“Unless you miss,” says Zastee.
“I don’t miss.”
The barking and roaring is getting farther away.
“Come on down, Góshé,” says Cha'a. “We need to find a way out of here.”
“What about Hoss?’ he asks.
“She’s smart,” says Cha'a. “A lot of dogs run right back to their masters when a bear takes after ‘em. She’s creating a diversion for us. She makes it, she’ll be able to follow our scent, easy.”
Amazingly, the child is tough, he frowns, but has no further reaction. The Apache are well known for their fortitude.
They walk another hour, then stop by a stream to have a snack. The water is frozen over. Cha'a chips at it with her knife, using a rock as a hammer. Takes a while. The bloody ice is six inches thick.
As soon as the hole is big enough, Ten Spot sticks his big nose in and sucks up gallons.
Cha'a reaches into her saddlebags.
“Pemmican, jerky, some hardtack and goat cheese,” she says, passing it out. “We don’t find civilization soon; our bellies will start rubbin’ up against our spines. We’ll wish I’d shot that bear.”
They fill the canteens.
“Drink all you can force yoreself to. Rest until yore brains unfreeze, then drink more,” she says. “Cold makes you feel less thirsty, you have to compensate.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” she says.
“I was explainin’ it to Góshé,” says Cha’a.
37 Táági: Catalyst
They’ve been planning their search.
“Blast,” says Táági. “We can’t do without her.”
Ma’cho wiggles his eyebrows.
“She’s not just pussy,” says the big guy.
“Cha’a?” asks Bigan, a humorous glint in his eyes. “Or do you mean Zastee?”
Táági inhales, and exhales slowly. “Cha’a, yes. Her, most assuredly. Well, no proof. I think so.”
“Do…oh, you’re serious. What the fuck are you talking about?” Bigan asks.
“The, erm, the…I’m postulating here, but I believe that she’s the bloody catalyst,” he says. “Our Frigg, the Norse goddess of foreknowledge and wisdom. With a large dash of Sjofn, Viking goddess of love, eh?”
He grins, looking around at them, seeing their inquisitive expressions.
“The catalyst that makes us, this, work. Our band, our success.”
“Cha’a’s prescience,” says Ma’cho.
“Quite.”
“Oh,” says Bigan, sitting back and looking thoughtful.
“I’d like to believe, brother. I do believe in prescience, but not always,” says Güero. “Sometimes, sure.”
Bigan is watching him, eyes unreadable.
“Our Cha’a has dreams,” says Ma’cho.
“I don’t know for sure either,” says Táági, again. “But precognition is a proven ability.”
Ma’cho grunts, raising his chin. “Ma’cho know.”
Táági grins at the shaman and nods. “You always have, eh?”
Ma’cho says, “Also, Cha’a is fifth musketeer.”
Bigan looks up from his coffee cup and nods. “Sure.”
Táági says, “Zastee, though? An unknown quantity, but skilled.”
“Catalyst for what?” asks Bigan. “What skills?”
“The future. The human mind is capable of creating; of imagining how the world could be. A lot of it we do consciously, but also, our brains do it unconsciously. While we sleep, our brains do it without all the garbage that fills our conscious minds. It reins free. Our brain formulates plans, sees possibilities that we’re too busy with life’s trifles to notice.”
“Okay.” Bigan is nodding. “Is that foreknowledge?”
“Or invention, the ability to see choices. Is it possible that the unconscious mind predicts which fork in the road is best? In any case with Cha’a, her mind roams untethered. She remembers, without editing, what she saw. And is not afraid to share, no matter the content; be it embarrassing, horrifying, whatever. She’s a bloody wild child.”
Ma’cho grunts, dipping his chin in agreement.
“Our warrior band,” says the big guy. “Our knowledge. Cha’a has foresight. And, she holds us together. And has certainly brought feelings of love to the lot of us. A common bond.”
Bigan scratches his forehead with his hook, looking thoughtful. “Okay, the babe’s our glue. But Zastee? What’s she?”
“Zastee is a possibility is all,” he says, staring at the fire.
“That shit doesn’t matter,” says Bigan, sitting back in his chair. “There’s the love.”
“We know,” says Güero. “You miss our gal.”
“You all do, too,” says Bigan, sending a hard eye around.
Güero lifts a corner of his mouth.
“Quite,” says Táági. “It’s just that you’re bloody twenty. You get horny every five minutes.”
“Every ten,” says Bigan, shrugging. “I’m only human.” He raises his hook. “Mostly.”
Ma’cho holds up a fist. Bigan leans forward and bumps it with the hook. Güero shakes his head. Táági concentrates on his coffee.
“For Zastee, too?” asks Ma’cho, with a grin.
Táági and Güero look at him, too.
“Horny bastards,” says Bigan, chuckling despite himself.
“Well?” asks Güero.
Bigan leans back in his chair, thinking, then says, “I don’t know Zastee. Only seen her the twice. On the train, when she was threatening to take on six of us all by herself with that little revolver. And shaking like a leaf all through it. Maybe from the fever, maybe fear. And, once in passing at the castle. Beautiful, slinky. Hey, maybe another gal for your stable, eh, big guy?”
Táági raises a corner of his mouth, eying the kid.
Güero nods. “Yep. One’s a catalyst, whatever the hell that is. The other an unknown quantity. And they’re out there somewhere. And yore right, kid, I miss Cha’a, too. And Góshé. Shit. We just found our son, dammit. Come on, boys, we’d best get to lookin’.”
Chairs scrape back.
38 Zastee: Gone Fishin’
“Bone hooks?” asks Cha’a, examining one. “Nice work.”
“The best kind,” says Zastee. “The metal ones last longer, but bone is best. I think the fish can’t smell them.”
Zastee prefers the old ways. She’s noticed that Ma'cho seems to, too. He wears a breechclout or naught at all, and often goes barefoot. Wears feathers in his hair. Old school. She needs to find some feathers for hers. Stick the shafts through her dreads. Advertise her Rarámuri heritage.
They get one end of the lines tied to hooks and the others to low overhanging branches.
Cha'a gets out a snack for the boy. Setting a snowshoe on a sun splashed snow covered rock, she sits with him. Watching the trot lines for tugs. Zastee lays on a sun warmed rock, napping fitfully.
A half hour later, Hoss trots in; bloody, panting and limping. Zastee sits up to watch.
Cha'a checks her over, and says, “Clever bitch. Barely a few cuts and scratches. I think the limp is a strain, or maybe tender pads from the snow. They’re a bit red and scuffed. Yore a cagey fighter, eh?” She ruffles the dog’s fur.
The dog wags.
“Bloody good luck, eh?” asks Zastee.
“Skill. She’s amazing,” says the blonde.
Zastee goes for a walk, striding confidently in the snowshoes now. She finds some fresh deer sign and follows it.
39 Harley: Spot
Harley spots the nigger gal from a little overlook. She’s headed after some deer. Perfect, one off by theirself.
Why didn’t he think to borrow Angus’ long gun? Hell, if he had the rifle, he could take her out from here.
He stands up, dusts the snow off his elbows and knees. And follows her.
40 Zastee: Hunt
The animals are about a mile up a side creek. Zastee has an easy time of it. The sun has warmed the snow enough that the deer are breaking
through the crust. Feeding, in their meandering way, takes a mighty effort.
Their energy won’t last.
She glides swiftly along on the surface.
As she approaches something spooks them.
She spots something moving upstream. A shadow in the thick evergreens on the slope across the creek. Maybe a wolf.
The deer take off jumping, following the low stream bed in her direction. They’ll pass about thirty-five yards in front of her.
She swerves sideways onto a small rise on the inside of a bend and stops.
She spreads her legs a bit to create a steadying bipod and aims the little five-shot revolver. It has a two-inch barrel, making it hellishly inaccurate at the distance.
She stands stock still, breathing deep to steady herself.
The deer are leaping high and breaking through, landing belly deep with each new stride. Then, launching themselves up again.
She takes a reading, interpolates for rise and fall and leads her shot. Aiming at the point where she imagines the head will be when the bullet gets there.
She stops breathing, waits, and squeezes the trigger.
Skill and a dose of luck help. Her pistol shot hits. The spike fork somersaults once; dropping down limp, muscles instantly relaxed.
When she gets over to it, it’s definitely dead. There’s no obvious sign of a wound.
As she rolls the body over and starts to skin the little whitetail, she finds it.
“Blimey.”
The bullet entered one ear and went out the eye on the other side.
She guts the little buck. And debones all the meat she can carry; wrapping it in her cloak.
Messy, but it’s all she has. She jury rigs a mecapl with a piece of lacing leftover from the snowshoe job, using a piece of soft willow bark for padding on her head.
She hears some crunches and looks up.
“We heard the shot,” says Cha’a, striding up with Góshé on her back. And Hoss close behind.
“Fresh meat?” chirps Góshé, sliding off. “I’m really hungry.”
They chop the remaining muscles off intact, Injin style, eat some strips of raw liver, and feed Hoss all the innards and scrap she can hold.
Cha’a pulls a waterproof intestine bag from inside her shirt and stuffs all she can into it. Zastee makes her a mecapl, too. And helps her balance it.
“If your neck muscles feel strain, you need to move the strap back a bit, or forward, to relieve it. The pull should be straight.”
“This ain’t bad,” says Cha’a, after they’ve walked a mile or two.
When they get back to where they left Ten Spot, he’s gone.
“His tracks lead downhill. Guess he wants some fresh spring grass,” says Cha’a.
“I thought he always, what do you call it?” says Zastee.
Cha’a turns a hard glare on her.
She returns the gaze.
After a long thirty seconds, the blonde says, “Ground tie. He’s smart enough to not starve hisself to death. We’re his herd. He won’t abandon us. He’ll be just down the way on the first good feed.”
Cha’a retrieves the fish they caught out of the fork of a tree while Zastee rolls up the fishing gear.
“We already cooked them. Rainbows. Tasty. Bite?”
Góshé pulls a piece off the bone and grits down. It’s crispy, delicious.
They continue downhill, following Ten Spot’s hoofprints.
41 Harley: Bucking Snow
The soft snow in the shelter of the trees slows Harley too much. He’s not sure how he could sneak up on her through the snow anyway. Lay on a cliff in wait and drop onto her shoulders? That’s not complicated. She keeps moving away. And he hasn’t seen any cliffs.
When he gets down to where she was, he can see that the others have joined her.
They’re are already heading back toward the snow-covered road. Out of range. And moving faster than he because of their snowshoes.
He stops for a breather, strength sapped by hunger, then slogs on down their trail.
42 Cha’a: Out of the Freezer
“Nice to leave the snow behind,” I say, untying my snowshoes.
I tie the laces together and throw them over a shoulder.
“Look,” says Góshé, raising an arm to point. “There’s Tenner.”
“I’ll be damned,” says Zastee. “Eating bloody greens.”
“Like I said.”
She looks at me for a few seconds, then nods.
I go out, pick up his reins, tighten his cinch, hang both pairs of snowshoes behind the cantle, and mount up.
Zastee hands me the boy and we move out.
After a mile of muscle warm up, I kick Tenner up into a ground covering pace. Nice and smooth. Gaited horses are a joy to ride.
Zastee jogs along on her tough as nails feet right beside us.
We make good time.
After maybe ten miles, we come to a bigger road; one that shows signs of recent traffic. I slow Tenner to a walk and examine the surface.
It’s a maze of tracks.
“Stagecoach, here,” I say. “The team is hauling ass.”
Crossing the roadbed, I see more. All kinds of tracks; walkers, riders, wheeled buggy rigs. Hash marks, creased soles, moccasins, broken horseshoes. A couple with obvious cattle brands burnt into the soles. A cross hatch, a triple X and a lazy J. Even an old track of a boot heel with an arrowhead at the back.
The one from the mine? Maybe. It’s smeared, like the guy swerved as he stepped.
Carved or happenstance? Kinda cool, anyway.
Hell, maybe there’s an outfit here with an arrowhead brand and the whole crew uses the mark. Or a clan of Injins.
“Mule train, here. Heavily loaded.”
I take a few steps.
“Quite a few riders passed by. A passel of walkers. Must be some kind of a town up ahead, or behind.” I look up the empty road, then back over my shoulder, but can’t see anything that way either. “Any preference?”
“West,” says Góshé. “To the ocean.”
I look at him. “You know cardinal directions?”
He looks puzzled.
“North, south, east and west,” I say.
“Yep,” he says, straightening his narrow shoulders. “Ma’cho says yore teepee should always face east. Unless you got a ocean view.”
“Good on you,” says Zastee.
Góshé says, “Hey, cardinal, like the bird. Right?”
“Exactly,” says the teenager.
“You two get along well,” I say.
“We’re bloody amigos,” chirps Góshé.
“Bueno, amigos are the best,” I say, wishing I was only a friend, not the instant mother of a six-year-old.
I totally missed the learning curve. Never had much to do with raising my four younger siblings.
I never had that female notion that other gals seem to have. That visceral need to be a mother.
It was my sex hormones that done me wrong. That and X, my evil ma. How could a mother not explain the facts of life to her own daughter? I was genuinely surprised when I got pregnant. Thanks a bunch, Ma.
Cripes. Once I popped him out, she bundled my newborn up and give him away. To the first folks that she could unload him on, I imagine.
Anyhow, his adopted mother died, the six-year-old traveled far, all alone, found me, and here we are. Lost in the mountains. But, on a well-traveled road. So, almost found.
43 Harley: Arrowhead
Harley’s having second thoughts.
The authorities never realized that they had arrested the wrong blonde man. Saved their skins, that whole deal did. He should be grateful.
He didn’t see Salt and Pepper’s tracks in the tunnel. But, hell, he’s no tracker. Nor is Angus. The three hired hands weren’t either. They all walked through there, could have stamped all over the girls tracks in the dark tunnel and never noticed a thing. They generally spotlighted the walls with their carbide headlamps and watched for nuggets an
d veins.
And, the gals might not know what it was if they did see it. Just a stack of little fifty-pound sample bags. They was just women after all.
Gold’s too heavy to put in big bags. Way too heavy.
Hell, it was in the safe room. Not super safe, they hadn’t closed the padlock on the door. It was well out of sight, off in a side tunnel.
“Cripes. Dumb bitches could have been in there. But the bags weren’t open. They were all there. It’s just if they knew and planned to return after the snow melted. We damn sure gotta get them nuggets out first.”
He spits a stream of tobacco juice at a little bird sitting on a quartz rock. And misses.
“Damn it.”
It’s ragging at him, nagging on his brain cells. The gals definitely saw him and Shorty and Kit on the train. And would be bound to remember him should they see him again.
Did she get a good look at him in the store room? He couldn’t be sure in the confusion. What a crying shame. Them gals was hot.
It was a funny thing, Salt and Pepper showing up out of nowhere.
“Shit.”
All of her bunch got a good look at him on the train. The blonde and her bunch. They were the only ones out here who knew that the Kittridge gang was still alive.
Like Angus said, loose ends.
He doesn’t know where they’re from either. At least he’s got these two found. That’s a good thing. Now, he can do the job right. What the fuck is that guy doing? If he kilt them for the gold, why didn’t he take any? Must be that he and Angus showed up before he got a chance.
He’s no fan of killing. But he doesn’t believe that they’ll not give the Kittridges up to the law; should they get arrested for something else. He would. It’s a problem. Information like that is good trading stock in a pinch.
That blonde gal thought she was so smart. But, he’s smarter.
He caught ‘em once, he can do it again.
Harley pulls out Jigger’s pistol and checks the loads.
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