Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (20 page)

For a week now, Smoke and Matt had been pushing their horses pretty hard. The 'Palouse and Matt's big steel dust were up to the challenge, carrying their riders in a ground-eating lope with seemingly effortless ease for long hours at a time.

Smoke knew that the mounts were nearing the end of their stamina, though. That was why he was glad their destination might be in sight as they reined in and paused at the mouth of the pass overlooking a broad green basin.

Matt let out a low whistle of admiration as he gazed across the landscape.

“Smoke, this is some of the best country I've come across in a long time. It looks like it's danged near as good as the Sugarloaf.”

“Yeah, but look how it's situated,” Smoke said as he rested his hands on the horn and leaned forward in the saddle. “There are mountains on two sides of it, east and south, and some pretty rugged-looking breaks on the west. The only good route in for freight wagons is to the north, and you'd have to go almost all the way to Canada before you circled back south into the basin. You'd run into the same problem if you were trying to drive cattle out. They'd have all the fat run off them by the time you got them to market.”

“It appears what the folks in these parts really need is a railroad.”

Smoke pointed to some stakes driven into the ground in various places.

“Like the one that somebody's already surveying for?” he asked. “It won't be easy building a spur line all the way up to this pass and on through into the basin, but it can be done. And if it is, whoever does it will stand to make a whole heap of money.”

Matt pointed, as well, to the town that was visible in the distance.

“Whoever's planning to do that, I'll bet we can find him in that settlement down yonder.”

“Bound to be,” Smoke agreed as he nodded slowly. “Question is, will we find Preacher down there as well?”

For days now, they had been on the trail of the old mountain man and the raiders who had attacked the Assiniboine village. Smoke had gone there in response to Preacher's telegram, to meet with Chief Two Bears and find out exactly what had happened. After spending the night and enjoying Two Bears's hospitality, Smoke had been getting ready to take up Preacher's trail when Matt rode in. That was good timing, because they were able to travel together and Smoke could fill in his adopted brother on the details of their mission, which was to find Preacher and help him in any way they could.

The trail hadn't been difficult to follow. They could have done so anyway, since both men were expert trackers, but Preacher had made it even easier for them by leaving what amounted to road signs along the way, carving special marks into tree trunks and scratching them onto rocks.

Nothing as crude as arrows pointing the right direction, however, so that to anyone other than Preacher, Smoke, and Matt the marks would have appeared completely random and natural. That was another example of how the three men could communicate by what seemed like supernatural means, when it was really just good planning and common sense.

“It could be that the trail doesn't stop at the settlement,” Matt commented. “Maybe whoever kidnapped Wildflower and Little Hawk went around the town and kept going.”

“If they did, we'll see signs of it,” Smoke said with confidence. He lifted the 'Palouse's reins. “Come on.”

They followed the trail down from the pass into the basin, and as they rode, Smoke's experienced eyes looked over the terrain and picked out places where a possible railroad could run. He had been involved in the construction of several rail lines in the past, and while he certainly wasn't an expert on the matter, he knew enough to tell that getting the rails through the pass would be the difficult part. Once they were in the basin, the rest of the job would be relatively easy.

Smoke kept his eyes open as well for more of Preacher's marks. He and Matt spotted some of them on a tree at the same time and brought their mounts to a halt.

“Looks like the trail leads up that little canyon,” Matt said as a frown creased his forehead. “It's not going toward the settlement after all. Maybe that's not really Preacher's mark.”

Smoke brought the 'Palouse closer to the tree and studied the scratches in the bark.

“Preacher left it there, all right,” he said. “I'd know that old-timer's work anywhere. He knew we'd be coming along behind him, and he wanted us to ride up that canyon.”

Matt pulled his Winchester from its scabbard and rested the rifle across the saddle in front of him.

“Then I guess we'd better ride up it,” he said. “My gut's telling me to be ready for trouble, though.”

Smoke drew his Winchester from its sheath as well and said dryly, “No reason for today to be different from any other day.”

The canyon wasn't very big, maybe fifty yards across, and its walls were roughly thirty feet tall. A small creek meandered along it and led into some thick stands of cottonwood and aspen. Smoke felt his nerves draw taut as he and Matt rode into the trees. This would be a good spot for an ambush.

Because he was expecting trouble, Smoke wasn't surprised when an Indian suddenly stepped out from behind one of the trees ahead of them and leveled a rifle at them. Matt let out an exclamation and was about to jerk his Winchester to his shoulder when Smoke said, “Hold it!” He added, “Take a look around, Matt.”

Matt did so and saw the same thing Smoke had seen from the corner of his eye: About a dozen rifle barrels were pointed at them from behind tree trunks, rocks, and clumps of brush.

“Some tough hombres we are,” Matt said disgustedly. “We rode right into a trap.”

“Maybe not. Remember, Preacher told us to come this way, and unless I'm mistaken, the markings and decorations on those buckskins those fellas are wearing say that they're Assiniboine.”

“You reckon they're Standing Rock and the rest of the warriors who went with Preacher?”

“That's what I'm counting on,” Smoke said with a faint smile.

If he was wrong, they might both wind up dead.

There was only one good way to find out. He raised his right hand, palm out in the universal symbol of peaceful greeting, and said, “We're looking for Standing Rock. I'm Smoke Jensen, and this is Matt Jensen.”

The warrior who had revealed himself slowly lowered his rifle. He had been glaring at them ever since he stepped out from behind the tree, and his expression didn't get much friendlier as he said in English, “I am Standing Rock. How do I know that you are Preacher's friends?”

“He told you that he sent a telegram asking for me and Matt to help him, didn't he? Actually, he asked Chief Two Bears to have it sent, if you want to get right down to it. Matt and I rendezvoused at Two Bears's village, and we've been on your trail ever since. If you want me to describe Preacher to you, I reckon I can do that. I've known the old pelican for more than fifteen years. The easiest way, though, would be to bring him out here and let him take a look at us.”

Even as he spoke, worry was stirring inside Smoke. He had expected Preacher to be with the Assiniboine rescue party. If he wasn't, it meant that something might have happened to the old mountain man, as inconceivable as that was.

Standing Rock's scowl deepened. He said, “I would show you to the one called Preacher if I could, but . . . he is not here. We have not seen him for almost a week, since he went into that white man's town to look for my wife and son.”

“He's been missing for a week?” Matt said, sounding every bit as worried as Smoke felt.

“You've got a camp around here somewhere, don't you?” Smoke asked.

“We do,” Standing Rock admitted. “Preacher helped us find a good place and told us to remain there, out of sight of the white men, until he came back. But he never did.”

“Why don't we go to your camp,” Smoke suggested, “and we'll talk about it and figure out our next move?”

That was agreeable to Standing Rock. He motioned for his warriors to put down their guns. Smoke and Matt dismounted. Leading their horses, they walked with Standing Rock around several bends in the creek to a clearing that was concealed by thick growths of trees all around. The remains of a fire and bedrolls spread around showed that this was where the Assiniboine had been making their home for the past several days.

Smoke and Matt let their mounts drink from the creek and graze on the grass that grew along its banks. The horses didn't mix with the Indian ponies that were picketed at the edge of the camp.

“We have food,” Standing Rock offered.

“Matt and I brought along plenty of supplies,” Smoke said, “but thank you. I want to hear more about Preacher.”

“He was going to look for Wildflower and Little Hawk. He believed they had been taken to the settlement to be turned over to a man known as the Colonel.”

Smoke and Matt exchanged a glance. Matt said, “That's probably the hombre Preacher thought might be tied up with the Indian Ring. He sounds like somebody who would be.”

Smoke nodded in agreement and said to Standing Rock, “Go on.”

“Preacher believed that if all of us rode into the settlement and tried to force the whites to tell us where my wife and son are, they would think we were attacking and there would be a battle.”

“That's probably right,” Smoke said. “So he planned to go in and scout around because nobody would pay any attention to an old geezer like him.”

“There aren't any other old geezers just like Preacher,” Matt added. “But I guess you can't really tell that by looking at him.”

Standing Rock said, “That is what he planned. If he could rescue them and get them out of town without raising an alarm, he planned to do so. Otherwise, he would return here and tell us what he found, so that we could think on what to do.”

“But he never came back,” Smoke said.

“That is right. And with every day that passes, I become more fearful for Wildflower and Little Hawk.”

Smoke couldn't blame the man for feeling that way. He was pretty worried about Preacher right now. The only thing that would have kept him from returning to the Assiniboine as he had promised was if he had been taken prisoner.

Or if he was dead.

Smoke wasn't going to allow himself to think that, at least not yet. He said, “I know it's hard, Standing Rock, but Preacher was right about you and your men staying out of sight. Until we know what's going on, it would just cause more problems than it's worth to have you show up in the town.”

“So what will we do?”

“I hate to ask it of you, but I think it would be best if you stayed right here for a little while longer. Matt and I will ride into the settlement and see if we can find Preacher and your family.”

“And if the two of you never return?”

“We'll go in separately,” Smoke said. “That'll double our chances of success. And once we've found out what we need to know, we'll come back here and decide how to get them all.”

“Do not take too long doing this, Smoke Jensen,” Standing Rock warned. “My patience is almost gone. I feel the need to kill my enemies.”

“I've got a hunch that it won't be much longer before you get the chance,” Smoke said.

Matt left the Assiniboine camp and headed for the settlement first. Smoke would follow an hour later. Since they weren't brothers by blood, no one in town would notice any family resemblance between them. They could pretend to be complete strangers and pull that off without any trouble.

Standing Rock hadn't been able to tell them what the name of the town was. Matt was a little curious about that as he rode in a short time later. He kept his eyes open for Preacher, but he didn't really expect to see the old mountain man walking down the street. Preacher would have returned to the camp in the canyon as planned if he was able to.

“Hey, young fella! New in town?”

Matt wasn't sure the greeting was directed at him. He turned his head and looked toward the boardwalk. The man who stood there was a burly gent with a derby hat shoved down on his head. A red handlebar mustache adorned his upper lip and gave him a distinctive appearance. He grinned and motioned toward Matt.

“Are you talking to me, mister?” Matt asked as he nudged the stallion over to the side of the street.

“Come on inside and have a drink,” the man invited as he waved a hand toward the bat-winged entrance of the saloon in front of which he stood. The Emerald Palace Saloon, Matt noted as he glanced at the sign hanging over the boardwalk. The man continued, “The coldest beer between here and Montana!” He dropped an eyelid in an exaggerated wink. “And the prettiest girls, too!”

Both of those things sounded appealing to Matt, especially after a week on the trail, but he was here to do a job, he reminded himself. He had find out what had happened to Preacher, and if he could locate Wildflower and Little Hawk while he was doing that, so much the better.

On the other hand, he thought, a saloon was often one of the best sources of information in a town.

“Come on,” the man with the handlebar mustache prodded. “A young fella like you is bound to have plenty of wild oats that still need sowing!”

“You're right about that, mister,” Matt said as he reached a decision. He put a big grin on his face so he would look more like a callow, eager youngster who was no threat to anybody except maybe himself. He swung down from the saddle and tied up the stallion at the hitch rail in front of the saloon.

As he stepped up onto the boardwalk, the man slapped him on the back and said, “Archibald Ingersoll's the name, son, and this is my place. Go right in there and tell the bartender to set up your first drink on the house. Don't worry; it's our policy here at the Emerald Palace.”

“I'm much obliged, Mr. Ingersoll.”

“And your name is . . . ?”

“Matt Stevens, sir.”

He didn't know if there was any need to use a fake name, but it couldn't hurt anything. His name wasn't as well known as Smoke's, but there might be somebody in this settlement who had heard of Matt Jensen and would wonder why he was here. No point in arousing anybody's curiosity when he didn't have to.

“Well, I'm pleased to meet you, Matt,” Ingersoll said, catching hold of Matt's hand and pumping it enthusiastically. “Hope you'll stay around for a while. Hammerhead needs all the solid citizens it can get.”

“Hammerhead? That's the name of this settlement?”

“That it is. So dubbed by our founder, the illustrious Colonel Hudson Ritchie.”

That would be the Colonel Preacher had mentioned. Ingersoll seemed eager to talk, so Matt postponed going into the saloon for a moment and said, “This Colonel Ritchie, he's in the army?”

“He was. A highly decorated cavalry commander in the Union forces during the Late Unpleasantness. I don't take sides in that dispute, by the way. It's over, so I say live and let live, and besides, a good businessman can't afford to make enemies of potentially half his customers, can he?”

“I suppose not. I've never run a business.”

“I can tell that by looking at you, son,” Ingersoll said. “You're an adventurer; anyone can see that, a bold young cavalier in search of romance and excitement.”

This fella sure was in love with the sound of his own voice, thought Matt. But as long as Ingersoll was willing to talk, he was willing to listen.

“So the Colonel's not a military man anymore?”

“Well, once a soldier, always a soldier, I suppose,” the saloonkeeper said. “But Colonel Ritchie's a businessman now. He started this town, and he's going to bring in the railroad. The basin's going to boom, son, mark my words!”

“Yes, sir, I don't doubt it. The Colonel sounds like a good man to hitch a wagon to. You think maybe he's hiring?”

For the first time since Matt had met the man, a shadow passed over Ingersoll's face. His eyes took Matt in, head to foot, and he said, “You don't really look like a carpenter or a blacksmith or anything like that. Do you have a trade, Matt?”

Matt shrugged and hooked his thumbs in his gun belt.

“You could say that. It's not hammering nails or shoeing horses, though.”

“I don't know. You'd have to talk to a fellow named Randall. He's the Colonel's second-in-command, I guess you could say. Wouldn't surprise me to find out that they rode together during the war, but I don't know that for a fact.”

“Where would I find him?”

Ingersoll inclined his head toward the bat wings and said, “He's in there playing billiards. Just got the table in this week, in fact.” He paused, then added, “Walk easy around Randall, my young friend. I wouldn't pretend to know the reason, but he's been a mite on edge the past week or so. Might be from that bullet graze on his arm.”

That told Matt probably more than Ingersoll intended for it to. It had been about a week since Preacher had ridden into Hammerhead and promptly disappeared. Randall worked for the Colonel, he had a wounded arm, and he'd been edgy for the past week. All that added up to one thing as far as Matt could see.

Preacher had swapped lead with this fella Randall before he'd gone missing. Randall was still alive, so that meant . . .

Matt's jaw tightened. He refused to believe that Preacher was dead. It was hard enough to believe that the old-timer might have come out second-best in a gunfight. Even at his advanced age, Preacher was slicker on the draw than nine out often men he might run up against.

But there was always that tenth man to consider, and Randall might be him.

“Are you all right, Matt?” Ingersoll asked, breaking into Matt's grim thoughts. “For a second there, you looked like . . . well, you looked like you were ready to kill somebody.”

Matt forced that carefree grin back onto his face.

“Me? Nah, I'm fine, Mr. Ingersoll. Just a mite thirsty for that beer you mentioned, that's all, I reckon.”

“Then by all means go ahead and get it, son. Remember, first drink's on the house in the Emerald Palace.” He winked again. “But only for special customers, you understand.”

Matt didn't figure he was all that special, but he didn't contradict the saloonkeeper. He gave Ingersoll a friendly nod, stepped over to the bat wings, and pushed through them into the barroom.

It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside the saloon after being in the bright afternoon sunlight outside, but he heard the click of billiard balls right away and looked in that direction. As his vision sharpened, he saw the felt-covered table in the rear corner of the room, next to a small stage that was empty at the moment. A big man stood alone next to the table, chalking a cue stick. He had pushed his hat back off his head so that it hung from its chin strap around his strong, thick neck. A bulky area under his left shirtsleeve showed where he had a bandage wrapped around his upper arm.

Yep, that had to be Randall, all right. The glare on his face was added proof.

Matt didn't want to pay too much attention to Randall right away, so he turned and ambled over to the bar. When the bartender came up, Matt said, “I'll have a beer, and the fella outside said to set it up on the house.”

“Of course, he did,” the bartender said with a sigh. “A dozen times a day, he gladhands somebody in here with the promise of a free drink. I suppose that as long as he can pay my wages, though, I shouldn't complain.”

The man filled a mug with beer and set it in front of Matt, who picked it up and took a long swallow. It wasn't exactly cold, as Ingersoll had claimed, but it was pleasantly cool and had a smooth taste to it. Matt nodded in appreciation.

“When I finish this one, you can draw me another,” he told the bartender.

“You're getting a second one and paying for it? Will wonders never cease!”

Matt chuckled at the acid-tongued bartender. He supposed a man in that line of work saw more than enough to make him cynical.

He turned, resting his right elbow on the bar so that his hand hung fairly close to the butt of the Colt on his hip, while he held the beer mug in his left hand and sipped from it. It was a casual stance, the sort that any man might adopt while enjoying a cool beer on a warm afternoon. But the important thing was that it allowed him to keep an eye on everybody in the saloon except for the bartender.

There were a couple of dozen customers at the moment. Matt's eyes flicked over them, quickly cataloging them. He could pick out the regular townspeople—the clerks, the laborers, the men who owned small businesses—without much trouble.

But there were half a dozen other men, lean, hard-eyed, roughly dressed for the most part. Matt had run into their sort many times in the past, despite his relative youth. He knew he was looking at gunmen, more than likely hired killers who would take any job if the price was right.

Randall fell into that same category. Matt thought it was likely all those men worked for the Colonel, and Randall was the crew's ramrod.

Randall or one of those other men might have killed Preacher, Matt thought. At the very least, they probably knew what had happened to the old mountain man.

That was the information Matt needed to find out. Once he did . . .

Then if there was a score to be settled, he could get started on the settling up.

Finished chalking the cue stick, Randall lined up a shot at one of the balls scattered on the table and sunk it. He moved around to study his next shot. As he did, footsteps sounded on the stairs that led to the second floor. Matt glanced in that direction and saw a man descending. He was sandy-haired, with a pinched, ugly face that was flushed red at the moment. It was clear from the man's face and the slight unsteadiness of his movements that he was drunk.

Randall wasn't paying any attention to the newcomer. As the man reached the bottom of the stairs, he slipped his gun from its holster. Randall's back was turned toward him as he drew.

Matt had seen enough ambushes to know what was about to happen. The newcomer yelled, “All right, Randall, time to pay up for Dwyer!” and thrust his gun out in front of him, ready to commit murder.