Snake Eyes (9781101552469)

by Sherman, Jory

  To his dismay, he saw Mike and Joe look up at them from their perches on a log, their bowls of mutton stew in their laps, puzzled looks on their bronzed-leather faces.

  “Uh-oh,” Brad said.

  Sorenson said nothing. He was still short of breath.

  “You can put Monty up under that big lean-to we use as a stable,” Brad said. “Do you want some liniment or bandages for his ankle?”

  “No time,” Sorenson said. “I’ll doctor him later. Just get me a horse so we can try and catch up to those women and kids.”

  “We might catch up to them. They’re hauling two wagons and going through rough country along the river.”

  “Let’s hope,” Sorenson said as they reached the stable. He led Monty inside, dug a halter out of his saddlebag, removed the bridle, and slipped the halter on the horse. Then he unbuckled the cinch on the saddle and stripped it off Monty’s back, removing the saddlebags and his bedroll. He dumped them in a heap on the ground.

  Brad took the bridle from him and slipped it onto the dun he had brought down from the ridgetop, the horse that had belonged to the man he shot.

  “I recognize that horse,” Sorenson said. “It belonged to a puncher named Grunewald.”

  “Well, he won’t need it anymore,” Brad said. “The horse is yours now.”

  “I wondered about that boy,” Sorenson said. “That the one you shot dead some days back?”

  “I reckon,” Brad said.

  Sorenson began to saddle the dun while Brad took the halter off Ginger and slipped the bridle over his head.

  Mike and Joe entered the shadowy interior of the stable. They wiped stray food scraps from their mouths.

  “Going somewhere, Brad?” Mike asked.

  “This is the man I told you about, Mike. Thor Sorenson. He’s got a line on where Snake might be and we’re going to try and track him down.”

  “Where?” Mike asked. He walked over to Sorenson, who was throwing a blanket on the dun.

  Sorenson turned to look at the sheepman.

  “Schneck rode out to meet up with a herd he’s got coming up from the Cheyenne Trail,” Sorenson said. “We might be able to catch up to him if we hurry.”

  “I am Mikel Garaboxosa, Mr. Sorenson,” Mike said as he extended his hand. “Brad vouched for you, so I am grateful for your help.”

  “Mikel,” Sorenson said as he shook Garaboxosa’s hand.

  “Call me Mike. And this is Joe Arramospe.”

  Joe nodded and stepped up to shake Sorenson’s hand.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Sorenson,” he said.

  “Likewise,” Sorenson replied. He slung the saddle over the dun’s back and adjusted the blanket until they were both in alignment. He leaned down and grabbed the single cinch, pulled it up under the horse’s belly, and ran the bitter end through a metal ring. He drew the belt tight, made a loop in the leather, ran the tongue through it, and pulled it tight. He tested the seating by pushing the saddle horn back and forth. Satisfied, he placed his saddlebags behind the cantle, tied on his bedroll. Finally, he slid his rifle into its scabbard and made sure it was a tight fit.

  Mike and Joe walked over to Brad and watched him saddle Ginger.

  “Joe, would you mind bringing my rifle and shotgun out from where I bunk?” Brad asked.

  “No. I will get them,” Joe said.

  “Do you have plenty of ammunition?” Mike asked.

  “In my saddlebags,” Brad said.

  “Do you want any of my men to go with you?”

  “No,” Brad said as he tightened his cinch. “I think Thor and I can handle it.”

  “I wish you the good luck, Brad,” Mike said.

  “Thanks, Mike,” Brad said.

  Joe returned in a few minutes. He handed the Winchester’73 to Brad and held up the shotgun. He watched as Brad holstered the rifle and hung the sawed-off shotgun from his saddle horn.

  Brad took his canteen off a wall nail and hung it from his saddle horn on the opposite side from where the shotgun dangled.

  “I’m all set, Thor,” Brad said as he led Ginger out of the stall.

  “Me, too,” Sorenson said.

  “Be careful, both of you,” Mike said. “I may not be here when you get back, Brad. Joe and I are going to check on the sheep to see if they will all make it to the new valley by sundown.”

  “I’ll find you,” Brad said. “Wherever you are.”

  “Will you take Schneck to Denver if you catch him?”

  “In a day or so, yes,” Brad said.

  “Good. I want to see him before you take him down there to be hanged.”

  “I’ll have to protect him once he’s in my custody, Mike. That’s the law.”

  “I know. I won’t kill him. I just want to spit in his face.”

  “I think that’s legal,” Brad said. He pulled himself up into the saddle and looked down at Joe and Mike.

  Sorenson rode up beside him.

  “The horse is named Fledermaus,” he said to Brad. “Good horse.”

  “German name?”

  “Grunewald was German, like Schneck,” Sorenson said.

  “What does the name mean?” Brad asked.

  “It means ‘bat,’ I think. Fledermaus is a flying mouse. The Germans have long funny words for things.”

  “You mean like the Swedes?”

  Sorenson laughed.

  “Yes, we have the long words, too, and some of them are funny to English ears.”

  “So long, Mike,” Brad said. “Joe.” He touched a finger to his hat in farewell and turned Ginger toward the same trail the sheep had come up the day before. Sorenson followed him on Fledermaus.

  Brad looked back just before they rode out of sight. He was relieved to see Mike and Joe walking back to the chuck wagon. He was worried that they might be concerned about the direction they were going.

  “The wagon tracks are easy to see,” Sorenson said as they rode in the shadows of the tall pines over the rough road.

  “They’re about six or seven hours ahead of us, and we can’t ride fast over this rough ground. We’ll end up with two lame horses if we do.”

  “Still, we must hurry,” Sorenson said. “Schneck will be waiting for those women and children.”

  “Yes, I know,” Brad said. He gave Ginger his head and the horse walked faster but did not break into a lope or a trot. Sorenson kept up with him, and the two men rode side by side.

  Brad looked up at the sky. The lumbering thunderheads blotted out the sun, and they were in shadow. The wind had picked up and the pine needles rustled in the gusts that fingered them with chill groping fingers that carried ice in their veins.

  There was a chill in his veins, too, as he thought about Vivelda, Leda, and the other women, the small boys and girls that were heading toward a terrible ambush. He thought of Felicity, too, and was glad that she was far away and not with the Basque people in the wagons.

  He felt something squeeze his heart and in the cloud shadows, he sensed a brooding dread much like the portent of an oncoming storm in the very heart of a warm spring afternoon.

  He shivered inside his jacket and hoped Sorenson hadn’t noticed.

  Along with the dread, Brad knew, there was fear. He feared that they would not reach the women in the wagons in time.

  He feared that Schneck might be there first.

  He looked over at Sorenson. The man was staring straight ahead, steely eyed, his jaw hard as granite.

  The road ahead was empty and there was a deep silence in the woods.

  Now Brad could hear the wind blowing down from the high country, fierce with warning and filled with a penetrating cold that sniffed through the eyelets in his jacket and lashed at his bare neck, ruffled the brim of his hat and tousled Ginger’s mane.

  And now the thunderheads bore dark underbellies and the shadows on the trail deepened as layers upon layers of thick, heavy clouds floated below the sun, blocking its rays and its warmth, as if dusk were falling like a curtain over the lonesome mo
untains.

  TWENTY

  Halbert Sweeney cursed the thick stand of young aspen, the rocky ground, his blindness to the path ahead of him. Schneck had put him on point, told him to blaze all trees in his path every twenty yards or so. His arm ached from wielding the hatchet, and the joints in his fingers screamed in pain. One of them had turned numb from the cold and his having to force such a tight grip on the small, dull hatchet.

  He knew Schneck, Wagner, and Jackson were at least a mile or so behind him, and he hoped they were fighting brush and saplings the way he had for the past three miles. He kept listening for the sound of the Poudre, but he heard only bird calls and odd noises, probably made by deer and elk creeping through the timber.

  The ground beneath the horse’s hooves became soft, and Sweeney began to see pools of water created by melted snow. He came upon a small creek that wended its way through the aspen and fir trees. He followed a course parallel to the little creek and, as the sun rose ahead of him, he heard the distant whoosh-whisper of the river. Shafts of pale golden light streamed among the pines and aspen, spraying the lush spruce and graceful fir trees that seemed to be standing on tiptoe to embrace the morning light.

  Sweeney wanted to shout with joy as the sound of the river grew louder. Now he could hear it crashing over boulders and swooshing in the narrows as it raced between rocks. The aspen groves became thicker and the pines stood tall and lofty, their tops shining green in the light of the rising sun.

  He dared not whoop or holler, but he slashed a blaze on a sturdy pine trunk with a savage swipe of the hatchet.

  The ground became more treacherous and rocky, with slippery spots where the horse faltered in its forward progress. Saplings slapped at his face as the horse bolted through a patch of young trees and second-growth brush. Small leafy branches scraped and tugged at his trouser legs and the ground became a bog. His horse’s hooves sank in the mud and made a loud sucking sound when he lifted each shod hoof. It was rough going, but he could hear the river as it cascaded in full flight with snowmelt from high in the mountains. He could smell the river now and hear the crunch of rotted wood limbs as they smashed against rocks and tumbled into more obstacles as they hurtled down through foam and swirl, over boulders and sandbars, into riffles and eddies, caught in the swirl of a raging river at full tilt.

  Then, he saw it, the Poudre, raging like some wild torrent right in front of him. He rode to the edge and looked up and down the fast-moving stream. He saw the tattered road on the other side, its soil ground up by thousands of cloven hooves, rutted by wagon wheels, and scored by the ironclad feet of horses and mules. He drew in a deep breath and drank in the beauty of the river along a steep drop, its waters blue, green, and brown, beneath white-capped waves that leapfrogged over large boulders and smooth stones that jutted from the water like the humps of hippos or giant turtles.

  The sun glinted on the rushing waters, and tiny rainbows danced in the spray around the rocks. He looked up and saw the huge white thunderheads billowing out of the far ranges, blossoming on the blue sky like gigantic bolls of exploding cotton.

  Now, he thought, he would have to find a place to ford the river and then they all would have to find a place to ambush the wagons carrying the women and children coming down from the high valley. It seemed a daunting task at that moment because all he could see was a roaring river surging down a narrow defile, a stream that was nearly all dangerous white water. Yet it rounded a bend farther down where it disappeared in a pile of bubbling foam amid curtains of water spray.

  Sweeney waited as he gazed at the white-trunked aspen on the other side, the dense forest behind, and the trickle of another small creek finding its way into the river like some blind, groping talon.

  He waited for Schneck, Wagner, and Jackson. Four heads were better than one, he reasoned. They could search up and down the Poudre for a crossing and then hunt for a place to bushwhack the wagons.

  He listened for the sounds of his companions’ horses, but the roar of the river was too loud. He pulled a sack of smoking tobacco from his pocket and slid up a packet of papers. He removed one and made a trough between his fingers. He poured tobacco into the paper and closed it, rolled the paper tight around the loose tobacco. He stuck papers and sack back into his shirt pocket and licked the leading edge of the paper to seal it. He stuck the quirley in between his lips, dug a box of matches from his pants pocket, and lit the twirled end. The cigarette caught fire and he pulled smoke into his throat and lungs, blew out a stream of blue vapor. He tossed the burning match into the river and saw it die in a puff of smoke and disappear in the roiling waters.

  He rolled and smoked two more cigarettes before he heard the snorts of horses behind him, the splash of their hooves on the boggy ground. He turned and saw LouDon in the lead, ducking under a willow branch, his horse fighting the ground and surging forward, his chest bulging and shining sable in the sunlight.

  “Ho, LouDon,” Sweeney called and waved his cigarette at the man.

  “Christ, Halbert, you picked a hell of a damned trail.”

  “I didn’t pick it, LouDon. I just come straight to the river.”

  “You could have found an easier trail.” There were small red welts crisscrossing Jackson’s face and a trickle of blood streaming onto his forehead from his hairline. His shirt was freckled with twigs and fragments of green leaves and pine needles. He looked as if he had crawled through a tunnel of timber on his hands and knees.

  “Well, there it is, LouDon, the Poudre, and if you want, you can ride straight across and find us a hiding place.”

  “You couldn’t get two feet in them waters,” Jackson said. “You’d get washed down, smashed to a pulp, and plumb drownded before you could go another foot.”

  “Hell, I was just joking, LouDon.”

  “It ain’t funny. That there river’s in full flood.”

  “I reckon it is,” Sweeney said, and then he saw Wagner riding through the small trees, his horse’s feet sucking up mud with every step. Behind him rode Schneck, one arm up over his face to shield it from the whipping branches of the slender saplings. He bore a look of anger on his face, which was puffed up and marked by linear welts. His neck was bulging out of his collar, too, as if he were ready to do battle.

  Jim Wagner halted his horse next to Sweeney and Jackson. He slapped at his neck and mashed a wood tick. Sweeney, who had his shirt collar pulled up around his neck, saw Jim’s expression and laughed.

  “I got my first tick way back there and I been brushin’ ’em off my shirt for the past three hours.”

  “That’s the sixth one I’ve found drinkin’ my blood,” Wagner said.

  Schneck joined the trio and growled a sullen howdy, then asked: “What are you all jawin’ about?”

  “Damned wood ticks,” Jackson said. “I kilt a passel of’em on the way down here.”

  “Just be glad we don’t have cow ticks yet,” Schneck said. “But the wood ticks are bad enough.”

  “Yeah,” Sweeney said, “you can get what they call fever and rheumatiz from these here ticks.”

  Schneck surveyed the river. He picked a tick off the back of his hand. He had caught it crawling, with its brown and red back. It had not yet found a vein to bite into and suck his blood.

  “We have to find a crossing right quick,” he said. “Sweeney, how come you didn’t find us a fording place?”

  “Hell, Boss, I just got here and thought we’d have a better chance if we all looked for a place to cross.”

  “Let’s get to it, then. Those wagons will be coming down that road directly.”

  “The river takes a bend down a ways,” Wagner said. “That might be a good place if it widens enough. Goin’ to be tricky, though, even in shallow water.”

  “Well, our horses can’t swim across this swift water,” Schneck said. “We’d all get killed. Sweeney, you lead off and head downriver.”

  “Ain’t much bank on this side,” Sweeney said.

  “Go through the brush, the
n,” Schneck ordered. He slapped at his neck but came up empty.

  Sweeney turned his horse and headed downstream, crashing through tangly brush and supple saplings but staying on rocky hard ground.

  He reached the bend and rode beyond it. The river did widen there and was more shallow. The water raced over shimmering pebbles, and fish shadows darted in the shallows, dark shapes with a rainbow’s red stripe on their sides. Their backs glistened green when their fins broke the surface and the sun glanced off their oily, slippery skins.

  He rode a little farther and saw where the banks began to narrow again. He pulled on his reins and halted his horse. He waited for the other three men to catch up.

  “What do you think, Mr. Schneck?” he asked. “Reckon we can cross here?”

  Schneck, Wagner, and Jackson all looked at the wide shallows, the swift water.

  “Jim, can we make it across here?” Schneck said.

  “We can try, I reckon. Them rocks look mighty slippery, and I can see moss on some of ’em. An iron shoe could slip off and founder a horse pretty easy, I’m thinkin’.”

  “We haven’t got all day,” Schneck said. “Who’s going to try it first?”

  “Sweeney’s first in line,” Wagner said.

  Schneck fixed his gaze on Sweeney. Sweeney swallowed hard.

  “Halbert, you go real slow,” Schneck said. “We’ll wait until you get across, then follow your same track.”

  “How deep do you figger it is right here, Jim?” Sweeney asked.

  “Maybe a tad higher than your horse’s fetlocks, but lower than his knees. You ought to make it if you hold him to a real slow walk and lean him upstream.”

  “How in hell am I goin’ to lean this horse upstream?” Sweeney said.

  Jackson and Wagner laughed. Schneck scowled and looked upward to the sky to mark the sun’s path toward the billowing clouds that bloomed overhead.

  “We’re wasting time,” Schneck said. “Go on, Halbert. Ride across real slow.”

  Sweeney clucked to his horse and tapped his flanks with his spurs. The horse did not want to step into the water and balked. Sweeney took off his hat and swatted the horse between the ears.