Trail to Devil's Canyon Page 5

  ‘You were adopted?’

  ‘Yes, but I was raised by a loving couple since the age of eight . . or at least that was the age they believed me to be. My “real” parents abandoned me either on purpose or for some other reason,’ Lucy recalled. ‘After that, I . . . just haven’t thought about them.’

  Anton started eating the rabbit.

  ‘You have come a long way, Lucy,’ he said.

  Lucy watched him intently. Finally, hesitantly.

  ‘Mr Kozlov . . .’

  ‘I thought you wanted to use first names,’ he said with a smirk.

  She stared into her coffee.

  ‘Anton, when I was fifteen or so, I committed a crime.’ She looked up sharply. ‘I . . . killed a man.’ Her voice was husky and broken as her eyes held his. ‘The gutter rat tried to rape me, so – so I used my knife. At first, I thought the judge was going to hang me, but instead he sentenced me to prison. Before long, I was farmed out to a man named Ellsworth Burrows.’ Her breasts heaved against the fresh blouse she had put on, and she fell silent again for a few long moments. ‘Burrows was married, and while Cathy Burrows was alive, I worked around the house. Then, a couple of years ago, Cathy died of pneumonia. Even before his wife’s body was cold in the grave, Ellsworth Burrows tried to lay his hands on me. Those last two years with him were a living hell.’ She poured coffee for Anton. ‘After serving my full sentence, to the very last day, I walked free with nothing but the clothes on my back. Burrows was supposed to give me some money. All he did was slam the door in my face.’ There were tears in her eyes. ‘Like most women, I dreamt of a husband, home and family, but who would want Ellsworth Burrows’ bed-warmer? No decent man, for sure!’ She wiped her wet eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Then I saw the notice in the newspaper, about wives for westerners.’

  ‘So, you applied?’

  ‘I figured it was my chance to start a new life,’ she said, wiping away tears.

  Anton finished his rabbit and asked one more question: ‘And does your future husband know all of this?’

  ‘No,’ she said quickly and simply. ‘The agency tells all its gentlemen clients they will be marrying well-bred ladies. When I questioned this with Mr McShane, he told me not to worry. He said women are in such short supply on the frontier that my husband-to-be will be so pleased to see me he won’t care about anything else.’

  Anton Kozlov regarded her over his coffee cup.

  ‘I am sure the lieutenant will be real happy when he sees you.’

  ‘I certainly hope so,’ Lucy said. ‘However, I am going to look for an opportunity to tell him the truth, just as I have told you.’

  ‘Better get some shut-eye, Lucy,’ Anton advised.

  He finished his coffee and went to check the horses. He looked back at the fire and saw her slim, shapely figure in the flickering glow. As he observed, he thought of his late wife, and watched as Lucy hugged her knees in the fire’s warmth. He liked her – and admired her. She had been in life’s cesspool and she was making an effort to haul herself out. He had a lot of time for a woman like that. When he returned to the camp, he walked around the fire and draped a blanket over her shoulder.

  ‘Thank you, Anton.’

  ‘I thought I told you to get some sleep?’

  She looked earnestly at the old mountain man.

  ‘Anton, tell me about Lieutenant Judd Reed.’

  He looked at her. ‘I thought you had been writin’ to him.’

  ‘We wrote two letters each, that was all,’ Lucy told him. ‘A woman can hardly get to know her man through a couple of letters.’

  Anton sat down by the fire and poured himself a second cup of coffee. ‘What do you want to know?’ he asked finally.

  ‘Does he look handsome? How would you describe his look?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘Well, the lieutenant . . . Judd . . . is tall and heavy-set and several years younger than me,’ Anton said guardedly.

  ‘I imagine he will be a fine figure of a man in his uniform,’ she said wistfully.

  He shrugged. ‘That is for you to decide.’

  ‘I guess he is a man used to giving and receiving orders,’ Lucy said pensively. ‘I will need to fit in with his chosen career.’

  ‘Yeah, I reckon,’ Anton said, building another cigarette.

  ‘Please tell me more about him,’ Lucy urged.

  ‘It is a long trail to Devil’s Canyon,’ Kozlov said. ‘We will have plenty of time to talk.’

  She nodded and settled down beside the fire.

  ‘I will try hard to be a good wife,’ she vowed.

  Anton lit his cigarette in the fire’s glowing embers as he said, ‘I am sure you will.’

  ‘Judd is your friend,’ Lucy said, finally closing her eyes, ‘so I am sure of one thing – he must be a nice man – like you. Good night, Anton Kozlov.’

  He smoked the cigarette down as she fell asleep.

  Placing his rifle within easy reach, he leaned back against his saddle. Tonight, Anton ‘Old Moscow’ Kozlov would not sleep. He would listen, keep watch and drink coffee. From time to time, his eyes would grow heavy and he would turn his attention to keeping them open. He would make sure nothing, or no one disturbed the woman’s sleep tonight.

  He buttoned his coat.

  It was going to be a long night for him.

  They broke camp before first light and rode west into the silent wilderness. They crossed a muddy flat and mounted a gradual slope which rose to a lonely, jagged crest.

  The sun was up when they reached the top. They sat saddle for a few minutes to rest the horses and look over the country they would cross. The wind began to increase.

  A long, uneven plateau of a broad expanse of sagebrush lay below them, and then the lesser slopes of the ranges. Anton pointed out the pass they would take, and Lucy silently nodded.

  Kozlov nudged his sorrel forward. He was leading Dutton Tully’s shaggy gelding. The horses belonging to the other dead men, had run off during the shooting.

  They were less than half way to the plateau when Anton drew rein sharply.

  ‘What is it?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Smoke,’ he said, ‘comin’ from the mouth of the pass.’

  ‘Is it from Indians?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘No, reckon not,’ he told her. ‘It is just smoke risin’. Somethin’ is burnin’.’

  She strained to look but saw only faint glimpses of the smoke. ‘What do you think it could be?’

  Anton appraised the yawning entrance to the pass. ‘We will know when we get there, I reckon. Probably be around noon time.’

  The tall grass brushed their legs as they headed away from the jagged ridge. They crossed a frozen river and picked their way through a field of weathered boulders. Two hours slipped by without much notice. They rested in a dry wash, not far from the bare bones of a deer. Kozlov studied the smoke. It had spread into a thin, flimsy haze which almost concealed the pass. The sun climbed higher and scorched the plateau as Anton led Lucy onward. The haze began to lift. Now Anton could only make out thin ribbons of smoke.

  The plateau was breaking up. Ravines and canyons cut huge fissures into the prairie.

  The noonday sun displayed the wilderness with unshadowed clarity.

  Just ahead, the pass gaped like a toothless mouth. Anton lifted his rifle from the saddle scabbard as he mounted the slope. He glimpsed a single curl of smoke drifting skywards. He halted Socks and waited for Lucy to draw rein beside him.

  ‘Keep close,’ he advised, with his eyes on the smoke.

  He rode slowly, threading through another patch of boulders. They mounted a steep slope and came upon wagon tracks. They followed the tracks for a few more yards and stopped. Lucy was so close to Anton that their horses touched.

  ‘Dear God!’ she whispered fearfully.

  Just a few paces away, in the pass itself, lay the blackened skeleton of a wagon. The charred remains of the conveyance had a distinctive curved floor and once a canvas cover that arched – no
w smoldering strips – over the charred, wooden hoops, lay on its side. The Conestoga wagon would have been horse-drawn. Twisted wheels faced the sun. A piano had been thrown to the ground, and a solitary ribbon of smoke rose slowly from its glowing flame. A shaggy goat and a mongrel dog lay sprawled side by side, with arrows protruding from their seared carcasses. Fragments of furniture, hacked and splintered, were strewn haphazardly over the fire-blasted wreckage. He could smell roasted flesh. He could smell death.

  ‘Stay here, Lucy,’ he said tersely.

  He slid from his saddle.

  Holding his rifle firmly in both hands, he edged up to the wagon. The ground was hot under his boots. A gust of wind made the piano frame light up like a lantern. For a long moment, Anton stood motionless. His keen, penetrating eyes looked deep into the pass. They roved along the steep-sided walls, lingering on two dark caves which stared back at him like eyeless sockets. He studied the flat in front of the pass and then checked their back trail. He saw no movement.

  Cautiously, he walked to the dead animals.

  The smell of burnt flesh became stronger. He glanced back at Lucy. She sat her horse obediently, white-faced and trembling. Kozlov edged warily around the other side of the wagon. There were three bodies, pinned to the underside of the Conestoga by long lances. Two were men. Both had been scalped but one had strands of singed silver hair hanging like string from his chin. The woman was in between the two men. Anton knew who they were. He had spoken to them as he had come into Bear Creek Pass. Looking around, Anton saw Maude’s baby. The tiny body had been crushed by falling furniture.

  Anton Kozlov picked up a feathered arrow and examined its markings.

  His searching eyes found the tracks left by unshod ponies. Studying them closely, Kozlov figured there had been five, maybe six warriors. He frowned at the tracks and glanced back at the blackened corpses. This was no war party, he concluded. It looked more like young bucks sent out to hunt. They had found the settlers, and things had got out of hand apparently.

  ‘Anton. . . .’ Lucy called anxiously.

  ‘Stay there!’ he told her. ‘You don’t want to see this.’

  ‘Are they. . . ?’

  ‘Yes . . . all dead,’ Anton told her solemnly.

  It was then that he saw the rider.

  The solitary Indian had just mounted a long, curving rim that presided over the pass. Motionless on his wiry pinto, he watched Anton and the girl. Acting as if he had not noticed the Indian, Anton walked slowly around the wagon. He glimpsed another brave edging his paint pony under the low branches of a towering pine just inside the pass.

  ‘Half a dozen Indians attacked the wagon and butchered the family,’ Anton said when he returned to Lucy. ‘At least two of the lousy polecats are watchin’ us as we speak,’ he added as he eased himself casually into the saddle.

  Holding the rifle with one hand, he gathered the reins in the other.

  ‘Don’t look,’ he warned. ‘If they think we have seen them, they might come for us right away.’

  ‘What do we do?’ she whispered.

  ‘We will try to give them the slip,’ Anton said as a coyote yipped from their back trail. It was a human coyote. ‘First, we will ride over to those trees.’

  ‘The big pines?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Anton said. ‘Ride slowly, like there is nothin’ wrong,’ he instructed.

  ‘I will be right beside you,’ she promised fervently.

  He nudged Socks into a walk. He was sure the Indians had spotted Lucy. They would doubtless try to capture this auburn-haired prize. He glimpsed another Indian rider, a lean, bronze streak, coming out of a thicket. The human coyote yipped again and was answered by another. Anton and Lucy made the pines and slipped between two tall trunks. The needled branches made a green canopy over their heads as Anton struck due south, away from the pass. They rode fast now, weaving between the pines. Emerging from the trees, they headed across a flat ridge top overshadowed by another, steeper rise. Still with the rifle in his hand, Anton led the way up the incline. It would have meant suicide to go through the pass, but this trail was longer. Judd would have to wait an extra day for his bride.

  They reached the bare crest of the rise. The wind caught them and took away their breath. Anton guided Socks under a rock ledge.

  ‘Have we shaken them off?’ Lucy asked hopefully.

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘You don’t sound too certain,’ she noted.

  ‘Fellers like that are taught to read sign as soon as they can talk and walk,’ Anton explained to her. ‘Readin’ a trail is as natural as breathin’, to an Indian buck.’

  ‘So, they could be right behind us?’ Her look was one of fear.

  ‘I intend to find out,’ Anton stated.

  Motioning her to remain silent, he took two swigs from his canteen and then slipped from his saddle. He climbed the ledge and stood under a stunted tree to look over their back trail. He watched and waited patiently. Ten minutes later, he saw five riders emerging from a thicket. They were so far away that they looked like ants. There they were, relentlessly following the trail.

  Anton shouldered his Hawken rifle and returned to his horse.

  ‘They are an hour or so behind us,’ he announced. ‘They don’t look to be in any particular rush because they know we will have to rest. That is when they will try to take us.’

  Terror showed on Lucy’s face. ‘So – so we will have to fight them?’

  ‘I reckon . . . looks to be that way,’ Anton said, remounting his sorrel, Socks. ‘But I am goin’ to choose the place for sure.’

  They kept riding as the shadows stretched and a sudden storm swept the high country. The gale portion of the storm lasted over an hour, then down came the blessed sleet and snow all through the night and the next day, the rain and wind alternating and blending in the valley.

  They kept riding when the clouds vanished, and the dying sun retreated to the western escarpments. The snowy skirts of the mountains appeared beneath the lifting fringes of the clouds, and the sun shone out through colored windows, producing one of the most glorious after-storm effects. It was close to sundown when Kozlov found the clearing in the pine forest. He left Lucy with the horses as he walked slowly around the trees which hemmed them in.

  ‘Build a fire, would ya, Lucy?’ he asked.

  ‘Is that a good idea? A fire?’ she repeated incredulously.

  Anton nodded his confirmation. ‘Yes, make it a real big one.’

  He tethered the horses. Dusk clothed the forest as Lucy gathered sticks and started a fire burning. The flames were already leaping high as Anton returned with two saddles and blankets.

  ‘Anton, won’t the fire attract the Indians?’ Lucy looked unsure.

  He nodded. ‘That’s right.’

  She looked confused. ‘Then why—’

  ‘Throw more wood on the fire, Lucy. I want a real bonfire goin’.’ He smiled at the woman. She did not return it.

  He lumped the saddles together on to the ground. Then he bunched blankets over the saddle rolls to give the impression that they covered sleeping bodies. Taking off his Stetson, he placed it over one saddle horn. While Lucy watched with anticipation, he put two coffee cups on the ground. Satisfied with the deception tactic, he picked up his spare rifle.

  He looked to Lucy with a seriousness. ‘You know how to use this?’ he asked.

  ‘Yeah . . . I mean . . . I reckon I do,’ she said. ‘It is the one thing I learned from Ellsworth Burrows.’

  ‘Here,’ he replied. ‘Put the coffee pot in the embers and come with me.’

  He walked to the nearest fallen pine tree, and she joined him behind the mossy trunk. He leaned his rifle against the tree and checked his six-gun. The wind rose. The fire spat and leapt.

  ‘These diggers will be surprised,’ Anton said.

  Lucy looked perplexed. ‘Diggers?’

  ‘A lot of people called the Paiute “diggers” as they have a practice of diggin’ for roots for food,�
� Anton explained. ‘The trap is baited,’ he added softly. ‘Now lay flat so the trunk shields us. When they get here, they will figure we are fast asleep by the fire. When they come in for the kill, they will be right in the firelight. We have to make every bullet count, Lucy, you understand?’

  She nodded reluctantly.

  He eased himself down so that he lay full length on his side. She slid beside him, facing him in the gathering twilight. He could feel the softness and warmth of her body. It wasn’t the first time that the thought of her reminded him of his Lesya. Lieutenant Reed was a very lucky man. Almost a full hour passed. The fire glow was intense, flaring almost to the edge of the clearing. A red-eyed marmot scampered across the clearing and disappeared into the darkness.

  Anton Kozlov reached for his rifle.

  Flat to the ground, he waited as the night fell utterly silent.

  Then he heard the sharp whinny of a pony and the crunch of a hoof on dead wood. Beside him, Lucy Doniphon clutched her rifle. Branches rustled on the other side of the clearing.

  Slowly, Anton edged himself up, just high enough to see over the fallen tree.

  At first, all he could see was the fire glow surrounded by a rim of darkness. Finally, pine boughs parted. The ruddy glow framed the face of a Paiute brave. He was dressed in a breechcloth with leather leggings and buckskin shirt. There was no war bonnet. The Indian appraised the camp slowly. Then he dropped silently from the back of his pony. Another warrior hovered on the edge with a knife between his teeth. Two more sat their horses, watching, still in the saddle as they emerged warily from the night.

  The Paiute Indian who had appeared first, still stared fixedly at the two blanket-covered shapes. He held a bow and arrow. Suddenly, a fearsome war cry rose from his lips, and the raiders surged into the clearing for the kill. The warrior who had crawled into the clearing reared up with fire glinting on his steel blade.

  The knife plunged ferociously into the bunched blankets.

  Stabbing wildly, the Paiute brave stared in baffled rage as the blankets fell away.