“I know about bloody hypothermia.”
“Well, aren’t you a ray of moon shine on a cloudy day?” I say.
“And you’re a bloody nag,” she counters.
I take a cleansing breath.
We get to gathering, slowly at first because our feet break through with every step, but it warms us.
Zastee hauls wood, uncomplaining. I’m concerned for her feet. Her people, the Rarámuri are runners, not riders. And they do it barefoot. But are they ever in the snow?
After I get a good bit of trail compacted, I let little Góshé get down. Reminding him to be sure his pant legs stay down, so he doesn’t get snow inside his boots.
The teenage terror uses my trails to gather dry wood.
Góshé stays near, gathering smaller sticks. His little six-year-old arms can carry their share and he knows how to tell dry from green.
He’s a little eel worming his way in and out of the trees, tromping back and dropping his armloads of branches just outside the overhang.
He tires of the new game quickly. I unsaddle Tenner and wrap the saddle blanket around the dog boy’s shoulders. He still has his buckskin coat on, but needs much more. We all do.
“Damn it. Furred animals are all set for the worst nature could hand out. What spirit god thought making humans naked was a good idea?”
“It’s how we can run down game,” says Zastee. “We don’t overheat.”
“Not too worried about overheating just now. We need a bunch more wood.”
I call Hoss over and have her lie down next to the boy. Góshé cuddles in, laying over her back. Arms wrapped around her big loose-skinned neck. She weighs twice what he does.
I work on cutting the thick branches hanging over our firepit so we don’t start a forest fire.
Once I get them cut, I crouch down and slice some shavings off of the lowest branches. The dead, dry ones. I whittle others into fuzzy winged burners.
Laying some pieces of dry bark as a base, I stack the kindling carefully, making a teepee over our moss tinder.
I start sparking, knife blade against meteorite.
“That meteorite works a treat,” she says, hands on hips watching.
I get the moss glowing, blow it into flame and stick it carefully into my teepee, adding tiny combustibles piece by piece. Too much at once will kill the whole shebang.
“Are we going to be okay?” she asks.
“Me and Góshé been down to the blanket before,” I say, glancing up at her. “Imagine you have been, too. Hell, I know you have. This here is just a new challenge. I reckon we’ll do jest fine.”
25 Táági: The Mission
Güero and Bigan show up empty handed.
Ma’cho and Táági report.
“Why?” asks Güero. “They go in the cave?”
“Rock floor further in.”
They go in and look around, too.
They all shrug or shake their heads.
“Could have been others. Rain and high water would have washed it away,” says Bigan, waving his hook at the broken branches twigs and leaves, the tumbled rock. All remains of the flood.
“Okay, we’ll split up and hit the most likely places,” says Güero. “Then, everyone heads out, okay?”
Ma’cho and Bigan do a quick recon east. Táági and Güero west.
They meet back at the ranch; select armaments, pack the essentials. And powwow a while; trying to suss out where the trio could have gone.
26 Cha’a: Bone Tired
In a bit, I have some nice coals under my small blaze.
We’re taking a quick rest break. Cooling off after all the hauling. That’s wood heat for you, you’re always twice warmed.
“He must be ‘bout starved,” I say, pointing my chin at Ten Spot. “Horses spend most of their hours ever’ day eatin’. Fortunately, he knows more than most ‘bout how to get by out here. I got him from Mose, you know. He used Tenner for trappin’ out in snow country in the high sierra. We need to watch for willows and cottonwoods for him. Their bark, leaves and twigs are all good winter feed.”
“Mose seems a nice chap,” she says.
“He’s my favorite uncle,” I say.
“Can’t be blood,” she says.
I snort.
“Course he could. But isn’t. He’s on the MadDog side. Took up with Jake years ago. Liked the Injin lifestyle, pulled his weight and then some. Got adopted into the clan.”
“He’s bloody nice to me.”
“He sure took to you, didn’t he?”
“Like he said, we’re both black,” she says, as if that makes it a given.
“Sure, but mostly he was teasin’ about the black part. He don’t care ‘bout skin. None of us do,” I say. “Skin is just somethin’ ever’one needs coverin’ their skeleton to survive. Amount of tan it holds is luck.”
She looks at me. I can see the gears turning behind her eyes. Skeptical. “Easy for a blonde to say.”
“Ain’t my fault I’m blonde. I’d rather be dark. You got the advantage of less sunburn. Easier to hide in the dark, too,” I say.
She chuckles.
“Hey,” I say. “Did you know the blackest people around live on some Asian islands, Melanesia? Means black islands. Some of them suckers got blonde hair. Naturally blonde.”
“How do you know that?”
“Hey, I read a book once,” I say, flashing a grin. “Maybe we should get some bleach, do yours up yeller. I could make dumb blonde jokes about you. After all, blondes do have more fun.”
She scoffs. Nice like, though. Rather than the usual murderous.
I use my big knife to cut more green branches. We haul them into camp.
In a while, we’ve laid out enough greenery for a big, insulating bed pad to protect us from the cold hard ground. And have our fire in front of that. We’ve rolled a downed log near the outside of the fire to help reflect heat. It makes a good seat once we kick the snow off. Damp, but otherwise comfy.
Ten Spot stands just outside the overhang, asleep. Hoss is curled in a ball right out on the snow, oblivious to us all, snoring lightly.
I call her in again so Góshé can use her for a heated backrest. She settles right down, a ways back from the fire, to cuddle with him.
We gather more wood. Hoss keeps getting overheated and leaving the boy. The fire is beating back against mother nature. Our little cave is getting toasty.
Once we have enough wood for the night, Zastee finds some brush with limber green branches. I go out and cut a slew.
The work is good, loosening up my bruised muscles. Necessity helping to stave off our exhaustion.
We sit by the fire and set to work on snowshoes.
I cut the extra length off the saddle latigos. And cut and trim the smaller branches.
She weaves the limber sticks into a crosshatched base which I attach, with the latigos, to the frames.
I slice my belt into narrow strips for the main straps. They’ll be the harness that ties them to our feet.
My gunbelt and hips can hold up my pants by theirselves.
“Look at them cute fuckers,” I say, pointing with my chin. “All settled in.”
She glances over and smiles.
Little Góshé and Hoss are sound asleep; cuddling by the back wall of the cave.
“Okay,” I say, watching her watching me. “Guess you get yore answer to the knife question.”
I reach into my boot and slide it back into its sheath.
She chuckles. “I was right. Those bloody big boots seemed like a good guess for a hideout. But, there was small of the back. Or underarm in a small sheath. More places than that to hide one, I think. Even in that bloody big cowboy hat.”
“Atween the shoulder blades,” I say.
“Not on you, your shirt is too tight fitting.”
“Cleavage sheath?” I ask.
“If it were a pen knife,” she says, glancing over for my reaction.
“Yikes,” I say, looking down at them. “Cripes,
I guess they won’t win any prizes.”
She smiles.
“Okay, okay, yores are bigger,” I say.
She’s quiet.
“Be proud, not embarrassed,” I say.
“They attract lecherous bastards,” she says.
“And nice guys, too,” I say.
“I’ve never met any,” she says, scowling.
“I’ve met at least four,” I say.
“I don’t need any bloody men.”
“How about yore pa, was he nice?”
She nods, poking at the coals. “My Da is the absolute best.”
“Mine, too,” I say.
“Your father’s a good one, eh?”
“Ol’ Hell Raiser is the bee’s knees,” says the bombshell.
“Hell Raiser is a bloody good Injin name.”
“Hell Raiser’s my grandpa,” says Góshé.
“Yep.”
“My Da is called Ohuí,” Zastee says. “It means bear.”
“Cool,” says Góshé.
“He must be ‘some, then. Bear is a strong name.”
“He is.”
“You have a Rarámuri name?” she asks.
“Mawiyá,” she says, eying me. “The catamount.”
“Cougar?”
She nods.
“Mawiyá,” I repeat.
“My family calls me Mia.”
“Mia means ‘mine’ in Spanish.”
“I bloody well know that,” she says, bristling.
“Sorry, I didn’t know you did,” I say, groaning mentally. “I grew up speaking Spanglish. Just meaning to teach, not correct folk. Spanish is my favorite language. The language of love. I want Góshé to learn it.”
She’s ignoring me already, concentrating on showing Góshé how she worked the binding into the snowshoe.
I give up on teaching.
She lays the snowshoe down.
“We need to sleep, do you think?” she says, looking brighter. “We’ll find some landmarks we recognize in the morning. Get oriented.”
“Yeah,” I say, setting down the fourth snowshoe, all finished, and turning around to dry my backside. “Best to get as dry as we can before we lay down.”
“Right.”
27 Cha’a: Hell of a Horse
The air is cooling. I toss more wood on the fire. Góshé is headed out again.
“Come, little Góshé, Zastee. Sit,” I say. “Warm up a bit. Then, we can gather more.”
“No,” says Góshé, putting his tiny hands on his hips. “I’m big.”
“Big Góshé then. Come sit by me,” I say.
Seeing his pouty lip appear, I add, “I need me a hug.”
He runs over to give me one. I set with him a while, rocking, like my ma did with me. Soon, he’s asleep in my lap.
“Having been on his own for who knows how long,” I tell her, “this boy sure appreciates hugs. Heck, I’m startin’ to enjoy ‘em myself. Little kid hugs.”
“He does,” she says, looking fondly at the tiny boy. “I’ll just get a few more branches.”
“Stop now, it’s cooling off. Let them feet warm a bit more,” I say to her receding back. “We all need to avoid frostbite.”
She glares at me over her shoulder, stubborn. Her tawny orange eyes flashing in the light of the flames.
“Once we get the fire going big, we can warm yore bare feet totally,” I say. “But, until then, we can’t let them toes get too cold.”
She’s out of earshot. I hear her rustling in the trees, then crunching back toward us through the snow.
“They’re much tougher than shod feet,” she says, tossing another big armload on the growing pile and stopping to tilt her toes toward the little blaze. “Sherpas in the Himalaya freight goods barefoot through the snow. Day in and day out. It’s normal. I don’t know if they can’t afford shoes, or if it’s like my people. A choice. Bare feet develop callus. We get around better without those bloody uncomfortable leather things you wear.”
“Yeah, my feet prefer bein’ bare, too,” I say, looking at my jaguar and bucking horse decorated boots. “I jog along the beach barefoot. Not so good at stick and rock country though.”
“It takes a good deal of time to toughen up,” she says. “I started out without shoes. My family didn’t own any.”
“Okay,” I grouse. “Maybe I could learn a trick or two from you.”
She snorts, but looks happy about my admission.
Sometimes my mouth speaks before my brain considers the consequences. It’s hard to forget that we were on opposite sides of a standoff not that many weeks ago. I’m still not comfortable with the idea that she’s an ally.
Flat damn don’t believe it, actually. I shouldn’t ever admit any faults to an enemy. Showing weakness is foolish. Hunger is making me stupid. We need to eat.
I pass out some granola bars, cheese chunks and pemmican from the saddle bags. Along with smoked jerky. And a full canteen. A homemade trail food feast.
We chow down.
“How do you know about Sherpas?” I ask between bites.
“I read a book about them once,” she says. “Illustrated, too. Showed them packing big loads with a mecapl. You know of them?”
I shake my head.
“A rope hung across the crown, between the hairline and the top of the head. It holds up the freight on your back instead of shoulder straps. Bloody crazy, it looks, but the Sherpa; and my people, too, have used them forever. I can carry half a burro load with one.”
“Ah. A tumpline, we call it,” I say. “Actually, I’ve never tried one out. But, yeah. Mose uses one to pack gear out to places his horses can’t get to. The mountaineers and the French voyageurs used them. He told me a lot of local tribes used them, too. These days, our clan uses horses fer most things. Or wagons. The heck with carryin’ things ourselves.”
She nods and says, “Carrying with your head seems strange, eh? I like to read about people who are like my own people. The Rarámuri. Not you crazy cowboys. Your ways are too bloody bizarre.”
“Humor,” I say, eying her. “Maybe there is hope for you.”
She curls up a corner of her mouth.
“Do you suppose yore folk got it from Asia?”
“Sure, we came from there, the Rarámuri part of me, anyway.”
“Yeah, we Apache did, too.”
“After,” she says. “We were here first.”
“Them fightin’ words?” I say, holding up my fists.
She grins and pokes a stick at the fire.
I stomp a place for Ten Spot to stand; in case our shallow cave gets too hot for him. He helps by digging a hole, knocking back the snow, searching for feed. He nibbles at some oak brush. Then wanders off, wading and hopping through the drifts from tree to tree. Searching in the shallow snow underneath for brush, grass, bark. Anything palatable.
“Will yore feet need padding to protect them from the sharp needles and chopped off twig points on these?” I ask, picking up one of the newly constructed snowshoes.
“Loan me your knife, I’ll split some wood and make a smooth base,” she says.
I hesitate, stepping out under the sky to think it over.
28 Harley: Hell
When he gets back to the spot, the note is gone. Good. That’ll put the fear of his all-powerful God into the whole bunch.
Put Harley back in the power position.
His knowledge of all the side tunnels and air vents in the mine has stood him in good stead.
They’d been in here eight weeks. And he was the prospector, the gold scout. Searching out the high-grade masses. There were a lot of them.
A real bonanza. It was Angus who found out about the mine to start with. He met some fellas in a saloon back east who were well into their cups and bragging about the rich find. They said they wouldn’t be able to get out here to their mine until June ‘cause of all the snow.
Suckers were so drunk they told him the name of the mine. Just a matter of finding maps of a few gold district
s at the USGS office. And bingo. They knew where it was and no else knew they did. Easy as pie.
Hell, ‘86-’87 had been a record breaking winter. Newspapers said that cattlemen all over the west had lost their herds, snow too deep to find feed, terrible winds too cold for the cows to survive due to the malnourishment.
It was one of those lucky breaks for he and Angus. Kind of a left-handed invitation, he figured.
The brothers got into the country during a warm spell in early March. Checked it out, hired some help and got to work.
Harley hears the scrape of the killer’s boots just in time. He douses the lantern and peaks around the corner. The bastard is stopping.
He can hear as the man moves some rock debris and sighs with relief as he sits down. The paper crinkles as he rolls a cigarette, like he’s settling in. Be funny if he’s fool enough to light it. The smell of burning tobacco carries.
He waits to be sure the man is down for the count. Backing off into the cave until he’s out of earshot, he pulls out Glory Hole Joe’s ivory gripped beauty of a revolver.
He checks the loads, wipes the thing down, practices a few quick draws with it. His injured arm doesn’t like it, but what can he do. He heads back out to his post.
The killer is still awake. Damn.
He finds a softish spot to sit against the wall of the tunnel. Rolls up his sleeve and looks at the slash. Stitches would be a good idea. The wound is stiffening, his whole forearm and hand hurt. Be harder to handle a gun with it tomorrow.
He’s not really a seasoned gunsel; just a draw yore gun threateningly and say ‘hands up’ kind of guy.
And he’s an even worse shot with his left hand.
He’ll wait until the murderous sucker dozes off, then get in close and kill the bastard quietly so as not to alert the girls or anyone else who might be nearby. Get at least one opponent out of the picture.
Gold draws greedy men like flies. His gold, by rights, damn it.
29 Cha’a: Knife
The grey afternoon is merging seamlessly into a depressing night. Bizarrely highlighted by the white blanket covering the ground.
Hell of a Horse Page 8
