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

by Robbins, David

  “And never use our guns,” Red Moon said.

  Nate looked at him. “Since you’re the best with a bow and arrow, you’ll have to do the hunting from now on.”

  “I will,” Red Moon said, and walked across the clearing toward the horses.

  “Where are you going?” Tom asked.

  “I will find out how many Blackfeet there are,” Red Moon replied. “Do not expect me back before dark.”

  “Be careful,” Nate cautioned.

  “Always.”

  They watched the Crow mount his horse and ride off bareback, his long hair flying, man and horse one.

  “I’m glad he’s with us,” Milo said.

  Nate gripped the Hawken in his left hand. “Since I doubt the Blackfeet will be paying us a visit in the next hour or so, I’ll go on up the left fork and see if there are as many beaver there as we’ve found elsewhere.”

  “Alone?” Milo said.

  “I’ll have Samson,” Nate reminded him, and started off, the dog so close to his leg he had to be careful not to accidentally bump into it. He stuck to the inner bank and came on a large pond with a huge lodge within minutes. The vegetation pressed right up to the water’s edge and he had to fight his way through to the high dam. Beyond lay another pond, another lodge.

  Onward he went. As with the other fork and the lower branch, beaver sign was everywhere. He also saw the tracks of deer, elk, and smaller critters in the mud along the stream. Raccoons, skunks, bobcats, and more all came regularly to drink, and he was able to determine when they had done so and their approximate size and weight from the impressions they’d left.

  Four more lodges he discovered, and then he paused beside another dam and absently gazed at the bare earth near its base. For several seconds he stared at a peculiar depression, thinking it must have been made when a large rock was dislodged. But there were no rocks anywhere near the dam, and suddenly he realized what the depression really was. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened in amazement.

  It was a huge footprint.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nate dashed down the slope toward the base of the dam and slipped on the slick ground. His left leg flew out from under him and he wildly flapped his arms to retain his balance. He reached the base upright, halted abruptly, and slowly sank into a crouch so he could study the marvel before him.

  The track was unlike any he’d ever seen. Roughly square in shape, the heel being only slightly tapered, it measured approximately fifteen inches in length and seven inches in width at the ball of the foot. Unlike bear tracks, which invariably gave some evidence of the bear’s non-retractable claws, this one displayed the distinct impressions of five large toes, toes very humanlike in shape and arrangement.

  Awed by the dimensions, Nate whispered in awe, “What in heaven’s name is this?” He placed his right hand in the center of the track and saw how the track dwarfed it. Then he stood and placed his foot beside the track; his foot seemed like that of a small child’s in comparison.

  He cast around for more tracks but found none. Mystified, he walked back to the print and then noticed his own tracks. Where he’d walked in the mud, his moccasins sank to a depth of less than a quarter of an inch. But the huge print, by contrast, was a good inch and a half deep, which meant whatever made it had been extremely heavy.

  Nate stood over the strange print and pondered. He thought of every animal that inhabited the Rockies and their tracks. None came close to resembling this one, not even the tracks of grizzlies. Either the impression had been produced by natural circumstances, by a means he could not fathom, or a totally unknown animal had made it.

  The thing that lurked in the dark!

  Unbidden, the Crow legend sprang to mind. He glanced up and scanned the surrounding forest, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Birds were singing in carefree abandon. Had there been anything unusual in the area they would fall silent.

  He walked in a circle around the track, inspecting it from every angle, mulling his course of action. If he went back and told the Pennsylvanians, they would be skeptical. Even if he showed it to them, they might not be willing to believe the creature behind the Crow legend had been responsible for making it. Considering how badly they wanted to acquire stakes so they could buy land in Pennsylvania, they certainly wouldn’t be willing to leave the valley simply because a peculiar track had been found.

  Nate halted and scratched his chin. If he was right, and the creature had made it, then what did it mean? Had the creature bothered them in any way since they entered the valley? No. Had they seen hide or hair of it? No. Had their trapping been affected? No.

  Suddenly he recalled the missing dead beaver. What if the creature had taken it? Had it been watching them? Had it seen him pull the beaver out of the pond and then go off, leaving it unattended? Had it been hungry and decided to venture from concealment and grab the tempting meal? He had no way of knowing for certain, but the supposition made sense.

  It also troubled him. If the creature did exist, and if it had stolen the beaver, then it meant the creature ate meat. It was carnivorous, a predator like a panther or a lynx. Or maybe it was more like a grizzly, which would eat practically anything under the sun. Grizzlies not only ate anything they could catch, including small and large animals, but they would also eat certain roots, sprouts, berries, and insects. Not to mention their fondness for fish. And grizzlies would kill and eat a man just as readily as they would a trout.

  Did this creature have similar eating habits? If so, why hadn’t it attacked any of them yet? Was it afraid of them, the Crow tales notwithstanding? Or was it because they nearly always worked in pairs?

  He shook his head and sighed. There were too few facts to go on and his suppositions were meaningless. He held the Hawken in his left hand, trying to decide whether to go back to camp and inform Benteen and Sublette or continue scouting the fork. His eyes fell on Samson, who was lying a few yards away. The dog’s eyes were on him. They seldom left him nowadays, and he knew Samson had developed quite an attachment to him.

  An idea occurred to him. What if the creature was shying away from them because of Samson? Large animals such as grizzlies and panthers were naturally wary of one another, and this might be the same case.

  On second thought, Nate discarded the notion. The thing that had made the huge footprint must be incredibly big and extraordinarily powerful. Such a brute would have no reason to fear a dog, or humans for that matter.

  “Samson,” he said softly, and Samson lifted his head. “Come here, boy.”

  The black dog rose and padded over.

  “Here,” Nate said, touching the track. “What do you think?”

  Samson lowered his head and touched Nate’s hand with his nose. Then he stiffened and sniffed loudly, not once but several times, while moving his head around the edge of the track. Stepping back, he vented a short growl.

  “I feel the same way,” Nate said. Facing up the stream, he resumed walking. He wanted to go farther, to check for more beaver. If, along the way, he happened to find another such track, so much the better.

  For the better part of an hour he hiked, finding a series of lodges and dams just like on the other fork. Once he saw a large beaver swimming out near a lodge, but the beaver paid no notice to him. Twice he saw elk back in the brush.

  He found no more huge tracks, which disappointed him. The single impression had been insufficient to tell him much about the creature. He could guess at its size and weight, but he would have a better idea of both if he could find a set of tracks and determine the length of its stride. Competent trackers, by taking account of the distance between two tracks, could accurately gauge the height of the animal or person making them.

  He would also have liked to trail the beast to its lair. If he could get to it before it got to them, he could judge for himself whether the thing deserved to be shot or whether it was actually a harmless animal. Given that they had been in the valley for weeks without being bothered, he incli
ned to the opinion the Crow stories were greatly exaggerated.

  At last he turned back and retraced his route to the camp. Halfway back he stopped, bothered by a vague feeling of being watched. He scoured the undergrowth but saw no reason for the feeling. Since Samson was not acting as if something might be out there, he ascribed his jitters to another case of bad nerves and continued on.

  “How does it look?” Milo asked as soon as Nate appeared.

  “There are as many beaver up the left fork as there were up the right, if not more.”

  Tom, who was near the rekindled fire and busy repairing a small hole in his left moccasin, nodded and beamed. “I can almost feel that money in my pocket. Red Moon has done us a big favor by bringing us here.”

  “Maybe we should pay him a little extra,” Milo suggested.

  “Are you crazy?” Tom rejoined. “He’s earning enough to keep him in whiskey for the rest of his life. Ten percent is plenty. A bit too much, in my estimation.”

  “Ten percent is what we agreed on and ten percent is what we’ll give him,” Milo said.

  Nate was tempted to tell them the reason Red Moon wanted the money, until it hit him that the Crow might not care for them to know. Red Moon had been with Milo and Tom for many weeks before they showed up at the cabin, and in all that time the warrior had not bothered to let them know about his ailing grandson. Why Red Moon had told him instead of them, he didn’t know. But he wasn’t about to violate the Crow’s confidence. If Red Moon elected to tell them, that was his business.

  “You’re too soft, Milo,” Tom was saying. “He’s just an Injun. What does he know about money?”

  Resentful of the disparaging comments about Red Moon, Nate elected to change the topic of conversation and did so by announcing, “I saw a strange track.”

  They stared at him, both puzzled by the declaration.

  “A what?” Tom said.

  “A track bigger than any I’ve ever come across,” Nate elaborated.

  “Do you mean a bear print?” Milo asked.

  “No. There was no sign of claws. I have no idea what made it. I’d like to show it to you so you can see for yourselves and give me your opinion.”

  Tom snickered. “Perhaps it was the thing Red Moon is so scared of.”

  “Perhaps,” Nate said.

  “You’re joking, King,” Tom stated.

  “No, I’m not.”

  “Where did you find this—” Milo began, then fell silent when the drumming of hoofs sounded from the south.

  Instantly on his feet, Nate spied Red Moon galloping toward their camp. The Crow was using his quirt as if trying to ride his horse into the ground.

  “Trouble,” Milo said, clutching his rifle.

  “Damn it all,” Tom muttered, hastily slipping his left foot into his moccasin even though he hadn’t completed the repair.

  Nate advanced to the edge of the clearing. He gazed past the Crow, seeking any sign of pursuing Blackfeet, but there was none. The Crow arrived with a clatter of hoofs and jerked hard on the reins.

  “A Blackfoot war party is coming.”

  “How many and how far off are they?” Nate inquired, suppressing a swell of anxiety. Rare was the trapping party that didn’t run into some sort of grave difficulty. They’d been exceptionally lucky so far and hadn’t lost a single man or animal. All that might be about to change.

  “There are ten warriors, all well armed,” Red Moon disclosed, and slid to the grass. “I saw them when I climbed a tree to see how close I was to the man I followed. From a high branch I saw him riding toward a group waiting down the stream.”

  Nate didn’t need to be told the rest. That lone brave, who had been sent on ahead to scout the trail, would rejoin the other Blackfeet and the whole group would head on up the valley with dreams of counting coup on white men foremost in their heads. And once the war party reached the spot where Red Moon had turned around and ridden back they would know the brave had been seen and the white men were forewarned. They would press on swiftly, eager to take scalps.

  “I say we make a stand right here,” Tom declared.

  Nate studied the lay of the land. They were ringed by trees, but there was plenty of cover for the Blackfeet to creep right up on them before they knew it. And they would be unable to adequately protect the horses. “They’d overrun us in no time,” he said.

  “What do we do?” Milo asked.

  In his mind’s eye Nate reviewed the course of the right fork and remembered a point where the stream curved to the northeast. There were large boulders flanking the east bank, not many but enough to hide behind and ambush the Blackfeet when they showed up. He voiced his idea.

  “Sounds fine to me,” Milo said, and stooped to pick up his saddle and blanket.

  “That spot is half a day’s ride away,” Tom groused. “Isn’t there somewhere nearer?”

  “None that are any better,” Nate said, “and we’ll need the most defensible position we can find if we’re to hold off ten Blackfeet.”

  In silence they worked, rapidly loading their traps, food, and gear onto the pack animals and saddling their horses. When they were all mounted, Nate took the lead and cantered along the bank. Samson padded on his right.

  “Nate, you’ve done more Indian fighting than we have,” Milo said. “What are our chances against this bunch? Realistically, I mean.”

  “Not very good.”

  “If they gain the upper hand and it looks as if we’ll be taken prisoner, promise me you’ll put a ball in my brain before they get their hands on us.”

  Nate shifted to glance at the lean Pennsylvanian.

  “I’ve heard about the tortures those red devils inflict,” Milo said. “They stake a man out and do all sorts of hideous acts. They poke out eyeballs, cut off noses, and slice off tongues. They’ve been known to rip a man’s guts out while he’s still alive. And I heard about that Frenchman they skinned alive.” He shuddered. “I don’t want any of that to happen to me. I couldn’t take it.”

  “I promise,” Nate said.

  “Those heathens won’t get us if I can help it,” Tom asserted. “I’ll fight until I drop, and I’ll take as many of their black souls with me as I can.”

  The sun climbed steadily higher. They slowed every now and then, saving their mounts in case a burst of speed should be needed. Several times Red Moon left them and rode back to see if the Blackfeet were gaining. Each time he caught up again and informed them the trail was clear.

  Except for taking brief breaks to allow the horses to drink, they didn’t stop. By late afternoon the boulders came into view.

  “We made it,” Milo said in relief.

  Beyond the boulders was a field where they tied the horses, leaving both their saddles and the packs on for the time being. Nate took his rifle and took up a post behind the boulder nearest the stream. Samson reclined nearby and dozed, unaffected by their tension.

  “Now all we can do is wait,” Milo remarked.

  Nate leaned on his left shoulder, tucked the Hawken in the crook of his arm, and settled down for a possibly long wait. The Blackfeet were experienced, canny fighters, and once they believed they were close to overhauling their intended victims they would slow down and proceed cautiously. He didn’t expect them until near dark.

  Warmed by the sun and feeling a bit fatigued after the long ride, Nate gazed at the stream and considered taking a drink. He forgot about his thirst the next moment, however, when he saw something that prickled the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

  Another enormous track.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Projecting into the stream from the bank was a finger of land around which the water flowed at a slow rate. On that narrow strip was the footprint, the same size as the one found on the left fork, the toes pointing downstream.

  Nate was tempted to run out for a closer look, but the Blackfeet might show up at any minute. A disturbing insight struck him. What if the creature had been shadowing them? What if that track had been ma
de as the thing trailed them toward the junction? The only way he could know for sure was to closely examine the track later.

  The gurgling water provoked another train of thought. Both tracks he’d discovered were located near water. Was it possible the creature preferred to travel along the streams and creeks so it wouldn’t leave many clues of its passing? Trappers, when chased by Indians, often resorted to riding along a watercourse in an attempt to lose pursuers. But he’d never heard of an animal adopting a similar practice.

  He glanced at the others. Milo was staring intently to the south. Tom was sharpening his butcher knife. Red Moon was staring at the track. The Crow looked at him and neither of them spoke. There was no need. They both knew what had made it—at least they knew the creature existed and was aware of their presence in the valley. At the moment, however, it was the least of their worries.

  Slowly the glowing sun sank toward the western horizon. The shadows lengthened and the depths of the forest became dark and foreboding.

  “Where the hell are they?” Tom muttered.

  “Are you in a hurry to be killed?” Milo whispered.

  “No, but if we’re going to be in a shooting scrape I’d rather get it over with now than wait,” Tom responded.

  Nate shared those sentiments. As the minutes crawled past with all the speed of sluggish earthworms, he became increasingly restless. It was apparent the Blackfeet had no intention of launching their attack before dawn since they rarely if ever fought at night. When the sun had dipped so low that only a rosy rim remained, he straightened. “They plan to try for our hair tomorrow,” he stated.

  “Why are they waiting?” Milo asked.

  “Why should they rush things and lose more men than they have to?” Nate rejoined. “There’s only one way out of this valley, and they must know it. They have us boxed in.” He moved toward their horses, Samson walking in his footsteps. “No, they’ll rest up tonight and tackle us tomorrow, probably after they spy on us a while. They’ll pick the time for our fight, and there’s not a blessed thing we can do about it.”