Westward the Tide (1950) (2 page)

Murphy leaned closer, glancing left and right. "Stick around, boy," he whispered confidentially, "there's something good in the wind. Some of the big men around camp are getting together a wagon train for the Big Horns."

"What is it?"

"Gold." Murphy downed his drink. "Gold from the grass roots down, and lots of it. Creek bottoms covered with it, or so the story goes. I never saw any gold in the Big Horns myself, but then I wasn't huntin' gold, I was after beaver. Father DeSmet always claimed there was more gold there than in Californy."

"Who's back of this? Who found the gold?"

"Man named Tate Lyon. He was prospectin' back in the Big Horns. He found gold, but his partner was killed an' he had to get out, quickest an' best way he could."

"Know him?"

"No, I don't. He's a stranger to me. I'd never seen him before, but Brian Coyle an' Herman Reutz set a lot of store by him, an' they are smart enough."

"How about the Sioux?"

"Quiet since the Custer fight. Terry an' Gibbon hunted them down an' knocked most of the fight out of them. Of course, the Sioux bein' what they are, a body better keep his shootin' iron handy when he rides into the Big Horns."

He grabbed the bottle and filled their glasses. "It ain't the Sioux that's so bad, it's some of these ornery thieves of white men. Lots of killin' goin' on in this camp, an' there's a lot of poison loose here." He looked around at Matt. "Logan Deane's in town."

"Deane?"Matt Bardoul's eyes narrowed at the thought. "The Colorado gunman? I see."

"Thought you'd better know after what happened at Julesburg." Murphy stared into his glass. "Bat Hammer's here, too, an' you'll remember him. An' you may have heard of Spinner Johns? He's a sort of crazy mean killer who came up from the cow camps."

If Logan Deane was in Deadwood it would mean trouble sooner or later. Plenty of trouble. Deane was a brother-in-law to Lefty King, a bad man who had come out on the bad end of a gunfight with Bardoul in Julesburg.

"What's the plan behind this wagon train?"

"This here Tate Lyon went to Herman Reutz with his story and Reutz liked the sound of it. He called in Brian Coyle.

"Coyle was interested, an' he's one of the biggest men in camp. He come in here with a fine outfit an' he's got the money to make more. It seems he'd been discussin' the chances of there bein' gold in the Big Horns with Clive Massey and a former Army officer, Colonel Orvis Pearson."

"I've heard of him."

"Well, the four of them got their heads together an' the plan is to head out to the Big Horns with a party of picked men, nothing but the best in wagons, stock, an' goods. They will trail into the Big Horns, set up their own town, an' file on all the best claims along those creeks."

"Coyle's going himself?"

"Sure! He's the ringleader! Him an' Massey. It's a closed deal, an' only a few picked men will get a chance to go along. Now if you want to go, I can swing it. They need me, an' I'll refuse to go unless they count you in."

"Who's going to guide them into the mountains?"

"Lyon himself an' Portugee Phillips. Pearson's been selected as commander of the bunch because of his experience. They are plannin' on havin' plenty of fightin' men along just in case. It will be a rich wagon train when it finally pulls out!"

If Brian Coyle was going along there was a good chance his daughter might go, too. Matt reached for the bottle and poured a drink for each. He lifted his glass and looked over it at Murphy. "To the Big Horns!" he said.

"That's prime!" Murphy beamed. "You an' me an' Portugee Phillips can handle any passel of Sioux that ever come down the pike!"

There were thirty men and a girl in the back room of Reutz' store at nine that night. Buffalo Murphy pushed his way through the stacks of bales and packing cases to the meeting place. The girl, Matt saw at once, was Jacquine Coyle.

Sitting beside her was a husky, handsome lad with a reckless, goodhumoured smile and a quick, impatient way of moving. His face was just enough of a combination of Brian Coyle's dark heaviness and Jacquine's beauty to prove him a brother. After a quick glance, Matt turned to look over the crowd. If these men were to be his companions on the trail he wanted to see what manner of men they were.

His first impression was good. These were obviously a chosen lot. They had confident, intelligent faces, the sort of men who had done things and could do more. Yet as his eyes strayed over the group they hesitated more than once, for there were faces here of another type of man, and they were not faces he liked.

Portugee Phillips came up to him and held out a hand. This man Bardoul had known and respected for a long tune. He was a surly, dangerous ruffian. Of a brusque and quarrelsome disposition, and never believed to be overly honest, he had become on one dark night and the three subsequent days and nights, an almost legendary figure.

In a howling blizzard and bitter cold, the temperature far below zero, Portugee Phillips had made a ride no other man would attempt. He had gone for help after the Fetterman massacre, riding two hundred and thirty-six miles, killing a splendid Kentucky thoroughbred in the process, through the bitterest storm in many years. He saved the garrison, but won the undying hatred of the Sioux, who had never dreamed any human could have done what he did.

Portugee grinned at Matt. "You come along, huh? We need you." His yellowish eyes swept the room, prying, inquisitive, speculative. Matt sensed some undercurrent of feeling in the man, and in his words, and tried to catch his eye, but Phillips would not look at him again. "You come along," he insisted. "We need good men on this trip!"

His expression and manner puzzled Bardoul. Probably he was just imagining things and Phillips had meant no more than he said.

Brian Coyle stepped up behind a large barrel and rapped on the head of it with a hammer. Voices died away and heads turned toward him. Somewhere in the room a man cleared his throat. Coyle glanced around, drawing all attention to him, and then he began to speak. He spoke quickly and well in a deep, strong voice that assured you the man knew full well the method of the public meeting.

"You all understand that you have been carefully selected and called here for a meeting whose purpose is not to be discussed beyond these walls. We expect our secret to get out eventually, but by that time we hope to be well on our way, and hence to arrive far in advance of those who attempt to follow.

"However, for reasons of secrecy we five who have called this group together do not intend to divulge our exact destination. We will only say that we are going west and that we expect to be at least a month on the trail, but all are advised to bring supplies and plan for at least two months.

"There is gold, and plenty of it, at the end of this trail. We have samples of that gold to show you. We are not calling you here to do you any favours, but because we know the danger of the country into which we go and that only a large party of competent men can hope to survive there. Your safety is our safety, and vice versa.

"If, after hearing our plans you do not care to join us, you may withdraw, and we only ask that you say nothing of our purpose until we are on the trail. Samples of the gold dust, some nuggets, and a few specimens of the ore have been brought here. We had an assay made of the ore and it runs to three thousand dollars to the ton!"

There was a low murmur ran through the crowd, and Matt frowned thoughtfully. That was very rich ore. Some richer had been found in California, but in very limited quantity. The listeners shifted their feet and leaned forward, very interested now.

"We think so much of this project that Herman Reutz is selling his store and I am closing out my business here. We intend to proceed to the site of the discovery, scatter out and stake the best claims, then build a town. In that town we will have a store, and each of you will be a stockholder in that store. We intend to sell shares here tonight, and while no man may hold over ten shares, each man must hold at least one."

Elam Brooks arose from his barrel. "What else does a man need to get in on this deal."

"There must be at least one wagon to every three men. However, we hope each of you will bring a wagon. We advocate stocking your wagons with goods the store can handle or that can be used in trade with the Indians. Each man must have a saddle horse and rifle, and the stock must all be sound and in good shape. Food and ammunition, of course."

Coyle hesitated then, waiting for questions. When none were forthcoming he turned his head and waved a hand toward Colonel Pearson. "The Colonel here, Colonel Orvis Pearson, is a military man accustomed to command and the handling of large bodies of men. He will be in command of the entire wagon train and all personnel. After we reach the rendezvous, captains will be elected for each of the four companies into which we will divide ourselves.

"Where we are going there is good grass and plenty of water. There is timber for building, and plenty of game as well. As we will be well organized and led, there will be little to fear from the Indians. The original discoverer of this gold will be one guide, and Portugee Phillips, of whom you all know, will be the other."

Listening, Matt Bardoul could see what an attractive setup it was. Certainly, nobody knew the Big Horns better than Phillips, and few knew them as well. The talk Coyle had made was emphatic and to the point, and offered much to be preferred to the usual haphazard organization of wagon trains which were more often than not badly planned and poorly led.

A big, rawboned man got to his feet. "Name of Stark," he said clearly, thumbs hooked in his suspenders, "Aaron Stark, from Tennessee. What about the women folks?"

Brian Coyle smiled. "If you got 'em, bring 'em! I'm takin' my daughter, younder!" He waved a hand at Jacquine, who blushed at suddenly becoming the center of attention, but her chin lifted slightly and she glanced out over the room. Her eyes met Matt's, and he smiled. She lifted one eye brow very coolly, and glanced away.

Coyle faced the crowd. "If you're all agreed," he suggested, "just step over to Clive Massey there and he'll take your money for shares in the company. Then all you have to do is have your wagons at Split Rock Springs, ready to roll at daybreak Tuesday!"

Several men stepped out in a bunch and started for the barrel, and that began it. Without further question the crowd lined up to a man, Matt Bardoul with them. He did notice, however, that the first four or five men who had stepped out were among those whose faces had arrested his glance when he first looked at the crowd.

As he neared the barrel where Clive Massey was taking names and money he got his first look at the man. Massey was as tall as he himself and a good twenty pounds heavier, a stalwart, handsome man with intensely black eyes and a finely clipped black mustache. He wore one gun, low down on his right hip. It showed slightly under the skirt of his black coat.

Matt had a haunting feeling he had seen Massey before, but could not place him. Massey wrote rapidly and as fast as the money was laid down and counted, he pocketed it.

When Matt stepped up to the barrel, he put down his money. "Mathieu Bardoul," he said.

There was a sudden movement as a man seated behind and to the left of Massey turned suddenly to glance up at Matt. The man was sharp featured with a hooked nose. His slate gray eyes seemed to have no depth, and they were disturbing eyes, long and narrow under the straight bar of his brows and a tight skull cap of sandcoloured hair. The man stared up at Matt, unsmiling. "From Julesburg?" he asked.

"I've been there."

Massey looked around. "You know this man, Logan?"

Logon Deane!

Matt's expression did not change. This then, was the killer, the man reputed to have slain twenty men in gun battles.

The man at Dean's side was Batsell Hammer.

"Don't reckon I do," Dean said, keeping his eyes on Matt's "only there was a Matt Bardoul in Julesburg who was quite a hand with a six-gun."

Clive Massey looked up. Somehow, Matt had the impression that Massey had been waiting for him, that he was prepared for him. Why, he could not have guessed.

Their eyes met. "Sorry," Clive said, "we don't want any gunfighters. Too much chance of trouble, and we want this to be a peaceful trip."

The room was suddenly quiet, and men were listening. Into that silence Matt dropped his words like a stone into the utter calm of a pool. "If you'll take a renegade like Bat Hammer, you'll take anybody!"

Hammer's face whitened and he came to his feet with an oath. "I don't have to take that!" he shouted.

"That's right," Bardoul replied calmly, "you don't."

Silence hung heavy in the room, and Logan Deane, his thin, cobralike lips parted in a faint smile, watched Matt as a tomcat watches another. Matt was aware of the glance, but his eyes held Hammer's and he waited, his hands, hanging loosely at his sides.

Bat's gunhand hovered over his pistol butt, and his eyes held Bardoul's, then slowly his fingers relaxed, and his hand eased cautiously to his side. Abruptly, he sat down.

Massey hesitated no longer. "Who recommended this man?"

Buffalo Murphy stepped forward beligerently. "I did, an' if he don't go, I don't. We need him bad. He knows the Sioux, an' he knows that country."

"With Phillips, yourself and Tate Lyon, I scarcely think we'll need him." Massey's voice was final.