Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

  As Crowfoot had predicted, the shortened train of pack animals began to head along the eastward trail. Littleman came to his feet and moved swiftly, cutting through the undergrowth to the next clearing. He barely managed to reach the stand he had chosen earlier before the white man came into sight.

  He aimed carefully to the rear of the iron grey’s shoulder for a lung shot, swivelling as he followed the horse’s progress. He took up the slack on the Sharp’s trigger then paced the grey a moment longer before he fired.

  At the bellow of the rifle the horse staggered, then its head sank between the buckling forelegs, froth bubbling pink from its muzzle. The weight of the dying animal stopped the pack train in its tracks. The bay, lashed in front of the grey, began to whinny as it shied. from the scent of blood. The mule stood stock still, only twitching ears betraying its interest in the sudden death of its comrade.

  Alison twisted in his saddle then leapt to the ground. He ran back to the fallen grey, quickly slashing through the lead rope with his knife. He glanced furtively round, then joined the mule to the bay and began to struggle free the ore sacks from the dead animal.

  Littleman eyed his handiwork as he plucked the red hot casing from the Sharp’s breech and pushed in a fresh bullet. When the white man bent to retrieve the sacks he aimed carefully and placed the bullet neatly through the crown of Alison’s sombrero.

  Alison swore as the hat tumbled to the ground near the mule’s hooves. He ducked quickly, scanning the timber, then scurried to his hat, abandoning the gold.

  “Damn Indians,” he cursed. They had tricked him after all. He should have waited. He had no chance out in the open. He would be dead before he could put a shell into the Henry’s chamber. Not only that, he had only a vague idea where the two shots had come from, and wasn’t sure if they had both come from the same place. It sounded like the same rifle. So, what? Leave the gold, son, and run.

  He snatched up his sombrero and jammed it on his head as he ran back to his horse. Another bullet creased the air behind his head and he needed no further urging to spur the horse into a gallop.

  As he raced headlong into the growing night he cursed fluently. Two animals gone now, and worse, six of the gold sacks lost in one swoop. He kept to the eastward trail, riding hard. The bigger the gap between him and them the better. He was scared now. Somehow it seemed to be a game the Kiowas were playing. The first shot had clearly shown the marksman’s skill, so why had the other bullets missed their mark? And if it was a game, what did they really have in mind? He had once seen the remains of a man tortured by the Comanche, and he had no reason to believe the Kiowas knew less about the subtle art. That thought made him spur the black harder along the shadowy trail, blisters from the packsaddle or not.

  Goddam them, he thought. They wanted the gold and his life.

  With a little bit of luck, they would get neither.

  ***

  The dun gelding snuffled at the ground, ears twitching. He was tired and would have liked to graze for a while and roll in the dewy grass before sleeping, but the big saddle was still on his back. Where the blanket had rubbed, his hide was almost as sore as his flanks where the man had raked his spurs during the flight. Although the dun was used to gunshots because his master had often hunted from the saddle, it had been nerve-wracking to have the bullets flying directly at him. The other horses hadn’t helped, neighing and snorting and kicking up dust when they caught the scent of the Indian ponies. During the gunfire, when the man was busy behind the rock wall, the dun had taken the opportunity to jump the boulders and canter into the trees. Blowing, his flanks trembling, he had tested the breeze and found himself downwind of the Indian ponies. He still found their scent disturbing. It was strange and wild and brought peculiar images to his brain. He had cut round in a wide circle, avoiding all contact with the alien ponies, then had chosen a deer trail that led back westwards towards the mine workings where he knew his master was.

  He found only the merest hint of a blood trail in the flattened grass, picking it out carefully among the moccasin prints and began to follow it with the concentration of a blue tick hound. The trail was familiar and the dun soon recognised where it would lead.

  He was right.

  ***

  Morgan awoke from a snatch of sleep and heard the rustling of the brush at the cave mouth. He could only remember the journey from the mine workings to the supply cave as a haze of pain laden images that had been interminable. But he had made it. Now, his first thought was that Alison had come to finish him off, but then he recalled the gold had already been gone before he began to crawl. There was nothing for the gunman to come back for. Perhaps it was just a wild animal sniffing round. It could easily have followed his blood trail.

  He cast about for a weapon, but there was no gun with which to defend himself, only the hunting knife, tucked in his boot. The pain sprang alive in his back as he tugged the knife free and inched towards the entrance. His breathing was ragged, hissing through his teeth clenched against the agony of his wound. It took a long time to cover the few feet.

  His arrival brought a delighted snort of welcome and a stream of hot breath washed over him. He pushed the brush aside and a velvet muzzle poked in to gently rub his cheek. After a few minutes the horse turned away to graze contentedly under the overhang. Morgan smiled through his pain and gazed affectionately at the animal.

  His luck was changing.

  The lineback dun had come back.

  ***

  An hour before sunup Alison woke wide eyed and shivering. He came straight from his blankets and scouted the fringes of his camp with the Henry for company. He saw no sign of the Kiowas and returned to kindle a tiny fire to make coffee and a hot meal. He squatted painfully as he turned the hunks of sour belly in the skillet. His night ride through the timber had rubbed his thighs and buttocks raw. What he would have given for some soothing ointment and a decent saddle.

  There was no time to think of such things.

  The Kiowas had driven him northwards, away from the trail that led down to the pass. They would figure he was making for there, then down the foothills to the prairie, and they were playing at delaying him. As sure as stallions like mares they would be waiting for him to hit the pass and then take him. So? He would change direction. A little further north he had seen a long hogback ridge that should bring him out within good riding distance of Clay Springs, roughly fifty miles north of Redrock. It would take a few days longer, but now his gold supply had been reduced, if he headed for the springs then he wouldn’t have to meet up with Anne Marie. She had all those ideas of grand living in San Francisco or somewhere, pretending to be a lady. The thought brought a grumble of laughter to his stomach. Her a lady! Christ, once a whore, always a whore.

  Come to think of it, the banker in Clay Springs wouldn’t be suspicious and would be more than willing to trade with him. Why not? Fox everybody injun fashion. He grinned at his reasoning, then quickly swore as he stood up. His pants chafed painfully against his thighs. He saddled the big black and then loaded the ore sacks onto the mule and the bay, pausing only to rub gently at one of his sore spots or to dig out a louse from his shirt and crack it between his fingernails. He snorted as he flicked the broken insect into the grass. The bugs had almost become part of him. Now he could even sleep while they rampaged over his flesh and it didn’t bother him.

  By the time dawn broke he was on the trail. He cut north, climbing steadily as he aimed for the hogback. When he came to a creek that ran square across his path he rode into it and waited while the horses drank their fill. If his tracks did not emerge on the other side then chances were the Kiowas would figure he had gone east toward the safety of the settlements. They would follow, searching for where his tracks left the creek bed.

  Only there wouldn’t be any tracks.

  He would go west, contrary to common sense, then double back onto his chosen route. Only when he found hard ground that would leave little clue to his passing would he bring the hors
es out of the creek. With any luck, by the time they had waited him out at the pass, then found where he had ridden into the creek he would be long gone.

  He turned upstream and travelled slowly, the rocky bed of the creek treacherous. The horses frequently stumbled, but he kept them moving as he searched the banks for rocky ground.

  After an hour, he found the place. The covering of soil had long been eroded away to expose a long shelf of sandstone that sloped down into the water like a ramp. He sawed the black’s reins and the horse clambered up from the creek bed, dragging the weary bay, but at the rear the mule grew cantankerous, liking cool water caressing its spindly legs. Alison swore and rode back past the bay. A few swipes with the coiled lariat and the mule lost all desire to linger, stepping stiff-legged onto the shelf.

  Alison sat his horse for a moment to consider his next move. The day was growing hot, sun spilling across the high timber and pockmarked rocks. He was sweating as he looked off to where the hogback lay, obscured by rising ground, and brushed the moisture from his forehead. He wondered where the next water lay. There should be plenty in high ground, but you never could be sure. He fumbled the cap from his canteen and gulped lukewarm water. Less than half full. He was lucky he had a canteen at all. Only by chance had he packed the spare one on the mule. He had lost his own when the lineback had been stolen by the Indians. After tossing away the rest of the canteen’s contents and refilling it, he took the horses into the sparse timber then returned with a branch to painstakingly brush out the hoof prints left in the dust. It was slow work.

  The only warning was a brief rattle.

  Alison swung round, dropping the branch as the bay screamed and reared, hooves churning the air. Cursing, his hand dipped instinctively and came up holding the Colt. Then he saw the big diamondback rattler swishing through the grass. He eared back the hammer, then stopped himself. It was no use shooting now, the snake had done its work and gunfire would bring the Indians as quickly as a bear scenting a honey pot.

  Still swearing, he strode to the horse. It was on the ground, legs scrabbling at the air. The ugly bite was on the left hind leg and the flesh was swollen with venom. He stared uselessly down at the horse.

  There was nothing he could do. It would not be long until the bay was dead.

  CHAPTER 11

  The old negro whistled gaily. He always enjoyed every opportunity that came his way to escape the confines of the livery stable. He had Mr. Erikson to thank for this chance, or rather his big white gelding. During a stay in town the white had taken sick and Mr Erikson had left him at the livery with orders to bring him out to the ranch as soon as he was fit. Just a touch of fever, a couple of days sweating it out then the horse was as frisky as a yearling. Mr. Erikson was a fine man, and his wife was an exceptional cook. Her sweet potato pies were about the best thing a man ever tasted, especially a man who ate his own fixin’s all the time. The thought of dinner brought the saliva to his mouth. What more could you ask than a fine day to ride out in good country air that would give you a hunger that would be well satisfied at dinnertime? Maybe just a little company to jaw with along the way.

  Company is what he got.

  The horse wandered aimlessly from the clump of cottonwoods and stopped upwind on the trail. The negro’s whistle died away to be replaced by a frown. He knew that horse. It carried a rider slumped low over the mane, one foot hanging free. Then he remembered.

  He halted the white and sat still. The dun gelding eyed him warily. He began to talk aloud and the horse cocked an ear in his direction. When he was sure the horse was calm, he slipped down from the saddle, leaving the white’s reins trailing, then began to take one step at a time towards the lineback.

  The dun’s ears twitched, recognising the lilting cadence in the old man’s voice. The voice that had become associated with a warm stall in the dead of winter and a full stomach of oats. He waited patiently as the man cautiously advanced.

  A bloodstained blanket was wrapped around the rider’s back as he lay along the neck of the horse. He was unconscious, hands twisted into the lariat wound round the saddle horn to prevent him falling. The old negro gazed helplessly at Morgan Clay’s washed out face and hollowed cheeks for a moment, fingers moving restlessly at his sides. The ailments of horses he knew well, but men? They were another story. Shifting his feet in agitation, he laid a hand on the dun’s neck, making soothing noises as he glanced back over his shoulder at the white.

  The ranch. It was only over the next rise. Mrs. Erikson would know what to do. Women seemed to know instinctively about these things, especially those down home women who could make do and mend, living as they did out on the land where there was nobody to call on for help. They never knew what they would be called upon to cope with from day to day.

  Nodding at this logic, the ostler led the gelding down to where the white and his own saddle horse waited, then mounted up. The white shied a little from the blood smell, but soon came under control and he was able to move off towards the ranch at a walk, casting fearful glances behind lest the wounded prospector should fall.

  ***

  Thunderhawk pointed.

  “Littleman, ride east. Coyote, you ride west. When you find the place report back. We will wait.” He jerked his head then watched the two scouts split, each following a bank of the creek. The obvious direction for the white man to have taken was east, but he recognised the white man was now playing them at their own game. Absently, he patted the black war pony’s neck and his hand picked up a layer of sweat. It had been a taxing ride for the ponies up the steep trail from the pass. The trap had been laid well, but the game had not shown up.

  So be it. Soon it would be down to just the white man and him alone. The fat-taker had only three horses now and then his feet would grow sore, running for his life. The chief looked off to the west. He did not know why, but the feeling was strong in his stomach that the quarry had gone west. It was too positive to ignore.

  Crowfoot appeared next to him and he slipped down from the saddle to stand with his friend.

  “The ponies are tired.”

  “Yes,” Thunderhawk answered, glancing at the foam-flecked mouth of the black. “The respite will do them good.”

  “You are wise to use two scouts.”

  Although his face betrayed nothing, Thunderhawk took inward satisfaction from the compliment as he turned to examine his friend’s face. Crowfoot’s face was blank too, but Thunderhawk thought he detected a twinkle in his eye. “If you had been me, the To-Yop-Ke, the leader of this war party, what would you have done?”

  Crowfoot’s mouth moved, then he grinned and looked off to the creek, gazing reflectively at the running water. “I would have used two scouts. What else?”

  Thunderhawk laughed and slapped his friend’s back. “Come, let us smoke a pipe together. Our minds ride the same trail.”

  ***

  Eks-a-Pana, the Soldier, was diligently cleaning the new Winchester Thunderhawk had given him when Coyote cantered from the trees. The boy consulted the sun, then turned his attention to the shade where the chief and Crowfoot were sitting, passing the time as they waited for news. At the sound of hoof beats they rose and watched the scout ride in. Soldier pushed the last bullet into the Winchester’s magazine then walked to within earshot. On the other side of the clearing, Running-Dog, who had been tending the ponies rose also and joined them.

  Coyote brought the pony to a standstill and slipped to the ground. Thunderhawk stepped forward and placed the straw in his hair. “Tell it.”

  Coyote looked from the chief to Crowfoot and then back again. “I found the place. A plate of rock running into the creek. The trail beyond had been swept with leaves but I found it. Back from the creek the bay horse with the black ears is buried under some cedar boughs. It had been bitten by a snake, then its throat had been cut.”

  “What of the sacks?” Crowfoot asked.

  “They were buried an arrow flight from the horse. The white man had taken much care in hidi
ng them.”

  “How many?”

  Coyote spat, holding up six fingers. “He is truly a fool. They were filled with the yellow rocks, the same as Littleman found on the grey horse he shot. No coffee, no flour, no bullets, just yellow iron.”

  Thunderhawk grunted. “I told you he was worthless this fat-taker. There is no doubt you were right, Crowfoot. This white man is a thief and a murderer. To kill a man for the yellow iron.” He shook his head in disbelief, then squinted shrewdly at the waiting scout. “What did you do with them?”

  “As you ordered. I moved them from their hiding place and reburied them.”

  Thunderhawk nodded. If the fat-takers were so hungry for the yellow iron, he was sure the Mexican Comancheros would trade many rifles for the sacks. If all his braves were armed with repeating rifles like his own, then he would be able to protect his lands and his people from all the white men to cross the horizon. “Which way do the tracks lead?”

  “North for a short distance, then they swing back east.”

  “Whichever way he rides he will always swing back to where the sun rises. For his yellow iron to be worth anything he must take it where there are white men to trade with.”

  Thunderhawk looked at Crowfoot from under hooded eyes. “You are right. He cannot outfox us.” He fell silent, staring at the horizon, his lips moving almost soundlessly. Crowfoot had to strain to hear the words. “Make no mistake, white man, I will kill you as surely as the sun dies each day in the west. And when I catch you, you will wish you were already dead.”

  ***

  The bugs were driving him crazy. Crawling, biting, making him itch as though he’d fallen into a nettle patch. He was sick of scratching and slapping and hunting out the little sons of bitches. He was edgy too. Constantly looking over his shoulder expecting to see a Kiowa in full war paint bearing down on him. He was under no illusion he had shaken them off at the creek. Give them long enough to look at a man’s sign and they could figure out how tall he was, what color his hair and skin were, what he’d eaten for breakfast and even the last time he thought about something. They were that good.