The Guns of Shiloh: A Story of the Great Western Campaign. Altsheler Joseph Alexander
goin’ to happen. I was just tellin’ you of the things you was goin’ to escape, and now you’ll feel good, knowin’ what dangers you have passed before they happened.”
Dick laughed. He liked this intensely red man with his round face and twinkling eyes. He saw, too, that the mountaineer was a fine horseman, and as he carried a long slender-barreled rifle over his shoulder, while a double-barreled pistol was thrust in his belt, it was likely that he would prove a formidable enemy to any who sought to stop him.
“Perhaps your way is wise,” said the boy. “You begin with the bad and end with the good. What is the name of this place to which we are going?”
“Hubbard. There was a pioneer who fit the Injuns in here in early times. I never heard that he got much, ‘cept a town named after him. But Hubbard is a right peart little place, with a bank, two stores, three churches, an’ nigh on to two hundred people. Are you wrapped up well, Mr. Mason, ‘cause it’s goin’ to be cold on the mountains?”
Dick wore heavy boots, and a long, heavy military coat which fell below his knees and which also had a high collar protecting his ears. He was provided also with heavy buckskin gloves. The sergeant was clad similarly.
“I think I’m clothed against any amount of cold,” he replied.
“Well, you need to be,” said Petty, “‘cause the pass through which we’re goin’ is at least fifteen hundred feet above Townsville—that’s our village—an’ I reckon it’s just ‘bout as high over Hubbard. Them fifteen hundred feet make a pow’ful difference in climate, as you’ll soon find out. It’s not only colder thar, but the winds are always blowin’ hard through the pass. Jest look back at Townsville. Ain’t she fine an’ neat down thar in the valley, beside that clear creek which higher up in the mountains is full of the juiciest an’ sweetest trout that man ever stuck a tooth into.”
Dick saw that Petty was talkative, but he did not mind. In fact, both he and Whitley liked the man’s joyous and unbroken run of chatter. He turned in his saddle and looked back, following the stout man’s pointing finger. Townsville, though but a little mountain town built mainly of logs, was indeed a jewel, softened and with a silver sheen thrown over it by the mountain air which was misty that morning. He dimly saw the long black line of the train standing on the track, and here and there warm rings of smoke rose from the chimneys and floated up into the heavens, where they were lost.
He thought he could detect little figures moving beside the train and he knew that they must be those of his comrades. He felt for a moment a sense of loneliness. He had not known these lads long, but the battle had bound them firmly together. They had been comrades in danger and that made them comrades as long as they lived.
“Greatest town in the world,” said Petty, waving toward it a huge hand, encased in a thick yarn glove. “I’ve traveled from it as much as fifty miles in every direction, north, south, east, an’ west, an’ I ain’t never seed its match. I reckon I’m somethin’ of a traveler, but every time I come back to Townsville, I think all the more of it, seein’ how much better it is than anything else.”
Dick glanced at the mountaineer, and saw that there could be no doubt of his sincerity.
“You’re a lucky man, Mr. Petty,” he said, “to live in the finest place in the world.”
“Yes, if I don’t get drug off to the war. I’m not hankerin’ for fightin’ an’ I don’t know much what the war’s about though I’m for the Union, fust to last, an’ that’s the way most of the people ‘bout here feel. Turn your heads ag’in, friends, an’ take another look at Townsville.”
Dick and Whitley glanced back and saw only the blank gray wall of the mountain. Petty laughed. He was the finest laugher that Dick had ever heard. The laugh did not merely come from the mouth, it was also exuded, pouring out through every pore. It was rolling, unctuous, and so strong that Petty not only shook with it, but his horse seemed to shake also. It was mellow, too, with an organ note that comes of a mighty lung and throat, and of pure air breathed all the year around.
“Thought I’d git the joke on you,” he said, when he stopped laughing. “The road’s been slantin’ into the mountains, without you knowin’ it, and Townsville is cut off by the cliffs. You’ll find it gettin’ wilder now ‘till we start down the slope on the other side. Lucky our hosses are strong, ‘cause the mud is deeper than I thought it would be.”
It was not really a road that they were following, merely a path, and the going was painful. Under Petty’s instructions they stopped their mounts now and then for a rest, and a mile further on they began to feel a rising wind.
“It’s the wind that I told you of,” said Petty. “It’s sucked through six or seven miles of pass, an’ it will blow straight in our faces all the way. As we’ll be goin’ up for a long distance you’ll find it growin’ colder, too. But you’ve got to remember that after you pass them cold winds an’ go down the slope you’ll strike another warm little valley, the one in which Hubbard is layin’ so neat an’ so snug.”
Dick had already noticed the increasing coldness and so had the sergeant. Whitley, from his long experience on the plains, had the keenest kind of an eye for climatic changes. He noticed with some apprehension that the higher peaks were clothed in thick, cold fog, but he said nothing to the brave boy whom he had grown to love like a son. But both he and Dick drew their heavy coats closer and were thankful for the buckskin gloves, without which their hands would have stiffened on the reins.
Now they rode in silence with their heads bent well forward, because the wind was becoming fiercer and fiercer. Over the peaks the fogs were growing thicker and darker and after a while the sharp edge of the wind was wet with rain. It stung their faces, and they drew their hat brims lower and their coat collars higher to protect themselves from such a cutting blast.
“Told you we might have trouble,” called Petty, cheerfully, “but if you ride right on through trouble you’ll leave trouble behind. Nor this ain’t nothin’ either to what we kin expect before we git to the top of the pass. Cur’us what a pow’ful lot human bein’s kin stand when they make up their minds to it.”
“Are the horses well shod?” asked Whitley.
“Best shod in the world, ‘cause I done it myself. That’s my trade, blacksmith, an’ I’m a good one if I do say it. I heard before we started that you had been a soldier in the west. I s’pose that you had to look mighty close to your hosses then. A man couldn’t afford to be ridin’ a hoss made lame by bad shoein’ when ten thousand yellin’ Sioux or Blackfeet was after him.”
“No, you couldn’t,” replied the sergeant. “Out there you had to watch every detail. That’s one of the things that fightin’ Indians taught. You had to be watchin’ all the time an’ I reckon the trainin’ will be of value in this war. Are we mighty near to the top of the pass, Mr. Petty?”
“Got two or three miles yet. The slope is steeper on the other side. We rise a lot more before we hit the top.”
The wind grew stronger with every rod they ascended, and the horses began to pant with their severe exertions. At Petty’s suggestion the three riders dismounted and walked for a while, leading their horses. The rain turned to a fine hail and stung their faces. Had it not been for his two good comrades Dick would have found his situation inexpressibly lonely and dreary. The heavy fog now enveloped all the peaks and ridges and filled every valley and chasm. He could see only fifteen or twenty yards ahead along the muddy path, and the fine hail which gave every promise of becoming a storm of sleet stung continually. The wind confined in the narrow gorge also uttered a hideous shrieking and moaning.
“Tests your nerve!” shouted Petty to Dick. “There are hard things besides battles to stand, an’ this is goin’ to be one of the hard ones, but if you go through it all right you kin go through any number of the same kind all right, too. Likely the sleet will be so thick that it will make a sheet of slippery ice for us comin’ back. Now, hosses that ain’t got calks on thar shoes are pretty shore to slip an’ fall, breakin’ a leg or two, an’ mebbe breakin’ the necks of thar riders.”
Dick