When Layton was having trouble with some calculations he very seriously asked Grignon if he could come to his aid, which sent the other men snickering. Another time, when Layton had climbed to a pinnacle and was asked what he saw, Layton yelled down that he saw Grignon on bended knee to some maiden in the Rocky Mountain House. Another time Layton asked Grignon if he could borrow his vest as he wanted to impress some natives. Later that same day he called to some squaws just as Grignon had dropped his leggins to relieve himself. There were these jests, and a dozen others, and I suppose we all joined in the ridicule. Grignon was a lazy, bragging wheedler, full of shallow cunning and low, poisonous opinions. We all agreed he was an entirely unpleasant character, and yet for all his unpleasantness, there was a sort of yearning in Grignon for companionship and camaraderie, and I suppose we ought to have pitied the man and done what we could to make him feel a part of the brigade. Though he was at times a pathetic creature, Grignon was also a dangerous one. We all would have done better to remember this.
Still, all this is with the benefit of hindsight. In the placid fall season we were distracted by the general good humor of the brigade, the fertility of the land, and the glimmering promise of our future riches.
On a warm, windy late-August afternoon the brigade was interrupted in its labor by gunshots. We could hear them faintly, first one shot, then a series of them, echoing up from the east. Minutes later we saw smoke rising and knew that men were battling on the dusty flats east of the mountains. An hour later three natives appeared on horseback outside of our encampment, bare-chested and wearing deerskin leggins. One of the natives was bleeding from a gash across his chest, and the others carried both rifles and bows.
They stopped just out of rifle range and Layton, Smith, and Branch walked out to meet them. They spoke for a quarter of an hour. When they were finished the natives wheeled and rode off, not hurrying, and Smith, Layton, and Branch came back and stood at the edge of the fire.
“The Crow have some Blackfoot trapped up on a rock, Red Elk among them,” Smith said. “The Blackfoot have fortified their position and the Crow want our help in dislodging them. They say if we’re good friends to them here and give assistance they’ll be good friends to us by trading two packs of pelts for a few horns of powder.”
“What assistance?” Pegleg asked.
“There are natural bastions three hundred yards from the spot the Blackfoot have fortified. The Crow can’t make that shot. We can. They want our help to pin them down while they ride in to overwhelm them.”
Glass, the oldest and the most experienced member of the brigade, stood and began filling his powder horn. This was unusual, as Glass rarely presumed to make decisions for the group. He was a silent, watchful, unpresuming fellow, and the most taciturn man I have ever met.
“I see you think it’s an advantageous exchange,” Smith said.
“Advantageous or not, I see we have no choice,” Glass said. “We’re on Crow land, and despite their excessive pride about their warfaring abilities, they’ve humbled themselves and asked for our aid. If we don’t help them now they’ll be humiliated, call us ungrateful, and we’ll never make it out of these mountains with our pelts.”
The other men nodded, agreeing with his judgment—we were their guests and they had asked us for help. We had no choice.
The men in the brigade began to stand one by one, reaching for their weapons. I stood, too. Only Ferris remained sitting, looking sullenly into the fire.
“I didn’t sign on to be a mercenary,” Ferris said.
“You signed on to get rich,” Grignon said. “Two more packs for killing savages. What opposition could you have?”
“None that you would understand,” Ferris said.
Smith sat next to Ferris and said, “There are others who will join in willingly. Wave your weapon and make some noise. That’s all that’s required. And bring your quill. It will be a spectacle.”
Ferris considered this, then nodded, and after a moment stashed his notebook in his jacket and began preparing for departure with the rest of us.
Ten minutes later Smith, Branch, Bridger, Grignon, Pegleg, and Glass rode down to the flats. Layton, Ferris, and I were left to secure the furs in a nearby cave. We trailed the others by at least an hour, and I thought we might miss the battle entirely, but when we crested the last hilltop that overlooked the flats we saw that the Blackfoot were still encamped on their rock and the Crow were still making preparations to dislodge them. We stopped at that elevated spot and tied our horses off and Ferris sat and quickly began to sketch the scene that lay beneath us.
The rock on which the Blackfoot had fortified themselves had vertical sides and was surrounded by featureless land for at least half a mile in all directions except for three rock outcroppings rising at a distance of about three hundred yards to the north. Footholds on the back end of these outcroppings made excellent aeries. Pegleg, Grignon, and Glass had been placed in the aeries, and as we arrived they were peppering the Blackfoot, who were well hidden but could not fire without exposing themselves. The shots from the long guns could not penetrate the Blackfoot defenses but did keep the Blackfoot from exposing themselves in order to fire on the Crow. From our elevated overlook I scanned the Blackfoot in my spyglass—men and women and children were crouched behind rocks, most cowering and terrified, but a few, including Red Elk, whom I recognized, were laying out balls and powder and arrows and other weapons, preparing for battle.
Meanwhile, Long Hair’s band had gathered to the north and were dashing about on horses, waving their weapons, and beyond these warriors, riders in a makeshift corral were dividing several hundred horses into two separate groups.
Ferris sketched all this quickly, and when he’d completed his first study, Layton instructed him to hold his work up.
“Wonderfully accurate and lively,” Layton said. “Bravo. A year from now you’ll be snubbing us on Market Street, the famous physician and artist.”
Ferris gestured dismissively with his bit of graphite.
“Physician? I’ll hardly be that. Taking the pulse of rich dowagers is no life for a man. When this season’s over I’ll squander whatever riches I’ve managed to accumulate, complete several studies, then continue my wandering. You two will be gentlemen in St. Louis while I’m still scraping the drainages.”
“And loving the life,” Layton said. “While I’ll be bored senseless in some drawing room, settled into the occupation of destroying my father’s business.”
“An occupation for which you have long been in training,” Ferris said.
“Since birth,” Layton agreed. “It’s Wyeth who’ll be most envied of the three of us. Comfortably settled with Alene and living on Bailey’s fortune with the footman calling, ‘Make way for the gentleman.’ ”
“I’ll be settled on my own fortune,” I said. “And I’ll know that all my father’s imprecations were groundless.”
Ferris’s hand paused in its scratching. Layton gave me a skeptical look.
“Whether you make a fortune or not, the accusations about your mettle were groundless. You see that, do you not?” Layton said.
“I will see it when I succeed,” I said, and Layton gave a knowing look.
“Your father’s drunken bile has made an ambitious man of you. I will remember that method of motivation when I have legitimate children of my own.”
Ferris was about to reply with some inflammatory remark, but was silenced, as the real battle had begun.
The first of the two tightly packed groups of churning horseflesh were being driven toward the field of battle by native handlers. From that distance we could see the riders dashing about the horses, waving strips of knotted leather, driving the riderless horses past the fortified rock and then urging them to circle around again and again. The Blackfoot fired into the horses, but with as much effect as firing into a pool of minnows. When the Blackfoot had wasted much of their ammunition, the second, smaller herd of horses was then sent out at a slight angle to
the rock. Most of the horses in this second wave were riderless as well, but a few carried natives with their bodies pressed to the side so they could not be hit with a bullet or arrow. With the dust and the many riderless horses and the shots from the long guns making exposure dangerous, it would have been impossible for the trapped Blackfoot to tell which horses had riders and which did not.
The Crow women from the village had gathered at five hundred yards and begun to yip and let out high-pitched shrieks. The waiting warriors beat their shields and let out high cries. The air was filled with the thunder of hooves and the cries of warriors and the shots from the men.
The first riders approached the gray rock and one by one they leaped from the backs of the horses directly onto the rock. Within several seconds we could see nothing because of the smoke and dust surrounding the rock and could only see the flashes of gunshots, like lightning inside a cloud. Pegleg and Glass and Grignon left their perches and ran toward the rock, pistols drawn. The three of us clambered off our promontory and made our way toward the gray rock, which was completely enclosed in a dense cloud of dust and smoke.
As we approached the rock we saw abandoned horses wandering about everywhere, many of them bleeding from gunshots. The base of the rock was literally clogged with bloodstained horses, some of them with bodies beneath them. By the time we managed to clamber up to the flat area at the top of the rock, the battle was over. The Crow had overwhelmed the Blackfoot and were dispatching those who were still alive by crushing their skulls with the barrels of their rifles.
We had lost Layton in the dust and as Ferris and I wandered back out to the flats we saw him standing among five Crow who were holding two Blackfoot captive. One of the Blackfoot was an old man and another was a boy. Layton was offering his spyglass in return for the two captives. Perhaps Layton meant to take the prisoners and negotiate with the Blackfoot village in return for a favor, but I believe he acted at that moment out of compassion.
The Crow listened indifferently to Layton’s pleadings. They had lost eight men in the battle and were in no mood to show mercy. Grignon airily watched Layton’s futile pleading, and after a moment, seeing it would do no good, took his pistol, put it to the boy’s head, and fired. The boy slumped to the side. Layton looked as if he’d strangle Grignon, and Grignon, who’d said he’d always wanted to kill a native, gave him an odd, complacent smile and skittered away. A moment later one of the Crow raised his club and brained the old man, and Layton, still holding the spyglass, walked out into the smoke and dust and we did not see him again for at least half an hour.
At the edge of the field, Pegleg had cut one of the packs of furs open that Smith had received for our participation. Pegleg examined the contents. He held a pelt to Ferris, to show him. Ferris took the pelt and winged it away without looking at it and sat in the scrubland, staring out at the battlefield.
Within minutes the magpies and vultures flapped over the field in growing multitudes. The remains of the mangled bodies were attached to rope harnesses fitted to Indian dogs and dragged through the dust. The women were wandering about the field thrashing the dead Blackfoot with thorns. Some of the women had their faces blackened and were missing the first joints of their little fingers.
A while later I saw two dead Crow on a travois. These two natives had been sent in pursuit of Chief Red Elk, who had leaped off the rock and escaped on one of the Crow horses. The horses these men had ridden were not found.
Far off in the field of battle, near the gray rock, I saw the Crow chief Long Hair being carried away on another travois. He had fallen off his horse a hundred yards from the battle site and been trampled. He had been a shrewd, reliable leader and was the man we had made our agreement with to trap those mountains. Now he was dead.
We had arrived at the battlefield in midafternoon. By dusk we were riding back to our encampment with two more packs of furs and with much speculation about what Long Hair’s death would mean for us.
For several days we kept double sentries and cached our pelts in various hidden spots, but nothing happened. Just as before, the natives left us unmolested and we went on gathering our pelts in the protection of the Wind River Mountains.
It was mid-September, and with Long Hair dead we had decided to trap the most remote reaches of the mountains, as far from the native villages as possible. This section of high country was not far from land trapped by other companies, and one morning Branch rode into camp, leaped off his horse, and told us that he had met with a Western Company trapper named Clybourne who said a free trapper named Jenks was bivouacked at a nearby lake and was offering his Spanish thoroughbred as a prize in a horse race.
“Sold his outfit and pelts and is offering up the horse,” Branch said.
Jenks’s horse was renowned for being the most noble creature west of the Mississippi.
“Why in the name of God would Jenks give up that magnificent thoroughbred?” Ferris asked.
“Because he can’t bring it back with him on a keelboat, so he figures he’ll have some fun. Buy-in’s one pelt or three dollars.”
Ferris slapped his hands together. “I think I’ll set some traps in the lowland today.”
“As will I,” Branch said.
Soon all were vying for the low-lying waterways, which would be close to the flats where the race was planned, then any thoughts of trapping at all were set aside.
That morning, to a man, the brigade rode out of the mountains and by noon had arrived at a mixed encampment of trappers and natives along a shallow lake in the arid sagebrush steppe east of the Wind River Mountains.
There were already fifty trappers and a dozen natives at the encampment when we arrived, with more arriving every minute. A skinny, gesticulating trader in leggins with a thick black mustache and otter skins wrapped about his plaited hair was yelling, “Three dollars or one adult pelt for the buy-in. Winner gets the horse and I get the pot.”
This was Jenks, a swaggering, resourceful man. With the tip of his knife, he pointed south to a rock pinnacle where a flag hung, a dot of color in the distance.
“To that rock lump and back. Any way you want to go, not my concern. It’ll be a scramble. First one back gets the horse. Rest of you can scatter.”
A stocky trapper with a limp carried lime paint in a barrel with a leather handle looped into two rough holes. The trapper was drunk, and using a makeshift brush, he left a wavering line in the dust. Ferris, Layton, and I stepped over the lime and walked down the hill to get a look at the horse. It really was a handsome creature. Sixteen hands high and beautifully shaped, mild-tempered, and statuesque.
“I’ll let you boys admire him after I win,” Layton said. “Might even let you hold the bridle.”
“Damned generous of you,” Ferris said.
“Maybe feed him a carrot once we get back east,” Layton added.
There was a scuffling at the edge of the knotted group of trappers surrounding the horse. I turned to see natives pushing their way through the crowd. There were eight or ten of them and Chief Red Elk was at the front. It was three weeks since that battle on the rock and he still bore a gash across his forehead.
When Red Elk saw Layton and Ferris and me at the horse he slowed and struck his chest and pointed at the horse and said some words in native dialect. His meaning was clear. He was saying it was his horse.
“Ain’t so,” Jenks said. “I got it off Harris in a card game.”
“My horse,” Red Elk said in English. “Mine! Mine!”
“Straight flush. Most miraculous luck of my life,” Jenks said.
“Mine!”
“Yours if you win the race,” Jenks said. “Not before.”
“Which you won’t,” Layton said. “Because no horse is faster than my Uncle Bill.”
“Mine … mine … mine,” Red Elk was saying.
Layton ignored him, stroking the horse’s neck, saying, “Oh, you sweet thing, you are all horse, nothing else, just a fine, beautiful creature, and you will be mine.…”
Layton went on stroking the horse and smiled at Red Elk in that irritating way of his, which sent a current of laughter through the other trappers, who were alive to the comic elements of the moment, particularly those who knew Layton: the St. Louis dandy mocking the Blackfoot savage. Red Elk fingered the smoothed wooden handle of his hatchet, while Layton went on mincing, pretending to be oblivious. After a moment Red Elk simply gestured at him with his hatchet and walked off toward where he’d left his horse.
“You made a friend,” I said.
“He’ll be an even better friend when I ride off with this magnificent creature,” Layton said.
“Think he’s in love,” Ferris said.
The race was to begin at noon. In the time before the race Ferris and Bridger and I rode out to survey the course. Between the starting line and the rock pinnacle there was a mile of arid scrubby land with a few small rises. About a third of the way to the pinnacle the navigable land dropped into a drainage for about fifty yards and then wound up the far side. After that, the most direct route went up a small hill lying in between the canyon and the pinnacle. I rode down into the canyon and back up the far side and to the top of that hill, which was dotted with prickly pear and sage. Far in the distance I could see the trappers and natives at the edge of the blue oval of the lake. There were at least a hundred horses to the south in a natural corral, writhing and jostling. Above them, white pelicans turned and wheeled silently in the midday light. I mapped out a route in my mind, then rode back to where the trappers were lining up at the white lime. Red Elk was already there on a magnificent black horse almost the equal of the horse that was being offered as the prize. He turned and looked at me as I went by, and gave me the same mute, questioning, half-displeased look that he’d given me in the British encampment. I rode past him and found a space next to Ferris, who made room for me, as everyone in the line of horses was jockeying for position. A moment later Layton rode up on his Uncle Bill and edged into the line right next to Red Elk. Ripples of amusement went up and down the line of men.
Into the Savage Country Page 16
