THERE WAS A moment of thoughtful, almost speculative silence. Big George broke it.
“Bein’ I’m about half fish, reckon I’ll help the cap’n dive, if you’ll just mosey back to camp, ladies. You understand, Miss Denny ma’am.”
A rich run of color stained Miss Denny’s cheeks, but she nodded contritely. “Of course,” she agreed. “I hope you are lucky.”
She and Mindy Lou climbed the slope. As soon as they were out of sight, Evers began stripping for the dive, along with Montana and Big George.
“I’ll help,” he offered. “You fellows keep a sharp lookout,” he added to High Card and Limpy. They studied the river at the point where tracks showed that the horses had gone in. Its sucking turbulence was not reassuring, the current running swift and deep. A drift of sediment made it impossible to see the bottom.
The odds against finding the pack, especially the poke, were poor. Weighed down by the gold, the pack might have sunk, though if it had broken open it would have been carried along, torn into fragments, while the gold sack settled.
Montana dove, reaching the bottom, scrambling, his fingers clawing. Something heavy and solid gave him a momentary thrill, and then he knew it to be a rock, deeply embedded. Even if the poke was there, it would take sheer luck to locate it.
Surfacing, he gulped air, then tried again. Big George glided nearby, sure as an otter. Evers was farther downstream. They kept at it for some minutes, but clawing along the bottom against such a current was exhausting, unrewarding. Evers was giving it up as a bad job, clinging to the overhanging branches of a willow. Panting, he found it necessary to rest to gather strength to pull himself from the water.
Big George persisted awhile longer. Then his head emerged, followed by arms and shoulders as he waded and the stream grew shallow. In one hand he clutched a frying pan, grinning and grimacing as he met Montana’s eyes.
“Not much to show for my swim,” he confessed. “Looks like the pack busted an’ spilled all over.”
Any further effort was pointless. Eventually, the buckskin sack would decompose and burst, and the shove of the current might deposit nuggets along the shallows and sandy beaches, perhaps triggering a gold rush.
“Thanks for helping,” Abbott said, as with his companions he struggled into his clothes. “It was a pretty long chance at best.”
“Sometimes it’s the long odds that pay off.” Evers shrugged. “I hope it wasn’t too big a loss.”
“About twenty thousand dollars,” Montana admitted. Then a rare grin touched his lips for a moment. “But considering everything, cheap at the price.”
“Sho ’nuff,” George agreed heartily. “An’ mighty lucky that you was aroun’, ’stead of some nocount or nobody at all. I was comin’ fast as I could, knowin’ Miss Denny was in trouble, but I’d have been too late. She’s kind of headlong in her ways, same like her brother was, but that li’l gal’s worth all the gold a man could ever hope to dig.”
Montana caught his horses, then, leading them, climbed the slope. The sun was fast westering.
“How did you ever get out this way, George?” he asked.
“Jus’ chance, I reckon, Cap’n Abbott, suh—an’ mebby luck, since I met her, an’ that li’l gal Mindy Lou, an’ now you again. Yeah, I reckon I sho’ been lucky. After them Yankees went and captured you, I was sho ’nuff lost, not knowin’ what to do. Then the war kind of raveled out, same as a wore-out sock, and I more or less wandered a spell. Found myse’f down in N’Orleans, and hungry. Got a job as a roust about on the docks. Ended up on a ship, sailin’ clear around what they call the Horn. Who-ee, that was a voyage.
“Made up my mind if ever we reached land again and I could get solid ground under my feet, I’d sho’ keep it that way. So when we reached San Francisco, there I was. Tried lots of jobs—an’ fin’ly got in with Mistuh Tom, Missy Denny’s brother. Nice man to work for, Mistuh Webb. On’y moves plenty and is unpredictable, same as a grasshopper. Acquired cattle an’ headed this way, so I come along.
“Then when Missy Denny showed up here a few weeks back, along with that li’l gal Mindy Lou— ’course I was glad to keep on. And when Mistuh Webb was shot., that wa’n’t no time to desert them.”
Aware of his faithfulness, Montana understood that Big George would not be moved despite the odds. They topped the slope above the river, and he looked around thoughtfully.
He had ridden within a stone’s throw of the spot not long before, missing sight of the camp because of a little hill between. Here the ground sloped toward the south, and the camp was just ahead. A small tent was pitched near a big wagon, which he judged served a dual purpose as a supply and chuck wagon as the trail herd moved. Its canvas top was stained and weathered, in contrast to the new white of the tent.
Denise was seated on the wagon tongue, a trim ankle outthrust jauntily, running a comb through her drying, somewhat tangled hair. At their approach she commenced to pile and twist it back in place, calling for Mindy Lou to bring a fresh supply of hairpins.
“The water plucked away every last one I had,” she added on a plaintive note.
“So now I guess we’re jus’ out of luck,” an invisible voice reported woefully while Mindy Lou rummaged inside the wagon. “Ain’t no solitary pin left, Miss Denny. An’ these stores what are run jus’ for men, in this heathen lan’—nothin’ what ladies need, when you do find one. Wait! I’ll take the pins out of my own hair—”
“You’ll do nothing of the sort, Mindy,” Denise contradicted, and, altering her plans, began dexterously braiding her hair. “I’ll manage fine. Oh!” She colored, glancing up suddenly to find Montana approaching. “You didn’t have any luck,” she added, after a swift survey of the trio of faces. “I’m sorry. In a way, it was my fault.”
“Nothing of the kind,” Montana contradicted. “In any case, it’s of no great moment. It could have turned out much worse.”
Off about half a mile was the herd, spread out, quietly grazing. Even at that distance he could see that these were the sort of stock he’d had in mind for his own ranch, not at all resembling their distant longhorn cousins.
The few miles of descent from the plateau had completely altered the land. This range had the look of cattle country, and it was easy to understand why Tom Webb had come that way, having heard about it. Prudence would have suggested finding out in advance if any open range remained, but such a notion had probably never occurred to him. The sheer bigness and emptiness of the land would fool most observers.
Montana knew better. A country might appear empty, but big outfits claimed everything which appeared desirable. Then they backed their claims with an oversized crew and a tough stance.
A single stately evergreen rose sentinel-like behind the wagon. He saw where the sod had been disturbed and then replaced near its base. Tom Webb had found a last resting place.
A treacherous shot, fired from ambush, had marked the end of the trail for him. It was somewhat of a dead end as well for Denise, Dan Evers, and those who made up the crew. Because of the burial, the fact they had lingered an extra day was understandable. None now had any idea where to go, or where he could travel.
Here they were unwelcome, under orders to get out. Yet any trail they picked would render them trespassers anew.
Of course, there was plenty of open range, unclaimed land, farther to the east, where Montana had ridden. Some day that high, dry tableland above the river might be utilized, but he could not picture it as an answer in this case. A herd would starve, if they did not perish for lack of water.
Limpy and High Card had gone to replace the pair who had been watching the herd. As these came in, Evers introduced them.
“Rusty does the cooking.” Copious freckles and matching hair accounted for his name. He was long faced, with the mournful expression of a hound dog. Nodding acknowledgement, he set about preparing supper.
“Crab Herrick feels he has to live up to his name,” Evers added sardonically. “But he’s like a dog with fleas. It likes an excuse to scratch.”
Herrick was spare and gaunt. He eyed Montana levelly, then without a word went about his own affairs.
So far, this oddly assorted crew had remained loyal to Denise at a critical time. But Abbott’s guess was that they actually worked for Evers rather than the Webbs. Over them, individually and collectively, hung a sullen air of uneasiness.
He could almost put the story together. Tom Webb had used his sister’s money to buy a herd, taking advice from Dan Evers, accepting him as a smaller partner in the venture. These men were not cowboys, and normally would have shunned the hardships of the trail. Still, there were times when it might hold a certain attractiveness.
They might have embarked on the adventure with the notion that, somewhere along the way, it would be easy to take over the herd, after disposing of its tenderfoot owner. They would not have counted on Denise turning up or coming along.
It could well be that they had overstayed a doubtful welcome in California. Pretending to be cowboys, traveling to new country, might have been even necessary rather than desirable.
Now all were in an unlooked-for situation. The herd was too valuable to ride away from, yet making a decision on what to do with them was as risky as it was vexing. The bushwhack murder of the owner, the equally callous scuttling of the canoe, in the hope that it might cause another death—this bunch from Yazoo played rough.
The five might be and probably were hardcases and outlaws; the sanctuary they had sought when hiring on as cowhands had proved worse than mythical. Now they were in a tough spot. Undoubtedly they sympathized with Denise, because of her loss and increasingly desperate plight. Accustomed to trouble, they would probably fight if cornered. Whether they would do so, short of that—
As for himself, Montana shrugged. He was caught in the middle, his gold lost, leaving him in something of a fix. Having saved Denise at such a cost, he couldn’t ride away and leave her in a worse situation. She needed help, all that she could get, perhaps more than was available.
Also, there was Big George. Between himself and the black man was a strong bond of affection, an enduring loyalty on Big George’s part. Having signed on with Tom Webb, George had transferred his allegiance to Tom’s sister. Mindy Lou, Denise’s maid, was for him an added attraction.
Denise had disappeared inside the wagon. Montana swung onto his horse and rode out for a look at the herd.
It seemed that Tom Webb’s enthusiasm had been justified. If he had obtained a clear title to them, he had made a good investment. They were pretty much what Montana had had in mind.
Limpy rode, his anxious gaze on the horizon, here much too close for comfort. Having had time to think matters over, his yellowish eyes ranged obliquely over Montana, more approvingly than before.
“Makes a man jumpy,” he confessed. “I got a feelin’ a bunch of them Yazoo riders’ll come bustin’ into sight any time, stampedin’ the herd and usin’ us for target practice. They as much as promised that, if we wa’n’t out of here short of noon today.” He squinted uneasily at the declining sun. “And where’n hell can we go?”
That was the paramount question, with no good answer for either the short or the long haul. Any move would be wrong, yet each hour that they overstayed the deadline added to their danger.
Denise had confessed herself a tenderfoot to this country and its problems. The others had no such excuse, but they had blundered just as badly.
Montana put his horse to a trot and reached the crest above, making a careful survey of the country. Nothing was to be seen, but that meant nothing. Clumps of trees or brush could hide men or horses or both. The land was too broken and rolling to see far.
He rode back, deeply thoughtful. Carefully he picketed both horses, wanting them close at hand. Savory odors suggested that Rusty had been a cook before setting out on the trail. He had a kettle bubbling with stew, a blackened coffeepot which gushed steam, and was tipping baking powder biscuits from a Dutch oven. He filled tin plates and cups as they passed in line. They found seats on the grass, eating hungrily. Denise turned to Montana.
“I’m sorry about the way things have happened, that I got you into this, Mr. Abbott. But since we are all here, I – all of us – would appreciate your advice, any suggestions which you may have. You know cattle. None of us do. The Yazoo outfit, which claims to own this range, have told us that we must move the herd out. But where can we go? At the same time, we can’t stay.”
She had set down her plate and cup to gesture with both hands. As if to emphasize her words, there was a sudden drum of hoofs, the sound drawing rapidly closer. Then riders swept into sight, cresting the slope a scant hundred paces away. Outlined against the sunset, its rays glinting on guns and reflected back from bridle bits, they looked formidable, almost gigantic.
They came with no slackening of pace and pulled up suddenly with a clatter of sliding hoofs and a rising cloud of dust. There was no need to be told that these were the Yazoo crew; eleven of them, men armed not merely with six-shooters but with long- barreled Winchesters. Outwardly, like the bunch he companioned with, they were cattlemen, but as hardbitten a crew as Montana had been given to expect.
The deadline they had given was half a day past. They had come for a showdown, with what they considered a more than sufficient force. In frosty eyes and harsh-lined faces there was no glint of pity or sympathy, merely because the outfit they were challenging belonged to a woman.