Sitka

alongside and tossed his saddlebags. Then, rifle in hand, he sprang for the boat's deck and lit, sprawling. It was a bare four feet of jump, but both horse and boat were moving. Ben Turk hit the bulwark, caught it with his hands and swung himself over to the deck. Together they looked back. The fire was only a sullen red glow now. McCellan yelled at them from the pilothouse. 'Law after you, is it? I been expectin' it for years!'

'Shut up!' Jean yelled genially. 'Get a move on this crate! I've business in Knight's Landing!'

'Turn in,' he yelled. 'I'll call you!'

The last thing Jean LaBarge recalled as sleep took possession was the pressure of Helena's hand, the expression on her face. He remembered how she had ridden beside him through the dark streets, how she had waited to be with him after he realized his wheat was destroyed, his hopes ruined. She had waited for him as a man's woman would, only she was another man's woman. He opened his eyes. 'Don't forget, Mac. Knight's Landing.'

Chapter 13

A rough hand on his shoulder awakened him. Mac's florid face and blond hande-bar mustache bent over him. 'Rise an' shine, boy. We're comin' up to the Landing now.'

Ben was already on his feet rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Through the murky light the Landing was visible, right ahead.

Jean LaBarge got to his feet and hitched his gun belt into position on his lean hips, then threw the saddlebags over his shoulder and took up his rifle. McClellan peered over his shoulder at him. 'I hope you don't need those guns, boy.'

'We'll have to be lucky.'

If anyone had ridden the route they were to follow La Barge was unaware of it. There would be settlers here and there and a trail of sorts, but it would be sheer luck if they got through without fighting. Thirty minutes later they rode out of Knight's Landing headed north. The day was bright and clear, the horses eager. A few hours from now they would be less eager, Jean reflected, yet the horses proved gamer than he expected and it was almost midnight when they sighted a fire ahead of them. As was the custom of the country they drew up and hailed before approaching. A shadow moved but for an instant there was silence, then a cautious voice called, 'What do you want?'

'Name's LaBarge. We're hunting a couple of fast horses. Can you help us?' Walking their horses into the firelight they waited. There was a wagon here, and a small camp, such a camp and wagon no outlaw would be expected to have. Six head of mules were in sight and some good-looking saddle stock. Two men, both armed and spread wide apart, emerged from the shadows. At the edge of the brush LaBarge could see two women who no doubt believed themselves concealed in shadows.

'You ridin' from the law?'

'No.' LaBarge got down on the far side of his horse. A man could shoot better from the ground and there was no telling what might happen. 'But we need horses mighty bad.'

The bearded man was a thin, high-shouldered fellow in torn shirt and homespun jeans, but he looked like a man who could use the rifle he carried. He sized up their horses with shrewd, appraising eyes. 'Reckon I'll swap. You got boot to offer?'

'Look, friend,' Jean smiled, 'we want horses, but not that bad. I'll trade our horses for that Roman-nosed buckskin and the gray. You can throw in a couple of sandwiches and some coffee.'

The man glanced at the horses, both fine animals. 'I reckon it's a trade.

Sal'--he looked toward the woods --'fetch these men some supper.' While Ben switched saddles, Jean faced the fire and the two men. The bearded man had been studying Jean's expensive boots and drawing conclusions. The boy could be no more than half-witted and the women were hard-faced. The coffee was black as midnight and scalding hot, and the sandwiches were slabs of bread inclosing hunks of beef.

'Anbody comes along,' the man suggested slyly, 'what should I say?' Jean grinned at him. 'Tell 'em you saw two men nine feet tall riding north with fire in their eyes. Or tell 'em whatever you want. If anybody was chasin' us, we'd stop an' wait for the fun, wouldn't we, Ben?' 'Those who know us well enough to come after us,' Ben agreed, 'are too smart to try.'

Ten hours out of Sacramento, they rode into Red Bluff, and ten minutes later rode out again, their extra saddlebags stuffed with food. Twenty-five miles farther they stopped at a lonely cabin for coffee and when they rode out they were astride two paint Indian ponies.

The air was cool and damp. Twice they glimpsed campfires but their horses seemed no more tired than at the start and they pushed on farther into the night. Once a dog rushed out to bark, amazed and angry that anybody should be moving at all. The night air, cool as a freshwater lake, washed them as they dipped into a hollow of the hills, and then for twenty miles they saw no one, nor any human sound save their own.

At daylight, for forty dollars, Jean swapped for a black stallion with three white stockings and a trim bay gelding. The stallion had an edge on his temper but distance robbed him of his urge for trouble. They were climbing steadily through country where they saw few houses and no settlements. Before them and on their right was Mount Shasta, sending chill winds down across the low country, winds that blew off the white, white snows of her peak.

This was Modoc country and they rode with rifles across their saddlebows. The Modocs had been slave traders among the Indians long before the coming of the white man. At nightfall they reached Tower House, beyond which point there was no road and little trail. At daybreak, on fresh horses, they were moving again. Glancing back, when farther along the trail, Jean saw a rider at the edge of the trees, and later after they had crossed a clearing, he watched long enough to see three riders come out of the trees, then swing back under cover. 'Look alive, Ben. Trouble coming up behind.'

A dim trail suddenly turned into the trees, a trail that by its direction might intersect with their own somewhere beyond the valley. They turned off, then obliterated their tracks as best they could in the few minutes they could afford and rode down through the forest. When their path turned off in a wrong direction they cut through the trees until they reached the main north-south trail once more.

At Callahan's they switched horses again, and Jean found himself with a tough line-back dun. Taking the old Applegate wagon road, they reached the mining village of Yreka just seventy hours of Knight's Landing. Putting their horses up at the livery stable, Ben nudged Jean. 'Look,' he said, low-voiced.

Two men were riding into town on blown horses, one wearing a short buffalo coat they remembered as worn by one of the men seen behind them on the trail. As they watched the third man rode into town and the three went along the street, examining all the horses.

Jean led the way into the saloon and they stood at the bar, cutting the dust from their throats and some of the chill from their bodies for the first time on the trip. At a casual question from the bartender, Jean explained, 'Riding north, buying wheat for a ship that will meet us at Portland, and there are three men following us, hunting trouble.'

A man in a dark suit standing near them, backed off. 'Not my fight,' he said. Taking his drink, Jean motioned to Turk and they crossed to a table and sat down, facing the door. The bartender brought steaming white cups filled with coffee and, of all things, napkins. Jean slid his Navy pistol from his belt and laid it under his napkin. The other gun was in plain sight in his holster. When the three men pushed through the door they glanced sharply at LaBarge and Turk, then walked to the bar. The three were obviously thieves, trailing them to rob and murder. No honest man ducked off a trail as they had. After a quick drink they turned and started out.

'You in the buffalo coat!'

The three stopped abruptly at Jean's call and turned slowly, spreading out a little as they turned. They could see the gun in LaBarge's holster. Ben's gun was belted high and out of view.

The last man in wore a fur cap, the one in the buffalo coat had a thin, scarred face. The third was short with a wide, expressionless face. 'You talkin' to us?' he asked.

'You followed us out of Scott Valley, and you followed us into town. Now get this. If we see you anywhere close to us again, we'll kill you.' 'G'wan!' he said irritably. 'You ain't seen nobody! We ain't even goin' your way.'

'How come you know which way we're going? Look, when I see men dodging in and out of the brush on my back trail I get suspicious, and when I get suspicious, I get irritable, and when I get irritable I'm liable to start shooting, so just to avoid trouble, stick around town a few days.'

'We'll go where we like!' The man in the fur cap was growing red in the face.