Before dawn we are up catching the camp chickens and guineas out of the trees. Wolf, Coati, and Spud shinny up them like they’ve been doing it all their lives, which they likely have. Suckers are quick, though some get away. Sir Jacob and I are on the ground with j-hooks to help catch and corral the escapees. They have poor night vision, so we do have an advantage. Coati has built a homemade cage to stick them in for the journey, which we will lash to a travois for the trip to the next camp. We move quick and mostly stay warm. Spud comes down and gets a big net on a long stick to help corral the wiliest. Then when daylight arrives, the last of them come into the cages for the seed Coati sprinkles out.
Another fabulous, but extremely frosty, morning eventually dawns. My fingers and toes are numb by the time we finish feeding. Sir Jacob has got a blaze going to warm us while we eat breakfast. The fresh deer sausage, fried taters, homemade biscuits and eggs prove that Sir Jacob is a true cowboy cook. They hit the spot. We and our charges are soon done eatin’ and ready to pack up.
Wolf and Spud are striking teepees and Sir Jacob and I are throwing sawbucks on the pack animals. Coati is packing the last cases and full panniers and pairing them by weight for each steed. We work fast to keep the blood flowing, glad of our warm fur parkas, scarves and gloves.
After we fold the last teepee cover and strike the poles, we set the poles up as travois for the loads which are the bulky and odd shaped items not given to riding atop a horse or in the panniers. Chickens and guinea fowl being one of them. The camp guardian dog doesn’t carry a load this trip, as we have enough horses for the job. His priority is to protect his fowl in any case.
The cats go atop their favorite horse’s saddle in a little open basket with a branch jail cell arrangement over the top. Their favorite horse is the cat tame one who always carries them. Horses in general are not fans of any member of the cat family. Nor are cats much in the way of horsemen.
Coati says, “We tied Glacier to the sawbuck first few times we moved, but now she’ll ride up top in the basket, happy as a clam. We had to add the crisscross branches for Gruesome this time though, it’s his first ride. We don’t want to lose our mousers.”
Eventually we are ready to mount up and hit the trail. Our mounts have been standing in the shade so are still cold backed. They hump up at the touch of the cold blankets. I lead Spike in circles until his saddle blankets have warmed and his spine has flattened out. He is a confirmed cold blanket bucker. Leading him out is my old home remedy to forestall buckin’. Works for me. Everyone looks sideways at me, not having ever seen such a thing.
Spud throws his blanket and saddle on, reefs down on the cinches and hops aboard for a little morning fun.
“Ride ‘em Cowboy!” I yell, getting in the swing of things. I have been careful to stay on the ground as buckin’ is contagious. Sir Jacob’s horse agrees, going for the big jump. Sir Jake rides her out. Just a taste of crow hoppin’, nothin’ serious. Spud’s horse, on the other hand, bucks like a pro for quite a while.
As Spud picks himself up off the ground he says, “Ahh, I love a pitchin’ horse in the mornin’. Better’n sex.” He smiles at me.
“Sheeit!” I say.
The rest of us smart people, who some would call cowards, then mount our horses, after making them untrack and checking them for calmness.
As we turn the old pack string loose, we have another little cold back rodeo, and have to reset and readjust a few loads, but it is all in a mornings work. While we are doing this, Wolf’s horse has been entertaining us.
Wolf says, as he also picks himself up off the ground, “Maybe Annie have good idea.”
“Worked back home on Triassic, we rode dinosaurs there,” I say, tongue in cheek.
The morning looks good, sunny and warm. However, marching soldiers are in the sky to remind us that real weather is just about to hit.
“Them clouds are a sure sign of a front; cold, snowy, windy too, maybe,” says Coati.
“Yep, time of year for it,” I agree.
We head up to the pass with our strings of novice pack horses, two to a rider, tailed up, Coati’s sheep and their two guardian dogs, and the experienced pack horses who run loose. The camp dog is at Coati’s mount’s heels.
Two shepherds appear on horseback with a flock of sheep, a few pack goats carrying their gear and two more guardian dogs. They all join the caravan.
“Those herders don’t have a lot of age on them,” I say to Wolf, who is stirrup to stirrup beside me.
“Little brother and sister, Leaping Panther and Kit Fox. They in charge of flocks.”
“I didn’t see them at the meals.”
“They carry food and camp on pack goats, stay out, follow grass. Dogs help. Coati resupply them.”
We are in the lead with the loose pack stock following. The kids on their brightly painted horses are riding flank with Spud. Sir Jacob and Coati are behind the horses. They stop to let the livestock mingle in with the pack horses. They then ride drag. Their job is to be sure none of the animals get left behind. Their tail end position is usually perfect for folks who like to eat dust, but in this grass covered paradise there, amazingly, is none.
Sir Jacob rides up the side of the herd, looking at how packs are riding. Once we get things rolling well, we will stop and check cinches and loads on everyone again.
As he pulls up to me, he asks, “Any thoughts?”
I say, “I don’t know if y’all noticed, but when you three arrived at the Short Branch the night of the fight, Soames had a sudden need to get the heck out of there. He even held his hat alongside his head, slowly putting it on as he passed the bar. My thought is that he didn’t want someone at the bar to see him.”
“I saw that too. Having now seen the Spirit Cave maps, I would think it to be Lone Wolf,” says Sir Jacob. “With luck, we will know more when Michael checks in.”
“He will not be able to find us, we may have to go to town for him,” says Wolf.
“Hells bells, you think only Injins can follow sign? Michael’s a country boy, he can track my horse through hell or high water. We’ve rode together a long time, he’s found me more than once. Just a matter of when he gets the info we need from Soames.”
“Mm, we see. It is said in some cultures that a shape shifter person is a shaman with great powers.”
“Uh huh,” more Injin mumbo jumbo, I think.
We ride along for a few hours, enjoying the sun and life in general. Chasing strays back into line and keeping one eye open whilst mostly loafing. Bitch turns out to be a good dog, got the instinct and mimics the experienced dogs.
Eventually we top a rise. I can see forever, almost. We are surrounded by the grassland prairie, dotted with buffalo. I look back at our little herd of sheep, pack goats and horses along with the travois horses, Coati in her Injin dress, Sir Jacob resplendently noble as always. Spud in buckskins. The herd dogs and the guardian dogs, the cats in their basket on the sawbuck.
Then I turn back to Wolf who has doffed his jacket and is in nothin’ but leggins and paint. Damn, his sexy chest looks like it oughta be sportin’ goose bumps from the chill. I get goose bumps just lookin’ at it.
“Whatcha lookin’ at?” asks Wolf.
“Nice paint job, Kemo Sabe. When do you find the time?” I say, red faced.
I look back toward the caravan to calm my beating heart before it rips right out of my chest.
Whew. Speechless I am, too many whirling thoughts, amazed.
Wolf looks around and says, “Spirit alive in time of buffalo. Injin rule all horizon. North. South. East. West. Sky. Ground. All.”
“But always things change, unexpected things happen.” Spud has ridden up beside us.
“Life is long and wonderful, ebb and flow, like tide, like life on the prairie.”
“Sometimes sky hot and plants are growing and blooming, then sun sleep, cold come, perennials still alive, slowly working on their root system through cold times. Waiting for the sun to return their warmth again then they grow leaves,
branches, flowers and seed. Continue cycle of life. Sometimes blooming, sometimes dormant, but always alive. Cycle goes, round and round. The same but never the same. Always evolving. Only constant in life is change,” remarks Wolf.
Spud looks at me and says, “Like I said, he’s a well-read savage.”
Then he looks out across the prairie and waves an arm out toward the caravan. “The MadDog Clan at its finest.”
“May the gods bless our passage,” prays Wolf.
“Shit, the gods been dead a long damn time,” I grumble.
“Mnh mnh,” Wolf shakes his head, then smiles with a twinkle in his eye. He raises a fist, taps his chest and says, “Lone Wolf still alive.”
30 Winter Quarters
Cowgirl Thrillers Page 42