Hopkins went, and they could watch him all the way across. How had the Indians missed seeing them, Kilrone wondered. They must be watching, and now it could be only a matter of minutes…
“Rudio, quickly now! Then Reinhardt, then Lahey.”
“Saving me to last, Kilrone?” Teale grinned at him. “Figure I’m the one you could lose best? The world’s better off without me, or something like that?”
“Hell, no! You’re the man I want with me if we have to make a fight of it.” Lahey was already crawling out on the makeshift bridge, close on Reinhardt’s heels.
The Indians saw them then, and a dozen rifles fired at once. Kilrone, on his knees on the roof behind the parapet, saw the dawn blossom with spots of fire from the rifles, and he shot quickly, firing at the flash. Teale was down beside him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Rudio had made the roof, saw him wheel and open fire, saw his body jerk with the impact of bullets—and then saw him fall forward and slip slowly from sight behind the parapet.
Teale fired a quick shot, ran, and dropped to his knee, firing again a bit to the left of a brown shoulder he saw. Kilrone, behind their parapet, waited, hearing the ugly sound of ricocheting bullets and, against the wall below him, the thud of their strike.
He glanced over at Teale. “Think you could run over that?”
Teale grinned. “Ain’t no other way, Kilrone. You with me?”
“You go first,” Kilrone said. “I hope that thing doesn’t fold up under you.”
Teale re-loaded his rifle, took a look at the narrow bridge, and crouched, ready. In the growing light they could see that the outer joist had developed a long split. There was an obvious sag in the middle, which meant that one of the other joists might also be broken. It was likely that only the crawling movement of those who had gone before had saved the make-shift contrivance; for by crawling, their weight was stretched over a wider area and did not put so much strain on the bridge. But now it was no longer a matter of crawling. Their only chance was in running.
Teale braced himself, then suddenly he was moving. He went up in a charging lunge; one foot hit the top of the parapet and the other hit the bridge almost four feet out. Instantly a terrific cannonade of shooting broke out as the Bannocks tried to get him. He was running full-tilt now. His second stride carried him another four feet, but when his boot hit the bridge there was an ominous crack and the bridge broke under him. He caught the edge of the parapet ahead and threw himself over as hands reached to help him.
Barney Kilrone crouched alone on the roof. They had him now. Could he jump the twelve feet? Without the parapet, he was sure he could have done it, but with it there was no chance for a running start, which he would need.
Suddenly there was a yell, and he saw Reinhardt pointing. Down the parade ground was a mass of horses, at least two hundred of them, and with shrill yells and shots the Indians were starting them again, to repeat their charge of the previous day.
“Teale!” Kilrone shouted.
The ex-cowboy turned and he called across to him. “I’m going to warn Rybolt!” He called just loud enough for Teale to hear him, and he did.
Wheeling, Kilrone darted to the trap door and went down the ladder, and ran swiftly to the window that opened on the gap between the buildings. The horses were coming now, and behind them a hundred charging, yelling Indians.
Dropping his rifle, he crouched by the window. Going through the gap there would be a time when the horses would jam up. He had taken many a flying mount, and this would not be hard…if he was not seen.
They came with a rush, and he threw himself from the window at a big gray. He caught the mane, mounted, and slid off to the side, only one leg across the horse’s back, Indian fashion.
The horses burst through on the other side and went charging in a mass toward the brush and the plains beyond, and as they hit the brush Kilrone rolled over on his horse’s back and slapped him with his palm.
Had he been seen? There was no telling, and so many shots had been flying that he could not tell if any were aimed at him. The big gray was one horse in a mass of others.
Charging into the thicker brush, he guided the horse and suddenly turned at right angles, and instead of rushing straight ahead with the rest, he rode south, keeping the wall of brush between himself and the fighting Indians. Their eyes, though, were directed toward the fort, away from him.
Presently he slowed his pace. He felt for his pistol, and found he still had it. The thong was in place and the Colt rested solidly in its holster. About his waist was a cartridge belt, another was thrown over one shoulder and under an arm.
Rudio had been killed, he was sure of that, but there remained, so far as he knew, eight able men. With the arms, ammunition, food, and water in the warehouse, eight men should hold it for a while at least. In the meantime he might warn Rybolt, and then start one or two of his men after Paddock and Mellett and their troops…or he might go himself.
In the meanwhile, those left at the post would have to fight. It was up to them now.
He headed south at an easy canter. He had some thinking to do, for he had to decide where to try to intercept Rybolt and the wagons, and he had to do it without being seen.
Chapter 14
T
HREE MILES SOUTH of the post, Kilrone drew up in a small cluster of cottonwoods and rigged a hackamore from rawhide strings such as he had used in tying the makeshift bridge together. He allowed the horse a little water, talked quietly to him for a few minutes, then mounted and headed south.
The big gray horse liked to travel, and he held his pace well. From time to time he slowed of his own volition, and then resumed his canter.
The morning air was clear and bright, the sky almost cloudless. He saw no Indians, although there were plenty of tracks.
In the remote distance, he seemed to see, as a vague blue line, the Slumbering Hills, and among them, Awakening Peak. But his imagination was perhaps recognizing the hills where there were only low clouds.
Finally he stopped, dismounted, and leading the gray horse, walked on in the glorious morning. Puffs of dust rose from each step; a faint cool breeze off the rain-soaked Santa Rosas was pleasant. War and fighting seemed far away.
Had he been wrong to leave? He told himself he had done the right thing…he was not even sure he could have gotten into the warehouse from below, and he could not allow Rybolt and his guard to ride unknowing into disaster.
Eight men should hold the post, he told himself again. Ryerson was able to command, even if unable to help much with the fighting. Teale, Lahey, Reinhardt, McCracken…all of them were good men, and the warehouse was strongly built, well supplied.
After a period of walking, he mounted the gray horse and rode on.
How far away would Rybolt be? Where would they choose to ambush him? Medicine Dog’s ambush of I Troop had been in the least obvious place, and it was likely the Indians would try to do the same sort of thing now. More important, if Iron Dave was close by, watching his stake in the game, but out of it, where would he be?
It had been scarcely daylight when Kilrone started, and by the time the sun was approaching its zenith he was drawing into the danger area. At any time now he would come within sight of the detail commanded by Rybolt, or within the range of the Indians waiting in ambush.
Cane Springs? He thought of it suddenly. There had been a stage station at Cane Springs. It was deserted now, had been deserted since the outbreak of trouble. But the location was one offering conditions similar to those of the place where I Troop had been massacred. There was the pass between two mountain ranges, the Santa Rosa and Bloody Run, and then the widening out from the pass into the valley. And there at the end of the Bloody Run Range was Cane Spring, a logical stop. A place for nooning or a night camp before going on up the valley.
It had to be the place. The army detachment would have had approximately ten miles of alertness while coming through the pass. With the chance of fresh water ahead and a stop, they would be relaxing, already thinking of the cool water that lay just ahead.
The air was clear, so clear there seemed to be no distance, but only space in which nothing moved but the gentle wind. And there was no sound but the walking of his horse, the creak of his saddle, the occasional jingle of his spurs.
On his left the Santa Rosas rose steeply, four thousand feet to the peaks. On his right the Quinn River Valley lay flat and empty, only the distant line of trees along the river showing green and lovely. Where he rode there was no real cover.
However, the horse he rode was gray. His own clothing was nondescript, with no color that would not blend into the surrounding terrain, just as his horse did. He would move a little further to the south.
He traveled more slowly now to keep down the dust, and kept off the trail as much as possible, staying among the occasional clumps of juniper and the thickest of the sagebrush. Anyone looking for someone to approach would be watching along the trail; the further he was from it the more likely he would be to go unseen. The watchers would be paying little attention to the northern trail, for the payroll detail under Lieutenant Gus Rybolt was approaching from the south. But with every yard he advanced, the greater his risk of being seen…and if seen, killed.
Barney Kilrone drew rein in the small shade of a cluster of junipers, removed his hat and wiped the sweatband. Somewhere ahead, if he was figuring correctly, would be anywhere from twenty to two hundred Indians. But the more he thought of it the more he believed the figure might be not much more than twenty.
Most of the Bannock braves would want to be present at the taking of the post, and here they would have the advantage of surprise. With luck, having only seven or eight men to shoot at, they could concentrate their fire, two or three men aiming at each soldier. After the first volley they would close in. It need take only minutes.
Standing in his stirrups, Kilrone looked along the slope of the mountains toward where the gap should be. The promontory of the Bloody Run Range was obvious; at the base of it, not yet visible, was the old stage station, unless it had been burned. To the left of it, where the Santa Rosas ended, was the gap where the pass opened into the valley.
Suppose the Indians decided to attack just as the wagon was entering the pass, rather than as it was leaving? If that was the case he would be too late. By this time no doubt the guard would have been massacred. What he had to do was to find a way to get into the pass and warn the payroll detail before they could be attacked.
He edged on along the mountain, using each bit of cover he could, yet knowing the time would come when he must be discovered, or must emerge into the open.
Suppose, though, he started now, rode out into the open, and cut across toward the stage station? Would the Indians risk revealing their ambush by firing on him or pursuing him? He dismounted and led his horse on up to Andorno Creek. There was a trickle of water in the bottom, and they both drank.
He looked across the gap. The plain was flat. No trees or brush, nothing but low-growing sagebrush, a few sparse desert plants. He would ride out in the open, and he would have to take his time, for to make a run for it would be to reveal his purpose. He must ride slowly, tiredly, looking for all the world like a drifting cowhand, riding south out of the country.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he looked across the heat-drenched, dusty flat. White and still it lay, a place of glaring sun, without shadow, without shelter. If they came after him out there he would be a gone gosling. Yet the more he thought about it, the better plan it seemed to be.
If he rode boldly but casually out on the flat they would think of him only as a rider headed for the old stage station at Cane Springs. If he tried going under cover along the mountain and was discovered, they would know he was trying to slip by them and warn the detail.
Yet what if he did get across the flat? He seemed to remember the rocks behind the stage station were broken up, and there might be a route through them or over the mountain into the pass.
“All right, horse,” he said, cheerfully; “we take the chance.” He pointed. “We’re going right out across that.”
The gray started willingly enough, but Kilrone held him back until the horse had decided to mope along as his new master seemed to wish.
He followed along the mountain for a little way, then swung out on the flat. He rode steadily, taking care not to look back or to seem in any way to be expecting trouble. A hundred yards…two hundred…his scalp prickled with the expectation of a bullet.
They might try an arrow, but they would have to come after him now, and would expect him to fire upon them; the sound of a shot would go echoing down that canyon, and that would warn the soldiers.
In the dust he saw a horse’s tracks…fresh tracks. Out here where the wind blew, how long could tracks hold their shape?
Somebody had ridden across this flat within the last few hours, somebody riding in the same direction in which he was heading.…Who?
It was a shod horse, a horse with a good long stride…a big horse, too. Dave Sproul? But he drove a buckboard. Would he drive one, though, on such an occasion as this, when he would not want his presence known?