A bull elk, and a big one.
He started to lift his rifle, then hesitated, not wishing to shatter the stillness with a rifle shot. He smiled at himself, then lowered the rifle and turned away. They had meat enough for now, and if he knew Tom he would be fishing before noon tomorrow.
Carrying his rifle in the hollow of his arm, he walked back down the trail to the cabin. Tom had kindled a camp fire, and the smoke was rising slowly.
They had come a long way, but it was worth it. The shadows grew longer, and for a moment he stood halfway down the trail, looking at all that lay below. It was a quiet place, a lovely place, but suddenly he felt a shudder of fear.
They were alone, so very alone!
How far away was Cherry Creek? Were there nearer settlements? Or any neighbors at all? Suppose he should be injured? Unable to work?
Their food supplies were very low, and must be augmented by hunting and fishing. Tom was a good fisherman, and was on the way toward becoming a hunter, but that was not enough. They must plant their seed, once they had ploughed and harrowed the ground, and they must jerk some meat, and in the meanwhile, scout a little further around to see what trails there were, what neighbors they had.
This was, he believed, the land of the Ute, and the Utes were a fearless and warlike people, yet they had often been friendly to the white man.
He walked down to the fire. “Susanna, the first thing tomorrow, measure your flour, salt, coffee, sugar, and bacon. We’ll have to see just where we stand.
“There’s plenty of game.” He hesitated, a little embarrassed. “I saw an elk up there. I just couldn’t shoot him.”
“Let’s not hunt close by, Duncan. We don’t have to, do we?”
“It would be better not to,” he said thoughtfully. “If anything goes wrong we may not want to go too far afield for meat.”
She looked at him quickly. She knew him very well indeed, and she felt the sudden change in mood.
“Is something wrong? Doesn’t the place look right?”
“No, it’s fine. It has everything. Everything but neighbors, I am afraid.”
“You think they are following us, don’t you?”
He hesitated before replying, but he had never been one who believed women should be sheltered. Protected, cared for, but not kept in ignorance. “Yes, I do. We have to think that way, Susanna, and if we are wrong we will have lost nothing.”
He squatted and fed some sticks into the fire. And in the moment of stillness after their talking stopped, they both heard it. A single shot.
CHAPTER XI
For a moment, neither moved. He squatted on his heels, she standing beside the fire, coffee-pot in hand. A shot?
Well, why not? They were not alone in the world, no matter how much it seemed so. There were sure to be prospectors, hunters, trappers, Indians….
“Maybe we do have neighbors,” he said striving to keep his tone casual.
How far would the sound of a shot carry? In this clear air, perhaps as much as a mile, or even further. Yet whoever fired that shot was not far off, certainly within two miles. And that would imply they might have a neighbor.
Or that the Doc Shabbitt outfit had caught up with them.
“Somebody hunting meat,” Duncan added. “Only one shot… and at this hour. I’d say somebody killed a deer or an elk.”
Tom caught three good-sized trout that evening, but they kept their fire small, cooked and ate the trout fresh from the stream, and by daylight Duncan started to examine the house. While he checked it over to see what needed to be done, Susanna went through their supplies. Their gifts to the Indians had cut sharply into their small hoard.
Only a few pounds of flour remained, and only three cupfuls of sugar. There was a slab of bacon, some dried apples, and the condiments. Fortunately there was a good supply of coffee and several pounds of tea scarcely touched.
Duncan listened while she told him and nodded. “All right, we will have to take it easy. Tom’s fish supplied our supper, and we’ve enough venison left for breakfast. Tomorrow I’ll go hunting.”
That day they cleaned and mopped the cabin, wiping down the ceiling and walls, cleaning the cobwebs from the corners of the loft. There had never been glass in the windows, just strips of canvas tied over them to let light in and keep the rain out. The cabin had two rooms, a bedroom and a combination living room and kitchen. There was a lean-to where wood had been stored.
“That’s your job, Tom,” Duncan told him. “You can fill it up.”
Tom looked at it, appalled. “Pa! That’ll take days!”
“It will take days, perhaps weeks, but if we stay here it must be filled. Keep a corner for kindling, pitch-pine, and fine stuff to start fires.”
The following day, several miles to the south, Duncan killed a deer, skinned it out and brought the hide and the best cuts of meat back to the cabin, and Susanna found the first of the strawberries. They were small but of excellent flavor.
Yet the sound of that one shot disturbed them. Duncan McKaskel knew they would have no rest until it was discovered who had fired that shot, and why.
On the morning of the third day he saddled the blaze-faced sorrel with the three white stockings. “Stay close,” he said, “and keep the shotgun at hand. I will be gone several hours, but will definitely be back before dark. If I see any game I’ll try to bring back some meat.”
They watched him ride away into the aspens. He rode toward the mountain, and upstream. Susanna knew he intended to circle around and study the country.
Susanna heated water and began to wash clothes. Tom went to picking up fallen limbs, chunks of fallen trees and odds and ends of bark for fuel.
As she looked about her, Susanna was concerned about all that must be done before cold weather came upon them, and once more she thought how ill-fitted they were for the life they had begun.
When she had finished her washing and hung the clothes out to dry on a string from the wagon to the corner of the cabin, she got a sheet of paper and began to list what was needed. Once snow fell there was little they could do to obtain supplies, so all must be had beforehand.
Always her ears listened for a shot, but she heard no sound. Tom walked out through the trees, and swung back to their trail. When he returned to the cabin he said, “There are no tracks. At least, none that I could see. The wind and the rain have wiped them out.”
They could not be found then. They were safe. Yet even as she thought it she knew they must always be alert, always ready. The afternoon was warm, and restlessly, she walked down to the river. Tom had a line in the water but he shook his head when she started to speak.
She had started to turn away when some movement caught her eye and she looked up. A rider sat on the edge of the bluff just beyond the trees. He was no one with whom she was acquainted, nor did the horse seem familiar. He was looking at something to their north and she slowly eased back to the brush, motioning to Tom.
Tom drew his line in and slipped back beside her. Crouching together, they watched the man.
For some time he sat there without moving. Then he turned his horse and started down the trail into the river-bottom. As his face turned toward them, Susanna gasped.
The man’s nose was flattened on his face, and even at this distance she seemed to see some discoloration on his face, yet it might only have been the shadows of leaves. He had almost reached the bottom of the short trail when he pulled up sharply, then swung his mount and rode back up the trail.
Far off they heard a faint call.
When he was gone they went quickly back to the cabin, and Tom looked to see if the shotgun was loaded. It was.
“It was that man, Tom, I am sure of it. It was the man I hit that night.”
“He certainly had a bashed-in nose,” Tom said. “Do you think he knows who did it?”
“One of us, certainly. Tom, I wish your father was back. I wonder how they found us?”
“I don’t believe they have,” Tom said, “or else he would not have turned around and gone off. They’re just looking around.”
She considered that. From where he had stopped the cabin was not in view, nor could their wagon have been seen. The horse and mules were in the pasture on the bench above the cabin.