He had been gone for almost an hour and was about to turn back when he saw a clump of bushes about four feet high…hazelnuts!
He went to them quickly. Many of the nuts had fallen, but he found dozens still clinging to the branches and he picked his hat full.
By the time he went back to the shelter the rain had stopped and there were breaks in the clouds. Betty Sue was there waiting for him; she seemed to have hardly moved. Huddled over the fire, they cracked open the hazelnuts with a small rock and ate them.
After that Hardy put out the fire and scattered earth over it to smother any remaining coals. Then, putting Betty Sue on Red’s back, he led the horse down into the stream. On the bank he found a place where he could climb to the stallion’s back, and he walked the horse upstream until near the hazelnut bushes.
The sun shone bright, and it felt good on his back and shoulders. He had almost forgotten what it meant not to be wet, cold, and hungry. When they reached the hazelnuts he rode out of the stream, found a place where he would be able to remount, and picketed Red on the hillside grass. Then he proceeded to pick nuts until his hat was full again, and the front of his shirt too. By that time there were few nuts left.
He mounted again, and walked the horse along a winding trail, made by buffalo, no doubt, that followed the stream along the opposite side from that he had traveled thus far. In case the Indian was behind him the rain might have wiped out Hardy’s tracks, leaving no sign for the Indian to find. By crossing the stream, wading in it for a short time, and then following the opposite bank, he might lose the Indian completely.
The day was warm and clear, but they made slow time because the track led along a steep slope above the river. Trees on the banks masked their movements. About midday they halted and Hardy staked out the horse on good grass; he and Betty Sue ate more of the nuts. He was about to start on again when he saw the chokecherries. Only a few were left, but the taste of them, even though they puckered the mouth, was somehow refreshing after the nuts.
After a while they went on, and the sun was pleasant after the chilling rain. It had only taken a few of the nuts to fill them up, and he carried those that were left inside his shirt.
Presently Betty Sue fell asleep, and he cradled her head against him until his arm was so stiff he could scarcely move it, but he did not want to wake her. When she slept, she was at least not afraid.
He was trying to think. What was it his pa had said so often? “Remember, son, the only thing that makes a man able to get along in this world is his brain. A man doesn’t have the claws a bear has, nor the strength of a bull. He doesn’t have the nose of a wolf, nor the wings of a hawk, but he has a brain. You’re going to get along in this world as long as you use it.”
He couldn’t count on it that pa would be hunting for him. Scarey as it was even to think of it, he knew he had to think of what he would do if pa didn’t come.
They had to keep on to Fort Bridger. There were people there, and there he and Betty Sue would be safe. There were womenfolks who would tend to her, and it was a place where he could sleep without being scared what he’d wake up to.
But Fort Bridger was a long way ahead, and the country was getting higher. Last night it had been almost cold enough for frost, and any night it might really freeze. It had snowed this early, too, a time or two.
Maybe he had lost that Indian who was trailing them—or who he thought was trailing them. But maybe the Indian was coming on, wanting their scalps, and wanting Big Red. Hardy wanted to believe they would see no more of him, but pa had always taught him to be foresighted.
“Try to foresee the worst things that could happen,” pa said, “and plan for them. Figure out what you would do beforehand. Chances are, they’ll never happen; but if you plan ahead, you’re ready.”
Well, all right, he would think of those things later. Now he had two things he had to be thinking of right off. They were going to need more food, and some way to fix something warm to eat or drink. Somehow he had to get some meat. And he had to figure out some way of cooking something if he caught it.
Also, they were going to need something warm to wear. He was cold all the time, except when right in the sun, and Betty Sue shivered, even under his coat. He tried not to think of how far they had to go, or how short a distance they had come so far.
Meanwhile, he had to look for a camp, a hidden place where he could see around without being seen, and a place where he could get back on the horse.
A
SHAWAKIE WAS EAGER to find that big horse. He had lost the trail because of the rain, but he rode on. Shrewdly, he was paying little attention to trail sign…instead, he was trying to foresee what the Little Warrior would do.
That was how he found the crudely made shelter under the dead cottonwood.
Chapter 4
F
RANK DARROW SWUNG his horse around and studied the tracks. “Injun pony,” he said. “Scott, you’ve got to face it. Any chance we had to find those youngsters was washed away by that rain. Look for yourself…there ain’t any tracks to be seen. Not even antelope tracks.”
Collins indicated the pony tracks. “That Indian was going somewhere. If he left tracks, we can find Hardy’s tracks.”
“If he’s alive to make any.” Darrow rested his hands on the pommel. “Scott, I ain’t sayin’ I wouldn’t feel the same, was I in your boots, but you’ve got to see reason.
‘That youngster is only seven years old, and he’s up against a fix no grown man would like to face. He’s out in the wilderness with no grub, no weapon that we know of, an’ he’s got him a girl kid to care for. You say he knows how to get along, but this here is Injun country an’ he’s got him a horse any Injun would give his eyeteeth for.
“You talk about gettin’ along. This here country this time of year has mighty little game. There’ll be cold winds blowin’ down across this flat like the mill-tails of hell in no time at all. The Injuns an’ the game know that, so they head for sheltered places in the hills. Your kid ain’t got a chance.”
Scott Collins nodded his head. “Frank, you go along back and I’ll not hold it against you. I know winter is coming on and you’ve got stock to feed and work to do. You’ve got wood to cut and lay by before cold weather sets in. I’ve got to keep looking, and you know why? Because I know that boy.
“He’s followed me to the field and the woods ever since he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and he’s questioned me up one side and down the other. We’ve hunted plants in the woods and fields, and sold them to folks for medicine. We’ve hunted them for grub. He’s helped me with the planting, and he’s got a mighty keen sense of responsibility.
“He’s known some Indians. He’s played with their youngsters, and he’s hunted with them. I know my boy; and young as he is, he’d take a lot of killing, believe me.
“And that isn’t all. There’s just the two of us now, him and me. And he knows that I’ll be hunting him. I’ll be along the trail somewhere, and he’ll trust me to look, because he knows that’s the way I’m geared. Frank, it may take me a long time, but I’ll not stop hunting until I find that boy, or find his body. You go along if you’re of a mind to.”
Darrow stared at him. “I never knew such a pig-headed, stubborn fool in my life. All right, I’ll stay with you, but only for one reason. If that boy is half as stubborn as you are, he’s probably too stubborn to quit or to die. Let’s get to huntin’.”
Bill Squires had been studying his chewing tobacco. Now he bit off a bite and tucked it into his cheek. “If you two sidewinders would quit arguin’ long enough to think, you’d be askin’ yourselves a question.”
They looked at him, and Squires took his time. He got his jaws to working on the tobacco, and was enjoying the suspense. “Yessir. If you two would stop to think, you’d ask yourselves what that Injun was doin’ out here in the rain.”
They stared at him, and he rolled the tobacco in his jaws. “Now you look at that track. That there Injun pony left that track sometime before the rain quit. She’s a fairly fresh track, edges not broken down, yet there’s a showin’ of water in it, and there ain’t goin’ to be much seepage in that kind of clay.
“So what have you got? You got an Injun who’s away to hell an’ gone out in the open, ridin’ through the drivin’ rain…that’s before he got to this point. An’ no Injun is fool enough to do that—not unless he’s close to his wickiup, he ain’t.
“Now, we ain’t close to no camp or we’d have seen sign before this. That Injun is ridin’ alone through the rain, which no Injun is likely to do. So I got to ask myself why.”
“You think he’s following the youngsters?”
“Scott, an Injun would trail them kids through the worst storm you ever did see to get that stallion. This here’s the first promise we’ve had.”
“It’s a slim chance,” Darrow agreed reluctantly. “Come to think of it, it
is
odd. An Injun would find himself a place to hole up until the storm was gone.”
“We got nothin’ else,” Squires said, “so let’s try her on for size.”
It was a slow, painstaking task to work out the trail. The Indian had held to hard surfaces when he could find them, and occasionally his tracks had been washed out by rivulets. Once they rode half a mile on trust because a belated rush of water down a stream bed had washed the sand free of any tracks after the Indian’s passing. Sure enough, further on, after an hour of scattering out and searching, they picked up a track.
It was the Indian who led them to the shelter under the dead cottonwood.
They reached it at the end of a long hard day, and made their own camp there. Bill Squires studied it with interest. “He’s a canny lad, that one,” he said admiringly. “He had himself a nice camp fixed up here, and one nobody was likely to find.”
“That redskin found it,” Darrow commented wryly. He indicated the fire. “He covered that up well. They’ve been eatin’, too.” With a stick he pushed several charred shells out of the fire. “Hazelnuts.”
“Look here.” Squires had found the impress of a tiny hand on the dirt beside the bed—just the outer edge of a palm, a smudge where the knuckles must have been, and the slight print left by the thumb. “He’s got Andy Powell’s girl with him, all right.”
Hardy had left a small pile of wood neatly stacked against the bank on which the top of the tree rested, and they used it now for their own fire.
Frank Darrow fried bacon and made up some frying-pan bread and coffee. Bill Squires sat musing and smoking. He rarely smoked on the trail.
“We’ve got us some trouble,” he said finally.
Darrow looked up, and Collins stopped shaving kindling for the morning fire.
“You’ve told me a lot about that boy,” Squires said, “an’ I can see a good deal around here. He knows that Injun is after him.”
They waited, while the bacon sputtered in the pan and the smell of coffee filled the small shelter.
“It’s more a feeling than anything else. But look at this place. He took pains to hide out. He wasn’t just makin’ himself a shelter—he tried to cover it up, too.
“He’s got a knife. We’ve seen places he’s used it, but not around this camp. Nothing sticks out more’n a fresh-cut tree or limb with the white wood showin’. Well, did you see any around here? This boy must be dead-tired, he must be scared, but he’s usin’ that little head of his all the time. I’d lay a bet that if a body took time you’d find scattered places where he cut firewood all through the trees yonder, but you’d have to hunt for them. I doubt if he’d be that careful unless he suspicioned somebody was huntin’ him…somebody other than his pa.”
“Why do you say we’re in trouble?” Collins asked.
“The kid will hide his tracks,” Darrow answered, “sure as shootin’. He figures to meet you comin’ up the trail, but that Injun is behind him, an’ he ain’t goin’ to leave him nothing if he can help it. That means he ain’t leavin’ anything for us, neither.”
Over their meal they studied and discussed every possibility they could think of. Hardy Collins would not want to leave the trail where he knew his father might be searching, yet he might be forced to do just that.
Scott felt sure about what his son would do, and on that score the two mountain men agreed with him. He was sure that on leaving camp Hardy would take to the water so as to leave no tracks—but where would he go then?”
“We got to find where he found them nuts,” Squires said. “If there was more, he’d go back after them.”
Scott Collins could not sleep. He lay awake a long time thinking of his son out there in the cold and dark. By day Collins could keep a bold face before the other men, and by day he was confident of what his son would do, or try to do; but at night when he lay down in the darkness he could only think of how frail even a sturdy seven-year-old can be.
Hardy had grown up to an outdoor life, of course—in fact, he knew no other life. Many a time he and his father had camped in the woods together; they had gone off hunting, each in his own direction, and had left signs for each other to indicate the way they had gone. They had often rustled meals for themselves from small game and wild herbs. Nevertheless, he was only a small boy, caring for a smaller girl.…Finally Collins drifted off into sleep.
He had been awake for a minute or two, hearing the low sound of voices outside, before he realized it was early morning. When he opened his eyes he found a fire going, smelled the coffee, and heard Darrow speaking.
“In lookin’ for this youngster, Bill, we’d better not forget that Injun. He’d like to notch his stick for our scalps, no doubt, an’ we’d best keep a weather eye open for him.”
Scott Collins sat up. “Wonder one of you wouldn’t give me a call. I’m overdue for some coffee.”
They both ducked their heads and came in through the small opening. “You looked plumb tuckered out, so we let you sleep,” Bill said. He was smoking his pipe. “Whilst Frank was fixing grub, I took a look around. There’s a clump of hazelnuts right across the stream an’ up a ways. Plenty of sign around there. The boy must have loaded up on them, judgin’ by the fresh pickin’ sign he left.”
“He’s not starving, anyway,” Scott said.
There was very little conversation. When Scott had finished eating, the three men, with Bill Squires leading, went down to the stream, and they followed it, eying the banks carefully. They came to the hazelnut patch, and went on. From time to time they saw sign left by the Indian.
The tracks were now several days old, but they did not dare increase their pace for fear they would lose the vague trail—and sometimes there was hardly a trail at all.
Late that afternoon, Scott Collins drew up, studying the tracks of the Indian. “Does it seem to you, Bill,” he said, “that this Indian spends a lot of time checking out the way those youngsters get along? Every time he comes on a place where they’ve stopped, he leaves enough tracks for four or five.”
Squires chuckled. “He’s curious. They’ve got him puzzled, Scott, an’ it seems to me he’s real interested. He wants to see how they’re getting on, an’ what they have to eat.”
“Hardy knows a good deal about getting along in the outdoors, if he’ll just use his head.”
“He’s got his troubles,” Darrow put in. “There’s a lot he can’t fix to eat because he’s got no dish or pot. For somebody travelin’ light, I’d say he’s gettin’ along all right.”
“How far are we behind him now?” Scott asked.
“Two, three days. Maybe four.…He travels awful slow at times, an’ I figure he didn’t make over four, five miles the first day out. Maybe less the next day. But when he can get up on that horse they usually make good time.”
They were in camp when Collins suddenly looked around at the others. “I’m afraid he’ll quit the trail.”
“I’ve been thinkin’ on that, too,” Squires agreed. “The way I see it, it’s his only chance to get away from that Injun. Might not do it even then, for the Injun is good on readin’ sign, but if he could pick the right time he might ride north an’ get into the deeper woods, cut across until he hits the foothills of the Wind River Range, an’ then cut down for Bridger. The boy might do just that. He’s thinkin’, all he can.”
“I wish they were dressed warmer,” Scott said.
“Yeah…so do I.”
A
SHAWAKIE WAS THINKING about the cold, too, but not in the same way. Several times he was sure he would catch the Little Warrior, but each time they had slipped away somehow. In their camps, they kept the fire small, as an Indian does, and huddled close to it, but the wind was blowing cold off the mountains where there was snow. At any time the streams might begin to freeze along the edges, and the Little Warrior and the small girl would be cold.
But Ashawakie was not thinking of them with pity. That they might suffer from the cold aroused no response in him. He was simply aware of the fact, curious as to what they might do, and he knew that he must calculate upon it in searching out their camps.
He had known few white men, and no white women or children. Many of his people had known them, and some had spoken of them with favor; but most Cheyennes had only known the white man to fight him or to steal his horses, though the Cheyennes placed less emphasis on the virtue of stealing horses than did the Comanches.
Ashawakie was no more concerned with the feelings of the children than he would be with those of wolf cubs. The horse was what he wanted, but he was much interested in the way the Little Warrior faced his problems.
The Indian did not, as yet, realize that he, too, was followed. As did all Indians, he watched his back trail, but the three white men were still too far behind him for him to know about it. Had he guessed they were following him, he might have made a desperate effort to catch the children, kill them, and take the horse. He was now too far from his own wickiup to think of taking them back as prisoners.
But Ashawakie had more to think of than the children and the horse, for he was nearing the place of one of his greatest tests. It had happened three years ago, when he met the bear.
The Cheyenne was thirty-five years old and a strong warrior now, but he admitted to himself that when he met the bear he had known fear—for the first and only time.
The bear was a grizzly, and Ashawakie had come upon him unexpectedly. He had seen at once that the grizzly was in no good frame of mind. Some animals, like some men, are born with a chip on their shoulder, and the grizzly had a chip on his. He saw Ashawakie on the narrow trail, and Ashawakie whipped up his rifle and fired.
The bullet struck and the grizzly lunged, snarling. There was no chance to reload, and the Indian jammed the rifle into the bear’s jaws and grabbed his hunting knife. The bear slapped the rifle from his jaws; Ashawakie got one swipe at an upraised paw with his knife, and then he was knocked off the trail.
Luckily, he fell clear, struck a clump of bushes, and dropped flat on his face in the sand beside the stream. The wind was knocked out of him, or he might have moved. As it was, he had just got his breath when he heard the enraged bear coming down the slope some sixty yards away.