The Warhunter 3, page 3
And there was Hunter, gently putting her down. She was slipping out of his arms, down onto their blankets.
“Are you okay?” he whispered.
“I’m cold.”
He covered her with all the extra blankets.
She pulled the blankets up to her chin, remembering how cold it was beside the creek. And then she remembered what had come before. Abruptly, she sat up and looked around.
“Dobbins and Smith,” she blurted out. “What happened to them?”
“I buried them back in the brush.”
“Was it bad for Smith?”
“He died quickly,” said Hunter.
The way he said it, the odd, flat tone he used, caused Ella to look at him. He held her gaze for only a moment.
“Better get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll be leaving this place in the morning.”
“Where are we going?”
“I’ve been thinking we could head up to Soda Springs and catch one of the late-season wagon trains heading for California. You told me once you’d never seen the Pacific Ocean. I’d like to show it to you.”
It was true. She’d never been to California. It was also true that because she’d never been there, it was a good deal less likely she’d meet men she had slept with, men like Booker Smith. And then, with a start, she realized that that was why Hunter suggested it.
Chapter Five
IT DOESN’T TAKE much to get a man thinking about cold beer and warm women. All it takes is six weeks of being alone, a scorching summer sun, and a canteen full of brackish warm water.
Eric Bryce knew just where he wanted to be. It was a little tavern on lower Broadway, cool and dark. There was a young, lusty barmaid there by the name of Carolyn. He’d order an icy tankard of ale. Carolyn would bring it over to his table with a wink and a nod. Then, later, he’d meet her after work and ...
Bryce wiped the sweat out of his eyes. He wasn’t on lower Broadway, he wasn’t drinking a cold brew, and he certainly wasn’t having a high time with a saucy barmaid. He was ten weeks out of New York, six weeks out of Kimble and, most recently, two weeks out of Turnersville. And still no War Hunter.
But he was getting closer.
He’d learned a lot about Hunter in Kimble, things he figured he could use if he could only catch up to the man. In Turnersville, Bryce happened upon some good fortune. Only a few short months before, Hunter, hired as the town’s sheriff, had single-handedly defended Turnersville from a mob of rampaging miners. It was just the kind of stuff he was looking for.
Bryce wrote a long and lively account of Hunter’s battle with the miners. Townspeople supplied him with any details he needed. Bryce was of the opinion that these people were pulling his leg with tall tales, but that didn’t bother him. After all, he was going to quote these people and use them to create a tall tale of his own. The reading public back east would love it. So he sent his story off to New York with a note to Fugate, telling him of his progress, and then continued on his search for the almost mythical War Hunter.
He had one tip: that Hunter, when he left Turnersville, had said he was heading for Denver. But that was better than three months ago. It didn’t seem likely that Bryce would catch up to him soon. At least he didn’t think so till he rode up to Kutch’s Trading Post that same hot, dusty day he’d spent dreaming of tankards of ale and the tender flesh of a giving woman.
“Do you have anything cold to drink?” Bryce questioned as he stepped into the dark interior of the trading post.
Kutch, a crochety old man with a big round face that had the look of a bulldog, laughed at the young reporter.
“What’s so funny?”
“You, mister. You’re funny,” said Kutch without malice. “It’s July, nearly August, and you come in here askin’ for somethin’ cold to drink. To me, young feller, that’s the best laugh I’ve had all summer.”
“I’m glad I could brighten your life,” said Bryce wryly. “Why don’t you just point me to some decent tasting water. Do you have a pump or a well out back?”
“Nope.”
“No?”
“Nope. Got a barrel over there in the corner. Help yourself.”
Bryce was confused. “You’ve got no pump or well?”
“That’s right, young feller. There’s a stream about a third of a mile from here. I take my wagon down there once a week to fill up.”
“I see,” said Bryce slowly. And then he asked: “Did you build this place yourself?”
“Sure did.”
With a smirk, Bryce announced: “I’m no frontiersman, but at least I’d know enough to build my place near water.”
“That’s right ... you’re sure no frontiersman, young feller. Cause every spring, when the snow melts up in those mountains, that stream overflows its banks. I’ve seen water come up to within one hundred and fifty yards of my back door.”
“Why am I talking to you?” Bryce said with a hollow laugh.
“Cause you’ve been riding through empty country with no one to talk to but your horse,” Kutch volunteered. “I don’t get much chance to parley myself, so I take it when it comes. Hell, why else would I be talkin’ to you?”
Bryce had held his own with the shrewdest politicians in Tammany Hall, yet he had no ready answer for this old man living out in the middle of nowhere. Tired, hot, and thirsty, all he could do was shrug his shoulders in defeat.
Kutch was a gracious winner. He’d gotten in the last word and that was all he wanted. To celebrate his little victory, he produced two glasses and a nearly full bottle of whiskey.
“You are a drinkin’ man, I hope,” Kutch said over his shoulder as he set the bottle down on the countertop.
“If I wasn’t, I’d start right now,” Bryce wearily replied.
“Well, here ... drink up.”
“I thank you kindly, Mr ... ”
“Kutch,” said the old man with sudden testiness. “Like it says on the sign outside.”
“Sorry ... I forgot.”
“Forgot?” said Kutch, astonished. “Don’t you know where you are? Wasn’t this where you was headed?”
“This place just happened to be between where I was and where I’m going. I never heard of you or your little store, Mr. Kutch.”
“Never heard ’a me? Why everybody in this territory’s heard ’a me. I’ve been here in this same damn spot since Eighteen Thirty-Six.” He looked up at Bryce and stared him right in the eyes. “Who the hell are you, anyway, and what are ya doin’ ridin’ around this country like a blind man?”
Bryce threw back the last of his drink. After he put down his glass, he said to the waiting old man: “My name is Eric Bryce. I’m a reporter for a New York newspaper and I’m looking for someone.”
The old man’s attitude changed like winter into spring. “From New York, you say? A reporter? I’ll be damned to hell.” He filled Bryce’s glass with more whiskey. “You gonna write somethin’ about me?” he asked.
“You’re not the man I’m looking for,” Bryce stated simply.
“Well, if you’re not out here to talk to me,” Kutch growled, “then who the hell is it you’re lookin’ for?”
“I’m on the trail of a man known as Warfield Hunter ... War Hunter. You ever hear of him?”
The old man laughed. “Hear of him? Why, he was just here last week.”
“Last week?” cried Bryce. “That doesn’t seem possible. He left Turnersville back in April, heading for Denver. How could he have only gotten this far?”
“When a man’s keepin’ company with a beautiful woman, why should he be in a hurry to get anywhere?” Kutch answered philosophically.
“Woman? What woman?” demanded the bewildered reporter.
“Best lookin’ female I’ve seen in as long as I can remember. Too bad she’s so good-lookin’, though. Hunter had to kill two men who tried to force their attentions on her.”
“Just a minute! Wait just a minute,” Bryce commanded, as he retreated out the front door.
“Where ya goin’?” asked Kutch.
“Pencil and paper in my saddlebags!” he called out breathlessly.
With a smile on his face, the old man settled back into a rocking chair. He was going to get written up in the New York newspaper after all.
“It was just six days ago,” began the old man, “when I see Hunter and his woman friend come ridin’ up. I didn’t expect ’em for another three, four days, so I was kinda surprised. But then I see Hunter’s trailin’ a couple ’a saddled horses behind him and I figure out right quick that there’s been some killin’.
“Hunter don’t say nothin’ at first, just orders enough goods to carry him and the woman on up to Denver. Said he’d get the rest of what he needs there.
“Then he tells me about the two horses and the men that used to ride ’em. They was drunk, those two men, and they attacked his woman, he said. Didn’t want to kill ’em, but he had no choice.
“Hunter went through their belongings. Found some letters. Relatives, looks like. I’m to sell off the dead men’s horses, saddles, and guns. That’s what Hunter told me to do. The relatives get all the money—minus my commission, of course—and I’m supposed to send all their personal doodads along, too.”
Bryce wrote down everything Kutch said. And then he peppered the old man with a barrage of questions.
“What time of the day did Hunter arrive that last time?”
“Dunno ... maybe late afternoon.”
“When did Hunter kill the two men—day or night?”
“Figure it was night by the way he told it.”
“What did he do with the bodies?”
“Buried ’em, a’ course.”
“Did you talk to the woman?”
“Not this time. She was kinda quiet. Let Hunter do all the talkin’.”
“But you’ve talked to her before?”
“Sure. Real nice lady.”
“What’s her name?”
“Her name?”
“Yes. What’s her name?”
“I just called her ma’am.”
“You mean you don’t know her name?”
Kutch shrugged. “More interested in her looks than her name.”
“Okay—what did she look like?”
“Pretty. Real pretty.”
“Yes, but how? Long hair? Short hair? Tall? Skinny?”
“Well ... she’s got long brown hair ... and green eyes. And I know she has a body you just want to reach out and touch. But that’s all I’m gonna say. You’re gonna have to fill in the rest yourself, young feller. Every man sees a woman like that in a different way. I see her eyes and her figure. Maybe you’d see her mouth. As for Hunter,” Kutch sniggered, “I figure he’s seen more than anybody else.”
“Are they married, Hunter and this woman?”
“I didn’t see no ring,” said Kutch, “but then neither did those two fellers Hunter had to bury. You figure it out.”
Bryce only half heard Kutch’s answer. He was furiously scribbling down an idea he had for his next dispatch to New York: a beautiful mystery woman traveling with the famous War Hunter. If the adventure and violence of the untamed West didn’t capture the attention of the New York reading public, then romance and sex surely would.
He’d write this story and send it off from Denver. And in Denver he’d pick up Hunter’s trail again. He was getting closer. Ever closer. “Soon,” Bryce muttered to himself, “I’ll catch him soon.”
Chapter Six
AFTER REPAIRING THE wheel on the front right side, and adding a new canvas top to replace the tattered old one, Hunter was satisfied that the beat-up Conestoga he bought could make the trip to California. But the cost of the wagon, its repairs, and the four-mule team that would pull it took just about all the money Hunter had.
“I’m gonna have to sell our two saddle horses,” he announced when he went back to their hotel room. “We still need a lot of supplies, plus we’ll have to pay for our passage in the wagon train we pick up in Soda Springs. Between the horses and the saddles, we might make enough to pay our way.”
Ella finished buttoning the front of her blouse. She didn’t want to say what she was about to say without being fully dressed. And now that she was completely clothed, she stepped away from the bed and sat down in a chair by the window.
Finally, she spoke.
“You don’t have to sell the horses,” she said quietly. “At least you don’t have to sell yours. Before I left Turnersville, I wired most of my money on ahead here to Denver.”
Hunter frowned. He knew how she made that money.
“There’s enough,” she continued, “to get us to California.”
“Never mind that. I’ll sell the horses,” he stated.
Ella’s face turned red, but she kept right on talking: “If we’re both going to California ... if we’re both sharing a bed ... if we’re both going to respect each other, then you have to let me pay my own way. If I didn’t have the money, that would be one thing. But I do have the money, and regardless of how I earned it, it’s my money.”
“I didn’t say it wasn’t your money,” Hunter replied.
“No, but you said you wouldn’t take it. If I earned that money working in a dress shop, I bet you’d take it.”
Here, Hunter felt on firmer ground. “Dress shop, waitress, schoolmarm, or second-floor saloon girl makes no difference,” he declared. “I just don’t like the idea of taking money from a woman.”
The redness slowly drained out of Ella’s face. She even managed a small smile. “Let’s say,” she began, “that I’m not giving you the money. Let’s say that I’m paying my way and you’re paying yours. I pay for half the wagon, half the cost of the mules and provisions, and for half the wagon-train passage. You pay for your half. Fifty-fifty. You’re not taking anything from me and I’m not taking anything from you. It’ll be like a partnership.”
“What happens when you run out of money?” he asked with a curious grin on his face. “What happens to our ‘partnership’ then?”
“You’ll either have to kick me out, or give me credit,” she laughed. “Then, of course,” she added, “there’s always the possibility you’ll run out of money before I do.”
This time Hunter laughed. “In that case,” he said, “the same rules apply. You can either kick me out or give me credit, too.”
“Sounds to me like we’ve got a deal,” said Ella.
“I guess so,” admitted Hunter. “How shall we seal the bargain?”
Ella smiled and started working on the buttons of her blouse again. This time she undid them.
They left Denver the next day, fully outfitted and with money to spare—mostly Ella’s. The wagon carried only food, water, and their new belongings. It wasn’t weighted down with heavy furniture and a lifetime’s worth of possessions like the wagons coming from the east. With so little to pull, their four mule team moved at a good, steady pace. The days passed quickly and the miles stretched out behind them.
Once they were well clear of Denver, they met no travelers. At first Hunter took little notice of it. But as they got closer to Fort Bridger without sight or sign of anyone, Hunter showed his concern. While Ella was at the reins, he put down his copy of Redburn, which he was forever rereading, and up came his Colt-Paterson repeater, loaded and ready. From there on in, whenever Hunter drove the wagon, Ella held the rifle. Something was happening in this country. What exactly was happening they couldn’t possibly know, but when no one’s out on the trails, a good bet is that it’s probably because of Indian trouble.
Though the mules could have gone faster, Hunter held them to a slow pace, hoping they’d kick up less of a dust trail. Besides, if indeed it was Indian trouble, and if they should be attacked, he wanted his team fresh and rested, ready to run.
By Hunter’s reckoning, they’d reach Fort Bridger sometime late tomorrow. If something was going to happen, it was going to happen soon. This was Ute country and the Utes had a way of sneaking up on you that would make an Apache proud.
But there were no Utes. Not yet. And as Hunter searched the horizon for any sign of trouble, he wondered if perhaps he was making too much out of this. After all, maybe it was just a coincidence that they hadn’t seen a soul during all of this last week. Maybe they were taking all these precautions for nothing ...
There was no breeze. The air was still and hot. Hunter urged his team of mules into a slightly faster pace. Without a wind, the dust they’d kick up would settle quickly.
The day wore on. Still no recent sign of anyone—white or red.
Ella was tired, exhausted from the long, hot day. Hunter was tired too. When the shadows grew long, he started keeping an eye out for a safe place to camp.
Instead, as they turned a bend around a rock outcropping, he found the charred remains of a stagecoach. Five bodies, four men and one woman, were strewn about the ground near the wreckage of the coach.
Hunter sat stock still, his eyes investigating the rocks and undergrowth near the stage. Ella, however, had no intention of keeping still. She looped the reins over the brake lever and jumped to the ground.
“Get back up here!” ordered Hunter, harshly.
“Someone might still be alive,” she cried out, as she ran toward the bodies up ahead.
It was too late to stop her. He hoped to hell there weren’t any Utes still around. He didn’t think there were, but you never could tell. Scowling, he had no choice but to jump off the wagon seat and join her.
Ella was glad he followed. She needed someone to lean against. The sight of what the Utes had done to these five human beings was more than she could bear.
With her eyes closed, she held Hunter close, getting new strength from his steadiness. She’d seen a lot in her short life—men sliced open with broken bottles, men with their faces obliterated by a blast from a shotgun—but tough as she was, she had never seen anything like this.
One of the men had arrows protruding out of each of his eyes. Another had his feet and hands cut off, then stuffed into a gaping hole in his stomach. All of them were mutilated in some ghastly way. All of them had lost their scalps. But none of the men could have suffered as much as the woman who had been in their company. The face of that poor woman was so twisted with pain and terror that Ella knew that she couldn’t begin to guess the tortures she must have endured. When the Utes were finally finished with her, they cut off her ears, cut out her tongue, and left a war lance sticking out of her chest.
