Lonely On the Mountain

*

"Higginses?" Cap said. "I thought you'd done rolled up their carpet?" "By "Higginses" he means we can expect trouble. For some reason he didn't want to say that, but he knew we'd understand." "Those Higgins boys were rough," Tyrel said, "and we sure didn't dust off all of them. They were good folks, only we just didn't get along." "Fact is," he added, "there was one of those Higgins gals who used to give me the big eye back yonder in school. Boy, was she something! She'd give me a look out'n those big blue eyes, and I wouldn't know come hither to go yonder." Cap, he was a-settin' there lookin' at me out of those wise old eyes. "He wants beef cattle, and we've just sold our stock. We got a piece of money, but we ain't got near enough to buy at these prices. So what do we do?" "We've got to buy," I said.

"We haven't got enough to buy, let alone to feed ourselves from here to Canada. It's a far piece." Whilst we ate, I did some studyin'. The thought of not doing it never entered our minds. We Sacketts just naturally stood by one another, and if Logan was in trouble, we'd help.

Undoubtedly, he'd given his word to deliver cattle, and a Sackett's word was his bond. It was even more than that. Anywhere a Sackett was known, his name was good for cash in the hand.

This was going to take every cent we could put our hands on, and worst of all, we had to move!

Cap put down his cup. "Got me an idea," he said, and was gone from the table.

"This couldn't come at a worse time," Tyrel commented. "I need all I've got to pay debts back in Santa Fe." "Me, too," I said, "but Logan's in trouble." "You believe he meant that about hanging?" "Logan is a man who takes hanging right serious, and he wouldn't joke about it. If he says hanging, he means just that." For a moment there, I paused, looking into my coffee. "From that remark about Higginses, we can expect trouble along the way." "Sounds like Logan figures somebody doesn't want the cattle to get through"--Tyrel glanced over at me--"which doesn't make a lot of sense." Cap was coming back into the room followed by a straw-hatted sod buster wearing shoes. Farmers were beginning to settle around, but a man didn't see many of them yet, and almost never in the Drover's Cottage.

"Set, Bob, an' tell them what you told me," Cap said.

Bob had wrinkles from squinting at the sun and wrinkles around his eyes from laughing. "My cousin's come down from the north. Lives up on the Missouri near Yankton. He was telling me about some Indian cattl

, and Cap here, he overheard us." "Indian cattle?" "Well, some of them. Quite a few years back, two brothers brought some cattle into the Missouri River country. One of the brothers was gored by a steer, and by the time the other one found him, he was in bad shape. Blood poison, or whatever. He lasted a few weeks, then died.

"The brother took the body back home for burial, and when he came back, he was crossing a stream when his horse fell with him. Both of them lost--horse and man.

"So those cattle run wild. The Injuns around there are mostly friendlies, and they killed a steer time to time, but those cattle have run wild in some of the gullies leading back from the river. I'd say if anybody has claim on them now, it's those Injuns." "But would they sell them?" "Right now they would. They'd sell, and quick. You see, the Sioux have been raiding into their country some, and just now the Sioux learned about those cattle.

They'll drive them off, leaving the friendlies with nothing. If you were to go in there and make 'em a decent offer, you'd have yourself a herd." "How many head, do you figure?" "Eight, nine hundred. Maybe more. There's good grass in those bottoms, and they've done right well. What you'll find is mostly young stuff-- unbranded. What Texas folk call mavericks." So that was how it began. We met the Injuns and sat down over a mess of bacon, bread, and beans, and we made our deal. They didn't want the Sioux to run off those cattle, and we paid them well in blankets and things they were needing.

There was a star showing here and there when I rolled out of my blankets and shook out my boots. The morning was cold, so I got into my vest and coat as quick as ever I could, and after rolling my bed, I headed for the cook fire and a cup of coffee.

Lin, our Chinese cook, was squatting over the fire. He gestured to the pot. "All ready," he said.

He dished up a plate of beef and beans for me, and when I'd taken a couple of swallows of coffee, almost too hot to drink, I started on the beans.

"These are good. What've you done to them?" "Wild onions," he said.

My eyes swept the horizon. Far off to the west, I could see some black humps.

"Buffalo," I commented.

He stood up to look. "I have never seen a buffalo. There will be more?" "A-plenty. More'n we want, I expect." Leaving the fire, I saddled up and then returned for another plate of the beef and beans.

When a man rides out in the morning on a cattle drive, he never knows when he will eat again. Too many things can come up.

Whether it was the wild onions, I did not know, but his grub was the best I'd ever tasted in a cow camp. I told him so.

"I've never cooked but for myself." He glanced at me. "I go home now, to China." "Isn't this the long way?" "You go to British Columbia? I have a relative there, and ships leave there for China. I had no money, and when I heard you were going to British Columbia, I wished to go with you." "It'll be rough." "It often is." He looked at me, not smiling. "It can be rough in China, too." He paused. "My father was an official in the western desert country, in what we called the New Territories. It is a land where all people ride, as they do here." A low wind moaned in the grass, and long ripples ran over the far plain. It would be dawn soon. The cattle were beginning to get up, to stretch and to graze.

When I was in the saddle, I looked back at him. "Can you use a rifle?" "Our compound was attacked several times by bandits," he said. "We all had to shoot." "Before this is over, you may have another chance," I said.

Chapter II

We were four hours into the morning when Cap Rountree stood in his stirrups, shading his eyes as he looked off to the north. Then he waved us west and came cantering back to meet me as I rode up from riding drag.

"There's been a prairie fire. There's no more grass." "How about going east? We have to ride east, anyway, to hook up with Orrin." "The fire came from the east. The way I figure, the grass back thataway is burned off. Westward we've got a chance because of that mite of rain we had night before last. That could have put out the fire." That made sense. "Stay with the herd," I said, "and I'll scout off to the west." "Keep your Winchester handy. I cut some Injun sign over yonder." Sure enough, I'd not gone a quarter of a mile before I rode up to the edge of the burn. Far as the eye could see, the prairie was black.

Turning west, I cantered along for a ways, studying the country. The raindrops had speckled the burned grass, and the chances were Cap's guess was right. Nobody knew more about handling cattle in rough country than Cap.

Several times, I came upon buffalo tracks, and they had turned off to the west just as we were doing. This was going to set us back a day or two, and it was time we could ill afford to lose. It was just spring, with the grass turning green, but we had a long drive ahead and must reach our destination before winter set in.

Every time I topped a rise, I studied the country around, but mostly what lay behind. There were always a few antelope in sight and usually buffalo, but in small bunches and afar off.

Just short of midday, we swung the herd into a shallow valley where there was a slough and some good grass. Lin went off to one side and put together a small fire.

Nobody takes a herd over two thousand miles of rough country without trouble. We'd have our share, and we were ready for it, but we didn't want more than we had to have.

Tyrel came in from the herd, and getting down from the bay he was riding, he whipped the dust from him with his hat, standing well back. When he came up to the fire for coffee, he looked over at me.

"See anything?" He'd seen me looking around when I topped those rises. "Nothing but buffalo," I said.

"I got a bad feeling," he said.

"You and me both," I said.

Cap rode in and dismounted, switching his saddle to a rat-tailed dun that looked like the wrath of God but was tougher than whalebone, a mustang born to the wide plains and the rough country.

When he came up to the fire, he glanced from one to the other. "If you want to know what I think--" "I do," I said.

"We better skip that drive east. Allowin' there's good grass like we heard, we still lose time, and we just ain't got it to lose." He filled his cup and came over, squatting on his heels. He took a stick and drew in the dust. "Right here's about where we are. Right over here is the Jim River--the James if you want to be persnickety about it. I say we drive west, then follow the Jim north, which gives us water all the way.

"Right here there's a mighty pretty valley where the Pipestem flows into the Jim. We can let the cattle have a day there, which will give Orrin a chance to gain on us.

"There's good grass in that valley, and there's a lot of elm, box elder, and some cottonwood along the rivers. There'll be firewood and shade for the stock if we have to wait, and it might pay to wait a couple of days for Orrin." "We've been lucky on the grass," Tyrel said, "bein' so early in the year, but we're drivin' north." "You're durned right." Cap sipped his coffee. "An' from here on, the new grass will be slower, and farther west it will be almighty scarce." Well, now. That fitted in with my own thinking, but I studied on it a mite. Orrin was probably on the river right now, ridin' one of them steamboats up the Red River to Pembina.

Once he got there, he'd have to find a couple of men, buy teams and a couple of Red River carts, then stock up with supplies for the westward drive.

He would need a day if he was lucky, three days if he wasn't, and then he would start west to meet us. We would be coming up from the south, and he would be driving west.

From Pembina there was a trail that led due west through the Pembina Mountains and skirting the Turtle Mountains on the north. If Orrin could make his arrangements in Pembina, he could strike west along that trail, and with luck we'd meet him somewhere close to the Mouse River. With horse-drawn carts, he should make about twenty miles a day, while we would make no more than twelve to fifteen. If he had to go on to Fort Garry, that would throw everything out of kilter, and we'd have to meet farther north.

We scratched around in the dirt, indicating trails and figuring how best to go. Here and there, we'd picked up word of what to expect. We'd stay with the Jim as far as we could, then strike west-northwest for the Canadian border.

"Wish we had more men," Cap said. "The Sioux can be mighty ornery." "We'll have to chance it." I went out to the remuda and threw my saddle on a rangy buckskin.

It was a worrisome thing. The last thing I'd wanted was a cattle drive through country I'd never seen. Aside from Cap and Tyrel, the other men were strangers, picked up where we could get them. They seemed to be mighty good hands, but only time would show what they were made of, and any time you ride through Sioux and Blackfoot country, you're borrowing trouble.

We were short on grub, long on ammunition, and needful of a tie-up with Orrin. Worst of all, he'd be coming west with strangers, too, if he could recruit any help at all.

It was early spring, with patches of snow still holding on the shady side of the hills. The grass was growing, but mostly it was just like a green mist over the hills, although a lot of last year's grass, cured on the stem, was still out there.

Logan had said we could expect Higginses, and the name of Higgins, some folks with whom we'd had a long-running feud, was our name for trouble. Some of those Higgins boys could really shoot.

After I'd had a bite, I swung into the saddle and rode out to relieve one of the boys watching the cattle. He was a new boy we'd found riding south for Abilene, and he stopped at our fire. When we heard he was hunting a riding job, we told him he had one if he was a stayer.

"Never quit nothin' yet," he said, "until it was done." "You got a name you want to use?" "Isom Brand. Folks call me Brandy." "All right. Now think on this. You hook up with us, you'll be riding into wild country, Injun country. You'll see mountains like you've never seen and wider plains than you can believe. You're likely to miss a meal or two, as we're short of grub until we hook up with my brother Orrin, but we don't want anybody who is likely to complain." He just looked at me, that smooth-faced kid with the quick blue eyes, and he said, "You goin' to miss those meals, too?" "We miss them together," I said.

"You hired a hand," he said. He hesitated then, flushing a little. "I ain't got much of an outfit. I give all I had left in cash money to my ma for her and sis afore I pulled out." "Couldn't you find a job close to home?" "No, sir. There just weren't none." "They got enough money to last?" "No, sir. I have to send some to them as soon as I can." "You shape up," I said, "and I'll advance you some." He was riding a crow-bait plow horse that was no good for our work, so we turned him into the remuda, and we roped a paint we bought off an Injun. Brandy topped him off all right, and we rode along.

He was walking a circle on the far side of the herd when I came up to him. "Better go in and get yourself a bite," I suggested, "and catch yourself some shuteye. We won't be moving out for about an hour." There was water a-plenty and good grass, so we took some time. Meanwhile, keeping a watch out and seeing none of the cattle got to straying, I thought about Logan.

Logan and his twin brother Nolan were Clinch Mountain Sacketts, almost a different breed than us. They were rough boys, those Clinch Mountain Sacketts, right down from ol' Yance Sackett, who founded the line way back in the 1600's.

He settled so far back in the mountains that the country was getting settled up before they even knew he was there.

Some of those Clinch Mountain Sacketts were Blockaders; least that's what they were called.

They raised a lot of corn up in the mountains, and the best way they could get it to market was in liquid form. They began selling by the gallon rather than the bushel.

Pa, he would have none of that. "If'n you boys want to take a drink, that's your business, but buy it in town, don't make it. Maybe I don't agree with the government on all things, but we elect

d them, a majority of us did, and it's up to us to stand by them and their laws.

"From all I hear handed down," he added, "that Yance was a wild one, and his get are the same.

Those boys are rougher than a cob, but if you're in trouble, they'll come a runnin'. They'll build you a fire, lend you money, feed you, give you a drink from the jug, or he'p you fight your battles. Especially he'p you fight battles. Why, ain't one of them Clinch Mountain Sacketts wouldn't climb a tree to fight a bear.

"Why, there was a man over at Tellico whupped one of them boys one time. Sure enough, come Saturday night, here was that Sackett again, and the feller whupped him again. An' ever' Saturday night, there was Sackett awaitin' on him, an' ever' time he whupped that Sackett, it got tougher to do. Finally, that feller just give up and stayed to home. He was afraid to show his face because Sackett would be waitin' on him.

"Finally that feller from Tellico, he just taken out and left the country. Went down to the settlements and got hisself a job. He was a right big man, make two of Sackett, but it was years before he stopped jumpin' if you came up behind and spoke to him. "Made a mistake," he said after. "I should have let him whup me. Then I'd of had some peace. Wust thing a man can do is whup a Sackett. They'll dog you to your dyin' day."" That was the way it was. If one of us was in difficulties, Logan would come a-runnin', and the least we could do was go see what we could do.

He said he needed beef cattle, so we'd take him beef cattle. I don't know what had him treed up yonder, but it must've been somethin' fierce, knowin' Logan.

So we'd spent all we had, barrin' a few dollars in pocket, and we were headed into wild, rough country with eleven hundred head of steers.

But it wasn't only that Logan was in trouble. It was because a Sackett had given his word.

I hear tell that down in the towns some folks don't put much store in a man's word, but with us it was the beginning and the end. There were some poor folks up where we come from, but they weren't poor in the things that make a man.

Through the long afternoon, we plodded steadily west, the blackened earth only a few hundred yards off on our right. The low gray clouds broke, and the sky cleared. The grass was changing, too.

We rarely saw the tall bluestem that had grown further east. Now it appeared only in a few bottoms. There was a little bluestem, June grass and needle grass.

Slowly, the herd was gettin' trail broke.

Once in a while, some old mossyhorn steer would make a break to go home, and we'd have to cut him back into the herd, but generally they were holdin' steady. A rangy old brindle steer had taken the lead and held it. He was mean as a badger with his tail in a trap and would fight anything that argued with him, so mostly nobody did.

Cap rode back to me just about sundown as we were rounding the stock into a hollow near a slough.

"Tell," he said, "better come an' have a look whilst it's light." He led the way to the far side of the slough, and we studied the ground. The grass was pressed down here and there, the remains of a fire and the tracks of two travois.

"Six or seven, I'd say," Cap said, "but you're better at this than me." Well, I took a look around. "Six or seven," I agreed. "Maybe eight. One of them travois leaves a deep trail, and I figure they've got a wounded man on it.

"They've had them a fight," I said, "and that's odd because there's at least two women along. It's no war party." "There's a papoose, too," Cap said.

"If you look yonder by that rock, you'll see where they leaned his cradle board." I indicated a dirty piece of cloth lying in the trampled-down grass. It was very bloody.

"Somebody is hurt," I said. "Probably the man on the travois." Squatting, I sat on my heels and looked over the place where they'd camped and the ashes left from their fire. "Yesterday," I said, "maybe the day before." "And they're headin' west, like us." "We got to keep an eye out. We'll be comin' up with them maybe tomorrow night or next morning. They aren't going to make much time." "What do you make of it?" Cap asked.

"A papoose in the cradle board, one walkin' about youngster, two women and four men.

Two of the men are oldish, gettin' on in years.

One's a youngster--fightin' age but young. Then there's the wounded man." "I spotted 'em a while back." Cap put the butt of his rifle on the ground.

"They've been keepin' to low ground. Looks to me like they're scared." Well, I took my hat off and wiped the sweat off my forehead, then put my hat on and tugged her down tight. "Cap," I said, "we'd best sleep light and step careful because whatever's after them is comin' our way, too."

Chapter III

We were taking it easy. We had a long way to go, but the season was early, and there was no use us gettin' so far north that the grass wouldn't have come yet. The country was greenin', but it would take time. We had come up to the Jim River just below Bear Creek.

Cap an' Tyrel scouted ahead, riding into the trees to see if company waited on us, but there was nobody. There was fair grass on the plain and mighty good grass in the creek bottom, so we swung our herd around and bedded them down.

Swingin' along the edge of the trees, I dabbed a loop on a snag and hauled it up for the fire.

Lin was already down from the wagon and picking up some flat stones he could use to set pots on.

We hadn't any chuck wagon, and grub was scarce. Leavin' Brandy with the stock, Tyrel rode down to where I sat my horse. "Saw some deer back yonder." He gestured toward the creek. "Figured I'd ride out and round up some meat." "Sure." As he turned his mount away, I said, "Keep your eyes open for those Injuns. I think they're somewhere about." "Maybe so." He pulled up for a moment.

"Night before last--maybe I was wrong, but I thought I smelled smoke." He let it rest for a minute, and then he said, "Tell? You know what I think? I think those Injuns are ridin' in our shadow. For protection, like." He took out his Winchester and rode off into the trees, but what he said stayed with me. Those Indians were only a handful, and they'd seen trouble from somebody. Tyrel might be right, and they could be stayin' close to us with the idea that they'd not be attacked with us so close by.

By the time I started back for camp, the cattle had settled down. A few were still grazing on last year's grass, but most of them were full as ticks. I wasn't fooled by their good shape because I knew rough country lay ahead of us.

When I stepped down from the saddle and ground hitched my horse, the other two riders had come in and were drinkin' coffee. Gilcrist was a lean, dark man who handled a rope well and seemed to know something about stock but was obviously a gambler.

He'd not had much luck getting up a game around camp because mostly when we bedded down the cattle, we were too tired to do anything but crawl into our blankets ourselves. The man traveling with him was a big, very heavy man but not fat. He was no taller than me, maybe even a mite shorter, but he was a good fifty pounds heavier, and it wasn't fat. Gilcrist called him the Ox, so we followed suit. Nobody ever did ask him his name, as folks just didn't ask questions.

Whatever somebody named you or whatever you answered to was good enough.

Just as I was stepping down from my bronc, I heard a rifle shot. "We'll have fresh meat for supper," I said.

Gilcrist glanced around. "Suppose he missed?" "That was Tyrel. He doesn't miss." A few minutes later, Tyrel rode into camp with the best parts of a deer. He unloaded the meat at the fire and led his horse away to strip its gear. Nobody said anything, but when Tyrel came back into camp, I noticed Gilcrist sizing him up.

We ate, and Tyrel spoke quietly to me.

"They're about, Tell. I spotted one of them watchin' me." He paused a moment. "I left them a cut of the meat." "He see you?" "Uh-huh. I laid it out nice and ready for him. I think they're hard up." I turned to Gilcrist and the Ox. "When you finish, ride out and let Cap and Brandy come in." The Ox wiped his hands on his pants. "Do the kid good to wait a mite. Teach him something." I looked across the fire at him. "If he needs teaching, I'll teach him. You relieve him." The Ox leaned back on his elbow. "Hell, I just got here. They can wait." "Relieve him," I said, "now." The Ox hesitated, then slowly got to his feet, deliberately prolonging the movements.

"Oh, all right," he said. "I'll go let mama's little boy come in." He mounted his horse and rode out. Gilcrist got to his feet, then commented, "Better go easy with him. He's a mighty mean man." "Where I come from they're all mean if you push them," I said. "If he stays on this job, he'll do his work." Gilcrist looked around. "Mighty big country out here. Looks to me like a man could do what he wanted." "Boot Hill is full of men who had that idea." Tyrel spoke casually, as if bored.

"It's a big country, all right, big enough for men who are big enough." Gilcrist mounted up and rode out, and Tyrel threw his coffee on the grass. "Looks like trouble." "I saw it when I hired them, but who else could I get? Nobody wanted to ride north into wild country." "Maybe they wanted to. Maybe they had reason." "That big one," I commented, "looks strong enough to wrassle a bull. Maybe I should save him for Logan. Logan likes his kind." "Maybe. Maybe you won't be able to save him, Tell. Maybe he won't wait that long." Cold winds blew down from the north, and there were occasional spitting rains. The scattered patches of snow were disappearing, however, and the trees along the river bottoms were green. There were pussywillows along the bottoms, too, and patches of crocus growing near the snow.

We moved north, day after day, following the course of the James River but holding to the hills on one side or the other.

As we came down the hill into the valley where the James and Pipestem met, Tyrel rode over to where I was. "Cold," he said, meanin' the wind, "mighty cold!" "There's wood along the river," I said, "and we'll rest up for a couple of days. It's needful that Orrin have time. No tellin' whether he'll find the men we need or not." "Wish we could get rid of them two." Tyrel gestured toward the Ox and Gilcrist.

"I just don't cotton to them." "Nor me," I said, "an' old Cap is keepin' his mouth shut, but it's hard." Turning to look at him, I said, "Tye, all day I've been thinkin' of the mountains back home. Must be I'm gettin' old or something, but I keep thinkin' of how it was back home with ma sittin' by the fire workin' on her patchwork quilt. Night came early in the winter months, and lookin' out the window a body could see pa's lanterns making patterns on the snow as he walked about. He'd be doin' the last of the chores, but when he came in, he always brought an armful of wood for the wood box." "I recall," Tyrel said. "We sure spent some time climbin' around those mountains! All the way from Chunky Gal to Roan Mountain. I mind the time Orrin got lost over to Huggins Hell and was plumb out of sight for three days." "I wasn't there then. I'd already slipped along the mountains and over the Ohio to join up with the Union." "Nolan went t'other way. He rode down to Richmond and joined the Confederacy. We had people on both sides." "It was that kind of a war," I commented, and changed the subject. "When we were talkin' about who'd been to the north, I clean forgot the drive I made right after the war. Went up the Bozeman Trail into Montana. I didn't stay no longer than to get myself turned around and headed back, although it was a different trail I rode on the return.

"It was on the way up I got my first taste of the Sioux. They're a rough lot, Tyrel.

Don't you take them light." Tyrel chuckled suddenly. "Tell? You mindful of an old friend of yours? The one we called Highpockets?" "You mean Haney? Sure. Odd you should speak of him. Last time I heard tell of him, he was headed north." "Mind the time he went to the sing over at Wilson's Cove? He fell head over heels for some visitin' gal from down in the Sequatchie and went at it, knuckle and skull, with some big mule skinner.

"I remember he come back, and he got out what he used to call his

"ree-volver", and he said, "That ol' boy's give me trouble, so I'm a gonna take my ol' ree-volver an' shoot some meat off his bones." He done it, too." We rounded up our steers in the almost flat bottom of that valley and let them graze on the stand of last year's grass. There was green showin' all about, but mostly what they could get at was cured on the stem. There was water a-plenty, and this seemed like a good time to rest up a mite.

Cap killed a buffalo, a three-year old cow, on the slope above the river, so we had fresh meat. The boys bunched the cattle for night, and Cap said, "We'd best start lookin' for windy hills for campin'. The way I hear it, up north where there's all those rivers, lakes, and such, there's mosquitoes like you wouldn't believe. Eat a man alive, or a horse." "Mosquitoes?" I said. "Hell, I've seen mosquitoes. Down on the Sulphur--" "Not like the ones they have up north," Cap said.

"You mind what I say, Tell. When you hear stories of them, you'll swear they're lies.

Well, they ain't. You leave a horse tied out all night and chances are he'll be dead by morning." Me, I looked over at him, but he wasn't smiling. Whether he knew what he was talkin' about, I didn't know, but he wasn't funnin'.

He was downright serious.

There were mosquitoes there on the Pipestem, but we built a smudge, and it helped some.

Nobody talked much, but we lazed about the fire, takin' our turn at watching over the cattle.

The remuda we kept in close to camp where we could all more or less keep an eye on it.

What Indians wanted most of all was horses, and without them we'd be helpless.

A time or two, I walked out under the stars, away from the campfire and what talk there was, just to listen.

There was no sound but the cattle stirring a mite here and there, rising or lying down, chewing their cuds, occasionally standing up to graze a bit. It was still early.

Later, when I was a-horseback on the far side of the herd, I thought I caught a whiff of wood smoke that came from a different direction than our fire. Well, if they were riding in our shadow, they were no bother, and it was all right with us.

Gave a body a kind of re/l feeling, just knowing he wasn't alone out there.

This was a lovely valley, already turning green with springtime, but it was a valley in a great wide open country where we rode alone, where we had no friends, and if trouble came, we'd have to handle it all by our lonesome. There wasn't going to be anybody coming to help.

Not anybody at all.

Chapter IV

For two days, we rested where the Pipestem met the James, holding the cattle on the grass at the edge of the woods and gathering fallen limbs and dead brush for firewood.

"Pleasant place," Tyrel said. "I hate to leave." Gilcrist glanced over at me. "We pulling out?" "Just before daybreak. Get a good night's sleep." Gilcrist finished his coffee and got up.

"Come on, Ox, let's relieve mama's boy and the old man." Tyrel glanced at me, and I shrugged. Lin straightened up from the fire, fork in hand. The Ox caught his expression. "Something you don't like, yellow boy?" Lin merely glanced at him and returned to his work.

The Ox hesitated, glancing over at me where I sat with my coffee cup in my hands; then he went to his horse, mounted, and followed Gilcrist.

"If we weren't short-handed," I said to Tyrel, "he'd get his walkin' papers right now." "Sooner or later," Tyrel agreed. Then he added, "The other one fancies himself with a gun." By first light, we were headed down the trail, climbing out of the valley and heading north. A few miles later, I began angling off to the northwest, and by sundown we had come up with the Pipestem again.

The herd was trail broke now, and the country was level to low, rolling hills. We saw no Indians or any tracks but those of buffalo or antelope. The following day, we put sixteen miles behind us.

Each night, just shy of sundown, Tyrel, Cap, or I would scout the country around.

Several times, we caught whiffs of smoke from another campfire, but we made no effort to seek them out.

Short of sundown on the third day, after our rest, I killed a buffalo, and the Ox came up to lend a hand. I never did see a buffalo skinned out faster or meat cut and trimmed any better. I said as much.

"Pa was a butcher, and I growed up with a knife in hand. Then I hunted buffalo on the southern plains." "Take only the best cuts," I said, "an' leave the rest." He was bent over, knife in hand. He turned his head to look at me. "Leave it? For varmints?" "There's some Indians close by, and they're having a bad time of it. Leave some for them." "Injuns? Hell, let 'em rustle their own meat. What d'we care about Injuns?" "They're hungry," I said, "and their best hunter is wounded and laid up." Obviously, he believed me crazy. "I never knew an' Injun worth the powder it took to kill him." "Back in the mountains," I said, "I knew quite a few. Generally speakin', they were good folks.

"We had trouble with them a time or two and they're good, tough fightin' men. I've also hunted and trapped with them, slept in their lodges. They are like everybody else. There's good an' bad amongst them." We left some meat on the buffalo hide, and I stuck a branch in the ground and tied a wisp of grass to it. Not that they'd need help findin' it.

Come daylight, when we moved out with the cattle, I took a look, and every last bit of meat was gone, and the hide, also. I counted the tracks of a boy and two women. They'd have read the sign and would know that meat was left a-purpose.

With Cap ridin' point, the cattle strung out along the trail, and I rode drag. Tyrel was off scoutin' the country. Pipestem Creek was east of us now, and the country was getting a mite rougher. Maybe it was my imagination. Off on the horizon, far ahead and a hair to the west, I could see the top of a butte or hill.

By noontime, that butte was showing strong and clear.

It was several hundred feet high and covered with timber. When Tyrel came back to the drag, I rode ahead to talk to Cap.

"Heard of that place," he said. "They call it the Hawk's Nest. There's a spring up yonder--good water." After a bit, he added, "Big lake off to the north. Maybe a mite east. Devils Lake, they call it. Got its name, they say, from a party of Sioux who were returning victorious from a battle with the Chippewa.

Owanda, the Sioux medicine man, had warned them not to make the attack, but they were young bucks, eager for battle and reputation, and they didn't listen.

"Their folks were watching from the shore, saw them coming far out on the lake, and could tell from the scalps on the lifted lances that they'd been victorious.

"Well, some say that night came down. It had been dusk when they were sighted. Night came, but the war party didn't. That day to this, nobody's seen hide nor hair of them. Devils in the lake, the Injuns say." "Owanda must have been really big medicine after that," I commented.

"You can bet he was. But the way I hear it, he was one of the most powerful of all medicine men.

Lot of stories about him. First I heard of him was from the Cheyenne." Cap went on to his flank position, and I took over the point, riding well out in front, studying the country as we moved. Wherever possible, I held the herd down off the skyline. We didn't want to get in the bottoms and among the trees but at least as low as we could move while handling the cattle. There were Indians about, and if they did not know of us now, they would very soon, but I wanted to attract as little attention as possible.

At the same time, I was studying our future.

The grass was growing, and soon it would be high enough for grazing. Until then, the cattle would be eating last year's grass. We were getting a jump on the season, and that was why we were not pushing along.

We had to stall until the grass was up.

By that time, we should have met with Orrin and his Red River carts. Or so we hoped.

Westward the drive was long. The camp for which we were headed was in rugged mountain country, and we had to make it before the snow started falling. Once the grass was up and we had Orrin with us, we'd have to push hard, even at the risk of losing flesh from those steers.

Tyrel and me, we didn't even have to talk to know what the other one was thinking. It was almost that way with Cap.

Gilcrist and the Ox were worrisome men. Tyrel was right when he said Gilcrist fancied himself with a gun, and while I'd never wanted the reputation of gunfighter, a reputation both Tyrel and me had, I kind of wished now Gilcrist knew something about us. Might save trouble.

Many a man thinks large of himself because he doesn't know the company he's in. No matter how good a man can get at anything, there's always a time when somebody comes along who's better.

It was Tyrel who worried me, too.

Tyrel was a first-class cattleman, a good man with handling men, and he never hunted trouble, but neither did trouble have to look very far to find him.

Orrin an' me, we might back off a little and give a trouble-huntin' man some breathin' space.

Not Tyrel--you hunted trouble with him, you'd bought yourself a packet. He didn't give breathing space; he moved right in on you. A man who called his hand had better be reaching for his six-shooter when he did it.

Worst of it was, he seemed kind of quiet and boy-like, and a body could make a serious mistake with him.

Back in the high-up hills where we came from, fightin' was what we did for fun. You got into one of those shindigs with a mountain boy and it was root hog or die. Pa, who had learned his fightin' from boyhood and seasoned himself around trappers' rendezvous, taught us enough to get started. The rest we picked up ourselves.

The wind was picking up a mite, and there was a coolness on it that felt like rain, or snow. It was late in the season for snow, but I'd heard of snow in this country when it was summer anywhere else.

When we were close to the Hawk's Nest, we bedded them down for the night.

"Lin, feed 'em as quick as ever you can," I said to the cook. "I think we're sittin' in for a spell of weather." I pointed toward the Hawk's Nest. "I'm going up yonder to have a look over the country before it gets dark." The Hawk's Nest was a tree-capped butte rising some four hundred feet above the surrounding country, and when I topped out, I found a gap in the trees and had a good view of the country.

There was a smoke rising about a mile up the creek from where we were camped at the junction of the Pipestem and the Little Pipestem. Far ahead, I could see a line of green that showed the Pipestem curved around to the west. Somewhere off there was the Sheyenne.

The water in the spring was fresh and cold. I drank, then watered the line-back dun I was riding and swung into the saddle. Just as I was starting to come off the top, I glimpsed another smoke, only this one was to the west of us and seemed to be coming from a bottom along the Pipestems as it came from the west and before it began its curve toward the south.

It lay somewhat to the west of the route we should be taking on the morrow but not so far off that it wasn't cause for worry.

For a time, I just sat there under cover of the last trees and studied that layout. I brushed a big horsefly off the shoulder of the dun and said, "You know, Dunny, this here country is sure crowdin' up. Why, there's three smokes goin' up within a five-mile square. Gettin' so it ain't fittin' for man or beast." Then I turned that dun down trail and headed for the beef and beans. Seemed so long since I'd eaten, my stomach was beginnin' to think my throat was cut.

By the time I reached the fire, Cap an' Brandy were just finishing up. Cap glanced over at me, and I said, "We've got neighbors." "I seen some tracks," Cap said.

"How many?" "Four, looked like. Shod horses. Big horses, like you find up here in the north where you have to buck snow in the wintertime." "There's no way we're going to hide eleven hundred head of cattle," I said, "but we won't start westerin' for a bit. Come daybreak, we'll hold on the North Star." "Back in Texas," Cap said, "when night came, we used to line up a wagon tongue on the North Star. Use it for a pointer." Lin handed me a tin plate full of beans and beef, and

took a look at Brandy. He was settin' quiet, almighty serious for a boy his years.

"You havin' any trouble?" I asked him.

He gave me a quick look. "No, not really." "Stand clear if you can," I said. "That's a mean lot." "I can take care of myself." "I don't doubt it. But right now I need every man, need 'em bad. Once we hook up with Orrin, it may be some better, but we don't know. Understand, I'm not puttin' any stake rope on you. A man just has to go his own way." Brandy went out to throw his saddle on a fresh horse, and Cap looked up from his coffee.

"He's makin' a fair hand, Tell, and he's got the makin's." Well, I knew that. Trouble was I had to walk almighty careful not to step on his pride.

No matter how rough it was, a man has to saddle his own broncs in this western country.

Only I was afraid Brandy was goin' to have to tackle the big one before he'd whupped anybody his own size. It didn't seem fair, but then, a lot of things aren't. We take them as they come.

If I was around-- But who knew if I would be?

The Ox looked fat, but he wasn't. He was just heavy with bone and muscle, and his broad, hard-boned face looked like it had been carved from oak. He was a man of tremendous strength, with thick arms, massive forearms, and powerful hands.

He gave me the feeling of a man who has never seen anything he couldn't lift or any man who could even test him.

I said as much to Tyrel. "Gilcrist told me he'd seen him break a man's back just wrasslin' for fun." "I don't think he ever did anything just for fun," I said.

Tyrel nodded. "You be careful, Tell. That Ox ain't human. He's a brute." "I want no part of him," I replied.

On most cow outfits, a man stands night guard about two hours at a time, but we were short-handed and in wild country. The Ox and Gilcrist were going to be on from six to ten, Cap and Brandy would take over from ten until two, with Tyrel and me closing out until morning when one of us would come in, get the fire started, and awaken Lin so's he could fix breakfast.

If we were going to be attacked by Indians, it would most likely occur just before daybreak, but nobody has any certainty of any such thing.

When Cap touched me on the shoulder, it was just shy of two, and I was up, tugging on my boots.

Under a tree about thirty yards away, Tyrel was already on his feet. We made it a rule to sleep apart, so if somebody closed in on one of us, the other could outflank them. There were those who thought we'd be better off side by side, but we figured otherwise. Too easy for one man to hold a gun on us both.

All was quiet, the cattle resting. The stars were bright, here and there blotted by clouds. A body could see the darkness of the trees, the lumped bodies of the cattle, and hear the footfalls of a horse as it moved.

It was past three, closing in on four o'clock before it started to grow gray. The line-back dun was moving like a ghost toward a meeting with Tyrel.

Suddenly, the dun's head came up, ears pricked. My Winchester slid into my hands, and at that moment I saw Tyrel.

He was sitting quiet in the saddle, his hands on his thighs, reins in the left hand.

Facing him were four Sioux warriors.

Chapter V

Now I'd lay a hundred to one those Injuns had never seen a fast draw, but if one of them lifted a weapon, it would be the last thing they ever did see.

At that range, there was just no way he was going to miss, and that meant he would take out two for sure, and likely he'd get three. Time and again, I've seen him fire, and men would swear he'd fired once when actually he'd fired twice and both bullets in a spot the size of a two-bit piece.

They'd never seen a fast draw, but they were fighting men, and there was something about him, just a-settin' there quiet with his hand on his thigh that warned them they'd treed a bad one.

Their eyes were riveted on him, so I was within fifty feet and moving in before they saw me, and I was on their flank.

"Something wrong, Tyrel?" I asked.

He never turned his head, but he spoke easy. "Looks like I was about to find out." One big Indian turned his pony to face me, and the minute he did, I recognized him.

"Ho! I see my old friend, High-Backed Bull!" I said.

He looked to be as tall as my six feet and four inches, and he was heavier, but a lean, powerful man. He was darker than most, with high cheekbones and a Roman nose. He stared at me.

"I have no friend who is white eyes," he said.

Me, I pushed my hat brim back so's he could see my face a little better. "You and me, Bull, we had a nice run together. That was years back, down on the Bozeman Trail.

"You were a mighty strong man," I added, "a big warrior." I doubled my biceps and clapped a hand to it, then pointed at his. "Much strong!" I said. "Run very fast." He peered at me. "Sack-ETT!" he shouted. "You Sack-ETT!" I grinned at him. "Long time back, Bull!" Now I knew he had no liking for me. He'd tried to kill me then, not from any hatred of me but simply because I was a white man driving cattle over the Bozeman Trail, which the Sioux had closed to us. They'd caught me, stripped me, and had me set to run the gauntlet, only I'd started before they were ready and had broken free, taking off across the country.

John Coulter had done it one time, and maybe there was a chance.

They came after me, the whole lot of them, only I'd been running in the mountains since I was a youngster, and I began putting distance between us.

All but this one, the one they called High-Backed Bull. Soon it was just the two of us, him and me, and a good mile off from the rest, and he throwed a spear at me.

It missed by a hair, and then he closed in on me, running fast. Dropping suddenly, he spilled right over me, and he was up, quick as a cat, but I was up, too, and when he come at me, I throwed him with a rolling hip lock as pa had showed me long ago. I throwed him, all right, and throwed him hard. He hit the ground, and I grabbed up his spear and was about to stick him with it.

He'd been stunned by the shock of hitting the ground, just for a moment, like. He stared up at me, and he was such a fine-lookin' man, I just couldn't do it. I just broke the spear across my knee, threw down the pieces, and I taken out across country.

Some of the Injuns had gone back for ponies, and they were coming at me when I made the trees atop a knoll. They come up, a-runnin', and I scrooched down behind a bush, and when this rider paused to swing his pony between two trees, I hit him across the small of the back with a thick branch I'd picked up.

It knocked him forward and off balance, and in a moment I was jerkin' him off the pony and swingin' to its back.

We ran those ponies, me ahead and them after me, until the sun went down, but I'd circled around and came back to where my outfit was camped.

I went through patches of woods, across plains, down rocky draws, and finally I seen ol' Tilson's high-top sombrero against the sky, and I called out, "Don't shoot, Til! It's me! Sackett!" Well, they'd give me up for dead. Two days the Injuns had me, and there'd been a third day of gettin' away from them.

"Where the hell you been? We're short-handed enough," Til said, "'thout you taken off a Sundayin' around over the hills whilst the rest of us work." "I was took by Injuns," I said.

"A likely story!" he scoffed. "You've still got your hair." He pointed toward camp. "Get yourself some coffee. You'll be standin' guard at daybreak." Well, I walked down into camp, and ol' Nelson was standin' there by the fire. "You bring any company with you?" he asked.

"Tried to avoid it," I said, "but there might be one of them show up. I done some runnin'," I said, "and then I got this horse." "You call that a horse. Won't weigh six hundred pound." "Don't you miscall him. He can run." Nelson took up a cup and filled it. "Have yourself something." He looked at me. "You et?" "Oh, sure! Don't you worry none about me! Why, two, three days ago, I et at a cow camp run by Nelson Storey, who was takin' cows to Montana. I ain't had a bit since, but then what can a man expect? I didn't come up on no rest-too-rawnts, and them Injuns didn't figure to waste grub on a man who wasn't goin' to live long enough to digest it." He pointed. "There's some roast buffalo, camp-baked beans, and some prunes. That should fix you up." He took out a big silver watch.

"You got two hours to sleep before you stand guard." "Nels," I said, "I lost my rifle, and--" "One of the boys picked it up," he said. "It's in the wagon. Draw you a new knife there. I'll dock you for the time off." Well, I knew he wouldn't do no such thing, but I was so glad to be back, I didn't care if he did. Only when I was a-settin' my horse out there by the cattle that night, I thought back to the hatred lookin' at me out of those fierce black eyes of High-Backed Bull, and I was glad I'd seen the last of him.

Until now-- He stared at me. "You Sack-ETT," he said.

Tyrel said, "You actually know this Injun?" "I know him," I said, "from that trip I took up the Bozeman Trail after the War Between the States. We had us a little run-in back yonder. They had me fixed to run the gauntlet --fifty-sixty big Injuns all lined up with me to run down the aisle betwixt 'em and each one hittin' or cuttin' at me.

"Well, I recalled that story pa told us about John Coulter, so I done likewise. I just taken off across the country and not down their gauntlet. This big buck here, he durned near caught me." "So Sack-ETT," Bull said, "it is again." Smiling, I held out my hand. "Friends?" I said.

He stared at me. "No friend," he said. "I kill." "Don't try it. I'm bad luck for you.

Me," I said, "bad medicine for you, much bad medicine." He stared at me, very cool and not at all scared. "Soon you hair here." He touched his horse's bridle where three other scalps, one of them obviously that of a white man, already dangled.

He changed the subject. With a wide sweep of his hand, he said, "This belong to Sioux. What you do here?" "Crossing it, Bull. We're just driving across on the way to Fort Qu'Appelle." It was a Canadian fort, and the name just came to me.

"Maybe we'll meet on the way back." They turned and rode away, and Tyrel, he just sat there looking after them, and then he shook his head. "There was a time there when I figured I'd have to do the fastest shootin' I ever done." Gilcrist and the Ox come ridin' up. They could see the four Sioux ridin' away. "What happened?" Gil asked.

"No trouble," I said. "Just a Sioux who tried to take my hair one time, thinkin' about another try." "You knew him?" "Some years back," I said. "I'd just come out of the Sixth Cavalry and--" "The Sixth?" He was surprised.

"Sackett? were you that Sackett?" "So far as I know, I was the only one in the outfit." "I'll be damned," he said. "I'll be dee-double damned!" "That was a long time ago," I said. "Let's get 'em movin'!" We lined them out and pointed them north and prayed a little that we wouldn't meet any more Sioux, but after my meeting with High-Backed Bull, I knew they'd be back.

Cap rode up to see me at point.

"Hustle 'em, Cap. I want distance." "You know you ain't goin' to outrun any Injuns," he said. "If they come for us, they'll find us." "They'll come," I said.

"You should've killed him when you had the chance." Brandy had come up to us, wanting to hear. "I'd figure him grateful," Brandy said. "You let him live when you could've killed him." "They don't figure that way, son," Cap remarked. "They figured him a coward for not followin' through. They don't think he had nerve enough.

"Injuns don't think the same as us, and we keep thinkin' they do. That's been the cause of most of the trouble. We think one way, they think another, and even when the words are the same, they mean different things.

"I've fought 'em here and there, lived with some of them, too. They're good people, mostly, but there's right-out bad ones, the same as with us.

"Folks get the wrong idea about Injuns.

Somebody figured the Injuns thought the white man was somethin' special. Some easterner who'd never seen an Injun figured it that way. Nothing of the kind. The Injuns mostly looked down on the white man.

"Why? Because he was tradin' for furs, and the Injuns figured if he was any kind of a man,

e'd go ketch his own. He traded for 'em because he didn't know how to hunt or trap.

"The Sioux, the Cheyenne, an' all them, they despised the white man, although they wanted what he traded. They wanted steel traps, guns, blankets, and whiskey." Cap pushed a brindle steer back into the herd.

"Some folks figured it was all wrong to trade the Injuns whiskey, and no doubt it was, but it wasn't meanness made 'em do it. They traded the Injuns whiskey because it was what most of those white men wanted themselves, so they figured the Injun wanted it, too." We pushed 'em on into the evening and bedded down on Rocky Run, finding ourselves a little hollow down off the skyline. The mosquitoes were worse, but we were a whole lot less visible.

When we had a fire going, I roped a fresh horse and switched saddles. "I'll mosey around a mite," I told Cap. "You an' Tyrel, you keep a hold on things whilst I'm gone." "We'll try," Cap said.

Rocky Run was a mite of a stream that probably fed into the James, but there'd been rains, and there was good water. Topping out on a ridge, I dropped over the edge far enough not to skyline myself and took a look around.

Mostly, I studied the country to the west. Come daybreak, we'd be lined out to the west, shaping a bit north for the James again.

How many Sioux were there and how far away?

There'd be a-plenty, no doubt, but I was hoping High-Backed Bull would have to go some distance to his village. There was no way to hide eleven hundred head of cattle and no way you could move them very fast. We'd have to do what we could.

Turning back toward camp, a movement caught my eye. Somebody was coming, somebody on a slow-walking horse that stopped now and again, then started on. But he was coming my way.

Shucking my Winchester, I taken my horse down off the low ridge, kind of angling toward that rider.

It was already almost dark, and there were stars here and yonder, but a body could make things out. This rider was all humped over in the saddle like he was hurt.

I caught a momentary glint of metal, and I pulled up and waited.

When he was some fifty yards off, I covered him with my Winchester and let him close the distance.

"Pull up there! Who are you?" He straightened up then. "What? A white man? What're you doing out here?" "Drivin' some cattle," I said. "What about you?" "I been runnin'," the man said. "Sioux.

I'm headed for Fort Stevenson, Army mail." "Fort Stevenson? Hell, I didn't know there was a fort up this way. Come on into camp." He was a fine-looking man, Irish, and with the bearing of a soldier. When I said as much, he said, "Some years back, in England and India." He threw me a quick glance. "Cattle, you say?

Where to?" "The gold mines," I said.

"It's a long drive," he said, "a very long drive. Strike north toward the South Saskatchewan. You can follow it part of the way.

It won't be easy--and stay away from Fort Garry." "What's wrong?" "There's trouble brewing. When the Bay Company let go of Rupert's Land, which means most of western Canada, there was no government. It wasn't immediately apparent that Canada was going to take over, so a m`etis named Louis Riel has set up a provisional government." "M`etis?" "It's a name for the French-Indian or sometimes Scotch-Indian buffalo hunters. Anyway, it looks like trouble, so I'd steer clear of Fort Garry." "And Pembina?" "The same." By now, or very soon, Orrin would be there. He would be right where the trouble was, and he would be alone.

Chapter VI

Orrin Sackett boarded the stage at St.

Cloud. Two women were already seated, a short, stout woman with a florid complexion and a young, quite pretty girl in an expensive traveling suit. Seating himself in a corner, Orrin watched the others as they got aboard.

There were three. The first was a square-shouldered, strongly built man in a dark, tailored suit with a carefully trimmed beard. He was followed by two men, roughly dressed and armed with pistols under their coats and rifles in their hands.

Scarcely were they seated when, with a pistol-like crack of the whip, they were off.

The man with the trimmed beard glanced at him.

Orrin knew he presented a good appearance in his planter's hat, his dark gray frock coat, and trousers of a lighter gray, his dark green vest sporting a fine gold watch chain.

"Fort Abercrombie?" The man asked. "Or are you going further?" "Fort Garry," Orrin replied. "Or possibly only to Pembina." "My destination, also. From Georgetown to the steamboat you may have to provide your own transportation. The stage often goes no further than Georgetown. Much depends on the condition of the roads and the disposition of the driver. And, I might add, on the mosquitoes." Orrin lifted an eyebrow. "The mosquitoes?" "If you have not heard of them, be warned. They are unlike any mosquitoes you will have seen. At least in number. Leave an animal tied out all night and by morning it may be dead. I am serious, sir." "But what do you do?" "Stay inside after sundown. Build smudges if you're out. Sleep under mosquito netting. They'll still get you, but you can live with them." The young girl twisted her lips, obviously disturbed. The two men showed no concern, as if the story were familiar to them, but what was wrong about them? He did not wish to stare at them, but there was something, some little thing that disturbed him.

It was not that they were armed. He carried his own pistol in its holster and another, a derringer, in his vest pocket. His rifle was in the blanket roll in the boot. The man with the beard was also armed with a small pistol. Very likely, the women were also, although a woman could, in most cases, travel anywhere in the West in complete safety.

It was not that the two were roughly dressed that disturbed him. He had dressed no better, if as well, for the better part of his life, and in the West men wore whatever was available or what they could afford. Over half the greatcoats one saw were army issue, either blue or gray, and a good number of the hats came from the same source. Yet somehow these men seemed different.

Their clothing did not seem to belong to them. They were old clothes and should have been comfortable, but neither man wore them with ease.

"You have been to Fort Garry before? And Pembina?" The man with the trimmed beard nodded. "Several times, although I am not sure what my welcome will be like this time." He glanced at Orrin again. "They aren't very friendly to outsiders right now." "What's the problem?" "They've had an influx of outsiders. Some of them from Ontario but many from the States. Some are land grabbers, some are promoters. You see, when the Bay Company moved out, they left the country, Rupert's Land, they call it, high and dry and without a government." He paused, peering from the window. The stage was slowing for a bad place in the road. "The m`etis, the French-Indian people who formerly worked for the company, have lived on their land for several generations. Now, suddenly, there's a question of title. The newcomers say the m`etis own nothing at all.

"Louis Riel has returned from Montreal and is reported to be forming a provisional government. I have met the man but once, in passing, and know nothing about him." "He's a breed," one of the other men spoke suddenly. "He's part Indian." His manner of speaking made the statement an accusation, and Orrin said mildly, "Could be in his favor. I've dealt with Indians. They know the country, and some of them are wise men." The man was about to reply, but seeing the way the conversation was going, the man with the trimmed beard thrust out his hand. "I am Kyle Gavin, and a Scotsman, although I've spent a deal of time in both your country and Canada. We may be of service to each other." "I am Orrin Sackett, of Tennessee. I have been practicing law in New Mexico and Colorado." At the name, both the other men glanced up sharply, first at him, and then they exchanged a glance.

Darkness was crowding into the thick brush and trees along the trail, leaning in long shadows across the trail itself. Atop a small hill where some wind was felt, the stage pulled up, and the driver descended.

"I'd sit tight if I was you," he warned.

"Keep as many mosquitoes out as you can. I'm lightin' the carriage lamps." He did so, and then they moved on into the darkness. "There will be food at the next stop," Gavin commented. "I'd advise all to eat. The night will be long." The road was a mere trace through towering trees, then across open prairies dotted with clumps of brush. Trees had been cut down, but the stumps remained, and occasionally a wheel would hit one of the stumps with a bone-jolting shock. There were strips of corduroy road across marshes, made by laying logs crosswise and covering them with brush and mud.

Inside the coach, all was dark. Orrin removed his hat and leaned his head back against the cushion. In that way, he could doze fitfully, jarred into wakefulness by getting a sharp rap on the skull when the stage passed a bad bump.

After a long time of endless bumping, jolting, and crackings of the whip, a bit of light flickered across his vision. He opened his eyes and, lifting the corner of the curtain, peered out. They had come to a settlement, and only a minute or two later the stage pulled up before a low-roofed building of logs.

The door opened and the stage driver said, "Grub on the table! Better eat up!" Kyle Gavin got down and turned to offer his hand to the ladies, but the two other men pushed by him and stumbled toward the door.

Exasperated, he started to speak, but Orrin spoke first. "Let them go. It isn't worth the trouble." He waited until both women had been helped to the ground, then said, "Please, let me apologize. Western men are usually thoughtful of womenfolk." "Thank you, young man," the older woman said.

"I live west. I know what the men are like. Those two, they're trouble. I seen it when they got on." Orrin escorted the two women to the one table, and several men promptly got to their feet, plates in hand. "Set here, ma'am," one of them said.

One of the others turned toward a harried man standing over a stove. "Joe? We've a couple of ladies." "Yes, sir! Ma'am! Be right there." Orrin glanced around the room. Several wagons were pulled up outside and at least three saddle horses. He saw no one whom he knew, but that was expected, for this was new country to him. Yet he searched the faces of the men. Some would be going on to Pembina or Fort Garry, and he badly needed at least two good men.

One was a short, stocky man with a thick neck and a bristle of tight blond curly hair atop his head. There was a deep dentlike scar under his cheekbone. He was one of those who had arisen quickly when he saw the women. He stood to one side now, plate in hand.

"How's the food?" Orrin asked.

The short man threw him a quick, measuring glance. "I've et worse. Matter of fact, it ain't bad." "Cowhand?" Shorty shrugged. "Whatever it takes to get the coon. I been a cowhand. I been a timber stiff, too, an' I've driven freight here and there." "At Pembina or maybe Fort Garry, I'll need a couple of men. A couple who can handle cattle, drive a team, and make a fight if that's necessary." "Where you goin'?" "West, through the mountains. They call it British Columbia. I'll pay thirty a month, and the grub's good." Shorty finished his food. "If you're eatin', you better get up there," he advised.

"They don't set no second table." Orrin Sackett moved up to the table and found a place near the girl who was traveling with them.

Passing her a platter of beans and rice, he said, "If there is anything I can do, you have only to ask." "Thank you." As she did not seem disposed to talk, he said nothing more but finished his eating and went outside. The two men with rifles were standing near the stage in deep conversation with a third man, pants tucked into his boots, a battered hat pulled low so little of his face could be seen.

Kyle Gavin strolled over and stood near.

"Those men," Gavin commented, "something about them worries me." "It's the clothes," Orrin replied.

"The men don't look like they belonged in them." "You mean a disguise?" Orrin shrugged. "Maybe, or maybe just trying to fit into the country." Then he added, "They

andle the rifles like they were used to them, though." The stage rolled on, and again Orrin slept fitfully. Where were Tell and Tyrel? The letter received in St. Paul had stated only that their route would be up the valley of the James, and if they reached the Turtle Mountains first, they would proceed westward, leaving some indication behind.

They were going into wild country, a land unknown to them. Even now, they would be somewhere in Dakota, the land of the Sioux, a fierce, conquering people who had moved westward from their homeland along the Wisconsin-Minnesota boarder to conquer all of North and South Dakota, much of Montana, Wyoming, and Nebraska, an area larger than the empire of Charlemagne.

This land through which they traveled was that which divided the waters flowing south toward the Gulf of Mexico from those flowing north toward Hudson's Bay.

There were many lakes, for this was the fabled "land of the sky-blue water," and soon they would be descending into the valley of the Red River of the north.

Orrin awakened suddenly, feeling a head on his shoulder. It was the young lady, who had fallen asleep and gradually let her head fall on his convenient shoulder. He held very still, not wishing to disturb her.

The coach was very dark inside, and he could see little but the gleam of light on the rifle barrels and light where the coach lamps let a glow in through a crack in the curtains. All the rest seemed asleep.

He was about to doze once more when he heard a drum of hoofs on the road behind them. Someone, a fast rider, was overtaking the coach. Carefully, he put his fingers on the butt of his six-shooter, listening.

He heard the rider come alongside and lifted the corner of the curtain but could see nothing, as the rider had already passed too far forward. The stage slowed, and he could hear conversation between the rider and the driver but could distinguish no words.

After a moment, he heard the rider go on, listened to the fading sound of hoof beats, but the stage continued at the slower pace.

A long time later, daylight began filtering through the curtains, and suddenly the girl beside him awakened. She sat up with a start, embarrassed.

"Oh! Oh, I am so sorry!" She spoke softly so as not to disturb the others. "I had no idea!" "Please do not worry about it, ma'am," Orrin said. "My shoulder's never been put to better purpose." She tucked away a wisp of hair. Her eyes were brown, and her hair, which was thick and lovely, was a kind of reddish-brown. He suddenly decided that was the best shade for hair, quite the most attractive he'd seen.

He straightened his cravat and longed for a shave. The stubble must be showing. He touched his cheek. Yes, it was. He touched his carefully trimmed black moustache.

Kyle Gavin was awake and watching him with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. Orrin flushed.

He thought again of the short, blond man he had seen at the first stage stop. He looked to be a good man, and it might be hard to find men with all this Riel affair muddying up the waters.

Shorty had looked like the kind who would finish anything he started, and that was the kind of man they would need.

Orrin looked over at Gavin. "What about this Riel affair? What's going to happen?" "Your guess is as good as mine. The Canadians are sending an army out, but that country north of the lakes is very rugged. We've heard some soldiers were lost. Forty of them, according to one story." "If Riel wanted to make a fight of it," Orrin suggested, "he could defend some of the narrow rivers through which the army must come. Certainly, with all the woodsmen he would have at his command, that would be simple enough." "That isn't my understanding," Gavin said. "I was under the impression he wished only to establish a temporary government until the Canadians could take over. But no matter what, we're arriving at a bad time. You, especially, if you want to get men or supplies. What supplies Riel doesn't have, the army will need. You'd better move fast." "You'll find no men in Fort Garry"--one of the other men spoke up suddenly--"nor any supplies, either. They won't welcome strangers." "Then you're arriving at a bad time," Orrin suggested, smiling, "aren't you?" The man stared at him. "Maybe it'll be a bad time for you. I've got friends." Orrin smiled. "Yes," he said gently, "I suppose everyone has one or two."

Chapter VII

By the evening of the second day, the stage rolled up to a stockade near the Ottertail River.

Orrin stepped down and stretched, then extended a hand to the young lady and, after her, to the older woman.

"It isn't much of a place," Orrin said, "but let me look around. I will see what can be found." "Not much," Gavin admitted. "Last time I was here, it was a good deal more comfortable to sleep in the haymow than inside." "And the mosquitoes?" "They'll find you either place. They call this place Pomme-de-Terre, but I can think of several other names for it. Tomorrow we should reach Abercrombie." "Are there accommodations at the fort?" "No, but there is in McCauleyville. A chap named Nolan has a fairly decent hotel there." "And the boat?" "Probably down river from there." Gavin was watching the two men with rifles. They had gone into the fort at once and disappeared behind some buildings. It was obvious they knew where they were going and what they were about.

Inside the fort, the man behind the bar shook his bald head and rubbed the back of his hand across a stubbled chin. "Mister, we sure ain't set up for ladies. Don't often get womenfolks hereabouts." He jerked his head toward an inner room. "Five beds yonder. Men will sleep three to a bed, mostly, and they ain't finicky." He was honestly worried. "I seen 'em get off the stage, and I seen trouble. I mean, settin' 'em up. Such womenfolks are expectin' more'n we can offer." "How about the barn? There's fresh hay, isn't there?" "Hay? Plenty o' that. Say! Come to think of it, there's the tack room--harness room.

Cavalry officers used to keep their horse gear in there." "How about blankets? And mosquito netting?" He shook his head. "I got 'em, but only for sale, not for use." They would need blankets and mosquito netting, too.

"How much for six blankets and netting enough for four?" He scratched his head, then worried at a piece of paper with a pencil. The figure was excessive but not so much as he'd expected.

Nor was the tack room as much of a mess as it might have been.

"We had better eat," Orrin warned them, "and get bedded down before dark. The mosquitoes are coming now." The younger woman suddenly put out her hand. "I am Devnet Molrone, Mr. Sackett. And this is Mary McCann. She is going to Fort Garry." "And you?" "I shall be meeting my brother. He will be at Fort Carlton." Gavin was surprised. "At Fort Carlton?

Is your brother with Hudson's Bay Company?" It appeared, after some conversation, that her last letter from him had been from Fort Carlton, and she assumed he was located there.

Later, he said to Orrin, "Sackett, if you're going west, you'd best try to keep an eye on that girl. I am afraid she's in trouble." He paused. "You see, Carlton's a trading post, but there aren't too many white men there, and I know most of them. A good lot, on the whole, but unless her brother is employed by the company in closing up some of their operations, I can't see how he'd be there for more than a few days." Later, over supper, Orrin said, "Tell me about your brother." "Oh, Doug's older than I am, three years older. He always wanted to hunt for gold, and when he heard of the discoveries out west, nothing would hold him. He wrote to us, told us all about it, and it sounded very exciting. Then, when Uncle Joe died, well, there was nothing to keep him in the East, and Doug was the only living relative I had, so I decided to join him." Orrin glanced at Gavin. "He knows you're coming?" "Oh, no! He'd never approve! He thinks girls can't do anything! It's a surprise." Her eyes were wide and excited. Obviously, she was pleased with her daring and thought he would be equally pleased and surprised.

"Ma'am--Miss Molrone," Orrin spoke carefully. "I think you should reconsider.

If your brother was hunting gold, he'd be in British Columbia, and that's a long way, hundreds of miles, west of Fort Carlton.

"Fort Carlton isn't a town, exactly, it's a trading post with a stockade around it. There are a few buildings inside, mostly quarters for those who work there." She was shocked. "But I thought--I--to was "Fort Garry is only a small town," Kyle Gavin said, "but I'd suggest you stop there until you locate your brother.

"There's no regular mail, you know. Most of the gold camps are isolated, trusting to someone who brings mail in by boat, horseback, or snowshoes, depending on the situation. And only rarely is there a place where a decent young woman can stay. Your brother probably shares a tent or a small cabin with other men." Her lip trembled. "I didn't know. I wanted to surprise him. I thought--" "We can make inquiries at Fort Garry," Gavin suggested. "Some of the m`etis may know him. Or they may remember him." Suddenly, the realization of what she had done came to her. She put her hand to her mouth. "Oh, my!" Pleadingly, she looked at Gavin, then at Orrin. "I wanted to surprise him. I'm all he's got, you know, now that Uncle Joe is dead." "Does he know that?" "How could he? I was going to tell him when I met him. You see, Uncle Joe didn't leave anything. He died very suddenly, and I was alone. I wanted to be with Doug, and so--" "Don't worry about it," Orrin said.

"We'll find him for you." Later, Kyle Gavin exclaimed, "Sackett? Do you have any idea how tough that will be? To find one man among all those who came west? God knows, he might be dead. There've been men lost in riding the rivers, men killed when thrown by horses or in falls from wagons. The worst of it is," Gavin added, "she's uncommonly pretty." In the morning, Orrin heated water for her in a bucket and took it to her, then went back outside. The morning was cool, and there were no mosquitoes about. The stage was standing nearby, and the driver and a hostler were hooking up the trace chains.

From the driver Gavin learned the two men with rifles were brothers, George and Perry Stamper. They said they were buffalo hunters.

"Then they've much to learn," Gavin said dryly. "The m`etis have very controlled buffalo hunts. They all work together under rigid discipline. They don't care for the single hunter unless he's just hunting meat for himself or his family." It was nearly noon when the stage rolled into McCauleyville, close to Fort Abercrombie. They stopped at Nolan's, and Orrin retrieved his blanket-roll and haversack from the boot.

He helped the ladies from the stage and escorted them into the hotel. Nolan's place was clean, the floors mopped as carefully as a ship's deck, curtains at the windows.

Nolan glanced at Gavin, suddenly wary, but said nothing.

"A room for the ladies," Sackett suggested, "and one for me, if available. If not, Mr. Gavin and I will make do." After the women had been shown to their rooms, Orrin asked, "Know anything about a Douglas Molrone? Probably came through here several months back." Nolan shook his head. "Night after night, the place is full. It isn't often I know the names of any of them. Going west, was he?" "Gold hunting." "Aye, like most of them. He'd be lucky to make it unless he was with a strong party. There's bunches of the Santee Sioux who didn't dare go home after the Little Crow massacre, and they're raiding, taking scalps, stealing horses, usually from the Crees or the Blackfeet, but they'd be apt to attack any small party." There was, as it chanced, a room for him.

Alone, Orrin removed his coat and hung it on a peg in the wall; then he checked his six-shooter. The action was smooth, easy. He hung the cartridge belt and holster over the back of a chair close at hand and, stripping to the waist, bathed as well as he could.

His thoughts skipped westward. Tell and Tyrel should be well into the northern part of Dakota by now and would be wondering about him.

Scowling, he considered Devnet Molrone.

She was none of his business, yet could he leave her alone in such a place? He suspected she ha

little money, possibly only enough to get her to Fort Carlton.

There was nothing wrong with Carlton, but so far as he knew, it was a trading post and little else.

No doubt some people had settled around, but they would be few. She would be treated like the lady she was, but no matter, a trading post was simply not equipped or planned to cope with unescorted females.

Would she be any better off in a Red River cart on a trip to nowhere? For the truth was they did not know their exact destination. They would be met-- by whom? When? Where? And then what?

Drying himself with the rough towel provided, he slipped on a fresh shirt--somewhere along the line he must have some laundry done or do it himself--then he brushed his coat.

She was pretty. Damned pretty!

Nolan was behind the desk worrying over some figures. He pushed his hat back and looked up at Orrin. "Damn it! I never was no hand with figures! Only thing I can count is money, when it's laid right out before me!" He looked up again. "Where'd you say you was headed, Sackett?" "We're driving cattle to the gold fields.

My brothers are already on the way. Somewhere in Dakota, right now." "In Dakota? They got to be crazy!

That's Sioux country, and those Sioux, they're fighters! Despise the white man, got no use for the Winnebagos, the Crees, or the Blackfeet. They'll fight anybody." "We hope to have no trouble. We'll be trying to avoid them." "Avoid them? Hah! I doubt if a bird could fly over Dakota without them knowin' it.

"That Molrone girl, huntin' her brother.

Like lookin' for one pine needle. But don't you worry none! She'll find herself a husband! Women are almighty scarce, and the way I see it there should be at least one in every family!" He looked up at Orrin, smiling.

"A man like you, you should latch onto her. Women that pretty are hard to come by. She's a right pert little lady, too! Gumption, that's what she's got! Took a sight of gumption to come all the way out here huntin' her brother." He glanced at Orrin. "That feller with you.

That Gavin feller, you know him long?" "Met him on the stage." "Well, I like you, young feller, and you watch yourself, d'you hear? You be careful." "Why?" "I'm just a tellin' you. Watch yourself. Things ain't always what they seem." "What about this man Riel?" "Don't know him. Knew his pa. A right good man. He spoke up for the m`etis a time or two. Honest in his dealin's, level-headed man.

Owned a mill or something. Good man.

"The young man's just back from Montreal. He was studyin' to be a priest, I heard, then changed his mind, or they changed it for him.

"When those outsiders began to come in with their newfangled way of surveyin', his ma sent for him to come home. She seen trouble comin'.

"I ain't sure he's the right man for it.

He's a thoughtful young feller. Seems reasonable. Been through here a time or two.

"Now away out west, the way you're a-goin', there's a man named Dumont, Gabriel Dumont. Captain of the buffalo hunts! Those m`etis would follow him through hell! Good man!

A great man! Reminds me of that poem, writ by a man named Gray, somethin' in it about "Cromwells guiltless of their country's blood" or some such thing. Well, I seen a few in my lifetime! Men who had greatness but no chance to show it elsewhere than here! I seen 'em!

I seen a passel of them!" Nolan glanced at him again. "You ever hear of Frog Town? Well, you fight shy of it. Rob you. Cheat you. Knock you in the head or knife you. That's a bad lot. Sometimes the steamer starts from there, dependin' on how high the water is.

"Steamboatin' on the Red ain't like the Mississippi. Mean. Mean an' cantankerous, that's what it is. River's too high some of the time, too low most of the time, and filled with sawyers, driftin' logs, and sandbars. No fit river for man or beast." "But it flows north?" "That it does! That it does!" Nolan put a hand on his sleeve. "Here she comes now, that Molrone girl. Say, is she the pretty one! If I was single--to was Orrin turned toward her, smiling. She looked up at him. "Oh! Mr. Sackett!

I am so glad you are here! They say we must go from here by oxcart, and I was wondering if--?" "You can go with us. We would have it no other way.

And we shall leave tomorrow morning, early." "I'll be ready." He paused. "The offer includes Mrs.

McCann." "You want her," Nolan whispered, "you'd better act fast, young feller! She's too durned pretty to be about for long!" There was a pause, and Nolan pulled his hat brim down and started around the counter. "Don't envy you, young feller. Not one bit! You got a long road to travel, an' it can be mean. Oh, there's folks done it! Palliser done it, the Earl of Southesk, he done it, and, of course, folks like David Thompson, Alexander Henry, and their like, but the Sioux weren't around then, an' there wasn't all this trouble with the m`etis--" "But you said Riel was a reasonable man?" "I did, an' I still say it. Trouble is, both them and the army will need grub, they will need rifles and ammunition, and you'll have 'em--if you're lucky." "You made a reference to Gavin?" "I said nothing. Only"--he paused--"I like a careful man. I always did like a careful man, and you shape up like such. I said nothing else.

Nothing a-tall!" He started for the door, then turned and came back. "You get smart, young feller. You latch on to that girl. You'll travel a weary mile before you see her kind again. Ain't only she's pretty, she's game. She's got gumption!

That's my kinda woman, boy. That there's my kinda woman!"

Chapter VIII

It was cold and dark when he opened his eyes, holding himself still for a long minute, just to listen. There were subdued rustles from the next room where the women were, so they were already astir.

Rising, he bathed lightly and swiftly, then pulled on his pants and boots and began stropping his razor. The vague light in the room was sufficient until he wished to shave; then he lighted the coal-oil lamp. He shaved with care, and as he shaved, he considered the situation.

With luck they would be aboard the International before sundown, and if they hoped to miss the mosquitoes, they must be. Once aboard, he must settle down to some serious thinking, as well as the planning of his every move once he reached Fort Garry.

He rinsed his razor, stropped it once more for the final touch-up, thinking as he did so. It was a foolhardy venture at best, something not to be considered had not a Sackett been in trouble.

You can expect Higginses.

To any Sackett the phrase indicated trouble, but from whom? And why?

Folding his razor, he put it away in its case with his brush and soap, then completed dressing. He rolled his blankets, including his spare pistol, then put out the light.

Taking up his rifle, he stepped to the door, opening it a crack. The air was cool, and he inhaled deeply, waiting and listening.

The small lobby was empty and still. There was no one at the desk. Sitting near the door was a valise that belonged to Kyle Gavin, but the man himself was nowhere about.

As he put his things down near the door, he noticed part of a torn sticker on the valise ... toria. He straightened up, considering that.

Victoria, B.c.? It could be.

So? Gavin could easily have been there. He was a widely traveled man.

Yet when they had talked of British Columbia, he had offered no information on the area, nor had he mentioned visiting there. Why had Nolan warned him against Gavin? Or about him?

He was opening the door to step outside when he heard a click of heels on the board floor and turned. Devnet Molrone looked fresh and lovely, as though she had not traveled a mile.

"The cart is coming," he said. Even as he spoke, it was pulling up at the door. He was surprised, although he should not have been. He had never seen a Red River cart before, although he had heard of them.

Each cart was about six feet long and three wide; the bottom was of one-inch boards; the wheels were seven and a half feet in diameter.

The hubs were ten inches across and bored to receive an axle of split oak. The wood used was oak throughout. Each cart was drawn by a single horse and would carry approximately four hundred pounds.

No nails were used. Oak pins and rawhide bindings held it all together.

Kyle Gavin followed the cart and gestured to the driver. "Baptiste, who will drive for us. The ladies will ride in the cart. You and I"--Gavin glanced at Orrin--"will ride horseback. You do not mind?" Orrin Sackett shrugged. "I prefer to ride. I always feel better on a horse." Orrin threw his gear into the cart, then placed Devnet's valise and a small trunk in the wagon. Mary McCann had only a valise.

The ungreased axle groaned as they moved out, Kyle Gavin leading off. Orrin slid his rifle into the boot and swung into the saddle.

The sun was not yet up when they moved out, heading north, parallel to the Red River. There was no sign of the Stampers. As the cart was lightly loaded, they moved out at a good pace.

There was no time for conversation but the route was plain before them. At noon, they pulled up under a wide-spreading elm, and Baptiste set about preparing a meal while the horse, after being watered, was picketed on the thick green grass.

Orrin sat down under the elm's shade, removed his hat, and mopped his brow, his rifle across his lap. His eyes looked off toward the west. "What's over there?" he asked.

Baptiste shrugged a shoulder. "Sand, much sand.

Once a sea, I t'ink. Maybe so. Great hills of sand." "Do you know Riel?" "Aye, I know him. He is good man--great man. He speaks what we t'ink." He gestured. "We, the m`etis, our home is here. We live our lives on this land. All the time we work. We trap that' fur for Hudson's Bay Company. We have our homes, we raise our children, then the Comp'ny goes away.

"It iss here--poof! It iss gone! Then come others, strangers who say we have nothing. They will take our homes. Long ago we call upon Louis Riel, the father. He speaks for us.

Now we call upon the son." "I wish him luck," Orrin said.

Baptiste glanced at him slyly. "You do not come for land? Some mans say Yankees come with army. Many mans." "That's foolish talk," Orrin replied brusquely. "We've problems of our own without interfering in yours. There are always some folks who make such talk for their own purposes, but the American people wouldn't stand for it." He squinted his eyes toward the river, frowning a little. Had he seen a movement over there? "As for me, I'm going to buy a couple of carts and go west to help my brothers with a cattle drive." Orrin leaned his head back against the tree and closed his eyes. It was cool and pleasant in the shade of the old elm. Kyle Gavin lay only a few yards away, his head pillowed on his saddle. Devnet, also in the shade, was fanning herself with her hat. He liked the way the sun brought out the tinge of red in her hair.

He liked women, and that might be his trouble. A good judge of men, he had proved a poor judge of women in his first attempt, a very poor judge. Yet what was he doing here, anyway?

He should be back at home, building friendships before the next election.

He had been a sheriff, a state legislator, and they said he was a man with a future. Yet when a Sackett was in trouble, they all came to help. Old Barnabas, the father of the clan in America, had started that over two hundred years ago. It was a long, long time.

He awakened suddenly, conscious that he had actually slept. Baptiste was harnessing the horse again. Gavin was saddling his horse. Somewhat ashamed of being the last to awaken, he went to his horse, smoothed the hair on his back, and put the blanket in place. He saddled swiftly and from long habit drew his rifle from the scabbard.

He started to return it, to settle it more securely in place, but something held his hand.

What was wrong? He glanced quickly around, but nobody seemed to be watching.

Then he knew. It was his rifle. The weight was wrong.

When a man has lived with guns all his life and with one rifle for a good part of it, he knows the weight and feel of it. Quickly, his horse concealing him from the others, he checked the magazine.

It was empty. He worked the lever on his rifle.

The barrel was empty, too.