Wayward Wind (30 page)

The news she received about Brice was secondhand. Luke, Hollis’s cousin, stopped by and said Brice, Hollis and Billy Tyrrell
had left the mountain just as soon as Brice was able to sit a saddle. He said Brice was acting strange. At times he was like
a mad dog snapping at everyone, and at other times like a whipped cur. Being around him was like walking on eggs, Luke said,
you never knew which way to jump first.

It wasn’t thoughts of Brice that troubled Lorna’s mind; it was Cooper and what had happened between them. Not that she was
completely aware of it, but since meeting Cooper, Light’s Mountain had lost some of its magical attraction. The September
days were spent as they had been for as long as she could remember, preparing for the long winter months, but the zest with
which she had accomplished these tasks was gone. She went about the work automatically, listlessly.

White Bull and his people returned. The old chief came to see her. She told him about the whipping she gave Brice, but carefully
refrained from mentioning Cooper, knowing that if White Bull thought she wanted him for her man, he would send a party of
braves to fetch him to Light’s Mountain. The tribe was planning to move on south, and if she was to visit the village she
must do it soon. Not even the promise of that could shake her from her lethargy.

The saving grace of this dark time in her life, she was to realize later, was the new understanding between her and her father.
His quiet companionship was her only comfort. Frank seldom left the homestead during the weeks following “Black Sunday” as
he called the day Lorna had whipped Brice Fulton.

“He be a mon to seek vengeance,” he declared more than once.

“Let him try,” Lorna would reply heatedly, looking toward the rock covered mounds where they had buried the dogs Brice had
killed.

She missed Naomi and Ruth. She missed them going with her to the barn when she went to milk the brindle cow and their happy
yipping when Frank came to the house. Now there was only the clucking of the flighty chickens, the scolding of the bluejays
and the caws of the black crows that hovered over the homestead.

Lorna didn’t know exactly when the idea came to her to go take a look at Cooper’s ranch. The idea was an offshoot of the notion
she had to search for Volney. There were two places the old mountain man could have made for; a shack he sometimes used high
up on the timberline, or one down on the Thompson River. From there it wouldn’t be far to where she thought Cooper’s ranch
was located. The idea hung in her mind. She mulled it over until one day she thought of something Cooper had said:
I’ll get a look at you and you won’t even know I’m within a hundred miles.
At that moment the idea solidified into something she could hold on to and pursue, and a tingling excitement began to build
within her.

Frank stood in the yard as she tied a bedroll behind her saddle and filled the saddlebags with provisions. Gray Wolf danced
nervously, anxious to be away, and she spoke to him sternly. The morning was crisp as only a late September morning could
be in the mountains. The smell of frost made the air sharp and tangy.

“I dinna need to be sayin’ to ye that I’d as soon ye not be goin’,” he said and looped the coiled bullwhip over her saddle
horn.

“I know, Pa. Thank you for not arguing against it.”

“Ye be a woman grown, daughter. Ye be knowin’ yer own mind ’n goin’ yer own way.”

“I’ll be all right. You keep an eye out, hear? Don’t let yourself get cornered if Brice and his bunch come back.”

“They be halfway to California by now, I’m thinkin’.”

“Keep an eye out for Moose and Woody, too. They’ll be coming soon. They’ll probably be here by the time I get back.”

“Four days, ye say?”

“Give or take a day. Pa—” She never called him Frank, now. “Don’t worry.” She went to him and took the oilskin pouch of food
from his hands. “Other times I’ve gone off and you didn’t worry—”

“Aye, I did in me own foolish way, but not like now. Ye be careful, girl.”

“Aye, oold mon, ’n ye be careful, too.” Lorna imitated his Scottish brogue in an attempt to make him smile, but his dour face
remained furrowed with worry lines.

She stored the food in the saddlebag and swung into the saddle. Gray Wolf danced and Lorna laughed for the first time in weeks.
In britches, perched atop the big horse with her hair stuffed up under a flat-crowned brimmed hat, she looked like a small
helpless boy, but Frank knew she was far from helpless. With the rifle, the stiletto and the bullwhip she would be a dangerous
enemy for any man to attack.

“Bye, Pa,” she called over her shoulder and gave Gray Wolf rein to set his own pace.

Lorna climbed up out of the valley and into the higher hills to pass over the ridge to the trail that led downward. She traveled
by stages, letting Gray Wolf pick his own way for the most part, but here and there she reined wide of an unnecessarily steep
climb out of consideration for her mount. She was acutely attuned to her surroundings, turning her head constantly, sending
her sharp gaze skittering over the terrain in suspicious searching.

This was her country. She loved the upthrust ridges, the crisscrossing canyons filled with pines and the streams, almost dry
now, that would be rioting in the spring, carrying the melted snow to the valleys below. She knew every species of wildlife
that lived here: the birds—and she could mimic their song to perfection—the deer, the rodent, predator, and reptile. She could
tell what had caused a panic-stricken deer to bound along the trail by the sound of the rustling in the underbrush.

This was her world and she had seldom been lonely in it. There was always the sound of the birds, from the concerted outburst
of profanity from bluejays to the soft cooing of the mourning doves and hoot owls, the call of a coyote, the scream of a cat
or the chatter from a squirrel to listen to. Now, this day, she was urgently happy to be leaving the mountains for the flat
tablelands at the feet of them.

From the moment they left the homestead, Gray Wolf had sensed an urgency in the girl on his back. On the downward trail he
traveled faster, as the summons came more strongly to him. Lorna let him go, but slowed him cautiously when the table on which
she rode narrowed. On her left was a wall that rose a hundred feet into the air, and to her right the rim of the table marked
a fall of nearly twice that distance, making this long and flat expanse a gigantic stairstep carved by nature into the side
of the mountain. At the far end of the step the land was a jungle of boulders and it took her the best part of an hour to
work her way through them. Once free, she found herself in a land of towering ponderosa pines and dense undergrowth. She and
Gray Wolf drifted through it with almost no sound at all.

It was warmer in the lowlands. They stopped by a swiftly moving stream to drink and Lorna cautioned Gray Wolf. “Just a few
swallows now, you’re too hot for much of that cold water.”

She took off the blanket coat she wore, tied it to her bedroll and wiped the sweat from her face. Her head itched beneath
the hat and the heavy mass of hair. She took off the hat and massaged her head with her fingertips before carefully tucking
the hair up under the hat again. There was no point in flaunting the fact she was a lone woman in case she met someone on
the trail.

She reached the Thompson in late afternoon and followed it downstream. Her mind searched for everything Volney had told her
about this small log cabin he called headquarters. The mountains were his home, he’d said, but the cabin was a place to go
to and winter if the notion struck him.

She saw it in the late evening, just as dusk settled over the timbered bench. It was squat and sturdy, like Volney, and blended
into its surroundings so perfectly that her eyes had passed over it the first time they scanned the area. She drew Gray Wolf
to a halt and the two of them remained stone still for long minutes while she examined every foot of terrain around the cabin.
A squirrel was sitting beside the door, an acorn in its paws, eyeing her, swishing its tail angrily.

“There’s no one here. No one, at all.” She spoke softly to Gray Wolf. His ears twitched and his nostrils quivered, but he
moved slowly forward.

The squirrel cocked his head, then dropped the acorn and scolded before scampering up a tree.

Lorna heated water for coffee, then put out the small fire she had built in the smoke-blackened fireplace. She didn’t want
to draw attention to the cabin should there be anyone within smoke-smelling distance. After she ate she staked Gray Wolf out
in front of the cabin and lay down on the pile of musty furs Volney used for a bed, confident the stallion would alert her
if anyone approached. She was tired after the hard day’s ride. Tired and disappointed.

She had hoped to find Volney here and that he would be his usual cantankerous self, scoffing at the idea she would think a
peabrain like Brice Fulton could get the best of him. She needed to have a visit with her old friend and tell him about her
father and how he had withdrawn into himself after her mother died and make it clear to him that he’d had no part in the cattle
rustling that was going on.
How could she have ever thought that about her father?

She wanted to tell Volney about Cooper, too. It was strange that Volney had never mentioned being an almost regular visitor
at Cooper’s ranch. But then, Volney never felt the need to tell her anything about his wanderings.

Morning came and she was tinglingly aware that before the day was over she would see where Cooper lived and might even get
a glimpse of him. She hadn’t planned any farther than keeping well out of sight, looking over the ranch and making sure Bonnie
was there. After that she’d go back home and hope that Volney would show up sometime before winter set in.

In the middle of the afternoon Gray Wolf lifted his head and sniffed repeatedly. Lorna reined in, keeping the stallion still
with a hand on his neck, and surveyed the area. Judging the best screen would be in the junipers to the west, she turned into
them, crossed a well-worn trail and rounded the foot of the hill marking the highest point of the valley’s southern, outspread
arms. She had traveled down less than a half a mile of sloping terrain before she came to another trail. Two shod horses had
passed early that morning according to the prints they’d left in the dark red soil. She wheeled Gray Wolf to give him a running
start and the stallion easily jumped the trail, leaving no evidence she had crossed it.

She drew rein on a slight rise a quarter of a mile from the ranch buildings. From this position she could see the front of
the house, the side of the bunkhouse and all the outbuildings. Cooper’s home was a compound of small, neat buildings, a network
of pole corrals, and a single-story house with a wide porch. There were flowers, planted in rows, along the front of the house
and a wire fence surrounding a vegetable garden on the side of it. The only movement that she could see with her naked eye
was from the horses in the corrals, the white chickens picking in the yard, and a wash that fluttered in the breeze from a
wire stretched between two trees.

Gray Wolf stood avidly sniffing the air with belled nostrils and busily working ears. He tossed his head excitedly and Lorna
hastily moved him back into the trees, fearing he would let loose a shrill neigh announcing his presence to the mares. In
a small clearing where the grass was ankle-high, she dismounted, drew off the saddle and fashioned a rope halter for Gray
Wolf. She was afraid to ground-tie the big stallion as she usually did, afraid the mares would be too great a temptation for
him. She put him on a long lead rope, with one end fastened to the halter she slipped over his head and the other end tied
securely to a young sapling.

“I know you hate being tied,” she murmured in his ear. “I hate doing it to you, but if you let your mating instinct take you
down there, Cooper’ll know I’m here. I can’t let him think I’ve come running back to him with my tail between my legs. You
understand, don’t you, my dearest friend?”

Lorna took the glasses from her saddlebag and went back through the screening junipers. She settled down on the cushion of
thick needles with her back against the rough trunk of a tall pine. With pounding heart and trembling fingers she raised the
glasses to her eyes.

A man was sitting on the porch. His hair was light, he had a handlebar mustache, and his leg was wrapped and propped up on
a box. It wasn’t Cooper.

She moved the glasses so she could study the clothes on the line. She saw shirts and Cooper’s long-legged pants, but she didn’t
see anything that belonged to Bonnie. Beyond the clothesline, inside a three-sided shed, a man worked at a forge. He wasn’t
Cooper, either. In the corral beside the bunkhouse several horses stood beneath a brush arbor, swishing the pesky fall flies
with their tails. One of the horses was the mare she had found, the mare that had led Cooper to the cabin on the Blue, the
other was a wiry dun horse.
Volney’s horse!

Lorna took the glasses from her eyes and rested her forearm on her bent knee. Either Volney was there, or else Volney was
dead and Cooper had buried him and brought his horse there. It was more than likely he was dead, she thought painfully. Oh,
poor Volney. She wished she had killed Brice Fulton!

A woman came out onto the porch, but before Lorna could get the glasses in position she had gone back into the house. Then
she saw Bonnie walk out into the yard. An old yellow dog moved lazily out from beneath the porch and came slowly to meet her.
She stopped to pat its head, then continued on to the clothesline. Lorna had never seen Bonnie looking so grand. She was wearing
a tan dress that buttoned down the front. The waist fit snugly and the skirt came down to the tops of her shoes. The only
thing Lorna had ever seen her wear was a sack-type dress that had been patched a hundred times and had strips of material
sewed on the bottom to make it longer as she grew taller. Something else was different about Bonnie;
both
of the sleeves of her dress were rolled to her elbows.