Novel 1968 - Brionne (v5.0) (12 page)

“Why did you come here?” Miranda asked suddenly.

“The boy and I were headed south, actually. We wanted a wild place where we had to keep busy every moment to live. I wanted that for both of us. We needed it to recover mentally from what had happened, and then we needed the sky, the high mountains, the good air.

“But then I thought about you. It is not easy to be alone, and to be a woman with no home, no money. I know something of the mountains and I thought I might help, so we came over here into the Uintahs.”

Mowry came down from the rocks. “Brionne? You’d better come up here. I think we’re in trouble.”

Brionne looked at Miranda. “Have you got a pistol?”

“Yes.”

“Keep it with you…and remember, these men are not to be trusted, not for a moment, no matter what they say, or how they act.”

She watched him walk away, a tall, straight, easy-moving man, the rifle in his hand almost an extension of himself.

Then she sat down close to Mat, and waited.

Chapter 11

D
UTTON MOWRY WAS crouched among the scattered boulders. Only the sky above held some light; below all was darkness, and for the moment, silence.

“There ain’t no way to keep watch,” Mowry whispered, “and we daren’t move about much up here or we’ll sky-line ourselves. They’ll be comin’ at us out of the dark.”

It was true, of course, Brionne reflected, but they dared not pull back, for that would leave their enemies in possession of the boulders. From the shelter of the rocks they could fire upon anyone near the lake shore.

“Go get some sleep,” he suggested. “You’ll be needing it.”

When Mowry had moved back, Brionne deliberately turned his back on the valley, trusting to his ears. He studied the lay of the lake, and the pass, which was undoubtedly guarded by now, as was any route they might take that would enable them to get away.

The lake had received the melting snows, and its entire basin was filled. Swimming in its water was out of the question, for it was icy cold.

The more he considered the situation the more he resented it. He had come to this region to live quietly with his son. Mowry had come here to help Miranda discover her mine. They had been followed to this place by the Allard outfit, who had every intention of wiping them out.

James Brionne had never been much inclined to run. His theory of fighting had always been to attack. If you had twenty men, ten men, one man…attack. There was always a way.

And the time was now…or very soon.

He wanted the Allards, so why wait for them to come to him? Why not carry the fight to them instead? The attacker has one advantage—he can choose the time for the fight.

No sound came from below. The Allards, secure in the knowledge that Brionne and his party were trapped, were undoubtedly sleeping.

“All right,” Brionne told himself, “let them sleep for now.”

When an hour had gone by, he went down to the camp and woke Mowry. Briefly, he explained what he intended to do.

Dutton Mowry stared at him, and spat. “Brionne, you’re a damn fool. You’ll get killed sure as shootin’.”

“I don’t think so. Anyway, I have never liked to let the other man move first.”

“It’s your skin.”

“I’ll see you later.”

Brionne did not walk toward the rocks, but toward the cliff itself; then in the deeper shadows he went quickly along until he reached the end of the cliff. The mountain fell away before him, and somewhere down there were the Allards.

He was wearing his moccasins, and he moved like a ghost, careful to put each foot down with care, trying to avoid loose rocks, easing every movement. He knew well how sound can carry on such a night, in such clear air.

He knew, too, the chance he was taking, but he believed that the very unexpectedness of it might make it work. If they waited for Cotton Allard to make the first move, they would almost certainly be caught.

When he had gone fifty yards down the slope, he squatted among the rocks and listened.

He heard nothing…simply nothing at all.

After a few minutes he worked his way down through the rocks. Now he could smell the smoke of a fire; but creeping and crawling as he must do, he took at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get to it.

It was in a small hollow among the rocks, right at the edge of the trees. It was a dying fire, gray ashes with a few smoldering coals and partly burned sticks.

The Allards were gone!

Crouching, rifle in hand, he lowered one knee to the ground and considered. They had moved out, and by this time they were in a position to attack the camp and seize whoever was there. To go charging up there would only be to get himself killed, and as he had heard no shooting, it was likely they had not yet begun an attack.

To act hastily was usually to act foolishly. He must trust Mowry.

There are more ways of fighting a battle than with a gun, and it was of that he was thinking now. This had been the Allards’ camp…where were their horses? Their gear?

In the light of the still glowing coals, he could see the sand around the campfire had been disturbed by much moving about, and most of the tracks seemed to go away from the fire toward a space between two boulders.

Moving with the utmost care, in case someone had been left behind, he worked his way around the camp. Occasionally he felt of the sand before him with gentle fingers, and he managed to get on the trail they had taken into the trees. He had not gone far when he heard a horse stamp and blow.

A few minutes later he found the horses had been left alone. And their food, their clothing, their cooking pots, as well as their horses, all were here. Working swiftly, he put pack saddles on three of the horses and loaded everything. In all this time there was no sound from above.

Then he saddled one of the remaining horses, and was just about to mount when he heard a faint movement of someone coming through the trees.

Rifle in hand, he turned to face the sound.

Suddenly, the man stopped. “Hoffman? Is that you?”

“You can drop your gunbelt, my friend—or you can die.”

The movement was swift. Brionne heard a hand slap leather, heard the whisper of the gun on leather as it drew, and even as he heard the sound he had his rifle in his hands out in front of him and belt-high. He squeezed off a shot.

He heard the ugly chunk of the bullet as it hit the man’s belly, a sound almost lost in the blast of his enemy’s pistol as it went off, shooting into the sand.

Sand stung Brionne’s face, and he moved quickly, crouching lower…waiting.

At first he heard no other sound, then came a low moan. The man spoke, and his voice sounded surprisingly normal. “They’ll get you. You ain’t got a chance.”

“Are you an Allard?”

“No, but I’m kin of their’n. You hit me low down, mister, low down an’ hard. You goin’ to strike a light?”

“And have your friends kill me? Not a chance!”

Brionne could hear the man’s heavy breathing. Once it caught, and for a moment he believed the man had died, then the breathing resumed, but with a ragged, tearing sound.

“By now they’ve got your kid,” the man said. His voice was hoarse now, and weaker.

“I don’t think so. There’s a good man up there with him, a mighty good man. He’s from down Texas way.”

“The hell you say! Not Dut Mowry?”

“You know him?”

“He’s huntin’ me. Leastways I’m one of them he’s after. You can tell him he can tear up that reward poster. ’Cause you’ve just killed Tardy Benton.”

James Brionne was listening. Would somebody come down to investigate? He listened for a time, but there was no sound. They might think it a trap. Still, all their outfit was here.

The thought struck him suddenly. He was not alone with Benton—there was another man here! Benton was trying to keep him talking until the man, wherever he was, could get into position.

Tardy Benton spoke again. “You still there?”

“Who’s out there, Tardy?” Brionne whispered the words. “I don’t want to kill anybody but Allards.”

“You ain’t got a chance.”

“How did you come to tie up with them?” Brionne asked.

His every sense was alert. He thought the man would come close before shooting. He lifted one foot and moved it out to one side, ever so quietly.

“Rode with ’em a time or two.…Friend o’ their’n down to Corinne got me to fetch grub to ’em.…Promised I could get in on the fun.”

“Well, you did.”

“Hell, I was broke, anyway—blew ever’ dollar down to Corinne.…An’ who lives forever?” Benton was having some difficulty getting the words out. “How much time you got? Long enough to hear your woman screamin’, or your kid?” After a pause he added, “That there Cotton Allard, he’s a mean one.”

The voice was very weak; every word came with an effort, but Tardy Benton was game, and he wanted his killer dead. He wanted to keep him talking.

Behind them one of the horses blew faintly, as though alarmed. James Brionne rolled his weight over to the other leg, then stretched it out after bringing the second leg under him. In this way he moved closer to the dying man, and eight or nine feet from where he had been.

He was about to move again when he heard faint breathing close by, then actually felt the warmth of a breath. He swung with the butt of his rifle, but he was off balance and went sprawling as the gun roared right in his ear. He went down on top of rocks, rolled over, and swung his rifle for a shot.

The gun blasted again and the bullet spat sand within inches of Brionne’s head. He fired, missed, and worked the lever on his rifle as another bullet hit close to him. This one burned his cheek.

The man loomed up, right over him, and Brionne jabbed the rifle barrel into his belly. The man grabbed the end of the barrel, trying to force it up, and Brionne pulled the trigger.

The dart of red flame illumined for one flashing instant the staring eyes, the livid face, and then the man fell face down on top of Brionne.

Brionne felt blood on his own face and thrust the man aside. He sprang up, and another gun blasted, but the shot went wide by several feet.

“You got a fool’s own luck,” Tardy Benton said clearly. “The third time’s the charm.…You’ll get it.”

Brionne wiped the blood from his face. He felt for his cartridge belt and returned a couple to his rifle. Then he tied the lead ropes of the pack horses to his saddle horn, and started off through the night, driving the spare horses ahead of him.

He found the trail up which they had come. He had a good memory for trails, and for the country over which they traveled. He remembered a place where there was a hollow, a small meadow among the trees. He found this, took the horses around a clump of screening trees and into the meadow. He stowed the food and ammunition under some brush, and picketed the horses.

Tardy Benton had come up the mountain with supplies for the Allards. He might have come alone, although that seemed unlikely with conditions what they were. So the Allards might have been reinforced.

But where had they gone? They must be somewhere up on the mountain, but as yet there had been no shot from the lake camp. Had Dut Mowry been surprised and killed or captured? And what about Mat and Miranda?

Returning to the trail, Brionne started back up the mountain. The warmth of the day had vanished before the cool wind, and now it was cold. But he dared not move fast, for his enemies might be anywhere along the trail.

He was avoiding the area of the Allard camp. He had only one idea now—to get back to the lake and discover what had happened.

How long had he been gone, he wondered, An hour? Two? He would have liked to look at his watch, but there was no light, and he dared not strike a match.

His moccasins made no sound on the trail. He moved swiftly and easily, with occasional stops to listen and catch his breath, for the altitude made climbing difficult.

When he came to the edge of the boulders again, and could look across the gravel and sand toward the lake, he saw no fire; there was no sound, there was no movement. The lake lay like a strip of steel in the dimness; all else was dark.

His mouth dry, his heart pounding, he lay watching the lake, but after several minutes he knew he was alone. There was nobody over there, nothing.

Nearing the rock wall, he worked his way back to where the horses had been sheltered. The horses were gone; the packs were gone. There was no sign of his son, of Miranda or Dutton Mowry.

Had Mowry sold them out? Was he, after all, one of the Allard gang?

There had been no shots, of that he was sure. He had not at any time been so far away that he would have missed hearing a shot. There was no evidence here of a struggle. The sand was white, and he could see the tracks of horses and people—their own tracks.

He stood alone in the night, and despite the cold he felt the sweat break-out on his brow.

It must mean that they had Mat. The Allards had Mat, and they had Miranda.

He had been a fool to leave…a fool.

Chapter 12

T
HERE WAS NO blood anywhere on the sand. He felt sure he could have seen it on the white sand if there had been. No blood…no shots…so there probably had been no fight.

What did it mean? They had been surrendered to the Allards by Mowry, who had turned traitor. They had been captured somehow, without a chance to fight. Or—and this seemed the most unlikely of all—they had had some warning of the approach of the Allards, and had gotten away.

Gotten away…how? Or if captured, where had they been taken?

Brionne had been holding himself back in the darkness all this time, thinking. There was no panic in him. His military conditioning had taken all that out of him. Now he thought clearly, trying to isolate each fact.

He could find no signs even of a scuffle. It was possible that he might not find them in the dark, but such a scuffle would have resulted in deep indentations in the sand, the marks made by struggling men.

Mowry had not been in this country before. He might have been lying, but his actions on the trail showed no indication of previous knowledge. Had Miranda remembered something? Or had she been holding back some secret information? Perhaps she had recognized something unclear to her before.