Westward the Tide (1950) (15 page)

"Think it over: we were all carefully selected as men who had money enough to put a good, substantial outfit on wheels. We all were led to indicate our cash position by buying shares in the venture, the money being held by Clive Massey. We were advised as to what stock to buy, all valuable merchandise. Every effort has been made to see that this is the richest wagon train on wheels!"

"So!" Harless stared at him.

"Understand, I am accusing nobody. Understand also that I know nothing the rest of you do not know. I told you of my warning in the livery stable, and some of you are aware of my doubts of Massey, my questioning of Hammer's presence, and that of Bain.

"Buffalo can tell you that Abel Bain was a notorious renegade who raided many wagon trains out of Julesburg, and was almost lynched for it. Portugee Phillips knows the same thing."

"I've heard that," Harless said.

"Hammer has been suspected of the same operations. So was Buckskin Johnson. Their wagons carry more men than goods, heavily armed men, all with tough reputations. A little while ago Massey tried to get us to give up our weapons, too."

"You figure," Stark asked, "that they plan to murder us all an' lay it to the Injuns?"

"Something tike that. Understand, I know no more than the rest of you. I may be doing honest men a grave injustice, but I've called you here to tell you and let you make up your own minds. If it is in the wind, we can set our canvas for it and be ready. If it is not, what can we lose?"

Hardy straightened a leg, then drew it back. He was getting stiff from the cramped position. "I'd say we'd better figure it that way. Massey lays out the guard plan. Any night he wants he could have only his own men awake. We'd be caught asleep, and wouldn't have a chance!"

"Or he could have some of us killed on guard," Murphy offered. "It's been done."

Harless shook his head. "It doesn't seem possible they would do a thing like that," he protested. "After all, they are white men!"

Stark snorted. "I'd sooner trust an Injun!"

"Mr. Coyle's a fine man," Kline added, "you don't think he would be a party to such a thing?"

"I doubt it, but I don't know. The only thing we can do," Matt continued, "is to carry weapons and ammunition at all times and keep our ears and eyes open. Who is, or who is not in it, I wouldn't know."

"Somebody let that Bain get loose," Stark added. "He wouldn't have got loose had it been me. Sary still wakes up nights shiverin' an' scared."

"What would you advise, sir?" Kline asked, looking up at Bardoul.

"Only what I've said. To go armed and watch. It would pay to remember the suggestions of Murphy and Ban, and keep an eye on that guard list, too. And any time any of us are on guard, it would pay to keep an eye on the camp as well as outside the camp."

"We could bust up an' go on by ourselves," Harless commented, "but that might lead to trouble right now."

"Uh huh." Matt thought of Jacquine. "Personally, I'm stayin' with this outfit. I think that's best. But I'll have a talk with Reutz about this. The rest of you keep mum."

They sat in silence for a few minutes while the rain fell steadily. All of them were thinking ahead, realizing what this might mean. To a man, those in the group had invested every dime in this venture. To lose it would mean all they possessed was gone, more, it would mean life itself, for not one of them could imagine the deal being attempted other than by a massacre.

Bardoul knew they were thinking, and even with his suspicion rising so strong within him, he could see how little he had to go on. Nothing but the merest suspicion. There could be plausible reasons for the presence of Bain and Hammer. Yet he could not convince himself that he was mistaken.

He knew the country that lay ahead, and knowing it, he was doubtful of any early attempt being made. Every effort should be taken now to prevent any surprise, but if the attack came, he was doubtful if it would come before they reached the Big Horn basin. In the meantime, much might happen.

"What about the division of friends and enemies?" Kline asked. "Wouldn't it be well to consider that a little? To try to draw some line of demarcation? What do you think, Mr. Bardoul?"

Matt studied the matter. "We can't be sure. I would say all in my own company are honest men with the exception of Ernie Braden and his driver. I believe they are doubtful."

"I agree," Stark said grimly, "that Braden's a liar an' a four flusher."

"Most of the men in Reutz' outfit are good men. Elam Brooks, certainly is. There are others."

"The total number of people now with the company," Kline said, "is one hundred and forty-four. There are sixty-two wagons. Fourteen of those wagons are in Company A, where Mr. Bardoul seems to feel the greatest danger lies. They are lightly loaded wagons, but some of them carry goods belonging to Brian Coyle, and to Weber, who is in Coyle's company.

"Fifty-three women and children, which leaves ninety-one men. The question is, how many of the ninety-one can we depend on?"

"We'll have to study that," Stark said, "I reckon there's nigh thirty men in that Company A, an' we can figure them as again us right to start. I reckon until we do some figurin' we better count on nobody but ourselves. Matt here smelled this out, an' he ain't drivin' much of the time. Let him study out which ones we can figure to stand by us, an' which won't."

"I agree, sir," Rabun Kline said, "and until then we do no talking?"

"Right!"

Matt Bardoul drew his hands along his trouser leg. He was remembering the cold face and the flat deadly eyes of Logan Deane. Sooner or later that would have to be settled, too. Strangely enough, at that moment he began to wonder about Deane. Somehow, killer though the man was, he did not seem to have a place in such a scheme as this.

Thinking of him, Matt recalled their conversation at the bar after his fight with Johns when he had suggested that Clive Massey was himself a gunman.

Who?

One by one he began to chalk off the names of those he could not be. Clay Allison and Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid could be eliminated. Not Masterson, Luke Short, or Billy Brooks. Not Ben Thompson or Wes Hardin. Try as he would, he could not think of who Massey might be, but instinct told him the man was a gun artist.

There were many such, however, who had never become known and Massey might be one of these. In the Clements' clan in Texas there were dozens of gunmen. Manny himself, Jim Miller, and many others, but the shadow of Manny Clements and his cousin, Wes Hardin, had obscured the names of the clan members.

Further west in the mining camps of California, Nevada, and Utah there were other gunmen, such as the Plummer gang of Montana, Pearson of Pioche, and many others who never acquired the fame given to the gunmen of Texas or the cattle trail towns. It might be that Massey came from such a group.

Every sense in his body sounded a warning when near Massey. The man was a killer, and unless Matt was mistaken, a cold blooded killer with deadly speed. There was something in the way he looked at a man, something in his movements that was a challenge.

"Well," he said looking up, "I guess there's nothing more. If any of you learn anything, by all means come to me with it."

"What about Phillips?" Harless asked.

"I don't know," he replied honestly, "I really don't know. He was one of the first to hint that something might be wrong with this whole trip, but we hadn't better count on him until we know."

Suddenly, he noticed a slight bulge in the canvas that had not been there earlier. He lifted his finger for silence, then stepped over the knees of the men between him and the door. There must have been some subtle movement of the wagon, for he heard a slight splash outside and hurled himself at the opening, gun in hand.

He caught one fleeting glimpse of a dark shadow vanishing in the direction of the other wagons, and he dared not shoot, for the wagons, some of them containing women, were directly in line with the running man.

The others piled out beside him. "Who was it?" someone demanded.

"I didn't get a look at him." Matt went around beside the wagon, and crouched there in the rain, striking a match that he cupped in his hands.

There were tracks there, partly in the mud, partly in water. The man had shifted his feet several times, so he might have been there for some time. There was no identifying mark.

He got to his feet and looked around at the circle of intent faces. "Well, maybe he was friendly, and probably not. From now on, every waking and sleeping moment, we've got to be ready!"

As the men scattered toward their wagons, Matt Bardoul turned his head and stared off through the dwindling rain at the large, white topped wagon where Jacquine Coyle lay sleeping.

This night might have changed everything. Walking back to his own wagon, he crawled inside. When he was ready for bed, he drew his guns, and one by one, with loving care, he cleaned and reloaded them. Now, he was ready. They could start any time.

Chapter
VII

Back in the wagon after her exciting ride through the lashing rain, Jacquine changed into dry clothing, but while she changed her mind was not at rest, nor had it been at rest for some days.

She understood herself quite well, and she was perfectly aware that something had happened that day when she got down from the stagecoach and looked up to see Matt Bardoul leaning against the awning post in front of the IXL.

Just what had happened or how much she did not know. There had been little further contact to allow them to know each other, and on the other hand, there had been the obvious dislike on the part of Colonel Pearson as well as Clive's subtle but biting comments. The stories she heard of Bardoul in Deadwood were not favourable, nor were those after she left Deadwood until Barney became interested.

Barney was very little older than she, but Jacquine, although she never said as much, had come to entertain a high respect for his judgment. She saw, too, that what Matt had said was true, that Barney was growing, that he was becoming a man in balance and judgment. Had he remained in the relatively safe and even tempered eastern atmosphere, he might have been eight or ten years acquiring the manhood he had acquired in eight or ten months.

At first she had dismissed Matt's warning as sheer nonsense. She shared her father's anger and irritation that he should go so far as to make such veiled accusations of men they knew and liked. Also, she felt it was a reflection on her father's judgment if not his honesty. Yet the thought was planted, and her eyes, opened. She began to look for evidence to refute his warning, to prove him wrong, and scarcely had she begun this observation than she became aware of a vague, but increasing doubt within her.

The incident of Abel Bain's attempted assault on Sary Stark she could dismiss. In the rough, new western world all kinds and types of men came together, and such things might happen. The fact that Matt Bardoul had warned of his presence in the wagon train and that Clive had dismissed his charge as unfounded, stayed in her mind.

Yet this was but one thing. Riding about as she was, she soon became aware of the subtle differences between the three companies of men commanded by Reutz, Bardoul and her father as compared with that commanded by Massey. The men of the latter group were an untidy, sullen, hard drinking crowd, and no women among them. It was from this group that Clive had chosen his law enforcement group.

She heard of all the disputes in the wagon train, for her father often discussed or complained about them. Barney brought her the rest of the news, and she was usually present when any discussion came up. She knew that Matt had warned them about the trail, and that this warning had proved correct. She noticed also that his wagons reached the bottom fastest and with less trouble than the others. She knew his loan of the block and tackle had helped her father and Herman Reutz.

Clive rarely talked about the gold fields any more. They had occupied a great part of his conversation while in Deadwood. Now she noticed that he was quieter, more watchful, but when he did talk to her there was a boldness and assurance in his manner that was new and different, nor did she like the change.

The following day, riding ahead of the train, she galloped up to join Colonel Orvis Pearson.

He was a fine figure of a man, tall and commanding. He rode as if perpetually on parade, and there was something dashing and theatrical in his manner. More and more she was becoming aware that he was merely a facade, a figurehead. It was her father and Clive Massey who directed the affairs of the train. And more and more she was aware of growing strain, and of the tendency for many of the men to draw closer to Matt Bardoul. Herman Reutz, for instance, had definitely aligned himself with Bardoul.

"Good Morning, Colonel! The air is nice after the rain, isn't it?"

"Beautiful! As you are beautiful, Miss Coyle! We should make a good many miles today, if this holds."

Most of the rain had already sunk into the parched, thirsty soil, and before the day was over the sun would erase what little impression it had made. Several times as she rode beside him, Jacquine started to speak, to ask the question she was dying to ask.

"Colonel," she said suddenly, "weren't you and Matt Bardoul in the Army together?"

His face stiffened, and when he spoke, his voice was sharp and cold. "He was never in the Service! Bardoul is a disobedient, recalcitrant ruffian!"