Double Mountain Crossing (2 page)

His course of action mapped out in his mind, he turned his hand to shaping biscuits over the fire, enough for a meal and some spare to pack for his hunt. Morgan took his time over the familiar task, all the more to allow the excitement surging in his veins to simmer down. It wouldn't pay to fling caution to the wind now.

***

The two Kiowa ponies were tired as they tramped the deer trails of the peak country. They were far from their home that
lay
to the south-east, on the
Llano Estacado
, the Staked Plains of
Texas
. Prairie bred, the hardy little roan mustang and the dappled grey were used to the vast expanses of land richly carpeted with buffalo grass, not the rocky mountain trails that twisted and climbed steeply and that were hard on both men and ponies alike. The leader of the three-man party was Comes-Walking, a Kiowa brave of thirty summers, renowned among his people as an explorer for he loved to wander the country, eyeing new landscapes and the beauty of nature's works. It was often his custom to explore after a raid before the finish of the summer weather made travel impossible, and this year after the flight from
Mexico
, driving a herd of stolen ponies before them, he had asked his brother Thunderhawk to care for his share of the booty while he rode to the west. Two of the boys, Short-Lance and Swift-Foot, had begged to ride with him so their eyes could be opened to the secrets of the unknown. Neither had earned a Man-name and each was eager to prove
himself
worthy. Reluctantly, Comes-Walking had agreed, but only after consulting the Owl Medicine Man. The reply had been favorable, the Medicine Man throwing his voice in an imitation of the quavering call to the owl puppet he wore on his wrist, then translating the Owl talk to inform the explorer the boys would truly prove themselves.

Now, one pony dead from the hard journey, and the dappled grey rapidly tiring from bearing the weight of both boys, Comes-Walking was not so sure it had been a good idea. If they were to return to the tipis of their families before the deep winter snows they would have to steal another horse, if not three. Food was short too, for he only carried an old single shot Remington rifle and had little ammunition while the boys were armed only with bows.

The problem weighed heavily on his mind as he rode into a gully, his own roan mustang still sturdily footed, although hard ridden. They had seen no other horses or men for the last ten sleeps as they ascended the long arid plain that led to the foothills of the
Rocky Mountains
, but later, among the peaks they had cut sign. Today they were following it carefully, and he knew they were steadily closing.

He was puzzled. The sign appeared to wander aimlessly from one place to another, as if the rider was searching for something. Abandoned campsites had shown there was only one rider, but he had two horses, both big sturdy animals to judge from the size of their tracks. A white man too, for the horses were shod. Besides, an Indian would never have left such clear tracks. Comes-Walking consulted the sky, noting the sun had passed through another hour,
then
looked down over the neck of his pony at the ground. These tracks were very fresh. He could not be far away.

The Kiowa sat quietly on the little roan, listening to the breeze that blew gently through his chest length braids. His handsome bronze face with the long
roman
nose was tilted slightly back, his eyes narrowed to slits against the sun. The fringes of his deerskin shirt rippled in the air current, discouraging the flies and mosquitoes. Above him, a red-backed hawk, the swiftest of its family, circled, searching out prey. You too, brother, thought Comes-Walking as he gazed out over the land. Behind him, the two boys, Short-Lance and Swift-Foot, sat their exhausted pony in silence, heads drooping with fatigue.

“It is a good day,” Comes-Walking said with feeling. “We will find him soon.” With a glance at them he nudged the roan forward with moccasined heels. The two boys nodded at his back and coaxed the grey into a walk, tracing the roan's hoof prints across the rocky soil.

They rode for an hour before they heard it.

A dull boom echoed in the hills to their right. Immediately, they drew rein and listened to the song of the wind, both men and ponies alert now. All that could be heard in the aftermath of the gunshot was the bear claw necklace clacking softly against the hair pipe breastplate on Comes-Walking's powerful chest.

“We have found him,” the warrior said, thin lips barely moving as he urged the roan into a canter. The weary grey responded too, and the three Kiowas headed for the dark stretch of pines above the cedar brakes, the drumming of unshod hooves dying away behind them.

Once into the timber they hauled the ponies to a stop and slid to the earth. Comes-Walking waved the boys out onto his flanks and began his scout. Silent as the flight of an eagle, he trod the forest floor, his own tracks barely discernible, so careful was his approach. Four times he signalled restraint to the now-eager boys and each time they deferred to his command. Finally he was rewarded when a gap in the pines allowed him a glimpse of his quarry.

The white man in the clearing had skinned the fallen elk and was sectioning the meat for packing into his saddlebags that lay on the ground beside him. At his back, a lineback dun stood patiently. Where was the other horse? A flicker of movement registered in the warrior's peripheral vision and he swung round, irritably making the sign for “only one horse” to Short-Lance who was edging forward. The boy stilled and Comes-Walking turned his attention back to the scene in front of him.

The white man was old, his hair shot through with streaks of grey, but he looked tough, a seasoned hunter, well able to take care of himself. He was making a good job of butchering the carcass, wasting little. A worthy opponent, the warrior thought, and if the other horse was as fine as the lineback, it would be well worth stealing. There was a fine gun too. The Kiowa could see the polished stock next to the white man's hand. It was one of those with two barrels that fired many balls in a big circle.
A big killing gun.
Comes-Walking's eyes smiled. Two fine horses and the gun would make fine trophies to take back to their people, but he would let one of the boys take the white man's scalp. It was not fit for a warrior to take, grey as it was.

***

Although Morgan Clay worked steadily at the fallen elk, he was aware the birds had not returned to the trees or resumed their song, nor the lesser animals to their scurrying in the undergrowth. He knew only too well the absence of wildlife was an ominous sign. Perhaps one of the mountain predators, a hungry cougar or a wildcat, had caught scent of the kill and was already stalking. He'd had truck with the big cats before, and although he had a healthy respect for them, he'd always come off best, so if one of the yellow eyed varmints was out after him, then let it come.

He glanced over his shoulder at the dun gelding. Its ears were up and its nostrils dilated as it sniffed the breeze. So, it wasn't his imagination, the lineback sensed it too. Making sure the shotgun was close to hand, he continued sectioning the elk, but his attention was focused on the outer edges of his vision, scanning the pines. The dun was growing noticeably edgier, shifting weight from hoof to hoof, breathing shallowly,
ears
twitching. Whatever was out there in the timber must be close. Against his will, Morgan found his own breathing growing ragged.

Then he saw him.

He gave no visible indication he had seen the Indian but he was puzzled. A boy, barely fifteen by the looks, bronzed and wiry
, carrying
only a hardwood bow as he squatted in the timber. What was even more intriguing was the boy appeared to be a Kiowa. Morgan had run into them before, but the furthest west he had seen them had been down on the
Pecos
, and even that had been way off their home range. He knew the Kiowa Nation was mainly centred on the
Red River
and the Big Wichita, just above the Staked Plains where the great herds of buffalo roamed. Wherever there was buffalo, the Indians were sure to be close, both the Kiowas and their brothers, the Comanche.

The cause for worry was it was highly unlikely the Kiowa boy would be alone. He was too young. Morgan had heard boys were sometimes taken along on war parties to raid the Mexicans and the Texans, so that could only mean full grown braves with him. Morgan's stomach shrivelled just a mite. Kiowa braves were as tough as hell and he had no desire to tackle a whole war party. Judging from the condition of the boy, they were probably hungry and the butchered elk would offer easy pickings. His only consolation was if they were hungry they must be poorly armed, for a man with a rifle could find plenty of game in high country to fill a growling belly. Still, a flight of Kiowa arrows could stop a man in his tracks just as surely as a bullet and Morgan had no desire to chance his arm.

But, if they were out there, why had they not attacked? Could it be the boy was a scout and he was waiting for the rest of a war party to catch up? Morgan decided to hightail it back to his campsite where he had left the bay horse, for the clearing there would make a better place for a stand. Leaving the remains of the carcass on the grass, he caught up his scattergun and saddlebags,
then
swung up onto the dun's back. The skittish gelding wheeled quickly and he was gone.

***

The clearing was empty. Comes-Walking rose from his crouch and crossed to the elk skin. Short-Lance followed, leaving Swift-Foot to return to the fringes of the pines to collect the ponies. The warrior stooped and began to roll up the slimy elk skin, scraping the fat and blood from the hide with his knife.

“Why take that?” Short-Lance frowned, his eyes straying to the trail the white man had taken from the glade. “We cannot eat skin, and the white man has taken all the best meat.”

Comes-Walking, expressionless, thrust the skin at the boy. “Is your stomach so full of hunger your head forgets there are many holes in your moccasins? The skin of the elk may not be as strong as the rawhide of the sacred buffalo, but I do not think your feet will complain when they walk these rocky trails.”

Admonished, Short-Lance took the offered hide and hung his head in embarrassment that he should forget the basics of life.

Comes-Walking smiled. “Perhaps you think too much of counting coup on this white man who owns the big killing gun, and are too impatient to take back his scalp and hang it on the lodge pole of your father's tipi?” The Kiowa paused and the boy looked up to see a faraway look in his elder's eyes. “I too thought of little else when I was a boy, but you will come to realize that to be a warrior means not only having a brave heart that does not fear at the sight of the enemy, but to fight with your head too. Do you want to earn a name like He-Wouldn't-Listen?”

Short-Lance grinned sheepishly, and from behind him Swift-Foot emerged from the timber, leading the ponies. Comes-Walking beckoned him to come over,
then
placed strong hands on their thin shoulders.

“Listen well, you boys. An elk is a very wise animal, cunning, and his legs are even fleeter than yours, Swift-Foot. Does it not take more than one wolf to kill one? Well, this white man has hunted one, and has shown that his cunning is even greater than that of the elk. You saw the way he skinned and butchered it? He has done this many times. He is not
foolish,
or green as the white men say.”

The boys nodded at their leader's sage remarks. He looked from one to the other. “Good, you understand.” He consulted the sky. “We will attack just before dark. That way, perhaps, he will think there are more of us.”

They built a small fire in the clearing to cook what meat was left on the elk's stripped carcass. When the meal was over, Swift-Foot scouted the trail left by the white man across the mountainside to his camp. He settled the layout in his mind, carefully noting where the lineback dun and the bay were grazing at their pickets. Back at their own camp, Short-Lance tended to the ponies and Comes-Walking cleaned his ancient single shot carbine before tamping willow bark tobacco into his pipe to smoke. When Swift-Foot returned from his scout, he stood silently in front of Comes-Walking who was sitting on the grass, his attention focused on his pipe. After a few moments, at a loss for a sage straw, the warrior plucked a long stem of dry grass from the earth then came to his feet and thrust the stem into the boy's hair. This meant he was ready to hear Swift-Foot's report. The boy drew out the straw and held it in his hand while he spoke, almost trembling in his excitement.

“I found the camp of the white man,” he said, pointing westward across the mountain. “A journey of fifteen arrow flights along the trail. There is only him and his two horses there.”

Comes-Walking expressed his interest. “Is the white man's other pony as strong as the lineback?”

The youth's eyes glittered and he smiled.
“Even better.
A good pony.”

The warrior considered the boy with suspicion. There was something he was holding back. “Very well,” he said. “You shall have the other pony. I will take the lineback dun.”

A grin creased Swift-Foot's face while behind him Short-Lance frowned. Comes-Walking read the dismay written there.

“Do not worry Short-Lance. You too shall count coup. There will be enough trophies for all.” The boy smiled, reassured, then turned away to test his restrung bow. Swift-Foot, still grinning, walked back to the fire and began roasting another strip of meat.