From the doorway of the cave shelter, Luke peered out into the blizzard that had mauled and lashed the beaver valley for two days. Large drifts of snow, many waist deep and still growing, were piled in the wind eddies behind the trees and patches of brush. The land lay deserted, all life hidden, waiting for the snow to slacken and the wind to abate.
He had not run his traps since the frigid cold had settled in and this lost opportunity to catch beaver, and the lost dollars that represented, bothered him. However, there was one beneficial aspect to the winter storm—he believed himself relatively safe from Indian attack.
Night was approaching swiftly from the east and in a very few minutes would fill the valley with darkness. Before that happened, he had several chores to do. He left the cave and walked several times through the white mounds to the woodpile and carried a large quantity of fuel inside the shelter.
Picking up his rifle and hunching his head down into the collar of his heavy wolf-skin coat, he strode lack out into the blustery weather. He breathed the frigid air, feeling the tiny bits of ice water enter his nostrils to melt and be drawn, cold and damp, onward deeply down into his lungs. Around his legs, thick currents of crystalline snow flowed, hissing and whimpering like a thing alive.
Luke shoved aside the fact that trapping could not be done in such weather and, at some primordial level, savored the turbulent world of wind and whiteness that buffeted and stung him.
He found the horse and mules yarded up in a thick patch of brush. The meadow grass was buried under more than a foot of snow and out of reach of the animals. They were surviving by browsing the twigs and shoots of the tasty willows and cottonwoods.
His pony nickered to show his enjoyment at the presence of his master. The staid mules merely turned to identify the newcomer and then went back to feeding. All three beasts wore shaggy winter coats, their growth hastened by the arctic wind.
Luke aimed his steps in the direction of the bluff and the trail that led in from the east. Tarpenning was out there someplace in the midst of the cold and snow. Though he was a hardy man, the blizzard was a mean one, enough to test the best of all mountain men. If the storm was not enough, he was not impervious to a sharp arrow or lance point.
The wind pouring down from the north was keeping the west-fronting bluff swept nearly free of snow. Luke remained at the bottom of the grade, staring up. An extra violent surge of wind struck him and he spread his legs to withstand the pressure. Wind tears formed in the corner of his eyes. The gray dusk faded into night.
The darkness was held back by the snow that generated a faint silver light all its own. Luke used the luminescence to look for the form of a man or horse on the ridge line above. Nothing was to be seen. The only sounds were the strength of the wind in the trees and on the face of the bluff and the grains of ice sweeping over the crusted white ground.
He returned to the shelter under the rock ledge. At the sight of the empty room, a tinge of worry for his friend came creeping in. A sense that he should be doing something to guide the absent, maybe lost, man home lay heavily upon him.
Luke knew he was very much indebted to Tarpenning. The older man had befriended a skinny inexperienced kid from Ohio, had taken him into the mountains and had taught him to live off the land, trap beaver and use rifle and horse. They had partnered for four years, romping through two rendezvous on the Wind River, one at Taos on the Rio Grande and the last year at Independence. Six battles with Indians had been fought, three the very first year with the Crows in the north mountains.
He tied the door flap shut behind him and stoked up the fire. Seating himself, he began again to work on a pair of snowshoes partially fashioned earlier in the day. The framework consisted of two broadly forking limbs of pine. They were being carefully shaped and soon would be ready for seasoning over the fire to strengthen and lighten them. Lastly he would web them with tough beaver gut.
He worked methodically, the flesh-colored chips falling free under the razor edge of his knife. The fire was refueled as its light and heat diminished. From time to time, he would raise his head to listen for some sound other than the storm.
* * *
A sharp, powerful blow, as if something had fallen against the logs, jarred the wall. Several pieces of dry mud cracked loose and fell to the floor. Coldiron scooped up his rifle and sprang away from the light of the fire and into the shadows near the door.
Above the roar of the wind outside, a hoarse voice shouted. “Luke! Are you in there?”
Luke moved toward the door, calling out loudly. “George, I'm here. You've made it, fellow.” He jerked the ties loose and hurried into the stormy night.
His eyesight wrestled with the darkness.
In the gloom near the log wall of the cave, two exhausted ponies stood spraddle-legged. A pair of riders slumped, snow-covered and weary, on the backs of the brutes. One of the figures stiffly swung his leg over, stepped down and immediately fell weakly to his knees.
Tarpenning shoved his robe clear. “Help me, partner. Seems my feet and legs have turned feeble on me.”
Luke lifted the man up and, supporting most of his weight, helped him into the shelter. “Rest here near the fire,” he said and lowered his friend down.
He piled several pieces of wood on the fire and the flames leaped and crackled. Tarpenning scooted himself closer to the heat and began to fumble at the bindings on his moccasins.
“Need help?” asked Luke.
Tarpenning looked up with sunken, bloodshot eyes. Through the white frost and ice matted in his beard, he tried to smile. Only a strained grimace came. In a voice slurred by cold, stiff jaws, he spoke. “Damn, I'm glad you had a fire burning. I homed in on the smell of your smoke.” He pointed to the door. “She'll need more help than I will. Go carry her in.”
Luke nodded and hastily went again into the night. He stepped up close to the figure half sitting, half lying on the back of the horse.
“Come with me,” said Luke in the tongue of the Ute people and reached out to take hold of her. At his slight tug, she toppled to the side. He caught her and was astonished at the lightness of her weight. Less than a hundred pounds, he judged. Gently he carried her inside and laid her down in the warmth of the fire.
“Never complained once in over two days of the toughest winter traveling I've ever been through,” said Tarpenning. He pulled his last moccasin off and extended his bare feet to the heat of the flames. “Check her toes right away to see that they haven't frozen.”
Luke stretched her on her back and undid the straps of her foot coverings. The small slender toes were like ice and appeared bloodless. He clasped first one foot and then the other between his hands to drive away the cold.
The heat of the fire and the man's hands roused the girl from her fatigued stupor. She opened her eyes and saw the evil white man was still with her. But he had changed. Though the eyes were still blue, the red beard had become black and it was thick and bristly like the chin hair of the bull buffalo. She quivered.
Luke felt the girl tremble and looked into her face. Her eyes were wide with fear and fatigue. He could see she was hanging to consciousness by a thread. Yet he sensed a fierce defiance smoldering in her. She tried to draw her feet away from his touch.
He shook his head no. “I must thaw your feet or you might lose some toes, so lay still,” said Luke, still speaking the Ute language. He continued to hold his warm hands firmly about the weakly struggling feet.
She gave no indication of understanding him.
Tarpenning had observed the girl's efforts to pull free and Luke's lack of success in communicating with her. “She's Arapaho,” he said. “I figured it out after a while. Had to kill three Ute bucks that she was with. They must have been coming back from a raid on some Arapaho camp. Appears she was their captive.”
“I see,” said Luke. Neither he nor Tarpenning had learned the language of the Plains Indian. The fright of the girl greatly bothered him. “So they kidnapped her and then you did the same. Not easy on her.”
“She'll get over it,” responded George. “The Ute and Arapaho are always stealing each other's women. I wouldn't be surprised but what she has seen some captured women in her village. Her mother could well be one.”
“Maybe she will get over it,” said Luke. He released her feet. “I think she'll be all right. Nothing is frozen too bad. Looks mighty young.”
“Old enough,” said Tarpenning.
The girl tried to sit up and partially made it. She endeavored to speak, but no sound came. Her eyelids closed heavily, her strength vanished and she wilted to the ground.
Tenderly, Luke gathered up the limp form and placed it in his own sleeping robe. From the ring of stones around the fire he extracted one moderately warm one and positioned it inside the covering near her feet.
“She's completely worn out. And me, too,” said Tarpenning. He shook the melting ice from his beard and it sputtered when part of it landed in the fire
“I'll unpack the horses and fetch your gear,” said Luke.
The jaded mustangs had not stirred. He removed their loads, led them into the brush thicket and left them near his animals. The new ponies would be very unlikely to leave the company of those used to the area.
Luke found Tarpenning asleep on the dirt floor near the fire. He coaxed him half awake, mostly carried him to the second bed and rolled him in the large furry skin.
Tarpenning mumbled something and Luke leaned over him. “What did you say?”
“Keep the fire burning hot. Don't let her get sick.” His voice trailed off.
“I'll do that.” Even as Luke spoke, Tarpenning's low snore sounded.
Luke moved to place more wood on the flames. Then he seated himself on the opposite side of the fire and sat for a long time looking at the two sleeping forms. All was now in readiness for the winter.
Finally he began to labor on the snowshoes again, working in the ruddy flickering glow of the fire. The wood shavings curled before the edge of the knife blade and fell to the floor.
Outside in the night the raw wind droned past the cave.
* * *
Luke slept lightly, unconsciously listening for some sound or call from George or the girl. He awoke early and threw back the flap of the robe he had taken from Tarpenning's pack. The fire was only a bed of embers and he promptly fueled it with a generous supply of pine knots.
Both man and woman slept heavily. The whisper of their breathing was a pleasant sound, their presence enjoyable. Luke knelt to look at the face of the girl. At his first sight of her during the night, he had been deeply impressed by the fragile beauty of her features.
Her jet-black hair had strayed across her face. With utmost care so as not to wake her, he lifted aside the strands to see her better.
In deep slumber, she lay relaxed. The fear that had strained her delicate countenance was temporarily erased by sleep.
Tarpenning! You woman-stealing son of a gun! You have outdone yourself this time.
Suddenly the girl tensed, her hands clenched and beneath the closed eyelids the round orbs of vision swept rapidly back and forth. Luke watched her live the disturbing dream. He felt pity for her. How unfairly she had been treated—correction, was being treated. A bothersome thought came to him. Her predicament was partially his fault.
He stood up and drew back. Too late to change things now. The deed was done.
Something else caught his attention. There was a difference in the sound of the storm. He cocked his head to listen. The difference was, there was no sound.
He threw open the door. The sun shined dazzlingly bright on a quiet, snow-cloaked land. A slow wind blew in from the southwest. The temperature was warm, nearly up to the freezing point. Creek noises sounded clearly across the distance.
It was a perfect day to run his traps, to remove the catch of beaver and to reset for the next unwary beast. He went back inside and put beans to soak in a pan of water. Then, mounted on his horse and with the sun warm and gentle on his shoulders, he rode up the course of the stream.
* * *
Luke worked steadily all day. By mid afternoon all the traps had been visited and he had skinned seven beaver. Most were kits, the young of the season, but almost as large as the adults. A good catch. He saved the flesh of all seven broad, flat beaver tails.
The fair weather gave many signs that it had come to stay awhile. The temperature had continued to climb. On the south-facing slopes the snow was melting rapidly. The rims of ice along the banks of the stream were breaking loose to float down with the current.
The beaver were stirring and in many places had broken trails open to willow clamps and cottonwood trees. That would make for another large number of animals to be taken in the next day or two.
Merciless predators, other than the man, were also hunting. Tracks of four wolves were in the snow along the creek. One of Luke's beavers had been dragged from the water and devoured. Only a few tufts of hair marked the site of the feast. Coyote tracks were plentiful, mainly concentrated in the brush thickets where the rabbits abounded.
Luke returned leisurely down the valley, pleasuring in the contrasting colors of white-blanketed meadows, green pine woods and the yellowish-brown sandstone ledges of rock in the side of the steep bluffs.
The horse moved noiselessly in the soft melting snow. In a dense string of timber, man and mount came unseen upon a young bull elk. The beast never heard the shot with which Luke killed it.
He field dressed the large animal. After cutting out the tenderloin—the delicious strips of meat on both sides of the backbone—he mounded the cold snow over the carcass. In the shade of the tall trees, the flesh would remain fresh for many days. With his human scent everyplace, no animal would bother his kill before he could return and claim it.
He put the elk flesh with the beaver tails and rode directly to the cave. Taking care to make no noise, Luke entered the rock and log shelter. The man and woman still slept.
Silently Luke drew the beaver pelts, hair side in, over stretching hoops, lengths of stout willow bent back upon themselves almost in a circle and some two feet in diameter. During the next day and before the hides became stiff, the flesh that had adhered to the skins would be scraped away. Then the pelts would be taken off of the frames, turned fur side out and replaced over the stretchers for thorough drying.
He rekindled the fire. The most tender beaver tail was cut into bite-sized pieces and dropped in with the beans. In a short while the mixture was bubbling merrily over the fire and the aromas wafting to the farthest corners of the cave.
Luke faced to look at the girl. During the warming day, she had partially worked her way out of the sleeping robe. She lay on her back and her breast rose and fell with the rhythm of her breathing.
“Beautiful, isn't she?” spoke Tarpenning.
Luke jerked with the unexpected sound and swung around toward his partner. Tarpenning was propped up on an elbow and watching him.
“Yes, very beautiful,” responded Luke smiling. He walked over to squat down near Tarpenning. “We have a pretty woman, a snug camp for the winter and the trapping is good.” He pointed at the new pelts and then continued to move his hand to indicate the cave. “What more could a man want?”
Tarpenning did not return the smile. A somber expression held his face stiff. His eyes slipped away to look at the sleeping girl and then back to Luke. He kicked off the covers and got up abruptly. Barefooted he circled to the far side of the fire.
Luke rose to his feet and waited, trying to interpret Tarpenning's actions. Something serious was troubling the man.
Tarpenning lifted his head to face Luke squarely. “I can't share her with you,” he exclaimed in a rapid stab of words. “God, man, I just can't do it. She's not like all the other women we've had.”
Involuntarily Luke backed up a step at the intensity of the man's voice. And the pleading tone of the words sent a chill up his spine. George had never begged for anything in his life. It was not in him. What had the brown-skinned girl done to him?
Tarpenning spoke again in the same imploring voice. “Luke, try to understand. Anything else I have is yours, my rifle, my horse, just ask. But don't ask for her!”
“George, she's just a captive Indian girl, someone you stole. She would kill you if she got the chance. Whether one man or two loves her won't make any difference.”
“Yes, she would knife me now, but I can change that. Luke, I've never had a feeling like this. Don't try to force me on this.” His voice rose, a tinge of warning forming in it like a steel edge.
They both noticed movement and pivoted to look as the Indian woman sat up. Their loud voices, rumbling and echoing in the cave, had awakened her. She was frightened, her eyes wide and shiny with fear. She swept her view from one hairy face to the other. O Great Spirit, how she wished them both dead.
Silence held among them, to be broken by the sound of the pot boiling over into the fire. The spilling liquid landed upon a burning log and it split with a loud pop. A flame of escaping gas hissed. The girl lurched half erect.
“George, she's scared to death of us.”
“Some of them have been before. Remember when we had to whip that Cheyenne squaw to stop her from following us when we tried to leave? Well, I'll get this one to act the same way. I'll be gentle and come spring she'll do anything for me.” His eyes became clouded. “You do understand, don't you? She must be all mine.”
Luke stooped and straightened the pot. As he stirred the stew, he retraced the last four years with Tarpenning. They had shared every danger, every dollar and often when women were scarce, those too. Yet deep within, he knew that there could come a day when a man took a woman to himself alone. It seemed George Tarpenning had reached that time.
Luke climbed to his feet and spread his hands. “That's the first time you ever asked me for anything. Hell of a partner I would be if I didn't give it to you.” But Luke knew their partnership was now different and would never be the same again. Already they acted like half strangers, an odd feeling after all these years.
“I think I'll go for a long scout down the creek.” Taking his rifle from where it leaned against the wall, he turned and walked out the door.