by Jack Ballas
Cantrell glanced around the boulder-strewn enclosure, then looked questioningly at Barnes. “You figger we gonna find a better place to hole-up than this?”
Lingo shook his head. “Just thinkin’ ’bout that. We’re sittin’ here in the middle of the trail; Bartow can’t come down without us seein’ ’im. The snow’s gonna stop ’im from goin’ up. I figure we got ’im trapped.”
Cantrell nodded. “We’ll camp here. Ain’t no trees to make a shelter, but these here rocks are gonna be right good to hold the heat around us.”
Lingo frowned. “Trail’s a mite wide here, but one o’ us can watch where it cuts around the rocks while the other one sleeps.” He nodded. “Yep, let’s make camp.”
Cantrell built the fire while Barnes went to a rocky overhang, scraped snow from under it, and put the coffee on to boil.
They whiled away the hours, waiting until time to fix supper. About midafternoon Lingo stood. “Gonna ease up the trail a ways, see if can I catch sight o’ Bartow; see how he’s makin’ out.” Cantrell opened his mouth to say something, but Barnes held up his hand. “No, you’re not goin’. It’s my job to do.” He grinned. “ ’Sides that, if I can get close enough, I figure to watch ’im suffer a little.”
Cantrell squinted against the snow and rock glare, then nodded. “All right, but you be danged careful. That man’s gonna be like a curly wolf. He’s gonna be mad, an’ he’s gonna be scared. I figger he’s gonna be dangerous as a trapped mountain cat.”
Lingo tied the leather thongs together on his sheepskin, picked up his rifle, looked at Cantrell, and said, “Gonna leave my horse here. Figure it’ll be easier goin’ on foot.” He slipped around the rocks.
He’d not gone a quarter of a mile when he came upon the first patches of snow-covered trail. Wind had swept most of the smooth rock bare, but now it showed signs of packing, signs of sticking. It wouldn’t be long before it would cover the road, and from that point it would deepen.
He picked each place he’d stop to get a good look up the incline. He slipped from one to another of these spots, and from each he studied everything above him: rocks, shadowed areas, snowdrifts, and wind- and rain-scoured depressions in the cliffside.
He glanced at the sky. The distant, cold sun stood only about an hour and a half from sunset. Lingo wanted to see what he had to see and get back to camp. He wanted to see how Bartow took the raw country he traversed. He had not long to wait.
Another fifteen minutes and he slogged through deepening snow. It pushed up halfway to his boottops, and the surface had a frozen glaze over it that crackled and crunched when his feet broke the surface. He slowed and tried to move each foot slowly, such that the noise it made didn’t crackle. He heard Bartow before he saw him.
Barnes moved over, closer to the cliff. Here he had a double advantage. It gave him shelter from being seen, and the snow depth was less.
Holding his shoulder against the cold, rocky surface, he peered around a bend. There, Bartow led his horse, while he pushed his feet through the crust, taking one weary step at a time. He neither looked back—nor ahead. His head bowed such that his chin rested against his chest.
Lingo felt his lips crinkle at the corners. There was one tired bastard, and he hadn’t any idea the kind of trouble he was in. The snow cover would only get heavier. If Bartow was in trouble now, wait. He’d soon decide that neither he nor his horse could make it much farther.
Lingo wondered why he kept going, why hadn’t he discovered that each step would cost him more of what little energy he had left?
He followed the Easterner for half an hour. He thought to walk up to his back, stick his rifle hard against him, and drag him back down the slope. He mentally shook his head. He didn’t want to end the man’s misery yet. The fact was, unless Bartow was a bigger fool than he thought, he’d soon get the idea that the summit wasn’t even close, and he’d turn back. But once he turned back, he’d know he faced two men who knew how to survive in this country. He’d be even more dangerous.
Barnes turned back toward camp, stopped, and frowned. Suppose he gave Bartow credit for more sense than he really had? Suppose he continued trying to get to the summit? If he did, Lingo had no doubt the man would freeze to death. From what he had seen, the Easterner had neither the clothes nor the equipment to survive on the mountain—and his horse was played out or he’d have been riding him. He thought about that a few moments, shrugged, and thought to hell with him, if he froze to death it might be almost as bad as hanging. He turned his steps toward camp.
In midstride, he stopped, thought to try to slip up on Cantrell. He smiled to himself. He’d show Quint he was as good an Apache as him. Still smiling, he continued toward the fire and a good cup of coffee.
The closer he got, the easier it got, due to the clean-swept trail. Finally, he ghosted up to the huge boulder that guarded the upslope side of their camp. Quiet as a shadow he eased around the big rock—and bumped into the business end of Cantrell’s rifle barrel.
Quint choked, swallowed a laugh, and then guffawed. “Thought you knowed better than that. You ain’t gonna take me by surprise—not ever, partner.”
Chagrined, Lingo grimaced. “Someday, Cantrell, someday.” He smiled. “But I gotta say I still have it to do.” He shook his head. “You’re just mighty good—a better Injun than me.”
Cantrell chuckled and shook his head. “Nope, not really. I just knowed when you left here you wuz gonna try somethin’ like that.” He shrugged. “So I wuz on the lookout. C’mon, coffee’s hot, an’ you look like a jolt o’ that whisky we brung along would set pretty good on your stomach.” He swung his arm around Lingo’s shoulders. “We’ll have a couple cups, then eat. I already got it fixed.”
While they drank their coffee, Lingo told Cantrell what he’d seen, and the shape Bartow and his horse were in. “I figure if he’s got a gut in his head he’ll be comin’ back down this mountain ’fore long.” He took a sip of coffee. “Tell you how it is though; if he doesn’t head back toward us right soon, we gonna have to go up there an’ bring his frozen carcass down.” He shrugged. “Reckon I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t give a damn what shape he’s in when we get ’im back to Durango.”
“Yeah, reckon a man can stand jest so much, an’ I reckon that cold an’ snow up yonder’s ’bout as bad as a new rope.” Cantrell took a swallow of coffee, then frowned. “Reckon we better keep a right smart lookout tonight. He comes in this camp while we sleep an’ you an’ me’s gonna have a bunch o’ trouble.”
Lingo nodded. “Way I got it figured.”
While Lingo had been gone, Cantrell had not only cooked supper, he’d spread coals, warmed the places he figured they’d sleep, and spread their groundsheets and blankets.
They ate, and Cantrell suggested that they build the fire up bright enough to lure Bartow to it. “He sees the glow of our fire on them big rocks, he’ll come to it like a moth to light.”
“Good idea. You take the first watch. Wake me in a couple o’ hours.” With those words, Lingo stacked more wood on the fire and crawled into his blankets.
Cantrell took up his station between two boulders, pulled his collar up around his ears, and hunkered down to wait. He figured if Bartow was going to backtrack, he’d do it early. If he stayed up there much longer he wouldn’t be coming down at all—until he and Lingo brought him down. Even now he could feel the temperature dropping.
17
EMILY SWEPT THE group with a questioning look, her eyes finally falling on Sam. He and Lion were the last to finish breakfast. “Sam, what do you know about this man Bartow, who so sadly mistreated Papa?”
He shook his head. “Don’t know nothin’, Miss Emily. I seen ’im once or twice around Silverton, but that’s all I know. I figger Maddie knows more’n anybody.”
Emily looked at her father, wanting to ask him if he had known the man from somewhere before, then switched her question to Maddie. “Did you know him before you met him in Taos?”
Maddie sh
ook her head. “Never seen ’im afore that, an’ he never said nothin’ ’bout where he come from. He seemed like a nice man, an’ he treated me nice—at first. That’s why I come with him when he said to.” She looked at Miles Colter. “Mr. Colter, I didn’t know he figured to steal your mine. He just told me that he knew of a big strike outside o’ Silverton. Wanted to know if I wanted to share in it.” She shook her head. “ ’Course I didn’t have nothin’, an’ nothin’ else to do that amounted to anything, so I went with him. Don’t even know how he knew about the vein you done found.”
“Papa wrote me about the vein. I never told anyone, but that doesn’t really mean much; he might have told numerous people about it.” She twisted to look at Colter. “Papa, can you remember anything before Bartow started mistreating you?”
He shook his head. “As soon as I remember anything, anything at all, I’ll tell you. Right now I believe it will all come back to me. I seem to see flashes of things past, and I see you in the things, but I can’t yet put you an’ me together.” He smiled, a rather sad smile to Emily’s thinking. “Sitting here looking at you, you can’t imagine how much I want to reach out and claim you as my daughter.” He shook his head. “But I won’t do that ’til I remember all there is to know about our life together.”
She placed her hand over his. “It’s all right, Papa, I have a hunch we don’t have long to wait.” And then she surprised herself. “When Lingo gets back, he’ll figure it out.”
Her face heated and she knew it must be the color of a desert sunset. She swung her glance to Elena, then Kelly. They both sat there with smug smiles, but each obviously trying to wipe their smiles off and look innocent. Then she made it worse. “What I meant was that he always seems to know exactly what to do, and I trust him to do whatever is called for.”
Elena chuckled. “I don’t believe that for one minute.”
Wes sat there looking as though he had no idea what was going on. Venetia had the same kind of smile that Kelly and Elena had.
Lion had experienced this sort of thing with Venetia, and had watched Quint suffer through what Elena and Venetia put him through when he didn’t know he’d already taken the bait, hook, line, and sinker. “C’mon, y’all leave that poor little girl alone.” And then not leaving well enough alone, put his foot right in the middle of a fresh cowpaddy. “Jest ’cause y’all done captured your men you don’t have to give that there poor little thing such a terrible time jest ’cause she’s still gotta make her man say them nice words all women like to hear.”
Emily’s face went from hot to cold, to wet with sweat, a cold sweat. She felt the color leave her face. Then in the fashion her father had taught her, she threw her head back and stared at each one of them. Stared until each in turn dropped their eyes from hers. Then slowly, softly, her voice cold as winter winds, she said, “What you have done to me is not only crude, but cruel. I haven’t yet had time to evaluate my feelings for Mr. Barnes, but you seem to take great joy in dragging my emotions out and airing them to all within range.” She sucked in a tremulous breath, tried to push the anger and embarrassment to the back of her mind. It didn’t work. “But I’ll tell you this, if I do have feelings for Mr. Barnes, and I do think I have very strong feelings for him, it’s nobody’s damned business but my own.”
She sat back and picked up her coffee cup in hands that trembled. Every woman at the table stood, went to her chair, and apologized.
She was quick to anger, but also quick to forgive. She felt the anger drain from her, and then Lion shook his great white-haired head.
“Ma’am, reckon I done stepped right in the middle o’ your heart. Didn’t mean to. Reckon I’m just the great big bumbling thing Venetia says I have a talent for. I’m mighty sorry, little one.”
By now, Emily felt that she owed them an apology. She felt terrible. She had learned one thing since arriving in the West, and that was if people liked you, they felt free to say what was on their minds. Her temper had always gotten her into trouble, and today it had definitely gotten the better of her. She muddled those thoughts around, and then had a thought that made her feel even worse: These people apparently liked her, and she’d repaid them with a tongue as poisonous as a rattler.
She swung her gaze to them. Tears welled and then spilled down her cheeks. She shook her head. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry. I’ve been so mixed up lately. I know it’s no excuse, but I’ve worried about Papa, and I believe I’ve also been very worried about Lingo, and I took it all out on you when the only thing you tried to do was make me feel better.” She dabbed at her eyes, then Kelly and Elena had their arms around her shoulders and all seemed right with the world. It would have been perfect if Lingo were there.
Wes told them he had run out his string. He’d figured to give Lingo and Cantrell another day to get back, and that day had passed. Now it was time he went to see about them. He’d leave in the morning.
Cantrell shivered. He tried to imagine how cold Bartow must be and couldn’t. Abruptly his senses sharpened. A soft sound came from only a few feet outside the pile of boulders—the sound of grit, or sand under the sole of a shoe. He brought his rifle up, then lowered it and slipped his .44 from its holster. Lingo had told him about Bartow carrying a sleeve gun. He didn’t figure to let this man turn to face him.
He pressed flat against the boulder and waited. There were other sounds: sounds of cloth brushing rock, heavy breathing, sniffling, and more of the grit underfoot. Cantrell smiled into the cold night. The Easterner wouldn’t have lasted a week in Comanche country. Then, almost brushing his side, Bartow appeared in the circle of firelight. He carried a rifle. Quint breathed a sigh of relief. Carrying a rifle would render Bartow’s sleeve gun useless—he thought.
Then Bartow put the lie to his thought. He gripped the rifle with his left hand and swung his right hand straight out; in it, faster than Cantrell would have believed possible, appeared a snub-nosed little pepperbox. Then even faster, he fired at the curled-up form of Lingo.
Blood rushed to Cantrell’s head. Simultaneously he swung his rifle barrel to Bartow’s arm. A sharp snap sounded with the contact of his rifle against the arm in which the Easterner held the pepperbox.
Now Bartow’s hand no longer held the pepperbox, his arm dangled at right angles halfway between his wrist and elbow—it was broken in half.
He swung toward Cantrell, holding his rifle pistol fashion. He brought it to firing position. Quint swiped the barrel to the side. It spewed flame. A searing pain along his ribs on the right side caused Cantrell to flinch and dodge sharply to the left. At the same time, he grabbed the barrel of Bartow’s rifle and jerked it down and to the side.
Bartow, obviously terrified, determined to hang on to his only means of defense, followed the rifle down. He fell to his knees.
Cantrell ignored the Winchester he held in his left hand, holstered his .44 in a lightning quick motion, and followed through with a right to the side of Bartow’s head. The Easterner went to the ground—out cold. It wasn’t until then that Quint dared look to see if Lingo had taken lead.
Barnes sat, his blankets pushed down to his sock feet, cutting his longjohns away from his thigh—and cursing a blue streak.
Quint grabbed Bartow by the back of his collar, and at the same time sniffed the acrid smell of gunpowder from his nostrils, then dragged the Easterner to the side of Barnes’s blanket. “He hit you in the leg?
“Why, hell yes, he hit me. Why you think I’m cuttin’ these perfectly good longjohns to rags?”
“Wait’ll I git this slime tied good an’ tight; then I’ll see can I hep you.”
“You better take that sleeve gun away from him while you’re at it. He might be able to get it in his left hand.”
“Figgered to do that.”
By the time Cantrell had Bartow tied, Lingo had his thigh bared. It bled in a steady flow. “Lie back now an’ I’ll take a look.”
Barnes grimaced, obviously hurting, but also obviously not wanting Cantrell to see h
im showing how badly. He eased himself to his back. Quint looked to see where Bartow had been standing when he fired, then gauged where the bullet would have come out. It should have travelled through the top of Barnes’s thigh.
He felt around to the other side. No hole. Dammit! He’d have to cut the bullet out; but thank God it hadn’t hit an artery or it would have been pumping Lingo’s blood out faster than he could staunch its flow.
“You gotta cut the bullet out?”
Cantrell glanced at Lingo’s face. “Either that or take you in to Durango an’ let the sawbones do it. They ain’t got a doctor in Silverton to my knowledge.”
“Can you feel where the bullet almost went through?”
Quint shook his head. “Nope, an’ I ain’t got the right kind o’ things to dig down in the hole to find it.” He shook his head. “Wuz I you, reckon I’d let me try to git you back to town.”
Bartow groaned. Cantrell glanced at him, then again swung his fist against the side of the Easterner’s head. He’d be out for some time now.
Cantrell again looked at Lingo. “You reckon you can stand fer me to take you back down the mountain?”
Lingo gave him a weak smile. “Don’t reckon I got much choice. I sure as hell don’t cotton to you pushin’ that bowie knife around in that hole.”
“All right. I’ll bandage it best I can, stop the bleedin’, an’ set out.”
“You figure to go down this mountain at night?”
“Damned straight I do. Don’t figger to let that chunk o’ lead git a headstart on poisonin’ you.”
“Why didn’t you kill that rotten bastard?”
“Reckon I done got to wantin’ to see ’im stretch a new rope much as you have.” Cantrell looked toward the fire, now only a few flickering flames above the glowing bed of coals. “Reckon you’d like a stiff jolt o’ whisky in a cup o’ coffee ’fore we leave?”
Lingo chuckled. “ ’Bout ready to see if you’d fix a pot. Know you’re gonna pour a bunch o’ that whisky in that hole in my leg; be danged sure you save some for our coffee.”