IT WAS LIKE the end of a high wind, the falling silent of guns. Astonishment equaled uneasiness as the bushwhackers posted along the cliffs tried to understand. In their view nothing was wrong. Sills and his men appeared to be in command, in full charge. Yet his disclaimer, the panic rising almost to a breaking point in his voice, was not to be mistaken.
Montana and his crew gave no sign, waiting. As far as anyone could see, they were the prisoners.
This was bitter medicine for Sills, forced not merely to beg but to explain his own humiliation.
“These ropes run up under our shirts and are looped around our necks! The nooses could close, and the first wild jump of a horse break our necks. So the rest of you, all of you, do whatever Abbott says.” This was a variation, though essentially the same ruse which Montana had used against them before. Forced to move under almost constant observation, it had seemed logical that Sills might turn the tables, but out of the question for them. Being twice hoodwinked was a bitter dose for Sills to swallow.
Small cords bound his wrists and those of his men, the ends fastened to their saddle-horns. They could still manage the bridle reins and hold a gun—its chambers empty. The deception was the opposite of what it seemed. The lariats, in a noose at one end, ran back to the next horse in line, ostensibly as lead ropes. It was fastened there to a saddle-horn, so any run or stampede would render them potential hang- ropes.
The dip had provided the necessary cover for the apparent reversal of roles, and that had been so surprising as to disarm suspicion.
Sills continued in a tone of argument and command. A voice cut him off wearily.
“Sure, sure, if that’s the way you want it, Yazoo. It ain’t no skin off our backs in any case.”
The cattle were still moving, but the horses had halted, the supposed prisoners taking charge. Those who had been posted along the cliffs descended, forming in line at Abbott’s command. They were disarmed in turn.
“You’ll have your guns back by morning,” he assured them, “just as soon as we’re well on our way with our own herd. The rest of you will help cut out the Yazoo stock. Give us your word now to carry out your part of the bargain, with no double-dealing, and we’ll each make our own camp for the night. We can behave in neighborly fashion if not as friends.”
A slender man, almost dwarfed by huge mustaches, looked about with an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes.
“You’ll take our word, with mutual trust?”
“And respect.”
“Which is better than we deserve. Strikes me we’ve been used as cat’s-paws. I’m Brick Thorson, T Lazy Y. You have my word.”
“Fine.” Montana crossed to Sills and released him from his uncomfortable position. “And you, Major?”
“Of course.” Color was replacing the paleness which even the coating of dust had not been able to hide. “One more skirmish, Captain.”
“And more war, eh?” Montana shrugged. To the other outfits, it was a stand-off, and they would insist on the truce being respected. This was a sizable victory, since they would be across their range, toll-free. And Sills, like a rattlesnake, was giving warning before striking again.
Beyond the pass, they made camp. High Card was frankly admiring.
“To work the same stunt twice—that’s something. And it sure caught them off-balance. But the way things were shaping up there, I wouldn’t have given a Confederate dollar for our chances.”
They made the cut the next morning; the herd was easy to handle with so many riders available. In a continuation of the truce, Thorson, Sills and Montana sat their horses and watched, examining the brands and confirming the count. The smaller herd was headed back through the canyon, and with only a curt nod of acknowledgement, Sills and his crew followed.
“You think they’ve had enough? That we’ve seen the last of them?” Crab Herrick asked doubtfully.
Montana’s glance moved to the chuck wagon, where Denise was on the seat, the reins in her hands. It was an accepted axiom of the trail that a woman spelled trouble. In this instance that was doubly true. It would be helpful to know the complete background of Denise and Sills, the meaning of that water-soaked letter which had been washed ashore. Sooner or later, like the letter, they would wash up.
They lost no time lining out in turn. Even if they encountered nothing more than the normal problems of the trail for the remainder of the journey, those could be formidable.
It was raining when they drew clear of the valley and back to the tablelands above the Columbia, and that was good luck. Should the rains be delayed or scanty, those dry stretches could be taxing.
Beyond them, the going would be easier, yet worse. Water and grass would cease to be a problem, but mountains had to be crossed. The hills across southeastern Washington were easy for the cattle, not so simple for a wagon. In Idaho the mountains showed their teeth, one range following another, with foothills between.
Before setting out to acquire a herd, Montana had reviewed distances and problems, timing his passage to the seasons.
Too much delay would mean winter and heavy snow across the high country; blizzards which could block the passes or trap a herd, leaving it to starve and freeze. It was a situation reminiscent of the race against time by the Forty-Niners, on their way to the land of gold. If they conquered the long trail of multiple hazards from river to desert and survived that, they had still to overcome the barrier of the Sierra, of early deep snow.
The long treks up from Texas with herds of longhorns had for the most part been free of mountain hazards, though other problems had compensated. Buffalo, tornadoes, prairie fires, floods, drought, hostile Indians—
At least there were no hostiles between the rivers John Day and the Blackfoot. Red Cloud and his Sioux were well away from their path, strung along the Yellowstone—
Which was not to say that other natives might not be found along their route. His own race too often lumped all Indians indiscriminately as nomads, half-wild hunters or savages. Montana once had been inclined to do the same, accepting the prevailing opinion as a matter of course. Experience had altered his views.
The initial step was usually a skirmish, a cautious acceptance on both sides, followed by a treaty of friendship which usually restricted the rights of the Indians, too often a joker in the deal, of which they were ignorant or misinformed. Too often, Montana knew, such treaties were made with the callous determination to ignore most of their provisions, especially the guarantees of the rights of the red men.
The notion that all red men were nomads was increasingly true, but it had not always been so. Many Indian tribes had enjoyed a high standard of development, living in houses of their own building, or in really comfortable tepees, cultivating the ground, raising crops, industrious and thrifty.
Only when their land had been taken from them, often in disregard for treaties, had they become wanderers on the face of the earth, afforded no other choice.
Such groups, despite efforts of the government to confine them within bounds, might be met unexpectedly and almost anywhere. It was on the third night beyond the canyon that Montana, riding night herd, glimpsed distant riders and wondered if they might be Indians.
The light was none too good, but he decided that there were two. Since they were giving the herd and camp a wide berth, that seemed all to the good.
The moon, and such light as there was, was lost soon after as clouds drew together. He awoke at dawn with rain in his face.
It continued for most of the day, steadily, and water was no problem. The sun broke through briefly as the day waned, and ahead they glimpsed a scattered encampment.
It was in keeping with the surrounding bleakness. There were perhaps a score of tepees, sagging in the rain, as despondent as a hound howling to the moon. They had no need to draw near to be sure that here were none of the finely built homes of proud tribes, only the poverty of an all but lost race striving, not too successfully, for survival.
A few stunted trees and bushes grew along the rim of a coulee, actually less a gulch than a break in the rough flat lands on every side. The trees denoted a spring, a place to camp. With red men as with white, beggars could not be choosers.
Montana’s first impression was of the run-down look of the camp, his second of the absence of dogs. None barked or came rushing in challenge.
The unending plain afforded a wide view. There were no ponies picketed at the edge of the encampment or beyond the trees. No dogs, no horses.
Thin smoke rose from only a single tent. Except for that, there was no sign of life. Then a man edged from a tepee, standing to look at the herd and the riders. He seemed gripped by apathy, as though in the clutch of a discouragement too great to be surmounted.
A squaw, blanket-wrapped, came from another tepee. A small boy crowded close, clutching her above the knees. Montana read the same terror in his face as in the eyes of the squaw.
“What the devil?” Herrick asked uneasily. “Indians? You reckon they’re hostile?”
“I’m not half as much worried as they probably are about us,” Montana rejoined. “No, they’re certainly not that. From the looks of things, they’ve had a hard season.”
His inclination was to shove the herd past with as little delay as possible. But a baby’s wail reached his v ears, the sound not sharp or complaining, but holding the same hopelessness so apparent in the stance of the watchers.
Denise drew alongside, anxiety and puzzlement on her face. Such sights would be new to her.
“What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong? They look hungry.”
The lack of horses, and most of all, of dogs, had warned Montana that hunger was at least one problem. Indians ate their dogs only as a last extremity.
“They appear to me to be starving,” he said. “Famine usually comes near the end of a long hard winter. Here it’s early.”