Sackett (1961) s-9 Read online

  Cap, he taken a pan and went down to the creek. In the late evening he washed it out and came back to the fire.

  There were flecks of gold in the pan . . . we'd found color. Here we would stake our claim.

  Chapter VII

  We forted up for trouble.

  Men most likely had been following us. Sooner or later they would find us, and we could not be sure of their intentions. Moreover, the temper of the Utes was never too certain a thing.

  Riding up there, I'd had time for thinking. Where gold was found, men would come.

  There would be trouble--we expected that--but there would be business too. The more I thought, the more it seemed to me that the man who had something to sell would be better off than a man who searched for gold.

  We had made camp alongside a spring not far from the plunging stream that came down the mountainside and emptied into the Vallecitos. I was sure this was the stream I had followed into the high valley where my gold was. Our camp was on a long bench above the Vallecitos, with the mountainside rising steeply behind it and to the east. We were in a clump of scattered ponderosa pine and Douglas fir.

  First, we shook out our loops and snaked some deadfall logs into spaces between the trees. Next we made a corral by cutting some lodgepole pine --the lodgepole pine grew mostly, it seemed, in areas that had been burned over--and laying the ends of the poles in tree forks or lashing them to trees with rawhide. It was hard work, but we both knew what needed to be done and there was little talk and no waste effort.

  Short of sundown I walked out of the trees and along the bench. Looking north, we faced the widest spot we had so far seen in the canyon of the Vallecitos. It was a good mile north of our camp.

  "That's where we'll build the town," I told Cap. He took his pipe out of his mouth. "Town?" "Where there's gold, there'll be folks. Where folks are, there's wanting. I figure we can set up store and supply those wants. Whether they find gold or not, they will be eating and needing tools, powder, blankets--all that sort of thing. It seems to be the surest way, Cap, if a man wants to make him a living. Gold is found and is mined, but the miners eat."

  "You won't find me tending store," Cap said. "Me, neither. But we'll lay out the town site, you and me. Well stake the lots, and we'll watch for a good man. Believe me, he'll come along. Then we'll set him up in business."

  "You Sacketts," Cap said, "sure play hell once you get out of the mountains. Only thing puzzles me is, what kept you there so long?"

  The next few days we worked sunrise to sundown. We paced off a street maybe four hundred yards long, we laid out lots, and planned the town. We figured on a general store, a livery stable, a hotel and boarding house, and two saloons. We spotted a place for a blacksmith shop, and for an assayer.

  We cut logs and dragged some of them down to the site for the store, and we put up signs indicating that any folks who came along were to see us about the lots.

  Meantime, we worked a little on the claim-- rarely more than a pan or two a day because we had much else to do. But we found color--not a lot, but some.

  We also improved our fort. Not that it looked much like one, and we didn't want it to, but we were set up to fight off an attack if it came.

  Neither one of us had much trust in the peaceful qualities of our fellowmen. Seems to me most of the folks doing all the talk about peace and giving the other fellow the benefit of the doubt were folks setting back to home in cushy chairs with plenty of grub around and the police nearby to protect them. Back there, men would set down safe of an evening and write about how cruel the poor Indian was being treated out west They never come upon the body of a friend who had been staked out on an ant hill or had a fire built on his stomach, nor had they stood off a charge of Indians.

  Personally, I found Indians people to respect. Their ways weren't our ways, and a lot of virtues they were given credit for by white men were only ideas in a white man's head, and no Indian would have considered them virtues. Mercy rarely had any part in the make-up of an Indian.

  Folks talk about human nature, but what they mean is not human nature, but the way they are brought up. It seems to me that folks who are brought up to Christian ways of thought don't believe in the taking of life, but the Indian had no such conception. If you were a stranger you were an enemy. If you gave him gifts it was usually because you were afraid of him ... or that's how he thought.

  Indians were fighting men. Fighting was their greatest sport and occupation. Our people look up to atheltes of one kind or another, but the Indian saved all his respect for fighting men. And an Indian would count the scalp of a woman or a child as well as a man's.

  This was wrong to our way of thinking, but his thinking was altogether different.

  The Indian, before the white man took up the West, was physically cleaner than the white man. He bathed often, and it wasn't until white man's liquor and poverty caught up with him that he lost the old ways. But the Indian warrior would have been ashamed of all the milk-sop talk about the poor Indian. He was strong, he was proud, and he was able to handle his own problems.

  It was Sunday before trouble showed. Sunday was a quiet time for us. Cap was busy scraping and tanning some elk and deer hides, and after cleaning my weapons and catching a bait of trout, I settled down to study Blackstone.

  It was a warm, lazy day, with sunlight sparkling on the creek waters, and scarce a breeze stirring the pines overhead. Time to time my thoughts would drift from my study to that high valley. If I wanted to go up and get some of that gold I would have to find another way into that valley before snow fell and closed it off.

  "Tell..."

  Cap spoke softly, and I got up and walked over to him. He was looking off through the trees, and we could see four riders over by the town site. They turned toward us, and I got out my field glass. There was nothing familiar about any of them. While I watched they started in our direction, and the last man in line checked his pistol.

  Down the bench, maybe fifty yards or so, they slowed to a stop, seeing the corral with the horses in it, and the smoke from our fire. Then they came on up.

  Me, I was wearing an old U.S. Army hat, a wore-out blue army shirt and jeans, and I had me a belt gun on. When I sighted them coming I taken up my Winchester, and Cap and me stood out to greet them.

  " 'Light," I said. "Ain't often we have visitors."

  "Looks of that town site, you must be expectin' plenty," one of them said. "What would a man want with a town here?"

  "Well, sir," I said, "we took a notion. Cap Roun-tree an' me, we like to go to town of an evening when the chores are done. There ain't no town close up, so we decided to build our own. We laid her out and started cuttin' timber. Then we held an election."

  "An election?"

  "Town ought to have a mayor. We elected Cap by acclamation. Cap never has been a mayor before, and the town never had one. We figured they could start off together."

  While I was talking, I was looking them over. One was riding a horse branded with a pitchfork over a bar. The owner used to call it the Pitchfork Bar, but folks who knew the ways of the outfit called it the Fork Over, because that was what you had to do if you crossed their range. The man on this horse was a big man with a wide face and thick, blond hair. He kept staring at me, and at what remained of my uniform.

  There was a stoop-shouldered man with narrow black eyes, and a square-set one with an open, friendly face, and a fat man with a round face-- round and mighty hard.

  "You must be proud of that uniform," the big one said. "The war's been over a long time."

  "Ain't had money enough to shed it," I said.

  The fat man walked his horse toward the creek, then called back, "Kitch, lookit here!"

  They all rode over, and Cap and me followed.

  Kitch looked over our shaft, which was only down a few feet. "Gold?" He was amazed "This here's silver country."

  "Spot of color," I said. "Nothing much yet, but we've got hopes."

  The fat man paid us no min
d. "Kitch," he said, "they've got a good thing here. That's why they've laid out the town. Once folks hear of a strike, they'll come running, and that town will be a gold mine itself."

  "Only there hasn't been any strike," Cap said. "We're scarcely making wages."

  He turned and walked off, saying, "I'll put some coffee on, Tell."

  At the name, Kitch turned sharply around and looked at me. "Tell? Are you Tell Sackett?"

  "Uh-huh."

  He chuckled. "Mister, you're going to have company. Seen a couple of men in Silverton who were hunting you."

  "I'll be here."

  "They tell me you can sure run." Kitch had a mean look to his eyes. "I seen many a-running with that uniform on."

  "All the way to Lee's surrender," I said. "We stopped running then."

  He started to say something and his face hardened up and he commenced getting red around the gills.

  "The Bigelows say every time you get stopped somewhere they come along and you take out like a scared rabbit."

  Tell Sackett, I told myself, this man aims to get you into a fight. Have no part of it. "Any man who wants to kill me," I said, "can do it on his own time. I got too many things to do to waste time."

  Cap was back behind the logs near the fire, and I knew what he would be doing back there.

  "Now I tell you what you do," I said. "You go back to Silverton and you tell the Bigelow boys I'm here. You tell them their brother tried dealing off the bottom with the wrong man, and if they're of a mind to, they can find me here. This is as far as I'm going."

  I added, more quietly, "And, Kitch, you said something about running. You come back with them. I'll be right here."

  Kitch was startled, then angry. But the fat man spoke up. "Let's get out of here."

  They started off. Only the square-built man lingered. "Mr. Sackett, I'd like to come back and talk to you, if I may."

  "Any time," I said, and he rode off.

  We worked our claim, got out some gold, and built a rocker. Meanwhile I cut a hidden trail up the steep mountainside behind our camp. About two hundred feet above, covering the bench, I built a rifle-pit, of brush, dead-falls, and rocks--a shelter where two or three men could cover all approaches to our camp.

  The following day, switching back and forth to make it an easier climb, I opened a way further up the ridge.

  "What's the idea?" Cap asked me, come nightfall.

  "If I have to start running," I said, "I don't want anything in the way. I've got big feet."

  Over the fire that night, Cap looked at me.

  "When you going back up on that mountain?"

  "And leave you with trouble shaping up?"

  "Forget it Trouble is no stranger to me. You go ahead, only don't be gone too long."

  I told him I didn't know exactly how to get up there from where we were. We were close, that much I knew.

  Cap said the way I came before, judging from my description, had brought me over Columbine Pass and up to the Vallecitos along Johnson Creek. That was south of us, so if I rode south I might recognize something or come on one of the markers.

  The idea of leaving Cap alone worried me. Sure, he was an old wolf, but I had many enemies around, what with the Bigelows, Ben Hobes, and that white-haired kid with the two guns. To say nothing of Tuthill, back in Las Vegas, and his gambler friend. Trouble just naturally seemed to latch onto me and hang on with all its teeth.

  On the other hand, Cap had plenty of ca'tridges, he had meat, and there was a spring. Unless they caught him away from camp he could stand off a good-sized force, and we were not expecting anything of the kind.

  From worrying about Cap, I turned to thinking back to home, and Tyrel and Dru. It was a fine thing for a man to have a woman love him like that, a fine thing. But who would I ever find? It was complete and total unlikely that any female woman in her right mind would fall into love with the likes of me. It was likely all I'd ever have would be a horse and maybe a dog.

  Lying there, I could smell the smoke of the dying fire, see the stars through the tops of the pines, and hear the wind along the ranges. The moon came up and, off to the west, I could see the towering, snow-capped peaks of the Needle Mountains.

  Suddenly I sat up. "Cap!" I whispered. "You hear that?"

  "I hear it."

  "Sounds like somebody crying." I got up and pulled on my boots. The sound had died away, but it seemed to have come from somewhere upwind of us.

  We walked to the edge of the trees and listened, but we heard it no more. Putting my hands to my mouth, I called, not too loud. "Come on into camp! No use to be out there alone!"

  "How do you know it's alone?" Cap asked mildly. "Come on back to sleep. You believe in ha'nts? A trick of the wind, that's all."

  I heard no further sound, so I followed Cap and turned in. And, although I lay awake for what seemed like long hours, I heard nothing more.

  Maybe it was, like Cap suggested, a trick of the wind. But I didn't believe it.

  Chapter VIII

  Nor was it a trick of the wind. Somewhere in those mountains I knew there was something... or somebody. ,..

  When daylight came I was high in the hills. There was no trail where I rode. To the south there was, but I had switched off. I rode up into the trees, then got down from my horse and switched to moccasins. I went back over my tracks and smoothed them out. Then I mounted up again and headed higher.

  Pines grew thick, giving way to spruce. Sometimes I was weaving among trees so close there was scarce room to pass, and half the time I was bent down low to get under branches, or was walking on the soft pine needles and leading that appaloosa.

  It was in my mind that I would come out on the ridge not far from that first keyhole pass, and it worked out that way. I found myself on a crest where I could see far and away in all directions.

  To the north a huge peak called Storm Bong shouldered against the bright sky, with sunlight on the snow. The canyon of the Vallecitos, through which I'd climbed, fell away steeply below me, and on my right I could look for miles over some of the most rugged country I ever saw.

  I rode into the high valley where that ghost lake was. It looked unchanged until I got near it. My old trail was partly covered over by water. There had been rains since my last trip, and the lake was acres larger despite the run-off.

  The trail down the chute was about the same. Maybe there was a mite more water over the trail, but not enough to interfere. Riding into my lonely valley, I felt like I was coming home.

  First off, I checked the tree where I had left the meat hanging. The meat was gone, but there were no bones about, as there would have been if a wild animal had pulled it down. If there had been any tracks the rain had beat them out.

  Next I went on to the mine, and scouted around. I left everything as it was, only I staked a claim, marking down its limits on a piece of tanned hide so's I'd have a map if it came to trouble.

  Then I set out to scout that valley, for it was in my mind that there must be an easier way out. And I discovered that the stream flowing down the chute actually flowed north. Then it took a sharp bend to the west and flowed down from the mountain to join the Vallecitos. For the first time I realized that the stream beside which Cap and I had camped was not the one that fell down the chute.

  A dim trail, maybe left by ancient Indians, headed off to the east, and far off I could see several other high lakes. And, riding up through the trees to the ridge top, where I could look the country over, I found that across the valley and beyond a ridge was still another long, high valley. Through it a stream flowed almost due north.

  Among the trees that lined the ridges which bordered these valleys there was some grass, but in the valley bottoms there were meadows, rich and green. Remembering the short-grass range country of Texas and the high plains, I thought what magnificent summer range these high valleys would make.

  But my concern now was to find a new trail down to the Vallecitos and, if possible, to learn who lived up here and had taken my
meat.

  Riding north, I looked along the ridge toward the end. The valley seemed to be completely enclosed but, farther on, I discovered that it took a sharp turn, narrowed, and came to an end in a wall of forest.

  It was there, under the trees, that I found a fresh footprint.

  Dismounting, I followed the faint tracks. Here and there grass was still pressed down, so the trail must have been made while the dew was on it, early that very morning. Suddenly I found a snare. Here there were several footprints, but no blood and no hair., so evidently the snare had caught nothing. Squatting on my heels, I studied it. Cunningly done, it resembled no Indian snare I had seen.

  I walked my horse across the high meadow that lay beyond the curtain of trees. The ground was nigh covered by alpine gold-flower, bright yellow, and almighty pretty to look at. And along some of the trickles running down from the melting snow a kind of primrose was growing.

  The trees were mostly blue spruce, shading off into aspen and, on the high ridges above timber-line, there were a few squat bristle-cone pines, gnarled from their endless war with the wind.

  A couple of times I found where whoever it was I was trailing had stopped to pick some kind of herb out of the grass, or to drink at a stream.

  All of a sudden I came to a place where the tracks stopped. Here the person had climbed a big rock, and grass stains had rubbed off the moccasins onto the rock. The meaning was plain enough. He, she, it, or whatever, had caught sight of me trailing it.

  From atop the boulder I sighted back down the way I had come and, sure enough, my back trail could be seen at a dozen points in the last few miles.

  So I sat down on the rock and took time to study the country. Unless I was mistaken, that party was somewhere not too far off, a-looking me over. What I wished was for them to see I meant no harm.

  After a while, I went back to my horse, which had been feeding on the good meadow grass. I rode across a trickle of water and up a long gouge in the mountainside until I topped out where there was nothing but a few bristle-cone pines, a land of gray gravel, and some scattered, lightning-struck trees.

  Off to my right, and some distance ahead, I could see a stream running down the mountain to the northeast. It looked like here was another way out of this jumble of ridges and mountain meadows.