Longarm - Longarm. Part 11

"No, but I heard about it. It's the wildest, rough most tore-up stretch of the Rocky Mountains!"

"Not quite. We got to ride over that part before we get to Green River country."

CHAPTER 16.

Longarm took advantage of the remaining darkness to cover most of the gently rolling Aspen Range between the U.P. tracks and the mighty ramparts of the Green River Divide. Morning caught them winding up a trail fetlock-deep in running rainwater. They were above the hardwoods, now, and rode through gloomy corridors of somber, dripping spruce. Longarm took a deep breath, and while the smell of the rain-washed timber was pleasant, the air was a mite thin for breathing. He knew he was good for a run up Pike's Peak to even thinner air, but he had to consider the horses. He led slowly on the upgrades and resisted the temptation to trot when the trail, from time to time, ran downhill a few yards.

Even covered with waterproof canvas and oilcloth, they were both damp and chilled to the bone by now. Somewhere above them the sun was trying to break through, but the sky was a fuzzy gray blanket of wet, dripping wool. Off through clearings in the timber, silver veils of rain whipped back and forth in the morning breezes like the cobwebs of a haunted pagan temple. From time to time one of the mountain G.o.ds roared majestically in the sky and another spruce died in a blinding lightning flash. More than once that morning lightning whip-cracked down too closely for comfort, but Longarm took little notice of things he couldn't do anything about. Folks who were afraid of lightning had no business riding in the high country. Electrical storms went with the territory.

Somewhere in the dripping tanglewood they crossed the Utah line. There was no sign-post, no natural feature. Someone back in Washington had drawn a line with a ruler on the map. Half of the jumbled peaks and ridges had never been properly surveyed by a white man. The way the Rockies had been thrown together here made little sense to the Indians, who said Lord Grizzly and the Great Spirit had wrestled in the Days of Creation and left the Shining Mountains as their trampled footprints in the torn-up earth of their Great Buffalo Grounds.

Longarm reined in near a giant potato of lichen-covered granite that leaned toward the trail, and helped the prisoner down, saying, "We got to spell the mounts on foot for a while. I'm going to build a fire and dry our bones a mite."

"Could I have these cuffs in front of me for a change? My shoulder sockets are sore as h.e.l.l."

"I'll study on it. Just stand against the rock and dry off some while I find something dry enough to light."

He did think about the prisoner's discomfort as he peeled damp bark from spruce branches and dug dry punk from under the soaked forest duff at the base of the rock. Unless the prisoner was a superb actor, he was neither bright nor given to sudden courage. He'd let them hold him for nearly a month in a ramshackle log jail guarded by old Pop and unskilled cowboy jail pards. Longarm took a spare cartridge, pulled the slug with his teeth, and sprinkled loose powder into the dry punk between his whittled stick kindling and stuck a match to it. There was a warm, smoky whoosh and Longarm put his face near the ground to blow into the smoldering beginnings before he leaned back, squatting on his boot heels almost atop the little Indian handwarmer and suggested, "Put your hands in front of you, if you want."

"Don't you have to unlock these blamed cuffs, first?"

"'Course not. Ain't you ever worn irons before?"

"Not often enough to know how to unlock 'em with no key."

"h.e.l.l, scrootch down on your heels till your hands are on the ground. Then just haul your a.s.s and feet over the chain between your wrists. That'll leave your hands in front of you when you stand up."

The prisoner looked puzzled, but slid down the rock, fumbling about under the poncho and grunting as he got his knees up against his chin and struggled. Then he suddenly grinned and said, "I done it! My hands is in front of me! Why'd you have me chained like this SO long when you must have knowed all the time a man could work his hands to a more comforting place?"

"Wanted to see how educated you were. You got a lot to learn if you intend to follow Your chosen trade serious."

The prisoner moved closer to the fire, putting his numb, linked hands out from under the poncho to warm them as he grinned and asked, "Are you starting to believe I ain't one of the James-Younger gang?"

"Don't matter what I believe. My job's to take you in. Save the tales for the judge."

"Wouldn't you let me go if I could get YoU to believe MY real names Jones?"

"Nope. They never sent me to find out who YOU were. Like I said, you could be named Victoria Regina and I'd still deliver you to Denver, Lord willing that we ever get there."

"You're a hard man, Longarm."

"h.e.l.l, you don't know what hard can get to or you'd know better than to wander about with a running iron and a name like Jones. I know a dozen deputies who would have gunned you by now just 'cause it's easier and safer to transport a dead man. The papers on you say 'dead or alive,' as I remember."

"Jesus, meeting up with you has given me second thoughts on stealing cows for a living. When they find out I'm not Cotton Younger and cut me loose, I reckon I'll go back to washing dishes!"

Longarm didn't answer. The boy was a born thief, whether he was Cotton Younger or some other reprobate. There was maybe one chance in a hundred that he was telling the truth and that this had all been a fool's errand. The odds of the prisoner living to a ripe old age hadn't changed worth mentioning. If they didn't hang him this year for being Cotton Younger, they'd hang him sooner or later anyway. He was a shifty-eyed and probably vicious thief, no matter how it turned out in Denver.

The prisoner glanced up and said, "Smoke's rising over the top of this rock shelter. You reckon anyone can see it?"

"Not unless they're close enough to smell it. The whole sky is filled with drifting gray."

"How much of a lead do you reckon we have, Longarm?"

"Can't say. We took the two best mounts I knew Of and they're bound to be held back by the slowest pony in the posse, 'less they like to ride after an armed man all strung out. I suspicion we're a good fifteen miles or more out front. We'd be farther if somebody wasn't leading who knows his business."

"Yeah. They'd have had to be cat-eyed and hound-nosed to follow us along the railroad tracks like they done."

"h.e.l.l, they didn't follow us by reading sign. They followed us by knowing. I'd say they sent a party in to Bitter Creek and another down the track, covering all bets. They got more riders than they need, so they ain't riding bunched together. They'll be split into half a dozen patrols, sweeping everywhere we'd be likely to head."

"Jesus, how you figure to shake 'em, then?"

"Don't. Not all of 'em. No matter which fork we take, at least half of 'em will be following us up the right one. Ought to whittle 'em down some if we keep offering choices."

"I see what you mean. How many men you reckon you can hold off if any of 'em catch up?"

"Not one, if he's better than me. Any number if they don't know how to fight. I doubt if they'll dare split up into parties of less than a dozen. I'm hoping the Mountie won't make me shoot him. Man could get in trouble with the State Department, shooting guests."

"He's as likely to be riding off with someone in the wrong direction as on our trail, won't he?"

"Nope. The only ones likely to follow the right trail are the good trackers."

He threw another f.a.ggot on the fire, watching it steam dry enough to burn as he mused, half to himself, "The cooler heads among the party will likely stay attached to Sergeant Foster. So if push comes to shove we'll be up against Timberline, the Hankses, maybe even Captain Walthers. He's likely riled about me stealing his walker and would know the Mountie knows his business."

"If we get cornered, you could give me a gun and I'd be proud to side you, Longarm."

"Not hardly. I never sprung you from that jail to shoot U.S. or Canadian peace officers. I don't like getting shot all that much myself."

"h.e.l.l, you don't think I'd be dumb enough to try to gun you, do you?"

"You'll never get the chance from me, so we'll most likely never know."

"Listen, you can't let 'em take me, handcuffed like this! You'd have to give me a chance for my life!"

"Son, you had that chance, before you took to stealing from folks."

"gawd! You mean you'd let 'em kill me, if it comes down to you or me?"

"If it comes down to you or me? That's a fool question. I'd boil you in oil to save myself a hangnail, but don't fret about it. We're both a long way from caught up with."

It didn't stop raining. They rode out of the storm that afternoon by getting above the clouds. The slanting rays of the sun warmed and dried them as they rode over the frost-shattered rocks where stunted junipers grew like contorted green gnomes on either side. Cushion flowers peeked at them between boulders, not daring to raise a twig high enough for the cruel, thin winds to bite them off. Surprised, invisible ground squirrels chattered at them from either side of the trail, which now was little more than a meandering flatness between patches of treacherous scree or dusty snow patches. The air was still, and drier than a mummy's arm pit, but only warm where the sun shone through it. Each juniper's shadow they rode through held the chill of the void between the planets. They pa.s.sed a last wind-crippled little tree and knew they'd reached the timberline. It wasn't a real line painted over the shattered scree, it was simply that after you got high enough on a mountain, nothing grew tall enough to matter.

Longarm led them to a saddle between higher, snow-covered peaks to the east and west, and at the summit of the pa.s.s, reined in for a moment.

There was nothing to see back the way they'd ridden but the carpet of pink-tinged clouds, spread clear to the far horizon with an occasional peak rising like an island above the storm below them.

The prisoner asked, "See anybody?"

Longarm snorted, "We'd be in a h.e.l.l of a fix if I did. Let's ride."

The other side of the pa.s.s was a mirror image of the one they'd just ridden up. The prisoner looked down into the carpet of cloud spread out ahead of them and groaned, "h.e.l.l, I was just getting comfortable."

"We ain't riding for comfort. We're riding for your life, and Denver. How long you figure to live once we get there ain't my worry."

"How far do you reckon Denver is, Longarm?"

"About four hundred miles, as the crow flies. We ain't riding crows, so it's likely a mite farther."

"Four hundred miles across the top of the world with half of it chasing us? Jehosaphat, I wish I was back in that fool jail!"

"No, you don't. They would have buried you by now. By the way, you made a deal with that midget to save yourself from a necktie party. You mind telling me what it was?"

"I told you. He said he'd get me out if I'd tell him where Jesse James was hiding."

"I remember. Whereabouts did you say that was?"

"h.e.l.l, I don't know! I'd'a said most anything to get my a.s.s out of there!"

"Well, your a.s.s is out. What did you aim to tell Cedric?"

"I told you. He said he'd get me out if I'd tell him some yarn."

"Spin her my way, then. I listen as good as anyone."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, I dunno. I'd'a likely told him the stuff as is going around the bar rooms. You ask any two men where the James boys went after that big shootout in Minnesota and you get three answers."

"Which one do you reckon makes most sense?"

"You heard about them lighting out to Mexico?"

"Sure, and I don't like it much. The James boys has gotten by all these years by hiding out amid friends and kinfolks they grew up with. They have to be somewhere in or d.a.m.n near Missouri. Surprise me if they was even far from Kansas City. Clay County's been pretty well searched over, but they'll be somewhere in the Missouri River drainage when we catch up with 'em. That fool raid they made up into Minnesota likely taught 'em the value of hiding out with folks they can trust to keep a secret."

"I did hear one story about Saint Joe. Where is that from Kansas City?"

"Up the river a few hours by steamboat. I heard it, too. Sheriff of Buchanan County wires that n.o.body's held up anybody in or about Saint Joe."

"Well, I hear tell Jesse and Frank is trying to go straight. You see, Cole Younger was the real brains behind the gang, and with him in prison..."

"You just lost me, boy. Why do you fellers always spin that same old yarn about being led astray by wicked companions? G.o.dd.a.m.n James boys has been robbing and gunning folks before they knew why boys and gals were different. If you'd told that midget that Jesse James is reformed after fifteen years of shooting at everybody but his mother, he'd have laughed before he killed you. though, come to think of it, the Hankses were figuring to kill you anyway."

The light began to fade again as they rode down into the clouds beyond the pa.s.s. The top of the storm was only cold and damp, but they were back in rain before they rode under man-sized timber again. The prisoner asked, "When are we going to make camp?" and Longarm shot back, "We made it, over on the other side."

"You aim to just keep riding, into the night as she falls?"

"Nope. We'll rest the critters, along about midnight. If it's still raining, we'll build a fire. If it ain't, we won't."

"Gawd, you're going to kill me and the horses the way you're pushing us!"

"Ain't worried about you. The critters and me know how hard we can push."

"Listen, you said by now we don't have more'n a third or so of the bunch from Crooked Lance trailing us."

"Maybe less. Day or so on a cold, wet trail can take the first flush off the enthusiasm. More'n one will have given up by now, I suspicion."

"We've pa.s.sed a dozen good places to make a stand. I mean, that Winchester of yours might discourage anybody."

"You want me to bushwhack fellow peace officers?"

"Why not? They're out to kill us, ain't they?"

"That's their worry. It wouldn't be neighborly of me to blow holes in anybody wearing a badge. And I don't want to hurt any of them fool cowhands either, if it can be helped."

"Longarm, these fool horses ain't about to carry us no four hundred miles in country like this!"

"I know. It gets even rougher where we're headed."

CHAPTER 17.

The Green River is born from countless streams in the Uinta Range, a cross-grained spur of the Rockies, rubbing its spine against the sky near where Wyoming, Utah and Colorado come together on the map. As Longarm had thought before, those lines were put there on the map by government men who'd never seen the country and wouldn't have liked it much if they had.

The Green makes a big bend into Colorado in its upper reaches, then turns toward the junction with the brawling Colorado River near the southern border of Utah. To get there, the Green runs through canyonlands unfit for most Indians to consider as a home. The Denver & Rio Grande's western division crossed the Green halfway to Arizona's Navajo lands at a small settlement called, naturally, Green River. The lack of imagination implied by the name was the simple result of not having to name any other towns to the north or south in Longarm's day.

They didn't follow the river when they reached it. For one thing, the cliffs came right down to the boiling rapids along many a stretch. For another, Longarm knew the men trailing him might expect him to try this. So he led his prisoner the shorter way, across the big bend. The shorter way was not any easier; the route took them through a maze of canyons where the floors were choked with brush and the steep, ugly slopes of eroded shale smelled like hot road tar where the sun beat down on it. They'd been riding for three full days by now and Longarm figured they were nearly a hundred miles from Crooked Lance. Anyone who was still trailing them wanted pretty badly to have the prisoner back.

It was a hot and dusty afternoon when they hauled over another pa.s.s, and looking back, spied dust in the saddle of a shale ridge they'd crossed several hours before.

Longarm tugged the lead and muttered, "That Mountie's d.a.m.n good," as he started them down the far side. Captain Walthers's big walker had proven a disappointment to him on the trail. The army man had chosen it for show and comfort, not for serious riding over rough country, and while the bay he'd gotten from the remount section was still holding up, the walker under him was heaving badly and walking with its head down.

The prisoner called out, "I might have seen a dot of red back there. That'd be the Mountie's jacket, right?"

"Yeah. I saw it, too. Watch yourself, and if that bay starts to slide out from under you, try to fall on the high side. shale is treacherous as h.e.l.l."

"Smells awful, too! What in thunder is it?"

"Oil shale. Whole country's made out of it. gets slippery when the heat boils the oil out of the rock."

As if to prove his point, the walker he was riding suddenly shot out from under him and forward, down the slope. Longarm cursed, tried to steady his mount with the reins, and seeing that it was no use, rolled out of the saddle as the screaming horse slid halfway down the mountain.