Chapter 11

He awoke with a start from his cramped sitting position against the outcropping of small boulders in the cave. For an instant he looked around at the unfamiliar setting, trying to recall where he was and all that had occurred the last day. It had been a long night of fitful catnaps, in between the storm and listening for sounds of men or horses. His own horse had awoken him this time; snuffling the side of his face and lipping the blanket. He batted the damp nose away from him and yanked the blanket up to his chin, studying the ceiling of the cave. Light shadows were slanting across the rocks; it looked to be early morning.

It was a struggle to stand upright; coldness had seeped into his bones sometime during the night. Eli's old shirt was a testament to the amount of moisture in the air and still lay wet over the rock where he'd put it the night before. Peering out, he saw that the rain had done its job well-a little too well-large amounts of silt from mountain runoff lay before him. There was no way of getting out of the cave without leaving some evidence he'd been there. If the marshal was after him-and there wasn't any doubt in his mind of that-he hoped to be long gone before it became a problem. He went to work and gathered his meager belongings together.

He'd been on the trail for over an hour when a fat rabbit plunged into the brush to his left. His stomach grumbled in protest, but it was far too risky to fire a weapon for game-it would reverberate for miles. And he didn't know what awaited him when he rode out of the hills. After a dozen or more tight turns, he guided his mount out of the high country. They were going north, not in as straight a line as he'd like but northwards, nonetheless. He followed a dim, narrow trail through a notch in the sandstone, the appaloosa's ears suddenly pricking forward with interest. He reined up, but there was only quiet, with the occasional click of hoof against rock. Pressing forward, he saw a house about a quarter mile away, perched amongst the trees.

It was a stone cabin, done without mortar, securely hidden away with a small corral and barn attached. From his higher vantage point he saw an older man, dressed oddly in a black top hat and leather shirt, bent over a string of hides. He watched the site for a while to see if anyone else was around, then eased down the trail.

A loud braying met his ears before the appaloosa had a chance to set a second hoof on the path. The man shouted from his work table. "You better ride on down now."

He was an older man, in his sixties at least, with a speech that was heavily accented. The fine white beard on his ruddy face settled over his open collar and flowed to mid-chest. His tanned leather shirt bore some odd markings here and there, with bead work accompanying the fringe along its seams. The black top hat had seen better days but it sat cocked to the side of the man's head, a piece of fur substituting admirably for the hatband. A deadly-looking bowie knife, used to scrape hides, was resting on the table's edge.

As he edged towards the clearing, a donkey stuck its head through the neatly-made slatted corral and brayed once more.

"It will be all right, Jenny. I know the stranger's there. Huh, he'll have to go some to get past you, won't he gal?" The man looked up at him. "Yessir, don't need no dog when Jenny's on duty."

They both stared at one another for a few long moments.

The old man scratched his head, making his jaunty hat even more askew. "Well, since you ain't drawn your gun yet, it looks to me like you want something more than to steal me blind." He swiveled and motioned to the donkey. "There's nothing here to take, except Jenny. And then you would get a fight." When the man turned back the knife was clenched in his hand and the joviality was gone.

"What do you want, boy? And don't get no idea about reaching for that gun. I can throw a lot quicker than you think."

He hunched in the saddle, weighing options, then rested his forearm on the horn. "I need a meal…and a trade or swap, if you will, of the horse." He swung down and stood clear of the appaloosa. "Look for yourself, he's a good animal."

The man's piercing blue eyes bored into him. "Ya, I can see he's a real good horse. You been traveling pretty hard with him, too." There was a marked silence then the man spoke again. "Conklin-is he dead?"

That frank question caught him by surprise and he contemplated the reins in his hands.

"I'd know that horse anywheres, sonny," the man prodded.

"He was alive when I left him," he nodded, "although he might have to chew on the opposite side of his mouth for a few days."

The blueness of the man's eyes shifted and the corners of his mouth crinkled as a smile slid upwards. "Haw, haw! That son of a bitch always did have a glass jaw!" He slid the knife into the sheath secured to his side and clapped his hands together. "Now I ain't got much, but I'd be proud to share it with anyone who got over on Marshal Conklin! Let's put this here fine horse up in the stable and get something to eat."

#-#-#-#-#

Without the top hat, his white hair tufted out at all angles, its fullness belying the man's age. He placed two cups on the table.

"Aanonsen is my name. But people most generally call me Tor-easier to say." He got the coffee pot and refilled the cups, stealing a glance at his face. "And what be your name, sonny?"

He was closer to Ironton now, would he be taking a chance using Daniel Sorensen's name? He ran a finger tip along the crooked seam in the table. "Sam," he began, "Sam…Mathias."

He held his breath while Tor stroked his beard.

"Mathias. Seems I heard a name like that before, somewhere close." Aanonsen shrugged and elbowed him in the shoulder. "Ah, I'm just an old Norski, don't know nothing, eh? Let's get some food into you, you're looking mighty puny."

The old codger knew plenty, he thought. But Tor wasn't putting forth any more questions, and the stew placed in front of him sent his mouth watering. He set to with gusto.

He felt eyes staring at him as he finished off a second helping and swallowed his last bit of bread.

Tor gestured to the empty bowl. "Been a while since you ate, sonny?"

His head was nodding even before he thought about the answer. Having eaten, he felt better, the ache in his stomach dulled. He sat back in his chair. "The way here isn't traveled much, or perhaps the rain washed out all the tracks."

Tor shrugged. "Ya, it could have been the rain or the wind…it's always something, not many people out here, that's for sure." His voice turned soft, "How did you find this here place, Sam?"

"Stumbled upon it. I was in the mountains after my…dispute with the marshal. The rain forced me down, too much runoff to make it over, I have to go around."

"Go around to where?"

"To Ironton."

Tor had taken a handmade wooden pipe out of his pocket and tapped it against his palm. He stood up and went to the kitchen cabinet and pulled down a small leather pouch. Taking out the tobacco, he tamped it into the bowl and struck a match on the grainy countertop, puffing lightly until it was lit. "Ya, Ironton's a big city. If I were a man wanting to be lost, I would go there for sure."

He looked thoughtfully at Tor. A man trying to be lost or a man trying to be found. He was beginning to feel as if he placed all of his eggs-all of his hope-in one basket. He didn't have a back-up plan and it was starting to bother him.

The old man sat down again. "Did Conklin do that?" he asked, gesturing to the side of his head with the pipe.

The bullet crease at his temple, now without stitches, evidently still showed. He shook his head. "No, that was done a couple of weeks before. I just met the marshal a few days ago. He mistook me for someone else and was taking me in to stand trial. It's a long story. I'm not the man he's looking for, but I can't prove it just yet. All I need is a little time."

Tor merely nodded and blew a grey ring of smoke into the air.

As he watched Aanonsen smoke, the old man stared at the curtained window looking lost in thought. The silence was starting to get uncomfortable. "What's your story with Marshal Conklin?" he asked.

Tor stopped in mid-puff and sent him a sidelong glance. "Me and him go back a long ways. We tangled when he was a young pup, before he started as a lawman, and me fresh from the old country-I was older but no wiser."

He drew on the pipe sending another smoke ring drifting lazily to the cabin ceiling. "Tracey Conklin and me, we never seen eye to eye from the first time we meet. A long time ago, I had a claim for a place called Caprock, the prettiest damn place you ever seen, outside of home. I was part of a wagon train headed out this way, then winter came. Three or four wagons turned back, men with their tails between their legs. Day after day of wagon wheels getting caught in the mud and rain, we were lucky to make it five or six miles at a time."

"It was getting late, the passes would be closed and we were going too slow to make it in time. The captain of the train wanted to stop and wait out the season, to start again in the spring. I couldn't wait, if I did, the land would be gone. We argued bad, every day knocking heads. Me, I wanted to go on-I had everything I owned in that wagon-and meant to see it through. I was Norski after all," he shrugged, "and this snow was not so much."

Aanonsen shook his head with the remembrance of it. "Uff da, them passes was full of bad snow. I made it through, only to find the land was sold to someone else, a worthless piece of paper in my hand instead of a bill of sale. Conklin was part of the outfit guarding the land I had claimed. I wasn't gonna stand for no kid telling me what I had paid good money for a thousand miles away, wasn't mine no more. I tried to explain things to him, but I couldn't prove what I bought." He smiled wryly. "A new land with new language, and different rules-not the old country."

"I tried to take the land back, but the new owner brings out more men and I was run off. That son of a bitch Conklin finds me some years later, him now a big marshal, and said he quit that outfit afterwards-that it was bad deal. Says he's sorry what happened. A little too late I say."

Tor looked down at the table, tip-tapping his pipe against the top. "A lot of water under that bridge," he said.

He continued on. "Me and Conklin butted heads over the years since then. Mostly over hunting now. This land, too many people come here, their rules are my rules now but it don't get any easier to live. Pretty soon, I find this place and me and Jenny been here ever since." He sat back in his chair with a sigh.

Tor's cabin was quiet, except for the popping fire that made the room warm. It was only mid-day, but he stifled a big yawn.

"Sam, maybe you want to take a rest for a few hours? It would be safe here and you look done in."

He nodded and rubbed a hand over his stubbled chin. "I could use some sleep." He pushed his empty mug back from the edge of the table, a thought coming to him. "Do you know of a Daniel Sorensen in Ironton?"

"No, I never get to the city much, but he sounds like a good Norski," he said with a wide smile that parted his whiskers. "You better sleep while you can. I'll wake you if anyone shows up."

#-#-#-#-#

Tor stood over him, shaking his shoulder. The afternoon sunlight slanted through the window. He'd slept hard. Feeling lethargic with heavy limbs, he was unwilling to come out of the cocooned warmth of the bed.

"You better make a run for it now, sonny. That Conklin, he'll try and find you all right and I see some men down in the pass-three or four of them. I saddled a horse, he's a good'un, too. Follow the creek behind the house until it ends, Ironton is straight north from there. It'll be night in a few hours time-keep going-this horse knows his way around."

He sat up and swung his feet to the floor, blinking the cobwebs from his mind. "Those men-if it is the marshal and a posse, they'll be trouble for you," he mumbled, searching for his boots under the bed.

Tor was rummaging in a closet, his voice muffled. "You need to ride out. I can handle Tracey Conklin."

He stood up as the old man slammed the door closed. "Why are you doing this? You don't even know me."

"Ya, you're right there. But you remind me of a young man I once knew, a long time ago-he couldn't prove anything, either."

It was a statement spoken with conviction. He stared into the blue eyes, so different from the frosty ones he encountered when they first met. Tor was a good man, doing what he thought was right.

"Here, take this." Aanonsen handed him a flannel coat, with tooled leather trim and a pair of lined gloves.

It was within him to refuse the generous offer, but he'd had enough of the wet and cold-more than enough-he accepted the clothing gratefully.

"There'll be snow in the high country tonight; you'll need something else besides these things." Tor opened a bureau drawer and poked around inside, pulling out a thick green woolen scarf. "This will do the trick, I think."

He reached into the pocket of his shirt. "I don't have much money to pay…"

Tor shook his head, sending his beard floating from side to side. "Your money's no good here, Sam. You keep it. I think you'll need it more than me, where you're going."

He extended a hand and grasped Aanonsen's, shaking firmly. "I'll repay you when I can."

"Ya, well, just try to stay out of the marshal's way. That will be repayment enough, I think. He's not the forgetting kind."

They walked outside to the front porch. He was reluctant to leave. He had only been there a short time but there was something between them now.

He buttoned the coat up to his neck and mounted, turning the horse to the small pathway that curved behind the house. He raised a hand to the old man standing on the front porch, puffing away on the ever-present pipe. As he left the courtyard, the warmth of the small cabin stayed with him, but uneasiness was creeping in.

He'd only known life in the past few weeks and that had been filled with pain, apprehension, and doubt-and friendship, too, if he had to admit it. But what was there before? If he was to believe what he thought about himself, there had been some time spent as a soldier. The rifle had felt familiar in his hands…was that part of his soldiering or had he been a hunter at one time? Well, now he was the hunted. If he was dangerous as Conklin claimed and Eli assumed, the law would follow and shoot to kill or try to trap him in some way. Ironton was the surer bet for him, now more than ever. He had to get there and find Sorensen.

The horse he rode on was a blend-in-the-night black dun, sure-footed and tough. It had picked up on his mood and seemed eager for the trail. He followed the creek, just as Tor had told him, and coming to the end of it he nudged the cowpony into a distance-eating lope northwards.

tbc