Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  “Ask the devil when you see him,” Tom replied coolly and pulled the trigger. The huge man jerked once when the bullet tore through the top of his thick fur cap, then he settled heavily on the ground and was still.

  Tom felt very little emotion for the deed he had done. The thought that he had killed a man never entered his mind. It was more like killing a buffalo or a steer for slaughter. Suddenly he felt tired. Not wanting to look at Cobb’s body any longer, he took him by the heels and dragged him over to the edge of a deep ravine. It was at least fifty feet down. There were mature lodgepole pines growing up from the bottom, and their tops barely cleared the top of the ledge. He rolled the body to the edge of the ravine and then, with his boot, sent it crashing down into the pines and rocks below. That done, he returned to the campfire, rolled up in his blanket, and went to sleep. If there were any Blackfeet waiting for a chance to take his scalp, they were welcome to it. Right then he didn’t give a damn.

  * * *

  He awoke the next morning shivering with the cold. Cobb had smothered most of the fire when he fell in it the night before, and Tom had been too tired to bank what remained of it. Now he was paying for his negligence as he scurried about gathering up something to use as tinder. He gave not a thought to the body at the bottom of the ravine while he loaded the horses with what possessions of the late bounty hunter he deemed useful. He had two packhorses now in addition to Cobb’s big bay with the white stockings on three of his feet. He cut the Blackfoot’s scrubby pony loose and let him go. Then he climbed up on Billy and, pausing to tip his hat toward the ravine and the late Mr. Cobb, doubled back on his trail to get his saddle and belongings from the cache.

  Chapter XII

  Once his cache was recovered, Tom rode south to strike the Yellowstone. A light snow had covered the ground before petering out sometime before the sun rose to midday. He let Billy set an easy pace, leading the string of three extra horses with his belongings. Even though it was the middle of winter, he was in no particular hurry. The weather was none too severe and, upon studying the sky to the north and west, he didn’t expect it to change much within the next few days. There was a concern, as there always was, that he might be caught out in the open by a band of Blackfeet or Crows. But Tom felt he could give a sizable raiding party more than they wanted when it came to firepower. He had his Sharps plus two repeating rifles, and as long as there weren’t too many hostiles, or he wasn’t surprised by them, he could hold his own. Even against a large band, he could make the cost of his scalp too dear. With the demise of the late Mr. Cobb, his main worry that a bounty hunter might be stalking him, was erased, bringing instead a feeling almost approaching cheerfulness.

  He had not made up his mind where he was heading, beyond striking the Yellowstone and following it west. He still had no love for wintering in the wilderness alone. Maybe Bozeman would be far enough away from Fort Lincoln and the army. He could wait out the cold weather there, perhaps. He could afford to pay for lodging, thanks to the generosity of the late Mr. Cobb. When he searched Cobb’s pack that morning, he had found a pouch of gold dollars inside the lining of a huge buffalo coat. Seeing that Cobb would have no further use for the money, he decided he could put it to good use. In all likelihood, Cobb had probably come by the money by tracking down unfortunate fugitives like Tom. This thought caused him to consider another potential problem. Cobb had identified him by his horse. He wondered if it was general knowledge now that he rode a blue roan named Billy. He might be wise to swap Billy for another horse, although he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He and Billy had been together for a long time. They were partners, and they were comfortable with each other. Tom even forgave him for letting the Blackfoot run off with him. “But, if you let it happen again,” he lectured the horse, “I’ll let him keep you. See how you’d like being an Indian’s pony. He’d ride you till you dropped, then he’d eat you.”

  Early the next afternoon, he struck the Yellowstone and almost rode right into a raiding party of about twenty Blackfeet. They were camped on the banks of the river and were grazing a large number of horses, so he figured they were returning from a raiding party on the Nez Perces or Flatheads. He was lucky he spotted them before they were aware of his presence but he was forced to lie low behind a low ridge and wait them out. The country was too open to circle around them without being discovered. He would have to take a wide detour to avoid them. He elected to wait until darkness when he felt it safe to continue. It struck him as being a little far south to run into a party of Blackfeet this time of year. If it had been summer, he would not have been surprised. But times were hard for all Indians these days, what with the army punishing all those not on reservations, and the buffalo damn near killed off. Maybe it was not so surprising that raiding parties were traveling a good way out of their usual territories.

  Under the cover of darkness, he was able to continue west. His foremost intention was to leave the raiding party as far behind as possible, so he rode on through the night, not stopping until the first rays of light began to fill the valleys. It was unlikely the raiding party would be on the same trail he was riding, but he had learned from Squint Peterson that you never figure an Indian to do what he’s supposed to do, because that’s when he doesn’t. He continued on until he crossed a high ridge that afforded a sweeping view of the country around him. Looking back the way he had come, he could see no sign of anything moving. Good, he thought, I’m alone, the only man left on earth it seems. All around him for as far as he could see, the land was empty. There was no game in sight, not even sign to indicate game had ever been there. For a fleeting moment, he could not suppress a feeling of melancholy, as if he and his horses were the only living things left on earth. High overhead, thin clouds began to form high up in the morning sky, and the sun, after a brief appearance, disappeared behind a dark bank of heavier clouds that were now rolling in from the northwest. The temperature had dropped at least ten degrees since he first saw sunlight that morning, and it looked likely to drop further. He had to admit to himself that he had guessed wrong on the weather. The turn in the weather added to his sense of loneliness, and he urged Billy to get moving again. It seemed that all other living things had sensed the spell of bad weather coming, and that was the reason the land was devoid of any signs of life. The animals and the birds were holed up somewhere out of the oncoming storm. Only the foolish man and his horses were out in the open. Something told him he had better find some cover for himself and his horses.

  Even though it was not yet noon, the sky darkened steadily until it might as well have been evening. The wind picked up slightly, as the temperature continued to drop. He urged Billy on, scouting the river banks for a likely spot, under a bluff possibly, to take shelter from the storm that he now knew was coming. The first scattered snow flakes began to drift down, acknowledged by a snort from Billy, as if he meant to call it to Tom’s attention. As he pressed on, the snowfall increased in strength until it became more difficult to see in front of him, making the hills vague and misty, hidden behind a filmy curtain of white. He rode on for another hour. By then, snow was accumulating on the ground. He had no idea how far he was from Bozeman, and he could only hope that the storm would not last long. This much he did know—he had to make a camp, and soon, for with the wind increasing steadily now, it showed signs of turning into a blizzard. Off to his right, away from the river, Tom spied a wide gulch, lined with trees. It appeared to narrow as it deepened toward the far end. This was where he decided to make his camp.

  He followed the gulch until it came to a point with evergreens forming a buffer around the sides and end. It would have been difficult to find a better choice of campsites if he had all day to look. The trees offered protection for his horses, and it would be a simple matter to fashion a makeshift shelter for himself. The snowfall was heavy by then and accumulating rapidly, so he wasted little time in preparing his camp. With his hand axe, he chopped four of the taller pines high up on their trunks so the stumps wo
uld be tall enough to provide him a high roof support. He took care to fell the trees inward toward each other so that, when they laid across each other, their tops supported by the narrow walls of the gulch, they provided a sturdy structure for his roof. Next he cut small trees and laid them across the larger ones. Cobb’s huge buffalo coat provided the insulation necessary to keep melting snow from dripping on his head. He spread it over the large trees before covering his roof with the smaller branches.

  His shelter ready, he gathered deadwood to get a fire started. He had no way of knowing how long he would be forced to use his shelter. It might stop snowing and clear up in an hour, but on the other hand, he might be snowed in for days. If that turned out to be the case, he wanted to make a solid shelter while he still had time to work on it. He had jerky and fire and plenty of snow for water. The only thing that worried him was the lack of food for the horses. There was nothing he could do about that now. He would just have to wait it out and do what he could to keep himself alive. At least they were out of the wind, and the trees should help keep them from freezing to death. About a half a foot of snow had accumulated on the floor of the gulch by the time he had a good fire started and settled himself in for the night.

  He was awakened once in the middle of the night by a sharp cracking sound when a pine limb broke under the shifting of his roof. He went outside to check on it. There were probably six or seven additional inches of snow piled on top of his shelter, but the structure seemed to be holding up. The air outside his camp was bitter cold, and it stung his skin wherever it was exposed. The frigid air hurt his lungs, causing him to hold the side of his buffalo hood over his mouth in an effort to breathe. He checked on the horses, huddled together in the small stand of evergreens, their breath falling like smoke from their nostrils. He hoped the storm didn’t last too long—they wouldn’t make it if he couldn’t find food for them in a day or so.

  Morning broke gray and cold with the snow still falling, although not as heavily as the night before. Tom stirred his fire and soon had it blazing again. The sap snapping in the green branches gave off an angry protest against the freezing air. His firewood would soon be depleted. He would have to gather more. He estimated the snowfall to be approximately a foot and a half to two feet, and, while it was still coming down, it had definitely slackened. If it didn’t last too much longer, he might still continue his journey, and, from the looks of the western sky at that moment, it looked promising that it might stop. While that thought gave him encouragement, he discovered that all had not gone well through the night. Upon checking the horses, he found that Cobb’s packhorse had frozen to death during the night. Billy and his packhorse, along with Cobb’s saddle horse with the three white stockings, had survived the cold. White Stockings stamped impatiently when Tom approached them. Billy knickered softly, and his eyes seemed to question his master. Tom looked at the horse, then looked up to study the gray morning sky, straining to find some encouraging sign.

  Luck was with him. The snow stopped about midmorning, and the sky, although still overcast, brightened perceptibly. Tom studied the sky and tried to make a decision. He desperately needed to get the horses moving, but he did not want to get caught out in the open if more snow was on the way. He estimated a total of about two to two and a half feet of snow. That much snow didn’t worry him. Travel would be slow but not impossible. Still, he worried over his decision. After another hour, patches of pale blue began to break through the cloud coverage. When, after an additional half hour, a single beam of sunlight bored a hole through the gray overhead and focused on the snow in front of his shelter, Tom took that as a sign and his decision was made.

  The horses were anxious to move. He picked over the supplies and the few plews that the dead horse had carried, loaded them on White Stockings, and left the rest. By the time he led the horses back to the mouth of the gulch, the sun had broken through in a few more spots. He was relieved to find that the snow in his gulch had drifted a little higher than that in the open, and the going was even better than he anticipated. Still, it was bitterly cold and his horses needed feed. Once again he made his way back to the river and followed it west. It was close to midday when he crossed a wide coulee with a narrow stream that was frozen over. Where the stream emptied into the river there was a heavy stand of willows and cottonwoods, so he stopped and stripped enough bark to feed his three hungry horses.

  * * *

  For the next two days the weather held, and he was able to make reasonable progress. He occasionally crossed ravines where the snow had drifted to a depth that almost reached Billy’s belly, and the horses had to struggle to keep from foundering. But for most of the way, the going was not as tough as he had feared it might be. Cobb’s horse, Buster, as Tom had officially dubbed him now, proved to be a strong animal, and Tom shifted some of the load from his own packhorse over to him when the smaller horse showed signs of struggling.

  On the afternoon of the second day, Tom crossed the trail of a large party of hostiles. By the tracks of their unshod ponies, he knew they were Indians, and from the look of it there were no women or children with them. That meant only one of two possibilities: a raiding party or a hunting party. Whichever it was, he wanted to avoid them. They had crossed the river and turned west, the direction in which he was traveling. It was his guess they had crossed early that morning, so he decided to follow their trail for a while. They were going in the same direction, and it wouldn’t hurt to mix his hoofprints in with theirs. He cautioned himself to keep a sharp eye out. He was pretty sure they were half a day ahead of him, but it wouldn’t do for him to accidentally ride up on a party of what he estimated to be about twenty braves.

  He followed the Indians’ trail for about seven or eight miles before it abruptly left the river and turned north, an occurrence that greatly relieved his mind. His relief did not last long, however, for he had not ridden more than a mile farther when he heard shots.

  He pulled Billy up sharply and stopped to listen, trying to locate the direction they had come from. His first thought was to see if he was in danger. Quickly scanning the horizon on all sides, and expecting to see a horde of savages charging down on him, he saw nothing but the white empty land. He did not have to wait long before hearing more shots, three in rapid succession. They were then followed by sounds of a volley, and then sporadic firing. There could be little doubt that someone was in a pitched battle. Evidently, the raiding party he had been following had found what they were looking for. He hesitated for only a split second, then turned Billy in the direction of the shooting.

  Finally, only one hill separated Tom from the battle. As he came closer to the fight, he looked around for a place to leave Billy and the packhorse. He also didn’t want to top the rise and find himself silhouetted against the sky. From the sound of the gunfire, the fight had to be just beyond the hill. Off to his left, a gully cut into the hillside, deep enough to picket the horses out of sight. That taken care of, he rode up the rise, stopping to leave Billy just below the crest. He crawled to the top and lay on his belly, his Winchester ready.

  Below him, a brisk battle was in progress. He watched for a few minutes to get a full picture of the situation before deciding what he should do, or even if he should do anything at all. As he suspected, it was the band of hostiles whose trail he had followed. From his position, maybe a quarter of a mile or less from the action, he could see that his original estimate proved to be correct—they appeared to be about twenty strong. A steeply banked streambed ran through the center of the small valley, and the Indians were using it for cover to fire on a party of whites—traders or trappers, he couldn’t tell. There were no wagons, only mules and horses, and they were corralled in the center of a makeshift fort. Tom tried to count the smoke from the guns as they returned fire from behind a flimsy breastwork of willows. It appeared that the numbers were fairly even with about as many rifles on one side as the other. Tom studied the terrain and picked his spot. If he could make his way down along the edge
of the hill, he could pick up the cover of a line of trees on the creek’s bank. From there, he could work his way up to within about a hundred yards behind the hostiles. From that position, he figured he could raise a lot of hell with his Winchester, as their backs would be exposed to his fire.

  It took about fifteen minutes to work his way down to the position he sought. On foot, he led Billy along the back slope of the ridge until he reached the safety of the cottonwoods. From there he followed the frozen creek to a point where he picketed his horse well out of sight of the battle. He was close enough to identify the raiding party as Blackfeet. They were well armed, and from the cover of the steep bank, they controlled the battle. On his belly, Tom inched his way up to a log that lay along the creek. He situated himself there with his rifle and Cobb’s repeating rifle. From his position behind the log, he had a clear field of fire out across the flat streambed where the smaller creek flowed into the stream the Blackfeet were using for cover. A real turkey shoot, he thought, as he cocked his Winchester and sighted down on the rearmost hostile.

  In rapid succession, he went down the line of Blackfeet. Each time he squeezed the trigger, an Indian crumpled and slid down the creekbank. He took out four of the raiders before they figured out what was happening. When they finally realized that their brothers were not getting hit by rifle fire from the breastwork before them, they scurried around trying to find cover, not yet aware of the origin of the attack. Tom dropped two more of their number before they pinpointed his fire and scrambled to find protection behind the opposite creekbank. No longer with a clear shot, Tom continued to keep the Blackfeet pinned down behind the bank until he emptied his rifle. At that point, all firing ceased and a deathly silence fell over the little valley. While watching the creek, Tom calmly reloaded his Winchester, waiting for the attack that he figured would come. He didn’t have to wait but a few seconds. The Blackfeet were sure now that there was just one man behind them. Figuring that he was reloading, they decided to rush him, and suddenly, with a blood-chilling war cry, three warriors leaped to their feet and charged him. Tom lifted Cobb’s rifle and took careful aim. If he was of a mind to discourage their attack, he would have sighted on the warrior in front, so that the other two would see him fall and possibly turn back. But his intention was to reduce the number of the enemy by killing as many as he could. Consequently, he drew down on the rearmost man and squeezed the trigger. He missed, the bullet clipping a branch to the right of the man. Without hesitating, he resighted, allowing for the pull to the right, and watched the rear Blackfoot tumble as he pulled the trigger. With little loss of motion, he drew down on the second warrior and fired, hitting him square in the middle of the chest. The third warrior, unaware that he was now the lone survivor of the three, was within twenty yards of the log. Running full out, he fired his rifle at the gun barrel he could now plainly see. Tom took his time, ignoring the splinters that flew up when the warrior’s bullet thumped into the log, sighted carefully, and placed his shot between the Indian’s eyes. Though he was killed instantly, the Blackfoot continued to charge forward until he fell in a heap over the log Tom was lying behind.