The Warhunter 3, page 14
“CALM DOWN!” EXCLAIMED Jack Strunk. “Just everybody keep your mouths shut for a minute. It ain’t no meetin’ if everybody’s yellin’ at the same time. You’ll all get a chance to say your piece.”
The noise of the crowd abated.
“You, Dagmier,” said Strunk. “You can talk first.”
Jan Dagmier, a big, burly Swede, wasted no time in making his point: “We have a long ways to go yet, and not much time left in the season. I know a little something about snow, I do, and I am telling you all we must reach the mountain passes soon, or we’ll never reach California by Christmas. I believe, like many of the others, that we must travel more quickly!”
A chorus of cheers was heard, drowned out a moment later by a larger chorus of boos and catcalls.
Strunk struggled to quiet them again and, when he finally succeeded, he recognized Lonnie Brandt as the next speaker.
“You all know me,” said Brandt, “at least all of you that started out last spring with me back in Missouri. We’ve had troubles right from the start: rivers too swollen to cross, a cattle stampede—you name it and we’ve suffered it. But we got this far because we were cautious. If a river couldn’t safely be crossed, we waited till the waters subsided. If the cattle ran off, we patiently gathered them up again. Now we’re in hostile Indian country. I say we should be cautious ... and safe. Just like before. If we’re careful, our water will last till we get through the desert. And then, once we’re out of Indian country, we can speed up and reach the mountain passes by mid-October. But going slow, just like we are right now, is the best way to protect our wives and our children from the Utes.”
Brandt received thunderous applause. He was also mocked and ridiculed. There were two very distinct sides to this argument, and seemingly very little common ground for agreement.
Anything that helped to isolate Nadine from as many other people as possible looked, to Charles Ballantine, to be in his own best interest. He saw that there was an angle to be played, and so he played it.
“I’d like to say something,” Ballantine shouted, waving his arms, vying for Strunk’s attention.
The wagon master saw him, and remembering how Ballantine had eased him out of that jam with Murdock and Hunter a couple of days before, he was quick to pick him as the next speaker.
“Why should we be at each other’s throats?” he asked rhetorically. “What good does that do? Some folks want to go slower for the sake of safety, and who’s to say they’re wrong? Others want to hurry and cross the desert as fast as possible. Who’s to say that they’re wrong? The simple and practical solution to this problem, the obvious answer that should leave everyone satisfied, is break the wagon train into two parts. Let those who wish to push on more quickly do so. Let those who wish to follow the cautious path do so, too.”
No one was sure if they should cheer or jeer. The crowd was strangely quiet. Ballantine’s suggestion caused them all to stop and think. And the more they thought about it, the more they started to like it. Especially those who were anxious to push on ahead more quickly. Those folks, by and large, were less afraid of the Utes and more willing to risk the reduced numbers of a smaller wagon train.
“Maybe he’s right,” someone cried out. “Why don’t we just go our separate ways?”
Hal Murdock, his three cousins standing near him at the edge of the crowd, decided to play along. “Yeah!” he yelled. “Let’s move outta here in the mornin’ and cover ourselves some ground!”
The Taggerts instantly took up the cause.
“Let ’em go slow, if they want!” Zack Taggert shouted. “We’ll go our own way!”
“Let’s do it!” cried Cal Taggert.
“I’m for it, too,” echoed their kid brother, Wally. The bandwagon started rolling, as others began shouting their acceptance of Ballantine’s suggestion.
Jack Strunk was losing control of the meeting. What was worse, he was losing control of his wagon train. If, indeed, they did split up, he would surely remain as wagon master of one of the trains, but how much of a train would it really be? A man who loves to be in charge doesn’t like to see his power cut in half.
Strunk was near despair. During the summer he had lost his job as wagon master of the big train that reached Soda Springs. Now he was in danger of seeing this smaller train, in his charge, fragment into even smaller pieces. Hunter raised his hand and asked to be recognized. Strunk thought this would be the final blow. Hunter had been pushing for a quicker pace all along. Surely the plainsman would volunteer himself to lead the splinter group that wished to move faster.
Everyone was looking at Hunter. Strunk had no choice but to give him the floor.
Hunter waited till the crowd grew quiet.
“You’re all in a mad rush to get each other killed,” he accused. “Splitting up a wagon train in Indian country, a wagon train that’s already as small as this one is, is a pretty drastic thing to do. I’m not saying there may not come a time for doing such a thing, but I am saying that doing it now, before we’ve even tried to work things out, would be a mistake.”
Jack Strunk couldn’t believe his good fortune.
“I think we’d all like to hear your ideas,” the wagon master piped up respectfully, doing all he could to help Hunter out.
“I’ve been saying right along that we have to get across this desert as quick as we can. The sooner we put this desert and the Utes behind us, the better off we’re going to be. But let’s face some facts. Right now we’re still smack in the middle of Indian country, and it would be wise not to forget that. As it stands now, we’ve probably got enough guns to hold off an Indian attack if we’re not caught off our guards. You split this train up, though, and neither of the two trains will likely have enough firepower to hold their own.”
“If we can get outta this damn desert and outta Ute country fast enough, we won’t have to worry about fightin’ off any Indians!” a voice challenged from the crowd.
“That’s a fair point,” agreed Hunter. “But what about the folks you leave behind in the slower wagon train? With maybe half as many gun hands left to protect them, what kind of a chance are they gonna have?”
“That’s their problem!” someone else shouted. “If they wanna dawdle along, it’s their necks, not ours!”
“That’s true, too,” said Hunter, playing his trump card. “Only now those folks who were thinking that traveling slow and bunching up was the safest way to go, maybe might be thinking now that they have a lot to lose if they let the wagon train split apart. Could be they’ll be willing to pick up the pace.”
“But if we go faster,” someone exclaimed, “the wagons will stretch out. I don’t know anyone who’d be fool enough to drive the rear wagons in this train with the Utes as close as they are!”
A murmur of agreement rumbled through those in the crowd who still preferred to take the slow, cautious way across the desert.
“It’s true. Whoever’s in the last few wagons is taking a bigger risk,” stated Hunter. “But it’s just like when you’re crossing a fast moving river—only then it’s the first few wagons that take the risk. If you wanted an easy trip, you should’ve shelled out some extra money and taken a ship around the Horn.
“The best we can do, the fairest thing for everyone,” he went on, “is to draw lots. Every wagon has a number. We’ll pick ’em out of a hat, and that’s the order we’ll move in. To protect those rear wagons, I suggest we keep at least one scout well behind us, spelling him every eight hours. That way we ought to get enough warning to circle the wagons in case the Utes should attack from behind.”
For all intents and purposes, Hunter had taken over the meeting. That had not been his intention. Hunter’s hope was to keep the wagon train together, and making Jack Strunk appear powerless and ineffectual wasn’t going to help that cause.
Hunter turned toward the wagon master and humbly said: “Those are my suggestions, Mr. Strunk. If you think they have any merit, you might want to go ahead and take a vote.”
Strunk appreciated it that Hunter was trying to make him look good in front of the crowd. And he was no fool. He called for a vote.
It was close. Very close. But the wagon train would hold together.
Chapter Twenty-Four
WHILE MOST EVERYBODY was at the meeting, Eric Bryce and Ella Phillips sat side by side at the far end of the camp. They listened to the muffled cheers and angry shouts, wondering what the eventual outcome of the meeting would be.
At least that’s what Ella was wondering.
Eric Bryce had other things on his mind.
“I’ve been thinking,” said the reporter, choosing his words carefully, “that you really don’t belong out here, Ella. You belong in a city like New York, wearing silk and lace, dining at the finest restaurants, moving in high society. Out here, under this sun, working from dawn to dusk, you’ll wear yourself out. You’ll get old before your time.”
“You never give up, do you?”
“Not when I know I’m right,” he answered boldly. “You know I’m right,” he insisted. “You’re not cut out to live the kind of life that Hunter offers you. I know—”
“What do you know?” she said sharply. “Do you know anything about me, Eric? Do you really know why I’m here and not in New York, wearing silk and lace? For that matter, do you know why you want me? Do you really know?”
“Of course I do,” he answered quickly. “I’m in love with you.”
His blunt response surprised Ella. She tried to remember if there was ever a time when Hunter had spoken so directly of his feelings for her.
There was no such time.
But there were times, many times, when Hunter would say or do something that told her, a thousand times over, that he loved her. The way he would hold her when they slept, as if he alone could shelter her from an ugly world, showed a cherishing love that mere words could never match.
Tears formed in Ella’s eyes. She had almost forgotten how much she and Hunter had shared. It was ironic indeed that she should remember it now.
“I’m sorry, Eric,” she said in a hoarse whisper. “If I had met you six years ago, before I left Philadelphia, I would’ve happily, very happily, gone with you anywhere. But I have to see things through with Warfield. I know it may not work out. He may go back to that Ballantine woman—but I can’t give up on him. Not yet.”
When the meeting broke up, Hunter started back to his wagon. He hadn’t gone very far before Nadine stopped him.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?” she asked, with a serious expression on her face.
“Is something wrong?”
“I’m not sure,” she pouted. “Charles is becoming rather a disappointment to me. He’s not the man I thought he was.”
“I’m sorry,” said Hunter.
“May I walk with you for a little while?”
“If you like.”
They strolled side by side, Nadine’s hips swaying provocatively, inviting Hunter’s gaze.
“You were very sweet to me back in Soda Springs,” she said. “Were you just flattering me, though, when you told me I was prettier now than I was back in St. Louis ten years ago?”
The way the question was phrased, Hunter could only answer one way and remain a gentleman. “It wasn’t just flattery,” he answered.
“I’m glad to hear that.” As she spoke, she took his arm. Hunter stopped walking, turned to face her, gently disengaging her arm, and asked: “Why are you traveling west, Nadine? Why didn’t you stay in St. Louis?”
“I was looking for you,” she teased.
Hunter ignored her sultry smile and asked: “What were you saying about Charles?”
Nadine frowned. “I’m afraid I can no longer trust him.” She suddenly smiled again, her eyes full of meaning. “I was hoping,” she said, “that you could keep an eye on me. You know, stop by every so often to make sure I’m all right. Would you do that?”
She was asking straight out for his help. He didn’t see where he really had any choice in the matter. Her request was not an outlandish one considering that, after all, they weren’t exactly strangers.
“Okay,” he said, nodding his head, “I’ll look in on you from time to time.”
“Thank you, Warfield,” she murmured. To his surprise, she got up on her toes and kissed him on the cheek. And then she sashayed away, her hips a pretty picture to any man with blood in his veins.
Nadine was pleased with herself. Hunter was clearly captivated by her, of that she was certain. Soon she would ask Charles to leave and have Hunter join her in his place.
From a distance, hiding in the dark, Charles Ballantine was watching her. He saw Nadine walk with Hunter and take his arm. He also saw how Hunter nodded his head, agreeing to something she said. And then she kissed him.
He’d seen it all, and he knew what it meant. Nadine was doing just what he told Murdock she would do. The time to act would have to be soon.
The mules and oxen were hitched, and the wagons set out briskly the next morning, covering a solid eight miles before they stopped for the nooning break.
A scout was sent back to the east to relieve Bobby Dielman.”
Later that day, at dusk, when the wagons had rolled another eight miles, a third scout was sent out and the second scout returned. All was going well. None of the scouts saw any sign of Utes.
The next day was the same. They made good time, and by now they were roughly halfway across the desert. In another four days there would be cool breezes, shade trees, and cold, clear water. Mostly, though, there would be no more sand.
If it was possible to hate anything more than the searing, relentless sun, it was the sand. The heat would build up in it to such a degree that by late afternoon it could burn right through your boots to the bottom of your feet. If that wasn’t enough, it seemed as though sand got into everything ... in your food, in your water, in your eyes, and down your throat.
The steady travel of the last two days and the constant preoccupation with the heat and sand helped everyone to forget about the Utes.
The next day, the third since they picked up their pace, was surprisingly cool. It was a good day to really cover some ground without exhausting their animals. By the nooning break they had put more than nine miles behind them.
A scout, Satch Daniels, was sent to relieve Bobby Dielman, who was watching their backtrail.
By the time the nooning break was over, and everyone was hitching up their teams again, Jack Strunk realized that Bobby Dielman had not come back.
The wagon master figured young Dielman was just taking a little extra time to catch up to the train because they had covered so much ground that morning.
So off the wagons went.
This time they made almost ten miles. Just three more days and they would be out of the desert. It was the one thought that made them push on ever harder.
Everyone was pleased by the great progress they made that day. But as the evening wore on, and as folks talked and visited with each other, their pleasure slowly turned to fear.
Where, they all wondered, was Bobby Dielman?
Their fear was soon doubled. Satch Daniels did not come back either.
Jack Strunk ordered a heavier guard that night. No one was to leave the perimeter of the circled wagons except those guarding their small herds of cattle, goats, and sheep.
In the desert, the wind usually picks up at night. The sudden change of intense daytime heat to cold, late-night chill oftentimes brings on a gentle breeze. Without trees and rocks to whistle through, the wind can only make its presence known with a slight whisper. But this night, unlike most others, there was no wind. Just silence, as deep and as terrifying as only silence can be.
No one got much sleep that night.
If anything, the morning was even a worse time for this small wagon train. Instead of making plans to defend themselves should the Utes attack, they fell into fighting among themselves.
Some wanted to make a run for it, to try and get out of the desert. Most of the others wanted to stay just where they were, waiting to see what the Utes would do first.
Jack Strunk tried to keep things under control but, with people’s lives clearly on the line, no one was much in the mood for compromise. There was a meeting, of course, but it didn’t last more than ten minutes.
Charles Ballantine led the revolt. Once before he had called for the wagon train to split in two, and this time they listened. For his own part, Ballantine didn’t care about the Utes. His mind centered only on Nadine. He figured that by breaking the train apart this way he would rid himself of Hunter. After all, it had been Hunter who argued at the last meeting to keep the train together. And without Hunter to contend with, his plans for Nadine, and for Nadine’s money, could more easily be carried out.
The one thing he didn’t count on was that Hunter would be on his side of the argument.
Hunter spoke up and said: “If this train were anywhere else, I’d say stay put and wait the Utes out. But not here in the desert. All the Utes have to do is wait till you run out of water. And then you’ll be easy pickings.”
Because Hunter chose to be among those willing to make a run for it, many others decided they would risk it too. The train, therefore, split almost equally in half.
Those who decided to stay behind figured there would be time enough later on to make a run for it, if that was what was needed. In the meantime, even in their reduced numbers, they felt confident that they could protect themselves so long as they kept their wagons circled and their guns cocked.
By late morning the deed was done.
Twenty-one wagons pulled out of the circle and made tracks, due west, as fast as they could.
The twenty-two wagons left behind tightened up into a small circle and awaited their fate.
Chapter Twenty-Five
JOSEPH GRAHAM, WHO had come in second in the wagon master vote back in Soda Springs, was the man who took charge of the twenty-one wagons that left that morning.
