Novel 1968 - Down The Long Hills (v5.0) Read online

  Partly sheltered by trees and brush, it was as good a place as he could have found, and better than many a shed where animals were kept in such weather. Standing alongside Big Red, he talked to him and fed him, bit by bit, the slab of pilot bread.

  “You got to help me, Red,” he whispered. “I’m kind of scared, but I’d never tell Betty Sue that, because she depends on me. We must have come more’n halfway. You stay by us and we can make it.”

  He fed the stallion another corner of the bread, and then suddenly the stallion’s head went up.

  Hardy heard the sound, too. It was a wolf…somewhere not very far off. He let the stallion have more rope, enough so he could lie down if he was of a mind to—or fight wolves if need be. He heard the long, lonely howl of the wolf again…and then another, farther away.

  Were they on their trail? Had they found the scent of the horse and the children?

  “It’s all right, Red.” Hardy patted the stallion’s shoulder. “It’s all right, boy.”

  The horse nuzzled the boy, and Hardy fed him the last of the pilot bread. With a look around, satisfied to see that no snow had yet blown into the shelter, Hardy went out. Snow swirled about him, but he felt along the wall to the door, lifted the latch, and went in. Once inside, he dropped the bar and pulled the latch-string back through its hole.

  He added wood to the fire, and sat down beside Betty Sue. Somewhere out in the night the wolf howled, and Betty Sue snuggled against him. “Don’t you worry,” he reassured her, “no wolf is going to get in here.”

  “I hope your pa finds us,” she said wistfully.

  “He’ll find us,” Hardy said positively. “I know he will. Why, I’d bet anything he’s hunting us right this minute!”

  Chapter 11

  SCOTT COLLINS DREW up to let the others overtake him. His face was lined and haggard, and he could see the dismay in Darrow’s features. Bill Squires reined in, took out his tobacco and bit off a healthy chew, then tucked the plug away in his shirt pocket.

  “Snow,” Darrow said bitterly. “That was all we needed.”

  “What do you think, Bill?” Collins asked. “You know this country better than we do.”

  “She’s goin’ to be a storm, a real old howler. That means three, four days. We’ve got to hole up and set it out, boys.”

  The snow was thickening as they talked. A rising wind whipped the snow into their faces and flapped the brims of their hats.

  “How long have we got before it’s too thick for us to travel?” Scott Collins asked. “I mean if we pushed on fast?”

  “Mebbe an hour, mebbe less. Look at it, Scott. If we don’t find a place to hole up we’re goin’ to freeze to death, an’ then who’ll look for the youngsters?”

  “All right, but let’s push on as long as we can see tracks. Then we’ll hunt for a place.”

  Squires started his pony, glancing briefly at the tracks. The tracks of the stallion were there, but the tracks of the pursuers were there too.

  Intent upon the trail of the children and the two men who followed them, nobody thought to ride wide of their trail, and so those other tracks, only a little way off, went unnoticed. Ashawakie had not given up on the great red horse, and he was fully aware of the presence of Cal and Jud. With a little skill he might return with their scalps and ponies as well, and he would have much to sing about in the winter lodges.

  The three men rode swiftly, all of them watching the trail, but not forgetting the country around them, either. “A man’s got to be careful,” Darrow said stubbornly. “This here’s late for Injuns, but who knows the mind of a redskin? We’re apt to come on ’em at any time.”

  “Pete Schifflin had him a place somewhere around here,” Squires commented. “We trapped this country together, an’ he claimed he found some color. All I know is that he took out of Fort Hall like the devil was after him, an’ we’d only just pulled in. Slipped off by himself with quite an outfit.”

  “What happened?”

  “He never showed up any more,” Squires said. He shrugged. “Mebbe Injuns…who knows? A man off by himself like that…he might break a leg…or he might get down sick, an’ who’s to rustle grub and water for ’im?”

  “It would be a good place to hole up if we could find it,” Darrow suggested.

  “We’d been riding the Beaver Rim,” Squires went on. “We split up, figurin’ to meet a few days later over at the Crow’s Nest, west of here. If he found gold, it was somewhere between the Rim an’ the Sweetwater.”

  Darrow chuckled cynically. “That’s a big piece of country, Squires.”

  “Well, he didn’t go south so far’s the Sweetwater, an’ we split up near the head of Crooked Creek an’ I cut his trail on Beaver Creek, due west of here. We rode on up to the Nest together.”

  The snow was growing thicker. Now all tracks were covered. There was no longer any question of following a trail; they could only depend on their minds.

  “You’re his pa—what will the boy do?” Squires asked.

  “He’ll do as we will. He’ll find him a hole and crawl into it. We waited out storms together a couple of times up in Wisconsin. An’ he’d find a place with wood an’ water. That’s a canny lad. My guess would be he’d found cover before he ran into the snow. He’d see it comin’.”

  “Which figures he’d be somewhere along a creek. He’ll hold straight, unless he figures he’d do better along the Sweetwater.”

  “Too far.”

  “Yeah…if he knows it.”

  It was growing colder and the snow was thicker now. There was no longer any question of riding on. They must find their shelter quickly.

  They found it on Rocky Draw, where the rock had been undercut by the creek waters. Working with axes, they soon had built a windbreak across the opening, which would also reflect their fire’s heat into the overhang. There was room enough for themselves and their horses, but before they finally took shelter the ground already had a thick covering of snow.

  Scott Collins dropped beside the fire, his face gray. “You were right, Frank,” he said to Darrow; “they’ll never make it. I was foolish to hope.”

  “Nothin’ of the kind!” Darrow replied roughly. “You said yourself the kid was smart enough to hole up. If we were right, an’ that was a grub sack he was draggin’ when he left the camp of those thieves, then the youngsters have got some grub. Hell, how much does it take to feed a couple of kids that small?”

  “They’ll make out,” Squires agreed. “The kid’s canny.”

  Darrow went about mixing a batch of frying-pan bread. From time to time he glanced at Collins. That’s a good man, he thought, too good a man to lose a youngster like that one. He found himself trying to imagine what the boy was doing now, and he grew impatient with their own warmth, their security. Had there been tracks, he would have gone right out to look…but where to go? Where to look?

  All through the night the snow fell, and the rising wind whipped it into drifts. Slowly the landmarks disappeared, the world became changed. The wind howled, and those lesser killers, the savage timber wolves, burrowed deep and hid to wait out the storm, some with bellies half-filled, some starving; but there would be nothing for them to eat until the storm was over. For during the storm, nothing moved but the wind…the wind and the snow.

  The pines lowered their limbs under the weight of the snow, and a few animals sought shelter in the hollows close to the protected trunks. The wolves did not worry. They tucked their noses under the brush of their tails, curled into a ball, and went to sleep. They were used to this—it was their life.

  Scott Collins was restless and irritable, but he fought down the feeling, knowing there was nothing worse in the confinement of a snowbound shelter than a man who grumbles and complains. There was nothing to be done until the storm blew itself out, and the snow ceased. To move now would mean only to waste strength in struggling against the storm.

  So he forced himself to recall those times when Hardy had faced the wilderness and the cold
with him, and he drew some small reassurance from the realization that Hardy would remember some of the things he had learned then.

  “When the storm’s over,” Squires suggested. “I think we’d best waste no time, but head right on for South Pass. The boy’s got to take that route, an’ we stand a better chance of catchin’ him that way.”

  ASHAWAKIE WAS NO longer alone. In a corner of the hills off the Flats he had come on a travois trail made by some of his people. He found them well hidden at the edge of the woods. There were a dozen warriors, seven squaws, and half a dozen children, who had made camp to sit out the storm before going on to their main camp farther to the northeast.

  All through the day Ashawakie talked with them, and by next daybreak he had arranged with six warriors to accompany him to track down and attack the two parties of white men and the children. They would take their horses, weapons, and other equipment.

  The two parties they were to track down were separated, and Ashawakie knew where both parties were hidden. The undertaking looked comparatively simple. There was no risk now of missing their trail. As soon as the storm ceased they would move out.

  But there was one thing he did not know. Scott Collins, on the second night of the storm, had gone out again to listen into the night. He made his way up through the trees and stood there alone. The wind had died down somewhat, and he strained his ears for some sound in the darkness, not knowing exactly what he hoped to hear…perhaps a child’s voice, crying in the night.

  He had started to return to camp when he saw the tracks. Had he been less attuned to listening for every sound, looking for anything that might help them in their search, he might have missed them.

  The thing he noticed first was a tree branch from which the snow had fallen or had been brushed away. All the other branches were covered with at least a couple of inches of snow…why not that one?

  Careful to disturb nothing, he moved closer. Behind the clouds there was a moon, and the snow itself added to the light.

  There were moccasin tracks in the snow, many of them, and all apparently made by the same man. An Indian had come into these bushes, had crouched here staring through the trees at their shelter. And he had been there for some time.

  Scott returned to the shelter and, accompanied by Squires—for Darrow was already asleep—he returned to the spot. Together they trailed the Indian back, by his moccasin tracks, which were half filled with snow. It brought them to a sheltered spot among the trees a few hundred yards off where a horse had been tethered. Then they went back to their camp.

  At daylight all three men returned and studied the tracks. “It’s him all right,” Squires said. “Those are the same horse tracks of the Injun who follered the kids—the one who tangled with the grizzly.”

  “We’d better ride loose,” Darrow commented. “A man could get mighty chilly, ridin’ around without his scalp in this kind of weather.”

  Half an hour later they cut the trail of the travois and the hunting party of Indians, heading north.

  “Cheyennes,” Darrow said. “He’ll be meetin’ up with them sure as shootin’.”

  They were in trouble, and they knew it. The Cheyennes might decide to ride on north—no Indian liked to fight in cold weather—but they might elect to drop back just to pick up a few scalps and ponies.

  The plans of the three men to sit out the storm, which was not yet over, had gone glimmering, since their camp had been discovered. An Indian, hiding out there in the dark, could kill any man who emerged to check on the stock or to rustle firewood. They knew they had to move on, to find a better defensive position…and with luck to come on the trail of the children.

  Three miles away to the south, Cal and Jud were holed up in an even less desirable position, and they, too, were thinking of moving on.

  Four miles down Rocky Draw, and scarcely more than a mile from the head of Beaver Creek, were the children and the stallion. Their tracks were now covered with snow, for they had been the first to seek shelter.

  Scott Collins led off, riding out of the draw and heading west. Less than an hour after cutting the trail of the travois they were riding about half a mile north of the dugout that sheltered Hardy and Betty Sue.

  They had no doubt their trail would be found, and they knew there might be a fight. It all depended on the Cheyennes themselves. Would they decide to ride south on a scalp-hunting foray this late in the season, or would they dismiss that idea and ride on to their home?

  “Scott, we hadn’t better ride too far.” Squires had come up beside him. “If we get ahead of those youngsters we’ll never find ’em. If we’ve guessed right an’ they’re holed up, they ain’t likely to move…an’ it’s startin’ to snow again.”

  Squires’s worry showed in his face. The storm might be the end of it all. Even if the youngsters survived it, how would they ever find their trail again? This was a big country, and a man couldn’t hope to cover it all.

  The place they found to hole up was under some buttes that loomed above Beaver Creek. They offered protection from the north wind, as well as from attack from that direction, and there was a small shelter where high water on the Beaver had stranded several dead trees upon three large boulders. These trees made a partial roof, and other debris as well as the snow had formed the rest. It was a place for the three men, and a combination of trees and the buttes made a rough but adequate shelter for their horses.

  Scott Collins set to work to clean his guns. He had a bad feeling about the days ahead. They had been lucky so far, too lucky, he thought.

  Darrow picked up some slabs of rock from the foot of the butte and placed them back of the fire to serve as a reflector that would throw the heat into the shelter. Squires patched up a few holes where the wind might blow in, covering them with pine boughs.

  Collins finished cleaning his guns and then gathered evergreen boughs for their beds. After that he got together as much dead wood as he could find and stacked it at the edge of their shelter. The night was going to be a cold one, and the fire must be kept going. From time to time one of them moved out from the camp and listened. They knew there was not very much danger of an Indian attack on such a night, but it did not pay to take anything for granted.

  It was still and cold when Collins went outside the camp again. A faint sifting of snow was still in the air, and his boots made a crunching sound as he went down the little slope to the creek. There was ice along the edges, but no ice in midstream. He crossed the stream on a fallen log, and climbing the bank he went up through the snow-laden trees to the slight rise beyond.

  Looking back, he could see nothing of their camp. From this direction, at least, it was well hidden.

  “Hardy, boy,” he whispered, “where are you?”

  There was no answer, no sound. The snow fell gently, silently.

  Chapter 12

  HARDY AWOKE WITH a start. He had been sound asleep, and suddenly he was wide awake and listening. For a minute he heard nothing, then there was the sound of movement, and Big Red snorted angrily.

  Hardy slipped from under the buffalo coat and tiptoed to the door. For a moment he stood there listening, and he heard a low whine of eagerness.

  Peeping through a crack, he looked out. It had been snowing earlier in the night, but now it had stopped, leaving everything white and still—except for two…three…black spots on the snow.

  Wolves…

  He could see them quite clearly. They were big wolves, and they were close by. One of them was not more than thirty feet from the dugout, and all of them were looking toward the crude stable where Big Red was. The stallion sensed their presence, and was aware of the danger.

  Hardy hesitated, his heart pounding. He must try to frighten them away. Pa had told him how wolves worked. One or two of them would get at a horse’s heels, staying just out of reach, but ready to run in and hamstring him if possible. Another wolf or two could circle in front, watching for a chance to rush in and grab at the animal’s throat.

  These
were timber wolves, larger than any he had ever seen. He could shoot at them, but the derringer would be useless and the one shot would not stop them for long.

  Then he thought of it…fire!

  Turning quickly, he went to the fireplace and stirred the coals. Under the ashes a few were still alive, and he stirred them, adding barks and twigs that had been put aside for the purpose. He was frightened, but he knew he must help Big Red right away, before the wolves closed in on him.

  He thrust a large branch into the coals and it caught fire. When it was blazing well, he took down the bar at the door and caught up the branch and rushed outside, yelling and waving the branch.

  Startled, the wolves sprang away, and rushed off into the snow. Hardy went back and laid the branch at the edge of the fireplace. He glanced at Betty Sue. She was sleeping quietly, and he blessed the fact that she was tired and was a sound sleeper.

  Carrying a large stick, he went out to the stallion. “It’s all right, Red,” he said reassuringly. He patted the big horse on the shoulder. “We’ll handle them.”

  He stayed with the stallion a minute or two, but the chill began to strike him and he went back to the dugout and closed the door.

  He dared not go to sleep again, for the wolves would be back as soon as they got over their momentary fear. He did not know how successful he would be in driving them off again, but he knew he would have to try. But first, he built up the fire.

  When it was burning brightly he peered out of the door again. Sure enough, he caught a flicker of movement in the brush. One of the hungry beasts was lurking out there. What could he do?

  And then a new idea came to him. Just how it suddenly became a full-fledged plan he had no idea. Twice he had gone to the door, simply opening and closing it and the sound had been enough to send a wolf loping away into the brush, but the animal had not gone far, and he had not hurried.

  Outside the dugout, about halfway between the dugout and the horse’s shelter, but back toward the edge of the creek, was a big old stump. Hardy had cut several pieces of pitch from it for kindling, and there were droplets of pitch where it had oozed from cracks in the old pine stump.