Double Mountain Crossing (12 page)

“I didn't think of the Indians,” she shuddered, ashen faced, her fingers winding in her long black curls as though to reassure herself they were still there.

“There you are,” Shuck smiled, laying a hand on her cheek. “That's what I'm here for, to think of all these little things for you. You got to keep pretty.”

She could feel his rancid breath, reeking of cigar smoke and whiskey as it washed over her. That look she knew so well was coming into his eyes, and she knew what was coming next.

“As I said,” he continued as he unbuckled his gun belt and took off his jacket, “if we have to pick his money away from him slow and easy, it's going to be a real long winter.”

And it was.

The heavy norther that had punished the hammered joints of the wooden buildings ceased its moaning and faded. The snow-heavy clouds that had remained a constant threat disappeared from the sky, allowing the pale sun to shine through and pick at the snow crusted ground. It was still bitter at night and the frost undid most of the sun's work, but as the days passed the land drained and the melted slush grew steadily shallower. It would soon be first grass and the ranchers tidied their barns and readied their branding irons. Eyes crow-footed, gaze resting on the distant skyline, unconsciously their gloved hands fashioned loops, then
recoiled
hand-woven lariats, ready for rounding up the winter's scattered cattle.

In the hotel room overlooking the street Morgan contemplated his dwindling bank account. Out of $3,000 there was barely $600 left. Where had it gone? He made a face. No use asking damn fool questions for he knew all too well where.
Poker, whiskey, and Ann Marie's tender ministrations.
Which of it, he wondered, had been the most wasteful?

He glanced out at the brightening day. What the hell, if it wasn't for the cards, the ladies and the bottle, what the hell else was there to live for? Good point, he decided as he spat the cork across the room to bounce off the wall and tilted the life giving whiskey into his raw throat. Better? Much obliged Mr
Whatever
your name was who invented this brew.

$2,400 gone.
Well, what of it?
Plenty more where that came from.
Or there had better be, because the six hundred he had left wouldn't be a king's ransom by the time he'd resupplied his outfit and bought two more horses to haul the ore. He would have to carry a few bottles of whiskey too. Drying out too fast wouldn't do him much good. Likely kill a man. Besides, it was
medicine,
it helped keep away those dreams. He hated to try and count how many times he had faced his own death while asleep. Only Anne Marie'd helped soothe them away, cradling him in her arms like a scared baby. He wondered why she bothered so much with an ornery old man like him. Fair enough, she was just making a buck like everyone else, but she seemed to make it much more than just a chore. She was real friendly about it, and over the months he had begun to think of her as, well, his woman.

He stood up and stamped into his boots. Better hurry up and get back to the mountains and let the clear air blow all these fool notions out of his whiskey-soaked brain.
Women?
He always remembered the echoes of his father's words: “Remember boy, there's one woman you'll meet someplace along the trail that'll be the one, but them you pay for, just use 'em and forget 'em. Nobody falls in love with a whore.
Nobody but a fool.”
He'd paused then and looked off into the distance.
“Ain't in a man's nature.”

The picture faded. His father's words took him back to his last visit home. It had been before the war, and by the time Morgan received the news and journeyed there, all that was left were two wooden markers side by side on a hill that looked out over the
Missouri River
. Nobody had known what the sickness was. One day they'd both been well and a week later they were both dead.
Back to the earth.
It was fitting. His father had always loved the feel of the soil as it crumbled between his fingers. Now it would surround him until Kingdom Come.

He sniffed. That was the way it went. At least his father had someone to think of him, not that Morgan had. He'd always wanted a wife and a son to follow on after him, but he had never been in the right place at the right time. Before he could stop the thought he wondered if Ann Marie would shape up. Could she cook as well as she handled the other requirements? No, ridiculous, she was a whore. He'd blow some gold up in Frisco and have a good time,
then
maybe when he bought some land he would think again about a wife. Plenty of years left to sire a son, and he thought with a wry grin, there was enough life in him yet to sow the seed.

The old
negro
greeted him warmly when he ventured inside the livery stable. Morgan looked first to his horses and nodded at the care lavished on them. The dun gelding was frisky, and the grain feeds had sleekened the bay's flanks. He fondled both animals affectionately and returned the ostler's toothy grin.

“Want to talk about some horseflesh.”

The old man scratched his ear. “
Yessuh,
got a nice horse down here.” He walked along the stalls and indicated an iron grey that looked leggy and powerful, if a little mean. Morgan examined the horse and pursed his lips.

“$25?”

“$35.”

“$30.”

“Done.
Any more?”

“One.”
The
negro
pointed.
“Next stall.
Strong enough.”

Morgan appraised the big black. “Looks like a riding horse.”

“Yessuh.”

“No good. I want to pack it out.”

The old
negro
grimaced for a moment, then smiled. “I got a mule'd be perfect for that.”

“Mule?
No, I prefer horses.”

“Mighty strong animals, suh.
Sometimes they can keep on going when a horse is plum tuckered out, yessuh.”

Morgan gave him a quick glance but the old man appeared to be genuine. “You ain't got
nothing
else that'll do me?”

“Nosuh.”

Morgan sighed. “All right, let's have a look at him.”

The old man showed his teeth and pointed out the animal. Morgan had to agree it looked capable of hard work. Its frame was stringy, but it appeared all muscle and stood as tall as any of the other horses. He had never used a mule before, but many prospectors swore by them, and there was a first time for everything.
“How much?”

“$20.”

“Throw in the harness.”

“All the harness but the packsaddle.”

Morgan laughed. The old man wasn't giving much away.

“Cup of coffee to seal the deal?”

“You got it,” Morgan grinned. “I need to get a list of stores together and your coffee's much more to my liking than what's dished up in the restaurant.”

The
negro
grinned at the compliment. “No discount,” he warned before bowing to sweep an arm in a gesture of welcome to his humble quarters. “Come on in, then, suh.”

***

When Morgan finished his business in the general store his bankroll was severely depleted but the three pack horses were well laden with enough provisions to last him an easy three months. If the ore vein wasn't as big as he figured, he could always pack up and ride off someplace else. He checked all the harness was ready and the loads were securely fastened, then stood for a moment at the hitching rail, his mind working in circles as he tried to think of anything he might have forgotten.
Salt?
Yes.
Shells?
Yes…

“'Scuse me, suh.
Somethin' you oughta know.”

The
negro's
voice cut into Morgan's mental inventory. He turned his head slowly to eye him with interest. “Yes?”

“You know that big black horse you were shy of buyin'. Well, that sharp eyed fella with the low slung gun just bought him.”

“Obliged, old man,” Morgan drawled, peering into the glinting eyes gauging his reaction to the news. So, they figured if they couldn't get him in town, Alison'd follow him out and bushwhack him on the prairie. He fished for a dollar but the
negro
waved it away with a grin. Morgan watched him,
then
laughed.

“I get it,” he said. “You made a good sale.”

“Sixty bucks.”

Morgan raised his eyebrows and whistled. “Double, eh?”

The old
negro's
grin almost cracked his face in half as he opened his hands and turned them over to show his pink palms, then shrugged helplessly.

“What else could I ask?
The only horse for sale in town?”

***

The Palo Duro canyon looked almost the same as it had before winter had come to ravage the land. If a man looked closely he could see where dirt had been carefully sifted over the ashes of cooking fires and where the grass had been grazed by the ponies in the lee of the mulberry trees. Or even the criss-crossed tracks of moccasins that faded quickly in earth still damp and swollen by the water from the winter snows. If a man chose to sit his horse quietly on the canyon floor, he could hear the crying of animals both large and small in the lush vegetation that hugged the twisting gash in the prairie, and the constant bubbling song of the stream that ran forever eastward under the watchful eye of the sun.

Once at the rim, the scenery was from another world. Tumbling rock walls were replaced by an endless expanse of prairie rolling westward, painted with the first green of the
new year's
grass. Nowhere was there a telltale sign of a watercourse, no place to seek shade when the summer sun charred the
earth,
or a place to shelter when the thunder rumbled and lightning stabbed magnesium bright tongues of destruction. The land still bore the remains of more than one smouldered buffalo carcass chosen as an unwilling offering to the Thunder Beings.

When Thunderhawk's small war party set out across the spring buffalo grass, little did they realize that within a handful of years the spreading cancer of the white man would penetrate as far as their sacred canyon, and that one of the first cattle ranches on the southwest plains would be established there by Charles Goodnight, and the bones of two thousand Kiowa, Comanche and Cheyenne ponies slaughtered by the U.S. Cavalry would whiten in the sun. No longer would the white man be
mas alla
, over the horizon, but in the very heart of their hunting grounds, and the last of the great southern herds of buffalo would be seeking shelter under the canyon walls from the long reach of the buffalo hunters' hungry guns.

Thunderhawk sat his rangy black pony, squinting into the distance, but he could discern no life moving out on the prairie. The grief of the winter had passed leaving him only with the memories of the good days stored in his heart, but his anger still smouldered, sometimes so hot he marvelled the winter snows had not melted from its heat. Now, his war bonnet proudly worn and the pipe smoked among his followers, he was again
To-Yop-Ke
, He-Who-Carries-The-Pipe, War chief of his band, second only to the greatest of the war chiefs still alive; Kicking-Bird, Mamanti, or Satanta.

The braves who had elected to ride with him sat on his flanks. By his side was Crowfoot, a thoughtful man whose council was always well considered, next to him Coyote, known for his courage,
then
at the line's end Littleman the Scout. On his right sat the Buffalo Medicine Man, their carrier of good fortune, Running Dog the Horseman, and lastly the youngest of the party who was riding as scout,
Eks-a-Pana
, The Soldier. They all watched the still prairie, waiting for their chief's command. For this last moment, Thunderhawk considered the journey ahead, already having made his entreaty to Buffalo Woman to bring him success, and having communed with his own personal medicine hidden in the parfleche on his saddle. There was nothing more he could do but put his trust in the Great Spirit to guide him to his destiny.

Yet something stilled him. It was not yet time.

He tilted his head back then he saw it. The dark speck in the sky swooped low over the Kiowas, outlined clearly for a second below a puffball of white cloud, wings extended rigid for a frozen moment in time, then the Red Backed Hawk climbed out of its stoop and flew off towards the west. Thunderhawk smiled grimly. The hawk had been his brother's personal omen and it had come to point the way.

It was done. He was ready.

He broke his trance and turned to his left as he nudged the black into a walk. His eyes met those of the boy who gazed back at him steadily.

“Very well, Soldier. Now is the time. Guide me to the place.”

***

The lineback dun was frisky after the confinement of the stable and Morgan had to hold him down to a steady pace as he rode out of Redrock, the three pack animals strung out behind him. He grinned. Both the iron grey and the mule that the ostler had talked him into buying were shaping up, responsive to the tug of the lead rein.