Trail to Devil's Canyon Read online

  ‘Judd paid me to meet the stage and escort you to my place in Devil’s Canyon. Judd will collect you there,’ Anton calmly answered.

  Lucy hesitated and then asked, ‘And – and is it far to this . . . Devil’s Canyon?’

  He could feel the thud of her heartbeat. He understood why Lucy Doniphon was apprehensive. She had traveled hundreds of long, dusty miles through a wilderness to meet Lieutenant Judd Reed, the soldier she was set to marry. Instead, she faced the prospect of days and nights on the trail with another man – a strange mountain man to boot. In all probability, the lieutenant would hardly even have mentioned Anton Kozlov in his letters.

  ‘Don’t worry, ma’am,’ Anton reassured her, ‘we will be there shortly . . . iffen we don’t have any bad weather. You shouldn’t have to ride that old mule the entire trip.’

  ‘I wasn’t complaining, Mr . . . Old Mos . . what should I call you?,’ she finally asked hastily.

  ‘As I said before, Anton will be just fine, ma’am,’ he said. ‘There is a horse trader in Bear Creek Pass and he owes me a favor. We will head out now and pay Reuben Glanton a visit. Perhaps we can get you a proper mount.’

  The woman looked surprised. ‘At this hour?’

  ‘Like I said,’ Anton began and added a wink, ‘Reuben owes me a favor.’

  ‘Is it a long way to Bear Creek Pass?’ she asked.

  ‘If we start now, we will be knockin’ on Reuben’s door this side of midnight.’

  Chapter 3

  Deadly Sundown and a Bloody Trail

  Reuben Glanton, clad in a nightshirt and a sheepskin coat, opened his stable door and waved his candle-illuminated and unusually-shaped glass globe lantern at the row of stalled horses.

  ‘She is down the back,’ the old horse trader said with a yawn. ‘Follow me, Moscow.’

  Glanton shuffled across the hay-strewn floor, waddling rather than walking. He was completely bald, and a deep, purple scar ran over his scalp from his forehead to the back of his hairless neck.

  The horse trader halted by the last stall and thrust his glass globed lantern at a sleepy-eyed, shaggy-maned mare which looked docile, harmless and – more importantly – ancient.

  ‘She is quite the looker, ain’t she?’

  ‘This old nag?’ Anton fired back.

  ‘No, I mean your woman,’ Glanton corrected.

  ‘Not my woman . . . Lieutenant Judd Reed’s,’ Anton clarified.

  ‘A damn fine filly,’ Glanton muttered as he removed the stall rails. ‘She has the kinda body some men would kill to git their grubby paws on!’ He kicked the last rail over the straw. ‘Here, Moscow, hold the doggone lantern.’ He yawned again. ‘A purty face, hair like fire and those eyes . . . don’t get me started on those eyes. . . .’

  ‘Don’t get you started? Huh? I’m afraid you won’t stop,’ Anton replied.

  ‘And you are gonna spend a whole week of days – and nights – with her?’ The horse trader was wide-eyed.

  ‘I said she ain’t my woman, she is engaged to a cavalry officer,’ Kozlov reminded the old man.

  ‘Well, I hope he knows enough to look after her properly,’ Glanton muttered.

  Anton lifted the lantern as Glanton secured the bridle and bit. The old mare snorted but remained still. Finally, the horse trader reached for a battered saddle.

  ‘Thanks for this, Reuben. Keep the mule for me until I return; wish I could bring her along too, but iffen those fellas from Earhart’s come after us, be better to have two horses and no mule.’

  ‘I hear ya and no worries about the mule. The horse’s name is Fleabag, and there is certainly no hurry to bring this bag of bones back,’ Glanton told him.

  ‘Of course, this nag is called Fleabag,’ Anton laughed.

  Reuben Glanton walked the mare outside.

  Lucy was waiting with Glanton’s portly wife, Anna. She had used the few minutes to change into warmer clothes.

  ‘You could stay for the rest of the night and ride out in the morning,’ Anna Glanton offered.

  ‘That is very kind of you, Anna. Thanks for the offer, but we have been delayed enough already,’ Kozlov said. ‘I believe Lieutenant Reed will sure be anxious if his bride does not arrive on time.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ Glanton murmured, his eyebrows raised as he appraised Lucy Doniphon.

  Kozlov gathered his reins as Lucy climbed into Fleabag’s saddle.

  They rode slowly at first, while Kozlov let Lucy get used to the mare’s gait. He could see that she was not really at home in the saddle . . . but more at home than being on a pack mule. Well, she would have plenty of time for that to change.

  She rode right alongside him, staying close in the night.

  ‘Hold your reins loose, ma’am,’ he advised. He saw the ‘uh-oh I am not so sure I want to keep riding this horse while it is doing what it does’ look on her face. ‘Don’t be scared of it. If that horse believes you are scared, it likely will be scared also. This old mare won’t bolt with you.’

  Dogs barked curiously as the riders circled the Indian village. The riders passed the old prospector’s cabin and out of the pass. When they reached the river, Lucy’s mare stood stubbornly on dry land until Anton leaned over and jerked the bridle. When the two riders began to ford the river, Lucy clutched her saddle horn grimly.

  ‘Just relax, ma’am. Keep your head up. Your horse will be followin’ your focus whether that is over the next jump or somewhere down the trail. If you are lookin’ nowhere or down, you are goin’ to throw off your balance too far forward, puttin’ you at risk for fallin’ that way should your horse stop suddenly. You could wind up on Fleabag’s neck. Keep your eyes and head up, and remember you should always look first to where you want to steer your horse. If you are lookin’ nowhere, your horse should be going nowhere.’

  ‘Oh OK . . . I am trying, Anton,’ she said in a strained voice.

  ‘I hope you weren’t expectin’ Judd to fetch you in some fancy carriage,’ he said.

  ‘I – I didn’t know what to expect, to be honest with you,’ Lucy confessed.

  ‘I have to warn you, we are goin’ to ride some rough country,’ Anton told her. ‘Just listen to me, follow what I do.’

  She grimaced but said firmly, ‘I will be all right, Mr Koz . . . I mean . . . Anton.’

  They made the western bank and headed across the long flats.

  It was a lengthy time before Kozlov slowed his sorrel and indicated a hollow protected by a rocky ledge.

  ‘We will take a short rest,’ he announced. ‘I will light a small fire and you can brew some coffee while I rub down the horses.’

  ‘Rub down the horses? Why?’ she asked, with some fear of seeming ignorant.

  ‘A horse must warm up before it runs and cool down afterwards . . . despite the cold weather. We don’t want them overheated. Rubbin’ gets their temperature back down to normal, coolin’ off is important for relaxin’ a horse’s muscles and gettin’ their heartrate to a good pace,’ Anton calmly explained. ‘You haven’t been around horses much, huh?’

  ‘Not too much. My pa always took care of them, and in San Francisco we didn’t ride too much,’ she explained.

  Within minutes, flames were flickering. As he tended the horses, Kozlov glanced at the Lieutenant’s intended bride. She busied herself by the fire, and the dancing light turned her hair into burnished gold. He took his eyes away.

  ‘Mr Glanton must have owed you an awfully big favor,’ Lucy remarked as they sipped coffee on either side of the little fire.

  ‘We were in the army once – sort of – at least he was, and I worked as a scout,’ Anton said. ‘He was wounded, and I managed to drag him to cover. Reuben believes I saved his life.’

  ‘So you weren’t part of the army, but worked for them?’ she pursued.

  ‘Just as a scout, not officially part of the army, least not here.’

  ‘Were you in the army back in your home country?’

  ‘I was. . . .’

  There w
as silence between them.

  ‘Why did you get out of the army, Anton?’ she asked conversationally.

  There was another more awkward silence, longer this time. Anton stared into the flames. He remembered other flames, not cooking fires but hungry tongues consuming the dry walls of Indian lodges. He kept looking into the flickering glow as the memories flooded back on a dark, evil tide. Once again, he heard screaming – frantic, terrible screams torn from the lips of women and children. There was gunfire, too, incessant, rolling thunder punctuated by the cries of the dying. And after gunfire came the ruthless rape of the young women who were still alive. He closed his eyes. His fingers clenched the coffee cup.

  ‘I had my reasons, both here and at home, ma’am,’ Kozlov said softly.

  They were deep into the Northern Paiute country. Their territory covered parts of the Oregon territory, California, Idaho and Nevada.

  The Paiute people were a nomadic tribe in a constant search for food through the forests of the mountains to the desert areas to the west. Hunting was not a skill that the Paiute men were able to master. Bows and arrows were the primary tool used, however, their bows were not very effective. Since the amount of animals they were able to kill was minimal, tribe members wore very little hide clothing. The Paiute were not rich in material items such as jewelry, clothes or art. Their nomadic lifestyle forced them to keep their goods to a minimum. Because they had so few possessions, they were not often the target of attacks from other tribes.

  Just before noon, with the sun directly overhead, the prairie rose to low, rolling ridges. Some were wooded. Others were bald, starkly etched against the azure-colored sky. The riders kept their faces west, mounting one grassy hillock after another as the afternoon shadows lengthened.

  It was close on dark when Kozlov chose a place to camp. He drew rein beside a bed of stiff, brown reeds. The creek was hardly flowing, just a few iced over pools joined by a thin trickle of running water.

  Anton sat saddle for a few moments to look around at the sheltering trees, and then he dismounted.

  ‘Anton. . . .’

  ‘Yes, ma’am?’ the mountain man replied.

  ‘I could use a wash,’ she said.

  He appraised her briefly and then said, ‘You can heat up some water soon as we set up.’

  Lucy Doniphon hesitated.

  ‘And where will you be, Mr Kozlov?’

  ‘Close by, but not too close, ma’am. I will tend the horses,’ he said simply.

  ‘After that,’ she declared, ‘I will fix us some supper.’

  ‘There is grub in my saddlebag, ma’am,’ Anton informed her. The frontiersman’s eyes followed her as she climbed down from her tired mare. He began to build a cigarette. ‘There is somethin’ I have been meanin’ to ask.’

  ‘Sure, ask away, Mr Kozlov,’ she invited, conscious that his eyes were still on her.

  ‘How come a fine-lookin’ woman like you needed to find a husband through a matrimonial agency?’

  She smiled at the veiled compliment.

  ‘Just curious . . . ah hell, it ain’t none of my business,’ Anton added with a shrug.

  ‘It is a long story, Mr Kozlov,’ she said on her way to the creek.

  He led the horse away, and when he glanced back, he glimpsed Lucy bending to dip water from the creek. She reminded him of his late wife, Lesya. He turned his attention to Socks and began to rub the horse down. They had made good time today, better than he had anticipated. After the first hour, Lucy had adjusted to Fleabag’s lazy gait. He lit a second cigarette. Quite suddenly, Anton became aware that there were absolutely no sounds. Standing tall between Socks and the old nag, Fleabag, he let his eyes rest on the bare trees and the brown brush. He looked at their backtrail. Nothing moved. Removing the cigarette from his lips, Kozlov raised his eyes to the bald, slab of a ridge above them.

  He saw three hatted riders etched against the sundown.

  They were watching the woman. Slowly, he lifted his Hawken rifle from its saddle scabbard. The riders hadn’t budged. Their eyes were fixed on Lucy Doniphon.

  Casually, Anton shouldered his muzzle-loading rifle. He walked around the horses and headed to where he had left the saddles. He glanced at the ridge. The riders were drifting away.

  Anton edged towards the reeds, parting them with his left hand. Lucy Doniphon was just out of his reach.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said softly.

  She gave him a startled look.

  ‘Mr Kozlov!’ she exclaimed. ‘I was just getting the water. . . ‘

  ‘Ma’am, we have company.’

  ‘Dear God—’ she began fearfully.

  ‘Do exactly as I say. Get right into the reeds and stay there. Do it now, ma’am.’ There was a seriousness to his voice. She did as she was instructed.

  ‘Yes, of course. . . .’

  Kozlov parted the reeds and looked cautiously around at the dusky wilderness. Nothing moved in the gray, silent stillness. He waited. The sharp snag of a twig made him look north. Holding his rifle with both hands, he watched the wooded slope.

  It was almost dark when two riders slipped out of the trees like ghosts.

  Sylvester Earhart seemed to dwarf his wiry roan. Just behind him came Nim Larkin, carrying two rifles. The unseen third rider would be Dutton Tully. The trader had decided to pursue his prey – as he had feared – and to get back at Anton Kozlov.

  Kozlov turned his head to look for Dutton Tully. Moments later, he found him.

  ‘Well now, look who we got here, boys!’ Tully yelled. ‘A purty little lady all alone in the wilderness and lookin’ for company!’

  ‘Where is the sidewinder who stole her away from us?’ Earhart demanded, riding warily downslope towards the creek. ‘I want that joker dead!’

  Kozlov raised his Hawken rifle as Tully edged his gelding forward.

  ‘If we go for the gal, I bet we will flush that sidewinder out,’ Tully predicted.

  Kozlov’s rifle spat fire from the reed bed. The bullet smashed into Tully’s chest at close range. Spewing blood, Tully screamed as he clung to his gelding’s tangled mane. He tried to level his own rifle, but his lungs filled with blood and he crashed headlong into the grass. Two bullets slashed through the reeds. One whistled past Anton’s left ear, the other kicked mud into his face. Nim Larkin loomed out of the dusky grayness. Still crouched, Kozlov aimed at the oncoming rider and squeezed his trigger. The horse reared, and Larkin slapped both hands to his bloody face and slid lifelessly out of the saddle.

  Lucy Doniphon’s frantic scream sounded above the uproar.

  Sylvester Earhart marched deliberately to the water’s edge and grabbed for Lucy, dragging her out of hiding. Anton leveled his rifle without a word. Earhart cursed as he released the woman and aimed his Colt .45.

  When he fired, the lead scorched Kozlov’s arm. The frontiersman kept coming as Earhart raised his gun again and fired a second time. Lucy lurched against the trader, spoiling his aim. The bullet winged wide and smacked against a distant tree trunk.

  Seizing the moment, Anton fired his Hawken rifle. Sylvester Earhart collapsed without a sound and lay still on the ground in a pool of his own blood.

  ‘The other bank, Mr Kozlov!’ Lucy Doniphon cried out desperately.

  Dutton Tully was still alive and had raised himself on his elbows. His face was contorted, and blood welled from his mouth. His fingers made a trembling claw around his gun.

  Anton triggered, and the bullet struck Tully neatly between his glassy eyes. Tully flopped face down like a discarded rag doll.

  ‘Thanks, ma’am,’ Anton said to Lucy, calmly.

  Sobbing and shaking, Lucy clung to him and averted her eyes from the dead men.

  ‘Mr Kozlov,’ she whispered fearfully, ‘you are bleeding.’

  ‘Anton, please,’ he said, looking down on his wound. ‘I reckon the lead passed right on through.’

  Blood dripped down his arm to his outstretched fingers, and red drops fell to the grass.

  �
�All the same, it will need cleaning and bandaging, Mr K . . . Anton,’ she said firmly.

  Anton looked down at his arm again. His torn shirt was soaked.

  ‘Well, maybe you are right about that.’

  ‘I am,’ she assured him.

  Lucy collected sticks and lit a small fire.

  Anton sat beside the flames, nursing his throbbing arm as she fetched water from the creek. With the water heating, he began to unbutton his shirt. The garment slipped easily away from his shoulder, but the fabric was matted to the wound.

  ‘Here, let me help,’ she offered.

  She squatted beside him. Her hair brushed against his chest as she held his wounded arm in one hand and used the other to slowly peel away the strands of blood-soaked shirt from the two bullet holes where the slug had bored in and out of his flesh. She tore two strips from her petticoat and soaked one strip in the warm water and bathed his arm. Fleetingly, she let her eyes stray to his naked, muscular chest. Despite his advanced age, he was still fairly fit. Then she used the second strip of petticoat to bandage his wound.

  ‘Thank you kindly, ma’am,’ Anton said. He nodded at the darkness wreathing the slope to the creek. ‘Now I have a chore to do. While you fix supper, I will dispose of those hard cases . . . and give you time to have that wash.’

  ‘OK . . . I mean, yes, Mr Kozlov,’ she agreed.

  ‘And please call me Anton or Old Moscow . . . enough of the Mr Kozlov,’ he said with a slight grin.

  She nodded.

  Anton dragged the three bodies to a cut bank on the outside of the creek and simply caved it in. Since it was too soon to return to camp, he sat himself on a log and rolled a smoke.

  When he finally headed towards the glow of the campfire, he found Lucy bent over the cooking fire. Earlier, on the trail, he had shot a jack rabbit. The pieces had been rolled in flour and were frying now in the iron skillet.

  ‘Smells real good, ma’am,’ he said appreciatively.

  ‘Lucy please, if I am going to call you Anton, you can call me by my name,’ she replied.

  ‘Sure,’ he agreed.

  ‘Great, hello, I am Lucy Doniphon,’ she said, handing him his supper, ‘but I have no idea what my real name is. Doniphon was the name my adopted parents gave me, and everyone called me Lucy since the time I could walk . . . I do not know why . . . but that is my name.’