Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Flat and endless, the plain behind them showed no signs of pursuit for as far as Clay could see, and he began to wonder if Badger might be a bit overcautious. He didn’t doubt the Blackfeet’s capacity for treachery, but Many Scalps would be careless indeed to lead his warriors into the field of fire he and Badger could lay down with their repeating rifles. Still, he had learned not to question Badger’s wisdom in matters pertaining to hostiles.

  It was a little before dark when the three riders approached the line of scrubby trees that marked the Milk River. Badger continued on until he came to a small island, formed by a fork in the river. “I reckon this is as good a place as we’re likely to find. This way, they’re gonna have to cross water to git to us from any direction, and it’ll be damn hard to sneak in and run our horses off.”

  In the twilight of the evening, they crossed the horses over and hobbled them, which Clay thought a bit unnecessary; they were on an island, after all. But Badger said he wasn’t about to take a chance that one of the damn-fool horses might decide to cross over to get to some better-looking grass on the other bank.

  Pete nodded approval. “I lost a mule one night, seven or eight years ago on the Missouri. He just decided to go for a swim, I reckon. Just set out toward the middle and floated downstream. There wasn’t no way I could git to him before the current washed him ’round a bend in the river. I climbed on my horse and rode down around the bend, but there warn’t no sign of mule or anything else. He either drowned or wound up in St. Louie, I reckon. ’Course that was a mule. Mules can be mighty peculiar at times.”

  “Amen to that,” Badger agreed. “Some says they’re smarter’n horses, though. Ain’t neither one of ’em got much sense, to my way of thinkin’.”

  “You really think those Blackfeet will try to attack us tonight?” Clay asked, as he checked his rifle to make sure it didn’t get wet crossing the river.

  “I expect so,” Badger answered, busy checking his own weapon. He cocked a mischievous eye at Clay. “It’d be against their religion not to make a try for that fancy horse of your’n—that, and help theirselves to our rifles and the rest of our plunder.”

  “I expect they ain’t gonna be too happy when they find out we’re camped on this little island,” Pete offered. “It’s gonna make their work a mite harder for ’em. They’d like to come sneakin’ up on us at night on foot, and two or three of ’em run the horses off while the rest jump us in our blankets.”

  “Well, they’re gonna have to swim fer it tonight,” Badger said. “Clay, that log out near the point is a good spot for that rifle of your’n.” Clay nodded and immediately started toward the water’s edge where an old log lay half submerged. “Keep your eyes peeled, son,” Badger called after him. “They’ll be comin’ after dark. I’ll be between them two willows yonder.” He pointed them out, and Clay nodded again. Pete positioned himself on the backside of the tiny island so they were deployed in a triangle with the horses in the middle. With each man in position, and each man knowing where the other two were so there wouldn’t be any danger of accidentally shooting each other, there was nothing left to do but wait for the visitors Badger was certain would come.

  Clay spent a few minutes fashioning a rifle pit for himself behind the eight-foot piece of tree trunk by scooping some of the dirt from behind the log. When he was satisfied that he had enough cover from any shots from across the narrow channel of water, he propped his rifle against the log and settled back to watch the opposite bank. Already it was getting dark, but he could still see Badger about thirty yards off to his left, digging sand away from the base of the larger of the two willows. Fixing the exact spot in his mind before it became too dark to see clearly, he then looked to his right to verify Pete’s position. Confident that he wouldn’t shoot either of them in the heat of battle, he then settled down to wait.

  The lonesome call of a night bird signaled the end of twilight. It seemed to quiet the humming and buzzing of the daylight creatures that had gone unnoticed until their busy chatter suddenly ceased. Silence descended upon the river. As the night deepened, the gentle gurgling of the water seemed to become louder, or perhaps it was simply because he had been unaware of it before the chilly cloak of darkness brought it to his ear.

  Hours passed with no sound to disturb the gentle night, except the occasional stomping of a horse’s hoof as the animals grew impatient with their hobbles. Clay looked toward the two willows where Badger lay, unable to make his friend out in the dark shadows. What if he’s asleep? he wondered, then immediately rejected the notion. Badger was in a position directly opposite Clay’s point on the island—these two the most likely places to come under attack from the opposite shore—while Pete was posted farther back toward the rearmost part of the little island. Badger did not express it, but Clay knew that he and Badger would most likely catch the brunt of an attack. He had stationed Pete farther away because he could no longer trust the old man’s vision. This arrangement was fine with Clay.

  Still more time passed with no threat of attack. Clay looked up into a sky filled with tiny pinpricks of light, a deep starry field of soft velvet. No night could be more peaceful, he thought as he fished in his pocket for a piece of dried buffalo jerky. He had not taken the first bite when a dark object caught his eye. At first he thought it was something floating on the water. But then he became immediately alert because the object did not drift downstream with the current. It was making a steady course straight across the river. Muskrat? he wondered. Maybe. He continued to stare at the dark stretch of water. After another second, a second object appeared, bobbing after the first, and it was clear to him then that the objects were heads. Badger had been right in his prediction.

  Clay carefully replaced the jerky in the pocket of his buckskin shirt, and reached over to retrieve his rifle from its resting place against the log, never taking his eyes from the river. Laying the barrel across a notch in the log that had been formed by a broken limb, he waited. Two of them, he noted. Wait, there’s another coming out from under the shadow of a willow. His eyes moved rapidly back and forth across the dark bank, searching the shadows. Still he waited. Finally, when he was certain there were no more than three, he returned his full attention to the two lead Blackfeet, by then no more than a few yards from the island.

  He and Badger had not worked out any form of signal between themselves. In fact, there had been no discussion about what to do when the Blackfoot warriors actually made a try for the horses. Clay didn’t give it much thought at the moment. There was little doubt in his mind that the Indians meant to murder the three of them if they got the chance. My rifle will be signal enough, he thought as he drew the Winchester’s sights down on the leading head. A split second later, the gentle fabric of night was ripped apart by the roar of Clay’s rifle. Almost before his first bullet smashed the unsuspecting warrior’s skull, Clay shifted his aim to send the second Blackfoot to follow his brother to the spirit world. He quickly drew his rifle around for a third shot, but the third head had disappeared beneath the water. Across the tiny island, he heard Badger’s rifle, barking out in the night—three, four times—and then there was quiet again.

  “Clay!” Badger called out as Clay crawled to the other end of the log in case the remaining warriors had spotted his muzzle flash. “How many?”

  “Three here,” Clay returned. “I got two. The other one went underwater somewhere.”

  “Three come across here,” Badger called back. “I got one fer sure. I ain’t sure about the other two.” That left two more of the Blackfoot party that weren’t accounted for. “Pete!” Badger called again. “You all right?” There had been no rifle fire from that corner of the island.

  Clay listened. There was no reply from the old Frenchman. He immediately swung around, ready to repel any attack from behind, but there was no one there. A quick look told him that the horses were all right, although the sudden shooting had caused them to raise a fuss. Clay quickly turned his attention back toward the river, anxious
to try to spot the warrior who had ducked underwater. There was no sign of him, and Clay decided that he had evidently made it back into the shadows on the other side. Now his concern was for Pete, and the whereabouts of the two unaccounted-for Blackfeet.

  “Pete!” Badger called out. Then he shouted the name again.

  “Yeah,” the reply finally came back, “I’m all right.”

  No more than an instant later, two musket flashes exploded from among the horses. Clay threw himself flat on the ground. Then he realized that the shots had been fired toward the rear of the island, where Pete was dug in. They were at the horses! Now the horses were bucking and screaming, having been startled by the two muskets fired practically from right under them. Clay didn’t hesitate any longer. He was up and running in the wink of an eye. The other two Indians must have somehow gotten by Pete, unaware of his presence, and had shot at him when he answered Badger’s call.

  Rushing headlong into the thicket where the horses were hobbled, Clay surprised two dark forms in the shadows hurriedly trying to reload their muskets. When they heard him charging through the bushes, they turned to meet his attack. Unable to complete the loading of the old muskets, they stood ready to use them as clubs. One shot from Clay’s rifle doubled over the one nearest him, and he crumpled to the ground. The other, recognizing the inevitable, sprang into the bushes, and ran for the river. Clay slowly raised his rifle and sighted on the running warrior. He held it there for a few seconds, then lowered it again, watching the fleeing Blackfoot until he dived into the river and began swimming for his life. There had been enough killing. “Pete!” he yelled.

  “I’m all right,” came the reply from the deep shadows near the rearmost point on the island.

  “Well, keep low and keep your eyes peeled,” Clay responded. “I’m gonna get back to my position.” After making sure that the horses were safe, he went back to the log on the point to make sure there was no further assault from across the river. All was quiet.

  “Clay! You and Pete all right?”

  “We’re all right,” Clay answered. “Two of ’em got to the horses, but it didn’t do ’em any good.”

  “I don’t expect we’ll see any more of them devils tonight. They’ve done lost too many—three for shore.”

  “Four,” Clay corrected. “There’s one laying over by the horses.”

  “Well, hell, I know they won’t try us again now,” Badger said. “We’ve done kilt half of ’em. It’s still a couple hours till daylight. We’d best stay where we are till sunup. Then we can see what’s what.” Clay agreed. Then Badger called out to Pete once more. “You hear that, Pete? Just sit tight.” As before, there was no answer from the old Frenchman. “Pete?” Still there was no answer. “Now what the hell . . . ?” Badger mumbled. Clay could hear him rustling around in the branches of the willows as he got to his feet. Then: “Pete!” This time it was almost a roar.

  “Yeah?” a faint reply came from the darkness.

  Exasperated, Badger repeated his instructions to stay put till sunup. Clay could still hear him mumbling as he situated himself between the two willows once more.

  The morning broke, clear and chilly. From their defensive positions, the three embattled white men peered through the mist rising from the river. Watching carefully, his eyes lingering on every gully and defile on the opposite side before moving on, Clay scanned the empty riverbank. There was no sign of the Blackfoot war party.

  “I reckon they run off during the night,” he heard Badger saying behind him, and he turned to see his two partners leaving their positions and heading for the thicket where the horses were hobbled. Picking up his empty cartridges, he got to his feet and went to join them.

  Badger was busy stacking a pile of sticks and small limbs to build a fire while Pete bent low over the Blackfoot corpse, still doubled over, frozen in his death agonies. “Many Scalps,” Pete muttered when Clay walked up.

  “Damned if it ain’t,” Clay responded. Then remembering the circumstances of the night before, he wondered aloud, “How the hell did those two get to the horses?”

  Badger supplied the answer. “Hell, they strolled right by Pete, that’s how.”

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” Pete protested. Badger’s simple statement amounted to an insult to a mountain man. “It was too dark down in that pocket to see anything.”

  “Shit fire,” Badger snorted. “That’s the only thing that saved your worn-out hide. Them two didn’t know you were there till I called you and you answered.”

  “Yeah,” Pete replied indignantly. “And I can thank you for that. I got two lead balls whistling by my ass ’cause I answered you. I was just lucky they didn’t have nuthin’ but them cheap old guns.”

  Knowing the old man was mortified that the two Indians had walked right by him in the dark, Badger was not above chastising him nonetheless. “You was right about one thing, you’re damn shore blind as a bat. But, I swear, I didn’t know you was deef, too. We thought you was dead a couple of times. I had to holler like hell to git you to answer.”

  “Yeah? And you can kiss my gray-haired ass, too, Badger. You ain’t that far from a rockin’ chair yourself.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, when that day comes, I reckon I’ll have sense enough to stay by the fire. I shoulda left you back at Fort Union.”

  “Why you ol’ polecat,” Pete huffed like a chicken with its feathers ruffled, “you’re the one what wanted me to come with you ’cause you’re afraid of the Blackfeet.”

  Badger was about to retort, but the argument was ended abruptly when a bullet smacked into the middle of the fire, sending flaming sticks flying. It was followed immediately by the sharp crack of a Springfield rifle. All three men dived for cover behind a low mound of sand. The first shot was followed by a second report that sent a lead ball ripping through the leaves over their heads. That was the start of a methodical barrage of fire from the two Springfields, firing as rapidly as the two warriors could reload.

  “Damn. I reckon they didn’t turn tail at that,” Badger grunted as he hugged the sandy ground beneath him. He looked around him as best he could before deciding, “And this ain’t the best of spots to defend.” It was obvious that the two Blackfoot riflemen could keep them pinned down, even if they couldn’t get a clean shot at the three behind the mound. “Maybe they’re just givin’ us a little farewell salute before takin’ off.”

  Pete disagreed. “Blackfoot don’t take kindly to white folks to begin with, and we’ve kilt four of their warriors. I expect them four that’s left is bent on taking some revenge for the ones we kilt. They’ll wait us out—till we starve or make a run fer it.”

  After a short while, the Blackfeet grew tired of wasting their ammunition firing at the sandy mound. Impatient for some form of retaliation for the loss of their four brothers, they shifted their fire to concentrate on the thicket where the horses were hobbled. “Hellfire,” Badger swore, “I didn’t think they’d shoot at the horses!” Without waiting for anyone to give the order, all three beat a hasty retreat toward the thicket, crawling, running, and scrambling to make the cover of the thick bushes before a rifle ball caught them in the open.

  “Put ’em down!” Badger yelled as he reached for his horse’s head, and wrestled the animal to the ground. “Lay on his neck!”

  The packhorses would have to be left to take their chances on being hit. Each man went for his best horse. In a few short moments, Pete was lying across the neck of his horse, but Clay was having difficulty with Red. Unlike the two smaller Indian ponies, the big chestnut was frightened by his master’s sudden wrenching of his neck, and his inclination was to fight it. With bullets ripping through the leaves around him, Clay struggled with the confused horse. In a panic created by the gunfire from the opposite bank and his master’s strange assault upon him, Red jerked his head free and reared up on his hind legs, knocking Clay flat on his back. He was a target the Blackfoot rifles could not miss. One bullet crashed through the ribcage of the screaming horse whi
le the second drove deep into his broad chest.

  Stunned by the sight of his magnificent sorrel crumpling in a heap among the tangle of brush and vines, Clay could only cry out in shocked disbelief. “Red! Red!” he wailed. The big horse managed to pull himself up once more before sinking to the ground again, his legs collapsing under him. Clay crawled quickly over to him, trying to get Red on his feet, but the handsome chestnut stallion slowly rolled over on his side, and Clay knew he had lost him.

  Ignoring Badger’s shouts to put his packhorse down to keep it from getting shot, Clay just sat there for a long moment, half in disbelief, half mourning the loss of the best horse he had ever owned—and the only one he had ever stolen. Sitting there with Red’s head in his lap, Clay was oblivious to the continuous rifle fire from across the river, even the occasional round that found the carcass of his horse. He barely registered the sound of Badger’s voice, seemingly in the distance, as the old trapper pleaded, “Clay, git down! Dammit! Git down!”

  Clay looked around at Badger and Pete, pinned to the ground, laying across their horses’ necks, then back at his own dead horse. Suddenly the sense of great loss was replaced by one of anger, pure white-hot anger, over the senseless killing of such a fine animal. He grabbed his Winchester and cocked it.

  “Clay! For God’s sake, what are you doin’? Tryin’ to git yourself kilt?” Badger thought his young friend had lost his senses.

  “They shot my damn horse,” was all Clay answered as he climbed up over the sand mound and started running toward the log he had spent the night behind. Ignoring the shouts of both Badger and Pete to come back, he ran, zig-zagging across the open bank, daring the Blackfeet to hit him. With bullets kicking up sand on either side of him, he dived for cover behind the fallen tree.

  With no uncertainty of purpose, he started rocking the log to loosen the end resting in the sand until he was able to move it. Once it was free, he rolled it into the water, sliding his body into the chilly current behind it. There was a momentary pause in the firing from the opposite bank while the Blackfeet puzzled over the stange behavior of the white man. Assuming that he was making an attempt to escape by floating downstream, the warriors suddenly emerged from a long coulee where they had been hidden from view. Amid loud war whoops of excitement, the two carrying the Springfields rushed down toward the water to get a better shot at the white man in the river. Not to miss out on an apparent turkey shoot, the other two warriors ran downstream to be in position with their bows when Clay floated by. All four were taken by surprise when the man behind the log pushed straight across, heading directly for them.