“No, sir, but they might have left something. If they wanted to kill General Sherman they would not carry him far. They would take him to some other camp, then, if the whole scheme is revenge, they’d take their time with him.”
Major Andrews turned to the sergeant. “Post a guard, front, rear, and in the center, alert at all times. Engineer, detach your locomotive and go ahead a few miles to see if the track is in good shape; watch the telegraph line for the cut; then get back here fast.”
“Sir?” Mayo interrupted. “That’s a bad lot. They’ll kill him. A few men on foot might—”
“Afoot? They’d get nowhere. They wouldn’t have a chance. Besides, the man they have is a tough man, a good man.”
“General Sherman, is it?”
“No, they don’t have the general. They got the wrong man. They have taken Colonel McClean … but he was in Georgia with the general. He even looks like him.”
Cris walked back inside. All that was very well, and doubtless important, but it meant nothing to him. This Major Andrews was in charge now and Cris had nothing to do but get on the train and ride to the end of the line.
He hesitated about the rifle and pistol. They had belonged to the dead man and Cris Mayo certainly had no claim to them, but neither did these strangers, and he had seen no home address among the papers he’d found in the desk. He would keep them himself until he could get such an address and return them. He took as much ammunition as he could comfortably carry in his pockets and in the loops of the gunbelt.
He felt let down and used up. He had hoped that his fire would warn them of something amiss, and it had stopped the train but it had not saved the general … the colonel, rather.
The group now stood on the platform, watching the locomotive start down the track. The major was there, and the conductor. There were several others. Cris Mayo went outside and standing near the conductor he said, “I’d like a ride to the end of track. They’ve a job for me there.”
“You’ll buy a ticket if you ride my train,” Sam said coolly, “I know nothing about you.”
“Then I shall buy a ticket, but please … do you not forget our arrangement.”
Cris walked away, anxious to be as far as he could from the man, yet as he left he heard the major speak. “After all, Calkins, the man did his best to protect railroad property.”
“He protected himself. I’ll have nothing to do with these shanty Irish. They are filling up the country, and they’ll ruin it.”
“Better not let the general hear you say that.”
“The general?”
“Sherman is an Irishman. His father, if I am not mistaken, was one of those Irish immigrants. Sheridan is Irish, too.”
Sam Calkins’ face was red. “It makes no difference. They’re a poor lot, fit to swing a hammer and little else.”
“What was this ‘arrangement’ he mentioned?”
“Oh, the fool wants to fight me! I’ll whip him with pleasure.”
The major glanced after Mayo, and Cris heard him say, “The man’s got fine shoulders. If he has the heart to go with them you may have your work cut out for you.”
“Bah! Those stinkin’ Irish can’t fight! You come an’ watch!”
Cris Mayo walked off by himself and sat on a pile of ties. He had slept little and what he wanted most was to rest. Sooner or later, even if his Indians did not carry the word, somebody would come back to investigate and then they would send a work-train to repair the tracks. Then he would go on through with the train. He had money enough for a ticket, but there would not be too much left after that.
He heard boots approaching and he sat up, opening his eyes. It was Major Andrews. “Mayo? Don’t worry about that ticket. I’ve told him you are travelling on Army business. We will need your evidence as to what happened here.”
“Thank you, sir. It’s a fine thing you’ve done.” He paused. “Sir? They’ll be killing him, you know.”
“I think not, Mayo. More likely they’ll make us pay for his return. Anyway, I have only six men and the train—not to mention the general—must be protected. And we’ve no horses.”
The major walked away and Cris Mayo lay back on the ties. He was very tired. Yet as he closed his eyes, he remembered the men he had seen and the viciousness with which they had attacked the telegrapher, who was not even an enemy. That they would kill the colonel he had no doubt, and nothing was being done.
The responsibility for the train was not his; the major must think first of that, and of the passengers on it. But the colonel, he worried Cris.
Suddenly someone was near him again. He opened his eyes wearily and sat up. It was a girl. She was young, she was beautiful, she was obviously worried sick, and she was looking at him. “Are you Mr. Mayo?” she asked.
“I am that, miss.”
“Mr. Mayo, would you help me? I’m Barda McClean, Colonel McClean’s daughter.”
“What is it that I could do?”
“Find my father. Or help me find him.”
“Miss, you don’t know what you’re askin’. I’m new to this country. Now if it was County Cork, and if I had a horse—”
“I have a horse. As a matter of fact, two horses.”
Cris got to his feet and hitched his gunbelt into place; running his fingers through his hair, he put on his hat. “You have horses?” he asked, skepticism in his voice.
“They are on the train. My father’s horse and mine. We’re enthusiastic riders and we were bringing them west, hoping to ride the broad new country.”
“Does the major know that?”
“Of course. I suggested he send some men out, but he refuses to risk two men in Indian country, and says that only two men could do no good against the renegades, anyway.”
“He’s right, you know.”
“Then you won’t help me?”
“Now I said nothing of the sort! I simply said he was right. He’s an officer, responsible for his men, and he daren’t risk their lives so recklessly. I’ve been wishing for a horse, miss, but I’ll not lie to you: we’ve small chance. If your father is not dead I think that he soon will be, and by going out yonder I might ride right amongst them. They are canny men, and they know the land, which I do not.”
“I’ll go alone then.”
“No, I’ll go. I’m a horseman. And if we can get one of the horses from the cars I’ll be off to find them, although it’s the divil of a place to look for them, it being so big and all.”
“All right, come look at them in the moonlight and choose your mount.”
Only two men were on guard, and both at the front of the train. They had orders to walk down the sides and back, but it was no trick to open the car after they’d passed, for the groom had already done so twice, and Cris eased the ramp to the ground, then led one of the beasts down. Barda held the mare while he went back, and when he reached the car door with the second horse she was in the saddle.
“No!” he whispered hoarsely. “We’ll have none of that!”
She swung her mare away and he went up into the saddle and down the ramp with a thunder of hoofs that brought a shout from the guard. She was off across the dark prairie and he after her, and behind him more shouts and much fearful swearing. He would pray for their souls, in good time; they were likely lads but they certainly knew a lot of the King’s English of the back-alley kind.
His horse followed hers when he let it have its head, and overtook her upon the prairie when she had slowed down. “Now where do we go?” she asked. “You are the one who must lead the way. I know nothing of this country.”
“No more do I, which I’ve told you before! You’ll go back, Barda McClean. Where I must ride is sure no place for a lady.”
“You will need me,” she said, “and it’s my own father you seek. I will ride.” She held something up in her hand and it was a rifle. “Don’t worry, Mr. Mayo, I can shoot this.”
Sighing, he led the way to the farthest tip of the cottonwoods. There would be no pursuit, for the ma
jor’s men had no horses. When he pulled up, Barda came in beside him. “Why are you stopping?”
“We’ll need daylight. I’m not one of these red Indians, but I expect we can follow the trail of so many riders, unless they split up. I’ve trailed sheep a time or two in Ireland, and once in a while a cow or horse.”
They dismounted. Cris Mayo picketed the horses on the rich grass near the trickle of water and they sat down near the trunk of a huge old tree. “You better get some sleep,” Cris suggested, “morning will come all too soon.”
He took off his square-topped derby and leaned back against the tree, dead tired. He took his rifle across his knees, eased his belt-gun to where he could put a hand on it quick, and closed his eyes.
The enemy camp could not be far. In the first place they would not have wanted to waste strength in riding to the railroad, but would have tried to save their horses as much as possible until after the prisoner was taken. Cris guessed it must be within three or four miles, perhaps even less. He was equally sure that they would not be there now, but a man had to start somewhere. If they were lucky they would find a trail he could follow. He knew that as a tracker he was no Western scout, but he hoped for the best. He had an idea the enemy would head south … they would find more sympathizers there, more places to get food and information. The possibility that they would keep Colonel McClean alive more than a few hours was almighty slim. If Cris and the girl found his body, they’d go back to the train at once. Cris tried not to think of what that would do to Miss McClean.
Twice he dozed. He was not expecting attack or even discovery, and trusted to the horses for warning, but he could not sleep sound for the thinking. When the first gray light of dawn appeared he saddled up, led the horses to water, and awakened Barda. Even in the morning she looked good.
“Is there any coffee?” she asked.
He picked up his hat, shrugged into his coat. “No, miss. We came away from that railroad so fast we came without anything to eat. We’ll just have to tighten our belts a notch. Will you mount up?”
“But I thought—!”
“No, you didn’t, and neither did I. We just got these horses and rode off. We’ll be lucky if we eat this week,” he said mournfully.
She was appalled, speechless.
“Of course, it doesn’t happen that way in the stories,” said Cris, looking at her. “Nobody seems to eat much in the stories, and when they do, they just happen on meals when they need them. Out here in this land the only thing we’ll happen onto is trouble.”
She was very quiet after that, and Cris wanted it so, for he had thinking to do. He led the way toward the east, scanning the ground as he rode. There was no sense in just rushing off wild-like. Until they had some kind of a trail to go by, they must simply go slow.
The grass all looked the same. He couldn’t see any tracks. Here and there were buffalo droppings and those of smaller animals, maybe antelope. When they had ridden out a mile from the cottonwoods he turned in a slow arc toward the south, scanning the country.
“You keep your eyes open,” he advised Barda, “and if you see anything movin’, anything at all, you tell me. I’ll be studying the ground.”
For an hour they rode. He saw occasional places where the grass was bent over or pressed down, but nothing he was able to identify. How could a man follow a trail in such a place? Barda after a long time said, despairing, “Will we ever find them?”
“We will. I just hope it isn’t too late.”
“What can we do?”
“You just let that be, until we find them. What we do will be depending on the situation.” That was one of the things his uncle used to say. It all depended on the situation. You learned that in the Army.
The sky was scattered with puffballs of cloud. The day was hot and still. The cottonwoods had faded into the distance behind. Cris Mayo drew rein, removed his derby and wiped the sweat from his brow. Barda came up beside him. Her cheeks were flushed with warmth.
He looked the country over carefully. The prairie seemed level but was not, for it slanted upward to the west, ever so slightly. One could see it in the streams, or rather, the little troughs where rain had run off.
The renegades would have camped near water. He started the colonel’s horse again and rode east and south, studying the horizon. He followed a run-off pattern for something like two miles before he found a stream.
It was dry, with caked mud in the bottom. He turned down the stream bed and walked the horses along. He was half asleep when suddenly they came upon tracks. Several horses, ridden at a good speed judging by their marks, had crossed the dry stream bed, and the trail seemed to have been used more than once.
He had no confidence in shooting from the back of a horse, but he took the rifle from the scabbard and held it in his hands for the comfort of it.
The trail, once seen, was not hard to follow. They had gone scarcely a mile when it turned sharply into a fold in the hills. Following a dim path now, probably made by buffalo, they went further, and suddenly the fold opened into a flat, grassy bottom. Down the middle of this was a line of trees. Already in the open, there was nothing for it but to proceed, and they did. The trail dipped down into a stream bed and almost at once came to a deserted camp.
Cris Mayo swung down. “Stay where you are,” he said, “and hold my horse.”
Leaving her, he walked on to examine the campsite. By the trampled earth and grass and the scuffed scars upon two trees he found where horses had been tied to a rope running between the trees. Judging by the distance and the condition of the ground, there must have been at least a dozen horses, and probably half again that many.
Say eighteen men. It was quite a few, and there might be even more.
There had been three fires … maybe six men to the fire if they did their own fixing. It needed no more than common sense to take him that far. Eighteen was about right, then.
He found three curious circles on the ground that he studied for several minutes before it dawned on him that the men had stacked their rifles, and the broken circles were the marks of the rifle butts in the dust.
He looked next at the fires. Taking up a charred stick, he stirred one of them. A few coals, still faintly alive, appeared. Last night, probably. Certainly no earlier than yesterday afternoon. He looked around, trying to learn more, but he could not.
“Get down, miss, and we’ll rest a bit. The horses need it, and so do we.” He led both animals to the small stream for a drink, then picketed them on the grass of the meadow just beyond the trees.
The sun was getting high, and the day was hot. She stretched out on the grass in the shade and he walked about, studying the camp. They had broiled meat over the fire on sharpened sticks, and they had eaten well, for he saw some pieces thrown away and not entirely consumed. In the bushes close by he found a bottle that had contained liquor, emptied and thrown aside … dead weight for them, a priceless object for him. Carrying it to the stream he washed and rinsed it thoroughly, then filled it with water and left it in the stream to keep cool while he looked around for something from which to whittle a stopper.
Finding some proper wood, he went to work, and while he worked, he thought.
The wires were down. The track was likely torn up. The rails might be put back in place and the train, or at least a part of it, gotten over. Or another train might come to investigate from east or west.
In other words, the renegades would have at least a two-day lead on whoever chose to follow. Cris Mayo had no idea whether there were other wires along which messages could be sent to head them off, but any such wires were more likely to end somewhere to the east, for the only line going this far west was the one along the Union Pacific tracks.
So they would be likely to ride south and west to avoid the inevitable pursuit. He lay back on the grass and slept.
When he awakened she was sitting up. “Are we going on? We’ve been here more than two hours.”
“We are,” he said. He led the way to
the horses and tightened their cinches. They had been picketed within reach of the water, so had undoubtedly drunk what they needed. Barda swung into the saddle before he could reach to help her.
“There are no tracks south of this camp save those coming north, so we still haven’t found their escape trail, but I figure they went southwest,” he said. “That way they’ll be farther from the telegraph.”
“I don’t think so,” she objected. “They would go south and east.” When he started to argue the point, she indicated the southwest with a gesture. “That’s Indian country. My father told me all about it. The Indians there are very fierce, and enemies of the white man.”
They rode on in silence, heading almost due south for a time. Although Cris doubted that she was right, he hoped she was. It was little that he knew about Indians except the tall tales heard on the train and repeated by a few travellers home from America.
“They may have friends,” Barda suggested; “they may be riding to meet them, or to hide on one of their ranches.”
Suddenly, before Cris could speak, they came upon the tracks of a large group of riders, and followed these—for they aimed toward the southwest, as Cris had predicted. Through the sun-filled afternoon they rode. “You are from Ireland,” she said suddenly.
“County Cork.”
“Is it nice there? I’ve always heard Ireland was so green and lovely.”
“It is. But there is little enough for a man to do there, and many seeking work. I had a good job but they took it from me.”
She looked at him, and he explained. “There was a girl, a girl with freckles on her nose, and her father had plans for her and none for me. When some small troubles came, they used the excuse to be rid of me.”
“Were you in love with her?”
He shrugged. “I can’t say. She was a fine one, a pert, snippy one and good fun, too, and a grand time it was that we had together.”
“Are you going back?”
He shrugged again. “How can a man tell what he will do? I am a poor man, and no fortune will come to me unless I earn it with me two hands. The hands and the will, they’re all I have.”
Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0) Page 4