Under the Sweetwater Rim (1971)

by L'amour, Louis

Ironhide came in and squatted near the fire, feeding the flames with small sticks. The light played strangely on his dark features, but when he looked over the fire at them he smiled. "I guess a man doesn't have to be an Indian to like this," he said.

  Outside the rain poured down, thunder continued to roll. They made beds from the blanket rolls, and whatever else they could use, and bedded down in the cave. Lying there in her wet garments, the heat slowly warming the dampness away, Mary Devereaux looked out at the blackness of the night. Occasionally a distant flash of lightning showed the pines and the rocks in a ragged edge against the night, but close by was the welcome fire.

  Mary felt wide awake now, and Brian felt like talking. "I wonder if dinosaurs were ever in this cave?" Mary said. "I doubt if the cave was even here in the dinosaur days. Or these mountains, for that matter. I think these mountains were late in developing. But mountains were here, I think.

  Mountains that were worn away by wind and rain and time, and then other mountains. It still goes on. This storm will make changes, most of them very small. But seeds fall into cracks and plants grow up to spread the cracks wider with their roots. Rain washes in, snow melts, the winter freezes, and the cracks in the rocks expand. "There's no end to it, and here we can see it happening. There's a majesty in it, a timeless sort of beauty. I love to see some of the gnarled old trees; cedars and bristle-cone pines are favorites of mine, for so often they live where it doesn't seem possible to live. They grow right out of rocks, gnarled and twisted and old . . . but strong, stronger than anything but time, and they are part of time.

  Brian paused. "Men make too much of their problems," be went on. "So many things grow small and petty when you see them through the window of time. I started out when I was a youngster, and sometimes it seems as if I've lived two or three lives; and I see the youngsters now excited about the same things, all wanting to change the world overnight, when it never changes that way-well, not often. And when it does change that way it changes with fire and blood, and it goes back further into what we're trying to grow out of. "I think we all should go to the mountains more often. We should stand alone and look on the peaks and the valleys . . . . Have you ever seen the Tetons? Or looked over the wide, unending plains?" Brian paused. "Well, I've rambled along and put Belle and Schwartz to sleep. Now I'd better let you sleep.

  We'll need all the rest we can get"

  "Will we leave first thing in the morning?" Mary asked. He shrugged. "We might stay right here.

  If we don't make any tracks they surely can't find any. The trouble is, we didn't get the gold. And I've got that to do."

  He went out into the rain and gathered more fuel. He broke off larger limbs from the blow-downs and dragged them back, placing them close to the fire where he could reach out of his blankets and put a fresh stick on the fire. Then he bedded down and lay wide awake for a while, with the smell of rain and a wood fire around him, and the realization that Mary was here, close by. She probably didn't give a thought to him, and why should she? A drifter, a ne'er-do-well, a soldier who fought for anybody who had a war, and who after thirty rough years had no more future than a spent bullet. When they used to tell him that a rolling stone gathered no moss, he always replied that it did get a smooth polish ... and that a wandering bee got the honey. Well, he had the polish, he supposed, and here and there he'd had a taste of the honey, but right now the taste in his mouth was a bitter one. He closed his eyes and tried to shut out his thoughts. It would be better just to listen to the rain falling, to smell the pines and the wood smoke. They couldn't take that from him-the memory of countless lonely fires built in countless lonely places, a memory that leaves a man with a taste for wild country.

  At last he fell asleep, and he did not awaken when Ironhide got up and slipped out into the night. The rain was slackening, and the Cherokee, after a glance back into the cave, disappeared in the darkness.

  When Lieutenant Tenadore Brian awoke suddenly some hours later, it was not yet dawn, but his senses told him the hour was not far away. He lay still and considered the situation. He believed their wild ride through the night had left pursuit far behind, and the rain must have washed away whatever tracks they had made.

  The cave in such an out-of-the-way spot was not likely to be known to the Kelsey men, nor easily found by them. They had some food, though not much, and Brian decided his idea of the night before was a good one-to remain right where they were, making no tracks whatsoever.

  And then he began to think about the gold.

  When he had ordered the army ambulance away from the wagon train, taking over command without authorization, he had assumed responsibility for the payroll as well as for the women, and therefore it was up to him to recover the gold.

  In studying the problem, Reuben Kelsey had to be considered first, and what did he know of him?

  Little enough, though years ago they had for several weeks moved across the country together. At that time Kelsey was sixteen and it might be assumed that his character was formed to a considerable degree.

  He was a reckless boy, tall and handsome, unusually powerful, perfectly coordinated, and already a good woodsman. He had lived in Missouri and Texas, had fought Comanches at fourteen, Kiowas at fifteen, and shortly before the wagon train started west he had killed a bad man from east Texas in a hand-to-hand fight.

  He was a natural leader, ready to put himself forward, and gifted with a strong vein of caution for all his seeming recklessness. He and Brian had become friends from necessity, But Ten Brian in those days had been a quiet boy, retiring, andwitha preference for going it alone. When with others he had usually allowed them to take the lead. He had been, he felt, as good a woodsman as Kelsey, but Kelsey assumed that Brian was not up to his own capabilities; and Brian, knowing they would get along better as long as Kelsey had that idea, did nothing to change it.

  Kelsey showed himself even then to be ruthless and without scruples, but he was also outwardly friendly, quick to laugh or smile-superficially a good companion.

  Ten knew that Kelsey had always regarded him with amused contempt, but during the months after their escape and before Brian left for the East and the years of soldiering abroad, they had continued to be friendly.

  During that period Kelsey had several times told Brian that he was the only friend he had.

  Since that time their paths had taken different directions. Kelsey had stayed in the West. He had trapped fur in Montana and Wyoming, had roamed the Colorado mountains, and had gone on to California, returning eventually to Missouri.

  Brian's experience had been utterly different.

  At a time when many men were drifting from place to place, seeking their fortunes in the far-off corners of the world, he had served with the Foreign Legion in Africa.

  Those were days of little rest for him. One campaign followed another, and for seven years, as enlisted man and officer, he had fought in the Atlas Mountains, and raided deep into the Tibesti region. One campaign had been fought in the Hoggar Mountains, another in the Tamanrasset. He had dealt with the Arabs, who have a saying, kiss the hand you can not cut o@., and he had learned to be friendly but not trusting.

  After that there had been Rome, and the Papal Zouaves. He had lived a year of pomp and ceremony, and then had gone o@. to China. Here his success in the service of the Manchu government had been rapid. He acquired the scar on his cheek in a fierce fight with bandits who attempted to rob him when he had ridden out ahead of his command ....

  All that was long age and far away. Now he was once more in the land he preferred to all others, and Reuben Kelsey was here. . . his enemy. Leaning over, he took a stick and stirred the remains of the fire, then added more fuel. Belle Renick turned restlessly in her sleep, murmuring something.

  Outside the rain had begun again.

  Sitting up, Brian tugged on his boots and stood up. It was only then that he noticed the empty bed . . . the Cherokee was gonel For a moment he stood still, thinking. Then he took up his hat and his slic
ker, and reached for his rifle. Leaning over, he touched Schwartz, who was fully awake at once.

  "Ironhide's gone," Brian said. "rm going to have a look around. Stay inside and keep alert."

  He went to the cave entrance and looked out. Before him lay a canyon, deep and narrow, and spiked with jutting crags and tumbled slabs of rock. Everywhere were the trunks of trees left from an old blow-down. New growth had sprung up, shrouding it all with green. From far below came the subdued sound of a rushing stream. Above, the mountains were still shrouded in clouds. A light rain fell steadily.

  The Cherokee had left on foot, for no horse was gone. And no tracks remained, so he had left not later than the middle of the night. Where would he go?

  To Major Devereaux, for help? He would have taken a horse for that. Or back to the Kelsey outfit after the gold? Brian went outside the cave, and from the shelter of the towering pine he let his eyes rove over the area about them.

  Mary had come up beside him. "Where do you think he's gone?" she said. "He's gone after the payroll.

  That's all it could be, and that means I've got to go after him. He may need help."

  She was silent for a moment. "I don't want you to go, Ten," she said then, "but I know you must."

  "I have to. You'll be safe here, I think-safer than trying to get away." He was studying the mountain. It would be easier to go over the shoulder than around it, as they had come. He could keep under cover part of the way, and much of the part above timberline was invisible from below. The Cherokee was a good Indian.

  He would be hard to trap, but he might be too confident. Reuben Kelsey would be out there now, furious at their escape. Of course, he might just take the money and leave; but that opened another line of thought . . . sixty thousand was a lot of money. It was unlikely the group would ever make as big a strike again, and Kelsey would realize that.

  Wasn't it likely that he would try to get it all for himself? That meant he must get away somehow, with the gold, and without pursuit. "Listen," he said to Mary. "If I am not back in two days, leave this place, and when you start, stay up on the mountain as long as you can." She looked at him intently, her eyes serious. He wondered how many times she had seen her father ride away on patrols into Indian country, never sure if she would see him again. That was why she stood so still now, concealing whatever she felt, knowing he had to go, and wasting no time in pleading or protest.

  He would leave his horse. The gray needed the rest, and if he needed a horse he would use one of theirs; for if he got in position to save Ironhide or the gold he would also be in a position to take a horse. "Take care," he said gently, and bent swiftly and kissed her on the cheek, squeezing her arm slightly. Wheeling, he crossed the small clearing and went up the slope into the trees, dripping with rain. Mary stood alone, looking after him, then turned abruptly and went back into the cave.

  Belle was standing there. "Now you have two of them to worry about. It never gets any easier, Mary.

  Take it from me, who has had twenty years of saying good-bye."

  "He'll be back."

  "Yes, I think so. He's the kind who will come back if anybody does. He has a gift for survival."

  Mary looked up the slope again. There was nothing to show that a man had passed that way.

  "Are you in love with him, Mary?" Belle asked. "Yes, I believe I am."

  Schwartz stood by them. "He's a good man," he said, "a good man and a good officer. He thinks of his men always."

  Mary sat down by the fire and fed small sticks into it. Up on the slope Ten Brian moved along under the trees. He liked the woods, and he liked them in a rain. Two or three times he stopped, standing very still and listening to the forest sounds, letting his ears grow accustomed to the sound of the rain, and all the while being alert for any other sounds. But he kept moving ahead steadily and quietly.

  There might be men out searching for them, and he might encounter them at any time, but he had serious doubts that the outlaws would undergo the discomfort of the woods at such a time.

  When he had crossed the ridge by a devious route, he came at last to a place above the camp of the renegades where he could look down on it. He was some distance above the camp, and he studied it from a sheltered position under a tree that had partly fallen and lodged in the branches of another one. Other debris had collected among the fallen tree's branches until it had formed a sort of roof, sufficient for a man to hide under, or even for a man and a horse.

  The view down the mountain was good, but up the mountain it was masked by close-growing trees, blowdowns, and rocks. He could make out a steep and very narrow trail, weaving among the rocks and trees. It had probably been used by Indians and by game, but where it went Brian could not guess. Looking down, he could see that some of the renegades' horses, recaptured, were tied to trees near the camp. There was no person in sight. Was Ironhide a prisoner there, or was he lurking in some such hiding place as Brian had found? His own position here was perfect, except that he would not be able to get down the mountain easily, but would have to go round about. Sheltered from view as well as from wind and rain, he sat on a log and watched. After a while a man came out from the lean-to, gathered some fuel, and went back inside.

  Suddenly there was a pound of hoofs and a party of four horsemen came up, dismounted and walked up to the lean-to, which had grown in size with added work.

  Brian stood up, craning his neck for a better view. He saw that one of the riders was Reuben Kelsey!

  The man must weigh two hundred and fifty pounds, and was broad and powerful. He wore a buckskin jacket, fringed, and the muscles of his shoulders and arms made the material bulge. He had a heavy shock of almost blonde hair and a mustache.

  Big as he was, he moved with ease and grace, stepping lightly. The men behind him were an oddly assorted crew, but they looked like tough customers.

  All of them disappeared inside. He had no desire to make contact with the renegades if it could be avoided. What he wanted was to get the payroll back, and he wanted Ironhide safe.

  His problem now was to find out where they both were, and what Kelsey intended to do. It had been years since he had known Kelsey, but he doubted if the man's character had changed much. He had been a bold, daring boy, gifted with animal cunning, a ferocious fighter with fists or any kind of weapon.

  Brian's first conclusion was, he was positive, the correct one. Reuben Kelsey would try to get all the sixty thousand dollars for himself. That would mean he had first had to get rid of most of the men, get them off on a chase or by some sort of excuse. Then he had to get the money away from the others and ride out of the country.

  West was the most likely direction. East would take him in the direction of Fort Laramie, of Julesburg, just the places he would be recognized by the renegades or their friends. West, but not directly; it would be northwest. He would try for the mines in Montana, for Virginia City, or-his But why? Kelsey did not need more money; he would want to spend what he had, and that meant San Francisco or the East. East meant through Blackfoot country, or the edge of it through Sioux country, where army patrols might be encountered.

  San Francisco then, but by the Oregon Trail to the coast. And yet, even as Brian decided that was what Reuben Kelsey would do, he felt a stir of doubt. He could remember Reuben ... he had always been devious, likely to do the unexpected.

  First things first. Undoubtedly some of the men were hunting Ten Brian and the women, or would be soon, and Kelsey would find some way to get rid of the others.

  Brian sat still, studying the layout anew. There seemed to be no way of approaching the lean-to without being seen, and now, since the women were freed, the renegades would be doubly on guard.

  Again Kelsey came outside, and he stood there in the open, looking around. He stretched, then turned casually and looked up at the mountain.

  Instinctively, Brian drew back, then cursed himself for a fool. There was no chance that he could be seen, hidden as he was, but from Kelsey's manner he would have sworn t
he man knew that he was there. Not only was he sure that Kelsey was aware of his presence; more than that, he felt that Kelsey was glad that he was there!

  In the valley of the Sweetwater, Major Devereaux sat under the canvas shelter and worked on the report he must send back to the Fort.

  Thus far he had seen no evidence of hostiles, but he had met and fought a brief skirmish with renegades led by Reuben Kelsey. This would be important information, and it changed the status of things somewhat.

  Kelsey was not a man to be taken lightly, nor was his presence on the Overland Trail. Rounding him up was a matter of the greatest importance. So was the recovery of the payroll, to say nothing of his own daughter and the wife of Captain Renick. At this point he was without information. His hunters had killed two buffalo, several antelope, and one deer.

  Now the men were eating, and at the moment resting.

  Four scouts were out, working in two pairs. One pair had ridden into the mountains to the east of Granite Peak; the other two men had been scouting the plains to the south and west. Lieutenant Cahill, with a patrol of ten men, was scouting to the north. Cahill was a competent officer, but he had completely lost touch with Kelsey's band. After the brief skirmish in the valley of the Beaver they had vanished like smoke.

  Kelsey's men were woodsmen, hardly inferior, many of them, to the Carson type of mountain man, and when they wanted to vanish, they did so simply and effectively. The band had, like Indians, scattered in as many directions as there were men. There was not one trail, there were forty or more. They crisscrossed and circled, and merged with old trails or new. They fell in with the tracks of Devereaux's own command; then they were gone, and somehow there was nothing.

  Cahill, who had served much of his frontier time in the states along the Mexican border, found it different here. There pursuit was simpler, even if difficult. There the Apache could make his trail hard to find, but the Indian needed waterholes; and with knowledge of waterholes one stood a chance, at least.

  Here, there was water everywhere. The trees hid movement, the canyons offered ready places of concealment, and hiding was no longer a problem. But sooner or later they must move, and in moving they must leave a trail. Cahill scouted the country with care and caution. He knew the manner of men they faced, and knew that there was small chance of trapping them. Yet there was a chance that they might come upon them suddenly, or catch them in camp. He nooned in Omena Meadow near Beaver Creek, then skirted Limestone Mountain to the head of Pass Creek. He found many tracks, and Turpenning said all were made by Kelsey's men, apparently in seeking for Brian and his party. Cahill could go little further with the time allowed, and he called Turpenning again. "Take Webster and ride north," he said;