Collection 1986 - The Trail To Crazy Man (v5.0) Page 13

  While Waitt was busy over the wounded man, Gill walked back up the cave with Rafe.

  “What’s happened?” Gill asked. “I thought they’d got you.”

  “No, they haven’t, but I don’t know much of what’s been goin’ on. Ann’s at the fort with Barkow. Says she’s goin’ to marry him.”

  “What about Tex?” Gill asked quickly.

  Rafe shook his head, scowling. “No sign of him. I don’t know what’s come off at Painted Rock. I’m leavin’ for there as soon as I’ve told the Lieutenant and his patrol where Doc is. You’ll have to stick here because the Doc has to get back to the fort.”

  “You goin’ to Painted Rock?”

  “Yes. I’m goin’ to kill Dan Shute.”

  “I’d like to see that,” Gill said grimly, “but watch yourself!” The little cowhand looked at him seriously. “Boss, what about that girl?”

  Rafe’s lips tightened, and he stared at the bare wall of the cave.

  “I don’t know,” he said grimly. “I tried to talk her out of it, but I guess I wasn’t what you’d call tactful.”

  Gill stuck his thumbs in his belt. “Tell her you’re in love with her yourself?”

  Caradec stared at him. “Where’d you get that idea?”

  “Readin’ sign. You ain’t been the same since you ran into her the first time. She’s your kind of people, Boss.”

  “Maybe. But looks like she reckoned she wasn’t. Never would listen to me give the straight story on her father. Both of us flew off the handle this time.”

  “Well, I ain’t no hand at ridin’ herd on womenfolks, but I’ve seen a thing or two, Boss. The chances are if you’d have told her you’re in love with her, she’d never have gone with Bruce Barkow.”

  Rafe was remembering those words when he rode down the trail toward Painted Rock. What lay ahead of him could not be planned. He had no idea when or where he would encounter Dan Shute. He knew only that he must find him.

  After reporting to Bryson so he wouldn’t worry about the doctor, Rafe had hit the trail for Painted Rock alone. By now he knew that mountain trail well, and even the steady fall of snow failed to make him change his mind about making the ride.

  ____________

  HE WAS BURNING up inside. The old, driving recklessness was in him, the urge to be in and shooting. His enemies were in the clear, and all the cards were on the table in plain sight.

  Barkow he discounted. Dan Shute was the man to get, and Pod Gomer the man to watch. What he intended to do was high-handed, as high-handed in its way as what Shute and Barkow had attempted, but in Rafe’s case the cause was just….

  Mullaney had stopped in a wooden draw short of the hills. He stopped for a short rest just before daybreak on that fatal second morning. The single rider had turned off from the trail and was no longer with the patrol. Both he and the girl needed rest, aside from the horses.

  He kicked snow away from the grass and then swept some of it clear with a branch. In most places it was already much too thick for that. After he made coffee and they had eaten, he got up.

  “Get ready,” he said, “and I’ll get the horses.”

  All night he had been thinking of what he would do when he found Barkow. He had seen the man draw on Penn, and he was not fast. That made it an even break, for Mullaney knew that he was not fast himself.

  When he found the horses missing, he stopped. Evidently they had pulled their picket pins and wandered off. He started on, keeping in their tracks. He did not see the big man in the heavy coat who stood in the brush and watched him go.

  Dan Shute threaded his way down to the campfire. When Ann looked up at his approach, she thought it was Mullaney, and then she saw Shute.

  Eyes wide, she came to her feet. “Why, hello! What are you doing here?”

  He smiled at her, his eyes sleepy and yet wary. “Huntin’ you. Reckoned this was you. When I seen Barkow I reckoned somethin’ had gone wrong.”

  “You saw Bruce? Where?”

  “North a ways. He won’t bother you none.” Shute smiled. “Barkow was spineless. Thought he was smart. He never was half as smart as that Caradec, nor as tough as me.”

  “What happened?” Ann’s heart was pounding. Mullaney should be coming now. He would hear their voices and be warned.

  “I killed him.” Shute was grinning cynically. “He wasn’t much good.” Shute smiled. “Don’t be wonderin’ about that hombre with you. I led his horses off and turned ’em adrift. He’ll be hours catchin’ ’em, if he ever does. However, he might come back, so we’d better drift.”

  “No,” Ann said. “I’ll wait.”

  He smiled again. “Better come quiet. If he came back, I’d have to kill him. You don’t want him killed, do you?”

  She hesitated only a moment. This man would stop at nothing. He was going to take her if he had to knock her out and tie her. Better anything than that. If she appeared to play along, she might have a chance.

  “I’ll go,” she said simply. “You have a horse?”

  “I kept yours,” he said. “Mount up.”

  CHAPTER XIX

  Trail of a Lobo

  By the time Rafe Caradec was en route to Painted Rock, Dan Shute was riding with his prisoner into the ranch yard of his place near Painted Rock. Far to the south and west, Rock Mullaney long since had come up to the place where Shute had finally turned his horse loose and ridden on, leading the other. Mullaney kept on the trail of the lone horse and came up with it almost a mile further.

  Lost and alone in the thickly falling snow, the animal hesitated at his call and then waited for him to catch up. When he was mounted once more, he turned back to his camp, and the tracks, nearly covered, told him little. The girl, accompanied by another rider, had ridden away. She would never have gone willingly.

  Mullaney was worried. During their travel they had talked little, yet Ann had supplied a few of the details, and he knew vaguely about Dan Shute and about Bruce Barkow. He also knew, having learned all about that long before reaching the fort, that an Indian outbreak was feared.

  Mullaney knew something about Indians and doubted any trouble until spring or summer. There might be occasional shootings, but Indians were not, as a rule, cold-weather fighters. For that he didn’t blame them. Yet any wandering hunting or foraging parties must be avoided, and it was probable that any warrior or group of them coming along a fresh trail would follow it and count coup on an enemy if possible.

  He knew roughly the direction of Painted Rock, yet instinct told him he had better stick to the tangible and near, so he swung back to the trail of the Army patrol and headed for the pass into Long Valley….

  Painted Rock lay still under the falling snow when Rafe Caradec drifted down the street on the big black. He swung down in front of the Emporium and went in.

  Baker looked up, and his eyes grew alert when he saw Rafe. At Caradec’s question, he told him of what had happened to Tex Brisco so far as he knew, of the killing of Blazer, McCabe, and Gorman, and of Brisco’s escape while apparently wounded.

  He also told him of Dan Shute’s arrival and threat to Ann and her subsequent escape with Barkow. Baker was relieved to know they were at the fort.

  A wind was beginning to moan around the eaves, and they listened a minute.

  “Won’t be good to be out in that,” the storekeeper said gravely. “Sounds like a blizzard comin’. If Brisco’s found shelter, he might be all right.”

  “Not in this cold,” Caradec said, scowling. “No man with his resistance lowered by a wound is going to last in this. And it’s going to be worse before it’s better.”

  Standing there at the counter, letting the warmth of the big potbellied stove work through his system, Rafe assayed his position. Bo Marsh, while in bad shape, had been tended by a doctor and would have Gill’s care. There was nothing more to be done there for the time being.

  Ann had made her choice. She had gone off with Barkow, and in his heart he knew that if there was any choice between the two—Bar
kow or Shute—she had made the better. Yet there had been another choice. Or had there? Yes, she could at least have listened to him.

  The fort was far away, and all he could do now was trust to Ann’s innate good sense to change her mind before it was too late. In any event, he could not get back there in time to do anything about it.

  “Where’s Shute?” he demanded.

  “Ain’t seen him,” Baker said worriedly. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. But I can promise you one thing, Caradec. He won’t take Barkow’s runnin’ out with Ann lyin’ down. He’ll be on their trail.”

  The door opened in a flurry of snow, and Pat Higley pushed in. He pulled off his mittens and extended stiff fingers toward the red swell of the stove. He glanced at Rafe.

  “Hear you askin’ about Shute?” he asked. “I just seen him, headed for the ranch. He wasn’t alone, neither.” He rubbed his fingers. “Looked to me like a woman ridin’ along.”

  Rafe looked around. “A woman?” he asked carefully. “Now who would that be?”

  “He’s found Ann!” Baker exclaimed.

  “She was at the fort,” Rafe said, “with Barkow. He couldn’t take her away from the soldiers.”

  “No, he couldn’t,” Baker agreed, “but she might have left on her own. She’s a stubborn girl when she takes a notion. After you left she may have changed her mind.”

  ____________

  RAFE PUSHED THE thought away. The chance was too slight. And where was Tex Brisco?

  “Baker,” he suggested, “you and Higley know this country. You know about Tex. Where do you reckon he’d wind up?”

  Higley shrugged. “There’s no tellin’. It ain’t as if he knew the country, too. They trailed him for a while, and they said it looked like his horse was wanderin’ loose without no hand on the bridle. Then the horse took to the water, so Brisco must have come to his senses somewhat. Anyway, they lost his trail when he was ridin’ west along a fork of Clear Creek. If he held to that direction it would take him over some plumb high, rough country south of the big peak. If he did get across, he’d wind up somewheres down along Tensleep Canyon, maybe. But that’s all guesswork.”

  “Any shelter that way?”

  “Nary a mite. Not if you mean human shelter. There’s plenty of timber there, but wolves, too. There’s also plenty of shelter in the rocks. The only humans over that way are the Sioux, and they ain’t in what you’d call a friendly mood. That’s where Man Afraid of His Horse has been holed up.”

  Finding Tex Brisco would be like hunting a needle in a haystack and worse, but it was what Rafe Caradec had to do. He had to make an effort, anyway. Yet the thought of Dan Shute and the girl returned to him. Suppose it was Ann? He shuddered to think of her in Shute’s hands. The man was without a spark of decency or mercy. Not even his best friends would deny that.

  “No use goin’ out in this storm,” Baker said. “You can stay with us, Caradec.”

  “You’ve changed your tune some, Baker,” Rafe suggested grimly.

  “A man can be wrong, can’t he?” Baker inquired testily. “Maybe I was. I don’t know. Things have gone to perdition around here fast, ever since you came in here with that story about Rodney.”

  “Well, I’m not stayin’,” Rafe told him. “I’m going to look for Tex Brisco.”

  The door was pushed open and they looked around. It was Pod Gomer. The sheriff looked even squarer and more bulky in a heavy buffalo coat. He cast a bleak look at Caradec and then walked to the fire, sliding out of his overcoat.

  “You still here?” he asked, glancing at Rafe out of the corners of his eyes.

  “Yes, I’m still here, Gomer, but you’re traveling.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. You can wait till the storm is over. Then get out, and keep movin’.”

  Gomer turned, his square hard face dark with angry blood.

  “You—tellin’ me?” he said furiously. “I’m sheriff here!”

  “You were,” Caradec said calmly. “Ever since you’ve been here you’ve been hand in glove with Barkow and Shute, runnin’ their dirty errands for them, pickin’ up the scraps they tossed you. Well, the fun’s over. You slope out of here when the storm’s over. Barkow’s gone, and within a few hours Shute will be, too.”

  “Shute?” Gomer was incredulous. “You’d go up against Dan Shute? Why, man, you’re insane!”

  “Am I?” Rafe shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m talkin’ to you. Get out and stay out. You can take your tinhorn judge with you.”

  Gomer laughed. “You’re the one who’s through! Marsh dead, Brisco either dead or on the dodge, and Gill maybe dead. What chance have you got?”

  “Gill’s in as good shape as I am,” Rafe said calmly, “and Bo Marsh is gettin’ Army care, and he’ll be out of the woods, too. As for Tex, I don’t know. He got away, and I’m bankin’ on that Texan to come out walkin’. How much stomach are your boys goin’ to have for the fight when Gill and I ride in here? Tom Blazer’s gone, and so are a half dozen more. Take your coat”—Rafe picked it up with his left hand—“and get out. If I see you after this storm, I’m shootin’ on sight. Now get!”

  He heaved the heavy coat at Gomer, and the sheriff ducked, his face livid.

  Yet surprisingly he did not reach for a gun. He lunged and swung with his fist. A shorter man than Caradec, he was wider and thicker, a powerfully built man who was known in mining and trail camps as a rough-and-tumble fighter.

  ____________

  CARADEC TURNED, CATCHING Gomer’s right on the cheekbone, but bringing up a solid punch to Gomer’s midsection. The sheriff lunged close and tried to butt, and Rafe stabbed him in the face with a left and then smeared him with a hard right.

  It was no match. Pod Gomer had fancied himself as a fighter, but Caradec had too much experience. He knocked Gomer back into a heap of sacks and then walked in on him and slugged him wickedly in the middle with both hands. Gomer went to his knees.

  “All right, Pod,” Rafe said, panting, “I told you. Get goin’.”

  The sheriff stayed on his knees, breathing heavily, blood dripping from his smashed nose. Rafe Caradec slipped into his coat and walked to the door.

  Outside, he took the horse to the livery stable, brushed him off, and then gave him a rubdown and some oats.

  He did not return to the store, but after a meal, saddled his horse and headed for Dan Shute’s ranch. He couldn’t escape the idea that the rider with Shute might have been Ann, despite the seeming impossibility of her being this far west. If she had left the fort within a short time after the patrol, then it might be.

  But there was small chance of that. Barkow would never return, having managed to get that far away. There was no one else at the fort to bring her. Scouts had said a party of travelers were coming up from the river, but there would be small chance any of them would push on to Painted Rock in this weather.

  Dan Shute’s ranch lay in a hollow of the hills near a curving stream. Not far away the timber ran down to the plain’s edge and dwindled away into a few scattered groves, blanketed now in snow.

  A thin trail of smoke lifted from the chimney of the house and another from the bunkhouse. Rafe Caradec decided on boldness as the best course, relying on his muffled, snow-covered appearance to disguise him until within gun range. He opened a button on the front of his coat so he could get at a gun thrust into his waistband.

  He removed his right hand from its glove and thrust it deep in his pocket. There it would be warm and at the same time free to grasp the six-gun when he needed it.

  No one showed. It was very cold, and if there was anyone around and they noticed his approach, their curiosity did not extend to the point where they would come outside to investigate.

  Rafe rode directly to the house, walked up on the porch, and rapped on the door with his left hand. There was no response. He rapped again, much harder.

  All was silence. The mounting wind made hearing difficult, but he put his ear to the door and lis
tened. There was no sound.

  He dropped his left hand to the door and turned the knob. The door opened easily, and he let it swing wide, standing well out of line. The wind howled in, and a few flakes of snow, but there was no sound. He stepped inside and closed the door after him.

  His ears tingled with cold, and he resisted a desire to rub them. Then he let his eyes sweep the wide room. A fire burned in the huge stone fireplace, but there was no one in the long room. Two exits from the room were hung with blankets. There was a table, littered with odds and ends, and one end held some dirty dishes where a hasty meal had been eaten. Beneath that spot was a place showing dampness, as though a pair of boots had shed melting snow.

  There was no sound in the long room but the crackle of the fire and the low moan of the wind around the eaves. Walking warily, Rafe stepped over a saddle and some bits of harness and walked across to the opposite room.

  He pushed the blanket aside.

  The room was empty. He saw an unmade bed of tumbled blankets, and a lamp standing on a table by the bed.

  Rafe turned and stared at the other door and then looked back into the bedroom. There was a pair of dirty socks lying there, and he stepped over and felt of them. They were damp.

  Someone, within the last hour or less, had changed socks here. Walking outside, he noticed something he had not seen before. Below a chair near the table was another spot of dampness. Apparently, two people had been here.

  He stepped back into the shadow of the bedroom door and put his hand in the front of his coat. He hadn’t wanted to reach for that gun, in case anyone was watching. Now, with his hand on the gun, he stepped out of the bedroom and walked to the other blanket-covered door. He pushed it aside.

  It was a large kitchen. A fire glowed in the huge sheet-metal stove, and there was a coffeepot filled with boiling coffee. Seeing it, Rafe let go of his gun and picked up a cup. When he had filled it, he looked around the unkempt room. Like the rest of the house, it was strongly built, but poorly kept inside. The floor was dirty, and dirty dishes and scraps of food were around.