Bryce stood up. “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “But I should tell you that I’m going to write about you anyway.”

  “Your privilege,” stated Hunter. “Just stay out of my way.”

  Talking with Bryce left a bad taste in Hunter’s mouth. He would have said no to Bryce on any account, but he wondered if his anger at Ella had boiled over to scald the reporter. It wasn’t his usual way to snap at strangers.

  Hunter looked up at the sky. It was getting cloudy. Maybe it would rain later. It was a good reason for going to bed in the wagon, but Hunter’s pride, if not his anger, would not allow it.

  He reached into the back of the wagon and pulled out his bedroll. Last night, Ella refused him her company. Tonight he would refuse her his.

  Near the powder magazine, by the north wall, Eric Bryce, already wrapped in a bedroll, watched Hunter get settled under the wagon. He noted the fact that Hunter wasn’t sleeping with Ella.

  A clever man, Bryce was adept at making circumstances work to his advantage. Perhaps there was a card to be played in this rift between Ella and Hunter. It was certainly a cinch that without the plainsman’s help, he was going to have to come up with a new angle if he planned to write anymore War Hunter stories worth sending back to New York.

  A light drizzle was falling that morning. The hard-packed ground in the fort was slippery, though not yet muddy. Hunter walked gingerly away from the main gate after asking the sentries when the rain had started coming down. Rain affects the habits of wild game, and Hunter was trying to gauge how these changing conditions would affect the efforts of the hunting parties.

  If the dark, gray skies and another bad night’s sleep weren’t enough to put him in a foul mood, the sight of Eric Bryce, hunkered down around Hunter’s campfire, sipping coffee with Ella, was all he needed to turn his mood completely black.

  Bryce and Ella were sitting close together, near the fire, within the snug confines of a makeshift lean-to Hunter had put up before visiting the sentries.

  “Good morning,” said Bryce when Hunter approached.

  “Yeah,” answered Hunter, sourly.

  Ella silently offered Hunter a cup of coffee. When he took it, she said, “Eric looked as bedraggled as a half drowned coyote pup. It seemed like he needed a warm, dry place to sit, so I invited him to join us.”

  Hunter nodded.

  Western hospitality has its rules. Once someone’s invited in, you don’t throw him out. But that didn’t mean Hunter had to stay. After draining his coffee cup, he left them and met with some people who hoped to leave Fort Bridger for Soda Springs.

  “Not very friendly,” said Bryce of Hunter, after Hunter had gone.

  “He’s not so bad,” said Ella, in a less-than-ringing defense.

  “How long have you known him?” he asked.

  “Since Turnersville, although we didn’t get to know each other well until after we left.”

  “I see,” said Bryce, thoughtfully. “That means you’ve only known Hunter for four or five months. I suppose you really don’t know all that much about him then, do you?”

  “Not all I’d like to know, but it doesn’t take long to learn the most important things. Some men, I grant you, take a while to figure out. And some men can fool you. But Hunter? No. I think I know him pretty well.” With a sudden tinge of doubt, she added: “At least I hope I do.”

  “Tell me something about him,” suggested Bryce. “Nothing personal, of course. I mean, something about his past, something about his youth. Where is he from? What is his background?”

  Bryce pushed just a little too fast and a little too hard. Ella caught on to the fact that she was being pumped.

  “Why don’t you ask him those questions yourself?” she said with a puckish grin.

  Because of her playful smile, Bryce decided to take a chance with the truth: “Because he won’t talk to me,” he admitted. “I was sent out here specifically to write a series of stories on Hunter and he won’t cooperate.”

  Ella felt a certain sympathy for the reporter. He was only trying to do his job. She also had the notion that Hunter might be punishing Bryce for bringing up the issue of the five unburied bodies. It was one of those things in Hunter’s character that she wasn’t quite sure of. At any rate, she felt she owed Bryce something for the peace of mind he’d given her when he acknowledged the burial of the five corpses. And then there was one other factor ...

  “I’ll make a deal with you,” she said slowly, thinking it over as she spoke. “I’ll tell you some of what I know about Warfield, if you promise two things. First, that you won’t twist or change the truth; and second, that you keep any details about me, including my name, out of your stories.”

  “I had no intention of writing anything other than the truth,” he replied. “I might make events a little bolder, a little sharper than they were when they actually happened, but I promise to be faithful to the spirit of the truth. You have my word.

  “As for your second request,” he continued, “I’m a little mystified. May I ask why you wish to be left out of these stories?”

  “No, you may not,” said Ella, decisively.

  “Perhaps something about the West has escaped you,” she went on to explain. “Folks out here never delve into a person’s past. I’ll be breaking that code by telling you about Warfield. The way I see it, though, he has nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “And you do?” he gently asked.

  Her face became a mask that hid all emotion.

  “Those are my two conditions,” she said stolidly, refusing to answer his question. “Do you accept my offer or not?”

  “I accept it ... gratefully,” Bryce responded with sincerity. “And I’ll honor both of your conditions. You have my word as a gentleman.”

  The mask disappeared. A mischievous smile creased her face. “A gentleman?” she cried in mock astonishment. “Since when do gentlemen become newspaper reporters?”

  Bryce grinned and said, “I misspoke myself. You have my word as the son of a gentleman.”

  “Oh,” she went on playfully, “are you the black sheep of your family?”

  “Yes, I’m the black sheep, but I’m a herd of one. My mother wanted a daughter and my father wanted a banker. I fear I’ve failed them both,” he laughed.

  “You’re an only child?” she asked more seriously.

  “The one and only,” he retorted with bravado.

  “I imagine you’re used to getting your own way,” she said pointedly.

  “It’s true,” he admitted with a grin. “The fact is, I’m totally incorrigible.”

  “But are you a good writer?”

  Bryce stopped his kidding. With complete earnestness, he said: “I’m the best newspaperman in New York City.”

  “That’s fine,” said Ella, “But you’re not in New York.”

  “Isn’t that the truth?” laughed Bryce, taking his eyes off Ella for the first time since Hunter left them alone.

  He looked out across the compound and saw that the drizzle had turned into a heavy rain. There was virtually no activity inside the fort. Bryce doubted Hunter would venture back to the wagon while the rain was coming down so heavily.

  Looking up at the sky, he prayed for more rain. He needed the time to talk with Ella about Hunter. Bryce realized that he had been wasting a valuable opportunity, talking about himself. But Ella didn’t seem to mind. And if Ella didn’t mind, then neither did Bryce. His eyes settled on her lovely features again ... and the heavy rain continued.

  Chapter Eleven

  IT WAS STILL raining early that afternoon when one of the hunting parties hailed the fort. Their wagon, piled high with the carcasses of mule deer, pronghorns, and elk, rolled slowly toward the front gate on wheels running deep into the muddy trail.

  Despite the miserable weather, folks came out of their shelters to whoop and holler when the hunters and their wagon entered the fort.

  Unfortunately for those hoping to leave Fort Bridger, this team of hunters wasn’t the group that had traveled north on the trail to Soda Springs. They had been to the southeast, but their report, nonetheless, was encouraging: no sign of Ute war parties.

  During the busy hours that followed, Hunter helped unload the wagon of its rich cargo of meat. Every so often he glanced in the direction of his camp. Bryce was still there.

  Then a second hunting party returned. Their wagon also was full of game. But, again, this was not the group of hunters who had gone to the north. Like the first hunting party, they said they saw no sign of Indians.

  Work began on unloading this second wagon. Hunter was tired and dirty, smeared with the blood of a dozen different wild animals. He was also getting fed up with the sight of Bryce lazing about when there was work to be done.

  “Be back in a minute, fellers,” he said to the dozens of men and boys who were helping cart the fresh carcasses to the slaughterhouse to be skinned, and then to the smokehouse, where, depending upon the meat, it would either be smoked or salted.

  Hunter marched across the compound, up to Ella and the reporter, grabbed Bryce by the front of his shirt, and jerked him to his feet.

  “I don’t mind that you eat my food and drink my coffee,” he rasped. “I don’t mind that you take comfort in my camp. And I don’t mind you spending time with Ella. But,” he said with rising anger, “I sure as hell do mind you sitting on your ass when there’s work to be done. You can come and help on your own, or I can drag you over there through the mud. Which way do you want it?”

  Bryce was no pipsqueak. He was almost as big as the plainsman, and, despite his genteel upbringing, he had fought his share of back-alley brawls. He knew how to box and he knew how to fight dirty. He would have answered Hunter’s challenge then and there, only one important thing stopped him. Hunter scared the hell out of him.

  After listening for hours to the incredible events of Hunter’s life, as told by Ella Phillips, Bryce had begun to forget that only last night he had dubbed War Hunter as “just a man.” Hunter was more. Much more.

  With that thought in mind, when Hunter, covered with blood and snarling his anger, violently wrenched the reporter to his feet, Bryce was in no frame of mind to complain.

  “Okay, okay,” he entreated, “I’ll help.”

  An uncontrollable shudder of fear ran through Bryce’s body as Hunter released his grip. He felt like a child threatened with a spanking by a stern relative. It was a feeling he didn’t much like.

  “Let’s go,” said Hunter.

  “Right,” muttered Bryce.

  “Warfield!” Ella called out sharply.

  “You keep going,” said Hunter to Bryce. “Ask for Harvey. He’ll tell you what to do.” With the reporter on his way, Hunter turned and faced Ella.

  “What is it?” he asked irritably.

  “It’s you!” she asserted. “You didn’t have to act that way. You were rude, crude, and uncouth! I think you were hoping Eric would stand up to you, so you could knock him down!”

  There was some truth in what she said; enough to make Hunter feel uncomfortable. He’d be damned if he’d admit it, though. “Eric, as you call him,” he said savagely, “is big enough to defend himself. He doesn’t need you.”

  “And maybe neither do you!” she shot back.

  Ella was sorry she said it as soon as the words passed her lips. Hunter, however, didn’t wait for an apology. He stormed away, both angry and hurt.

  It wasn’t until dusk that the last hunting party returned to Fort Bridger. Though their wagon was less than half filled with game, the report they delivered more than made up for the meager results of their hunt.

  The trail north, as far as they scouted, was clear.

  There was a note of caution, however, sounded by one of the scouts. The usually plentiful wild game had been anything but that. That could mean Ute hunting parties were also in the area. Just because they hadn’t seen any sign of Indians didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Still, in all, for those who wanted to move on, the news was heartening. After all, it wasn’t so terribly far to Soda Springs, not when you considered the hundreds, even thousands of miles many of these people had already traveled, and the hundreds of miles yet before them once they hooked up with wagon trains out of Soda Springs for Oregon and California.

  It would be dangerous, sure; but now they had the confidence they could make it. The way they saw it, two things were on their side. They would have some safety in traveling together in a train, and, just as important, they would have War Hunter as their wagon master.

  Plans were discussed and final decisions were made that night. Eight wagons would roll out of Fort Bridger at first light. All told, twelve men and older boys, fourteen women, and nine small children were to make the trip to Soda Springs.

  In the small hours of the night, while Hunter slept fitfully under his wagon, others throughout the compound didn’t sleep at all. Though most of those who said they would be part of the wagon train believed their chances for getting through were good, a couple of families were afraid they might have made a mistake in committing to the journey. Their second thoughts were turning into third thoughts, which were turning, ultimately, into changed minds.

  At dawn they told Hunter they weren’t going.

  It was Hunter’s duty, then, to tell the others that their numbers had been severely reduced. Now instead of twelve armed men, there would be only nine, three of the nine being young boys, barely into their teens.

  Every man who could carry a gun was important. Losing three men at this point, just as they were about to roll out of the fort, brought everything to a standstill. Each family had to decide anew if the odds were still in their favor, if they were still willing to risk their lives and the lives of their children. If one more family dropped out of the train, the stampede of fear would be on. No one would leave.

  Hunter held an open meeting just inside the front gate. Everyone had a chance to speak his piece. Some spoke bravely of going on, while others said they were concerned the train might be too small now to protect itself. As the debate dragged on, it looked as if two more families were on the verge of pulling out.

  But, just then, a bleary-eyed Eric Bryce ambled up and innocently said: “Sorry I missed your meeting last night. I was so tired from hauling meat, I just had to go to sleep. I trust, though, you’ve counted me in.”

  “No, we didn’t count you in,” Hunter replied evenly. “I thought you’d be going back to New York.”

  “Nope. I’m still writing that series,” said Bryce.

  “Are you any good with a gun?”

  “Best marksman at Yale,” he answered proudly.

  “That’s fine. Just keep in mind that if we run into trouble, you won’t be shooting at paper targets.”

  “I’ll be sure to remember that,” said Bryce, meeting and holding Hunter’s gaze.

  “Well now,” one of the women called out exuberantly, “we’ve got ourselves another gun hand. That makes ten. I’m no sharpshooter, but I guess I can handle a rifle if I have to.”

  Her husband spoke up: “Maureen ain’t half bad with a gun. Fact is, she’s a damn sight better than a lotta folks I know.”

  “That makes eleven!” someone shouted.

  “I can shoot,” Ella volunteered.

  “I’ll vouch for that,” said Hunter.

  “Twelve!” shouted a chorus of voices.

  “Well, then,” the woman named Maureen exclaimed, “what are we waitin’ for? Let’s get a move on!”

  It was as simple as that. Everyone rushed to their wagons, herded their cattle, and jumped into their saddles. The gates of Fort Bridger were flung wide open, and off they rolled to the north.

  Chapter Twelve

  BECAUSE HE WAS elected wagon master, Hunter couldn’t ride with Ella in his own wagon. After her words yesterday afternoon, Hunter hadn’t even been sure she’d be willing to travel on to Soda Springs with him. Yet she tried to be friendly at breakfast that morning, and had spoken up at the meeting before leaving the fort. Perhaps, thought Hunter, all was not lost.

  He was sorry now that he wouldn’t have much time to work things out with her. As wagon master, he was dashing up and down the line of wagons, giving his saddle horse and his own patience a workout.

  Something was constantly going wrong. The wagons would string out too far, leaving themselves vulnerable to attack, a wagon wheel would break, some of the more rambunctious cows would break away from the small herd being shepherded by a few of the women and children. And each time something went wrong, Hunter had to be there to set it right.

  And then there was Bryce.

  The reporter rode alongside Hunter’s wagon, his hat tipped back at a rakish angle, passing the time of day with Ella.

  There was only so much of Bryce that Hunter was willing to take.

  By the afternoon of the second day, the small group of wagons were trail-broken and things fell into a peaceful routine. With a little spare time on his hands, Hunter fell back to spend a few minutes with Ella. Bryce was there, of course, but Hunter resolved to ignore him as much as he could.

  “We’re making good time,” she said happily to Hunter when he reined in beside her on the east side of the wagon.

  “Yeah. Yesterday was pretty ragged, but we’re rolling along pretty good today.”

  “Shouldn’t you have someone scouting up ahead?” questioned Bryce, who was riding across from Ella on the west side of the trail.

  Hunter held his temper in check. “No,” he said tightly, “we shouldn’t. We can’t afford to weaken our strength. We just have to stand ready, as best we can.”

  Ella shot a look at Bryce, signaling him with her eyes to say no more. But Eric wouldn’t stop. He had questions for which he wanted answers, and, what’s more, he had his dignity to defend. Ever since he meekly caved in to Hunter three days ago on that muddy afternoon, he had been looking for an opportunity to stand up to Hunter as an equal. There was no better time than the present.

 

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