Lonely On the Mountain (1980) (17 page)

Only Cap and me, we set late by the fire. I was thinking of what was to come. As for him, I didn't know what he was thinking about. Or didn't until he said, "You want me to ride back and see who that is? It may be trouble." "Not you. Anybody but you. A body can always find another cowhand but a good cook? No way you can find another cook without a miracle." There was a-plenty to consider. We were down to our last coffee, and as for other grub, we'd been making do on what we could rustle for days.

Looked to me like we would have to strike north for Fort Carlton and lay in a stock of grub. It was going to throw us back, but I saw no way out of it.

Carlton was due north. Thinking of that, I wondered, but not aloud, about trying to go west from there.

Traveling in strange country like this, where I knew nothing of the rivers. If there was a practical route west from Fort Carlton, we might lose no time at all.

"All right," I said to Cap, "we'll swing north." "You want I should have a look at who that is comin' up the line?" "I'll go." "You're tired, man. You need rest." "Why, you old buffalo chaser, you say I'm tired? What about you?" "You lose me, you ain't lost much. You get lost, and we're all up the creek." Well, I got up and roped me a horse.

"Stand by for trouble, Cap," I told him. "I think we've got it coming." With that I rode off west. It was dark when I started, but that was a good night horse I had between my knees, and we found a trail that left the creek and went up on the bluffs. Off to the east, I spotted a campfire.

Down a trail through the forest, winding down where darkness was, winding among the silent trees.

Only the hoof falls of my horse, only the soft whispering of night creatures moving. Now I was riding where danger might be. I was riding where a man's life might hang in the wind, ready to be blown away by the slightest chance, yet I will not lie and say I did not like it.

That horse was

easy in the night, moving like a cat on dainty feet. He knew we were riding into something, he knew there might be the smell of gunpowder, but he liked it, too. You could sense it in the way he moved. A man riding the same horse a lot comes to know his feelings and ways, for no two are alike, and I was one to make companions of my horses, and they seemed to understand. They knew we were in this together.

Time and again, I drew up to listen. A man can't ride careless into wild country. The banks of the river had an easier slope below the elbow, and some grassy tongues of land pushed into the river.

There was a rustling of water along the banks and a dampness in the air near the river. My horse pricked his ears, and we walked slowly forward.

I heard no unnatural sound, smelled nothing until I caught a faint smell of wood smoke, and then a moment later an animal smell.

Cattle! I drew up again. There was much brush, almost as high as my head, but scattered. Suddenly, sensing something near, I drew rein again.

There were cattle near, and a large herd. I could smell them and hear the faint sounds a herd will make at night, the soft moanings, shiftings, click of horn against horn when lying close, and the gruntings as one rose to stretch.

Well, right then I had me a healthy hunch, but what I wanted was to locate the fire. I reined my horse over and rode him around a bush, speaking softly so's not to startle the cattle, which, after all, were longhorns and wild animals by anybody's figuring.

The fire was off across the herd, and I glimpsed a faint glow on the side of some leaves over yonder, on a tree trunk. So I let my horse fall into the rhythm of walking around the herd, just as if we were riding night herd ourselves, which we'd done often enough.

From the way my horse acted, I didn't figure these were strange cattle, so when I saw the fire ahead, I rode over and let my horse walk up quiet.

Tyrel, he was a-settin' by the fire, and he never even raised up his head. He just said, "Get down, Tell, we've been a-missin' you." So I got down and shook his hand, and we Sacketts was together again.

Chapter
XIX

"You got yourself some cows," I said.

"Seems as though. We've had some losses.

Right now we're a few shy of having nine hundred head. We lost cattle in the stampede, and we lost a few head in the sand hills. All of them are worn down and beat." "We've got thirty-two head, last count," I told him. Then I asked, "How you fixed for grub?" "A-plenty. Orrin came along with his carts.

Trouble was we under-guessetimated the size of the carts and the appetites of the boys. We'd about decided to go into Fort Carlton to take on more grub." "Suits me. We've been wishful for coffee the last couple of days, and as for grub, we've been fixin' to chaw rawhide." "Come daylight," Tyrel said, "we'll move the herd on some fresh grass and go into camp. Give you boys a chance to catch up on your eating." "How you fixed on ammunition? We've been ridin' scared of a fight." "We've enough." The coffee tasted good. We sat by the fire, comparing what had happened to each of us, and we studied some about what Logan's trouble could be.

"Whoever it is that wants our hides," Tyrel said, "is from below the border. At least, those I've talked to. Looks to me like ol' Logan stumbled into something and he's thrown or is about to throw some trouble their way." When I finished my coffee, I went to my horse and mounted up. We'd picked a place for meeting that he'd scouted the day before, and I rode back to our camp.

Brandy was standing guard, and I told him of the morning move. "All quiet here," he said.

Then he said, "Mr. Sackett? I ain't been punchin' cows long, but there's something that puzzles me. Most of what we've got here are steers, so why do you call them cows?" "Just a manner of speaking, Brandy. Lots of places you never hear cattle called anything else but cows." Well, I went in and bedded down, resting easy for the first time in days. Tyrel and Orrin were alive and close by, and tomorrow we'd join up with them. Most of my years I'd lived alone and rode alone; even when I was with other folks, I was usually a man alone. Now my brothers were close by, and it was a comfort.

They'd come a long way. Tyrel had married well and had him a nice ranch.

Orrin's marriage hadn't worked out, but he had studied law, been admitted to the bar, and had been making a name for himself in politics. He was the best educated of us all, and he'd never let up on learning.

We bunched our cattle on a flat among some low hills, and our boys all got together. I noticed Gilcrist had headed for the Ox as soon as the two outfits stopped, and they had them a long talk. Fleming rode nearby a couple of times but did not stop, yet I had an idea they spoke to him.

We started on at daybreak and pushed the cattle at their usual gait. For the first couple of hours, we let them take their time, kind of spread out and grazing; then we moved them along at a steady gait until noontime.

We rested them at noon while we took our turn at coffee and some beef; then we started again with two to three hours of grazing and two to three hours of steady travel until we bedded them down. Driving that way was good for twelve miles a day or better, and we could still keep them in good shape. Naturally, we varied the drives and the grazing in relation to the grass and water.

Me, I was worried. It was unlikely whoever wanted us stopped was going to give up, and the chances were we'd find some tougher men next time.

Also, the country ahead, according to old Baptiste, who had covered it, was rougher and wilder. So far, we had seen few Indians and had no trouble since our meeting with High-Backed Bull, far away in Dakota.

Yet Indians know no borders and roamed where they would, although each tribe had an area it conceived as its own hunting grounds until pushed out by some stronger tribe.

Fort Carlton, or as some termed it, Carlton House, was several days to the north. Leaving there, we must strike westward for the mountains, moving as rapidly as possible considering the condition of the cattle. All this had once been known as Prince Rupert's Land, a vast and beautiful area now in dispute because of Louis Riel's move to set up a provisional government.

We knew little or nothing of the dispute, having learned but the barest details, and had no wish to become involved in something that was clearly none of our business. We had heard there were a few Americans, and no doubt some Canadians as well, hungry for land for themselves or land to sell, who hoped to somehow profit from depriving the m`etis of their lands.

Lin was now the cook, and Baptiste handled the carts and helped with the cooking.

"Have care!" he warned me. "Blackfeet and Cree are fighting, and this is the way they come!

They will steal your horses!" It was a good warning, and we took care, for we had too few horses as it was. We hoped to get more at Carlton, but Baptiste shook his head to indicate doubt.

"Few horse! Many no good!" He paused a minute, then glanced at me. "You ride ver' good. There is a place where some wild horses run, but grizzly bear, too! Much big grizzly! Ver' mean! A place called Bad Hills!" Day by day, we edged farther north, the length of our drives depending on the grass. In some places, rains had fallen, and the grass grew tall, but we found stretches where grass was poor and water hard to find. There were salt swamps and bare, dry hills. Buffalo we saw in plenty, and there was no question about meat. We found buffalo and occasionally a deer or bighorn sheep.

There were wolves always. They clung to our drive, watching for the chance to pull down any straggler, and several times they succeeded. One of the younger steers went into a swamp to test the water--it was salt--and became mired. Before its frightened bawling could bring us to help, the wolves were upon it.

Tyrel heard and came in at a dead run.

His first shot caught one wolf atop the luckless steer and another fled, yelping wildly and dragging its hind quarters. We were too late to help the steer, and Cap put it out of its misery with a bullet.

We were camped at the Bad Hills when trouble erupted suddenly. Brandy had come in for coffee, and Gilcrist sat by the fire with the Ox, preparing to go on night guard.

Brandy was still limping from the fall he had taken during the stampede. Orrin an' me had come in from scoutin', and Orrin was on the ground stripping the gear from his horse. We were back under the trees and out of sight of the camp. Lin was at the fire, and Baptiste was repairing a lariat.

Cap and Haney were coming in; Tyrel, Fleming, and Shorty were with the cattle.

Brandy was limping a little. He'd been thrown and hurt during the stampede but said nothing of it, and we'd never have known except that once in a while, when he'd been in the saddle for a long time, you'd see him favoring the bad leg. Most of us were banged up more or less, but we taken it as part of the day's work, as he did.

It was the Ox who started it. "What's the matter, mama's boy? Tryin' to make somebody think you're hurt?" "Nothing of the kind. I do my share." The Ox took up a stick from the pile gathered for the fire. "Where's it hurt, boy? There?" He hit him a crack just below the hip bone.

Brandy turned on him. "You put that stick down, Ox. And you lay off, d'you hear?" "Or else what?" The Ox sneered.

Orrin came out of the trees. "Or else you settle with me, Ox." "This is my fight, Mr. Sackett," Brandy said. "I will fight him." The Ox was twice the size of Brandy and several years older. Orrin walked forward.

"Yes, Brandy, you have a prior claim, but this man is working for me, and he has chosen to ignore my suggestions. I'd take it as a favor if you'd let me have him." "Ha!" The Ox stood up. "Forget it, kid. I'd rather whip this smart lawyer-man.

I'll show him something he'll never learn in books!" He started around the fire, and Orrin let him come. Now I came out of the woods. Cap and Haney rode up, and we saw the Ox start for Orrin, swinging a ponderous right fist. Orrin took a short step off to the left and let the right go over his shoulder. At the same instant, he whipped up his right into the Ox's belly.

It was a jolting punch, but the Ox turned like a cat, dropping into a half crouch. Orrin's left took him in the mouth, but the Ox lunged, grabbing for Orrin to get hold of him. Orrin evaded the clutch, hooked a right to the body, and then walked in quickly with a one-two to the face.

The Ox ducked a left and grabbed Orrin, heaving him from his feet to hurl him violently to the ground. Charging in to put the boots to him, the Ox missed his first kick, and Orrin lunged against the leg on which the Ox was standing. The big man went back and down but came up like a rubber ball. A swinging fist caught Orrin beside the head, and he staggered; a left dug into his midsection, and Orrin clinched with the Ox.

The Ox gave a grunt of satisfaction and wrapped his powerful arms around Orrin and began to squeeze. He was enormously powerful, with arms as thick as the legs of most men, and he put the knuckles of a fist against Orrin's spine; then he spread his legs and brought all his power to bear.

Orrin gasped, then hooked a left to the Ox's face, then a right; they had no effect.

He started to bend Orrin back, trying literally to break his spine, but Orrin was a veteran of too many mountain and barge fights. He threw up his legs and fell back to the ground, bringing the Ox down atop him. The fall broke the grip the Ox had, and Orrin was too fast. Like an eel, he was out of the bigger man's grasp and on his feet. The Ox lunged and met a stiff left that split his lips. He ducked and tried to get in close, but Orrin put the flat of his hand on the Ox's head and spun him away, then deftly tripped him as the Ox went forward, off balance.