Demon's Pass (25 page)

“No!” Elizabeth screamed, watching in horror as blood erupted from the wound. The woman went down.

By now, several of the Indian warriors had managed to arm themselves, and they stood in a tight group, firing into their attackers. The mounted riders were so intent upon shooting and slashing the helpless women and children that they weren't aware that a defense was being mounted. A volley of fire from the Indians brought down three of Tobin's men.

“All right, men, we've done enough here! Let's go!” one of the attackers shouted.

“Talbot!” Elizabeth said, recognizing the red-bearded man who had ridden with the Indians in the attack on her parents. Now he was riding with white men, attacking a peaceful Indian village.

Elizabeth looked around for a gun. Seeing a pistol on the ground beside a dead warrior, she ran for it, picked it up, and aimed. Talbot was looking the other way. He would never know what hit him.

Elizabeth pulled the trigger . . . and heard only the dull click of a hammer falling on an empty chamber. With a cry of frustration, she hurled the gun at him. It fell so far short of its mark that Talbot never even saw her.

The attackers galloped away, leaving as quickly as they had come. Within a moment, nothing was left of their visit but the sound of the crackling fire and the angry shouts and wailing curses of the Indians left behind.

Cries of anguish and grief drifted through the camp as the Indians began to find the slaughtered bodies of their loved ones. Some of the Indians began weeping aloud, while others walked around with shock and disbelief etched on their faces.

More than two dozen teepees had been burned, and several were still in flames, the skin burned away and the burning poles forming glowing cones in the predawn darkness.

By first light, the villagers were able to count their dead. Elizabeth stood over one of the bodies, covered now by a brightly colored blanket.

A small arm protruded from beneath the blanket, and around the wrist of that arm was a bracelet made of blond hair, interlaced with turquoise and garnet. Eighty-eight had been killed. Eighty-eight out of a village of two hundred, nineteen of them children.

The Ute held funeral ceremonies all that day, and Elizabeth stayed with them, helping to prepare the dead and to clean up the village. Finally, three days later, after the last body was wrapped and placed on the massive burial platform, Elizabeth went to see Standing Bear. Though they could no more speak White Feather's name, the grief over the loss of Standing Bear and Quiet Stream's daughter was still etched in their faces as they received her.

“I thank you for allowing me to live with you,” she said. “But I fear I have brought evil to this place. I think I should go now.”

“I will have food prepared for your journey,” Standing Bear said quietly.

Elizabeth thought it was significant that he made no effort to talk her out of leaving.

Two hours later, mounted on the same horse that she had ridden in on, and carrying a good supply of salted meat and dried fruit, Elizabeth said good-bye to the Indians who had befriended her, and rode away from the village in the direction of the setting sun.

 

 

After waiting almost a week for the snow to clear, Clay called the men together to discuss whether or not they would try the pass the next day. Even though the snow had not melted as much as they had hoped, they now had a week's rest, and had recovered some of their strength. They were fairly sure they could make it, though they were no longer that confident in their stock.

“The problem is, our animals haven't been able to recruit,” Jason said. “What grass there was has been covered over with the snow. They can't eat.”

“They're probably getting more than you think,” Tobin suggested. “I've seen animals find browse in deeper snow than this.”

“Yeah, well I would've felt a heap better if the sun had come out today,” Pecorino said.

“We're not getting anywhere by waiting here,' Clay said. “Hook up the teams and let's go.'

“Hey, Jason,” Pecorino teased as they began hooking up the teams, “you ever eat mule meat?”

“Don't know as I have,” Jason replied.

“Well, we might get to pretty soon, if we don't get out of here.”

“I've et mule meat,” Tobin said. When the others looked at him, he continued. “Durin' the war, I was with Pemberton's troops outside Vicksburg. Mule meat can be quite tasty if you know how to cook it.”

“We won't be eating our mules,” Clay insisted. “We'll need them.”

Almost immediately after starting their second attempt at the pass, they ran into difficulty. The snow, which was less than knee-deep where they had made their temporary camp, grew deeper as they climbed higher. They struggled against it, flailing at it with their arms and hands as it reached waist-deep. Still they pressed onward.

The snowdrifts varied in depth, making it very slow and very difficult to walk. At first Clay and Parker rode side by side, then they decided it would be better to let just one of them break the trail while the other followed behind. They took turns that way so that neither one of the horses would get too tired from plowing through the snow.

The crystal-clear air made the pass seem agonizingly close, much closer than it actually was. But in actual fact, they weren't even able to get as close to it as they had gotten on that first day with all the pack animals. One of the ironies of this attempt was that they were able to see just how close they had come on that first day.

“We should have gone on!” Pecorino said to the others. “If we could just get that close now, I know we could make it. Me and my big mouth. I shouldn't of said anything that day.” Clay said nothing in response.

As night fell, they knew they were going to fail. They turned around and started back, their spirits even lower than they had been before they had tried. It was as if they were now being forced to accept the brutal truth. The nightmare that had plagued them for the entire journey had come true. They were trapped here, and there was every possibility they would be here for the entire winter.

“You know, we could starve to death here,” Pecorino suggested the next morning.

Clay shook his head. “We won't starve,” he said.

“I've heard of it happenin' before,” Pecorino insisted. “There was them people several years ago that got caught in the snow and they wound up eatin' each other.”

“What? You're making that up,” Jason said, wide-eyed.

“No, he's telling the truth,” Clay said. “It was the Donner party.”

“And they actually began killing each other?”

“No. They didn't eat anyone until they had already died.”

“I ain't too keen on anything like that happening here,” Pecorino said.

“It won't,” Clay insisted.

“How do you know it won't?”

“Because we're carrying enough foodstuffs in our cargo to keep that from happening. We've got beans, sugar, flour, and coffee. The more we get into it, the less profit we'll make, but, I promise you, I will get into it before I let any of us starve.”

“So . . . what are we going to eat between now and then?” Pecorino asked.

“There should be plenty of game around,” Clay suggested. “In fact, I saw some ducks yesterday. We ought to be able to shoot a few of them.”

Even as Clay was talking, Parker was pulling a couple of rifles from one of the wagons. He tossed one of them to Jason.

“Come on, let's go hunting,” Parker invited. “I'm getting hungry just
talking
about getting hungry.”

“All right,” Jason replied. He smiled at the other three. “You men have the fire started and the pot ready,” he said. “We'll bring back the meat.”

“You better bring something back,” Tobin teased. “The more I look at you, the tastier I think you would be.” He laughed out loud.

“That ain't funny,” Jason said sternly. “Don't even make jokes about it.”

Tobin was still laughing as Parker and Jason walked away from the camp. After their second unsuccessful try at negotiating the pass, the rest of the men had come back down from the mountain to make their camp in the little valley, where they set up alongside a lake. Most of the lake was frozen, though here and there a few patches of water peeked through, and it was that water that attracted the birds.

“You like duck better roasted or stewed?” Jason asked as they walked along the lake's edge.

“I like roasted duck, with maybe some apples and a few carrots cooked with it,” Parker said. “My mom makes . . .” He paused. It was the first time he had even thought of his mother in a long time and it seemed odd to him, how naturally it slipped out. “I mean, my mom used to fix it that way.”

“I'm sorry about your mom,” Jason said softly, seeing the hurt on Parker's face.

“Yes, well, what's happened can't be changed. Anyway, how do you like your duck?”

“I like it with gravy made from the drip-pin's,” Jason said.

“Your mom make it like that?”

“Nah, my mom's a whore, remember? 'Bout the only thing I can ever remember her fixin' me is scrambled eggs. Mrs. Pratt makes it like that, though. She was the store owner's wife. I used to clean up for Mr. Pratt a bit, and sometimes Mrs. Pratt would let me take supper with 'em. She was real good at makin' gravy. What you do is, you take some flour and brown it in the drippin's, then you add milk. Water will do if you've got no milk. Then you whip it together in a skillet till it thickens up. Then you spoon that over mashed potatoes.”

“Irish potatoes, or sweet potatoes?” Parker asked, keeping the conversation going.

“Either one. Or you could serve the gravy over biscuits. That's always good too.”

“Then you want to top that off with a big piece of hot apple pie,” Parker suggested.

“With cheese melted on top,” Jason added. “Now, when it comes to apple pie, couldn't no one beat Mrs. Yates. Fact is, she runs a business makin' and sellin' pies. Sometimes I would buy a whole pie from her and eat it all by myself before I got home.”

“Don't know if I could eat a whole pie.”

“Sure you could. You just never tried, is all. But once you get started, they're so good, you can eat a whole pie easy.”

“You know what we ought to do? We ought to just shut up,” Parker said. “What we're doing is punishing ourselves. We don't have any potatoes or carrots, and we sure don't have any apple pie.”

“Maybe not, but we're damned sure goin' to have us some duck,” Jason said in a low, excited voice. “Look over there.”

Parker looked in the direction Jason pointed and saw two ducks coming toward them, flying low and fast over the water.

“Give 'em plenty of lead,” Jason said, cocking the hammer and raising his rifle. “You take the one on the left, I'll . . .”

“Jason! Forget the ducks!”

“What?”

“Forget the ducks! Look at that. There's a hell of a lot more meat over there,” Parker said.

Parker pointed to the edge of a clearing where a big, brown grizzly bear was rooting through the snow.

“Jesus! Look at the size of that son of a bitch!” Jason said. “How come he's not hibernatin'?”

“I don't know, maybe he's not quite ready yet. You know they store up a whole winter's worth of food before they go in. Look at him—there's enough meat there to feed us for a month,” Parker said.

“If we can kill him,” Jason replied. “From what I hear, those things aren't all that easy to bring down.”

“We've got no choice. We have to kill him.”

“All right, I'm ready if you are,” Jason said. “But if we only wound him, there's goin' to be hell to pay, 'cause he's goin' to come after us.”

“Then make sure and shoot straight.”

The two boys raised their rifles and took aim. Jason fired first and, out of the corner of his eye, Parker saw a flash of light and a puff of smoke. Then Parker pulled the trigger, and the gun banged and kicked back against his shoulder.

The bear, who had his back to the two boys, was hit. He fell and rolled once, flinging blood onto the snow. Though hit hard, he managed to get up and turn toward the upstart and puny creatures who had dared to attack him. He bolted forward, nostrils flared, teeth bared, and eyes flashing. The bear roared an angry challenge as he came crashing down the mountain-side toward them, dislodging snow and loose gravel during his lumbering descent.

“Shoot the son of a bitch, Parker! Shoot him! Use your pistol!” Jason shouted.

The boys stood their ground, peering over the barrels of their pistols, watching as the bear loomed bigger and bigger. The bear was running in a loping gate, sometimes raising both front legs at the same time. They awaited their opportunity, timing it just right.

“Now!” Jason shouted, firing his gun.

Parker pulled the trigger just as the bear's front legs were raised, presenting its underbelly as a target. The balls from both pistols crashed into the bear's chest.

The grizzly fell a second time and slipped forward on his belly, all four legs stretched out and useless. A swath of pink appeared on the snow behind it as it slid the last few feet down the side of the mountain, piling snow up in front of it. Finally, it came to a halt no more than five feet away from the two boys.

“Damn!” Jason said excitedly. “We got him! We killed the son of a bitch!”

Jason's triumphant shout was a little premature, for the bear raised its head and glared at them through narrowed, yellow eyes. It growled again as blood bubbled from its mouth.