Lonely On the Mountain (1980)

by L'amour, Louis - Sackett's 19

  It missed by a hair, and then he closed in on me, running fast. Dropping suddenly, he spilled right over me, and he was up, quick as a cat, but I was up, too, and when he come at me, I throwed him with a rolling hip lock as pa had showed me long ago. I throwed him, all right, and throwed him hard. He hit the ground, and I grabbed up his spear and was about to stick him with it.

  He’d been stunned by the shock of hitting the ground, just for a moment, like. He stared up at me, and he was such a fine-lookin’ man, I just couldn’t do it. I just broke the spear across my knee, threw down the pieces, and I taken out across country.

  Some of the Injuns had gone back for ponies, and they were coming at me when I made the trees atop a knoll. They come up, a-runnin’, and I scrooched down behind a bush, and when this rider paused to swing his pony between two trees, I hit him across the small of the back with a thick branch I’d picked up.

  It knocked him forward and off balance, and in a moment I was jerkin’ him off the pony and swingin’ to its back.

  We ran those ponies, me ahead and them after me, until the sun went down, but I’d circled around and came back to where my outfit was camped.

  I went through patches of woods, across plains, down rocky draws, and finally I seen ol’ Tilson’s high-top sombrero against the sky, and I called out, “Don’t shoot, Til! It’s me! Sackett!” Well, they’d give me up for dead. Two days the Injuns had me, and there’d been a third day of gettin’ away from them.

  “Where the hell you been? We’re short-handed enough,” Til said, “‘thout you taken off a Sundayin’ around over the hills whilst the rest of us work.” “I was took by Injuns,” I said.

  “A likely story!” he scoffed. “You’ve still got your hair.” He pointed toward camp. “Get yourself some coffee. You’ll be standin’ guard at daybreak.” Well, I walked down into camp, and ol’ Nelson was standin’ there by the fire. “You bring any company with you?” he asked.

  “Tried to avoid it,” I said, “but there might be one of them show up. I done some runnin’,” I said, “and then I got this horse.” “You call that a horse. Won’t weigh six hundred pound.” “Don’t you miscall him. He can run.” Nelson took up a cup and filled it. “Have yourself something.” He looked at me. “You et?” “Oh, sure! Don’t you worry none about me! Why, two, three days ago, I et at a cow camp run by Nelson Storey, who was takin’ cows to Montana. I ain’t had a bit since, but then what can a man expect? I didn’t come up on no rest-too-rawnts, and them Injuns didn’t figure to waste grub on a man who wasn’t goin’ to live long enough to digest it.” He pointed. “There’s some roast buffalo, camp-baked beans, and some prunes. That should fix you up.” He took out a big silver watch.

  “You got two hours to sleep before you stand guard.” “Nels,” I said, “I lost my rifle, and—” “One of the boys picked it up,” he said. “It’s in the wagon. Draw you a new knife there. I’ll dock you for the time off.” Well, I knew he wouldn’t do no such thing, but I was so glad to be back, I didn’t care if he did. Only when I was a-settin’ my horse out there by the cattle that night, I thought back to the hatred lookin’ at me out of those fierce black eyes of High-Backed Bull, and I was glad I’d seen the last of him.

  Until now— He stared at me. “You Sack-ETT,” he said.

  Tyrel said, “You actually know this Injun?” “I know him,” I said, “from that trip I took up the Bozeman Trail after the War Between the States. We had us a little run-in back yonder. They had me fixed to run the gauntlet —fifty-sixty big Injuns all lined up with me to run down the aisle betwixt ‘em and each one hittin’ or cuttin’ at me.

  “Well, I recalled that story pa told us about John Coulter, so I done likewise. I just taken off across the country and not down their gauntlet. This big buck here, he durned near caught me.” “So Sack-ETT,” Bull said, “it is again.” Smiling, I held out my hand. “Friends?” I said.

  He stared at me. “No friend,” he said. “I kill.” “Don’t try it. I’m bad luck for you.

  Me,” I said, “bad medicine for you, much bad medicine.” He stared at me, very cool and not at all scared. “Soon you hair here.” He touched his horse’s bridle where three other scalps, one of them obviously that of a white man, already dangled.

  He changed the subject. With a wide sweep of his hand, he said, “This belong to Sioux. What you do here?” “Crossing it, Bull. We’re just driving across on the way to Fort Qu’Appelle.” It was a Canadian fort, and the name just came to me.

  “Maybe we’ll meet on the way back.” They turned and rode away, and Tyrel, he just sat there looking after them, and then he shook his head. “There was a time there when I figured I’d have to do the fastest shootin’ I ever done.” Gilcrist and the Ox come ridin’ up. They could see the four Sioux ridin’ away. “What happened?” Gil asked.

  “No trouble,” I said. “Just a Sioux who tried to take my hair one time, thinkin’ about another try.” “You knew him?” “Some years back,” I said. “I’d just come out of the Sixth Cavalry and—” “The Sixth?” He was surprised.

  “Sackett? were you that Sackett?” “So far as I know, I was the only one in the outfit.” “I’ll be damned,” he said. “I’ll be dee-double damned!” “That was a long time ago,” I said. “Let’s get ‘em movin’!” We lined them out and pointed them north and prayed a little that we wouldn’t meet any more Sioux, but after my meeting with High-Backed Bull, I knew they’d be back.

  Cap rode up to see me at point.

  “Hustle ‘em, Cap. I want distance.” “You know you ain’t goin’ to outrun any Injuns,” he said. “If they come for us, they’ll find us.” “They’ll come,” I said.

  “You should’ve killed him when you had the chance.” Brandy had come up to us, wanting to hear. “I’d figure him grateful,” Brandy said. “You let him live when you could’ve killed him.” “They don’t figure that way, son,” Cap remarked. “They figured him a coward for not followin’ through. They don’t think he had nerve enough.

  “Injuns don’t think the same as us, and we keep thinkin’ they do. That’s been the cause of most of the trouble. We think one way, they think another, and even when the words are the same, they mean different things.

  “I’ve fought ‘em here and there, lived with some of them, too. They’re good people, mostly, but there’s right-out bad ones, the same as with us.

  “Folks get the wrong idea about Injuns.

  Somebody figured the Injuns thought the white man was somethin’ special. Some easterner who’d never seen an Injun figured it that way. Nothing of the kind. The Injuns mostly looked down on the white man.

  “Why? Because he was tradin’ for furs, and the Injuns figured if he was any kind of a man,

  e’d go ketch his own. He traded for ‘em because he didn’t know how to hunt or trap.

  “The Sioux, the Cheyenne, an’ all them, they despised the white man, although they wanted what he traded. They wanted steel traps, guns, blankets, and whiskey.” Cap pushed a brindle steer back into the herd.

  “Some folks figured it was all wrong to trade the Injuns whiskey, and no doubt it was, but it wasn’t meanness made ‘em do it. They traded the Injuns whiskey because it was what most of those white men wanted themselves, so they figured the Injun wanted it, too.” We pushed ‘em on into the evening and bedded down on Rocky Run, finding ourselves a little hollow down off the skyline. The mosquitoes were worse, but we were a whole lot less visible.

  When we had a fire going, I roped a fresh horse and switched saddles. “I’ll mosey around a mite,” I told Cap. “You an’ Tyrel, you keep a hold on things whilst I’m gone.” “We’ll try,” Cap said.

  Rocky Run was a mite of a stream that probably fed into the James, but there’d been rains, and there was good water. Topping out on a ridge, I dropped over the edge far enough not to skyline myself and took a look around.

  Mostly, I studied the country to the west. Come daybreak, we’d be lined out to the west, shaping a bit no
rth for the James again.

  How many Sioux were there and how far away?

  There’d be a-plenty, no doubt, but I was hoping High-Backed Bull would have to go some distance to his village. There was no way to hide eleven hundred head of cattle and no way you could move them very fast. We’d have to do what we could.

  Turning back toward camp, a movement caught my eye. Somebody was coming, somebody on a slow-walking horse that stopped now and again, then started on. But he was coming my way.

  Shucking my Winchester, I taken my horse down off the low ridge, kind of angling toward that rider.

  It was already almost dark, and there were stars here and yonder, but a body could make things out. This rider was all humped over in the saddle like he was hurt.

  I caught a momentary glint of metal, and I pulled up and waited.

  When he was some fifty yards off, I covered him with my Winchester and let him close the distance.

  “Pull up there! Who are you?” He straightened up then. “What? A white man? What’re you doing out here?” “Drivin’ some cattle,” I said. “What about you?” “I been runnin’,” the man said. “Sioux.

  I’m headed for Fort Stevenson, Army mail.” “Fort Stevenson? Hell, I didn’t know there was a fort up this way. Come on into camp.” He was a fine-looking man, Irish, and with the bearing of a soldier. When I said as much, he said, “Some years back, in England and India.” He threw me a quick glance. “Cattle, you say?

  Where to?” “The gold mines,” I said.

  “It’s a long drive,” he said, “a very long drive. Strike north toward the South Saskatchewan. You can follow it part of the way.

  It won’t be easy—and stay away from Fort Garry.” “What’s wrong?” “There’s trouble brewing. When the Bay Company let go of Rupert’s Land, which means most of western Canada, there was no government. It wasn’t immediately apparent that Canada was going to take over, so a m`etis named Louis Riel has set up a provisional government.” “M`etis?” “It’s a name for the French-Indian or sometimes Scotch-Indian buffalo hunters. Anyway, it looks like trouble, so I’d steer clear of Fort Garry.” “And Pembina?” “The same.” By now, or very soon, Orrin would be there. He would be right where the trouble was, and he would be alone.

  Chapter VI

  Orrin Sackett boarded the stage at St.

  Cloud. Two women were already seated, a short, stout woman with a florid complexion and a young, quite pretty girl in an expensive traveling suit. Seating himself in a corner, Orrin watched the others as they got aboard.

  There were three. The first was a square-shouldered, strongly built man in a dark, tailored suit with a carefully trimmed beard. He was followed by two men, roughly dressed and armed with pistols under their coats and rifles in their hands.

  Scarcely were they seated when, with a pistol-like crack of the whip, they were off.

  The man with the trimmed beard glanced at him.

  Orrin knew he presented a good appearance in his planter’s hat, his dark gray frock coat, and trousers of a lighter gray, his dark green vest sporting a fine gold watch chain.

  “Fort Abercrombie?” The man asked. “Or are you going further?” “Fort Garry,” Orrin replied. “Or possibly only to Pembina.” “My destination, also. From Georgetown to the steamboat you may have to provide your own transportation. The stage often goes no further than Georgetown. Much depends on the condition of the roads and the disposition of the driver. And, I might add, on the mosquitoes.” Orrin lifted an eyebrow. “The mosquitoes?” “If you have not heard of them, be warned. They are unlike any mosquitoes you will have seen. At least in number. Leave an animal tied out all night and by morning it may be dead. I am serious, sir.” “But what do you do?” “Stay inside after sundown. Build smudges if you’re out. Sleep under mosquito netting. They’ll still get you, but you can live with them.” The young girl twisted her lips, obviously disturbed. The two men showed no concern, as if the story were familiar to them, but what was wrong about them? He did not wish to stare at them, but there was something, some little thing that disturbed him.

  It was not that they were armed. He carried his own pistol in its holster and another, a derringer, in his vest pocket. His rifle was in the blanket roll in the boot. The man with the beard was also armed with a small pistol. Very likely, the women were also, although a woman could, in most cases, travel anywhere in the West in complete safety.

  It was not that the two were roughly dressed that disturbed him. He had dressed no better, if as well, for the better part of his life, and in the West men wore whatever was available or what they could afford. Over half the greatcoats one saw were army issue, either blue or gray, and a good number of the hats came from the same source. Yet somehow these men seemed different.

  Their clothing did not seem to belong to them. They were old clothes and should have been comfortable, but neither man wore them with ease.

  “You have been to Fort Garry before? And Pembina?” The man with the trimmed beard nodded. “Several times, although I am not sure what my welcome will be like this time.” He glanced at Orrin again. “They aren’t very friendly to outsiders right now.” “What’s the problem?” “They’ve had an influx of outsiders. Some of them from Ontario but many from the States. Some are land grabbers, some are promoters. You see, when the Bay Company moved out, they left the country, Rupert’s Land, they call it, high and dry and without a government.” He paused, peering from the window. The stage was slowing for a bad place in the road. “The m`etis, the French-Indian people who formerly worked for the company, have lived on their land for several generations. Now, suddenly, there’s a question of title. The newcomers say the m`etis own nothing at all.

  “Louis Riel has returned from Montreal and is reported to be forming a provisional government. I have met the man but once, in passing, and know nothing about him.” “He’s a breed,” one of the other men spoke suddenly. “He’s part Indian.” His manner of speaking made the statement an accusation, and Orrin said mildly, “Could be in his favor. I’ve dealt with Indians. They know the country, and some of them are wise men.” The man was about to reply, but seeing the way the conversation was going, the man with the trimmed beard thrust out his hand. “I am Kyle Gavin, and a Scotsman, although I’ve spent a deal of time in both your country and Canada. We may be of service to each other.” “I am Orrin Sackett, of Tennessee. I have been practicing law in New Mexico and Colorado.” At the name, both the other men glanced up sharply, first at him, and then they exchanged a glance.

  Darkness was crowding into the thick brush and trees along the trail, leaning in long shadows across the trail itself. Atop a small hill where some wind was felt, the stage pulled up, and the driver descended.

  “I’d sit tight if I was you,” he warned.

  “Keep as many mosquitoes out as you can. I’m lightin’ the carriage lamps.” He did so, and then they moved on into the darkness. “There will be food at the next stop,” Gavin commented. “I’d advise all to eat. The night will be long.” The road was a mere trace through towering trees, then across open prairies dotted with clumps of brush. Trees had been cut down, but the stumps remained, and occasionally a wheel would hit one of the stumps with a bone-jolting shock. There were strips of corduroy road across marshes, made by laying logs crosswise and covering them with brush and mud.

  Inside the coach, all was dark. Orrin removed his hat and leaned his head back against the cushion. In that way, he could doze fitfully, jarred into wakefulness by getting a sharp rap on the skull when the stage passed a bad bump.

  After a long time of endless bumping, jolting, and crackings of the whip, a bit of light flickered across his vision. He opened his eyes and, lifting the corner of the curtain, peered out. They had come to a settlement, and only a minute or two later the stage pulled up before a low-roofed building of logs.

  The door opened and the stage driver said, “Grub on the table! Better eat up!” Kyle Gavin got down and turned to offer his hand t
o the ladies, but the two other men pushed by him and stumbled toward the door.

  Exasperated, he started to speak, but Orrin spoke first. “Let them go. It isn’t worth the trouble.” He waited until both women had been helped to the ground, then said, “Please, let me apologize. Western men are usually thoughtful of womenfolk.” “Thank you, young man,” the older woman said.

  “I live west. I know what the men are like. Those two, they’re trouble. I seen it when they got on.” Orrin escorted the two women to the one table, and several men promptly got to their feet, plates in hand. “Set here, ma’am,” one of them said.

  One of the others turned toward a harried man standing over a stove. “Joe? We’ve a couple of ladies.” “Yes, sir! Ma’am! Be right there.” Orrin glanced around the room. Several wagons were pulled up outside and at least three saddle horses. He saw no one whom he knew, but that was expected, for this was new country to him. Yet he searched the faces of the men. Some would be going on to Pembina or Fort Garry, and he badly needed at least two good men.

  One was a short, stocky man with a thick neck and a bristle of tight blond curly hair atop his head. There was a deep dentlike scar under his cheekbone. He was one of those who had arisen quickly when he saw the women. He stood to one side now, plate in hand.

  “How’s the food?” Orrin asked.

  The short man threw him a quick, measuring glance. “I’ve et worse. Matter of fact, it ain’t bad.” “Cowhand?” Shorty shrugged. “Whatever it takes to get the coon. I been a cowhand. I been a timber stiff, too, an’ I’ve driven freight here and there.” “At Pembina or maybe Fort Garry, I’ll need a couple of men. A couple who can handle cattle, drive a team, and make a fight if that’s necessary.” “Where you goin’?” “West, through the mountains. They call it British Columbia. I’ll pay thirty a month, and the grub’s good.” Shorty finished his food. “If you’re eatin’, you better get up there,” he advised.