by John Benteen
“Half an hour,” Sundance said. “Then we ride again.” He helped her down, found pemmican and they ate. Barbara lay on a robe, sleeping, while Sundance stood a restless guard.
At the end of the allotted time, he wakened her; they mounted and rode again, in the shelter of low bluffs. Sundance watched the red sun heel across the sky. Any minute, he thought. Any minute, now ...
And yet, their luck held. It was nearly two in the afternoon before the norther struck.
Chapter Six
Eagle sensed it before his rider. He snorted, pricked his ears, turned his head northward, and then—something he rarely did—jibbed, resisting rein and heel pressure, trying to turn south. When he did that, Sundance knew it was not far off, reined him in. “Get into your coat and anything else you’ve got that’s warm,” he ordered Barbara.
“Jim, what—?”
“Don’t argue. Pile on the clothes.” He unlashed her gear, made her shrug into the wolfskin coat, then threw a blanket around her. He himself donned his jacket, wrapped a robe of buffalo hide with hair still on around himself, swathing his head. Then he lashed the horses, put them into a dead run, swinging to high ground, the southward shelter of the bluffs along the river.
Before they reached them, the temperature dropped twenty degrees. Suddenly it was winter again. The sunlight that fell across the prairie turned to a dim, pale glow. And in the north, the cloud appeared, borne on a wind fierce and knife-edged.
It stretched endlessly across the horizon, that great, leaden mass, and it came toward them with express-train speed. The wind increased, howled around the bluffs, and looking across the Heart, they could see the blizzard coming.
A solid white wall, it stampeded toward them with amazing swiftness, blotting out daylight as it came. They saw it cross the river, march up the bluffs. Then it hit them with stunning impact.
All at once, the whole world seemed to turn to ice and snow. Bluffs, river, prairie: a white veil obscured them all, and a wind incredibly cold and savage slammed against them, biting even through the warm furs and heavy blankets. Its force literally knocked the horses around, and Sundance had to fight them back on to an eastward course. He put Eagle alongside Barbara’s bay, seized her rein and held it tightly. “We’ve got to hole up!” he yelled above the keening of the blast. “Behind that bluff— We’ll get a shelter built!”
Barbara turned a wind-reddened face to him; he could hardly see it through the veil of white, even though they were only a foot or so apart. “No!” she shrieked. “If we stop now, we’ll never get to Bismarck! We’ll be snowed in and the deadline’ll pass!”
“Goddammit!” Sundance shouted. “You want to die—?”
“No! But I want to keep going so the Cheyennes won’t die!” The wind whipped her words almost past hearing. “Our only hope, theirs, is to keep on riding!” Then she kicked the bay; its jaw-bridle rein was wrenched from Sundance’s hand.
He cursed again as she was almost instantly swallowed in the howling snow. If they ever once lost sight of one another—
Her figure loomed up out of the storm. He unlashed the rope tied to his saddle horn, put Eagle alongside the bay again. Before Barbara knew what was happening, he dropped a loop around her. She turned, screaming something he could not catch.
He bellowed back, paying out rope: “I’m not trying to stop you. But we’ve got to stick together; you’ve got to stay with Eagle! Even if something happens to me, he’ll get you through!”
Barbara fought the bay closer. He caught a glimpse of her wide-eyed face shielded by the blanket. “Then we will ride?”
“Hell, yes, we’ll ride!” Sundance shouted. “Maybe you’re right! Maybe we can reach Fort Lincoln before we freeze!”
Barbara smiled; her gauntleted hand shot out and covered his.
“We’ll make it!” she cried. “We’ve got to!”
Sundance did not answer. He only took the bay’s rein, and then he sent Eagle on into the storm.
It was, he told himself, a damned fool thing to do, close to suicidal. The smart way was to hole up in the shelter of the bluffs, pitch their wikiup, hunker under their robes, kill the packhorse in case they needed it for food, and leave the other two mounts to fend for themselves. That way, they stood a chance of survival. But when the blizzard ended—which might be days later—they would be snowed in and on foot. And the deadline that Colfax had set for them to get to Bismarck would be past.
The alternative was to try to make Fort Lincoln before they froze. He knew the country, had tagged the landmarks in his mind, realized they were still, under the best of circumstances, a full day’s ride from the fort, which was the closest shelter. Because this was Sioux country, there were no other towns, no ranches, and, out here on the plains, not even a miner’s cabin. And no hope, either, of finding an Indian camp; every Sioux would be south now in the shelter of Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. Nothing lay between them and the fort but open country—and death.
Still, there was a bare possibility that they could make it. It was just within the bounds of chance that, by sticking to the shelter of the bluffs, pushing the horses for all they were worth, they could reach Fort Lincoln before the snow got so deep the animals could not travel. Everything in Sundance—his accumulated stock of experience and plainsman’s skill—shouted against taking that chance. But there was Barbara to reckon with. She was determined, would not stay put, and he could not watch her every minute. He knew her well enough to know that, with the bit in her teeth, she was perfectly capable of eluding him, trying to make Bismarck on her own. She would do anything, take any risk, to save The People. But without him, she would inevitably die.
And so he had decided to make the gamble. He put his head down against the savage wind, kept it on his left shoulder, and forged on, leading the bay and the packhorse. But by making that decision, he had condemned them both, knowingly, to an icy hell.
Sundance had been through many a high plains blizzard, and he knew all too well how much fury such a midwinter storm packed. This one, though, coming on the heels of the weather-breeding days of warmth, was the most brutal he had ever faced; within minutes he knew this was a killer storm.
There was no way to tell how far the temperature plummeted in a matter of minutes—twenty, forty degrees; but suddenly, he, Barbara, and the horses were rimed with ice and snow, encased in the stuff. It clung to the fur of their robes, the heavy winter hair of the horses’ flanks; Eagle’s mane seemed to turn to solid ice. As swiftly, visibility faded; the world became a white, opaque sea in which they swam, driving snow blotting out even the ears of the stallion a yard ahead of Sundance’s eyes. Landmarks vanished; only the wind and instinct could serve to guide them now. Beneath Sundance’s thighs, the stallion shivered convulsively; yet, he went on willingly, unafraid. The packhorse and the bay were a different matter. They wanted to swing, drift before the wind, and Eagle and Sundance had to fight them, too. Twisting in the saddle, he caught a glimpse, through the driving white, of Barbara wrestling with the bay. He let the rope go slack, lest she be dragged off the horse.
And now they were in too deep to get out. Once committed, they had to keep traveling. In the fury of this wind, there was no possibility of pitching a hide shelter, much less getting a fire started; to halt, under such circumstances, was to die. Sundance swathed his face in the robe, leaving only a gap for his eyes, let Eagle pick the way, only correcting him when he turned too far quartering to the wind.
For a while, it was the bluffs along the Heart that saved them. They broke the full fury of the storm, slightly, and as long as Eagle traveled just under them there was shelter enough to keep on going. Even so, time lost all meaning in that white and miserable purgatory. There was only the steady, gallant motion of the big horse, the continual fighting with the lead ropes of the other animals, the wolf yowl of the wind and the bitter, stinging blast of snow.
Then—perhaps it was minutes later, maybe hours—they reached a place where the valley leveled out and the fu
ll fury of the blizzard, rushing unchecked across the plains, struck them. Eagle grunted, lurched under the hurricane force, and Sundance himself was almost lifted from the saddle. He heard Barbara cry out; a thin tatter of sound barely audible. He jerked Eagle around, hauled on the rope around her body. The bay, swinging determinedly tail against the wind, had thrown her.
Sundance cursed, reeled her in like a fish on line, while the bay horse plunged against the lead rope and the pack animal fought and tangled itself. Then Barbara was at his stirrup on the lee side of the stallion. She clung desperately to the leather.
Sundance swung down; indeed, the wind almost hurled him down. He landed in snow up to his calves beside her, in the shelter of Eagle’s hunched and shivering body. A minute, two, and they must move on or the big horse would freeze where he stood. Sundance had seen that happen more than once, had ridden out after such terrible storms to find even shaggy-furred buffalo frozen solid on their feet, like statues carved of ice. He grabbed Barbara, held her close, snouted in her ear. “Walk! We’ve got to walk, in the shelter of the horses! It’s the only chance! Stick with Eagle!” He took the rope around her body, lashed it loosely to the saddle horn. “Hang on to the stirrup leather!” Then he himself fell back into the lee of the tall bay’s body.
Behind the barrier the horses made against the wind, it was at least possible to breathe again. Eagle, linked to the rest of the caravan by ropes, struck out again, and the other animals trailed behind. Sundance tried to watch Barbara, ahead of him, but the wind and snow blotted her from his vision. Now everything depended on the stallion; he knew the general direction in which they had been traveling. If he could, he would stick to it, but he must be given his head enough to work back and forth, let the wind play over different parts of his body lest too much exposure in one place freeze him. And riding was out of the question in that gale. A rider would become a corpse in a quarter of an hour.
That was how they went on, the range-toughened horses moving instinctively through wind and snow that would have frozen a sheltered cavalry mount or a southern mustang or driven it mad. Sundance and Barbara lurched alongside, clinging desperately to stirrup leathers and cinches; to lose their grasp, become separated from the animals even by so much as a yard might mean never finding them again, and almost instant death.
The snow deepened with magical speed. In an hour, it was a foot higher, above Sundance’s knees. In places where it had drifted, the horses plunged and bucked on through, and the humans were immersed to waist or chest. There was no feeling any more in Sundance’s feet; they were like chunks of wood; still, desperately, he kept them moving, managed somehow to place one before the other. But this could not go on much longer; unless they found shelter in broken country again, they were doomed.
Now and again, he halted the cavalcade briefly to work his way forward along the linking ropes, reassure himself that Barbara was still there and all right. And she always was. Years in an Indian camp had built muscle in her and whipcord endurance; and though she shuddered uncontrollably, she kept on.
Sundance had no way of knowing how long they endured the wind’s raw fury. No way of telling now, either, how much time was left ’til nightfall. Neither could he calculate how far they were from Bismarck and the shelter of Fort Lincoln. But he knew this; they must reach it before darkness intensified the cold and wind or die.
And so they slogged along, lungs aching from the cold, feet and legs long since bereft of feeling and maybe already frozen, the wind and snow assaulting them like a charging army. Now they were caught up in nightmare, and there was no thinking anymore; it took every ounce of will and courage to keep moving one numb foot after another. Once Sundance did have a flicker of consciousness in which he told himself that they could not endure another hour in the open without shelter from the wind; they had to reach another chain of bluffs or they were finished; curiously, it did not seem to make much difference.
Then he was aware that the bay to which he clung had halted. Strong as it was, it had given all it had. Now, shivering uncontrollably, it stood head down, legs wide-planted, refusing to go on. Then its lead rope tightened, Eagle plunged ahead; and the force of the stallion’s body jerked the bay over. It lay on its side, refusing to try to stand, and its weight halted the cavalcade. The packhorse, better shielded by its load, blundered into it, stumbled, then also fell. When it scrambled to its feet, it was whinnying shrilly, the eerie sound snatched away and almost lost in the blizzard’s roar, and its right forefoot, held high, dangled strangely. Sundance cursed. The creature’s leg had been broken in the fall.
It seemed to take every ounce of strength he owned to do what had to be done next. Somehow he got out the Bowie knife with gauntleted hand—to touch steel with naked flesh in this cold would instantly weld the two together and maim him. He fumbled with the ropes, somehow got them cut. Clinging to the trailing end, he followed it up to Eagle, also standing head down now, as if the halt had robbed the stallion of its will to go on. Barbara sagged against the appaloosa’s flank, a weird, shapeless creature of snow and ice.
Sundance cursed crazily beneath the robes that muffled his face. Only the one horse left—and no chance of putting the other two out of their misery, for his Colt would be frozen solid. They would have to die the comparatively easy deaths of freezing .... Perhaps, in a few minutes more, he and Barbara would join them .... When he tapped her on the shoulder, she turned slowly, and he got a glimpse of eyes dulled with weariness staring at him blankly. “Keep hanging on to Eagle!” Sundance roared. Then he lurched to the stallion’s head, took the jaw bridle’s rein. He tugged, but Eagle did not move, only stood there trembling, with lowered head.
Sundance went to the stallion. Eagle nickered softly, shoved his head against Sundance’s body. Sundance said nothing, only stroked the frosted muzzle, ran his hand up to the bump between the ice-rimed ears, scratched it gently, patted the shaggy neck. For a moment, man and horse stood like that in the terrible wind. Then Sundance stumbled forward, with pressure on the lead rope, and Eagle lurched onward, summoning the last of his strength.
Thus they traveled eastward, in the wind’s full blast, the robed, staggering man leading the stumbling stallion, the woman clinging desperately to the stirrup leather. Sometimes Sundance fell, and when he did, it seemed to him the most desirable thing in the world just to lie there, rest, perhaps even sleep. But always he managed to haul himself out, pulling his way up the lead rope.
Now, though, he knew that it was growing late. The wind increased in fury, the cold intensified so that even numb as they were they could tell that the temperature had dropped terrifically again. In that blasting hell of snow, it was all that Sundance could do to keep his feet. Ten minutes, he thought dazedly, maybe fifteen; no more than that... He dropped to all fours; heard Barbara scream, managed to get up again and found himself stumbling forward. Maybe not that much; there had to be shelter within a few hundred yards more or it was over ....
Those minutes passed, second after tortuous second, as he staggered on. Then, without warning, not knowing how he got there, he was face down in deep snow. He tried to rise, but it did not seem worth the effort. Here in the drift it was warm, so warm and comfortable.
He heard Barbara scream again, was vaguely aware that she had left the shelter of Eagle’s flank, was bending over him. It made no difference; nothing made any difference; all he wanted, to do was sleep. Dimly, he was conscious of a rope being lashed around his torso, beneath his arms. After that, he felt himself being dragged, pulled across and through the snow like a sled. It was a strange sensation, so much better, he told himself groggily, than walking.
And then, all at once, he was no longer blasted by the wind’s full fury. Dreamily, he thought the storm must have stopped. He opened his eyes, but white still swirled around him. No, it was still blowing. Then Barbara was tugging at him frantically. “Jim! Oh, Jim, wake up, wake up! Please ... !” She began savagely to lash his face with a rope’s end.
The
pain cleared Sundance’s head, and with the return of consciousness came the return of will. Slowly, he managed to raise himself; then he became aware of a towering darkness above him. He stared, and within him hope was reborn. They had found a bluff to break the wind! Panting, he staggered to his feet, Barbara helping, and he and she and Eagle huddled in the lee of the sheer wall.
Here the cold was still unbelievably savage; but the absence of wind made the shelter seem, in contrast to the open, almost cozy. Sundance’s head cleared slightly; he looked around. The snow still veiled all landmarks. But, he thought, the rising ground meant they were closer to the Missouri, closer, maybe, to Fort Lincoln. Perhaps ten miles, twelve ... Then he shook his head, rubbed his face. It might as well be a million. They could not make another mile, much less ten. All this bluff meant was that it would take them a little longer to freeze.
Barbara huddled close to him. “Jim ... oh, Jim. I was so frightened. But we’ll make it now, won’t we? Somehow?”
He could not bear to tell her the cold, iron truth. “Yes,” he said and put his arm around her and pulled her to him, trying to shield her from the storm with his own body. “Yes. We’ll make it somehow. Don’t worry.” But he knew he was lying. In a little while, she would slide into sleep, last sleep. Easily, painlessly; there was no need to make her more afraid. But, he thought, it was over. Everything was over, now—for himself, for Barbara, for Eagle, for the Cheyennes....
And then, suddenly, he whirled away, and she fell back against the wall of the bluff as he lurched toward Eagle. He stumbled, fell in deep drifted snow, then was on his feet, clawing at the hunkered stallion’s saddle. “Jim?” Barbara stared at him in terror, scrambling to her feet. “Jim—”
“Be quiet!” he yelled. He raised one hand. Then it came again, whipped by the wind. He was not sure whether it was real, or a ringing inside his head. But suddenly he saw that Barbara heard it, too, as it sounded once more—the short, brassy notes of a bugle.
