The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  “Praise the Lord,” one of the women sang out, and Bradley turned to see a chorus of nodding heads with a few “Amens” in response.

  “Good,” Bradley said to Starbeau. “I think you’ve made a wise decision. If you give Him a chance, the Lord will show you the way. Now, let’s get you over to your tent, and see if we can patch that wound up.”

  Unable to understand what had just taken place, Joe reluctantly eased the hammer down on his rifle and stepped back. He again questioned his wisdom when he decided to lead the party of settlers, for it was plain that a strain of lunacy ran through the whole mule train. “I reckon if that’s what you folks want,” he said. He then gave the wounded man a long look. “Maybe you folks are right, but a coyote’s still a coyote whether he’s been shot or not, and I always keep my eye on wounded coyotes.” Having said his piece, he started toward his horses. “I expect we’d best get movin’ first thing in the morning,” he said as he departed.

  Never comfortable in a crowd, Joe built his fire near his horses and apart from the main camp. He thought about the strange turn of events that had resulted in the settlers forgiving a man after he had attempted to kill someone, and he was afraid that he might live to regret his bowing to their wishes.

  Malcolm and Pete stopped by to talk before joining Bradley’s family for supper. “I didn’t know nothin’ about this religious business any sooner than you did,” Malcolm said. “Not that there’s anythin’ wrong with havin’ religion, hell, I got a little bit myself. I can see how you feel about lettin’ Starbeau go after the son of a bitch took a shot at you. I reckon we’d all best keep a close eye on that one, won’t we, Pete?” Pete nodded when Malcolm paused, then revealed the real reason for his visit. “These folks are good folks and they need you. I’m just hopin’ you ain’t thinkin’ about washin’ your hands of the whole thing.”

  Joe added a few more limbs to his fire, then replied. “I said I’d lead you through these mountains.”

  “Yes, sir, you did,” Malcolm replied quickly, “and you’re a man of your word. I’m obliged.” Feeling more secure in the knowledge that the mysterious denizen of the high ridges was not contemplating leaving the mule train stranded, he and Pete walked away, leaving Joe to tend to his fire.

  Malcolm and Pete were not the only visitors to Joe’s camp that evening. He had just pulled his coffee back from the center of the fire to keep it from boiling too long when he saw someone leave the circle of campfires and head toward him. He watched as the figure became clear in the darkness of the tree line. It was a girl—or a woman. It was hard to tell because the figure was a small person, possibly a child. He straightened up and waited, curious as to the purpose of the visit.

  “Mr. Fox,” she called out as she approached, her voice soft and small, but not at all childlike.

  Curious, he rose to his feet. “Yes, miss?” he responded.

  As she entered the firelight, he could see that she was indeed a young woman, though tiny in stature. He saw then that she carried something wrapped in a cloth. Holding it out to him, she said, “I brought you some pan bread that I made for supper.”

  “Why, I’m much obliged to you, miss,” he said as he eagerly accepted the gift. “It’ll go mighty good with my coffee.” He could not help but wonder what motivated the young woman to perform this gracious act. From what he had seen in the faces of the people in the train, he was regarded as something strange and apart from the human race. His unspoken question was answered by her next statement.

  “I’m Callie Simmons. I wanted to thank you for saving my father’s life.” When she saw that he was running the name through his mind, trying to place it, she continued. “I’m Jake Simmons’ daughter, and I’m certain that when you stepped in between him and that ogre, Starbeau, you saved his life.”

  Without knowing how to respond, he simply stammered, “Yes, miss.”

  She went on. “Pa’s a good man, but he’s not a big man, so I think he sometimes feels like he has to show people that he’s as much a man as anyone.” She smiled then. “Anyway, I thank you for what you did, and I hope you enjoy the bread. I’ll leave you to your supper.” She turned to go, then paused. “The folks on this train aren’t as stiff as they might look. You’ll see when you get to know us better.” She returned to the camp then, leaving him to think about the sweet smile she had given him.

  Chapter 4

  The days that followed the incident by the river became a constant grind of long hours in the saddle that left the travelers weary and hungry when nightfall finally forced them to camp. There were no complaints from the people, because Bradley and Jake had impressed upon the others the need to pass through the mountains as quickly as humanly possible. The days were already cold and the skies continued to threaten, with heavy snows already blanketing the higher elevations.

  Not much was seen of their mysterious guide during the daylight hours. He would start the party out in the mornings, telling Malcolm and Bradley to hold to a particular course. Then he would disappear into the forest and hills, only to appear when it seemed the train had reached a box canyon, or some other apparent dead end. He would then lead them on a detour that sometimes called for them to follow a game trail barely wide enough for one mule to pass, and becoming more and more treacherous with freezing rain. It was not an easy time for man or woman, but everyone, even the children, seemed to understand the desperate circumstances that dictated the demands placed upon them. As before, Starbeau kept to himself, riding sullenly, his arm in a sling fashioned by Nancy Lindstrom to rest his wounded shoulder. He, as much as anyone, wanted to get through the mountains before the passes closed. And although he harbored a deep hatred for the man who led them through one rough valley after another, he was wise enough to know his survival depended upon Joe Fox.

  In spite of the rugged terrain, the mule train made acceptable progress for the first few days, even with the foul weather. On the fifth day of travel, Old Man Winter evidently reached the limits of his benevolence when Joe led a saddle-weary group of settlers across a frigid mountain pass where howling winds were already sweeping the snow into six-foot drifts. It served to impress upon the travelers what they would have encountered had they insisted upon continuing their trek to Oregon Territory. Once through the pass, Joe led them down into a wide valley where the surrounding mountains offered some relief from the weather above, and a cluster of crude buildings created a welcome sight that Joe said was Missoula Mills.

  “It is a good place for your people to spend the winter months,” he told Bradley Lindstrom. “There’s a sawmill and a flour mill, and a general store. The Missoula Valley has three rivers running through it, and the mountains all around will protect against the strong winter storms.” He didn’t mention the fact that in years past his adoptive people, the Blackfeet, had fought a bloody war against the Salish in this valley. It had been before his time, but because of it he had very little use for the Salish, or the Flatheads as some called them.

  Bradley stood beside Jake Simmons as the two friends got their first look at the valley. “Well, it ain’t the Willamette Valley where we thought we’d be spending the winter,” he said. “But it looks a sight more invitin’ than those deep canyons back yonder.” He released a weary sigh and looked at Joe. “What about when the spring comes? We’re still gonna be lookin’ for the way to Oregon.”

  “The road you spoke about . . . ,” Joe started.

  “The Mullan Road,” Bradley reminded.

  “Yes,” Joe continued. “The Mullan Road—it runs through the Missoula Valley—you can follow it in the spring when the passes are open.”

  “Maybe you’ll go with us then.”

  “Maybe,” Joe answered without enthusiasm. “But I’ll help you store up meat for the winter, anyway. You’re gonna need a lot for this bunch of folks.”

  “We’re obliged,” Bradley said. Then, turning to Jake and Raymond, he said, “We’d best get to work buildin’ some shelters.”

  The next two weeks
were a busy time for the pilgrims as they hurried to establish a winter camp. They were welcomed by the people of the settlement, who turned out to help the new arrivals, hoping they would elect to make permanent homes here. Joe spent all day every day scouting the breadth and length of the fertile valley in search of game to be dried and stored. Game was in abundance—mule deer, whitetail deer, and elk driven down from the mountains by the weather. Bradley was happy to supply him with all the cartridges he needed, but much of the game was shot with a bow. This was especially true on a day like this one, when he had laid in wait for a group of antelope to come down to the Blackfoot River to drink. Using tree branches for concealment, he managed to crawl close enough to target the rearmost animals, dropping two with his bow before the rest of the herd was aware of the danger. When the swift animals bolted, he laid his bow aside and bagged one more with a single shot from his rifle before they fled out of range.

  Max Starbeau sat beside his campfire, alternately clenching and relaxing his left hand, testing the progress of the healing in his shoulder. Nancy Lindstrom had done a first-rate job in removing the bullet and cleaning the wound. It was coming along properly. In fact, it was well enough for Starbeau to help the men build shelters, but he didn’t let on to the others. Like a colony of ants, the settlers were digging caves along the river bluffs and shoring them up with lumber from the sawmill. Starbeau was not a man to work for what he needed, a trait that had caused a great deal of speculation regarding the gruff man’s presence in the train of settler families. He was well aware of their suspicions, and it served to amuse him as they labored to dig in for the winter. If these Christian folk had any notion of the circumstances that had led him to cross the mule train’s path, they would be horrified, and would certainly have sought to cast him out. A wicked smile creased his whiskered face as he recalled the day he happened upon Henry Dodson.

  Wanted for a shooting incident in a saloon in Bismarck, Starbeau was traveling the back roads around the town shank’s mare. He was sufficiently tired and footsore from walking when he came upon a small farm-house and a man attempting to raise one end of his porch. Seeing an opportunity to possibly gain a free meal, Starbeau turned onto the path to the house and approached the porch. “Looks like you could use a hand, neighbor,” he called out, using as cheerful a voice as he could create.

  So intent upon his work, Henry Dodson had not noticed the huge man walking up the road. Consequently, he was taken aback briefly when he turned to confront the intimidating bulk of the stranger. Recovering from his initial shock, he slowly let up on the long pole he was using as a lever, and stepped away to greet Starbeau. “Well, I reckon it would be a little bit easier if there was one man to raise the porch and another’n to slide a rock under the corner.” Taking an additional step back to appraise the imposing stranger, Henry could not help a feeling of precaution. The man had the hard look of a road agent, combined with the size of a grizzly. He certainly had the bulk, however, that met the qualifications called for to force the pole down and lift the porch. He’ll have to be careful he don’t turn the house upside down, he thought. “I reckon the pilaster under this corner musta settled some,” he went on to explain. “My wife’s been after me to build it up—says the porch is starting to tilt so bad she can’t set her rockin’ chair straight.”

  “Well, lemme grab aholda that pole, and you can slide a couple of rocks under it,” Starbeau said, and proceeded to take hold of the pole without waiting for Henry’s response.

  With the leverage provided by the large tree limb, Starbeau easily lifted the corner and held it while Henry placed one, then another flat rock on top of the porch supports. “Let her down now,” Henry said and watched while the porch settled on the rock pilaster. Nodding his head in satisfaction, he said, “Mister, I’m much obliged to ya.”

  Starbeau lifted the heavy timber and tossed it several feet from the porch. “T’weren’t nothin’ a’tall,” he replied. “What kinda neighbors would we be if we couldn’t give a man a hand once in a while?” A crooked smile broke out across the harsh face.

  “I reckon you’re right, friend. I don’t recollect seein’ you around here before. Where are you headin’?” He was more than a little curious about why a man wearing a handgun and carrying a rifle would be walking this far away from town.

  “I’m headin’ to town,” Starbeau lied. “I’ve had a little piece of bad luck, had to shoot my horse a few miles back, but I’ll buy me another one when I get to town.”

  Henry shook his head, amazed. “Well, you ain’t likely to get to town goin’ the way you were headin’. You need to go back to that crossroad about a quarter mile back the way you came. That’ll take you to town, but it’s a right far piece, especially for a man on foot.”

  “Well, now don’t that make me feel like a fool?” Starbeau said, forcing a chuckle. In fact, his horse had been shot, but not by his hand. The bullets had come from the pistol of a deputy sheriff, and would probably not have killed the horse, but Starbeau had run the animal until it bled to death and collapsed on the road just mentioned by Henry. “I reckon I’ll just have to turn around and go back,” he said, feigning a sigh.

  “It’s gettin’ pretty late in the day to be settin’ out to town on foot,” Henry said. “Why don’t you stay here for the night? Least I can do is feed you some supper for stoppin’ to help with the porch. And you’re welcome to sleep in the barn—start out fresh in the mornin’.”

  “I wouldn’t wanna put you out none,” Starbeau replied.

  “Nonsense,” a voice came from inside the front door. “We’ve got plenty and you’re welcome to share it with us.” Margaret Dodson stepped out on the porch from the hallway where she had been listening to the conversation between her husband and the strange man.

  Both men turned at the sound of her voice. “This here’s my wife,” Henry said.

  Always with an eye for the ladies, plain or proud, Starbeau cast an appraising gaze over the ordinary features of Margaret Dodson. Just short of leering, he managed to say, “Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” It’s been a while, he thought. You ain’t exactly no young beauty, but you’ve got enough to scratch my itch. “I thank you kindly for your offer. I’d be obliged.”

  Thinking about it now, he had to chuckle to himself. She had been a little woman, not much bigger than Jake Simmons’ daughter. Of course, she was a good bit older than Callie, but she put up a good fight. Starbeau liked that. He’d had to hit her a half dozen times with his fist before she succumbed. He could still picture her horrified face as he took her—and lying right beside the body of her husband, him with a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead. His only regret was that the woman lacked the fortitude to withstand the beating. He would have liked it if she had not died so soon.

  Henry Dodson was evidently a successful farmer, judging by the livestock Starbeau had found in the barn and the corral behind it. Dodson’s house had been a lucky find. He packed everything he thought he could sell, trade, or use himself on four mules and Dodson’s bay saddle horse. He rode away the next morning a well-supplied traveler.

  His reminiscing was interrupted then by the sight of Callie Simmons heading toward the river with a bucket in hand. You might wiggle that little tail once too often before this winter is over, he thought. I’ve got a little something to settle with your daddy, too. He slipped the sling back under his arm when he saw Bradley Lindstrom coming his way.

  “How’s the shoulder coming along?” Bradley inquired.

  “It’s gettin’ there,” Starbeau replied, “but slow as hell. I still can’t do much with it.”

  “I was hopin’ to hear better than that,” Bradley said, trying to keep his suspicions out of his tone. “We’re makin’ good progress on most of the caves, but it would be good if you could get started on one for yourself. It’d be pretty rough passin’ the winter in that tent.”

  Starbeau reached up and rubbed his shoulder as if testing the injury. “I might not have no choice,” he replied
. “It’s still awful tender. I don’t think I’ll be much good for diggin’ anytime soon.”

  Bradley hesitated for a moment. He wanted to call the huge man a slacker, but he lacked the necessary grit to do it. “Well, I reckon when some of us get finished, we can help you out.”

  “I ’preciate it, Lindstrom,” Starbeau said, affecting what was meant to be a look of sincere gratitude. The smile on his face grew as Bradley walked away again until it broke into a contemptuous chuckle. “Praise the Lord,” he murmured in contempt under his breath. “I wonder where you’ve got that money hid.” He had been thinking about the two hundred and fifty dollars the party had promised to give Skinner at the completion of the journey. It was his guess that Bradley was most likely the one holding the cash. It was something for him to speculate on while he was recovering from his wound. I’ll just bide my time, he thought, I can’t go anywhere for a while yet.

  A moment later, the malicious grin faded from his face as he caught sight of Joe Fox approaching the banks of the river, leading one of his horses. The horse was pulling a travois carrying what appeared to be three antelope. Starbeau glanced quickly around him to make sure no one was watching him. Then he slowly reached down and picked up his rifle. Pressing the butt against his wounded shoulder, he took deliberate aim at the tall figure astride the paint pony, his finger resting on the trigger. “Bang,” he whispered softly, and lowered the weapon to the ground again, knowing that satisfaction would have to wait until spring.

  Unaware that he had been framed in the sights of Starbeau’s rifle as he guided his horse down through the bluffs, the buckskin-clad rider halted his horses and dismounted. Dropping the paint’s reins, he led the packhorse to a large fire before the caves, where most of the preparation of smoked meat was going on. “My stars,” Nancy Lindstrom exclaimed upon seeing the carcasses on the travois. “More meat to fix—it’s a wonder there’s an animal left in this valley.”