Brionne (1968) Page 9

  "Mat, you stay close to Miranda," he said to his son. He had called her by her first name without even realizing it. She looked at him quickly, but his mind was on other things. "Stay with her," he repeated, "and both of you keep back under the overhang and out of sight."

  Miranda Loften had opened the packs and was getting out some food. Mowry had put wood together for a fire, but there was little fuel. Some of the wood he used had been carried here by earlier travelers, and some he picked up along the slope where the forest played out.

  "I think your mine is somewhere close," Brionne said to Miranda, "and I think Ed Shaw left some sort of a marker for Rody Brennan. Evidently he feared something might happen ... and to a man traveling alone in this kind of country almost any accident could prove fatal. And he was all alone ... miles from any help."

  "Likely he never expected any help," Mowry said. "Like us."

  Brionne went out to the rocks and Miranda brought him his coffee there and a sandwich made of a chunk of beef and the last of their bread. She lingered beside him as he ate, watching the trail.

  "What was she like?" she asked. "Your wife, I mean."

  His eyes swept the country before them, searching every nook and cranny with the practiced eye of the skilled observer. Passing quickly here, lingering there, noting almost unconsciously every change of color and shade, every movement, every stir of dust.

  "She was tall, clean-limbed--an aristocrat in the best sense of the word. She had humor and she had style. Before that night"--he paused a moment-- "before the night she was killed, or killed herself, she had never faced any real emergency, but her breed always knew how to act at such a time.

  "Those men were forcing their way into her home, and she had no intention of permitting it. She told her son where to hide, and then she waited for them.

  "The fire destroyed the house, but the least damage was done right where she was. Obviously she had waited in a chair on the landing for them. It gave her the best view of the front hall.

  "Evidently she got one of them. We found an exploded shell in the shotgun. And then as they rushed her she must have deliberately shot herself."

  "She was very brave," Miranda said quietly.

  "Yes, she was. But she would not have considered it bravery. It was simply what had to be done. One did not permit strangers to come bursting into one's home that way. One did not submit to violence to oneself or to one's home.

  "And as I said, she had style. She had wit, humor, and brains."

  "She would be hard to follow," Miranda said.

  "No one should ever 'follow' anyone else; no one takes the place of another, and in the best sense, no one ever does. Each one blazes his or her own trail."

  They were silent, and Brionne watched below. There was no movement, but he had not expected there would be. The Allards would be doing their own surmising, and would expect him to be somewhere up on the slope, waiting. They were cautious men, dangerous fighters, and they would use their heads now.

  Oddly enough, he felt neither apprehension, nor the tense suspense of waiting. Inwardly a great stillness filled him, a quietness such as he had not known in a long time. He was empty of feeling in that moment--he was simply waiting for what he knew must come.

  He had no preconceived plan, for he had no idea of how or when they might attack. His mind was open, his senses were exposed. He had no feeling-- he was only seeing, hearing ... he was ready.

  Miranda Loften sat near him, and he was conscious that he liked her being there. She did not speak, and he was glad of her silence. She was a sensitive person, aware of feelings; her sensitiveness went outward, a subtle awareness of the feelings of others.

  The cool wind from over the pass touched them, and she shivered. After a long time she said, "What is going to happen?"

  "There will be fighting," he answered, "and some men will die."

  "Doesn't that depress you?"

  "No. We are naked and alone here in the West. We have no law to protect us--only scattered and limited governments in the towns or the territories. The strong have come here because it is a place for the strong; but all of the strong are not good men, and if we are to survive, if we are to become a land of homes and people, evil men must not be allowed to persist in their evil.

  "Such men as the Allards, or whatever their name is, are a blight upon the land. They are like mad dogs, or like weasels. Their instinct is to do violence, to kill. Some of the bad men will change, they will learn, they will grow up with the country. Not such men as these. These will end, snarling and biting, tearing even at each other if there is no one else."

  Button Mowry walked out to join them. "Mat's with the horses," he said. His eyes swept the mountainside. "You got any ideas, Major?"

  "No. I'm just ready. The only thing I do not expect is a frontal attack. They might come tonight, but I rather think it will be tomorrow, just before daylight."

  "Is it true that the Allards rode with Bloody Bill Anderson?" Mowry inquired.

  "Yes. Later they organized their own outfit. They were too bloody and undisciplined even for him."

  Brionne returned to the fire with Miranda and Mowry stayed on watch. Mat was curled up on a blanket near the fire, fast asleep. "He's had a rough time," Brionne said, "but he's coming through in fine shape. You know, you are the first person he's warmed up to since ... since he lost his mother."

  "He's a lovable boy."

  She glanced around at the lake and the cliffs. The surroundings were growing somber with the changing hours. "I wish I could be here when there was no trouble," Miranda said. "I love it here."

  He nodded. The cliffs had changed in appearance, and rose now from the steel of the gray water in the rusted iron of their sheer rock. The evening was still, and already here the night was coming, although the sky above was still clear and blue, only traced by faint streaks of rose left from the declining sun.

  "One lives with trouble," Brionne said. "There is no need to think about a time without it, for it is always here. A man grows strong by standing against the wind, and eternal peace would bring no happiness. Man needs strife of some kind, something to struggle against. Although that struggle need not be with other men."

  But he was feeling strangely at peace in this place, talking with this girl, and it was not the right way to feel at this moment. At any other time he would have welcomed this feeling, but now he needed that sense of awareness that he had been feeling earlier. He needed it because he knew only too well the danger they faced.

  These men who were their enemies were degenerate, evil. He had known, long before it became his job to hunt down and capture the man who called himself Dave Allard, the kind of men these were. Outlaws and thieves before the war, they had taken advantage of the protective coloration it provided to release all their lust for rapine, killing, and destruction.

  There was something twisted and malformed about them--perhaps nothing that was outwardly visible, but something that lurked in their minds. Yet they were woodsmen--they were men at home in the wilderness, men who knew its ways and how to use those ways. They were wily and cunning, and they were not cowards in the physical sense.

  Of Cotton Allard he had heard much. The man's physical reactions were amazing, as was his muscular strength. Tuley was slower to act, but he was physically strong, and as easy on his feet as a big cat. All this Brionne had read in the record or had been told by those who knew them. During the search for Dave, and later the quest for the ones who had burned his home, he had made many inquiries, piecing the story together, bit by bit.

  Now, from this moment on, it would be a fight for survival, a bitter, desperate fight in which the only way to live was to kill.

  "Why did you come here?" Miranda asked suddenly.

  "The boy and I were headed south, actually. We wanted a wild place where we had to keep busy every moment to live. I wanted that for both of us. We needed it to recover mentally from what had happened, and then we needed the sky, the high mountains, the good air.


  "But then I thought about you. It is not easy to be alone, and to be a woman with no home, no money. I know something of the mountains and I thought I might help, so we came over here into the Uintahs."

  Mowry came down from the rocks. "Brionne? You'd better come up here. I think we're in trouble."

  Brionne looked at Miranda. "Have you got a pistol?"

  "Yes."

  "Keep it with you ... and remember, these men are not to be trusted, not for a moment, no matter what they say, or how they act."

  She watched him walk away, a tall, straight, easy-moving man, the rifle in his hand almost an extension of himself. Then she sat down close to Mat, and waited.

  Chapter 11

  Dutton Mowry was crouched among the scattered boulders. Only the sky above held some light; below all was darkness, and for the moment, silence.

  "There ain't no way to keep watch," Mowry whispered, "and we daren't move about much up here or we'll sky-line ourselves. They'll be comin' at us out of the dark."

  It was true, of course, Brionne reflected, but they dared not pull back, for that would leave their enemies in possession of the boulders. From the shelter of the rocks they could fire upon anyone near the lake shore.

  "Go get some sleep," he suggested "You'll be needing it."

  When Mowry had moved back, Brionne deliberately turned his back on the valley, trusting to his ears. He studied the lay of the lake, and the pass, which was undoubtedly guarded by now, as was any route they might take that would enable them to get away.

  The lake had received the melting snows, and its entire basin was filled. Swimming in its water was out of the question, for it was icy cold.

  The more he considered the situation the more he resented it. He had come to this region to live quietly with his son. Mowry had come here to help Miranda discover her mine. They had been followed to this place by the Allard outfit, who had every intention of wiping them out.

  James Brionne had never been much inclined to run. His theory of fighting had always been to attack. If you had twenty men, ten men, one man ... attack. There was always a way.

  And the time was now... or very soon.

  He wanted the Allards, so why wait for them to come to him? Why not carry the fight to them instead? The attacker has one advantage--he can choose the time for the fight.

  No sound came from below. The Allards, secure in the knowledge that Brionne and his party were trapped, were undoubtedly sleeping.

  "All right," Brionne told himself, "let them sleep for now."

  When an hour had gone by, he went down to the camp and woke Mowry. Briefly, he explained what he intended to do. Button Mowry stared at him, and spat. "Brionne, you're a damn fool. You'll get killed sure as shootin'."

  "I don't think so. Anyway, I have never liked to let the other man move first."

  "It's your skin."

  "I'll see you later."

  Brionne did not walk toward the rocks, but toward the cliff itself; then in the deeper shadows he went quickly along until he reached the end of the cliff. The mountain fell away before him, and somewhere down there were the Allards.

  He was wearing his moccasins, and he moved like a ghost, careful to put each foot down with care, trying to avoid loose rocks, easing every movment. He knew well how sound can carry on such a night, in such clear air.

  He knew, too, the chance he was taking, but he believed that the very unexpectedness of it might make it work. If they waited for Cotton Allard to make the first move, they would almost certainly be caught.

  When he had gone fifty yards down the slope, he squatted among the rocks and listened. He heard nothing ... simply nothing at all.

  After a few minutes he worked his way down through the rocks. Now he could smell the smoke of a fire; but creeping and crawling as he must do, he took at least fifteen or twenty minutes to get to it.

  It was in a small hollow among the rocks, right at the edge of the trees. It was a dying fire, gray ashes with a few smoldering coals and partly burned sticks.

  The Allards were gone!

  Crouching, rifle in hand, he lowered one knee to the ground and considered. They had moved out, and by this time they were in a position to attack the camp and seize whoever was there. To go charging up there would only be to get himself killed, and as he had heard no shooting, it was likely they had not yet begun an attack.

  To act hastily was usually to act foolishly. He must trust Mowry.

  There are more ways of fighting a battle than with a gun, and it was of that he was thinking now. This had been the Allards' camp ... where were their horses? Their gear?

  In the light of the still glowing coals, he could see the sand around the campfire had been disturbed by much moving about, and most of the tracks seemed to go away from the fire toward a space between two boulders.

  Moving with the utmost care, in case someone had been left behind, he worked his way around the camp. Occasionally he felt of the sand before him with gentle fingers, and he managed to get on the trail they had taken into the trees. He had not gone far when he heard a horse stamp and blow.

  A few minutes later he found the horses had been left alone. And their food, their clothing, their cooking pots, as well as their horses, all were here. Working swiftly, he put pack saddles on three of the horses and loaded everything. In all this time there was no sound from above.

  Then he saddled one of the remaining horses, and was just about to mount when he heard a faint movement of someone coming through the trees.

  Rifle in hand, he turned to face the sound.

  Suddenly, the man stopped. "Hoffman? Is that you?"

  "You can drop your gunbelt, my friend--or you can die."

  The movement was swift. Brionne heard a hand slap leather, heard the whisper of the gun on leather as it drew, and even as he heard the sound he had his rifle in his hands out in front of him and belt-high. He squeezed off a shot.

  He heard the ugly chunk of the bullet as it hit the man's belly, a sound almost lost in the blast of his enemy's pistol as it went off, shooting into the sand.

  Sand stung Brionne's face, and he moved quickly, crouching lower ... waiting.

  At first he heard no other sound, then came a low moan. The man spoke, and his voice sounded surprisingly normal. "They'll get you. You ain't got a chance."

  "Are you an Allard?"

  "No, but I'm kin of their'n. You hit me low down, mister, low down an' hard. You goin' to strike a light?"

  "And have your friends kill me? Not a chance!"

  Brionne could hear the man's heavy breathing. Once it caught, and for a moment he believed the man had died, then the breathing resumed, but with a ragged, tearing sound.

  "By now they've got your kid," the man said. His voice was hoarse now, and weaker.

  "I don't think so. There's a good man up there with him, a mighty good man. He's from down Texas way."

  "The hell you say! Not Dut Mowry?"

  "You know him?"

  "He's huntin' me. Leastways I'm one of them he's after. You can tell him he can tear up that reward poster. 'Cause you've just killed Tardy Benton."

  James Brionne was listening. Would somebody come down to investigate? He listened for a time, but there was no sound. They might think it a trap. Still, all their outfit was here.

  The thought struck him suddenly. He was not alone with Benton--there was another man here! Benton was trying to keep him talking until the man, wherever he was, could get into position.

  Tardy Benton spoke again. "You still there?"

  "Who's out there, Tardy?" Brionne whispered the words. "I don't want to kill anybody but Allards."

  "You ain't got a chance."

  "How did you come to tie up with them?" Brionne asked.

  His every sense was alert. He thought the man would come close before shooting. He lifted one foot and moved it out to one side, ever so quietly.

  "Rode with 'em a time or two ... Friend o' their'n down to Corinne got me to fetch grub to '
em. ... Promised I could get in on the fun."

  "Well, you did."

  "Hell, I was broke, anyway--blew ever' dollar down to Corinne ... An' who lives forever?" Benton was having some difficulty getting the words out. "How much time you got? Long enough to hear your woman screamin', or your kid?" After a pause he added, "That there Cotton Allard, he's a mean one."

  The voice was very weak; every word came with an effort; but Tardy Benton was game, and he wanted his killer dead. He wanted to keep him talking.

  Behind them one of the horses blew faintly, as though alarmed. James Brionne rolled his weight over to the other leg, then stretched it out after bringing the second leg under him. In this way he moved closer to the dying man, and eight or nine feet from where he had been.

  He was about to move again when he heard faint breathing close by, then actually felt the warmth of a breath. He swung with the butt of his rifle, but he was off balance and went sprawling as the gun roared right in his ear. He went down on top of rocks, rolled over, and swung his rifle for a shot.

  The gun blasted again and the bullet spat sand within inches of Brionne's head. He fired, missed, and worked the lever on his rifle as another bullet hit close to him. This one burned his cheek.

  The man loomed up, right over him, and Brionne jabbed the rifle barrel into his belly. The man grabbed the end of the barrel, trying to force it up, and Brionne pulled the trigger. The dart of red flame illumined for one flashing instant the staring eyes, the livid face, and then the man fell face down on top of Brionne.

  Brionne felt blood on his own face and thrust the man aside. He sprang up, and another gun blasted, but the shot went wide by several feet.

  "You got a fool's own luck," Tardy Benton said dearly, "The third time's the charm. ... You'll get it."

  Brionne wiped the blood from his face. He felt for his cartridge belt and returned a couple to his rifle. Then he tied the lead ropes of the pack horses to his saddle horn, and started off through the night, driving the spare horses ahead of him.

  He found the trail up which they had come. He had a good memory for trails, and for the country over which they traveled. He remembered a place where there was a hollow, a small meadow among the trees. He found this, took the horses around a clump of screening trees and into the meadow. He stowed the food and ammunition under some brush, and picketed the horses.