Ralph Compton The Convict Trail (18 page)

Then so be it. Kane's eyes searched the darkness and saw there was no new, bright day to come aborning with the morning light. And wishing it so would not make it happen.

“He's dead.”

Kane looked at Lorraine. She was kneeling beside Foster's body.

“Chest shot, square on the third button of his shirt, destroys the heart and kills a man,” he said. “He doesn't come back from that.”

“This is mine,” the woman said, prying the revolver from Foster's fingers. “He took it from the wagon.”

“See if he has more shells in his pocket and let me reload it then,” the marshal said, stretching out a hand. “Where we're headed, you're probably going to need it.”

Chapter 19

Logan Kane found the Percheron tied to a tree a hundred yards to the north of the camp. He'd considered the idea that Stringfellow had sent Foster to kill him, but that was unlikely. Now four convicts and Jack Henry would be forced to share two horses. Under those circumstances, Stringfellow would not willingly have parted with the draft horse. Foster must have cut out on his own, confident that he'd return with Kane's scalp.

Unluckily for him, it hadn't worked out the way he'd planned.

At daybreak, Kane hitched the Percheron to the prison wagon. The trail to the summit of Walnut Mountain was steep in places and ill defined. The big, strong draft horse would handle it better than the eight-hundred-pound mustang.

The marshal turned the little horse loose. It was tough, well used to rough living, and could take its chances on the plains.

He shared what was left of the venison stew with Lorraine and Nellie, then prepared to move out. The woman threw some of hers and Nellie's clothes into the back of the cage and insisted on taking the reins of the Percheron. The girl climbed up beside her, silent and withdrawn. Kane leading the way on the sorrel, they headed north.

For the next hour they crossed open country, much of it swampy, the innumerable streams and shallow creeks lined with cottonwoods, willows and a few hickories. In the distance the short-grass plains rolled away to the edge of a sky free of cloud. They passed Little Cow Mountain, the air scented by the pines on its slopes, and Kane led the way through a shallow valley that angled to the northeast, then opened onto the lower reaches of the Walnut Mountain ridge. Kane decided to give the horses a breather before tackling the peak and unhitched the Percheron.

“Looks high enough from here,” Lorraine said, her eyes lifted to the rise as she worked a kink out of her back. “Like a wall at the end of the world.”

Nellie had already jumped down and was gathering wildflowers, lost in her own secret existence.

“There's a trail,” Kane said. “Not much of one but a trail nonetheless. The Apaches used it and so did the Army, and it's seen its share of Texas herds.” He smiled. “We'll be all right. It ain't fur, except it's straight up.”

Lorraine shrugged. “I never doubted that for a minute.” She looked at Kane. “I could sure use some coffee.”

“Me too, but I'm tryin' not to study on it too much.”

“How's the leg?”

It was the first time Lorraine had mentioned it, and Kane was surprised. “Fair to middlin'. It punishes me some though.”

“Sit on the grass and let me take a look at it.”

Kane was taken aback. “Ma'am . . . I—I'd have to drop my pants.”

Lorraine gave him an old-fashioned look. “You think I've never seen what you have before?” She shook her head. “I swear, the way some men go on, you'd think they'd never had a mother.”

Well, she had him buffaloed, Kane decided. He sat, slipped his suspenders off his shoulders and pushed down his pants, covering himself as best he could with his shirt.

Lorraine looked at the wound critically. “What in God's name did you do to this?”

“Poured gunpowder on it an' then set it alight. Figgered it would stop the poisons.”

“It's a wonder you have a leg left. Is there water in the barrel?”

Kane nodded. He felt naked and exposed, and his face burned, something he couldn't remember it doing since he was a boy.

Lorraine found a white, frilled garment in the wagon that the marshal could not bring himself to look at. The woman hesitated a moment, shrugged, then tore it into strips.

She bathed Kane's leg front and back, then bound it tightly with the strips of cloth.

“It doesn't look too bad. That should hold you for a while,” she said.

“I appreciate it, ma'am,” Kane said, quickly yanking up his pants. “I swear the leg feels better already.”

“Don't go explodin' gunpowder on it again.”

“No ma'am.”

Kane slipped his suspenders over his shoulders and rose to his feet. “Now we better be goin'.”

 

The trail wound upward through a dense forest of pine, hickory and oak. In places where the going was steeper the Percheron strained into the harness, its huge hooves digging deep into the dirt underfoot. But Lorraine handled the reins with a quiet assurance and the big horse hauled the heavy prison wagon with relative ease.

Kane scouted ahead and guided the woman around flat, massive slabs of sandstone that had slid down the slope during earlier cloudbursts. Up here, nearly two thousand feet above the flat, the air was crystal clear, heavy with the scent of pine resin. Kane caught glimpses of the sky through the forest canopy, a patch of clear blue laced around with dark leaves.

The quiet of the mountain descended on the marshal like a blessing, the song of the wind in the trees a descant only an octave higher than the sound of the silence.

That made the angry roar of the black bear all the more shocking in its earsplitting ferocity.

Unlike the grizzly, the black bear seldom attacks humans. Grizzly assaults are usually defensive, but when the black bear does strike, its attacks are always predatory. You can lie down and play possum and the grizzly might leave you alone. Try that with a black bear and nine times out of ten it will kill you.

The bear charged out of the trees, closing on the Percheron. Terrified, the big horse reared, then swung to its right, galloping along the slope. The thud of its great hooves seemed to shake the mountain. Fighting the scared sorrel, Kane couldn't reach for his holstered gun. He watched helplessly as the wagon's left-front wheel hit a slab of sandstone, then toppled on its side. Lorraine and Nellie were thrown clear, but the Percheron went down, kicking wildly, tangled in its harness.

The sorrel was completely out of control. It reared and Kane was thrown, landing heavily on his back, all the breath knocked out of him. The horse pounded up the slope, then vanished from sight behind a row of pines.

Now the bear was at the wagon. The iron door had swung open and the animal reached its head inside. It emerged with what was left of the hide-wrapped venison in its jaws and bounded into the surrounding forest.

Kane was on his feet, gun in his hand, enraged beyond measure at the theft of their meat and possible hurt to the draft horse. He thumbed off two useless shots into the trees where the bear had disappeared and yelled, “Damn you, Ephraim! Damn you to hell and all the way back again!”

“Marshal! Over here!” Lorraine was standing near the Percheron. “I don't think he's hurt real bad.”

From long habit, Kane reloaded his Colt before stepping to the woman's side. Nellie stood a ways off, her face pale with fright.

It took ten minutes to untangle the big horse from the harness and help it to its feet. Kane saw some cuts and scrapes on its flanks, but when he ran a hand over the animal's legs there were no breaks. Righting the wagon would be a more difficult matter. The iron cage and steel axles made it heavy, and when he put his hands on it and pushed, the wagon barely moved.

Defeated, Kane stepped back, cursing softly under his breath.

Lorraine had an arm around her daughter's shoulders. She looked at the marshal. “The bear attacked us because it smelled the meat?”

“Probably. But ol' Ephraim tends to be notional an' there's no way to tell what he's thinkin'. This time o' the year, when he's due for his winter sleep, he can get plumb ornery.”

Lorraine glanced around her and shivered. “Will he come back?”

“I doubt it. He's got meat and he heard the gun. I reckon he's long gone.”

“The wagon?”

Kane glanced up the slope. “I'll find my hoss, then dab a loop on the Percheron, see if he can pull it upright.”

“The wheels don't seem to be damaged.” The woman smiled. “That's lucky.”

“Yeah,” Kane said. “We've been nothin' but lucky today.” He took off his hat, wiped the sweatband with his fingers, then angrily slapped the hat against his knee. “I better go find that damned hoss.”

Kane found the sorrel grazing a few yards from the summit of the mountain. He swung into the saddle and rode to the top, looking out at the vast land spread out before him. In the clear air he felt like he could see forever.

South of him lay the country he'd crossed to get there. To the north stretched rolling hills, then the bulk of Pine Mountain. After that were a couple miles of flat plains, cut about by many creeks, and beyond the plains, the smoke blue parapet of Rich Mountain.

Somewhere out there was Jack Henry, and with him the convicts, and it was his job to find them and bring them to justice. Burdened by two females and no food, he faced a tall order. Kane shook his head, his eyes bleak. No matter, he had it to do. Judge Parker expected it of him. And for some reason, loyalty maybe, or stiff-necked pride, he could not let the old man down.

The marshal swung off the ridge and rode down the slope. Lorraine and Nellie were stroking the Percheron's neck, attention the massive horse seemed to be enjoying.

He stepped out of the leather and stripped the rig from the sorrel. He threw the saddle onto the draft's broad back and cinched up, barely making it. Kane tied one end of his rope to the side of the wagon, then climbed into the saddle and looped the other end around the horn.

“Hi-ya!” Kane kicked the big horse's ribs and it moved forward, but stopped as soon as it felt the strain. The wagon rocked back into place, a wheel spinning. “Ya! Ya! Ya!” Kane kicked again. The Percheron seemed to understand what was required of him. His hooves dug into the slope and he lurched ahead. Kane felt the saddle slip backward and for a moment he thought he would go right over the horse's rump. But to his joy he heard the wagon creak, then thump onto its wheels, the iron door clanging open and shut like a discordant bell.

The marshal clambered out of the saddle and moved to the Percheron's head. “Easy, easy, boy,” he said. He smiled. “I'd give you a carrot, if'n I owned a carrot.”

He switched his rig back to the sorrel and Lorraine helped him hitch the big horse to the wagon again. “Once we get to the top, you an' Nellie will see a great view. I swear, the land stretches out into tomorrow.” He looked at the girl. “How about that, Nellie? You want to see forever?”

The girl made no answer and when Kane looked into her eyes, all he saw was a world of pain.

 

Around three in the afternoon they made camp in a grove of trees near the east bank of Pigeon Creek because Kane wanted to spend some time hunting before it got dark. But his efforts came to nothing. He took a potshot at some mallards cruising the creek close to camp, but missed badly; the flock scattered and fluttered away.

Empty-handed, Kane returned with nothing to show from his hunt but a headache and a vile mood.

Lorraine had built a fire, in anticipation Kane guessed sourly, but when she saw the dark look on the marshal's face she wisely said nothing.

He unsaddled the sorrel, then sat by the fire, his knees drawn up to his chest. He looked at the woman. “Damn that ol' Ephraim,” he said. “Robbed us of our supper.”

Kane was hoping for soothing words of some kind. They wouldn't fill his belly, but they might ease his vague sense of guilt. Man was meant to be a great hunter and keep his womenfolk fed. Didn't it say that in the Bible, or was it written down in some other famous book? He didn't know.

It didn't matter much, because Lorraine would not have answered. She was looking intently over the marshal's shoulder into the distance.

Kane followed the woman's gaze and saw what she was seeing. Three riders were coming toward them, leading a packhorse. Even far off, he recognized the broadcloth suits and the tall, blood horses.

It was the Provanzano brothers. They were here to take what was theirs and punish those who had denied it to them for so long.

Lorraine rose to her feet, watching the men come. Kane stood and stepped beside her. He adjusted his gun belt and eased the Colt in the leather.

They were three tough men who believed right was on their side against one who was no longer real sure about anything.

Kane swallowed hard. He wasn't confident he could beat the odds.

Chapter 20

The riders drew rein a few yards from Logan Kane, their dark, cold eyes weighing him.

The marshal did the same, looking over the three men closely, summing up their potential with the iron. It was not idle curiosity on anyone's part. They were practicing the first law of survival among men who lived by the gun: know your enemy.

Kane saw no sign of gun belts, but city men like these would carry some kind of hideout gun. He'd heard of shoulder leather but had never seen it. A campfire conversation he'd listened to back along some forgotten trail returned to him, a waddie saying that Hardin was fast from the shoulder holster. He'd never seen John Wesley either, and that was probably all to the good.