Trouble Trail (13 page)

‘Why didn’t he come, don’t he speak English?’

‘Speak it good enough. Medicine say him not come near white man. I go now.’

‘That murdering red devil’s not leaving!’ yelled the man who spoke earlier to Muldoon and his cronies muttered their agreement. ‘We aim to string—’

Which was as far as he got. Muldoon’s huge right hand clamped on to the front of a greasy civilian shirt and jerked its wearer bodily forward.

‘Now don’t be a fool, darlin’,’ warned the sergeant. ‘Sure, I’d hate to be seeing your blood spilled. Look!’

The man looked, gulped and turned pale. Facing him, the Ames knife looking twice as long as a cavalry sabre as it lined on his favourite belly, stood Beau Resin.

‘The chief came here at my word,’ the scout growled. ‘He’s leaving with honour and unharmed.’

‘You’re as bad as h—’ began one of the sullen man’s friends.

His stoppage came as something landed lightly on the toe of his boot. Looking down, he saw the thing to be the lash of Calamity’s whip. The girl stood with legs braced apart, right arm holding the whip handle ready for use.

‘Now all of you back off there,’ she ordered. ‘I aim to start practising whip-cracking right where you’re standing.’

Being well-versed in political agitation, the sullen man knew better than ever place himself in a position of danger; and attempting to harm or impede the departure of the Cheyenne would be dangerous as hell. Turning, he slouched away and his gang followed him, being shepherded by a grim-eyed corporal who knew enough of Indians to respect them and did not intend any murder attempts to be made.

‘You’re free to go now,’ Resin said. ‘This soldier-coat chief will take you through our picket line.’

‘There is no need for them,
Tshaoh
,’ grunted the chief. ‘We do not attack you again.’

‘May as well fetch the boys in then, Dave,’ Resin suggested and it may be said that Grade took the chief at his word.

‘When do we go?’ asked Calamity.

And when her voice took on that note, no amount of arguing would move her. Knowing that, Resin did not even bother to try. Anyway, he reckoned Calamity could handle herself as well as any man on the train.

‘We’ll give him a couple of hours start,’ he said. ‘You, me ‘n’ Muldoon’ll be about enough.’

‘If Muldoon’ll volunteer,’ said Calamity, coiling her whip.

‘I never volunteered for anything in me life, Calam,’ Muldoon replied. ‘So happen Mr. Grade don’t order me to go, I’ll order meself.’

On his return Grade gave permission for Muldoon to accompany the rescue party. Instantly preparations were made. Not plans; Resin, Muldoon and Calamity knew better than try to plan ahead when on such a dangerous and practically impossible mission. When they reached the Cheyenne camp area, they would play the cards as they fell, make any arrangement necessary on the spot and hope that whatever Deity they subscribed to looked with favour on their endeavours.

‘Want to take my bowie knife, Calam?’ Killem asked.

‘I’d as soon tote along a camp-axe,’ she replied with a grin. Instead of the bowie, Calamity borrowed from the cook his highly-prized, seven-inch-bladed spear-pointed and razor-sharp Green River knife strapping its sheath on the left side of her belt. Being shorter and lighter, Calamity could handle the Green River better than the bowie and find it Just as deadly for she knew something of knife-fighters even though she had never tried her hand at it seriously. Calamity figured she could handle the knife well enough for her needs.

‘I’ll use my Appaloosa, like a hoss I know I can trust,’ Resin drawled. ‘So go pick the three best hosses you’ve got Paddy.’

‘Like me life depended on it,’ replied Muldoon cheerfully. ‘Which it does.’

Men moved fast, collecting and saddling the three horses selected as best by Muldoon. None of the party carried rifles, or anything but the bare essentials for they realised that an ounce saved on the horses’ backs might mean the difference between life and death to them.

At last all was ready. Resin ordered everybody to act normally, not to come fussing around, Just in case the Cheyenne had wolf-scouts watching the camp. The horses stood waiting in the darkness and the rescue party made their way to the waiting animals separately.

Eileen and Calamity walked together to the horses. Neither spoke until they arrived. With a catch in her voice, Eileen said:

‘Good luck Calam.’

‘We’ll need it,’ replied Calamity. ‘Eileen, happen we don’t make it back,’

‘Yes?’

‘Tell Molly I tried.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

THEY rode through the darkness, two men and a girl who might not see the dawn of the following day. First Resin led them out of the camp in the opposite direction to the one they must take, swinging in a circle well beyond where any Cheyenne wolf-scouts might be hiding and watching the wagons. Guided by his plainsman’s instinct, Resin brought his party on to the correct line and led them through the night in the direction of Sand Runner’s hidden camp. None of the trio spoke much as they rode, for more than one reason. With the possibility of death in a painful manner close ahead of them, conversation did not come easily. Also all knew how sound carried on the still air of the night and of all sounds, none would be more likely to attract unwelcome Cheyenne attention than that of white folks’ voices.

Holding their horses at an easy pace that retained a reserve of energy in case it should be needed, they rode on. Although Calamity and Muldoon kept their eyes open, neither saw any sign of the Cheyenne camp-fires, which surprised them for more than one Indian encampment had been betrayed by the red glow rising from it. Then, topping a rise and looking down towards the wooded area, they caught the glimpse of a faint red flicker among the trees. Whoever picked the location for the Cheyenne camp knew his business. A raiding party might have ridden by the area a dozen and more times without seeing the tree-masked fires.

On riding closer, they could hear voices raised in war chants. At last Resin raised his hand, bringing the others to a halt.

‘This’s as far as we take the hosses,’ he said. ‘Paddy, stay here and keep ‘em quiet. Me n’n Calam’ll go in on foot. If you hear us yell for you, come like a bat out of hell.’

‘Huh huh!’ grunted Muldoon and took an obvious precaution. ‘Where at’s their hoss herd?’

‘With the camp, on the other side of that stream that runs through the wood and out beyond the trees. You’ll have no trouble from them.’

Being gregarious beasts, horses were inclined to signal to any others of their kind that they located. A stray horse whinnying would be likely to attract the attention of the Cheyenne horse herd and one of Muldoon’s duties was to make sure his horses did not sound an alarm.

‘Good luck, the pair of yez.’

‘Thanks, Paddy,’ replied Calam, suddenly throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him. ‘I’ll tell you now, I never intended to marry you, so you didn’t need to shy away from me like a rope-burned hoss all these weeks.’

‘Me father told me never to take chances with women, and according to me troop, he stayed a bachelor all his life,’ answered Muldoon, gripping Resin’s hand after being released by Calamity. ‘I’ll be right here when you comes back.’

‘We’ll let you know, happen they get us,’ promised Resin. ‘See you around.’

Side by side Resin and the girl faded into the darkness, moving on silent feet. They entered the wood and moved through with all the care possible, although from the noise rising from the camp excessive caution might not be needed. At last Calamity and Resin reached the banks of the stream and moved along it.

‘He’s in a tipi just about here,’ Resin said, halting by a tree on which he had carved a blaze in the bark and pointing straight towards the camp. ‘Only it’s on the inner circle, facing towards that danged council fire.’

‘From the sound of that pow-wow there’ll not be many folks missing from it,’ Calamity replied. ‘We could sneak through the camp, cut our way in the back—’

‘And what if there’s a guard in the tipi?’

‘You got a right smart point there. Sand Runner got the full tribe along?’

‘Only bucks and a handful of young gals to keep his boys happy.’

‘Other tipis ought to be empty then. Or if anybody’s being kept happy in ‘em, they won’t notice us tippy-toeing by. Or don’t Injuns get kept happy same way we do?’

Resin’s teeth glowed white in the darkness as he grinned at the girl. ‘You got a low ‘n’ vulgar mind, Calam, gal.’

‘I’m loving with it.’

‘Happen we get out of this alive, gal,’ the scout whispered, ‘I’ll—’

Whatever he aimed to do did not get said. They had waded through the stream while talking and both froze on the other shore as they saw a torch flickering in the hand of an approaching Indian. Swiftly and silently Calamity and Resin took cover, two hands holding knives; guns making far too much noise for dealing with such a situation.

The torch-bearer came into sight; a girl wearing Bigelow’s campaign hat on her head, the braids of her hair trailing from under its crown, and with his blouse on over her doeskin dress, carrying a pinewood torch in one hand, a pitcher in the other. Clearly she was coming down to the stream to collect water. The sight of the girl’s dress, particularly the hat and hair, gave Calamity an idea. Sheathing the knife, she turned to Resin and whispered:

‘I’ll take her.’

‘Do it fast and quiet, these Injun gals are tough.’

While the girl might have been tough and capable of giving Calamity a hard and rowdy fight, she did not have the chance. There was no time to think of fair play or giving the other girl an even break. Calamity timed her move just right and watching it, Resin had to admit he could not have done better.

In dealing with the girl, Calamity used her head—literally. She hurled herself forward as the Indian approached, ramming her head in a vicious butt full into the pit of the other girl’s stomach. So suddenly and unexpectedly did the attack come that the Indian could not scream or even think before Calamity’s head caught her in the belly, dropping her in a doubled-over, winded heap, the hat flying from her head and the torch and pitcher falling from her hands as she went down. Calamity followed the girl down, digging fingers into her hair and flipping her on to her back, then dropping to kneel astride her. Drawing up the girl’s head, Calamity brought around her other fist, driving it into the girl’s jaw. One blow was all Calamity needed and the Indian girl went limp, then flopped to the ground. Seeing no further action would be needed, Calamity rose to her feet.

‘What now?’ breathed Resin, catching up the torch and tossing it into the water, then scuffing out the blazing ground it left.

‘Got me a right fool notion,’ Calamity answered, dragging the girl into a sitting position and starting to remove Bigelow’s jacket.

‘Such as?’

‘How can we find out if there’s a guard in Wade’s tipi. I aim to go in and look; dressed like a squaw—this one.’

While he claimed that it took plenty to surprise him, Resin could not hold down his startled grunt.

‘How’d you mean, gal?’

‘Easy enough. I’m fixing to wear her clothes, walk around the side of the tipi and through its door. You be waiting out back and when I signal you’ll know you can come in. Now turn your back while I undress her,’

‘Spoilsport,’ grinned the scout.

‘Likely, only I hate competition, as Eileen would say.’

Calamity found little difficulty in undressing the other girl, for an Indian’s doeskin dress was simply made and its wearer never bothered with underclothing. Dropping the naked, still unconscious body back to the ground, Calamity looked at the dress. A further thought came to her and she drew the Green River knife. Bending, she slashed off the girl’s two hair braids over their fastenings. Then yet another thought came, the solution of which ought to please Resin.

‘Cut the legs of my pants off over the knee,’ she ordered. ‘Move it. The squaw’s stirring and we want her hawg-tied afore she wakes.’

Working fast, Resin slit Calamity’s pants legs up the seams, then around the leg maybe a mite higher than was necessary. One could not blame him for that. However, he wasted no time in admiring the view, but turned to make a start at tying up their prisoner, using the trouser legs as rope and his own bandana as a gag.

‘Sure hope she’s not loused out with seam-squirrels like most Injuns,’ Calamity stated as she drew the dress on over her clothes. ‘And stop looking like you’re enjoying your work, damn you.’

‘Me, honey?’ replied the scout, just as quietly as Calamity. ‘Now do you reckon I’d enjoy hawg-tying a gal?’

‘Likely,’ Calamity sniffed, putting on Bigelow’s jacket over the dress.

After slitting the dress to allow access to the knife or Colt, Calamity donned the campaign hat and thrust the two severed braids into position so they hung down from under it in a nearly natural manner.

‘Legs are a mite pale,’ Resin told her, having completed the securing of the Indian girl. ‘Happen you keep to the shadows, it might work. You scared?’

‘As hell.’

‘And me. Let’s go.’

Carrying the pitcher. Calamity headed towards the camp, Resin drifting on silent feet behind her. On entering the rough cluster of tipis which surrounded the open circle around the council fire, Calamity and Resin decided their guess had been correct, that all the camp were attending the pow-wow. At last they reached a buffalo-hide tipi on the very inner edge of the cluster and came to a halt.

‘This’s the one,’ Resin breathed in Calamity’s ear.

‘I’ll go ‘round the front and in,’ she replied no louder. ‘Reckon boys and gals do in heaven, Beau?’

‘Happen things go wrong. gal. we stand a fair chance of finding out, if you get there first, stay clear of them boy angels.’

‘First gal angel looks two ways at you get’s hand-scalped and wing-plucked.’ Calamity warned and sucked in a deep breath. ‘See you, Beau, one place or the other.’

Lifting the pitcher on to her shoulder so it hid her face, Calamity walked around the curve of the tent and into the fire light’s glow. This was the moment of truth, the supreme testing time for her simple disguise. In seconds, Calamity would be into the tent—or well on the way to being dead.

Somehow, illogically, perhaps. Calamity did not expect to be detected. So far luck had gone their way. The finding of the camp; the capture of the girl; the fact that this was a raiding party and did not have married squaws, children or dogs that might not have been at the council fire and so could have seen the intruders and raised the alarm; all those things seemed to be good omens to Calamity. Even the very fact that Wade H. Bigelow still lived might point to destiny not wishing him to die yet awhile.

Yes; one way and another Calamity reckoned luck was on their side. Which, while comforting, did not make the long—it seemed hellish long to Calamity—walk around the side of the tipi and to its door through the fire-light any the shorter or more pleasant.

Her eyes flickered to the council fire and the Indians gathered around it. At any second one of them might turn and see her, but none did. Every Cheyenne eye stayed on the war-bonnet chief with the yellow-ochre-covered face and the Dragoon Colt in his waistband. Sand Runner stood addressing them, but Calamity did not know enough Cheyenne to understand his message to his assembled people.

The entrance to the tipi lay ahead, four strides, three, two—she was there! Now Calamity would really see how her luck was going. If there should be a guard in the tent, she must silence him before he could give any outcry. Lowering the pitcher, she slid the Green River knife from it and ducked into the tipi.

Clad in his shirt, pants and boots, Bigelow lay in the centre of the tipi. He was trussed like a fowl for cooking—no Indian ever gave a prisoner a chance to slide free of his bonds—and his face showed the suffering the tight cords caused him. But, and this was most important, he had the tipi to himself. Clearly the Cheyenne figured that he could not escape and so did not bother to guard him.

‘Hold it down, Wade, boy!’ Calamity breathed, crossing the tipi and kicking its rear side.

Much to his amazement, Bigelow saw a knife blade drive through the tipi side near where Calamity kicked, cutting downwards. Even before Resin made his entrance, Calamity was slashing Bigelow’s bonds.

‘Want a gag, Wade?’ Resin asked. ‘It’ll hurt like hell when the blood starts flowing again.’

Weakly Bigelow shook his head. He might have been a damned fool to get into this mess in the first place, but he reckoned he could show courage. Within seconds of the circulation starting normal pumping Bigelow began to wish he had taken the gag. However, he gritted his teeth and held down the moans which welled in him. Calamity knelt by him, chafing his limbs, soothing him and whispering encouragement of a profane and uncomplimentary nature.

‘We’ll stay on a spell,’ Resin told the other two, seeing Bigelow would be in no shape to travel anyway. ‘Likely nobody’Il bother you for a spell. They been at you yet?’

‘No. Sand Runner’s girl-friend helped herself to my hat and jacket, as you seem to know. The rest of my belongings are there. The war-bonnet chief who acted as Sand Runner’s interpreter insisted they were left and returned with me. He and Sand Runner don’t get on very well.’

‘Bear Trailer’s a Cheyenne of the old school, even if he’s been to mission school,’ Resin explained, moving to the door and cautiously peering out. ‘He—’

‘What is it—’ Calamity breathed, moving to Resin’s side and listening to Sand Runner’s voice.

‘He’s asking where Fire-Rose is. That’ll be the gal we caught. Calam, gal, it looks like old
Ka-Dih
done stopped siding us.’

Any moment now the search for the missing girl would begin. Once she was found, it was unlikely to take Sand Runner long to figure out why she had been caught and hog-tied.

‘Get your gun, Wade,’ Resin ordered and the captain crawled to where his weapon belt lay.

A yell went up from among the Cheyenne and one pointed off into the darkness. For a horrible, shocking moment Calamity and Resin thought that the Indian girl had escaped from her bonds. Then they realised that the man did not point in any direction from which the girl might be expected to come. Sick and sore as she was likely to be, the girl would have headed straight for the camp, not swung around in a half circle.

Hooves clattered, shod hooves as a clink of steel striking a rock told the listeners, harness leather creaked and wheels rumbled. The sound told a grim story to Calamity and Resin, range-wise in such matters. While an Indian might ride a stolen or captured shod horse until its shoes fell off, he would never bother to shoe one; once in a while the Indian might even use a white man’s saddle; but he never troubled to harness a horse to a wagon.

So who came towards the Cheyenne’s hidden camp in a wagon?

One thing was for sure. The visitor appeared to be expected, or at least friendly, for the Cheyenne showed no fear, only eager anticipation.

A two-horse, light wagon entered the camp, passing from the trees through the tipi circle, by where Calamity, Resin and Bigelow crouched watching and came to a halt just beyond the entrance to their hiding place. In passing, the wagon’s driver gave Calamity’s party a chance to study him. He was a tall, bulky, bearded man wearing buckskins and having the appearance of a hide-hunter. Yet he did not make his money shooting buffalo; such a man would never be welcomed into an Indian camp.

‘Howdy, Sandy Runner,’ the man greeted, standing up and lifting a small keg from the box at his side. ‘Got you a fine selection of rifles, bullets, powder and lead.’

‘A lousy renegade!’ Bigelow hissed, fortunately being drowned out by the mumble of anticipation which rose from the watching Cheyenne.

Before the young officer could burst from the tent, Resin had caught him by the arm and held him.

‘Not yet, Wade, happen you want to get back to Molly.’

Despite his professed disinclination to meet and speak with white people, Sand Runner rose and advanced to greet the renegade.

‘They’d best be good rifles this time, Bernstein.’

‘You got the money for them?’

‘We’ll have it tomorrow,’ promised Sand Runner, speaking in good and remarkably accent-free English.

Fact being he appeared to handle the English language with greater facility than he spoke Cheyenne. At that moment everything became clear to Resin; the reason for Sand Runner’s apparent un-Indian ways and mannerisms; his reluctance to meet white people; the repeated requests for money; all were now explained.

Sand Runner was a white man!

Maybe a deserter from the Army, fleeing from some real or imagined injustice; perhaps a criminal on the run from the law; perhaps; even an ideologist who regarded the Indians as down-trodden martyrs. Whatever the reason, in some way he had become adopted by the Cheyenne and risen to war chief by virtue of his fighting prowess and skill in the arts of killing the hated white brother.

Not that any of the watching trio wasted time in trying to decide why a white man should turn against his own people in such a manner; being more concerned with thoughts of escape—if possible after destroying the wagon-load of firearms and ammunition.

Jumping from the wagon, the bearded man slouched towards the fire, carrying the keg in his arms.

‘I’ll see you made comfortable for the night,’ Sand Runner told him. ‘Got some cute lil gals. Hey, where in hell’s Fire Rose?’

‘Forget her and have a snort of redeye,’ growled the renegade. ‘I’ll throw in the first barrel free, just to give your boys the taste,’

‘Do that. And when they’re good and likkered, I want to see my bank account book to make sure you paid in the last money I sent east.’

‘It’s in the wagon. I’ll get it for you. Anybody’d think you didn’t trust me, or something.’

‘I don’t. Come on, let’s open the barrel.’

‘This’s our chance,’ Resin hissed as the two men returned to the fire and opened the top of the keg. With the prospect of free whisky, none of the Indians were likely to take their eyes away from the liquor’s owner and container.

‘Let me go first,’ Calamity suggested.

Before either of the men could confirm or deny the request, Calamity slipped from the tipi and to the rear of the wagon. The canopy at the rear had been lashed down, but the Green River knife made nothing of the securing ropes and she quickly lifted the cover to look inside. Despite having a pair of good, fast and powerful horses harnessed to it, the wagon did not carry a heavy load. Which did not entirely surprise Calamity. A man following the dishonourable business of trading whisky and guns to the Indians never loaded his wagon to the extent of slowing it down and rendering it incapable of outrunning pursuit.

Swinging up into the wagon, Calamity removed the hat, jacket and dress, then crept towards the box. Just as she expected, the bearded man’s whip lay upon the seat and the reins curled around the canopy’s forward support. A faint scuffling sound behind her heralded the arrival of Bigelow and he crept forward to the girl’s side, crouching down by her, his eyes following the direction of her nod. Deftly he drew his Colt and checked it was still loaded and capped in four chambers. A couple of minutes dragged by before Resin saw his chance and ran to the wagon, climbing in and crouching by the other two.

‘I’ll slash the ribbons, grab them and the whip, and start this old wagon rolling,’ Calamity suggested.

‘Hold hard there, gal!’ Resin whispered, moving back along the wagon and bending over the kegs. ‘Let me find one with powder in it, then run us close by the fire.’

‘Sure,’ Calamity replied.

An inch at a time, moving slowly and cautiously, Calamity drew the whip into the wagon and shook it loose. While it weighed a mite heavier than her own, she reckoned she might be able to handle it with no trouble. Next she unfastened the reins and gripped them between the strong capable fingers of her left hand. Now Calamity was all set to do her part and just waited for the word.

Resin had found what he wanted, a twenty-five pound keg of gunpowder. Taking out his Ames knife, he tried to separate a couple of the keg’s staves but the cooper who made it knew his business and they held firm. Which meant he had to drop it right on, or very close to the flames if he hoped to create the desired diversion. Still holding the knife, Resin hefted the keg in his hands and turned his head.

‘Let her go, Calam!’

‘YEEEAH!’

Letting out a screech near on loud enough to wake the dead, Calamity bounded on to the wagon box, swung the whip in an explosive pop over the head of the team and booted free the brake. Already restless, the high-spirited team horses lunged forward with a heave that jerked the wagon into motion like a cork plucked from a bottle.

Instantly pandemonium reigned around the camp fire. Few if any of the Cheyenne had other than knives with them at the pow-wow and even those who bore arms did not find a chance to use them in the confusion. Women screamed, clung to their men, or fled. Warriors bounded to their feet, cannoning into each other like so many pool balls and none knew for sure just what to do.

Bigelow added to the confusion by starting to throw lead with both hands. Not that he went in for any fancy aiming, but merely sprayed into the brown in the direction of Sand Runner and the renegade. Once more the gods of war favoured the white folks, for a bullet from the Army Colt in Bigelow’s right hand tore through the renegade’s throat. Sand Runner’s own luck held. A brave at his right went down with a Navy ball in his chest, the renegade fell at the other side, a bullet ripped a couple of eagle feathers from his hair, but he remained unharmed and Bigelow was carried by him on the rushing wagon.

A naked brave, knife in hand, sprang from a tipi followed by a screaming, naked girl. Howling his kill-or-die shout, the brave hurled himself forward, meaning to try to halt the wagon by knifing the nearer of the horses. He came on the side away from Bigelow and Calamity knew there would be no time to attract the captain’s attention and change his target. Being a resourceful young woman, Calamity did not waste time. Back drew her whip hand, sending the lash flying forward. The borrowed whip had a different feel from her own, but she let fly just the same.

Although Calamity’s aim proved to be a mite off, she could not argue against the results. Actually the Indian might have counted himself
real
lucky, for the whip curled around his knife wrist and snapped it like a rotten twig—instead of circling his neck and hauling him forward under the wagon’s wheels.

With the menace handled, Calamity concentrated on driving the team. Already they had passed the fire and were headed for the darkness.

At the rear of the wagon Resin stood gripping the powder keg and his knife in between his hands. A Cheyenne brave sprang for and caught hold of the rear of the wagon. swinging himself up. Without releasing the keg. Resin brought up his foot and stamped on the red face, pitching the brave over backwards. Then, with a swing of his powerful arms, the big scout hurled the powder keg in the direction of the fire. However, the awkward manner in which he held keg and knife prevented him getting quite enough distance in his throw. The keg landed, bounced and rolled into the embers, but not on to the naked flames.

Just as Resin decided to speed the explosion by shooting into the keg, he saw a familiar figure. A yellow-ochre face twisted into a devil-mask of hatred glared at Resin and a hand raised an old Dragoon Colt. There was no time to draw a gun. Resin whipped back his hand, gripping the Ames knife for a throw. Down came the hand, fire-light glinted on flying steel and the knife sped at Sand Runner’s body. If he had been less interested in trying to stop the wagon. Sand Runner might have avoided the throw. So intent was he on stopping the departure of the arms—and his bank-book, that he took a chance. Which was when his medicine ran out. The Ames knife drove down just over his waistbelt and sank almost hilt deep in his belly. Even so, he triggered off one shot that fanned wind by Resin’s ear in passing on through the top of the wagon’s canopy. He doubled over, clutching the knife to jerk it from his body and hurl it aside. Turning, he staggered blindly towards the council fire.

Then the powder keg blew!

With a roar like thunder and a sheet of flame that lit up the night and was seen at the distant wagon train, the keg, heated by the fire, exploded. It threw flaming wood into the air as the fire shattered, and pitched Indians off their feet by the blast. The wagon’s team hit their harness so hard in their panic to get away from the noise that they lifted its wheels from the ground and almost threw the three occupants out; then, man, did those two horses run, tearing through the wood like the devil after a yearling. Nor were they the only horses to run. The Cheyenne remuda came from sleeping to terrified wakefulness and the herd boys had no more chance of stopping the wild stampede than they would have had of stopping water flowing downhill. One thing was for sure, there would be no Indian pursuit that night.

Muldoon heard the explosion and fought to restrain his panic-stricken horses, but could only hold the Appaloosa and one more. Curses sputtered from his lips as the other animals raced away. With old cavalry skill, he brought the two remaining horses under control.

‘Muldoon!’ roared a voice. ‘This way, as fast as you can come.’

Leaping afork his horse, and leading the Appaloosa, Muldoon galloped into the night, heading for the distant sound of a wagon travelling at speed. He did not even start to imagine how Resin and Calamity came to be using a wagon, reckoned he might learn soon enough.

Calamity would never know for sure how she managed to steer the fear-crazed horses through the wood. Yet she did so. They crashed through the stream, flattened a few bushes, scraped a tree or two, then were out on the open range.

‘I got the renegade,’ Bigelow announced with some Satisfaction as Calamity brought the team under control.

‘And I got Sand Runner, me’n’ the explosion between us,’ Resin said.

‘You sound a mite sad, Beau,’ Calamity remarked.

‘Am a mite, gal. I’ll never be able to replace that old Ames knife.’

‘I’ve just thought,’ Bigelow went on, his voice flat and emotionless. ‘I will have to face a court of inquiry to explain how the hell I was captured.’