by Caleb Rand
The horse was very still now. It breathed deep, lowered its head, no longer vigilant. Jule released the snap, and before the paint knew it, he’d sprung up into the saddle.
The horse whirled as it pulled away from the post. But Jule had a good seat, got both feet in the stirrups. For the shortest moment he was thrilled with his capture, then the horse kicked out its hind end and reared sharply. It twisted again, raised a great white snow flurry, but sticking like a burr to the saddle, Jule went along with it.
Abruptly the paint changed tactics. Its back arched and it began to stiff-leg across the corral. With each movement it seemed to go that much higher, come down that much harder. The shocks jarred Jule’s spine and he felt the thrill turning again to anger.
It wasn’t a question of hanging on to the ride any more. Each movement of the paint was agonizing and Jule’s belly was full of pain. But it was the green-eyed anger that tore him up, busted him inside. He felt bile rise in his throat, knew he had no business on a horse that wanted to chin the moon.
4
GETTING THE MAN
For a time Linny Jule sat silent, looking up at the darkening window. ‘Tell me: are all men born brutal, or is it just most of them?’ she asked eventually.
Will Stryker seemed to ponder the question. ‘I guess there’s some,’ he said. ‘Is that what you want to talk about?’
Linny looked up quickly. ‘I don’t know. I just wanted to get away.’
‘An’ you picked a blizzard to do it in?’
‘There wasn’t much snow down on the Creek. I thought I could make it easily.’
‘You couldn’t have waited a little longer?’
The girl hesitated. ‘No. I’ve put up with enough … waited too long.’
‘Hmm. Got to be somethin’ to do with one o’ those brutal men, you’re so steamed up about. Is that what you’re runnin’ from?’ Will continued to enquire.
‘You’re not one for tact are you, Mr Stryker?’
‘You’re the one who wanted to talk, missy,’ he retorted.
‘Yes, I’m sorry. There’s someone I’ve seen … rather haven’t seen for six months. Now he’s coming back,’ Linny answered evasively.
Will sucked on his cigarette, blew a pensive stream of smoke at the roof timbers. ‘I get the picture,’ he said. ‘An’ fryin’ pans an’ fires come to mind.’
‘It’s a cruel, violent man I’m running from. I haven’t known much else since my ma died. Now I’ve had time to think, I—’
‘… want out,’ Will finished the sentence. ‘I guess it’s your pa you’re talkin’ about, but who’s this feller who got you off on the salvation road?’ he asked.
‘If you’ve been long in border country, you’ll most likely be acquainted with him. He’s Ashley Cameron, a sergeant with the RCMP.’
Will gave a curious, ironic laugh and coughed on a mouthful of smoke. ‘No. No, I ain’t acquainted with him. But I know your story. I guess it’s an old one. How does your mountie friend figure in all this?’
‘He had trouble with Larris – that’s my pa – last year. It was over wild horses for Fort Mcleod. That was Pa’s fault. He lied to make money on his saddle-brokes. Ash was the police buyer and couldn’t make a tally. He made Pa pay back. That was his job. But from then on, he wasn’t allowed near our land.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t be, would he,’ Will confirmed drily.
‘No. It would have been for the best, if he had though. That’s when Pa changed. He started taking out his frustration … his resentment, on me.’
‘What happened to the mountie?’
‘He wrote me. Last winter he was up in Calgary, but I didn’t get to see him. The last letter was two months ago when he said he’d be here early in the spring. He was going to the new border barracks in Flagstone.’ She looked out the snow-encrusted window. ‘He’s got to be out there now. How long do you think this snow will lie?’ she asked suddenly.
Will laughed. ‘I ain’t for second guessin’ a spring blizzard in this country. It may howl for a week. You should know better’n me.’
‘Ash will bring more men out searching before a week’s out.’
As if at the toll of trouble, Will flinched. Then he walked to the other side of the cabin and held a match to a coal-tar lamp. ‘Yeah,’ he said with concern, ‘that’s really somethin’ to look forward to. But that trail you left’s well covered. So it won’t be before tomorrow. Now, get some more sleep, miss.’
It was still early morning when Linny opened her eyes. An ominous howling had begun in the hills to the north of the cabin. She knew it was the sound of a pack of hungry timber wolves. The storm had driven most game into hiding, drifted over the remains of the previous day’s wolf kill. Now they were out for fresh game.
‘How close are they?’ Will asked.
‘A mile or so.’
‘Will they come this way?’
‘Maybe. They know where there’s meat on the hoof.’
Will picked up his carbine, levered a round into the chamber and cocked the hammer. He opened the door of the cabin and fired up into the heavy sky. The report of the gun made an enormous sound in the still landscape, echoed off the surrounding timberline three or four times before silence returned.
‘That shut ’em up,’ he claimed, and returned to the coffee he’d been boiling.
‘Well it would, wouldn’t it,’ Linny said, with a slight, sarcastic smile. ‘Is the snow melting?’ she asked.
‘Not so’s you can get far. Certainly not to Kalispell.’
‘Suppose they find me here with you?’
‘It’ll be no worse for you, than for me,’ Will said with conviction. He breakfasted on his half of the apple then, lighting a cigarette, he stepped over to the window.
‘Hell. It must’ve been the gunshot,’ he said calmly. The he turned and walked quickly to the stove. He seized the poker, scraped out the wood coals on to the floor and tossed the remains of the coffee water over them. ‘Too goddamn late,’ he muttered over the hissing coals,and picked up his carbine again.
Anxiously, Linny looked past his shoulder. Far up the trail towards the pass, beyond the jack pine that surrounded the cabin, a muffled figure was approaching through the snow. ‘What are you going to do?’ she asked, taking in the severe, hunted look that had appeared on Will’s face. ‘You can’t see who it is from here.’
‘Yeah, somethin’ of a dilemma. By the time I can, I’ll have to shoot whoever it is. Reckon they’ve sent someone after me. They must know I headed for the pass.’
Linny reached out and touched Will’s arm. ‘I don’t understand. Are you in trouble? Who’s after you?’
Will turned, nearly pushed her away. ‘The law. It’s the law that wants me,’ he said. ‘You just stay down. Keep out of it.’
‘What have you done? Where’s that place you don’t want to see again?’ Linny asked with increasing anguish.
‘I had to kill a man across the border. They’re goin’ to say it was murder. Well, it weren’t,’ Will snapped. ‘So, now you know. If you keep quiet, this buzzard might stay on the trail an’ leave us alone.’
Linny crouched against the cot, wondered who was approaching the cabin. She got up slowly, edged her way closer to the window. ‘I deserve a look. Let me see,’ she said to Will. ‘I’m in this, whether you like it or not.’
The man had got closer, was standing well inside the belt of pine. It was the unmistakable shape of the flat-brimmed hat, the low sunlight on his face, that forced a gasp from Linny.
She flung herself against Will, seized the carbine and fought to pull it away from him. ‘That’s Ash. He doesn’t want you: he’s looking for me,’ she yelled.
‘He doesn’t know you’re here. No. Somehow, your mountie’s after me. I don’t want to shoot up no more than I have to, miss. But if he comes in here….’ Will let the threat of his words trail off.
‘He doesn’t know you, does he?’ Linny asked quickly.
‘More’n likely there’s a
description out on me.’
‘But he’s never seen you?’
‘I think I’d remember. Why’d you ask?’
‘Because I know him, for heaven’s sake. Do you think I’m going to help you kill him? If he comes here, I’ll make out you’re my husband. I’ll say you’ve been up here cutting ties, and I came with you.’
Incredulously, Will looked at her. ‘You’ll tell your intended, that I’m your husband? You think that’ll save me? You tell him that, he’ll more’n likely take off the top o’ my head before han’cuffin’ me, you dolt.’
‘He wasn’t my intended. He was someone who listened. Someone I turned to for help. He’ll be piqued maybe, nothing more. I haven’t seen him for more than half a year. He’ll go back. Then you can go. Please?’
‘You still think that much of him?’
‘Yes. He’s not the one who’s hurt me.’
Will saw the torment in her eyes and made a grab for her wrist. ‘Remember, this is the only life I’ve got, an’ I’m goin’ to protect it,’ he said gravely.
Linny drew her hand away, looked back through the window. The mountie had come nearer. He stepped out of his heavy wet snowshoes and removing a fur mitten he unflapped his holster and moved toward the cabin.
Will cursed, gently laid down the carbine and moved his hand to his Colt. ‘Go. Go tell him the good news,’ he said. ‘I’ll stay back here to see how he takes it.’ Very slowly Will drew his Colt. ‘You tell him to leave us alone. I’m hopin’ he might understand.’
5
SADDLE BROKE
At the end of the corral, the paint heaved itself against the poles, sought to scrape Jule from the saddle. But Jule wanted no more and he threw himself to the ground. He went sprawling, got the bite of sour dirt in his nostrils. He was halfway back to his feet when the paint hit him. It was so sudden, so unexpected that he had no idea what had happened. He felt himself being barrelled along, and panic clogged his throat when he realized the horse had turned on him. He’d been close to the side of the corral though, and as the outraged paint came piling back, he rolled to safety beneath the bottom pole.
Trembling with fear and fury, Jule lurched up on his knees. His face was running with wet, but he didn’t know if it was from blood or sweat. His right leg ached furiously and for a moment he thought it was broken. The paint smashed itself against the poles again, then it bent its thick neck, put its head between its front legs and bucked violently around the corral.
Jule swore his retaliation and got to his feet. He ran to his cabin and, still enraged with defeat and frustration, he returned thumbing bullets into the breech of a Winchester.
‘I’ll put some goddamn lead in your goddamn brain,’ he screamed at the paint.
But the horse had stopped bucking. It stood in the middle of the corral with its wild head flung up as Jule lined up his shot. He knew he couldn’t miss, but something made him hold his fire.
‘No. This is the coward’s way out,’ he rasped.
Jule had realized there was nothing wrong with his belly now, no bile in his throat. It hadn’t been the paint’s muscle that had thrown him from the saddle, but his own fear.
‘You want me to show I ain’t afraid o’ you,’ he challenged. ‘Is that it? Is that what you’re after?’
Jule let the rifle fall from his hand. ‘Damn you,’ he cried at the paint. He slid between the poles into the corral. ‘I’ll be the last person you ever throw,’ he threatened.
He ran straight to the paint and made a grab for the reins, but the horse whirled and galloped away. Cursing, Jule snatched his rope and started off in a determined circle. He got the horse cornered and dropped the loop over its neck, over-handed swiftly up to the panicky animal.
The paint reared up, pistoned its forelegs high in the air. But Jule got himself a good hold on the hackamore and stubbornly held on. The paint snorted its anger and swung away, but Jule went with it. He made a grab for the saddle horn, caught it and went up into the saddle. The horse squealed its fury, was pitching and lunging even before Jule hit the seat. The base of his spine hit the cantle and it cracked his teeth together. But he stayed on, caught up the lines and found the flapping stirrups with his boots.
The paint went into the full grip of its fury as it bucked savagely across the corral. Jule didn’t think the animal could be so violent as it tried to rid him from its back.
Realizing that his defeat was coming up, Jule’s anger renewed itself. ‘There’s a bullet waitin’ for you when I hit the ground, you evil brute,’ he screamed at the paint. ‘So throw me.’
The paint aimed for the side of the corral, but Jule saw it coming and swung his leg out of the way. The horse smashed with insane fury against the poles and rebounded, almost hitting the snubbing post. Jule got his foot back in the stirrup, settled in the seat again and raked his spurs along the paint’s flanks.
‘Not yet,’ he yelled. The paint squealed and reared up, and for a breathtaking instant hung there, then it came crashing down on its back. But Jule had sensed the move and kicked free of the stirrups. He was on the ground when the paint came down and on impulse he hung a leg back across the saddle. The paint righted itself and lunged up on its feet. It started to rear again and Jule dug hard with his heels and sawed on the lines. But this time the paint came down on its feet and started crow hopping.
‘You still ain’t lost me,’ he screamed.
The wetness on Jule’s face ran into his mouth, and now he thought it tasted like blood. Then it dawned on him that the jolts weren’t so severe any more. The paint’s fury seemed to have diminished. It sprung its cannons and went for another hop. But it was half-hearted and it brought up still. It spraddled its legs and heaved its foam-flecked shoulders.
Jule could hear the shrill whistle of the paint’s breath. He lifted a hand to wipe sweat from his face, noticed it really was blood that was pouring from his nose.
*
It was nearly first dark on the same day when Jule opened his eyes. He rose fully clothed from his bed and went outside. He stared across the lake, through the clouds of early emerging stone flies that swarmed along the water’s edge. His whole body ached and he was still tired. But he was better, sated from his breaking ride.
He tugged at the slouch-brim of his hat, walked slowly past the wrangler’s lodge to the corral where the paint stood indolently. A malicious expression cut across his face and he stood and watched the horse, felt the closest he’d ever get to regret.
‘I’ll stay the bad one o’ this outfit,’ he sneered.
The paint turned its head and looked briefly at him. Then it averted its gaze and just stood there, no longer a proud, untamed animal.
‘I’ll wager you wouldn’t have put up much of a struggle against Linny,’ Jule said bitterly. ‘I reckon she’ll go south, then east to Kalispell. She won’t be dumb enough to take the pass. Tomorrow, we’ll go get her back.’
6
OPPORTUNITY
Linny took a deep breath, flung back the cabin door and stepped into the cold bright light. The mountie raised his head and for a moment they held each other’s eyes, then he smiled and strode forward. He wore an elk-skin parka, and his figure cast a long shadow across the snow.
‘Linny,’ he called, his voice raised in cheerful surprise. ‘What are you doin’ out here? I thought you’d be down at the creek.’
Linny shook her head. She wasn’t sure what to say or when to say it.
‘Six months that seems like years,’ Ashley Cameron went on. He was up close and his eyes were searching her face for an explanation.
Linny knew she had to say something, had to make him believe her story. Her mind rushed back to where in the cabin’s gloom Will stood silently, his gun pointed through the doorway. ‘I’m married Ash,’ she said, her voice weak and faltering.
The mountie’s mouth opened slightly and he nodded, gave a curious, weary smile. ‘Yeah, well, six months is a long time. He’s in there, is he, your husband?’ he asked, a littl
e dismayed.
Linny chewed her lip and nodded nervously. ‘He’s a tie cutter. We came up to make an early start. You know, get the pick of the timber. But we got ourselves snowed in, instead.’
‘I guess I’d best say “hello” then. Keep it neighbourly,’ the mountie said, drawing his Webley revolver.
Linny thought about standing her ground, but she smiled weakly and moved aside.
Inside the gloomy cabin the two men faced each other. Linny said their names, watched as they looked warily into each other’s eyes.
‘You’re a little south o’ your line, Officer,’ Will suggested.
‘For unlawful deaths, we got arrangements with border authorities,’ the mountie said, pushing his heavy gun back into his holster. ‘An American killed a passenger aboard the Calgary Flyer. He jumped the train outside o’ Lethbridge an’ headed south. Two nights ago we had him tracked close to the Montana line.’
‘I thought a Queen’s yellowleg never lost his man,’ Will said with a half smile.
The mountie looked at Will carefully. ‘You thought right, mister,’ he told him.
‘Do you know where is he now?’ Will asked.
‘I was on my way to Flagstone an’ decided to see if he’d got this far. I reckon he did,’ the mountie replied, with his own give-and-take smile.
‘What’s he look like?’ Will asked casually.
‘He’s big. Got short corn hair, like a labrador pup, apparently.’
‘Could well’ve been me, Officer, if I hadn’t been here, workin’ for the company,’ Will said, riskily.
‘This man’s got himself a small brand, apparently,’ the mountie furthered. ‘Some sort o’ skin tear. A scar that runs around the heel of his left hand. A keepsake that stays with you, I’d say.’
Linny had turned away, but she twisted round to see that Will had already balled both his hands into loose fists.