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

by Louis L'Amour

  Cal moved so swiftly they were caught napping. He lunged into the brush and was gone, like a shadow. Hardy and Betty Sue moved only an instant afterward, into the brush on the other side, and once there, they crouched under a bush.

  Cal was gone for some time while they huddled there, not daring to move, scarcely daring to breathe. Then they saw him come walking back, taking his time, not even looking around until he was close to the fire. He turned his head, and suddenly froze.

  Hardy looked where Cal was looking, and was appalled. There were their tracks, clear and fresh in the snow. Where they had crossed to get into the brush the snow had been untouched by man or beast, but now their tracks were plain to see.

  Cal strolled over, studying them. Then he looked toward the brush and spoke casually. “You young uns might as well come in. She’s almighty cold out. You’ll surely freeze.”

  “Hardy, let’s go back to the fire. Please.” Betty Sue didn’t know the trouble that lay in that man yonder.

  He dearly wanted to be warm himself. It was colder than it had ever been, and their coat was back there. Maybe they could somehow…

  “Come on in where it’s warm,” Cal said, his voice mild. “We got things to talk over, boy. You an’ me, we might make ourselves a deal.” Then he added, “I know where your pa is.”

  Was the man lying? Hardy hesitated. Betty Sue tugged at him, and reluctantly he got up. “Will you take us to pa?” he asked.

  “Sure enough,” Cal said. “You tell me where the man is who left that coat, an’ I’ll take you to your pa.”

  They could at least get warm. If they tried to get away now, he could track them anyway. It was best to go in and try to win him over. Hardy wasn’t very confident of that, but the idea of the fire was too much for him. “We’re coming in,” he said.

  They walked in, hand in hand, and Cal squatted by the fire, staring at them through his small, cruel eyes, smiling a little. “Want some coffee, boy? You an’ that gal best have some. It warms you a mite.”

  When Betty Sue was sipping coffee, and trading sips with Hardy, Cal asked, “What about the man who wears that coat, boy? Where is he?”

  “I don’t rightly know.”

  “You know when he’ll be back?”

  “No, sir.”

  Cal’s irritation showed. “Now look here, boy. Don’t lie to me! That coat’s been wore, recent.”

  “We’ve been sleeping in it. We brought it here.”

  “You’re lyin’ like hell. You didn’t have no coat before.”

  “No, sir. We found it.”

  He stared at them suspiciously. “Found it? War?”

  “Back yonder. We camped in a dugout during the storm. The coat was there. So were the kettle and the frying pan.”

  Cal thought about that and decided it was probably true. Pete Schifflin was a canny man, and this was not a likely place for such a man to hole up.

  “You didn’t see anything of that man Schifflin?”

  “We didn’t see anybody. The coat was all dusty, and it hung in a sort of closet. Nobody had been around that dugout in a long time. That man must’ve gone off and maybe hurt himself somehow. Or Indians got him.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Well, nobody had been in there. The coat was hung out of the way, so I figure it was hung up during some time when he didn’t have any reason to wear it. I don’t think he went away to stay, because he left too much of his outfit behind.”

  Cal considered this idea, and accepted it. “You’re a right smart boy,” he said. He filled the cup again for them. “Now, if Jud comes back, you’re not to say anything about this, d’you hear?”

  “I won’t if you give me some of whatever it is you’re after,” Hardy said.

  Cal chuckled; he seemed pleased. “You’ll do, boy. You’ll do. What do you figure it was Schifflin had?”

  “Gold or furs,” Hardy said; “and I don’t think it was furs. I didn’t see any traps around there, nor any cache either. I think it was gold.”

  Cal studied him, interested in the boy in spite of himself. He was a shrewd man, who was filled with hatred for anything or anyone that opposed him in any way, but he appreciated cunning, and he felt that the boy had it. It would be a shame to kill him. If it wasn’t for that baby…

  “You see any of that gold?” he asked Hardy.

  “No, sir, but I figure a body could find it. I don’t figure he’d want to travel much for fear of being seen by Indians. The more he moved and the more tracks he made, the better their chance of catching him. So I figure that gold was somewhere close by the dugout.”

  “Good figurin’, boy. You got any other ideas?”

  “Yes, sir. I think that man went off and got hurt. I didn’t see any shovel or pick around, nor an axe either. So I think he had them with him when he was hurt, or maybe killed…or he left them at the diggings. I think that’s what he’d do. He wouldn’t want to have to fetch them back and forth every day, because he’d want to carry his rifle to use if Indians came.”

  Cal seemed to be thinking the matter over, while Hardy edged closer to the fire. He still had the derringer. If Cal tried to hurt Betty Sue he would shoot him.

  All the time Hardy was thinking hard, wondering what they could do to escape. If they could get away, he desperately wanted to take the coat with him, and some food.

  It was good to be warmer now, but he did not like the way Cal kept smiling at him. Hardy had been talking more than he usually did, trying to gain a little time.

  He had seen greedy men before, had seen his father bargain with them, had seen the look in their eyes, as he could see it now in Cal’s eyes. But he saw something else too, something that frightened him, and he knew they must escape or be killed.

  “You young uns jes’ take it easy,” Cal said calmly. “I figure we got us a chance to git rich, but don’t you say a word if Jud comes back. That Jud, he’s a mighty mean man, an’ he don’t cotton to youngsters.”

  He smoked thoughtfully for a few minutes, and then said, very casually, “You figure that horse of yours is somewhere about?”

  “He might be. I don’t think he’d go far.”

  “S’pose you called him an’ he heard you…would he come?”

  “I think so,” was the quiet answer.

  “Now, s’pose you walk up yonder on the rise there. You just go up there an’ call out a few times. I’d say maybe eight or ten times, with a little wait between. I’ll jes’ keep your li’l sister here with me…sort of to make sure you’ll come back.”

  “Don’t you hurt her,” Hardy said.

  “Now, boy, what kind of talk is that? We’re pards, ain’t we? Anyway, you know where that Schifflin dugout is, an’ I don’t, so I ain’t likely to get you sore at me, boy. You git up there now an’ call out.”

  Hardy walked away reluctantly. Slowly he started up the rise. It was less than seventy long paces from where Cal sat, and would be an easy rifle shot. And Cal was holding Betty Sue.

  On the climb to the top, Hardy could think of nothing he could do. He was getting chilled again, and he was hungry and tired. He felt weaker than he had at any time before. But the worst of it was not knowing what to do, and he felt so alone. He cried a little as he climbed the hill.

  Standing up there, he looked back. Cal was sitting with his rifle in his hand, and Betty Sue was on the ground near the fire, where he could see her without really taking his eyes off Hardy.

  The top of the hill was bare. Beyond it were low-growing trees and some brush and rocks, but he could not see far because there were thicker trees farther along.

  He called out, “Red! Red!” He waited to let the echo die, and then called again. “Red! Red!…Come!”

  The air was very clear, and even his small voice carried well. He waited again, looking up at the sweeping rise of the Wind River Mountains, only a few miles off to the north. Then he called once more, directing his voice toward the mountains.

  Scott Collins, turned his horse away f
rom the bluff above Beaver Creek and started north, Bill Squires and Frank Darrow trailing behind. They had lost any trace of the smoke, though they were now within a few hundred yards of it; and the wind, little as there was, carried the smell off to the south, away from them.

  Scott turned in his saddle. “Damn it, Bill, I—”

  He did not complete the sentence. Faint, yet not very far off, they heard the call: “Red! Red!…Come!”

  Chapter 15

  SCOTT COLLINS STARTED to cry out when a hard hand grasped his arm. “Scott!” Squires’s voice was hoarse. “Ssh!”

  He pointed.…On the slope opposite, perhaps a half-mile away, three Indians rode, one behind the other. Three of them…and then another, and another.

  “We’d better get down there fast,” Darrow said. “They’ve heard that boy, too. And they’re closer’n we are, I’m bettin’.”

  The bluff was steep, and was littered with gigantic boulders, thick brush, and stunted trees. They rode swiftly along the rim, looking for a way down. It was Squires who led the way now, for he had covered this rim before. Soon they found a way down, steep but negotiable, and they slid their horses to the bottom.

  From the knoll where he was calling to the stallion, Hardy could see the opposite slope, and he glimpsed an Indian an instant before the men on the rim did. He turned and ran down the slope, back to the camp.

  Cal got up and spoke angrily. “You git right back up there an’ call that horse!” he yelled. “Damn you, if you—” He pointed the pistol barrel toward Betty Sue.

  Hardy stood there. “You’d better listen, mister! There’s Indians coming!”

  “You’re a-lyin’,” Cal said, but he was suddenly wary. The boy did not look as if he was lying, and he was frightened, downright scared.

  “How many did you see?” Cal asked.

  “There’s five or six…maybe more. I didn’t wait to see. There was an Indian that followed us, and there was travois sign back yonder. He could have rounded up a mess of them to come after us.”

  Cal swore viciously. No chance to get away…and where in God’s world was Jud?

  “Come on, boy. We’d better hole up an’ lie quiet.”

  He swiftly went back to the cave and looked around. It could be worse. There was the partial wall of rocks somebody had thrown up for defense or for a fire reflector, and there was the corner behind the rocks where the children had hidden.

  The very fact that he had no horse might help. It was just possible that when the Indians discovered that they would leave him alone, deciding the fight wouldn’t be worth what they would get out of it.

  “Get down behind those rocks in the corner,” Cal told the children, “an’ stay out of sight.”

  Pulling all his gear in behind the wall, Cal hunkered down there. He had a little food and over a hundred rounds of ammunition. The field of fire was a pretty good one, but if those Injuns were smart and started shooting at the back wall of the cave he was finished. The ricocheting bullets could tear him into chopped meat—he had seen that happen before now. But most Indians lacked enough experience with firearms to do that; and not even many white men were likely to think of it.

  Behind the rock pile where the children lay close together, Hardy could see very little. It was darker back where they were, and he thought that the Indians might not even see them.

  “Don’t be scared,” he whispered to Betty Sue. “We’ll be all right.”

  “I wish your pa would come.”

  “He’ll come—you’ll see. You can just bet he’s comin’.”

  But how could pa ever find them now, hidden as they were? Maybe he was still waiting at Bridger. After all, the wagon train couldn’t have reached there yet, even if it had kept going. Or maybe it would have just about been there by now. Hardy had lost track of the time.

  He could feel Betty Sue trembling. He wondered how much she had guessed about her ma and pa. She never talked of them any more, and he did not mention them, for he did not want her to think about them. Sooner or later she would have to know, but he hoped that wouldn’t be until both of them were safe in a warm place with pa to watch over them.

  Betty Sue was so thin, and her eyes always had a frightened look in them now. As far as that went, he must look a sight himself. His hands were thin and his wrists were skinny; his ribs stood out from the flesh.

  Cal spoke softly to them: “You be quiet now.”

  Hardy could see him lying there with his rifle ready, and a neat double row of ammunition laid out on a flat rock in front of him. He had a breech-loading percussion carbine manufactured by Jenks. It was a .52 caliber, and was a good shooting gun.

  For a long time there was no sound, and Hardy’s breathing got almost back to normal. He was even hoping Betty Sue would go to sleep, but she was wide-eyed and listening, just as he was.

  Suddenly Hardy thought of the bodies at the wagon train. How still they had been! How tumbled and strange-looking! He felt his throat grow tight, and he was trembling. Betty Sue touched his hand. “Hardy, are you cold?” she asked. “You’re shivering.”

  He put his head down on the rocks and struggled to hold himself still. “Yes, I’m cold,” he answered. “I wish we were closer to that fire.”

  Cal was lifting his rifle, very slowly. Looking in the direction the rifle pointed, Hardy saw not even the faintest stirring of leaves.

  Everything was quiet. Not a sound stirred the morning. The air was still…and how cold it was!

  Then the stillness was shattered by a weird cacophony of yells, and from the brush tumbled the body of a man. He was on his knees, and for an instant it seemed as if the man would stand up and walk, and then he toppled slowly forward and rolled over.

  It was Jud.

  Hardy heard a choking ugly sound from Cal, then there was silence. Taunting yells came from the woods, trying to draw his fire. Suddenly a rider burst from the trees and went sweeping by. As he passed the overhang he let fly with an arrow, which smacked harmlessly into the wall shielding the fire. Cal did not shoot.

  Several minutes passed, and then another rider came from the opposite direction, lying far over on the side of his horse. He let go with another arrow. Still Cal did not shoot, but just as the horse turned up the slope toward the trees the Indian’s back was momentarily revealed, and Cal fired.

  Hardy was looking at the Indian and he saw his body wince, but he was still clinging to his mount when he disappeared into the trees.

  A volley of bullets spattered and ricocheted among the rocks, the booming thunder of their reports reverberating from the cliff. One bullet struck a rock in front of Hardy and scattered stinging fragments all around. Betty Sue tightened her body close to him and whimpered.

  “It’s all right,” Hardy said to her. “Those ol’ bullets can’t get to us back here.”

  He said it only to ease her fears, for he knew that, though they were out of the line of fire directed at Cal, a ricochet might hit them.

  Cal, evil though he might be was no fool. He did not waste a shot holding his fire for the right target. In case of need, he had his pistol as backup.

  After the crashing thunder of the volley it was silent. Cal kept turning his head to right or left, watching for some try at taking him on the flank. That he was frightened was obvious, and it was with reason. He was fighting alone, and he had no horse. Jud was out there, dead. If Cal came out of this alive, he was going to have to do it alone.

  Hardy knew the Indians could not see into the darkness behind the pile of rocks, and he peered out, trying to see if there was any way of slipping into the brush without being seen. The trouble was, he did not know where all the Indians were.

  He could guess what Cal was afraid of. If the Indians rushed him from several directions at once, he might get one, even two or three of them, but they would surely get him. He might get one with his first shot with the rifle, but he would have no chance to reload, and must draw and fire his pistol. He would be very lucky, considering the few yards the Ind
ians had to cross, to kill even one with the pistol.

  Hardy’s heart was pounding hard. He stopped looking out and buried his face against his arm to shut out the scene before him. He tried to think…but what could he do? He had done all he could, but it simply was not enough.

  Then he remembered something he had heard. When an enemy is struck down, all the Indians try to get in a blow, to count coups on the enemy’s body. If Cal was downed, wouldn’t they all close in around him, crowding close to strike at the body? Mightn’t there be a chance just at that moment?…Or would it be better just to lie still here and hope the Indians would not find them?

  The silence and waiting continued. Hardy looked out again, watching the brush for some movement, but he could detect none. He saw some low evergreens out there that had sprung up after an old fire, most of them two to four feet high. Trees were back of them, and there was more brush. He thought he saw, off to the left where the trees grew close together, the shadow of something moving.

  He stared hard, and something moved again—it was something large, and seemed to be of a dull copper hue.…It was Red!

  In that light, the coat of the horse looked duller…but of course, he was putting on his winter coat.…But Red was there, close by!

  A surge of excitement swept through Hardy. He almost rose up in his wild eagerness to run to the horse, to throw his arms about him. For a moment he scarcely thought of what the Indians might do to him, but even as he seemed about to call out, he stopped. The Indians would never let such a horse escape them, and they would kill Hardy or capture him, and Betty Sue as well.

  However, the very sight of the horse, the knowledge that he was near, gave him hope. He didn’t know how it could be done, but there must be some way of getting to Big Red. And once on the back of that stallion, nothing in this country could catch them.

  “Boy,” Cal said softly, only for Hardy’s ears, “that horse of yours is out there. You call him now. Call him in.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Boy”— Cal spoke quite calmly—“those Injuns ain’t apt to kill anybody as young as you. I want a runnin’ chance. Now you call that horse, or I’ll kill the both of you. I’ll do it myself, without waitin’ for no Indians.”