Alarmed by the gesture, Bradley quickly attempted to defuse the situation before it led to actual violence. “There ain’t no call to get testy about this. We just wanna part ways in peace and no hard feelin’s.”
“You can kiss my ass,” Skinner retorted, finally accepting defeat and knowing that he could not openly fight the whole mule train. “So be it,” he spat and stepped back up in the saddle. “You damn fools will perish without me, and it serves you right.” He pulled the Morgan’s head around, and just before kicking it hard with his heels, left them with one last warning. “This won’t be the last you’ll see of me.”
Cora Simmons came out of her tent when she heard the sound of Skinner’s horse galloping out of camp. Joining the three men by the fire, she asked, “Now where’s he going?”
“Who knows and who cares?” Jake replied at once. “We just fired him.”
Only mildly surprised, Cora said, “So now we don’t have a guide.”
“Hell, we didn’t have one before,” Jake snorted.
“The question is what do we do now?” Raymond Chadwick reminded them.
“I don’t see that we’ve got much choice,” Bradley said. “We can’t stay here, so I say we follow the river north in the mornin’.” He shrugged his shoulders when it struck him that this was what Skinner had suggested. “Maybe we’ll find a pass that’ll take us through the mountains.”
Joe Fox knelt at the crossing of two game trails and examined the droppings that he was now sure were left by the long mule train. By his estimation, some of the droppings were several days older than others. He was further puzzled by the fact that the party seemed to have taken both trails, in effect going in two different directions. He was baffled for only a moment, however, when he realized that the mule train he was tracking was going in circles, doubling back on itself. He decided to follow the fresher droppings. “They’re lost all right,” he said as he stepped up in the saddle and turned the paint’s head up the game trail.
Malcolm and Pete filed in behind him. Those four words were the first he had spoken since earlier in the morning when he had discovered a distinct track that told him the party had veered off toward a narrow mountain pass to the west. Finding solid sign at the end of a canyon, Joe led them up through a series of game trails that sidled the mountain before them, eventually bringing them to the far side and descending toward a narrow valley below. Crossing a small stream in the valley, he had simply pointed to fresh tracks, only a few days old, left in the soft sand by the water, leaving Malcolm and Pete to come to their own conclusions.
Now, leaving the point where the two trails had crossed, Joe abruptly raised his hand, bringing them to a stop. He slid off his horse again and stooped to examine the ground. After a few moments, he got up and turned to the two men waiting for his explanation. “Trouble maybe,” was all he said, and started to mount again.
In need of more information than that, Malcolm finally pressed, “Wait a minute. Whaddaya mean, trouble? What kinda trouble?”
Realizing then that he credited his two companions with more experience than they had acquired, he explained. “See here,” he said, pointing to some disturbed pine needles on the high side of the trail. “Riders,” he continued. “Maybe Blackfoot, maybe Flathead, maybe Gros Ventre, but Indian—unshod ponies. Whoever it was musta come from up there.” He pointed toward a rocky ledge above the trail. “They struck this trail, and now they’re following the same tracks we are.”
“Damn,” Pete murmured, then asked, “Can you tell how many there were?”
“Hard to say,” Joe replied. “I’d guess at six or eight, but that’s only a guess.”
“How long ago?” This from Malcolm.
“Two days, maybe three.”
There was no need for discussion. The only thing for them was to make the best time possible and hope to catch up in time to help their friends. Malcolm worried about his brother and his sister-in-law. He was not sure how Bradley would handle adversity in the form of an Indian war party. His brother was not a man to welcome confrontation on a physical front, seeking to make peace through diplomacy whenever possible. Malcolm had never seen Bradley in a face-off with anyone. He feared Bradley might make the mistake of trying to negotiate with a Blackfoot war party. Nancy was the fighter in his brother’s house. There was nothing to do but ride hard and hope.
Seth Skinner pressed his horse relentlessly, grumbling to himself as he backtracked down the mountainside, the same one he had led the settlers up days before. Still angry over his abrupt dismissal, he considered the situation he now found himself in. He had money in his pocket. That much was true—more money, in fact, than he had ever had at one time. He could not, however, stop thinking about the equal sum he would have received had he been able to finish the journey. The fact that everything he had told Bradley Lindstrom about his knowledge of the Rocky Mountains was an outright lie did not trouble his conscience. Men like Bradley Lindstrom were fair game for double-dealers like Skinner.
Taking advantage of his master’s inattention, the big Morgan that Skinner rode gradually slowed its pace until finding one more to its liking. So absorbed in his thoughts of scheming to somehow get his hands on the rest of the money that Lindstrom had promised, he wasn’t aware that the horse had slowed to a leisurely walk until he glanced up to see the Indian warrior sitting his pony in the middle of the trail, watching him. Realizing at that instant that he had let his survival senses doze, he jerked his horse to an abrupt halt. Not really sure what to do, Skinner turned to look behind him only to find several more Indians blocking the narrow trail in that direction. Feeling his heart beating in his throat, he returned his eyes to the Indian before him and raised his hand in a nervous greeting. “Me friend,” he offered in a voice quaking with fear.
With face devoid of expression, the Indian made no response to the feeble overture, but continued to stare with unblinking eyes set beneath a wide forehead, measuring the white man with the same disdain one would show a coyote. When he finally spoke, his words were delivered in a sharp, guttural tone, heavy with contempt. “No white man is my friend,” he stated emphatically.
Seeing a slender ray of hope when the savage spoke to him in English, Skinner forced a smile across his ferretlike face. “I’m a friend, sure ’nough,” he insisted anxiously, casting nervous glances around him when the warriors behind him moved closer. Hoping to save his hair by offering a prize, he said, “I can lead you to a bunch of white men that are your enemies, and we can share their supplies and guns.” He jumped nervously when a broad-shouldered warrior pulled his pony up beside him and yanked his rifle from the scabbard. Afraid to protest, he watched as the warrior examined the rifle, then said something to his friends that caused them to erupt with war cries. “Hell, I’ll just take the money,” Skinner said. “You boys can have everything else.” He looked to either side of him as the Indians moved in closer around him. Near panic at this point, he blurted, “I’ve always been a friend of the Blackfoot!”
His desperate statement caused an immediate chorus of growling voices, and he knew he had said the wrong thing. The broad-faced warrior in front of him responded coldly. “We are A’aninen,” he said, using the Gros Ventre name for themselves. “The Blackfoot are our enemies. If you are their friends, then you are our enemy.”
“No! No!” Skinner fairly screamed. “I didn’t mean I was their friends!” The lump in his throat that was his heart threatened to choke him in his panic. “I can lead you to a rich train of whites,” he pleaded, “and you can have it all.”
The broad-faced warrior smiled contemptuously. “We don’t need you to lead us. A blind dog can follow this trail.”
Confused, for the Gros Ventre had not made the last statement in English, Skinner looked about him anxiously, searching for some sign of mercy. An instant later, he was struck by a solid blow on his back as an arrow drove through his ribs to puncture his lung. Paralyzed by the shock, he remained rigid in the saddle for a few seconds, realiz
ing that he was about to die. The broad-shouldered Indian on his right raised his foot and shoved him off his horse, and one of the others slid off his pony and scalped him even as he was dying.
Watching the youngest member of his war party claim his first scalp, Dead Man nodded his silent approval. While others searched the white man’s saddlebags, Two Arrows nudged his pony up beside Dead Man’s. He held the rifle out for Dead Man to admire. “Shoot many times,” he said. Dead Man smiled and nodded. It was a rare trophy. “Maybe the tracks will lead us to more of these guns,” Two Arrows said.
Again Dead Man nodded. The acquisition of such fine weapons would be a good thing. But equally important would be the opportunity to punish the white men for trespassing in his country. Dead Man hated the white man even more than the treacherous Blackfoot.
Chapter 3
“You know him?” Joe asked when Malcolm and Pete caught up to him.
“Lord a’ mercy,” Pete gasped when they saw the body lying beside the trail. Instinctively, both he and Malcolm grasped their rifles and began to look around them expectantly.
“The ones who did this are long gone,” Joe said, then repeated the question: “Is this one of your friends?”
Malcolm and Pete both dismounted and edged up to take a closer look at the half-nude body sprawled beside the game path. “It’s hard to say for sure,” Pete said. “I mean, with his face all hangin’ loose like that. But it don’t look like anybody I’ve ever seen.”
“We didn’t know any of the folks my brother and his family joined,” Malcolm pointed out, relieved to see that it wasn’t his brother. “He mighta been with ’em.” He turned to look up at Joe. “Blackfoot?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Joe answered with a shrug of his shoulders. “Can’t say who did it. They didn’t leave no sign.” He rose to his feet. “I wonder what he was doin’ up here by himself.” He climbed on his horse. “Looks like those folks you’re tryin’ to find might be in for some trouble. This bunch that did this are most likely on a killin’ spree, and they’re on your folks’ trail. We’d best get along.” He urged the paint forward and Malcolm and Pete scrambled to jump in the saddle and follow.
They heard the shots long before they were in sight of the mule train. Reverberating up from a canyon on the far side of a snowcapped mountain before them, the gunshots told them that their friends were apparently under siege.
“Damn!” Malcolm swore in worried consternation, thinking about his brother and his family caught in such a desperate situation. “We’ve got to help them!” He looked at Joe in anxious anticipation. Their guide displayed no show of emotion, and no concern as far as Malcolm could determine.
With no change of expression, Joe responded in a matter-of-fact way. “We’re goin’. These horses can’t make much better time on these steep trails, so it’ll be close to sundown by the time we get around to the other side of this mountain.”
Malcolm realized that what Joe said was true, but at times he became frustrated with the man’s emotionless patience. He would learn after he knew the tall child of the mountains a little longer that Joe accepted the cards that were dealt, good or bad, and never questioned the why of things he could not change. Still, Malcolm thought, it wouldn’t kill him to show a little emotion now and again. He was left to follow along behind the paint pony and try not to let his imagination create a terrible scene of what was taking place on the other side of the mountain.
As Joe had predicted, the sun was dropping close to the western peaks by the time they reached a low ridge that overlooked the valley floor and the river that ran through the center. The barrage of gunshots they had heard before had tapered off to only sporadic firing. “Wait here,” Joe said after leading them into a stand of fir trees that covered the ridge. Malcolm was about to protest that he wanted to go with him, but thought better of it when Joe fixed his intense gaze upon him. Reading Malcolm’s thoughts, he said, “I’ll see what we got to deal with; then I’ll be back to get you.” Malcolm nodded.
He made his way down the ridge fifty yards or so to an outcropping of rock that offered plenty of protection while allowing a wide view of the river below. Only an occasional shot rang out now, the attacking Indians thinking to conserve their ammunition for targets of greater opportunity. Crouched behind the rocks, Joe discovered several spent rifle cartridges, and he knew that the attack had started there. Several cook fires still smoking told him that the settlers must have been camped beside the river when the Indians struck, forcing them to withdraw to take cover under the riverbanks. Consequently the warriors had advanced to a stand of trees some fifty yards from the banks of the river.
Joe scanned the trees until he located the Indian ponies tied near a thicket of berry bushes. He counted eight Indian ponies plus another saddled horse, which he assumed to have belonged to the white man they had found dead on the trail. Then he watched for rifle fire, trying to spot the eight warriors. When he was certain of at least half of them, he backed away from the rocks and returned for Malcolm and Pete. “Leave the horses here,” he said. “Best I can tell, we’ve got eight to deal with.” He paused then to ask, “Can you hit what you aim at?” When they both nodded, he said, “All right, follow me and don’t shoot till I tell you to—and maybe we’ll save your friends—or whatever’s left of ’em.” Looking in turn at each man to make sure they understood, he then turned and led them down to the rocks and positioned them to his satisfaction.
Pointing to the partially hidden raiders in the trees below, he instructed them to pick a target. “I wanna hit ’em hard the first time, so don’t miss. Shoot when I give the signal. Be ready to fire again ’cause most likely you’ll see where the others are when they shoot back at us. If we hit ’em hard enough, they might hightail it.” Both men eagerly nodded their understanding. Joe acknowledged this with a nod of his own.
When Joe gave the signal to fire, it produced the results that he had anticipated. Their aim was true, and three warriors fell. As he had predicted, the other five were confused at first, then reversed their positions to fire back at the sudden attack. In so doing, two of the warriors revealed their hiding places, resulting in their deaths at the sure hand of Joe Fox.
While Pete and Malcolm paused a moment to appreciate the success of the assault, Joe bounded over the face of the rocks and made straight for the raiders’ horses. Pumping round after round into the bushes around the horses, he charged into their midst and scattered the frightened mounts up the hillside. One warrior who threatened to cut him off was promptly dispatched by Joe’s handgun. Effectively defeated, the two remaining raiders fled up the hillside after their horses.
Crouching beneath the riverbank, the besieged party of settlers was left to gape at one another in a state of confusion over the assault from the ridge and the sudden flight of their attackers. Bradley Lindstrom eased his head up to eye level, still wary that he might attract a bullet or an arrow. In the next instant, he heard his name along with a call to hold their fire. “Brad!” The call came forth again, and he recognized his brother’s voice. Astonished, he clambered up the bank, shouting to the others to stop shooting.
“Malcolm?” Bradley called out, scarcely believing his eyes as his brother and another man emerged from the trees in the fading light. “It’s my brother,” he said to Raymond Chadwick, who scrambled up the riverbank behind him.
“Maybe,” Raymond replied, “but he looks like an angel to me.”
Realizing that the danger was over, the rest of their people began to make their way back up from the river to the campsite. Some of the younger boys and girls led the mules up out of the water, where they had been since the start of the attack. Bradley ran forth to greet his brother with a hardy hug. “I didn’t know I’d ever be this glad to see you,” he said, laughing. He looked at Pete then. “Howdy, Pete, you’re sure a sight for sore eyes.” Then he looked toward the bodies sprawled near the trees. “Just the two of you?”
Before Malcolm could answer, he saw Nancy running t
o greet him, so he turned to receive her welcome embrace. “Thank the Lord you showed up when you did,” she said. Then she looked back toward the trees. “Are they gone?”
“They’re gone,” Malcolm answered.
“You two did a powerful good job of shootin’,” Jake Simmons said as he hurried up to join the reunion.
“Us and Joe Fox,” Pete replied. “Most of it Joe Fox.” When Bradley looked around at that, searching for another person, Pete explained. “He took off after them two that got away. To make sure they had run for sure, I reckon.”
Bradley stepped up and shook Pete’s hand. “It’s good to see you again, and that’s for certain. We were in a pretty bad fix, and it looked like we were gonna be pinned down in this river till after dark.” He looked back toward the woods again. “Who’s Joe Fox?” he asked.
Malcolm glanced at Pete and smiled before answering. “It’s hard to say. He’s about as close to a wild Indian as you can get, I reckon, but if it wasn’t for him, we’da never found you.”
Bradley was about to press for more details, but was interrupted by the rest of the folks in the mule train as they gathered around their two rescuers. He introduced his brother and Pete to everybody and stood back while the two were made welcome. Unnoticed by the jubilant congregation, Joe emerged from the dark shadows of the firs, driving three Indian ponies. After hobbling the horses, he strode over to the body of Dead Man, made a brief examination, then went on to kneel by the body of Two Arrows. Noticing finally, Malcolm misunderstood Joe’s interest in the bodies, and called to him to join them. Joe looked at the men, women, and children crowding around Malcolm and Pete with more trepidation than when facing a war party of hostiles. Reluctantly, he advanced a few yards closer.
The Blackfoot Trail Page 3
