Abigail’s health improved. She was up and about, though exhausted.
The third day a warm wind blew from the south. It stole away most of the snow, leaving only sad remnants of the deepest drifts between broad patches of exposed grass. Colton volunteered to go out and cut whatever hay he could find. Martha would go with him. She was tired of being cooped up.
Jim turned the horses out to graze, all but the Appaloosa, which he saddled.
Then he rode for the last place he’d seen the cattle, the hill-and-forest country on the valley’s north side. He passed by the remains of the earlier wolf-kills and also the wolves he’d killed, stripped down now to bare bones and bits of hair. It didn’t amount to much. In the end, both prey and predator were nothing but scattered bones.
“Same with people, except for the loved ones we leave behind,” Jim said to himself. He patted the Appaloosa’s neck. “Let’s go see about our cattle.”
He found them on the grassy plains just clear of the tree line. They were eating contentedly, enjoying the warm sunshine. This time he counted two more short. He didn’t think the weather had killed them. Deep in the shadow of the trees, he saw black shapes filtering through scattered sunlight.
More wolves.
He wondered if the gray wolf the cow wounded had recovered. One more mouth for the pack to feed if he did.
Jim considered the dwindling herd. The survivors were the youngest and toughest of the lot. Tough enough to fight off a pack of wolves? Jim doubted it. These cattle represented his family’s future; he had to keep them safe. He needed to stay with them.
A rope hung from his saddle horn. He took it up and popped it against the nearest cow. She made a short hop and started walking south, toward the cabin. He moved to another cow, an older one, red with a white face, and set her to following the first. He did the same with each of the others until he had the entire herd moving.
The cattle tried to turn back occasionally, but the Appaloosa was a good cutting horse and knew his business. With a flick of the reins, Jim put him in any stray’s path and soon set them back to the proper route
Jim breathed the clean mountain air. The snow-covered Sierras lifted high around like the rim of a great bowl. Unless he missed his guess, those gray peaks wouldn’t be free of snow until well into next summer. Lower down, the aspens had turned red and gold overnight and only the pines maintained their deep green. Jim took it all in. Even in the aftermath of a storm, the valley was undeniably beautiful.
It took the better part of the day, but by midafternoon, the herd grazed again, this time within sight of the cabin.
Proud of the work he’d done, he turned the Appaloosa out with the other horses.
Ellen met him at the door. One glance and he caught the fear in her eyes. Something was deeply wrong.
“It’s Mother. She fell,” Ellen said. “She’s sick again.”
Chapter 3
The sun’s last rays fell on Jim as he started down the long pass out of the valley. Despite the day’s warmth, gray clouds hung low on the northern horizon, angry and churning, full of promise about what the next storm might bring.
The Appaloosa remained behind in its stall. The horse had worked hard, driving the cattle closer to the house, and though it would have given all it had, Jim didn’t have it in him to kill the proud horse.
He rode Colton’s roan horse instead, sturdy enough for the task but not so sure-footed as the Appaloosa. Despite the coming darkness, Jim kept the roan at a slow walk. The trail was steep. Slick with snow and wet runoff that would soon turn to ice. He couldn’t make this trip twice tonight. The best he could hope for was to reach Onionville tonight, then head back over the pass in the morning. Even then, he might have to delay and wait for the melt before starting his ascent.
The roan kept a steady pace on the way down, slipping only once and quickly regaining his footing.
Jim had made the trip before, many times. They’d needed a multitude of supplies while building the cabin. Normally, he could have reached the settlement in two hours, but this time, it took him two hours just to clear the pass.
He breathed a sigh of relief when the roan reached the flat part of the trail. When he looked over his shoulder up at the pass, he caught the moonlight reflecting off a hundred icicles.
An hour later and we might not have made it. Something to keep in mind.
He patted the roan’s neck and spurred him on down the trail. From here the trail followed the course of the creek where it spilled out of Donovan’s Valley and snaked over the roots of the mountains toward its joining with the Feather River.
At the junction of the two waters lay Onionville. It wasn’t much of a town, not yet anyway. The first settlers wanted to call the place Unionville—the hotel and general store had signs painted—but after learning there was already a town by that name, they changed the first letter to an O, a decision that saved them from repainting the signs completely.
Locals swore it would one day grow into a fine town. Jim had his doubts. For one thing, the Sierras squeezed in close around the town like a pair of pliers, blocking expansion east or west so that growth could only come along the riverfront. For another thing, the same mountains, steep as they were, meant that full light reached the town for only a few hours a day in the summer, and even less in the wintertime. Water was the last problem. Most residents admitted that every spring, half the town flooded when the snowmelt came running down.
Much of a town or not, it had a doctor, and tonight that was what Jim needed.
Doctor Sinclair did his business out of his house, and Jim wasted no time making his way there. After a few minutes of knocking, Sinclair met him on the stoop.
“Yes,” the Doc said. He wore a long buffalo robe and a pair of tiny spectacles. Jim saw the shiny barrel of a scattergun sticking out below the robe.
“Doc, it’s Jim Heston from up the way. My mother-in-law is down awful sick. She needs help.”
“What kind of sick?”
“Coughing, mainly. Coughing so bad she can’t eat or sleep. Last few days she sounded better, but today she coughed a fit so bad she passed out and fell over. We’ve had her in bed. But she’s getting worse.”
“A dry cough or raspy and wheezing?”
Jim curled the brim of his hat in his hands. “Wheezing. Coughs up clear fluid at times.”
“You’re from up Lost Creek?”
Jim nodded. “All the way up and in the next valley east.”
“I’m afraid there’s not much I can do for her so far from town. There’s no way you can bring her in?”
“The pass is mighty tricky. I wouldn’t try it in a wagon and she’s in no shape to ride. There’s nothing you can do for her? A medicine or something?” Jim felt his hopes fall. He knew quite a lot about treating horses or oxen. He could set their bones or poultice their sores, could even sew up their cuts and wounds, but he knew very little about how to cure a sick human.
He did know how an animal got before it died, and he didn’t like how Abigail was before he’d left. What would he tell Ellen if the doctor couldn’t help?
