Westward the Tide (1950) (11 page)

Bardoul mounted and rode back. He reined in alongside of Pearson. "Colonel, I'm having my company wagons fan out on the rim up here, or a few yards away from the rim. The wagons will have to be iet down one by one. I'd suggest the other companies find likely spots further along the rim. If we use one place, it is going to take much longer."

"Is there really a rim up there?" Pearson demanded. He stared sharply at Matt, as if this were some plot of his.

"Yes, there is. It's no more than three hundred feet to the bottom," he added, "and the oxen could handle the wagons after the first half of that distance."

His orders had already been given, so he dropped back and told Reutz what lay ahead. The German listened. "I see," he said finally, "how do you propose to lower your wagons? By hand?"

"No, with a block. I have three in my wagons. I'll keep one team up here to hold the block. Reeve a line through it and we'll pay it off gradually, letting the wagons roll down on their own wheels, just using the line for a brake. I expect we could work at several spots, though, letting two or three wagons down at once, but I was afraid that would spread us out too far in case of Indians."

When he got back to the rim his own wagons were already arriving and Tolliver had unhooked his oxen after swinging the wagon's rear end toward the cut Barney and Matt had dug.

Shedd took his team down the cut to the bottom to pick up the first wagon that came down and start it moving. Then one by one the wagons were rolled back to the lip of the cut by all hands, and with the oxen doing the holding, the line was slowly paid out and the wagons rolled, one by one to the bottom.

It was gruelling work, despite the blocks they used. Yet the planning had prepared the way so there was little wasted time. Ahead of them the country looked rocky and rough with many shallow dips, a few dry stream beds, and some thick brush.

Glancing down the rim, Matt saw Coyle and Pearson standing with several of their men on the edge of the drop off, discussing ways and means. When the last of his wagons was on the bottom, only Herman Reutz had a wagon down. Bardoul's wagons hooked up and they moved off in the gathering dusk.

A mile further along they camped, and as they sat around the fire eating, they heard the cursing of men and the sound of rolling wagons. It would be hours before they all made it to the bottom. Matt ate a few bites, then arose abruptly and walked to his horse which he had kept saddled. Then he rode back toward the rim where the men still toiled. After much searching he found Coyle.

The man had his coat off, his face was dirty and he was sweating. He looked up at Matt, and his mouth seemed to tighten.

"Howdy," Matt said, "I've got some blocks. Want 'em?"

Coyle's irritation was close to the surface. He started to say no, then hesitated. "I could use 'em," he said lamely, "I guess this was one thing we didn't plan for."

Matt had brought two of the blocks along. He dropped them to the ground at Coyle's feet. "If she'd like," he said, avoiding Jacquine's eyes, "your daughter could ride over an' sit with the women from my company. They've got a fire an' some hot food. That coffee tastes mighty good."

He looked up, and his eyes met hers. For an instant, they held, then she nodded. "I think I will, Father," she said coolly, "if there's nothing I can do here."

"Ride along with her, will you, Bardoul?" Coyle asked. "Since this morning I'm not sure I like her riding around alone."

"You won't need me here?"

"Thanks. With these blocks we'll get along."

They turned their horses and rode along the rim toward the cut he had made earlier. When they reached it, Jacquine reined in and turned a little in her saddle. "Well," she said, "you were right about Bain."

"He's a frontier character," he said noncommittally. "A lot of men know about him."

"Clive didn't."

So it was Clive now? The thought angered him, but he said nothing. She waited for his reply, but when it did not come she said quickly, "You think he did know?"

"I don't know whether he did or not," Matt said quietly, "but Logan Deane knew. He is Massey's right hand man. I should think if he knew he would tell Massey."

"Just what are you hinting at?" Jacquine demanded, a thin edge of anger in her voice. "You advised us not to come. You said it might not be safe. Why?"

"I don't know," he admitted frankly. "I don't know at all. I only know that from the first there has seemed to be something wrong here. My feeling was increased when Massey picked the men he did as his law enforcement group. They are a lot of outlaws!"

"He says they are not!"

"Well, I offer Bain as an example."

"You can't judge them all by one."

"In this case you can. Some are better, and some worse than Bain. The fact remains that Massey claimed he did not know Bain was with the wagon train. Your father obviously did not know. Yet he was here, concealed until we left Deadwood. He showed his true colours at the first opportunity.

"Moreover, I see no reason why we should have ten men to enforce peace in a wagon train that is over half composed of men and their families. The only possible trouble-making elements are in that group themselves."

"You don't like Clive, do you?" Jacquine demanded.

"Frankly, no. However, that may be a matter of personalities. Some people simply can't get along. Yet I think there is more to it than that. He didn't want me on this trip. It was only Portugee and your father who made it possible for me to come. Why didn't he want me? Was it because I knew too much about the Big Horns?"

"Perhaps it was because of your experiences with Colonel Pearson!" she flared, nettled by him, yet disturbed.

"Possibly." He indicated the cut. "Shall we ride on?"

For an instant, she hesitated, then she started her horse down the cut ahead of him. At that instant he felt a sharp sting of pain along his shoulder, and the report of a rifle rang out!

He wheeled his horse and rode like a streak at the direction of the shot. There was another hurried shot, then a sound of falling gravel, Matt's six shooter came up and he fired quickly, once, twice, three times in the direction of the sound.

Men came running, rifles in hand, but Jacquine was beside him first. "What happened?" she demanded.

"Somebody tried to kill me," he replied shortly.

"Oh, you're just being dramatic!" she protested. "Probably a rifle went off by accident!"

He swung his horse broadside to hers and grabbed her wrist roughly. With a jerk that nearly lifted her from the saddle, he took her hand and pressed it against his shoulder.

"Oh!" she gasped. "You're bleeding!"

"It's all part of the drama!" he said roughly.

Massey, Coyle, Pearson and several other men had come up. "What's going on here?" Pearson demanded. "Somebody took a shot at me," Matt replied. "In the morning I'm going on the trail."

"An Indian, probably," Coyle suggested, "maybe he figured it was a good chance to catch a straggler."

"It wasn't an Indian." Matt's voice was positive. In the darkness he could see Pearson's head come up. "I heard the sound of boots on gravel."

"Nonsense!" Pearson snapped. "Who would shoot at you?"

"At least a half-dozen men, Colonel," Bardoul said coolly, "on this wagon train."

"You're referring to talk of trouble between you and Logan Deane?"

"No. When and if Deane ever shoots at me it will be an even break. Say what you want to about him, he's not yellow!"

"Thanks." Deane had ridden up in the darkness. "Thanks, Bardoul."

"I'll wait until daybreak," Matt said, "then I'll get on the trail."

"You'll do nothing of the kind!" Massey flared. "This wagon train sticks all together. We can't have each individual running off on errands of his own."

"You heard me say I was going," Bardoul felt anger mounting within him. He did not like Massey, and tried to fight against the feeling, knowing it interfered with the clarity of his judgment.

"I forbid it!" Massey snapped.

Matt shucked. "You forbid it? Then go climb a tree, friend Massey, because in the morning I'm going after that dry gulcher. If you want to stop me, come prepared for it!"

"Now, now!" Coyle interrupted nervously. "Let's not start fighting amongst ourselves. We have trouble enough ahead. If he wants to trail the man, Clive, let him go. After all, it is his own business and if he doesn't come back, the fault is his own, not ours."

"All right!" Massey turned his horse. "Do as you damn please!"

They had made six miles during the day.

Daylight found them ready to roll, but Matt saddled the dun, then turned to Buffalo. "Lead them today, will you?" he said. "We'll strike a big hill about noon. As we get to it, better bear off to one side. Have them double up the teams for that pull, it is going to be hard enough, and that will make it easier on the stock."

"I recall that place," Murphy bit off a chew. "You goin' huntin?"

"Uh-huh. I don't like bein' shot at. I don't like it at all."

"Be a swell chance for them to get you, alone."

"They won't get me. But you might keep an eye open. If you or Ban see anybody startin' to leave the train, you might stop 'em."

"We'll do that!" Murphy said positively. "You got a theory?"

"Bain."

Matt Bardoul swung into the saddle and turned the dun back toward the rim. Clive Massey watched him go, and his face was bitter. "Bat!" he said.

Hammer came up. "Go after him, Bat. I don't want him to come back."

Hammer touched his lips with his tongue. "How about some help? He's a tough one, that Bardoul. Got eyes like a hawk an' ears like a lynx."

"Damn it," Massey said sullenly, "can't anybody do anything around here?" He wheeled, and his eyes fell on a loitering half-breed. Buckskin Johnson was part Crow and part white and all coyote. "Go with him!" he said.

Ban Hardy saw them go. He was glancing back from his wagon seat. Barney Coyle had just ridden up. "Take this wagon, Barney," Ban said, "I'd better go have a look."

Barney Coyle glanced around. "I'll go!" he said eagerly. He wheeled his horse and started for a low hill where he might cut them off. Hoof beats sounded and he glanced around to see Murphy riding toward him. "Come on," Buff said heartily. "Maybe this'll be fun!"

They put their horses to a fast run, shielded from Massey's view by the dust and wagons. Cutting down into a ravine they raced, along its bottom, then around the edge of a wash and out on a hillside. Murphy reined in. "Now, just hold it," he said. "Keep your rifle ready."

It was only a minute until they heard horses, and then Bat Hammer and the breed rode into sight.

"Hold it, boys!" Murphy kneed his horse into the road, his rifle ready. Coyle was beside him, his heart pounding.

"You're strayin' a bit far from the wagons, better get back!"

"We're huntin' some fresh meat," Hammer protested. His eyes shifted from Murphy to Coyle. He did not understand Coyle's being there, and did not like it. "Maybe," Murphy agreed pleasantly, "but you'll find the huntin' better up ahead of us, or off toward the Belle Fourche. Suppose you start that way? An' fast?" Hammer hesitated, his face darkening, then with a curse he swung his horse and followed by the Indian, rode away.

Matt Bardoul took his time, he was quite sure Bain was his man, and there was every chance that he might circle around and rejoin the wagon train. If that happened it was sure to precipitate trouble. The trail began on the steep slope down which they had lowered the wagons.

Matt found the place where the man had been lying when he fired his shot. The shell was still there, and it was from a Winchester .44. He looked over the bank, and saw a place showing muddy boot tracks. Scrambling over the edge, he found the place where the man had landed after his leap, a little further on he found a spot of blood. "Winged him," Bardoul said thoughtfully. "Well, that makes it more simple!"

Returning to the zebra dun, he led the horse down the cut in the rim, and then back to where he had found the tracks and the blood. For the next three hundred yards the trail was not difficult. The wounded man was getting out of there, but fast. It had been dark, and he was not concerned about his trail.

At the bottom of the slope down which he had come on an angle, the trail led up a winding wash. Mounting his horse, Matt followed at a walk.

The sun was up now, and already hot. In the bottom of the wash it was like an oven. Once Matt found a place where the wounded man stopped to bandage his wound. There was more blood here, and a piece of faded blue cloth had fallen to the ground, evidently a piece torn but unused. After that there was no more blood, yet the trail remained fairly easy to follow. Yet after a mile, the man circled back toward the original place until they reached a small copse where there were a few willows and some cottonwood. Matt lost time here, approaching cautiously, and searching inch by inch through the bottom. Finally he found where a horse had been tied, and he studied the tracks of the animal.

The mounted man now rode rapidly, heading due north from the route of the wagon train. Matt settled down to following, keeping a wary eye on the terrain around him. He knew very well the manner of man he was following. Abel Bain was a fighter. The man had cause to hate him, and would never rest until he had killed Bardoul or was killed himself.