He slept the day through. Twice a woman stopped near him, holding a bottle of water at her side, and he managed to take hold of it and drink. Again at night he was hidden and cared for.
On the third night, lying alone in the brush, he heard a faint stirring near the camp. His hand rested on his gun, and he listened again. Something was drawing near, moving very quietly. He heard a faint sound of metal striking a branch, a hoof-fall. Somebody was riding toward the camp, riding in the darkness.
He listened, straining his ears. The Indians appeared to be sleeping, the dogs made no sound. He drew his gun.
The movements drew nearer. He was still in no shape for a fight, although he seemed to be regaining his strength, but he did not want to fire a shot unless there was no alternative.
He eased back under his blankets, ears straining for sound, his eyes upon the darkness. He must not shoot ... not until he knew what he faced.
The movements ceased. Firelight flickered on the branches overhead. Suppose they simply fired into him without appearing in the open where he could see them? Suppose they gave him no chance?
Movement started then stopped again. Was the mysterious rider looking into camp? Was he close enough for that? Why weren't the Indians awake? Why weren't the dogs barking?
He turned his head and looked toward camp. All was still. The coals glowed and a tendril of flame burned some unconsumed branch on the far side of the fire.
He thought suddenly of the McKaskels ... where were they?
The horse moved again, nearer.
He lifted himself to one elbow, the pistol in his hand. He moved back the blanket and pulled himself against the trunk of a small tree, waiting.
The steps drew nearer. The horse blew slightly through its nostrils, and suddenly he had a hunch. Catching a limb of the small tree he pulled himself erect, balancing on his one good leg.
Holding his gun ready he made a small chirping noise with his pursed lips.
There was silence, and he could picture the horse standing, its ears up. And its rider?
The horse moved forward, pushed through the brush, and suddenly an Indian, rifle in hand, was beside him.
The horse appeared, head up, ears up, nostrils distended.
"It's all right, boy," Con spoke softly. "It's all right. It's me."
It was his own horse. Somehow, through the night and the day and the miles, his horse had found him. The horse came up to him, and Con put his hand on its neck. He tied the horse to a branch near his bed. The Indian disappeared in the brush on the far side of the fire. Con got back into his bed and pulled the blanket over him. He looked up at the horse. "It's all right," he said, "you're home again." And then he added, "as much of a home as we're likely to get."
Chapter X
For several days the wagon moved westward, and they saw no human being, nor sign of any. They had left off to the south the trail to Sante Fe and the westward lands, while the Overland Trail was far away over the northern horizon.
The rains had left water in buffalo wallows and holes beside the route they followed. At night they pointed their wagon-tongue westward, using the North Star as a guide, and by day the sun. The way they had taken was one no wagon had followed for it was far from water-holes and they were risking much in the days ahead.
They were quiet days. The wagon, relieved of much of its load, moved easily over the prairie grass. On the third day McKaskel killed a buffalo calf and, a few days later, a deer that he saw among the reeds near a small slough.
Each day the horizon was empty, they saw nothing, heard nothing, yet when a week had passed the water grew less, and Duncan grew worried. "We may have to turn south," he said, "I think we're running out of water."
"Let's try it another day," Susanna pleaded. That day they saw a band of wild horses ... hundreds of them who ran off a short distance and then stood, heads up, nostrils flared, looking toward them.
"I wonder what happened to him?" Susanna said suddenly. "Ever since the shooting that night, I've been worried."
McKaskel nodded. "So have I. And I've wondered if we shouldn't have stayed and waited for him."
"He said nothing about coming back," Susanna said. "He was a strange man."
That afternoon, only a few miles from their nooning, they came suddenly upon a small creek. They saw the tops of the cottonwoods first, then the fold in the plain where the creek ran. "It's early," Susanna said, "but let's stop." They found a flat just back from the creek among scattered cottonwoods, some of them huge old trees six or eight feet in diameter. There was much brush, and firewood enough for an army. They built a small fire, broiled some of the buffalo meat, and Tom caught a half dozen fish in the space of twenty minutes. If the stream had ever been fished, it must have been a long, long time ago. The water was clear, cold, and pure.
"I don't know what streams are in this area," McKaskel said. "I've no idea what this is. We should be west of Sand Creek, and we thought that was it we crossed some days back ... it was running mighty shallow."
"It's water. Let us be thankful." They gathered wood and stowed it in the tarp. They emptied both barrels of the remains of the water they had carried and refilled them with fresh water.
That evening, just before sundown, Duncan McKaskel killed another deer.
"I'll never forget this place, Duncan. It has brought us so much, water, wood, and fresh meat."
"Where's Tom?"
"Down by the creek. He was making a sailboat out of an old tin can and some sticks."
They sat still together, watching the slow finger of their smoke, lifting toward the sky. "This would be a good place, Susanna," McKaskel said, glancing around. "It has all we need. I think that flat-land up there would grow wheat."
"I want the mountains, Duncan. You promised me mountains."
He chuckled. "And you shall have them! We will start at daybreak."
Later that day they saw more wild horses and when they started in the morning the air was clear. Duncan pointed with his whip. "Susanna? Tom! The mountains!"
They were there, low on the horizon and faintly purple with distance.
He stared at them, thinking back. He had been, and was still, a greenhorn ... a tenderfoot. There had been so much they did not know, and even the difficulties they had imagined were so much worse than expected. He had not expected the trouble when the shooting occurred, nor the vindictiveness of the men from that shabby little settlement. Were they still following?
It was scarcely likely. They had seen nobody now for days, and the heavy rains must have washed out their tracks when first they moved away. Their wagon now was lighter by a good bit and did not leave the deeply cut tracks they would be hunting. He felt better, much better.
The mules moved out at a good gait, and Tom was singing in the back of the wagon. It was good to be alive. Beside him Susanna sat tall, looking toward the mountains.
Doc Shabbitt lit his cigar. "Santy Fee," he said, "there'll be good pickins at Santy Fee."
"What about the gold strike at Cherry Creek?" Hyle demanded. "Folks say they struck it rich!"
"I'll go anywheres," Booster McCutcheon said. "If'n we can't make out one way, we'll do it another."
"They got gold," Ike Mantle insisted. "I know they had gold in that wagon!"
"Beats me," Doc said, "what could have become of them. And that other gent, Huron, the one you had the fight with. What's become of him?"
"Well, we lost that wagon," Dobbs said, "looks like Red missed out on his woman."
"We haven't lost them," Purdy said, "but I say we're foolish to chase after a wagon-load of women's fixins and cabin furniture."
"What d' you mean ... we haven't lost 'em?" Doc asked.
Purdy held up a tin boat made out of the top of a tin can, carefully bent into shape with a small stick for a thwart and another for a mast. "I found this down at the crick. Ain't rusted even a mite. I'd say some youngster made it, lost it playin' in the crick, an' she just floated down stream."
"Yeah,"
Doc studied it. "Surely ain't been in the water long. I'd say only a few miles."
"If we was to angle for northwest," Dobbs suggested, "we'd surely cut their sign."
Red Hyle got to his feet and walked to his saddle. Without a word he began to saddle up.
"Maybe Purdy's right," Booster said, "what if they ain't got nothin'?"
"The mules will be worth it at Cherry Creek. Where there's mines there's a market for mules."
Yet the trail was older than they believed. They found it, west of the creek by some distance, and the Huron rode up and down, studying the lay of the grass.
"This ain't the same," Booster said, "look at the tracks. The wagon we're lookin' for made deep tracks. She really cut deep!"
"Same wagon," the Huron said mildly. "Not so heavy now."
"What's that mean?" Shabbitt demanded.
"They have lightened their load," Purdy Mantle said quietly, "so they could travel faster."
"You mean they done buried the gold?" Ike said. "They wouldn't do a fool thing like that! Not way the hell an' gone out here!"
"I don't know anything about gold. That's just something we conjured up in our minds our own selves. I seen furniture all along the trail. They carry it a ways, then their stocks gets played out and they drop it. There's never been any gold."
"You say!" Ike sneered.
"Why go to the gold fields if you've already got gold? And why take gold to the gold fields?" Purdy asked.
"They got it," Ike insisted. "Anyway, they've got horses and mules and a wagon load of stuff."
"You seen many of those wagons, Ike?" Purdy asked gently. "Most of what they hold is important to nobody but them, except for tools, grub, and such. I never seen anything in a wagon yet that was worth the trouble to carry off."
"They can't be far," Dobbs said, "and we're goin' that way. Anyway, Red wants his woman."
"That's just a notion," Purdy said.
Red turned a little in the saddle. "It's my notion," Red said quietly, "and I like it."
Their eyes held for an instant and then Purdy shrugged and smiled. "Have at it," he said, "ever'-body's entitled to a notion now and again."
He was smiling, but his eyes were still and watchful. Red turned abruptly away. "Let's get on," he said harshly. "Time's a-wastin'."
When morning came again there was a cool fresh wind coming down through the spruce, the aspen, and the pine trees. The wind had the smell of pines on its breath, and the sound of the aspen leaves stirring, and cool water over stones.
A dim road led off the bench down through the aspens and the cottonwood and almost without thinking, Duncan turned the mules down the faint tracks and they braked the wagon into the river bottom. Free of the trees, with marmots disappearing on every hand, there was a long green meadow, an old corral in the distance, and a faint track, overgrown with grass.
They were sitting tall on the wagon-seats now, and Tom had left his post at the rear to look at what they were approaching.
On the left were the aspens, their white trunks like the columns of a mosque, their leaves restlessly moving, always moving. The corral they were drawing near to was empty, the bars down, the grass within grown tall. The road dipped away to their right and they saw sunlight gleam on rushing water.
The gray of stones, a small field of them over which water had run and would run again, and then the stream, only a few feet wide at this point, but clear and maybe a couple of feet deep. Beyond the stream there was more forest and then the mountain, rising boldly up, bald and green at its higher points, the lower slopes thick with forest.
"Pa ... look!"
Duncan McKaskel drew up. Beond the stream, not more than fifty or sixty yards beyond, was a cabin. It was a log cabin, patched with some cut boards, and it was old, obviously abandoned.
"Duncan ... ? I love it."
"Let's look around."
He spoke to the mules and they moved ahead, ears pricked. "They like it too," he told himself.
They bumped and rumbled, splashing through the stream, struggled a little at the opposite bank because in the years between the river had cut it away somewhat, and then they were there.
The grass was green around the old cabin, the trees had been cleared back, behind it there was, some distance back, an old beaver pond with much gray, fallen timber, the bare ribs of a small and vanished forest. As he looked a fish plopped in one of the ponds, and ripples spread out.
He tied the reins and got stiffly down, stretching his back after the long sitting. Then he put up a hand and helped Susanna down.
Tom was already on the ground and running toward the cabin. He leaned into the open door. "Ma! It's got a floor!"
Susanna paused and looked all around. She listened to the gentle sound of the running water, the faint rustle of aspen leaves, the cloud shadows on the green dome of the mountain.
"Duncan? It is lovely, isn't it?"
"Yes ... yes, it is. There's plenty of water, and there's grass."
The cabin was small, and it needed work, but it was the sound of running water and the aspen as well as the beaver ponds that made them like it.
"Duncan? Can we--?"
"We'll give it a try, Susanna. We'll stop for a few days while I look around." In his own mind, he was sure. He wanted to look at the higher ground first though.
There was room enough for a kitchen garden, and perhaps a crop of corn and potatoes ... some beans.
Duncan McKaskel walked back to the wagon and began to unhitch. There were things to be seen, he must look around, but in his own mind this was home.
Whoever had built the cabin had abandoned it long ago. Judging by the look of the logs and the weathering, he would guess ten years or more. Nor was there any sign of occupancy of even the casual sort. By leaving the known trails, the prescribed route, they had come to this place, come as if guided by fate.
Picketing the horses and mules on the rich green grass, after watering them, he began to gather firewood, and as in any forest, it was scattered everywhere. Much heavy stuff had been washed down by the stream, and there were deadfalls and many trees killed by beavers. There was wood enough to last a winter through.
"We will sleep in our camp tonight," he suggested, "and tomorrow we'll clean up the house and repair what is needed."
Leaving Tom to gather more wood and Susanna to prepare supper, he took his rifle and walked up the dim game trail toward the bench above the river-bottom.
It was broad and green, sweeping away, several hundred acres of excellent pasture, toward the aspens at the foot of the mountain. He saw the tracks and droppings of both deer and elk, and the track of a bear.
He stood still, drinking in the quiet beauty of the place. Suddenly, among the aspens beyond the meadow he saw something move, and a moment later it moved forward just a little, pausing in a spot of sunlight.
A bull elk, and a big one.
He started to lift his rifle, then hesitated, not wishing to shatter the stillness with a rifle shot. He smiled at himself, then lowered the rifle and turned away. They had meat enough for now, and if he knew Tom he would be fishing before noon tomorrow.
Carrying his rifle in the hollow of his arm, he walked back down the trail to the cabin. Tom had kindled a camp fire, and the smoke was rising slowly.
They had come a long way, but it was worth it. The shadows grew longer, and for a moment he stood halfway down the trail, looking at all that lay below. It was a quiet place, a lovely place, but suddenly he felt a shudder of fear.
They were alone, so very alone!
How far away was Cherry Creek? Were there nearer settlements? Or any neighbors at all? Suppose he should be injured? Unable to work?
Their food supplies were very low, and must be augmented by hunting and fishing. Tom was a good fisherman, and was on the way toward becoming a hunter, but that was not enough. They must plant their seed, once they had ploughed and harrowed the ground, and they must jerk some meat, and in the meanwhile, scout a little further aroun
d to see what trails there were, what neighbors they had.
This was, he believed, the land of the Ute, and the Utes were a fearless and warlike people, yet they had often been friendly to the white man.
He walked down to the fire. "Susanna, the first thing tomorrow, measure your flour, salt, coffee, sugar, and bacon. We'll have to see just where we stand.
"There's plenty of game." He hesitated, a little embarrassed. "I saw an elk up there. I just couldn't shoot him."
"Let's not hunt close by, Duncan. We don't have to, do we?"
"It would be better not to," he said thoughtfully. "If anything goes wrong we may not want to go too far afield for meat."
She looked at him quickly. She knew him very well indeed, and she felt the sudden change in mood.
"Is something wrong? Doesn't the place look right?"
"No, it's fine. It has everything. Everything but neighbors, I am afraid."
"You think they are following us, don't you?"
He hesitated before replying, but he had never been one who believed women should be sheltered. Protected, cared for, but not kept in ignorance. "Yes, I do. We have to think that way, Susanna, and if we are wrong we will have lost nothing."
He squatted and fed some sticks into the fire. And in the moment of stillness after their talking stopped, they both heard it. A single shot.
Chapter XI
For a moment, neither moved. He squatted on his heels, she standing beside the fire, coffee-pot in hand. A shot?
Well, why not? They were not alone in the world, no matter how much it seemed so. There were sure to be prospectors, hunters, trappers, Indians....
"Maybe we do have neighbors," he said striving to keep his tone casual.
How far would the sound of a shot carry? In this clear air, perhaps as much as a mile, or even further. Yet whoever fired that shot was not far off, certainly within two miles. And that would imply they might have a neighbor.
Or that the Doc Shabbitt outfit had caught up with them.
"Somebody hunting meat," Duncan added. "Only one shot ... and at this hour. I'd say somebody killed a deer or an elk."
the Quick and the Dead (1983) Page 7