Montana Abbott 6, page 11
The darker blot which was the town had been lost before Sills shook off the grip of torpor and blinked dazedly. An ache which threatened to split his skull, leaving him with a dark wonder whether it was not already cracked, kept him silent for some time. His efforts to raise a hand to his aching head were frustrated, as he gradually sorted out his thoughts, striving to remember, to understand. Then he swore, pettishly but fervently.
O’Mallion ignored him. They had covered more miles, and the grayness of dawn was dimly revealing, before Sills made out with certainty the identity of his captor and the dismal reversal of his own fortunes. His voice had the harsh croak of a frog too long away from water.
“Where you takin’ me, O’Mallion?”
The horses held to a steady walk. Not slowing, O’Mallion turned to survey him. His uncompromising reply revealed what Sills had begun to suspect: that he was again in at least partial possession of his faculties. And certainly he was in command here.
“Back to hang, Sills.”
The sun would soon be up, but the summer had slipped away since those days on the Yazoo ranch. The bite of frost was in the air, but that was a secondary reason for his shiver.
“If the law wants me, it wants you worse.” O’Mallion’s answer was a laugh, as mocking and fearsome as the mimicry of a distant coyote. To Sills it seemed still to carry a hint of madness.
“You’ll never get me that far! It’s a long way from Oregon to Mississippi!”
So this was Oregon, not California. Not that it mattered.
“You led me a long chase west, Sills. It won’t be so long on the way back.”
Sills’ recurrent shiver was mostly one of terror. In all his life, he had been afraid of only two men. One was Montana Abbott, the other this nemesis whom he’d so foolishly picked as a scapegoat and set upon his trail. Desperation drove him.
“You’re thinking about your wife—wanting to get back to her. But do you think that she’ll still be waiting for you? She will have counted you dead, as well as a murderer, this past couple of years. What else could she think, with never a word from you?”
O’Mallion turned a face half blank, half troubled. Terror came to Sills.
“Don’t you remember Denise? If you want to see her, we’re going the wrong way. She’s not back there any longer. She came out here a little while ago, looking for you. If you’ll swing as I tell you, we can find her in a few hours’ ride.”
O’Mallion looked at him with a tortured and troubled face.
“I remember Denise,” he admitted. “And you … that’s why I’m taking you back.”
Explanation and argument were alike useless. It came to Sills that there was still a block in the man’s mind, one which he would not overcome. In some respects O’Mallion was still a dummy, a creature of his making!
The odds would be against him, even if O’Mallion believed him and put his tale to the test. Still, anything was preferable to the ride which loomed ahead, being a prisoner to so implacable a jailer. Gradually despair settled over him. This time he had overreached, perhaps fatally.
Chapter Eighteen
PAIN WAS A grinding ache, like a locked wheel on a loaded wagon, dragging deep in mud and gravel. The ache throbbed and stabbed, numbing the mind so that to think coherently was an effort. When finally he was able to bring it under some control, like a bridled cayuse, it continued to be skittish and uncertain. The result was not helped by the wry realization there had been a repeat performance.
“I sure get picked for a patsy,” Montana groaned. “I sure must be thick-skulled to stay alive. Wish they’d give me chloroform when they figure I need a snooze or even knockout drops.”
The pain gradually subsided to an endurable degree, and he pried open his eyes and tried to take stock. The darkness could not hide a stale, musty quality in the air, which suggested that he was shut inside a seldom used room. There was a faint grayness, but he could see no window.
The easing of pain in his head sharpened a scarcely lesser torment in arms and legs. Hands and feet were wooden. Struggling to move them, he made unpleasantly certain that wrists as well as ankles were tied. Near-panic set him to struggling frantically.
Several minutes spent in working at the bonds only confirmed the desperation of his plight. Not only were the ropes drawn and tied uncomfortably tight, but such turning and twisting as he was able to manage failed to locate any object against which he might rub the ropes or catch the knots. Escaping by himself was out of the question. Whoever was responsible for putting him there – and he needed only one guess – had made certain that he would remain imprisoned.
He was not gagged, but the remote, cellar-like surroundings proved that such an omission was no oversight. Even if he was to shout himself hoarse, no one would hear.
Metcalf’s awakening was somewhat on the same order, his unconsciousness having resulted from the same sort of a blow. For him the sleep had not been so prolonged, and almost at once he was able to sit up, heavy lids working owlishly. Lifting a hand to his aching head, he encountered a swelling akin to a boil both in size and soreness, and with it came understanding.
Somebody slugged me, he decided. “And Yazoo too, more than likely. Briefly he speculated as to who might have assailed them, but the field of enemies, at least for Sills, was too wide for an easy answer. Without having obtained a look at their attacker, he could only speculate. As memory returned, he got unsteadily to his feet.
They had left Montana unconscious, securely fastened in the cellar of the dugout. Even such a man as Abbott could not have managed such legerdemain, but Metcalf investigated, his uneasiness only partially reassured as he made certain that Montana was still in the cellar and still out cold.
A wider look on the outside confirmed his initial impression that he was alone. Whoever had slugged him must have been primarily interested in Sills.
Not too much time could have elapsed while he lay senseless. The lights of the town still gleamed with fitful brightness. He set off toward them somewhat unsteadily, but anyone seeing him at that hour would attribute that to other causes than the actual cause.
“Hair o’ the dog,” he muttered. “That’s what I need. A good drink. Mighty bad.”
Then, made cautious by training as well as nature, he found his hat and put it on, afterward exploring his pockets to make certain that his small stock of money was intact. Robbery had not been a primary motive, although the empty holster at his hip suggested that whoever had hit him had appropriated the gun, then had made Sills a prisoner.
Their horses were gone as well.
He let himself into the nearest saloon, relieved that no one paid much attention, although he was not quite a stranger. Together, he and Sills had circulated through the town, buying drinks, spreading the tale of a plague at the Indian camp, creating the atmosphere of tension and hostility which had suited their purpose. Some of that still prevailed.
The restorative effect of his first drink was so helpful that he followed it with a second. The throbbing in his skull subsided to a gentle murmur, and he was able to think, to plan.
The simplest course of action would be to find a place and sleep, while awaiting whatever might develop. But at best that would be unprofitable, and at worst it was likely to bring down upon his already abused head the wrath of Sills. Should the boss of Yazoo survive whatever was happening to him, he’d be in a dour and demanding mood.
An alternative would be to get hold of a horse and head back to the ranch. But again the result might range from a no-profit situation to explanations which Sills, if and when he returned, would hear with scorn or worse.
There was a third choice, and as Metcalf listened to the talk from the other patrons, it began to shape into an ever more promising pattern.
At Sills’ order, they had come there, then gone on to the Indian camp and taken the dummy a prisoner, afterward bringing him back to town, where he had escaped.
But dealing with the dummy had been secondary to Sills, the main thrust of his ambition being to find Montana Abbott again and square accounts with him.
Here was a mystery, since Montana was still a captive. Someone had found them, possibly the dummy. Possibly again, he was less of a fool than Sills had supposed.
Once his primary objectives had been attained, Sills had planned to get control both of the girl and her herd of cattle. So big a herd of excellent animals was worth a lot of work and risk.
His plan made, Metcalf set about following it with no waste of time. The moment was propitious. Far more than the usual number of people had come to town and lingered, angry, half-drunk and frightened." All that they understood was a vague but dangerous threat, and that something had gone amiss in their protective planning. They were in a mood to listen when Metcalf made a suggestion.
“That beef herd and its crew steered wide of the town because it was stolen,” he informed them. “Rustled, lock stock an’ horns, from Yazoo. Well, as foreman for Yazoo, I aim to get it back. I need a crew to do the job. Once the herd is safe back on the Yazoo spread, there’ll be double the going wage for those who give me a hand now.”
Such an offer was attractive; it meant not only serving on the side of law and order, but also being paid high wages. But one aspect was worrisome. They would be riding toward the plague camp, forced into a fight with the crew who had visited the sick. It seemed a contradiction of what Metcalf had asked, of what they had done in trying to avoid any such contact, even a distant one. But Metcalf had an answer.
“We’ll be taking the herd that’s feeding those Indians, so they’ll have to move on as well. That’s twice as safe as allowing them to stay camped right on your doorstep. Hell, do you think I’d risk the job if it wasn’t the only thing to do?”
A few of his auditors was sufficiently clear-headed to detect the flaws in such reasoning, but they were equally eager for a job at high pay. Within an hour, Metcalf had his crew, a fresh horse between his legs, and a borrowed gun to fill his holster.
It fell to Big George to be the bearer of glad tidings. Dozing, head dropping, as he maintained an unrelenting vigil beside the bed of Mindy Lou, he wakened at a voice so soft as to be all but a whisper, yet which carried a charm which roused him like a bugle. He stared, blinking, hearing his name murmured, then realized suddenly that Mindy Lou’s eyes were open, that it was her lips which called.
“Mindy, sweetheart!” He breathed the endearment unconsciously, in sudden and overwhelming relief. “You’re awake!”
The tidings of her return to consciousness were too good to keep. Big George roused Miss Denny with the news. She hurried to see, leaving George free to shout the story to Dan Evers, who was just riding in, half asleep after his long stint on night herd, as grayness began to shove back the darkness in the east. The frosty eyes warmed at the news, and Evers came fully awake.
“Why now, George, that’s about the best thing I’ve heard in a week of Sundays,” he admitted. “I reckon … what’s that?”
His alertness at that dawn hour when sleep acts as a drug upon the senses was timely. Facing about toward the north, he considered as the sound grew and swelled. Big George, equally acute of hearing, caught the warning as well: the drum of hoofs, of many horses hard-ridden, coming at what could only be a dead run, perhaps a rush intended as a surprise.
In the still murky light they made out the shapes of ghostly horsemen, nightmarish figures bursting from the dawn. Such a crew, riding in such a fashion, could mean only one thing. They were certainly hostile.
And Montana had not returned.
“Rout out the others, quick!” Evers snapped, and Big George lunged away. Another five minutes and they would have been totally surprised, overwhelmed. As it was, they rallied, presenting a façade of defense, fighting back. Dan Evers, a wily gray badger, called on skills acquired in scarcely remembered but equally deadly frays, providing leadership. For a few hopeful moments it appeared that they might be able to hold, to check that savage onrush and throw it back. They fought with the desperation of men who knew only too well the alternative.
Gun-thunder shattered the silence, bullets flying, most of them wide. Confusion was rampant, but it was not all on one side. The swiftly organized defense caught the invaders by surprise, and what had been counted a quick and easy victory became a struggle.
Evers was swift to take advantage.
“We’ve got them on the run,” he bawled. “Come on, boys; we’ll give ’em hot lead for breakfast. Now—”
He was leading the charge when something tripped and sent him sprawling. Only as he tried to regain his feet and a leg buckled did he realize he’d been hit.
Twisting and swearing, he found a tear through the fleshy part of his calf from which a red tide poured. The surprising and bewildering part, he realized as he stared at the wound, was that the bullet had undeniably penetrated from the back, while he had been running forward.
Then he saw the marksman and the smoking gun, a face distorted in a savage grimace, and suddenly many things which had puzzled him became clear, however belated the revelation. The bullet which had knocked him sprawling and spoiled his charge had not come from any of the attackers, but from a gun in the hand of Limpy, a traitor in their midst. How they had been led astray, weeks before, onto the hostile range of the Yazoo, how a canoe had been so conveniently at hand for them to find, later to be slashed for an almost fatal mishap—these and other things were suddenly understandable—too late.
With his fall the counter-charge ebbed and faltered, broken. In the brightening dawn the battle was lost.
Chapter Nineteen
SMALL SOUNDS SERVED only to make the larger silence more complete. A whispering scurry might be a mouse or rat, but there was no squeak to suggest that it was not a loner. A distant shout echoed, so muted and far away as to seem to belong to another world. In the cellar-like hole the isolation was total.
Montana lay panting, even while the sweat of violent exertion began to chill. He clenched fingers so wooden that the effort called on every muscle in arms and hands, clamping jaws showing his inner tenseness. He had to fight against panic, to beat back fear. His inner sickness was as sharp and sour as heartburn.
At least he could fill his lungs, in long even breaths. That steadied him. Momentarily he had been on the verge of despair, throwing himself about, struggling desperately but to no avail. Somehow he’d landed face down in a deeper hole, where it was beyond his strength or agility to move or attain an easier position.
Not that such things mattered very much. His threshing had stirred his blood, but its circulation was more and more circumscribed by the tightness of the ropes around wrists and ankles. If there was any relief, it was too temporary to count. He had been in difficult situations so often he’d lost count, but never where he was so helpless to do anything about it.
As time stretched to a semblance of eternity, it was becoming clear that his captors were not going to return. Whether something had happened to change their plan, or if Sills had callously decided to leave him to die, the result would be the same.
“You around here somewhere, friend?”
Abbott tensed, uncertain for an instant if the cautious call was imaginary. Then he replied, his voice muffled by the dirt against which it pressed, the effort to raise his head all but beyond him.
There was no further call, but sounds came closer; then a man was kneeling, fumbling in the gloom. Fingers moved in exploration, testing the bonds, tugging at the knots. It was an exercise in futility and was followed by a grunt; then a knife blade sawed at the ropes, and the pressure eased as they fell away. Moments later his ankles shifted, but such sensation as there was, was from above the knees.
His limbs were wooden, useless. Then the hands lifted, getting him onto his feet, and he would have fallen but that they held fast and steadied him. Agony began to course through him as circulation bit a channel through wooden flesh.
“Keep coming, friend.” The voice was steady, cheery. “We’ll have you out of here in a jiffy. One step. Now another.”
It was like treading barefooted on a porcupine, but they made it from the cellar to the main part of the dugout. There, in the lesser gloom, Montana recognized his benefactor, the trader who had cautioned him against the hostility of the town.
“I was lucky to find you. Took some looking, though I had a notion. Had a hunch that you’d need help, such as you gave me when I was in bad need of a hand. One hombre chased me out of town and warned me to keep riding, but coyotes can run in a circle. You feeling better?”
“I’ll manage,” Montana gritted. The stabbing in arms and legs was welcome agony, proof that he had been succored short of the point of no' return. “Whatever you owed me, you’ve paid.”
“It’s a small enough favor in return for a horse and my life—and when I forced you to the trade, I was troubled in my mind that I was sending you to a possible rendezvous with a killer in my place.”
Momentarily unsupported, Montana staggered, his limbs as clumsy as stilts, refusing to obey his will. He careened into a wall, throwing out an arm to save himself, and at the grasp of his fingers something tore rottenly. It was a slab of board, the side of a box. Other objects jarred from within the box and slid, falling, with a clinking, metallic jar.
The trader stooped and picked something up, whistling in surprise.
“Guns! Looks like you’ve hit the jackpot, friend. Or it may be that you’ve got a battle coming and may have need of them. Colt’s revolvers., a dozen at least.”
How long those six-guns might have been stored, the box set back in a hole in the dirt wall, was a matter of speculation. Montana’s mind was active as the blood in his hands and feet circulated; a likely guess was that Sills had been responsible for the cache.
