Brian Garfield (38 page)

It looked all right; the splashes of white foam were there to indicate that the bottom lay close to the surface. It was always sensible to examine such places before plunging into them because you never knew when a floating log might come along and smash a deep cut through what once had been a pleasant stirrup-high walk across.

He was leading the horses toward the crossing when he spied a strange phenomenon coming toward him from the trees at the base of a rainbow-striped butte to his left: a man afoot.

After a moment it became clear the pedestrian was Pierce Bolan. Dutch stopped and waited with a knowing grin while the Texan trudged forward.

Pierce Bolan was sweaty and limping, and empty-handed; he had his hat, clothes, boots and holstered revolver but that was all.

“Listen, you old Dutchman, you don't need to look so pleased at a man's misfortune.”

As always, Dutch had to filter the words through the dictionary of his mind, converting them one at a time into German before he could make sense of them. One time the stoutfrau, in exasperation, had wailed about how he had been in North America for damn near half his life and he still couldn't speak or understand English worth a damn. Why, she demanded, did she have to go and pick the only man, red or white, on the plains who had absolutely no calling for languages?

“Horse you throw?”

“Naw. I didn't get pitched off. Stopped to take a squat, forgot I was riding a half-broke Indian mare, left her hitched to a twig, and the next thing I know she's spooked by a butterfly and half way to the next county. I don't mind the horse and I don't even mind the walk home but that was my good Winchester rifle and my second-best double-rig saddle. You come across a spotted blue mare with my rig and rifle on a Mandan saddle blanket, I'll be obliged for the return of same. Spread the word for me, will you?”

“Yah. That I do,” Dutch agreed, knowing as well as Pierce did what the chances were of having the goods returned in this sort of country. “But come on, Pierce, we can double ride. How long ago horse spook? We catch.”

“Last I saw she was on the dead run for Montana and that was three hours ago. No chance of catching up now, but I'm obliged for the thought.”

It was a few miles from here up a draw to Pierce's ranch. It would make a pleasant ride in the unusually warm sun. Dutch said, “Come on, then, get up—I you home take.”

Pierce smiled. “Much obliged.” Then something caught his attention past Dutch's shoulder. The way Pierce froze made Dutch turn and look that way.

They were coming downriver, visible at intervals between clumps of intervening trees; they were half a thousand meters away, riding bunched up in a solid-packed column of threes, about two dozen horsemen cantering forward at a businesslike clip. There wasn't much dust right along the river where they were riding and even from here Dutch had no trouble seeing the hoods they wore over their heads.

In a calm voice Pierce Bolan said, “Dutch, get the hell out of here.”

“Both of us. Come on—you up climb.”

“I'm respectable, Dutch. They don't want me. It's you they're after. They still think you shot up the Markee's house—they've put the word out on you. Listen, get out of here. I'll flag them down and palaver, give you a little jump on 'em. Maybe I can talk sense to them. Go on—on the run now.”

The riders had seen them now; they were lifting their horses to a menacing gallop and Dutch didn't have to do much translating in his head in order to appreciate the wisdom in Pierce's judgment. Dutch flashed a grin of gratitude at the young Texan, grabbed up the pack horse's reins, leaped aboard the saddle animal and spurred urgently toward the ford.

He skewed among trees, splashed across, came heaving up out of the river and as he went up into the cottonwoods on the east bank he hipped around in the saddle to look back.

Half the crowd flowed around Pierce Bolan in a closing circle. The rest were coming straight for the ford on the dead run. They had guns up and there was no more time for contemplation: Dutch rammed his horses into the trees, ducked to keep from being decapitated by a low branch and galloped recklessly ahead, bent low over the saddle, dragging the pack animal at full gallop.

He had a good lead when he came out of the trees and ran up the dry creekbed of a tributary coulee; it curled around an acute bend to the northeast and he knew he would be out of sight of the pursuit for at least a little while; the knowledge steadied him enough to allow him to reason ahead. When he had climbed six or seven hundred meters into the coulee with a cresting rib of sloping ground on either side he took the risk of slowing the pace long enough to take a good look down the backtrail.

Gott im Himmel
.

They were coming—at least ten of them, thundering up the creekbed.

One of them lifted a rifle one-handed and Dutch saw smoke puff from its muzzle; a moment later he heard the faint crack of the gunshot.

He had no idea where the bullet went but it left no doubt of the hooded horsemen's intention.

Dutch hauled his two steeds to the right, spurred frantically and yanked on the tow-reins, urging them up over the hump of land that separated this canyon from its neighbor. They went halfsliding over the sloping rim, hoofs scrabbling for purchase against clay and shrubs. He lost his hat and heard more gunfire before he was over the crest; two or three bullets ricochetted off objects close enough to make him flinch from the noise.

Out of their sight-line he fled down into a tangle of shallow gullies where artesian pressure had encouraged the growth of scrubby trees that stood twice as high as a man—a considerable stretch of forest for these parts, and a Godsend to Dutch. The pursuers would expect him to continue eastward for the high ground and try to out-run them across the flats of the high plateau; so he whipped the pack horse savagely away uphill, fired two shots in the air that helped propel the frightened beast on its way toward the crest and turned his own mount sharply downslope—west: back down toward the river.

He trotted through the trees; it was cool in here away from the sun. He chose a meandering aimless-seeming path that would leave tracks like those of a riderless horse that was following its natural inclination to wander toward the smell of fresh water.

And pray to God it would fool the pursuing swine into following the wrong set of tracks.

He continued downhill, reining in his nerves and his horse, forcing himself to keep the pace to a mild haphazard trot. The trees were too thick to permit a view of anything more than a few meters away. He stopped twice to blow the horse and let it graze; he turned his head slowly in every direction in an effort to pick up any telltale sounds against the flats of his eardrums. There were various distant sounds—hoofs clattering on rock, men's shouts, a spirited whinny—but none of it gave useful evidence whether the pursuit was proceeding east or west.

Dutch pushed his lips tight together and gigged the horse downhill at a faster clip; anyone who followed this far would not give up before catching the “riderless” horse, so there was no point continuing the deception any longer and he lifted the beast to a canter, moving as quickly as he could without raising too much sound.

He was nearly down to the river when he heard the sharp clanging chip of horseshoe on rock—behind him and not far at all. He stopped and listened.

No question those were hoof-falls, approaching steadily. Several horses—three or more.

Dutch spoke a curse in his mind. They must have split up the party to follow both sets of tracks.

He had never killed anybody that he knew of but the extreme circumstances of the moment made him think seriously about lying up by the trail with his rifle and picking them off as they approached.

A cooler second consideration made him think better of it. He might get a good shot or two but he probably wouldn't be able to knock down all of them, and the noise of shooting would draw the rest of them. Not much future in that.

Not much future in anything right now, he thought, but there was no point quitting before you were caught.

He rode toward the river, draping the reins over the horse's withers so they wouldn't trail and trip the poor animal. He slipped his rifle out of the scabbard and clutched it tight in his fist, and when he came past a litter of volcanic boulders he slipped off the wrong side of the horse and teetered on the rocks, slapping the horse with the rifle's buttstock. It continued to amble downhill toward the river.

Dutch made his way afoot across the sharp rocks, making little leaps from one to another; the important thing was not to touch any soft ground where he might leave a footprint.

Moving in that manner he came to a patch where there were no rocks. But by good fortune there was a good stout deadfall. He crawled across roots and trunk and a firm fallen tree-limb—made his way to the next string of stones and finally brought himself to the river's edge.

The water ran several feet deep along the curve, birling against an exposed root system where it had undercut the clay bank.

It was going to be cold but it looked good enough; anyway it would have to do. Dutch slipped into the stream, sucked in his breath at the sudden frigid cold and lowered himself all the way into the water, clutching a root overhead, propping the rifle above him with his free hand; he slipped under the tangle of roots and came up beneath the cutbank.

He had to turn the rifle and swap hands to pull it lengthwise through the overhanging roots. There was no way to keep the rifle completely dry but he did his best—pressed it against the roots above his head and suspended it there with one hand until the arm got tired; then he traded hands and waited and shivered while the eddying water lapped around his throat.

He was inside a cave; his view of the world was restricted by a great many gnarled roots and he couldn't hear a damn thing over the rush of the river but he was alive and, he hoped, invisible.

Nothing to do but figure on waiting it out here until they rode off—if he could stand the cold that long.

It was no good predicting. Either he would be lucky or he wouldn't

It wasn't long before he glimpsed movement on the opposite bank and moved his head forward to get a better view between roots. By shifting his face from side to side he could command a fair view of the area, a bit at a time, and it wasn't so far away; he had a clear enough perception of what transpired then—clearer than he'd have preferred.

A dozen horsemen were gathered, all of them hooded. Several dismounted now. One dragged a man forward at the end of a lasso and Dutch saw it was Pierce Bolan. Pierce was yelling at his captors but they weren't paying any attention. Dutch couldn't hear what anybody said over there; all he caught was the raging high timbre of Pierce's voice.

Dutch had to clench his teeth to keep them from chattering. It was mostly the icy cold of the water but he knew what was going to happen and he watched, because there was no point in not watching.

They tied Pierce Bolan's hands behind him and it took four of them to boost him up on one of the saddle horses. Pierce struggled and yelled all the way but it had no effect.

Several horsemen entered the creek from this side, upstream not far from Dutch; one of them was leading Dutch's saddle horse. So they'd found it. Presumably half a dozen others were still up on the rim chasing the pack horse.

Across the river the new bunch, leading Dutch's horse, joined the rest. They were all wearing hoods, various colors and patterns of cloth—bandannas, bedsheets, old shirts; probably whatever makeshifts had come to hand—with big torn-out eyeholes. Dutch wondered why they continued to wear the masks when, so far as they knew, there was nobody around to recognize any of them. Maybe they were afraid someone would chance upon them; or maybe they didn't know each other? That made a kind of gruesome sense: if you didn't know who your fellow-murderer was, you couldn't testify against him.

A thin man tossed a line over a tree-limb and knotted the noose around Pierce's neck. A short man stood at the head of the horse, holding it, and a burly man, who seemed to be the leader, stood like a hunchback, hands buried in the pockets of the long coat that flapped against his ankles; that one made an indicative show of sincere regret—Dutch had to fight down the impulse to shoot the swine and to hell with consequences—and then the swine threw his head back and said something to Pierce Bolan.

Pierce shouted back at the swine, raging at him.

Dutch changed hands on the rifle, shivered in the chill water and specified to himself with dismal clear logic why there would be no good served by his interfering. They would still lynch Pierce Bolan, and they would kill Dutch himself in the bargain. It was better to live and fight again another day, Gott damn it.

The hooded swine turned away and made a sharp gesture with a swinging arm; they slapped the horse out from under Pierce Bolan and he fell slantwise and was brought up hard before he could hit the ground—brought up by a snap that whipped his head hard to one side as if it had been hit by a buffalo-gun bullet.

Dutch thought it was a wonder it didn't rip his head clear off.

Pack broke off his labors in the office of
The Bad Lands Cow Boy
to go outdoors and clear his head. The words were not coming properly—he wasn't sure what to say about the events he was reporting.

The morning sun was bright but the breeze was cool enough to make him turn his coat collar up. He saw Sewall and Dow in front of Joe's store lashing their purchases down across their pack animals. Joe stood on the porch chewing the cud with them. Pack waved them all a hesitant good morning and was thinking about joining them when the noise of a disruption drew his attention toward the embankment.

Several men were running—in pursuit of a lone man afoot.

Pack caught Joe Ferris's eye. It took no more than that; in a flash the two were off, racing through the side street on a course designed to intercept those men. After a moment Pack heard the drum of hoofbeats behind him and assumed it was Sewall and Dow, coming along out of curiosity.