Holt 2, page 5
Other nights they played cribbage for a penny a point, or read the fabulous tales of daring desperadoes that Beadle & Adams was so fond of publishing. Holt found it amusing but compelling nonsense that served to take his mind off real life.
They talked little, and Holt knew himself well enough to ken the reason. He was uncomfortable with this forced intimacy, and Sam sensed it. The first night, he tacked a blanket to a rafter to bisect the row of beds, and slept in the one farthest down the line. For her part, Sam took the bunk immediately on the other side, closest to the stove. One time she made some comment about him moving so he could be warmer at night as well, and he’d immediately had a lewd thought about another way he could be warm. He felt a schoolboy’s Lutheran guilt, and hoped she wasn’t the mind reader he feared her to be.
Winter settled in for a long sojourn. No blue sky penetrated the even-colored cloud cover, and it snowed most days, never heavily but always steadily, so by the end of the week a foot or so had accumulated. Fortunately, the temperature, by the big mercury thermometer nailed up beside the barn door, did not drop below the mid-twenties, and little wind bedeviled them. The cows were in no immediate danger of exposure or starvation, as the snow remained powdery enough for them to scrape through to the cured grass beneath.
Morgan’s range encompassed the better part of ten square miles on either side of the milky river, a good bit of territory to cover. In the first few days they’d discover clumps of several dozen cows, usually in the vicinity of the water, hurrah them into sluggish motion, and walk them back to the stockyards. Later the sub-herds grew smaller, animals that had wandered farther afield.
By week’s end Morgan was able to report a count of 270 animals in the pens, thirty-four less than he’d turned out the previous spring. But he would be satisfied, he told them, if they could search up another dozen or so; inevitably there would be losses to predators, disease, and the recent rustling.
They saw no sign of the Indians, nor of any other mortal. This might have been attributable to Holt’s and Sam’s presence, but in the normal course of their activities, the wolfers should be gone by now, Morgan explained during one supper in response to Sam’s inquiry.
The bounty offered by the Stockgrowers Association was three dollars a pelt, but the profit did not end there. Once shown as proof, the wolfer was allowed to sell the fur for whatever it might fetch him. A nice thick specimen would bring another six or seven dollars from the traders at Fort Benton—and winter was the season when coats were the most luxuriant and wolves most easy to track.
Winter also meant the suspension of river navigation as the sluggish Missouri iced up, so pelts could not be shipped. For expediency, the successful wolfer left his victims’ carcasses to freeze. Each hunter had a mark, a crude brand registered with Quint, which was carved with a knife into the wolf’s cheek. When thaw arrived with spring, the animals were skinned, the pelts were hauled out, and finally carted to Benton, where the fur traders arrived on the first steamboats after the ice broke up.
What this meant for the nonce was that, by now, the wolfers would be spread out over the high country. Some might come into Lobo once a month or so, for provisions and to enjoy the rude amenities, but others stayed in the outback for the duration, sleeping under buffalo robes and eating a diet of jerky and occasional fresh elk, supplemented with just enough camas root to keep scurvy from loosening their teeth.
Gutt, if he was among them, would be a lot harder to find than a few strays. That was the thought in Holt’s mind when Sam reined abruptly, shot him a glance and put a forefinger to her lips.
They’d crested a knoll, and beyond its foot, a half mile distant, a dozen or so cows were moving slowly north. Five riders on unsaddled horses were harrying them on. Holt made out long braids descending from beneath the flat brims of round-crowned hats.
“I’ll be dipped,” Holt said. “At least Morgan was talking straight about one thing.” He thumped the bay. “Come on.”
Sam caught up as Holt descended the rise. “You wouldn’t think I was meddling if I pointed something out?”
“Be my guest.”
“We’re outnumbered. You figure to just ride up and ask them to give those cows back?”
“Yup. With Indians this is like a game. If they get caught, they lose, and no one is supposed to hold a grudge. They’ll be peaceable enough.”
One of the rustlers spotted them and raised a cry. The others reined up. “See?” Holt said. “I know Indians.”
“Good for you,” Sam said, and threw herself forward on the neck of her roan.
Holt peered through the snow and saw that three of them had drawn rifles.
“Duck, you idiot,” Sam said.
Holt took the advice a second before a bullet whistled somewhere over their heads.
“This is crazy,” Holt said. “No Indian would chance killing a white man over cows.”
“Fine,” Sam said. “So let’s continue on in and powwow.”
Another shot rang out, although the idea seemed not so much to hit them as to drive them off. Given that Holt didn’t plan to try gunning them down, it looked like it would work—
Close by, a rifle went off.
Holt whirled the bay in time to see Charity Morgan levering another cartridge into the chamber of her Winchester. “Put up that long gun,” he ordered.
“We’ve got the chance to catch them.” Charity was a bit out of breath. “Prove once and for all that the Blackfoot are innocent. These aren’t them—I’m sure of it.”
Holt remembered the Indian with whom she appeared a few days previous, but now was neither the time for questions nor foolhardy derring-do. He wrenched the rifle from her.
So he was off balance as the rustlers fired a third time, and Holt’s bay took advantage. It fishtailed around, tossing Holt into the snow, and then cantered off.
Holt made his feet, put Sam’s horse between him and the gunmen. “I guess we’ll back off.”
“Good guess,” Sam said acridly.
“Climb back so I can take the saddle.”
“I’ll keep the saddle, thank you very much,” Sam snapped. “You can ride behind.”
Argument seemed futile. Holt handed her Charity’s gun and swung aboard, compelled to hold Sam by the waist. She backed the roan away, Charity following. In a few minutes they were out of range but still in sightline, could see the rustlers move on with spoils.
Holt’s bay was waiting on the other side of the knoll. Before they reached him, Sam said sarcastically, “‘I know Indians.’ Humpf.”
Holt slid off and retrieved the bay. “Do me a favor and keep this whole episode to yourself,” he requested. “I been embarrassed enough lately.”
Charity rode up, luminous with anger and the crazy look she could put on or take off like a coat. “You embarrassed me,” she snapped. “Give me back my rifle, and don’t meddle ever again, unless you want me to demonstrate what real meddling is about.”
Holt ignored her and got rehorsed.
“I know who you are,” Charity said ominously, “and I know what you are worth to the law.”
Holt gaped at her. “Morgan,” he breathed. “That dog-eared son of a bitch.”
“Maybe I’ll keep it to myself,” Charity said. “But for sure you are going to return my gun.”
Sam did so.
Charity took it and laughed, wheeled her horse and rode off at a quick trot.
Holt stared at her back. He could have cheerfully bound her in a burlap bag and dropped it down a well.
Nor would he hesitate to add Morgan for good measure.
Chapter Seven
Holt’s brooding would not abate, and was profound enough that Sam let him be for the next few hours. “I’m going to fix his wagon,” Holt said as they crossed one of the ditches that flowed from the milky river.
“You’re feeling melancholia,” Sam suggested.
“Melancholia is when you are blue for no reason.”
“How did you know that?”
Holt turned his glare on her. “I’m not completely unlettered,” he said. “As for Morgan—”
“Morgan is playing a double game with us. Maybe he told Charity our story, maybe not.”
“How else would she know?”
“We’ll come to learn that. Meanwhile there is no advantage to revealing our hand.”
Holt returned to his morose silence. This far north and this close to the winter solstice, the rate at which the days grew shorter was quickening, and this one had never been that bright to begin with.
When they stumbled on the cows around four o’clock, the first tinge of twilight was already darkening the eastern sky.
That they found them at all was dumb luck on the cows’ part. They were by the river and hidden by thicket, and Holt and Sam would have rode right past if one of the animals had not lowed miserably. They backtracked, followed a trace of path down to the water, and found four pairs of mothers and heifers, with Morgan’s SM brand on their flanks.
Holt stared at them sourly. “When the good Lord handed out common sense, I reckon cows were last in line.”
At this point in the stream, Morgan had thrown up a diversion dam to feed the ditch and form a watering tank that stretched about twenty-five yards upstream and down from where the cows milled disconsolately. There the placid water had frozen over, and although there was open flow above them, this is where the cows always drank, and this by God was where they expected to drink now.
“If these bovines had the sense to move to where the water is,” Holt said, “they wouldn’t have moaned in frustration and we’d not have found them. Let’s run them in.”
He unloosed his riata from the saddle horn to hurrah the animals away from the stream, and in the time that took, one of the heifers walked out on the ice.
“Aw hell.” Holt whistled sharply.
The animal ignored him, took two more steps, and plunged through the fragile surface.
The cow sunk only up to the hocks, a yard or so from the bank. But that was deep enough to make climbing back out on its own impossible, and from the wild rolling look in its eyes, it was about to panic.
Holt swung down, slung the rope around his neck, rolled up the legs of his britches and union suit, and drew his Colt.
“You going to shoot it?” Sam asked, incredulous.
Holt didn’t waste breath on an answer. “There’s a wool sweater in my saddlebag. Dig it out and cut it in half, front and back.” He unloaded the gun and pocketed the cartridges, knowing this was not going to be pleasant.
He broke through the ice on his first step, which he expected; he was heavier than the heifer and his weight distributed on two feet only. He bent, pounded at the surface with the butt of his pistol. It gave way to allow him another step.
It was necessary to repeat the process another half-dozen times before he reached the more open water around the cow. By now his boots were full and he stood knee deep in the frigid water.
“You all right?” Sam called.
“Yeah, but I figure I got about ninety more seconds if I want to keep all my toes.”
The other seven cows were safe for now, content to drink from the bank at the water Holt had opened. He holstered the gun, freed the loop from the coil of rope, set a gentling hand on the heifer’s flank to divert its attention, and dropped the noose over its head and around its neck.
The cow followed meekly as Holt waded back to shore. He continued until they were fifty feet from the water, the other cows trailing amiably along.
Holt sat on a deadfall tree trunk, yanked off his boots and socks. “The sweater. Also, cut a couple of three-foot lengths of rope.”
The skin of his feet was wrinkled and fish-belly white, but as he carefully dried them with his neckerchief, he discovered no dots of purer white that meant frostbite. He took the rope and bolts of wool that had been his sweater and used them to fashion a pair of booties, then got remounted quick as he could.
The cows’ luck must have extended to him: they reached Morgan’s cabin in less than a half hour and a few minutes before full dark. Holt insisted on penning the animals before seeing to other business. He felt the cold ground through the wool of his makeshift footgear.
“You saved it,” Sam said.
Holt closed the corral gate. “That’s me,” he muttered. “Guardian of all the Lord’s creatures.”
Holt sat by the stove with his feet in a washbasin of steaming water, enjoying the sensation of feeling returning to his toes. His frozen boots were cooking near the stove, and Sam returned from the bunkhouse with dry socks as Holt finished telling Morgan about the rustlers.
As Morgan splashed whiskey into a tumbler and handed it to Holt, Prospect entered, shook snow from the shoulders of his coat. “I blanketed and grained your animals.”
Holt said thanks. He’d wanted to see to it himself, but Sam insisted that for the moment the horses were in less need than he.
Prospect watched Holt drink, looked thirstily at the bottle in Morgan’s hand. Morgan shook his head slightly. “We’ve got 278 head in now,” Prospect said, “and in the nick of time. It looks like some real weather is fixing to blow.” The stove fire was drafting with vigor, and Holt could hear the wind whistling past the well-chinked house. This was not the best of conditions for manhunting, but with the cows gathered, Gutt was next on his agenda
“So you did nothing,” Morgan declared abruptly.
Holt accepted a cigarette from Sam. “Beg pardon?” She struck a match on the seat of her pants, and he dipped the tip of his smoke into it.
“You had rifles,” Morgan said. “You could have returned fire.”
“They weren’t trying to kill us, only drive us off.”
“That didn’t take much.”
Holt drank to give himself time to come up with a temperate response. He settled on, “Whatever you say.”
“They were burdened with the cows,” Morgan said. “If you circled around, you could have picked them off.”
That was sufficient needle. “I don’t back shoot,” Holt said. “I’ve been back shot myself.”
Morgan regarded him. “Perhaps such an experience unsettled your nerve.”
“Listen to yourself,” Holt said to Morgan. “You’re telling me you wished an Indian war.”
“Long as someone else was fighting it for you,” Sam added.
Morgan reddened. “At least you could have followed them.”
“We were in unfamiliar territory in what could pass for the dead of winter,” Holt said, trying to remain reasonable. “I’m not about to be caught out after dark, nor risk spending the night lost, miserable, and exposed.”
He finished what was in his glass, held it out. Morgan ignored him. “Plus,” Holt went on, “you seem to forget we had a deal. I’ve gathered your cows—and by the way, we could have just as easily missed those last eight That sort of makes up for the ones we lost.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“Now that we’re done, we’ve got someone to find, as you well know,” Sam picked up.
“Those rustlers could still be tracked.”
Sam gestured at the window, where wind was packing snow into the corners of the panes. “In that?”
Morgan clearly did not like taking this from a woman, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it now. Holt felt silly sitting like an invalid in a footbath, and his boots looked to be dry. He donned the clean socks and pulled them on. Prospect removed the basin, opened the front door long enough to admit snow and chill wind while he dumped the water, then went into the kitchen. Uncomfortable silence occupied the cabin for a quarter hour, until Prospect reappeared to announce that supper was served.
Holt studied the cards in his hand, glanced at Sam’s five of spades on the table, and played the king. Prospect Morgan dropped the ace atop it and raked in the trick to win the hand. The game was euchre. Prospect wet the tip of a pencil on his tongue and recorded the score.
“I have always been good at cards,” he said absently, “except for three games—monte, faro, and poker, the ones where a man can make money.” He pushed the pad to one side, began to shuffle. “A metaphor for my fortune in general.”
He dealt. A couple hours earlier, after the supper of ham and boiled potatoes, Prospect entered the bunkhouse carrying a quart bottle of bourbon with an inch gone and his breath betraying its disposition.
He appeared to have concerns on his mind, as did Holt. If Charity knew who he and Sam were, it was a good bet that Prospect did as well. “Your daughter,” Holt had said as they settled at the table, “has bandied words about us.”
“To me, principally,” Prospect said.
“I guessed it was the other way around.”
Prospect shook his head. “My brother keeps a diary. Charity has a habit of snooping.”
“Swell,” Holt said. “Why wasn’t she at supper?”
“She never came back this evening.” Prospect didn’t seem at all concerned.
“Where is she?” Sam asked.
Prospect dealt the first hand. “With the Blackfoot,” he said. Holt remembered the Indian with whom she’d been riding a few days earlier. “Or in town,” Prospect continued.
“Sweller yet,” Holt had said sourly.
Now it was around ten o’clock and the bottle was half empty, with Prospect responsible for downing most of it. He sorted his cards.
“A year ago I had a half-section homestead outside Ely, Minnesota,” he said. “Two hundred acres in red wheat, better than another hundred in feed oats. It would never make me rich, but we made out good enough, the missus and me.” He led a low heart. “That winter was not destined to treat me with kindness.”
Sam won with the queen. Prospect nodded complacently, as if she was playing into his hand. “The week before Christmas, the missus took sick with a cold. By the holiday double pneumonia had settled into her lungs. She didn’t live to see the New Year.”
