Spirits
of the Dead
By
For the third time in something
less than an hour, Adam Cartwright climbed down from his horse to study the
marks in the ground. For many, the shallow scrapes and faint indentations would
simply have led to confusion; the tracks of cattle and horses went in all
different directions. To a man of Adam’s skill and experience they were an open
book: as easy to read as a nursery school primer. It didn’t take long to
discover what he needed to know.
A powerfully built,
broad shouldered man in sweat-stiffened, dusty black clothes and a two-day
growth of dark beard, he had a handsome, finely chiselled profile under the
grime and a pair of tawny-gold eyes. He straightened up from his crouch and
looked directly at his two brothers.
“They’re still headed
much in the same direction: north and west.”
If Adam was tall, well
built and perfectly proportioned, Hoss Cartwright was constructed on a larger
scale entirely. He was taller, wider and further around the middle. He still
sat in the saddle of his black, Morgan horse, leaning forward on his saddle
horn to take, for a moment at least, some of the weight off the bones of his
butt. His ice-blue eyes narrowed with speculation as he gazed up at the
mountains, still many miles away but towering over them none the less. “Them
fellas must know we’re hot on their tails, Adam. Why ain’t they tryin’ ta cover
up their tracks?”
Adam turned his head and
looked in the same direction. His very white, slightly uneven teeth showed
briefly against his sun-darkened skin as he screwed his face into a squint. “Who
knows how a man like Darrel Jessop thinks? Besides, it’s kind o’ hard to cover
up the tracks of fifty, sixty head of beef.”
Hoss’s expression
remained perplexed. “What for would Jessop want ta drive that bunch o’ critters
up into these hills? There ain’t no folks up here ta speak of – just a few half
breed families scratching a livin' up in the woods, an’ some prospectors still
hangin’ about the old mine workin’s. I don’t see no point in it.”
“I don’t see it myself,”
Adam confessed. “But that’s the way he going.”
“What are we doing
chasin’ after Jessop’s bunch anyway, Adam?” Joe, man-sized but smaller and
slighter than either of his brothers, was the youngest of the Cartwright clan,
the most impatient and the most impetuous, “All they stole from us was a bunch
o’ steers an’ old barren cows. Pa was aimin’ ta give them away anyhow, as
eatin’ beef to the poor folks o’
Adam turned his amber
eyes on his brother and his face became bleak. “The thing is that Jessop stole
those cattle – whether he stole them from us or from someone else doesn’t
matter. If he gets away with it, he’ll do it again, and other men will be more
than prepared to follow his example. He has to go back and stand trial for what
he’s done.”
Hoss harrumphed,
sounding much like his father, and carefully lowered his backside into his
saddle, wincing at the fresh onslaught of pain. “I shore see what you’re
sayin’, Adam, but we chased Jessop clean across three counties an’ up inta
these hills. We’ve put a scare inta him that he ain’t gonna fergit in a hurry.
He ain’t ever likely ta come back ta the Ponderosa ag’in.”
It was on the tip of
Adam’s tongue to retort that if it wasn’t their stock that was rustled it was
bound to be someone else’s, when Joe piped up eagerly. The youngest Cartwright
had sensed an ally. “If we turn back now an’ ride real hard, we c’n still be
home by the end o’ the week.”
Adam’s gaze switched
from one brother’s face to the other. There was Joe with his dusty-brown curls
– overlong, as usual – poking out from under his flat-brimmed hat and his
green-flecked, hazel eyes shining with eagerness out of his still-youthful
face. It was the most enthusiasm he had seen from Joe since the outset of this
expedition. Then there was Hoss, solid and reliable. The big man’s bluff,
rounded features still wore a puzzled expression. While sometimes considered a
little slow, Hoss was by no mean’s stupid; Adam knew that he sometimes took a
while to think things through. He was also often influenced by Joe. Quicker and
lighter on his mental feet, Adam figured he knew what conclusion the big man
would reach. He was about to find himself in a minority of one.
He wasn’t about to hold
a vote on the matter. He was the eldest, and he was the one in charge. He
picked up the trailing reins of his white-faced sorrel gelding and lifted
himself back into the saddle. He lowered himself with care – Hoss wasn’t the
only one who suffered. “I know you two want to be back in time for the dance on
Saturday night,” he said patiently. “It doesn’t look like we’re going to make
it, and I’m sorry about that, but we have to get our business with Jessop
finished first or we’re going to find ourselves the target of every cattle
thief this side of the Rocky Mountains.” He kept his eyes fixed on the distant
mountains, well aware of the long and meaningful looks that his brothers
exchanged behind his back.
He heard Hoss heave a
mighty sigh. “Okay, Adam, you lead the way.” The reluctance was plain in his
bigger, younger brother’s voice, and he knew that the pair of them were not
very far from open rebellion. If they didn’t catch up with Jessop and his boys
and that bunch of stolen steers within the next twenty-four hours, this eldest
Cartwright son was as likely as not to find himself with a sibling mutiny on
his hands.
And now there was
another problem coming to plague him. The clouds of a late spring storm were
boiling up on the sides of the mountains. Adam couldn’t be sure, but they
looked as if they were coming in his direction. Heavy rain or a snowstorm would
slow him down, soak him, his brothers and their horses right through to the
skin and wash out all signs of the men and the cattle they were following. If
that happened, he might as well let his brothers have their way, give up and go
home.
Hoss had also seen the
gathering storm clouds, and he knew the implications just as well as Adam. “You
know these hills a whole lot better ‘n I do; reckon you better start thinkin’
o’ somewhere ta run for cover afore that soaker hits us.”
Adam thought about it.
For sure, things were turning against him. He reined his horse around,
reluctantly turning away from Jessop’s trail. “I know a place where we can hole
up until the storm blows over, but it’ll be almost dark before we get there.”
“An’ then what are we
going to do? With the trail all washed out, we’ll never find Jessop in these
hills.” Joe, with his usual mental dexterity and his occasional lack of tact,
had put his finger right on the point of the problem.
All of a sudden, Adam felt
very tired. “I know that Joe. I don’t see any help for it. If we can’t pick up
the trail in the morning, then we’ll have to decide what to do.” Without
waiting for the almost inevitable argument, he kicked his horse into as fast a
pace as the land would safely allow and headed for the higher ground. Hoss knew
his big brother’s mood and followed behind without any further dissension. The
big man respected his elder brother and trusted his judgement. Joe trailed at
the back. Adam knew that his youngest brother had his heart still set on the
Saturday dance – the first shindig of the season – and was calculating how hard
he could push his pinto pony to get him home in time.
The landscape, up here
in the hills, was wild and very beautiful. There were high alpine meadows
already fresh with spring grass, dotted with dark clumps of live oak and single
sentinel trees and cut through by with tumbling cascades of water and
swift-flowing, crystal clear streams. The meadows were interspersed with dense,
hushed woodlands of sycamore and larch, beech, maple and lime with black-leafed
holly, fir and pine in the higher reaches and willow and poplar at the water’s
edge. Blue-green forests carpeted the foothills, made hazy by distance. Rank on
rank, each hill was higher and further away, greyer and more indistinct as the
mist and the storm clouds gathered. The harsh, rocky peaks were still covered
with the winter’s snowfall; feathery plumes flew from the crests. Shining
bright in the afternoon sunshine, the mountains stood, unapproachable and
proud, against the hazy blue backdrop of the sky. It was easy to see why the
most ancient Indian tribes considered the distant high places the abode of
their gods.
It was rough country for
men on horseback: a vast, trackless land. What trails they discovered were no
more than vagrant deer paths, alarmingly steep and meandering back and forth
with no clear sense of direction. The horses had to pick their way over broken
and stony ground. Although it was years since he had ridden these hills – on a
hunting trip with his father – Adam had a good idea of where he was going and
set a fast pace. His brothers strung out behind him.
The elder Cartwright son
kept one anxious eye on the approaching storm front, working out times and
distances inside his head as he rode. As the afternoon progressed into evening
and the sky turned to tarnished gold, he watched as each range of hills was
absorbed and swallowed, in turn, by the lowering cloud base. They were in a
race against time. They needed to reach the place of shelter that he had in
mind before the storm broke over them.
For an endless hour, the
world held its breath. Adam drove the horses as fast as he dared. In the last,
fading light of the afternoon, he discovered the path he remembered at the place
where it mounted the shoulder of a rounded hill and plunged down the other
side. As he pulled up his horse for a well-earned blow and to wait for his
brothers to come alongside, the first of the storm hit him full in the face.
Despite the sunshine, it had grown colder. Now, a chill wind blew down from the
flanks of the mountains carrying with it a mixture of rain and soft,
half-melted snow.
Hoss pulled the black
Morgan to a heaving standstill beside him. The massive horse was sweating in spite
of the bitter rain. Adam gestured to the narrow, rocky pathway; “This is where
we have to go careful,” he shouted above the rising moan of the wind. “This
trail’s steep and loose underfoot.”
Hoss leaned out of the
saddle and peered into the gathering gloom. He wasn’t certain that he liked
what he saw. “Hey, Adam, are you sure that this is a real’ good idea?”
Adam gave him a baleful
stare; “Unless you’ve got a better one.”
Hoss took a long look
around at the open hillside, now half obscured by the driving, sleety rain.
There wasn’t so much as a rock to give a man shelter. Adam didn’t wait for his
brother’s reply. He touched his spurred heels lightly to the reluctant, red
gelding’s flanks and started him down the pathway.
The trail angled sharply
downwards into a hidden, hanging valley. It was a sheltered spot all right,
secret, isolated and long forgotten, half choked with timber and brush at this
upper end. As the horsemen dropped over the edge, one by one, the wind became
hushed, although the icy rain continued to fall on their backs. It trickled
down their collars in spite of their hats, got inside their coats to soak
through their shirts and drenched the legs of their pants.
As Adam had warned, the
trail became treacherous. It was narrow, just wide enough for one horse to pass
at a time, and it clung to the valley’s steep side; it was littered with loose
soil and stones and now it was slick with slippery mud. It would be all too
easy for the sorrel to lose his footing and fall. Adam sat lightly and very
still, leaning way back in the saddle as he tried to balance the horse.
Joe and Hoss were
holding a conversation, shouting back and forth to make themselves heard above
the wind. Riding in front, Adam only caught snatches of their talk; they appeared
to be discussing food and planning the banquet they would have when they got
back to the house. Adam felt a sharp jab of irritation. The younger men had
butterfly minds, unable to settle for long on any one topic, always flitting
away to something else. Their lack of concentration was a failing he had
noticed before. Usually he viewed it with equanimity and some wry amusement;
today, it was getting under his skin.
He let the horse pick
its own way to the bottom, slithering the last few slippery feet. His brothers
were some way behind him, and he sat and waited for them to catch up.
The younger Cartwrights
had reached the dessert stage of their planning by the time they arrived at the
bottom of the hill and were arguing cheerfully back and forth the relative
merits of thick cut, dried apple slices deep fried in batter and dredged with
powered sugar, and deep pan cherry pie with a thick, crunchy crust. Adam
stifled a sigh of exasperation; there were times when he despaired of these two
ever growing up.
Their chatter came to a
halt as they came up alongside him and took their first good look around at the
valley floor. By now, the light was fading fast, and the rain made the looking
difficult, but still there were things to be seen. The land had been much modified
by the hand of man. At some point in the past the earth had been excavated and
thrown up into uneven mounds, now much slumped back into the landscape and
overgrown with bushes and grass. Even in the midst of the storm they maintained
a brooding air of timelessness. The trunks and branches of the trees, still
leafless, were twisted and dark; they glistened wetly, and the wind had fallen
away to a whisper.
Joe’s head turned in a
full circle on the stalk of his neck. His eyes came to settle on Adam. “What is
this place, big brother?” From the look on his face, Adam had the feeling that
he’d already half guessed the answer.
Adam shifted himself in
the saddle. He avoided looking Joe straight in the eye. His face was very wet
from the rain, and his expression somewhat uneasy. “I guess you could call it a
cemetery, Joe: a place where people buried their dead a long time ago.” Some
said it was an ancient Indian race who had raised these ancient mounds and dug
the pits underneath them; some said they were something stranger. For the sake
of his brother’s peace of mind, Adam decided not to elaborate.
Hoss screwed up his face
in concern. “You mean there’s dead folks all around here?”
Adam gritted his teeth.
“I suppose you could look at it that way, but this place hasn’t been used in
more than a hundred years. They’re all rotted away” If he had designed that
statement to make his brother’s feel any easier, he failed miserably
The blood had drained
out of Joe Cartwright’s face. “I ain’t spendin’ the night with a whole lot of
dead men!”
Now Adam did sigh, deep
and hard. He was getting very tired of sitting there in the rain. “You’ve seen
dead men before, Joe: lots of them. They’re not going to do you any harm.”
“That isn’t the point!”
Joe’s voice had risen half an octave. “You should have told us where you were
bringing us – given us a choice!” Joe would rather have spent the night out in
the open in the wind and the rain than in a gloomy, half forgotten burial
ground. He looked to Hoss for support and found that, this time, he was all on
his own.
Hoss was wet, cold and
bedraggled, and after all that talk about food, his belly was starting to
rumble. It was a long time since lunch, and that had been a hard-tack biscuit
and a strip of dried beef, eaten while still in the saddle. His face was set in
a scowl. “I ain’t gonna sit here an’ listen ta you two argue it back an’ forth.
I’m gonna find me somewhere ta git out o’ this all-fired wet!” He nudged the
Morgan hard in the ribs and rode on up the valley, finding his way in the
almost-dark. Adam fell in behind him willingly enough, and Joe, reluctantly,
brought up the rear.
Hoss found a spot in a
stand of dogwoods so dense and tangled inside that it was almost dry. Adam
gathered up an armful of kindling and some larger sticks of wood and struck a
fire with a dry match out of his pack. The timber hissed and fizzled a bit, but
eventually he got a good blaze going. While Joe and Hoss tended to the horses,
he prepared supper.
A natural ability and
years of practice had turned him into a creditable trail cook, but there is
only so much a man can do with bacon and beans. Along with his brother’s
enthusiasm and Adam’s own temper, their supplies were running low. It was one
more reason to think about turning back.
Joe unsaddled the pinto
and rubbed his wet hide with handfuls of dry, crumbling leaves, wiping off the
residue with a scrap of old cloth from his saddlebag. Joe was very much out of
sorts. His mood, not good at the start of the day, had taken a turn for the
worse. He didn’t want to be in this godforsaken place, and he was mad at Adam
for bringing him! He hated this dark, gloomy valley. The silent mounds and the
skeletal trees bothered his soul in a fundamental way that he couldn’t explain.
The age of the place lay like a weight on his back. The gusts of fine rain that
drifted in through the trees were the breaths of dead men, cold on his neck. He
hadn’t wanted to come of this trip in the first place. His father, preaching
responsibility, had insisted. Joe was angry at being shanghaied by his brother,
sulky and, if he could be forced to admit it, distinctly uncomfortable. He kept
looking over his shoulder.
Hoss observed him with
an air of puzzled amusement. In the end, he couldn’t resist a remark; “What’s
eatin’ at you, Joe?”
Joe cast a quick glance
in Adam’s direction. ‘Big brother’ was well out of earshot, engrossed in
tending his fire and his cookery. Joe leaned over the bow of the pinto’s back.
“What for did Adam want to bring us to a place like this – with dead men all
around?”
“Heck, Joe,” Hoss
chuckled, “We told you, there ain’t no dead men here no more: just a few old
moulderin’ bones.”
Joe’s face showed only
too clearly what he thought about that. Hoss was prepared to poke a little fun
at his brother. “Joe, you ain’t afraid o’ no spooks, are you?”
“Heck no!” Joe scoffed
at once at the very idea. Then he sobered abruptly. Once he had heard ghostly
music and thought he had seen… But that had only been a bump on the head. “Not
much, anyway.”
Hoss hooted and slapped
him hard on the shoulder. “There ain’t nothin’ ta be afraid of, little brother.
Spooks ain’t never hurt anyone. No one that’s come back ta tell about it,
anyhow.”
Joe staggered beneath
the friendly force of the blow. Hoss turned back to tending his big Morgan
horse. Joe finished with the pinto. He muttered sulkily, just loud enough for
his brother to hear, “Adam done it on purpose. If we’d headed the other way, we
would have been on out way home by now. He just done this out o’ spite so that
I can’t go to that dance in town.” Joe paused and thought for a moment about
what he’d be missing: the music and laughter, the girls in their pretty bright
dresses, a stolen kiss or two. With luck, there’d be three or four lovely
ladies to choose from. He heaved a sigh.
Hoss cocked an eyebrow
in his direction. “I know fer a fact that ain’t so.”
“How can you know?” Joe
remained churlish and sullen.
Hoss moved closer to start
working on Adam’s horse. He lowered his voice; “Well, if you listen here, Joe,
I’ll tell you a secret.”
Joe pulled a wry face.
“What secret?”
Now it was Hoss’s turn
to look guiltily in Adam’s direction. “I know that Adam wanted ta go ta that
shindig in town just as much as you do.”
Joe thought about it a
while. Adam sure liked to squire the ladies – to the theatre, a concert or a
sedate summer picnic. He was quite a man about town. When it came to parties,
he tended to spend much of his time at the punch bowl. Joe’s curiosity got the
better of him. “How’d you figure that out?”
Hoss looked almighty
pleased with himself. “Well, I’ll tell you.” He dropped his voice still more so
that it was no more than a whisper muffled by the horse’s flank. “You know that
li’l Millie Fisher what’s new in town?”
“Sure, I seen her.”
Joe’s face lit up at the thought. He’d tipped his hat to Millie Fisher once of
twice, and she’d smiled back. She was small with reddish hair and green eyes in
a pretty face with a scatter of pale freckles spread over her nose. “Her Pa
just bought out old Abe Water’s general store.”
“That’s the gal.” Hoss
nodded sagely. “Well, that Millie Fisher’s bin twinklin’ her eyes at our
brother Adam. I reckon he thought his luck might be in.” He favoured Joe with a
hearty wink.
“Adam an’ Millie
Fisher?” Joe’s voice rose to a squeak.
“Hush up!” Hoss sneaked
another peek ‘round the sorrel’s muscular rump. “He told me so his own self.
Asked me ta cover for him at breakfast iffen he wasn’t back by mornin’”
Joe forgot his
resentment and did his best to stifle a giggle. The thought of Adam and Millie
Fisher was – well – absurd! She was bright and lively and full of fun. She was
young! While Adam could turn a pretty step on the dance floor and sing a pleasant
song, he was so much older and positively bookish. No wonder he’d seemed kind
of smug the last time they’d been in town.
Adam called them to
supper. “Now you hush up, Joe,” Hoss hissed. “Don’t let on that I told ya. No
one’s supposed ta know.”
Joe could imagine why.
He had been known to tease his brother unmercifully on previous occasions when
he was courting a girl, and sometimes vice-versa. Joe did his best to wipe the
grin off his face.
The bacon was crisply
fried and full of salty flavour. The beans – well, there’s not a whole lot you
can do with beans except burn them, and Adam had been careful not to do that.
The three Cartwright men, still damp in their clothes, sat close to the fire to
eat, steaming gently. Their faces glowed in the firelight. They were all
hungry, and, for a while, they ate in silence.
Beyond their small
enclave of relative calm, the wind groaned and sighed in the trees. The clouds
scudded by at a high rate of speed. Now and again a heavier burst of raindrops rattled
against twisted, bare-barked branches. A little of it found its way to the
ground underneath as a fine, cold spray: just enough wet to make the three men
uncomfortable. Adam fed more sticks to the fire and watched the sparks catch.
It wasn’t only the theft of the cattle that made him so angry; it was the
thought of a man like Jessop getting the better of him. Adam didn’t like to
think ill of any man, but there was no way that he and his brothers could catch
up with their stolen cows now, and it looked like the foul-breathed, wall-eyed
old buzzard was going to get away with it. It was enough to make a man spit!
Despite his perchant for
music and books, Adam was a hard and practical man. The elements had conspired
against him, and he knew when he was beaten. What he was least looking forward
to was going home and confessing to his father that he had failed. He heaved a
great sigh and looked from one brother’s face to the other. “Jessop must be
twenty miles ahead of us by now. With their tracks washed out by this storm,
we’ll never pick up their trail. We might as well head for home in the
morning.”
Joe’s face split into a
grin for the first time that day, and even Hoss cracked a smile. “Now you’re
talkin’, big brother!” In his mind, the big man could see his imagined meal
turning into delicious reality. It made the last of the cooling beans taste a
whole lot better.
Even Joe felt more
amiable towards his brother. He figured, if they rode straight down out of
these hills and drove the horses hard, they might just have the time for a bath
and a fresh change of clothes and a couple of beers in Virginia City before the
dance on Saturday night – they would soon see who the ladies preferred! Then
his face fell as he remembered that he still had to spend the night in this
valley with its shadows and unquiet spirits.
Adam stretched his arms
and his upper body and yawned. It felt so good to get off the horse for a
while, and after a long day in the saddle, he was almighty tired. Now he had
made the decision that had dogged his steps since morning, he was much more
relaxed. He caught Joe’s anxious eye. “What is it, little brother?”
Joe shifted
uncomfortably and gritted his teeth. He was more than a little reluctant to
admit to what bothered him. He knew that his brothers would laugh at him all
over again. “Adam, don’t you reckon one of us should sit watch tonight?”
As expected, Hoss
guffawed and Adam smiled, although not unkindly. “What are you expecting, Joe?
Someone to tap you on the shoulder?”
Joe shivered at the
thought of it. “I just figured…”
“You don’t still believe
that talk about ghosts, do you? I thought you’d grown out of all that.”
“Ghosts? Heck, no!” Joe
swallowed down his nervousness and plastered a cocky grin to the front of his
face. “I just don’t want Jessop an’ his boys ta come sneakin’ up an’ get the
drop on us, that’s all.”
Hoss and Adam had spread
out their blankets and were preparing to lie down and sleep. “I don’t think you
need worry about that,” Adam assured him, easing himself out straight.
“Jessop’s a long way from here.”
Still chuckling at Joe’s
obvious discomfort, Hoss said, “C’mon Joe. There ain’t no one gonna bother us
t’night. Pick out a dry spot an’ settle down fer some shut eye.”
Joe pulled a sour face.
“Now you sound just like Pa!”
That made both brothers
laugh. They had pulled off their boots and now wrapped themselves in their
bedding. Adam tossed and turned for a bit, getting himself settled around the
lumps and bumps in the ground, but it wasn’t long before his breathing slowed
and steadied and he became still. Hoss started to snore. Still feeling uneasy
and just a little resentful at the way his brothers were able to relax, Joe sat
on his bedroll and watched while they slept. The night closed in around them.
He listened to the low
moan of the wind and gazed at the dripping trees. The unsteady firelight gave
them movement and an uncanny appearance of life. He suppressed a shudder. He
threw some more wood on the fire to drive back the shadows and drew his long
gun closer to hand. He guessed he just had the jitters. One thing was certain,
he wasn’t about to let him imagination run away with him and turn him into an
utter fool.
He felt so tired. His
eyes were full of grit. Perhaps if he laid down for a bit… Just so long as he
didn’t go to sleep… The thought of the smile on his big brother’s face made him
even more determined.
*******
A
whole lot closer than Adam imagined, Darrel Jessop lifted his eyes towards
heaven and watched the clouds scudding by. Blue eyes, they were. One was as
bright as the sky on a summer’s morning; the other had a milky-white hue. The
sleety rain fell in his upturned face. Jessop open his mouth in a smile that
revealed the long, green fangs of his teeth, and the rain ran inside.
“Don’t know what you’re
danged well grinnin’ at Jessop.” Huddled in his colourless blanket, Billy ‘Rat
Face’ Bryant sat over a forlornly small fire. “When we stole them cows, you
di’n’t say nothin’ ‘bout us sittin’ half-way up a mountain in the snow an’ the
rain. By now, we should o’ sold off them steers as eatin’ beef ta farmers an’
miners, just like you said. We should be half-way ta
Jessop scowled at him.
Billy Bryant was very well named. His face was pale and pointed and very thin,
his eyes small and beady; his long black hair was plastered wetly against his
cheekbones. “You’ll get your money.” Jessop crouched down and reached for the
coffee pot, draining the last of the thick, black brew into a battered tin cup.
“How was I ta know ol’ Ben Cartwright would sick them three boys o’ his on us –
or that they’d stay glued ta our trail?”
Bryant rolled his black
eyes at the nearby fringe of the mounds. “I don’t like it here with all these
dead Injuns around.” The cold rain dripped from his long, narrow nose, and he
wiped at it with his sleeve.
Laughing harshly, Jessop
sneered; “You thinkin’ them Injuns might jist come clawing up out o’ the ground
at ya?”
Bryant pouted. “I just
don’t like it. An’ then steers don’t like it neither. Jist listen ta them
bawlin’.”
Jessop chewed on his
lip. His walleye shone in the dark. “I reckon this rain’ll let up in an hour.”
The small herd of sixty odd steers was tucked up tight into the mouth of the
valley. They were milling about and bawling their fool heads off. They didn’t
like the cold rain on their backs. Jessop felt a glow of contentment; from his
point of view, the rain was a blessing. The storm had washed away every trace
of the cattle’s tracks. He swallowed his coffee. “All we have to do is sit
tight and wait until them Cartwright boys git tired o’ chasin’ their tails all
over these hills an’ go on home ta their Papa.”
“Don’t like runnin’ foul
o’ the Cartwrights,” Bryant muttered darkly. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“’N I don’t like messin’ wi’ no Injun graves, neither.”
Jessop fixed him with
his bright blue eye. “You don’t have ta worry none about the Cartwrights.
Reckon they’re a long way from here. Now iffen you ain’t got nothing to do but
jaw, why don’t you go help Miller wi’ them steers?”
Sniffing, Billy Bryant
climbed into wet leather and rode away towards the herd. Jessop watched him go
with a smile on his ugly face. He held out his hands to the small warmth of the
fire. Jessop was nothing if not a gambling man, and it seemed, this time, that
lady luck was looking in his direction.
*******
A drop of cold water fell
into Joe Cartwright’s face. There is nothing better designed by the hand of the
Almighty to wake a man up, and it had its intended effect. Joe swam up from the
deep-blue depths of his dreams and burst with a splutter onto the surface of
awareness. Another fat drop fell from the branch and landed squarely on the top
of his head – just to forestall any tendency he might have had to drop back to
sleep. Joe sat up with a curse and shook the droplets of wet out of his hair.
Both of his brothers
were sleeping. Adam was huddled up in his blanket, his face obscured by its
folds; Hoss was flat on his back and snoring loudly. It was the only sound that
Joe heard. The storm had moved on, drifting out over the hills towards the
eastern desert. The wind had dropped away into silence and rain had stopped
entirely; as the night became warmer the valley had filled up with mist.
Joe felt a strong call
of nature. Often, when he woke up in the middle of the night, there was an ache
low down in his belly, and his bladder demanded attention. He built up the
fire, piling dry wood onto the glowing embers, then stomped off into the trees
to find an inviting spot. Neither brother stirred in his slumber.
As they were only
staying one night, they hadn’t bothered to dig a latrine. Joe found an inviting
tree trunk and did what he had to, taking his time. He didn’t need to keep his
mind on what he was doing. Instead, he let his thoughts wander. He planned what
he would wear to the annual spring ball and which of the girls he would dance
with. Heck, he might even offer his arm to Millie Fisher! He and Adam had a
sort of unofficial understanding: they didn’t poach one another’s girl – but
Joe didn’t see the harm in offering the lady a choice. A dimple played in his
chin and his grin became impish. He could envision the fury on his big
brother’s face. Much more comfortable and a good deal more content, Joe
buttoned his fly and hitched up the belt of his pants.
The fog had thickened
while he’d been engaged. Wraith like, it drifted in among the trees, first
obscuring, then revealing trunks and low hanging branches. Joe had lost sight
of the campfire. He wasn’t concerned. He had an excellent sense of direction,
and he started back the way he had come.
Somehow though, he got
turned around. The trees closed in all about him and opened up before; the
ground became spongy underfoot. Joe slowed to a stop. He guessed he had missed
the path and walked right by the camp in the dark and the fog. He turned to his
left and walked some more. The trees became sparser. That wasn’t right. They’d
stopped for the night in a dense thicket. Perhaps if he went back the other
way. Joe turned around and tried it. He caught a whiff of wood smoke, faint and
diffuse. A little more to the right, he decided.
A mound loomed out of
the mist. This certainly wasn’t the way he remembered. Joe turned around in a
circle. He hauled in a breath. He could guess what his brothers would say when
they found out he’d got lost in the in the fog: the torment and the teasing
that he’d have to go through. It would take him half of eternity to live the
embarrassment down. But there was nothing else for it; he would have to fire a
shot to wake them up and let them know he was in some sort of trouble. Before
long, one of them would come and get him – laughing, no doubt. The very idea
stuck like a bone in his craw.
He reached for his ivory
handled pistol, only to find that he had left it behind at the campsite,
together with his gunbelt and holster. Now really annoyed with himself, he supposed
he’d have to do it the old fashioned way. He cupped his hands around his mouth
and bellowed as loud as he was able. “Adam! Hoss! Adam!” He turned around and
tried it the other way. “Adam! Hoss!” His voice sounded small, and his shout
fell flat, swallowed up by the damp, dark air. Joe filled up his lungs and
tried again, longer and louder. The effect was much the same. He doubted his
voice could be heard as more than a whimper a dozen yards away.
Joe wiped a hand over
his mouth and looked in either direction. On one side were the trees, thinly
spread and unfamiliar, not the dense woodland that he remembered; on the other
side was the mound. He knew he hadn’t come that
way. He turned to the trees and took several steps in that direction.
Hopefully, he would soon locate the vague path that Hoss had followed and that
would lead him back to the fire.
The trees thinned again
and Joe found himself confronted by two more mounds, one with its end peeking
out from behind the other. They loomed in the mist, dark with menace. Joe
started to worry – just a bit. His heart began to beat faster. He stood quite
still while the fog swirled about him and tried to think calmly. It was clear
that he had come much too far towards the bottom end of the valley, perhaps
half a mile. In his mind, he tried to retrace the twists and the turns he had
taken. He couldn’t recall them all, but he thought he could figure the general
direction that he ought to go in to bring him back to his brothers. It seemed
to him that he should be on the higher ground. That way led him right by the
mounds. Joe stopped feeling foolish and began to feel scared.
Joe didn’t want to go
near the mounds. He didn’t want anything to do with the places where dead
people lay even if they had been there a very long time and there probably
wasn’t much left of them. He wasn’t exactly afraid of ghosts – after all, as
Hoss had said, he’d never heard of one hurting anybody – but he didn’t much
want to meet up with one. He wasn’t even certain that he believed they existed,
although there had been that matter of the harpsichord that played all by
itself and a glimpse of gold in a darkened cellar*. He didn’t want to find out
for sure. On the other hand, he didn’t relish the idea of making a detour
around the burial site; that would take him a long way out of his way and he
didn’t want to become any more lost than he was now. He screwed up his face and
sighed. There was no help for it. He set out again, this time – with reluctance
– towards the mounds.
The ground was soft and
uneven and covered in short, thorny scrub and a wiry selection of grasses,
Walking across it in high-heeled riding boots was anything but a pleasure. And
it was dark. Joe stumbled often. The mist was cold on his face. He passed by
the first mound and approached the second without incident. He started to grow
in confidence. Adam was right after all: of course there were no such things as
ghosts. At least, not here – not now; how could he ever have thought it! Joe
put a cocky grin on his face and put his best foot forward. It wouldn’t be long
now before he was back by the fire, wrapped cosily up in his blanket.
Something groaned at him
out of the dark. Joe stopped still in mid-stride. The breath froze in his
throat and he listened. The silence extended. Joe’s nerves stretched tight. He
took a careful step backwards.
The sound came again: a
long, low moan, and something large moved in the mist. Joe stepped back again
rapidly. His heel turned under him. He tripped over a big lump of earth and
fell over backward. He sat down hard on his butt and the ground collapsed under
him. The next thing he knew, he was falling.
The ancient tombs had
once been much grander affairs, thrown up to honour the dead by a long vanished
and forgotten people from a distant and foreign land. Neglect and the passage
of time had taken their toll, but the builders had done their work well and,
despite their outward appearance, some inner structure remained. Quite by
accident Joe had discovered a weak spot. He yelped as the hole opened under
him, and he dropped a very long way. He landed flat on his back on a pile of
soft earth with all the breath driven out of him.
It was very, very dark,
and the silence was that of the grave. It smelled of rich, wet earth and
mouldering vegetation. There was no trace of death or decay. Joe sat up and
checked himself over. He counted his fingers and toes. Everything worked and
nothing was broken. He did feel a bit shaky and strange. Gradually, his eyes
adjusted to the lower light level. He gazed about him, and all he could see was
the dark. He lifted his head and looked upwards. He had fallen even further
than he had thought. The opening he had slipped through was a long way above
his head, a faint, pale patch. No light spilled in through the gap. He wondered
if even Adam had realised that some of these mounds had spaces inside.
It soon became apparent
that no man, either living or dead, was ever meant to climb out.
The harder Joe scrambled
towards that opening, the more stones and loose soil fell down on his head. He
slipped, and he slithered, and he kept sliding back to where he’d begun. In the
end he tried shouting for help. The depths of the earth swallowed up the sound
of his voice. He guessed he would just have to sit and wait for his brothers to
come and find him and haul him out.
He put out his hands to
investigate the space around him. More than a hole, it seemed to be some sort
of chamber. Then he put his hand into something slimy and cold. He let out a
yell. He didn’t want to know what it was. He didn’t explore any further.
He made himself a seat
on the pile of loose stones and sat down to wait. He wasn’t in any immediate
danger, but it was cold, dark and damp, and he didn’t much like it. His
imagination began to run wild. He began to think about all the ghost stories he
had heard of a child. Magical, mystical fables his French-born mother had told
him of her one-time home in far away New Orleans, creepy bedtime tales of
spectres and unquiet spirits he had heard from his brothers, designed to make a
boy shiver with delicious fear, the more sinister stories of haunted mines and
ghostly wagon trains crossing the prairies, told in saloons at the midnight
hour by men who had drunk too much and didn’t dare drink any less. They were
the stories to make a man shudder and fear to go out at night. Joe’s skin
became clammy, and the little hairs rose on his neck.
It was then that the
whispering began: a soft sigh of sound that came from somewhere behind him. Joe
gritted his teeth and turned his head slowly as he tried to find the source of
the sound. In the faint grey light that filtered down from the opening he could
see nothing but vague, amorphous shapes that turned out to be rocks and odd
clods of earth on closer examination. The whispering went on; Joe was sure it
was people talking, there were times when he could hear individual voices; he
could almost make out the words. One thing was for sure they were sounds not
created by any earthly throat.
Joe shuddered and
started to shake. Something chill and damp touched the side of his face: a dead
man’s fingers for sure. Joe jumped around with a startled cry, but there was
nobody there. Someone breathed an icy cold breath onto the back of his neck.
Joe backed up to the crumbling earthen wall. The mist from the world above slid
down through the opening and melted away into the warmer air below ground.
It seemed that he waited
for a very long time; at least an hour ticked by into silence. Joe got very
cold, and soon he was shivering. The damp soaked in through the seat of his
pants, and the chill seeped into his bones. The little hairs stood up on the
back of his neck. His legs first stiffened, and then they went numb. He
wondered if he’d be able to dance on Saturday night – or, indeed, ever!
Vigorously, he rubbed at the ache in his thighs.
As the night wore on,
the dark became deeper and the silence, more intense. Joe began to wonder if it
would ever come to an end. Would his brothers never wake up and discover that he
was missing? Perhaps they had already awakened and searched for him in vain. It
wouldn’t be easy to find one man in a hole in the ground in a fog filled
valley. Perhaps they would give up in despair and make their way home to their
father with a sad tale of their brother’s disappearance and loss. Then fancy
turned into nightmare. Would his brothers bother to look for him at all? Was it
his fate to die in some other man’s tomb and become a restless spirit haunting
this hidden valley forever? He didn’t really believe it, but all of a sudden
Joe Cartwright started to feel very sorry for himself.
The sound of a voice
calling his name jerked him wide awake. He hadn’t realized he’d dozed. It was a
voice he knew well and loved dearly, and it was very close at hand. Joe was
very glad to hear it. He cried out as loud as he could, although his voice came
out as a squeak. “Hoss! Hoss! I’m here!”
There was a long,
pregnant pause while the night held its breath. Joe could imagine the look of
bemusement on his brother’s bluff face as he tried to make out how he was
calling him from somewhere under his feet. Joe shouted again, panic starting to
grow in case the big man didn’t hear him. “Hoss! I’m here! Down in the ground!”
“Joe?” Hoss called back
to him uncertainly. “You ‘round here someplace? I c’n hear you but I can’t see
where you’re at.”
Joe couldn’t think of
anything more welcome than the sound of his brother’s voice. “I’m down here in
a hole in the ground!” There was another period of silence that went on for a
while. At least the whispering had faded away; Joe was alone with the sound of
his breathing and the rapid beat of his heart. Then the pale patch of light was
obscured as his brother’s head appeared in the opening.
“What you doin’ down
there?”
Joe couldn’t help
grinning. You could always trust Hoss to ask a ridiculous question. “I’m
pickin’ daisies, what d’you think?”
“Huh?” Hoss answered,
predictably.
“I went for a walk in
the fog and fell down this hole. Can you get me out of here?”
The head vanished again
and he could hear Hoss huffing and puffing and moving about. More stones and
earth fell down from the opening. Then, “I reckon I can, but I gotta tread real
careful. The footin’ up here ain’t none too good. Iffen I fall down there with
you we’ll both have ta wait until Adam comes along an’ hauls us out.”
For one stricken moment,
Joe imagined the smirk on his big brothers face. “You be real’ careful up
there!”
Hoss lay down on the
ground and threaded his arm and his shoulder down through the hole. “Now, you
stretch up, little brother, see if you can grab a-hold o’ my hand.”
Joe reached up as far as
he could. He could barely touch Hoss’s fingers. “I’m gonna have ta jump for it,
Hoss. You ready?”
Hoss hissed down at him,
his voice loaded with desperate impatience; “I’m as ready as I’m ever gonna be,
Joe. Get on with it, will ya? This ground’s givin’ way an’ I’m getting’
soaked!”
Joe knew just how he
felt. “Ready or not!” he shouted, and leapt from a standing start. He grabbed
Hoss’s massive forearm with both hands and felt powerful fingers close on his
wrist in a bone-breaking grip. Hoss lifted him bodily, legs dangling and
kicking, until he could get his arms and his ribcage over the edge of the hole.
He would swear that, as he leapt for freedom, a bony hand clutched at his leg.
Joe yelped and wrenched himself free, felt something tear and something jerk
loose. He wriggled and squirmed until he got his knees on the ground, then
crawled away crabwise just as fast as he could. He could hear the soil falling
into the hole and didn’t want to go back down there with it.
Hoss had already beaten
a hasty retreat, He waited at the foot of the mound so that he stood on safer,
firmer ground and watched Joe’s antics with an expression of perplexed amusement.
“You sure you’re alright?” he asked with a chuckle.
Joe supposed he must
look a picture. From head to foot he was thickly plastered in rich, brown mud
and a variety of other substances he tried not to identify. His brown curls
were caked in it, and there were small scrapes on his hands and his face that
were just oozing blood. The leg of his pants had been torn. Even without a mirror, he could tell that he
looked anything but the handsome, debonair young man that the attractive young
ladies of
“Aw, when I left him he
was still fast asleep. Di’n’t figure there was no point in wakin’ him up.”
Joe appreciated his
brother’s thoughtfulness. He didn’t much relish the prospect of facing Adam’s
scorn; his big brother’s tongue was clever and often caustic. Then he looked
down at himself and realized that, short of finding a bathhouse and a Chinese
laundry, he couldn’t avoid it. Adam couldn’t help but notice the state of his
clothes.
With this grim
realisation, a sound came at them out of the dark. It was the same deep
groaning that had scared Joe before. His eyes became round. Hoss turned his
head “Hey, what’s that?”
Joe listened. His
breathing quickened in anticipation. The moan came again, a long, low wheeze of
complaint. “It – it sounds like a ghost!”
Hoss put his big head on
one side. Then he laughed; “That ain’t no ghost, Joe. That ain’t nothin’ but
an’ ol’ cow coughin’!”
Both of them watched as,
a moment later, a brown and white cow came lumbering out of the fog. She had a
wide spread of horns and regarded the men with a deep, liquid eye. A broad
smile split Hoss’s face. “See what I tol’ you?” The cow agreed with a long, low
bellow.
She was an old animal
with a battle-scarred hide, and she was looking for company. Hoss checked her
over, and soon, he came to the brand on her hip. He ran a hand through his
thinning hair. “Hey, Joe, you better come look at this.” The brand was ancient
but it was still clear. It plainly depicted a stylised pine tree. Hoss’s face
screwed into a scowl. “What’s one o’ our cows doing all the way up here in
these hills? She must be one o’ that bunch what Jessop stole.”
Joe’s eyes twinkled.
“Brother, I reckon the rest o’ them cows – and Jessop – can’t be far away.”
Hoss thought about it.
“You could be right. Perhaps we’d better go an’ get Adam.”
“Nah! Old man like him,
he needs his beauty sleep if he’s takin’ Millie Fisher ta the dance on
Saturday. You an’ me c’n handle this.” Joe’s equilibrium was slowly returning.
It occurred to him how impressed with his maturity and his abilities his father
would be if he handled this bunch of rustlers all on his own – with just a
touch of Hoss’s assistance. In the eye of his mind he could see himself
returning home to acclaim and glory. My – he’d be a hero!
Still Hoss hung back.
“Joe, you ain’t wearin’ yore gun, an’ I left mine back in my bedroll. Jessop
an’ his boys ain’t likely ta give up easy, an’ if it comes ta a shootin’ match,
you an’ me are gonna get our fannies singed.”
Taken aback, Joe’s face fell. In his enthusiasm, he had forgotten about his
pistol. Hoss continued, “I reckon we gotta go back fer the guns and wake up
Adam.”
Joe saw his dreams of
instant – if short lived – prestige dissolve into the mists in front of him.
Adam was a fair-minded man and gave credit where it was due, but on this
particular occasion, Joe wanted all the prestige for himself. It just wasn’t
fair! Then another idea occurred and his face brightened. It was a way to
salvage something out of despair. “We don’t have to go in shooting. We’re just
gonna scout around a bit an’ see if we’ve gotten it right. Then we’ll go back
and get the guns.”
“Well, alright.” Hoss
wasn’t certain they were doing the right thing, but he was easily swayed by his
brother’s beguiling smile. They began to backtrack the cow while, behind them,
the mist flowed into the hole and filled up the tomb.
*******
Despite
the limp, slouch hat that he wore squarely on the top of his head, the thick
fog condensed in Billy Bryant’s long, lank black hair and the resulting cold
water ran in a persistent stream down his face. He used the already damp sleeve
of his worn woollen coat to absorb the drip from the end of his nose. Billy
couldn’t remember the last time he had been as truly uncomfortable as he was
now. Not a great horseman, he had ridden further and harder in this past week
than ever before in his life. He had sores on his butt and the insides of his
thighs were worn raw by the constant contact with saddle leather. His back,
shoulders and neck continually ached. He was cold, wet and thoroughly fed up.
Beneath the coat, his shirt was clammy where the water had run down under his
collar and the legs of his pants were soaked through. Bryant didn’t like being
wet. He didn’t like eating badly cooked trail food, and he was tired of sitting
astride an ill-tempered, saw-backed horse. Most of all, he had come to resent
taking orders from Jessop, and he was sick of the sight and the sound and the
smell of cows. He was saying as much to his friend, Johnny Miller.
“The only place I ever want to set eyes on a
steer ag’in is settin’ on a plate, cooked medium rare with a side order o’
‘taters ‘n’ greens.”
Miller, sitting
alongside him on an ugly bay horse, grunted in gloomy agreement. Miller was a
man totally unlike Bryant in appearance, being big, burly and blond, but they were
two men of a kind. They were both more at home in a barroom card game or a
whore’s warm bed in a sleazy back street brothel than they were doing a decent
days work on the back of a horse.
Bryant grumbled on, “I
don’t like comin’ up ag’inst the Cartwrights. They’ve got enough friends in
town ta git a man hung.”
Miller regarded him with
watery, colourless eyes. “Half this herd wears the Cartwright brand.” Miller
wasn’t the cleverest – it had taken a while for him to figure it out.
“That’s what I don’t
like about it,” Bryant moaned. “The Cartwright boys ain’t goin’ ta give up
easy.”
“Jessop says this rain
will have washed out our trail. If we hole up here a day or two, the
Cartwrights’ll give up an’ go home.”
“That’s another thing I
ain’t keen on.” Bryant shifted uneasily, wincing at the fresh stab of pain. He
glared around at the fog-shrouded mounds that surrounded him. “I don’t like
hidin’ out in this valley with all these dead Injuns lying around.”
Miller’s eyes widened in
horror. “Nobody tol’ me nothin’ ‘bout no dead Injuns!”
Bryant shrugged an
expressive shoulder and returned his attention to the restless, uneasy herd.
“Don’t reckon these cows like it too much, neither.”
Miller was staring
‘round at the mounds. “You telling me there’s dead folks under the ground?”
“Well, they sure ain’t
walking around on top of it,” Bryant said, laughing, then added, cruelly, “You
just mind they don’t come clawin’ up out o’ the dirt to git ya!”
Miller was offended. It
wasn’t as if he was dense – just sometimes a little slow on the uptake. “I’ll
tell you somethin’, Billy, I don’t reckon as I want ta stay around here no
more.”
“Aw, settle down, will
ya. I feel the same, but Jessop says there ain’t nothin’ ta worry about.”
Bryant delivered the second hand assurance without much conviction. He wasn’t
too sure he believed it himself. He cast an uneasy glance over his shoulder. “I
reckon I’ll ride a circuit around this herd. Don’t want ‘em wanderin’ off.”
“Well, you ain’t gonna
leave me here on my own!” Miller kicked the bay in the ribs, and the two men
rode off into the fog.
*******
Joe tapped Hoss on the
shoulder, put his finger to his lips for silence, then wiggled it under the big
man'’ nose in an exaggerated, hard to ignore ‘come with me’ gesture. Side by
side, they wriggled back on their bellies until they were safely out of earshot
behind a burial mound. They hunkered down close together. Joe had a grin on his
mud-stained face. “I’d know that fella anywhere. That’s Rat Face Billy Bryant
out of
“An’ that other fella
with the yella hair, that’s Sandy Miller,” Hoss chuckled. “He ain’t exactly
what a man would call bright.”
Joe grinned again
mischievously. “I reckon we c’n chase them two fellas off without even needin’
our guns.”
“An’ how we gonna do
that?” Hoss demanded. Joe beckoned him
closer and started to whisper into his ear.
Some ten minutes later,
Bryant and Miller completed their circle and arrived back where they’d began.
The cattle had started to settle, but the men were distinctly uneasy. The mist
continued to swirl with a supernatural intensity, and it was more than the damp
chill that made them shiver. Miller looked towards the sky. “What time d’you
reckon it is, Billy?”
“’Round about three in
the mornin’.” Unhappily, Bryant eyed the surrounding mounds.
Miller’s horse coughed,
and something answered it from out of the fog. “What in heck’s that?” Milled
inquired, alarmed.
Bryant scowled at him;
“What’s what?”
As if in response, the
sound came again: a short, guttural grunt followed by a long low groan. The
noises seemed to surround them. Bryant and Miller traded long, anxious looks.
Hidden in the mist and
hunkered down behind the shoulder of a mound, Joe Cartwright suppressed a giggle.
This was the best fun he’d had in a while. He moaned and hooted into his cupped
hands. The result was most satisfactory; the fog gave the noise a hollow
quality, and it echoed off the sides of the bank. At the other end of the
mound, Hoss was working as well: groaning and sighing. Joe hoped that he didn’t
overdo it.
Bryant was a braver man
than he knew. “I’m going ta take me a look.” He gathered his reins and nudged
his nervous horse forward.
“Hey, don’t leave me
behind!” Miller urged the bay close, crowding the razorback’s tail. Together
they rode to the mound.
Happily involved in
making ghostly noises, Joe didn’t see them until it was too late to escape. He
stood up quickly as they rounded the end of the earthwork. They found
themselves confronted by an apparition. It had the shape of a man, all right.
Its face was all crusted with fresh mud and dirt and its hair jutted out in all
directions. For sure, this was a dead man that had just dug his way back out of
the earth. Bryant’s face drained, and Miller let out a yelp.
Behind them, another
shape emerged from the fogbank. “Bryant? Miller? Where you at?”
It was enough for the
barflies turned cow-thieves - more than enough! This second manifestation even
knew their names! They reined their horses around and galloped away in two
different direction, scattering cattle before them.
Jessop yelled after
them; “Come back here, you two goldarned fools! I told you thars no such thing
as spooks! It’s just the Cartwright boys making fun o’ you!” Response came
there none. Bryant and Miller wouldn’t stop running until they were in sight of
home.
Out in the night
somewhere, Hoss was still moaning and groaning. Jessop leaned down from the
back of his dun-coloured gelding. He carried a short barrelled shotgun, and,
from the look on his face, he was just about ready to use it. “Come out here,
Cartwright, an’ show yore-self – or I’m gonna spread yore brother’s brains all
over the landscape.”
After a pause that
seemed to Joe to go on forever, Hoss emerged from the mist. Jessop covered them
both with the shotgun. “You two stand still!”
Darrel Jessop had a
dilemma. With Bryant and Miller long gone and still running, his small herd of
stolen cattle was now spread all over the valley, and here he was with two
rancher’s sons in his gun sights. He couldn’t let them go. He couldn’t shoot
them either. A man went to prison for stealing cows; for killing a man you got
hung.
A deep, breathy voice
groaned in the darkness. Jessop’s mouth tightened. “Is that you other brother
foolin’ about?” He had a damned good mind to shoot all of them.
“It sure don’t sound
like Adam.” Joe looked stricken.
Hoss spread his hands;
“I swear ta you Mister Jessop, last time I saw Adam, he was fast asleep.”
There was another long
moan. Jessop turned round, desperately searching the fog for the errant
Cartwright. With a nudge at each other, Hoss and Joe took the opportunity to
slip away into the mist. Jessop yelled after them and urged his horse forward.
“Come back here, you two!”
For a while, the fog
swirled in the place where he’d been. Then the lonely brown and white cow
wandered out of the mist to reunite with her sisters.
Adam
rubbed a hand over sleep hazed eyes. He hadn’t the faintest idea what was going
on, but the fog all around him was alive with noises and movement. Something
had wakened him up with a jolt, something that felt like an icy cold hand on
the cheek. He found both of his brothers were missing and, what concerned him
the most, there was no trace of warmth left in their bedrolls. They had been
gone for a long time.
Whatever
they might be up to, he guessed he had better find them before they got into
trouble. He strapped on his gun and set off down the hill, but hadn’t gone far
when a man on a horse came at him out of the fog and all but rode him down.
The
two men eyed one another. Adam’s face was still draped in sleep but he held his
gun steady. “Jessop.” He nodded. They knew one another quite well.
Jessop pointed the
shotgun at Adam. “Well, Cartwright, where do we go from here?”
Adam smiled easily.
“That isn’t hard. I’m taking you in for stealing those cows. I guess you’ll
spend some years in prison.”
Jessop sucked on his
teeth. His walleye shone silver in the first shards of the light. “Don’t reckon
you are.” It was a stand off. Both guns were levelled at the other man’s chest.
Hoss and Joe stepped out
of the mist. They were delighted to see their brother. “Hey, Adam!” Joe
shouted. Startled, Jessop’s horse danced. Both guns went off together and both
men missed. Adam fell over backwards, and Jessop fought hard to bring his
gelding under control. This wasn’t going his way. He wasn’t getting away with
the cows and he was reluctance to go to jail. He took advantage of the
Cartwright’s confusion to rein the horse ‘round and gallop away.
Hoss lifted Adam up off
the ground. “You hurt, big brother?”
“Nah!” Adam was just
dirty and mad. He was disgusted at missing his shot, embarrassed at falling
down on his butt and angry with his brothers for causing the whole ridiculous
situation. He tried in vain to brush off the mud.
Hoss screwed up his face
and looked after Jessop. “Adam, you want I should fetch up the horses so we c’n
go after him?”
Adam wiped the grime off
his Colt.44. “We’d never catch up with him in this fog. Let him go for now.”
Joe’s face broke into a
happy smile. “Does that mean we’ll get home in time for the dance on Saturday
night?”
“Joe,” Hoss shook his
head sadly. “We got cows an’ steers scattered all up an’ down this valley. It’s
gonna take us a while ta haze ‘em all the way back ta
Adam looked up at the
lightening sky. “Then as soon as this fog clears, we’d best get started on
rounding them up. That dance is one place I mean to be.”
Hoss slapped Joe on the
back, then followed Adam back to the campsite to find out what was left for
breakfast.
Joe looked after them.
He thought about calling them back and then decided against it. After all, they
never took him seriously, and he was sure that they would laugh at him now. He
opened his hand and peered at the small golden treasure he held in the palm:
the intricately wrought, golden thumb ring he’d found caught in the torn cuff
of his pants. He polished the ring thoughtfully on the ruined sleeve of his
shirt. It had writing on it – some sort of markings he couldn’t make out.
Perhaps, at some point in the future, he’d ask his Pa what they meant. With a
smile on his face he slipped the ring into his pants pocket and trudged after
Adam and Hoss.
Soon the men had
gathered the cattle, and they had all gone away. The secret valley, hidden away
so well in the hills, was empty and silent again. Before very long, the last of
the mist had melted away, and the sun came out, filling it up with sunlight and
shadows. Rabbits emerged from their holes in the ground, and shy mule deer
wandered down from the woods to nibble at the sweet spring grasses. The ancient
earth mounds steamed gently in the returning warmth, and dead men lay in
slumber awaiting the end of time.
* ‘Emiline Hutton’s
House’ 2000
Potter’s Bar 2002.