by Win Blevins
He shouldered his rifle—this light gray spot, that dark gray spot—seemed like he was pointing it in every direction at once. He saw no one.
“Indians!” he bellowed louder.
Damn! That “hunnh” sound, it was a human being getting hit hard by something, and it came from the horse pen.
I better get over there.
“Blam!”
Sam heard it and felt it at the same time. He grabbed the left side of his chest.
Godawmighty, I’m shot!
But it didn’t hurt.
Why?
He looked around. Dark human shapes were darting around the horse pen.
Shouts came from his camp. “Indians! Indians!” Help was coming.
Get going!
He wiped his right hand on his face. Dry, not wet. No blood.
He ran lickety-split toward the horse pen.
The mounts were jostling around, but they weren’t running. For sure the rope that made the corral was cut. We fooled you! When you cut the corral, you thought you could run the horses off. But they’re hobbled.
He saw human arms, legs, heads here and there. He tried to sight on one, but knew he was more likely to hit a horse than a thief.
He almost stumbled over a moccasined foot sticking out of a gray shadow.
He bent over it—Third Wing, unconscious. He groped for the head. Both hands came away gooey with blood.
“Horse thieves! Horse thieves!” That was Gideon roaring. Sam recognized the blam! of Gideon’s .58, largest of all the men’s rifles.
Lots of footsteps coming toward the horses.
Sn-n-i-i-i-ck!
Flame seared his chest!
He felt his right ribs. Blood. An arrow, probably…My blood!
He went berserk. He ran crazy-legged into the shadows in the direction of the arrow.
“You bastards!”
I will die with your blood on my hands!
Movement. Maybe movement, going away from the horses. He slapped The Celt to his shoulder and fired in the direction of the flicker in the half light.
Damn! Stupid! Now his rifle was empty.
He dashed to the horse pen. The corral rope was on the ground. Paladin was still there, cross-hobbled. Gideon’s horses too. Every man had his own way of not ending up afoot.
The beaver men ran around the horses, looking for horse thieves to shoot.
Sam reloaded. I’m going to kill someone before I die.
“The Indian camp! The Indian camp!” Clyman shouted.
Sam and Beckwourth sprinted out of the cottonwoods upstream toward the Snake camp.
Arrows flew around them like flocks of birds.
Sam dashed back into the trees. He gasped for breath. “All right!” He shouted to Beckwourth. “I’m all right.”
He knew he wasn’t, he had a mortal wound, but he hadn’t been gored by the burst of arrows. “I dance past death!” he roared. It was unbelievable, like running through raindrops and not getting wet.
He realized Beckwourth was standing beside him.
They looked around the trees.
A red ridge blocked their view of the Indian camp upstream.
“Let’s charge the bastards!” said Beckwourth.
“Yeah!” said Sam.
“No!” said Blue Medicine Horse in English, coming up.
“Let’s get high and shoot down on them,” said Flat Dog.
“We’ll get up that ridge,” Clyman said.
Every man stopped and looked at the leader, then nodded.
“Sam, you’re hurt. Let me see.”
Sam raised his right arm. A finger poked at his ribs painfully. Something bit the back of his arm.
“You’re lucky. Arrow gouged your ribs, bounced off into your arm. You’ll be all right.”
Sam was hugely relieved, and maybe half-disappointed.
“Beckwourth, Blue Horse, Flat Dog, go with Sam,” said Clyman. “I’ll help Gideon watch the horses. And take care of Third Wing.”
“Third Wing’s near dead,” said Beckwourth.
“Bad hurt,” corrected Clyman. He fixed Sam with ice-gray eyes. “You can help him later. Remember, Sam, you’re in charge.”
Me?!
“Let’s go kill Snakes,” said Medicine Horse.
THE FUR MEN ran fast to the top of the little ridge. They crept up and looked over without showing themselves too much. “Down!” Sam ordered Coy. The pup circled and curled up.
From there the Snakes’ dilemma was obvious. Their camp was on the south side of the creek. Across from it, in a finger between two low ridges, some boys held the Indian party’s mounts ready. No doubt, as soon as the trappers’ animals were loose, the Snakes had intended to stampede them off. Which had turned sour on them.
Now the Snakes were mostly pinned down in the cottonwoods where they’d camped or in the brush along the creek. If they tried to ride off, they’d have to bring the horses out from that finger of land between the two ridges. Then the trappers would have clear shots, and this ridge made a nice shooting angle.
The mountain men looked at each other, faces set hard. Third Wing’s blood cried out for vengeance.
“How many do you see?” asked Sam.
Everyone saw two or three boys, probably, holding the Shoshone horses far to the back. Out of range.
Blue Medicine Horse said he saw two men hidden behind the trunks of cottonwoods. Within a couple of minutes the other trappers saw a hand or a bow or a flap of clothing stick out. Two men in the trees.
The brush stirred here and there. Nothing visible to shoot at.
Sam got a chill. He looked around. No, this was the highest point for about a quarter mile. No one could shoot down at him.
“We could work around and take the boys and steal the horses,” said Beckwourth.
Everyone said “Yeah” before they thought. Getting even, that sounded good.
“We don’t know where all the men are,” said Sam. “Half of them could be laying a trap to get us if we go for the horses.”
And what if they come up behind us, or from the side? Maybe every man had the same thought at the same time. All four of them looked around warily.
Sam said, “Blue Horse, back down off this edge a little. Keep a lookout,” said Sam. “All the time. Make sure no one comes up on our backs.”
Blue Horse nodded and went.
“We’ll take turns at that.”
Coy mewled, like he was agreeing.
Sam turned back to the Indian camp. He, Flat Dog, and Beckwourth laid flat on their bellies, peered over the lip of the hill, and looked sharp. “A bunch of them is down in that brush somewhere,” said Beckwourth.
Flat Dog said in a heavy accent, “Or somewhere else.”
Rocks exploded in front of Sam’s face.
“Boom!” spoke a rifle.
A big puff of black smoke fizzed up from the brush.
Sam rolled several feet down the hill, brushing at his face.
Beckwourth fired beneath the smoke. Just then they saw a figure with a rifle scurry into another bunch of willows.
“Waste of DuPont and Galena,” said Beckwourth. Trapper talk for powder and lead.
Looking across at Sam, Flat Dog said, “You got some little flecks of red war paint.”
Sam brushed at the bleeding scratches. Coy licked at them.
“We better stay here and not go looking for trouble,” said Sam. “And we have to make damn sure of our targets,” said Sam. His blood was singing revenge in his ears.
No one had DuPont and Galena to waste. Blue Horse and Flat Dog carried maybe a dozen arrows each. Sam had the bow and arrows he wasn’t so good with.
Sam grabbed pieces of sandstone in each hand and shoved them up in front of Beckwourth and Flat Dog. “Build something for us to hide behind.”
In ten minutes it was done, a low wall with gaps between the rocks to look through, and to stick the muzzle of a rifle through. Sam, Beckwourth, and Flat Dog stretched out behind and watched. Coy curl
ed up at Sam’s feet.
They settled in.
“What I think,” said Jim, “is that it’s going to be one hell of a long day.”
NOT ONLY LONG, it turned out, but hot and thirsty. They were exposed on an outcropping, in full sun without a hint of shade, a swig of water, or a breath of wind. The Rocky Mountains proved once again they would freeze you all night and broil you all day. Coy whimpered. The pup didn’t like it when they stayed far from water.
Sometimes the trappers saw movement in the brush. Occasionally Beckwourth shot at the movement, and once he thought, from an outcry, that he killed a Snake.
About midday Flat Dog, standing watch, said “Here comes Gideon.”
The big French-Canadian ran a zigzag pattern from cover to cover, carrying a small, flat keg. Then he looked around, shrugged, and walked up the open hillside. “Sorry,” he said when he reached them, “Clyman and me, we not think until now, you no got water.”
Every man drank his fill, and Sam cupped hands for Coy to drink.
“You go down now,” Gideon said to Sam. “I take over here. You go see Third Wing.”
IS HE DEAD? He wasn’t moving. His skull was broken open, probably by a stone axe or a tomahawk. Streams of blood made cracks down his face, like a stone broken by a sledge hammer. Blood tangled his black hair, and red stained the big hanks of Sam’s white hair tied into it.
Brought low.
Coy uttered a whine and laid down between Third Wing’s feet.
Sam sat next to his friend, wet a forefinger, and held it in front of Third Wing’s nostrils. Air cooled the finger.
“He won’t last,” said Clyman.
“Hugh Glass lasted,” said Sam.
Sam stepped over to the creek. Coy followed and lapped. Sam drew air in big and let it out big. He felt as though, in all that vast Western sky, his lungs couldn’t catch breath. When he was calm, he fished in his shot pouch and brought out a rag, a piece of cloth he used for tearing patches for his rifle. He wet the rag in the cold running water, walked back, and sat down by his friend. He squeezed drops of water from the rag into Third Wing’s open mouth.
The parched lips made no movement. The dry tongue gave no sign. Sam saw the eyelids flutter, though, and that gave him hope. He put his hand to the medicine pouch around his neck.
Clyman moved around, rifle in the crook of his left arm. He was padding from tree to tree in the cottonwood grove. From every station he studied the plain for sign of enemies. Luckily, the campsite offered no good cover for sneaking up.
Sam put his mind deliberately on Hugh Glass. Everyone knew Glass was dying. Major Henry left two men to bury him while the brigade rode on. They abandoned Glass. The old fellow came to and started crawling back to the fort where they started, a couple of hundred miles away. He made it.
Third Wing was going to make it.
COY HEARD CLYMAN’S footsteps before Sam did. Sam refused to look up. “Don’t kid yourself,” said Jim, “Third Wing’s luck has run out.”
Sam said nothing. He reached down and took Third Wing’s hand. Maybe his friend would take comfort from that. Coy licked the joined hands.
“Why don’t you take a snooze?” said Clyman. “You look tired. It’s going to be a long night, and I’ll need you for two watches.” He padded away on his rounds.
Sam certainly wasn’t going to nap while his friend struggled for life. He took his patch cloth, wet it from a keg, and dribbled water into Third Wing’s open mouth. No response except for ragged breathing.
He leaned back against a cottonwood and took Third Wing’s hand again. It was a fine afternoon. The sun felt good on his face, the little breeze felt good, and he liked the small rustling of the cottonwood leaves. A good day. Death danced “Skip to My Lou” around the edges.
HE WOKE WITH a start. How long had he slept? Why is my hand cold?
Oh. He shook his hand free.
It was Third Wing’s hand that was cold.
Coy crooned out a moan.
Sam just sat. Death had wiped his mind clean.
When he heard footsteps, Sam said softly, “James.”
Clyman came up, looked from Sam to Third Wing and back. “You want to do the burying?”
“That would be hard.”
“Me and Beckwourth will do it. Go relieve him.”
NOTHING WAS A whit different on the ridge. Not a shot had been fired since Sam left. “Them Snakes moved around a little,” said Jim, “but too quick. They’re waiting for dark.”
“And then what?”
Beckwourth shrugged.
Gideon was asleep on his back, wheezing like a bellows.
Blue Horse and Flat Dog lay behind the low rock wall, eyes on the Snake camp.
“Go down to Clyman,” Sam told Jim. “Tell him I’ll take care of Third Wing.”
Beckwourth rose, whacked the red dust off his leggings, and headed down the hill.
“Down, Coy,” said Sam. Last thing he wanted was the pup to skyline himself and get shot. He looked at the sun. Midafternoon, maybe five hours until dark. Too damn long.
Sam took Beckwourth’s place as lookout.
A couple of hours later he thought time was moving the way dust particles blew off this hill. Tiny bits moved, and they didn’t go far. The sun would go down about the time the hill changed shape one half of a smidgeon.
He saw a willow wiggle. Clumsy bastard you are, he thought, to bump a tree that hard. You deserve to die.
He stuck The Celt’s muzzle through a slot in the rock wall and drew sight on the willow. Then he thought how dumb this was. His chance of hitting anyone was small, his chance of killing almost nothing. He might end up wishing he had this lead ball later, and the powder to shoot it. He might end up out of ammunition, just like he did last summer.
To hell with it, he’d lost a friend and he was angry. He held his sights low down on the bush and pulled the trigger. Boom!
The branches and leaves wiggled. My Indian name should be Slayer of Green Leaves, he mocked himself.
Beckwourth came back up the hill and sent the two Crows down. “You need a break,” he said, “sit in the shade.”
“We don’t need a break,” said Blue Horse. He and Flat Dog were still watching the Snake camp with infinite patience.
“Get gone,” said Beckwourth.
They did.
Sam took their place behind the rock wall. “What’s going to happen tonight?”
Jim shrugged. “They’ll attack us or they’ll clear out.”
Both men thought on this.
“I’m sorry about Third Wing.”
“He saved my life,” said Sam. “I liked him. I’ll miss him.”
A raven swooped close overhead. “Cra-a-w-wk.” Maybe the raven thought this was too many people in his backyard.
“Know what else?” said Beckwourth.
Sam looked at him curiously.
“You ever think, ninety of you went up the Missouri last spring, fifteen got killed by the Arickarees? Seven of us come up here trapping, one got killed so far.” Jim paused. “You ever think…?”
Silence.
At length Sam said, “The next one is gonna be me?”
“No, me,” said Beckwourth.
They looked at each other, wordless.
ALL NIGHT FOUR trappers slept and two stood guard. Clyman gave Sam the first and last watches. The night was perfectly quiet, eerily quiet.
At first light Blue Horse and Flat Dog were already on the ridge overlooking the Snake camp. They’d gone up in the darkness to avoid being spotted.
After a look they stood up in plain sight and walked down.
“They’re gone,” said Blue Horse. Which everyone had figured.
A search of the camp, the brush, and the horse pen showed they’d left nothing, certainly not a dead man to even up for Third Wing. Sam did get to learn the print of a Snake moccasin and set it down firmly in his mind.
They sipped coffee and ate jerked meat.
“What you boys thi
nking?” asked Clyman.
“Time to move,” said Beckwourth. “Six is not enough in Indian country.” Jim didn’t look guiltily at the Crows when he said this, but Sam did.
“Right,” said Clyman. “Let’s go find Fitzpatrick and trap with him.”
Sam said only, “Third Wing.”
“I want to say some words for him,” said Clyman.
Sam felt the pang again. When he learned to read, he would have words for important occasions.
Blue Horse and Flat Dog didn’t want Third Wing planted in the ground. The others agreed. No one had to add—“He’s not a white man.” There were no trees in sight, except here along the stream.
“I think,” said Sam, “Blue Horse and Flat Dog should have his horses.”
“One horse, each of the three of you,” Clyman said. “The rest of us, we’ll divide his weapons.”
Silence was assent.
So Third Wing’s grave turned out to be a cottonwood tree indistinguishable from any other, in a cottonwood grove barely distinguishable from any other.
They hoisted him up, the two Crows below and Sam on the lowest branch. It was an embarrassingly awkward and intimate piece of work. Sam could hardly believe how, well…It didn’t seem decent that something so bodily could be the remains of his friend. Didn’t seem decent that what animated Third Wing could be so completely gone, gone, gone.
He got Third Wing propped across two branches. Poor, but the best he could do. He looked long at the face. Then he reached out, grasped the hanks of his own white hair one by one in Third Wing’s, untied them, and put them into Third Wing’s hands.
Blue Horse handed up the robes, and Sam tied them around Third Wing, head to toe. They would keep the birds off, for a while.
“Words,” he said to Clyman.
“In the midst of life we are in death. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust; in sure and certain hope of the Resurrection unto eternal life.”
“I have some words,” Gideon put in. The bear man hesitated. “This is a prayer of my father’s people, the Hebrews. We call it the Kaddish, and it is a prayer for those who mourn the dead. It exalts the name of God and asks that His kingdom be established on earth in our lifetimes.”
Gideon began to recite. The words themselves meant nothing to Sam, but he found himself swept up in their rhythms. Meaning surrendered to incantation, thought to feeling. For those long moments Sam swam in sounds of memory, longing, grief, love. For those moments death seemed less hideous.
