Brionne (1968) Read online

  When the boy rode up beside him, Brionne indicated the stump. It was scarcely four inches in diameter, and it had been cut off about a foot above the ground.

  "Wherever an axe has been used," he said, "the mark of the cut shows white for quite a while. Now, whoever cut that either wanted a pole or he wanted firewood. I think he wanted firewood, because he even picked up the biggest chips."

  He walked his horse in a widening circle, and it took him only a few minutes to find a small lean-to and the remains of a fire. The bits of charcoal lying there had been worn smooth by rain and wind .... it was an old fire.

  "Maybe this means nothing," he said to Mat, "but it might be important. I doubt if many men have come up this high, but I feel quite sure that Ed Shaw did. When we scout around a little we may find where he went."

  Brionne rode around the camp in widening circles, but he found no tracks. He studied the distant ridge where the sun shone bright upon the sullen and silent rocks, and he started toward it. On this wide plateau there was no sound except the footfalls of their own mounts, and the sound of the wandering wind, a wind uncertain of itself, prowling among the trees as if looking for something lost.

  Again and again Brionne drew up to look about, to listen, and to watch the trail behind. For all its beauty, there was an eerie something about this plateau that made him wary. He somehow had the feeling of eyes watching him, eyes that might be looking along a rifle barrel.

  He changed course several times. He would veer suddenly to put a bush, a tree, or a rock behind him. He was trying to offer no target for a marksman, and his sudden changes were useful in making his trail difficult to follow. Instinctively, he chose the way that would leave the fewest marks behind. For he felt that even if he was not followed now, he would be soon.

  Quite suddenly, in front of them, lay a lake, its blue waters ruffled by the wind. He skirted the shore and, seeing the water was shallow, he and Mat rode in and walked thek horses close to the shore for half a mile. They left the lake by a small stream that came down from the ridge toward which they had been traveling,

  They made camp in the gathering dusk in a corner of the ridge, gathering dry wood from old deadfalls that would make an almost smokeless fire.

  It was a good camp. The cove was higher than the land in front of it, offering a good view for perhaps a quarter of a mile. The camp itself lay in a slight hollow under fir trees that would help to spread any smoke there might be from thek fire.

  "We will stay here for a couple of days, Mat," Brionne said. "We need to rest the horses, and I expect you could use the rest, too. I know I could."

  "I'm all right, pa," Mat answered.

  After a good supper, they bedded down, the horses picketed behind them on the grass. Just before turning in, Brionne went to a hidden lookout, which was behind some rocks and under the branches of the trees. He lay there for some time, listening to the night, then he went back to the camp. The fire was akeady banked, only faint coals showing red.

  Chapter 9

  Seven miles away, hidden in a small grove of trees well back from the shores of a lake, Dutton Mowry squatted near the campfire. He looked across the fire at Miranda Loften. "You still game, ma'am? You begin to see what this here is like?"

  "I am game," Miranda answered, and she smiled at him. And then she added, "We are not far from the mine now."

  He gave her a sharp glance. "How do you figure that? You seen some landmark?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, I'll be forever damned." He poked a stick into the fire, and when it blazed up, lit his cigarette. "You must've had mighty good directions, or else you're mighty mistaken."

  "I am not mistaken. We are close ... another day--possibly two."

  Mowry looked at her with respect. She had evidently picked up more than one landmark, and had been keeping them in sight. Earlier she had expressed a wish to pass close to the lake, and as it had been a likely course, he had taken the route she suggested.

  "Don't forget that rifle," he warned her now, and let his eyes sweep their campsite again. It was a good one, but he was not a trusting man, and he knew what the Allards were like. How had he ever let himself get trapped into a situation like this? With a woman to watch over, when they would have been enough by themselves?

  "You ever hear of Caleb Rhodes?" he asked her suddenly.

  She hesitated, letting a moment pass; then after obviously considering her reply, she said, "Yes."

  "He had him a mine up here somewhere, too. Only his was gold."

  "He had two mines," she corrected. "One was lode, the other placer."

  "Your Uncle Rody must've told you plenty," he commented dryly.

  "Where do you suppose he is?" she asked suddenly.

  "Who?"

  She flushed slightly, and Mowry stifled a smile. "Major Brionne ... I mean, who else is up here?"

  "Them Allards are, and Brionne doesn't know it. He doesn't know who is follerin' him." He finished his coffee, and dropped his cigarette into the coals. "I got a hunch we'll see him, and soon." he said.

  He looked at her, his eyes masking the twinkle with a solemn expression. "Why don't you go ahead an' marry him? I can just see you settin' your cap for him."

  "That is not true!" she said primly, but she could feel herself blushing. And it was not true; she had thought of no such thing ... so why was she embarassed?

  "Makes a lot of sense," he said, keeping his eyes serious. "You an' him. He needs him a wife, and you shouldn't be traipsin' around out here with no man to care for you. It ain't fittin'."

  "I think it is time to go to sleep," she said. "I am tired."

  "He'd be kind of easy to catch right now, ma'am. He's all unwary, like. He's lonesome as all get out, you can see that. An' that kid needs a woman's hand. You could sort of ease up on his blind side, make up to the kid, and first thing you know you'd have him all wrapped up and hogtied."

  "Good night, Mr. Mowry!"

  "Good night, ma'am."

  After Dutton Mowry had rolled up in his blankets he lit a cigarette. Presently, looking up at the stars, he said earnestly, "He's a mighty fine figure of a man, that Brionne. Him an army man, and all. Why, ma'am, they do say General Grant sets real store by him."

  Miranda Loften prepared herself for sleep. It was a ridiculous idea that Mowry had voiced. She had talked with the man only two or three times. Where could Dutton Mowry have gotten such an idea?

  She heard a subdued chuckle from where Mowry lay in his blankets, and despite herself, she smiled. It was a ridiculous idea--of course it was. He had scarcely noticed her, and as for the boy--he was a darling child. So quiet, so well-mannered. He...

  She never knew when she fell asleep, nor did she hear the wind in the trees, nor smell the pines, nor glimpse the star that kept twinkling through the boughs of the tree under which she slept.

  The wind was cool off the snow-covered peaks. The lake water lapped softly against the shelving beach. Two miles to the east a huge grizzly stretched himself tall and dug his claws into the bark of the tree, drawing furrows in the bark, leaving his sign for all to see. He smelled bear, knew this was a bear tree, and had confidence in his own great size and strength. He would make his mark, a challenge for all.

  Had he come along a little earlier in the day he would have seen other claw marks, claw marks much deeper and eight inches higher up the trunk.

  The wind stirred, bringing him a faint man smell, and he growled inquisitively. The wind brought an intimation of danger, but of reward also. He remembered a time, two summers ago, when he had looted a camp. He remembered the side of bacon he had eaten, and the sugar; especially the sugar.

  For the moment he was not hungry, and he lumbered off up the trail toward a hollow under a fallen tree where he intended to sleep. He paused only once, warily, for he heard a faint stir of movement in the night. Something or somebody was coming ... more than one.

  He smelled men again, and horses, and they were moving in the night.

  During th
e night the wind came roaring across the dark face of the mountain, roaring through the tree tops, whining in the crevices of the rocks, and stirring small pebbles and rock fragments to start them rolling.

  Mat crowded close to his father, and lay wide-eyed in the night, having never known such wind as this that moaned across the high lakes and among the peaks. He lay and trembled, but he was calmed by the stillness of his father beside him.

  Overhead the great trees bent before the wind, and against the sky the ragged peaks lost themselves in the tearing clouds; they broke the clouds apart and appeared again, but vanished once more amid the rising sea of darkness.

  "Pa?"

  His father was awake. "It's all right, Mat. It is only a storm. The mountains do not mind the storms. There have been many storms upon these rocks."

  Mat lay quiet, thinking of his father's words, wishing he could be like him, so sure and quiet. And he said as much.

  "No one can be sure, Mat. But a man learns to appear that way, and after a while it is the same thing. Look to the hills, Mat. They are quiet. The storms sweep over them and are gone, and most of man's troubles pass the same way. That is one reason I brought you here, just to learn that. Whenever you feel that things are getting too much for you, go to the mountains or the desert--it smooths out the wrinkles in your mind."

  After a few moments Mat spoke again.

  "Pa? What happened to those men? The ones who ... who burned our house?"

  "I don't know. They're probably still in the mountains ... or in Missouri."

  "Could they be out here, pa? Could it be some of them who shot at you?"

  Surprised, Brionne considered it. The idea had occurred to him, but only in a fleeting way. It was unlikely the Allards would leave their home mountains and their relatives. That they would come to this part of the country would be too much of a coincidence.

  Yet the thought nagged at him. Many of the lawless had followed the railroad west, and when the last spike was driven at Promontory they had spilled over into the country around.

  "There's not much chance of it, Mat," he said aloud. "But we'll keep our eyes open." Then after a pause he asked, "How many of them would you remember if you saw them again?"

  "Two, I think. Maybe three."

  The unfortunate part was that Brionne did not know them by sight. Only one or two of the family had appeared at the trial, and they were the lesser ones, unwanted by the law.

  He said no more to Mat, and soon he heard the boy's even breathing, and knew that he was asleep. He slipped from under the blankets, pulled on the moccasins he always carried, and checked the horses. The cove was sheltered from the worst of the wind, and the horses seemed content.

  Back in his blankets he slept, but before daybreak he was up, and made a quick breakfast. "Stay in the cove," he told Mat after they had eaten. "I may scout around a mite, but I'll be close by. We're going to rest here."

  There was grass for three or four days, at least. There was good water, and their position could not be easily approached. They would simply wait. Brionne wanted to do some thinking.

  Mat had put into words a vague suspicion that had been lingering almost unnoticed in the back of Brionne's mind. It had taken only the boy's suggestion to bring the idea into focus. Could it be that the Allards were out here?

  At first thought it had seemed too much of a coincidence, but a bit of consideration changed that. There was only one railroad west, the Union Pacific. The last spike of that railroad had been driven only a short time ago. It had been driven, in fact, since the death of his wife and the burning of his home.

  Suppose the Allards had, after leaving their mountain country, elected to take the railroad west? They were being hunted throughout the mountains, they were being hunted in Missouri, where they had come from. If they had taken to the raikoad, what more likely place for them to end up than in Promontory or Corinne?

  The man in the Southern Hotel might have been one of them who alerted the others; or they might even have come west, following him. But it was more likely that the man from the hotel, on his way west to join them, had recognized Brionne. The horses in the baggage car had been there only a short time. It left questions to be answered, but there was a possibility that something of the kind had happened.

  So the Allards might be here. If so, they now knew about him. Without doubt, they would not attribute his arrival here to coincidence; they would be sure he had somehow tracked them down. And they would try to kill him.

  Meanwhile there was the problem of Ed Shaw's silver mine. There was a lot he did not know about Ed Shaw and about Rody Brennan. How had they come to die? Were they both actually dead? Everyone spoke of them as if they were dead, but he had no details.

  If Ed Shaw had read the message of the trail from the Indian writing on the walls of Nine Mile Canyon, then he had come in from the south. Such directions could not pinpoint such a thing as a mine, so there must be some other identifying marks.

  What Ed Shaw must have seen was such simple signs as those for rivers, peaks, and trails. Perhaps there was a sign for silver, or for metal. These would have taken him into the area, and from there on he, too, must have relied on local signs.

  He had moved some distance from the camp when he heard a faint stir of movement behind him. It was Mat.

  "I got lonesome, pa."

  "Sure. Come and sit down."

  They were silent together, observing the country. After a while Brionne said, "You have to learn to see country, Mat, to pick out details, and to remember them. Some of the mountain men were educated men, but some of them could neither read nor write, but they had a perfect memory for the lay of the land."

  "Have you been here before, pa?"

  "No... not right in this part of the country. But I have talked to men who have been here. I have talked to Kit Carson and to Jim Bridger ... and to a dozen others. They knew the country and they told me what they knew, and I have not forgotten."

  He had been aware for a few moments of something stirring at the edge of his vision, and he turned to look. "We have company, Mat. Don't you move. Just sit very quiet, and watch."

  Two riders had emerged from the trees and were holding a trail that would bring them not far from the cove. They were riding easily, and leading some pack horses. "See anything odd about the way the second one rides, Mat?"

  "Why ... it's a lady!"

  "That's right, Mat. She's riding sidesaddle. I think it is your friend, Miranda Loften."

  He took up his field glasses and studied them. "Dutton Mowry is with her. Now what about that?"

  He watched them as they drew nearer, then as Mat started to rise, he put his hand out "Don't move... let them go by."

  "But they're our friends!"

  "Perhaps, but let them go and we can join them later if we like."

  Brionne understood the boy's disappointment. Mat had taken to that young woman as he did to few people, and he wanted to see her again. That she was honestly looking for a mine, Brionne did not doubt. About Dutton Mowry he was not so sure.

  The man had loafed around Promontory, had made no effort to find a job, yet he seemed to have more cash than any drifting cowhand was likely to have ... And he wore his gun well ... too well. He wore it like a man who had used it, and who could use it fast and well. If he was not one of the new breed of gunfighters, Brionne was much mistaken.

  He watched them pass, his eyes measuring their stock, their gait, trying to estimate the probable distance they would manage before sundown. After they had gone by and Mat started to get up again, Brionne put a hand on his arm. "Not now ... wait."

  The minutes passed, and still Brionne waited. When almost half an hour had gone by, his grip on Mat's arm grew tight.

  Out of the trees came several horsemen. Startled, Mat looked at his father. Had he known they were coming? His father was watching them, counting them as they emerged from the trees.

  "Four ... five ... six," he whispered. Six men, and all well mounted; but they we
re so far away he could not see their faces. Their gait was leisurely. Once they drew up to talk together. Obviously they were not trying to catch up to Miranda and Mowry.

  "There's trouble, Mat," Brionne said quietly. "Trouble for them and for us."

  "Who are they, pa?"

  "I don't know, but they are following your friend Miss Loften and Dutton Mowry. They are probably trying to locate Rody Brennan's silver mine."

  "What will we do?"

  "Go back to camp, cook something, and have a good meal. That's what we'll do."

  After they had eaten beside their small fire, Brionne checked his weapons. He was under no illusions as to what might happen in the next few days, perhaps even within the next few hours.

  He could, of course, run for it. He could leave now, going back down the mountain and out of this region, leaving Mowry and Miranda to their own doings. But this would solve nothing. The Allards would still be around, always a potential threat. The way to face trouble, he realized, was to meet it head-on.

  He knew he could not leave Miranda Loften to Button Mowry alone. The gunfighter--if Mowry was one--seemed a tough, capable man, but Brionne knew what the Allards were capable of.

  It was afternoon before he led the way out of the cove. He and Mat dropped down on the flat to check the tracks of the horses, and then started at a trot to follow them.

  He knew he was taking his son into trouble, but the world in which they were living was one where there was bound to be trouble, and many a child on the frontier had grown up in Indian country, with all its dangers.

  After an hour or so Brionne pulled off the trail and went ahead with greater caution. Here and there the men he was following had also slowed. Evidently Miranda Loften was less sure of her trail now, and was taking her time.

  The air was cool and fresh off the snow-covered peaks. The streams, which they now encountered with greater frequency, were very cold and clear. The old feeling was on him again, the sense not only of stillness, but of keen awareness, of expectancy. It was a feeling that belonged to the wild country, to the lonely lands. James Brionne was not, and never had been, a man for desks and cities. He had lived that life because it was in large measure the life of his time and place; but always, deep within him, there ran a tide of fierceness, a touch of the primitive.