Brand of the Hunted Page 5

  Neil nodded. ‘Several times,’ he affirmed. ‘Always they seem to get worse. Could be that it’s because you forget what it was like the last time and you always seem to think that it wasn’t too bad.’

  ‘Don’t reckon it will be like that from now on. We seem to have left the desert behind us.’

  ‘There’s still danger ahead.’

  ‘Sherman’s men?’ The reply was a question.

  ‘That’s right. They may decide not to attack us until they’re sure they can finish us. They won’t be partial to risking their own necks when they can ambush us somewhere along that trail and cut us down without too much risk to themselves, and those trees up there will make an excellent place for an ambush.’

  ‘That’s more’n likely,’ agreed Jackson.

  He rubbed himself dry. They walked slowly back to the camp where the fires were little more than glowing embers in the darkness.

  ‘I’ll ride out at first light. Take a look-see, just in case.’ He stood in front of the dying fire. ‘If my hunch is right, they’ll follow us for a little way into those trees. An Indian would lose his way out there in the desert if he tried to track us down and, after that storm, our tracks would be completely wiped out. That desert was made for fellas on the dodge.’

  Jackson grinned broadly. ‘You’re right.’

  He sank down on to his haunches by the glowing embers. The words were flat and cold. Neil sat down opposite the other and watched the huge man’s eyes grow a mist as they stared out into the cold darkness, out over the stream, over the hills beyond as if he could see clear out over that vast and wild, untamed country, clear to the borders of California.

  What was the other thinking, Neil wondered. Why was he so anxious to get to California? Men had found gold there, he knew, rich red gold, and there had been the usual rush from the east, wagon trains setting out across the face of a continent, thrusting the frontier westward, rolling it back across the page of American history. There had been this sudden movement from the East to the West, many thousands of people all heading in the same direction.

  True, there were inevitably some who turned aside, found a place to their liking, and stayed. There were countless others who never made it at all. But some got through, though it could not be said that the trail westward had yet been blazed. Perhaps that was what Jackson was hoping for. To be the leader of the first large wagon train to blaze the trail westward.

  ‘You still figure that you’re doing the right thing, bringing this train out along this trail?’ he asked softly, keeping his gaze fixed on the other’s face.

  Jackson looked up and there was something about his features which surprised Neil. It was as if a tiny devil had jumped up behind the other’s eyes, stood there exposed and naked for a long moment before sinking back down into the depths again, out of sight. Then the big man’s lips thinned, drew closer to the square teeth. ‘It’s the only thing we can do now,’ he said harshly.

  ‘I suppose that you realise you’re risking the lives of everyone in these wagons?’

  ‘I only know that I warned them all of the difficulties they might have to face and that if they paid to join the train, then I’d lead them all the way to California, but they had to stick the trail. There was to be no turning back no matter how hard it got, or how tough the going was. They knew that and they all agreed before we set out.’

  ‘But I wonder whether any of them really knew what lay in store for them. I know, because I’ve lived out here most of my life. I know the kind of men you’ll find here, hard, ruthless men, most of them with no respect for the law, men who would kill and think nothing of it if it meant they got their own way. And there’s nothing surer than that these men don’t want any nesters here.’

  Jackson set his lips into a tight, thin line.

  ‘The country is growing up, Roberts. Sooner or later, everybody has got to be made to realise that. If we’re to be a nation at all, the country has got to be settled, and by men and women like those in the wagons, not by the killers and outlaws who’re here at the moment. The Government realises this, which is why they’re making the land available to settlers.’

  ‘Mebbe so. But the settlers are going to have to fight for every inch of that land, and most of them don’t stand a chance against professional gunmen. You know that as well as I do.’

  ‘Sure I know it. But there ain’t a thing I can do about it. I’m being paid to lead them out to California. That’s what I aim to do and I don’t mean to let Sherman, or any of his hired killers, stop me.’

  Neil lifted his brows a little, then shrugged. He got heavily to his feet.

  ‘I hope that none of us regret it,’ he said. He shrugged. ‘I reckon I’m going to catch up some sleep.’

  He got his blanket and rolled himself into it, lying close to the fire, with his Colts within easy reach of his hands. Jackson remained sitting by the dying fire, staring morosely into the red embers. Despite the other’s bold front, Neil guessed that he was inwardly uneasy, that he had been turning over in his mind many of the things he had mentioned. They had been plain lucky so far, luckier than they had deserved. Either those three dead men back there had not yet been missed or found, or Sherman’s boys were playing it safe, taking their time, knowing that they would have plenty of opportunities to strike before the wagon trail let the Sherman spread.

  In the morning, before most of the others were awake, he saddled his sorrel, then swung up, put his mount to the stream and forded it swiftly, pulling up the horse on the far bank. Here there was a slope of sparse, dry grass where the desert seemed reluctant to release its hold on the territory, stretching its dry, bony fingers across the water.

  Presently he rode among the tall, straight trees, felt the cool, sharp smell of the pines in his nostrils. It was cool here for the sun had not yet risen and the dawn was merely a brightening line of silver grey in the east. The place held a strange fascination, almost as if there were a secret there, but as he rode, keeping his eyes and ears open, he found nothing there, certainly nothing to indicate that anyone had ridden that trail recently.

  Coming out into the open again, there was a gentle slope leading down into a wide, open plain and, in the distance, he could make out the cattle, a large herd, possibly two thousand head, grazing on the rich grass.

  He sat saddle for a while, studying his situation, looking keenly about him. There was no sign of any herders with the cattle, they seemed to have been left to their own devices, which struck him instantly as odd. A herd that size would have men guarding it, unless Sherman was extremely sure of himself, knew that there would be no trouble.

  But there was another thing which made him feel a trifle uneasy. The trail led down into that wide valley and the wagons would be forced to make their way past the herd. Those cattle might be on the mean side and would not be used to wagons.

  Shrugging the thought away, he turned back into the brush. Maybe at that very moment Sherman was planning to save him the trouble of trying to get the wagon train past those cattle.

  It was grey dawn when he rode back into the trees, and he heard the sound in the near distance very clearly. Swiftly reining the sorrel, he leaned forward in the saddle, straining his ears, waiting for the sound to be repeated, but there was no further noise and he could see nothing. But he had been certain that he had heard a man’s voice yelling orders.

  Then, looking upwards, he discovered a man seated on the lip of the trail, high among the trees, less than three hundred feet away. Even as he stared at the other, the man brought a rifle to his shoulder, took quick aim and fired, the bullet striking the dirt of the trail wide of Neil’s position. The sorrel flung up its head at the sharp, flat report of the rifle, then Neil had dug in his heels, making a run for it towards the nearest clump of trees, head low, lying over the saddle to present a more difficult target to the bushwhacker.

  Another shot drummed through the air very close to his head and buried itself in the trunk of a nearby tree, slashing the brown bark
away and revealing a deep gash in the trunk. Then Neil had flung himself from the saddle before the other could take aim again, his Colts whispering from their worn leather holsters, snapping into his hands, in spite of the jarring agony of the impact of hitting the ground, knocking the air from his lungs in a loud gasp.

  He rolled over on to his side, brought up the guns and snapped a couple of shots in the direction of the man. The marksman on the rim of the trail continued to pump shots methodically into the brush close to where Neil lay, trying to seek out his target, laying a pattern of bullets into the rough foliage. It was clear that he had lost Neil for the moment, but the lead was flying disturbingly close and Neil knew that it was only a matter of time before the other hit him, or the sound of rifle shots brought more of these gunhawks running to the scene. It would not take them long to surround him, cut him off from the rest of the men with the train back across the stream.

  The firing ceased for a moment. The marksman would be taking time to reload, he figured. Maybe he was working his way closer, too, trying to improve his position, get within sighting and killing range.

  In the mesquite, the daylight brightened. Soon the sun would bound up from below the horizon, flooding everything in its harsh light, and he would find it more difficult to get away then. He sucked in a deep breath, crouching down among the thick, tangled undergrowth, then slithered forward, eyes alert, trying to pick out the position of the other.

  Far off he thought he heard the drumming of approaching horses and knew that this could be some of the other’s friends riding up. If he stayed there the chances were that they would circle around him and take him from the rear while the first man kept him pinned down.

  Pouching one of the Colts, he carefully parted the thorn bushes in front of him and peered through the opening, slitting his eyes, trying to catch an upward glance at the rim of the trail where the other had been a few moments before. He could see nothing there now, knew instinctively that the other had slipped away, was possibly much closer now and, with that rifle, would be able to stop him at a much greater distance than he could with only a revolver.

  Taking off his hat, he balanced it on a short stick, pushed it up slowly, then pulled it down swiftly as the single shot rang out from less than a hundred yards away and a little to one side. There was a great hole drilled through the crown of the hat proving that the other was no mean marksman and that he had circled much further than Neil had anticipated.

  Swinging around, he loosed off a couple of shots into the undergrowth. There followed no sound, and he guessed that neither of his bullets had found its mark.

  Moving to one side, he began to circle himself, keeping to the right of the hidden marksman. His sorrel was standing a little distance away near a clump of trees. Careful as he was, the other must have heard the slight sound for more shots rang out and the fire sang though the trees, following him. He scuttled for one of the trees, flung himself down behind it, steadying himself. He knew now exactly where the other was, not too far away, certainly close enough to be reached by a revolver bullet. Still no sign of any more of these gunhawks. But he guessed that even then they were spurring their mounts forward as fast as they could ride, heading in the direction of the shooting.

  Knowing the kind of man who had tried to shoot him down from ambush, Neil felt a cold wash of anger sweep through him, drowning out every other emotion in his mind, changing him, chilling him. Patience made rock out of him as he crouched there so that it seemed he could have waited for ever for the other to betray himself and make the wrong move. It was waiting that would break the other down, he felt sure of that.

  Unfortunately, the other would also be aware that several of his friends were on their way, would arrive on the scene, too, and if he could keep Neil pinned down during that time, they stood a good chance of picking him off with little risk to themselves.

  Somewhere, close at hand, he heard a horse begin to thresh, knew that it was not his own but that belonging to the man who had tried to kill him. He thinned his lips and grinned tightly in anticipation. At last he heard a sharp sigh come from the other as he let his breath go from between his lips. Swiftly Neil brought up his Colts in that direction, fired off a short volley into the brush, then went forward, slowly and cautiously, guns held ready. It had been that sudden need for air which had betrayed the other’s presence, and the man seemed to have realised that almost instantly, for scarcely had the rolling echoes of Neil’s shots died away than the other began to fire in his direction, shooting blindly and recklessly, without taking proper aim, hoping perhaps that if he fired a sufficient number of bullets, at least one of them was bound to find its mark.

  Some part of his mind counted the other’s shots, then he had plunged into the dense undergrowth, feeling the long thorny strands tug at his legs as he strode forward. He meant to make his man back away until he was forced to come out into the open space on top of the trail’s rim, where the other had stood before when he had first opened fire. Once there, the bushwhacker would make a perfect target.

  ‘You made a big mistake trying to gun me down, stranger,’ he called softly, skipping to one side as the shot he had been expecting snapped through the air close to where his head had been a split second earlier. The other could not have many more slugs left in his rifle, would be forced to reload, unless he cared to rely on Colts. A pause, then Neil heard the other suddenly crashing through the brush as he turned on his heel and took to flight, back through the trees to where he must have tethered his mount.

  He made out the scrape of the other’s body through the tangled bushes, then caught a fragmentary glimpse of the gunman as he darted across an open patch of ground among the trees. Neil laid his gun along the running figure and squeezed the trigger gently, felt the Colt back against his wrist, saw the man fall forward on to his face and lie still.

  Running forward, he went down beside the other, turned him over. The man was a stranger to him but he had the stamp of the gunhawk written all over his squat features. It hadn’t been a long wait, but those other men would be close to the trail now, wouldn’t have been wasting time getting to the scene of the shooting. He caught the bridle of his own mount, swung himself up swiftly into the saddle and rode out along the trail, crouching low in case there were any shots headed in his direction.

  A spate of shots whistled past him as he rode. Then he had swung around a bend in the trail, was out of sight of the crowd of gunmen at his back. By the time he reached the stream most of the wagons were already over, the horses pulling them up the steep bank, rocking and swaying the Conestogas from side to side as they dragged them, dripping from the water.

  The sun had risen now, was lying close to the eastern horizon, big and red, full of the promise of more heat to come, but not yet with any real indication of the full heat which would develop around high noon.

  Jackson came forward, looked at the dust that was heavy on Neil’s jacket, where it caked his sweat-stained pants. Neil tilted his canteen to his lips, drank deeply.

  ‘We heard shooting up there in the trees,’ said the big man, speaking almost casually. ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Afraid so. There was one of those hombres waiting for me on top of the trail overhang among the trees. I reckon he’s dead now, but several of his pals came riding up just as I got away. They’ll be waiting for us in the brush.’

  Jackson considered that, rubbing his flaming red beard, then he nodded ponderously.

  ‘Reckon that since we know where they are, we might as well get moving.’ He lifted a hand to halt the onward moving wagons for a moment. ‘What would your advice be? Stay here and try to fight ’em off if they decided to rush us at the stream?’

  ‘Depends on the men in the wagons, if they’re willing to fight. Can they be trusted to handle their guns??’

  ‘I reckon so. Don’t worry none on that score. They’ll fight.’ A huge hand dropped on to Neil’s shoulder as he slid from the saddle. The other’s laugh was loud. ‘I’ll warn everybody
what to expect, tell the women and kids to keep inside the wagons, and to stay down. That canvas won’t stop a bullet.’

  It was a blunt speech, but then Jackson was a blunt man. Neil waited while the other strode along the line of wagons, speaking to the men seated on each, saw the women and children move inside, saw the men reach out and loosen the long-barrelled Winchesters from their scabbards, check that they were loaded and ready for use. Jackson came back, taking a long-bladed knife from its leather sheath. He tested the edge with his thumb, balanced it carefully in the palm of his hand for a moment, his face dark. Then he glanced up sharply, his lips twisted into a vicious grin that was almost a snarl, showing the square teeth.

  ‘Right, Roberts. Let’s go!’

  A wave of the huge right arm, then the wagons began to roll forward, away from the stream, wheels and axles creaking, the canvas tops shaking and swaying from side to side as they moved over the rough, stony ground, climbing up to the tall trees that dotted the earth on either side of the trail.

  In among the trees were huge, massive boulders which hung over the trail. Neil had spotted these on his ride out that morning, could guess where the killers would make their attack. It was possible that they would not be expecting the wagons to roll into the trees now that he knew that they were there, and the gunhawks would be debating whether to move down to the stream and attack them there. On either side of the slow-moving train rode grim-faced men on horseback, the outriders, their Colts in their hands, eyes flicking from side to side, alert for trouble, ready to meet it no matter from which direction it came.

  The column had formed, the leading wagon reached the top of the stony rise and moved for the trees. Neil could feel the tenseness rising in him now, could sense the tightening of the muscles of his arms and chest. He switched his gaze from side to side, looking for the first glint of sunlight on the shiny steel of a rifle barrel that would give away the position of the waiting gunmen.