It was the second day when Luke and Morning Mist rode into a forested valley with steep rocky sides that contained a small stream. As they approached the water to allow their mounts to drink, Luke reined his horse to a fast halt. In the dirt before him were the tracks of many unshod mustangs, perhaps seventy animals. Creasing the surface of the ground and cutting through the hoofprints were the drag marks of several travois.
“Ute,” Luke said to Morning Mist and pointed down at the sign of the Indians' passage. “They went by here recently, this morning I would guess. From the number of teepee poles they dragged, I judge twenty lodges strong.”
He looked in the direction the Indians had gone. Nothing indicated danger. There were only the peaceful sigh of the wind swaying the boughs of the pine trees and running water making noise in the creek.
Had he and the girl been one day earlier, the Ute would have been crossing their trail instead of the other way around. His own animals were now unshod, same as the Indian ponies; however, in this season of early spring, his north to south course would have told the Indians that the odds were high a trapper with a load of furs had passed. More than likely a band of warriors would be in fast pursuit, looking for scalps and loot.
Coldiron allowed his animals to drink while he kept watch both ways along the valley for stragglers from the Indian band.
“We need water,” said Morning Mist in a hushed voice.
Luke nodded. “Get some quickly and get back on your horse.”
She guided her mustang up beside a fallen log and climbed down on it. With hurried steps she went to the creek above Luke and submerged the necks of the canteens. She lugged the dripping containers back, hung them over the pommel of her saddle and remounted the pony.
“I'm ready,” she said.
Luke led off immediately. At the first place where the walls of the valley were less steep, he picked a well-used game trail and followed it as it climbed up and down over a ridge.
In the afternoon, thunderheads began to build over the crest of the mountains on their far right. They grew rapidly, towering white columns boiling up with threatening gray centers. Misty streamers of rain started to fall. Only the fringe of the cool moisture touched Coldiron and the woman, not enough to bother them to pull out a covering to protect themselves.
The third day their southerly course entered Nuevo Mejico, territory claimed by Mexico. Luke only guessed when they crossed the border, for it was unmarked and no one knew for sure its location in the deep mountains.
Also the first humans were seen that day. The mules and horses were blowing from a hard climb, and Luke had walked out to a projecting point of land to reconnoiter ahead when two trappers, leading three packhorses piled high with bundles of fur, came out of a fringe of trees. Luke slunk down into a leafy patch of brush and watched them pass not a hundred yards below him.
Normally, had he been traveling with Tarpenning, they would have called out and hastened to join up with the strangers for the trek out to the rendezvous. But these were perilous days and the Mexican Government enforced no law north of Santa Fe. The strength of muscle and sharpness of the shooting eye guarded one's valuables. And Tarpenning was not here to help in any fight that might occur.
With the girl's safety his responsibility and the furs to protect, he planned to avoid all contact with Indian or white man.
* * *
“Can the mustangs make it through?” asked Morning Mist as she peered past Luke at the boulder-choked gorge.
“Doesn't look like it,” he replied. “You wait here while I take a look-see.” He stepped down to clamber forward over the large brown boulders.
Their route had been in the bed of a stream all afternoon. Bit by bit it had descended into a narrow rocky chasm. Not wanting to backtrack, and with the bottom remaining flat and easily navigated by the animals, they pressed on.
Coldiron returned. “About a hundred yards farther on around that bend, the gully widens out into a level basin. I can place some rocks to bridge between the boulders for the horses to walk on and we can be clear through in a couple of hours. Find yourself a shady spot while I get it done.”
The animals were skittish, not liking the feel of the stones, some unstable and wobbly, that Luke had laid as a footpath for them. But they permitted themselves to be coaxed upon them and onward, betwixt the large round boulders and out into the valley.
The canyon floor was mostly flat, approaching five miles in width and stretching south many times that distance, extending so far that it was impossible for Luke to see its end. A few small hills, capped with pine, were scattered randomly about. On every side high sandstone ledges, tens of feet thick, rimmed the valley in with smooth vertical walls. A creek at grade and meandering in long looping curves crossed the full length of the valley.
“Oh! How beautiful this place is,” exclaimed Morning Mist.
“Yes, a good-looking land and all set off by itself.”
“Look, wild mustangs,” Morning Mist pointed.
Coldiron turned his view to where she indicated and then continued to skim as much of the basin as he could see for more horses. “There are at least twenty bands within sight. Over there near the edge of the woods is a band of elk. They don't seem excited. We may be the only humans they have seen for a long time, or forever.”
“There are beaver ponds in the creek.”
“Not enough to be worth the effort to set traps and the pelts would not have any value this time of year.”
Morning Mist smiled and waved her hand at the pack animals heavily burdened with furs. “You already have enough riches to buy many women.”
Luke did not respond to her teasing.
“Let's find a place to camp and stay here a few days,” suggested Morning Mist.
She saw a doubtful expression come to his face and hastened to continue. “It is nearly two moons before the child is to be born. We have plenty of time to stop and then go on to the place you call Santa Fe.”
“It is a pleasant-looking place,” agreed Luke. “We should be safe here.” Though they had traveled slowly, a third of the distance to their destination had been covered. Morning Mist had stood up to the ride quite strongly. Still, a couple days' rest would do her good.
He guided the way to the left and along the base of the rimrock. On the warm west-facing slope they came to a meadow of flowers. The yellow blossoms, two or three acres of them, bobbed their tiny round heads in the gentle wind like thousands of butterflies trembling on the verge of flight. The mountain honeybees droned a low sleepy hum all around. As the hooves of the horses waded the golden turf, a sweet, tantalizing aroma rose up to delight the sense of smell of the man and woman.
“The first flowers we have seen,” said Morning Mist and breathed deeply of the odor. “And there is a spring just over there. Let us camp here.”
The burdens of the pack string were dropped to the ground. As Luke began to hobble the animals, he glanced at the nearest band of wild mustangs standing on a nearby hilltop. Seeing the watchful attention of the harem stallion, Luke took particular care of the hobbles on the tame mares, pulling the straps extra snug around the ankles. Better to prevent the opportunity for his ponies to run off and join the wild bunch than to try to round them up later.
Soon as Luke had finished with the horses, he dug into one of the pouches and rose up smiling, holding a hook and line in his hand. “I bet you there are trout in that creek. Be back in a little while.”
A long slender willow was cut for a pole and a plump white grub from under a rock went on the hook as bait. At the first cast a trout, hungry after the long winter, took the juicy offering with a rush and splash of water. The second and third fish were caught nearly as quickly.
The trout were roasted to a golden brown and Morning Mist and Coldiron were soon eating, savoring the delicious change of food. She chewed the last tiny morsel of her portion and grinned at Luke. “Good, very good, why does the first fish of the spring taste so wonderful?”
“After all the red meat we have eaten this winter, our bodies crave something different. And surely I agree with you, it is a mighty fine taste. I'll catch another batch tomorrow.” He leaned back to contentedly lie on the ground.
The yellow sun slanting in from the west was warm and pleasant on Morning Mist. She reclined beside Luke. She thought of their destination. “How much longer for us to ride to Santa Fe?”
“We can make it in four to five days without making it too hard on you.
“Will it be hot there?”
“Yes, much warmer than here in the high mountains.”
“I like friendly people, Luke. Are the people friendly there?”
Not to Indians, reflected Coldiron, and sometimes not to gringos. “Most of them are friendly,” he said.
“How many people live there?”
“When I was there two years ago, about two thousand, maybe twenty two hundred. I have heard the town is growing fast. Quite a lot of trading goes on between the Americans and the Mexicans. The Santa Fe Trail coming down from Independence, Missouri, ties in to the El Camino Real of the Mexicans. The El Camino wagon road goes hundreds of miles deep into Mexico, to Chihuahua and on to Mexico City. The American traders take south with them manufactured goods such as print cloth, boots and iron wares. The Mexicans swap gold, fur and mules for these items. Something interesting is always happening in Santa Fe. I think you will like it there.”
I do not believe I will, thought Morning Mist. Yet she said nothing. This man had been a very good friend and she did not want to cause him concern.
“I do not understand some of those words you spoke. Iron wares. Does that have something to do with your name Coldiron?”
Luke laughed good-naturedly, began another lesson in English and got his lesson in the Arapaho tongue in return.
* * *
Luke rode the wash, staying hidden, trying to slip as close as possible to the herd of wild mustangs on a low ridge half a mile ahead. They were not yet aware of his presence and the wind was from them to him.
Coldiron had loafed one whole day after arriving in the valley. Then his cautious nature had roused him and he had saddled his mount to scout the land. He must know if Morning Mist and he were alone. He had been at it two days, but the long roundabout route examining the area below the rimrocks was nearly complete.
He was amazed at the great number of wild horses and even more surprised at the large quantity of dead ones. Within a short distance after leaving camp, he had come upon the first skeleton of a horse. The skin of the carcass, though dry and cracked, still covered most of the bones and he knew the beast had died during the past winter. Scores more bodies were soon discovered and the degree of decomposition ran the gamut. Some bodies were years old and consisting merely of a few bleached bones; others still had the smell of rotting flesh, dead not more than a month.
Now he was getting close to the band and he stood up in the stirrups and cautiously peeked over the lip of the ravine. The mustangs still grazed the wild grass on the side of the hill. On the highest point a tall roan stallion stood solitary watch.
The large black eyes in the intelligent head of the stud saw everything that moved in his domain. From his elevation he could view the flat bottom to where the stream entered the basin from the north and in the opposite direction where it left in the south. On the far side of the valley, to the east, the steep rimrock rose abruptly to block his sight.
Once in a summer drought, when the grass had grown only an inch when it should have reached a foot, he and his dam had climbed up a steep trail, through a gap in that rocky face so narrow their shoulders touched on both sides and out onto a great level plateau covered with trees. There had been no grass there either. Disturbed and feeling unsafe in that unknown place, they had turned and clambered back down into the country where both of them had been born. Better to stay where the dangers were known than to wander in an untrod land.
The colt had been strong and had survived that long dry summer and the winter of starvation that followed. Over the next four years, when the grass was tall, he grew into a large animal. He acquired his harem of mares a month just past.
Big wounds on his neck and withers were almost healed. Large white splotches, like some terrible disease, showed where the scabs had sloughed away. The injuries had been made by the vicious mouth of the giant black during the fight when the red one had stolen the black's harem. Those sixteen females, their rumps glistening in the afternoon sun, grazed the green grass on the slope below his lookout. From time to time they would look up and prick their ears toward the stallion, listening for any signal from their king.
The swale gradually shallowed until Luke could no longer remain out of sight. He leaned forward over the horse, holding himself tight against the neck, trying to blend himself with the brute. Then reining his mount directly toward the band of mustangs, Luke kicked him up into the open.
The watchful stallion spotted the strange horse the instant his head showed above the top of the wash. The stud snorted nervously and stamped the stony ground. He almost charged down to challenge and drive away the intruder, but the unnatural hump on the back of the newcomer worried him and he held back.
Luke drew closer, less than two hundred yards separating him from the mustangs. Unable to endure the nearness of the strangely shaped animal, the harem stallion spooked down the hill, bugling a loud commanding whinny out across the grassy slope. The mares instantly came to attention. Sweeping across the rear of the band, he nipped and crowded them in the direction he had selected for escape. Sensing quickly the intention of the master, the lead mare broke from the milling herd and raced away, the others immediately following.
The stallion sped straight through the group and took up station three lengths in front. He increased his pace, drawing the rest behind him like metal filings after a magnet.
The band of horses flowed past Coldiron in a flat-out dead streaking run, their long unpruned tails streaming out behind. The stud was a fine-looking beast in moderate flesh. The mares were in varying states of physical condition. The stronger ones were in middling shape like the stud. The very old and very young were thin, and several were worse than that, being bony and scraggily coated.
Trailing the mares and trying desperately to keep up was one sickly colt, all that remained of this year's crop of young. Luke shook his head sadly at the stunted little fellow. There were too many horses for the amount of grass that grew on the land. The strong survived while the others died, horribly.
One thing about the mustangs pleased Luke. A wide variation of color was present, with the predominant shades being black, bay and roan. The roans had a fair amount of gray mixed in. As a total, there were enough color and pattern that a good breeder of horses could develop an outstanding herd.
Luke ranged his eyes over the thick rock ledge rimming the basin. Five trails he had counted by which the wild ones had found entrance to this place. They were steep trails, passable now, but with snow on the ground, the period when food was most scarce, the hard hooves of no horse could climb that sharply angled grade. The stream's exit from the valley was the same as the bouldery entrance, closed to the passage of a hard-hoffed mustang. Almost completely locked in, they had bred and multiplied until now; except in the best of years, they were always half- starved.
Luke evaluated the rough, narrow access ways into the valley. With two weeks of work a man could wall up these trails. That would make the herds of mustangs his.
* * *
The sun rose, its shaft of golden light striking across the rimrock, ready to melt the purple shadows from the valley. In a cavern beneath the ledge of rock, the big male mountain lion slept. His stomach was full, for in the darkness of the early dawn he had killed a colt and gorged himself. From time to time his long tawny tail lifted and twitched. The great white claws half unsheathed themselves as he relived the final charge, the crunch of bone between his teeth and the taste of tender flesh.
Luke led a slow pace along the horse and game trail that slanted up the pine-covered slope toward the rimrock. Morning Mist followed close behind him, riding astride her soft-stepping steed. Plodding last was the pack train, each beast tied with a short length of rawhide to the one just ahead.
“Luke,” called Morning Mist, “we could have stayed here for a few more days. It is still more than a moon before my time to give birth.” She was happy in the companionship of her male friend and wanted to lengthen it.
Coldiron twisted in the saddle to look at his small companion. They had spent eleven days, quiet spring-filled days, in the valley. She had grown ever more beautiful as her pregnancy had advanced. She seemed extremely healthy.
He smiled at her. He knew they would not have left had he not insisted upon it. “Maybe we are moving on more for my peace of mind than yours,” he said. “But, I imagine you will also feel more at ease once you are with other women.”
I do not think I will like Santa Fe, thought Morning Mist.
The pathway grew narrow, barely wide enough for one animal, and crowded in close to the base of the cliff. The slope of the hill fell away steeply on the right.
Morning Mist called out again to Luke, her high-toned woman's voice sweeping out through the woods and piercing into the semidarkness of the cave where the lion drowsed.
The sound penetrated the sleep of the lion. He awoke instantly and sprang to his Feet, muscles bunched. His savage eyes darted out through the opening in the rock and into the lighted world just outside.
A line of mustangs with two riders were passing not thirty feet distant. The smaller human in the rear was making alien mouth noises. The lion, cornered within the cave, swished his tail in frustration and growled threateningly. He crept to the very brink of the light.
Then no longer able to endure the nearness of the horsemen, the lion roared its fury and hurtled from hiding in one long bound. He struck the earth near the horses, coiled himself and leaped again, passing in back of Luke's mount and in front of Morning Mist's, his body brushing the pony's face. He vanished among the dark trees.
In mortal fear of his ancient enemy, Morning Mist's pony flung himself to the right. His feet lost the trail and slipped on the sharp-angled side of the hill, and he fell, rolling, crashing down through the trees.
Morning Mist was pitched from the saddle by the sudden swerve of the panicked mount. She struck the ground, tumbled once, twice, striking hard and stopping against the trunk of a large pine.
Luke saw Morning Mist fall, but he could do nothing, for his own frightened mount was bolting ahead. He caught the leather reins up short and pulled them into his lap. The mustang fought the steel bit so mercilessly cutting its mouth under the powerful arm of the man.
Coldiron hauled the horse to a sliding halt and instantly whirled him around to speed back to where Morning Mist had fallen. He dropped to the ground and jumped down the incline to kneel beside her.
Morning Mist struggled up to a half-sitting position and propped herself against the base of the tree. “Oh, Luke, I am badly hurt,” she said, her face strained with the shock of her fall.
“Easy does it. Let me see.” Luke gently began to examine her, steadying her slight body against him on the steep hillside. His heart ached when he saw the upper right arm bent at an impossible angle. From the way she winced at each breath he judged she also had broken ribs. How much other internal damage there was could not even be guessed at. She was bloody from many scrapes and bruises.
“I must carry you to a level spot. I'll try to pain you as little as possible.”
“All right,” she answered with a tortured whisper. “Do you think my baby is hurt?”
“I don't know. The hardest blow seems to have been on your arm and above your stomach. Maybe the baby is okay.” But it will be a miracle if it lives with you injured so badly, he thought.
He lifted her up in his arms. The agony of the movement added its toll to the growing shock of her body and she fainted. Luke dug in his toes, climbed to the trail and continued in under the rock ledge.
In the soft dirt where the lion had slept Coldiron tenderly eased the battered girl to the ground. He set and splinted the broken arm while she was still unconscious. He decided not to try to treat the fractured ribs. She was cold and clammy to his touch. He was greatly disturbed, for her condition was precarious, her survival in great doubt. Hastily he went to fetch a canteen and a sleeping robe.
The pack animals had heard the maddening growl of the cougar and Luke found that the front ones had surged backward to become entangled with those behind. Two were down, thrashing, kicking the ones still standing. Half the packs were dislodged and dragging the ground. So snarled were the animals with each other they had been unable to stampede.
“Whoa now! Stand still you ornery bastards,” commanded Coldiron as he strove to fashion order out of the mix-up. As soon as they were straightened out, he hurried to return to Morning Mist.
As he placed her on the buffalo robe, her eyes came open. “I am so very cold,” she said and a shiver shook her.
Luke tucked the thick warm hide in snugly. “I'll build a fire.”
“Wait. Don't leave me,” she whispered in an urgent voice. “I am having pains like I have seen women have when birthing a baby. But it is too early.”
Luke touched her cheek, wishing there was something he could do to lessen her hurt and the growing fear.
“The injuries and the strain may be hurrying the child along.”
“You will stay with me?”
“You have my promise on that. I'll do everything I can to help you.”