“You ridin’ from the law?”
“No.” LaBarge got down on the far side of his horse. A man could shoot better from the ground and there was no telling what might happen. “But we need horses mighty bad.”
The bearded man was a thin, high-shouldered fellow in torn shirt and homespun jeans, but he looked like a man who could use the rifle he carried. He sized up their horses with shrewd, appraising eyes. “Reckon I’ll swap. You got boot to offer?”
“Look, friend,” Jean smiled, “we want horses, but not that bad. I’ll trade our horses for that Roman-nosed buckskin and the gray. You can throw in a couple of sandwiches and some coffee.”
The man glanced at the horses, both fine animals. “I reckon it’s a trade.
Sal”—he looked toward the woods —“fetch these men some supper.” While Ben switched saddles, Jean faced the fire and the two men. The bearded man had been studying Jean’s expensive boots and drawing conclusions. The boy could be no more than half-witted and the women were hard-faced. The coffee was black as midnight and scalding hot, and the sandwiches were slabs of bread inclosing hunks of beef.
“Anbody comes along,” the man suggested slyly, “what should I say?” Jean grinned at him. “Tell ‘em you saw two men nine feet tall riding north with fire in their eyes. Or tell ‘em whatever you want. If anybody was chasin’ us, we’d stop an’ wait for the fun, wouldn’t we, Ben?” “Those who know us well enough to come after us,” Ben agreed, “are too smart to try.”
Ten hours out of Sacramento, they rode into Red Bluff, and ten minutes later rode out again, their extra saddlebags stuffed with food. Twenty-five miles farther they stopped at a lonely cabin for coffee and when they rode out they were astride two paint Indian ponies.
The air was cool and damp. Twice they glimpsed campfires but their horses seemed no more tired than at the start and they pushed on farther into the night. Once a dog rushed out to bark, amazed and angry that anybody should be moving at all. The night air, cool as a freshwater lake, washed them as they dipped into a hollow of the hills, and then for twenty miles they saw no one, nor any human sound save their own.
At daylight, for forty dollars, Jean swapped for a black stallion with three white stockings and a trim bay gelding. The stallion had an edge on his temper but distance robbed him of his urge for trouble. They were climbing steadily through country where they saw few houses and no settlements. Before them and on their right was Mount Shasta, sending chill winds down across the low country, winds that blew off the white, white snows of her peak.
This was Modoc country and they rode with rifles across their saddlebows. The Modocs had been slave traders among the Indians long before the coming of the white man. At nightfall they reached Tower House, beyond which point there was no road and little trail. At daybreak, on fresh horses, they were moving again. Glancing back, when farther along the trail, Jean saw a rider at the edge of the trees, and later after they had crossed a clearing, he watched long enough to see three riders come out of the trees, then swing back under cover. “Look alive, Ben. Trouble coming up behind.”
A dim trail suddenly turned into the trees, a trail that by its direction might intersect with their own somewhere beyond the valley. They turned off, then obliterated their tracks as best they could in the few minutes they could afford and rode down through the forest. When their path turned off in a wrong direction they cut through the trees until they reached the main north-south trail once more.
At Callahan’s they switched horses again, and Jean found himself with a tough line-back dun. Taking the old Applegate wagon road, they reached the mining village of Yreka just seventy hours of Knight’s Landing. Putting their horses up at the livery stable, Ben nudged Jean. “Look,” he said, low-voiced.
Two men were riding into town on blown horses, one wearing a short buffalo coat they remembered as worn by one of the men seen behind them on the trail. As they watched the third man rode into town and the three went along the street, examining all the horses.
Jean led the way into the saloon and they stood at the bar, cutting the dust from their throats and some of the chill from their bodies for the first time on the trip. At a casual question from the bartender, Jean explained, “Riding north, buying wheat for a ship that will meet us at Portland, and there are three men following us, hunting trouble.”
A man in a dark suit standing near them, backed off. “Not my fight,” he said. Taking his drink, Jean motioned to Turk and they crossed to a table and sat down, facing the door. The bartender brought steaming white cups filled with coffee and, of all things, napkins. Jean slid his Navy pistol from his belt and laid it under his napkin. The other gun was in plain sight in his holster. When the three men pushed through the door they glanced sharply at LaBarge and Turk, then walked to the bar. The three were obviously thieves, trailing them to rob and murder. No honest man ducked off a trail as they had. After a quick drink they turned and started out.
“You in the buffalo coat!”
The three stopped abruptly at Jean’s call and turned slowly, spreading out a little as they turned. They could see the gun in LaBarge’s holster. Ben’s gun was belted high and out of view.
The last man in wore a fur cap, the one in the buffalo coat had a thin, scarred face. The third was short with a wide, expressionless face. “You talkin’ to us?” he asked.
“You followed us out of Scott Valley, and you followed us into town. Now get this. If we see you anywhere close to us again, we’ll kill you.” “G’wan!” he said irritably. “You ain’t seen nobody! We ain’t even goin’ your way.”
“How come you know which way we’re going? Look, when I see men dodging in and out of the brush on my back trail I get suspicious, and when I get suspicious, I get irritable, and when I get irritable I’m liable to start shooting, so just to avoid trouble, stick around town a few days.”
“We’ll go where we like!” The man in the fur cap was growing red in the face.
“We wasn’t dodgin’ in no bush, either!”
Jean smiled pleasantly. “And I say you’re a liar!” The man’s face seemed to swell. “By God!” he shouted. “You can’t call me a liar!”
“I just did,” Jean replied coolly. He was determined to bring the matter to an issue now, on ground of his own choosing. “Furthermore, you’re a couple of thieves.” He took a wild gamble. “As for you,” he looked right at the man in the fur cap, “you stole that red horse you’re riding at Callahan’s.” The man in the fur cap was a coward, but he could see Jean with a cup of coffee in his right hand, and Jean knew the instant he started to reach for his gun. “You called me a liar!” he shouted. “And by the Lord—!” The gun cleared leather as Jean shot. He fired with his left hand, from under the table. The man jerked sharply with the impact of the bullet and dropped his gun. He fell, rolling over on his side with his knees drawn up. Ben Turk was on his feet, watching the man in the buffalo coat. Jean gestured at the third man. “Take your hand off that gun. I never like to kill more than one man while I’m eating.”
The fat man seemed about to speak but Jean interrupted. “Bad company for you, mister. They’ll get you into trouble.”
“I guess you’re right.”
The wounded man was cursing now, in a low, monotonous voice. Gingerly, the others picked him up and helped him from the room. At the bar the man in the dark, suit turned to face them. “That was mighty cool,” he said to Jean. “I don’t know whether I like it or not.” “I don’t like dry-gulchers trailing me.”
“We don’t know they were dry-gulchers.”
“You’ll have to take my word for it, and if you have any thinking to do, do it quietly. I’m hungry.”
At the bar there was subdued muttering and glances cast in their direction. More men drifted into the bar, but a difference of opinion was obvious. Jean knew there would be no chance to sleep here now. They must ride, and at once. The man in the dark suit turned on them. “You two stay in town until we decide what to do about this, you hear?”