The Bitter Draw: From the Front Porch – Chapter 4
Thorne Wilder and Brogo Mann camp beside a cedar fire as trouble follows them out of Three Forks.
From the Front Porch series: Thorne Wilder & Brogo Mann
Thorne stirred the fire with a stick and watched sparks drift up into the dark.
"You ever notice," he said, "that trouble walks faster than honest men?"
Brogo sat on a flat rock cleaning his rifle.
"Trouble rides," he said. "Honest men usually walk."
Thorne nodded.
"That's probably why trouble keeps arriving first."
The country east of Three Forks rolled into cedar breaks and scattered mesas. Good country if a man wanted to disappear. Bad country if somebody was being paid to find him.
The moon hung low and pale.
Brogo fed another cartridge into his rifle and clicked the action shut.
"You think Pike'll quit?" Thorne asked.
"No."
"Me neither."
Silence settled.
The fire popped.
A coyote barked somewhere out beyond the dark.
Thorne leaned back against his saddle.
"Funny thing about rich men," he said.
"What's that?"
"They always think money can buy certainty."
Brogo nodded.
"It buys effort."
"Exactly."
They let the conversation die.
Some thoughts deserve quiet around them.
Near midnight Brogo's head lifted.
Not sudden.
Not alarmed.
Just lifted.
The way a wolf notices something before the rest of the woods does.
"You hear that?" he asked.
Thorne listened.
At first there was nothing.
Then—
A horse.
Far away.
Then another.
Then several more.
Moving slow.
Trying not to sound like horses.
"Well," Thorne said. "Looks like effort."
They kicked dirt over the fire.
Five minutes later they were crouched among cedar shadows overlooking their abandoned camp.
Six riders appeared on the ridge.
Moonlight caught metal.
One man pointed toward the cold ashes.
Another dismounted.
The riders spread out.
Professional.
Not ranch hands.
Not drunks.
Not men chasing excitement.
These men were chasing money.
"Bounty hunters," Thorne whispered.
Brogo nodded.
"They'll be disappointed."
"They usually are."
The hunters searched the camp.
One found tracks.
Another knelt beside them.
The tracker studied the ground for a long moment.
Then stood.
And pointed directly toward the cedar break where Thorne and Brogo waited.
"He's good," Brogo said.
"Wish he'd picked a different profession."
The hunters mounted again.
Started forward.
Slow.
Methodical.
Certain.
Thorne hated certain men.
They tended to be dangerous.
The tracker led them downhill.
Fifty yards.
Forty.
Thirty.
Close enough now that Thorne could make out the shape of the man's mustache.
Close enough to smell horse sweat.
Brogo glanced sideways.
"What do you think?"
Thorne smiled.
"I think we're about to improve their evening."
The first shot came from somewhere neither of them expected.
A rifle cracked from the opposite ridge.
The tracker pitched sideways out of his saddle.
The hunters scattered.
Another shot.
Another rider fell.
The night exploded into confusion.
"What in the hell?" Thorne said.
Brogo was already moving.
"Questions later."
They slipped deeper into the cedars as gunfire erupted across the valley.
Whoever occupied the far ridge knew exactly what they were doing.
Every shot came measured.
Patient.
Deliberate.
A minute later the surviving hunters broke and ran.
The shooting stopped.
Silence returned.
Thorne and Brogo crouched beneath a cedar.
Neither spoke.
Finally Thorne said what both were thinking.
"That wasn't Pike."
"No."
"Vance?"
Brogo shook his head.
"Too disciplined."
They waited.
The ridge remained dark.
Then a lantern appeared.
Just once.
A single flash.
Gone again.
Not an accident.
A signal.
Someone had wanted them alive.
Someone had just saved them.
And someone knew exactly where they were.
Thorne frowned.
"I don't much care for mysterious friends."
Brogo stood.
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because mysterious friends usually become mysterious problems."
Thorne sighed.
"See, that's the sort of wisdom I was perfectly happy living without."
They started walking before dawn.
By sunrise they reached a narrow valley cut between red stone walls.
A creek ran through it.
Cottonwoods lined the banks.
For the first time in days the world looked peaceful.
Which should have warned them.
Halfway down the valley they found the wagon.
It sat crooked beside the water.
One wheel broken.
Canvas torn.
A mule grazed nearby.
The driver sat against a tree.
Dead three days.
Maybe four.
Thorne removed his hat.
Brogo checked the ground.
"Horse tracks," he said.
"Many?"
"Six."
Thorne sighed again.
"Always six."
Brogo almost smiled.
Near the wagon lay a leather satchel.
Weathered.
Heavy.
Thorne picked it up.
Inside were papers.
Maps.
Letters.
Documents covered in survey marks and property boundaries.
Brogo looked over his shoulder.
"What is it?"
Thorne studied one page.
Then another.
The smile vanished from his face.
"This," he said slowly, "is why men are dying."
Brogo frowned.
The papers showed land claims.
Water rights.
Railroad surveys.
Government contracts.
Names.
Lots of names.
Including Pike.
Including Vance.
And several names neither of them recognized.
Very wealthy names.
Very powerful names.
Names that didn't belong anywhere near the Bitter Draw.
Brogo looked toward the horizon.
"That's bad."
Thorne folded the papers carefully.
"No."
He tucked the satchel under his arm.
"Bad was the Draw."
He looked at the documents again.
"This is bigger."
Far away, beyond the valley, a rider appeared on a ridge.
Watching.
Too distant to identify.
The rider remained still for several seconds.
Then turned and disappeared.
Thorne watched him go.
The feeling under his ribs returned.
That feeling that arrived right before a trail forked into something important.
"Well," he said.
Brogo adjusted his rifle.
"Which way?"
Thorne looked at the satchel.
Then toward the rider's vanished silhouette.
Then east.
Toward whatever waited beyond the next horizon.
"I reckon," he said, "we just inherited somebody else's secret."
Neither man liked that much.
But both started walking anyway.
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