Then she smiled, for she loved him very much, and believed his promise, and was happy again.
Braddock’s personal pilot had had no choice but to turn back. His fuel was low and the ground below was too dark to make out details. He landed at the ranch on the last of his reserve.
The ten riders limped into the little community of Bridger on their exhausted horses and asked for lodgings. They ate at the diner and made beds in their own saddle blankets.
Jerry put the sheriff’s helicopter down at Bridger airstrip and was offered a bed for the night by the manager.
At the ranch it was the former Green Beret who took over the planning. Ten of the private army were stranded at Bridger with exhausted horses; eight more were marooned in their vehicles upstream of the blockage on the interstate. Both sets would be there all night. Max faced Bill Braddock and the remaining twelve. He was in his element, planning a campaign, just like in Vietnam. A large map of the county adorned the wall.
‘Plan One,’ he said. ‘Cut off the pass – literally. Right here there is a deep cleft or defile running right through the range into Wyoming. It is called Rock Creek. Beside it runs the highway, twisting and winding until it emerges on the south side.
‘He may try to ride along the grass edging the highway to avoid the high country on either side. As soon as the blockage on the interstate is clear, our boys need to race down here, overtaking everything in their path, and stake out the road at the state line. If he appears, they know what to do.’
‘Agreed,’ growled Braddock. ‘Supposing he tries to ride through during the night?’
‘He can’t, sir. That horse of his must be on its last legs. I figure he crossed the road because he is heading for the forest, then the mountains. As you see, he has to penetrate the expanse of the Custer National Forest, climbing all the way, crossing the defile called West Fork and then more climbing to emerge on this plateau, the Silver Run. Hence Plan Two.
‘We use the two rented helicopters to overfly him, picking up the ten men at Bridger on their way. These menare set down in askirmish line across this plateau. When he emerges from the forest onto the rock, he’ll be a sitting target for men crouching behind boulders halfway across.’
‘Order it,’ said Braddock. ‘What else?’
‘Plan Three, sir. The rest of us enter the forest on horses at dawn behind him and flush him upwards to the plateau at the top. Either way, we’ll hunt him down like game.’
‘And if he turns on us in the forest?’
Max smiled with pleasure.
‘Why, sir, I am a jungle-trained fighter. There are three or four others who did time in ’Nam. I want them all with us. If he tries to make a stand in the timber, he’s mine.’
‘How do we get the horses down there with the road blocked?’ asked one of the others.
Max’s finger traced a fine line on the map.
‘There’s a small secondary road. Runs from the Billings highway fifteen miles west of here, through the badlands to terminate here at Red Lodge, right at the neck of the Rock Creek defile. We drive them down in trailers through the night, mount up at dawn and go after him. Now I suggest we sleep for four hours and rise at midnight.’
Braddock nodded his agreement. ‘One other thing, Major. I’m coming with you and so is Kevin. Time we both saw the end of the man who humiliated me today.’
Sheriff Lewis also had a map, and he had come to similar conclusions. He asked for co-operation from the town of Red Lodge and was promised a dozen mounts, fresh and saddled, for sunup. Jerry would refuel at the same time and be ready for take-off.
The sheriff checked with the emergency service working on the interstate and was told they would have a clear road by four in the morning. He asked that his own two cars be allowed through first. He could be at Red Lodge by four thirty.
He had no trouble finding volunteers even for a Sunday. Policing a county of peaceable folk can be short of really eventful days, but a true manhunt usually set the adrenalin running. Apart from Jerry above him, he had on call a private pilot with a high-wing spotter plane and would have ten men with him for the ground pursuit. That should be enough for one rider. He stared long and hard at the map.
‘Please don’t go into the forest, kid,’ he murmured. ‘You could be awfully hard to find in there.’
As he was speaking Ben Craig and Whispering Wind made it to the forest line and disappeared into the trees. It was pitch dark under the canopy of the spruce and lodgepole pine. Half a mile in, Craig made camp. He relieved the tired Rosebud of her saddle, the girl, rifle and blankets. Among the trees Rosebud found a rill of fresh water and juicy pine needles. She began to rest and recover.
The scout lit no fire but Whispering Wind needed none. She curled in the buffalo robe and fell asleep. Craig took his axe and trotted away. He was gone six hours. When he returned he catnapped for an hour, then broke camp. He knew that somewhere up ahead was the creek where he had delayed the cavalry and the Cheyenne a long time ago. He wanted to cross it and gain the farther bank before his pursuers could come within rifle range.
Rosebud was fresher, if not fully recovered from her marathon of the previous day. He led her by the bridle. Despite her rest the strength was flowing out of her, and they had many miles to go to reach the safety of the peaks.
He marched for an hour, sensing his direction from the stars glimpsed through the treetops. Far away to the east, above the sacred Black Hills of Dakota, the sun pinked the sky. He came to the first defile across his path, the precipitous gully called West Fork.
He knew he had been here before. There was a way across if only he could find it again. It took an hour. Rosebud drank from the cool water and, slipping and scrabbling for a foothold, they clambered up the far bank to the high ground.
Craig gave Rosebud a further rest and found a hidden place where he could stare down at the creek. He wanted to see how many were coming after him. They would be on fresh horses, that was sure, but something was different. These pursuers had strange metal boxes that flew in the sky like eagles beneath whirling wings and they roared like bull moose in the rut. He had seen these flying boxes over the badlands the day before.
True to their promise the emergency services cleared the interstate for traffic just after four in the morning. Guided by a Highway Patrol officer, Sheriff Lewis’s two cars threaded through the tangle of gridlocked vehicles to the head of the line and set off for Red Lodge fifteen miles to the south.