by F. M. Parker
He and his men had pulled their traps early, for they wanted to be first on the river. They had packed their furs upon the backs of the horses and fought their way down from the mountains through a driving snowstorm. With the fierce wind pounding their backs and snow frozen to the tails of the horses, the men had struck the plains.
The band headed due east, passing through the land of the Crow Indian, who liked to make war, and reached the Missouri River in ten days. A camp had been made and the horses staked out in a low swale, back from the river and hidden from view.
For the past four days DeBreen and his band had lain in wait for the weather to change. Now the sun’s rays had finally gained some warmth. The snow in the mountains was melting and the spring runoff had commenced.
During the period DeBreen had trapped in the Rocky Mountains the best fur areas had moved ever farther north up the great string of peaks. He estimated there were one hundred and fifty white trappers in the mountains north of Denver City. Sometimes he would encounter a group of them in the high valleys, or low on the broad plains, going east to the fur markets, their horses loaded with bundles of valuable pelts.
As the distance had increased between the trapping areas and the major fur-buying companies in St. Joe, some of the trappers stopped using horses to transport their catches across the plains to market. Instead they would strike out for the nearest reach of the Missouri River, and there build rafts from the plentiful logs found in the driftwood piles. Lying lazily on their crude crafts, the trappers would float their furs down to St. Joe on the head of the spring runoff from the mountains.
The Missouri River would carry them along at six, seven, sometimes eight miles per hour, faster than a horse could walk. By keeping their crafts in the center of the current and away from the banks, the men were reasonably safe from attack by Indians, the Sioux on the upper stretches and, farther down river, the Pawnee.
The river travelers were much safer than the trappers who journeyed by horseback—at least until they encountered DeBreen and his men.
“You cheated.” Gossard’s angry voice came from behind the pile of driftwood. “That’s the only way you could have beat my hand of cards.”
“Oh, hell, Gossard, you’ve been saying that all winter to account for your lousy playing,” replied Hammler in a testy voice. “I’m getting tired of your complaining.”
“I say you cheated this time for sure,” retorted Gossard.
“I’ll show you who cheated,” said Hammler. He started to climb to his feet.
“Hammler, sit down,” ordered DeBreen. “And you, Gossard, shut your mouth. I don’t want any more noise out of either of you. I’ll come down there and stomp the next loudmouth.”
DeBreen glared down at the two men. They were becoming harder to control as the long weeks passed. To pass the time, the gang members spent much time playing cards. They had few coins or bills with which to bet. The third man, the silent Stanker, had carved wooden chips of several sizes. With values assigned to the chips, they played for each other’s furs. Now Hammler and DeBreen owned nearly every pelt the group had trapped.
However, the finances of the losers, and the winners alike, would soon be immensely increased. Any day now, furs worth several thousands of dollars would come drifting past them on the river. DeBreen and his men would do a little killing and take that fortune for themselves.
Still watching Hammler and Gossard, DeBreen spoke in a surly tone. “Do either one of you want to argue with me?”
Neither man answered. DeBreen spoke again, this time in a mollifying voice. “Sound travels far across water. There could be a raft with men just up there beyond the bend of the river. Even with the water noise they might hear you. So watch yourselves.”
The two men nodded reluctantly, their angry eyes turned down at the ground.
“Good,” said DeBreen. “Stanker, check the loads in those two extra rifles. We may need them.”
“Sure,” said Stanker. He reached to pick up the nearest weapon.
Stanker was DeBreen’s second in command. He had traveled with DeBreen for ten years. He went a little crazy when drunk and totally wild in a fight. However, he was the best man with a knife that DeBreen had ever encountered. Almost as skilled as DeBreen himself.
DeBreen had taken Gossard and Hammler into his band after the deaths of two prior members. The two were expendable, as every band of men must have an expendable element to throw into unknown and possibly quite dangerous situations. DeBreen hoped the men never figured out why they had been allowed to join up with him. Stanker knew. But he would never tell them.
DeBreen faced back upriver. He sat without moving. The hours slid by. Nothing moved on the two-hundred-yard-wide river except the muddy water. Once a flock of crows cawing loudly to each other flapped past overhead. The black gang drove off to the north, their raucous voices finally fading away to nothing.
The sun rolled up its ancient path, touched the zenith, and started its long, falling trajectory toward the western horizon. DeBreen stood up and stretched, his huge chest expanding, his thick arms reaching above his head. He reseated himself and became motionless again. His slate- gray eyes, small and deeply set in bony sockets, watched the rolling water.
“Here they come.” DeBreen’s voice was hard, yet joyous. A brown object nearly the same color as the river water had come into sight at the bend of the river. A second raft trailing the first came into view.
“All of you keep your heads down until I give the word. Pick your targets carefully and shoot every last man. Don’t get in a hurry and miss. The rafts will be moving slow, and you’ll have plenty of time.” He knew there would be few, if any, misses. All the men were deadly with a rifle.
He glanced down at his own rifle, leaning against the log on which he sat. There should be sufficient time to reload once, maybe twice. The men on the exposed deck of the raft wouldn’t have much of a chance to fight back. And no chance to survive.
The rafts steadily drew nearer, growing in size. The second one tagged along about a hundred feet behind the first. A man worked slowly and leisurely at the long arms of each of the crude sweeps used for steering, and located at the rear end of the rafts. DeBreen strained to see how many men they would have to fight.
“I count six men,” said Stanker in a whisper as he peered out through an opening in the pile of driftwood. “Three on each raft. God Almighty, look at the number and size of those bales of furs! They’ve got ten times as much fur as we got. They musta found a virgin valley to trap.”
“Quiet,” DeBreen whispered back. “If the men try to hide behind the furs, shoot right through them. They won’t stop a bullet.”
He jumped down from the log and, leaving his rifle behind, stepped out to the very point of the peninsula, where he would be most visible. He began to wave his arms over his head. There were six men on the rafts to his four, yet a surprise attack from a protected position would more than even the odds.
“Help! Help!” DeBreen shouted in a stentorian voice. “Come get me. Indians have killed my horses. I don’t have a gun.”
At DeBreen’s first movement the men on the rafts instantly picked up their rifles. They looked across the water at DeBreen a few seconds, and then along the riverbank. They began to call back and forth between the rafts.
DeBreen guessed the range at two hundred yards. If the rafts continued on their present courses, some of them might escape the ambush. They had to be lured closer.
DeBreen quickly stripped off his buckskin shirt. His naked body was startlingly white.
He waved the shirt in large arcs above his head. “I’m a white man,” he yelled at the top of his voice. “For God’s sake, help me. Don’t leave me here.”
The man on the lead raft vigorously began to swing his sweep. The craft started to inch across the current toward the point of land where DeBreen stood. The second raft also began to crab across the river but at less of an angle, gradually falling farther astern.
DeBreen rec
ognized the strategy of the trappers. The men on the second raft would hold some distance off the land, and in the event of an attack they could support their comrades and fire upon the enemy. DeBreen’s plan could fail.
He backed up, close to his rifle. He whispered over his shoulder. “You three shoot the men on the far raft first. Then, when all those fellows are dead, help me with the others. Do you hear me?”
“Okay. We all hear you.” Stanker’s voice came from the pile of driftwood.
“We’re not stopping,” called the man at the sweep of the closer craft. “I don’t want to get pinned against the shore by the current. You’ll have to swim out and climb aboard as we pass.”
“I can’t swim,” lied DeBreen.
“Fella, that’s your problem,” called the man on the raft. “We’re not stopping for any reason.”
DeBreen studied the raft, still above the point of land and moving diagonally in his direction. It was being carried very swiftly downstream by the current. The distance was barely thirty yards.
“Come in close so that I can wade out.” DeBreen brought a pleading tone into his voice. He threw a quick glance at the second raft. It had come to within a hundred yards. The men would be easy targets, every one. But the craft was nearly even with the point of land. In a moment the trappers on the river would be able to see DeBreen’s men behind the driftwood pile.
DeBreen pivoted around, scooped up his rifle, and jumped behind the driftwood. He snapped up his rifle, sighted down the long barrel, and shot the man at the sweep of the nearer raft.
The man was knocked backward, his hands torn loose from the handle of the sweep. He screamed a harrowing pitch, instantly silenced as he tumbled into the rolling brown water of the river.
As DeBreen ducked down out of danger, a bullet struck the log in front of him with a savage thud. He was surprised that one of the men on the river could return his fire so quickly. Then he grinned at the crashing volley of rifle fire from his men.
DeBreen speedily reloaded as he moved to a new location behind the pile of river debris. He peered cautiously out at the first raft. A man crouched low behind a bale of furs. DeBreen raised up, thrust out his rifle, and fired. The man fell into the river with a bullet in his brain.
Three more shots rang out from his men. No answering fire came from either raft.
“They’re all down, or in the river,” Stanker called. He came out of hiding and stood on the narrow beach in front of the driftwood. “We got to catch the rafts or they’ll soon be in St. Joe,” he said.
Gossard and Hammler walked out to stand beside Stanker. DeBreen finished reloading his rifle and joined his men near the water’s edge.
Only one man remained on the nearer raft. The trapper that one of DeBreen’s men had shot lay flat on his back where he had fallen. On the more distant raft, a man lay draped over a bale of furs. Another hung with his legs dragging in the river. Neither moved.
“Where’s the third man that was on the far raft?” asked DeBreen.
“I shot him,” said Stanker. “Knocked him over the side. He never came to the surface.”
“Then that accounts for all of them,” said DeBreen. “Gossard, you’re the best swimmer. You catch that furthest raft and bring it in to shore as fast as you can. Hammler, you get the closer one.”
“That water’s god-awful cold,” replied Gossard. “But for all those furs I’d go into hell to get them.”
Gossard and Hammler stripped off their clothing. They waded into the water to their waists.
Hammler shivered. “This is the first bath I’ve had in six months and it’s got to be in ice water.” He dived into the river.
Gossard pushed out into the water until it reached his shoulders. “The current is damn strong,” he said. He kicked off into the brown flow. He swam skillfully, slicing through the water with little apparent effort. He rapidly overtook the bobbing raft. He reached up to catch hold of the edge of the craft.
The man that hung over the bale of furs abruptly jumped erect and sprang across the raft. He grabbed Gossard by the hair of his head and jerked his chin up. A long skinning knife flashed as it was plunged into Gossard’s throat.
The man shoved Gossard back into the water. Hastily he sheathed his knife and moved to the sweep handle.
DeBreen saw the killing of his man. One of the trappers was a trickster. DeBreen’s rifle jumped to his shoulder. The range to the speeding raft was long, very long. But he would allow for that. The rifle roared.
The man on the raft spun to the side, his arms flinging out. Still spinning, he tumbled into the river. The brown current of the Missouri took him with but a ripple.
5
Sam Wilde felt the bullet tear through his stomach. Then he was spinning out of control, falling. An instant later the water of the river engulfed him. Down, down he sank, a sickening blackness drawing across his mind.
Sam’s muscles were like wet strings, refusing to respond to the frantic commands of his weakening mind. He could not prevent the current of the river from rolling and tumbling him with its twisting, wet current. He concentrated his last ounce of strength on fighting to hold at bay the terrible pain and invading darkness. To become unconscious was to allow the icy water to drown him.
He partially won the battle. One corner of his mind remained clear and functioning. He struck feebly upward through the slippery water that encased him in its frigid embrace. His lungs screamed for air. He reached high up, but there was only more water above his head. Then a down-dipping current caught Sam and drove him to the bottom of the river.
His feet touched the gravelly bottom and he kicked upward. He broke the surface and gulped a huge draft of the life-giving air. God! How sweet.
He hastily looked around on all sides. One of the rafts, propelled by a naked man at the sweep, was just reaching the land some one hundred yards upstream from Sam. Downriver, the decoy man ran at full speed along the bank. He came parallel to the second raft and then slightly ahead of it. He jerked off his trousers and moccasins and lunged into the river. He swam strongly in the direction of the raft.
Holding low in the water, Sam began to stroke weakly toward the shore. He was in the center of the river more than a hundred yards from land. Wounded, and with the water so cold and swift, he doubted he could swim the long distance.
Sam made slow headway toward the distant, brush-covered bark. The river was all powerful, rushing speedily downstream with him. He seemed little more than part of the floating brush and muddy foam that went where the river willed.
He struggled on across the tide of water. His muscles had weakened to almost nothing, sapped by the loss of blood and the water, which still held winter in its depths. Then abruptly the wild current slackened as Sam broke free and into almost still water behind a point of land.
He pulled himself out of the deep water and into the shallows. Here, the muddy fingers of the rising river swirled and flowed around the stems of the brush that grew along the edge of the shore. He tried to stand up but was too weak to rise to his feet. He crawled, wounded creature that he was, up on the bank.
He lifted his buckskin shirt. The bullet had struck him in the back just below the rib cage and had continued onward, plowing through the flesh of his stomach and tearing free at the front. He could put a finger in the hellish holes— 50-caliber at least. Blood leaked steadily from the hideous injury.
He cursed Farrow, the chief of the party, now dead, who had argued so strenuously that the trapper who called from the shore must be helped. Sam had sensed a trap and had tried to convince the others of his group not to stop. But he had been the most inexperienced of the lot and the others had not been swayed by his argument. Now they were all dead. He had seen them fall.
When the attack commenced, Sam had fired at the man who had decoyed them in toward the shore. Sam wanted to put a bullet through the white skin that had betrayed them, but the man moved too speedily. The bullet missed.
Sam had known he was doomed on th
e exposed deck of the raft. When the bullet had nicked him on the shoulder, he had exaggerated the tiny wound, dropping his empty rifle and falling across a bale of furs. When the robber started to crawl out of the water to take the raft, Sam had killed him. But that was only partial payment for what they had done.
Sam dragged himself a little farther from the rising river. His head dropped as total blackness caught him.
***
Sam slowly came to consciousness. He lay in some tall grass above the fringe of brush that bordered the river’s edge. He could hear the wet, watery rumble of the river nearby. He was terribly cold. The westering sun, shining fully upon him, held little warmth.
Cautiously he lifted his head to look around. He jerked, startled. A tall man with a long horse face stood upstream not two hundred feet away from Sam. He held a rifle ready in his hands. The man was staring toward the river and had not seen Sam rise up in the grass.
Sam immediately dropped flat and hugged the ground. If the man should come only a little closer, he could not help but spot Sam in the grass.
He felt the terrible ache in his stomach. Without rising, he twisted to look. A large patch of dirt beneath him was soaked with his blood. However, the gaping wound was now seeping only a little blood and lymph. It seemed he might have had some luck that the bullet had not struck a major vein or artery. He hoped it had not punctured his intestines. He had once seen a gut-shot man. It had taken many days full of the worst kind of pain for him to die.
Sam remained motionless watching the man through a break in the grass. He would conserve his strength until the man left. If Sam had to fight him, knife against a rifle, the outcome would be predictable.
