Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (17 page)

“Mrs. Dayton,” he said with a curt nod. “The Colonel's expecting me.”

“Indeed, he is. He's waiting for you in the library.” She moved aside to let him pass, adding, “He's expecting you to have the young woman with you as well.”

“It's a long story,” Randall said.

A long, ugly story.

But the end was in sight now.

Colonel Hudson Ritchie wore a cream-colored suit, the sort of getup that Southern plantation owners wore, but that was the only thing he had in common with those Confederate sons of bitches. He had put many of their homes to the torch, back when he was wearing the blue of the Union cavalry, and as far as he was concerned, they deserved all the devastation that he had brought upon them.

He was a good-sized man, medium height but broad-shouldered, with some of the vitality of youth remaining to him despite the fact that he was getting on in years. A fringe of gray hair worn long remained around his ears and the back of his head. Otherwise his scalp was smoothly bald. His forehead bulged slightly, which he had always taken as a sign of his superior intelligence. His brain was so large that his head wasn't quite big enough for it.

He stood at the window in the library with a snifter of brandy in his hand. Since this room was at the back of the house, it didn't have a view of the town—
his
town—but from it he could see the mountains on the far side of the basin and all the rich landscape in between. He was already a rich man, but this basin, along with the help of his friends and associates back in Washington, was going to make him wealthy beyond compare.

That wealth would open the doors to even more power. In a few years, he would be in Washington himself, he thought. It was only a matter of time. And once he was there, there was no limit to what he might achieve. Even, if he dared to think about it, the White House....

A door opened, but it was the one leading into the library, not the corridors of power in the nation's capital. Mrs. Dayton said, “Mr. Randall is here, Colonel.”

Ritchie turned away from the window. He set his brandy on the desk, where the volume of Machiavelli he'd been reading earlier lay closed. He stood ramrod straight as the big man came into the library carrying a baby.

Ritchie almost called his subordinate “Lieutenant.” Randall had carried that rank by the end of the war, and some days the Colonel had trouble remembering that those days were so far in the past.

Randall stiffened as well, and Colonel Ritchie knew the man's first impulse was to come to attention and salute. Such formality was no longer required, of course, but once something like that had been ingrained in a man, it was hard to forget.

“Colonel,” Randall said. “It's good to see you again.”

“And you, Randall,” Ritchie said in his smooth, powerful voice, a voice meant for making speeches. “I see you have the lad.” Right to business, as always. “Where is his mother?”

Randall drew in a breath. His back stiffened even more. He said, “I'm sorry to have to tell you, Colonel, that I don't have the woman. She was killed on the way here.”

Anger boiled up inside Ritchie. He knew better than to let it control him, so he suppressed it and said, “Your orders were to bring both the woman and the child to me, Mr. Randall.”

“Yes, sir, I know. I made my best effort to do so. Her death was . . . unavoidable.”

The Colonel sensed that Randall was lying to him, or at least shading the truth. That was unacceptable. He snapped, “Tell me exactly what happened, in detail. Start at the beginning. I'll decide whether or not your failure to follow orders was unavoidable.”

For the next few minutes, Randall gave him the same sort of report he would have expected about a military campaign. That was the way the Colonel planned his operations, and that was the way he expected them to be carried out. The raid on the Assiniboine village sounded like it had been conducted properly, but when Randall told him how the Indian woman called Wildflower had died, it was all the Colonel could do to keep his rage from exploding.

In an icy voice, he said, “You were derelict in your duty, Randall. You should have kept a close personal guard over the woman at all times, and if you were unable to do so, you should have delegated that assignment to a man who could be trusted.”

“Yes, sir,” Randall said. “You're absolutely right. I take full responsibility.”

“As well you should.” The Colonel forced himself to move past his anger. “However, all is not lost. Thanks to the precaution you took of making sure the woman's body isn't discovered, we can proceed almost as planned. You're certain the body won't be found?”

“We buried her at the bottom of a ravine and then caved in the bank on top of the grave,” Randall said. “No one will ever know what happened.”

“Very good. I'll dispatch a fast rider immediately. Within a week's time, my demands will be delivered to this Assiniboine chief Two Bears. If he wishes to see his daughter and grandson again, he and his tribe will vacate the land they currently occupy, title to which will be transferred from the government to the railroad so construction can begin.”

Randall looked down at the child in his arms, then raised his head and asked, “Sir, why didn't your associates in the Ring just use the army to run off those redskins? Why go to the trouble of kidnapping the woman and the little boy?”

“I'm not in the habit of explaining my tactical decisions to subordinates, Lieu—Mr. Randall.” The Colonel picked up the brandy snifter from the desk and drained what was left of the smooth, fiery liquor. “However, since you and I have been together for so long, I'll make an exception this time. The same strategy occurred to me. The Assiniboine weren't even granted that land by treaty, so there wouldn't be a problem of breaking it. But they've been friendly with the white settlers for many years, and with the army as well. My associates believed that it would look bad in the public eye to force them off the land that is traditionally theirs.” Scorn dripped from the Colonel's voice. “You know it's politicians making the decisions, not soldiers, when the first consideration is how something
looks
. But after the scandals of a few years ago, they're leery of appearing too greedy, I suppose. They'd rather pull strings behind the scenes.” The Colonel's brawny shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “I'm a practical man, Randall. I have to cooperate with those who can assist me in achieving my goals. The Assiniboine will leave their land seemingly of their own free will, and the boy will be restored to his grandfather.”

“What happens when Two Bears finds out he won't be getting his daughter back?”

“By then construction of the railroad will already be underway. The only way for the Assiniboine to reclaim their land would be by going to war against the United States, Randall.” The Colonel smiled. “Some ragtag band of redskins against the combined might of this great nation? The very idea is ludicrous. We've crushed all the Indian opposition so far, and we'll continue to do so.”

“They'd be the ones who'd look like they turned hostile,” Randall mused. “Nobody would care if the army wiped them out.”

“Precisely. And so progress continues, as it was ordained.”

Randall nodded slowly and said, “Thanks for telling me all this, Colonel. That's pretty much the way I had it figured, but it's nice to know for sure. What do I do with the baby?”

“Give it to Mrs. Dayton. She'll care for it.”

“Him, Colonel. Little Hawk's a boy.”

“What? Yes, of course,” Ritchie said peevishly.

“He's still nursing. You'll need to find a woman whose tits have milk.”

“Don't be crude, Randall. I leave everything to Mrs. Dayton. She'll handle the situation.”

“Yes, sir,” Randall said.

The Colonel gave him a nod of dismissal. Randall started to turn away, then paused.

“Colonel, again, I'm sorry for what happened.”

“We'll make the best of it,” Ritchie said. “And we'll succeed in achieving our goals.”

“There's one more thing. . . .”

“Well? Spit it out, Lieutenant.” The Colonel didn't bother to correct himself this time.

“Even though they never caught up to us, it's possible that some of the Indians trailed us here. They might still cause trouble.”

The Colonel smiled and said, “There's a simple way to handle that problem.”

“Sir?”

“If you see one of the filthy red heathens, Randall, just kill him. That's all. Just kill him.”

 

 

Preacher leaned forward in his saddle to ease stiff muscles and looked out over the basin spread before him. It was a beautiful place, and he remembered riding through here a number of times in the past, starting in his fur-trapping days as a young man. He hadn't visited these parts in seven or eight years, though.

There was one very important change since the last time he'd been here.

“There's a doggone town down there now,” he said to Standing Rock. “That's new.”

“White men are everywhere,” Standing Rock said. “Like lice.”

Preacher grunted.

“That's one way to look at it, I reckon. But the trail leads straight toward that settlement. That's bound to be where those varmints took Wildflower and Little Hawk.”

For the past couple of days, Preacher and Standing Rock had been pushing the rescue party hard. Even at that faster pace, they hadn't been able to catch up to the kidnappers. The gunmen just had too big a lead.

Preacher was confident that they would have caught up sooner or later . . . but now it looked like the kidnappers had reached their destination. The whole thing still made no sense to him, but he had a hunch all the answers could be found in that settlement he hadn't known existed until now.

Standing Rock said, “We will ride in and force the white men to tell us where my wife and child are. Someone there will know.”

“Hold on, hold on,” Preacher said. “You can't just ride into a settlement, start grabbin' folks, and demandin' answers.”

Standing Rock lifted his rifle.

“That is exactly what I mean to do,” he said.

“Yeah, and you'll get yourself killed mighty quick-like, too. For one thing, if the men we're lookin' for are there, and I'm bettin' they are, they'll be on the lookout for us. For another, if a bunch of Injuns go in there actin' hostile, folks won't take the time to find out why you're upset. They'll just commence to shootin'. You've got enough sense to know that, Standin' Rock.”

“Then what do you think we should do, old man?” the warrior asked.

Preacher scratched at his beard and said, “I'll tell you what we're gonna do. We're gonna find a good place to camp that's still a ways outta that town, but not too far off. Then you and your men are gonna squat right there for the time bein'. Stay outta sight and don't let anybody know you're around.”

“And what will you be doing while we do that?” Standing Rock asked, sounding doubtful.

“Why, I figured I'd take a look into that town and see if I can find out what's what,” Preacher replied. “Those varmints don't know I was there when they attacked your village, and they don't know I been trailin' 'em with you.” A grin stretched across his whiskery face. “Besides, who'd ever suspect a harmless ol' geezer like me of lookin' for trouble?”

Irene Dayton was waiting outside the library doors when Randall came out with the Indian baby. She'd been eavesdropping, of course. She always did. She considered that part of her job because it helped her take care of the Colonel.

Randall said, “The Colonel told me to give him to you.”

“Of course,” Irene said with a nod. “I'll take him.”

She held out her hands, but Randall hesitated and didn't give her the baby just yet. Instead, he held the little boy under the arms and lifted him so he could look into the youngster's round face.

“He's a fighter,” Randall said. “Yells all the time, and if you try to do something he doesn't like, he'll kick you.”

Irene smiled and said, “All babies are like that, Mr. Randall. Well, most of them, anyway. If a baby is too quiet and docile, it's a sure sign there's something wrong.”

“This one's fine, then. I wouldn't call him quiet and docile, not by a long shot.”

He handed over the child, adding, “His name's Little Hawk.”

“I know.” Irene brought the baby close to her, her right arm around his bottom, her left hand supporting his head. “When did he eat last?”

“It's been a while. I've been giving him pieces of bread soaked in sugar water.”

“He needs more than that. There's a Mexican woman, the wife of one of the laborers, who gave birth a couple of weeks ago. She should have more than enough milk. I'll send for her.”

“Fine,” Randall said with a nod. “Thank you.” He started up the hall toward the front door, then paused and looked back. “Take good care of him.”

“Of course, Mr. Randall,” Irene said with a smile. “Don't worry. He'll be fine. I know how important he is to Colonel Ritchie.”

Randall just grunted and went on out of the house.

Irene headed for her quarters. The Colonel had expected to keep the Indian woman and the baby together and had a room set aside for them on the third floor where they would have been under guard around the clock.

However, Irene liked to prepare for any eventuality, so she had taken the liberty of preparing a place for the child in her room. True, it was only an empty crate with the lid pried off, half-filled with blankets so it would be nice and soft. A crude, makeshift excuse for a cradle, to be sure, but she thought the baby would be comfortable enough in it. At this age, they didn't care about much except getting enough to eat and having a good place to sleep. Irene would see to it that Little Hawk had both of those things.

Randall had gotten attached to the baby while they were traveling here from the Assiniboine village. Irene had been able to see that in the big man's eyes. Well, it came as no surprise. Even the most hardened gunman's heart might melt slightly after being around a child.

She wondered if having the baby around might melt the Colonel's heart, even the tiniest bit.

“Oh, no,” she said aloud as she asked herself that question.

Nothing could melt Colonel Hudson Ritchie's heart.

 

 

Preacher could tell that the settlement hadn't been there for very long. Six months, maybe. No more than a year, for sure. Many of the buildings looked new. The weather had hardly faded the raw lumber.

Some of the buildings along the main street were still empty, too, and Preacher could tell by looking that they had never been occupied. They were waiting for businesses to move in.

The houses and cabins along the side streets were different. They had people living in them. Smoke rose from their chimneys. It took a lot of citizens to build and run a town of this size, and unless some disaster happened, likely it would just get bigger. Once ranchers and homesteaders moved into this lush basin, there would be plenty of support for the town.

One thing was missing, though, and Preacher's eyes narrowed as he thought about it.

“Howdy, old-timer!”

The friendly voice calling to him broke into his musings. He looked over and saw a man standing in front of the bat-winged entrance of a saloon. Unlike some of the other buildings in town, this one was occupied and open for business.

The man who had hailed Preacher sported a derby hat and a rusty handlebar mustache. He waved at the mountain man and continued, “Come on over, friend. You look like you could use a drink. I know a thirsty man when I see one, or my name ain't Archibald Ingersoll!”

Preacher angled Horse over to the hitch rack in front of the building. A freshly-painted sign hanging from the awning over the boardwalk read: EMERALD PALACE SALOON.

“Your job is drummin' up business for this place, is it?” Preacher asked the mustachioed man.

“It's worse than that, amigo,” Ingersoll replied with a grin that revealed a couple of gold teeth. “I own this drinking establishment!”

“Well, it ain't ever'day I'm invited in by the boss his ownself.” Preacher swung down from the saddle and looped the reins around the hitch rack. “First drink on the house?”

“Sure, why the hell not?” Ingersoll agreed. He glanced at Dog and added, “Your, uh, wolf will have to stay outside, though.”

“He ain't all wolf. Just the mean part, with the fangs.” Preacher looked down at the big cur. “Stay, Dog.”

“He's well-trained,” Ingersoll said as Dog sat down beside the stallion.

“Yeah, until he gets the smell of blood in his nose. Then I wouldn't want to be around him.”

“I'll, uh, remember that.” Ingersoll held out a hand toward the bat wings. “Go right in. Tell the bartender I said to set you up with a drink on the house. Just don't be too loud about it. Wouldn't want the rest of the customers to get any ideas, you know.”

Preacher grunted and pushed through the bat wings. He stepped into the saloon's cool, shady interior.

The Emerald Paradise was new enough that the usual odors of stale beer, tobacco smoke, and human sweat hadn't had time to seep into the walls, floor, and ceiling. All those smells were present, but they were mixed with the tang of fresh-cut wood and weren't overwhelming.

The long hardwood bar was to Preacher's right; tables were to his left, poker tables, a roulette wheel, and a faro layout along the wall, and in the back of the room a small open area and a stage. It looked like the saloon planned to offer live entertainment, although nothing along those lines was going on now.

The place was fairly busy, though, with half a dozen men at the bar and that many again scattered among the tables. A poker game with four players in it was going on at one of the green-covered tables. A couple of women in glittery dresses delivered drinks to the tables while a bartender in a white apron handled the trade at the bar.

A staircase in the back corner of the room led upstairs. Preacher figured those gals did more than haul drinks around. They probably hauled ashes, too, and handled that chore in the rooms upstairs.

He went to the bar and stood there until the apron came over and asked, “What can I do for you, old-timer? We're not lookin' to hire a swamper.”

An angry retort started to well up in Preacher's throat. Here he stood with a Bowie knife and two holstered revolvers, and the varmint thought he was looking for a swamper's job!

Preacher didn't want to draw too much attention to himself as soon as he rode into town, though, so he said, “I ain't lookin' for work, friend. The fella outside, calls hisself Ingersoll, said for you to draw me a beer and make it on the house.”

The bartender glanced through the front windows to the boardwalk, where Archibald Ingersoll was still exhorting passersby to step into the saloon and have a drink. The man sighed and said, “The boss is gonna give away all the profits, but if that's what he wants to do I reckon it's his business.”

The man filled a mug with beer and slid it across the hardwood to Preacher. The old mountain man took a long swallow and then used the back of his other hand to wipe away the foam that clung to his mustache.

“Not bad,” he admitted. “Cuts the trail dust just fine.”

“Been riding a long time?” the bartender asked. Like most members of his profession, he couldn't resist the urge to talk, at least when he wasn't busy serving drinks.

“Long enough,” Preacher said. “Say, what do they call this settlement? Last time I rode through these parts, this basin was empty.”

“This is Hammerhead,” the bartender replied.

“What sort of a name is that for a town?”

The bartender shrugged and said, “I couldn't tell you. You'd have to ask the Colonel.”

“The Colonel?” Preacher repeated. He recalled hearing the man who'd grabbed Wildflower using that title. Clearly, this colonel was the one who had paid to have Wildflower and Little Hawk kidnapped. He was the one possibly tied in with the Indian Ring.

“Colonel Hudson Ritchie,” the bartender supplied. “He founded the town. It was all his idea.”

“That'd make him like the mayor, I reckon.”

“Hammerhead doesn't have a mayor,” the bartender said with a laugh. “It doesn't need one. We have the Colonel instead. He owns the whole place.”

“I thought this saloon belonged to Ingersoll.”

“The furnishings and the fixtures do. He rents the building from the Colonel.”

“Sounds like this here Colonel's got himself a pretty good deal. He starts a town, gets folks to come in and live and work in it, and still owns everything to boot.”

“I guess that was his plan all along,” the bartender said. “That and to bring the railroad in here. Once he does that, this basin is really going to boom. You mark my words, old-timer.”

“Oh, I believe you, I believe you,” Preacher muttered. He thought back to the look around the settlement he'd taken as he rode in. “I'm guessin' the big house at the end of the street belongs to the Colonel.”

“Biggest house in town for the biggest man in town.”

Preacher nodded. He might have tried to pump the talkative bartender for more information, but at that moment one of the men farther along the bar called for a refill, so the bartender headed in that direction, leaving Preacher to stand there and sip his beer.

The old mountain man looked like he didn't have a care in the world, but in reality his brain was working quickly. On the way into the basin he had noticed that the place had everything it needed to blossom except a railroad, and now he knew that this Colonel Ritchie intended to bring one in. Preacher couldn't connect that up with the kidnapping of Wildflower and Little Hawk, unless somehow the Assiniboine stood in the way of the Colonel's plans. That was hard to figure, because Two Bears's village was a good hundred miles away from here....

But every railroad had to start somewhere, Preacher mused. With all the mountains around here, there were only certain ways that a railroad could run. Preacher's eyes narrowed as he called up a mental picture of the territory. Like using a finger to trace a trail on a map, his brain sketched a possible route onto that mental image, starting here at Hammerhead and working his way back to—

His hand tightened on the half-full beer mug. There it was, right in front of him in his mind's eye. The route would work, angling here, bending there, curving down through the hunting grounds of the Assiniboine to hook up with the tracks already laid by the Northern Pacific.

That didn't explain everything, though. If Colonel Ritchie was involved with the Indian Ring, it would have been more their style to use political and financial pressure to force the Indians off land that traditionally belonged to them. Maybe they had changed their way of doing things since the last run-in he and Smoke and Matt had had with them. Could be they had sort of left the Colonel to deal with the problem on his own, promising him their support if he could clear the way for the railroad without involving them.

All that could be hashed out later, Preacher told himself. Right now the important thing was to find Wildflower and the little boy.

He figured he knew the first place to start looking: that big fancy house at the end of the street.

Preacher lifted his mug to finish off the beer as the bat wings flapped open. He didn't look around, but in the mirror behind the bar he caught a glimpse of the man who had just come in. A shock of recognition went through the mountain man.

The last time he had seen that big jigger was in Two Bears's village, when the hombre had Wildflower in front of him and was trying to get out of the village while the killing went on all around him.