Novel 1968 - Brionne (v5.0) (4 page)

“Yes,” the boy whispered.

“All right then. We are going down this alley and we are going to get back to the station and on the train. If they are wanting to shoot us, they will try to do it here, where nobody will be able to guess who did it. So we’ll be very careful.”

It would not be so bad, he reflected, if it were not for the boy. With no one to worry about but himself, he might have stalked whoever it was who had shot at him, and discovered what lay behind it. As it was, the sooner he got back to the comparative safety of the train, the better.

Skirting some barrels filled with garbage, Brionne found his way into the alley. There he hesitated, waiting to study the shadows. After a moment he started along, keeping to the deepest shadows, listening for the slightest sound. They made it to the back street.

Light from several open doors made rectangles in the darkness. His eyes had become accustomed to the darkness, and he studied the shadows. Crouching beside Mat, he whispered, “It’s the doorways and the shadows we have to watch, Mat. Keep a lookout for movement. Many a time you will see nothing until something moves.”

Diagonally across the street was another alley that led toward the tracks. From where he crouched Brionne could hear the heavy panting of the engine, and the occasional calls of the men working along the platform. It must be almost train time.

By now they knew he had left the restaurant by the rear door. If they were hunting him, they would be checking every route back to the station, and they were few. So far he had moved by the most direct way, and from this spot the most direct route was across the street into that alley…so they would not take it.

Quietly, his lips close to Mat’s ear, he explained his reasoning. The boy was young, but the world does not always wait for the young to learn, and to Brionne’s way of thinking no time was too soon.

Deliberately, he turned away from the street and worked his way with infinite care through the debris scattered back of the buildings. There were cans, bottles, old lumber, with here and there a fence to be crossed.

They came suddenly to the back door of a honky-tonk, and Brionne stepped up and opened the door. For an instant he stood there, studying the room.

Several card tables were busy, and there were half a dozen bartenders, although the evening was young. A red-skirted dance-hall girl with tawdry frills stood with her back to them.

And by the front window, with his back to them, was the man from the Southern Hotel. He was watching the street intently.

Brionne walked through the crowded room, still holding Mat by the hand. Just as he came up behind the man at the window, the latter started to turn. Brionne’s gun slid into his hand and the muzzle nudged the man in the back. The fellow looked around, his face sick with surprise when he saw who was behind him.

“Going back to the train?” Brionne’s tone was polite. “This is a rough town. Maybe if we walked along together there would be less chance of trouble.”

The man started to protest. “Now, see here!”

“Just start walking,” Brionne said. “I have been shot at once tonight, and if anybody is going to try it again, we’ll let them shoot at both of us.”

Slowly, the man edged toward the door, then stepped out. “I am a dead shot, my friend,” Brionne said, “so walk carefully. If you stumbled I might make a mistake and shoot you.”

Scarcely a head turned as they left. Brionne’s gun was held close, invisible to the eyes of those who glanced their way. Their slow parade down the center of the street and back to the train was not interrupted. At the train, Brionne said, “Turn around, my friend. I want to thank you for escorting my son and myself. There is no telling what might have happened without you along for company. I wonder who could be wanting to shoot me? Have you any ideas?”

“How should I know?”

The conductor came hurrying toward them, but hesitated when he saw Brionne. “Better get aboard, gentlemen. We are leaving in a few minutes.”

“Is everyone aboard?” Brionne asked.

“Well…almost. There’s been some delay, but I’m sure they’ll all get here.”

“Is it the gentlemen in the baggage car? Are they the ones who are late?”

“Well, now…”

“Let’s just have a quick check. You first, conductor.”

It took them a minute to walk through the two cars. No one was missing. Dutton Mowry, already slumped in his seat prepared for sleep, eyed them curiously as they walked down the car.

“No one missing,” Brionne commented pleasantly, “so there’s nothing to keep us, is there, conductor? Suppose you give them the high-ball?”

“Now, just a minute!” The conductor’s protest was silenced when he saw the gun.

“Give them the signal, conductor, and if there are any complaints, I will stand responsible. I am Major James Brionne, and I think you will find your superiors will know me.”

“Well, if you put it that way, I—”

“I
have
put it that way, conductor. We have delayed too long.”

Reluctantly, the conductor stepped down and gave the signal. The whistle tooted and the cars jangled as the engine took up the slack. From the direction of town Brionne saw several dark figures sprinting toward the station. The conductor saw them, too.

“Too bad,” Brionne said pleasantly. “They’re going to be late.”

The train started to move, rolled a bit faster, the whistle blew again. Under the train the rail ends began to clack and the cars creaked.

The men shouted, but the train continued to roll. Brionne lifted a hand and waved.

“Conductor, you may know this man.” Brionne indicated his prisoner. “If you do, please persuade him that I wish to be left alone. I have no axes to grind, but I have no desire to be shot at. The next time shooting starts, if he is in the vicinity, I shall shoot him first.”

“I don’t want any trouble on my train,” the conductor protested.

“And neither do I. My son and I are coming west because we love peace…and quiet.

“As for you, conductor, I imagine you will be very busy thinking up explanations to cover your rather peculiar association with those gentlemen back there, and to show why their horses are in the baggage car.”

He indicated the door, and they entered the coach. The conductor and the other man walked forward; Brionne dropped into the seat beside Mat.

“Pa, were those men back there the ones who shot at you?”

“It’s a reasonable assumption, Mat.”

“But why?”

Brionne shrugged. “Mistaken identity perhaps. Or they might think I am doing some investigation for the government. There are people who know that I am close to Grant, and there have been some people who are stealing from the government, who may think that I am coming out to uncover their crimes.…

“Being shot at is distasteful,” he added. “I hope we shall have no more of it, whatever the cause.”

“What will those men do?” Mat asked.

“Catch the next train, I suppose. Now you’d better get some sleep. We have a long ride ahead.”

P
ROMONTORY WAS A row of weather-beaten shacks and tents facing the railroad. A sign proclaimed PACIFIC HOTEL: Soda Water. Next door was the Echo Bakery & Restaurant, Meals At All Hours. Further along were the Palace Saloon and the Sunny Side Hotel, which was a tent.

“We won’t stay here,” Brionne said.

Dutton Mowry came up and paused beside them. “You huntin’ a horse? That there livery stable yonder usually has some good stock. I’m headin’ thataway.”

They walked along together. The street was dusty and crowded. Dozens of horses stood at the hitching rails in front of the saloons and hotels. There were many idlers, but there were few women.

The hostler looked up as they drew near. He threw a hard glance at Mowry. “You back again? Never did see a man who did so much runnin’ around.”

Mowry grinned at him. “Don’t worry, Pat. I’m fixin’ to light. I need a horse. So do these folks—and Pat, they’re friends of mine.”

Pat got up and led them back into the corral. Brionne walked out and the horses started to move. He watched them for a minute. “That all you’ve got?”

“Well,” Pat said, “you can’t ride more’n one at a time, can you? Yep, that’s the lot.”

“All right, I’ll take the buckskin gelding with the black mane and the little dun.”

Brionne had been watching the horses, and his son as well. He had seen how Mat’s eyes singled out the dun, and how the boy unconsciously moved toward the horse. The dun, far from being shy, pricked up its ears at the boy and stretched an inquisitive nose toward him.

Brionne also chose two sturdy-looking older horses for pack animals.

“What d’you want for the roan?” Mowry asked. “The big one?”

When they were back indoors and the deals were completed, Brionne looked across the desk at Pat. “And you forget you saw me, will you?” he said. “And anything else about me.”

Pat gave him a surprised look. “You on the dodge? You sure don’t look it.”

“He ain’t on the dodge,” Mowry said, “you take it from me, but there’s likely some folks comin’ in on the train tomorrow who will be askin’ questions.”

“I don’t know anything about you,” Pat agreed. “I ain’t seen nor heard of you.”

They started back up the street, leaving the horses at the stable. At the nearest store Brionne bought a few items—some ammunition, bacon, flour, coffee, sugar, and canned goods, enough for several days. After packing it back to the livery stable he came back and at a second store bought another order of equal size.

He had stepped out on the street when he saw Miranda Loften. She was standing a few yards away, and two men stood in front of her. It was obvious that they had stopped her, and it was equally obvious that they had been drinking.

Brionne swung the two heavy sacks to the boardwalk. “Watch these, Mat. I will be right back.”

He strolled up to where the girl was confronted by the two men. “Sorry to keep you waiting,” he said gently, and taking her by the elbow, started away.

The men automatically stepped aside, and then one of them, more belligerent than the other, suddenly seized Brionne’s arm. “Now, see here! What the—”

“Take your hand off my arm.” Brionne spoke coolly, but the words were definite, and clearly spoken.

“Look, I was talkin’ to that woman, an’—”

“The
lady
of whom you speak does not know you. In your present condition she does not wish to know you. I will tell you once more, my friend, take your hand off my arm.”

Anger flared in the drunken man’s eyes. “I’ll be damned if—”

James Brionne, as those who knew him were aware, operated on an extremely short fuse. He brushed the arm away with his left hand, then crossed a solid right to the jaw. The punch was short, beautifully thrown, and it caught the correct angle of the man’s jaw. He hit the ground, falling forward, as a man does when knocked out by such a blow.

Brionne looked across the fallen man, and said pleasantly, but with a cold look in his eyes, “Any comments? Would you like to make it two down?”

Suddenly sober, the other man shook his head. “Not me, mister. But when he wakes up you’d better be wearin’ a gun.”

“Tell him to forget it,” Brionne replied. “If he had put a hand on this lady I’d have seen him hung…and you also. I would resent it if anyone disturbed this lady in any way, now or later. Do you understand?”

The man was flushing. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I reckon me an’ Pete made a mistake.” He gave Brionne a hard stare. “It ain’t because of you, mister. We really did make a mistake.”

Taking Miranda by the elbow, Brionne guided her down the street. “That man…you didn’t kill him?” she asked. “He hasn’t moved.”

“He’ll have a headache, that’s all.” He changed the subject. “Miss Loften, what are your plans? Where are you going?”

“I’ll be all right, thank you. I—I just don’t know where to go tonight. I thought there’d be…well, the hotels aren’t like I expected.”

He smiled. “They’re for men, ma’am, and rough men at that. We must find something else for you. Let’s go back and talk to Pat.”

They crossed the street to avoid the group gathered around the man Brionne had hit, and went back to the livery stable.

“Sure’n my own Mary will have a place for you, miss,” Pat said. “She’d not have you go elsewhere. She’s a fine Irish lady, she is, and she will welcome you.”

Brionne studied Miranda. “Miss Loften, permit me to ask, why did you come here in the first place? You do not seem the type of girl likely to come to Promontory.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” she answered. “I have inherited a mine—a silver mine.”

Pat glanced at Brionne. “A silver mine?” he questioned. “Near Promontory?”

“Well, actually it’s south of here. It’s a very rich mine. My uncle told us all about it when he came east the last time, just before my mother died.”

“I know of no silver mine around here,” Pat said. “What might your uncle’s name have been?”

“Brennan…they called him Rody, he told us.”

Pat began to coil a rope, taking his time. Finally he spoke without looking up. “Miss, if you’d take an old man’s advice, you’d get right on the first train east.”

“But that would be foolish,” she said. “Uncle Rody left me the mine. I don’t know much about such things, but I do know something about business affairs, and I thought I’d look it over and decide whether to operate it or sell.”

Brionne was watching Pat, and he was quite sure he knew what was coming. At least, he could guess what Pat was thinking. The West was full of mines; some of them were very rich, but most of them paid off in nothing but dreams and hard work. Everyone you talked to had a mine in mining country, and every one of them worth money…lots of money, or so they believed.

This girl had come west filled with hope, hope it would be cruel to destroy. “Mining is a man’s business,” he said quietly, “and the way business is done out here is not as it is in the East. Sometimes holding a claim is more difficult than finding one.”

She smiled. “I expected you to say that, but Uncle Rody told me all about the mine—how many men he employed, and how many mules there were.”

“Did he say where this mine was?” Pat asked.