Hard Winter Part 19

My hand dropped on the blanket. I looked again, flexing the fingers I had left. I could still feel those digits. Sometimes, even today, I still look down, can't believe they're gone.

"Hey, kiddo," he said, smiling again. "How many cowboys you know with all their fingers?" He held up his hand, wiggling his pointer, showing the missing top that he'd lost on a dally down in Texas. "I always looked at it as a medal of honor. It ain't so bad. It's your left hand, and that little finger ain't much use to anybody. You can still rope. Still ride."

I started to cry. He put the bowl on the floor, pressed his hand on my shoulder.

"You're alive, Jim. Don't you forget that."

After swallowing, I wiped my eyes. "Tommy?" I asked suddenly. "Is he all right?"

Slowly John Henry bowed his head. "Some toes on both feet. Both boots was filled with snow. Had to cut the things off, they was frozen so. Cut off his boots, I mean. He lost two toes on both his feet, but he'll be fine. Boy's tougher than a cob. So are you. Couple of toes and fingers is all you lost, when by all rights you both should be dead. Now, you best eat." He brought up the bowl again.

The next day, I got out of bed, poured myself a cup of weak coffee. We didn't have much in the way of supplies. The line shack had been stocked for one cowhand, not three. I sat staring at the b.l.o.o.d.y ends of my fingers. It would take some getting used to, but I figured John Henry was right. I was alive. Wasn't sure how, but I was alive.

"How'd you find us?" I asked John Henry when he came inside with an armful of wood.

"Went out to check on my horse," he said. He stoked the fire, tossed on a chunk of wood, the water from the snow sizzling, and leaned over Tommy.

"How you doing?" John Henry asked.

"All right," Tommy said sleepily. "Where's Jim?"

"Right over yonder," John Henry answered.

I wet my cracked lips.

"My feet feel funny, John Henry," Tommy said in a far-off voice, and my head dropped in shame.

Wearing a pair of moccasins that John Henry fetched from his saddlebags, Tommy limped over to the table the next afternoon-first time he had gotten out of bed, and collapsed in a chair.

When I looked down, Tommy's fist slammed on the table, almost knocking over my cup.

"Don't you pity me, Jim!" he snapped. "I'll be just fine!"

My head bobbed slightly, and John Henry sat between us.

"I thought you'd be long gone from here," Tommy told him.

"Was my intention," John Henry said. "Got caught in the storm, too. Rode back. Problem was, I'd taken Tommy's string with me. Figured the Bar DD owed me that much. Took the string and the mule. Lost them in the storm. We only got one horse." He shook his head. "Never thought I'd see you boys again."

"I'm glad you did," I told him.

He laughed.

"It snowed for ten days. Practically all the first day, then stopped, then started up again. More snow out yonder than most folks would see in thirty lifetimes. Somebody brought a thermometer, a real good one, here, and nailed it on the tree right outside the door. It was minus forty-seven degrees one night. I went out to bring in some wood. You two were in fits then. Wasn't sure you'd come around. Went out, and on a whim, I held out the lantern and read the thermometer. Might have gotten colder after that, but I wasn't curious about how cold it was after I seen that. Couldn't get much colder than that anyhow. At least, not by that thermometer. It don't go no lower than fifty below." He sipped coffee, and shook his head. "I bet the company that made that thermometer never even thought it would ever get that cold."

"What's it like now?" I asked.

"Cold. Windy. Cloudy."

"What do we do?" Tommy asked.

"We wait," John Henry said.

Which is what we done. Waiting for that Black Wind to free Montana. John Henry fas.h.i.+oned a rough limb into a cane for Tommy, and he got to where he could move around the cabin pretty good. Limping badly, of course, but far from crippled. I mostly forgot all about my missing digits.

I remember opening the door, just looking in amazement at a world of white. When I wondered about the cattle, John Henry snorted.

"What cattle?" he said.

I closed the door.

The Chinook came. Boy, did it ever come, a gale wind roaring from the west off Castle Reef, blowing like a furnace at fifty or sixty miles an hour.

John Henry had shoveled out a path to the privy and corral, and a little patio area outside. Not that we had any need to step out of the line shack for most of January, but we did when the Chinook came. We ran out-ran out without our s.h.i.+rts-laughing at the warmth. Forgetting all of our troubles. We were alive. Melting snow glistened like diamonds. I threw a ball of snow at Tommy, and he slipped, giggling, falling into the wet snow. For a minute, I felt bad, expecting Tommy to lash out in rage, but he pulled himself to his mangled feet, still laughing, shaking his head. He even joked about it.

"You wouldn't be able to do that if I had all my toes."

"What do you mean?" I said. "I done that with my left hand." I'd actually used my right. "Don't have all my fingers, and still knocked you on your f.a.n.n.y!"

He made a big s...o...b..ll, and returned the favor.

We played for a few minutes, then went inside. And things went all wrong.

"Let's play some poker, kiddoes," John Henry said. "One of you boys must have some playing cards."

I went to frying up some corn mush, while John Henry searched for a deck. He opened my war bag, and I started to tell him I didn't have no cards, but then he pulled out that picture. The picture I'd forgotten. I'd forgotten everything.

As John Henry stared at it, his face went all white, and he turned.

"What kind of sick . . . ?" He shook the photograph Bitterroot Abbott had stuck in that canvas sack. "What is this?"

Grabbing his cane, Tommy limped over, took a quick glance at the photograph. He looked at me, his face hard, worried, sickened.

"Her name," I said slowly, walking away from the cast-iron skillet, "was Velna Oramo." Surprised I could even recall her name.

Somehow, we'd forgotten all about what had happened. I'd blocked out everything before the blizzard: John Henry derailing the N.P. train at Little Blackfoot Crossing. Killing that nine-year-old girl and three men. John Henry posted for murder. Lord, I had even forgotten why me and Tommy had gone out before the blizzard hit.

"Major MacDunn," I whispered. I closed my eyes.

"What happened to this girl, boy?" John Henry snapped. "What fiend carries a picture of a dead kid?"

With a heavy sigh, I opened my eyes.

"She was on the Northern Pacific you derailed, John Henry," I said. Only it sounded like somebody else was talking. A voice far away, deep in a well. But it was me. I was telling John Henry. I was remembering everything. "She was one of the four people you killed." I walked to the door, opened it, feeling the Chinook's warmth. Again, I softly spoke the names of Major MacDunn and Mr. Gow.

Behind me, paper crumpled. When I turned back, John Henry was standing by the fireplace, watching the photograph burn. Tommy limped over to me.

"Funny," he said.

I stared at him. Funny? What could be funny?

"That wire," he said after a moment. "Barbed wire."

Bewildered, I shook my head.

"It wound up saving our lives."

I didn't think about that. Instead, I stepped back to the table.

John Henry just stared at the orange flames. Seemed to have forgotten all about us.

"I wonder," I began, "if the major and Mister Gow . . . ?"

"They're all right," Tommy said as he hobbled back to me. "Likely made it back to Mister Gow's ranch before the blizzard even hit."

"No."

We turned to face John Henry. He gathered his coat and gloves, pulled them on despite the blowing Chinook, and picked up his bridle. "I lied to you boys," he said softly. "I didn't send MacDunn and Gow north. I led them into the caon, then doubled back. Told you otherwise, hoping you'd keep on riding to Gow's ranch, and you likely would have, if the blizzard hadn't hit. No, that storm caught Gow and MacDunn in the caon."

He lifted the saddle to his shoulder.

"Where are you going?" Tommy asked.

"To fetch them home."

"You can't do that," I said. "They're dead."

John Henry lowered the saddle, put his hand on Tommy's shoulder. "There's one horse. You can't ride. Not yet, anyway." He turned to me. "I'll go. I'll find their bodies. I'll bring them back." He swallowed, and his voice almost cracked. "Least I can do."

Adamantly I shook my head. "You can't go, John Henry. I won't let you. That Chinook's melting a lot of snow. In that caon, you might get caught in an avalanche. Besides, if they're dead, they . . . well . . . you couldn't find no bodies till spring. Maybe summer."

"Maybe never," Tommy said.

John Henry just lifted the saddle. "I'm proud of you. . . ." He grinned. "No, I can't call you-all kiddoes no more. You're grown men. I know I promised you that old six-shooter of mine, but, well, I traded it for a bottle of rye a while back. I'll buy you both a new one, though, come summer." His face hardened. "I'm going. You stay put. If the weather stays warm, the Bar DD will send somebody here. You'll be fine. So will I." He gave a little chuckle. "A little snow ain't gonna kill John Henry Kenton."

Chapter Thirty.

We never . . .

Well . . .

It was a hard winter. Worst winter I ever saw. Just as quickly as it had blown in, the Chinook died. Did nothing but start melting the snow, and, when the next storm hit that night, it turned that slush into solid ice.

That night, we sat by the fireplace, never talking, staring at the door, hearing the wind, the creaking cabin. Felt like the gusts would just tear that line shack apart. We kept waiting for John Henry Kenton to walk in.

'Course, he didn't.

I wonder if he planned it that way. Nah, couldn't have. He didn't know another blizzard would blow in. Impossible. Storm probably surprised him as much as it surprised everybody else. Or did it?

No point in wondering. Don't matter. Maybe it was better that way. John Henry doing something good, maybe something right. Better than swinging from the gallows.

Well, that's the way January and February went. It would warm for a little bit, then another storm came blasting in from the north. Me and Tommy were stranded. Without any horses. Wasn't no game around, either, but in February I come across one of those black heifers that had wandered up from the river to the horse pen, where it had finally died. That fed us some.

Tommy got to walking pretty good, almost wore holes in the soles of his moccasins, and my left hand healed. Got to where I became used to not having all my fingers. So, we went through the rest of the winter together, but we seldom talked. Just worked at staying alive.

One morning, I stepped outside, feeling the strong gust of another Chinook, and stood staring at a clear sky. Felt like forever since I'd seen the sun. Then I heard the whinny of a horse, and moved through the melting snow to the clearing, looking below at the Sun River, hoping to see John Henry Kenton riding out. Four riders came, one leading a pack mule, another pulling a string of four horses, but they came from the east, not the caon.

Blinking, I stepped back, unbelieving. A minute later, I whipped off my hat, waving it over my head till my arm hurt. The horses plodded on, but one of the riders responded by signaling me with a black hat. Instantly I turned, slipped on a patch of ice, climbed back to my feet, and yelled: "Tommy!"

"Riders!" I shouted when he appeared in the doorway, and he walked out slowly, picking his way gently, and we stood together, waiting.

Gene Hardee, his busted ankle healed, just stared at us. We couldn't find the words, either. He turned to Ish Fishtorn, who grinned, and broke the silence.

"You two boys need a shave," he said.

I rubbed my face with the back of my hand.

One of the men I didn't know, but he was riding a 7-3 Connected horse, and the string behind him was all 7-3 Connected geldings, too. I knew the last rider, the one pulling the mule. Camdan Gow tried to talk, but it took him a while. He was afraid, I know. Afraid of the answer. He kept looking past me and Tommy, staring at the shack, waiting, hoping, praying that someone would walk out.

"Is . . . ?" His eyes landed on me. "Is anyone . . . ?"

My sad reply broke Camdan's heart, but he had grown up a lot that winter, too. He tightened his lips, nodded, and swung from the saddle.

"What happened?" Gene Hardee asked.

"We thought you were dead," Ish added.