Under the Sweetwater Rim (1971)

by L'amour, Louis

  Before the day was over one of his patrols returned with two prisoners, and a report of a fight where two men had been killed. The prisoners could tell him nothing . . . or they would not. But after questioning he was doubtful that they had anything to tell. They said they had been scouting, trying to locate Lieutenant Brian and the payroll. Then word came to them that the payroll had been taken and they started for the rendezvous near the Little Sweetwater, only to find it abandoned.

  Of one thing he was now sure. The Kelsey gang, for whatever reason, had come apart at the seams. The men were scattering, trying to lose themselves.

  Or perhaps they were scouting for Kelsey himself.

  "Sir," Cahill suggested, "I think Kelsey took the money and left-on his own."

  "I am inclined to agree." Devereaux's brow furrowed, and Cahill, who loved him like a father, winced at the older man's face. It had thinned down and he looked years older. "When the other patrol comes in, have Corporal Chancel report to me."

  A trapper, who had worked the northern stretches of the Wind River range came in to South Pass City. Anybody who went north was a fool, he said. The Sioux and the Blackfeet were ranging all that country, and coming south he had only barely avoided more than one war party. "I ain't a-goin' to trap no more," he told Cahill over a buffalo meat stew in the restaurant. "Beaver's trapped down to where they got barely enough left to reproduce theirselves."

  He chewed thoughtfully. "I seen nobody up yonder but Injuns, but anybody who is in that country better get out, an' fast. I never seen so many redskins in all my born days."

  He paused and looked up. "Come to think of it, I did see somethin' almighty curious up there.

  A few years back I found a cave up there and somebody had done a sight of work around, walling it up. He had him a cache in there, too-ammunition, tools, and grub . . . tinned goods, and such.

  Looked like somebody aimed to hole up there.

  "Well, a-comin' down across that country due east of the Lizard Head, I come on some tracks.

  Two, three hosses . . . only one of them shod. Those were fresh tracks I seen."

  "Some other trapper, perhaps?"

  "Ain't nobody trappin' that country no more.

  Nobody "cept me, and that there's high, lonesome country. No reason for anybody goin" in there, even." "Is there a trail across the divide?"

  "Sure is. I favor the Big Sandy Trail . . . some trapper called it Jackass Trail because anybody but a jackass would be a fool to try it. It ain't that bad-a man afoot or on a good mountain hoss ain't liable to have trouble."

  Cahill reported to Major Devereaux.

  "Sir, it may be just a hunch, but who would be likely to be up that way but Kelsey? He seems to have dropped from sight, and my guess is that he has the payroll, has abandoned his men, and has headed north. He may try to hide out up there until the search for him is over, and until his men have scattered and the Indians have gone away." It made sense.

  Devereaux hesitated to risk the men required, with the country about to be overrun by hostiles, but he might recover the payroll, and one more foray into the mountains might locate Mary. He held back.

  . . . Was he trying to find reason to send them out simply because he wanted an excuse for another hunt for her?

  Major Devereaux studied the map, and sent for the trapper. A lean, raw-boned man in fringed buckskins. A man with a hard jaw and narrow eyes, uneasy inside a room, at home only in the wilderness. "That Jackass Trail now . . . can you tell us how to locate it from the west?"

  "Ain't no trouble. It's rough . . . you better take some horses you can trust on a mean trail.

  One place you better look at. Might want to camp there yourself, but if this gent should take a notion to leave, he might just hide out there a spell."

  He put the stub of a finger on the map-the end of the finger lost by knife or trap. "After the trail crosses this here creek-North Creek, we call it-about a hundred an' fifty feet up the creek, an' west you'll find you as neat a hide-out as a man could wish. Granite all around . . . you could camp fifty men in there, if need be, an' nobody the wiser. "But you better watch for Injuns. They scout around up there, for on a clear day a body can see wagons on the Oregon Trail from up above there, on the peaks."

  Major Devereaux pushed back his chair and spoke to Cahill. "Is there any word from Corporal Chancel?"

  "Not yet, sir."

  "Very well. Lieutenant, I shall want twenty menwho are in good shape, twenty picked horses, and I shall want pack horses to carry a hundred rounds per man and rations for five days."

  "You, sir?"

  "Yes, Lieutenant Cahill. I shall take the patrol myself. You will remain in command here. Keep a close lookout. No man is to go more than half a mile from the town, and only upon your orders."

  "But, sir, I would-was "Lieutenant Cahill, you have your orders. That will be all."

  He turned to the trapper. "How would you like to guide us? Scout's pay and a bonus?"

  The mountain man shook his head. "No, suhl I come out of that country with my hair. I don't figure to risk it against what I seen up thataway. No, suh. Not for no money."

  Major Devereaux shuffled his papers together, looking once more at the map. They would camp the first night out at Blucher Creek; the second in that granite basin or the vicinity. The third day they would be at the cave the trapper had mentioned, and two days back . . . if all went well.

  From a clump of pines on the slope of the mountain, Tenadore Brian squatted on his heels and studied the terrain below with his glasses. There had been some good rains, and the grass was green. The young bucks would soon be riding south for the taking of scalps.

  During the past few days Brian and the girls, as well as West, Dorsey, and the others, had left their tracks down there in the basin of the Little Popo Agie and around Deer Park. No Indian would miss those tracks, and even a young Indian boy could tell when they were made. So the Indians would be down there, and might already be hunting them. The Kelsey men would be there, too, not wanting to lose a prey so close at hand. From now on every move must be made with the greatest care, every bit of shelter utilized.

  Jason moved up beside him. His face looked gray and drawn; obviously he was suffering pain from his wounded arm. "It is not good," he said. "Many hos- tiles, I think."

  Brian handed him the glasses. "Along the shoulder of the mountain"-he pointed-"I think there is a way."

  "Trails were made where men could walk," Jason said, "I think all the places for trails have been found, and it is best to keep to a trail."

  "Look carefully," Brian said. "There may have been a trail there, long ago."

  Jason looked. "Maybe," he said doubtfully. "It is a chance, and we must take a chance. If you say we go . . . we go."

  Ten Brian led the way, walking the gray down toward the grassy ledge they had seen from above, which had seemed to lead around the mountain overlooking the lake below. The way might be treacherous, but if it was possible to follow it, it would take them above any Indians and would advance them several miles before they must descend to lower, more dangerous levels. At the same time he knew how risky what he attempted was . . . they might come to the end of the ledge and find no way to go ahead, or the way might have been cut off by a slide.

  Through a thick grove of aspen, they went on down emerging at last on an open slope.

  They had been going only a few minutes when Jason said, "There was a trail long ago, I think."

  There was a thread of bare soil here and there, a way between the rocks, a gap among the trees.

  For perhaps a mile the way opened gradually before them, and they rode easy in their saddles. Then Brian drew up, looking with calculating eyes at the wide slide of shale that lay before them. It was at least a hundred yards across, with snow here and there.

  On the far side there seemed to be the ghost of a trail.

  "I will go first," Brian said. "We will use our ropes, I think." "There isn't enough rope, is there?" Belle asked. "No,"
he replied, "but it may help to use what we have. Mary, will you follow me?"

  "Yes," she said quietly.

  He took a turn around his saddle horn with the rope. "Do the same," he said, "and hold the free end. If you have to cut loose, do it."

  He moved the gray toward the slide. The horse snorted and turned away, but he swung it back.

  Gingerly, the gray stepped out. The shale slid, but the horse only snorted and waited a moment, then started on, its hoofs seeming to find a grip on something beneath the shale.

  They moved ahead slowly, and Brian could feel the tenseness of the horse under him. The shale slid a little more and they could hear the sound of it falling far below.

  The gray horse went forward, more quickly now.

  Brian felt a slight tug on the rope and he glanced back. Mary was starting. Her horse was smaller, and very easy on its feet. He looked ahead, and had a moment of panic. The big gray was hesitating, for directly ahead the slide dipped down much more steeply, in a shallow place that had not been visible from their starting point. No more than twenty feet across, it cut at least two or three feet deeper into the mountain than the rest of the slide.

  "All right, boy," Brian said. "Two jumps now. Take it quick and easy." Whether the gray knew what he was saying or not, it seemed to sense there was no turning back. Once a wild mustang, there were few things the horse might not have attempted in its lifetime. Now it stepped forward, picking its feet high.

  The shale slid in a swift cascade. The gray leaped forward, seemed scarcely to touch the surface before it sprang again, then scrambled up the other side. The big horse stood still, trembling. Behind it the shale roared by in a rush.

  Brian turned in his saddle. "Mary, if your horse starts to go, grab the rope and hang on. I can pull you in.

  The mare hesitated, wanting to be with the big gray, but fearing the slide. Then suddenly, almost too suddenly, it stepped forward, and quickly, almost gaily, the small horse went across and scrambled up.

  Brian gathered in the rope. "Go ahead," he said. "You can make it alone from here. I've got to stay and help the others."

  She rode on without a question. There was still some fifty yards of the shale for her to cross, but this was less steep, and he watched her climb her horse up the bank and wait.

  He looked back to where Belle was waiting. She was riding a tough buckskin, a mountain horse if there ever was one, which had belonged to one of the Kelsey men.

  "Come on," he said, and watched her start, moored by the rope on Jason's saddle.

  He suddenly realized that Jason had only one good hand, but Belle's buckskin had seen the other horses cross and showed no inclination to be left behind. It came on at once, though warily, walking with careful steps as if it knew shale slides, as no doubt it did.

  At the hollow it halted, not liking the look of it. Brian made a loop and tossed it. Belle caught it deftly and took a turn around the saddle horn. Jason was coming up behind her, and she cast off his rope. The buckskin hesitated, then came on, scrambling across the hollow, but sending a roaring slide of shale down the mountain.

  Brian gathered in his rope and looked across at the half-breed. For a moment their eyes held.

  Jason's horse was as heavy as the gray-a good, solid horse, but not as agile as the others.

  Brian flipped a loop and Jason caught it.

  "Take a turn," Brian advised, and when the Indian had done so he added, "Tie a loop around your chest with your rope after you flip me the end."

  Jason did as he was told. He flipped the loop across, then tied a loop around his body under his arms.

  "They are behind us," he said. "I have heard them coming."

  "I know it," Brian agreed, "so you'd better start."

  He took a quick turn around the horn with the first rope, made the second fast to his own body.

  Jason's big horse snorted, and backed away, almost into the slide behind him. He touched him lightly with the spurs and the horse leaped awkwardly ahead, hit the slide, and began to go.

  The gray, a good roping horse, felt the tension coming and braced itself. The other horse hit the end of the rope, scrambled madly, then fell. Above it the slide gave way and tons of shale come roaring down. Jason sprang free of the horse and Brian grabbed the taut rope to help the gray, straining every muscle.

  The shale roared by and left Jason hanging by the rope. Slowly, Brian started his horse forward, pulling the half-breed up the slope. Suddenly Jason's feet gave way and he fell. The rope fouled his wounded arm and he screamed.

  "Steady, boy!" Ten Brian slipped from the saddle. Jason hung limp at the rope's end, lying against the face of the slide; he seemed to have fainted.

  Brian turned and looked at the gray's position. There was no way the horse could move any further without being out on the slide beyond this little corner of solid earth they stood upon. The slide beyond offered only footing for a precarious crossing, not for a bard pull.

  He eased forward, trying to find a place to brace himself, but each time he tried to dig in his heels the shale gave way under him. He looked at the wounded man, who was regaining consciousness.

  Turning his head, Jason looked up. His teeth were bared in pain, his features twisted by it.

  "Cut me loose," he said hoarsely.

  "Don't try it."

  "Don't be a damn fool!" Brian said.

  "I'm going to get you up here and I'll need your help."

  "Can't do it," the Indian whispered thickly.

  "Damn you, Jason!" Brian exploded. "You do what you're told." The half-breed looked up at him and suddenly he grinned. "All right. I'll try."

  Brian glanced across the slide. What Jason had said was true. Several riders sat their horses there, watching.

  There was no way to get the wounded man up without considerable banging about. The gray stood on what seemed to be the only solid ground on the whole slide, and there was room for little more than the horse. Taking a turn around his forearm with the rope, Brian braced himself, feeling with one foot for a spot that would offer him some leverage, and he found a knob of rock projecting from under the shale.

  Did he dare trust it? . . . he passed the rope around his shoulders, then testing his foot against the rock, he began to pull. He knew the outlaws were watching, but he could not afford to give them any attention. Hand over hand, using all his strength, he eased the wounded man up the face of the shale.

  Jason managed to help with his feet from time to time, and slowly, slowly, Brian was bringing him up.

  Suddenly Mary called, softly. "Ten! Be careful!" He glanced quickly around, and saw that one of the outlaws had lifted his rifle. But he was not aiming at them, but at something above them. Looking over his shoulder he gasped and a wave of panic swept over him. At the head of the shallow draw that had given them so much trouble there was now a steep bank of shale seven or eight feet high, which must weigh tons. As he stared, the outlaw fired. The bullet struck, but nothing happened.

  Turning back to the half-breed, Brian eased the rope on his shoulders, and started again, hand over hand. He must get Jason up to relative safety before that mass of shale gave way.

  There came another shot and he felt the rush of air preceding the slide. He braced himself, and with all his power pulled the wounded man up. With a whooj of wind, the shale rushed by, taking a sweep at Jason's feet, and then Brian had him up and almost in his lap. Shakily, Brian got up, and helped Jason to stand.

  Brian nodded to the gray. "Get up, Jason.

  He'll take you across." "What of you?" was rll trust my feet. Get going now, before they start shooting at us." Jason gave him a look.

  "Thanks," he said.

  "Get going, damn youl" Brian said roughly.

  "And let them have a look at that arm when you get over there."

  Brian watched the gray carry him safely across, then turned his eyes down the slope at something the others had not seen.

  The slide that surrounded him widened as it descended, and s
eventy or eighty yards below, on the very lip of the precipice a small ledge jutted out.

  On it was a single tree, and beside the tree stood the horse Jason had been riding. Below the horse shale had spilled over into the void. Behind it was a stretch of shifting, uneasy shale.

  The big horse was trapped. Without help it would die there. Brian knew his own gray would have tried the shale, but the gray had been a mustang, accustomed to finding its own way out of difficulties.

  Jason's was a cavalry horse, and had no such background.

  Tenadore Brian was no man to see an animal die if it could be helped. But what could he do? How could he even get to where it was? He might slide down the shale, but suppose he slid so fast that he was swept past the spot where the horse stood?

  He looked around for something to use, and saw, somewhat above him on the shale, a branch about nine feet long and as thick as his wrist. At the edge of the shale he poked and pushed gently, with infinite care, until he got it to move. As the shale moved the branch came closer, and at last he got his hands on it.

  Then he stepped out on the shale, and with the pole as a brake and as something to steer with, he guided himself down to the ledge. Once there, he put down the pole and began to talk to the horse to calm its fear, caressing it gently.

  Safety lay in a dozen feet of margin between where he must cross and the cliff edge. Safety was a spot of solid earth and grass with some brush and trees, a spot that widened back into the slope of the mountain. There was no use wasting time. The only way to get the horse across was to ride it over. He put a foot into the stirrup and swung into the saddle. He looked to his right, and there lay a vast, empty distance, a blue distance showing trees far below. He could see where they must hit first if they fell, a sandy slide hundreds of feet down.

  He gathered the reins. "All right, boy," he said confidently, "we're going to do it now. We'll start up slope a little. Come on, let's go." The horse blew through its nostrils, and took a tentative step. He nudged it with his heel, and the big horse struck out boldly. Instantly the shale began to slide, but the horse was committed, and it buck-jumped forward, plunging up hill.