Fair Land, Fair Land (6 page)

"
More damn people than all the stars."

They corked the jug and went to their beds. A bird, a
jay maybe, squawked from the dark trees. Higgins lay on his back and
let the stars and the night take him.

8

THAT HALF-BREED at the Dalles — yeah, Antoine was
his name — knew what he was doing when he traced the way to the
Bitter Root. Yet Summers figured he could have found it himself. A
mountain man learned by the stream flow, by the game trails, by the
lay of the land, by the hunch in his bones, how to get where he
wanted to be.

Where he wanted to be was close to the mountains but
out on the plains, where a man could look west and see the jagged
wall that separated the worlds and east where distance ran beyond the
reach of his eyes. He asked himself what he would do when he got
there. Enjoy himself while the strength of his young time fluttered
his bones. Enjoy himself. Sure. Chase down memories. It was as good a
life as any he knew and better than most. Git along, hoss.

They were on a high tableland where trees were few
and the wind could tear at them from any direction. A tumbleweed tore
loose from its hold on earth and went rolling away. He had sand, the
scourings of wind, in his teeth, in his ears and his clothes. The
horses walked with their heads down, their manes and tails whipping.
The torn air had the beginning bite of winter in it.

They had made good time, Summers thought while his
horse shied at a tumbleweed that blew past his nose. They had tackled
the trail early and late and kept going through all the days. They
should be over the mountains and out on the plains before heavy snow
fell, though no man could tell the way of the weather.

The trail led downhill and away, and from behind him
Higgins shouted against the wind, "Holy Christ, what a slope!"

There, down from them, was the Snake and its feeder,
the Clearwater. Hard by was a shack and a horse corral. Both seemed
deserted. Here, down in the hole, the air turned warmer. They held
up, looking.

"
If there was someone to home," Higgins
said, his eyes on the shack, "we might pay a visit. Might hear
some news."

"
News don't matter to us, Hig. It's just talk
where talk means nothin', just air passin' by."

"
Might be more."

"
Only if it's news of a war party, Injuns on the
peck, and that ain't likely now, I'm thinkin'."

Higgins was a good man. He worked fine in harness. He
did his full share of work. He didn't complain. And it was natural to
him that he hankered to talk to somebody else. It was natural he
asked questions there was no answer to. They didn't matter.

They helped pass the time in camp.

At the bank of the Snake Summers held up again.
"Looks like we could ford most anywhere. Some swimmin' water,
but this ain't the Snake we knew before. It's calmed down a right
smart. Let's move a piece, so's to land on the right bank of the
Clearwater. That"s where the trail is."

"
Water's deeper there on account of the
Clearwater comin' in."

"But not too bad I bet you."

They dismounted a few yards downstream and loosened
the cinches so the horses could draw in plenty of air and float
lighter.

Before they tried the crossing Summers asked, "How's
your horses at swimmin'?"

"
You seen them before. Like fish." Higgins
gave his toothless grin. "You know. Under water."

A man couldn't call the ford bad. A place or two the
horses had to swim, and the current carried them downstream a piece,
but they climbed up on shore all right, and the packs hadn't
suffered.

They waited for the horses to get their wind back.
"Trail's over there, I figure," Summers said, "and we
got a good part of the day left. What say we charge ahead if you're
up to it?"

"
Up to it, hell! Just keep out of my way."

The trail led into forests, into dense, tall stands
of evergreens, some of which grew straight as a plumb line. Not all
of the trees were the trees of Oregon. Some of them had different
bark and different shape. The sun was lost here, crowded out, only a
rare shaft slanting through the overhead growth. It wasn't land to a
man's liking, not to his anyway, though there was no wet in the air
and no salt. The wind had let up.

They found a small clearing and made camp just as
dusk was closing in. They heated water and washed and shook the sand
out of their clothes and put them back on again, for the night had
turned chill. They ate deer meat that was going sour.

They lighted pipes afterward and sat and let the
earth draw out their fag while they fed small bites to the fire.

"
Reckon we're halfway to yonder?" Higgins
asked.

"
Couple of days, thereabouts, we ought to move
down to the Bitter Root. Meantime we have to kill meat for the pot."

"
Grouse likely. This ain't huntin' country. Too
damn much growth. I can't hardly keep you in sight after you make a
turn."

"
Don't worry your head. We made out so far."

"
That deer meat had a taint to it that don't
rest easy in my belly."

"
I'll find us an elk, I'm thinkin'. This is
their kind of country."

"
If you can see to aim."

In bed Summers heard the hoarse howls of wolves and
the quavering cries of coyotes. He had to put his mind to it to hear
them. They let loose every night and again just before sunup, and a
man took them as natural as the sound of wind in the trees or of
running water and didn't pay any heed, not unless he listened
particular.

He wondered why they gave voice. Take a dog, now, and
you could find reasons, like the barks were warnings or dares or came
out of fear. But wolves? Coyotes? Did they cry out from hunger? From
what was bred in them? For no reason that a man could put a name to?
One thing for sure. They sounded lonely, like as if on lost trails.

He fell asleep to their howls and quavers.

The horses neighed shrilly. Hooves sounded and the
breaking of brush. Feather's bell rang out wild.

Summers rolled from bed and grabbed his Hawken. As he
moved out he felt rather than saw Higgins behind him. He moved by
starshine. He squinted against the dark curtain of trees. There was a
flowing movement like water in shadow, black sliding through black,
and he fired, and a high scream chased the crack of the shot, chased
other sounds into silence. He went on.

There, dying, lay a panther, shot through the chest.
A star caught a golden gleam from the fur. The panther managed a
snarl before its head fell.

"
Cat country," Summers said as Higgins
moved to his side.

"
Likely clawed one of the horses. Got to see."

They found Feather after a hunt. The other horses
were close by. Feather's hams had deep slashes in them.

"
Damn hobbles," Summers said. "They
slowed him down. They was to blame."

"
Not to mention the cat," Higgins said.

"
Anyhow, the horses are glad for our company. No
more hobbles. After this they won't range far."

"
Meantime, what do we put on them gashes?"

"
Grease. Meat grease. Got any?"

"
We ain't scoured the kettle yet."

"
That'll do. Keep off the flies, come a warm
spell. I don't look for poison to set in, not here in the mountains."

They doctored Feather as well as they could in the
dark. One thing for sure, he had learned not to stray far from camp.

"
Tomorrow," Summers told Higgins, "we'll
have a go at painter meat."

"
I hope Cod and my maw don't look on."

They went back to their bedrolls. Half-drowsing,
Summers heard Higgins say, "And I thought I could shoot!"

9

THEY WERE NEARING the crest, so Summers told Higgins.
"Another day or so," he had said, "and we ought to be
hoof"in' it down to the Bitter Root valley."

Higgins hoped so. He was tired of forests, tired of
the trees that closed them in and even tireder of mountains. As they
plodded along, his mind went to tracing the country they had come
through. There was Oregon and the high trees and rain and moss and
ferns and fronds where a horse went fetlock deep in the mold. There
was the long plateau yon side of the Snake and wind that choked a
man's breath in his lungs. And there was this long climb up the
Clearwater and the damn forests again and a trail that turned tricky.
How long had they been traveling? How far had they come? He asked
Summers, and Summers answered, "Sleeps or miles?"

"
I can figure the sleeps out for myself. Make it
miles."

"
I dunno. Three hundred plus, maybe. Maybe more.
I ain't so much on miles. I go by country and seasons. Anyhow, we
been makin' good time."

More than three hundred miles, and now it began to
snow. There was wind with it, and the cold numbed fingers and feet,
no matter the covering, and then it struck at the bones. The snow
whirled and played with the trail, more often hiding it than letting
it show, and Summers pulled up his horse and shouted back, "Time
to hole up, I'm thinkin'."

The wind swept the words away, swept them along with
the snow into the moving trees, to the mountains and to hell and gone
where.

Summers tried to look the country over. There was
snow on his eyelashes, and he brushed it away. The horses stood
hunched and sad. Summers set the string in motion again and led
around to a small open space just beyond a stand of trees where the
wind wouldn't hit them so hard.

They dismounted and set to work, Higgins helping to
string a rope, tree to tree, and throwing the square of canvas over
it. They tied and pegged the canvas and partly closed one open end
with brush. There was wood to gather and a fire to be built. Summers
got the fire going while Higgins brought in the wood.

Just seeing the fire was some comfort, Higgins
thought. He brushed snow aside and spread a horse blanket to sit on.
Who cared if the blanket stunk? He sat down, arms and legs
outstretched toward the blaze. He could hear the horses pawing for
grass and Feather's bell sounding.

They had brought a joint of meat in with them. To
fingers still numb it felt frozen. The fire began to warm the
makeshift tent.

Without speaking Summers went out and came in with
the jug. "Whoever invented whiskey was thinkin' of times like
these," he said.

"
Want to send up a prayer for him?"

"
I figure his sins is forgiven."

Summers passed the jug to Higgins, who drank and
passed it back. "I'm hopin' there's no bottom to it."

"
It's still better'n half full."

They roasted the meat over the fire after sampling
the whiskey again.

Afterward Higgins said, "There's not enough wood
to last the night out." He took the ax and started into the
night.

"
Watch out you don't get lost," Summers
told him.

The cold took hold once he was outside. The wind
walloped him, let up and walloped again, driving snow into his face.
A man couldn't carry enough clothes to keep warm. He'd just give in
like an overloaded pack horse. He bent his head and moved on, his
feet sinking into a drift. Looking back, he could just see the tent,
see it as a dim glow from the fire inside. He made two trips with
wood and, shaking, sat down again by the fire.

He slept cold that night, even with most of his
clothes on and the stinking horse blanket spread over his covers. He
kept getting up to feed the fire. The cold didn't seem to bother
Summers that much. Likely he was made of tougher stuff.

They got up at the edge of dawn. The wind had ceased
but not the chill. Higgins hit at the tent where the snow had bellied
it in. The snow slid off, being small-grained, each grain frozen.

Summers was putting on the capote that he had used
over his bed. For all that he wore buckskins mostly, he put on boots,
not moccasins. He yanked the coonskin cap down on his head. They had
come to wearing the things in cold weather, Higgins having dug them
out of a pack while saying, "My old man said, keep your head
warm and your other parts will take care of themselves. He was
half-right sometimes."

Summers said, "I'll see to the horses."

"
Christ, Dick, we'll never find the trail in
this snow."

"
You think I'm a plumb fool?"

"
I ain't never sure about you."

If they weren't sure-enough friends, Higgins thought,
talk like that would sound sore. Higgins answered to Summers' grin.
"Loan me your scattergun, will you?" Summers asked. "Might
see a chipmunk or something to shoot."

"
If you don't, it's empty bellies today."

Summers went out. The horses couldn't be far away,
not from the sound of the bell.

There was more wood to bring in, and another little
item to attend to, like squatting in the snow. Higgins put on his
capote and cap. His boots were stiff, of a mind, the damn things, to
freeze his feet. He poked his hands into heavy gloves, grabbed a rag
and went out.