The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  “They’re gettin’ scarcer,” Joe replied with a smile. “I’m havin’ to go farther to find ’em, but you’re still gonna need more to carry you folks through the winter.”

  The owner of the trading post, a man named Horace Templeton, stood next to the fire. He had been pretty much in evidence every day while the pilgrims created their winter quarters. Hoping the party might reconsider moving on in the spring, he had taken it upon himself to daily cite the virtues of the Missoula Valley and Missoula Mills specifically. “We’ve already got the seed stock for building a proper town,” he had appealed to Bradley Lindstrom and Jake Simmons. “All we need to make it grow is folks like you.” Though certainly worth considering, they said, there were other things to influence the party’s decision. There were friends and relatives awaiting them in the Willamette Valley, and that was where they had set out for when they left North Dakota. Still, Templeton was persistent in his daily visits to the ant hill, as the residents of the town referred to the camp on the Blackfoot River.

  Silently witnessing the brief comments between Joe and Nancy, Templeton could only stand and gape for a few seconds before stepping forward and asking, “You’re Joe Fox, ain’t you?”

  Joe did not immediately reply. Turning to face the man, he paused, puzzled that Templeton knew his name. After a few moments, he answered. “I’m Joe Fox,” he said, still trying to place the man.

  “Well, I’ll be . . .” Templeton started, but failed to finish. He favored Joe with a wide smile. “Wait till I tell the boys over at the sawmill about this. I’ve heard some of the Injuns talk about a man that roamed the high peaks, but I swear, I never thought there really was one. Thought you were somethin’ they just made up—a spirit or somethin’.”

  Not sure how to take Templeton’s comments, Joe’s initial reaction was simply to feel uncomfortable. Not knowing how to respond, he said, “I’m Joe Fox, but I ain’t no spirit.”

  Standing next to a big pot of boiling water on the fire, Callie Simmons beamed delightedly upon witnessing the somber mountain man’s discomfort. “He’s not a spirit,” she whispered soft enough that no one should hear. “He’s an angel.”

  “Joe Fox!” Templeton exclaimed again, shaking his head as if he had just witnessed the confirmation of a legend.

  Nancy Lindstrom and Cora Simmons, who paused to listen to the comments, both turned a puzzled gaze toward the man who had volunteered to guide them to this valley. Confused by their expressions of wonder, Joe felt an immediate desire to be elsewhere. Turning his attention to the travois, he started dragging a carcass off as several of the other men came up to take charge of the butchering.

  “Joe Fox,” Horace Templeton repeated softly, then raised his voice to say, “Come on by my store and I’ll buy you a drink of whiskey, Joe Fox.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Joe answered, barely glancing in Templeton’s direction, “but I reckon I’ve still got work to do.” He felt uneasy with the man’s interest in him and distressed to find that his name had become known in the valleys beyond the mountains that were his home. Wasting no time, he led his horses away from the river as soon as the third antelope carcass was removed from the travois.

  “Well, now, what do you reckon got into him?” Templeton asked, confounded by what he interpreted as unfriendly behavior.

  “I guess he just prefers being left alone,” Cora Simmons answered, sensing a disdain for any situation that focused on him as a curiosity.

  Smiling to herself, Callie Simmons studied the tall, rangy figure as he walked away toward a grassy knoll where his other horses were grazing with the mules. While Horace Templeton was relating the many stories he had heard about the ghost called Joe Fox to her mother and Nancy Lindstrom, Callie went unnoticed to her tent. Fetching a cup, she returned to the fire and filled it with coffee. Slipping a biscuit in her apron pocket, she then followed Joe to the knoll.

  He turned when he heard Callie coming up behind him, and waited for her to speak. “I brought you some coffee,” she said, holding the cup out to him. “You looked like you wanted some before Mr. Templeton started talking.” She reached into her pocket and produced the biscuit. “You might want something to go with the coffee. I hope it’s still hot.”

  Surprised by the young girl’s thoughtfulness, he took the cup. “Thank you, miss. You’re right, I did want some coffee—and that biscuit will go mighty good with it.”

  She smiled sweetly then, pleased by his reaction. “You don’t have to call me miss,” she said. “My name’s Callie. If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down while you have your coffee. Then I can take the cup back.” Not waiting for his reply, she seated herself on a cottonwood log. Since there was no place to sit other than the ground, she said, “You can sit beside me if you want. I won’t bite you.”

  He smiled at that and sat down on the log next to her. He was aware then that he felt no uneasiness when with the girl. He sensed a feeling of honesty about her that made him comfortable. It struck him that he had made a friend, and he realized that he had made no friends since he had left Crying Woman’s village.

  “I hope that coffee’s still hot,” she said. “It doesn’t take long to cool off in this weather.” When he assured her that it was just right, she sat silent for a few moments before speaking again. “You haven’t been digging a camp for yourself. Aren’t you going to need a cave?”

  “No, miss . . . I mean, Callie. I expect I’ll make me a camp back up in the hills.” He thought he detected a genuine look of disappointment in her face.

  “Won’t it get too cold to stay up in the mountains?” she asked.

  “Well, it’ll be cold all right, but not if you’re used to it and know how to make your camp. I worry more about my horses than me. I expect I’ll leave all but the paint down here with the mules.”

  “Does that mean we won’t see you again until spring?” she asked, encouraged by the fact that he planned to leave his horses here.

  He hesitated before answering. “I don’t know, maybe. I might drop in to see how you folks are faring.”

  “Well, you’d be welcome if you decide to come back sooner.” She was dying to ask him about his family, where he spent his childhood, how he came to spend his life alone in the wilderness, but she was afraid he might suddenly become reticent to talk to her at all. Taking the opportunity to study him closely while he was seemingly relaxed, she noted the finely chiseled features of his face and the dark eyes that seemed to be looking inside her thoughts. His black hair was long, worn in two braided strands that rested upon broad shoulders, giving him the bearing of a Blackfoot warrior, and yet his English was as refined as any of the men in her party. A white Indian, she thought, with his shirt and leggings of animal skins, and his bow strung on his back. She wondered whether his wants and passions were as feral as his appearance. Her mother would be shocked to know the thoughts prodding her curiosity about this mystery man, she decided with an inward giggle.

  Draining the last of his coffee, he stood up and handed her the cup. “I thank you, Miss Callie. That was mighty fine.”

  “You’re welcome,” she replied cheerfully. “You know you’re always welcome at our fire. After all, you are supplying almost all the meat for us this winter.”

  “I’m obliged,” he said, unable to think of anything better.

  “Well, I’ve got to get back to work,” she said when it became obvious he was not going to delay her.

  When she had turned and started back to the campfire, he paused and watched her make her way across the bluffs, holding her skirt up just high enough to prevent it from dragging in the shallow patches of snow. Her visit had caused troubling thoughts to play in his mind, thoughts about things he had not considered before. He would find himself lost in thoughts of the young girl tiptoeing through the patches of snow for many nights to come.

  Callie’s visit to take coffee to Joe Fox did not go unobserved by at least one person. Cora Simmons paused at the racks constructed to smoke the meat for winter to
watch her daughter returning from the knoll where the animals were grazing. She sincerely hoped that Callie’s visit was no more than a courteous call in an act of Christian kindness, and not something more troublesome. For an interest in that man was akin to an infatuation with a mountain lion. She and Jake might have to have a talk with her.

  Chapter 5

  The day arrived near the end of September when Joe decided he had done all he could to ensure that the party of settlers would have enough to survive the winter. Now there was little time left to tend to his needs. Taking only a small supply of the dried meat, some salt, a large sack of coffee beans, and, at Callie’s insistence, a sack of dried apples; he packed it all on the paint. Malcolm, Bradley, and Jake, along with many others of the community, gathered to see him off as he climbed aboard his horse.

  “We’ll be lookin’ to see you come spring,” Bradley declared hopefully.

  “Can’t say for sure,” Joe replied. “You don’t need me anymore, anyway, if that road you’ve been talkin’ about really leads to Fort Walla Walla. I don’t know much about the country on the other side of Lolo Pass, so I don’t see how I’d be much help.”

  “You’d be a helluva lot of help,” Malcolm Lindstrom spoke up, “just like you’ve been so far. I don’t know how these folks would’ve fared without you leadin’ ’em here and supplying all that meat.” He had more than a casual interest in hoping to see the recluse mountain man again. He and Pete had families back in Dakota, and he wasn’t sure he could remember how to get back through the mountains to the point where they had first found Joe Fox. If he decided not to take this party to Oregon, Malcolm and Pete could sure use his help finding their way home.

  Joe nodded soberly to the folks gathered around his horse. “I’ll be back for my horses, anyway,” he said as he glanced around to find Callie Simmons. She was watching him closely, a smile upon her young face. Their eyes met briefly and he gave her a slight nod. She responded in kind. Then he abruptly turned the paint’s head and was off.

  He left with a conflict of emotions raging in his brain. Never feeling at ease in a large gathering of people, he was relieved to be free of them. On the other hand, he was encountering emotions of melancholy that he was reluctant to attribute to parting from Callie Simmons. His meeting Callie had introduced a new sensation never experienced before, and he was not at all sure he was comfortable with it. She had stopped by his campfire several times in the weeks that followed her visit with coffee and a biscuit. Bright and cheerful, she had given no indication that those occasions were anything more than being friendly. He was not ready to admit it, even to himself, but there was little doubt that he would come back. His horses were just an excuse to see her again.

  “You’d best be careful your eyeballs don’t fall out,” Cora Simmons warned her daughter.

  Callie turned then to confront her mother’s stern features glaring at her, and she realized that she had been caught fondly gazing after the tall scout. “Mama . . . ,” Callie complained indignantly. Her mother had already warned her against having any interest in a half-savage wanderer with no roots planted anywhere. She spun on her heel and headed toward the cave, seeking to avoid another lecture from her mother. Much to her annoyance, Cora followed.

  “Your papa and me have tried to raise you to take your place in this world as a serious, Christian woman, marry a God-fearing husband, and raise a family in the arms of the church.”

  “Oh, Mama,” Callie responded, “Joe Fox and I are just friends. I’m not thinking about marrying him, for goodness’ sakes.”

  “I saw you making sugar eyes at him,” Cora insisted. “Who knows what a man like that would do if he had any idea you were sweet on him?” Callie tried to walk faster, but Cora stayed right on her heels. “Malcolm Lindstrom told Bradley and your papa that Joe Fox was raised in a Blackfoot Indian camp. Did you know that? A wild savage—I doubt if he knows right from wrong. I pity the poor woman who takes him for a husband.”

  “Mama!” Callie scolded, having heard enough of her mother’s haranguing. “He’s gone, and as you can see, he didn’t grab me and carry me off into the woods.”

  “Well, it wouldn’t have surprised me if he had,” Cora said. “You just think about what I said, young lady. You don’t wanna end up living like an Indian squaw.”

  Cora stood, hands on hips, watching her daughter until she disappeared into the earthen hovel that served as the family’s winter quarters. She had always been in tune with Callie’s moods and tendencies, and she was truly concerned about her apparent infatuation with the soft-spoken man of the forest. Even knowing how much Joe Fox had already done for her family and friends, and how grateful they were for his help, she was thankful that he was not remaining in the camp all winter. Callie was only eighteen years old. Maybe she would forget her silly notions about the man over the coming months.

  Winter came in with a grudge that year, dumping heavy snowfalls in the mountain passes, accompanied by howling winds that sculpted giant towers in the icy drifts that clogged even the oldest of trails. Although the valley was protected from the raging storms that stalked the mountains around it, still substantial mounds of snow covered the collection of caves along the river bluffs. Malcolm commented that the little community resembled a village of white mole hills. There was little activity in the congregation outside the earthen hovels beyond venturing out for firewood, or answering nature’s calls. The caves were warm enough, and more than a few felt obligated to thank Joe Fox for refusing to lead them off into the mountains. Not one soul complained that they should have tried to push on through to Oregon.

  Unless the weather was unusually poor, Sunday services were held every week, and thanks were offered for the group’s survival. Everyone made an effort to attend, except the sick and, of course, Starbeau. Although apparently unable to venture out on a Sunday, it was noticed by all that the surly malcontent found a way to get to the trading post to trade items from his packs in exchange for whiskey. The rest of the time he stayed in his cave, glaring out at passersby as if blaming each one of them for the cruel conditions. His shoulder fully recovered soon after the men in the party finished his dwelling. All the members of the stranded mule train rapidly came to regard him as they might a great bear in his cave, and were content to leave him to his solitary drinking.

  Near the end of February, the weather improved a bit, to the extent that more wood-cutting parties could be organized, as well as occasional trips to Templeton’s store to buy what staples he had left on his nearly bare shelves. On a day such as this, when the sky opened briefly to confirm that the sun still resided over the high mountains, Callie Simmons felt the need to venture out to flush her lungs with fresh, cold air. Stepping carefully through a patch of snow, she felt a strong urge to turn and gaze toward the western mountains. Her eyes settled upon a dark object standing out against the whiteness of the snow-covered hills. It attracted her attention because of its gentle swaying motion. At first she thought it to be a fir tree waving in the wind. But then she realized that the tree seemed to be moving toward her. Her curiosity completely captured then, she stared hard in an effort to identify the object, which now began to resemble a great bear, approaching on its hind legs. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she continued to stare through the glare of the lightly swirling snow. Finally coming into focus, the object became a man on horseback, plodding across the snowy meadow, wearing a heavy bearskin coat. She laughed to think that the blinding sunlight upon the white snow had played such a trick on her eyes. In the next instant, her heart skipped a beat when she realized that the rider was astride a paint pony.

  Joe Fox. The thought brought a smile to her face, and her hand automatically reached up to tidy her hair. She looked quickly around her to see if anyone else had seen her unconscious motion, pleased to find no one close at hand. Turning her full attention back to the rider approaching, now at a distance of approximately one hundred yards, she could see that the carcass of some animal was riding behind t
he saddle. He never comes empty-handed, she thought, and beamed delightedly as she gazed at a sight that had become so familiar to all the people in the camp. One could not help but admire the partnership between horse and rider, watching the easy motion of the two, moving as if one.

  Seeing her standing on the edge of the bluffs, Joe gave the paint a nudge in that direction, and the horse, needing no further guidance, headed straight for her. Pulling up before her, he said, “Well, I see you’re still here.”

  She laughed gaily. “Where did you expect I’d be?”

  Her reply caused him to stammer awkwardly, “Why, nowhere else, I reckon.” Then realizing the young lady was simply teasing him, he laughed. “Looks like you’re makin’ it all right.” He reached back and patted the whitetail deer carcass behind his saddle. “I ran across this young feller on the other side of that mountain back yonder. He was just beggin’ to get shot, so I obliged him. Thought your family might could use a little fresh meat.”

  “It would be wonderful,” she replied enthusiastically. “I’m about to turn into jerky.” She stood back then and gave him a good looking over. “I declare, when you rode up I thought you were a bear riding a horse.”

  Pushing back the hood of his bear coat, he laughed and said, “I reckon a body could make that mistake.” He dismounted then. “I’ll tote this whitetail over to your fire. I’ve already gutted him. I can hang him up and skin him for you.”

  She was thrilled to anticipate the taste of fresh venison, but the little ripple of excitement she felt down the length of her spine was not caused by a craving for fresh meat. She could not explain the feelings she had for Joe, and was not even sure if they were not simply fascination for this wild thing—like the fascination for a lion cub. Maybe she was attracted to him for no reason other than that her mother was so fearful of a union between the savage and her. Whatever the reason, she was just glad to see him after all the cold, lonely weeks since he had gone away. She was about to tell him so when a voice behind her exclaimed, “Joe Fox!”