He buttoned his slicker, then ran his hand inside the pocket to make sure he could lay a hand on the butt of his gun. “Bill, just why did you want to come on this wagon trip? You don’t strike me as a gold hunting man.”
“I ain’t. Rightly I’m a bullwhacker an’ a farmer. Maybe I’ll find me a farm farther west. First I got me a job to do.”
“A job?”
Shedd puffed for a moment on his pipe. “Yeah. A job. I ain’t no gold huntin’ man. Right now I’m a man huntin’ man.”
So that was it. Matt looked at Shedd thoughtfully and with new eyes. It was strange how often you accepted someone at face value or what seemed face value and without thinking much about them. Bill Shedd suddenly took on new significance. Bardoul was aware of a new impression, a startling, deep impression. If he were the man Bill Shedd was hunting he would be worried, very worried. There was something sure, inexorable about the big, ponderous fellow that gave him a sudden feeling of doom. “What man, Shedd?”
“You got things on your mind, you don’t talk about ’em. Neither do I.” He glanced up at Bardoul through the thin smoke of his pipe. “Meanin’ no offense.” He paused. “Funny thing is, I am not sure.”
“We’ll have to talk about that, Bill. I’ll be back.” He slid out of the covered wagon and dropped to the ground. The first heavy rush of rain had let up now and it was a steady if not a crashing downpour. The going would be very bad tomorrow. Bowing his head to the rain, he walked back toward Murphy’s wagon, and thrust his head inside. Ban Hardy was sitting there with him. So was Jeb Stark. “Stick around, all of you. I’ll be back.”
Pulling his head back, a cold drop of water went down the back of his neck. It never failed, he thought. Cover yourself as you would, be as careful as you will, one drop will always fall down the back of your neck.
Lightning streaked the night, and he could see the picketed animals in the center of the huge circle, their backs wet and glistening. Around them, like the coils of a huge snake, were the gathered wagons, each only a few feet from the next, the wet canvas glistening in the reflected light. He splashed through a pool and stopped by Stark’s wagon.
He scratched on the canvas. “Come in!” Stark yelled.
Matt pushed his head in. “My feet are wet, an’ I’m dripping. Stark, come over to Murphy’s wagon, will you? Little medicine talk.”
He withdrew his neck and went on to Lute Harless’ wagon. He hesitated, after speaking to Harless. Beyond was Rabun Kline’s wagon, and next to that, Ernie Braden’s. He hesitated over the idea of Kline. He had never talked much to the little Jew. Nor did he have any idea how the man stood except that he kept his team and wagon well, and had seemed a stable, reliable man.
That he was a friend of Herman Reutz, he knew. But was he too close to Pearson and Coyle? Would he talk?
Bardoul shrugged, then turned and moved toward Kline’s wagon. He scratched on the canvas, and at a word, thrust his head inside. Rabun Kline was lying on one elbow, reading a book. He wore square steel rimmed glasses, which he took off as he saw Bardoul. “Oh?” he was surprised. “Come in, will you?”
“Some other time. Now, we’ve got a talk coming up. Medicine talk.”
“Where?”
“Murphy’s wagon.” Matt took off his hat and wiped his wet face. “Kline, we’ve never talked much, but I take it you’re an honest man.”
“Thank you, sir. I hope that I am.”
“Up there at Murphy’s wagon there’s a talk for honest men, but one that may mean a mess of trouble. Maybe gun trouble.”
Kline folded his glasses carefully. “Shall I bring my gun now, sir?” Bardoul grinned. Suddenly, he liked this square built man with the placid face. In the west you knew men quickly, and he knew this one now. “Not necessarily,” he said, “if it comes to that, it will be later.”
Within ten minutes they were all there, gathered in a tight little group in the crowded confines of the wagon. Murphy, fortunately, was carrying less than most of them, and had space.
Matt glanced around at their wet, serious faces. “Men,” he said softly, “I had a brainstorm today. I want you to hear me out, answer my questions, and then decide if I am crazy or not.”
He turned to Lute. “Harless, you have three wagons. What would you say your wagons, teams, and cargo are worth at prevailing prices?”
Lute’s brow furrowed, and he rubbed his chin with the stem of his pipe. “Reckon I could figure it. My wagons are carryin’ upwards of two thousand pound each. All told I’ve got about two thousand pound of flour in all three wagons, scattered amongst ’em. Flour is sellin’ pretty general at ten dollars a hundred, some places more. You can figure that flour at two thousand dollars, all right.”
He studied the problem for a few minutes while the rain pounded steadily on the canvas over their heads, and dripped from the sides of the wagon bed to the sod below. “Countin’ sugar, tea, tools, an’ ammunition, I’d say I have about ten thousand dollars tied up in my outfit. Ever’ cent I brought west, an’ what I took out of my claim in Deadwood.”
“Reutz and Coyle would have more, wouldn’t they?” Matt asked.
“Sure. A good bit more.”
“Then,” Matt suggested slowly, “at a rough guess this wagon train would have a total value of nearly or maybe more than, three hundred thousand dollars?”
“I’d say a little more than that,” Rabun Kline said. “Perhaps half again as much. Coyle and Reutz have richer loads than we.”
Matt nodded. His voice was low, reaching only the crowded circle of intent faces. “What a nice, rich, juicy plum to knock off the bough … if someone had the idea!”
Aaron Stark’s chewing stopped with his mouth open. Murphy took the pipe from his mouth and stared at Matt, then slowly he put it back in his teeth. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he muttered.
“Think it over: we were all carefully selected as men who had money enough to put a good, substantial outfit on wheels. We all were led to indicate our cash position by buying shares in the venture, the money being held by Clive Massey. We were advised as to what stock to buy, all valuable merchandise. Every effort has been made to see that this is the richest wagon train on wheels!”
“So!” Harless stared at him.
“Understand, I am accusing nobody. Understand also that I know nothing the rest of you do not know. I told you of my warning in the livery stable, and some of you are aware of my doubts of Massey, my questioning of Hammer’s presence, and that of Bain.
“Buffalo can tell you that Abel Bain was a notorious renegade who raided many wagon trains out of Julesburg, and was almost lynched for it. Portugee Phillips knows the same thing.”
“I’ve heard that,” Harless said.
“Hammer has been suspected of the same operations. So was Buckskin Johnson. Their wagons carry more men than goods, heavily armed men, all with tough reputations. A little while ago Massey tried to get us to give up our weapons, too.”
“You figure,” Stark asked, “that they plan to murder us all an’ lay it to the Injuns?”
“Something tike that. Understand, I know no more than the rest of you. I may be doing honest men a grave injustice, but I’ve called you here to tell you and let you make up your own minds. If it is in the wind, we can set our canvas for it and be ready. If it is not, what can we lose?”
Hardy straightened a leg, then drew it back. He was getting stiff from the cramped position. “I’d say we’d better figure it that way. Massey lays out the guard plan. Any night he wants he could have only his own men awake. We’d be caught asleep, and wouldn’t have a chance!”
“Or he could have some of us killed on guard,” Murphy offered. “It’s been done.”
Harless shook his head. “It doesn’t seem possible they would do a thing like that,” he protested. “After all, they are white men!”
Stark snorted. “I’d sooner trust an Injun!”
“Mr. Coyle’s a fine man,” Kline added, “you don’t think he would be a party to such a thing?”
“I doubt it, but I don’t know. The only thing we can do,” Matt continued, “is to carry weapons and ammunition at all times and keep our ears and eyes open. Who is, or who is not in it, I wouldn’t know.”