“No,” Ann said, “I’ll wait.”
He smiled again. “Better come quiet. If he came back, I’d have to kill him. You don’t want him killed, do you?”
She hesitated only a moment. This man would stop at nothing. He was going to take her if he had to knock her out and tie her. Better anything than that. If she appeared to play along, she might have a chance.
“I’ll go,” she said simply. “You have a horse?”
“I kept yours,” he said. “Mount up.”
By the time Rafe Caradec was en route to Painted Rock, Dan Shute was riding with his prisoner into the ranchyard of his place near Painted Rock. Far to the south and west, Rock Mullaney long since had come up to the place where Shute had finally turned his horse loose and ridden on, leading the other. Mullaney kept on the trail of the lone horse and came up with it almost a mile further.
Lost and alone in the thickly falling snow, the animal hesitated at his call, then waited for him to catch up. When he was mounted once more he turned back to his camp, and the tracks, nearly covered, told him little. The girl, accompanied by another rider, had ridden away. She would never have gone willingly.
Mullaney was worried. During their travel they had talked little, yet Ann had supplied a few of the details. He knew vaguely about Dan Shute, about Bruce Barkow. He also knew than an Indian outbreak was feared.
Mullaney knew something about Indians, and doubted any trouble until spring or summer. There might be occasional shootings, but Indians were not, as a rule, cold weather fighters. For that he didn’t blame them. Yet any wandering hunting or foraging parties must be avoided. It was probable that any warrior or group of them coming along a fresh trail would follow it and count coup on an enemy if possible.
He knew roughly the direction of Painted Rock, yet instinct told him he had better stick to the tangible and near, so he swung back to the trail of the Army patrol and headed for the pass into Long Valley.
Painted Rock lay still under the falling snow when Rafe Caradec drifted down the street on the big black. He swung down in front of the Emporium and went in.
Baker looked up, and his eyes grew alert when he saw Rafe’s entrance. At Caradec’s question, he told him of what had happened to Tex Brisco as far as he knew. He also told him of Dan Shute’s arrival and threat to Ann, and her subsequent escape with Barkow. Baker was relieved to know they were at the Fort.
A wind was beginning to moan around the eaves, and they listened a minute. “Won’t be good to be out in that,” the storekeeper said gravely. “Sounds like a blizzard comin’. If Brisco’s found shelter, he might be all right.”
“Not in this cold,” Caradec said, scowling. “No man with his resistance lowered by a wound is going to last in this. And it’s going to be worse before it’s better.”
Standing there at the counter, letting the warmth of the big pot-bellied stove work through his system, Rafe assayed his position. Bo Marsh, while in bad shape, had been tended by a doctor and would have Gill’s care. There was nothing more to be done there for the time being.
Ann had made her choice. She had gone off with Barkow. In his heart he knew that if there was any choice between Barkow or Shute she had made the better. Yet there had been another choice–or had there? Yes, she could at least have listened to him.
The Fort was far away, and all he could do now was trust to Ann’s innate good sense to change her mind before it was too late. In any event, he could not get back there in time to do anything about it.
“Where’s Shute?” he demanded.
“Ain’t seen him,” Baker said worriedly. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of him. But I can promise you one thing, Caradec. He won’t take Barkow’s runnin’ out with Ann lyin’ down. He’ll be on their trail.”
The door opened in a flurry of snow and Pat Higley pushed in. He pulled off his mittens and extended stiff fingers toward the red swell of the stove. He glanced at Rafe.
“Hear you askin’ about Shute?” he asked. “I just seen him headed for the ranch. He wasn’t alone, neither.” He rubbed his fingers. “Looked to me like a woman ridin’ along.”
Rafe looked around. “A woman?” he asked carefully. “Now who would that be?”
“He’s found Ann!” Baker exclaimed.
“She was at the Fort,” Rafe said, “with Barkow. He couldn’t take her away from the soldiers.”
“No, he couldn’t,” Baker agreed, “but she might have left on her own. She’s a stubborn girl when she takes a notion. After you left she may have changed her mind.”
Rafe pushed the thought away. The chance was too slight. And where was Tex Brisco?
“Baker,” he suggested, “you and Higley know this country. You know about Tex. Where do you reckon he’d wind up?”
Higley shrugged. “There’s no tellin’. It ain’t as if he knew the country, too. They trailed him for a while, and they said it looked like his hoss was wanderin’ loose without no hand on the bridle. Then the hoss took to water, so Brisco must have come to his senses somewhat. Anyway, they lost his trail when he was ridin’ west along a fork of Clear Creek. If he held to that direction it would take him over some plumb high, rough country south of the big peak. If he did get across, he’d wind up somewhere down along Tensleep Canyon, mebbe. But that’s all guesswork.”
“Any shelter that way?”
“Nary a mite, if you mean human shelter. There’s plenty of timber there, but wolves, too. There’s also plenty of shelter in the rocks. The only humans over that way are the Sioux, and they ain’t in what you’d call a friendly mood. That’s where Man Afraid Of His Hoss has been holed up.”
Finding Tex Brisco would be like hunting a needle in a haystack, but it was what Rafe Caradec had to do. He had to make the effort. Yet the thought of Dan Shute and the girl returned to him. Suppose it was Ann? He shuddered to think of her in Shute’s hands. The man was without a spark of decency or mercy.
“No use goin’ out in this storm,” Baker said. “You can stay with us, Caradec.”
“You’ve changed your tune some, Baker,” Rafe suggested grimly.
“A man can be wong, can’t he?” Baker inquired testily. “Mebbe I was. I don’t know. Things have gone to perdition around here fast, ever since you came in here with that story about Rodney.”
“Well, I’m not stayin’,” Rafe told him. “I’m going to look for Tex Brisco.”
The door was pushed open and they looked around. It was Pod Gomer. The sheriff looked even squarer and more bulky in a heavy buffalo coat. He cast a bleak look at Caradec, then walked to the fire, sliding out of his overcoat.
“You still here?” he asked, glancing at Rafe out of the corners of his eyes.
“Yes, I’m still here, Gomer, but you’re traveling.”
“What?”
“You heard me. You can wait till the storm is over, then get out, and keep movin’.”
Gomer turned, his square hard face dark with angry blood.
“You tellin’ me?” he said furiously. “I’m sheriff here!”
“You were,” Caradec said calmly. “Ever since you’ve been here you’ve been hand in glove with Barkow and Shute, runnin’ their dirty errands for them, pickin’ up the scraps they tossed you. Well, the fun’s over. You slope out of here when the storm’s over. Barkow’s gone, and within a few hours Shute will be too.”
“Shute?” Gomer was incredulous. “You’d go up against Dan Shute? Why, man, you’re insane!”
“Am I?” Rafe shrugged. “That’s neither here nor there. I’m talkin’ to you. Get out and stay out. You can take your tinhorn judge with you.”
Gomer laughed. “You’re the one who’s through! Marsh dead, Brisco either dead or on the dodge, and Gill mebbe dead. What chance have you got?”
“Gill’s in as good shape as I am,” Rafe said calmly, “and Bo Marsh is gettin’ Army care, and he’ll be out of the woods, too. As for Tex, he got away, and I’m bankin’ on that Texan to come out walkin’. How much stomach are you boys goin’ to have for the fight when Gill and I ride in here? Tom Blazer’s gone, and so are a half-dozen more. Take your coat”–Rafe picked it up with his left hand–“and get out. If I see you after this storm, I’m shootin’ on sight. Now, get!”
He heaved the heavy coat at Gomer, and the sheriff ducked, his face livid. Yet surprisingly he did not reach for a gun. He lunged and swung with his fist. A shorter man than Caradec, he was wider and thicker, a powerfully built man who was known in mining and trail camps as a rough-and-tumble fighter.