Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  He worked his way up to the top of a little rise in the prairie where he rolled over and lay flat on his back. He had never tried this before, but Squint swore it worked every time. He held his rifle with the bandanna tied to it straight up in the air and slowly waved it back and forth. Squint had assured him that antelope had an incurable curiosity and were unable to resist investigating this strange thing waving back and forth on the prairie. If it didn’t work, he would have a hard time convincing Slim that he wasn’t a lunatic.

  Nothing happened for several minutes, and he was beginning to wonder if Squint had been pulling his leg, when he noticed that one of the antelope had stopped grazing and was staring in his direction. A moment more and all but a few of the animals stood dead still, their gaze transfixed on the waving rifle barrel. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath. “Come on over here and get a good look.” Still he waved. Finally, the boldest of the herd took a few steps in his direction, halted, then started walking slowly toward the fascinating object waving in the tall buffalo grass. Several of the others followed, their curiosity overshadowing caution. Lying on his back, Tom could not help but grin as he watched the animals approaching. Now, if Slim doesn’t get too antsy, he thought.

  Slim didn’t. He stayed low, watching the performance from the brow of the hill. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” he whispered to himself. He checked his rifle and waited patiently for Tom to signal. The animals were getting closer and closer, stopping every few feet now to stare before inching closer. They had closed to within a couple of hundred yards, a shot Slim felt he had a fair chance of making. Still Tom made no move, just kept waving the bandanna. The antelope paused, as if considering the wisdom of continuing. Slim got ready. If they turned and ran, he would get off a shot as quickly as possible. But no, the antelope had not satisfied their curiosity as yet. Again, they edged closer to Tom. When they had advanced to a point less than one hundred yards away, they stopped once again. This was to be their last stop, for Tom suddenly rolled over and came up on one knee, bringing his rifle up as he did. Slim already had his sights fixed on the lead animal, but Tom got off two shots so rapidly that Slim hadn’t even pulled the trigger when the two foremost animals fell. He was startled when the animal he was sighting on suddenly dropped, but he was quick enough to swing around and draw down on a third antelope before the whole herd bolted.

  “Whoo, boy!” Slim shouted and jumped to his feet as the rest of the herd scattered over the prairie. “We got three of ’em!” He ran down the hill to join Tom, who was calmly retying his bandanna around his neck. “That was a fair piece of shootin’. You got two of ’em before I got off a shot.”

  Tom smiled. “Well,” he offered modestly, “I had an advantage. I knew when I was going to shoot and you didn’t.”

  “That was a fair piece of shootin,” Slim insisted.

  They loaded their meat on the packhorse and started back to rejoin the herd. Tom took a moment to look at the sun, then selected a line of sight across the rolling buffalo grass that figured to intercept Eli and the boys. Slim was in high spirits as he and Tom made their way back across the little stream and out across the prairie.

  “Reckon ole Bris can go ahead and eat his sowbelly,” he said. “The rest of us’ll be eating fresh meat.”

  “Reckon so,” Tom replied.

  The sun was halfway between high noon and the horizon when they heard the first shots. It started with what sounded like an old muzzle loader and was followed after a few minutes by three shots, rapid fire from a breech-loading rifle. Tom and Slim pulled up sharply and listened. Several more shots were fired randomly. From the sound, they decided the shots were coming from northeast of their position, in a general direction of where the herd might be, although Tom figured the herd should have been farther east by then. More than likely, one of the boys hunting strays ran into some trouble. They kicked the horses into a gallop and headed in the direction of the shots.

  As they got closer to the source of the sounds, they heard only an occasional shot fired, and that was from the repeating rifle. From his experience in the army, Tom could almost picture the scene before he and Slim topped the last rise between them and the fight. The picture proved to be accurate. From a distance of about half a mile, they could see the drama taking place. A lone rider was pinned down on the open prairie with no cover but that offered by his dead horse. He was holding eight hostiles at bay with his rifle. The Indians were circling out of range, obvious to Tom that the one muzzle loader he had heard was their only firearm. Lucky for the downed rider, he thought.

  “Damn!” Slim exclaimed, “that looks like Bris’s little paint.”

  Tom looked hard at the dead horse. It was Bris’s horse, and he then remembered that Bris was working strays south of the herd. He drew his rifle from the scabbard and checked the load. Slim followed his example. “Let’s separate a little. Start shooting as soon as you think you’re in range. I don’t expect they’ll put up much of a fight.” He didn’t wait for Slim to respond and kicked Billy hard in the ribs and charged down the slope. Slim, right behind, fanned out to his right.

  When he was within a couple hundred yards, Tom raised his rifle and fired. When Billy was running flat out over level ground, he offered as steady a firing platform as a man could want. Tom’s first shot found a home between the shoulder blades of a startled brave. Almost at the same time, he heard Slim’s rifle cracking to the right of him. The seven remaining hostiles bunched at first and wheeled, pausing as if making a decision. The sight of two riders bearing down on them, filling the air with lead as they charged hellbent for leather, presented too formidable an enemy for their bows. They deemed it advisable to leave the field of battle to the superior firepower, all except one. While his companions fled toward the hills, one brave raised his lance overhead and shouted to them, his pony dancing back and forth as the rider expressed his defiance to the white men. Tom had by then reined Billy back to a canter; Slim followed his lead. Tom had learned enough of the several dialects he had come in contact with in the cavalry to recognize the Gros Ventres tongue. He couldn’t understand all the insults the young brave was hurling his way, but he picked up enough to know that the Indian refused to show any fear of their guns. Slim raised his rifle.

  “Let him be,” Tom ordered. “He’s just showing the others how brave he is.”

  Slim lowered his rifle, and Tom told him to go back and get the packhorse. As Slim wheeled around and galloped off, Tom sat quietly watching the young Gros Ventres, making sure he didn’t make a move to fit an arrow in his bowstring. The Indian, evidently encouraged by the apparent standoff, advanced a few paces closer and continued his song of bravery. When Tom made no move toward him, he raised his coup stick and spurred his pony into a gallop. Tom hesitated. He brought his rifle up, but did not fire. He had to admire the young brave’s show of courage. It was apparent that the young man now intended to count coup on him to gain the admiration of his comrades, who at this point were watching from a safe distance. Let him have his show, Tom thought. The poor devils haven’t got much left to live for.

  Tom remained stone still, watching the young brave as he advanced. He didn’t move even when the Indian galloped right beside him and touched him on the shoulder with the coup stick. After the first pass, the Indian wheeled and offered a piercing war whoop to the heavens. He reined his prancing pony back and glared defiantly at Tom. Then he held his lance high up over his head and shook it in a sign of challenge to this confusing white man. When his enemy still showed no sign of emotion, the young buck mistook the lack of action for cowardice, a mistake that cost him his life. He drew a long skinning knife from his belt and, raising it high over his head, issued a challenge to the white man. Tom knew enough Gros Ventres to know he had been challenged to mortal hand to hand combat. He looked at the young man for a long time, his own face expressionless. Then he put a bullet between his eyes. The Indian rolled over backward and landed on his back in the dust. Tom looked at the crumpled
form that had but moments earlier been a fierce young warrior. “Take me for a damn fool?” he muttered to the still form, then turned to retrieve Bris Collins.

  Slim was already helping Bris collect his gear from the carcass of his horse when Tom rode up. Both men had watched in amazement the confrontation between Tom and the Indian brave. It did not surprise them that Tom shot the Indian. Instead, they wondered why he had hesitated in the first place.

  “Damned if it isn’t getting to be a habit pulling you out from under a dead horse,” Tom called out as he pulled Billy up and dismounted.

  Bris laughed, able now to enjoy the humor in the situation since the danger was over. “I’ll tell you one thing—I’m mighty glad you come when you did ’cause them red bastards would’ve figured out pretty quick I done fired my last bullet.”

  Tom stood looking at the dead horse for a moment. “You sure are hard on horses.”

  Bris chuckled again. “It warn’t my idea to use him for cover. I was flat trying my best to outrun them buggers, but ole Pokey here warn’t no match for them Injun ponies. I reckon I’m lucky they wasn’t better shots than they was. They’da hit me instead of my horse.”

  Slim spoke up. “What the hell was you doin’ with that Injun back there? I went after the packhorse, and, when I looked back, you looked like you was having a little chat with him. How come you didn’t shoot him when he rode up to you like that? I was afraid you’d lost your nerve or something.”

  Tom merely shrugged indifferently. When Bris paused in his efforts to free his saddle and waited to hear the explanation, Tom answered. “He was a young buck, wanted to show his friends how brave he was. I’ve killed enough of his people in the last five years. I didn’t think it would do any harm to let him count coup.”

  “That don’t make no sense to me,” Slim said, “ridin’ up and tappin’ somebody with a blame stick.”

  “It’s big medicine to them. An Indian figures it’s a lot braver thing to get up close and touch an enemy than it is to shoot him from a distance.”

  “What made you shoot him?” Bris wondered.

  “He wasn’t satisfied. I reckon he thought he had me buffaloed. After he counted coup, he wanted to fight me with knives and really make a name for himself.”

  Bris laughed. “Well, hell, Tom, why didn’t you knife-fight him?”

  Tom looked serious for a flicker of a moment before he smiled and replied, “Because he might’ve won, and nobody but a damn fool fights with a knife when he’s got a gun.”

  “I reckon,” Slim agreed emphatically.

  Bris climbed up behind Slim and they started off after the herd. The six remaining Indians rode back to retrieve their two dead companions after the three white men were well out of range. Tom was thankful they were armed with nothing more than bows or it might have been a different story. They were lucky that day.

  Serious thoughts filled Tom’s head as he rode in silence behind Bris and Slim. It was getting easier and easier to kill a man, and this troubled him. When he and Slim charged down the slope and he shot the first Indian at a distance he estimated at one hundred yards, it was no different to him than when he shot the antelope earlier that morning. With the second Indian, it was not the same. He had sought to spare the young man’s life. It seemed like such a waste. He could still see the expression of disbelief on the Indian’s face. What troubled him was that at the instant it happened he felt no remorse at all, no compassion, no regret…nothing. He hoped he wouldn’t have to face the situation again.

  * * *

  The nights were already getting chilly by the time the herd reached the Little Missouri, although the days were still hot, and, since there had been no rain for most of the drive, the trail was dusty. They were making good time, so Eli decided to rest the herd for a day after they had forded the river. It turned out that he ended up resting them before they even crossed it. Cattle aren’t too fond of crossing any river, and it was always a difficult job to push the ornery beasts into water. They had not expected the Little Missouri to be high enough to spook the cattle because there had been so little rain. What had been anticipated to be an easy crossing turned into a standoff between the drovers and the cattle. After spending the better part of an afternoon trying to push the lead steers into the water, only to have them panic and go plunging off in all directions causing the rest of the herd to balk at the river’s edge, Eli finally admitted defeat. “We’ll cross ’em in the morning,” he decided. “Might as well take advantage of the good grass by the river and let ’em feed for the rest of the day. It ain’t no more’n fifteen days to the railhead now anyway.”

  The cattle weren’t the only ones ready for a rest. Everyone was bone tired, and those who were so inclined thought it a good opportunity to take a bath and wash some of the trail dust from their clothes. Most of the men peeled down to their bare skin and ran splashing into the cool waters of the river. Big Joe and Little Joe preferred to jump in, clothes and all. Tom begged a bar of lye soap from Smoky and moved downstream a few feet from the frolicking cowhands to give his clothes a serious scrubbing. He was soon joined by Bris and Doc. Bris waded into the shallow water and sat down up to his neck. Doc sat down under a tree on the bank.

  “Better come on in and set down, Doc,” Bris said. “This feels mighty good on a sore ass.”

  “No thanks,” Doc replied. “I reckon I can still stand myself. It ain’t good for you to soak in water too long.”

  “Don’t know what you’re missing.” Bris looked over at Tom, who was busily scrubbing his shirt with the bar of soap. He studied the man’s bare back for a long minute before his curiosity got the best of him. “Tom, what in the hell tore up your back like that?”

  At once self-conscious, Tom turned away in an effort to hide his scars. “Cheyenne,” he stated simply and resumed his laundry.

  “Cheyenne?” Bris pressed. “Arrow?”

  “No, a bullet. That mess was made by the surgeon when he tried to get it out.”

  There was a long silent pause while they waited to hear the details of the story. It was soon evident to his two friends that the story was not forthcoming, and it seemed the prudent thing to let it lie since that was obviously his intention. While he said nothing more about it, the memory of it was still vivid in Tom’s mind. It had been on a river much like this one, only now it seemed like a century ago. Still, he remembered every detail up to the point when the bullet slammed into his back. The memory was not pleasant. He was still green on the frontier, a young lieutenant with very little exposure to Indian warfare, when he had led a detachment of cavalry into that river, straight into an ambush. He was never blamed for it. It was a clever tactic and no one even suggested he was at fault for not seeing it as such. Andy Coulter was there. He rode into it blindly, too, and he was as sharp a scout as there was on the frontier. In fact, it was Andy who pulled him out of the river and hid the two of them, the only survivors, up under a riverbank while Little Wolf’s Dog Soldiers combed the river for them.

  “What?” He realized that Doc had said something to him, but he had been so engrossed in his thoughts that it just then registered. He looked back at Doc, sitting under the tree. “What?”

  “I said Smoky is a’ringing the supper bell. Ain’t you gon’ eat?”

  His mind relaxed and a smile crossed his face. “Hell yes, I’m going to eat. Soon as I put on my pants.”

  * * *

  Tom filled a plate with Smoky’s concoction of antelope stew, seasoned with sowbelly, helped himself to a couple of biscuits, and poured himself a cup of pitch-black coffee. He found a place to lean up against a tree between Bris Collins and Slim. Balancing the plate in one hand and his coffee in the other, he sat down cross-legged. The brothers, Big Joe and Little Joe, found a tree close by them. They ate in silence for a while until Slim cleaned his plate and set it aside to roll a smoke. Slim always finished eating before anyone else. Smoky accused him of being part wolf, never chewing, just gulping it down.

  Slim was
eyeballing Little Joe while he rolled his smoke. After he lit up, he remarked casually, “I swear, Little Joe, when did you start wearing that pistol crossways like that?”

  Big Joe, his mouth full of biscuit, answered for his younger brother. “Ever since he seen that bounty hunter in Oklahoma City wearing his’n like that.”

  “That ain’t the reason,” Little Joe answered quickly. “Maybe he did wear his’n like this, but that ain’t the reason. It’s quicker on this side.”

  Slim found the answer amusing and couldn’t resist a little good-natured ribbing. “Quicker? Quicker than what?”

  “Quicker than you can pull that damn horse pistol of your’n outta your belt.”

  “How you figure that?” Slim winked at Tom, pleased with the young boy’s reaction to his teasing.

  Little Joe was dead serious, unaware that Slim was simply having a little fun with him. He drew his pistol from the half holster he had fashioned from cowhide. “Quicker than your’n because my holster is pointing the handle right where my right hand wants to naturally reach.” He held the pistol up for Slim to see. “I filed the sight offen the barrel so there ain’t nothing to snag when I reach for it.” He looked admiringly at the pistol, a Colt forty-five Frontier six-shooter, and cocked the hammer back, then carefully released it so that it didn’t fire. “And she’s got a hair trigger. When I need my gun, I want it right now.” He returned the weapon to its holster on his left hip.

  Slim laughed. “Well, you may git your’n out a couple of seconds before I do, but when I git mine out, I hit what I’m aiming at. That’s the most important thing. A couple of seconds ain’t that important when you’re shooting at a rattlesnake.”

  Little Joe looked hard at Slim, not sure whether he was being joshed or not. It was plain to Tom that Little Joe didn’t consider it a joking matter. “I’ll tell you this, Slim, I ain’t worrying ’bout no rattlesnakes but, if you and me was to have it out, a couple of seconds would be the reason I got you instead of the other way around. And I wouldn’t miss.”