Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0) Read online

  “I wonder who that would be?” Hardy asked innocently.

  “Well,” Braden was thoughtful, “Stark here would be a good man, Harless another. Needs a man free of a wagon, of course, an’ I reckon both Stark an’ Harless are tied down.”

  “That lets you out too, doesn’t it?” Hardy suggested.

  “Matter of fact,” Braden admitted, “it doesn’t. I got me a good driver. He’s helpin’ with another wagon today, but actually he’s with me. He’ll be over before election time tonight. Name of Bunker.”

  “Looks like you might be the likely choice for captain, then,” Hardy suggested gravely. “That is, if you have the confidence of the leaders. How do you stand with Colonel Pearson?”

  Braden glanced around wisely, then held up two fingers. “Like that!” he stated emphatically. “We understand each other, the Colonel an’ me!”

  “Well,” Hardy said, “that sure is a relief to get that problem settled. Sure takes a load off my mind. Wouldn’t do to get the wrong man as captain.” He glanced around at Murphy. “Say, that reminds me: what ever happened to that wagon boss we had out of Fort Phil Kearney that time? The one we didn’t like?”

  Murphy scowled thoughtfully. “That one? Why, sure! He was the one I shoved off the seat when we were swimmin’ the river durin’ flood. I sure hated to do it, but it saved shootin’.”

  “That ain’t the one.” Ban was insistent. “I mean that tall one, with the sandy beard.”

  “Oh, him?” Murphy slapped his leg. “Hell, how could you forget him? That was the one we tied on the buffalo bull! Last we seen of him was that bull, tearin’ off with the herd, an’ that wagon captain tied stark naked atop him! I reckon he’s goin’ yet!”

  Stark stirred the fire, and Braden stared at first one and then the other. “You’re funnin’?” he suggested.

  “Funnin’?” Murphy looked up. “Of course we was funnin’! Got to do something along the trail for laughs! When you got a wagon boss you don’t like, get shet of him, quickest way you know how!”

  Aaron Stark took the pipe from his mouth and glanced over at the tall young driver sitting beside Bill Shedd. “You’re Tolliver, eh? Any kin to the Tollivers of Sandy Run?”

  Tolliver glanced up. “Yep, sure thing. We’re full cousins. You know ‘em?”

  “I should smile! My wife’s sister married up with Clyde.”

  “That would be Aunt Jane, then? That makes us practic’ly kinfolks.”

  “I reckon.”

  “Well,” Braden suggested, “when election comes tonight we sure better pick the right man. Don’t know,” he said with a glance at Hardy, “if I’d care to be captain of this outfit, treatin’ wagon bosses the way you do, still, if I’m elected, I’ll serve. I’ll sure do the best I know how to keep us at the head of the train all the time, too!”

  When they were mounting their wagons again, Stark glanced at Bardoul. “Talkative sort of feller, ain’t he?”

  Matt grinned. “Kind of. Reckon he’d sure like to be boss of this company.”

  “Reckon he would,” Stark agreed. “Reckon that’s what he was sent for.”

  “Ro-o-l-l-l out! Roll ‘em o-o-over!”

  The call swept down the line of wagons, picked up by many voices, and once more the oxen leaned against the harness and the wagons began to move.

  In some respects the prospects for the wagon train could not have been improved. The time of year was good, although water would be scarce for the spring rains were far behind and the fall rains had not yet begun, however, the prairies would be firm and the hauling not too heavy.

  Trouble with the Indians was possible but improbable. Only a short time before Crazy Horse had surrendered, closely followed by the surrender of Two Moons and Lame Deer. Of the wild Indians, only Sitting Bull, the medicine man who aspired to be a war chief, remained free, and he had escaped to Canada. American Horse was dead, and Dull Knife of the Cheyennes was helpless to offer any opposition. Red Cloud, who had once compelled the Army to abandon the forts along the Bozeman Trail, had become a reservation Indian, occasionally going east on lecture tours.

  A few young braves might kill a straggler if any was found, or drive off some stock, but the prospects of any organized band being large enough to attack the sixty-two wagons of the train seemed out of the question now.

  Trouble, if there was to be any, must spring from within the wagon train itself.

  Twice, Matt sighted Jacquine Coyle, and each time she was well ahead of the wagons, riding beside Clive Massey. He saw no evidence of Logan Deane.

  Pearson, of course, was always in sight. Astride his magnificent bay he made a commanding figure of a man, fully conscious of the effect he created.

  The sod was firm, and as the four columns of wagons kept well apart, the travelling was fairly good. This route had not been used before, so the grass was long and the sod over much of the way was solid enough so that dust was late in starting. Several times when Matt was near his own wagons he saw young Tolliver glancing back toward the rear of the train.

  When he caught Matt watching him, he waved, but kept his eyes to the front as long as Matt was in sight. His actions puzzled Bardoul. Had Tolliver had trouble in Spearfish or Deadwood? Was he expecting to be pursued? Certainly, his actions gave every evidence of it.

  Once, sighting an antelope, Matt rode away from the column long enough to kill it. He brought the fresh meat back to the wagons and passed it to Sarah Stark. She smiled at him. “I guess we won’t starve none!”

  She was a pretty girl, and Matt had noticed the way Ban Hardy kept his eyes on her. He chuckled, and grinned at the girl. “Sary, you’d better keep your eyes open! There’s a young cowhand on this wagon train who’s lookin’ you over!”

  “Let him look!” she said, with spirit. Then, her curiosity aroused, she asked quickly: “Who do you mean?”

  “Ban Hardy, that Texas trail driver. I hear those Texans are plumb romantic. Of course, he probably sees you’re all taken up with that Braden fellow.”

  “Braden?” Sary was aghast. “Why, I’m no such thing! Wherever did you get that idea? Why, if he was the last man on earth … !” She snorted indelicately. “Him! Of all people!”

  When they circled for camp that night they had made eighteen miles. It was a good day’s travel, neither the best nor the worst a wagon train could expect.

  Clive Massey rode up during supper. “All of you come over to the Coyle wagon when you’ve eaten.” He glanced at Braden, a faintly questioning look, then rode away.

  Ernie Braden was being very expansive. He offered his tobacco pouch around, and the men by the fire gravely helped themselves. When he held forth at some length on his past experiences with wagon trains they listened respectfully, and said little.

  Finally, Murphy got up and rubbed his hands on his buckskins. “Might as well go over,” he said, “this is where we get the lowdown.”

  Brian Coyle had taken his stand behind a barrel, as before. Behind him, Colonel Pearson waited, standing at ease. Clive Massey conversed in low tones with Jacquine. Some of the men sat around cross legged, and the others filled in behind them.

  “You’ve all seen the gold we had,” Coyle began abruptly. “beyond that you’ve made this trip on faith. Now to announce our destination, and I doubt if it will mean much to you. It certainly meant nothing to me. We are going to the forks of Shell Creek, the other side of the Big Horn Mountains. That’s where the gold was found.”

  A low murmur went through the gathered men, but the talk died when Coyle began to speak again.

  “In any such group as this there is certain to be some trouble, so as is the procedure in any well regulated community we have appointed a man whose duty it will be to maintain order. That appointment fell upon Clive Massey. I hope you will all give him your utmost cooperation.”

  There were a few scattered cheers, but most of the men held their silence. Brian Coyle glanced around, then continued, “He has named ten men who will assist him in maintaining
order, with Logan Deane as his second in command.”

  Murphy glanced at Bardoul and spat. “Well, what else could you expect?” he said.

  “Now,” Coyle continued, “for the next order of business. Slips of paper are being distributed to be used in voting for your company commanders. The four companies will be designated as A, B, C, and D. Choose your captains carefully, for they must be men capable of leadership, and men who have the respect of all others in the group.

  “Company A,” Coyle indicated the column with which Massey and Deane travelled, “will vote first.”

  “That’ll be Massey,” Stark suggested, “you wait an’ see!”

  It was. And Brian Coyle was elected captain of B Company. Herman Reutz, the former storekeeper, was elected captain of Company C, and then D Company voted.

  The votes were collected by Barney Coyle and delivered to his father. Matt glanced over at Braden who was talking to Clive Massey. As Coyle called for silence, Braden turned toward him confidently.

  Brian Coyle lifted the first ballot, opened it, and read, “Ernie Braden!” Braden smiled.

  He lifted the next ballot. “Matt Bardoul!” he called.

  Coyle lifted the third ballot, hesitated a little, and called out, “Bardoul again!”

  The smile on Braden’s face grew forced. The next vote was for Braden, and then all the rest for Matt Bardoul.

  Murphy nudged Matt as his election was announced. “Look at ‘em! They don’t like it, not even one little bit!”

  Clive Massey’s face was stiff, while Braden looked black and ugly. He had been so confident of victory, so sure he had won them over.

  “Before we break up,” Coyle said, “the captains will meet at my wagon for a conference.”

  Ban Hardy got him. His eyes crinkled with dry humour. “Luck,” he said to Matt, “don’t let ‘em fast talk you.”

  Matt strolled over to the wagon and leaned against the wheel. He dug out his tobacco and rolled a cigarette. Jacquine was only a few feet from him, talking to her brother, but she avoided his glance, so he paid no further attention to her.

  Pearson hesitated a moment to gain the attention of the group, ignoring Matt. “After talking with Lyon and Phillips,” he suggested, “we have chosen a route that is indicated on this map I have drawn with the help of Miss Coyle. As there will be several river crossings it will be well to prepare your wagons for them.”

  Matt studied the map thoughtfully. It was going to miss the Stone Cup, the best waterhole between Deadwood and the Big Horns, and would take them through very dry country. Yet it had advantages even if there would be less water.

  “You’ve been through this country, Bardoul,” Reutz said suddenly, “what do you think of the route?”

  Matt hesitated, noting the irritation in both Pearson and Massey. “It’s a good one, but for the scarcity of water.”

  Pearson touched a point on the map. “There’s fresh water right here, at a logical stopping point.”

  “That’s right, Pearson,” Matt replied, “but that’s a slough. The water is stagnant, usually covered with green moss, and with a lot of cattails growing in it. The water should only be used by humans in an emergency.”

  “We appreciate the information,” Pearson said sarcastically. “Knowing you, I couldn’t expect to find any plan that would please you!”

  “Knowing you,” Bardoul returned sharply, “I can’t imagine you drawing a route that would be practical. That second waterhole,” he added, “is almost pure alkali. I mean the one at Pumpkin Buttes.”

  “My information is different!” Pearson snapped.

  Bardoul shrugged and lighted a cigarette, glancing at the others. Clive Massey was smiling a little, Brian Coyle looked irritated, and only Herman Reutz looked thoughtful.

  “My point,” Matt said evenly, “is simply this: We are all in this together, and any personal animosity should be dropped until the trip is over. Any information I have as to the route, is yours for the asking. I only volunteered what I knew because I felt it was well to know these things beforehand.”

  “That’s fair enough,” Reutz said. “Weren’t you in the planning of this trail?”

  Matt did not reply, and a dead silence fell over the group. Pearson shifted his feet uneasily, then cleared his throat. “Company A will lead off in the morning.”

  When a few other details had been settled, the meeting broke up. Matt walked back to his wagon in time to see young Tolliver mounted and riding away. Bardoul started to call after him to warn him of Indians, but there was something so surreptitious about the way he was leaving that it puzzled him. Yet Tolliver was already some distance off and going fast, riding as if toward a definite objective.

  Matt shrugged, then walked back to his wagon and shook out his bed. It would be completely dark in a matter of minutes. Hearing a footstep he glanced up to see the German storekeeper walking toward him. Reutz sat down on the wagon tongue. “You know this country pretty well, don’t you?” he asked.

  Bardoul nodded. “I’ve been over this particular route twice before. It’s a good route but for the lack of water.”

  “Pearson’s pretty sharp. Has he got it in for you about something?”

  “Yes, I guess so. It’s an old story now, but I served with him as a civilian scout for awhile. We didn’t get along.”

  “I figured something like that.” He paused and lighted his pipe. “You don’t like our trail?”

  “It isn’t bad. Not much brush, mostly open country, good grass, and only a few streams to cross. At this time of year they may be dry or almost dry. Those waterholes I spoke of are useless.”

  “Maybe they have changed?”

  “I talked with a Crow at Spearfish. He says they are still bad.”

  “You’ve some good men in your outfit.”

  “Some of the best. I doubt if Braden and his driver will stay with us now.”

  “He told Massey he would be captain. I imagine he was quite sure of it.” Reutz rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the stem of his pipe. “Bardoul,” he said suddenly, “you’ve done some talking about Deane and Hammer. What do you know about them?”

  “What everybody in the west knows. Logan Deane’s a gun slinger and a killer. I haven’t much room for talk, because I’ve thrown a gun a few times myself. I will say that I was pushed a good deal, or I wouldn’t have. Probably that was the way with Deane, too. As for Hammer, the man is a thief and a murderer.”

  Reutz tossed a stick into the dying blaze. “There’s something I don’t quite understand,” he said, “Massey and Deane have selected ten men to maintain order in this outfit. You’d think we were a lot of troublemakers.”

  “Ten? Why, that’s more than they ever had in Dodge, I’d guess.”

  “Sure, and this Hammer is one of them. There’s a man named Bain who is another.”

  “Bain?” Matt swore. “Why, he’s the worst cutthroat in the western country! What’s Coyle thinking of? This wagon train is being placed right in the hands of the outlaws!”

  “That’s what I was afraid of,” Reutz said, “and I don’t like it.”

  The following day they made fourteen miles. Matt glanced thoughtfully at Tolliver, who was on the job bright and early. He looked tired, and must have been gone much of the night, but Matt had not heard him return.

  Had the young mountaineer ridden back to Deadwood? It did not seem reasonable to suppose he had unless there was someone back there whom he intended to tell of the caravan’s destination. Yet Bardoul was instinctively drawn to the young man, and could not bring himself to believe that Tolliver was betraying them in any sense. Matt made no comment, preferring to await results.

  During the night he had got out two extra pistols he carried and loaded them carefully. Then he concealed them in a bale of goods where they would be out of sight yet easy to his hand. He did the same thing with a shotgun.

  Why he did these things he could not have said. He had that streak of caution in him that so many adventurous men
have. Having seen much, they come to a natural way of life that prepares and considers every eventuality.

  He had no idea of what to expect, however, he could now allow himself some reason for doubt. When ten lawless men are put in charge of policing a caravan of some hundred odd people, and these men who were to maintain the law were of the stamp of Bain and Hammer, then trouble was truly impending.

  As to Shell Creek, if there was gold in the Big Horns it could as easily be there as elsewhere. In fact, the towering knob of Bald Mountain not far from where the creek headed up could be gold country. Certainly, there was evidence of some mineral in the rocks around there.

  At daylight on that second day the barrels they carried were filled to the brim once more. When the wagons pulled out and started west, he took his rifle and kept well off to one side of the line of march, saving his horse and keeping it free of the dust that would increase thirst. Ernie Braden and the surly Bunker, his driver, were still with his company.

  Matt Bardoul turned at right angles to the line of march and put the dun down a ravine, crossed the branch at the bottom and mounted the opposite slope through the trees. A half hour of easy riding brought him no sight of game, so he turned and cut back toward the trail. It was then he sighted the wagon.

  Matt reined in sharply and swung the dun back under the cover of the trees.

  It was a light spring wagon, much lighter than any other in the train, and pulled by four mules. Two men sat on the front seat, and studying them as they drew up opposite him, he saw they both seemed very young, and from their resemblance, must have been brothers. They were travelling alone, and a good four miles behind the wagon train.

  They kept the mules at a steady gait, and seemed to be talking in lively fashion. One of them was the young man he had seen leaning against the wall of the IXL Dining Room in Deadwood.

  Tolliver had ridden back this way last night. Had he seen this wagon? Or had he known they were here and come back to visit them? If not, why had he not mentioned them when he returned? Circling back through the trees, Matt caught up with the wagon train, and just before he reached it he bagged three turkeys.