“How about that?” I called to the others. “Just like a pussycat.”
“You got him all straightened out yesterday,” Miller said. “He won’t give you no more trouble.”
The others mounted, and we rode off down to the lower end of the basin, crossed the creek, and started up the ridge, Clint’s horse, alone in the saddle-horse corral, whinnied after us a couple times and then went over to the fence nearest the pack-horses.
I was a little stiff and sore, but it didn’t take too long for that to iron itself out.
The ridge moved up in a series of steps with low brush breaking off each side. A little way out we rode into the sunlight.
About a half mile up from camp, Miller stopped.
“This’ll be the first stand,” he said. “The Big Man’ll be here.” It made sense. This was the lowest post, and Sloane was having trouble with the altitude.
“You want me to wait here now?” Cal asked, disappointment evident in his voice.
“No need of that,” Miller said, “but we’d better look around a mite so’s you can get it all set in your mind. I’ll be droppin’ you off by this white rock here.” He pointed at a big pale boulder. “Best place to set is right over there.”
We all got off and walked on over. A natural rock platform jutted out over the deep ravine that ran down the right-hand side of the ridge. The other, shallower, ravine with its meadows ran down into the basin where we were camped.
“You see that notch over on the other side?” Miller said, pointing it out to Sloane.
“Yeah.”
“That’s a main game trail. They’ll be comin’ across that from the next ravine. Then they’ll turn and go on down to the bottom. They’ll be in sight all the way.”
“How far is it to that notch?” Sloane gasped.
“‘Bout a hundred and fifty yards. It’s best to let ’em get all the way to the bottom before you shoot. That way they won’t fall so far and you’ll have plenty of time to look ’em over.”
“OK,” Sloane said.
“Don’t get so interested in this trail that you ignore this draw here that runs on down to camp though. They’ll be crossin’ there, too — lots of ’em. And they’ll be grazin’ in those meadows.”
Sloane looked it all over. “I think I’ve got it located,” he said, taking a deep breath.
Jack’s post was on the next step up the ridge. There was a bit more brush there, but another big game trail cut into the ravine from the far side.
“Watch your shots over there, Slim,” Miller said. “It breaks off pretty sharp, and a deer’d get busted up pretty bad if it was to go over that edge.”
“Yeah,” Jack replied, his eyes narrowing, “I can see that.”
Stan was next up the hill, his post much like the two below.
McKlearey’s post was down in a notch.
“You’ll have to watch yourself in here, Sarge,” Miller told him. “You’re right in the middle of a trail here, and you might get yourself stampeded over if they start to runnin’.”
“Stomp your ass right into the ground, McKlearey.” Jack laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a bitch?”
“I’ll hold ’em off till you guys get here.”
Lou grinned. “We’ll ambush the little bastards.”
My post was the highest on the ridge. The horses scrambled up the rocky trail from McKlearey’s notch, their iron-shod hooves sliding and clattering.
“I’m puttin’ the Kid up here,” Miller explained, “’cause that horse he’s ridin’ is the biggest and strongest one in the string. This little stretch of trail can be a bitch-kitty in the dark.”
“Anybody wanna trade horses?” I asked, not meaning it.
We came out on the rounded knob at the top of the trail and looked around.
“At least you’ll have scenery,” Jack said. He was right about that. You could literally see for a hundred miles in every direction except where the peak whitely blotted out a quarter of the sky.
We all got down and walked around, looking out at the surrounding mountains.
“Buck!” Miller said, his voice not loud but carrying to us with a sharp urgency.
The deer was above us. I counted him at five points, but that could have been off. He was a hundred and fifty yards away, but he still looked as big as a horse. He watched us, his rack flaring arrogantly above his head like a vast crown. It was probably my imagination, but his face seemed to have an expression of unspeakable contempt on it, an almost royal hauteur that made me feel about two feet tall. None of us moved or made a sound.
Slowly he turned the white patch of his rump to us, flicked his tail twice, then laid his ears back and bounded up the mountainside as if he had springs on his feet. He soared with each jump as though the grip of earth upon him was very light and he could just as easily fly, if he really wanted to.
Far up the rockslide he slowed, stopped, and looked back at us again. Then he walked off around the ridge, picking his way delicately over the rocks, his head up and his antlers carried proudly.
I still felt very small.
19
Miller split us up then and sent us on back down the ridge by several different trails. He told us to ride slowly and keep a good sharp eye out for any really big bucks.
“Come on, Cal,” I said to Sloane, “let’s ease on down this way.”
Miller glanced at me and nodded once. One of us was going to have to stick pretty close to Calvin from here on out.
“Sure thing,” Sloane said with a heartiness that sounded hollow as all hell. He was looking pretty tough again.
We rode off slowly, and I concentrated pretty much on picking as easy a trail as I could find. The sun was well up by now, and the air up there was very clear. Every limb and rock stood out sharply, and the shadows under the bushes were very dark. I could hear the others clattering over rocks now and men above us. After about five minutes Cal called weakly to me.
“Better hold up a minute, Dan.” He jumped down off his horse and lurched unsteadily off to the side of the trail. I rolled out of the saddle and caught his bridle before his horse could wander off. I tied both horses to a low bush.
He was vomiting when I got to him, kneeling beside a rock and retching like a man at the end of a three-day drunk.
“You OK?” I asked. A guy always asks such damned stupid questions at a time like that.
He nodded jerkily and then vomited again. He was at it for quite a long time. Finally he got weakly to his feet and stumbled back toward the horses.
“Jesus, Cal,” I said, trying to help him.
“Don’t tell the others about this,” he said hoarsely, waving off my hand.
“Christ, man, you’re really sick, aren’t you?”
“I’ll be OK,” he said, hanging onto his saddle horn. “Just don’t tell the others, OK?”
“If you say so,” I said. “Let’s sit down a bit.”
“Sure,” he agreed.
I led him over to a clear place and went back to get the water bag hanging on my saddle horn. When I brought it back, he drank some and washed off his face. He looked a little better, but his breathing was still very bad, and his face was pale inside the framing fur of his parka hood.
“I just can’t seem to get used to it.” He gasped. “God damn, I can’t. It’s like there was a wet blanket over my face all the time.”
“You ever have trouble at high altitudes before?” I asked him.
“No more than anybody else, I don’t think. Oh sure, I’d get a little woozy and I’d get winded easy, but nothing like this. Of course, I haven’t been up in the mountains for five or six years now.”
“It’ll settle down,” I said — not really believing it. “Hell, we’ve only been up here for a day or so.”
“I sure hope so,” he said. “I don’t know how much more of this I can cut.”
“Cal,” I said after a minute or so, “if it gets bad — I mean really bad — you’ll let me know, won’t you? I mean, shit, none of this is worth blowing a coronary over.”
“Hell,” he said, “my heart’s in good shape — it’s my fuckin’ lungs.”
“Yeah, I know, but tell me, huh? I mean it.”
He looked at me for a moment. “OK, Dan,” he said finally, “if it really gets bad.”
That was a helluva relief.
“Like you said, though, it’ll settle down.” His face had a longing on it that was awfully damned exposed.