Stewart Edward White - The Killer

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Now, four days later, I crossed the river and set off above to explore
in the direction of the Continental Divide. Of course I had no intention
of climbing for goats, or, indeed, of hunting very hard for anything. My
object was an idle go-look-see. Equally, of course, after I had rammed
around most happily for a while up the wooded stream-bed of that canon,
I turned sharp to the right and began to climb the slope of the spur,
running out at right angles to the main ranges that constituted one wall
of my canon. It was fifteen hundred nearly perpendicular feet of hard
scrambling through windfalls. Then when I had gained the ridge, I
thought I might as well keep along it a little distance. And then,
naturally, I saw the main peaks not so _very_ far away; and was in for
it!

On either side of me the mountain dropped away abruptly. I walked on a
knife edge, steeply rising. Great canons yawned close at either hand,
and over across were leagues of snow mountains.

In the canon from which I had emerged a fine rain had been falling.
Here it had turned to wet sleet. As I mounted, the slush underfoot grew
firmer, froze, then changed to dry, powdery snow. This change was
interesting and beautiful, but rather uncomfortable, for my boots,
soaked through by the slush, now froze solid and scraped various patches
of skin from my feet. It was interesting, too, to trace the change in
bird life as the altitude increased. At snow line the species had
narrowed down to a few ravens, a Canada jay, a blue grouse or so,
nuthatches, and brown creepers. I saw one fresh elk track, innumerable
marten, and the pad of a very large grizzly.

The ridge mounted steadily. After I had gained to 2,300 feet above the
canon I found that the ridge dipped to a saddle 600 feet lower. It
really grieved me to give up that hard-earned six hundred, and then to
buy it back again by another hard, slow, toilsome climb. Again I found
my way barred by some unsuspected cliffs about sixty feet in height.
Fortunately, they were well broken; and I worked my way to the top by
means of ledges.

Atop this the snow suddenly grew deeper and the ascent more precipitous.
I fairly wallowed along. The timber line fell below me. All animal life
disappeared. My only companions were now at spaced-out and mighty
intervals the big bare peaks that had lifted themselves mysteriously
from among their lesser neighbours, with which heretofore they had been
confused. In spite of very heavy exertions, I began to feel the cold; so
I unslung my rucksack and put on my buckskin shirt. The snow had become
very light and feathery. The high, still buttes and crags of the main
divide were right before me. Light fog wreaths drifted and eddied
slowly, now concealing, now revealing the solemn crags and buttresses.
Over everything--the rocks, the few stunted and twisted small trees, the
very surface of the snow itself--lay a heavy rime of frost. This rime
stood out in long, slender needles an inch to an inch and a half in
length, sparkling and fragile and beautiful. It seemed that a breath of
wind or even a loud sound would precipitate the glittering panoply to
ruin; but in all the really awesome silence and hushed breathlessness of
that strange upper world there was nothing to disturb them. The only
motion was that of the idly-drifting fog wreaths; the only sound was
that made by the singing of the blood in my ears! I felt as though I
were in a world holding its breath.

It was piercing cold. I ate a biscuit and a few prunes, tramping
energetically back and forth to keep warm. I could see in all directions
now: an infinity of bare peaks, with hardly a glimpse of forests or
streams or places where things might live. Goats are certainly either
fools or great poets.

After a half hour of fruitless examination of the cliffs I perforce had
to descend. The trip back was long. It had the added interest in that it
was bringing me nearer water. No thirst is quite so torturing as that
which afflicts one who climbs hard in cold, high altitudes. The throat
and mouth seem to shrivel and parch. Psychologically, it is even worse
than the desert thirst because in cold air it is unreasonable. Finally
it became so unendurable that I turned down from the spur-ridge long
before I should otherwise have done so, and did a good deal of extra
work merely to reach a little sooner the stream at the bottom of the
canon. When I reached it, I found that here it flowed underground.

CHAPTER IV

OTHER CLIMBS

For ten days we hunted and fished. When the opportunity offered, we made
a goat-survey of a new place. Finally, as time grew short, we realized
that we must concentrate our energies in one effort if we were to get
specimens of this most desirable of all American big game. Therefore
Fisher, Frank, Harry, and I, leaving our other two companions and the
majority of the horses at the base camp, packed a few days' provisions
and started in for the highest peaks of all.

We journeyed up an unknown canon eighteen miles long, heavily wooded in
the bottoms, with great mountains overhanging, and with a beautiful
clear trout stream singing down its bed. The first day we travelled ten
hours. One man was always in front cutting out windfalls or other
obstructions. I should be afraid to guess how many trees we chopped
through that day. Another man scouted ahead for the best route amid
difficulties. The other two performed the soul-destroying task of
getting the horses to follow the appointed way. After three o'clock we
began to hope for horse feed. At dark we reluctantly gave it up. The
forest remained unbroken. We had to tie the poor, unfed horses to trees,
while we ourselves searched diligently and with only partial success for
tiny spots level enough and clear enough for our beds. It was very cold
that night; and nobody was comfortable; the horses least of all.

Next morning we were out and away by daylight. If we could not find
horse feed inside of four hours, we would be forced to retreat. Three
hours of the four went by. Then Harry and I held the horses while our
companions scouted ahead rapidly. We nearly froze, for in that deep
valley the sun did not rise until nearly noon. Through an opening we
could see back to a tremendous sheer butte rising more than three
thousand feet[C] by a series of very narrow terraced ledges. We named it
the Citadel, so like was it to an ancient proud fortress.

Fisher reported first. He had climbed a tree, but had seen no feed. Ten
minutes later Frank returned. He had found the track of an ancient
avalanche close under the mountain, and in that track grew coarse
grasses. We pushed on, and there made camp.

It was a queer enough camp. Our beds we spread in the various little
spots among the roots and hummocks we imagined to look the most even.
The fire we had to build in quite another place. All around us the
lodge-pole pines, firs, and larches grew close and dark and damp. Only
to the west the snow ranges showed among the treetops like great,
looming white clouds.

For two days we lived high among the glaciers and snow crags, taking
tremendous tramps, seeing wonderful peaks, frozen lakes, sheer cliffs,
the tracks of grizzlies in numbers, the tiny sources of great streams,
and the infinity of upper spaces. But no goats; and no tracks of goats.
Little by little we eliminated the possibilities of the country
accessible to us. Leagues in all directions, as far as the eye could
reach, was plenty of other country, all equally good for goats; but it
was not within reach of us from this canon; and our time was up.
Finally, we dropped back and made camp at the last feed; a mile or so
below the Citadel. Two ranges at right angles here converged, and the
Citadel rose like a tower at the corner. Here was our last chance.

CHAPTER V

GOATS

As we were finishing breakfast my eye was attracted to a snow speck on
the mountainside some two thousand feet above us and slightly westward
that somehow looked to me different from other snow specks. For nearly a
minute I stared at it through my glasses. At last the speck moved. The
game was in sight!

We drew straws for the shot, and Fisher won. Then we began our climb. It
was the same old story of pumping lungs and pounding hearts; but with
the incentive before us we made excellent time. A shallow ravine and a
fringe of woods afforded us the cover we needed. At the end of an hour
and a half we crawled out of our ravine and to the edge of the trees.
There across a steep canon and perhaps four hundred yards away were the
goats, two of them, lying on the edge of small cliffs. We could see them
very plainly, but they were too far for a sure shot. After examining
them to our satisfaction we wormed our way back.

"The only sure way," I insisted, "is to climb clear to the top of the
ridge, go along it on the other side until we are above and beyond the
goats, and then to stalk them down hill."

That meant a lot more hard work; but in the end the plan was adopted.
We resumed our interminable and toilsome climbing.

The ridge proved to be of the knife-edge variety, and covered with snow.
From a deep, wide, walled-in basin on the other side rose the howling of
two brush wolves. We descended a few feet to gain safe concealment;
walked as rapidly as possible to the point above the goats; and then
with the utmost caution began our descent.

In the last two hundred yards is the essence of big-game stalking. The
hunter must move noiselessly, he must keep concealed; he must determine
_at each step_ just what the effect of that step has been in the matters
of noise and of altering the point of view. It is necessary to spy
sharply, not only from the normal elevation of a man's shoulders, but
also stooping to the waist line, and even down to the knees. An animal
is just as suspicious of legs as of heads; and much more likely to see
them.

The shoulder of the mountain here consisted of a series of steep grass
curves ending in short cliff jump-offs. Scattered and stunted trees and
tree groups grew here and there. In thirty minutes we had made our
distance and recognized the fact that our goats must be lying at the
base of the next ledge. Motioning Harry to the left and Fisher to the
front, I myself moved to the right to cut off the game should it run in
that direction. Ten seconds later I heard Fisher shoot; then Harry
opened up; and in a moment a goat ran across the ledge fifty yards below
me. With a thrill of the greatest satisfaction I dropped the gold bead
of my front sight on his shoulder!

The bullet knocked him off the edge of the cliff. He fell, struck the
steep grass slope, and began to roll. Over and over and over he went,
gathering speed like a snowball, getting smaller and smaller until he
disappeared in the brush far below, a tiny spot of white.

No one can appreciate the feeling of relaxed relief that filled me. Hard
and dangerous climbs, killing work, considerable hardship and discomfort
had at length their reward. I could now take a rest. The day was young,
and I contemplated with something like rapture a return to camp, and a
good puttery day skinning out that goat. In addition I was suffering now
from a splitting headache, the effects of incipient snow-blindness, and
was generally pretty wobbly.

And then my eye wandered to the left, whence that goat had come. I saw a
large splash of blood; at a spot _before_ I had fired! It was too
evident that the goat had already been wounded by Fisher; and therefore,
by hunter's law, belonged to him!

I set my teeth and turned up the mountain to regain the descent we had
just made. At the knife-edge top I stopped for a moment to get my breath
and to survey the country. Diagonally across the basin where the wolves
were howling, half way down the ridge running at right angles to my own,
I made out two goats. They were two miles away from me on an air line.
My course was obvious. I must proceed along my ridge to the Citadel,
keeping always out of sight; surmount that fortress; descend to the
second ridge; walk along the other side of it until I was above those
goats, and then sneak down on them.

I accomplished the first two stages of my journey all right, though
with considerably more difficulty in spots than I should have
anticipated. The knife edge was so sharp and the sides so treacherous
that at times it was almost impossible to travel anywhere but right on
top. This would not do. By a little planning, however, I managed to
reach the central "keep" of the Citadel: a high, bleak, broken pile,
flat on top, with snow in all the crevices, and small cliffs on all
sides. From this advantage I could cautiously spy out the lay of the
land.

Below me fifty feet dipped the second ridge, running nearly at right
angles. It sloped abruptly to the wolf basin, but fell sheer on the
other side to depths I could not at that time guess.[D] A very few
scattered, stunted, and twisted trees huddled close down to the rock and
snow. This saddle was about fifty feet in width and perhaps five hundred
yards in length. It ended in another craggy butte very much like the
Citadel.

My first glance determined that my original plan would not do. The goats
had climbed from where I had first seen them, and were now leisurely
topping the saddle. To attempt to descend would be to reveal myself. I
was forced to huddle just where I was. My hope was that the goats would
wander along the saddle toward me, and not climb the other butte
opposite. Also I wanted them to hurry, please, as the snow in which I
sat was cold, and the wind piercing.

This apparently they were not inclined to do. They paused, they nibbled
at some scanty moss, they gazed at the scenery, they scratched their
ears. I shifted my position cautiously--and saw below me,[E] lying on
the snow at the very edge of the cliff, a tremendous billy! He had been
there all the time; and I had been looking over him!

At the crack of the Springfield he lurched forward and toppled slowly
out of sight over the edge of the cliff. The two I had been stalking
instantly disappeared. But on the very top of the butte opposite
appeared another. It was a very long shot,[F] but I had to take chances,
for I could not tell whether or not the one I had just shot was
accessible or not. On a guess I held six inches over his back. The goat
gave one leap forward into space. For twenty feet he fell spread-eagled
and right side up as though flying. Then he began to turn and whirl. As
far as my personal testimony could go, he is falling yet through that
dizzy blue abyss.

"Good-bye, billy," said I, sadly. It looked then as though I had lost
both.

I worked my way down the face of the Citadel until I was just above the
steep snow fields. Here was a drop of six feet. If the snow was soft,
all right. If it was frozen underneath, I would be very likely to
toboggan off into space. I pried loose a small rock and dropped it,
watching with great interest how it lit. It sunk with a dull plunk.
Therefore I made my leap, and found myself waist deep in feathery snow.

With what anxiety I peered over the edge of that precipice the reader
can guess. Thirty feet below was a four-foot ledge. On the edge of that
ledge grew two stunted pines about three feet in height--and only two.
Against those pines my goat had lodged! In my exultation I straightened
up and uttered a whoop. To my surprise it was answered from behind me.
Frank had followed my trail. He had killed a nanny and was carrying the
head. Everybody had goats!

After a great deal of man[oe]uvring we worked our way down to the ledge
by means of a crevice and a ten-foot pole. Then we tied the goat to the
little trees, and set to work. I held Frank while he skinned; and then
he held me while I skinned. It was very awkward. The tiny landscape
almost directly beneath us was blue with the atmosphere of distance. A
solitary raven discovered us, and began to circle and croak and flop.

"You'll get your meal later," we told him.

Far below us, like suspended leaves swirling in a wind, a dense flock of
snowbirds fluttered.

We got on well enough until it became necessary to sever the backbone.
Then, try as we would, we could not in the general awkwardness reach a
joint with a knife. At last we had a bright idea. I held the head back
while Frank shot the vertebrae in two with his rifle!

Then we loosed the cords that held the body. It fell six hundred feet,
hit a ledge, bounded out, and so disappeared toward the hazy blue map
below. The raven folded his wings and dropped like a plummet, with a
strange rushing sound. We watched him until the increasing speed of his
swoop turned us a little dizzy, and we drew back. When we looked a
moment later he had disappeared into the distance--straight down!

Now we had to win our way out. The trophy we tied with a rope. I
climbed up the pole, and along the crevice as far as the rope would let
me, hauled up the trophy, jammed my feet and back against both sides of
the "chimney." Frank then clambered past me; and so repeat.

But once in the saddle we found we could not return the way we had come.
The drop-off into the feather snow settled that. A short reconnaissance
made it very evident that we would have to go completely around the
outside of the Citadel, at the level of the saddle, until we had gained
the other ridge. This meant about three quarters of a mile against the
tremendous cliff.

We found a ledge and started. Our packs weighed about sixty pounds
apiece, and we were forced to carry them rather high. The ledge proved
to be from six to ten feet wide, with a gentle slope outward. We could
not afford the false steps, nor the little slips, nor the overbalancings
so unimportant on level ground. Progress was slow and cautious. We could
not but remember the heart-stopping drop of that goat after we had cut
the rope; and the swoop of the raven. Especially at the corners did we
hug close to the wall, for the wind there snatched at us eagerly.

The ledge held out bravely. It had to; for there was no possible way to
get up or down from it. We rounded the shoulder of the pile. Below us
now was another landscape into which to fall--the valley of the stream,
with its forests and its high cliffs over the way. But already we could
see our ridge. Another quarter mile would land us in safety.

Without warning the ledge pinched out. A narrow tongue of shale, on so
steep a slope that it barely clung to the mountain, ran twenty feet to a
precipice. A touch sent its surface rattling merrily down and into
space. It was only about eight feet across; and then the ledge began
again.

We eyed it. Three steps would take us across. Alternative: return along
the ledge to attack the problem _ab initio_.

"That shale is going to start," said Frank. "If you stop, she'll sure
carry you over the ledge. But if you keep right on going, _fast_, I
believe your weight will carry you through."

We readjusted our packs so they could not slip and overbalance us; we
measured and re-measured with our eyes just where those steps would
fall; we took a deep breath--and we _hustled_. Behind us the fine shale
slid sullenly in a miniature avalanche that cascaded over the edge. Our
"weight had carried us through!"

In camp, we found that Harry's shooting had landed a kid, so that we had
a goat apiece.

We rejoined the main camp next day just ahead of a big snowstorm that
must have made travel all but impossible. Then for five days we rode
out, in snow, sleet, and hail. But we were entirely happy, and
indifferent to what the weather could do to us now.

MOISTURE, A TRACE

Last fall I revisited Arizona for the first time in many years. My
ultimate destination lay one hundred and twenty-eight miles south of the
railroad. As I stepped off the Pullman I drew deep the crisp, thin air;
I looked across immeasurable distance to tiny, brittle, gilded buttes; I
glanced up and down a ramshackle row of wooden buildings with crazy
wooden awnings, and I sighed contentedly. Same good old Arizona.

The Overland pulled out, flirting its tail at me contemptuously. A
small, battered-looking car, grayed and caked with white alkali dust,
glided alongside, and from under its swaying and disreputable top
emerged someone I knew. Not individually. But by many campfires of the
past I had foregathered with him and his kind. Same old Arizona, I
repeated to myself.

This person bore down upon me and gently extracted my bag from my grasp.
He stood about six feet three; his face was long and brown and grave;
his figure was spare and strong. Atop his head he wore the sacred
Arizona high-crowned hat, around his neck a bright bandana; no coat, but
an unbuttoned vest; skinny trousers, and boots. Save for lack of spurs
and _chaps_ and revolver he might have been a moving-picture cowboy.
The spurs alone were lacking from the picture of a real one.

He deposited my bag in the tonneau, urged me into a front seat, and
crowded himself behind the wheel. The effect was that of a grown-up in a
go-cart. This particular brand of tin car had not been built for this
particular size of man. His knees were hunched up either side the
steering column; his huge, strong brown hands grasped most competently
that toy-like wheel. The peak of his sombrero missed the wrinkled top
only because he sat on his spine. I reflected that he must have been
drafted into this job, and I admired his courage in undertaking to
double up like that even for a short journey.

"Roads good?" I asked the usual question as I slammed shut the door.

"Fair, suh," he replied, soberly.

"What time should we get in?" I inquired.

"Long 'bout six o'clock, suh," he informed me.

It was then eight in the morning--one hundred and twenty-eight
miles--ten hours--roads good, eh?--hum.

He touched the starter. The motor exploded with a bang. We moved.

I looked her over. On the running board were strapped two big galvanized
tanks of water. It was almost distressingly evident that the muffler had
either been lost or thrown away. But she was hitting on all four. I
glanced at the speedometer dial. It registered the astonishing total of
29,250 miles.

We swung out the end of the main street and sailed down a road that
vanished in the endless gentle slope of a "sink." Beyond the sink the
bank rose again, gently, to gain the height of the eyes at some _mesas_.
Well I know that sort of country. One journeyed for the whole day, and
the _mesas_ stayed where they were; and in between were successively
vast stretches of mesquite, or alkali, or lava outcrops, or _sacatone_
bottoms, each seeming, while one was in it, to fill all the world
forever, without end; and the day's changes were of mirage and the
shifting colours of distant hills.

It was soon evident that my friend's ideas of driving probably coincided
with his ideas of going up a mountain. When a mounted cowboy climbs a
hill he does not believe in fussing with such nonsense as grades; he
goes straight up. Similarly, this man evidently considered that, as
roads were made for travel and distance for annihilation, one should
turn on full speed and get there. Not one hair's breadth did he deign to
swerve for chuck-hole or stone; not one fractional mile per hour did he
check for gully or ditch. We struck them head-on, bang! did they happen
in our way. Then my head hit the disreputable top. In the mysterious
fashion of those who drive freight wagons my companion remained
imperturbably glued to his seat. I had neither breath nor leisure for
the country or conversation.

Thus one half hour. The speedometer dial showed the figures 29,260. I
allowed myself to think of a possible late lunch at my friend's ranch.

We slowed down. The driver advanced the hand throttle the full sweep of
the quadrant, steered with his knees, and produced the "makings." The
faithful little motor continued to hit on all four, but in slow and
painful succession, each explosion sounding like a pistol shot. We had
passed already the lowest point of the "sink," and were climbing the
slope on the other side. The country, as usual, looked perfectly level,
but the motor knew different.

"I like to hear her shoot," said the driver, after his first cigarette.
"That's why I chucked the muffler. Its plumb lonesome out yere all by
yourself. A hoss is different."

"Who you riding for?"

"Me? I'm riding for me. This outfit is mine."

It didn't sound reasonable; but that's what I heard.

"You mean you drive this car--as a living----"

"Correct."

"I should think you'd get cramped!" I burst out.

"Me? I'm used to it. I bet I ain't missed three days since I got
her--and that's about a year ago."

He answered my questions briefly, volunteering nothing. He had never had
any trouble with the car; he had never broken a spring; he'd overhauled
her once or twice; he averaged sixteen actual miles to the gallon. If I
were to name the car I should have to write advt. after this article to
keep within the law. I resolved to get one. We chugged persistently
along on high gear; though I believe second would have been better.

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