Riding the Line Page 4

  ‘Is that the advice of an old Indian fighter?’ he asked.

  ‘No, it’s the advice of a man who has lived in this territory for many years.’ Jim pointed to the black sky ahead. ‘Snow,’ he announced, ‘and if this is the early onset of winter then it’ll come tumbling out of the sky for weeks on end. Even if you are on the right trail you’re unlikely to find any Sioux up here, but if you get cut off you’ll probably meet your Maker.’

  ‘The army doesn’t surrender at the first sign of adversity, mister,’ the peeved lieutenant told him.

  ‘I’m trying to help you,’ Jim told him. ‘The army can’t do much with seven frozen corpses. Go to my cabin. Drink some coffee, then take a look at my friend. Perhaps you can figure a way to get him down to the ranch without too much discomfort.’

  Jim needed nothing more than the fixed expression on the lieutenant’s face to inform him that his advice would be ignored, but the soldier put it into words.

  ‘We have our duty to do,’ he said; then, sounding more conciliatory, ‘I wish you luck finding assistance for your friend.’

  ‘Sir,’ the sergeant interrupted, ‘we have a little laudanum among our supplies. We can probably spare a little to ease the man’s suffering.’

  ‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ Jim said, ‘but that’s the one thing we have ourselves. For now, it’s keeping Harv unconscious.’

  The lieutenant raised his hand, prepared to advance with his small force, anxious to get the impatient horses moving again.

  ‘I reckon the snow will hit us in little more than an hour,’ Jim said. ‘There are caves up there. Try to find one and wait for it to stop. You’ll get lost if you try to keep going in a blizzard.’

  The lieutenant waved his upraised arm, the sergeant gave a nod of his head to acknowledge Jim’s advice, then the seven men rode off slowly into the gathering gloom.

  Jim recrossed the creek and followed his own northerly trail. The steadily falling snow was making the uphill journey more difficult but there was a small shelf of land that gave a view across the stretch of territory where the upland cattle tended to assemble. If he could gain that height it might obviate the need to go any further. If there were no cattle to be seen there wouldn’t be any need to proceed into those ravines. The horse shivered, shaking snow and water from its coat, then it took slow, careful steps, its legs disappearing hock-deep into the unspoilt snow carpet. It took twenty minutes and the snow was now sweeping down in gusts that made conditions almost blizzard like, but eventually he gained the position he sought and looked over a white hillside upon which nothing moved.

  Here and there the lee side of a leafless tree showed stark black against the whiteness of the landscape and the mound of a snow-covered rock broke the monotony of an otherwise featureless terrain. Jim sat for a moment, not regretting the absence of cattle and therefore a speedy return to the cabin. Thoughts raced across his mind concerning Dean and Harvey and how far Zeb Walters might have got on his run to the Red Hammer ranch. He deemed it unlikely that they would try to get a wagon up to the cabin before morning. He and Dean would have to do their best to keep Harv pain-free until his bunkmates got him to a doctor.

  His other concern was the cavalry patrol. He hoped the lieutenant had taken his advice and found somewhere to shelter. The sergeant, he told himself, was an old hand at army patrols and would no doubt persuade the officer to do the right thing. These were no conditions for anyone to be adrift in the hills. At least, he thought, there were no cattle. He’d done all that was required of a top hand; now it was time to look after himself.

  As he began to turn his horse something moved off to his right. He caught a glimpse of brown in the corner of his eye but when he turned his head there was nothing to see. He scanned the unspoilt, white terrain. He grunted, allowed himself a grumble about dumb lost cows, then tapped his heels against the horse and let it pick a path down from the shelf to the lower valley.

  Jim had pinpointed a mound behind which he expected to find the stray if what he had seen was such an animal. The closer he got the less confident he was that he wasn’t just on a wild-goose chase. Perhaps it had been some bird, an eagle perhaps, whose flight had flicked across his line of vision creating an image distorted by the heavy snowfall. But there had been no repetition of the movement. Would a cow stay still so long?

  It took almost five minutes to work his way to the mound. The only sound was the creak of his saddle leather and the occasional dull chink of the metal bits of the head harness. He scoured the ground; there were no tracks in the snow and he grumbled more loudly for allowing himself to be duped by a mirage and wasting precious time in getting off the mountain. Still, he’d come this far and it wasn’t in his nature to leave a job a half done. He’d reached the mound and began to walk his horse around it, checking that the critter hadn’t slipped and injured itself in the snow.

  Small indentations in the snow were the first signs to catch his attention; not marks of a four-legged animal but more like small human footprints, which had been almost obliterated by the fresh snow. He worked his animal slowly around the snow-covered boulder and stopped in amazement when he reached the far side. It seemed as though an eye, big and black, had opened in the snow like some supernatural spectre. It watched him and he, shaking off the first unsettling sensation, studied it.

  Eventually he identified the head of a white horse, then its neck; he realized that it was lying down and snow had piled up over its body. Behind it a tent had been formed by covering a shaky frame with a blanket, which was now sagging under the weight of snow it was collecting. Within that structure a small face with large, frightened eyes looked out at him. A dull red blanket covered the girl’s head but her dark features denoted her as Sioux.

  ‘Good God,’ said Jim. ‘What on earth are you doing there?’ His mind had already associated her with the group that the cavalry patrol were seeking.

  The only answer he received was the threat of a rifle barrel pushed through the snow.

  ‘You don’t need that,’ he said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

  Unblinking, the eyes remained fixed on him.

  ‘Do you understand me?’ Although she didn’t speak Jim was certain that the girl understood English. He dipped his head forward as another heavy squall of snow blew into his face.

  ‘You can’t stay there,’ he said, ‘and you need to get your pony on to its feet. It might be providing a bit of warmth at the moment but if it lies there too long it won’t be able to get up again and it’ll freeze to death. Then you’ll be stuck up here without any means of getting off the mountain. You don’t want to die up here alone.’

  Still the girl didn’t speak. A little of the fear that had predominated in the look in her dark eyes had been replaced by a hint of indecision, as though she was battling with herself between a tribal distrust of the horseman and acceptance of the truth in his words. She gestured with the rifle, ordering him to go away.

  Once again Jim tried to reason with the girl.

  ‘I don’t mean you any harm,’ he told her. ‘You’ll die if you stay here. There’s a cabin a short distance away where you’ll be warm.’ He pointed down the hillside to indicate its position. The resulting emphatic headshake confirmed her understanding of English but didn’t offer Jim Braddock much hope of winkling her out of her encampment. He made one final effort.

  ‘There’s a cave close by,’ he told her, trying to keep his voice friendly but needing to shout to make his words audible against the rising wind. ‘You can stay there until this storm is over.’ It was clear that the girl was tempted by that suggestion. ‘It’s big enough for you and the pony. I’ll light a fire for you, but we need to do it now before you become too cold to move.’

  The girl looked away, calculating, Jim supposed, between capture and return to the reservation or certain death. After a moment she withdrew the rifle and Jim stepped down to get the pony back on its feet. As he brushed the snow off the snorting, trembling beast he could see the girl
on her knees within the small structure she’d built. She had her back to him and although the red blanket that covered her head reached down her back there was only the skirt of her buckskin dress covering the lower part of her body. On her feet were ankle-high moccasins but between those and the fringed hem of her dress, her legs were bare. He was still looking at them, still in awe of her fortitude, when she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. She knew he was her looking at her bare legs but misinterpreted the expression on his face. Resentment flashed in her eyes and her hand moved towards the rifle. It was clear that she was determined to defend herself to the death.

  Jim Braddock raised open hands to show he had only peaceful intentions but the smile he tried to put on his face didn’t develop. Until that moment he hadn’t realized that the girl was not alone. Behind her, wrapped in a thick brown bearskin, lay an old man. The darkness of his skin was tinged with grey, his lips were blue and his eyes were closed. There was no movement and Jim was sure that the man was dead.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Frank Fenton wasn’t as impressed with the work of his top gunman as the man himself. In his usual manner, Gus Phipps had bragged about the killing of the lone rider when he’d returned to the line cabin that the outlaws were occupying.

  ‘You’re sure he’s dead?’ Frank had asked.

  ‘I don’t miss,’ replied the other. ‘He won’t tell anyone where we are.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Frank had agreed, ‘but Sheriff Ben Stone isn’t a fool. He’ll link us to the killing and know that we must be holed up somewhere near by. I don’t know how many of these line cabins have been built around here but I suspect they’ll be the first places he sends men to check out.’

  ‘It might be days before the body is found. Punchers spend weeks alone in these remote places.’

  Frank Felton produced arguments against Gus’s complacency.

  ‘Sometimes punchers work in pairs. Another one might turn up at any moment.’

  ‘Then he’ll get the same welcome,’ Phipps replied with a grin.

  ‘But he might not turn up single-handed. There were gunshots fired. Someone could have heard them. Possibly the sheriff’s posse. Choctaw tells me the man fired shots in the air when you were chasing him.’

  Phipps flicked his hand in a dismissive gesture. ‘The ruse of a doomed man.’

  ‘Or a signal,’ snapped the outlaw leader. ‘Even-money chance he was with the posse and that by now they’ve found his body and are following tracks in the snow that lead straight to us.’

  Gus Phipps didn’t like the implied criticism: that everyone was in danger because of his actions. He pulled out his Colt and spun it on his index finger.

  ‘Storekeepers and clerks. How accurate are they going to be?’

  ‘They don’t need to be accurate. You killed that deputy so Stone’s probably armed every man with a shotgun and there’ll be enough of them to blow a hole in these shaky walls.’

  Frank gazed around the room, holding the gaze of each man in turn. He owed them for springing him from the Big Timber jailhouse but that was because he’d led them successfully in the past and they had expected him to do so in the future. Things were different now.

  The deputy hadn’t been the only one to collect lead that day. As they’d ridden out of town Frank, too, had been hit and the bullet was still somewhere in his gut. It caused him pain when he moved and he’d lost a lot of blood. The proof of the damage, he reckoned, was etched on his face for all to see and they were, no doubt, summing up his worth to them in the future. Choctaw Jennings had bandaged him up as best he was able but that hadn’t done much to ease his suffering.

  He’d hoped to remain in this shack for a few days, hoping that the rest would revive him enough to cope with the long journey ahead, but now they would have to move; it was too risky to stay here any longer. The problem was how far could he get before he became a liability to the others and would they desert him when the posse closed in?

  He looked at the three men, Gus Phipps, Choctaw Jennings and Drum Hayes, and knew that in other circumstances he would sacrifice any of them to save his own skin. But for now he needed them and couldn’t allow his leadership to slip away.

  ‘We’ve got to go,’ he told them.

  Gus and Drum rummaged through the cabin and loaded the stock of tinned food, coffee beans, flour and bacon that they found into a canvas bag. Meanwhile Choctaw, working under Frank’s grey-faced, wide-eyed scrutiny, tended the gang leader’s wound. His silence when he exposed the gaping hole in Frank’s belly was a more telling statement than any that he could have expressed with words. He mopped away the blood that had flowed on to the surrounding skin and renewed the bandages, but they too were darkening with fresh blood before Frank had refastened his shirt.

  ‘Perhaps we should stay here another day,’ Choctaw said.

  ‘Do you think I’ll heal in that time, Choctaw?’ Frank Felton’s tone was both sarcastic and belligerent. ‘Or perhaps you think that by the morning I’ll be too weak to prevent you leaving me here to die.’

  ‘I was thinking that being jostled on the back of a horse is going to be hell for you. It won’t cure you, but you might garner some strength from a night’s rest.’

  Frank wasn’t sure he believed in Choctaw’s concern but he knew he was the one man among his followers who didn’t harbour a desire to be leader. When the time came to make a decision about his fate it would probably be Gus Phipps who took it. Gus would assume he was the next leader because of his speed on the draw, but he couldn’t think beyond the end of his gun barrel. Drum Hayes was the most capable man but Frank figured that if Gus realized that then Drum might as well be walking around with a target pinned to his chest.

  The decision had been taken to keep to the easier trails through the foothills and head north for Canada, but Choctaw had argued against it. He was in favour of cutting westward, through the mountain passes to Butte. His main cause for concern was the lack of settlements to the north and the near certainty that none of those that they did come across would boast the presence of a proper doctor capable of removing the bullet in Frank’s gut. He also pointed out that, going north, they would be more likely to run into the posse that had been organized to find them. The members of that makeshift group would be reluctant to search among the many ravines and valleys of the mountains. After their initial outrage following the killing of Deputy Brix, they would be anxious to attend to their everyday business. But Choctaw got no support, not even from Frank who would benefit most.

  Nature, however, provided a much more compelling argument for not travelling north. They hadn’t gone more than quarter of a mile before it became obvious that they weren’t likely to make much progress in that direction. Gusts of wind drove the snow into their faces, soaking them, freezing them and making it difficult to keep their eyes open as their reluctant horses trudged ahead. So heavy was the falling snow that visibility was little more than twenty yards.

  Drum Hayes cursed and gathered the other three around him.

  ‘We’ve got to find shelter,’ he announced. ‘Choctaw’s right, we’ll be better off in the mountains. There are deserted mine shacks and caves up there where we can see out this storm. It’s bound to relent in a day or two and by then the posse will certainly be back in Big Timber. We’ll be able to travel more freely.’

  ‘What if it doesn’t?’ Gus Phipps wanted to know.

  ‘Then we make other plans. Go west to Butte or Missoula, but this snow is sweeping down from the Canadian grasslands and we’d be crazy to ride into it.’

  Choctaw didn’t speak, just gave a curt nod of agreement, his earlier argument was now vindicated, the cold rendering needless any inclination to crow about his judgement.

  Frank Felton also remained silent. His head was deep into hunched shoulders. Eyes, half-closed, were the only feature of his face that could be seen. His hat was fastened tight to his head by means of its chin string and the big collar of his heavy coat was upturned to pr
otect the back of his neck and his ears. A scarf was wrapped around the lower portion of his face but already it was thick with the snow that had driven against him on the short ride.

  His companions waited for a moment in expectation of a decision from their leader, but it soon became clear that Frank no longer had the ability to command. Back at the cabin, mounting his horse had been an ordeal but once in the saddle he had insisted he was capable of undertaking the journey north. Now it was clear he could not continue. His current motionlessness indicated that not only was he unable to offer any guidance to his men but had probably not even heard Drum’s suggestion. He was like a corpse frozen in the saddle.

  The other three looked at each other, each aware that Frank Felton was unlikely ever to see Canada. Drum Hayes swung his horse and led the way westward. Gus Phipps followed. Choctaw grabbed the bridle of Frank’s horse and led it along in their wake.

  For a few minutes they paused in the shelter of the trees around Fetterman’s Pool. Nothing moved across the surrounding landscape and they were content to believe that the severe winter weather would be enough to drive the posse back to Big Timber. No one would have been prepared for such a ferocious snowfall. They ate some of the biscuits they’d brought from the shack but Drum said they’d have to be careful with the provisions because they couldn’t be sure when they’d find more.

  They followed the creek for a little way, hoping that it would provide some shelter from the worst of the weather but in fact it served as a channel along which the wind blew and the snow flew. It was when they were climbing out of the small valley that Frank groaned and swayed and would have fallen out of the saddle if Choctaw hadn’t reacted swiftly. He called to the other two, who paused and watched Choctaw from the lip of the rise as he ministered to the wounded man.

  Frank Felton seemed to have shrunk during the journey. His hunch-shouldered form leaned forward so that his chest was almost touching his saddle horn. His moans were deep and pain-filled and his eyes, although open, seemed glazed and unseeing. But it was the dark specks on the scarf that gave Choctaw most cause for concern. Frank Felton was coughing up blood, and for that there was probably no cure. Choctaw held Frank in the saddle as they climbed up to the rim to join the other two.