''Bring Me His Ears'' by Clarence E. Mulford (howl and other poems TXT) 📕

"This hyar shore is good beaver," he chuckled, clapping the Pueblo on the shoulder, "but thar's more good news fer you." He put his mouth close to the Pueblo's ear and whispered: "Yer friend Salezar will be leadin' a percession ter th' buryin' ground. That Delaware thar killed him with his bare hands!"

The Pueblo touched Tom's arm, his hand passing down it caressingly, to be seized in a grip which made him wince; and when Adam Cooper offered him a handful of gold coins the Indian drew himself up proudly and pushed them away.

"For his friends Pablo do what he can," he said in Spanish. "I now take these horses back on the trail to make a puzzle in the sand that will take time to read. Pablo does not forget. Adios!" He vaulted onto his horse, took the lead ropes of the tired mounts, and was lost in the darkness, eager to weave a pattern of hoof marks to mock pursuing eyes.

The little cavalcade pushed on, following a trail that wound along the sides of the mountains, passing many places where a handful of resolute men could check scores. The cold mountain air bit shrewdly, and occasional gusts of wind blustered along the timbered slopes and set the pines and cedars whispering. Higher and higher went the narrow trail, skirting sheer walls of rock on one side, and dizzy precipices on the other; higher and higher plodded the little caravan in single file, following the unhesitant leader.

There came a leaden glow high up on the right. It paled swiftly as a streak of silver flared up behind the jagged crests of the mountains, here and there caught by a snow mantle to gleam in virgin white. On the left lay abysmal darkness, like a lake of ink, and slowly out of it pushed ranks of treetops as the dawn rolled downward and the mountain fogs dissolved in dew. Deep canons, sheer precipices; long streaks on mountain sides where resistless avalanches had scraped all greenery from the glistening rock; green amphitheaters, fit for fairy pageants; velvety knolls and jewels of mountain pastures lay below them, with here and there the crystal gleam of ribbon-like mountain brooks, their waters embarked on a long, depressing journey through capricious oceans of billowy sands and the salty leagues of desert wastes. Birds flashed among the branches, chipmunks chattered furiously at these unheeding invaders of their mountain fastness; high up on a beetling crag a bighorn ram was silhouetted in rigid majesty, and over all lazily drifted an eagle against the paling western sky, symbolical of freedom.

There came the musical tinkle of falling water and Hank stopped, raising his hand. Into the little mountain dell the caravan wound and in a moment muscles tired and cramped from long, hard riding found relief in a score of little duties. While the animals were relieved of saddles and packs and securely picketed, and a fire made of dry wood from a bleached windfall, Hank climbed swiftly up the mountain side for a view of the back trail. Perched on an out-thrust finger of rock high above the dell he knelt motionless, searching with keen and critical eyes every yard of that windswept trail, following it along its sloping length until it shrunk into a hair line across the frowning mountain sides and then faded out entirely. Below him grotesque figures moved about like gnomes performing incantations around a tiny blaze; dwarfed horses cropped the plentiful grass and succulent leaves, and a timid streamer of pale blue smoke arose like a plumb line until the cruising gusts above the treetops tore it into feathery wisps and carried it away. Across the valley the rising sun pushed golden floods of light into crevices, among the rocks, and turned the pines and cedars into glistening cones of green on stems of jet.

"Wall," said a voice below him, "hyar I am. Go down an' feed. See anythin'?"

Hank leaned over and looked down at the climbing figure, whose laborious progress sent a noisy stream of clicking pebbles behind him like sparks from a rocket.

"Nothin' I ain't plumb glad ter see," replied Hank. "This hyar beats th' settlements all ter hell." As Jim's horrible face peered over the edge of the rock balcony Hank eyed it critically and shook his head. "I've seen some plumb awful lookin' 'Rapahoes; but nothin' ter stack up ag'in you. Vermillion mebby is yer favorite color, but it don't improve yer looks a hull lot. Neither does that sorrel juice. How's th' gal?"

"Full o' spunk an' gittin' chipper as a squirrel," answered Jim. "Who's goin' ter git th' blame fer last night's fandango?"

"Four murderin' Injuns, a-plunderin' an' a-kidnappin'," chuckled Hank. "Woodson's goin' ter raise hell about th' hull Cooper fambly bein' stole. Armijo'll keep his mouth shet an' pass th' crime along ter us, an' make a great show o' gittin' us; but," he winked knowingly at his accomplice in the night's activities, "chasin' four desperite Injuns along an open trail, whar his sojers kin spread out an' take advantage o' thar bein' twenty ter one is one thing; chasin' 'em along a trail like this, whar they has ter ride Injun fashion, is a hull lot diff'rent. They've had thar bellies full o' chasin' along Injun trails in th' mountings. Th' Apaches, Utes, an' Comanches has showed 'em it don't pay. Thar's sharpshooters that can't be got at; thar's rollin' rocks, an' ambushes; an' chasin' murderin' Injuns afoot up mounting sides ain't did in this part o' th' country."

"Meanin' we won't be chased?" demanded Jim, incredulously.

"Not meanin' nothin' o' th' kind," growled Hank, spitting into three hundred feet of void. "We killed some of th' military aristo-crazy, as Tom calls 'em, didn't we? We made fools outer th' whole prairie-dog town, didn't we? An' what's worse, we stole th' gal that Armijo war sweet on, an' Tom knocked him end over end—oh, Jim, ye should 'a' seen that! Six feet o' greaser gov'ner a-turnin' a cartwheel in his own house! Chase us? Hell, yes!"

The Arapahoe rubbed his chin. "Fust ye say one thing, then ye say another. What ye mean, Ol' Buffaler?"

"I'm bettin' thar's a greaser army a-poundin' along th' wagon road fer Raton Pass," replied Hank, spitting again with great gusto. "We're a Delaware from Bent's, a Blackfoot from th' Upper Missoury, an' two ugly 'Rapahoes from 'tother side o' St. Vrains, ain't we? Wall, if ye know a fox's den ye needn't foller him along th' ridges." He chuckled again. "We're goin' another way over some Ute trails I knows of."

"But s'posin' they foller us along this trail?"

Hank looked speculatively back along the narrow pathway, with its numerous bends, and then glanced pityingly at his anxious friend. "I jest told ye why they won't; an' if they do, let 'em!"

Ogden looked steadily southward along the trail and suddenly laughed: "Yes; let 'em!"

In the great courtyard of Bent's Fort one evening more than a week later, three trappers sat with their backs against the brass cannon that scowled at the heavy doors. They were planning their winter's trip in the mountains, figuring out the supplies and paraphernalia for a party of four, when Hank, glancing up, saw two people slowly walking along the high, wide parapet on the side toward the Arkansas. He raised an arm, pointing, and his companions, following it with their eyes, saw the two figures suddenly become like one against the moonlit sky.

Hank sighed, bit his lip, and looked down.

"Better figger on a party o' three," he said.