Snow Mountain Passage by James D Houston Read Free Book Online Page B

against Jim Reed come pouring forth, some real, some imagined, some public, some private—from the men who have argued with him about which route to take and from others who have resented his excesses, his money, his clothing, and his hired help; from the women who wish their men had long ago turned around and gone back home and from the younger women now deprived of the graceful young teamster they could secretly adore.

God’s Doing
    F ROM WHERE HE sits between his daughters, Jim can hear the tumult, can’t make out many words, but he gets the drift. He stands up and tells the girls to go stay close to their mother. He tells Milt to get the weapons out of the wagon. Between them they have two rifles, a shotgun, three six-shooters, and four double-barreled pistols. Once everything is loaded, each man shoves two pistols behind his belt. They place the backup pistols within easy reach and prop the rifles where they can be seen, then they lean against the siding and wait.
    After a while he says, “It was a terrible, terrible thing. But I didn’t mean to kill him.”
    “No, sir.”
    “You know that, don’t you, Milt?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “And we don’t mean to kill anybody else today.”
    “No, we don’t,” says Milt. “I ain’t never killed a person in my life, or even shot one, or wanted to.”
    “We just intend to let them know certain preparations have been made.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    At last the heads and hats appear above the sandy slope, the beards and the shoulders and the sweat-stained shirts, a row of men Jim knows too well, after days and nights together for all these weeks and months. Uncle Billy and his oldest son, a son-in-law who never speaks, whose opaque eyes seem bleached out by the constant sun. And Patrick Breen. And Lewis Keseberg. And William Eddy. They all come armed, and Jim has to wonder what Eddy is doing in such a bunch. Surely he’s not one of them, packing his rifle and walking next to Keseberg as if they are trail-mates now. This isn’t right. Ever since Salt Lake, the Reeds and Eddys have been traveling together, sharing animals and wagons. But as for Keseberg—ah, the German—Jim is not at all surprised to see him in the lead, with a coil of rope around his shoulder and a triumphant little smirk across his face. This is the day Keseberg has been waiting for, storing up resentment and biding his time.
    They move down the slope, with some of the drivers behind them, and the women, and the older children. So many children, Jim thinks, as he watches them descend. He hasn’t thought of it before. And until this moment he has not felt so distant from the others. They are a band of nomads who have come upon him in the desert, half of them wild children, ragged and dusty and thin.
    They slide and lunge and kick up plumes, and he finds himself remembering the evening he passed by Keseberg’s wagon just as a cooking pot fell into the fire with a clanging hiss. He saw the German’s three-year-old cringe and draw back at the noise, and saw Keseberg strike his wife across the face, a powerful, open-handed blow that sent her staggering.
    This was after Keseberg had rejoined the caravan. Jim was near his wagon by design, not by accident. At Margaret’s urging he had become a spy. Other women were reporting sounds that woke them in the night, muffled cries. Now he saw Phillipine cowering, and next to her the wary youngster.
    He called out, “Leave her be!”
    Keseberg’s eyes were very round, as he turned, surprised to be observed. Did he imagine that four walls screened off their kitchen from the world?
    “It’s no concern of yours,” he said.
    “It is now.”
    “You don’t know this woman as I know her.”
    Phillipine was frantically waving one hand, as if to say,
Don’t bother, don’t bother, he doesn’t mean it.
    “I know a brutal beating when I see one,” Reed said.
    “Are you calling me a brute?”
    “I’m telling you this has to stop.”
    “Are you calling me a