MONTANA NOTICED THAT his abrupt decision seemed to startle Mr. Severson, the first officer, as much as it pleased Molly. He stared and gulped, looking as though he had swallowed something the wrong Way. But Molly, although somewhat incredulous, was wholly delighted, relief washing away the trouble in her eyes.
“Oh, will you, Montana?” she breathed. “I’m so glad. This news has upset me, but having you along will help a lot.”
“I trust that you’ll be able to find room for me?” Montana asked the mate.
Severson shrugged, making a quick recovery. He wore a uniform a couple of sizes too small, as though it had been made for another man. Now a wintry amusement caused pale eyes to seem even grayer, as though he understood both Montana’s purpose and Molly’s outburst and were contemptuous of both.
“I expect that we can fix you up, one way or another,” he agreed carelessly. “I’ll inform Captain Russell.”
Within minutes, as though the Belle had only been awaiting their arrival, they were under way. With a shrill blast of its whistle, the big paddle-wheel churned, backing them out into the current. A handful of spectators watched from the shore, and there was a stirring of interest in the Indian encampment.
Molly’s agitation explained some things while obscuring others. From her expectancy and subsequent disappointment, it seemed apparent that Captain Pritchett must be a very good friend. They had looked forward to seeing him and were badly shaken by the news of his illness, providing that that was what it was.
On the surface, there seemed no reason to doubt such an explanation. Mike Molloy had been sick, and others could fall ill. But the wrongness which Abbott had sensed more than once since taking on this job because of the bright eyes of Kate Webberly was sweeping back like fog. He had supposed that his troubles would be behind him if he reached Benton with the gold shipment intact. That had been managed, and technically he had done his job, fulfilled his responsibilities.
But there were too many remaining pieces to this puzzle, which fitted together much too neatly. And the pattern they made was all wrong.
The Belle was a veteran river craft, bright with fresh paint but beginning to show signs of age. Several passengers were going out, this being the first opportunity of the year, making a full complement of passengers and crew. A room was found for the Molloys, partly because of Mike’s illness, perhaps also as a courtesy to friends of the absent captain.
Mike had stood up well under the ordeal of the trail, his wound healing as rapidly as Montana had hoped. But, looking white and shaken, perhaps as much from the news they had received as from weariness, he had gone at once to lie down. Montana strolled about, almost unnoticed in the confusion attendant to take-off; the fort was already shut away by a bend of the river.
For a once neat boat which had probably been the pride of its particular run, the Belle was cluttered and frowsy. Freight was piled high wherever room could be found, crowding every foot of space. Bales of fur were piled high, pelts traded by the Indians and trappers, destined for the big warehouses in St. Louis. Beaver plews seemed predominant, but Montana readily identified wolf skins, bear, even the distinctively pungent stench of wolverine. Partly hidden by these high piles, he checked at the sound of voices from a neighboring aisle, words more revealing than the speaker might guess.
“Sure, these skins are worth a lot of money, but they’re small stuff compared to the gold we have on board. We’re runnin’ rich this trip—the same as if King Midas was a passenger.”
“I ain’t heard of no king being aboard, but that was quite a shipment of dust an’ nuggets those Johnny-come-latelies brought from Helena, all right. They tell me it was worth maybe a hundred thousand dollars.”
“All of that, I reckon, and that’s what we were waiting for the last few days. But that’s less than half the amount that was brought from Alder Gulch. Altogether, there’s a good third of a million dollars—” The speakers moved beyond earshot, but Montana was intrigued. In a sense, it was logical that gold should also have come from Virginia City and other camps, to be sold or deposited in Eastern banks. At the same time, the safe arrival on board of such sums in gold was even more incredible than what he had accomplished, with so few difficulties.
Normally, goods from Alder Gulch would have moved by way of Helena to reach Fort Benton. That route had become an established road. This shipment almost certainly had not. For secrecy and security, a more easterly route might have been taken, and apparently it had worked, even as had his own venture.
“Which sounds like good planning, with some well-kept secrets,” he muttered. “Only those secrets were known right from the start—and nobody lifted a finger to interfere. Quite the contrary. In my case, it’s as though Curtis and his bunch were along to make sure that the gold was delivered instead of being swiped by another bandit crew. Of course, they could be Vigilantes, as they claimed—”
He had noticed another peculiar thing: his own particular group of Vigilantes were also on board, heading down-river, along with a staggeringly rich hoard of gold. He shook his head in unwilling admiration as the magnitude of the plan began to be clear.
Maybe they could have stolen it along the trail, but gold isn’t much good, back where it’s mined. Nothing much to spend it for, and too much risk. But down-river, say in St. Louis or New Orleans, with no one to know them or suspect—
He was sure that his hunch was right. It was not due to luck that the overland passage had been made in safety. That had been as carefully planned by the outlaws as by Peg-Leg and others who had mined the gold. Now the absence of Captain Pritchett from the deck of his own boat, all the other factors, assumed new and ominous proportions.
On the high seas, such an operation is called piracy, he thought. And these river pirates are running the show. And what a show!
This would take some thinking about, but at least there was no great hurry. With the Belle of Orleans in their possession, with its cargo of furs and nuggets, the pirate crew had only to make one final, quiet move at the proper time. Until then, it was to their interest to avoid all show of violence or irregularity.
But sooner or later that time would come, and the Molloys, like himself, were enemies. They would be watched, then dealt with should the need arise. He particularly was a marked man.
I should have stayed ashore, he thought wryly, yet without regret. His undertaking had been to deliver the gold safely, and as long as it was threatened, his obligation to Peg-Leg, to Kate Webberly, and her absent husband, remained. Of at least equal importance was the welfare of the Molloys. The river boat had loomed as a haven for them and for the gold. Actually, it was likely to prove a trap.
The Belle was sliding down-river at a quickening pace, the high water giving a strong push, the paddle-wheel poised but ready to add speed at any time. Ahead was spectacular scenery, some hundreds of miles where the river channel had cut through fantastic rock formations; the brilliant colors and natural designs were outstanding. Offsetting such beauties were added perils: swift currents, with sudden curves and cliffs, combined with sandbars and snags which could rip the bottom from a boat. But the present captain and crew seemed to know what they were about.
They’d better, Abbott thought, with a landman’s uneasiness about an unknown mode of transportation. Otherwise, all the gold aboard will be for the fishes.
For the moment, he must give no sign of his suspicions. He strolled about, asking an occasional question, familiarizing himself with the boat. He ate an excellent meal with the Molloys. Molly joined him outside in the westering glow of the sun.
Apparently her earlier uneasiness had been resolved. They were safely on board, and a few days run should bring them home. And if Captain Pritchett had been ill, there was a reasonable chance that they would find him well on the road to recovery. She chatted gaily, and Montana responded to the lightness of her mood, thankful to put aside worries for the moment. Then she broke off in the middle of a sentence, her eyes widening. Seeing at what she stared, Montana felt a similar chill.
“What is it?” she whispered. “It looks like blood.”
“Something must have spilled and made a stain,” Montana returned with careless reassurance. But she was almost certainly right. Blood had been spilled on the deck, and his guess was that it had happened only days, perhaps hours, before. It had been wiped and swabbed away, but hastily and carelessly, the planking not scrubbed to a gleaming whiteness such as a careful captain would demand.
There could be many explanations, some innocent. A bear or deer along the shore might have been shot, dragged aboard and allowed to bleed. But somehow he doubted that. It would have been gross carelessness, not at all logical.
Out, damned spot, he thought. Only it didn’t come out. And that spot had more than likely been human blood. In taking over a craft from her rightful captain and crew, there might well have been murder. And the tale that the Belle had passed to Captain Russell’s command half a year before could be as fanciful as the other. The real transition might have come through violence, and only days ago.
The Belle had tarried overlong at Benton, not about to depart without the gold he was bringing. Anxiety to maintain her schedule could be reason enough for the headlong speed with which they were departing. But apprehension might have something to do with it.
Molly was suddenly quiet. Like himself, she sensed the atmosphere of wrongness which permeated the boat like the stench of the hides. Her hand touched his and, feeling its coldness, he closed his own fingers reassuringly. Her hand was not withdrawn.
The sun was sinking in a pool of crimson, as though it had plopped into the river. The lengthening shadows along the shores became a belt of gloom, and he felt her shiver.
“Montana,” she whispered, “I’m scared.”
As startling as it was unexpected, the huge form of the first officer materialized before them. Probably he had merely stepped from behind a pile of high-stacked pelts,-but the effect was the same.
“No reason to be frightened, ma’am,” he said, and the words were meant for reassurance. “There’s not likely to be more trouble—and if there is, I reckon we can handle it.”
“More trouble?” Molly repeated. “Has there been some?”
“Reckon I ought to bite my tongue for bein’ a blunderin’ fool,” the mate said contritely. “Only I took it that you knew—’most everybody does. There was a mite of trouble on the up-river run, hereabouts. Indians.”
“But I thought the Blackfeet were friendly … peaceful.”
“Peaceful enough, I guess. As for being friendly—” Severson sounded doubtful. “It wasn’t Blackfeet that pestered us. Sioux, I reckon, and sometimes they’re a different kettle of fish. But I’m frightenin’ you, ma’am, without cause. There wasn’t no real trouble, when it comes right down to cases.”
“But there must have been something,” Montana replied.
“Well … sort of.” Severson sounded reluctant, as though repenting what he had already revealed. “All that actually happened was that we could see them prowling along the shores. One of the passengers got a little trigger-happy. Dropped one of them in his tracks. After that, we didn’t see another sign of them.”
“You mean a man was murdered just because he offered a good target?”
Severson coughed apologetically.
“Killing an Indian ain’t exactly murder, ’specially since they’re usually hostile,” he retorted. “Of course we don’t approve of such conduct, and Captain Russell told him so, plain and pointed. But it had already happened.”
“And that was all he did … just gave the killer a piece of his mind?”
“That was about all he could do, really. It ain’t considered no crime … not in the law books. We got rid of him at Benton; he took off, and we were glad enough to have him go.”
His explanation could account in part for the prevailing atmosphere. They were bound down-river, through that same stretch of country, and uneasiness gripped those who knew what had happened. The Sioux might be waiting, anxious to retaliate. And there was a long, ugly stretch of territory before the river and valley would widen so there would be scant risk from an attack.
One point he had left unexplained. Montana was increasingly curious about that blood on the deck, since according to Severson’s account, only an Indian on shore had been killed.