Somehow that made him think of th e note in his pocket and he took it out an d fumbled it open. He was so tired he wa s ready to sleep right there, half through hi s meal. He looked at the written words.
There was just one line.
/ have never been in love.
He stared at it for a long moment, the n put it back in his pocket. That was a har d thing for a woman to tell herself, unles s she was a youngster. What kind of a woman would write something like tha t and send it rolling off before the wind?
A lonely one, he told himself, a might y lonely one.
He knew how she felt. Sometimes a body just had to have somebody to talk to.
You saw something and you wanted t o turn and say, Isn't that beautiful? An d there was nobody there.
Well, there were a lot of lonely folks ou t here in the West. Men and wome n working alone, or feeling alone, thei r homes far from each other, their mind s and hearts reaching out across th e distance, plucking at the strings of the ai r to find some answering call.
Lonely people, who looked at horizon s and wondered what, or who, was beyon d them, people hemmed in by distance , people locked in space, in the emptines s .. . prisoners, they were.
In his own way Conagher was a prisoner. He'd never had the education t o escape it, if that was an escape. He'd gon e to work as soon as he was big enough t o wrap his hands around a tool, and he'd been at it ever since. About all he'd eve r had out of life was a seat in a saddle and a lot of open country to look at.
He had stifled in the dust of the drag o f many a trail drive, stifled in the heat risin g from two thousand hot, moving bodies.
He'd had his guts churned on the seat of a stage coach bouncing over the prairie, an d by many a bronc, breaking horses for th e rough string.
He wished it was spring so the win d could blow back the other way. He woul d like to send a message back to the one wh o had written these notes, to say that she wa s not alone, that somebody had read he r words. But the wind didn't blow that way , and the chances were she'd not find it , anyway.
Tay interrupted his thoughts.
What will they do now ? he asked.
What do you think, Conagher ?
They won't leave us alone. Next tim e they'll choose a different way . . . they ma y just try to drive the cattle off, or take u s one by one .
Have you ever been shot, Conagher ?
A couple of times, and it is not a rewarding experience .
He finished the pie, drank another cu p of coffee, and pushed back from the table.
I'm going to sleep , he said . Don't wake me unless there's trouble, rea l trouble .
He was staggering with weariness as h e walked back to the bunk house. He pulle d off his boots and gunbelt, simply rolle d over on the bed and went to sleep. In hi s sleep he dreamed of whole battalions o f tumbleweeds, each with its message, al l blowing toward him. He grasped at eac h one, struggling to get its message befor e the wind took it out of reach.
For a week after that, there was quiet.
Conagher rode to the Plaza and reporte d the shootings. The sheriff listened, parin g his fingernails with a jackknife, and at th e end of Conn's recital he got up and hel d out his hand.
I know Seaborn Tay , he said . He's a good man. A solid man. And I kno w Leggett. I don't know you, but I've hear d about you, and I want to shake your hand.
You've helped rid the country of some ba d men .
He went on, You mentioned Curl y Scott. Was he hurt, do you know ?
I doubt it.
Conagher pushed his hat back . Sheriff , there's a boy who'd cut loose from tha t crowd, given the right chance. He's stuc k by them through some fool sense of loyalt y . . . and they don't deserve it .
Maybe we have what it will take , th e sheriff said . His sister is in town. If yo u see him, tell him that. She's come from th e East to see him .
When he returned from the Plaza , Conagher resumed, with the occasiona l help of Leggett, the slow job of moving th e cattle back to more easily guarded areas.
And then one day Johnny McGivern rod e in.
You didn't tell me what that countr y was like , Johnny said accusingly . I los t myself two, three times .
Did you find him ? Conagher asked.
He's comin'. It'll take him a day o r two, with what he had to do . Johnn y glanced around . From what I hear, yo u won't need him .
We'll need him .
Riding alone, and riding wide over th e land, Conagher found himself watchin g the tumbleweeds. But a week passe d before he found another note, and then i t was by merest chance. He had come dow n a draw that opened on the plain and foun d an old corral, built for trapping wil d horses. Made of poles and brush, utilizin g what was at hand, the corral had long sinc e been abandoned, and was now breached i n several places; but piled against the nort h wall was a mat of tumbleweeds.
He rode up to them and checked the m from force of habit, and found two of th e notes.
The first one, almost illegible, mus t have been written months ago.
When I was a little girl I dreamed of a handsome knight who would com e on a white charger and carry m e away.
Where, O where are you, Whit e Knight? I have waited so long, s o very long!
The second note was written muc h later, judging by the freshness of the in k and the better condition of the paper.
Last night I walked out to look up a t the stars. I wish I knew the names o f the stars.
Almost without realizing it, Conn ha d begun to build an image of the girl wh o wrote those strange notes. She was young , slender, and blonde, and she was somebod y he could talk to, somebody as lonel y as he was himself.
Don't fool yourself , he said aloud.
She ain't writing the notes for an y leather-skinned cowpuncher like you .
The work went on. Johnny helped wit h the cattle, and they gained ground. The y saw nothing of the Parnell outfit, althoug h Tile Coker had been to the Plaza. A stag e had been held up over in Black Canyon , some distance to the west. None of th e outlaws had been recognized, but ther e had been four of them, with a fifth holdin g the horses.
For a week, then, Conagher staye d around the ranch. He repaired the corra l gate, broke two horses for the roug h string, dehorned a quarrelsome steer, an d cut wood against the coming of colde r weather.
Snow fell at the end of the week, just a light skimming over that was gone wit h the first sun; but during the next wee k more snow fell and the ground wa s covered. The weather settled down to still , cold days and nights, and Johnny an d Conn were busy breaking the ice in wate r holes and checking on the stock.
It was hard, bitterly cold work, an d many a day Conn got down from th e saddle five or six times to walk som e warmth back into his feet.
Chip Huston was in the bunk hous e when Conagher rode back one day. Th e hunter looked up . Trouble all over ?
It'll come any day now , Conaghe r replied . Keep yourself armed an d ready .
Little by little Conn had taken over th e ramrodding of the ranch, and nobod y objected. Seaborn Tay stayed quiet , resting a lot, and Conn had a hunch th e boss suffered from a bad heart.
The following morning when Conaghe r saddled up he planned only a short ride.
However, he tied a blanket-roll behind hi s saddle, for a man might get caught ou t somewhere in this weather and he'd bette r be ready for a long night in the cold.
He had not gone more than four mile s from headquarters when he came on th e tracks of a bunch of cattle. They wer e bunched tightly, perhaps twenty head , and were driven by three riders on big , free-striding horses.
Making a little cairn of stones t o indicate the direction taken, Conaghe r started north.
The trail of the cattle led straight in tha t direction, and the riders apparently had n o worry about being discovered.
It might be a trapit probably was.
a cool finge r touched his cheek, another his forehead.
Conn looked up ... it was snowing. Th e thieves must have expeced it; within a n hour all trail would be wiped out.
Nevertheless, Conagher held to it. He had a couple of frozen biscuits with him, a chunk of bacon, some jerky, and coffee. He would take his chances.
All through the morning and into th e afternoon he followed the trail, which hel d straight north, but by mid-afternoon th e trail was gone, wiped out by the snow.
He rode over into a patch of scrub oa k mixed with pine, and made camp.
EVIE TEALE tied the scarf over he r head as she looked out the window.
The slowly falling flakes were beautiful , but they brought to her a chill of fear.
The winter would be long, and it woul d take a good deal of fuel to heat the cabin.
The pile of wood behind the cabin ha d grown, but judging by the past few week s since it had grown colder, Evie knew th e pile would never last through the winter.
Laban had been working steadily part o f each day to build up the supply. Ruthi e and Evie herself had gone far into the hills , gathering scattered fallen small branche s into a pile to be dragged back to the ranch.
Charlie McCloud had come by, ridin g over on his own time, to help them. It wa s Charlie, with Laban's help, who built th e stone-boat, a sort of sledge to haul wood.
The place needed plenty of work, and Evi e could see that McCloud was worrie d about them.
Using the stone-boat and one of th e horses, they could haul good-sized logs , although they had snaked a few dow n before this, using simply a clove hitch nea r one end of a log. Over the years a lot o f trees had fallen and limbs had been blow n down, and there had been few campers t o use it.
The stage now stopped at its ow n station, several miles away, so that sourc e of income was finished. Now it was onl y themselves they could depend on, an d what they could obtain from the countr y around. Evie carefully hoarded the fe w dollars saved from feeding the passengers , holding the money against a trip to th e Plaza and a chance to buy warm clothing.
As Evie went outside she saw that th e snow was falling faster, and a cold win d was blowing. Ruthie was gathering chip s around the log where Laban choppe d wood, and Evie took up the shovel an d went back to the work of banking th e cabin.
She was piling dirt around the foundatio n to keep the wind out and to mak e the house warmer. This was somethin g they had done each year when she lived i n the East, though there it was her fathe r who had done it.
When she straightened up to rest he r back, she looked off across the grasslan d toward the south. The far hills were n o longer visible . . . the falling snow wa s drawing a curtain around them.
She went back to the work. She rarel y thought of Jacob now, her life was to o filled with planning, and doing. Sometime s she talked with the children abou t him, but his image had grown faint wit h the passing of time. He had been a stiff , unbending man who had loved hi s children, but he had never known how t o show it to them, and Evie doubted if h e ever felt the need to show them that h e cared.
Their small herd had grown by two.
Her cow had calved, and they ha d acquired another, a stray that wandered u p to the water hole one day for a drink, an d had just stayed with them. It wore n o brand.
Suddenly she heard a long halloo an d the pistol-like crack of a whip, and the n she saw the racing stage team and th e stage. It came plunging around the ben d and down the little slope. Ben Logan wa s driving today, and he shouted at her.
Somebody riding beside him waved, too , and then the stage was gone, disappearin g in the falling snow.
She went back inside for a moment t o add to the fire, putting on a few heav y sticks to keep the room warm while the y were outside.
Just when she was growing worrie d about Laban, she saw the horse comin g through the snow, and then the stoneboat , piled high with fire wood, and Laba n walking beside it. When he came up to th e cabin he tied the horse and came right ove r to her.
Ma, we better watch out , he said . I heard something back there. It sounde d like a lot of riders or a lot of cattle .
Did they see you ?
I don't think so. I was down behind a tree digging a chunk out of the snow an d frozen dirt, and the outfit was a few yard s back of me in a grove where there wa s shelter from the wind.
I didn't see but one rider, and I couldn't tell whether he was an Indian or a white man, but it looked as if he was ridin g a saddle. I just saw him shadow-lik e through the snow, and it sounded as i f there might be a lot of them ... or mayb e not so many riders, but a lot of cattle. So I came on home .
I'm glad you did . She turned.
Ruthie? Come on in. After Laban put s the horse up we will have a story and som e doughnuts .
Who could the riders have been? It wa s not like Indians to ride in cold weathe r unless they were driven to it. Wisely, the y preferred their lodges.
Outlaws? It seemed probable, for th e route they were taking led to nothing bu t wilderness. Unless . . .
Two months ago, before the first sno w had fallen, she had ridden back into th e mountains, making a kind of sweep in a half-circle back of their place to see wha t fuel lay on the ground.
Drawn on by the silence as well as b y the beauty of the hills, she had ridden si x or seven miles into the mountains and ha d come upon a small park in the hills. It wa s a deep, grassy basin with forest around th e edges and a few trees scattered across it.
There was a stream there, and she notice d a dugout cabin in the side of the hil l across the park. No smoke came fro m the chimney, and she saw no signs o f occupation.
She went no nearer, but she did make a sweep around the end of the park an d came on a dim trail. There were no fres h tracks, but there were old droppings o f horses as well as of cattle, and some ol d tracks.
Whoever was driving these cattle tha t Laban had heard might know of tha t place.
She sat with the children around th e fire, eating doughnuts, and Evie told the m a story about her girlhood in Ohio an d western Pennsylvania. When she looke d out again she could barely make out th e corrals. All was white and still, and cold.
When the story was finished and th e children were working at the lessons sh e had laid out for them, she sat by the fir e trying to plan for the coming weeks. Ther e must be a path kept open to the shed an d the corrals, the fuel must be use d sparingly, and above all there must b e enough work and amusement to keep th e children busy.
Both of them would help in clearing th e snow from the path, and both would hel p in bringing in the fuel. Laban would fee d the stock. The worst of it was they did no t have sufficient hay for a long hard winter.
Part of the winter the animals must graz e outside, pawing their way through th e snow. This the horses could do, but th e calves must be fed.
For three days the snow continued t o fall, steadily and without letup. Ever y morning Laban went out at daybreak an d shoveled snow to keep a path open to th e shed.
The stock was in good shape. The sno w banked the flimsy building and covere d the roof with snow, so that inside it wa s warm and snug. Evie milked and carrie d the milk to the house, while Laban cleane d out from under the animals and put hay i n their mangers.
The snow was more than two feet dee p on the level, and was piled high on bot h sides of the path. The skies were now gra y and overcast. The temperature was te n above zero on the thermometer beside th e door.
Ma! Ruthie at the door tugged a t Evie'sarm . Look !
It was a wolf, a large gray wolf, almos t white, on the side of the hill behind th e cabin, watching them. He was not ove r fifty yards away, and was seemingl y unafraid. Evie shouted at him, but he di d not move. She turned back into the cabin.
When she came out with the rifle the wol f was gone.
She thought about the men driving th e cattle that Laban had seen or hear d back there when the snow had started.
They could not be h
onest men, drivin g where there was no trail, and in a directio n where there was no town or ranch.
It worried her that they should be s o near.
Far to the south, Conn Conagher's hors e floundered and fell. Stiff as he was , Conagher kicked loose from the stirrup s and landed on his feet, then fell to hi s knees. He got up slowly, in time to hel p the gelding to its feet. Holding the reins , Conagher brushed the snow from hi s clothing.
The wind was on his cheek. It had bee n blowing right out of the north into hi s face. He turned the reluctant horse to fac e it, and then, holding the reins, he led off , struggling against the wind and deepenin g snow.
He didn't need anyone to tell him h e was in trouble. So far as he knew, ther e was nothing ahead of him until he reache d the stage road, which would be invisible i n all this snow. Beyond it there was nothin g but plains, mountains, and wilderness.
There was a cabin, though . . . shelter i f he could reach it. That woman . . . wha t was her name? She ran a stage station tha t should lie almost due north of him. Bu t Conagher recalled that somebody had sai d the stage had moved their station furthe r west; in that case the woman was probabl y gone and the buildings abandoned.
Still, it would be shelter of a kind. Bu t how far had he to go? And how far could h e go?
Going back was out of the question. Hi s horse was already played out, the sno w was getting deeper, and there was, in thi s bare plain, no place to stop. There was n o shelter from the wind, and the snow wa s too dry to build up a bank or to dig into it.
To go on until he could go no farthe r was dangerous, for with his body's resources drained, he would have n o strength to resist the cold. He knew tha t most of those who freeze to death do s o because they struggle too long. He coul d stop, huddle in a bundle, and try to wai t out the storm, but although he might an d probably would survive it, his horse woul d not. Their only hope was to go on, to try t o reach some shelter where a fire could b e built, and they could have protection fro m the wind and cold.
He never remembered when the win d fell. He had been struggling on, breakin g trail for his horse for what seemed a n interminable period, and suddenly h e realized the snow was no longer blowin g so much, the wind was dying down. Befor e him lay miles of white, unbroken snow.