At daylight, the Colts slung about his hips and plenty of ammunition bought or borrowed from the carpenter in his saddle bags, Matt Bardoul rode out of camp on the zebra dun. He had no plan, only to come within striking distance of the wagon train, and to reach, if possible, some communication with Murphy or Stark. If he could get guns in the hands of a few of the honest men, there would be little to worry about. They would at least have a fighting chance.
All that day he rode, and the following morning he picked up the trail of the wagons once more. Washed, shaved and refreshed from his brief stay in camp, he was feeling ready for anything. The doctor who dressed his wounds had just looked at them grimly, and told him he was a fool for luck. Then added that he should have rest and quiet. “From the look of you,” he went on to say, “I doubt if you’ll get it. And you’ll probably live!”
They had grinned at each other, and the doctor, to whom he had told his story, added, “I wish I was going with you. It would be worth it.”
The dun took to the trail like he had reasons of his own for catching the wagon train, and as he rode, Matt tried the Colts. They were better balanced than his own guns, a beautiful pair of guns. He tried them on a couple of rabbits, then fed shells into the empty chambers and returned them to their places.
He rode and rested, then rode and rested again. When he rested he made coffee or soup, but for the most part he ate in the saddle. He rode into the ruins of old Fort C. F. Smith, near the foot of the mountains, and the first thing he saw was the body of a man, partly covered by brush. It was Ben Sperry. He had been shot three times after being brutally beaten.
Mart’s face was hard when he swung back into the saddle and headed south, riding swiftly. The trail turned up a creek toward a deep canyon that cut into the hills, and Matt slowed his horse to a walk. There could be no outlet in this direction for they were driving right back into the mountains, heading southeast. Then he was close, very close.
He had stopped to drink at the stream when he heard a groan, and wheeled, gun in hand. He was looking right into the eyes of Logan Deane.
The gunfighter lay on his stomach on the bank of the stream, a few feet above it, and his face was gray with pain. Matt caught him by the shoulder. “Logan! What happened? What’s the matter?”
Deane’s eyes focused. “Bardoul … kill him. Kill that … Massey.” His voice faded and Matt got up on the bank and knelt beside him, but only a glance was needed. How Logan Deane was even able to speak was beyond him. The man had been shot, not once, but at least five times through the stomach, and left to die.
“You … were right … he pulled …” Deane seemed to gather himself for an effort, “sneak gun on me. Get there … quick.”
Holding a canteen to the man’s lips, Matt gave him a drink, but Deane pushed him away. “Get … Massey!”
Suddenly, he heard a new sound. He straightened, listening. He heard it again … the ring of an axe!
Then he was close, very close. Matt loosened his guns in their holsters and waited, standing there, letting his nerves grow quiet and his senses poised.
CHAPTER XII
What was taking place with the wagon train, Matt did not know. He knew that at last he had reached the end of the trail in more ways than one. Now, at last, there would be a showdown and he would face Massey as he had long wished to face him … with a gun. Yet there would be a difference between this and any other fight, for now the lives and happiness of others were at stake.
Because of that he must plan shrewdly and with care. Victory, if it was to be had at all, would have to come with a sudden strike, giving the renegades no chance to organize or get set for a battle. He must approach shrewdly, study the situation, and find some way of getting guns into the hands of the honest men.
First then, he must locate Buffalo Murphy, if he was alive, and after him, the Starks and the Coyles, and those whom he knew would be most resolute in the face of danger and gunfire. Then and only then could he risk a break, and then he must find and kill Clive Massey.
There was no other choice. Looked at calmly, it was Massey who must be destroyed. He was the brain and the hand, the brain that conceived and planned, the hand that enforced, and once he was destroyed the whole outlaw force might come apart at the seams.
The manner of the death of Logan Deane convinced him anew that Massey was a ruthless, sadistic killer. To gut-shoot a man in that manner meant to leave him hours of torture, hours of suffering when time would drag on and there could be no hope of life, only the cruelty of endless agony. Massey had known this when he killed Deane.
Matt turned away from the fallen man knowing there was nothing he could do, and walking into the brush, he concealed his horse, tying it where the grass was good in a small glade surrounded with brush and trees. He took his guns then, checking the twinbelts to assure himself that every loop was full. Only then did he turn and start through the woods. He moved carefully, uncertain as to how the camp might be guarded, or how soon he would come up with the wagon train.
The lodgepoles towered above him in slim, erect columns, all of a size, and the forest beneath them carpeted with the fallen pine needles of many years. He walked steadily, his mind reaching ahead to plan for what he might find.
Suddenly, he had come to the edge of a cliff. Below him, no more than sixty feet, was a rock walled valley floored with green. At the upper end a waterfall fell from a gap in the cliff into a pool. Nearby, a number of men were building log structures, at least two of which were already completed. Around them Matt could see the outlaws on guard.
This then was why they were alive. Massey was using their labour until the very last. There was no evidence of the women.
Matt stretched out behind some manzanita and studied the layout with careful eyes. There was only one approach he could use, for aside from the entrance, undoubtedly guarded with care, the only way into the valley was at a place where the wall was broken by a long pine clad slope that let an arm of the forest reach into the valley. Even as he watched he saw several men, shouldering axes, start for that hill. Two guards accompanied them, and Matt decided this must be where they were cutting the timber for the cabins.
There was no other evidence of timber falling around, and he believed he could see where the logs had been snaked along the ground by oxen.
Getting to his feet he moved back into the timber and worked his way along the mountainside in that direction. It was no more than a mile, yet it required all of an hour to cover the ground without risking detection.
He heard the ring of axes before he reached the spot, but got into a good position in a thick growth of brush where he could watch the men at work, and see their guards.
Six men made up the group, and two guards, both of whom carried shotguns. Mart’s lips went dry when he saw them. It was no wonder the captives had made no effort to escape. No man gambles with a shotgun. A rifle or a pistol if one is desperate enough, but a shotgun? No.
Matt studied the group with care, and saw that one of the wood cutters was Jeb Stark. Even as he watched, two more men came through the trees from camp accompanied by a third guard. One of these men was Buffalo Murphy.
Lifting his head slightly, Matt gave out the lonely call of a loon.
His eyes were on Murphy, and he saw the big man straighten and mop a hand across his brow. Murphy had heard him … he knew!
Suddenly, Mart’s head jerked around and his Winchester lifted. A man with a rifle had moved out of the woods opposite him and behind the woodsmen. It was Phillips!
Bardoul waited, his mouth dry and his heart pounding. If Murphy had heard his call, then Phillips had also, and Phillips was armed, which implied that he was riding with the renegades. Any old Indian fighter would know that call. Yet the scout made no move, and gave no indication of awareness.