Must be the Mountie leading.”
He heard a soft tap on his hat brim and smiled saying, “Here comes the rain. Hang on.”
He led off, south-southwest, away from the track and up a gentle grade in the growing darkness of the rain-drowned moonlight. The prisoner called out, “Where in thunder do you think you’re going? The railroad hugs the south edge of the gap through the Great Divide!”
“We’re on the west side of the divide, now. All this rain coming down is headed into the Pacific save what gets stuck in the Great Basin twixt here and the Sierra Navadas.”
“Jehosaphat, are we bound for California?”
“Nope, Green River country, once we cross some higher ground.”
“Have you gone plumb out of your head? There’s no way to get from here to the headwaters of the Green, and if there was, there’s nothing there! The Green River’s birthed in wild canyon lands unfit for man or beast!”
“You been there, Younger?”
“No, but I heard about it. It’s the wildest, rough most tore-up stretch of the Rocky Mountains!”
“Not quite. We got to ride over that part before we get to Green River country.”
Longarm took advantage of the remaining darkness to cover most of the gently rolling Aspen Range between the U.P. tracks and the mighty ramparts of the Green River Divide. Morning caught them winding up a trail fetlock-deep in running rainwater. They were above the hardwoods, now, and rode through gloomy corridors of somber, dripping spruce. Longarm took a deep breath, and while the smell of the rain-washed timber was pleasant, the air was a mite thin for breathing. He knew he was good for a run up Pike’s Peak to even thinner air, but he had to consider the horses. He led slowly on the upgrades and resisted the temptation to trot when the trail, from time to time, ran downhill a few yards.
Even covered with waterproof canvas and oilcloth, they were both damp and chilled to the bone by now. Somewhere above them the sun was trying to break through, but the sky was a fuzzy gray blanket of wet, dripping wool. Off through clearings in the timber, silver veils of rain whipped back and forth in the morning breezes like the cobwebs of a haunted pagan temple. From time to time one of the mountain gods roared majestically in the sky and another spruce died in a blinding lightning flash. More than once that morning lightning whip-cracked down too closely for comfort, but Longarm took little notice of things he couldn’t do anything about. Folks who were afraid of lightning had no business riding in the high country. Electrical storms went with the territory.
Somewhere in the dripping tanglewood they crossed the Utah line. There was no signpost, no natural feature. Someone back in Washington had drawn a line with a ruler on the map. Half of the jumbled peaks and ridges had never been properly surveyed by a white man. The way the Rockies had been thrown together here made little sense to the Indians, who said Lord Grizzly and the Great Spirit had wrestled in the Days of Creation and left the Shining Mountains as their trampled footprints in the torn-up earth of their Great Buffalo Grounds.
Longarm reined in near a giant potato of lichen-covered granite that leaned toward the trail, and helped the prisoner down, saying, “We got to spell the mounts on foot for a while. I’m going to build a fire and dry our bones a mite.”
“Could I have these cuffs in front of me for a change? My shoulder sockets are sore as hell.”
“I’ll study on it. Just stand against the rock and dry off some while I find something dry enough to light.”
He did think about the prisoner’s discomfort as he peeled damp bark from spruce branches and dug dry punk from under the soaked forest duff at the base of the rock. Unless the prisoner was a superb actor, he was neither bright nor given to sudden courage. He’d let them hold him for nearly a month in a ramshackle log jail guarded by old Pop and unskilled cowboy jail pards. Longarm took a spare cartridge, pulled the slug with his teeth, and sprinkled loose powder into the dry punk between his whittled stick kindling and stuck a match to it. There was a warm, smoky whoosh and Longarm put his face near the ground to blow into the smoldering beginnings before he leaned back, squatting on his boot heels almost atop the little Indian handwarmer and suggested, “Put your hands in front of you, if you want.”
“Don’t you have to unlock these blamed cuffs, first?”
“‘Course not. Ain’t you ever worn irons before?”
“Not often enough to know how to unlock ‘em with no key.”
“Hell, scrootch down on your heels till your hands are on the ground. Then just haul your ass and feet over the chain between your wrists. That’ll leave your hands in front of you when you stand up.”
The prisoner looked puzzled, but slid down the rock, fumbling about under the poncho and grunting as he got his knees up against his chin and struggled. Then he suddenly grinned and said, “I done it! My hands is in front of me! Why’d you have me chained like this SO long when you must have knowed all the time a man could work his hands to a more comforting place?”
“Wanted to see how educated you were. You got a lot to learn if you intend to follow Your chosen trade serious.”
The prisoner moved closer to the fire, putting his numb, linked hands out from under the poncho to warm them as he grinned and asked, “Are you starting to believe I ain’t one of the James-Younger gang?”
“Don’t matter what I believe. My job’s to take you in. Save the tales for the judge.”
“Wouldn’t you let me go if I could get YoU to believe MY real names Jones?”
“Nope. They never sent me to find out who YOU were. Like I said, you could be named Victoria Regina and I’d still deliver you to Denver, Lord willing that we ever get there.”
“You’re a hard man, Longarm.”
“Hell, you don’t know what hard can get to or you’d know better than to wander about with a running iron and a name like Jones. I know a dozen deputies who would have gunned you by now just ‘cause it’s easier and
