Westward the Tide (1950) (7 page)

The three men stopped on a corner and watched the crowd passing. It was thinning out now, but the bars were filled. "Matt, what's wrong with this setup?" Hardy asked. "I don't like the look of things, an' never have. Logan Deane's hangin' out with Massey about half the time, an' Lute Harless tells me he seen Massey talkin' to Spinner Johns just an hour or so before he started huntin' you."

"That right?" It was possible, of course, Matt reflected, but somehow he had been divided between believing Johns was just out to get him because he had a sort of gunfighting reputation, or that Colonel Pearson had started the killer after him. That Clive Massey might have done it he doubted. It was possible, yet there would be no motive unless Massey had reason to fear him.

"Lute says there's sixty-two wagons out there now, all ready to roll. More than ninety men."

"That's a good lot."

"Enough to keep the Injuns off, all bein' armed like they are." Murphy shuffled his feet and shifted his pipe in his teeth. "Seen Abel Bain today."

Bardoul's head jerked around. "Did you say ...Abel Bain ?"

"Uh huh," Murphy looked at him shrewdly. "An' you know where? In Bat Hammer's wagon outfit!"

So? Matt rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. Now it was Abel Bain. The man was a renegade of the worst kind. A murderer, known to be a horsethief and a rustler. If Massey was taking on men like Bain there was nothing that could not happen.

The man had been run out of Virginia City, had narrowly escaped lynching once at Laramie. There had been no evidence to convict him of killing Ad Wilson at Tascosa, but the man was found dead in his bed one night with a knife wound, and he had been robbed. A horse was trailed to within a mile of Bain's ranch.

"He was keepin' out of sight," Buffalo went on, "an' they don't know I've seen him."

"I see." Matt kicked at a stone with the toe of his boot. "I think I'll advise Coyle to drop out of it."

"They won't listen."

"I know, but I'll advise them. It's the least I can do."

Hardy grinned. "Massey ain't goin' to like you!"

The crowd was already gathering forThe Banker's Daughter when they went into the theatre and found seats. It was a noisy and profane crowd, but an interested one. Jack Langrishe always ran clean plays and he always entertained. He would do no less on this night. He had come from Dublin, and his theatres had been the bright spots in more than one western mining town.

Matt seated himself on a bench and stared around. The whole town had turned out and the place was jammed full of miners, stage drivers, bartenders, bull whackers and mule tenders. California Jack, faro dealer, Madame Canutson the lady bull-whacker whose profanity matched any man's, Scott Davis, shotgun messenger, Seth Bullock, Deadwood's sheriff, Cold Deck Johnny, Colorado Charlie, and many others. Names famous and infamous wherever miners, gamblers of the crowd that followed the boom towns gathered.

Suddenly, the door opened and a woman shoved her way inside, calling loudly over her shoulder. Whatever the remark was, everybody laughed. She wore a man's narrow brimmed black hat set at a careless angle atop her hair, and her rather long face, the skin olive, clear and smooth broke into a smile that suddenly made all who saw her forget that she was actually a plain woman.

"Ban," Matt said, "better take a look. There's a woman who'll be remembered after they've buried an' forgotten the rest of us. That's Calamity Jane!"

Hardy leaned forward, craning his neck for a better view. She wore a fringed buckskin coat that fitted loosely and was gathered by a broad leather belt. Her trousers were also fringed buckskin, and even now she was carrying a rifle. Under the buckskin coat she wore a man's plaid shirt.

"Heard a lot about her," Hardy said.

"She came into the Black Hills with Crook. Smuggled herself into the outfit when it left Laramie. She was one of the first to come in. Dead shot with that rifle, too. She's a hard case, but a good hearted one, give you anything you want, and funny thing, she being so much like a man in other ways, but she loves to handle sick people. Good at it, too."

Matt glanced at the late comers again, searching the crowd for the face he was eager to see. Then he saw her come through the door, laughing over her shoulder as Calamity Jane had done, but how different!

She was wearing a green gown that made a low murmur run over the crowd, and every head in the place turned toward her. She walked down the aisle, preceded by her brother and followed by Clive Massey. Matt felt the smile leave his face. He shifted his feet and turned his eyes elsewhere. He was aware that Buffalo was glancing at him out of the corners of his eyes, but he ignored it.

Nevertheless, he felt sick in the stomach and unhappy. He kept his eyes on the stage and the constant flurry of activity behind the curtain. Yet she sat in a position his eyes overlooked, and suddenly he realized she was looking for him. He saw her head turn slightly, glancing at the crowd, then after a moment, it turned toward him. Their eyes met, briefly. He nodded his head, and she replied with a cool nod, and then looked away.

The curtain started to go up. Quietly, he turned and left his seat. Murphy started to speak, but he shoved his way through the crowd to the outside. "The hell with it!" he told himself roughly. "The hell with it, I say!"

Shoving his hands deep in his pockets he stepped off the boardwalk and turned up the stairway that climbed the hill, walking out on the old, burned-over slope. When he had walked fairly well up on the hillside, he turned and looked back.

The town lay there in Deadwood Gulch, a scattered, loosely knit series of communities, some of them hidden away in small hollows or scattered in other ravines connecting with this. White Rocks loomed above him.

No woman was worth it. Telling himself that, he realized how much she had been in his mind lately, and they had exchanged only a few words, yet her face stayed in his thoughts with the memory of her voice. No woman had ever touched him like this before, and he was irritated by it, fighting the feeling as a broncho fights a bit. It wouldn't do. Clive Massey had the inside track, anyway.

Or there might be somebody back east who would come out soon to claim her. What did he know about it? She had frightened him today when he stepped out on the boardwalk to shoot it out with Spinner Johns, for she was right in the line of fire. It was because of her, and her alone, that Johns was alive. He had been forced to bluff him out because of the girl.

Ban Hardy was afraid Spinner Johns would come back, but Matt Bardoul was not. Johns would be heading for the brush now, heading for the brush with his horns sawed off. He would want to find a new country where nothing of his disgrace was known. Guessing something of what sort of man Johns was, Matt doubted whether he would ever be the same again. He had been called, been backed down, forced to take water. It did something ruinous to a man's morale, and never again would he face a man with the same fearlessness.

Matt walked back down the hill and headed for the stable to saddle his horse. He had thrown the hull on him and was adjusting the cinch when a voice spoke out of the darkness of a stall. Bardoul held perfectly still, not turning his head.

"Matt," he could not place the voice, "don't go on no wagon train. You staked me once when I was broke. I tell you that because I know you staked so many you won't remember. I'd git killed for this, if anybody knowed, butdon't go along with that wagon train!"

"Why? What's going to happen?"

He waited for what seemed a full minute before there was a reply. "Dunno. But somethin' ... ain't none of 'em supposed to come back alive."

"Who's the boss?" he demanded.

There was no reply. He waited a moment, then asked the question again, but there was no answer. His unknown informant was gone.

He bridled his horse, then led him down to the IXL and tied him to the hitching rail. He stepped inside and made his way to the bar, his eyes studying the crowd, hoping to recognize a familiar face who might be the man he had staked. There were none.

Then the door opened and Logan Deane came in.

When his eyes found Bardoul, he smiled, walking up to the bar. "Nice job today," Deane said in his soft, pleasant voice. "A very nice job. I've heard of Wyatt Earp doin' somethin' like that with Ben Thompson, but nothin' like you did today."

"Spinner Johns wasn't Ben Thompson," Bardoul said truthfully.

"He was worse," Deane replied, "much worse! Thompson had brains, an' as much nerve as any man. He backed down for Earp simply because he knew if he won, he lost. He might kill Earp but he knew Earp would get him. There's no percentage in that sort of a deal.

"Johns was crazy. There was no tellin' what he might do."

Matt nodded. Then lifting his glass, he glanced over it at Deane. "How long have you known Clive Massey?" he asked.

The half friendly light vanished from Logan Deane's eyes and they turned flat gray. "I don't just remember," he said coolly, "I really don't remember!"

"Well," Matt said, "I know nothing about him, but I've got a feeling, Deane. It's a feeling that he should be lined up with us!"

Logan Deane's eyes studied him warily, but there was speculation in them now. "You mean, you think he's a gun slinger?"

"Yes, I do. Only Clive Massey would throw a gun only for what he could get out of it. Remember that, Deane!"

Logan Deane studied him. "Why tell me?" he said. "Why warn me?"

"Because someday you and I may shoot it out, Logan," Matt said. "I hope not, because I'm not a man who likes to kill, but if the time comes when we face each other, it will be fair and above board an' the best man will win. If either ofus ever faces Clive Massey, it will not be until all the breaks are on his side!"

Deane did not comment. He turned his glass on the bar, studying the wet rings left by the bottom of it.

"We'd have heard his name."

"Maybe we have," Matt suggested, "maybe we have ... an' it might be a different one than the handle he uses now."

"Who?"

"You're as good at guessing as I am." Matt shrugged. "But a man could figure it out, maybe. Clay Allison has a club foot, an' Wyatt Earp has a different color of hair an' eyes. Also, he's an honest man. He's too big for Billy, an' I know Dave Rudabaugh, but he's one of them. I know he is!"

Matt was waiting on the street by the hitching rail when Murphy came up with Ban. Both men had stopped by after the show to get their horses, and now they were saddled up and ready to go. It was a good long ride they had ahead of them.

Bardoul glanced up and saw Brian Coyle going into the IXL, and saw Massey leave them at the door. All would be moving out soon, so if he was to speak, it must be now. Clive Massey was heading down the street, so without a word, Matt stepped up on the boardwalk and followed the Coyles into the hotel. Barney had joined them and the three were going upstairs.

They opened the door of Brian Coyle's room, and he lighted a light. When he lifted it, he saw Matt Bardoul standing in the door. They all three looked at him, waiting, trying to find some reason for his being there.

"I'd like to speak to you, sir," he said carefully.

"Very well." Brian was puzzled. "Come in and close the door."

"Sir," he said, "tonight when I was saddling my horse a man spoke out of a dark stall ... I didn't get a glimpse of him ... and warned me not to go on this trip. He warned me that nobody was to come back alive."

"Nonsense, my boy! Utter nonsense! Why, the Sioux wouldn't think of attacking a train as large as ours!"

"He wasn't thinking of the Sioux. I believe he was thinking of the same thing I was, that there are too many outlaws on this wagon train."

Brian Coyle's face had hardened. "Just what is your motive for this advice, Bardoul? I'll admit I was aware there was some bad blood between you and Massey, but I ascribed that to nothing more than Clive's short temper and your own abruptness."

"Are you aware of the character of the men around him? Of Bat Hammer, or Abel Bain?"

"Bain? I don't believe I know him."

"You wouldn't. He's hiding in Hammer's wagon. He's known in all the camps as a thief and a murderer."

Coyle's face was stiff now, and his manner had grown chill. "Really, Bardoul, I think you've gone far enough. If you had such suspicions you should have voiced them at the meeting and not come to me here alone and by night. I'm afraid, sir, you're guilty of some very ungentlemanly conduct!"

Matt's face paled a little. His eyes shifted to Jacquine's but she glanced away coldly. "I was thinking of your daughter, sir. If there is trouble it would not be a good place for her."

"We, my son and I, are quite capable of caring for Jacquine's interests. You forget, Young Man, that I am one of the leaders of this wagon train, that I helped organize it, that I might say, Idid organize it!

"Every man on this train is known to me, personally. Each one has been vouched for by one of my trusted friends. If there is any Such person as Abel Bain, I have seen nothing of him.

"As to your tale bearing, and I'm sorry Bardoul, but there is no other name for it, I can only say that I have known some things about you and your past conduct for some days. I do not refer to the fact that you are an acknowledged gunfighter and a killer. I refer to other stories, known to the military, and they do not reflect well upon you, sir.