Wilderness: Mountain Devil/Blackfoot Massacre (A Wilderness Western Book 5)

by Robbins, David

  For three more days they trapped using the same base camp, until the beaver at the head of the fork were almost depleted, and then Nate proposed moving the camp a bit farther down the stream. The move was accomplished in one morning, and by the afternoon they were again working their trap lines.

  Red Moon expressed an interest in learning to trap and Nate took it upon himself to teach the old Crow. The warrior’s keen mind easily grasped the essentials, and before long Red Moon could trap as well as any of them and skin beaver a lot faster.

  On the sixth day in the valley, as evening descended, Nate and Red Moon walked along a narrow creek feeding off the stream, checking their traps. They reached a beaver pond surrounded by high lodgepole pines and worked along the north shore toward a spot where they had placed a Newhouse that morning.

  “We caught one,” Red Moon said.

  A moment later Nate saw the dead beaver submerged in the cold water. He handed his Hawken to the Crow and put his left foot in the pond, idly listening to the nearby chatter of squirrels and the chirping of playful sparrows.

  Abruptly, the noises ceased.

  Nate had not spent almost five years in the wilderness for nothing. He knew animals never fell silent like that without reason, and the reason invariably was either a roving predator or passing humans. Since there were no other people in the valley except for Benteen and Sublette, who were both over by the fork, the cause for the sudden silence must be a predator.

  Visions of a hungry grizzly flitted through Nate’s mind and he reached out and took his rifle. The Crow was gazing into the forest, his expression one of questioning curiosity.

  Samson uttered a low growl.

  Nate looked down at the dog and saw it peering into the wall of vegetation, its nostrils working as it tried to pick up a scent. He cocked the Hawken to be prepared in case there was a grizzly close at hand, then waited for a telltale sign, the crashing of underbrush or the characteristic gruff rumble of a bear in a killing mood.

  Time seemed to stand still. The wind had died and not so much as a single leaf fluttered.

  As unexpectedly as the interlude began, it ended with the chirp of a robin. The wildlife resumed its normal rhythm of living and the forest was filled with the songs of birds and the buzzing of insects.

  “Must have been a bear,” Nate speculated.

  “No bear,” Red Moon said.

  “Then what was it?”

  “I do not know.”

  Nate gazed into the Indian’s dark eyes, eyes rimmed with wrinkles and reflecting a profound wisdom born of a lifetime spent in the wild. He had the impression Red Moon did know, or had guessed. A possibility occurred to him, but he promptly discarded it. Couldn’t be, he told himself. The thing that lurked in the dark only came out at night according to the Indian legends. And besides, there was no such animal,

  “I will keep watch while you get the beaver,” Red Moon offered.

  In half the time it ordinarily required, Nate had the trap out of the water and the beaver out of the trap. His hand fell on his knife, but he paused. If there was a grizzly in the vicinity, perhaps it would be wiser to remove the hide at their camp.

  “What about the last trap?” the Crow inquired.

  Nate stared off up the creek, remembering the small pond a hundred yards farther on where they had discovered a recently constructed beaver lodge. “I’ll go. You take this one back to camp,” he proposed.

  “We should go together.”

  “I can manage,” Nate insisted. He hefted the Hawken and walked off, Samson beside him as always.

  “We should go together,” Red Moon insisted, and quickly caught up with them.

  Nate glanced at the warrior’s impassive features and tried to ascertain the reason the Crow was being so persistent. As if Red Moon knew his thoughts, he met Nate’s gaze and spoke softly.

  “Perhaps you are right, Grizzly Killer. You have killed many grizzlies, so you must know them well. Perhaps there is a bear out there.”

  Was Red Moon poking fun at him? Nate wondered, but said nothing. He noticed the Crow had not brought the dead beaver and now held his rifle firmly in both hands.

  The last pond in the creek was only forty feet in circumference, the dam barely five feet high but growing higher every day as the beaver occupying the pond behind it worked continuously at improving the size of their barrier.

  Nate walked rapidly, seeing the long shadows all around them and realizing the sun had almost disappeared over the far western horizon, spearing the western sky with vivid streaks of red and orange and pink. The beautiful sunset, which ordinarily would stir his soul mightily, failed to impress him.

  The trees were farther back from this pond than the previous one, allowing them to hike around to the opposite side without having to push limbs aside or forge through brush.

  Above the surface adjacent to where the stake had been imbedded jutted the rounded tip of a beaver tail.

  “Another one,” Red Moon said. “We are very fortunate.”

  “Yes,” Nate responded, although secretly he would have been just as happy to find the Newhouse empty. Had it been, they would be on their way to camp. Now he must go into the pond and fetch the carcass.

  The frigid mountain water soaked his moccasins and the bottom of his buckskin leggings as he waded in. He grunted when he lifted the beaver, and no wonder, for it was an exceptionally large specimen weighing between forty-five and fifty pounds. Once on the bank, he stepped on the leaf springs and yanked the crushed leg out, then stepped aside. The jaws snapped shut with a loud metallic snap.

  “We’ll skin both at camp,” Nate proposed. “I’d like to get back and have a cup of coffee.”

  “I also,” Red Moon said. He pulled the stake out of the ground and dangled the trap from his shoulder by the chain.

  As they retraced their steps, Samson between them, Nate mentally chided himself for his nervousness. There was no logical excuse for him to be so jittery. Winona would be ashamed of him if she knew. Not to mention Shakespeare. He squared his shoulders and whistled as they worked their way around the larger pond to where the other trap and beaver lay. But when they got there, he drew up short in surprise.

  The trap was exactly where they had left it.

  The dead beaver, however, was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  “A panther must have taken it,” Tom Sublette stated an hour later as they sat around their roaring fire. He squatted beside it, preparing their evening meal.

  “That would be my hunch,” Milo chimed in.

  “I suppose,” Nate reluctantly agreed, although deep down he was bothered by an uneasy feeling that a panther had not been responsible. Nor had a grizzly. He couldn’t explain the feeling and that worried him even more. There were plenty of tales of mountaineers who inexplicably lost their nerve after two, five, or even ten years in the Rockies and were never the same men again. Day after day, year after year, these men contended with hostile Indians and marauding beasts without batting an eye. Then one day they changed, and they were unable to explain the change to their own or anyone else’s satisfaction. But they would pack their belongings and head off for the flatlands never to be seen west of the Mississippi again.

  “You don’t think so?” Milo asked.

  Nate shrugged, unwilling to mention his unfounded anxiety for fear of their ridicule.

  “I know!” Tom exclaimed, and laughed. “I’ll wager Nate thinks it was the thing that lurks in the dark!”

  “I do not,” Nate responded, a bit too harshly.

  Milo, who had been stretching a hide, stopped and appraised Nate as if he was examining a bug under a microscope. “Did you see any tracks?”

  “None,” Nate replied. “There was some crushed grass where a heavy foot had pressed, but not a clear print anywhere.”

  “A heavy foot would mean a bear,” Milo mentioned.

  “It could have been a bear,” Nate said in the hope they would drop the subject. No such luck.

&n
bsp; “A bear or a panther, what difference does it make?” Tom stated. “If it has filched a carcass once, it’ll be tempted to try taking another. We’ll have to be on our guard and keep our rifles handy at all times.”

  “I intend to do that,” Nate said.

  Milo devoted his attention to the hide he was working with. “The damnedest thing happened to Tom and me today,” he commented offhandedly.

  “Oh? What?” Nate asked.

  “There we were, walking between traps and talking about the land we want to buy back in Pennsylvania when this is all done with, and all of a sudden the woods became as quiet as a cemetery at midnight. The woods were like a tomb.”

  Nate exchanged glances with Red Moon.

  “Must have been the same critter that stole your beaver,” Tom guessed. “It came near us and scared everything within half a mile.”

  “Must have been,” Nate said.

  Milo chuckled. “We should count ourselves fortunate the worst we must deal with is a bear or a panther. At least the Blackfeet don’t know we’re here, or we’d really be in trouble.”

  Hours later, after Tom and Milo had fallen asleep, Nate lay on his back on his blankets and listened to the horses grazing. Red Moon was on guard and he should have felt safe and comfortable, but he felt neither. Try as he would, he couldn’t dispel the odd premonition that all was not well.

  A thought struck him with the jolt of a lightning bolt. What if the premonition concerned Winona and Zach? What if they were the ones in danger? He rolled on his side, his forearm under his ear. By now Shakespeare and Blue Water Woman were at the cabin with his wife and son, and there wasn’t a man alive who could protect them like McNair.

  For that matter, Winona was perfectly capable of looking after herself and their son. She wasn’t like many of the refined women Nate had known back in New York City, women who could flash a pretty smile and knew which dress to wear on which occasion and how to dance and curtsy and flutter a fan in the summer heat. A few could cook and fewer could sew, but they all detested the so-called drudgery of maintaining a home. They’d much rather have servants handle such menial work. They didn’t seem to realize, as Nate’s grandmother had once expressed it, that taking care of a home and rearing a family was the most noble type of work both men and women could hope to perform. And it was only a drudgery if a woman let it be so. His grandmother had often asserted that the three qualities a wife and mother needed most were ingenuity, persistence, and the patience of a rock.

  How different Winona was from those pale, spoiled women in New York. She could sew, cook, and butcher an animal with consummate skill. She could hunt, when need be, and she knew scores of edible plants. She knew more about medicinal herbs than any doctor. And, as she had demonstrated time and again, she possessed as much raw courage as any Shoshone warrior.

  Lord, she was a woman! He smiled, thinking of the last time they’d clasped one another in a passionate embrace. His lids grew heavy and began to droop, and he was on the verge of falling asleep when the stillness of the night was split by the sound of a branch breaking in half.

  Nate sat up, thoroughly awake, and looked in all directions. Some of the horses were feeding, others were lying on the ground. None appeared disturbed. He placed a hand on his rifle, and in doing so brushed his palm against Samson. The dog was gazing to the south but not in the least agitated.

  Perhaps it had been Red Moon, Nate decided. He listened for a minute longer, until satisfied there was nothing out there that posed a threat. Then he eased down and closed his eyes. He must stop being so jumpy. By tomorrow his uneasiness would have evaporated like the morning dew and he would feel like a fool for having gotten so worked up over nothing. Despite his assessment, it took him a long, long time to finally drift off.

  The next morning he felt remarkably invigorated. As he’d supposed, his anxiety was gone. During the morning hours he diligently checked his traps, retrieved beaver, and repositioned some of the traps where they would do more good. By noon he had ten new pelts to add to their swiftly accumulating haul. That night, eight more.

  One busy day after another went by. A week elapsed. Two. Two and a half. They worked their way down the right fork and camped at the junction.

  “Tomorrow,” Milo said in anticipation as they sat around the fire shortly after sunrise, “we start up the left fork. And if there are half as many beaver as there were up the right fork, we’ll be rolling in prime furs.”

  Nate nodded and sipped at his steaming coffee. Their camp lay in a clearing nestled among the pines where they were sheltered from the often chilly night winds. Northwest of them, picketed in a field, were the horses.

  “We should have toted more traps in,” Tom remarked.

  “A man can only do so much, can only check so many traps in a single day,” Nate said. “We have all we’ll need.”

  Red Moon, who sat with a blanket draped over his shoulders, suddenly straightened, letting the blanket fall, and pivoted in the direction of the valley entrance. “Listen,” he said.

  Nate did, and heard nothing out of the ordinary. “What is it?”

  “Someone comes. One man on horseback.”

  Tom stood. “The hell you say. I don’t hear a thing.”

  “Grab your guns and take cover,” Nate directed, scooping up the Hawken. He ran to the trees bordering the stream and leaned his shoulder against a tree trunk. From where he stood he had a clear view of the stream for hundreds of yards.

  A second later a lone rider appeared, proceeding up the east bank.

  Nate studied the man, immediately seeing it was an Indian. From the way the warrior wore his hair, swept back on either side with a large eagle feather attached to the top of his head, and from the style of his long buckskin shirt and leggings, Nate recognized the tribe the man belonged to. His stomach muscles involuntarily tightened.

  He was a Blackfoot.

  The brave carried a lance in his right hand and had a bow and quiver slanted across his back. He was leaning low, concentrating on the ground.

  Nate glanced at Milo and Tom, hidden nearby, and saw the anxiety on their faces. With good reason. That Blackfoot was following the trail they had made when they first entered the valley weeks ago. It had only rained once, briefly, in all that time, so the hoof prints of their horses were undoubtedly still evident.

  Nate shifted and glanced to his left, where Red Moon stood behind a pine tree. The Crow, as always, did not betray his feelings. But he had his rifle cocked.

  The Blackfoot reined up two hundred yards off and surveyed the valley. Then he swung down, dropped to one knee, and ran his hand over the tracks.

  Nate could imagine what the brave was thinking. The Blackfoot would know that white men were in the party because the horses ridden by Benteen and Sublette were shod, as were their pack animals. Nate had long since stopped bothering to shoe his horses, preferring to ride them unshod as did the Indians.

  From the heavier tracks of the pack animals, the Blackfoot would be able to deduce exactly how many men were with the group. He would probably suspect there were two Indians and two whites, and he would be greatly perplexed. What was such a mixed group doing in this valley so close to Blackfoot territory? Since the Crows occupied the region to the south, he might suspect there to be a Crow encampment somewhere farther up the stream.

  Nate watched, debating whether to shoot. He refrained because he doubted very much the brave was alone. The warrior might be part of a war party heading into Crow land, and if so, the rest of the band might hear any shot and come to investigate. Had he been closer he would have tried to get the man with his knife. Under the circumstances, there was nothing he could do.

  At length the Blackfoot rose and scanned the forest. Gripping his mount’s mane, he vaulted onto the animal and yanked sharply on the rope reins. Using his feet and his quirt, he urged the white horse into a gallop and raced back the way he had come.

  “Damn!” Milo fumed.

  “He’ll be back with his fr
iends,” Tom snapped. “Now we’re in for it.”

  Nate led them to their camp. The Pennsylvanians were sullen and silent. Red Moon moved to one side and folded his arms across his chest.

  “Well, I’ll tell you now,” Tom declared. “I’m not about to pack up and run off with my tail tucked between my legs because of the rotten Blackfeet. This valley is a gold mine in furs, and I’m not giving up my chance to go home with my pockets filled with money.”

  “I agree,” Milo said. “We’ve worked too hard to call it quits at this stage. I say we stick it out.”

  Nate swung toward the Crow. “And you?”

  Red Crow grinned. “I like to kill Blackfeet.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Nate said. “We stay and keep trapping.”

  “You haven’t told us how you feel,” Milo noted.

  “I’m not too keen on tangling with the Blackfeet,” Nate answered. “But I’m like you. I want to get as many peltries as I can before we leave.”

  “Good,” Tom said, and wagged his rifle. “If those devils show their faces, we’ll make their squaws widows.”

  “There’s bound to be a shooting scrape,” Milo commented, and frowned.

  “From now on we must do things differently,” Nate told them. “We can’t leave our camp unattended at any time. So we’ll take turns in the morning and evening checking our trap lines. One day Red Moon and I can go out first and then the two of you can go after we get back, and the next day we’ll switch and you two can check your line first. Sound fair?”

  “Sounds perfect,” Milo said.

  “We must also select our campsites with more care,” Nate recommended. “We can’t camp in the open and we must always build our fires under trees so the smoke will thin out as it rises.”