“Mister,” he started slowly, “I don’t know what kind of gravel you got in your craw—and I don’t really give a good goddamn. But me and my friend here is gonna take our own sweet time finishing our drinks, and I’ll thank you to mind your own damn business.”
Marlowe was in a surly mood already. He wasn’t about to tolerate anybody talking to him that way. As far as he was concerned, he was the boss in this place, and he would decide who could stay and who was not welcome. “Why, you old worn-out son of a bitch. You don’t get away with that sass in my store.” With that, he suddenly grabbed Badger by the collar and jerked him away from the counter. With his other hand, he swept the two drink glasses off the bar, sending them flying up against the wall, leaving two long streaks of whiskey to mark the spot where they landed.
Badger tried to tear away from the big man, but Marlowe’s grip on the back of his collar was too powerful. Angry and frustrated, he pulled his pistol from his belt, and stuck it in Marlowe’s belly. In a move surprisingly quick for a man of his size, Marlowe grabbed the barrel of the pistol and forced it away from him. Smirking with the confidence of a bully who was accustomed to overpowering his adversaries, Marlowe looked Badger right in the eye as he slowly forced the pistol down toward the floor. Badger knew the man had him right where he wanted him.
“Now, you son of a bitch,” Marlowe growled, “I’ll teach you to pull a gun on me.” Locking both arms around Badger in a crushing bear hug, he started slowly bending the scout over backward. Badger strained with all the strength he possessed, but Marlowe was too powerful. He could feel the pain racing along the length of his spine as he fought to resist the overpowering force.
“Let’s see how far you bend before your backbone snaps,” Marlowe grunted as he increased the pressure on the helpless trapper.
“Let’s see how big a hole this Winchester makes in your head.”
Feeling the solid thump of the rifle barrel against the back of his skull, Marlowe released his hold on Badger. His face twisted with rage, he whirled around to confront his assailant, freeing Badger to stagger a few feet away. Surprised to encounter a calm but determined young man in buckskins standing there with a Winchester leveled at him, Marlowe took a step backward. Sizing him up, he determined that this deliberate stranger might be a bit more to handle than the old trapper. Still, Marlowe had never met a man with the physical strength to get the best of him. Though tall and sturdy, Clay was still outweighed by a good many pounds. It was enough to give Marlowe confidence in his ability to bully.
“You got gall, coming in here holding a gun on me. You fire that rifle, and there’ll be fifty men in here,” Marlowe growled.
“They won’t do you much good with a hole in your belly,” Clay replied calmly. “Now as soon as your man there pours two more drinks for my friends, we’ll be leaving your hospitality.” He motioned toward the clerk with his rifle barrel. The clerk didn’t wait for Marlowe to approve, producing two more glasses in a wink.
Marlowe didn’t move. Although he was burning with the fury inside him, he said nothing while Badger and Pete hurriedly tossed their whiskey down. “It was nice talkin’ to you agin, Marlowe,” Pete taunted as he and Badger headed for the door, while Clay kept the rifle on the fuming giant.
“I can see what you’re thinking,” Clay stated, his voice level and quiet. “I wouldn’t advise it.” He began to slowly back away, following his two partners.
The rage and indignation was too much for Marlowe to allow. He waited for his chance, and it came when Clay turned to go through the doorway. Marlowe charged. Like a wounded buffalo bull, he stormed through the door after Clay. Into the open courtyard he exploded, intent upon crushing the life from the tall young man. With no show of excitement, Clay turned to meet the attack. When Marlowe’s massive hands were inches from his face, Clay deftly stepped to one side, and using his rifle as a spear, plunged the barrel deep into Marlowe’s belly. Marlowe, bent double by the blow, wheezed like a winded mule as the breath was knocked out of him. Spurred on by this added insult to his rage, he recovered quickly enough to spring at Clay once again. This time, Clay easily avoided the wildly swinging fists, and brought the barrel of his rifle across the side of Marlowe’s face with sufficient force to lay him out cold on the hard-baked clay of the courtyard.
Watching spellbound from a short distance away, Badger and Pete could only marvel at the swift efficiency with which Clay defused the situation. There was not a word spoken between them for a few seconds, then Pete observed aloud, “He’s mighty handy to have around, ain’t he?”
Figuring they had pretty much worn out their welcome at Fort Union, they wasted no time in leaving, heading for more peaceful country. Badger had a hint of a smile on his face as he considered the confrontation with Marlowe. He silently congratulated himself on his judge of character. I knowed he was cut from the right tree the first time I saw him at Fort Laramie.
Chapter 8
Encouraged by the fact that he was at last venturing into the territories frequented by the band of savages that had abducted his sister, Clay Culver rode easily in the saddle, his body moving in perfect partnership with Red’s gait. Up ahead, Badger guided his dingy gray Indian pony around the many cuts and defiles that broke away from the prairie toward the wide river they had followed since sunup that morning. Following Pete’s directions, the little party had set out to the west on the north side of the Missouri.
Watching the old scout rocking gently in the saddle before him, Clay realized how fortunate he had been to run into Badger. And he still puzzled over the fact that the crusty old mountain man would choose to guide him into hostile country, leaving his wife and friends behind, with no apparent reward for his services. Clay had yet to learn of the irresistible calling the mountains had on a man like Badger, and the constant craving to see what might lie beyond the next ridge.
Moving his head constantly from side to side, sniffing the air as he did, Badger reminded Clay of a prairie dog, scanning the plain for signs of danger. The peril—some men might call it folly—of three lone white men riding deep into Blackfoot country caused no concern in Clay’s mind. He had the utmost confidence in Badger’s ability as a scout and his own efficiency with his Winchester rifle. If there were trouble, he was confident that he could make it extremely expensive for any hostiles who might consider attacking them.
Bringing up the rear of their tiny caravan, Pete Dubois rode a shaggy brown mount that walked, head down, behind Clay’s packhorse. His eyes dulled by too many winters in the high mountains, Pete was content to let Badger lead the way, after he had advised Badger on the most direct trail to one of Black Shirt’s favorite campsites. Glancing back occasionally at the old Frenchman, Clay couldn’t help but question the wisdom in bringing Pete along. Badger felt it critical that Pete should accompany them since he was known by the Blackfeet and considered a friend, but Clay wondered if the old man was going to make it to Black Shirt’s winter camp. Like his horse, Pete rode slumped over, his head down as if each mile might be his last. Clay questioned the advisability of arriving at the Blackfoot camp with a dead man. Badger only laughed when Clay expressed his doubts, saying, “Don’t let his looks fool ya. That old buzzard might outlive the both of us.”
The weather was getting colder as each day passed, and the cool morning air promised the possibility of an early winter. The animals seemed to know it. Already there were signs that antelope were moving away from the open plains toward more sheltered valleys and beaver had already returned to their dams. Game was still abundant on the prairie, however. There should be no scarcity of fresh meat to be killed whenever they needed it.
The very vastness of the prairie seemed to capture Clay’s mind. He had seen the ocean at Portsmouth, and this country he was now crossing made much the same impression as when he had stood on the Atlantic shore, gazing out at an endless horizon. The long buffalo grass, bronzed by the summer sun, swaying in the chilly wind, reminded him of the ceaseless movement of the oc
ean. He stood up in the stirrups for a few moments, and looked all around him. There was no sign of life in any direction except for a small herd of antelope some four or five miles distant. There was a great emptiness about the country that gave him the feeling that he was the first to set foot upon that rolling plain. Settling in the saddle again, he was aware of a sense of complete serenity, content to be where he was, feeling the rhythmic motion of his horse as Red followed dutifully behind Badger’s packhorse. For a brief moment he would almost swear he could hear his name whispered on the restless wind that parted the long grass before him. Behind him, Pete glanced up briefly, watching the young man’s reaction to the country, and a faint smile creased his lips. It had been many years ago that he had felt the same sensations, but he still remembered.
They rode from sunup to near sundown, following the Missouri without sighting another human being until they left the wide river when it took a more southwesterly course after striking the Milk. There were eight of them, a small roving band of Blackfeet, camped in a grove of cottonwoods that bordered a stream Pete identified as Porcupine Creek. It was early afternoon on the fifth day on the trail, and Badger had planned to make camp in the same spot that was now occupied by the Blackfeet. He pulled up when he spotted the Indian ponies among the trees, and waited for Clay and Pete to catch up to him.
“Well, I don’t know,” Badger started when the others were beside him. “Maybe my eyes is gittin’ too old, too.” He directed his statement at Pete. “I’da damn sure rode around them devils if I’d seen ’em a mite sooner.”
Pete shaded his eyes with one hand while he strained to make out the party in the trees. “I can’t see nuthin’ at this distance. How many is there?”
“Eight, near as I can tell,” Badger replied.
“Why don’t we just ride around them?” Clay wondered aloud.
“Too late for that,” Badger said. “They’ve done spotted us. The worse thing we could do is to let ’em think we’re runnin’ from ’em. We’d best just ride on in and say howdy—let ’em know we ain’t a’scared of them.” He glanced at Pete. “Ain’t that what you say, Pete?”
“Reckon you’re right,” Pete agreed. “Can’t show no fear. Blackfoot’ll sneak up on you at night, or early morning if he’s gonna raid you. But if you show any sign of runnin’, he’ll chase you all the way to St. Louie.”
Badger nudged his horse and started out again. Glancing back at Clay, he said, “Keep that rifle of your’n handy. You might have to use it.”
“Maybe they’re some of that bunch I know,” Pete said, “and there might not be no fuss a’tall.”
“Maybe,” Badger replied with more than a hint of skepticism in his voice. He could remember a few past encounters with Blackfeet—none of them pleasant.
Clay reached down and eased his Winchester up a little to make sure it was riding free and easy in its elkskin scabbard. He would not hesitate to break it out if the Indians showed any indication of aggression. In spite of Badger’s opinion, he was not convinced that they had been spotted by the party at the creek. There was no sign of activity. They appeared to be seated around a fire, taking no notice of the three approaching white men. Close enough now to clearly see into the cottonwoods, Clay could count only seven warriors. Just as he was about to decide that Badger had miscounted, a lone warrior rode up out of a coulee off to their left, and paralleled them as they approached the camp, pacing them on his pony. Reckon that’s why Badger was sure they spotted us, Clay thought, and smiled to himself. I guess I’ve got a lot to learn about this country.
When they had closed to within fifty yards of the cottonwoods, Badger raised his arm and called out a greeting, asking if they could enter the camp. He was immediately answered by one of the Indians, politely inviting the three white men to approach. The warriors who had been seated around the fire showed no signs of excitement beyond getting to their feet. The white men continued on toward the camp. As they neared the creekbank, both parties were intent upon sizing up the other. Clay noted the absence of repeating rifles among the warriors. A couple of them carried what appeared to be army Springfields, some were armed with old Hudson’s Bay fusees, an unreliable musket at best. From the polite reception, he could guess that the Blackfoot warriors had taken note of the white men’s superior weaponry.
A tall hawk-faced warrior stepped forward to meet them, eyeing the three visitors curiously. He glanced from one to the other several times as if trying to recognize them. “Welcome,” he finally said. “It’s strange to see white men this far from the fort.”
“You know any of ‘em?” Badger asked under his breath.
“Nope,” Pete quickly returned. Then speaking out to the Blackfoot warrior, he said, “We are on our way to find Black Shirt’s camp.”
“Ah . . . Black Shirt,” Hawk Face replied, nodding his head solemnly. He paused for a moment, then: “You have business with Black Shirt? Maybe guns and whiskey to trade?” He craned his neck to look around Pete, curious about the loaded packhorses. The others in his party now became more interested in the conversation, and some of them moved slowly to positions on both sides of the white men. Clay pulled gently on the reins, backing Red up a few paces to make sure all eight of the Indians remained in front of him just in case they might harbor some ideas about closing in behind them. The precautionary move did not go unnoticed by the warriors, and the hand resting on the butt of his Winchester tended to discourage any further thoughts along those lines.
“No,” Pete answered. “We have no whiskey. We carry only food for our journey. We go to visit our friends. My wife was a member of Black Shirt’s village. She is in the land of the spirits now. We go as friends to visit the great chief.”
Hawk Face considered this for a moment. “I think Black Shirt’s village is many days ride that way.” He pointed toward the west. “It might be dangerous for only three men to ride there alone. Perhaps it would be wise to travel with us.” He was talking to Pete, but his eyes were on Clay’s horse. The handsome chestnut had attracted the gaze of most of the other warriors as well, causing Clay to draw back another step to keep all eight in view.
Badger answered for Pete. “We thank you for your hospitality,” he started in the Blackfoot tongue, not so fluent as Pete’s, and supplemented with sign language, “but we have to move on. We don’t plan to stop while the sun is still high.”
There was a genuine expression of disappointment in Hawk Face’s eyes, accompanied by a low murmur of half whispered comments among his brothers. Hawk Face’s frown immediately turned to a contrived smile, and he waved his arm in a welcoming gesture. “Come. Get off your ponies. We will have something to eat. Then we can trade. We have many fine pelts to trade. I’ll trade you for that horse.”
I knew that damn horse was gonna attract attention, Badger thought. To the Blackfoot he said, “That horse is big white man medicine. We cannot trade him.” He glanced briefly at Clay, knowing his young friend could not understand a word being said.
“Ah . . . I see,” Hawk Face replied softly, his head nodding again in confirmation. “Too bad, he is an unusual pony. But no matter, you must eat with us before you go on. We have fresh-killed buffalo.”
Pete and Badger exchanged cautious glances, both knowing it would be considered extremely impolite to refuse the invitation. “Thank you,” Pete replied. “We are honored to accept your hospitality.”
The three white men dismounted and joined the Blackfoot warriors by the fire. Clay didn’t have to be told to keep his rifle with him. He wasn’t sure if by doing so he might be insulting his hosts, but he didn’t think it was worth the risk to leave it on his saddle. Then he noticed that Badger and Pete both cradled their weapons in their arms. If the Indians were offended, they made no sign of it. In return for the feast of buffalo hump, Badger supplied some coffee and a little sack of dried apples. The apples especially seemed to please the hawk-faced Blackfoot, who introduced himself as Many Scalps.
While the strips of meat si
zzled over the flames, Clay looked around the half circle of warriors seated on the other side of the fire. Blank expressions greeted him as he looked from one man to the next, but all eyes seemed to be locked on the shiny Winchester cradled in his arms. He was waiting for one of them to ask to examine it, knowing that he was damn sure going to refuse. And he wondered if that was going to be the fuse that would ignite a rather volatile situation. But to his surprise, no request came to handle the weapon.
Many Scalps suggested that the white men should unsaddle their horses and let them graze with their small herd of Indian ponies. Badger declined, explaining once again that the three of them must hurry on their way. When they had eaten the meat offered them, they wasted no time in expressing their thanks, and were back in the saddle as soon as politeness allowed. Crossing the creek and leaving the cottonwoods behind, all three continued to look back, waving good-bye to their dinner companions until they felt it was safe to turn their backs and gallop.
When they had put considerable distance between them and Porcupine Creek, Badger reined back to let the horses rest. “Well, that was right tasty buffalo hump,” he allowed.
“Maybe somebody ought to explain to me how we got away from that surly-looking bunch without a fight,” Clay said. He had read the treachery in their hosts’ eyes as well as anyone.
Badger snorted, “Oh, we ain’t done with that bunch yet. They’ll be payin’ us a little visit tonight, if’n they can find us.” He unconsciously glanced toward their backtrail as if they might already be coming. “I was plannin’ on campin’ back yonder tonight, but there’s daylight left yet. We can make the forks of the Milk before dark if we push these horses a little harder.” If Pete had a better idea, he didn’t express it, so they spurred their mounts on to cover the additional twelve or fourteen miles to reach the Milk River.
Savage Cry Page 14
