by Jory Sherman
“Well, yes, sir, what is it? Anything I got.”
“I want about a half-dozen writing tablets and a dozen lead pencils. You got ’em?”
“I do, I do.”
Poor Mr. Jenkins. He didn’t know what to make of what I told him. But he walked out with me and saw the bodies, stiff as boards by then, draped over two Indian ponies. I thought he was going to gag on his own breath.
“Say, what’s your name?” he called after me as I rode away.
“Just call me Sundown.”
I was dressed in new clothes and I had on Truitt’s hat. It was the better fit of the two I had to choose from. I didn’t look in the mirror, but I bet I didn’t look like a damned Arapaho anymore. I rode back up to where Blue Owl and I had camped, put the pannier on the other horse, a dappled gray mare, Truitt’s, and packed my few belongings. I slung one of the pistols from the saddle horn and carried the spare Winchester and my flintlock on the packhorse. I had plenty of cartridges and put one Winchester in its scabbard. I left the extra saddle and other items hidden under a blue spruce, and covered everything with cut boughs.
Then I rode toward Cache la Poudre Canyon, following the sun.
It was rugged going through rough, unknown country. There were lots of rocks and trees, steep slopes, and I knew the hills rose high above the Poudre. But I wanted to be well away from the confluence of the two rivers, La Porte, and the wagon road up the canyon. I had no idea how far up the Poudre Amos Pettigrew had gone, but I figured that I would catch sight of his camp eventually. I knew I would have to find a place where I could descend to the road and not be seen. Then I would decide whether to go up or down. And most probably, I would have to cross the river and travel through the woods on the other side.
I did not find the river or the road that first day, so I made camp under a rocky outcropping, thick with trees, so that I had protection on three sides. I knew I was in the land of the Utes, and I knew how dangerous they were. So I made no fire, and I did not unsaddle my horse or take the pannier off the packhorse. I loosened cinches and ropes and hobbled both animals, and kept them on lead ropes just in case something spooked them and they broke their hobbles.
The air was clean and fresh and thin at that altitude, and I felt invigorated as I set up my camp for the night. Being up there, so high and away from civilization, gave me a chance to collect my thoughts, reflect on all that had happened in the past few days, and adapt to my new surroundings. I missed Blue Owl and I wished she could have been up there with me as I gazed at all the green and the clear blue sky, with the high, snowcapped peaks at my back and shadows stretching long down the foothills.
I listened long and hard for any sounds, but heard nothing. No voices, no hoofbeats. Just a deep silence up there under the outcropping. I could see then why some men took to the mountains and never wanted to leave. There was such peace up there, in that place, and it seeped into me as the night slowly stole away the day and the darkness flowed into the hills and trees. Even the horses were quiet at that solemn hour just after dusk, and I was grateful for the silence, the deep hush that seemed to settle in the trees and surround me.
I slept, my rifle and pistol by my side, both within easy reach, and only awoke once, to relieve myself. Then, back into the arms of Morpheus, until dawn’s rosy fingers touched my face and I opened my eyes to see the sun’s rays simmering just below the eastern horizon. I was eating jerky and hardtack as the sun came up, tightening the cinches on the saddle, and taking up the slack in the pannier rope. There had been some grain in one of the saddlebags, and I gave each horse half a hatful. Then I rode through the morning, careful to avoid low limbs that might strike the pack and loosen it, climbing ever higher until I was in the rugged mountains, the foothills far below me.
I angled ever southward, toward the Poudre, and finally came to the large canyon where I could hear the river’s muffled roar. The sun was melting some of the snow higher up, and I knew the river was probably raging with spring runoff.
I tied up the horses and walked to a small promontory that jutted out over the gorge. I gazed downward and saw the Poudre, foaming as it raced through twists and turns marked by large boulders. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more beautiful sight than that river shooting down a steep passage marked by many small bends. It seemed like a living thing. The sun filled its spray with tiny rainbows, and the sound it made was the sound of raw energy, unfettered power. That river was a mighty thing, unlike the slow-moving Platte or the Missouri or even the Mississippi. I stood there, high above it, and grew giddy just watching it run.
I looked up the gorge to see if there was a place where I might ride down. I could see the wagon road, just barely, from where I stood. I saw no place, but figured there might be a ravine or small canyon just beyond the next rise. On the other side, I saw many such places and water streamed from all of them, emptying into the Poudre.
I walked back to where I had tied the horses and climbed into the saddle. I stayed close to the line I had marked in my mind as being the river, and climbed still another ridge. As I rode, I began to wonder if I would find a place on this side where I could descend to the river. The mountains seemed to be getting steeper and the horses were feeling the strain of all that climbing.
But I did find a place, and almost missed it.
There was such a jumble of ridges and shallow valleys up there and the going was so rough, I lost track of the map in my mind. We rode around huge deadfalls and massive boulders and after a while, everything began to look the same. But I topped a small ridge and looked down into a deep gully choked with brush, lined with scrub pines and stunted spruce, elk-ravaged junipers. Then I saw a lot of elk and deer tracks heading down that way, and I figured that this was where they walked to get down to the river where they could drink at night.
And when I got to the bottom of the gorge, or near the bottom, I found a game trail. I turned onto it and headed south. Soon, I heard the soft roar of the Poudre and moments later, I emerged at a wide place where I could see the road and the river.
I waited and looked both ways, like a man at a city crossroads heavy with wagon traffic. The road was on my side of the river for a ways, then crossed to the other side at a long flat stretch of the river. A ford. The water looked shallow enough even with the river running as full as it was. I realized that I was in a huge flat valley, wedged in between the towering mountains and the lower ranges above the foothills. There were game tracks everywhere.
I rode to the ford and crossed the river. I was going to ride the road, but thought better of it. For a time, I knew I could stay to the trees, keep the road in sight, and not be seen. I saw heavy wagon ruts on the road, and knew that I must be well below the place where Pettigrew had gone.
My decision turned out to be the correct one. After leaving the valley, I stayed to the rugged woods, climbing up and down small hillocks, fighting my way through treacherous footing. A little later I saw the smoke, just a wisp at first, then a gray pall spread out like a blanket over the river. There, just beyond a bend in the river, there was another wide place on both sides. On my side of the river, I saw a cabin with its chimney spewing smoke into the air. The breeze took it and spread it out.
My heart started pumping fast.
The packhorse whickered, and I whirled to look at it as I jumped inside my skin. Sweat oozed from my palms.
I rode well away from the river, up a shallow draw, and tied the horses to some brush. I grabbed the Winchester and walked atop the ridge and then down a slope, creeping along like a stalking hunter. My nerves were raw and my stomach tied up in knots. I crept to a place where I had a full view of the cabin.
I went closer, until I could hear voices, male and female. Someone inside was arguing or yelling, and I tried to separate the voices, isolate them to any memory I had. I did not hear Kate’s voice. I crept closer, and then my heart seemed to stop dead still.
Across the river, on the other side from where the cabin stood, there was a shelf w
ell above it and I saw the cones of Indian teepees through the trees.
Those had to be Utes there, I thought.
And then, as if to prove my suspicion, I saw ponies with riders pouring from the camp and riding down to the river. Two men came out of the cabin and waved to the Utes, who crossed the river. I counted a dozen braves.
The two men went to one of the wagons and opened the tailboard. They pulled out some boards and laid them flat on the ground, then began stacking goods atop the boards.
There were cooking pots, blankets, rifles and pistols, hats, and all sorts of trade goods.
Evidently, I had come just in time to see the Pettigrews lay out their trade goods. The Utes must have just made their camp there, and were coming for a look before they traded for anything. Because the braves were not leading packhorses laden with whatever Pettigrew wanted.
I scanned the ridge where the teepees stood. I didn’t see any women or children. Only men, a line of them looking down at the cabin, watching to see what happened.
And then I saw her. Kate. She came out of the cabin and walked well away from the men and the wagons, toward the river. She was carrying two wooden buckets yoked across her back. I had to stare hard to be sure, but it was Kate.
She knelt by the river and dipped a bucket into it.
She was four hundred yards away. So close.
I swallowed hard, and then I had to close my eyes to stop the seep of tears.
I had found my sister, all right, but she was still out of reach.
I watched her walk back, lugging the heavy pails of water. I wanted to call out to her, tell her that I was there.
But I knew better.
I had to find a way to take her away from Pettigrew and not get killed accomplishing that difficult task.
Twenty-five
Some of the Utes went to the whiskey and started making sign. I picked up the gabble of their conversation, but could not understand a word. The older man started pushing them away. The younger man walked over to help him. The older man, whom I took to be Amos Pettigrew, gestured that he would not sell them whiskey. He started yelling at them.
“Tomorrow. After trade. After trade.”
The Utes backed away, but made obscene gestures at Pettigrew.
The younger man pointed to the other goods and tried to lead the Utes toward the blankets and cooking utensils. The Utes signed no and went to the rifles and pistols. They began picking them up, playing with them. Only, they weren’t playing. They wanted guns and whiskey. Again, Pettigrew yelled at them and made sign that he would not sell the guns to them.
“Tomorrow. You bring gold. No guns. No whiskey. Not now.”
Gold? The shining metal. So that was why Pettigrew set up for trading in the river canyon. I watched as the two white men made sign and the Utes returned sign. Back and forth. Arguing, pleading, cajoling perhaps.
I looked back at the cabin. There were rifle barrels sticking out of holes in the logs. The cabin was a miniature fort. Both of the white men wore pistols. I gathered that if there was trouble, the Pettigrews were prepared to defend themselves.
Finally, the Utes finished picking over the cooking utensils and signed that they would be back the next sun. The men waved to the Indians as they rode back across the river. Then Pettigrew and his helper packed up everything and put it back in the wagon, closed up the rear gate.
A woman the older man’s age came out on the porch. “Amos, supper’s ready. You and Jasper wash up in the river.”
The two men walked to the river and rolled up their sleeves.
No sign of Kate. I wondered if she sat down at the table with the family or if she had to eat scraps in their kitchen. The more I thought about her situation, the angrier I became.
I waited until the two men went inside the house. It was getting dark and I had to find a place to sleep. A place that was safe. Yet I didn’t want to leave. Kate was inside that house and I wanted to watch over her. I realized how unrealistic that was. She didn’t even know I was so close, and as for the Pettigrews, they had me outgunned. Maybe, I thought, after the Utes finished trading, they would pack up and leave. Then the Pettigrews would be alone. When Kate came to the river again to fill the buckets, perhaps I could call to her and we could slip away unnoticed.
I walked back to where I had left the horses. I rode downriver, keeping to the trees, then climbed a ridge and rode until I came to a plateau, a level place. I went across it and into the trees, started looking for a place to camp. I was going to unload the packhorse and put a bridle on it the next day. I would ride that horse and let Kate have the gelding with the saddle on its back.
I was tired, but that was no excuse for what I neglected to do. I was all jumpy inside at seeing Kate, and that too was no excuse for not scouting out my surroundings. I saw that grassy plateau and it looked like an oasis to me. I started to set up camp when I heard the click of a rifle bolt.
“Mister, you even twitch and I’ll blow a hole in your back.”
The voice surprised me as much as the warning. It was a woman’s voice. I froze in my tracks, my left hand full of hobble rope.
“Don’t shoot, ma’am. I mean you no harm.”
“Maybe you can explain what you’re doin’ here on my property. Don’t turn around. Just keep still.”
“Are you goin’ to shoot him, Ma?”
A tiny voice. I couldn’t tell if it was a boy’s or a girl’s. It was definitely in the higher register of a very young voice.
“I’m just tired, ma’am. Looking for a place to sleep for the night.”
“Tired? Mister, I saw you sneakin’ up this canyon a long while back. I saw you when you came down to the ford and crossed the Poudre. I wondered what you were up to, and then I find you in my backyard. You aren’t tired. You’re up to no good and I want to know what it is you’re looking for. My finger’s getting awfully heavy on this trigger, so you better have some answers. Turn around so’s I can take a look at you before it’s plumb dark.”
I turned around slowly.
The light was dim, but there was a beautiful young woman standing there. She couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, from the looks of her freckle-peppered face and her curly russet hair that hung in ringlets over her tiny ears. Standing next to her was a little girl in a gingham dress who looked to be no more than four or five, with a precocious grin on her face and the same kind of hair in miniature. This woman must have married very young, or else that was her little sister standing next to her.
“You’re wearing clothes that have hardly been broken in yet. What did you do, just get out of prison?”
“No, ma’am. I just escaped from the Arapaho a few days ago. I’m up here looking for my sister. She was kidnapped by the same tribe, but the Utes stole her and sold her to some Americans.”
“Your sister?”
“Yes’m.”
“What’s your sister’s name?”
There was something about her tone that gave me hope that she wasn’t going to shoot me. She seemed genuinely curious. Not as suspicious.
“Kate, ma’am. Kate Sunnedon.”
“What’s your name?”
“Jared. Jared Sunnedon.”
“You get your horses and come with me,” she said. “I want to hear more of what you got to say. No funny moves now. I’m a crack shot and this is a Winchester repeating rifle with a full magazine.”
She knew her stuff apparently.
“Yes’m. I know the rifle. I’ve got one just like it. Two, in fact.”
“Just get moving. You aren’t out of the woods yet, Mr. Sunnedon.”
She said the name as if she was already used to it. I got my horses, led mine by the bridle, the packhorse by the lead rope. I followed the woman and the little girl across the meadow and through a fringe of trees. On the other side of the trees was a continuation of the same meadow and a log cabin sitting on the leading edge. I glanced left and could see the mountains on the other side of the river. From her fron
t porch, she could have seen me riding down to the river. What a fool I was. I hadn’t seen the cabin because it was hidden behind pine trees, but she sure as hell had a clear view of me when I came out on the other side of the river.
I put the horses up in a small stable she had on the other side of the house. There was a horse already in a stall. There was a small wagon parked alongside.
“Come on inside,” she said, waving that rifle at me.
“Are you going to shoot him, Ma?” the little girl said.
“Never mind, Velma. You just go on inside and play with your little doll.”
As we walked around the house, I noticed a storm cellar sunk into the earth. The door had a big padlock on it. I thought I heard something moving inside, but I didn’t say anything.
We went into the front room, and she locked the door behind me.
“Sit in that chair over there,” she said. Velma ran off into another room. I figured there were four rooms in the house, a front room, a kitchen, a bedroom or two.
I sat down.
“Let me see that hat,” she said, sitting on the divan. “Just sail it over here to me.”
I took off my hat and flipped it to her. She caught it with one hand.
“Where’d you get this hat?” she asked.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’m listening.”
“How far back do you want me to go?”
“You can start with telling me how you and your sister got captured by Indians.”
“That’ll take quite awhile, ma’am.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere, and neither am I.”
So I started with my life in Kansas City and told her the whole story, without mentioning any names. I told her of the killing of the two Indian boys and how we were driven from the wagon train and left on our own. I told her how my parents had been killed by the Arapaho.
She listened raptly to every word, but I got the feeling she had heard some of it before.
I told her about the two men who came gunning for me and how they killed the Cheyenne girl who was with me. I said I took their guns and such, packed them both down to La Porte.
