“Beat it,” I said. “You take off through those woods and don’t you ever come back. If I see you out here again, I’ll hang your hide on the nearest deadfall.”
“Those are good spurs,” Haney said.
“Hang ’em on a tree,” I said. “Somebody will find them.”
We bunched our cows and started them west, and we swung south to avoid the traveled trails. We found fair pasture and moved them along. The wolves taken a steer here and there, and we lost one to a grizzly. Shorty nailed the grizzly but not before he’d killed a good-sized steer.
The grass was sparse, and we crossed some sandy plains with occasional low hills. We had to scout for patches of good grass, but it looked like forest was taking over from the plains. On the third day after the mix-up in the trees, we saw a party of riders coming toward us, but Baptiste told us they were métis, and sure enough they were.
Some of them were the same crowd we’d met, and they brought some horses for trading. We had them with us all night and most of the next day, but when we split up, we had nine good horses and a couple of fair ones, and they had some odds and ends of truck as well as some cash money.
We swapped them a rifle we’d picked up and the pistol we’d taken from our hanging man, among other things. The Canadian army had come to Fort Garry, they said, and Riel had disappeared before they could lay hands on him.
The métis wanted sugar, salt, and tobacco, and I had an idea they were hiding out themselves, although they were a far piece from Fort Garry now. Evidently, they planned to stay out of sight for a while. With salt, coffee, and tobacco, they could live off the country. It was their country, and they understood it well.
They warned us we were going into wild country where there was little grass and no trails for cattle.
We pushed on regardless, and for the first time out worn-down saddle stock got a rest
Before they parted from us, one of the métis who was a friend to Baptiste and had become my friend, also, took me aside and warned me.
“Two mans, ver’ bad. They come to Fort Garry and ride to Carlton. They are sent for by a bearded man, and they meet two other mans who come from the, States who are brothers, also. They hunt for you.”
“The first two men? Do you know who they are?”
“Oui. Ver’ bad! Polon is their name. Pete and Jock Polon. If the Hudson’s Bay Company was here, they would not come back! They are thieves! They killed trappers! They killed some Cree! And in the woods they are superb! Have a care, mon ami! Have a care!”
We drove on another seven miles before we camped after watching the métis ride away.
Orrin looked across the campfire at me that night. “Tell, we aren’t going to make it. We can’t make it before snow flies.”
“What d’you think, Cap?”
“Orrin’s right We’ve got to push them, Orrin, even if we run beef off them. After all, it’s cattle we are supposed to deliver. Nobody said nothing about fat cattle!”
That night, two men, headed east, rode into our camp. “You’re takin’ cattle out there?” They stared at me. “You must be crazy!”
“You mean there’s no market?”
“Market? Of course, there’s a market! It’s gettin’ ’em there. There’s no decent trails; there’s rivers to cross, grizzlies a-plenty, and wolves — you ain’t seen any wolves yet!”
One of them, a tall man named Pearson, indicated the carts. “You won’t be able to use those much longer. The trails are too narrow. Put your stuff on pack horses.”
“My old horse will carry a pack,” Brandy suggested. “He’s done it before.”
We sat long with the two travelers, getting as much advice as we could. They drew the trail in the dirt for us, indicating the passes.
“How are things up there?” I asked. “Peaceful?”
“Generally speaking. Some of the boys get a mite noisy now and again. There’s brawls and such and once in a great while a shooting. Mostly, they’re just noisy.”
“The best claims are all taken,” the other one said. “If you’re figuring on staking claims, forget it.”
“We’ll just sell our beef and get out,” Orrin commented. Then, tentatively, he added, “We promised delivery to a man named Sackett, Logan Sackett.”
They stared at him. “Too bad about him, and I’m afraid you’re too late. He’s dead.”
“What?”
“I’ll say this for him. He was a man. Party got trapped in the passes last year, and he went up and brought ’em out. Saved seven men and a woman. He brought ’em through snow like you never saw. Avalanche country.”
“You say he’s dead?” I asked.
“He went north. There were rumors of a strike up in the Dease River country. Story was that he was killed in a gun battle up there with some outlander.”
“Big man?”
“Your height,” Pearson said to Orrin, “but heavier by twenty pounds. Come to think of it, he favored you somewhat.”
“Who killed him?”
“That was a bad outfit. They’d been in some trouble in Barkerville. Don’t recall what. Five or six of them, and smart, tough men. The one who seemed to be the leader was named Gavin.”
“Gavin?” I glanced over at Nettie, who was listening.
“Kyle Gavin?”
“No, this one’s called Shanty. Shanty Gavin, and he’s as mean and tough as he is smart.”
Pearson looked over at me. “It was Shanty Gavin who killed Logan Sackett. Shot him dead.”
Chapter XXII
Logan Sackett dead? I didn’t believe it. He was too durned ornery to die. Besides, I’d seen him come through cuttings and shootings and clubbings like he was born to them.
Shanty Gavin? Any relation to Kyle Gavin?
Who was Shanty, and what did he want? For that matter, who was Kyle Gavin?
Pearson and his partner headed on east, back to the fleshpots and away from the gold fields. Fraser River gold was too fine, and the Cariboo was played out, or so they said, but we’d learned long ago to discount anything anybody said who was either going to or coming from a gold field.
“Any way you look at it,” Cap said, “we’re drivin’ these cows right into trouble.”
“I never seen any trouble a cow couldn’t handle,” Haney said wryly. “What I’m wonderin’ about is us. What are we gettin’ into?”
“Move ’em along,” I said. “The time’s gettin’ short, and if we don’t hurry, there’ll be frost on the punkin before we get where we’re going.”
“I want to get there,” Shorty said, “so’s we can get out before the snow settles down. I’m a warm-weather man myself, born for the sunny side of the hill.”
That was the night we left our carts behind. We divided what they contained into packs for four horses.
“We can burn them,” Fleming said. “They’ll make a hot fire for cooking.”
“We’ll leave them,” I said. “Somebody may come who needs a cart. We’ll push them back under the trees and leave them for whoever comes. Good hands made them, and I’ll not destroy honest work.”
Again we moved out, pointing our way into the darker hills. The forest was changing now, and ahead of us we saw peaks that were bare of growth, and some were covered by snow. Grass was scarce, and we watched for meadows where the cattle could stop and feed. Our travel was arranged to make the most of grass when we found it. There were firs among the poplars now and sometimes groves of stunted pine. We skirted a forest blown down by winds where the dead trees lay in rows like mowed grain.
Orrin was riding point when we met the grizzly. We’d been coming along a forest trail, the cattle strung out for a couple of miles or more and Orrin riding quiet, making no sound. Suddenly, the grizzly arose from the brush and stood tall in the trail. Startled, Orrin’s horse reared, and Orrin kept his seat, drawing his pistol as he did so.
The first we knew of trouble was the sharp bark of his pistol, then three times more, rapid fire. Tyrel, Haney, Cap, an’ me, we lit out for the front of the column.
Ever try to get through a trail jammed with cattle? It took time, too much time.
Cattle began bucking and plunging, trying to get into the woods and brush on either side of the trail, and we could hear the roaring and snarling of what was obviously a mighty big bear. We fought our way through, but getting there was tough.
We heard two more shots, and we broke through to find a big grizzly lying in the trail, crippled but still full of fight.