We rested them at noon while we took our turn at coffee and some beef; then we started again with two to three hours of grazing and two to three hours of steady travel until we bedded them down. Driving that way was good for twelve miles a day or better, and we could still keep them in good shape. Naturally, we varied the drives and the grazing in relation to the grass and water.
Me, I was worried. It was unlikely whoever wanted us stopped was going to give up, and the chances were we’d find some tougher men next time.
Also, the country ahead, according to old Baptiste, who had covered it, was rougher and wilder. So far, we had seen few Indians and had no trouble since our meeting with High-Backed Bull, far away in Dakota.
Yet Indians know no borders and roamed where they would, although each tribe had an area it conceived as its own hunting grounds until pushed out by some stronger tribe.
Fort Carlton, or as some termed it, Carlton House, was several days to the north. Leaving there, we must strike westward for the mountains, moving as rapidly as possible considering the condition of the cattle. All this had once been known as Prince Rupert’s Land, a vast and beautiful area now in dispute because of Louis Riel’s move to set up a provisional government.
We knew little or nothing of the dispute, having learned but the barest details, and had no wish to become involved in something that was clearly none of our business. We had heard there were a few Americans, and no doubt some Canadians as well, hungry for land for themselves or land to sell, who hoped to somehow profit from depriving the métis of their lands.
Lin was now the cook, and Baptiste handled the carts and helped with the cooking.
“Have care!” he warned me. “Blackfeet and Cree are fighting, and this is the way they come! They will steal your horses!”
It was a good warning, and we took care, for we had too few horses as it was. We hoped to get more at Carlton, but Baptiste shook his head to indicate doubt.
“Few horse! Many no good!” He paused a minute, then glanced at me. “You ride ver’ good. There is a place where some wild horses run, but grizzly bear, too! Much big grizzly! Ver’ mean! A place called Bad Hills!”
Day by day, we edged farther north, the length of our drives depending on the grass. In some places, rains had fallen, and the grass grew tall, but we found stretches where grass was poor and water hard to find. There were salt swamps and bare, dry hills. Buffalo we saw in plenty, and there was no question about meat. We found buffalo and occasionally a deer or bighorn sheep.
There were wolves always. They clung to our drive, watching for the chance to pull down any straggler, and several times they succeeded. One of the younger steers went into a swamp to test the water — it was salt — and became mired. Before its frightened bawling could bring us to help, the wolves were upon it.
Tyrel heard and came in at a dead run. His first shot caught one wolf atop the luckless steer and another fled, yelping wildly and dragging its hind quarters. We were too late to help the steer, and Cap put it out of its misery with a bullet.
We were camped at the Bad Hills when trouble erupted suddenly. Brandy had come in for coffee, and Gilcrist sat by the fire with the Ox, preparing to go on night guard.
Brandy was still limping from the fall he had taken during the stampede. Orrin an’ me had come in from scoutin’, and Orrin was on the ground stripping the gear from his horse. We were back under the trees and out of sight of the camp. Lin was at the fire, and Baptiste was repairing a lariat.
Cap and Haney were coming in; Tyrel, Fleming, and Shorty were with the cattle.
Brandy was limping a little. He’d been thrown and hurt during the stampede but said nothing of it, and we’d never have known except that once in a while, when he’d been in the saddle for a long time, you’d see him favoring the bad leg. Most of us were banged up more or less, but we taken it as part of the day’s work, as he did.
It was the Ox who started it. “What’s the matter, mama’s boy? Tryin’ to make somebody think you’re hurt?”
“Nothing of the kind. I do my share.”
The Ox took up a stick from the pile gathered for the fire. “Where’s it hurt, boy? There?” He hit him a crack just below the hip bone.
Brandy turned on him. “You put that stick down, Ox. And you lay off, d’you hear?”
“Or else what?” The Ox sneered.
Orrin came out of the trees. “Or else you settle with me, Ox.”
“This is my fight, Mr. Sackett,” Brandy said. “I will fight him.”
The Ox was twice the size of Brandy and several years older. Orrin walked forward. “Yes, Brandy, you have a prior claim, but this man is working for me, and he has chosen to ignore my suggestions. I’d take it as a favor if you’d let me have him.”
“Ha!” The Ox stood up. “Forget it, kid. I’d rather whip this smart lawyer-man. I’ll show him something he’ll never learn in books!”
He started around the fire, and Orrin let him come. Now I came out of the woods. Cap and Haney rode up, and we saw the Ox start for Orrin, swinging a ponderous right fist. Orrin took a short step off to the left and let the right go over his shoulder. At the same instant, he whipped up his right into the Ox’s belly.
It was a jolting punch, but the Ox turned like a cat, dropping into a half crouch. Orrin’s left took him in the mouth, but the Ox lunged, grabbing for Orrin to get hold of him. Orrin evaded the clutch, hooked a right to the body, and then walked in quickly with a one-two to the face.
The Ox ducked a left and grabbed Orrin, heaving him from his feet to hurl him violently to the ground. Charging in to put the boots to him, the Ox missed his first kick, and Orrin lunged against the leg on which the Ox was standing. The big man went back and down but came up like a rubber ball. A swinging fist caught Orrin beside the head, and he staggered; a left dug into his midsection, and Orrin clinched with the Ox.
The Ox gave a grunt of satisfaction and wrapped his powerful arms around Orrin and began to squeeze. He was enormously powerful, with arms as thick as the legs of most men, and he put the knuckles of a fist against Orrin’s spine; then he spread his legs and brought all his power to bear. Orrin gasped, then hooked a left to the Ox’s face, then a right; they had no effect. He started to bend Orrin back, trying literally to break his spine, but Orrin was a veteran of too many mountain and barge fights. He threw up his legs and fell back to the ground, bringing the Ox down atop him. The fall broke the grip the Ox had, and Orrin was too fast. Like an eel, he was out of the bigger man’s grasp and on his feet. The Ox lunged and met a stiff left that split his lips. He ducked and tried to get in close, but Orrin put the flat of his hand on the Ox’s head and spun him away, then deftly tripped him as the Ox went forward, off balance.
The Ox got up slowly. Orrin, knowing the bigger man was better on the ground, stood back and allowed him to get to his feet. “What’s the matter, Ox? Is something wrong?”
Cautious now, the Ox moved in, arms spread wide for grappling. Orrin waited on the balls of his feet, feinted a move to the left, then stepped in with a straight left and a right. The blows jolted the Ox but did not stop him. He landed a light left to Orrin’s chest, then a smashing right to the head that made Orrin’s knees buckle. Lunging close the Ox’s head butted Orrin on the chin, knocking Orrin’s head back like it was on a hinge.
Orrin went down. The Ox lunged close, kicking for Orrin’s head, but a swift movement partially evaded the kick, taking it on the shoulder. It toppled him over again, and the Ox rushed in, booting Orrin viciously in the ribs. Orrin, gasping with pain, lunged to his feet and swung a left that missed and a right that didn’t.
Moving around, neither man showing any sign of weariness, they circled for advantage. Orrin stabbed another left to the Ox’s bleeding lips and crossed a right that the Ox ducked under. He smashed a right to the ribs that jolted Orrin, who moved back, stabbing a left to the Ox’s face.