He turned to start back to camp, his boots crunching on the snow.
It was then he saw the smoke.
Chapter 14
T
HE SMOKE WAS far off, and was not much more than a suggestion in the sky, not to be recognized except by eyes accustomed to all the shadings and changes of mountain, plain, and sky. The quality of the eyesight is often of less importance than the selectivity of the brain behind the eyes. From the hundreds of patterns and the shadow-play of sunlight and storm, the conditioned eye is quick to choose that which is different, or seems different.
Just as the eye of the trained tracker can see a disturbance in the dust invisible to the casual eye, so anything that does not fit, that does not belong, is quickly seen by the mean trained to the wilderness.
What Scott Collins saw was a vagueness in outline only a shade different from the trees around, and above it a scarcely perceptible shading against the sky. Under other circumstances it might be dust or it might be smoke, but with snow on the ground dust was eliminated, and he was sure it must be smoke.
But he did not move to call the others. It was all too easy to lose such a sight, to return to what seemed the same position but was off just enough to make the smoke invisible. He remained where he was, and with great care he chose landmarks, lining up a route that would take him to the smoke. Only when he was sure of its location did he go back to the camp.
Squires and Darrow listened, then Squires got up and set about smothering the fire. “I think it’s worth a look,” he said.
Within minutes they were moving out, holding to the cover of trees, emerging only long enough to check their direction. All three rode loose in the saddle, with their rifles across their saddles. The smoke might mean the children were there, but it also might mean either the Indians or the horse thieves.
“That rider now,” Darrow said suddenly, “I recall who it was.”
They waited.
“It was Cal Thorpe. Least, that’s the name I knew him by. A bad actor, that one.”
“I know him,” Squires said. “He’s killed a few men. They suspicioned him of robbing sluices around the Dry Diggin’s.” He looked over at Scott Collins. “That’s what they called Hangtown afore your time. In the first few weeks they called her that, and Cal was around then. There was a lot of us down from Sutter’s place to the Dry Diggin’s together…Cal was in the outfit. He’s a mean one, all right…quick as a snake an’ just as untrustworthy.”
The country over which they had to ride was rough, and there was no direct route. Time and again they had to swing wide to avoid some obstacle, but always they found their way back to the course Scott had chosen. At times they spread out, searching for tracks, but they saw none until they were in an area they believed to be close to where the smoke had come from.
Frank Darrow threw up his hand suddenly and motioned them over. “Indians,” he said, “at least four. Mebbe twice that many.”
It would complicate things. They had no desire to run into a bunch of scalp-hunters. They wanted only to find the missing children, not to have a fight with Cheyennes. Besides, a lot of shooting might draw more Indians down on them—the Sioux traveled this country, too.
“Headed southeast,” said Squires. “D’you think they saw that smoke?”
“Mebbe. Could be that Injun who was follerin’ the kids took off to line up some help, seein’ our tracks like he did. We’re goin’ to have to ride careful.”
Scott Collins would not allow himself to hope. He realized that the fire might not mean the children at all. It might be from some other passing travelers or hunters. Not that travelers were apt to be in the area at this time of the year. Nobody in his right mind would want to be out in the open.
Whatever smoke there had been was gone now. They knew they were within a mile or perhaps less of the place the smoke had come from, but their landmarks, taken from a distance, could give them no closer clue to the actual spot.
“We could scatter out,” Darrow suggested.
“No.” Scott was definite. “There’s too much risk. We’ll stay together and throw a loop around the area, cutting for sign. Anybody who rode in here should have left some tracks, and if we ride a circle we’ll sure enough find them.”
“It’ll take us a while,” Squires said, “but it’s better than goin’ it blind.”
They rode with caution. Scott Collins took the lead, guiding his horse among the trees until they reached the fairly open boulder- and brush-strewn area beyond. The only tracks they found in the snow were those of coyotes and rabbits. Coming down a slope, they watered the horses at the Little Beaver.
It was very cold and still. The air was crystal clear, and they listened, sensing the wind for any slightest sound.
“I don’t like it,” Squires said in a low voice. “She’s too quiet. We know there’s Injuns about.”
Scott led the way across the stream and up the bank beyond.
U
NDER THE OVERHANG, Cal finished the last of the bacon in the skillet. “I got to get me a horse,” he said. “I don’t cotton to this place.”
“It oughtn’t to be hard to catch that pony of yours,” Jud said. “I should saddle up and have a look around.”
He held his breath, waiting for Cal’s reply, but Cal was thinking his own thoughts. “We could head back for Californy,” he was saying. “I’ve heard that Pueblo de los Angeles is a live place. An’ it’s warmer than here.”
“All right,” Jud said, “I’ll go hunt up your horse.”
Cal looked up, his snake-like eyes followed Jud as he picked up his saddle. “All right, Jud,” he said, “You find him. But you be almighty sure you come back. If you don’t, I’ll track you to hell an’ gone, but I’ll have your scalp.”
“Don’t talk foolish. No man in his right mind would want to ride alone through the country between here an’ the coast. You set tight…I’ll find that horse.”
He gathered the reins and put his foot in the stirrup with the hair prickling on the back of his neck. Not for a minute did he believe Cal would let him ride away—yet he did. He simply sat there watching as Jud moved off slowly.
Immediately Jud was out of sight Cal got up, and he was grinning. “You damn fool,” he said aloud, “don’t you suppose I know whose coat that is?”
The story of Pete Schifflins’s gold was widely told in the cantinas of California, and Cal heard it there. Moreover, he had known Pete, and had even seen a sample of the gold. Not many believed in the story and quite a few did not know gold from iron pyrites, but Cal did. He had been one of those who helped push the Cherokees off their land in Georgia because of the gold strike there, but that had been piddling compared to California.
He had recognized Schifflin’s coat the instant Jud held it up, for Pete Schifflin had one short arm, caused by a bad break years before, and he had hacked off the end of the sleeve to allow free use of his hand.
If that was Schifflin’s coat, then somewhere around had been Schifflin’s diggings, and that probably meant a cache of gold.
He got up and went to the far end of the overhang, and with quick, practiced skill he began scanning the wall, the ground, the whole layout. If there was a cache here, there would be some sign of it.
Hardy lay still, listening. He could not see Cal from where he lay, but the man was busy doing something near the end of the overhang. Hardy desperately wanted to peep out, but he was afraid of being seen. He could hear Cal coming nearer, but so slowly that Hardy could not guess what he might be doing.
Then Cal came within sight. Hardy saw him examining the rock wall, moving rocks that lay against it, obviously searching for something. When only a few feet from the rocks that hid them, he turned and went back to the fire, replenished it, and stood there warming his cold fingers. Then he poured a cup of coffee and started to sip it.
Hardy was shaking with cold, and his fingers were stiff. He tried to cover Betty Sue a little better, but he was fearful that he might wake her. He even thought of trying to run for it, but Betty Sue could not run fast enough, and he was afraid Cal would shoot them. Touchy as he was, he would be likely to shoot at anything that moved…and he had intended to kill them, anyway.
Cal sipped his coffee slowly. Close beside Hardy, Betty Sue was waking up. Her eyes opened, and Hardy put his finger over his lips. He looked longingly toward the trees and brush, not over twenty feet away. He could see the body of the wolf Cal had killed lying out on the snow, and a thick clump of trees just beyond it.
All of a sudden he had an idea. He put a stone in his sling, drew his arm back, hesitated, then threw it hard toward the brush beyond the wolf. It struck the trunk of a tree there with a loud crack, and Cal threw himself sidewise, grabbing for his gun as he moved.
Hardy had never seen a man move so fast. Nor did Cal stop; he changed position swiftly, moving out to a pile of rock, and retrieving his rifle as he did so. There he lay, poised and ready to shoot, leaving Hardy no better off.
If they tried to move now, the slightest noise would make Cal turn around, and he would turn shooting. Hardy had hoped to get him out into the brush, away from the cave. He fitted another stone into the sling. There was only just enough room to throw if he threw flat, with a side-arm swing.
He pitched the stone, getting this one farther out. It lit in the brush and Cal’s rifle muzzle lifted slightly, but he remained where he was, obviously puzzled. Then he got up to his knee, ready to move.
“You get ready,” Hardy whispered. “We’ve got to run.”
Cal moved so swiftly they were caught napping. He lunged into the brush and was gone, like a shadow. Hardy and Betty Sue moved only an instant afterward, into the brush on the other side, and once there, they crouched under a bush.
Cal was gone for some time while they huddled there, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. Then they saw him come walking back, taking his time, not even looking around until he was close to the fire. He turned his head, and suddenly froze.
Hardy looked where Cal was looking, and was appalled. There were their tracks, clear and fresh in the snow. Where they had crossed to get into the brush the snow had been untouched by man or beast, but now their tracks were plain to see.
Cal strolled over, studying them. Then he looked toward the brush and spoke casually. “You young uns might as well come in. She’s almighty cold out. You’ll surely freeze.”
“Hardy, let’s go back to the fire. Please.” Betty Sue didn’t know the trouble that lay in that man yonder.
He dearly wanted to be warm himself. It was colder than it had ever been, and their coat was back there. Maybe they could somehow…
“Come on in where it’s warm,” Cal said, his voice mild. “We got things to talk over, boy. You an’ me, we might make ourselves a deal.” Then he added, “I know where your pa is.”
Was the man lying? Hardy hesitated. Betty Sue tugged at him, and reluctantly he got up. “Will you take us to pa?” he asked.
“Sure enough,” Cal said. “You tell me where the man is who left that coat, an’ I’ll take you to your pa.”
They could at least get warm. If they tried to get away now, he could track them anyway. It was best to go in and try to win him over. Hardy wasn’t very confident of that, but the idea of the fire was too much for him. “We’re coming in,” he said.
They walked in, hand in hand, and Cal squatted by the fire, staring at them through his small, cruel eyes, smiling a little. “Want some coffee, boy? You an’ that gal best have some. It warms you a mite.”
When Betty Sue was sipping coffee, and trading sips with Hardy, Cal asked, “What about the man who wears that coat, boy? Where is he?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“You know when he’ll be back?”
“No, sir.”
Cal’s irritation showed. “Now look here, boy. Don’t lie to me! That coat’s been wore, recent.”
“We’ve been sleeping in it. We brought it here.”
“You’re lyin’ like hell. You didn’t have no coat before.”
“No, sir. We found it.”
He stared at them suspiciously. “Found it? War?”
“Back yonder. We camped in a dugout during the storm. The coat was there. So were the kettle and the frying pan.”
Cal thought about that and decided it was probably true. Pete Schifflin was a canny man, and this was not a likely place for such a man to hole up.
“You didn’t see anything of that man Schifflin?”
“We didn’t see anybody. The coat was all dusty, and it hung in a sort of closet. Nobody had been around that dugout in a long time. That man must’ve gone off and maybe hurt himself somehow. Or Indians got him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, nobody had been in there. The coat was hung out of the way, so I figure it was hung up during some time when he didn’t have any reason to wear it. I don’t think he went away to stay, because he left too much of his outfit behind.”
Cal considered this idea, and accepted it. “You’re a right smart boy,” he said. He filled the cup again for them. “Now, if Jud comes back, you’re not to say anything about this, d’you hear?”
“I won’t if you give me some of whatever it is you’re after,” Hardy said.
Cal chuckled; he seemed pleased. “You’ll do, boy. You’ll do. What do you figure it was Schifflin had?”
“Gold or furs,” Hardy said; “and I don’t think it was furs. I didn’t see any traps around there, nor any cache either. I think it was gold.”
Cal studied him, interested in the boy in spite of himself. He was a shrewd man, who was filled with hatred for anything or anyone that opposed him in any way, but he appreciated cunning, and he felt that the boy had it. It would be a shame to kill him. If it wasn’t for that baby…
“You see any of that gold?” he asked Hardy.
“No, sir, but I figure a body could find it. I don’t figure he’d want to travel much for fear of being seen by Indians. The more he moved and the more tracks he made, the better their chance of catching him. So I figure that gold was somewhere close by the dugout.”
“Good figurin’, boy. You got any other ideas?”
“Yes, sir. I think that man went off and got hurt. I didn’t see any shovel or pick around, nor an axe either. So I think he had them with him when he was hurt, or maybe killed…or he left them at the diggings. I think that’s what he’d do. He wouldn’t want to have to fetch them back and forth every day, because he’d want to carry his rifle to use if Indians came.”