Chapter 8 - The Ridge Patrol
The wind picked up again before dawn, howling down the granite ravines like a pack of starving wolves, but inside the cabin, the atmosphere had shifted from tense waiting to deliberate preparation. Judson spent the morning sharpening his hunting knives and checking the action of his heavy rifle, while old Half-track, the wounded wolf, stirred from its bed by the hearth, gingerly testing its bandaged leg on the floorboards.
Josie stood by the small washbasin, braiding her long brown hair tightly against the cold wind she knew she would face. She had spent the early hours sewing patches of heavy canvas reinforcement onto the knees and elbows of her patched wool coat, using thick twine and a sailor’s needle she found in Judson’s gear chest.
“You’re certain about this?” Judson asked, walking over to hand her a pair of thick, lined leather mittens that had belonged to his uncle. They were far too large for her hands, but they would keep the frostbite at bay better than her bare fingers. “Once we head down past the lower ridge, there’s no turning back halfway if the weather breaks against us.”
“I’m certain,” Josie replied, pulling the oversized mittens on and testing her grip on her wooden walking staff. “If Miller and O’Malley are planning to foreclose on the homestead and take the watershed by spring, my father is sitting right in the middle of their path. Whether he deserves protecting or not, that cabin is where my mother and brothers are buried. I’m not letting O’Malley pave over their graves for a timber yard.”
Judson gave a single, firm nod of approval. He respected grit far more than apologies, and Josie had proven she possessed more backbone than half the grown men who came up the trail looking for easy wealth.
They left the cabin just as the sun crested the jagged peaks, casting long, bruised blue shadows across the snowdrifts. Old Half-track remained behind, curled deep into the warmth of the buffalo robes near the dying embers, strong enough now to guard the hearth while they were gone.
The descent down the mountain trail was treacherous. The recent wind had crusted the top layer of snow into a deceptive sheet of ice that broke unpredictably beneath their boots. Judson walked ahead, breaking the trail with long, powerful strides, his rifle slung securely across his back, his eyes constantly scanning the timberline for tracks or signs of watchers.
After two hours of grueling descent, the dense pine forest began to thin out, giving way to the scrub oak and frozen marshland that bordered the northern edge of the valley settlement. In the distance, curling gray plumes of woodsmoke rose from the clustered chimneys of the town—O’Malley’s trading post, the small livery stable, the dilapidated saloon, and the cluster of shacks where families like the Parkers eked out a miserable existence.
Judson signaled with a raised hand, dropping into a crouch behind a thick clump of snow-laden juniper bushes. Josie slid in beside him, her breath coming in ragged puffs, her cheeks flushed bright red from the stinging frost.
“The trading post is straight across the frozen creek bed,” Judson whispered, his mouth close to her ear so the wind wouldn't carry his words. “Miller’s horse is tied outside the hitching post. That means he’s inside talking to O’Malley right now.”
Josie peered through the bare branches of the brush. Sure enough, a lathered bay gelding with Miller’s distinct silver-mounted bridle stood shivering by the wooden porch of the O’Malley General Store and Trading Post.
“How do we get inside without them seeing us?” Josie asked, her eyes narrowing as she measured the open distance across the snow-covered clearing.
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“We don't go through the front door,” Judson said, a faint, grim smile touching his lips. “There’s a root cellar hatch around the back that opens up right beneath O’Malley’s back room ledger desk. Nobody checks the cellar in the dead of winter unless they’re looking for pickled beets.”
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