Norton, Andre - Novel 15 (9 page)

 
          
 
"Hm."
Maybe
no one but Ritchie heard Tuttle's mutter. "The
game's
made, 'n the ball's rollin', gents."

 
          
 
That had been the cry of the gambler in
Santa Fe
. He shivered. The game had started, but
what were the stakes this time—their own lives?

 
          
 
The canny black Ritchie was riding was
foot-sure and steady—even over a trail which had ceased to exist sometime back
except as a white-blanketed cut through never-ending heights. Above, the gray
clouds had broken, and now the air was thick with whirling flakes which muffled
sound and hid from sight the men ahead. When they halted, Ritchie almost rode down
the very man who had signaled the stop.

 
          
 
By tramping and beating down drifts, they
achieved a pocket under the overhang of the cliff. As Ritchie rubbed down the
steaming black, he wondered how long the gelding could keep going on the
handful of corn which was all that remained in his provision bag. Tuttle's mule
was gnawing hungrily at a pine branch, and two of the horses reluctantly
followed its example.

 
          
 
The fire they huddled about was pocket-sized.
Forage for enough wood to enlarge it would have taken them out of sight. And
both Tuttle and the Sergeant were against that. It was Herndon who outlined
their position in frank enough words.

 
          
 
''We're staying here until it clears. Wander
out in this and lose our bearings, and that's the finish!"

 
          
 
''Stay here 'n starve!" burst out one of
the men. "We ain't got more'n 'bout two days food with us—"

           
 
"Two days full feed can make 'bout five
or six short rations," Tuttle pointed out. ''We draw up our belts a mite
maybe. Git out in this stuff, man, 'n we can be goin' six ways from Sunday 'n
not know it! Want them fellas to have the last word?"

 
          
 
Down the wind came a long mournful howl. The
horses stamped uneasily, and the men glanced over their shoulders into the gray
mist of the outer world.

 
          
 
Something moved against Ritchie, hunching
close
enough to make him feel real pressure. He looked down.
The little Apache was holding his hands out to the fire. He did not raise his
eyes. But, when again that dismal howl came floating through the snow, he
shivered. Ritchie picked up one of the blankets he had just pulled off his
horse and dropped it around the small bony shoulders. Brown claw hands caught
at its edges and whipped it tighter, so that only darting eyes could be seen
through a slit.

 
          
 
"Turn in our rations, huh?"
Kristland sounded slightly shocked.
" 'N
who's
goin' to divide 'em? Some of us have bin more savin'—"

 
          
 
Herndon's remote, tired voice still held a
patient note. "We're all in this together, man. If we don't share and
share alike, work, food, clothing, we may not be able to make it."

 
          
 
Ritchie had already pidled out the too-small
bag of his own food, and now he passed it along to lie beside those Herndon,
Tuttle, and Velasco had already laid down. With visible reluctance and some
grumbling they all added their shares.

 
          
 
There was the native corn meal, hardtack, some
jerky as brown and hard as the wood it so closely resembled, and a lump of the
sticky yellow mescal—the sugar-energy of the Indians. Herndon measured the
small hoard with his eyes before he touched it. Then he asked a single question
of the scout.

 
          
 
"What about game?"

 
          
 
Tuttle shook his head. ''Can't do any huntin'
in a storm. Later maybe we can scare us up a mountain bird or two. But this
ain't huntin' weather."

 
          
 
No, it wasn't hunting weather, and it wasn't
traveling weather either. As Ritchie scooped the half cave out of the snow to
hold his blankets, he missed Sturgis. The Southerner's fatalistic approach to
life might even be cheering tonight. He packed the wettest of his blankets at
the bottom and put his saddle at the head of the makeshift bed.

 
          
 
"Who's your bunkie?"

 
          
 
He stopped slapping the snow from his
trousers. Herndon, trailed by a small lump muffled in a blanket, stood there.

 
          
 
“I’ve been with Sturgis, sir—"

 
          
 
"Hmm.
We're
putting two men together for warmth. Three here—if you have no objection."
The Sergeant dropped his own saddle to rest beside Ritchie's and began to
spread his blankets with the skill of an old campaigner. As he worked, he
glanced several times at the diminutive Apache.

 
          
 
"Let us hope that the weather is too cold
to encourage the spread of wild life," he said at last with a quirk of a
smile. "There being no anthills at present to work for us in the
morning—"

 
          
 
"Anthills?"
Ritchie could not follow this at all.

 
          
 
"Anthills.
When,
in this country, one entertains unwelcome personal guests, the quickest way to
get rid of them is to peel down and drape clothes and bedding over the nearest
anthill. The ants go a-hunting and you get a thorough clean-out!"

           
 
But Ritchie was too tired to wonder whether
the cold was as good a preventative as an anthill. He was asleep as soon as he
crawled in. Some hours later he awoke after a dismal dream of being imprisoned
in a black box. The sky was
midnight
dark, and stars glittered icily over its
dome. It was so cold and still a night that he might have imagined himself on a
world as old and dead as the moon. Only one pinpoint of red promised life and
warmth—the coals of the fire tended by the guard. It must be close to the time
of
his own
tour of duty. With a wormlike wriggle he
freed himself of the tangle of coverings trying not to awaken either of his
bedmates. Tuttle grinned as he came up to the fire.

 
          
 
"Have a snort of this—" The scout
lifted a tin can which had been resting almost in the heart of the coals.
"T'ain't nothin' but hotted water—which don't do much 'bout warmin' yo' up
proper—but it's hot. If we had knowed what we was headed into, we might have
brought us a proper warmer. Take
Arizona
whisky now—"He sighed longingly.
"
Arizona
whisky's good as a boss liniment—'n we're
gonna need a boss liniment—'n it's good as a drink too. I've tried it both
ways, 'n I know!"

 
          
 
"Stopped snowing anyway."
Ritchie tried to reassure himself with that observation.

 
          
 
"Yep
. '
N it's
done a right smart lot of snow-layin' while it was 'bout it, too."

 
          
 
"D'you
suppose
we can go on tomorrow?"

 
          
 
Tuttle studied those brilliant stars.
"Tomorrow?
You mean today, son. Yep, we can head out.
Only it'll take a deal of footin' 'fore we sight Santy Fe again. I ain't
smokin' Jimson weed over that!" Seeing Ritchie's bewilderment he
explained. "Jimson weed in a man's pipe makes him see what ain't thar, or
ain't never gonna be thar. Injuns use it for makin' medicine. Time to start the
rounds, son—"

           
 
Ritchie stamped his cold feet in the snow and
set off around the camp, visiting the improvised picket line where the mules
and horses stirred uneasily and then quieted as they caught his familiar scent.
Beyond the immediate circle of the camp the snow was a great unbroken expanse
of white. Diamond crystals in it caught the moonlight and made cold fire along
the wind-carved ridges. The frost was worse than Ritchie had ever felt before.

 
          
 
And the cold did not break at daylight when
they dug themselves out, swallowed the few mouthfuls Herndon doled out, and
started on. Within fifteen minutes they all knew only too well what
back-breaking task lay before them.

 
          
 
There was no firm crust on that snow, and the
animals sank into it almost belly-deep, thrashing as if they were engulfed in
quicksand. The men went into the only action which could fight such stuff.
Three abreast they attacked the snow on foot, another three following close
behind to pack it tighter. They sank to their waists and flailed out with their
arms when and if an unwary step sent them off balance and floundering. It was
an agonizing job, pulling the strength out of them in the unequal struggle. At
first they dug in with some show of confidence; then it became a dull weary
round when sometimes they fell to hands and knees trying to beat the snow down
with the sheer weight of their bodies.

 
          
 
You had to fasten on some landmark ahead, Ritchie
discovered, and watch that, saying to yourself that you could hold out until
you reached that reddish rock or snow-drowned bush. But even Velasco's wiry
strength and Herndon's dogged endurance could not last through more than fifty
continuous yards of such labor.

 
          
 
When the lead man or men could go no farther,
they flopped aside and, their places taken, they puffed and blew and beat their
hands together until the animals came up and they had to crawl to their feet
and shuffle on until their turn came once more to face the eternal drifts.

 
          
 
The stuff was a nightmare. From apprehension
and discomfort, the mood of those who fought it became red hate and flaming
anger and then just a weary apathy, during which their fatigue-drugged bodies
went mechanically through motions which their minds no longer reasoned. When
they halted for the
noon
rest, Ritchie looked back. He could have
moaned aloud. They were still within sight of the morning camp!

 
          
 
But the worst was not yet. The clouds cleared,
and the sun broke through to make a blazing mirror of the snow. They stopped
and broke open cartridges, blackening their faces with powder—the only remedy
they knew against snow blindness. Scarves were pulled over faces, leaving only the
merest slit through which to peep. But then the fight

for
a path must begin again.

^ against snow blindness. Scarves were pulled over faces, leaving only
the merest slit through which to peep. But then the fight for a path must begin
again.

 
          
 
Ritchie was almost too exhausted that night to
eat. He sat staring at the portion of hardtack and the lump of mescal which had
been allotted to him without really seeing it —sat there until someone shook
his shoulder and ordered him sharply to eat. He obeyed as Herndon moved on to
bully the next man into eating, all of them into making the beds that would
save them in the cold, into hunting wood for the miserable fire that at least allowed
them to warm their hands.

 
          
 
It was the sight of the fire which aroused
them the most. Here and there a man made himself clumsy mittens of blanket to
protect his hands during the snow crawl which must begin again with the
morning. They no longer looked like even part of an army. Their motley winter
clothing, wet and bedraggled, covered them lumpishly. Mustaches were no longer
smartly pointed cavalry style, and even Herndon showed the prickly shadow of a
beard on his drawn face. The gunpowder blackening made menacing masks for the
whole party.

 
          
 
Wearily Ritchie dug in, and as silently the
small Apache came to help. Seven or eight feet must be cleared to reach the
ground, then some pine boughs broken off and trampled in the hole for a
flooring of sorts. Two forked sticks set up on the snow to the windward with
another across them and more boughs made the roof. It was the only shelter
possible.