Sitka (3 page)

They moved forward from tree to tree until within a dozen yards of the house, then stopped again. Now they could distinguish the words of the men inside.
 
“You took long enough.”

“Hutchins is there, and he’s travelin’ alone. Ridin’ one horse, leadin’ another.

From the way he bulges at the waist he’s wearin’ a money belt.” “He’s packin’ two, three thousand in gold. Harry was there in the bank, seen him pick it up.”

“Sam, I seen a kid out there. Settin’ by the bee tree.”

“He see you?”

“Nah ... but what’s a kid doin’ in the swamp?”

“Well, what was he doin’?”

“Settin’ ... like he was waitin’.”

“All right, then. He was waitin’. What more do you want? Maybe his pappy was huntin’.”

“Nobody hunts in this swamp. Nobody.”

“Probably LaBarge’s kid. LaBarge built hisself a cabin over next the woods. I recall his woman used to collect bloodroot an’ such to fetch down to the store.
 
Made a livin’ at it.”

“You mean Smoke LaBarge?”

“You scared?” The tone was contemptuous.

“He never set much store by me. What you lettin’ us in for, Sam?” “Forget it ... Smoke’s dead and gone. Last I seen of him was on the Yellowstone, but at Fort Union folks were tellin’ it the Blackfeet killed him.” “Take some doin’.”

“Well, they done it.”

There was a sound of breaking sticks and then a fire crackled and a few sparks ascended from the squat chimney. The good smell of wood smoke came to the boys.
 
Jean got carefully to his feet. If these men were mountain men as their conversation implied, they would be able to hear the slightest sound. But Jean had to look into that knothole; he had to see those men.
 
Signaling for Rob to stay where he was, Jean crept forward in the darkness. At the window he lifted his head slowly, holding it to one side of the knothole. He peered through, first from one side and then the other, and saw not two men, but three. The third man lay on a bunk asleep, his face in the shadows. The stranger whom they had followed Jean recognized by the boots he wore and the size of him.
 
He was huge, awkwardly built, and dressed as a farmer would be dressed. His face wore an expression at once stupid and cunning. The man called Sam was hunched over the table, a shorter, broader, thicker man than the big one. His was a brutally strong face, but it possessed a hard, cynical cast that indicated a certain grim humor. Jean shuddered to see as he turned his head that there was an inch-wide scar through his eyebrow.

The stone house was as Jean remembered it, the old fireplace, a table, two benches and a barrel chair. The floor was of hard-packed earth. On the wall there now hung various articles of clothing. Several guns were within view.
 
The big man looked around the room. “This is a good place. Too bad we had to leave.”

“It was time. We use some sense this time we can stay here for months before anybody gets wise. Hutchins, he’s from out of state, an’ he’s headed west, so nobody will miss him.”

“What about the body?”

“What d’ you think? Right in the swamp where we should have put them all. The Rings was too careless.”

Jean listened, his mouth dry with fear. Everybody in the village knew Captain Hutchins by sight. He had kin in the village and had visited there several times, but now he was going west to California and the lands on the Pacific, and he was carrying gold to buy furs along the way.
 
He remembered hearing them talk about it in the village. “Country’s growing out there,” Hutchins had said that very day, “and I want to grow with it.” “Ain’t that Spanish land?”

“It is now,” Hutchins agreed, “but unless I miss my guess it won’t be very much longer. Someday the United States will span the continent. Might even cover all North America.”

“Foolishness!” That was what old Mister Dean had said. “Pure foolishness! The country’s big enough as it is. No sense taking in all that no-account land.
 
Ain’t worth nothin’, never will be.”

“There are folks who believe otherwise,” Hutchins replied mildly. “And I know there’s rich, black soil there, miles of fine grass, and a country that will grow anything. There’s future in that country for men with the will to work and the imagination to see it.”

These had seemed but the echo of words Jean had heard before. Had his father said them, long ago when he was too young to remember? Or had his mother repeated them to him? Whatever the reason or occasion, the words had struck fire within him and he listened avidly, knowing inside him that westward lay his destiny, westward with a land growing strong, westward with a new nation, a new people. And now these men within the house were planning to kill and rob Captain Hutchins.

Jean knew at once that he must get away to warn him, to tell him of these men and their plans. He got up, too quickly, and when he stepped back his foot slipped and he scrambled wildly for a foothold, then fell flat. Inside there was a grunt of surprise, and then a clamor of movement.
 
The door slammed open as Jean got to his feet and he was touched, just barely, by the shaft of light from its opening. He darted for the brush .... once inside that brush, within its blackness ... he tripped and fell flat, then crawled, scrabbling in the grass to reach the undergrowth only a few feet away. He was just about to make a final lunge when a large hand grasped his ankle. He kicked wildly, but the hand was strong. Inexorably he was drawn back and jerked to his feet.

The man with the scar grasped his arm. “Snoopin’, were you? We’ll be larnin’ you better.”

Sam grippped his arm and led the boy into the light from the open door. “This the one you saw?”

“Looks bigger,” the big man said doubtfully. “I tell you, Sam, I ain’t sure. He was settin’ down. Could be, though.”

Sam shoved Jean into the house and they followed him in, studying him thoughtfully. Jean stood very straight, his heart throbbing heavily. He was caught, and he had no idea what was to happen now; but he returned the man’s stare boldly, although his mouth was dry and he felt empty.
 
“You’re the LaBarge kid, ain’t you?” Sam asked.
 
“I am Jean LaBarge.” His voice was steady. For some absurd reason he was sorry his hair was not combed, that he was not wearing his other shirt. These men had known his father and he would not like them to think him unworthy.
 
“What you doin’, sneakin’ around here?”

“I was not sneaking,” Jean lied. “I was coming to the door. I saw the light and wondered who was there. Nobody,” he added truthfully, “ever comes here.” “What were you doin’ in the woods?”

“I run a trap line.” He tried to make his voice matter-of-fact. “And I collect herbs.” From their attitude they apparently believed he had been alone, and therefore had no idea Rob Walker was outside. And they must not know.
 
“Pretty dark for that, ain’t it?” Sam’s voice was mild.
 
“I sold the herbs in the village. It is closer to the cabin if I come through the swamp.”

“He’s lyin’, Sam.” The big man had an ugly voice. “He lies in his teeth. When I seen him he was just a-settin’.”

“What about that, boy?” Sam asked.

“I was studying the Honey Tree,” he said. “I been aimin’ to get me some of that honey.”

Sam chuckled. “I studied some on that, too,” he said. “It ain’t easy.” Sam ignored the bigger man, sizing Jean up with careful eyes, noting the shabby, often-patched homespun pants, the torn plaid shirt and the uncut hair. Sam found himself admiring the boy, for he put on a good show. He seemed wary all right, but if he was scared he managed to hide it. This was quite a boy. Old Smoke LaBarge would have been proud of him ... but too thin, much too thin, and poor as a Digger Indian.

“Ain’t you afraid of the swamp?”

“I grew up in it.”

Sam had an idea but he was a slow man with his thinking. He took his time now, turning the idea slowly on the spit of his mind, studying it from all sides.
 
They could kill the boy ... that would be the easiest way, but it was a pity to kill a lad with his gumption. Also, if the boy failed to show up around the town folks would be sure to become curious and start looking for him. And Sam could stand for no snooping around. On the other hand, this boy was obviously very poor, probably making just enough to keep eating. A little extra money would look mighty big to him. If this lad was as smart as Sam was beginning to believe he would fit perfectly into their plans. Folks would become suspicious if an unemployed stranger hung about the tavern, but this youngster could go anywhere and nobody would think anything of it.

“Were you listenin’ at the window, kid?”

“Not yet.” Jean rightly guessed that frankness could hurt him none at all, and might win their friendship. “But I intended to. I’d have listened before I came around to the door.”

Sam chuckled. “I’d have done the same, boy. I surely would.” The big man shifted his feet impatiently. “Sam, this boy means trouble. We’ve got to do something.”

Sam gestured irritably. “Take it easy. I think this boy’s on our side, Fud, and I’ve an idea.”

Jean sat very still, waiting. Outside Rob would be creeping away, until he got far enough from the house to climb to the top of the ridge without being heard.
 
Once atop the ridge he could follow it along to the road, but what if he took the wrong direction and became lost in the forest? For the ridge was but an offshoot of the higher land back of the swamp, and there was forest there, almost untouched, without track or trail of any kind.
 
Sam finished stoking his pipe and lighted it at the candle. The strings of his shirt were untied at the collar showing the thick black hair on his chest, and his big hands were thick and powerful. From time to time as he moved about he glanced at Jean. “Fud,” Sam finally said, “you got to use your head. We can get rid of this boy a month from now as well as now, but on the other hand, he’s not apt to run to the law, bein’ he’s dodgin’ it himself.
 
“Oh, yes!” Sam grinned wisely at Jean. “You might fool those folks in town, but Fud an’ me, we know you’re livin’ alone in that cabin. Your Uncle George ain’t home, an’ what’s more, he ain’t comin’ home. Now if those folks in town knew that they’d have you in the workhouse. I know these here good folks, they can get themselves mighty busy about a poor little boy livin’ all by himself. I know them, lad, an’ you know them, too.

“Those folks, they’d never figure you liked it here in the swamp. They’d want to mess up your life makin’ a home for you. Now I ain’t sayin’ a boy shouldn’t have a home. Mighty good thing, homes are, but these fussy folks they get to watchin’ over a boy, expectin’ him to make mistakes, or tryin’ to make him somethin’ he ain’t. You, f’r instance, you’re a woodsman. Anybody can see that. Take after you pa, you do.”

Jean waited, his attention on Sam. Instinctively he knew his only hope lay in Sam’s suddenly aroused interest. Moreover he was fascinated by the obviously brutal strength of the man, by his big, hard-knuckled hands, so broken and scarred from fighting. Fud was the bigger of the two, but when it came to strength he was not in the same class with Sam. Suddenly Jean realized that Sam had said Uncle George was not coming back. How could they be sure of that unless...?

“You get the idea, Fud.” Sam was addressing his partner but he was talking to Jean also. “This here’s quite a boy. He rustles his own living out of the woods, and as a body can see, he likes it. Of course, if folks knew he was alone they’d take him to a workhouse or ‘prentice him to somebody. Either way they’d work the hair off him.”

“Get to the point,” Fud insisted irritably.

“Sure ... this boy’s on our side. We could tell on him, too. We could get him sent to the workhouse, and if he tattled on us we could say he was lyin’ to save his own hide, usin’ his imagination, the way kids do. We could even tell he’d been sneak-thievin’ around, and maybe see something was found in his cabin to prove it. And who’s to deny it?”

People would believe it, Jean knew. They would believe it because it would make them seem right for denying him the companionship of their children. Yes, they would believe it all right.

By now Rob would be climbing the ridge, and it would not be easy, in the dark like it was, when a body had no chance to choose a way. Soon he would be passing by the cabin along the ridge, and what if a rock rolled down?
 
“A boy like this,” Sam continued, drawing deep on his pipe, “could do us some good. Got big ears, see? Good eyes, too. An’ nobody suspects a kid. By now they’re used to him comin’ it around an’ they would hardly notice he was there.
 
He could find out who was carryin’ money, how they traveled, and I’d bet he knows more hidin’ places in this swamp than any catymount.” The climb up the ridge was steep, and Rob might slip back several times. He might fall headlong and get turned around in the dark when he got up. It had happened to Jean ... but Rob had a good head and he had grit. He never took foolish chances. As soon as he got to Mill Creek Road, he would run. He would keep going, too: once Rob began on a thing he wouldn’t let up.
 
“You got any real good friends in town, boy?”

“No, sir.”

“How about the youngsters?”

“They say my mother was a gypsy.”

“Right.” Sam chuckled. He was pleased with himself. He had guessed that a boy living like this one would be at outs with the town. He had been a poor boy himself. He leaned forward. “Boy, is there anything you want real bad? I mean something for your very own?”