Lonely On the Mountain (1980) (15 page)

The word meant nothing to him, so I drew a diagram in the dust, showing where we now were, the south Saskatchewan and the mountains of British Columbia. That he grasped quickly. Then I made a space and said, "Much water." Beyond it, I drew a coast and indicated China. "His home," I said.

He studied it, then indicated British Columbia and drew his eyes thin to seem like Lin's. "Indian," he said, "here." It was true. A long time since I had been told by a man in the Sixth Cavalry that some of the Indians from the northwest coast had eyes like the Chinese.

After a while, I went to sleep and was only awakened when they were ready to offer me food; it was daybreak.

The young Indian who had been wounded and on the travois when first we encountered them carried a rifle of British make. The older men were armed only with bows. We were heading northwest, but I asked no questions, being content to just lie and rest.

What had happened to me, I did not know, but I suspected a mild concussion and that I had fallen and been dragged. My shoulders were raw, I discovered, and had been treated with some herbs by a squaw.

On the following day, I got up and could move around. Then one old Indian, who seemed to be in authority if anyone was, showed me my saddle, bridle, saddlebags, and rifle, carefully cared for on another travois. I left the riding gear where it was but took up the rifle, at which the old man showed approval. Seemed to me they expected grief and were glad to have another fighting man on his feet.

Lin had a broken leg. He was skinned up and bruised not unlike what happened to me, but he had the busted leg to boot. They'd set the bone, put splints on the leg, and bound it up with wet rawhide, which had dried and shrunk tight around the leg.

"Where are the others?" I walked beside him as we moved. "No tellin'. Dead, maybe. Scattered to the winds, maybe. All you've got to do is get well." Well, I was a long way from being a well man. Before the day was over, I was so tired I could scarce drag. They made camp in a tree-lined hollow with a small waterhole and a bunch of poplars.

We'd lost all track of time, Lin an' me. We'd both been unconscious, and we didn't know how long. I'd no idea what had become of my horse or the remuda stock we had, and we'd lost all our cattle.

Only thing I could say for us was that we were headin' in the right direction and we were alive.

What I needed was a horse. This was the first time I'd been caught afoot in a long time, and I didn't like it. I should be scouting the country, hunting for Tyrel and roundin' up cows.

Lin was feeling better. As for me, I limped along with a head aching something fierce and a disposition that would frighten a grizzly. Not that I let those Indian folks see it, but, believe me, I was sore.

Meanwhile, a way out in the western mountains, Logan was in trouble and wishful of our coming.

As to Tyrel, he might be killed dead, but I misdoubted that. Tyrel was just too downright ornery to be killed that easy. If he ever went down to death, there'd be bodies stacked all about, you could bet on that.

One thing about a Sackett, he finishes what he starts if it is a good thing to start. All of us knew that whatever else was happening, we'd be pushing on west. West was where I was going, and if I arrived there with no cows, I'd round up a buffalo herd and drive it in, or try.

If that failed, I'd have to get a rattlesnake for a whip and drive a flock of grizzlies. Right now I was mad enough to do it.

It so happened that at the time of the stampede these Indians were a way off to one side where they'd had to go to camp on water. The stampede went right by, an easy half mile off.

"Where do you go?" I asked the old man.

He gestured to the northwest. They were going back to some place; that was all I could gather. His English was limited, and I spoke none of the Indian tongues that made sense to him. It was a rare thing to find an Indian who spoke any language but his own, although some had picked up some French or English because of trade.

Their direction was our direction, so we stayed with them. Besides, they needed us. The young warrior was still not able to travel far when hunting, and neither of the old men had much luck with hunting. Their food was mostly small game or roots picked hither and yon.

The meat I'd left them had been a godsend.

Soon as I was fit, I scouted around some of an evening. First evening I had no luck

never even saw anything worth shooting until the second day when I spotted a buffalo calf.

It was a week before Lin could walk, even a little, and by that time we'd traveled most of a hundred miles. It was that night by the fire that Little Bear came to me. He was the youngster walking about, and me and him had talked a good deal, neither understanding too much except that we liked one another.

He had been out setting snares, and he came to me by the fire. "A horse!" he said.

"That's it, son. That's what I need." He pointed off to the east. "A horse!" he repeated.

"You mean you've seen a horse?" When he said yes, I went to my saddle and took my rope from it. "You show me," I said.

Our horses had been scattered when the stampede took place, and it might just be one of our own. Not that it would be any easier to catch.

We walked maybe a mile, and he pointed.

Sure enough, feeding along the shadow of some poplars was a dun horse.

Now Tyrel and me, we both rode line- back duns, probably get of the same sire, as we'd caught them out of a wild bunch who ran with a powerful old dun stallion. The stallion was no horse to catch. He'd run wild too long; he was too strong and too mean. A horse like that will never stop fighting, and he'll either kill somebody or himself.

At that distance, I couldn't make out whether that was Tyrel's dun or mine. But he'd been riding his when the stampede hit us, so this one must be mine.

There was a shadow from the trees, or I might have guessed which one it was.

Anyway, we moved toward him.

His head came up sharp, and he looked at me with ears pricked and he let me come on.

When I was within fifty yards, he shied away a mite, but he didn't run, and I called to him. He walked toward me then, and I rubbed his neck a little, and he seemed glad to be back with folks again. I rigged a hackamore and led him back to camp. Next morning, when we started out, I was in the saddle and felt like a whole man again.

The wind began to pick up, the grass bending before it, and I was scouting ahead looking for game when I came on some tracks.

Little Bear looked at them and pointed toward the direction they'd taken. "You cattle," he said.

"Two mans!" Maybe thirty head of cattle and two riders, and we set off after them.

We found them bedded down near a slough alongside a capful of fire with some meat broiling.

"'Light an' set!" Cap said, like he'd seen me only that morning. "Brandy an' me got a few of your cows." It was good to see them. They had six horses, two of them strange, wearing a Lazy y brand.

"You don't look the worse for wear," I said.

"Pure-dee luck! We was out in front, and we run for it. We had fast horses, an' after a mile or two, we managed to cut away to the side. Seen anybody else?" "Lin's alive. He's with the Indians." Little Bear rode off to get his people, and we set by the fire expla*' to each other what happened.

"All we can do," I said, "is head north to meet Orrin. He'll have grub, and if there's anybody else alive, they'll come to that rendezvous." "That's how I figured it." Cap glanced over at me. "You see the tracks? It wasn't Sioux." "We know." "I wonder what Logan's tied into, anyway?" The smell of the wood fire was almighty nice, and I felt right just having a horse again.

I've spent so much time sittin' on the hurricane deck of a horse that I ain't at home anywhere else.

Little Bear's folks came in shy of midnight, and we all bedded down close together, with Cap, Brandy, an' me sharin' time with the cows.

Cap an' Brandy were sure enough hungry.

They'd been eatin' squirrel, rabbit, and skunk most of the time since the stampede, when they ate anything at all.

"There's hills up ahead," Cap said.

"Maybe we'll run into Orrin an' his carts.

Those are the Thunder Breeding Hills. If he didn't find anything west of the Turtles, he'd keep on west, wouldn't he?" "He would. Or I think he would." Yet I was worried. We were a long way from the mines, we had only thirty head or so, we were short on riding stock, and we had no grub or ammunition. We'd lost the biggest part of our outfit, and we were riding strange country.

There were Sioux around, and there were the white renegades who'd attacked before. Yet it felt good to be back with Cap. Brandy and Lin were new men, but Cap I knew from way back. Any kind of a stir-up, be it work or fight, Cap would stand his ground.

The cattle had lost weight. A stampede can run a good many pounds off a critter, and these had been driven hard since.

The way we drove them was across a prairie with islands of brush and occasional swamps. Time or two we had to stop and rope some old mossyhorn out of the bog. Those islands of brush worried me because a body could get close to a man before he realized. And they did.

All of a sudden, Cap ups with his hand and outs with his Winchester, and we saw three men ride into view from behind a clump of brush.

I had no idea who they were but had a mighty good idea they weren't friendly.

Chapter
XVII

The sun lay bright upon the land ahead and bright upon the three horsemen who rode to meet us.

Cap glanced around. "Good boy," he said.

"Brandy's facin' the other way. So's Lin." The Indians were behind us and to the right, concealed from the riders by the brush.

"There will be more of them," Cap said.

"There will," I agreed, and glanced at the small lake that lay ahead and to the right. It was likely they would attack from the left and try to drive us toward the lake. The three riders were too obvious.

"Howdy, boys! Huntin' for something?" "Lookin' to buy cattle." The speaker was a big, bearded man in a buckskin coat worked with blue and red beads. He had a rifle in his hand and a fur cap.

"Sorry. These are not for sale." "Make you a good offer?" His horse was sidling around, and I saw him throw a quick glance toward left rear.

"Not for sale, boys," I said. I rode out from the herd a little and toward the right, outflanking them a little, and I could see they didn't like it.

Cap had promptly shifted a little to the left, and I said, "Better move, boys. We're coming through!" "Sell 'em," the big man repeated, "or we'll take them!" "All right, Brandy!" I yelled, and he let out a whoop and started the cattle.

They were headed that way, and cattle like to go where they're pointed, so they started moving. Brandy let out another whoop, and one of the steers turned right at the nearest horsemen.

The sudden rush of cattle split the three riders. Two went one way and one the other, and the nearest one was coming my way, so I headed right at him. In trying to swing wide of a head-on collision, he put his horse into the soft ground at the lake's edge, and his horse floundered in the mud, his rider swearing.

Wheeling the dun, I raced along the flank of the moving cattle, heard two quick shots from behind, and saw Lin on the ground, his horse beside him; he was shooting across a fallen log.

A half-dozen riders had come from behind one of those clumps of brush, and Lin, being on the ground, had the advantage.

I saw a horse stumble and go down, pitching his rider over his head. Mud leaped in front of another rider, and his horse swerved sharply, and a third bullet had him dropping his rifle and grabbing for a mane hold as his horse went charging away, cutting across the front of the other riders.

It all happened in seconds. Two men were down, a horse running wild and the cattle charging. The big man with the beard threw up his rifle to shoot at me, but Cap burned him with a quick shot, and my bullet burned his hand. What other damage it did, I couldn't see, but I did see a splash of blood on the buckskin coat and on the saddle.

Lin was back in the saddle and riding up the flank of the small herd, and we swung the cattle past the lake and into the open toward some sand hills looming ahead.

Brandy closed in behind the herd, and we moved them out of there.

Cap Rountree closed in toward me.

"Pilgrims," he said contemptuously. "They haven't burned the powder we have." "We were lucky. Next time, we may not get the breaks." We pushed the cattle on, keeping a lookout on all sides. What Cap said was obviously true. The men who had attacked us were tough men and hard but not seasoned fighting men.

Any man can take a gun in hand and go out to use it, and often enough he is braver because of that gun. But fighting is like playing poker. You have to pay to learn, and you only learn with the cards in hand and money on the table. Cap and me, well, we had been through more fights in any one year of our lives than most men get in a lifetime.

Me? Well, I'd been fightin' one way or another all my life. Cap had begun as a mountain man, and he'd fought Sioux, Cheyenne, Blackfeet, Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches, and he still had his hair.