Louis L'Amour (15 page)

“He was killed in Julesburg only a few months ago. He was shot down on the street.”

“Oh, I’m sorry! Who could have done such a thing?”

“It was done,” she replied quietly, “by the leader of the guerrillas. He saw himself recognized and shot my husband before he could be accused.

“My husband wore his gun in an army holster with a button-down flap. He was shot without warning, shot on sight.”

There was a rap at the door; then it opened. “Mr. Collier? I was told I would find you here. I wish—”

It was Jason Flandrau.

“If you wish to know who would do such a thing,” Mary Breydon said, “you might ask Mr. Flandrau.”

Flandrau took in the situation at a glance. He had no idea what Mary Breydon was doing here, but that she was among friends was obvious. It was equally obvious that his plan to enlist the support of Preston Collier was no longer a possibility.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”

He closed the door and stood for just an instant, shaking with fury. This was an end to it, then, all his work, all his planning, his great chance, all gone glimmering. There was but one thing to do now. He turned to the door and called for his horse.

“Do you mean to imply that Jason Flandrau was the leader of those guerrillas? But he came to me highly recommended! We have mutual friends!”

“I do not imply, Mr. Collier. I state it as a fact. You have been away, so perhaps you have not heard. An attempt was made to kill me only a few days ago. The attempt was made by a man referred to as Turkey Joe Longman. He was pursued, and in the gun battle that followed, he was killed. I believe he was one of the guerrillas.

“A few days before the attempt, Longman came to the stage station with a younger man whose name I do not know, but that younger man was riding a horse stolen from us and on which I still have the papers.”

“But can you trace any of this to Flandrau?”

“I am afraid I cannot. The killing of my husband was ruled self-defense, as my husband was armed, and Jason Flandrau said my husband made a threatening gesture.”

A man came to the door. “Sir? The team is ready, sir. Shall I accompany Mrs. Breydon?”

Mary stood up. “No, thank you. I shall be all right.” She extended a hand to Preston Collier. “You have been most gracious.”

Turning to Sir Charles, she said, “You have no idea what this means to me, to see someone from home. I had not realized I missed it so much! If you have a moment, please stop by the station. I can offer you nothing like this, but Matty is a wonderful cook, and the meals
are
good.”

After she was gone, Preston Collier asked, “This Harlequin Oaks? It was a fine place?”

“There were people who preferred an invitation to Harlequin Oaks to any other place on the eastern seaboard. Claybourne had the finest horses and the best food a man could find and an excellent cellar with it. The home place was about four hundred acres of as fine land as I have seen, but they had more back in the mountains, some six hundred acres of timberland. I know it well, as we often went there to hunt.

“Once the war is over and the land can be brought back into production, she will be a very wealthy young woman.”

“Odd that she would come West and take the kind of job she has.”

“Not if you know the family. Very independent, very able. Her father was prepared to accept any responsibility, and after all, there is not much a young woman can do.”

T
HE WIND BLEW cold along the Cherokee Trail, and raindrops blew from the leaves and spattered against her rain cape. It was a long ride back through the rain, yet she felt good, better than she had felt in days.

Seeing Sir Charles was only a part of it, as was the kindly reception from Preston Collier and the defeat of Flandrau. That, she believed, was complete and final as far as his political ambitions were concerned. Even had he planned otherwise, Collier was too wise a man to back the political aspirations of a man liable to such an accusation. The young, ambitious newspapers of Colorado would crucify anyone who supported such a man.

Yet it did not lessen her danger. If she were destroyed, he might still have a chance, although a slim one. Especially if she could be eliminated in such a way as not to implicate him.

Thinking about it coolly, Mary Breydon faced that fact. Her troubles were far from over, yet she doubted if another attempt would be made with firearms. Now he must be more subtle. Whatever was done must seem to be an accident.

It was long after midnight when at last she led the horses into the yard at Cherokee.

Wat opened the barn door. “Better bring ’em in here, ma’am.”

“Wat! What are you doing up at this hour?”

“Me an’ Ridge, we been takin’ turns watchin’ out for you. He just gotten himself to sleep. If’n we’re quiet, he’ll go right on sleepin’.”

When the horses were stalled, she tiptoed inside and, sitting alone beside the fire, drank a cup of coffee from the blackened pot. It was very hot and very black, and it tasted good.

For a moment, after she was in bed, she lay awake looking up at the darkness where the ceiling was. She could not remember a time when she had gone to bed so pleased with herself and the situation.

The horses had been stolen, yet she had found others, and tomorrow the stage would leave on time.

Nobody could have done it better, not Temple Boone or even Mark Stacy.

She was smiling when she fell asleep.

Chapter 17

W
HEN THE STAGE had gone and Peg had finished gathering the dishes from the tables, she looked over at Wat, who was looking at something in his hand.

“What’s that?”

“Arrowhead.”

“Can I see?”

He held it out on his open palm. “Where did you get it?”

He waved a hand toward the hill rising beyond the trees. “Yonder. There’s an old Indian camp.”

“Could I find one?”

“Maybe. If you look sharp and if you’re lucky.”

“Will you take me?”

“I don’t know. What would your mother say?”

“She wouldn’t mind. It isn’t far, is it?”

“No, just over yonder. Just a few minutes. I don’t know, though. You’d be scared.”

“Scared? What is there to be scared of?”

“Ghosts. Ghosts of dead Indians. Some say they hang around old camps.”

“Have you seen one? A ghost, I mean?”

“No, I never. That doesn’t say they ain’t none. I found a dead Indian once. I found his skull and some bones. Some ribs and the spine.”

“What did you do?”

“I covered him up again. Pa said never to disturb the remains. He said it was all right to pick up arrowheads but not to disturb their graves. If they were very, very old, he said somebody should study them who understood what he was doing. Somebody who knew what he was seeing.

“He told me one time that he found a cut bank where a stream had washed away the bank, and there in plain sight were three camps, each one a few inches or a few feet above the other, and each one was different, different kind of arrowheads, like that.”

He turned the arrowhead in his fingers, then handed it to Peg. “You can have that. Some Indian made it a long time ago. Come on, I’ll show you where I found it.”

She put the arrowhead in her pocket. “Thank you, Wat. That’s the first thing a boy ever gave me.”

“Aw, it ain’t nothin’! You wait! I know where there’s jasper and sometimes other kinds of stones. That ol’ arrowhead ain’t nothin’.”

“It is so. I
like
it.”

“Come on. I’ll show you where I found it. It’s just over yonder. We won’t be gone very long.”

“Shouldn’t we tell mother?”

“It’s just over there. You’ll be back before she knows you’re gone. Anyway, you don’t have to be scared. I’ll take care of you.”

“I’m
not
scared!”

Walking together, they started away toward the hill beyond the nearest trees. There was a narrow draw there and a bare place in the midst of the brush and close to one side of the draw.

“See?” Wat indicated a circle of fire-blackened stones almost covered with dirt and sand. “That was where they built their fires. Now if we look around—”

“Did you come here looking for arrowheads?”

“Not really. The first time it was with pa. That was just after the stage station was built. Pa had his wagon, and we were fetching bones—”

“Bones?”

“We used to go out and pick up old bones, buffalo bones, antelope, anything like that. When pa got a wagonload he’d drive it into town and sell it.”

“Sell
bones
? Who would want some smelly old bones?”

“They weren’t smelly! They were
old
. They grind them up for fertilizer and some other stuff. I don’t know what-all.”

“People bones?”

“No, silly. Buffalo bones, most of them. There were some others. One time pa found a tusk, like from an elephant? Like you see in pictures? He told some people in Denver about it, but they wouldn’t come to look. Said it was nonsense. Pa sold it to a peddler for twenty dollars.”

“Twenty dollars? For an old bone?”

“It was a tusk. Ivory. Pa said it was probably worth more, but twenty dollars was a lot of money, and he didn’t know of anybody who wanted it. Pa said he could eat good for two months on twenty dollars.”

Wat stopped suddenly, picking up a piece of stone almost as large as a man’s fist. It was chipped along one edge. “See this here? Indians chip off flakes of stone to make hide scrapers. After they skin a buffalo, they use these to scrape off the fat on the underside.”

“Oh…look! I found an arrowhead!” She held it up for his inspection.

“You sure did!” Wat was pleased. Suddenly his expression changed. “Look! Look yonder!”

He pointed to a track just beyond where she had found the arrowhead. It was a boot track, a large boot track.

“What is it?” Peg was puzzled.

“Ssh!” He gestured for silence. “Look there! It’s fresh!” His voice was low but intense. “That was made this mornin’!”

“How do you know?” Disbelief was obvious in her tone.

“Look,” he said. “It rained some last night. Not much, but some. See how the ground is speckled by the big drops? And the wind blew, too.

“Well, there’s no speckles in that track, and the edges are sharp and clear.”

“Maybe Mr. Fenton was over here.”

“Ridge? Naw, he won’t take a step out of the area least he has to or there’s a fight shapin’ up. He makes like he’s scared an’ doesn’t want to get into a fight, but you just try keepin’ him out of one. That ol’ codger would tackle a grizzly and give him first swat! No, siree! I know who made that track! It was Scant Luther!”

“Wat? Let’s go home. I’m scared.” Then she said, “How could you tell it’s his track? It’s just an old boot track!”

“I seen his tracks many’s the time. See there? That patched place? He fixed that himself. And this place where the heel’s run down? He walks like that. You watch him.”

“I don’t ever want to see him. Wat, let’s go home.”

“We can’t. Least, I can’t. I got to see what he’s doin’, and you can bet your hide he’s up to no good. He hates your mama.”

“What can we do?”

“Foller him a little ways. See where he’s goin’, then tell Ridge or Temple Boone.”

Eagerly, he started casting about for tracks. “He’s got a long stride, bein’ big like he is. Stay behind me now.”

“What difference does his stride make?”

“Tells you where to look for the next step. About two and a half feet, I’d guess.” Wat looked around, then suddenly pointed. “There! In the sand alongside that rock. See? He stepped on the rock, but his foot slid off a mite and made that mark in the sand. Come on, but be very quiet! And don’t talk!”

Wat moved swiftly. Scant Luther, not expecting to be trailed, had made no attempt to cover his tracks. He walked swiftly, taking long strides, and if occasionally he stepped on rocks, it was simply because it was easier.

Wat stopped suddenly, and putting his lips close to her ear, he whispered, “I smell smoke!”

He started on, then stopped and whispered again. “If you have to run, run uphill. The station’s right over this ridge, and besides, you can run uphill faster’n he can. On the level, he’ll catch you. Goin’ uphill, he’s too heavy!”

They started on, tiptoeing through the sand, slipping through the brush to make no sound. Peg was scared, but she was excited, too. This was fun! She had never done anything like this before. What would mama think? And Matty?

Suddenly, Wat lifted a hand. Too late! She was too close behind him, and he stopped so abruptly that she bumped into him, staggering him into a dry bush.

Scant Luther, crouching over his campfire, looked up, right into her eyes.

With a gruff roar, he lunged to his feet, staggering a little. Peg was off like a rabbit, running up the steep hill, dodging brush and rocks. Behind her, she could hear Scant’s big boots scratching gravel, but she feared to look back.

Off on her left and a little ahead of her, Wat was scrambling up the same steep hillside. He was just passing a big rock—

He stopped abruptly and threw himself behind the rock. “Help me!” he yelled.

Scrambling, she got behind the rock. It moved, it tilted, and suddenly it began to roll, a slow, ponderous roll; then it fell free and started downhill, leaping and bounding, right at Scant Luther!

He heard it, looked up, eyes bulging. Then he gave a great leap to one side and hit the hillside rolling. Down he went, the boulder tumbling past him, missing by a hair’s breadth.

Scant started to rise, staggered, and fell again.

“Quick!” Wat said. “The other one!”

Running after him, Peg threw herself behind a second, somewhat smaller rock. Down it went, leaping and bounding, followed by a torrent of small rocks, some of them leaping high in the air as they toppled and fell.

“Come on, let’s run!” Scrambling, they went up the hill and, breathless, paused at the top, hand in hand, to look back.

From where they now stood, they could no longer see Scant Luther, only dust rising from the hillside.

“Let’s go,” Wat said. “I should never have brought you out here.”