Mud…on the bottom of his boot.
Despite the rains of the past few days there was little mud anywhere around, for this was a dry, thirsty land that drank its water swiftly, or let it run off into the sandy washes that carried it into the creeks. The area around the stage station was hard and dry…but there had been mud when he passed one of the small pools that lay behind him.
Gently his fingers searched the ground. Near the corral where the ground was softer, he found a track. His fingers traced it out…a horse-shoe track; mud around the edges, mud still wet. He sat back on his heels.
If that mud had been dropped here as late as mid-afternoon it would now be dry, for the day had been hot; therefore whoever had left it there was likely to be in the vicinity. There was every chance that he had come to this place since sundown…perhaps since darkness, for he might not have wished to be seen.
The track seemed to be smaller than that made by one of the big horses Sproul would ride…when he rode.
He felt around in the darkness, found a smear of partial tracks. The horse might have been tied here while the rider looked around inside.
Was he still here? It seemed doubtful, but it must have been late when he arrived. Who was he? And why had he come here?
If Barney Kilrone had learned one thing in his years, it was the necessity of waiting. Many troubles removed themselves if one merely waited; and it was invariably bad policy to be too hasty. If there was a man inside that building, he must move sooner or later; and if he moved he would probably make some sound.
Kilrone doubted the man would be Sproul, though it was possible. He waited while the moments passed, and when some time had gone by the heard a faint creak from inside the building. A settling of timbers, caused by changing temperature? A movement of some small animal? Not the latter, he was sure.
After a minute the sound came again. There was movement within the house.
Kilrone felt his heart beat with heavy emphasis. He took a deep breath, and waited again. There was no further sound, nothing to be seen. He desperately wanted to move. The back of his neck itched, and he wanted to dry his palms on his shirt.
Was that a movement near the window? Or was it his imagination?
The rifle he had taken from the dead soldier he had left with his horse. He carried only his pistol and knife. What lay ahead would be close work, if any.
Sproul? He had underrated the man before, and Sproul might have waited, wanting Kilrone, and sure that he would come.
Down the valley all was quiet. The Indians might be waiting until the hour before dawn, or they might have decided against a further attack. After all, for them the loot was small.
Suddenly something moved at the door. A man staggered into view, leaning against the door jamb for a moment. He seemed to cling there, then staggered into the open and fell to the ground.
Startled, Kilrone made a step forward, then stopped. The man lay face down on the ground in the open and in plain sight. It was a bright, still night, and the dark figure lay against the white hard-packed sand of the dooryard. In his right hand, flung out from his body, was a rifle.
For a long moment Kilrone held himself back. The man appeared to be hurt; perhaps he was dying.
Kilrone waited a minute, two minutes. He stepped out, moved into the shadow of the stable, and nothing happened. He moved closer, allowing himself to appear briefly in the lighter area, and still nothing happened. He went forward, stopped near the man and bent forward, peering down at him.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What is it?”
The man groaned, and Kilrone took him by the shoulder with his left hand, about to turn him over. He started to turn him, and suddenly a derringer, clutched in the man’s left hand, belched fire.
An instant before Kilrone’s mind sensed the gleam of metal that was the gun, his hand was moving. Instinct, trained so long, did not fail him now. Even before his mind could comprehend the trick, he was firing.
The derringer blasted in his face, something stung wickedly on his cheek. It was point-blank for both of them, but the man on the ground had trusted to that one close-up shot…and it missed.
Kilrone had let go the man’s shoulder and shot into him three times before he could stop himself.
He backed off, his gun poised. He crouched, waiting. The man on the ground did not move for a moment, then a leg moved, a toe dug in, and the leg stretched out slowly.
Gun ready, Kilrone went up to the man and turned him over with his toe. It was the man who had been in the Empire that night, the man at the bar who had done nothing during the trouble.
Blood gleamed wet in the vague light, dark blood forming a pool beneath him. Kilrone kicked the fallen derringer aside and the man’s eyes opened.
“Luck,” he muttered, “you’re shot with luck.”
“Dave Sproul send you?”
“He’ll get you. He always gets them.”
“Not me. This time I’m going to get him. I’m going to beat him with my hands.”
There was no reply. The dying man was breathing hoarsely. It was ugly to hear. “Like…like to see…” The man’s eyes flared open. “I…almost had you.”
“It was a good try.”
Barney Kilrone looked down at the man, wondering how much Sproul offered him. It could not have been much, and in any case it was not worth this. It never was worth it. Again he thought how foolish crime is. Here a man was dying…for how much? Two hundred dollars? He had known them to die for less. No more women, no more bright mornings, no more gaiety and laughter…all gone, thrown away, for this.
“Anybody you want me to notify?” he asked. “I’d write a letter.”
The man’s eyes opened again. His breathing was ragged and occasionally seemed almost to stop altogether. “Hell, no. Never had nobody…squaw, one time.” He lay there under the pure, still stars, and time seemed to stand still. Then he said clearly. “She was a good squaw…I didn’t deserve her.”
“Well, I could write to somebody.” There was no reply, and after a moment Kilrone said. “You got a name? I’ll put it on the marker. There’s somebody knew you…somewhere. A man should leave some kind of a mark on the land.”
“Poole,” the man said. After a bit he added, “I was a scout for the Fifth Cavalry one time. I knew Injuns.”
Another long minute went by, and then he opened his eyes again. “What you waitin’ for?”
Kilrone squatted on his heels. “You tried to kill me, Poole, but no man ought to die alone…not like this. I’ll wait.”
After another silence Poole said, “Thanks…I won’t be long.”
Kilrone pushed his hat back on his head. It had been a warm day but it was cooler now. The coyote was talking again, and a nighthawk swooped and dipped in the sky.
Suddenly the dying man spoke. “Mag?
Mag!
Damn it, Mag, I…”
And that was all.
Kilrone got to his feet, feeling no animosity for the man. “So there was somebody, after all,” he muttered. “Or was that what he called the squaw?”
And then there was only the sound of a spade in the half light, a spade working, pausing, working. After that, a scratching on a board, the scratching of a knife.
Finally, retreating hoof-beats, dying away, and then only the coyote, calling into the night.
Chapter 16
M
AJOR FRANK PADDOCK, sober, alert, and in command, brought his cavalry down from the hills at a good trot. He had pushed them hard, taking only a few breaks. Time for water and feed, a quick meal, and back in the saddle again. There was no time for sleep, and nobody wanted to sleep.
There were men in that command who had wives and children at the post. There were others who had no one, anywhere, but they were soldiers. They cussed the riding, the lack of sleep, and their officers, one by one. They cussed their officers and did it well, cussed them as Alexander’s men had cussed, as the legionnaires of Rome had cussed, as Napoleon’s men had sworn among themselves at their Little Corporal and his forced marches. They cussed them as good soldiers always had; and like good soldiers they fought.
They came down out of the hills near the post and they spread in a hard line and they came riding hard. Before their attack the Indians broke for their horses.
The Indian was never a fool: when a fight was over, he left. There was always another day. Of course, after this time there would be no other day, but that they could not guess. The red man had both courage and savvy; and his savvy told him now that there was no sense in fighting under these circumstances.
Like ghosts, they vanished into the night. There was no one trail; there were hundreds of trails, and a wise man does not try to follow so many. At one moment the Indians were fierce fighting men, moving in for a kill at this remote Alamo; then, like snow under a warm wind, they were gone. And with them went the dreams of Medicine Dog.
He had thought well, planned well, and his plan should have worked. Who would have believed so few men could fight so hard a battle? These men were warriors, too, good warriors. Medicine Dog had only respect for a good fighting man.
In the meantime he would ride east, he would ride very fast. He knew where there was an Indian agent who was a good man, and he would say, “Me Medicine Dog…good Indian.”
He chuckled into the night. Oh, they would believe him, all right! They would pat him on the back, give him a blanket and a beef ration. Of course, the other Indians would know better, but the other Indians would not talk.
He had a good horse, a rifle, a pistol, and he knew where there were a few more horses nobody would be claiming now…He wished he had a watch—he had always wanted a big gold watch like that one Dave Sproul had. Maybe he could find one. He would be passing some lonely cabin somewhere…but that could wait.
Medicine Dog, the Indian Napoleon who stubbed his toe when he went against a handful of soldiers in an adobe warehouse, rode eastward. He would camp tonight where the horses were, in Paradise Valley.
T
HEY WERE STANDING outside the buildings when the troopers returned from the fighting—the women and the children and the surviving men.
Hopkins had a flesh wound in the shoulder. Ironically, with almost the last shot of the battle, Dawson had been killed. He had stood up to fire at the retreating Indians, and one of the braves, turning in his saddle, let go a random shot and the farrier fell across the window sill, dead.
Denise was not among those outside the warehouse. When the Indians fled she had gone to her own house. The place had been looted, but there were some things left. She found a coffeepot and a small store of coffee the Indians had missed. She started the fire and put on the pot and began to straighten up the room.
Betty Considine came across the parade ground to her. “Can I do something?” she asked.
“No,” Denise replied. “You’ll think I am foolish, but I want to do this myself. And I want Frank to find me here when he comes in.”
Betty hesitated a moment longer, looking at the shambles about her, and watching the way in which Denise was bringing order out of chaos. “You are lucky,” she said at last. “You’ve somebody coming home to you.”
“Dr. Hanlon will be coming back. I saw him ride through with the troops.”
“Dr. Hanlon is my uncle, and I love him, but that was not what I meant.”
Denise put a chair in place, looked ruefully at a table with a broken leg, and propped up the corner with a box.
“Betty, you’re a fool if you let him get away,” she said.
“Who?”
“You’re in love with him,” was the reply. “Don’t think I have missed seeing that. And he’s a good man—one of the very best.”
“He’s a drifter.”
“Try him. I never knew a man who would appreciate a home as much. He’s been long enough without one.”
“I haven’t seen him out there. He may have been killed.” As she spoke something within her went cold and tight, and for the first time she knew fear. “He may not come back.”
“He’ll come back. He’s that sort.”
Betty Considine walked down the row of buildings to her uncle’s quarters. Surprisingly, she found little damage there. Windows had been broken by stray bullets, but there had been no looting. To the Indians, Dr. Hanlon was a medicine man. He had treated Indians when they were injured with the same attention he had given the soldiers or the white civilians. Partly because of that and partly because of superstition, they had left his quarters alone, and all the strange bottles, instruments, and equipment that Dr. Hanlon kept in his home had not been touched.
Nor had the hospital been looted, except for blankets and food left there by the soldiers. The medicines and all the instruments here had also been left untouched.
Then she thought of Iron Dave Sproul.
She went to the door and shaded her eyes against the sun. The first man she saw was Teale. He had caught up a horse and was looking among a lot of debris for a saddle. Quickly she crossed the parade ground. “Mr. Teale,” she called.
Startled at the unfamiliar title, he turned.
“Mr. Teale, I’ve got to find Mr. Kilrone.”