As frustrated as his deputies, Tate had to agree, but he felt it was his duty to try. “I expect you’re right, Jake,” he said, while trying to think of what to do. “We know he had a camp somewhere in the mountains east of the valley. We’ll ride out a ways and split up. Half of us can ride north, the other half south, and see if we get lucky and cross a trail left by just two horses. When they had ridden about a quarter of a mile from town, they split up. “If you strike a trail that looks right,” Tate said, “fire a couple of shots in the air.” They divided then and set out on a fruitless hunt, for Rider had been smart enough to follow a well-traveled trail, making it impossible to discern his tracks from those of any others.
As the morning wore on into midday, it became more apparent to all in the posse that they were participants in a pointless exercise. This fact was emphasized by the lone suspicious trail that looked to be a possibility—the only one found with any potential. They followed it a mile and a half to a miner’s shack and an astonished miner. Tate could see it in the faces of his men as they sat their weary horses and looked to him to call a halt to the search. “I reckon he’s long gone from this valley,” he finally admitted. “More’n likely headed out of this part of the country.” They all nodded in agreement, all choosing to believe he was gone from the territory, even though they knew he had a camp in the Big Belt Mountains somewhere. No one of them could generate any enthusiasm for a lengthy search in the mountains. “All right, boys,” Tate said. “We’ve done all we can. Let’s head for home.”
After following a wagon trail to a shallow ford in the river, Rider had crossed over, leaving the wagon trail on the other side to head in a more northerly direction toward the pass that would take him into the heart of the mountains and his camp. Upon finding the camp again, he approached it very cautiously, alert for any signs that might indicate it had been discovered. When he was satisfied that it had not been, he dismounted and led his horses behind the pines and through the rock crevice that served as the entrance to the camp. All was as he had left it. As soon as he had taken care of the horses, and rewarded each with a portion of the oats he had taken from the stable, he went to work setting up his camp. There was plenty of food in the cache he had hidden before leaving for Fort Laramie with Johnny, so after clearing away some of the snow that had gathered in the front of his hut, he built a fire and filled his coffeepot with snow to melt for coffee. He was home.
Chapter 12
For the rest of that winter, no more was seen or heard of the legend the Blackfeet and Crows knew as Rider Twelve Horses. In the early spring, the Blackfeet reported his spirit had returned to the high cliff over the pass where he had first been seen. The sightings were brief and infrequent, but they were sure he had returned. Although several of the young men of the village had ventured into the mountains, hoping to get a glimpse of him before he vanished into the forest, there was never any clue that would lead them to his camp. As for the white people in Helena, Rider was soon forgotten—a brief episode in a violent history of the territory. Sheriff Tate was reminded of him once in a while when he happened to glance at the army carbine in his gun rack. And Arthur Tice would utter a swear word oftentimes when going in or out of the patched-up door to his tack room. For everyone else, Lucy McGowan included, the chapter involving the strange man in the mountains was closed.
Rider knew that he had been seen on several occasions, and with the coming of spring, he decided that it was time to move on to another range of mountains to hunt. For as Johnny Hawk had warned, there would be more young Blackfeet warriors trying to strengthen their medicine with a sighting of Rider Twelve Horses, and somebody might stumble upon his camp. The winter had been long, with many hours spent thinking about his friends in Two Bulls’ village, wondering about the fate of Johnny Hawk, for Carrington had said he didn’t think Johnny had made it. He often found himself thinking about the girl Yellow Bird. She had said she would wait for his return, but she had no idea he would be gone this long. He would have returned, but it was no longer safe for him to go back to Fort Laramie. There had been a lot to think about during the long nights, but in the daylight, the hunting had been good. Deer, elk, and bear were plentiful in his mountain home and he had a great number of hides to trade. He needed to trade because his supplies were getting low, including .44 cartridges for his rifle. He made it a practice to conserve his cartridges, using his rifle for bear and elk, and occasionally on deer if he couldn’t get close enough for his bow. He had made it a practice, however, to use the rifle only when hunting in the southern part of the mountain range, again because of the recent sightings of Indians. Finally he decided that he was going to leave his base camp for a while after he spotted a young Blackfoot warrior venturing close to his mountain, and he started out one sunny morning.
He wished that Johnny was here to take the pelts to the trading post on the lower end of the gulch, for he had no desire to venture that close to Helena. But Johnny had said that the store was a good distance from the town, so Rider decided that if he was careful, he could visit the trading post without risk of running into the sheriff or one of his deputies. Once he had the supplies he needed, he planned to move on up in the mountains west of Helena to look for new hunting grounds. Maybe the Blackfeet curiosity for the spirit of the mountains would die down if he was gone from his camp for a while.
Grover Bramble decided it was time to prop open the board shutters on his front window and let a little spring air inside his store. When he did, it was in time to catch a glimpse of a rider coming up the trail to his door, leading a heavily laden packhorse. At that distance, the rider appeared to be an Indian, but he sat unusually tall in the saddle, and as he came closer, Grover decided it was a white man. He continued to watch his visitor′s progress from the window until his horse pulled up before the hitching rail. Then he went to the door and opened it, and stood there waiting to welcome his customer. As soon as the big man was on the ground, it occurred to Grover who he was. He had to be! Tall, wearing clothes made of animal hides, his dark hair almost touching his shoulders, and a Henry rifle cradled in his arms, it was Rider Twelve Horses. Excited to meet a legend, he rushed out to welcome him.
“Looks like you got a load of furs there,” Grover said in greeting.
“I need some things,” Rider replied. “Johnny Hawk said you were a fair man to trade with.”
“Well, I try to be,” Grover said. “You a friend of Johnny’s?” It crossed his mind that it was Johnny Hawk who had told him the Blackfeet’s mysterious mountain spirit’s name was Rider, although he never claimed to know him personally. “I ain’t seen Johnny in quite a spell. I was afraid he mighta run into some trouble back up in the mountains somewhere.”
Rider paused to study the man’s face for a moment. It had been several months since he had heard English spoken, and it seemed that Grover′s questions were coming too rapidly. “I’m a friend of his,” he said. “I ain’t seen him for a spell, either.”
Grover waited for some embellishment on the simple statements, but there was none. Up close, he was taller than he had looked when he first dismounted, and the cold expressionless eyes that looked back at Grover struck him as the eyes of a predator. He decided at once that this man whom the sheriff had arrested for killing the big fellow named Bodine—and scalped him, so he had heard—was not one for idle chatter. So he said, “Let’s have a look at them pelts.” Rider nodded and went immediately to his packhorse to untie the furs, as Grover continued to watch. The last he had heard, Rider had been escorted off by the army. He was itching to ask how it came to be that he was riding free, but he was too timid to ask. Probably killed the whole damn patrol, he thought.
Upon inspecting the pelts, Grover was relieved to find they were of excellent quality. He had harbored some fear that they might be inferior and he would be obliged to tell this lethal-looking hunter they were of little value. But these pelts were filled out with thick winter fur, and he would be able to sell them to be shipped back east
. Even so, he still had some concern about giving Rider his price, afraid he might think it was not enough. When his figures were totaled, he handed the paper to Rider and said, “I reckon that’s about the best I can do.”
Rider spent only a few seconds to look at the number before nodding and saying, “That looks fair.”
They carried the pelts inside then and Rider selected his supplies, silently nodding toward one item after another until he had used up most of his credit. Pointing to the balance, he asked, “Do you know Arthur Tice?” Grover said that he surely did, so Rider said, “I owe him for a door. Will you give him this money?”
“I will,” Grover replied, and helped him carry his purchases out to pack on the horses. When they had finished, Rider said, “Much obliged,” and started to step up in the saddle. He paused when Grover extended his hand.
“If you get more pelts that look as good as these,” Grover said, “bring ’em on back here to trade.” When he noted a wary glint in Rider′s eye, he thought he understood the quiet man’s thinking, and added, “I won’t say nothin’ to nobody ’bout you bein’ here.” It was a lie because he knew he would have to brag about the transaction to somebody, but he promised himself that somebody wouldn’t be the sheriff or his deputies.
Rider′s gaze softened and he said, “’Preciate it.” Then he shook Grover′s hand and climbed into the saddle. Grover stood outside and watched him until he was out of sight, noticing that he didn’t go back the way he had come, heading toward the mountains to the west instead.
Satisfied that he had paid his debt to the owner of the stable he had broken into, he rode away from Helena to scout the mountains to the west, where he had never been before. Now that the weather was not quite so harsh, it was easier on his animals, although the mountains he now rode into were much like his home range in the Big Belts. As he climbed away from the broad valley, he came to many streams rushing with melt-off from the peaks above and there was abundant sign of elk and bear. It would appear to be a hunter′s paradise. I wish Johnny could have seen this, he found himself thinking. Then he remembered his old partner’s discontent with recent signs of aging, especially his eyesight, critical to a born hunter.
He spent over three weeks, moving from camp to camp as he gradually moved south, following the game trails, killing what he needed to survive and no more. As he continued south, he was surprised to come across small camps of miners on the streams flowing down some of the higher slopes. He was careful to avoid any contact with them, skirting wide around their camps. Finally, he decided that he must be heading toward another town, so he decided it was time to head back to his secret camp in the Big Belt Range. With that in mind, he made camp, tended his horses, and built a fire, planning to start back in the morning.
“Hello, the camp,” Billy Hyde called out.
“Hello, yourself,” came the reply as the two miners scrambled to grab their rifles. There had been several attacks on claims on this side of the mountain, and the two partners were not taking any chances with strangers.
“We’re miners like yourselves,” Quincy called back, “on our way back from Butte—mean you no harm. Saw your fire and just thought we might take a cup of coffee with you.”
“That so?” one of the miners replied, still skeptical. “We’re kinda low on coffee.”
“Well, then it’s good we happened along,” Quincy said. “We just stocked up on supplies and we’ve got plenty of coffee beans. We’d be glad to share and it’d save us from havin’ to stop right away to build a fire. We got a piece to go tonight before we get back to our camp.”
“Whaddaya think, Mose? Sound a little fishy to you?”
“I don’t know,” his partner replied. “Can’t be too careful, but they may be all right.”
“Don’t blame you for bein’ careful,” Quincy called out again. “I reckon we can just keep ridin’. Don′t wanna cause you no worry.” He gave Billy a wink. “Come on, Billy. We’ll wait till we make camp later tonight.” They turned their horses as if preparing to leave.
“Hold on, fellers,” Mose said. “We don’t mean to be unfriendly. It’s just that there’s been some trouble lately.” He looked at his partner for confirmation. Receiving a shrug, then a nod, he said, “Come on in.”
Billy and Quincy walked their horses into the camp and dismounted. “We could sure use some coffee right about now,” Quincy said. “It’s a pretty stout ride up from that town back yonder.”
“Like I said,” Mose commented, “we’re runnin’ a little low on coffee beans, so if you meant what you said about supplying the beans . . .”
“Oh, hell yeah,” Quincy quickly replied, and turned toward Billy Hyde. “Get some of them beans outta the sack, Billy.” Turning back to the miners, he asked, “You got your coffee mill handy? Ours is packed somewhere on that packhorse.”
After the beans were ground and the coffee on the flame, the two miners and their guests settled into a friendly conversation. “How long you fellers been workin’ this sluice here?” Billy asked. When told they had been working the stream since last fall, he asked, “Are you findin’ anything?”
“No,” came the quick reply from Mose. “We ain’t hit no pay dirt yet.”
“But you been here since last fall?” Quincy responded. “You musta had some reason to stay with it. Why, I believe I’da moved on.”
“I reckon we should have at that,” Mose said, and gave his partner a nervous glance.
The glance was noticed by Quincy and he chuckled. “Hell, I don’t blame you for playin’ it close to the vest. There’s been claim robbers hittin’ some of these spots. I heard there’s two of ’em workin’ these mountains.”
“Is that a fact?” Mose replied. “Do they have any idea who’s doin’ it?”
“No,” Quincy said with a wide smile forming on his face. “They got a description, though.”
“They do?”
“Yessir,” Quincy replied, enjoying the game he was playing. “One of ’em looks like Billy, there. The other′n looks like me.” Both of the victims grabbed for their rifles again, but they were far too late. Billy and Quincy had their pistols out and cut them down before they could even get a hand on the weapons.
Quincy casually replaced the two cartridges he had spent, then reached for the pot and poured himself another cup of coffee. Billy, on the other hand, was anxious to search for the dust they suspected was hidden somewhere in the camp, and immediately started rummaging through the packs lying outside the primitive shack the miners had been living in. “See if they’ve got anythin’ on ’em,” Quincy said, still taking his time with his coffee. “Remember that last feller had a poke tied inside his britches.” He was in no hurry to help Billy search the camp. There were no other camps nearby that might have heard the pistol shots. Had it not been for the fact that they had hit quite a few of the claims above the little town of Butte, and might be in danger of inspiring the formation of a vigilante posse, he would have considered using this camp for a few days before moving on north to new pickings.
After turning the shack upside down in their search, they were about to come to the conclusion that Mose and his partner had been telling the truth after all. “Them dumb bastards,” Billy swore. “There ain’t no gold here.” He delivered a kick to the back of one of the corpses to express his frustration. “They ain’t even got decent horses,” he added, looking at the two mules grazing near the stream. They had been very particular in the horses they kept from their robberies. They had no desire to herd a large number of horses, and in the event they encountered the law or a vigilante committee, they didn’t want to be caught with identifiable horses. As a consequence, they led only one extra horse each.
“Let’s go have a look around that sluice box,” Quincy suggested.
They walked down to the stream, where there was ample evidence of the digging along the banks that bore testimony that the two miners had been there for quite some time. “Don’t make any sense,” Billy said. “If them f
ellers hadn’ta been lyin’, they’da left this place long ago.” To demonstrate his disgust, he raised his foot and shoved the sluice over sideways. The wooden supports offered little resistance and the whole structure went over on its side. “Dumb bastards,” he concluded.
But Quincy’s eye had been captured by the unstable rock that had served as a base for one of the supports. It had fairly wobbled when the sluice went over, and was reason enough for him to wade into the stream and roll it over. “Here it is!” he announced, grinning in triumph as he pulled up two sodden pokes from a hole in the streambed. “All divided up nice and even.” He tossed one of the pouches to Billy, who eagerly untied the strings to look inside. Wading back to the bank with his ill-gained treasure, he said, “These ol’ boys was pullin’ pay dirt outta here, all right. If I was a man inclined to work for a livin’, I might be tempted to stay here a while and see how much more I could pull outta the ground.”
“By God, that’ud be the day,” Billy said, laughing gleefully as he peered into his poke. “Your hand ain’t never felt the handle of a shovel.”
“And it never will,” Quincy said with a chuckle.
They camped there that night, then moved on in the morning, leaving the bodies where they had dragged them, barely out of the light of the campfire. Satisfied with this final score when the pickings had seemed to be getting leaner, they had decided to head back north, toward Helena, not expecting further opportunities this far from the main strike in Butte. Staying close to the mountains, in lieu of an easier ride in the broad valley to avoid the chance meeting with a posse, they proceeded north through passes between grassy mountaintops and evergreen belts. Dark clouds drifting in from the northwest during the afternoon warned of a possible thunderstorm, but they continued on, hoping to avoid the rain until they had reached a campsite with some shelter as well as water for them and the horses. They were not to be so fortunate, however, for the clouds opened up and dumped a hard rain on the two riders, accompanied by vivid flashes of lightning and pistol-sharp claps of thunder.
Ride the High Range Page 22