IN THE SOFT filter of the moonlight, the cottonwoods and aspens had lost the lean look of winter, while the evergreens filtered the luminescence into dubious wisps of shade and shine. The horsemen who came out from the gloom almost matched them in number, six in all; men with rifles at the ready, who pulled up in uncertainty and uneasiness to view the preparations of Montana’s men.
“Give an account of yourselves,” the leader demanded. Arrogance was a thread of flint through his voice. “Who are you and where are you from?”
The conceited sureness rubbed as if on a raw saddle sore, but Montana responded softly.
“I’m Abbott—Montana Abbott. We’re from Last Chance.”
They showed no surprise at his name, and that was not good. The arrogance was a part of this man, feeding upon itself. “You named it. This could be your last chance. I’ve a bead on you, dead center.”
Montana’s hands were folded by his saddle horn, and only as his horse sidled nervously did the others catch the gleam of the short-gun which he clasped so inconspicuously. His drawl came like a revival of days long gone.
“It’s your turn to explain.” He added, still more softly, “If it comes to shooting, you’ll be the first to die.”
As he had suspected, the arrogance was a mask. The other man’s neck moved in a convulsive swallow, and the hostility eased.
“You misapprehend, friend. I told you we were Vigilantes. I get it now. You’re the fellows who are taking that gold out. I didn’t know who was doing it, only that the attempt was being made. We knew, of course, that the Innocents would be out on this night, so we followed. Had a brush with them a spell ago. Lost them in the dark, and thought we’d found them again when we heard you.”
The tale was plausible enough. The chilling part was the ready admission that their attempt to get out with gold was already widely known. How? Montana answered impassively:
“In that case, put up your guns. Somebody could get hurt.”
Laughter spilled jerkily, betraying an uneasy nervousness, but the leader was quick to comply, and the others followed his lead.
“You’re touchy, Abbott, but I can’t say I blame you. Carryin’ the amount of gold you do, you have to be careful. Lucky that bunch didn’t find you. They might have set an ambush.”
Certainty was growing in Montana. Peg-Leg had not exaggerated the gravity of the situation. The outlaws, whether they were true heirs of the earlier Innocents or merely playing on their reputation, were well organized and dangerous. Despite the sudden decision, then the speed with which he had moved, the secret had not been kept.
The Innocents of an earlier era had depended heavily on treachery, on spies posted everywhere in camps supposedly friendly, men who reported every move as soon as it was planned. Again, that pattern was being followed.
He could be wrong in his assumption, and these six could be friends, as they proclaimed themselves. But he doubted that. The Vigilantes did not go around boasting of themselves or their mission. If these men were lying, then they were outlaws, their bluff called, playing for time, attempting to dispel suspicion. Faced with leveled guns, they preferred a more propitious moment. As long as his crew was alert, the odds were too even for comfort.
And time, Montana knew, would work against himself and his men, not for them. The leader edged his horse closer.
“I’m Toby Curtis,” he explained. “New hereabouts, but ask anybody at Virginia City or Nevada, and they’ll vouch for me. We’re out tonight to help you, and of course you’re heading for Benton with that gold. We’ll go along to make sure that you get there without trouble. Together, we’re strong enough so that any bunch of outlaws will think twice before they attack.”
Montana expressed no thanks, but he did not decline the offer. The Innocents had worked similar ruses many times in the past, joining with a party, then turning on them murderously at a moment when the others were off-guard. He had admitted nothing, but a denial of what the others clearly knew would be a waste of breath.
LaVoie was less discreet. Relief was strong in his voice.
“It beats all how the word gets around,” he sighed, “the way it seems to have done. But you’re as welcome as a swarm of bees in May, friends. A few extra guns to side us won’t make me feel bad.”
Sinbad favored him with a level glance; his voice was brittle with mockery.
“In other words, LaVoie, you ain’t partial to the kind of a bullet that kills you, whether it’s tagged friend or foe.”
LaVoie stared, slow to grasp his meaning. He reddened and began to make an angry retort, but the words died unspoken as a new sound whispered and grew on the night—the heavy, labored steps of a horse. The others stiffened to attention, and Curtis started to swing his own horse, but checked at Montana’s order.
“Hold steady.”
They obeyed, Curtis somewhat resentfully. But when Abbott spoke in a voice of command, no one could doubt that he meant it.
Whatever he had expected, it was not what he saw. It was a big horse which came through the trees, a cayuse a good two hands higher than most, an extra hundred pounds of bone and muscle. It had need of such strength, carrying as it did a double burden—a man slumped inertly across the front of the saddle, steadied and held from falling by the rider, who was wedged in the remaining space. The horse was pulled up abruptly, with a gesture of uncertainty.
The rider was a woman.
Disordered hair straggled about her face, but even under such circumstances she appeared youthful, with an elfin touch of winsomeness. Her eyes ranged the waiting men, manifestly uncertain about them or the quality of their welcome. There were sharply indrawn breaths of amazement or disbelief.
Montana was off his horse and beside the newcomers before anyone else could move. Dark stains on the shirt front of the unconscious man helped explain his plight. There was more blood on the sleeve, raggedly brown along the wrist and hand. Montana judged that the wound was somewhere in the left shoulder. Such a wound was nasty, and might well prove fatal, if it had not already done so. How close it had ranged to the lung could also have a vital bearing.
Montana reached long arms. “Let me have him, ma’am,” he said. “You look done in.”
The girl eyed him steadily for a moment, as though judging, taking stock. What she saw seemed to satisfy her. With a shuddering sigh, she released her desperate grip on the injured man, allowing him to slide. Montana caught and eased him to the ground. An instant later the girl was out of the saddle, stiff and all but falling, concern large in her eyes.
“He’s bad hurt. Sure and if you can do anything …”
“Let’s have a look,” Montana agreed practically, and did so. The others dismounted and crowded around, suddenly uncertain. Montana’s years as a soldier had familiarized him only too well with gunshot wounds. They had also given him a certain rough skill in the care or possible treatment of such injuries.
The wounded man still breathed; his heart had an uncertain beat. That much was to the good. The wound had been bandaged with a fair degree of skill, which had slowed if not entirely stopped the bleeding.
The debit side was heavier. Apparently he had lost a good deal of blood, perhaps before the wound had been cared for. Such bleeding might be a blessing under some conditions. When a wound bled copiously, it often seemed to clean itself and was more likely to heal without complications.
But there were offsetting factors. The bullet was still embedded somewhere in the shoulder, instead of having passed clear through the body and out. Such a mangled chunk of lead could cause all sorts of trouble, in addition to the initial smash and tear of its passage.
And this passage was not so high as he could have wished. Montana doubted if the lung had been penetrated, since if that had happened, the man would probably have been dead already. But it was too low, too near the lung for comfort.
Montana looked up. The girl was kneeling opposite him, and she met his gaze with wide blue eyes.
“Is … is he …?” she faltered.
“He’s alive,” Montana confirmed. “How long since it happened?”
“An hour—perhaps a little longer. We were riding when some outlaws surprised us, bad cess to them. They were bandits, hiding their faces behind masks. Mike tried to fight back. He shot one, but took this wound. I suppose they thought we carried gold, but wherever would we get any?”
“I told you there were bandits out tonight,” Curtis interjected.
“So you did,” Montana admitted. “And then?”
“Sure, when they found that we had nothing worth the stealing, and that I was a woman, I think that they were a little ashamed of how they had behaved. One of them fixed the bandage and lifted him onto my horse. So I started back for Helena, but I could not have held onto him much longer.”
Montana took note of the phrase: “started back to Helena.” Apparently they had been heading away from the gold camp, which in itself might be reason enough for an attack. All who tried to leave were suspect.
She was undoubtedly correct that being a woman had saved them, at least for the moment. Even hardened outlaws might be shaken when making such a discovery.
He had been of two minds as to the next move, with their unwanted escort now attached to their company. A wounded man altered the situation. Such advantage as he had hoped to gain by slipping out unnoticed had been nullified.
“We’ll spend the rest of the night here,” he said. “Everybody can stand some rest, and he certainly needs it. Come daylight, we’ll see.”
The girl was obviously relieved at the decision.
“I’m Molly Molloy, and he is my brother, Mike. Do you think that a doctor would come out from Helena?”
Club-Foot George answered, his words as ponderous as his heavy tread.
“Might—if there was a medico there,” he explained. “Only one the camp has headed out for Virginia City yesterday. Seemed it was an important call.”
Which meant that an interval of several days would ensue before he could return. Montana considered the implications bleakly. Mike Molloy would live or die without benefit of a medico, which thrust an added, unwanted responsibility upon him.
They erected a small tent for Molloy, making him as comfortable as possible. Molly would remain with him. Strain and fatigue lined her face, and Montana volunteered a word of advice.
“He’s not likely to awake or regain consciousness before morning. So you’d best get some sleep if you can. You’ll wake, quick enough, if he should need you.”
She nodded gravely.
“I will try. And need I say that I’m glad we found you? I was desperate.”
“There will be men on guard, so sleep well,” Montana returned. “Good night.”
“Good night, Montana,” she agreed.
Here we go again, he thought. Getting involved with the troubles of another woman—as though I hadn’t enough already. But as the little lady would say, sure and that seems to be my weakness.
Along with Sinbad, he would take the first watch. Sinbad needed no instructions. However he had come by his name, or what it might betoken, he had gained his experience in a harsh school.
Most of the distance to Fort Benton was still ahead, and there would be ample time and opportunity for treachery or ambush. Having Molly Molloy and her brother was an added problem. They could not be left, and taking them anywhere would be hard on the injured man. Though she had given no explanation, he had the feeling that she had no wish to return to Helena.
The watch afforded him time to think, but solutions were not easy to come by. The obvious answer was that anything which he chose to do could readily prove wrong.
The camp had grown silent, men and animals weary, with some ready to call a truce, anxious to sleep while they could. Even those who prowled at this hour by choice seemed to be giving the camp a wide berth. And then a sound obtruded.
It was faint, giving a sense of distance, though that might be deceptive. A second time it came, and with that he located the direction, judged the meaning. He had heard such noises too many times, following battles, to have much doubt. This was the groan or sigh of a man wounded or sick, perhaps dying.
The primary rule for a sentry was to keep to his beat, no matter what. But that did not apply to the officer in charge. Abbott moved like a shadow, presently espying Sinbad, alert and at his own post. Relieved but puzzled, he angled toward the other sound, a soft moaning sigh accompanied by a faint rustle, a dragging in the brush.
He had left the camp behind, skirting a coulee, climbing a small hill. Even small sounds carried a long way at such a time.
The shadows of trees were tricky, and something was half-hidden in the brush, whether man or beast he could not tell. Some quality about it chilled the flesh, so that Montana clutched his drawn revolver with sweaty palm, breathing hard.
Then, as understanding came, he returned the gun to its holster. This creature was a man who crawled on hands and knees in desperation; collapsing in a sudden sprawl, overcome by weakness. The moaning issued from his mouth, as though squeezed up from hi? throat. Then he tried to gather himself and go ahead.
He did not flinch when Montana touched him and spoke, but his eyes opened a little wider, staring unseeingly.
“Water!” he moaned. “Water, for the love of the saints!”
That again was a cry which Abbott had heard many times. Badly wounded men craved water, and this man had been staggering, then crawling, in a frantic effort to reach it. A glance showed that his plight was similar to that of Mike Molloy; only in this instance the bullet had hit lower down. It was a wonder that he had lived this long or managed to get so far. And here, Montana suspected, was very likely the man who had shot Molloy and taken a bullet in turn.