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closest peak. “Climb it with me?” he asked.
John hesitated. It was an easy climb. Just a long, steep amble,
really. But there were a number of things around the claim that
needed doing.
He turned to the stranger’s handsome, pale face, and nodded.
“We should leave now,” John said. “The afternoon’ll bring storms.
We’ll want to be down by then.”
The stranger inclined his head slightly, his wild eyes watching
the mountains.
“You’ll be needing a different outfit,” John said, appraising
the fine suit the stranger wore. It had felt like silk under his fingers,
for the few minutes it remained on. “Colder than it looks, up there.”
“I’ll be fine,” the stranger said.
John nodded, although he doubted it. “I’ll fill some canteens,”
he said.
John grabbed his rope and what was left of the biscuits,
stopping to fill his canteen at the spring flowing beside his cabin. He
also packed his second wool sweater and leather breeches in his
shoulder sack; those he did not mention to the stranger.
John’s three horses followed them up the trail a while. The
paint seemed to like the stranger. John was not entirely sure what to
make of this. Was the devil good with horses? He couldn’t recall.
Once they rounded a corner and were out of sight of the
cabin, the horses fell away, preferring to stay near the rich, thick grass
along the creek. The two men were silent as they left the claim,
following the white tumble and roar of Pine Creek, close enough to
hear it but far enough to avoid the mud and tangle of willows along
the shore.
They crossed Pine Creek above the bedrock waterfall. The
water was shallow here, but swift, and biting cold. It had been snow
only yesterday, or perhaps the day before. John offered his arm to the
stranger, and the stranger took it, and they crossed Pine Creek with
their arms intertwined like lovers.
After the crossing, the real work of climbing began. The trees
fell away, growing shorter and more stunted until they disappeared
entirely. Then there were only occasional patches of low grass,
nibbled short by mountain goats, and then nothing but bare rock. The
sun was hot on the scree fields of broken granite, but the wind was
cold. John was surprised to see the stranger keeping pace with him;
here on the mountainside there was a wildness in his eyes.
16 Typehouse Literary Magazine