“I liked Rod,” Keyes said. “He was a good man.”
“Obviously not good enough,” Seedy said.
* * *
The traveling got rougher for those in the wagon train. The terrain was terrible and the mosquitoes worse. Great thick hordes of them fell on the wagon train and soon everybody was slapping and cussing and scratching from the bites. The weather was just as miserable as the terrain. One day it was ninety degrees, the next day it was cloudy and cold.
Bands of Digger Indians would line up on either side of the trail, to stand in silence and watch the wagon train. Many of them begged for food.
“Don’t give ’em nothin’,” Preacher warned the movers. “If you do, they’ll wart you forever. Them’s the sorriest tribe anywheres. They’ll take crickets and roaches and make a stew of it. They eat rats and the like. Most disgustin’ bunch of people I ever met in all my days.”
“But they’re hungry!” Penelope said.
“They won’t do for themselves,” Beartooth said. “They beg and steal. They’d rather starve than work. Ignore ’em, missy. They just ain’t worth your pity.”
The wagon train rolled on, following the Snake over rough and rocky ground. The wagon train stopped early that day, due to several broken wheels. The ground was so rough one woman fell off the seat and busted her head wide open. The wound was not serious, but like all head wounds, it bled freely for several minutes, giving the pilgrims a good scare.
“Everybody off them wagons and walk!” Preacher passed the word up and down the line.
“My wife is with child, sir!” a mover yelled in defiance.
“Shoulda thought of that ’fore you started, fool!” Preacher muttered in disgust.
They crossed Goose Creek the next day, straight up and straight down. Most movers lost articles out of their wagons. The ground was the worst they had experienced thus far.
That night, Preacher told Swift and a few of the others, “We can expect trouble up ahead. Place called Rocky Creek. It’s about twenty miles from where we’re camped. Since the first big band of movers come through last year, trouble-huntin’ Injuns have been hangin’ around there, and they’re a mean bunch. Pass the word that nobody wanders off once we’re there.”
When Swift was gone to pass the word, Preacher said to his friends, “We’re gonna push it tomorrow. We’re gonna put fifteen miles behind us. That way we’ll make Rocky Crick by mid-mornin’ of the next day and put it behind us.”
“You figurin’ we’ll have trouble there?” Trapper Jim asked.
“Yeah. Somethin’s got these Injuns all stirred up. I don’t wanna camp nowheres near the crick.”
“What kind of Injuns will these be?” Richard asked.
“Northern Paiute, probably. Maybe some Bannock. Ain’t no tellin’ really. A lot of them renegades and just plain trouble-hunters. Renegades will put aside centuries-old tribal hatred and band together for protection.” Preacher refilled his cup and sat back down. It was a nice evening, for a change. They were camped near a creek and everybody had bathed and washed clothes and were lounging about simply relaxing after a grueling day on the trail. Kids were playing within the relatively safe confines of the circled wagons. Mothers kept a good eye on them nonetheless.
The mountain men smiled and winked at one another. They alone knew that what they were doing had never been done before. A few wagon trains had punched through to the Columbia, for sure, but no one—no one—had ever taken a wagon train over the Cascades.
These mountain men would be the first to do so, something that mountain men enjoyed. Being the first.
* * *
“This is an excellent stretch of trail through here, Preacher.” Swift remarked about noon of the next day. “I feel we could make better time.”
“We could.”
“Then why aren’t we?”
“I don’t want us to have to camp on Rocky Crick, that’s why. We’ll do about fifteen miles and then shut it down. That way we’ll hit the crick and be long past it come time to circle for the night tomorrow.”
“I hardly think these savages would attack a train of this size,” Swift persisted.
“I’ve had my say,” Preacher told him, then lifted the reins and rode ahead. “Damn igits!” Preacher muttered. “Can’t see no further than the end of their noses.”
He whoaed Hammer up short. Not a hundred yards ahead, sitting smack in the middle of the trail, was a mother grizzly and two cubs. She had not yet caught his scent and Preacher backed Hammer up and beat it to the train.
“Hold it up,” he told Swift. “And don’t be tootin’ on that damn bugle, neither.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I said, hold up the goddamn train!”
Clearly miffed, Swift rode back and stopped the long wagon train. Beartooth rode up. “What’s the matter?”
“Mama griz and two cubs sittin’ in the middle of the trail. She’ll weigh a good eight, nine hundred pounds. We’ll let them alone and they’ll move directly.”
Young Avery rode up on one of his father’s horses. “I’ll go up and shoot her,” he said.
“You’ll do no such of a thing,” Preacher told the hulking teenager. “Who’d care for them young of hern?”
The man-child shrugged his shoulders. “Who gives a hoot?”
“We do,” Beartooth said. “Larn this now, boy: you don’t kill something for the sake of killin’. You kill for survival or for food. You eat what you kill. You don’t kill something just ’cause you—”
Avery sneered at the man and spurred his horse, heading at a gallop up the trail.
“Smart-mouthed little son of a bitch!” Beartooth cussed the young man.
Preacher touched his moccasins to Hammer and the big horse leaped forward, easily overtaking Avery. Preacher reached out and slapped the young man clean out of the saddle. Avery hit the ground and bounced on his butt a time or two.
“Pa!” he squalled.
“Get your butt in the saddle and get back to the train,” Preacher told him.
“My pa’ll whup you!” Avery said, climbing back into the saddle.
“Doubtful,” Preacher told him. “Move.”
“I’m fixin’to kill me a bear!” Avery said. “Anding you can go to hell.”
Preacher jumped his horse forward and knocked Avery out of the saddle with a hard right fist to the smart-aleck’s mouth. the blow was a brutal one and it smashed lips and brought blood leaking down onto the young man’s shirt. Beartooth galloped up at that point and settled a loop around Avery’s shoulders just as he was getting to his feet. Beartooth jerked on the rope and Avery went down again.
“Larn you some manners, squirt!” the burly mountain man said. He turned his horse and began dragging the youth back down the trail, to the train.
Preacher grabbed the horse’s reins and led him along.
Avery was cussing just like a full growed man—which he very nearly was—and struggling to get to his feet. Everytime he did, Beartooth would jerk on the rope and down he would go again.
“By the Lord, you’ll pay dearly for this!” Avery’s pa, a man called Wade, yelled furiously upon witnessing his pride and joy being dragged down the trail at the end of a rope.
“Shut your trap or I’ll dab a loop around your shoulders,” Preacher told him.
“You step down from that horse and I’ll give you a thrashing you’re not likely to forget for the remainder of your days,” the man said.
“Wagh!” Nighthawk shouted.
“There’s to be a tussle!” someone in the train yelled.
“You a damn fool!” Dupre told the man. “Preacher’ll clean your plow ’fore you can blink, pilgrim.”
“I fought Cornish all my days,” the mover told him, as Preacher slowly dismounted. “I’m not worried.”
“Back away, mover,” Preacher cautioned the man. “Your boy got what he deserved, and no more. It’s nothin’ to be fightin’ about”
“You and that snot son o
f yours have been nothing but trouble since Missouri,” a woman yelled from the train. “We should have voted to abandon you before reaching the Rockies.”
A great majority of those gathered around loudly agreed with her statement.
Avery’s father was rolling up his shirt sleeves and flexing his muscles. He did a little footwork in the trail to limber up.
Preacher was paying no attention to him. He had walked over to Swift to report what had taken place between Avery and the mountain men.
“Preacher,” the wagonmaster said, “you’d best be wary of the man. He’s a rough fellow. He ran taverns back East.”
“Is that right? What do you ’spect I best do: run off somewheres and hide?”
The wagonmaster smiled. “Look at him carefully, Preacher. The man’s a brute.”
“He’s big’un all right. I bet he’ll make the ground tremble when he hits it ... on his butt.”
“My boy’s been cut and bruised!” Wade hollered. “And he says you struck him in the mouth and face, Preacher. By the Lord, you’ll pay for this. Turn and face me, Preacher. Receive your trashing like a man.”
“Hee, hee, hee!” Beartooth giggled. “Pilgrim says he’s a-gonna thrash you, Preacher. His one or two friends on the train say he’s a mighty tough man. I’m afeared for your safety, Preacher.”
“I just can’t watch it,” Dupre said. “The sight of blood makes me dizzy-headed.”
“Hell, that’s your natural condition,” Preacher told the Frenchman.
Wade was drawing a line in the trail with the toe of his boot. Preacher watched the man, amusement in his eyes.
Nighthawk was watching Wade, puzzlement in his dark eyes. White people sure did some odd things.
“Be you warned that to step across this line means you are ready for the fight,” Wade said.
“Is that what it means?” Preacher said with a laugh, as he took his pistols from the sash and handed them to Swift. “Now I ’spect you gonna tell me they’s rules to this here fight?”
“That is correct, sir,” Wade said. “Mister Swift will keep the rules and shout out when to break.”
“When to do what?” Beartooth asked.
“To give a man time to recover from a knock-down,” Wade told him. “Each man will retire away from his opponent once the other man is down. The fight will continue until one man yields or is knocked unconscious.”
“Is that the way they do it back East now?” Preacher asked.
“That is correct. Now toe this line,” Wade said.
“Yeah, Preacher,” Dupre said. “Step up here and receive your thrashin’.”
Preacher suddenly screamed like a panther and leaped at the bigger man. One foot shot out and slammed against Wade’s face, knocking the man down to the dirt.
Preacher looked down at Wade, looking up at him, a startled expression on his face. “Now tell me again, where it is I re-tire to?” the mountain man asked.
6
Wade slowly got to his feet, an angry red splotch on the side of his face where Preacher had kicked him. He was trembling with rage. “You, sir, are no gentleman,” he ground out. He lifted his fists and began dancing around.
“Oh, my!” Preacher said. “Now I know what you want to do.” He jumped over and before the mover could throw a punch, Preacher grabbed Wade’s wrists in an iron vise. Wade, red-faced in embarrassment, tried to break fee. He could not break loose from Preacher’s powerful grip.
Dupre, Nighthawk, Trapper Jim, and Beartooth began clapping their hands in unison as Preacher danced the man all around the trail. “You dance good, Wade. This is fun. Somebody get a fiddle and a squeeze box. Let’s have us a party.”
“Circle round and dipsy-doo, up on your toes and turn real slow,” Beartooth chanted. “Twirl your partner around there twice, back again and ain’t that nice.”
“You goddamn heathen, unhand me!” Wade bellered. He struggled in vain to break fee of Preacher’s grip.
Dupre grabbed the first women he spied and began dancing around the trail. Others soon joined in. Someone found a fiddle and another man took out a squeeze box. Still others began clapping their hands. Up the trail, the grizzy sow lifted her huge head and grunted at the strange sounds. She moved her cubs off the trail and into the timber and stashed them safely in thick brush. Then Usrus horribilis went lumbering down the trail to investigate the strange noises in her woods. All nine hundred pounds of her.
Nighthawk was doing a little jig on the trail with several little boys and girls dancing with him.
Richard and Edmond, while taught to mightily forbid dancing as the devil’s own work, were getting into the action, patting their boots to the rhythm. Melody and Penelope were shaking various parts of their anatomy to the beat.
“Turn me loose and fight, you bastard?” Wade shrieked.
“I’d rather dance,” Preacher hollered. “Ain’t this fun?”
“No!” Wade screamed.
“Kick him, Pa!” Avery yelled. “Trip him down on the ground!”
A mover just couldn’t resist the opportunity. He leaned out from his wagon seat and conked Avery on top of the had with the handle of his bullwhip. Addled to his toes, the rash young sank to the ground, both his eyes crossed from the blow.
“Yee-haw!” Preacher yelled, dancing around and around with his very reluctant partner.
The grizzly sow reached the top of the hill and looked down at the goings-on below her. She had never seen anything like it. She wasn’t afraid of it—it is not known whether grizzlies are afraid of anything—yet something in her brain told her that this should be avoided at all costs. But not before she told the strange animals below here that this was her territory and to get the hell gone.
She reared up, standing about nine feet tall, and roared.
Horses, mules, cows, dogs, sheep, oxen, goats, and about forty cats panicked. The horses and mules reared up and fought their harnesses. The cow bellered and squalled. The goats and sheep bleated. The dogs barked. The cats howled. The oxen did their best to turn the wagons around, right there in that narrow trail, and everything got all jumbled up.
The grizzly sow took one more horrified look and ran at full speed back to her cubs. She gathered them up and headed for another, more peaceful part of the timber.
Preacher had danced Wade to just the right spot. He released the man and give him a little shove. Wade went tumbling down the embankment and did a belly-whopper in the Snake River. Preacher looked around him, found Avery, and jerked him up and tossed him over the side. Avery rolled down the hill and slammed into his father, just beginning his climb back up the embankment. Father and son went together into the Snake.
“You son of a bitch!” Wade squalled at Preacher, standing on the trail, laughing at them.
It took the better part of an hour to get the livestock settled down and untangled. When Wade once more appeared, in dry clothing, and wanting to fight, Wagonmaster Swift told him that if he threw down one more challenge, he’d tie him to a wagon wheel and deal out twenty lashes from his whip. He had the power to do just that, and Wade knew it. Wade gave Preacher a dark look, which Preacher ignored, and returned to his wagon. Swift tooted on his bugle and the wagon train moved out, with everybody except Wade and Avery feeling better.
Wade’s long-suffering wife had to struggle to hide her smile.
* * *
Preacher halted the wagon train about five miles from Rocky Creek. He ordered the sentries doubled and the wagons pulled in tight. Then he walked the circle of trains, visually inspecting each wagon. “Get dead leaves and twigs and the like and scatter them in front of your wagons. Make it several feet wide and put them three or four yards out. You wake up with something cracklin’, shoot it. ’Cause it ain’t gonna be nobody friendly.”
“I got me a feelin’,” Dupre said.
“Yeah, me, too,” Preacher agreed. “I think we gonna have troubles this night.”
Injuns is all turned ever’ whichaway,” Beartooth said.” Snakes
down in Ute country. Paiute moved up north. Blackfoot and Arapaho wandering around down here. Cayuse on the prowl. It don’t make no sense to me. We seen some Hidatsa over west of here. Whole bunch of them, wasn’t there, Nighthawk?”
“Too damn many,” the Crow said. “And they weren’t huntin’ food, neither. I think they flee the fever back East.”
“I keep hearin’ talk of an uprisin’,” Preacher said. “’Bout tribes buryin’ the hatchet and bandin’ together. I reckon it’s true.” He leaned forward, cutting off a chunk of meat fairly oozing with fat. “Any Dog Soldiers with them?”
“Couldn’t tell for certain,” Beartooth said. “I hope not. I hate them damn contraries.”
The Hidatsa Dog Soldiers did everything backward, hence they were called contraries. But they were fierce fighters and much feared.
A mover walked up and squatted down. “I thought the wild red savages always beat on drums before they attacked?”
Dupre and Beartooth grinned, Nighthawk looked disgusted but said nothing. “Some do back at the village,” Preacher said. “Before a fight—gets ’em all worked up into a lather. But I ain’t never seen no Injun totin’ no drum in battle a-whuppin’ on it. Although if you was to tell a contrary he couldn’t, he would.” Preacher laughed. “Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?”
Thoroughly confused, and really wanting to ask what in the world a contrary might be, the mover sighed and stood up, returning to his family.
Very soon after supper was eaten wanting to ask what in the world a contrary might be, the mover sighed and stood up, returning to his family.
Very soon after supper was eaten and the dishes washed, the movers began settling down for sleep. Trapper Jim brought over a fresh pot of coffee and the mountain men relaxed, drinking the hot, strong brew.
“When you think they’ll hit us?” Jim asked.
“You feel it too, huh?” Dupre asked.
“Yeah. My guess is just as soon as the people get good asleep. I don’t think they’re gonna wait too long.”
“That’s a good thought,” Preacher said. “We’ll just drink this here coffee and then take up positions. Our backs is in pretty good shape, backed up to the bluffs. East is clear enough. West and south’ll be the way they’ll hit us.” He drained his cup. “I reckon it’s time to go to work.”
The First Mountain Man Page 18
