Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  He dismounted and let his horse go. Rapidly he reloaded his pistol, before yelling, “C’mon, ye piss-yellow sisters of the devil! Batards! Fils de salaud/”

  They came after him—frantic Blackfoot warriors with lances and war clubs, coup sticks and tomahawks.

  With the pistol Squire blasted a large hole in the first one’s belly. He lashed out with the tomahawk in his left hand. A Blackfoot fell over, a deep, bloody gash in his skull. Squire dropped his pistol and scooped up the Blood’s stone-headed war club, swinging it in one hand and the tomahawk in the other. He connected with each powerful blow, and Blackfoot bodies piled up like cordwood at his feet. He stood firm, ready to die.

  A rifle shot rang out, but Squire could not tell from where it came, or whether it had hit anything. A minute later there was another, and Squire was shocked to see a Blackfoot fall dead.

  And just as quickly as the Indians had swarmed around Squire, they fled, running for the safety of the hillside. Certainly this thing they faced was not a man, but a bad spirit. No man could hold their warriors off as easily as this had, and no man could call up rifle shots to kill The People from behind as this gigantic spirit had done.

  Squire’s chest heaved as he stood alone in the empty, silent village, his bloodlust almost gone. With a feeling of deadness inside, he started taking scalps. When he was done, he had eight, including the one from the night before and two from warriors dead with rifle ball holes in their backs. It puzzled him, but he was too weary from loss and hate to worry over it too much.

  He walked to the largest, most decorated lodge. Inside he found his rifle and Marchand’s. He found their two big saddle possible bags, and LeGrande’s, too. All three were almost empty.

  Blackfoot horses began ambling back into the village, and Squire caught several and tied them near his own animal. He rummaged through the village until he found his furs and traps, and those of his two companions, and his saddle. He took a few elk and buffalo hides that belonged to the Blackfeet. He tied the beaver plews into packages of fifty or sixty pelts each. Each bundle weighed ninety to a hundred pounds.

  When everything was loaded on horses, he searched until he came up with plenty of jerky and some pemmican in parfleches. He loaded them on horses, too. He strung the horses together with long tethers and then glanced around. Satisfied, he grabbed a burning stick and mounted his horse.

  As he rode slowly through the village, he set each lodge ablaze and then rode off. A quarter of a mile away, he stopped and looked back. Long columns of dark, rancid smoke drifted toward the sky, and he thought he could feel the heat of the fires from where he sat. Several wolves were advancing on the camp.

  “Adieu, mon ami. T’avez ete vengés. Ton ame est libre,” Squire said sadly. “Goodbye, my friend. You are avenged. Your spirit is free.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  “MY God,” Melton exclaimed as he stared, somewhat warily, at Squire. “It sounds like one of your tall mountain tales.”

  “Yep. Sure does,” Bellows said. “But it ain’t. Leastways not most of it. Seems the goddamn Blackfeet got to whisperin’ about what he’d done, and started callin’ him L’on Farouche. The name stuck, especially among the Frenchies, with whom Nathaniel has spent a heap of time.”

  He paused. “The Blackfeet nary been back to that place. Nary will, neither. Nathaniel’s had a heap of run-ins with the other bands of Blackfoot, but nary one quite like that first, and so the Bloods fear him the most. The Piegans and Siksikas ain’t sure whether to believe the story or not.” He turned toward Stalking Bear. “Ain’t that right, boy? Maybe you’d better start believin’ it now.”

  Squire stepped closer to the Blackfoot. Clutching his knife, Squire raised his hand and stared at the Indian. “Where be my people?” he rasped. “I’ll not be askin’ ye agin.”

  “North,” Stalking Bear said. “Between Wolf Creek and Arrow Creek.”

  “Bon. What was them other two whites doin’ in your camp? William Strapp and Zeb Willis.”

  “Want furs. Want to trade for many furs.”

  “What do ye mean many furs, boy?”

  “Many. Build fort.”

  “Ye mean they want to start a tradin’ post and be gettin’ furs from your people?”

  Stalking Bear nodded.

  “That don’t make no goddamn sense. Ain’t nobody been able to trade regular with the goddamn Blackfeet. The Britishers’ve tried, and the French. And Blackfeet be havin’ black hearts for certain agin Americans. Ain’t a fort been built in their land that’s lasted more’n a few months. Hell, M’sieur Lisa tried it more’n twenty years ago and was run out fast. ”

  He stood thinking, then said, “Besides, they got no money with ’em, far’s I know. And no trade goods.” Squire’s eyes narrowed as he stared at the Blackfoot. “What did they offer your people?”

  Stalking Bear tried to grin, but it was difficult with his mangled, swollen lips. “Scalps.”

  “What else?” Squire asked harshly. “Our scalps ain’t worth that much.”

  “One scalp is. L’on Farouche's.”

  Squire laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “Well, ye ain’t got that, do ye?”

  Stalking Bear tried to look smug again, and it puzzled Squire, as almost everything of the past day or two had. “There be somethin’ ye ain’t tellin’ me, lad. None of what ye be sayin’ sets right.”

  “We were to get the scalp of L’on Farouche. We were to attack his people, and kill as many as possible,” Stalking Bear said in Blackfoot. “But no one mattered to us but L’on Farouche. Then we captured L’on Farouche. ” Fear entered his voice, but he worked it out. “Great was our joy at this. But then L’on Farouche vanished.” He shivered.

  “What’s he saying, Nathaniel?” Melton asked.

  “I ain’t so well-versed in Blackfoot, ye understand,” Squire said, and went on to explain the gist of what Stalking Bear was saying.

  “We were ready to go back to our land, go against what Meisner had asked. But Big Talker”—he switched to English for a moment—“the one the white eyes call Willis.” It came out “Whirrish,” but Squire understood it. “Big Talker said he would kill L’on Farouche for us and bring the scalp. He did.” Stalking Bear looked very confused.

  “Well, as ye can plainly see, boy, I still be standin’ here with all my hair still attached to my head where it belongs.”

  “But we saw it,” Stalking Bear insisted, grimacing as he sagged a little, only to be brought up sharply by the rope around his neck.

  Squire grinned savagely. “I think ol’ Zeb done took your people good, boy.”

  The Blackfoot nodded, wincing with pain and fatigue. “But he did not lie about all,” he said in English.

  “Eh? He promised ye somethin’ more’n my scalp? Must’ve been somethin’ good, much as ye lads wanted to raise my hair.” The Piegan grinned through his crushed lips. “They offered women,” he said, still in English. “Man-Who-Talks-All-The- Time and the other, Little-Man-With-Big-Visions, gave The-Taker-Of-Bull-Elk’s-Horn a white-eyes woman and a Sioux squaw. ”

  “Merde,” Squire hissed. He spit a glob of tobacco juice on Stalking Bear’s chest.

  “White woman?” Melton asked in astonishment. “There are no white women for a thousand miles. What the devil is he talking about?”

  There was no use in trying to keep the secret any longer. “Hank Carpenter really be a girl, Colonel,” he said bluntly. “Name’s Hannah.”

  Melton’s eyes widened, and he almost swallowed his tongue before sputtering, “But how? Why?”

  “I found out some weeks ago. Abner found out afore that, by accident. They’ve had their hearts set on each other e’er since.”

  Melton shook his head slowly. “So that’s why they were always together,” he mused.

  “Aye, Colonel. Somebody else knew, too. There was someone in the bushes listenin’ when Abner told me of it. I had hoped to find out who it were, but the rain washed away all sign. I kept waitin’, hopin’
whoe’er it was would tip his hand. But I couldn’t learn nothin’.”

  He spat, annoyed at himself for not having seen it earlier. “But it were Zeb Willis listenin’ that day, sure as hell be full of fire. He be the only one who could’ve been settin’ there that still. None of the other boys could do it.”

  “It’s too late to do anything about it now, Nathaniel.”

  “Aye,” he sighed. He turned toward Stalking Bear. “Would this Meisner you mentioned be Jacob Meisner?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s he, Nathaniel?” Melton asked. “Do you know him?”

  “Know of him. Used to be a Hudson’s Bay Company man, more or less. Not a company employee, actually. Sort of a free trapper who deals only with them. Worked out of one of their forts on the fringe of Blackfoot territory far to the north. Least he used to. I’ve heard he be workin’ for The Company now.”

  “Why would the Blackfeet listen to him? I have heard that the Blackfeet listen to no white man and will deal with none.”

  “They’ll be dealin’ with the white eyes, Colonel. But only on their terms. Nobody knows how Meisner got to be allied with the Blackfeet, since the HBC men don’t get along with ’em much better’n anybody else. But he speaks their language, and knows their ways. I reckon he’s been tradin’ with ’em so long that he can command some respect. They might not heed what he says all the time, but if’n he worked out some kind of deal, they’d be listenin’. ’Specially if’n it involved my scalp flyin’ from some Blackfoot chief’s lodgepole. But mayhap we can find out what ol’ William be up to.”

  “How?”

  “Ye can read, can’t ye, Colonel?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll be back directly.” Squire got the journal and letters he had found in Strapp’s abandoned wagon. He handed them to Melton.

  “What are these?” Melton asked.

  “Things I found in William’s cart after we left it.”

  Melton thumbed through the book, reading a passage here, another there. “Seems they bought two fine Kentucky rifles— from J Fordney himself, no less—and a brace of matching pistols. And here William says he met Zeb in Philadelphia several months before we went to St. Louis. Wait,” he said shoving the journal at Squire, “let’s see what the letters have to say. ”

  He opened them and put them in order. “This one,” he said, holding up the first, “is from someone in the American Fur Company. I can’t read the signature, but it says, ‘the American Fur Company would be pleased to ensure William Strapp’s appointment as factor of Fort Blackfoot—provided, of course, that said William Strapp can build said fort in the land of the Blackfeet, and provide sufficient trade with those savages befitting the enterprise of the honorable American Fur Company.’ ”

  “It goes on to say that one Jacob Meisner,” he looked tellingly at Squire, “a man versed in the ways of this particular breed of savage, would be dispatched to St. Louis, there to negotiate with William an introduction to the Piegan faction of the Blackfeet.” He looked up.

  “I figured they was up to no good,” Squire muttered.

  Melton opened the second letter. “This says nothing more than the last. Let’s see if the journal will tell us more.”

  He skimmed pages, mumbling “hmmm” or “er” once in a while. “Ah,” he finally said, “listen to this. ‘I have pulled the wool completely over the eyes of that pompous ass, my dear brother-in-law. While he is working for his friends in the East, I have a much greater adventure in line. But the Colonel, as he fancies himself, suspects nothing. It will be rather fulfilling when he meets with a fatal accident at the hands of the savages. I will be most pleased to see his corpulent carcass reposing in a mountain ravine.’

  “And this, ‘I most truly look forward to the day (soon) when Squire’s scalp shall be waving from the battlements of Fort Blackfoot.’”

  “Once my corpulent carcass,” Melton said with hate edging into his voice, “was disposed of and you were dead, they planned to take all my sponsor’s goods, horses and men, and move them north into Blackfoot land, there to establish his fort.”

  “They could’ve done so, too, if’n they could’ve put me under, which don’t be likely,” Squire said pointedly. “But if’n they did, there’d be no one to stop ’em, less’n Abner and Li’l Jim and others tried to run ’em out. But there’d be nowhere they could run, if’n they wanted to flee.”

  Melton nodded and scanned a few more pages, then said, “It seems, though, that they almost had no deal when Mr. Meisner found out that you were leading this expedition, Nathaniel. Apparently you do have quite a reputation among those people. Meisner did not think the Blackfoot would be willing to attack a caravan being led by you.”

  Squire grinned viciously, and Melton continued. “Zeb convinced him to go ahead, telling him he would kill you himself if the Blackfeet were afraid to do it.” He looked up. “The arrangement Stalking Bear mentioned. But he seems to think you were killed. I don’t understand.” He looked puzzled.

  “I think I do,” Squire said thoughtfully. “I been puzzlin’ o’er it since Stalkin’ Bear said that.”

  “You have an answer?”

  “Think back on Hayes, if’n ye can, Colonel.”

  Melton frowned with thought. Then he shrugged. “I can remember little of the man, I’m afraid. He was big, sandy haired. A hard worker. Quiet.”

  “Get a vision of my scalp flyin’ from some Blackfoot’s lance.”

  “Difficult, Nathaniel,” he said, hinting at a smile. “But yes.”

  “Now, picture the same thing from Hayes.”

  Melton’s brow furrowed, then his eyes snapped wide. “Good Lord, it is perfectly diabolical!” he gasped.

  “What’n hell you boys talkin’ about?” Bellows said. “I ain’t followin’ this at all.”

  “Willis told the Blackfeet he’d kill Nathaniel for them. Knowing he would not be able to do that, he killed Hayes instead and scalped him. Hayes was a big man, though not nearly so big as Nathaniel, and he had a full mane of hair about the same color as Nathaniel’s.”

  Bellows’s eyes widened. “Then they do think you’re dead.”

  “Aye,” Squire grinned.

  “You thinkin’ what I am?”

  “Aye.”

  “What?” Melton asked, irritated at not understanding.

  “If’n them Blackfoot think I’m gone under, once I be catchin’ up with ’em, they’ll think they’ve seen a ghost. Like all Injins, the Blackfeet are superstitious as all hell. See spirits in e’erything. Anything don’t seem right to ’em is bad medicine.”

  Melton smiled. “It’d serve them right,” he said vehemently. “Aye.”

  “Do you think William and Zeb can still accomplish their plan?”

  “Aye, Colonel, I reckon so, especially if’n I can’t be findin’ ’em fast. The Blackfeet think they’re safe since I be dead. I reckon them two rifles and two pistols William bought, which we ne’er seen, were presents for the chief, Elk Horn. I think Stalkin’ Bear called him. I figure Elk Horn’ll be willin’ to offer them two shits protection o’er the winter knowin’ there’ll be a fort right in his land so’s he don’t have to be makin’ no major journeys to some fort hundreds of miles away. And, while William and Zeb be winterin’ snug in a Blackfoot camp somewhere up on the Musselshell or the Judith, I reckon Elk Horn’ll be passin’ the long cold months takin’ his pleasure with Hannah.”

  “Oh, my God,” Melton said angrily. He had forgotten all about that. Too many things were happening or being discovered too quickly. He could not keep them all straight, it seemed. “That poor girl. We’ve got to stop them.” Melton boiled, his jowls stiff with fury. “And your woman, Star Path, they have her, too. Things will go badly for her, I would think, since she is an enemy?”

  “Aye, Colonel. But she can take care of herself. Don’t ye fret. Them bastards’ll be payin’ for their deeds. Startin’ now.”

  He took two steps toward the Blackfoot. His knife hand
flicked out, and a wide, gaping slit appeared below Stalking Bear’s chin.

  A red geyser erupted, and then slowed to a throbbing dribble. Stalking Bear tried to say something, but no words came. The bubbling flow of blood stopped as the Piegan warrior sagged against the ropes and died.

  Squire quickly took the scalp. Before he sheathed his knife, he wiped the blade clean on the Blackfoot’s plain buckskin war shirt. He spun to face Melton and Bellows, his mind made up. It was time for action.

  “Colonel, ye ’n’ Homer get the boys movin’. I be goin’ after the Blackfeet.”

  “You think that wise?” Melton asked.

  Squire shrugged. “I ain’t about to let them murderin’ devils be makin’ sport of Abner, Li’l Jim and Hannah or Star Path. Nor am I forgettin’ what Strapp and that goddamned Willis has done neither. ”

  “All right,” Melton said reluctantly. “But you cannot go alone. Take some of the men with you.”

  “Nay, Colonel.”

  “This is no time for false heroics, Nathaniel,” Melton said sternly. “You face a large force of Blackfeet, a tribe you have told me numerous times should not be taken lightly.”

  “Colonel,” Squire said patiently, “anyone I’d care to be takin’ on a soiree agin the Blackfeet either be captives of ’em or be needed here, like ye, Homer and Cletus.”

  “You cannot go alone, Nathaniel. It would be folly.”

  “I’ll take one man,” Squire said, more to shut the Colonel up than out of any desire to have company. “That be all I need.”

  “Who?”

  “Ain’t sure yet.”

  “What about Von Eck, or the boy he’s pairing with, Tom Douglas?”

  “Either’d be all right, Colonel, but I reckon ye might be needin’ ’em more’n me. Let me think on it a spell.” Squire roamed through the camp and studied the men as they prepared to leave.