Louis L'Amour

by The Cherokee Trail

  A man came to the door. “Sir? The team is ready, sir. Shall I accompany Mrs. Breydon?”

  Mary stood up. “No, thank you. I shall be all right.” She extended a hand to Preston Collier. “You have been most gracious.”

  Turning to Sir Charles, she said, “You have no idea what this means to me, to see someone from home. I had not realized I missed it so much! If you have a moment, please stop by the station. I can offer you nothing like this, but Matty is a wonderful cook, and the meals are good.”

  After she was gone, Preston Collier asked, “This Harlequin Oaks? It was a fine place?”

  “There were people who preferred an invitation to Harlequin Oaks to any other place on the eastern seaboard. Claybourne had the finest horses and the best food a man could find and an excellent cellar with it. The home place was about four hundred acres of as fine land as I have seen, but they had more back in the mountains, some six hundred acres of timberland. I know it well, as we often went there to hunt.

  “Once the war is over and the land can be brought back into production, she will be a very wealthy young woman.”

  “Odd that she would come West and take the kind of job she has.”

  “Not if you know the family. Very independent, very able. Her father was prepared to accept any responsibility, and after all, there is not much a young woman can do.”

  *

  THE WIND BLEW cold along the Cherokee Trail, and raindrops blew from the leaves and spattered against her rain cape. It was a long ride back through the rain, yet she felt good, better than she had felt in days.

  Seeing Sir Charles was only a part of it, as was the kindly reception from Preston Collier and the defeat of Flandrau. That, she believed, was complete and final as far as his political ambitions were concerned. Even had he planned otherwise, Collier was too wise a man to back the political aspirations of a man liable to such an accusation. The young, ambitious newspapers of Colorado would crucify anyone who supported such a man.

  Yet it did not lessen her danger. If she were destroyed, he might still have a chance, although a slim one. Especially if she could be eliminated in such a way as not to implicate him.

  Thinking about it coolly, Mary Breydon faced that fact. Her troubles were far from over, yet she doubted if another attempt would be made with firearms. Now he must be more subtle. Whatever was done must seem to be an accident.

  It was long after midnight when at last she led the horses into the yard at Cherokee.

  Wat opened the barn door. “Better bring ’em in here, ma’am.”

  “Wat! What are you doing up at this hour?”

  “Me an’ Ridge, we been takin’ turns watchin’ out for you. He just gotten himself to sleep. If’n we’re quiet, he’ll go right on sleepin’.”

  When the horses were stalled, she tiptoed inside and, sitting alone beside the fire, drank a cup of coffee from the blackened pot. It was very hot and very black, and it tasted good.

  For a moment, after she was in bed, she lay awake looking up at the darkness where the ceiling was. She could not remember a time when she had gone to bed so pleased with herself and the situation.

  The horses had been stolen, yet she had found others, and tomorrow the stage would leave on time.

  Nobody could have done it better, not Temple Boone or even Mark Stacy.

  She was smiling when she fell asleep.

  Chapter 17

  *

  WHEN THE STAGE had gone and Peg had finished gathering the dishes from the tables, she looked over at Wat, who was looking at something in his hand.

  “What’s that?”

  “Arrowhead.”

  “Can I see?”

  He held it out on his open palm. “Where did you get it?”

  He waved a hand toward the hill rising beyond the trees. “Yonder. There’s an old Indian camp.”

  “Could I find one?”

  “Maybe. If you look sharp and if you’re lucky.”

  “Will you take me?”

  “I don’t know. What would your mother say?”

  “She wouldn’t mind. It isn’t far, is it?”

  “No, just over yonder. Just a few minutes. I don’t know, though. You’d be scared.”

  “Scared? What is there to be scared of?”

  “Ghosts. Ghosts of dead Indians. Some say they hang around old camps.”

  “Have you seen one? A ghost, I mean?”

  “No, I never. That doesn’t say they ain’t none. I found a dead Indian once. I found his skull and some bones. Some ribs and the spine.”

  “What did you do?”

  “I covered him up again. Pa said never to disturb the remains. He said it was all right to pick up arrowheads but not to disturb their graves. If they were very, very old, he said somebody should study them who understood what he was doing. Somebody who knew what he was seeing.

  “He told me one time that he found a cut bank where a stream had washed away the bank, and there in plain sight were three camps, each one a few inches or a few feet above the other, and each one was different, different kind of arrowheads, like that.”

  He turned the arrowhead in his fingers, then handed it to Peg. “You can have that. Some Indian made it a long time ago. Come on, I’ll show you where I found it.”

  She put the arrowhead in her pocket. “Thank you, Wat. That’s the first thing a boy ever gave me.”

  “Aw, it ain’t nothin’! You wait! I know where there’s jasper and sometimes other kinds of stones. That ol’ arrowhead ain’t nothin’.”

  “It is so. I like it.”

  “Come on. I’ll show you where I found it. It’s just over yonder. We won’t be gone very long.”

  “Shouldn’t we tell mother?”

  “It’s just over there. You’ll be back before she knows you’re gone. Anyway, you don’t have to be scared. I’ll take care of you.”

  “I’m not scared!”

  Walking together, they started away toward the hill beyond the nearest trees. There was a narrow draw there and a bare place in the midst of the brush and close to one side of the draw.

  “See?” Wat indicated a circle of fire-blackened stones almost covered with dirt and sand. “That was where they built their fires. Now if we look around—”

  “Did you come here looking for arrowheads?”

  “Not really. The first time it was with pa. That was just after the stage station was built. Pa had his wagon, and we were fetching bones—”

  “Bones?”

  “We used to go out and pick up old bones, buffalo bones, antelope, anything like that. When pa got a wagonload he’d drive it into town and sell it.”

  “Sell bones? Who would want some smelly old bones?”

  “They weren’t smelly! They were old. They grind them up for fertilizer and some other stuff. I don’t know what-all.”

  “People bones?”

  “No, silly. Buffalo bones, most of them. There were some others. One time pa found a tusk, like from an elephant? Like you see in pictures? He told some people in Denver about it, but they wouldn’t come to look. Said it was nonsense. Pa sold it to a peddler for twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty dollars? For an old bone?”

  “It was a tusk. Ivory. Pa said it was probably worth more, but twenty dollars was a lot of money, and he didn’t know of anybody who wanted it. Pa said he could eat good for two months on twenty dollars.”

  Wat stopped suddenly, picking up a piece of stone almost as large as a man’s fist. It was chipped along one edge. “See this here? Indians chip off flakes of stone to make hide scrapers. After they skin a buffalo, they use these to scrape off the fat on the underside.”

  “Oh…look! I found an arrowhead!” She held it up for his inspection.

  “You sure did!” Wat was pleased. Suddenly his expression changed. “Look! Look yonder!”

  He pointed to a track just beyond where she had found the arrowhead. It was a boot track, a large boot track.

  “What is it?” Peg was puzzled
.

  “Ssh!” He gestured for silence. “Look there! It’s fresh!” His voice was low but intense. “That was made this mornin’!”

  “How do you know?” Disbelief was obvious in her tone.

  “Look,” he said. “It rained some last night. Not much, but some. See how the ground is speckled by the big drops? And the wind blew, too.

  “Well, there’s no speckles in that track, and the edges are sharp and clear.”

  “Maybe Mr. Fenton was over here.”

  “Ridge? Naw, he won’t take a step out of the area least he has to or there’s a fight shapin’ up. He makes like he’s scared an’ doesn’t want to get into a fight, but you just try keepin’ him out of one. That ol’ codger would tackle a grizzly and give him first swat! No, siree! I know who made that track! It was Scant Luther!”

  “Wat? Let’s go home. I’m scared.” Then she said, “How could you tell it’s his track? It’s just an old boot track!”

  “I seen his tracks many’s the time. See there? That patched place? He fixed that himself. And this place where the heel’s run down? He walks like that. You watch him.”

  “I don’t ever want to see him. Wat, let’s go home.”

  “We can’t. Least, I can’t. I got to see what he’s doin’, and you can bet your hide he’s up to no good. He hates your mama.”

  “What can we do?”

  “Foller him a little ways. See where he’s goin’, then tell Ridge or Temple Boone.”

  Eagerly, he started casting about for tracks. “He’s got a long stride, bein’ big like he is. Stay behind me now.”

  “What difference does his stride make?”

  “Tells you where to look for the next step. About two and a half feet, I’d guess.” Wat looked around, then suddenly pointed. “There! In the sand alongside that rock. See? He stepped on the rock, but his foot slid off a mite and made that mark in the sand. Come on, but be very quiet! And don’t talk!”

  Wat moved swiftly. Scant Luther, not expecting to be trailed, had made no attempt to cover his tracks. He walked swiftly, taking long strides, and if occasionally he stepped on rocks, it was simply because it was easier.

  Wat stopped suddenly, and putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “I smell smoke!”

  He started on, then stopped and whispered again. “If you have to run, run uphill. The station’s right over this ridge, and besides, you can run uphill faster’n he can. On the level, he’ll catch you. Goin’ uphill, he’s too heavy!”

  They started on, tiptoeing through the sand, slipping through the brush to make no sound. Peg was scared, but she was excited, too. This was fun! She had never done anything like this before. What would mama think? And Matty?

  Suddenly, Wat lifted a hand. Too late! She was too close behind him, and he stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him, staggering him into a dry bush.

  Scant Luther, crouching over his campfire, looked up, right into her eyes.

  With a gruff roar, he lunged to his feet, staggering a little. Peg was off like a rabbit, running up the steep hill, dodging brush and rocks. Behind her, she could hear Scant’s big boots scratching gravel, but she feared to look back.

  Off on her left and a little ahead of her, Wat was scrambling up the same steep hillside. He was just passing a big rock—

  He stopped abruptly and threw himself behind the rock. “Help me!” he yelled.

  Scrambling, she got behind the rock. It moved, it tilted, and suddenly it began to roll, a slow, ponderous roll; then it fell free and started downhill, leaping and bounding, right at Scant Luther!

  He heard it, looked up, eyes bulging. Then he gave a great leap to one side and hit the hillside rolling. Down he went, the boulder tumbling past him, missing by a hair’s breadth.

  Scant started to rise, staggered, and fell again.

  “Quick!” Wat said. “The other one!”

  Running after him, Peg threw herself behind a second, somewhat smaller rock. Down it went, leaping and bounding, followed by a torrent of small rocks, some of them leaping high in the air as they toppled and fell.

  “Come on, let’s run!” Scrambling, they went up the hill and, breathless, paused at the top, hand in hand, to look back.

  From where they now stood, they could no longer see Scant Luther, only dust rising from the hillside.

  “Let’s go,” Wat said. “I should never have brought you out here.”

  “Mama will be angry.”

  “We’ve got to tell her,” Wat said. “She’s got to know he’s over there.”

  Matty came to the door to throw out some wash water just as they came into the yard. She stopped, looking at them.

  “So it’s trouble you’ve been makin’?”

  “How did you know?” Peg asked.

  “Sure it stands out all over the two of you! A blind man could see it. Now come here an’ tell me. What is it you’ve done?”

  As she spoke, Ridge Fenton came to the door, a piece of apple pie in his hand. As they explained, he began to grin. “By the Lord Harry, I’d of give a pretty piece to’ve seen that! Ol’ Scant a scramblin’ for his life!” He slapped his leg, his mouth stuffed with pie. When he could talk again, he said, “Too bad one o’ those rocks didn’t bust him on the head!”

  Mary, preparing her supply list, listened, half in anger, half relief. Then she got up and came to the door. “Wat, first I want to thank you for getting Peg safely home, but don’t you ever do that again! She is not to leave the yard without telling me. Do you understand? You both might have been killed by that awful man!”

  “Yes’m,” Wat said sheepishly. “I’m sorry, ma’am. It was only a little way, and I didn’t reckon anybody was around.”

  “He’s gone by now,” Fenton said. “He knows we know, and he don’t know but what Boone is around. Boone would go huntin’ him, sure as shootin’.”

  “I don’t want you to go, Ridge,” Mary said. “We want you here.”

  “Now don’t you worry yourself about that, ma’am. I just don’t cotton to goin’ off in the hills huntin’ Scant Luther. If’n he brings trouble to us, I’ll speak my piece, an’ it’ll be language he understands.”

  “We must all be careful,” Mary said. “We do know he is around, and Wat? I want to thank you for discovering him.”

  “He’s a good boy,” Matty said when she came inside. “You cannot blame them, children as they are. It’s only natural they should go pokin’ about, and certainly I did it myself.

  “We had no outlaws or Indians about, but we had high cliffs along the shore and the sea and the caves in the cliffs where sometimes we went when the tide was out.

  “Lookin’ back, I can see it was fearsome risks we took, climbin’ about in those caves like we done. It was a wonder the sea never trapped us there, and there were times when we scarcely made it out before the caves flooded. But that’s the way with youngsters, mum.”

  After they were all inside, she went to the door herself and stepped out in the almost dark and stood in the shadow of the station, looking westward.

  That was where the mountains were, higher mountains than she had ever seen, as high as the Alps but more of them, they said. Someday she must go there. She must take Peg and Wat and go to the mountains, yet even here there was something in the air that was different. It was so clear, so different from what she had been used to.

  She watched the first stars come out, and suddenly she wished Marshall were there, standing beside her, just to feel with her, to realize with her that she was changing, and she knew what the change portended. She no longer longed to return to the plantation. To rebuild Harlequin Oaks…yes. She must do that. She had promised herself that, promised that to the memory of her father and to Peg.

  For herself, she knew now it would never be enough, for she had changed. She had become a western woman.

  Chapter 18

  *

  JASON FLANDRAU’S FIRST instinct was to run, yet he had built too well here, and he had no desire to return to
the old days of riding and hiding. Returning to Denver, he studied all aspects of his situation.

  After all, it was one woman’s accusation. Admittedly, he must forget any assistance from Preston Collier, for the latter would not risk his position and prestige backing a candidate whose reputation was tainted. All right, then, Collier must be forgotten. Who were Collier’s rivals? Who were his enemies?

  Flandrau had already discovered that people were reluctant to think evil of anyone who dressed and talked well and who maintained an outward appearance of respectability. He had a good singing voice, and like almost every boy of his time, he had gone to church regularly, if only to meet the girls, and he knew most of the hymns.

  So he would continue on the course he had set for himself, careful to keep himself to respectable circles. He must develop a mine or ranch where he could hire men and so have contact with those he needed without arousing unwelcome curiosity.

  Mary Breydon must, of course, be eliminated, but now it must be done by accident or by Indians. Traveling was rough, the horses often only half broken. There were many things that could happen, only he must make sure that one of them happened to her.

  Scant Luther? If he acted against her, nobody would be surprised, and it would not be linked to Flandrau.

  Scant…Indians…accident.

  One or the other should provide an answer, and whatever accusations she made would quickly be forgotten. Now he must think, he must plan—

  Of course, there was Denver Cross, but Cross he wished to keep out of sight and out of trouble until he, Flandrau, became governor. Cross was no fool and too valuable a man to be wasted. He would be needed later.

  Scant first…Cross could handle that or, better still, Jordy Neff. Jordy, as Flandrau had been quick to recognize, had a mean streak. He liked to prod about until he found something about which a man was sensitive and then work on it. It was a form of sadistic torture at which Neff was adept.

  A few days later, pausing on the street near Neff but without seeming to notice him, Flandrau said, “See anything of Scant? I wonder how he likes being made a fool of by that woman?”

  Neff chuckled. “He don’t like it much. He’s been muttering in his beard, making threats.”