Chapter 9
Stretched out under total darkness, Petra stared upward, the overcast night resembling much the first after he buried Pa in a gully behind their cabin, hatred filling him for Marshal Pike, bankers and all manner of men who’d unfairly abused his father. Since childhood, Anton saw the man strive mightily to earn a living, first hauling timber from Oregon forests to the Columbia River for floating to the coast where shipbuilders bought masts and mills purchased to make lumber. Most those years, the youngster stayed weeks at a time in make-shift towns cared for by women with children of their own and favoring them over him most often using cash money paid by Pa. Never once did he recall a kindly moment then except when his father returned to rescue him.
When timbering dried up, Pa took to farming, settling them in a one room house erected by his own hand on land gained through a note issued from a local bank. The best years of his life, Petra loved working the earth alongside his father, harvesting and selling crops to buy supplies and learning from him to hunt game in the forest. Pa knowing everything needed for good living, Anton admired his way of teaching while allowing ample time for the boy to roam country around close to home, learning plants used to make medicine while discovering which would cause rash or burning itches.
When the Sheriff arrived with a foreclosure notice, young Petra had been stunned. Two hard years had been suffered, he knew, one from locust and the second from drought, but never had Pa mentioned it possible the bank might steal their home away nor, it seemed, was he aware that could happen. Folks often had difficult times without banks seizing land but, as his father told it, this time was different as theirs found someone willing to pay cash for their land at a price far better than the value of Demitri’s loan.
Behind on the note, Pa had no choice but to pack Anton up, move them both to the hills where prospecting talk was strong and begin panning and digging. The start of several years the boy liked none, hating mountain cold and despairing at father’s regular absences said to be needed to explore streams for gold which denied him the only company he wished to have. It had been an early autumn night after one extended stretch alone when Anton woke, thrilled to hear his father moving about and sprung from bed.
Lighting a lamp, he’d been surprised to see Pa wounded, a bloody bandage wrapped around one arm and more astonished to watch him secreting a canvas bank bag behind loose stones in the fireplace. Sitting his son down, Pa explained then his trips away weren’t for prospecting but were spent robbing banks, evening the score while building a stash allowing them to soon leave the miserable winters and live in a decent home far to the south where harsh winds and snow could never bother them again. To Anton, embittered by treatment his Pa received from timber men paying little and thieving bankers able to steal homes of men and families, the plan made great sense, renewing love and respect he’d begun to believe was misplaced.
Then Marshal Pike arrived, gun in hand. Anton had seen him approach, sneaking weasel-like through trees unaware he was a lawman. Bursting in their rear door hearing shots being fired, he stood horrified as his father collapsed to the floor dead. For a moment, he stared then spotted both the badge and a pistol aimed at him, the intruder demanding to know where Pa kept the stolen money. Refusing to talk, Petra took a tongue-lashing, crumpling finally under unrelenting threats and revealed the hidden place holding his entire future.
As Pike packed away Pa’s earnings, he pretended some concern, pushing to drag the youngster to a town nearby and dump him on folks there, finally accepting Anton’s scorning refusals then leaving only after Anton ordered him out several times. Giving a final insult, the Marshal paused in their door claiming to dislike going when the young man had no provisions so dug a twenty dollar coin from a bank bag and spun it carelessly over the table where it bounced twice before landing on the floor. Enraged as Pike rode away, Anton let it sit for most the month following until, in a fit of dark, vengeful planning, he sewed it inside his saddlebag where it would remain until returned to the pocket of a dead Marshal.
Through undisturbed sleep, Petra lay unmoving as Pike worked toward a similar goal with less success, laying concealed within the bramble tunnel. Rest was called for but his mind wouldn’t cease flitting between what was needful doing, important to many folks back home, and the senseless struggle forced on him. Troy would be waiting impatiently to talk over opening a new store in Ely, number seven for them and the first in Nevada showing promise for traffic by miners newly entering Schell Creek and Egan mountain ranges. Equally eager for a decision and supporting Troy’s notion, Dane saw Ely as a long sought base for freighting toward California and serving communities ignored by railroads or abused by their exorbitant, monopoly rate charges.
Forcing his eyes to stay closed, Adam was unable to stay away from images of Dane as Morale’s first real sheriff when their reform Town Council ousted him from that position. Wishful of reforming a tolerant, peaceful community into one more closely resembling their own intolerant variety of religious leanings, the Council savaged Hesseldorn to meet their ends and it wasn’t until then did Pike learn of the enormous sacrifice Dane made in taking up service to the town by bowing to Adam’s insistence, among others. Because many felt strongly he was the best and only man capable of securing their town during times when most outlaws throughout the Territory still believed Morale sheltered their kind, Dane willingly accepted a role he neither sought nor desired.
Pike, seeking his own redemption and intensely remorseful over pushing Dane to act against his own future interests, attempted to correct matters by installing him as head of their Best Connected Cartage operation, a plan accepted with little enthusiasm but much desperation. For most of three years, heading down that trail seemed an ill-fated effort with trade slow to pick up after the war and buffeted instantly by railroads arriving in major towns but Dane persevered. Relocating their operations from Morale to Denver, he won regular business while creating networks of relations with mining companies and ranchers across mountain and prairie communities that eventually grew to importance. Over time, he built from nothing steady profits shared between them while establishing their outfit as a respected name across the west, managing at the same time to marry, have three youngsters then be elected to Denver’s Town Council
Despite his weariness, Adam chuckled silently at the winding, unpredictable trail which looked to be headed off a cliff but brought Dane to a position of prominence, pleased for his friend’s happiness more than the earnings regularly deposited. Not all trails smoothed out so well, he knew, with several swirling through dozing thoughts until a frown hidden by darkness came to him, recalling that Morale’s first saloon owner Mandano didn’t take to Pike from the beginning or since.
Two bulls in one pasture never allowing for a calm situation, Adam worsened the situation from the first by firing a bullet through the saloon roof, a boisterous way of announcing his arrival to Hawkins whiskey swilling bunch, followed by shattering Mandano’s expensive plate glass window the night after Pike’s friend Santos was ambushed and killed. Never finding any good will afterwards, Adam remained uncomfortable when his efforts at amends were rebuffed leaving the pair to exist in Morale without words between them for months at a time while Pike remained regretful at his lack of ability to close the gap.
Waking without feeling rested, vague dreamy images of paths worn smooth leading away in all directions, Pike squirmed from under his protective cover, stretching as best he could without exposing himself above nature’s waist high shield. Tossing a glance at the sky, he guessed dawn was still a ways off if such an event were to occur defiant of clouds blocking all stars from sight. Using time while coffee boiled, he hacked through remaining feet of bramble, completing his exit before sitting stiffly on a rock, chewing jerky and swallowing the hot liquid.
Taking out his paper and pencil, he jotted words on several pages then tore each loose and set them carefully in his shirt pocket. Anger flashed through for a moment as he stood, arms, back and l
egs protesting sleep taken on unforgiving ground not alongside a loving wife in a pleasing bed, before being forced out in favor of determined planning to end this chase promptly. Yanking the twine, he caught the candle as it fell from the surface above then coiled the string and returned them and his writing tools to his bag.
Straps of his pack looped around one foot, he pulled it behind while squeezing out the channel between bramble and cliff, slipping it on after emerging while scanning the country and mapping activity he hoped would induce Petra to call off his pursuit. Easing ahead more by feel and instinct than sight, he slipped quietly over carpets of needles dropped by high fir limbs until enough thin grey light permitted locating the desired spot where sure fingers quickly crafted a surprise for his adversary. Withdrawing, creating tracks not so obvious to arouse suspicion, he disappeared into the forest.
Thick clouds swirling snow from high elevations greeted Petra’s awakening, a moment taken to orient himself followed by slow morning movements to boil coffee. Disdaining breakfast, he drank from a beaten tin mug carried for years and gnawed on dried meat, plotting a means of luring Marshal to a satisfying final resting place, ignoring small knots of doubt grabbing at him. Find his prey, first, then be positioned for the only shot needed demanded new thinking, Pike having shown greater agility in the wild than expected. Musing over several notions as he stowed his gear, Anton pondered the lights from the night before with bemused scorn.
If Marshal expected a seasoned hunter to run off to those points, Petra would teach a lesson about infantile tricks. Eyes flicking between the three positions, he dismissed each one in order, deciding as dim light rose in the canyon on a narrow path taking him to none of them, certain his quarry would avoid them as well. Walking slow, rifle in hand and horse trailing, Anton scouted the trail until arriving at a rivulet flowing from above where he paused to allow his mount to drink at a swirling pool and bent to fill his canteen before kneeling, cupping his hands and sipping from the cool spring himself.
Straightening, he surveyed the watercourse up and down, considering using it as a route to a short peak giving view of the area. Liking this approach, he shifted to his toes, rising to full height for a clearer view, barely hearing a zinging sound before feeling his hat snatched from his head followed by a dull thud. Flinching, Petra rolled, shifted and leveled his rifle on…nothing. Tall pines swaying in the wind, rocks and increasingly large snowflakes were all he saw in any direction.
Inching back warily, he stooped behind the tree that had been nearest, a quick glance enough to see an arrow piercing his hat pinning it deep into the wood. Petra scanned every foot of land to where the arrow had been fired to no avail, Pike moving too quickly after shooting to be spotted now. Reaching around, he grasped the shaft, snapping it and pulled it to him, incensed Marshal would try to blame a killing on Indians instead of taking responsibility himself, sneering also at his inability to use a bow for proper effect.
Yanking his hat free, Petra smashed it to his head, seeing then a flutter of white drifting away. A frozen moment passed as he stared before he stretched to snag the paper, turning it over in his hands and reading,
‘AP
Could have been in your ear.
AP’
Beads of perspiration formed under his hat, trickled down his neck and across his chest as Petra glared at the words, hating most his realization that Pike and he shared initials, fighting off a shudder at understanding the arrow had not missed its target. Petra scrunched lower under bushy shelter, stomach wrenching over a clear shot allowed without Anton even aware of his presence until, nostrils flaring, his resolve hardened. He would locate Marshal, showing what happens when an opportunity is passed by in favor of taunts by killing him.
‘No one mocks Petra’ he thought as he eased toward his horse, ‘and those trying pay with their life.’ Reaching between scrub brush, Anton released the reins, crab-walking by the animal then jumped into undergrowth past the trail. Confident of his cover, he found a way through the trees, keeping the path to his left while approaching a wide ledge offering good view of the area. Moving warily, emotions firmly under control and concentration high, Petra arrived finally to where the track bent out of sight around a low growing spruce.
Worming his way along the ground, he stretched out below dense, dead leaves obscuring his position where he could follow the trail as it wound upward. Studying, a pinging instinct alerted him of something amiss he wasn’t seeing so he let his eyes roam freely, struggling to find the missing hint of trouble. More cautious than before, Petra remained still, unwilling to continue on until his mind knew what his senses told, laying for most of an hour listening to wind whistle through trees overhead.
Patience rewards the patient, he reminded himself, when a small twig quivered and sounds of a small animal scuffling through the brush reached his ears. Moving only his eyes, he watched a doe rabbit emerge, hopping twice over clear ground stop at the edge of a pine bough laying across the trail. Nose wrinkling, the animal turned its head, hesitated then changed directions, skirting the limb completely before disappearing under a thistle.
Anton frowned. Knowing animals don’t act such a way without cause, he focused tightly on the branch, spotting then the source of his discomfort. Not broken as by wind or weather, the end had been sliced by a blade then tattered to appear natural so likely placed for a purpose. Smiling grimly, he snaked a long stick from beneath fallen needles and reaching with it snagged the disfigured piece of tree, casting it away to reveal a cut in the rock nearly two feet wide and several deep, sufficient that a man or horse stepping there unaware would certainly suffer a broken leg or worse.
Disgusted, Petra snorted, unbelieving Marshal thought so little of him to try traps or, he smiled, feared him so much that resorting to trickery was the only answer he had. Taking a long look up and around, Anton slid from his position, moving hastily past the hole to fresh cover using the stick to poke beneath fallen leaves and twigs as he scouted, leaving behind his horse to limit a chance sighting.
A partial boot print left fresh in the dirt followed closely by an inch of moss torn loose from a rock showed a few feet past the tree. Scanning ahead, he considered Pike knowing of the outcropping above, perhaps could be waiting there. A hopeful snicker escaped, Petra having used that point before recalled it being reached through a low ravine which would give him full sight of the area before being seen. Guessing Marshal had lost Anton’s trail, he figured they both needed higher ground to locate the other, allowing his own approach to create the perfect ambush that would end the pursuit.
Shifting, Petra stirred a pile of leaves, dislodging a peg and releasing a looped rope into the air. Hunching, he held motionless, eyes widened at the branch quaking ten feet above his head, picturing for a second swaying upside down. Rage tore through him over a second snare as he quaked, mixed spasms of anxiety and irritation causing trembles over not having thought of the possibility replaced instantly by full understanding. Afraid of being found, unable to match Petra’s skill, Pike was working for an easy kill, shooting a man hanging by his feet, unable to win the contest any other way.
Derision choked him. Marshal Adam Pike, so widely touted for hunting down outlaws, capturing killers and thieves, had no ability useful against one as capable as Petra. Spitting, he clamped an iron hand over fury engulfing him until, clear headed, he stepped onto an exposed flat rock, appraising the trail. Wary of a third trap, Petra swept the stick in a wide circle, knocking aside needles, pebbles and sticks able to hide another snare.
Instinct more than ears heard the slight whisper different than breezes brought, Anton flopping down as a long branch swept in, swatting the back of his head, a spurt of blood shooting out over the rock where he landed. Stunned, he laid a moment before rolling into brown grasses growing up around, one hand grabbing his scalp. Sticky warmth oozed between fingers as he glowered at the limb still undulating from tension removed abruptly, furiously eyeing smaller branches chopped down to sharp, poin
ted ends meant to brutally savage his face and head.
Panting painfully, he tried to rise to one knee as stars circled. Relaxing back to the ground, Anton gazed around, fearful of moving in any direction lest another deadly trap waited. He wiped his hand on the ground then over his pant leg staring at blood, his blood, left behind. He had never been shot or cut, never bled at the hand of one he hunted. Overcome by hateful wrath, he leapt up, bouncing once off the rock, dashing uphill in a frenzied, staggering run, head low until he lunged into the ravine.
Safe, knowing well none could see to shoot over the top without exposing themselves first, he lay, heart pounding, eyes flashing over every inch of ground ahead. Perspiration soaking his shirt, Petra fought nauseous waves, dismissing them as caused by the tree branch unable to recognize fear never before felt. Gradually, wobbly legs firming, confidence returned as he edged forward, a grim, malicious sneer twisting his face as he pictured the helpless Marshal caught in Petra’s trap.
Above and behind, a rifle barked, the sharp report echoing as the bullet tore overhead not close to where he lay. Smirking, Anton stared at leaden skies, shielded by rock from any shot Pike could take, snidely refusing to reveal his position as was surely wanted. Inching onward, a low buzz rose in his ears dragging his eyes to a crushed lump of beehive laying mere feet from his face.
Petra’s face whitened as a swarm of insects swirled out, slowed by cold air but teeming angrily despite it. Smoothly at first then panicked, he withdrew, slapping at the first sting on his arm, jumping to his feet and spinning while crushing a second insect piercing the back of his hand. Discarding care in face of a deadly onslaught, he jumped a bush, landing on an incline and tumbled, skidding to a rough halt with one leg bent awkwardly beneath him, his hand and arm swelling rapidly.
Flexing fingers burning intensely, his bicep throbbing under his shirt, Anton gawked at the limb shattered by the Marshal’s shot loosing the hive from its hold twenty feet above ground. He blinked at the sight disbelievingly. It was not possible, he thought, that Pike knew a beehive hung there; just luck for him to spot it, making an impossible shot to snap it off.
Tremors wracked him as breathing became labored. Couldn’t have known either, Anton gasped, of his poor reaction to stings of any sort, a fact only learned himself a few years back. More luck in one minute than any man could rightfully deserve, luck unable to continue but enough to force Petra from the chase. He needed water and food, both required to combat the toxic effect of bee poison coursing in his system and needed it prompt.
Eyes alert for anything flying, he crawled to the path, each push off his right leg sending yaps of pain until he scrambled over the edge. Limping between trees, labored breaths exploding from his lungs, he slowly worked his way to where he’d left the horse, steadying himself beside it slurping desperately from a canteen held in one hand while scouring saddlebags for dried meat with the other. Alternating long swallows of fresh water with frantic chewing of meat, Petra glared at his swollen hand, his heart racing as he felt mind numbing itching spread up his arm.
Long minutes passed. Dizziness enveloped him enhanced by a dazed, confusing dread of dying from an insect sting before finishing his work. Adrenaline surging at the thought, he drained the canteen then struggled into his saddle, spurring the horse viciously toward the spring near his campsite, holding the reins firmly until they crossed the stream where he threw himself to the ground, face immersed in the cold water as he drank deeply. Feeling the effects waning, he raised to his knees, grimacing as the bruised leg banged a rock, leaning then to fill the canteen and spying a cluster of wild onions and herbs useful in making a poultice.
Grabbing handfuls, Petra stuffed his pockets with no thought but to find a secure place where a fire wouldn’t be seen, where he could recover well enough to resume pursuit. Looking around, he saw a hollowed tree facing south away from the trail and led his horse to it, picketing the animal a few dozen steps away over a patch of grass then built a careless mound of sticks in the cavity and lit it. Crushing the plants, he dropped them in a pan, added water and set it to boil.
Rasping as he walked, he retrieved his saddlebags and withdrew thick wads of bandaging cloths. Sitting roughly, he scooped mush from the pot in folded rags, jamming the first under his shirt over the swelled arm while pressing another tight against his hand. Said to be good for drawing poison out, he feverishly tried to recall having used it or seeing it done but could not, hoping only tales proved truthful while taking repeated long swallows of water to ease his parched, tight throat.
Above, watching through his field glasses, Pike’s brow furrowed. Finding the hive had been an act of grace aided by skillful shooting, a thin branch clipped clean through at sixty yards, but however astonished Petra was that Pike could make that shot Adam was not, having made many more difficult ones. Wishful of keeping Petra off the ledge where this entire end of the canyon could be seen and was impossible to approach unnoticed, he felt sure few men were so determined that clawing by swarming angry bees seemed sensible however sluggish the weather made them.
But Petra’s reaction puzzled. Frowning, Adam studied Anton from the bowl of the huge dead aspen, clearly seeing his face flushed and watched him prepare some concoction, applying it to his arm and hand. ‘Bee stings?’ Pike wondered, deciding nothing else explained the chaotic behavior exhibited when Petra abandoned the ravine before musing on how poorly Petra might react to more of the same.
Chewing some jerky, Adam rolled his thinking over the notion, finally discarding it with a smirk, the idea of bagging up a hive of half-dormant bees appealing little and, more important, knowing men allergic to stings could die from them and such was contrary to his purpose. If wishful of making Petra dead, he’d just take any of the shots open to him and settle the matter for certain. Returning to plan, he scanned the woods around Anton’s camp, selecting an approach suitable and stood, strolling casually by majestic evergreens swaying in afternoon breezes.
Circling lower, Pike paused behind a copse of small shrubs, scraping from a rock sitting there a handful of wet brownish moss, slicing it fine before storing it within a small bag in his pack. A Nez Perce medicine man told him of its special properties to cleanse a man’s insides thoroughly when boiled and drank without, Adam recalled, suggesting its use in circumstances such as these. Resuming a steady gait towards Petra’s location, he wondered what became of that shrewd, wrinkled old man, sad to conclude his days were likely over.
They’d met during a bitter winter storm, Pike discovering a cave to use for shelter that served a same purpose for the Indian. Across three days, they talked past little familiarity of words, the fellow’s English being better by far than Adam’s Nez Perce, sharing stories of their people. Pike gloried to learn ways of his kind and some of their tongue while striving to explain to the old warrior why white men and their government so seldom honored agreements signed.
An exile now, he’d been central in persuading the Shapatin, a large band of his tribe, to accept sale of their land under an 1863 treaty. Violated almost immediately by white settlers and soldiers alike, severe deprivation followed for them and disgrace was heaped on him for poor guidance given. Walking alone since, he claimed to have traveled endlessly across the Rocky Mountains seeking punishment from his gods suited to his crime of trusting whites, a goal Pike was little help in achieving.
Nestled in a gnarled tree hidden by branches intertwined like an old man’s morning hair, Adam watched Petra by naked eye having no need for field glasses at thirty yards distant to observe what was needful knowing. Pack set below on the ground and rifle laying across his lap half aimed, he heard other brother Step’s saying, ‘…first time you get a clear shot…’. Giving the thought a moment’s reflection, he discarded it again, wanting still to end this without killing while admitting chances of doing so were little better than drawing a royal flush in a ten handed poker game.
He considered simply walking down there as he had so many times when pursuing outlaw
s like a phantom rising and declaring their arrest, most commonly successful if only by surprise and a shotgun or pistol already leveled. Here, no arrest could be announced leaving Petra free choice to fight or not with neither satisfactory, gunplay being what Adam sought to avoid while leaving Anton an option to return another time. To win this game, his adversary had to be vanquished, alive but with no hope remaining to support later scheming.
Fighting men rarely surrender and only then if their acceptance of defeat is complete, at least between their ears. Petra had to believe, to know in the deepest, unreachable recesses of his mind that further struggle was both futile and fatal, willing to trade a decade of hatred for his life. Frowning, Pike knew their final confrontation could include no words like these, that most were able to twist thoughts in many ways so long as they remained unvoiced but once heard aloud would become truth impossible to live with. Absolute, total surrender was necessary; nothing in Petra’s manner suggested he was there yet.
Adam exhaled quietly, knowing a second night on hard ground would be required before the man might concede, could feel the utterly dark hopelessness demanded to avoid bloodshed. Scrutinizing the camp, he watched with detached curiosity as Petra prepared a second application for his stings, Ma always liking witch hazel for that purpose. Learned from Menominee Indians traveling out of Wisconsin, she’d packed some for his leaving as none grew in the West, a supply he’d exhausted so was forced to use damp tobacco to reduce swelling and itches. Setting the question aside, chuckling at perhaps asking Anton about his treatment when they spoke, Pike remained curious over the method used.
Needful of making preparations, he finally eased from his post, slipping away with pack in hand to a spot out of sight from Petra’s camp and nearly above Angela’s cave. Glancing up, he gauged boiling clouds made the afternoon dim enough for signals so withdrew the rescued candle, lit it using one hand to block light from escaping toward town. Confident no wind would snuff the fire, he dropped his hand, returned it to shield the wick then repeated the motion twice more hoping Step would be attentive earlier than expected.
Holding his taper aside, Adam narrowed his gaze on the town below believing his brother or one assigned by him had the mountain under observation, seeing then a lamp flicker once and again. A slight smile crossed his face as they exchanged brief messages in a way devised first by other brother Mitchell when Adam was a youngster. Using mirrors in daytime and fire, candles or even a match after dark, they employed Morse code but lacking vowels, always starting with a single flash if Mitchell was sending, two by Step or three for Adam mastering simple, effective and quick communications completely meaningless to any but themselves.
Grunting, Step’s last sending causing wonder on how much more careful his brother thought he could be, Pike doused the flame and stored his candle before retreating back to Petra’s camp. Settling in his perch again, he reviewed the scene noting Anton was seeming a mite more spry having unsaddled his horse and deepened a sleeping spot behind the hollow tree. Seeing coffee set to boil aggravated Pike some as there would be none for him this night as he patiently waited for darkening skies to send Petra to sleep.
His path down already chosen for ease of passage in little light, Adam found with his eyes a long, slender limb lying on the ground suitable to his need, studied every detail of the camp while anticipating possible, if unlikely, disruptions to each action planned. Taking the sack of moss from his pack, he tucked it into a vest pocket then switched from boots to moccasins and sat until sure Petra was asleep under blankets in the shadows. Easing to the ground, he laid his pack and rifle aside, flicked the thongs off both pistols and took up the branch then inched ahead, testing every footstep before shifting his weight.
Reaching a deadfall only feet from embers glowing meekly, he kneeled, reaching with the stick to snag Petra’s coffee pot set to cool, as it had been the night before, a foot from the fire. Habits of men unrealized were, to Adam, a regular tool as few recognized their number, kind or how each could bring betrayal. Scarcely breathing, any unfamiliar noise able to arouse the slumbering man or alert his horse, Pike set the branch through the container handle, raising it slightly and brought it back to him.
Placing a hand close first checking for heat, Pike removed the top then slipped the bag from his pocket, dumping inches of shredded moss inside. Setting the lid in place, he took from his shirt pocket a second note, poked it over a sharp nub on the limb before returning the vessel to its starting position. Exhaling, Adam smirked through the dark, edging back several feet to where he could lay the branch and message behind Petra’s saddle followed by a stealthy retreat, recovering his pack and rifle while heading to a resting spot chosen earlier.