Brionne (1968) Page 11

  Cloud had drifted across the scene, swallowing it up and blotting it out. They could see nothing. Even Tuley, on his knees, eyes glazing, stared wonderingly at the place where Brionne had stood. There was only cloud. Nothing more.

  Brionne, expecting fire from the camp, had dropped to his knee, and had then taken off to the right in a crouching run. Suddenly, from farther to the right, in the vicinity of the peak, there was a brilliant flash. Brionne's skin prickled with the electricity and his hair stood on end. A moment later there was a deafening crash of thunder. Dropping his rifle, he rolled away from it, and lay in the depression between two boulders.

  The cloud swirled with a sudden gust of wind; and looking up, Brionne found himself staring at a crudely drawn picture of a running dog. The picture had been scratched on the rock wall, pointing toward the right and toward the ridge.

  Driven by a sudden urge, he caught up his rifle and went in the direction the dog's nose pointed. Indians sometimes used such picture devices; but this was, he felt sure, no Indian drawing. He had heard of prospectors using such markings; and somewhere near, he was convinced, was the place toward which Rody Brennan had been directed by Ed Shaw.

  Farther along on the ridge, he found another crude drawing of a dog, pointing south. The ridge led him on, and the one place Brionne wanted to be now was off that ridge. He wanted to be on lower ground, where lightning was less apt to strike.

  When he had traveled perhaps half a mile he found another drawing, but this time it was of a horse; and a little farther along there was one of an Indian with a bow, about to release an arrow.

  Suddenly he saw before him a gap in the mountain, a gap. He estimated was not more than half a mile wide. Part of the lower ground was obscured in cloud, but from his vantage point on the ridge he could see a green, forested valley where in some places there were meadows, and he could make out several lakes. Through the center of the basin, starting not far from where he stood, flowed a small stream.

  He climbed down into the basin, going carefully and studying the ground as he went. He had not gone far when he saw a boot print--a small one, and not complete. Only part of the heel showed clearly, but the print appeared to have been made recently.

  He went ahead on what seemed to be a game trail, and presently he found a small fir that had been cut partway through with an axe, then broken over to point along the trail. The cut was not new; it appeared to be at least several months old. A short distance farther along a dead branch pointing in the same direction lay across two living branches of a tree.

  He came suddenly on the remains of an old camp-fire, and here again he saw what he thought was the suggestion of a track, scarcely to be made out--not much more than a flattened place at the edge of the campfire.

  Brionne studied the site. On a limb nearby hung a pothook made from a forked branch, such as he had often used himself. It showed use; evidently it had been used more than once. This, he felt quite sure, must have been the camp, or one of the camps, that Ed Shaw had used while prospecting in the area.

  A small lake was close by, and a spring ran a trickle of water into it. The shore was rocky, but trees came almost to the edge of the water.

  Brionne paused inside the belt of trees to consider. The basin was surrounded on three sides by steep mountains, except at the point where he had come through, and undoubtedly at the point where the stream flowed out. The stream rapidly cut more deeply to make a small canyon before it joined the main stream, which was probably Lake Fork Creek.

  He returned to the campfire and looked all about. The trail ended here, except for the walk to the edge of the lake for water. Had Shaw, then, entered the lake when he left the camp, and followed along the shore?

  Thunder was rumbling now, and there were almost continual flashes of lightning. Here in the forest, with the walls of the ridges closed about him, he felt more secure. His thoughts returned to the sound he had heard more than once up on the rock ledge. It was unlikely to have been any of the Allards, for there seemed to be none missing except those he himself could account for.

  What then? An animal? Some other man? Or perhaps just a dead branch stirred by the wind?

  He considered the situation. He could not attack an alerted camp head-on, and such an attack would be to no purpose now. What he wanted was to locate Mat and Miranda. The girl must have known more than she had said, or else she had seen some sign, such as the signs he himself had seen, that had led her closer to finding the mine.

  He took a slow circle around the dead campfire, but he found nothing. He tried again, moving farther out, but the result was the same--nothing.

  His son was somewhere on this mountain, alone with a young woman who was unfamiliar with the country, and unskilled in its ways. Miranda and Mat had no shelter, no food, no outfit of any kind. Tuley had said that the Allards had that outfit.

  A storm was building, a slow, sullen storm that could burst with unbelievable fury at any moment. Moreover, somewhere on this mountain was the Allard gang. And if the Allards found his son they would kill him.

  And somewhere on the mountain was Dutton Mowry--a good man, Brionne had believed, but how could he be sure of that now? Who was Mowry? Why had he come to Promontory? What had led him to take this ride into the mountains with Miranda? Was he, too, after the silver? Did he know something they did not know?

  James Brionne sat down on a fallen tree, his shoulders heavy with weariness. They must be near ... but where? Could he find them before the storm struck?

  Chapter 13

  The thunder roared upon its great drums, rolling cataracts of sound down the narrow canyons and exploding them against the cliffs. Lightning shot in vivid streaks across the sky, great flashes of light that seemed not like the lightning seen in the lowlands, but like a heaven of flame gaping open above them, giving them a view of the blazing heart of some other world.

  The rain did not come. The atmosphere was charged with electricity, and the streaks of flame seemed to bound and rebound from the peaks above them.

  James Brionne got up and walked to the lake again. A sullen sheet, it lay open to the sky, shining like a great bowl of mercury. He went along the edge, alone in the thickness of cloud that only from time to time tore itself apart and allowed him to peer through, to see the dark firs, the great, craggy rocks, the bleak grayness of the shoreline.

  His boy was somewhere not far away, his son who had always been a little frightened of storms--not wishing to admit it, but afraid nonetheless. Was Miranda with him? Something within Brionne assured him that unless torn from Mat's side, she would be there, close beside him. She was that kind of person.

  He paused again, during a lull in the cannonade of thunder, to listen for any cry, any call, any human sound at all, but there was none.

  He looked about him, shaken with fear for his son, and seemed to see on all sides the evidences of a world in the making--the wind-worn rocks, the long rock-falls of shattered cliffs, the fallen trees, wedged among the rocks and breaking to pieces there, the trails made by rushing water, carrying away the gravel and sand and wearing the rocks as it ran, chafing them, hammering at them with an occasional large rock--everything busy in changing the form of the earth.

  These peaks, too, would disappear some day. They would be worn down one day, polished and ancient, their hard-shouldered youth as nothing before the timeless patience of wind and water, of heat and cold, of growth and decay.

  A young fir grew from a crack in a boulder where some earth had blown and been held. The roots would split the boulder further apart, and finally the boulder itself would break in half and fall away.

  He saw these things, he thought these things, for such thoughts were a part of him. He had been born to see, to observe everything around him. So it was that now he saw something special: a spear of sandstone thrust upright in a crack of the granite--an unnatural thing, surely.

  Why was it there? To arrest attention. To catch the eye of the beholder and to let him know that for some rea
son he must look again. The spear of rock, scarcely two feet long, was canted slightly toward the south. By accident, or design?

  He saw that there was a trail, a suggestion of something man-made, a place where there had been movement. Brionne went forward, coming up through the trees to a bald knoll among them, and suddenly from out of the cloud an eagle flew, a lost bird, seeking its nest, confused by the storm, or stunned by the thunder.

  The flight of the eagle carried his eye along to the westward, and through the torn clouds he glimpsed the wall of the basin, not far off.

  An eagle, one would think, would be safely nested or roosted at such a time. An eagle's instinct would have given him some forewarning of the storm ... suppose something had disturbed him? Something coming too close to home?

  Where had he seen him first? Brionne headed toward where he believed he had first seen the eagle, and when he had walked only a few minutes he came upon the trail again, that suggestion of something man-made.

  Then he broke through the last of the firs and saw the log cabin, built against a shoulder of rock, utilizing the rock for its own rear wall.

  Thunder rolled, lightning flared again. How far off was the cabin? Fifty yards? A hundred? He started to run.

  And then the rain came.

  It came with a burst of fury, whipping, lashing, beating at him; with it came wind and hail. He ran, slowing a little for the uphill slope. He reached the door and pounded on it.

  When it did not open, he threw his shoulder against it, and the door gave way. He caught himself just a step inside, and stood there looking into the muzzle of Cotton Allard's gun.

  There were four other men with him, one of them the man Brionne had seen in the Southern Hotel in St. Louis, and again in Cheyenne. At least one other Allard was there. That must be Peabody, of whom he had heard.

  Mat was there, too, sitting back in a corner, huddled close to Miranda.

  Major James Brionne, his hair plastered against his skull by the rain, water streaming down his face, was soaked to the skin, but he held a rifle in his hand as he stood facing Cotton Allard.

  "Drop the rifle," Cotton said. "I got somethin' for you to watch."

  The reaction was immediate and swift. James Brionne had learned the zouave drill at St. Cyr, as well as a dozen intricate rule drills, and now he flipped his rifle forward, spun the butt, and knocked the pistol from Cotton's hand. Then with a butt stroke he smashed one of the other men in the belly, knocking him into a corner.

  Peabody lunged at him and Brionne staggered into a corner, falling against the wall. Peabody leaped upon him, but Brionne whipped himself over swiftly and sprang to his feet, even as Cotton scrambled up, gun in hand.

  Brionne's gun was in his hand, too, and he looked across the room at Cotton. "You are the gunfighter," he said. "You want to try it with me?"

  "Holstered guns?" Cotton suggested, grinning, but it was an evil grin.

  "Of course. That is the way, isn't it? One thing, however, let my son and Miss Loften leave the cabin. There is no need for them to get shot by accident."

  "Let 'em go," Cotton said. "They ain't goin' no place, and I don't want nothing to happen to that girl yet neither."

  Brionne held his gun steady until Mat and Miranda were out of the door. The others trooped out after them. Rain beat at the walls of the cabin, and on the roof. There was a leak in the corner, another in the center of the roof.

  "All right," Cotton said. "We holster our guns, lift our hands, and reach, is that it?"

  "Fine." James Brionne was very cool. He had done what he intended to do, and had gotten his son and Miranda outside. He still held his gun.

  He was gambling, and he held two cards he was depending on. One of them was his own gun.

  "All right," Cotton said, "holster 'em!"

  He was superbly confident. In this business of the fast draw, he had seen no one who could equal himself and he was sure this Virginia soldier could not.

  Watching carefully for some trick, Brionne drew his gun back, and lowered it carefully to the leather. He had no idea of trying to beat Cotton Allard to the draw. He intended to do just what he was best at. He was going to draw, level his gun, and fire. From the hip, perhaps, if there was no more time, but he was going to aim.

  He understood in his cool, careful mind that he was going to get hit. He accepted the fact. But there are many hits that do not kill, and he hoped the shot that hit him would be one of those. On the other hand, He planned to make sure of his own bullet.

  Brionne knew that he would probably fire only one shot. He intended that should be enough. He could hear the pounding rain, he could smell the fire inside the cabin, he could see the savage face of Cotton Allard, the man who had burned his home. Outside was his son, who might die without him if his other gamble did not pay off, or this one.

  He felt the muzzle of his gun touch the bottom of the holster, lifted his hand free, and saw that Cotton still gripped his gun.

  "So you are a coward, too," he said quietly. "You think you are the best man, but you will not chance it."

  Cotton's face flushed with rage. Deliberately, he lifted his hand free; then "Draw!" he yelled, and dropped his hand.

  Brionne felt his own hand slap the butt, felt the gun start to lift. Cotton's gun was clearing leather, and his face was twisted with triumph and hatred.

  "This is for Anne," Brionne said, and for an instant, Cotton's hand froze.

  Then his gun leaped up and he fired. Brionne felt the slug as a tremendous blow. It knocked him back through the door. As he tumbled across the threshold he heard the second blast of the gun, and rolled over in the rain and the wet.

  He came up to his knees, then to his feet. Something seemed to grip his side, and there was a numbness there. He lifted his gun as Cotton stepped into the door and fired again. Brionne staggered, slipped in trying to regain his balance, and almost fell.

  Cotton, his face wolfish, his teeth bared in a kind of snarl, was lifting his gun for another shot. Brionne swung his body around, straightened up, felt the slam of another bullet, but held himself still. He had seen men die, and he had seen too many men take lead to believe that one shot would surely kill, unless by chance or by dead aim. He had no doubt that Cotton could get him, and that he might, but he intended to kill Allard.

  He brought his gun down and looked along the barrel at Allard, saw Cotton's eyes blazing with fury, which changed to sudden terror as the gun lined on him. Cotton fired again, and then Brionne squeezed off his shot. He stood in perfect form, firing as if at a target, and he shot Cotton Allard right between the eyes.

  Then he turned his gun to Peabody. "You were there," he said, and as Peabody tried to lift his gun, he shot him dead.

  "Is there anyone else?" he said calmly.

  They stood with their hands up, but they were not looking at him.

  He turned and saw Button Mowry. The man was using a broken branch for a crutch, and one leg was bandaged and bloody, but he held a six-shooter in one hand. And he was covering them.

  "You got here," Brionne said.

  "Did you think I wouldn't?" Mowry said.

  He gestured to Hoffman and the others. "You boys just shuck your hardware. You'll find a pick and shovel up yonder at the tunnel. Come back down here and bury these men."

  James Brionne had not moved. He felt sick and very strange, but he was looking over at Mat, and he wanted to go to him. He willed himself to move, but there was a great weakness in him.

  Suddenly Miranda and Mat were running to him. He managed to holster his gun. "I am afraid I shall have to sit down," he said. "I believe I am hit."

  They put him down gently at the entrance to the mine and Miranda took off his coat. His shirt was soaked with blood. The bullet had struck his shoulder bone, evidently at an angle, hitting him hard enough to knock him down, and tearing through the muscle at the end of his shoulder.

  "He hit me twice, I think. The other one is lower down."

  Miranda eased the tail of his s
hirt from behind his belt, then almost laughed with relief. The bullet had struck his cartridge belt, veered upward and flattened against his money belt, each pocket rilled with gold coins.

  "You took a chance," she said, "when you didn't throw down your gun."

  "We'd have had no chance without it. They were going to murder us anyway, and I was betting that I could at least kill Cotton, and maybe one other.

  "You see, I felt sure Mowry was coming. That was the second gamble I took. It had to be him back there. The more I remembered about him, the more I knew he would not be far behind me."

  Mowry was directing Hoffman in building a fire. "You had more confidence than me," he said. "There was a time or two I didn't think I'd make it."

  James Brionne leaned back a little, feeling the warmth of the fire and liking it. "I had reason for confidence. Grant never sent a boy to do a man's job."

  Dutton Mowry grinned. "Now, how'd you figure that out? Devine told me that if you knew you had a watch dog you'd raise hob."

  "General Grant is my friend, and Devine is a worrier. I didn't peg you at first, and then when I had a hunch you took off with Miranda."

  Mowry chuckled. "The way I figured it, if you saw me followin' you, with your trouble in Cheyenne and all, you'd be likely to take a shot at me. Seemed to me that you weren't about to let Miss Loften go off into the mountains without you looking after her. You just ain't that kind of a gent.

  "Pat told me you'd been asking about Rody Brennan and Ed Shaw, so I just figured the easiest way to keep account of you was to stay close to Miss Loften here."

  Hoffman was puttering with the fire, and now he looked up. He was gaunt and pale. "What are you planning to do with us?"

  Brionne glanced at Mowry. "Shall we string them up? I hear that's the thing to do out here. Or shall we take them down to Brigham's boys? I have a feeling that Porter Rockwell would know just what to do with them."

  Hoffman started to protest