Riding the Line

by Will DuRey

  ‘Red Hammer riders,’ Jim muttered, ‘with our stock.’

  ‘That looks like Zeb Walters,’ Dean said, his eyes fixed on the tall rider on the right. He cast a glance at Jim Braddock, knowing there was bad blood between the two men. Jim had always insisted that it was all on Zeb’s part and that the incident, which had occurred on pay day, had been exaggerated by whiskey. Zeb had spent a night in jail and Jim had been told to leave town and stay away until tempers cooled. The banishment wasn’t much of a hardship for him; he was hoping and expecting it would be forgotten about as soon as Zeb sobered up.

  In the days immediately following the flare-up, it seemed that everyone around Big Timber had an opinion on the root of the problem. Most people said that a woman was to blame, but citing sex as the root of an argument had been in fashion since there had been nothing but snakes in Adam and Eve’s garden. One version blamed Zeb Walters for insulting Bluetail Billie, one of the Garter girls who had been a long-time favourite of Jim Braddock, but others blamed it on Jim for trying to take liberties with Zeb’s wife. Others had more fanciful explanations, claiming that the argument had been a long time simmering, that the dispute dated back to a time before either man had settled in this part of Montana, but no one had any evidence to support their notion. The card game and Zeb’s losses were too insignificant for those who needed a more salacious element to their gossip. But cowboys needed something to jaw about in barrooms and to weave stories around for winter nights in the bunkhouse. Attributing blame and innocence was as natural to them as grumbling at cookhouse food, and exaggeration was a competition practised more readily by those who hadn’t witnessed the affair.

  For Jim Braddock the incident was best forgotten. Zeb, he supposed, who had been the aggressor, would offer to buy him a beer the next time they met and the matter would be closed, but that hadn’t been the way of it. The Red Hammer man had not only lost his money but had received a lump on his head and picked up a five-dollar fine. He grumbled to anyone who would listen.

  They hadn’t seen each other since that day. Without money, Zeb had had no reason to visit Big Timber and although there had been another payday since then, it had coincided with Jim’s line-cabin duty. But before riding out to the high boundary Zeb’s grumbles had reached Jim’s ears and, in the retelling, had become threats of revenge. Now, in awkward silence, they looked at each other. Zeb had his shoulders hunched and his head tilted, making him appear smaller despite the thick mackinaw coat he wore to ward off the chill. In Jim’s opinion it was Zeb’s place to speak first but the Red Hammer man’s lips remained firmly pressed together. Jim couldn’t decide if the other’s narrow-eyed look expressed anger or contrition. He waited for Zeb to speak but it was the other’s companion who uttered the first words.

  ‘We were chasing them back on to your range,’ young Harvey Goode explained, waving his hand at the cattle that were milling around a few yards away. His words and the accompanying smile were meant to allay any suspicion the Broken Arrow riders might have had that their stock was being rustled. ‘They didn’t want to cross the creek. Guess they like Red Hammer grass better than yours.’

  Dean Ridgeway scoffed. ‘Well, that just proves you right, Jim. Cows are stupid.’

  Harvey laughed, Jim allowed a small smile to tug at his mouth but there was no change to Zeb’s expression.

  ‘What do you think, Jim?’ Harvey asked, twisting in the saddle to look at the northern sky.

  Jim pointed to the Bitterroots in the west, their peaks shrouded in cloud.

  ‘That’s snow up there and it’s coming this way. Unless you’ve got four months’ provisions in your cabin I think it’s time to get out of the high ground. We’re going to start on down to the valley as soon as we’ve rounded up all the stragglers.’

  ‘Don’t know that Mr Grisham would welcome us back yet. He reckoned on another month before winter bites.’

  ‘You do what you think is right, Harvey. If you think the man who pays you controls the weather then follow his orders, but this cold and that snow signify a long, harsh winter. We’re not hanging around.’

  Harvey Goode shrugged in his coat. He cast a glance at his companion to hear his opinion but Zeb was looking at the ground as if he wasn’t involved in the conversation. The look Harvey threw at Jim Braddock carried the suggestion that he was to blame for Zeb’s voluntary exclusion, that Zeb hadn’t yet shucked off the dispute in the Garter. When he spoke again, however, it was to pass on news of another incident in Big Timber, one that had occurred only two days earlier, before the Red Hammer men had been dispatched to their current duty.

  ‘Dan Brix is dead.’

  ‘The deputy?’

  ‘Sure, the deputy. Don’t know any other.’

  ‘What happened?’ Dean Ridgeway wanted to know.

  ‘Two of his gang broke Frank Felton out of jail. Dan was killed trying to stop them.’

  ‘Did they get away?’

  ‘Yup. Sheriff Stone figures they’ve gone north into Canada.’

  ‘He got some cause to believe that?’

  ‘That’s the way they were heading when they lit out of town. A posse was still hunting them when we came up here.’

  Jim looked again at the heavy northern skies.

  ‘If they haven’t caught them yet then I don’t suppose they will. The townsmen won’t risk being cut off in the high country. Snow’ll send them skittering home.’

  Harvey Goode grunted with amusement at the plight of the posse but didn’t comment. Instead he looked back to the hump of land that led down to the boundary creek and said they needed to get back to their own chores. He cast another look at Zeb who still sat morosely silent three or four yards apart from the rest of the group.

  ‘Thanks for sorting out the cattle,’ Jim said.

  ‘You’d have done the same for us. See you in Big Timber.’ Harvey raised his hand, turned his horse and began to ride away. Zeb began to follow.

  ‘Zeb,’ Jim called, and the Red Hammer rider pulled his horse to a halt and looked over his shoulder. ‘Is there something on your mind, something you want to say to me?’

  The Red Hammer man glowered but remained silent.

  ‘I heard tell you were making threats against me.’

  ‘I got a sore head and a five-dollar fine. What did you get?’

  ‘You were the one making all the noise, Zeb. We’ve known each other too long to let a poker game and a bottle of whiskey make enemies of us.’

  ‘And twenty dollars.’

  ‘If you didn’t want to lose the money you shouldn’t have gambled with it.’

  Zeb snorted, a derisory sound that suggested that the rift hadn’t been healed.

  ‘Next time I see you in Big Timber we’ll have a beer together,’ Jim offered, but Zeb had wheeled his mount and was riding away to catch up with Harvey.

  As he watched them ride up and over the ridge, Jim berated himself for a fool. It had been Zeb’s responsibility to make the first move to healing the breach between them. He should have let him go off in his sulky manner; what did it matter if they never spoke again. But it was twenty-two dollars, he told himself; why risk a vendetta for twenty-two dollars?

  The Red Hammer men were out of sight now and Jim turned his attention to the few steers that had been returned from across the creek.

  ‘Let’s get them moving,’ he told Dean, and at that moment a rifle shot cracked behind them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  From the edge of the ridge Harvey Goode had watched the brief interchange between Jim Braddock and Zeb and waited for his friend to catch up. Zeb rode past, ignoring the younger man, and began the descent down to the creek below. He was at the bottom of the slope before Harvey began to follow. An icy wind gusted down from the high ground and frost still showed white on the frozen ground. Here, the descent to the slim watercourse was about twenty-five feet and Harvey Goode had covered less than a quarter of that distance when an iron-shod hoof skidded on a ice-covered rock. His mount lurched and t
ried to regain its balance by turning sideways. Harvey leant back to counter the original skid but was jolted forward by the second unexpected movement. The horse went down on its side so quickly that the rider had no opportunity to get out of the saddle. With Harvey’s leg trapped against the hard ground the horse slid down the incline. A hideous wail was forced out of Harvey Goode.

  Across the creek, Harv’s yell brought Zeb to a sudden halt. He twisted in the saddle and looked on helplessly as his comrade’s frightened horse slithered down the slope. Despite its frantic efforts the animal was unable to stop its downward momentum. With Harvey crushed against the ground it plunged on to the bank of the creek. Shakily, it got to its feet, shook its head, snorted, then dashed across the creek and past Zeb.

  With his wits about him Zeb could have grabbed the reins and calmed the animal, but his eyes were fixed on his companion, who lay silent, twisted and unconscious on the ground. He spurred his horse back across the water and dismounted. Blood smeared the ground marking the line of the horse’s descent. Zeb’s first impression was that Harv was dead; his eyes were closed and it didn’t seem as though he was breathing. His right leg was at a crazy angle. Then there was a moan, barely audible but strong enough to confirm he was alive. Zeb had no idea what he could to do to help the young cowboy.

  Then he remembered Jim Braddock. Everyone said that he was resourceful. Perhaps he could help. Grabbing his rifle from its scabbard, he fired a shot in the air. He prayed that the Broken Arrow men would hear and respond. He held the rifle in his hand as he bent to examine the injured man.

  When the first anxiety – that the shot had been fired at them – had been swiftly dismissed, Jim and Dean exchanged enquiring glances.

  ‘Better take a look,’ Jim said and, forsaking the small herd, hastened off towards the ridge, Dean tagging along behind.

  They stopped on the lip of the treeless escarpment, wary of exposing themselves to a gunman but relieved that no more shots had followed the first. The breath of their horses rose then dissipated in the cold air. The panorama was a predominantly white landscape. Frost covered the ground and clung to the distant trees that marked the location of Fetterman’s Brook. The figures of the Red Hammer riders were on the bank of the creek, almost into the little stream of icy water.

  Harvey Goode was lying awkwardly on his back, his arms outstretched. Zeb Walters, crouching over him with one knee on the ground, looked up at the riders above. He got to his feet. He was holding the reins of his horse in one hand and his rifle in the other. He raised the arm holding the weapon and beckoned frantically to the Broken Arrow riders. He watched their careful descent to the place where Harvey lay.

  ‘His horse fell.’ Zeb threw out the words to Jim and Dean before they had a chance to dismount. ‘Lost its footing on the ice and was down before he could get clear.’ Jim looked across the creek and could see the animal running with its head high in the way such animals do when governed by nervous panic. ‘Harv was trapped underneath as it slid down the hillside. His leg. . . .’ Zeb added, sweeping an arm in the direction of his partner, inviting Jim and Dean to inspect it for themselves but clearly unwilling to look upon the damage himself.

  Harvey lay so still that Dean Ridgeway was sure he was dead. Jim lifted aside the stricken man’s coat to inspect the damage.

  ‘Damnation,’ he muttered. The damage to the cowboy’s left thigh was grave. It wasn’t just broken, it was shattered: a bloody, misshapen mess. Jim looked at Dean, saw the colour drain from the younger fellow’s face. ‘Succumbed to the pain,’ he said.

  ‘What can we do?’ asked Zeb.

  Jim shook his head. He had no idea what to do. It didn’t seem right to move Harvey but he would freeze to death if they didn’t get him off the ground. Snow had begun to fall.

  ‘Our shack is closest,’ he said, ‘we’d better get him there as soon as possible. We’ve got some laudanum. He’ll need it when he comes to his senses.’

  No one argued with Jim; wordlessly he was accepted as the leader of the little group. It wasn’t a role he ever volunteered to play but it was thrust upon him more and more due to his age and experience. He’d seen broken limbs on several occasions but they had been single, clean breaks. Harvey’s leg was shattered. He couldn’t begin to estimate how many fractures he’d suffered both above and below the knee. He could see three places where bone had cut through the skin and pierced the material of Harv’s trousers.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Zeb asked again.

  In truth, Jim had no idea. He was pretty sure that anything they did would only make matters worse. Harv needed the attention of a proper medical man but that was unlikely to happen for at least another day. It was important, he remembered, to keep the leg straight and still for the healing process to begin but, in this instance, that was impossible. He encircled the leg with a number of stiff twigs and tied them tightly in place to restrict movement, but first he’d had to lift and twist the distorted limb until there was a semblance of normality in its position. As he’d worked the movement of the leg had been unusual: the ball joint, he suspected, had been dislodged from the hip socket. Young Harvey Goode, he figured, wouldn’t be asked to chase cows again. Whatever days lay ahead of him they weren’t going to be spent at round-ups, cattle drives or riding the line in winter.

  Harvey didn’t regain consciousness while Jim administered to his leg. Now and then a troubled head movement or deep groan assured everyone that their patient was still alive but all the colour had drained from his face, suggesting that the chance of life’s continuity was tenuous. He was laid on a framework of ropes that had been fashioned by Zeb: when it was raised it formed a sling between the two Broken Arrow horses. Dean retrieved a heavy-duty winter oilskin from behind his saddle, which he draped over the comatose cowboy.

  ‘Zeb,’ Jim commanded, ‘you need to get down to Red Hammer. Send a wagon up to our shack to collect Harv and send another man to fetch Doc Farraday from Big Timber. He needs to be at the ranch when Harv returns.’

  Zeb gathered the reins of his mount and climbed into the saddle but Jim put a hand on the bridle before the other could spur his way across the creek. ‘Getting help for Harv is urgent,’ he said, ‘but take it easy, Zeb. Conditions are bad. It won’t do anyone any good if you damage yourself or your horse.’

  Zeb nodded. ‘Thanks for your help, Jim,’ he said, the words putting an end to the feud-like relationship that had been developing between them. In an instant, he was gone, his mount splashing through the icy water of the creek and leaving clear tracks in the fresh-fallen snow.

  It was almost five miles to the line cabin. Snow was falling steadily and the weather was worsening. Dean drove ahead of him the few head of cattle that the Red Hammer riders had brought across the creek. Jim walked at the heads of the horses carrying Harvey Goode so that he was able to keep them in step and keep an eye on the invalid. It was a weary trudge as the lying snow deepened and the cold began to bite at their faces. Harvey’s face was turning blue.

  ‘Will he live?’ Dean Ridgeway asked when at last they got him on to the bunk. Transferring him from the sling hadn’t been an easy operation and Harv had yelled out his agony even though his eyes hadn’t opened and there had been no other symptoms of consciousness.

  Jim shrugged, he had no idea. If he had to put money on the outcome it wouldn’t have been on the side of survival.

  ‘Keep him warm,’ he said, ‘that’s all that can be done for him, and dose him with laudanum if he wakes.’

  ‘Do we just wait here until someone comes from Red Hammer?’

  ‘You do.’

  ‘Me? What are you going to do?’

  ‘Got to check the top ground for your pa’s strays.’

  Dean flashed a look at the stricken man on the bunk, clearly uncomfortable at the prospect of acting as nursemaid.

  ‘I’ll round up the strays,’ he offered.

  Jim barely acknowledged the other’s suggestion with a glance. They both knew that on his
own, in the bleak winter whiteness, it was probable that Dean would become more lost than the cattle.

  Dean ventured the thought that there might not be any strays up by the Indian burial ground. ‘Even if there are, what’s the loss of a couple of cows?’

  ‘Those couple of cows are the reason we’ve been sent up here,’ Jim reminded him. ‘Your pa would rather lose me than a couple of cows.’ Jim thought that probably wasn’t true but the old man would never admit it.

  ‘I don’t know what to do here,’ Dean complained.

  ‘No more do I,’ Jim confessed. ‘Like I told you, keep him warm. If he develops a fever, wipe his brow. If he wakes in agony give him a dose of laudanum. We’ve got nothing else.’

  The ranch owner’s son wasn’t happy with the situation but he didn’t have the necessary ammunition with which to fight Jim Braddock. He regarded the awkwardly still figure on the bunk as an unarguable reason for having nothing to do with a life chasing cows.

  ‘How long will you be gone?’ he asked.

  ‘Can’t tell,’ Jim replied. ‘I’ll be back as soon as possible. If they get the wagon here before I return just wait for me. We’ll try to get back to the ranch tomorrow. We haven’t enough provisions to stay here much longer.’

  CHAPTER THREE

  Although there were black, snow-filled clouds overhead, none had travelled further south to shed their load in the valley below. As he worked his way hesitantly across the hillside Zeb Walters could see that the valley floor still retained the dull green colour of late-autumn grass. It was a sight that gave him encouragement, hope that soon there would be no need for him to maintain the tentative pace he had so far adopted; he would be able to put his mount to the gallop that the situation required. When he pictured in his mind the damage done to Harvey Goode’s leg he doubted if it would ever be of any use to the young man again; then, recalling the ghastly expression on Harv’s face, he knew that survival itself would be a miracle. Jim Braddock had insisted that he would only be saved by treatment from a qualified doctor, and even that might not be enough, but Zeb was determined to do his utmost to save the lad’s life.