the Man from Skibbereen (1973) (12 page)

Contego smiled. "We'll just slide a man into the town to alert Barnes and all. They can keep an eye on things, and drop a few words about the buffalo they saw along the river not so far from the fort."

"Good!" Parley was pleased. "That should do it."

"Yeah?" Robb said cynically. "Who goes into Fort Sanders?"

"Murray would be the man if he was here, but you could do it, Del."

Robb chuckled unpleasantly. "I figured you'd lead to that! Why not you?"

"All right," Contego replied, "if the major wants it, I'll be glad to go."

Robb was irritated. He'd conceived the suggestion as one planned by Contego to be rid of him, but now it seemed he had by his doubt given Contego the chance he wanted, to go into the town of Fort Sanders himself, to contact Holly Barnes and the dozen or so men there and... "Oh, I'll go!" he protested. "I just didn't want to be saddled with no job just to be got rid of."

"Who'd consider such a thing?" Silver Dick asked, innocently. "I don't care who goes, as long as he stays out of trouble. We need somebody who can listen, understand what he hears, and get word back to us."

"You, Dick," Parley said. "You... and Murray, if he gets back. Otherwise I'll pick somebody else. Tillotson, for example."

"He'd be a good man," Contego agreed. Far better, he decided, than Murray, who was a sour, cantankerous and suspicious person with a gun hand as fast and casual as Del Robb's. Contego had more than one idea on his mind and Tillotson would interfere with none of them; Murray might interfere with all.

Silver Dick Contego was a realist. The plot to seize Grant, Sherman and the rest was logical, and apt to succeed by its very unexpectedness. There were catches, however, and he thought he knew what they were.

"We'll have to catch McClean again," he said. "Or at least, keep him from Fort Sanders, where he might recognize us. The girl hasn't seen any of us, I believe."

"She saw me," Robb said, "on the train."

"That's hard luck. But I doubt if she'd remember you," said Contego, "you weren't in that car but half a minute, and there was an almighty to--do goin' on."

So they rode north toward the lonely station, to recapture McClean, and to kill Reppato Pratt, whom somebody had recognized when he effected McClean's escape.

"And there's the other one," Robb said after a while, "that one who cut loose from up on the hill. Whoever he is, I want him."

Across the wide blue sky, only a few clouds drifted now. Upon the prairie the grass stirred with the wind, and here and there were the black dots of buffalo or the gray or amber of antelope. The plains rolled on to the far horizons, mile upon mile on every side. And over the grasslands the horsemen rode, in their several groups.

A lone girl on a mare; and, only a mile or so behind her now, Murray. Further east, the ten renegades led by Parley; and coming up on the trail of the girl, Cris Mayo of County Cork. A lone Irishman on a splendid big horse, an Irishman in a square--topped hat with a rifle he had only begun to use, a six--shooter he had fired but a half--dozen times, and a deep worry about the girl he had been trailing.

Already at the tiny red station, with a signal set to stop the next train, were Reppato Pratt and Colonel McClean, the latter fretting with anxiety over his daughter.

At Fort Sanders, Generals Grant, Sherman and Sheridan were talking over old times, waiting for Dodge, the engineer who was building the railroad, to join them. Waiting too for some word from McClean, a friend to every one of them.

Cris Mayo was hot and tired, sore from much unaccustomed riding, dearly wanting a bath and a meal and a chance to simply rest; and none of these were anywhere in sight.

On his jaws had grown a rusty stubble of beard, his hat was cocked at an angle, his eyes squinted against the glare of the sun. And still far ahead of him showed that tantalizing dustcloud that might be Barda and her tracker -- or captor.

Quite by accident he came upon a muddy area and following it back into a fold of the hills scarcely three feet deep, he found a trickle of water emerging from between rock layers. He got down from the gelding and drank long. He dipped water into his hat and held it for the gelding to drink, again and again. Then he bathed his face and head, washed his hands and dried them on his shirt.

He sat down for a short rest, his head hanging while the horse tugged at some parched brush that must be more appetizing than it looked.

Back in the saddle, he shoved the rifle into its scabbard and rode forward.

Slowly, slowly, afternoon waned, with the shadows reaching out first from the peaks and shoulders of the hills, then from the few trees and shrubs. He fell into a path made by the wheels of some long--forgotten traveller who had ventured into the area in a covered wagon. They took a general trend eastward, almost parallel to the trail taken by Barda and the other, whoever he was.

The trail vanished and he left his wagon tracks to hunt for it. Suddenly, far ahead among the low blue hills and caught by the last rays of a sun setting behind him, he saw a finger of smoke rise.

It had to be them.

He started to point toward it, and took a sight on a nearby ridge to use if the smoke disappeared, then saw that his wagon trail was swinging that way. He followed it, keeping the smoke, fading now, off to his right.

The hills drew closer. A delightful coolness descended on the plain, the growth was denser, the grass taller. In this place there must be some subirrigation from underground springs in the low hills before him, and in these hills Barda must surely be a prisoner. Unless she had met, thought Cris for the first time, cheering up a little, someone like Rep Pratt.

The big gelding was weary now, and he patted it on the shoulder. "It's a fine horse you are, indeed, and you'll be havin' a good sleep this night if I must walk the rest of the way!"

The hills were low, perhaps no more than seventy or eighty feet above the plain. There were some rocky outcrops, some trees that looked like cedars, and, invisible from the other corner of the hills where Barda and her supposed captor had gone, some cottonwoods.

The wagon trail rounded a low ridge and he found himself facing an old cabin, a shed and a corral, all in the last stages of disrepair. The corral, where animals had once been held, was carpeted with green grass, the soil enriched by the droppings of horses in times long past.

There was a rusty pipe from a spring, a water trough with crystal--clear water, the sides of the trough coated with green moss. He let the big horse drink, then took it to the corral and stripped off the gear. The horse rolled in the grass, then staggered up and began to feed.

Rifle in hand, Cris Mayo walked to the house. The inside was dark, but he struck a match and looked around. A pack rat had been busy here, his deserted nest leaving a nice gathering of fuel. There was a fireplace, an old iron kettle, a sagging bed and a table. The shutters hung loose on leather hinges, and there was no glass, if there ever had been, in the windows.

Chapter
Nine

Cris Mayo walked outside. The stars were appearing, and there would be an early moon. He was going to need it.

"You stay here," he told the horse. "I'll be back for you."

Taking up his rifle he walked past the corral to the thin trail he had seen that led up the mountainside. It was worn and packed down by much walking, for whoever had lived in the cabin had found frequent use for the trail. Following it even in semi--darkness was no problem.

Several times he stopped to catch his breath, for he was tired. The rocks became more frequent, the brush taller, with here and there a few trees. He went past the bole of a big old cottonwood, climbed a few steep natural steps in the hillside, and suddenly he was looking down into a small basin, open on one side to the prairie.

A fire threw its light upon the flanks and legs of the horses, on the saddles, and on Barda.

She was sitting near a shrub to which her right hand was tied. Her feet were apparently also bound, although he could not see any ropes. She was seated on a saddle blanket facing the fire where a lean, hatchet--faced man squatted with a frying pan over the fire. The man wore a belt--gun, which Cris could see when the man moved, and his rifle lay on the rock nearby. They were not more than a hundred feet away. In the stillness of the night and the clear air, he could hear the man talking but could not quite make out what he was saying.

Cris crouched down, his weariness forgotten. He was under no false impressions of what could lie ahead. This man was obviously one of the renegades, and he had Barda a prisoner. Without doubt he was also the triggerman who had killed the fat fellow, killed and robbed him. And that heart--shot indicated that the man was a marksman.

Carefully, Cris studied the hillside before him. Ahead and to his left was a low rock, beyond it a slender bush. If he could manage to get down there...

No rock must rattle, no sound be made. This man was certainly quick and dangerous. Moving from behind the bulge of earth where he had stopped, Cris moved from rock to rock, carefully then through the grass to the bush he had chosen. It was not enough for cover, but he crouched there a moment before going on.

He studied what lay ahead, and there was almost no shelter. Nor could he risk a shot from where he squatted, aside from the fact that he had no desire to shoot a man in cold blood. There were rocks around the fire and a bullet might ricochet... he knew little about such things... and kill or injure Barda McClean.

He stood up and, choosing his footsteps carefully, started toward them.

The man by the fire rose slowly, put down his frying pan and walked over to Barda. Cris froze in place, his rifle waist--high, watching the man, who stopped behind the girl and said, "Now you just set still, missy, and you won't get hurt."

Then the man lifted his head and at the same time his gun. "All right, sonny," he said, his tone taunting, "you just drop that rifle and walk down to the fire where I can see you. You shoot at me and you're liable to hit your little friend here."

Crispin Mayo hesitated only a moment. He could be shot dead at that range, and he dared not fire back. He dropped the rifle, and, on orders, his six--shooter as well.

"Down to the fire where I can have a look at you, and don't try to be brave or you're a dead man."

Cris walked slowly to the fire, desperately seeking something he might do. Dead he was no good to either himself or Barda, alive there might be a chance. So he must quietly obey.

"Turn around now and face me."

Cris turned. From the corner of his eye he could see Barda, her face deathly white and frightened.

"A mick... a damned Irishman! Nobody but an Irishman would dress like that! Well, what d'you know? My name is Murray, friend, and I've some of the blood in me, so maybe I won't kill you."

"The lady's father is worried," Cris said, speaking carefully. "He'll be at the station by now, and you could take her there and nothing will be said."

Murray smiled, not a pleasant smile. "I ain't likely to do that. You see, I killed one man for her, so I'm going to keep her. But I don't want to kill you much. If you want to die, of course, well, that's up to you."

"Don't!" Barda cried out. "Don't you hurt him!"

Murray chuckled. "This is the brave lad who messed up our plans, isn't it? Stampeded our horses... I wonder how brave he is?"

"I'm as brave as you, Mister Murray," Cris said. "If you'd be puttin' down that gun I'd be up to showin' you a thing or two." He lifted his left hand. "One hand would do it. One hand is all I'd need to break you in two."

Abruptly, Murray's tone was ugly, the bantering mood was gone. "One hand, huh? How many fingers to a hand, you shanty--Irish bum? How many?"

"Five, I'm thinkin', just five."

"Five! He can count! Do you want to try for four? Put that hand, fingers spread wide, against the log by the fire."

Crispin Mayo was very still. For a moment he could not believe what he heard, but then he knew. The man was not joking. "And if I don't?" he asked.

"Then I'll shoot you right in the belly and let you fall into the fire and toast there while we eat our supper." Murray chuckled sardonically. "Miss McClean can sit comfortable here and watch it."

Cris measured the distance between them. Not a chance. He could have been no further away than this when he killed that fat man back there, and that shot was right through the heart.

"Put your hand against that log and spread your fingers. Maybe if you got nerve enough, and can hold steady enough, you won't get hit. I want to show the lady here how I can shoot."

There was no way out that he could see. He squatted down, spreading the fingers of his left hand wide against the side of the old gray log beside the fire. The heat on his hand was intense.

Murray came two steps closer. No more than a dozen feet between them now in the flickering firelight. The bellow of the gun smashed against Cris' eardrums and something stung his fingers. Tiny slivers of wood, for the bullet had struck between his first and second fingers. Murray laughed.

He turned his head slightly and said, "How was that, fair lady? Ever see anybody shoot like that?"

His eyes returned. "All right now, sonny. Five fingers, you said? Would you like to die? Or live with just a thumb on that hand? You've got a choice, boy."