Matt hauled over a considerable amount of firewood. Enough to last a day.
By the time it got dark, a fire was burning strong and hot. Johnny stood in front of it with a cup of coffee and with his coat hanging open. His guns were still on his hips, and his rifle was leaning against his saddle in the lean-to.
Snow was falling fast and hard out beyond the two shelters. Johnny had rigged a spit over the fire, and a haunch of venison was roasting away. Snow would find its way into the fire and give off a hissing sound.
Joe sat cross-legged on the ground and had filled a cup with coffee. Matt was stretched out on his blankets in the lean-to, his head resting on his saddle.
“I sure hope that venison cooks up soon,” he said. “I was already hungry, but something about the smell of venison cooking just makes your mouth water.”
When it was finally cooked enough, Johnny hacked off some steaks and they commenced to eating. Johnny went to sit on the ground by his saddle, and he decided to sit the way Joe was. It was a better-balanced way of sitting when you were on the bare ground. Johnny used his skillet as a plate, and since he had no utensils, he speared the steak with his bowie knife and chewed off pieces of it. Joe was eating the same way.
Matt, who Johnny always called the more civilized of the three, had bought a knife and fork at a general store in Clarksville, and he was sitting with his steak on two flat pieces of bark he was using as an improvised plate.
“I’ve gotta say,” Matt said. “This might be the best steak of any kind I’ve ever eaten.”
Joe nodded. “Cooking like this, outdoors and over an open fire, makes everything taste better. It’s about the only way I ate for the last couple years, until we all went back home.”
When the food was done, Joe tied the remaining venison to the end of a rope. Earlier, after he had finished the shelters, he had climbed high into a pine and draped the rope over a branch twenty feet off the ground, so both ends fell to the earth.
Matt had been too busy with the firewood to notice what Joe had been up to, but now he said, “What’re you doing?”
“We’ll store the meat high up off the ground.”
“Why?”
“Wolves.”
Matt didn’t like the sound of that.
Joe said, “They prob’ly won’t be out in a storm like this, but the smell of fresh deer meat might give ‘em reason to.”
He and Johnny pulled on the rope and slid the meat up the tree, and then he tied the rope off on a low branch.
“At least we won’t have to worry about the meat going bad,” Matt said. “It’s cold enough out that it’ll be like keeping it in an ice box.”
Johnny woke up to the find the sky overhead a steel gray. Not quite sunrise, yet. A foot of snow was on the ground and covering the roof of the shelter.
He tramped through the snow to the horse’s shelter, and they seemed well.
He started a fire and by the time coffee water was heating up, Joe and Matt were awake.
Matt said, “I’m amazed at how warm I slept last night. Much more so than last winter, when we were freezing to death in Illinois and Missouri.”
“It helps when you’re prepared.”
Johnny stood by the fire, waiting for the water to boil.
He said, “Is this what it was like, living with the Cheyenne?”
Joe nodded. “Yeah, it was a lot like this.”
Matt said, “I think I’m starting to see the appeal.”
The coffee boiled over once. Johnny took it from the fire. When the water had stopped boiling, he put the kettle back into the fire.
He said, “What’ll we feed the horses?”
“These mountains ain’t like back home,” Joe said. “In a couple days it could feel like spring. Maybe even by this afternoon. We’ll find plenty of grass for them.”
Once the coffee was ready, Johnny took his cup and walked out beyond the lean-to, where he had a clear view of much of their little valley and the ridges beyond.
The ridges were covered with snow, and the rays of sunrise were coloring the far ridges a shade of scarlet. Overhead, the sky was blue. Johnny saw a bird circling about in the distance. Looked like an eagle.
He drew in a deep lungful of cold, mountain air.
There was something undefinable about Texas that he would probably always love. But here in the mountains, he had the strange feeling that he had somehow come home, even though he had never been here before. He now realized these mountains were where he wanted to one day build his home.
Maybe not yet, he thought. He still had miles to cross. Places to see and things to do. He had to gain experience. And he wanted to meet the right woman. Someone who touched his heart the way Becky Drummond had, and the way Maria Carrera might have, had the situation been different. But someone who could come to these mountains with him and live a life here.
By late morning, Johnny found Joe was right. The day was warming up. The ice in the stream had melted, and the snow was clearing away from the shore. Moss grew at the very edge of the stream, but a little further back were thick patches of grass. By noon much of the snow had melted away from the grass, so Johnny and Joe brought the horses down to graze.
Joe knew these mountains, so Johnny picked his brain. How far north do these mountains run? Clear to the Canadian border and beyond. How could a man make a living here? They don’t make much money in fur-trapping anymore, but there are wide spaces in places where grass grows. A man could run cattle there.
“Why you askin’?” Joe said.
“I’m thinking I might one day want to come back to these mountains. Spend my days, here.”
Joe nodded. “They do have a way of grabbin’ hold of your heart. I’ve thought about ‘em every single day since I went home.”
They heard the sound of someone walking up behind them. Sticks cracking and such. Johnny looked over his shoulder to see Matt.
Matt said, “I thought I’d come down here and join you.”
He looked about. “My, it sure is beautiful here.”
Johnny said, “You know, there really isn’t any reason for us to hurry on our way to California. It’s not like there’s anyone here who could turn us over to the law.”
Joe stroked his beard. “Prob’ly ain’t anyone else within miles.”
By midway through the next day, the little valley was clear of snow and the stream was rushing fast and deep with runoff. The horses grazed at the side of the stream. Matt sat with them while Joe and Johnny did some hunting. Joe had his Enfield, and Johnny carried his Hawken.
They worked their way up a ridge and were soon beyond the small valley. Joe was in his buckskin boots. They had both left their coats at the lean-to because the day was so warm.
Johnny said, “I need you to show me how to make a pair of moccasin boots like you have.”
They stopped at a point where bedrock jutted out from the crest of the ridge. From here they had a view down the wooded slope and of the ridge beyond.
Johnny said, “You’d never know we had a blizzard just the night before last.”
Joe said, “That’s the way of these mountains. Not further north, though. You get there, and winter tends to hang on longer.”
They moved on, and followed the slope down to a stream.
Joe said, “Likely the same stream that cuts through our little valley.”
They followed it along for a bit. The shores of the stream were sandy in places, and in others there was mud or moss. Here and there were tracks. Johnny recognized some of the tracks as belonging to a mule deer. But there was another he didn’t know.
“Elk,” Joe said. “If we move along quiet enough, we might come onto one.”
And they did. A half hour later, they saw an elk chewing on some grass. The land was fairly flat along this stretch, and Johnny estimated the elk to be more than five hundred feet away.
Joe indicated the elk with a nod of his head, and he gave a questioning look. A silent way of asking, Can you make that sh
ot?
Johnny gave a nod of his head. Joe stepped back to give Johnny some room and because the roar of a gunshot doesn’t hurt the ears as much if you’re standing behind the one who’s doing the shooting.
Johnny cocked his rifle. This gun had a double cock, so he pulled the hammer all the way back. The wind was blowing and the stream was rushing along with run-off from all of the snow that had melted. The elk didn’t react to the cocking of the gun.
A Hawken was like many rifles of the time, with two triggers. Johnny squeezed the back trigger until he felt a little something release. This gave the front trigger a hair-trigger release. Johnny then sighted in on the elk. The breeze was blowing cross-ways, so he allowed a little for that. He gave a gentle exhale and a slight tug on the trigger, and the gun roared. It bucked against his shoulder and he lost sight of the elk for a moment in a cloud of gun smoke, then he saw the beast down on its side.
Joe shook his head. “That’s mighty fine shooting.”
The ball had caught the deer in the neck, but the animal was still breathing. Joe and Johnny walked over to it, and Johnny drew a pistol and finished it off.
He was about to reload the rifle, but Joe placed a hand on his arm to get his attention.
Two Indian men were walking toward them. One had jet black hair tied into two braids, and the other had his hair tied back in a long tail. They were both in buckskin shirts, leggings and breechcloths. They each had a bow in one hand and a quiver of arrows on their backs.
“Arapaho,” Joe said. “I think.”
They stopped on the other side of the elk.
“They’re not wearing paint,” Johnny said. “My only experience has been with the Kiowa and the Comanche, and then it was mostly fighting ‘em. Do these Indians wear paint if they’re looking for trouble?”
Joe nodded. “Every Indian tribe I know of does. I think they’re hunting, not looking for a fight.”
Joe raised a hand, and one of them did the same. Joe then began making some motions with his hands. The Indian did the same.
Johnny had seen this done before. Even though each tribe spoke a different language, sometimes as different from each other as the various languages of Europe, many of the tribes from Texas to Canada had a universal sign language.
Joe placed a hand to his chest and said, “Joe.”
The Indian made the same motion and said, “Heete'i'eit.”
Joe looked at Johnny and said, “Must be his name.”
“What’s it mean?”
“I have no idea. I don’t speak Arapaho. I used sign language to tell him we shot the elk. He and his friend have been trailing the elk. They need it to feed their village.”
“We don’t really need it,” Johnny said. “We still have a lot left from our last kill.”
Johnny stepped forward. He aimed with one hand toward the elk, then he made a sweeping motion toward the Arapaho men.
“Take it,” he said.
The Indians looked like they weren’t sure what Johnny intended. He stepped back and made the motion again.
Johnny said, “How do I tell them the elk is theirs?”
Joe thought a moment. Then he said, “Point to the man, then make this sign.”
Joe held his right fist in front of his chin, with the palm facing to the left, and he then made a downward sweeping gesture, his thumb aiming toward Johnny.
Johnny did as instructed, pointing to the man who had given Joe his name, and then made the sign.
The Indian then smiled and made another sign, raising both hands with the palms downward, and then he swept his hands out toward Johnny and then down.
Joe said, “He’s saying thanks.”
Johnny nodded to him.
Johnny and Joe left, to head back to the camp. Johnny looked back over his shoulder toward the Indians. They were kneeling over the carcass, and one had drawn a knife and was beginning to work on it.
Joe said, “You did a good thing. I think you’re going to do all right in these mountains.”
71
Even though the day had been warm and most of the snow was now gone, the night was still downright cold. Matt had gathered some more firewood, and they had a fire blazing in front of their shelter. Johnny stood in front of the fire with a cup of coffee in one hand, and Joe was sitting Indian-style, letting the heat of the fire wash over him.
Matt was pacing about. He said, “I don’t see why their hunger should come before ours.”
Joe looked at Johnny. Johnny said, “From what I learned of the Kiowa and the Comanche, and I doubt it’s much different with the Cheyenne, they think of the well-being of the whole village. When they go hunting, they get meat for the whole village. The women will divide it up by family, based on need.”
Joe nodded. “If their village ain’t too big, that elk will go a long way toward feeding them all for the night.”
Matt scratched his head and said, “Really? That’s how they do it?”
Joe said, “That’s how the Cheyenne do it. And the Lakota and the Shoshone. From what I’ve heard, the Arapaho do it, too. From what we saw today, I’d say it’s prob’ly their way.”
Matt stopped his pacing and stood in front of the fire, and held his hands out to the warmth.
He said, “I don’t understand that way, at all. A man has to make his own way in the world. Make his own life.”
“Them people don’t concern themselves with that,” Joe said. “They’re too busy just tryin’ to survive.”
The next day, the weather turned cold again. Johnny took the horses down to the stream and found there was a thin layer of ice near the shore. Nothing he couldn’t break with a stick.
“Cold is good,” Joe said. “This way, the meat we have left won’t spoil.”
The following morning, the brothers woke to find an inch of snow on the ground. It remained cold all day, and the snow didn’t melt. It wasn’t enough snow to keep the horses from grazing, but it was enough that an animal made a trail that was easy to read. Johnny was able to follow another mule deer as it wound its way through their little valley, and his Hawken barked and they had more venison.
They sat by the fire that night, and Joe told Johnny what he knew about Indians. Most of what he knew was Cheyenne. He talked about their religion and their ceremonies.
Matt listened and said, “Pastor Wilson back home wouldn’t want to hear about any of this. He’d call them all heathens.”
Johnny nodded and chuckled. “He probably would, at that.”
Joe said, “I think whatever the religion is, they’re all talkin’ about the same God.”
Matt nodded. “I do, too. I spent time with some islanders, in the South Pacific. They talked about their beliefs, and it occurred to me it was just another way of looking at the same thing.”
Matt looked at Johnny and said, “You know what I’m having a sudden hankering for? Some of that Mexican liquor of yours.”
“Tequila,” Johnny said.
Joe stroked his beard. “As I recall, I didn’t get a taste of any of that. You two drunk it all down while I was out workin’ the fields with Pa and Luke.”
“Well,” Johnny said, “I’ve got a surprise for you.”
He went to the shelter and came back with a bottle.
“Johnny,” Matt said. “Why, bless you.”
Johnny said, “I bought a bottle in Clarksville, a few weeks before we left. The bartender sold me one for cost after I threw out a rowdy drunk for him, one night. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
“Well,” Joe said, “this occasion feels right special.”
Johnny pulled the cork and took a pull from the bottle. He said, “It’s feeling more special by the moment.”
They sat and handed the bottle around, and Joe talked of the Cheyenne. He talked of their myths, and he talked of warriors he had known. He told about the Sun Dance, which was a brutal method a warrior had of seeking a vision.
“If I had stayed,” Joe said, “I would have wound up doing it. A
ll warriors do.”
Over the following days, Joe began teaching Johnny the sign language of the plains Indians. He also taught Johnny how to tan a deer hide and how to make from it a pair of boot-length moccasins.
Matt knew nothing about tracking, so Johnny and Joe showed him how to recognize various tracks and how to tell how old the tracks were.
The snow had been on the ground for a week when the weather turned warm again, and by the end of the day, the snow was gone.
Matt and Joe stood on a ridge looking down at the little valley and off to the ridge beyond. They had both left their coats behind. Matt removed his hat and wiped away some sweat with a bandana.
Joe stood in silence, looking off at the distance. The sky was a clear blue.
Matt noticed in the far distance, three or four birds seemed to be circling. He said, “What kind of birds are those?”
Joe shrugged. “Hard to tell from here. Scavengers, most likely. Maybe buzzards. Something prob’ly died, and they’re circling it. Won’t be long before they’re flying down and eating it.”
Matt nodded. “Not unlike crows back home, just bigger.”
Joe nodded.
Matt said, “Where’s the nearest settlement from here?”
Joe thought for a moment. “There’s Fort Laramie, maybe four hundred miles northeast of here. There’s a couple of trading posts, down in New Mexico Territory. Couple hundred miles, at least. And the Mormons, out at the Salt Lake. Prob’ly four hundred miles, maybe a little more. There’s Fort Bridger, a little closer. On the Green River. They call it a fort, but it’s really nothing more than a trading post.”
Matt looked off at the far ridge. “To look at this place, you’d think we three were the only people on the entire Earth. This is an unspoiled land, the way God meant for it to be.”
Joe grinned. “You sure got a way with words. But I feel the same.”
That night, Johnny stood off at the edge of the firelight. It was warm enough that they didn’t need a large fire, but they kept a small one burning to keep wolves and coyotes away.
Joe was asleep, but Matt came strolling out of the lean-to.
Johnny McCabe (The McCabes Book 6) Page 34
