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Shades of Night; Collected Short Stories: 1996-1999
Oak of Ropes
Chapter 1 Page 3
Shades of Night; Collected Short Stories: 1996-1999
Oak of Ropes
Chapter 1 Page 3
Half way down, his back came down flat on the ground, his buttocks and thighs coming to rest against a final broken outcropping of slated stones. On this side of the hill, the wind was more gentle, less biting at least. And the snow wasn't so deep. Shivering uncontrollably now, his teeth chattering loud enough to chase away his very thoughts, Point rubbed at his many wounds and abuses, trying to force some heat back into his bones. As he scrambled back to his feet, Morgan noticed for the first time that he was standing directly beneath the farthest reach of the live oak's gnarled arms. Its trunk would be close by, he knew, and smiled at the thought. From his memories of the place, a favorite watering hole for herds heading to the railhead, Point knew there was a kind of natural shelter to be found in the broken stones on the tree's creek-side. Its roots had buckled and bowed the slate so it had been raised up into a peaked position, almost like the roof of a house. Indians, or lost settlers perhaps, had long ago laid the slate with sod to keep out the wind and rain. There, Point thought he could get a fire to burn, free from the icy breeze and drifting snow.
Groaning with each footfall, Point delicately made his way around the outcropping that had saved him from a much longer fall. When the tree's base came into view, Morgan brought himself up short, gasping with surprise. A laden buckboard was drawn up between the trunk and the ridge, its canvass covers tossed aside and well drifted with snow. Boxes and broken casks were scattered about the area. Somebody had drawn another swath of canvas over a long, low branch to form a crude but ample tent beside the wagon.
I'm saved! "Hullo!" he shouted happily above the gnashing of his runaway jaws. "Hullo in the camp! Can you spare a dead man some room around you fire?" Nobody answered. Maybe they're asleep. Point started down the slope, heedless of his bleeding bare feet. "I says hullo in the camp! Don't shoot! I ain't no sneak thief come to rob you! I'm just a poor, freezing cowboy, looking for a blanket!" Maybe they ain't asleep. Maybe they're fearful, and laying for me quiet like with a loaded musket. Morgan hesitated a moment at the thought, but decided it was better to get shot than to go off and freeze to death like a run down, mangy cur. "It was the Osage Sioux! Woke up this morning to find a passel of 'em all standin' around my campfire, grinning like the stupid savages they are! Curse 'em! Took everything, they did! Right down to my brand new ten dollar boots! Hullo! You hearin' me in there?"
Still, no answer came. Only the wind whispered through the gently creaking boughs of the oak. Somewhere in the distance, as Morgan paused to listen, a caught rabbit squealed shrilly for its life from the jaws of a hungry coyote. Then silence. Nothing. There was no movement to be seen, save for that of falling snowflakes. The cowboy couldn't wait long, however, as the bone gripping chill in his feet had climbed to his knees, and was rushing rapidly in the direction of his manhood. Oh, Sweet Jesus, don't let THAT freeze off! Betty Lou back in Sweetwater wouldn't know what to do with herself! Point tried to laugh, believing his salvation, one way or the other, to be near at hand. But his lips cracked painfully and bled an icy ichor.
Starting off once more in the direction of the tent, he tried again, "Hullo! Hullo in the camp! I says the Osage got my rig! Stole my horse, my musket and Navy Colt revolver, just about everything but what I'm wearin'! And, let me tell you, it ain't much! Can you spare a fag and maybe a pair of boots? I'll stand good for it in Sweetwater, soon as I can get there! Hellfire, I'd even throw in a ten dollar gold piece and a round of whiskey drinks! Anybody there? Hullo!"
Groaning with each footfall, Point delicately made his way around the outcropping that had saved him from a much longer fall. When the tree's base came into view, Morgan brought himself up short, gasping with surprise. A laden buckboard was drawn up between the trunk and the ridge, its canvass covers tossed aside and well drifted with snow. Boxes and broken casks were scattered about the area. Somebody had drawn another swath of canvas over a long, low branch to form a crude but ample tent beside the wagon.
I'm saved! "Hullo!" he shouted happily above the gnashing of his runaway jaws. "Hullo in the camp! Can you spare a dead man some room around you fire?" Nobody answered. Maybe they're asleep. Point started down the slope, heedless of his bleeding bare feet. "I says hullo in the camp! Don't shoot! I ain't no sneak thief come to rob you! I'm just a poor, freezing cowboy, looking for a blanket!" Maybe they ain't asleep. Maybe they're fearful, and laying for me quiet like with a loaded musket. Morgan hesitated a moment at the thought, but decided it was better to get shot than to go off and freeze to death like a run down, mangy cur. "It was the Osage Sioux! Woke up this morning to find a passel of 'em all standin' around my campfire, grinning like the stupid savages they are! Curse 'em! Took everything, they did! Right down to my brand new ten dollar boots! Hullo! You hearin' me in there?"
Still, no answer came. Only the wind whispered through the gently creaking boughs of the oak. Somewhere in the distance, as Morgan paused to listen, a caught rabbit squealed shrilly for its life from the jaws of a hungry coyote. Then silence. Nothing. There was no movement to be seen, save for that of falling snowflakes. The cowboy couldn't wait long, however, as the bone gripping chill in his feet had climbed to his knees, and was rushing rapidly in the direction of his manhood. Oh, Sweet Jesus, don't let THAT freeze off! Betty Lou back in Sweetwater wouldn't know what to do with herself! Point tried to laugh, believing his salvation, one way or the other, to be near at hand. But his lips cracked painfully and bled an icy ichor.
Starting off once more in the direction of the tent, he tried again, "Hullo! Hullo in the camp! I says the Osage got my rig! Stole my horse, my musket and Navy Colt revolver, just about everything but what I'm wearin'! And, let me tell you, it ain't much! Can you spare a fag and maybe a pair of boots? I'll stand good for it in Sweetwater, soon as I can get there! Hellfire, I'd even throw in a ten dollar gold piece and a round of whiskey drinks! Anybody there? Hullo!"
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