"I suppose we can wait for a chinook to come blastin' across, bringin' warm wind to melt the snow just a little."
The chinooks were about the opposite of a Blue Norther. That brought sudden blizzards and cold that made what we were suffering at the moment look downright balmy. But the chinook whipped along the eastern slopes of the mountains and brought warm, dry wind. God might be playing games with us, or maybe giving some promise that winter wasn't forever and spring would come eventually. But with only a month left in '86, spring might as well be a century away.
"Nimble winter?" I asked.
"Maybe that was what he said. Sven could spin the wild tales, danged near as good as you, Charlie."
"Put in a grain of truth and you can make anyone buy any tall tale as the Gospel truth," I said. "That always works when I'm puttin' forth a story."
"That one about Reel Foot. What's not true in it? It had the ring of truth to it."
"Most all of that was true," I said, though big parts lacked any hint of truth. Telling Rusty which parts those were brought my storytelling skills into question. Let him figure it out for himself.
"You and Reel Foot was trackers?"
"He was a trapper. Me, I enjoyed dealin' with the Indians, tradin' 'em for what they needed and gettin' blankets and beadwork to sell in Billings."
"I think I see tracks in the snow."
I snorted at this. Not finding tracks near this part of the creek would have been more impressive. The banks here stretched low and frozen, giving cattle an easy approach to a spot not packed with ice. The cows might not have the hooves to paw through the snow to get to what remained of the summer's grass, but they knew enough to come drink where the ice broke under a light tap with their snouts.
"I mean it, Charlie. Those are hoof prints."
"Horace or some of the others rode here. What's there to get so excited about?"
"They ain't been here. You remember what Horace said? Him and Early had avoided this part of the hills 'cuz they went after the stragglers to the east."
I looked up at the Crazies. That's what everyone called the mountains. Ragged, jagged, tearing off chunks of clouds and sending the white puffs down deep creases in their sides, they were everything I admired — and feared — about this wild, raw land. Just the sight of the mountains with the clouds and promise of a violent storm made me want to draw it in some pitiful way of letting others see what I saw.
More than this, I wanted them to feel the country the way I did. There was as much chance of that happening as it was of me getting to know that lovely little lady I'd seen in town. "You got a far-off look in your eye, Charlie. What's her name?"
"I do declare, you know me better 'n I know myself."
"It warn't about Maggie. She won't be comin' back. They never do. A season up here is more 'n most of them soiled doves can take. I'm surprised she didn't land herself a hubby."
"She deserves it," I said, but Maggie had faded from my mind. I remembered more the touch of her skin than the curve of her face, and I'm good at such memories. Everything the marshal had said about Mira Nell Cheshire fired my imagination. That had to be her I saw in town talking to the cowboy.
Arguing with the cowboy was closer to what had happened. It wasn't unusual for the cold to bring roses to a girl's pale cheeks, but the flush there came from passion. Anger. It could have even been more. I found myself envying the wrangler because of a barely overheard argument. That girl wouldn't get herself so worked up if she felt nothing for him.
I had to laugh at myself as I built story on top of story. It was always like this. A snippet of talk and this got built into a full-fledged tale to keep the wranglers entertained. There had to be some truth to it or the story fell flat, but as much as I liked to draw, I liked to concoct stories about as much.
"What do you make of it, Charlie?"
"I'd like to paint . . ." My words trailed off, smothered by a gust of wind cold enough to freeze a man's soul. Rusty meant something else than what ran through my mind, the layers of a story and the pictures to go with it piling up faster and faster.
I looked at the ground. Even a greenhorn could figure out what the tracks meant. Several riders rode alongside a small herd of cattle, driving them into the hills.
"We got ourselves some rustlers," he said. "I can make out three riders. No telling how many head they stole."
"A dozen," I said. He looked at me, eyes wide with astonishment. I shrugged it off. "That's a guess. There's no way I can tell from the tracks."
"Then how?"
"Mr. Phillips told us to go after the stragglers. I counted how many that was likely to be. We got a half dozen waterin' themselves at the creek. Over on the ridge I see a couple more. That leaves ten roamin' about huntin' fodder." I pointed to the trail. The way the snow had been disturbed and the muddy ground beneath all cut up by hooves finished my story for me.
"Here I thought you was as good as Horace at trackin'."
"I'll remember that in the future. It doesn't pay to give away secrets of how I do things."
"Hell, Charlie, you can tell me 'til you're blue in the face how you make all them purty pitchers. I've seen you with a pencil and with paint brushes, and the pitchers seem to fall out. Me, I have a hard time writin' my name."
"Rusty, you can't do more 'n put your mark down. And last time you signed a document, I had to help you with the X. You got more ink on your fingers than you did on the page."
This set off a lively discussion of whether he could write or even read his own name. That let both of us ignore the danger as we foolishly followed the tracks deeper into the foothills. I had my shooting iron strapped on today, and Rusty had a Henry shoved into his saddle sheath, so we had firepower to get us out of most trouble. Only the rustlers didn't pack their iron for varmints like we did. They wouldn't have any hesitation about ambushing a pair of overly curious wranglers hunting for beeves that had strayed — or been stolen.
The trail sloped upward more sharply as boulders rose all around. A butte to one side of the trail provided a good place for a sniper. I drew rein and studied the cliff face and what I could see of the top of that mesa. Whoever had shot Marshal Toms outside the Triangle K had been a good hundred yards away, about what I made it to be from where I sat astride Monte to the top of the cliff.
"What do you see?"
"Not a solitary thing," I admitted. Telling Rusty how my gut churned and I felt a mite faint at the notion of going on because of unseen drygulchers didn't set well. It never paid to fess up to cowardice with your partner depending on you. Men needed a partner to rely on.
"You want to fetch Horace and some of the others?"
"That's a fair notion. Are we up to shootin' it out with outlaws?"
"I got my trusty rifle. You're carryin' a six-shooter. If there's only two rustlers, we kin get back the OH steers."
A hundred yards is a fine shot. One of the rustlers had taken Marshal Toms out of the saddle with a single shot. It could have been me, though the flash of the badge pinned to Toms' chest afforded a better target. A quick look at the deserted mesa made me say something stupid.
"Let's go."
I snapped the reins, and Monte stolidly picked his way along the rocky path, moving up the increasingly steepish trail. Why the rustlers didn't steal the cattle and leave them in lower pastures never occurred to me. They had come this way with Mr. Phillips' property, and we were hired to herd and protect those cows.
A fifteen minute struggle brought us to a level stretch that widened out into about the most beautiful meadow you ever did see. Snow covered most of it, but here and there sun had melted through the crust to give fifty head of cattle — OH cattle — some fine grazing. Whoever had scouted the hill country and found this pasture deserved a bigger slice of the pie, even if I was giving away money from the sale of stolen cattle.
"Ain't all ours, Charlie," Rusty said in a low voice. "That there's the Triangle K brand on a few head."
"Good to know they'll steal
from anyone." I worked to get my six-gun free. In a holster up high on my right hip and under my coat made for difficult grabbing. "Do you see any of the owlhoots responsible for the rustling?"
"Ain't a human soul to be seen. They must bring the cattle up here and let 'em graze. Where do you think they take them?"
I couldn't tell where the north side of the meadow ended, but the southern held a stand of pines mixed in with a few junipers bent over from the constant wind. The way the trees grew in distinct clumps hinted that a natural trail of some size ran that way.
"They can drive them south to the railroad, load them on and the beeves will be out of Montana in a day or two."
"That makes the railroad crews part of the gang. Or do the rustlers run the brands so it looks like they're sellin' their own herd?"
Shrugging since it hardly mattered, I put my heels to Monte's flanks. The paint tried to rear. That being unusual behavior on his part put me on guard. And it saved my life.
Movement out of the corner of my eye warned me to duck low as Monte came up on his hind legs and pawed at the air. The bullet whirred past, missing me by a couple feet. Rusty started cursing. He dragged out his Henry and fired a couple times, not having a good shot from horseback. Even if he had been flat on his belly, the rifle resting on a rock, he wouldn't have done more than deafen himself from the report. Rusty was about the worst shot I ever did see.
The rustler proved no better. More than one slug whirled past me, but my horse kept me moving and a difficult target to hit.
"Take cover!" Rusty fired until his rifle came up empty, then waved it over his head. That drew the rustler's attention away from me. If I'd had the sense God gave a goose, I would have retreated to the pass leading in the meadow. The high rock walls provided more protection than anything to be found in the meadow. Even the cattle realized this simple truth and gave up their grazing in favor of a stampede. Fifty head make a wave of muscle and mean not to be lightly ignored. More than one cowpoke's got himself trampled into the ground in front of fewer.
I should have retreated, but Rusty had lost his senses. He tried to reload his rifle amid more rounds coming at him and the cattle snorting and stomping and running around, trying to decide where to stampede. While not the savviest wrangler, I knew my job. More than once I'd had to head off a stampede to keep the entire herd from running itself into the prairie. Any steer that stumbles gets kicked to bloody ribbons not fit for even Texas Pete's cooking knife.
Worrying my six-shooter from my hip, I cocked it and put my heels to Monte's flanks. The horse had more sense than I did and tried to veer away from the front of the herd. Knees pressed hard into Monte's shoulders, I kept him galloping toward the lead steer. I kept my head down if the ambusher tried to pick me off before going back to shooting at Rusty, then found the spot I wanted.
I fired. Once, twice, three times. The bullets went into the air since I intended only to frighten the leading steer into charging in the direction I wanted. A fourth shot finally caused the frightened steer to run where I wanted. Its nostrils flared, and pure white showed around its eyes. From the way my heart hammered and my temples felt ready to explode, we had more in common than I liked to admit.
The herd decided to become completely scared. The ground rumbled under their hooves, and I directed the charge straight for the fallen log where the rustler still shot at Rusty. It took him a few seconds to realize how the fight had changed. Rusty still reloaded and presented no threat. My shots had gone into the air. But a howitzer wouldn't stop the living tide breaking over the rustler's head.
Monte knew better than to try to outrun the stampede. Even better, I was smart enough to not try. My firing had done the deed, so I let the horse veer away. By chance we galloped straight back for the notch in the hills leading to the meadow. I laughed in relief.
"Rusty, get your carcass out of there!"
My shout caught him as he dropped a couple cartridges and fumbled to grab them before they were completely lost to him. He looked up, saw the rustler was running for his life with fifty tons of beef chasing him and knew I was right. He shoved his Henry back into the saddle scabbard and galloped toward me. His horse was more frightened and outpaced Monte, hitting the pass ahead of me.
I started to bask in the way I had pulled his fat from the fire, then realized what was wrong. Rusty and I were funneled down the rocky chute and coming behind, hell bent to run themselves into the ground and trample anything in their way, came a dozen of the steers that had broken away from the big stampede in favor of a smaller one of their own.
All we could do was stay ahead of them or we'd suffer the rustler's fate.
Chapter Seven
Steers smell awful, even in winter. My nose wrinkled and a sneeze built. I forced back the itchy feeling and swiped at my face with my coat sleeve. This brought my gun hand around. Two rounds left? I tried to remember if I had picked safety over firepower when I loaded the six-gun. Letting the hammer ride on an empty chamber keeps a bump or jolt from setting off a round to go into my leg or worse, into my horse.
Ahead, Rusty whooped and hollered as he hit the notch and careened down the steep slope of the trail we had followed into the meadow. If I called to Rusty to shut up and stop scaring the cattle nipping at my heels, I would have added to the din and scared them even more. Leaning over and twisting around so hard it caused my belly to knot up, I cocked my pistol and aimed at the steer overtaking me. He snorted and sent snot flying. His eyes were round and frightened, making me share the feeling. In a few seconds the steer, even with polled horns, would be alongside where a toss of his head would send the long horns into Monte's flank.
I fired. I'm no marksman, but for an instant I wished I was in a poker game drawing to an inside straight. The bullet went smack into the steer's eye and on through to its brain. When it dropped its head, hooves came flying up over its head. I'd never seen such luck, and since I wasn't making an inside straight with a hundred dollars in the pot, this would have to do.
Monte found the route through the pass and began sliding down the slope after Rusty and his flailing horse. All I saw ahead were hooves and tail swishing about and a rump up in the air. Since it wasn't Rusty's, he maintained his seat astride the horse. A quick glance back showed how the dead steer had stoppered up the rocky gap as surely as a cork shoved into a whiskey bottle. Not a drop leaked past, not a steer came reeling down the trail behind me.
Monte ran himself out. When he finally pulled up, I sagged forward and used my left hand to pat his neck. Words wouldn't come. My mouth had turned drier than the insides of a cotton bale. It took a few seconds to realize I wasn't patting Monte. My hand shook so hard it only seemed that way. I pulled back, tucked my six-shooter back into its holster and finally got my panic under control.
"You still in one piece?" I called out to Rusty. His scrawny mare had run itself to ground not twenty yards away. "I got a spare pair of jeans in my saddlebags. If you need 'em, I can give 'em to you so's you don't embarrass yourself in front of the boys."
"I'm so numb I don't know if I'm froze all over or dead." Rusty dismounted and led his horse back. The mare balked, but he kept tugging until they were a few feet away.
Not sure if I didn't need that spare pair of jeans myself, I slid my leg over the saddle horn and dropped to the snowy ground. The crunch and icy slip when I landed forced me to hang on to Monte. He didn't much appreciate it. I can't say I blamed him none.
"We got to tell Mr. Phillips." Glancing back up the trail told Rusty about my fears. "They been stealin' everyone's beeves," he said. "More than that, they're gonna shoot anybody tryin' to get 'em back."
"Deadly crew," I agreed.
Monte was flecked with lather. I felt a chill coming on myself. I'd sweat so hard getting away from the rustlers that wet soaked clean through my shirt and vest and into my coat. The cold wind threatened to turn it to ice now that my heart wasn't racing so fast and my breathing returned to normal. More than anything else, I wanted a pull o
n a full bottle of whiskey. That one drink would last half the bottle, only there wasn't even a pint flask in my saddlebags. Rusty was even broker than I was, so I knew he didn't have a bottle either.
I rubbed my chapped lips, trying to get enough spit so I could get some of the gumminess out of my mouth. I'd heard tell of Apache braves down in Mexico putting a pebble into their mouths to keep from drinking water they didn't have. Rolling it around stimulated their saliva and kept them from dying from thirst. The notion of a dirty rock in my gummy mouth didn't appeal to me. Instead, I scooped some snow and tried to use that to make speaking easier.
Still croaking, I said, "Think the horses'll let us ride?"
"Got to," Rusty said. "You think the rustler got hisself trampled to death?"
I nodded, the words still hard to spit out.
"That's gonna give us a few minutes head start. There's no way they kin not come for us now that we found their hideout."
I looked around and settled the details of the countryside into my head. More than one trail led back into the hills. Not having explored here, I had no idea if all those trails might leak rustlers aiming to ventilate us.
"Ride," I got out.
Monte proved agreeable enough letting me step up. Rusty had more trouble with his mare but finally we hit the trail back for the OH. The horses set the pace, unable to go faster than a slow walk. That made me nervous as a long-tailed cat flopped down next to a rocking chair. I would have reloaded my six-gun but I had shot all my ammo. Gambling is a terrible habit when you don't do it well. The last bunkhouse game had seen half a box of .45 ammunition trade hands — and it wasn't me tucking it into his saddlebags. One thing that had stopped me from going double or nothing in the next hand had been Early's insistence I put up my drawing pencils and paintbrushes. I only have a couple decent paintbrushes, and they took me most of a week to make from a squirrel's tail. I offered to do him a portrait if I lost, but Early had it stuck in his craw that the brushes were the reason I could draw. If he had them, he'd be able to do similar small pictures that brought the ladies rushing to me and bartenders willing to swap whiskey for drawings the size of a postcard.
West of the Big River: Boxed Set of Eight Western Novels Page 25