“You’d better not get too close, ma’am,” one of the soldiers said, and stepped in front of her.
“Nonsense,” she responded. “He’s not going to hurt me. We’re old friends and I want to give him his coat before you let him freeze to death.” The soldier reached out to take the coat, but she abruptly ignored his hand and pushed by him. “I’ll put it on him,” she declared.
Surprised, and even a little amused by her typical aggression, he smiled at her as she stepped up and held the coat for him to slip into. “I’m much obliged,” he said as she stood before him to tie the belt that Morning Flower had attached. It was not until she pulled it tight that he felt the heavy object in the pocket of the coat, and realized what she had done at a terrible risk to herself. “Thank you, Lucy,” he said softly as she backed away a couple of steps.
“I owe you that,” she said before turning to the guards. “Now you can tie his hands.” She promptly turned away then and made her way back through the crowd.
With the prisoner now in the saddle, Lieutenant Carrington glanced at the departing woman with sardonic amusement for her act of compassion. He had more important things to think about than Jim Moran’s comfort, the foremost at the moment the acceptance of a gold shipment to be escorted to Fort C. F. Smith, where it would then be relayed to Fort Laramie. There was still the weather to be concerned with. The storm that had dumped over two feet of fresh snow was past, but the trails were still difficult to travel, and he was long overdue to return. Morale among his men was at a low point already and he feared the possibility of desertion by some if he didn’t remove them from the temptations of the wide-open mining town. With these problems in mind, he decided that they would have to make the long cold march, thinking it better than spending another night in Helena. So he ordered his detail to move out and proceed to the Dempsey Mine, where the shipment was even then being transferred from the originally planned freight wagon onto mules. The thinking was that the wagons could easily become bogged down in the snow.
The completion of the loading brought only partial relief of Carrington’s problems, for now he had half of his detachment of twenty troopers trying to drive a mule train, a task for which they were poorly trained. Nevertheless, he ordered the march to begin, although it was already well past noon when the mules were loaded. Leaving Helena, they started south, making their way slowly through the snow. The first day’s march saw only about eleven miles before darkness approached, and the troop was forced to stop and make camp while there was still enough light to clear away spaces for tents and find enough firewood to keep the fires going through the long cold night. Their choice for a campsite was in a cedar grove in hopes of gaining some protection from the wind and cold.
Throughout the long day, Rider sat stiffly in the saddle, his bones aching from the cold, wondering if there would be an opportunity for escape, for his mind had thought about little else from the time he was led from the jail. His only consolation was that his guards were as miserable as he, and were rapidly turning into a detachment of malcontents. When the troop finally went into camp, his hands were freed so that he could clear snow away for his place to sleep, although no canvas was provided for him to use as a tent. The horses were unsaddled and he was told that he would have to make do with his saddle and blanket to devise what comfort he could. With his hands free, it was his first opportunity to feel the object Lucy had slipped into his coat. It turned out to be a heavy knife, and under the lax supervision of his two guards, he deftly stuffed it under his saddle when he made his bed, thinking that when they retied his hands, he might not be able to get it out of his coat.
With several fires blazing, the soldiers prepared their supper. On orders from Carrington, the prisoner was given one cup of coffee and two pieces of hard bread. Carrington, himself, came to gloat over his captive and make sure he was secured for the night with his hands tied together and then bound by a rope to a cedar limb. “There’s no one to help you escape this time,” Carrington said. “Johnny Hawk’s not here. As a matter of fact, in the last telegram I got from Fort Smith, I was told that he was in the hospital at Fort Laramie and had taken a turn for the worse. They didn’t expect him to survive the night.”
This was especially sad news for Rider, for he had left with the feeling that Johnny was going to improve. In fact, it was almost impossible to think that Little Thunder would not always be here. Feeling the lieutenant’s eyes searching his for his reaction, he said, “It wasn’t Johnny that threw the bolt on that door.” It was a lie, but he saw no use in incriminating his friend.
“Who, then?” Carrington demanded, his obsession for a complete version of the incident driving him to know every detail.
“It was one of the boys there,” Rider said, making it up as he went along, “the younger one. I don’t think he remembered I was locked up in that smokehouse, and your guard was asleep.” He figured that was a safe story. He felt pretty sure the army would not file charges on the youngster.
“Damn!” Carrington swore as he re-created the picture in his mind. It never occurred to him that Rider might be lying. “Not that important, anyway,” he finally concluded. “Well, it’s time to turn in. I trust you’ll have an uneventful night. There’ll be a guard right here with you, so if you can’t sleep, you’ll have somebody to talk to.” The sarcasm was not lost on Rider. Carrington left him to go to his tent for the night, and Rider settled in as best he could with the first of his guards sitting facing him. None of the soldiers were exempt from pulling at least one two-hour tour of guard duty that night. Because they were carrying a large amount of gold, Carrington had more than doubled the number of pickets ordinarily on duty for a normal camp.
The first two guards pulled their shifts with minimal complaints. After that, however, each new guard that was roused from sleep to go on duty was grouchier than the one before him. Finally, an hour or two before dawn, one of the older privates took over the watch. He freshened up the fire before sitting down opposite Rider, and promptly started fighting against a strong desire to close his eyes. Before very long, he started nodding, closing his eyes for long seconds at a time, but every time Rider would shift his position, or make any movement, the soldier′s eyes would pop open immediately—until finally they closed and remained closed, even when Rider softly called out to test him.
This would be his only chance that night because it would be starting to get light in a couple of hours and he desperately needed the darkness in his attempt to escape. Working as quickly as possible, he pulled the knife from under his saddle, then spent valuable frustrating minutes trying to wedge the handle between his feet in a position that would hold it steady enough to allow him to saw away at his ropes. He worked feverishly at the stubborn rope, glancing every few moments at his sleeping guard, afraid he would awaken and catch him in the act. At first, it appeared that his plan was not going to work, for the knife seemed to make very little impression on the rope. He kept after it, however, and eventually the blade began to sink into the stubborn bindings. It seemed like forever before he sawed the last slender fiber and the rope suddenly popped free. Now the dangerous part of his escape attempt was before him. Moving as quietly as he could, he slowly got to his feet and paused to look around him, half expecting to hear an outcry of alarm. But there was none, so he picked up his saddle and blanket and stepped carefully out of the firelight.
Moving only a dozen yards or so at a time, he paused to locate the pickets in their movements around the perimeter of the camp before he proceeded again. He made his way in this fashion, crossing to the other side of the camp where the horses and mules were picketed on a long rope. In a low whisper, he tried to calm the horses, searching for the buckskin as he moved along the line of mounts and pack mules. The buckskin whinnied softly when he approached, and Rider wasted no time in throwing his saddle on the gelding’s back. Once he was saddled and Rider was ready to attempt to get by the pickets, he paused to weigh his options. He thought about cutting the rope, th
en making a lot of noise to try to stampede the horses, but he rejected that idea. At best, he would frighten only a few of the horses, but he would rouse the whole camp in the process. Best just to try to slip by the guards patrolling the perimeter without being seen, he thought, but he was concerned that, because of the gold they transported, the guard posts were too close together to escape discovery by at least one of them. Even as he considered it, he saw one of the guards walk over to borrow tobacco from the man at the next post. He glanced up to cast a worried look at the sky, imagining that it was already showing signs of light. Not for another hour, he sternly told himself. Then he decided what he would do.
Walking along the rope, he untied a couple of horses and six of the mules. Gently nudging them toward the edge of the cedars, he led his horse along with them, crouching low so that his silhouette would not be seen above the backs of the animals. As he had hoped, they moved slowly along with him, a couple of the mules drifting off to the side as they neared the picket line. When they were finally spotted, the guards acted just as he had hoped. “Hey, McCauley,” one of the guards called to the man next to him, “some of the damn mules is got untied.” Since there was no sign of stampede, in fact, the mules and horses were walking casually, the guard who had spoken first called out again. “I’ll go see if I can head ’em off and lead ’em back.” He propped his carbine against a rock and ran to try to turn the mule in front. Behind him, Rider picked up the carbine and, still hunched low behind his horse, led the buckskin off through the cedars where the guard had been walking his post.
Not until he cleared the last of the trees did he climb into the saddle and point the buckskin’s head across the valley, feeling as though he could be seen for miles with his dark form contrasted against the white snow. So far, so good, he thought, for there were no shouts of alarm behind him and no shots fired. His one purpose now was to put as much distance as possible between him and the soldiers, for there would be no trouble following his trail in the snow. Guiding his horse toward a line of hills standing out against the dark sky, he planned to strike the river within a few miles. He was confident in the buckskin’s ability to stay ahead of the troopers’ horses, for no horse was better in circumstances like these where strength and stamina were important, but he wanted to lose his trail completely. The opportunity came when he came to a wide stream, and riding down the center of it, followed it to the river. Spotting another stream that emptied into it from the other side, he urged his horse to enter the water. The buckskin did not hesitate, and Rider clenched his teeth against the bone-chilling water as it rose to his waist. He clung desperately to the saddle horn, afraid if he was swept off the horse, he’d freeze to death before he could swim for the shore. Finding it hard to catch his breath, he managed to guide the buckskin into the stream on the far side. His legs and lower body numb with the cold, he nevertheless was able to hang on when the horse came up out of the water and continued up the stream.
It was difficult to fight the almost overpowering need to build a fire and warm himself immediately, but he feared that all would be lost if he did not make sure he lost his pursuers first. In a stroke of luck, he came upon a bend in the stream where a sizable herd of deer had crossed. From the appearance of the churned-up snow, the animals had pawed around looking for grass before moving on toward the north. It was as good a place as any to leave the stream, so he followed the trail left by the herd with a fair amount of confidence that the tracks of his horse would hardly be discernible in the mix. His concern now was to get far enough in the hills to build a fire to dry his freezing wet clothes, and warm his horse. They had spent too much time in the cold water to continue on until they were both thawed out. A favorable sign was the appearance of the morning sun through the broken clouds overhead. It was going to be a better day.
Back in the cedar grove, the first rays of the morning sun that filtered through the branches of the trees revealed a distressful sight to Private Warren Hatcher as he sat up, rubbed his sleepy eyes, and stared at the empty space before him. He scrambled to his feet at once, looking frantically about him, desperately hoping to see the prisoner, but there was no one. Unable to decide what to do, for he knew he was in terrible trouble, he looked helplessly at the severed rope that had bound the prisoner while the sounds of the camp awaking reached his ears. Falling asleep on guard duty was a serious offense and he had no defense for his negligence. He did not have to wait long for his reprimand, for he turned to see Lieutenant Carrington striding toward him in the next moment.
Carrington didn’t say anything at first. Expecting to see his prisoner securely bound, he was startled and confused to find the guard standing wide-eyed in apprehension before the empty space. With no excuse, and unable to think of anything better to report, Private Hatcher said, “I think I fell asleep.”
Stunned, scarcely believing his eyes and ears, Carrington was speechless for a long moment before finally finding his voice. Then all his frustration exploded at once, and he shouted for his sergeant, frantically ordering him to get the troop ready to ride immediately. “Put out those fires!” he ordered. “Saddle up and get mounted! The prisoner has escaped.” Turning briefly back to Hatcher, he roared, “I’ll deal with you later.” There was no time for that now. “Find his tracks!” he ordered.
In the frantic pace to break camp, the pieces of the escape puzzle were discovered, fitting together with the incident of the mules somehow getting loose during the early morning hours, and the carbine that one of the guards lost in the darkness. Carrington was livid, and when the tracks were discovered leading from the edge of the trees, he ordered the column to immediately pursue. They hustled to load the gold shipment back on the mules as rapidly as they could manage, then started out after the fugitive amid the complaining of the men over having no time for breakfast.
The tracks were easy enough to follow. The time they had been made was uncertain, however. The hoofprints already had ice formed in them, so it was likely that Rider had escaped at the same time the guards were chasing the mules. Heading east across the valley, they followed the trail until it reached the stream where Rider had gone into the water. There was some time wasted there over the possibility that he might have gone upstream in an effort to lose them.
Carrington looked at the mountains in the distance, however, and decided he had to be heading toward them, so they followed the stream until it emptied into the river. “Well, he didn’t come outta the stream anywhere,” Sergeant McCoy said, “so I reckon he went in the river.”
“The question is, which way?” Carrington said. “Upstream or down?” Even though frustrated almost beyond control, he was aware that he was chasing all over Montana with an extremely valuable mule train, the primary purpose of which was to reach Fort C. F. Smith as quickly as he could manage.
Being not afflicted with the obsession that ruled the lieutenant, McCoy was more in tune with common sense. “Coulda gone either way, I expect. That man’s at home in these hills. I don’t give us much chance of catchin’ up with him—if he ain’t froze to death from bein’ in that river.”
Carrington took a few minutes to think about what he should do. He looked back at the string of mules loaded with heavy packs, and considered the risk involved in committing them to the swiftly running water. Though it pained him terribly to admit it, he knew he had no chance at all of catching Jim Moran and a fair chance of losing a valuable shipment. With a taste as bitter as gall in his mouth, he issued the order to turn south and head for Three Forks. Moran had defeated him again.
Chapter 11
He felt confident that he had lost the cavalry patrol for good, so the one thing on his mind was to keep from freezing. On foot, walking and leading his horse, he tried to get the blood circulating in his legs again, and each step delivered a feeling of tiny needles in the soles of his feet and frozen buckskins rubbing against his legs. He was searching for a good spot to build a camp and he trudged through the snow until finding a suitable place in a stand of
young pines, hard up against a steep slope, that would effectively block the icy wind that swept the valley. He had been fortunate to find that his saddle and saddlebags had been left intact except for the absence of his rifle, and the things he needed to build a shelter were still there. His first endeavor was to build a fire, so with trembling fingers he got flint and steel from his saddlebag and kindled a small flame in some pine straw. With no regard for the smoke generated by burning pine, he eagerly placed small sticks and limbs on his fire until he could feed the healthy flame with larger limbs. Still shivering, he warmed his hands until he thought he at last had some real feeling in them, enough to fashion a shelter. Then he bent several young pines over together and lashed them with a rawhide rope he carried on his saddle. Taking his hatchet and the knife Lucy had given him, he began to cut pine boughs to place on the framework of trees until he had fashioned a shelter large enough to lead the buckskin inside.
He spent quite some time rubbing his horse down before he was satisfied the big buckskin had suffered no lasting effects from his frigid bath. “Tough as wet rawhide, ain’tcha, son?” he said as he patted the horse’s face. When the buckskin seemed content, Rider peeled his wet trousers and underwear off and hung them on some limbs before the fire. Once he began to get warm, he started to feel an aching in his leg where the bullet had entered. Dr. Blake had removed the slug, but his leg had thawed out, and he could now feel the wound. He didn’t know if the wound in his back was serious or not, but the bullet was still in it. It seemed to bother him less than the wound in his leg. Dr. Blake had told him he was lucky that the bullet lodged in the muscle and had not hit any of his vital organs, and he felt it was more dangerous to try to remove it than to leave it alone. He was hungry, but too tired to attempt to catch something to eat. Although the back wound had not been serious, he had lost a lot of blood and this, combined with the previous night with no sleep, was enough to cause him to drift off to sleep.
Ride the High Range Page 20