Lonely On the Mountain (1980) (14 page)

Orrin rode ahead, scouting for trouble. He had a feeling they'd find it before the day was over.

"Shorty's starting the herd," Haney said.

"Baptiste and his carts will bring up the drag.

We should see them when we come out of the trees." They were skirting a small pond, and Tyrel's horse took a sudden turn, and he groaned.

"He's got a bad leg there," Orrin said.

"It doesn't seem to be broken but bruised like you wouldn't believe. Horse must have fallen or something of the kind." They sighted the herd as they came into the open.

Shorty had them moving; Fleming was on the far side with the carts bringing up the rear. Baptiste stopped when he saw them, and with great care they loaded Tyrel into one of the carts, making a place for him among the sacks, his rifle beside him. They tied the dun behind the cart in which he was riding.

Haney fell into place with the herd, and Orrin stayed off to one side, watching the country around for some movement or sign of life. He saw nothing.

Somewhere out there was Tell or what was left of him. Somewhere were other hands, lost in the same stampede. The Ox he could see working alongside the herd, but what had become of .his partner? The man Orrin had not yet seen?

Uneasily, Orrin rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. Shaving every day had become a habit, and he had a dislike of going unshaven no matter where he was.

He was reluctant to leave the area without finding Tell, but Tell, had he been present, would have insisted they get on with the job. Wherever he was, if he was alive, Tell was doing what was needful.

Tyrel was sleeping when he rode by the carts, so there was no chance to try to learn more from him even if he knew more, which was doubtful.

Wide rolled the prairies before their roving eyes, and steadily the cattle moved on, pointing the way to the northwest. All day they walked, and the day following and the next. Somewhere, Orrin supposed, they had reached or would reach the border and pass into Canada. There was no marker, and he looked for none.

They camped by small creeks, near a slough, or in some small meadow where the cattle could feed.

They saw no Indians and no wildlife but flocks of antelope, always within view, or buffalo. Prairie wolves hung on their flanks, watching for the animal who might trail too far behind.

Ten miles that first day because of the late start, fifteen and sixteen on the days following. On the third day, Tyrel spent part of the day in the saddle. At night, they sat beside the campfire.

"They came right out of the prairie," he explained. "Suddenly, we heard the thunder of hoofs, and they came over the rise like a black thunder cloud.

"We were all scattered out; there was no chance or time to do anything but try to get out of the way, and that's just what we did. The cattle turned ahead of that herd and began to run with them. There was nothing anybody could do, and even the cattle had no choice but to run. Otherwise, they'd have been trampled into the ground. I heard a scream, but, Orrin, I doubt if it was one of our boys. I don't recall anybody being where that scream came from." "We found some remains, but they were so trampled we could only tell it had been a man and more than likely a white man." "I doubt if he was one of ours. Brandy was within sight when the buffalo came into sight, and I had time to wave him out of there. Lin--he was our Chinese cook--he was out behind the herd somewhere, and I think it missed him altogether." "Who shot you?" "That happened later. There were three of them, and they were hunting me, or maybe just any survivors.

"A big buffalo bull tossed the dun and me, and when we went down, he came in with his head down to gore us. He hooked, but his horn hit my saddle and so saved the dun. Then I struck my six-shooter in his ear and squeezed her off.

"That bull just naturally rolled over, and the dun scrambled up, and I started to. Seemed that buffalo bull rammed his head into my leg just about the time I was sticking my gun barrel in his ear.

"I got the dun over to me and grabbed a stirrup and pulled myself up. By that time my leg was hurting.

"Well, I taken a look around. The cattle were scattered to kingdom come, and there was nobody in sight but some buzzards." Tyrel refilled his cup. "Being one who is apt to accept the situation and take it from there, I considered.

"Here I was out in the middle of nowhere and maybe the only one left alive. You were on a steamboat or maybe in a cart coming west. I had me a good horse, although he was some irritated at being knocked over, and I had fifteen hundred pounds of buffalo meat, hide, and bone.

"So I gathered me some buffalo chips and put together a fire. Then I cut out some buffalo steak and broiled about four or five pounds of it. When that was done, I cut myself some more meat, tied it up in some buffalo hide, and climbed into the saddle.

"It was when I tried to get into the saddle that I realized I was in trouble. It durned near killed me." "You ain't told me about those empty chambers." "Comin' to it. I'd ridden a far piece, but my leg was givin' me what for, and I rode in under the trees, grabbed hold of a limb, and pulled myself up from the saddle and then kind of lowered myself down to the ground.

"Next thing I knew, they come up on me.

I was backed up to a tree, and the dun had walked off, grazin', and there was three of them. Right away I spotted them for what they were. They were goin' to kill me, all right, but first they were going to tell me how awful mea

and tough they were.

"You know the kind. We've met them before. They were talkers. They just had to run off at the mouth awhile before they did anything.

"There were three of them, and they didn't know me from Adam's off-ox. They knew I had been with the cattle and contrary to what we'd figured, it had been them who started the stampede and not the Sioux.

"They started tellin' me about it. And they started to tell me what they were going to do.

"Me, I listened to them a mite, and then I said, "What did you fellows come up here for?"' ""We're goin' to kill you!" This big redhead was saying that, with a nasty grin on his face.

""So you're going to kill me? Then what the hell is all the talk for?"' "That kind of took the wind out of them, and as I spoke, I just fetched my piece.

"Didn't seem to me like they'd ever seen a fast draw before. Two of them went down, and the third one taken off, or maybe his horse ran off with him. Anyway, you couldn't see him for dust." "And you saw nothing of Tell?" Tyrel shook his head. He was obviously tired, and Orrin asked no more questions. The night was quiet, and the herd had bedded down.

Baptiste had added to his duties the care of Tyrel's injured leg. The fresh wound gave no particular trouble, and with Baptiste caring for it, the swelling in the leg reduced slowly.

Orrin forded the cattle across the Mouse and pointed the herd toward Pipestone Creek, some distance off to the northwest by the route they were following.

"We've got to figure it this way," Orrin said over a campfire. "The stampede was not caused by Indians but apparently by white men.

"Now who would want to do such a thing?

Thieves who wished to steal our cattle?

Maybe. Some of the "Higginses" Logan spoke about? That's more likely.

"Somebody, for some reason we do not know, wishes to prevent our cattle from reaching their destination. So far they've done us some damage, but they haven't stopped us, so it's likely they will try again.

"From what Tyrel says, at least two of them won't be showing up again. That may make them back off completely, but we can't depend on that. We will have to take it for granted they will come again, and soon.

"We've got some extra rifles. I want them loaded and ready, and every camp must be a fort." Orrin glanced over at the Ox, who was simply listening and offering no comment or even an acknowledgement that he heard.

Yet, in the days that followed, all their preparations seemed for nothing. The mornings came one after another, each crisp and clear, and the days warmed. The grass was green on all the hills now. There were several light showers and a thunderstorm that brought a crashing downpour that lasted for less than an hour.

The Qu'Appelle River lay somewhere before them and off to the west the Moose Mountains.

Orrin found himself thinking of Nettie. She should be well on her way to Fort Carlton now, far away to the north. He would probably not see her again. The thought made him melancholy, yet there was nothing to be done. Their way lay west, and if Tell were alive, he would be coming on to join them if by some chance he was not already there before them.

Occasionally, they saw the bones of buffalo, once the antlers of a deer. Occasionally, there were other bones, unfamiliar to a quick glance, but there was no time to pause and examine them. They pushed on, accompanied by the creaking, groaning wheels of the Red River carts.

Tyrel's bruised leg remained sore and stiff, but his flesh wound healed rapidly, as wounds usually did on the plains and in the mountains. He took to riding a little more each day, usually scouting wide of the drive and only returning to it occasionally.

"Something's not right," he commented once. "I can smell trouble." "The Ox is worried," Orrin added.

"He's got something on his mind. That partner of his, I guess. Gilcrist, his name was. Or so he said." "Good a name as any," Tyrel said. "Out here, if a man doesn't like his name, he can choose his own, and a lot of folks have." "He never talks to Fleming," Orrin said.

"At least, I haven't seen them even near one another for days." A brief but violent thunderstorm came with the afternoon. Fort Qu'Appelle was nearby, but there was no need to stop, and when the storm passed, he led the drive on past the fort. However, he had gone but a mile or less when a party of riders appeared. Several Indians, Crees by the look of them, rode up. While the cattle moved on, Orrin waited with Baptiste and the carts.

The Indians were friendly, curious as to where the cattle were being taken and about the Sioux, with whom they were only occasionally friendly.

Tyrel rode to meet them when they finally caught up.

"Picked up some sign," he said. "Something you should see, Orrin." "Trouble?" "Maybe." Orrin glanced at the sun. "We've got a few miles of driving ahead of us. All right, let's go look!" The tracks were two miles ahead of the herd.

At least five riders had come up from the southwest and had met a half-dozen riders coming down from the northeast. They had dismounted, built a small fire, and made coffee. The coffee grounds had been thrown out when they emptied their pot for packing.

"Maybe a dozen men riding well-shod horses," Tyrel said, "and they rode off to the west together." Orrin nodded. He had been poking around the campfire and looking at tracks.

"Just for luck, Tye," he said, "let's turn due north for a spell." "Toward Fort Carlton?" Tyrel asked, his eyes too innocent.

Orrin flushed. "Well, it seems a good idea."

Chapter
XVI

When first it come to me that I was alive, I was moving. For what seemed a long time, I lay there with my eyes closed and just feeling the comfort of lying still. Then I tried to move, and everything hurt, and I mean everything.

Then I got to wondering where I was and what was moving me and what was I doing flat on my back when there was work to be done?

When I tried to move my right arm, I could, and my hand felt for my gun, and it was gone. So was my gun belt and holster. Yet I wasn't tied down, so it must be that I was with friendly folks.

About that time, I realized I was riding on a travois pulled behind an Indian pony.

After a bit, I closed my eyes and must have passed out again because the next thing I knew we were standing still. I was lying flat out on the ground, and I could hear a fire crackling and smell meat broiling.

Now when a body has been around as long as me, he collects a memory for smells, and the smells told me even without opening my eyes that I was in an Indian camp.

About that time, an Indian came over to me, and he saw my eyes were open, and he said something in an Indian dialect I hadn't heard before, and an Indian woman came over to look at me.

I tried to sit up, and although it hurt like hell, I managed it. Didn't seem I had any broken bones, but I was likely bruised head to foot, which can be even more painful sometimes.

She brought me a bowl with some broth in it, and whatever else was wrong with me hadn't hurt my appetite. The man who had found me awake was a young man, strongly made but limping.

A youngster, walking about, came over and stared at me with big round eyes, and I smiled at him.

When I had put away two bowls of broth, an old Indian came to me with my gun belt and holster. My six-shooter was in it, and he handed it to me. First thing, I checked the loads, and they were there.

The old man squatted beside me. "Much cows, all gone," he said. He gestured to show they'd scattered every which way.

"Men?" I asked.

He shrugged and pointed across the way, and I saw another man lying on the ground a dozen feet away. I raised up a bit and looked. It was Lin, the Chinese cook.

"How bad?" "Much bad. Much hurt." He looked over at Lin and then said, "White man?" "Chinese," I said.