Crack in the Sky tb-3

by Terry C. Johnston

  Crack in the Sky

  ( Titus Bass - 3 )

  Terry C. Johnston

  Crack in the Sky continues the development of the young Titus Bass as he gradually learns the lore of the mountain man. From a raucous rendezvous of trappers to a searing fight with Comanche, from a frigid winter's chill to the angry heat of a chase with horse thieves, Titus Bass's West comes alive in the pages of this remarkable novel--and in its final scene, Titus Bass will meet young Josiah Paddock and form the deep friendship explored in the pagers of Carry the Wind.

  PRAISE FOR

  THE NOVELS OF

  TERRY C. JOHNSTON

  DANCE ON THE WIND

  “A good book … not only gives readers a wonderful story, but also provides vivid slices of history that surround the colorful characters.”

  —Dee Brown, author of Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee

  “Packed with people, action, and emotion … makes you wish it would never end.”

  —Clive Cussler

  WINTER RAIN

  “Terry Johnston is an authentic American treasure…. Winter Rain [is] his strongest entry yet.”

  —Loren D. Estleman, author of Edsel

  “Some of the finest depictions of Indian warfare I have ever read. Johnston’s romantic vision imbues the early West with an aching beauty that moderns can only dream of.”

  —Richard S. Wheeler, author of Two Medicine River

  CRY OF THE HAWK

  “This novel has the epic sweep of the frontier built into it.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Will stain the reader with grease, blood, and smoke.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  THE SON OF THE PLAINS TRILOGY

  “Terry Johnston is the genuine article…. His Custer trilogy is proving this significant point, just as his Indian wars and mountain man books prove it, I admire his power and invention as a writer, but I admire his love and faith in history just as much.”

  —Will Henry, author of From Where the Sun Now Stands

  CARRY THE WIND, BORDERLORDS, and ONE-EYED DREAM

  “Johnston’s books are action-packed…. a remarkably fine blend of arduous historical research and proficient use of language … lively, lusty, fascinating.”

  —Gazette Telegraph, Colorado Springs

  “Rich and fascinating … There is a genuine flavor of the period and of the men who made it what it was.”

  —The Washington Post Book World

  BOOKS BY TERRY C. JOHNSTON

  Cry of the Hawk

  Winter Rain

  Dream Catcher

  Carry the Wind

  BorderLords

  One-Eyed Dream

  Dance on the Wind

  Buffalo Palace

  Crack in the Sky

  Ride the Moon Down

  Death Rattle

  SON OF THE PLAINS NOVELS

  Long Winter Gone

  Seize the Sky

  Whisper of the Wolf

  THE PLAINSMEN NOVELS

  Sioux Dawn

  Red Cloud’s Revenge

  The Stalkers

  Black Sun

  Devil’s Backbone

  Shadow Riders

  Dying Thunder

  Blood Song

  Reap the Whirlwind

  Trumpet on the Land

  A Cold Day in Hell

  Wolf Mountain Moon

  Ashes of Heaven

  Cries From the Earth

  For all that he has

  done to boost my career over the years—

  for all that his friendship has come to mean

  to me while we’ve ridden this wild frontier

  of the publishing world together,

  this tale of Titus Bass is

  dedicated with deep admiration

  to my editor,

  TOM DUPREE

  Well, I knocked about

  Among the mountains, hunting beaver streams,

  Alone—no, not alone, for there were dreams

  And memories that grew. And more and more

  I knew, whatever I was hunting for,

  It wasn’t beaver.

  —John G. Neihardt

  Song of Jed Smith

  Map

  1

  Just like the bone-numbing scream of the enemy, the wind tormented those branches of the towering spruce overhead.

  Titus Bass jolted awake, coming up even before his eyes were open.

  He sat there, sweaty palm clutching his rifle, heart thundering in his ears so loudly that it drowned out near everything but that next faint, thready scream emanating from somewhere above.

  The frightening cry faded into no more than a gentle sough as the gust of wind wound its way on down the canyon, sailing past their camp, farther still into the river valley fed by the numberless streams and creeks they were trapping that spring.

  As his breathing slowed, Titus swiped the dew of sweat from his face with a broad hand—remembering where he was. Remembering why he was here. Then peered around at the other dark forms sprawled on the ground, all of them radiating from the ember heap of last night’s fire like the hardwood spokes on a wagon wheel. Downright eerie, quiet as death itself were those eight other men. Not one of them snoring, sputtering, or talking in his sleep. Almost as if the eight shapeless cocoons of buffalo robes and thick wool blankets weren’t alive at all.

  Only he—finding himself suddenly alone in this suddenly still wilderness. Alone with this clap of dark gathered here beneath the utter black of sky just beyond the tops of the tall pines. Alone with the remembrance of those cries and screams and death-calls from the Blackfoot warriors as the enemy charged forward, scrambling up the boulders toward the handful of American trappers who had taken refuge there in the rocks, preparing to sell their no-account lives just as dearly as any men ever would dare in that high and terrible country where the most hated band of red-skinned thieves and brigands roamed, and plundered, and murdered.

  It had been that way for far longer than he had been in the mountains. And sitting right then and there in the dark, Titus Bass had no reason to doubt that the Blackfoot would still be raiding and killing long after his own bones were bleaching beneath the sun that rose every morning to burn away the mists tucked back in every wrinkle in the cloud-tall Rocky Mountains.

  Rising in a slow crescendo, the cry began again above him, like a long fingernail dragged up a man’s spine. Looking up against the tarry darkness of that sky pricked only with tiny, cold dots of light, he watched the blacker branches sway and bob with the growing insistence of the wind, blotting out the stars here and there as they weaved back and forth. Groaning, whining—those branches tossed against one another, rubbing and creaking with the frightening cry that had brought him suddenly awake.

  With the next swirling gust of breeze, Titus discovered he was damp, sweating beneath the robe and thick woolen blanket. After kicking both off his legs he sat listening to that noisy rustle of wind as it muscled its way through the tops of the trees overhead and hurtled on down into the valley, descending from the slopes of that granite and scree and bone-colored talus above their camp. A wind given its birth far higher in the places where the snow never departed, above him across that barren ground where even trees failed to grow. Those high and terrible places where if a man had the grit or were fool enough, he could climb and climb and climb until he reached the very top of the tallest gray spire, there to stand and talk eye to eye with whatever fearsome god ruled from on high.

  Such a feat was for other men. Not the likes of Titus Bass. The spooky nearness of that god and the sky he ruled was close enough from right here. It had been ever since he had first come to these mountains, running from all that was, racing headlong to seize all that co
uld be.

  This coming summer it would be three years since he first laid eyes on that jagged purple rip stretched across the far horizon—three years since Titus Bass had journeyed eagerly into these high places. That would make this … spring of twenty-eight.

  In many ways, that was a lifetime spent out here already.

  Twice now he had been spared. First with those Arapaho who’d hacked off his topknot and left him for dead. Had it not been for the young mule carrying him out of enemy country, Bass was certain his bones would be bleaching beneath the sun of uncounted days yet to come. Then a second time—only a matter of weeks ago—that Blackfoot raiding party had tightened their red noose around a last-stand where Titus and the others had prepared to sell their lives dearly. Nine men who saw no real chance of coming out on the winning side of the bad hand dealt them.

  There in the dark now, Titus wondered just how many times a man might be given another chance, another go at his life. How often could a reasonable person expect to have the odds tipped in his favor? Once? Maybe. Twice? If a man were near that lucky, then Bass figured he might well be inching closer to that day when his luck had just plain run out … gone like the tiny grains of sand that slipped through the narrow neck of an hourglass, one by one by one in a tumble of seemingly insignificant moments lost to the ebb of time.

  The days of a man’s life eventually reaching the end of his ledger. Come the call for him to pay the fiddler.

  As he turned to glance at the heap of ash in the fire pit, Bass heard one of the animals snuffle out there in the darkness. He strained his eyes to peer into the inky gloom. After listening intently, he finally stared at the faint, glowing embers—wondering if he should throw some more wood on, or just curl down within his bedding and try falling back to sleep.

  Absently digging at an itch nagging the back of his neck, he decided he would forget the fire. This was high season for ticks, tiny troublesome creatures who only weeks ago had killed one of the men already with the fever they carried. But his fingers reassured him that this itch was no tick, not even the lice he had played host to when he had first reached these Shining Mountains—digging so often and voraciously at his hide that the trio who happened upon Titus came to call him Scratch.

  The name stuck, through all the seasons. With the coming and going of all those faces. Scratch—

  Another snuffle from the horses.

  They’re restless with the wind, he thought, shoving the blanket down off his legs and reaching for his moccasins. Horse be the kind of critter gets itself spooked easy enough in the wind, unable to smell danger. What with all this night moving around them, rustling—

  One of them snorted loudly, in just that way the Shoshone cayuses did when all was not well.

  He rose without knotting the moccasins around his ankles and snatched the pistol from beneath the wool blanket capote he had rolled for a pillow, then swept up the long, full-stocked flintlock rifle he curled up with between his legs every night. After that deadly battle with the Blackfeet, Scratch had even given the weapon its own name, calling it Ol’ Make-’Em-Come.

  One of the other men stirred, mumbling as he turned over within his blankets, and fell quiet again.

  Bass stepped from the ring of bodies, around the far side of their camp rather than heading directly for that patch of ground where they had driven their animals and confined them within a rope corral before turning in for the night.

  “Better for a man to count ribs than to count tracks,” explained Jack Hatcher.

  Far more preferable that a careful man’s animals should go without the finest grazing possible than to discover those animals were run off by skulking brownskins. Putting a feller afoot in a hostile wilderness. Forced to cache most all his plunder, then follow those horses’ tracks with only what a man could carry on his own back.

  Was that hiss more of the wind soughing through the trees up ahead? Or … could it have been a whisper?

  In the darkness, and this cold, Scratch knew a man’s ears might well play tricks on him.

  Scratch stopped, held his breath, listened.

  Behind him in camp he thought he heard one of them stir, throwing back his bedding, muttering now in a low voice that alerted the others. They were coming out of their deep sleep as quiet as men in a dangerous land could.

  From beyond the trees the wind’s whisper grew insistent now. Then a second whisper—and the gorge suddenly rose in Bass’s throat. Whoever was out there realized the camp was awakening. He brought up the long rifle and stepped into the gloom between the tall trees, cautiously.

  With a shriek the uneasy quiet was instantly shattered. A boom rocked the trees around him, the dark grove streaked with a muzzle flash.

  The bastards had guns!

  One of the trappers in camp grunted as the rest shouted and cried to the others, all hell breaking loose at once as shrill voices screeched battle calls from the dark timber.

  In a crouch, he lunged forward. Not back to camp as more guns began to boom. But making for the horses.

  The red niggers were after the remuda!

  Behind him the voices of his friends grew loud as they met the assault—an instant before the dark shapes of the animals took form, congealing out of the darkness. Milling four-leggeds … then a two-legged took shape, and a second, he saw among the stock: slapping, yelling, driving some of the horses out of the rope corral. More of the huge shadows hopped within their sideline hobbles, attempting to break to freedom, straining to join those captured animals the raiders goaded into the darkness.

  He recognized Hannah’s bawl. That high, brassy cry the mule gave when frightened—like that day Silas Cooper was about to kill the mare, or that day Bass lost his scalp and was left for dead.

  Stepping to the edge of that copse of trees, he recognized her big, peaked ears on a nearby shadow. One of the raiders struggled to keep his hold on the mule’s horsehair halter. Scratch stepped sideways, close enough to make out the warrior’s body, seeing how young he was.

  “Let go of ’er!”

  Whirling around in a crouch, the youngster reached for the tomahawk at his belt, the metal head glinting with starshine as it flashed out at the end of the arm he swung back over his shoulder.

  At Scratch’s hip the rifle boomed, its flash bright as midday—temporarily blinding Titus as he shoved the rifle into his left hand, snatching the pistol from his belt with his right. Ahead of him the raider crumpled in half, hit low in the gut with a ball of lead more than a half-inch round. Flopping to his side, the wounded man struggled to reach for the tomahawk that landed inches from his fingertips, the other arm clutched across his abdomen.

  Bass leaped out of the trees, landing with a foot on the raider’s wrist. Instantly the Indian took the free hand and struggled to reach the knife scabbard flopping at his hip. Hannah snorted, bobbing her head, yanking back at her picket rope with that recognition of blood.

  Not about to waste another shot on the thief, Scratch stuffed the pistol into his belt, raised the rifle above his head in both hands, then savagely drove the metal butt plate straight down into the warrior’s face. And a second time as the Indian twisted and thrashed, his last ragged breaths spewing from the crushed hole in his head like frosty streamers. After a third and harder blow, he no longer moved.

  Stepping over his victim, Bass pulled the pistol free, crouched slightly, and slipped forward again into the darkness. To this side and that he shoved the frightened, chivvied animals, forcing a path through their midst. A hobbled horse clumsily lunged out of his way, and into that gap suddenly leaped another warrior, a long dagger clutched in one hand, a tomahawk held in the other. From side to side he rocked, gazing wickedly at the white man with a crooked smile.

  Bass squeezed the trigger as he brought the pistol up. When the ball struck the warrior high in the chest, it drove him backward off his feet to land among the legs and hooves of the hobbled animals.

  “Simms!”

  It was Hatcher’s voice somewher
e behind his right shoulder.

  “Here, goddammit!”

  “Ye see Bass?”

  “He ain’t with me,” explained the voice coming from a different side of camp.

  How he wished he had picked up his powder horn and shooting pouch before he’d left his bedding. Unable to reload, Titus instead leaned down and pulled the knife and tomahawk free from the warrior’s hands, then straightened and yelled, “Jack! I’m over here!”

  “Bass?” Hatcher cried. “Was that Scratch’s voice?”

  “Sounded like him—”

  The voice had to be Kinkead’s, nearly muffled with the gunshot.

  “Goddammit!” that booming voice screamed.

  “Matt!”

  A new voice asked, “You see Bass over by you, Rufus?”

  While the trappers called to one another back in camp, no more than fifteen feet in front of him, Titus watched a warrior appear out of the night and those shadows clinging among the trees. The Indian crouched, stopping long enough to study the small clearing where the trappers had made their camp. From there it was plain to see that the horse thief had John Rowland’s narrow back all to himself. Raising his short horn bow, the warrior drew back on the string.

  On instinct Bass flung his arm back, hurling the knife at the target. Too quickly. Off its mark, the weapon clattered against a nearby tree. The enemy jerked to the side, wheeling to find the white man behind him. Drawing back on his bow string once more, he now aimed the arrow at Scratch.

  Startled at the noise, Rowland turned. “Shit!”