Glory Riders Page 11

  He lay flat in the grass at the edge of the burned spot. Again he studied the hills, and then he eased forward and got to his feet. The nearest wagon was upright, and smoke was still rising from it. The wheels were partly burned, the box badly charred, and the interior smoking. It was still too hot to touch.

  He crouched near the front wheel and studied the situation, avoiding the bodies. No weapons were in sight, but he had scarcely expected any. There had been nine wagons. The lead wagons were thirty or forty yards off, and the three wagons whose drivers had been attacked were bunched in the middle with one overturned. The last four, near one of which he was crouched, had burned further than the others.

  Suddenly he saw a dead horse lying at one side with a canteen tied to the saddle. He crossed to it at once, and, tearing the canteen loose, he rinsed his mouth with water. Gripping himself tight against drinking, he rinsed his mouth again and moistened his cracked lips. Only then did he let a mere swallow trickle down his parched throat.

  Resolutely he put the canteen down in the shade and went through the saddle pockets. It was a treasure trove. He found a goodsize chunk of almost iron-hard brown sugar, a half dozen biscuits, a chunk of jerky wrapped in paper, and a new plug of chewing tobacco. Putting these things with the canteen, he unfastened the slicker from behind the saddle and added that to the pile.

  Wagon by wagon he searched, always alert to the surrounding country and at times leaving the wagons to observe the plain from a hilltop. It was quite dark before he was finished. Then he took his first good drink, for he had allowed himself only nips during the remainder of the day. He took his drink, and then ate a biscuit, and chewed a piece of the jerky. With his hunting knife he shaved a little of the plug tobacco and made a cigarette by rolling it in paper, the way the Mexicans did.

  Every instinct warned him to be away from the place by daylight, and, as much as he disliked leaving the bodies as they were, he knew it would be folly to bury them. If the Indians passed that way again, they would find them buried and would immediately be on his trail.

  Crawling along the edge of the taller grass near the depression where the wagon had tipped over, he stopped suddenly. Here in the ground near the edge of the grass was a boot print!

  His fingers found it, and then felt carefully. It had been made by a running man, either large or heavily laden. Feeling his way along the tracks, London stopped again, for this time his hand had come in contact with a boot. He shook it, but there was no move or response. Crawling nearer he touched the man’s hand. It was cold as marble in the damp night air.

  Moving his hand again, he struck canvas. Feeling along it he found it was a long canvas sack. Evidently the dead man had grabbed this sack from the wagon and dashed for the shelter of the ditch or hollow. Apparently he had been struck by a bullet and killed, but, feeling again of the body, London’s hand came in contact with a belt gun. So the Comanches had not found him! Stripping the belt and gun from the dead man, London swung it around his own hips, and then checked the gun. It was fully loaded, and so were the cartridge loops in the belt.

  Something stirred in the grass, and instantly he froze, sliding out his hunting knife. He waited for several minutes, and then he heard it again. Something alive lay here in the grass with him!

  A Comanche? No Indian likes to fight at night, and he had seen no Indians anywhere near when darkness fell. No, if anything lived near him now, it must be something, man or animal, from the wagon train. For a long time he lay still, thinking it over, and then he took a chance. Yet from his experience the chance was not a long one.

  “If there is someone there, speak up.”

  There was no sound, and he waited, listening. Five minutes passed—ten—twenty. Carefully, then, he slid through the grass, changing his position, and then froze in place. Something was moving, quite near!

  His hand shot out, and he was shocked to find himself grasping a small hand with a ruffle of cloth at the wrist! The child struggled violently, and he whispered hoarsely: “Be still. I’m a friend. If you run, the Indians might come.” Instantly the struggling stopped. “There,” he breathed. “That’s better.” He searched his mind for something reassuring to say, and finally said: “Damp here, isn’t it? Don’t you have a coat?”

  There was a momentary silence, and then a small voice said: “It was in the wagon.”

  “We’ll look for it pretty soon,” London said. “My name’s Jim. What’s yours?”

  “Betty Jane Jones. I’m five years old and my papa’s name is Daniel Jones and he is forty-six. Are you forty-six?”

  London grinned. “No, I’m just twenty-nine, Betty Jane.” He hesitated a minute, and then said: “Betty Jane, you strike me as a mighty brave little girl. There when I first heard you, you made no more noise than a rabbit. Now do you think you can keep that up?”

  “Yes.” It was a very small voice but it sounded sure.

  “Good. Now listen, Betty Jane.” Quietly he told her where he had come from and where he was going. He did not mention her parents, and she did not ask about them. From that he decided she knew only too well what had happened to them and the others from the wagon train.

  “There’s a canvas sack here, and I’ve got to look into it. Maybe there’s something we can use. We’re going to need food, Betty Jane, and a rifle. Later, we’re going to have to find horses and money.”

  The sound of his voice, low though it was, seemed to give her confidence. She crawled nearer to him, and, when she felt the sack, she said: “That’s Daddy’s bag. He keeps his carbine in it and his best clothes.”

  “Carbine?” London fumbled open the sack.

  “Is a carbine like a rifle?”

  He told her it was, and then found the gun. It was carefully wrapped, and by the feel of it London could tell the weapon was new or almost new. There was ammunition, another pistol, and a small canvas sack that chinked softly with gold coins. He stuffed this in his pocket. A careful check of the remaining wagons netted him nothing more, but he was not disturbed. The guns he had were good ones, and he had a little food and the canteen. Gravely he took Betty Jane’s hand and they started.

  They walked for an hour before her steps began to drag, and then he picked her up and carried her. By the time the sky had grown gray, he figured they had come six or seven miles from the burned wagons. He found some solid ground among some reeds on the edge of a slough, and they settled down there for the day.

  After making coffee with a handful found in one of the only partly burned wagons, London gave Betty Jane some of the jerky and a biscuit. Then for the first time he examined his carbine. His eyes brightened as he sized it up. It was a Ball & Lamson Repeating Carbine, a gun just on the market and of which this must have been one of the first sold. It was a seven-shot weapon carrying a .56-50 cartridge. It was almost thirty-eight inches in length and weighed a bit over seven pounds.

  The pistols were also new, both Prescott Navy six-shooters, caliber .38 with rosewood grips. Betty Jane looked at them and tears welled into her eyes. He took her hand quickly.

  “Don’t cry, honey. Your dad would want me to use the guns to take care of his girl. You’ve been mighty brave. Now keep it up.”

  She looked up at him with woebegone eyes, but the tears stopped, and after a while she fell asleep.

  There was little shade, and, as the reeds were not tall, he did not dare stand up. They kept close to the edge of the reeds and lay perfectly still. Once he heard a horse walking not far away and heard low, guttural voices and a hacking cough. He caught only a fleeting glimpse of one rider and hoped the Indians would not find their tracks.

  *

  When night came, they started on once more. He took his direction by the stars and he walked steadily, carrying Betty Jane most of the distance. Sometimes when she walked beside him, she talked. She rambled on endlessly about her home, her dolls, and her parents. Then on the third day she mentioned Hurlburt.

  “He was a bad man. My papa told Mama he was a bad man. Papa sa
id he was after Mister Ballard’s money.”

  “Who was Hurlburt?” London asked, more to keep the child occupied than because he wanted to know.

  “He tried to steal Daddy’s new carbine, and Mister Ballard said he was a thief. He told him so.”

  Hurlburt. The child might be mispronouncing the name, but it sounded like that. There had been a man in Independence by that name. He had not been liked—a big, bearded man, very quarrelsome.

  “Did he have a beard, Betty Jane? A big, black beard?”

  She nodded eagerly. “At first, he did. But he didn’t have it when he came back with the Indians.”

  “What?” He turned so sharply toward her that her eyes widened. He put his hand on her shoulder. “Did you say this Hurlburt came back with the Indians?”

  Seriously she nodded. “I saw him. He was in back of them, but I saw him. He was the one who shot his gun at Mister Ballard.”

  “You say he came back?” London asked. “You mean he went away from the wagons before the attack?”

  She looked at him. “Oh, yes! He went away when we stopped by the big pool. Mister Ballard and Daddy caught him taking things again. They put ropes on him, on his hands and his feet. But when morning came, I went to see, and he was gone away. Daddy said he had left the wagons, and he hoped nothing would happen to him.”

  Hurlburt. He had gone away and then had come back with the Indians. A renegade, then. What had they said of him in Independence? He had been over the trail several times. Maybe he was working with the Indians.

  Betty Jane went to sleep on the grass he had pulled for her to lie on, and Jim London made a careful reconnaissance of the area, and then returned and lay down himself. After a long time he dozed, dreaming of Jane. He awakened feeling discouraged, with the last of their food gone. He had not tried the rifle, although twice they had seen antelope. There was too much chance of being heard by Indians.

  Betty Jane was noticeably thinner, and her face looked wan as she slept. Suddenly he heard a sound and looked up, almost too late. Not a dozen feet away a Comanche looked over the reeds and aimed a rifle at him! Hurling himself to one side, he jerked out one of the Navy pistols. The Comanche’s rifle bellowed, and then Jim fired. The Indian threw up his rifle and fell over backward and lay still.

  Carefully London looked around. The rim of the hills was unbroken, and there was no other Indian in sight. The Indian’s spotted pony cropped grass not far away. Gun in hand, London walked to the Indian. The bullet from the pistol had struck him under the chin and, tearing out the back, had broken the man’s neck. A scarcely dry scalp was affixed to his rawhide belt, and the rifle he carried was new.

  He walked toward the horse. The animal shied back. “Take it easy, boy,” London said softly. “You’re all right.” Surprisingly the horse perked up both ears and stared at him.

  “Understand English, do you?” he said softly. “Well, maybe you’re a white man’s horse. We’ll see.”

  He caught the reins and held out a hand to the horse. It hesitated, and then snuffed of his fingers. He moved up the reins to it and touched a palm to the animal’s back. The bridle was a white man’s, too. There was no saddle, however, only a blanket.

  Betty Jane was crying softly when he reached her, obviously frightened by the guns. He picked her up, and then the rifle, and started back toward the horse. “Don’t cry, honey. We’ve got a horse now.”

  She slept in his arms that night, and he did not stop riding. He rode all through the night until the little horse began to stumble, and then he dismounted and led the horse while Betty Jane rode. Just before daylight they rested.

  *

  Two days later, tired, unshaven, and bedraggled, Jim London rode down the dusty street of Cimarron toward the Maxwell House. It was bright in the afternoon sunlight, and the sun glistened on the flanks and shoulders of the saddled horses at the hitch rail. Drawing up before the house, London slid from the saddle. Maxwell was standing on the wide porch, staring down at him, and beside him was Tom Boggs, who London remembered from Missouri as the grandson of Daniel Boone.

  “You look plumb tuckered, stranger, and that looks like an Injun rig on the horse. Or part of it.”

  “It is. The Indian’s dead.” He looked at Maxwell. “Is there a woman around here? This kid’s nigh dead for rest and comfort.”

  “Sure!” Maxwell exclaimed heartily. “Lots of women around. My wife’s inside.” He took the sleeping child and called to his wife. As he did so, the child’s eyes opened and stared, and then the corners of her mouth drew down and she screamed. All three men turned to where she looked. Hurlburt was standing there, gaping at the child as if the earth had opened before him.

  “What is it?” Maxwell looked perplexed. “What’s the matter?”

  “That’s the man who killed Mister Ballard! I saw him!”

  Hurlburt’s face paled. “Aw, the kid’s mistook me for somebody else,” he scoffed. “I never seen her before.” He turned to Jim London. “Where’d you find that youngster?” he demanded. “Who are you?”

  Jim London did not immediately reply. He was facing Hurlburt and suddenly all his anger and irritation at the trail, the Indians, the awful butchery around the wagons returned to him and boiled down to this man. A child without parents because of this man.

  “I picked that child up on the ground near a burned-out, Indian raided wagon train,” he said. “The same train you left Missouri with.”

  Hurlburt’s face darkened with angry blood.

  “You lie,” he declared viciously. “You lie!”

  Jim did not draw. He stared at Hurlburt, his eyes unwavering. “How’d you get here, then? You were in Independence when I left there. No wagons passed us. You had to be with that Ballard train.” “I ain’t been in Independence for two years,” Hurlburt blustered. “You’re crazy and so’s that blasted kid.”

  “Seems kind of funny,” Maxwell suggested, his eyes cold. “You sold two rifles after you got here, and you had gold money. There’s a train due in, the boys tell me. Maybe we better hold you until we ask them if you were in Independence.”

  “Like hell!” Hurlburt said furiously. “I ain’t no renegade, and nobody holds me in no jail!”

  Jim London took an easy step forward. “These guns I’m wearing, Hurlburt, belonged to Jones. I reckon he’d be glad to see this done. You led those Indians against those wagons. They found out you were a thief and faced you with it. I got it from Betty Jane, and the kid wouldn’t lie about a thing like that. She told me all about it before we got here. So you don’t get to go to jail. You don’t get to wait. You get a chance to reach for a gun, and that’s all.”

  Hurlburt’s face was ugly. Desperately he glanced right and left. A crowd had gathered, but nobody spoke for him. He was up against it and he knew it. Suddenly he grabbed for his guns. Jim London’s Prescott Navies leaped from their holsters, and the right one barked, a hard sharp report. Hurlburt backed up two steps, and then fell face down, a blue hole over his eye.

  “Good work,” Boggs said grimly. “I’ve had my doubts about that hombre. He never does nothing, but he always has money.”

  “Staying around?” Maxwell asked, looking at London.

  “No,” Jim said quietly. “My wife’s waiting for me. I ain’t seen her since ’Sixty-One.”

  “Since ’Sixty-One?” Boggs was incredulous. “You heard from her?”

  “She didn’t know where I was. Anyway, she never learned to write none.” He flushed slightly. “I can’t, neither. Only my name.”

  Lucian Maxwell looked away, clearing his throat. Then he said very carefully: “Better not rush any, son. That’s a long time. It’ll soon be five years.”

  “She’ll be waiting.” He looked at them, one to the other. “It was the war. They took me in the Army, and I fought all through.”

  “What about the kid?” Boggs asked.

  “Come morning she’ll be ready, I reckon. I’ll take her with me. She’ll need a home, and I sort of owe her somethin
g for this here rifle and the guns. Also”—he looked at them calmly—“I got nine hundred dollars in gold and bills here in my pocket. It’s hers. I found it in her daddy’s duffel.” He cleared his throat. “I reckon that’ll buy her a piece of any place we got and give her a home with us for life. We wanted a little girl, and while my wife … she was expecting … I don’t know if anything come of it.”

  Both men were silent, and finally Maxwell said: “See here, London, your wife may be dead. She may have married again. Anyway, she couldn’t have stayed on that ranch alone. Man, you’d better leave the child here with us. Take the money. You earned it, packing her here, but let her stay until you find out.”

  London shook his head patiently. “You don’t understand,” he said, “that’s my Jane who’s waiting. She told me she’d wait for me, and she don’t say things light. Not her.”

  “Where is she?” Maxwell asked curiously.

  “We got us a place up on North Fork. Good grass, water, and timber. The wife likes trees. I built us a cabin there, and a lean-to. We aimed to put about forty acres to wheat and maybe set us up a mill.” He looked up at them, smiling a little. “Pa was a miller, and he always said to me that folks need bread wherever they are. ‘Make a good loaf,’ he said, ‘and you’ll always have a good living.’ He had him a mill up Oregon way.”

  “North Fork?” Boggs and Maxwell exchanged glances. “Man, that country was run over by Injuns two years ago. Some folks went back up there, but one o’ them is Bill Ketchum. He’s got a bunch running with him no bettern’n he is. Hoss thieves, folks reckon. Most anything to get the ’coon.”

  *

  When he rounded the bend below the creek and saw the old bridge ahead of him, his mouth got dry and his heart began to pound. He walked his horse, with the child sitting before him and the carbine in its scabbard. At the creek he drew up for just a moment, looking down at the bridge. He had built it with his own hands. Then his eyes saw the hand rail on the right. It was cut from a young poplar. He had used cedar. Somebody had worked on that bridge recently.