The Warhunter 3, page 7
“It seems to me,” Bryce insisted, “that sending one man out to check the trail ahead wouldn’t weaken us all that much. And if there should be Indians in our path, a little forewarning might save a lot of lives.”
“I didn’t come back here to talk to you,” Hunter said doggedly, doing his best to control his temper.
“Listen, Hunter,” Bryce persisted, “I’m talking about people’s lives ... women and children. You have a responsibility and I don’t think you’re living up to it!”
That did it.
Hunter spurred his horse, circled around the team of mules that pulled the wagon, and came at Bryce with blood in his eyes. The newspaper reporter steeled himself, holding his ground. At the last instant, however, Hunter veered off and raced toward the back of the train.
Bryce was confused. So was Ella. But less than a second later, they heard the bloodcurdling yells of an attacking band of Indians.
Luckily, Hunter was facing the rear of the train at that moment or he never would have spotted them. There were nine Utes coming out of the woods on the southwestern flank of the wagons. Only two hundred yards separated them from the women and children tending their small herd of cattle.
The Indians were closing in quickly on the rear of the train. The women and children were wide-open targets. They needed a chance to run for cover. A few precious moments had to be bought, at whatever cost, to give his people the time to prepare themselves for battle.
Hunter raced in front of the cattle, putting himself between the Utes and the wagon train. And then he did the unexpected. He raised a scream out of his throat that made the Indian shrieks sound like whispers, and then he turned toward the oncoming band of Utes and charged straight at them, his six-gun palmed in his hand.
The very surprise of Hunter’s action threw the Utes into disarray. They had planned to swoop down on the rear of the train, kill a few whites, and run off the cattle. Now they were suddenly faced with a crazy man who didn’t know enough to see he was outnumbered nine to one.
They closed on each other in a matter of seconds, Hunter galloping right into the center of them, his Navy Colt spewing lead at virtual point-blank range.
One brave fell when a slug pierced his side. Another Ute lost his teeth when a bullet smashed into his mouth and exited through the back of his throat. Hunter’s third shot missed its target, and his fourth only creased a Ute’s shoulder, barely drawing blood.
It didn’t look like there would be a fifth shot. The Indians had forsaken their charge on the wagon train so that they might dispatch Hunter to his eternal rest. They were all around him, closing in for the kill.
An arrow, off its course, struck Hunter’s horse in its flank. The dun stumbled and began to fall. A Ute brave, brandishing a tomahawk, came at Hunter, but Hunter couldn’t react. He was off balance, falling with his horse. The Ute leaned to his right and swept his tomahawk back in order to drive it as deep into Hunter as he could. And just as his arm swept forward to rip into Hunter’s chest, a bullet slammed into the Ute’s forehead, killing him even before the wound had a chance to bleed.
It was Eric Bryce, coming to Hunter’s aid. The scream that he gave as he raced toward the Utes was so feeble it was laughable, but Hunter wasn’t laughing, and neither were the Utes.
Another Indian felt the searing pain of hot lead when Bryce nailed him with a bullet in the hip. And now Hunter, settled on the ground, brought his gun back into play. He hit a brave high in the chest; too high to kill, but low enough to put him out of the fight.
Rifle fire from the wagons added to the woes of this rapidly shrinking band of Indians. The Utes fired their last rounds of ammunition, let go the arrows they had strung in their bows, then quickly turned and made a hasty retreat to the south.
Hunter lay still, catching his breath. His horse, lying beside him, whimpered in pain. The arrow in its flank was deeply embedded, and a large, ever increasing pool of blood gave sad evidence to the fact that the horse would never again rise to its feet.
Hunter had ridden that dun for many a year. He knew the horse’s moods and tempers almost as well as the dun knew Hunter’s. On lonely trails and desperate journeys these last six years he probably spent more time talking to that horse than to any human being he could think of, Ella included.
Reloading his Colt, Hunter slowly rose to his feet. Only then did he see that Eric Bryce had fallen.
The reporter was lying face down, his horse cropping grass beside him. Hunter rushed to Bryce and turned him over, only to discover a relatively minor wound in the reporter’s thigh.
“You scared the hell out of me, lying there like you were dead,” Hunter scowled in disgust. “You’ve got a flesh wound, and not even a bad one, at that.”
“Are you sure?” asked Bryce through clenched teeth.
“I’ve seen enough of them to know,” Hunter retorted. “You just lie still. I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going? Hey! Wait! I need help ... a tourniquet or something!”
Hunter ignored his cries and walked back to the dying horse. He unbuckled the cinch, pulled off the saddle, and removed the bit, all the while speaking softly, calming the animal’s fears.
Reluctantly Hunter drew his Colt and put an end to his old friend’s pain.
“You wasted time with a dying horse while I’m lying here, bleeding to death?” screamed the reporter at Hunter when Hunter returned. “For God’s sake, I just saved your life a few minutes ago!”
“So you did,” said Hunter, matter-of-factly, as he cut open Bryce’s pants leg and looked at the wounded reporter’s thigh. “But that horse saved my life more times than I can remember.
“Lie still now, will you!” ordered Hunter, changing the subject. “First you lie there like death itself, and now you’re wriggling around like a fish out of water. Make up your mind, are you dying or are you gonna get up and dance?”
“All right, all right,” mumbled the reporter. He eased back off his elbows and lay flat on his back.
Hunter ripped a strip out of Bryce’s already torn pants leg and tied it tight above the bullet wound. Within just a few short moments, the little spurts of blood became nothing more than a trickle.
“You’re a lucky man, Bryce,” said Hunter.
“How do you figure?” the reporter asked weakly.
“You’re lucky the Utes attacked when they did, cause otherwise, I might have killed you.”
“It just goes to show you I was right,” said Bryce in his own defense. “We should have had a scout!”
“Behind us?” retorted Hunter, sarcastically. “I recall you saying we ought to have a scout out in front of the train. That wouldn’t have done us much good, seeing as how the Utes attacked from the south. The only way we could have properly defended ourselves against a surprise attack would have been to send out four scouts, one in each direction. And like I said before, that would have weakened us too much.”
“Oh.”
“You’re lucky in another way, too,” added Hunter.
“Yes?”
“You’re lucky you’re wounded. I thank you for saving my life, but don’t think that means I’ve forgotten you tried to make me look bad in front of Ella.”
“Three days ago you made me look bad in front of Ella, too. I haven’t forgotten that either. I’m not afraid of you, Hunter. I was, afraid before, but not anymore. If you want to have it out with me, I’ll be glad to oblige when my leg is better.”
“I might take you up on that,” snarled Hunter, “if you keep hanging around Ella.”
“Jealous, are you?” needled Bryce.
Hunter’s face turned red. There was nothing he liked less than having a stranger see right through him. The reporter, he had to admit, had hit paydirt.
Chapter Thirteen
ELLA AND SOME of the others finally reached the wounded reporter. When they did, Hunter turned his back on them.
Troubled by a rising tide of emotions, he needed a chance to think things through. He had strong and deep feelings for Ella, but could Ella’s feelings for him be waning? He didn’t really know.
In the midst of his reverie, Hunter heard Ella say, “Carry Mr. Bryce to my wagon. I’ll look after him till we get to Soda Springs.”
Whirling around, Hunter angrily demanded: “Why our wagon?”
Ella looked at him with surprise, as did the other members of the wagon train who stood with her. “First of all,” she said, “we have more room in our wagon than anyone else. Second, in case you already forgot, Eric saved your life. I’d think you would want to show a little more gratitude.”
The reporter, despite his wound, looked at Hunter with a smug smile of satisfaction.
Knowing full well that Ella was right—no one else had room enough in their wagon for Bryce—Hunter conceded. Reluctantly, he said: “Take him to our wagon.” And that was all he said.
Hunter went back to his dead horse, picked up his saddle and the rest of his gear, and walked back to the wagon train alone.
For the duration of their trip to Soda Springs, Hunter stayed away from his wagon, Ella, and particularly Bryce. He made camp and slept by his own fire. If Ella wanted to see him, she had only to come to him. But he refused to go to her. As long as Eric Bryce was traveling with her, Hunter would not, could not, swallow his pride.
Ella sensed that the reporter was attracted to her, and she didn’t entirely discourage it. She liked this engaging, charming young man from the East. But that didn’t mean she cared for Hunter any less. In fact, when she was with Bryce, Hunter was usually the subject they talked about most.
As for Bryce, everything seemed to be working out perfectly. Ella’s concern over the fate of her relationship with Hunter made her susceptible to his sympathetic questions. She needed to talk, and Bryce was a very willing listener.
At the least, because of Ella’s help, the reporter was learning more about Hunter than he ever dreamed possible. At the most, because of his ever more intimate association with Ella, Bryce hoped he might eventually win this mysterious and lovely woman for himself.
Bryce, however, had one continuing problem. It plagued both his writing and his hope of winning the affections of Ella Phillips. The problem was he couldn’t get a handle on Warfield Hunter. As a subject for a series of heroic feature stories, and as a man who was his main and only competition for Ella Phillips, Hunter eluded understanding.
That Hunter was brave, there could be no doubt. Bryce had seen Hunter charge nine Indians all alone, willing to sacrifice his life to save the wagon train. But Bryce also saw Hunter in less flattering ways: as a man unwilling to compromise, as a man without patience, and as a very limited man, unable to live any other life except this frontier life of violence.
The troubling thing for Bryce was that every time he made up his mind about Hunter’s failings, something came up to cast doubt on his conclusions.
Ella, without realizing it, gave Bryce information the reporter would have preferred not to have known, about times when Hunter bent over backwards to be fair—like in Turnersville, last winter, when Hunter paid storekeepers for goods that had been stolen from him, even though he had every right to simply take them. And though she told Bryce that Hunter was sometimes impossible—his expectations of her too high, his tolerance of fools too low—it was clear that Hunter had more patience for the important things in life than Bryce had at first been willing to grant him.
As for Hunter’s violent nature, one day, bouncing along inside Ella’s wagon, Bryce did a little snooping. He went through Hunter’s meager belongings and came up with a worn, frayed copy of a seagoing novel called Redburn. Here was a man who owned virtually nothing, yet he chose to carry with him a book. What kind of man, Bryce asked himself, would choose a book as one of his most important possessions? A man who only understood violence? Not likely, Bryce admitted, not likely at all.
There was no understanding Hunter. He was a man of contradictions. A man of the sea, who roamed the plains. A man who killed, who also read books. A man with a thirst for travel, who also wanted the love of a woman.
Somehow Bryce had to find the key to this man. With that key, his writing would catch the very essence of Hunter’s heroism. And also with that key, he might find the crack, the flaw in Hunter’s character, that would drive Ella away from Hunter and into his own arms.
Bryce had no illusions. What he was doing was less than fair. The way he looked at it, though, was that in the long run he would be doing Ella a favor. Hunter could only offer her the poverty of a hard and difficult future. If instead she chose him, there was New York, his father’s fortune, and a grand and easy life. It was clear she liked him. There was no doubt he was completely smitten by her. He’d seen his share of beautiful women, but never before had he met anyone with both the beauty and the strength of character that Ella possessed.
Hunter told him he was lucky to have been wounded. Bryce finally had to agree. Without that wound he would never have been able to spend so much time with Ella.
But now the small wagon train reached the end of its short journey. They pulled into Soda Springs at dusk, eight days after their run-in with the Ute hunting party. Bryce, walking comfortably with the aid of a cane, no longer could stay in Ella’s wagon. He had to take a room in what was charitably known as the Soda Springs Hotel. There he would write his articles, and there he would await future developments in the story of Warfield Hunter, a story in which Bryce, himself, had an ever increasing stake.
August was behind them. Had it been earlier in the summer, those wishing to go to California would have gone farther north to Fort Hall. From there they could have used the Snake River on their way to California, avoiding the worst part of the Great Salt Lake Desert. But the passage on the Snake, though safer for its avoidance of the desert, took much longer. This late in the season the likelihood of October snow in the Sierras had to be uppermost in the minds of anyone bound for California.
If they were to make it to California this year, they would have to cross the Great Salt Lake Desert. And they would have to cross it not only with the threat of thirst, but also with the threat of rampaging Utes.
Hunter was keenly aware of these facts. As soon as he arrived at Soda Springs, he inquired as to when the next wagon train was due. To his relief he learned that an advance scout had just arrived earlier that morning from a train of ninety-three wagons, only three days away. By everyone’s reckoning it would probably be the last big train of the season.
Besides the people Hunter led into Soda Springs, more than a dozen other families were camped there, waiting. Some had been members of earlier wagon trains, left behind in Soda Springs to recuperate from accidents or illnesses. Others, like Hunter’s group, had come to Soda Springs hoping to latch onto a big train and find safety in numbers. And there was still a third category of travelers who waited in Soda Springs: those who had been members of earlier trains, who, for one reason or another, had been kicked out, told to travel with someone else because they weren’t welcome to travel with the train they started out with.
The three Taggert brothers and their cousin Hal Murdock belonged to this third category.
The Taggerts ranged in age from nineteen to twenty-nine. They were all built like boulders, some small, some large, but boulders just the same. The youngest, Wally Taggert, was a short, husky bruiser with mean eyes and a menacing look. He usually started the trouble and his two older brothers, Cal and Zack, would finish it.
Cal was bigger, much bigger, than Wally, and he had a fondness for liquor he couldn’t control. Drunk more often than sober, much of Cal’s massive size had turned to fat.
Zack, however, an unkempt beard marking his appearance, was nothing but muscle and sinew. His younger brothers never crossed him because they knew he could tear them apart. And Zack was wild enough to do it. They followed his lead as much out of fear as because he was the eldest. The man that Zack Taggert followed, however, was Cousin Hal.
Hal Murdock was tall and lean. He wasn’t much like his cousins in appearance except for his high forehead and a mouth full of rotten teeth. He wasn’t much like them in temperament, either. Murdock didn’t like to mix it up with his fists. If someone raised a hand against him, he wouldn’t think twice ... Murdock would simply draw his six-gun and blow the man’s head off. Without any qualms, without a second thought, Murdock would kill. His eyes betrayed no feeling. No fear, no regret, no delight. Nothing. And that was why Zack Taggert was in awe of him, and did whatever Murdock told him to do.
Hunter returned to his wagon, but Ella was nowhere around. She had gone on a walking tour of Soda Springs, giving Hunter the opportunity to make a peaceful gesture upon her return. He built a roaring fire, prepared his special recipe of roasted rabbit, and put it on a spit. She would be pleased with his thoughtfulness. They would talk. Perhaps tonight, thought Hunter, with Bryce finally out of the way, he and Ella would find their way back into each other’s arms.
The rabbit was almost fully cooked. Hunter took it off the spit. The coffee was finished. He took that off the fire, too. The sun had long since disappeared over the horizon, yet Ella had not returned. He was beginning to worry.
Eric Bryce, sitting at the window of his second-floor hotel room, watched Hunter with puzzlement. The plainsman was clearly waiting for Ella. But where was she?
When Hunter strapped his holster on his hip and checked the cylinder of his Colt, Bryce knew for sure that something was wrong. As soon as Hunter left his campfire to look for Ella, the reporter, cane in hand, hobbled out of his room and out of the hotel in pursuit.
When Ella left for her walk around Soda Springs in the late hours of the afternoon, she planned on stopping at the livery stable to have part of the mule team’s rigging fixed, to stop at the Soda Springs Cafe for a cup of coffee that didn’t taste of tin, and lastly to stop at the general store to buy a few supplies and to post a letter.
