Company C, led by Herman Reutz, was next to him on the south. The storekeeper had seven wagons, all heavily loaded. Two of his company had four wagons each. Aside from Brian Coyle’s, no wagons were loaded so richly as these, although Matt knew his own load was valuable enough.
If the Sioux should wipe them out they would certainly make a rich haul. Probably no wagon train had ever moved toward the west as richly laden as this one. Each man was chosen and each had been advised as to his cargo, and the loads they carried were at least eighty percent pay loads.
At prevailing prices, Matt figured, his wagons were worth easily … it hit him like a bucket of ice water.
He stopped dead still for an instant as the idea hit his mind, and then he began to walk on, but he was scowling. Why, in freight and animals alone, not counting weapons or money carried on their persons, this wagon train must be worth more than three hundred thousand dollars!
Work cattle brought thirty to forty dollars a head in St. Joseph or Council Bluffs, although often the price varied from month to month. They were selling for still higher prices in Deadwood, but in Oregon they would command at least twice that amount. There were a number of milk cows being driven along, and nearly every wagon had at least one saddle horse trailing behind. Some of Coyle’s company were driving a few sheep.
Each wagon carried from two thousand to twenty-five hundred pounds of freight, most of it in clothing, ammunition, tea, flour, coffee, sugar, beans, bacon and dried fruit. As the wagon train was supposed to supply the basic needs of a town that was expected to grow, there were also tools, bales of clothing and other dry goods as well as extra weapons.
It would be a rich haul, a very rich haul for the Sioux … or anyone else.
Supposing the personnel of the wagon train were unarmed? How very simple to slaughter them and take over!
That, he knew, was the only way it could be done. The west was already too crowded for a wagon train to be looted boldly without making every man of the attacking party an outlaw. The only way it could be done would be mass murder.
Nor would it be the first time it had happened. White men were known to have run with Indians, and to have guided them to selected wagon trains. Jules Reni, for whom Julesburg was named, had long been suspected of doing just that. The richest wagon trains had invariably been looted after leaving his post, and escaped prisoners told of seeing white renegades coming and going among the Indians.
Abel Bain had been known to be one of these, and Bat Hammer was suspected of being another. Bardoul had once accompanied a relief party that started out to drive off the Indians attacking a wagon train, and while trailing the Indians, had personally seen a man riding a steeldust horse, such as Hammer rode at the time, among the pursued. Although there had been no evidence, feeling was so high around Julesburg that Hammer had left the country.
Certainly, if that were the plan, to lead this wagon train into the remote Big Horn basin and loot it, the planning had been shrewd. Precautions had been taken to select only men who would bring good stock and a rich cargo, and to keep anyone from knowing their destination.
Where, in all this, did Colonel Pearson stand? Despite his dislike for the man Matt could not bring himself to believe that Pearson was a criminal. He might be a coward, and was without doubt a fool, but he was at least a reasonably honest fool.
Yet Brian Coyle was one of the planners. The project had been conceived by Pearson, Coyle and Massey, and Tate Lyon had offered the gold that was their talking point. That Lyon was a part of the scheme, Bardoul could easily believe, for the man was of a type with Bain and Hammer.
Was Coyle an unwitting dupe of Massey? Or was he involved himself? If he was involved, would he bring his daughter? That was the best argument in Coyle’s favour, and yet Coyle had done most of the planning and organization. Many a man had been drawn into crooked dealings when he believed it could be done without being exposed, and to them this should seem a foolproof plan.
Whether or not he had guessed correctly, it would be wise to plan with this answer in mind. If it were not the right one they would at least be ready for whatever came. It would be well, too, to have a talk with some of the more trustworthy men of his own company as well as those of Coyle and Reutz. They must not be trapped.
There was another point to be considered. Where would the attack be likely to occur? Would it be soon? In the Big Horn basin? Or would they wait until they reached the bank of the Shell?
It was logical to assume that they would wait. The further the place of attack from Deadwood, the easier it would be to destroy any possibility of information ever getting out as to the fate of the wagon tram. Also, the wagons would be closer to the market probably selected for the goods which would certainly be further west. When he thought of the market problem, he at once recalled the mining towns northwest of them where everything was priced out of reason.
When Tolliver returned, Matt mounted his horse, and mopping perspiration from his face, turned the horse toward the open country to escape the dust.
He was no more than a quarter of a mile away from the train when he saw Jacquine Coyle loping her pony toward him. “Oh? It’s you?” She looked at him curiously. “Somehow I didn’t recognize you.”
“Disappointed? Or is my horse so dusty he looks black?” Clive Massey often rode a black horse.
“No, it was neither. Only, I thought … well, I’m glad to see you, anyway. I’ve been wanting to tell you how sorry I was for being sarcastic the other evening when you were shot. It’s just that I was never near anyone who had been shot before, and it seemed so fantastic. I thought something would happen, a big noise, or a scream or something. It was scarcely even exciting.”
He chuckled. “Next time I’ll grab my chest with both hands, scream and fall off my horse.”
“Oh, didn’t mean that! But…”
“I know. It surprised me at first, too. So many things that are so dramatic or exciting when you read about them actually happen so simply and quietly. We humans like to consider ourselves important to creation and to the world, and we expect that whenever death comes it should be with a crash of thunder and wild shouts or something, or with soft music around and people looking grave and serious. We always have it that way in the theatre because it makes us believe in our importance. Most of our life is a matter of dressing ourselves up to believe in just that, dressing ourselves in attractive clothes, in titles, in reputations. Actually, at base we all realize that we’re just a frightened bunch of animals, still afraid of the unknown, still afraid of thousands of things that can separate us from life, and trying to shield ourselves from our own smallness.”
Jacquine stared at him curiously. “You’re a strange man. You talk like a philosopher. Does your wound bother you now?”
“Itches a little in this heat. It wasn’t much.”
She turned a little in her saddle. “How does a man become what you are?” she asked. “I mean … well, Barney heard some stories about you. About your fight with Lefty King at Julesburg, and how you were at the Wagon Box fight, and Ban Hardy told us how you stood off sixty Kiowas all alone once, down in Texas.”
“Ban talks too much. Anyway, I was in a buffalo wallow, and they couldn’t get to me.”
“Then on the stage coming up from Cheyenne I heard Elam Brooks talking to a man when we stopped at Pole Creek Ranch and he said you were one man Logan Deane would want to stay clear of. Are you such a dangerous person then?”
“Me? Lord, no! Only I’ve had gun trouble a few times.”
“What do you think about Logan Deane?”
“I think he’s a brave man, as much as any of us are.”
“Barney heard that he was suspected of holding up the stage out of Cheyenne, once.”
“I wouldn’t know. He doesn’t talk much. He has a reputation as being one of the fastest men alive with a gun.”
“Do you think you’ll have trouble with him?”
Matt glanced at her curiously. Was this simple curiosity? Or was she actually seeking information? And if it was information she wanted, was it for herself? Her father? Or for Clive Massey? If he said he expected trouble, and within himself he was sure it would eventually come, it could be twisted to mean that he was hunting trouble. Massey would stop at nothing to put him in a bad light, to get rid of him.