The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  Table of Contents

  Epigraph

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  “Rarely has an author painted the great American West in strokes so bold, vivid, and true.”

  —Ralph Compton

  OUTFOXED

  Leaving their ponies in the thicket, they crept forward until they reached a point some thirty yards from the pine shelter. There they split up on either side of the trail in order to set up a cross fire. Yellow Hand hoped to catch his enemy as he walked out of his shelter, so he waited until the sun had risen over the ridges to the east. Still, Joe Fox did not come out. Too impatient to wait longer, he inched a few yards closer, then gave Red Sky the signal to shoot, and both warriors opened fire with their repeating rifles, pumping round after round into the makeshift shelter, sending pine limbs flying and filling the ravine with thunderous echoes.

  After both men emptied the magazines of their rifles, they charged up to the shelter to peer inside. Stunned, they stood gaping into an empty hut. “Up here,” Joe Fox said, and they both turned toward the sound, looking up into the glare of the sun as it framed a dark image against a background of young pines. In the blinding light, it appeared to the two assassins that the image stood in a flaming arch, and in the next instant fiery missiles reached out to strike down both of them.

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, December 2009

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2009

  All rights reserved

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Ronda

  Chapter 1

  “Joe Fox!”

  The call rang out again and again, echoing off the face of the rocky cliff that stood like a castle wall before the two nearly exhausted men. “Joe Fox!” Malcolm Lindstrom called again while looking about him nervously. It had been a long, hard climb up to the base of the cliff, through thick forests of firs and pines that seemed to be put there by God solely for the purpose of keeping strangers from scaling the majestic peak.

  “I don’t know about this,” Pete Watson complained. “It gives me a worrisome feeling.” He turned away from the wall and peered down the narrow game trail they had followed to this point, half expecting to see a Blackfoot war party emerge from the forest behind them. “Smack-dab in the heart of Blackfoot country, just the two of us, lookin’ for a man that some say don’t even exist.” He turned back to Malcolm. “How do we know this Joe Fox feller ain’t just a legend the Indians dreamed up? Hell, that feller down by the river sent us up here and he probably ain’t ever really seen him, just that the Injuns said this is where they’ve seen him.” Frowning, he scanned the dark forest behind him. “I hate to say this, but that feller mighta just been settin’ us up to get jumped by some of his Blackfoot friends. I never trusted a Frenchman, anyway.”

  “You worry too much,” Malcolm said, although he was entertaining some of the same thoughts expressed by his brother-in-law. The fact of the matter was they were where they were. It was too late to consider whether the Frenchman at the trading post on the river below was a scoundrel, bent upon sending a party of warriors to ambush them. As far as the real or imagined existence of the man the Blackfoot called Joe Fox, Father Paul claimed to have known him as a boy, before the legend was created. And it was the priest’s conviction that Joe Fox, if he could be found, was the best bet to find Malcolm’s brother and the rest of the party that set out to follow a northern route to Oregon.

  Malcolm was not a man to take unnecessary risks, and he had advised his brother against joining a party of seven families determined to join an earlier group that had made the journey by wagon the year before. Because of a late start, and the fact that there had been reports of Sioux war parties along the South Pass route, they had decided to cross farther north through the mountains, hoping to strike the Mullan Road. The road, blazed by an army captain named John Mullan, was reported to be the first wagon road across the Rockies, running from Fort Benton on the Missouri to Fort Walla Walla in Washington.

  Reports they had heard told of poor conditions on the road, so they decided their chances were better if they traveled by mule train instead of trying to cross with wagons. They were led by a man named Skinner, who claimed to know a route to the Mullan Road that was safe and short. He claimed that he would have them safely in the Willamette Valley before August. It was now late September, and already some snow had fallen in the mountains, with no sign of the pilgrims. His brother, Bradley, had promised to telegraph him as soon as they had safely reached Fort Walla Walla, and there had been no word.

  Malcolm feared the worst. Everyone he had talked to who had any knowledge of the Rocky Mountains had told him the undertaking was a fool’s mission this late in the season. But he was determined to do all he could to find the missing party. Accompanied by h
is brother-in-law, he had followed the route of the mule train as far as Helena, where the trail disappeared. Asking around several businesses in Helena, they came upon some store owners who remembered the mule train and told them it had moved on toward the west. Malcolm and Pete had met with no luck in picking up their trail.

  Coming upon a mission run by a Jesuit priest named Father Paul, he and Pete had sought help there. Father Paul had advised them to search for Joe Fox, stating his belief that Fox was their best chance of finding the party of settlers. “No one knows the mountains better than Joe Fox,” Father Paul had claimed, after first questioning the wisdom of the undertaking. “And he can travel through the Blackfoot country without fear of harm by the Indians.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Father,” Malcolm had questioned, “but how in the world would we ever find Joe Fox? If nobody but Injuns has ever seen him, what chance have we got? We could wander around in those mountains for fifty years and never lay eyes on him, especially if what they say about him not wantin’ to be found is true.”

  “That’s probably pretty much the truth,” Father Paul had confessed. “But the only reason I’m suggesting it is because one of my congregation, Sam Black Crow, told me just yesterday that he was sure he had sighted Joe Fox on the east slope of Blackjack Mountain, up near the cliff.” Seeing their puzzled expressions, he had told them that he could explain how to find Blackjack Mountain. “I’m told that he often camps in these parts this time of the year. You may think it too dangerous to seek him out, but I think it’s your only chance of finding your brother and the others.” So now they stood, staring at a blank stone wall, with no idea where to go from this point.

  “You know, your sister’s gonna be mad as hell at you if anything happens to me,” Pete joked halfheartedly.

  “Hell,” Malcolm replied, “she’d most likely hug my neck.” Beginning to feel a bit stupid for climbing up a mountain in hopes of finding a single soul in this vast wilderness, he nevertheless gave one last call. “Joe Fox!”

  “What do you want?”

  Both men jumped, startled by the soft voice right behind them, where there had been no one moments before. Like a ghost, the tall figure seemed to have materialized from nowhere to stand before them, dressed in animal skins, holding a rifle ready to fire. Struck dumb and stunned, Pete, without thinking, started to lift his rifle from the ground.

  “Don’t do that,” the ominous figure cautioned.

  Realizing then, Pete dropped the rifle to the ground. “I wasn’t gonna . . . ,” he stammered. Malcolm, noting the serious warning in the man’s eyes, carefully laid his rifle upon the ground as well.

  “Why do you call my name?”

  Sensing no immediate threat, Malcolm asked, “Are you Joe Fox?” When he was answered with a simple nod, he continued. “We were hoping you would help us find a party of white families that musta got lost somewhere in these mountains on their way west.”

  “Who told you to come to me?” Joe asked, his face expressionless, his eyes gazing unblinking at the two white men who had somehow stumbled into his domain.

  “Father Paul, at the mission,” Malcolm quickly responded, hoping that would influence the emotionless man. Studying him carefully, Malcolm was not certain whether Joe Fox was Indian or white. It was hard to tell, dressed as he was in skins, clean shaven, and wearing his dark hair in two long braids. He was tall—taller than either Malcolm or Pete. The Blackfeet were a tall people, but Joe Fox was taller still. Under his soft cow-skin shirt he wore an unadorned breechcloth and leggings that reached to his thighs. A belt held a knife sheath and a small pouch. In addition to an early-model Winchester, he had a bow strapped to his back and a weasel-skin quiver of arrows. Malcolm had never seen a more fitting image of a Blackfoot warrior, and yet this magnificent specimen of raw power was possessed of fine, chiseled facial features more suggestive of a white man. Malcolm decided that Joe Fox was a half-breed.

  It was obvious to the two strangers that the mention of Father Paul caused the man to pause. In truth, Joe had not thought about the man who had tried to teach him the ways of Christianity for quite some time. “Why would Father Paul send you to me?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, suggesting a lack of recent use of English.

  “Like I said,” Malcolm replied, “we’re lookin’ for some folks that mighta got lost in these mountains. The army wouldn’t help us—said they didn’t have the troops to spare. Father Paul sent us to find you—said there wasn’t nobody that knowed the mountains like you.” He watched Joe Fox carefully, trying to gauge the stoic man’s reaction as he continued to consider the two intruders in his home. In was plain to see Joe Fox’s reluctance to involve himself in their plight.

  Joe shifted his gaze from one of his visitors to the other, sizing them up. He could read nothing that held a hint of larceny in the face of either man. The one who did all of the talking had a look of sincerity in his eyes. The other seemed more concerned with thoughts of his personal safety. After a long pause, Joe finally spoke again. “Those folks you’re looking for musta been crazy to try to cross through all the mountain ranges between here and Oregon country. You’re lucky you two got up this far with your scalps still on. Many of my people have gone to the reservation, but many have not and still live as Na’pi meant the Sik’-si-kau to live. The Blackfeet don’t like the white man, and it is dangerous for two white men to pass through this country.” He glanced again at Pete before continuing. “I saw your horses below by the stream. I thought about stealing them, but I was curious to see what fools would leave their horses alone by a stream where two game trails crossed.”

  The castigating remark was ignored by Malcolm as he continued to present his case. “The folks we’re lookin’ for are good Christian people. My brother and his wife are with ’em. They ain’t out to bother the Blackfoot or any other tribe. They’re just wantin’ to pass through on their way to Oregon.”

  Joe studied the two men for a few moments more while he made up his mind. He was reluctant to have anything to do with a party of settlers, even if they were not intent upon settling in his mountains. He had to give in to a weakness for helping those who could not help themselves, however, so he finally wavered. “I know the party you speak of,” he said. “I watched them as they tried to cross this mountain range. I counted thirty-six mules, all packed heavy.”

  “That’s right,” Pete interrupted. “There was eight families and each one of ’em took four mules.”

  Joe glanced briefly at Pete. He was not an educated man by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew that eight times four was not thirty-six. He was not interested enough to question it, however. “Mighty tempting to a Blackfoot war party,” he said. “They tried to come in following the river, but they had to turn around when they got to the falls. They tried two more times before giving up and moving on.”

  Excited to find that Joe Fox had actually seen the party, Malcolm pressed, “Where’d they go then?”

  Joe shook his head before answering. “I don’t know. I was just glad they left.” When he saw the disappointment in Malcolm’s eyes, he added, “All I can tell you is they pushed on north of here, lookin’ for another place to try, I s’pose.”

  “Can you find ’em?” Pete asked.

  “I might if I was lookin’ for ’em,” Joe answered. He paused, then added, “If they’re still alive.”

  “We don’t expect you to do it for nothin’,” Malcolm said. “We can pay you.” He hesitated then. “How much would it take to get you to track ’em?”

  Joe had to stop and think about it for a moment, for he was still making up his mind whether he would help them. He had no idea about charging a fee for guiding someone. In principle he wasn’t for hire, but he had decided that Malcolm was a good man, so he said, “I never said for sure that I could find ’em, but I’ll see what I can do. For my part, I’ll ask for extra cartridges for my rifle and some supplies—sugar, salt, and coffee. I ain’t had no coffee in four months.”


  “Done!” Malcolm responded eagerly, and thrust out his hand. Joe simply stared at it for a long moment before shaking. Saying nothing more, he turned abruptly and strode off toward the trees. Malcolm and Pete exchanged puzzled glances, then hurried off after him.

  “We need to fetch our horses,” Pete called out after their new partner. “We left ’em below by that stream.”

  Without turning his head, Joe said, “They’re with my horses,” causing them to exchange glances again. “Keep up. I expect there’ll be a Blackfoot war party up here any minute now.”

  His words caused considerable concern for the two white men. “Damn!” Pete exclaimed. “I told you that damn Frenchman would set the Injuns on us.”

  “The Frenchman didn’t tell anybody,” Joe said without turning his head to face them. “He didn’t have to. Every Blackfoot this side of the mountains could hear you yellin’ my name and follow your trail up here.”

  Moving rapidly, although seemingly without effort, their tall, silent guide led them along a rocky ledge covered with a light dusting of snow; this carried them away from the face of the cliff and into another thick forest of firs. After a few minutes’ walk, they came upon a small clearing to discover their horses tied beside two belonging to Joe Fox. Without offering any instructions, Joe went directly to a paint pony with an Indian saddle and mounted. He reached down to take the lead rope on his packhorse; then, pausing only to make sure his two partners were following suit, he turned the paint’s head toward a small game trail that led down the mountain. Still nervous and unsure about their contract with this silent enigma, Malcolm and Pete dutifully followed.

  It was dusk, with darkness rapidly approaching, by the time they reached a narrow river at the base of the mountain. “Make camp here” were the first words spoken by their somber guide since leaving the cliff. He slid gracefully off the back of his horse and led it to the water to drink. “We’ll cook some of that salt pork in your packs tonight. Maybe in the mornin’ I’ll find some fresh meat.”