Ralph Compton The Convict Trail

by Ralph Compton

  Lorraine looked at the wound critically. “What in God’s name did you do to this?”

  “Poured gunpowder on it an’ then set it alight. Figgered it would stop the poisons.”

  “It’s a wonder you have a leg left. Is there water in the barrel?”

  Kane nodded. He felt naked and exposed, and his face burned, something he couldn’t remember it doing since he was a boy.

  Lorraine found a white, frilled garment in the wagon that the marshal could not bring himself to look at. The woman hesitated a moment, shrugged, then tore it into strips.

  She bathed Kane’s leg front and back, then bound it tightly with the strips of cloth.

  “It doesn’t look too bad. That should hold you for a while,” she said.

  “I appreciate it, ma’am,” Kane said, quickly yanking up his pants. “I swear the leg feels better already.”

  “Don’t go explodin’ gunpowder on it again.”

  “No ma’am.”

  Kane slipped his suspenders over his shoulders and rose to his feet. “Now we better be goin’.”

  The trail wound upward through a dense forest of pine, hickory and oak. In places where the going was steeper the Percheron strained into the harness, its huge hooves digging deep into the dirt underfoot. But Lorraine handled the reins with a quiet assurance and the big horse hauled the heavy prison wagon with relative ease.

  Kane scouted ahead and guided the woman around flat, massive slabs of sandstone that had slid down the slope during earlier cloudbursts. Up here, nearly two thousand feet above the flat, the air was crystal clear, heavy with the scent of pine resin. Kane caught glimpses of the sky through the forest canopy, a patch of clear blue laced around with dark leaves.

  The quiet of the mountain descended on the marshal like a blessing, the song of the wind in the trees a descant only an octave higher than the sound of the silence.

  That made the angry roar of the black bear all the more shocking in its earsplitting ferocity.

  Unlike the grizzly, the black bear seldom attacks humans. Grizzly assaults are usually defensive, but when the black bear does strike, its attacks are always predatory. You can lie down and play possum and the grizzly might leave you alone. Try that with a black bear and nine times out of ten it will kill you.

  The bear charged out of the trees, closing on the Percheron. Terrified, the big horse reared, then swung to its right, galloping along the slope. The thud of its great hooves seemed to shake the mountain. Fighting the scared sorrel, Kane couldn’t reach for his holstered gun. He watched helplessly as the wagon’s left-front wheel hit a slab of sandstone, then toppled on its side. Lorraine and Nellie were thrown clear, but the Percheron went down, kicking wildly, tangled in its harness.

  The sorrel was completely out of control. It reared and Kane was thrown, landing heavily on his back, all the breath knocked out of him. The horse pounded up the slope, then vanished from sight behind a row of pines.

  Now the bear was at the wagon. The iron door had swung open and the animal reached its head inside. It emerged with what was left of the hide-wrapped venison in its jaws and bounded into the surrounding forest.

  Kane was on his feet, gun in his hand, enraged beyond measure at the theft of their meat and possible hurt to the draft horse. He thumbed off two useless shots into the trees where the bear had disappeared and yelled, “Damn you, Ephraim! Damn you to hell and all the way back again!”

  “Marshal! Over here!” Lorraine was standing near the Percheron. “I don’t think he’s hurt real bad.”

  From long habit, Kane reloaded his Colt before stepping to the woman’s side. Nellie stood a ways off, her face pale with fright.

  It took ten minutes to untangle the big horse from the harness and help it to its feet. Kane saw some cuts and scrapes on its flanks, but when he ran a hand over the animal’s legs there were no breaks. Righting the wagon would be a more difficult matter. The iron cage and steel axles made it heavy, and when he put his hands on it and pushed, the wagon barely moved.

  Defeated, Kane stepped back, cursing softly under his breath.

  Lorraine had an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. She looked at the marshal. “The bear attacked us because it smelled the meat?”

  “Probably. But ol’ Ephraim tends to be notional an’ there’s no way to tell what he’s thinkin’. This time o’ the year, when he’s due for his winter sleep, he can get plumb ornery.”

  Lorraine glanced around her and shivered. “Will he come back?”

  “I doubt it. He’s got meat and he heard the gun. I reckon he’s long gone.”

  “The wagon?”

  Kane glanced up the slope. “I’ll find my hoss, then dab a loop on the Percheron, see if he can pull it upright.”

  “The wheels don’t seem to be damaged.” The woman smiled. “That’s lucky.”

  “Yeah,” Kane said. “We’ve been nothin’ but lucky today.” He took off his hat, wiped the sweatband with his fingers, then angrily slapped the hat against his knee. “I better go find that damned hoss.”

  Kane found the sorrel grazing a few yards from the summit of the mountain. He swung into the saddle and rode to the top, looking out at the vast land spread out before him. In the clear air he felt like he could see forever.

  South of him lay the country he’d crossed to get there. To the north stretched rolling hills, then the bulk of Pine Mountain. After that were a couple miles of flat plains, cut about by many creeks, and beyond the plains, the smoke blue parapet of Rich Mountain.

  Somewhere out there was Jack Henry, and with him the convicts, and it was his job to find them and bring them to justice. Burdened by two females and no food, he faced a tall order. Kane shook his head, his eyes bleak. No matter, he had it to do. Judge Parker expected it of him. And for some reason, loyalty maybe, or stiff-necked pride, he could not let the old man down.

  The marshal swung off the ridge and rode down the slope. Lorraine and Nellie were stroking the Percheron’s neck, attention the massive horse seemed to be enjoying.

  He stepped out of the leather and stripped the rig from the sorrel. He threw the saddle onto the draft’s broad back and cinched up, barely making it. Kane tied one end of his rope to the side of the wagon, then climbed into the saddle and looped the other end around the horn.

  “Hi-ya!” Kane kicked the big horse’s ribs and it moved forward, but stopped as soon as it felt the strain. The wagon rocked back into place, a wheel spinning. “Ya! Ya! Ya!” Kane kicked again. The Percheron seemed to understand what was required of him. His hooves dug into the slope and he lurched ahead. Kane felt the saddle slip backward and for a moment he thought he would go right over the horse’s rump. But to his joy he heard the wagon creak, then thump onto its wheels, the iron door clanging open and shut like a discordant bell.

  The marshal clambered out of the saddle and moved to the Percheron’s head. “Easy, easy, boy,” he said. He smiled. “I’d give you a carrot, if’n I owned a carrot.”

  He switched his rig back to the sorrel and Lorraine helped him hitch the big horse to the wagon again. “Once we get to the top, you an’ Nellie will see a great view. I swear, the land stretches out into tomorrow.” He looked at the girl. “How about that, Nellie? You want to see forever?”

  The girl made no answer and when Kane looked into her eyes, all he saw was a world of pain.

  Around three in the afternoon they made camp in a grove of trees near the east bank of Pigeon Creek because Kane wanted to spend some time hunting before it got dark. But his efforts came to nothing. He took a potshot at some mallards cruising the creek close to camp, but missed badly; the flock scattered and fluttered away.

  Empty-handed, Kane returned with nothing to show from his hunt but a headache and a vile mood.

  Lorraine had built a fire, in anticipation Kane guessed sourly, but when she saw the dark look on the marshal’s face she wisely said nothing.

  He unsaddled the sorrel, then sat by the fire, his knees drawn up to his chest. He l
ooked at the woman. “Damn that ol’ Ephraim,” he said. “Robbed us of our supper.”

  Kane was hoping for soothing words of some kind. They wouldn’t fill his belly, but they might ease his vague sense of guilt. Man was meant to be a great hunter and keep his womenfolk fed. Didn’t it say that in the Bible, or was it written down in some other famous book? He didn’t know.

  It didn’t matter much, because Lorraine would not have answered. She was looking intently over the marshal’s shoulder into the distance.

  Kane followed the woman’s gaze and saw what she was seeing. Three riders were coming toward them, leading a packhorse. Even far off, he recognized the broadcloth suits and the tall, blood horses.

  It was the Provanzano brothers. They were here to take what was theirs and punish those who had denied it to them for so long.

  Lorraine rose to her feet, watching the men come. Kane stood and stepped beside her. He adjusted his gun belt and eased the Colt in the leather.

  They were three tough men who believed right was on their side against one who was no longer real sure about anything.

  Kane swallowed hard. He wasn’t confident he could beat the odds.

  Chapter 20

  The riders drew rein a few yards from Logan Kane, their dark, cold eyes weighing him.

  The marshal did the same, looking over the three men closely, summing up their potential with the iron. It was not idle curiosity on anyone’s part. They were practicing the first law of survival among men who lived by the gun: know your enemy.

  Kane saw no sign of gun belts, but city men like these would carry some kind of hideout gun. He’d heard of shoulder leather but had never seen it. A campfire conversation he’d listened to back along some forgotten trail returned to him, a waddie saying that Hardin was fast from the shoulder holster. He’d never seen John Wesley either, and that was probably all to the good.

  “Remember me? Name’s Carmine Provanzano.” The oldest of the three waved a hand. “My brothers, Teodoro and Vito.” The man leaned forward in the saddle, staring at Kane. “Last time we met was in the dark and you looked different, Marshal,” he said. “Bigger, maybe, and younger. Better looking too.”

  Kane said, “Darkness makes every star shine brighter.”

  Carmine absorbed that, then smiled. “Then that must be the reason.”

  He looked around, missing nothing, including the empty prison wagon. Then his stare fixed on Lorraine. “If I don’t miss my guess, you must be Mrs. Hook.” His tone was not friendly, but neither was it threatening. “Where is your husband?”

  “He’s dead,” the woman answered, with a defiant tilt to her chin.

  Kane saw the face of Vito, the youngest brother, stiffen, his skin drawing tight against his cheekbones. The young man had a wild, reckless look, and the marshal figured that if this ended up in a shooting scrape, Vito would be the first to draw. He filed that away, for later.

  Kane had thought Carmine’s next question would be about the money, but the man surprised him. “I don’t know what the laws of hospitality are in the West, no, but in New Orleans we usually invite visitors to set and eat.”

  “Please to step down,” Kane said, “but as you can see, we don’t have any coffee or grub. When the convicts escaped they took everything with them.” Then, sensing that he might appear shiftless, he added, “Shot a deer a few days back, but a bear stole the meat.”

  “Never seen a bear,” Carmine said. He turned his head. “Vito!”

  The young man immediately stepped out of the saddle. He walked to the packhorse and began to untie canvas-wrapped bundles. He filled his arms with a slab of bacon, a sack of coffee, another of flour and some smaller packages wrapped in wax paper. Vito dropped the food beside the fire, then returned with a coffeepot and a skillet.

  Carmine nodded his approval, then looked at Kane. “I’m happy to accept your kind invitation.” He stepped out of the saddle and behind him his brother Teodoro, a saturnine, lean-cheeked man, did likewise.

  Holding the reins of his horse, Carmine looked over at Nellie, who was sitting by the fire, her knees drawn up to her chin, taking an interest in nothing. “What ails the bambina, Marshal?”

  Kane didn’t understand the Italian word, but he caught Carmine’s drift. He sought for a way to answer him, then said simply, “The convicts caught up with her and Mrs. Hook.”

  Carmine Provanzano took a quick breath. “How many?”

  “All of them.”

  “And now she casts a dark shadow that will stay with her a lifetime.”

  “I’d say that’s how it shapes up unless something changes.”

  “Marshal, some men should never have been born. What do you do with men like that?”

  “You find them and kill them.”

  Carmine nodded. “Yes, that is our way also.” He looked at the girl again and shook his head, then said, “I must see to my horse.”

  The brothers had removed their coats and Kane saw he’d been correct. All three wore a Smith & Wesson .38 in a shoulder rig and he had no doubt they knew how to use them well.

  The marshal felt no threat, at least not yet, but he stayed on alert, his nerves tangling themselves in tight knots.

  The brothers carefully folded their coats and laid them on the grass and then began to strip their saddles. Kane noticed that the men spread out in a semicircle around him, making sure they could catch him in a crossfire should the need arise.

  The Provanzano boys were careful men, and Kane had the feeling that in a gunfight they wouldn’t back up and would be hard to kill.

  Vito filled the coffeepot and brought it to Lorraine. She had found sourdough starter in a package and was baking biscuits in her own deep skillet, frying bacon in the other. Soon the wonderful smell of boiling coffee added to the odors that were making Kane’s empty stomach rumble.

  The day had shaded into night and stars scattered across the sky. A wind off the plains danced with the flames of the fire and a pair of hunting coyotes were calling to each other in the darkness, scenting the cooking food.

  Kane was on edge for two reasons: the close, uncomfortable presence of the Provanzano brothers and the worry that Stringfellow and the others might come back to see what had happened to Joe Foster. He thought it would be inhospitable and a sign of distrust to keep his Winchester close. He also unbuckled his gun belt but kept it near him, something he was sure Carmine had noticed. The man had looked, but had said nothing.

  After they’d eaten and the brothers had graciously declared Lorraine’s biscuits the best they’d ever had, Carmine rose and reached into his pack. He returned with a bottle of bourbon and held it out to the woman. “A shot in your coffee, ma’am, to keep out the chill of the evening?”

  Lorraine gladly accepted and so did Kane.

  As they drank, Vito seemed to be moved by the beauty of the night. He tilted back his head and sang a song in a fine, tenor voice. Kane didn’t understand a single word, but the tune was plaintive and touching, and it pleased him immensely.

  After the last note died away, Carmine smiled at Lorraine and said, “He sang an old Sicilian folk song called ‘Ciuri Ciuri.’ It is about a girl who chides her sweetheart for not loving her enough, but the young man says, ‘I have taken all the love you have given me and returned it to you.”’

  “It’s beautiful,” Lorraine said. “And very sad in a way.”

  “Sometimes love is a sadness in the soul,” Carmine said. “The saddest thing of all is to still love someone who used to love you. That I have known, and I have remembered it.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Lorraine asked, a womanlike question.

  Carmine eagerly went on talking pretties about the heartbreak of unrequited love and Kane grew numbingly bored. Horses, guns and bad men he understood, but all this talk of romance and moonlight and roses had stranded him on an island of his own ignorance. In the past, he’d taken women wherever and whenever he could find them and love had never entered into it. But he liked women and th
ey seemed to like him, and that was enough for any man.

  Finally he spread his blankets, laid his Colt on his belly under the blanket and tipped his hat over his eyes, questions troubling him. Why had Carmine Provanzano not mentioned the money? Was he waiting for morning, planning to start shooting and then search the wagon? Kane didn’t know and the not knowing was a worrisome thing.

  He drifted off to sleep, the musical murmur of Carmine’s voice lulling him.

  The morning light pried Kane’s eyes open and, his pulse pounding, he sat erect, looking wildly around him. Nearby Carmine was saddling his horse. He looked at Kane and smiled. “Sorry, did I wake you?”

  Coffee was smoking on the fire and Lorraine was bent over, cooking breakfast. Nellie sat close to her, looking very calm and pretty.

  How long had he slept?

  Kane’s gun had slid off his belly when he jumped up. He holstered it, put on his hat and gun belt and rose to his feet. Behind Carmine his brothers were loading the packhorse.

  “Pullin’ out?” he asked Carmine.

  “Heading back to New Orleans.”

  Now it was time to say it. “Then you’ll want to take your money with you.”

  “Yes. Most of it is there, Teodoro assures me.”

  “You knew it was in the wagon?”

  “Yes, I knew it would be there if the convicts hadn’t taken it.” Carmine looked at Kane with something akin to a perplexed admiration. “You’re a remarkable man, Marshal, a police officer who believes the law should be enforced only with the gun and the boot. Watching from afar, I had come to think of you as just as cruel, cold-blooded and reckless as the outlaws you hunt.” The man waved away Kane’s unspoken protest. “But above all, reckless. You would have died the night you attacked the Texas drovers who had hanged the lady rancher. Don’t be so surprised. We shot men off your back that night—two, three men.”

  Kane was stunned. “You were shooting?”

  Carmine smiled. “From the trees. In the darkness and confusion everyone was firing. The drovers had their hands full with you and were not even aware of us.”