“One year,” Ben growled, “they break their necks gettin’ down here to take our packs, ’an the next year we can’t find ’em with a flea comb.”
A half dozen trappers walked up and then squatted on the grass. Jim looked at them. He’d known these men for five years now—off and on. He’d run across them in the mountains. They were the men who opened the west; they found the mountain passes and they learned the way of the Indian. Year in and year out, they subsisted on the game abounding in the valleys. They sent hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of valuable beaver pelts back to St. Louis.
“There’s one trapper,” Whispering Jones said in his soft voice, “who ain’t waitin’ fer the traders.” Jones was a tall, lean man with a red beard, high cheek bones, bright blue eyes, and an unusually mild voice.
“Who?” asked Jim.
Joned nodded toward the cabins.
Turning, Jim saw Frenchy Ladreau and Standing Bull walking down to the other end of the valley where the horses and pack mules were grazing. A few minutes later, the two were heading grimly out of the valley, half dozen mules heavily loaded with packs dragging behind.
“Big Frenchy,” Ben reflected, “will probably meet the traders on their way in and git rid of his stuff.”
“Here’s hopin’ he runs into a passel o’ Blackfeet,” one of the trappers snapped.
Jim heard the low laugh among the more experienced men. He looked at Ben for an explanation.
“The Blackfeet,” Ben said, “won’t bother one o’ their own kind.”
“Renegade?” Jim asked.
“I ain’t sayin’,” Ben said, “but there’s been half a dozen hunters and trappers killed in these parts durin’ the past year. Big Frenchy knows where most of the trappers have their lines. If he wants to tip off his redskin brothers, he can move in on their streams an’ trap it till it’s dry.”
“A white man wouldn’t do that,” Jim snorted.
“Big Frenchy ain’t no white man,” Clem Hyde opined. “He’s more Blackfoot than Standin’ Bull.”
They watched the two riders disappear in the notch up among the piñons. Then Ben rose and got to work unloading their mules and storing their packs in the log cabin to await the arrival of the traders.
* * * *
Later in the afternoon, more trappers came in. They swept in through the notch with a loud whoop—which died in their throats when they realized the traders had not arrived.
Campfires sprang up in the valley, and Ben shook his head.
“Somethin’ ain’t right,” he said quietly as they roasted venison strips over the flames. “There’s at least fifty trappers here, an’ plenty o’ prime fur. Them St. Louis men know it. If they were comin’, they’d be here.”
“They may have hit snow in the mountains,” Jim suggested. He’d seen mountain blizzards this late up in the passes.
“No,” Ben said. “The traders have been here before. They don’t strike through no pass when they figger there’ll be a storm. Besides, it’s too late fer snow.” He shook his head. “Somethin’ ain’t right,” he said again.
* * * *
In the morning, the traders still had not yet arrived, and Ben suggested that they ride out to look for them. The other trappers sat around glumly awaiting the arrival of the small barrels of whiskey which formed a good portion of the traders’ stock. Big Frenchy had consumed what little there was in the camp.
Jim watched them as he saddled his mustang. They were a strange lot, the mountain men, living in the most dangerous portion of the country. They were completely surrounded by hostile tribes at all times.
War parties of Blackfeet, and sometimes Cheyenne, swept down from the north to run off Comanche horses. Savage Kiowas and Comanches stormed up from the south in retaliation. White men found on the “bloody ground” were given little consideration.
* * * *
The mountain men pursued their hazardous trade in lonely mountain valleys and along frozen streams. They built smokeless fires and they carried single-shot rifles.
“We hold onto our hair,” Ben grinned, “by the skin of our teeth. We work all winter and early spring, and we trade our pelts for rum, new traps and a few dollars which we gamble away before we go back to the mountains.”
In the beginning Jim had been unable to understand it. Months of the hardest and most dangerous kind of labor, and then a few weeks of revelry at the rendezvous. Then back again to the job.
He’d lived in the mountains five years now and he knew the reason; he’d experienced that feeling of freedom. No man was as free as the mountain man.
“We’ll ride up along the ridge,” Ben informed him. “If them traders are cornin’, they’ll be in along that way.”
They kept in among the trees most of the way and then galloped across another grassy valley. They saw hoofprints in the soft sand as they emerged from a creek in the meadow.
“Big Frenchy,” Ben grunted. “We’ll stay away from him.”
Jim nodded. If it were possible, he didn’t want any more to do with Big Frenchy. They followed Big Frenchy Ladreau’s track for a hundred yards up out of the valley and then Ben pulled up his horse. He pointed to the fresh prints of unshod ponies. The new trail joined in with Ladreau’s.
“If you’re askin’ me,” Ben said quietly. “Big Frenchy met in with some o’ his friends from the north.”
“Blackfeet?” Jim asked.
Ben nodded. “Mebbe so the same party we saw on the way here.” He paused. “We’ll take a look.”
They rode along carefully, rifles ready. “Ladreau,” Ben explained, “might take it into his head to send them redskins back to the rendezvous. The Blackfoot ain’t got no use for us.”
They followed the new trail for nearly a mile. Then the old trapper pulled in his horse again. He listened for a moment. They were standing in a clump of elders; a stretch of open plain extended before them. Snow-capped mountain peaks shot up on all sides.
“Somebody comin’,” Ben said tersely, “an’ fast.”
Jim strained his eyes. Far away, across the plain, he saw the black dots bobbing through the tall grass. There were about half dozen of them. One dot was in the lead; the other five, grouped closely together, seemed to be in pursuit.
“Maybe them Blackfeet caught up with a trapper,” Ben suggested. “He’ll be needin’ help.”
Jim dismounted from the mustang. He walked the animal back a little way into the grove and tied it to a tree. Ben did the same.
Distinctly, now, they heard gunshots. The trapper grunted.
“They’ll be passin’ right by us,” he explained. “We kin give it to ’em first with the rifles, an’ then with the pistols.”
They could make out the galloping rider in buckskin fifty yards ahead of his pursuers. He was riding a spotted Indian pony and the horse seemed to be laboring. The rider hugged the animal’s neck as they tore through the tall grass.
Jim could see the faces of the Indian pursuers. There were five of them, hideously painted. Three carried rifles and the others bows and arrows.
The two trappers kneeled on the ground behind the trees. Carefully, Ben pushed his rifle between the branches.
“If we git two of ’em,” he murmured, “the others will ride away.”
The trapper tore past them not more than forty yards from the ambush. As the Indians swept by a moment later, Jim aimed at a naked painted chest. The buck wore two eagle feathers in his hair. His face was painted black, as was the chest of the white horse on which he rode. A buffalo robe was buckled around his waist with a cartridge belt.
“Now!” Ben whispered.
The two rifles cracked. Jim saw the buck with the black face throw up his hands as he tumbled backward. The leading Blackfoot, a grizzled warrior riding a chestnut animal, slum
ped forward on the neck of his horse. A moment later, he, too, fell off into the grass.
The remaining three swerved their mounts off to the right.
“We’ll stay here,” Ben said. “They don’t know how many of us are waitin’ fer ’em, an’ we won’t tell.”
Rapidly, they reloaded the rifles and held them in readiness. The three Blackfeet galloped back a half mile, turned to watch, and then rode away.
“They’ll be back later fer their dead,” Ben said. “I reckon they’re a bit afraid now.”
Slowly, they walked out on the plain. Jim walked to the spot where he’d seen the young buck fall. He was ten yards away when the Indian suddenly bounced out of the grass and came at him, knife gleaming in his hand,
Petrified, he watched. There was no time to get the rifle up. He had thought the Blackfoot to be dead. Hatred gleamed in the black eyes. Blood was flowing from a head wound on the Indian. Evidently, he’d been stunned by the shock of the bullet.
Ben yelled a warning, and Jim heard the bullet whine past him. In struck the Indian in the forehead, and the buck paused. Jim saw the small round hole. The Blackfoot collapsed in front of him. Ben ran up, pistol smoking in his hand.
“I reckon you gotta kill ’em all twice,” the trapper grinned. “These Blackfeet are tough.” He turned the Indian over with his foot.
The trapper on the painted horse had wheeled around and was trotting back toward them. Ben stared. It’s One-Arm Brown,” he said. “The ornery old skunk.”
Jim watched the rider come toward them. His left arm was missing at the elbow. He was a tall gaunt man with a long face.
“Run into a passel o’ Blackfeet,” he grinned by way of introduction. “Must be nigh onto two hundred of ’em, Ben.” Brown looked down at the dead Indians. “You still shoot straight, you old codger.”
Ben looked at the long rifle critically. “I reckon we passed that same war party two days to the north, Jim.” He stared at One-Arm Brown. “Where they headin’?”
Brown shrugged. “Comanche horses or white scalps. It’s always one or the other.”
“Run across the traders?” Ben asked. “We’re awaitin’ fer ’em at the rendezvous.”
Brown laughed coldly. “There’ll be no rendezvous this year, Ben,” he said quietly.
Ben stared. “Why?” he asked.
“There were no traders sent out from St. Louis,” Brown explained. “Heard it from an Osage I ran across. It’s true.”
Jim blinked. They had several thousand dollars’ worth of beaver pelts back in the valley.
“Maybe,” Ben said, “they’re comin’ later in the summer.”
One-Arm Brown shrugged. “I wouldn’t want to wait for ’em,” he grinned. “A man could grow old.”
The two trappers went back for their horses hidden in the elders.
“Better ride in with me,” Brown suggested, but Ben shook his head.
“We’re havin’ a look at them Blackfeet,” he explained. “If they’re headin’ fer the rendezvous, I’d like to know about it.”
“You’d better tell the trappers to keep a sharp watch,” Jim said in parting. They watched the one-armed man lope his horse toward the south. Brown had come within an inch of losing his life. Already, he’d forgotten about it. It was the way of the mountain man.
“I ain’t aimin’ to run into the varmints,” Ben grinned, “so we’ll stick to the trees, Jim.”
They rode steadily forward till nightfall and then the old trapper began to sniff.
“Smoke,” he said quietly. “Campfires.” Dismounting in a little gully, they moved forward on foot. The Blackfoot encampment was in a small valley on the other side of the first ridge. They saw the pony herd grazing on the floor of the valley. Small campfires were flickering in the dusk. They could see figures moving in front of the flames.
“If we kin get closer,” Ben explained, “we may find out what they figger on doin’.”
Jim nodded. They waited till the stars came out and then they crept forward through the grass. Ben circled around till they were within thirty yards of the biggest campfire. He nudged the younger man and pointed.
Jim smiled grimly in the darkness. He saw the burly figure of Big Frenchy Ladreau squatting on the ground talking the sign language with the Blackfoot chief.
Ben lifted his head above the grass. Jim waited for an explanation. He knew Ben could speak the sign language and would be able to interpret.
The old trapper swore softly under his breath.
“He’s tellin’ ’em they ought to attack,” Ben whispered. “He says the trappers won’t be expectin’ them.”
The big Indian, Standing Bull, spoke vehemently in the Blackfoot tongue. He pointed constantly toward the south. The Blackfoot chieftain, a big flat-faced man with a broken nose, nodded.
“That’s all,” Ben grunted. “They’ll be comin’ at dawn. We better git back an’ see what’s bein’ done.”
They crawled back quietly through the grass. Jim was about to rise to his feet when they regained the shelter of the trees. The trapper pulled him down. The two horses were stamping the ground a dozen yards away. Jim saw the two Indians appear in between themselves and the horses. They were evidently coming back from the horse herd.
“If they find them ponies—” Ben began.
The two Blackfeet stopped. Jim heard them murmur and then walk over to the horses. He reached for his pistol. Ben did the same. They both knew what would happen if the Blackfeet took their horses.
The two Indian guards were gesticulating and talking rapidly when they came up behind them silently. The nearest Indian heard the step and he whirled around. Jim looked into the painted face in the moonlight. He crashed the barrel of the pistol over the Blackfoot’s skull. The Indian slumped to the ground.
Ben had hit his man a glancing blow and the Indian was still on his feet. He tried to let out a yell and Jim caught him by the throat. With a powerful wrench, he threw the man back against the tree, throttling the cry. He swung the gun barrel again and the Indian groaned as he fell.
Swinging into the saddles, they walked the horses through the woods. Out in the open, they started to gallop and were soon miles away from the encampment.
“I reckon they didn’t hear us,” Ben said finally. “But we’ll have to keep hustlin’ till we get back to the rendezvous.”
It was still several hours before dawn when they reached the valley. A mountain man loomed up in the notch as they came through. He recognized the two trappers in the bright moonlight.
“They comin’, Ben?” the man asked gruffly.
“Keep your rifle primed,” Ben grinned. “You’ll be needin’ it in a couple o’ hours.”
They went down to the log huts and they found the trappers constructing a rough log barricade in front of the two cabins.
“We can’t get everybody inside the cabins,” Clem Hyde explained, “but I reckon we’ll be ready fer ’em when they ride in.”
“We’ll give ’em a dose o’ lead in their bellies,” the Bearcat growled. He was a big man with sloping shoulders and a black beard.
Men worked by firelight chopping down the nearest trees on the side of the valley and dragging them up to the barricade. It was soon waist high.
Jim saw the Crows with their families packing up their teepees and stealing away in the night. The Crows were mortally afraid of their arch enemies the Blackfeet, and this time the northern tribe was coming with force.
“Did Brown tell you about the traders?” Ben asked Clem Hyde.
The old trapper nodded grimly. “Don’t know what to make of it,” he admitted. “Right now I’m aimin’ to save my hair. We kin worry about the furs later.”
Hot coffee was brewing in a pot over the flames. Jim swallowed two cups, ate some venison, and
then dropped behind the barricade on a blanket. He remembered that he was tired and that he hadn’t slept.
“Better git a few winks,” Ben grinned. “They won’t do any fightin’ till it’s light.”
Jim closed his eyes. Then he felt Ben shaking him by the shoulder. The stars were almost gone from the sky. There was a white haze in the east.
The young trapper sat up. He saw a rider spurring down from the notch.
“Reckon they’re comin’,” Ben smiled grimly, “We’ll give ’em a royal welcome.”
Jim stared down the line of fighting men behind the barricade. Many of the Crows had stayed behind to take a few shots at their enemies. The mountain men pushed long rifles through chinks in the logs.
“We got fifty o’ the best shots in the west,” Ben said proudly. “These boys don’t shoot till they see what they’re shootin’, and when they pull the trigger they allus hit.”
Already, the Blackfeet were seeping through the notch half a mile away. They rode quietly until they saw the barricade and the waiting mountain men.
“Damn yez, come on!” the Bearcat roared. He stood up on the barricade and shook his fist at the advancing Indians Clem Hyde pulled the big hunter down.
“Reckon we can’t afford to lose a man today,” Hyde grinned. “Even a worthless one like you.”
The Bearcat grinned. Men had pistols and knives lying beside them in readiness.
“If they ever git over the barricade,” Ben laughed, “they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
“I’m a rip-snortin’ mountain lion,” the Bearcat howled, “an’ I’m comin’ atearin.” Jim listened to the noise. These men revelled in combat; waiting in the valley for the traders had been monotonous. Now, at last, they were beginning to live.
One-Arm Brown had his rifle braced in a notch in the barricade. Jim had heard the one-armed man was a dead shot.
The Blackfeet continued to pour through the notch and they advanced at a slow trot, moving in a semi-circle, and chanting war songs. Jim looked around. No one had assumed command over the post. These men had fought Indians before and they knew what to do.
The Third Western Megapack Page 35
