“Perhaps it was because of your experiences with Colonel Pearson!” she flared, nettled by him, yet disturbed.
“Possibly.” He indicated the cut. “Shall we ride on?”
For an instant, she hesitated, then she started her horse down the cut ahead of him. At that instant he felt a sharp sting of pain along his shoulder, and the report of a rifle rang out!
He wheeled his horse and rode like a streak at the direction of the shot. There was another hurried shot, then a sound of falling gravel, Matt’s six shooter came up and he fired quickly, once, twice, three times in the direction of the sound.
Men came running, rifles in hand, but Jacquine was beside him first. “What happened?” she demanded.
“Somebody tried to kill me,” he replied shortly.
“Oh, you’re just being dramatic!” she protested. “Probably a rifle went off by accident!”
He swung his horse broadside to hers and grabbed her wrist roughly. With a jerk that nearly lifted her from the saddle, he took her hand and pressed it against his shoulder.
“Oh!” she gasped. “You’re bleeding!”
“It’s all part of the drama!” he said roughly.
Massey, Coyle, Pearson and several other men had come up. “What’s going on here?” Pearson demanded. “Somebody took a shot at me,” Matt replied. “In the morning I’m going on the trail.”
“An Indian, probably,” Coyle suggested, “maybe he figured it was a good chance to catch a straggler.”
“It wasn’t an Indian.” Matt’s voice was positive. In the darkness he could see Pearson’s head come up. “I heard the sound of boots on gravel.”
“Nonsense!” Pearson snapped. “Who would shoot at you?”
“At least a half-dozen men, Colonel,” Bardoul said coolly, “on this wagon train.”
“You’re referring to talk of trouble between you and Logan Deane?”
“No. When and if Deane ever shoots at me it will be an even break. Say what you want to about him, he’s not yellow!”
“Thanks.” Deane had ridden up in the darkness. “Thanks, Bardoul.”
“I’ll wait until daybreak,” Matt said, “then I’ll get on the trail.”
“You’ll do nothing of the kind!” Massey flared. “This wagon train sticks all together. We can’t have each individual running off on errands of his own.”
“You heard me say I was going,” Bardoul felt anger mounting within him. He did not like Massey, and tried to fight against the feeling, knowing it interfered with the clarity of his judgment.
“I forbid it!” Massey snapped.
Matt shucked. “You forbid it? Then go climb a tree, friend Massey, because in the morning I’m going after that dry gulcher. If you want to stop me, come prepared for it!”
“Now, now!” Coyle interrupted nervously. “Let’s not start fighting amongst ourselves. We have trouble enough ahead. If he wants to trail the man, Clive, let him go. After all, it is his own business and if he doesn’t come back, the fault is his own, not ours.”
“All right!” Massey turned his horse. “Do as you damn please!”
They had made six miles during the day.
Daylight found them ready to roll, but Matt saddled the dun, then turned to Buffalo. “Lead them today, will you?” he said. “We’ll strike a big hill about noon. As we get to it, better bear off to one side. Have them double up the teams for that pull, it is going to be hard enough, and that will make it easier on the stock.”
“I recall that place,” Murphy bit off a chew. “You goin’ huntin?”
“Uh-huh. I don’t like bein’ shot at. I don’t like it at all.”
“Be a swell chance for them to get you, alone.”
“They won’t get me. But you might keep an eye open. If you or Ban see anybody startin’ to leave the train, you might stop ’em.”
“We’ll do that!” Murphy said positively. “You got a theory?”
“Bain.”
Matt Bardoul swung into the saddle and turned the dun back toward the rim. Clive Massey watched him go, and his face was bitter. “Bat!” he said.
Hammer came up. “Go after him, Bat. I don’t want him to come back.”
Hammer touched his lips with his tongue. “How about some help? He’s a tough one, that Bardoul. Got eyes like a hawk an’ ears like a lynx.”
“Damn it,” Massey said sullenly, “can’t anybody do anything around here?” He wheeled, and his eyes fell on a loitering half-breed. Buckskin Johnson was part Crow and part white and all coyote. “Go with him!” he said.
Ban Hardy saw them go. He was glancing back from his wagon seat. Barney Coyle had just ridden up. “Take this wagon, Barney,” Ban said, “I’d better go have a look.”
Barney Coyle glanced around. “I’ll go!” he said eagerly. He wheeled his horse and started for a low hill where he might cut them off. Hoof beats sounded and he glanced around to see Murphy riding toward him. “Come on,” Buff said heartily. “Maybe this’ll be fun!”
They put their horses to a fast run, shielded from Massey’s view by the dust and wagons. Cutting down into a ravine they raced, along its bottom, then around the edge of a wash and out on a hillside. Murphy reined in. “Now, just hold it,” he said. “Keep your rifle ready.”
It was only a minute until they heard horses, and then Bat Hammer and the breed rode into sight.
“Hold it, boys!” Murphy kneed his horse into the road, his rifle ready. Coyle was beside him, his heart pounding.
“You’re strayin’ a bit far from the wagons, better get back!”
“We’re huntin’ some fresh meat,” Hammer protested. His eyes shifted from Murphy to Coyle. He did not understand Coyle’s being there, and did not like it. “Maybe,” Murphy agreed pleasantly, “but you’ll find the huntin’ better up ahead of us, or off toward the Belle Fourche. Suppose you start that way? An’ fast?” Hammer hesitated, his face darkening, then with a curse he swung his horse and followed by the Indian, rode away.
Matt Bardoul took his time, he was quite sure Bain was his man, and there was every chance that he might circle around and rejoin the wagon train. If that happened it was sure to precipitate trouble. The trail began on the steep slope down which they had lowered the wagons.
Matt found the place where the man had been lying when he fired his shot. The shell was still there, and it was from a Winchester .44. He looked over the bank, and saw a place showing muddy boot tracks. Scrambling over the edge, he found the place where the man had landed after his leap, a little further on he found a spot of blood. “Winged him,” Bardoul said thoughtfully. “Well, that makes it more simple!”
Returning to the zebra dun, he led the horse down the cut in the rim, and then back to where he had found the tracks and the blood. For the next three hundred yards the trail was not difficult. The wounded man was getting out of there, but fast. It had been dark, and he was not concerned about his trail.
At the bottom of the slope down which he had come on an angle, the trail led up a winding wash. Mounting his horse, Matt followed at a walk.
The sun was up now, and already hot. In the bottom of the wash it was like an oven. Once Matt found a place where the wounded man stopped to bandage his wound. There was more blood here, and a piece of faded blue cloth had fallen to the ground, evidently a piece torn but unused. After that there was no more blood, yet the trail remained fairly easy to follow. Yet after a mile, the man circled back toward the original place until they reached a small copse where there were a few willows and some cottonwood. Matt lost time here, approaching cautiously, and searching inch by inch through the bottom. Finally he found where a horse had been tied, and he studied the tracks of the animal.
The mounted man now rode rapidly, heading due north from the route of the wagon train. Matt settled down to following, keeping a wary eye on the terrain around him. He knew very well the manner of man he was following. Abel Bain was a fighter. The man had cause to hate him, and would never rest until he had killed Bardoul or was killed himself.
As yet Bain did not know he was trailed. That was obvious from the route he chose and the way he travelled. It had still been dark when the wounded man had covered this country. He had moved fast once he got aboard the horse, and he was making no effort to swing around in a circle to rejoin the wagon train.
It was mid morning before Bardoul found any change in the trail. Then he reined in suddenly. Here the wounded man had stopped, dismounted, and walked up to the crest of a hill among some rocks. He had stopped to have a look at something.