Galloway (1970) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Louis - Sackett's 16 L'amour
curtains at the windows, and a couple of dozen books.
"I envy you the books," Galloway said. "School was a rare time thing for us.
Mostly it was Ma teaching us from the Bible, and she read a couple of stories to us written by Walter Scott. Flagan an' me, we got our learning in the woods with our Winchesters."
"Your brother is a woodsman? Not just a cowhand?"
"We grew up in the Cumberland country. We learned from the Cherokees. Given a chance Flagan could get along most anywhere."
"Then he might make it. He might just be alive."
It was the first time he had slept in a bed in weeks, but Galloway slept well, and awakened with the sun. Shadow was already outside but a minute or two later he came in.
"I just had word. Fasten left the country. I've started some men rounding up my cattle, and the others."
Galloway Sackett dressed. Somewhere in the country far to the north and east his brother was either dead or fighting for his very existence. Somehow he must find him. The night before, Shadow had carefully outlined the lay of the country, how the rivers ran, the Animas, the Florida, and the La Plata, and Galloway, knowing his brother's mind as he knew his own, was trying to figure out what Flagan would have done when he got away.
He would have headed for the mountains, and the first trail he'd found had pointed north. It was Flagan's trail, but that of the Apaches following him as well.
Flagan would head into the hills, try and find some place to hole up. He would need some clothes, and he would need shelter and food. In the mountains, with luck, he could find what he needed.
"Sackett?" Shadow called from the door. "Get your gear together. I've saddled our horses and we're packed for the trip."
"We?"
"I'm going with you."
Chapter IV
For a week I rested beside the creek, keeping hidden when possible. I treated my feet alternately with the salve I had made and leaves of the Datura, and the soles began to heal.
Twice I snared rabbits, once I knocked down a sage hen. There were yampa roots, Indian potatoes, and I found a rat's nest containing nearly a bushel of hazelnuts. The fare was scant but I was making out.
By the end of the week I'd completed a bow and some arrows, and had killed a deer. With the piece of elk hide, softened by its burial in the earth, I made moccasins. Marking out the soles by tracing my feet with charcoal, I then cut out an oval as long as my two feet, cut it in half, and in the middle of each squared-off end I cut a slit long enough for my foot to get into, then cut another slit to make a T. I now had the upper for each moccasin and using a thorn for an awl I punched holes to sew the uppers to the soles. Finally I punched holes along each side of the slit to take a drawstring.
One of the first things I'd done was to make a shelter hidden well back in a clump of willows. Crawling back into the middle of the thickest clump I could find, I cut off some brush, enough to make a sleeping space. Then I drew the willows together overhead and tied them, allowing others to stand up to mask what I had done.
This wasn't a shelter I built all at once. First I had just crawled among the willows to sleep where I'd not be easily found, then I widened it for more room, and the willows I cut I wove in overhead and around the sides to make it snugger and warmer. After a week of work the tunnel was six feet long and masked by tying two growing willows a little closer together once I was inside.
Twice I saw deer just too far off to risk a shot. The one buckskin I had was not enough to make a shot.
Living in such a way leaves no time for rest. Between the two slopes, the stream, and the narrow bottom of the canyon, I made out. Several times I caught fish, never large enough, and found clumps of sego lily and ate the bulbs.
Gradually over that week the stiffness and soreness began to leave my muscles and my feet began to heal.
Yet I was facing the same thing that faced every hunting and food-gathering people.
"I envy you the books," Galloway said. "School was a rare time thing for us.
Mostly it was Ma teaching us from the Bible, and she read a couple of stories to us written by Walter Scott. Flagan an' me, we got our learning in the woods with our Winchesters."
"Your brother is a woodsman? Not just a cowhand?"
"We grew up in the Cumberland country. We learned from the Cherokees. Given a chance Flagan could get along most anywhere."
"Then he might make it. He might just be alive."
It was the first time he had slept in a bed in weeks, but Galloway slept well, and awakened with the sun. Shadow was already outside but a minute or two later he came in.
"I just had word. Fasten left the country. I've started some men rounding up my cattle, and the others."
Galloway Sackett dressed. Somewhere in the country far to the north and east his brother was either dead or fighting for his very existence. Somehow he must find him. The night before, Shadow had carefully outlined the lay of the country, how the rivers ran, the Animas, the Florida, and the La Plata, and Galloway, knowing his brother's mind as he knew his own, was trying to figure out what Flagan would have done when he got away.
He would have headed for the mountains, and the first trail he'd found had pointed north. It was Flagan's trail, but that of the Apaches following him as well.
Flagan would head into the hills, try and find some place to hole up. He would need some clothes, and he would need shelter and food. In the mountains, with luck, he could find what he needed.
"Sackett?" Shadow called from the door. "Get your gear together. I've saddled our horses and we're packed for the trip."
"We?"
"I'm going with you."
Chapter IV
For a week I rested beside the creek, keeping hidden when possible. I treated my feet alternately with the salve I had made and leaves of the Datura, and the soles began to heal.
Twice I snared rabbits, once I knocked down a sage hen. There were yampa roots, Indian potatoes, and I found a rat's nest containing nearly a bushel of hazelnuts. The fare was scant but I was making out.
By the end of the week I'd completed a bow and some arrows, and had killed a deer. With the piece of elk hide, softened by its burial in the earth, I made moccasins. Marking out the soles by tracing my feet with charcoal, I then cut out an oval as long as my two feet, cut it in half, and in the middle of each squared-off end I cut a slit long enough for my foot to get into, then cut another slit to make a T. I now had the upper for each moccasin and using a thorn for an awl I punched holes to sew the uppers to the soles. Finally I punched holes along each side of the slit to take a drawstring.
One of the first things I'd done was to make a shelter hidden well back in a clump of willows. Crawling back into the middle of the thickest clump I could find, I cut off some brush, enough to make a sleeping space. Then I drew the willows together overhead and tied them, allowing others to stand up to mask what I had done.
This wasn't a shelter I built all at once. First I had just crawled among the willows to sleep where I'd not be easily found, then I widened it for more room, and the willows I cut I wove in overhead and around the sides to make it snugger and warmer. After a week of work the tunnel was six feet long and masked by tying two growing willows a little closer together once I was inside.
Twice I saw deer just too far off to risk a shot. The one buckskin I had was not enough to make a shot.
Living in such a way leaves no time for rest. Between the two slopes, the stream, and the narrow bottom of the canyon, I made out. Several times I caught fish, never large enough, and found clumps of sego lily and ate the bulbs.
Gradually over that week the stiffness and soreness began to leave my muscles and my feet began to heal.
Yet I was facing the same thing that faced every hunting and food-gathering people.
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