Wayward Wind, page 3
The quilt Granny had pieced was on her bed; the rag carpet her mother had helped to make was on the floor of her room. She slept in the bed Light had made from an oak tree he had felled when he built the small one-room cabin that had sheltered him and Maggie the first winter. Her grandfather had been born in that room, as had her mother. Three more rooms had been added as the years went by, and now the house was large and comfortable.
An hour passed and then another while Lorna kept her dark thoughts at bay by remembering the tales her grandmother had told her about Light and Maggie: how Light had killed a crazed mountain man to keep him from blowing up a cabin and killing an entire family, and how he had killed his best friend’s brother who had forced himself on Maggie.
Darkness came and still Frank hadn’t returned. Lorna blew out the lamp and went to bed to lie staring into the darkness, her mind filled with troubled thoughts about Frank, about Bonnie, and about the sudden loneliness of her life.
The dogs hadn’t made a sound so she knew the instant she heard the rapping on her window that it was Volney. The insistent rapping also told her that the old mountain man knew Frank hadn’t returned and that she was alone. What was Volney doing there in the middle of the night? A spasm of alarm shot through her.
“Don’t break the window, Volney,” she called. “I’ll meet you out front.” She jumped out of bed, and holding up her long white nightdress, went quickly through the house to the porch. Volney came around the corner of the house. “What is it? What’s happened? How’d you know Pa wasn’t here?”
“Whoa, now. I knowed Frank wasn’t here ’cause he’s down at Brice’s. I got Bonnie hid up in the hills. They all been out ahuntin’ ’er.”
Lorna emitted a groan. “What did he do? Did he hurt her?”
“He done a fair job. She dragged ’erself down to the creek ’n keeled over. If’n he gets ’er, the bastard’ll kill ’er shore as shootin’. He’s mad as hops at you ’n her ’cause Billy backed down on some deal they was in.”
“Damn, damn him! Damn the trash that’s come in to ruin these mountains! What’ll we do, Volney?”
“He’s got ever’thin’ on two legs out alookin’ fer Bonnie. I seed varmints like him afore. They got to have ’em somethin’ to kick ’round. They ain’t been here yet, ’cause Frank says she ain’t here. Yore pa ain’t wantin’ to bring no trouble down on ya.”
“I wish Moose and Woody were here. They’d know where to hide her.”
“Wal, they ain’t,” Volney snorted. “If’n somethin’s done we got to do it. ’Sides, what’s them ole farts know of anythin’ but lookin’ fer a pot a gold?”
“You just don’t like them, Volney.”
“Like ’em?” Volney echoed disgustedly. “Why, hell no! I ain’t got no use fer clabberheads lollygaggin’ ’round alookin’ fer somethin’ they’d not know what to do with if’n they found it!”
“We don’t have time to argue about Moose and Woody. We’ve got to think of Bonnie. Bring her here. Brice won’t dare try and take her from me. I’ll send a message to White Bull and—”
“No, missy. Ya ain’t gonna be no cause a no Injun trouble. I got me a place to take her to, a place I found while ahuntin’ some cats. It’s north and west a here… t’other side of the mountain.” He paused. “It’s a far piece.”
“I’ll help you. Wait till I get dressed.” She turned to dart into the house.
“Hold on, missy,” Volney called impatiently. “Pack up salve, some fixin’s ’n a grub bag. The little gal’s ahurtin’ right smart. I’ll fix us up a travois to drag ’er on. Looks like it’ll rain afore mornin’. If’n it does, it’ll wash out the tracks.” He stepped off the porch, then turned back. “Ya know, missy, ya could a gone tail-over-teakettle agoin’ down the side a that steep ridge like ya done today. Ya tryin’ to kill that horse?”
“Oh, don’t fuss at me now, Volney. You say Bonnie’s hurt bad? Do you think the baby will come?”
“That’s up to the good Lord, youngun.” His voice gentled. “It purdee is. Now get a move on. We got us a far piece to go.”
Lorna turned and hurried into the house wishing her father had half the grit of old Volney Burbank.
Chapter
Two
Several weeks later, fifty miles southwest of Light’s Mountain, a man lying in his bedroll carefully lifted himself up to lean on one elbow, his ears reaching for the sound that had awakened him. His eyes flared wide and he stared into the darkness. He heard the muffled thud of hooves on the trail below the grassed bench where he had spread his blankets for the night. The sound was not made by one horse alone, but several. He felt for the gun in his holster and the knife in his boot to reassure himself that they were there, and reached for the rifle that leaned against his saddle. A short snort came from his own horse tied nearby, and he jumped to his feet, hissed a command for silence and placed his hand over the stallion’s quivering nostrils.
“Quiet, boy. Quiet.”
The riders coming down the trail were too noisy to be Indians and too quiet to be cowhands going home after a rowdy night of drinking. Their very stillness heightened his suspicion that there was a sinister reason for them to be on the trail at midnight. He maneuvered himself silently and cautiously through the dry grass to the edge of the overhang. He was a big, lean, wide-shouldered man who knew careful scrutiny and patience were essential in this country if you wanted to live. He eased his long length to the ground and flattened himself. His narrowed eyes focused on the trail below. Lying perfectly still, he listened and watched the shadowy figures approach.
“This here’s all right.” The riders stopped and bunched around a horse that danced nervously. A man swore softly and yanked on the reins. Another man lifted a coiled rope from his saddle.
The listener judged the riders to be not more than thirty yards away.
“Throw the rope up over that thar limb above yore head.” The riders shifted so the command could be obeyed. They crowded the nervous horse beneath the limb, their positions close beneath the tree, the hooves of their horses clicking on the stones. “Get ’em under that ’n be quick about it. We been atrailin’ this bastard three days, ’n I got a thirst.”
The deep voice had a familiar ring of gloating to it that pierced the memory of the man lying in the grass. He cursed silently. What the hell were Clayhill riders doing over on the other side of the Blue? They must be a hundred miles from Clayhill land.
“The old man said hang ’em as a warnin’ to anybody athinkin’ they’ll squat on that range.” Saddle leather creaked as a rider stood in the stirrups to toss the rope over the limb.
On the shelf above the trail the man’s mind worked furiously to sort out the information he’d just heard. The slimy old bastard was spreading out west. It was the only direction he could go now that Logan Horn had bought the south range.
“We ain’t ort to be adoin’ this so secret like. It ain’t no crime to hang a horse thief. And that’s what ya said he done.” The voice held obvious distaste for the job they were doing.
“Nobody’s askin’ you. We’re adoin’ it like the ole man said to do it. If’n yore so womanish, ya can hightail it back to the ranch ’n draw yore pay. Then, by God, you’d better hot-foot it out of the country if’n ya ain’t got shit for brains.”
The voice of Clayhill’s foreman was heavy with sarcasm, and anger stiffened the man lying in the grass. He remembered the time several years ago when that same voice had urged the crowd to hang his half brother. Dunbar hadn’t been foreman then—just a paid gunman hired to do the old man’s dirty work. The hatred the listener felt for Adam Clayhill choked him. With an effort he swallowed it down, lest it goad him into being careless and doing something foolish.
“Quit yore jawin’, Dunbar, and get on with it.”
“Goddammit! Don’t be givin’ me no orders. I’m aramroddin’ this here outfit.”
The concealed man was sweating, and he wiped his face on the sleeve of his shirt. Once he’d witnessed a legal hanging and felt the murderer got what he had coming, but this was a lynching. This was a dark and ugly bunch carrying out the orders of a rich, powerful, old sonofabitch who was too rotten to live. Goddamn that old cuss! he fumed. He should have killed him a couple of years ago when—He held himself still, blocking that time from his mind as he took stock of the odds. Against three, even four, he might have a chance, but with six… If he drew down on them, they’d be sure to shoot the luckless homesteader they were going to hang. Poor bastard would probably rather be shot than hanged anyway, he decided, and pulled his rifle up beside him. He strained his eyes to sort out the shadowy figures of the Clayhill riders. He’d have to be careful to not shoot the horse out from under the nester.
“Pull that horse out easy ’n let ’em down! I want the sonofabitch to hang thar ’n think ’bout that slash he put in my leg.”
“That ain’t no way to hang a man, Dunbar! Do it quick, if’n yore agoin’ to, ’n get it over.”
“Shut yore mouth! I’m arunnin’ this show.” There was a snarl in the deep voice.
The listener heard the creak of a rope taking strain, then the jerking of it as the hanged man kicked and struggled. Hell! The only chance now was if they’d leave and he could cut him down.
A horse took off on the run back up the trail and Dunbar laughed. “Goddamn yellow belly!” he yelled, his voice thick with irritation.
There was a sudden pounding of hooves as if the other riders were anxious to leave the grisly scene, too. Dunbar looked over his shoulder at the man kicking at the end of the rope. “Choke, goddamn ya!” He spurred his horse cruelly; the animal sank back on its haunches and leaped to follow the others.
The listener moved out of the grass and shimmied down the bank like a shadow. He held no liking for lynching a man, and there was a slight chance he could reach him before he choked to death. He ran soundlessly on the leaves and grass, keeping back from the rocky trail until he reached the tree. He went up it with swift agility, crawled out on the limb, and with a quick slash of his knife cut the rope. The body tumbled to the ground. He grasped the branch and swung himself down. He bent swiftly, loosened the noose, and pulled it up over the man’s head. His knife slit the cloth that held the gag in his mouth. Almost at once he heard a hoarse gasp.
He turned his ear and leaned into the breeze, listening for a sound. He heard nothing, but that was no guarantee Dunbar wouldn’t come back. Grasping the man by the arms, he yanked him to his feet. Bending so he could get his shoulder beneath the victim’s armpit, he started propelling him toward the upper bench.
“Move your feet,” he hissed. “I can’t carry you up that bank.”
Grasping painfully, the man stiffened his legs and with all his strength forced them to move. They staggered up the steep embankment. By the time they’d reached the top, the tall man was also straining for breath. Roscoe nickered softly when they reached the campsite and his owner whispered for him to keep quiet as he let the suffering man sink down onto his blankets. He reached for his canteen, uncapped it and put it in the man’s hands.
“Can you drink?” He sank down on his haunches beside him.
“Gawd! Oh, Gawd… I th-thought it was the end.”
“It almost was. It was a good thing Dunbar wanted you to choke slow or you’d be dead.”
“I’ll ki-kill ’em. I’ll kill ’em—”
“What’s this all about?”
“ ’Bout an ol’ sonofabitch named Clay-Clayhill who wants the whole fuckin’ territory for hisself…”
“I heard them say you’re a horsethief. I’ve got no use for a horsethief, but if you’re to be hung the law should do it.”
“If stealin’ back my own horses makes me one, I am.” The man drank slowly, his muscles jumping nervously, his trembling fingers feeling his neck gingerly.
“Are you all right, now? We’d better move out of here. If they come back and find you gone they’ll know you had help. I pick my own time and place when I buck those odds.”
“Did they take my horse? He’d a put up a fight to stay with me.”
“I don’t know. I was too busy cutting you down to notice, but there was some commotion with a horse.”
“I’m obliged to ya. Name’s Griffin.”
“Cooper Parnell.”
“How’d ya happen to be here?”
“I’m tracking a mare that was stolen from me a couple days ago.”
“I never thought I’d be obliged to a horsethief. I’m shore glad ya was here.”
“So am I. That Dunbar’s a sonofabitch.”
The man slapped his empty holster. “Bastards took my gun and my knife, but if my horse is loose, I can whistle for him and he’ll come. My throat feels like a hunk a raw meat.” He got to his feet and held out his hand. He was almost as tall as Cooper and just as thin. It was too dark to see the man clearly, but Cooper was almost sure that he was much younger than his own twenty-six years. “I thank ya, mister.”
Cooper shook his hand. “I’ll saddle up. If you’ve got a pucker left, you’d better try for your horse and we’ll get back up in the hills and get some sleep. Come morning I’m going after my mare.”
After the second whistle the horse came down the rocky trail, dragging his reins and nickering softly. Griffin called to him and the horse scrambled up the incline.
“Damn, I’m glad to see ya, boy.” The horse nudged him. He rubbed the side of its face affectionately and felt blood where the bit had torn the side of its mouth. “You fought ’em when they tried to lead ya away from me, didn’t ya, old friend?” There was a huskiness in the whispered voice. “They caught us with our britches down, Firebird. It’ll not happen again. Are ya all right? Ya took a tumble when they lassoed us.” He ran his hands over the horse’s sides, rump, and down over his haunches. “Ya’ve got a few cuts, but nothin’ too bad for what we had done to us. An angel was sure asittin’ on our shoulder tonight. We owe this here gent aplenty.”
Cooper watched. Watchfulness was no new thing for him, and he was still somewhat leery of the stranger; but he was of the opinion that you could measure a man’s worth by the way he treated his horse or his dog. The horse was a sorrel with a light mane and tail. It was deep chested, had strong legs and powerful haunches. Cooper prided himself on being knowledgeable about horse flesh, and he realized that this was a damn good horse. But what would a squatter be doing with such a valuable animal? They usually rode broken-down old cayuses.
With his bedroll tied on behind his saddle, Cooper mounted and rode out without a backward glance. Ordinarily he didn’t turn his back on a stranger, but he was sure the man was without a weapon. He heard the creak of saddle leather and the soft thud of hooves on the dry grass and knew Griffin was following.
Cooper rode cautiously along the dim trail at the edge of the timber. It was rugged, lonely country where the spruce and pine clung to the hillside that sloped to the river. He’d been across the mountains into Utah Territory, bought a few horses, and sold all of them, except for a beautiful little mare, to a Mormon heading for the Salt Lake. He’d gotten a damn good price and was satisfied with the profit he’d made, which was as much or more than he’d have made if he’d driven them to Junction City. The mare, whom he’d put to his stallion, Roscoe, would produce fine colts.
He still couldn’t understand how he could have been so careless as to let the mare be taken right out from under his nose. He’d staked her out in a small meadow to graze while he and Roscoe went down to the riverbank to catch a fish. He’d been on the trail two weeks. The mare, who was in foal, was growing gaunt, and he was getting mighty tired of rabbit and deer meat. When he went to look for her after he had eaten his fill of river trout and had had a leisurely nap, she was gone. The rope and the halter lay where he’d left her.
When he couldn’t find a print other than that of the mare, he was sure she had been stolen by a lone Indian. It had taken him the rest of the day and part of the next to pick up the mare’s trail after he lost it in the river. Whoever had taken her had been cagey. The riders had left marks on the rocks when they left the river, traveled up into the hills, then doubled back and jumped the horse back into the water. Of course it had taken Cooper several hours to figure this out. By the time he’d discovered where they had emerged from the river again, it was almost dark and he was forced to stop for the night.
Cooper didn’t stop until after he had worked his way upward among the pines for several miles. He had come out from under the trees and now he turned to survey the area. He was backed to several large craggy boulders set among the trees, and there was an open space in front of him. It was unlikely anyone could sneak up on them, especially if Roscoe was close by. Mountain bred, with strong survival instincts, the horse would let him know if as much as a rabbit came near. Cooper dismounted and began to remove Roscoe’s saddle.
Griffin pulled up a dozen yards away, sat his mount and waited. He made no move to get off his horse and Cooper’s lips quirked in a grin. The man was trail wise. He was waiting for an invitation to share the camp, observing the strict etiquette of the trail that proclaimed a man’s camp was his home.
“Get down, Griffin. We should be able to catch a few winks of sleep here without anybody slipping up on us. I doubt Dunbar and his bunch will come back before morning. He’ll not want to make the trip down that trail alone. And I don’t think his men had much of a stomach for the hanging.”
Holding his shoulders and neck stiffly erect, Griffin slid from the saddle, removed it and threw it on the ground. “A man feels naked out here without a gun,” he commented uneasily.
“I understand the feeling. You’re welcome to trail along with me. As soon as I get my mare I’ll be heading for Junction City.”
