Westward the Tide (1950) (8 page)

"Until now I had not mentioned those stories, nor did my son or daughter know of them, but under the circumstances, you leave me no other alternative than to mention them.

"Now, sir, let me give you a warning: you are going with us. I, myself, spoke for you against the wishes of Colonel Pearson and Clive Massey. But I know from what the Colonel has told me that you are a rebel and a troublemaker. We will have no trouble caused by you on this trip! Understand that! If there is, no one man on the train will be called upon to face you! We have organized our own force to keep the peace on this wagon train, and in the town until it is settled and an election can be held. At the first sign of trouble from you, you will be summarily dealt with!"

"Thank you, sir." Matt Bardoul's face was deathly white.

He turned abruptly and started for the door, then with his hand on the knob, he turned his head. "I know nothing of the personnel of your police force, or who its leader may be, but I'll make a little bet that Clive Massey is the commander, and that he chose the men to enforce the law!"

That time the remark got over. He saw Coyle's eyes narrow slightly with realization, and Matt knew he had been correct. He turned and walked outside, pulling the door shut after him.

Buffalo asked him no questions, and they mounted up and started out of town, yet when he turned off the trail to Split Rock and went by a different route, they made no comment. Buffalo was riding with his rifle across his saddle bows.

When he rolled out of his blankets at daybreak, the camp was already stirring. Fires were glowing over the bottomland where the wagons had gathered, and as he pulled on his boots he saw that Bill Shedd had a fire going.

The big man grinned when he walked up. "Little coffee goes good on a chilly mornin'," he said. "But she'll be plenty hot after that sun gets up!" Bardoul nodded. "That's right. Did you refill those water barrels?"

"Yep, sho' did. We got plenty of water. More'n enough, most ways, to last us three days."

"We're liable to need it."

Hardy and Buffalo came up and joined them, but there was little talk. He had said nothing about his warning to Coyle, but he knew they were quite aware of what he had done, and approved it. From his actions they probably deduced the result.

Last gear was loaded into the wagons, and Murphy had already mounted the seat when Matt looked around to see a tall young man, very slender, approaching him. The fellow had blond hair that needed cutting, and a shy face. "Mr. Bardoul?" he asked. "Could you use another driver? I know you have one, and you probably want to drive your other wagon yourself, but I thought, maybe you ... besides," he added suddenly, "I'd drive it for nothing! I ... just want to be along. I want to go with the train."

"Did you talk to Brian Coyle?"

"No, I didn't. I talked with the other man ... the tall one. The Army man."

"What did he say?"

"He said I couldn't come unless I had a wagon." That decided Matt. "Can you handle an ox team?"

The boy's eyes brightened. "Yes, sir. I certainly can! Oxen or mules, it doesn't make any difference! I can keep your wagon in good shape, too!"

"All right! Mount up!"

He walked back to his horse and climbed into the saddle. From far ahead came the long, familiar call, "Ro-l-l-l-l 'em over!"

Whips cracked, and his wagon started. From the back of the zebra dun, he watched the wagons roll out and form up in four parallel columns, each almost a half mile long.

Gray dawn was lifting behind them, and he watched the oxen move out, a step, and then another step, in a slow, swaying, rhythmical movement, the covered wagons rumbling behind. Long grass waved in the light breeze, and far ahead, skylined on a hill top, Colonel Orvis Pearson lifted his hand theatrically, and motioned them on.

For better or worse, they had started. Now it only remained to wait and see what was to happen.

Chapter
IV

Westward, the land lay empty. Behind them the rising sun threw their long shadows before them across the wind rippled grass. They were shadows not soon to fade from these virgin lands, but they were to lie long upon the plain and the mountain, darkening the retreat of the Indian.

The buffalo, of course, were gone. Here and there a lonely old bull, or a cow with a calf, wandered dismally and alone where once they trailed with their millions. The buffalo had roamed the prairies for countless years, and then the white man had come, and the buffalo were gone like a sprinkling of powder in a strong wind.

The Indians were a shattered few, defiant but defeated. In their last gesture, the swan song of a warlike people, they had met and defeated Custer. They had wiped him out.

After Custer the combined armies of Terry, Crook, and Gibbon advanced relentlessly, and against the scattered forces of the Indian they had little trouble. The warfare of the white man was never understood by the Indian, and if he learned at last, he learned too late, for his power was already broken.

To an Indian, a battle was a war. He did not think in terms of campaigns, and the winning or losing of a battle decided everything, and when it was over he returned to his tepee and his squaw. He had not learned to cope with the superior barbarism of the white man's warfare. The white man did not stop. He kept coming.

Yet somehow, even in defeat the red man contrived to come off best. Wrapped in his blanket like a Roman senator in his toga, he stalked from the scene. The future might rob him of his morale, it might break him down, but he walked from the field a victor. If he was conquered later, it was never in full battle array. He was conquered by the slaughter of the buffalo and the relentless march of the white settlers even more than by the Army. It is still true that in the last major battle between the armies of the white man and the warriors from the Sioux and Cheyenne villages, that the Indian won.

Matt Bardoul loved the country into which he was riding. The blind drive after wealth and power had never seemed to him to be either worthy or comfortable. His own driving energies and his desire to see what lay across the horizon had moved him west, and once he saw the long, waving sea of grass, the rolling aspen cloaked hills, and the mounting ranks of the lodgepole pine, his heart was forever lost to this lonely, beautiful land.

The Big Horns still lay across that horizon, a image in the mind rather than the sky. Riding his long legged zebra dun on the side hill away from the wagon train, Matt knew that whatever the result, whatever the cost, this trip was worth the effort. This was his land, these were his people.

Riding alone, away from the dust of the wagons, he let the dun pick his own way, while his mind began ferreting a way down the winding burrows of passion and feeling that disturbed the people of the train.

In the clear light of day he was compelled to admit that he had no reason for any suspicion beyond his knowledge of the men around Massey. There was every chance that everything was strictly honest and straight forward. Father De Smet had always claimed there was gold in the Big Horns, and Tate Lyon's story might be true. If it was not true, why had they gone to such pains? Such effort?

Was he not prejudiced by his innate dislike of Massey? Or by Jacquine's seeming preference for the man?

Pearson had proved, some six years before, that as an Army officer he was an inexperienced nincompoop and a coward, but that was six years ago, and time may bring many changes to a man for the better as well as for the worse. It was true that so far Colonel Orvis Pearson's only gesture toward leadership had been just that ... a gesture.

Seated upon a splendid horse, very straight in the saddle, he had removed his hat with a sweeping gesture worthy of Custer himself, and waved the wagon train on.

Logan Deane was a killer, but as he had admitted, he had killed men himself. On Deane he could reserve an opinion. For Batsell Hammer there was no need nor room for reservation. He was a renegade who stopped at nothing. He was a thief and a murderer, and known by all the frontier as such.

Abel Bain was worse. The huge, surly Bain was a wolf where Hammer was a coyote. He was violent, treacherous, brutal. However, Massey was new to the frontier, apparently, and he might not know about Bain.

That Spinner Johns had tried to kill him shortly after a talk with Massey, might be a coincidence. Johns was the sort who might try to kill anyone, and with slight provocation. If that fight had been an effort of Massey's, the dark, handsome Clive had been grievously disappointed.

He was, he decided, building fantastic suspicion upon nothing at all. There was no way in which Massey could hope to gain. The warning in the stable might have come from someone who had tried for a place in the train and been refused.

At the next stop the situation might reveal itself more clearly, for then the elections would be held to determine the captains of the four companies.

In his own group, aside from his two wagons driven by Shedd and Tolliver, there were the wagons of Murphy and Ban Hardy, Aaron Stark with one wagon, Rabun Kline with one, and the three wagons of Lute Harless. Each of the latter was driven by a son of Aaron Stark.

Still another wagon had joined them when they moved out that morning. Curiously, he dropped back alongside to see who was the driver. A big, wide shouldered man hunched on the wagon seat, a man with a wide smile and a ready laugh. But as he looked at Matt his eyes were shrewd, intense.

He waved to Bardoul. "You in command?"

"Nobody is. The election is tonight."

Matt touched the dun with a spur and cantered ahead until he drew alongside Murphy's wagon. The big mountain man grinned at him. "Reckon this route will take us by the Stone Cup? Never forget the place. Holed up there three days once, standin' off some thievin' Crows."

"Be good to get back," Bardoul agreed, "I like the Big Horns."

"Wonder where at that gold is? I've been runnin' it over in my mind, an' I can't seem to figure it out. I never seen none, my own self."

"You weren't looking for gold, Buff. It could be there, all right. Personally, I don't care. I've an idea of finding myself a ranch over in the basin and runnin' a few cows."

"Who does know where we're goin', I wonder?"

"Coyle, probably. Certainly Pearson an' Massey. Then Lyon has been there, and Portugee Phillips will have been told. We'll get the lowdown tonight, but until then nobody is supposed to know. Frankly, I haven't even tried to guess."

Murphy glanced at him. "Seen that girl of Coyle's a few minutes ago. She was ridin' a mighty pretty spotted pony. Said Clive Massey gave it to her."

Matt offered no comment, and Murphy lighted his pipe and settled to driving. All morning Matt had avoided thinking of the girl, feeling that whatever consideration she might have given him had been erased by last night's discussion at the hotel. Clive Massey, much in her father's favour, would have all the advantage, nor was he a man likely to lose any time in making the most of the opportunity.

Studying his own position, Matt Bardoul could see that it was scarcely enviable. Colonel Pearson had studiously avoided him, which was understandable, for Matt alone knew of the man's fearful incompetence. Brian Coyle, who had been Mart's one friend among the leaders could be considered a friend no longer. As for Massey, he knew the man would like nothing so well as to see Bardoul out of the wagon train.

When they pulled up for a brief lunch, Bardoul loped the dun down to the fire. It had been Stark's suggestion, eagerly accepted by the others, that his girls do the cooking for all, and that they have a community cooking, with each bringing a share.

Stark was sitting on a log near the fire when Matt swung down from the saddle and began loosening his cinch. "Howdy!" Stark called. "Who's the feller tied on behind?"

The man walked up just in time to hear the question. He looked around the group, smiling widely. "Name of Ernie Braden! Mornin' folks!" he boomed. "I reckon we're all friends here! So you just call me Ernie!"

Stark glanced at his empty hands, took his pipe from his mouth and spat, but said nothing.

Braden picked up a cup and held it out to Sary Stark. "How's about some coffee, Ma'am? From those purty hands of yours, it'll seem plumb sweet!"

Lute Harless walked up with the three Stark boys. Jeb sat down on the log beside his father. "Wished night would come. I'd sure enough like to know where we're headed!"

Braden looked around and winked. "I could give you a hint," he said knowingly, "You ever hear tell of Shell Creek? That's my bet!"

Buffalo Murphy stared at the fire, then he lifted his eyes, squinting at Braden. "You ever been to Shell Creek?"

"No," Braden admitted, "I ain't. Only," he winked, "I hear a few things."

"You tell 'em, too, I reckon," Jeb Stark said.

Braden seemed not to hear. He glanced around at the group, slapping himself emphatically on the stomach. "Well, tonight's the big night! Election! Don't reckon there's any party lines here, but it's a mighty big thing, choosin' a leader. A captain, that is. We sure want to pick somebody who has the confidence of the leaders of this outfit. Then everything will go along much better."

"I wonder who that would be?" Hardy asked innocently.

"Well," Braden was thoughtful, "Stark here would be a good man, Harless another. Needs a man free of a wagon, of course, an' I reckon both Stark an' Harless are tied down."