Trace prodded the paint to a faster gait so he could intercept the wagon as it entered a treeless ravine that led from the flat down to the river bottom. After about a fifteen-minute ride, he came to the head of the ravine, where he could watch the pilgrims from above as they followed the ravine down to the river. There was no need to expose himself until he got a closer look at who it was he was about to meet. So he sat on his horse and patiently waited for the wagon to approach.
When the party finally entered the ravine and ambled slowly by below him, wagon wheels creaking in protest to the rough floor of the gully and pots and pans clanging noisily as the wagon lurched to and fro, Trace shook his head in amazement. There were two men on the seat, father and son, it appeared, with a woman and a little girl in the back. Typical, he thought. What was not typical, however, were the two riders that had flanked the wagon until it descended into the draw. As Trace watched, they fell behind, apparently conferring about something. It was the look of the two that troubled Trace. Even at that distance, he could sense something strange about them. Trace dismounted and carefully made his way to the edge of the ravine, where he crawled up behind a screen of brush. Unseen by the travelers, he could plainly hear the conversation between one of the men and the woman behind him in the wagon.
“Paul, there’s no trail here,” the wife complained, “I don’t think they know where we’re going.”
Her husband didn’t answer right away. He had constantly reassured his wife and son that the two men who had so graciously offered to guide them to Fort Bridger knew the country. But now he began to have doubts himself. Until that morning, they had followed a well-traveled trail with evidence that countless wagons had passed that way before. But when they broke camp that morning, their guides had led them in a more northerly direction, away from the beaten track—a shortcut, they assured him, that would save them a full day’s travel. They were late for their rendezvous with the main party as it was, so a day’s time saved would be welcome. But now he began to share his wife’s suspicions, especially when he looked at the mountains before them, standing like giant, impenetrable palisades. There was no sign that anyone had ever traveled this way before, and the rough terrain threatened to tear his wagon apart. Their guides had promised that the trail would become smoother a few miles ahead, but he feared he might bust a wheel before they reached better ground. The wagon was in sore need of repair as it was, and he had been anxious to reach Fort Bridger to get the work done.
Finally he answered his wife’s troubled comment. “I don’t know, Martha. Mr. Plum told me this shortcut would save us at least a day, but it don’t look to me like this trail leads anywhere. We’ll stop at the river to water the mules—I’ll talk to ’em about it then.” He lowered his voice and threw an aside to his son. “William, why don’t you ease back in the wagon, and make sure those rifles are loaded and handy? This thing is beginning to smell a little like trouble. We’d do well to be prepared for some funny business.” He glanced back to see his wife’s troubled expression, and said, “Now, there ain’t nothing to worry about. It just pays to be cautious, that’s all.”
A dozen feet above them, Trace heard every word of the conversation clearly. Now he knew why he had sensed something wrong about the two guides following along behind the wagon. The one word that had alerted him was the name Plum. For now he recognized the two baleful-looking blackhearts with the family—not by sight, because he had never come face-to-face with either of them before, but by a reputation earned by a long history of double-dealing. Plum and Crown—the two renegades were said to be raiding with a band of Blackfeet, and Trace could only wonder what business they had with this family of emigrants. Well, we’ll soon find out, he thought as he moved slowly away from the edge of the ravine and returned to his horses.
Jack Plum, vicious as a wolf, was also as wary as a fox. He did not miss young William’s quick move into the bed of the wagon. “Best watch yourself, Crown,” he warned softly. “That young pup might be up to somethin’ back there. Might be they’s gittin’ a little suspicious.”
Crown grunted contemptuously, then replied, “Won’t do ’em much good if they are, will it?” He failed to see much threat from the boy and his father. His mind was already thinking beyond the murders they were about to commit. “Remember, Plum, I fancy the girl for myself.”
“I said you could have her,” Plum shot back. While he might amuse himself with the child’s mother for a while before he killed her, Plum was more interested in the load of supplies Paul Murdock had in his wagon. Plum’s taste in women ran toward younger girls, but only Crown was sick enough to lust after children.
Paul Murdock guided his team of mules through a stand of trees near the river and hopped down from the wagon seat, his rifle in his hand. William followed close behind his father, also carrying his rifle. Riding up to the wagon, Plum and Crown exchanged cautious glances, both noticing that father and son were armed. Their caution irritated Plum, as he had planned a simple slaughter, with Murdock and his son unsuspecting victims. Now he had to try to put them at ease again.
“It’s been a little rough,” Plum said, trying his best to convey a cheerful tone, “but it’ll be like riding the streets of St. Louis after we cross the river.” He swung a leg over and dismounted. Being as obvious as he could, he walked over and propped his rifle against the wagon, then moved back beside his horse. “We’ll be eating supper at Fort Bridger tomorrow. That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, missy?” He gave Murdock’s daughter a playful wink. The little girl responded with a slight smile of embarrassment.
“Mr. Plum,” Paul Murdock said, his face a mask of serious concern, “I’m not so certain that we’re on the right trail. You say we have to cross the river here? Seems to me Fort Bridger oughta be yonder way.” He pointed toward the southwest.
Plum strained to maintain his cheerful facade. You dumb-ass farmer, it’s the right trail, all right, and it’s gonna lead you straight to hell. But to Murdock, he said, “Oh, yes, sir. It’s the right trail, all right. You’re right, Bridger is yonder way. When we cross the river, we’ll pick up a trail on the other side of them hills ahead that cuts right back toward Bridger. Be there tomorrow for supper. Ain’t that right, Crown?”
Crown’s response was a slight curling of one side of his mouth, forming a sinister grin. Unnoticed by Murdock or his son, Crown had casually moved over near the back of the wagon to a position that placed him off of young William’s right shoulder. His eyes shifted constantly from Plum to William and back, with an occasional glance at Murdock’s twelve-year-old daughter.
Murdock was not convinced. He caught his wife’s worried eye and knew that she was trying to signal her lack of confidence in Plum’s word. More than ever, he began to suspect that he had led his family into danger, and he was not sure if he could extricate them peacefully. The one thing he was convinced of, however, was that he would not follow these two wild mountain men any farther into the wilderness. “Well, Mr. Plum,” he began, “we’re much obliged to you and Mr. Crown for guiding us this far. But my wife and I have decided to turn around and go back.”
Noticing that Crown had eased himself around almost behind William’s back, Plum smiled and said, “Well, now, that don’t make no sense a’tall.” His hand came casually to rest on the butt of one of two pistols stuck in his belt.
“It damn sure makes sense to me.” The voice came from behind Crown, causing him to jump. All heads turned as one to discover Trace McCall, standing easy, his Hawken rifle cradled across his arms with the casual confidence of a mountain lion.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Crown demanded.
Trace ignored him. “Where are you bound for, mister?” he addressed Paul Murdock.
This stranger was as wild-looking as Plum and Crown, but Murdock sensed an absence of the treachery that Plum and Crown reeked of. “Fort Bridger,” he immediately volunteered.
William, realizing that Crown had gotten behind his back before the strange
r startled them all, turned now toward Plum’s sinister partner, his rifle in hand. Father and son stood shoulder to shoulder, facing the two renegade mountain men. Plum, though angry as hell, was smart enough to know the odds had just shifted Murdock’s way. He held his tongue while he and Trace eyed each other like two rogue wolves. Plum didn’t like what he saw in the tall young hunter dressed in animal skins. He carried a bow as well as a rifle and gave the distinct impression that he knew how to use them.
Talking to Paul Murdock, his eyes never leaving Plum, Trace asked, “Are these two your guides?”
“We run up on them after leaving Fort Laramie. They said they were going to Fort Bridger, so they offered to travel with us and show us the way.” Murdock looked nervously at Plum while he talked. It never occurred to him to question this stranger’s authority to interrogate him.
“Bridger, huh?” Trace cast an accusing eye in Plum’s direction. “Well, mister, the company you keep is your business, but if Fort Bridger is where you’re headin’, you picked a sorry pair of guides. You’re about a half a day too far north now, and if you keep going in this direction, you ain’t ever gonna see Fort Bridger.”
Plum felt the bile rise in his throat, but he fought to keep his anger from showing on his face. Forcing a smile, he said, “Mister, you’ve took a mighty harsh tone here. Me and Crown here was just doin’ our best to help these people. We’re lookin’ for a shortcut a feller told us about.”
It was all too obvious to Trace what these two scoundrels were about. He had little patience for men who preyed on the greenhorns who ventured west in search of a new life. “Is that a fact?” Trace replied, looking Plum straight in the eye. “Well, mister, you’re either a liar or just plain stupid. A blind man oughta be able to lead a party over South Pass to Fort Bridger.” Anger flashed in Plum’s eyes, and his hand tightened on the butt of his pistol. Trace did not move, but he warned in a soft and deadly voice, “I’ve already figured you for a liar. Now if you want to prove you’re stupid, too, go ahead and pull that pistol.”
Plum’s body went rigid, his hand still gripping the handle of his pistol. One glance at Crown told him that his partner was not comfortable with the odds facing the two of them. Both Murdock and his son had raised their rifles and stood ready to fire. Plum could feel the flames of frustration and anger consuming his insides, and he knew he had lost his opportunity to capture this wagonload of plunder. Knowing he was beaten but reluctant to admit it, he continued to stand there, glaring defiantly at the tall mountain man, who returned his glare with cool, clear eyes that knew no fear. At that moment it crossed Plum’s mind that this formidable figure standing firmly before him might be the one that the foolish Blackfeet called the Mountain Hawk. The thought made Plum even more irate, but he knew he would be flirting with death if he made a move. Finally he surrendered.
“Well, mister—whoever the hell you are—them’s pretty harsh words to use on two honest fellers trying to do a good turn for these folks.” He motioned with his head for Crown to back away, then spoke to Murdock. “Mr. Murdock, I’m sorry to see you side with a total stranger when me and Crown has gone outta our way to give you folks a hand.” He removed his hand from his pistol, held both hands up in front of him, palms out, and slowly backed toward his horse. “But we’ll take our leave now with no hard feelin’s—nobody’s got hurt. We’ll just be on our way.”
Plum and Crown climbed into the saddle, both men keeping a cautious eye on the three facing them, and slowly backed their horses away from the wagon. When they were some twenty yards away, they turned and galloped off toward the north.
Paul Murdock exhaled noisily and put his rifle down. “Mister,” he said, extending his hand, “I’m sure glad you came along when you did. I’m Paul Murdock. This is my wife, Martha. Over there’s my son, William, and that skinny little towhead is Beth.”
Trace accepted Paul’s hand and shook it. “Trace McCall,” he replied and nodded to Martha Murdock. “Ma’am.” Turning back to her husband, he said, “I wouldn’t advise you to camp here. There’s still plenty of daylight left, so you’ve got plenty of time to find another spot.” Murdock didn’t reply at once. Instead, he stood with his hands on his hips, looking back the way he had come and then out toward the southwest, where he imagined Fort Bridger to be. Trace could see that the man couldn’t decide which way to start out, so he said, “Go back the way you came and pick a camping spot near the river somewhere. I’ll be along directly—I want to make sure those two polecats don’t decide to double back.” He walked back through the trees along the riverbank to retrieve his horses.
When he returned, he paused again at the wagon. Looking down at Paul Murdock, he answered the worried man’s unspoken question. “You can’t drive that wagon straight through the mountains—there’s no way over them. You’ll have to go back and pick up the trail to South Pass.” Reading the concern in Murdock’s eyes, he added, “I’ll take you to Fort Bridger when I catch up with you.”
Murdock was visibly relieved, even more so when Trace tied his packhorse behind the wagon.
“Yes, sir, Mr. McCall,” Murdock said cheerfully as Trace gave the paint a gentle kick with his heels. “How will you know where we camped?” he called out.
“I’ll find you,” Trace called back.
There had been more than a few tales told about Jack Plum and his sadistic partner, Crown. Trace figured that if half of them were true, it was enough to make a man watch his back. To be safe, he wanted to see for himself that the two renegades were not circling around to bushwhack Murdock’s family. If Trace could have had firsthand knowledge that the grisly stories he had heard about Plum’s raids with the Blackfeet were true, he might have considered executing the pair when he’d had the chance. But since he didn’t cotton to the role of executioner, he would content himself with the knowledge that Plum and Crown were no longer in the area.
He had ridden no farther than three miles when their trail led off to the west and down to the river again. Trace circled into the trees and made his way carefully along the bank until he sighted the two of them standing near the water’s edge. They appeared to be arguing.
“Dammit, I say we oughta go back and kill that son of a bitch,” Plum fumed. The more he had thought about being driven off by Trace, the more livid he’d become.
Crown, who had long ago become a devout practitioner of the art of back-shooting, was not as eager to tangle with the tall mountain man who had suddenly materialized behind them at the wagon. Crown preferred longer odds in his own favor, and this stranger looked to be extremely dangerous. To be sure, Crown would have loved to get a clear shot between the man’s shoulder blades. But somehow he got the feeling that it would be difficult to catch Trace with his back turned.
“Well?” Plum demanded when Crown made no response to his ranting. “Are we gonna let him have that wagon to hisself?”
“I reckon it’s better’n havin’ to shoot it out agin three of ’em,” Crown calmly replied. If Plum was hoping to appeal to Crown’s pride, he was wasting his time. Crown had no more pride than a coyote.
“Damn you, Crown. You ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow you to hell. I’m goin’ back to settle with that bastard.”
Crown stared at Plum with eyes as devoid of expression as a corpse’s. He didn’t like Plum—he didn’t particularly like anyone—but Plum was in tight with the Blackfoot chief, and so it was to Crown’s benefit to partner with him. One of these days I might be lookin’ down a rifle barrel at your shoulder blades, he thought. “All right, Plum,” he said, “we’ll go back and take a look.”
Leading his horse back through the willows that lined the bank of the river, Plum heard the distinct call of a sage thrasher in the trees to his right. It registered in his brain, but he gave it no importance. Less than a minute passed before he heard an answering call, but this time it seemed to come from a position to his left. He stopped dead still. Looking back, he saw that Crown had also stopped in his tracks, listeni
ng. They had ridden on too many Blackfoot war parties to ignore such obvious signals.
“See anything?” Plum whispered.
“Not a damn thing,” Crown replied. “I think they’re on two sides of us.”
“Damn!” Plum spat as he took a few steps toward a large cottonwood. Using it as cover, he strained to see through the trees around them. “Maybe it ain’t nothin’ but birds,” he said, moments before an arrow smacked into the tree trunk beside his head. “Let’s git outta here!” he yelled and leaped upon his horse.
Crown was already in the saddle, hightailing it back toward the river. Plum galloped right on Crown’s heels. Into the shallow water they plunged, kicking their mounts violently. When they reached the far side, they didn’t hesitate for an instant but escaped into the hills. Back by the river, Trace walked over to the cottonwood and pulled his arrow out of the trunk, satisfied that he had seen the last of Plum and Crown.
* * *
“Evening, Mr. Murdock.” The voice came from out of the dark, directly behind Paul Murdock, causing him to jump, his coffee sloshing over the sides of his cup.
Gathering his wits as quickly as possible, Paul swallowed hard trying to get his heart out of his throat. “Glory be, man, you scared the life outta me!”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” Trace said. He honestly had no intention of startling the man, he just naturally moved quietly.
“It’s all right, it’s all right,” Paul hurriedly repeated, genuinely relieved to see the tall mountain man again.
A short time later, Trace sat by the fire and watched Martha Murdock as she prepared the dough for pan biscuits. It had been a long time since Trace had been able to watch a white woman as she worked at a cookfire, and he was fascinated by the efficient manner in which she went about making supper. It was simple fare, to be sure—biscuits, beans, and gravy made from the antelope meat Trace had provided—but to him it seemed a banquet. Making it especially satisfying for Trace was the coffee, made from roasted beans ground in a wooden coffee grinder, instead of green beans pounded between two stones, the way Trace usually made coffee.
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