The Pythagoras Curse Part X

The Dutchman

For a time we traveled by day along wide trails cut into the prairie grasses. Trails trampled flat by the hoofs of many animals, droves of cattle heading north as we were.

It was not uncommon for us to be overtaken by herds urged along by drovers who whooped, whistled and slapped their hands and ropes against legs adorned with leather chaps.

I suppose we were an oddity, a forlorn white man and an Indian boy, seeming out of place riding together on a trail reserved for thousands of cattle and even more dangerous calamities.

The trail bosses of these cattle drives thought so as well.

As happened each time we were overtaken by scores of cattle, we met the suspicious glares of swing and drag riders as they passed us. Minutes later a trail boss would ride up to us.

The conversations were always the same and almost never pleasant as he would fire off a quick succession of questions as to our purpose for being on the trail that day.

I was beginning to tire of these constant delays and suggested to Long Feather we consider altering our travel habits.

Now, we travel at night and rest during the day.

Of course with this decision came expected drawbacks as well. At night we realized we must rely heavily on our sense of awareness for dangers we could not see.

A split second of hesitation reacting against a threat cloaked in darkness could spell a very unpleasant outcome.

But we were not to roam blindly about in the territories. By leveraging Long Feather’s exceptional night vision we made considerable progress.

Not to say it didn’t take us several days of traveling in this manner to acclimate to the change.

But over two weeks time, we grew accustomed to the shift.

Still, traveling at night gave itself to a few unexpected situations we quickly learned to accommodate.

Although we were traveling at night the herds of cattle were not.

To ensure they didn’t the drovers always established pickets.

These were wranglers whose job it was to ensure the herd stayed together and nothing spooked the animals such as natural predators or rustlers who came under the cover of darkness.

We learned quickly to give these encampments wide berths though most times it meant going miles out of our way.

In time, as the herds were driven northward during the day as we slept, they far outdistanced us and we were able to move steadily.

On the fifth day of our first week of travel we reached a small town known as Baxter Springs.

Crossing Spring River by cable ferry, an adventure which made us extremely nervous as we feared the weight of heavily laden wagons, a multitude of horses and ferry passengers would surely sink us, we reached Kansas City on the seventh day of our second week.

The city was awash with new settlers pouring in.

As we restocked our supplies we heard folks telling of what they’d witnessed at the Centennial Exposition displayed in Philadelphia only two weeks earlier.

Kansas, the promise of a new land, the guarantee of hope. Kansas, the fulfillment of wondrous aspirations.

The Centennial Exposition had led them here and they would start anew.

At the suggestion of a friendly enough merchant when he heard we were traveling further north, I purchased woolen jackets and mittens for Long Feather and I.

I had no idea how long we would be there. In fact, I was relying only on the word of a cowboy we’d met at Fort Gibson, a cowboy who’d seen another who carried a sword such as I, who wore the same robe of my order.

The cowboy had been wrong about his estimate. It wasn’t until the end of our fifth week after departing Baxter Springs we reached the base of the Big Horn Mountain Range.

Over one thousand miles of traveling at night, falling into an exhaustive sleep during the day, and then dull witted, the dregs of sleep still clogging our brains, mounting up and pressing on.

But we were here. We were here without a plan, but we were here.

I chose a small area ringed with trees and this time we chose to await the dawn. As the sun broke over the eastern horizon I donned my tunic, withdrew my long sword from it’s sheath and slid my great helm in place on my head.

As I mounted Long Feather stood holding the reins of his pony. A perplexed expression twisted his face.

“Shaman, is this how you seek to find your brother?”

“Yes. We will find passage through these mountains and we will ride. If he is here he will see me.”

We discovered a flat basin area between a pair of mountain walls, a narrow pass riddled with boulders which had loosened themselves from high above and tumbled to the ground.

Our few was unobstructed.

Miles ahead of us a large mountain wall rose up from the ground, and yet the end of the wall of stone had crumbled, eroded by years of torturous weather.

A cool wind whipped against our faces and from above we heard errant screeches from hawks as they darted across the empty void between the canyon walls.

It was Long Feather who spotted them first.

We pulled up and stopped.

I squinted at the clouds of dirt swirling from the canyon floor, and then as they burst through the whirling tendrils of sand I saw them.

Seven riders, hurtling toward us.

In the center of this band of riders one was wearing a helm such as the one I wore. One was adorned with the exact same tunic as mine.

Long Feather tightened his grip on his reins. His pony took a few steps backward.

“Hold still boy.”

When they reached us the six riders encircled us, each of them with pistols in their hands. The seventh, the one dressed as I, neared me, then removed his helm and tucked it beneath an arm. I did the same.

“My brother Petra Aller. After all this time I would have never believed our reunion would take place.”

“And I as well Johannes Tockler. It has been too long.”

“I am known by another name these days Petra.”

“Yes I have heard. You are the Dutchman yes?”

“Yes, now you and the Indian must come with us. You shall be our guest for a time. We have much to talk about. We will escort you to our quarters where you and the boy can refresh yourselves.”

As Long Feather and I guided our horses beside the Dutchman, a man I have known all these years as Johannes Tockler, the six others fell behind us pacing us only yards away.

One thing which disturbed me was none of them had holstered their weapons.

I sensed they were waiting for something, a surprise attack from somewhere or perhaps an order to be given.

I knew the order would come from Johannes, and these men would respond immediately.

I worried little for myself, but Long Feather would not be able to sustain a hail of bullets, and I might possibly be rendered unable to bring him back this time.

Perhaps I should have planned this meeting a little more carefully.

READ ON — THE PYTHAGORAS CURSE PART XI

Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII, Part IX, Part X, Part XI, Part XII, Part XIII, Part XIV, Part XV, Part XVI, Part XVII, Part VIII, Part XIX, Part XX, Part XXI, Part XXII Part XXIII, Conclusion

Let’s keep in touch: [email protected]

© P.G. Barnett 2019. All Rights Reserved.