* * * *
They had gone a mile into the pass when the first wagon gave out. Jim sat astride his horse and watched the cursing settlers placidly. It would take a little time to repair the wheel, and every hour counted.
In the afternoon, after the mid-day meal, two more wagons had to halt while the carpenters and wheelwrights, went to work on them. The progress was very slow as they had to move around the enormous boulders lying in the pass. Time and again they had to stop and hack away at gigantic tree trunks lying across the faint path. Trees blown from the heights had providentially crossed the track.
Jim saw Jeff Elliott riding toward him while the men hacked away at another tree. The wagon leader glanced up at the cliffs already hemming them in on both sides.
“It would be an ideal spot for an ambush,” he admitted. “Even now it’s almost impossible to turn the wagons. We’d be strung out in a single line.”
The trapper laughed bitterly. “It gets worse all the time,” he said. “By tomorrow afternoon you’ll be able to touch the walls on both sides with your wagon wheels.”
He saw Jeff Elliott’s face grow pale. Both men stared toward the east and then they saw it again—two puffs of smoke, and then a single straight column climbing into the blue of the sky.
“Are you sure they’ll come?” Elliott asked.
Jim laughed. “I’ve lived with the mountain men for five years,” he said. “They’ll be here.” They had a code in the mountains. A man’s word was his bond. All the trappers had agreed to ride toward the smoke signals. When they heard a train was going through Eagle Pass they’d follow immediately.
That night they camped with sentinels watching on both sides of the pass. Jeff Elliott had managed to swing his wagons and bring the leaders back into a long and narrow corral.
“Tomorrow night,” Jim said, “this will be impossible.” He’d been through the pass.
The settlers had been quiet all through the day. Hemmed in on both sides by the narrow cliffs, unable to see ahead because of the winding path, or on either side, they had begun to worry. For weeks they had been out on the open plain.
Jim sat at the campfire of Jeff Elliott and his family. He spoke softly to Jane Elliott. They had become fast friends during the day.
“Uncle Jeff took me in,” she explained, “after my parents died. I was ten years old. He’s taken care of me ever since. Our farm in Springfield failed and he decided to go west with the other neighbors.” She paused. “They say Oregon is a beautiful country.”
Jim stared soberly into the fire. Oregon might be a beautiful country but they weren’t there as yet. Big Frenchy Ladreau had had a plan in lead ing the train through Eagle Pass. The breed had to make up to his Blackfoot friends for the failure in the valley. If the Blackfeet wiped out the train, Big Frenchy would be a rich man. Most of the settlers had money and the Indians wouldn’t be interested in cash.
* * * *
In the morning, they watched for the signal fires but saw no more. Jeff Elliott looked at Jim and shook his head. They harnessed the cattle and the train rolled through the pass.
“Think any thing happened to Ben?” Elliott asked. He rode up alongside the young trapper at the head of the column.
Jim glanced back over his shoulder. It was possible Ben had been chased into hiding by the Indians. If Big Frenchy had seen the fire signal he would have known what it meant immediately, and dispatched men to stop it. Possibly, Ben was lying on the open plain, scalped!
The pass was narrowing down and the white settlers looked at each other hopelessly. It was no longer possible to send scouts up along the ridges of the pass. The cliffs were too high and a scout riding on top of them couldn’t possibly get back to the party if attacked.
The train camped in a long string on the floor of the pass and cooked the midday meal. A hot sun beat down on them and the heat inside the pass was terrific. No breath of air penetrated the cleft in the rocks.
Jim sat near the fire and oiled his rifle. He saw the rider spur around a bend in the pass and gallop swiftly down toward them. Jeff Elliott saw the man at the same time. The white settlers held their rifles in readiness until they saw the man on the horse was dressed in buckskin.
“Know him, Beckman?” Elliott asked.
Jim peered through the heat devils. “One-Arm Brown,” he said slowly. “Ben must have sent him on ahead with a message.”
* * * *
Brown sprang easily from the saddle and walked toward them. He seemed a trifle thinner, and his face was grim as he saw the women and children among the wagons.
“What damn fool,” Brown demanded, “decided to go through Eagle Pass?”
Jeff Elliott smiled at the brusque man in buckskin. “There were forty-two of ’em,” the wagon leader stated.
Jim introduced the two. “You get Ben’s signal?” he asked the one-armed man.
Brown nodded. “I come in with the Taos Kid,” he said. “The Bearcat is in. Sam Blaw just come in this mornin’. There’s about half a dozen others.” He looked at the settlers staring at him. “I run into Frenchy Ladreau yesterday,” he said slowly. “Ladreau an’ about three hundred o’ the toughest Blackfoot fighters in the Rockies.”
Jim blinked. “Three hundred?” he gasped.
Brown smiled coldly. “Another war party was followin’ the bunch we beat off in the valley. They helped round up the horses we stampeded on ’em an’ they joined forces. Ladreau was having a parley. I’m thinkin’ it was about this train.”
“How far away were they?” Elliott asked.
One-Arm Brown shrugged. “Maybe ten miles,” he said. “We’ll see ’em.” He looked at Jim. “Ben sent me to tell you about Ladreau an’ the Blackfeet. He says to keep a weather eye open. The others will be ridin’ through as soon as they come in.”
Jeff Elliott looked at the settlers standing around in a circle.
“Any chance of turning back?” he asked. Brown shook his head. “Wouldn’t be no use now,” he said grimly. “It’s a day’s journey to the other end, an’ a day and a half if you want to go back. You’re in now an’ you got to make the most of it.”
“They won’t attack us,” one of the settlers, a big redheaded man, boasted. “We have rifles and are fifty-five strong.” Brown laughed. “Ever see a Blackfoot, Stranger?” he asked.
The redheaded man shook his head.
“The Blackfeet,” Brown told him, “run in the northern mountains an’ across the border into Canada. They trade with the British companies and they have the best rifles in the Rockies.”
The redhead, turned pale.
“They also like red scalps,” Brown grinned. He winked at Jim. “When they see a redhaired man, they never stop till they take off his top.”
The one-armed man rode up ahead with Jim when the train again started.
“It’s bad,” Brown whispered. “Them Blackfeet know the pass. They’ll set up an ambush somewhere along the way.”
“We can hold them off,” Jim said, “if the rest of the boys get here in time.”
Brown eyed the cliffs. “They’ll be shootin’ down on us from the mountains,” he observed, “an’ they’ll be well hidden. They’ll have three hundred to our hundred even if Ben brings ’em here on time.”
They rode along in silence for two hours as the pass narrowed. Up ahead they saw where it pinched together leaving a space about ten yards wide for the wagons to get through. Huge boulders were poised up along the rim of the cleft.
Jim stared. He had come through the pass a few days before. There were boulders on the cliffs at different places, but he didn’t remember these rocks.
“I don’t like that spot,” Brown told him. “I’ll be glad when we’re through it. The pass opens up a little beyond. We’d better tell Elliott to make camp there.”
&nb
sp; They were about two hundred yards ahead of the nearest wagon. Jim watched Brown riding back. Then he glanced up again at those boulders. He racked his memory trying to remember the pass as he had come through it. Ben would have noted something different.
Elliott signaled the wagons to go through. Jim glanced up as he rode in the shadows of the cliffs. There were no sounds. He remembered that they had heard birds singing when they came through here the last time.
Brown noticed it too. Jim saw the man’s face grow suddenly tense. When the birds stopped singing, it meant only one thing!
VI
A half dozen wagons were already through the bottleneck. Brown whipped his horse back.
“Hurry ’em through!” he yelled hoarsely. Jeff Elliott saw the trapper’s face. He gave the command and the wagons started to rattle as the drivers wielded rawhide whips on the backs of the oxen.
Elliott’s wagon, fourteenth in line, was going through the gap. Jim sat astride his horse and watched the girl in the wagon swing the whip. He glanced up. In a few minutes they would be encamped on the valley floor. In the morning Ben and a strong body of mountain men would be riding in.
Jim’s eyes widened. A hundred and fifty feet above him he saw the boulders on the rim of the pass. He thought he saw one of the big rocks move. It was his imagination. He stared and then let out a shout. The rock was moving!
Kicking his heels into the pony’s ribs, he shot up alongside the Elliott oxen.
“Get through!” he roared. He tried to signal the next wagon to stay back, but it was too late. The fifteenth wagon was driven by the redheaded man. Pebbles and small stones were already rattling down the walls of the cliff. The boulder was poised on the edge.
As the fifteenth wagon rattled through the narrow cleft, the boulder tipped over the edge and fell. Jim yelled a warning. The redheaded driver looked up and screamed with fright.
The boulder smashed the center of the wagon and it collapsed like an egg shell. The redhead had leaped clear of the wagon and was rolling on the ground, unhurt. There had been no one inside.
Jim heard the shrill yells of the Blackfeet. He saw them peering over the rim of the cliff. He caught a glimpse of metal and then the rifles began to crack.
Another boulder fell ten feet from the first one. Knife in hand, the redheaded man raced up to cut loose his oxen. Bullets spattered around him as he worked.
The oxen were free and he was leading them away when a bullet struck him. Jim saw the man fall to his knees. The white settlers were paralyzed.
A half dozen huge boulders had smashed down into the narrow space, effectively dividing the force. Fourteen wagons had gotten through, one lay smashed under the boulders; fifteen more were stranded on the other side.
The trapper spurred his horse up alongside the fallen redhead and lifted him to the saddle. The wagons were still pulling away from the trap as the drivers wielded the whips frantically.
Jeff Elliott was through with the last wagon and trying to stop them. One-Arm Brown was now on the other side of the pass. Jim heard the trapper roaring orders. The experienced mountain man would soon organize them.
As the wagons pulled up, Jim deposited the redhead in one of them. He saw the Blackfeet running along the cliff and he took aim at one of them. Even at the distance he recognized the big frame of Standing Bull, Big Frenchy’s companion. The Frenchman had struck his blow.
Standing Bull jumped back and Jim didn’t know whether his bullet had gone home. The other settlers were kneeling beside their wagons and firing up at the cliff.
A barrage of gun fire broke out from behind the newly-formed rock barrier. A Blackfoot running along the cliff threw up his hands and staggered forward. He lay on the brink of the cliff for a moment as the women in the wagons screamed. Then the brave’s body toppled off and was smashed on the rocks below.
“Get beneath the wagons!” Jeff Elliott was shouting.
Gunfire broke out from both sides of the cliff. Two white men went down in the barrage before they were able to unhitch the oxen and crawl beneath the wagons.
Supplies and boxes were heaved out and piled around the wheels. From this point the white men opened up a heavy fire.
Jim spurred up to the Elliott wagon and assisted the girl down from the seat. He pushed her beneath the wagon and then lifted down Jeff Elliott’s wife and children.
As the bullets ripped through the canvas top of the wagon, he hauled out boxes and arranged them around the wheels. Jeff Elliott raced up with blood pouring down his cheek.
“Only a scratch,” he told his wife. He looked at Jim pushing his rifle between the wagon wheels. “Will they charge?” he asked.
The trapper moistened his lips. He had just caught a glimpse of a big man in buckskin up on the cliff. Big Frenchy was attacking now before the mountain men had a chance to come up. He wouldn’t waste any time.
“They can’t get down the cliff,” he said, “but they might come at us from the other end of the pass.” A quarter of a mile westward along the pass, the cliff was less perpendicular and it was possible to scramble down on foot. Already, the Blackfeet were racing along the rim of the cliff toward the low section. Others remained where they were and continued a heavy fire of shot and arrows from the top of the pass.
“I’ll put some of the men up near the front wagons,” Elliott said tersely. He squeezed through an opening among the boxes around the wagon and then ran down the line of stalled vehicles. There had been no time to corral the stock, and the oxen and horses were running around wildly. Several of them had been shot down by the Blackfeet. Others stumbled blindly with arrows sticking in their ribs.
Jim continued to fire at the hostiles along the cliff. He caught another glimpse of the big Indian, Standing Bull, running toward the other end. He shot at the man and hit another buck behind him.
Blackfoot were scrambling down the cliff a quarter of mile away and running forward on foot, brandishing guns. Jeff Elliott had assembled twenty men up in the front at the head of the train.
Jim stared at the two women and the three small children huddled under the wagon. Jane Elliott had been helping him reload. Her face was pale but she was unafraid.
The trapper handed her a pistol and then looked at the children. The girl swallowed a lump in her throat and nodded. She knew what to do if the Blackfeet got past the thin line of fighting men up front.
Jim squeezed her hand and then crawled through the opening. Blackfoot guns opened up on him from above as he raced up to the front. A bullet grazed his cheek, and another nipped the buckskin fringe of his coat.
* * * *
Jeff Elliott already had the settlers formed in a line behind a rough barricade of boxes. About a hundred of the Blackfeet were already down the cliff and racing forward.
“Hold your fire,” Jim told them.
They looked around. Jeff Elliott had been elected wagon boss, but they realized Elliott had had no Indian fighting experience. The lank man in buckskin emanated confidence.
With his left hand the trapper indicated the men who were to open fire at the first volley.
“Half of us will shoot the first time,” he explained, “and the other half while the first group are reloading.” The Blackfeet would wait for that first volley and then charge forward with axe and knife.
The Indian horde swept onward until they came within rifle range. Then they dropped and came forward in small dashes, keeping under cover behind boulders and indentations in the ground.
Fifty yards from the barricade, several dozen of them rose to their feet with the fierce Blackfoot whoop. They came at the barricade in a headlong dash.
“Now!” Jim yelled. A dozen guns crashed as one, and six of the Blackfeet went down. The line wavered and then broke. Another group quickly formed and dashed toward the train.
“Give it to ’em!” Jim shouted. The remaining guns exploded and again the hostiles hesitated. By this time, the first group had reloaded and were waiting.
“Pepper them at will,” Jim roared. He crouched behind the barricade and opened fire himself.
Shot splattered from the barricade and the Blackfeet began to drop. The white settlers, mostly farmers, all had had some experience with firearms. The shooting was remarkably accurate.
“They’re running,” Jeff Elliott yelled. “Up and at ’em!”
Several of the men raised themselves but Jim’s warning shout put them back again.
“We’re safe here,” he admonished. “Let the Blackfeet do the charging.” Jeff Elliott looked properly chastened.
The hostiles were still crawling among the rocks in front of them and shot continued to whistle over the heads of the besieged white men.
“Keep down,” Jim told them, “till they try to charge. Keep your rifles loaded. Get your pistols and knives out.”
About twenty of the Blackfeet tried another brave dash at the line. Four of them got within twenty yards of the barricade and then were shot down. The others broke for cover.
“They’ll stay back for a time,” Jim said grimly. “I reckon they have enough.”
He turned to Jeff Elliott and he saw the horror on the wagon boss’s face. Elliott was pointing back toward the cliff at the bottleneck. They saw the redheaded man’s smashed wagon, and just above it ropes dangling. A dozen Blackfeet were already scrambling down the ropes to the bottom of the pass. There were no white men at the other end of the train. Under each wagon crouched dozens of women and children.
“Stay here,” Jim told the older man. “I’ll take a dozen men back with me.” He counted off the number quickly and then gave the word.
“My wife,” Jeff Elliott was whispering. “My family is in the first wagon, Jim!”
The Third Western Megapack Page 39
