by Lou Bradshaw
I’d had that itchy feeling running up my spine for some time, and it had nothing to do with any fleas I might have picked up from that cougar when I scraped him off my saddle. The hair on the back of my neck was telling me that I needed to find a hole, and be damned quick about it. I made it my business to disappear at the first available opportunity. That opportunity happened to be a stretch of solid rock. From that rock to another and another until there wasn’t any sign of me.
When I found a place to stow my outfit, I moved back and up to a little higher ground, so I could have a look around, and I particularly wanted to see who or what was on my back trail. I’d just come through a little hanging valley and was on my way downhill to a saddle between two peaks. Four mounted men and a packhorse were just coming over the rim of that valley. They were several hundred yards away and at least three hundred feet higher, so I couldn’t see too many details. I could tell by the way they sat their horses that they were Indians, and in this part of Colorado, that meant Utes. I’ve dealt with Utes in the past, and generally, we had gotten along well enough. But I was a man alone, on foot, and leaving a trail that didn’t make sense to them. My moccasins were of a style that they probably had never seen before.
There were four of them, four Ute braves with only one thing on their minds…. me. I was their prize. Well, I’ll be the first to tell you the honest truth… I ain’t no prize. I’m just a miserable excuse for a prize. All they’d find was near six foot of bone and gristle, which tallied up to about a hundred sixty pounds when I’ve been eating regular, and I ain’t been eating nothing but jerky and a little pemmican for the last three days.
They were most likely thinking that they’d come across some foreign Indian intruder, that walked like a white man, on their hunting ground. Whatever their thoughts, they were paying a lot of attention to my trail. I decided that my best plan of action was to take no action. I’d just sit here in my nest; see what they’d do because what I’d do would depend a lot on what they did.
Watching those riders from my vantage point, I could see where they came to the point of my beginning to fret about being followed. At that spot, they began to have to work a little harder because that’s where I started taking some caution about where I put my feet. They moved on slower then picking up little tell tale signs that I couldn’t avoid. Packing that forty pound saddle and the rest of my gear made hiding one’s trail a bit more difficult.
When they got to that stretch of rock, they had to stop. I knew that it would slow them up, but I figured it was only a temporary thing. Ten or twenty yards from that slab of rock, they’d find something. I was sure of it. No matter how good a woodsman a man might be, there are just too many ways to slip up, especially if that man is in a hurry to get under cover.
They stopped, and a couple of them got down for a looksee. They’d have to go farther out than they went, to find anything. The four of them seemed to be arguing over what to do about this mystery intruder. Their pack pony was loaded with what looked to be meat wrapped in fresh elk hide, and each rider had smaller packs on their mounts. So it was most likely a hunting party heading back to their people.
One young buck was dead set on taking home a scalp, and he seemed to be putting up the most argument for getting mine. There was plenty of arm waving and gesticulations from that fella, until one of the older ones gave in and waved him off… as if to say, “Well go ahead and stay, but we’re goin’ on.”
With that settled, three of them rode off and one stayed. With so many tribes becoming somewhat pacified, and many moving onto reservations, the young men have no way of getting their feathers. Oh, they can hunt or herd sheep, but they don’t often get the chance to take scalps or count coup. So when such an opportunity comes along to catch a stranger all alone and on foot out here in the wilderness, it’s almost too great a temptation for a young buck. After all, how else is he ever going to get a bride or earn status.
The Ute nation like the Navajo nation was large but loosely connected. They weren’t organized with strong leaders like the Apache or Sioux. They were more like a bunch of small nations. They hadn’t been totally pacified even though some had been moved onto a reservation. I didn’t know what bunch these four belonged to, and it really didn’t matter. I was sure to be doing some business with at least one of them.
I was sure happy to see those three ride off. There was no desire in me to have an all out battle with four armed, though poorly armed, Indians. One would be bad enough. I had me an almost new Winchester 73, thanks to a rustler I dispatched, while I was scouting for a trail herd a couple of years back. But whether or not I’d get to use that weapon would depend on how soon that boy found my sign. I didn’t want to start making enough noise to bring those others back.
That brave, and he was brave, I’ll grant him that, had to figure that I’d taken to high ground and could be watching him at that moment. Since he was in a little cut with high ground on either side, he’d take a little time working out which side of the trail I’d taken to.
His first move was to tie his horse so he wouldn’t be left afoot…. Smart boy. Next, he started casting about for any kind of sign. He started in close and went farther and farther afield. Fortunately for me, he started on the side opposite of where I was. After what might have been a quarter hour, he came back to slab of rock and started the same process on my side of the rock. I watched his arc get wider and wider. The boy was a fool because he never took his eyes off the ground. He was so intent on finding my tracks that I could have been standing in front of him, and he would never have known it.
There was an outside chance, he would miss any misstep that I’d made and he’d give up and just go on home. But I wasn’t laying any wagers on that happening. Things rarely go that easy for me. Sure enough about ten minutes into his search, he found something. He got down and looked it over real good then he stood up, and for the first time, he looked up. I was half tempted to put one in his chest, but a shot would echo through these mountains like church bells on a Christmas morning.
I was about a hundred feet higher than he was, at that point, and I had good cover with boulders and pines behind me. Between us there was a mixture of some pine, but mostly rock and scrub oak. He’d have decent cover most of the way, if he came straight to me. From where he had found my sign, I had been moving to my left looking for a place to stow my gear. Right now, I was to the right of him and higher up.
I’ll give him credit he was a sharp eyed tracker because he had no trouble tracking me to where I’d stashed my gear, and I could do a fair job of covering my trail. He found my stuff and went through it probably looking for a spare gun or food. He carried a bow and a quiver of arrows, a war club, and a knife, so he’d be happy to go home with a pistol. But the only way he was going to get a gun this day was to take it off my body. If he was able to do that, then he would have earned it…. and I say welcome.
From my stash, I had moved along the base of a fifty foot bluff, which had dropped a lot of rock at its foot over the years, but only a few were big enough to give much cover. I had chosen the spot I was in because it had a better field of fire than anything around, and I was figuring on having four of them coming for me.
He was a handsome youth of maybe sixteen or seventeen summers, but he was a man full grown who wanted to take my hair. Utes, like Apache, are shorter than those Indians of the northern plains, but they are built like bulls, with wide shoulders and barrel chests. They are darker than most Indians with broad flat faces and coal black eyes. I talked to an old French trapper once up in Canada, who said that the Utes reminded him of Eskimos he’d seen in Alaska. I didn’t know about that, but right then, I wished that boy was off to Alaska… wherever that was.
But he was coming and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it. It was still too soon to be pulling a trigger, so I’d have to do this the hard way because he didn’t give any intention of turning around and going home.
He had his bow in his hand with an ar
row already in place and the bowstring was pulled enough to give it tension. His eyes were going back and forth between the bare rocks at his feet and the rocky slope ahead of him. He needed to forget the trail and pay attention to what he was about. He wasn’t ready for this. I found myself wondering what was going through his mind at that very second.
I wanted to yell down at him to go home and steal a woman, be a great hunter, or anything he wanted to do, but for God’s sake go home. No matter how much I wanted to say that, I knew that wasn’t going to stop the killing that was slated to happen here today.
He was about thirty feet away and roughly twenty feet below me, when I set my rifle aside and pulled the hatchet from my belt. It had to be quiet, and a tomahawk is about as quiet as it gets. The throw was almost too easy. All I needed was a distraction. Picking up a pebble with my left hand, I flipped it into the rocks higher up on my right. That stone hit a boulder and rattled down the face of that bluff.
The brave turned like a cat and sent his arrow into the pines and firs up on that bluff, and then he stared after it. I started to stand up and throw… but that would be cold blooded murder. Dropping the hatchet, I picked up my rifle and said, “Go home, boy.”
Of course he had no idea what I was saying, but I had his attention. He stood there wide eyed and staring at me, he looked at me like I was going to roast him and eat him. I’ll give him credit; he had sand because he showed no fear. Without taking my eyes off him, I reached down and picked up my hatchet and returned it to my belt. He stood motionless until I was down the slope. I didn’t know what to do with him. I pulled my handgun and hung the rifle on my shoulder with its rawhide sling.
With a mixture of Spanish and a few words from his own tongue, I was able to get him to move on back to where I’d left my gear. Taking his weapons, I hung them about my person and loaded him down with saddle, bedroll, and saddle bags. I loaded that boy down, but he didn’t buckle under the weight. Then I marched him back to where his pony was tied.
The hardest thing I had to do was getting that saddle on that mustang pony. He’d never had such a contraption on his back before, and he didn’t like it one little bit. But once we came to an agreement, everything went fine. I asked that buck where his home was, and he pointed to the southwest, so I pointed my new horse south. Leaving his weapons close at hand for him, I trotted off about twenty yards and left his arrows there, and then I kicked that crow bait in the ribs.
As I rode off I yelled, “Next time you steal a horse… steal a better one.”
Chapter 5
I considered myself shot full of luck to getting out of that setup without having some holes put in my hide and without having to put holes in someone else’s hide. I didn’t want to kill that boy, even though he was all set to kill me for no other reason than I wasn’t a member of his tribe or clan, which to his way of thinking made me fair game. But that was his way, and I admired his way of life. It’s the same way I felt about that cougar up on the mountain; he was a killer by instinct and by hunger. He saw my horse as prey and went after it… that’s just the way it is.
I really didn’t have any place I needed to be at any particular time. I was just riding from north to south, looking for some place to land and take root. I was sorta like those maple seeds we had back home. They’d drop from the tree and twirl along with the wind, until they’d land on the ground, and if everything was good they’d take root and grow into another tree. I was a maple seed.
Since I found that gold, I’ve run into more than my share of violence. First it was those syndicate boys trying to beat that miner into signing his claim over… and then the rest of that syndicate bunch looking to take something I didn’t even have. Next came a cougar wanting to eat either me or my horse, and now that young Ute buck who wanted my scalp, just so he could get a feather and a woman. Well, he’d have a long walk home, but I left him breathing… and afoot.
I had me a horse and I had my outfit. That horse wasn’t much, but neither was my outfit, so I guess it all went well together. Not knowing what the next town or trading post might be, I sort of ambled along taking my own sweet time and enjoying the view or views because it changed continuously.
After leaving that young brave, standing there cussing me in Ute, I rode for near a week before I saw another human, and that was just fine with me. When I did finally run into another man, it was another buckskinned wanderer with the unlikely name of Wellington.
I’d known old Wellington since I’d been old enough to shave on a regular basis, even if I didn’t. He’d been all over these mountains and those along the coast as well as up into Canada, and down into Mexico. If there was a chunk of rock, and someone called it a mountain, you can bet that Wellington has been up on it or at least thought about going up it.
Wellington, or Duke as most of us called him, even though he preferred to be called Prince, was a disreputable looking old coot in his greasy long fringed buckskin shirt and leggings. He was grizzled and wrinkled, but he looked the same as he did when I first met him nearly twenty years ago. He wore a cap made from timber wolf fur and a buckskin loin clout. When he would take that cap off, he had a head full of mixed grey hair that fell into braids about a foot and half long. He was almost as much an Injun as most of them who were born to it.
I preferred to wear pants instead of leggings, and I chopped my hair off at the shoulders. I also liked store bought hats to keep the sun out of my eyes. Of course I didn’t buy ‘em but about every ten years.
The Duke, like the rest of us, didn’t do a lot of trapping these days … just enough to keep a little meat on his ribs, and a jug now and then. There weren’t many of the old bunch who were making a living at trapping fur. Most of the old timers were either meat hunters for mining camps or settlements or varmint hunters for cattle ranchers.
Wellington, was a wolfer when he needed a job. Ranchers would pay a bounty for the wolf ears he’d bring in. Sometimes a bunch of ranchers would get together and pay for wolves or lions.
It was like a rendezvous meeting up with the Duke that way. He gave me all the gossip about everyone who was still above ground. For two days we shared a fire, and we shared our food and liquor. Wellington had a full jug, and I’d killed a mule deer a few days back. Between the two of us we had plenty of coffee, sugar, and flour.
He told me that he was on his way up to the Blues in Oregon territory, and that he’d spent the winter in Taos. “Taos used to be the winterin’ spot for a lot of us, but there ain’t but a couple of old timers show up these days.” He said. “All cow country now.”
I didn’t mention that I’d become a rich man a few weeks back. I didn’t want to lose his respect. “A mountain man is poor but proud and free.” I’d heard him say more than once.
I told him that I was looking for a place to light and maybe take root, but it would have to be pretty much away from civilization. “If I thought I could grow enough corn to make my meal and maybe a few green vegetables, I think I’d settle down and file on some high up valley. I’d build me a cabin and maybe even raise some sheep. If I could find a fat squaw to keep my feet warm at night… that would just about be perfect.”
He laughed and told me that every mountain man he’d ever known had the same wishful thoughts, but most of them died out in a snow packed pass or lost their hair to whichever bunch was on the rampage at that particular time.
We broke camp after the second night, with him going north and me going south. It had been good to see the Duke, but after a couple of days of living in the past kind of made me sad. A way of life was gone, and it wasn’t coming back. This country was growing up, and we needed to be able to adapt to it.
The redman had resisted the change, and some were still resisting. But many had found how futile the resistance was and the high cost in young men’s’ lives. Some of those who had found themselves kept and dependant for food, clothing, and shelter, also found themselves with little future and a disappearing past. Traditions, songs, and lore were rep
laced by cheap blankets and whiskey. Once mighty chiefs, found themselves sitting on a blanket in front of their lodges from morning to night, with no reason to go anywhere and nothing to do when they got there.
It was the same for the mountain man. There was no market for beaver and little market for any other kind of pelt. This was just as well, since there weren’t many beaver left. There wasn’t any other fur bearing animal that had the quantity to make them worth spending all season trapping. Even in the good old glory days, most trappers wound up breaking even, if they were lucky. By the time they replaced busted or lost traps, paid their bill at the company store, got cheated by the middle man, and went on a Hoo –Haw, there just wasn’t much left, if anything.
I moved on southward, with a heavy heart, wandering how the changes would affect me. I had a stake, and I had a desire to live in the high country, but I just didn’t know where. I meant what I’d told Wellington about finding a place, but it had to be the right place.
Listening campfire talk from those who have been up and down the trail a time or two, I’d heard that Arizona rim, I believe they called it the Maggyown. It sure was supposed to be some pretty country. I gave myself a little time to think about going over there and taking a look at it. They say it runs across the territory from south to north, and the winters are a damned site easier to tolerate than those I’d endured for the last twenty years or so.
“Well,” I said to my horse, “why don’t you and me just mosey down that way and take a look at that rim?” He didn’t seem inclined to give me a yes or no, so I figured that him being an Injun pony, he probably didn’t speak American. By the time we got to Arizona, I reckon we’ll have a pretty good idea what each other is saying.
The way I had it figured, I’d just mosey south, and then work my way over west and follow the continental divide on down into the San Juans. From there, I’d just slide on to the southwest until I bumped into that rim or fell off of it… depending whether I come at it from the high side or the low side. None of them that knew about it had ever been able to tell me which way it was facing… reckon I’d have to find that out my ownself.
