The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  Squads would shoot while other groups would hold their fire. They’d be able to pour a continuous volley into the ranks of the Blackfeet and reload at the same time.

  The Blackfoot horde picked up speed as they approached.

  “They’ll take a chance on one breakthrough,” Ben explained, “an’ then they’ll have to git at us some other way.”

  Jim watched them pouring across the valley floor. They raised a shower of water as they splashed across the little stream. He saw the painted faces and the painted ponies. The tough little mustangs had pieces of red flannel woven into mane and tail; scalplocks were attached to the bridles.

  Many of the Blackfeet carried long, feather-tipped lances and tough buffalo hide shields.

  “About half of ’em have rifles,” Ben said. “They git ’em up across the border from the British traders.”

  The war chants had ceased as the Blackfeet came closer, and Jim heard the high-pitched war whoop. Ben carefully placed his knife on the barricade before him. He squinted down the sights of the rifle.

  III

  The mountain men waited till the Blackfeet were less than fifty yards away before the rifles began to crack. Puffs of white smoke drifted up into the morning air all along the line. Indian horses went down screaming as bullets plowed into them. The bronzed riders, faces striped and blotched with Vermillion, white and black, tumbled from their mounts and lay still in the grass.

  “Give it to ’em!” the Bearcat roared above the crackle of guns.

  Another volley split the line. Jim sighted his gun on a huge buck astride a pure white horse. The Indian grasped at his shoulder, slumped forward on the horse’s neck and spurred back.

  A moment later Jim saw him slip from the pony’s back and drop into the stream. The trapper rapidly reloaded and shot again before the charge broke. All along the front, riders charged in to retrieve the dead and wounded. At least fifteen men were on the ground; another dozen had been able to ride back from the line although wounded.

  “That’ll stop ’em,” Ben chuckled. “I reckon they got enough fer a spell.”

  * * * *

  Jim nodded. There were at least two hundred in the Blackfoot war party and they still outnumbered the mountain men by three to one. They would be back for more.

  The trapper looked down along the barricade. Two of the mountain men had received slight gunshot wounds. The Bearcat had an Indian arrow in his shoulder and Clem Hyde was pulling it out. He saw the big trapper up at the line again a few moments later, face white and voice a little weaker, but still howling.

  The Blackfeet retreated back up the valley till they were out of range. Groups of them then raced around in a wide circle to come up at the rear of the barricade. Fortunately, the trappers had extended the log shelter entirely around the cabins. Men immediately shifted to the other positions to await the new drive.

  “Seen Big Frenchy?” Ben asked.

  Jim shook his head. He had been watching for the big Frenchman, but Big Frenchy had stayed out of sight. He thought he saw a man on horseback skulking up near the notch, but he wasn’t sure.

  “Standin’ Bear was in the middle of that charge,” the old trapper snorted, “painted like one o’ the varmints, an’ twice as ugly.”

  Clem Hyde came up to talk with them.

  “Got plenty o’ shot, Ben?” he asked.

  “Enough,” Ben snorted, “to blow half a hundred o’ the devils into hell’s fire.”

  Hyde grinned. “We’ll stand ’em off then till the snow falls,” he chuckled.

  Jim crawled over to the little stream and took a long draught, The sun was just coming up and the signs pointed to a hot day. It was fortunate that the stream flowed directly past the cabins. At any rate they would have a supply of water.

  He saw other men creeping down to the bank and plunging their faces and hands into the water. Gun powder and gun smoke had choked their lungs and nostrils.

  “Here they come,” Ben said tersely when the younger man came back.

  Jim pushed his rifle over the barricade and crouched on the ground. Again the line was driving toward them and he heard the yells. The Bearcat and others of the trappers hurled taunts at their red enemies.

  They were coming from all sides now and they were more widely scattered and thus harder to hit. Men had scattered around the little barricade and the firing became less intense.

  Jim waited quietly till the nearest riders came within fifty yards. Then he opened up with the rifle. Ben dropped a buck from the saddle thirty yards from the enclosure.

  Both trappers scooped up pistols and unloaded at the Blackfeet. Jim caught a glimpse of a tall Indian up in the fore, riding a painted white animal. He looked into the cruel face of Standing Bull and then poked a shot at him.

  The breed’s horse swerved and he was unhit. One foolhardy young buck tried to leap his pony into the enclosure. He was hit three times and went down with a bullet through the brain.

  Jim watched a Crow trapper leap over the barricade with a long hunting knife. In a moment, he’d ripped the Blackfoot’s scalp from his head.

  “He’ll be a big man in his teepee,” Ben said. “A Blackfoot scalp will just about make him a chief.”

  The second Indian charge had been broken as the first and about two dozen of the Blackfeet were on the ground. Again, riders charged in to pick up the bodies.

  “They’re brave,” Ben grunted as he poked a shot at one of them. “There ain’t a better fighter on the continent than the Blackfoot.”

  Again, the Indians withdrew to a distance and held a consultation. This time Jim was sure he saw a man in buckskin in the group. If Big Frenchy wasn’t fighting, he was helping direct the attack.

  “He’s stayin’ outa sight,” Ben commented. “If any o’ the trappers spot him with the Blackfoot, they’ll shoot him on sight the next time they run across him.”

  “It looks like they’re leaving,” Jim said. He watched the Blackfeet filing back up through the notch.

  Ben laughed. “Reckon they’re gonna come at us on foot from now on. That’s too big a warparty to go home without any scalps, and with about twenty-five o’ their number dead.”

  The Blackfeet were back in half an hour. They crept along the sides of the valley, taking shelter behind each rock and tree and pouring fire into the enclosure.

  * * * *

  Jim heard a rifle ball sing past his head and bury itself into the ground. Ben lifted his rifle and poked a quick shot up the hill. They had the satisfaction of seeing a Blackfoot roll out from behind a tree and tumble down the incline.

  “Reckon they’ll be a lot tougher up there,” Ben commented, “than on horseback.” He paused and looked up into the sun. “It’s gonna be a scorcher, Jim, before it’s over.”

  The trappers hugged close to the barricade. Many of them raced inside the two cabins and began to shoot through the loopholes. The others found snug places in among the logs. Only two men were hit during the next hour, and both suffered but slight wounds. Two sides of the barricade were quilted with arrows, but not a trapper had been killed.

  “None o’ these men,” Ben grinned, “are stickin’ their heads up. An’ when they do, it means a red devil is gettin’ shot.”

  At high noon, with the sun blazing down, the attack let up. Occasionally, a rash buck would race down the hill as an act of bravado. Half a dozen guns blazed at one slim young man but he stayed on his feet and got back to his place of refuge.

  “He’ll talk about that for ten years,” Ben chuckled. “These red monkeys act brave so they kin have somethin’ to say at their meetin’s.”

  Again and again, the trappers crawled down for water. It was unseasonably hot for the month, and the constant firing of the guns made it worse.

  “With plenty o’ supplies, ammunition
and water,” Ben said, “we can hang on here till they git tired of it.”

  Jim mopped the sweat from his face. He watched a party of the Blackfeet trotting up along the ridge toward the far end of the valley. Again, he thought he saw the figure of the man in buckskin.

  The valley came to a point at both ends with the little stream seeping through one corner and flowing through the tall grass as the other.

  “I reckon they’re up to some mischief,” Ben murmured. There were about thirty men in the party on the ridge. They soon disappeared in among the piñons.

  Gun fire and arrows were now coming from all the ridges surrounding the valley. Jim moistened his lips. They were completely trapped in by the Blackfeet, and the Indians were making the circle tighter, creeping down closer and closer.

  It was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Jim slid down to the stream for another drink. The water had been about four inches deep, gliding over a clean sand bottom. He stared. For some unaccountable reason it was now only about an inch deep!

  “Ben,” he called softly.

  The trapper jumped across the intervening space. In between the two cabins they could drink without fear of being hit.

  “Look,” Jim said quietly. He pointed down at the water. As they watched, they could see it dwindle. Already several high spots in the stream bed were out of water.

  “The murderin’ rascals!” Ben howled. “They’re blockin’ up the stream!” He let out another yell and then tore into the cabin. “Git cans and buckets!” he roared.

  The mountain men caught on immediately. They tumbled out of the cabins with every manner of container and frantically scooped water from the shallow stream.

  In a few minutes the stream was quite dry. Jim stared into the faces of the trappers. They didn’t mind Indian bullets or arrows. They would fight thrice their number without flinching, but they knew the torments of going without water.

  The hot sun beat down upon the wet bed of the stream. From the hills they heard the Blackfeet howling derisively. The Indians had watched the white men rushing out of the cabins to save as much water as they could.

  Ben looked at the meager array of vessels set alongside the cabin. With nearly fifty white men and a dozen Crow auxiliaries, the water would not last long. Besides, they had to water the horses and mules kept in a rude stockade close to the cabins.

  The animals had been bawling with thirst all through the day, but it had been impossible to let them out of the corral. Without horses and pack animals, the mountain men were helpless.

  The afternoon waned and the Blackfeet moved back up on the hills to wait. They no longer risked their lives crawling up close for a good shot.

  “They know we got to come out now,” Clem Hyde snapped, “so they’ll wait.”

  Water was doled out carefully. Jim watched the jugs dwindle. In the morning it would all be gone. There had not been enough containers in the cabins to save very much. Something had to be done before morning.

  * * * *

  He lay on his back behind the stockade and tried to keep his face in the shade. He saw the Bearcat with the bad shoulder eyeing the containers. The big trapper had lost a lot of blood and he needed water badly. The wounded men had been given double the amount the others received, but it was still insufficient to satisfy their cravings.

  “Something has to be done,” Jim said slowly. He looked up into the gathering dusk.

  Ben shook his head. “We can’t try to break through, boy,” he grumbled. “There’s too many of ’em, an’ we wouldn’t git far with these pack animals. The Blackfeet have fast horses.”

  There was no thought of leaving the fur cargo behind. The mountain men had worked all the winter for their packs and they weren’t giving them up without a fight

  “Where would the Blackfeet graze their ponies?” Jim asked after awhile.

  Ben rubbed his long jaw. “I reckon they’d keep ’em in the meadow to the west, just behind the ridge.” He paused. “That’s the direction they were goin’ when they rode through the notch this mornin’.”

  “They can’t follow us,” Jim smiled, “if they don’t have any horses, Ben.”

  Ben sat up suddenly. A Blackfoot rifle cracked and the ball whistled over his head. He lay down again.

  “Damn,” the old trapper whispered.

  “When it’s dark enough,” Jim told him, “call the men into the cabin.”

  “I reckon you thought o’ somethin’,” Ben grinned. “I ain’t aimin’ to sit here till my tongue, hangs out.”

  Soon the hills surrounding the valley were hidden in the mist. They saw campfires springing up along the ridges as the Blackfeet calmly prepared the evening meal.

  Ben crawled around the stockade with his message. Jim hopped across the intervening space and went into the cabin. There were a dozen men already in, standing at the various loopholes. They looked at him in the dusk and nodded. Since the fight with Big Frenchy, they had come to respect the tall gangling young trapper with the steely arms.

  Others pushed their way through the door and sat on the floor waiting. They knew something was being planned but they didn’t know what it was. A half dozen were left outside to keep guard.

  Jim heard the heavy breathing in the room. They were in the largest of the two cabins but it wasn’t big enough to accommodate the sixty-odd men trying to get in. A group of them sat down on the ground outside the door. There was no moon tonight and the Blackfeet on the ridges could not see them.

  Ben called through the darkness. “All here Jim.”

  “You got somethin’ on your mind, son,” Clem Hyde called. “Speak it out.”

  Jim moistened his parched lips. He’d watched the mountain men fighting all day and there were no braver fighters. They didn’t need a captain or a commander to show them how. Even when the water was being doled out, there had been no complaints. Stoically, they accepted the predicament and tried to make the best of it.

  Now, something had arisen on which they had not counted and they were at a loss how to proceed. A leader and a plan were needed.

  “We can’t stay here,” he said softly, “and we can’t run because the Blackfoot ponies are too fast for us. There might be a chance to get out if we leave the packs and the mules behind.”

  “When we go,” Clem Hyde said, “we’re takin’ our packs with us.”

  “We can do that, too,” Jim told him, “but first we’ll have to run off the Blackfoot ponies.” He heard the gasp of surprise among the men. He went on. “I want a dozen men to go with me. We’ll go through the Indian line and scatter their horses. The rest of you have the pack animals all ready. When you hear us yell, you make a break for the notch.”

  There was a moment of silence and then One-Arm Brown spoke up.

  “The boy makes sense,” the one-armed trapper said softly. “There’s no moon tonight an’ if we’re quiet the Blackfeet won’t even know we’re gettin’ ready to spring the trap.”

  “I’ll go along with Beckman,” Ben grunted. “I reckon I’ve done a little Indian hoss stealin’ before.”

  Others volunteered and they had more than enough. Clem Hyde offered to take charge of their pack animals and meet them at Clear Springs five miles to the north.

  There was another silence and Jim knew what they were thinking about. They had no place to go with the pelts. The traders weren’t coming to the rendezvous.

  “There’s only one thing to do,” he said tersely. “If the traders don’t come to us, we’ll have to go to them.”

  The Bearcat gasped. “St. Louis?” he asked.

  “St. Louis,” Jim said in the darkness. The fur city was nearly a thousand miles to the east and north. He waited for their comments.

  “If we go,” One-Arm Brown said, “we should break up the party and go in groups. We�
��ll have to cross a lot o’ bad Indian country and a party this size is sure to be attacked.”

  Clem Hyde was agreeable. “Small parties are less liable to be seen,” the little trapper offered. “They kin travel faster an’ live of the country as they go.”

  “Fifty white men,” Ben grunted, “movin’ through Indian country will draw more war parties than flies around a dead carcass.” He paused. “We’d better stay within callin’ distance, though. We have to pass through Arapahoe, Sioux and Cheyenne country, not to mention Blackfoot and Comanche war parties.”

  The Bearcat offered a suggestion. “In the Dakota country,” the big man said, “we used smoke signals to call fer help. If any of us gits hemmed in, we kin throw up smoke an’ the others come arunnin’.”

  “How?” Jim asked curiously.

  “Two puffs and a long column,” the Bearcat called through the dusk. “The Sioux use smoke but mostly straight columns to signal back and forth. When you see the two puffs and the long one, it’ll be a mountain man. Come quick, an’ come shootin’.”

  The arrangements were made and men crawled quietly down to the horse corral to take out their pack animals. The horses were led back through the darkness and the packs thrown on their backs. Riding horses were saddled and kept in readiness. A dozen of the mountain men broke into song to drown out the occasional slap of saddle.

  From the ridges, the Blackfeet listened curiously to the doomed white men.

  * * * *

  Jim looked at the group of dusky forms around him. The twelve men had been selected and Ben gave them the orders. Ben had had experience with Indian ponies.

  “There might be a few guards around the herd,” the old trapper informed them, “but they won’t be suspectin’ anything. We walk in among the horses without any noise and pick one out. You git on his back and start to yell. They’ll run quick enough. Head ’em north. There’ll be a lot o’ footsore Blackfeet afore they git back to their camp.”