Red Cloud, most influential chieftain among the Sioux, had tried to hold the tribes together, and despite the continued betrayal of treaties by the white man, had sought to abide by the code laid down for his. With Man Afraid Of His Hoss, the Ogallala chief, Red Cloud was the strongest of all the Sioux leaders.
With Custer’s march into the Black Hills and the increasing travel over the Laramie and Bozeman trail, the Sioux were growing restless. The Sioux medicine man, Sitting Bull, was indulging in war talk, aided a abetted by two powerful warriors, skilled tacticians and great leaders, Crazy Horse and Gall.
No one in the West but understood that an outbreak of serious nature was overdue.
Rafe Caradec was aware of all this. He was aware, too, that it would not be an easy thing to prevail upon the doctor to leave the Fort, or upon the commandant to allow him to leave. In the face of impending trouble, his place was with the Army.
News of the battle of the Crazy Woman, after Ann’s warning, reached her that evening. The return of the triumphant Shute riders was enough to tell her what had happened. She heard them ride into the street, heard their yells, and their shouts.
She heard that Bo Marsh was definitely dead. Even some of the Shute riders were harsh in their criticism of Tom Blazer for that action.
While the Shute outfit had ridden away following their attack, fearful of the effects of sharpshooting from the timber, they were satisfied. Winter was coming on, and they had destroyed the cabin on the Crazy Woman. Mistakenly, they also believed they had killed Brisco and wounded at least one other man.
Sick at heart, Ann had walked back into her room and stood by the window. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by the desire to get away, to escape all this sickening violence, the guns, the killings, the problems of frontier life. Back East there were lovely homes along quiet streets, slow-running streams, men who walked quietly on Sunday mornings. There were parties, theatres, friends, homes.
Her long ride had tired her. The touch of Rafe Caradec’s hand, the look in his eyes had given her a lift. Something had sparked within her, and she felt herself drawn to him, yearning toward him with everything feminine that was within her. Riding away, she had heard the crash of guns, shouts and yells. Had she been too late?
Where was her sympathy? With Shute’s riders? Or with this strange, tall young man who had come to claim half her ranch and tell fantastic stories of knowing her father aboard a ship?
Every iota of intelligence she had told her the man was all wrong, that his story could not be true. Bruce Barkow’s story of her father’s death had been the true one.
What reason for him to lie? Why would he want to claim her land when there was so much more to be had for the taking?
Her father had told her, and Gene Baker had agreed, that soon all this country would be open to settlement. There would be towns and railroads here. Why choose one piece of land, a large section of it worthless, when the hills lay bare for the taking?
Standing by the window and looking out into the darkness, Ann knew suddenly she was sick of it all. She would get away, go back East. Bruce was right. It was time she left here, and when he came again, she would tell him she was ready. He had been thoughtful and considerate. He had protected her, been attentive and affectionate. He was a man of intelligence he was handsome. She could be proud of him.
She stifled her misgivings with a sudden resolution and hurriedly began to pack.
Vaguely Ann had sensed Barkow’s fear of something but she believed it was fear of an attack by Indians. Word had come earlier that day that the Ogallala were gathering in the hills and there was much war talk among them. That it could be Dan Shute whom Barkow feared, Ann had no idea.
She had completed the packing of the few items she would need for the trip when she heard the sound of gunfire from the National. The shots brought her her feet with a start, her face pale. Running into the living room, she found that Gene Baker had caught up his rifle. She ran to Mrs. Baker and the two women stood together, listening.
Baker looked at them. “Can’t be Indians,” he said, after a moment. “Mebbe some wild cowhand celebratin’.”
They heard excited voices, yells. Baker went to the door, hesitated, then went out. He was gone several minutes before he returned. His face was grave.
“It was that Texas rider from the Crazy Woman,” he said. “He stepped into the back door of the National and shot it out with Tom Blazer and Fats McCabe. They are both dead.”
“Was he alone?” Ann asked quickly.
Baker nodded, looking at her somberly. “They are huntin’ him now. He won’t get away, I’m afeerd.”
“You’re afraid he won’t?”
“Yes, Ann,” Baker said, “I am. That Blazer outfit’s poison. All of that Shute bunch, far’s that goes. Tom killed young Bo Marsh by stickin’ a pistol against him whilst he was lyin’ down.”
The flat bark of a shot cut across the night air, and they went rigid. Two more shots rang out.
“Guess they got him,” Baker said. “There’s so many of them, I figgered they would.”
Before the news reached them of what had actually happened, daylight had come. Ann Rodney was awake after an almost sleepless night. Tex Brisco, she heard, had killed Joe Gorman when German had caught him at his horse. Tex had escaped, but from all the evidence, he was badly wounded. They were trailing him by the blood from his wounds.
Bo Marsh, now Brisco. Was Johnny Gill alive? Was Rafe? If Rafe was alive, then he must be alone, harried like a rabbit by hounds.
Restless, Ann paced the floor. Shute riders came into the store. They were buying supplies and going out in groups of four and five, scouring the hills for Brisco or any of the others of the Crazy Woman crowd.
Bruce Barkow came shortly after breakfast. He looked tired, worried. “Ann,” he said abruptly, “if we’re goin’, it’ll have to be today. This country is goin’ to the wolves. All they think about now is killin’. Let’s get out.”
She hesitated only an instant. Something inside her seemed lost and dead.
“All right, Bruce. We’ve planned it for a long time. It might as well be now.”
There was no fire in her, no spark. Barkow scarcely heeded that. She would go. Once away from here and married, he would have title to the land. Dan Shute, for all his talk and harsh ways, would be helpless.
“All right,” he said. “We’ll leave in an hour. Don’t tell anybody. We’ll take the buckboard like we were goin’ for a drive, as we often do.”
She was ready, so there was nothing to do after he had gone.
Baker seemed older, worried. Twice riders came in, and each time Ann heard that Tex Brisco was still at large. His horse had been trailed, seemingly wandering without guidance, to a place on a mountain creek. There the horse had walked into the water, and no trail had been found to show where he had left it. He was apparently headed for the high ridges, south by west.
Nor had anything been found of Marsh or Gill. Shute riders had returned to the Crazy Woman, torn down the corral, and hunted through the woods, but no sign had been found beyond a crude lean-to where the wounded man had evidently been sheltered. Marsh, if dead, had been buried and the grave concealed. Nothing had been found of any of them, although one horse had ridden off to the northeast, mostly east.
One horse had gone east! Ann Rodney’s heart gave a queer leap. East would mean toward the Fort! Perhaps–but she was being foolish. Why should it be Caradec rather than Gill, and why to the Fort? She expressed the thought, and Baker looked at her.
“Likely enough one of ’em’s gone there. If Marsh ain’t dead, and the riders didn’t find his body, chances are he’s mighty bad off. The only doctor around is at the Fort.”
The door to the store opened, and Baker went in, leaving the living room. There was a brief altercation, then the curtain was pushed aside and Ann looked up. A start of fear went through her.
Dan Shute was standing in the door. For a wonder, he was clean-shaven except for his mustache. He looked at her with his queer, gray-white eyes.
“Don’t you do nothin’ foolish,” he said, “like tryin’ to leave here. I don’t aim to let you.”
Ann got up, amazed and angry. “You don’t aim to let me?” she flared. “What business is it of yours?”