The clearing fronted a crude lean-to beneath which clustered three horses. A chestnut mare stood nose to tail with a roan gelding. Slightly off to one side, the third member of the equine contingent leaned against the rear of the shelter. It was a stallion of indeterminate lineage, being mostly black with white markings on rump and fetlocks and a distinctive white ring around its right eye. Thin straps secured a leather patch to its forehead. Part Shire, it loomed over its more svelte cousins. While they browsed on the newly sprung grass, quick-frozen exhalations emerging from their nostrils like the signatures of miniature steam engines, it chose to doze contentedly in the shade.
A slight noise from the nearby forest caused the massive animal to straighten. Lifting its muzzle, the stallion sampled the air and peered into the dense woods with its good eye, the one that was white-ringed being half-shut in a perpetual squint. It stood thus for a long moment. Then it snorted a small cloud and relaxed again.
When the heavy horse huffed, Fifth John froze. Only after it had turned away from where he stood crouched in the snow did he move, turning and hurrying back to where his companions waited anxiously by the little stream that flowed clear and free beneath sheets of clinging ice.
Having mocked the warnings of wiser, more experienced men, they’d sure enough found themselves caught out unprepared by the early spring storm. With hopes and bravado dashed in equal measure, their thoughts had been only of making it safely back to the lowlands with nothing to show for their recklessness. Until now.
His wide-brimmed, floppy hat slumped down over his face, and Fifth John cursed improvidently as he angrily shoved it back. It was nearly as filthy as the rest of his outfit, but then, he’d never been one much for personal hygiene. It wasn’t his mother’s fault, either, though his name was. A poor, simple woman gifted with minimal powers of cogitation, she and her dour husband between them had possessed just enough skills to feed themselves and about as much imagination as a Denver omelet.
They’d had (“raised” being too genteel a term) five children, all of the male persuasion. The father’s name being John, they’d named the first boy John. And the second, and the third, and so on unto Fifth John, whose handle anyone could rapidly discern related no more to that portion of the good book than did its ornery namesake.
He was the de facto leader of the importunate trio by virtue of determination and sheer meanness rather than any inherent talent, his skills consisting pretty much of humble expertise with a sharp knife and the ability to lie like a Tennessee lawyer.
“There’s smoke comin’ from the cabin, but no movement. Couldn’t smell nothin’ cooking. I reckon they must all be asleep.”
“Any pickin’s?” asked Great Knox, chewing on a finger. It was a wonder the huge mule skinner had any left. He always had a well-gnawed digit between his brown and yellow tobacco-stained teeth. John had seen him chew on his toes, too, the bulky Yankee displaying unexpected dexterity. It was good that he was comfortable in his habits, because he wasn’t apt to be invited to any local cotillions. He wore a hat too small for his head, a narrow brown beard that traced the lower curve of his face from ear to ear, and an old tobacco-juice-stained vest over his heavy winter clothes.
Halfweed crouched nearby and listened. Though he was quite capable of speech, he chose not to say much, which was fine with his companions. Wiry and ruddy-hued, with a thin, down-arcing mustachio, he was good with both animals and a gun on the rare occasions when his brain and eyes managed to act in concert. His name descended not from his scrambled ancestry but from an addiction to peyote, which he’d acquired in the course of an extended jail stay down in Santa Fe.
These three solid representatives of the republic squatted in the snow by the creek and contemplated larceny.
“Three horses.” Despite their cover and the distance from the cabin, Fifth John was careful to keep his voice down. “All of ’em healthy and well rested, though one’s kinda weird-lookin’.”
“What d’you mean weird-lookin’?” Great Knox pursed badly chapped, swollen baby lips.
“I ain’t sure.” John scratched under his left arm. “Just weird. Big, though. Biggest damn animal I ever seen.” Beneath the brim of the battered hat, iniquitous eyes glittered. “Great for packin’. Bet he’ll fetch twenty, maybe thirty dollar in town.”
Knox nodded. “We’re wastin’ time sittin’ here talking about it, then.”
John agreed curtly. “You stay with the horses. Halfweed and I’ll do it.” The half-breed broke out into a wide, gap-toothed grin as he rose.
Knox watched them go, pleased that their ill-conceived journey into the mountains wouldn’t turn out profitless, after all. He wondered idly whose animals they were stealing, hoping he hadn’t at some time in the past made their acquaintance.
Leaving a man stuck in these mountains without a horse was not too different from shooting him in the back. Just slower.
Caiben was preparing to clean the previous night’s dishes when he noticed the empty makeshift corral. As he straightened, his gaze instantly swept the surrounding forest, but there was no sign of movement. Setting the laden bucket aside, he dashed over to the fence line, ignoring the powdery snow that clung to his faded long johns and slid with icy slyness down into his boots. He yelled even as he was checking the gate and the double set of footprints nearby.
In response to his shouts, two men emerged from the cabin. One had to bend low to clear the lintel. His companion replied, his words as sharp in the chilly afternoon air as if they’d been chiseled from granite and hung in the sky to read.
“What’s happened, Caiben?”
Caiben rejoined them, looking grim. “Bad doin’s, friends. Horses are gone. Two men. Whites, not Indians.” He shaded his eyes against the snow glare as he looked back and nodded toward the trees. “Reckon they got about a two-, three-hour start.”
“Damnation.” The other man spit into the snow, making a tiny stained crater. “What you think, Amos?”
The giant who stood next to him gazed phlegmatically at the forest, an incongruous sight in his bright red, custom-sewn oversized long johns. As he considered the situation, he slowly stroked the impenetrable tangle of black wire that was his beard. There were some folks who thought strange small critters lived within that ebon briar patch, but none ever had courage enough (or the reach) to examine the confusion for themselves. Beneath heavy brows, startlingly black eyes examined the distant line of tracks in the snow.
“Never catch ’em in this.” He kicked absently at the deep powder. “Not on foot.” His expression was unreadable. “I don’t know about you two, but first off I’m gonna fix me some breakfast. Then I think I’ll go back to bed.” He squinted skyward. “Not much point in checkin’ the traplines while it’s still snowin’.”
His companions exchanged a glance. “Is that wise, Amos?” the man next to him wondered.
The giant peered down at him. “That depends, now, Jim, on whether or not you think I am.”
Caiben shook his head slowly as he eyed the forest. “I dunno. They get more’n a day ahead of us, we’ll never find ’em even if this starts to melt.”
“Don’t reckon we’ll need to.” Malone had turned toward the doorway. “Cold out here. I’ll put some wood on.” He bent to clear the opening and glanced back at his companions. “Y’all comin’?”
They hesitated briefly. Then Jim Bridger sighed. “Hell, I remember once Amos told me we could make it from New Orleans to St. Louis in half the regular time, and we did. Never did tell me how he’d knowed that the Mississip was gonna reverse her course that day. Danged if she didn’t.” He followed the giant into the cabin.