Colter's Journey

by William W. Johnstone

  “Timothy . . .” Her eyes seemed vacant.

  “Reload it, ma’am. Quick!”

  He grabbed his younger sister, who stared at him as if he were a ghost, pulled her aside. He wanted to kiss her, to hug her, to tell her he was sorry for every bad thing he had ever done to his baby sister. Instead, he pointed to the ditch.

  “In the ditch, Margaret. Now!”

  She blinked.

  Tim saw Patricia, but footsteps sounded behind him, and he whirled. Two bearded men came at him, one with a hatchet, the other with a pistol and a hatchet.

  Dropping to his knee, Tim drew the Harper’s Ferry pistol from his belt. The man aimed his flintlock and fired. Tim saw the flash in the pan, the white puff of smoke from the pistol barrel, and what seemed like a lifetime later, he felt a tug below the left armpit of his buckskin shirt. The big pistol bucked in his hand, and the man who had just shot at him buckled to his knees and fell onto the dirt, writhing in pain.

  With the screw-barrel, he shot the man with the hatchet, too, and that one fell back, eyes open but no longer seeing, just ten yards in front of Tim, his sisters, and the Scott women. Shoving both pistols back inside the belt, he moved, picking up Margaret, and carrying her to the ditch.

  He tossed her into it, hearing her scream above the din of battle. He remembered the Northern Lights. Reno had said some people considered them a sign of war. Well, the morning gave credence to that theory.

  “Timothy!” Margaret called out.

  “Follow the ditch!” he screamed. “Run. Run. We’re right behind you.”

  Patricia seemed the first to come out of the trance. She grabbed Nancy’s hand, and pulled her out of the lean-to. Tim pointed. He yelled. “Get in the ditch. Get in the ditch.”

  They came to him, and he helped his sister in first. Another bullet burned his neck, and he felt the blood seeping from the wound, but he did not turn. Did not run. He helped Patricia into the ditch, and saw Nancy already lifting Margaret, and begin carrying her down toward the river, toward the horses, toward safety.

  “You son of a—”

  Tim turned, just managing to avoid a hatchet blade that would have cleaved his head in two.

  The Indian swinging it fell to his knees, but came back with the blade. Tim leaped over it, but lost his footing and fell, hearing the cauldron inside the hole in the earth, feeling the splash of boiling water on his face, and breathing in the wretched odor of the poison spring.

  Before he could get up, the Indian was atop him. He’d lost the hatchet, but all he needed was his hands, which locked on Tim’s throat. Tim tried to buck him off, but the Indian was tough, wiry, and strong. He grinned, and the fingers tightened, pressing down, about to crush Tim’s windpipe.

  At least Patricia and my sisters have a chance, Tim thought.

  A second later, blood and brains exploded from the Indian’s left eye, and the muscles in the Indian’s hands relaxed. Tim pushed the arms away and watched the Indian fall to his right and lie still, the one eye still in his head staring sightlessly at the water that fed from the bubbling water into the ditch.

  Tim stood up, not bothering to massage his throat. Mrs. Scott was already reloading the rifle. She had shot the Indian in the back of the head, and the ball had exited through the brave’s eyeball.

  “Get in the ditch, Mrs. Scott.” Tim picked up the hatchet the dead Indian had dropped, and spun around at the sound of curses and a whoop from an Indian. He reminded Tim of the ones killed back along the Green River, those who had ridden with the black-faced man named Murchison. Piegans . . . with the high pompadour of black hair.

  The brave swung a knife, which Tim just managed to avoid by sidestepping and sucking in his stomach. Tim swung the hatchet, but the brave somehow managed to parry the blow with the big knife.

  They whirled, struck out again, both missing.

  “In the ditch, Mrs. Scott!” Tim barked again, backing away from the point of the blade as the Indian lunged. He swung. The hatchet went over the Piegan’s head after the Indian ducked.

  The knife slashed, and Tim sang out in pain as the blade ripped through the buckskin shirt and carved a furrow across his side. Blood oozed from the wound, but Tim thought that a good sign. It oozed. It did not gush.

  It did, of course, hurt like hell.

  He saw Mrs. Scott bring the rifle to her shoulder, saw her pull back the hammer, then suddenly swing the long gun away from the Piegan. The rifle roared. Tim did not look to see the man she had shot, figuring she had just saved his life again, but if he wanted to keep that life, he needed to kill the brave with the knife.

  Hatchet met knife. Both men grunted. They came back, swung, missed, struck again, and Tim saw sparks fly from where the blades struck. Even as he fought, he hoped that Patricia and his sisters were moving as fast as they could through the stinking ditch as Mrs. Scott tried to reload the rifle.

  The Indian lunged. Tim backed up, felt his moccasins rub against something—a bunch of cookware—and he stumbled through the empty plates and cups, hearing the clatter of tin above the roar of the battle around him. He cursed, lost his footing, and fell on his backside, figuring that was when his life would end.

  His eyes sought out the Piegan and saw him lunging toward him, only to straighten, and stagger back. Tim saw the arrow buried almost to the feather in the Indian’s sternum. As the Indian sank to his knees, Tim rolled over and came up.

  He expected to see one of the Indians riding with Reno. He figured one of those braves had just saved his life, but it was one of the Blackfeet warriors. He was nocking another arrow on his bow.

  The Blackfoot had shot at Tim, but when Tim had fallen over the tinware on the ground, the arrow had slammed into the Piegan Indian. Luck had saved him that time.

  The hatchet saved him next time.

  He brought it up over his shoulder and then threw it, shattering the warrior’s breastplate and chest. The Indian fell backward, and he too, landed into the cauldron of bubbling water.

  His screams, Tim thought, would remain in his mind for the rest of his life—which might not last much longer.

  He hurried to Mrs. Scott, took the rifle from her hands, and practically shoved her into the ditch. “Follow the ditch!” he screamed again. “There are horses! Near the river. It’s your only chance.”

  She finally understood, turned, and hurried, ducking below the bank and chasing after her daughter and Tim’s two sisters.

  He had no intention of going after them. He went for Jed Reno, but stopped when he saw him. The pinto he had been riding was on the ground. Three Indians—one in a coat that reminded him of the drawings he had seen of British soldiers from the Revolutionary War—came at Reno, who had a hatchet in one hand.

  Without taking his eyes off the opponents, the mountain man sensed Tim staring at him and simply yelled.

  CHAPTER 37

  “Run!” Reno yelled. “Run, Tim! Run!” He held his hatchet in his right hand and a knife in his left as he backed away from Red Coat and two other Blackfoot Indians.

  Through the steam rising from the pits, he caught brief glimpses of several things. One of Jackatars’s men was screaming, sinking to his thighs in the hellish quicksand, trying to struggle out of the scalding soft dirt. The more he struggled, the deeper he sank. Soon, he would disappear.

  A geyser was spraying its steam a good one hundred and fifty feet into the morning sky, spooking a horse and sending its rider flying over the roan’s neck.

  Several white men in buckskins were running furiously after Red Prairie and two of his fine Cheyenne braves as they ran off the horses and mules. The brigands screamed and cursed, but they kept running away from Colter’s Hell, futilely chasing the Cheyenne braves.

  All of the women captives had made it into the ditch, disappearing from view, although every now and then, he caught sight of a head or some hair as the girls weaved through the canal.

  What pleased Reno most was that he saw Tim Colter. The boy looked at him, and Reno feared he
would run into the thick of battle, away from the girls they had traveled so far to rescue.

  Yet the boy stopped and listened to Reno’s yell. Run, boy, Reno silently prayed. Get them women folks out of here.

  Tim Colter was no coward, but he knew his duty. He jumped into the ditch and followed the girls.

  Good, Reno thought. Now back to the business at hand. He did not see the Hudson’s Bay Company man, Donald Baker, nor Louis Jackatars, and knew he could not look for them until he killed Red Coat and his men.

  The old Indian’s knife came at him, but Reno leaped back. The blade cut only the nasty-smelling air. A brave thrust his lance, but Reno ducked underneath it, bringing his hatchet up and knocking the brave off balance. At the same time, he swung his knife in a wide arc, watching Red Coat and the other Indian leap back.

  Reno’s side ached. It still bled. Yet he did not feel weak. Fact was, he figured he had never felt more alive.

  Red Coat barked out a short batch of orders, and all three Indians spread out, causing Reno to grin. They knew his shortcomings. His one good eye limited his peripheral vision, but he had a plan that might circumvent Red Coat’s attack. He shifted the knife in his left hand and let it fly.

  Red Coat yelled something, but too late. The brave with the spear turned too late, and Reno’s knife struck him in the center of his chest. He fell back, dropping the lance at his feet, bringing both knees up, and dying like that.

  That started the ball, just as Reno had expected.

  He swung the hatchet to parry the blows from Red Coat and the remaining Indian. Sparks flew as iron met iron, and Reno backed up. He felt a rifle ball whistle past his head. He did not know if that had been a stray shot or if someone else had joined in on the fun—but from a relatively safe distance. He knew two of the Cheyenne warriors had remained behind, covering Red Prairie as he and the others stole the livestock. They could still be around . . . if, Reno thought, they weren’t killed already.

  Red Coat lunged, but Reno sidestepped the point of the Indian’s knife. In the corner of his one eye, he caught sight of the other Indian, who had grabbed his bow and was reaching back to find an arrow.

  “Coward.” Reno swung the hatchet at Red Coat’s head and watched him duck and dive onto the wet earth. He threw the hatchet, and it slammed into the throat of the other Indian just as he brought the bow up.

  As the blood sprayed, Reno leaped back from Red Coat’s knife.

  The old Blackfoot grinned as he saw Donald Baker charging across the camp, leading two of Jackatars’s renegades. Knowing he had to act fast, Reno did the unthinkable.

  Unarmed, he charged Red Coat.

  Confused, the old chief stopped and turned back. Reno rammed his shoulder high up on the Indian’s chest. The Blackfoot grunted, and Reno felt the knife cut into his shoulder and back as they fell onto the soft ground. Quickly, Reno rolled over and dived to his right.

  Old as he was, Red Coat had not lost his senses, nerve, or quickness. He came up to his knees, realized Reno’s intentions, and switched his grip on the knife to throw it. A split second later, Reno picked the lance up off the ground and hurled it, piercing the Indian’s heart.

  Red Coat died instantly, with a snarl on his lips and a knife in his hand—died in battle the way he would have wanted it.

  Before the old Blackfoot fell, Reno was up and running toward the lean-to. He passed another dead Indian, and leaned over to snatch up the Blackfoot’s stone-headed war ax. A bullet dug through the sand in front of him. Another grazed his thigh.

  Ahead of him, a white man with a gray beard stepped out of the lean-to, raised his Hawken, and fired. The ball whistled over Reno’s head, and the man stopped to reload, butting the Hawken on the ground, fetching the ramrod, and spilling powder onto the ground.

  He had the rifle loaded and primed, and even managed to cock the hammer before Reno brained him with the ax. Jackatars’ man fell dead, and Reno tried to grab the Hawken, but it slipped from his fingers and landed on the ground. He cringed, expecting the weapon to discharge, but it did not. Another shot slammed through his left hand, and he cried out in pain. Still holding the war club in his right, he went to the nearest keg and smashed it twice, spilling powder as the keg rolled over. He smashed another.

  And knew he was out of time.

  Donald Baker and two men came at him, but their weapons were empty, although one desperately tried to reload his pistol.

  Reno killed the third man with the war club, smashing his skull with a sickening crunch. He ducked underneath the hatchet Baker swung, and brought his right foot up into the Hudson’s Bay man’s groin. Baker grunted, gasped and tried not to sink but could not stop himself. As he went to his knees, Reno smashed the man’s face with his mangled left hand.

  Down went Baker—only temporarily, Reno knew—and the one-eyed wonder turned toward the other man. He was bringing down a knife from well over his head in a killing thrust, but Reno reached out and grabbed the man’s right hand with his two hands. Reno’s left hand screamed in pain, bleeding, one or two bones broken more than likely from the ball, but he still managed to stop the blade about a foot from his face.

  Purposefully, Reno fell backwards, bringing up his knees, and rolling. He shoved with hands and feet, and the man somersaulted over, screaming, landing with a splash as the boiling hot spring silenced his cries.

  Reno came to his knees. Baker was trying to come to his feet. Reno looked at the ground, hoping to find a rock or some other weapon, but saw nothing so he rammed his head into the Hudson’s Bay man’s face. The nose gave way, as did his lips and a few teeth. Both men went down, and Reno came up.

  He could not understand where the strength came from, but he was lifting Donald Baker over his head, heaved, and watched the British felon crash against the kegs of gunpowder. Rolling kegs buried the unconscious man, and Reno moved toward the loaded Hawken.

  He stopped, his chest heaving, his body bleeding from a number of wounds.

  “I will kill you myself,” Louis Jackatars said.

  Reno said nothing.

  Jackatars called out in French and in the Métis tongue. He called for help, but there was no one to hear him. Most of his men were unconscious, dead, dying, or running away, trying to catch up with the horses that Red Prairie had stolen.

  “I thought”—Reno had trouble catching his breath—“you wanted . . . to do me . . . yourself.”

  Jackatars spit.

  Reno grinned. “Now you got to.” He backed up, lowering his hands, and said in a dry whisper, “If you can.” He leaped back from the sawed-off saber the half-breed swung.

  The blade was about two feet long. It was the only weapon Jackatars had. But Jed Reno had none. Nothing. . . but his wits.

  Again the blade came, but Reno dodged it. Jackatars thrust, and it would have killed the one-eyed trapper had not the Métis devil tripped over the powder horn dropped by the dead man with the Hawken. Reno looked at the Hawken, but it seemed too far away for him to reach. He kicked out at Jackatars’s face, but the bad man recovered quickly and almost chopped off Reno’s foot with the saber.

  Reno came back as Jackatars sprang to his feet. He was a quick man. He had always been quick and deadly. He grinned and tossed the pig-sticker to his other hand. Reno belted the breed in the nose.

  Down went Jackatars, screaming, but still gripping the saber in his hand. Reno lunged, stopped, and leaped back as the breed’s weapon came close to gutting him.

  Jackatars leaped to his feet, sliced once, twice, three times, then stopped to spit out blood and wipe his face with his free hand.

  The half-breed swore . . . in English.

  Reno ducked underneath the arcing saber. Both men came up to catch their breaths, and that gave Reno just enough time to work up saliva in his mouth.

  He spit into the breed’s bloodied face.

  Enraged, Jackatars raised the saber high over his head and brought it down. Reno sidestepped it and reached out with both hands. Somehow, he managed t
o latch onto Louis Jackatars’s other arm, and turning in a semicircle, he swung the breed around in a crazy dance. He let go and watched Jackatars fly into the lean-to just as Donald Baker was coming to and pushing a keg away.

  Swinging the breed sent Reno to his hands and knees. He heard the crash of Jackatars against Baker and the kegs and came up on his knees, blinked, and saw six more of Jackatars’s men running toward him. They were a mix of Blackfeet Indians and white brigands, and all were armed with rifles or muskets.

  “Plenty Medicine!” Jackatars came to his feet among the barrels of gunpowder. He heard the footfalls of the charging men, turned and saw them, and faced Reno again with an evil grin shining through the blood and dirt.

  Reno dived to the Hawken. He had only one chance. No chance, really. One shot. That, with God’s luck, would kill Jackatars, Baker, maybe the charging men.

  And probably Reno himself.

  He rolled over, gripped the Hawken, lifted it only slightly.

  “No!” cried Jackatars. “Mon Dieu!”

  Laughing, Jed Reno squeezed the trigger.

  CHAPTER 38

  Just as Tim Colter stepped out of the ditch and saw the flowing river, the horses and mule left there, and just when he thought that he and Patricia and the others might get out of there alive . . . the earth rumbled and shook, causing him to fall to his knees.

  The explosion deafened him. He pushed himself up, turning back to look toward Colter’s Hell.

  Hell, indeed.

  He thought the basin had erupted like a volcano, for smoke and flames rose high in the morning air. More explosions followed, echoing across the river as smoke curled into the air. He turned quickly toward the livestock and yelled, “Grab those horses!” He heard nothing, though, nothing but the rumble of the earth, yet Patricia grabbed two hackamores, Mrs. Scott another, and Nancy was sliding on her knees, waiting to release the mule’s rope until it finally stopped kicking and squealing.

  Tim started to help, but stopped abruptly and brought up his rifle, even though he had not found time to reload it.