“Where’s Rep?” he asked.
“Asleep, I think.” After a pause she said, “Cris, will we be able to get my father away from them?”
Cris shifted uneasily. “Maybe the Army will come,” he said. “We’ve stopped them for awhile, anyway.”
“They’ll kill him, Cris. We’ve got to get him away.”
“From sixteen men? You don’t know what you’re sayin’. It was a lucky thing we did, driving off their horses and not getting shot for it, but to get him from their camp … you’re daft, girl. Daft.”
“Mr. Pratt will do it for me, then.”
Cris bristled. “He will, will he? He can do little that I cannot do, and believe me, a man would be a fool to go against them. A fool.”
“You’d let them torture my father? Kill him?”
Cris twisted around angrily. “You are out to have us killed, Barda McClean, to help a man we do not even know. There are sixteen of them!”
“That’s not so many!” she said pertly. “I’ve read stories where—”
“Stories, is it? I’ll be telling you once more, girl, that this is no story. Nor are their guns shooting paper bullets, nor words, either. There’s death in them.”
“You mean to let him die then?” she asked scornfully.
Deliberately he got up and walked away without answering her, repeating in his thoughts the angry words he wanted to say but would not; yet even as he did so, he taunt disturbed him. Suppose Rep did do it? And he might. The backwoodsman was a daring man. He might even have friends in their camp.
Irritably, he went to the four horses, checking the ropes that picketed them, listening to their teeth tugging at the grass. The colonel’s horse turned its head to brush him with its nose, and he rubbed its neck and muttered to the horse in Gaelic. Certainly, the horse was quick to respond when he spoke the language. Could it be an Irish horse? If he ever met McClean he would ask him … if he ever met him.
For a moment then he felt an icy chill. The colonel was only a few miles away, perhaps about to be tortured and killed. And the man could have little hope. Of course, the Army was likely to find some of those who killed him, but it would be small pleasure to think of that, with him gone.
Cris Mayo recalled the disdainful eyes of Barda McClean. The girl is a fool, he told himself, an innocent fool. What does she know of such men?
He knew. He had seen cruelty in his time, had seen men murdered, tortured even, white men killing other white men … and for what?
Suddenly he turned swiftly, caught up the saddle blanket, brushed it off and threw it over the back of the astonished horse. Then the saddle and bridle. He took up his rifle and he swung a leg over the big horse. All right, the girl was a fool, and so was he a fool.
But he would go, he would go now.
Chapter 6
CRIS MAYO HAD never thought of himself as an especially brave man. On the other hand, he knew he was not a coward. Many times in his life he had faced danger: with the fishing boats far at sea, on the ship that brought him to America, and even in bitter fist fights in his own country; and he had always done what needed to be done. He had often been afraid, but he was used to simply going ahead in spite of the fear.
Now he rode quietly out into the night, making no sound, and saying nothing to Rep or Barda, not even looking in their direction. Once out of the trees and on the prairie, he rode swiftly toward the encampment of the renegades.
When he believed he was still at least a mile from his goal, he slowed down. He watched his horse’s ears, knowing that they were his best guide to what was happening out there in the darkness. Swinging wide a little, he walked his horse forward, wanting the enemy to hear no pound of hoofs on turf.
Several times he reined in and listened. He had no idea of what he would or could do, only a vague hope that when he arrived, he might see something of which he could take advantage. He hoped also that with no horses to watch, their guard would be less alert.
He drew up finally, having circled close to the opening through which they had taken their horses at sundown. He mopped the sweat from his brow, for despite the chill of night, he was sweating. “You’re scared,” he told himself, “and scared you’ve a right to be, and if you knew what would be happening before this night is over, you’d likely be even more scared.”
Near the foot of the hill he investigated a lone patch of brush and scrub trees that appeared to offer little if any concealment; but within it he found a hollow, maybe a dozen feet long and half as wide, where the earth had been gouged out at some far distant time. Here he left his horse, tied to the thick stem of a willow. Easing out between clumps of scrub, he paused to listen. Poaching had been good experience for this, for gamekeepers in Ireland were alert, ready to pounce on those who grew careless.
To go up the bald face of the hill was not a thing to which he looked forward, but there was no other way except through one of the two entrances, and first he must learn something of what lay within. Keeping low, he started up the hill. The grass was no more than five or six inches high, but there were occasional clumps of prickly pear, some boulders, and enough cover to offer an illusion of security.
At the top of the hill, easing to the farthest possible point, he looked over. Only one fire was still alight. Two others had burned down to coals, and around them he could see the dark forms of sleeping men. Three men bedded a little to one side would be, he decided, the leaders of whom Reppato had spoken.
He stared down at them, wondering what he was doing here. He had come west to work, to earn money, to build a life for himself, so how did he come to be here? Was it only the girl? That he feared for her? Or was it something else in him that pushed him into trouble? He had moved like this before, suddenly and on impulse, without thinking ahead, and it was no way to do.
He studied the layout below. Not much chance to get in there, not if he also wished to get out. The more he looked at it, the less he liked it. Nobody was going to go through one of those openings without being seen. And to go up or down the slopes was to be in full view of the camp.
He supposed he should be inventing some shrewd way of tricking them so he could get the colonel free, but he could think of nothing. Yet he was restive. He had come here to do something and he did not want to go back without at least a try. He felt sure Reppato Pratt would have come up with a plan.
The moments passed. He worried about the gelding waiting in the brush down there. Suppose it whinnied and they heard it? Or some animal came along? There were wolves, he’d heard, and panthers.
A man suddenly appeared, a rifle in the hollow of his arm, strolling toward the fire. The man bent over, added a couple of roots to the coals, then stood there, looking about.
The guard from the opening where the horses had been taken out, Cris supposed. Then if he was here, there, by the fire—! The opening was unguarded for just that long. He started to move, then stopped. The man was walking over to the prisoner, and he bent over him as if to test the ropes that bound him, but in that instant, Cris saw the flash of steel in the man’s hand.
Was he going to kill the colonel? Cris moved his hand to his gun, but before he could decide, he saw firelight flicker on the knife-blade, then saw the man drop to his knees and the light caught the blade again. The guard was cutting McClean free. Now he was helping him up.
They turned and just enough firelight and moonglow touched the man’s face for Cris to see that it was Reppato Pratt!
How in—?
He was helping the colonel toward the entrance when suddenly from behind them appeared the other guard. “Hey!” he called. “What’s the idea?”
Rep turned swiftly and shot him, firing from the hip. And in an instant the camp exploded into action. Men leaped up. Somebody shouted, “McClean! Where’s the colonel?”
Cris Mayo, settling his rifle against his cheek, knew the time had come for action. He opened fire.
His first shot was at the yelling man, and the bullet burned him or scratched him.
The man jumped back, stung, and Cris fired again. That slug caught a man with a pistol in his hand who was knocked back into the fire. He screamed, leaped up, kicking over the coffeepot, his clothing ablaze. He staggered and several men rushed at him to put out the flames.
Cris tried a quick shot at the place he believed Parley to have been lying, and then fired again and again.
A bullet nicked a rock near him and whined angrily into the night. Rep and McClean had disappeared, and Cris decided it was high time he did also. Backing swiftly from the crest, he sprang to his feet and raced headlong down the hill, slowing only near the bottom so as not to frighten his horse.
The gelding was startled, head up, eyes wild. “It’s all right,” Cris said softly, patting the horse. “All right now,” and he whispered a few words in the old Irish.
Prudently he took time to reload his gun, then untied the gelding and mounted. He rode out of the bushes, circled away, and listened. He could hear an angry murmur from beyond the hill, too far away and cut off by the hill to be distinguished. He walked his horse in the direction he suspected Rep would go, but heard no sound … nothing.
He turned then and rode back to their camp. All was still. He listened, moved carefully forward, every sense alert.
The camp was empty. They were gone.
Where was Barda McClean? Had she gone with Rep after her father? And if so, where were they now?
He led his horse to the water, then drank himself. He was puzzled, unwilling to believe that Rep would take Barda with him on such a mission, yet understanding how difficult she could be and how hard to leave behind.
He sat on the bank under the trees and waited, listening. The moon was down. He dozed, awakened, dozed again. Nobody came.
The sky grew faintly gray, sunrise was coming. He got up and walked back to their camp, some twenty yards from where he had been sitting … nothing.
He climbed the hill to look out over the prairie, but the vast plain, broken by occasional rolling hills, was empty.
What would the renegades do now? Attempt to recover their prisoner, no doubt, as well as their mounts. And to be revenged on those who had thwarted them.
He walked back to the camp, then stopped, suddenly, looking at some tracks. Not only tracks, but cigarette stubs. Two of them. Cris smoked but rarely, and then a clay pipe, and he had not seen Pratt smoking. Yet somebody had stood there, for there were marks of a man’s shifting feet, rolling and smoking at least two cigarettes while he waited and watched.
Cris squatted on his heels, studying the tracks. A large man, worn boots, run-down heels, and a crack across the sole of one. Standing up, he looked through the willows at the spot that the man must have watched. Right before his eyes was where Barda had slept, or sat. He had chosen it for her himself as the most comfortable place to rest.
Suddenly, Cris was desperately worried. He had slipped off, saying nothing to anyone, and then Reppato Pratt had evidently done the same thing! Believing Cris Mayo was still close by, he had gone off to try to rescue the colonel, unknowingly leaving Barda alone.
Carefully, Cris studied the ground, but could make little of what he saw. The tracking he had done in Ireland had been little enough, only the deer he poached and an occasional lost animal. It was easier just to ask farmers or travellers if they had seen a lost animal than to attempt tracking it, except on the uplands.
The main thing, he supposed, was common sense. Men are far less inventive than they assume and whatever means they use to confuse a trail have inevitably been used before. And this man who had captured Barda McClean had probably not expected pursuit.
So what then? Who was he and where had he gone? Not back to the camp in the hollow or Cris would have seen them; where else? The lone man was probably one of the renegades, but not necessarily so. Assuming that he was, then the man had evidently decided to keep Barda to himself, or perhaps to ransom her by appealing to the railroad for money. This, Cris decided, was likely. There was little loyalty among such men as Parley had gathered about him, and each was out to grab as much as possible.
The morning was dull and gray. Cris felt restless, irritable, not knowing which way to turn yet eager to do something. He tried to follow the tracks of the man across the clearing, but failed. He circled warily, keeping an eye out for trouble but seeking any mark on the ground that might give him a clue. Finally he went to his horse, mounted and walked him outside the camp. From the hill where he had been last night, a man with either very good eyes or a glass would see him, but he did not care. It was Barda he was thinking of. Barda was in the hands of this unknown man, and must be found, and at once.
He came upon the tracks suddenly and no credit was due to skill, simply to his patience and effort. They were the hoofprints of five horses, bunched well together, the tracks of one of them sunk deeper than the others. This he could interpret. A man had captured five of the scattered horses, was riding one and leading four of them. Cris started to ride on, then on a hunch turned and followed the trail of the horses.
It took him only minutes to discover that it was this man who had found Barda alone. He had seen something … perhaps Rep or Cris leaving the area … and he had investigated. Then he had either moved in, or waited until the second man was gone. The latter, probably, thought Cris, recollecting the two cigarette butts.
Near the place where the horses had been tied he found the big man’s track and he also found the smaller, sharper cut of a heel into an earthy space between clumps of grass … Barda.
All right, then. The fellow who had found the horses had also discovered Barda, but he had not gone back to the camp of Parley’s men. Searching about, Cris found the tracks leading off toward the west, and holding to low ground. Six horses now, one of them Barda’s mare.
He reined in and studied the land he must cross. He was gradually getting the feel of the country, learning to see, hear and sense better than he had. The railroad seemed far away now; beyond all reach, as far as County Cork.
His eyes took in the long sweep of the hills, the westward way. Touching a heel to the big gelding, he started off at a spanking trot. He carried the rifle in his hands, and the trail of the horses was easily followed.
He had one advantage, he thought: he knew his ignorance. That meant he should go slow until he saw the right move to make, then he must move fast and hard. So far he had done nothing, except that he’d opened fire to help Rep and McClean escape … if they had. Barda had been taken and the fault was in part his. He was out here, miles from anything familiar, following a man, who probably knew things he would never learn, into an unknown country. He decided that he was almost due south of the small red shack where he had left the train. By now there should be troops in the field, although it would take them awhile to get into this area.
Parley would be aware of that, and he also probably knew by now that his only chance was to find horses and get out of the country; so he and his men would leave their camp and march out to wherever they could expect to acquire horses.
The man who had Barda was holding a little south of west, and Cris Mayo stepped up the pace. He could go faster than a man with four led horses could go; unless that man chose to switch mounts, which so far he had not done, not knowing he was pursued.
The country was changing, the hills were higher, there were far more outcrops, and there were trees on some of the ridges. The land was drier, the vegetation stiffer, harsher, more gray than truly green. There was no difficulty with the tracks. In fact, when he topped out on a rise he could see them pointing a finger, a whitish streak across the mixed grass plains before him, pointing toward a rocky hill several miles off.
The man might be watching from over there but Cris decided he had no choice. He put the gelding into a gallop and started out for the hill.
PETE NOBLE WAS in a quandary. He had found the horses where Murray had suggested he might, and he had started back. He was within a couple of miles of the rendezvous when he saw a rider come out of the hills and sta
rt across toward their hideout. No one in the outfit had a horse like the one he saw, a splendid animal.
There was a good chance the man was a spy, and there was an even better chance that a force of men lay in waiting yonder where he’d come from. Pete decided to scout the area before returning. This was something Parley should know.
He was nearing rapidly when he saw the second man leave, leading a riderless horse, and now he was more than ever sure. This was a military detachment or a civilian posse. In either case, Parley must know, to avoid surprise.
Leaving his horses, Pete had closed in carefully. Although a big man he was half Cherokee, had spent much of his life among Indians, and could move with great skill and silence. He was not a brave man but he trusted his skill and so was not particularly afraid of being caught.
Then he saw the girl. She was lying down. He got a glimpse of her face in the vague moonlight and knew that she was young and attractive. He mopped his brow and upper lip. A girl … alone?
He rolled himself a smoke and lit it carefully, shielding the flame, as soon as he’d determined that she was alone. Only one horse was tethered nearby, a mare. Pete Noble thought hard, through that cigarette and then a second. Two men gone, one girl left… .
She had been one of the three who drove off their horses! Justin Parley would be glad, and grateful to Pete, to have her a prisoner.
Parley? Why let him have her? Why not keep her for himself? He’d found her, not Parley. And who was Parley after all? Pete Noble did not need Parley. He had lived in the West for a long time before Parley came into the country. Half of his ancestors had lived here forever! Suppose he took this girl and ran with her? Who was to know?
He moved into the small clearing. The girl’s eyes flew open. “Ma’am,” he said, “if you yell I’m liable to shoot you.”
Barda McClean was frightened but she also knew that she dared not give in to her fright. She sat up. “Why should I yell? I know you’ve come to guide me back to the railroad to receive the reward.”
Novel 1973 - The Man From Skibbereen (v5.0) Page 7