and also Andre and Swan had gone the other way and pa might have thought they’d
be lyin’ in wait to see if they were followed.
Right below the spring where pa stopped with Pierre, only about two miles away,
was the valley of the West Fork of the San Juan, and a lovely valley it was.
I could picture them, Pierre lyin’ there suffering in his pain, pa tired as all
get-out what with pullin’ a load at a high altitude and his hip bothering him
and all. I’d had a few badly bruised bones, once from a bullet, another time
when a bronc pitched me into some rocks, and the last time when a steer flung
his head around and hit me with a horn.
The fire would be flickerin’ on their faces, drawn and tired as they were, and
right behind them the shadows of rocks and trees.
Orrin took up reading again. He had a better voice than me, and he made a better
thing of it.
Pierre is at last asleep, which gives him relief. I have gathered wood for the
night and the morning fire. My hip is bothering me, and I’m afraid it will
stiffen during the night. I have been thinking much of ma and the boys,
wondering if ever they will see these words, if ever they will know what has
become of me. They are good boys, and will grow strong and tall. I wish I could
be there to see them, but tonight I feel no confidence. A growing thing is in
me, not a fear of Andre or of Utes, not even a fear of death, only a fear I
shall not see them again.
I was awakened by muttering from Pierre. The man was delirious, and I worried. I
looked at him in the fire’s red light, and he looked wildly at me and muttered
about Philip. I made hot broth and managed to get some of it into him, but he
talked wildly of poison, of the death of his father, of some thin red line that
ran through the Baston line, and a lot that made no sense to me.
June 2: Camp on the West Fork. Pierre in bad shape. His legs in splints, but
nothing more I can do. They are in frightful shape. Several times he has thanked
me for staying by him.
June 3: Same place. No more than 15 miles from where we started. Ute tracks,
some unshod horses, nothing fresh. I must have fires to heat water. Hot water on
his legs seems to ease him somewhat. The coffee is almost gone.
June 4: Pierre is dead! Went to the river for water and returning found him
dead, stabbed three times in the heart. It was no Indian, for nothing was taken,
not the coffee or the sugar, nor powder or lead.
Andre or Swan? I dare have no fire now. I shall bury Pierre, gather my few
things, and take to the woods. I have just seen three of our horses grazing a
little way downstream! I believe they will come to me for I always had something
for them. I shall go now, and try.
That was the end of it. No more. Pa had gone to try for those horses.
“Nativity Pettigrew,” I said. “He had the daybook. How did he come by it?”
“Maybe he was the one who murdered Pierre,” the Tinker suggested. “Maybe when
your pa went after the horses he came back, stole the book, and took off. You
recall what your pa said? Pettigrew suspected him of writing things down? That
daybook must have worried him.”
“We’ve got to find that camp. That may be the last lead we get.”
We sat around the fire talking it over, drinking coffee, keeping our ears in
tune with the night. I was restless, ready to move on. A lot of men had looked
for gold here and not found it, and I did not wish to become another of them.
Nor did Orrin.
In the morning we would take the route to Windy Pass.
At first Nell would have none of it, but we argued there was gold closer to
where her pa was. I think we all turned in figuring that tomorrow would tell us
the end of the story of pa’s disappearance.
None of us wanted a fight with Andre and them. Well, I’ll have to back up on
that. Fact was, I’d not mind so much, only that it would profit nobody. I had an
itch to tangle—especially with Swan. There’s something gets up in my craw when I
come up against a bully, and Hippo Swan was that.
There was nothing to be gained by fighting them, and I was ready to ride off and
leave them be. Just the same, I felt one of the true pleasures of life would be
to plant a fist in Hippo’s face. But I was prepared to deny myself that
pleasure.
Some things just don’t shape up the way a man hopes for.
Come morning we packed our gear, and we helped Nell get straightened around, and
then we headed for Windy Pass as our first stop on the way west to Shalako.
Looking back with regret, I saw that little mountain valley disappear behind us.
It was a place we’d stopped at for only a few days, but I’d come to love it—the
beaver ponds, the distant sound of Silver Falls, the cold, sparkling waters of
the East Fork.
There was an easier trail down the East Fork to the main valley, but we were
wishful of scouting around the pass, so we went up the mountain. It was just a
mite over two miles to Windy Pass.
We found signs of several old fires up yonder, but nothing more to tell us
anything about pa. He’d been there, but so had others.
Orrin pulled up quick, just as we started out. “I thought I heard a shot,” he
said. I’d heard nothing, but Judas believed he had, too.
We rode out on the trail to the valley and turned south. To really appreciate
the valley of the West Fork of the San Juan you’ve got to see it from north of
where we were, up yonder where the Wolf Creek Pass trail takes a big swing and
starts down the mountain. There’s a place there that’s a thousand feet above the
valley floor. You can see right down the length of the valley and there isn’t a
prettier sight under heaven.
We turned into the trail and started along, moving at a good pace. We had Nell
with us, and, like I’ve said, we weren’t shaping up for no fight. None of us
liked Andre. We figured him for a murdering so-and-so, but we weren’t elected by
the good Lord to put out his light … not so far as we knew. I surely wasn’t
going to hunt him, but if he happened to come up in my sights, it would be a
mighty temptation.
It was a beautiful morning, a morning to ride and feel, and we all felt the same
about that. None of us were much given to talk, although Orrin could sing. He
sang while we rode—”Tenting Tonight on the Old Camp-Ground,” “Black, Black,
Black,” and “Barbry Alien.” I was wishful of joining him when he sang “Brennan
on the Moor,” but there was no use to wake the coyotes or disturb the peace of
Jacob, the mule. Only time I sing is when I am alone on a sleepy horse. There’s
limits to everything.
Meanwhile, we rode wary for pa’s camp. A lot of time had gone by, but there was
a chance we could find something.
The way we figured it now, somebody had returned to murder Pierre and pa.
Andre and Swan? Or Pettigrew?
I couldn’t get Nativity Pettigrew out of my mind. He was a sly man, a murderous
man possibly, but he’d had the daybook, and the only way he could have gotten
that daybook would have been to follow pa and Pierre.
Pettigrew had gold on his mind, and mayhap he had found it, and was wishful of
keeping it. He would have to be mighty shy of how he brought it down off that
mountain. A lot of people wish to find treasure, but few of them realize how
hard it is to handle after you’ve got it.
How do you bring a million dollars in gold down off a mountain? Mules, you say?
You’ve got to get mules or horses, and that starts people wondering what you
want them for. And you may need help, but help can be greedy, often as murderous
as you.
I tell you, gold is easier found than kept.
CHAPTER XVIII
Neb scouted ahead for us, and that was a canny dog. He was big enough to be kin
to a grizzly and had a nose like an Arkansas coonhound.