Then I headed for the cabin, circling a little to com e up on the back side through the aspen. Back there abou t fifty yards from the cabin and down over a little aspe n and spruce-covered knoll there was another cabin. Thi s one was built mighty strong of square-cut logs and wa s warmer than the stable near the cabin. I led the roan into it and dished out some corn I kept there for col d spells.
Then I started for the cabin. There was a side o f bacon there, some beans, flour, salt, sugar, and coffee.
There was also some dried apples and odds and end s of grub. I had me a feeling I was going to need it.
This here was springtime, but in the high country i t wasn't a dependable thing. I'd seen the spring come wit h flowers and all, and then off the mountains come a storm and there'd be another ten to fifty days of winter.
The high mountain pasture which we called the plateau was actually no such thing, but rather a series o f high mountain valleys above timberline or right at it , where grew the richest of grass. Most winters they wer e free of snow, and warmer than some lower-down country due to what pa called a local weather patter n winds off the desert, I guess.
Pa had known about this place and he had gone t o Dingleberry with the suggestion that he'd graze a fe w hundred head of Big D cattle in the high country an d I'd see to them, for so much a head and wages for me.
How pa found this place or heard of it I never di d know. He had never been given to talk. I was just beginning to realize how little pa had told me about himself, his early life, or his family. I'd not paid it muc h mind because pa was always there to ask in case I w anted to know, but now he was gone. His death no t only left me alone but it cut me off from whatever pas t there was, and whatever family we might have ha d somewhere.
When I got to the cabin, all was quiet and I went in.
It was ice-cold, so I taken the time to put a fire together. Then with the flames crackling, I went to puttin g grub into a burlap sack. I worked fast, all the tim e thinking maybe I should just spend the night where I w as instead of heading out across that mountain country in the cold and the dark.
I packed my sack of grub down and tied it behin d the saddle, still thinking I should unsaddle and giv e us both a rest. The roan was tuckered and so was I , but I recalled the mean look in Blazer's eye and I k nowed he'd be comin' after me, cold or no. Be a lon g time before he had a chance at that much cash mone y again.
There was a small paper sack with some .44s in i t lyin' on the floor in the cabin, and I decided I'd bette r take them with me, so I walked back to the cabin an d pushed open the door.
Something loomed in front of me, big as a grizzly , it seemed, and my hand went for my gun, but then I r emembered I'd hung the gun belt over the saddle hor n and the spare gun with it whilst I was working around.
What hit me was a fist, but it felt like the butt en d of an axe. I staggered, and something fetched me a clout from behind, knocking me through the door int o the lighted cabin. I sprawled on the floor, my hea d buzzing, but I wasn't let lay. A big hand grabbed th e scruff of my neck and flung me into a chair.
"Where is it, kid? Where's the money?"
Dazed, I looked up at Judge Blazer. There wer e three other men in the cabin. The only one I knew b y sight was Tobin Wacker, a teamster who drove freigh t wagons and was said to be the meanest man anywher e around. He was a brawler and a bully, outweighe d me by fifty pounds, and he was three, four inches taller.
I don't know why they had the other two, because wit h Wacker they surely didn't need anybody else.
Blazer grabbed me by the shirtfront and half lifte d me out of my chair. "Where is it? Where'd you hid e that money you stole off me?"
"It was took," I lied. "I figured it was you."
"Took?" He stared at me.
"Two fellers with guns. They taken the money an d told me to get gone. That if they ever seen me aroun d town they'd blow my head off. One of them had a shotgun."
"You expect me to swallow that?" Blazer had a mighty unpleasant look to him, and I was scared. Al l the same I had sense enough to know that once the y had that money, I was dead. They'd never leave m e alive to protest or make trouble for them.
"I figured you sent 'em," I said. "They taken everything. My guns, my horse . . . they cleaned me out."
"Kid," and Blazer's voice got real quiet, "you're a liar, and I know you're a liar. You can tell us wher e it is or we'll beat it out of you."
"Look," I said, "I don't know "
He hit me in the mouth. I tasted blood and came of f that chair, and that Wacker, he just grabbed me , grabbed my arms while Blazer went to work on me. He slugged me in the belly, then kneed me in the fac e when I bent over. He straightened me up and slappe d me back and forth across the face until my head run g like a bell. Then he stepped back and kicked me in th e groin, and they dropped me on the floor.
They set down then, and one of them added fuel t o the fire. "Gettin' cold," he commented.
Wacker, he kicked me in the ribs. "Better tell us , boy," he said. "We got all night."
"Maybe you got all spring," I said, spluttering it ou t between split lips.
Blazer stared at me. "We have. We got all spring. We can beat you until you tell us, so make it easier on yourself."
He surely didn't take my meaning, and it didn't loo k like he knew what could happen up this high. Dow n yonder at town it was warm in the daytime, the flower s were out, and the trees budded. I mean, it was sur e enough springtime down yonder, but that didn't hol d up here in these hills.
"Make some coffee," he said to one of the others.
He looked down at me. "Where's the coffee?"
"I taken it all down when I quit," I said. "Wasn't much left, anyway."
"I got some," this gent said, and he opened th e door to go out. A gust of wind and snow come in th e door.
"Would you look at that," Blazer said. "Snow!"
I was beginning to really hurt. Felt like I'd got myself a busted rib. I tried to sit up, but it hurt so I l ay back down. My head was beginning to clear up, bu t my face was sore and my head ached. And now I wa s gettin' mad. I was feelin' almighty mean toward thos e men. I tried again to sit up, and Wacker, he just reache d out and kicked me in the face. Lucky I jerked bac k and he missed my chin, but the rough sole of his boo t taken the hide off my cheek.
"You set still, boy. You tell us an' we'll leave yo u be. You don't tell us an' we just keep on beatin'. It's gonna be a long night for you."
"The longest," I muttered through split lips. "Mayb e your longest."
The man at the fire turned halfway around an d looked at me. "What's that mean?"
"Listen to the wind," I said.
Blazer glanced at me. "Wind? What about it?"
"Snow," I said, "lots of snow. I've seen it when thes e late snows come so's a man couldn't get out for six , eight weeks. I hope you boys brought plenty of grub o r fat horses. You'll need it."
The man at the fire looked at Blazer. "Is that right?"
"He's lyin'. This is springtime." Nevertheless h e looked uneasy. "This is April."
"I seen it so's you couldn't get in or out befor e June," I said. "You boys say good-bye to your womenf olks?"
He backhanded me across the mouth. "Shut you r trap!" he said.
After a minute I said, "Man a few year ago starte d across the mountains with some trappers. Come sprin g he showed up in mighty good shape. They backtracke d him and found he'd killed an' eaten all the others. The y call that place Cannibal Plateau now."
The coffee was ready. "Heard about that," Wacke r said. "It sure enough happened."
"Lucky you boys have Blazer," I said. "He's goo d an' fat. He'll "
He kicked me. Then he got up on his feet an d stomped on my fingers. He kicked me again in th e belly, and I felt a stab of pain. He jerked me up by th e shirtfront and punched me in the wind again. "Where's that money?" he said.
"Stole," I muttered. "That money was stole. An' i t must've been you who murdered pa
."
He dropped me like I was too hot to hold. Then h e stepped back and kicked me in the ribs. I was turne d half over, and he kicked me in the kidneys three, fou r times. I didn't say anything.
My face was against the floor, and the cold was coming up through the cracks, but all I could feel was pain.
I hurt like I'd never hurt before.
"I better put the horses up," one of those men said.
"That's a cold-sounding wind."
"Get at it, then," Blazer said irritably. "Come morning we'll pull out."
I laughed. I didn't feel much like laughing, but I don e it.
He went out and I lay there. They had two cups an d they taken turns at the coffee. All of a sudden the doo r slammed open with a blast of cold air, and amid considerable cussing they got the door closed.
"I got the horses in," the man said. He was a sourfaced man with a scar on his jaw. "Judge? He may b e tellin' the truth. He don't have no hore."
"They taken my horse, too," I said.
"Hell, he's a-lyin'," Wacker said irritably. "Com e morning we'll find the horse and the money, too."
"By morning," I fumbled at the words with swollen , bloody lips, "you'll be snowed in, the pass closed fo r maybe six, eight weeks. An' don't think about game.
There's none up this high, this time of year."
"And by morning," Judge Blazer added, "we wil l either have the money or you will be hammered to a pulp. We've only begun, you know. If you wish to survive at all, you will tell us."
I looked down at my hands. My eyes were swolle n almost shut, my head was thick with pain, and th e hands I saw through the slits left to me were mangle d beyond belief. Yet I would not talk. If I told them, I w ould die. As long as I did not tell them, I had a chance.
Suddenly, without warning, Wacker kicked me in th e kidney. Agony shot through me and I gasped. Blaze r struck me again across the face.
"And now you'll die." I formed the words, made th e sounds, clumsy as they were. "The passes will be close d soon, and there will be no getting out."
"Suppose he's right?" one of the other men said suddenly. "I don't like it, Blazer. Those passes are almighty narrow, and the snow's a-fallin' fast out there."
Wacker walked to the window and peered out. Fo r the first time he seemed uneasy. "Aw, that's a lot o f crap!" he said irritably. He walked back to the bun k and sat down. The wind moaned around the eaves, an d suddenly he got up and went again to the window. He could see nothing, I knew. It was all dark and still.
I had seen the flakes that had blown into the room.
They were thick and white now, and that kind of sno w would pile up fast. They wouldn't get out, but neithe r would I. Except ... except that I had an idea of another way out.
Maybe. I'd never tried it. An old Indian had com e up that way and told me about it over the meal I'd fixed for him.
Could I find it in the dark and the snow? Could I f ind it even without them? He had not been very explicit, but Indians rarely were.
Blazer got up and went to the door. He peered out , then shouldered into his coat and went outside. Whe n he came back, his manner had changed. "Dick," h e said, glancing over at the man who'd made the coffee , "go saddle up. We're riding out."
"What about him?" Wacker asked.
"He'll tell us before we go. We're through foolin g around."
Dick went out the door. Three of them left. I trie d to grin with my bloody, broken lips. "He'll lose the m horses in the snow. You'll die here."
He picked me up and I struck at him. My fist caugh t his cheekbone and it must have hurt because he knee d me in the groin, then began that ponderous slapping o f my face, each blow jarring my skull. The man wa s strong. Very strong.
He began hitting me, slowly, methodically, steadily.
I made no effort to fight back. I had strength. I ha d some reserve, and I'd been waiting. My time would come.
I took the blows. He smashed a fist into my belly , struck me on the ear, slapped me until my head rang.
"Let me have him," Wacker said. "I can make hi m talk." Across the room my eyes caught a bloody imag e in the cracked mirror over the washbasin, a blood y caricature of something that had been human. That wa s me.
"Do what you're of a mind to," Blazer said, arm--w eary from beating on me. "Just keep him alive unti l he talks. He's got that money."
"Suppose his story is straight?" the other man said.
"He just might have been robbed. Somebody migh t have known where that money was. Sure it is that nig h ever'body knew his old man won it."
Blazer wouldn't buy that. Without his belief that I h ad the money, he had nothing. He was wasting his tim e and he did not want that at all.
I heard a crunch from the doorway. Dick was coming back. Blazer had dropped into a chair near th e fire. Wacker pushed me off at arm's length. He was a cruel man and much stronger than Blazer. He'd kil l me. Dick fumbled with the latch, and suddenly I lunged.
Only a quick step forward, my left palm came u p under Wacker's elbow, my right came down hard o n his wrist. There was a snap of bone, and Wacke r screamed. I shoved him hard into Blazer, and both o f them tumbled toward the fire. Then I threw myself a t the door.
Dick was coming in, had just opened the door whe n my shoulder hit it, knocking him sprawling in the sno w with me almost astride of him. I scrambled to get up , smashing my knee under his chin in the process, an d then I was rolling over and over in the snow.
I fought myself to my feet. Instinctively I went fo r the woods. Behind me I heard a shout, cries of pain, an d cursing. I stumbled and fell, crawled madly toward th e trees, sprawled again, and got hold of a tree and pushe d myself and pulled myself up.
For a moment, groggy and hurt, I leaned against th e tree, my breath coming in rasping gasps, each one lik e a knife grinding against bone.
I tried to look around, but my eyes were swollen almost shut. I made it to another tree, then another. I f ell, sliding down the tree into the snow. Yet I kne w from a lessening of the wind that I was in the aspens. I s truggled on.
My horse! They had not found my horse. If I coul d only ...
I fell again and again. Now the snow was blowing i n a howling blizzard. I did not think. I fell, striking m y side and sending a spasm of pain through me. I had a broken rib, maybe more than one. From the feel of m y nose, that was broken, too.
Scooping up a handful of snow, I wiped it across m y battered features. Then grasping the slim trunk of a tree, I pulled myself erect again.
Somehow my sense of direction remained with me.
The cabin was on my right rear now. The small shelte r where I'd left the roan was ahead of me, lower dow n . twenty yards?
Fighting to keep my feet, I worked my way across th e slope from tree to tree. Suddenly it was there. Then I w as inside, and the roan nickered a welcome.
I fell flat, but managed to push the door shut. Th e room was cold, but secure . . . secure.
For how long? They would search. They would fin d me. I had to get away. Could I find my way across th e valley? Down its long length? How far? Two miles?
Less.
Once in the broken country beyond, there would b e some shelter from the wind.
I leaned against the horse and tightened the cinch.
Then I opened the door and crawled into the saddle.
Ducking my head low, I urged the roan out into th e storm.
He must have known I was in a bad way, for surprisingly he did not resist.
Out into the storm, up into the aspens, out betwee n the grove and the house. I could vaguely hear the m shouting inside. I walked the horse past and pointe d him down the valley, and the poor beast trusted me.
Here where the wind blew, the snow could not drift.
Here we could canter, and we did. Out across the empt y land, toward a crack in the rock that I only hoped I c ould find, or he could.
Behind us, death. Before us, freezing cold, miles o f hard riding . . . possibly a
chance.
Turning briefly, I looked back. I could see a fain t glow in the darkness through the snow. The window.
From my scabbard I fumbled my Winchester. Wit h frozen, numbed fingers I steadied the rifle, and then I f ired three fast shots through that window.
Shoving the rifle down into the scabbard, I rode o n into the night and the snow. At least I had left them a defiance. I had thrown them a gesture. Whatever els e they knew, they knew I was not defeated.
And now, the storm ...
Chapter III It was cold, bitter, bitter cold. I had to find the opening of that Indian trail, and it was narrow, scarcely t o be seen even in the best of weather, but the roan and I h ad been down that trail several times for short distances. Would he know now where I was going?
The wind was directly in my face, and to catch a breath I had to hold my head down, try to get my mout h and chin behind the edge of my coat. The snow wa s growing deep, even out here on the flat. Several time s the roan stumbled. He was dog-tired, I knew, and in n o shape for such a trip as this.
The wind was like a wall of iron, cold, cold iro n against which we pushed and pushed. Suddenly th e roan slipped and almost fell. He scrambled, regaine d his feet, and stood trembling. Then I remembered. Jus t to the right of that opening there was a sort of gentl e slope where the ground fell off several feet in a gradua l slant. Was it there? Was that why the roan had slipped?
Taking a chance, I pulled his head over and urge d him forward. He took a tentative step, then another.
Liking the level ground, he went on, and suddenly something black loomed beside us and I knew it was the bi g spruce. I urged him in close to it and swung down.
Every bone in my body ached, every muscle wa s bruised and sore. I was in no shape to walk, yet I mus t save the roan. We needed each other, that horse an d me, if we were to survive at all. From here I thought I c ould follow the trail, for it wound down along throug h the trees and rocks, narrow, tricky, but possible.
Leading the roan, I walked on, stamping my fee t from time to time to shake off the numbness from th e cold. We could not go on like this. Somewhere, somehow, we had to find shelter. An overhanging cliff, a wind-hollowed cave, some fallen trees anything. We had to find shelter and we had to have a fire.
the Proving Trail (1979) Page 2
