Novel 1966 - Kilrone (v5.0) (13 page)

“Watch him,” Kilrone said to Ryan. “They’ll try to get him away.”

He went back, staying close to the floor because of the powder smoke in the room. Denise came to him when he entered the back room. “Are you all right, Barnes?”

“Where’s Rybolt’s wife?” he asked. “I want to talk to her.”

“You sit here and I’ll get some coffee. She’ll be right over.”

Stella Rybolt crawled over to him. He gestured toward the partition. “Sit down here with your back against that and have a rest. I want to talk to you.” He took the coffee from Denise. “Tell me about your husband.”

“What about him?”

“I never met him, and I’d like to know how he thinks. He must have talked a lot to you. I’m not promising anything, but I may try to get out and warn him.”

“Don’t try it, Mr. Kilrone. Gus would be the last to expect it.”

“Tell me about him,” he repeated.

“Well,”—she hesitated—“Gus is a soldier, first, last, and always. He’s strict, but no martinet. He puts his duty ahead of everything.” She turned her head to look hard at Kilrone. “That’s why you shouldn’t worry. His job is to protect that payroll and to bring back his men, as many of them alive and able as he can manage.”

“Does he know Dave Sproul?”

She gave him a sharp look. “Now, how d’ you mean that? Of course he knows him. I know him, too, and I’m not proud of it. Gus doesn’t like him, if that’s what you mean.”

“Not exactly. Mrs. Rybolt, if Dave Sproul came riding up to him out there on the prairie, what would Gus do?”

“Do? I don’t know what you mean. Talk to him, I guess. What else could he do?”

What else? She was right, of course. There was nothing else he could do, and that was the trouble, for the moment they stopped there would be danger. Kilrone could not believe that Sproul, being the man he was, would leave that payroll to chance.

If it vanished now it would be laid to an Indian attack, and any investigation would start with that in mind. But how would Dave Sproul manage it? And where?

The closer by, the better. He would need to be away that much less time from Hog Town and his alibi, and it would be in territory he knew well. But the risk was greater nearby in some ways, too. And who would he use? Some of his own men?

Yet why should Sproul go himself? He was, as Kilrone knew from bitter experience, a man more than careful to keep himself in the clear. It was not likely that he would himself ride out to stop Rybolt when he could have one of his men do it, someone known to Rybolt or the others, and whom they would greet without suspicion.

But Sproul would be close by…trust him to keep an eye on any gold. He would be close enough to watch, to oversee the job. There must be many suitable places along the route, but Sproul would choose a place reached by the payroll guard late in the afternoon, or at least after the noon halt. He would want them to have eaten, to have ridden off any immediate zest they may have had, and be tiring. Sitting sleepy in the saddle, expecting no danger, the guard would be glad of the short halt, and they would be sitting ducks for an ambush.

“What I mean is, would Gus be suspicious?”

“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at. No, he wouldn’t be suspicious. Sproul’s out prospecting a good bit. That is, Gus wouldn’t be more suspicious than usual. Gus Rybolt isn’t a very trusting man when he has charge of government property.”

She looked at him thoughtfully. “Mr. Kilrone, what is it you’re getting at?”

“Call me a fool, if you like, but I would not be surprised if, under the cover of this Indian fight, somebody doesn’t try to get that payroll.”

“You mean Dave Sproul? He’d never dare. He knows Gus. He wouldn’t dare try it.”

“I don’t want to worry you, but I think Sproul would try if he thought he could get away with it. He wouldn’t try though, unless he had what he believed to be a foolproof plan.”

She considered the idea. “I really don’t know. As I said, Gus isn’t trusting about government property, I know that, and he’s very conscientious, but I really doubt that he’d suspect Dave Sproul of attempting a holdup.”

Kilrone went on talking quietly with Stella Rybolt. She was a competent, rough-fibered woman and he had an idea that Gus Rybolt was the same—a good, sincere, and competent officer, but not one capable of matching cunning with Sproul. Yet Rybolt might be just the man to defeat Iron Dave. He might do it because of his very virtues, because he was tough, disciplined, and no gambler. He might just not give Sproul that inch of leeway he would need to pull it off.

Suddenly Stella Rybolt said, “I wish he did know. I just wish something would make him suspicious. Now you’ve got me worried.”

“I didn’t want to do that, Mrs. Rybolt. I wanted to get some idea of what to expect. If there’s a chance, and if everything is going all right here, I might try to get down the trail to warn him.”

“You mustn’t try. You’d be killed.”

“We’ll see.”

Kilrone went to the back window to relieve Teale for a spot of rest. As he watched out the window, he was trying to picture the route that Rybolt would follow to reach the post. He would be careful, but would not really be expecting trouble. Any white man he met would probably be considered a bearer of news, and Rybolt would certainly want information from him.

Sproul would choose a spot where the payroll guard would be out in the open, but where there would be concealment for the attacking party, and concealment for himself as well. For after due thought, Kilrone did not believe Sproul would approach the party himself. There was even the chance that the bearer of news would know nothing of the plot, and might himself be marked for death.

Nothing stirred out back. When Teale returned, Kilrone moved on and relieved another of the men, and so through the long, slow day he worked his way around the building, checking all the windows, relieving each of the men in turn.

In the hospital, the hole had been partly blocked up by overturning a table across it and piling furniture and cases behind it, but the wounded Indian was still there against the wall just outside the hole, and there was no way to get at him. As long as he remained there he meant danger to them.

Far down the parade ground an Indian showed near the sutler’s store. There was a crash of glass, and then a smashing of wood. Hopkins swore. “There goes my business,” he said gloomily, “and I never cheated an Indian in my life!”

The Indian showed again, and Hopkins took a long time sighting before he squeezed off his shot. The brave jumped as if stung, then disappeared around the corner of the building. “Good shot,” Ryan said.

In mid-afternoon a ricocheting bullet scratched Draper, drawing blood but doing no real damage.

Within the buildings they waited for the night, waited in fear and apprehension. More Indians have arrived…Kilrone figured there were at least four hundred now. Just before sundown the sutler’s store burst into flames, lighting the clouded sky with weird effect.

Kilrone detailed men to get rest, tried to catch a cat nap himself. Tonight would tell the story. He tried to be matter-of-fact about it, but when he thought of the women and children he could not be. And his mind would not let him forget Rybolt, riding surely and steadily into an ambush. He thought of what could be done if he could somehow get Rybolt and those six men here, seven tough, competent, experienced soldiers. It might make all the difference. And with Rybolt to take command, he himself could ride for Mellett or Paddock, or both.

If the defenders survived the night…if he himself survived it…

C
APTAIN CHARLES MELLETT led his troop across the junction of the Owyhee and Battle Creek, and north to camp near the head of Deep Creek. The Owyhee Range lay to the west and north of him, the forest-clad slopes towering fifteen hundred feet higher than his camp.

From where he was now encamped, the quickest way he knew of to the rendezvous on the North Fork was up Castle Creek and it followed a route roughly parallel to Squaw Creek. There was an old trail, often used by the Bannocks and Utes, that led over the mountain, about two miles east of Squaw.

“Doctor,” he said, indicating the rough sketch he was drawing on the ground, “our destination lies there. The quickest route lies right over there”—he pointed toward the northwest—“but I’m not going to take it.”

“What’s the problem?”

“It’s too easy. If there are Indians around, they’d be apt to know we’re coming along. We know they’re keeping up with us…we lost a man the other night. So I am sure they are somewhere over in the mountains waiting for us. We’ll make a feint in that direction, and then cut around to the east and back.”

“Sir?”

Mellett turned to see Keith standing at attention. “What is it, Keith?”

“This, sir.” Keith held out a hunting knife in a scabbard. “I just took it off an Indian.”

“You’ve captured one?”

“Well, not exactly. He wasn’t about to be took, and when I saw him wearin’ this, I didn’t try too hard to take him.”

“What about the knife, Keith?”

“That was Lister’s knife, sir. Lister of I Troop.”

Mellett turned the knife in his hands. Now that Keith mentioned it, he remembered the knife. Lister had often spoken of it, saying it was all he had salvaged from that government claim back in Kansas. If this was Lister’s knife, then Lister must be dead; and if Lister was dead, what about I Troop?

“Sir, that there knife wasn’t all. That Injun was wearin’ Sergeant Bill Jordan’s coat. I didn’t fetch it along. It—it was somewhat bloody, sir.”

“You’re sure it was his?”

“Yes, sir. I watched him sew those chevrons on it with my own eyes. I’d know that work anywheres.”

Charles Mellett got to his feet, his face gray with shock. If Jordan and Lister were dead, it was probable that Colonel Webb’s I Troop had been hard hit, possibly massacred. It was unlikely that the Indians would have been able to strip Jordan’s coat from his body unless they had caught him out alone and killed him, or unless the command had been wiped out…and Webb would not be likely to send Jordan scouting. Lister, yes, but not Jordan; he was too valuable to the command. He had to realize that the troop might have been wiped out.

“Charlie,” Hanlon said, “do we dare move up there tonight? Some of those men may need me.”

Keith was still waiting. Mellett turned to him. “Keith, go send Sergeant Dunivant to me. Meanwhile you get some rest. We’ll be moving out before morning.”

When Dunivant came up through the darkness, Mellett said to him, “Sergeant, let the men get some sleep. No fires. It is now eight o’clock. We will break camp and move out at two in the morning.” He paused a moment. “I suppose you have talked to Keith?”

“Yes, sir. I saw the Indian, sir.”

“You think that was Jordan’s coat?”

“I know it was, sir.”

“Then we can assume that Colonel Webb’s command has run into bad trouble. We can also assume there will be Indians waiting for us somewhere up ahead. I would suggest you pass the word along, Sergeant.”

“How far to North Fork?” Hanlon asked.

“It’s twenty miles or so by the most direct route,” Mellett answered. “About eight miles farther the way we will go.”

“Hell, isn’t it? Men may be dying as we sit here.”

Mellett nodded. “I know, but I’d risk my whole command going through that pass. If they’re alive they’re in action, you can bet on that, and they’ll need every man I’ve got. The difference in time is about three or four hours, and less if we are lucky. I can’t risk my own men for that difference. It isn’t only the lives of my men, that I’m thinking of; it’s a matter of military intelligence.”

“You think the pass is a trap?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, Cart. All I know is that it could be, and if I were in Medicine Dog’s place that’s where I would wait.”

“And by the other route?”

“We can still run into a fight, and probably will; but there’s less chance of surprise, and a better field of fire.”

Both men were silent then. They could smell the smoke of the dying fire, smothered with earth. And in the softness of the night they could smell the scent of the sagebrush and the pines. The clouds were breaking away, and here and there a star shone.

“You think they’ve had it, don’t you, Charlie?” Hanlon asked.

Mellett considered the question. “I am afraid so, Cart. Jordan was Webb’s strong right hand, and Whitman’s too. He wouldn’t be far from them, in any case. Besides,” he added, “Jordan’s coat and Lister’s knife were found on one Indian. That implies there was loot enough for all…at least, it does to me.”

At two in the morning the troop moved out. At thirty minutes past four they watered and took a break on Pole Creek. Ahead of them were three miles or so of wooded terrain, with towering cliffs on the east—one of the worst stretches they would encounter.

“I don’t think we’re fooling anybody now,” Mellett commented to Hanlon. “It’s my guess the Bannocks waited for a while, and when we didn’t show they sent out a scouting party. We may run into Indians up ahead, but we’re not going to waste time. We will go right on through.”

Day was breaking when they came down out of the wooded stretch. The cliffs on the east held back the sun, but the crests were golden and red with the dawn’s first light. The troop moved down the canyon at a good pace, the trail smooth before them, and every trooper rode with his rifle in his hand.