Fair Land Fair Land - A B Guthrie Page 4

  As they were about to leave the Dalles, Higgins had said to Summers, "Dick, how in hell am I going to pay you back? You spend money like you got no use for it."

  "Used it, didn't I? And where we're goin' it don't count for much. As for payin' me back, I'll worry about that when my taxes come due."

  That meant never, of course, and all Higgins could think to say was, "Well, shit. Thanks."

  So there, day by day, was Summers riding ahead, pushing his horse to a good clip. If he ever got tired, he didn't show it. The damn man was made of whang leather. At the end of the day he'd say, "Best just set a spell, Hig. You look fagged. I"ll tend to things."

  But a man couldn't let him do that, not if he had any pride, not when he must be twenty years younger.

  Sometimes Higgins wondered why he trailed along. Sure, to get yonder. To see things not seen before. Just to mosey along, careless, and think free and easy. To be away from folks and close to God if there was one. All the same, he wouldn't be where he was but for the man that Summers was.

  They lived on meat, deer meat mostly. It was Summers who shot it. He could see game where there couldn't be any. A time or two they ate rabbit or fool hen that Higgins bagged with his old scattergun. They were easy targets even if a man aimed at the head so's not to get birdshot in the carcass.

  One morning Higgins mixed corn meal with melted meat fat, added a dab of honey, poured in hot water and made what his maw called corn dodger. Eating it, Summers smiled and said, "Please to pass the butter and buttermilk."

  That was the morning Summers heated water, took from his possible sack a hunk of homemade soap brown as dung and then started to sharpen his Green River knife. Satisfied with its edge, he fixed a piece of tin mirror in the loose bark of a tree.

  At last Higgins asked, "What in hell you aimin' to do?"

  "Mow the crop down."

  "Shave? Jesus Christ! With that toad-stabber?"

  "Done it many's the time."

  "Why?"

  "Don't like to be called dog face. That's Indian for whiskers."

  "You wasn't always so tidy."

  "Them west-coast Indians don't count."

  "They was mostly pretty smooth-faced, though."

  "Yup. Indian face skin can't grow much of a crop. If a hair happens to come through, the Indians pluck it out."

  "Goin' to braid your hair, too?"

  "Maybe. When it gets long enough."

  "Well, let me borrow some of that hot water and soap. I got my own razor."

  That night they let the campfire burn out, the air being soft with a touch of breeze in it. The horses grazed close, Feather's bell sounding clear to his step. Summers got the jug out and passed it, and they drank while butted on the ground by the dead fire.

  Higgins looked up at the sky, at what he told himself was a glory of stars. "You ever see so many stars, Dick?"

  "Wait till we get out on the plains."

  "You ever tried to count 'em?"

  "Sure did. But when I got to a million, I kind of dozed off. Take another swaller and pass the jug."

  The liquor eased the ache in the bones and brought the mind to a sort of lazy life.

  "What men may be doin' seems no account here," Higgins said. "Don't amount to a damn. But back in Missouri they was talkin' hot about war with Mexico so's to get Texas. What we want with Texas, Dick?"

  "I never been there. Down south to Taos and around, but Texas wasn't for trappers. Put it the other way round. What does Texas want with us for a fact? Either way don't make sense, I'm thinkin'. We take it, and what do we get? More people, and we got a God's plenty of people. That's what spoils a country."

  "All of us guilty, I reckon. I humped a little slave gal for a while. She was young, no older'n a yearling by animal count, but I never hung around to see what come of it. When it come to couplin', I can tell you, she was plumb human. That's what gets me about slavery. Countin' niggers no good except for work, then havin' a high old time with their heifers. You ever owned a slave, Dick?"

  "Never wanted to."

  "Me, neither. But if it ever got down to war, what would you do?"

  "Cuss both sides probably. I don't know."

  Summers fell silent. When at last he spoke, his voice sounded sad. "I seen this country in its prime, Hig. Beaver in every stream. We found passes, we did, and followed trails only game knew. But, hell, I jabbered about all this before."

  "Not so plain as now. Go on."

  "Where we set foot we might have been the first man there, and we breathed new air into our lungs, and all the time felt glad and free inside and never gave a thought about what was to come. About farmers and plows and hide-hunters and all that. We figured our life was forever. We screwed ourselves, me included, finding trails and passes and kind of gentling the country. It makes a man cuss himself."

  "And that's why we're goin' where we're goin'?"

  "One reason. To see what's left. To pleasure ourselves while we can."

  A star fell down the sky, and the breeze stirred the ash of the fire, and Summers said for good-night while he looked up,

  "More damn people than all the stars."

  They corked the jug and went to their beds. A bird, a jay maybe, squawked from the dark trees. Higgins lay on his back and let the stars and the night take him.

  8

  THAT HALF-BREED at the Dalles — yeah, Antoine was his name — knew what he was doing when he traced the way to the Bitter Root. Yet Summers figured he could have found it himself. A mountain man learned by the stream flow, by the game trails, by the lay of the land, by the hunch in his bones, how to get where he wanted to be.

  Where he wanted to be was close to the mountains but out on the plains, where a man could look west and see the jagged wall that separated the worlds and east where distance ran beyond the reach of his eyes. He asked himself what he would do when he got there. Enjoy himself while the strength of his young time fluttered his bones. Enjoy himself. Sure. Chase down memories. It was as good a life as any he knew and better than most. Git along, hoss.

  They were on a high tableland where trees were few and the wind could tear at them from any direction. A tumbleweed tore loose from its hold on earth and went rolling away. He had sand, the scourings of wind, in his teeth, in his ears and his clothes. The horses walked with their heads down, their manes and tails whipping. The torn air had the beginning bite of winter in it.

  They had made good time, Summers thought while his horse shied at a tumbleweed that blew past his nose. They had tackled the trail early and late and kept going through all the days. They should be over the mountains and out on the plains before heavy snow fell, though no man could tell the way of the weather.

  The trail led downhill and away, and from behind him Higgins shouted against the wind, "Holy Christ, what a slope!"

  There, down from them, was the Snake and its feeder, the Clearwater. Hard by was a shack and a horse corral. Both seemed deserted. Here, down in the hole, the air turned warmer. They held up, looking.

  "If there was someone to home," Higgins said, his eyes on the shack, "we might pay a visit. Might hear some news."

  "News don't matter to us, Hig. It's just talk where talk means nothin', just air passin' by."

  "Might be more."

  "Only if it's news of a war party, Injuns on the peck, and that ain't likely now, I'm thinkin'."

  Higgins was a good man. He worked fine in harness. He did his full share of work. He didn't complain. And it was natural to him that he hankered to talk to somebody else. It was natural he asked questions there was no answer to. They didn't matter.

  They helped pass the time in camp.

  At the bank of the Snake Summers held up again. "Looks like we could ford most anywhere. Some swimmin' water, but this ain't the Snake we knew before. It's calmed down a right smart. Let's move a piece, so's to land on the right bank of the Clearwater. That"s where the trail is."

  "Water's deeper there on account of the Clearwater comin' in."

>   "But not too bad I bet you."

  They dismounted a few yards downstream and loosened the cinches so the horses could draw in plenty of air and float lighter.

  Before they tried the crossing Summers asked, "How's your horses at swimmin'?"

  "You seen them before. Like fish." Higgins gave his toothless grin. "You know. Under water."

  A man couldn't call the ford bad. A place or two the horses had to swim, and the current carried them downstream a piece, but they climbed up on shore all right, and the packs hadn't suffered.

  They waited for the horses to get their wind back. "Trail's over there, I figure," Summers said, "and we got a good part of the day left. What say we charge ahead if you're up to it?"

  "Up to it, hell! Just keep out of my way."

  The trail led into forests, into dense, tall stands of evergreens, some of which grew straight as a plumb line. Not all of the trees were the trees of Oregon. Some of them had different bark and different shape. The sun was lost here, crowded out, only a rare shaft slanting through the overhead growth. It wasn't land to a man's liking, not to his anyway, though there was no wet in the air and no salt. The wind had let up.

  They found a small clearing and made camp just as dusk was closing in. They heated water and washed and shook the sand out of their clothes and put them back on again, for the night had turned chill. They ate deer meat that was going sour.

  They lighted pipes afterward and sat and let the earth draw out their fag while they fed small bites to the fire.

  "Reckon we're halfway to yonder?" Higgins asked.

  "Couple of days, thereabouts, we ought to move down to the Bitter Root. Meantime we have to kill meat for the pot."

  "Grouse likely. This ain't huntin' country. Too damn much growth. I can't hardly keep you in sight after you make a turn."

  "Don't worry your head. We made out so far."

  "That deer meat had a taint to it that don't rest easy in my belly."

  "I'll find us an elk, I'm thinkin'. This is their kind of country."

  "If you can see to aim."

  In bed Summers heard the hoarse howls of wolves and the quavering cries of coyotes. He had to put his mind to it to hear them. They let loose every night and again just before sunup, and a man took them as natural as the sound of wind in the trees or of running water and didn't pay any heed, not unless he listened particular.

  He wondered why they gave voice. Take a dog, now, and you could find reasons, like the barks were warnings or dares or came out of fear. But wolves? Coyotes? Did they cry out from hunger? From what was bred in them? For no reason that a man could put a name to? One thing for sure. They sounded lonely, like as if on lost trails.

  He fell asleep to their howls and quavers.

  The horses neighed shrilly. Hooves sounded and the breaking of brush. Feather's bell rang out wild.

  Summers rolled from bed and grabbed his Hawken. As he moved out he felt rather than saw Higgins behind him. He moved by starshine. He squinted against the dark curtain of trees. There was a flowing movement like water in shadow, black sliding through black, and he fired, and a high scream chased the crack of the shot, chased other sounds into silence. He went on.

  There, dying, lay a panther, shot through the chest. A star caught a golden gleam from the fur. The panther managed a snarl before its head fell.

  "Cat country," Summers said as Higgins moved to his side.

  "Likely clawed one of the horses. Got to see."

  They found Feather after a hunt. The other horses were close by. Feather's hams had deep slashes in them.

  "Damn hobbles," Summers said. "They slowed him down. They was to blame."

  "Not to mention the cat," Higgins said.

  "Anyhow, the horses are glad for our company. No more hobbles. After this they won't range far."

  "Meantime, what do we put on them gashes?"

  "Grease. Meat grease. Got any?"

  "We ain't scoured the kettle yet."

  "That'll do. Keep off the flies, come a warm spell. I don't look for poison to set in, not here in the mountains."

  They doctored Feather as well as they could in the dark. One thing for sure, he had learned not to stray far from camp.

  "Tomorrow," Summers told Higgins, "we'll have a go at painter meat."

  "I hope Cod and my maw don't look on."

  They went back to their bedrolls. Half-drowsing, Summers heard Higgins say, "And I thought I could shoot!"

  9

  THEY WERE NEARING the crest, so Summers told Higgins. "Another day or so," he had said, "and we ought to be hoof"in' it down to the Bitter Root valley."

  Higgins hoped so. He was tired of forests, tired of the trees that closed them in and even tireder of mountains. As they plodded along, his mind went to tracing the country they had come through. There was Oregon and the high trees and rain and moss and ferns and fronds where a horse went fetlock deep in the mold. There was the long plateau yon side of the Snake and wind that choked a man's breath in his lungs. And there was this long climb up the Clearwater and the damn forests again and a trail that turned tricky. How long had they been traveling? How far had they come? He asked Summers, and Summers answered, "Sleeps or miles?"

  "I can figure the sleeps out for myself. Make it miles."

  "I dunno. Three hundred plus, maybe. Maybe more. I ain't so much on miles. I go by country and seasons. Anyhow, we been makin' good time."

  More than three hundred miles, and now it began to snow. There was wind with it, and the cold numbed fingers and feet, no matter the covering, and then it struck at the bones. The snow whirled and played with the trail, more often hiding it than letting it show, and Summers pulled up his horse and shouted back, "Time to hole up, I'm thinkin'."

  The wind swept the words away, swept them along with the snow into the moving trees, to the mountains and to hell and gone where.

  Summers tried to look the country over. There was snow on his eyelashes, and he brushed it away. The horses stood hunched and sad. Summers set the string in motion again and led around to a small open space just beyond a stand of trees where the wind wouldn't hit them so hard.

  They dismounted and set to work, Higgins helping to string a rope, tree to tree, and throwing the square of canvas over it. They tied and pegged the canvas and partly closed one open end with brush. There was wood to gather and a fire to be built. Summers got the fire going while Higgins brought in the wood.

  Just seeing the fire was some comfort, Higgins thought. He brushed snow aside and spread a horse blanket to sit on. Who cared if the blanket stunk? He sat down, arms and legs outstretched toward the blaze. He could hear the horses pawing for grass and Feather's bell sounding.

  They had brought a joint of meat in with them. To fingers still numb it felt frozen. The fire began to warm the makeshift tent.

  Without speaking Summers went out and came in with the jug. "Whoever invented whiskey was thinkin' of times like these," he said.

  "Want to send up a prayer for him?"

  "I figure his sins is forgiven."

  Summers passed the jug to Higgins, who drank and passed it back. "I'm hopin' there's no bottom to it."

  "It's still better'n half full."

  They roasted the meat over the fire after sampling the whiskey again.

  Afterward Higgins said, "There's not enough wood to last the night out." He took the ax and started into the night.

  "Watch out you don't get lost," Summers told him.

  The cold took hold once he was outside. The wind walloped him, let up and walloped again, driving snow into his face. A man couldn't carry enough clothes to keep warm. He'd just give in like an overloaded pack horse. He bent his head and moved on, his feet sinking into a drift. Looking back, he could just see the tent, see it as a dim glow from the fire inside. He made two trips with wood and, shaking, sat down again by the fire.

  He slept cold that night, even with most of his clothes on and the stinking horse blanket spread over his covers. He kept getting
up to feed the fire. The cold didn't seem to bother Summers that much. Likely he was made of tougher stuff.

  They got up at the edge of dawn. The wind had ceased but not the chill. Higgins hit at the tent where the snow had bellied it in. The snow slid off, being small-grained, each grain frozen.

  Summers was putting on the capote that he had used over his bed. For all that he wore buckskins mostly, he put on boots, not moccasins. He yanked the coonskin cap down on his head. They had come to wearing the things in cold weather, Higgins having dug them out of a pack while saying, "My old man said, keep your head warm and your other parts will take care of themselves. He was half-right sometimes."

  Summers said, "I'll see to the horses."

  "Christ, Dick, we'll never find the trail in this snow."

  "You think I'm a plumb fool?"

  "I ain't never sure about you."

  If they weren't sure-enough friends, Higgins thought, talk like that would sound sore. Higgins answered to Summers' grin. "Loan me your scattergun, will you?" Summers asked. "Might see a chipmunk or something to shoot."

  "If you don't, it's empty bellies today."

  Summers went out. The horses couldn't be far away, not from the sound of the bell.

  There was more wood to bring in, and another little item to attend to, like squatting in the snow. Higgins put on his capote and cap. His boots were stiff, of a mind, the damn things, to freeze his feet. He poked his hands into heavy gloves, grabbed a rag and went out.

  Once away from the tent he put the gloves in his pocket and lowered his pants. God wouldn't ask a man to bare his ass as he had to. It was the devil at work. Finished he wiped himself with the rag and adjusted his clothes. He washed his hands and face in the snow and used the capote for a towel. The pile he had laid steamed behind him.