The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  “Raymond’s right,” Malcolm said. “We ain’t doin’ no good out here. I think the only chance we got to find Callie is Joe Fox, and I don’t know if he can track ’em. But he’s the best chance you’ve got.”

  Jake thought about it for a long moment before speaking, thinking about the last time he had talked to Joe. “I don’t know if he would agree to do it,” he said.

  “Why wouldn’t he?” Malcolm replied. “He’s been willin’ to help with everythin’ we asked him to do.”

  Jake slowly shook his head. Only he and Cora knew that he had told Joe to stay away from Callie, which was more than likely the reason the tall mountain man had left their camp so abruptly. “I don’t know,” he said. “Besides, who knows where he is?”

  “I might,” Malcolm said. “He told Raymond and me that he’s got a camp about two days’ ride from here near a waterfall. If you’ll give me a minute, I’ll think of the name of that creek.”

  “Otter Creek,” Raymond said. “It was Otter Creek.”

  “That’s right, it was,” Malcolm said. “I figure all we got to do is find that creek and follow it up the mountain till we find the waterfall. I bet ol’ Templeton at the tradin’ post knows where Otter Creek is.” The other members of the posse all agreed to the plan. Tired of riding all day with no hope of results, they were in favor of any plan to get them out of the saddle, knowing there was no need for them all to look for Joe.

  “I reckon we ain’t got no choice but to try,” Jake said, while wondering whether Joe would be carrying a grudge and refuse to help.

  “I’ll go with you,” Malcolm said, “me and Pete.” He looked at his brother-in-law for confirmation and Pete nodded. “We’ll find him if he’s still there.”

  It was agreed that they should start out at sunup the next morning. Malcolm volunteered to go to the trading post that night to talk to Templeton. As he had guessed, Templeton knew exactly where Otter Creek flowed into the river, and drew a rough map for Malcolm to follow. “It’ll take a day, maybe a little more, to get to this spot,” he said, pointing to the confluence of the creek and the river. “I ain’t ever been up it far enough to get to the waterfall—didn’t even know there was one. So I don’t know how long that will take you.”

  Cora Simmons, always a strong-willed woman, was now almost incapacitated by the abduction of her daughter. She had not slept or eaten since that fateful night when they discovered Callie gone. Pearl Chadwick and Jenny Preston had tried to comfort her, one of them with her almost all the time. When Jake told Cora about the plan to try to find Joe, Cora burst into loud sobs, mystifying Jenny Preston, who was with them at the time. “What if he won’t do it?” Cora sobbed. “He’s got good reason to tell us to go to hell.”

  “He’s the best chance we’ve got,” Jake replied patiently. Then, noticing the look of astonishment upon Jenny’s face, he reluctantly explained the reason for Cora’s outburst. “Maybe he’s got a good reason not to help us,” he said, “but he’s the only hope we’ve got right now.”

  Malcolm Lindstrom sat on his horse at the mouth of a wide creek, studying the rough map, then comparing it with the features of the terrain. “This has gotta be it,” he said to the two men accompanying him. “There’s that knob of firs at the foot of the hill and the big rock that looks like a turtle on the other side of the creek.”

  Pete Watson nudged his horse up beside Malcolm’s to take a look at the map himself. “Looks right to me,” he said. Then he took a long look up at the towering mountain beyond the hill, its peak still covered with snow. “That sure ’pears like the kinda country he favors, don’t it? I hope to hell his camp ain’t all the way up that mountain.”

  Malcolm and Jake, though making no reply, were thinking along the same lines. It was rough-looking country all right, but as Pete commented, where else would one expect to find Joe Fox? “Well,” Malcolm remarked, “let’s get started. Maybe we’ll find him before dark—if he’s still there.”

  The passage along the creek was easy enough until they followed it beyond the small foothills and up through a forest so thick with firs that it was dark as night. Winding their way through the trees, around boulders and smaller rocks, they found it difficult to follow the creek bank, making it necessary to swing wide around rock formations to search for the creek again. The higher they climbed, the more difficult it became, and soon they were forced to dismount and lead their horses. About halfway up the mountain, the creek narrowed as it rushed through a narrow flume formed by solid rock. They paused at a deep pool at the bottom of the flume to let the horses drink.

  Pete laid on his belly at the edge of the pool to drink with the horses. After he had his fill, he rose to his knees and wiped his face with his sleeve. “Whooeee!” he exclaimed. “That water’s so cold it makes your teeth ache. Damn, it’s good, though.”

  “I expect a man would be hard put to find any better,” Malcolm replied. He held his canteen at the end of the flume where the water gushed out to form the pool. He took a long drink from the canteen, then filled it again. Standing then to gaze up toward the top of the chute, rushing with the icy runoff from the snowy peak, he began to have doubts, wondering whether they had followed the wrong creek. Scanning the steep slope above him, he could see no sign of a waterfall. He turned to Pete and Jake to express his concern. “I don’t know if we’ve wasted half a day or not,” he said, “but standin’ here, lookin’ up this mountain, I don’t see how there could be a waterfall up above us.”

  Jake walked over beside him and peered up the mountain. “I don’t know,” he wavered, hating to think they were on the wrong trail. “Maybe if we get up to the top of this chute, we can see better.”

  They decided to leave the horses there at the bottom of the flume, thinking it too difficult to make the steep climb while trying to lead them. After a half hour climb up the rocky face of the mountain, they finally reached the top of the flume. “Damn!” Malcolm exclaimed, for he could now see that the stream had disappeared. A few dozen yards farther up, they discovered the reason—a knee-high cavern in the rocks from which the water flowed. The stream was underground above them.

  “Well, there ain’t no damn waterfall on this mountain,” Pete fumed, “at least not on this stream.”

  They stood and scratched their heads for a few minutes while they discussed it, but it was the opinion of all three that there was no sense in continuing to climb higher and higher up the wrong mountain. It was especially difficult for Jake to give up and turn around, with the image of Callie in his mind, and wondering whether she was alive or dead. Thoughts of what horror she might be enduring were constantly crossing his mind to the point where it was all he could do to keep from crying out his anguish. But there was nothing he could do about the dead end they had come to, so he turned around and followed Malcolm and Pete back down the slope.

  When they reached the pool at the bottom of the flume they were startled to find a buckskin-clad figure squatting on his heels on top of the largest of the rocks that formed one side of the natural basin. His rifle resting across his thighs, he had watched their progress down the mountain with curious interest. Malcolm, who was leading, stopped so abruptly that Pete stumbled into him, almost causing both to fall. “Joe Fox,” Malcolm pronounced.

  “This is the second time I’ve found your horses with nobody watchin’ ’em,” Joe responded, equally surprised to find the three men on the mountain. With the grace of a mountain lion, he rose to his feet, and stepping from one rock to another, made his way quickly to the ground. “Are you lookin’ for me?” he asked.

  “We’re hopin’ you’ll help us find Callie,” Jake blurted. “She’s been took by that devil Starbeau! I know there’s probably some hard feelin’s between me and you, but I’m hopin’ you’ll do the Christian thing and set ’em aside and help us track Starbeau.” Desperate to plead his case, he tried to talk as fast as he could before Joe had a chance to say no. “We’ve done tried to track him, but we lost him. It takes somebody like
an Injun or somethin’ to track him, ’cause he ain’t left one track, and you’re the only one we know of. And if you need me to say I’m sorry for what I said to you before, hell, I’ll say it. . . .”

  He was about to spout on, but Malcolm finally interrupted him. “Take it easy, Jake. He ain’t said no yet.” Taken aback by the little man’s frantic plea, he looked at Joe, who seemed as puzzled by the outburst as he. He then went on to calmly relate all that had happened since Joe left the camp, and how Callie had come to be abducted.

  There was only a flicker in the mountain man’s eye to register the distress he felt inside when told of the abduction of Callie Simmons. Malcolm feared at first that Joe would deny their plea for help, for he saw no expression of concern on the man’s face. It was not until Joe spoke that the three settlers could know for certain. “I must take care of my horses. Then we can go,” he said.

  “God bless you,” Jake uttered. “Cora and I both thank you.”

  Joe paused to study the worried man for a moment, his face revealing no emotion. “I do it for Callie,” he said and led them into the trees. Although he revealed no evidence of it in his facial expression, the news that Callie had been taken, and by a perverted scoundrel such as Starbeau, caused his insides to churn with anguish. He cursed himself for leaving the settlers’ camp, thinking that if he had remained, he might have protected Callie. At least, had he been unable to prevent her abduction, he would have had a fresh trail to follow. The thought of her fate at the hands of Starbeau was enough to bring his blood to a boil.

  After a walk of about ten minutes, they came to a clearing in the forest with grass and several springs bubbling from the earth. The horses were grazing in the mountain meadow, and off to one corner of the clearing they saw his camp and the ashes of a campfire.

  “We’ll help you carry your possibles and drive your horses,” Pete said.

  Joe shook his head. “No need. I’ll take all I need on the paint. I’ll leave the horses. They’ll take care of themselves till I come back for ’em. I’ll be travelin’ light.” At this moment, finding Callie was more important than the horses, or anything else, but he knew the worst that could happen in regard to the horses was that they would wander off and he would lose them.

  A thought entered Malcolm’s mind as they were watching Joe pack up to leave. “I thought you told me your camp was near a waterfall,” he commented.

  Joe cast a sideways glance in his direction as he continued stuffing some dried meat into a parfleche. “It is,” he said. “We just came from it.”

  Puzzled by the answer before it struck him, Malcolm understood then. He had pictured a typical waterfall, pouring over a cliff, while Joe considered the water rushing down the flume a waterfall. He smiled then. “Oh, yeah, I reckon we did at that.”

  Malcolm thought he, Pete, and Jake had pushed their horses pretty hard on their search upriver for Joe. Their trek was a casual stroll compared to the pace set by the solemn mountain man on the return trip. Joe knew there was no time to waste. Starbeau could not take Callie with him to any place where she might have a chance to cry for help. It was painful for Joe to speculate upon, but he figured Starbeau would be eager to reach someplace where he could spend that two hundred and fifty dollars Malcolm said he had stolen. Consequently, Callie’s days were numbered. Starbeau would use her until tiring of the novelty, then kill her before going on to a town or trading post where he could spend his ill-gained wealth.

  Seeming never to tire, the paint Indian pony set a demanding pace for the horses ridden by the three men following. Before the first night’s camp, first one and then another dropped behind until they were strung out for over a quarter of a mile. With dusk approaching, Joe rode back to tell Malcolm that he would wait for them ahead where a stream emptied into the river. When the three weary riders and horses reached the stream, there was a fire burning and coffee boiling. Figuring each man could fix his own food, he chewed on elk jerky as he watched the three pull the saddles off their horses and leave them to graze with the Indian pony. “I’ll be leavin’ before sunup in the morning,” he told them before rolling up in his blanket to sleep. It was a simple statement, but they understood that he was telling them that he would not wait for them if they weren’t ready to leave.

  It was early afternoon when Joe and three weary companions arrived at the caves by the river, and the entire camp turned out to greet them. Among them, Cora Simmons stood anxiously waiting, her eyes red from crying and lack of sleep. Tears of hope welled up anew when she saw Joe, and she ran to meet the riders. Jake stepped down and caught her in his arms, and together they turned to thank Joe for coming. “God bless you,” Cora said, almost choking on the words, for fear God might strike her down for her hypocrisy. Joe said nothing in reply, but simply nodded.

  “There’s a bunch of us ready to ride with you, Joe,” Raymond Chadwick announced. His statement was followed by a solemn chorus of confirmation from the men in the congregation.

  Joe took a moment to look over the crowd before responding. “I’ll be goin’ alone,” he told them. He didn’t bother to explain his reasons, leaving them to gaze at one another in surprise. He knew it was going to be difficult enough to track Starbeau without having the nuisance of a mob of farmers getting in his way and possibly tramping all over a trail that was already too old for most men to follow. “If you want to help, I’d be obliged if you could spare me some coffee beans. I’m about out.”

  “Why, sure,” Raymond replied. “We’d be more’n happy to give you some coffee, but ain’t you gonna need some help? I mean, what if you catch up with that devil?” Then, noticing the look in Cora’s eye, he added, “I mean when you catch up with him.”

  “I’ll be goin’ alone,” Joe repeated.

  Malcolm shrugged. “Right,” he said, seeing no point in pushing the issue. “I expect you’ll be leavin’ first thing in the mornin’. We followed some tracks out of those trees to the south, figured he’d be headin’ in that direction, but they petered out after we reached the high ground beyond that mesa.”

  He was about to expound on their search, but Joe interrupted. “I’ll be goin’ now, as soon as I rest my horse.”

  “It’ll be dark in two hours,” Jake said.

  Joe fixed the little man with a cold stare. “Two hours might make a lot of difference to your daughter,” he said.

  When he was ready to go, he turned to Malcolm and Pete. Nodding toward the mountains to the east of the valley, he asked, “Did your posse ride down the valley over that way?”

  “No,” Malcolm replied. “It didn’t make much sense to go that way. There ain’t nothin’ to the east but mountains and Injuns. That’s where them Gros Ventre came from. We figure Starbeau would hightail it down the valley, back the way we first came.”

  Joe nodded again, and without a word of good-bye, stepped up on the paint and rode out of the little clearing and the line of caves carved out of the bluffs. They watched him as he crossed the narrow creek on the far side of the clearing, but instead of turning to the right through the stand of cottonwoods, he guided the paint to the east. “Well, where’s he goin’?” Malcolm complained. “I just told him Starbeau had to have gone the other way.”

  “I expect he knows what he’s doin’,” Pete said. “He always does.”

  The tracks were old but still there, between the creek and a shallow draw to the east. They were the tracks left behind by the war party that hit the settlers’ camp. Joe dismounted and knelt to examine them. They verified the recount of the raid he had been given by Malcolm and Pete. Unshod horses, their hoofprints going in both directions, told him that the Gros Ventre had come and gone down the same draw. He was looking for prints from a shod horse, figuring that Starbeau would have been smart enough to try to mix his tracks with the plethora of hoofprints. It was a gamble on his part to hope to find tracks this long after the abduction, but he had to bet that Starbeau took this route. There wasn’t a chance in hell that he would be able to pick out any
tracks after the posse had obliterated those through the cottonwoods, so he had no choice.

  The paint munched casually on the short grass beside the trail, following slowly along behind Joe as he moved down toward the draw, his eyes searching, his fingertips feeling the hardened ridges of the prints. The tracks were too old. He moved forward, searching and feeling. Suddenly he stopped. There it was, the print he was looking for. The faint outline and sharp marks of a horseshoe that had been invisible up until then, now stood out in his vision like a shining sign. With some feeling of confidence that Starbeau had fled in this direction, he continued to search the path before him. A second print, then another and another appeared as he trained his eyes to focus on the shod images and ignore those of the Indian ponies.

  The puzzle to be solved now was how far Starbeau remained on this trail before he changed directions. Joe knew that the brutal bully had to turn off somewhere before reaching the mountains, less he find himself a guest of the Gros Ventre. He continued the painfully slow process until all at once there were no more prints, only those of the unshod horses. He had missed the turnoff. He rose to his feet and looked back the way he had come, searching for a likely spot to leave the trail. He decided on a shallow stream a few yards back, and returned to examine the area more closely.

  There was no sign that Starbeau had left the trail, but Joe could find no shod prints on the east side of the creek, so he felt confident that his man turned up the stream. In the saddle again, he guided the paint into the water and slow-walked him up the middle of the fast-flowing water while he scanned the banks carefully. He could find no tracks that would indicate a point at which Starbeau left the water, but he felt certain that he would have headed upstream. After almost a quarter of a mile, the stream became narrow as it cut a trench through a thick stand of willows and berry bushes. Even though he flattened himself against his horse’s neck, he was still swatted by the low hanging branches. “Damn!” he swore when a sizable branch snagged his sleeve, and he halted the paint to free himself. Maybe I missed some sign back a ways, he thought. Then something caught his eye. Close to the limb that had him ensnared, he saw another branch that had recently been broken off. Confident again that he had not missed a sign, he disentangled himself and pushed on. A little way past the willows, he found what he was looking for.