Double Mountain Crossing

by Chris Scott Wilson

  Alison looked back down the trail for the thousandth time. It was only a matter of how long, hopefully hours before he’d be fighting them again. Only the thought of the gold made the outlook any brighter. At least when the bay got snakebit he’d had time to bury its precious load. It hurt like hell to leave the gold behind, but when it was safe he could always go back and dig it up. Pity about the sacks on the grey, he had lost those for sure.

  The sun had passed its zenith and was half way down towards the horizon. They must have found the dead bay by now. He could only hope they hadn’t bothered to look for the gold. After burying it he had begun to take great pains over his back trail. With any luck they might think he was heading west. The black was tiring and he nudged it with his spurs up the trail towards the distant hogback. The horse picked up a little and the renewed bouncing ripped at his sore thighs. He had reached the point where he didn’t dare take off his pants to inspect the damage. He knew the coarse cloth was meshing with the weeping flesh and now the slightest movement was excruciating. But still he kept riding, the fear of yet another attack pushing him hard.

  With bugs and saddle sores, unshaven and filthy, hair matted, he longed for the city and the comfort of a hot bath. He smiled. If anyone had told him when he was a boy, back in the Cape Fear River country, one day he would long for the luxury of hot water and soap, he would have been horrified. He hadn’t even known what hot water was then, let alone what a bath was. The recollections of his youth brought back the image of Joe Christian.

  The bastard.

  Angry at the memory, he raked the flagging black’s ribs with his spurs, his hand tightly gripping the Henry’s stock across the front of the packsaddle. If he could ever blame his life on anyone, it was that lazy Joe Christian. The fat cat had got everything he deserved.

  He spat over the horse’s neck in disgust. That was all a long way back and none of it mattered now. What was he doing letting his thoughts wander?

  He looked back. Nothing. Good, keep on going.

  The black plodded through a break in the pines and he glimpsed the long ridge of the hogback lined out against the late afternoon sky. The sun poured onto the lower slopes, picking out the lighter areas of cedars below the blackness of the pines strung out along the uppermost section of the ridge, ending in a ragged fringe along the skyline. Alison raised his eyes, absently scratching the stubble on his chin as he scoured the distant timber for signs of life. He would camp on the richer grass at the base of the slopes, near water, to give the black and the mule chance to recoup their energy, then they would tackle the ridge at sunup the next day. Once they topped out it would be an easy ride down the hogback to the prairie, then on to Clay Springs.

  The thought of Clay Springs was appetising. A hot bath to free him of bugs and jar of ointment to soothe his sores, then a new razor and a change of clothes. No cook himself, he visualised a rich hump steak, the juice pouring down his chin. And then? Although Anne Marie had been hell on his nerves when she was with him all the time, he almost wished she was waiting down at the Springs for him. God knows, he would never find another woman with a body like hers and so amenable to his needs. That skin, so soft and creamy. Four months now he’d been up in the mountains, and for a man used to getting his greens regular that was one hell of a long time. On reflection, he’d been up there so long any woman would fit the bill. As long as she did what she was told and kept her mouth shut.

  He cast an eye over the mule’s load of sacks, then behind at his back trail. Yes, he’d soon have a full belly and a warm woman in his bed, and heavy gold coins rattling in his pockets.

  That was, if his hair didn’t end up on a Kiowa war lance.

  ***

  The chestnut pony danced sideways and Littleman sawed the reins. He had given up searching along the creek bed after three hours and returned to the camp where Thunderhawk and the others awaited him. The hunter, Coyote, had found the trail within an hour and was sitting there smugly, making offhand remarks about the length of wait for his return. Irritable though he was, Littleman smiled. When the white man became foxy they soon had to rely on his skills again. After the dead horse, the fat-taker had started using Indian tricks, brushing out tracks and keeping to stony ground wherever possible. Even he, Littleman the Scout, was coming to have a modicum of respect for the white man’s woodcraft.

  He looked down over the chestnut’s neck. The tracks did not look quite right. Too messy. He slipped down from the pony’s back and carefully felt the rim of one of the hoof prints. It was crumbly and about two hours old. Still, they looked wrong somehow. Leaving the chestnut’s hackamore trailing, he softfooted back along the trail, closely inspecting the prints. Shaking his head he turned back. He had taken care to avoid the actual tracks of the packhorses, riding his pony along the rim just in case he needed to return and examine the prints again. A few rods back he began to poke warily in the bushes.

  Yes, he was right. There were hoof prints on the other side. The fat-taker had laid a trail, probably right out of the timber onto some rocky ground, then had walked the horses backwards and jumped them straight off the trail into the brush. Nobody noticing the slightly enlarged tracks would have followed them out into the open where they petered out. It would take hours casting back and forth for sign on the other side of the rocks to work out what had happened.

  The fat-taker was trying hard. He might have foxed Coyote or one of the others, but he was not clever enough to fox Littleman.

  The scout vaulted onto the chestnut’s back and jumped the pony into the brush, duplicating the white man’s tactics, back on the right trail, winding in and out of the pines, working towards the hogback ridge. He could tell by the tracks that both the horses were tired, dragging their hooves listlessly.

  He was pleased. He would find the white man all the quicker. That would wipe the smug smile from Coyote’s face. He followed the tracks intently, looking up occasionally to scan the breaks in the pines that lay ahead. He did not dare to relax his concentration in case the fat-taker tried any more tricks like jumping a false trail. It was not very likely on this ground though, too many pine needles easily disturbed. The chestnut’s ears twitched and the pony danced sideways again. Concentration broken, Littleman pulled sharply on the hackamore, jerking the pony’s tender mouth. He cursed. He had great affection for the chestnut. When there was danger the pony was as fleet as the wind, but when there was tracking to be done, it was plainly impatient, too eager to be off and running. Many was the time he had cursed it, yet still he rode it. The pony backed and Littleman’s anger exploded. He grabbed the loose end of the hackamore with his free hand to whip the pony’s neck.

  A hand closed over his mouth and he felt a sharp pain. His eyes tipped downwards and he saw the steel of a knife blade piercing his deerskin shirt. Pain exploded in his ribs then gushed hungrily up to his chest. Surprised, his legs seemed to lose their grip on the chestnut’s flanks then he tipped sideways out of the saddle.

  He was dead before he touched the ground.

  As Alison lowered the dead Indian to the bed of pine needles the chestnut wheeled quickly and a raw-boned shoulder banged into him. Dizzy, he dropped the Indian and lunged for the hackamore. The pony was too quick. Backing, wall eyed, it shook out its mane. The alien scent of the white man caused its nostrils to flare and its legs to tremble violently. Alison stopped his headlong rush, then sneaked forward, talking softly as he watched every movement of the highly strung pony. The chestnut stared back, head moving from side to side, keeping the man clearly in its vision. Clucking softly, Alison came within arm’s reach. “Come on, boy. That’s it, boy. Nice n easy now. Don’t worry now, I won’t hurt you…”

  Confident now, he slowly raised an arm. His fingers were within inches of the hackamore. As his hand crept into the bottom of his vision he realized with horror that his fingers were still dripping with the Indian’s blood. He hesitated, and during that brief snatch of time the pony caught the blood scent and jerked its head.

/>   “Take it easy now, boy. I said there, take it…” The chestnut rushed forward, teeth snapping and muscles rippling. He bit at Alison’s shoulder and pushed past him, his ribs throwing the man aside. Alison tumbled to the ground and came up snarling after the fleeing animal.

  “Goddam horse. Git back here, you no good, ornery son of a bitch. I’d like to blow that stupid fleabite brain out of your bitchin’ head…”

  The threats did no good. Apart from his curses and the rasping of his breath thought his clenched teeth, all that could be heard was the swishing of the pines and the clumping of the chestnut’s unshod hooves. Alone with the dead Kiowa at his feet, Alison stared at the empty trail, a hand massaging his bitten shoulder.

  “Goddam injuns. It ain’t enough with the bugs, but I have to get bit by a blamed, no good Kiowa pony…” He had needed the chestnut. It carried a saddle and he didn’t think he could bear the packsaddle much longer. And it could have shared the precious load of the gold.

  Angry and sore, he turned away. Look on the bright side, he told himself. If nothing else, now there are only five savages to worry about.

  The thought gave him no pleasure.

  CHAPTER 12

  Thunderhawk was furious. He leaned out from his war pony and touched the bloody saddle. At the sound of approaching hoof beats he had waved the war party off the trail to wait in the timber, levering a shell into the Winchester’s breech. The chestnut was stretched out in a flat run, wild eyed, when it came into sight. Recognizing Littleman’s mount, Thunderhawk rode out to block the trail. The chestnut lost momentum when it saw the friendly ponies ahead, hooves digging into the soft earth, flanks heaving and neck lathered as it came to a halt. The chief leaned over and caught the trailing hackamore. More than once the pony had stepped on the loose end of the rawhide thong for it had torn his mouth, and now he had stopped running the fat deerflies was swarming over the festering wound.

  Thunderhawk examined the blood on his fingertips from the saddle then glanced at Crowfoot. “The fat-taker is being clever.”

  “He must have been. Littleman is not a good scout for nothing.”

  “You speak straight. Perhaps he is only wounded and has fallen from the saddle?” Thunderhawk’s eyes met Crowfoot’s. Both knew it was unlikely. Even a badly wounded Kiowa would stay on his pony if it meant clinging on by his teeth and fingernails. “We shall see.”

  While they spoke, Soldier edged his pony between the others, sitting straight-legged in the saddle. The Winchester was crooked in his left arm and his solitary eagle feather hung proudly from the knot of his black hair to brush at his shoulder. His face was solemn, befitting a brave scout about to offer his services. Thunderhawk saw his approach and looked past him.

  “Coyote. You, the hunter,” the chief said tersely. “You ride scout. First we find Littleman.” Angry at the loss of his guide, he nudged his pony aside to give Coyote room to pass and ride ahead. In back of him, Soldier’s chest sagged, ego deflated, and once more he looked only the boy he was. Crowfoot, ever-watchful, observed the transition, a smile cracking his thin lips. Your turn will come, Eks-a-Pana, Soldier, he said silently to himself.

  Thunderhawk knew what they would find. As a veteran of many war parties nothing came as a surprise. Coyote was sitting his pony beside the trail. As they neared, the brave made a sour face as he gestured along the narrow trail with his rifle. When they reached the clearing, the five Kiowas fanned out around the central pine tree on which hung Littleman’s corpse. The deerskin shirt had been ripped from his torso and replaced by a criss-cross design of knife slashes. The leggings and breechclout had been cut away, leaving his legs a dripping mass of gore. Fingerless hands hung empty at his sides.

  Soldier sat his pony stiffly, swallowing hard as he forced himself to look upon the scout’s mutilation. His eyes travelled slowly up from the feet to the legs and to the chest, but his confidence failed him and he turned away after the briefest of glances at the face. The head hung awry, tilted by the rope knotted about the neck and looped round the pine bough above. Littleman had suffered the greatest degradation any Indian could suffer. His nose had been sliced away completely, leaving two ragged holes in the centre of his face. His braids had been shorn and his scalp taken.

  But the mouth was the worst. The cheeks were puffed where the fat-taker had stuffed the scout’s genitals. There was not one part of him undefiled. Not one shred of dignity allowed to the dead Kiowa.

  It was all Soldier could do not to vomit. Each time he thought he had it under control, the frozen image of the dead man’s face crawled into his mind and he found himself gagging.

  Across the circle of fidgeting ponies, Thunderhawk grimly watched the slight sway of the corpse. Although his stomach was hardened to the obscenity of war, his heart cried aloud his anguish and disgust. For each moment he stared, the disgust was slowly replaced by a growing fury in his heart. He was totally unaware he was snarling aloud, his lips flecked with spittle like a ravenous wolf. It was a thing of the blood, heirloom of centuries of hunting and killing. His heritage told him the time for killing was now.

  Their chief’s audible anger fed the hunger of the braves. Running-Dog, after the initial shock, was beginning to grow angry too. Coyote, who had already had time to digest the atrocity since he was the first to discover it, was furious. Beside him, Soldier had conquered his rebellious stomach and the feeling injected into the mountain air by the other braves was beginning to affect him. It was so strong it hung in the air like a seething, alive thing, filling him with courage and the desire to kill and tear and mutilate with no thought to the consequences. It was as if the hate actually oozed from the collective pores of their skin. Even Crowfoot found himself restlessly fingering his rifle, eyes raking the timber, anxious to be on the trail.

  In all of them the anger blanked out all emotion except the raging bloodlust demand for vengeance. In the turmoil of Thunderhawk’s mind, the names echoed over and over. His brother, Comes-Walking, mown down by the big killing gun. The buffalo medicine man, shot from his pony’s back, and now Littleman’s name was added to the list. He knew nothing of how many of them would die before it was finished, but one thing he was sure of. The fat-taker would die, even if all of them walked the trail of stars together.

  With a war whoop of such defiance and hatred that echoed back from the tall pines of the clearing, Thunderhawk wheeled his black war pony and sharply dug his heels into its flanks. He leaned low over the whipping mane, features distorted, snarling lips over clenched teeth. In a stamping of hooves and shouts the other braves thundered into the timber behind him. Eager for the chase, the war pony laid back his ears and opened up his stride, nostrils flared and heart racing with the urgency transmitted from his master.

  The trail was narrow, branches lashing from both sides as they rode, twisting in and out of the sentinel pines. Before them in the soft earth the tracks of the white man’s horses goaded them onward, barely a glance necessary to keep to the trail. Crushed between the towering walls they galloped headlong, eyes burning with hatred, throats hoarse with yelling.

  Abruptly, they broke cover. The pines ended and before them was a long grassy slope which fell away before climbing up to the rising of the hogback ridge. As they broke into the open they fanned out, five blood hungry Indians urging their ponies to the last ounce of speed.

  They rode straight into the gaping barrel of Shuck Alison’s Henry rifle.

  ***

  He watched them coming. Sweating lightly, he rubbed his damp palms alternately on his pants and adjusted the brim of his hat to perfect the shade that stretched down below the bridge of his nose. The light was right. Satisfied his edge was good, he resighted along the Henry’s barrel then levered a shell into the chamber and patted the sun bleached stock.

  The Kiowas were still closing. He shrugged as he hunkered down against the crest of the basin he had chosen. On all sides the grass sloped up to the rim, giving him a three hundred and sixty degree arc of clear fire. He had
hidden the mule and its load of gold out of harm’s way, and kept only the black picketed down in the hollow. He would have preferred not to have had even the black present, but that would have meant no avenue of escape should the need arise.

  Alison was sick of running. It seemed he had been running all his life. And now these Indians. He knew they would never give up. The time had come to make a stand. Then maybe he could get a good night’s sleep and eat a hot meal without constantly watching his back. He lay on the grass, the open box of shells at his elbow, the Henry nestled into his shoulder. And the Kiowas rode on, the range lessening by the second.

  He wiped his hands again, then gripped the Henry. The rifle sight swung along the line and settled on the chief’s chest. Alison admired the eagle feather war bonnet, almost flattened by the wind. He would be first. On the chief’s right he could make out the boy who had made the run across the clearing. He would be next. Yes, he would begin at the centre and work to the right then back to the left. What he missed on the first sweep he would get when they hit the ground.

  The drumming of hooves grew louder as they swept down towards him. Soon they would hit the bottom of the slope before attempting the steady climb to the rim of his basin.

  They were almost there.

  His trigger finger tensed automatically. Wait, a little voice inside his head said. Don’t lose it now, just when the odds are thinned. Wait. The sweat’s starting on the forehead. Hope it doesn’t run into your eyes. Blurred vision is no good at a turkey shoot. Your hands are wet again. There’s no time to wipe them now. Slow. Take it easy. Wait. Your stomach’s got that hollow feeling again. Strange how you forget about it until it creeps back up on you. Ignore it. Keep your eyes on the shooting gallery out front. You’re getting tense. Relax and wait. Another voice materialises out of the depth of your conscious mind, slightly hysterical. They’re almost on me! You’re scared but the other voice is deadly calm. Wait. It’s nearly time, but not yet. Your mouth is suddenly dry and you wish you’d taken another mouthful from the canteen. It’s the shouting. Their screams are gnawing steadily at your frayed nerves. But your hands are steady, aren’t they? Keep it that way. Shut out all the distractions. Only greenhorns let that bother them. Keep the sights plumb dead centre on the chief’s chest. Nearly, nearly…NOW! Now you bastard, now, NOW!