“I had no schooling, ma’am, so I’m making out with this book and a few others. Some day”—I felt myself getting red around the gills—”I hope to have children and they’ll have schooling, and I don’t aim they should be ashamed of their Pa.”
“How could they be?” Ange demanded. “You’re good, you’re brave, and—”
“Here they come,” I said, and settled down behind the woodpile.
We could hear their boots crunching through the snow. There were five of them. Tuthill I recognized at once, and the two men beside him were probably the Bigelows. Will Boyd looked done up from the climbing and the cold. Behind him was Ben Hobes. The only one missing was that white-haired youngster with the guns.
I watched them come, chewing on a bit of stick, my Winchester in my hands. They were playing the fool, for at that distance…
“Come on out, Sackett! We want to talk.”
“I can hear you.”
“Come on out here.”
“And leave this warm fire? I’m comfortable.”
They started arguing among themselves. Then Tuthill started toward the cave, so I put a bullet into the snow at his feet and he stopped so quick he almost fell.
“You boys have got bigger problems than me,” I commented, conversationally. “A sight of snow fell since you came into the mountains. How do you plan to get out?”
“Look here, Sackett,” Tuthill said, “we know you’re sitting on a rich claim. Well, all we want is a piece of it. Why be foolish? There’s enough for us
“Why share it? I’ve got it, and all you boys have
a chance to die in the snow.” I eased my position a little. Tuthill, you don’t to understand. When you came in here you came into a trap. The passes are closed, and we’re all going to spend the winter. I hope you brought grub for five or six months.”
“If you don’t come out, Sackett,” Tuthill threatened, “we’re coming in.” “If I shoot again, Tuthill, I’ll shoot to kill.” It was cold. Knowing this kind of country as I did, I knew what we could expect. It had cleared It was cold now—at least ten below. In a few it might drop to fifty below.
“Ben,” I called, “you’re no pilgrim. Tell them how cold it can get at ten or eleven thousand feet on a still night. We are all stuck for the winter, and you might as well get used to the idea.
You’re going to need shelter, fuel, and food. The game won’t stay this high, it will all head for lower ground. If you make a run for it, you might still get out.”
The pile of fire-wood covered half the tunnel mouth to a height of more than four feet, and made a crude windbreak and shelter from gunfire. The tunnel, in following the vein, had taken a slight bend—enough to shelter one person—and I whispered to Ange to get back behind it.
While partly open, the walls of rock acted as reflectors and threw heat back upon us. Moreover, in our struggle to live, I would have three priceless assets not available to them—the pick, shovel, and axe.
They had come to take a mine away from me. I had come to work the mine.
I knew there were at least two things they could do that would be terribly dangerous to us. They could direct a heavy fire at the walls and roof of the tunnel, causing the bullets to ricochet within the small space. Such bullets tear like the jagged pieces of hot metal they are.
And they could kill the horses.
Killing them in the tunnel mouth could obscure our vision, and might even block escape. It might be they were doomed to die anyway, but I was going to get them out if I could.
Somewhere up on the slope a tree branch cracked in the cold. It was very still … an icy stillness.
Boyd stamped his feet and complained. Boyd would be the first to go. He simply hadn’t the guts for the long pull. Of them all, Ben Hobes was the one to last.
Suddenly, they turned around and started for trees. / should nail one of them, I thought. it was too late, and they were under three large trees and behind some brush where I could hear branches breaking as they built a fire. They would need more than a fire. Where was the kid?
There had been six … one had tripped and fallen down below. That whole lower canyon was of boulders and logs, covered now with snow.
The bullet hit the butt end of a cut log just an instant before the report racketed against the hills. I reached over for the coffeepot and filled my cup. Nursing it in my hands to keep my fingers warm, I sat tight. A volley of shots came next, and one of them struck above the entrance, showering the woodpile with chipped rock.
back there, Ange. Don’t move unless you have to.”
“Tell? Are we going to get out of this?”
“Ange, I could lie to you, but I don’t know. If any of us get out, we’ll be lucky.”
For several minutes they kept up a hammering and I let them shoot, holding my cup in my and waiting. Finally, they stopped, and we could hear them arguing.
Would they believe us dead? That was what I hoped.
Tuthill called out, but I made no sound. A couple searching shots came then, one striking the rock the opening again, the other hitting just inside the
Again Tuthill yelled, and I finished my coffee, peering through openings in the woodpile.
Another shot. This one struck deep into the cave with an angry smack.
There was more arguing. The voices could be heard, but not the words. Then the bushes parted and Tom Bigelow was coming toward the cave, a pistol in his hand.
He slowed as he came nearer, worried by what he was doing. He paused, threw up his pistol, and fired. It was a quick, testing shot, and it struck the rock at the side of the opening.
Bigelow hesitated, then came on, walking fast. He was within a dozen steps when I spoke out “All right, Bigelow. Drop that gun!”
He pulled up sharp, starting to tilt the gun.
“Drop it!”
He could see the rifle muzzle now. At that distance even a child couldn’t miss with a Winchester. He dropped the gun.
“Your brother was killed because he tried to bottom deal on me, and I told him he’d better not grab iron. He tried it. I didn’t want to kill him.”
Tom Bigelow said nothing.
“Unloose your gun belt,” I said.
He unfastened the belt and let it fall.
“All right, I’m letting you go back. But before you go, you might tell me what you boys are going to do for something to eat. Your passes are closed. You can’t take our grub, and if you could, there isn’t enough to last out a week.”
“We can get back.”
“Ask Ben Hobes. Ask him about Al Packer.”
“Who’s he?”
“He started across the mountains in the winter with a party. They ran out of grub. He ate all five of the others. These same mountains. Are you ready for that, Bigelow?”
“You’re lyin’!”
“All right, go on back.”
One less gun they had, and maybe eighteen to twenty less ca’tridges. Come night time they would try and close in on me. Of course, on the white snow…
“Did they bring any pack horses?” I asked Ange.
“No,” she said, “they planned to go right back.”
They would be short of grub then. Whatever they did, they must do at once.
Suddenly, as Bigelow disappeared into the trees, I levered three fast, searching shots over there, waited an instant, then fired again, holding the rifle a little lower.
Shivering, I added fuel to the fire. The hungry flames crept slowly along the branches, then finding a piece of pitch pine, blazed up. A shot struck the roof, ricocheted down, and scattered fire. I brushed the sparks from my clothing and the bed, and felt a sharp tug at my sleeve as a second bullet came, striking just beyond the fire.
Through the trees I could see their fire. Lying prone on the cold floor, and taking my time, I drew a careful bead on a dark spot at the edge. It might be a log or a stump. It might also be a man.
For a moment I relaxed. Then, taking a long breath, I gathered trigger-slack, let the breath out slowly, and squeezed off the shot.
The cry was hoarse, choking . . . followed by a horrible retching sound such as I had never heard from anything, animal or human.
There was a volley in reply. I fired four more shots that covered an area about four feet back from the fire, and then a final shot across the fire itself.