Novel 1968 - Down The Long Hills (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  How to put yourself in the mind of a seven-year-old with a tiny girl and a horse? If, in fact, they were with him. That was the worst of it, they did not know.

  Yet there were things he did know. For one, Hardy was stubbornly persistent, and for a boy of his years he had been alone a good bit. And of one thing he was sure. Hardy would try to come west, and unless something prevented he would hold close to the trail.

  He held himself tight against the fear that was in him, the fear that grew until his heart throbbed heavily and his knuckles grew white on the reins.

  Hardy, his son…his boy…was out there somewhere, in danger of his life. He was not out there alone, either. He had a little girl, almost a baby, to care for.

  Squires must have guessed his thought. “Scott,” the old mountain man said roughly, “you got to forget what’s happenin’ out there. You got to think just of how to find them. You got to live each day, each hour, by itself. You think any other way and you’ll go crazy.”

  Scott Collins forced himself to think calmly. It was plains country where the wagon train had been attacked and burned, but not far west of there the country broke up into gullies, rolling hills, and some long valleys, with the mountains to the north of the trail, but close by. There were trees along the watercourses, and sometimes there were patches of trees along the ridges.

  The year was dry and there would be little water, but the boy had listened well, Squires had said, and he might remember some of Squire’s advice to the wagon-master on water holes. Yet he would have to beware of regular water holes because of the Indians.

  One by one Collins added up Hardy’s assets for survival. He knew a few words of Sioux and Chippewa—that came from living near Indians along the Wisconsin border. He also knew a little of the sign language. Occasionally Indians had stopped by the cabin and Scott always fed them, and sometimes they had come by to leave a quarter of venison. The year of the big fire when much of the forest burned after a thunderstorm, and the game ran away to the south, Scott had kept a dozen Indians alive with gifts of food…even sometimes when it meant they went short themselves.

  “The wagons were three days out of Laramie Crossin’ when the Indians hit ’em, an’ those youngsters aren’t goin’ to make the time they should, havin’ to hunt grub.” Squires rolled his tobacco to the other cheek. “We got a good many miles to go before we come up with ’em.”

  “You traveled fast,” Scott said, “having horses cached for you, and all, but how long do you figure those youngsters have been on their own?”

  “I taken a message east,” Squires said, “an I had horses hid out for me. I swapped horses three times. I figure those youngsters been out a week or so…not less’n six days.”

  It was a long time. How could they eat? With no rifle, they would get little game…although with a bow and arrow Hardy could likely get a rabbit or a ground squirrel. Maybe even a sage hen.

  The three men rode hard and they stopped seldom, and as they moved their eyes studied the ground and the hills around. They were still far from where they might find tracks of the children, but Scott was fearful of passing them.

  Near the mountains they saw deer, and several times came across antelope tracks. Once they came upon a herd of elk, and another time they saw wild horses. They left the trail to look at them, but there was no red stallion among them.

  “No Injuns yet,” Frank Darrow said, “an’ that’s a blessing.”

  “They don’t like this country at this time of year any more’n we do,” Squires said. “Come winter, they head for the hills an’ hole up in some nice valley where there’s wood and such.”

  “Bill,” Collins asked, “what would Indians do if they caught the youngsters?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. I’ve known ’em to smash their skulls against a tree or rock, but also I’ve known ’em to take youngsters in and care for ’em. Among their own, Indians treat their youngsters mighty good…better than most white men. With captives now, it’s another story. You just can’t tell.”

  After a moment, he added, “I’d say the younger they are the better their chances.”

  They pushed on until their horses were gaunt and lagged upon the trail. The time came when Squires said, “Scott, we’ve got to rest these ponies, else we’ll find ourselves afoot.”

  “Bill, they can’t be far off now. We’ve got to push on.”

  “If you kill these horses you’re likely never to find ’em. Think, man!”

  “Creek up ahead if I remember rightly,” Darrow commented. “There’ll be grass an’ water an’ fuel. I say we lay up a day, rest the horses, and scout around a mite. Meanwhile we can sort of take stock, consider the country up ahead, an’ try to figure where we stand.”

  It was good advice, and Scott knew it. And the camp they made was a good one, sheltered from the wind and the eyes of any passing Indian, with the branches of trees to thin out the smoke from their fire.

  Dusk had come by the time they had stripped the gear from their horses and staked them out on grass. Scott Collins walked up the low hill beyond the camp and stood listening into the night. Big Red could really move if they gave him his head, and he might have carried them this far. He was a fine horse and he loved that boy.

  But the night wind was cold. Would Hardy have a coat? And what about Andy Powell’s little girl? If she had just up and followed Hardy off, she would be lightly dressed, in no shape for a cold fall in Wyoming.

  For more than an hour he stayed on the knoll, straining his ears for any sound, seeking to identify each one, hoping with all that was in him for the sound of Big Red’s hoofs, or the faint cry of a child.

  Bill Squires came up to join him. “Scott, this ain’t doin’ you no good. Come down an’ eat. Get some rest. Frank’s throwed together some grub, an’ you sure look peaked.”

  “They’re out there somewhere, Bill…we’ve got to find them.”

  “If they’re alive, we’ll find them.”

  The dancing fire brought no comfort, but the food was good, and the strong black coffee helped to lift their spirits a little.

  “We’d better stand watch,” Squires suggested. “Me an’ Frank will stand the first two. Get yourself some sleep.”

  And Scott Collins did sleep, and while he slept he dreamed of a great red stallion and two children, who rode on and on through endless nights of cold.

  Chapter 3

  AFTER THE FOURTH day Betty Sue asked no more about her mother, nor did she cry at all. Her face became thin, her eyes unnaturally large. She clung to Hardy, so close he found it difficult to picket the stallion or hunt for food or fuel.

  They had come to the crossing of Pole Creek, but they found it dry in both directions. There was grass, very good grass, and despite the lack of water Hardy stopped long enough to let Big Red fill his belly. And then, for the first time, he found a place where he could mount the horse.

  There might have been other such places, but from the reverse slopes where they walked, the country along the river, seen in occasional glimpses through gaps among the low hills, looked as dangerous as it did inviting.

  He mounted the horse from a bank of the creek, and at once they moved away at a good clip. Big Red was restive and eager to go. He had been worried all day, Hardy could see it in his manner; and the horse did not like the feel of the cool wind coming out of the north.

  On this day they ate the last of their small store of food, a can of beans. Betty Sue ate hungrily, then looked longingly at what still remained of Hardy’s, so he gave it to her, hungry though he was.

  He thought of the big Indian. Though there had been no sign of him, Hardy was not reassured. The Indian had probably said nothing to the others, wanting their scalps for himself, and wanting Big Red. It could be he was pursuing them even now.

  During the course of the day they crossed and recrossed the creek bed, once finding a pool of water. There was water in the canteen, so they did not drink, Hardy not liking the look of the water, but the stall
ion drank, and gratefully.

  The sky was an unbroken gray when they started on again, and the bluffs were covered with dead pines. The day was bleak and cold. Big Red moved out anxiously, eager to be going. Hardy studied their back trail from time to time, but saw nothing disturbing.

  Several times he saw rabbits and tried shots at them, but the third one he saw he did not try for, since there was no way to get back on the horse after retrieving the arrow if he missed.

  When he at last found a place to camp, he was hungry and tired. Too tired to be scared, but not too tired to be cautious. The camp he made was under dead pines, below a bluff covered with them. There was only a trickle of water in the creek, and the grass was dry and brown. They found nothing to eat, and although he set some snares he had small hopes for them. It was a cold, miserable, unhappy night, and toward morning it began to rain. Nothing was in the snares, and there was nothing to do but go on.

  Big Red wanted to trot, so he gave the stallion his head and let him go. Today they stayed with the main trail, for Hardy knew that Indians will not ride in the rain unless circumstances demand it.

  The rain slanted across the gray sky like a steel mesh, and under the hoofs of Big Red the trail grew slippery, but the horse kept on untiringly. Huddled on his back, holding Betty Sue before him, Hardy lost all track of time. Finally the big horse slowed to a walk, but he plodded on. Around them the land grew rougher.

  Now the ridges were crested with trees, and along the watercourses there were some big old cottonwoods. Hardy straightened up in the saddle and peered around him. He must find shelter, and somehow get some food. Betty Sue was too quiet, and it frightened him.

  Hardy was learning to see. Back in the woods one always had to be alert, he knew, but there the range was narrower. Even when he was riding the wagon seat, the view was always somewhat obscured by the other wagons, by riders or dust. Now, riding high on Big Red, he could see further, and from hearing the mountain man talk, he had learned something about looking and seeing.

  All people look, but few really see; and they can rarely give details of any place they have passed—its appearance or what might be found there. Hardy was looking out for trouble, but now he was looking for food too, for something—anything—they could eat.

  Just before dark the rain stopped, but the sky remained overcast. They had only a brief time in which to find shelter before night came, but shelter was no longer so difficult to come by, for there were frequent deadfalls, hollows under the banks of a stream, or thick clumps of trees.

  Presently he found a huge cottonwood that had fallen, its top resting on the bank of a stream. Its boughs were still hung with dead brown leaves. Alongside it was a green slope leading down to the stream, and on this slope he staked Big Red, after watering him and rubbing him down with handfuls of grass. Betty Sue sat in a woebegone little huddle near the tree, watching him.

  Hardy crawled in under the tree and broke branches until he had shaped a hollow into which they could crawl. The broken branches he then wove in among those stretching out to the sides, to improve their shelter. He gathered the longer grass and weeds to make a mat several inches thick to cover the ground.

  Under a slab of rock that had fallen across two boulders he found a place big enough to hide Big Red, where he could lie down. Hardy tugged and sweated, getting some stones out of the sand so Red could rest easier.

  He was cold and tired, and shivered in his wet shirt, but it was Betty Sue who really troubled him. She sat so silent, asking none of her usual interminable questions, only staring with big, frightened eyes. He suddenly realized that she reminded him of a woman back in Wisconsin, a neighbor whose husband had died. She had sat still like that, talking to no one, and then one day they found her dead. Hardy gave a little shudder as he thought of this.

  Yet, he reassured himself, they had come a good way today, and every step brought them closer to pa; by now pa must be looking for them. On that one thing his faith did not waver. Pa would come, and he must care for Betty Sue and Big Red until he did come.

  He planned to set five snares, but by the time he had found places to set two he was too cold and tired to go on with the others. Returning to their shelter, he lay down beside Betty Sue and huddled close to her. During the night it began to rain again.

  The soft patter on the leaves above them was strangely comforting. He felt Betty Sue stir beside him and he spoke to her, making his tone confident. “Pa will be coming soon. He said he would meet us.”

  “I’m hungry,” Betty Sue said.

  It was the first thing she had said all that day, and he caught at it quickly. “So’m I. Tomorrow I’ll get out an’ hunt. Don’t you worry, Betty Sue—I’ll find something.”

  But even as he spoke, he knew his chances would be slim. Wild life did not like to move when the weather was wet; aside from the discomfort, the dampness caused them to leave more scent behind. Animals knew better than to stir around in wet weather.

  Suddenly Hardy decided: if it was raining tomorrow, or even if it wasn’t, they would stay right where they were. They had water, there was good grass on the slope for Big Red, and the shelter was keeping off the rain—well, almost. Even as he thought they were snug and dry, a big drop fell down the back of his neck.

  There might be fish in the stream. Maybe nothing but suckers, but he had eaten suckers before this and they were good enough. Not like the pickerel and pike from Wisconsin, but still pretty good eating when a man was hungry. And he had seen some bird tracks, like those of a prairie chicken, only larger. Maybe one of those sage hens he’d heard the mountain man speak of.…His thoughts trailed off, and he slept.

  He had forgotten all about that Indian.

  Several times the damp cold awakened him, and once the coat had fallen off. He covered Betty Sue and himself again, and lay awake several minutes listening to the rain.

  Fort Bridger was west of here, somewhere beyond South Pass, and maybe somebody would be hunting out of that fort, and would find them. Hardy thought of the warm kitchen smells back home, and of the gaiety and laughter around the campfires on the way west.

  Suddenly a chilling fear swept over him. Suppose something had happened to pa? Suppose he wasn’t coming at all?

  The distance seemed so far. A month, Mr. Andy had said, a month by wagon train without having to walk as he had, without searching for food. Three more weeks and a bit over. Could Betty Sue keep going that long?

  He sat up and clasped his arms around his knees. He daren’t think of that. He just had to keep going. What was it pa used to say? “Give me a stayer every time. I like a man or a horse who just gets in there and keeps on going.”

  But how could they keep going? Betty Sue was already so thin it frightened him to look at her.

  As soon as it was light he had to get out and rustle, rain or no rain. So far he had only looked for food when they traveled, or when they had stopped for the night. He had not deliberately taken time out to hunt for it.

  Finally he lay down again and went to sleep, and the rain whispered him into a deeper, sounder sleep, all his tired, aching muscles relaxing slowly. The rain fell gently upon the brown grass, over the powdery dust, over the trees and the rocks. It fell where the horse had walked, and slowly the tracks disappeared, fading out bit by bit under the caressing touch of the rain.

  THE BIG INDIAN, Ashawakie, was curious, as any wild thing is curious. Ashawakie had been trained from childhood to observe, and when he saw a little riled-up water floating by he knew something close upstream had disturbed it. When he looked that way he thought he caught the sheen of sunlight on a chestnut or sorrel flank. He had also thought he glimpsed a momentary shadow upon the waters, but he might be wrong. He said nothing to the others with him, for if there was a chance to count coups, he wanted it first; and if there was a horse to steal, he wanted the first chance at it.

  Horses meant wealth to him, for an Indian was judged by the number of horses he had. Coups meant pride among the maidens, meant b
oasting by the campfire. Ashawakie was a great warrior, he had proven it many times; but he was a warrior who liked to work alone. Now, when he could find an excuse, he left the others and circled back.

  He discovered the tracks quickly enough, but was puzzled by them. The tracks of the horse were large, but those of the people—two of them—were small. Young ones? Alone?

  He dismissed it as unlikely.…The Little People? He felt a shiver of superstitious dread. The Old Ones had left stories behind of the Little People, and he wanted nothing to do with them. Anyway, they were supposed to have disappeared long ago into a cleft in the mountain far away in the northern Big Horns.

  Of the two people whose tracks he had found, he rarely saw the tracks of the much smaller one.

  The sign left by the horse excited him. The stride was long and even, the stride of a big, smooth-traveling horse that could hold its pace hour after hour. He wanted that horse, Little People or no.

  But he soon felt assured that they were not the Little People. They must be children of the White-Eyes, and they were alone. They had built fires rarely. He found no scraps of food, no bones. Only at first did he find a tin can.

  Ashawakie could read sign, and like any Indian worth his salt, he deduced a good deal from what he saw. These were children alone, hurrying westward, and they had no food.

  He found where snares had been set, but there was no blood and no hair, no feathers. They had caught nothing. But the Little Warrior, as Ashawakie came to think of him, had removed the snares before he left, wanting none of the Forest People to be trapped and die after he left.

  Ashawakie was a Cheyenne. He did not make war upon children, but he was curious; and after a while, he was faintly admiring. The Little Warrior was cunning. He chose his camps well. He hid his horse. Before leaving each camp, he tried to remove all sign of his presence. He only rode in the trail after the rain began, when a few hours, or even minutes, would wipe out all trace of his passing.

  Interested, Ashawakie followed. He had no idea what he would do when he came up to them. He wanted the horse. The children would be a nuisance. Still, the boy would make a warrior, and he was young enough to be raised as one of them.