“I grounded the butt of my gun to show him I meant him no evil, an’ we stood there, sniffin’ the air and lookin’ at each other for a while, and then he kind of lifted a paw…it was an accident, of course, but it looked almost like he waved at me, then he just turned his back an’ walked off, an’ I let him go.
“When he looked back again he was at the edge of the trees, an’ I lifted a hand to him. He looked, then went on into the trees and out of the way. Ben, that bear was a big one. He’s put in too many years in this country for me to fetch him now.”
“I’ve found gold up there, Ethan.”
“Figured as much. Well, if you go east after that actress gal you’ll need it. Not that it would matter to her, but money shines with the old folks.”
“I want to look around some. I’ve got to make up my mind about some things.”
“I reckon.” Ethan took out his pipe. “Ben, did you ever think about runnin’ for office? I’m serious. I’ve heard a lot of talk. Wyoming will be a state. They’ll need men with education. You’ve read a sight of books, and you’re steady. I’d trust your judgment any time…you think about it.”
Well, I had thought about it. Maybe that was a part of what our town meant, maybe it was a place for growing up, a place for teaching a man to think not only of himself but of a community, a training ground for learning to live together, to think for others, to plan for a future.
Yet I felt inadequate. There were so many questions of which I knew nothing, and that night I opened a fresh bundle of papers and began going through them. I must know why Johnson was dismissing Stanton, why they wanted to impeach Johnson, why men preferred Grant to Seymour.
Blackstone had greater appeal. I liked the even tone of his work, the effect he gave of considered judgment, the cool beauty of the principles he laid down. This was one of the books Jefferson had read, and Madison…all of them.
They had read Plutarch, too.
Two more trips I made to my mine, and each time I returned with gold. Cain melted it down in the forge, cast it into small ingots for me, flat and about as round as a silver dollar, but thicker.
On my last trip I rode out before daybreak. It was a clear, cold morning…freezing cold. On such a morning I would not have thought of going, but it would be the last time. Christmas was tomorrow, and after New Year’s I would be going off to the east.
I rode swiftly up Beaver Creek, cut over toward the mountain, and climbed along an old game trail. It was a trail I knew very well, and when well up the mountain I turned sharply off and looked back.
Nothing.
It was too cold to wait long and I rode on, my horse eager to be off. On this occasion, I planned to bring back some gold I had dug and cached…a good load of it.
The air was very still, the sky gray and low. It was bad weather…a kind of weather made for sitting by the fire. I rode into the trees, down a long, snow-covered slope, into the trees again. Suddenly I pulled up.
Tracks…huge tracks. That big silver-tip was out and moving around. He probably knew we were in for a bad storm and wanted to have a full belly before it set in. Well, luck to him.
Cold…it was bitter, bitter cold, and it had grown colder since I started.
I had to get back. Tomorrow was Christmas Day.
Once, turning around a clump of snow-covered brush, I thought I caught a whisper of movement far behind me, but I looked and looked and saw nothing. My horse stamped irritably, eager to be moving, and we went on.
How I loved the vast stillness around me! No sound but the crunch of my horse’s hoofs in the snow, the creak of stiff leather, an occasional crack of a branch in the cold.
Pulling up under some trees I stepped down from my horse into snow just short of knee-deep. My feet were cold, so I walked on, leading my horse. Then I mounted again, doubled back on my trail at a fast trot, and came suddenly into the open.
It caught them by surprise. There were three riders, and they were coming right down my trail.
When I rode out of the trees they pulled up sharply, and one of them made as if to turn. They were a good two hundred yards off and I considered. I had an idea who they were but no real reason to shoot…they had not attacked me. Not yet.
So I simply turned my horse and walked him back into the trees.
Three men…not one, but three. They were not simply following me, which one man could have done, they meant to kill me.
I turned up a dim game trail, only slightly tracked since the snow. I rode up, weaving a way in and out of the trees. I slid my horse down a steep bank, edged him between two boulders, slid down another bank through the trees and circled toward my cache.
Did they know of it? Had they located my mine? Or only the area? Unless they did know they would be foolish to kill me.
There was something in this I did not understand.
My horse wore caulked shoes so I turned him upstream on the ice and rode swiftly for several hundred yards, then up the bank and into the trees again. I disliked seeming to run from them, but I had killed men and this was known. The Reverend Finnerly still had friends and a few followers, and there was no liking between us. If I killed them or any one of them I would be in trouble, all my dreams suddenly gone down the drain. What I needed now was escape.
They were following but not too fast…why? Drawing up to let my horse catch his wind, I scowled: Why, if they wanted me dead, did they not close in and try to do the job?
They were obviously not in a hurry.
Why? The answer came to me suddenly…because they were not ready yet.
Why not?
Like a dash of cold snow down the back of the neck it came to me. Because there was somebody else involved, somebody not yet on the scene.
They were making no move to catch up. Despite the coming on of night they were willing to take their time. They were not even closing in to be sure I was within range.
In fact they acted just like…like men driving game or herding cattle.
That was what they were doing then, they were herding me, moving me closer and closer to some other enemy.
The worst of it was, I was in a canyon. There were places where I could climb out, but they were few, steep, and exposed.
At this point the canyon was about a half mile wide, the stream ran up the bottom, there were a few meadows, many trees, some steep, rocky cliffs, some slopes not quite as steep, some covered with trees, some only with snow.
What lay ahead? Enemies, certainly, but what enemies? Who?
There was also the night, the cold.
On my right the bank fell steeply away into the brush. Swiftly I turned my horse and slid down the bank into an avenue of trees. I would be herded no further. If it was fight they wanted, it would be now. I went into the trees on a run, turned right again down the canyon, and came up out of the trees to a level area to see the three riders pulling up…then, deliberately they turned their horses and started away.
Startled, I glanced behind me.
Indians. And they were coming toward me in an arc, walking their horses, closing in.
Starting forward, I found myself facing another group that was emerging slowly from the trees in the direction I was going. Shoving my rifle into its boot, I reached inside my coat and shucked my six-gun.
There was no chance to even think, there was only time now to do. My enemies had walked me right into a trap set for me and now they were pulling out. I slapped my heels to the mustang, and rode right into them.
They were not ready for it. They had expected me to try to talk, to ride to right or left, to try any way out. Instead I went right into them and I went shooting. My first shot knocked an Indian from his horse. The second tried to turn too fast, and his ordinarily surefooted pony slipped on the ice of the creek, and almost went down. I went into them, shooting.
It was almost dark. If I could just…
The Indians behind me hesitated to shoot for fear of hitting their friends, and shooting to right and left, I was through
them. It was due far more to the caulks on my horse’s shoes than to any skill or bravery on my part. The horse was sure on its feet, and in a moment I was into the trees.
I heard whoops and yells…there must be a dozen. How many were down? One man had gone down with his horse, but that was probably only momentary, and one I had wounded…I believed I had hit one other, but I’d been more intent on getting through them than killing anyone.
They were all around me. On my right the cliff went sheer…there was a chimney where a man might climb, no place a horse could go.
I dismounted quickly and stuffed the food from my saddlebag inside my shirt. There was also some ammunition, which I stuffed into my coat pockets.
“All right, boy,” I whispered to my horse, “go home now!”
Rifle in hand, I went up the cliff, hung the sling over my shoulder and started to climb.
It was not easy. It was too dark to see properly despite the snow, and ice had dripped down from above onto the rocks. Slowly, carefully, I worked my way upward.
I heard the clatter of hoofs some distance off, a shout, then a shot, a yell…
I kept on climbing, and what seemed a long time later, I topped out on a narrow ledge. Along it I went, hurrying. Once I slipped and almost went over the edge, then pulling myself up, I saw a dark slit in the rock and peered into it. Some distance beyond I could see snow, and edged my way through.
Where they were now, I did not know, but Indians would not long be fooled. What had Finnerly done? Traded guns or whiskey probably and the promise of a scalp.
I crossed the clearing at a trot and climbed into a nest of boulders, desperately hoping for shelter. It was growing colder.
Then I worked my way back into the trees. In the darkness there, I stopped. Indians will rarely attack in the trees as the ambushing party has the advantage. Waiting there in the bitter cold, I thought of the long miles that separated me from home.
I climbed higher into the rocks and brush. There, on a shoulder of the mountain I found a small wind-hollowed cave. It was no such shelter as I wanted, only a ledge with some overhang above it, but as long as the wind did not get around to the east by south I was relatively safe.
There was broken rock so I built a small wall to protect a corner of the cave. From roots and brush I gathered together the materials for a fire. A pack rat had nested here, or some other creature. In the darkness I could not tell, and there was an old dead tree fallen half across the front of the cave.
Huddled there, shaking with the cold, I put together a small fire. It might attract some lead but at least I would not freeze, and the chances were I was so high and partially sheltered that they might not see me.
Far away to the south was our town, far away across the icy miles. They were there now, around their warm fires, sitting down to supper. Cain would be lighting his pipe, and perhaps Ruth and Bud would come down.
Tonight was Christmas Eve.
CHAPTER 35
* * *
THE ROCK FLOOR of the shallow cave was cold. The small fire I permitted myself kept me alive but little more. There was no room to stand in the cave, only to rise on my knees, yet I did so time and again, going through the motions of the teamster’s warming to keep the blood moving.
There were no stars. Nor was there any sound. The chances were that the Indians had gone, yet I dared not risk it. From the brief glimpses I had of them they had seemed to be Shoshone, but the Shoshone were friendly to the white man, had even fought beside him.
All but one. And perhaps his friends. Had Finnerly heard that story? Of course. It was one of the most often told stories in our town, for it had been our first trial of strength against the wilderness.
Seated by the fire, adding fuel stick by stick, for there was little enough within reach, I contemplated my situation. Bitter as was the cold, it was in my favor. No Indian likes to fight in the cold, or even to move around, and the chances were they had planned for a quick kill and a return to their lodges. What worried me was that my horse would probably return to Cain’s stable and they would send out a search party, ruining the planned Christmas.
As soon as daylight came I must try to get out of here. I must start back.
No shots came, no sound. Taking a chance, I built my fire a little larger, and the waves of heat began hitting the back of the cave and reflecting from it.
Yet too much warmth was a danger. If I fell asleep my fire might go out, my enemies might come. Heavy-lidded and tired I huddled, shivering in the shallow cave.
Somehow the night passed. Right then I was wishing Santa Claus might come along for I’d relish a ride in a nice warm sleigh that could rise over the tangle of brush and rock that lay between me and home.
A faint grayness showed along the horizon. I warmed my hands again at the fire, warmed my mitts as well as I could without burning them, and slipped a hot rock into each coat pocket to warm my fingers.
It was bitter cold. I’d figure it twenty below zero or more, and I was a fair judge. After a man has lived in cold country he learns to tell by the crunch of snow, the cracking of branches, the very feel of the air.
For a time I crouched in my cave, studying the outside. Nothing stirred…certainly no wild animal or bird would be out on such a day, and the Indians were just as wise. Flattening against the rock wall, I worked my way out of the cave, momentarily expecting a shot.
When I crawled up through the rocks to the crest I looked all around. There were no tracks…nothing.
Far away to the south I could detect a thin trail of smoke from our town or one of the other settlements that had sprung up in the vicinity.
I started off at a brisk walk. Here, high on the mountain, the wind had swept much of the snow away, but ahead of me lay deep snow, not crusted enough to bear my weight.
For an hour I walked, then struck a dim trail that I believed I had traveled before…months ago. The snow had changed the appearances of things and I could not be sure, but south was my direction.
A bitter wind was blowing that intensified the cold, so I started down off the crest and into the comparative shelter of the canyon.
Several times I paused to stamp my feet, and soon I knew I must rest a little. Exhaustion is the greatest danger in the cold, for the body then has no reserves with which to fight its battle to survive.
At a turning of the canyon wall I came upon a huge tree that had tumbled from the bank above and lay at a steep angle, its top buried in the canyon snow. The roots still clung to the earth above, and the hollow beneath was sheltered by the snow that had packed itself among the branches and needles of the spruce.
Scattered about were the remains of dozens of other deadfalls. I had come several miles, but I would be a fool to push on and exhaust myself, so I went under the huge tree, and with the third match had a fire going. I then broke boughs from a living spruce nearby and laid them on the ground until I had a thick carpet.
Taking my time so as not to grow too warm, I did each thing with care. Soon I had put other branches over part of the face of the opening and had a snug place inside shaped like an Indian teepee, and almost as large as one.
There was no lack of fuel. Along any such woodland canyon there are always masses of dead timber, old trees that have fallen, other trees killed in blow-downs, and those that have died from insects, disease, or accidents.
I settled down to wait the storm out. I still had a little food, and there was a cup. In this I boiled water and made tea. Snug in my shelter, I enjoyed my fire, sipped hot tea, and considered how quickly a reasonably civilized man can become primitive. And how fortunate he is if he knows how primitive man survived.
It is a thing I must remember, that men must always remember, that civilization is a flimsy cloak, and just outside are hunger, thirst, and cold…waiting.
They are always there, and in the end, unless man remembers, they will always win.
Later, much later, I dozed, slept, awakened to add fuel to my fire, then dozed again. Toward eve
ning I brewed another cup of tea, sipping it slowly. In my mind I thought my way over the route I must follow and considered whether I should try now, before the day was over.
This was a good shelter. I did want to be home for Christmas, but in such cold as I now faced it would be best to wait, conserve my strength, and be careful not to overextend myself. It was always my way to push on, to keep going, yet at this moment it was the wrong way.
Ethan, Cain, and the others knew me. My horse would probably get back safely and they would worry, yet they knew the country as well as or better than I…if I were wounded or hurt and down on the ground the cold would kill me before they could reach me, and if not, they knew I would be wise enough to hole up and wait it out.
I added more spruce boughs to the opening of the shelter, walling off the cold. Soon I grew warmer.
It was going to be a cold evening and a colder night, but now I was safe, I could last it out for days if necessary. I brought my guns closer to the fire…but not too close. I knew cold would stiffen the action, and I must be ready for anything.
All through the long night I thought, dozed, listened, and kept my fire going. How many men such as I must have huddled over fires in the bitter cold? Indians, and the men who came before the Indians, perhaps those who built the Medicine Wheel…The People Who Came Before…The People Who Had No Iron. Who were they? What were they? Why did they build their shrine in that place? Had it been a place of pilgrimage?
They must have known this canyon, must have walked the trails I had walked.
No doubt men who had huddled over just such fires as mine had pondered such questions. Ethan had told me the Hopi religion was one that merited study…he was not a read man, but one who thought clearly and to the point, and who had perhaps a greater grasp of Indian thinking than anyone I knew.
The trouble was that he was much like Indians I had known and did not pass on his ideas or discoveries to any chance passerby. The world from which I had sprung was a world excited by an urge to communicate, to tell, exhibit, relate. As soon as an idea came to one, or a discovery was made of whatever kind, it was our way to rush into print or to a platform. The Indian had no such compulsion. Of tales of war and hunting they had no end, and were expected to relate them with drama and excitement to the people of their village, but much knowledge was assumed to be known, whether it was or not.
Bendigo Shafter (Louis L'Amour's Lost Treasures) Page 27
