Lonely On the Mountain (1980)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 19

  We come to a snare, and there we had a man hangin’ head down by one ankle, and he was some unhappy. He’d been hangin’ there several hours, and he had been mad; now he was almost cryin’ to be set loose.

  Me an’ Haney, we looked at him. “The way I figure it, Haney,” I said, “anything catched in a trap has fur, and when something has fur, you skin it for the hide.” “I know,” he said. “That’s the way we always did it in the mountains, but this one’s kind of skimpy on the fur.” He took the man by his hair and tilted his face up. “He’s got fur on his lip. Maybe we should skin that like I hear you done to somebody down New Mexico way.” I reached over and taken him by the end of his handlebar moustache. I held his head up by it while he swung wildly with his arms.

  Haney hit one of the wrists a crack with the barrel of his pistol, and the swings stopped.

  Holding him by the end of his moustache I turned his head this way and that.

  “No,” I said, “I don’t think it’s worth skinning. I figure we should just let him hang.

  Maybe somebody will come for him.” “Nobody has,” Haney said. “Give him a few days and he’ll dry out some.” The man’s pistol had fallen to the ground, and Haney picked it up, then unstrapped the man’s cartridge belt. “Would you look at this here, Tell? This man’s been walkin’ in the dark woods with a pistol in his hand. Why, he might have hurt somebody!” “Or tripped over something and shot hisself.

  We’d better carry that gun with us so’s he won’t get hurt.” Haney walked around the hanging man, looking him over. “How long d’you think a man could hang like that?” “Well”—I pushed my hat back and scratched my head—“depend on how long before some bear found him, or maybe the wolves. If they stood on their hind legs, they could sure enough reach him.

  “Man smell would bother them for a while,” I suggested. “Then they’d get over that and start jumpin’ for him. Sooner or later, one of them would get hisself a piece of meat—” “Hey! You fellers goin’ to let me hang here, or are you goin’ to turn me loose?” “It talks,” Haney said, “makes words like it was almost human. How d’you think anything got caught in a trap like that?” “Must’ve been sneakin’ in the woods,” I said. “We’d better let this one hang an’ see what else we got.” “Aw, fellers! Come on now! Turn a man loose!” “So you can come huntin’ us again?” Haney asked. “No way.” We walked off through the woods toward the deadfall.

  There was no game in that trap, but there had been.

  There was a hat lying on the ground, but the victim had been carried away. We could see tracks where two men had helped a third away. “Busted a leg, most likely,” Haney suggested cheerfully. “Lucky it wasn’t his skull.” Our other traps were empty, so we dismantled them and went back to camp. “They don’t know much,” Haney said, “but they’ll learn from their troubles. Or maybe they’ll recruit some all-out woodsman who could make trouble for us.” He paused. “Shall we just forget about that other feller?” “We don’t want him hangin’ around,” I suggested, “so let’s turn him loose.” We done so. And when he had his feet on the ground, I told him to take off his boots.

  “What?” “Take off your boots,” I said, “and your pants. We need something for the fire.” “Now see here! I—to was “Give him a short count,” I said to Haney, “and if he ain’t got his boots off, shoot him.” He stared at me, wild-eyed, then hit the ground and tugged off his boots. “Now your pants,” I said.

  He took off his pants. I shook my head at him. “You ought to wash them long johns. Ain’t decent, a man as dirty as that.” I pointed off through the woods. “Your friends, if you’ve got any, ar

  off thataway. You get started.” “Now look here,” he protested, “that’s a good set of spurs! I wish—” “Beat it,” I said. “You take off through those woods and don’t you ever come back. If I see you out here again, I’ll hang your hide on the nearest deadfall.” “Those are good spurs,” Haney said.

  “Hang ‘em on a tree,” I said.

  “Somebody will find them.” We bunched our cows and started them west, and we swung south to avoid the traveled trails. We found fair pasture and moved them along. The wolves taken a steer here and there, and we lost one to a grizzly. Shorty nailed the grizzly but not before he’d killed a good-sized steer.

  The grass was sparse, and we crossed some sandy plains with occasional low hills. We had to scout for patches of good grass, but it looked like forest was taking over from the plains. On the third day after the mix-up in the trees, we saw a party of riders coming toward us, but Baptiste told us they were m`etis, and sure enough they were.

  Some of them were the same crowd we’d met, and they brought some horses for trading. We had them with us all night and most of the next day, but when we split up, we had nine good horses and a couple of fair ones, and they had some odds and ends of truck as well as some cash money.

  We swapped them a rifle we’d picked up and the pistol we’d taken from our hanging man, among other things. The Canadian army had come to Fort Garry, they said, and Riel had disappeared before they could lay hands on him.

  The m`etis wanted sugar, salt, and tobacco, and I had an idea they were hiding out themselves, although they were a far piece from Fort Garry now. Evidently, they planned to stay out of sight for a while. With salt, coffee, and tobacco, they could live off the country. It was their country, and they understood it well.

  They warned us we were going into wild country where there was little grass and no trails for cattle.

  We pushed on regardless, and for the first time our worn-down saddle stock got a rest.

  Before they parted from us, one of the m`etis who was a friend to Baptiste and had become my friend, also, took me aside and warned me.

  “Two mans, ver’ bad. They come to Fort Garry and ride to Carlton. They are sent for by a bearded man, and they meet two other mans who come from the States who are brothers, also. They hunt for you.” “The first two men? Do you know who they are?” “Oui. Ver’ bad! Polon is their name.

  Pete and Jock Polon. If the Hudson’s Bay Company was here, they would not come back! They are thieves! They killed trappers! They killed some Cree! And in the woods they are superb! Have a care, mon ami! Have a care!” We drove on another seven miles before we camped after watching the m`etis ride away.

  Orrin looked across the campfire at me that night. “Tell, we aren’t going to make it. We can’t make it before snow flies.” “What d’you think, Cap?” “Orrin’s right. We’ve got to push them, Orrin, even if we run beef off them. After all, it’s cattle we are supposed to deliver.

  Nobody said nothing about fat cattle!” That night, two men, headed east, rode into our camp. “You’re takin’ cattle out there?” They stared at me. “You must be crazy!” “You mean there’s no market?” “Market? Of course, there’s a market!

  It’s gettin’ ‘em there. There’s no decent trails; there’s rivers to cross, grizzlies a-plenty, and wolves—you ain’t seen any wolves yet!” One of them, a tall man named Pearson, indicated the carts. “You won’t be able to use those much longer. The trails are too narrow. Put your stuff on pack horses.” “My old horse will carry a pack,” Brandy suggested. “He’s done it before.” We sat long with the two travelers, getting as much advice as we could. They drew the trail in the dirt for us, indicating the passes.

  “How are things up there?” I asked.

  “Peaceful?” “Generally speaking. Some of the boys get a mite noisy now and again. There’s brawls and such and once in a great while a shooting. Mostly, they’re just noisy.” “The best claims are all taken,” the other one said. “If you’re figuring on staking claims, forget it.” “We’ll just sell our beef and get out,” Orrin commented. Then, tentatively, he added, “We promised delivery to a man named Sackett, Logan Sackett.” They stared at him. “Too bad about him, and I’m afraid you’re too late. He’s dead.” “What?” “I’ll say this for him. He was a man. Party got trapped in the passes last year, and he wen
t up and brought ‘em out. Saved seven men and a woman. He brought ‘em through snow like you never saw. Avalanche country.” “You say he’s dead?” I asked.

  “He went north. There were rumors of a strike up in the Dease River country. Story was that he was killed in a gun battle up there with some outlander.” “Big man?” “Your height,” Pearson said to Orrin, “but heavier by twenty pounds. Come to think of it, he favored you somewhat.” “Who killed him?” “That was a bad outfit. They’d been in some trouble in Barkerville. Don’t recall what.

  Five or six of them, and smart, tough men. The one who seemed to be the leader was named Gavin.” “Gavin?” I glanced over at Nettie, who was listening.

  “Kyle Gavin?” “No, this one’s called Shanty. Shanty Gavin, and he’s as mean and tough as he is smart.” Pearson looked over at me. “It was Shanty Gavin who killed Logan Sackett.

  Shot him dead.”

  Chapter XXII

  Logan Sackett dead? I didn’t believe it. He was too durned ornery to die.

  Besides, I’d seen him come through cuttings and shootings and clubbings like he was born to them.

  Shanty Gavin? Any relation to Kyle Gavin?

  Who was Shanty, and what did he want? For that matter, who was Kyle Gavin?

  Pearson and his partner headed on east, back to the fleshpots and away from the gold fields.

  Fraser River gold was too fine, and the Cariboo was played out, or so they said, but we’d learned long ago to discount anything anybody said who was either going to or coming from a gold field.

  “Any way you look at it,” Cap said, “we’re drivin’ these cows right into trouble.” “I never seen any trouble a cow couldn’t handle,” Haney said wryly. “What I’m wonderin’ about is us. What are we gettin’ into?” “Move ‘em along,” I said. “The time’s gettin’ short, and if we don’t hurry, there’ll be frost on the punkin before we get where we’re going.” “I want to get there,” Shorty said, “so’s we can get out before the snow settles down. I’m a warm-weather man myself, born for the sunny side of the hill.” That was the night we left our carts behind. We divided what they contained into packs for four horses.

  “We can burn them,” Fleming said. “They’ll make a hot fire for cooking.” “We’ll leave them,” I said. “Somebody may come who needs a cart. We’ll push them back under the trees and leave them for whoever comes.

  Good hands made them, and I’ll not destroy honest work.” Again we moved out, pointing our way into the darker hills. The forest was changing now, and ahead of us we saw peaks that were bare of growth, and some were covered by snow. Grass was scarce, and we watched for meadows where the cattle could stop and feed. Our travel was arranged to make the most of grass when we found it. There were firs among the poplars now and sometimes groves of stunted pine.

  We skirted a forest blown down by winds where the dead trees lay in rows like mowed grain.

  Orrin was riding point when we met the grizzly. We’d been coming along a forest trail, the cattle strung out for a couple of miles or more and Orrin riding quiet, making no sound. Suddenly, the grizzly arose from the brush and stood tall in the trail. Startled, Orrin’s horse reared, and Orrin kept his seat, drawing his pistol as he did so.

  The first we knew of trouble was the sharp bark of his pistol, then three times more, rapid fire.

  Tyrel, Haney, Cap, an’ me, we lit out for the front of the column.

  Ever try to get through a trail jammed with cattle? It took time, too much time.

  Cattle began bucking and plunging, trying to get into the woods and brush on either side of the trail, and we could hear the roaring and snarling of what was obviously a mighty big bear. We fought our way through, but getting there was tough.

  We heard two more shots, and we broke through to find a big grizzly lying in the trail, crippled but still full of fight.

  Orrin was just getting up off the ground. His hat was gone, and his buckskin jacket was ripped, and there was blood on his shoulder. He made it to his feet, staggered, and commenced jamming loads into his pistol. Me, I took my rifle from the scabbard and killed that grizzly with two good shots.

  He would have died from Orrin’s shots, we later saw. Two of them had hit him in the neck, and after going down, Orrin got two more shots into his spine, fired as the bear was turning. They had crippled him in the hindquarters, which kept him from getting at Orrin. He’d hit him one glancing swipe, knocking him tail over teakettle into the brush.

  It taken us the rest of the evening to skin out that grizzly and get the best cuts of meat; then we had to get the cattle around the blood in the trail. The carcass we hauled off with that old plow horse of Brandy’s.

  Scouting ahead, Shorty found a long meadow along a winding stream, and we turned the cattle in there for a good bit of grass and water. We rounded up some of the cattle that got away into the trees, but there was a few of them we never did find and didn’t take the time to hunt. One old steer came up the trail after us when we started the next morning.

  All the following day we struggled through bogs, the cattle floundering and plunging, our horses doing no better, and the trail when it could be found at all was wide enough for one animal only.

  During the whole day, we made scarcely four miles, yet the next morning we climbed a low hill and then another and emerged in a forest of huge old poplars, scattered but with no undergrowth. Here and there, the cattle found a bite of something, usually a clump of wildflowers. We made good time and by nightfall had twelve miles of easy travel behind us.

  We broke out into a plain at sundown, and the cattle scattered on the good grass there, and we found a camp up against some willows and near a small stream.

  We were dead beat, and me an’ Shorty were taking the first guard. I slapped a saddle on a dusty red roan and cinched up. I was putting my rifle in the scabbard when suddenly there was a thunder of hoofs, wild shrill whoops, and we saw a party of Indians swooping down upon us.

  I grabbed my rifle back out of the scabbard, saw Tyrel hit the dirt behind a log, and heard Haney’s pistol barking, and then they were gone and with them about fifty head of our cattle.

  Well, I done some cussing, then apologized to Nettie, who came up from the campfire to see what had happened.

  “Blackfeet,” Cap said. “Count yourself lucky they wasn’t war minded.” “Let’s go get ‘em!” Shorty suggested.

  Cap just glanced at him, but that glance said more than a passel of words. “Blackfeet, I said. You don’t chase Blackfeet, Shorty.

  You just count your blessings an’ let ‘em go.

  “Those were young braves, just out for a lark. They wasn’t huntin’ scalps, but you go after them, and they will. We lost some cows. Let’s move out of here.” “To where?” “Any place but here. They might get to thinkin’ on it and come back.” Tired as we were, we put out our fire, loaded our gear, and headed off up the trail.

  We found a meadow three miles farther on and bedded them down.

  Nobody set by the campfire that night; nobody wanted a second cup of coffee.

  Everybody crawled into his bed, and only the night guard was left.

  Day after day, we plodded on; we had lost cattle one way or another until at least a third of them were gone. Old Baptiste killed a mountain sheep, and we dined well, but it had been weeks since we had seen a buffalo. There was little talk now during the day. Fleming looked sour and discontented. He seemed to have been expecting something that did not happen.

  “Overlanders have come this way,” Cap said, “but it’s been a while.” All the tracks we found were old, and we were getting more and more worried.

  “Beats me where we’re to meet Logan, if he’s alive.” “That feller said he was dead,” Fleming said, “that he’d been killed.” “He’s a hard man to kill.” “A bullet will do it for anybody,” Fleming said. “If he’s hit in the right place, on

  man is no tougher than another.” “Seems like we’ve been pushin’ these cows forever,” Sh
orty said. “I wouldn’t mind standin’ up to a bar for a drink.” “Be a while,” Tyrel said. “You boys set easy. Goin’ back will be easy as pie.” “If we ever,” Fleming said.

  Nettie and Mary had been keeping out of the way. They knew this was a trying time, and they had done their best to help. Both of them had become good hands, although Mary—well she’d been born a hand.

  “If my brother is out here,” Nettie asked Orrin, “where do you think he would be?” Orrin shrugged. “There’s Barkerville, and there’s Clinton. I don’t know many of the towns, but I can tell you this. If he’s in this country or has been, some of those folks will know. This is a big country, but she’s right scarce of people. A body can be away up yonder at the forks of the creek, and somebody will have seen him. There’s nothing happens up here somebody doesn’t know about.” Fleming chuckled. It was a dry, rather unpleasant, skeptical chuckle. Nobody said anything.

  We’d been keeping our eyes open for sign.

  All three of us Sacketts expected it, and we knew the sort of sign one Sackett was apt to leave for another.

  We found nothing.

  We waded rivers, fourteen crossings in one day, and wove our way through some fir trees whose wet branches slapped us wickedly as we passed. The horses were game. They struggled through the muskeg, and finally we topped out on some reasonably solid ground.

  Supplies were running low, and game was scarce. All day we had seen nothing. Ducks flew over, the V’s of their flight pattern pointing south. In the morning when we awakened, there was a chill in the air.

  “Wonder what become of those Injuns we had followin’ us?” Cap asked one day. “I kind of miss ‘em?” “Little Bear,” I said, “now there was a lad.” “If we don’t get something to eat soon,” Lin suggested, “we’ll have to slaughter a beef.” Now there’s little goes more against the grain of a good cattleman than killing his own beef. But we’d left buffalo country behind, and we were fresh out of bear. Me, I was of no mind to tackle a grizzly unless he came hunting trouble, which they often did. A grizzly has been king in his own world for so long, he resents anybody coming around.