“Be careful,” Mrs. MacDunn told them, adding a prayer-like whisper. “Please.”
The major just grunted.
I wonder if his heart had changed. Wondered why he was doing that, helping Tristram Gow. I wondered how Mr. Gow felt having to come to the Bar DD for help. No, Mr. Gow didn’t have reservations about that. He was looking for his wife, or, more likely, his wife’s body. He loved his wife. Would do anything for her. But the major? What was he thinking? Acting almost human. Maybe that had something to do with the winter, too, or maybe he was trying to prove something to Mrs. MacDunn. Make up for being such an ass. Well, I didn’t know. Still can’t be sure. Wasn’t none of my affair, really. Just seemed strange, is all, unnatural. After all that had happened earlier in the year, no one between Great Falls and Helena ever would have expected to see Major MacDunn and Mr. Gow working together, almost acting like the friends they had been.
We watched the two men ride out together, ride until they disappeared in the falling snow.
* * * * *
The snow didn’t let up, and the thermometer plummeted. Lainie, wrapped up in a heavy blanket, scarf, and three wool shirts, come over to the bunkhouse that night, even though it wasn’t a Sunday, bringing some leftover bread for us boys to eat, and Treasure Island to read.
’Course, we’d finished the book several weeks earlier, but she still liked to bring it over, and we’d read some passages that we liked a bunch. She didn’t have any interest in Mr. Stevenson’s writing or Long John Silver, Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, or that other Jim Hawkins. We sat by the stove, letting Walter Butler join us, while the other boys played poker and complained about the weather.
“Do you think Father is all right?” Lainie asked.
“Sure,” I said. Had no reason to doubt it. He and Mr. Gow were well outfitted, and men didn’t come any tougher or ornerier than Major MacDunn.
Meanwhile, we worked. Worked hard. Riding out in the snow, seeing nothing but white—and that’s when we could see anything at all—moving to the creeks and rivers. Noon came and went without notice on those days, us pushing Aberdeen Angus and trail-thin longhorns up the hills.
“Keep them away from the river!” Ish Fishtorn kept yelling at me, until I snapped right back at him, pointing a gloved finger at our Bar DD beef. “Tell them! Not me!”
As soon as we got one bunch of cattle pushed back up the hills, away from the water, and herded them into what shelter we could find in a coulée or cutbank, another group would wander down to the river’s edge. Endless. I think I learned more cuss words that winter than I’d learned in all my life.
Cattle are stupid, but maybe cowboys are even dumber critters. Smart fellows wouldn’t have been out in that weather, riding all day, hungry, mad, freezing. We had to keep the cattle from the river, or they’d wander out into the water, and, if the ice didn’t hold them, or if they’d step into an air hole, they would get pulled under, drown or freeze to death. So we worked through snowdrifts, watching cattle so poor they could hardly stand. Saw steers who had worn the hide and hair to their hocks just pushing through frozen ice. The sight alone would have broken our hearts, had we not been so tired, so miserable. It’s a miracle nobody else come down with frostbite or pneumonia. We worked until our lips cracked from the cold, until we could scarcely breathe.
No fiery furnace or smell of brimstone, but it was hell just the same. Hell on cattle. Hell on men. Hell on horses. I ruined Gray Boy that winter, riding through the snow, up and down those hills. By the time I got him back to the ranch one afternoon, I saw his legs, and grimaced. The icy crust had carved furrows up and down his legs. The blood had frozen, of course, and it’s a wonder Gray Boy hadn’t gone lame, but I knew I couldn’t take him out in the blizzard again. Gray Boy was lucky. He got to winter in the barn.
I had no such luck.
* * * * *
The snow stopped, but the temperature kept falling, and the wind howled. The major didn’t return that night—hadn’t expected him to—or the next.
Busted-Tooth Melvin rode in—we’d all been hoping it was the major and Mr. Gow—and said he’d found Tommy O’Hallahan working and reading at the line shack. Working alone. No sign of John Henry Kenton. That was good news. We asked him if he’d seen any signs of the major, but he hadn’t.
By then, I guess we were all worrying.
* * * * *
There’s a reason I never like remembering Melvina Gow. A fine woman. But . . .
I really like to remember her alive. But . . .
Yeah, it was the winter.
That morning, I went outside to fork some hay into the corrals. Even before I fetched the pitchfork, Lainie had walked outside.
“Go inside,” I told her. “You’ll catch your death.”
“Mother said to tell you to please ask Gene Hardee or Ish Fishtorn to come see her.”
I threw hay into the corral. The horses were too cold to notice.
“I’ll do it.”
Figured she’d go back inside, but she just stayed, hunched over, steam rising from her mouth and nose, hands stuck way deep in her pockets.
“You think my father is all right?” she asked, trying not to sound scared.
“The major knows what he’s doing.”
I forked more hay.
“Mother’s fretful.”
“They had a pack mule loaded with food and stuff. Both of them know this country.”
I walked around the pile of hay, jabbed the fork. I’ll never forget the pinging sound of the vibrating tines as it hit something solid. Almost dropped the pitchfork onto the ground, it being so hard to get a good grip with my heavy gloves.
Forgetting that I was in the company of a lady, I let out a prime cuss word. I figured one of the boys had come up with a devilish prank. Seemed like just the gag Busted-Tooth Melvin or Ish Fishtorn would play on a greenhorn like me.
“Somebody put a rock . . . Wait’ll I get my hands on that reprobate.”
I dropped to my knees, pulled back handfuls of ice-hardened hay. Lainie started giggling. Then she was screaming, and all the Bar DD hands came flying out the bunkhouse in an instant. Lainie’s mother ran outside, and Lainie dashed into her arms.
I couldn’t move.
Just sat there, staring at the frozen face of Mrs. Melvina Gow.
Chapter Twenty-Six
You try to remember her one way, but it’s hard. Every time I think I might be able to picture her as she was back at the 7-3 Connected, telling me about her fears, or talking about life in Scotland, or the time she rode up in the wagon to tell us about the range fire, how proud she was of her husband and son. . . . I want to see her that way, but then I can’t recall nothing but her face in that hay pile. Unseeing, horrible eyes. Mouth open. Saliva frozen on her tongue and chin.
Miracle she’d lived as long as she had. She’d run off in nothing but her union suit. Well, I seem to recall someone saying she had a heavy coat and blanket, but she’d left those behind in the buckboard when she wrecked it in the coulée. Wonder where she thought she was going? To the railroad in Helena? Back to Scotland? To escape the incessant wind? We’ll never know. Not in this lifetime. What drives a woman to flee her house in her unmentionables? What makes her hide from the bitter cold in a pile of hay? This country has driven a lot of homesteaders crazy. Cowboys, too. So lonely. So unforgiving.
We had no idea how long she’d been in the hay pile. She might have been there, long dead, when Mr. Gow rode up a few days before. If I’d fed the horses hay from that side of the pile, I might have found her earlier, but I didn’t. Fate had dealt another hand.
“That poor, poor woman,” Mrs. MacDunn said. She’d come from the house, leaving Lainie trembling at the door. “Eugene, get her out of there, please.”
On his crutches, Gene Hardee directed us, and the hired hands dragged Mrs. Gow’s frozen body from the hay. We covered her in blankets, put her in the schoolhouse. Don’t sound all that Christian, but the schoolhouse served as our Sunday pra
yer-meeting gathering, and we wasn’t about to put her in the MacDunns’ house, not with Lainie so shaken, and certainly Mrs. Gow deserved better than the barn. Old Man Woodruff said he’d fashion some kind of coffin, but Mrs. MacDunn said that would have to wait.
“We need to get word to my husband and Tristram.” She sounded every bit like the major, taking command, barking an order that nobody dared challenge.
* * * * *
We found the snow-covered buckboard and dead horse in the coulée. It was pretty well hidden, practically covered by snowdrifts when we got there, so it’s little wonder none of us Bar DD boys had come across it. Problem we had now was that cattle, wolves, snow, and wind had wiped out any sign of the major and Mr. Gow. So Ish Fishtorn sent us riding off in pairs, headed in different directions, hoping to cut a snow-covered trail.
I got stuck with Busted-Tooth Melvin. Not that I didn’t care for Melvin or anything like that, it’s just that I’d rather been riding with Ish Fishtorn or Gene Hardee, had Gene been able to ride.
Heading west, we kept silent, hunting for sign, yet having little luck. Snow glistened like millions of diamonds salted on the hilltops, with pristine, wave-like ridges. A huge gust would come up sudden-like, sending mists of snow scurrying across the ground. When we nooned, we didn’t bother taking the bridles off our mounts. Wasn’t no grass for them to eat, anyhow. Silently we ate jerky, our backs to the wind, and sipped water from our canteens, stamping our feet against the chill.
Finally Busted-Tooth Melvin said we’d best ride, so we went searching again.
We passed miserable Aberdeen Angus cattle—their black coats contrasting to the whiteness that stretched on forever. Toward midday, I turned a bit south, while Busted-Tooth Melvin rode north, so it was Melvin who found the trail. Hearing his pistol shot, I turned Crabtown around, and slogged through snow till I caught up with him. He’d dismounted, kneeling, looking toward the Sawtooths. When I reached him, he was rubbing his gloved hands.
“See that?”
First, I spotted nothing but snow, drifts of snow, ripples of snow, hills of snow. Yet, slowly, I could make out little mounds moving west. Snow had covered the tracks, but a good tracker could still make out the prints.
“Followin’ somebody,” Melvin said. He pointed west.
“Who?”
“Not Missus Gow, that’s certain.” He sprayed the snow with tobacco juice.
“Whoever they’re trailin’ was ridin’ a horse,” Melvin said.
That puzzled me. A moment later, I thought it might be Bitterroot Abbott, searching for John Henry. Next, it hit me that it could be John Henry himself. Before long, I knew certain sure it was John Henry. No reason to think that, but the feeling got stronger.
“Well.” I filled my lungs with frigid air. “Well, why would the major and Mister Gow follow a horse? Missus Gow had no horse.”
“I don’t know,” Melvin said. “Maybe they think the lady stole one of our’n. Maybe they think some stranger picked her up. Maybe they think Injuns taken her, run off with her. Folks don’t think straight in this cold. What’s certain, though, is Gow and the major rode after that rider.”
“If it’s the major and Mister Gow,” I said. “Could be somebody else’s trail.”
Melvin spit again, and I’m lucky he didn’t spray me. Likely he considered it, based on the look he gave me.
“Two horses and a pack animal,” he said. “Now maybe somebody else fills that bill, ridin’ on MacDunn range, in the dead of winter, trailin’ a horse headin’ west. So maybe it is somebody else. Who you reckon it might be?”
I apologized. Busted-Tooth Melvin accepted it with a grunt, and mounted his claybank.
“They’re headin’ toward Sun River Cañon,” he said. “Could hold up at the line shack. Criminy, I just left that cabin.”
“Maybe they think Tommy found Camdan’s ma, and took her back to the cabin. Tommy could have been looking for cattle, come across her.” I sounded like I wanted to convince myself of it.
Melvin shifted his chaw to the opposite cheek. “Maybe everybody in this country belongs in Bedlam.” He studied the sky. “Can’t tell exactly how old these tracks are, but it’ll be dark before we could catch up with ’em. Maybe a day. Maybe even longer. Maybe never.”
I nodded. “Be dark before one of us gets back to the ranch, too.”
Melvin spit again. “You ride back, tell Gene what I’ve found. Send the rest of the boys after ’em. I’ll follow this trail, and, if I lose it, I’ll go to the line shack. You . . .”
“I’d rather follow the tracks,” I sang out, and watched Melvin study me. “I know the line shack and that country better,” I reasoned. “I’m not sure I could find my way back to the ranch.”
“Our tracks are a damned sight easier to follow than those,” he said.
He stared. I stared back.
“I can’t let you do that, boy.” Melvin’s head shook. “Can’t let you ride off into that country. The major’s wife would nail my hide to the barn if I were to let . . .”
“I’m no kid,” I fired back at him, and we got to staring at each other again.
We didn’t say anything, but finally Melvin grunted. “Suit yourself. I got no hankerin’ to see that line shack anytime soon. Besides, Tommy’s your pard.”
I let out a big sigh.
“Make for the cabin,” Melvin said. “No matter where the tracks lead. If the major ain’t there, you stay put. Don’t go lookin’. That hard-rock Scotsman can take care of himself. You wait for us. Don’t try to be no hero. You just fort up with Tommy, and we’ll be there directly. If you meet the major and Gow riding back, you tell ’em what happened, and we’ll find you.” He reached behind him, opened one of his saddlebags, withdrew a small bundle wrapped in canvas, and handed it to me.
“Pine splinters,” he said. “Soaked in coal oil. Come in handy if you need to start a fire.”
I shoved them into my war bag.
“You be careful, Jim Hawkins.”
“You, too,” I said.
We shook hands before separating.
* * * * *
You ask why I wanted to ride after the major and Mr. Gow, but it really had nothing to do with them. Least, I don’t think so. Then again, a boy don’t think clearly when it’s five degrees below zero, and it came close to that temperature that night. Yet I was pretty well clothed, and the skies cleared for the third night in a row—a rarity that winter, I guarantee you—and I found the Big Dipper, low in the horizon, just above the cañon. I knew if I kept riding toward it, I’d wind up close to Tommy’s cabin. Close enough to find it, anyhow.
Where I expected to find John Henry Kenton.
Certainly I knew those tracks had to belong to my pard. Former pard, I mean. Former friend. My old mentor. I didn’t think about the train he had derailed. I just thought about Bitterroot Abbott, who’d shoot John Henry before he’d ever bring him in alive to stand trial. Couldn’t make myself believe than John Henry Kenton had killed that girl, and those other folks. Still, I knew I’d find him at the line shack, and I planned on warning him. Had I gone back to the ranch, sent Busted-Tooth Melvin west, well, Melvin might have gotten killed, or might have killed John Henry. More than likely Melvin would have waited for the rest of us when he saw John Henry was at the cabin, and then Ish Fishtorn and the boys would have captured John Henry.
John Henry would have hanged. I didn’t want that.
’Course, somehow, riding all that night, I didn’t think about the major and Mr. Gow. Didn’t consider how they would reach the line shack long before me or the Bar DD riders, didn’t consider what would happen if John Henry was at the cabin when those two men arrived. Like everyone kept saying—only I wasn’t quite learning—people don’t think right in that cold.
* * * * *
Sometime in the night, I no longer was following the tracks of Major MacDunn and Mr. Gow. Not sure I was following any tracks any more, and I’m just thankful Crabtown had a better nose and better eyes than
mine. He knew his way. I’d fallen asleep, probably would have froze to death if Crabtown hadn’t had a ton more sense than I ever had. A few hours past dawn, I reached the line shack, having ridden Crabtown all night. Don’t know how long I’d been asleep in the saddle.
I jerked awake, saw the shack in front of me, smelled smoke from the fireplace inside, felt Crabtown stomping his front hoofs. Wearily, as I swung down from the saddle into packed-down snow, the cabin door opened. A moment later, I recognized John Henry Kenton, and stared down the barrel of the Colt revolver he was pointing right at me.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
“Well, I’ll be damned,” John Henry said. “This place is busier than Booger Pete’s bucket of blood in Mobeetie.” I expected him to look different, meaner, I guess, uglier, but he appeared the same, except for a few days’ growth of beard, and I’d seen him like that plenty times before, especially when he’d been on a drunk. “You alone?” he asked.
“Yes.”
As he holstered the revolver, Tommy came around the east side of the cabin from the makeshift horse shelter, carrying an armful of wood. When he saw me, he stopped in his tracks. The three of us just stood in the cold, looking at one another.
“Coffee’s on.” John Henry motioned inside, acting a whole lot friendlier than I’d expected him to be, than he had a right to be. “Some stale biscuits and cold bacon. Help yourself. You look a frazzle, kiddo. I’ll see to your horse.”
Too tired to protest, I watched him lead Crabtown away, and slowly followed Tommy into the cabin, closing the door behind me, watching him dump the wood by the fireplace.
Alone with Tommy, I got angry real quick. “That why you volunteered to be a line rider?” I hooked my thumb toward the door. “So John Henry could hide out here?”
He didn’t answer, and I let all my weariness overtake my anger. I was just too tired to press him into a fight. He pulled off his sheepskin coat and one of his gloves, leaving the other on till he had poured me a cup of coffee. I took it, and collapsed in a rickety chair by the fireplace. Fell asleep before I’d even taken a sip.
Hard Winter Page 15