the Quick and the Dead (1983) (12 page)

They had made a mistake by coming in close to the mountains because if they wished to go to Cherry Creek they must follow along the mountains which meant crossing many gullies or canyons where the streams flowed from the higher country. Yet it was the mountains toward which they were bound, and it might be they would turn off.

He scanned the area thoughtfully, looking for some favorable opening into the back country. Then he started on, casting about for a lead. Under the aspens and close to their groves were stands of golden cinquefoil, and in the groves a bit further along, columbine. Often they were mixed with other flowers. The grass was wet from heavy dews or what was left of the recent rains.

He worked his way along the edge of the forest, riding in and out of the trees, weaving a careful way, alert for ambush and any sign of travel. He saw the fresh droppings of deer and elk, he saw where a bear had clawed high upon a tree ... only hours ago, by the look of it, and once he found a lion kill, half-eaten and buried under brush.

Unconsciously he had worked his way higher upon the mountain, following the easiest route, yet aware that one can often see tracks from up high that would be missed on the ground and close by.

He was emerging from a stand of spruce when he caught a glimpse of movement ... several riders, rifles in hand, moving along an open meadow at a lope.

"Shabbitt!" He swore softly. Even at the distance he could recognize several of them, and it was equally obvious that they were going somewhere, not just wandering or searching. Then, faintly, his eyes seemed to pick up the track of a wagon!

He stood up in the saddle and tried to see along the slope to his right. They were riding into a gap in the hills where the wagon, if those really were tracks and not his imagination, had gone. They rode as if expecting trouble.

Turning his mount, he rode swiftly along the mountain side in their direction, and cutting down through the trees, although keeping under cover, he came upon a game trail.

It was a chance, and he took it, knowing at the same time that many such trails can be useless for horses. A deer, holding its head low, can often go under limbs and brush that a horse must skirt around ... and often enough the hillside is too steep for such travel.

Suddenly, ahead of him, he saw a thin trail of smoke. There was no way he could arrive before the Shabbitt outfit. No way at all.

They were closing in on the place below, riding up the stream ... yet, looking at it from above he could see they must slow down, for soon there would be no good way to go unless they took to the water. Even then their progress would be slowed.

Far off to his left now he could see a dim trail that led up the canyon, and the place to which they seemed to be going lay due north from where he now was.

Here and there the growth thinned down and it was becoming more and more difficult to keep out of sight. He shucked his rifle, holding it ready in his hands. One man alone against seven, he must trust to surprise.

He dipped down through the trees, crossed a low saddle and down to a bench. Unknown to him he was coming in to the cabin from the east and was riding down to the bench where Duncan McKaskel had pastured his mules.

Emerging from the aspens, he drew up, listening. He had gotten a little ahead of them, for they had to skirt deadfalls and driftwood, and the footing along the rocky stream-bed was not good for fast riding.

He cantered across the pasture, skirting a small lake, and drew up among the trees near the edge of the bluff that dropped off into the wide river bottom. He heard no sound from below.

Weaving through the trees, ducking for the lowest branches, he pulled up suddenly. Below him were some old beaver ponds, with many fallen logs, some dead trees standing, and the smooth, clear water of the ponds. As he watched he could see the widening ripple where a beaver swam ... unalarmed.

Turning his head he saw the cabins, and near them, the wagon. No horses or mules, no movement, no sign of life. Perhaps the merest shadow of smoke from the campfire near the wagon.

The beaver was working away, undisturbed.

He listened, and thought he detected a faint splashing. He glanced at the pond ... the beaver was gone.

Several marmots were in sight, bustling brown bundles of fur, playing on the green grass below. One of them was within thirty feet of the house.

It was empty then.

Duncan McKaskel, his wife, and son were gone.

Where?

A faint sound reached him and he glanced downstream.

They were in sight now, riding through the scattered trees beyond the beaver ponds, partly shadowed by the cottonwoods, the narrow-leaved trees of the high country. They emerged on the far bank, and scattering out, picked their way across.

In a sudden rush, they swept up to the house and leaped from their saddles. Red Hyle was first at the door. He emerged at the rear door, glancing all around, swearing.

Dee Mantle had gone for the wagon. He could be heard moving around in the wagon, then he thrust his head out. "Hell, there's nothing here! Not a damn thing!"

Slowly they came out, looking all around. They were no more than sixty yards off and their voices carried easily in the clear air.

"Gone. Now where the hell--?" Dobbs was saying.

Of them all, only Purdy Mantle seemed undisturbed. "It wasn't worth the trouble," he said disgustedly. "I don't think they ever had anything, anyway."

"They left their wagon and their clothes an' stuff. They'll be back."

"Back when?" Shabbitt asked irritably. "Hell, maybe they just figured to Hell with it an' left their wagon an' all. If they had gold, they done taken it with them. To Cherry Creek, more'n likely."

"We can wait for 'em," Booster suggested, halfheartedly.

Ike Mantle was disgusted. "We've wasted enough time. If we pick up their sign, we'll follow on. I think they got the gold with 'em, or it's buried. Maybe it's buried right here."

They stirred around, searching the house again, and the wagon. Suddenly, Booster pointed. "Look! There's been some diggin', yonder!"

He indicated the corner of the yard some distance from the cabin where Duncan had begun spading up a garden.

"Hell, that's just a garden! He's figurin' on growin' corn or peas or something."

"Yeah? An' what better place to hide something? Right where nobody'd be surprised to see the ground dug up?"

Several of them started for it. Red Hyle looked on in disgust, then walked to his saddle horse and stood there, one hand on the pommel, the other on the cantle, his head bowed.

On the slope above, Con Vallian watched the men a moment longer. In a few minutes they would start hunting for sign. They would look around and try to find any tracks left by the McKaskels, so he knew he'd better get at it first.

He rode swiftly through the trees, changing direction a dozen times to find a way through, always reaching the same short, steep bluff. But this time among the trees, riding over the edge he let his horse slide to the bottom, then crossed deliberately toward the stream. He found a narrow trail, apparently leading from the cabins below to somewhere north. In the trail were the hoofprints of several horses and at least one mule.

Crouching low to avoid overhanging limbs, he rode swiftly along the trail, crossing the stream over and back several times and suddenly emerging into a small clearing.

Obviously someone had worked a claim here. There was a rocker, long unused, and even a rusted shovel and pick. On the far side the trail led out of the clearing and away from the creek.

Pausing to listen, he heard no sound, but followed the trail up out of the river bottom as it turned sharply left and back to the southeast.

Now what was this? Returning the way he had come?

Not quite. He had reached the point of a triangle and was now taking a route back south, away from the steepest mountains, but much farther to the west.

Nobody had left the trail. Like him they were following a well-marked route. Yet now, out in the open and away from the shadows he noticed something he had missed ... the trail of one of the horses was several hours older than the following horse and mule.

What did it mean?

Somebody had left the cabin, had not returned, and the others were following after. The first horse carried the heavier rider--Duncan McKaskel.

He rode into a small grassy hollow and started toward the other bank when he pulled up sharply, hearing voices. Slowly, he walked his horse on up.

Susanna and Tom were there, Susanna on one of the sorrels, Tom on a mule. In the clearing, not twenty feet from them stood the other sorrel. Its haunches were bloody, and its saddle turned under its belly.

There was no sign of Duncan McKaskel.

Chapter
XIII

Con Vallian sat, taking in the scene. He knew better than to go charging into such a situation. Duncan McKaskel might be lying close by, his body hidden by grass or brush, and his attackers might be nearby, also waiting for those who would come after McKaskel.

Susanna was down on the ground, looking quickly about her. The boy went to the horse and began removing the saddle.

Staying near the edge of the trees, Vallian slowly rode in a half-circle toward the tableau before him. He held his rifle easy in his hands, prepared for whatever might come. Nothing in his life had prepared him for things to turn out right. When they did, he was pleased, when they did not, he was ready.

As he rode his eyes swept the earth for tracks. He was sure, since Susanna and Tom had obviously not found McKaskel, that Duncan had been hurt elsewhere. His frightened horse had run off, leaving him stranded and afoot. On the plains that could be the death of a man, in the mountains, where there was water and food, even if a man knew where to look, it could still mean trouble.

Before he reached them he found the trail. The sorrel had come plunging down a steep bank, dragging a whip of a broken branch along with it.

He glanced up the bank. The horse had still been frightened when it came over the bank, so it might not have come far.

He rode up to them and they turned swiftly. "Get that saddle cinched up," he said flatly, "and mount up. We're a-wastin' time."

"Mr. Vallian! My husband is hurt! He is somewhere around here and--"

"No, ma'am. He's nowhere around there. He's back yonder," Vallian jerked his head toward the east, "an' he may be hurt, but if we don't get out of here, we'll all be in a fix. That Shabbitt outfit found your place, and they'll be trailin' after."

Leading the sorrel, they turned and followed Vallian.

He was thinking fast. They would find that trail as easy as he had, and they'd come following after. No sense in going up that bank ... he doubted if the woman and boy could make it, anyway, and he knew that atop the bank there was a long gap in the trees that led away toward the foot of a mountain.

Chances are the horse had come running right down that open space, and that he hadn't run more than a mile.

He had not taken the time to do more than glance at the horse. The scratches might be those of a lion, or perhaps it was only gouged by the forks of a broken branch. There was no time to stop and make sure, and it was unimportant in the long run. First they had to try to find McKaskel, and then they had to find a place to hole up. If they did not find McKaskel right away, the second would have to come first.

He turned in his saddle and glanced back. No dust in this country. The trails were seldom used and too grassy. There was a chance they might stop at the cabin and wait, but it was more likely they'd come on.

You got yourself in one hell of a mess,he told himself irritably.Why can't you stay out of other folks' affairs? These people are nothing to you.

Well, they weren't anything to him. Only that Susanna woman, she made a right good pot of coffee, and where was he going anyway? Besides, he liked to hear McKaskel talk. It wasn't every day a man encountered a real educated gentleman.

He led the way and he did not look back. The trail was one a blind man could follow, and there was no need to cast about. The gelding had come out of those woods like the mill-tails of Hell, bleeding some, too. He could see the bright crimson flecks of blood as he rode, and the trail through the tall grass was plain.

How long had McKaskel stayed with the gelding? Probably he'd been thrown right off. It looked like a lion had jumped the horse, maybe a young lion who didn't know any better, or one who saw the horse but not the man and sprang in hunger and haste. The horse would have leaped, fought, struggled, tumbling Duncan McKaskel into the brush. He might have been hurt seriously, simply scratched by brush, or attacked by the lion.

These western lands brought death suddenly, without warning, and in a hundred ways. It had a way of exploding into violent action leaving a man broken and bleeding, far from any help. Many a father or son rode away never to return, many a lone hunter left coffee on the fire to picket a horse or fetch a bucket of water, and that was the end of him. Sometimes his bones were found. Often enough not even that.

Con Vallian drew up, listening. The following horses stopped one by one, and in the silence he strained his ears beyond their breathing, beyond the little sounds of their presence, yet he heard nothing.