Part 13 (2/2)

Gene Hardee hopped over to us, while Melvin slowly worked the lever of his rifle.

”You all right?” Melvin asked.

Had to yell it again before Gene Hardee could hear.

”Twisted my ankle!” He hooked a heavy mitten thumb toward the horse, still writhing in the s...o...b..nk. ”Sprained it. Or something. Horse stumbled in the bank!”

”I'll see to it!” Melvin stepped toward the downed animal.

I saw, too. Saw the blood pouring from the buckskin's two front legs, the wind blowing what looked like small cherries. That's how fast the blood froze. A crimson lake of ice already stained the snowdrift while the horse screamed and tried to stand, but couldn't.

Cold and the wind had turned snowdrifts into ragged knives of ice, and, when Gene Hardee's horse stumbled, the drift tore away the flesh, carved rugged slices all the way to the cannon bones. The left leg had snapped, terribly, pus.h.i.+ng a ragged edge of bone through the battered, b.l.o.o.d.y skin.

Suddenly the buckskin's head slammed into the s...o...b..nk, shuddering, gave one last violent kick, then lay still, quiet, its big eye glazing over. I didn't even hear the report of Melvin's rifle, didn't see smoke from the barrel. The horses just stood calmly, too cold, too scared, too miserable to catch the scent of blood. Like the rest of us, they heard just the howling wind.

Melvin returned the rifle to the scabbard. ”Jim!” he said. ”Get Gene back to the bunkhouse! Don't tarry! Don't look directly at the snow! But watch where you're goin'!”

He waited to make sure I understood, then told Hardee what he was doing, that he and Walter Butler would take care of the cattle. We helped our boss into the saddle, and before Melvin mounted his horse, he grabbed my wrist again, looking up from the ground, his eyebrows caked with frosted icy. ”Stay clear of the snowdrifts! Let your horse pick its path! Likely he knows the way back to the ranch better than you! Can you do this, Jim?”

I nodded.

”Good boy! I'll see you back at the ranch!”

We waited till Melvin mounted, watched him and a trembling Walter Butler ride into the big emptiness, then I made for the Bar DD. Last thing I remember seeing was Gene Hardee's buckskin, already covered with snow.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Crabtown got us back to the Bar DD, but, when Mrs. MacDunn seen us, she give Hardee both barrels of her Scottish tongue while helping me help him into the bunkhouse.

”A boy Jim's age shouldn't be risking his life for foolish men like you and my hard-headed husband. Jim Hawkins and Walter Butler should be in school!” she said.

”They're in school, ma'am,” Gene told her. ”My school.”

Mrs. MacDunn muttered something I couldn't catch, and we eased Gene Hardee onto his bunk. ”What happened?” she demanded.

”Oh, twisted my ankle is all. Sprained it. Lost my horse.” He didn't go into details as to what exactly had happened to his horse.

”You should put some ice on it,” she said. ”Keep the swelling down.”

”Good thing there's plenty of ice handy,” Gene said.

Not appreciating his humor, she gave him a stare colder than it was outside before sending me out to fetch some ice.

Turned out, though, that Gene Hardee hadn't twisted or sprained his ankle. He had busted the bone pretty good. Had to use a butcher knife to cut off his boot, and I think that irritated him as much as being an invalid. Those boots had cost him $15 in Helena, and he was none too happy to ruin one of them. 'Course, we didn't have no hard plaster to fix up a cast, but Mrs. MacDunn and me got the bone set, braced with some slats from Camdan Gow's old bunk, and she fixed him some willow bark tea to help ease the pain.

Gene Hardee was the first casualty that winter.

Next morning, I dabbed charcoal underneath my eyes to cut down on the glare from the snow, and went outside, still bundled up against the biting cold. Forked hay to the animals in the corral and barn, and met Lainie at the woodpile, me fetching a load for the bunkhouse, and her getting some for her home. Hadn't seen her much of late, and couldn't hardly recognize her wearing her pa's overcoat and overshoes. I told her I'd carry the wood for her, but she just stared past me. Not sure she even heard my offer, or even recognized me.

Then she asked: ”Jim, what kind of bird is that?”

I turned, following where she was pointing. It was hard to spot in that snow, but I found it at last atop the barn.

Big bird, I mean to tell you, maybe two feet long. The color of snow, but with a fair amount of black, and feathers all the way down to the feet. The face was pure white, except for its big black beak, but what really struck me were those eyes, a cold, penetrating yellow. It took off just a few seconds later, and I'd never seen a wing span like that on no owl, which is what I had taken it for. Some kind of owl, a white owl, a big owl.

Later, I'd see two more of them birds-one with no dark splotches, at all, I mean completely white-except for that black beak and jaundice eyes-with heavy feathers. n.o.body had ever seen those owls, except Frenchy Hurault, and that old Metis shook his head sadly when he saw another big owl that evening.

”Mon Dieu,” he whispered, talking to the big bird. ”You are far from home.”

A bird from the Arctic, a snowy owl. Flying south.

”A bad omen,” Frenchy said.

All night, we heard that owl's haunting call.

Pyee! Pyee! Pyee!

Prek! Prek! Prek!

Pyee!

Until the wind started howling again.

Within a few days, however, the temperatures warmed, and the drifts of snow grew smaller, yet the hills surrounding the Bar DD remained a barren expanse of white, of crusted snow. Dark clouds became a fixture over the Rocky Mountains.

”What we need,” Ish Fishtorn said, ”is The Black Wind to take care. . . .”

”You will have a long wait before you see your first Chinook,” Old Man Woodruff said, rubbing his left knee. ”That's what these joints of mine tell me.” He sighed. ”I never should have left Florida.”

Walter Butler came down with snow blindness, hurting something terrible. We put him to bed, and Old Man Woodruff laid salt poultices over his eyes, but Walter acted like a wild man, throwing those off, begging for us to kill him. Had to tie his arms and legs to the cot. You wouldn't think snow blindness would do that to a fellow. We kept those salt poultices on him for three, four days, but Walter could hardly eat or drink, he was hurting so bad.

Finally Mrs. MacDunn brought over a small bottle of Perry Davis Pain Killer, but she sounded skeptical.

”I've heard this works,” she said. ”But I am not sure.”

Well, we removed the poultices, and got ready. Ish Fishtorn pulled back one of Walter's eyelids, and Mrs. MacDunn let a few drops fall into his left eye. Most of the liquid dribbled down Walter's face, but a couple of drops must have hit the mark, because that boy started screaming, pulling at his sheets we'd used to tie him to his bed, cussing up a storm. Walter Butler wasn't known for having such a foul mouth, and I felt glad that Major MacDunn wasn't around to hear what that boy was calling Mrs. MacDunn. Felt gladder, I'll admit, that Walter had the s...o...b..indness, and not me.

Proved even harder to get those last drops into Walter's other eye, but we done it, and Walter's shrieks like to have blowed down the bunkhouse walls.

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