The Long Hitch

by Michael Zimmer

  Gwen had decided then and there to brace herself for another disappointment—one more fallen myth among many. Still, she was curious and had quickly galloped after Buck when she saw him making his way toward the rear of the bluff. Although he’d shrugged indifferently at her request to accompany him to the top of the Beaverhead, she hadn’t taken his stony silence personally. She’d seen the look of comprehension that had come over his face when Dulce backed away from Thad Collins’s grave. That entitled him to a certain amount of aloofness, she thought.

  As they drew rein on the formation’s brow, Gwen’s breath was sucked away. “It’s so beautiful!” she exclaimed, staring at the snow-capped mountains on every side, the lush greenness of the valley, dissected by rushing streams. Although the sun was warm on her shoulders, there was a chill on the breeze that played with her hair and fluttered the collar of her blouse—an icy reminder of what they had only recently left behind.

  “There they are,” Buck said softly, pointing with his chin toward a line of distant wagons. “Crowley and Luce, maybe five hours ahead of us yet.”

  “We’ve made such grand progress,” Gwen observed softly, “yet the competition maintains its lead. How will we turn our current position into victory?”

  He ignored the question, but Gwen sensed a shift in his thoughts. They were sitting their mounts side-by-side, so close together their stirrups occasionally bumped woodenly against one another. Turning his hard gray eyes on her, he said: “Tell me about the man in the coach, the one that passed us that day south of the Malad Summit.”

  Gwen was caught off guard by the intensity of Buck’s stare, but not by the question. She’d been expecting it ever since they started their climb over Malad. “I suspect the man you’re speaking of is my father, nothing more sinister than that.”

  “Your father!” Buck looked almost stunned by her confession.

  “I am fairly certain of it, actually, even though I had only that one quick peek.” After a moment’s hesitation, she added: “You will recall that later that evening, Thad and I rode ahead to the Gilmer and Salisbury relay station on Devil’s Creek. Unfortunately the coach had already departed there, and I wasn’t able to learn the truth of the individual’s identity.” She paused again, picking deliberately at the stitching on her saddle horn in an effort to gather her thoughts, to decide how much she wanted to reveal. “My father is a rather imposing person, Buck. Just this morning I was reminiscing about his many kindnesses when I was a child, recalling some of the stories he used to read to us in the evenings, but his personality changed as we all became older. I suppose his association with Weber, Forsyth, and McGowan had much to do with that. In advancing middle age, Father has become a man of limited patience and fiery disposition. Both my brother and I.…”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Yes, Edward is a year older than I, although rather capricious in his moods. Sadly he is also a devotee of Chinese tar.”

  “Opium?”

  “My family isn’t perfect, Mister McCready. It just has more to lose if our façade ever fails.” She met his gaze unflinchingly. “I lied to you, you know?”

  “About your position with Bannock Mining?”

  “Yes. This was to be my brother’s responsibility, an effort at shoring up what little character he has left. It was Father’s idea, but perhaps the task seemed too daunting to Eddie. He disappeared in Ogden without even a good bye.”

  “Disappeared? Where?”

  “I haven’t the vaguest idea, although it’s hardly the first time he’s done so. I do know that he is currently somewhere ahead of us, traveling with Father.” Her fingernail quickened on the linen thread and her voice sounded strained, even to herself. “Robert Edward Haywood, the Third, is my father. My brother is the fourth Robert Edward. We call him Eddie.” She glanced at Buck with a grateful smile. “You were concerned for my safety that night, south of Malad. I had returned in a disheveled state and you suspected poor Thaddeus of mischief, but what happened was truly an accident. He and I were on our way back from Devil’s Creek Station, and I’m afraid I became a bit too harsh with my steed. Thad’s horse and mine collided and we took a tumble. No one was hurt, but on top of everything else that had happened that evening, I’m afraid I became rather combative toward your questioning. I apologize for that. You had only my well-being at heart. To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I should do. I was certain Father had recognized me. I can only assume that he’d decided this was a bed I had made for myself and that I should darned well sleep in it. I can assure you, it was rather a shock to realize I was so completely on my own. It was even worse the next day, after Mister Trapp’s near accident on top of Malad, when I began to truly realize how the fate of so many others rested, at least in part, upon my decisions. Because of Father’s influence, I’d never had that kind of responsibility before, and the reality of it was more than I’d imagined. I wasn’t sure I was up to the task and I’m still not certain of it, although I am rather proud of myself for continuing onward.” Her expression fell. “Of course, I shall still have to face Father when we reach Virginia City.”

  Buck remained silent for several minutes as if mulling over everything she’d said. Then he pulled his mule’s head out of the grass, saying: “Come on, let’s get back to the wagons.”

  Milo was waiting for them at the Ruby Cut-Off. “Is this the one?” he asked skeptically when Buck rode up. He indicated the rutted tracks behind him, curved away from the main road in a long but shallow arc toward the northern tip of the Ruby Mountains several miles away.

  “This is it,” Buck confirmed, eyeing the twin paths with the same wariness he would a growling dog. The bare earth in the tracks was smooth and undisturbed save for the prints of Milo’s horse. “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “I didn’t ride it all the way, but it gets worse. There are some pretty deep gullies we’ll have to cross.”

  “Can it be done?”

  Laughing, Milo said: “Hell no, it can’t be done. But then, there’s no way we could have made it over Monida Pass in a blizzard, is there?” He crossed his wrists over his saddle horn. “You know, boss, I’m glad Jock took me on. I wouldn’t miss this for all the gold in Montana.”

  Buck smiled in spite of his worries, then twisted in his saddle to wave Peewee onto the cut-off.

  The muleskinner’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You ever been this way, Bucky?” he shouted, but Buck ignored the question and waved again, in no mood to debate the issue.

  There was a look of surprise on Nate’s face, too, but he gee-ed his team into the broad turn after Peewee without comment. Watching the big wagons rumble past, Milo said: “They know we’re here.”

  Buck looked at him. “Are you sure?”

  “Lomax sent his ramrod back. He must’ve recognized me because, when he got close, he all of a sudden whipped that jugheaded mule of his around and cut a fine fog riding back to tell his boss.”

  Buck’s jaw tightened.

  “It was only a matter of time,” Milo allowed, pulling the makings for a cigarette from his pocket. He stripped a thin sheet from his little bible of smoking papers and shaped it into a trough. “We’re lucky they didn’t discover us earlier,” he added absently, focusing on his smoke. “The question now is, can our mules handle a final sprint into Virginia City?”

  Although Buck’s expression didn’t change, he winced inwardly. He’d been asking himself that same question ever since they’d come down off Monida’s snowy northern slope. The mules’ eroding fitness was clearly evident in the gauntness of their flanks and the dulling shine of their eyes. They were worn down nearly to bone and sinew and wouldn’t last much longer if they didn’t get some good rest soon.

  “How much farther is it to Virginia City?” Milo asked, looking up as he sensed his boss’ doubt.

  “We ought to make it in by tomorrow night if nothing else goes wrong.”

  A lucifer flared in Milo’s cupped hands and the tip of his cigarette glowed cherry red. Sha
king out the match, he said: “It’s going to be a hell of a race.”

  “A hell of a finish anyway.”

  “Assuming we make it over the Ruby Cut-Off.”

  “Yeah,” Buck replied faintly. “Assuming that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  By the time Nick Kelso arrived in Virginia City he was chilled to the bone, ravishingly hungry, and ached in every muscle and joint in his body. It wasn’t illness that had sucked the strength from his body, but his long, freezing passage over the backbone of the Rockies—a nightmarish journey of falling snow, near starvation, and a soul-penetrating cold that not even the pint of whiskey he’d purchased at Dolsen’s had been able to alleviate.

  Based on the stories he’d heard in Utah, Nick had entertained high hopes for Virginia City, but his visions of luxury withered with his first full view of the community. Up close, the town’s muddy streets and weathered buildings looked even less appealing than Ogden’s.

  He reined in at the first livery he came to. A slim black man working out front paused with his pitchfork when Nick rode up. “Owner around?” Nick asked, his voice crackling a little from disuse.

  “You’re lookin’ at him.” At Nick’s scowl, the black man added: “Don’t worry, it ain’t gonna rub off on your hoss.”

  Nick swore sourly and dismounted. “You just fetch this horse something to eat. He’s had a hard trip, and he’s going to have an even harder one in another few days.”

  “They’s a stall at the far end of the entryway only cost you four bits a night.”

  “I’ll find it,” Nick said. He led his horse into the livery’s murky interior and was making his way down the middle of the aisle when some inner instinct flashed in his mind like a small explosion. He stopped and put a hand on his revolver, but, before he could pull it, a voice from the shadows told him to leave it where it was. Nick cursed again at his carelessness but kept his hand still. “That you, LeBry?”

  “You recognized my voice, mon ami. I am flattered.”

  “I smelled that damn’ black licorice you always stink of.”

  Baptiste LeBry chuckled as he stepped clear of the lightless doorway of the tack room. He wore a brushed twill coat and a low topper with a boat-shaped brim. A nickel-plated Colt Peacemaker was clutched familiarly in his right hand, its hammer cocked. “Tell me, you have completed your obligations to my employers?”

  “I’s done.”

  “Done?” LeBry smiled sadly, wagging his head. “When I left Dolsen’s trading post, the Box K was intact. Behind Crowley and Luce, to be sure, but not so far behind as one might wish.”

  “They might not be where you wished them to be, but they’re not going to win this race. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?”

  “To an extent, oui. You were instructed to slow their progress and you accomplished that, but no one was to die in the process. You recall that stipulation, don’t you, old friend?”

  “I ain’t your friend, LeBry.”

  “Instead, you present my clients with the embarrassment of sabotage and cold-blooded murder. And that raid.” LeBry tsked twice in disapproval. “You would consider such a thing coincidence? The race fair? I think not. Nor will the citizens of Utah.”

  “What the hell do I care what anybody in Utah thinks? I did what I was hired to do, and Crowley and Luce will win their contract because of it. That ought to make them happy.”

  LeBry snorted contemptuously. “You think this race between Kavanaugh and Crowley and Luce is about a simple contract, monsieur? Surely not even you can be that naïve.”

  Nick frowned. “You saying Crowley and Luce ain’t the ones who hired you?”

  “The men who hired me wish to remain anonymous, as such things should be among men of breeding, don’t you agree?”

  “I figured it was C and L you were working for,” Nick said, vaguely bothered that he’d guessed wrong.

  “Nicholas, the stakes in this contest are much higher than anything even Bannock Mining could envision. The fate of territories rested in your hands, mon ami, and for one brief moment in time you were an important man. How sad you were not aware of it.”

  Nick flexed the fingers of his right hand. He knew he was going to have to kill LeBry. The stocky little Frenchman had probably been sent here to kill him. But Nick wanted to know who the money men were first. If he had to flee the West after his confrontation with Bonner’s men in Hawley City, he would need money, lots of it. The kind of money blackmail could almost certainly guarantee him. “Who hired you, LeBry?”

  “The smallness of your inquiries tries my patience, Nicholas. I wonder, how badly did I misjudge your competence? But it is no longer a matter of concern. For the moment, I will be content to know how much information you have in your possession that can be traced to me.”

  Nick grinned tauntingly. “Kill me today and you’ll never know what I left behind, or where.”

  “Perhaps.” The nickeled barrel of LeBry’s Colt glinted in the skimpy light from the front door. “However, I would prefer to know now.”

  Likely he would, Nick thought, but not enough to postpone pulling the trigger. Smiling, he let his hand swing easily to the butt of his revolver. “Let’s get this over with, Frenchy,” he said.

  Killing Kelso should have been simple. LeBry’s pistol was already leveled, already cocked. But popping a cap on a man was never simple when it came down to the final squeeze of the trigger. At the last minute, LeBry hesitated, giving Nick time to make his draw. The roar of the two revolvers was deafening in the dark confines of the livery. Nick’s horse tore free, bolting for the front door. Nick let it go. Waving away the clouds of powder smoke, he advanced cautiously. He was leery of a trap but needn’t have been. Baptiste LeBry lay sprawled in the straw-littered dirt beside the tack room door. He was dead, and whatever secrets he might have possessed regarding the men who’d hired him were dead, too.

  “You stinking little shit,” Nick muttered. He knelt at LeBry’s side and quickly rifled the man’s pockets but found nothing except an empty shoulder holster and a greasy paper bag containing chunks of black licorice. There wasn’t even a wallet. Swearing, Nick pushed to his feet. He knew LeBry had to have something somewhere—money, extra clothes, a razor. Maybe within those simple articles he would find the answers he would need to make him rich.…

  “Don’t move!”

  “God damn,” Nick grated, stiffening.

  “Don’t turn around and don’t move.”

  “I heard you the first time,” he snapped.

  “Drop your gun.”

  Nick kept his hands away from his sides but he didn’t drop his pistol. He turned slowly, squinting through the lingering tendrils of drifting powder smoke at a short, stocky man with a badge on his vest, a double-barreled shotgun in both hands. This time when he was told to drop his gun, he did so.

  “You’re under arrest, Kelso,” the lawman said.

  “This?” Nick made an innocent gesture toward LeBry’s body. “This was self-defense, Sheriff. He tried to rob me.”

  “I got my doubts about that, not that it matters. I’m arresting you for the kidnapping of Robert Edward Haywood, of Philadelphia, but I’m betting I’ll find a lot more than that to charge you with.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Nick said, but he was having trouble breathing all of a sudden and his heart was beating wildly.

  “I’m talking about that kid in Ogden you kept doped up on Chinese tar,” the lawman said, grinning. “He’s here and so is his daddy, and they’re wanting you behind bars for a long time. I’m betting they’re gonna get their wish, too. What do you think?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Buck knew something was wrong as soon as he saw Milo racing back to the caravan. Kicking Zeke into a lope, he rode out to meet him.

  “We’ve got some big problems up ahead, boss!” Milo called when he was close, swinging his horse around to fall in at Buck’s side. “The road’s washed out real bad in at least three differ
ent places, and no way to get around them, either.”

  “How bad?” Buck asked. They had been making good time since leaving the main road, but Milo’s news wasn’t unexpected. There were reasons no one used this route any more.

  “Two, three feet deep, same across. A mule could jump it, but not in harness.”

  “Go grab a shovel and pick out of the mess wagon,” Buck instructed. “Get ’em up here fast as you can.”

  Milo nodded and cantered off. Buck jogged back to talk to Peewee. “Keep ’em rolling,” he said, after filling the muleskinner in on what lay ahead.

  “We’ll be right behind you,” Peewee promised, his voice jolting under the steady trotting of his mules, nearly drowned out by the banging of running gears and the squeak and squeal of ties holding his cargo in place.

  Buck rode on without waiting for Milo. He came to the first wash-out within a mile, cutting diagonally across the road like an unhealed wound. The pounding of Milo’s bay beat a rapid cadence across the sloping plain as Buck stepped down.

  Milo hauled his horse to a high-headed stop and jumped clear. “There’s two more wash-outs in the next half mile,” he said, tossing Buck the shovel. “I don’t know what’s beyond that third one.”

  “We’ll worry about that when we get there,” Buck said, gouging at the bank with his shovel.

  They hacked viciously at the thaw-softened earth, tearing down the walls until they had a shallow crossing for the wagons. They were sweating by the time they finished but didn’t take time for a breather. The next wash was similar to the first and they soon had that knocked down as well. The third was even easier, which was good because Buck’s muscles were starting to protest.

  “Here they come,” Milo observed, puffing heavily.

  Buck glanced over his shoulder at the mule train, less than two hundred yards away. Wiping sweat from his brow with his sleeve, he said: “Let’s keep riding.”

  They climbed stiffly into their saddles and pushed on. It was another mile to the next big wash, and neither man spoke as they approached it. Dropping resolutely from their mounts, they dug in without complaint. They were slower this time, though, and had barely finished when the caravan rolled up. Buck shouted hoarsely for Peewee to keep his rig moving and he and Milo rode on. When they reached the next steep-sided gully, Milo groaned aloud. “Lord A’mighty,” the ramrod blurted, peering into the crevice. “It’s no wonder no one uses this damn’ road.”