Crackaway's Quest Page 8

  ‘Everything OK for tomorrow?’ the rider asked.

  ‘Sure. All set. Step down and have some coffee before you go back.’

  When they’d gone to sit by a fire Wes knew he had to take the opportunity to leave. There were men awake all around the compound and he risked discovery at every moment. He slipped over the side of the wagon but no sooner had his feet touched the ground than he heard the soft footfalls of a walking horse and a voice shouting, ‘Hey, you. What are you doing there?’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The presence of the rider surprised Wes. He’d assumed that the activity occasioned by the horseman’s arrival had been restricted to within the wagon ring and had waited until everyone nearby had gone back to their bedroll or to take their share from the coffeepot simmering at the fire. He had no way of knowing how long the rider had been behind him or had been watching him but clearly his shouted challenge had been heard and men were coming to investigate. Quick action was required if he was to evade capture and not become Tad Carter’s prisoner.

  The rider, a youngish fellow, was leaning forward, both hands resting on the saddle-horn so that his follow-up question, ‘Who are you?’ seemed more like a polite enquiry than a threatening challenge. It took Wes less than a moment to realize that the lad wasn’t even wearing a side-arm, which he knew wasn’t unusual. Many cow-herders found a pistol in a holster was a handicap when working a herd, especially at night when the aim was to keep the animals quiet. A sudden gunshot, even if accidental, could send a herd running for miles.

  Wes took advantage of the lad’s naivety. He flung his arms in the air, startling the horse which flung its head in the air as it stepped backwards. The rider shifted in the saddle, took a tighter hold on the reins and tried to settle the animal. Wes jumped forward, grabbed two handfuls of the rider’s shirt and pulled him to the ground. A mixture of sounds now filled the once quiet night. The lad’s yells and the horse’s snorts were joined by the excited enquiries of the men at the other side of the wagons. Wes ignored them all, grasped the saddle-horn and swung himself on to the horse’s back. Lying low along the animal, he was racing away from the wagons before any attempt could be made to stop him.

  By the time anyone was in position to fire a shot it was clear that to do so would be a waste of ammunition. The fleeing figure was lost in the darkness. The description provided by the un-horsed herder left no room for doubt as to the identity of their visitor and, when the uncovered whiskey kegs were discovered, Tad cursed Wes Gray.

  He drew his four closest allies aside. ‘I want that man dead,’ he told them. ‘He knows too much. Scour these hills and shoot on sight.’

  ‘He could be anywhere,’ someone said, ‘and he’ll be miles away by now.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Tad told him. ‘He fled on one of our ponies but I’ll warrant he comes back for his own horse. It must be picketed somewhere close. If you find it you can ambush him when he returns. Take no chances,’ he warned everyone, ‘he’s dangerous. There’ll be a reward for the man who kills him.’

  Many minutes passed while guns were checked and horses saddled before two pairs of man-hunters rode out to search the swells and troughs of the surrounding territory. However, they weren’t the first to leave the perimeter of the camp ground. Clem’s messenger preceded them, carrying the good news that the plan was on schedule, but also the bad news that Wes Gray was alive and at large somewhere close. At a steady pace, he headed towards the funnel through which the cattle and wagons were due to pass shortly after daybreak.

  When he’d made his escape, Wes Gray’s first thought had been to gain a good head start before a pursuit could be organized. In the darkness he’d stuck to the low meadow land, trusting to luck that the horse wouldn’t stumble as it galloped across the rugged terrain. He’d ridden for about ten minutes when he spotted a stand of trees off to his right and steered the horse towards them. He was considering his next move, whether to return to the hillside spot where he’d left the pinto and ride for Spearpoint from where he’d be able to telegraph details of the illegal whiskey load to Fort Pierre, or hang about in the hills and watch the activities that unfolded around the supply train in the morning.

  Logic, he knew, dictated the former; the army would need the information at the earliest moment if they were to intercept the wagons before they reached the Cheyenne River Agency. Deep down, however, instinct told him that whatever was meant to occur when the wagons continued their journey it would not be to the benefit of the people across the river. He wanted to be on hand to foil the plan or, if that wasn’t possible to gain some evidence to use against them. He was only one man, but that was the way he worked best.

  He was still among the trees when he heard the steady thrum of hoof beats. After a few moments he was able to see the silhouette of a single rider. It took only a moment to assess that this was the messenger returning to Clem and that following him might provide the information Wes was looking for. It wouldn’t be easy, it was a clear night and the darkness would soon be giving way to the first light of the coming dawn, but Wes had already decided that the risk of discovery was outweighed by the knowledge he might gain.

  In fact, the risk was very soon reduced because the rider rode unerringly towards the funnel-like opening that led between two high mounds and was lost in its darkness. Wes halted and listened. The rider hadn’t stopped, the pace of the hoof beats hadn’t altered. Wes urged his horse along the long, twisting valley. After twenty minutes of riding he reached the mouth of another, narrower valley, cutting away north-westerly. Again he halted and listened and now the horse’s steps were slow, distinct. It was walking; now and then its iron shoes struck hard rock as the ground rose to a higher level.

  Gut feeling told Wes he was close to Clem’s camp. He was pondering whether to leave the horse at the mouth of the valley and progress on foot when an unexpected sound reached his ears. He turned, looked back towards the plain land that he’d left behind. Nothing, all was still, but he would have been surprised if it had been different; it wasn’t possible that the cattle had been driven so far in such a short space of time. But then he heard it again. The lowing of a cow and this time he knew it was coming from farther along the branch-off valley. He dismounted, tethered the horse to a bush and began the trek up the valley.

  A fire burned brightly, its unusually high flames marking the position of the camp before Wes was within half a mile of it. With his usual stealth, he climbed the hillside and found a position from which he could observe those below. Close to the fire, three men were sleeping with their heads on their saddles. Another two were talking to the rider who hadn’t yet dismounted. Wes recognized one of the men as Clem Oates whose agitated movements conveyed the fact that he’d just been told that Wes was not dead.

  Beyond the camp were the cattle, not a small bunch but a herd equal in size to the one Wes had left behind on the open meadow. He moved deeper into the valley to get a closer look at the animals espying only one horseman in motionless vigil to watch over them. Avoiding the attention of the night-guard, Wes crept down the hillside and mingled with the sleeping cattle. One or two grunted in surprise as the frontiersman moved swiftly among them. The smell of kerosene hung around many of the animals, its use being a cheap and unpredictable cure for skin diseases and mange, and others showed evidence of crude remedies for screwworms and blowfly infestation. They were skinny animals and their suffering had deprived them of their true health and vigour. How some of them had survived the winter was a source of amazement to Wes.

  It was clear to the frontiersman that once the supply train had passed through the main valley these beasts would replace the healthy critters that were currently following the wagons. Infected stock would be driven on to the reservation; the Sioux rations would consist of contaminated meat. If he was to prevent that then he knew he must work quickly. He lifted his head to see where the night-guard was positioned.

  Man and horse hadn’t moved since Wes had first moved in among the herd. It
was probable that, like the cattle they’d been posted to watch over, they were asleep. Wes worked his way back to the fringe of the herd then edged closer to the mounted man. He selected a cow, kicked its rump then moved behind a nearby boulder. He knew enough about animals to predict what would happen next – what he wasn’t sure about, however, was the reaction of the cowboy.

  The offended cow bellowed and rose to its feet. Instinctively, its neighbours, governed by their inbred nervousness and alarmed by the possibility of a natural predator in their midst, followed suit. Within moments the disturbance had spread throughout the herd. Every animal was on its feet, snorting and milling around in wide-eyed anxiety.

  The night-guard’s horse, affected by the nervousness of the cattle, shook its head with a violent suddenness that startled its rider. But he was an experienced man and was instantly in control of the animal under him. He was also quick to identify the area where the commotion had begun. He moved his mount slowly, talking as he made his way around the perimeter of the herd. One of the beasts, he suspected, had picked up the scent of wild cat or wolf in the high ground. It would be reassured by his presence. It never to ceased amaze him how quickly these big beasts with their long horns could be spooked by the scent of a cat or a dog that was so small in comparison, nor how quickly they could be calmed by a horseman riding by. He drew his pistol but hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. It would be a few minutes yet before they were resettled.

  ‘Steady, steady,’ he was cooing to the jumpy critters when, without warning, someone jumped on to the back of his horse, clamped a hand over his mouth and struck him solidly on the side of the head with a gun butt. With barely a murmur, he slipped from the saddle and lay still on the ground.

  Wes rode back to the head of the herd, a position between the cattle and the campfire, then, accompanied by a series of ‘Yip, yip,’ yells, fired over their heads and sent them off in a stampede along the valley. He didn’t know how long it was nor where it led, but he hoped it wasn’t a dead-end canyon. He wanted them to run for miles and spread into the hills and adjoining valleys. Scattering them was the best option he had to prevent them replacing those prime animals that were truly intended for the Indians across the river. He could have chased them the other way, back into the valley where he’d left his borrowed horse, but that opened up the possibility of them merging with and contaminating the other herd. When they were in flight, Wes dismounted, slapped the animal’s rear and sent it running after them. It wouldn’t stop until the cattle did.

  Around the campfire Clem and the men with whom he was talking had become aware of the unrest among the cattle. The gunshots brought the remainder from their bedrolls. The cause of the stampede and the reason for the gunshots were complete mysteries to Clem and the men. Long moments of confusion followed before the men were able to mount up and give chase but they knew that in the narrow valley they had no hope of getting ahead of the leaders. The cattle would run until exhausted and by then they would probably be widespread. It would take days to round them up into a herd again.

  Clem didn’t ride out with the rest of the crew; he stood with his back to the fire, looking into the night, listening to the rumble of running beeves and the men’s diminishing shouts. Never before had he met with so many reversals of fortune. The fight in the saloon, the attempt to ambush the squaw man and now babysitting a herd of mangy cattle that would have provided a welcome bonus when the prime cattle were sold to the cattle buyer in Spearpoint. What, he wondered, would Tad say? More importantly, what would John Lord do? Behind him the fire rustled, like the burning branches had collapsed and perhaps spread out of their circle. He turned to attend to it and instantly recoiled. Clem’s mouth opened as though uttering a shout of fear, but no sound came forth. His eyes were fixed on the figure at the other side of the flames, a man in buckskin with a long feather in his hat.

  ‘You wanted to kill me,’ said Wes Gray, ‘well here I am.’

  Clem reached out a hand, a hapless, defensive gesture meant to convey a misunderstanding, a mistake, innocence, anything that would prevent the moment of death predicted by the cold stare in the other’s eyes. ‘No,’ was all he said.

  ‘You came after me without warning. Three against one. Well I’m giving you an even chance. Go for your gun.’

  ‘No,’ Clem said again. ‘You’ll kill me.’

  ‘That’s right. I’ll kill you.’ While talking Wes had had his thumbs tucked into his gunbelt. Now he let his hands fall away to hang loosely at his sides. ‘Whenever you’re ready.’

  ‘It wasn’t my idea to kill you.’ Words tumbled out of Clem’s mouth. ‘It was Tad and Mr Lord.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you are a friend of the old man.’

  ‘Crackaway!’

  ‘Mr Lord didn’t want you prying in his business.’

  ‘You mean he doesn’t want me to find out what Crackaway discovered, that John Lord is stealing government supplies intended for the Sioux Agency across the river.’

  Clem’s shoulders sagged. He’d hoped to buy his life with information about John Lord’s activities but Wes Gray it seemed already knew what was happening. The scout’s following remark proved the hopelessness of the situation.

  ‘Did Crackaway catch people filling grain sacks with dirt? Is that why he was killed?’ Clem shook his head but Wes was sure that he wasn’t denying the accusation. ‘Was he dead before he was put in with the horse?’

  ‘It was an accident,’ pleaded Clem.

  Wes was relentless. ‘Who killed him?’ he wanted to know. ‘Was it you?’

  Clem’s only answer was a swift lick of his lips. He dismissed the urge to plead, to promise to leave the territory, have nothing more to do with the swindling ploys conducted by John Lord, but he knew it was too late. There was no hint of mercy in those eyes that were fixed on him. They had barely blinked once since the start of the confrontation. His only avenue of escape was by killing the scout. Without a moment’s hesitation, hoping to catch the renowned frontiersman unawares, his hand dropped to the butt of his pistol. It got no farther. Wes Gray drew with unmatchable speed and put three bullets in Clem’s heart. He sank to his knees and pitched forward into the flames. Wes left him there to burn.

  After replacing the three spent cartridges, Wes set off in his customary ground-covering lope, back to the place where he’d tethered the horse. Thoughts of pursuit by Clem’s companions were dismissed from his mind; they wouldn’t have heard the gunshots above the thunderous sound of running cattle and were unlikely to return to the campsite before the sun was spreading light into the valley. However his senses were still acute and he suddenly stopped, lay flat on the ground and waited. There was movement ahead, something, someone moving slowly. A stone rolled and slithered, iron scratched against rock and a high-toned whisper of sound reached him as metal rubbed against metal. Bridle rings, he determined and wondered for a moment if the horse had slipped its tethering. Instinct prompted caution and he continued to wait. Then a voice carried to him, an injudicious uttering that carried clearly to Wes.

  ‘That’s a big fire. It must be Clem’s camp.’

  ‘Shut up.’ The second man’s command was terse, an indication that he was aware that sounds carried a long way in these valleys and that noise betrayed location.

  The first man failed to pick up on his colleague’s warning. ‘Do you think the shots came from there? Will it be the squaw man?’

  ‘Be quiet,’ hissed the other. ‘He could be anywhere around here. We won’t get the bonus Tad promised by getting ourselves killed.’

  In a moment, their shapes became apparent to Wes. They were close together, one half a length ahead of the other. They were carrying their rifles across their laps, ready to shoot at the first opportunity. He lay still, and even though they passed within five yards they were ignorant of his presence. It was apparent that they weren’t experienced trackers, they hadn’t even found the horse he’d left near the mouth of this narrow valley, but they’d
come to kill him and were hoping to make a profit from the deed. He couldn’t allow that. If he chose, he could return to his horse and be well on the way to Spearpoint before the duo had got over the shock of pulling Clem’s body out of the fire, but he knew he had to make them suffer for their mercenary action.

  The smell of burning flesh had been in their nostrils for some minutes before the man reached the fire. From their saddles they looked around the site, confused by the absence of any crew.

  ‘Where is everyone?’ asked the younger, talkative rider, ‘and what have they been cooking?’

  The other rider stepped down, his face registering curiosity, his attention captured by a pair of boots left warming by the flames. Three yards short of the fire he stopped and gazed at the body that was burning black before him. The boots were the only items of the man’s attire that had not been destroyed. He turned aside, horrified by the scene before him, but he knew he had to pull the body off the fire. It was the civilized thing to do. He put his rifle on the ground, bent and grabbed a boot. It was hot but not unbearable.

  ‘Come and help me,’ he called over his shoulder to his partner. ‘That savage has thrown somebody on the fire. I think it’s Clem.’ He tugged again, budging the blackened carcase a few inches. It gave him the opportunity to gain a better hold on the dead man’s legs. Behind him he heard a thump, like a body hitting the ground. He half turned but a rope suddenly fell over his shoulders and pinned his arms to his side. A sharp tug pulled him off his feet and he was dragged backwards.

  Yelling, he tried to stop the indignity by scuffing his feet in the ground, but it was to no avail. He flipped over on to his stomach and in that moment saw his tormentor. On the back of his companion’s horse sat the man in buckskin he’d left the wagons to kill. The tables had turned; he was entirely at the other’s mercy. His friend, young Hank, was a still lump on the ground, either dead or unconscious. He watched as the scout secured the rope to the saddle-horn, like he’d secured a yearling for branding, then dismounted.