by Paul Lederer
‘It’s not like that, Ollie,’ I said evenly. ‘I think you know that. I’ve been trying to help. I guess I’m just not very good at it. Now I think I can help by talking to Cole.’
‘How? And how are you going to reach him? If you try the canyon they’ll shoot you out of hand before you can make a hundred yards.’
‘Yes, yes, they would,’ I agreed. ‘I mean to try riding the old Indian trail.’
‘That’s a fool idea,’ Charlie said. ‘It can’t be done. At night!’
‘I’m going to try. There’s a moon.’
‘Not much of one,’ Ollie said, glancing eastward.
‘I’m patient. I’ll wait until it’s riding high. Then I’m going to try riding the footpath. I’ve got to reach Cole, boys. I believe that’s the only way to prevent a massacre.’
EIGHT
The trail I rode plunged deeper still into the dark bowels of hell. The pale moon was so dim as barely to cast a shadow of horse and man as we ever-so-cautiously picked our way down the mountainside. To my right the earth dropped off into the depths of oblivion, to the left a jutting wall of stone rose toward the stars. There was barely enough room for my horse to walk. My left stirrup brushed the stone bluff, my right dangled over the chasm below.
The Indian trail, nothing but an eroded footpath centuries old was littered with fallen stones and rutted by run-off from above. I was a fool to be riding it. I would have been foolish to walk it in daylight, but I saw no other way to accomplish what I hoped. Logically, it did not matter if I plunged to my death, since behind lay Jake Shockley and his noose and ahead Hammond Cole’s army, but logic could do nothing to settle the nerve-breaking fear of falling to my death in the unknown, unseen reaches of the abyss.
The bay balked continually, but I could not allow it to halt. To back or turn around was impossible, and so I urged the old army horse forward gently but firmly, hoping its instincts were sharp enough to keep its skittering hoofs on the broken trail. We inched our way downward for a hundred bone-chilling minutes.
Then the bay halted, and I could not urge it forward. Bending forward, I saw the reason for its refusal. The trail ahead had washed out deeply. A swale had been cut across it ten feet deep and perhaps thirty feet across. The bay balked and could not be urged to attempt crossing the rubble cluttered wash.
I had to dismount. There was no other way. Easing my left leg across the bay’s neck I clung to the saddlehorn and slid cautiously to the ground. Only my boot toes found purchase. The grip I had on my pommel was all that was keeping me from plummeting downward. Tediously, cautiously, I inched my boots forward, sliding them along the very rim of the trail. Small rocks came loose beneath my feet and slid away down the cliffside. I eased around the bay’s shoulder, holding on to its bridle for balance, praying that it would not shy. I managed to get both boots planted firmly on level ground as I slipped past the horse’s nose. Still I could raise my arm and touch the face of the cliff. That was how narrow the trail was. I did not pause to think about matters. I took a deep breath and let myself slip into the wash, still holding the bay’s reins.
The bottom of the washout was filled with hundreds of small red rocks. I shifted my feet carefully so as not to disturb them, and turned, looking up at the broken edge of trail on the far side of the depression. It looked to be ten feet up, slightly higher than I could reach. There was no choice. I brought the bay down into the depression where it stood quivering beside me.
It was a dangerous thing to do, but I looped the end of the horse’s reins around my belt at the back and searched for purchase. My hand found a dry, protruding root and I tugged on it, testing its strength. It seemed able to bear my weight, so with a sigh, I planted my boot on a boulder, pulled myself up and slid over on to the trail above. I lay there for a minute, my heart pounding. The tug of the bay on the reins stirred me to action. If it balked.…
I untied the reins from my belt and stood facing the horse. I murmured, pled, commanded the bay to follow me up. If I could not urge it out of the wash it would stand there until it fell, and lie until it was hide and bones. With equine resignation the old war horse started forward. Rocks rolled free and it tossed its head desperately, but eventually, following orders, it managed to scramble awkwardly up on to the flats to stand quivering. I stroked the beast and tried to quiet it with my words. We were not yet halfway down the mountainside and I needed the animal to be calm and trusting.
The trail was just wide enough for me to mount normally – though from the wrong side – and we continued down the broken trail.
An hour along the path widened into something like a road and we began to pass through twisted cedar trees and stunted piñon pines, the trail gradually flattening until sometime after midnight the vista opened and I found myself looking out across the long desert.
I let the horse breathe, relax its tormented muscles, and I scanned the limitless flats before me. Eventually we started on again. The more dangerous part of the night still lay ahead. We had descended into hell and now it was time to meet the devil.
The moon was coasting toward the western horizon, leaving a glitter of stars in its wake when I saw the white canvas of the covered wagons plain against the black background. Nearing the camp I saw a remuda of horses, two men far distant, standing watch at the mouth of the canyon trail. My jaw was clamped so tightly that my teeth ached as I neared, expecting a bullet at any time although they didn’t figure to be trigger happy in the near-darkness, firing at an unidentified target.
I knew which was Cole’s wagon. I had noticed while I was among them that his was the only one with ‘US’ stenciled large on its canvas. Picking it out, I swung down and led my horse through the quiet camp, smelling the dead wood fires, the vaguest trace of bacon long cooked and consumed. It was enough to make my stomach remind me that my last meal lay in the almost unremembered past.
I had taken a dozen steps into the perimeter of the silent camp when the voice behind me issued a challenge.
‘Who goes there? Stand where you are and hoist your hands high.’
I thought I recognized the voice, and as I stood like a scarecrow waiting for the shadowy figure to brace me, I discovered that I was right.
‘Hello, Sergeant Hawkins.’
‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ the big man replied not unpleasantly. ‘You won’t be needing this wherever you’re going,’ he said, relieving me of my Colt. ‘You came back on your own? I always figured you were a little crazy.’
‘I guess I am.’ I had to agree. He had eased around so that he stood facing tne, his own pistol leveled at my belt buckle.
‘You can lower your hands.’ He tipped his cap back and grimaced with pained amusement. ‘What in blazes are you doing back here, Clanahan?’
‘I want to see Cole.’
‘Oh, you will! Don’t doubt that.’ At his gesture I started walking toward th bandit leader’s wagon.
‘Also I brought Kirk’s horse back.’
‘I’m sure he’ll appreciate that,’ the broad shouldered sergeant said, ‘he’s been doing a lot of walking lately. By the way, how are your feet?’
‘Much better, thanks.’
‘Glad to hear it.’ I couldn’t measure Hawkins’s attitude. He seemed sincere, but probably he was only having fun with the poor imbecile who, once free, would voluntarily tide back into the outlaw camp.
Nearing Cole’s wagon I could now see a lantern burning so low that I hadn’t noticed it before, and silhouetted by its faint glow was a woman sitting on the tailgate, her long dark hair loose around her shoulders. She glanced up, frowned and then flashed a surprised smile.
‘Well, well. You decided to rejoin us.’ Beth Cole turned her head and called into the wagon. ‘Hammond – we have a visitor!’ As Hawkins’s voice had sounded pleasant, so did Beth Cole’s sound cheerful as if we were all old friends come together once more. When Hammond Cole appeared from behind the canvas flaps of the covered wagon, his expression wore no mask.
‘I’ll
be damned! Where’d you find this idiot, Hawkins?’
‘Just walked up to me, sir. Says he wanted to talk to you.’
‘I want to talk to him as well,’ Cole said, swinging lithely down from the tailgate. His movements were panther-like, and I could easily see the anger in his eyes, the clenched muscles of his jaw.
‘Cole, I need to speak to you.’
‘Shut up!’ he exploded.
‘It’s about Jake Shockley,’ I told him, and his expression altered instantly. His eyes became thoughtful, then angry again, then assumed an interrogator’s blank curiosity.
‘What about him?’ he asked carefully.
‘He’s jumped the gun. He’s already on the Canoga and ready to make his move. He’s not waiting for you.’
Cole smothered a curse, glanced at Beth who shook her head, then told Hawkins, ‘I won’t need you, Sergeant. Let me have Clanahan’s pistol.’ We waited in silence for a minute as Hawkins strode away, then Cole hissed at me: ‘What do you know of Shockley, and how—?’
‘I know just about everything about him, the plan to take the Canoga, about the double-cross,’ I said, seeing Cole flinch at the last word.
‘Then it was Jake who started the landslide that blocked the canyon,’ Cole said. I did not correct this mistaken assumption. ‘You said you know all about matters, how is that?’ he demanded of me.
‘Simple. Jake took me prisoner – you know he was looking for me. While I was being held he talked to a few of the ranchers. I overheard it all. He figures to go ahead without you. Not using guile, but simply slaughtering all of the settlers on the land. He’s going to try blaming it on the Indians.’
‘No one could be that stupid!’ Cole said. His smoldering eyes met Beth’s. Her mouth tightened.
‘It’s true,’ the woman said. ‘It has to be. Why would Clanahan show up here with such a wild tale?’
‘Why are you here, Clanahan?’ Cole demanded.
‘I want you to restore order, Cole. Jake Shockley is a mad dog. He’s bent on slaughter as a means to an end. I might not approve of what you had in mind, but it was theft not murder you intended. You know, Cole, you’ll be held accountable for whatever Jake does now. He’s spread your name around. It’s no secret that you were the mastermind behind this. If one man talks, you’ll hang for Shockley’s crimes.’ I looked at Beth, trying to gauge the look in those dark eyes. ‘Everyone involved will be headed for the gallows.’
‘How could he hope to get away with it?’ Cole asked. ‘He can’t believe the army, all of the civilian authorities, are stupid enough to accept his preposterous story at face value. They know all about Jake Shockley’s criminal career. And tell me, Clanahan, have you ever heard of an Indian uprising on a scale such as the one Jake means to stage, in which not a single man, woman or child survived? And that’s what he would have to do, isn’t it? That’s what you are implying that he will do.’
‘I’m not implying it. I’m telling you straight out that I heard Jake give that order to his men.’
Cole closed his eyes then looked again at Beth. Their eyes met deeply, exchanging thoughts I could only guess at. Cole said: ‘I’m ruined. All of the months of planning. Grtting the men together. The uniforms and army horses. The forged documents. Ruined! Damn him to hell!’
Beth said, ‘I could have told you, Hammond. Father can always be trusted to take advantage of anyone.’
‘Father?’ I said aloud, without meaning to.
‘Yes,’ Beth said as if none of their secrets mattered any more. ‘Jake Shockley, the bloody bastard, is my father.’
Which explained how the two groups had fallen in together, but—
‘Then, Cole, is Shockley your—?’ I began.
‘No, damnit, he’s not my father. I know you’re not bright, Clanahan, but yo couldn’t really believe that Beth is my sister. We share the Cole name because she’s my wife.’
I had known, really, or at least suspected it. I didn’t care for Cole’s characterization of me, but perhaps he was right. Look at where my brilliance had landed me.
‘What do you think, Beth?’ Cole was asking. Her answer was long in coming and spoken carefully.
‘I think you have to try to stop him, Hammond. Clanahan is right, you know. You will hang if Jake does what he has in mind … all of us. There won’t be a safe place to hide in in all the Territory.’
‘We can’t go all the way around again,’ Cole said, considering matters. ‘Here isn’t time. With the canyon trail blocked, with sharpshooters above—’
‘There’s no one left up there,’ I told the outlaw leader. ‘I just passed that a few hours ago.’
‘You’re sure?’ he asked suspiciously. ‘Because if you’re lying—’
‘I’m sure. It would be a slow ride, but your soldiers can pick their way up the road, even by moonlight. Maybe,’ I said optimistically, ‘you can talk Jake out of this crazy idea of his. You’ve got three times the men he does and—’
‘No one talks Jake Shockley out of anything,’ his daughter put in, ‘unless he has him at gunpoint. Even then it’s not a certain prospect. Don’t ask me how I know. I just do. I lived with the man for almost twenty years.’
‘No, you’re right,’ Cole agreed. ‘It will become a gun battle, no two ways about it. And we’ll have the ranchers against us as well.’
‘Maybe not,’ I told Cole. ‘They know that the army has been summoned from Camp Grant – or at least they think that’s the case. They have no way of knowing that you aren’t the regular army. Only a couple of turncoat ranchers know the true facts.’
‘And you know where Shockley is? Right now?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘You’ll lead us to him?’
‘Yes.’
‘We have to try it, Cole,’ Beth said, and I saw Hammond Cole smile with bitterness.
‘Fighting for another lost cause,’ the ex-Confederate said dryly. ‘Yes, darling girl, I suppose we must.’
I asked a question that had been nagging me: ‘Who killed Brad Champion?’
‘Who?’ Cole asked blankly.
‘Champion, You know, the kid on reconnaissance,’ Beth provided.
‘Him?’ Cole said. ‘How would I know? The boys with him said that he he had fallen for some girl up on the Canoga. We figured he deserted to be with her.’
It had to have been Barney Webb who had done it then. Alone or with the aid of Wes King. The Webb boys had told me that they had been friends with Champion, that they had spent much time in his company. Barney Webb could have seen that as a threat to the plans he had made with Jake Shockley. He might have gunned young Brad Champion down fearing that his three sons would learn too much from the former Cole rider.
‘Brad Champion,’ Cole was saying. ‘Why do you ask about him, Clanahan? Is he the one that triggered off all this trouble?’
‘No, Cole, he isn’t. It was you who started this all in motion, you and your greed. Now, maybe, you have the chance to make amends. Now are you going to slink away and hide, washing your hands of the affair, or do we ride to the Canoga?’
NINE
The Canoga lay spread out before us bathed in the soft glow of the descending three-quarter moon. The dew clinging to the long grass gleamed faintly and the scattered ponds were splashed with silver. The leaves of the oak trees growing in small clumps among the tilled fields were moon-glossed; smoke rose in lazy curlicues from the chimneys of the scattered houses. The Canoga resembled more a fairyland setting than the bloody battlefield it would become.
The ride up the canyon had been demanding in the near-darkness, our horses picking their way among the tumbled rocks. I rode the bay horse once again; there was no mention of returning it to Kirk. The affable Sergeant Hawkins rode beside me the entire way. I could not tell if it was his choice to do so or if he had been assigned to guard me. I knew that no one had returned my guns.
Reaching the flats, resting our horses briefly, Hawkins and I had fallen into a conversation. It seemed impo
rtant to him to justify Cole’s actions to me, and I listened without much comment.
‘Have you been watching Captain Hammond?’ the big man asked, wiping his brow with a bandanna. ‘All he needs is a saber in his hand and it would be like old times. All of the men riding with us are from his old battalion, you know. Men who lost everything and had no place to settle and start over after the war. The captain felt like he owed them something for their service. He wanted to pay them back for their years of fighting under him.’
‘An admirable feeling,’ I commented, ‘but it seems to me that he chose the wrong way to show his gratitude.’
‘You’d never understand how it was,’ Hawkins said heavily. ‘The Union army destroyed everything they could and then the flood of carpetbaggers stole what little remained.’
‘You’re right, Hawkins, I’ll never understand that part of it. But I know that stealing the homes and property of other people, innocent people, is wrong no matter the justification.’
Hawkins looked at me and smiled gently, a faraway expression. ‘Ah,’ he said meaninglessly, ‘you are so young. But then! You’ve won, Clanahan, so it makes no difference, does it? Somehow this has turned into a grand adventure – a chance for the captain, all of us, to fight for a just cause once again.’
I followed Hawkins’s words well enough, but his conclusions escaped me. As for me having won anything … what, exactly had I won? I had begun a bloody conflict that probably would not have occurred had it not been for my meddling. Nonetheless, the die had been cast, and there was nothing to do but proceed.
‘I’ll need my guns sooner or later,’ I said.
‘Sooner or later the captain will have them returned,’ Hawkins said expressionlessly. The lead riders had started forward and so we heeled our horses on, riding in double file deeper into the settlement.
We were close enough to the front that I could see Cole’s straight back as he led us onward, feel the pride he felt. Riding beside him was the one person I did admire but did not understand. Beth Cole. What was she thinking? Was she torn between loyalty to her husband and devotion to her father? She had certainly shown no liking for Jake Shockley, but that could have been façade. She nevertheless rode on bravely beside her husband, apparently having no fear of battle or death. I wished now that I had had more time to talk to Beth, to know her. It had been impossible at the time of course, and now would never happen.