A Week passed.
A shattering week for the whole country that bordered the Sioux territory. First a patrol of cavalry were attacked and scattered by the Indians not twelve miles outside Malcolm. The soldiers had it that the Sioux had attacked them in hordes hundreds strong, but the old-timers, McAllister among them, reckoned cynically that there had been maybe twenty of them. The fifteen-man patrol had lost three dead and two wounded.
Second, a party of miners, eighteen in number, travelling light with saddle- and pack-horses had been attacked and slaughtered to a man about six miles out of town as they crossed the creek. Some said it was Indians and the army agreed because some drunken white scout claimed that the ponies had been unshod and the feathers and whatnot that had been dropped at the place of the massacre had been plainly Indian. Others claimed that it was the same bunch of organized roughnecks who had been cutting men’s throats for a poke of gold for months past. The argument against this was that it was the general opinion that the cut-throats were not organized and this attack had been well-planned. McAllister was certain that it was the cut-throats. He said so to Sime Gregson and Joe Diblon. And it would happen again. His problem was what to do about it. How could he get knowledge of any trip made by miners from the diggings when there was nobody who could bring him the news.
A lot happened in that one week. Joe Diblon was now sitting. up and taking nourishment and McAllister was threatening to pin his badge back on him. Meanwhile McAllister had found premises for Mrs. Tyson and helped her set up her business. Already with fresh gold in town she was doing a roaring trade. McAllister saw to it that he had special treatment and made a point in dropping in on her to enjoy her excellent cooking after his night patrol. She didn’t exactly offer him a warm welcome, but she didn’t throw him out either. He reckoned that if he was to make any headway with this handsome lady, he would have to ease himself in. Jenny Mann he saw little of, though she did look in at the office to see how Diblon was getting along.
Then suddenly when he least expected it, luck came his way. Such luck that he reckoned that if it was a real paying streak it might not only lead him to the gold-takers, but to the man he had searched for the year past.
Elk Lansbury rode into town. Sometimes he was called simply Indian and that gave a clue to this man who had been up and through the Rockies in the old fur days. He was a loner and he wasn’t scared of the whole damned Dakota Nation, as he himself declared frequently. Anyway, he rode into town on his old lop-eared mule and he had tales to tell. And he had them to tell to McAllister.
He had, he said, come down from the north-west through the Black Water country where he had a squaw who belonged to a halfbreed clan of the Tetons. He had stumbled on the gulch which was being mined and there he had met up with the son of a man he used to trap with years back. Sam Lock-year, the son’s name was, same as the father. Now young Sam had introduced him to the others and as he came highly recommended they had hired him to bring a message secretly to McAllister. The message was written on the fly-leaf of a Bible. It stated that the diehards of the diggers now found that the gulch was untenable and they had decided to pull out. Word had drifted back to them that the previous party had been attacked near town and wiped out. They did not want to meet the same fate. Could McAllister therefore do something to help them?
McAllister smiled with grim pleasure. He could help them all right. He gave the old man a few hours’ rest, bought him a meal and a drink or two, then sent him and Sime off in opposite directions to scout the country. They were to search out any likely spots for an ambush. If they saw any number of armed men moving north either separately or in company, they were to report back. They talked it over together and Sime suggested that Elk and he should stick together so that one could ride back with any news, while the other kept watch. McAllister agreed and the two set out. The main worry was that the gold-lifters would move only at night.
Two weeks went by, during which time McAllister was busy with his town-duties. He went to dinner a couple of times with the mayor and his wife, took a drink with the judge and played checkers with the now fast-improving Diblon. He also began to wonder if Sime and the old man were dead.
Finally, one night after McAllister had come back to the office after a good meal at Mrs. Tyson’s place. Sime came in quietly through the rear door. He was wolf-lean, tired and pleased with himself. After he had drunk his pint of coffee, he sat behind McAllister’s desk and put his feet on it.
“Wa-al,” he said, grinning wearily, “while you two old lobos’ve been sittin’ around here on your backsides, li’l ole Sime done settled the bushwackers’ hash for ’em.”
“Do tell,” McAllister said coldly.
Sime and the old man, apparently, had circled wide north of the town for three whole days without picking up any sign at all. However, on the fourth day they came on six different tracks made by mounted men who had traveled north during the hours of darkness. Each man had led a horse. They had camped at a spot that Elk said was called Blue Willow Creek, rendezvousing in the dark and lying so low you could of ridden on top of’em without seeing ’em. That is if you weren’t as damned smart as Sime and maybe Elk.
A little later after the two of them had backed out of there pretty cautiously, they had come on two Teton halfbreed in-law’s of Elk and had learned that more armed men were moving in from the west, having circled wide from the direction of Deadwood. They also stated that they had seen the miners’ train moving slowly down from the Black Water country. So there it was, Sime finished triumphantly. The old thing was all set up for McAllister to make a mess of.
Orally, McAllister cut his deputy down to size but he did not like the problem in front of him now that it was so close. Just now it seemed that he had only wanted to know what he knew now to finish this business. Now that he had this knowledge, he didn’t know what to do with it. Hell, if he had fifty men instead of two (if you could count Elk, who might want no part of this) he could miss the ambush by a hundred miles out on that damned prairie.
He needed air, to walk and to think. Strapping on his gun, he said: “I’m goin’ out.”
“We don’t have no time to waste,” Sime told him.
Out on the street, things were simmering off a little. There was only one fight going on outside the saloon opposite and no more than twenty men watching it. McAllister looked the other way.
A flutter of light-colored cloth caught his eye. Outside the store run by Jenny Mann’s brother-in-law. At once he was alert. It was Jenny all right. He watched her run along the sidewalk, dodge around a drunken cowhand and dive into the alley by the saloon formerly owned by Paston. McAllister moved. If Paston were in town and the man and woman wanted to meet, where else than in their former meeting-place? McAllister got himself into the shadows of the alley opposite the saloon and waited. He stayed there for an hour without stirring, playing a hunch and keeping his patience like an Indian.
Rather to his disappointment, Jenny appeared at the mouth of the saloon’s alley alone, looked nervously left and right and ran back toward the store.
Suddenly McAllister realized that if she had met Paston he could have gone down the alley and reached a horse tied to the south of town that way. He started from his hiding place and quickly stepped back into cover again.
A man appeared from the alleyway, walking casually. It was Paston.
McAllister watched him.
He turned west along Main and McAllister followed, keeping to the shadows. Twice the man stopped to check if he was being followed and both times McAllister reckoned that he had not been spotted. On Fremont, Paston calmly mounted a horse and leading a second rode at an unhurried trot out of town. McAllister had to hand it to him. He was a cool sonofabitch.
McAllister thought quickly.
Cold reason told him to wait until daylight to pick up the trail. Trailing at night was nobody’s picnic. But come daylight it might be too late. Also it might rain and the tracks could be washed out. He turned and ran hard for the office, burst inside and shouted for Sime to get fresh horses. Good ones. The Texan started to complain, but McAllister cut him short.
“Can you watch the store, Joe?”
“Sure, you go ahead.”
McAllister threw a few cans into a gunny-sack as Sime legged it out the door. Next a couple of boxes of shells, then, as an afterthought, a few more to be on the safe side. He said so-long to Diblon and trotted down the street toward the livery and bawled Sime out when he got there because the horses weren’t ready. Within fifteen minutes of Paston leaving town, they were on his tail.