The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  Seeing the look of disappointment in Callie’s face, Cora sought to smooth her daughter’s ruffled emotions. “Callie, honey, your pa and me were just trying to keep you from making a mistake that would ruin your whole life. And now you see we were right about Joe Fox. He’s gone without so much as a kiss my foot to anybody.”

  Callie cocked her head to one side, and frowned at her mother as a suspicion struck her that her parents had something to do with Joe’s sudden departure. All at once she was overcome with mixed feelings of anger and humiliation. She stared at her parents accusingly and charged, “You said something to him, didn’t you?”

  “Callie, baby,” Cora tried to explain, “it’s best to forget that man. You’re not ready to be making decisions that might affect the rest of your life.” She turned to her husband for support, but he could only shrug and nod.

  “Oh, my God,” Callie said despairingly, mortified, thinking of what Joe must have thought. “Oh, my God,” she repeated.

  “We’re only thinking of you,” Cora said.

  “Oh, Mama, why couldn’t you just leave it alone?” Callie lashed out, furious now with her parents’ interfering. She threw the piece of bread she had been holding on the ground, spun on her heel, and stalked off toward the cottonwoods to be alone in her sorrow.

  “Maybe I oughta go after her,” Jake said.

  “Leave her alone,” Cora advised. “She’s just hurting a little now, but she’ll get over it. Then she’ll realize that she wasn’t really in love after all.”

  One individual seemed to find the confrontation between mother and daughter amusing. Starbeau chuckled when he saw Callie walk away in an apparent huff. You can really swing that little behind of yours when you’ve got your dander up, he thought. Seated on his saddle blanket in the mouth of his cave, taking in the morning sun, he could not hear the conversation between Bradley and the Simmons family except to catch a word or a phrase here and there when a voice was raised. It was enough to tell him that there was a thread of discord between daughter and parents, and it had something to do with Joe Fox. He drew satisfaction from anything that caused trouble for Jake Simmons or Joe Fox, and it was doubly pleasing if that something meant trouble for both of them. He was almost certain that he had heard Bradley Lindstrom tell Jake that Joe Fox was gone. He hoped that was true. He hated Joe Fox as much as he had ever hated any man. More than that, although reluctant to admit it, he feared him, feared the man’s pragmatic reaction to threat. Starbeau was dead certain that Joe Fox was about to finish him off that night he shot him in the shoulder and would have completed the job if the others had not persuaded him to stop. The thing that caused Starbeau to fear the rangy mountain man was the cold, emotionless way he had prepared to kill him, with no show of excitement or anger, as if it were no more than the dispatching of a wounded animal. A man like that was dangerous, and given the chance, more specifically Joe Fox’s back, Starbeau wouldn’t hesitate to kill him.

  “Lucky for him he’s gone,” he growled to himself, said mostly to boost his pride. Then he smiled when it occurred to his sluggish brain that with Joe Fox gone there was no one to challenge him. His size and bluster would once again cause fear and demand respect. His smile widened until it broke into a mischievous chuckle. Before that morning, he had just about decided to leave this camp of God-fearing Bible thumpers and forget about going to Oregon. The two hundred and fifty dollars hidden in the little wooden box in Bradley Lindstrom’s cave would give him a right comfortable grub stake for a while. Maybe I’ll go down to Butte, he thought. Don’t nobody know me there. He looked up at the sky then. I’ll just wait a little while longer for the weather to get better. He felt smug when he thought that Joe Fox wouldn’t be around to track him when he left with the money.

  Chapter 7

  Spring arrived early that year. Everyone in the camp was eager to vacate their dank, dark earthen hovels and continue on to what they hoped would be their promised land. There was still some trepidation, for no one could know for sure when all the passes would become clear of snow and ice. So they waited, and the men talked about it, and everyone prayed together for guidance at the Sunday service. The one thing that dismayed Bradley was there was no sign of Joe Fox. He, Jake, and Raymond talked about the possibility of sending someone to find the reclusive mountain man. After much discussion, it was decided that the likelihood of finding Joe’s camp was remote at best. So they prayed some more for some sign that it was safe to start out over the mountains, hoping God would send a message in some form, biblical or physical. A message was, in fact, on the way, but not the one the people were praying for.

  A war party, numbering twenty-three Gros Ventre warriors, plus five young boys eager to prove themselves in battle, went into camp less than two days from Missoula Mills. Wounded Elk sat down before the fire to confer with Long Walker and Little Buffalo. “I fear they are both dead, killed by Joe Fox,” Long Walker said. It had been a full moon with no sign of Yellow Hand and Red Sky, when they should have returned to the village many days ago—unless they were not successful in killing the Blackfoot ghost. “I fear that their deaths might bring bad luck to our attack of the white camp.”

  “What say you, Wounded Elk?” Little Buffalo asked.

  “I think that we have two more of our brothers to avenge,” Wounded Elk replied. “I don’t think their deaths could bring bad luck to our mission, because we do not go to attack Joe Fox. Our fight is to avenge the warriors killed by the white men with no wagons.”

  Little Buffalo and Long Walker considered what Wounded Elk had said, then agreed that his counsel was probably wise. With the exception of the two missing warriors, all the other signs had been favorable. The weather had been kind to them on the journey from their village, and they had made good time in reaching the Missoula Valley. “What should we do about the white man’s settlement upriver from the people that live in the ground?” Little Buffalo asked. “We don’t know how many there are, or if they will come to help the mole people.” His concern was shared by Wounded Elk and Long Walker, for all three were well aware that they were far from their home range.

  “I think if we follow my plan, we will kill the mole people and be gone before the whites at the trading post can come to help them.” When the others agreed, Wounded Elk said, “Good, we should get to their camp before the sun comes up two more times.”

  As Wounded Elk had said, the Gros Ventre war party reached the creek from which Yellow Hand had watched the white camp before. Wounded Elk halted his warriors there to wait out the night before the dawn attack. They would proceed from this point on foot, leaving four of the young boys to hold the horses. While they waited, the warriors applied new war paint and asked Man Above to favor them in battle. When it was time, half of the war party followed the creek down to the river, then worked their way back up the river to be in position between the water and the bluffs, facing the cave openings. Two of Wounded Elk’s bravest warriors stole across the open meadow in the gray light before dawn to pull rails from the corral to create a hole to drive the livestock out. When the first rays of the sun inched across the isolated patches of old snow, the rest of the war party advanced toward the village of caves—slowly at first, then gradually gaining momentum as the sun showed its face, until a cry of alarm from the camp signaled a full charge and the raiders opened fire on the few early risers walking between the caves and the corral.

  At almost the same time, war cries were heard from the corral, and the horses and mules were stampeded through the gap. Flushed from their beds by the hellish sound of war cries and gunfire, the settlers grabbed their weapons and raced out to defend their camp, only to be cut down by the warriors below the bluffs as they emerged from the caves. Those lucky enough to have been missed by the volley of shots scrambled back inside to construct hasty ramparts, using their packs, bedding, and anything else to protect themselves.

  The attack was well planned, with the warriors by the river keeping the settlers pinned in their earthen b
arricades while the rest of their war party charged up behind the caves. If all went as Wounded Elk planned, all the whites would be trapped in their holes in the ground. He had underestimated the tenacity of the white settlers to defend their families and possessions, however. Malcolm Lindstrom and Pete Watson were quick to recognize the danger of holing up inside the catacombs of caves. Scrambling outside their hole, they took positions on the ground between their cave and Jake Simmons’, and began firing at the Indians led by Wounded Elk. Down the line of dwellings, several of the other men did the same, and soon the warriors’ attack was blunted and they were forced to halt and seek cover.

  Meanwhile, the warriors below the bluffs found themselves with no real protective cover from the rifle fire coming from the caves. After the initial barrage, the besieged settled down to snipe at the Indians on the edge of the water. Soon, due to an absence of effective cover, one by one the Gros Ventre casualties began to pile up until they were forced to withdraw down the river. Encouraged by the arrival of reinforcements from the sawmill and general store, the embattled settlers were able to vacate the caves and join in the fight behind them. The battle became a single-front skirmish as the warriors from the riverbanks joined Wounded Elk and his warriors in the open field before the line of caves.

  Amid the heat of the conflict, Max Starbeau at first cursed himself for not having left the mule train when he first had the notion. He had dallied too long on his decision to head for Butte. With no thoughts of helping defend his fellow travelers, he sought to escape the battle altogether, his priority being the preservation of his hide, and the others be damned. But his greed would not permit him to go without the money in Nancy Lindstrom’s little wooden box. It occurred to him then that the attack by Indians might have given him the perfect opportunity to liberate that money. The thought forced a smile to appear on his craggy face.

  Easing his bulk out of his cave, he made sure there were no Indians remaining below the bluffs before moving cautiously down the line of caves. “Come on, Starbeau!” Luke Preston shouted as he ran by him. “We’ve got ’em on the run!”

  “Right behind you,” Starbeau replied, then paused to let Preston disappear over the top of the mound. He watched for a moment and saw that Luke was right. The Indians were withdrawing and the men from the settlement were giving chase. Starbeau grinned. Go get ’em, boys. Then he turned his attention back to the row of caves. There was no one in sight. He wasted no time in getting down to Bradley Lindstrom’s cave, and without hesitating, ducked inside. In a hurry, he went directly to the stack of pots and pans where he had first seen the wooden box. There it was, just as he had left it. He snatched it from the stack, opened it, and exhaled a great sigh of satisfaction to find the money still there.

  “Now you can put that right back where you found it.”

  Startled, he turned to find Nancy Lindstrom huddled against the back corner of the cave with a shotgun aimed straight at him. In his haste to get his hands on the money, he had failed to see her hiding behind a pile of bedclothes. With no possible explanation available to him, he took the only option still open. “Well, now, just hold your horses, ma’am,” he said while his hand dropped casually to rest on the handle of his .44. “This ain’t what it looks like.”

  “I think I know what it is,” Nancy retorted. Those were her last words. Starbeau suddenly drew the pistol from his belt and fired, hitting the surprised woman squarely in the chest, and knocking her back against the wall. To be certain, he took a step toward her and placed another shot in her forehead.

  He went to the mouth of the cave and stopped to listen before stepping outside. The sound of gunfire told him that the counterattack was still going on, and evidently successful for the settlers. He then stuck his head outside and looked left and right. Seeing no witnesses to his evil deed, he stepped out and walked briskly away, the money a comforting lump in his pocket.

  His mind on other things now, he trotted along toward the fighting in hopes he might find his horse. The counterattack had been spirited enough so that the raiding Indians had had no time to herd the horses and mules, consequently they were scattered along the river and over the open meadow. He would have struck out for Butte right then if he had his horse. He didn’t care about the mules, or most of the things he had packed on them. With the money, he didn’t need the household items in those packs. He would have preferred to be gone when Nancy Lindstrom’s body was found, but no one saw him, so he wasn’t overly worried.

  There was no rejoicing over the successful defense of their mule train, for there had been lives lost. Immediately after the final retreat of the Gros Ventre war party, the weary settlers went about the business of recovering their livestock and mending the corral, with the unhappy task awaiting to bury their dead and comfort the survivors. Most of the victims were men, cut down as they ran out of the caves in the initial assault. Some, like Nancy Lindstrom, were harder to explain. Nancy had been shot at close range, yet no one had reported seeing any Indians on top of the bluffs. It was just one of life’s mysteries to a grieving husband until he happened to find that the money was missing from the little wooden box.

  It was highly unlikely that an Indian had taken the money. Nothing else had been disturbed, so all suspicions went directly toward Starbeau, but there was no proof one way or the other. Bradley insisted upon facing the huge bully with the accusation, anyway, and along with his brother, Malcolm, and several others, he called Starbeau out shortly after burying Nancy.

  “You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Lindstrom,” Starbeau slurred when confronted by the delegation. “I was fightin’ them damn Injuns alongside everybody else. You got a helluva lotta nerve askin’ me about how your wife got kilt. How the hell would I know? I might oughta break your back for you, throwin’ somethin’ like that up in my face.” He looked around at the others with Bradley and smirked. “She probably got shot ’cause you were someplace hidin’ from the Injuns.”

  “I’ve asked around, Starbeau,” Bradley replied, showing no fear of the big bully. “Nobody remembers seein’ you at all when we were driving those Injuns across the meadow.”

  “That ain’t all of it, Starbeau,” Malcolm interjected. “There’s a little matter of two hundred and fifty dollars that’s missin’ from Bradley’s cave, and I’m thinkin’ you’re the one who most likely took it.”

  “Why, you son of a bitch!” Starbeau exploded. “I oughta kill you right now.” He dropped his hand to rest on his pistol, and stopped only when he saw several rifles immediately bob up to a firing position. Changing his tone then, the familiar sneer returned to his face. “I reckon I ought’n to hold it agin you. I mean, losin’ your wife and all, but I ain’t the only sinner in this outfit. Coulda been anybody, includin’ the damn Injuns, that stole that money. I’m lettin’ you get away with it this time, Lindstrom, but I’d better not hear no more talk outta you about no stolen money.” He glared at them for a moment before ordering, “Now go on and get the hell outta my face before I lose my temper.”

  Not ready to concede, Bradley started toward the big man, but Malcolm and Raymond Chadwick caught him by his arms and pulled him away. “That’s all we can do right now, Brad,” his brother said, knowing that Starbeau would most likely tear Bradley apart if they fought.

  “We got no way to prove it,” Chadwick said. “What if we’re accusing the wrong man?”

  Starbeau snickered contemptuously. “That’s right, Lindstrom. You’d best listen to him. You can’t prove a damn thing, and if you keep runnin’ your mouth, you’re liable to have to back it up.” He shifted his gaze then to focus on Jake Simmons and grinned. “And there ain’t no half-breed to save your ass this time.” The comment caused Jake to flush slightly before glaring defiantly at the belligerent troublemaker.

  Bradley started toward Starbeau a second time, but this time Malcolm and two of his friends dragged him back and started walking him toward a large campfire in the center of the clearing behind the caves. “We ain’t done
with this yet!” Bradley called back over his shoulder.

  Still standing before Starbeau, Raymond Chadwick took it upon himself to speak for the whole community. In a voice calm and quiet, he gave the huge troublemaker notice. “I’m speakin’ for the congregation now, Starbeau. We’ve done our best to give you every opportunity to salvage your Christian soul, but I reckon there’s just some things that prayer won’t change. So we think it best if you go your own way now, and let us go ours.”

  Starbeau chuckled delightedly. “You’re throwin’ me out?” he asked, laughing. “Well, much as that sorrows me, I guess I’ll just go then. Hell, I’ll leave first thing in the mornin’.” He was still chuckling as he turned and left Raymond standing there astonished that the quarrelsome bully found it so humorous.

  The burials and cleanup continued throughout the rest of the morning and into the afternoon before some sense of normalcy returned to the now-depleted group of pilgrims. Doing what she could to help, Callie visited several caves where women had been widowed to offer her comfort and assistance. There was little she could do to ease their grief, but she felt the need to at least make coffee, fix the children something to eat, and provide a shoulder to cry on.