Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

  “Want to talk about some horseflesh.”

  The old man scratched his ear. “Yessuh, got a nice horse down here.” He walked along the stalls and indicated an iron grey that looked leggy and powerful, if a little mean. Morgan examined the horse and pursed his lips.

  “$25?”

  “$35.”

  “$30.”

  “Done. Any more?”

  “One.” The negro pointed. “Next stall. Strong enough.”

  Morgan appraised the big black. “Looks like a riding horse.”

  “Yessuh.”

  “No good. I want to pack it out.”

  The old negro grimaced for a moment, then smiled. “I got a mule’d be perfect for that.”

  “Mule? No, I prefer horses.”

  “Mighty strong animals, suh. Sometimes they can keep on going when a horse is plum tuckered out, yessuh.”

  Morgan gave him a quick glance but the old man appeared to be genuine. “You ain’t got nothing else that’ll do me?”

  “Nosuh.”

  Morgan sighed. “All right, let’s have a look at him.”

  The old man showed his teeth and pointed out the animal. Morgan had to agree it looked capable of hard work. Its frame was stringy, but it appeared all muscle and stood as tall as any of the other horses. He had never used a mule before, but many prospectors swore by them, and there was a first time for everything. “How much?”

  “$20.”

  “Throw in the harness.”

  “All the harness but the packsaddle.”

  Morgan laughed. The old man wasn’t giving much away.

  “Cup of coffee to seal the deal?”

  “You got it,” Morgan grinned. “I need to get a list of stores together and your coffee’s much more to my liking than what’s dished up in the restaurant.”

  The negro grinned at the compliment. “No discount,” he warned before bowing to sweep an arm in a gesture of welcome to his humble quarters. “Come on in, then, suh.”

  ***

  When Morgan finished his business in the general store his bankroll was severely depleted but the three pack horses were well laden with enough provisions to last him an easy three months. If the ore vein wasn’t as big as he figured, he could always pack up and ride off someplace else. He checked all the harness was ready and the loads were securely fastened, then stood for a moment at the hitching rail, his mind working in circles as he tried to think of anything he might have forgotten. Salt? Yes. Shells? Yes…

  “’Scuse me, suh. Somethin’ you oughta know.”

  The negro’s voice cut into Morgan’s mental inventory. He turned his head slowly to eye him with interest. “Yes?”

  “You know that big black horse you were shy of buyin’. Well, that sharp eyed fella with the low slung gun just bought him.”

  “Obliged, old man,” Morgan drawled, peering into the glinting eyes gauging his reaction to the news. So, they figured if they couldn’t get him in town, Alison’d follow him out and bushwhack him on the prairie. He fished for a dollar but the negro waved it away with a grin. Morgan watched him, then laughed.

  “I get it,” he said. “You made a good sale.”

  “Sixty bucks.”

  Morgan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Double, eh?”

  The old negro’s grin almost cracked his face in half as he opened his hands and turned them over to show his pink palms, then shrugged helplessly.

  “What else could I ask? The only horse for sale in town?”

  ***

  The Palo Duro canyon looked almost the same as it had before winter had come to ravage the land. If a man looked closely he could see where dirt had been carefully sifted over the ashes of cooking fires and where the grass had been grazed by the ponies in the lee of the mulberry trees. Or even the criss-crossed tracks of moccasins that faded quickly in earth still damp and swollen by the water from the winter snows. If a man chose to sit his horse quietly on the canyon floor, he could hear the crying of animals both large and small in the lush vegetation that hugged the twisting gash in the prairie, and the constant bubbling song of the stream that ran forever eastward under the watchful eye of the sun.

  Once at the rim, the scenery was from another world. Tumbling rock walls were replaced by an endless expanse of prairie rolling westward, painted with the first green of the new year’s grass. Nowhere was there a telltale sign of a watercourse, no place to seek shade when the summer sun charred the earth, or a place to shelter when the thunder rumbled and lightning stabbed magnesium bright tongues of destruction. The land still bore the remains of more than one smouldered buffalo carcass chosen as an unwilling offering to the Thunder Beings.

  When Thunderhawk’s small war party set out across the spring buffalo grass, little did they realize that within a handful of years the spreading cancer of the white man would penetrate as far as their sacred canyon, and that one of the first cattle ranches on the southwest plains would be established there by Charles Goodnight, and the bones of two thousand Kiowa, Comanche and Cheyenne ponies slaughtered by the U.S. Cavalry would whiten in the sun. No longer would the white man be mas alla, over the horizon, but in the very heart of their hunting grounds, and the last of the great southern herds of buffalo would be seeking shelter under the canyon walls from the long reach of the buffalo hunters’ hungry guns.

  Thunderhawk sat his rangy black pony, squinting into the distance, but he could discern no life moving out on the prairie. The grief of the winter had passed leaving him only with the memories of the good days stored in his heart, but his anger still smouldered, sometimes so hot he marvelled the winter snows had not melted from its heat. Now, his war bonnet proudly worn and the pipe smoked among his followers, he was again To-Yop-Ke, He-Who-Carries-The-Pipe, War chief of his band, second only to the greatest of the war chiefs still alive; Kicking-Bird, Mamanti, or Satanta.

  The braves who had elected to ride with him sat on his flanks. By his side was Crowfoot, a thoughtful man whose council was always well considered, next to him Coyote, known for his courage, then at the line’s end Littleman the Scout. On his right sat the Buffalo Medicine Man, their carrier of good fortune, Running Dog the Horseman, and lastly the youngest of the party who was riding as scout, Eks-a-Pana, The Soldier. They all watched the still prairie, waiting for their chief’s command. For this last moment, Thunderhawk considered the journey ahead, already having made his entreaty to Buffalo Woman to bring him success, and having communed with his own personal medicine hidden in the parfleche on his saddle. There was nothing more he could do but put his trust in the Great Spirit to guide him to his destiny.

  Yet something stilled him. It was not yet time.

  He tilted his head back then he saw it. The dark speck in the sky swooped low over the Kiowas, outlined clearly for a second below a puffball of white cloud, wings extended rigid for a frozen moment in time, then the Red Backed Hawk climbed out of its stoop and flew off towards the west. Thunderhawk smiled grimly. The hawk had been his brother’s personal omen and it had come to point the way.

  It was done. He was ready.

  He broke his trance and turned to his left as he nudged the black into a walk. His eyes met those of the boy who gazed back at him steadily.

  “Very well, Soldier. Now is the time. Guide me to the place.”

  ***

  The lineback dun was frisky after the confinement of the stable and Morgan had to hold him down to a steady pace as he rode out of Redrock, the three pack animals strung out behind him. He grinned. Both the iron grey and the mule that the ostler had talked him into buying were shaping up, responsive to the tug of the lead rein.

  He kept to a direct line north so if a man took the notion to track him it would be a simple matter. He had no idea what kind of a plainsman Alison was and he wanted to make it easy. Trouble was if Alison was a fair hand at reading sign it might look too easy, but that was a chance Morgan had to take. If Alison was following, and the odds were more than good, then Morgan wanted to take him
out of the game fast. Better sooner than later. He’d seen how men went crazy at the sight of gold. The last thing he wanted was Alison to catch up when he hit the mountains. Gunshots carried a mighty long way in those canyons and could invite unwelcome strangers.

  Morgan remembered his father telling him if you ever needed to fight a skunk, then always make sure you fought the skunk on your terms, not his. The more he recalled it, the truer it was. Alison was a pistolero, and they were town fighting men, and he looked far too handy with his six-gun to have taken him on in the saloon. That didn’t mean to say Morgan thought Alison couldn’t fight in the open. Morgan had heard the accent in the man’s voice, probably from the Carolinas somewhere, and if he was a mountain boy he’d be a fair hand at barking squirrels. Morgan’d seen that trick a time or two back during the war. A hillbilly boy had shown him. He’d said there wasn’t too much meat on a squirrel so the best way to get them for the pot was to aim at the tree bark right next to them or the branch they were sitting on so they fell out of the tree stunned. That way you didn’t get lead in the stew. And you had to be a pretty fair hand with a gun to manage it.

  Also, if Alison was a hillbilly boy, then he’d be hell to fight in the mountains. They fought real good, those boys. Look at the way their family feuds ran from generation to generation. They might not know what the word persistent meant, but they sure were as persistent as a bighorn stag in the rutting season. Get their teeth in something and they hung on till a man broke their jaw shaking them off.

  So the prairie it was.

  Morgan gave it two hours then headed north east for another two before he swung back south to ride parallel with his own tracks. He had been watching his back trail carefully but saw nothing, so Alison must have given him a couple of hours start. He continued south for an hour until he found a good place, then pulled the ten gauge out of the saddle boot and swung down from the dun’s back.

  Leaving the reins trailing he ascended the ridge, taking off his hat so he wouldn’t be skylined. From the top he could see two or three miles in each direction. Sprawled in the greening grass was like resting in the centre of a basin, the land eerily rolling to the horizon on every side. His original trail passed close to the foot of the ridge fifty yards below him. He had ridden that close intentionally. If Alison was intently tracking him, then he would come within good range of the shotgun. Any more than fifty yards and it wasn’t a sure thing any more. With his bum eye, Morgan didn’t want to risk it with a rifle. If he shot and missed, well Alison looked like he knew what he was doing and Morgan had no desire to become crow bait.

  There was nobody in sight, no telltale dust or even a hint of any movement. He turned his eyes away from the trail to see if he could catch anything in the corners of his vision.

  Nothing.

  So Alison was farther behind than he figured. Only thing to do was wait. Didn’t pay a man to be too hasty or too sure of himself. He glanced back to where he had left the horses but they were resting, taking a mouthful of grass now and then. It wasn’t much to their liking after the grain the old man had pampered them with. Morgan sighed. He had supplies and he had time. He rested the weight of the scattergun on the grass and rolled a smoke, occasionally gazing out over the prairie.

  He waited. Nothing.

  When the grass by his side was littered with cigarette butts, he considered the sky. It would be dark soon and still no sign of Alison. He couldn’t understand it. If the pistolero hoped to keep on his trail he should not be this far behind. This time of the year there was still rain in the air, and if his tracks washed out, Alison wouldn’t have a hope of finding him.

  He scanned the prairie. Nothing.

  Maybe he wasn’t after him. After all, the gunman didn’t know for sure he was going out for more gold. He might have figured to ride out anyway when spring came. God knows, he was too well known in Redrock for the citizens to allow him to continue fleecing them. But then why did he only buy one horse? Anne Marie was his partner, wasn’t she?

  The only answer Morgan could come up with was that she was either taking the stagecoach to the next town to meet him there, or that he was leaving her. Cutting out without telling her. From the bruises she often carried, it looked as though Alison thought little of her anyway, so why shouldn’t he quit her?

  The thoughts still plagued him as he made camp and hobbled the horses. He ate and waited until dark before he climbed the ridge again. He scoured the prairie, searching for the flicker of a fire but there was nothing. Disgruntled, he returned to his own fire and sat until the buffalo chips burned low. By the time he rolled into his blanket and lay his head on his saddle he had decided his course. He would watch for Alison in the first hours after sunup, and if there was no sign then he would start making tracks.

  Back to the Double Mountains.

  ***

  Shuck Alison kicked the big black horse into a canter up the main street, riding north as he’d seen Morgan Clay ride earlier that morning. Anne Marie waved him off from the boardwalk outside the hotel, a nagging fear in her stomach this would be the last time she saw him, but her parting smile was full of confidence. She had no idea how long he would need to be away even if he found what he sought. As long as it took, she supposed. Morose, she fixed her working smile in place and walked down towards the saloon. There was nowhere else to go. Her hotel room would be lonesome and forbidding, and it was bad enough being alone without the confinement of four shabby walls. She began to wonder what this thing was that bothered her about people leaving her behind. Perhaps she wanted to be needed. She sighed. Shuck never seemed to really need her, he was almost the perfect solitary man, sufficient to himself. She was sure he only looked on her as he regarded his guns or a horse; when he needed them they were there.

  That was the way he treated her anyway, and now he had denied her even that by going out after Morgan to steal his gold. As much as she too craved the luxury the gold would bring, she hoped he wouldn’t kill the prospector. Of the three of them, perhaps Morgan was the only one with any good in him at all. He had the habit of making her feel unclean and inadequate when she was with him. Yes, he was good. In fact, she thought wryly, he was the only one who had ever induced the feeling in her of being needed. Not just in bed, but he always seemed to respect her too. It was absurd, she knew, being a whore and wanting a man to feel that way about her, but wasn’t she a woman too? Wasn’t being a woman more important?

  She realized, now that Morgan’s life was threatened by Shuck, if he had only asked her, she would have left Shuck in a minute and gone anywhere with him. To be with him would have been sufficient. Why, she thought angrily, do you only realize what things mean to you when they are taken away? She paused on the boardwalk and gripped the rail, her knuckles white. She felt faint, nauseous. God! What kind of a woman was she that she could want a man more than anything, yet still plot with another man to kill him. What kind of an animal does that? Maybe there was nothing left of the woman in her. Had it all seeped away silently every night she had allowed men to abuse her body for the sake of earning enough to keep a leaking roof over her head and feed a man who beat her up when the notion took him? What kind of an animal does that?

  Me, she thought, and swallowed hard.

  But it was all done now, and what was going to happen would happen regardless. There was no way to put the wrong right.

  No way at all.

  ***

  Alison accustomed himself to the black’s leggy gait as he followed the trail north. If he’d had a choice he would never have bought the black horse. It had not been bred to tackle the job ahead. But there had been no others for sale so had adjusted himself to it. $60 too, the thieving old negro. He gave the black its head and let it stretch out, hooves pounding the trail. One thing in the animal’s favor, he could run second to none. Alison could make out Morgan’s tracks easily from the wagon ruts, but he kept an eye out, watching for the unexpected. When he reached the point where Morgan had cut away from the main trail he pick
ed up on it without even putting the black off its stride.

  It looked too simple. It was the last place Alison himself would have chosen to split off. He would have picked difficult ground where a tracker would have hesitated. By now he had no illusions about Morgan’s brains, the man had plenty, and he figured Morgan had a good idea he would be trailed, if not to his destination at least far enough to be unloaded of what was left of his gold. So why this easy? Unless Morgan wanted him to follow. Why else would he ride north, then north-east, when if the map was right he should have been making for the west where the mountains lay? For a set up? That was the way it looked, and Alison certainly wasn’t going to humor the old man.

  He reined in and sat the black, letting him blow after the run. He tugged the folded scrap of paper from his vest pocket and examined it for the tenth time that day. The hell with Morgan’s games, he would cut west directly for the mountains. When Morgan finished riding in circles and went where he was going to go, well then he would be already there to watch Morgan approach the high country. His only doubt was the map’s credence. If the buffalo hunter had foxed him and the twin mountains weren’t where they should be, well when he rode back to Redrock there would be one less hunter to tote hides back east.

  ***

  The Double Mountains were there. Shuck Alison smiled for the first time in nine days. He had easily picked up Morgan’s false trail, and not wanting to ride into an ambush had decided to strike out north west, then camp and wait for the prospector. Then he could take it from there. Now he was sure. He could see the dark peaks wreathed in mist. His eyes rarely left the range as he rode and late in the day he could distinguish the twin peaks standing together, both capped with snow. Although he seemed close the distance was deceptive and as the light began to fail he knew he would not reach the skirt of timbers at the foot of the range until the next day.