Double Mountain Crossing (19 page)

***

Thunderhawk pointed.

“Littleman, ride east. Coyote, you ride west.
When you find the place report back.
We will wait.” He jerked his head then watched the two scouts split, each following a bank of the creek. The obvious direction for the white man to have taken was east, but he recognised the white man was now playing them at their own game. Absently, he patted the black war pony's neck and his hand picked up a layer of sweat. It had been a taxing ride for the ponies up the steep trail from the pass. The trap had been laid well, but the game had not shown up.

So be it. Soon it would be down to just the white man and him alone. The fat-taker had only three horses now and then his feet would grow sore, running for his life. The chief looked off to the west. He did not know why, but the feeling was strong in his stomach that the quarry had gone west. It was too positive to ignore.

Crowfoot appeared next to him and he slipped down from the saddle to stand with his friend.

“The ponies are tired.”

“Yes,” Thunderhawk answered, glancing at the foam-flecked mouth of the black. “The respite will do them good.”

“You are wise to use two scouts.”

Although his face betrayed nothing, Thunderhawk took inward satisfaction from the compliment as he turned to examine his friend's face. Crowfoot's face was blank too, but Thunderhawk thought he detected a twinkle in his eye. “If you had been me, the
To-Yop-Ke
, the leader of this war party, what would you have done?”

Crowfoot's mouth moved,
then
he grinned and looked off to the creek, gazing reflectively at the running water. “I would have used two scouts. What else?”

Thunderhawk laughed and slapped his friend's back. “
Come,
let us smoke a pipe together. Our minds ride the same trail.”

***

Eks-a-Pana
, the Soldier, was diligently cleaning the new Winchester Thunderhawk had given him when Coyote cantered from the trees. The boy consulted the sun, then turned his attention to the shade where the chief and Crowfoot were sitting, passing the time as they waited for news. At the sound of hoof beats they rose and watched the scout ride in. Soldier pushed the last bullet into the
Winchester
's magazine then walked to within earshot. On the other side of the clearing, Running-Dog, who had been tending the ponies rose also and joined them.

Coyote brought the pony to a standstill and slipped to the ground. Thunderhawk stepped forward and placed the straw in his hair. “Tell it.”

Coyote looked from the chief to Crowfoot and then back again. “I found the place.
A plate of rock running into the creek.
The trail beyond had been swept with leaves but I found it. Back from the creek the bay horse with the black ears is buried under some cedar boughs. It had been bitten by a snake,
then
its throat had been cut.”

“What of the sacks?” Crowfoot asked.

“They were buried an arrow flight from the horse. The white man had taken much care in hiding them.”

“How many?”

Coyote spat, holding up six fingers. “He is truly a fool. They were filled with the yellow rocks, the same as Littleman found on the grey horse he shot. No coffee, no flour, no bullets, just yellow iron.”

Thunderhawk grunted. “I told you he was worthless this fat-taker. There is no doubt you were right, Crowfoot. This white man is a thief and a murderer.
To kill a man for the yellow iron.”
He shook his head in disbelief,
then
squinted shrewdly at the waiting scout. “What did you do with them?”

“As you ordered.
I moved them from their hiding place and reburied them.”

Thunderhawk nodded. If the fat-takers were so hungry for the yellow iron, he was sure the Mexican
Comancheros
would trade many rifles for the sacks. If all his braves were armed with repeating rifles like his own, then he would be able to protect his lands and his people from all the white men to cross the horizon. “Which way do the tracks lead?”

“North for a short distance, then they swing back east.”

“Whichever way he rides he will always swing back to where the sun rises. For his yellow iron to be worth anything he must take it where there are white men to trade with.”

Thunderhawk looked at Crowfoot from under hooded eyes. “You are right. He cannot outfox us.” He fell silent, staring at the horizon, his lips moving almost soundlessly. Crowfoot had to strain to hear the words. “Make no mistake, white
man,
I will kill you as surely as the sun dies each day in the west. And when I catch you, you will wish you were already dead.”

***

The bugs were driving him crazy. Crawling, biting,
making
him itch as though he'd fallen into a nettle patch. He was sick of scratching and slapping and hunting out the little sons of bitches. He was edgy too.
Constantly looking over his shoulder expecting to see a Kiowa in full war paint bearing down on him.
He was under no illusion he had shaken them off at the creek. Give them long enough to look at a man's sign and they could figure out how tall he was, what color his hair and skin were, what he'd eaten for breakfast and even the last time he thought about something. They were
that
good.

Alison looked back down the trail for the thousandth time. It was only a matter of how long, hopefully hours before he'd be fighting them again. Only the thought of the gold made the outlook any brighter.
At least when the bay got snakebit he'd had time to bury its precious load.
It hurt like hell to leave the gold behind, but when it was safe he could always go back and dig it up. Pity about the sacks on the grey, he had lost those for sure.

The sun had passed its zenith and was half way down towards the horizon. They must have found the dead bay by now. He could only hope they hadn't bothered to look for the gold. After burying it he had begun to take great pains over his back trail. With any luck they might think he was heading west. The black was tiring and he nudged it with his spurs up the trail towards the distant hogback. The horse picked up a little and the renewed bouncing ripped at his sore thighs. He had reached the point where he didn't dare take off his pants to inspect the damage. He knew the coarse cloth was meshing with the weeping flesh and now the slightest movement was excruciating. But still he kept riding, the fear of yet another attack pushing him hard.

With bugs and saddle sores, unshaven and filthy, hair matted, he longed for the city and the comfort of a hot bath. He smiled. If anyone had told him when he was a boy, back in the
Cape Fear River
country, one day he would long for the luxury of hot water and soap, he would have been horrified. He hadn't even known what hot water was then, let alone what a bath was. The recollections of his youth brought back the image of Joe Christian.

The bastard.

Angry at the memory, he raked the flagging black's ribs with his spurs, his hand tightly gripping the Henry's stock across the front of the packsaddle. If he could ever blame his life on anyone, it was that lazy Joe Christian. The fat cat had got everything he deserved.

He spat over the horse's neck in disgust. That was all a long way back and none of it mattered now. What was he doing letting his thoughts wander?

He looked back.
Nothing.
Good, keep on going.

The black plodded through a break in the pines and he glimpsed the long ridge of the hogback lined out against the late afternoon sky. The sun poured onto the lower slopes, picking out the lighter areas of cedars below the blackness of the pines strung out along the uppermost section of the ridge, ending in a ragged fringe along the skyline. Alison raised his eyes, absently scratching the stubble on his chin as he scoured the distant timber for signs of life. He would camp on the richer grass at the base of the slopes, near water, to give the black and the mule chance to recoup their energy,
then
they would tackle the ridge at sunup the next day. Once they topped out it would be an easy ride down the hogback to the prairie, then on to
Clay
Springs
.

The thought of
Clay
Springs
was appetising.
A hot bath to free him of bugs and jar of ointment to soothe his sores, then a new razor and a change of clothes.
No cook
himself
, he visualised a rich hump steak, the juice pouring down his chin.
And then?
Although Anne Marie had been hell on his nerves when she was with him all the time, he almost wished she was waiting down at the
Springs
for him. God knows, he would never find another woman with a body like hers and so amenable to his needs.
That skin, so soft and creamy.
Four months now he'd been up in the mountains, and for a man used to getting his greens regular that was one hell of a long time. On reflection, he'd been up there so long any woman would fit the bill. As long as she did what she was told and kept her mouth shut.

He cast an eye over the mule's load of sacks, then behind at his back trail. Yes, he'd soon have a full belly and a warm woman in his bed, and heavy gold coins rattling in his pockets.

That was, if his hair didn't end up on a Kiowa war lance.

***

The chestnut pony danced sideways and Littleman sawed the reins. He had given up searching along the creek bed after three hours and returned to the camp where Thunderhawk and the others awaited him. The hunter, Coyote, had found the trail within an hour and was sitting there smugly, making offhand remarks about the length of wait for his return. Irritable though he was, Littleman smiled. When the white man became foxy they soon had to rely on his skills again. After the dead horse, the fat-taker had started using Indian tricks, brushing out tracks and keeping to stony ground wherever possible. Even he, Littleman the Scout, was coming to have a modicum of respect for the white man's woodcraft.

He looked down over the chestnut's neck. The tracks did not look quite right.
Too messy.
He slipped down from the pony's back and carefully felt the rim of one of the hoof prints. It was crumbly and about two hours old. Still, they looked wrong somehow.
Leaving the chestnut's hackamore trailing, he softfooted back along the trail, closely inspecting the prints.
Shaking his head he turned back. He had taken care to avoid the actual tracks of the packhorses, riding his pony along the rim just in case he needed to return and examine the prints again. A few rods back he began to poke warily in the bushes.

Yes, he was right. There were hoof prints on the other side. The fat-taker had laid a trail, probably right out of the timber onto some rocky ground, then had walked the horses backwards and jumped them straight off the trail into the brush. Nobody noticing the slightly enlarged tracks would have followed them out into the open where they petered out. It would take hours casting back and forth for sign on the other side of the rocks to work out what had happened.

The fat-taker was trying hard. He might have foxed Coyote or one of the others, but he was not clever enough to fox Littleman.

The scout vaulted onto the chestnut's back and jumped the pony into the brush, duplicating the white man's tactics, back on the right trail, winding in and out of the pines, working towards the hogback ridge. He could tell by the tracks that both the horses were tired, dragging their hooves listlessly.

He was pleased. He would find the white man all the quicker. That would wipe the smug smile from Coyote's face. He followed the tracks intently, looking up occasionally to scan the breaks in the pines that lay ahead. He did not dare to relax his concentration in case the fat-taker tried any more tricks like jumping a false trail. It was not very likely on this ground though, too many pine needles easily disturbed. The chestnut's ears twitched and the pony danced sideways again. Concentration broken, Littleman pulled sharply on the hackamore, jerking the pony's tender mouth. He cursed. He had great affection for the chestnut. When there was danger the pony was as fleet as the wind, but when there was tracking to be done, it was plainly impatient, too eager to be off and running. Many
was
the time he had cursed it, yet still he rode it. The pony backed and Littleman's anger exploded. He grabbed the loose end of the hackamore with his free hand to whip the pony's neck.

A hand closed over his mouth and he felt a sharp pain. His eyes tipped downwards and he saw the steel of a knife blade piercing his deerskin shirt. Pain exploded in his ribs then gushed hungrily up to his chest. Surprised, his legs seemed to lose their grip on the chestnut's flanks then he tipped sideways out of the saddle.

He was dead before he touched the ground.

As Alison lowered the dead Indian to the bed of pine needles the chestnut wheeled quickly and a raw-boned shoulder banged into him. Dizzy, he dropped the Indian and lunged for the hackamore. The pony was too quick. Backing, wall eyed, it shook out its mane. The alien scent of the white man caused its nostrils to flare and its legs to tremble violently. Alison stopped his headlong rush,
then
sneaked forward, talking softly as he watched every movement of the highly strung pony. The chestnut stared back, head moving from side to side, keeping the man clearly in its vision. Clucking softly, Alison came within arm's reach. “Come on, boy. That's it, boy. Nice n easy now. Don't worry now, I won't hurt you…”