Double Mountain Crossing (15 page)

***

It took Morgan a day and a half to reach his old campsite at Sun Creek on the
Double
Mountains
. It was exactly as he had left it. Above him, the weather had broken and the tattered remnants of the rain clouds fled across the sky. The peaks were beginning to dry out and he could see no need to build a shelter, but the threat of future rain prodded him to find some sort of cover for his stores. Westward, around the mountain, almost below the cairn where the dead Kiowa was buried he discovered a cave that was ideal.

It was barely more than a narrow fissure in the rock face, but the location was ideal, almost enclosed on all sides by a solid growth of timber and there were several large bushes near the entrance. By the time he had ferried up the major part of his supplies there was hardly room to squeeze in and stack the last few flour sacks. Using his pick, he dug up one of the bushes, tearing the reluctant roots from the earth and resited it to cover the cave mouth. The wall now appeared unbroken.

Pleased, Morgan returned to Sun Creek, mentally flexing his muscles for the hard work ahead.

***

“The wily old bastard!”
Shuck Alison spat out just before he sneezed. He kicked at the faint traces of ash he had found,
then
scanned the close growth of aspens. He had already figured out how Morgan had weathered the storm. “He's smarter than a bushy-tailed fox,” he added, scratching at an armpit where another woodlouse lurked. It had taken him long enough to find the copse of trees, almost three hours of patient casting back and forth across the canyon in search of sign. Only the horse droppings, way back in the pines had given him the lead.

The black looked at him inquisitively on hearing his voice, and now he was assured of an attentive audience Alison continued with his soliloquy.
“That clever old son of a bitch.
He was all nice and dry in here out of the damned rain, snug as a she-wolf in her nest while I was freezing my ass off in that hollow tree…” He paused to scratch his chest, “…It surely makes a man want to spit. I'll just bet five'd getcha ten he didn't get eaten alive by
Goddam
bugs.” His body jerked as he sneezed violently.
“I'll bet he ain't caught himself no sodbustin' cold too.”

Angry, he kicked his scuffed toe into the ashes then swung up onto the black and headed up the canyon, cursing after each powerful sneeze, his hands never still, snaking to crotch and armpit in a relentless search for his unwelcome guests.

And always scratching.

It took time, but Alison found the gold diggings. There he also found Morgan Clay. The first afternoon he dismounted and reached for his field glass to survey the area ahead. Focused in the single eye of the lens was the powerful frame of the prospector, muscles rippling as he swung the pick in rehearsed, economical arcs. Up and down, up and down. The glass followed each step of Morgan's movement; the swing, the stoop, the sorting though the spoils, waste discarded and the nugget caressed briefly in the callused palm before it was slipped into the neck of an ore sack.

For minutes on end that first day Alison watched fascinated, then he tired of the repetitious motions and began to systematically sweep the ground above and below the prospector. It appeared Morgan was slowly digging his way up the mountainside as he followed the vein between the sentinel pines. Mounds of soil were heaped on either side of the workings, and he estimated Morgan must have spent one or two days of hard toil just clearing the way before he could begin to excavate the gold.

Alison pulled out and established a camp on the other side of the mountain. He had figured it all out. He would come to watch the old man work from the timber for as long as it took, then when there was enough gold…

Alison returned to his vantage point daily, leaving only to eat or sleep. The first day merged into a week, then the week into a month and then into two. The long days spent staring through the field glass
were
making him increasingly nervous. It was something in the set of the prospector's shoulders as he worked. It was positive, an absolute surety in his own skill, the knowing of what he was doing. Alison found it irritating. When the effect became unbearable he would slip away down to the creek and bathe, a recurring tactic in his strategy against the lice and whatever else burrowed in his skin or squirmed in his hair. His body was a mass of red weals from his raking nails and the persistent nipping of the parasites' minuscule teeth. The soothing water brought relief for only a few minutes at most,
then
the torment became unbearable again. His only reassuring thought was that after he had endured his purgatory the gold would be all his.

Two months and five days was the absolute maximum Alison was able to stand the creeping discomfort. Even just one more day was beyond comprehension. He could not remember what life had been like before, and he had lost count of the months since he had enjoyed a night of undisturbed sleep.

He could bear it no longer.

On that Tuesday morning he cleaned his Henry rifle for the last time then crept up through the trees to his well used lookout point. For fifteen minutes he stared at Morgan Clay's broad back, already shining with the first sweat of the morning. For all those days piled one on top of another Alison had watched him repeat the routine over and over. It was the work at which the prospector excelled, and all the while Alison had done nothing. Now was the time for him to reverse their roles and do the work at which
he
excelled.

He brought the Henry to his shoulder and tucked the burnished stock against his cheek as he sighted along the blued barrel. His eyes settled on Morgan's backbone, six inches below the base of the neck. From the angle at which he was shooting, the bullet would strike downward and pass through the centre of the heart. He took up the trigger slack,
then
waited for Morgan to lift the pick. He watched the shoulder muscles flex as the miner prepared for the swing, then the biceps bunch as he hefted the shaft. The pick rose, just as it had a thousand times. At the very instant it was held as its zenith, Alison's mind froze the mental image of the man below him. His forefinger squeezed the trigger as gently as a mare nuzzles her new-born foal.

The Henry cracked, and the morning quiet of the mountains was shattered.

As sure as he was of his own skill, it was hard not to lever another shell into the breech. Just in case. Without thinking, Alison worked the Henry's action and the spent casing ejected to land in the soft soil at his feet. The rifle still to his cheek, he waited for the powder smoke to disperse.

The second bullet was not necessary.

Morgan Clay was sprawled sideways in the excavation trench, his bronzed back a smear of thick red blood. He was still.

Alison lowered the rifle and came to his feet to pick his way down through the pines to where the dead man lay. He was smiling.

Suddenly he was a rich man. Rich as…rich as…well what did names matter?
Rich as…Hell, rich enough.
Even his little friends weren't itching as much.

His work wasn't over. He had to collect the mule and the three horses, plus his own black, then carry the ore sacks, stringing them together two at a time. He decided to ride the dun gelding as it would be surefooted and use his own black as an additional packhorse. He loaded each animal with four sacks, sixteen in all. They could have managed six apiece, but his impatience had cost him the empty sacks that still lay by the workings. He cast an eye to Morgan, the wide splash of blood across his back slowly congealing in the sun. The flies had already come to feed and soon the red ants would be along to join in the feast. Then'd come the carrion, the crows and buzzards, before they were chased off by the wolves. Before you'd know it, there'd be nothing but a few scattered bones. Alison placed his foot in the stirrup and hauled himself up into the dun's saddle, looking covetously all the while at the heavy ore sacks that the packhorses carried.

It was all over for Morgan, but for him life was just beginning.

***

“You have done well,” Thunderhawk said, looking from the cairn of rocks covering his brother's body to the view of the mountains in the west. It was a good place to spend the Big Sleep. A man would never tire of those majestic snow laden peaks, untamed as nature had designed them. No matter what the white men did, they could not steal away those. He studied the terrain, lost in thought, while on both his flanks his companions sat their ponies in silence. In the open space the breeze was noticeable as it brushed on leathery cheeks and teased the eagle feathers each of them wore.

Crowfoot watched his friend. He knew Thunderhawk would allow the grief to burn out before working himself into a killing rage. After they sighted the white man he would weep extravagantly, using the release of his emotion to incite the other braves to revenge their dead friend. It was the
Old Way
, and Crowfoot knew that Thunderhawk rode that trail. The Old Way was best, when a man chose his own pony from the herd and rode it himself, or carefully selected the wood to fashion his bow. He nodded sagely at the set of the chief's jaw. For all his need of revenge, Thunderhawk took his time, and it was well that it should be so, for a warrior does not approach these things bluntly, but looks long and carefully before he plans his tactics. He could see the tendons moving in their leader's cheeks and he wondered what thoughts moved through his mind. Even as he watched, his friend broke his reverie and turned to the boy.

“Soldier, you did well. You did it the right way. But there is something else you must do before my brother faces the Big Sleep.” He glanced pointedly at the old Remington rifle that lay across Soldier's saddle, then up into the boy's eyes.

Soldier felt embarrassed. It had been wrong to take Comes-Walking's rifle for the warrior would have need of it after he crossed the trail of stars and came to the valley where game was plentiful and the water was sweet, but he and Swift-Foot had decided to take the weapon so their hunting would be easier and their return possible before the coming of winter. Knowing it was wrong, Soldier had buried his own bow and the few remaining arrows from Swift-Foot's quiver so Comes-Walking would not be unarmed on his last journey.

Soldier had become attached to the rifle. Even though it had seen many summers, it had been cherished by its owner, and now as he knew what he must do, he looked down at it with regret. But it had to be done. He glanced up to see the chief gazing steadily at him, then at Crowfoot who nodded slightly. Ashamed he had hesitated, he slipped down to the ground and walked to the cairn where he laid the ancient rifle on the grass while he stripped enough rocks from the mound to bury the Remington and what little ammunition he possessed.

When it was done he stood up and turned to Thunderhawk who nodded his satisfaction and turned his pony towards the trees. Soldier looked after him for a moment and it seemed his heart was lighter now for completing his task. He vaulted into the saddle to find Crowfoot waiting at the fringe of the timber. He looked at the old Indian proudly.

“I have no weapon now, but I will find the tree that will furnish my bow,” he said, although he knew the chances of finding a suitable hardwood tree and finding the time both to shape the bow and cut arrows was slim.

Crowfoot was amused at the boy's bravado. The lines round his eyes crinkled to accompany the widening of his mouth.

“Perhaps,” was all he
said.

The Kiowas camped at the clearing where the elk had been brought down. Food was packed on the spare ponies so hunting was unnecessary. They had no wish to make noise while they stalked the white man who owned the big killing gun. Coyote handled the cooking chores and when all had eaten they brought out pipes and smoked.

Thunderhawk puffed, then held the pipe to the six directions of the universe; north, south, east, west, up to the sky and down to the earth. Silently, he asked the Great Spirit to favor them in their hunt and to accept the smoke as the breath of the Kiowa Nation binding them on earth to Him in the sky. His prayer finished, he called for Soldier. Apprehensive, the boy stood bashfully before the fire, his eyes downcast.

Thunderhawk gazed at him steadily for some moments,
then
nodded. “I am well pleased with you,
Eks-a-Pana
. You rode as the hawk flies, straight and true, not like the buzzard who quarters the sky in wide circles as he seeks to gain an advantage. You have led us here over plains and mountains without once losing the trail.” He paused to puff thoughtfully on his pipe. “You were careful too, to prepare my brother for his last ride, and for that I am grateful also.” The chief looked directly at the boy, appraising him. “What is more important, like a true Kiowa, you have not complained you are now without a weapon. You have earned your name, Soldier.” Thunderhawk nodded at Crowfoot who stepped forward to place a rolled up buffalo robe at the boy's feet. “This is yours,” Thunderhawk gestured.

Soldier hesitated, looking from the chief's open palm to the skin, then stooped and unrolled it. He froze,
then
stood up slowly, his eyes still locked on the open buffalo robe. In the centre lay an 1866
Winchester
repeating rifle together with three boxes of rim-fire bullets. He was speechless. Of all the warriors present, only Thunderhawk carried a repeating rifle. Even Crowfoot only carried a single-shot
Springfield
carbine. Astonished, Soldier gazed at the weapon. It still bore a thin sheen of oil coating the barrel. He lifted the rifle carefully and held it across his chest. No words would come to his mouth as he tore his eyes away from the
Winchester
and saw the glint in Thunderhawk's eyes. Realizing his mouth hung open foolishly, he closed it, still unable to speak.