Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) (14 page)

“No,” he said violently, “I won’t! I’ll say again what I said before. I knew your father. He gave me a deed givin’ us the ranch. He asked me to care for you. He also gave me the receipt that Bruce Barkow gave him for the mortgage money. I wanted things to be different, Ann. I—”

“Caradec!” Bryson called. “We’re ready!”

He glanced around. The small column awaited him, and his horse was ready. For an instant he glanced back at the girl. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing.

“Oh, what’s the use?” he flared. “Marry who you blasted well please!”

Wheeling, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle, riding away without a backward glance.

CHAPTER XVII

The Killer

Lips parted to speak, Ann Rodney stared after the disappearing riders. Suddenly all her anger was gone. She found herself gazing at the closing gate of the stockade and fighting a mounting sense of panic.

What had she done? Suppose what Rafe had said was the truth? What had he ever done to make her doubt him?

Confused, puzzled by her own feelings for this stranger of whom she knew so little, yet who stirred her so deeply, she was standing there, one hand partly up-raised, when she saw two men come around the corner of the building. Both wore the rough clothing of miners.

They paused near her, one a stocky, thickset man with a broad, hard jaw, the other a slender, blond young man.

“Ma’am,” the younger man said, “we just come in from the river. The major was tellin’ us you were goin’ back that way?”

She nodded dumbly and then forced herself to speak. “Yes, we are going to the river with some of the troops. Or that has been our plan.”

“We come up the Powder from the Yellowstone, ma’am,” the young man said, “and if you could tell us where to find your husband, we might sell him our boats.”

She shook her head. “I’m not married yet. You will have to see my fiancé, Bruce Barkow. He’s in the mess hall.”

The fellow hesitated, turning his hat in his hand. “Ma’am, they said you was from Painted Rock. Ever hear tell of a man named Rafe Caradec over there?”

She stiffened. “Rafe Caradec?” She looked at him quickly. “You know him?”

He nodded, pleased by her sudden interest.

“Yes, ma’am. We were shipmates of his. Me and my partner over there, Rock Mullaney. My name is Penn, ma’am—Roy Penn.”

Suddenly, her heart was pounding. She looked at him and bit her underlip. Then she said carefully, “You were on a
ship
with him?”

“That’s right.”

Penn was puzzled, and he was growing wary. After all, there was the manner of their leaving. Of course, that was months ago, and they were far from the sea now, but that still hung over them.

“Was there—aboard that ship—a man named Rodney?”

Ann couldn’t look at them now. She stared at the stockade, almost afraid to hear their reply. Vaguely, she realized that Bruce Barkow was approaching.

“Rodney? Surest thing you know! Charles Rodney. Nice fellow, too. He died off the California coast after—” He hesitated. “Ma’am, you ain’t no relation of his now?”

“I’m Charles Rodney’s daughter.”

“Oh?” Then Penn’s eyes brightened. “Say, then you’re the girl Rafe was lookin’ for when he came over here! Will you think of that!” He turned. “Hey, Rock! This here’s that Ann Rodney, the girl Rafe came here to see! You know, Charlie’s daughter!”

Bruce Barkow stopped dead still. His dark face was suddenly wary.

“What was that?” he said sharply. “What did you say?”

Penn stared at him. “No reason to get excited, mister. Yeah, we knew this young lady’s father on board ship. He was shanghaied out of San Francisco!”

Bruce Barkow’s face was cold. Here it was, at the last minute. This did it. He was trapped now. He could see in Ann’s face the growing realization of how he had lied, how he had betrayed her, and even—he could see that coming into her eyes, too—the idea that he had killed her father.

Veins swelled in his forehead and throat. He glared at Penn, half crouching, like some cornered animal.

“You’re a liar!” he snarled.”

“Don’t call me that!” Penn said fiercely. “I’m not wearing a gun, mister!”

If Barkow heard the last words they made no impression. His hand was already sweeping down. Penn stepped back, throwing his arms wide, and Bruce Barkow, his face livid with the fury of frustration, whipped up a gun and shot him twice through the body. Penn staggered back, uncomprehending, staring.

“No—gun!” he gasped. “I don’t—gun.”

He staggered into an Army wagon, reeled, and fell headlong.

Bruce Barkow stared at the fallen man, and then his contorted face turned upward. On the verge of escape and success he had been trapped, and now he had become a killer!

____________

W
HEELING, HE SPRANG into the saddle. The gate was open for a wood wagon, and he whipped the horse through it, shouting hoarsely. Men had rushed from everywhere, and Rock Mullaney, staring in shocked surprise, could only fumble at his belt. He wore no gun either.

He looked up at Ann. “We carried rifles,” he muttered. “We never figgered on no trouble!” Then he rubbed his face, sense returning to his eyes. “Ma’am, what did he shoot him for?”

She stared at him, humbled by the grief written on the man’s hard, lonely face.

“That man, Barkow, killed my father!” she said.

“No, ma’am. If you’re Charlie Rodney’s daughter, Charlie died aboard ship, with us.”

She nodded. “I know, but Barkow was responsible. Oh, I’ve been a fool! An awful fool!”

An officer was kneeling over Penn’s body. He got up, glanced at Mullaney, and then at Ann.

“This man is dead,” he said.

Resolution came suddenly to Ann. “Major,” she said, “I’m going to catch that patrol. Will you lend me a fresh horse? Ours will still be badly worn-out after last night.”

“It wouldn’t be safe, Miss Rodney,” he protested. “It wouldn’t at all. There’s Indians out there. How Caradec got through, or you and Barkow, is beyond me.” He gestured to the body. “What do you know about this?”

Briefly, concisely, she explained, telling all. She made no attempt to spare herself or to leave anything out. She outlined the entire affair, taking only a few minutes.

“I see.” He looked thoughtfully at the gate. “If I could give you an escort, I would, but—”

“If she knows the way,” Mullaney said, “I’ll go with her. We came down the river from Fort Benton, then up the Yellowstone and the Powder. We thought we would come and see how Rafe was gettin’ along. If we’d knowed there was trouble we’d have come before.”

“It’s as much as your life is worth, man,” the major warned.

Mullaney shrugged. “Like as not, but my life has had chances taken with it before. Besides”—he ran his fingers over his bald head—“there’s no scalp here to attract Injuns!”

Well mounted, Ann and Mullaney rode swiftly. The patrol would be hurrying because of Bo Marsh’s serious condition, but they should overtake them, and following was no immediate problem.

Mullaney knew the West and had fought before in his life as a wandering jack-of-all-trades. He was not upset by the chance they were taking. He glanced from time to time at Ann, and then rambling along, he began to give her an account of their life aboard ship, of the friendship that had grown between her father and Rafe Caradec, and of all Rafe had done to spare the older man work and trouble.

He told him how Rafe had treated Rodney’s wounds when he had been beaten, how he saved food for him, and how close the two had grown. Twice, noting her grief and shame, he ceased talking, but each time she insisted on his continuing.

“Caradec?” Mullaney said finally. “Well, I’d say he was one of the finest men I’ve known. A fighter, he is! The lad’s a fighter from way back! You should have seen the beatin’ he gave that Borger! I got only a glimpse, but Penn told me about it. And if it hadn’t been for Rafe none of us would have got away. He planned it, and he carried it out. He planned it before your father’s last trouble—the trouble that killed him—but when he saw your father would die, he carried on with it.”

They rode on in silence. All the time, Ann knew now, she should have trusted her instincts. Always they had warned her about Bruce Barkow; always they had been sure of Rafe Caradec. As she sat in the jury box and watched him talk, handling his case, it had been his sincerity that impressed her, even more than his shrewd handling of questions.

He had killed men, yes. But what men! Bonaro and Trigger Boyne, both acknowledged and boastful killers of men themselves. Men unfit to walk in the tracks of such as Rafe. She had to find him! She must!

The wind was chill, and she glanced at Mullaney.

“It’s cold!” she said. “It feels like snow!”

He nodded grimly. “It does that!” he said. “Early for it, but it happened before. If we get a norther now—” He shook his head.

____________

T
HEY MADE CAMP while it was still light, and Mullaney built a fire of dry sticks that gave off almost no smoke. Water was heated, and they made coffee. While Ann was fixing the little food they had, he rubbed the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.

“Can you find your way in the dark?” he asked her.

“Yes, I think so. It is fairly easy from here, for we have the mountains. That highest peak will serve as a landmark unless there are too many clouds.”

“All right,” he said, “we’ll keep movin’.”

She found herself liking the burly seaman and cowhand. He helped her smother the fire and wipe out traces of it.

“If we can stick to the trail of the soldiers,” he said, “it’ll confuse the Injuns. They’ll think we’re with their party.”

They started on. Ann led off, keeping the horses at a fast walk. Night fell, and with it the wind grew stronger. After an hour of travel, Ann reined in.

Mullaney rode up beside her. “What’s the matter?”

She indicated the tracks of a single horse crossing the route of the soldiers.

“You think it’s this Barkow?” He nodded as an idea came. “It could be. The soldiers don’t know what happened back there. He might ride with ’em for protection.”

Another thought came to him. He looked at Ann keenly.

“Suppose he’d try to kill Caradec?”

Her heart jumped. “Oh, no!” She was saying no to the thought, not to the possibility. She knew it was a possibility. What did Bruce have to lose? He was already a fugitive, and another killing would make it no worse. And Rafe Caradec had been the cause of it all.

“He might,” she agreed. “He might, at that….”

Miles to the west, Bruce Barkow, his rifle across his saddle, leaned into the wind. He had followed the soldiers for a way, and the idea of a snipe shot at Caradec stayed in his mind. He could do it, and they would think the Indians had done it.

But there was a better way, a way to get at them all. If he could ride on ahead and reach Gill and Marsh before the patrol did, he might kill them and then get Caradec when he approached. If then he could get rid of Shute, Gomer would have to swing with him to save something from the mess. Maybe Dan Shute’s idea was right, after all! Maybe killing was the solution.

Absorbed by the possibilities of the idea, Barkow turned off the route followed by the soldiers. There was a way that could make it safer and somewhat faster. He headed for the old Bozeman Trail, now abandoned.

He gathered his coat around him to protect him from the increasing cold. His mind was fevered with worry and with doubt of himself, and mingled with it was hatred of Caradec, Shute, Ann Rodney, and everyone and everything. He drove on into the night.

Twice, he stopped to rest. The second time he started on it was turning gray with morning, and as he swung into the saddle, a snowflake touched his cheek.

He thought little of it. His horse was uneasy, though, and anxious for the trail. Snow was not a new thing, and Barkow scarcely noticed as the flakes began to come down thicker and faster.

Gill and the wounded man had disappeared, he knew. Shute’s searchers had not found them near the house. Bruce Barkow had visited that house many times before the coming of Caradec, and he knew the surrounding hills well. About a half mile back from the house, sheltered by a thick growth of lodgepole pine, was a deep cave among some rocks. If Johnny Gill had found that cave, he might have moved Marsh there.

It was, at least, a chance.

Bruce Barkow was not worried about the tracks he was leaving. Few Indians would be moving in this inclement weather. Nor would the party from the fort have come this far north. From the route they had taken, he knew they were keeping to the low country.

He was nearing the first range of foothills now, the hills that divided Long Valley from the open plain that sloped gradually away to the Powder and the old Bozeman Trail. He rode into the pines and started up the trail, intent upon death. His mind was sharpened like that of a hungry coyote. Cornered and defeated for the prize himself, his only way out, either for victory or revenge, lay in massacre, in wholesale killing.

____________

I
T WAS LIKE him that having killed once, he did not hesitate to accept the idea of killing again.

He did not see the big man on the gray horse who fell in behind him. He did not glance back over his trail, although by now the thickening snow had obscured the background so much that the rider, gaining slowly on him through the storm, would have been no more than a shadow.

To the right, behind the once bald and now snow-covered dome, was the black smear of seeping oil. Drawing abreast of it, Bruce Barkow reined in and glanced down.

Here it was, the cause of it all, the key to wealth, to everything a man could want. Men had killed for less; he could kill for this. He knew where there were four other such seepages, and the oil sold from twenty dollars to thirty dollars the barrel.

He got down and stirred it with a stick. It was thick now, thickened by cold. Well, he still might win.

Then he heard a shuffle of footsteps in the snow and looked up. Dan Shute’s figure was gigantic in the heavy coat he wore, sitting astride the big horse. He looked down at Barkow, and his lips parted.