Novel 1955 - Heller With A Gun (v5.0) (8 page)

Chapter 11

J
ANICE AWAKENED SUDDENLY with Dodie's hand upon her shoulder. Outside she could hear a confused sound of voices, and the air was cool inside the wagon. They were, she remembered, almost out of fuel.

“We've stopped,” Dodie whispered.

Janice lay still, staring up into the half-light inside the wagon, facing the fact that they were still trapped.

There was no longer any food in the wagon, and their only water had been from snow scraped off the roof by opening the window and reaching an arm through to the top. As the small window was close under the eaves, it was simple enough. Yet it was little water for three women.

From the sound of the hoarse breathing from the opposite bunk, Janice knew that Maggie was no better. If anything, she sounded worse.

T
HE DECISION TO move had been Barker's. Once he had assurance that Mabry was dead, they had begun the backbreaking job of getting the wagons out of the Hole.

It had been a brutal job, digging out around the wagons, then cutting through the snowdrift and packing down snow to get the wagons out. And they had to use both teams on each wagon to get them out of the hollow. Once they were on open ground, the move had gone well, until those startling and unexplained shots from nowhere.

Yet no attack followed…only silence.

“If that was Healy,” Boyle said, “he'll starve out there. Or he'll get careless and come too close.”

“Mabry wouldn't have wasted his lead,” Barker said thoughtfully. “He'd shoot to kill.”

“Mabry's dead,” Griffin repeated patiently.

Boyle looked up, sneering.

Griffin's feet moved apart, his eyes widened a little, and with his left hand he slowly unbuttoned his coat.

Boyle's eyes held on Griffin's. The sly egotism of the man had been jolted. His face turned a sickly gray and his fear was almost tangible.

Suddenly alert, Barker turned on Griffin. “Grif,” he said quickly, “did you see any Indian tracks?”

Griffin let his eyes hold Boyle's. “Couple of times. Six in a bunch once. All bucks.”

Art Boyle sat very quiet. The slightest wrong move or word could force him to grab for his gun…and it was obvious that he could not beat Griffin.

Sullenly Barker sat his saddle and reviewed the situation, liking none of it. Tom Healy had, somewhere in these wagons, fifteen thousand in gold, the money he was carrying to Maguire, or so his informant in the bank had told him. To get that money had seemed very simple.

Barker had wanted to go back to that little group of towns, Bannock, Alder Gulch, and Virginia City. Some years had passed and most of the old vigilante crowd had gone away. If anybody remained who knew he had been one of the Plummer crowd, nobody could prove it. Moreover, old passions had died, and the vigilante crowd would not be so eager to move against a man for old crimes.

It had seemed a simple thing to take the Healy party out, kill the men, enjoy the women, and then burn the wagons and bury the bodies, moving on to the old mining camps at the Gulch.

A traveling show was always moving anyway, and nobody would be surprised that they were gone. It was probable that months would pass before any inquiries could be made. And he could always say they paid him off and went their own way.

Once established back in the Gulch, he could open a saloon, or buy one, and slowly rebuild some of the old gang. The mines were slowing down, and there would be less people to rob, but less danger, also.

The first flaw in the picture had been the arrival of King Mabry.

Not even Boyle knew that Barker himself was a gunman, but good as he was, Barker was not sure he could beat King Mabry, nor had he any urge to try. He was looking for the sure things, and robbing Healy had seemed without risk.

Yet his entire plan demanded that it be done without leaving witnesses. Travelers took the old Bozeman Trail to Montana up the valley of the Powder, or went west along the trail from Fort Laramie to Salt Lake if they were bound for California. The overland route that he had chosen to take them to Alder Gulch would ordinarily be deserted…and then his plans went awry at the discovery of the hoof tracks.

Suspecting that somehow Mabry had missed them and gone on through the Hole-in-the-Wall, Barker had waited for Griffin to accomplish his mission. And the wild country beyond the Wall was the ideal place for what he planned to do.

Already a few outlaws were beginning to use that country as a haven, and a man who intended to kill three women had better be sure it was not known.

Then everything had gone wrong at once. The unexpected gun in the girls' wagon, then the escape of Healy. Unable to find the money in Healy's wagon, Barker became sure it was in the wagon with the girls.

With the wagons hauled away from the trail through the Hole and hidden away up Red Creek Canyon, with Mabry dead and Healy probably dying, they could act. They would destroy the wagons, scatter the ashes. And as for the girls…in a few days they could kill them, too.

Barker was a cold-blooded, matter-of-fact man. Plummer's final failure at the Gulch and Virginia City had been a warning. And even while the first vigilante hanging, that of George Ives, was in progress, Barker had taken a quick road out of the country.

And in the years that followed he had guarded himself well, and worked always with care. He wanted to take no chances. He had seen what had happened in Virginia City when almost to a man his old comrades had been wiped out. A Western community might stand for a lot, but when it drew a line, it was drawn hard and fast and certain.

Until the girls had been molested, there was always a retreat, but that was the point of no return. The killing of Doc Guilford could be alibied. Doc had a gun, and he had drawn it; Wycoff had been wounded. Even the girls and Healy must admit that. So there was still a way out.

The sudden shots from the hilltop angered and frightened him.

Healy was alive and he had a weapon. And until Healy was certainly dead, they dared not proceed with the rest of the plan. There must be none to report what had happened. And when he thought that, Barker was also thinking of Griffin.

The first order of business was to hunt down Healy and kill him. He said as much.

“That's your business,” Griffin told him. “You go ahead with it.”

“What's that mean?”

“I've done my job. I've no part of this.” He paused briefly. “And I'm not asking any share.”

Barker hesitated. That was true enough, and somebody must guard the wagons.

“All right, Boyle can come with me. Two of us should be enough.”

J
ANICE WATCHED THE men saddling their horses. Griffin was remaining behind, but what could Griffin do with Wycoff still around? And there was something about the sullen brutality of Wycoff that she feared even more than Barker.

Gently she touched Maggie's brow. It was so hot that she was frightened.

Dodie saw her expression. “We've got to get help for her,” Dodie said. “We've got to get out. She should have some warm soup.”

Now, with Griffin here, they might get help. The man was a killer, she knew. Yet she had heard of men of his kind. She had seen the killing fury that obsessed such men, but even the worst men in the West might respect a good woman. This must be true of Griffin. It had to be true.

Standing at the door, she watched the riders go back down the trail the way they had come. From her bed she picked up the gun.

“I'll go.” Dodie got up quickly. “You stand by the door with the gun.”

“Don't get out of sight.”

The sound of the opening door turned both men. Janice saw the sudden shine of animal fever in Wycoff's eyes. He took a half step forward.

Janice stepped into the doorway, holding the gun in plain sight. “Mr. Griffin, we've a sick woman in here. She needs warm food, and I'm afraid she has pneumonia.”

Griffin's lean face was grave. He looked at her out of gray, cold eyes and nodded. “Of course. We'll make her some broth.”

Wycoff said something under his breath and Griffin turned on him sharply. From Wycoff's reaction, Janice knew that whatever Griffin had said angered him.

Griffin turned back to her, but kept his eyes on Wycoff as he spoke. “Wait,” he said. “I'll make the soup.”

“I can make it.” Dodie stepped past Janice, a small kettle in her hand. “If you'll give me what I need.”

Wycoff backed off a step, watching Dodie. He glanced from her to Griffin and touched his tongue to his lips. When he glanced at the wagon Janice held her gun on him. He backed up and sat down.

Dodie went to the fire, accepted meat and barley from Griffin, and went to work. From time to time she glanced at Wycoff.

Janice saw that the teamster was staring hungrily at Dodie as she worked, but the threat of the gun in the doorway held him back. And Dodie was careful never to come between the gun and Wycoff. She worked swiftly, but with no lost motion.

When the soup was ready, Griffin gestured at the coffeepot. “Take that, too. You and Miss Ryan could use some coffee, I expect.”

Janice saw Wycoff get to his feet and turn away. He walked slowly, and Griffin turned instantly to watch him. Wycoff's right hand was carried a little high, his elbow bent. Griffin's lips thinned down.

“Try it,” he said. “I'll kill you if you do.”

Wycoff turned carefully, letting his arm straighten. When he completed his turn he was smiling. “Sure. I can wait.” He walked back to the fire and sat down. “Don't know Barker very well, do you?” He nodded toward Griffin's gun. “He's better with one of those than you are. He's better, maybe, than Mabry. Seen him at Rattlesnake Ranch, where the Plummer gang used to hang out. Plummer could beat him, but not all the time. I seen him empty a gun into a post in no more'n a second.”

“Did the post have a gun?”

Wycoff's lips thinned down at the retort, but he made no further comment.

Dodie hurried back to the wagon then and Janice closed the door.

Dodie fed Maggie her soup. The older woman was conscious and seemed aware of their surroundings. She looked up at Dodie. “Are we still here?”

“Yes.”

“I wish that man with the guns would show up. I had faith in him.”

“Yes.” Dodie looked at Janice. “I think he was in love with you.”

“Oh, no!” she protested.

“If you had asked him, he would have come with us.”

“Did you ask him?”

“He wouldn't have come for me,” Dodie said quietly, “but if he had asked me, I would have gone with him.”

“But he's a killer!”

“I wish we had him here now,” Dodie said. “I wish we did.”

Suppose, Janice thought, she had asked him? It was too late to think of that now and there had been no reason to ask him, only…she knew that Tom had secretly wanted him to come, respecting his experience. Yet if what Griffin had said was true, he must have followed them.

“I scarcely talked to him!” she said.

“I didn't talk to him at all,” Dodie replied quietly. “But I would have gone with him.”

Dodie had made enough soup for all three, and now Janice and Dodie took their plates and began to eat. Janice was thinking back to the moment when she had first seen Mabry in the stage station, how her step had faltered, and how he glanced at her quickly, and then went on by, a big, brown-faced man with wide shoulders. Not really good-looking, but strong, so very strong. Her face flushed a little at the thought. She couldn't recall ever before having seen a man who was so—so
male
.

Yet it was not only that. There was a thoughtfulness in him, a consideration for others, a sense of delicacy. He had hesitated to join them at the table, and only when they insisted had he come.

What
was
love, anyway? Who could say how it happened? Did it come only of long association? Or did it come quickly, sharply, like a pain or a shaft of sunlight through clouds?

“I think,” Dodie said quietly, “you're in love with him, too!”

Chapter 12

K
ING MABRY OPENED his eyes to the shadowed light of late evening. Turning on his side, he glanced around. Healy was gone.

The room was cool, the fire burned down to coals, glowing here and there.

Mabry eased himself out of bed and tried his strength by standing. Shakily he moved to the fireplace. There was wood in the bin, and he built up the fire. Obviously Healy had been gone for some time.

When the fire was blazing again he looked around, found the coffeepot, and put it on the fire with fresh coffee. Surprisingly, despite his weakness, he felt good.

After examining his wounds, he dressed, taking his time and stopping to rest. He was very thirsty and he drank several gourds of water. When the coffee was ready he filled a cup and drank it, black and scalding.

Healy had been gone too long. Mabry belted on his remaining gun and banked the fire carefully. He was restless from confinement but knew his strength would allow only limited movement.

He got into his coat and opened the door, inhaling deeply of the crisp, cold air. It was like drinking deep of a thinner, colder, purer water.

Outside was snow, only snow. Healy's tracks led around the house and he easily picked out the most recent ones. He started to follow, then pulled up short.

Four Indians had stopped their horses on the slope near the barn and were looking toward the house. All were young, and they looked mean and tough.

Mabry remained where he was, at the corner of the house. Three of the Indians had Winchesters and he had only his .44, but there was a slit inside his buffalo-coat pocket that enabled him to reach through and draw the gun under cover of the coat.

The Indians were wrapped in moth-eaten blankets and two wore old government-issue Army jackets. They started down the slope, but one hung back, arguing angrily.

One dismounted and started for the door of the barn, and Mabry knew it was time to make a move or lose a horse. He stepped past the corner of the house and loosened the loops around the buttons of his coat with his left hand. He had taken three steps before they saw him.

“How,” Mabry said, and waited.

These were renegade Sioux, and if trouble started they would be tough to handle. The Indian who had hung back he discounted. This Indian was older, his blanket looked better, and he had a shrewd look about him.

“Where squaw?” The Indian on the ground spoke first.

“No squaw,” Mabry said. “Just one horse and one gun.”

One of the mounted Indians grunted and the one on the ground started to open the barn door.

“Lay off that!” Mabry started forward quickly, and as he moved the mounted Indian lifted his rifle. Turning on the ball of his foot, Mabry shot through the opening of his coat, and the Indian let go of his rifle and fell forward over his horse's neck and into the snow.

The unexpectedness of it stopped them. They had seen no gun, and the white man seemed to be alone. They looked from the dead Indian to Mabry, and there was a smell of gun smoke in the air.

Then the Indian who had not wanted trouble turned his pony and started to ride away. The remaining mounted man started to follow, but the Indian on the ground started to pick up the fallen Winchester. As he reached for it, a bullet kicked up snow in his face and a rifle report slapped hard against the hills.

“Leave that!” Mabry shouted. “Get going!”

The Sioux said something bitter and swung to his pony's back. He turned the pony, and, his face dark with anger, he shouted at Mabry again.

When they were out of sight, Mabry crossed to the Winchester and picked it up. It was newer than his own, and carved into the stock were the initials H.S. Stolen from some white man, or taken from a body.

Tom Healy came down off the ridge with the rifle in his hands. “Thought I'd let 'em know you weren't alone.”

“Good man.”

“Those Indians are heading right for the wagons,” Healy said anxiously. “And there's more of them close by.”

The Indian pony stood a few yards away, near the dead brave. They had not even offered to carry him away, which was additional evidence that they were renegades, outlawed by the tribe, probably, as well as by the whites.

The pony had an old brand on his shoulder, and he shied slightly when Mabry walked to him. “Ride this one,” he said. “I'll saddle up.”

His head was aching with a dull, persistent throb, and his side bothered him, but he felt good. Yet he would have little endurance…that he must remember.

They were astride the horses and moving when the first shot sounded. It was over in the woods to the east of them, and it was followed by an outburst of firing. Swinging his horse, Mabry put the black down the trail at a hard run.

Just as he cleared the crest he heard another burst of firing, then a scream.

The two vans were drawn up as Healy had said, but now a man lay sprawled over a log, his head split open and his skull showing the raw red wound where a scalp had been jerked free.

The three Indians who had ridden from the cabin had been joined by four others. Three of them struggled with Janice at the door of the van. A white man lying on the ground tried to lift himself for a shot, but an Indian fired first and the man was slammed back to the earth.

From within the van there was a heavy report. Ignoring the Indians fighting with Janice, Mabry dropped to one knee as he slid from his horse. He took a careful breath, let it out, and squeezed off his shot.

An Indian sprang suddenly forward. His body slammed hard against the side of the van, then fell back. Instantly Mabry shifted his rifle to another Indian and fired.

One of those near Janice sprang away and grabbed at his rifle, which lay against a log. Healy shot and the Indian stumbled, then started forward again.

But Healy had shot from the back of his horse and now the pony went charging down the hill into the middle of the wild scramble around the vans.

Mabry grabbed at the pommel as the black started, felt a tearing pain in his wounded side, and then was in the saddle and riding low like an Indian.

Three Sioux were down and the others running. One took a snap shot and Mabry heard the sound of the bullet. He fired across the saddle, holding his rifle with one hand. Then he fired again, and the Indian went down.

He swung the black and looked back at the vans. Healy was on the ground and fighting with an Indian. Dodie had come out of the wagon with a Colt in her hand, but Janice had been thrown across a pony and an Indian was mounted behind her.

The black was rested and corn-fed. Moreover, he liked to run. Mabry jumped him into a lunging run, angling across the course of the Sioux. As Mabry came up on him the Sioux threw Janice from him into a drift and swung to meet Mabry. As they came abreast, the lean, savage-faced Indian threw himself from his horse and hit Mabry. They went off the running horse into the snow.

The Sioux struck viciously with his knife but the blade caught in Mabry's buffalo coat. Mabry caught the Indian's greasy hair and jerked his face down to meet the upward smash of Mabry's skull in the crushing “Liverpool kiss” known to water-front and rough-and-tumble fighters. The brave fell back, his face streaming blood from a broken nose and smashed lips.

Heedless of the knife, Mabry swung. It was a wide swing and should not have landed, but it did. The Sioux went down, rolled over, and came up, his face a smear of blood. He threw himself at Mabry, his knife held low, cutting edge up. Mabry slapped the knife wrist aside to deflect the point, then caught the arm and threw the Indian over his hip, breaking his arm.

The brave hit hard but came up again, his knife arm askew, and grabbed for his fallen rifle. Mabry shot him from the hip with his .44 and the Indian stumbled three steps forward and slid on his face in the snow.

Janice was on her knees, hair fallen around her shoulders, her face haggard, her dress ripped.

His heart pounding wildly, Mabry spun around, his gun ready to chop down any further attackers. But what Indians remained alive were gone.

He walked over and dropped beside Janice. With a ragged sob, she fell into his arms. He held her, looking past her to the wagons.

Dodie stood near them, shading her eyes toward them. Slow smoke lifted from the fire. There was the quiet of a fading winter afternoon, crisp and cold. The sky was gray, with only the dark line of crouching trees to offer relief.

Singularly, nowhere was there violence. It had come, smashing with its sudden horror, and then was gone. Gently Mabry lifted the sobbing girl to her feet.

Walking slowly to his horse, he retrieved his rifle from the snow. He could feel the wetness of blood inside his clothes, and the ache in his head beat heavily.

At the wagons Dodie waited for them. Her face was white and still. “There were seven,” she said. “They took the horses.”

Two Indians lay near the wagons. One of them sprawled at the foot of the step to the door. Mabry glanced at the body. This Indian had been shot at point-blank range and his chest was covered with powder burns. Mabry glanced thoughtfully at Dodie, who still held the Colt.

The man with his head split open was Wycoff. The other man was Griffin. He was fairly riddled with bullets.

“He killed another one, I think,” Dodie said, “up under the trees. They came so suddenly, we—”

“I know,” Mabry said. “Get what food there is. We've got to get away from here. They'll be back.”

“After
that
?” Healy asked.

“These were renegades, without squaws. They'll be back.”

Janice straightened, drawing away from him. With one hand she pushed her hair back. “I'm sorry,” she said. “I…It was just…”

“Don't think about it. Get ready to move.”

He walked to the Indian at the step and, taking him by the heel, dragged him away. His blood made a red streak on the trampled snow and Janice turned her face away.

Slowly, holding an elbow against his bad side, Mabry picked up the scattered weapons. Two Indian rifles and the rifle Wycoff had carried. Griffin's horse and rifle were gone, but Mabry unbuckled the cartridge belt and took the Colt. The Indian pony that Healy had ridden was gone too.

“We
can't
go,” Janice protested. “Maggie's sick. She's very sick.”

“I'm sorry.” Mabry's voice was harsh from his own pain. “She'll have to go. We can't defend this place. We surprised them once. Next time they won't be surprised.”

Tom Healy came up quietly and took Janice by the arm. “You get the food. I'll help Dodie with Maggie.”

Janice hesitated. “You can't bring her out like this! You can't let her see those—those bodies.”

Mabry turned impatiently. Every minute counted and his own weakness was growing. There was at least a chance at the cabin, which was strong and well built.

“She'll have to stand it,” he replied sharply. “I haven't time to conduct a funeral. Get her wrapped up and let's get going!”

Janice stared at him, her eyes revealing her contempt. She turned abruptly away.

Mabry looked to the hills. He felt sick and empty. He knew there were more Indians around. And he knew they would be coming back.

They would be coming back, and they were just two men, with three women, one too ill to travel.