West Of The War

by L. J. Martin

  I have one more chore before I can lay my head down, and that’s to reload some brass for the Sharps, and I do. I’m low on caps and lead, but have plenty of powder and hopefully can trade for my necessaries from the next passing boat.

  There’s room for Falls-From-Sky and Sheo in our little soddy cave and now they have plenty of buff hides to sleep on, but tomorrow it’ll be us working on them to get them cured—a job I’ll leave for Ian as I’m off to contract for the help of the young braves. As instructed earlier, we’ve saved the brains of the buff to mix with ashes, which are used in an Indian method of preserving hides.

  I’m the first to awake, and even before adding a log or two to our fire, peek out between skins we’ve draped to help enclose our shelter entrance, and note the sun just beginning to lighten the sky to the east.

  Of course I’ve foolishly left my Sharps and the makings of more loads alongside the skin I’m sleeping on, as I’m surprised by more than a dozen wolves snapping and snarling as they attack the piles of offal we’ve dragged down to the riverside with the plan of throwing what we don’t save for wolf bait to the catfish or setting it adrift on logs. It obviously will work fine for bait, if we have any left.

  The trappers aboard the Eagle told of the poisoning of wolves using strychnine infused buffalo carcasses. It seems a dreadful business to me and were I to take their skins I’d prefer a gunshot…however one would have to be accurate as I’m told hides with holes in them quickly lose their value.

  The wolves are not to be surprised and one yaps when he sees me, and they all are scattering as I scramble back for my rifle.

  And all are out of sight by the time I get back to my place.

  We have a breakfast of cold buffalo and a tea made of some bark Falls-From-Sky has brought in. And it’s not bad. Already the lads have taught us two foods provided by God and their knowledge of his works…foods that will warm us and may just keep us alive.

  When done we pack as much meat as we can on the rumps of the boy's ponies, using wet strips of buff hide to secure the loads.

  Now, it’s off to the Lakota village, hopefully not stumbling across any hornet mad Crows on the way. With my head still bound with my shirttail, and a still shooting pain from ear to ear upon occasion, I’m not much in the mood to trade blows or even gunshots with another group of savages.

  Before we top out the ravine, Falls-From-Sky reins up and drops off his horse, waving me to follow. We move forty feet up a small side ravine and he bends at a cluster of bushes with tiny but very sharp thorns on their branches and begins plucking what appears to be dried berries, but when I follow his lead, realize they are wild rose hips. The dried blossoms are barely withered strings, but still recognizable as former flowers. He pops one in his mouth and nods at me as he chews. So I mimic him, and wrinkle up my nose. Where the turnips were a little bitter, these are sour enough to keep the smile off my face for an hour. But if they’re edible, maybe they work to flavor a stew, or more importantly to keep us alive at some time.

  We're back to only a half mile from where I had my run in with the three Crow warriors, when Sheo reins up and points to the west, toward the river.

  At first I see nothing, then realize it’s a column of smoke, so dissipated that it’s barely recognizable as such, but it’s smoke, and it’s moving down river. I’m sure it’s one of the river boats returning from Fort Benton, but even if I wanted to I couldn’t get to the river in time to wave her down. And we’ve yet to re-stack enough wood to be of interest to a passing side wheeler. But come Spring….

  “Wasichu Bad,” Sheo calls to me as I’m looking, admittedly a little longingly, at the distant smoke.

  “Wasichu Bad, hoh-host,” he repeats, and I realize his voice is more than a little insistent.

  I turn back and see him pointing and have to adjust my gaze, then shade my eyes from the rising morning sun to the east.

  There, at little more than two hundred yards, digging what must be the same turnips I’d learned to dig, is the biggest damn bear I’ve ever seen. He’s dark brown on the back down to honey colored legs. He’s a beautiful animal, and ferocious appearing as he rips and pulls at the ground, throwing up more soil than I could with the best shovel. At first glance you might think him fat as his belly fur swings beneath his massive body, then you seen the muscles ripple in his back on and legs.

  “Should I shoot him?” I ask, rather hoping my Indian friends suggest not.

  “No,” Falls-From-Sky snaps, emphatically. “Is hoh-host.”

  “Grizzly?” I ask, and he nods.

  The monster either heard or sensed our presence and turns his massive head our way. He lifts his snout and sniffs the air, but I realize the slight breeze is from him to us toward the river, not the other way.

  We don’t move and he rotates his head back and forth, testing the air some more. We remain dead-still, however I can feel the Sorrel shivering between my knees. The bear goes back to his task, giving us his back, and Falls-From-Sky waves us forward. The animals need no encouragement, and stride out with new vigor.

  Topping a ridge, the bear is out of sight, and to be truthful, I’m glad it’s so. I’ve heard stories of these grizzly bears taking a half dozen shots from a weapon as formidable as my Sharps, and still eviscerating a hunter before they give up the ghost.

  I wonder if this image will haunt me in my sleep. There’s no doubt in my mind that I’ll be watchful when hunting turnips…or anything else. The monster might not enjoy sharing.

  Chapter 23

  The sun now low at our backs, the light snow abated, the two young braves pick up the pace as we get within a mile of their camp, which crouches in a hollow surrounded with pines and cut by a small stream, below a twenty foot water fall from the meadow above. There are two dozen lodges, seemingly of elk or buffalo hide, each a half dozen large paces across and over twice as high.

  A dozen dogs run out to greet us and a half dozen women follow. I note that there are few horses nearby and wonder if the main remuda is not hidden in the trees, but then realize that there are few men among those in camp.

  I wonder if they are out hunting, and hope they were not hunted down by the Crow warriors?

  Falls-From-Sky dismounts and takes the reins of my horse as I slide to the ground. Then he gives me the first smile I’ve seen from him, and points to a woman in a long white elk skin dress who’s approaching. “Mother,” he says, and I return the smile and nod.

  He introduces me to Swallow and I wonder if I’m to smile or what, but as she smiles at me I feel comfortable returning one.

  “Many-Dogs? Shamus?” I ask Falls-From-Sky, and he turns to his mother and they chatter back and forth, then turns back to me.

  “All men out again…looking for Crow dogs.”

  “But they returned after we last saw them?”

  He chatters again and she nods and speaks, and again he turns to me. “Yes, then leave with sun.” He points to the east and I presume he means sunrise. “We wait,” he says.

  I nod. I’m not willing to stay away from the river camp for long, so if they’re not back by morning, I’m heading back to join up with Ian and hope these two young men will get permission to follow. Then my worry is resolved as Swallow points over my shoulder and I turn to see nearly two dozen men in the distance, coming our way at a lope. At the latest, I’ll head back in the morning, with or without Falls-From-Sky and Sheo.

  As they near I’m happy to see Many-Dogs is in the lead with Shamus close behind.

  Shamus slips from the saddle as I ask, “Did you get back here with the mustangs?”

  “Sure did, son. They’re up in the meadow above. We still ain’t found them Crow dogs, other than the three you did under. You done left a couple of fine war clubs scattered about. You musta been born with the silver spoon.... Found they camp but them dogs slinked into the trees like the skunks they be. Maybe you discouraged them and they be takin’ shank’s mare home…but I doubt it.”

  “I can’t stay long. B
ack to my camp with the morning sun. I need to talk with you and Many-Dogs.”

  “That’s permissible. Let us shake out the kinks, sop some vittles, then we’ll smoke and palaver.”

  “I’d like to say hello to Pretty Cloud as well, with your permission?”

  He chuckles. “Should she want to jaw with you, you got my blessing, son. She’s up in the meadow watchin’ the herd, but she’ll be here to sup right soon. She don’t have much English…but Fall’s-From-Sky can help you young folks with the how-you-be and what not.”

  I give him a smile and nod and then suggest, “I’m going to see to my horse, rub him down and make sure he’s got good graze and water. When’s supper?”

  “You’ll hear the women give that yodel they do...Lakota dinner bell...then you come running.”

  “I’m obliged.”

  “Hell, boy, you done earned five seasons worth of grub.”

  I wave over my shoulder then move to where the sorrel is ground tied and grazing, and lead him to the little stream, fifty yards or so from the edge of the lodges.

  As the sorrel begins to drink, I decide to strip away his tack and let the ol’ boy breath free. I reach for the cinch, when the sound of a scream sends a chill down my back.

  I jerk my head around toward the sound and an arrow passes so closely by my face I feel the wind, and buries in the pommel of the sorrel’s saddle.

  Not even bothering to look where it’s come from, I jerk the Sharps from the rifle boot and grab my possibles back from where it hangs from the horn and spin, dropping to one knee and cocking the rifle as I do. I expect the next arrow to bury in my chest, and my first thought is the Lakota have turned on me, then I see hand to hand fighting among the lodges behind me.

  Crow!

  And plenty of them. I start picking my targets, the first one being a mounted Indian with half his face painted red who’s only thirty yards from me and closing fast, screaming a war cry, swinging a war club in one hand and yielding a knife in the other.

  The big slug from the Sharps knocks him flying off the back of his painted horse.

  I reload quickly and then have to be careful picking another target as all are Indians, and I’m having trouble picking Crow from Lakota, but then see a barrel chested man locked up with Shamus, each of them with a knife in hand and each with their wrists held by the other. Old Shamus is badly mismatched and the big warrior drives him to this back, but makes the mistake of being high over the man below. Another shot to mid-chest and he does most of a back flip off old man Carbone.

  Before I can reload I’ve caught the attention of two Crow warriors and they charge my way, one notching an arrow in his bow, one cocking a lance to throw as soon as he’s in range. Whipping the Colt from my holster, my first shot takes the lancer in the hip and he spins around, going to the ground. Firing too fast I hit the man with the bow in the belly and he let’s his arrow fly into the sky as he goes to his back. Before I can bring my muzzle back to the lancer, who’s trying to rise, Shamus falls on him from the rear, driving his knife into the man’s chest, then again, then again.

  The man I belly shot is crawling my way. So rather than expend another load, I re-holster the Colt and use the heavy barrel of the Sharps to smash the man’s skull and he goes to his face.

  As suddenly as it began, the Crow have fled the village, leaving four behind. To my shock, the women are hacking them to pieces. It’s a scene almost as gruesome as the wreck of the Eagle.

  Shamus is at my side, looking victorious, then his face falls and he yells as he spins on his heel. “Pretty Cloud,” and he begins to run to a trail that I’d noticed that leads up the steep cut near the waterfall.

  Rather than follow on foot, I quickly reload the Sharps and swing into the saddle. I pass Shamus before he makes the foot of the steep trail and the sorrel is atop the cut in five strong leaps, me having to hang onto the horn to keep from being dumped on the steep incline.

  The wide meadow above is empty. Not a soul, not a horse. I presume the attack on the village was a feint to keep us from knowing the main force were retrieving their horses.

  But where’s Pretty Cloud?

  Shamus said the Crow had taken many Lakota scalps…and many women.

  I’d be a damn fool to try and run down two dozen or more warriors by myself, but then again, I’ll never see Pretty Cloud again if they get away with her. And she is the daughter of the first friend I’ve made in the country I’ve chosen as my new home.

  Damned if I have a choice.

  One thing I'm sure of...they can't be far ahead and my sorrel is fast and sure footed, and more importantly, unless there were two dozen in the raiding party they're having to drive some horses as well as try and stay ahead of me and what's likely to be a couple of dozen Lakota and a very determined and angry Shamus.

  Their trail is wide and well marked, but the sun was on the horizon when they attacked, and it'll be dark as a bat cave in a few minutes. And the moon is late rising...damn it. I know where they were camped when I went to recover my mares and mules and wonder, as I move through the thick pines if that's not where they're headed? I won't be able to track them for more than a few more minutes, besides, I hate following a deadly enemy with my head down trying to make tracks out of a needle covered forest floor. I'd ride right up on a bushwhacker.

  So I break away to the right, toward the river. I'll take my chances losing the trail rather than taking my chances getting an arrow or slug in the brisket. In a half mile, pine boughs slapping me in the face all the way, I ride out into the grass covered, now snow-free, slopes above the tree covered ravines leading down to the river. The damn cloud cover is occluding whatever starlight there might be. I rein the sorrel toward the river and give him his head. It's more or less the same direction as our river camp and the home of the horses and mules he's been running with, so I have little trouble keeping him moving.

  Those big eyes of a horse can see so much better than we frail humans that I trust his sure footedness. The pines are to my right, open country to my left, and the river a couple of miles ahead, west, of me. If the Crow are heading back to the camp they formerly occupied, and some of them may still, they'll have to cross my path somewhere between here and the river. The camp is at least eight, maybe as many as twelve, miles south and only a half to three quarters of a mile from the river.

  So I push the sorrel hard and when I come to a rock ridge, follow it until the slope begins dropping away steeply. I find a deep hollow and stake the sorrel where he's belly deep in grass, then work my way on foot until I find a perch where I hope, but can't be sure, that I have a view of a wide swatch of country between me and the river, a place I hope the Crow will have to pass if, and only if, they're heading back to their former camp.

  Now it's wait, listen, and hope against hope that I've guessed right.

  It's less than an hour when I think, sense, there's movement a quarter a mile or so down the slope. Unshod horses on grass or pine covered trails move quietly, so I don't hear anything, at least don't think I do. I've often thought, believed, that we have senses that work in ways we don't understand, and maybe that's what's happening now. I wish it were an hour later as the moon would be up and maybe I could see what's down below...but I can't see, and can't risk riding down into a line of savages.

  Finally, I hear the neighing of a horse, a shrill neigh of a horse that's stepped in a gopher hole or slipped on a rock and barked his shin bone. Then silence, but it's enough to encourage me. I wait a half hour, letting them pass, then return to the gelding and tighten his chinch and mount up. Very slowly, I move down the slope until I come upon a wide game trail just inside the tree line. I dismount and find a muddy spot and more by feel than sight, find dozens of hoof impressions. I watch for a moment and realize some of the deep ones are still filling slowly with water. They can't be more than a few moments ahead of me.

  So I wait a while before I follow again.

  I want them to camp so I can reconnoiter and see if ther
e's any chance to slip Pretty Cloud away from them...if she's there.

  Moving quietly along the well beaten path, I’m pleased to see the moon begin to silver the horizon in the distance. In a short time I’ll be able to see much better.

  Having hunted as much as I have down in the Missouri bottoms, I’ve learned to pay attention to my mount. It’s disconcerting to have your animal stop in his tracks and look back, turning that long neck so he can see beyond your leg. But I gig him forward, hoping it’s a raccoon or coyote that’s moved in the brush behind us. Then his ears shoot forward and he hesitates in mid stride. I don’t like it worth a damn, but I’m on the trail and the pines and underbrush are thick on my flanks so it’s move forward. I keep a palm resting on the butt of the holstered Colt, should it need pulling…then snap my head back as a scream curdles my blood and before I can pull the weapon, a body drops on me from above and I’m knocked from the saddle.

  I hit the ground hard, a painted savage beside me, then sense more surrounding me.

  A blow rattles my head as I try and pull my weapon, then another, and another, and suddenly I’m blessed by quiet darkness and silence.

  I awaken, my arms stretched out like I’m Holy Jesus on the cross, only I’m trussed between two trees, hanging spread-eagle from thongs tied to my wrists, facing a small bonfire circled by sitting Crow Indians. My head feels as if a sweating swearing blacksmith is pounding hot horseshoes between my ears—a ringing and shooting pain from ear to ear as his hammer glances off the inside of my skull.

  And I'm cold, cold to the bone, and shivering...I hope the Indians I can hear chanting know my goosebumps and shivering are from the cold and not from fear. I've been told that a captive should never show fear. Easier to say than do.

  Managing to get my feet under me, realizing my ankles are bound together, I can just stand. My hands have no feeling but as I get my weight off my wrists they begin to tingle and pain as if a thousand needles are pricking me. My mouth, already dry, becomes even more so as I look at the menagerie of savages, painted as colorfully as pictures I’ve seen of South American McCaws, begin to stand from where they circle a small bonfire and walk my way. I should have feigned being unconscious.