Lonely On the Mountain s-19 Read online

  He let his eyes move slowly all around the horizon, searching for any hint of a fire. He turned his head this way and that, trying for a smell of smoke.

  Nothing!

  were they gone, then? Truly gone? After all, there is a time for each of us.

  Faintly, something stirred. His gun came easily into his hand. He waited, listening. There was nothing more.

  Some small animal, perhaps.

  After a few minutes, he went back to the fire. In the morning, they would continue on to the westward. Then he would climb the plateau and see what he could see from that height. Certainly, he could see farther, and he might detect some movement out there. Also, he should check for tracks.

  The trouble was there were, so he had heard, many lakes in the Turtles and no end to available water. It was not as simple as in the desert where waterholes were few.

  "Charlie," he suggested, "you take the first watch. Give yourself an hour and a half, then awaken Shorty. The same for you, Shorty, and then call Haney and Haney will call me." "You t'ink I am too old?" Baptiste asked.

  "You have to get up early, anyway, and you'll have to watch the camp tomorrow. You get some sleep now." Fleming took up his rifle. "Anything else?" "Don't sit by the fire. Stay out on the edge somewhere." He unrolled his bed and pulled off his boots, then his gun belt. Shorty was asleep almost as soon as he hit his blankets, and Haney followed suit. Baptiste stirred about a bit, then settled down.

  Orrin lay still, listening. The fire had burned down to reddish coals. His six-gun was ready at his hand. He heard a brief stirring outside of camp, then stillness.

  Haney touched his shoulder just as his eyes were opening. Haney squatted on his heels.

  "Quiet," he said, "but there's an uneasy feelin' in the air." "Everybody asleep?" "Sure, except maybe that Frenchman. I don't know if he ever sleeps." Orrin sat up and tugged on his boots. For a moment he waited, listening and looking at the coals. If they were to keep the fire, he must add fuel, but he did not want it to flare up.

  He slung his gun belt around his hips as he stood up, then moved on cat feet over to the fire andwitha stick pushed some of the charcoal into the redder coals. If there was a flare-up, it would be slight.

  Moving back into the shadows, he retrieved his rifle, stood it against a tree, and shrugged into a buckskin jacket, then moved out to where the horses were. Their quiet munching indicated there was, for the moment, nothing to suggest trouble.

  The stars were still bright overhead, but there were clouds in the northwest. After a circling of the camp, he sat down on a rock in the shadows of a larger one and began to consider the situation.

  Except for what he had been told, he had no further evidence that his brothers had not continued on west. Knowing them as he did, he knew nothing would turn them from the way they had chosen. If they had been attacked and killed, he would know it within hours, for the battle site could not be far off.

  Yet he must not lose time looking for them. He would look, but he would also round up what cattle he could find. It was likely that the cattle were scattered in bunches, for they would certainly try to find one another, and by this time they would have done so.

  Soon he must awaken Baptiste and let him prepare breakfast for an early start, for today they would not only search for his brothers and their riders but would begin gathering cattle, if there were any to be found.

  He got up suddenly and moved away, impatient with himself. This, of course, was a family matter and not to be avoided, but he had wasted time, too much time. No man knew how much or how little he had, but there were things that he, Orrin Sackett, wanted to do, wanted to become.

  He had been admitted to the bar, had begun a practice of sorts, mixed with some political activity, but not enough of either. He had too much to learn to be losing any time. When this was over, he would get right back to Colorado and try to become the man he wished to be.

  He remembered something pa said. Pa quoted it, rather, from a distant relative gone long before.

  "There's two kinds of people in the world, son, those who wish and those who will. The wishers wish to be rich, they wish to be famous, they wish to own a farm or a fine house or whatever. The ones who will, they don't wish, they start out and do it. They become what they want to or get what they want. They will it." Well, he wasn't going to be a wisher.

  He'd been lucky. He'd begun to get himself an education. He'd not gone to school long, as there wasn't a school to go to most of the time. But there'd been books.

  Suddenly, he was alert. Something was moving out there. He melded his shadow against a tree, listening. There was no further sound.

  Orrin's rifle came up in his two hands, ready for a shot or a blow.

  After a minute, with no further sound, he eased back close to where Baptiste lay. The old man was already sitting up, shaking out his boots.

  "Somet'ing," he whispered, "somet'ing, he come.

  He come soon." Standing back a little, Orrin threw several branches on the fire. It flared up, and he added some heavier wood.

  When he stood up again, it was faintly gray.

  Baptiste was working over the fire, and Orrin went out to where the horses were and saddled his mount.

  "Comes a man," Baptiste said. "You see?" Highpockets Haney stood up on his bed, looking. Orrin walked closer.

  Down on the flat, if it could be called that, there was a man, a big man who moved like a bear.

  He came on slowly, head down, plodding.

  Some fifty yards away, he stopped and looked at them. "I'm the Ox," he said.

  "I'm coming in."

  Chapter XIII

  Orrin waited, his hands on his hips while the big man lumbered closer. He was huge, not as tall as Orrin's six feet four inches but thicker and wider. He gave off a sense of shocking physical power, to such a degree that Orrin was irritated by it.

  A civilized man with some sense of decency and proportion, he bristled at the sight of the man.

  He had the good sense to realize it was something of the same feeling two stallions must feel when first they met. He had had his share of fights, but he had never wanted to hit a man until now.

  "All right," Orrin said, "you are called the Ox. What else are you? Who are you?" The Ox knew who he was facing. He did not know the man or care, but he sensed a rival male beast and welcomed it. He was a creature nature had bred to destroy.

  "There was a stampede, buffalo. Everything went with them. Men, horses, cattle, everything. There was nothing I could do." "Where were you when it happened?" "Off to one side. I was swinging wide around the herd. They came out of the night like--like an avalanche. And then it was all gone." "Where's your horse?" "Gone. He went crazy when the stampede came, and he threw me. He ran away following the herd." "Get something to eat. You look all in." The trouble was that he did not, and Orrin sat down across the fire from him. Something here was wrong, completely wrong. The Ox did not look done in; he did not look tired or hungry. He had appeared so, coming up the slope from the flat, but no longer.

  His gun was still in its holster.

  Orrin's sense of justice warred with his innate dislike of the man he was watching. He warned himself to dismiss his antagonism and judge fairly.

  "Was this the Sackett herd?" he asked.

  The big man was eating, not very seriously. A really hungry man did not gulp food, he savored it, he ate slowly. A truly hungry man cannot gulp food because his stomach has shrunk. He is more apt to eat in small bites. The Ox ate as one does who has already eaten his fill, which is a different thing altogether.

  "It was. Gilcrist and me, we hired on some time back. The drive was headed west. All gone now, all gone." "What happened to the Sacketts?" "Dead, I reckon. They must be dead." "But if you were off to one side, mightn't they have been, also?" The Ox squinted his eyes. Orrin suspected he did not like the thought. "Maybe, but I ain't seen them." "Where have you been since?" "Hidin' from Injuns. I ain't seen any, but I think it was them started the stamped
e." Orrin watched the Ox put down his plate.

  The man's movements were easy, perfectly controlled. There was much about him that was puzzling.

  He was, Orrin was sure, a much brighter man than he at first appeared and probably a better-educated one.

  Orrin stood up. "All right, boys, as soon as you're through eating, let's move out. Work south and east, and stay together, two by two. I'll ride with Fleming.

  "You"--he turned on the Ox, "help Baptiste--and tomorrow we'll start you riding for us." The Ox started to speak, then turned away obviously irritated.

  "Work south and east but not too far east.

  Anything you find, start this way. We'll try to bunch them on the flat down there." "That's crazy!" the Ox exclaimed.

  "They're scattered to hell and gone!" "Maybe," Orrin agreed, "but we'll find out, won't we?" It was a long, hard day. Fleming and Orrin worked south and for some time saw nothing. Twice Orrin cut the sign of old Indian travels.

  Then they came upon three young steers and started them west.

  "Take them along, Fleming," Orrin said.

  "They'll be a start, anyway, and I'll work on south." "But I think--" "It's all right," Orrin said blandly.

  Fleming, none too pleased, rode off herding his three steers.

  Orrin waited until he was some distance off and then turned back. In less than three hundred yards, he found what he had seen a few minutes before, the tracks of two shod horses and a trail obviously made that day.

  One of the horses had been carrying a very heavy man.

  At a point where the trail would have brought them within sight of Orrin's camp, the two riders had suddenly turned south. Orrin followed, swinging along the trail in a wide circle. There, in the shade of some cottonwoods, one of the riders had dropped from the saddle and walked away.

  The other rider had gone off to the west, leading a spare horse.

  Orrin Sackett glanced off to the east where the rider had taken the spare horse and then turned in the saddle and glanced up at the plateau of the Turtles. "I'd lay a little bet," he muttered aloud.

  He rode south, swinging in a wide circle toward the west, and in a little hollow found six head of cattle gathered around a small seep. He moved them out toward the northwest, picking up two more on the way. By the time he reached the gathering place, there were at least thirty head there, and Fleming was bringing in another.

  Throughout the day, they worked, finding more and more of the scattered groups with occasionally a buffalo calf running with them. By sundown, they had gathered nearly three hundred head.

  Baptiste had shifted camp farther west by a good five miles, with the Turtle Mountains still looming close on the north. He had a good fire going on some broiled buffalo steaks for all hands as well as more of his beans. He had made sourdough bread, and they ate simply but well.

  The Ox was irritable and not talkative. It was obvious things had not gone as he expected.

  Baptiste was wary, watchful, and kept a gun handy, not trusting the Ox.

  "There's a-plenty off to the southwest," Haney told them. "I saw maybe fifty, sixty head in one bunch and glimpsed several other scattered bunches.

  "It won't be easy," he added. "They're scattered wide, and there's still a good many buffalo among 'em who will stampede again at the slightest excuse. If they do, most of those damn fool cows will go right along with them." "We need more help," Orrin suggested, "but tomorrow we'll have the Ox helping us." "I ain't in no shape to ride," the Ox

  muttered.

  "If you want to eat," Orrin replied, "you'll ride. You can work with me. I think we understand each other mighty well." The Ox glared but made no comment.

  "We may be able to get some help," Shorty suggested. "This country isn't as empty as a body might think. I came on two sets of tracks today, both of them shod horses and none of them our horses." Orrin knew he had been shying away from the thing that must be done. He had been avoiding the site of the stampede, and he knew why. If Tell and Tyrel were dead, he did not want to know it.

  Until he actually saw their bodies or some other evidence that proved them dead, he could still delude himself they were alive still.

  "Tomorrow I am going over to check their last camp." Orrin glanced at the Ox. "You can show me where it was." The Ox said nothing, sipping a cup of coffee, and Shorty smiled. "Ain't much to see," he said. "I was over there." They waited, and he said, "I scouted that country some. The buffalo hit that camp goin' all out, and they just run everything right into the ground.

  But I don't think anybody was in the camp." "What?" Orrin turned to stare. "Then where in God's name--?" "They were with the cattle. They were moving them when the stampede hit them." He glanced at the Ox.

  "Wasn't that what you said? You were off on the flank?" "I was." The Ox paused. "It was like I said. They were here, then they were gone, and the cattle with them. I heard one man scream. I've no idea who it was." "Did you see any Indians?" Orrin asked.

  The Ox hesitated. "Can't say I did.

  I heard whooping. I figured it was Indians, and I lit out." "Haney, you and Shorty continue the roundup.

  The Ox and I will go over the site of the stampede before we settle down to rounding up cattle." Orrin glanced at Baptiste. "You stay with the carts and keep your rifle handy. Any sign of trouble everybody closes in on the carts, do you hear? We need that grub." It was a quiet night, and before daybreak they were in the saddle. Orrin, with the Ox beside him, rode down toward the site of the stampede.

  The Ox turned in his saddle to look at Orrin. "You don't like me much, do you, Sackett?" "No, I don't." "When the right time comes, I'll take pleasure in beating your head in," the Ox said.

  Orrin smiled. "Don't talk like a fool, man. You couldn't whip one side of me, and away down inside you know it." The Ox was not amused. "Nobody ever whipped me," he said, "and nobody can." "Keep that thought. I want you to have it when I prove you wrong." Orrin drew up, looking over the terrain before them. The shallow valley, if such it might be called, sloped away toward the south. The earth was still torn by charging hoofs. He glanced around, taking in the situation. The Ox stared at it, then looked away. "You know, Ox," Orrin said quietly, "you're a liar. Your whole story is a tissue of lies, from start to finish. Now where's your partner?" The Ox stared at him, an ugly expression in his eyes. "I don't know what you're talkin' about, but you just called me a liar." "That's right. I did call you a liar." He put up a hand. "Now don't be a damned fool and go for your gun. I'm a whole lot faster than you and a much better shot, and you'd be dead before you cleared leather.

  "You boys bought yourselves a packet, d'you know that? If you're going to try to get away with something, why don't you pick on some greenhorns?" The Ox was wary. He did not believe Orrin Sackett was faster than he, but neither did he want to be mistaken. It was a simple case.

  If he was wrong, he was dead.

  "My brothers, William Tell and Tyrel, are two of the fastest men alive when it comes to handling six-shooters. I'm only a shade less good.

  "Just a moment ago, I had a notion to let you go ahead and draw so I could kill you." The Ox stared at him. "Then why didn't you if you're so fast?" Orrin smiled. "Because I'd miss the pleasure of whipping you with my fists," he said. Orrin rested both hands on the pommel of his saddle. "You see, Ox, you've always been big, you've always been strong, you've always been able to either frighten or outmuscle anybody whose trail you crossed. So the truth is, you've never really had to learn to fight. You've never had to get up after being knocked down. You've never had to wipe the blood out of your eyes so you could see enough to keep fighting.

  "You're not really a fighter, Ox, you're just a big, abnormally strong man who has had it all his own way for too long." The Ox smiled. "Maybe I don't have to know how to fight," he said. "I just take hold and squeeze, and they scream. You can hear the bones break, Sackett. I will hear yours break." Orrin looked around again. "Now where were you when the stampede started?" The Ox pointed across the plain.
"Over there.

  Tyrel Sackett was riding drag. That's why I am sure he is dead." "What d'you mean?" "They hit us on the flank, more than halfway back, and there was no way Tyrel could get out of there." "Then I've misunderstood. I didn't know it was that way." Orrin paused. "What kind of a horse was Tye riding?" "It was that line-back dun he favored. I remember that because he let Brandy--" "Who?" "The kid--Isom Brand was his name. We called him Brandy. He wasn't much. Some farm kid they taken up with. Anyway, I remember Tyrel rode the dun because he let Brandy have that little black." Orrin was thinking. If Tyrel was on the dun, there was a chance. That line-back dun was a cutting horse and as quick on his feet as a cat.

  If any horse alive could get out of the way of that stampede, it would be the dun.

  For an hour he rode back and forth across the grassy plain where the herd had been when the buffalo came. He found the remnants of a body churned into earth, but there was no way of telling who it had been.

  By nightfall, working farther and farther to the west and south, they had rounded up nearly five hundred head, among them the old brindle steer who had been the leader of the herd.

  "One more day," he said by the fire that night.

  "Just one more day, and then we leave. We've no more time." "I wonder," the Ox said, "what become of the Indians? The ones who were, as Tell put it, ridin' in our shadow?" Orrin reached for the coffee pot and filled his cup, then several others. He put the pot down and looked across the fire at the Ox. "Something new has been added," he said pleasantly.

  "What Indians?" The Ox explained. "Tell, he left meat for them a time or two. I never saw them myself.

  I don't reckon he did, either." "That dead man?" Shorty asked. "Could he have been an Indian?" "No, he was a white man. He was wearing boots. We found the heels." It had to be one of them. Which one?

  Chapter XIV

  Orrin Sackett was a careful man. He knew what he had to do, and he wanted to be about it, although, even more, he wanted to hunt for his brothers. Yet whatever else he was, he was a Sackett, and the Sacketts finished the jobs they started. Also, Tyrel and Tell, if alive, would know what he was doing and where he would be.