Lonely On the Mountain (1980) (8 page)

He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men, he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge. Yet what was he doing here, anyway?

He should be back at home, building friendships before the next election.

He had been a sheriff, a state legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long time.

He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard.

He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand.

What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching.

Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.

When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine.

It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle.

The barrel was empty, too.

Somebody had deliberately empt

ed his rifle while he slept!

Swiftly, he shucked cartridges from his belt and reloaded. He was just putting the rifle in the scabbard when Gavin appeared. "Everything all right? We're about to move out." "I'm ready. I fell asleep over there; first time I've been caught napping in a long time." He smiled pleasantly. "But I'm awake now. Let's go!" Gavin walked to his horse, and Orrin Sackett swung into the saddle.

Somebody wanted him defenseless. Who? Why?

It could hardly be Logan Sackett's enemies, whoever they were. They were over a thousand miles away. Or were they?

Baptiste started the cart moving at a trot.

The horse seemed fit enough to go all day.

Avoiding Gavin, Orrin rode wide of the cart, sometimes in advance, scouting, sometimes falling back. He rode warily, his eyes seeking out every bit of cover.

Why unload his rifle unless it was expected that he would need it at once? He thought suddenly of his pistol. He checked it. All secure, loaded, and ready. But, of course, there had been no way they could get to that.

Off to their right, only a short distance away, was the Red River with its thousands of windings through the low hills and between its green banks. Elm, box elder, occasional cottonwood, and much chokecherry or pussywillow crowded the banks and for about a quarter of a mile to a hundred yards on either side.

On the left and over a mile away, another line of trees marked another stream. He mentioned it to Baptiste.

"Wild Rice Creek," he said, "he flows into Red." He pointed with his whip in the direction they were traveling. "Not far." "And the Sheyenne?" "Far off--westward. He comes nearer." Baptiste pointed again with his whip to the north.

"He comes to marry with Red. You see. Tomorrow, you see." He rode on ahead, skirting a clump of trees, pausing briefly to let his horse drink at a small creek. He could hear the awful creaking and groaning of the wooden axle of the cart and occasionally a shout from Baptiste.

He listened, hearing the rustle of water in the creek, the scratching of a bird in the leaves, the whisper of the wind through the branches. Quiet sounds, the sounds of stillness, the sound of the woods when they are alone.

His horse, satisfied at last, lifted his dripping muzzle from the cool water, looking about, ears pricked. A drop or two of water fell from his lips. Then, of his own volition, he started on.

Orrin turned his mount suddenly and walked him downstream in the water, then went out on the bank and wove a careful way through a clump of trees, pausing before emerging into the sunlight.

He could see the cart afar off, perhaps a half mile. Suddenly, his horse's head lifted sharply, ears pricked. Orrin shucked his rifle and looked carefully about. Then he saw them.

Two men hunkered down, watching the cart. They were a good twenty yards off, and it was not the Stampers. These were strangers. One wore a black coat, the other a buckskin hunting jacket. Both had rifles.

Orrin stroked the horse's neck, speaking quietly to him, watching. The last thing he wanted now was to precipitate trouble, and what he needed most was information.

One of them started to lift his rifle, and Orrin slid his from the scabbard, but the other man put a hand on the other man's rifle and pushed it down.

What he said, Orrin did not know, but they both withdrew into the brush. He waited, listening. After a short interval, he heard a distant sound of horse's hoofs, then silence. He rode back to the cart.

Kyle Gavin rode to meet him. "See anything?" "There's been somebody around. Travelers, most likely." How far could he trust Gavin? After all, he knew nothing about the man, and somebody had unloaded his rifle, which could have gotten him killed.

Had that somebody been expecting an attack?

Perhaps by the two men? Was it his absence from the cart that caused the men to withdraw? Perhaps it was he they wished to kill, and if he was not present--his Toward sundown, the wind began to pick up again. He scouted on ahead, watching for tracks, using cover. They crossed the Wild Rice, skirted a small settlement, and camped near the crest of a hill away from the river, to be at least partly free from mosquitoes.

Before daybreak, they moved on and by noon reached Georgetown.

"The International? She's tied to the bank about twenty mile downstream," a man informed them.

"Water's too low here an' there. Wasn't much of a melt this year, so water's low." The man peered at Orrin. "Name wouldn't be Sackett, would it? There was a feller around askin' after you. Least you come up to what he described. The way he made it out, you was a mighty mean man." "Me?" Orrin widened his eyes. "I'm a reasonably mild man. Just a tall boy from Tennessee, that's all!" "Tennessee? Ain't that where they make the good corn liquor? Folks tell me it's the finest whiskey in the world if it's aged proper." "Kentucky, Tennessee, the Carolinas, they all have good corn whiskey, but as to age, I had a friend down in the Dark Corner who made first-rate whiskey, but he didn't hold much with aging. He said he kept some of it a full week and couldn't see any difference!" There was a pause, and Orrin asked, "That man who was asking after me? Is he still around?" "Ain't seen him in a couple of days. A big, tall man with a buckskin huntin' jacket." "If you see him again," Orrin said mildly, "just tell him Sackett's in town, and if he's got any business with him, to hurry it up because Sackett can't afford to waste around waitin' for him." "Mister, if I ain't mistaken, that man had killin' on his mind. Least that was the way it sounded." "Of course. You tell him it's all right now.

The frost is out of the ground." "Frost? What's that got to do with it?" Orrin smiled pleasantly. "Don't you see? It would be hard to dig a grave for him if the ground were still frozen, but we've had mild weather, and I reckon the digging would be right easy!"

Chapter
IX

A tall man in a buckskin jacket? Could he have been one of the two men who were watching the cart?

Georgetown was little more than a cluster of shacks and log houses close to the river. Orrin Sackett wanted no trouble, but if trouble was to come, he preferred it here, now.

He walked the street, alert for a sight of the man in the buckskin jacket, but he saw him nowhere. The stores, he noticed, were well stocked, and it struck him that instead of waiting until he reached Pembina or Fort Garry, he might stock up here. There was a good chance that Riel or someone buying for the Canadian army would have bought out the stores.

For that matter, why not try to buy the Red River cart from Baptiste? Or to hire him to drive? Usually, he had learned, in the long caravans of carts, one driver took care of three carts, and he planned to have but two.

Transporting horses or carts on the International was no new thing, so arrangements were quickly made. In the store, he bought the staples he would need. Flour, bacon, beans, dried apples, coffee, tea, and several cases of hardtack, similar to the Bent's Hard-Water Crackers he had enjoyed as a boy.

He purchased powder, shot and cartridges as well, and four extra rifles.

"Better cache them good," the storekeeper advised. "Louis Riel needs all the guns he can get." "Do you think there will be a shooting war?" Orrin asked.

The storekeeper shrugged. "Not if Riel can help it. I've done business with him, with his pa, too. They was always reasonable folks, but from what the newcomers are saying, they've got an idea back East that he's leading a rebellion, and they want to hang him." Outside on the street, Orrin took a quick look around for the buckskin-shirted man but also for anyone else who might seem too interested or too disinterested.

He was worried, and not about what might happen here but what could happen to the north.

Tell and Tyrel were depending on him not only for food and ammunition but for additional help, and the last thing he wanted was to get into the midst of a shooting fight in which he had no stake.

The way to stay out of trouble was to avoid the places where trouble was.

When a difficulty develops, unless one can help, it was far better to get away from the area and leave it to those whose business it was to handle such things.

Despite the wisdom of staying out of trouble, his route led right through the middle of it. The best thing he could do would be to get in and out as rapidly as possible.

He looked around the store, buying blankets, a couple of spare ground sheets, odds and ends that would be found useful on the way west where one could buy little or nothing. That was all right. All the Sacketts were used to "making do." It had been their way of life.

"Old Barnabas would enjoy this," he thought suddenly, and said it aloud, not thinking.

"Hey? What's that?" Orrin smiled. "Just thinking about an ancestor of mine. Came over from England many a year ago, but he was always going west." "Mine, too," the storekeeper said. "My grandpa left a mighty good farm and a comfortable business. Just sold out and pulled out. Pioneering was in the blood. I guess." Orrin agreed. "I've got it, too," he admitted. "I'm a lawyer, and I've no business even being here." "Well, luck to you." The storekeeper looked up. "You goin' west? To the gold fields, maybe?" "That's right." The storekeeper shook his head. "I'll talk to Jen about it. That there western country--well, I'd like to see it. I surely would. Wild country, they say, with mountains covered with snow, deep canyons--" "I'll send my cart around for this," Orrin said.

"Better get you another cart. You got a load here. You got enough for two carts. I've got one I'll let you have reasonable, and a good, steady horse with it." "The way you talk," Orrin said, "you may need it yourself." "Up to Jen. I'll talk to her. But maybe--Jenny's got the feelin', too. I seen her lookin' off to the horizon now and again.

After all, we was westerin' when we come here." He waved a hand. "Don't worry about the cart. I got a good man can build me one. I'll sell you cart, horse, and harness reasonable. When I come west--well, we may meet up sometime." "Thanks." Orrin held out his hand. "That's decent of you. If you don't see me, and you hear the name of Sackett, you just go to them and tell him you were friendly to Orrin Sackett. You won't need more than that." He returned to the street and walked back to the hotel. Baptiste was loaded and standing by his horse.

"You ever been to British Columbia, Baptiste?" "I dream of it. But it is for young men. I am no longer young." "It is for men, Baptiste, and you are a man.

I have another cart. Will you get it for me?" "I will. But British Columbia? He iss far off, I t'ink." "We will cross the wide plains, Baptiste, and follow strange rivers until they are no more.

Then we shall climb mountains. It will be cold, hard, and dangerous. You know what the western lands are like, and it is never easy." Devnet Molrone came out on the street with Mary McCann. "Do we start so soon?" "It is twenty miles, they say. We will have to hurry." He glanced up the street. There was a tall man standing there, a tall man in a buckskin coat. Across the street, seated on a bench, was a man in a black coat. He smiled; it was so obvious.

"What is it?" Devnet asked.

"What?" He glanced at her. "Oh?

Nothing, I was just--" "You looked so stern there for a moment, and then almost amused. Somehow--" "It is nothing," he replied. "It is just that some patterns are so familiar. The men who use them do not seem to realize the same methods have been used for centuries. Each seems to think he invented it." "I don't believe I understand." He leaned on the wagon. "Miss Molrone? Do you see those two men up the street? For some reason, they wish me harm.

They have followed us here. When I go up the street, as they know I must, the man in the buckskin jacket will start trouble, somehow. Then, when he makes a move to draw a gun, the man across the street in the black coat will try to kill me." "You're mad!" She stared at him. "That's utterly preposterous! People don't do such things." "Not so often here as further south, nor so often where we are going. Nevertheless, it does happen.