Hard Ride to Hell (9780786031191) (22 page)

Matt managed to keep his tone idly curious as he asked his question. He didn't want to betray too much interest in the prisoner, because if he did, Randall might start to wonder if there was some connection between him and the old mountain man.

What Matt really wanted to do was whip out his Colt and blast slugs through both Randall and the other man. The sight of what had been done to Preacher filled him with rage.

Preacher wore only his buckskin trousers. His lean, pale torso was covered with bruises, some of them fresh and angry-looking blotches of blue and purple, others older and turning mottled shades of brown and yellow. His face was the same way, with the addition of brown smears of dried blood from a number of cuts and gashes. Clearly, someone had been beating the hell out of him for days now.

From what Randall had said in the saloon, he was one of the men who'd been dealing out that punishment. But maybe not the only one, because he said, “I see the Colonel's paid you a visit since I've been up here, old-timer.”

Preacher opened one eye wider and squinted up at Randall. His swollen lips moved. His words were thick and slightly distorted because of that, but Matt understood them just fine.

“Go to hell.”

“You'll be there before me, old man,” Randall said.

Matt was starting to get the feeling that they didn't even know Preacher's name. He hadn't told them a blessed thing during his captivity. That was just like him, stubborn as an old mule.

“He's the one who shot you?” Matt asked.

“Yeah,” Randall said. “But I winged him a couple of times, too.”

Matt chuckled and said, “A fella that old and decrepit, I'm surprised he didn't die right off.”

Preacher's squint got even more furious as he glared up at them. He was putting on a good show, thought Matt. Randall shouldn't have any clue that they knew each other.

“Yeah, well, he's tougher than you'd think he would be,” Randall said. “We've been questioning him for a week and haven't gotten a damned thing out of him.”

“What are you trying to find out?” Matt asked. Again, he tried to sound just idly curious.

Randall glanced over at him and frowned, obviously considering whether he wanted to answer that question. After a few seconds, he said, “If you're going to be working for the Colonel, I suppose you'll need to know what's going on. You know that he's going to build a railroad into this basin, don't you?”

“I heard some talk about it in the saloon,” Matt replied vaguely.

“Well, there's one piece of the best route that he doesn't have locked up yet, and it just so happens a bunch of filthy redskins are squatting right on it. It's their traditional hunting grounds or some such.”

“Why doesn't he just make them move?” Matt asked. “Folks have never hesitated to push Indians out of the way before if they were standing in the way of progress.”

“If it was only up to the Colonel, I'm sure that's what he'd do. But he has some powerful friends in Washington who have made it clear to him that they'll only help him out if he goes about it more . . . discreetly, I guess you'd say.”

Raiding Two Bears's village and killing a bunch of innocent men, women, and children in order to kidnap a young woman and her baby wasn't exactly what he would call discreet, Matt thought, but maybe it was in comparison to some of the other things the Colonel could have done.

“The Colonel wanted to get his hands on the chief's daughter and grandson,” Randall went on. “He figured if he did that, the Indians would cooperate and do whatever he said, including moving off their land in what everybody else would think was their own decision. It has to
look
good for those spineless weasels in Washington. So he sent a message to the chief explaining what has to be done. The redskin ought to have it by now.”

“So the woman you mentioned who was killed . . . ?”

“The chief's daughter.” Randall shrugged. “But it doesn't really matter. As far as the savages know, she and her brat are both our prisoners, and that's all that really matters.”

With an effort, Matt controlled the anger that threatened to erupt inside him. He nodded and asked, “So how does the old man tie in with all of that?”

“That's what we're not completely sure of,” Randall replied with a shake of his head. “As best I can tell, he's a friend of those Indians. You know how a lot of those old squaw men were practically savages themselves.”

“That was before my time,” Matt said.

“Well, you can take it from me, there were plenty of white men who went west to become fur trappers, and they wound up living with the Indians so much they might as well have been redskins themselves. I figure this old man is one of them. He trailed us here, and what we want to know is if he brought some of the warriors with him. If he did, he needs to tell us where they are so we can deal with them.”

“Wipe them out, you mean?”

“You have any objection of that?” Randall asked sharply.

Matt shook his head and said, “I've fought Indians before. Reckon I probably will again.”

“I'd say there's a good chance of it if you go to work for the Colonel. As soon as he wakes up from his nap, I'll introduce you to him and make sure it's all right for you to take Page's place. In the meantime . . .” Randall gestured to the other man. “String him up again, Harry. I'll work him over a little, soften him up for when the Colonel visits him later on.”

Matt stiffened. He had seen several other gunmen downstairs and hanging around the mansion outside. If he ventilated Randall and Harry and cut Preacher loose, he didn't know if they could shoot their way out of the house. Maybe if they were able to take Colonel Ritchie hostage . . .

But one thing was certain. He couldn't just stand by and watch while Randall hammered his fists into the old mountain man. That was never going to happen. As Harry bent toward Preacher to haul him off the bunk, Matt caught Preacher's eye and moved his hand toward the butt of his Colt, to let Preacher know that he was about to make his move.

Before any of that could happen, a voice called from downstairs, saying, “Randall! Are you up there, Lieutenant?”

Randall motioned for Harry to wait. He said, “That's the Colonel now. Come on, Stevens.”

Matt hated to leave Preacher up here, a prisoner in this cramped, airless little room, but for the moment he thought his best course was still to play along with their enemies. That would give Smoke a chance to get into town, and the three of them would stand a better chance together.

Besides, even though Wildflower was dead, evidently Little Hawk was still alive, and rescuing the child was another reason Matt and Smoke had come here.

Matt glanced at Preacher as he turned to go out. The mountain man glared at him and Randall with undisguised hatred. It was a good job, Matt thought, and only half of it was acting. But as far as anyone could tell, Preacher despised him and Randall equally.

Matt followed the big gunman through the door, wishing that he could tell Preacher he would be back to help him.

Matt had a hunch Preacher knew that anyway.

 

 

Smoke kept an eye out for Matt's big steel dust as he rode into the settlement, but he didn't see the stallion tied at any of the hitch rails along the street. That wasn't necessarily a cause for concern. Matt could have put the horse in a livery stable, or he could have come across a clue to Preacher's whereabouts that had led him out of town. One way or another, Matt could take care of himself, and Smoke knew that.

He saw what looked like the biggest and most successful saloon in town, the Emerald Palace, and thought about going in there because such places were good for picking up all the local gossip.

But general mercantile stores were also good for that, so he angled the 'Palouse toward the Hammerhead Emporium instead. Hammerhead had to be the name of the settlement, he decided. He couldn't imagine a businessman using it on a store otherwise.

He dismounted and tied up, then climbed the steps at the end of the high porch that also served as a loading dock. The store's double front doors stood open. Smoke went inside and took a whiff of the various odors that blended together to form the distinctive smell of a general store: tobacco, pepper and other spices, vinegar from the pickle barrel, lilac water, gunpowder, leather, fabric, flour, and a number of other things.

Several customers were browsing in the aisles formed by wooden shelves. Those aisles all led toward a long counter in the rear of the store. A balding man in a gray canvas apron stood behind the counter, talking to another man in a tweed suit and narrow-brimmed black hat. The man in the apron seemed upset about something as Smoke strolled closer, pretending to look at the merchandise on the shelves he passed.

“. . . knows I'll pay him as soon as I can,” the man was saying. “Business is pickin' up, but it still ain't what it's gonna be once the railroad gets here.”

“I assure you, Mr. Springhorn, Colonel Ritchie is aware of that,” the man in the suit said. “That's why he's going to give you just as many extensions as he possibly can. You're in no danger of having him foreclose at the moment. I just thought it would be a good idea to alert you to the possibility that such a thing might come to pass at some time in the future.”

“Reckon I already knew that,” Springhorn said, visibly struggling to contain his temper. “And I know this ain't your fault, Mr. Webster. I'm sure it'll all work out fine.”

“As am I,” Webster said. He turned to leave the store. As he passed Smoke, he nodded politely. Smoke touched the brim of his hat in return and then moved on to the counter.

“What can I do for you, mister?” Springhorn asked.

“I could use a pound of flour and half a pound of salt,” Smoke said. That was actually true. The supplies in his saddlebags were starting to run a little low after the long trail he and Matt had followed to get here.

“Well, I can fix you up, and glad to do it, too.”

“Business not very good?” Smoke asked, acting like he was just making idle conversation. Actually, he had heard Webster, the man in the suit, mention Colonel Ritchie, and he wanted to find out more about the man. It was quite likely, thought Smoke, that Ritchie was the mysterious Colonel whom Preacher suspected of being connected to the Indian Ring.

“Business is fine,” Springhorn answered crisply. “Just not as good as it will be once things start booming here in the basin.”

“It's good-looking range, all right,” Smoke said. “If I was looking to start a spread, this would be a fine place, especially if there was a way to get a herd to market without having to make that long drive around the mountains.”

Springhorn let out a snort.

“We're workin' on just that, friend, so if you're really lookin' to settle down, you could do a whole lot worse. Once the railroad gets here sometime next year, this basin will be the prime piece of real estate in the whole territory.”

“I don't doubt it,” Smoke agreed.

“I just hope I'm still here when that day arrives,” Springhorn said, his control slipping for a second so that worry showed on his face.

“You don't think you can hang on until then?”

Smoke could put a friendly expression on his face when he wanted to, the sort of expression that prompted people to talk to him. Of course, there were also the times when his face turned grim and his eyes got icy and he looked like he was about to unleash hellfire and hot lead on any varmint who got in his way. That expression made folks who had any sense clear out in a hurry.

Right now, though, Springhorn sighed and said, “I'm sure it'll be all right.”

He was middle-aged, with the scrawny, pinched look of a man who had worked hard all his life for not enough reward. His head was mostly bald and he had a sandy mustache under a prominent nose. He took off the spectacles he wore and rubbed at the bridge of that nose as he continued, “The fella who backed me in this business is the salt of the earth. He loaned me enough money to start the store, and he charges me nice reasonable rent on the building. I'm sure the Colonel will give me every chance to make it. That was his bookkeeper I was just talkin' to, fella name of Webster. He was just lettin' me know how I stand on my accounts.”

“I see,” Smoke said with a nod. “Well, maybe that flour and salt I need will help out a little.”

Springhorn started slightly, as if he had forgotten about the things Smoke wanted to buy until that reminder. He said, “I'll get your order ready right now, mister.”

While the storekeeper went off to do that, Smoke thought about what he had just learned. Colonel Ritchie had staked Springhorn, and he owned the building in which the general store was housed. It was pure speculation, Smoke knew, but what if the Colonel had interests like that in most of the other businesses in town? He could bide his time, waiting while he built the railroad into the basin—with the help of the Indian Ring, more than likely—and while that was going on, the businesses in Hammerhead would continue to develop. Then, when the railroad arrived and the basin was poised to explode with growth, the Colonel could crack down, force out all the men he had supposedly helped, and take over everything.

It was the sort of power play that could make a man incredibly rich . . . as long as he didn't mind crushing anybody who got in his way. Smoke had a hunch that the Colonel wouldn't mind that at all.

He needed to find out more before he would be convinced his theory was right, but his instincts told him he was on the right track. The Colonel's long-term plans didn't really matter at the moment, though. Finding out what had happened to Preacher and locating Wildflower and Little Hawk were a lot more pressing.