by Galloway
toward my mouth, got it into my teeth and tilted it up until the drops from that
waterbag were coming down it toward my mouth.
At first most of the drops fell off onto the ground, but I hung onto that stick
like a bulldog and sure enough after a while some drops began to get into my
mouth. Not that it was much, but when a body has been so long without water the
slightest drop feels mighty, mighty good.
My jaws began to ache and my neck got stiff but I daren't move for fear I'd lose
the stick or the water would start dribbling another way.
All of a sudden one of the Indians noticed what I was doing and called the
others. Well, sir, you never heard such laughing and chuckling. They all
gathered around, pointing and talking. It was a new thing, what I'd done, and
they admired me for being game, but that didn't change them none. After they had
all seen it one of the braves reached over and jerked that stick from my jaws so
hard he nigh taken some teeth with it. I cussed him for a no-account coyote and
a dog-robber, and he kicked me.
All night I lay there, staked out on the sand with no water and less hope. Once
a tarantula crawled across my belly, going about his own affairs, and the ants
found some of the cuts left from the stick beatings. Come daylight they untied
my feet and led me to an anthill where they had stakes driven into the ground,
and I could see what they were planning.
Of a sudden there was a shot, then a yell, some moaning cries, and every Apache
in the lot jumped his pony and rushed off after whatever it was.
And when they lit out, I did likewise.
We Sackett boys run to length, and I was always a fair to middlin' foot racer,
so I taken off like a scared jackrabbit, paying no mind to the broken rock and
gravel underfoot. And those squaws came after me, a-yellin' their lungs out.
Now the men were closing in on me, and with my feet in the shape they were in I
surely wasn't going far, nor could I hope to outrun them. The only thing in my
favor was that we were heading right into Ute country. Not that I'd be any
better off in the hands of Utes, but the Apaches didn't find any welcome in Ute
country, either. The further they got into Ute country the more worried those
Apaches were going to be.
Walking on pine needles was a lot better than rock and the like, but what I
needed was a hiding place. And after that I needed some kind of weapon.
Deliberately I chose the steeper, less likely ways. Climbing steps were no more
painful than those on the level, yet they would take me to places the Indians
could not follow on their ponies.
Pulling myself up through a narrow space between two boulders I edged along a
rim of rock and then climbed a dry waterfall to the level above. My feet were
bleeding again, but I found some red clay that I could mix with pinon gum and
tallow from the elk fat to make a salve often used by the Navajo to promote
healing. Yet when I looked back and down I could see eight Apaches, close enough
to see the color of their horses.
The Apache fights on his feet, and climbing that mountain after me would be no
trick. They hadn't seen me yet but when they did, they'd come. Maybe I was a
damned fool, my feet hurting the way they were. Maybe I should just quit and let
them kill me. But there was no give-up in me. We boys in the backwoods weren't
raised thataway. By the time I was fourteen I knew how to shoot, trap and skin,
how to rustle my grub in the woods, and if need be to get along on less than a
jackrabbit.
Mostly the boys I ran the hills with were Cherokee, and I learned as much from
their folks as my own. We had only two books in our family, so Ma taught us to
read from the Bible and Pilgrim's Progress.
One thing we learned. To make a start and keep plugging. When I had fights at
school, the little while I went, I just bowed my neck and kept swinging until
something hit the dirt. Sometimes it was me, but I always got up.
Right now I made a decision. Those Apaches weren't going to take kindly to
leaving their ponies behind them in Ute country, so if they killed me they were
going to have to do it on top of the mountain. That was where I headed.
Turning crossways of the trail I started climbing, using my hands as much as my
feet. Stopping near a clump of aspen I looked back down. Far below I could see
them and they could see me, and they were drawn up, staring at me.
There was no sense to shooting. Up hill thataway a body ain't going to hit much
and I was a far piece off from them. I could almost hear them talking it over.
My hope was they'd decide I wasn't worth the trouble. But it was a slim hope, so
I continued on up the mountain. It was a heartbreaker, almost straight up in
places, although there were plenty of hand and foot holds. Then I crawled up on
the ledge where lay a dead coyote, and I knew that Apaches wouldn't touch one.
Taking it by the tail I gave it a good swing and let it fall toward the trail
below, right across the path they would have to follow.
I doubted if it would more than make them uneasy, but it did give me an idea. To
an Apache the hoot of an owl is a sign of death, and since boyhood I'd been able
to hoot well enough to get answers from owls. Knowing sound would carry in those
high canyons, I tried it.
They could no longer see me but I could see them, and at the first hoot they
pulled up short, and when they reached the dead coyote they stopped again. So I
started a couple of boulders rolling down the mountain. I wasn't likely to hit
one of them, but it might worry them a little.
Of a sudden I came into a kind of scooped-out hollow in the side of the
mountain. Some of it was meadow, but at the back leading up into the notch that
led toward the crest it was mostly filled with aspen. And I knew that was it.
I just wasn't going any further. Crawling back into those aspens where they grew
tight and close together I covered my way as well as possible and just lay down.
My feet felt like fire, and my legs hurt all the way up. Below the knees, from
favoring the soles, the muscles were giving me hell. I just stretched out under
the leaves and lay there.
They could find me, all right, but they'd have to hunt.
My club clutched in my hand, I waited, listened for the slightest sound. The
aspens whispered and somewhere a bird or small animal rustled in the leaves, but
they did not come. Finally I just fell asleep. I had no idea how or when ... I
just did.
Hours later the cold awakened me. All was still. I lay there for awhile, then
slowly sat up. It brought kind of a groan from me, which I swallowed before it
got too loud. I couldn't see anything or hear anything, so I just naturally lay
back down, dug deeper into the leaves, and went to sleep again.
When next I awakened it was morning, and I was stiff with cold. Crawling out of
the aspens I looked around, but saw nothing of the Apaches.
Gathering up my pack I limped out through the groves of aspen and began to work
my way down into an interior canyon. After an hour, in a hollow under some trees
and boulders I stopped, built a small fire of dry, smokeless wood and broiled an
elk steak. Hearing a faint rustling among the trees I dropped a couple of bones
near the remains of my fire, then went on down. Later in the day I again bathed
my feet in a concoction of snakeweed. Whether it was actually helping I did not
know, but it felt good and eased the hurt.
For an hour I rested, then started down the stream. Later I found some bee weed,
sometimes called stinkweed. The Navajo used it to start fires by friction as the
brittle stalks, whirled between the palms, will start a fire in two minutes or
less, especially if a little sand is added to increase the friction.
All the time I kept watch on the slope down which I'd come, but I saw nothing of
the Apaches. Maybe the owl-hoot death signal had scared them off, or maybe it
was the owl-hoot and the dead coyote together or the feeling they were getting
into Ute country. Anyway, there was no sign of them.
Not that I was alone. There was something out there in the brush that was
a-watching me, and it might be that wolf. A wolf has been known to stalk a man
or an animal for miles, and this wolf needed nobody to tell him that I was in a
bad way. He could smell the blood and the festering of some of the cuts on my
feet. While I was wary of him and trusted him none at all, I still had no blame
for him. He was a wild thing that had to rustle its grub as best it could, and I
felt sympathy for it, which was the reason I tossed out those fragments of meat
or bone.
Yet that night was the worst. The cold was cruel and my naked body could take no
warmth from the remains of the elk hide. All night long I shivered, teeth
chattering beside the fire that ate fuel like a famished beast so that I almost
never ceased from the hunting of it.
Wild and weird were the snow-covered peaks around me, dark the gorge where I
shuddered over my fire, the cold seeping through my bones, stiffening my
muscles. A wind, cold and raw, came down the canyon, blowing my fire and robbing
my body of the little warmth it had.
The night seemed to stretch on forever. Once I slept, awakening to find the wind
gone but my fire down to a few tiny coals, and with effort I nursed it back into
flame. Something padded in the brush out there so I built my fire higher and
kept my club and my stone knife closer.
How many men had crouched beside such fires in the years gone by? With no more
weapons than I had?
At last the dawn came, cold and bleak, and I could see where wood lay without
blundering through the brush. I built up my fire, then took the hide and cut a
piece big enough for fresh moccasins. I buried the piece in the ground nearby to
make it soft and pliable for the work to come.
I found some duckweed tubers and ate them and ate the last of the elk meat,
throwing the few bones into the brush. Hobbling up on the slope, I looked the
country over with care. Now in most places a man can live if he knows something
of plants and animals, and if he will take time enough to think things out. It
is a man's brain that has removed him from the animals, and it is man's brain
that will let him survive, if he takes time to think.
First, I needed a weapon. Second, I must have shelter and clothing. So I stood
there, studying the land to see what it offered.
The canyon had high, rocky sides with forest climbing to the crest. There was a
stream in the bottom of the gorge with willows around it, and a good bit of
grass and some brush. On the ground not twenty feet away lay a well-seasoned
branch fallen from a tree. By breaking off the small branches I could fix an
obsidian point on it and have a lance.
The bushy-looking trees with scaly twigs and leaves, kind of silvery in the
sunlight, were buffalo-berry. The Indians used to collect them to flavor buffalo
or antelope meat. There were some wild roses there, too, and I could see the red
of some rose hips. There was plenty of deer sign along the stream, and I might
have time to make a bow and some arrows.
Limping down to the buffalo-berry bushes I started eating them, pits and all. I
topped them off with some rose hips. They weren't any banquet but they would
keep me alive. If no Indians found me.
This was Ute country, but both the Navajo and the Apache came here also.
And, of course, there was the wolf.
Chapter III
There was a pole corral and two lights shining from square windows in the long,
low log building. Galloway Sackett swung from the saddle and stood looking into
the window for a full minute before he tied his horse.
It was little enough he could see. The window was fly-specked and dirty, but
there was a bar inside, and several men. A half dozen horses stood at the
hitching rail.
Four of the horses wore a brand strange to him, a Clover Three ... three figure
3's arranged like a three-leaf clover.
Galloway whipped the dust from his clothes with his hat, then started for the
door. A glance at a powerful black horse stopped him. He looked at the brand and
whistled softly.
Originally the brand must have been a Clover Three, but now it was a Flower. A
reverse 3 had been faced to each of the other 3's, then another set had been
added, a stem and tendrils to join the petals to the stem. The job was
beautifully done, obviously by a rewrite man who knew his business and enjoyed
it.
"That's a man I've got to see," Galloway muttered. "He'd wear a Sherman button
to a Georgia picnic!"
He pushed open the door and stepped in, then walked to the bar. As he crossed
the floor he saw four men sitting at a table together, obviously the Clover
Three men. In a corner not far from the bar sat another man, alone.
He wore a fringed buckskin hunting shirt, under it a blue shirt, obviously
either new or fresh. He wore a low-crowned black hat, and was smooth-shaved
except for a reddish mustache, neatly trimmed and waxed.
The man in the buckskin shirt wore two pistols, one butt forward, one butt to
the rear ... a tricky thing, for a man might draw with either hand or both guns
at once. On the table were a bottle of wine, a glass, and a pack of cards.
Aside from the scruffy-looking man behind the bar there were two others in the
room, a man in a dirty white shirt with sleeve garters, and a hairy old man in
soiled buckskins.
Galloway Sackett, who had as much appreciation for situations as the next man,
ordered rye and edged around the corner of the bar so he could watch what was
happening ... if anything.
The four riders from the Clover Three looked embarrassed, while the lone man in
the buckskin shirt drank his wine calmly, shuffled the cards and laid them out
for solitaire, seemingly unconcerned.
Finally one of the Clover Three riders cleared his throat. "Quite a brand you
got there, Mister."
Without lifting his eyes from the cards, the other man replied: "You are
speaking to me, I presume? Yes, I rather fancy that brand." He glanced up,
smiling pleasantly. "Covers yours like a blanket, doesn't it?"
Galloway was astonished, but the four riders only fidgeted, and then the same
man said, "The boss wants to talk to you."
"Does he
now? Well, you tell him to ride right on in ... if he has any horses
left."
"I mean ... he's got a proposition for you. After all, it wasn't him—"
"Of course it wasn't. How could he be expected to account for all the stock on
his ranches? You tell your boss to come right on into town. Tell him that I'll
be waiting for him. Tell him I've been looking forward to our meeting. Tell him
I've been wanting to say hello and goodbye."
"Look, Shadow," the Clover Three man protested, "the boss just doesn't have the
time—"
"That's right, Will. Your boss doesn't have the time. In fact he is completely
out of time." The man called Shadow placed a card, then glanced up. "You tell
Fasten for me that if he will turn his remuda loose, fire his hands and ride off
the range with what he can carry on his saddle he can go.
"Otherwise," Shadow added, "I will kill him."
Nobody said anything. Galloway Sackett tasted his rye and waited, as they all
waited.
Then Will said, "Aw, give him a chance! You know he can't do that!"
"Fasten robbed a lot of people to build his herd. Some of the cattle were my
cattle, some of the cattle had belonged to friends of mine. Some of those people
are no longer alive to collect what he owes them, but I intend to see that he
does not profit from it. You tell him he's got twenty-four hours ... no longer."
"Look here." One of the punchers started to rise. "You can't get away with that!
You—!"
"Twenty-four hours, gentlemen. You ride out and tell him that. I am through
talking." His head turned ever so slightly. "As for you, I would suggest you
either sit down or draw a gun. The choice is yours."
He spoke mildly, as one might in a polite conversation, and without stress.
Slowly, carefully, the puncher sat down.
Galloway Sackett tasted his rye again and when the bartender came near he said,
"I'm hunting a man who knows the San Juan country."
The bartender shrugged, then indicated Shadow with a gesture of his head. "He
knows it, but I wouldn't start any talk about it now. He's got things on his
mind."
"I also want a horse—a good horse and a couple of pack horses or mules."
"Talk to him." Then the bartender added, "That's a good country to stay out of.
There's talk of trouble with the Utes, and the Jicarillas been cutting loose up
