The horses and oxen were very restless, their longing for water after the hard, hot day being reason enough. The moon was bright, so after a brief meeting of the captains it was decided to move out at one o’clock in the morning. It was a slow start, and a hard pull.
The only thought now was water. Matt used the last of what he carried in the barrels, and stared thoughtfully into the night. It was a clear, beautiful night, however, and after the first two hours they made better time. At about four o’clock they came up to the huge circular mass of Pumpkin Buttes. A rider from the Coyle company had found water but it was bitter as gall and white as milk. After a dry breakfast, they moved on.
At their noon halt they made dry camp once more and Herman Reutz walked over from his company. He nodded to Stark, then sat down beside Bardoul. “How much further to water?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know of any closer than Fort Reno, now. It’s on the river. Or near by. It’s another good day, and maybe a shade more. Will your stock make it?”
Reutz shrugged an expressive shoulder. “Maybe. I think so. But what comes after that? I’m beginning not to like this set up.”
“Neither do I like it,” Stark said. He forked up a slice of venison and loaded his plate with beans. “I don’t like anything about it. I’m for cuttin’ off to ourselves. I’m for a showdown.”
Harless shook his head. “Not yet. There’s no use us bringin’ something to a head too soon. Let’s see what happens. We won’t be took by surprise now that we’re warned.”
“If I could only place the man!” Bardoul said aloud. “I’d swear he’s a gunfighter and killer.”
Bill Shedd shifted his seat on the wagon tongue. “The Texas trails didn’t breed all the gunmen. You thought about the river boats?”
Bardoul swung around, giving Shedd all his attention. “You mean the riverboat gamblers?”
“Yeah. Some of them are mighty slick. Several of them most p’tic’lar slick. Dick Ryder, for instance, or Sun Boyne.”
Stark looked up. “I heard of him. The Natchez killer. From the Natchez Trace. Used to say he rode with Murrell, but he ain’t hardly old enough. He’s a mean one, though.”
Stark looked thoughtfully at Shedd. “You from that country?”
“Sort of. Lived along the Trace when I was a boy. I was raised up on stories of Murrell, Hare an’ two Harpes. First job I ever had was at Natchez under the Hill. Leastwise, the first job off the farm.”
“What about Ryder and Boyne?” Matt asked.
Shedd finished chewing a mouthful of beans and reached for his coffee cup. “Killers, the both of ’em. No kin. Which was the worst, nobody could say. As late as the beginning of the War Between the States there was still a sight of money goin’ over the Trace, but Sun Boyne started there as a boy. Must have been about sixteen when he began killin’ travellers an’ robbin’ ’em.
“Showed up in New Orleans, finally. Got him a job down there in a gamblin’ joint as a gunman, from that he went to gamblin’ on his own. Durin’ the war he took out and went to South America.” Bill took a gulp of coffee, then put down his cup. “He come back, though, an’ took up with Dick Ryder and some guerillas. Done a lot of robbin’ and killin’ before the war was over. Ain’t been seen since.”
By the middle of the afternoon they began to see mountains. Matt Bardoul was riding off on the flank as usual and keeping a sharp eye out. Twice during the day he had seen fresh tracks, obviously made by Indian ponies. One of the groups must have been forty or more braves, and the other slightly smaller. Such a group might not attack the train, but they would try to run off stock or attack stragglers.
The peaks of the Big Horns were snow capped and they caught the brilliant sunlight, flashing it back into bis eyes.
The grass was sparse now, and very parched. Dust arose in clouds. The air was hot and heavy and the oxen were making heavy going of it.
Brian Coyle rode over toward him. The big man’s face was dust covered and he looked tired. He shook his head at Matt. “Reckon we should have listened to you, Bardoul. How far off is that Stone Cup Spring?”
“Too far now,” Matt said with genuine regret. “It is over forty miles to the north of us. It is better now to keep right on to the river. We’ll hit it somewhere near Fort Reno.”
Coyle mopped his brow. “Those mountains look good. Are there trees?”
“You bet! Some of the finest stands of lodgepole pine you’ll ever see in this world! Lots of grass, too, and plenty of water. That’s a good country.”
“Jackie tells me you plan to start a ranch over there.”
“That’s right, back over in the Basin. Some fine grass land in there, and I know some of the Indians. I won’t have any trouble.”
“How about a market?”
“I won’t worry much about that for a couple of years. I want to stock my range well, first. After that I can always sell some beef to the mines in western Montana. Or drive to the railroad in southern Wyoming. A market won’t be any problem.
“Once I get my buildings set up, I’m going down to Cheyenne and contact some of the Texas cattlemen and get some cattle driven in here for me.”
“Sounds like a good investment.”
“In good times there’s none better. They increase very rapidly. The cattle business, unless you lose a lot by drought or bad cold spells, is a good business. I’ve had some experience with cattle. So has young Hardy.”
Elam Brooks galloped his horse over to them. The moment Matt saw his face he knew something was wrong.
The former stage driver reined in front of Brian Coyle. “Coyle, what’s going on in this wagon train, anyway? There’s hell to pay back there!”
“What do you mean?” Coyle demanded. “What’s the trouble?” He turned in his saddle to find his company was stopped and there was a dark bunching of wagon horses and men.
“Logan Deane an’ Bat Hammer took Ben Sperry’s guns off him!” Brooks declared. “Sperry had a fight with Hammer this mornin’ after he found Hammer goin’ through his wagon. Ben knocked Hammer down, an’ they fit for three, four minutes. Ben, he’s a strappin’ big bull whacker an’ Hammer had no business fightin’ him. He whupped Bat fair an’ square. Then a few minutes ago Hammer came up with Deane, threw a gun on Sperry an’ started takin’ his guns.”
They were riding swiftly toward the Coyle wagons. Worried, Matt noted that the other companies were moving on, although Massey’s men were lagging a little. Neither Reutz nor any of his own men appeared to have noticed the trouble.
Sperry was on the ground when they rode up. Blood was streaming from a cut in his head, and his wife was crying. One of Massey’s men was holding her back, and Bat Hammer stood over Sperry gun in hand. His face was livid with fury.
“What’s going on here?” Coyle demanded.
Deane swung around, his eyes shifting from Coyle to Brooks and Bardoul. They darkened a little and his lips thinned when he saw Matt.
“Just enforcin’ a little law,” Deane said bluntly. “Hammer was investigating Sperry’s wagon on my orders. Sperry found him at it, and beat him up.”
“On your orders?” Coyle’s voice was suddenly even, and Matt looked up at him. He was surprised, suddenly. All the good fellowship and easy congenial manner was gone. Brian Coyle was crisp and hard. “Just what reason had you to give any such orders, Deane? I’m in command of this company, duly elected by the personnel. If you had any complaint you could bring it to me.”
Bardoul’s eyes shifted suddenly to Deane, and he saw the gunman was disturbed. Coyle, he realized, had fooled him as well as Bardoul. Only a glance was needed to tell not only that Coyle was angry, but that he was not a man to be trifled with. Under pressure, Coyle had it.
“He’s been accused of stealin’,” Deane said. “Hammer was searchin’ for stolen goods.”
“Ben Sperry? Of stealing?” Coyle stared in blank and angry astonishment. “Logan Deane, I don’t know what your game is, but you’d better know this: I’ve known Ben Sperry for twenty years and a more honest man never lived. Hammer,” Coyle’s head jerked around, “you put that gun up and get out of here!”
“Just a minute!” Deane snapped. “I’m in command of the law enforcement on this wagon train! Hammer’s under my orders!”
“All right, then! You order him out of here!” Brian Coyle’s eyes were blazing. If he thought about Deane’s gunfighting there was no sign of it in his manner. Coyle, Bardoul realized, with a queer, leaping satisfaction, was the sort of man who would beard the devil in hell and feed him hot coals.