Crow Mountain (21 page)
Authors: Lucy Inglis
I kept my seat only just, but I had been ready. Righting myself, I looked up at the hunter . . . Hart. His face was full of rage, rifle in the dirt. I felt winded from the impact and the saddlehorn in my stomach. Tara wheeled away instantly in a prancing gallop as I grasped the reins I'd dropped and urged her back around as you rescued your rifle. But I misjudged Tara's line, wanting to come between Hart and you until you had time to get back in the saddle, and then the bay gelding was alongside us. Hart reached over and grabbed my long braid, yanking me towards him. Broaching the distance, he caught me and hauled me on to the pommel of his saddle. Using my body to shield his chest he turned. His horse halted, shifting restlessly on the spot. Tara skidded to a halt a few yards away, watching.
Hart was breathing hard, the rank stench of his breath against my cheek. âGo on, do it. You'll blow a hole in her like a lead bucket.'
I squirmed, terrified, but he held me tightly. You lifted the gun to your eye.
Hart dragged a knife from his belt and put it to my throat. âThink you're good enough?'
You said nothing, squinting down the barrel. I closed my eyes, feeling the blade press to my neck. There was a sting and blood trickled into the sweating hollow at the base of my
throat. Around us, battle raged.
The gunshot reverberated across the plain.
Hart was thrown from the saddle, taking me with him. We hit the ground, hard, his body on top of mine, knocking every ounce of air from my lungs. He was heavy, stinking lumber. A moment later, you hauled him off and hurled me to the ground behind the warm bulk of a felled buffalo. Dropping to your knees, you pushed the rifle into my hands and opened the action.
âShake out the chamber. Reload from the left side of my belt. And stay low.' Drawing your pistol from the right, you took aim at a hunter getting back on his horse near where Rose was wrestling on the ground with another.
Reaching around you, I pulled a bullet from your belt and stuck it in the chamber, then another. Then an incoming bullet met its mark. You spun, sitting down hard against the buffalo's side, a bloody rip in the sleeve of your shirt.
âOw! Damnation!'
âYou're shot!' I cried in horror.
Scowling at me, you checked the rip, before turning and taking aim, quickly letting off a bullet that felled the guilty party. âScratched,' you corrected, as the man hit the dirt.
You swapped weapons with me, revolver chamber open and spinning, spent cartridges clinking on to the dirt. âRight side.' I began to reload as you raised the rifle and took careful aim at the hunter locked in a deadly tussle with Two Tails, guns knocked aside and knives flashing. I felt you breathe in and hold it. Your finger tightened on the trigger, and with a
thundering crack the hunter fell from the saddle. Two Tails looked up and saw you, raising his knife over his head in salute, before circling to find his son.
I do not know how long it was before the battle was over; the sun had moved. The buffalo were long gone, apart from the bodies in the dirt. Scattered amongst them were all seventeen hunters and six dead horses but, miraculously, no braves. Rose had three scalps in her bag and a deep cut on her arm. Lucky's chest was bruised and scraped from a fall when his horse had been killed beneath him, but he remained as unperturbed as ever, and one of the braves was shot in the shoulder. Two Tails gave orders and two of the younger braves gathered up the hunters' surviving horses, who had spread themselves across the plain. The scout, on the band's fastest pony, disappeared over the rise.
âWhat's happening now?' I asked you, feeling juddery and uncertain.
You holstered the pistol and shouldered the rifle. âThe men will butcher the animals and the women will come for the meat.'
As you spoke, the buffalo that had sheltered us, face in the dirt and legs buckled beneath it, groaned. You crouched by its head as its wet nostrils flexed, blowing into the grass. Blood ran from a series of bullet wounds across its flank â so many of them had been sustained in protecting us.
âCome here, English.'
I knelt by you as you pulled the knife from the sheath that hung by your shoulder. Rose appeared, hunched over one
knee on the other side of the animal's thick neck.
âGive me your hand.' You grabbed my wrist and folded my fingers around the haft of the knife, yours on top. Your free hand felt for the animal's throat. I recoiled but you held me, hard, and stuck the buffalo straight in the jugular vein. Blood spurted, spraying my clothes, splattering your thigh. The animal groaned a long exhalation, blood bubbling through the wound around the knife still deep in its neck. Awareness faded from its large brown eye. You touched its head and said something I couldn't understand as Rose leant forward and placed her hand in the gore and dragged her fingers down my face. I started back.
âLet her do it, it's tradition.' You held my arms.
The air smelt of iron, salt and dung as we got to our feet. Two Tails approached, his thin face unreadable as he looked me up and down. His eyes flickered to the carnage around us, then back to me. Your hand rested at the base of my spine. A fly landed on the blood on my cheek, but I held his gaze. He looked at you and there was the slightest lift in his eyebrow. Then he said something and smiled. Raising his rifle above his head, he let out a pealing cry, echoed by the braves all around us as they worked. Finally the chief turned away and I could breathe again.
You looked down at my bloody face. âJesus. Christ. Emily.'
âWhat did I do wrong?' Tara nudged my shoulder and I took her reins.
âNearly got yourself killed, that's what.'
Behind you, two men hauled the liver out of the buffalo,
up to their elbows in intestines. The others were working further afield on the other carcasses.
âI'm fine,' I said quietly, fiddling with Tara's bridle, stroking her flat cheek.
The others, Rose included, were now busy hacking soft hunks off the quivering mass of liver and stuffing it into their mouths.
I shuddered. âPlease tell me I don't have to do that.'
Your bark of laughter filled the air, high up to where the scavengers were already circling.
By the time the women arrived, dragging sleds behind their ponies for the spoils, I was flagging and thirsty. Even some children helped, their dogs carting smaller sleds. I sat on the hillside, drinking from your canteen and watching. The corpses of the hunters were gathering flies. You limped up the slope and collapsed next to me on your elbows, bad leg stretched out.
I passed you the canteen. âDid we do the right thing?'
You took a drink and thought about it. âI don't know, Em. Hart . . . I ain't sorry that bastard is dead, nor most of the others, but those on the wagons were just men needing work, probably struggling after this last winter. Getting their throats cut out here for a few dollars.' You lay back on the grass. âI'm sick to the back teeth of killing, that much I do know. And it's like every time I come down off that mountain, I get my hands in the mire. Again.' You held out a calloused, dusty hand, bloody palm up, to prove your point.
I looked at it, then placed my own on top of it, not
meeting your look of surprise. âSo what happens now?'
We gathered the horses. You caught Hart's horse and handed her reins to me. âTake this one back into the village. Then it's your coup.'
âCoup? From the French?'
You nodded, then settled into the saddle of the red horse. As it turned out, he hadn't fled far and had trailed back as we were getting ready to move out. âGetting the enemy's horse, getting a scalp, engaging in battle and coming out the other side, they're all coups. More coups you got, the more respect.'
âHow many have you got?' I asked, intrigued.
âMy share.'
Riding back to the Blackfoot camp, we were accompanied by perhaps ten men, Rose and the wagons. My face felt by turns sticky and crackly. Dusk was falling and I had to catch myself awake like Tippet as a puppy, slumping over the saddlehorn then jerking upright, the reins of Hart's horse clutched tightly in my hand.
Back at the camp, all was activity. You helped me down and we took Tara and the others to drink. I tugged off her saddle as she sucked at the river water. You slapped her sweat-stiff neck and talked to her. Her blanket was damp as I shook it out and rubbed her down, then I pressed my cheek against hers in gratitude, kissing her white and tan face. She huffed over my shoulder, muzzle dripping water down my back.
Next to us, you stripped to the waist and used your shirt to wash your dirty face and hands, wiping the back of your
neck. You examined the blackened and bloody streak on your bicep.
âLooks painful.'
âSmarts some but ain't nothing. Had worse.'
Clear Water appeared next to us with a wadded cloth and an earthenware pot of salve. She gave them to me with her kind smile, gesturing to your arm, and you thanked her.
I wet the cloth and took your elbow in my hand, fingers against the soft inside. It truly was only a graze cutting across the smooth curve of your bicep, with almost no blood lost at all; I applied the salve.
âWell, Dr English, what do you think?'
I flushed, letting go and stepping back, embarrassed. âShould we bind it?'
âNah, let it dry. I'll just try and keep it clean is all.' You were already donning a fresh shirt from our pack.
The dark was deepening by the river and I jumped as we heard the first drums. The camp was littered with small bonfires â
feux de joie
, you called them â and a little distance from it, a larger one burnt fiercely. Over fire pits huge hunks of buffalo meat were roasting. The smell of the buffalo cooking filled the air and children sat at the edge of the light, eating fry-bread sopped in meat juices. Rose was sitting in a circle with the men. In groups around them the women gathered. I saw Clear Water, but she wasn't looking at me.
We sat in the ring with the warriors, cross-legged. The brave to your left passed a canteen and you drank, sucking in a breath through your teeth and wiping your mouth on the
back of your wrist. Handing it over, you coughed. I took a sip and almost choked then, still spluttering, offered it back to you.
âNo, no. Take another. A proper mouthful this time. Then pass it on.'
I steeled myself and took a gulp, handing the canteen on to the brave next to me. Rose was laughing as I swiped my fingers across my lips and gasped, eyes watering.
My head was spinning with fatigue and hunger, and when you fetched a wooden platter of roasted meat and fried bread for us to share as the singing started, I was very grateful. Blackfoot music is unique, you explained, passing me a neat fold of soft, crispy-edged cornbread and meat. Beautiful, haunting loops of repeated phrases. I listened, fascinated. And I ate like a savage, with my hands and my teeth, face bloody, watching them whoop and holler and dance to the pounding of the drums.
It was always like this, you said, after a battle. I drank more water. And more firewater, offered to me by a drunk young brave and tipped over my upturned face when I couldn't swallow any more, my throat like razors. You laughed as I spluttered. I watched Dog Child dancing with a girl, stamping around each other in circles, bells on their knees, as I sat cradled between your bent legs, feeling safe, protected from the strange world I had found myself in. And I liked lounging against you, after so many years sitting bolt upright and alone in my cages of whalebone and steel. Sometime later, the tiny son of Two Tails's second wife crept up and touched me,
leaving a long brown feather in my lap.
âCoup-feather. For your first battle,' you said.
I caught the leather lace around your neck and examined its ornaments. The feathers, the shell casings, a silver button and a regimental badge; the knife you never used.
âThese are
your
coups?'
âYeah, Emily. They're my coups.'
I let the shell casings clink in my palm. âYou didn't tell me.'
You pushed my tangled and bedecked hair aside and spoke into my ear. âI told you if you moved one step on that hillside, I'd tan you blue.'
I watched the flames and the dancers, content and sleepy, liking the closeness of your voice. âI've been blue for days. And I saved your life.'
Laughing, you crossed your arms in front of me. âYou did.'
I don't remember falling asleep on you but I do remember waking as you laid me on a pile of buffalo hides and buckled me against your side in the lodge they loaned us at the edge of the camp. Your breath was warm against the back of my neck. The doorflap was open and the last thing I saw, high in the heavens, was a star shooting across the glittering ceiling of the sky.
H
ope read aloud as Cal worked to make the cabin more comfortable.
âI'll find something to eat in the morning.' He shook out the blankets and started to make up a bed in front of the fire he'd lit in the hearth. The little house, despite the cool night air coming in through the broken window, was tolerably warm, with the stove and a log fire burning. Hope came and sat on the bedding, cross-legged. Buddy sat with her.
âHe's not taking her back.'
Cal sat next to them, rubbing Buddy's ears. âWell, it is a long way, and he's just done the journey.'
âThat's not the point and you know it,' Hope said.
He sighed. âI'm trying to give the guy the benefit of the doubt. Like he says, he could have done anything he wanted
to her by now, but he hasn't.'
Hope smothered a yawn. âHmm.'
âTired?'
âYes. I wish I had a toothbrush.'
He got up and went to the kitchen cupboard, looking inside and opening things. When he found what he wanted, he returned with one of the cups.
âOld backwoods trick. Salt and a wet cloth. Scrub your teeth and rinse your mouth.'
They spat the salty water off the porch, looking up at the moon.
âGross.' Hope winced.
âGross but effective,' Cal corrected, wiping his mouth.
Back inside, they huddled down in their clothes beneath the quilt and the blankets. After their night in the open, sleeping next to each other didn't seem a big deal. Their empty stomachs growled and Hope shivered, tugging the rolled-up smock beneath her head.
âYou're cold?'
âFreezing.'
He put his arm around her, her back to his chest, and pulled the coverlet tighter. âBetter?'
âMuch, thank you.'
It wasn't warmer, because Cal was almost as cold as she was, but it was definitely much better than him not having his arm around her, so Hope reasoned with herself that it wasn't really a lie. Buddy lay down at their feet as she fell asleep, exhausted, one hand on the cover of the diary, the other
slipping inside Cal's on the quilt.
Soon after dawn, Cal nudged her. âCooper? You're on me. And I need to get up.'
âSorry,' she mumbled, sleepy, and realizing she was sprawled across him. Pulling away, she curled in on herself into the covers.
Cal and Buddy went out immediately. Hope rubbed her eyes and sat up; it was another beautiful day. Going outside, she took a pee in the woods behind the house and washed her hands and face in the stream. When Cal returned, he brought more foraged duck potatoes, as well as water. His hair was wet and his shirt stuck to the definition of his chest.
Cal broke the silence as they finished eating, setting some aside for later. âI was thinking that they must have been in Fort Shaw pretty much the first year it existed officially. It was just a military outpost called Camp Reynolds before then.' He checked on the water, which was finally coming to the boil. âWish I could have seen it. Read some more to me?'
By the time the coffee was made, Hope was breathless with excitement. They picked up their cups and went outside to the porch, sitting on the step.
â
Hot, frightened perspiration trickled down inside the cold, wet shirt, making me shiver. What had I done? I knew nothing of how to survive in the wildernessâ
' Hope broke off, looking out at the meadow. âI'm frightened for her.'
âAs long as
you
don't run off down the mountain, everything will be fine. Let's find something to eat.' He took the diary from her hands and put it on the porch, pulling her to
her feet.
âWhere would I go?' Hope looked at the vast wilderness around her. âAnd what will we find?'
âYou'll see.' He picked up the rifle and slung it over his shoulder.
âWait.' Hope went inside, taking the diary and returning with the satchel, looping it around her neck. âWe might be able to use this.'
âGood thinking.'
They walked down the mountainside, Cal scanning the ground.
âWhat are you looking for?'
âA lot of these flowers are edible. I'll pick some later. They won't give us calories, but they might make things more interesting.'
Through the forest, they walked to the lake. Hope was hot by the time they reached the shoreline. She splashed some water on her face and yelped at the chill.
He grinned. âIt does stay pretty cold. But you know what that means?'
She shook her head.
âIt means the fish are good eating. Trout, mainly.'
âBut how are we going to catch fish?'
He held up his hand and waved his fingers. âWith these.'
She wrinkled her nose. âPeople can't really do that, it's just in films.'
âO ye of little faith,' he mocked, walking along the shoreline to where the stream from the cabin let out. It was wide and
more powerful this far down, and looked about waist-deep. The banks were made up of scrubby grass and plants. Cal lay down on his stomach, looking into the clear water and Hope lay down next to him, resting on her elbows. Buddy lay down too, then crawled to lay his belly over Cal's lower back.
Cal glanced over his shoulder. âJeez, Buddy, you're a real help.'
The dog's face was split in a wide, panting grin. Hope stifled a giggle. A stiff breeze gusted from the lake and far out, towards a small island covered with dense pine, white-capped waves bounced. All around them, huge crags rose up and the pine trees shifted. The stream ran swiftly.
âThere, do you see?' Cal pointed, moving to his left a little.
Hope wriggled up next to him, watching. âNo . . .'
âBig trout, about six inches below the surface, facing into the stream. Just under that rock ledge.' He slipped his hand into the water, approaching the fish slowly. With his hand underneath its belly, he touched it carefully.
âHow long does it take?' Hope whispered.
âHard to tell. You don't know if it's going to work until you try to land it,' he whispered back. She watched, fascinated. A few minutes later, Cal tensed. âBuddy, get up, you great lump.' Buddy stood instantly and retreated a couple of paces. âWell, here goes nothing.'
He sat up, flinging the fish on to the grass then picking up the rifle, and hit the trout once, hard, on the head with the butt. Hope flinched.
âSorry, should have warned you,' he panted, more from
adrenalin than exertion.
The fish lay, inert and glistening on the bank. It took an hour to catch another one, during which time Hope dozed in the sun next to Cal's warm shoulder, head on her folded arms. When he was finished they walked back up the mountain in companionable silence. Butterflies flocked around them to the spring flowers and birds sang.
âI can't stop thinking about them. I mean' â Hope gestured to the mountain â âthis place has hardly changed since they were here.'
Cal nodded, thinking. âLook, up there. To the left of the cabin. See it? All those broken rails? I guess that's the corral.'
Hope followed his finger. âI see it.'
Back at the cabin, Cal went down to the stream to prepare the fish. It didn't take him long and he came back with both of them threaded on to a stick. Hope was sitting on the porch, reading the diary, Buddy at her feet.
âHey, you can't read it without me,' Cal protested. Taking the fish inside and resting the stick over the sink, he came back out and sat next to her. âWell, what's happening?'
âNate's not speaking to her. He kind of told her he loves her, I think, and she didn't understand, or pretended not to. And she can't survive out here without him, so she's stuck. Like a prisoner.'
âWorse prisons to be in.'
Hope looked out at the view, hunched over her knees. âHow come he was there to rescue her when there was no one else for miles?'
âYou think he was following them?'
âMaybe. Maybe he caused the accident.'
âWhy would he?
How
could he? It was only by a fluke she survived. If he wants her, why take that chance? It'd be like me deliberately crashing the rig to get you up here.'
Hope laughed. âWas that why you kept insisting on the seat belt?'
He smiled and shook his head. âKnow what, Cooper? With that imagination you
should
be a writer.'
For much of that day, they sat, absorbed in the diary and watching the clouds throw shadows across the mountain.
Hope broke off for a second, voice a little hoarse. âSo, you think they'll know we should have arrived by now?'
Cal nodded. âAbout now. Problem is, they're used to me taking my time, so they probably won't start to worry until nightfall when I'm not answering my phone. Or you yours. Second problem is, there's not much reception up here anyway, miles and miles without it. Only kicks back in when you drop out of the national park. Might not cause them to think anything's wrong.'
âSo when will they start looking, do you think?'
He thought about it. âTomorrow, maybe.'
âSo they'll find us tomorrow?'
âMaybe, if they start looking during the day. Mom's pretty laid back. She may even wait until nightfall. I reckon we've got maximum another forty-eight hours before someone gets here.'
Hope sighed. âOK.' She smoothed her hands over the front cover of the diary. âAt least we have this to keep us occupied.'
He nodded, running a hand over Buddy's coat. The dog panted in the sun. She picked at a splinter on the edge of the step, diary on her knees.
Cal spoke first. âTell me about your friends.'
âMy friends? Well, there's Lauren. She and I have lived on the same road for ever and we hang out a lot when I'm home. She goes to normal school and she's great. But she's got lots of other friends, obviously, and she invites me to stuff but I get shy in big groups. And Scott's a genius and the funniest person I know. We spend the weekends together mostly.'
âScott?'
âYeah. He's another home-schooler, but that's because he's too clever for ordinary school and on the autism spectrum and his dad's some sort of professor of quantum mechanics or something. I met him on a Spanish conversation course last year.'
Cal studied Buddy's ears. âSo why not date Scott?'
âWell, I could . . . I suppose, if I wanted to play third fiddle to gaming and extremely freaky Japanese comics.'
They laughed for a long time. The afternoon was cooling and Cal got to his feet. âI'm going to check the stove's still alight, then rig up a spit out here for these fish.'
With a flat stone he scraped a small pit, then created a fire with a burning log from the stove. Hope searched for forked sticks that would support a spit and they banged them into the earth with the stone. It took a couple of hours to get up to
heat, but by the time the sun went down it was burning bright orange in the centre. The sunset was beautiful, spreading a reddish glow over the meadow and the lake. Hope wound her hair into a loose knot at the back of her head.
âHow do you get it to do that?' Cal asked.
âWhat?' she asked, surprised.
âStay up like that, without pins.'
âOh, I don't know,' she said, both blithe and uncertain under his scrutiny. âIt just kind of does.' She went inside and fetched a pan of water to boil the duck potatoes. By the time they were ready, Cal had gathered some greenery.
âFireweed. It's good. I eat it sometimes on the ranch if I see it.'
Hope put down the tin plates. Her stomach growled ferociously. Cal began to ease pieces of fish off with his knife, checking it was cooked. He put a couple on her plate, next to the duck potatoes. He helped himself to more. Hope sat down, cross-legged, next to him and picked up her plate.
They didn't speak, both too hungry to do anything other than concentrate on the food. Hope ate everything, including the fireweed. âThis really is tasty.'
They took their empty plates and washed them and their greasy hands in the creek before coming back to sit close to the fire.
âCan I ask you something?' Hope said.
âSure.' He banked the flames.
âWhy didn't you finish high school? Because it looks from the stuff in the crates in the barn that you're like . . . clever and
everything. And you were good at football.'
He was silent for a while. âNot that clever. And not that good. I made a big mistake.'
Hope waited.
He took a breath. âThere was this guy, Tyler Cross, we were on the team. He was getting hazed, real bad. You know what hazing is, right?'
Hope nodded. âBullying.'
âYeah, well, for some reason, the guys just had it in for him. And I didn't like it, but I said nothing. Coach said nothing, no one said anything at all. Then we were up for a few big games in our class. Tyler just couldn't keep it together, kept missing easy passes. Had a lot to do with what was going on, I thought. Anyway, Dan and Steve Hart, the idiots with the plastic cup? Dan's the chief's son, Steve's Dan's cousin. They were at the centre of it all, ragging on Tyler the whole time. Then one day, we'd lost at home to Billings. I mean,
Billings
.' He looked at Hope. She shrugged. âNever mind. And then in the locker room, they're really going for Tyler. I was rushing to get home because I had chores, and then I see they've got him on the floor, stripping him off, and they've got a gallon pack of glue, and this sack of feathers. So then I knew it wouldn't have mattered if we'd won or lost, because they were going to do it anyway.'
