They made camp in the last of the trees above the creek, facing the mountains to the south, so close in the fading light they seemed to tower above the specks on the rock that were men and horses.
They broke out thick, warm sheepskin jackets and pulled them on. Bundles of old dead branches were found beneath the trees, which soon burned bright and warm. At the sheriff’s suggestion Braddock, his son and his remaining three men camped a hundred yards away.
It had never been intended to spend the night so high on the plateau. They had not brought bedrolls and food. They sat on horse blankets round the fire, propped against their saddles, and dined on candy bars. Sheriff Lewis stared into the flames.
‘What are you going to do tomorrow, Paul?’ asked Tom Barrow.
‘I’m going to go forward to the mountain alone. No guns. I’m going to fly a flag of truce and take the loudhailer. I’m going to try to talk him down from that mountain, with the girl.’
‘That could be dangerous. He’s a wild kid. He might try to kill you,’ said the ranger.
‘He could have killed three men today,’ mused the sheriff. ‘He could have, but he didn’t. He must realize he can’t protect the girl up there in a siege. I figure he probably won’t shoot down a peace officer under a white flag. He’ll listen first. It’s worth a try.’
Chill darkness wrapped the mountain. Pulling, hauling, tugging, urging and pleading, Ben Craig led Rosebud up the last stretch and onto the shelf of flat rock outside the cave. The horse stood trembling, eyes dull, while her master took down the girl from her back.
Craig gestured Whispering Wind towards the old bear cave, untied the buffalo robe and spread it for her. He eased off the quiver with its two remaining arrows, took the bow from his back and laid them down together. He unhitched the rifle sheath and laid the weapon beside the bow. Finally he loosened the girth and removed the saddle and the two bags.
Relieved of her burdens, the chestnut mare took a few steps towards the scrubby trees and the sere foliage beneath them. Her back legs gave way and she sat on her rump. Then the front legs buckled. She rolled onto her side.
Craig knelt by her head, took it on his lap and stroked her muzzle. She whinnied softly at his touch and then her brave heart gave out.
The young man too was racked by tiredness. He had not slept for two days and nights, hardly eaten, and had ridden or marched nearly a hundred miles. There were things yet to do and he drove himself a little further.
At the edge of the shelf he looked down and saw below and away to the north the twin campfires of the pursuers. He cut branches and saplings where the old man had sat and made a fire. The flames lit the ledge and the cave, and the white silk-clad figure of the only girl he had ever loved or ever would.
He broke open the saddlebags and prepared some food he had brought from the fort. They sat side by side on the rug and ate the only meal they had had together or ever would.
He knew that with his horse gone the chase was almost over. But the old vision-quester had promised him that this girl would be his wife, and that it was so spoken by the Everywhere Spirit.
Down on the plain the conversation among the exhausted men withered and died. They sat in silence, faces lit by the flickering flames, and stared at the fire.
In the thin air of the high peaks the silence was total. A light zephyr came off the peaks but did not disturb the silence. Then there was a sound.
It came to them through the night, borne by the cat’s-paw wind off the mountain. It was a cry, long and clear, the voice of a young woman.
It was not a cry of pain or distress but that wavering, ebbing cry of one in such an ecstasy that it defies description or repetition.
The deputies stared at each other, then lowered their heads to their chests and the sheriff saw their shoulders twitch and shake.
A hundred yards away Bill Braddock rose from beside his fire as his men sought not to catch his eye. He stared at the mountain and his face was a mask of rage and hatred.
At midnight the temperature began to drop. At first the men thought it was the night chill becoming colder due to the high altitude and thin atmosphere. They shivered and drew their sheepskins tighter. But the cold went through their jeans and they huddled closer t
o the fire.
Below zero and still falling; the deputies looked at the sky and saw thick clouds begin to blot the peaks from sight. High on the side of Mount Rearguard they saw a single speck of a fire; then it faded from view.
These were Montana men, accustomed to the bitter winters, but the last ten days of October were too early for such cold. At one o’clock the rangers estimated it was twenty degrees below zero, and still plunging. At two they were all up, thoughts of sleep gone, stamping to keep the circulation going, blowing on hands, hurling greater piles of branches onto the fire, but to no effect. The first fat flakes of snow began to fall, hissing into the fire, diluting its heat.
The senior ranger went over to Sheriff Lewis, teeth chattering.
‘Cal and me reckon we should move back to the shelter of the Custer Forest,’ he said.
‘Will it be warmer there?’ he asked.
‘It might be.’
‘What the hell is happening here?’