Double Eagle, page 15
Fairweather recounted having seen mountain lions attack a herd of antelope on his way west on the steam cars. “A primitive sight I’ll never forget.” Fairweather went into detail, then said, “What interests me now is the grizzly bear.” He went on to say that he understood Cole knew most of the habitats of the mighty creature. Someone had once said that before the coming of the white man the lords of the wilderness were the Indian and the grizzly bear.
“They tell me it is an awesome experience to actually lay eyes on one of them,” Fairweather went on. He paused as a returning cavalry patrol clattered past, raising dust against the windows. “Cantrell, I’d like for you to arrange it so that I can have a good look at a grizzly.”
“I wouldn’t advise getting too close. They’re unpredictable.”
“As fierce as I’ve been led to believe?”
Cole nodded. “Whatever you’ve heard, double it.” Fairweather seemed impressed. “We’ll start in the morning. If that’s all right with you, Cantrell.”
On the way back to his quarters, the whiskey producing a pleasant glow, he pondered Fairweather’s interest in wildlife. He suspected the sincerity, although he decided to reserve judgment.
They started out with Muldoon and six troopers. Colonel Fairweather insisted Cole ride at his right side at the head of the small party.
As they moved briskly toward the mountains, Fairweather was full of questions about the high country.
“Everything I learned was from my father,” Cole explained. “He was a trapper, one of the mountain men.” Cole gestured at towering peaks wreathed in buttermilk clouds. “I was eight the first time he took me with him when he ran his trap lines. He taught me to respect the mountains and the creatures that inhabit them.”
“Then you acquired your reverence for wildlife early.”
“I learned never to kill unless in need of food. Or if attacked, which is rare.”
“Rare?”
“An animal with cubs will attack,” Cole explained, “if they’re threatened or the mother even thinks they are.”
“Tell me more. I’m fascinated.”
“The worst thing a man can do is wound an animal,” Cole went on, “and let it get away. If you must hunt, make sure it’s a killing shot. Otherwise you or the next man can be in trouble.”
“In other words, if we’re threatened by a grizzly, we should kill it.”
“We won’t be threatened,” Cole said stiffly. “If you do as I say.”
For a moment Fairweather looked petulant. They were climbing a long slope, hooves of the horses rattling against chunks of shale. Then the new colonel laughed. “Seems as if I’m taking orders from you, Cantrell, doesn’t it?” He slipped Cole an amused sidelong glance.
“I’ve had experience in these things,” was all Cole thought it best to say. For some reason he was beginning to feel uneasy. Behind them came Muldoon and the six troopers, eating dust.
They camped that night at a higher elevation. Stars were pinpoints of steel across the sky. Fairweather lounged in front of his tent. “My wife, Millicent, has no conception of life out here. My letters to her are lengthy but can hardly portray this vast and strange country.”
Cole, in his blankets, felt a cooling breeze across his face. The colonel had ordered Muldoon to set out guards. “Never can tell when those red devils might attack,” Fairweather said to Cole.
“Like the grizzly. Leave them alone and I doubt very much if they’d bother us.”
“By the way, what happened to that famous mountain man you were telling me about, your father?”
Cole tried to ignore the shred of sarcasm in the “famous,” then said, “He was murdered.”
“Oh, yes, I do recall hearing something about that. Killed by renegade Indians, I believe.” Fairweather uttered a triumphant little laugh. “So you see they do attack.”
“Killed by white men.” Cole’s hands curled into fists under the blankets as the memory writhed in him. “Also my mother.”
“I wonder when we’ll sight our first grizzly.”
Cole managed a faint snore, and thereafter Fairweather let him alone.
At midday Cole picked up grizzly sign. He showed Fairweather the large tracks. The colonel seemed impressed.
“A she with cubs. Two of them.” Cole pointed to smaller tracks in the soft ground. Early in the morning there had been a light rain. Cole drew his rifle. “From here on out, we’d better be careful. I’ll ride ahead to make sure—”
“I’ll ride with you.”
Cole shook his head. “Better if I go alone.”
“I find an almost boyish excitement in this, Cantrell,” Fairweather said with a fierce grin. “Sorry to countermand your suggestion.”
An hour later they spotted the grizzly, far across a meadow. “This close enough for you?” Cole demanded crisply. “Closer.”
“Only way we can do that is to build a fire,” Cole said. “Kill our scent with smoke.”
“Let’s do it!” Fairweather gave Muldoon the order, which was relayed to the troopers. Dry wood was gathered, quickly ignited. Smoke boiled into the sky.
Cole tensed as the grizzly began to move slowly their way. The two cubs trailed their mother playfully.
“Muldoon, I’ll have your rifle,” the colonel said.
“No need for that,” Cole said quickly. His uneasiness increased. “I’ll cover us.”
The grizzly was now less than a hundred yards away, still coming, the two cubs scampering. On three sides of the meadow were dense stands of pine and fir.
Fairweather’s eyes gleamed. “Let’s saturate our clothing with smoke as you suggested, Cantrell.”
The grizzly suddenly reared on her hind legs, a mammoth spectacle against a backdrop of fir trees. The cubs froze, alerted by their mother.
“Does he see us?” Fairweather said tensely.
“It’s a she. No. Not at that distance. Their eyesight is poor.”
“Then by all means let’s get closer.”
“Don’t risk it. She can break the back of a bull elk with one swipe of her paw. Think what she could do to a man.” Cole’s mouth dried as Fairweather began to creep forward, keeping to a fringe of pines. The rifle he had taken from Muldoon was at the ready. Behind them the campfire continued to smoke.
Muldoon and the troopers stayed back as ordered. It was Fairweather’s show.
Cole caught up with the colonel. “This is far enough,” he advised in a low voice.
“I want you to cover me, Cantrell! That is a direct order!”
“But my advice—”
“A direct order given because I feel my life to be threatened!” Fairweather’s eyes were hot. Muldoon looked at the sky. “Disobey,” Fairweather went on, “and under the circumstances it could mean prison!”
Cole bit back an oath. He reached out to grab the fool colonel by an arm. Fairweather bounded away. At this range the grizzly spotted movement, sensed a threat to the cubs.
Dropping to all fours again, it charged. A huge animal of probably a thousand pounds, closing the fifty-yard gap at thirty-five miles an hour.
“Come back!” Cole yelled.
Fairweather uttered a triumphant shout. “Cover me!”
He was in a crouch but rose suddenly, legs spread to steady his weapon. Cole felt a chill of apprehension race through his body as the rifle borrowed from Muldoon was tucked to a shoulder and cheek. A spurt of smoke, a sharp crack. At the same instant, the bear staggered. Another shot and the hindquarters dropped abruptly, dragging as the huge beast tried to move away from danger. Pitiful and at the same time frightening sounds roared across the clearing filled with bright-yellow flowers. As the cubs scurried into the trees, their mother struggled to reach her feet, then fell over, a furry mountain.
Cole’s fists ached to smash Fairweather’s face; never in his life had he wanted to hit a man more than he did Fairweather, whose face was now flushed with triumph.
“Got it with two shots!” he shouted.
“You son of a bitch,” Cole said under his breath.
“I promised my wife a grizzly-bear rug for our library.” He came tramping back across the field. “A good taxidermist can cover those bullet holes, I’m sure.” Then he barked an order at Muldoon. “Have your men skin it! But be careful. I want no unnecessary cuts.”
Muldoon jumped to the task with his troopers. Knives flashed in the sunlight.
Fairweather looked at Cole, eyes glittering. “Well, what do you think of your colonel now? I didn’t need you to cover me after all, did I? I was marksman of my class at the Point.”
Cole turned his back and walked away.
“What you want done with the carcass, colonel?” Muldoon asked when his men had bundled the bloodied hide into a great ball. With its strong scent, getting one of the horses to carry the burden would be a problem. But Cole wasn’t going to mention it. Let Fairweather find out for himself.
“Leave the meat to rot, Muldoon,” Fairweather said with a gesture of dismissal.
When they were heading back, the pack animal carrying the hide settling down at last, Fairweather gave Cole a sidelong glance. They were riding abreast, the others trailing by some distance.
“You didn’t approve of what I did,” Fairweather said, eyes on greening hills as the horses reached reasonably level ground.
“Killing a beautiful animal for its skin to decorate a floor … no, I didn’t approve.”
“A civilian scout does not have the privilege of criticizing an officer of the United States Army!”
“You asked me and I told you,” Cole snapped.
“You may drop back, Mr. Cantrell.”
Cole, seething, waited for Muldoon and the others to catch up, then rode with them. The lid of one of Muldoon’s eyes dropped in a subtle wink and his mouth corners stirred. “A damn shame to waste food when there’s so many empty bellies in the world.”
“What was that, Muldoon?” Fairweather’s head jerked around.
“Was say in’ to Mr. Cantrell, sir, that by now there be no empty bellies in the mountains. With so many animals feastin’ on the bear carcass.”
Fairweather’s suspicious eyes skipped to Cole’s face, then he faced front again.
For Cole, today exemplified the ever-broadening rift between white man and red. No Indian could understand purposeless slaughter of an animal unless the meat was for food, the hide to be used for clothing, for the wall of a lodge, for a scabbard, bowstring, or belt. Cole’s Crow blood as well as his white rebelled against the Senseless act he had witnessed today. In his former duty as army scout he had grown to despise Major Landeau. But his feelings against Fairweather were even stronger.
Chapter Eighteen
ELWOOD HOODOO HAWKS was sixty-four but two decades younger in body and spirit. Thick gray hair matched the longhorn mustache on a wide upper lip. He rode straight in the saddle, solid as a block of chiseled stone. On this morning he was in his temporary office in Maxwell, his first stop since collecting prisoners who had fled to Canada and were now on their way back to prison. Some parts of the vast territory in his jurisdiction, such as this, he was seldom able to visit.
It was an area of trouble; certain elements rode roughshod over ordinary citizens. Such conditions were inclined to spawn vigilantes, which Hawks deplored.
The worried mayor of a frontier town called Rimfire, some miles east of Maxwell, had made a long trip by horseback just on the chance there might be a deputy U.S. Marshal in town. Mayor Angus Campbell was lucky that day in Maxwell because he got not a deputy but the marshal himself.
After the preliminaries the tall, rawboned Campbell explained his business. “Our last town marshal was murdered. We’ve been without law for too long because nobody wants the job. I have come as a delegation of one to make an appeal.”
Hawks sighed as he listened to Campbell list the woes of Rimfire, which included, among other things, Rufus Cain of M-Cross ranch, his lawbreaking cowboys, and his hired killer. How often Hawks had heard this story since his appointment as United States Marshal. Rimfire was just one of many such towns in trouble. Their only reason for existence was as a center in a harsh land that demanded tough men and iron-willed women in order to survive. Gentle souls such as this Angus Campbell bruised easily and were appalled at violence. Not that Hawks blamed them.
“This is the third peace officer we’ve had killed in the past year,” Campbell said urgently. “We need your help.”
Hoodoo Hawks tried to think of a reasonable explanation for this unfortunate man.
“Please understand me, Mr. Campbell,” Hawks said. “It ain’t that I don’t sympathize with you, ’cause I do …”
“We need more than sympathy,” Campbell interrupted desperately.
Hawks mentioned the size of his territory. “I just don’t have enough deputies to cover it.” Campbell’s long face fell. How to make the poor man understand? It seemed to Hawks that half his time was spent explaining to honest men why help wasn’t available. Damn the politicians in Washington for ignoring so much that was vital in the far-flung territories west of the Mississippi.
“If you’re short of deputy marshals, couldn’t you appoint a special one for us?” was Campbell’s appeal.
There were few men Hawks would trust with the badge of a U.S. Marshal. Too many were eager to use it as a shield for their own irresponsible acts with a gun. To find men he could trust without reservation was the problem. Too many had been steeped in violence in the war, and to them killing was as automatic as spitting. And involved about as much emotional impact.
Hoodoo Hawks heard the grumble in his stomach and knew it was time for the midday meal. He started the day with a breakfast of steak, eggs, fried potatoes, and enough coffee to float it all. Later in the day he always enjoyed a few shots of whiskey. And occasionally a woman. There were those who regarded such activity as scandalous for a man of his years.
As Campbell’s voice droned on, Hawks was again on the point of trying to explain the lack of deputy marshals. Suddenly through his mind spun a name … Cole Cantrell.
“Mr. Mayor, by Gad there is one man who just might be able to help you,” Hawks said thoughtfully. “He ain’t a lawman now, but he should be …”
Claudius Max went into one of his towering rages the morning he heard about the Firenze. He crumpled the telegram in pudgy fingers and screamed at the hapless Lackman, his male secretary. Although it was only seven in the morning he damned and bedamned E. J. Creed because the man had not yet appeared at the Python Building for his daily stint of twelve hours.
“Fetch him, Lackman! Now!”
Lackman scampered off into the dewy spring morning, heart pounding.
A block away he hammered on Creed’s hotel door. Creed wore a towel around his neck. Through a froth of shaving soap could be seen his uneven teeth. He jerked the door open, a pistol in hand. Then he saw Lackman’s narrow, terrified face.
“Oh, it’s you. What the hell is the matter?”
“It’s Mr. Max, E.J. He’s enraged because of the Firenze.”
Creed appeared at the Python Building some minutes later, out of breath. Max leveled a finger. “That bastard Cantrell!”
“What’s he done now?”
“If he hadn’t blocked me at every turn, C-P tracks would be at the doorstep of the Firenze by now. Do you realize it could mean millions of dollars?”
“I admit the Firenze Mine is the biggest silver strike since the Comstock, but—”
“I just might buy the goddam Firenze. They lack capital.”
“It would probably take a million dollars in cash, Mr. Max.”
“Are you insinuating I couldn’t lay my hands on a million dollars?”-
“Not at all, Mr. Max. But until the Firenze proves out, I’d be cautious.”
“Cautious! That’s always been the trouble with this Western Division. Caution. Why haven’t I had someone who could deal with the half-breed?”
Creed had no answer to that.
Ten minutes earlier Augie Pyne had returned from breakfast at the Sycamore, using an ivory pick on his strong teeth. “What’s all the yelling about?” he asked Lackman in the other office.
But the bony secretary was still too shaken by Max’s rage to reply. He was eternally apprehensive about his job. At any time Max could throw him out and he’d be stranded in the West with no way to reach his wife and large family in New York. He sent money home each month, keeping out just enough for food and lodging for himself.
Pyne put his ear to the door of Max’s office and heard the part about the Firenze and the million dollars.
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you, Pyne,” Lackman admonished in a low and quavering voice. “If Mr. Max thought you were listening …”
“He won’t know.” Pyne’s smile caused Lackman to shiver. “Not unless you tell him.”
Max still wore his fury into the evening. On the way home he raged at Tom, his coachman, for going too fast in one block and not fast enough in another. Stars arced in the sky like a billion miniature lanterns against black silk. The moon was an hour away. His mansion loomed up through the trees. He disembarked from the coach, deliberately leaving the door hanging open so that the coachman would have to climb down to close it.
He hardly spoke to elegant Theodora, whose bare shoulders were softly struck by light from a candelabra. When he did open his mouth it was to curse Cole Cantrell.
Later, upstairs in Theodora’s bedroom, his mood worsened. Such times as these Theodora regarded as her “submission” in their bed. At the height of his passion he distinctly heard her murmur a male name—a name mere mention of which could shoot icy prickles along his vertebrae. Coming at a time when he had been determined, by God, to bring some response from that soft mouth. And feeling with satisfaction that he was on the verge, had heard that detestable name: “Cole!” She denied it, of course, even after the palm of his hand had left its reddening imprint on the classic cheek. And even though he sensed her icy fear, it was not reflected in the glaring green eyes.
“I did not speak his name!” Then she added, as a sop to his vanity, but mainly to forestall further punishment, “I had other things on my mind, things you were doing to me.”
