Westward the Tide (1950) Read Free

Deane was a brother-in-law to Lefty King, a bad man who had come out on the bad end of a gunfight with Bardoul in Julesburg.
    "What's the plan behind this wagon train?"
    "This here Tate Lyon went to Herman Reutz with his story and Reutz liked the sound of it. He called in Brian Coyle.
    "Coyle was interested, an' he's one of the biggest men in camp. He come in here with a fine outfit an' he's got the money to make more. It seems he'd been discussin' the chances of there bein' gold in the Big Horns with Clive Massey and a former Army officer, Colonel Orvis Pearson."
    "I've heard of him."
    "Well, the four of them got their heads together an' the plan is to head out to the Big Horns with a party of picked men, nothing but the best in wagons, stock, an' goods. They will trail into the Big Horns, set up their own town, an' file on all the best claims along those creeks."
    "Coyle's going himself?"
    "Sure! He's the ringleader! Him an' Massey. It's a closed deal, an' only a few picked men will get a chance to go along. Now if you want to go, I can swing it. They need me, an' I'll refuse to go unless they count you in."
    "Who's going to guide them into the mountains?"
    "Lyon himself an' Portugee Phillips. Pearson's been selected as commander of the bunch because of his experience. They are plannin' on havin' plenty of fightin' men along just in case. It will be a rich wagon train when it finally pulls out!"
    If Brian Coyle was going along there was a good chance his daughter might go, too. Matt reached for the bottle and poured a drink for each. He lifted his glass and looked over it at Murphy. "To the Big Horns!" he said.
    "That's prime!" Murphy beamed. "You an' me an' Portugee Phillips can handle any passel of Sioux that ever come down the pike!"
    There were thirty men and a girl in the back room of Reutz' store at nine that night. Buffalo Murphy pushed his way through the stacks of bales and packing cases to the meeting place. The girl, Matt saw at once, was Jacquine Coyle.
    Sitting beside her was a husky, handsome lad with a reckless, goodhumoured smile and a quick, impatient way of moving. His face was just enough of a combination of Brian Coyle's dark heaviness and Jacquine's beauty to prove him a brother. After a quick glance, Matt turned to look over the crowd. If these men were to be his companions on the trail he wanted to see what manner of men they were.
    His first impression was good. These were obviously a chosen lot. They had confident, intelligent faces, the sort of men who had done things and could do more. Yet as his eyes strayed over the group they hesitated more than once, for there were faces here of another type of man, and they were not faces he liked.
    Portugee Phillips came up to him and held out a hand. This man Bardoul had known and respected for a long tune. He was a surly, dangerous ruffian. Of a brusque and quarrelsome disposition, and never believed to be overly honest, he had become on one dark night and the three subsequent days and nights, an almost legendary figure.
    In a howling blizzard and bitter cold, the temperature far below zero, Portugee Phillips had made a ride no other man would attempt. He had gone for help after the Fetterman massacre, riding two hundred and thirty-six miles, killing a splendid Kentucky thoroughbred in the process, through the bitterest storm in many years. He saved the garrison, but won the undying hatred of the Sioux, who had never dreamed any human could have done what he did.
    Portugee grinned at Matt. "You come along, huh? We need you." His yellowish eyes swept the room, prying, inquisitive, speculative. Matt sensed some undercurrent of feeling in the man, and in his words, and tried to catch his eye, but Phillips would not look at him again. "You come along," he insisted. "We need good men on this trip!"
    His expression and manner puzzled Bardoul. Probably he was just imagining things and Phillips had meant no more than he said.
    Brian Coyle stepped up behind a large