The wind was chill, and she glanced at Mullaney.
“It’s cold,” she said. “It feels like snow!”
He nodded grimly. “It does that!” he said. “Early for it, but it’s happened before. If we get a norther now-” He shook his head.
They made camp while it was still light. Mullaney built a fire of dry sticks that gave off almost no smoke. Water was heated, and they made coffee. While Ann was fixing the little food they had, he rubbed the horses down with handfuls of dry grass.
“Can you find your way in the dark?” he asked her.
“Yes, I think so. It is fairly easy from here, for we have the mountains. That highest peak will serve as a landmark unless there are too many clouds.”
“All right,” he said, “we’ll keep movin’.”
She found herself liking the burly seaman and cowhand. He helped her smother the fire and wipe out traces of it.
“If we can stick to the trail of the soldiers,” he said, “it’ll confuse the Injuns. They’ll think we’re with their party.”
They started on. Ann led off, keeping the horses at a fast walk. Night fell, and with it, the wind grew stronger. After an hour of travel, Ann reined in.
Mullaney rode up beside her. “What’s the matter?”
She indicated the tracks of a single horse crossing the route of the soldiers.
“You think it’s this Barkow?” He nodded as an idea came. “It could be. The soldiers don’t know what happened back there. He might ride with ’em for protection.”
Another thought came to him. He looked at Ann keenly. “Suppose he’d try to kill Caradec?”
Her mind jumped. “Oh, no!” She was saying no to the thought, not to the possibility. She knew it was a possibility. What did Bruce have to lose? He was already a fugitive, and another killing would make it no worse. And Rafe Caradec had been the cause of it all.
“He might,” she agreed. “He might, at that.”
Miles to the west, Bruce Barkow, his rifle across his saddle, leaned into the wind. He had followed the soldiers for a way, and the idea of a snipe shot at Caradec stayed in his mind. He could do it, and they would think the Indians had done it.
But there was a better way. A way to get at them all. If he could ride on ahead, reach Gill and Marsh before the patrol did, he might kill them, then get Caradec when he approached. If then he could get rid of Shute, Gomer would have to swing with him to save something from the mess. Maybe Dan Shute’s idea was right, after all! Maybe killing was the solution.
Absorbed by the possibilities of the idea, Barkow turned off the route followed by the soldiers. There was a way that could make it safer and somewhat faster. He headed for the old Bozeman Trail, now abandoned.
He gathered his coat around him to protect him from the increasing cold. His mind was fevered with worry, doubt of himself, and mingled with it was hatred of Caradec, Shute, Ann Rodney, and everything. He drove on into the night.
Twice, he stopped to rest. The second time he started on, it was turning gray with morning. As he swung into saddle, a snowflake touched his cheek.
He thought little of it. His horse was uneasy, though, and anxious for the trail. Snow was not a new thing, and Barkow scarcely noticed as the flakes began to come down thicker and faster.
Gill and the wounded man had disappeared, he knew. Shute’s searchers had not found them near the house. Bruce Barkow had visited that house many times before the coming of Caradec, and he knew the surrounding hills well. About a half mile back from the house, sheltered by a thick growth of lodgepole, was a deep cave among some rocks. If Johnny Gill had found that cave, he might have moved Marsh there. It was, at least, a chance.
Bruce Barkow was not worried about the tracks he was leaving. Few Indians would be moving in this inclement weather. Nor would the party from the Fort have come this far north. From the route they had taken he knew they were keeping to the low country.
He was nearing the first range of fopthills now, the hills that divided Long Valley from the open plain that sloped gradually away to the Powder and the old Bozeman Trail. He rode into the pines and started up the trail, intent upon death. His mind was sharpened like that of a hungry coyote. Cornered and defeated for the prize himself, his only way out, either for victory or revenge, lay in massacre. Wholesale killing.
It was like him that having killed once, he did not hesitate to accept the idea of killing again.
He did not see the big man on the gray horse who fell in behind him. He did not glance back over his trail, although by now the thickening snow obscured the background so much that the rider, gaining slowly on him through the storm, would have been no more than a shadow.
To the right, behind the once bald and now snow-covered dome, was the black smear of seeping oil. Drawing abreast of it, Bruce Barkow reined in and glanced down.
Here it was, the cause of it all. The key to wealth, to everything a man could want. Men had killed for less, he could kill for this. He knew where there were four other such seepages and the oil sold from twenty dollars to thirty dollars the barrel.
He got down and stirred it with a stick. It was thick now, thickened by cold. Well, he still might win.
Then he heard a shuffle of footsteps in the snow, and looked up. Dan Shute’s figure was gigantic in the heavy coat he wore, sitting astride the big horse. He looked down at Barkow, and his lips parted.
“Tried to get away with her, did you? I knew you had coyote in you, Barkow.”
His hand came up, and in the gloved hand was a pistol. In a sort of shocked disbelief, Bruce Barkow saw the gun lift. His own gun was under his short, thick coat.
“No!” he gasped hoarsely. “Not that! Dan!”
The last word was a scream, cut sharply off by the sharp, hard bark of the gun. Bruce Barkow folded slowly and, clutching his stomach, toppled across the black seepage, staining it with a slow shading of red.
For a minute Dan Shute sat his horse, staring down. Then he turned the horse and moved on. He had an idea of his own. Before the storm began, from a mountain ridge he picked out the moving patrol. Behind it were two figures. He had a hunch about those two riders, striving to overtake the patrol.
He would see.
Chapter XIII
Pushing rapidly ahead through the falling snow the patrol came up to the ruins of the cabin on the Crazy Woman on the morning of the second day out from the Fort. Steam rose from the horses, and the breath of horses and men fogged the air.
There was no sign of life. Rafe swung down and stared about. The smooth surface of the snow was unbroken, yet he could see that much had happened since he started his trek to the Fort for help. The lean-to, not quite complete, was abandoned.
Lieutenant Ryson surveyed the scene thoughtfully.
“Are we too late?” he asked.
Caradec hesitated, staring around. There was no hope in what he saw. “I don’t think so,” he said. “Johnny Gill was a smart hand. He would figger out somethin’. Besides, I don’t see any bodies.”
In his mind, he surveyed the canyon. Certainly Gill could not have gone far with the wounded man. Also, it would have to be in the direction of possible shelter. The grove of lodgepoles offered the best chance. Turning, he walked toward them. Ryson dismounted his men, and they started fires.
Milton Waitt, the surgeon, stared after Rafe, then walked in his tracks. When he came up with him, he suggested:
“Any caves around?”
Caradec paused, considering that. “There may be. None that I know of, though. Still, Johnny prowled in these rocks a lot and may have found one. Let’s have a look.” Then a thought occurred to him. “They’d have to have water, Doc. Let’s go to the spring.”
There was ice over it, but the ice had been broken and had frozen again. Rafe indicated it. “Somebody drank here since the cold set in.”
He knelt and felt of the snow with his fingers, working his way slowly around the spring. Suddenly he stopped.
“Found something?” Waitt watched curiously. This made no sense to him.
“Yes, whoever got water from the spring splashed some on this side. It froze. I can feel the ice it made. That’s a fair indication that whoever got water came from that side of the spring.”