Read Online Over the Misty Mountains by Gilbert Morris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Gilbert Morris
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as he had every night during his journey. Looking around he saw his horse stamping and pawing at the ground where he had tied him out with a long piece of rawhide the night before. Josh’s blankets and saddle and few belongings made a lump on the smoothness of the ground, and at once he felt a wave of disgust mixed with humor begin to rise within him.
“If you can sleep through a snowstorm, there’d be nothing to stop an Indian from walking right up to your camp and slitting your throat!” he muttered to himself.
As he began to clear away a place to build a fire, he considered the journey that he had made from Williamsburg. It had been an exhilarating time for Josh, and the farther he got from civilization, the more aware he was of the outside world.
This new world consisted of trees that grew ever larger as he moved farther west. High overhead, he could hear birds calling out as squirrels scampered through the branches. A few times he caught sight of a shy Virginia deer, which he had stalked, once successfully, and feasted on the meat for several days. The absence of human voices was a pleasure to him, and for days he had not spoken with a single soul. Once he had seen a party of hunters and had turned his horse into a grove of magnificent first-growth firs simply to avoid their company. He had had enough of human relationships for a while, and despite the bitter coldness and hardships of the trail, he welcomed the challenge and the distraction the solitude brought him. The silence had sunk into his spirit like a soothing balm.
From the distance came the mournful cry of a timber wolf, and Josh held himself still, savoring the wildness of the sound. Somehow he felt a kinship to the big lobo, for he had come to love the wild and untamed forest that spread out like a large carpet over the land.
“I missed something,” he murmured. “All those years I stayed in town, I was in a prison—and didn’t have the sense to know it!”
The thought amused him, and he smiled stiffly, his lips numb from the breeze that bore tiny fragments of ice. Since moving from the world of men into the world of beasts, he had found himself more aware of the ironies of life. He’d always had a keen sense of humor, but it had not been kind—as humor often strikes at the weaknesses of others. But the months of solitude had caused him to look down deep into his own heart, and he had learned to smile at his own foibles as he did now.
Standing to his feet, he looked toward the creek. “Bit of fish might go down nice,” he said, and the sound of his voice seemed loud in the silence of the glade. Moving his pack he pulled out a small leather pouch no more than three inches square. He opened it and removed his fishing tackle, which consisted of a hook and thin strong line. Removing his gloves, he blew on his fingers, then threaded the line through the eye of the hook. Pulling a small chunk of bacon from his food sack, he made his way to the creek.
The narrow stream was no more than six feet wide, shrunken to its wintery dimensions, though in spring when the ice melted it would be much larger. Taking his hatchet, Hawke hacked away at the ice until he’d roughed out a ragged splintery hole, then baited his hook and dropped it into the frigid waters. The ice was too thick and opaque to see through, but an instant tug on the line brought a yell from the solitary fisherman.
“Got you!”
Quickly he pulled on the line, and when he got the fish out of the water, he carefully grabbed it by the lower jaw and ignored the flopping of the bass. “Well, I guess you’ll do just fine for breakfast!”
Making his way back to his campsite, he quickly cleaned the fish, throwing the head and entrails into the brush. His horse snorted and bucked, startled at the unexpected noise.
“Calm down, boy,” Josh said. “You wouldn’t begrudge a man a good breakfast, would you now?”
Raking back the snow, he cleared a small spot, then rose and moved into
“If you can sleep through a snowstorm, there’d be nothing to stop an Indian from walking right up to your camp and slitting your throat!” he muttered to himself.
As he began to clear away a place to build a fire, he considered the journey that he had made from Williamsburg. It had been an exhilarating time for Josh, and the farther he got from civilization, the more aware he was of the outside world.
This new world consisted of trees that grew ever larger as he moved farther west. High overhead, he could hear birds calling out as squirrels scampered through the branches. A few times he caught sight of a shy Virginia deer, which he had stalked, once successfully, and feasted on the meat for several days. The absence of human voices was a pleasure to him, and for days he had not spoken with a single soul. Once he had seen a party of hunters and had turned his horse into a grove of magnificent first-growth firs simply to avoid their company. He had had enough of human relationships for a while, and despite the bitter coldness and hardships of the trail, he welcomed the challenge and the distraction the solitude brought him. The silence had sunk into his spirit like a soothing balm.
From the distance came the mournful cry of a timber wolf, and Josh held himself still, savoring the wildness of the sound. Somehow he felt a kinship to the big lobo, for he had come to love the wild and untamed forest that spread out like a large carpet over the land.
“I missed something,” he murmured. “All those years I stayed in town, I was in a prison—and didn’t have the sense to know it!”
The thought amused him, and he smiled stiffly, his lips numb from the breeze that bore tiny fragments of ice. Since moving from the world of men into the world of beasts, he had found himself more aware of the ironies of life. He’d always had a keen sense of humor, but it had not been kind—as humor often strikes at the weaknesses of others. But the months of solitude had caused him to look down deep into his own heart, and he had learned to smile at his own foibles as he did now.
Standing to his feet, he looked toward the creek. “Bit of fish might go down nice,” he said, and the sound of his voice seemed loud in the silence of the glade. Moving his pack he pulled out a small leather pouch no more than three inches square. He opened it and removed his fishing tackle, which consisted of a hook and thin strong line. Removing his gloves, he blew on his fingers, then threaded the line through the eye of the hook. Pulling a small chunk of bacon from his food sack, he made his way to the creek.
The narrow stream was no more than six feet wide, shrunken to its wintery dimensions, though in spring when the ice melted it would be much larger. Taking his hatchet, Hawke hacked away at the ice until he’d roughed out a ragged splintery hole, then baited his hook and dropped it into the frigid waters. The ice was too thick and opaque to see through, but an instant tug on the line brought a yell from the solitary fisherman.
“Got you!”
Quickly he pulled on the line, and when he got the fish out of the water, he carefully grabbed it by the lower jaw and ignored the flopping of the bass. “Well, I guess you’ll do just fine for breakfast!”
Making his way back to his campsite, he quickly cleaned the fish, throwing the head and entrails into the brush. His horse snorted and bucked, startled at the unexpected noise.
“Calm down, boy,” Josh said. “You wouldn’t begrudge a man a good breakfast, would you now?”
Raking back the snow, he cleared a small spot, then rose and moved into
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