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"He died there."
"We shall see." Again I added a chunk of wood to the fire. "Be warm, Old One.
There is fuel. Now I shall sleep. In the morning I will take the way you show
me."
"I will go with you."
"No. I shall go alone. Rest here, Old One. My cousins have given your people
a
place. Stay with them, guide them."
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"I think soon the Indian will walk no more upon the land. When I look into
the
fire, I think this."
"Some will," I said, "some will not. Civilization is a trap for some men, a
place of glory for others. The mountains change with years, so must the
Indian
change. The old way is finished, for my father as well as for you, for the
man
of the wilderness whether he be Indian or white.
"I think it will come again. All things change. But if the Indian would live
he
must go the white man's way. There are too many white men and they will not
be
denied."
Powder-Face shrugged. "I know," he said simply. "We killed them and killed
them
and killed them, and still they came. It was not the horse soldiers that
whipped
us, it was not the death of the buffalo, nor the white man's cows. It was the
people. It was the families.
"The rest we might conquer, but the people kept coming and they built their
lodges where no Indian could live. They brought children and women, they
brought
the knife that cuts the earth. They built their lodges of trees, of sod cut
from
the earth, of boards, of whatever they could find.
"We burned them out, we killed them, we drove off their horses, and we rode
away. When we came back others were there as if grown from the ground and
others, and others, and others.
"They were too many for us. We killed them, but our young men died, too, and
we
had not enough young men to father our children, so we must stop fighting."
"Remember this, Old One. The white man respects success. For the poor, the
weak,
and the inefficient, he has pity or contempt. Whatever the color of your
skin,
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whatever country you come from, he will respect you if you do well what it is
you do."
"You may be right. I am an old man, and I am confused. The trail is no longer
clear."
"You brought your people to my cousins. You work for them now, so you are our
people as well. You came to them when they needed you, and you will always
have
a home where they are."
The flames burned low, flickered, and went out. Red coals remained. The chill
wind stirred the leaves again. Powder-Face sat silently, and I went to my
blankets.
Nativity Pettigrew had led us to believe he had come right down the mountain
and
the others after him, but that had not happened. Somebody maybe several of
them had followed pa. Somebody had come back, discovered Pierre's body gone
and
no sign of pa, so they'd followed, found Pierre's grave, and knew pa was
alive.
Pa might return to New Orleans and tell Philip what happened in the
mountains.
Or he might come back and get more gold. It must have been obvious from the
tracks that pa's horses were carrying heavy. What they carried had to be
gold.
Pa knew this country, and he knew old Powder-Face. He knew he could stay with
him until he was rested and strong again, and he could hide the gold close by
and Powder-Face would not disturb it. So he had come west, and he had been
followed.
Lying there looking up at the clouds, I considered. I'd take my appaloosa,
I'd
take that buckskin pack-horse, and enough grub for two weeks, and I'd plan to
stay in the mountains until I found what I was hunting or ran out of grub.
It began to spatter rain so I tugged my tarp over my head and just let her
spatter. It was a good sound, that rain. Tyrel would be coming along from New
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Mexico soon and he would be bringing ma. They would bring cattle and take up
land at the foot of the mountains somewhere. We were mountain folk, and we
cottoned to the high-up hills.
There'd be Tyrel and me, Flagan and Galloway, and maybe Orrin would hang out
his
shingle down in Animas City or even in Shalako, although there was mighty
little
for a lawyer to do there. But just give folks time. You can't get two people
together without soon or late they're lawin' at each other.
Far up there on the cold, gray rocks of the peaks where the last streaks of
snow
were melting off, up there would be strong, fierce winds blowing, weeping
over
the high plateaus, trimming the spruce to one level, driving the freezing
rain
into every crevice in the rock.
How could I find anything up there? If pa had died, what would be left of him
now? Some scattered bones, his boot heels, maybe, and part of his holster and
belt, chewed by wolves or other varmints.
It would be a lonely place to die, but maybe such a place as he'd want, for
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