“No,” he said violently. “I won’t! I’ll say again what I said before. I knew your father. He gave me a deed givin’ us the ranch. He asked me to care for you. He also gave me the receipt that Bruce Barkow gave him for the mortgage money. I wanted things to be different, Ann. I–”
“Caradec!” Ryson called. “We’re ready!”
He glanced around. The small column awaited him, and his horse was ready. For an instant he glanced back at the girl. Her jaw was set, her eyes blazing.
“Oh, what’s the use?” he flared. “Marry who you blasted well please!”
Wheeling, he walked to his horse and swung into the saddle, riding away without a backward glance.
Lips parted to speak, Ann Rodney stared after the disappearing riders. Suddenly all her anger was gone. She found herself gazing at the closing gate of the stockade and fighting a mounting sense of panic.
What had she done? Suppose what Rafe had said was the truth? What had he ever done to make her doubt him?
Confused, puzzled by her own feelings for this stranger of whom she knew so little, yet who stirred her so deeply, she was standing there, one hand partly upraised when she saw two men come around the corner of the building. Both wore the rough clothing of miners.
They paused near her, one a stocky, thick-set man with a broad, hard jaw, the other a slender, blond young man.
“Ma’am,” the younger man said, “we just come in from the river. The Major was tellin’ us you were goin’ back that way?”
She nodded dumbly, then forced herself to speak. “Yes, we are going to the river with some of the troops.”
“We come up the Powder from the Yellowstone, ma’am,” the younger man said, “and if you could tell us where to find your husband, we might sell him our boats.”
She shook her head. “I’m not married yet. You will have to see my fiance, Bruce Barkow. He’s in the mess hall.”
The fellow hesitated, turning his hat in his hand. “Ma’am, they said you was from Painted Rock. Ever hear tell of a man named Rafe Caradec over there?”
She stiffened. “Rafe Caradec?” She looked at him quickly. “You know him?”
He nodded, pleased by her sudden interest. “Yes, ma’am. We were shipmates of his. Me and my partner over there, Rock Mullaney. My name is Penn, ma’am, Roy Penn.”
Suddenly her heart was pounding. She looked at him and bit her under lip. Then she said, carefully, “You were on a ship with him?”
“That’s right.”
Penn was puzzled and growing wary. After all, there was the manner of their leaving. Of course, that was months ago, and they were far from the sea now, but that still hung over them.
“Was there–aboard that ship–a man named Rodney?”
Ann couldn’t look at them now. She stared at the stockade, almost afraid to hear their reply. Vaguely, she realized that Bruce Barkow was approaching.
“Rodney? Shorest thing you know! Charles Rodney. Nice feller, too. He died off the California coast after–” He hesitated. “Ma’am, you ain’t no relation of his now?”
“I’m Charles Rodney’s daughter.”
“Oh?” Then Perm’s eyes brightened. “Say, then you’re the girl Rafe was lookin’ for when he come over here! Think of that!” He turned. “Hey, Rock! This here’s that Ann Rodney, the girl Rafe came here to see! You know, Charlie’s daughter!”
Bruce Barkow stopped dead still. His dark face was suddenly wary. “What was that?” he said sharply. “What did you say?”
Penn stared at him. “No reason to get excited, mister. Yeah, we knew this young lady’s father aboard ship. He was shanghaied out of San Francisco!”
Bruce Barkow’s face was cold. Here it was at the last minute. This did it. He was trapped now. He could see in Ann’s face the growing realization of how he had lied, how he had betrayed her, and even–he could see that coming into her eyes too–the idea that he had killed her father.
Veins swelled in his forehead and throat. He glared at Penn, half crouching, like some cornered animal. “You’re a liar!” he snarled.
“Don’t call me that!” Penn said fiercely. “I’m not wearing a gun, mister!”
If Barkow heard the last words they made no impression. His hand was already sweeping down. Penn stepped back, throwing his arms wide, and Bruce Barkow, his face livid with the fury of frustration, whipped up a gun and shot him twice through the body. Penn staggered back, uncomprehending, staring. “No-gun!” he gasped. “I don’t-gun.” He staggered into an Army wagon, reeled, and fell headlong.
Bruce Barkow stared at the fallen man, then his contorted face turned upward. On the verge of escape and success he had been trapped, and now he had become a killer!
Wheeling, he sprang into the saddle. The gate was open for a wood wagon, and he whipped the horse through it, shouting hoarsely. Men had rushed from everywhere. Rock Mullaney, staring in shocked surprise, could only fumble at his belt. He wore no gun either. He looked up at Ann. “We carried rifles,” he muttered. “We never figgered on no trouble!” Then he rubbed his face, sense returning to his eyes. “Ma’am, what did he shoot him for?”
She stared at him, humbled by the grief written on the man’s hard, lonely face. “That man, Barkow, killed my father!” she said.
“No, ma’am. If you’re Charlie Rodney’s daughter, Charlie died aboard ship with us.”
She nodded. “I know, but Barkow was responsible. Oh, I’ve been a fool! An awful fool!”
An officer was kneeling over Penn’s body. He got up, glanced at Mullaney, then at Ann. “This man is dead,” he said.
Resolution came suddenly to Ann. “Major,” she said, “I’m going to catch that patrol. Will you lend me a fresh horse? Ours will still be badly worn-out after last night.”
“It wouldn’t be safe, Miss Rodney,” he protested. “It wouldn’t at all. There’s Indians out there. How Caradec got through, or you and Barkow, is beyond me.” He gestured to the body. “What do you know about this?” Briefly, concisely, she explained, telling all. She made no attempt to spare herself or to leave anything out. She outlined the entire affair, taking only a few minutes.
“I see.” He looked thoughtfully at the gate. “If I could give you an escort, I would, but–”
“If she knows the way,” Mullaney said, “I’ll go with her. We came down the river from Fort Benton, then up the Yellowstone and the Powder. We thought we would come and see how Rafe was gettin’ along. If we’d knowed there was trouble, we’d have come before.”
“It’s as much as your life is worth, man,” the major warned.
Mullaney shrugged. “Like as not, but my life has had chances taken with it before. Besides”–he ran his fingers over his bald head–“there’s no scalp here to attract Injuns!”
Well-mounted, Ann and Mullaney rode swiftly. The patrol would be hurrying because of Bo Marsh’s serious condition, but they should overtake them, and following was no immediate problem.
Mullaney knew the West and had fought before in his life as a wandering jack-of-all-trades. He was not upset by the chance they were taking. He glanced from time to time at Ann. Then rambling along, he began to give her an account of their life aboard ship, of the friendship that had grown between her father and Rafe Caradec, and all Rafe had done to spare the older man work and trouble.
He told her how Rafe had treated Rodney’s wounds when he had been beaten, how he saved food for him, and how close the two had grown. Twice, noting her grief and shame, he ceased talking, but each time she insisted on his continuing.
“Caradec?” Mullaney said finally. “Well, I’d say he was one of the finest men I’ve known. A fighter, he is! The lad’s a fighter from way back! You should have seen the beatin’ he gave that Borger! I got only a glimpse, but Penn told me about it. And if it hadn’t been for Rafe none of us would have got away. He planned it, and he carried it out. He planned it before your father’s last trouble–the trouble that killed him–but when he saw your father would die, he carried on with it.”
They rode on in silence. All the time, Ann knew now, she should have trusted her instincts. Always they had warned her about Bruce Barkow, always they had been sure of Rafe Caradec. As she sat in the jury box and watched him talk, handling his case, it had been his sincerity that impressed her, even more than his shrewd handling of questions.
He had killed men, yes. But what men! Bonaro and Trigger Boyne, both acknowledged and boastful killers of men themselves. Men unfit to walk in the tracks of such as Rafe. She had to find him! She must!