A posse was dispatched in pursuit of the killers of Ken Richards last week. Richards was killed trying to apprehend a band of rustlers south of Dayville. The posse has yet to return.

Oregon Sentinel 1862

Well it’s November again and time for NaNoWriMo. Again this year I had too little time to write a full novel. So I offer this short story, based loosely on the news item above. I found this quotation in the book Let the Mountains Remember: The Campaign against the Northern Paiute Eastern Oregon 1861-1869 by Dianne Lesniak and wrote a short story based upon it.

What follows is a work of historical fiction. The characters are not intended to reflect actual persons either living or dead. Those relationships are purely artistic license.

Into the cold

I awoke to a crash and a thump as a hundred weight of snow and a couple hundred weight of pine smothered my fire, and that probably saved my life.

The snow cloud hung in the air slowly settling over everything.  I froze just as I started to rise.  The creak of a saddle split the silence, and what could have been low voices followed.  I pulled the rifle close.  How had they found me?  How had they caught up to me through all that snow?  I remain crouched between the broken branch and the rock I had sheltered against. 

Silence.  A crash, far off, as some other pine shed a branch under the weight of the wet snow that had fallen over the past few days.

These men had followed me for five days after I had spoiled their ambush of a couple of unwise Numu boys roasting what must have been one of their cows.  In the ruckus that followed, I had shot the one giving orders.  He must have been an important man in their tribe, since the entire bunch took out after me, leaving the young boys to escape into the night.  And even after I had led them across the mountains, few had given up the chase.  Even after the weather turned foul.

Now, for the second time, they were close.  Things were getting harder.  I had left my horse on the far side of the mountains.  I made snowshoes to climb over the summit.  I kept them because the snow was deeper on this side. Now they were buried with my fire.  I was trapped.  Even if I had the snowshoes, there was no way for me to flee, the fallen branch closed off access to the small shelter I had found.  I couldn’t stay here for long without a fire, as the cold was too deep.

I had no water.  I had set my frozen canteen next to the fire to thaw a bit.  It was buried under the tangle of branches and snow that snuffed out the only warmth I had.  I would need it as well as the snow shoes.

However, unless I called out, it wasn’t likely anyone would find me behind the barricade.  All I had to do was to sit here until I froze to death and no one would find my body until the spring thaw, if then.

The thought of freezing to death pinned against a rock in the middle of winter enraged me.  I had a good rifle, with at least twenty cartridges, and what was left of a box of 100 caps.  I kept the cartridges in a leather bag next to me.  A necessity as the paper seems to get wet and come apart with the least amount of moisture.  So far, I had kept my powder dry. 

Here, I had nobody to look after but myself.  My wife, Marie, and our three children were with a small band of her people, the Numu, four days—or more in this weather—north of here.  I had intentionally led my pursuers south, away from them.  I left my horse when I crossed the river and climbed into the mountains.  I could travel faster through the deep snow and through rougher terrain on foot. 

I would have lost the pursuit if it hadn’t been for the tracker.  He had stuck to my trail like he knew where I was going.  This was much more difficult than I had at first believed.  Who was he?

With the coming of the Americans, it had become more difficult to live.  The Hudson’s Bay Company had opened trading posts.  The Americans pushed out the HBC and built fences; shooting at all who came close to them.  Then they pushed the Wasco off the river to an area around the Warm Springs.  They wanted all of the people to gather there.

Many of the people had followed Red Wolf and moved to the Warm Springs.  My wife’s family had split, some going to the Warm Springs to live with, the rest still trying to live in the traditional way. 

Chief Paulina had convinced Marie’s father that there were not that many Americans and we could still live our lives between them.  He figured eventually they would welcome us to their posts as the HBC had.  So far that hadn’t happened.  Now they were shooting young boys who were foolish enough to hunt their slow beasts.  I wonder how long we can hide?  How long can we hunt?

I sat still, huddled in a blanket until the cold was rubbing my bones together.  I heard no further sounds of the pursuit, so with great care I dug through the snow and branches to retrieve my canteen and snow shoes.  Squeezing between the rock and the fallen branches I slid into the darkness.

Starlight reflecting from the snow provided light enough to find their trail—still a dozen riders followed me.  I cut to the west, away from the direction in which they had ridden.  This led to a broad flat plain.  In summer, a shallow lake restricted travel acrost it.  In this cold, the lake would be frozen—slippery but crossable.  The wind and cold would be fierce.  In the blowing snow there would be little visibility. However, if I could get across there were canyons in which I could shelter until the storm passed.  There was even a camp I had used in an ancient hunting blind.

On the way down to the plain, I would cross an open slope then broken lava about two bow shots wide. The lava is broken into pieces the size of large fur bales—too large and jumbled for horses to step over.  The edges of those rocks are sharp.  My pursuers would have to leave their horses or ride at least a day off my path to circumvent the lava flow.

That would make them decide how much they really wanted to follow me.  Surely, they would know that it would be nearly certain death to cross the plains in this storm.

The thought cheered me.  I would leave a clear trail downhill to the plain.  The tracker would have no problem following it.  Let’s just see how strong they are.

I dragged my snowshoes down the open slope to the lava flow. It would have been a pleasant walk if it wasn’t for the wind.  As the night had gone on the winds increased.  They became even stronger the closer I came to the plain.  Pushing low gray clouds against the mountains.

The rocks were not too difficult to climb over and around.  Once or twice my foot sank into deeper snow than I was expecting.  The space between the rocks being so narrow, a stumble and half fall were all I could manage.

Near to the far edge I found where some traveler had sheltered between the rocks.  Using one of my snowshoes I pushed the snow as far aside as I could and squatted down out of the wind.  Under the cover of the rocks was the remnants of a previous fire.  Using dead sagebrush stems, I built my own. 

I was nearly out of kindling.  I sure hope I can find the old hunting blind.  I had left plenty of kindling there.  As the fire melted the ice in my canteen, I drank the cold water and chewed some of the dried antelope I carried.  Not much of that left either.  I packed snow into the canteen, left it to warm, and slept for a few hours.

The sun had lit the eastern sky when I awoke.  It was frightfully cold.  I crawled among the rocks picking as much sagebrush as I could and bringing the larger pieces back to my shelter.  I rekindled the fire and again melted snow in my canteen. 

I sat between the rocks as the sun slowly lit the landscape.  I could almost see the dark shape of the low bluffs far to the south.  The plain itself was hidden by windblown snow, thick and low like fog over a marsh.  I would have until sunset to make it across.  After that, the temperature would drop to well below freezing—with this wind it was not pleasant to think about.

Looking back the way I had come, I could see dark specks coming down from the mountains.  Well, here they come.  I hope they had a restful night for this day they would need all of their energy just to survive.  I was rested, they were not.  I pulled another dead sagebrush into my little fire.  There would be time enough to start.  I wanted them to be so close that they ran for me and found themselves on the plain before they had time to think about it.

I was certain he would think about it.  Who was he?  He was familiar, or perhaps the familiarity was just his type.  Probably some reservation Wasco, who had hired out to the Americans as a guide.  Or maybe even one of the people who had gone to the reservation.  I’ll probably never know.

I peeked over the rocks to check how many were still in the hunt.  Truthfully, I only cared about one of them, and he was still there.  Leading them on.  It would be a shame that he would die in the cold.  He was a worthy adversary and deserved a better death than that.

I sat down and held my hands to the fire.  Why was I certain I would make it across?  I knew the risk.  But I had been across the plain before, and I knew what was on the other side.  It would not be easy, so many things could go wrong.   One should never trifle with the cold.

When there was light enough to clearly see the rocks, I climbed out of my little hole and stood on one of the larger rocks.  I waited for them to see me.  I wanted them to know exactly where I was and to bait them into rash action.  They were a long rifle shot from me, but one of them might be a good shot.  When I saw a man raise his rifle I jumped onto the sand of the plain.

The sound of his shot was nearly carried away by the wind.  I knelt down between two rocks wedging my body against one.  My shot was aimed at a rock away from their horses.  But it left a great terrifying sound as it hit.  All of them dropped from sight.  I quickly made my way into the sagebrush leaving the snowshoes to reduce my burden.  I’ll make another pair when the storm ends.

In the chest high sage, I could control when and for how long they saw me.  In another hour I would emerge onto the playa and there would be no cover.  I would be concealed only by the vagaries of windblown snow.  If the wind slowed and the snow settled, distance would be my only salvation.

In a crouch I walked towards the south, quartering the wind.  Periodically I would check their progress.  There seemed to be some disarray in the ranks.  It looked like a few didn’t want to leave their horses.  I dallied a bit to let them get things sorted out.  Eight of the group carried on into the lava.  The rest rode along the flow hoping for a trail through it, I guess.

I didn’t want to get too far ahead of them, just far enough away they would not have a clear shot when the cover gave out.  I stopped to wrap my banket closer around me and tucked the butt of my rifle into the front fold to keep snow off the primer magazine.  Maybe the white blanket would make me harder to see against the snow-covered landscape.

The sagebrush gradually grew shorter as I approached the playa.  I stood with my back to the wind and scouted for the pursuit.  He was still leading them on, right in my tracks.  I wondered how he was counseling them—urging them on, or holding them back?  Who was he?

I drank some of the freezing water and turned into the wind and started off.  If anything, the wind felt more intense and colder.  Ice was building up on my buckskin clad legs and my feet were starting to get really cold.  Bending down I beat the ice from my pantlegs.  Then I grasped the blanket under my chin put my head down and walked on into the cold. 

The sun set and darkness, black and thick surrounded me.  I couldn’t see anything.  Clouds blocked the starlight and the moon had yet to rise.  I guessed I had five or six hours of walking ahead of me.

At some point I noticed I was on the playa.  My feet no longer caught and bounced on sagebrush.  Nothing grew here.  It was a sheet of ice, smooth and slippery.  To me it was just blackness.  I guided my progress by keeping the wind-blown snow on my right quarter.  Even hanging my head and holding the blanket over my face couldn’t keep the stinging grains from cutting my face and hands. 

I held the rifle action inside my blanket with my right hand.  The left hand pulled the blanket closed under my chin. Blowing snow stung my hands and face.  The night was so black I couldn’t see anything.  In a few hours the moon would rise and perhaps there would be light. 

I slipped and staggered a few times when I caught a foot on the ice.  The blackness went on, twice I caught myself drifting away from the wind direction, so I corrected by walking directly into it.  It was like being in a dream, just keep putting one foot in front of the other.  Keep moving through the blackness.  I lost all sense of time and distance.  It was just me, the wind, and the cold.

I rested by turning my back to the wind.  When I turned around to face into it, the snow had thickened.  Instead of stinging crystals, flakes clung to the blanket and slipped inside its folds.  I canted the rifle to better shelter the cap magazine.  It was no use trying to check how well it was protected, there was no light.

I may have fallen asleep, or just lost consciousness.  I awoke as my head hit the ice.  I was so shocked that I scrambled back to my feet and moved off into the wind again without even thinking.  I saw Marie watching me, shaking her head in despair.  She sheltered our children from the sight of their father falling over himself.  I was embarrassed to show such weakness.  I stopped, shook the snow from the blanket and they were gone.   The night was still black.  My feet and hands were totally numb.

I walked head down, the edge of the blanket frozen stiff in front of my face.  It was some time before I noticed it wasn’t totally dark anymore.  There was enough light to see the snow hitting and falling from the blanket.  I shook the snow away from my face and looked around.  I could see my feet covered in ice and the snow-covered ice beyond them, but nothing else.  The snow was falling too fast. 

I would be reaching the sagebrush soon.  That is if I hadn’t wandered in circles the whole night.  I should be within a half hour’s ride of the camp on the bluff.  I beat my hands against my legs, no feeling remained in them.  I couldn’t tell if I was grasping the rifle or the blanket any longer.  I’ve never felt so cold.

At last, I reached the sagebrush and fell when I tripped over it.  Now I had to weave my way through the bushes.  Several more times I staggered.  I pulled the rifle from under the blanket to use it to help me walk.  It was soon covered with snow and ice.

Among the swirls of snow, I saw animals watching me.  Deer?  No.  Coyotes?  No.  The people.  They were just far enough away to by hidden in the snow clouds.  Why didn’t they help me?

Through the blowing snow I thought I saw the rock wall.  A short bush, caught my foot and down I went.  I laid there for a moment and I heard her voice again.

“Charles, get up!  Get up right now!”  she insisted.

“Yes dear,” I replied.

“Not, ‘Yes dear’, get up. NOW!” she shouted.

I pressed my hands under my shoulders and with all the strength I could muster, lifted my head off the ground.  Pulling my knees forward I was able to get onto my hands and knees.  In that position, I crawled toward the mass in front of me.

It seemed like forever, before my head struck the rock wall.  Bracing against it I stood.  Then I noticed I didn’t have my rifle.  The panic rose, I must have my rifle.  I staggered back in the direction I had come.  I went 20 or so steps away from the wall before I found it.  A light dusting of snow covering the stock.

Bending down to pick it up I fell face down.  Her voice came again.

“Charles, you MUST get up!”

I thought of the start of our first ride together as husband and wife.  Her brother had tied our horses outside the wikiup, fully saddled.  She had used the same tone with me that morning.

“Charles, get up! Right now!”  Then her voice softened.  “We start our new life together today, my husband.”

I looked up into her face, just as I had that first morning.  She wore the same shy, captivating smile she reserved for our intimate times together; and then I saw only wind, cold, and snow.

I rose up onto my knees and using the rifle regained my feet and set off back to the rock wall.  I noticed that I was no longer shivering, just cold deep down inside.  I could see only ice where my feet should be.

I’m not quite sure how I made it to the hunting blind.  The blind was a knee-high circle of rocks arching out from a shallow cave in the rock wall adjacent to a trail frequented by deer and elk.  Some years ago, I had used this shelter to hunt, replacing a few of the stones that had become dislodged over time.

One of the old one’s had built it a long time ago.  So long ago, that desert lichens had grown across the gaps between the rocks in the wall.  However, inside I had left a fire set, kindling, and split wood.  A caution against some undefined future need.  Well, that future had come, and thankfully the fire set was still intact. 

I leaned the rifle against the side wall and sat against the back wall.  Just being out of the wind seemed warmer.  I just wanted to sleep.  I was so tired.  But first a fire. 

With fingers that would hardly move, I extracted the brass box my father had given me.  It was frozen shut.  Ice covered one end of it. I struck it against the rock and breathed on it.  Then using my knife, I pried the top off.  Inside the char cloth was frozen together.  The box must have gotten wet in my journey across the plain.  For a moment I just stared at it.

Then I heard my son’s voce, “Naa’a, show me how to start a fire with a drill. I want to learn how our people did it before strikers.”

I looked at the wood I had collected that day long ago, and while they weren’t the best there were some pieces that just might work.  I put the box next to my rifle and selected a piece for the spindle.  Right next to it was a piece of dried willow that had split when I broke it to length.  This is going to work.  I dared to think that I might just make it out of this alive.

My hands would hardly hold the wood as I tied a piece of the blanket around the spindle and bracing the piece against my chest, I slowly chipped one end round.  I worked the other end more or less smooth.  Then using more of my blanket, I fashioned a bow string, tied it to a length of juniper, and twisted the spindle in it.

I pulled grass and sagebrush bark out of the rock crevice and formed it into a nest.  It took a few failures before I chipped off the ice from my left moccasin to gain a better hold on the willow hearth board.  Then it all came together and I looked down on a glowing red coal. Carefully I scooted it into the little nest I had built and blew up a flame.

Adding more sagebrush twigs to the growing flames I had a fire.  I knocked the ice from my right moccasin, amazed at how thick it was, and curled both feet under my legs.  At first the fire seemed incredibly hot and yet I was shivering uncontrollably.  In time, that passed and I started to feel warm.  My hands and feet stung with returning warmth.

I was increasingly thirsty.  Well, I started this fire in the ancient manner, I would warm my water in the old way.  I rolled a few pebbles into the coals.  Then rose to fill the little wooden cup my son had made and given me, with snow.  I would heat the snow with the hot pebbles and drink the warm water.

Picking up my rifle I checked the priming, the caps were still in place—and they looked dry.  Carefully lowering the charging lever, I inspected the charge in the flickering fire light; it was dry.  Snapping the lever shut I brushed the snow from the barrel with my blanket and stepped into the wind.   It didn’t feel so cold anymore.  I had made it across, just barely.  I wondered how many of my pursuers had done the same.

It was then I saw the figure crawling up the trail.  The tracker!  He had found me.  The man who had bested all of my attempts to camouflage my trail.  The one who had guessed correctly at all of my mis-directions.  I lifted the rifle, then lowered it as recognition dawned.

“Thomas?”

“Hello Charles.  You led us on a challenging hunt.”

“You!  It was you who led them to me?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much.  I don’t think any of them are going to be hunting you any more, at least not in this life” he replied.  “If they aren’t already, they will soon be, frozen.  It was very cunning of you to get them angry and lead us onto the frozen plain.  Your shot offended them, they became like crazed weasels; slashing and tearing at each other until they pushed into the cold.”

“Did you know it was me?” I asked.

“Well, not at first.  But the longer I followed your trail, the more certain I became.  They said you stole a mule and then shot Ken Richards to escape.”

“What would I do with a mule?  Who was Ken Richards?  When did I shoot him?”

Thomas leaned back against the rock visibly shaking as he laid his rifle across his legs. “He was a big man in the American settlements on the river.  His death really got those settlers riled up—they want you dead.  He was shot during an ambush of some rustlers the day before we took out after you,” he replied

‘Oh, him. They weren’t rustlers they were just young boys; probably hungry.  Are you going to shoot me?” I asked.

“No, not today anyway.  No reason to do that.”  Then he snorted, “If I did, and my sister found out, she would lift my hair, after she had skinned me alive and that only if I was unlucky enough not to die first.  She’s rather fond of you.”

I smiled, “well, as her husband, I’m happy to hear it.” 

“And, for the same reason I’m going to bring you, her, and your children back to Warm Springs with me,” he said.

“You are, are you?”

“Charles, the old ways are over.  It’s time to bring your family in.  You can’t live here anymore—they won’t let you.  I want the best for my sister and your children.  And you too.  It’s only going to get worse—especially for the children.”

“What would I do?  How can we live there?  We like it here, and Paulina says…”

“Paulina says, what?” Thomas interrupted.  “That he and his family are being hunted?  That he wants your company so that the Americans have more people to track down before they get to him.  For the last week you were hunted as a murderer.  What can Paulina or Weahwewa do about that?  Do you think that Marie and the children could have survived these past few days?  You did a good job eluding the pursuit, but you were alone.  How long could you have kept it up?  How long could your children have kept up the pace?  Next time, it will be them freezing out there.”

I shook my head, paused, and replied, “Let’s get you warmed up, it’s going to take more firewood than I can gather by myself to get through this storm.”  I stood a moment, looking down at my half-frozen feet and then out into the storm.  Offering him my hand, I said, “Let me help you, we have a long walk ahead of us.”