Blizzard: Colorado, 1886 (4 page)

Hadyn tried to re-create the sound in his mind. It had startled him so badly that all he could recall was how loud and sudden it had been. Could it have been an Indian war cry? Maggie and some of her friends had told him last time that there were still Indians in Estes Park, but he had never believed them. The only Indians he had seen were on the bronze pennies in Cleave's cash box.

A rustling sound in the trees brought Hadyn swinging around. He stared into the dense branches, every muscle tense. Seconds ticked past and he tried to still even his breathing so he could hear. The forest was quiet now; not even the birds were singing. Hadyn frowned. What kind of an animal could have made a noise like that?

Mountain lion.
The words rang in Hadyn's mind. Maggie had said something about a mountain lion that had been killing their chickens. Would a lion attack a person? Hadyn shivered. The pine trees were dark against the snowy ground. Beneath them, the blue-green shadows seemed to swirl like water as Hadyn stared, searching for whatever had made the terrible sound.

After a few moments, Hadyn began walking again, looking uneasily over his shoulder every few seconds. He hunched over, pulling his bag a little higher on his back, then looked again. There was nothing behind him. Nothing but the rutted road and the legion of shadowy pines.

Hadyn pulled in a deep breath and started downhill toward a creek that ran across the road. He managed to jump from rock to rock without getting his boots wet. He kept walking fast. The forest was quiet. Maybe he had imagined the sound. He hoped so.

As Hadyn topped the rise, a second tearing roar ended the silence. He stumbled, terrified, then spun in a circle and began running, following a slanting course across a snowy meadow. He pounded away from the sound, too scared to stop, too scared even
to look back. The ground seemed to blur beneath his feet as he sprinted, his bag banging against his shoulder blades.

Hadyn kept running, dodging around jutting rocks near a stand of aspen trees. He finally risked a glance backward, but it was impossible to tell if the big cat was following. The dark trees could hide a dozen mountain lions.

The ground sloped downward suddenly. Hadyn stumbled, almost falling. He staggered on, managing to keep on his feet. As the ground leveled out, his bag slid off his shoulder and he had to slow enough to shove the strap back in place. A branch covered by a low drift of snow caught at his boot toe and he stumbled again, breathing hard. He dodged to one side, barely missing a rotting tree trunk that jabbed up out of the frozen ground.

Hadyn stopped, half turning to scan the trees closest to him. These were aspens, not pines. Their milky white trunks were belted with curved, ash-gray scars. They had no leaves now and their limbs and twigs made a hazy barrier that blurred as Hadyn peered into them.

Could a mountain lion climb an aspen tree? Hadyn
tried to see into the gray tangle of twigs. His eyes slid from the trees to a slanting pathway of open ground that separated the aspens from the next stand of pines. He kept his eyes moving as he turned in a slow circle; then he whirled around when he heard the soft snapping of a branch behind him. Breathing hard, he stared into the aspens and was sure he saw something moving. Without meaning to, he began to run again.

Hadyn swerved to avoid a steep slope and made his way across a clearing, skirting the edge of a stand of tall, slim-trunked pine trees. He ran until his breathing was ragged and painful, then staggered to a stop. There seemed to be small, ominous sounds coming from every part of the forest around him. He faced one direction, then turned back, dragging in quick, shallow breaths.

After a moment, he realized he was hearing a soft breeze moving through the branches. He stood still, trying to catch his breath, his knees quivering. He let his bag slide to the ground, clasping the leather strap in one hand. Had it been the mountain lion following him through the trees? He wasn't sure. But if it had been, he had done the smartest thing he could by running.

Hadyn turned around, his eyes moving across the rocks, the trees. He realized, suddenly, that the sun was dimming. He glanced up and saw thin clouds spreading across the arc of the sky. He pulled his bag up onto his shoulder.

The day was going by. It was chillier now than it had been when he left Maggie. He would just angle back to the road, avoiding the place where the cat had been. If he hurried, he was pretty sure he could get to Cleave's store before dark. If Mr. Cleave wouldn't put him up for the night, he'd go to the Elkhorn; there'd be plenty of room now in the off-season. Either way, he wanted to be headed down to the Lyons train station first thing in the morning.

Hadyn frowned, still staring into the trees. Uncle Joseph and Aunt Fiona might be angry with him for leaving Maggie by herself, but it wasn't his fault. He had offered to let her come with him. Hadyn took a step, then another—and then he stopped. He looked around. The aspen trees, the rocks, the pines went on forever in every direction. He blinked. He had absolutely no idea which way to start walking.

The wind was rising. Hands shaking, Hadyn opened his bag and pulled out a heavy woolen
shirt. He took off his coat and buttoned the shirt over the one he already wore. As he put his coat back on, he tried to calm down. He wasn't lost. Not really. He wasn't that far from the road.

He looked at the sky. The clouds were thickening.

He started off, following his tracks across the clean snow. But at the top of the next ridge, the snow thinned and the patches of bare ground made it hard, then impossible, to tell which way he had come. Squinting, Hadyn thought he could see the road through the next stand of trees. He veered toward it, but when he got there, he found only a small meadow lined with dark pines.

For hours, Hadyn kept walking, scanning the land in front of him for any sign of the road, a ranch house—anything but the endless carpet of white. The wind got stronger, lifting little sprays of snow, piercing his coat.

As darkness fell, Hadyn came upon a field of broken rock. He found a crevice that could shelter him from the worst of the wind and hunkered down into it. At first, he felt a little warmer, but then the chill of the night began to work its way through his clothes. He opened his bag and put on two more shirts, then
pulled his coat back on. He used the rest of his clothing to make an uncomfortable nest between the jagged rocks. With chattering teeth he ate the rest of the walnuts, quieting his hunger enough to feel his exhaustion.

As Hadyn crouched, listening to the howl of wind, he shuddered with cold and fear. He could feel the nearby forest, darker than the night. The icy fingers of the wind scrabbled over the rocks, trying to find him.

When Maggie woke, the sun was high in the morning sky. It took her a few seconds to figure out why her father had not wakened her as he always did—to recall why her heart felt hollow and strange. Once she remembered everything that had happened, she rose and hurried into her work clothes. Then she lit the coal oil lantern with a long wooden match, turning the wick down so it wouldn't smoke.

The cabin was ice cold. Maggie could see her breath as she pulled on her socks and shoes. She had banked the fire carefully the night before, but even so, there were only a few small coals still glowing beneath the ashes.

Shivering, she built up the fire again and stood
next to it. She spread her hands close to the flames, trying to warm them, then turned to fight the chill that seeped through her clothes. Only after she had turned back and forth five or six times did she venture to the front door and look out.

The wind was blowing, but not too fiercely. Maggie could see snowflakes streaking toward the ground. She went back inside. She found some day-old biscuits in the cupboard and put one of them and some cold beans on a plate. Then she carried the coffeepot in to the hearth and set it close to the flames. She warmed herself again. When she got back from chores, the coffee would still be hot. She had no time for a pleasant breakfast now. She wolfed her biscuits and most of her beans, then pulled on her hat and coat.

Out in the barn, Maggie checked on the cow and calf. The calf was stronger now, standing sturdily as it nursed. Rusty poked his head over the stall gate to have his ears scratched. When Maggie came out of the barn, it had stopped snowing, but the sky was still gray as far as she could see.

The chickens were glad to get out of their dark, musty coop. Maggie scattered the corn and a few
kitchen scraps for them. Two hens argued over the beans she hadn't finished. The pigs squealed and grunted their approval when she dumped the slop bucket into their feed trough. She broke the ice on their water again, using a long pole to shove the biggest chunks over the side so it would take a little longer to refreeze.

Once the barn chores were finished, Maggie saddled Rusty. She headed him toward the north pasture. He walked slowly, obviously resenting work on such a cold morning. The gate wire had frozen to the post and Maggie had to find a rock to hammer it free.

The cows had drifted during the night, but Maggie finally found most of them in the lee of a stand of dense Engelmann spruce, their shaggy backs humped against the wind. She rode Rusty in a wide circle around them. They looked all right. They would move up to high ground to graze later if the snow didn't get worse. If it did, she might have to drive them down to the house pasture where she could keep an eye on them.

Searching the far end of the pasture, Maggie finally came across the remaining cattle. They were bunched up in a narrow draw. Slapping her hat on
her thigh and shouting, she managed to drive them up to open ground. Once they could hear and see the other cattle, they broke into a voluntary trot and Maggie let Rusty slow his pace. She waited until they had settled into the herd, then turned for home.

Riding back toward the cabin, Maggie kept her head down. The wind burned her cheeks and stung her eyes. An explosion of hoofbeats startled her and she looked up to see three deer bounding away from her. Rusty lifted his muzzle and brayed and she laughed at him.

“You are just jealous, Rusty,” she said. “You'd give anything to be able to run like that.” She patted his neck and kicked her heels against his sides. He eased into a slow trot.

Maggie stopped to knock some snow from the limbs of her mother's favorite cherry trees. Rusty waited impatiently until she remounted, then started off before she could even touch her heels to his sides. “You think you're going to get to go back into your stall, don't you?” Maggie teased him. “Well, you can't. We're going down to Cleave's to ask after Mama and Papa. I want to find out when they left for Lyons.”

Rusty trotted happily up the path toward the
barn. Passing the cabin, Maggie saw an odd patch of white on the door. As she got closer, she could tell it was a piece of her mother's writing paper. Tying Rusty to the porch rail, she went up the steps. It was a note from Mr. Cleave.

Maggie and Hadyn,

Maggie, your parents asked me to come in a day or two to see if you two were all right. The way the snow is coming, I thought I'd best come this morning instead. I see the chores have been done and assume you are both out seeing to the cattle now. Maggie, your parents left my place at sunup this morning. Will let you know if I get any news. You're a good girl, Maggie. Don't worry too much about your father. Hadyn, your aunt says to remind you to do your share. I'll be back end of the week or before.

John Cleave

Maggie pushed open the door and went inside. Where was Hadyn? Had he just walked right past
Mr. Cleave's store and gone all the way to Lyons by himself? She shook her head. It was too far and he hated walking. Maggie bit at her lip. Maybe Hadyn hadn't made it to Cleave's store. Maybe he had gotten hurt or something. Maggie folded the note and shoved it into her pocket. Now, she would have to go looking for Hadyn, instead of seeing if Mr. Cleave had found out more about her parents.

Maggie's hands were almost numb and she stoked the fire to warm up. Once the pins-and-needles feeling in her hands had let up enough so she wouldn't be clumsy, Maggie got down her hiking knapsack. For a moment she wondered if she really needed to pack anything, but she knew that if her father were here, he would insist that she be prepared for an emergency. Maggie whispered a prayer that her parents were safe in Lyons and that the doctor could help her father. Then she set to work.

She filled her canteen with dark, sweet coffee and wrapped up a piece of venison. She put four biscuits in a napkin, then put all the food in a clean flour sack. She got her extra trousers and two thick flannel shirts and pushed them all into the bottom of her knapsack. She put the food in on top, then found the
waxed matchbox and filled it with wooden matches. Last of all, she packed the bone-handled pocketknife that had belonged to her grandfather.

For a second, she thought about carrying a blanket, too, but it seemed foolish to risk getting any of their bedding wet or dirty. She could hardly do wash in this weather. Then she thought about her father's bedroll. He kept it in the barn; she would tie it to her saddle before she left just in case. Maggie drew the knapsack's strings tight, then tied a slipknot to hold it closed.

Maggie glanced at the clock on the mantel. It had stopped at nine the night before. She had forgotten to wind it—that was something her father always did before he went to bed. Maggie put on her faded blue coat and went out again.

As Maggie turned Rusty down the rutted road, the snowflakes thinned a little. Riding as fast as she dared, she pushed Rusty into a trot where the snow wasn't deep and the ground wasn't rocky. She kept her eyes moving, aware of the forest on both sides of the road. At first she followed Hadyn's tracks, but she lost them where he had crisscrossed the road trying to find a way around a snowdrift.

It was hard to ride into the wind. The snow flurried, then stopped, then started again, but the wind was constant. Maggie hoped it wouldn't keep rising. Sometimes in the winter, they got winds strong enough to bend the pine trees like saplings.