Crackaway's Quest Page 5

  ‘I’ve had word that the next shipment will be arriving in Spearpoint tomorrow. You need to get the crew organized. Move that infected herd out to Blain’s Canyon and Oates, after you’ve settled with Wes Gray, you can meet up with them to help with the Missouri crossing.’

  CHAPTER FIVE

  They were little more than a mile out of Palmersville and pale, long shadows were just beginning to stretch ahead as they headed west in the new day’s light. The horse had its neck stretched low and forward in that careful way, giving the impression it had been woken too early and was too weary to be on the road at this early hour. It was an idiosyncrasy that didn’t fool its rider who could feel the power of the animal and figured it could run all day if he required it to do so. They had been travelling at a steady pace, following the recognized trail, the one which had brought them to town and which later would veer south towards Spearpoint and onwards to Council Bluffs, Independence and Kansas City.

  Suddenly, the pinto’s ears pricked up, alerted by a sound or a smell that had carried on the breeze. It raised its head, turning it to the left as though seeking the cause of its interest. It’s rider, Medicine Feather, noted its behaviour but could detect no hint of fear or alarm. The animal hadn’t shied or rolled its eyes in the nervous manner of horses when a grizzly or wolf was in the vicinity; perhaps it had caught the scent of a pronghorn or another horse. He rubbed its neck then reined in and dismounted.

  While he adjusted the saddle straps, Wes Gray took the opportunity to scan the surrounding country. To the left, a timbered escarpment rose, a densely wooded hillside that dropped away on the far side to fallow land where a few small farms had been established. On the other side of the trail the ground was less sumptuous, tending towards the terrain more usual in the north country, rocky and boulder strewn. That was where the silver had been discovered that had pumped a little life into Palmersville. He was about to remount when a team of six pulling a high-sided wagon hove into view on the trail ahead. Its rattling, he figured, could have been the cause of the pinto’s curiosity. Climbing into the saddle, he waited at the side of the trail until the vehicle had passed by.

  At first, it seemed that the wagon would rumble on its way to Palmersville without anything more than a cursory salutation from the two people on the high-board, but two lengths beyond the horseman, the driver hauled his team to a halt. Standing, so that he could see over the high side of the wagon, the driver called to the frontiersman.

  ‘Wes Gray?’

  Wes nudged the pinto into motion until he reached the front of the wagon.

  The driver was a man in his forties with facial hair that rested on his chest. On his head was an old, sweat-stained, high-crowned felt hat and he wore cross-belted bibbed-overalls and a rough wool, linen-coloured shirt. His eyes were small and dark but the expression on his face was not unpleasant. ‘I was bringing my sister into town to see you. Says the pair of you are acquainted.’

  Wes glanced at the second person on the high-board. She was several years younger than her brother and dressed in bonnet and shawl in the manner common with women across the frontier. ‘Mr Gray,’ she said, ‘it’s some time since we last saw each other.’

  Wes Gray removed his hat when he recognized Kitty Belton. He had first known her as Calico Kit working in a now extinct railhead town east of Cheyenne. She had taken his dollar on more than one occasion, just as she’d taken the dollar of Joe Belton the soldier she’d later married. Kitty wasn’t the only saloon girl he’d known who had got out of that business by marrying a customer, but he’d also known others who had taken up that life to escape the loneliness and drudgery entailed in being a settler’s wife. He was critical of none. Even though the freedom of frontier life was idyllic for him, he was aware of its hardships. Everyone had to find their own method of survival.

  Wes had last seen Kitty and Joe four years ago at Fort Supply. Their plan then had been to buy a farm when Joe’s time with the army was completed. Wes’s supposition that they had found a suitable site around Palmersville was short lived.

  ‘Did you not hear?’ Kitty said. ‘Joe was transferred to the Seventh Cavalry at the wrong time. He was due to be discharged in the fall. He didn’t deserve to be at the Little Bighorn when Custer’s luck ran out.’

  In Wes’s opinion no one deserved to be at the Greasy Grass site that day, and he had his own view on Custer’s luck but he kept it to himself. ‘You’re up and about early,’ he observed.

  ‘I’ve got a load of freight to collect,’ Kitty’s brother, Rafe Leeward, told him. ‘Kitty hoped to see you before you left town.’

  ‘We nearly missed you,’ his sister laughed, ‘in more ways than one. We were so busy watching those riders on the hillside that we almost didn’t see you.’

  Instinctively, Wes raised his eyes to the tree-lined slopes. He couldn’t see any riders, hadn’t seen any riders but perhaps they were the reason for the pinto’s reaction and not the more obvious approaching wagon.

  ‘I thought they were Mr Lord’s men,’ Rafe explained, ‘but they normally ride out to Spearpoint with the wagons.’

  ‘You work for John Lord?’ Wes asked.

  ‘Contracted to haul freight for him. Bring goods from the Spearpoint railhead and then transport them to the Sioux Agency on the Cheyenne River.’

  ‘Why do you bring the goods to Palmersville? Why don’t you take the load directly to the Agency?’

  ‘We store them in Mr Lord’s warehouse until the cattle arrive then we all travel together to deter robbers. The goods are valuable.’

  ‘How many wagons make the trip?’

  ‘Ten. Sometimes a dozen. Not all as big as this one, but there’s a substantial load of food and goods every time.’ Rafe Leeward had a rueful expression. ‘Got to make as many trips as I can. The railway spur’s been built up to Spearpoint and when the engineers get a bridge across the Missouri it’ll be the death of my business.’

  Wes could sympathize with the man; he’d entertained similar thoughts regarding his own life recently. It wasn’t only the Indians who were suffering from the pace of American expansion. No one had expected such an overwhelming determination to settle the territories beyond the Missouri, nor the new technology to achieve it. He told Kitty that he intended to return to Palmersville and promised to visit her before leaving for Council Bluffs. Then he pressed his heels to the pinto’s flanks and continued on the trail west.

  As soon as he was out of sight of the wagon he halted again, stepping down and lifting the pinto’s rear leg as if inspecting the shoe for a trapped stone. In fact he was troubled by the information that there were riders on the hillside so, from behind the horse’s hindquarters, he scanned the trees for a sign that the men were still up there. Common sense told him that it was nothing more than coincidence; there was no reason why other people shouldn’t be abroad so early in the day and there was no good reason to suppose they were interested in him, but the suggestion that they were John Lord’s men had sown a seed of caution. Bob Best had implied that Carter and Oates wouldn’t be fussy how they achieved their revenge for the saloon fight so an ambush was a real possibility, and he’d made an enemy of John Lord, too, by promoting himself as Jenny Trantor’s protector.

  Although the movements were slight, a horse tossing its head, the swish of a tail that disturbed a bush, they were enough to inform him that whoever was in the hills had him under observation. There was a flash of steel as the rising sun glinted on a bridle buckle or ornamentation, and then the snort of an impatient horse, which only reached Wes because his senses were keen to pick up the smallest warning sign. The pinto shook its head to indicate that it had heard the noise too. Wes put down its foot and climbed into the saddle. He figured they were probably still too close to Palmersville for an ambush to be attempted along this stretch of the trail. He’d already encountered Rafe Leeward and his sister so there was a possibility of other people heading to or from town. If murder was on their minds they would want a much more isolated s
pot. Wes chose to oblige them.

  Unhurriedly, he followed the trail for a couple of hundred yards then veered away to his right, towards the rockier high country to the north. He’d chosen to leave the trail at the point where a huge boulder obscured him from the watchers to the south. If they were hunting him they would have to quit the cover of the trees and expose themselves to his gun.

  This was new terrain for him, territory he’d never before travelled, but he had total belief in his ability to outwit his pursuers. He entered a long winding passage, a dry, narrow valley that descended from the trail before rising to the far high ground. It was populated by a few trees that became more sparse on the distant heights. The undulations and twists of the valley were an advantage, providing many stretches where he would be hidden from the sight of pursuers. In addition, there were many offshoots, gulches and ravines from which a man could spring his own ambush.

  The first task, however, was to ensure that he was indeed the prey of the men on the hillside. He halted his horse under a spring-dressed coyote willow, stood on the saddle and reached up to grab one of the lower, sturdy branches. He hauled himself upward and then climbed until he had a view to the far side of the trail. He counted three riders, each finding his own path down the hillside, leaning back in the saddle to distribute their weight to their mount’s advantage. There was a hint of recklessness to their riding, a reflection of their need to keep on Wes’s trail. From his observation point he had no doubt that they were after him.

  Back in the saddle, he urged his horse forward, demanding from it the speed he had always felt it capable of producing. Half a mile ahead there were draws to left and right, if he could reach them before his pursuers entered the valley then he would double the advantage he had over them. At present, they had no reason to suspect that their presence was known to him, and it was probable that they would split up if they had to find him again. He threw a look back down the trail as he turned the pinto into the gully on his right. No one had entered the valley.

  It was a blind draw, but deep enough and with walls irregular enough to provide cover and hiding places. Anyone searching for him would have to ride its full length. Towards its farthest point an angled niche offered itself as a suitable place to tether the pinto. He took his rope and scaled the face of the wall that would give him a view into the main valley. It took him a few minutes but in fact he had no need to hurry.

  His hunters had made slow progress and were at that moment grouped in discussion not far beyond the tree he had used earlier as a lookout post. Wes watched them with satisfaction; they were behaving as he had predicted. Because they hadn’t been able to see him on the trail ahead they had been forced to assume he’d ridden along one of the offshoots but the ground was too hard to see the prints of the horse’s hoofs and if they were determined to capture him, each one would require investigation. From forty feet above, Wes Gray observed the trio. The centre man whom he identified as Clem Oates, was directing the other two, ordering one down the gully to the left and the other to the right where the pinto grazed in its secluded coomb. Oates, with his rifle upright on his thigh, advanced slowly, ready to add his firepower to that of the outrider who flushed Wes Gray into the open.

  Wes scurried back down the hillside. He had already chosen the manner of his first victim’s death and needed to be in position before the unfortunate man came across the pinto. To reach the spot where the horse was tethered it would be necessary for his stalker to pass under a thick cottonwood. Wes would be waiting. If these men were prepared to ambush him, show no mercy, then they had to expect the same treatment. He was in the tree, lying motionless in a forked branch when he heard the slow clop of a walking horse approaching. The pinto stretched its neck forward, keeping its head low like a penitent in church as though aware that violence and death were close at hand.

  The man carried his rifle across his body, the weapon was cocked and his finger was inside the trigger guard. His approach was cautious but he meant to shoot first. He would kill Medicine Feather mercilessly. There would be no explanation for the deed. Someone wanted the scout dead and this man was prepared to see it done. He was a short man with a small moustache and bristles on his jaw. There was a moment when it seemed that he was satisfied that his quarry had not ventured into this draw, that he would abandon his search and rejoin his companions, but for thoroughness he nudged his animal on another few steps and was directly below the tree when he saw the pinto. Instantly he swung his rifle, certain that Wes, too, would be within that niche with the animal. Wes Gray dropped the noose around his neck and pulled with every ounce of strength.

  The man was lifted from his saddle, the rifle fell from his hands and his legs kicked wildly, striking his horse and startling it so that it jumped forward to leave him swinging on the end of the rope.

  Frantically, he grabbed at the rope around his throat, desperate to relieve its tightening hold. In the grip of fear and pain he twisted in the air, unable to make a sound, unable to do anything to get air into his lungs or to stop his descent into unconsciousness and the onset of death.

  When the man was dead, Wes let go of the rope which, prior to the man’s arrival, he had secured to another branch. The man hung ugly from the tree but it evoked no pity in his slayer. Wes Gray hadn’t survived in a world of kill or be killed by acts of mercy. When it was necessary to kill a man it didn’t much matter how it was done. He picked up the rifle and fired a shot in the air. This, he suspected, would bring Clem Oates in a hurry, believing that his companion had either found Wes’s trail or had already killed him. He took a position behind a rock, withdrew his hunting knife and waited.

  To his surprise it wasn’t Clem Oates who came galloping along the valley, it was the third man. The draw he’d been sent to investigate had been a lot smaller than this one. It was probable that Oates was close behind. Wes watched and waited.

  As he came around the bluff and into full view of the tree from which the other man’s body dangled in grotesque fashion, the man hauled on the reins. The shock of finding his friend’s body affected him exactly as Wes had intended. The horse slithered forward on its haunches in its eagerness to obey the rider’s command. The rider stared with disbelieving eyes at the blackening face of a companion with whom he’d shared breakfast less than an hour earlier. The realization that his own life was in jeopardy occurred to him a moment too late. He raised his rifle to fire a signal shot but the trigger was never pulled.

  Even before the horse had come to a standstill, Wes Gray was on the move. With the stealth of a raiding Arapaho warrior he emerged from his hiding place and with two swift bounds silently covered the distance to his enemy. Vaulting on to the back of the horse so that he was behind the man, he squeezed his neck in the crook of his left arm while his right hand passed over the man’s right shoulder and thrust the big knife deep into his heart. The blow killed him instantly with barely a sound uttered but his face wore a horrible grimace.

  As Wes cast the body on the ground to lie under the dangling feet of the first man, a bullet whistled past his head and the crack of a rifle split the silence of the morning. Instinctively, Wes grabbed the reins, pressed himself low along the horse’s neck and discarded his knife. He had his Colt in his hand just as a second shot, too, flew harmlessly past. He turned the horse and fired a shot at Clem Oates who was sighting along the barrel of his rifle once more. Wes’s bullet flew close to Oates and his horse. The horse shied so that its rider’s effort was even further wide of the mark than the previous two had been. He turned his own horse and set a course out of the draw and back to the valley. Wes gave chase, firing once more at his fleeing enemy.

  No more shots were exchanged during the headlong gallop of the next few moments. Wes was gaining rapidly as they approached the mouth of the draw. He wanted to capture the last man, wanted to know if the attempt to kill had been ordered by John Lord or was in revenge for the beating that Carter had taken in the saloon fight. He fired a shot, deliberately over the oth
er man’s head in the hope that it would persuade him to stop. He didn’t. Instead, he turned in the saddle and returned fire. It was a lucky shot. It hit the horse under Wes and it plunged, dying, on to the ground.

  Wes rolled and came to his feet with his gun in his hand. Fifty yards away Chet Oates reined his mount to a halt and looked back. For a moment it seemed that he planned to charge Wes Gray but when he saw the scout still had his gun he changed his mind. He turned his horse and spurred it away from the draw and into the valley beyond.

  Wes cursed. He was left with the task of killing the stricken animal that lay on the ground then walking back to where the pinto waited patiently. There was no point giving chase to Clem Oates, he would be miles away. They would meet again though, Wes was sure of that.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Although he stayed alert for any renewed attempt to ambush him, Wes saw no other sign of Clem Oates as he made his way to the Missouri then north to the place where he’d left his belongings. The meadowland of the river basin was lush and, when given the opportunity, the pinto proved he had a good appetite for a sustained run. They forded the river to the west bank and were reunited with Wapaha Sapa long before noon.

  It was clear that Black Lance had been keeping watch for his return. He was waiting with folded arms by the upturned canoe in readiness to put it back in the water so that the scout could continue his journey downriver. But Wes wanted to palaver with the Indian so built a small fire and brewed a pot of coffee while they spoke. He imparted the news of Crackaway’s death and his reluctance to believe it had been accidental. Then he questioned Black Lance about his meeting with Crackaway, eager to dig out what information he could about the reason for the message that had summoned him to Palmersville.