Free Norton, Andre - Novel 15 by Stand to Horse (v1.0) Page A

too-small
bag of his own food, and now he passed it along to lie beside those Herndon,
Tuttle, and Velasco had already laid down. With visible reluctance and some
grumbling they all added their shares.
                   There was the native corn meal, hardtack, some
jerky as brown and hard as the wood it so closely resembled, and a lump of the
sticky yellow mescal—the sugar-energy of the Indians. Herndon measured the
small hoard with his eyes before he touched it. Then he asked a single question
of the scout.
                   "What about game?"
                   Tuttle shook his head. ''Can't do any huntin'
in a storm. Later maybe we can scare us up a mountain bird or two. But this
ain't huntin' weather."
                   No, it wasn't hunting weather, and it wasn't
traveling weather either. As Ritchie scooped the half cave out of the snow to
hold his blankets, he missed Sturgis. The Southerner's fatalistic approach to
life might even be cheering tonight. He packed the wettest of his blankets at
the bottom and put his saddle at the head of the makeshift bed.
                   "Who's your bunkie?"
                   He stopped slapping the snow from his
trousers. Herndon, trailed by a small lump muffled in a blanket, stood there.
                   “I’ve been with Sturgis, sir—"
                   "Hmm. We're
putting two men together for warmth. Three here—if you have no objection."
The Sergeant dropped his own saddle to rest beside Ritchie's and began to
spread his blankets with the skill of an old campaigner. As he worked, he
glanced several times at the diminutive Apache.
                   "Let us hope that the weather is too cold
to encourage the spread of wild life," he said at last with a quirk of a
smile. "There being no anthills at present to work for us in the
morning—"
                   "Anthills?" Ritchie could not follow this at all.
                   "Anthills. When,
in this country, one entertains unwelcome personal guests, the quickest way to
get rid of them is to peel down and drape clothes and bedding over the nearest
anthill. The ants go a-hunting and you get a thorough clean-out!"
                  But Ritchie was too tired to wonder whether
the cold was as good a preventative as an anthill. He was asleep as soon as he
crawled in. Some hours later he awoke after a dismal dream of being imprisoned
in a black box. The sky was midnight dark, and stars glittered icily over its
dome. It was so cold and still a night that he might have imagined himself on a
world as old and dead as the moon. Only one pinpoint of red promised life and
warmth—the coals of the fire tended by the guard. It must be close to the time
of his own tour of duty. With a wormlike wriggle he
freed himself of the tangle of coverings trying not to awaken either of his
bedmates. Tuttle grinned as he came up to the fire.
                   "Have a snort of this—" The scout
lifted a tin can which had been resting almost in the heart of the coals.
"T'ain't nothin' but hotted water—which don't do much 'bout warmin' yo' up
proper—but it's hot. If we had knowed what we was headed into, we might have
brought us a proper warmer. Take Arizona whisky now—"He sighed longingly.
" Arizona whisky's good as a boss liniment—'n we're
gonna need a boss liniment—'n it's good as a drink too. I've tried it both
ways, 'n I know!"
                   "Stopped snowing anyway." Ritchie tried to reassure himself with that observation.
                   "Yep . ' N it's
done a right smart lot of snow-layin' while it was 'bout it, too."
                   "D'you suppose we can go on tomorrow?"
                   Tuttle studied those brilliant stars. "Tomorrow? You mean today, son. Yep, we can head out.
Only it'll take a deal of footin' 'fore we sight Santy Fe again. I ain't
smokin' Jimson