Ride the Moon Down tb-7

by Terry C. Johnston

  Scratch gazed at Whistler, sensing that this same trait of honor must also course through this younger brother’s veins—

  Suddenly two of the advance scouts bolted out of the trees a half mile ahead, sprinting back toward the head of the march. They raced their ponies around in a tight circle, then slowed to a walk to explain their excitement.

  “We have discovered a trail!”

  Whistler asked, “An enemy trail?”

  “It must be,” explained the second scout. “Many riders.”

  “Is it a fresh trail?” asked Yellowtail as he rode up and brought his animal under control.

  The first scout nodded. “Very little snow in the tracks.”

  “Are they dragging travois behind them?” Scratch asked.

  “There are a few,” the second scout declared.

  Bass looked at Whistler. “It might be a small band of the enemy.”

  “Women and children—they are our enemies too,” Strikes-in-Camp said.

  Turning suddenly on the young warrior, Titus asked, “So now you kill women and children too? Does this make you a mighty warrior?”

  “Those children will grow up to be fighting men and the mothers of warriors. Those women will bear the seeds, giving birth to more of our enemy—”

  “Quiet!” Whistler demanded, clenching a fist in his son’s face. The group gathered round them fell silent. “We won’t kill the women, nor children. Mark my words: a warrior kills only the warriors.”

  “Those women—”

  This time Whistler drew his hand back, prepared to slap his son across the cheek, but he suddenly stopped his hand inches away. “I should take your weapons and your ponies from you—make you walk back to Absaroka.”

  It was so quiet Bass could hear some of the horses snort in the cold air, the vapor rising from their nostrils like gauzy wreaths as the sky continued to snow.

  “But I won’t do that, Strikes-in-Camp,” Whistler continued. “Not because you are my son … but because you need to learn how a Crow makes war on his enemy that is more numerous, an enemy that is stronger.”

  Strikes-in-Camp glared at that hand Whistler lowered. Yet he did not utter a word to his father.

  “I am the leader of this war party—not my son,” Whistler announced. “We are here to revenge the death of my brother. Not to stain the honor of our people by killing women and children. No—we will capture those women and children, take them back to our country when we turn around for home. The young ones will grow to become Crow. And the bellies of those women will give birth to many Crow warriors!”

  The half-a-hundred immediately yipped and trilled in triumph with a great ululation of their tongues.

  Then Whistler turned back to those two scouts, asking, “How far away do you judge the enemy to be?”

  “Before the sun is in its last quarter of the sky and the winter moon has climbed out of the east,” the second young warrior explained, “we could reach them.”

  “Return to the others,” Whistler commanded. “And tell them to follow the trail carefully until they have found where the enemy will camp tonight. We will continue on your trail into the time of darkness. Only when our enemies have stopped for the night are you to return to us.”

  Whistler’s scouts found the Blackfoot on that broad plain just north of the Sun River.

  As the dimming orb continued its descent toward the horizon, the Crow war party crossed the frozen river, then cut sharply west toward the uneven rim of bare hills that bordered the narrow valley, following the young men who had raced along the backtrail to bring up the rest. As predicted, by late afternoon Bass and the others neared the crest of those hills with their weary ponies, hearing the faint, distant boom of the enemy’s guns.

  “It is a good thing my brother realized how important it would be to have good trade with the white man,” Whistler huffed as they neared the brow of the hill on foot, having left their horses below with the others.

  “Powder and lead,” Bass agreed. “To fight your enemies.”

  “And guns!” the warrior cried in a sharp whisper as he went to his belly. “He-Who-Is-Not-Here decided long ago that we needed to be friends with the white man because we needed the white man’s guns.”

  Dropping to his belly in the snow, Scratch inched to the brow of the barren hill and peered over. As the reports of the large-bored muzzle loaders echoed from the surrounding slopes, the scene below opened itself before them.

  “That is not a village on the move,” Whistler declared quietly, his breathsmoke a thin stream of gray against the deep-hued blue of the winter sky that outlined the handful that had crabbed to the hilltop to join the white man.

  “No, these are hunters,” said Pretty On Top. “Men. Warriors. And they are delivered into our hands!”

  “But there are some women,” Bass warned.

  On the far side of him Strikes-in-Camp scoffed, “Is this the warning of a woman who is afraid of the fight to come?”

  “Take care that your father does not mourn your death in battle before the sun falls from this sky,” Scratch growled.

  Strikes-in-Camp chuckled, saying, “I will be an old, old man before I will ever heed the woman words of the white man!”

  “You will hold your tongue!” Whistler snapped. “And you will obey me as the leader of this war party, if you will not obey me as your father.”

  “Perhaps the white man is afraid we will learn he is too afraid to fight the enemy—”

  Whistler interrupted his son. “No more of your angry, foolish talk about my friend, Pote Anil Time and again he has proved himself a friend to our people, a friend to He-Who-Has-Died, and a friend to our family. I will not have you insult him.”

  For a long moment Strikes-in-Camp was silent, un-moving; then he rolled onto his hip and slid away from the rest, hurrying downhill to rejoin those who waited with the horses.

  “Forgive my son and his words,” Whistler begged as he peered at the Blackfoot below him.

  “You are a good man, Whistler,” Titus told him. “I would not be near so patient as you.”

  The older warrior chewed his bottom lip in contemplation, then confessed, “I feel it is my fault Strikes-in-Camp has become the man he is.”

  “He is a man,” Bass reminded. “He cannot blame who or what he is on you. And neither should you. Your son’s sins will not fall upon his father’s lodge—”

  “More are coming!” Pretty On Top announced, pointing across the snowy bowl.

  Instantly they turned, the distant figures magnetizing their attention. On the far hillside a short string of horses and some twenty people started down at an angle, the figures stark across the brilliant snow shimmering with a golden hue as the sun continued its fall.

  Wheeling to gaze at the west, Bass ripped off both blanket mittens, laid the edge of one hand along the horizon, then set the other on top of it. The sun was racing toward its rest.

  They didn’t have long.

  “If we are to fight these people,” Scratch said, yanking on the mittens in the severe cold as a gust of wind slashed over the bare brow of that hill, “we must do it soon.”

  “Yes. For if any escape our slaughter,” Whistler agreed, “we might not find them in the dark.”

  Real Bird asked, “How will you attack?”

  The warrior considered that for some time, then pointed. “They have come from the north, looking for these buffalo. Their village must lie in that direction because we have not come upon it. So half of us will ride around to those hills and cut off their escape.”

  “I will lead those men,” Pretty On Top volunteered.

  “No. The white man will lead,” Whistler deferred. “But I want you to ride at the right hand of Pote Ani.”

  The young warrior smiled, his eyes flashing at the white man. “This is good. After all these winters … we go into battle together.”

  “And you will lead the rest?” Titus asked Whistler.

  “Yes. We will wait until you have reached t
he far side of those hills across the valley.”

  Bass nodded. “We must hurry to be in position.”

  “Then I will bring the rest with me, riding through that saddle, and sweep down on the enemy.”

  With a smile Scratch said, “Driving them right into our trap.”

  “I see the fear in their eyes already!” Pretty On Top exulted.

  “I can smell how they have soiled themselves in fear!” Whistler echoed.

  “No more dried meat for us,” Windy Boy cheered youthfully. “Not only has the First Maker delivered this enemy into our hands to revenge the death of He-Who-Is-No-Longer, but tonight we can end our diet of cold meat.”

  “Pretty On Top,” Bass said, tapping the young warrior on the shoulder, “it’s time to set our trap.”

  Back among the others and the horses, Whistler and Turns Plenty divided the warriors, being sure there were proven veterans and newcomers to war in both groups.

  “We will do our best to be in position before you ride down on the Blackfoot,” Bass assured Whistler as his warriors were mounting up behind him. “We don’t have much light left in the day.”

  “Defend yourself, Pote Ani,” Whistler pleaded before he turned away to his group. “Both of us must return to our wives.”

  Titus reached out and grabbed the warrior’s arm. “Know that in my heart, I am married to your daughter.”

  “I don’t claim to know all what lies in a white man’s heart … but I believe that you truly love my daughter—”

  “All you have to do is tell me what you want of me, how I am to marry her—I’ll do it.”

  Whistler smiled. “I know. But for now, we have some Blackfoot to kill. We’ll talk again of this marriage upon our victorious homecoming.”

  Backtracking to the south for about two miles, Bass was able to lead his band north again behind the range of low hills until he struck that trampled trail the enemy had taken through the snow to climb over the heights and drop into the valley where the Blackfoot had encountered the buffalo herd. From time to time the boom of distant guns echoed from beyond the heights. Minutes later as the sun was easing down upon the crowns of the western hills, they heard a massive volley of shots.

  “That isn’t a buffalo shoot!” Bass roared, kicking his thick winter moccasins into the ribs of the pony with the spotted rump.

  “Time to take scalps!” Bear Ground bellowed, leaping away with Pretty On Top.

  Like water bursting through a beaver dam, some two dozen of them had their weary ponies lunging up that last slope, reaching the top to look below. On the western side of the valley Whistler and Turns Plenty were leading the others in a mad gallop that was just reaching the valley floor where the Blackfoot hunters had been engaged in shooting the snowbound buffalo while others, mostly women, were at work on the outskirts of the herd, skinning and butchering in tiny, trampled circles of crimson snow.

  Enemy horsemen were mounting up, charging toward the onrushing Crow to throw a buffer between them and the women as those figures on foot hurtled themselves around and lunged away with their horses dragging half-laden travois of meat and heavy green hides. Calf-deep snow clawed at their legs, slowing their retreat as the Blackfoot horsemen closed ranks behind the women, then rushed the charging Crow in a full front.

  As Scratch and his warriors swept over the brow of the hill, he watched the Blackfoot line collide against Whistler’s Crow with a great crash—men yelling and grunting, horses crying out, guns blaring and handheld weapons clattering.

  Then the Blackfoot were behind the Crow lines, several of them yelling to the rest, ordering their comrades to halt and circle around on the rear of the Crow.

  Just then the women fleeing from Whistler’s men spotted Bass’s Crow horsemen fanning out across the northern hillside, realizing they were being attacked from two directions. With a howl they dragged to a halt, screaming, turning round and round in fear and confusion.

  Down, down the slope Bass’s line flowed as it raced toward the women who wailed and cursed the Crow warriors as those horsemen peeled past them in a blur, tearing on down to the valley floor where the buffalo were suddenly turning blindly, lumbering toward the southwest, making for the narrow saddle that allowed them their only escape from the snowy bowl.

  Behind them the women shook their knives in their bloody hands, shouting their oaths at the Crow backs.

  “Perhaps you’ll find a wife today!” Scratch hollered at Pretty On Top. “These Blackfoot love to copulate with brave Crow men!”

  The young warrior laughed.

  On the far side of him Windy Boy said, “I saw a pretty one! Maybe I will take her back to my lodge and we can make many Crow babies!”

  Having raced halfway across the trampled snow on the valley floor, Titus realized several of the Crow and Blackfoot riders had been unhorsed in the brutal collision of their lines. In the midst of the butchered buffalo carcasses and the milling, riderless horses, the warriors were crawling out of the snow, whirling about in search of an enemy. Voices rang from the slopes, overwhelmed by the roar of smoothbore English fusils and American-made trade muskets. Once the weapons were empty, most of the combatants did not stop to reload. Instead, they pitched their empty firearms aside and pulled out a bow, a long-handled war club, a tomahawk, or a knife before they rushed on one of the enemy.

  Even in the swirling maze of confusion, it was easy for Scratch to pick Crow from Blackfoot, even with both sides bundled in heavy blankets or capotes. The enemy was dressed for winter hunting, while the Crow were painted for war.

  In shock, the Blackfoot warriors were realizing they were caught between the pincers of a trap rapidly sealing off their chance for escape. Those still on horseback were forming up, yelling boldly to one another, kicking into a gallop as they started across the snowy ground toward Bass’s mounted warriors.

  If they collided with the Crow line and lunged on past it, they would rejoin the women and the chase would be on. The battle would then be a running fight instead of a decisive victory.

  “Halt!” Scratch cried, his throat immediately sore in the superdry air. “Halt!”

  He was waving as a handful of the warriors took up his cry, the Crow waving at the rest to return up the slope, to re-form in a ragged line somewhere between the fleeing women behind them and those oncoming horsemen sweeping across the valley floor.

  “Hold the line—do not charge!” the white man ordered.

  Bear Ground shook his head in confusion. “You want us to stand here while they ride down on us?”

  “Yes!” he demanded. “If they get past any of you, if they break by our line, then they have escaped.”

  “Tote Ani is right!” Pretty On Top yelled. “None of us wants to chase after the enemy! We must stand and fight them here!”

  7

  He saw the fear in their eyes as the Blackfoot raced toward his line.

  But on their faces was written a stoic anger.

  Time and again Bass had seen that loathing the Blackfoot held for the white man. No, their hatred for Americans.

  The tribe put up with the British to the north, endured the Hudson’s Bay traders and fur brigades because those white men brought all sorts of useful goods, most especially the guns, powder, and lead. But the Americans traded with every enemy of the Blackfoot. With the arrival of the Americans, the Crow, Shoshone, and Flathead found a supplier of those firearms necessary to even the balance after decades of mountain warfare while a mighty, well-armed confederation of Blood, Piegan, and Gros Ventre sought to crush its poorer neighbors.

  In the fading of that afternoon’s light, the Blackfoot were discovering that their firearms gave them no advantage if they could not reload them on the run. Caught unaware in the surprise attack, these hunters found they had no choice but to use weapons that would bring them face-to-face with the Crow.

  Those Blackfoot closest to Bass suddenly realized there was a white man among their enemy. Just before the lines clashed, some of the warriors yelled
to the others, pointing at the lone trapper—singling him out for certain attention.

  “They don’t like you!” Pretty On Top shouted beside Bass as his pony pranced, barely under control.

  Titus growled, “Never worried about what dead men think of me!”

  A half dozen were converging on the trapper as he poked the trigger finger of his right hand out through a slot cut in the palm of his blanket mitten.

  As Scratch struggled to calm his own frightened horse, an arrow slapped his leg, painfully pinning the meat of his calf against the animal. The horse sidestepped away from its pain, trying to rear back. Each time it jolted back onto all four hooves, a shock wave of nausea bolted through his stomach. Then the wounded leg popped free and he was able to swing it up, clutching the long shaft in his left hand. Snapping it off, he quickly bent down to try pushing the damned thing on out the inside of his calf when a second arrow raked along his rib cage.

  Staring at the shaft fluttering there in his thick elk-hide coat, he wondered if he’d been punctured. Seizing the arrow in his left mitten, he steeled himself, ready to snap it off against his belly, when he discovered that it had pierced only his coat and buckskin shirt.

  From behind him unearthly shrieks rolled toward him like a landslide.

  Twisting partway in the saddle, he raised the full-stock rifle, pulled back on the rear set trigger, and clumsily waved the Derringer’s muzzle at the closest Blackfoot screaming down on him. Yanking back on that front hair trigger, Scratch watched the heavy .54-caliber ball slam the warrior back onto the rear haunches of his pony for a heartbeat before the man tumbled backward off the animal into the trampled snow.

  Now as the others closed on him, in that long flintlock rifle Titus found himself holding no more than a long and very heavy club. Leaning to the right, he dropped out of the saddle and landed with most of his weight on the uninjured leg. But when he slapped the pony on the rump and sent it away, then started to step backward as he clawed at his side for the powder horn, the wounded calf gave way as soon as his weight was momentarily shifted onto it.