His first year had gone well. Although he lost a few head, the calves more than made up for it, and during the summer they increased and grew fat. Then had come a bitter winter that shut down early, locking the land in an icy grip that broke only in the late spring.
When he took stock he found he had lost over a hundred head, and the others were gaunt and unfit for sale.
The summer had been hot and dry, and as it grew hotter and dryer he had fought with all he had to keep his cattle in shape and get them through until fall. Late rains, on which he had depended, changed to snow, and now he was into the second of the awful winters. Bigger cattlemen than he were hard hit, but they had large herds and could stand some loss. Every one he lost hurt severely. With all his money gone, he had sold off his gear until all he had left was his Winchester .44 and his riding gear.
Wearily, he got to his feet, banked the fire, and crawled into his bunk, too exhausted to even worry.
He awakened to utter blackness and cold. Huddling in his blankets, he dreaded the thought of the icy floor and the shivering moments before he got the fire going.
The instant his feet hit the floor he felt an icy chill, and knew at once what it was.
The pogonip! The dreaded fog that even the Indians feared, an icy fog that put a blanket of death over every shrub, every tree, even every blade of grass. Bitterly cold, and the ground so slick it was inviting broken legs to even move, the air did strange things with sound so that voices far away could be distinctly heard.
Kicking back the blanket, he pulled on his socks and raced across the floor to stir up the fire. Uncovering some coals, he threw kindling into the fireplace and then raced back to the warmth of his bed to wait until some of the chill had left the cabin.
The kindling caught fire and the flames leaped up. After a while he got out of bed, added more fuel, and put coffee water on the fireplace stones. Then he dressed, and as he tugged on his boots he saw the cigarette ashes spilled on the floor from Stiber’s cigarette.
Where was he now? Had he reached the cave on Copper Mountain? Or had he realized what a trap it might be? The cave was deep, and held a certain amount of warmth, but to have reached it Stiber would have had to travel half the night over rough and dangerous trails. Yet he might have done just that.
On the third day of the pogonip snow fell, covering the ice with a few scant inches of snow. Taking his rifle and slipping on his snowshoes, he started his hunt. From now on life would be a grim struggle to stay alive. He cruised through the woods, seeking out likely places for deer. He had been out for more than two hours and was slowly working his way back toward his cabin when he saw a mule deer floundering in the deep snow. It was not until he killed it that he discovered its leg was already broken, evidently from a fall on the deadly ice.
The following day it snowed again, snowed slowly, steadily. Cold closed its icy fist upon the mountains, and his thermometer dropped to ten below, then to twenty below zero. On the morning of the tenth day it was nearly fifty below; his fuel supply was more than adequate, but it kept him adding fuel every fifteen to twenty minutes.
Long since, knowing the cold at this altitude, he had prepared for what was to come, stopping up all the chinks in the log walls, few though they were. He had squared off the logs with an adze when building the cabin, and they fit snugly. Only at the corners, carefully joined though they were, did some cold air get in. With newspapers he had papered the inside of the cabin, adding several layers of insulation.
With careful rationing of his venison, he figured he could get through the cold spell if it did not last too long.
Despite himself, he worried about the fugitive on Copper Mountain, if that was indeed where he was. Unless Stiber had been able to kill some game, he would by this time be in an even worse situation than himself. And in this kind of weather there would be no game in the high country.
Awakening a few days later, Jeff Kurland lay in bed, hands clasped behind his head. The thought of Stiber alone on Copper Mountain would not leave him. Outlaw and killer he might be, but it was not Jeff’s way to let even an animal suffer. If Ross Stiber had been in the cave on Copper Mountain he would surely have come out by now, and there was no other way out except right by this cabin.
He made his decision suddenly, yet when he thought of it he knew the idea had been in his mind for days. He was going to scale Copper Mountain and find out just what had happened to Stiber. The man might have broken a leg and be starving in his cave.
The air was crisp and still, colder than it seemed at first. Buckling on his snowshoes and slinging his rifle over his shoulder, Jeff Kurland hit the trail. Knowing the danger of perspiring in this cold, he kept his pace down, despite his anxiety. Sweat-soaked undergarments could quickly turn to a sheath of ice in such intense cold. After that, freezing to death was only a matter of time.
The trail wound upward through a beautiful forest of lodge-pole pine which slowly gave way to scattered spruce as he climbed higher on the mountain. Despite the slow pace he made good time, and would reach the most difficult stretch shortly before noon. Deliberately, he refused to think about the return trip.
Pausing once, on a flat stretch of trail, he looked up at the mountain. “Kurland,” he told himself, “you’re a fool.”
What he was doing made no kind of good sense. Ross Stiber had chosen the outlaw trail, and if it ended in a cave on Copper Mountain instead of a noose it was only what he might have expected. It might even be what Stiber would prefer.
Jeff knew the route, although he had visited the cave but twice before. After reaching the shelf there would be no good trail, and his snowshoes offered the only way of getting there at all.
The air was death still, and the cold bit viciously at any exposed flesh. He plodded on, taking his time. Fortunately, on this day there was no wind. His breath crackled, freezing as he breathed. He walked with extreme care, knowing that beneath the snow there was ice, smooth, slick ice.
When he reached the stretch of trail along the face of Red Cliff, he hesitated. The snow was very thin along that trail where the wind had blown, and beneath it was the slick ice of the pogonip. The slightest misstep and he would go shooting off into space, to fall on the ice-covered boulders four hundred feet below.
On this day he was wearing knee-high moccasins with thick woollen socks inside. They were better for climbing, and worked better with the snowshoes.
Removing the snowshoes, he slung them over his back and, keeping his eyes on the trail a few feet ahead, he began to work his way along the face of the cliff.
Once fairly on his way there was no turning back, for turning around on the slick trail, while it could be done, was infinitely more dangerous than continuing on. It took an hour of painstaking effort to traverse the half-mile of trail, but at last, panting and scared, he made it. Ahead of him towered the snow-covered bulk of what was locally called Copper Mountain.
He scanned the snow before him. No tracks. Not even a rabbit had passed this way. If Ross Stiber was actually living on the mountain, he had not tried to come this way.
Carefully, he worked his way up along the side of the mountain, keeping an eye out for Stiber. The man might see him, shoot, and ask questions later. If there were anything left alive to question.
White and silent, the mountain towered above the trees, and Jeff paused from time to time to study it, warily, for fear of avalanches. Under much of that white beauty there was pogonip ice, huge masses of snow poised on a surface slicker than glass, ready to go at any instant. He put his snowshoes on once more and started, very carefully, along a shoulder of the mountain.
Only a little way further now. He paused, sniffing the air for smoke. There was none. Nor was there any sound.
The mouth of the cave yawned suddenly, almost unexpectedly, for with snow covering the usual landmarks he had no longer been sure of its position. The snow outside the cave was unbroken. There were no tracks, no evidence of occupation.
Had he come all this wa
y for nothing?
He ducked his head and stepped into the cave. Unfastening his snowshoes, he left them at the entrance and tiptoed back into the cave. Lighting a branch of fir for a torch, he held it high to get the most from its momentary light. It was then he saw Stiber.
The outlaw lay upon a bed of boughs covered with some blankets and his coat. Nearby were the ashes of a fire, long grown cold. Here, away from the mouth, the cold was not severe, but, taking one glance at Stiber’s thin, emaciated face, Jeff Kurland dropped to his knees and began to kindle a fire.
He got the fire lighted using half-burned twigs and bits of bark, then he hurried outside the cave for more fuel. All that in the cave had evidently been burned long since.
As the flames leaped up and the cave lightened, Stiber’s eyes opened and he looked at Kurland. “You, is it? How did you get here?”
“The same way you did. Over the trail from my place. I was worried.”
“You’re a fool, if you worried about me. I ain’t worth it, and you’ve no call to worry.”
“I was afraid you’d busted a leg.”
“You guessed right,” Stiber said, bitterly. “My leg is busted. Right outside the cave, on the first morning of that ice fog. I dragged myself back in here and got some splints on it.”
“How’s your grub?”
“Grub? I run out seven days ago.”
Jeff opened his pack and got out some black tea. He was a coffee man, himself, but he carried the tea for emergencies, and now he brewed it hot and strong.
“Try this,” he said when it was ready, “and take it easy. The cup’s hot.”
With water from his canteen and some dried venison he made a broth, thickening it a little with corn flour.
Stiber put his cup down and eased himself to a sitting position. “Figured tea was a tenderfoot drink,” he said, “but it surely hits the spot.”
“Best thing in the world if you’re in shock or rundown. Wait until you get some of this broth.”
Later, a flush on his cheeks and warmed by the hot drinks and the fire, Ross Stiber looked over at Kurland with cold gray eyes. “Well, this is your show. You’re here, and the grub you brought won’t last more than two days. What d’ you figure to do?”
Kurland had been thinking of that. In fact, he had been thinking of it all the way up, and there was only one possible answer.
“Come daybreak I’m packing you out of here.”
“You’ve got to be crazy. You couldn’t pack a baby over that icy trail! And I’m a full-grown man.”
“Get some sleep,” Kurland said, “and shut up before I change my mind and leave you here.”
At daybreak he was up. Deliberately, he kept his thoughts away from the ordeal before him. It was something he had to do, no matter how much he feared it, no matter how much he disliked the injured man.
He helped Stiber into all the clothes he had, then wrapped him in a heavy blanket. “You will be heavy, but you’ll not be moving, and I don’t want you frozen. You will be just that harder to carry.”
With a stick, Stiber hobbled to the cave mouth. The morning was utterly still and bitterly cold. “You’ll never make it. Go down alone and send them after me.”
“They wouldn’t come. Nobody but a damn’ fool would tackle that trail before spring, and I’m the damn fool.”
He studied the trail for a moment, calculating. It did no good to look. He already knew how tough it was, and what he had to do.
“Once I get you on my back,” he said, “don’t move. Don’t talk, don’t even wiggle a toe.”
When he had his snowshoes adjusted, he took the injured man on his back and started over the snow. The man was heavy, and there was no easy way to carry him. “You’ll have to hang on,” he said. “I’ll need my hands.”
Step by careful step, he worked his way over the snow toward the head of the eyebrow trail along the cliff face. At the near end of that trail he lowered the injured man to the snow.
Leaving Stiber on the snow he slung his snowshoes over his back and went out on the narrow thread of trail. The very thought of attempting to carry a man over that trail on his back sent cold prickles of fear along his spine. Yet there was no other way.
Now, scouting the trail with care, he tried to envision every step, just how he would put his feet down, where there was the greatest danger of slipping, where he could reach for a handhold.
Reaching the end of the trail, he left the snowshoes and rifle, then returned for Stiber. Resolutely, he refused to accept the obvious impossibility of what he intended to do. The man would die if he did not get him out. That he might die in the attempt was not only possible, it was likely. Yet he had spent years in the mountains, and he knew his strength and his skill. He had to depend on that. Was he good enough? That was the question.
When he returned he sat down beside Stiber. The outlaw looked at him quizzically. “I wasn’t really expectin’ you back.”
“You’re a liar. You knew damned well I’d be back. I’m just that kind of a damned fool.”
“What happens now?”
“I’m packing you, piggyback, over that trail.”
“Can’t be done. There’s no way it can be done. Man, I weigh two hundred and twenty pounds.”
“Maybe two weeks ago you weighed that. I’d lay fifty bucks that you don’t weigh over two hundred right now.”
Using a nearby tree Stiber pulled himself erect and Kurland backed up to him. Careful not to injure the broken leg Kurland took the man on his back. “Now, whatever you do, don’t even wiggle. You can throw me off balance on that trail. If you do, we’re both gone.”
He avoided looking at the trail now. He knew very well what faced him and that he must take the trip one step at a time. The slightest misstep and both would go over the brink. Under the snow was the ice of the pogonip.
Carefully, he put a foot out, testing for a solid foothold. Wearing moccasins, he could feel the unevenness, even grip a little with his toes. Little by little, he edged out on the trail. Icy wind plucked at his garments and took his breath. He did not look ahead, feeling for each new foot-hold before he put his weight down.
Sweat broke out on his face, trickled down beside his nose. Desperately, he wanted to wipe it away but there was no chance, for his arms were locked under Stiber’s knees.
How long a trail was it? A half-mile? He could not remember. His muscles ached. Dearly, he wanted to let go just a little, to rest even for a moment. Once, just past the middle, his foot slipped on the icy trail, and for an instant their lives hung in the balance. Jeff felt himself going, but Stiber’s knees gripped him tighter.
“Get your feet under you, lad.” Stiber’s voice was calm. “I’ve got hold of a root.”
Darkness was falling when at last they came to the cabin. Over the last miles Kurland had dragged Stiber on a crude travois made of branches, holding the ends of two limbs in his hands while dragging Stiber over the snow, lying on his makeshift litter. When they reached the cabin, he picked the big man up and carried him inside, and dumped him on the bunk.
The cabin was icy inside, and hurriedly Jeff Kurland built his fire. Soon there was a good blaze going, and warmth began to fill the room. An hour later, Stiber looked at him over a bowl of hot soup.
“Now you can turn me in for that reeward,” he said, almost cheerfully.
Kurland’s head snapped up. He felt as though he had been slapped.
“Go to blazes! I didn’t risk my neck getting you down off that mountain just to see you hung. When you can walk, you get out of here, and stay out!”
“No need to get your back up. I wouldn’t blame you. I et up half your grub, and caused you no end of grief.”
Jeff Kurland did not reply. He knew only too well the long, difficult months that lay ahead, and that when spring came there would be hardly enough cattle left to pay off his debts, if there were any at all. He would have nothing with which to start over.
Moreover, if he did not report Ross Stiber, and
if he was caught with the man in his cabin, he could be accused of harboring a criminal. The fact that the man had a broken leg would help him none at all.
At the same time, he knew he could not turn him in. One cannot save a man’s life without having a certain liking for him thereafter, nor can a man share food with another without developing a feeling of kinship, for better or worse.
He did not want Stiber in his cabin. He resented the man. His food was all too limited, and game was scarce. Nor did he like Stiber’s company, for the man talked too much. Yet he could not turn him in. He would wait until the leg was mended, when Stiber would have a running chance, at least.
The cold held the land in a relentless grip. More and more snow fell. Finally, desperate for food, he killed one of his steers. The fuel supply burned low, and Kurland fought his way through the snow to the edge of the timber, where he felled several trees and bucked them up for fuel. Stiber watched, with small gray eyes holding a flicker of ironic humor.
“You live through this winter an’ you’ll have a story to tell your grandchildren.”
Kurland glared. “What grandchildren? What chance would I have to marry Jill with a setup like this?” He waved a hand at the earthen floor and the shabby bunk. “I was hoping for some good years. I was planning to build a cabin up yonder, where there’s a view, close to the spring. It would have been a place for any woman.”
“You should have kept your gun. You could have stuck up the Charleston stage. She carries a sight of money sometimes.”
“I’m no thief! You tried it, and where did you wind up? Half-frozen in a cave on Copper Mountain!”
“That’s no more than plain truth,” he admitted. “Well, each to his own way. I took mine because I killed a man. He wasn’t much account, either. I end up starvin’ in a cave, and you starve in this miserable cabin. Neither of us gets much of a break.”
“I’ll make my own breaks,” Kurland replied. “Just wait until spring. I’ll get me a riding job and save some money.”
Collection 1981 - Buckskin Run (v5.0) Page 16