Down the Long Hills (1968) Read online

  The country was less flat now, stretching away in a series of long, graceful rolls of gentle hills. He knew he should keep to low ground because of Indians, but he wanted to keep a lookout for another wagon train, or something.

  He had not stayed with the wagon trail. He had a feeling Indians might be watching it, so he stayed over the slope when he could, but whenever he topped out on a rise to scan the trail he could see the ruts left by the wagons rolling west. As they went along, a couple of times he found wild onions, but Betty Sue refused to try them.

  The day grew hot, and the brown hills were dusty.

  Betty Sue whimpered a little, and he was afraid she might cry, but she did not. He plodded on, putting one foot ahead of the other at an even pace, trying to forget how far he must go, and how short a distance they had come.

  As he walked he tried to remember all that pa had taught him about getting along by himself, and he tried to recall everything he had heard Bill Squires say. There had been others, too, whom he had heard talking of traveling west, of Indians, and of hunting.

  Once, far off, he glimpsed a herd of antelope, but they disappeared among the dancing heat waves. Again, and not so far away, he saw three buffalo moving; they paused when they saw the big red horse and the two children.

  They were stragglers from the great herds that had moved south weeks before. Men on the wagons had talked of the wide track they made in passing. The big wolves had gone with them, following the herd to pull down those too weak to keep up. It was the way, Mr. Bill Squires said, that nature had of weeding out the weak to keep the breed strong, for the wolves could only kill the weak or the old.

  Hardy took to watching Big Red, for he remembered something else Bill Squires had said: that a man riding in western country should watch his horse, for it was likely to see or smell trouble before a man could. But in all directions the vast plain was empty.

  He studied the country, watched the movements of animals and the flight of birds. These could maybe tell you if somebody was near, or if there was danger of other kinds.

  The sun slid toward the horizon and Hardy saw no place to stop. He plodded on, desperate in his weariness and the sense of responsibility that hung over him. When the last red was fading from the sky, Big Red began to tug at the lead rope, pulling off toward the south. Knowing the stallion might smell water, Hardy walked in that direction, with the stallion almost leading him. And then he saw the trees.

  At first it appeared to be only a long shadow in the bottom of a shallow valley, but as they drew nearer the shadow became willows and cottonwoods, and there was the bed of a winding stream. No more than a dozen feet wide and scarcely that many inches deep, the water was cold and clear, and there was grass for Big Red and a place to hide.

  He helped Betty Sue down and led the horse to water. There at the stream’s edge his heart almost stopped. In the sand right at the water’s edge was a moccasin track.

  Filling the canteen with water without stepping off the rock, he hurried back and hid the stallion in a small clearing deep among the willows. The area was not large, but it gave the horse a bit of grazing and room to roll if he wished … and he wished.

  Having made a bed for Betty Sue, Hardy then opened another can. They were eating it when he saw something growing among the brush, something dark and about as thick as a stubby banana. Gleefully, he plucked it from the branch. “Pawpaws!” he exclaimed. “There’s pawpaws!”

  “I don’t like pawpaws,” Betty Sue said quietly.

  “I didn’t either, one time. Now I like them. You try one.”

  The fruit was almost four inches long and an inch and a half thick, greenish-yellow when he saw it close up. Searching the bushes, he found half a dozen more. Suddenly they tasted good, better than he remembered. Betty Sue ate hers quickly, then took another.

  Excited as he was at finding the pawpaws, he kept remembering that moccasin track. He was not much of a judge of the age of tracks, but this one must be fresh. The edges of the track had not crumbled the least bit, and there were no marks of insects crossing it. That track had certainly been made that day, and probably within the last hour or two.

  Though the moccasin track stayed in his mind, another thought was that he wanted a fire. There was something mighty comforting about a fire. That was what pa always said, and it must be so, because after ma died pa spent a lot of time just looking into the fire. It was then he started talking about going west.

  Not that he wasn’t doing well. Pa was a hard worker, and Hardy had heard folks talk of him, saying he was a man who would always do well. Mr.

  Andy had said it more than once. “You just watch that Scott Collins,” he would say; “there’s a man who is going to make tracks in the land.”

  A fire would have been a comfort now, especially for Betty Sue, but when he looked over at her she was already fast asleep on the grass, a half-eaten pawpaw in her hand. He covered her with his coat and curled up close to her, and looked up at the stars.

  Where was pa now? How long would it be before he knew what had happened to the wagons?

  It would be a month before the wagons were due. Why, he and Betty Sue might even get there before pa realized the wagons were not coming! Suddenly Hardy hoped so… no use pa to worry more. He had been hard hurt when ma died.

  Hardy had started following pa into the field when he was not more than two, toddling and falling, but watching and listening, too. By the time he was a year older he was helping drop seed potatoes, fetching and carrying for pa, and sitting under the elms with pa while he ate his noon meal. Pa used to talk to him about his work, and sometimes about his dreams too. Other times they talked about birds, and ants, and animals. Pa taught him to set snares and to stalk game, as well as to build quick shelters in the woods from any material at hand.

  As there were only the two of them, he helped his father with everything. He used to pick up the big, flat chips his father cut from logs that he was shaping into square beams with an adze and a broad axe. The big logs would be notched every eight inches or so along the four sides, and then with the broad axe pa would flake off the big chips between the notches until the log was shaped into a square beam. Hardy liked gathering them, and they made a grand fire.

  He had always gone to the woods with his father when he went to search for herbs and nuts, or to select the logs for the cutting. He could even help with hoisting the beams into place when they were ready to build the house. Using oxen, ropes, and a greased log over which the ropes could slide, the huge logs could be lifted into place.

  At night they would sit by the fire making nails, heating the long nail-rod, sharpening it to a point with hammer blows, then indenting it at the proper length and breaking off the nail.

  When not making nails, they wove baskets from reed fibers to make containers for grain and vegetables.

  Pa was so good at this that he often traded his baskets for food or other things he wanted to have.

  When they were sitting together of an evening, pa would tell Hardy stories of his own boyhood in his native Ireland, and how he had been apprenticed to a millwright when he was ten years old. At fifteen he had been tall and strong enough to be swept up by a press gang and taken off to sea, but after a year of that he left his ship in New Orleans and went up the Mississippi and the Ohio, and then over the mountains to New York. From there he had gone to sea again, this time as a ship’s carpenter, and after the voyage he worked around New York, and had gone to New Hampshire, where he met ma.

  After ma died they had gone west, as far as Wisconsin, but even there pa was still restless. He wanted a larger place, in more open country where he could raise horses. At his home in Ireland there had been fine saddle stock all around, and it was such horses he intended to raise.

  Once when pa went off to market he left Hardy alone for two whole days and nights. Somebody had to stay and care for the stock, and keep the crows out of the corn. When pa returned Mr. Andy was with him, and he took up land close by.

&
nbsp; Pa had been listening to stories about California; but it had not been the gold that took him off across the plains, but the attraction of a good climate and a place to ranch horses. He had been gone for a year when he sent for Mr. Andy to come west and bring Hardy.

  SUDDENLY HARDY FOUND himself awake, scarcely aware he had slept. The sky was faintly gray.

  Easing away from Betty Sue’s side, he got Big Red and led him to water, then went back to camp and picketed the big horse again.

  Among the trees and brush he found some straight shafts for arrows, and a good piece for the bow. His father had taught him how the Indians made their bows and arrows, and he had often hunted rabbits and squirrels with them. Working kept him from thinking now how hungry he was, and how hungry Betty Sue must be. He ate another of the pawpaws as he worked.

  He was just finishing the bow when he heard the horses coming. Big Red heard them first and his ears went up and his nostrils fluttered as if he was going to whinny.

  Hardy caught the lead rope and whispered, “No!

  No!” Big Red was silent, but he was very curious.

  Watching under the willows, Hardy saw three Indians with feathers in their hair. All were naked to the waist, and one had a quarter of an antelope on his saddle. They drew up about thirty yards downstream, and Hardy could hear the low murmur of their voices. He noticed that they were not painted, and they carried no scalps.

  One of the Indians dropped from his pony and lay down to drink. As he started to rise he hesitated, then stood up. When he came to his full height he looked upstream, and for a long moment seemed to be looking right into Hardy’s eyes. The boy knew he could not be seen, but he held very still and prayed that neither Betty Sue nor Big Red would make a sound.

  After a long, long minute, the Indian looked away.

  Soon all three rode off together, with the others, but even as they left, the one Indian turned and looked back. Hardy held very still until they had gone, and then he woke up Betty Sue.

  He knew that they had to get away from there. They must leave right away. For that big Indian, he felt sure, was going to come back.

  SQUIRES SQUATTED on his heels, his back to the pole corral. “About the fourteenth, it was. I come down the left fork and seen a fresh wagon trail stretched out across country.

  “It was late to find a wagon train, but I went down the trail after them, figuring on some talk, an’ borrying coffee offen them. Then I was right curious to see what they meant, travelin’ so close to snow time.”

  Bill Squires spat and rolled his quid into the other cheek. “Mornin’ of the sixteenth I come up with them.” He glanced at Scott Collins. “Yes, I recall the boy. He was sure enough there, and Andy Powell’s girl a-taggin’ after him every step. Good boy. Bright, an’ chock full of questions about Injuns an’ sech.”

  “You knew Powell?”

  “Hell, yes! I should say. His pa an’ me was friends back in Pennsylvania when Andy was born.

  I knowed Andy, all right. Ever’ time I went back home I’d see him. Wasn’t often I went home, of course, but time to time. He told me about the boy and the horse.”

  He glanced sharply at Collins. “No Injun better see that stallion. He’d give an arm for him. I’m not speakin’ of “Paches now. They ride a horse half to death, then eat them. I’m speakin” of the Cheyennes, Sioux, Kiowas, and them. They know horseflesh.”

  Scott Collins sat very still, feeling sick and empty inside. He had been hoping and praying that something had happened to keep the boy from starting west.

  He did not know what could have happened, but he had been hoping for something, for anything.

  “Two, three days later I cut Injun sign.

  Comanches, an’ a sight too far north for them.

  Weren’t more than nine or ten of them, but they were drivin’ a dozen shod horses an’ a few head of cattle, so they’d been raidin’.”

  He paused, spat, and said, “Now look at it. Them Comanches were a long ways from any settlement, and no Comanche is any hand to drive cows, not when he’s far from his home country. It figured they had raided somebody close by and hadn’t had a chance to eat the beef.

  “It had to be them wagons, so I taken off. The way I saw it, the Indians had probably killed them all, yet some of those folks might be stranded back there with no stock an’ winter a-comin’ on. The men with the wagons outnumbered the Comanches, so they might have out-fit “em.

  “No such luck. Looked to me like the Indians come up on ‘em about sunup. Nobody had a chance. A body could see the way the bodies lay what happened. No ca’tridge shells anywhere but by Andy Powell’s gun. I figure he got a few shots … nobody else did.”

  “What about the youngsters?”

  Scott Collins had to force the question, but he did not want to hear the answer.

  Squires glanced at Collins sympathetically.

  “Now, I’m not one to give a man useless hope.

  I buried all the bodies I found, an” there was no boy among them the size of yours, nor that girl of Andy’s either.”

  Nobody said anything for several minutes, then Scott Collins got out his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco, forcing the fear and grief from his mind and fighting to think logically. Now, if ever, he must do that.

  “No young un would have a chance to get away,” Darrow said. “Not out on bald prairie, that away.

  Comanches must have packed “em off.”

  Squires chewed thoughtfully. “Doubt it,” he said finally. “Them Comanches was travelin” fast. They didn’t even keep a woman to take along. This was a quick raid, hit-an’-run like, with them Comanches few in number an’ a long way from home.

  “You see, this here is Cheyenne country, rightly speakin’. Oh, there’s other Injuns about, time to time, but a small war party wouldn’t want to waste around an’ risk runnin’ into the Cheyennes or Pawnees.”

  He paused, then said, “Collins, I hesitate to give hope to a man when there’s mighty little reason for it, but I figure those youngsters got away, somehow.”

  After a moment he added, “Two youngsters, out on the prairie that way …” He let the words trail off.

  Scott was thinking, trying to put himself into Hardy’s place. Oddly enough, it gave him confidence. The boy was a serious youngster, and he was pretty canny about wild country. Maybe he was being foolish, just trying to give himself hope, but despite his struggle to be cautious, he had a feeling Hardy was alive.

  “If you didn’t find their bodies, and if you think the Comanches didn’t carry them off, then they must be back there, somewhere.”

  “Now, I don’t know. How long could those youngsters make it, out there with no food, no beddin’, an’ no way to get on? Still,” Squires added, “one thing has worried me ever since I left that burned-out wagon train. What become of the big stallion?

  I studied that Comanche sign, an’ believe me, I could point out the track of ever’ horse in that outfit this minute, but there sure was no track of the stallion amongst them.”

  “Hardy would get away with that horse if he could manage it,” Scott Collins said. “They grew up together. That stallion followed him like a puppy dog from the time it was a bitty colt.”

  He knocked out his pipe and got to his feet.

  “Squires, I’m going back. If those youngsters are alive, I’ve got to find them, and if they aren’t, I’ll find their bodies and give them decent burial.”

  Bill Squires looked out from under thick brows “Comin’ on to winter out there, boy. The weather was nice enough when I rode through there, but she’s due to break any day now.” He paused. “Scott, you got to face it. If those youngsters got away, an’

  I’m thinkin’ they did, they’re dead by now. There just ain’t no way they could live out there.”

  Collins shrugged into his coat and picked up his rifle. “That boy of mine worked right alongside me since he could walk. He’s bright, and he’s old for his years. He knows how to build snares and he’s killed ra
bbits with a homemade bow and arrow… made them himself. I brought him up to care for himself.

  “Another thing,” he added, “if the boy is alive, he will be expecting me. As for Big Red, that stallion will outrun anything on the Great Plains.

  If those youngsters get up on that horse no Indian will ever lay hands on them.”

  “All right,” Bill Squires got to his feet, “no two ways about it. We’ll go have us a look.”

  “You’re a couple of fools,” Darrow grumbled.

  “Injuns killed those young uns, much as I hate to say it.” He looked up at Collins. “No offense, Scott, but you got to look at it. If you go back there you’ll get killed into the bargain.”

  “That boy’s all I’ve got, Frank.”

  Darrow reluctantly got to his feet. “You’re a couple of witless wonders; but Scott, I can’t let you go off into wild country alone with Squires.

  He’ll get you killed sure as shootin’.”

  THE SKY WAS gray, and a cold wind came down from the Wind River Mountains. There was snow on the peaks and the high timber, and the bunch grass on the plains where the three men rode looked brown and used up.

  “You know the boy,” Squires said, “so you’d best be thinkin’. You put yourself in his place, try to recall whatever the boy knows, an’ you figure out what he’s likely to do.”

  How to put yourself in the mind of a seven-year-old with a tiny girl and a horse? If, in fact, they were with him. That was the worst of it, they did not know.

  Yet there were things he did know. For one, Hardy was stubbornly persistent, and for a boy of his years he had been alone a good bit. And of one thing he was sure.

  Hardy would try to come west, and unless something prevented he would hold close to the trail.

  He held himself tight against the fear that was in him, the fear that grew until his heart throbbed heavily and his knuckles grew white on the reins.