Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

It took time, but Alison found the gold diggings. There he also found Morgan Clay. The first afternoon he dismounted and reached for his field glass to survey the area ahead. Focused in the single eye of the lens was the powerful frame of the prospector, muscles rippling as he swung the pick in rehearsed, economical arcs. Up and down, up and down. The glass followed each step of Morgan’s movement; the swing, the stoop, the sorting though the spoils, waste discarded and the nugget caressed briefly in the callused palm before it was slipped into the neck of an ore sack.

  For minutes on end that first day Alison watched fascinated, then he tired of the repetitious motions and began to systematically sweep the ground above and below the prospector. It appeared Morgan was slowly digging his way up the mountainside as he followed the vein between the sentinel pines. Mounds of soil were heaped on either side of the workings, and he estimated Morgan must have spent one or two days of hard toil just clearing the way before he could begin to excavate the gold.

  Alison pulled out and established a camp on the other side of the mountain. He had figured it all out. He would come to watch the old man work from the timber for as long as it took, then when there was enough gold…

  Alison returned to his vantage point daily, leaving only to eat or sleep. The first day merged into a week, then the week into a month and then into two. The long days spent staring through the field glass were making him increasingly nervous. It was something in the set of the prospector’s shoulders as he worked. It was positive, an absolute surety in his own skill, the knowing of what he was doing. Alison found it irritating. When the effect became unbearable he would slip away down to the creek and bathe, a recurring tactic in his strategy against the lice and whatever else burrowed in his skin or squirmed in his hair. His body was a mass of red weals from his raking nails and the persistent nipping of the parasites’ minuscule teeth. The soothing water brought relief for only a few minutes at most, then the torment became unbearable again. His only reassuring thought was that after he had endured his purgatory the gold would be all his.

  Two months and five days was the absolute maximum Alison was able to stand the creeping discomfort. Even just one more day was beyond comprehension. He could not remember what life had been like before, and he had lost count of the months since he had enjoyed a night of undisturbed sleep.

  He could bear it no longer.

  On that Tuesday morning he cleaned his Henry rifle for the last time then crept up through the trees to his well used lookout point. For fifteen minutes he stared at Morgan Clay’s broad back, already shining with the first sweat of the morning. For all those days piled one on top of another Alison had watched him repeat the routine over and over. It was the work at which the prospector excelled, and all the while Alison had done nothing. Now was the time for him to reverse their roles and do the work at which he excelled.

  He brought the Henry to his shoulder and tucked the burnished stock against his cheek as he sighted along the blued barrel. His eyes settled on Morgan’s backbone, six inches below the base of the neck. From the angle at which he was shooting, the bullet would strike downward and pass through the centre of the heart. He took up the trigger slack, then waited for Morgan to lift the pick. He watched the shoulder muscles flex as the miner prepared for the swing, then the biceps bunch as he hefted the shaft. The pick rose, just as it had a thousand times. At the very instant it was held as its zenith, Alison’s mind froze the mental image of the man below him. His forefinger squeezed the trigger as gently as a mare nuzzles her new-born foal.

  The Henry cracked, and the morning quiet of the mountains was shattered.

  CHAPTER 9

  As sure as he was of his own skill, it was hard not to lever another shell into the breech. Just in case. Without thinking, Alison worked the Henry’s action and the spent casing ejected to land in the soft soil at his feet. The rifle still to his cheek, he waited for the powder smoke to disperse.

  The second bullet was not necessary.

  Morgan Clay was sprawled sideways in the excavation trench, his bronzed back a smear of thick red blood. He was still.

  Alison lowered the rifle and came to his feet to pick his way down through the pines to where the dead man lay. He was smiling.

  Suddenly he was a rich man. Rich as…rich as…well what did names matter? Rich as…Hell, rich enough. Even his little friends weren’t itching as much.

  His work wasn’t over. He had to collect the mule and the three horses, plus his own black, then carry the ore sacks, stringing them together two at a time. He decided to ride the dun gelding as it would be surefooted and use his own black as an additional packhorse. He loaded each animal with four sacks, sixteen in all. They could have managed six apiece, but his impatience had cost him the empty sacks that still lay by the workings. He cast an eye to Morgan, the wide splash of blood across his back slowly congealing in the sun. The flies had already come to feed and soon the red ants would be along to join in the feast. Then’d come the carrion, the crows and buzzards, before they were chased off by the wolves. Before you’d know it, there’d be nothing but a few scattered bones. Alison placed his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up into the dun’s saddle, looking covetously all the while at the heavy ore sacks that the packhorses carried.

  It was all over for Morgan, but for him life was just beginning.

  ***

  “You have done well,” Thunderhawk said, looking from the cairn of rocks covering his brother’s body to the view of the mountains in the west. It was a good place to spend the Big Sleep. A man would never tire of those majestic snow laden peaks, untamed as nature had designed them. No matter what the white men did, they could not steal away those. He studied the terrain, lost in thought, while on both his flanks his companions sat their ponies in silence. In the open space the breeze was noticeable as it brushed on leathery cheeks and teased the eagle feathers each of them wore.

  Crowfoot watched his friend. He knew Thunderhawk would allow the grief to burn out before working himself into a killing rage. After they sighted the white man he would weep extravagantly, using the release of his emotion to incite the other braves to revenge their dead friend. It was the Old Way, and Crowfoot knew that Thunderhawk rode that trail. The Old Way was best, when a man chose his own pony from the herd and rode it himself, or carefully selected the wood to fashion his bow. He nodded sagely at the set of the chief’s jaw. For all his need of revenge, Thunderhawk took his time, and it was well that it should be so, for a warrior does not approach these things bluntly, but looks long and carefully before he plans his tactics. He could see the tendons moving in their leader’s cheeks and he wondered what thoughts moved through his mind. Even as he watched, his friend broke his reverie and turned to the boy.

  “Soldier, you did well. You did it the right way. But there is something else you must do before my brother faces the Big Sleep.” He glanced pointedly at the old Remington rifle that lay across Soldier’s saddle, then up into the boy’s eyes.

  Soldier felt embarrassed. It had been wrong to take Comes-Walking’s rifle for the warrior would have need of it after he crossed the trail of stars and came to the valley where game was plentiful and the water was sweet, but he and Swift-Foot had decided to take the weapon so their hunting would be easier and their return possible before the coming of winter. Knowing it was wrong, Soldier had buried his own bow and the few remaining arrows from Swift-Foot’s quiver so Comes-Walking would not be unarmed on his last journey.

  Soldier had become attached to the rifle. Even though it had seen many summers, it had been cherished by its owner, and now as he knew what he must do, he looked down at it with regret. But it had to be done. He glanced up to see the chief gazing steadily at him, then at Crowfoot who nodded slightly. Ashamed he had hesitated, he slipped down to the ground and walked to the cairn where he laid the ancient rifle on the grass while he stripped enough rocks from the mound to bury the Remington and what little ammunition he possessed.

  When it was done he stoo
d up and turned to Thunderhawk who nodded his satisfaction and turned his pony towards the trees. Soldier looked after him for a moment and it seemed his heart was lighter now for completing his task. He vaulted into the saddle to find Crowfoot waiting at the fringe of the timber. He looked at the old Indian proudly.

  “I have no weapon now, but I will find the tree that will furnish my bow,” he said, although he knew the chances of finding a suitable hardwood tree and finding the time both to shape the bow and cut arrows was slim.

  Crowfoot was amused at the boy’s bravado. The lines round his eyes crinkled to accompany the widening of his mouth.

  “Perhaps,” was all he said.

  The Kiowas camped at the clearing where the elk had been brought down. Food was packed on the spare ponies so hunting was unnecessary. They had no wish to make noise while they stalked the white man who owned the big killing gun. Coyote handled the cooking chores and when all had eaten they brought out pipes and smoked.

  Thunderhawk puffed, then held the pipe to the six directions of the universe; north, south, east, west, up to the sky and down to the earth. Silently, he asked the Great Spirit to favor them in their hunt and to accept the smoke as the breath of the Kiowa Nation binding them on earth to Him in the sky. His prayer finished, he called for Soldier. Apprehensive, the boy stood bashfully before the fire, his eyes downcast.

  Thunderhawk gazed at him steadily for some moments, then nodded. “I am well pleased with you, Eks-a-Pana. You rode as the hawk flies, straight and true, not like the buzzard who quarters the sky in wide circles as he seeks to gain an advantage. You have led us here over plains and mountains without once losing the trail.” He paused to puff thoughtfully on his pipe. “You were careful too, to prepare my brother for his last ride, and for that I am grateful also.” The chief looked directly at the boy, appraising him. “What is more important, like a true Kiowa, you have not complained you are now without a weapon. You have earned your name, Soldier.” Thunderhawk nodded at Crowfoot who stepped forward to place a rolled up buffalo robe at the boy’s feet. “This is yours,” Thunderhawk gestured.

  Soldier hesitated, looking from the chief’s open palm to the skin, then stooped and unrolled it. He froze, then stood up slowly, his eyes still locked on the open buffalo robe. In the centre lay an 1866 Winchester repeating rifle together with three boxes of rim-fire bullets. He was speechless. Of all the warriors present, only Thunderhawk carried a repeating rifle. Even Crowfoot only carried a single-shot Springfield carbine. Astonished, Soldier gazed at the weapon. It still bore a thin sheen of oil coating the barrel. He lifted the rifle carefully and held it across his chest. No words would come to his mouth as he tore his eyes away from the Winchester and saw the glint in Thunderhawk’s eyes. Realizing his mouth hung open foolishly, he closed it, still unable to speak.

  Thunderhawk’s smile came slowly. “Use it well,” he said.

  ***

  His first thought was his cheek was sore. Splinters of golden sunlight pierced the slits of his eyes and danced agonizingly in the lens of his brain. If this is Death, then I don’t want it, there’s too much pain. He blinked and tried to focus. No good. The fierce yellow light refused to go away. Body next. He flexed his right hand then adventurously bent his arm at the elbow. Pain sliced between his shoulder blades and his mouth opened in a silent yawning scream. Soil tumbled in to silt his tongue but that was merely discomfort. The pain was the thing. After the first immediate stab, the now open wound subsided into an ache throbbing rhythmically, pulsing in his back. It jarred and twisted his mind into seething chaos.

  Morgan groaned once more and his eyes slid shut again for a long time.

  Next time, things were clearer. But for the golden light. That was as constant as ever. He squinted against a surge of pain, narrowing his eyelids to bring his vision into focus. He grunted aloud. If he’d had either the strength or appreciated the irony he would have laughed. The source of the eerie golden light was in reality a nugget laying only inches from his face. He must be in the trench. He drew his head back, afraid to move his body. The merest thought of the agony brought a stark terror, a fear he would be unable to move and would lay there till he died.

  Movement brought back the pain. Harsh, unbearable, but he bore it. He wasn’t so simple as to believe it had all been a nightmare and had gone away. Nothing else to do but endure it. Pain in whatever quantity was still preferable to death. Slowly, teeth gritted, he brought his good arm beneath him and pushed himself up. Once raised on an elbow, he paused, mouth taut as he gasped, tortured nerves searing their way across his back in a river of fire. When it subsided a little he managed to turn his head.

  The gold stash was gone.

  He expected nothing less. Suddenly his stomach twisted as gnarled fingers had grabbed at him and were crushing his bowels. He vomited, retching time and again until it was pointless for there was nothing left to vomit. Head drooping, he swayed on his elbow, mouth slack, drawing down clear mountain air.

  In an effort to forget his bodily ills, he concentrated on his predicament. So Sharp Eyes had trailed him after all. God knows how, but he had done it. Morgan had underestimated him. He was angry at himself, but knowing Alison had missed his shot gave him a glimmer of hope. Not that he had really missed, but Morgan was sure he should have been dead right now, so that could be claimed as a miss. To a pistolero like Alison, anyhow. Just his style, to shoot a man in the back.

  Senses dulled by the raging pain of his wound, Morgan could not keep his thoughts running on one track, as an inner voice over-rode them, commanding, insistent. Stay alive! He caught hold of the notion and began to crawl. His breath came in broken gulps as each movement flooded his body with torment. But a man’s instinct is stronger than love or pain. Stay alive! He slithered, clawing his way with broken nails over the mountain grass. His eyelids drooped with the effort. Stay alive! Keep moving. Find safety. Once you stop, that’s it. You’ll die then. Danger? Sharp Eyes gone, no danger there. What happens when night comes? Wolves? Yellowed fangs snarling in the darkness. Lean grey shapes nursing a hunger in their bellies. He’d heard them calling every night, howls drifting on the breeze through the canyons. They look silver in the moonlight, eyes sickly bright, muzzles sniffing the wind for the hint of a kill. The scent of blood! He must be covered in it from head to toe. As he wriggled slowly he could feel the wetness on his right shoulder and there must be dried gore too, drawing them to him. Stay alive! How long till dark? He bent his head slowly back but the canopy of branches denied him knowledge. A while until sunset at least, the shadows not too long yet. Wolves. What else? bears? He’d seen small black bears, but no grizzlies. But he could not discard that threat. Mountain lions, another possibility. Stay alive!

  Crawl. It hurts like hell. It hurts as bad as the preachers say it must have hurt Jesus on the cross. But He was moving onto better things. You aren’t. Keep moving. Oh Lord how it hurts. Another yard nearer safety. A foot, an inch, but for God’s sake put an arm forward, then a leg and pull. Pull! Gasp. Screaming pain! Oh, sweet Jesus. Forget it, the pain. It’s all in the mind. Really? Whoever said that didn’t have a rifle bullet in his back, did he. Stay alive! Control it. Think of what you’re going to do to Alison when you catch up. Think of all those days you spent blistering your hands, digging in the earth. All that time you’ve got to claim from him. How will he repay it? All he’s got is his skin. Good, I’ll take it out of that. If nothing else, if Alison is so greedy for gold you can ram nuggets down his throat until he chokes on them. Either that or they come out of his ass. He laughed, a dry rattle through split lips. That would be something. A man who shits gold bricks.

  Stay alive! Crawl, dammit, crawl.

  As he struggled to blot out the pain, only his willpower driving him onward, he was unaware of where he was crawling. He did not even notice the rain when it began to fall. Somewhere in the fog of his mind he associated the growing dampness of his shirt and the ground below him with the weeping bullet wound. Not daring to look,
he crawled blind through visions of bloody grass and trees with dark red trunks.

  Morgan Clay was a hard-headed man, strong and supple, but the growing loss of blood and the painfully slow mechanics of movement drained every ounce of his energy. It was only as he collapsed, sobbing with pain, when his passage was blocked by a solid rampart of rock, he realized where he had been headed all along. The supply cave. The renewed hope of shelter spurred him on and he summoned the last ounces of his strength to inch along the rock wall. Torn by thorns and scraped by branches, he pushed past the bush that disguised the entrance and sank to the floor, wedged between the flour sacks and the damp cave wall.

  Before he relinquished his hold on consciousness he remembered what had kept him going. The nagging reminder. Stay Alive!

  ***

  The white man’s camp was deserted. Pots and pans were strewn around, and no fire had been lit for two days. The scout, Littleman, pointed out the rain soaked ashes. At the clearing’s edge Thunderhawk and the other braves waited on their ponies, keeping clear of the camp so that the scout could read the sign. It had not rained for long, but enough to scour away most of the tracks.

  Littleman traced the trail down to the gold workings. The ground there looked more promising. Five shod horses leave a lot of tracks, especially if four are loaded with gold ore. The scout’s mouth flickered with what passed for a smile. The sign was pretty much washed out, but what was left was all he needed. If need be, he would have tracked the white man by scent alone, so great was his desire to please Thunderhawk. A war chief who has ridden for twenty sleeps and many miles with a war party was unlikely to be discouraged by the rain washing out a few tracks. It might slow them down, but then they had all the time in the world. They would hunt the white man from the coming of the sun in the east to its dying in the west each day, and for as many days as it took. He pointed to the tracks that led off to the east then vaulted onto the back of his chestnut pony. He waited as Thunderhawk prodded his black war pony forward, then craned over the animal’s neck to look down at the confusion of hoof prints before he glanced up at his scout.