Beneath a Hunter's Moon

by Michael Zimmer

  “The stolen horses, do ye think?” Big John asked.

  In addition to the captives, the Sioux had managed to get away with nearly fifty head of Métis horses, mostly cart ponies.

  “Yes. My old mare is with them, but it is too dark to find her prints,” Charlo said.

  They rode on across the frozen landscape. The moon shrank as it climbed higher into the sky, its light weakening through the clouds. When Charlo finally dismounted to forge ahead on foot, Big John knew they wouldn’t be able to continue much farther. Still, they had come a good ways, and by the time Charlo called a halt a couple of hours before dawn, Big John estimated they’d covered at least twenty miles. It had been a taxing night, but worth the effort, he decided.

  They waited out the remaining hours of darkness in a shallow depression where there was at least the illusion of protection from the wind, should it rise before morning. They hobbled and picketed their horses nearby, then huddled in tightly packed groups for warmth. Several sat side-by-side with old friends in order to double up their robes but, despite their weariness, few slept. Most of them passed the night in muted conversations or long, catatonic-like silences.

  They breakfasted on the trail, cheeks bulging like squirrels around frozen chunks of pemmican. As the sun came up, the tracks of the Sioux became easier to follow. With better light, Charlo set a pace that rarely dropped below a jog. Toward midmorning the sky finally began to clear off, and although the breeze picked up again, it was gentle and didn’t drift the snow. By noon it appeared as if they might actually be catching up. Hindered by so many stolen horses, the Sioux were making poor time.

  With the trail so clear, there was no need for the others to hang back, and Pouliot gradually let his horse ease ahead until he was riding at Charlo’s side. It was he who first spotted the fork in the trail, nearly half a mile ahead. By the time they reached it, their spirits had plummeted.

  Once again, Charlo scouted the site on foot. It took nearly thirty minutes.

  “The captives are with the trail that goes to the right,” he reported when he returned. “I think.”

  “You are not sure?” a Métis asked in surprise.

  Charlo shook his head. “No, I am not sure.”

  “Then we must also split up,” Pierre Campbell said. He glanced around as if for support, but most of the bois brûles refused to meet his eyes.

  “I’ll be goin’ to the right,” Big John said softly, fixing Campbell with a steady look. “’Tis not the stolen stock I’m worried about, ye see?”

  “You think that is why I say we should split up?” Campbell replied defensively.

  “The trail’s plain to read,” Hallet said. “The stolen stock was driven straight south, but this smaller party”—he indicated the broken path with his chin—“goes to the southwest. If that’s the direction Lizette has been taken in, that’s where I’ll go.”

  “As it should be, Charles,” LaBarge said tentatively. “But maybe Pierre is not so wrong, either.” He nodded toward the left-hand branch. “What if Lizette or one of the others were taken in that direction? Just one. What of that?”

  Hallet stubbornly shook his head. “I’ve known Charlo a long time, Baptiste. I’ve never known him to make a mistake about something like this. Not even when he says he isn’t sure.”

  “But what about this one time?” LaBarge persisted. “This is what I ask.”

  “Go!” Big John thundered. He jerked the roan around to face LaBarge. “Go get ye stock if that’s what ye want, and take the others with ye.”

  LaBarge reared back in his saddle. Then his gaze hardened. “That is not what I meant, Big John. You know that.”

  Coolly Big John said: “Don’t be tellin’ me what ye meant, Baptiste, and don’t try to explain ye reasonin’ for followin’ the left-hand fork. And by the Lord, man, don’t ye follow me, because I’ll kill ye sure if ye do. Do ye hear me? If ye follow now, I’ll break ye neck.”

  With his pulse roaring in his ears, Big John whipped the roan around and took off at a fast gallop. He heard others coming after him, but only a few. When he finally allowed himself a backward glance, he saw Gabriel and Charlo riding side-by-side, then Hallet, Pouliot, and Pike bringing up the rear. There was no one else.

  * * * * *

  It was late in the day when they reached the breaks of the Missouri River. The snow was melting rapidly in the unexpected warmth of the afternoon sun, the trail disintegrating almost before their eyes. Big John rode in a near stupor, his every muscle screaming for a rest, a chance to stretch and relax. His eyes felt dry and gritty, seared by the harsh glare of sunlight reflected off the glistening snow, and the top of his spine hammered at the back of his skull with the roan’s every jolting step.

  He knew the others felt as bone-weary as he did. He could see it in the drawn cast of their faces, the sluggish way they handled their reins. The cold and the long hours were sapping the strength of every man there.

  It was still a little more than an hour before sunset when they came to a gap in the hills and spotted the wide, flat valley of the Missouri a couple of miles ahead. Charlo, riding in the lead, halted his white runner in the middle of the buffalo trace the Sioux had followed through the breaks. He waited for the others to come up beside him. Although it was too far away to tell for sure if the tracks of the Sioux horses continued across the valley, there was no mistaking the narrow ribbon of smoke that curled above the line of trees along the river.

  Scowling, Big John said: “Why would they stop here?”

  Charlo shook his head in puzzlement. “It does not make sense unless they thought we would not follow them through the night. If that is their thinking, then they must also believe that we are still very far behind.”

  “If that’s it, they’ll probably think we’re a full day behind,” Hallet said, his red-rimmed eyes brightening with hope.

  “We should get out of this gap,” Gabriel said. “If they are watching, they would spot us easily, even up here.”

  Charlo nodded and drummed his heels against the white’s ribs. He led them into a narrow depression, then drew up once more. Sliding from his saddle, he silently handed his reins to Gabriel, then made his way over the shoulder of a nearby hill.

  As exhausted as they were, no one else dismounted. Not even to stretch their legs. Big John had been carrying his double rifle slung across his back in a quilled leather case. He unsheathed it now and placed it across the saddle in front of him, prying the old caps off with a cracked thumbnail and replacing them with fresh ones. Everyone else reprimed or checked their flints. In the silence of the little hollow, Big John could hear the slow trickle of melting snow, the soft whisper of its settling. Already the gnarled fingers of tawny buffalo grass were visible on the south-facing slopes, and the ridge tops had been swept almost clear.

  Big John kept glancing at the broken trace of the Sioux’ passage where it cut through the hollow on its way to the valley. Charlo thought they were following at least fifteen riders. If all three Métis women were with them, that meant no fewer than twelve warriors waiting in the valley below. Two to one odds, at best. His gaze shifted to Hallet, then Pouliot, Gabriel, and Pike, and he wondered what he’d gotten them into. He had lost control back where the trail forked, had once again allowed his temper to override reason. And in the process, he had gambled not only with their lives, but with the lives of the captives, as well.

  By the Lord, what have I done? he thought miserably. What terrible calamity have I set into motion with my stubbornness and pride?

  Charlo’s return saved him from forcing an answer. Sliding down the slope of the hollow, the old Indian said: “The trail leads straight across the valley, into the trees near the fire.” He looked at Pouliot and nodded. “It is them, my friend.”

  “Did you see Emmaline?” Pouliot asked almost fearfully.

  Charlo shook his head. “The valley cannot be crossed within three leagues in either direction. I could not identify individuals from where I was, but I d
id see horses and men and some women. The women were making a bullboat to cross the river.” He glanced at Big John. “I could go downriver and find a place to cross. Maybe that way I could get close enough to be sure.”

  Big John shook his head. “’Tis the Sioux’ trail we’ve followed this far,” he reasoned. “I don’t see how it could be anyone else.”

  “Besides, it would be dark before you returned,” Gabriel said. “If they finished the boat before then, we wouldn’t be able to stop them, and I haven’t seen a buffalo all afternoon that we could use to make a boat of our own.”

  “Where’d they get a hide for a boat?” Pike asked.

  “Maybe they stole it from us,” Charlo said. “A fresh hide makes the best boat, but a flint would also work.”

  “Not without soaking it first, and it’d still have to dry,” Pike replied.

  “That is why they have the fire,” Pouliot hazarded. “To shrink the hide.”

  “’Tis of no matter where they got it,” Big John said. “Green or soaked, ’twill still have to be fitted, and that takes dryin’.”

  A bullboat was a generally flat-bottomed, kettle-shaped craft of hide, with the hair left on and to the inside, then shrunken over a willow framework. It was awkward to paddle and easy to tip, prone to leaks and ruptures from hidden snags and, if not greased or treated properly, it would soon become water-logged and sink to the bottom. But on the open plains where buffalo and elk were plentiful and wood was as scarce as bathtubs, it made a quick, serviceable vessel. A bullboat could be constructed in a few hours. Saddle, rifle, gear, and clothing would then be tossed inside. A horseman could swim his mount across a river while towing the boat behind him.

  Of all the people of the plains, only the Métis—who removed the wheels from their carts and lashed them beneath the beds for added buoyancy—shunned the fragile rawhide crafts.

  “What do we do now?” Hallet asked, his gaze shifting from Charlo to Big John.

  “We’ll have to go downstream until we can cross the valley without bein’ seen, then come up on ’em slow-like,” Big John said.

  “What if they cross the river before we get there?” Pouliot asked.

  “Then, old friend,” Big John answered gently, “I fear we’ll have lost ’em for good.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  There was a hunter’s moon again that night, dominating the eastern sky like a huge, sickly face. It was cloudless, as well, and in the frosty, star-studded clearness, the riverside woods seemed almost as bright as day.

  Less than ideal conditions to be going up against an enemy as formidable as the Sioux, Gabriel mused.

  They were waiting for Charlo’s return from upriver, standing chilled and miserable within the sparse timber bordering the river. On his left, Gabriel could hear the gentle lapping of the Missouri’s waters. An icy breeze flowing down the broad, shallow cañon of trees lining the river would now and again rattle the branches above them like the sabers of some distant army. Other than that, all was quiet and bitterly cold.

  The snow that remained had frozen over when the sun went down. Now it crunched loudly underfoot every time a horse shifted its weight or position. Such conditions would make slipping up on the Sioux all the more difficult, Gabriel knew, yet of them all, he questioned only Pike’s ability to move soundlessly over the crusted snow.

  Studying the American from the corner of his eye, Gabriel decided Pike was as much of an enigma now as he had been on the day Gabriel and Big John had rescued him from the Chippewas. That he was hurting badly from the wounds he’d received from the Sioux was obvious. His left knee—the one that had been clubbed hard by a Yankton’s rifle—was especially tender yet. But Pike hadn’t complained once on the long, grueling ride, and Gabriel admired him for that.

  Still, the core of his distrust for the American remained as strong as ever, and it had been growing steadily since the night of the attack by Black Fish’s warriors, when Celine came to him expressing her fear that Pike wanted to kidnap her to the mountains. If abduction was indeed Pike’s intent, then the time for him to put his plan into motion would be soon, Gabriel reasoned.

  A low, sharp whistle pierced the night, and Gabriel, his nerves already twangy as a fiddle string, jerked his musket part way up. Close to the riverbank, Charlo stepped clear of a tree, waited until he was certain he’d been identified, then approached without a sound.

  “It is them,” the old Indian announced in a whisper. Glancing at Pouliot, he added: “I saw Emmaline. The little one is unharmed, although they make her work at the fire.”

  “And Lizette?” Hallet asked tonelessly.

  “She is also unharmed.” He paused a moment, then looked at Big John. “Maybe Celine has given them trouble. She is barefoot, and without her coat.”

  “Then they be punishin’ her for her resistance?” Big John asked.

  “Maybe,” Charlo replied. “Lizette tries to show her how to help with the boat, but she… does not seem to listen.”

  “What of the bullboat?” Gabriel asked.

  “They dry it over coals even as we speak. Lizette and Celine work on the boat while Emmaline cares for the meat. They must have shot a buffalo, after all, and cached its meat and hide before the attack.”

  “How many are there?” Pike asked.

  “Twelve, but only three who watch. They have their robes and saddles in a pile next to the river. I think they intend to cross tonight.”

  “Well, I’m not surprised,” Big John said. “’Tis fools they’d be to slow down so soon after stealin’ our women, whether they thought we followed ’em through last night or not.”

  “The bloody, black-hearted devils,” Hallet muttered fiercely. “Another hour of snow and we’d not have been able to follow them at all.”

  “Aye,” Big John agreed. “Our luck has held so far, but we don’t have ’em back yet. Charlo, ye’ve been close to the buggers and have seen what needs seein’. What say ye, man?”

  Charlo was quiet a moment, thinking. Finally he said: “There is no way we can approach them quietly on foot without endangering the women. What I think we must somehow do is go in very fast and each of us kill a man before they know we are among them. Then we must each of us kill another, before they can harm the women.”

  “That ain’t possible,” Pike said flatly. “The Sioux won’t be that slow to react. Some of us are going to taste steel or lead tonight.”

  “Does that worry you?” Gabriel asked tersely.

  “Not so much, sonny, but there’s no point in ignoring it, either. Main thing is the women, and especially Noel’s little girl. We have to get them out of there fast, before the Sioux have a chance to get at them. They’ll kill them out of spite if we don’t, sure as hell.”

  “There is truth in Pike’s words,” Charlo said thoughtfully. “But I think also there is a way to surprise them, even though they have men watching.” He cocked a brow toward Big John. “The unguarded side, eh?”

  “The river?”

  “Oui, the river. Two men. We carry our guns such, tied.” He lifted his fowler across both shoulders. “Our powder horns, too. We go into the water and pull ourselves upstream by roots. It can be done, and if the others wait until we attack, then the surprise will be complete.”

  “’Tis a wee mite dangerous, old friend,” Big John replied weakly, then, after a moment’s reflection, added: “But, aye, it might work, at that. Sure, I’m game to try it.”

  “No, not you, Big John,” Hallet said. “I’ll go.”

  “And me,” Pike interjected.

  “No. ’Twill be me and Charlo doin’ this.”

  “You’re gonna be in freezing water up to your necks for nearly half a mile,” Pike reminded him. “That’s a young man’s game.”

  But Big John was adamant. “No, Mister Pike, ’tis an old man’s game, not to be played by those with a life ahead of ’em yet.”

  “Big John is right,” Gabriel said, his voice suddenly choked and unsure. He looked at Hallet and
Pouliot, then Charlo and Pike. Lastly he looked at Big John, and his fists clenched until his fingers ached. “Big John and Charlo should go. The rest of us must remain behind and be ready when the time comes.”

  “I don’t like this,” Hallet said. “It isn’t right.”

  But Big John’s reply was quick and succinct. “Aye, friend, ’tis naught but right.”

  Charlo stepped forward to shake Hallet’s hand, then Pouliot’s and Pike’s and Gabriel’s. Big John did the same, though pausing before Gabriel, smiling warmly. “Ye watch yeself, laddie,” he said. “’Tis a hornet’s nest we’ll soon be walkin’ into, and no way for it except to take us a sting or two.”

  Tears welled in Gabriel’s eyes. He let them come, unashamed. “I will watch myself, Big John. You will do the same, no?”

  Big John’s smile widened briefly, then disappeared. He went to the roan and began to strip, tying his clothes in a bundle atop his saddle. When he was naked, he dug a tin of bear grease from his saddlebags and coated his body with the heavy, pallid yellow lard until his flesh shone and the scars from his encounter with One Who Limps gleamed a bright, angry red. When he had greased himself as best he could against the icy waters of the Missouri, he drew on the lighter, deer-hide moccasins he wore beneath his heavy souliers de boeuf, and his knee-length woolen drawers. He belted his knife and hatchet around his waist, then thrust a single pistol into the fringed scabbard with his rifle. He turned then and, without a backward glance, vanished into the trees. Charlo was only a few paces behind, skeleton lean, pale as a wraith.