Tom left the camp of the Chinamen at daybreak. He was dressed in his own clothes and a coat Hoy had cut from a blanket and had sewn for him. He was armed with pistol and rifle. His black hair had grown longer and was tied behind his head with a leather thong.
The Chinamen filed down to the gravel bar to work as Tom headed up the Snake River. He looked back at the shanties where his flight had brought him those many weeks past.
The foreign miners were motionless near the river. Sigh and several of the others raised their hands in farewell.
They are a fine bunch of men, thought Tom. He turned away from his friends and spoke to the black horse. It went willingly at a trot on the winding river trail.
The animal was soft after loafing all winter and Tom halted early in the evening. He made camp where the trail veered away from the Snake and went across the foothills of the Wallowa Mountains to Baker City.
Each following day the horse grew harder. By the fourth day, the mustang had hit its stride and developed traveling legs.
That night Tom camped at the hot springs on the Malheur River. There was a gray stone house of two stories little less than half a mile west of him. Tom wondered if it had been there on his trip north and he had not noticed it in his delirium.
He heard voices coming from the house. This was the first habitation of white men he had seen for months. He thought of riding over to visit with the people. However, he was enjoying the time away from other humans and instead searched along the bank of the river until he found where the hot spring water mixed with the river and was cooled to a temperature that was pleasant. There he bathed and soaked in warm comfort for a long time before he rolled into his blanket.
He awoke to a stiff wind blowing out of the northwest. The weather was soon to change. He broke camp quickly and headed straight south over lava hills weathered and covered with tall grass bleached by the winter to a dirty gray.
Twenty miles later his route descended into the valley of a creek flowing east toward the Owyhee River. The wind was somewhat subdued in the creek bottom. He pulled rein and stopped to let the horse rest and graze for a while.
Tom took his rifle from its scabbard and found a seat that allowed him to watch both ways along the creek. Snow had drifted into the gully and a mound of white remained at the shadowy base. Tom scooped up a handful, compressed it into a lump and began to eat.
He relaxed and listened to the wind clawing its noisy way over the hills above him. The wind gradually shifted, working its way around to come directly out of the north. It gusted down into the ravine to rattle the parched reeds of grass and strum a thin whine through the lava rock.
The wind strengthened, steadied and began to turn cold. Its whine became an endless moaning dirge.
Then abruptly it changed. A sound unlike anything Tom had ever heard was combined with the dismal tune. He cocked his head to listen.
The additional notes were similar to the first wind noises, and yet different, more controlled with certain resonances accented as if to bring forth emphasis in a deliberate and artful manner. The new notes were full of lament and spoke of sadness.
Tom slowly rotated his head from side to side. He could separate out the sound superimposed on the natural wind noises. And he knew the direction of its source.
He climbed erect and stealthily crept up the drainage. The sound grew louder. He dropped down and began to crawl.
He stopped and parted the dry grass to peer ahead. A skinny old man with white hair sat at the feet of a bony nag of a horse. He held an odd-shaped instrument with wire strings beneath his chin with his left hand. While his right drew a flat bow of some material over the taut strands of metal.
His eyes were shut and his seamed, hatchet-thin face was concentrating on his task.
The wind intensified, shrieking a wild song, and the old man’s music rose to match and mock it.
Tom was astounded. Never before had he heard a fiddle. He had seen pictures of them in books and his father had described the music such a wooden box made. However, now with the vibrations of the strings reverberating in his head, he knew his imagination had failed significantly in fully understanding the beauty of the music a fiddle could make. He wanted the man never to quit playing.
But he did stop. The bow ceased its stroking of the strings and the fiddle was lowered. The old fiddler man climbed to his feet and leaned on the horse.
Tom saw the man’s face. Weather and time had blown and crumpled the man into ruin. The thin body and spindly legs and arms reminded Tom of a frail grasshopper walking on the autumn frost, knowing that winter and death were close.
The man retrieved a battered carrying case from the ground and made to stow his fiddle in it. Tom arose from the grass.
“Hello,” Tom called.
The ancient fiddler man spun around. Keen blue eyes caught Tom and measured him. The man had been startled, but he had not shown fear. Tom liked that.
A genial smile came to the face of the fiddle player. “Hello, yourself, my young friend.”
“That thing you hold, is it called a fiddle?” asked Tom.
“Fiddle be damned, this is a violin.” The man examined Tom’s earnest visage, then shrugged. “Yes. Let’s call it a fiddle. In this place and time, that is a fitting name.”
“It could be called a violin in some places?”
“When I played before the princes and crowned heads of Europe, they definitely referred to it as a violin.”
“You make very pleasing sounds from it,” said Tom.
“Sounds?” the man cried. “I make music. I am the best violin, er, fiddle player in the world.”
“I meant music. I have never heard music before.”
“You are a man grown and never heard music. You lie.”
“I never lie,” replied Tom, taken aback by the man’s harsh words.
“I’m sorry I said that. It is possible you have been deprived of a great inheritance of man.”
“Would you play some more for me?” asked Tom.
“My price is high. When I was on tour giving renditions of classical compositions, I was paid much gold.”
“I don’t understand your rendition of classical compositions. But I have only a little gold. I will give you some of it.”
The man smiled in unbelieving amazement. Was the youth telling the truth? Yes, for it was in his face. “Gold out here has little value. Perhaps this is something else we can barter. What direction do you travel?”
“South.”
“And what is the name of the place you go?”
“California.”
The man’s countenance brightened. “If I might join with you in your journey, I would play a tune for you all the way. Let me give you some samples.”
The fiddle went in under his chin and he settled his head. The bow stroked across the metal strings and the man’s fingers walked about in a skillful manner on their ends.
Tom saw the man’s eyes tracing the broken lava rock at the top of the ravine, and his music rose and fell in sharp abrupt tones, presenting the outline as if in a picture. He played and drew the blades of grass dancing in the wind, the trickling brook chasing through the rocks at his feet.
The fiddle strings moaned with the wind, gloomy and cold. The man noted the somber expression come onto Tom’s face and he intensified the sorrowful tone, playing with the youth’s emotions, pulling them to the surface.
When he saw Tom’s eyes become misty with some remembrance, the old fiddler relented. He launched into “Buffalo Gal,” giving its normal fast pace an additional lilting quality that soon had Tom patting his knee.
Tom glanced into the fiddler’s eyes. He understood the old man had been toying with him. He smiled his comprehension and nodded his acceptance of the trick.
“You can come with me,” said Tom. “What is your name?”
“John Kelly. And what is yours?”
“Tom Galaway.” He put out his hand and shook the man’s.
“My horse is old and I have no food,” declared John.
“How did you get into those straits?”
“Men often stop working at what they do best to try new adventures. Almost always the change is a mistake. I was at Mormon Basin digging for gold when I should have been playing my fiddle. Working in the cold water of the creek made my old bones ill. For weeks I could not rise from my bed. When at last I could stand and the weather turned somewhat warm, I decided I would go to California with its balmy winters. I struck out on the road. My horse got into deep water on the Malheur River and I lost my food supply. I have no money to buy more.”
“Tough luck,” said Tom. “I have enough for two until we can find a place that has provisions for sale.”
“Good,” replied John. “What town do you go to in California?”
“San Francisco.”
“I go to Los Angeles. It is located in a wonderful land for an old man to spend the rest of his days. It is south of San Francisco so we can travel together most of the way.”
“Then shall we be off and riding?”
“A little food would be nice to start our trip,” John said.
“Why sure,” said Tom. He untied his grub bag from behind the saddle and spread enough for two.
* * *
Tom and John rode long that day through rolling hills with Cottonwood and willow in the draws. They made silent camp in the edge of night.
John was trembling with fatigue as he unbound his two blankets, both thin as an old woman’s skin.
“I have an extra covering you can use,” said Tom, handing John his blanket. “I have my wolf-skin sleeping robe. It will be enough for me.”
“Thank you. The storm is getting worse. It will be a cold night.”
“I will build a fire out a few feet in front of that big, square rock,” Tom said. “Put your bed there between the rock and the fire and the heat reflecting from the rock will help keep you warm. There is plenty of cottonwood. It burns up fast, but I will drag in a big pile of it before darkness comes.”
“I think I will lie down now,” John said.
“Sure, go ahead and rest.”
Often during the night, Tom awoke to shove the long poles of wood farther into the fire as the ends were consumed. Each time he would look upward expecting the storm, but all he saw were the stars glittering like ice shards flung across the ebony sky.
In the small hours of the morning, the wind became a violent blast and shadows rippled through the night as clouds chased across the heavens. The clouds thickened and a dense overcast came in beneath the moon.
All the next day, the north wind shoved Tom and John across rough hills. Heavy-bellied clouds weighted down with snow scudded above them. The end of the day came early and the darkness was so heavy it pressed snow from the clouds to fall upon the two horsemen.
They were up and riding with the first coming of dawn. As the day lengthened, the storm gathered madness and fury and the snow thickened and streamed down. Drifts formed and grew in the lee of every rock and bush. They climbed up a mile-high ridge where the sky was an ocean of swift white wind.
Tom was worried about the old fiddler man. He glanced backward, squinting into the storm that roared over them. John sagged in the saddle. Some of his long, white hair had escaped from under his hat and was dancing and flicking into the wind. The web of wrinkles was imprinted so deeply in his sallow face they looked like scars. Wind tears were ice upon his cheeks. Shelter must be found soon or the man would die.
“Your horse needs rest,” Tom told John. “Ride my black and I’ll walk for a way.”
John stared at his young companion for a long time. He nodded his understanding at the kindness being given him. He dismounted and with Tom’s help pulled himself astride Tom’s horse.
Tom could see nothing beyond a couple of hundred feet. He thought the wind still blew from the north. He put it to their backs and descended the slope to the bottom.
Another hill obstructed their path. Tom guided the way up to its round top. In that exposed elevation the wind clouted them and diamond ice, hurled against his bare skin, stung like flame. He rested but a moment on the hill, then mounted John’s horse. They went onward down from the hill with snow plastered to their faces and wind pounding their backs.
Where the land flattened, Tom halted and his frozen eyes wrestled with the drifting phantom forms of snow. Unbelieving, he saw a house. In front stood a stagecoach, its hulking one-ton bulk rocking to the slam of the wind upon its tall side.
He checked the chimney. Smoke rose up, barely clearing the chimney top before it was shredded to bits by the wind.
Tom walked close to John. “We have found a house. They have a fire.”
John raised his head and looked. He exhaled a fragile breath into the frigid air. In a voice thin as a ghost’s he said, “It’s a stage station.”
They sat their horses in the lonely gloom of the blizzard, not yet fully believing they had found shelter.
Saddle leather creaked as John took hold of the pommel and tried to dismount. “Tom, I’m going to need some help. I don’t think I can walk,” he said, his teeth chattering with the cold.
Tom lifted him down in his arms and carried him to the entrance of the stage station. He kicked the door. In a few seconds, someone moved aside the protective block on a gun port cut through the wooden portal and stared out at him. The door swung open and Tom entered with his burden.
The room was large. Low benches were stretched along one wall. Four small tables, handmade of wood, were placed on the right side of the room. A large dining table was in the center of the room just off an alcove where a cooking stove could be seen. Through an open door at the rear of the room, a man was visible sleeping on a bed. All the windows were shuttered with thick wooden planks.
Groups of people were scattered here and there at the tables and on the benches. Tom ignored all of them. He carried John straight to the big, pot-bellied iron stove next to the side wall. Gently he set the old man on the earthen floor.
Within the stove fire crackled. Flickering flames cast yellow light out through the draft hole to dance on the floor.
John leaned forward and breathed a lung full of the warmth radiating from the fire. He shivered once more, gave Tom a kindly look from those faded old eyes and smiled. “I think I’ll live a little longer now and be able to keep my promise to play you some tunes on my fiddle.”
“That’s good,” responded Tom. “You rest. I’ll take care of the horses.”
Torn faced the room. “Who’s the manager here? I’ve got two horses that need to be gotten into cover and given a ration of grain.”
“You got any money?” questioned a square built man at a table containing some papers and a cash box. He gazed doubtfully at Tom’s dilapidated clothing.
“Got gold,” replied Tom.
“All right, then. Round back is a long shed with plenty of stable space. Find a place there for your animals. You can get grain from the sack in the corner near the manger.”
“How about food for my friend and me?”
“Pot of hot beans and beef there on the stove. Part of a roast chicken on the table. Plenty of tea and coffee there. Some boiled eggs left, too. My woman is baking more bread. She’ll set you a plate when it’s done. You can spread your blankets right there where the old man is.”
Tom nodded and went outside the door. He led the mustangs into the long, low building and gave each animal a full ration of grain and an armload of hay. As they greedily crunched the grain between their broad teeth, he stripped saddle and bridle from them. Carrying John’s bedroll and gear and his own, he headed back to the station.
Tom stopped at the stagecoach and circled it, examining the vehicle stoutly built of oak and iron. The leather curtains were drawn and he could not see inside. Promising himself a more complete investigation of the coach later when the storm let up, he walked to the station building.
The building was of two types of materials. The older section, and the largest, was of wood. An addition on the right was of stone. Gunports showed in strategic places on all sides Tom could see. A solid little fortress. He went inside.
“Find everything you need?” asked the manager.
“Yes. What’s the name of this place?”
“Rattlesnake Station on the Hills Beachy Stage Line.”
“Big crowd of people. All passengers?”
“Stage had to lay up because of the storm. Be moving on, probably by tomorrow. The driver is catching up on his sleep now. My woman says she is ready to feed you.”
John and Tom ate a hearty meal and then spread their beds on the floor. The old man instantly went to sleep.
Tom looked around at the other people in the room. Three soldiers in cavalry uniforms sat talking at one of the small tables. Three men in miner’s clothing were playing poker with a pack of frayed cards. Two cowboys and two young women laughed and conversed with each other in high, good spirits. In one of the corners, an Indian lay flat on his back, sleeping and snoring in a low rumble.
The wife of the manager was visible in the kitchen alcove in the old section of the station. The manager was silently making entries in his ledger.
“This stage heading south to Winnemucca?” Tom asked the manager.
“Yep. About one hundred and eighty miles. You’re a strong looking fellow. You looking for a job? If so, there’s plenty of work there, for the town is booming since the railroad arrived last year. The pay is three dollars a day for carpenters in Winnemucca and four dollars at the new gold mines in the Tuscarora Mountains.”
“Nope. Not looking for work. Just passing through. I’d like to buy two tickets.”
“You’re in luck. Only two seats left inside the coach. Looks like your old friend couldn’t ride another mile in this cold and snow. That’ll be sixteen dollars apiece for a total of thirty-two.”
Tom brought out his gold and the man carefully weighed out the correct amount on a small scale. “Here are your tickets. Keep them and show them to the driver at each stop if he asks to see them.”
“How much to board my horse for a month or two?”
“Didn’t you come on two horses?”
“One is old and not worth anything. I’m just going to turn him loose.”
“The Company does allow us to help people who take the stage and need a horse waiting for them when they return. Charge is two bits a day. They get grain and hay.”
“It is a deal. My name is Tom Galaway and I’ll pick the horse up myself.”
He returned to John and stuck one of the tickets in the band of his hat. He put the second one in his shirt pocket.
* * *
John awoke in the evening. He threw off his blanket and grinned at Tom. “I’ve had food, a fine sleep and I’m warm. You provided this for me. How would you like to hear some music?”
Tom smiled back at the old fiddler man. Only the heartwood of him remained, all else whittled and wasted away. But he endured. “Don’t play anything sad,” Tom said.
“How about a rendition of a world classic?”
“You must explain what that means one day, but for now play one.”
John’s blue eyes laughed and his mouth curled into a happy smile as his practiced hands drew the bow so beautifully across the strings of the violin.