Shadow Peak

CHAPTER 1

The sky had been progressively gloomy with leadencoloured clouds, until, when near sunset, it was one huge dark-blue mass of rolling darkness: the wind had unexpectedly calmed and an unnatural lull, which so surely heralds a storm in these stormy regions, succeeded.

The peaks of the Teton Range; regal and imposing as they stood some seven thousand feet above the valley floor, casting their shadows over all below them.

The ravens were winging their way towards the shelter of the timber, and the coyote was seen trotting quickly to cover, conscious of the coming storm.

The black, menacing clouds seemed gradually to descend until they caressed the earth, and already the distant mountains were hidden to their very bases. A hollow susurrating swept through the bottom, but as yet not a branch stirred by wind; and the huge cottonwoods, with their leafless limbs, loomed like a line of ghosts through the heavy gloom. Knowing but too well what was coming, the drifter turned his horse towards the timber, which was about two miles distant. With pointed ears, and actually shuddering with fright, the horse was as eager as he was to shelter; but, before they had proceeded a third of the distance, with a deafening roar the tempest broke upon them. The clouds opened and the enormous hailstones, beating on Reason’s unprotected head and face, almost stunned him. In an instant his hunting shirt was soaked, and as instantly frozen hard; his horse was a mass of icicles. Jumping off his mount – for to ride was nearly impossible – he tore off the saddle blanket and covered his head. The animal, blinded with the sleet, its eyes actually with ice, turned its sterns to the storm, and, blown before it, made for cover. All his exertions to drive the animal to the shelter of the timber were useless. It was impossible to face the blizzard, which now brought with it clouds of driving snow; and perfect darkness soon set in.

Still the mount kept on, and the drifter was determined not to leave the animal, following, or rather being blown after it. His blanket, frozen stiff like a board, required all the strength of his numbed fingers to prevent it being carried away, and although it was no protection against the intense cold, he knew it would in some degree shelter him at night from the snow. In half an hour the ground was covered on the bare trail to the depth of several feet, and through this he floundered for a long time before the horse stopped. The trail was as bare as a lake, but one little tuft of greasewood bushes presented itself and here, turning from the storm, man and horse suddenly stopped and remained perfectly still. In vain he again attempted to turn towards the timber; huddled together, the horse would not move an inch and exhausted himself, seeing nothing before him but, as he thought, certain death, he sank down immediately behind the horse, and, covering his head with the blanket, crouched like a ball in the snow.

He would have started himself for the timber but it was pitch black, the wind drove clouds of frozen snow into his face, and the horse had so turned about in the trail that it was impossible to know the direction to take. Although he had some sense of direction about him, this was lost in the swirling cold and darkness. Even if he had reached the timber, his situation would have been scarcely improved, for the trees were scattered wide about over a narrow space and consequently afforded but little shelter. Even if the drifter had succeeded in finding firewood – by no means an easy task at any time, and still more difficult now that the ground was covered with three feet of snow – he was utterly unable to use his flint and steel to procure a light, since his fingers were like pieces of stone, and entirely without feeling.

He would not attempt to describe the way the wind roared over the trail that night, how the snow drove before it, covering Reason and his poor mount partly and how he lay there, feeling the blood freezing in his veins, his bones petrifying with icy blasts which seemed to pierce them. How for hours he remained with his head on his knees, the snow pressing it down like a weight of lead, expecting every instant to drop into a sleep from which it would be impossible to wake. How every now and then the horse would whimper aloud and fall down upon the snow, and then again struggle on to its legs. How all night long the piercing howl of wolves was borne upon the wind, which never for an instant abated its violence. Reason had passed many nights alone in the wilderness, and in a solitary camp had listened to the roaring upon him with perfect unconcern, but this night threw all his former experiences into the shade, and was marked with the blackest of stones in the letters of his journeys.

Once, late in the night, by keeping his hands buried in the breast of his hunting shirt and sheepskin-lined canvas jacket, he succeeded in restoring sufficient feeling into them to be able to strike a light. Fortuitously his pipe, which was made out of a huge piece of cottonwood bark, and capable of containing at least twelve ordinary pipefulls, was filled with tobacco to the brim and this he did believe kept him alive during the night, for he smoked and smoked until the pipe itself caught fire, and burned completely to the stem.

He was sinking into a pensive apathy when the horse began to shake itself and sneeze and snort, which Reason hailed as a good sign; a sign that they were still alive. The drifter attempted to lift his head and take a view of the weather. When with great difficulty he raised his head, all appeared dark as pitch, and it did not at first occur to him that he was buried deep in snow. But when he thrust his arm above a hole was thus made, through which he saw stars shining in the sky and the clouds fast clearing away. Making a sudden attempt to straighten his almost petrified back and limbs, the drifter rose but, unable to stand, fell forward in the snow, frightening the horse, which immediately started away. When he gained his legs he found that day was just breaking, a long grey line of light appearing over the belt of timber on the creek, and the clouds gradually rising from the east, allowing the stars to peep from patches of blue sky. Following the horse as soon as he gained the use of his limbs, and taking a last look at the perfect cave he had been trying to reach, he found he was in the timber and jumping on the horse, galloped back towards the cave, his original destination, his stomach groaning loudly from hunger pangs.

CHAPTER 2

A man could die out here; that much he had learned from the prior night’s storm.

That was not the first time the thought had occurred to Reason Conant as he eased his weary mount along the narrow, snow-packed mountain trail.

He crossed the stream below the pool, stepping agilely from stone to stone. Where the hillside touched the water, he dug up a shovelful of snow and dirt into his gold pan. He was always looking for the quick strike; he was not afraid of hard work, but would take good fortune over it.

He hunkered down in his sheepskin-lined canvas jacket and wished he had taken the time to replace the two rawhide ties that had come loose and eventually been lost, some weeks earlier. The icy wind knifed through the openings and found his shivering flesh beneath his woollen shirt and worn undershirt. The long johns he wore were frayed at the knees and his corduroy trousers were not thick enough to keep out the chill. He wore all the socks he owned – three pairs. He could hardly jam his feet into the worn and scuffed half-boots, but at least they were warm. Thick, buckskin mittens hid frozen hands.

He had tied a woollen scarf under his chin and covered the knot on top of his head with his battered old hat to keep his ears and head warm. But his face and mouth were so numb, he could not feel the tip of his nose or his lips.

He squatted down, holding the pan in his two hands, and partly immersing it in the stream just outside the entrance to the cave. Then he imparted to the pan a deft circular motion that sent the freezing water and snow sluicing in and out through the dirt, ice and gravel. Occasionally, to expedite matters, especially in this brutal cold, he rested the pan and with his fingers, frozen as there were, raked out large pebbles and pieces of rock.

The contents of the pan diminished rapidly until only fine dirt and the smallest icicles and bits of gravel remained. At this stage he began to work very deliberately and carefully. It was fine washing and if the weather had been better, he may have found something worth his effort.

As it was now the fury of the storm was increasing. The wind howled louder and stronger gusts set him swaying in the saddle of his plodding horse. A man’s imagination could so strange things in country like this, Reason thought, squinting at weird, wraith-like shapes flickering across his line of vision. He knew they were jagged rocks or bushes clinging to the steep, eroded sides of the mountains, distorted by swirling drifts of snow. But if a man was not careful, he could easily mistake one of them for some sort of animal or mythical creature looming before him and instinctively wrench the reins the wrong way, sending his horse plunging into space.

On the contrary, Reason Conant was used to the high country. He had been drifting around it for several years, going from job to job, dodging a little trouble occasionally, bending the law here and there, but managing to survive. He was an easy-going man, not too proud to bend his back to any job that paid honest dollars. Once in a while, he threw a wide loop, when his pockets were empty and his belly growling, but not too often. And when he did, he only took cattle to get himself a grubstake to see him through to the next country, where there might be work available.

That was why he had gotten himself caught on this high trail in the midst of a storm.

Things had been tough lately. He had not had a square meal for four days when he had met up with two hard cases who were preparing to run off some steers from a big ranch – the same one that had, earlier, thrown Reason off. He did not mind any rancher refusing work, for usually they gave him a meal and sometimes a bunk before sending him on his way. But this particular ranch had been run by a son of a bitch who had not only refused Reason work, but had turned loose his ramrod and two other tough rannies on him. They had worked him over before running him off. He had been thinking about getting even when he had chanced on the hard cases. Together, they had rustled twenty prime beeves and sold them to a shifty-eyed man in the Tetons who had paid about three cents in the dollar. It had been enough to buy Reason a saddlebag full of grub and some oats for his horse.

He had parted company with the hard cases and didn’t know that, later, they had been picked up by the county law and charged with rustling.

Reason Conant was also unaware that these same men, after being beaten and harassed by the rancher, had given his description to the sheriff who