Lonely On the Mountain

It w

s very still. To the north loomed the bulk of the plateau; to the west the land fell gradually away into a vast plain, which he suspected was a prehistoric lake bed. Behind him there was a faint rustling of wind in the cottonwood leaves and a low murmur of voices.

Somewhere out in that great silence were his brothers and Cap, alive or dead, and he had to find them.

He walked out a few steps farther, listening.

Overhead were the stars, and the sky was very clear. He moved out still farther, haunted by the feeling that something was out there, something vague that he could not quite realize.

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

Nothing!

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

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

Some small animal, perhaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

When he stood up again, it was faintly gray.

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

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

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

He came on slowly, head down, plodding.

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

"I'm coming in."

Chapter XIII

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

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

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

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

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

His gun was still in its holster.

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

"Was this the Sackett herd?" he asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Work south and east but not too far east.

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

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

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

"Take them along, Fleming," Orrin said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

muttered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ox hesitated. "Can't say I did.

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

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

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

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

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

If he was wrong, he was dead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter XIV

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

It was that certainty of each other that had helped them through many difficulties. They had set out to deliver cattle, and he would persist in the delivery. If Tyrel and Tell could, they would follow on and join up, and they might even be on ahead somewhere, waiting.

The situation was puzzling. The Ox was here, and they had seen what were the remains of at least one other man. According to the Ox, there had been seven, including the Chinese cook, so where were the other five?

One man could disappear easily, two almost as easily, but five, widely scattered men?

He turned his horse and rode back to the carts. The Ox rode alongside, saying nothing.

The country around was pretty wide open, and scanning it as they rode, he could see herds of antelope, most of them a mile or more away, and a good many buffalo, moving as they usually did in small herds that made up the larger group, feeding as they moved.

He could see nothing else. The antelope and buffalo moved as if no man was near them, and he was sure there was no one out there.

The mountains, if such they could be called, had to be the answer. Before they left the country, he was going to make one sweep through those hills. He knew he could see little in that time, but there was a chance, particularly if he brought an extra man or two.

Baptiste was with the carts when they rode up, his rifle at hand. Nearby, the cattle were gathered, grazing peacefully, seemingly glad to be back together again. Across the herd he could see Charlie Fleming coming in with a small bunch of cattle.

Highpockets and Shorty were at the carts, both hunkered down by the fire with cups of coffee in their hands.

Haney looked up as Orrin swung down.

"We've about cleaned her up," he said, "unless you're of a mind to take the carts south, set up a new camp, and round up what went on south.

"I saw cow tracks down thataway, so we know some went on south with the buffalo." He paused. "Odd thing. Shorty an' me, we come down into a low place over yonder, and we came up on about three hundred head, all bunched and pretty, all wearin' the Sackett road brand." Orrin was filling his cup. He sipped his coffee. "See any tracks?" "Uh-huh. Two riders, one of them carryin' mighty light. Fresh tracks, Mr.

Sackett, like those cattle had been bunched within the last few hours." "Nobody around?" "Nobody. It doesn't make sense. A body would think they had been bunched a-purpose and just left for us." "No use looking gift horses in the teeth.

You brought them in?" "You're durned right! The way I figure it, we've got a shade over nine hundred head." "Good enough. We'll move out for the northwest tomorrow. We've lost a couple of hundred head, but we will just have to take the loss and run." "You aimin' to look for Tell an' them?" "Something's wrong, Haney. Five, six men missing with no sign, but somebody bunched those cows for us.

"Yes," he added, "you and me are going to take a ride into the Turtles. We couldn't cover the place in a month or more, but we can scout for tracks. If we see anything, we'll check it out. Otherwise, we'll get on with the job." Fleming left the herd, bunching them a bit more as he circled back to the fire. He stepped down from the saddle.

"See any tracks?" He shook his head. "Nothing, and cows are scarce, mighty scarce." "We pull out tomorrow," Shorty said.

Fleming went to the fire, squatted on his heels, and held his cup, staring into the fire for a long minute. Then he filled his cup, avoiding the eyes of the Ox, who was staring at him.

"Good bunch of cattle," Fleming commented.

"Makes a man want to get into the cow business." Orrin threw the dregs on the ground.

"Fleming, you come with Haney and me. Shorty, you stay close to the wagons with Baptiste unless you see some of the stock straying too far. But keep a rifle handy." Orrin led the way up a dim trail into the trees. Here and there were dense stands of forest, then scattered trees and meadows with frequent small lakes and pools. They scattered out, keeping within sight of one another but watching for tracks.

"Mr. Sackett?" Haney called out.

Orrin turned his horse and cantered over to where the tall man waited. Haney indicated the grass at his feet.

There was a place by a rotting log where a part of the grass was pressed down, and there were flecks of what appeared to be blood on the grass and the leaves. "Looks like somebody has been lyin' here, maybe a few days back." "Horse tracks?" "Don't see none. I reckon he was afoot. My guess would be he was bad hurt.

He got this far an' just collapsed." "Then what?" "Well, there's a track." He pointed to their north. "I figure he came out of it and started on." Leading their horses, they followed the tracks.

Charlie Fleming was some distance away, and Orrin stood for a moment, watching him. He seemed to be studying the ground as he moved.

"Haney," Orrin said, "walk careful. If this is some of our boys, and they're hurt, they'll be wary of trouble." "I soldiered with Tell, remember? He never shot at anything he couldn't see. He wasn't one of those damned fools who heard a noise and just blasted away." The trail was dim and old. Whoever the wounded man was, he made over two hundred yards before he fell. They found the place w

ere he went to his knees, then had fallen forward on his face. There had been a struggle to rise; then the fallen man had subsided and lay still for some time.

However, they found no blood on the grass.

Orrin looked carefully around, searching the brush, the trees, and the grass for some indication of movement. He saw none. He looked around for Charlie Fleming, but the rider was nowhere in sight.

He moved on, taking his time, missing nothing.

The wounded man had gotten back to his feet and was moving at a somewhat better pace.

"He's feelin' some better," Haney suggested.

"Either that or he suspects he's being followed and wants to hide," Orrin said.

He paused again, looking carefully around.

Suddenly, he grunted and ran rapidly forward, stopping at a small cairn of three stones.

Gently, he lifted off the first one, then the second.

There, placed neatly across the face of the second stone, were three parallel blades of grass.

"It's Tyrel," Orrin said.

Haney looked at the small pile of scarcely noticeable rocks. "I don't see how--to was Orrin held up the three blades of grass.

"He is the third son of my father. If there had been but one blade of grass, it would have been Tell." "And two?" "Me," Orrin said. "We started it when we were youngsters, playing and hunting in the woods. Tell began it when he was about nine so we boys could follow him in the woods and also so we could find our way back. Most of us have some such system, and it saves a lot of time and trouble." "Don't tell you where he is, though." "It will if he doesn't pass out." "What if nobody ever comes along?" Orrin merely glanced at him. "A Sackett always knows one of us will be along. He knows that sooner or later a Sackett will find the trail, and if at the end of it he finds a dead man, there will be some indication of who was responsible." Haney swore softly. "I'll be damned!" "No, but the man responsible will." "How long's this been going on?" "One way or another, for more than two hundred years. Oh, here and there somebody fails, but that's rare. Mostly they come through.

Mostly they stick to the family tradition of helping one another.

"Tell started this system, but he had heard of it from pa. That is, he heard of something like it. This was his own idea. It doesn't have to be rocks and grass, it can be twigs, knots tied in grass, leaves, scratches on tree bark--ah!" He pointed.

At the side of a fallen branch was a sharp, triangular piece of slate, pointing off to the northwest.

"Could be an accident," Haney said skeptically.

"It could be. If so, we'll have to come back to this point and start over." They hurried on, walking faster now. Haney was also alert, watching. It was he who saw the next mark, faint though it was. Simply three scratches on the bark of a tree.

Haney stopped. "Say! Where's Fleming?" "He went off to the west. We'll find him later." "I don't trust him too much," Haney said.

"Neither do I." Orrin stopped abruptly. The tracks of three horsemen came down from the east and crossed the trail of Tyrel Sackett. Three hard-ridden horses, all shod.

"Be careful!" Haney lifted his rifle.

"Those tracks are fresh!" They faded into the brush, took the time to look around carefully, then followed the trail they had found.

Orrin stopped suddenly, studying the terrain ahead. The way seemed to lead along the side of a low hill that sloped down to a lake with a sandy shore. On the side of the hill were several clusters of trees. One of the clusters, a little higher and farther back, grew up among some rocks. There was a clump of brush and smaller trees, then two tall ones joined by a third somewhat smaller but close to the other two.

"We've found him," Orrin said.

Haney just looked, and they rode on, scrambling their horses up the bank to the clump of trees and brush.

They found him there, sprawled on fallen leaves, one hand still clutching a stick he had used to help him along. There was blood on the top of his shoulder near his neck where a bullet had cut through the muscle, and his right leg was swollen to almost twice its normal size. He had split the pants leg to ease the binding effect on the swollen leg, which showed black and blue through the gaping hole.

"Haney," Orrin said, "you ride back to the carts and get a spare horse. Keep your eyes open for Fleming on the way back, and tell the boys to sit tight and guard the cattle. I won't try to move him tonight. Bring the horse up in the morning." When Haney had ridden off, Orrin cleared a place of leaves, scraping them well back, and then he put together a small fire of twigs and bits of bark. The flame was too small and too well hidden by the trunks of the trees and the brush to be seen. As for the smoke, it would be dissipated by rising through the foliage of the trees until spread so thin as to be invisible.

He made a bed of piled leaves, and with water from his canteen he bathed the wound. It was going to be troublesome but not dangerous, and from past experience he knew the dangers of infection were few in the fresh pure air of the western country.

When he had made Tyrel comfortable, he led his horse to water at the lake, then let him graze on a small patch of grass not far from the cluster of trees where he could watch both the horse and Tyrel. When it started to become dark, he led the horse into the brush, which was some protection from the mosquitoes, and settled down beside his small fire.

It was then he thought to check Tyrel's six- shooter. Four chambers had been fired; two remained loaded. He reloaded the empty chambers and thrust the gun back into its holster.

He might have been shooting to try to turn the stampede; if not, somebody was dead.

Darkness made a mystery of the forest and goblins of the trees.

He added a knot to the coals and dozed with arabesques of shadow-play upon his dark, hawklike features.

A whisper of sound, the faint crunching of a branch, and his eyes opened wide, and his gun slid into his hand. Something black and ominous loomed in the open space between two trees. His gun was up, his thumb ready on the hammer.

It was Tyrel's line-back dun.

Chapter XV

Highpockets Haney reached the group of trees before the first light, but Orrin already had Tyrel on the dun.

"See anybody?" "Not a soul." He paused. "Fleming was in camp, wondering what had become of us. He brought in two, three head of young stuff he found in the brush." "No sign of anybody else?" "He says he saw nothing." Tyrel was obviously suffering from a mild concussion, and when he became conscious, he showed no disposition to talk. When asked about Tell, he merely shrugged. The stampede had caught them scattered about the herd, and they had remained scattered.

Orrin rode ahead, scouting for trouble. He had a feeling they'd find it before the day was over.

"Shorty's starting the herd," Haney said.

"Baptiste and his carts will bring up the drag.

We should see them when we come out of the trees." They were skirting a small pond, and Tyrel's horse took a sudden turn, and he groaned.

"He's got a bad leg there," Orrin said.

"It doesn't seem to be broken but bruised like you wouldn't believe. Horse must have fallen or something of the kind." They sighted the herd as they came into the open.

Shorty had them moving; Fleming was on the far side with the carts bringing up the rear. Baptiste stopped when he saw them, and with great care they loaded Tyrel into one of the carts, making a place for him among the sacks, his rifle beside him. They tied the dun behind the cart in which he was riding.

Haney fell into place with the herd, and Orrin stayed off to one side, watching the country around for some movement or sign of life. He saw nothing.

Somewhere out there was Tell or what was left of him. Somewhere were other hands, lost in the same stampede. The Ox he could see working alongside the herd, but what had become of .his partner? The man Orrin had not yet seen?

Uneasily, Orrin rubbed the stubble of beard on his chin. Shaving every day had become a habit, and he had a dislike of going unshaven no matter where he was.

He was reluctant to leave the area without finding Tell, but Tell, had he been present, would have insisted they get on with the job. Wherever he was, if he was alive, Tell was doing what was needful.

Tyrel was sleeping when he rode by the carts, so there was no chance to try to learn more from him even if he knew more, which was doubtful.

Wide rolled the prairies before their roving eyes, and steadily the cattle moved on, pointing the way to the northwest. All day they walked, and the day following and the next. Somewhere, Orrin supposed, they had reached or would reach the border and pass into Canada. There was no marker, and he looked for none.

They camped by small creeks, near a slough, or in some small meadow where the cattle could feed.

They saw no Indians and no wildlife but flocks of antelope, always within view, or buffalo. Prairie wolves hung on their flanks, watching for the animal who might trail too far behind.

Ten miles that first day because of the late start, fifteen and sixteen on the days following. On the third day, Tyrel spent part of the day in the saddle. At night, they sat beside the campfire.

"They came right out of the prairie," he explained. "Suddenly, we heard the thunder of hoofs, and they came over the rise like a black thunder cloud.

"We were all scattered out; there was no chance or time to do anything but try to get out of the way, and that's just what we did. The cattle turned ahead of that herd and began to run with them. There was nothing anybody could do, and even the cattle had no choice but to run. Otherwise, they'd have been trampled into the ground. I heard a scream, but, Orrin, I doubt if it was one of our boys. I don't recall anybody being where that scream came from." "We found some remains, but they were so trampled we could only tell it had been a man and more than likely a white man." "I doubt if he was one of ours. Brandy was within sight when the buffalo came into sight, and I had time to wave him out of there. Lin--he was our Chinese cook--he was out behind the herd somewhere, and I think it missed him altogether." "Who shot you?" "That happened later. There were three of them, and they were hunting me, or maybe just any survivors.

"A big buffalo bull tossed the dun and me, and when we went down, he came in with his head down to gore us. He hooked, but his horn hit my saddle and so saved the dun. Then I struck my six-shooter in his ear and squeezed her off.

"That bull just naturally rolled over, and the dun scrambled up, and I started to. Seemed that buffalo bull rammed his head into my leg just about the time I was sticking my gun barrel in his ear.

"I got the dun over to me and grabbed a stirrup and pulled myself up. By that time my leg was hurting.

"Well, I taken a look around. The cattle were scattered to kingdom come, and there was nobody in sight but some buzzards." Tyrel refilled his cup. "Being one who is apt to accept the situation and take it from there, I considered.

"Here I was out in the middle of nowhere and maybe the only one left alive. You were on a steamboat or maybe in a cart coming west. I had me a good horse, although he was some irritated at being knocked over, and I had fifteen hundred pounds of buffalo meat, hide, and bone.

"So I gathered me some buffalo chips and put together a fire. Then I cut out some buffalo steak and broiled about four or five pounds of it. When that was done, I cut myself some more meat, tied it up in some buffalo hide, and climbed into the saddle.

"It was when I tried to get into the saddle that I realized I was in trouble. It durned near killed me." "You ain't told me about those empty chambers." "Comin' to it. I'd ridden a far piece, but my leg was givin' me what for, and I rode in under the trees, grabbed hold of a limb, and pulled myself up from the saddle and then kind of lowered myself down to the ground.

"Next thing I knew, they come up on me.

I was backed up to a tree, and the dun had walked off, grazin', and there was three of them. Right away I spotted them for what they were. They were goin' to kill me, all right, but first they were going to tell me how awful mea

and tough they were.

"You know the kind. We've met them before. They were talkers. They just had to run off at the mouth awhile before they did anything.

"There were three of them, and they didn't know me from Adam's off-ox. They knew I had been with the cattle and contrary to what we'd figured, it had been them who started the stampede and not the Sioux.

"They started tellin' me about it. And they started to tell me what they were going to do.

"Me, I listened to them a mite, and then I said, "What did you fellows come up here for?"' ""We're goin' to kill you!" This big redhead was saying that, with a nasty grin on his face.

""So you're going to kill me? Then what the hell is all the talk for?"' "That kind of took the wind out of them, and as I spoke, I just fetched my piece.

"Didn't seem to me like they'd ever seen a fast draw before. Two of them went down, and the third one taken off, or maybe his horse ran off with him. Anyway, you couldn't see him for dust." "And you saw nothing of Tell?" Tyrel shook his head. He was obviously tired, and Orrin asked no more questions. The night was quiet, and the herd had bedded down.

Baptiste had added to his duties the care of Tyrel's injured leg. The fresh wound gave no particular trouble, and with Baptiste caring for it, the swelling in the leg reduced slowly.

Orrin forded the cattle across the Mouse and pointed the herd toward Pipestone Creek, some distance off to the northwest by the route they were following.

"We've got to figure it this way," Orrin said over a campfire. "The stampede was not caused by Indians but apparently by white men.

"Now who would want to do such a thing?

Thieves who wished to steal our cattle?

Maybe. Some of the "Higginses" Logan spoke about? That's more likely.

"Somebody, for some reason we do not know, wishes to prevent our cattle from reaching their destination. So far they've done us some damage, but they haven't stopped us, so it's likely they will try again.

"From what Tyrel says, at least two of them won't be showing up again. That may make them back off completely, but we can't depend on that. We will have to take it for granted they will come again, and soon.

"We've got some extra rifles. I want them loaded and ready, and every camp must be a fort." Orrin glanced over at the Ox, who was simply listening and offering no comment or even an acknowledgement that he heard.

Yet, in the days that followed, all their preparations seemed for nothing. The mornings came one after another, each crisp and clear, and the days warmed. The grass was green on all the hills now. There were several light showers and a thunderstorm that brought a crashing downpour that lasted for less than an hour.

The Qu'Appelle River lay somewhere before them and off to the west the Moose Mountains.

Orrin found himself thinking of Nettie. She should be well on her way to Fort Carlton now, far away to the north. He would probably not see her again. The thought made him melancholy, yet there was nothing to be done. Their way lay west, and if Tell were alive, he would be coming on to join them if by some chance he was not already there before them.

Occasionally, they saw the bones of buffalo, once the antlers of a deer. Occasionally, there were other bones, unfamiliar to a quick glance, but there was no time to pause and examine them. They pushed on, accompanied by the creaking, groaning wheels of the Red River carts.

Tyrel's bruised leg remained sore and stiff, but his flesh wound healed rapidly, as wounds usually did on the plains and in the mountains. He took to riding a little more each day, usually scouting wide of the drive and only returning to it occasionally.

"Something's not right," he commented once. "I can smell trouble." "The Ox is worried," Orrin added.

"He's got something on his mind. That partner of his, I guess. Gilcrist, his name was. Or so he said." "Good a name as any," Tyrel said. "Out here, if a man doesn't like his name, he can choose his own, and a lot of folks have." "He never talks to Fleming," Orrin said.

"At least, I haven't seen them even near one another for days." A brief but violent thunderstorm came with the afternoon. Fort Qu'Appelle was nearby, but there was no need to stop, and when the storm passed, he led the drive on past the fort. However, he had gone but a mile or less when a party of riders appeared. Several Indians, Crees by the look of them, rode up. While the cattle moved on, Orrin waited with Baptiste and the carts.

The Indians were friendly, curious as to where the cattle were being taken and about the Sioux, with whom they were only occasionally friendly.

Tyrel rode to meet them when they finally caught up.

"Picked up some sign," he said. "Something you should see, Orrin." "Trouble?" "Maybe." Orrin glanced at the sun. "We've got a few miles of driving ahead of us. All right, let's go look!" The tracks were two miles ahead of the herd.

At least five riders had come up from the southwest and had met a half-dozen riders coming down from the northeast. They had dismounted, built a small fire, and made coffee. The coffee grounds had been thrown out when they emptied their pot for packing.

"Maybe a dozen men riding well-shod horses," Tyrel said, "and they rode off to the west together." Orrin nodded. He had been poking around the campfire and looking at tracks.

"Just for luck, Tye," he said, "let's turn due north for a spell." "Toward Fort Carlton?" Tyrel asked, his eyes too innocent.

Orrin flushed. "Well, it seems a good idea."

Chapter XVI

When first it come to me that I was alive, I was moving. For what seemed a long time, I lay there with my eyes closed and just feeling the comfort of lying still. Then I tried to move, and everything hurt, and I mean everything.

Then I got to wondering where I was and what was moving me and what was I doing flat on my back when there was work to be done?

When I tried to move my right arm, I could, and my hand felt for my gun, and it was gone. So was my gun belt and holster. Yet I wasn't tied down, so it must be that I was with friendly folks.

About that time, I realized I was riding on a travois pulled behind an Indian pony.

After a bit, I closed my eyes and must have passed out again because the next thing I knew we were standing still. I was lying flat out on the ground, and I could hear a fire crackling and smell meat broiling.

Now when a body has been around as long as me, he collects a memory for smells, and the smells told me even without opening my eyes that I was in an Indian camp.

About that time, an Indian came over to me, and he saw my eyes were open, and he said something in an Indian dialect I hadn't heard before, and an Indian woman came over to look at me.

I tried to sit up, and although it hurt like hell, I managed it. Didn't seem I had any broken bones, but I was likely bruised head to foot, which can be even more painful sometimes.

She brought me a bowl with some broth in it, and whatever else was wrong with me hadn't hurt my appetite. The man who had found me awake was a young man, strongly made but limping.

A youngster, walking about, came over and stared at me with big round eyes, and I smiled at him.

When I had put away two bowls of broth, an old Indian came to me with my gun belt and holster. My six-shooter was in it, and he handed it to me. First thing, I checked the loads, and they were there.

The old man squatted beside me. "Much cows, all gone," he said. He gestured to show they'd scattered every which way.

"Men?" I asked.

He shrugged and pointed across the way, and I saw another man lying on the ground a dozen feet away. I raised up a bit and looked. It was Lin, the Chinese cook.

"How bad?" "Much bad. Much hurt." He looked over at Lin and then said, "White man?" "Chinese," I said.

The word meant nothing to him, so I drew a diagram in the dust, showing where we now were, the south Saskatchewan and the mountains of British Columbia. That he grasped quickly. Then I made a space and said, "Much water." Beyond it, I drew a coast and indicated China. "His home," I said.

He studied it, then indicated British Columbia and drew his eyes thin to seem like Lin's. "Indian," he said, "here." It was true. A long time since I had been told by a man in the Sixth Cavalry that some of the Indians from the northwest coast had eyes like the Chinese.

After a while, I went to sleep and was only awakened when they were ready to offer me food; it was daybreak.

The young Indian who had been wounded and on the travois when first we encountered them carried a rifle of British make. The older men were armed only with bows. We were heading northwest, but I asked no questions, being content to just lie and rest.

What had happened to me, I did not know, but I suspected a mild concussion and that I had fallen and been dragged. My shoulders were raw, I discovered, and had been treated with some herbs by a squaw.

On the following day, I got up and could move around. Then one old Indian, who seemed to be in authority if anyone was, showed me my saddle, bridle, saddlebags, and rifle, carefully cared for on another travois. I left the riding gear where it was but took up the rifle, at which the old man showed approval. Seemed to me they expected grief and were glad to have another fighting man on his feet.

Lin had a broken leg. He was skinned up and bruised not unlike what happened to me, but he had the busted leg to boot. They'd set the bone, put splints on the leg, and bound it up with wet rawhide, which had dried and shrunk tight around the leg.

"Where are the others?" I walked beside him as we moved. "No tellin'. Dead, maybe. Scattered to the winds, maybe. All you've got to do is get well." Well, I was a long way from being a well man. Before the day was over, I was so tired I could scarce drag. They made camp in a tree-lined hollow with a small waterhole and a bunch of poplars.

We'd lost all track of time, Lin an' me. We'd both been unconscious, and we didn't know how long. I'd no idea what had become of my horse or the remuda stock we had, and we'd lost all our cattle.

Only thing I could say for us was that we were headin' in the right direction and we were alive.

What I needed was a horse. This was the first time I'd been caught afoot in a long time, and I didn't like it. I should be scouting the country, hunting for Tyrel and roundin' up cows.

Lin was feeling better. As for me, I limped along with a head aching something fierce and a disposition that would frighten a grizzly. Not that I let those Indian folks see it, but, believe me, I was sore.

Meanwhile, a way out in the western mountains, Logan was in trouble and wishful of our coming.

As to Tyrel, he might be killed dead, but I misdoubted that. Tyrel was just too downright ornery to be killed that easy. If he ever went down to death, there'd be bodies stacked all about, you could bet on that.

One thing about a Sackett, he finishes what he starts if it is a good thing to start. All of us knew that whatever else was happening, we'd be pushing on west. West was where I was going, and if I arrived there with no cows, I'd round up a buffalo herd and drive it in, or try.

If that failed, I'd have to get a rattlesnake for a whip and drive a flock of grizzlies. Right now I was mad enough to do it.

It so happened that at the time of the stampede these Indians were a way off to one side where they'd had to go to camp on water. The stampede went right by, an easy half mile off.

"Where do you go?" I asked the old man.

He gestured to the northwest. They were going back to some place; that was all I could gather. His English was limited, and I spoke none of the Indian tongues that made sense to him. It was a rare thing to find an Indian who spoke any language but his own, although some had picked up some French or English because of trade.

Their direction was our direction, so we stayed with them. Besides, they needed us. The young warrior was still not able to travel far when hunting, and neither of the old men had much luck with hunting. Their food was mostly small game or roots picked hither and yon.

The meat I'd left them had been a godsend.

Soon as I was fit, I scouted around some of an evening. First evening I had no luck

never even saw anything worth shooting until the second day when I spotted a buffalo calf.

It was a week before Lin could walk, even a little, and by that time we'd traveled most of a hundred miles. It was that night by the fire that Little Bear came to me. He was the youngster walking about, and me and him had talked a good deal, neither understanding too much except that we liked one another.

He had been out setting snares, and he came to me by the fire. "A horse!" he said.

"That's it, son. That's what I need." He pointed off to the east. "A horse!" he repeated.

"You mean you've seen a horse?" When he said yes, I went to my saddle and took my rope from it. "You show me," I said.

Our horses had been scattered when the stampede took place, and it might just be one of our own. Not that it would be any easier to catch.

We walked maybe a mile, and he pointed.

Sure enough, feeding along the shadow of some poplars was a dun horse.

Now Tyrel and me, we both rode line- back duns, probably get of the same sire, as we'd caught them out of a wild bunch who ran with a powerful old dun stallion. The stallion was no horse to catch. He'd run wild too long; he was too strong and too mean. A horse like that will never stop fighting, and he'll either kill somebody or himself.

At that distance, I couldn't make out whether that was Tyrel's dun or mine. But he'd been riding his when the stampede hit us, so this one must be mine.

There was a shadow from the trees, or I might have guessed which one it was.

Anyway, we moved toward him.

His head came up sharp, and he looked at me with ears pricked and he let me come on.

When I was within fifty yards, he shied away a mite, but he didn't run, and I called to him. He walked toward me then, and I rubbed his neck a little, and he seemed glad to be back with folks again. I rigged a hackamore and led him back to camp. Next morning, when we started out, I was in the saddle and felt like a whole man again.

The wind began to pick up, the grass bending before it, and I was scouting ahead looking for game when I came on some tracks.

Little Bear looked at them and pointed toward the direction they'd taken. "You cattle," he said.

"Two mans!" Maybe thirty head of cattle and two riders, and we set off after them.

We found them bedded down near a slough alongside a capful of fire with some meat broiling.

"'Light an' set!" Cap said, like he'd seen me only that morning. "Brandy an' me got a few of your cows." It was good to see them. They had six horses, two of them strange, wearing a Lazy y brand.

"You don't look the worse for wear," I said.

"Pure-dee luck! We was out in front, and we run for it. We had fast horses, an' after a mile or two, we managed to cut away to the side. Seen anybody else?" "Lin's alive. He's with the Indians." Little Bear rode off to get his people, and we set by the fire expla*' to each other what happened.

"All we can do," I said, "is head north to meet Orrin. He'll have grub, and if there's anybody else alive, they'll come to that rendezvous." "That's how I figured it." Cap glanced over at me. "You see the tracks? It wasn't Sioux." "We know." "I wonder what Logan's tied into, anyway?" The smell of the wood fire was almighty nice, and I felt right just having a horse again.

I've spent so much time sittin' on the hurricane deck of a horse that I ain't at home anywhere else.

Little Bear's folks came in shy of midnight, and we all bedded down close together, with Cap, Brandy, an' me sharin' time with the cows.

Cap an' Brandy were sure enough hungry.

They'd been eatin' squirrel, rabbit, and skunk most of the time since the stampede, when they ate anything at all.

"There's hills up ahead," Cap said.

"Maybe we'll run into Orrin an' his carts.

Those are the Thunder Breeding Hills. If he didn't find anything west of the Turtles, he'd keep on west, wouldn't he?" "He would. Or I think he would." Yet I was worried. We were a long way from the mines, we had only thirty head or so, we were short on riding stock, and we had no grub or ammunition. We'd lost the biggest part of our outfit, and we were riding strange country.

There were Sioux around, and there were the white renegades who'd attacked before. Yet it felt good to be back with Cap. Brandy and Lin were new men, but Cap I knew from way back. Any kind of a stir-up, be it work or fight, Cap would stand his ground.

The cattle had lost weight. A stampede can run a good many pounds off a critter, and these had been driven hard since.

The way we drove them was across a prairie with islands of brush and occasional swamps. Time or two we had to stop and rope some old mossyhorn out of the bog. Those islands of brush worried me because a body could get close to a man before he realized. And they did.

All of a sudden, Cap ups with his hand and outs with his Winchester, and we saw three men ride into view from behind a clump of brush.

I had no idea who they were but had a mighty good idea they weren't friendly.

Chapter XVII

The sun lay bright upon the land ahead and bright upon the three horsemen who rode to meet us.

Cap glanced around. "Good boy," he said.

"Brandy's facin' the other way. So's Lin." The Indians were behind us and to the right, concealed from the riders by the brush.

"There will be more of them," Cap said.

"There will," I agreed, and glanced at the small lake that lay ahead and to the right. It was likely they would attack from the left and try to drive us toward the lake. The three riders were too obvious.

"Howdy, boys! Huntin' for something?" "Lookin' to buy cattle." The speaker was a big, bearded man in a buckskin coat worked with blue and red beads. He had a rifle in his hand and a fur cap.

"Sorry. These are not for sale." "Make you a good offer?" His horse was sidling around, and I saw him throw a quick glance toward left rear.

"Not for sale, boys," I said. I rode out from the herd a little and toward the right, outflanking them a little, and I could see they didn't like it.

Cap had promptly shifted a little to the left, and I said, "Better move, boys. We're coming through!" "Sell 'em," the big man repeated, "or we'll take them!" "All right, Brandy!" I yelled, and he let out a whoop and started the cattle.

They were headed that way, and cattle like to go where they're pointed, so they started moving. Brandy let out another whoop, and one of the steers turned right at the nearest horsemen.

The sudden rush of cattle split the three riders. Two went one way and one the other, and the nearest one was coming my way, so I headed right at him. In trying to swing wide of a head-on collision, he put his horse into the soft ground at the lake's edge, and his horse floundered in the mud, his rider swearing.

Wheeling the dun, I raced along the flank of the moving cattle, heard two quick shots from behind, and saw Lin on the ground, his horse beside him; he was shooting across a fallen log.

A half-dozen riders had come from behind one of those clumps of brush, and Lin, being on the ground, had the advantage.

I saw a horse stumble and go down, pitching his rider over his head. Mud leaped in front of another rider, and his horse swerved sharply, and a third bullet had him dropping his rifle and grabbing for a mane hold as his horse went charging away, cutting across the front of the other riders.

It all happened in seconds. Two men were down, a horse running wild and the cattle charging. The big man with the beard threw up his rifle to shoot at me, but Cap burned him with a quick shot, and my bullet burned his hand. What other damage it did, I couldn't see, but I did see a splash of blood on the buckskin coat and on the saddle.

Lin was back in the saddle and riding up the flank of the small herd, and we swung the cattle past the lake and into the open toward some sand hills looming ahead.

Brandy closed in behind the herd, and we moved them out of there.

Cap Rountree closed in toward me.

"Pilgrims," he said contemptuously. "They haven't burned the powder we have." "We were lucky. Next time, we may not get the breaks." We pushed the cattle on, keeping a lookout on all sides. What Cap said was obviously true. The men who had attacked us were tough men and hard but not seasoned fighting men.

Any man can take a gun in hand and go out to use it, and often enough he is braver because of that gun. But fighting is like playing poker. You have to pay to learn, and you only learn with the cards in hand and money on the table. Cap and me, well, we had been through more fights in any one year of our lives than most men get in a lifetime.

Me? Well, I'd been fightin' one way or another all my life. Cap had begun as a mountain man, and he'd fought Sioux, Cheyenne, Blackfeet, Comanches, Kiowas, and Apaches, and he still had his hair.

"That youngster," Cap said, "he'll do to take along. He was almighty cool." "So was Lin," I added. "Don't discount that heathen Chinee." "Heathen? Hell!" Cap spat. "He knows more than both of us. Why we was talkin' the other night, and he come up with some of the damndest stuff you ever heard!" We were not through with fighting, and we knew it, so we moved the cattle along faster than we should have to keep the weight on them. We wanted to get to some place where we could make a stand. We'd got by them, but they still outnumbered us, and we could expect trouble.

"Maybe we should take it to them," Cap suggested. "Discourage them. I'm a pretty good horse thief when need be." "Good idea," I suggested, "but let's try for distance." "How you fixed for ca'tridges?" "Short," I said. "We've got to avoid a fight if we can." "Wished Orrin would show up." "Or Tyrel and the boys with those packhorses.

We're going to need them, Cap. Need them bad." Spotting a long, sandy draw, I turned the herd down it, as the sand was deep and left few tracks. There was small hope that it would help, but we needed every advantage.

Toward nightfall, we turned up another draw, crossed a gravely hill, and camped on a knoll close to a small grove. We built our fire for coffee inside the grove where the glow of the fire was hidden. The cattle, exhausted from the drive, grazed only a little before lying down.

"One man on guard," I said. "We all need rest. Stay on the ground and don't skyline yourself." After they were settled and we had eaten, I walked out from the camp. Nothing could be seen but the darkness of the trees and brush. The cattle merged with the darkness.

While the others slept, I took count as well as I could without disturbing them. I could see fourteen cartridges in Cap's belt, eight in Brandy's. Lin had no belt but might have some in his pockets. How many were in their rifles I could not guess. My rifle was fully loaded as was my six-shooter. Nine bullets remained in my belt. We'd be lucky to survive any kind of an Indian fight or any other.

Shortly before daybreak, we drove off the hill, found a small stream, and walked the cattle in the water for over a mile. That such tactics would delay them more than a little was unlikely, yet at least some of the attackers had been greenhorns.

Who, then, were they? There had been no attempt of which I knew to steal our cattle. They seemed more interested in stopping or delaying us.

Leaving the water, we found where a herd of buffalo had passed and followed in their tracks, losing our trail in theirs.

We watered that night in the Qu'Appelle River. It had been named, so we heard, because an Indian, dropping down the river in a canoe, thought he heard a call from the bank. He waited, listening, then called out himself. There was no reply, so he went on, but since then it has been the Who Calls River. At least that was the story Kootenai Brown told me one night by the fire.

Cap and me looked for cart tracks but found none. There could be other carts, of course, but we knew ours had not passed.

We crossed the river where there were no bluffs and bedded our few cattle on the far bank. It was not a good place, and Cap grumbled a good bit.

Wolves prowled close around the camp, and we did not wish to attract attention by firing a shot.

Several times, we took flaming sticks from the fire and charged at them, but they soon came back.

Between mosquitoes, sand flies, and wolves, we had

ittle sleep. When morning came, I was up early and in a bad mood. There was little to eat, and nobody talked much.

There was crisp grass and sand with occasional swamps. Several times steers went into the swamps to escape the flies, and we had to throw a loop around their horns and drag them out. It made nobody any happier. By the time nightfall arrived, I was almost hoping for a fight, being that irritable.

Yet it was pretty country. There were bluebells and wild roses everywhere and a few small tiger lilies growing here and there. At one place, we came upon acres of bluebells.

In camp, Brandy sat opposite me nursing a cup of coffee, one of the last we'd have if Orrin didn't find us.

"What month is it?" Brandy said. "I lost track of the days. Now I'm not even sure of the month." "June," I replied, and the thought made me no happier. Time was a getting on, and we'd a far piece to go before snow fell, and at the end we had to find our way through mountains we didn't know and where trails were, we had heard, mighty few.

Looking at the cattle gave me no pleasure. They'd started out in fine shape, but due to long drives and the necessity to keep moving, they'd lost weight.

We had seen no buffalo or even an antelope for days. "We can always kill a beef," Cap suggested.

"We may have to," I said.

Come to think of it, Cap was looking gaunt himself, and Brandy, too. Lin, he never seemed to change, grub or no. His leg, despite the fall, was better.

"We'll lay up tomorrow," I suggested.

"Maybe we can catch us a mess of fish." The horses, too, were in bad shape. The rest, little as it was, would do them good, and they did not have to worry about food. There was grass enough to pasture half the stock in Canada.

It was almighty hot. We let the stock feed, and we let them drink. When we moved on, there was going to be none too much water.

Cap was the fisherman amongst us. Him and Lin.

Both of them caught a mess of fish, but Brandy and me couldn't catch cold.

We had fish for supper, and we had fish for breakfast, and nothing tasted any better, seasoned a mite with wild garlic.

We were riding out to start the cattle when I saw our Indian friends. One of them rode up to where we were with a chunk of fresh venison. We took a look at each other and got down from the saddle and broiled and ate it right on the spot.

Little Bear waited, and then he said, "White man comes." "A white man? Where?" "I see him, alone." Something about his manner bothered me. It seemed he wanted to tell me more than he knew how, but he just said, "He ride here." "You mean he's coming here?" "He comes here. He rides here." Cap got up and wiped his hands on his chaps.

"I think he's tryin' to tell you this gent rides for you." We looked back toward the river. "Let him come on," I said. "We've miles to go." We started them out and hadn't gone fifty yards when we saw a lone buffalo calf. When he saw us, he bawled.

"Lost his ma," Cap said. "Shall we take him along?" "Why not?" Cap rode wide and started the calf toward the herd. He did not take to being driven, but the herd had its attractions. Finally, he galloped off and joined the cattle.

We were a good half mile into the sand hills under a blistering sun when the rider caught up with us.

We heard him coming, and I turned in the saddle.

"Well," Cap said, "we can use every hand we can get." He should have been having a hard time of it, but he didn't look like hard times. He looked fat and sassy like he'd been eating mighty well. He rode up and said, "Howdy! I've missed you boys!" It was Gilcrist.

Chapter XVIII

"You come out alive," Gilcrist said.

"All of us," I said. "Where've you been?" "Huntin' for you. Livin' off the country." "Must've been good country," Cap commented.

Gilcrist turned sharply, but Cap's features were bland and innocent. Gilcrist turned back to me. "Lost some cattle, I see.

Ain't much use in goin' on with this little bunch." "Beef is beef," I said. "I never knew a mining camp to turn down good beef cattle." He started to speak, then changed his mind. He turned his mount to ride away, and I watched him drop back to where Lin was riding.

"Notice that?" I said to Cap. "He never asked about the Ox. You'd think a man would at least want to know what happened to his partner." "Maybe he knows," Cap commented. "Maybe he knows just a whole lot that we don't. If that man's been livin' off the country, he's the luckiest hunter I ever did see." They rode on for a short distance, and Cap said, "He's right about the cattle, though. What are all of us doin' drivin' this little ol' bunch of cows? Even sayin' they need beef, this is a mighty small bunch." "We taken a contract to deliver beef," I said, "and we're going to deliver beef if there's only one cow left when we get there, but I've a hunch we'll have a sight more.

"Where's Tyrel? Where's Orrin? Those boys are somewhere, and if they're alive, they'll have some stock. I'd bet on it.

"Orrin now, he's turned lawyer, but he can still read more'n law books. He can read sign. He's comin' along a trail where he knows we're supposed to be. He's going to be lookin' for sign, and he will learn as much from what he doesn't see as what he does.

If he doesn't find cattle sign where he expects to find it, he will start hunting for it.

"Orrin's a good hand on a trail, and he will know as much of what happened as if we'd left a written-out guide for him.

"What we've got to study on is what's wrong at the other end? What happened to Logan?

Why can't he help himself? Who's threatening to hang him? What's he need the cattle for?" "Seems plain enough," Cap said. "If he can't help himself, he must be sick, hurt, or in jail. Knowin' something of Logan, I'd say he's in jail. He's too mean and tough to be hurt." "You may be right. Some of those Clinch Mountain boys are rough. Nice folks, but don't start nothing unless you want trouble." "What's he need the cattle for?" "God only knows! The folks up there need them for beef, that's plain enough. They've probably hunted the country until all the game's been killed off or fled, and minin' men have to eat." "You thought about gettin' cattle in over the trails?" Cap asked. "You an' me, we've covered some rough country, but mostly we just walked or rode over it. We never tried to move no cattle along those trails.

"There's trails up yonder where if a man makes a misstep, he can fall for half a mile. Same thing goes for a cow." We were in the sand hills now, and water was scarce. Somewhere ahead of us was the elbow of the Saskatchewan or what the Indians called "The River That Turns." The cattle began to labor to get through the sand; at times, some of them stopped, ready to give up. We found no water, and the heat was almost unbearable.

Cap came to me, mopping his brow. "We got to find water, Tell. We've got too few horses, and they're about played out. On a drive like this, we should have three or four horses per man, at least." "I wish we had them." All day they struggled through the sand hills, and only as dark was closing in did they find a small lake that was not brackish. Many of the cattle walked belly deep in the water to drink.

Lin had a fire going when they bunched the cattle on a nearby flat. Leaving Cap and Brandy with the cattle, I headed in for camp with Gilcrist riding along. The boys had done a great job with the cattle, and they deserved credit.

Even Gilcrist had done his part, and I said so.

He glanced at me. "Didn't know you noticed." "I don't miss much," I said. "You did your share." "You've got some good hands." "Cap's worth two of any of the rest of us.

He's forgotten more than the rest of us will ever know." They were pulling up at camp, and as I swung down, Gilcrist asked, "You serious about goin' all the way through?" "Never more serious." "You'll never make it, Sackett.

Nobody's ever taken cattle into that country.

Nobody can." A moment there, I stopped, my hands on the saddle, and I looked across it at him. "There's some folks who hope we won't make it, and they want to keep us from making it, but they don't know what they're up against." "Maybe you don't." "We had a run-in with some of that outfit.

Let me tell you something, Gilcrist. If they want to stop us, they ought to stop sending a bunch of tenderfeet to do it. Just because a man can shoot, it doesn't turn him into a fightin' man. If we had started to fight back, there wouldn't be a man of that bunch alive. It scares me to think what would happen if that bunch of thugs happened to run into a war party of Blackfeet!" Gilcrist dismounted. He started to speak, then changed his mind. Walking along, I picked up sticks for the fire, then walked around gathering what fuel I could.

Lin glanced at me when I dropped the fuel.

"The Indian boy came in. He says there is somebody following us. A big outfit." Lin was picking up the western lingo. He started slicing meat into a pan for frying, and he said, "The Indians had not seen the outfit, just heard them and seen their dust." "Dust?" "A lot of it." Gilcrist came in and sat down. "You say somebody was coming?" "Indians," I told him.

"Somebody saw some Indians." I surely wasn't lying about that. How much he'd heard, I didn't know. Soon the boys started coming in.

Gilcrist was looking across the fire at me.

"I'd no idea you were the Sackett who rode with the Sixth. They used to say you were good with a gun." "You hear all sorts of stories." Cap spat into the fire. "Them ain't stories. You can take it from me, Gil, an' I've seen 'em all! There ain't anybody who is any better!" Gilcrist started to speak, stopped, then said, "You ain't seen 'em all. You ain't seen me." "I hope I never do," Cap said dryly.

Gilcrist stared at him. "I don't know how to take that." Cap smiled. "I just hate to see a man get killed," he said. "You or anybody else." "I ain't goin' to get killed." Cap smiled again. "I helped bury twenty men who thought the same thing." It was a quiet night. We ate and turned in, all of us dog tired. The stars were out, bright as lanterns in the sky, but nobody stayed awake long. Those days, when a man works from can see to can't see, he just naturally passes out when he hits the bed. It was long days of hard work and no chance for daydreaming when the cattle were dry and wanting water.

Only Cap and me, we set late by the fire. I was thinking of what was to come. As for him, I didn't know what he was thinking about. Or didn't until he said, "You want me to ride back and see who that is? It may be trouble." "Not you. Anybody but you. A body can always find another cowhand but a good cook? No way you can find another cook without a miracle." There was a-plenty to consider. We were down to our last coffee, and as for other grub, we'd been making do on what we could rustle for days.

Looked to me like we would have to strike north for Fort Carlton and lay in a stock of grub. It was going to throw us back, but I saw no way out of it.

Carlton was due north. Thinking of that, I wondered, but not aloud, about trying to go west from there.

Traveling in strange country like this, where I knew nothing of the rivers. If there was a practical route west from Fort Carlton, we might lose no time at all.

"All right," I said to Cap, "we'll swing north." "You want I should have a look at who that is comin' up the line?" "I'll go." "You're tired, man. You need rest." "Why, you old buffalo chaser, you say I'm tired? What about you?" "You lose me, you ain't lost much. You get lost, and we're all up the creek." Well, I got up and roped me a horse.

"Stand by for trouble, Cap," I told him. "I think we've got it coming." With that I rode off west. It was dark when I started, but that was a good night horse I had between my knees, and we found a trail that left the creek and went up on the bluffs. Off to the east, I spotted a campfire.

Down a trail through the forest, winding down where darkness was, winding among the silent trees.

Only the hoof falls of my horse, only the soft whispering of night creatures moving. Now I was riding where danger might be. I was riding where a man's life might hang in the wind, ready to be blown away by the slightest chance, yet I will not lie and say I did not like it.