Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  “Aye, Colonel. I reckon they been watchin’ us for a spell.” Melton looked around uneasily in the graying of the arriving dawn. “Do you expect they’ll give us trouble?”

  “I fear so. Blackfeet ain’t got no likin’ for whites. And there be a heap of ’em from the sign I seen. They just might be headin’ back from a raid on the Snakes or the Utes, or the Crows, though it be some late for such doin’s. It sure as hell ain’t a huntin’ party, though there be some women with ’em.”

  “A war party?” Concern creased Melton’s features. Squire knew by now that the Colonel worried about everything, but that did not stop him from doing what needed doing. It was just his way of puzzling things out.

  “Aye. It be strange, though. The Blackfeet ain’t known for bringing their families along for such doin’s.” He looked around, and noticed that he could make objects out now. “Well,” he sighed, “it be almost full light. We’d best be movin’.”

  Train and Carpenter ran up. “I think there’s Injuns about, Nathaniel,” Train said.

  “What makes ye think so, lad?”

  “We seen sign. New sign.” He fairly burst with pride.

  Squire chuckled and clapped the large young man on the shoulder. “Aye, lad. Ye did see sign. Fresh. I don’t reckon ye know what Injins they be, do ye?”

  Train shook his head.

  “Blackfeet. Ye can tell by the moccasin tracks—and other things. ” Both youths looked worried. They had heard Squire talk about the Blackfeet before. “What’re we gonna do about it?” Train asked. “What should we be doin’ about it?”

  “Try’n find out if’n they mean us any harm.” He smiled, full of manful pride, bravely thrusting away the fear.

  “That might be wise. And how do ye figure to be doin’ it? Ye aim to just walk on up and ask ’em?”

  “I figured you had some ideas,” Train said with a disarming smile.

  “Oh, ye did, did ye? Well, maybe I do, lad. Colonel, ye’n Homer get the lads to finish packin’, and then get movin’. But don’t let the boys know there be Injins about. We’ll cut your trail afore long.” Melton nodded. “Be careful, Nathaniel,” he said, turning away. “Aye. Abner, go’n fetch Li’l Jim.”

  After Train and Melton were gone, Squire turned to the girl. “I want ye to be stayin’ here,” he said without preliminary.

  “But, Nathaniel.”

  “Don’t sass me. Just do like I say.”

  “But I can handle myself. Even against Injuns. You saw that in the fight with them ’Rikaras.”

  It was true. Squire knew what she must have been going through when the Arikaras had charged at them howling like demons. But she had stood her ground, despite being as pale as a ghost with fright, and had fought better than some of the men. Indeed, she had two scalps to prove her prowess. Of course, she had been quite squeamish—like most of the boys were the first time—when it came time to skinning the scalps off.

  “There’ll be other times,” he said gently. “I ain’t doubtin’ your abilities, nor your spirit. Now do like I say.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carpenter wandered off to join the others.

  Train returned with Li’l Jim. The three men mounted and rode off through the tall, bare aspens, straight lodgepole pines and firs, weaving through a lingering fog southwestward down Bull Lake Creek.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  SQUIRE, Train and Li’l Jim tied their horses off and crept along, using trees and brush for cover. They could plainly hear the sounds from the Blackfoot camp. They stopped behind a monstrous boulder and peered around it, looking down on the Indian encampment, just off the bank, with the creek behind it.

  “Merde,” Squire grumbled. “We be too far to see anythin’. Follow me, lads.”

  Keeping low, they flitted like shadows from tree to tree, boulder to boulder, working their way down the side of the hill. They stopped at a jumble of rocks where stunted sagebrush grew among the firs, about fifty yards from the edge of the camp. They crouched and watched the morning routines of the Blackfeet.

  Suddenly Squire stiffened. “Pourri voleur batards/” he muttered in French. “Immonde fils de putes.”

  “What’d ya say?” Train whispered.

  Then Li’l Jim said, “Hey, that’s Mr. Strapp and that goddamned Zeb Willis down there with them Blackfeet.”

  “Aye. And I reckon they be up to no good. Waugh! Let’s be movin’ up a little closer. Mayhap we can find out what them two buffalo-humpin’ bastards be up to.”

  He crept closer and had gained the cover of some trees when Li’l Jim knocked a rock loose. The stone skittered down the hill, clacking, knocking others loose. A few Blackfeet looked up the hill and began yelling, pointing up at Train and Li’l Jim, who were caught in the open.

  One warrior, whose long hair flowed down his back, began barking orders. Others rushed for their weapons, and a few ran for their horses. Most started up the hill on foot. Several arrows flew up at the two young men, and at least one rifle cracked a shot. Train and Li’l Jim dived for cover.

  “I’m sorry, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim said.

  “It be done now, lad, and we be havin’ our hands full. Just set your mind on that.”

  Squire leveled the big Hawken and fired. A broad-chested Blackfoot stopped in his tracks, crumpled and tumbled down the hill as the rifle ball plowed into his forehead.

  Li’l Jim and Train fired as Squire reloaded. Squire saw another Blackfoot go down. He took aim at the Blackfoot who was shouting orders as he raced toward them. The shot went wide as the man seemed to have a sixth sense and zipped out of the way. “Merde,” Squire cursed.

  The Blackfeet swarmed up the hill and charged into the stand of fragile-looking aspens.

  There was no time to reload. Squire fired his pistol and then wrenched out his tomahawk. He suddenly felt Train’s broad back and Li’l Jim’s smaller one against his own as they formed a triangle to face the enemy.

  Squire was near demonic in his fury as he swung the hatchet with his right arm and a tree limb with the other. He roared with satisfaction every time the tomahawk blade bit into Blackfoot flesh or the limb cracked on bone.

  The two youths fought with deadly abandon, too busy battling to realize fear. The Indians attacked with lances, tomahawks and clubs.

  Suddenly a Blackfoot shouted, “L’on Farouchel” He pointed at the bearded giant.

  “That be right, ye weak-kneed, wallowin’ piece of buff’lo shit,” Squire bellowed. “I be L’on Farouche, And there ain’t enough warriors in the whole goddamned Blackfoot nation that can take me on.”

  At the mention of his name, the Blackfoot surged in with new fury. Though they were mightily afraid of him, killing—or capturing—him would gain them many honors, both with their allies and their enemies.

  Within moments, three warriors lay dead at the feet of L’on Farouche. A group of warriors turned on Train and Li’l Jim. As they drove a wedge between the two youths and the big mountain man, a Blackfoot slipped into the breach and slammed his stone-headed war club against the back of Squire’s skull.

  The behemoth grunted and swayed. But he kept his feet and swung around, lashing out with his tomahawk. The warrior was surprised, and the blade ripped into his side. The Indian screamed once and fell dead.

  Squire grinned savagely. Someone else hit him on the head, and his eyes rolled upward. He dropped in a heap atop the dead Blackfoot. He did not hear the whoops of victory from the warriors.

  Squire awoke in the dim interior of a tipi. His arms and legs were bound, his arms yanked far behind his back and held tight with many wrappings of rawhide around them and his chest. He shook his head to clear the dregs of unconsciousness, and immediately regretted it as pain stabbed at the back of his head. He glanced down through glossy eyes and saw his cap on the ground next to him. His shooting bag and belt possible bag were gone.

  He took several deep breaths to settle the spinning of the lodge and to try to clear his head. It seemed to work a little. He surveyed the dar
k lodge and saw Train and Li’l Jim, also bound hand and foot. In the low light, they looked very young and very frightened.

  “Ye lads be all right?” he asked dully.

  “Yep,” they answered in unison, their voices weak.

  “What’s gonna happen to us, Nathaniel?” Li’l Jim asked.

  “Well, lads, since we ain’t dead yet, I ’spect they’ll be savin’ us for some sportin’ later.”

  “Torture?”

  “Aye. And if’n it comes down to that, it’ll go some easier on ye if’n ye be showin’ them goddamned savages no fear. They’ll respect ye for that.”

  Squire ignored the pain in his head and tested the strength of his bonds. He held out little hope of breaking them.

  “Ye lads got good teeth?” he asked.

  “Reckon I do, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim said.

  “Think so,” Train added.

  “Bon. Wiggle yourselves o’er here and put them chompers to work on these bindin’s. Mayhap ye can get ’em chawed through enough so’s I can break ’em.”

  The two youths hunched and squirmed across the dirt floor of the bare tipi and settled themselves on their sides close to Squire’s back. They began gnawing on the rawhide thongs, stopping often to work up more saliva. Finally Train managed to chew through one and start on another. His jaws ached and he had little spit left.

  Li’l Jim chewed through a thong, but it took him more than an hour to get through another. “I can’t do no more chewin’,” he croaked.

  “Don’t be tellin’ me that, lad. Get back to work. If’n ye can’t do no more chawin’, at least wet ’em down as much as ye can with your spit. That’ll help loosen ’em.”

  Li’l Jim did as he was told, agonizing each time he moved his jaws. Finally Squire felt a little slack in his bonds. He craned his neck around to look over his shoulder and saw that the two young men’s faces were etched in pain.

  “That’ll be enough, lads,” he said softly.

  The two fell back, exhausted.

  Squire gave a few tentative tugs at the thongs. They were still tight, and he was not sure he could break them. He took several deep breaths, then held the air in, expanding his great chest as far as he could. He shut his eyes and strained, sputtering with the effort. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His neck, arm and shoulder muscles bulged. The thick veins in his neck and forehead pulsed heavily, standing out like a miniature mountain range.

  He let the air out in an explosive blast and relaxed. He gathered up his strength and tried again, straining every muscle. Twice more he tried, but to no avail. He slumped, gasping for air.

  “Ya gave it a good try, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim said, sadly. “But ya can’t do it. That rawhide’s just too tough. Maybe after a while me ’n’ Abner can try chewin’ through some more of ’em.”

  Squire looked at Li’l Jim with narrowed eyes as he pushed himself back up to a sitting position. His head pounded, making a roaring sound in his ears, but he paid it no mind. “Don’t ye e'er tell me I ain’t able to be doin’ somethin’, boy,” he growled.

  He breathed deeply again, closed his eyes, steeled himself. He flexed his muscles, every one popping with the effort. His face reddened and contorted until it looked like a scarred mountainside at sunset. He rolled his arms as best he could, seeking every inch of leverage.

  Five weakened, wet strands of rawhide snapped audibly. Then two more gave way, and finally the last. Drenched in sweat, Squire sank onto his back and panted.

  Li’l Jim and Train stared at him in awed silence.

  Squire rubbed his wrists, then attacked the knots in the thongs that bound his legs. When they were untied, he stood and let the blood flow back into his numb legs, then quickly untied his companions. He walked over and pulled back the skin flap of the tipi just a bit and peered out. He let the flap fall back into place.

  “I don’t see our horses,” he said, “but the Blackfoot ponies be about twenty-five yards to the right. There be guards on ’em.”

  “You aimin’ to make a break for it?” Train asked.

  “Aye. ’Less’n ye’d rather set here awaitin’ the pleasures of the Blackfeet.” Both youths looked horrified. “When we get outside, ye just run like the devil himself was followin’ ye and about to bite your ass. Don’t stop for nothin’. Get yourself a horse, if’n ye can, and ride like hell. Don’t ye worry about no one but yourself.”

  The two nodded.

  “Your legs be all right now?”

  Both kicked and shook their legs, testing them. And they agreed all was in fine shape.

  Squire peeked through the opening again. “Go!” he roared. Seconds after they were gone, he ducked out and started running, scooping up a small log near a fire as he headed toward the horses. Train and Li’l Jim were racing ahead of him, their arms and legs pumping furiously.

  A howl signaled that the Blackfeet had spotted them. Within seconds, warriors began converging on them from all directions. The ones who were guarding the horses swarmed like hornets around the two youths.

  Squire slammed into the mass of Blackfeet, bowling them over. He regained his balance and kept running, all the while swinging the log like a madman. The weapon hit no one, but it kept the enemy from getting close. He heard the zing of arrows fly by him and he ducked instinctively. He touched the medicine pouch under his shirt, welcoming its comfort.

  When he reached the horses, he leaped onto a Blackfoot pony, hoping it would be able to carry his weight. He threw the log at the three closest warriors and kicked the horse into action. As the pony struggled up the hillside, Squire looked back over his shoulder and was pained to see that Train and Li’l Jim had been recaptured.

  “Merde,” he muttered. The pony splashed through the creek and he swung southward. Later, Squire guided the pony back through the stream and headed north, toward his own camp. He pushed the pony hard, and reined up suddenly when he spotted Noir Astre ahead. Milling a few feet away were the horses of his two companions.

  He let the Blackfoot pony go and jumped on his great black stallion, which snickered softly at Squire’s comfortable bulk on his back. Squire scooped up the reins of the other two horses and galloped off. He thundered to a stop in a flurry of dust in front of Melton.

  Melton call a halt, and Bellows ordered the men to loosen saddles and packs to let the horses breathe.

  “We be in a heap of trouble, Colonel,” Squire said as he dismounted. “There be nigh onto fifty Blackfeet warriors back there, and they be madder’n holy high hell.”

  “Where are the others?” Melton asked, looking beyond Squire. “Took by the Blackfeet.”

  “Alive?”

  “Was so. I reckon they still be.”

  “I hope so.” Melton paused. “There’s trouble here, too. William and Zeb are gone, as are the pack horses they were using.”

  “They be in the Blackfoot camp.”

  “Captured?”

  “Nay, Colonel. More like friends visitin’. They appear to have throwed in with the goddamn Blackfeet for some reason.”

  Melton’s forehead wrinkled in a frown. “What do we do now, Nathaniel?” he asked.

  Bellows spoke up. “You ain’t leavin’ them young’uns to the Blackfeet, Nathaniel. I’ll make sure of that.”

  “Hell, ye ought to know better’n that, Homer. I’ll be settlin’ with them goddamn Blackfeet, boy. Aye, and no mistake about it.”

  “Before it’s too late, I hope,” Bellows muttered.

  Carpenter had overheard, and she fought to keep herself calm. Chills poured through her midsection, and she wanted to cry and scream and then go kill a bunch of Blackfeet. But she could do none of that. So she had to wait until she knew more, or until she could get Squire alone and question him.

  Squire glanced around at the other men, and the Sioux women. All had gathered around, listening intently. They were frightened, and with good reason, Squire thought. He felt especially sorry for Hannah in her guise as Hank, but there was nothing he could do for the youth n
ow.

  “I’ll be needin’ weapons, Colonel,” he said. “Them bastards stole all my possibles. Homer, you’re in charge of keepin’ the men movin’. Just follow the Wind River, like we talked about. Move ’em fast and hard. Ye remind ’em e’ery once in a while that there be a Blackfoot war party skulkin’ about and they’ll keep movin’. Don’t stop till it be past dark. ”

  “No worry,” Bellows said. “I’ll get their asses movin’ like they never been moved before.” He dashed off, shouting directions. “And what’ll you be doing, Nathaniel?”

  “I’ll be headin’ back to that Blackfoot camp. They might be fixin’ to come after us.”

  “Can we withstand an attack, should it come to that?”

  “I reckon so. Just fort up. If so, listen to Homer. He’s a good man, and one ye can put your trust in.”

  “I’d like to go with you,” Melton said, feeling as if he had been superfluous on this journey and wanting to do something important.

  “Nay, Colonel. I travel best alone, ’specially for such doin’s as these. And ye be needed here. I don’t expect to be gone more’n a few hours, but it could be till the morrow.”

  “Yes,” Melton said, shaking his head sadly. He handed his personal rifle to Squire;

  Squire examined the expensive, English-made rifle. It was a fine weapon, but he still wished for the familiar feel of his own Hawken. The Colonel handed over his shooting bag and powder horn, and Squire took them and the weapons a camp hand brought up from their stores. He swung Noir Astre toward the southeast and left the others behind.

  He kept his horse at a slow pace, as he watched for sign of the Blackfeet. Two hours later, at dusk, he stopped the black stallion on a rocky hill and looked down into the small valley where the Blackfeet had been camped.

  “Merde,” he cursed. All the lodges were gone, and the horse herd was down to a handful. Only a half-dozen warriors remained, and they sat around a small fire, talking and laughing in the waning light. Squire felt a chill knife through him. He did not see Train and Li’l Jim.

  As the sky darkened, Squire crept closer to the camp. He waited quietly in a clump of tall bushes, his face set in stone. Finally, a Blackfoot strolled into the bushes to relieve himself. When the warrior was finished, one of Squire’s calloused paws clamped around his throat.