Sunset Trail Read online

  They crossed Pawnee Fork and angled southward with the river. That morning Wade Flint rode beside Bruce at the head of the train. Purdy was scouting ahead of the caravan, and Glover and Mick were somewhere behind with the wagons.

  “I wonder if you’ve heard the rumor,” Flint said in his soft voice, “that a great many British army officers were hunting Independence this spring. Or, as some said, to enjoy our scenery.”

  “I heard it,” Bruce said. “It may be a big year for the United States, Flint.”

  Flint nodded bland agreement. “It may also be a year when we put an end to this idea that the continent belongs to those who sit in the seats of the mighty in Washington.”

  “You’re wrong,” Bruce challenged. “Traitors will hang now as they have hanged before. We’ve got a war with Mexico, and Kearny will occupy Santa Fé. Frémont is in California. The Stars and Stripes will fly on the shores of the Pacific before the year is out, Flint.”

  Flint met Bruce’s eyes, the strange smile on his lips. “It’s too big a country to rule that way, a fact you well know, Shane. Afew of Benton’s ilk talk about expansion. The solid men like Daniel Webster realize the facts of geography. There will be an Anglo-Saxon republic in New Mexico, another on the Pacific coast. They will not be drains on the United States, and their people will be ruled more justly than they could be by officials in Washington who think the country ends at the Mississippi.”

  “Look, Flint.” Bruce turned in his saddle, pinning his gaze on the man. “Let’s stop trying to fool each other. You know why I’m here, so you had Armadillo Dunn make a try for me in Mogan’s Saloon. You tried to nail down my hide for Ed Catherwood’s murder. You hired Snake River Joe to bore me on the street. Your luck was bad, so you figured the safest way to handle me was to hire me to guide the train so you could watch me. When you were done with me, you could shoot me in the back and let the wolves gnaw my bones.”

  “You’re a smart man,” Flint said amiably. “Through certain connections that I have in Washington, I was informed why you returned to Independence when you did. I’m not sorry now that my plans for you failed. I’ve come to appreciate your talents. We can’t fail, Shane. Armijo will run without firing a shot. Kearny’s Dragoons have neither the supplies nor the numbers to force a way through Raton Pass. It will be late this fall before he even gets to Fort Bent. By that time the British will be at war with the United States. The Republic of New Mexico will be a fact. A man with your ability could go far. . . .”

  “You can stop right there,” Bruce choked, the muzzle of his rifle swinging to cover Flint. “I’ll see you fry in your own fat if I have to throw you into the pan myself.”

  Flint laughed. “When you left the Dragoons at Fort Leavenworth, my friend, you signed your own death warrant. Unless, of course, you’re smart enough to throw in with us and obviously you’re not.” He motioned back along the train. “I pay the men well that I hired. Glover is a weak thing, but he’ll go with us and bring his men. It’s you and Purdy against my fifty. The odds will be longer after we cross the Arkansas. I’ve made a deal with the Comanches to see that we get through.”

  Wade Flint was talking straight. Bragging in his own self-centered way. Bruce read him as a dangerous, frustrated man, intense and inward-looking, determined to play Cæsar in Santa Fé as Kearny had said. He’d fail as ingloriously as Aaron Burr had failed, but, unless it could be handled here, he’d flood this parched land with a river of blood such as it had never known under Spanish rule.

  So Bruce held his temper and lowered his rifle, sensing that this wasn’t the time. Somehow Flint’s men had to be cut away from him. “Looks like we’ve lost hoss and beaver,” he said at last, and turned his eyes ahead.

  “I’m glad you recognize that, Shane. One more thing. I know that Mick Catherwood is a woman. If you play my way, I’ll see that she isn’t hurt. If you don’t, she goes to the Comanches.”

  “All right,” Bruce said thickly, and spurred ahead, anger a volcanic force in him.

  He had underestimated Wade Flint, misjudged his cruelty, his passion for power, his ruthlessness. Bruce knew now he loved Mick Catherwood, knew that if they lived, their destinies would be one here in this new raw land.

  He found her that night, and told her what Flint had said.

  “It’s in the open now,” he said bitterly, “but if I wind up being wolf meat, I aim to take Flint with me. I get that far in my thinking. Then I remember that, if something goes wrong, the Comanches will get their hands on you, and then I can’t think at all. Before we get to the Cimarron Crossing, you’ve got to light out for Bent’s Fort.”

  The red glow of the fire was on her face, the strong tanned face of one who knows the savagery of this land and counts the risk as part of the day’s work. There was something else in her face, too, the look of a woman who has discovered she possesses something she thought had been lost.

  “I’ll play it out, Bruce,” she said simply. “Perhaps our scalps will hang in the same Comanche lodge.”

  His grin was tight-lipped and mirthless. “A fine future,” he said, knowing he had expected no other answer.

  The train rolled westward and tension grew until men’s tempers snapped for no reason at all. They were being watched and their progress reported by smoke talk, but the red devils stayed out of sight. Stock was grazed under double guard and then driven into the hollow square. Saddle horses were kept on short rope pickets beside men as they slept restlessly, waiting for the attack.

  Curt Glover kept his dignity, but he mopped his baldhead often, and sometimes his hazel eyes held doubt as they turned to Bruce Shane. The caravan reached The Caches, the Cimarron Crossing just ahead, and Bruce had an opportunity to talk to Glover alone.

  “You’ve got fifteen wagons loaded with legitimate merchandise,” he said bluntly. “You let Flint throw in with you because you’re afraid of him and be cause he made you a promise he’ll never keep. The minute he rides into Santa Fé, he’ll be done with you, and he’ll cut your heart out.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Glover snarled.

  “You know all right. If you’re still alive when Kearny marches into Santa Fé, you’ll have a rope around your neck. It’ll be Flint and his hired guns against Kearny’s Dragoons. Even if Flint doesn’t slit your gullet, you’re smart enough to know that in the long run Flint can’t win.”

  Glover wiped a film of sweat from his forehead. “Go to hell,” he said thickly.

  “You’ll have a chance to save your hide!” Bruce called. “If you aren’t man enough to take it, you can count on that neck stretching.”

  The Caches fell behind. The air was hot and heavy and without motion, the sky a sullen steel-gray. Lightning lanced the western horizon. Then they reached the Crossing and corralled. Bruce splashed through the water to scout among the sandhills and Purdy rode upstream while Flint chafed at the delay.

  “We’ll have no trouble with the Comanches,” he told Glover. “I say to cross today and to hell with Shane.”

  “We’ll wait,” Mick said tersely. “We’re taking Shane’s orders in case you’ve forgotten the agreement.”

  “We’d have a hell of time getting across the Jor-nada without Purdy,” Glover added.

  “It may be we won’t need a guide,” Flint said, but he didn’t press the argument.

  Bruce and Purdy were back in camp before dark.

  “Cain’t see nuthin’ ahaid,” Purdy told Glover, “but they ain’t quit watchin’ us. Thar’s a million brown-skins jest out o’ sight, or this ’coon cain’t tell pore bull from fat cow.”

  “Plenty on the other side,” Bruce said. “We’d better go the long way.”

  “We’re going the dry route,” Flint snapped.

  “What about it, Glover?” Bruce asked.

  The trader shifted uncomfortably and fumbled for a cigar. For a moment Bruce thought he’d take a stand against Flint. But Flint’s influence on the big man was greater than his fear of the Indians or
the rope Bruce had promised him.

  “We left Independence planning on crossing the Jornada,” Glover said. “I don’t see any reason for changing things now. Fact is, Shane, that’s why we hired Purdy.”

  “Then we cross in the morning,” Bruce said, “if we’ve still got our hair.”

  The sun dropped from sight and a black oppressive sky crowded the earth. There was no wind; heat lay upon them like a sticky blanket. Bruce moved inside the wagon circle, ordering the fires out and telling every man to look to his gun.

  “They won’t attack till dawn,” he told them. “Maybe not then. Might let us get halfway across the Jornada before we see ’em.”

  When Bruce completed the circle to where he had picketed Blue Thunder, Mick Catherwood was waiting for him. “Comanches?” she asked. “I noticed you didn’t say.”

  “Kiowas. A lot of ’em. Maybe we can beat ’em off, but if we get into the Jornada, we’re gone beaver.” When he reached for her and brought her to him, she did not pull away from his grip. “I’ve got to tell you or I may never get another chance. I love you. When we get to Santa Fé, I’m going to ask you to marry me.”

  She was in his arms, her lips meeting his, and there was this moment when terror and fear and shadow were not of this world. Then she drew away. “We’ve had at least one fight every trip we’ve made, and I still have my hair. We’ll make it this time, Bruce.”

  Slipping away, she disappeared into the darkness. He smiled grimly, knowing better than anyone else how slim their chances were. This spring of 1846 was like no other year.

  They wore out the long hours, none sleeping. Bruce made his rounds, lifting sagging spirits. Then, near dawn, Bill Purdy said: “We’re in fer hit, son. I’ve got a feelin’. Jest like I can allus tell hit’s gonna rain when thet damned arrerhaid in my ribs begins to ache.”

  Curt Glover lying under the next wagon said: “We haven’t seen a redskin since we left Council Grove. I don’t know why. . . .”

  “Flint! You there, Flint?” It was a rumbling voice from near the river. For a pregnant moment no one answered. There was not even a whisper inside the enclosure. Then Bill Purdy rapped out an oath. “Thet’s Armadillo Dunn. I’d know his voice in hell. We’re gone beaver eff he gits his brownskins inside.”

  “Dunn.” The word, a choked curse from Curt Glover’s dry tongue, was echoed on around the wagon circle.

  Knowing the depths of Dunn’s duplicity, Bruce thought he recognized the renegade’s game. Dunn would not know what decision had been made about going the long way by Fort Bent, or the short trail across the dreaded Jornada. It would be Dunn’s purpose to persuade them to take the dry route. Then, with the train divided and the river between, he’d signal for the attack.

  “Tell him to come in, Flint,” Bruce said softly. “Bill, keep your eyes on Flint. Let him talk to Dunn, so we can see what the devil’s got on his mind.”

  “Ain’t you there, Flint?” Dunn called again.

  “I’m here,” Flint answered. “Come in.”

  Bruce saw the man’s bulky shape lift itself from the black earth and come toward the train in a twisting run. He threw himself under a wagon, puffing. “Where are you, Flint?”

  “Here. What are you doing on the river?”

  “Injuns closin’ in,” the renegade panted. “I jest came across the Jornada from Santy Fee. The Co-manches won’t bother us, but the Cheyennes will. You’ve got to get across the river and keep rollin’. Soon as the Comanches find us, we’ll be safe because the Cheyennes won’t. . . .”

  “But it’s Kiowas out there,” Mick Catherwood cried, “and it was Kiowas that attacked the two other trains you led before!”

  “Shet up, kid,” Dunn snarled. “I say them brown-skins air Cheyennes. I orter know ’cause they nearly got my ha’r.”

  “But Shane said they were Kiowas,” Mick insisted.

  “Shane.” Dunn whispered the name.

  “I’m here all right,” Bruce said grimly, coming along the wagon to where Flint and Dunn were. “I told you I’d kill you.”

  Dunn rose and plunged at Bruce, his knife slash ing the air. They came together hard, both knowing this time there would be death for one or the other. There was no exchange of blows. No kicking. No eye gouging.

  “Give him Green River,” Purdy said.

  There was the shuffling of feet in the sand. Grunts from the fighting men. No other sound but the breathing of the watchers. If Flint realized how much was at stake, he gave no sign. Glover pressed against a wagon wheel, face tightly drawn by fear. Mick Catherwood stood nearest to the fighters, her slim hands clenched, a prayer in her heart as she watched.

  The renegade’s knife inched closer to Bruce’s chest. Suddenly, without warning, Bruce released his grip on Dunn’s right wrist and bowed his body back. Dunn’s knife whipped down like a bowstring suddenly released from tension, the razor-sharp point slashing the front of Bruce’s buckskins and opening a long shallow gash. In that same instant Dunn’s grip on Bruce’s right wrist instinctively relaxed, and Bruce whipped his blade into the renegade’s hard-muscled belly and slashed a half circle.

  Dunn wilted and fell, blood pouring into the sand. Purdy pounced upon him, crying: “Hyar’s wolf meat! They’ll gnaw your bones clean and die o’ your pizen meanness.” He ran his knife around Dunn’s head and peeled the scalp back. “Want hit, Flint?” Purdy snarled, throwing the bloody mass at Flint.

  Bruce wiped his blade across his thigh as Flint stepped back to let the scalp fall at his feet. He said: “When you deal with a coyote like Dunn, you can expect to get sold out. Kiowas are waiting for us to line out across the river. If we’d done what your man wanted us to, we’d all have lost our hair. I reckon Dunn wanted the gold you’re carrying, and his Kiowas wanted your guns and powder. When this is over, Flint, I’ll show you how to deal with a traitor if we’re both alive.” He swung to face the men. “We haven’t got long. The devils will expect us to do what Dunn said. When they see we ain’t rolling out, they’ll tackle us. Fill up the holes with bales and blankets and saddles. Hold your fire till you know you’ve got a bead on an Injun. We’ll save our hair if you don’t lose your heads.”

  They came suddenly, came from where an instant before there had been nothing at all, their yells high and terrifying. Swift moving figures circled the wagons, painted bronze-skinned devils, loosing a cloud of arrows that rapped into the wagons with sickening thuds.

  Rifles cracked. Flame tongues vomited into the dawn light. Purdy’s exulting battle cry rose above the din as a Kiowa was knocked off his horse. “Give hit to ’em fer hoss ’n’ beaver, boys. Thar’s one fer the wolves to chaw.”

  Mick Catherwood lay beside Bruce under a wagon, her rifle taking the same toll his was exacting.

  Men cried out in agony. Kiowas split the air with strident, taunting war cries. Whites flung back their curses. Horses plunged and neighed. Mules brayed.

  An arrow ripped into Bruce’s shoulder. He clenched his teeth and reloaded his rifle. Outside an Indian crept close to the wagons, raised his bow, and died before the crack of Mick Cather-wood’s gun.

  “We got ’em, boys!” Bill Purdy howled. “They’re pulling out.”

  “They’ll hang around waiting for us to roll out, ”Bruce said, “so we’ll fool ’em and stay corralled.”

  “I’ll give the orders now, Shane,” Flint said quietly. “We’ll roll out now, and I don’t want to hear any argument out of you about going the Fort Bent way.”

  “We’re staying here, Flint.” Bruce swung a hand toward the men who had begun to gather. “You’re Americans, most of you, and being Americans there’s only one thing you can do when you’re told that Wade Flint is freighting four thousand guns into Santa Fé to supply an army he hopes will establish a Republic of New Mexico, an army that will fight Kearny. Some of these guns are supposed to go to the Comanches who have been bribed to stop every American caravan on the trail. Flint’s a traitor.”

  “You’re a fool, Shane, if you. .
. .”

  “These guns will kill American Dragoons in Raton Pass,” Bruce cut in, “or Apache Cañon. I say to hold them here till Kearny comes, and hold Flint for Kearny to hang.”

  Bruce couldn’t tell, by watching the men, whether he’d convinced them or not. They stood in indecision while Flint’s taunting laugh slapped at Bruce.

  “I said you were a fool, Shane. I’m paying these men good wages to get these wagons through.” He turned to the wagoners. “We’ve beaten off the redskins once. We can do it again. Harness up and get across. If Shane makes any trouble, put him on his horse and start him for Fort Bent.”

  They didn’t move, still gripped by indecision. It was Curt Glover, under the next wagon with an arrow in his paunch, who made up their minds.

  “Shane’s right!” Glover shouted. “Flint was inside the wagon while we did the fighting. He killed Ed Catherwood before we left Independence because Catherwood was raising hell about the guns.”

  Flint wheeled on him. Hand whipping to his gun, he bawled an oath-and then crumpled before the blazing blast of Bruce Shane’s pistol.

  “Stay corralled till the Dragoons come,” Bruce breathed, and, breaking at knee and waist, fell into the sand that was made wet by his blood.

  Mick Catherwood cradled his head in her lap. Purdy cried: “We’ll push thet arrer through and cut the shaft! Thet boy ain’t gonna be wolf meat on the trail.”

  Bruce’s eyes were open, searching the girl’s. He whispered: “I gambled that those boys wouldn’t back Flint when they knew the truth. That’s why he pulled his gun on Glover. If Glover hadn’t had his say, I’d have been gone beaver.”

  “Glover showed more courage than I thought he had in him.” Tears were in her eyes. “Bruce, you’ve got to live.”

  “Sure. I want to see Kearny march into Santa Fé after I get some marrying done.”

  And Bill Purdy, knife in hand, had to wait in astonishment while Mick Catherwood kissed Bruce Shane on the lips.

  “What the hell . . .,” Purdy began.

  “Aw oman, Bill,” Bruce murmured, “who found out that all of her instincts weren’t a man’s.”