain’t good, Bucky!” Peewee shouted above the wind. He flipped a mule’s heavy leather collar off the ground with his toe, caught it expertly in his left hand, then slid it smoothly over the neck of his off-pointer.

  Buck was looking north, although there wasn’t anything to see except fading stars. “Might be rain,” he said.

  “Might be snow,” Peewee tossed back.

  Especially in the high country, Buck fretted, envisioning the route that lay before them. “Well, it ain’t storming yet,” he said, then started down the line of wagons. He found Rossy helping his father hitch up. Although the younger Evans was still limping from his wound, Buck noticed that he was pulling his share. Motioning him aside, he said: “How’s the leg?”