‘Earhart’s Post is a hell hole,’ Anton said taciturnly. ‘It is no place for a woman.’
The Cheyenne & Black Hills Stage Line clerk spread his hands.
‘If you don’t like your woman being there, I guess you had better ride out and collect her.’
‘She is not my woman,’ the old trapper clarified.
The clerk raised his bushy eyebrows and said, ‘Do what you like, mister. Leave her there, ride out and fetch her. It is your choice. But if she doesn’t catch the next stage, I am not allowing a refund for the miles between Earhart’s and here.’
Anton ‘Old Moscow’ Kozlov remounted his sorrel horse as the clerk returned to his dime novel and tepid coffee.
The sun burst through the gray cloud cover as he followed the stage trail down the pass. An eagle soared majestically overhead as the rider passed an old cabin raised by a mountain man, ten years before covered wagons entered the pass. Though roughly constructed, there was an air of nicety and comfort about it, which could hardly be expected in a frontier log-house. On the outside, the walls presented a comparatively smooth surface, though a glance would be sufficient to satisfy one that the work was of the axe and not of the plane. Anton had been here before. On the inside, the walls seemed to be plastered with a material which, in its primitive state, resembled stiff, brown clay; and it was through a chimney of the same substance that the smoke of the fire within found vent.
An Indian squaw stood in the shadow of the rude doorway. Her hair, as dark as the memory of childhood days, floated in soft ringlets over her exquisitely-formed shoulders, half concealing in its wavy flow her lovely cheeks, mantling with the rich hue of a rough life – cheeks which, long ago, might have been tinged with the sun’s brown dye, but which now, miracle though it might seem, bore little trace of the sun’s scorching hand, or tell-tale mark of western life on the plains or in the mountains. She had blue eyes, and a lovely light lingered in their liquid depths, while her form was one corresponding to her face: slender, but lithe and springing. She appeared well calculated to endure, along with a stout heart; the hardships that must come upon her seemed so strangely out of place.
The old man was still there, motionless on a chair with his spotted dog at his feet. The squaw, half turning, threw up one beautiful arm, and with her hand, shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun, at the same time glancing to the right. As she did, she gave a slight start, for in the distance, she had caught sight of Anton Kozlov. Any cause for fear was, however, quickly removed as she almost immediately recognized him as a friend, murmuring lightly to herself. She looked young enough to be the mountain man’s granddaughter, and took a seat beside the dog.
Anton offered a friendly wave and continued on his way. He did not have time to visit.
When he cleared the pass, Anton nudged Socks into a long, steady lope. After a while, he left the stage trail and short-cut across the wide meadow. There he rested the sorrel, drank water from his canteen and smoked two cigarettes. He expected to reach Earhart’s by sundown. The delay would probably mean that he would arrive late at Devil’s Canyon with the woman . . . and Judd would be furious. Well, his former stepson would just have to wait. By the look of that photograph, Miss Lucy Doniphon was worth waiting for.
He turned to the trail and followed it around a ragged saw tooth. It was mid-afternoon, and the shadows began to lengthen. He saw no one on the trail. Despite the growing population in Bear Creek Pass and the push west, this was still a frontier.
The ridge up which Anton Kozlov labored atop his sorrel horse was a sparsely-timbered slope which terminated in a rounded crest a mile away. To the mule behind him, that smoothly-rolling sky line must have looked like ten miles ahead of it. No breath of wind stirred the stinging, dead air. The slope, which in reality was a very easy grade, assumed the steepness of a mountain side. Anton wanted above all things to sleep. He glanced backward.
A half hour later Anton and his two mounts stood side by side upon the crest of the ridge and looked down into the valley. Both he and the animals were breathing heavily. As they stood now with the sun dancing above them, the cold seemed to press upon them like a thing of weight. The temperature was dropping. The going was easier, but the ‘strong cold’ seemed to strike to the very bone. After what seemed hours, he found himself at a tributary of the Yellowstone River – the Old Sandy River.
He forded the Old Sandy River at the stage crossing and kept to the trail as it dropped into Colter’s Canyon. The setting sun still colored the western rimrock, but it was dark lower down and Kozlov glimpsed the distant lights of Earhart’s. Only now the smoke did not rise from the chimney but poured from its mouth and fell heavily to the roof where it rolled slowly to the ground. He slowed Socks to a walk as the shadows closed around him. He heard wild laughter on the wind. Lanterns flickered and swung under the eaves of the barn-like building.
There was another burst of bawdy laughter, and then he heard the dull thud and the clink of bottles. Anton slid from his saddle and tethered Socks to a hitching post. He glanced at the bullet-scarred signboard which informed travelers that redeye, card games, rooms, supplies and ammunition were available. In fact, few bona fide travelers came to Earhart’s. The place was a haunt for outlaws, misfits and frontier scum.
He heard raised voices and more mirth as he opened the front door. Smoke shrouded the long, low-roofed room which served as both saloon and store. A fat Indian woman stood behind the bar counter. Rough-faced, bearded men sat hunched over a poker game. Close to the card table were shelves displaying canned food and a stack of flour sacks. Guns rested across wall hooks. At the far end of the room, a stove glowed with heat.
A younger man – a boy compared to the others – was lying on a bench and a woman was seated beside him holding a spoon to his lips while she supported his head on her arm. The ‘boy’ swallowed and a spoonful of hot liquid trickled down his throat. He appeared to be warming up, and comfortable, and drowsy – so drowsy that it was with an effort that he managed to swallow another spoonful of the hot liquid. Slowly he opened his eye and then struggled to a sitting posture. He became conscious of a stinging sensation in his face and he prodded his cheek with an inquisitive finger.
The woman noticed the action. ‘It’s not bad,’ she explained. ‘Your nose and your cheeks were frozen, but I thawed them out with the snow.’ Suddenly his expression changed, and a look of fear haunted his eyes.
‘Get off me . . . what is this you’re shoveling down my throat?’
Anton moved his gaze to Sylvester Earhart, who was flanked by two smirking men and towered over a young woman whose chair was wedged against the wall. No one noticed Anton ‘Old Moscow’ Kozlov as he stood in the misty haze.
Earhart had his hands planted on his huge hips as he said, ‘. . . reckon it’s time for you to face some cold, hard facts, ma’am. . . .’
‘I have been telling you all day – if you would just listen – I am Lieutenant Judd Reed’s bride-to-be!’ she insisted as the men just snickered. ‘He will be waiting for me at the depot. Even though I will be a day late, he will still be there . . . I know he will . . . he said. . . .’
‘Haw! Haw!’ Earhart snickered as he moved closer. ‘What did you say your name was again, miss?’
‘Lucy Doniphon. . . .’
Kozlov did not need to hear her name. Even though the lantern light was dim and the smoke thick, he recognized her face from her portrait. He could see the same defiant anger in her eyes, but now it was anger laced with fear. Sylvester Earhart and his galoots were gathered like vultures around a banquet.
The vultures slapped their sides in gaiety.
‘Sounds like a saloon name to me,’ Earhart chortled.
‘I have never even been inside a saloon! How dare you?’ she flashed.
Kozlov started towards her. The poker players, engrossed in their game, paid him no heed. The squaw made a half-hearted effort to offer him a drink, but he shook her off before she could complete her attempt.
&nb
sp; ‘Ma’am, you ain’t exactly a good liar,’ Earhart accused. ‘First, this Lieutenant Reed of yours, if there is such a feller at all, is an officer. That means he is a gentleman!’ He chuckled. ‘He certainly wouldn’t be marrying a saloon whore. He would choose a real lady, another officer’s daughter. . . .’
‘Why . . . I . . . never. . . ! Leave me alone – please!’ she said with disgust.
‘Quit playing games now, woman,’ Earhart snapped. ‘You are alone, and you need a roof over your head. Like I said before, you can work for me.’
She snorted. ‘I gave you my answer.’
Sylvester Earhart’s eyes narrowed.
‘Sure you did, Miss Lucy. Well, ma’am, I will collect what you owe me now.’
She looked at the large man with complete shock. ‘What . . . what do you mean?’
Anton Kozlov halted a few paces away from the stove.
‘Let’s see . . . you owe me for the bath, two meals, coffee and the use of that table and chair. That adds up to . . . roughly nine dollars . . . I reckon,’ Earhart said.
She stared incredulously at the bearded hulk of a man.
‘But – but, Mr Earhart, you told me it was all on the house,’ the woman whispered.
‘I don’t recall ever saying that.’ Earhart grinned. ‘Did I say that, Dutton?’ the man asked a man at his right elbow.
Dutton Tully leered a broken-tooth smile and shook his head.
‘Did you hear me offer this lady free hospitality, Nim?’ Earhart asked the other vulture.
‘Certainly not, Mr Earhart,’ Nim Larkin assured him.
‘Nine dollars, Miss Lucy,’ Earhart demanded coldly.
‘I . . . I don’t have that kind of money,’ she said nervously. She looked pleadingly at a plump little man in a dark suit and derby hat who sat huddled over his traveling case.
‘Mr Garth, you are a banker . . . could you please lend me the money?’
Ray Garth glanced at the immense Earhart.
‘I might be a banker, ma’am, but right now I am just a stranded traveler – like you. I am carrying no money.’
‘Looks like you will have to work off your debt, ma’am,’ Earhart said solemnly. ‘You can start by entertaining Nim in the back room. That shouldn’t present a problem for a saloon strumpet.’
Nim Larkin grinned and stumbled eagerly towards her.
‘Lay a hand on her and you are a dead man,’ Old Moscow Kozlov warned, lifting his pistol.
Larkin froze as the words hung in the sudden stillness. The card players sat like statues. Then, as Kozlov thumbed back his gun hammer, Larkin slowly turned his head. His ugly face was scarred from cheek to chin, and his eyes were narrowed to slits as he appraised the danger of the situation.
‘Just who – who the hell are you?’ he stammered.
‘He is just an old saddle bum,’ Earhart sneered. ‘I remember he drifted in over a year ago and perhaps before that. Stayed overnight.’ He surveyed the man behind the gun. ‘I don’t recall your name, old man, but whoever you are, mister, keep your nose out of this.’
‘Ma’am,’ Anton told the woman, ‘just pick up your bag and come with me.’
‘Like hell she will!’ Earhart exploded. ‘Dammit, you can’t just march in here like you own the place and grab one of my employees. . . .’
‘Hurry up, ma’am,’ Anton directed Lucy calmly.
Lucy Doniphon hesitated slightly. She looked at the tall, older stranger with the gun, and then contemplated the three men confronting her. She saw the naked lust in Nim’s eyes. Making a sudden decision, she reached for her luggage and stood up.
‘Drop that gun, or I will blow you apart!’ The harsh demand boomed from behind the bar. ‘Now, mister!’
Kozlov glanced sideways and saw a lean, one-eyed man standing beside the petrified squaw. The single eye looked down the two fat barrels of a shotgun.
‘Nice work,’ Sylvester Earhart complimented him. He smiled coldly at Kozlov then and said, ‘Better do what he tells you, old man.’
Kozlov held his six-gun steady as he replied: ‘Sure, you could fire that shotgun, but you will get Earhart, Nim, and the other vulture, too.’
The man behind the bar wavered and looked to Earhart for advice. Kozlov grabbed the split-second, angled his gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet smashed high into the shotgunner’s shoulder, and the shotgun discharged its heated hail into the ceiling. Pellets blasted two hanging lanterns into fragments, sending hot oil spraying over the trading post. The wounded man dropped his shotgun and clapped his left hand to the bloody mess that had been the joint of his right shoulder. Coldly, Anton Kozlov pointed his smoking pistol straight at Earhart’s large head.
‘Who’s next?’ he asked the ashen-faced trader.
‘Take the whore and get out of here, old man,’ Earhart said. ‘She ain’t worth much anyway.’
‘Outside, ma’am,’ Kozlov repeated.
Lucy Doniphon edged around the wooden table. Earhart and his companions watched as she moved past the man with the gun. The man with the shattered shoulder collapsed in pain, and the squaw stayed absolutely frozen in place.
‘If I see a man walk outside, it will be his last walk,’ Anton said with certainty.
He backed to the door and sidled to where the woman waited with his horse and the mule.
‘Hook the handle of your travelin’ bag over the saddle horn of the horse, ma’am,’ Anton told her. His eyes roved along the front wall of the trading post as she did his bidding. ‘Now I am goin’ to mount up. You climb up on that mule.’
‘A mule . . . really?’ She started to complain; his look stopped that. ‘Mister – thank you,’ she whispered as Anton swung into his saddle. ‘I – I don’t even know your name.’
He reached over and grasped her arm but did not hurt her in doing so.
‘I will help you up, ma’am.’ Still keeping an eye on the building, Anton hauled her up on to the mule’s back. ‘The name,’ he said, ‘is Anton Kozlov. People call me Old Moscow.’
‘Why?’ she asked.
‘Time to explain that is later,’ he said as he nudged the horse into motion. ‘I am an associate of Lieutenant Reed.’ He sheathed his pistol. ‘Now, grab the reins tight, ma’am. It may be a mule, but he has an ornery streak in him. It can be a bit of a rough ride. I am aimin’ to put a lot of distance between us and this post in a real short time.’
Lucy locked her hands on the reins of the mule – the creature was a cross between a donkey stallion or a jack and a horse mare, and Anton and Socks sprinted into the darkness. The mule’s conformation was a combination of traits from both parents. The head, hip and legs usually took after the jack. The mule did not have a pronounced arch of the neck. Its hair was thin on the forelock, with coarse mane hair. The mule tried its best to imitate the donkey’s bray, but had a more unique sound that was a combination of the horse’s whinny and the grunting of the wind-down of a bray, sounding more like: ‘Whinee-aw ah aw.’ Then men with rifles barged through the door and started hollering at the fleeing foursome. Two bullets thudded into pine trunks as a few of the men began to fire. Another shot kicked dirt ahead of Socks. Then they were in the clear . . . at least momentarily.
‘Um . . . Mr Kozlov . . . I mean . . . Old Moscow. . . .’
‘Quiet, ma’am.’
Anton sat tight in his saddle as Lucy clung to the reins and packs on the mule. He heard the soft, incessant moan of the winter wind. Anton Kozlov was well acquainted with nearly every inch of the country over which he was determined to travel. That said, it did not mean danger was not an obstacle. He was not afraid of immediate pursuit by the men from Earhart’s, as there was little profit in coming after them in this cold weather, at least he hoped. Gradually an opening became evident – a rough, seldom-traveled, and almost impracticable pass – apparently extending through into the Montana territory on the other side.
At first, he had expected pursuit but was relieved to hear none. Still, he waited for a full five minutes befor
e continuing.
‘Didn’t figure Earhart would just let us go, but it seems that way,’ he said finally. ‘Maybe that skunk just doesn’t give a damn.’
‘He’s a skunk sure enough,’ Lucy echoed, ‘but at first I thought he was a real gentleman. He allowed me a bath and said the food was free. It was only after a while that I knew what was on his mind.’ Her arms struggled in the cold to hold the reins. ‘Thank heaven you came, Mr Koz . . . Old. . . .’
‘Call me Anton.’
‘OK, Anton.’
Man and beast being so well acquainted with the route, the rate of progress was scarcely diminished. On either side towered the mountains, the almost perpendicular walls covered with draperies of green at the top, where moonlight fell; but lower down, dark and chill. Eyesight could be of little avail here, without a thorough knowledge of the place and its surroundings.
And still, as Anton clattered on, an answering noise from behind, as it were an echo, showed that perhaps they had a pursuer after all. A fearful smile swept over the old man’s face as he listened to the noise.
‘Judd asked me to meet you at Bear Creek Pass, ma’am,’ Anton explained, hoping to keep her mind off the potential pursuer. ‘When I got to the depot and heard what had happened, I rode straight there.’
‘I was expecting Judd to meet me,’ Lucy said, her arms still enfolding some of the packages on the mule. She then asked anxiously, ‘Has something happened to Judd?’
‘No, he had army business to tend to,’ Anton said simply.
‘Oh,’ she replied.
‘He had orders to obey, ma’am,’ he explained.
‘Which came before me, I reckon?’ she said.
‘He had no choice – that is the way it is with the army, ma’am. He had to chase some deserters.’
She nodded. ‘So, he sent you. . . .’
‘Hired me, actually,’ Anton amended.
‘Um . . . hired?’ she asked.
Trail to Devil's Canyon Page 3