We were a week out of Santa Fe when we found a spot in the bend of a creek among some rocks. When we'd forted up they left it to me to scare up some fresh meat as we planned to live off the country and stretch our store-bought rations.
That Montana horse could move. He could get out and go, lickety-brindle, and he was smart. We passed up antelope because no matter what folks tell you it's the worst kind of Rocky Mountain meat. Old-timers will tell you that cougar meat is best. Lewis and Clark said that, and Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, Uncle Dick Woolton, Jim Baker ... they all agreed.
Morning, with a bright sun over far hills, shadows lying in the folds and creases of the country, sunlight on cotton-wood leaves and sparkling on the river water ... a meadow lark calling. Montana horse and me, we sure loved it.
We took off along an old deer trail. This was higher country than before, the plateaus giving way to long ridges crested with pines and slopes dotted with juniper or pinon.
Suddenlike, I saw a deer ... and then another. Tethering Montana horse I moved up with my rifle. Feeding deer are easy to stalk if a man is careful on his feet and doesn't let them get wind of him. When deer put their heads down to graze, you can move up on them, and you can keep moving, very quiet. When their tails start to switch they're going to look up, so you freeze in position. He may be looking right at you when he looks up, and he might look a long time, but if you stand right still, after awhile he will decide you're a harmless tree or stump and go back to feeding.
I worked my way up to within fifty yards of a good big buck and then I lifted my rifle and put a bullet behind the left foreleg. There was another deer no further off and on my left, and as I fired at the first one I swung the rifle just as he was taking his first jump and my bullet broke his neck as he hit ground.
Working fast, I butchered those deer, loaded the choice cuts into their hides and mounted Montana horse. When I came out of the trees a couple of miles further on a half-dozen buffalo were running across the wind. Now no buffalo runs without reason.
Pulling up on the edge of the trees I knew we'd be hard to see, for that roan and me with my buckskin outfit fitted into the country like part of it. No man in this country ever skylines himself if he can help it.
Sometimes the first man to move is the first to die, so I waited. The sun was bright on the hillside. My horse stamped a foot and switched his tail. A bee hummed around some leaves on a bush nearby.
They came in a single file, nine of them in a row. Utes, from the description I'd heard from Cap. They came out of the trees and angled along the slope in front of me.
Now most times I prefer to stand my ground and fight it out for running can make your back a broad target, but there are times to fight and times to run and the wise man is one who can choose the right time for each. First off, I sat still, but they were riding closer and closer to me, and if they didn't see me their horses would. If I tried to go back into the trees they'd hear me.
Sliding my rifle across my saddle I said a prayer to the guardian angel of fools and covered maybe thirty yards before they saw me. One of them must have spoken because they all looked.
Indians can make mistakes like anybody. If they had all turned and come at me I'd have had to break for the brush and I'd have been fairly caught. But one Indian got too anxious and threw up his rifle and fired.
Seeing that rifle come up, I hit the spurs to Montana horse and went away from there, but in the split seconds before I hit him with the spurs, I fired. As I'd been timing my horse's steps I'd shot at the right time and I didn't miss.
My shot took out, not the Indian shooting at me but the one who seemed to be riding the best horse. My shot was a hair ahead of his and he missed when Montana horse jumped. We took out ... and I mean we really lit a shuck. There was nothing around there I wanted and what I wanted most was distance from where I was.
With that first Indian down I'd cut my sign right across their trail and now they wanted me mighty bad, but that horse didn't like Utes any better than I did. He put his ears back and stretched out his tail and left there like a scared rabbit.
My next shot was a miss. With Montana horse travelling like he'd forgot something in Santa Fe, there wasn't much chance of a hit. They had all come right at me with the shooting and I saw unless I did something drastic they had me so I swung and charged right at the nearest Indian. He was fifty yards ahead of the nearest Ute and which shot got his horse I don't know, but I fired three or four shots at him.
Dust jumped from the horse's side and the horse went down throwing his rider over his head into the grass, and when I went by at a dead run I shot into that Indian as I rode.
They were all messed up for a minute or two, switching directions and running into each other, but meanwhile I rode through a small creek and was out on the open prairie beyond.
We were eight to ten miles from camp and I wasn't about to lead these Utes full tilt into my friends. And then I saw a buffalo wallow.
Slowing Montana horse we slid into that wallow and I hit ground and threw my shoulder into the horse and grabbed his off foreleg, hoping to throw him, but Montana horse seemed to know just what I wanted and he went down and rolled on his side like he had been trained for it ... which he probably had, the Nez Perce using appaloosas for war horses.
Dropping to one knee, the other leg stretched out ahead of me, I drew a careful bead on the chest of the nearest Ute and squeezed off my shot. There was a minute when I believed I'd missed, and him coming right into my sights, then his horse swung wide and dumped a dead Ute into the grass. There was a bright stain of blood on the horse's side as he swung away.
It was warm and still. Patting Montana horse I told him, "You rest yourself, boy, we'll make out."
He rolled his eyes at me like he understood every word.
You would never have believed that a moment ago there was shooting and killing going on, because suddenly everything was still. The hillside was empty, those Indians had gone into the ground faster than you would believe. Lying there, knowing any moment might be my last, I liked the feel of the warm sun on my back, the smell of parched brown grass and of dust.
Three of the Utes were down in the grass and there were six left. Six to one might seem long odds but if a man has nerve enough and if he thinks in terms of combat, the advantage is often against sheer numbers. Sheer numbers rob a man of something and he begins to depend ... and in a fighting matter no man should depend. He should do what has to be done himself.
My canteen was full and I'd some jerked meat in my saddlebag, lots of fresh meat, and plenty of ammunition.
They would try to come over the rise behind me. That crest, only a couple of feet away, masked my view of the far slope. So I had out my bowie knife and began cutting a trench. That was a nine-inch blade, sharp enough to shave with, and I worked faster than ever in my born days.
It took me only minutes to have a trench that gave me a view of the back slope, and I looked around just in time. Four of them were coming up the slope toward me on foot and running bent over. My shot was a miss ... too quick. But they hit dirt. Where there had been running Indians there was only grass stirring in the wind.
They would be creeping on their bellies now, getting closer. Taking a chance, I leaped up. Instantly, I spotted a crawling Indian and fired, then dropped into my hole with bullets spearing the air where I'd been. That was something I couldn't try again, for now they'd be expecting.
Overhead there were high streamers of white clouds. Turning around I crawled into my trench, and just in time. An Indian was coming up that back slope, bent over and coming fast and I let him come. It was high time I shortened the odds against me, so I put my rifle in position, reached down to ease my Colt for fast work in case the others closed in at the same time. That Ute was going to reach me with his next rush. Some were down, but I doubted if more than one was actually dead. I wasn't counting any scalps until I had them.
Minutes loitered. Sweat trickled down my cheeks and my neck. I could
smell the sweat of my own body and the hot dust. Somewhere an eagle cried. Sweat and dust made my skin itch, and when a big horsefly lit on Montana, my slap sounded loud in the hot stillness.
Eastern folks might call this adventure, but it is one thing to read of adventure sitting in an easy chair with a cool drink at hand, and quite another thing to be belly down in the hot dust with four, five Indians coming up the slope at you with killing on their minds.
A grasshopper flew into the grass maybe fifteen yards down slope, then took off at once, quick and sharp. That was warning enough. Lifting the rifle I steadied it on that spot for a quick shot, then chanced a glance over my shoulder. Just as I looked back that Ute charged out of the grass like he was bee-stung.
My guess had been right, and he came up where that grasshopper had lit. My sights were on the middle of his chest when I squeezed off my shot and he fell in plain sight.
Behind me their feet made a whisper in the dry grass and rolling over I palmed my Colt and had two shots off before I felt the slam of the bullet. The Utes vanished and then I was alone but for a creeping numbness in my left shoulder and the slow welling of blood.
Sliding back from the trench I felt sickish faint and plugged the hole with a handkerchief. The bullet had gone through and I was already soaked with blood on my left side. With bits of handkerchief I plugged the bullet hole on both sides and knew I was in real trouble.
Blinking against the heat and sudden dizziness I fed shells into my guns. Then I took the plug from my canteen and rinsed my mouth. It was lukewarm and brackish.
My head started to throb heavily and it was an effort to move my eyebrows. The smell of sweat and dried grass grew stronger and overhead the sky was yellow and hot as brass. From out of an immeasurable distance a buzzard came.
Suddenly I hated the smells, hated the heat, hated the buzzard circling and patient--as it could be patient--knowing that most things die.
Crawling to the rim of the buffalo wallow my eyes searched the terrain before me, dancing with heat waves. I tried to swallow and could not, and Tennessee and its cool hills seemed very far away.
Through something like delirium I saw my mother rocking in her old chair, and Orrin coming up from the spring with a wooden bucket full of the coldest water a man could find.
Lying in a dusty hole on a hot Colorado hillside with a bullet hole in me and Utes waiting to finish the job, I suddenly remembered what day it was. It had been an hour ... or had it been more? It had been at least an hour since the last attack. Like the buzzards, all those Utes needed was time, and what is time to an Indian?
Today was my birthday ... today I was nineteen years old.
Chapter VIII
Long fingers of shadow reached out from the sentinel pines before I took my next swallow of water. Twice I'd sponged out the mouth of that Montana horse, who was growing restless and harder to keep down.
No chance to take a cat nap, or even take my eyes off the country for more than a minute because I knew they were still out there and they probably knew I was hurt. My shoulder was giving me billy-hell. Even if I'd had a chance to run for it Montana horse would be stiff from lying so long.
About that time I saw the outfit coming up the slope. They rode right up to that buffalo wallow bold as brass and sat their horses grinning at me, and I was never so glad to see anybody.
"You're just in time for tea," I said, "you all just pull up your chairs. I've got the water on and she'll be ready any minute."
"He's delirious," Tom Sunday grinned like a big ape. "He's gone off his rocker."
"It's the heat," Orrin agreed. "The way he's dug in you'd think he'd been fighting Indians."
"Hallucinations," Rountree added, "a plain case of prairie sickness."
"If one of you will get off his horse," I suggested, "I'll plain whip him till his hair falls out, one-handed at that. Where've you been? Yarning it in the shade?"
"He asks us where we've been?" Sunday exclaimed. "And him sitting in a nice cool hole in the ground while we work our fool heads off."
Rountree, he cut out and scouted around, and when he rode back he said, "Looks like you had yourself a party. By the blood on the grass you got two, anyway."
"You should backtrack me." I was feeling ornery as a stepped-on baby. "If I didn't score on five out of nine Utes, I'll put up money for the drinks."
"Only three took off when we showed up," Sunday agreed.
Grabbing my saddle horn I pulled myself into the leather; for the first time since I'd sighted those Utes I could count on another day of living.
For the next three days I was cook which comes of having a bum wing on a cow outfit. Cap was a fair hand at patching up wounds and he made a poultice of herbs of some kind which he packed on my shoulder. He cleaned the wound by running an arrow shaft through with a cloth soaked in whiskey, and if you think that's entertainment, you just try it on for size.
On the fifth day I was back in the saddle but I fought shy of Sate, reckoning he'd be too much for me, feeling like I was. So I worked Dapple and Buck to a frazzle, and ended up riding Montana horse who was turning into a real cow horse.
This was rougher country than before. We combed the breaks and drifted the cattle into a rough corral. It was hot, rough, cussing work, believe you me.
Here and there we found some branded stock, stuff that had stampeded from trail herds further east, or been driven off by Indians.
"Maybe we should try Abilene this time," I suggested to the others. "The price would be better. We just happened to be lucky in Santa Fe."
Seven hundred head of cattle was what we started out with, and seven hundred head can be handled by four men if they work like dogs and are passing lucky.
As before, we let them graze as they moved. What we wanted was fat cattle at selling time. In that box canyon they had steadied down a good bit with plenty of water and grass and nothing much to do but eat and lie around.
First night out from the Purgatoire we bedded down after a long drive with the cattle mighty tired. After awhile Orrin stopped near me.
"Tyrel, I sure wish you and Laura cottoned to each other more'n you do."
"If you like her, Orrin, that's what matters. I can't be no different than I am, and something about her doesn't ring true. Orrin, the way I see it, you'd always play second fiddle to her old man."
"That's not true," He said, but there wasn't much force in it.
After awhile we met again and stopped together. "Ma's not getting younger," he said, "and we've been gone a year."
A coyote made talk to the stars, but nothing else seemed to be stirring.
"If we sell this herd we'll have more money than any Sackett ever heard of, and I figure we should buy ourselves an outfit and start ranching. Then we ought to get some book learning. Especially you, Orrin. You could make a name for yourself."
Orrin's thoughts were afar off for a minute or two, gathering dreams somewhere along tomorrow's road. "I've had it in mind," he said finally.
"You've a talking way with you, Orrin. You could be governor."
"I haven't the book learning."
"Davy Crockett went to Congress. Andrew Johnson was taught to read and write by his wife. I figure we can get the book learning. Hell, man, if youngsters can learn we should be able to throw it and hog-tie it. I figure you should study law. You've got a winning way with that Welsh tongue of yours."
We drove through Dodge on to Abilene, and that town had spread itself all over the prairie, with saloons side by each, all of them going twenty-four hours to the day, and packed most of the time.
Everywhere a man looked around the town there were herds of Texas cattle. "We came to the wrong market," Cap said dourly, "we should have sold out in Dodge."
We swung the herd into a tight circle and saw several riders coming toward us.
Two of them looked like buyers and the other two looked like trouble. Orrin did his talking to the first two, Charlie English and Rosie Rosenbaum. Rosenbaum was a stocky man wi
th mild blue eyes, and I could tell by the way he was sizing up our cattle that he knew beef.
"How many head have you got?" he asked Orrin.
"Seven hundred and forty, as of last night," Orrin said, "and we want a fast deal."
The other two had been studying our herd and sizing us up.
"I should think you would," one of them said, "those are stolen cattle."
Orrin just looked at him. "My name is Orrin Sackett, and I never stole anything in my life." He paused. "And I never had anything stolen from me, either."
The man's face shadowed. "You've got Two-Bar cattle in that herd," he said, "and I'm Ernie Webb, foreman of the Two-Bar."
"There are Two-Bar cows in that herd, and we rounded them up in the Colorado country along with a lot of wild cattle. If you want to claim them get your boss and we'll talk a deal, but he'll pay for the rounding up and driving."
"I don't need the boss," Webb replied, "I handle my own trouble."
"Now see here," Rosenbaum interfered quietly. "There's no need for this. Sackett is reasonable enough. Get your boss and when the matter is settled, I'll buy."
"You stay out of this." Webb was staring at Orrin, a trouble-hunting look on his face. "This is a rustled herd and we're taking it over."
Several rough-looking riders had been drifting closer, very casually. I knew a box play when I saw one. Where I was sitting Webb and his partner couldn't see me because Sunday was between us. They'd never seen Orrin before but they'd both seen me that day on the plains of east Kansas.
"Cap," I said, "if they want it, let's let them have it."
"Tom," I wheeled my horse around Sunday which allowed me to flank Webb and his partner, "this man may have been foreman for Two-Bar once, but he also rode with Back Rand."
Cap had stepped down from his saddle and had his horse between himself on the oncoming riders, his rifle across his saddle. "You boys can buy the herd," Cap said, "but you'll buy it the hard way."
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