Treasure Mountain s-17 Read online

  "What do you think about pa?"

  "I think he took 'em to the hills. I think he took 'em high up yonder, and I think there was blood, Orrin. Andre and them, they're runnin' scared. Something happened only Andre knows of and the rest suspect."

  "What could they be afraid of now? Us?"

  "No, sir. Of Philip yonder. That's a fine, proud old man, and he has money. I think the rest of them hope to inherit, but likely he doesn't approve of them, and if he found some cause to suspect what happened to Pierre, well, they'd have nothing."

  "I think they have some notion of going for the gold."

  "Likely."

  "What do you think we should do?"

  "I think we should catch ourselves a steamer, Orrin, and go back upriver hunting folks with long memories. There's always one, a-settin' by somewheres who'll recall. We want a man who can recall."

  "Tomorrow?"

  "I reckon. First, though, I've got a little something to do. I'm going to have a little quiet talk with a priest."

  Chapter VIII

  We packed our gear in the morning, and we booked our passage north, and as much as I liked that wonderful, colorful town, I was ready to hit for the high country again. I wanted to see the wide plains with the mountains in the purple haze yonder, and I wanted to feel a good horse under me and ride out where the long wind bends the grass.

  First I had to talk to a priest--a Judas Priest. And he was nowhere in sight, nor to be found wherever I looked. He'd quit his hotel job. They spoke well of him, although they looked at me strangely when I asked after him, and they commented that he was an odd one.

  "What do you mean--odd?" Orrin asked.

  The man just shrugged and would say nothing, but I wasn't going to leave it at that, so I caught up with another porter I'd seen around and I took out a couple of silver dollars, tossed them and ketched them.

  When I asked my question he looked at me and at those dollars. "He took to you, mister. He done tol' me so. He thought there was a charm on you. He thought you walked well with the spirits, mister. He said you follered the right, and the evil would never come to you."

  "Where will I find him?"

  "If'n he wishes to be found, he'll find you. Don't you look, mister. He's voodoo, he is. Pow'ful strong voodoo."

  Well, no matter what he was, I wanted to talk with him. The slave who had gone west with Pierre Bontemps had been named Angus Priest, and I had a hunch there was more than one reason behind the help Judas had provided.

  We saw nothing of Andre Baston, nor of the others. I had an urge to go hunting Hippo Swan, but I fought it down. We'd promised Barres we'd leave and take the ache from his thoughts, so we done it, but I left not thinking kindly of Hippo.

  The river was a busy place them days. We took a stateroom called the Texas, the highest point on a river-boat except the pilothouse. It was said along the river that Shreve, for whom Shreveport was named, had named cabins for the various states, and ever after they were called staterooms.

  Now I've no knowledge of the language or anything. I'm a fair hand with a rope and a horse, with some knowhow about cattle and reading sign, but words kind of interest me, and many a time I've covered miles out yonder where there's nothing but grass and sky, just figuring on how words came to be. Like Dixie Land. For a time they issued a ten-dollar note down there in New Orleans that had a ten on one side and a dix--French for ten--on the other. Folks began calling them dixies, and the word somehow got to mean the place they were used--Dixie Land.

  At the last minute the Tinker showed up and wanted to go along with us, so the three of us headed north for the Arkansas. The Tinker showed for dinner in a perfectly tailored black suit, looking almighty elegant like some foreign prince, which among his own folks he probably was.

  We set up to table, hungry as all get-out. We were giving study to the card on which they'd printed what grub was available when a soft voice said, "Something from the bar, gentlemen?" It was Judas Priest.

  "I have been wanting to talk to you," I said.

  He smiled with sly amusement. "Ah? Of course. I shall be available later." He paused a moment. "If you gentlemen do not object, and could use some good cooking on your way west, I would be pleased to accompany you."

  "Can you ride?"

  He smiled again. "Yes, suh. I can ride. And to answer your question, suh," he looked at me, "I look for a grave as well as you. I also look for the reason why there needs to be a grave."

  "Come along, then," Orrin replied. "And we'll take you up on the cooking."

  It was midnight, a few days later, when we transferred from our upriver steamer to the smaller steamer that would take us up the Arkansas. Judas, in his mysterious way, had transferred too, refusing any assistance from us.

  Orrin went to his cabin, and I loitered on deck, watching the lights, of the big steamer as it pulled away, churning the water to foam as it made the turn. In the waves thrown up by the paddle wheels there was a boat, a small boat that seemed to have appeared from the other side of the steamer. I watched it idly, but it was dark after the steamer's lights and I could make out nothing. A little later I heard the dip and splash of oars. The boat was pulling in alongside a keelboat moored below us.

  It seemed to me that two men, perhaps three, left the boat. I was tired now, and walked slowly forward to our cabin.

  The Tinker moved from the shadow of some barrels. "Did you see that boat?"

  "Yes."

  "Somebody could have gotten off on the river side."

  "You're a suspicious man, Tinker."

  "I am a living man, my friend."

  We stood together in the darkness watching the water as our small steamer got underway. If we did not get aground too often we'd soon be riding out for Colorado. Yet river travel was a chancy thing, subject to sudden lows or highs along the river, unexpected sand bars, snags, and all drifting matter. A pilot had to be a bit of a magician to do it well, and navigating these branches of the Big River was doubly difficult. Nor did they dare to go too far upstream for they might suddenly be left high and dry as a sudden flood played out.

  "Your pa, now. You never heard anything after New Orleans?" said the Tinker.

  "We never heard from him from there that I recall, but my memory is hazy, and it wasn't long after that before I took off to make my way in the world. Then the war came along and blotted a lot of memories for us who fought."

  We were silent for a while, listening to the river whispering along the hull.

  There was a light on that keelboat downstream now.

  "When somebody is around home there's talk, and the talk awakens memories, so a body has many a thing fresh in mind that otherwise might fade out.

  "There are sons and daughters of the same folks who have altogether different memories, and each one thinks he remembers better. The last one at home, of course, has had his memories renewed by talk. I suspect Orrin or Tyrel would recall better than me. Especially Tyrel. He never forgets anything."

  "Your pa may have been murdered."

  "Maybe."

  "I don't like the feel of it, Tell. There's something that doesn't feel right about it," he said.

  "Could be Andre took off and left them in a bind--pulled out--and he's shamed Philip may find out and cut them off. From all I could gather, Andre, Paul, and Fanny have gone through everything they have. They're in a tight for cash, and they've got to set right with Philip or go to work."

  "There's more to it," said the Tinker and went in to the cabin.

  There was some stirring around on the keelboat aft of us. I didn't pay it much mind, only to notice.

  The river rustled by our hull. The deck below was piled high with cargo. I'd seen these riverboats so piled with bales of cotton that folks in the cabins had to live by candlelight even at midday. That water down there had melted from high-mountain snows not long since. It had trickled down, pure and cold from up where the glaciers still live, where the rivers are born.

  Soon I'd be riding where that w
ater came from. Here it was muddy with earth, with death and plants and bugs, and with whatever man left in it. Far up there where the snows were the water was pure and cold.

  No getting away from it, I was wilderness born and bred and never was I wishful to be far from it. I like to bed down where a man can look up at the stars, where he can taste the wind to test the weather, and where he can watch the wild things about their business.

  When a man lives with the wilderness he comes to an acceptance of death as a part of living, he sees the leaves fall and rot away to build the soil for other trees and plants to be born. The leaves gather strength from sun and rain, gathering the capital on which they live to return it to the soil when they die.

  Only for a time have they borrowed their life from the sum of things, using their small portion of sun, earth, and rain, some of the chemicals that go into their being--all to be paid back when death comes. All to be used again and again.

  Feet rustled on the deck behind me, a swift movement, and on instinct I squatted quickly, turned and lifted with all the thrust of my legs into an upward drive.

  I felt legs across my back and shoulders, then the weight slid off me and over the rail into the water.

  He'd been wet before he fell, which meant that he probably swam over, crawled up on the deck, and came at me from behind with a knife or a club. He'd jumped at me, and when I dropped he just carried right on over, helped a mite by my boost.

  He went down a long way because we were a far piece above the water, and when he came up I called down, "How's the water there, son?"

  He made reply, but it sounded almighty unpleasant, so I just turned about and went to our cabin. Orrin was asleep, and so was the Tinker.

  I shucked my coat and boots, took my gun close to hand, and peeled to my long-Johns. I stretched out on the bunk and looked up into the blackness. It was going to be all right. I was headed back for the mountains ...

  When the little steamer tied up at Webber's Falls, we were the first ones down the gangplank. "They're in town," I told Orrin and the Tinker. "Walk easy and keep your eyes open. You boys get us some grub and supplies at the store. I'll wait for Judas and then try to find some horses."

  When Judas came off the boat I told him to meet us at the store later and to watch himself. There was a livery stable and a corral down the street. Strolling along, I stopped and leaned on the rails. A man with a straw hat and bib overalls came over to me. "Nice stock," he commented.

  There were a dozen horses in the corral; all but two would be useless to us. Two were farm animals, the rest Indian ponies. The other horses, the two I fancied above the rest, were still not what I wanted.

  "Not for me," I shook my head. "Isn't there anything better around?"

  "Well," he said, "there's a man with a ranch the other side of town. His name is Halloran, Doc Halloran. He buys cattle, sells them, buys horses, races them.

  He's got fine stock but he ain't in the trading business."

  He hired me a rig and I stopped by the store. When I explained what I was about, the Tinker said, "Doc Halloran, you say? I'll go along."

  Orrin was still buying, so we drove off.

  It was an interesting place. A log house of five or six rooms, a handsome big barn, corrals, a well, some hay meadows, and a green lawn in front of the house.

  A tall, lean man came from the house as we drove up. A couple of Indian cowhands were at the corral. I started to speak, but the tall man was looking past me at the Tinker. A broad smile broke over his face. "Tinker! Well, I'll be forever damned!"

  "I hope not, Doc. Good to see you. This is Tell Sackett."

  "Where's Lando? Is he still fighting?" He turned to me. "Are you kin to Lando?

  He won me more money than I ever won anywhere else. Fight? That's the fightin'est man who ever walked."

  "He's my cousin," I said. "We Sacketts run to boys and fighting."

  "Come in! Come in! By the lord harry, this is great! Tinker, I've often wondered what became of you. Figured you must have gone back to pack-peddling in the mountains. What brings you to the Falls?"

  "Headed west," I said, "and we heard you had some horses that weren't for sale.

  We also heard they were the best stock anywhere around."

  "How many d'you need?"

  "Three packhorses, four head of riding stock, and we want stayers."

  "I've got what you need. A few years back, just after I moved up here from Oakville where I met Lando an' the Tinker, I swapped for an appaloosa stallion.

  A half-breed Injun from up Idaho way rode him into town. On the dodge, I reckon.

  "Well, I bred that appaloosa to some Morgan mares I had here, and wait until you see 'em!" He stopped suddenly, looking from one to the other. "You boys ain't runnin' from something, are you?"

  "No. Kind of scouting my father's trail," I explained. "Is there anybody around who was here twenty years ago? Somebody who might have outfitted another party with horses?"

  "More than likely they outfitted at Fort Gibson, right up the line. Those days nobody stopped here very much. This place was started by a part-blood Creek who came in here a good many years back. He took over the saltworks up the stream.

  Did right well. But anybody outfitting for the western ride would go to Fort Gibson."

  We finished our coffee and got up. "Let's see those horses," I suggested. "We've got to get back to town. Orrin will be waiting."

  There were three of them, sixteen hands, beautifully built, and in fine shape.

  One was a gray with a splash of white with black spots on the right shoulder, and a few spots freckled over the hips, black amidst the gray. The other horses were both black with splashes of white on the hips and the usual spots of the appaloosa.

  "We'll take them. How about packhorses?"

  "There," he indicated a dun, a pinto, and a buckskin. "They're good stock themselves, mustang cross."

  "How much?"

  He laughed. "Take 'em and forget it. Look, when Lando Sackett whupped Dune Caffrey down to Oakville I went down for all I had, and with my winnings I bought this place and my stock. I built it up and I still have money in the bank.

  "Take 'em along, an' welcome. Only thing is, if Lando fights again, you write me. I'll come a-runnin'."

  "Thanks," I said, "but--"

  "No buts." Doc Halloran shook his head at me. "Forget it. Reason I asked was you on the dodge," he said, "because three hard cases drifted in a few days ago.

  They've been sort of hangin' around as if on the lookout for somebody."

  The Tinker looked at me, and me at him. Then we sprinted for the buckboard.

  Chapter IX

  Orrin didn't make it sound like much when he told us of it after. He was in that there store, and it was like most country stores, smelling of everything that was in it--good, rich, wonderful smells of new leather, fresh-ground coffee, cured hams and bacon, spices, and the like.

  He knew where we were going and how we'd have to live. We'd have fresh meat from the country around us, and we'd have what we could gather in the way of roots and such, only that wouldn't amount to much unless we happened on it.

  A man traveling doesn't have much time for stopping off to look or pick, so Orrin was buying sides of bacon, flour, meal, coffee, dried fruit, and whatever figured to be handy.

  He also was buying some .44's for our Winchesters and pistols, and the man who owned the store took down a spanking new Smith and Wesson .44 and was showing it to Orrin.

  Orrin had just put it down when those hard cases walked in. Now they weren't from the western lands, they were river men, mean as all get-out, but they didn't know Orrin. They'd been told they were to kill a lawyer ... now there's lawyers and there's lawyers.

  Just like there was a dentist named Doc Holiday.

  They came in the store at the front, and Orrin was back yonder at the counter.

  He must have turned to look, as he would, but likely he was expecting the Tinker an' me.

  Now those three
spread out a little after they got through the door, and they were all looking at him. It was three to one, and Orrin spoke to the storekeeper out of the corner of his mouth. "You better get out. This appears to be a shooting matter."

  "You know those men?"

  "No, but they look like they're hunting."

  One of them, who wore a tall beaver hat, noticed the gun on the counter. He had his in his hand. He smiled past some broken, yellowed teeth and a straggly mustache.

  "There it is, mister lawyer. You better try for it."

  Now that gun was brand new and empty. Orrin knew that, even if they didn't. He could also see these were river men, and while there'd been a sight of shooting and killing alonf the Mississippi, very little of it was based on fast drawing.

  "If I reached for that gun, you'd kill me."

  The man with the beaver hat gave him a wolfish grin. "I reckon."

  "But if I don't reach for it, you'll kill me anyway?"

  "I reckon we'll do that, too." He was enjoying himself.

  "Then I haven't much choice, have I?"

  "Nope. You sure ain't."

  The other two men were shifting, one to get far over on his left. One of them was momentarily behind some bib overalls hung from a rafter.

  "But if I don't want to reach for that gun, how about this?"

  As Orrin spoke, he drew and fired.

  Reaction time was important. The three would-be killers were sure that he was frightened, that being a lawyer he would not be a gunfighter, and that if he reached it would be for the gun on the counter.

  Orrin had always been quick. And he was a dead shot. He fired and turned sharply to bring the second man in line, when there was the bellow of a shotgun behind him. The man farthest right cried out and ran for the door. He blundered into the doorpost and then almost fell through the screen door in getting out, a growing circle of blood on his back and shoulder.

  The third man, who had been moving toward the left, dropped his gun and lifted his hands. "Don't shoot! For God's sake, don't shoot!"

  Orrin held his gun ready. "All right," he said quietly, "move toward the door.