War on the Cimarron (11 page)

A shadow of concern touched Luvie's face and then was gone, but not before Frank saw it. She laughed a little shakily. “You mean you think I took the money?”

“I don't think anything,” Frank murmured. “But I know one thing. You rawhide Red or me any more, lady, and I'm goin' to take that night clerk out and make him tell who he gave that passkey to. It's just as easy as that. Think it over.”

Luvie didn't say anything for a long moment. Then she said without much conviction, “You're bluffing.”

“Sure, sure,” Frank said quietly. “Only I want your dad to trust me, because he's my friend. And I've had a bellyful of your sharpshootin'. Just remember what I said.”

And Luvie walked out of the kitchen like a chastened child.

Chapter IX

With Barnes's acceptance of Frank's note for the five thousand dollars that had disappeared and his assurance that he was still on their side Frank felt he was clear to move now.

He and Red had slept on the prairie south of Darlington that night, and at the first light of day they were up and on their way back to the wagon. They crossed the Canadian above Reno and were breaking out of the shore timber when Frank reined in and pointed off across the prairie. A quarter of a mile away were two heavily loaded tarp-covered freight wagons in tandem. Six teams of horses dragged them at a snail's pace across the lush greening grass of the prairie. But what interested Frank was the fact that six outriders escorted the wagons, as if they contained a valuable shipment of gold.

“Know 'em?” Frank asked.

Red nodded. “Circle R freightin' outfit. That's a mountain hitch, but they're usin' tandem so they won't have to run so many guards.”

Frank's eyes were musing. “Sure of that?”

“It's the only outfit that freights that way.” Suddenly Red looked over at him. “Why?”

“Maybe,” Frank said thoughtfully, “this is what we been lookin' for. It won't hurt to make sure.”

Red remembered there was a plum thicket several miles on where a man could hide close to the road, and turning back into the timber, they made for it. The thicket turned out to be acres in extent, and some freighter, tired of traveling a mile to cross a barrier some hundred feet wide, had laboriously cleared a road through it. While Red waited with the horses in a swale a quarter of a mile off the road, Frank took up the vigil alone. By midmorning he returned, his clothes torn from the plum briars but a look of restrained excitement on his face.

“It's the Circle R,” he confirmed. “We'll just keep 'em in sight this afternoon.”

It was a dreary business, for the pace of the freight outfit was slow. Red calculated in late afternoon that they would camp by the Canadian that night. And when they saw the wagon leave the faint wagon trail later, Red nodded. “They're headin' for the upper ford,” he announced. “The lower ford has a bed that can turn into quicksand under a heavy load. I reckon they're loaded.”

“Tell me more,” Frank said.

“More about what?” Red asked, puzzled at Frank's curiosity.

“This upper ford. Where is it? How do they cross it?”

Red shook his head, understanding now, and he grinned. “It won't work, kid. There's only a smidgin of water runnin', and they're more careful crossin' the river than any other time. While they take off the rough lock on the shore, half the crew crosses to the other side and beats the brush for Corb's ambush. They aim to—”

“Rough lock?” Frank asked.

“That's right. They camp up on the bluff, and it's a steep slope to the river, and they have to rough-lock the wagons.”

“How do you know all this?” Frank asked.

“I used to pick up five dollars now and then ridin' guard. That is, I did until I threw in with Morg.”

Frank settled back into silence, and Red, knowing something was up, kept his counsel. He was hungry, but he forgot it trying to puzzle out what Frank was thinking.

When darkness settled they could see the pin point of the freighter campfire in the distance. Frank rose from where they had been lying in a sheltering dip in the prairie and said, “I'm goin' to have a look.”

“You go careful,” Red warned. “It's in the open, with no trees around it.”

Frank caught his horse and mounted and rode out toward the freight camp. A quarter of a mile away he dismounted and approached on foot. The campfire, he knew, would blind the crew to anyone out of the circle of firelight, but nevertheless he moved cautiously, creeping through the tall grass until he could see the whole layout of the camp. It was a sight he was familiar with. The cook was poking the Dutch oven into the coals. Another hand came out of the darkness up the hill with an armload of driftwood. The freighter was straightening out the harness to be in readiness for the next morning, and the horse wrangler was leading the teams, two at a time, down the slope to drink.

But it was the man working on the wagons who interested Frank. The tandem hitch had been broken and the last wagon hauled up abreast the other. They were on a gentle downslope, their wheels solidly blocked. And one of the crew was making a rough lock of a log, which was thrust through the spokes of the back wheel and lashed solidly to the wagon frame.

Frank took all this in, studying it, then wriggled back into the darkness and made a wide circle upstream to the river. Where the ground fell away he had to move cautiously down the slope.

The ground flattened out at the base of the hill, then ended abruptly at a low cutbank. The river had swung toward this bank and was slowly eating into the hill. But from the noise of the river Frank knew it was traveling over a boulder bed and that this ford had been chosen because of the solid footing. Satisfied, he returned to his horse and rode back to Red after filling his canteen at the river.

They backtracked a mile, found some timber, built their fire, boiled coffee and ate jerky, then doused the fire and lay smoking in the deep grass.

Then Frank told Red what was in his mind. Red listened judicially, and when Frank finished Red said, “What about the guard?”

“I'll toll him over and slug him. If he won't come, it won't work.”

Red only grunted, but Frank knew he agreed.

They waited there in the dark for a couple of hours, then got their horses. Riding toward the camp now, they could see that the fire had died down. They swung over to the right and left their horses upwind, tied to a picket stake, and then they split up.

Red walked off into the night, starting the circle that would bring him to the other side of the camp. And Frank walked straight toward the camp.

As Red crawled through the grass he could see the guard squatting by the small fire, feeding it sticks of driftwood. Around him was the sleeping crew. Afterward the guard moved back into the darkness and sat down against a wheel of the wagon, his rifle across his knees. He smoked and occasionally moved around, but he never left his rifle and he never came into the circle of firelight unless to replenish the blaze.

Red had waited half an hour now and he wondered if Frank had given up, when he heard a sudden commotion among the horses who were in a rope corral on the other side of the far wagon. The guard listened, and when the commotion died he settled back. As soon as he sat down the commotion started again. There was a snorting and a stomping among the horses that the guard correctly guessed was unnatural. He rose, rounded the end of the wagon and approached the corral. Then Red saw a shadowy figure come around the front of the wagon, drop on all fours and crawl under the wagon.

The guard came back, looked uneasily toward the horses, stirred the fire, then returned to his seat against the wheel.

Red held his breath, watching. There was a blur of motion over there, a muffled sound, and then the guard rolled over on his side. Grinning, Red rose and cautiously circled the fire and came in under the wagon. Frank's dim shape loomed between him and the fire. Beyond were the blanketed figures of the sleeping crew.

Without a word Red set to work on what they had planned. He took his knife, cut the ropes that bound that rough lock, then helped Frank to noiselessly drag the log through the spokes and lay it aside. They followed the same procedure with the second wagon.

Then they met under the first wagon, and Frank whispered, “Ready?”

“Let her go,” Red murmured. They both went to the front wheels and removed the blocks. The wagon did not move. Then, moving in the dim light, they both put their shoulders to the wheel and pulled on the big spokes. The wagon moved a little, settled, moved again, and then nothing in the world could have stopped it.

Frank and Red ran out of the circle of firelight and dropped to the ground as Frank raised his voice in a long yell.

“
Yee-ow-eeeeeee!
”

The camp almost exploded awake. And the first thing they saw was the wagon rumbling out of sight down the slope.

“Bart!” a man yelled. “There goes the wagon!”

The riders came to their feet, guns in hand. One man shot into the night on general principle and then he turned and listened. The whole crew had frozen into a listening attitude.

The rumble of the wagon down the steep slope grew louder as it gathered momentum. There was a slack jolting of ungreased wood that mounted to a furious racket, and then it ceased abruptly. For a split second there was no sound at all.

Then a thunderous, deafening crash of breaking and splitting wood filled the night, drowning the splash the wagon had made as it went into the river.

That sound speeded the whole crew into action. Every man there started running down the slope, and cursing filled the night with bedlam.

Frank and Red rose out of the grass, ran for the second wagon and set it in motion. Again there was the slow ominous rumble of the wheels.

Suddenly, from down the shore, a man's wild voice raised shrilly. “Look out! Here comes the other!”

The noise of the wagon drowned out the cursing and the yelling as it made its ponderous way down the dark slope into the night. Then, as before, the noise ceased, and then the crash came. This crash seemed to shake the ground, and it was louder than the first, for it had hurtled down on top of the smashed wagon.

After that there was utter silence.

And then Red's brash voice lifted into the night.

“If you want any more whisky, you'll buy it next time!”

And he and Frank faded out into the anonymity of the night, sure that Red's words would place the blame for tonight directly on Scott Corb.

Milabel's office looked over the yard and the corrals, so that when Bart Hampstead rode into the Circle R and vaulted out of the saddle before the horse stopped Milabel saw him.

He stepped out through the office door into the yard and walked toward Hampstead. They met under the big cottonwood that was huge enough to shade half the big log building that was the Circle R headquarters ranch.

“What's up, Bart?” Milabel demanded. The bruises on his face were a ripe purple now, but the swelling had gone down. The bags under his eyes were a deep green, yet he could see well enough. His right eyebrow held a sticky smear of pine tar under which a deep gash was already healing.

Bart Hampstead hauled up out of breath and said angrily, “We got the two wagons smashed to splinters in the north fork. The corn's swole up, the flour is paste, and all that grub must be damn near to Arkansas.”

“What happened?” Milabel demanded harshly.

“That damn Corb's crew snuck into camp and slugged Barney while we was sleepin'. Then they cut the rough locks and started the wagons down the slope. They piled up in the river and smashed to splinters. Cove got run down by one and it broke his arm. I tell you, all hell broke loose. I never seen such a mess. And then the horses stampeded and we was afoot and—”

“Get your breath,” Milabel said and waited a moment, glaring at his rider.

“How do you know it was Corb? Did you see him?”

“No, but he yelled down to us, ‘If you want any more whisky, next time you better buy it.'”

“That's Corb then,” Milabel said bitterly. “He's gettin' pretty big for his pants, now that he's took over Christian's place.”

Bart shifted his feet, wanting to speak but waiting for a sign from his boss.

“Well?” Milabel said.

“Part of that there grub we was freightin' was headed for Shafer and that herd of three-year-olds,” Bart said. “He'll hit the north fork tonight, and he won't have no grub.”

Milabel swore again. “All right, have Reilly hitch up that fast team to the buckboard and go into the post and buy enough grub to last Shafer till Caldwell and take it out to him.”

“You want me to take it?”

“No!” Milabel said savagely. “I want you to stay here until that crew of rockin'-chair punchers get back!”

Bart turned away and started walking back to the corral. “Bart,” Milabel called. He walked over to him. “You think Shafer's herd is far enough away so Corb won't make a try at it to get even for what I aim to do to him tonight?”

Bart looked at him shrewdly. “Depends on what you aim to do to him. If you run off his horses, that would give Shafer's herd time to get across the north fork. I don't reckon Corb would try to touch it after that.”

“That's all I wanted to know,” Milabel said in a soft voice. “Let me know when the crew gets here. And be sure that grub reaches Shafer, so he don't have to wait.”

He turned and walked back toward the house, his face thoughtful. Once in the office, he sat down in his swivel chair, cocked his booted feet on the desk and stared thoughtfully out at the corrals. He remembered Abe Puckett cursing him out for letting Corb take over Christian's place after the Circle R frame-up had paved the way, and he smiled faintly. Corb had gone a little too far this time. The theft of Christian's place was bad enough, but this was rubbing it in. Corb would regret that.