Tuck Morgan, Plainsman (The Gun of Joseph Smith)

by Katherine R. Chandler

  Tucker thought about it and decided he felt snow. That was what he felt, snow. Well, Holloway had said it couldn't last, and being snowed in a day or two wouldn't be all that bad. He would be sorry to have the hunt end, however. Tucker urged his horse in behind the guide's, and they moved along quickly.

  Could be it was all in their heads and the storm wouldn't amount to beans anyway. Tucker blew steam and watched his horse's breath do the same. Funny how a horse sucked in his mouth and blew out his nose. All animals breathed that way. Just the opposite from men. Maybe humans did it wrong.

  The temperature was dropping like a rock down a well. By the time they hit timber, snow was mixing with the wind. Surprising, Tucker reasoned. It now seemed too cold for snow, but there it was. A man couldn't ever be sure about weather.

  Their camp had been pushed into the shelter of timber along the park edge. Trees broke some of the wind force, and snow swirled in many directions, confusing vision and disguising all but closer objects.

  Tucker and Holloway came on the camp suddenly and saw activity among the horses and oxen corralled within the timber. Tommy Bell saw them first and came dashing, his words running ahead but lost in the wind's violence.

  The boy snatched at Holloway's reins and hollered above the wind's rush. This time they heard him plain enough.

  "Mister Laban's still out, Mister Holloway. He's been gone a long time, and my uncle is saddling to go find him."

  Holloway's glance at Tucker was pure exasperation. He kneed his horse toward the tangle of men and animals in the corral, and Tommy Bell raced alongside Tucker.

  They dismounted, and Payne-Weston came over to explain. "Paul went out on his wagon only a little after you and Tucker left. Said he would stay close, and we expected he would. He hasn't come in, Grant, so he's probably turned around out there. I was just going after him."

  Holloway nodded shortly. "Well, Tucker and me'll run him down. Which way did he head out?"

  "He started toward the river, but he was soon out of sight. He passed close to those old lodges, so you can pick up his tracks there."

  Both Holloway and Tucker took time to dig out their fur muffs. Made of wolf fur inside and out, the muffs hung on a string looped behind the neck. A hand stuffed within was warmed, and a rider could alternate his rein hands and spare his gloved fingers frostbite.

  Laban's wagon had dug furrows, and they joined his trail where Indian lodge poles had been left until owners chose to again lay their tepees over them.

  The artist's horses had been moving right along, so Laban probably had a destination in mind. Holloway rode at a trot, guessing they would quickly locate their wanderer.

  It was a mile to the Laramie River's north branch. Laban's trail led them to it with barely a twist. Along the river, the artist had lingered but then crossed, and his trail led out on the far side. Holloway said only, "The darned fool," and splashed across with Tucker following.

  Snow was beginning to stick a little but the wind was helping to keep it moving. Tucker's back felt ice packed, and he dreaded their return riding dead into the blizzard's fury.

  A secnd mile passed and then a third. If anything, the wind increased. The guide was hurrying more, barely able to accept that, despite instructions, Laban had strayed so far.

  This side of the river was a flat and open plain without trees or landmarks. Laban's wagon should be easy to see. Holloway pointed down and kicked his horse into a lope. Tucker saw the sign. Laban's team had begun galloping. He slapped his reins along his mount's shoulder and took out after Holloway.

  Riding with the wind, they were looking along the flight of the storm-borne snow. To the sides, vision was cut way down, and Tucker again considered the miseries of heading back into the wind. The smart thing would be to hole up behind Laban's wagon until they got an easing. Then they might make a dash for the camp, probably five miles back by now. He hoped the artist was protecting himself like that right now.

  Tucker knew about early blizzards. They came with little warning and could last a day or a week. Some had deep snow, others were mostly wind and cold. Blizzards demanded respect, and too many travelers got trapped by them. Stories were told of people becoming lost between their house and hen coop. Some, it was said, were never seen again. Tucker was glad Holloway was leading, and he stayed close behind.

  Across a gully to their right something flickered. Tuck looked and saw nothing. Then his eye corner caught it again. Color. He shouted to Holloway, and the guide pulled up, looking where Tucker was pointing. Something was there all right.

  Holloway hauled his gelding around and booted the reluctant animal across the wind. Tucker followed, feeling the cold slam his side and fighting his horse's attempt to slide downwind.

  He barely heard Grant Holloway's call, but the guide's horse broke into a run, and just ahead, Tucker located what they had seen. Paul Laban was hunkered down with a wood framed canvas braced between himself and the driving wind. Holloway's horse dipped across a hollow, and Tucker looked for the artist's wagon. It was nowhere in sight.

  Laban still hadn't seen them, and Holloway was darn near on top of him. Tucker shook snow from his face and moved his horse along.

  Holloway's running horse went down. It fell in a head first, shoulder smashing sprawl. The guide hurtled over the horse, landing hard, but clear of the thrashing animal.

  As clear as a rifle shot, Tucker Morgan heard the gelding's leg break. Unmistakable, it sickened Tucker's heart, but he came alongside in an instant.

  Holloway was sprawled over a ground hummock but Tucker saw him turning. Laban too was struggling erect, hanging onto his puny shelter as the wind sought to tear it away. Tucker was already fumbling for a percussion cap. He got one on his horse pistol and came off his mount with a rein clenched tightly in his teeth.

  Holloway's gelding screamed in its fear and agony, struggling to rise on a foreleg broken clean and twisted aside. Tucker palmed the pistol's hammer to full cock and jammed the muzzle behind the gelding's ear. At the shot, the crippled horse collapsed, stone dead and freed from its misery.

  Laban had reached them, but Tucker had no time to listen. He knotted his reins to the dead gelding's and turned to Grant Holloway.

  The guide had quit moving, and Tucker immediately saw Holloway's right leg pointing off at a bad angle. For an instant, panic threatened, but Tucker got it down and knelt beside his friend, sheltering him from the pelting wind and snow.

  Holloway's face was white with shock but his hands were feeling along the leg break, trying to determine its severity. Laban made as though to raise him, and the guide said, "No! Don't move me." He explored further and added, "The bone hasn't torn through the skin, Tucker. That's to the good."

  Tucker did not know what to say. A leg break was bad enough any time, but in the middle of a howling blizzard? What were they to do?

  Holloway was taking it calmest. His voice steadied Tucker and helped get his wits going. "We've got a bad situation here, but we can tackle it a piece at a time. We'll keep working, staying smart, and avoiding mistakes.

  "First thing is to haul this leg straight and get it splinted in place. We'll do it now before the hurting gets worse." Holloway's hands were shaking, whether from cold or pain, Tucker couldn't tell. Paul Laban was saying things, but neither Holloway nor Tucker bothered to listen.

  Holloway had a last word. "The pain's likely to take me off for a spell, Tuck. You know what to do, so it'll be in your hands." He looked up for an instant, his teeth gleaming in his familiar smile. "Get this pilgrim home, then come back for me, if you can."

  Tucker nodded, too anxious to answer. He gulped away throat dry and hauled Laban's head close so he'd be heard.

  "Mister Laban, I've got to pull this leg into place. You'll have to help. It's hard to do, but I saw a doctor do one sort of like this a few years back."

  "Couldn't we wait until he's at the camp? You could ride for help, and I'll stay with him."

  "Not the way to do it, and it's not
the way he wants it. Now, you kneel across Mister Holloway's chest, but don't put weight on him. Jam your knees into his armpits so he doesn't slide. I'm going to pull, with my feet pushing against your back, so don't go falling off-balance. Hold him until I'm done. Then get off."

  Tucker knew what was required. Applying constant pull, the leg had to be straightened and realigned. Holloway's leg muscles would resist the whole way. If Tucker failed to overpower them, the broken bone ends could not line up and Holloway's leg would never be much good. Help beyond the usual was needed for this effort. Tucker spoke within himself. Tm all Mister Holloway's got right now, Heavenly Father. Grant me the wits to help my friend."

  The artist was in position, so Tucker puffed a few breaths and began.

  He braced his moccasins against Laban's back and wrapped Holloway's foot in his arms. Tucker leaned away, pulling strongly, and heard Holloway's heavy moan. Muscles fought him but he straightened his legs against Laban and felt the guide's leg lengthen. He turned the toes upward and believed he felt bone grating through his nerve ends.

  Holloway's voice choked and began rising in agony. Desperately Tucker strained backward and swore he had pulled beyond need. Then he felt a click, a movement of bone snapping across other bone. Was the leg positioned? It looked straight. Ready to heave again, Tucker eased his pull. Holloway's limb lay true. Tucker became aware of exhausted panting and realized both he and the guide were puffing like wind-broken horses.

  Laban knelt, holding his canvas as a shield so Tucker could work. Tucker laid the guide's Hawken rifle against the straightened leg and tied it there with lengths of his hair rope. The rifle's butt was strapped to Holloway's body, and finally the good leg was tied alongside the broken one.

  The guide was still panting a little and lay heavy eyed while Tucker worked. His color was as gray as the sky, and Tucker didn't like it. Tucker moved as fast as he could, his hands clumsy with cold. Snow was beginning to gather and was already an inch deep. How could snow be so wet when the wind was colder than winter ice? Tucker made himself hurry.

  He got Holloway's saddle off and placed the saddle blanket against the dead gelding's belly. With Laban's help, he carefully dragged Holloway onto the blanket and pushed him tight against the animal's heat.

  The guide managed a few words. "Good thinking, Tuck." Then he lapsed into a stupor and said no more.

  Tucker got his own saddle blanket off and wrapped it tightly around Holloway. He put the guide's hands in his muff and slid Holloway's Book of Mormon in with them. On top he piled both of their woolen ponchos. He braced Laban's canvas within the horse's legs where it would help as a windbreak and guessed he'd done all he could.

  Terrible doubts wracked Tucker's mind. Had the guide broken ribs that should have been tightly wrapped? Could there be other hurts that he hadn't even thought of that should have been treated immediately? Did Mister Holloway bleed inside from the impact of his fall? Most of the imaginings he could not have cared for anyway, and surely Holloway would have mentioned anything else that needed examining. Tucker prayed that he was right.

  He knelt by Holloway's head and spoke into his ear. "I'm taking the artist in now, Mister Holloway. I'll be straight back with help." Holloway nodded, so Tucker knew he understood. Tucker adjusted the ponchos so that only the tip of Holloway's nose showed. Then he left him.

  While Laban struggled to replace Tucker's saddle, Tuck took Holloway's rag markers and stuck them deep into the sod in a line across the wind. In the storm there would be no landmarks. Holloway's rags, his compass, and whatever skills Tucker possessed were all that could get him back to where the guide lay.

  The horse was balky about facing into the wind. Tucker took Laban's neckerchief and tied it loosely over the animal's eyes. The horse could see a little through the cotton, and snow would not blind him. Tucker gave the artist the wooden ramrod from his Joseph Smith rifle with instructions to lay it on the horse's rump if the animal faltered. They mounted, and Tuck pulled his bandanna across his nose and mouth and ducked his head so that his hat brim shielded his eyes.

  The horse started, and Tucker aimed straight into the wind. He held his compass in his free hand and made certain they went directly north. He could let no wind switch alter their course. Straight north to the river they must march. Coming back, he would find Grant Holloway by riding exactly south. In a raging blizzard it was a desperate plan, but it was also the only way possible. As he rode, Tucker Morgan prayed he could make it work.

  Chapter 19

  Sheltered behind Tucker, Paul Laban talked the miles away. He had crossed the river to paint the cloud darkened plain. When the storm had risen he had tried to turn his team, but the horses refused and kept their rumps to the wind, walking steadily away from the safety of the camp. The blizzard had torn the tarpaulin from his wagon, and canvases, paints, and supplies had vanished in the storm. Laban had raced about, saving what he could, but without warning, his horses ran, leaving him alone and without shelter.

  He had chased them until his legs faltered, but team and wagon were gone. That had been hours before. He had walked into the blizzard and tried sheltering behind hummocks and in hollows, but there was no escape from the wind and cold. Repeatedly he lost his trail and had to rest increasingly often. At times he wondered if the wind had turned and he might be walking in the wrong direction.

  Holloway and his horse had appeared in a crashing fall almost within reach. For a moment, Laban believed his mind had unhinged. Then relief engulfed him—until he saw the horror of the guide's injury.

  Tucker let the artist run on. His mind was on the compass and Grant Holloway, sorely hurt, lying helpless on the mountain plain. Each step took them further away, but each step brought closer the moment Tucker could rid himself of the artist and get back to Holloway.

  Stay smart and avoid mistakes, Holloway had directed. Tucker planned ahead, working out the quickest but safest way. If only the storm would ease . . . but the blizzard's fury whistled about them, and the snow rushed by and began drifting.

  Occasionally, a snowflake touched cold against Grant Holloway's nose, but Tucker had arranged coverings so that the guide's breath warmed a tunnel of cloth protecting his only exposed feature.

  The gelding's body would surrender warmth for hours, and Holloway's own heat was trapped within his layers of blanket and ponchos. The horse sheltered him from the wind and, as snow gathered, it too would insulate the guide from the blizzard's cold.

  Since Tucker's departure, only the wind's howl touched Holloway's hearing. His broken limb ached with the persistence of a bad tooth. Lying motionless kept that pain minimal, and he would endure it.

  Grant Holloway wondered if he had been in a worse fix. For the moment he was safe enough. That was surely better than beating off Sioux with his clubbed rifle. He was as well off as the time his horse had gone down more than forty miles from water. That had been in the big desert, and he had almost gone under.

  If he could move, he wouldn't even worry. The broken leg was the problem. He could last out the blizzard easily enough, but after a day or so, his unmoving feet would take frostbite and probably worse. Once the wind died a little, wolves could appear. The big bears would be caught out in the early snow as well. One might pick up the dead horse scent or investigate the buzzards that would circle.

  Mostly, Holloway worried about Tucker Morgan. Navigating through a blizzard was more than seasoned mountain men cared to try. If Tucker's horse went down, neither Tucker nor Laban would have the blankets Holloway enjoyed. If Tucker could not locate the wagons, if . . . Holloway knew too many "ifs," so he quit listing them.

  Laban had to be gotten to safety. That was Holloway's and Morgan's job. If Tucker got that done, he would organize a party, wait until the worst of the storm blew through, and come hunting his partner. Finding him would not be easy. If the snow lay deep, even the buzzards wouldn't mark which mound was Grant Holloway and the dead gelding.

  Well, the guide considered, he'd as soon h
ave Tucker Morgan hauling Laban in and searching him out as any man he'd ridden with. Some he had known might never have bothered—and been surprised when they met later on. Others were so thick-headed they couldn't remember water flowed downhill. A few would have had to get over drinking bouts before they could start back. Tucker Morgan was young, but he used his head and he wouldn't ever quit looking.

  Holloway figured he could drink snow, eat the horse, and get his Hawken loose to use on wolves or a bear. He wriggled his toes within his moccasins, moving his feet as much as he could. Tucker had wrapped them good, and cold hadn't gotten through yet—but it would.

  Holloway held his Book of Mormon inside his fur muff and remembered that in this tight he had something powerful working for him that he hadn't had those other times.

  The wearying horse stepped into the river before Tucker saw it. Was the spot a sensible ford? Tucker could see little. The horse clomped ahead, so Tucker let him go. They surged up the north bank, and Tucker stopped their mount. Immediately the horse turned his rump to the wind. The relief to Tucker's face and body was profound. Paul Laban could take the blasts until Tucker worked out his next move.

  Directly south, lay Grant Holloway. Somehow Tucker had to mark the exact spot, but there was no special tree or identifiable outcropping. A pair of young willows bowed with the icy blasts, but there were thousands like them along every stream bank.

  The mark could not be a bit of twisty rag. On his return he had to find it, or he could not locate Holloway. He needed a big, unmissable marker. He dismounted, stiff with cold. He again gripped a rein in his teeth; his horse would do no wandering. He hauled his Joseph Smith rifle from its scabbard and lashed it to the willows with thongs torn from his hunting shirt. Head high, the rifle pointed south, toward Holloway's position. Tucker examined his work and knew it would hold, if . . . if he could just find it again in the gloom of the storm with night not too distant.