Under the Sweetwater Rim (1971) Page 5

  He thought of Mary. Where was she? What was she doing now? Belle was with her, fortunately, and for all her flighty looks, Belle was Army. She had seen her husband through a dozen campaigns, and she had made some long, hard treks herself.

  He got out his razor, heated water over the fire, and shaved by the last light. As he shaved he considered the steps that must be taken. He would have to move with care, for these were woodsmen, Indian fighters, far more skilled at fighting than most of his own men. But even such men can become careless, and they knew his troops were green. Putting his kit away, he stretched out on his blanket, slowly easing his tired muscles. He smelled bacon frying and the smell of coffee, mixed with the smell of cedar. He could think this was a good life . . . if only Mary were safe.

  Ten Brian stepped down from the saddle and walked back to Mary, holding up his hands to help her down.

  "We'll rest here," he said, and turned to help Belle from the saddle.

  Ironhide and Schwartz got down immediately, then Dorsey. Only West lingered in the saddle, looking around carefully.

  "What river is that?" he asked.

  "The Popo Agie," Brian said; "actually what they call the Little Popo Agie. Better get down and get some rest. You're going to need it tomorrow." Unwillingly, West got down. He was as tired as the others, but he was increasingly wary. The more he thought of it the less he trusted Lieutenant Brian.

  Brian was a good soldier, admitted, but how had he happened to ride up out of nowhere and order them off the wagon train? He should have refused. Brian said the wagon train had been wiped out, but he admitted he had not seen it done. The whole thing might be a cock-and-bull story to get them back in the hills where nobody would ever find them, and murder the lot of them. Sixty thousand dollars was a lot of money.

  He got down warily, keeping his horse between Brian and himself. Thoughtfully, he considered the others. At least one of them might be an ally of Brian. Ironhide had served with him, and Ironhide was an Indian, and after all, you couldn't trust an Indian, even an educated one like Ironhide. "Schwartz, fix us a good meal,"

  Brian said. He spoke over his shoulder while going from one horse to the other, checking their backs for sore spots, and looking them over with care.

  Mary walked down to the stream, where thick groves of cottonwood grew right down to the bank. As she stood looking into the clear water, Brian came down, cut himself a willow pole, and baited his hook with bacon rind. Within minutes he had landed a speckled trout.

  "Have we gotten away, Ten?" Mary asked.

  "No. I won't lie to you, Mary. We're in serious trouble. Right now I'd say we have a few hours. Kelsey has lost our trail, but he'll find it, and he'll come on fast. Or he may elect to go on toward Fort Bridger, scatter pickets across the country where we must travel, and just wait. He knows we have to come that way."

  "So how can we escape?"

  "I don't think he can hold his men out here very long. We're going up over the divide. We may have to change, but I think we'll cut through Sweetwater Gap, come down off the mountain, and go straight across the valley to the other side. If we can manage it without being seen we'll cross the Green and then make a run for it down the far side.

  I think we'll have a chance. But he's a devil .

  . . we can't low-rate him . . . not for a minute."

  Belle Renick had come down to the stream to join them, and she was listening to him. "It's too bad," she said, "that we couldn't have come to this place under other conditions. It's beautiful."

  Brian hauled in his fourth trout, and rebaited the hook. "It is," he said, "and you'll see more of it tomorrow. The Wind River Mountains have some of the finest glaciers you'll find anywhere, and some lovely lakes." He went on talking and Mary listened, but she was hearing more than the words; she was sensing something of the man behind them. Tenadore Brian was, she thought, one of the most attractive men she had ever met . .

  . not the most handsome, although he was very good-looking, but there was something in his presence that said more than words. He talked easily, and having traveled and studied, above all having thought about what he had seen and read, he had much to talk about.

  She knew he was talking in part to put them at ease. It had been a hard, dangerous day. So far they had eluded their pursuers . . . if there were any. She herself had seen no enemies, but she knew enough of the frontier to know she had seen a classic job of evasion and escape. Brian had led them over a shelf of rock and into the water. They had gone downstream for half a mile before he led them out through tall grass. He had gone back alone and carefully brushed the grass back into position so that a casual glance would show no evidence of their passing. Then from rock shelf to stream, and stream to rock shelf, they had worked their way across and up the mountain, angling back and forth by a switchback route until they had stopped for noon among some rocks.

  From that vantage point he had studied both their back trail for pursuit and the route they must select for climbing the mountain.

  Mary had climbed up beside him, and he pointed out landmarks. "See? That is Roaring Fork Mountain, and the peaks just on the left are the Sweetwater Needles. We're going up there."

  "Is there a trail?"

  "An Indian trail, if we can find it. And there are a couple of passes that will let us cross over. It won't be easy, and it's going to be cold up there."

  "I'm worried about pa."

  "The Major? You needn't. He's a tough old campaigner."

  "But Ten, he isn't as young as he was, and he won't give up. I am afraid he'll overdo it. He'll be worried about me, and I know he wasn't planning to come this far west. He will be overdue at the post, and they will be worried, too."

  Brian shrugged. "Trust him. He's lived with bad situations all his life, as you should know. A man can get information and education at any age; you only get wisdom with experience, and he has it."

  He paused. "I just wish he knew that was Reuben Kelsey down there. It would make all the difference." Nothing appeared below. For a long time, keeping his glasses in shadow so no sun could reflect from them, he studied the terrain, not only along his back trail, but off to the southeast where the pursuers were more likely to be.

  Corporal West had moved off to one side of the camp with Dorsey. They were gathering wood. West stood up for a moment, hands on hips.

  "I don't like it," he said to Dorsey.

  "What?"

  "There's no reason for us to be away off up here.

  What's Brian think he's doing, anyway?"

  "Gettin' away. What else? When you're protectin' two handsome women and sixty thousand in goldisn't that what you said?-well, you got to think."

  "Nevertheless, I don't like it."

  Dorsey glanced toward camp. Nobody was within hearing. "Do you think he plans to steal that gold?"

  "I don't know what to think."

  "You could always make sure."

  West looked at him. "How do you mean?"

  "Take the gold and run for it. Head for Bridger right now. Or head for Major Devereaux.

  He's somewhere close behind."

  West wet his lips, and shifted his feet uneasily. The thought had occurred to him.

  "If that's what you decide to do, West, you can count me in," Dorsey said almost casually.

  "I'll back you in whatever you decide."

  "Thanks." The money was really in West's charge, not Brian's. Brian wasn't even supposed to know about the money. This was West's duty. And now here they were far off up in the mountain.

  They had left no trail for the renegades, but nothing for the army, either. He said as much to Dorsey. "That's right," Dorsey agreed, "right now nobody but us knows where we are or where that money is."

  "It's my responsibility," West said.

  "Well, I'd say if anything happened to it, you'd be held responsible all right." After a moment he added, "If a body was to go right off the end of this mountain he would be heading about right. Bridger is southwest from here."

&
nbsp; And the Oregon Trail, Dorsey reminded himself, takes of to the northwest. "All right," West said, "we'll watch our chance."

  "That we will," Dorsey replied, "that we will, Corporal."

  Their fire was small and was built with dry sticks. It gave off almost no smoke, and with the wind as it was whatever smoke there was would be drawn down the canyon of the Popo Agie.

  After less than an hour of fishing, Brian had pulled in a dozen good-sized trout. The glade in which they had chosen to camp was sheltered from the little wind, and after the long day it was re/l there by the swift-running water.

  "What bird is that?" Mary asked suddenly, pointing. The bird was slate gray, its head brown. It was perched on a rock, its head bobbing.

  "We call it a dipper," Brian said, "because of the way he dips his head, but properly he's a water ouzel. Watch him . . . he'll dive right in, walk around on the bottom of the stream picking up food, and when he comes out he's dry . . . oil in his feathers, I guess. They like fast-running water, and they seem to like people, too. Anyway, I've watched them for hours and they never seem to mind."

  "You're interested in birds?"

  "In everything. You have to be in this country. If you know the habits of birds and animals you can tell if anyone is around, just by the way they conduct themselves."

  "But what about us? Doesn't our being here affect them at all?" "Yes, but we've been quiet, no sudden moves .. we're part of the picture. If you are in the forest and you remain quiet, birds and animals accept you. Oh, they'll keep an eye on you, but if you show no disposition to trouble them they will take you on your own terms. If anybody else comes up, off they go. And you are warned."

  Night gathered around the trees and rocks, gathered in the draws and the canyons, and stretched out to the somber peaks, the only spots of brightness the snow on the summits.

  Their supper was eaten. The small fired glowed from red coals. West sat in silence beyond it, while Dorsey leaned on an elbow, staring at the coals.

  Schwartz was on guard, and the Cherokee was dozing.

  "I wish the Captain could see me now," Belle commented. "He told me it would be an easy ride to California in that ambulance. "Just like sitting in your rocker," he said." She turned to look at Brian. "Ten, I ask you: is there really a way over the mountain?"

  "Several. The quickest and easiest is probably Sioux Pass, which cuts off to the southwest. There's Sweetwater Gap, which we may use; and then there's a pass between the peaks further along that the Shoshones and Utes used when they used to visit each other."

  Brian sat up and leaned back against a rock, eyes half closed. He heard the water, and heard in memory the campfire talk of other trips, but all the while his ears were alert for sounds beyond their circle. He was tired. His muscles loved the rest, but his mind was feeling out a way for the following day. He was letting his mind explore the mountain they would encounter tomorrow, trying to foresee what awaited them up there. They had not lost Reuben Kelsey. Not with two women and sixty thousand dollars. Kelsey would guess they had gone over the mountain even though he found no trail. He might have men among his group who knew this mountain, and knew how they must cross it.

  And Kelsey had only to skirt the mountain, watch and wait for them on the other side.

  So far the women were bearing up well, but from now on it would be climbing, rough going over narrow trails, used only by Indians or wild game. By now Major Devereaux would have turned back or would be preparing to do so, for he would have reached the limit of his ration allowance. The field ration was normally three-quarters of a pound of side meat bacon or salt pork, and more often the latter, a pound of hardtack, and a little coffee and salt. The Major may have augmented that by a little judicious hunting. There were usually buffalo and antelope on the plains, though not always when they were needed.

  Ten Brian had rations enough, with a little fishing to help out if there was time. The ambulance had been equipped with food supplies to take the women through to the Coast, and for the escort as far as Fort Halleck, in Nevada.

  He got up suddenly, andwitha brief word walked out of camp to where Schwartz was on guard.

  "Anything?" Brian asked.

  "Nothing, sir. Something down there in the brush, but it's an animal. Bear, probably, but not a big one."

  "Been out in this country long, Schwartz?"

  "I came out in fifty-eight. I could not speak the language, so I had joined the army. When this year ends I shall leave the army and go into business.

  I've learned the language, and I've saved my money. It is a good country, this. I shall stay here."

  "Have you ever been to Fort Bridger?"

  "Yes, sir. Twice . . . but never from this direction" "If anything happens to me, get down off the mountain and head west for the Green, cross it if you can, then head south for Bridger, keeping the western mountains for a background."

  He went on, "And keep a sharp lookout. These men can move like Indians, Schwartz. Many of them have lived with Indians, have hunted and fought with them."

  "I know their kind, sir."

  Brian left him and went back to camp.

  Several times in the night he added fuel to the fire.

  He watched Dorsey move out to relieve Schwartz, and saw the German come in quietly.

  At daybreak he was up and moving. A quick breakfast, and they saddled their horses. The mountain lay before them.

  Ten Brian led off, weaving a way among the pines, then, through a grove of aspen. He wasted no time trying to cover the trail, simply riding through unlikely places, cutting across to the trail he wanted, south of Brown's Gulch. By mid-morning they were at Cold Spring, looking south toward the Freak Mountains which cut off their view of what lay to the south. He rode with his Winchester in his hand, for there was no telling what lay ahead of them. By now Kelsey would have a good idea what he was attempting and might try to cut him off, and there was always the danger of Indians. Shoshones and Utes used these trails, and so did the Sioux; occasionally the Blackfeet or Cheyennes passed through on raids along the Overland or Oregon trails. However, he saw no signs of recent travel. Less than half a mile beyond Cold Spring they turned left. The trail grew worse. They rode single file, and Brian could rarely see more than one or two of the others.

  They had gone no more than a mile when suddenly the trail vanished. They had emerged upon the very lip of a steep cliff, which fell at least a thousand feet Canyon Creek. Mary came up alongside him, her face pale. "We're going down that?"

  "Just sit your horse. She'll take you down.

  That's a good mare." He took out his glasses and studied the country below. If they were caught on the cliff . . . The north slope of Freak Mountain was covered with a thick stand of timber. An ambush might be hidden there, but it was a risk they must take.

  "Ironhide," he said, "you bring up the pack horses and take the lead. Schwartz, you be the rear guard."

  "What about you, sir?" West asked.

  "I'm going to scout on ahead. If I remember what I was told, there's another trail comes in from around Freak Mountain and joins ours a couple of miles along. I want to scout that trail before you people get there. Come along steady, Ironhide, but don't rush it."

  He turned to Mary and Belle, who were looking down the steep cliff. "Don't worry," he said. "The trail's not as bad as it looks. Just let your horses find their own way. . . they'll follow those ahead."

  Swinging his gray horse, he went over the rim and started down. Ironhide waited a moment, then followed.

  "Are you scared, Belle?" Mary asked.

  "Of course, but I've been scared before. Let's go."

  They could glimpse Brian, on ahead. Mary realized she had never known anybody quite like him, and the thought of him disturbed her. She knew her father did not approve of him, yet several times he had spoken of Brian with approbation. At least twice he had handled difficult situations with Indians without getting into a fight. He showed good judgment, but . .

  . She couldn't
make up her mind.

  Dorsey pushed close to West. "When?" he whispered.

  "We'll try for Sioux Pass," West said after a moment. "Wait for me to lead off."

  "How can we? When Ironhide has the money?"

  "Leave that to me," West replied. "He won't always have it."

  West did not relish the idea of breaking away from Ten Brian. He did not really trust him, but neither did he want to go against him. He had never seen Brian angry, but he could imagine what it might be like. Once at the bottom of the trail, Ten Brian let his gray have its head. After half a mile he slowed up. The trail was closing in and he could see only a few yards ahead. He moved carefully, studying the trail for tracks, but be saw only deer or elk tracks. Once he saw that a huge bear had crossed the trail. His horse snorted a little, not liking the smell, which apparently lingered.

  A fork in the trail appeared and he drew up, scanning the shallow basin where the trails met. He took several minutes to study the trees and brush on all sides, then walked his horse slowly forward. There was little time, for the others would be coming.

  Suddenly, he glimpsed the tracks of two riders. They had come in from the southeast, skirting the foot of Freak Mountain, and they had stopped here, then turned back. Apparently they had looked for tracks, and finding none had done an about-face.

  "All right, soldier boy," a voice said, "drop your rifle."

  He saw them then, down the trail, just back in the trees. Both of them had rifles, but he did not hesitate. His left hand held the reins, his right held the rifle by the action, its barrel lying across the bend of his left elbow where he had been letting it rest as he looked about. He tilted the rifle and fired.

  Once... twice . . .

  They had been sure-too sure. And his movement had been slight, almost undetectable at forty yards. At his second shot he slammed the spurs to the gray and leaped him at them. One man was down, his foot caught in the stirrup; the other was wounded, and was clutching the pommel of his saddle, his face gray with fright. "Don't," he whispered hoarsely, "don't shoot no more!" "Are you Kelsey's men?"