“Like I told you,” Dodie said, “you’re in love with JANICE LOOKED quickly to see if Mabry had heard, but he was asleep, breathing easily.
She was confused, and nothing seemed right to her, but nothing that happened here could happen in the well-ordered world she had left behind.
“I couldn’t love him. He’s killed men.” Dodie was fixing her hair. She glanced obliquely at Janice. “Suppose Wycoff had tried to get into the van. Suppose you had shot him. Then you’d have killed a man, too.” “But that’s different!” “Is it?” Dodie worked with her hair in silence, then studied herself in the tiny glass she held. “Where do you think that gun came from?” C..lhe gun”…[*macr] “The one I had. I got it from my father. It was taken from his body after he was killed in Colorado.” “I should think you’d hate guns!” “Out here a gun is a tool. Men use them when they have to. I know what King Mabry is like because my father was like that.” Dodie touched her hair lightly here and there. “Where there’s no law, all the strength can’t be left in the hands of the lawless, so good men use guns, too.” Maggie had been listening. “That’s uncommonly good sense. Hate to think where we’d all be if it wasn’t for him.
Janice turned to her, surprised. “We didn’t think you knew!” “I heard it all.
He’s a man, that one. I just wish I was young again.”
And then for a long time nothing was said and there was only the crackle of the fire. Janice opened the curtain to create a draft that would draw more smoke out at the top.
Cold branches rubbed their fingers together, and in his sleep King Mabry muttered, then lay quiet.
Once, sitting over the fire, Janice heard Healy singing softly… a singing Irishman with a heart too big for him.
Occasionally a drop of water fell from the dome as snow melted on the underside of the thick blanket now covering them. It was warm and comfortable within the shelter.
King Mabry awakened to silence. He lay still, thinking it out. Janice put wood on the fire, but Dodie was sleeping. Janice sat by the fire, lost in thought. Making no sound, he watched her for a time, then looked up at the roof.
They had to get out of here. Yet travel, even without a sick woman, would be tough in this weather. Their best bet was to wait out the storm. They were somewhere on the Red Fork of the Powder, that much he knew. The Middle Fork must be south of them.
This was new country for him, but the trapper from whom he bought the black horse had talked a lot about the country, and Mabry was a good listener. There were no maps, and men learned about a country from others who had been there, and men became skillful at description and at recognizing landmarks. Once they were started, their best bet was to get into the valley of the Big Horn and follow it north into Montana.
There would be water and fuel along the river, and they could keep to the hills by day, coming down to get water at night. They had at least a fifty-fifty chance of getting into Montana, and, if their luck held, to some settlement. Aside from the ever present danger from Indians, there was Barker. Barker might take what money he had and light out. Yet he must have known about the gold Healy was carrying, and he knew he dared never appear in any Montana camp once this story got out. Yet Barker was a tough man, not at all the sort to give up easily. Art Boyle would be dangerous only as long as he was with Barker, or if you turned your back on him.
Mabry swung his feet from under the blankets.
Then he picked up his fur cap and put it on.
He looked at Janice, his brow furrowing.
“Got to leave you for a while. I should be back in a couple of hours, but if I’m not, stay close to this shelter until the storm’s over. Always keep a good landmark in sight, and remember the fewer tracks you make, the smaller the chance you’ll be found.” He pointed down the ravine. “After I caught those rabbits I set the snares again. There should be a couple more soon. The first one is down the draw about fifty yards under some low brush near a cedar. There’s another about the same distance farther along.
“You won’t have to hunt wood. Not more than twenty yards down the draw there’s a pile of drift around an old deadfall.” “You sound… How long will you be gone?” “Couple of hours, like I said. That’s if everything goes well. I might have bad luck and run into some Sioux.” He began to clean his rifle. “If the weather breaks good and I’m not back, start out. But you best just wait and let Maggie get well. Or better. That way,” he gestured toward the brush, “is safe. Nobody can get to you without plenty of noise. You’ll have to watch the slope past the cottonwoods, and I’d suggest you put some brush among the aspens, if you have to stay. When you go out, go through the grove, and don’t use the same way twice.
“You’ve guns enough and ammunition enough, so just sit tight.” “Why are you going, then?” “Food. I got to rustle some grub. There’s five here, and we have to eat. I’ve got to go some ways off because I don’t want to shoot close by. Of course, I might find some sage hens. A man can kill them with a stick in this snow.” Outside, he led the black horse through the grove and mounted. Then, brushing the edge of the undergrowth to conceal his tracks wherever possible, he went up the draw.
For two hours he rode, scouting the country.
Where the wagons had been there were now only ashes.
That had to be Barker’s work. He found no Indian sign, evidence in itself that they were too smart to travel in bad weather. He found a trail where several buffaloes had drifted along beside a frozen stream, and then he found fresh deer tracks and places where the animals had pawed through the snow to get at the grass underneath. He killed a sage hen, riding it down in the snow and killing it with a blow from his rifle. That night he camped some five miles from the shelter where the girls and Healy waited. At daybreak, after eating most of the sage hen, he started out again.
just before noon, in a deep hollow in the hills, he killed a buck. He was riding upwind through the soft snow when he saw movement. He drew rein and waited, his Winchester lifted. The buck came out of the trees and stopped, his head half turned. Mabry dropped him in his tracks with a neck shot. He made quick work of cutting up his kill. It was a cold job at best, and he was glad to be back in the saddle and moving.
Returning, he used every means he could to confuse his trail. It was spitting snow again, so there was hope that his tracks would soon be covered.
Coming up the draw and holding close to the edge of the brush, he saw ,movement ahead of him.
He lifted his rifle, then caught a glint of sunlight on auburn hair and lowered the rifle.
He walked his horse closer and stopped. It was Dodie, and she was taking a rabbit from a snare.
Expertly she killed the rabbit with a blow behind the neck.
“You do that like you know how.” She straightened up and smiled at him. “I do.
I used to trap them when I was ten years old. I was a tomboy, I’m afraid.” He looked at her and swung down from his horse.
“No need to be afraid now. You’re no tomboy.” “No… I’m not.” He kicked his feet against the ground to warm them.
“Everything all right?” “Yes. Tom was going to do this, but he’s been getting wood.” She paused. “I see you got a deer.” “Few miles back.” He was making talk, not knowing exactly why, except that it was easy to talk to this girl. It was never easy to talk to; Janice. Somehow the words just would not come. “It’s good country here. I’d like to come back sometime. Lots of game, and this buffalo grass is good fodder all year round.” “Why don’t you?” Dodie had come closer to him.
She shivered a little. “It’s beautiful, really beautiful.” “Lonely country. No neighbors around.” “Who needs neighbors? It’s good country for you, King. By the time you had neighbors, people would have forgotten.” She reached up, putting the rabbit behind the saddle with the venison. Then she turned and faced him, her back to the horse, leaning back a little, but very close.