High Country : A Novel (4 page)

“Maybe you won’t be so loco after awhile.” Ty ran his hand along Cottontail’s back, letting Loco see it didn’t hurt. “You got reasons,” he said. “I know you do.”

He slid between the blankets of the bedroll, folded and laced so you could undo it and air it out. He imagined that was the way Cody Jo did most things, tidy but without much fuss. He couldn’t get her off his mind—her dancing, her laughing, her worries about people losing their homes, drifting with their families in search of what couldn’t be found.

He pictured those people gathered in lamp-lit kitchens, knowing they had to move on but not knowing where, how. It unsettled him: lost homes, families hungry, fathers so beaten they couldn’t stay—took to the rails, disappeared.

He tossed and worried in the bedroll until the song came to him again, the dancing. That was a relief. He was glad to be here at last, liking these people who treated him as if he’d been here always.

Just before he slept the name of the song came to him. He’d looked at the record there on the kitchen table. “It Don’t Mean a Thing,” the label read. The bandleader was Fletcher Henderson.

Ty took the feed bag into the corral, squatted, rattled the barley. Cottontail came closer. He scooped some into his hand, showing her. She nibbled and followed his hand into the nose bag. He waited until she settled before easing it from her, holding it out for Loco, who snorted and danced away. Ty watched him come closer the second time, stretching his neck before his nostrils flared and he slid away again, liking the smell but not the looks of the mysterious bag— the bony boy crouched there holding it.

It took almost an hour to get Loco to nibble barley from his hand, Ty looking away, disassociating himself from the hand, steady and tempting before the big mule. After that it wasn’t long before Loco followed that hand into the feed bag, the sides rolled down now, the grain revealed.

He’d been working at it since he’d stumbled from his bedroll, shivering in the first light. Shoeing the cottontail had gnawed at him. But he knew what to do first, considered it as he stuffed his shirt into his pants and pulled on his boots. He wanted those mules married to the feed bag.

And he knew that getting things right now could save hours later. It was a relief when he got a halter on Loco without roping him. He fed him more barley, tied him there, ran his hands along his neck, talked to him as he looked out across the meadow, watched the early mist give way to sun. He could see the rest now, grazing out there, the Swan Range lifting beyond, its bright ridges sparkling in the early sun.

“See you didn’t have to rope him.” The big voice startled him. “Might depress Buck. He don’t feel warmed up till he’s gone a round or two with a mule.” Fenton was chewing a straw as though he’d been there for an hour. He might have been for all Ty knew.

“Got plans to shoe, you might go light on the romance and heavier on the foot liftin’. That’s still where they tack them things on.” Fenton threw the straw away and started for the house. “Food could help. We got some.”

Jasper Finn hummed as he made pancakes, putting a stack and some bacon on a plate and handing it to Ty. “Eat up, high pockets.” He poured coffee into Ty’s cup. “Them bones might poke a hole in your britches.”

Ty saw Spec was there too.
“Where’s Buck?”
“Off with Cody Jo to get the dudes.”
“Buck’s already forgot about his hand,” Fenton said, sitting down

with them. “Like a pig in a wallow with that Buick car. I’ll fit them saddles before we push everything up to Crippled Elk.” He looked at Ty. “You and Spec shoe the cottontail.” It seemed to Ty that Fenton poured half the syrup bottle on his pancakes. “One way or the other.”

“You watch too,” Spec said. “Ty might get kicked from here to Texas.” Spec poured syrup over a fried egg. “We got them saddles fit perfect last season.”

“What fit Sugar then won’t now. Not after this spring feed. She goes up and down like a balloon. And she ain’t the worst. Just the greediest.”

Lost Bird Canyon,” Spec said. “She was abandon.”
“She wasn’t abandon, goddamn it. Your father may know mountains
but he’s a liability with history. I did what had to be done.” He stood,
ending it. “Still packin’ her ain’t we?”

Ty had sweat through his shirt and his legs were soaked under the shoeing apron, but he had Cottontail’s leg up. If he could keep her quiet through this last shoe, he’d have her ready.

“We still got to pack her,” Spec reminded him. “That won’t be no picnic.” Spec kept taut a cotton rope Ty had tied around Cottontail’s hind leg and thrown over a rafter. She was tied with two halter ropes, one running to the right, the other to the left. With Spec holding her leg she was pretty much immobilized. But Ty wanted her to think things were her idea. Each time she moved against the rope he had Spec loosen it, held her leg himself, pulled it back up when she was ready, motioning to tighten the rope, talking to the mule, starting in again, patient, steady—dripping sweat.

“If you don’t wash away, I believe you’ll outlast her,” Spec said. “Might beat Buck’s system.”
“What would that be?”
“He would go at it more direct.”
“Throw her right off?”
“Or bulldog her. To Buck commotion equals progress.”
“When it cripples him up?”
“That comes with it. If there’s no blood, he’s inclined to think he ain’t done his work.”
Ty clenched off the nails. “Makes your tools slippy.” He motioned to Spec to let the rope out, lowered the leg to the ground himself. He stood, wiping sweat off his face with his hand, drying it on Cottontail. “Doesn’t sound too efficient.”
“Efficiency ain’t Buck’s style.”

The rest of the morning they fitted pack saddles, Fenton pleased to see how quickly the boy saw what needed doing. Most were cross bucks, but there were some Deckers too. Ty moved easily from one task to another, loosening a breeching here, a breast collar there. Adjusting the quarter straps, the latigos.

Jasper brought out a jar of peanut butter and a warm loaf of bread. They sat in the shade drinking Cody Jo’s lemonade and eating, Fenton and Spec considering the personalities of Cottontail and Loco. Ty was back at work first, easing the Decker saddles onto the mules, adjusting the straps.

“Don’t you trust them bastards,” Fenton warned. “They’ll likely go sky high when we pack.”
“Might pack them light the first day,” Ty said. “Ease into things.”
“No such thing as packin’ light on Fenton’s first day.” Spec was up helping Ty now. “He makes promises, but it don’t come to jack shit.”
“If these people don’t bring a trunk load of clothes we might could,” Fenton said. “Though that ain’t likely. They bring everything.” He seemed resigned. “Never see that a mule’s only human.”
“See?” Spec jabbed Ty. “Only crazy bastards pack. Don’t let him talk you into taking over a string. You’ll wind up in a wreck to make you sick.”
Horace and Etta Adams pulled up, a horse trailer behind their pickup. The bed of the truck was filled with bedrolls and dunnage bags. Ty saw some saddles under all the gear.
“Came out to make sure you weren’t working that boy too hard,” Horace said. “And I got some saddles. Cut rate for you.”
“We brought Smoky Girl,” Etta said. “Horace thinks she needs more time with Ty.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Fenton looked at the gear in the truck. “We brought this boy out to pack mules, not to teach Etta’s horse to go fetch.”
Spec went to unload Smoky Girl. She kicked the trailer door as he opened it, scrabbling backward to be free of the trailer before spinning away, Spec barely able to hang on.
“Spunky.” Fenton walked around her. “Ain’t she ridable?”
“Let’s say she’s not the rockin’ horse you advertised,” Horace said. “Even if we could get up on her.”
“Be fine if she got rode each day.” Fenton admired the spooky little mare. “But dudes like to start off on one that has been, not one that needs to be.”
Horace decided to play the rest of his cards. “You can use the saddles for a spell,” Horace said. “No one has money to buy ’em. Might get you over the hump while Smoky’s gettin’ to where she don’t object to Etta so much.”
“Smoky does know trails.” Fenton went over to look at the saddles. “Packed her considerable last season.”
“Told Etta you rode her.”
“Did.” The filly was spinning again, pulling Spec with her. “After she’d been packed some.”
“You mean night and day.”
“I mean not grained up so she thinks she’s hung the moon.”
“Optimistic, ain’t he?” Spec said to Ty, who came over to help.
“Beats bein’ sour all the time.” Ty was already calming Smoky.
“That’s because he’s crazy. Father says he never had a idea he didn’t try.”
“Must be good ones. He’s still here.”
“Like to kill everyone tryin’ them out too.”
“Who’d he kill?”
“Like to,” I said. Don’t you be the first.”
Fenton was looking at the duffle, hoping this was all of it. “Don’t worry. There’s more,” Horace said. “With Buck.”
“Ain’t that the way? Always
more.
” Fenton held a saddle up. “These could help.” He looked at Horace. “We’ll see what we can do with the Smoky horse, wound up as she is.” He started taking the saddles out of the truck. “Might put Ty back on her.”

Spec and Ty hazed them along the trail to Crippled Elk Lake, the horses farting and kicking after all the spring feed. Ty had a hard time holding Smoky in. He was thankful Spec kept crossing in front of him on his big dun.

Smoky had quieted when Ty got her into the corral, Horace and Etta watching and Fenton coming out of the barn with the Meana saddle.
“Truth is,” he said, “Fred Mueller sent me a saddle from Denver. Made for a rancher who died in it. Outlasted him and it’ll outlast me. Try this, Ty. Just don’t pretend it’s yours.” Ty didn’t think Fenton minded if Horace heard him. “Ole Horace’ll have you bareback by sundown.”
“Shit.” Horace looked at Etta. “He’s at it again.”
“You hardly get here before you’re talking just like Fenton. That language isn’t doing Ty any favors.”
“That’s a truth,” Horace said. “Try to do Ty a favor and Fenton grabs it anyway. It’s enough to make your minister swear.”
Ty hardly heard them. He had the Meana on Smoky and was on her before they settled into their argument. He worked her around the corral, stopped her, backed her, moved her right and left, eased her into a low lope.
“Told you, Etta,” Fenton said, watching Ty. “She’s like a lamb. And don’t that rig fit the boy about right?”
“Hell.” Horace pushed Etta back into the pickup. “Let’s go before he has the whole damn feed store.”

Ty tried to keep track of Cottontail and Loco as they scrambled up the trail, but it was hard to keep Smoky calm. He knew it wasn’t doing her much good trailing after skittery horses. She was only partly settled herself. But Fenton wouldn’t have it any other way. Working under a saddle was what she needed, he claimed—the sooner started the better finished.

Ty wasn’t so sure. He liked calm when he worked a horse. But the temptation of getting back in that Meana saddle had been too much for him. And he wanted to see the corrals at Crippled Elk, the mountains. They would start in the morning, and there was still much to know.

The trail finally merged with the road. They saw Fenton’s truck at the corrals, loaded with pack saddles and panniers. Fenton had opened the corral gate and was talking with a worried-looking man in a Forest Service shirt. Smoky wanted to follow the others into the corral, but Ty brought her to the side, stood down to close the gate, surprised to see other horses already there.

“Someone’s horses got away,” Spec said, watching them back away from all the new commotion. “Bet we’re spread out like Cheyenne come dawn.”

“Bob Ring is in there with a broke leg,” Fenton said to them, as if to verify it. “Horses run out on him. His number one man too, looks like.”

“There was no other way to get the horses,” the ranger said, his mouth barely moving as he spoke. “If I can borrow a saddle, I’ll take them back.” He looked exhausted to Ty, his shirt wet with sweat.

“Then we’ll have another goddamned broke leg,” Fenton said. “ Yo u can work with that snow up there, but you can’t fight it. It’ll be mush by now.You’ll drop a horse through sure. We’ll wait till morning.”

“His daughter is alone with him,” the ranger said.
“And he’s lucky to have her. We’ll wait.”
“Shit,” Spec said, disgusted. “There goes our sleep.”

Bernard Strait was dog tired. He’d been so worried about Ring’s leg the night before, he’d hardly rested. That morning he’d moved around their camp in widening circles before he realized the horses had gone up a draw and come high onto the trail, finding sun there as well as the way home.

He hadn’t been far behind, finding their droppings still steaming. But he’d seen them only once, high above, looking down before hurrying on. He’d crossed the switchbacks then, trying to come onto the trail ahead of them, dropping his feed bag and his ropes as he swung himself upward. But when he regained the trail, winded and shirt-torn, they were still ahead. He’d started to run then, running until he could run no more, then walking until he could run again, walking and running until he reached the broad snowfield hugging the pass. He’d jogged over the firm sun pockets to the bench where they’d rolled, where he’d heard them, the faint, insistent bell far below, telling him they were going down. Going out.

He’d thought of turning back, doing what he could with the leg, hoping some packer would find them, pull them out. But he knew what Bob Ring would think of that. And the girl.

“Get them,” Wilma Ring had said, none of the boy-girl sassiness in her voice. “I’ll make him comfortable here.”
“If she doesn’t fuss me to death she will,” Bob Ring had answered, embarrassed and a little worried about Bernard too. “Just track those devils down. I can tell you what to do, even if I’m too damned crippled to help.”

Fenton read it all in the way Bernard looked: the Forest Service hat pulled straight across his brow, his face sweat streaked, his ranger shirt dirty and torn—everything about him exhausted and determined. “You done everything you could, Bernard. Get you some rest. We got work to do come first light.”

He turned to unload the truck. “You know Spec, Bernard. This other one is Ty. He’s new.” He handed a saddle to Bernard. “Keep a light handy. Gets pretty dark before dawn.”