She turned at once to confront Luke. “Is safe for you to go to ron . . . ?” She wasn’t sure of the word, so she hesitated.
“Rendezvous,” he said for her. “Ron-day-voo,” he pronounced slowly for her benefit. “It’s just what they call the place where all the trappers go to sell their plews and buy supplies for the next year. Bloodworth ain’t nobody to worry about. When we get there, we’ll buy you some of the foofaraw that women like, beads and cloth and vermilion and stuff.” He looked at Jug and received a big smile as the little man slowly shook his head. Luke knew what he was thinking, so he frowned and shook his head in answer. He didn’t know how Jug could think anything else. They couldn’t just ride away and leave Willow to shift for herself. He didn’t think Jug was any more capable of that than he was. His partner just wanted to jape him a little bit. Besides, Willow was a handy little woman to have around. “Well, enough of this chin rattle, I need to go see what’s goin’ on in that Blackfoot camp.” He rose to his feet and handed Willow his empty bowl.
“You be careful,” she said to him as he buckled his belt on again.
“Yeah, you be careful,” Jug said, still wearing a grin.
* * *
Young Walking Bird stood inside one of the shelters he and the other warriors had constructed of limbs from the fir trees at the base of the hill. He was watching Dull Axe, who was lying on a buffalo skin he used for his bed. He didn’t know what else he could do for him. He had managed to pull the arrow out of his side, but not all of it came out. The shaft had evidently broken just behind the arrowhead, and the wound would not stop bleeding. Several years older than Walking Bird, Dull Axe had tried to help him remove the arrow, obviously in great pain. And now, he seemed to be somewhere between consciousness and fretful sleep, mumbling words that Walking Bird could not understand. He frantically hoped that Bloody Hand and the others would return to the camp soon. Crazy Wolf would know what to do for Dull Axe. Walking Bird just wished they would hurry. He was afraid Dull Axe was going to bleed to death if it wasn’t stopped.
He heard his pony whinny, and he immediately became excited when he heard an answering acknowledgement from a horse approaching the camp. They were back! He hurried out of the shelter to meet them only to find Bloody Hand’s gray gelding wandering back to the camp alone. Stunned, Walking Bird almost stumbled in his confusion. He ran to the stone wall extending from the base of the hill to look for Crazy Wolf and Two Toes, but there was no one following the gray horse. They were dead! The realization of that struck him like a solid blow to his chest. They had killed Bloody Hand! He could not conceive of anyone killing Bloody Hand. The cold hard truth struck him then that he, alone, had survived this place of evil—he and the wounded Dull Axe. He didn’t know what to do. He needed the wisdom of Crazy Wolf, or any of the older warriors to tell him what he should do. In desperation, he ran back to the shelter to tell Dull Axe the tragic news.
“Dull Axe!” he cried. “Bloody Hand is dead and I fear the others with him are dead, too. Only his horse returned. What should we do? They may be coming back here again!” When Dull Axe didn’t respond at once, Walking Bird knelt beside him and took him by the shoulders. “There’s no one left but you and me and they may be coming!” Still there was no response as Dull Axe stared up at him with sightless eyes. Then his head fell over on his shoulder, lifeless. Shocked, Walking Bird released the dead man’s shoulders and backed away from him. He went outside the shelter and stood looking at the gray horse that had belonged to one he thought invincible. What should he do? He looked over at the other side of the camp at a shelter like the one Dull Axe was lying in. That shelter held the bodies of the victims of the sniper above the camp earlier that morning. They were to be taken for burial after they killed the sniper and raided the trapper camp. Now he was left to decide what he should do. His first thought was to take everything he could manage and head north to alert the village of this terrible tragedy that struck Bloody Hand’s war party. But would they think him a coward? Then his conscience told him that he must take care of the dead warriors, but he wasn’t sure he could take the time to bury them properly. Then he decided what the next best thing to honor their deaths would be.
He went back to the shelter where Dull Axe lay. With a great deal of effort, he pulled the body out of the shelter and dragged it across to the one that held the other bodies. He dragged Dull Axe inside, then tried to arrange his body in a dignified manner beside them. When he did the best he could to make it appear respectful, he gathered up all the wood he could find and stacked it inside the shelter with the bodies. From his war bag, he took some dry tinder and put it and some small branches under the firewood he had stacked in the shelter and set it on fire. He watched it carefully until it caught the larger limbs on fire, satisfied it would grow into the funeral pyre he planned.
As the fire gained strength, Walking Bird became more convinced that it was the right way to honor their bravery. The growing fire was symbolic of the Blackfoot warrior’s fighting spirit. He stood there a long time, watching the flames fill the inside of the crude hut. When the shelter, itself, burst into a ball of glorious flame, lighting up the whole camp circle, he knew at that moment he must stay and avenge their deaths. The horses stamped nervously. Walking Bird turned toward them to discover a lone figure standing there watching him. It was a man easily recognized as a white trapper and a hated trespasser in Blackfoot country. He was instantly alarmed, yet the trapper stood almost casually, holding his long rifle in one hand, making no move to attack him. “You come here to die, white man,” Walking Bird stated solemnly and started walking slowly toward him.
“I came here to kill you,” Luke answered truthfully, for a few short minutes before, he had brought the front sight of his rifle to bear on Walking Bird’s back. “But there has been enough killin’ in this little valley. You are young like me, why don’t we let this be the end of it? Take your horses and your things and go back to your village.”
Walking Bird hesitated, confused by the strange white man’s proposal for peace. The events of the last few days swirled through his brain. Bloody Hand had led them on a victorious raid that destroyed the Crow village, only to lead them into a murderous trap because of his obsession with the Crow woman. He and his brother warriors would be well on their way home now, had the woman not escaped. He thought of them as he stood, locked in a timeless moment, looking at the man still calmly watching him. He knew he could not accept his offer of a truce. Someone must pay for the deaths of the Blackfoot warriors who died here. He threw his head back and released a war cry, yanked his war axe from his belt, and charged across the clearing toward the hated white man.
His rifle already loaded and cocked, Luke brought it up to his shoulder and squeezed the trigger, but the rifle did not fire. With still a little time left, due to the width of the clearing, he quickly cocked it, shook some fresh gun powder on the flash pan, and tried again. This time, the flint ignited the powder and fired, catching Walking Bird in the chest when only twenty feet away. The force of the impact at that distance slammed the running man backward to land flat on his back. Luke shook his head, thinking it a useless waste of a young man’s life, but fully understanding why Walking Bird had chosen to attack.
He watched the fallen man for a few moments to see if there were any signs of life, but Walking Bird lay still as a stone only a few feet from him. Luke was in no hurry to reload his rifle because he had watched the young warrior from above him on the hill as he dragged Dull Axe’s body across the clearing and set it on fire. He had determined that Walking Bird was alone before he came down from the hill and stopped at the edge of the camp. It was during that time that he decided he would make an appeal to the young warrior to leave in peace. He was unable to explain why. It just seemed like a damn waste. He stepped over and took a closer look, and there was absolutely no sign of life, so then he paused to make another decision. “What the hell? Might as well put you on the same train your friends are takin’.” He put his
rifle down, so he could hoist the body up on his shoulder. Then he carried it over to the funeral pyre and heaved it over into the flames. He backed away quickly, feeling he was getting scorched by the flames. His next concern was the possibility of starting a forest fire and he figured he didn’t need that, now that there were no Indians to worry about. Luckily, the warriors had built their shelters close enough to the center of the clearing to get the benefit of a large fire in the center. Consequently, there were no overhanging limbs that might catch fire and spread to other trees. With a three-foot covering of snow on the ground, there was little danger of brush catching fire, as well. To be sure, however, he stayed there for a long while just to watch the fire. When it had been reduced to a blackened, smoldering heap, he deemed it safe to gather the horses and supplies and return to his camp where he was certain Jug and Willow anxiously awaited news of the Blackfoot war party.
* * *
“We was about give up on you again,” Jug greeted him when he returned to the camp at suppertime. “I reckon I shoulda guessed you wouldn’t miss supper.”
“Not if I can help it,” Luke replied. “How’s he doin’?” He asked Willow.
“He doing okay,” she answered. “Talk plenty good.”
“It ain’t too bad, long as I don’t move much,” Jug said. “And I ain’t got nothin’ for the pain, so I have to stay real still.”
“Jug empty?” Luke asked.
“As empty as a coyote’s head,” Jug answered. “I think Willow musta been sippin’ some of my medicine outta my jug.” He grinned at Luke and winked, waiting for her response.
As anticipated, she stated immediately. “I not sip fire water. Fire water bad for him.”
Jug laughed at her reaction. “What about them Blackfeet?” He turned back to Luke then. “Any chance we’ll be gettin’ a visit from them?”
“Not from those Blackfeet,” Luke replied. “There ain’t any of ’em left.”
“I knew it right off,” Jug declared. “I heard the shot. I knew it was your rifle, and I told Willow that you got the last one of ’em. Ain’t that right, Willow?”
“I hear shot,” she said. “I no hear you say nothing else.”
“I said it, she just didn’t hear it,” Jug insisted. “Anyway, what happened? You was gone a long time. Was there just the two of ’em left, like we figured?”
“By the time I got there, there was just one of ’em left, and he was in the process of burnin’ up the bodies of the dead ones. If the wind changes, you oughta be able to smell ’em.”
“One left,” Jug asked, “was that the shot we heard?” Luke nodded in reply. “What happened to him?” Jug asked.
“He went with his friends,” Luke answered. “I figured it wasn’t much different than stickin’ him in a hole in the ground or leavin’ him for the buzzards to pick apart. So I threw his behind in the fire, too.” When Jug gave him a look of surprise, he said, “Hell, that’s what he did with his friends’ bodies, so I figured he’d want the same.” Then, feeling as if he had committed some gruesome sin, he confessed. “I gave him the chance to get the horses and clear out of here, but he didn’t take it, so he didn’t leave me no choice. When he came after me, I shot him.”
Jug recoiled in surprise with Luke’s confession of mercy. “Well, I’m glad as hell that Injun didn’t have any more sense than you had. ’Cause, if he had, you’d most likely be dead right now, and me and Willow would still have an Injun lookin’ to find us.” He grinned then. “But it all turned out all right for the righteous, so we’ll thank the Good Lord for that.” Pausing then, he asked, “I don’t suppose those horses followed you home, did they?” He sighed then and hung his head when Luke nodded. Forgetting his wound for a moment, he started to roll over to a sitting position, but had to stop when a stab of pain reminded him. He settled himself again, then continued with the thought that had caused him to move. “Do you know, the three of us wiped out a Blackfoot war party of thirteen warriors? And one of us is a woman.” He nodded toward Willow as if to identify her as the woman. That’s the kind of story you tell when you get back to rendezvous. And you know what? I don’t know if I’ll even tell it ’cause ain’t nobody gonna believe it. Hell, I ain’t sure I believe it myself.”
“It wouldn’t make much difference,” Luke said. “If you did tell it, somebody would top it with one of their own tales.”
* * *
The next day, while Luke was taking a look around the lower part of the mountain range to make sure they were in fact alone, he happened upon a deep ravine with many tall trees growing along its sides. When he decided to take a deeper look in the ravine, he discovered it to be an Indian burial ground. There were two bodies, wrapped in skins and strapped to platforms. Curious, for the skins they were bound in did not appear weathered and worn, so he cut the binding on one corner just enough to get a look at the body inside. It didn’t take but a peek to tell him the body had not been there for a long time. He knew for certain that there were no recent Indians in this part of the mountains but the Blackfoot war party. These two had to be part of that party, and he was willing to bet they were the first two that were killed when they tried to follow Willow.
He tied the lace he had cut to look inside and backed away from the trees. While he gazed at the two trees holding the bodies, he thought they looked like they formed an arch. “Perfect,” he uttered then and decided to dig a hole into the side of the ravine between the two trees. “Perfect place to cache our furs,” he announced, “guarded by two warriors.”
* * *
For the first time since Willow appeared under the waterfall, all three of them felt relief from the constant danger of discovery by a hostile party of Blackfoot Indians. As always, however, there was the need to be alert for any sign of anyone else near their camp. They figured it unlikely, but Luke took it as his responsibility to keep an eye on the neighboring mountains for winter hunters. There were other things that needed his attention, like enlarging the evergreen barn. He planned to work the horses some when he cut down more of the cottonwoods at the bottom of the hill and hauled them up to the camp. He would chop up the branches and leaves for horse feed, and he planned to use the peeled trunks to erect some low walls around the tipi to serve as ramparts in case of attack. He would search for more horse food in the many little hidden valleys throughout the mountain range where there was protection from the winds and there were branches and leaves to eat.
For the immediate time being, it was Luke’s responsibility alone to take care of their needs, for Jug was slow in healing from the two holes Bloody Hand had drilled through his side. Luke jokingly accused him of purposely irritating the wounds when no one was looking, just to keep them from healing. He resigned himself to the baking of biscuits and entertaining Willow with tales of his many exploits when he was a younger man. “I was a lot taller then,” he claimed. “But a man loses some height when he gets a little older, if he’s worked hard all his life.”
Chapter 17
It got colder. The water that flowed out of the mountain to form the stream above the waterfall froze solid before it reached the falls, resulting in a wide shelf of ice above the pond. The falls, itself, was now an ice sculpture and the stream below it turned to solid ice as well. The challenge was simply to keep themselves and their animals alive, and that was a task that Luke gave a hundred percent of himself to accomplish. As a consequence, he spent a good portion of each day outside. Luke was well aware of Jug’s feelings of guilt for not helping, so he tried to maintain an attitude of cheerfulness as he went about the chores of cutting firewood to keep Jug and Willow warm, and working the horses to keep their blood flowing. One evening, the elk herd returned to the cottonwoods at the base of the hill, so he took advantage of the opportunity to stock up on their meat supply. He knew the elk would be bedding down in the trees that grew on both sides of the creek. So he positioned himself with his bow and two rifles near the edge of the trees, knowing they would be coming out across the open meado
w in the morning, after they fed on the cottonwoods. As the herd came out of the trees, he was able to kill two with his bow before having to use his rifles. He got two more with one shot from each rifle before the sudden gunfire panicked the herd to run.
Willow was a willing helper in the skinning and butchering of the meat and was anxious to demonstrate her expertise in preparing the hides. They smoked-cured about half of the meat. The rest was eaten fresh-killed, with most of that cut in pieces to be kept frozen outside the tipi. With the tipi becoming cramped somewhat for space with the addition of elk hides, as well as a couple of deer hides Luke had gotten earlier, they deemed it time to rid the tipi of some of the beaver plews. Up to that point, the pelts were spread around the edges of the tipi to act as insulation and to hold the edges down. Luke had readied his secret cache, so he and Jug showed Willow how to press the individual pelts into a pack. They pressed sixty pelts in a pack which weighed between ninety and one hundred pounds. Bound tightly with elk hides to keep them dry, they would be loaded two to a horse to carry them to rendezvous next summer.
Their camp was snug and warm with plenty of wood for the fire and no shortage of meat. Jug told Willow there was nothing to worry about because, if the game became scarce, there were horses to eat. But Luke was quick to comment that the way the horses were losing weight, there might not be anything left of them to eat. “Even if they get that poorly, Willow can still make soup out of ’em,” Jug said. She had already demonstrated the delicacies she could make from the marrow in the elk bones.
They joked about the condition of the horses, but that was close to being Luke’s biggest concern. It was a challenge to keep them from freezing to death. Under normal circumstances, he and Jug would have a total of six horses to take care of—one each for the two of them to ride, plus two packhorses each. They had already picked up extra horses and they now found themselves with a herd of horses, thanks to those acquired from Bloody Hand’s camp. When the ice melted, and the beaver were in the water again, the three of them would be on the move, trapping the streams, moving their camp every two or three days. It would be too much to have to be concerned with tending a herd of horses at the same time. He shrugged and decided there was little to gain by worrying about it. We’ll just wait and see what happens when the time comes, he thought. “Well, I reckon I’ll load that pack of plews up and take ’em to our cache,” he announced as he pulled his heavy buffalo hide coat on, grabbed a corner of the heavy pack and dragged it out the door of the tipi. He walked up to the corral and decided which horse needed the exercise the most, took a rope from his shoulder and fashioned an Indian bridle in one end, then led the horse down to the tipi to load the pack of furs. Jug came out to watch him load the furs onto the horse. “Don’t stand too close,” Luke warned him. “I’m afraid some of this work might get on you. It could hurt a man who ain’t used to it.”
To the River's End Page 19
