Chapter 8 - The High Pass
The climb through the Wind River pass at first light was a test of endurance that punished every muscle in man and beast. The blizzard had left three feet of fresh powder packed into the ravines, and the wind off the peaks was sharp enough to freeze spit before it hit the ground.
The three hundred families of Chata’s band moved like a silent, winding serpent along the narrow ledge above the frozen river. At the head of the column rode Chata, his face set in hard lines of concentration, while Red Hawk and Emmett scouted fifty yards ahead, scanning the snow for sign of patrols or trap lines.
Ronnie rode near the center of the column, sitting upright on her mare despite Desta’s repeated warnings. Her face was pale against her dark hair, but her eyes were clear and fixed steadily on the ridge ahead where the trail dipped down toward the Sweetwater valley.
When the scouts reached the summit of the pass, Emmett reined in his bay and dismounted, walking to the edge of the limestone shelf to survey the country below.
The Sweetwater valley stretched out beneath them like a white parchment map, dotted with dark patches of pine and the frozen ribbon of the river. Far to the east, near the old stage station, a tiny column of dark specks was moving methodically across the snow—the cavalry patrol, finally cutting the correct sign and heading toward the foothills.
“They are four hours behind us,” Emmett said, adjusting his binoculars and focusing on the leading horseman. “And they’ve got a tracker with them now. Someone who knows how to read wind-drifted snow.”
Chata rode up beside him, his horse snorting a cloud of white vapor into the freezing air. The chief looked down at the distant soldiers, then across the vast expanse of the valley toward the safety of the western timber.
“Can we reach the basin before they clear the lower gorge?” Chata asked.
“If the pack mules don't throw their loads in the narrow cut,” Emmett said. “If they do, the whole column will bunch up like cattle in a chute.”
“Then we split the column,” Chata said without hesitation. “The old people, the children, and the pack string take the upper trail through the box-elder thicket. The warriors and the active riders stay behind to hold the gorge if the soldiers push too fast.”
Emmett looked at the chief, then back down at the distant soldiers. “You’re planning to draw them into a firefight.”
“I am planning to give my people time to cross,” Chata corrected sharply. “That is the duty of a sub-chief. And you—you have guided us this far. Your debt to the blood-law is paid in full, Cross. You can take the western trail down into the valley now and ride away before the shooting starts.”
Emmett looked back toward the column. He saw Desta walking beside Ronnie’s horse, steadying the animal’s bridle as it picked its way across an icy patch of shale. He saw Ronnie turn her head, her dark eyes finding his across the frozen distance between them. She didn't wave or call out, but her gaze held a quiet, unyielding challenge that cut straight through the cold wind.
Emmett let out a dry, humorless breath and tightened the cinch on his saddle.
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“I’ve never been very good at walking away in the middle of a job, Chief,” Emmett said, swinging back up into his saddle. “Where do you want me to set up?”
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