“Leave the damned boats.”

“Damned if I will! After all the trouble we’ve taken to secure them?” Roosevelt laughed. “Never mind, old fellow. I shall be all right.”

“All alone with these four bad men?” Wil Dow said.

“It shouldn’t be hard to persuade them they are safer in my hands than in those of the Stranglers. They’ll be tame as kittens, I warrant.”

“Don’t count on that,” said Uncle Bill. “You’re talking about a long lonely trip. The ground’s still frozen on the plateau and I don’t like the look of that sky.”

“By George, I shall enjoy it.”

“And what if all five of you end up at the end of the vigilantes’ lynch ropes? I don’t like this idea.”

“It’s not an idea. It’s a decision, and I’ve taken it. I’m truly touched by your concern, Bill. I shall be fine.”

“Don’t do it.”

“Your advice is noted. And now I think you’ve run out of things to say on the subject.”

After slow consideration Sewall uttered a grudging sigh. “You are the boss and we take orders from you.”

“Yes,” Roosevelt said quietly.

Wil shared his uncle’s dour view. But what were they to do? Forbid Roosevelt at gunpoint?

Wil helped Roosevelt heave provisions into the bed of the wagon. The boss kept stopping to wipe off his glasses. They had steamed up from the heat of his exertions.

“Very well. Let’s go.” Roosevelt picked up his rifle to supervise the loading of the four men.

Wil was not near enough to prevent anything. He saw it clearly when Dutch, climbing onto the wagon, had his chance to jump Roosevelt.

Dutch saw it too. There was that moment of hesitation … Then he climbed over the sideboard and settled onto the wagon bed.

Redhead Finnegan was furious. He made no effort to keep his voice down. “You could’ve fallen back on top of him there.”

“Shut up, Red. Always Roosevelt me square treated.”

“Aagh!”

Frank O’Donnell said quietly, “Well it’s a hell of a long walk to Medora.” He grinned without mirth.

Twenty-two

A hard jagged wind rushed against them. The dark spread of clouds unrolled until it covered the sky. Flickering snowflakes boiled between earth and cloud. Tiny hailstones began to sting the ranchman’s exposed cheeks. Walking forward steadily behind the wagon he tucked the rifle under his arm for a moment, tied his bandanna over his hat and under his chin, wiped his glasses with a gloved finger, pulled the flannel muffler up over his nose, batted his hands together and resumed his ready grip on the Winchester.

It was awkward holding the rifle because the gloved forefinger hardly fit in the trigger guard. If the need to shoot should arise, it would be a matter of thumbing the hammer back and letting it slip—hardly a recipe for deadly accuracy.

O’Donnell and Finnegan doubtless were aware of those shortcomings.

Still—a rifle bullet meant certain trouble and possible death; they knew that too.

The wind ran along the plains with a howling echo that lifted and fell in tortured fury: it pounded him like a boxer’s fist. Suddenly the whole pressure of it was upon him, making him question his bearings and squint through raised hands. He ran forward, stumbled, caught the tailgate of the wagon and clung to it.

He hoped the storm hadn’t taken Sewall and Wil by surprise. This kind of weather could blind a man on the river. He didn’t want to think of the two boats battered to matchsticks after all this effort—nor the two Maine woodsmen thrown into the freezing torrent.

Really there wasn’t much likelihood of that. Sewall was a canny fellow and Wil had sand. Neither of them would be fooled by Nature. They’d be sitting it out, most probably, in one of those natural caves at the foot of the cliffs—waiting for the blizzard to journey on.

Nonetheless he had a moment of concern about them as the storm filled the world with its sudden misery. He gripped the tailboard and kept pace with the slow-moving wagon. Through the swirling blow he saw O’Donnell and Finnegan—both of them twisting around on the high seat to blink at him. They were grinning. In the wagon bed Dutch Reuter huddled under his poncho, a figure of chilled misery.

The old frontiersman had no gumption left. He drove hunched over, flapping his reins ineffectually; the wagon crawled forward, its wheel rims sucking gumbo in slithery ruts.

The ranchman thought about leaping into the shallow bed of the wagon but it was no good letting them come close to him; that would give the four men an easy chance to jump him and so he stayed behind the rattling vehicle, left hand gripping the tailboard, right hand gripping the rifle.

A good hike—healthy exercise.

The driven hail never seemed to reach the earth: it slanted past him in horizontal planes, skimming the ground and bouncing away like pebbles thrown by children. The storm pummeled him, sliced at his clothes, made his ears sting; the cold felt its way up his sleeves and pried itself inside his clothing and the wind leaned against him with such force that the ground seemed to tilt and whirl under his feet.

He couldn’t trust his sense of direction. Some large object spun violently past him—tree branch? Clump of brush?—and he began to hear bigger hailstones crash and rattle against the wagon.

He saw it dimly when the two Irish rascals looked back again. Their faces were covered with cloth now but their eyes were filled with a secret amusement—and then they were whipped from sight when his foot caught on something and his grip was wrenched from the tailboard and he tipped, fell, rolled, sprawled …

He got up on one knee and swiveled his head from side to side—and couldn’t see anything beyond arm’s length.

The wagon was gone. It might as well have been a hundred miles away.

There was a hollow moment in his chest. Panic.

He shouted. The force of the gale whipped the words away; he couldn’t even hear his own voice.

Where was the wagon? He could see nothing: nothing at all except roiling whiteness. He lurched around on both knees, turned a full circle and found nothing more substantial than the wheeling snow.

The storm shrieked. He stood up and went down again, unable to keep his balance against the relentless pressure of the driving wind. Bits of ice trickled down inside the back of his collar.

A fit of coughing took him.

He thought, A fellow could die quickly enough out here if he didn’t keep his wits about him.

He groped for the rifle, found it, felt at the earth with his hand.

Think now. West wind—it was at the right shoulder. Keep it there. Feel the contour of this ground again …

The road was deeply rutted—various thaws must have rendered the clay into soft muck and it had been channeled deep by the few wagons that had passed. Then the gumbo ruts had frozen, hard as granite. Not likely the wagon could have turned out of the ruts. Not likely, for that matter, that they even knew he was no longer at the tailgate.

Catch up, then. Come on—move.

Knees bent low he waddled forward, leaning to one side against the callous-hard palm of the wind, dragging one foot to keep to the line of the ruts.

It was slow going—treacherous. He tripped, fell down, realized by the sudden stinging that he had bruised his nose. He wedged his feet under him, stood up and proceeded.

He was thinking, in a deliberate and reasonable fashion, that there was a very short limit on the length of time a man could survive weather like this.

Bullets of ice whacked his coat. He heard their muffled but audible slaps. This day was harsh beyond anything in his experience.

The metal eyeglasses hurt like fire. He removed them carefully, folded the stems, slipped them gently into the coat pocket; in this day-turned-night they were useless anyhow.