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  Ben pointed to a place where the steep walls narrowed to less than a hundred feet and just a quarter mile from the trail they had just ascended. ‘We’ll build a fence and a gate across there to hold our gather.’ Bear nodded.

  For a week, they worked the brush and hills and made their muster. The herd had swelled to well over eight hundred head since Bear last saw them and they were in surprisingly good shape. Over half the herd was young stuff and breeding stock. They were wild and hard to hold, and Ben and Bear had their hands full. Finally, they figured they had as many as they were going to find, and decided to start the drive in the morning.

  ‘We’ll push them to the trailhead and they’ll have nowhere to go but down.’ Ben sliced bacon into the pan while Bear made biscuits and stirred the beans. ‘They may scatter some at the base of the mesa before we get down there ourselves, but they’ll be easy to spot since it’s fairly flat.’

  Bear nodded and said, ‘The hard part will be keepin’ ’em together with just the two of us, but we’ll make out.’

  There was a chill in the air when they started the cattle heading toward the trail down the mesa the next morning. For a time, the lead cattle milled around at the trailhead, unwilling to descend, but gradually the pressure from the other cattle forced them down and the drive was underway. Ben and Bear whistled and shouted, waving their arms and urging the cattle forward. Finally, only Ben and Bear were left at the trailhead and then they too began making their way down. As Ben rounded a turn he could see the valley floor far below and saw that most of the cattle were already down and milling about.

  Cattle, in spite of their clumsy appearance, are surprisingly sure-footed, and Ben didn’t lose a single head on the steep descent. When they reached the base of the mesa, the bawling herd was still there, milling around and confused. They began pushing them east and gradually an old mossy-horn steer took the lead and the herd followed. They bedded down the first night after making about five miles. Ben considered that a fairly good start with a herd not yet broken to the trail and only two riders.

  On the third day, they again spotted a party of Indians and Bear remarked that it looked like the same bunch they had seen on the way. Ben agreed and said, ‘I’m going to ride over there and talk to them. Maybe we can help each other. You stay with the herd.’

  There were two old men, two younger braves, one boy, two girls and two women. They watched Ben ride up. He spoke to them and learned they were migrating to a new camp. He could see that they had few belongings and even less food.

  ‘I will bargain,’ he said. ‘I need two men to help me take my cattle to my valley. For this, I will pay well. What is your price?’

  ‘Two horses and six cattle.’ The speaker was the wounded brave Ben had once treated and who had subsequently helped Mattie. Neither occasion was mentioned.

  ‘I am called Ben. What do they call you?’

  ‘I am called Medicine Hawk. I will go with you and my son will go with you,’ he said, tilting his head toward the boy.

  ‘He can ride?’ asked Ben.

  ‘He can. He is young but he does a man’s work.’

  The boy looked to be about thirteen, and at that age, Ben had held down two jobs in Boston. Ben nodded. ‘Very well, have your people cut out six cows from the herd. We can’t spare any horses now but when we are through with the drive you shall have them.’

  The cattle were now partially trail-broken and the drive was much easier. Both Medicine Hawk and his son proved to be good hands and they knew of the available water holes and grass. The cattle were in excellent shape and now seemed eager to see what was over the next hill.

  They were within a day’s ride of the valley when Hawk rode up to Ben and nodded at a column of dust approaching from the south. With his field glass, Ben could make out five, perhaps six riders. He turned and stood in his stirrups to find Bear and was gratified to see the old mountain man already peering toward the dust and looking to his rifle.

  The riders drew up and studied the herd as Ben quietly rode up to them.

  ‘I’m Daniel Goodwin,’ said a big, pompous-looking blond man on a palomino, ‘and I claim all unbranded cattle on this range.’

  ‘Do you? Well, these cattle aren’t from this range. We’ve driven them almost fifty miles and we intend to drive them further. You’d best stand aside. We want no trouble.’

  ‘Boss, that there is Ben Tower, the man I told you about.’

  Ben looked at the redheaded speaker. ‘I know you. You’d be the man that tried to rob the Trail’s End at Cook’s Crossing. I see they failed to hang you.’

  ‘That’s right. I’m Dooley Clowers.’

  ‘The Santa Fe gunman?’

  ‘Some call me that. Them town people never bothered to lock that ice house door and my friends just lifted up the bolt one night and here I am.’ He grinned. ‘And as I remember, I owe you one.’

  Goodwin pushed forward and stared at Ben. ‘I don’t care who you are or where you got these cows. This is my land and I’m claiming this here herd, so you just gather up your men and ride on out of here.’

  Ben nudged his own horse forward and before anyone realized his intent, he was side by side with Goodwin’s horse and the muzzle of his Winchester was planted firmly in the big man’s belly.

  ‘Now you listen to me. These are my cattle and I’ve worked hard to bring them all this way. I’m not about to give them up to you or anybody else.’ There was hard steel in Ben’s voice. ‘Now I’m taking them on to the Rafter T. Will you give me passage, or do I need to blow your liver all over that saddle?’

  Big Dan didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one bit, but the sharp front sight of Ben’s rifle was buried in his gut and he knew Ben was not bluffing.

  ‘You men turn around and ride on back the way we came,’ he said over his shoulder.

  ‘But boss . . .’ began the protest.

  ‘Do as I say!’ he barked. ‘Now move!’

  Dooley Clowers pushed his horse forward, his face ugly and his hand on his gun butt.

  ‘Damn you, Dooley! You’ll get me killed. Now do as I say.’

  Clowers glared at Ben for a moment and then wheeled his horse and moved off, cursing under his breath.

  Goodwin turned back to Ben. ‘This ain’t over Tower, this ain’t over by a long shot.’

  ‘My ranch is the Rafter T, about a day’s ride east of here. We call it the Rafter T Valley,’ Ben said, ‘and I never forget a face.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘It means that if I ever see your face, or one of these men on my range, I won’t be asking questions. I’m going to figure that it’s not a friendly visit and just start shooting.’

  It was just after noon the next day when they pushed the herd on to the long, green grass of Rafter T Valley.

  CHAPTER 4

  The time for the March thaw came and went without a sign of any warming trend. It had been a particularly harsh winter and Ben had been steadily losing stock to the bitter cold. There was plenty of feed beneath the thin crust of snow and the springs flowed despite below zero temperatures, but cattle, like all other creatures, can tolerate extremes just so long before succumbing and the gray overcast and strengthening westerly winds promised more to come.

  Ben and Bear were checking waterholes when they came across the partially-eaten dead yearling. But unlike the others, this one had died from claw and fang and not the cold. The tracks told the tale as plainly as if it had been written in the snow. One particularly strange, peculiar track told yet another tale.

  ‘That there’s that big old grizzly from up yonder around the high timber.’ Bear spat over his shoulder and wiped his chin, looking warily up the slope. ‘From the looks of that track, he’s done lost hisself a rear foot to a trap or somethin’. Crippled up like that, he’ll be takin’ a beef calf from now on when he wants some meat ’lessen he finds somethin’ already dead.’

  Ben nodded up at the trail. ‘We’d best follow his tracks and put him d
own while we have a trail to follow. He’ll be a menace otherwise and besides, I’ll see no creature suffer like that anyway, not even a bear. He’s fed up on meat and headed back up the slope, probably to den up somewhere. I’ll follow him from here and you go back to the ranch-house and get us supplies for about a week. Ride on up to the overlook and wait. I can see that outcropping from most anywhere and I’ll keep an eye out for you.’

  He glanced at the graying sky. ‘Maybe this weather will hold off for a time. Then again, maybe not.’

  The first flakes of snow were falling when Ben got down to spell his horse. There was a blizzard building, sure enough, and he needed to locate shelter soon and build a fire. A little worried now, he hoped Bear would see the snow on the mountain and wait it out before packing supplies up as they had discussed. But it was no real concern. Bear was more than able to take care of himself.

  Ben was nearly seven-thousand feet up and the freshening wind was peppering the cold snow against his exposed face. He had just turned to dig a bandanna out of his saddle-bags when something slammed into his back with terrific force. The horse bolted, and he flipped off backward, smashing his head violently against a rock. He tried to rise but fell on his face and then the world faded from gray to utter blackness. For a long time, he knew nothing.

  ‘You ain’t dead?’ The unfamiliar cold voice brought him to his senses and with great effort he rolled over onto his back. The man sitting his horse and looking at him was a stranger.

  ‘I thought I’d killed you. Took me almost an hour to get off that ridge to see if you was dead.’

  The strangely flat and emotionless voice had a vaguely familiar ring as did the gray, hooded eyes that studied him quietly.

  ‘Who are you? Why’d you shoot me?’

  ‘It don’t matter none. All that matters is that you die and stay dead.’ The stranger eased his pistol out of his waistband and calmly fired into Ben once and then again. He watched the blood begin to flow from Ben’s head and chest and noted the half-lidded eyes gazing at the leaden sky but seeing nothing. Satisfied, he turned and started down the mountain. The snow began to fall faster, and the sound of the wind became more urgent.

  For a long time, Ben lay still, halfway between life and death. Then the bitter cold overcame even the shock of his wounds and his mind staggered back to consciousness. For a moment he couldn’t remember where he was or what had happened. Then the memory of the cold-blooded shooting came back to him.

  Slowly he began to assess his situation. His horse was nowhere in sight and he was partially covered in the snow that was now coming down hard. The wind had increased, and drifts were beginning to build. He could see no more than fifty feet. He was in desperate trouble.

  Groaning, he forced himself to try to rise. On the third attempt, he managed to roll over on his face. He got his hands under him and finally pushed himself to his knees. For a while he paused, laboring to catch his breath. He must find shelter and must find it soon. He tried to rise but failed. He began to crawl.

  Twice he fainted. Both times, cold snow melting on his face brought him around and he pushed on. He vaguely remembered an outcropping somewhere off to his left and maybe a mile distant. It might be made into a rough shelter and there was fuel there from a lightning-felled oak. But with only a few feet of visibility, there was a good chance that he would miss it entirely. He had to chance it. It was all he had.

  Amazingly, there were apparently no bones broken and no vital organs hit but he had lost a lot of blood. His probing fingers told him that the bullet to his head had cut a furrow along his scalp that had bled a great deal but was not serious. The bitter cold was his enemy now, but it was also partly responsible for stopping the bleeding. Once, while he rested, he checked his pockets and found his tin of matches and a strong pocket-knife. His rifle was still on the saddle and his holster was empty, so his revolver was probably lying somewhere under the snow. He also found a sandwich that was to have been his lunch. Now it was a matter of life or death. A man must have food to survive the cold.

  He crawled as far as he could go. Finally, his knees and hands became so scraped and bloody that he was unable to crawl any farther. He must either get to his feet or die. He picked up a stout limb to use as a walking stick and put one end on the ground in front of him. Using both hands, he began to pull himself to his feet. Straining with desperation, he finally gained his feet and stood unsteadily in the gale-force wind, but he stood nonetheless. Keeping a firm grip on the stick, he took first one step and then another.

  He lost track of the times he fell on the icy slope but each time willed himself back on his feet. He forced himself to remember the cold, gray eyes and the flat, merciless voice. He forced himself to remember the cold-blooded shooting and leaving him for dead. He used this memory to create the heat and determination of righteous anger that gave him the strength and will to overcome his desperate situation. The visibility was now less than ten feet in the wind-driven blizzard. He pushed on.

  Finally, totally exhausted, he sat on a flat shelf of rock and faced the fact that he had gone as far as he could go. After a long time, he raised his head and looked wearily around. As he did, the snow eased up a bit and he could see that the rock he was sitting on was part of a large outcropping and above his head was the lighting-struck oak. He had made it.

  Under a narrow shelf jutting out from the face of the outcropping, he gathered stones for a low wall and to serve as a reflector for his fire. He leaned several poles against the shelf at the top and the wall at the bottom and laced as many sticks as he could horizontally to serve as a crude windbreak and hoped that the snow might fill in some of the openings. It wasn’t much of a shelter, but it would have to do.

  He found some bark and dry twigs beneath a sheltering rock and began to construct a pile of fuel for his fire. Using first dry twigs and then larger pieces, he built a teepee shape over his kindling. Before he lit it, he looked around for larger logs to bank his fire and to eventually burn. He spied a good-sized piece sticking out from near the wall and went to retrieve it. That act saved his life. He stumbled onto the almost-hidden entrance of a small cave.

  The walls and ceiling were blackened with the soot of ancient fires and above, he could dimly make out daylight shining down through some cleft in the rock forming a natural chimney. His fuel, transferred into the cave, blazed brightly, and for the first time in hours, he began to feel some warmth creeping back into his bones. As he sat and ate his sandwich, he looked around the rest of the small room. In the rear of the cave was a good-sized pile of dry wood, placed there by someone who had used the shelter long ago. There was also a pile of leaves, more than a little fur, and the strong, musky odor of bear.

  Bear had just reached the ranch and was explaining the situation when he and Mattie heard the faint report of a gunshot far up the western slope.

  ‘Maybe he got the bear,’ Mattie said.

  ‘Don’t think so. That there was a pistol shot. He wouldn’t shoot no bear with a pistol, ’lessen he was jumped and had no time to get out his rifle.’

  Later, Mattie handed Bear the sacks of food and then stepped out of the barn and gazed up the mountain through the steady snowfall. She could see nothing, nor did she expect to. Then she heard two more closely-spaced gunshots.

  ‘Heard ’em.’ Bear was mounted and had the packhorse in tow. ‘Maybe he took on that bear with a hand weapon after all. Maybe not. I’ll be leavin’ now.’

  ‘Be careful, Bear. It’s shaping up for a blizzard.’

  Soon after, Bear came upon Ben’s horse walking slowly toward the ranch and trailing its reins. Blood splashes showed on the saddle, but the horse was unharmed, so it was not likely a bear attack. The horse was tired and skittish, but Bear would need him when he found Ben, so he added it to his string. He headed up the mountain. The wind subsided but the snow fell steadily. The creaking saddle and constant beat of the hoofs were muffled in the hushed silence of falling snow. Mattie was right about the blizzard, bu
t Bear’s real worry was what had happened to Ben.

  Ben dug through his pockets again and pulled out his tin coffee cup. Filling it with fresh snow, he settled it in the coals. Later, he dropped some grounds from another pocket into the hot water. The coffee tasted good. The cave was relatively warm and so was he.

  Filling the cup again, he opened his coat and shirt and bathed his wounds with the hot water. The first shot had hit low in his back and had gone through without touching anything vital as far as he could tell. The chest shot had hit the tally book in his shirt pocket and stopped just under the skin. Using his knife, he popped it out and plugged the hole with wadded cloth cut from his shirt. He was sore and weak from loss of blood and shock, but perhaps he was not seriously injured after all. His head ached fiercely from both the gunshot wound and the blow from his fall on the rock, but those too, did not seem to be serious.

  He would stay the night and head back to the ranch in the morning, if he was able. He pulled his coat back on and settled in. Outside, the wind fell silent, but the snow continued to fall. Ben fed the fire and then stretched out beside it. In minutes, he was asleep.

  The first blow threw him against the far wall of the cave and he instantly felt a rib break. Somewhere, blood began flowing as he scrambled for what little cover he could find. With a deafening roar in the tiny space, the bear charged, crushing him against the wall. Again, he was slapped aside and then he felt giant jaws clamping down on the calf of his right leg. In desperation, he grabbed a glowing stick from the fire and jabbed it where he thought the bear’s eyes must be. With an agonized scream, the bear dropped Ben’s leg and began to roll and thrash violently about, digging at its eyes and tossing scattering rocks, dirt, and firewood in all directions. Ben grabbed another burning stick and crept to the farthest corner.