the Man from Skibbereen (1973) (6 page)

Finding some proper wood, he went to work, and while he worked, he thought.

The wires were down. The track was likely torn up. The rails might be put back in place and the train, or at least a part of it, gotten over. Or another train might come to investigate from east or west.

In other words, the renegades would have at least a two--day lead on whoever chose to follow. Cris Mayo had no idea whether there were other wires along which messages could be sent to head them off, but any such wires were more likely to end somewhere to the east, for the only line going this far west was the one along the Union Pacific tracks.

So they would be likely to ride south and west to avoid the inevitable pursuit. He lay back on the grass and slept.

When he awakened she was sitting up. "Are we going on? We've been here more than two hours."

"We are," he said. He led the way to the horses and tightened their cinches. They had been picketed within reach of the water, so had undoubtedly drunk what they needed. Barda swung into the saddle before he could reach to help her.

"There are no tracks south of this camp save those coming north, so we still haven't found their escape trail, but I figure they went southwest," he said. "That way they'll be farther from the telegraph."

"I don't think so," she objected. "They would go south and east." When he started to argue the point, she indicated the southwest with a gesture. "That's Indian country. My father told me all about it. The Indians there are very fierce, and enemies of the white man."

They rode on in silence, heading almost due south for a time. Although Cris doubted that she was right, he hoped she was. It was little that he knew about Indians except the tall tales heard on the train and repeated by a few travellers home from America.

"They may have friends," Barda suggested; "they may be riding to meet them, or to hide on one of their ranches."

Suddenly, before Cris could speak, they came upon the tracks of a large group of riders, and followed these-- for they aimed toward the southwest, as Cris had predicted. Through the sun--filled afternoon they rode. "You are from Ireland," she said suddenly.

"County Cork."

"Is it nice there? I've always heard Ireland was so green and lovely."

"It is. But there is little enough for a man to do there, and many seeking work. I had a good job but they took it from me."

She looked at him, and he explained. "There was a girl, a girl with freckles on her nose, and her father had plans for her and none for me. When some small troubles came, they used the excuse to be rid of me."

"Were you in love with her?"

He shrugged. "I can't say. She was a fine one, a pert, snippy one and good fun, too, and a grand time it was that we had together."

"Are you going back?"

He shrugged again. "How can a man tell what he will do? I am a poor man, and no fortune will come to me unless I earn it with me two hands. The hands and the will, they're all I have."

"And all a man needs, my father says."

The country had grown rougher as they rode, and the trail seemed fresher. What would he do with her when they came to the trail's end? Probably some fool thing on the spur of the instant. He was a rash one, as they had said back in Cork. But maybe this affair needed rashness.

"Where is your home?"

"Since mother died... four years ago... it has been wherever my father was stationed. In the Dakotas, in Texas, and for a little while in Arizona. We're heading-- at least we were--for California, after the meeting at Fort Sanders."

He led the way down a shallow fold in the hills, watching with interest the tracks on the badly washed slope. He found himself wanting to talk less and listen more, though he was mildly curious about that meeting she had just mentioned. He knew he was being a fool. There had been no reason at all for starting off into the prairie with this girl... only that she would have gone alone, and besides, Cris had felt that something should be done at once, while there was time.

He drew up suddenly, a twitch of his horse's nostrils stopping him dead. Cris now, as well as the beast, could smell smoke... faint, but there none the less.

"What is it?"

"Ssh!"

He heard nothing but the wind. The smell of smoke was vague now... did he really smell it? He waited, listening. Then he walked the horse forward, turning briefly to put a finger to his lips. The small draw took a sudden turn and the smell of smoke came stronger. Rifle up and ready, gripped in his right hand, he rode around the corner; the draw opened out and there were half a dozen trees, a few scattered rocks, two horses, and a man seated at a small fire.

He made no move to rise, nor did he lift his head from his chest. Cris lowered the rifle muzzle a few inches, but the man made no move.

Slowly, trying to hold the fellow in sight, Cris Mayo let his gaze take in the whole situation of things. Below and beyond lay open prairie, a hundred yards or less beyond the fire.

"All right! Who are you?"

The man did not reply.

"Crispin," Barda said, "I think the man is dead."

Chapter
Four

The man's head came up. "I ain't nuther daid. I'm live an' fittin' as you."

Crispin Mayo, a cautious man, kept the rifle in position. "What are you doing here? We're trailin' some renegades, and here you sit, right on their trail."

"I was with 'em. They done took me, days and days ago 'twas, figurin' me for some kind of spy. I didn't see no reason to be spyin' on them. Then one of them 'collected knowin' me from way back. He'd knowed my folks in the mountains and said as much, so they didn't shoot me down, they taken me along and I made to go with 'em until they got all taken up with their prisoner... then I ketched them two horses last night, one of which was mine, and I lit a shuck for Georgia."

"Georgia?" Gris asked suspiciously, recalling what the telegrapher had told him of Sherman's cruel march there.

"In a manner of speakin'. For any place that was afar off. Then after a while I crossed their trail and camped on it, 'cause they'll never come back for me."

"Did you see their prisoner? Did you talk to him?" Barda asked.

"I seen him. He was some kinda sodger. A square--built, oldish man, carried hisself mighty well 'spite of the way they were treatin' him. They was sneerin' at him, callin' him 'William' and 'Tecumseh' and the like."

"They are thinking that he's General Sherman," Cris explained, "but they have the wrong man."

"They'll kill him. Sure as shootin' they'll kill him. I figure they want to burn him some before, but they'll kill him." The man stood up. He was about thirty, very tall, and very thin, with high, slightly stooped shoulders and big hands.

"What you considerin'? Goin' after a pack o' lobo wolves of that kind with a woman along?" The tall man looked sternly at Cris, his expression deepening to a scowl. "If they lay hand to her she'll wish she'd never been borned."

"She wouldn't go back," Cris said. "I told her, but she would not."

"The soldier you saw is my father," Barda said.

"Makes it no different. Leave the huntin' and fightin' to the menfolks. That's an awful mean crowd yonder."

"Nevertheless, I shall go. I must help."

"Ma'am, you surely do make it difficult. I want no more of that outfit. They struck me poorly from the start, an' I taken the first chance I seen to get shut of them. Now you ask me to go back."

"I've asked you nothing of the kind!"

"Ma'am, you surely have. If you--all go, I can't keep to runnin', I just naturally got to help. Man can't do nothin' else. And I'm of no mind to."

"We haven't asked for help," Cris Mayo said patiently. "You go along now, or sit here by your fire."

"It ain't fittin'. I'm all made up to run and now you--all come along an' shame me. I'll go yonder with you, for better or worse." He paused. "My name is Reppato Pratt. I'm from the Highland Rim country of Kaintucky."

When they had made themselves known, Cris indicated the packs. "If you have anything to eat, we'd be grateful to share it with you. We've had nothing today but water."

"I've no choice but to feed you, I reckon. When I lit out of there, I taken unto me one of their pack bosses, carryin' what I could lift on him, an' most of it is grub. I taken some bullets, too, not being wishful of lacking lead for shootin'."

Reppato Pratt stirred up the fire and toed the coffeepot further toward the coals. Taking out a huge hunting knife, he began to slice bacon into a skillet with amazing dexterity. It spoke not only of his skill but of the sharpness of his blade.

"They'll be headin' for Cherokee country. Leastwise, so it seems to me. That's southeast o' here, Mick. But I don't figure they'll keep the sodger long... soon's they've had their fill of vengefulness and meanness, they'll knock him in the head."

"Who's in command?"

Pratt shaved a few slices of bacon, then glanced up. "Now I done some ponderin' on that, Justin Parley, calls hisself Major Parley, he shows up front most o' the time. But there's two others a body would have to take into account. One of them is a gun--handy killer called Del Robb.

"This Robb is a good--lookin' man and a mighty fine horseman. He killed a couple of men down in Mississippi and headed west. For a time he shaped around down by the Sulphur River in East Texas, but he didn't get along with Cullen Baker, Bob Lee and them so he pulled out and trailed west.

"He killed a man in Fort Worth, shot one up in Beeville but that one lived, and then Robb trailed around down on the Neuces for a spell. That's all gossip I picked up when I was a--settin' by.

"Parley, he takes the lead, but Del Robb is right there to hand, and there's some among 'em believe he's the power.

"The other one is Silver Dick Contego. They call him that because of his silver--gray hair. He's a slender, quiet man who has the beautifullest hair I ever seen on a man, and he combs it all the time. He's got him a funny, old--fashioned comb with a round back to it. They make no move without him, but he never pushes on anything or anybody. He sets quiet, but nobody makes much of a move until he thinks it's all right. Silver Dick is a friendly--seemin' man but something about him makes me uneasy, an' I don't know why."

As Pratt talked on, Cris listened hard, and the picture slowly unfolded of a body of men most of whom were former guerrillas from the Civil War; few of them had been regulars, and some were just a rough lot picked up as they moved through the country, a band of cutthroats led by Parley with his two lieutenants. Such an outfit was basically unstable, usually held together by fear and greed.

He had known of such groups in Ireland. They often began as men fighting for liberty, and then the best of them pulled away or were killed and what remained were those who had lost perspective and thought only of murder and loot and their own image of themselves.

"You rode with them a time," Cris said. "How many are there?"

"Seventeen, but more are scattered 'round Fort Sanders, an' some comin' to jine up from Texas."

"Have you any idea where they'll camp the next two nights?"

Reppato Pratt considered that, then nodded. "I can figure one camp 'most for sure. Reason is, it's hid good, and there's plenty of water an' fuel. We stopped by there on the way up." He looked over at Cris. "You ain't figurin' to tackle them head--on?"

"No," Cris said, and a thought came to him as he spoke. "We must attack, we can't just sit back. But we can't take them by force, so we've got to be smart; hit them where it will hurt them most, and stop them from running. So we'll either steal or stampede their horses. Set the divils afoot."

Pratt nodded. "Now! Would you listen to that?" He looked over at Barda. "He pounced on the one thing we can do. We set 'em afoot and they'll... why, a man can't do anything in this country without a horse!" He considered. "Won't be easy. Won't be at all. They surely do guard them horses."

"You be pouring that coffee, and let us give the problem some thought. I want to know all that you know about that camp, and where they'll tie their horses."

Even as he said it, Cris was thinking that there were other things a man could do besides this one so hastily struck upon. The secret, his uncle had told him, was to attack, always to attack. The enemy was always vulnerable. Some place, invariably, there was a weak spot

Steal their supplies? Set a prairie fire? Cut off their water supply? It was not the size of the force you had that mattered, it was how you used it.

Cris Mayo sat beside the fire and ate the bacon and drank the coffee, relishing every swallow as only a hungry man can, yet as he sat he was wishing he had the skills he'd heard that the old Indian fighters possessed, skills they learned from the Indian himself. He could have used many more skills than were at his command... but of one thing he was positive, the first move must be against their horses. He must rob them of mobility, and then before they could recapture their mounts or get others, the cavalry might come. Or some other such miracle might occur, he thought wryly. At least, afoot, they might hold off on killing the colonel, for fear of the Army.

How he was to get the horses, well, he left that to the future. It all depended upon the situation.