To the River's End

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  He spent almost half of that day tracing one stream after another, searching to find fresh tracks in the snow, but finding none. Gradually, he was moving farther north beside the mountains when he passed the mouth of a small canyon and decided to ride up it a little way to see if it led to something deeper into the mountains. It turned out to be a blind canyon, however, and he was about to turn around when something caught his eye. At the end of the canyon, a steep cliff rose straight up. There was a large boulder sitting at the base of the cliff, and he realized that it hid a dark spot that looked like a hole. He rode closer to discover it to be a small cave, and not a natural one. It had been dug by someone and they had cut logs to shore up the opening. He cautioned himself to be careful, although there was no sign of life about, animal or man. He checked the load in his Northwest Trade Gun and held it ready to fire as he approached the cave. When he rode right up to the front of the cave with no challenge, he knew it was deserted. Still with his rifle cocked, he slid off his horse and went in the cave. It was a good cave, he decided, but there was no evidence that it had been used very much. The logs used to shore up the opening were still green. He felt that it had been a white trapper who had built it. Evidently, he had trapped out the streams and ponds in this section and decided to move on. That would not surprise him, for he could not trap when the streams and ponds were frozen over. Still, judging by the cave he was now standing in, it would appear that he had been planning to spend the whole winter there. What changed his mind? Did Iron Pony and the two with him have something to do with it? But there was no sign of any fight that might have happened at the cave.

  There were ashes from a campfire with some half-burned sticks just outside the entrance, an inconvenience necessary since there was no chimney in the cave. He gathered some dry leaves and grass and made a small fire, enough to create a flame on one of the half-burned limbs. Then hurrying before the flame died, he went back inside. And with the puny light of his torch, he was able to see footprints inside the cave. Looking as quickly as he could, he was able to determine two different sizes of moccasins before the flame died. So there were two trappers. Perhaps a man and his woman, judging by the smallness of some of the prints. Impatient now to find some answers to his questions, he threw the smoking limb against the wall of the cave and went back to his horses. Riding out of the blind canyon, he turned north to follow a wide trail that paralleled the one he had ridden down the night before. He wondered if Iron Pony had found the trapper’s cave and ridden back this way. He could have missed him, if he had. They would have passed each other, going in opposite directions, on trails no more than a hundred yards apart.

  He held his gray gelding to a fast walk as he continued around the base of the first small mountain. When he came to a wide stream that cascaded down the mountain, washing over a ledge partway up the slope, he paused to let his horses drink. Then he preceded along the trail for another couple hundred yards or so, seeing no ravines or game trails leading into the larger mountains. And then the trail took a sharp turn, veering away from the direction of the trail he had ridden the day before. He soon found himself approaching a narrow valley between two large mountains and traveling in a more westerly direction. He continued to follow the trail, even though he had no idea where it might lead. Thoughts of finding his brother and his two friends were becoming fraught with frustration. He had reached a point where he could only hope that Iron Pony had taken another way back and was even now on his way to join the others. Finally deciding he had no real possibility of finding his brother, or the trapper either, he turned the gray around and started to backtrack. It was then he saw the buzzards, circling halfway up the taller mountain.

  Had it been only a half dozen of the scavenger birds, he would have ignored them, but there was a swarm of them circling and swooping over something on the side of the mountain. Whatever it was, it was big enough to make him investigate, so he started the gray gelding up the side of the mountain. As the slope became steeper, he slid off his horse and led it and his packhorse the rest of the way. Close enough now to hear the raucous screeching of the competition over the object of their frenzy, Standing Elk used his rifle as a club and began flailing at some of the birds, battling his way to the edge of a shallow crevice, so he could see whatever it was that had died.

  His heart seemed to stop completely when he saw what was left of the three bodies lying in the bottom of the crevice. He could identify his brother, Two Bears, and Hears the Wind, even though they were partially covered by half a dozen of the disgusting buzzards that the other vultures were trying to dislodge, so they could have a turn at the feast. Standing Elk roared out his anger and shot his gun into the crevice, killing one of the birds and causing the others to scatter briefly. He hurried to reload the smooth bore trade gun while yelling out in grief-stricken anger at the vultures. He fired it again, then fired the pistol he carried, killing two more of the birds. When the swarm was frightened away for a few seconds, he jumped down into the crevice. Knowing the buzzards would only back off for a few minutes, he reloaded his weapons, then threw the dead buzzards out of the crevice, yelling and cursing as he did. Knowing he had little time before their boldness would return, he looked at his brother. His body, already torn apart and half eaten, could not tell him the cause of Iron Pony’s death. But the unmistakable bullet hole in the back of Two Bears’ head and the fact that scalps weren’t taken told Standing Elk that his brother had been killed by the white trapper. How, he wondered, could the trapper have gotten so close to them that he could shoot Two Bears in the back of his head? And how could he have killed Iron Pony and Hears the Wind, as well? Sick at heart, he vowed to find this evil spirit, if he had to comb every inch of these mountains. His brother and his friends could not die this way without being avenged.

  He was distracted then when the flock of buzzards began to swoop closer to the crevice again. So he fired another shot into their midst, scattering them once more. Determined to stop their gruesome assault on the bodies, he did the only thing he could, and that was to bury the bodies. He climbed out of the crevice and from above it, he worked feverishly, shoving loose rocks and gravel down on top of the bodies. When he had moved all the loose gravel he could move with his hands, he started chopping the ground up with his hand axe, so he could shove dirt on top of the rocks. All this was done with the accompaniment of the raucous complaints of the buzzards, until he succeeded in covering the bodies completely. Still, he gathered rocks, anything he could lift, and continued to drop them into the crevice until he was convinced that no bird or animal could get to the remains again. When he was done, mentally and physically exhausted, he knelt on both knees, looked up at the gray skies over the mountains, and sang his death song to honor his brother. Then he made a solemn vow to seek out the devil who had done this, to search every mountain and valley, everywhere beaver could be trapped, until he found this trapper and his woman. When he found them, he would open their bellies with his knife and pull their innards out for bait. Then he would hang them in a tree while they were still alive and watch the buzzards feast upon them. Only then, could he feel some measure of vengeance. He remained there on his knees for a long time, with the vultures still screeching in the trees, until his horses began to shuffle their hooves nervously. Aware of their restlessness then, he got up and started to take them back down the mountain. He paused again, however, for there were no thoughts of hurrying back to try to catch up to the hunting party. There was only one thought driving him now, no matter how long it might take. Without a clue where to start, he decided he would search out the mountain he was on, since this was where he found the bodies. Since he was closer to the top than he was the bottom, he decided to go on up to the top of the mountain. And he chose to do it by going around and around the mountain, climbing higher with each circle until he reached the top. As he did so, he looked for any sign of a cave or cabin, making sure he didn’t miss any possibility. When he reached the top, he only felt frustration for the little area
he had covered. He would go back down, however, and repeat his circles until he reached the bottom. He soon realized that to find this trapper devil, he must search the creeks and streams and ponds, looking for the stakes driven into the banks that held the scented lure over his traps. If he found them, it would only be a matter of lying in wait for the trapper to come to check them.

  * * *

  “What the hell was that?” Jug blurted when he heard the pop of a distant shot. He paused in the scraping of a beaver pelt to look at Luke, who was also sitting up in attention.

  In a few minutes, they heard a second and a third shot. Luke got to his feet and listened. “Sounded to me like it came from beyond that mountain beside this one, maybe on that mountain where I dumped those three Blackfoot. From the sound of it, I’d say it’s one of those Northwest Trade Guns.”

  “Somebody’s shootin’ at somethin’,” Jug insisted, immediately concerned because they had figured they were now alone in these lower mountains, since the elimination of the three Blackfeet. Shortly after his comment, they heard another shot. “Damn,” he uttered softly, now that there was clear sign that there was somebody else to worry about.

  With nothing they could do about it at the moment, they just continued to listen. After a period of about a quarter of an hour, Luke stated, “Four shots, I reckon somebody ran up on somebody they didn’t get along with.” Like Jug, Luke had assumed they were alone in that part of the mountains, and as late in the season as it now was, they would likely continue to be alone until the spring thaw. But it was obvious that, instead of only worrying about keeping warm and keeping their horses alive, they also had the concern of another possible danger. And this one had a gun.

  “I expect we’re gonna have to keep a sharp eye and be real careful we don’t lead nobody back to our camp,” Jug said. His thoughts went at once to the same place Luke’s were. “When we built that tipi, we was thinkin’ mostly about keepin’ warm, and not so much protection from a rifle ball.”

  “Yeah, I was just thinkin’ about that,” Luke said. “We might better build us something to shoot behind. But one thing for sure, we’ve got to find out who’s doin’ that shootin’, before he finds us.”

  “You know, that could be somebody lookin’ for them three Blackfoot,” Jug suggested.

  “I reckon,” Luke replied, “but what were they shootin’ at?”

  “I’d like to know the answer to that, myself,” Jug declared. “I know you’re thinkin’ about goin’ over that way to see if you can spot whoever’s doin’ the shootin’. But maybe this time it’d be a good idea to make sure our camp don’t get no visitors. We’ve got a lot to lose if somebody raids our camp now.”

  Luke paused to consider what Jug was saying. The little man was right. They had a lot to lose if their camp was attacked while he was out looking for the raiders. If they were a war party of Blackfoot or Crow, they could shoot the little winter tipi to pieces then take what they wanted. And that would be horses, saddles, weapons, ammunition, supplies, and a pack and a half of beaver pelts worth about four hundred and fifty dollars. “You’re right,” he said to Jug. “We need to get back to work on our camp.” Already planning the improvements, he hustled Jug along, and they were soon riding back to their camp by the waterfall.

  They made it a habit to take extra precautions when going and coming from their camp, and this time, they were even more careful when they took the game trail into the hidden grassy valley. To make sure they left no tracks to follow, they went into the water when they reached the creek that bisected the meadow until they reached the grove of trees that hid the falls. Only then did they leave the water and ride up to the camp.

  After they stretched the morning’s plews to dry, Jug started some coffee and cut some venison to cook over a fire outside the tipi, while Luke grabbed his shovel and hand axe and started his modification of their camp. He started by removing the floor covering of grass and setting it aside. Then he started digging up the floor of their dwelling and throwing the dirt out the doorway. When he had finished at the end of the day, he had succeeded in dropping the floor inside the tipi almost two feet, making a ledge of what was left of the original floor level. While he was working on the floor, Jug felled a large lodgepole pine and chopped it into six-foot lengths. He and Luke placed the logs in front of the tipi, using the dirt Luke had excavated as a base. When they had finished, they felt they at least had a rampart to take cover behind in the event they were attacked. They recognized the fact that the weak spot in their defense was the back of the tipi, but there was little they could do beyond cutting a flap that could be opened to shoot through. Both of them thought that, in the event of attack, it would likely come from the grove of trees at the bottom of the slope, and not from the waterfall behind the tipi. “I hope to hell we don’t get the chance to find out if we’re right or not,” Jug remarked.

  “Well, whaddaya think, partner?” Luke asked when they were standing in front of their tent-fort.

  “I think I’d best go a little easy on my jug for a while, till I get used to it,” Jug replied. “I might break my neck comin’ in or out in the dark.” He thought about it for a few moments before saying more. “Thing of it is, we don’t know nothin’ about that shootin’ we heard. Might be Blackfoot lookin’ for them three you shot. And it might be somebody just passin’ through these mountains, maybe hunters, and that shootin’ we heard was ’cause they run up on a herd of deer.”

  “If it was deer they were shootin’,” Luke said, “it’d be easy enough to find out. It sounded to me like it mighta come from that mountain I dumped those Blackfoot on. I could ride up there and see if they had killed deer there.”

  “I reckon you could,” Jug replied. “It’s a good piece away from here. Reckon you could make it there and back before dark?”

  “Yeah, I expect I could, since I’ll just be takin’ a quick look and come right back before we go check our traps.” They looked at each other and shrugged. “Let me throw my saddle back on Smoke and I’ll go see if they were even on that mountain.” He didn’t waste any more time discussing it and was soon on his way back down the creek. They both thought it was important to know the business of anybody anywhere close to their winter camp. Hopefully, it was a hunting party that was just passing close by and would soon be gone from this part of the mountains.

  Chapter 7

  Luke retraced the route he had taken when he led the Indian horses away from the valley, each one carrying a dead Blackfoot warrior. On that day, he had been intent upon disposing of the bodies far away from the little valley where their camp was to be located. With no horses to lead this trip, he kept Smoke to a lively pace as he followed an old game trail toward the mountain in question. When he reached the base of it, he slowed his horse down and scanned the trail before him, having no desire to suddenly surprise an Indian hunting party. He had counted on being able to see tracks in the light covering of snow, if there were new ones. But he was surprised to find there was no snow on this side of the large mountain he had just passed. He took a ride around the mountain as a precaution, but he saw no evidence of anyone having approached it from any direction other than the way he had climbed it before. There were tracks on the narrow path, but he could not extract any information from them. For he had led three horses up that path, himself, then led them back down. Maybe the gunshots he and Jug had heard had not come from this mountain after all. But he was still uncertain about whether or not there had been horses on that trail, other than those he led up there. So he decided to go up the slope just to make sure. And while he was up there, he would look to see if the buzzards had found the bodies he had left there.

  As he went up the mountain, he saw no signs that would indicate a party of hunters had been there. When he approached the ledge over the crevice where he had dropped the bodies, he was surprised to find buzzard feathers scattered here and there, as if the big birds might have had a free-for-all over the fresh meat dropped in the crevice. He dismounted a
nd walked down closer to the lip of the crevice, thinking it looked somehow different. Then he spotted what looked like a dead buzzard lying several dozen yards distant. Maybe that was one of the shots we heard, he thought, but he didn’t go to it to see if it had actually been shot. Then he realized why the ground over the crevice looked different. He was startled to see that it had been filled in. He immediately backed away carefully, so as not to make any more tracks in the recently disturbed ground. There were many moccasin prints in addition to the ones just left by him, but they were all identical—left by one man. The story told itself. One of the members of the Blackfoot hunting party had come in search of his friends, only to find them dead in this crevice. To keep the vultures from eating them, he had to fight them off before he could bury his fellow tribesmen. And that was what the shooting was about, he thought.

  The question to be answered now was, what would this one Blackfoot warrior do, now that he knew what had happened to his friends? Would he hang around and try to find the killer? Or would he ride back to his village to tell his people what had happened to the three? That might not bode too well for him and Jug, for that might mean a sizable war party descending upon these mountains, searching for them. When he left the crevice, he scouted the area where he had left his horse before climbing back into the saddle. There were many tracks, just as there had been on the trail up the mountain, but he found tracks of two horses continuing up toward the top. It had to have been the Indian. He took an unusual route to the top of the mountain, going round and round it as if searching every inch of it. It was Luke’s guess that the Blackfoot had been making sure there was no camp on the mountain. “Eye for eye,” Luke declared. “He’s lookin’ to avenge the killin’.” It was going to be a question of who found who first. He turned Smoke back toward the camp.