Sitka (13 page)

“Without a cargo?”

“Fitzpatrick has some goods for Portland and has been looking for a vessel for a month. I don’t care how you do it, but be loaded and under way by five tomorrow afternoon.”

“If you say so,” Kohl said. “Damn it, man. I was ready for Alaska. I was all ready.”

“You’ll go ... but meet me in Portland first.”

Oregon ... Jean watched the wall of the warehouse fall in, saw the flames and the smoke puff up, saw the great smoldering ball of his wheat. Sparks showered upward. No need to think of that. What was done was done.
 
He went swiftly to his horse and swung into the saddle. “Helena”—he turned the gelding—“I’m taking you home. Tell Count Rotcheff he’ll have his wheat in Sitka as promised. Tell him not to worry.”

“But how?”

“Leave that to me.” They were walking their horses away from the fire. “I wish I knew I’d see you again. I wish—“ “So do I,” she said simply. “Oh, Jean! I do, I do!”

At the door of the house on Rincon Hill he helped her from the saddle and watched the boy lead the horse away. For a moment they stood together before the empty eyes of the dark building. He could hear her breathing, smell of the faint perfume she wore and which he would never forget. Together they looked back at the red glow of the dying fire. “It’s been a good day,” he said at last, “a good, good day.”

“Even with that?” she gestured.

“Even with that.”

He gathered the reins. If he looked into her eyes he knew he would take her into his arms, so hastily he stepped into the saddle. She took his hand briefly.
 
“What is it they say here, Jean? Vaya con dios?” He felt the quick pressure of her fingers before she released them. “I say it now, Jean. Go with God. Go with God, Jean.”

At his rooms he paused only a moment, throwing things into his saddlebags, packing some small bags of gold, filling a money belt. He took his rifle and his spare pistol, then for a long moment he stared at the map. He would not see that map for a long time.

There was a rush of feet on the stairs. Hand on his gun, he swung wide the door.

It was Ben Turk.

“I knew it!” Ben was ready for the trail. “You’re riding! I’m comin’ along.” “I’ll travel faster alone. You go to the schooner.” He stuffed extra ammunition into the saddlebags.

“Nothing doing. I ride along or I quit. There’s nowhere you can go that I can’t.”

Turk was a good man, a very good man, but ... “All right. We leave our horses at the river landing. We’re taking the first boat for Sacramento, and if you can’t ride a thousand miles you’d best head for the schooner.” Ben Turk stared at him. “Mister LaBarge ... Cap’n, you ... you ain’t goin’ to ride to Portland?”

“It worries you?”

“There ain’t no trail, Cap’n! The Modocs will kill a man as fast as look at him!

That’s outlaw country. Why, man—I’m comin’ with you!”

“You’re inviting yourself. You’re a damn fool.”

“Why, now.” Ben chuckled. “I just figure we’re a couple of damn fools.”

The riverboat was already moving when they raced their horses onto the dock.
 
Jean swung his horse alongside and tossed his saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he sprang for the boat’s deck and lit, sprawling.
 
It was a bare four feet of jump, but both horse and boat were moving. Ben Turk hit the bulwark, caught it with his hands and swung himself over to the deck.
 
Together they looked back. The fire was only a sullen red glow now.
 
McCellan yelled at them from the pilothouse. “Law after you, is it? I been expectin’ it for years!”

“Shut up!” Jean yelled genially. “Get a move on this crate! I’ve business in Knight’s Landing!”

“Turn in,” he yelled. “I’ll call you!”

The last thing Jean LaBarge recalled as sleep took possession was the pressure of Helena’s hand, the expression on her face. He remembered how she had ridden beside him through the dark streets, how she had waited to be with him after he realized his wheat was destroyed, his hopes ruined. She had waited for him as a man’s woman would, only she was another man’s woman.
 
He opened his eyes. “Don’t forget, Mac. Knight’s Landing.”

A rough hand on his shoulder awakened him. Mac’s florid face and blond hande-bar mustache bent over him. “Rise an’ shine, boy. We’re comin’ up to the Landing now.”

Ben was already on his feet rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Through the murky light the Landing was visible, right ahead.

Jean LaBarge got to his feet and hitched his gun belt into position on his lean hips, then threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and took up his rifle.
 
McClellan peered over his shoulder at him. “I hope you don’t need those guns, boy.”

“We’ll have to be lucky.”

If anyone had ridden the route they were to follow La Barge was unaware of it.
 
There would be settlers here and there and a trail of sorts, but it would be sheer luck if they got through without fighting.
 
Thirty minutes later they rode out of Knight’s Landing headed north. The day was bright and clear, the horses eager. A few hours from now they would be less eager, Jean reflected, yet the horses proved gamer than he expected and it was almost midnight when they sighted a fire ahead of them. As was the custom of the country they drew up and hailed before approaching.
 
A shadow moved but for an instant there was silence, then a cautious voice called, “What do you want?”

“Name’s LaBarge. We’re hunting a couple of fast horses. Can you help us?” Walking their horses into the firelight they waited. There was a wagon here, and a small camp, such a camp and wagon no outlaw would be expected to have. Six head of mules were in sight and some good-looking saddle stock.
 
Two men, both armed and spread wide apart, emerged from the shadows. At the edge of the brush LaBarge could see two women who no doubt believed themselves concealed in shadows.

“You ridin’ from the law?”

“No.” LaBarge got down on the far side of his horse. A man could shoot better from the ground and there was no telling what might happen. “But we need horses mighty bad.”

The bearded man was a thin, high-shouldered fellow in torn shirt and homespun jeans, but he looked like a man who could use the rifle he carried. He sized up their horses with shrewd, appraising eyes. “Reckon I’ll swap. You got boot to offer?”

“Look, friend,” Jean smiled, “we want horses, but not that bad. I’ll trade our horses for that Roman-nosed buckskin and the gray. You can throw in a couple of sandwiches and some coffee.”

The man glanced at the horses, both fine animals. “I reckon it’s a trade.

Sal”—he looked toward the woods —“fetch these men some supper.” While Ben switched saddles, Jean faced the fire and the two men. The bearded man had been studying Jean’s expensive boots and drawing conclusions. The boy could be no more than half-witted and the women were hard-faced.
 
The coffee was black as midnight and scalding hot, and the sandwiches were slabs of bread inclosing hunks of beef.

“Anbody comes along,” the man suggested slyly, “what should I say?” Jean grinned at him. “Tell ‘em you saw two men nine feet tall riding north with fire in their eyes. Or tell ‘em whatever you want. If anybody was chasin’ us, we’d stop an’ wait for the fun, wouldn’t we, Ben?” “Those who know us well enough to come after us,” Ben agreed, “are too smart to try.”

Ten hours out of Sacramento, they rode into Red Bluff, and ten minutes later rode out again, their extra saddlebags stuffed with food. Twenty-five miles farther they stopped at a lonely cabin for coffee and when they rode out they were astride two paint Indian ponies.

The air was cool and damp. Twice they glimpsed campfires but their horses seemed no more tired than at the start and they pushed on farther into the night. Once a dog rushed out to bark, amazed and angry that anybody should be moving at all.
 
The night air, cool as a freshwater lake, washed them as they dipped into a hollow of the hills, and then for twenty miles they saw no one, nor any human sound save their own.

At daylight, for forty dollars, Jean swapped for a black stallion with three white stockings and a trim bay gelding. The stallion had an edge on his temper but distance robbed him of his urge for trouble.
 
They were climbing steadily through country where they saw few houses and no settlements. Before them and on their right was Mount Shasta, sending chill winds down across the low country, winds that blew off the white, white snows of her peak.

This was Modoc country and they rode with rifles across their saddlebows. The Modocs had been slave traders among the Indians long before the coming of the white man. At nightfall they reached Tower House, beyond which point there was no road and little trail. At daybreak, on fresh horses, they were moving again.
 
Glancing back, when farther along the trail, Jean saw a rider at the edge of the trees, and later after they had crossed a clearing, he watched long enough to see three riders come out of the trees, then swing back under cover.
 
“Look alive, Ben. Trouble coming up behind.”

A dim trail suddenly turned into the trees, a trail that by its direction might intersect with their own somewhere beyond the valley. They turned off, then obliterated their tracks as best they could in the few minutes they could afford and rode down through the forest. When their path turned off in a wrong direction they cut through the trees until they reached the main north-south trail once more.

At Callahan’s they switched horses again, and Jean found himself with a tough line-back dun. Taking the old Applegate wagon road, they reached the mining village of Yreka just seventy hours of Knight’s Landing.
 
Putting their horses up at the livery stable, Ben nudged Jean. “Look,” he said, low-voiced.

Two men were riding into town on blown horses, one wearing a short buffalo coat they remembered as worn by one of the men seen behind them on the trail. As they watched the third man rode into town and the three went along the street, examining all the horses.

Jean led the way into the saloon and they stood at the bar, cutting the dust from their throats and some of the chill from their bodies for the first time on the trip. At a casual question from the bartender, Jean explained, “Riding north, buying wheat for a ship that will meet us at Portland, and there are three men following us, hunting trouble.”

A man in a dark suit standing near them, backed off. “Not my fight,” he said.
 
Taking his drink, Jean motioned to Turk and they crossed to a table and sat down, facing the door. The bartender brought steaming white cups filled with coffee and, of all things, napkins. Jean slid his Navy pistol from his belt and laid it under his napkin. The other gun was in plain sight in his holster.
 
When the three men pushed through the door they glanced sharply at LaBarge and Turk, then walked to the bar. The three were obviously thieves, trailing them to rob and murder. No honest man ducked off a trail as they had. After a quick drink they turned and started out.

“You in the buffalo coat!”

The three stopped abruptly at Jean’s call and turned slowly, spreading out a little as they turned. They could see the gun in LaBarge’s holster. Ben’s gun was belted high and out of view.

The last man in wore a fur cap, the one in the buffalo coat had a thin, scarred face. The third was short with a wide, expressionless face. “You talkin’ to us?” he asked.

“You followed us out of Scott Valley, and you followed us into town. Now get this. If we see you anywhere close to us again, we’ll kill you.” “G’wan!” he said irritably. “You ain’t seen nobody! We ain’t even goin’ your way.”

“How come you know which way we’re going? Look, when I see men dodging in and out of the brush on my back trail I get suspicious, and when I get suspicious, I get irritable, and when I get irritable I’m liable to start shooting, so just to avoid trouble, stick around town a few days.”

“We’ll go where we like!” The man in the fur cap was growing red in the face.

“We wasn’t dodgin’ in no bush, either!”

Jean smiled pleasantly. “And I say you’re a liar!” The man’s face seemed to swell. “By God!” he shouted. “You can’t call me a liar!”

“I just did,” Jean replied coolly. He was determined to bring the matter to an issue now, on ground of his own choosing. “Furthermore, you’re a couple of thieves.” He took a wild gamble. “As for you,” he looked right at the man in the fur cap, “you stole that red horse you’re riding at Callahan’s.” The man in the fur cap was a coward, but he could see Jean with a cup of coffee in his right hand, and Jean knew the instant he started to reach for his gun.
 
“You called me a liar!” he shouted. “And by the Lord—!” The gun cleared leather as Jean shot. He fired with his left hand, from under the table. The man jerked sharply with the impact of the bullet and dropped his gun. He fell, rolling over on his side with his knees drawn up.
 
Ben Turk was on his feet, watching the man in the buffalo coat.
 
Jean gestured at the third man. “Take your hand off that gun. I never like to kill more than one man while I’m eating.”

The fat man seemed about to speak but Jean interrupted. “Bad company for you, mister. They’ll get you into trouble.”

“I guess you’re right.”