Tom caught three good-sized trout that evening, but they kept their fire small, cooked and ate the trout fresh from the stream, and by daylight Duncan started to examine the house. While he checked it over to see what needed to be done, Susanna went through their supplies. Their gifts to the Indians had cut sharply into their small hoard.
Only a few pounds of flour remained, and only three cupfuls of sugar. There was a slab of bacon, some dried apples, and the condiments. Fortunately there was a good supply of coffee and several pounds of tea scarcely touched.
Duncan listened while she told him and nodded. "All right, we will have to take it easy. Tom's fish supplied our supper, and we've enough venison left for breakfast. Tomorrow I'll go hunting."
That day they cleaned and mopped the cabin, wiping down the ceiling and walls, cleaning the cobwebs from the corners of the loft. There had never been glass in the windows, just strips of canvas tied over them to let light in and keep the rain out. The cabin had two rooms, a bedroom and a combination living room and kitchen. There was a lean-to where wood had been stored.
"That's your job, Tom," Duncan told him. "You can fill it up."
Tom looked at it, appalled. "Pa! That'll take days!"
"It will take days, perhaps weeks, but if we stay here it must be filled. Keep a corner for kindling, pitch-pine, and fine stuff to start fires."
The following day, several miles to the south, Duncan killed a deer, skinned it out and brought the hide and the best cuts of meat back to the cabin, and Susanna found the first of the strawberries. They were small but of excellent flavor.
Yet the sound of that one shot disturbed them. Duncan McKaskel knew they would have no rest until it was discovered who had fired that shot, and why.
On the morning of the third day he saddled the blaze-faced sorrel with the three white stockings. "Stay close," he said, "and keep the shotgun at hand. I will be gone several hours, but will definitely be back before dark. If I see any game I'll try to bring back some meat."
They watched him ride away into the aspens. He rode toward the mountain, and upstream. Susanna knew he intended to circle around and study the country.
Susanna heated water and began to wash clothes. Tom went to picking up fallen limbs, chunks of fallen trees and odds and ends of bark for fuel.
As she looked about her, Susanna was concerned about all that must be done before cold weather came upon them, and once more she thought how ill-fitted they were for the life they had begun.
When she had finished her washing and hung the clothes out to dry on a string from the wagon to the corner of the cabin, she got a sheet of paper and began to list what was needed. Once snow fell there was little they could do to obtain supplies, so all must be had beforehand.
Always her ears listened for a shot, but she heard no sound. Tom walked out through the trees, and swung back to their trail. When he returned to the cabin he said, "There are no tracks. At least, none that I could see. The wind and the rain have wiped them out."
They could not be found then. They were safe. Yet even as she thought it she knew they must always be alert, always ready. The afternoon was warm, and restlessly, she walked down to the river. Tom had a line in the water but he shook his head when she started to speak.
She had started to turn away when some movement caught her eye and she looked up. A rider sat on the edge of the bluff just beyond the trees. He was no one with whom she was acquainted, nor did the horse seem familiar. He was looking at something to their north and she slowly eased back to the brush, motioning to Tom.
Tom drew his line in and slipped back beside her. Crouching together, they watched the man.
For some time he sat there without moving. Then he turned his horse and started down the trail into the river-bottom. As his face turned toward them, Susanna gasped.
The man's nose was flattened on his face, and even at this distance she seemed to see some discoloration on his face, yet it might only have been the shadows of leaves. He had almost reached the bottom of the short trail when he pulled up sharply, then swung his mount and rode back up the trail.
Far off they heard a faint call.
When he was gone they went quickly back to the cabin, and Tom looked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was.
"It was that man, Tom, I am sure of it. It was the man I hit that night."
"He certainly had a bashed-in nose," Tom said. "Do you think he knows who did it?"
"One of us, certainly. Tom, I wish your father was back. I wonder how they found us?"
"I don't believe they have," Tom said, "or else he would not have turned around and gone off. They're just looking around."
She considered that. From where he had stopped the cabin was not in view, nor could their wagon have been seen. The horse and mules were in the pasture on the bench above the cabin.
"Tom," she said suddenly, "go get Amby and bring him down here, and the mules, too. We'll water them and keep them close to the house tonight."
"I've found a place back in the aspen that's just like a stable," he said, "there's shelter from the wind and some shelter from rain. It wouldn't take much to fix it up."
Fortunately, they had no fire. The water had been heated some time before and that fire had died down. Otherwise that man could have detected the smoke. She watched Tom trudge up the trail to the bench, and then she got the shotgun and went to the chest for extra shells. She put four in each pocket of her apron.
Where was Duncan? She had heard no shot, no sound since he had left, hours before. The shadows grew longer. Light bathed the summit of the bald mountain but there was no sound, nothing to disturb the cool evening.
Duncan had said he would be back before dark, and he was not yet back. She felt a strange tightness in her throat ... was it fear? Her eyes turned to the trail from the bench.
Tom should be coming back. It was not as if the animals were running loose, they had been picketed, all of them. Nervously, she walked across the grass ... listening.
An owl spoke mournfully from the cottonwoods near the river. Was it an owl? Didn't Indians sometimes call to each other that way?
She took up the shotgun and started toward the trail. Yet she had taken only a step when she heard a hoof strike stone and she stopped very still. "Well, now. And all alone, too." She turned. The shotgun was hidden in the folds of her skirt. She did not believe they had seen it. After a first chill of sheer panic, her nerves steadied.
The man with the flat nose and another one, a slender, dark man with a buckskin jacket stood before her.
"All alone," the man with the flat nose repeated, "we surely lucked out, didn't we, Huron?"
"I am not quite alone," Susanna said quietly, "but it does not matter, does it,gentlemen ?"
Booster chuckled. "Flattery gets you nowhere, ma'am, nowhere at all. I ain't no gent an' never pretended that I was."
She stood very still and tall. Booster drew his foot from the stirrup. "Now, ma'am, we know you're all alone, and if you want to make trouble you can, but it just ain't goin' to do you no good."
"Will nothing influence you to just ride on? We just want to build a home here. We wish trouble to no one."
Booster chuckled. "Now that's right nice of you, ma'am. I always like to come up with folks like you, who don't want trouble, because it saves a heap of sweat."
"If nothing else will influence you," Susanna lifted the shotgun waist-high, "how about this?"
Even as she said it she was surprised that she, Susanna McKaskel could say such a thing, but her hands were steady as she held the shotgun. Con Vallian, she thought, would have been proud of her.
Booster stopped. "Now, ma'am, you be careful. That thing might be loaded."
"It is," she replied quietly, "and my husband tells me this will be very destructive at this range. I will hope I do not have to find out ... I do not like the sight of blood, gentlemen."
Booster stared at her. He was angry but he was also scared. Would she shoot? She sounded very cool
, and although she might be too frightened to shoot, he was not at all sure he wanted to make the test. A shotgun, at that range, could rip a man in two.
"Now, ma'am--"
The Huron spoke for the first time. "Booster, you are becoming a little hasty. Have you thought what Red would say to this?"
For the moment Booster had ... and he knew very well what Red Hyle would say. "You've got a point there, Huron," he said, "maybe we should just ride back to camp."
Suddenly there was a faint rattle of stones from the bench trail. Both men turned sharply, and when they did, Susanna, moved over behind them. "Go now ... and don't come back."
Booster McCutcheon looked around. "Oh we'll go!" he said, "but we'll be back, too. We got a man who is mighty wishful of knowin' you, ma'am, and when we come back we'll all come."
The Huron had turned his horse back toward the river and was walking it away. Booster, glad of an excuse to leave Susanna and the shotgun behind, turned and followed. A shotgun, especially in the hands of a scared woman, was a dangerous thing.
Susanna turned and walked back toward the cabin, then stood there, listening to the retreating sound of their horses' hoofs. She heard them splash through the river and heard the click of hoofs on stone as they crossed the wide bed of rocks that covered part of the stream bed.
Then she heard Tom coming, with their own stock. "Ma? Are they gone?"
"Yes, I think they are ... for the time being."
"Boy, Ma, you were terrific! I was scared, really scared!"
"So was I."
"You sure didn't act scared. Wow! The way you threw down on them--!"
"Threw down! Tom, what kind of talk is that?"
"Well, anyway, you sure made them back up. Wait until I tell Pa--"
"He should be home soon. Let's go inside and light a lamp, and you can build up a fire. They know where we are now, but I doubt if they will come back this night. In any event, we shall be ready for them.
"Your father will be tired and we must have some coffee ready for him, and a hot meal."
She tried to make her voice sound confident, but she was frightened. What if something had happened? What if some of the others had found Duncan and there had been trouble? Still, there had been no shooting ... but suppose they were in some canyon? Could she still have heard?
Susanna lighted the lamp, then replaced the chimney. She glanced at the doorway, and realized that the light within made the darkness without even more intense. Leaving the lamp on the mantel she went outside where Tom was kindling the camp fire.
She looked again toward the darkness of the forest, and the silver of the water. The gravel bench at the water's edge looked white now.
Where was Duncan?
"Ma? Don't worry. There's lots of reasons why he might not make it on time. He may be across the river and it's very deep in some places. Maybe he's looking for a place to cross, or has to ride around some thick brush. And sometimes somebody stays out longer than they planned, without realizing."
What he said was true, of course, but Tom's reasoning did not allay her fears. Something was wrong, and she knew it.
"He's lying hurt somewhere, I just know it!"
"Aw, Ma--! He maybe couldn't find his way home in the dark and just stopped where he was. That would be the wisest thing. Con told me that if you figured you were lost the best thing was to stop right where you were until daylight, then think yourself out of it."
"I wish he was here now."
"We've got to do for ourselves, Ma. We can't always be trusting to him to come along and pull us out. I found a place, back in the aspens, where somebody had made a sort of hidden corral with dead aspen logs. Indians, maybe."
"What are you suggesting?"
"We could hide the mules. Three of them, anyway. We ... me, I should say, I can ride old Balaam. You could take one of the sorrels."
"All right, Tom. When daylight comes if he is not here, we'll look for him. It's better than just waiting for them to come back."
Chapter XII
Con Vallian left the Indians on the tenth day. His leg was still stiff and needed careful handling, but once in the saddle he was ready to travel. He thanked the Indians, shook hands all around, and rode out to the westward.
Running Wolf squatted beside him at the fire on the morning he was to ride out "You friend," he said, "he leaves somethings."
After some casual talk and a few questions, Con grinned. So they had begun to learn, after all. Well, maybe they would make it.
They had left, he gathered, some articles of furniture. The Indians, scouting around, had found indications and had looked further. Knowing these things had belonged to the friends of the man at their camp, they had left them alone.
The Indians, who were constantly on the move and missed very little gave him the direction of the McKaskels' wagon.
"Smart," he decided, "or lucky." They had left the trails behind and had taken a high country route that normally could not be traveled for lack of water. Now, with the recent rains and pools in the buffalo wallows, they could make it through.
He lost their trail within a few hours due to rains and wind, so he took a long swing south, riding late in the evening and at night. On the second day after leaving the Indians he came up with the trail of the Shabbitt outfit. They were headed west, following the usual trail, but here and there they left sign enough to indicate they were doing a lot of scouting ... scouting for the wagon trail McKaskel would leave.
He checked all their campsites with care. There were only seven of them now ... he had his own vague recollection of a difficulty with Pangman. Somehow, when wandering and delirious, they had met.
Pangman's tracks were missing, and Vallian had two loads gone from his six-shooter. As bad off as he must have been, he had obviously been good enough.
At the fourth camp he checked, he found that they had camped by a stream. It was a small one, and even he had not been aware of its existence. He went over the camp with care, and his attention paid off.
He found some bloody rags first, probably a bandage Booster McCutcheon had used on his face. And then he found the tin boat, bent out of shape and cast aside. They had camped on the edge of a stream, and without doubt they had found the boat there, where it had floated down from above.
What followed next needed no guess work. When the Shabbitt outfit rode out they rode northwest.
Most of their riding had been done after the rains had passed and their trail could be followed even by night. He rode swiftly, only pausing to rest his mustang from time to time.
It was none of his affair in one sense, but in another it was. He had advised the McKaskels, helped them, eaten their bread and food, drunk their coffee. He was not a man to take such things lightly.
On the first day he rode thirty miles, on the second he covered fifty. The Shabbitt outfit had a tough trail to find, and were probably riding by guess as much as by sight. He had no such problem. If he could find the Shabbitt bunch he would either find the McKaskels or he would discover what had happened to them.
Before him loomed the eastern wall of the mountains, cut by deep canyons, furrowed by lesser ravines, openings that gave on to lovely mountain meadows or to tumbling cataracts. They might have gone into any one of them.
Yet he knew that most people, traveling in the wilds, will follow the line of least resistance. This would be especially true of a man traveling with a wagon and a family. So Con Vallian took his time.
The change had been abrupt. From the short grass country he had suddenly ridden into a sub-alpine world where the grass was richer and the wild flowers everywhere. There were scattered stands of ponderosa and from time to time he drew up to scan the country ahead.
Any tracks would be washed out or damped down by subsequent rains, but to pass through a country and leave no mark of one's passing is nearly impossible. Peering from under the brim of his hat, he studied the lay of the grass, the possible ways a wagon might have taken.
They had ma
de a mistake by coming in close to the mountains because if they wished to go to Cherry Creek they must follow along the mountains which meant crossing many gullies or canyons where the streams flowed from the higher country. Yet it was the mountains toward which they were bound, and it might be they would turn off.
He scanned the area thoughtfully, looking for some favorable opening into the back country. Then he started on, casting about for a lead. Under the aspens and close to their groves were stands of golden cinquefoil, and in the groves a bit further along, columbine. Often they were mixed with other flowers. The grass was wet from heavy dews or what was left of the recent rains.
He worked his way along the edge of the forest, riding in and out of the trees, weaving a careful way, alert for ambush and any sign of travel. He saw the fresh droppings of deer and elk, he saw where a bear had clawed high upon a tree ... only hours ago, by the look of it, and once he found a lion kill, half-eaten and buried under brush.
Unconsciously he had worked his way higher upon the mountain, following the easiest route, yet aware that one can often see tracks from up high that would be missed on the ground and close by.
He was emerging from a stand of spruce when he caught a glimpse of movement ... several riders, rifles in hand, moving along an open meadow at a lope.
"Shabbitt!" He swore softly. Even at the distance he could recognize several of them, and it was equally obvious that they were going somewhere, not just wandering or searching. Then, faintly, his eyes seemed to pick up the track of a wagon!
He stood up in the saddle and tried to see along the slope to his right. They were riding into a gap in the hills where the wagon, if those really were tracks and not his imagination, had gone. They rode as if expecting trouble.
Turning his mount, he rode swiftly along the mountain side in their direction, and cutting down through the trees, although keeping under cover, he came upon a game trail.
It was a chance, and he took it, knowing at the same time that many such trails can be useless for horses. A deer, holding its head low, can often go under limbs and brush that a horse must skirt around ... and often enough the hillside is too steep for such travel.
the Quick and the Dead (1983) Page 8
