The Mammoth Book of Westerns

by Jon E. Lewis

  “The Scots are savages at heart, Yancey. They know another savage when they see him. Our wounded friend back there has a heart blacker than a beaten Macdonald trapped in a marsh. I took several glances to learn it, but I saw it.”

  The Delawares rode by at the trot, scattering to go on ahead and on the flanks as scouts. Neither Stearns nor Yancey looked back to see what was happening to Little Belly. Ahead, the whispering blue of the mountains rose above the clear green of the ridges. There were parks and rushing rivers yet to cross, a world to ride forever. Behind, the mules with heavy packs, the engagées cursing duty, the wool-clad trappers riding with rifles aslant gave reason for Jarv Yancey’s presence. As Stearns looked through the suntangled air to long reaches of freshness, a joyous, challenging expression was his reason for being here.

  Just for a while Yancey thought back to a time when he, too, looked with new eyes on a new world every morning; but now the ownership of goods, and the employment of trappers and flunkies, gave caution to his looks ahead. And he had given refuge to a Blackfoot, which would be an insult to the friendly Crows, an error to be mended with gifts.

  Stearns spoke lazily. “When he said, ‘I am one,’ it touched you, didn’t it, Yancey? That’s why you didn’t let the Delawares have him.”

  Jarv Yancey grunted.

  The Blackfoot walked with hunger in his belly and a great weakness in his legs, but he walked. The horses of the trappers kicked dust upon him. The engagées cursed him, but he did not understand the words. He could not be humble, but he was patient.

  And now he changed his plan. The Broken Face was not as great as the other white man who rode ahead, although the other was a stranger in the mountains. The cruel calmness of the second white man’s eyes showed that he was protected by mighty medicine. Little Belly would steal greatness from him, instead of from Broken Face.

  There would be time; it was far to the edge of Blackfoot country.

  The one called Stearns took interest in Little Belly, learning from him some Blackfoot speech through talking slowly with the signs. Little Belly saw that it was the same interest Stearns took in plants that were strange to him, in birds, in the rocks of the land. It was good, for Little Belly was studying Stearns also.

  It was Stearns who saw that Little Belly got a mule to ride. Also, because of Stearns the Delawares quit stepping on Little Belly’s healing shoulder and stopped stripping the blanket from him when they walked by his sleeping place at night.

  There was much to pay the Delawares, and there was much to pay all the white men, too, but Little Belly buried insults deep and drew within himself, living only to discover the medicine that made Stearns strong.

  By long marches the trappers came closer to the mountains. One day the Crows who had ridden near Little Belly when he lay in the rocks came excitedly into the camp at nooning, waving scalps. The scalps were those of No Horns and Whirlwind. Little Belly showed a blank face when the Crows taunted him with the trophies. They rode around him, shouting insults, until they had worked up rage to kill him.

  The Broken Face spoke to them sharply, and their pride was wounded. They demanded why this ancient enemy of all their people rode with the friends of the Crows. They were howlers then, like old women, moaning of their hurts, telling of their love for Broken Face and all white trappers.

  Broken Face must make the nooning longer then, to sit in council with the Crows. He told how this Blackfoot with him had once let him go in peace. The Crows did not understand, even if they believed. He said that Little Belly would speak to his people about letting Broken Face come into their lands to trap. The Crows did not understand, and it was certain they did not believe.

  Then Broken Face gave presents. The Crows understood, demanding more presents.

  Dark was the look the white trapper chief gave Little Belly when the Crows at last rode away. But Stearns laughed and struck Broken Face upon the shoulder. Later, the Blackfoot heard the Delawares say that Stearns had said he would pay for the presents.

  That was nothing, Little Belly knew; Stearns gave the Delawares small gifts, also, when they brought him plants or flowers he had not seen before, or birds they killed silently with arrows. It might be that Stearns was keeping Little Belly alive to learn about his medicine. The thought startled him.

  Now the mountains were losing their blue haze. At night the air was like a keen blade. Soon the last of the buffalo land would lie behind. There was a tightening of spirit. There were more guards at night, for the land of the Blackfeet was not far ahead. With pride, Little Belly saw how the camp closed in upon itself by night because his people were not far away.

  And still he did not know about the medicine.

  Once he had thought it was hidden in a pouch from which Stearns took every day thin, glittering knives to cut the hair from his face, leaving only the heavy streak across his upper lip. On a broad piece of leather Stearns sharpened the knives, and he was very careful with them.

  But he did not care who saw them or who saw how he used them; so it was not the knives, Little Belly decided. All day Stearns’ gun was busy. He brought in more game than any of the hunters, and since he never made sky talk before a hunt, the Blackfoot became convinced that his powerful medicine was carried on his body.

  At last Little Belly settled on a shining piece of metal which Stearns carried always in his pocket. It was like a ball that had been flattened. There were lids upon it, thin and gleaming, with talking signs marked on them. They opened like the wings of a bird.

  On top of it was a small stem. Every night before he slept Stearns took the round metal from his pocket. With his fingers he twisted the small stem, looking solemn. His actions caused the flattened ball to talk with a slow grasshopper song. And then Stearns would look at the stars, and immediately push the lids down on the object and put it back into his pocket, where it was fastened by a tiny yellow rope of metal.

  This medicine was never farther from Stearns’ body than the shining rope that held it. He was very careful when the object lay in his hand. No man asked him what it was, but often when Stearns looked at his medicine, the trappers glanced at the sky.

  Little Belly was almost satisfied; but still, he must be sure.

  One of the engagées was a Frenchman who had worked for the English fathers west of Blackfoot country. Little Belly began to help him with the horses in the daytime. The Broken Face scowled at this, not caring for any kind of Indians near his horses. But the company was still in Crow country, and Little Belly hated Crows, and it was doubtful that the Blackfoot could steal the horses by himself, so Broken Face, watchful, wondering, allowed Little Belly to help the Frenchman.

  After a time Little Belly inquired carefully of the engagée about the metal ball that Stearns carried. The Frenchman named it, but the word was strange, so Little Belly soon forgot it. The engagée explained that the moon and stars and the sun and the day and night were all carried in the metal.

  There were small arrows in the medicine. They moved and the medicine was alive, singing a tiny song. The engagée said one glance was all Stearns needed to know when the moon would rise, when the sun would set, when the day would become night and the night would turn to day.

  These things Little Belly could tell without looking at a metal ball. Either the Frenchman was a liar or the object Stearns carried was worthless. Little Belly grew angry with himself, and desperate; perhaps Stearns’ medicine was not in the silvery object after all.

  All through the last of the buffalo lands bands of Crows came to the company, professing love for the Broken Face, asking why a Blackfoot traveled with him. The trapper chief gave them awls and bells and trinkets and small amounts of poor powder.

  He complained to Stearns, “ That stinking Blood has cost me twenty dollars in goods, St Louis!”

  Stearns laughed. “I’ll stand it.”

  “Why?”

  “He wants to kill me. I’d like to know why. I’ve never seen a man who wanted so badly to kill me. It pleases me to ha
ve an enemy like that.”

  Broken Face shook his head.

  “Great friends and great enemies, Yancey. They make life worth living; and the enemies make it more interesting by far.”

  The Mountain Man’s gray eyes swept the wild land ahead. “ I agree on that last.” After a while he said, “ Besides wanting to kill you, like he said, which he would like to do to any white man, what does he want? There was three of them back there where the Delawares found him. He didn’t have no cause to be left behind, not over one little arrow dabbed into him. He joined us, Stearns.”

  “I don’t know why, but I know what he wants now.” Stearns showed his teeth in a great streaking grin. “I love an enemy that can hate all the way, Yancey.”

  “If that makes you happy, you can have the whole damned Blackfoot nation to love, lock, stock and barrel.” After a time Yancey began to laugh at his own remark.

  Little Belly was close to Stearns the evening the grizzly bear disrupted the company, at a bad time, when camp was being made. There was a crashing on the hill where the engagées were gathering wood. One of them shouted. The other fired his rifle.

  The coughing of an enraged bear came loudly from the bushes. The engagées leaped down the hill, throwing away their rifles. Little Belly looked at Stearns. The big white man was holding his medicine. He had only time to snap the lids before grabbing his rifle from where it leaned against a pack. The medicine swung on its golden rope against his thigh as he cocked his rifle.

  Confusion ran ahead of the enormous silver bear that charged the camp. The mules wheeled away, kicking, dragging loosened packs. The horses screamed and ran. Men fell over the scattered gear, cursing and yelling as they scrambled for their guns. There were shots and some of them struck the bear without effect.

  Thundering low, terrible with power, the grizzly came. Now only Stearns and Little Belly stood in its path, and the Blackfoot was without weapons. Little Belly fought with terror but he stayed because Stearns stayed. The white man’s lips smiled but his eyes were like the ice upon the winter mountains.

  Wide on his feet he stood, with his rifle not all the way to his shoulder. Tall and strong he stood, as if to stop the great bear with his body. Little Belly covered his mouth.

  When Stearns fired, the bear was so close Little Belly could see the surging of its muscles on the shoulder hump and the stains of berries on its muzzle. It did not stop at the sound of Stearns’ rifle, but it was dead, for its legs fell under it, no longer driving. It slid almost to Stearns’s feet, bruising the grass, jarring rocks.

  For a moment there was silence. Stearns poured his laugh into the quiet, a huge deep laugh that was happy, wild and savage as the mountains. He looked at his medicine then, solemnly. He held it to his ear, and then he smiled and put it back into his pocket. He stooped to see how his bullet had torn into the bear’s brain through the eye.

  There was still confusion, for the mules and horses did not like the bear smell, but Stearns paid no attention. He looked at Little Belly standing there with nothing in his hands. Stearns did not say the Blackfoot was brave, but his eyes said so. Once more he laughed, and then he turned to speak to Broken Face, who had been at the far end of camp when the bear came.

  One of the engagées shot the bear in the neck. Broken Face knocked the man down for wasting powder and causing the animals more fright.

  Quickly Little Belly left to help with the horses, hiding all his thoughts. Truly, this medicine of Stearns’ was powerful. Little Belly could say that Stearns was brave, that he shot true, standing without fear, and laughing afterward. All this was true, but still there was the element of medicine which protected a brave warrior against all enemies.

  Without it, bravery was not enough. Without it, the most courageous warrior might die from a shot not even aimed at him. In the round thing Stearns carried was trapped all movement of the days and nights and a guiding of the owner in war and hunting.

  Now Little Belly was sure about the object, but as he pondered deep into the night, his sureness wore to caution. He could not remember whether Stearns listened to the talk of his medicine before the bear made sounds upon the hill or after the shouts and crashing began.

  So Little Belly did not push his plan hard yet. He watched Stearns, wondering, waiting for more evidence. Sometimes the white man saw the hard brown eyes upon him as he moved about the camp, and when he did he showed his huge grin.

  Three days from the vague boundary of ridges and rivers that marked the beginning of Blackfoot lands, the Delaware scouts reported buffalo ahead. At once the camp was excited. Broken Face looked at the hills around him, and would not let more than a few ride ahead to hunt.

  Stearns borrowed a Sioux bow and arrows from one of the Delawares. He signalled to Little Belly. Riding beside Stearns, the Blackfoot went out to hunt. With them were the Delawares, Broken Face, and a few of the trappers. When Broken Face first saw the weapons Little Belly carried he spoke sharply to Stearns, who laughed.

  Little Belly’s mule was not for hunting buffalo, so the Blackfoot did not go with the others to the head of the valley where the animals were. He went, instead, to the lower end, where he would have a chance to get among the buffalo when the other hunters drove them. The plan was good. When the buffalo came streaming down the valley, the startled mule was caught among them and had to run with them, or be crushed.

  In the excitement Little Belly forgot everything but that he was a hunter. He rode and shouted, driving his arrows through the lungs of fat cows. He could not guide his mount, for it was terror-stricken by the dust and noise and shock of huge brown bodies all around it. When there was a chance the mule ran straight up a hill and into the trees in spite of all that Little Belly could do to turn it.

  He saw Stearns still riding, on through the valley and to a plain beyond where the buffalo still ran. Little Belly had one arrow left. He tried to ride after Stearns, but the mule did not like the valley and was stubborn about going into it. By the time the Blackfoot got steady movement from his mount, Stearns was coming back to where Broken Face and some of the other hunters were riding around a wounded bull that charged them in short rushes.

  Down in the valley, Stearns said to Yancey, “That bull has a dozen bullets in him!”

  “He can take three dozen.” Yancey looked up the hill toward Little Belly. “ Your Blackfoot missed a good chance to light out.”

  Stearns was more interested in the wounded buffalo at the moment. The hunters were having sport with it, running their horses at it. Occasionally a man put another shot into it. With purple blood streaming from its mouth and nostrils, rolling its woolly head, the bull defied them to kill it. Dust spouted from its sides when bullets struck. The buffalo bellowed, more in anger than in pain.

  “How long can it last?” Stearns asked, amazed.

  “A long time,” Yancey said. “I’ve seen ’em walk away with a month’s supply of good galena.”

  “I can kill it in one minute.”

  Yancey shook his head. “Not even that gun of yours.”

  “One shot.”

  “Don’t get off your horse, you damned fool!”

  Stearns was already on the ground. “One minute, Yancey.” He looked at his watch. He walked toward the bull.

  Red-eyed, with lowered head, the buffalo watched him. It charged. Stearns fired one barrel. It was nothing. The bull came on. Stearns fired again. The buffalo went down, and like the bear, it died almost at Stearns’ feet.

  “You damned fool!” Yancey said. “You shot it head-on!”

  Stearns laughed. “Twice. For a flash, I didn’t think that second one would do the work.”

  Little Belly had seen. There was no doubt now: Stearns had made medicine with the round thing and it had given him power to do the impossible.

  The hunters began to butcher cows. Fleet horses stood without riders. Little Belly had one arrow left, and Stearns was now apart from the others, examining the dead bull. But when the Blackfoot reached the valley Broken
Face was once more near Stearns, with his rifle slanting toward Little Belly.

  “Take that arrow he’s got left,”Yancey said.

  Stearns did so. “I was going to give him his chance.”

  “You don’t give a Blackfoot any chance!” Yancey started away. “There’s other arrows sticking in some of the cows he shot. Remember that, Stearns.”

  Little Belly did not understand the words, but the happy challenge of Stearns’ smile was clear enough.

  They went together to one of the cows Little Belly had killed. The white man cut the arrow from its lungs. He put the arrow on the ground and then he walked a few paces and laid his rifle on the grass. He looked at Little Belly, waiting.

  The white man still had his medicine. It was too strong for Little Belly; but otherwise, he would not have been afraid to take the opportunity offered him. He tossed his bow toward the mule. The white man was disappointed.

  They ate of the steaming hot liver of the cow, looking at each other while they chewed.

  That night the company of Broken Face feasted well, ripping with their teeth, the great, rich pieces of dripping hump rib as they squatted at the fires. Little Belly ate with the rest, filling his belly, filling his mind with the last details of his plan.

  When the stars were cold above, he rose from his blanket and went to the fire. He roasted meat, looking toward the outer rim of darkness where Stearns slept near Broken Face. Then, without stealth, Little Belly went through the night to where the French engagée guarded one side of the horse corral.

  The Frenchman saw him coming from the fire and was not alarmed. Little Belly held out the meat. The man took it with one hand, still holding to his rifle. After a time the guard squatted down, using both hands to hold the rib while he ate. Little Belly’s hand trailed through the dark, touching the stock of the gun that leaned against the man’s leg.

  The engagée smacked his lips. The meat was still against his beard when Little Belly snatched the gun and swung it. Quite happy the Frenchman died, eating good fat cow. Little Belly took his knife at once. He crouched, listening. The rifle barrel had made sound. Moments later, the horses shifting inside their rope enclosure made sound also.