Novel 1978 - The Proving Trail (v5.0) (18 page)

They staggered on singing, and I stood under the trees for several minutes watching the hotel. Nobody followed the “drunken” miners and nobody came toward me, so evidently the ruse had worked. Mounting and staying behind the trees and buildings, I found my way to the edge of town, taking bypaths until well clear of it. Then I rode off along the trail to the south, following Clear Creek.

From time to time I paused to listen, but there were no sounds of pursuit. Nevertheless, I decided to leave the trail at the first opportunity.

By moonrise I was on the dim trail that led to Chicago Lakes. There was a good chance they would not guess what I was doing, and I had told no one. Had I been going west, the route was by way of Silver Plume and Bakerville, and east the logical route was that toward Idaho Falls and Denver. Instead I had gone south into some very rough, wild country. By daybreak I was crossing a shoulder of Chief Mountain, and looking back could see no sign of pursuit. After a brief stop to switch gear to my other horse, I rode on down to Cub Creek and followed it to Troublesome.

Coming out of the mountains with the Hogback in front of me, my belly was fighting hunger and my horses needed a rest if I intended to push them as hard as planned. Ahead of me there was a low house built of flat rocks, a corral with a couple of horses, and some cultivated ground. I rode into the gate and stepped down.

A man came to the door. “’Light an’ set,” he said. “We’re just at table.”

“I’d be obliged,” I said, and led my horses to the trough for water. When they’d had their fill, I picketed them on a patch of grass, and dropping my gear in the shade I walked in.

There was a blond young man and a woman just as blond. Neither of them were much older than me. The house was far cleaner than most.

“Come far?” he asked.

“A piece.”

“Out of the way here,” he commented. “We see mighty few people.”

“Been workin’ the other side of the Divide,” I said. “Goin’ to see my folks in Kansas.”

We talked idly as we ate, about grass conditions, rainfall, and the price of silver and beef, always top subjects in Colorado at the time. News was scarce and they were hungry for outside talk, so I gave them what I could, as I’d covered a sight of country one time and another. They hungered for me to stay, but the road was calling and the distance great.

When I topped out on the rise, I looked back. They were still standing in the yard and they seemed to be waving, so I waved as well, although I knew they could not see me. They were tough young folks, the kind who made do, and they would get along all right until there was sickness. It’s then you need folks around you, and a woman needs womenfolks.

Denver lay off to the north, but I made no show of going there, just taking out across the prairie and putting the Front Range behind me.

This was Indian country I was riding into, Comanche, Cheyenne, and Arapaho country, with Kiowas further east and Utes all about. Pa had been friends with the Utes, knew both Ouray and Shavano, or Showano—I’d heard him called both. Why they took to pa as they did I’d no idea, but they surely did. Somewhere along the line he’d done them a service or proved himself to them somehow. They were a strong, courageous people, and I hoped I could avoid them, for they did not know me and I wanted to kill none of them, nor to be killed by them.

That night I camped on Willow Creek, made me a spot of coffee and finished the cold meat and bread Louis Dupuy had given me to travel on, then turned in, dead beat.

My eyes opened on a damp, foggy morning. Everything was dripping and wet, and much as I was wishful for a hot meal and coffee, I decided against it. Bringing in the horses, I saddled up and taken out.

It was spooky, riding in that fog. A body couldn’t see beyond his horse’s ears, and although I was riding a dim trail, I’d no idea where it went or what lay ahead of me.

Suddenly it seemed to me I heard other sounds than my own. I pulled up sharply, listening.

Sure enough, there was somebody…or something…out there in the fog.

Chapter 14

S
OMEBODY—AND MORE than one rider—was moving out there in the fog, and not far away. I whispered to my horses, trusting to my own, worried about the other. Their ears were pricked but they seemed as nervous as I, and neither made a sound.

Hoofs coming nearer. It would be close work for a rifle, so I drew my pistol and waited. Closer and closer, and then they were passing by, not more than fifty or sixty feet away. There was only a sound of hoofs, one irritable curse, and they had passed me by, pointing toward Denver. For several minutes I waited, then holstered my pistol and started off, at a walk first, then a canter.

Whoever had passed me might have no interest in me, but they were dangerous times, with Indians riding the war trails and any number of men willing to take advantage of any unwary traveler. The old-timers never shot until they could see what they were shooting at, but the greenhorns might blaze away at anything that moved.

As the fog lifted, I slowed my pace to look around. It was wide-open country, a distant butte showing here or there and not two hundred yards off a herd of antelope, heads up to see what manner of a creature I might be. Uneasily they moved away, not running, just fading into the landscape.

At noon I made a stop on Box Elder Creek. The creek was not running but there were pools of water here and there. After stripping the gear from my horses, I gave them a chance to roll, watered them, and then saddled the other horse and got a fire started for coffee. The place I’d chosen was under the edge of the creek bank with brush growing along the edge, so my smoke—what little there was from dry wood—dissipated in going through the branches.

By simply standing up I could survey the country without showing myself, so I looked it over carefully now and again, ate, drank several cups of coffee, and dozed a little in the sun. By the time an hour was past, I was moving out over the prairie again, holding to low ground and changing my angle of travel from time to time so anybody watching me could lay no ambush.

The afternoon was hot and still. In the distance heat waves danced and shimmered, and in a far-off basin lay a vast blue lake that was not there at all. A lone buffalo bull, looming black and ominous against the sky, seemed to have legs enormously long, and he seemed but a short distance away, but I knew he was well over a mile away. This was a land where mirage was usual, and I had seen them before this.

Eastward I rode as the day was waning, eastward while the shadows gathered, and nowhere did I see any rider or any moving thing but occasional buffalo, antelope, and a few stray cattle, yet I was haunted by uneasiness. By now my enemies would be moving to prevent me from reaching Carolina. They would know Delphine’s attempt at poison had failed, and they would be coming east to find me.

Some of their clan remained in the East and they could be reached by telegraph. The wires had been in for several years now and were frequently used by cattlemen and other businessmen. I knew about them, and their existence made me uneasy, for by now word could have reached others of the clan, who might even now be moving west toward me. I had no reason to doubt that the others had remained in the East to await word from Delphine or Felix.

Now I rode into a rough and broken land, sand hills and washes, sparse growth of any kind, yet riding up a wash I came on an undercut bank where the remains of old campfires were. Charred ends of sticks and brush lay about some of the fires.

Dismounting, I put together a small fire from the ends of charred sticks and whatever was around, needing only enough to make coffee. It was very still. No sound but my own movements, the slight jingle of spurs, the occasional scuffing of my boots, and the crackle of the fire taking hold, and my eyes kept straying to my horses, trusting to their natural alertness.

I did not like being hunted. It kept me on edge, irritable and restless, yet these very qualities were needed now, for to relax too much might mean the end of me. Well I knew the caliber of the men who sought me. They were ruthless, relentless, without scruple. I was something in the way of what they wanted and so to be erased, rubbed out, dismissed with a gunshot or a knife blade. Yet there was hatred for me and what I had come from, so there would be a measure of satisfaction in destroying me.

They were several…how many I had no idea. I was a man alone.

My water bubbled and boiled. I dropped in the coffee, then after a bit a few drops of cold water to settle the grounds, although I did not much care.

Several times I stood up, letting my eyes sweep the country around, yet my horses cropped at the sparse grass contentedly. I was filling my cup when I saw the roan’s head come up, ears pricked.

Well, it taken me a minute, no more. I scooped sand over that fire and gulped coffee whilst standing up to have a look-see.

Nothing.

The roan was looking off to the southwest, nostrils dilated. “Watch ’em, boy,” I said.

Taking up my rifle, I walked a bit higher up the draw, my cup still in my left hand. I was going to get me a bait of that coffee come hell or high water, and it looked to be all of that. One thing I was sure of. When trouble came, it wasn’t going to be something picayunish.

Nothing in sight, so I went back, filled my cup again, emptied out the coffeepot, rubbed sand over it to take off the worst of the soot, then fitted it into my gear. Shoving the rifle back in the boot, I straddled my horse and led out of there.

My mother never raised any foolish children, so I rode down that wash for a half mile before I decided to come up out of it. Taking a draw that ran off the wash to the northeast, I followed it until it shallowed out and I rode up on the plain.

Several times before I topped out, I pulled rein to give myself a look around, but I could see nothing. It was twilight on the plains, or as much twilight as a man ever sees in a land where darkness comes quickly.

A star hung in the sky like a lonely lamp in a widow’s window. The air was cooler now, and fresh with a wind off the western mountains. The horses stirred restlessly, eager to be off, so seeing nothing, I turned my face eastward and rode away toward the coming night.

Behind me the sky was weirdly lit, a magnificent sunset with clouds tinted rose and red, with golden arrows shot upward by the archer of the sun. Sometimes I looked back, but not only to see if I was followed. In part I looked toward the setting sun because terror may ride with beauty, and a man needs to milk his hours of the precious things.

To ride fast, to travel far, these were empty things unless a man took the time to savor, to taste, to love, to simply
be.
That much I had from pa, and some from Louis Dupuy, who for all his cynicism was a sentimentalist under the skin.

Into the coolness of the night I rode alone. Onward, eastward.

There was a railroad at Dodge City. Maybe it was further west, for they’d done a sight of building. The steam cars would carry me fast to where I needed to go.

For an hour after darkness fell, I pushed on before I began watching for a place to camp.

When the moon was rising, I rode into a tree-bordered hollow in the prairie where there was a good spring and a pool of water. My horses gave no sign of anything, so I rode in, gun in hand for trouble, but hoping the way was clear.

First off I saw a pole corral, then a lean-to barn, and beyond it a dugout faced with rock slabs built into a good wall. The horses wanted water and I let them have it, ears pricked for sound, my nose for any smell.

No wood smoke, no fresh manure, no fresh-cut wood. Walking over to the dugout, I rapped on the door. When no response came, I lifted the latch and, keeping well to one side, opened the door.

All quiet. The place smelled empty, so I struck a match. A bunk bed, a fireplace, a table, cooking utensils, and on the wall a piece of paper nailed up.

Lighting a candle I held it up to the paper.

NOTISS

This here place belongs to me, you are welcome. Just leave it like you fond it. My wife’s buried yonder under the trees, an our baby beside her. I am a lonely man. Can’t take it alone. I hev gone back for another woman.

A.T.T.

P.S. If there’s flowers about, put sum on the graves. She was a good woman. She done her best.

There was a fire laid on the hearth and the floor was swept.

Going outside, I stripped the gear from my horses and turned them into the corral. Then I went back to the house and bedded down for the night. Several times I awakened to hear the coyotes howling. It must have been a lonely place for the woman, too. He would have been gone much what with hunting for meat and working.

At daybreak I was out and saddled the roan, led both horses outside, and tied them to the corral. Then I went in, laid a fresh fire, and swept the floor. After closing the door carefully, I looked for the graves. They were both on a low knoll somewhat shaded by a huge old cottonwood. The two graves were side by side and both were covered with withered flowers, obviously left by several different hands.

There were a lot of yellow and some purple flowers about, I didn’t know what kind. I put them on the graves, stood beside them with my hat off for a few minutes, then I mounted up and rode out of there.