Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  He realized, too, as he sat back, that he was whole again. There was no more question in his mind. He loved Hannah Carpenter, and that was all there was to it. He would find her, get her back, and they would live their lives together. It was so simple. He shook his head, wondering how he could have wasted so much time agonizing over something for which there was only one simple answer. Somehow, though, the utter relaxation brought on by last night’s spree had freed him.

  This was not her fault. She had not asked for this to happen; nor had she taken any willing part in it. She would not have stopped loving him and given her affections to Elk Horn.

  Train could admit he still felt a tightening of his groin at the thought of someone else taking what only he had had before, but there was nothing that could be done about that now. It was not her choice, and she would not have enjoyed it. It was not as if her love—or her body—would be used up and never available to him again. No, it would have been much worse if she had been killed. To think that she would be gone forever would be too much for him to bear. He was a big enough man that he could handle her being raped—it did not really emasculate him, though it still made him squirm; nor did it change his feelings for Hannah. He was not sure he was big enough to handle her being lost for all time.

  His only real worry was that she might feel herself so shamed by what had occurred that she would close herself off to him. But he was sure Hannah was stronger than that.

  That night, as the men sat lazing around and chewing on elk meat, Squire said, “Thank ye for your hospitality, mon ami. It be a welcome thing. Me ’n’ the two lads here will be pullin’ out come daybreak.”

  “Where you ’eading?”

  “Toward Muddy Creek. That’s where we hear they be.”

  “Think them that caused all this trouble are there?” Peters asked.

  “Aye.” -

  “What’n hell made them boys take on such doin’s?”

  Squire shrugged, and pulled out his pipe. “Best we can figure,” he said as he filled the pipe, “is that Strapp had him some big ideas. Ye know them Company bastards’ll do anything to expand their trade and their land. Strapp figured if’n he could be gettin’ an invite from the Blackfeet, he’d do well. He saw himself livin’ fat and happy like some goddamn factor. He was aimin’ to make Willis his head of field operations. Both’d be happy, and be gettin’ rich at the same time.”

  “How’d they get Meisner into this?”

  Squire lit his pipe with a burning twig from the fire. “He’s about the only son of a bitch that be havin’ enough ties to the Blackfeet to try settin’ up such a deal. Things was kind of touchy till I signed on. Once Meisner heard about that, he knew the Blackfeet would go for it. They’d do damned near anything for this chil’s scalp.”

  “They sound like two fine fellers to me,” Peters said sarcastically.

  “Aye. Strapp don’t belong out here at all, with his fancy ways and whiny voice. And Willis be havin’ a mean streak wide’s the Snake River. But he ain’t got the balls to go with it. Hell, Abner whupped his ass once, and a chil’ no bigger’n Li’l Jim here took him near all the way.”

  “Dey sound, bot’ of dem, like un ver—a worm,” LeGrande spit.

  “Aye,” Squire chuckled, puffing.

  “I reckon your woman’ll be havin’ a tough time of it, Abner,” Peters said.

  Train nodded, anger knotting his face.

  “Well,” LeGrande said, “what time do we leave in de mornin’, eh?”

  “We?”

  “0ui. I’m goin’ wit’ you, mon ami”

  “Hell, you ain’t leavin’ me out of this fandango,” Peters said.

  “This ain’t none of your affair. This be for me and the two lads.”

  “Don’t be so goddamned mule-headed, Nathaniel,” Peters said. “More’n likely you’re gonna run into a passel of goddamn Blackfeet. And if’n you remember, they ain’t the friendliest bastards you’ll ever meet up with. And ain’t a one of ’em gonna take a shine to bein’ set upon this time of the year.”

  “Oui.” LeGrande nodded.

  “You might need some ol’ hands if’n ya get in over your heads, Nathaniel.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and then rubbed the results on his greasy pants. “’Sides, after them shits run me out and stole all my plunder, I got me a few scores of my own to settle.”

  “Moi aussi” LeGrande said. “Me, too. You don’ remember when you stood back et back wit’ me against the Blackfoot? And the Utes? You don’ remember when we fight the ’Rikaras along the Missouri? You don’ remember who took you in, feed you, teach you, take care of you when our old ami Marchand die at the ’ands of the stinkin’ Pied du noir! Eh? You don’ remember dese t’ings?”

  “Aye, I do remember.” Squire’s eyes closed briefly with the painful memories. He turned to Train and Li’l Jim. “Well, lads,” he asked, “what be your thinkin’ on this?”

  “We can always use extra help, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim said seriously.

  “Abner?”

  “If’n it helps me get Hannah back,” he said with determination, “I’d ask the goddamned devil himself to ride along. These men here your friends, Nathaniel, and so I put my trust in ’em.”

  “Dere,” LeGrande said, grinning. Peters beamed. The prospect of a fight with the Blackfeet was enough to excite any mountaineer worthy of that appellation.

  “What about your cabin here? And your plews and such?”

  “The ’ell wit’ the cabin. I’ll cache the plews and the traps and all the other t’ings. Dey be ’ere when I get back. If the cabin goes,” he raised his hands and shrugged, not caring.

  “Aye, then. It be done,” Squire said, chuckling. Then his face hardened. “Just ye remember, mes amis, them two niggurs Strapp and Willis be ours ... Ye can . . .”

  “And Elk Horn,” Train said, through tight lips.

  “Aye, and Elk Horn. Ye two boys can have all the Blackfeet ye can handle, but them three belong to us. ” He paused. “We best get that cache dug, and then get some robe time, boys. This chil’ aims to be hittin’ the trail afore first light.”

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “ALLONS,” Squire said, his breath a cloud in front of his face. “Let’s go.”

  They had spent some hours after their talk the night before working in the bitter cold and moaning wind, under the light of torches, to cache LeGrande’s traps and pelts. They had finally slept, exhausted, and finished up in the frigid morning. It was just cracking dawn when they loaded meat, jerky, pemmican, blankets and two jugs of whiskey on two of LeGrande’s mules.

  And with Squire’s word, they were on their way. Squire rode first, on Noir Astre, followed by Train, LeGrande, Li’l Jim, who held a rope to two extra horses, and Peters, who led the two pack mules.

  The sunlight was bright and brittle, but the air was cold and the wind brutal. They rode slowly, slack in the saddle, not pushing the horses in the deep, ice-encrusted snow.

  On the sixth day out, with a Chinook wind warming the afternoon slightly, they began seeing signs: smoke, well-trampled snow, horse droppings, small tufts of fur, the flotsam and jetsam of the passage of Blackfoot people. They stopped, and Squire and Train edged ahead.

  Rising above the camp was a very small bluff, with only two stunted trees at its apex. The two men slithered their way across the snow to the top and peeked from around the trees.

  “There’s Big Tree’s lodge,” Train said, excitement and fear clinging to his voice.

  “Aye,” Squire grunted, unmoved. He continued to watch. With the Chinook, and the warmer temperatures it brought, the Blackfoot camp was more active than on most winter days. “But I don’t see Elk Horn’s,” he added after a while.

  Train was surprised. Then he nodded. His desire to find Hannah was so strong that he was blinded by it, and his attention diverted.

  “Look,” Squire said suddenly, pointing upriver.

  “Smoke,” Train whispered. “Another camp?”

  �
��I be thinkin so.”

  “Think it’s Elk Horn’s?”

  “Aye. I reckon he and Big Tree split their camps for some reason. Maybe forage for the horses was gettin’ low. But I reckon since they rode against us together, they’ll be stickin’ pretty close together.”

  “How far?”

  “Couple miles.”

  They slid back down the hill, and making a wide curve away from the village to avoid detection, the five of them moved in the direction of the smoke. Once more, the three others waited while Squire and Train crawled up a bluff on the opposite side of Muddy Creek. It was growing dark already, but there was still enough light to see by. It was turning colder.

  “I reckon this be it, lad,” Squire said almost immediately. “There be Elk Horn’s lodge.” He pointed.

  Train nodded, but both continued to watch.

  Hannah stepped from Elk Horn’s tipi with a skin bucket and a small tomahawk in her hand. Train started and felt a kind of numbness spiraling outward from his belly. He made a move to get up, but Squire slammed a massive hand on his back and smashed him down flat.

  Train’s face was bright, and his breathing harsh. “There be time yet, boy,” Squire whispered.

  It took some minutes, but finally Train relaxed, and Squire moved his hand after the youth nodded that he was all right. They watched a little longer in the gathering dusk. Then they saw Star Path. Squire’s only reactions were a slight quickening of the breath and a narrowing of his eyelids.

  The two men moved back down the hill. With their three companions, they rode off about a mile and made a cold camp. This time of year, the Blackfeet would not be spending much time outside their village, so the mountain men had few fears of being detected. Still, at least one of them was awake at all times, watching over the horses, alert for any movement from the Blackfoot camp.

  “We’ll be ridin’ in on ’em come first light,” Squire said as they grazed on jerky.

  “Why not attack at night?” Train asked. “Like ya did when ya saved me and Li’l Jim?”

  “I want them niggurs to get the full benefit of seein’ a ghost come to be puttin’ ’em under,” Squire said with a grim smile. “Le fantome?” LeGrande asked. “What you mean, a ghost?” Squire explained. When he was done, LeGrande rubbed his hands in glee. “I like dat,” he said. “Dey’ll shit dere pants when dey see you.”

  “Hell,” Peters growled, “this whole thing ought to be shinin’ doin’s. They run me out, and figured they scared me out of their land for good. They ain’t seen hide nor hair of your ol’ ass in a' heap of time, LeGrande, and these two boys here was stole away into the night by our ‘ghost.’ We’ll be every bad spirit them goddamn Blackfeet has conjured up in the past year or so.”

  He almost looked sad. “ ’Course, we might be scarin’ ’em so bad we’ll not get to do any fightin’. They just might run off when they see us. That’d be a pure sorrow, since I’m more’n half-froze to raise hair on them bastards.”

  “Me, too,” Train whispered. “There’ll be fightin’, even if’n I have to chase Elk Horn and some of them other bastards from here to St. Louis.”

  Squire grinned tightly.

  They were up and on their way before dawn, after another cold meal from their spare rations. By the time dawn rose, they were at the bluff, giving the village a little more time to wake up and time for the daily routines to start. Finally Squire nodded. “It be time, lads.”

  They rode up the ridge and sat looking down on the awakening village. All noticed, without conscious thought, the placement of the tipis, the fires, the horse herd, the easiest path through the trees. It was a good camp, Squire thought—well protected by willows and cottonwoods, fairly safe from attack on three sides because of the curve of Muddy Creek, even with the creek frozen. The camp was almost hidden in a shallow dip, and the lodges were scattered through the trees, making it hard to launch a concerted attack—for most enemies. For a ghost and his fellow bad spirits, it should not be too hard.

  “All right, boys, spread out,” Squire said. He grabbed Train’s arm. “Listen to me, lad,” he said softly, but forcefully. “I don’t want your mind bein’ on Hannah now. She’s here, we be knowin’ that, but if’n ye set your mind to thinkin’ about that, ye’ll be put under afore ye can get to her. And we didn’t come all this way only to have ye get rubbed out ’cause your mind weren’t where it were supposed to be. For now ye keep your mind on fightin’ goddamn Blackfeet.”

  Train nodded, his face a blank mask. Inside he churned. Fear was there, but it was overridden by a rage that put strength in his limbs and determination in his heart.

  “I reckon she’ll be in Elk Horn’s lodge,” Squire continued. “First chance ye get—first safe chance—ye head there and see if’n ye can find her. But remember, boy, she might be somewhere else once the fight commences. When ye find her, just grab her, and the two of ye haul your asses out of that camp. Get o’er the ridge, turn south, and keep ridin’. And don’t ye go takin’ no foolish risks, lad. Understand?”

  Train nodded again and rode grimly away.

  LeGrande rode out on the far left flank, and Peters held down the far right. Li’l Jim was closer in on Squire’s left, with Train the same distance on Squire’s right. The men took off their buffalo robes and capotes and buckskin coats and tied them behind their horses. It was cold, but they did not notice.

  “Elk Horn!” Squire bellowed. The sound carried far and strong in the still, crackling cold air.

  The camp seemed to stop, as the two words hung in the air. Blackfeet looked around. Then there was a shriek, and one of the women pointed up the bluff.

  Women and children moved first, bursting into activity, racing across the creek in various directions, fleeing the spirit—and his companions—on the hill.

  Warriors stood around, not quite sure what to do. A tall, barrel-chested man stepped out of a painted lodge and looked up the hill. Even at the distance, Squire could tell that Elk Horn was shaken as if he knew his medicine was gone. He held his heavy blanket around him, and his loose hair was ruffled by the wind.

  “I be L’on Farouche/” Squire yelled. “And I want the renegades.”

  Still the Blackfoot leader said nothing, as if afraid to speak. A few warriors began slipping through the trees, gathering their weapons or heading for the horses.

  “I be wantin’ Strapp and Willis,” Squire hollered. “And the two women. I be bad medicine for your people, Elk Horn. Heap bad medicine. A black-hearted spirit come back from the dead to take them others away from ye if’n ye don’t be givin’ ’em to me.”

  “All gone,” Elk Horn croaked, fear cracking his voice.

  “Like hell ye say.”

  Elk Horn shrugged. He really did not know what to do. He was as brave as any man in the Blackfoot nation. But a spirit could not be fought. Although the others with him were mortal, all had created bad medicine for the Blackfeet of late. Fleeing would do no good. The spirit would only find him again.

  Perhaps it would be better to turn away. Perhaps this spirit and his accomplices would leave. He turned toward his tipi. He bent to enter, but stopped at Squire’s call. He turned to look back up the ridge.

  Squire calmly lifted his big-bore Hawken and fired. A warrior standing near the war chief spun, staggered back and crumpled in a heap, dead before he hit the ground.

  Squire took his time reloading, then roared. “I be L’on Farouche! And I do not take a shine to the kind of doin’s ye’ve been dealin’. Nor do I take a shine to bein’ killed. I be wantin’ them two bastards. And I be wantin’ our women, ye piss-yellow fils de pute.”

  “You will have them,” Elk Horn said. Fear cut deep through him. It was not that he had lost his courage, but in his eyes, there was nothing he could do against a spirit.

  “Bon.”

  “Buffalo shit.” Willis stepped from his lodge and moved up to stand next to Elk Horn. “Y’all ain’t givin’ me up, ya dumb, red- stick sumbitch,” he said nastily. “That ain’t
no goddamn spirit, boy. That’s just a big, stupid bastard named Nathaniel Squire.”

  Elk Horn looked at him stolidly. “He bad medicine for my people,” he said. “We give you to him, he go away.”

  “Ah’ll kill y’all first, ya chicken-shit bastard. Ah never kilt Squiah. Ah kilt me somebody else, and give y’all his scalp and told y’all it was Squiah’s. And y’all been runnin’ ever since from a ghost that’s really a man. Well, goddammit, Ah’ll show y’all.”

  He turned to face up the hill. “Why’n’t y’all come down here and get us, Squiah,” he yelled. “ ’Cept y’all may not want that leetle gal back, now that she’s been bedded by a Blackfoot warrior. ” He set the butt of his rifle in the snow and leaned on the muzzle. “Your woman’s here, too, Squiah. She ain’t half-bad fo’ a fat-ass Sioux. Ah been humpin’ her steady since she decided y’all weren’t man enough fo’ her.”

  He grinned, knowing Elk Horn was watching him closely. A few of the other warriors, thinking that maybe he was speaking the truth, started moving toward spots where they could charge up the hill under the most protection, if it came to that—or run, if this giant really were a spirit. They were scared, but ready to defend their village, if they were facing men and not ghosts. Two men, though, had already followed the women across the frozen creek and were long gone.

  “Y’all can come and get her. And William, too. But you’ll have to come through me first, Squiah. Ah reckon y’all ain’t gonna do that, though, since y’all’re afraid of me.”

  “Let me take him down from here, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim begged. “I won’t miss.”

  Squire’s expression was calm, but his eyes burned with the hatred that smoldered deep within him. He knew that Li’l Jim was the best marksman in the brigade—besides himself, of course— and that he was probably even better than Peters. He knew the youth would not miss. But he said, “Nay, lad. He’s set me a challenge, and I aim to be seein’ to it personal. After we get Star Path and Hannah back.”