Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “It’s only a dream,” she said soothingly.

  “Yes,” he sighed.

  “Come here.” She drew his head down to the warmth of her breasts. He came willingly, feeling her soft skin against his weathered cheek. She held him as a mother holds her child, rocking him gently. After a while the trembling ceased and he was quiet for a few moments, then she felt him growing hard against her.

  He raised his head from her warm embrace and his lips sought hers, eager and demanding. As their mouths crushed together, only one thought rushed into her mind.

  Oh God, not again. That feeling inside of her began to grow, and spread. It was too good to be true.

  Oh God, not again, I can’t stand it…

  ***

  Thunderhawk sat his pony at the canyon rim, facing west, searching fruitlessly for the invisible mountains that stood beyond the horizon many miles away where his brother had fallen to the gun of the white man. Heart heavy with grief, he was scarcely aware the wind had picked up, or that the slate grey sky hung low over him, heavy with snow. It was as if his loss had upset his oneness with the world and his eyes were blind. His thoughts ranged over the days of his youth when he and his brother had hunted together, innocent of the future. He wondered if he would have savored those carefree days a little more sweetly if he had known what the years ahead would yield; the endless struggle to survive and hold their land from the greedy grasp of the white man. Satank had been right when he said the white men were like the coyote. No matter how many of them you killed there were always more.

  Thunderhawk’s eyes were iron hard as he sat his vigil, his war shield resting on his thigh, his war lance pointed defiantly at the sky. The three white man scalps on it would soon have another for company. The rising wind tore at his braids and he came back to the present, aware of the pony’s mane, whipped so that it stood straight out from the animal’s bent neck. He wondered how long he had been lost in his memories for the black was restless, his rump moving as he shifted his weight from hoof to hoof. The war chief’s mouth widened for the first time since his brother’s death. The pony knew. He would soon be following the path he had been trained for. The rangy black was no hunting pony; he was a warhorse.

  A dampness touched the Kiowa’s cheek, then his eyelash, the first snowflakes. Thunderhawk looked to the dimming sky as it released its gift to the earth. One after another the flakes fell until the air was a flurry of swirling snow, drawing the curtain even tighter between him and the invisible mountains. He shivered involuntarily beneath his buckskins, a cold hand pressing in the centre of his straight back and a chill settling across his shoulders. He was conscious that his face felt curiously dry in spite of the dabbing flakes. He could discern each line etched into his cheeks by the summer sun, hard cracks now as the wind tasted the planes of his face, laying a shroud like a thin sheet of ice all the way down from his hairline to the neck of his hunting shirt. His scalp prickled, his hands beginning to ache as the cold gnawed subtly into the marrow of his bones.

  In front of him the buffalo grass bent in abeyance to the wind, the settling snowflakes giving the appearance that the grass was flecked with jouncing cotton balls. He seemed impossibly alone at the crest, all the directions of the universe cut off by the maelstrom of scurrying snow he squinted into the wind that beat against his face. There was a blizzard coming, and without shelter a Texas blizzard could be the most harrowing experience a man could face, and there were many that had not lived to tell the tale of its cruel embrace.

  Even with the knowledge, still he sat the restless pony. He had shelter in the canyon behind him, a warm tipi lined with curly buffalo robes and a fire, but he did not allow that sanctuary to encroach on his sense of purpose. His reason for staying was obstinacy, a penance both for his slain brother and himself. Here, it was he, war chief Thunderhawk, a mere man alone against the elements.

  He would not run, and neither would he run from the white man.

  The snow was settling on the pony, the first dabs of damp quickly covered by a thick coat as he watched, and he knew too that the snow was covering his own head and shoulders. His hair felt icy and his feet were beginning to freeze in the stirrups. Jaw set, angry, he waited until he was shivering convulsively, almost blinded by the snow that was driving hard into his numbed face.

  It was madness to die here.

  He nudged the black gently with his heels. It was enough. The pony wheeled, anxious to reach the canyon bottom where he could share the warmth of his comrades, sheltering under the windbreak of the grove of mulberry trees and paw through the snow to rich grass underneath. On his back, his master the Kiowa war chief gave him his head, putting his trust in the surefooted pony. Even before man and horse dipped beneath the false horizon of the canyon rim their tracks were obliterated by the falling snow.

  It was as if the Kiowa had never roamed that wild land.

  CHAPTER 6

  “There was no money, I swear it!”

  Shuck Alison slapped her face again, her cheek so raw now that the bruised skin displayed the imprints of his fingers. “Don’t lie to me you bitch. I saw that gold ore plain as daylight. He must have it somewhere.”

  She cowered against the wall, fearful of the anger in his dark eyes. Her makeup was tear streaked, giving her the appearance of a circus clown. “It wasn’t there, honest to God. When he paid me he pulled the money off a small roll. Maybe $200, that’s all.”

  Alison considered her face. She’d always told him the truth after a couple of hard slaps, but this time he’d had to hit her plenty and the story still remained the same. “Why’d you let him jam a chair against the door?” he spat, changing to another tack. Although she was a whore by trade he still resented the fact she went to bed with other men, even if it was her money put food on the table in the bad times. This time it had been necessary.

  Her eyes flickered, knowing what he was getting at. “I never saw him do it. The lamp went out. He must have done it then. I didn’t know until morning.”

  “Goddam liar!”

  She automatically flinched. “It’s the truth,” she wept, hands clenched. “It’s you I love. I only do it for you, you know that. All these prospectors stink the same, like flea infested cats.”

  “Maybe so,” he grudgingly admitted, anger slackening. She had been loyal to him this far, so there was no reason for her to change now. “Okay. We’ll have to do it the hard way. Change of figuring. He’s not as easy as he appears, that old man.” As his mind turned over the problem, Shuck occupied his hands with wetting a cloth at the wash-stand. He squeezed out the surplus water then came over to where Anne Marie crouched by the wall. Stooping he wiped the mess of ruined makeup from her face, one hand tilting her chin upwards as he made soothing circular motions beneath her black lined eyes.

  “I guess I’m sorry about the dress. I’ll buy you a new one.” She followed his gaze with her own red-rimmed eyes. He was staring transfixed at her neckline where the green satin had ripped when he flung her across the room. One of her breasts was completely exposed, the soft pink nipple vulnerable. She looked up to his thin face and saw his expression had changed from anger to lust. She knew then that he wasn’t going to shout anymore. This was the way his rages so often ended. His mood would change abruptly, as though beating her had excited him, and he would demand her body, taking her ruthlessly, hurting her in his urgency.

  Now, his hands gripped her shoulders, touching the bare skin, then he tore the dress completely from her frail body. He lifted her and carried her to the bed. As he worked out his frustration, abusing her with his hard body, she lay placid, her mind wandering. Strangely, she felt nothing at all, aware of him only because of his grunts. It was of the prospector Morgan Clay that she thought. In a way she wished it was his strong and gentle arms that held her now.

  It was little she knew of the man, but one thing she did know, he was a man who knew how to get the best out of a woman.

  ***

  Flurries of snow whirled down t
he street as Morgan Clay jammed on his hat and hunched his shoulders to brave the biting wind. Redrock’s one and only thoroughfare was deserted but for a lone horse standing miserably on three legs, eyes closed against the driving snow as he tugged uselessly at the rein that tied him to the hitching rail. Morgan looked up at the falling sky and shivered, pulling the collar of the old wolf skin coat higher about his ears. The shiver wasn’t so much that he was cold but that he knew a big storm was blowing up; he’d seen the signs too often to doubt his judgement.

  He stepped down into the snow covered mud of the street and walked over to the old negro’s livery stable. The snow was falling so quickly now his tracks drifted before he reached the other side of the street. The weather recalled too many memories of hard rides on bad nights, feet frozen, steers bawling as the temperature fell below zero, mules so hungry they ate the manes and tails off each other. As he kicked at the snow blocking the livery door, head bent into the force of the wind, the worst image of all crawled into the edge of his mind. Riding day after day over a hard crust of deep snow without sighting another human being, then one morning he had crested the ridge. Before him in a shallow basin, the snow bore the sign of a hundred Indian ponies, in the centre a ragged heap that had been men, massed around a tattered cavalry standard. The frozen snow was pockmarked with crimson splashes of blood from the blued bodies stripped of uniforms and grotesquely mutilated. Each man carried five or more wounds from both arrows and bullets, every man scalped. Not one had been left a shred of dignity in death.

  The arrows had identified the Indians. Comanche.

  A flurry of snow chased Morgan as he entered the barn, the memory left outside as he stamped the clinging slush from his boots. The massacre was just another dream, fading to be replaced by the sound of horses blowing and stamping, and the cold grip on his heart was eased by the odour of warm horseflesh. Yes, the snow filled wind carried too many memories.

  The lineback dun was glad to see him, nuzzling his shoulder and whickering softly as he rubbed the damp muzzle, the horse’s hot breath pleasant on his cold cheeks. Even the bay acknowledged his presence, pressing up to his wolf skinned back. They both looked well fed and cared for. The old negro knew his job.

  “Glad to see you, suh.”

  “Yes,” Morgan smiled, turning to see the old man gazing affectionately at the two horses.

  “Mighty good horseflesh, suh.”

  “Yes,” Morgan said, rubbing the lineback’s nose.

  “Drink some coffee with me suh?”

  “Sure thing. Cold out.” He left the stall and joined the old man for the walk to his room at the end of the barn.

  “Befo’ the war, I was a stablehan’ fo’ a plantation boss back in Louisiana. Had him a whole stable full of horses. The wranglers used to round ’em up in Texas then drive ’em down to the plantations to sell.” The negro smiled, then looked sideways at the white man in the long grey coat. “But they never used to sell ’em horses like yours. The ones like them the drovers kept for themselves.”

  Morgan laughed. “Men who depend on horses always keep the best for themselves. Extra bit of wind or legs a mite longer than the rest can make the difference between living and your hair on some Indian’s lance.”

  “Know what you mean.” The negro nodded agreement, turning away to pour the coffee, then passed the cup to Morgan as he sat down on the narrow cot. “Somebody bin askin’ questions ’bout you.”

  Morgan frowned. “Tall youngish man? Sharp eyes. Pistolero?”

  The old man treated him to a lopsided smile. “Tha’s him.”

  Morgan waited, cradling the steaming coffee mug.

  “He was plenty nosey, and bad tempered with it.”

  “I bet.”

  “Asked how long you paid for the keep of your horses.”

  Morgan said nothing. If there was more the old man would tell him.

  “Asked if you offered either of ’em for sale, or if’n you wanted to buy others.” The old man examined Morgan’s face, expecting comment.

  Morgan looked over the rim of his mug and swallowed the scalding black liquid, then rubbed a hand across his nose and sniffed. “What’d you tell him?”

  The old man scratched his head like a simpleton before he grinned. “Told him you’d paid for a couple of weeks keep and that was all. Didn’t know nothing else.”

  Morgan smiled. “Good.” He dug into his coat pocket then extended his makings to the ostler. “Smoke?” The old man nodded, a scrawny hand reaching for the tobacco and papers.

  The heat of the pot bellied stove on his face, Morgan turned over the pieces he’d gathered together. So the pistolero was asking about his horses now? He wasn’t at all surprised, they’d tried nearly everything else. The second time he’d gone with Anne Marie she’d taken him to her room, then when he went back to his own room at the hotel two hours later he had plainly seen that someone had gone through his gear. No prizes for guessing who. He began to wonder what they figured for him next. He swilled the remains of the coffee and stood up.

  He soon found out.

  ***

  Anne Marie brushed her hair with long even strokes and then began to pin it up in the usual arrangement she wore when she worked the saloon. In the mirror she watched Shuck restlessly pacing the floor behind her chair.

  “That Goddam old man. He’s a wily one for sure. First time I seen him I figured him to be a natural. Now I ain’t so sure. It’s getting to be like shooting at a ten foot grizzly with a two shot Derringer. That old man’s got all the angles covered.”

  Anne Marie fussed with her hair. She knew it was no use talking to him when he was working things out for himself. If she interrupted now he would just lose his temper, and it had taken a week for her last bruises to fade.

  “Ways I’m figuring,” he continued, “he never carries the money around. There’d be too much of it for that. We’ve seen his roll a coupla times and there’s only been a hundred or so. So if he ain’t carryin’ it then he’s stashed it someplace. It ain’t in his hotel room, we’ve been through that, so where else can it be? He don’t know nobody in town. All the time I’ve watched him only places he’s been have been the livery, but that’s ’cos that’s where his horses are, and the saloon. Bought a box of ten gauge shells one day too.” Alison shrugged, his rhythm spoiled, then resumed his pacing.

  “What does that leave? Only the bank.” He pressed a finger to his pursed lips. “Why didn’t I think of that before?” He knew why. Most drifters like him never trusted banks overmuch. He’d met too many men whose saddlebags had carried bank loot at one time or another. They just didn’t seem to be safe places to leave your money. “Come to think of it, that day he came into town. When he left the bank he didn’t seem to be carrying much. Only that shotgun of his. Then after puttin’ his horses in at the livery he went into the hotel and never showed his face until he came into the saloon.”

  He stopped pacing then slumped into an overstuffed armchair in the corner, flinging a leg over an arm so his boot heel dangled within a few inches of the floor.

  “Okay. To find out where he’s stashed it we’ll have to clean him out then watch where he goes. He likes a game of poker. I’ll wait until he’s got himself set right into a game then I’ll fix it so’s I get a chair.”

  Shuck’s plan worried her. Anne Marie was all too aware of his methods of cheating. “Better take it slow, Shuck,” she warned. “He’s got a brain and if he figures you’re bottom dealing he’ll call you out. He’s got enough sand for that. If you have to kill him we’ll never find out where the money is.”

  Alison jumped up. “I know that!” he shouted. “I can be pretty damn sneaky too when it’s called for, y’know. I ain’t green. I’ve rolled plenty of old men like him.”

  “Yes, I know,” she said quickly, wishing she hadn’t spoken and searching for some means to sidetrack him from his anger. He was already out of the chair and coming over. The threat of his stinging hand speeded her thought process. “Shuck?
You ever hear of the Double Mountains?”

  Alison stopped. “Why?”

  “Just that one night he mentioned these Double Mountains. Said he’d killed an Indian there. I think that was maybe where he found the gold.”

  “He say what kind of Indian? Ute? Cheyenne?”

  “I think he said Kiowa.”

  Alison scowled. It was a dead end. “Kiowas live on the Staked Plains down Texas. There’s a Double Mountain there, but that can’t be the place. He wouldn’t have come here to winter, it’s too far west.”

  Anne Marie frowned and gazed off into space. “It was just something in the way he said it. It was as though it had only happened recently. He said he kept dreaming about this Indian and it really shook him up, but he’d only dreamed it twice and both recent. Is there another Double Mountain?”

  “I don’t know,” Alison frowned, “but I can as sure as hell find out.”

  “It might help.”

  “Maybe,” he admitted grudgingly. He had caught the drift of her reasoning. If the whole deal fell through and they managed to find out where he had discovered the gold, then it wouldn’t hurt to go and have a look.

  It was frail, but it was always good to have a back-up plan.

  ***

  The old buffalo hunter stank. His buckskins were greasy and stained with the blood and brains of many hunts. Alison had met plenty like him before on the trails, men who had farmed, trapped, ridden stage lines, then when it had been discovered there was big money to be made hunting hides, they had armed themselves with Sharps or Remington rifles and a team of skinners then had begun to systematically clean out the huge buffalo herds. It was filthy but lucrative work. The hides were the only consideration; the meat was unimportant. After the hides were peeled from the fallen beasts and a few choice hump steaks cut, the rest was left for the wolves and buzzards.