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Authors: Willard Wyman
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back down.”
“Could. But he might concentrate so hard on stayin’ upright he won’t know he’s packed.” Ty braced himself for the pack Fenton pushed at him. “Hurry—he might improve. Don’t want his complete attention.”
They crossed the pass in darkness, Loco moving in a trance behind Cottontail, who had caused no trouble after seeing Loco serene under his packs. The climb had been fast, the Mission Range growing purple before dropping into night. Now there was only the crunch of snow, the creak of leather, the click of a shoe on rock as they regained the trail.
The moon lifted and gave Ty a ghostly picture of the country below—the high lakes making darker stains above where the timber began. They rode down, crossing the lake-drainage just as a coyote lifted a cry from high above. Others answered, calling and yipping, making such a racket that the first voice was lost. Ty guessed it was the moon. That’s when their calls lifted in the Bitterroot. He doubted these were different. Except that lone coyote who started it. He must have seen something the others didn’t.
The Bitterroot was almost forgotten as Ty rode into this new life with these new people. He felt the chill lifting from the stream and shouldered into his Levi jacket, the trail flattening to work its way through wet meadows, dark stands of timber. He liked moving along in quiet, the only sound packs in motion, a horse blowing, coyotes calling intermittently—as though tracing their progress from some wild route above.
He watched Fenton and slowed where he did, easing into darkness, and climbing back into moonlight at the same pace. He led Turkey, who would doze before snorting and farting as Ty yanked him awake. After Turkey came Cottontail, then Loco. Ty kept watching the big mule, worrying about how he would act when it came to him he was packed.
Toward dawn they skirted a long lake, the trail sometimes dropping to its bank but for the most part staying high, dipping into dark woods to cross drainages, the lake continuing on. There seemed no end to it.
He might have been asleep when he heard hooves on wood, saw Fenton’s mules crossing a walkway where a spring surfaced. Smoky and Turkey weren’t bothered, but Cottontail paused before bolting forward, yanking Loco onto clattery logs he didn’t like. He stepped off, away from the racket, and sank hock-deep in ooze before scrambling back, the sucking sound of his hooves coming free making him crowd the others. They settled as soon as they were back on the trail, but Ty saw Loco was awake, his trance gone.
They dipped into the woods once more. Ty heard water before he saw Fenton’s mules on the bridge. They were in shadow, then back into moonlight, the two pack strings almost opposite as Fenton came out of the draw.
“Take it slow!” Fenton called above the water. “It’s narrow.”
Ty eased Smoky and Turkey onto the bridge. Cottontail hesitated, then hurried onto the planks after them. Loco didn’t like the clatter. His rump went down and he scrambled backward just as Turkey heaved forward, snatching Cottontail from the bridge and into the creek. She struggled up only to be pulled down farther, going over again and then again, her packs finally wedging into the V of the stream, her ropes running taut to Turkey and Loco, each struggling to stay upright, eyes flashing white in the moonlight.
“Why don’t the damned pigtails give!” Fenton was making his way back to Turkey. “Buck must of used bailing wire.” Ty was already in the stream, crawling over Cottontail, his knife out as he reached to find the loop behind the mule’s saddle.
“Pigtail’s buried!” Fenton yelled. “Cut the lead-line.”
Ty sawed through it, watched Loco spring free, fall, struggle to his feet, disappear up the trail. Fenton, somehow managing to unsnap Turkey’s line, was suddenly down in the streambed with him.
“Hustle. Mules ain’t happy on their backs . . . Any broke legs?” “She
“Could. But he might concentrate so hard on stayin’ upright he won’t know he’s packed.” Ty braced himself for the pack Fenton pushed at him. “Hurry—he might improve. Don’t want his complete attention.”
They crossed the pass in darkness, Loco moving in a trance behind Cottontail, who had caused no trouble after seeing Loco serene under his packs. The climb had been fast, the Mission Range growing purple before dropping into night. Now there was only the crunch of snow, the creak of leather, the click of a shoe on rock as they regained the trail.
The moon lifted and gave Ty a ghostly picture of the country below—the high lakes making darker stains above where the timber began. They rode down, crossing the lake-drainage just as a coyote lifted a cry from high above. Others answered, calling and yipping, making such a racket that the first voice was lost. Ty guessed it was the moon. That’s when their calls lifted in the Bitterroot. He doubted these were different. Except that lone coyote who started it. He must have seen something the others didn’t.
The Bitterroot was almost forgotten as Ty rode into this new life with these new people. He felt the chill lifting from the stream and shouldered into his Levi jacket, the trail flattening to work its way through wet meadows, dark stands of timber. He liked moving along in quiet, the only sound packs in motion, a horse blowing, coyotes calling intermittently—as though tracing their progress from some wild route above.
He watched Fenton and slowed where he did, easing into darkness, and climbing back into moonlight at the same pace. He led Turkey, who would doze before snorting and farting as Ty yanked him awake. After Turkey came Cottontail, then Loco. Ty kept watching the big mule, worrying about how he would act when it came to him he was packed.
Toward dawn they skirted a long lake, the trail sometimes dropping to its bank but for the most part staying high, dipping into dark woods to cross drainages, the lake continuing on. There seemed no end to it.
He might have been asleep when he heard hooves on wood, saw Fenton’s mules crossing a walkway where a spring surfaced. Smoky and Turkey weren’t bothered, but Cottontail paused before bolting forward, yanking Loco onto clattery logs he didn’t like. He stepped off, away from the racket, and sank hock-deep in ooze before scrambling back, the sucking sound of his hooves coming free making him crowd the others. They settled as soon as they were back on the trail, but Ty saw Loco was awake, his trance gone.
They dipped into the woods once more. Ty heard water before he saw Fenton’s mules on the bridge. They were in shadow, then back into moonlight, the two pack strings almost opposite as Fenton came out of the draw.
“Take it slow!” Fenton called above the water. “It’s narrow.”
Ty eased Smoky and Turkey onto the bridge. Cottontail hesitated, then hurried onto the planks after them. Loco didn’t like the clatter. His rump went down and he scrambled backward just as Turkey heaved forward, snatching Cottontail from the bridge and into the creek. She struggled up only to be pulled down farther, going over again and then again, her packs finally wedging into the V of the stream, her ropes running taut to Turkey and Loco, each struggling to stay upright, eyes flashing white in the moonlight.
“Why don’t the damned pigtails give!” Fenton was making his way back to Turkey. “Buck must of used bailing wire.” Ty was already in the stream, crawling over Cottontail, his knife out as he reached to find the loop behind the mule’s saddle.
“Pigtail’s buried!” Fenton yelled. “Cut the lead-line.”
Ty sawed through it, watched Loco spring free, fall, struggle to his feet, disappear up the trail. Fenton, somehow managing to unsnap Turkey’s line, was suddenly down in the streambed with him.
“Hustle. Mules ain’t happy on their backs . . . Any broke legs?” “She
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