Tay came back in and shut the door. “You kin almost touch the clouds out there. Setting right on the treetops. I wouldn’t want to make your decision.”
“What would you do?” Simon asked.
Tay’s eyebrows shot up. “What’d I just say? If it were me, I’d sit, but then I ain’t never in a hurry to get anywhere.”
“I really should get back. Monday’s are usually slow, but I have things that need attending to.” Simon grimaced. “Hate getting caught in a storm though.”
“Ya got tracks to follow out so you kin move right along. If ya really hustle, you kin be out of the high stuff in a couple hours. Ain’t no way o’ knowin’ how long it’ll last, but I don’t need ta tell you that. Wish I could figger which way it was a comin’.”
“I’m gonna go.” Simon put his hat and coat on, and was just headed out the door when Daggett pushed through it, sloshing water from the full bucket.
“Starting to drop right now. Straight down. If we didn’t have to work in it, it would be beautiful to watch.” He set the bucket on the washstand. “You gonna go?”
“Yeah. We can hurry, even lope for quite a bit. We’ll be all right.”
“I’ll help ya saddle up.” Tay put on his coat and followed Simon out to the pole corral.
A few minutes later Simon was mounted. “If it looks like you could make it, come on down for Thanksgiving. If we don’t see you then, I’ll try to be back up the end of December.”
“Give Lori a squeeze for me, Simon,” Zahn said.
“I can do that, Zahn. She sent her love.” Simon wheeled his horse and rode off.
With two-inch-wide flakes falling softly but steadily, Simon lost sight of the cabin after traveling only a hundred yards. Spud barked with excitement as he jumped and bit at the huge pieces of fluff. Finding his tracks from the day before yesterday, Simon urged his horse into an easy canter, and Spud, sensing the urgency, charged out ahead of the horse. The rocking rhythm of the horse as it followed the dog soon put Simon at ease, and he relaxed in the saddle.
Soon, snow plastered his chest and steam formed on the neck and shoulders of the loping horse. An hour of riding passed, and lost in thought, he was not aware that the snow no longer fell straight down, instead, it moved before a slight breeze. Body in synchronization with the horse, he was shaken from his reverie when the horse slowed to a walk.
Simon squinted his eyes against the snow to see Spud, stopped in the trail. He reined the horse to a halt and looked up at the treetops. The sky was a mass of swirling white and gray. The wind, no longer a breeze, picked up snow from the branches and whipped it off to the northeast. The dog had stopped a ways down the valley. A wall of white, boiling and breaking, tumbled over the ground. The storm hit with a fury that turned the horse. Simon let him have his head, and kicked hard against his sides. The frightened animal bolted for the trees two hundred yards away.
“C’mon, Spud!” Simon screamed above the howling wind. “Run.”
Streaking toward the trees at a full gallop, the horse had no time to jump as a deadfall loomed out of the swirling snow. The panicked horse locked both forelegs and slid. Simon heard the vicious crack as a leg went under the log and snapped. Pitched over the animal’s head, the agonized scream of the horse assaulted his ears. He fetched up hard against a tree, his yet unhealed shoulder bursting anew with pain. Then the sounds and feeling ceased to matter as a grinding collision with the frozen ground knocked him senseless.
Walks Fast, lost in dreams, sat motionless by the low fire. The sides of the tepee breathed in and out with the wind as the storm gathered strength. His wife and sister-in-law lay asleep in their robes. The vision that hovered in the center of his dream was of a horse in flight. It disappeared in and out of a storm as it ran without sense of direction, flying above the ground. He slowed his breathing and willed his heart to beat softly. A sense of euphoria flooded him, leaving no room for self-consciousness.
Then, he saw the rider clearly: Simon, bent over the horse’s neck, trusting the animal to carry him to safety. The ghostly beat of the hooves slowed, and the horse and rider floated effortlessly away from the melee. And then another form appeared, Shadow Dog, tail streaming as he raced to catch the horse. Cold sweat flushed Walks Fast’s body as an unseen danger made its presence felt.
He searched frantically for the source, but saw nothing but swirling white. Then, a piercing scream undulated with the waves of fear that pounded his brain, ripping him from his lofty realm, and flinging him back towards earth. One last fleeting glimpse of Simon, wheeling through the air, and a flash of bright red, brought Walks Fast back to his tepee. Eyes wide open, his fingers clutched the robe around his shoulders, and he stood. The lone figure left the sanctuary of the tepee, and walked away, into the storm, and toward the mountains.
The gentle touch of his mother’s hand on his forehead pulled Simon back from the depths. He felt the cold around his feet and wanted to move closer to the fire, but his body would not respond to his commands. Frustrated, he submitted to her soothing touch and drifted back to sleep. Spud continued to lick at the wound on Simon’s head and whine softly until finally he laid his head over Simon’s and closed his eyes to wait.
The strength of the storm continued unabated, snow drifting and sifting over the still forms lying under the trees at the edge of the meadow. Soon they were only round humps, still and blended into obscurity. Then, the smaller mound moved, barely perceptibly at first, but suddenly exploding into the shape of a man sitting up.
Simon looked around confused, pushing at the form struggling beside him. And then he recognized the dog. “Spud.” He choked the word out, and his hand went to the dog’s head, clutching at the fur for assurance. “I came off the horse,” he said and squinted through the blowing snow for any sign of the animal. He spotted the still lump. Shaking his head in despair, he rolled to his hands and knees, to finally stand unsteadily, one hand on the tree beside him. The dog shook the snow from its body and nuzzled Simon’s other hand. Wind tousled Simon’s hair and his hand instinctively went to check for his hat. He grunted, then gingerly felt the painful lump before inspecting his fingertips for blood. He saw a little.
“Took a whack, but it doesn’t seem to be bleeding much. Where’s my hat?” He kicked at the snow until the hat appeared. He slapped it against the tree. Nearly free of snow, he settled it back on his head, careful of the wound. “Let’s look at the horse.” He moved to the log that blocked his view.
Climbing over, he stooped and pushed his hand through the snow to the animal’s ear. Cold as the snow, it didn’t move. As he made his way around the head and stepped toward the saddle, his boots left tracks that showed bright red in the bottom. And then he remembered the sound of breaking bone.
“Oh, God, you poor thing, you lay there and bled to death. I hope it was quick.”
The dead horse had one hind leg extended awkwardly forward, under its belly. It held the horse off the ground just enough to enable Simon to retrieve his rifle from the scabbard. He unbuckled one saddlebag where he found a length of leather strap and another pair of gloves.
“Now what do we do, Spud?” He looked out across the meadow. He could see about fifty yards. The ground away from the trees hadn’t drifted nearly as much as where he stood. “How far have we come? Must have been ten miles, at least. Maybe twelve. That would leave us about five or so.” He looked at the dog for his acceptance. Spud wagged his tail and gave him a quiet woof.
“We stay here, we could freeze. We take off walking, we could get stuck in deep snow and freeze. Hobson’s choice. Come here.” The dog stepped closer and sat. Simon tied a loop in the end of the strap, and put it around Spud’s head. The other end he tied around his wrist. “That’ll keep us together, boy. Let’s go.”
The shelter of the trees tempered the force of the wind, and Simon’s breath was cut short by the first full blast of cold air. The snow stung his face and he shuddered. Head down, he and the dog walked side by side, suffering th
e choice of either walking in drifted snow in the shelter of the trees, or forcing their way against the wind on the clearer ground in the middle of the valley. Both proved exhausting work. Simon plodded ahead for nearly two miles to where the valley turned more to the west. Here, they were met with a wind unhindered by hill or trees. Hard-driven snow blasted into every crevice and crease of his clothes and blinded him with icy pellets. It had stopped snowing, but at ground level he couldn’t see more than a few feet in front. Every few paces he had to half step to keep from falling, and his arms became heavier. His mind, blank to anything except the next step, was suddenly overwhelmed by the terrifying memory of being lost in the snow. The vision struck him with such force that he stopped, then slowly sank to his knees. Spud sat down upwind of him and buried his nose in Simon’s coat, whimpering.
Walks Fast strode up to Tay’s dugout, the wind pushing him as it had done all the way from the fort. He unlashed the door, and went inside. Several small animals scurried for cover. The lamp chimney came off, and he transferred the flame of a sulfur match to the wick. With the wick soon trimmed, a warm glow drove the darkness from the small shelter.
He busied himself at the stove until another match set light to the tinder in the firebox. With the fire going, and several pieces of wood laid on, he turned to face the door and sat down. Eyes closed, he let his breath out slowly to start a low hum in his throat. He tuned it to resonate until the vibration swept from his chest into the bones of his skull. Taking slow deep breaths, the hum continued until he could sense it even as he inhaled. The gossamer gates of his dream world opened, and he started his search for Simon. And soon found him.
Spud growled deep in his chest, and the hair on his neck stood up. He turned his head and tried to catch the scent of the intruder, only to be assaulted by the icy wind and driving snow. He barked out loud in frustration.
Simon’s head jerked erect at the sound. “What! Why are we stopped, Spud?” He looked down at his hands, folded between his bent knees. Leaning forward, he slowly pushed himself off the ground and stood.
Spud barked again, several times, and tugged at the strap around his neck. Simon did not look up as he shuffled after the dog, trusting the animal to find the way. Lost in a daze of confused thoughts, he had no sense of time or space, but simply responded to the tug on his hand. Countless times, he struggled back to his feet, up from a fall he didn’t remember taking. Through the driving blizzard, Spud followed his nose, and Simon followed Spud. Then, the dog stopped, and Simon, no longer feeling the strap’s tension, quit moving. Not feeling the wind or deadly cold, Simon stood still and waited.
Walks Fast saw the dog lift his head, and breathed a breath of warm air into its face. He smiled to himself as the dog reacted, barking furiously at something it knew was there, but could not see. Walks Fast turned and drifted easily back toward the dugout, sure the dog would follow. Slowly the bright light of the other side dimmed, and the Indian felt the heat of the stove on his back. He opened his eyes and rose to his feet to open the door. Outside, a white apparition stood as a statue, tied to an equally immobile dog, now on its belly, peering intently at the open door. Spud’s tail wagged once in recognition and then went still.
Simon took another swig of the steaming brew and leaned closer to the stove. His bare feet sat immersed in the water bucket, the cold water felt warm. Walks Fast studied him intently as Simon quietly drank his herb tea, and watched Spud tug at the ice balls on his feet. The Indian got up, went to the wood box, and picked out the largest piece. He set it by the water bucket. “Take your feet out of the bucket now. Put them behind the wood.”
Simon did as he was told and protected his red feet from the direct heat. Even then, he could feel the pain start to rise. “Have I froze them?”
“I don’t think so, but they will hurt plenty. Soon we’ll cover them with stockings.”
“I’m sure glad you were here. I don’t remember finding the dugout.”
“Shadow Dog brought you. I was here to help Taylor.”
Spud stopped worrying the ice for a moment and looked up.
“Yeah. He’s a good one.” Simon leaned over and ruffled the soft ears. “I’m not sure I could have made it to the fort.”
Outside the wind continued to blast up the valley, piling drift on top of drift. Anything with warm blood sought shelter where they could, and waited until nature had sated her anger.
CHAPTER 12
The storm shut down the area for nearly a week. Buell had started for the logging site, but stopped when he saw smoke coming from Tay’s dugout. The spotted horse again proved its mettle by carrying both Simon and Buell back to McCaffrey’s ranch. Slowly Simon’s feet stopped itching, and then started to peel. He’d narrowly avoided frostbite.
The evening diners, the first in a week, had gone home, and with the restaurant closed, Simon joined Amos at his table for some cards. Rosie and Saint Louis Bob sat in their regular places. Rosie owned the freight business near the fort, and, with hauling all manner of goods and equipment for both the army and anyone else who needed the service, he was not a poor man. Rosie had an addiction for gambling and, as is often the case, lacked the skill to counter the affliction. And to make matters worse, he was terribly unlucky. His round, florid face always gleamed with a sweaty sheen and could be counted on to betray the worth of every card he was dealt.
Saint Louis Bob was a professional gambler and whiskey salesman and he probably should have avoided both. He made it his nightly goal not to lose so badly that he couldn’t play the next. That made him an overly cautious player, and one prone to flashes of anger when his nerve failed to support his intuition and card sense. The ever-present bottle of Saint Louis Best whiskey, Bob’s mainstay brand, worked steadily to degrade both.
Those two, along with Amos, Simon and Buell, made up the group that played cards well into the morning, every morning. Tonight, Sergeant Barrschott made the sixth player.
A banjo picker joined the usual weekend piano player that Amos hired. Both were troopers from the fort. After being weathered in for a week, the crowd, large and noisy, kept Twiggs busy. The wide smile on his face grew wider as the cash box filled.
Amos was being his usual circumspect self, peering from under his hat brim at the card spots. He grunted as Saint Louis Bob called his one-dollar bet. Sergeant Barrschott passed, threw his cards down, and leaned back in his chair.
Rosie, as he always did, opened and closed his hand like a fan. Close . . . then edging one card at a time onto view, until all five became visible, then closing the hand again. He seemed to think the process would change the spots somehow. This irritated everybody to no end, and Simon thought that was exactly why he did it. Finally, Rosie flicked a five-dollar gold piece with his thumb; spinning and flashing its worth, it landed neatly in the middle of the pot. “Raise ya four.”
Buell, sitting next, met the five-dollar bet and raised twenty.
Simon looked closely at Buell’s impassive face. Buell hadn’t looked at his cards—he was dealing—and had just bet twenty-five dollars. It was pure audacity, and he did the same thing at least once or twice in every session. The fact that he managed, just occasionally, to make the rest of the players pay dearly tended to make them leery. That Buell might be a cheat never entered into Simon’s mind as he watched, fascinated. “Just can’t be,” Simon grumbled as he folded with a pair of eights.
Amos, face completely hidden, shifted slightly in his chair, hands folded across his cards. You never knew what Amos was going to do. He was the smart one and, using ciphering and such, actually knew how the game worked. He pushed his cards into the pot. “Fold,” he said quietly.
Bob had already stacked his coins, and pushed the twenty-four dollars across the green felt. “Call, and I’ll take one card.” He sailed his discard toward Buell.
Open . . . close. Open . . . close. Open . . . Rosie’s Adam’s apple made a quick trip up and down . . . close. He sailed two cards towards the pot and then hesitated, study
ing Buell’s blank face. “Well, you ain’t buyin’ it,” Rosie said. “Bob’s keeping you honest.” He threw his remaining three cards onto the pot with disgust. The smirk that appeared on Buell’s face only enhanced the irritated look on Rosie’s face.
“I’ll play these,” Buell said and still made no move to look at the five cards lying in front of him. Bob’s card came off the deck and floated from Buell’s fingertips. It landed with one corner tucked under the four that lay on the table. “Your bet.”
Everybody looked at Bob as he stared bleakly, first at his cards, and then the gold pieces lying in the middle of the table. Simon could see the poker player’s perennial question as it stormed around in Bob’s head: was the hand good enough?
Buell simply bored a hole through Bob’s head with his blank stare, the irritating smirk fixed like it was painted on. Bob forced himself to turn the edge of his final card up to take a look. His face clouded with disappointment. He might just as well have been shouting the card’s worth out loud.
“Your bet, big fella,” Buell said.
“Yeah, right.” Bob’s voice sounded dry and raspy. “I’ll check.”
“Betcha another twenty.” Twin gold pieces clinked into the pile.
“Fold,” Bob said, his defeat palpable. He flicked over the ace. “Only when I don’t need the damn thing do I get it. How in hell did you know I didn’t have four of a kind?”
“I didn’t,” Buell said, “I was a lot more worried about the trips Rosie had.”
“You what? How can you know that for sure?” Rosie looked incredulous.
“Wasn’t sure, till just now,” Buell said, pulling the pile of gold towards his poke. “Some people shouldn’t play cards, and that includes you two guys. Amos and Simon sit and think about the odds and that works. Barrschott plays for the fun of it, and that works too. I just sit here and watch you two, and you just learned how that works.” Buell chuckled and started shuffling the cards. “Five-card draw, jacks.”
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