Brian Garfield (53 page)

They made only two miles the first few days. It was icy bitter tedium. Roosevelt had ample opportunity to finish reading his Tolstoy. It was fortunate they had found several books amongst the prisoners' booty; it seemed Finnegan and his friends had looted a few ranches along the way to their escape, and had come away with several bottles of liquor as well as some magazines and books, of which the most appropriate seemed to be
The History of the James Brothers.
Roosevelt set about reading it with avid interest. It prompted him to ask Frank O'Donnell if it was true, as mentioned in the trial of the Marquis, that he had actually ridden with Frank and Jesse James. O'Donnell only glared at him without reply.

Roosevelt began to write a letter and Wil was prompted rashly to say, “Writing to your lady friend, sir?”

“My very good lady friend, yes indeed. My sweetheart from years ago, and if you're not careful, Wil, I shall bore you to tears with exultations about her.”

“Guess you saw her when you went back East last trip?”

“You may recall I broke a bone when I was East? Miss Carow, angel of mercy that she is, helped nurse me back to health. We had an opportunity to rediscover the things we'd seen in each other in the first place. Though between you and me, I can hardly credit that she sees much in a little four-eyed dude like me.”

“What sort of lady is she, sir?”

“Very fine, very lovely—and deserving of far better than the likes of your obedient servant.”

“I don't believe that, sir. Sounds like you are to be congratulated.”

“That would be premature, old fellow. But I do hope the time will come.” Roosevelt's lips peeled back from the big teeth. He was in a splendid mood.

Downriver behind the slow-moving ice they had to guard the prisoners every minute; none of the three was to be trusted, and as the days passed Finnegan seemed to revive himself with the aid of rising anger: even more than O'Donnell, Finnegan especially seemed to be on the lookout for a chance to redeem himself by escape or by surprise attack.

They traveled on into the unknown and untested reaches of the river—in all no more than twenty miles as the crow flies, but more like a hundred because of the oxbow bends and double loops of the river.

And now they were out of provisions. Wil cooked up a last batch of biscuits, as muddy as the water he had to use in preparing them.

Uncle Bill said, “That's it, then. We'll have to kill them or let them go, since we can't feed them.”

“No,” said Roosevelt. “We're not suffering any worse punishment than they are.”

“It won't serve justice much if we all die out here.”

“If it comes to that we can die just as quickly with these prisoners as without them,” Roosevelt pointed out, and Wil saw no way to refute that.

Uncle Bill said, “You are always the last one to quit.” He didn't sound pleased to say it.

It was then that they saw cattle on the slopes above the river on the opposite bank. Wil got out his rifle, eager to shoot one, but Uncle Bill said, “It's risky business to kill other folks' cattle.”

“We are not thieves,” Roosevelt said.

“Then that's that,” said Uncle Bill. There was no question of fighting Mr. Roosevelt. His will, and his swashbuckling approach to this, were such red-hot things that they simply wilted whatever resistance tried to form objections within his companions.

And so, Wil thought, we will starve to death in this blasted Wild West.

They found a wagon road, so they left the boats in the ice jam and made their way on foot—a journey the bootless prisoners did not enjoy—to a small ranch. Its house was no more than a hovel. A wagon stood off to the side and there were horses in the corral. Roosevelt said, “What place is this?”

“Don't know,” said Uncle Bill.

Finnegan said, “The C Diamond.” He seemed pleased.

The owner, an old frontiersman, came out squinting and said, “Finnegan, by God, what have you done now?”

“Guess I have made a fool of myself again.”

Wil was not happy to see the friendliness with which Redhead Finnegan shook hands with the old frontiersman.

They spent the night. Roosevelt sat up with his back against the door and his rifle across his lap. As far as Wil could tell, he must have stayed up reading and writing all night.

In the morning Roosevelt bought provisions from the old man and hired his wagon and team. “Now you two,” Roosevelt said to Wil and his uncle, “can do me the fine favor of taking the two boats downstream to the mouth of the river, where they can be recovered. I myself shall put the three captives in the wagon. This old gentleman will drive it. We'll take them overland into town, following the plateau rather than going down into the Bad Lands.”

Uncle Bill protested vigorously. He took Roosevelt by the elbow and tried to steer him off out of the old frontiersman's hearing but Roosevelt shook him off.

Uncle Bill said in a forceful whisper, “It's a fifty-mile trip all alone with three killers for company, not to mention that old fellow, whose allegiance you might describe as dubious at best.”

Roosevelt said, “There are two boats, and there are two of you. I can't see one man handling that enterprise. Can you?”

“Leave the damned boats.”

“Damned if I will! After all the trouble we've taken to secure them?” Roosevelt laughed. “Never mind, old fellow. I shall be all right.”

“All alone with these four bad men?” Wil Dow said.

“It shouldn't be hard to persuade them they are safer in my hands than in those of the Stranglers. They'll be tame as kittens, I warrant.”

“Don't count on that,” said Uncle Bill. “You're talking about a long lonely trip. The ground's still frozen on the plateau and I don't like the look of that sky.”

“By George, I shall enjoy it.”

“And what if all five of you end up at the end of the vigilantes' lynch ropes? I don't like this idea.”

“It's not an idea. It's a decision, and I've taken it. I'm truly touched by your concern, Bill. I shall be fine.”

“Don't do it.”

“Your advice is noted. And now I think you've run out of things to say on the subject.”

After slow consideration Sewall uttered a grudging sigh. “You are the boss and we take orders from you.”

“Yes,” Roosevelt said quietly.

Wil shared his uncle's dour view. But what were they to do? Forbid Roosevelt at gunpoint?

Wil helped Roosevelt heave provisions into the bed of the wagon. The boss kept stopping to wipe off his glasses. They had steamed up from the heat of his exertions.

“Very well. Let's go.” Roosevelt picked up his rifle to supervise the loading of the four men.

Wil was not near enough to prevent anything. He saw it clearly when Dutch, climbing onto the wagon, had his chance to jump Roosevelt.

Dutch saw it too. There was that moment of hesitation … Then he climbed over the sideboard and settled onto the wagon bed.

Redhead Finnegan was furious. He made no effort to keep his voice down. “You could've fallen back on top of him there.”

“Shut up, Red. Always Roosevelt me square treated.”

“Aagh!”

Frank O'Donnell said quietly, “Well it's a hell of a long walk to Medora.” He grinned without mirth.

Twenty-two

A
hard jagged wind rushed against them. The dark spread of clouds unrolled until it covered the sky. Flickering snowflakes boiled between earth and cloud. Tiny hailstones began to sting the ranchman's exposed cheeks. Walking forward steadily behind the wagon he tucked the rifle under his arm for a moment, tied his bandanna over his hat and under his chin, wiped his glasses with a gloved finger, pulled the flannel muffler up over his nose, batted his hands together and resumed his ready grip on the Winchester.

It was awkward holding the rifle because the gloved forefinger hardly fit in the trigger guard. If the need to shoot should arise, it would be a matter of thumbing the hammer back and letting it slip—hardly a recipe for deadly accuracy.

O'Donnell and Finnegan doubtless were aware of those shortcomings.

Still—a rifle bullet meant certain trouble and possible death; they knew that too.

The wind ran along the plains with a howling echo that lifted and fell in tortured fury: it pounded him like a boxer's fist. Suddenly the whole pressure of it was upon him, making him question his bearings and squint through raised hands. He ran forward, stumbled, caught the tailgate of the wagon and clung to it.

He hoped the storm hadn't taken Sewall and Wil by surprise. This kind of weather could blind a man on the river. He didn't want to think of the two boats battered to matchsticks after all this effort—nor the two Maine woodsmen thrown into the freezing torrent.

Really there wasn't much likelihood of that. Sewall was a canny fellow and Wil had sand. Neither of them would be fooled by Nature. They'd be sitting it out, most probably, in one of those natural caves at the foot of the cliffs—waiting for the blizzard to journey on.

Nonetheless he had a moment of concern about them as the storm filled the world with its sudden misery. He gripped the tailboard and kept pace with the slow-moving wagon. Through the swirling blow he saw O'Donnell and Finnegan—both of them twisting around on the high seat to blink at him. They were grinning. In the wagon bed Dutch Reuter huddled under his poncho, a figure of chilled misery.

The old frontiersman had no gumption left. He drove hunched over, flapping his reins ineffectually; the wagon crawled forward, its wheel rims sucking gumbo in slithery ruts.

The ranchman thought about leaping into the shallow bed of the wagon but it was no good letting them come close to him; that would give the four men an easy chance to jump him and so he stayed behind the rattling vehicle, left hand gripping the tailboard, right hand gripping the rifle.

A good hike—healthy exercise
.

The driven hail never seemed to reach the earth: it slanted past him in horizontal planes, skimming the ground and bouncing away like pebbles thrown by children. The storm pummeled him, sliced at his clothes, made his ears sting; the cold felt its way up his sleeves and pried itself inside his clothing and the wind leaned against him with such force that the ground seemed to tilt and whirl under his feet.

He couldn't trust his sense of direction. Some large object spun violently past him—tree branch? Clump of brush?—and he began to hear bigger hailstones crash and rattle against the wagon.

He saw it dimly when the two Irish rascals looked back again. Their faces were covered with cloth now but their eyes were filled with a secret amusement—and then they were whipped from sight when his foot caught on something and his grip was wrenched from the tailboard and he tipped, fell, rolled, sprawled …

He got up on one knee and swiveled his head from side to side—and couldn't see anything beyond arm's length.

The wagon was gone. It might as well have been a hundred miles away.

There was a hollow moment in his chest. Panic.

He shouted. The force of the gale whipped the words away; he couldn't even hear his own voice.

Where was the wagon? He could see nothing: nothing at all except roiling whiteness. He lurched around on both knees, turned a full circle and found nothing more substantial than the wheeling snow.

The storm shrieked. He stood up and went down again, unable to keep his balance against the relentless pressure of the driving wind. Bits of ice trickled down inside the back of his collar.

A fit of coughing took him.

He thought,
A fellow could die quickly enough out here if he didn't keep his wits about him.

He groped for the rifle, found it, felt at the earth with his hand.

Think now. West wind—it was at the right shoulder. Keep it there. Feel the contour of this ground again …

The road was deeply rutted—various thaws must have rendered the clay into soft muck and it had been channeled deep by the few wagons that had passed. Then the gumbo ruts had frozen, hard as granite. Not likely the wagon could have turned out of the ruts. Not likely, for that matter, that they even knew he was no longer at the tailgate.

Catch up, then. Come on—
move.

Knees bent low he waddled forward, leaning to one side against the callous-hard palm of the wind, dragging one foot to keep to the line of the ruts.

It was slow going—treacherous. He tripped, fell down, realized by the sudden stinging that he had bruised his nose. He wedged his feet under him, stood up and proceeded.

He was thinking, in a deliberate and reasonable fashion, that there was a very short limit on the length of time a man could survive weather like this.

Bullets of ice whacked his coat. He heard their muffled but audible slaps. This day was harsh beyond anything in his experience.

The metal eyeglasses hurt like fire. He removed them carefully, folded the stems, slipped them gently into the coat pocket; in this day-turned-night they were useless anyhow.

With eyes all but shut, goaded by desperation, he fought the blast and lurched forward, seldom confident whether he was going uphill or down. All he knew was the cold, the wind and the rutted clay.

At best he would get out of this bruised and half-frozen. At worst …
Oh, my darling Edith
… At worst he might—

No earthly use dwelling on that. One step after the other. Keep to the ruts. Keep moving.

Impossible to reckon time. Doubts grew in his mind: suppose the wind had shifted course? Suppose he was going the wrong way—back away from the wagon?

The storm bucked and pitched like the devil's own broncho.
Well I have ridden those. I shall ride this one too.
He grinned into the bared teeth of the savage animal.

He flinched from the ice-stones; batted his arms across his chest and struggled on. Feeling drowsy now. Clung to a dreamlike sort of half-wakefulness in which a part of his mind knew the other part was drifting. Necessary, the first part told the second part, to fight for sentience.