Tucket's Travels

by Gary Paulsen

  And he was riding on the morning of the third day, out along the stream, just angling across it, not paying much attention to what he was doing, when something whisded past his cheek, brushing him lightly—almost like a fly. He reached his hand up absently, and at that instant, the horse stepped on a rock and stumbled.

  The sudden movement saved Francis's life. The second arrow—which would have hit him squarely in the middle of the chest—whirred past and buried itself in the muck of a beaver dam ten yards upstream.

  “Heeah!” Francis screamed, and at the same second fired his rifle in the air. He had two purposes in mind for shooting the rifle. First, it would warn Mr. Grimes. Second, it would get the mare running.

  And run she did. Like a little bomb going off beneath Francis, she was out of the stream and at a full gallop in the space of one breath, while he clung to her back like a flea.

  She ran straight ahead, and luckily she happened to be pointed toward the camp. But unluckily, she was also pointed toward the Indians, who were hidden in the brush along the stream between Francis and the camp, and she took him right through the middle of them.

  Francis hadn't seen the Indians, and suddenly he was ten feet away from all five of them. They were five Crows painted for war, ready, and wanting one thing—to make Francis look like a porcupine.

  Arrows whistled by him, and Francis felt as though the world had suddenly gone crazy. Painted faces popped up in front of him, screeched, loosed a feathered missile, and disappeared. Somebody fired a gun right by his face, and it deafened him. He felt a hand grab at his leg, and he managed to shake it off. Another hand came up; he clubbed it down with his empty rifle and—he was free!

  He was out of the ring of faces and arrows, flying along with the mare.

  He looked back. He had seen no horses, but he knew that the Indians wouldn't be too far from their mounts. It was nearly two miles to camp—two long miles. His horse was well fed and with any kind of a lead, he could probably beat them.

  He studied the ground ahead. It was smooth, grassy—-ideal for running. He looked back again, and saw that two Indians were mounted and starting after him. As he watched, three others burst out of a stand of willows near where they'd jumped Francis.

  It would be a chase. Francis studied his lead—a hundred yards, no more. And he was holding an empty rifle. I have to beat them, he thought. He had a good mount in his Indian pony, but the Crows were also riding Indian ponies. It stood to reason that out of five ponies, at least one would be as fast or faster than his. He couldn't expect miracles all the time.

  Sure enough, one of the ponies was as fast as his little mare. But two others were faster, and they gained rapidly. Before he'd covered half a mile, they had cut his hundred-yard lead in half.

  Francis leaned forward. “Run! If I ever needed speed, I need it now.”

  She was full-out already. She put her ears back and stretched an inch or two, but it didn't help much.

  Another half mile, he thought, watching the two Indians gaining on him, and they'll be alongside of me. Then what?

  Forty yards now, and one of the Indians raised his bow and loosed an arrow.

  Francis, looking back, saw the arrow rise in a slow arc and fall toward him. He felt his stomach tighten as his eyes followed its course.

  It fell short—by ten yards or so. The Indian fitted another arrow to the bow and aimed.

  He's getting the range, Francis thought. Only thirty yards separated them now.

  Francis nudged his pony just as the Indian shot his second arrow. The mare veered to the left, still at a dead run, and the arrow missed.

  Twenty yards now. They can't miss again, he thought. Not at this short range.

  Only fifteen yards, and now two Indians raised their bows.

  “No!” Francis cried. “You can't …”

  Then he heard it. Far off—a noise like the sound of muted thunder. A second later, he heard something whisper over his head, and the lead Indian fell from his horse.

  The second Indian veered aside—releasing his arrow at the same time, but missing Francis.

  The Hawkens—the great Hawkens of Jason Grimes had done it again.

  Francis eased up a bit and looked for the mountain man. It was still almost a quarter of a mile to camp—an impossible range, an impossible shot.

  Now Francis saw him—a speck that was leaning against a tree by the camp. At this range it was impossible to tell what the mountain man was doing, but in a moment Francis knew. A cloud of smoke jumped out in front of him, and the sound of a shot followed.

  Francis whirled to watch The Indians. One of the ponies somersaulted, throwing his rider heavily.

  That still left three. And those three stopped, dismounted, and hid behind the available cover.

  Francis dropped down to a canter. It was safe now, and the mare was blowing pretty hard. Even so, it wasn't but a few moments before he was dismounting at the camp.

  Mr. Grimes was smiling. “I do declare, Mr. Tucket. You sure pick some mighty funny people to be horse racing with. If you were all that hard up for something to do, I might have raced you myself. You didn't have to go and find a bunch of Crows.”

  “Well, you know how it is,” Francis answered, returning the smile, though he was shaking inside and felt a little sick to his stomach. “I was getting pretty bored, just sitting around all the time. A fellow needs some action now and then.”

  “Used to be that way myself, before I lost my arm. Still, I wish you'd come and ask me before you do those things.” He pointed at the Indians in the field. One of them had mounted and was heading away at a run. The mountain man shrugged. “No sense doing any more fancy shooting. One of them would be bound to get away.”

  “Where is he going?” Francis asked.

  “For help, Mr. Tucket. And I expect not too far, the way he's riding. Well, you said you wanted something to do—some action. Unless I miss my guess, before long you're going to get all the action you ever wanted. Unless …”

  “Unless what?”

  “Unless we run, Mr. Tucket. And stay ahead.”

  “But we can't run,” Francis said. “There are two of them left, watching us. They'd know right where we went.”

  “I swear, Mr. Tucket, you're getting smarter every day. So it appears that what we've got to do is get rid of those two Indians in the field.”

  “We?”

  “Sure. Were you figuring on doing it all by yourself?”

  Francis looked out across the meadow. Two ponies stood grazing almost a mile away. But the Indians weren't in sight. They could be anywhere, everywhere.

  “How do we do it?”

  “Simple, Mr. Tucket. We just walk out there until they shoot at us, then we shoot back.”

  Francis suddenly remembered that his rifle was empty. He reloaded it quickly.

  “All right, Mr. Tucket, let's go. We don't have all day.”

  The mountain man started walking out across the meadow, his rifle draped casually across his shoulder. He looked for all the world as though he were just going for a morning stroll, or perhaps to hunt rabbits.

  Except these rabbits, Francis thought, hurrying to catch up, aren't like normal rabbits. These rabbits shoot back.

  FRANCIS WOULD NEVER FORGET that morning “walk.” He was afraid, and as they walked closer to where he thought the two Indians were, he became more and more afraid. His forehead ran with sweat, and it was all he could do to keep from stopping, or turning, or yelling. But he didn't, he couldn't, because the mountain man was really depending on him.

  “You take the one on the right when they jump us, Mr. Tucket,” Mr. Grimes said, in his usual casual voice, as they walked. “I'll do my best on The left one.”

  So Francis couldn't afford to let fear dominate his actions. If he froze up, or ran, it could mean the death of Mr. Grimes. If he missed, or shot a second late, Mr. Grimes would be gone.

  He tried to calm down so he could watch the grass for movement, or see any signs in The soft
dirt. But his fear was too real. And then Mr. Grimes stopped, held up his hand, and said, “Mind now, Mr. Tucket. They're close. I can feel ‘em.”

  Francis couldn't feel anything. All he could think was that somehow, some way, they had walked past the Indians and he would get an arrow in his back any second.

  “Now!”

  That's all he heard—that shout from Mr. Grimes. From then on, everything was automatic. In front of diem, not ten feet away, two painted faces and bronze chests rose. Two arrows were pulled back on taut strings. Two Indian throats let out a roaring sound.

  Francis fired without aiming. He just pointed his rifle in the general direction of The Indian on his right side and pulled the trigger; then he turned and ran.

  He ran until he stumbled and fell, and then he lay on the ground and was sick. Sick from fear, and sick from having fired his rifle at a man, no matter the man's intent.

  Mr. Grimes came up to him a moment later.

  “Did—did I?”

  “Did you shoot him?”

  Francis nodded.

  “Yes, Mr. Tucket, and a fair shot it was, too. It kept him occupied long enough for me to finish him.”

  “You mean I didn't—kill—him?”

  “Nope. You only winged him. Creased him along the head. But it was enough to give him something else to think about till I could get in close.”

  Francis sat up. The grass was still cool, but the sun felt good. Better, far better than it had a few moments before. “We did it, eh, Mr. Grimes?”

  “No-ah, Mr. Tucket, that isn't quite true. We did part of it. We still have to get out of this place before that brave comes back. And the longer you sit there, the more likely it is some brave's gonna wind up with your hair for a dance tonight …”

  “Aren't you forgetting something?” Francis asked. “One of those Indians was dirown by his pony and that Indian is still around. He'll follow us.”

  “Not without a horse, he won't. And we're going to have their horses under beaver pelts. Now quit your jawing.”

  At a fast trot the mountain man was heading back toward the camp. Francis followed him. Once there, Mr. Grimes started on the beaver pelts, which were still damp, but dry enough to lash into bundles to be tied across the horses. He told Francis to mount up and go after the Indian ponies.

  It took only a few minutes. His mare still smelled all right to the Indian ponies, so they didn't shy away when he approached. But he had one bad moment, after he had gathered up the four ponies. While he was walking them back to camp, he rode past the Indian who had been thrown.

  He was sitting on the ground, and if eyes could kill, Francis would have been dead. The Indian was trying to draw his bow, but Francis could see that an injured shoulder wouldn't allow this action. In addition, one of his legs was twisted under him. Francis rode past quietly.

  Mr. Grimes had been working like a fiend. All the pelts were lashed into bundles of twenty-five, stacked and waiting. The mules had been cut loose and scared off.

  “Why don't we use the mules?” Francis asked.

  “Too slow,” came the quick answer. “And they'd need grain to move faster. Indian ponies can do it on grass—and we're going to be needing some speed.”

  That was the last word spoken for over an hour. Working hard, Mr. Grimes and Francis tied the pelts in bundles across the ponies. They were a bit skittish at first—smelling the almost-green hides— but Mr. Grimes kept them tied close to trees until their eyes quit rolling and they stopped blowing.

  Then he and Francis mounted their horses and rode out. It had been almost two hours since the brave had gone for help. If the rest of the tribe were within fifteen miles of the camp, the brave and more warriors could be back any second.

  Francis and Mr. Grimes rode hard, holding the horses at a steady lope. The Indian ponies kept up easily, and since the temperature had dropped considerably, it was cool enough to allow a decent run without heating the horses too much. South, down the canyon, in the direction they were heading, clouds were building into a gray wall that indicated snow or rain.

  Twenty minutes later, back at the cabin, ten Crow braves dismounted and briefly studied the campsite and surrounding area.

  They found many things. By feeling tlie manure left by the horses and finding it still warm, they knew that Mr. Grimes and Francis had only a short lead. By noting all the beaver traps left behind, they suspected that the two were running in fear.

  The leader of the party, an old man—not too old to ride but old enough to have wisdom—smiled at two of the younger men, who were ready to ride their ponies into the ground to catch Mr. Grimes and Francis.

  “Let us stay here for a time and help Laughing Pony fix his shoulder and leg, then we will go. We will still have them before daybreak tomorrow.”

  The young men shook their heads and grumbled but did as he told them to do.

  IT WAS ALMOST as if the storm had been waiting for them. Mr. Grimes led, pulling two pack horses and Francis followed pulling two more out into the prairie away from the mouth of the canyon and the snow took on more force, coming so fast that it quickly covered the horses and packs. Francis looked back and could see no trace of any tracks—- the snow blew in as fast as they were made—and he smiled.

  It was silly to keep going now, when surely their tracks would be blotted by the snow.

  Mr. Grimes rode on. To be sure, he eased the pace a bit—impossible not to, the way the wind was driving at them—but he didn't stop.

  Another hour passed. The snow was heavier, thicker. It was hard for Francis to see the short ten feet to Mr. Grimes. The temperature had dropped ten or fifteen degrees, and it was now near freezing. Francis took turns with his hands in handling The reins, holding one beneath his shirt to warm while the other got numb on the reins.

  And still they ran. The world became a mixture of thudding hoofs, howling wind, and slashing snow. Twice, Francis had to force himself to resist cutting loose the two pack horses following him. He had tied their lead lines around his waist, and they kept pulling at him, holding him back, snagging at him.

  There was no telling how long Mr. Grimes would have pushed them. He might have tried to ride the storm out. But finally, the little mare decided for them.

  One second she was running almost smooth, and the next she was tumbling down under Francis, throwing him clear as she collapsed. He screamed, and luckily Mr. Grimes heard him.

  By the time the mountain man had wheeled and stopped, Francis was getting up from the snow. The mare was on her feet, too, but sagging and with her head nearly on the ground. She had run just short of breaking her heart.

  Francis loosened the pack horses’ lead lines from his waist and looked up, through the snow and wind, at the mountain man, who was still mounted. He could see the verdict on the man's frost-covered face.

  “No!” Francis screamed. “I'm not leaving her!”

  “Mr. Tucket …”

  “I'm not leaving her!” Francis repeated. He knew how foolish it sounded. They were out in the open in a violent storm, but he was going to stay with his horse. He didn't care. She hadn't flinched when those five Crows jumped him. He wasn't going to leave her to The in a blizzard just for a few beaver pelts.

  “Mr. Tucket …”

  “No!”

  Then a strange thing happened. From what Francis knew of Mr. Grimes, he half expected the trapper to go off and leave him alone. Or hit him on the head and carry him.

  Mr. Grimes dismounted, hunched his back into the wind, and smiled.

  “I do declare, Mr. Tucket, you sure do pick the funniest times to be stubborn. I just hope that when I get down, you'll be this hot about staying around with me …”

  Francis realized he was crying. He wasn't sure why. He was tired, but he had won—at least sort of won. There was a lot of snow, and a lot of wind, and he was cold—but it wasn't that kind of crying. He just felt choked. He turned away.

  “And now, Mr. Tucket, if we're ever going to see what the world is li
ke after this humdinger, we'd better get to work. Help me get these horses around.”

  Mr. Grimes put all the horses, nose-to-tail, in a tight circle. Then he cut the beaver pelts loose from The Indian ponies and put the packs in the middle of the circle of horses.

  “Now hobble ‘em,” he said, tying a piece of lead rope around one of the ponies’ front ankles. “Hobble ‘em tight.”

  Francis worked fast. In no time, all the horses, including his own, were hobbled tight—front and rear.

  Then Mr. Grimes went around the circle on the outside and began pushing the horses over, toward the center. When he was done, all of them were lying on their sides, with tlieir backs leaving only a small circle of empty space around The beaver pelts. Mr. Grimes went around and pulled all the horses’ front and back legs together and hog-tied them. Now they couldn't get up, no matter how hard they tried.

  “And now, Mr. Tucket, why don't you and me catch up on a little sleep?”

  Stepping over the horses to the center, he motioned Francis to do the same. They cleared off the snow in a litde empty space, and began covering it with beaver pelts cut loose from the packs.

  They used almost half of the two hundred near-dry pelts, fur-side up, and when they'd finished, the circle of space was completely covered with warm fur. They lay down and covered themselves with the remaining pelts.

  It was a cozy, warm place. The horses’ backs gave off heat and stifled the sound of the wind. Francis was almost asleep as he put the last pelt in place. In a few seconds, just as he was drifting off, he heard the hoarse snore of the mountain man next to him.

  FRANCIS DIDN'T KNOW for sure how long they slept in their horseflesh shelter. Perhaps ten hours. Then they lay awake for a time, not talking, just listening to the wind whistling, and fell asleep again. The second time he awakened, Francis could hear nothing but his own breathing and the gentle sighing of the horses. There was no wind, no lashing snow. He stretched as much as the cramped space would allow, and felt Mr. Grimes move near him.

  “Well, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, “should we see what it's like outside?”