The Savage Trail (3 page)

John let out a breath.

“If you tell me where Bernie lived, maybe Ben and I can pack up your sister's things and freight them back here to you, Sheriff. Save you and Nancy a trip, maybe.”

John was thinking that he might find out more about Hobart's scheme if he was able to look through the marshal's papers.

“Would you do that?” Dorsett said. “Save me a heap of trouble, for sure.”

“Be glad to,” John said.

“I'll tell you how to get to Bernie's place and give you my address where to ship the stuff. Hell, I'll pay you to do it.”

John waved his hands at the sheriff.

“No, Sheriff. I'll take care of it.”

“That's mighty good of you, Savage. And me and my men will take care of what happened here at Rosa's, so you don't have to worry none about that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, we'll make out a report that we followed Mandrake and Tanner out here and shot all them men dead in there.”

“You mean you'll take credit for that?”

“Why, sure,” Dorsett said.

“Then, Ben and I will ride off and follow Hobart. Might catch him in Cheyenne.”

“Might,” Dorsett said. “Do us all a service if you did.” He told John how to get to Bernie's place.

John looked at Dorsett. Shadows on the sheriff's jowly face made him look like a bulldog in the dim light. He was a stocky man with a belly that hung over his gunbelt like a sack of meal. The deputies were trimmer, leaner, probably because they did most of the work while the sheriff spent his time drinking beer and eating vittles.

“All right. Ben, you ready?”

“John, you ought not to . . .”

“Mount up,” John said, knowing that Ben was going to try to talk him out of going after Hobart. But now John wanted to find him more than ever. Mandrake and Tanner, too. Such men were a scourge on the earth. Dangerous, mean, and lawless.

“Good luck to you, Savage,” Dorsett said.

“You'll be hearing from me, Sheriff,” John said as he hauled himself into the saddle. He and Ben raised their hands in farewell as they rode off into the night.

Ben started grumbling as soon as they were out of earshot of the sheriff and his deputies.

“John, this is too big for you. You ought to let the law take care of Hobart and his men.”

“I ought to, Ben. But the law already tried and failed. Mandrakemade a widow out of a woman who hadn't even gotten married yet.”

“That don't make no sense.”

“None of it does, Ben,” John said, but now he saw a greater purpose in killing Hobart. Who knew how many lives he might save by wiping Hobart and his men off the face of the earth?

John's jaw hardened with determination.

And now, thanks to Sheriff Dorsett, he knew where Hobart was going. If he didn't find him in Cheyenne, they'd ride on to Laramie.

He had a mission and he was going to carry it out if it killed him.

4

Melvin willis had not realized how rough the trail was when he had driven his wagon up to high ground the night before.Now, as he gazed down at the road, he realized why the mule was balking, standing motionless in the traces despite repeated lashes of the buggy whip on its rump.

“Use the quirt, Mel,” Darlene said, “or we'll be up here all day.” She sat next to her husband on the springboard seat, a folded fan in her lap. “It's going to get hot real quick and we've a long drive until we get to Fort Collins.”

“I know, I know,” Mel said. “The quirt won't do more'n make old Jubal that much ornerier. He's spooked, that's all, over what he's got to do. He'll step out directly.”

“Pa,” their son, Calvin, said from his perch on the wagon, “you want me to get down and hold out a carrot for Jubal?”

“No, Cal, just sit tight.”

Mel flicked the whip once again. The thin lash flapped up dust and left a mark on Jubal's rump. The mule didn't budge.

“Shit,” Mel said.

“Mel,” Darlene said. “Not around the boy.”

“Damned mule. Haw, Jubal.”

The mule switched its tail, stood staring down at the steep, rocky trail.

“I could give Jube a push,” Cal said. His face bore a seriouslook. His father's eyes rolled in their sockets. Darlene sat there, twiddling with the folded fan. The sun crept up towardthe eastern horizon, the sky filling with light. The trees and rocks around them stood out in stark relief as etched into a permanence that hadn't been there before.

“One more time,” Mel said and swung his arm back. The whip made a crack with the force of his forward thrust. The lash smacked onto the mule's rump. Its hide rippled under the blow and the mule hunched its shoulders and jerked forward, pulling the traces taut.

“Now he's moving,” Darlene said with a breath of relief pushing her words.

“Finally,” Cal said, his eyes alight with eagerness.

Mel said nothing, but gripped the reins tight without pulling on them. He wanted the mule to keep moving, but braced himself in case Jubal lost his footing and began walkingtoo fast.

“Hold on,” Mel said to his wife and son. “Going to be tricky.”

Darlene grabbed a side panel. Cal braced himself. The wagon rumbled over the rocks as the mule picked up speed. The wagon teetered from side to side as the wheels rolled over rocks. Mel heard a sound that froze his blood. He saw a rattlesnake coiled up next to a rock, its tail quivering. The mule saw it, too, and swerved to the left, off the path. Mel, Darlene, and Cal bounced up and down as the wagon rolled into brush and rocks. Mel pulled on the right rein, trying to steer Jubal back onto the rough-cut road.

Jubal didn't respond.

Instead, the mule began to buck and kick as sharp branches broke off bushes and jabbed him in the belly and flanks. He beganto bellow his hoarse hee-haws. The wagon pitched and rolled like a ship on a storm-tossed ocean and careened down the hillside, out of control as the reins slipped from Mel's hands.

Near the bottom, the wagon jounced upward and came down hard. One wheel struck a large rock with a sickening crunch. The wagon lurched to a halt, one end careening at a dizzying angle. There was a loud twanging sound as the iron rim broke and one end clanged against a stone. A spoke snapped and the right front wheel collapsed. Spokes loosened and tumbled to the ground like sticks of firewood.

Darlene screamed. She was thrown backward as the wagon jolted to a stop and teetered to the right, its axle jammed against a rock. She pitched forward and Mel had to reach out and grab her to keep her from falling into the traces behind the mule.

Cal was thrown backward, too, and lay sprawled on top of the trunks and carpetbags like a splayed scarecrow. His head had slammed into the tailgate, knocking him nearly senseless. A large knot began to grow atop his head like some angry red egg. His head throbbed and his eyes wouldn't focus for severalseconds.

Mel swore.

Jubal stood there, tangled in the traces, as docile as a tame jackrabbit, his large ears twitching, his tail switching slowly back and forth to swat the deer flies. Hoofbeats sounded down on the main road. Darlene was breathing hard, holding on to him, her nails digging through his shirt and into the flesh on his back. Her eyes were shut tight as she cowered in her husband's arms, her hands trembling, her arms quivering against his sides like frog legs in a hot fry pan.

Mel saw two riders out of the corner of his eye and they were heading straight toward them from the south.

“Darlene,” Mel said. “Are you hurt?”

“I-I don't know,” she said. “I don't think so.”

“Couple of riders. Maybe they can help us fix that wheel.”

“You've got tools, Mel. I can help you. So can Cal. Cal, where are you? Mel, is he all right?”

Mel looked over his shoulder. Cal was still lying on his back, spread-eagled. Still. A sudden spasm of fear gripped Mel's throat.

“Cal?” Darlene said, a note of fear in her voice, a voice teetering on the edge of hysteria. She untangled herself from her husband's arms and tried to sit up. Gravity held her off center of the seat.

“I think he got knocked out,” Mel rasped, his voice husky in a dry throat.

“For God's sake, Mel, find out,” Darlene screeched, her voice rising to a high pitch just short of a scream.

Mel climbed into the wagon, crawled up beside his son. Cal's eyes were closed. His face was wan, so drained of color his complexion reminded Mel of men released from prison after many years. He gently shook his son, spoke his name.

“Cal, Cal, you wake up, hear?”

Cal's eyelashes quivered as if he was trying to open the lids. Mel patted one cheek, put a hand on his shoulder, and shook him again.

“Cal, wake up, boy.”

Darlene struggled on the seat trying to crawl into the wagon.

“Is he—Mel, is he . . . ?”

“No, he's not dead. Just sit tight, Darlene.”

The riders came closer, but they were still some distance away. Darlene looked down toward them, shading her eyes with the flat of her hand.

“Knocked cold, I reckon,” Mel said, more to himself than to Darlene. He slid an arm under Cal's back, just below the shoulder blades, and hefted him almost to a sitting position.

“Cal, boy, you got to come out of it,” Mel said almost in a whisper. “Your pants are on fire.”

“Huh—wha?” Cal's eyes opened and he stared up at his father.

Mel smiled.

"I said wake up.” He saw the lump on Cal's head, touched it gingerly.

Cal winced and let out a cry.

“Ouch.”

“Got you a pretty fair lump on your noggin, son,” Mel said.

“I reckon. Pa, I don't feel so good.”

“You'll be all right. Just take it easy. Lie back down until your head stops spinnin'.”

“It ain't spinnin'. It's throbbing.” Cal reached up and felt the knot on his head.

“Is it bleeding?” he asked his father.

“Nope, not so's I can see. You just got a crack on the head. Ma can put a poultice on it by-and-by and the swellin' will go down.”

“Feels like an old darnin' egg,” Cal said with a wince that brought a crinkle to his lips. Not quite a smile, but almost.

Mel looked at the riders again. They were leaving the road, heading up the woodcutter's trail. He could not see their faces. The rising sun was behind them. He raised a hand in a welcomewave. Neither rider responded.

That's when Mel's blood began to run cold.

“Darlene,” he said. “You better come back here and take care of Cal.”

Darlene stiffened at the tone of her husband's voice. There was an edge to it, as if he was concealing something, anger perhaps, worry, or . . . fear.

“Is Cal all right?” she said.

“Those riders. I don't like the looks of them. You come back here and I'll get my rifle.”

“Mel, don't start trouble now,” she said.

“I ain't. I just don't like the looks of them two.”

“Oh, you're suspicious of everybody. They're probably riding up here to help us.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” But that edge was still there in his voice.

Darlene climbed into the wagon, her skirts hindering her, the cloth catching on the wood. She reached down and pulled herself free, then crabbed back to sit beside Cal. She looked at the two riders. Their faces were in shadow and one of them, the smaller one, didn't look right.

“Mel, I think it's a man and a woman,” she said.

He slipped his arms from under Cal's back as Darlene reached for her son.

“I'm all right, Ma,” Cal said. “Just got me a headache and I feel a mite groggy.”

“You just lie still for a minute, Cal,” she said. “Your pa's . . .”

“I know what he's going to do. He's going to get the rifle. Just in case.”

“Hush now. Those people mean us no harm,” she said.

But there was a note of doubt in her voice, a querulous pitch to it that slipped into Cal's senses like an overheard whisper from another room. His mother was worried. His fatherwas worried. That was disturbing enough, but when he looked at the two riders approaching, he felt his skin crawl. One was a tall man on a tall horse. The other was short, with large breasts and a skirt that draped down over her left stirrup. A woman, for sure. But she wore a gunbelt and he could see the butt of a pistol protruding from her holster.

Mel scrambled back into the seat. He bent over to retrieve the rifle underneath.

“Mister, you better be looking for a hammer or saw under there,” the man on the tall horse said.

Mel looked up.

“Huh?” he said.

“'Cause if you pull up anything else from underneath that seat, it'll be the last thing you do.”

There was no mistaking the warning in the man's voice.

Mel raised up and shaded his eyes from the sun.

He still couldn't see their faces. But he saw that one was a woman, and she was wearing a pistol. Rifles jutted from their scabbards.

They were not ordinary folks, Mel decided.

Not at all ordinary.

In fact, he thought, as he held his breath, they had suddenly turned dangerous.

He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat was frozen, dry as dust.

The mule brayed and shook its head.

A cloud drifted over the sun and blanketed them all in shade.

Mel saw the man's face then, and the glint of his eyes.

That's when the fear paralyzed him, turned his body and his heart to ice-cold stone.