“How’s your leg today?” Clare asked as Cort opened his eyes on the fifth day of his recuperation.
Cort laughed. “Give me a chance to wake up,” he said.
“Maybe some hot coffee will help get you on your feet,” she answered easily.
“Sure.”
He took a couple of gulps from his coffee cup, and a satisfied grin appeared on his face.
“You make a good cup of coffee, Clare. I think I’d sooner get another bullet in me than have to walk away from a campfire where you’re doin’ the cookin’.”
“I suppose that when I’m not looking you’ll shoot yourself in the foot,” she kidded.
“You know, that reminds me of a story I heard from an old mountain man I met at the eastern side of the Cascades. He said he once came across a bear cub that had lost its mama. Besides bein’ all alone, the little grizzly’s paw was hurt, so the mountain man took the cub to his cave to nurse and feed it.
“Well, this little bear healed soon enough, but took a likin’ to the mountain man’s food. Year after year, long after that little cub grew into a killer grizzly, it would come around and eat whatever the mountain man put on the table for supper. Mostly the bear liked the old man’s coffee, and he would drink gallons of it. The animal was known to steal tins of coffee and sugar from other trappers—he liked his coffee sweet—and bring the booty to his lonely old friend’s cave.
“Now this mountain man and grizzly bear grew old together. But not without occasional misunderstandings. Whenever the old mountain man got a little peeved at the bear for doin’ things like drinkin’ all his fresh water durin’ a drought, or passin’ water in the cave—excuse me Clare, it’s part of the story—well, he’d just give the old grizzly the silent treatment. Wouldn’t sing to him or talk to him or nothin’.
“The bear, he would get mighty upset ’cause he knew he’d done somethin’ wrong, even if he didn’t know what it was he’d done. If the old mountain man was mad, there just had to be a good reason.
“The old grizzly, to get back in the good graces of his friend would feign havin’ a hurt paw. The bear figured it had worked in the beginning, so it would again. And it always did. The old mountain man would laugh, make a show of fixin’ up the paw, and then sing his old grizzly bear friend a Welsh ballad—which was his favorite type of tune ... the grizzly’s favorite, I mean.
“It was durin’ one raw autumn day that the old mountain man had an accident with one of his traps, and hurt his leg real bad. Tryin’ to drag himself to his cave, he passed out. Feeling himself being dragged along the ground, he came to. The grizzly was carrying him by his shirt-front and ended up dropping him on his makeshift bed in the cave.
“The old man was delirious, but he says it was the old grizzly who cleaned his wound and saved it from infection—just like he had done for the bear’s paw so many times in the past. In one of his clear-headed moments the old man bandaged his own leg, but he was far too weak to get up off his back for well over a week. That old feller swears the grizzly stayed a week through, and brewed him the best coffee he’s ever tasted in his life.”
Clare pleaded with him to stop as tears of laughter rolled down her face.
He stopped, but not without some regret. It gave him a special pleasure to watch her eyes start to dance when he stretched a short story into a tall tale. In the last twelve years, when he spoke to someone, he didn’t ordinarily make them laugh. He made them tremble.
Clare sensed the deep well of Cort’s feelings and couldn’t stop herself from reaching out and touching his cheek with her hand. She said nothing—only caressed his face and brushed hair back over his ear. Outside of her nursing duties, it was the first time she had touched him. She liked the feel of his face.
Clare felt Cort’s penetrating gaze search her heart and mind, trying to see past this tender gesture, to find out what lay behind it—pity, love ...
When she had the courage to look at his face, she saw only confusion clouding Cort’s eyes. That was only fair! She was just as confused. She smiled bravely, and then gently slapped Cort’s face with the hand that had just caressed him. “Now how about the leg?” she questioned.
Cort tried to hide his emotions by giving all his attention to the last of his coffee. After a moment, he placed the cup down and then forced himself to his feet. The leg hurt, but he found he could walk on it.
“A lot better than yesterday,” he said proudly as Clare carefully watched him pace from one end of the cave to the other.
“You’ll be as good as new in a couple of days,” she announced. “The best thing now is to keep exercising your leg. You keep walking while I go out and gather some wood. By the time I get back you’ll be ready for a light meal and maybe a nap. And don’t sneak any more coffee while I’m gone. Speaking of coffee, how much of that story about the bear is true?”
“Don’t ask me,” Cort protested. “Ask the old mountain man—it’s his story.”
Laughing, Clare stepped out of the cave in search of firewood.
It was only a matter of minutes before she breathlessly hurried back to tell Cort what she had seen ...
“Dust, Cort ... A lot of dust, and it’s heading toward the Five Fingers. Cliffords must be planning something!”
Cort stepped up to the mouth of the cave, easily seeing the plume of dust being kicked up by a large number of swiftly moving horses. His five-day holiday was over.
“Show me how to get to the Five Fingers without bein’ seen,” he commanded.
“It’s two and a half miles, and some of it is rough country for walking. I don’t think you’re strong enough to make it.”
“I’ll be the judge of that,” he said gruffly, as he picked his Winchester up off the ground. “We’ve got to move fast. Leave everything here. Just take a full canteen with you and lead the way. Go as fast as you can. I’ll do my best to keep up. Come on, let’s make tracks.”
They started out well. Concealed by heavy brush, the old deer trail they followed sloped gently, offering few obstacles at first. Even so, Cort’s leg began to throb. After putting a fast mile and a half behind them, the trail petered out, leaving them to pick their way across a craggy mountainside.
Standing at the edge of the brush covered trail, they surveyed the open ground they would have to cover.
“It’d be tough for them to spot us, but just the same, we’d better wait ’til those riders enter the canyon before walkin’ out there,” Cort advised.
Clare’s response was only to say, “Drink some water, you need it.”
He took a gulp of water and swished it around in his mouth—then spit it out. “I like your coffee a lot better,” he grinned.
Despite her worry, she smiled and said, “You and the bear both.”
They sat and caught their breath while waiting for the eight riders to turn into Broken Rock Canyon. Cort paid special attention to one of them. He seemed to set himself off from the others, not leading or following. What worried Cort was the professional way he scanned the surrounding hills. Even though the two of them were well hidden, he told Clare not to move so much as an inch. A man who knew how to search would see movement. So they remained as still as the earth.
When at last all eight Double C riders were out of sight, Cort and Clare started off across difficult terrain that would eventually take them up over the eastern rim of Broken Rock Canyon, and then down a thin trail to the Five Fingers.
They skirted huge boulders, climbed sharp rocky inclines, and at times had to leap from ledge to ledge. The going was slow, and for Cort, very painful. He stumbled often, but always managed to keep on his feet. His leg had long since stopped throbbing. Now it was like a lead weight. Clare looked back over her shoulder, and it hurt her to see Cort struggle every time he took a step.
Then he fell.
Clare rushed to him, terrified that Cort’s wound had opened. She found him sprawled between two boulders, face up to the sun and sucking in air.
“Fall knocked the wind out,” he said hoarsely.
“You scared me half-to-death! I was sure you’d be bleeding again.”
“Nope. No blood. Looks like I’m okay,” he said between breaths. “You’re a damn good doctor ... leg’s just fine ... only it’s kinda weak.”
She handed Cort the canteen. “Be quiet and drink some of this.”
Cort rinsed his mouth, then took a small swallow. Raising himself up, he asked, “Almost there?”
The trail that leads down off the rim is just another hundred yards or so over that way,” she said, pointing to the northeast.
“Good,” he sighed. Then he gave Clare her instructions. “I want you to stay right here. If I go alone, I’m pretty sure I can make it close to the bottom of the canyon without bein’ seen.”
“You think you’re the only one with some Injun in you?” she demanded. “I can raise as little dust as you, I’ll bet.”
“Mebbe so, but now’s not the time to prove it. You’ll stay here, or so help me, I’ll cuff you one on the chin!” he said sternly.
Cort, his leg a little more limber than before, quickly covered the distance to the rim, and then disappeared down the trail on the other side.
Clare pouted, but stayed put. She found some shade on the western side of a boulder and took a sip of water. It struck her, suddenly, that Cort ought to have the canteen, not her.
That’s when she heard an explosion that could have only come from the floor of the canyon.