by Mike Blakely
Angus laughed. “Oh, hell, Shorty, don’t let him scare you. Tell him to look for the damned guns. There must be some more.”
The translation was made, and Kicking Dog ordered his four braves to find the guns. They argued, for their woman was almost naked now, but Kicking Dog insisted. They tore through shelves and drawers, threw blankets out of the cedar chest.
Angus stoked the fireplace as if he lived there. “Tell Kicking Dog I was right about Christmas Eve, Shorty. George Washington attacked the redcoats on Christmas Eve. Never knew what hit ’em. Damned Indians ought to learn to fight in winter.”
One of the braves hollered. He had found a revolver. But Kicking Dog was enraged.
“He’s still mad, Angus. Says you promised bigger guns.”
“I thought they were buffalo hunters. I didn’t know it was a family. Tell him next time I’ll get him buffalo guns. Who the hell does he think I am? Santa Claus?” Angus laughed at himself through his matted beard.
An Indian kicked snow into the doorway and jabbered something to Kicking Dog.
Shorty’s eyes bulged. “He says somebody’s comin’! Eight riders, Angus!”
“Shit!” Angus jumped up. “Tell them Indians to git back to the Territory! Who in hell is out ridin’ tonight?”
Mary Hutchinson was starting to regain consciousness when two of the braves grabbed her by the feet to drag her outside.
“No, not the woman!” Angus shouted. “No time!” He pushed the braves away from her and clubbed her savagely with his rifle butt, caving her head in.
FORTY-SEVEN
Caleb knew something was wrong the moment he saw the light from the open door of the Hutchinson house. His harmonica stopped playing and the singing died around him. Mose drew his pistol and spurred his horse. The cowboys charged the sod shanty and surrounded it.
Mose was the first in. Ben and Caleb went in after him, brandishing their revolvers. José García and the rest of the boys stopped to check the bloody body of the woman for signs of life.
“Oh, my God,” Ben said. “My God, they killed ’em all.”
Caleb thought he might throw up. The inside of the sod house swam before his eyes. “Who did it?”
“Had to be Indians,” Mose grumbled. “They was just here. We didn’t give ’em time to scalp.” He looked down on the bodies of the two girls. “They must have taken the boy with ’em.”
“We’ve got to go after ’em,” Ben said. “There must be less of them than us, if we ran ’em off. Let’s go git the bastards, Boss, they got Little Hank.”
“We’ll git ’em. Let the moon rise so we can follow the trail. Look for the boy. He may have hid.”
“I hope so,” Caleb said. He avoided looking at the murdered girls and crouched between the beds to look under them.
The boy came scrambling out like a mouse, dashed for the door, then turned back when he saw the rest of the cowboys coming in. He darted around inside the house, terrified. Mose grabbed for him but missed. He turned into the corner beside the fireplace, crashing into pots and pans, cowering on the floor.
“Don’t move!” Ben said. “Nobody move, you’ll spook him.” He eased toward the frightened boy. “It’s okay now, Little Hank,” he said, holding his arms open as if herding a calf. “Them Indians are gone. It’s just us boys. You remember me. It’s ol’ Thin Ben. I let you ride my horse, remember? Look, here’s Caleb. Remember the fiddle player?”
The boy shivered in the corner but glanced at Caleb and nodded.
“Come here and let ol’ Thin Ben take care of you. Them Indians are plumb gone now.”
The boy suddenly jumped up and ran at Ben, wrapping his arms around his neck and his legs around Ben’s skinny waist.
“Cover his folks up,” Ben said. “For God’s sake, cover ’em up. Caleb, put a blanket over his sisters.”
The boys picked up blankets from the cedar chest and covered the bloody bodies.
“It’s all right now, Hank. Them Indians are far away by now.”
“They weren’t all Indians,” the boy said in a detached little voice.
The cowboys stopped and stared in wonder at the boy.
“The big one was called Angus, and the little one was called Shorty,” Little Hank said.
“Were they white men?” Mose asked. “Jones, ask him if they were white men.”
“Were they, Hank?” Ben asked, patting the boy’s back. “Were they white men?”
The boy nodded.
“How many Indians were with ’em?” Mose asked.
“How many, Hank? Do you remember how many Indians?”
The boy shook his head. “A lot.”
“Did they say any Indian names?” Mose asked.
The boy buried his face in Ben’s neck and muttered.
“What did he say?” Mose asked.
“He said, ‘Kicking Dog.’”
Caleb gasped. “I knew an Indian called Kicking Dog,” he said. “When I was about as big as him.” He pointed at Hank. “He was Arapaho, but he rode with the Cheyenne dog soldiers.”
“Maybe another Indian with the same name,” Mose said. “Don’t matter. We’ll git ’em. Jones, you’ll take that boy back to the ranch. Frazer, you and Kid Loftus go with him. Bring a wagon back here in the mornin’ for the bodies.”
“What about the rest of us?” Lee Silvers asked.
“Silvers, Garcia, Parker, Holcomb—you’ll follow the trail with me. By God, we’ll git ’em. Let’s lay the bodies out straight before we leave. They’ll git stiff. Better put the door back on, too. Wolves.”
FORTY-EIGHT
There were no landmarks for Caleb. Even the moon was useless, hanging directly overhead. Only stiff needles of grass stuck out of the snow.
Mose and his men had followed the trail of the seven murderers for hours at a trot. It was easy to see in the snow and moonlight. Caleb didn’t know where they were, or in which direction they rode, but he assumed they were heading south and east, toward the unassigned strip of the Indian Territory between Texas and Kansas known as No Man’s Land. Maybe they were already there. Thank God Mose knew the way.
What if there was a fight? What if Mose got killed? Who would lead them back? What if you get killed yourself, fool?
The one trail became seven at midnight. The raiders had scattered, leaving single sets of hoofprints.
“The two white ones will probably come back together,” Mose said. “They’re the ones I want. Comancheros. You boys pick a trail and follow it. See if it joins with another one. If it does, come back here where the trails fork. If you find a camp, don’t do anything. Just come back here. If you don’t find anything after an hour, come back here. I want every man back when the moon is three-quarters across. Understand?”
The boys nodded and split their forces.
Caleb followed the trail that went farthest to the south. It was easy to track. Five Spot seemed to sense that he was following it; she stayed just to the left of it and trotted with her neck out, head cocked, as if to watch the trail with one eye.
Caleb rode with his hand on his pistol grip, straining to see in the dark. A wolf howled, and he wondered what it meant. The howling of a wolf always had to mean something: rain, snow, trouble, death. Maybe it was an Indian imitating a wolf.
How long had he been riding? An hour yet? He glanced at the moon. No, not even ten minutes. There were no horizons. He rode across a circle of snow and grass that rolled smoothly under him minute upon minute, mile upon mile. Only twenty minutes now, at most. He would buy a watch with his winter pay. Maybe the trail would meet another. Then he could turn back to tell Mose.
It seemed closer without the boys near. But he had a blanket to wrap himself in if it got too cold. Who had the eggs? Why hadn’t he thought of it before they parted ways? Sam Parker had two dozen eggs packed in wadded newspaper in his saddlebags. He was hungry. An egg would go down easy right now. Thirsty, too. He would get down for some snow when he turned back.
Thirty minutes now? Yes, at least. An Indian
must have made this trail. Probably heading for some camp in a canyon ahead. He wouldn’t mind finding a camp about now. He wouldn’t mind finding anything. He knew Mose would not let up until some justice had been served. How long would it take?
Thin Ben was in bed. Little Hank was probably there with him. Poor little fellow. His mother, father, two sisters. He had seen it all. That had to be worse than even his own time with the ridge log.
Caleb yanked the reins back. A trail had crossed the one he followed. The prints were those of cloven hooves. Buffalo. A little farther up, another buffalo trail crossed. Then a great tangle of buffalo tracks poured down from the north, mincing the smooth surface of the snow to mush.
He got down, pulled the mare out of his light. The hoofprints he followed fell on top of the buffalo tracks. He could continue, but the trailing would go slow. The tracks were hard to pick out. How long had he been gone? An hour? Almost. Ten more minutes would serve Mose’s orders well enough.
He trailed on foot now, looking for the round curve of the shod hooves over the splayed prints of the bison herd. The moon lit the little ridges of snow like the brief shining paths of fireflies in the forest. His back ached from stooping, his eyes blurred. He couldn’t find the trail anymore. It seemed his eyes were weakening.
Caleb turned to look at the moon. A thick mist had snuck under it, cutting its light in half. Even as he watched it, the mist thickened. There were no stars in the north. A storm was coming. A blizzard!
He cinched Five Spot tight in his hull and climbed aboard. His bootprints proved easy enough to follow back through the buffalo trail. An hour from his friends! Out of the buffalo tracks, he spurred Five Spot to a lope. The moon withered behind veils of clouds. The trail was harder to follow than a dream, barely visible.
A swirl of cold air crossed him: the first breeze he had felt all night. A gust whipped in from another quarter. The playful winds that rode before the storm caressed him with icy fingers. The moon? Gone. Only a silver fringe on the clouds. Three quarters of an hour from his friends, and the blizzard was about to strike. The trail: almost invisible.
The storm announced its own arrival. Caleb braced himself, held on to his hat. He heard the winds roar a full minute before they struck. Sleet spattered against his brim, and the full force of the norther hit him like a wall. Almost immediately the trail vanished in slush. But the wind had hit him directly in the face. In a cruel way, it would guide him.
Head into the wind, and you will find your friends.
The mare hated it. He had to fight her constantly to keep her going. Ten steps, then she would turn. The sleet stung her eyes. She felt compelled by some ancient instinct to drift south with the winds.
Even the snow was black now. Caleb navigated by wind direction alone. Five Spot turned with every three steps. He faced her into the wind again, spurred her. She took three steps and turned. He spurred her back into the wind. She faced it, turned the other way. He spurred her again, pulling at the reins. She refused to move.
Terror swept over him with the cold, biting wind. What now? A gunshot? Three rounds for distress. He pulled his pistol out, pointed it in the air. But the other boys were in the same fix. He had heard none of them shoot. They were too far away to hear. Besides, he might bring Indians instead of friends. He put the pistol away.
Maybe the mare, in the ignorant wisdom of animals, knew something he didn’t. Would he stand there and let her freeze, or would he allow her to turn south. Yes, south. He could find cover somewhere. A rill, a creek, a canyon.
You’re not going to die. You’re going to be cold and miserable, but you will live. Lost and alone, yes. Dead, no.
He loosened the blanket lashed down behind the cantle, pulled it around his shoulders, and turned his back to the wind. Snow fell in stinging frozen flakes. He pulled his collar up around his ears. The leather gloves were worthless against the ice. The boots all but conducted the cold to the very bones of his toes. Five Spot had the reins. She dropped her head into the lee of her own body and trudged south.
The blanket froze stiff around him, a cocoon of ice. Warmth was something of distant memories. He had a fear of falling from the saddle, so he refused to ride without a hand on the horn. He kept the other hand under his armpit. Stiffness set in. His feet ached. He tried to move them but wasn’t sure they obeyed. He knew he had to get down and walk. The exercise would thaw his limbs.
He got down and pressed himself against the mare’s neck, the reins looped around one elbow. The wind howled so that he couldn’t hear her footsteps, and the cold numbed him so that he couldn’t feel his own. Walking was a mistake. It made him tired. It didn’t warm him at all. He climbed back into the saddle, his hands so numb they wouldn’t grip the horn. The shivering started. It became an uncontrollable shudder that shook his whole body.
Am I dying? Am I freezing to death?
Five Spot stopped. He was almost unaware of it, except that the rocking motion under him ceased. He spurred her, but she wouldn’t move. There was something in front of her. He dropped stiffly from the saddle, felt ahead of the horse with his boot. His foot slipped out from under him, and he landed on his rear. His feet dangled. She had found a canyon, a gully. Maybe just a ditch. Maybe there was wood. He had matches in his saddlebag.
Turning right, he searched the rim of the bank. He began to see the size of it. It was a black fissure in the mottled gray world of nighttime snow. He could see the other side, only yards away. But if it was six feet deep, just six feet, it would shelter him from the winds. The brink became a slope. He could sense it angling into the gully. He led the mare downward, probing with numb feet. Down by inches, carefully he dropped into the crack. The wind ceased to press against his pants legs, his blanket, his hat brim. He was in. Out of the wind! He came to the bottom of the prairie trench.
Just deep enough. Streams flow east here. Turn left, downstream. The gully will get deeper. Find wood.
Caleb stumbled on until his feet snagged a shrub. That will burn, he thought. He felt around with his legs. Scrub oak. Maybe cedar. It will burn. He found a steep cutbank to the north, maybe eight feet high. It would cut the wind. He was thinking of fire now. He had to stake the horse, get the matches, gather something that would burn. He heard Burl Sandeen’s voice in his head: “Two dry sticks will burn a green one, son.”
His hands were freezing. They gripped with the strength of an infant. His fingers grappled helplessly with the latigo. Only by using his teeth could he loosen it around the saddle ring. He dragged the saddle against the bluff, set it upright on its fork, and huddled against the horse warmth that the fleece lining held so briefly. He let Five Spot keep the saddle blanket and unfolded it to cover more of her back. She had the Palouse-country blood. She would survive the cold. She wore a stake rope around her neck, but Caleb knew he could never drive a pin into the frozen ground. He tied the rope around his waist instead.
Floundering in the dark, he gathered brush and grass to burn. The rope kept him from straying too far. Some of the scrubby bushes had gnarled bases wrist-thick. He kicked them, stomped them, clamped them in the crook of his elbow, and pulled them up by the roots. He herded the fuel up against his saddle.
He needed tinder. What will light easily? He remembered the lyrics to “Hell Among the Yearlings,” written on a scrap of paper in the mandolin case.
He pulled his saddlebag and his instruments into the fleece-lined curve of the saddle. He had only one piece of paper. One chance to light the fire. He would have to plan carefully.
To block the wind he pulled the stirrups in against his legs and draped his blanket over his head. He kept the paper dry in the mandolin case, slapped the sticks together to knock the ice off, built the firewood up, small stuff on the bottom. He pulled the rope running to Five Spot over one knee to keep it out of the way. Now he would get a match ready, slip the paper under the wood, and light it.
His frozen fingers fumbled helplessly in the saddlebag. He could not feel the matchbox, let alo
ne hold a match to strike it. He peeled the gloves off with his teeth and pushed his numb digits under his coat, into his armpits. He sat for the longest time, shivering, waiting for his fingers to warm. Finally he yanked his bare hands back into the cold, found the paper, placed it, struck a match against the box, and held it under the lyrics.
God, if you’re there, give me fire.
His wind block worked well. The paper took the flame easily. A twig crackled. The initial flare from the burning paper died, but small orange flames clung to the grasses and twigs, reaching up to the bigger stuff. Caleb fed the meager flickers with blades of grass. One of them began to grow, and he let the others die to keep the one alive. It spread to a new twig, and his heart leaped. It burgeoned and began to thrive.
Cupping his hands over the flame, he began to feel hopeful again. The wood was burning slowly. It would last. He wanted to chunk up the fire to roaring but knew it would eat fuel too fast. Better to burn it slowly, catching the heat under his blanket and under his hands. They ached terribly as they warmed. He reached for another shrub and stripped a branch from it.
The flickering light made him think to look around at his gully. He couldn’t see much with the blanket over his head and the firelight in his eyes. He had harvested most of the nearby brush. There were a few small rocks peeking out of the snow here and there. Rocks! He had seen red-hot rocks used to heat whole rooms before. They took in warmth, held it, released it slowly. He craned his neck to see under his blanket and grabbed every rock within reach. They were small and few, but he stacked them around the fire.
Coals began to drop among the cold stones. Wisps of smoke burned his eyes and lungs, but he put up with it by squinting and holding his breath. Feeling warmer, he stoked the fire with more brush. He touched one of the rocks. Getting warm.
You’re smart, boy. You’re going to make it. You’re going to live. Damn, won’t Pete like to hear about this one?
Suddenly a cramp seized him below the ribs, and the fire passed under him, bursting all around in a spray of orange coals. The blanket flew away and let the frigid wind cut him. The horse was dragging him! He heard a snarl and a yelp. The rope slacked, then jerked him again. A mass of soft, wet fur brushed by. Wolves! The mare bolted as he pulled at the half hitch around his waist. The knot slipped, the rope whirring against his corduroy jacket. The hooves clopped away, muffled by snowfall.