'There was a good tree close by and some dead branches. I pull them in, and I tug on another, and I hear something.
'There was a sound, a small sound. Not the sound of a tree, not a branch breaking ... an animal sound. I pull the branch again, and then I see it, lying over the bank ... a branch of the tree is there, too, but it is a horse.'
'A horse?'
'With a saddle. The horse try to get up. He cannot get up because he lies with his legs uphill. If his legs were downhill he could get up, I think.
'So I get his bridle. It is frozen stiff. I take the bridle and pull him over, pull his head over and hope he will keep it there. I get a rope on him, go back for my horse, and with my horse I get him up.
'When he is on his feet I look around. Where the horse was is a hollow in the snow. He must have struggled and worked himself down into the snow. He would have frozen there. But a horse, amigo? A horse with a saddle? I explain to myself that a horse with a saddle and no rider is not reasonable, you see?
'I look. Further down in the snow, I see him. A man lying there almost covered with snow. Near him are some tracks.
'It seems to me somebody has made the horse jump. He is frighten, this horse.
And when he jumps he falls, and the man is thrown and hurt, you see? Then I think somebody walks down to where he lies and hits him again, then leaves him in the cold.
'It will look an accident, you see? A man thrown, frozen to death. I think they did not want to trust to shooting ... people wonder, you know.'
The old man's voice was slowing, and he was growing tired. I sat there in the darkness thinking back. A man must have returned with Baston and Swan, and for some reason they had decided to kill him. A man left unconscious in the snow at such a time would have small chance of survival, yet the human creature is amazing. Nobody knew that better than me. I had seen men survive from impossible wounds, seen them walk out of the desert or mountains. I'd had a few bad times myself.
'You saved him?'
'It was cold. It was starting to snow, and the man was not big, but heavy, very heavy, senor. I could not get him up the slope. It was steep ... steep, Many trees and rocks.
'The man was cold--he was freeze, I think. I could not carry him up the slope.'
I waited, knowing he had to tell it in his own way, in his own time, yet I could see him there at the body of the unconscious man. Up above was a cave, shelter for the horses and himself, a good place for a fire, and fuel for it. And down below there an old man standing in the falling snow.
A time or two I'd had to carry unconscious men. It was far from easy. Up a slope like that? Not many men could manage it. Probably not one in a hundred.
What to do? The wind was rising, snow was falling, and with the rising wind the cold would grow more penetrating. Maybe the man would die, anyway. Perhaps he was almost dead. Why risk his life to save a stranger who was dying, anyway?
'To climb alone would be all. I left the man, and I climbed up. It was only a little way--a hundred feet, I think, perhaps a little more, you know?
'I got my blanket roll and I slid back down. Then into the snow I dug a hole. I built high the walls of snow around us, and I gathered sticks and laid some down and built upon them a fire.
'I rolled the man upon my bed, and the night long I kept the fire going, and I was alone so I talked to him. I talked to this man. I told him he was a lot of trouble to me. I told him there was a nice warm cave above and because of him I had to sit in the cold. I told him the only decent thing to do was to live.
'It was very cold ... mucho brio, senor. I shivered, swung my arms, danced in the snow, but most of the time I collected wood. There were fallen trees on that slope. And just a little way from there was a tangle of branches.
'I tried to climb up again, but it was too slippery from other climbs, so I went into the tangle and pulled myself up from tree to tree. Then I made a fire in the cave. I must think of my horses, senor. They were good horses, mine and the hurt man's horse, and it was not their fault they were in this cold place. I built a fire up there, and then I climbed down, and my fire down below was almost gone. Again I put fuel on the coals, and it burned up.
'I looked at the man. I felt his arms and his legs. I moved them. Nothing seemed broken, so only the head was hurt. I knew the man's face.'
'Who was he, viejo? Who was the man?'
'It was Petgrew. And he did not die. He did not waste my time. He lived, senor.
By morning he was a little rojo. His face, senor, was flushed, and his breath was better.'
'You saved him, then?'
'Ah? It was the good Lord who saved him, senor. I sat by him and kept the fire warm. I kept the fire for the horses, too. Up and down, up and down ... it was the longest night, the coldest night, and I was afraid all would die. The man, the horses, me.
'We were high up, senor. Perhaps ten thousand feet. You know what it is ... the cold.'
'And the man? Where is he?' I paused. 'What became of him, viejo?'
He put a trembling hand on my sleeve. 'He did not leave us. He is here.'
Chapter XIII
Morning lay bright upon the town when we rode out of the streets of San Luis.
The sky was a magnificent San Juan mountain blue, with puffs of white cloud scattered about.
Sunlight touched the snow upon the distant peaksv and as we rode there were no sounds but the beat of our horses' hooves and the creak of saddle leather. We four rode out with Esteban, rode west to the little ranch on the Rio Grande del Norte.
It was an adobe house with projecting roof beams--a comfortable house of several spacious rooms, a long barn, corrals, and a few fruit trees.
As we rode into the yard a man limped to the door, using a cane. He wore a six-shooter rigged for a cross- draw. He was a stocky man with a round, pleasant face, red cheeks, and a tuft of gray hair sticking up from the crown of his head. His eyes went to Esteban and he waved. 'Buenos dias, amigo!' he said cheerfully. ' 'Light an' set!'
There was a measure of caution in the glance he gave us, and I thought his eyes lingered on Orrin's face, then mine.
It was cool inside the house. 'Set,' he said. 'I am Nativity Pettigrew, Connecticut born, Missouri bred. Who might you be?'
'I am Orrin Sackett,' Orrin said, 'and this here is my brother, William T.
Sackett.' He introduced the Tinker and Judas, then sat down.
'Mr. Pettigrew, you were with my father in the mountains?'
Pettigrew got out his pipe and loaded it with tobacco. He turned his head toward an inner door, 'Juana? Bring us some coffee, will you?'
He glanced around apologetically. 'Don't like to be waited on, but with this game leg I don't get around so well no more.' He tamped the tobacco firmly. 'So you're Sackett's boys, are you? I heard tell of you a time or two, figured soon or late we'd come to meet.'
A pretty Mexican woman entered with a tray of cups and a coffeepot. 'This here's Juana. We been married nigh onto nineteen year.'
We all arose hurriedly, acknowledging the introduction. She smiled--a soft, pretty woman, and very shy.
'We're tryin' to find out what become of pa,' I explained. 'Ma's gettin' on in years, and she's wishful to know.'
He smoked in silence for a moment. 'It ain't as easy as you think. I took a rap on the skull up yonder and my memory gets kind of hazy. I do remember that Baston, though, and Swan. Must've been one of them hit me.
'My horse spooked. Maybe they hit him, burned him, I don't know what. Anyway, he was always a nervous one and he just jumped right out there an' fell. Last thing I recalled, until several days later when I come to in the snow with that old Mexican--he's Juana's grandpa--a-settin' by the fire, tendin' me like.
'Good man. Saved my life, so I just figured I'd never find better folks than these, an' I settled down right here. Bought this place off kinfolk of hers.'
