The Third Western Megapack

by Barker, S. Omar

  The thirteen men leaped to their feet and sprinted back along the train. Jim’s long legs carried him over the ground with amazing speed. In a short while he was a good distance in front.

  He saw that some of the Indians were already on the ground. From the top of the cliff Frenchy Ladreau was bawling orders and gesticulating wildly as the Blackfeet failed to understand his French.

  Three bucks were racing for the Elliott wagon. Jim ripped his pistol from the belt. One of the three was the big Standing Bull who had come back to try the ropes.

  They didn’t see him till he cut around the wagon. One of the braves knelt quickly and shot at him with a rifle. Still running forward, Jim shot the Blackfoot through the body with his pistol. He saw the buck fall forward on his face and he leaped over the man.

  The second Indian let fly an arrow which quivered into the wood of the wagon. Before he could slip another into the groove, the lank trapper was down upon him. With the barrel of his gun, Jim smashed at the Indian’s head. He heard the man scream with pain as he went down.

  Standing Bull had circled, the wagon and was ripping aside the boxes piled up against the wheels. He whirled as the trapper tore at him wildly with the Green River knife.

  Jim saw the hatred in the big Indian’s fierce black eyes. Standing Bull had lived with the white men and had learned to hate them.

  The Indian’s axe slashed at the white man’s head, and Jim pulled himself backward. He hit Standing Bull’s jaw with an iron fist and then closed in with the knife. Once—twice, he slashed it into the brave’s ribs and then staggered away.

  * * * *

  Standing Bull collapsed against the wagon wheel. The axe slipped from his fingers and fell to the ground. He stared at the trapper with a mixture of hatred, contempt, and reluctant admiration in his dark eyes. Blood oozed from the two gashes in his side, and then he slid to the ground.

  A half dozen other Blackfeet had come down the ropes but the white men shot them down as they advanced. There were still two of them clinging to the ropes, halfway down the cliff.

  A long, gangling New Englander spat in the dust, took aim and shot one of them down as he would a squirrel. The other managed to get back to the summit.

  “Under the wagons!” Jim yelled. Already, the Blackfeet on the cliff were firing heavily at them and the bullets kicked up dust at their feet.

  The thirteen white men scrambled under the wagons and opened fire. Jim dived under the Elliott wagon. He had seen the girl coming out through the opening as Standing Bull tore away the boxes. She had had the pistol in her hands and she was going to shoot.

  Again, he heard the sounds of heavy firing on the other side of the pass. Then he heard One-Arm Brown’s shrill voice. The white settlers were giving a good account of themselves.

  Jim despatched six of the men back to help Jeff Elliott at the other end of the train. Four of the white settlers had been hit but they were still fighting. Even the redheaded man had crawled out of the wagon and was lying behind a barricade shooting up at the hostiles on the cliff.

  Jane Elliott stared at the trapper as he crouched beside her and poked his gun through the wagon spokes.

  “How long will they keep it up?” she asked quietly.

  The trapper shrugged. He saw the shadows gathering in the pass. In a short while it would be dark, and the Blackfeet wouldn’t try an assault after nightfall. There would be a respite till dawn. If Ben and the trappers didn’t come up by then…

  VII

  Through the gathering dusk, Jim saw a man climbing silently among the boulders strewn in the bottleneck. The Blackfeet didn’t see him till he was past the smashed wagon. When they opened fire, the white man let out a yell and sprinted for the Elliott wagon.

  Jim kicked aside a box and One-Arm Brown dived through the opening.

  “Thanks, son,” the trapper grinned breathlessly. “I run better with a good horse under me.” He lay on the ground and looked at the younger man quizzically. “Still holdin’ out?”

  Jim nodded. “How about you?” he asked. He could hear the guns still crackling behind the boulders.

  “Reckon we got about twenty good men left,” Brown told him. “Two dead and two wounded. It ain’t bad.” He looked at Mrs. Elliott in a corner with the children. “I’m thinkin’, Jim,” he said, “that Ben better hurry.”

  The young trapper nodded gloomily. He glanced up at the cliffs. Even if Ben got through with his fifty men, they were still trapped in the pass. The Blackfeet had both ends of the pass blocked up.

  “There ain’t no way o’ cookin’ a meal or gettin’ water,” Brown went on. “We can’t stay here long, Jim.”

  “In the morning,” Jim said, “it might be too late. We’ll have to hit them tonight.” He paused. “We’ll go up and talk to Jeff Elliott.”

  The wagon boss and his fighting men were still lying behind the barricade when the two trappers trotted up.

  “We’re holding them off,” Elliott said. Jim listened to the wail of the children hidden beneath the wagons. It was already dusk and they had had nothing to eat.

  “The trappers are coming up,” Jim said. “They should be here before nightfall.”

  “Ladreau,” Brown interposed, “has his redskins blockadin’ the pass where he came in. Ben can’t reach us that way.”

  “What do you propose to do?” Elliott asked.

  “Attack,” Jim told him. “As soon as we are able to find the trappers.”

  Jeff Elliott blinked through the gloom. The trapper saw the man on the ground roll over to peer at him.

  “If we are able to get in touch with Ben,” Beckman went on, “we’ll have nearly a hundred men. We’ll hit them from behind.”

  “Leave the wagons?” Elliott gulped.

  “Leave the wagons,” the young trapper went on coolly. “The Blackfeet won’t attack at night.” He looked at One-Arm Brown.

  The older man nodded. “Ladreau will probably talk to ’em, but it won’t do any good. No Indian “wants to die at night. They’ll wait till the dawn.”

  Already, the firing had died down along the cliffs.

  “We’ll take every available man,” Jim explained, “and slip through the lines. We’ll come up on the cliffs and hit them.”

  “Leave the women and children?” Jeff Elliott asked slowly.

  “They’ll be safe,” One-Arm Brown told him, “an’ it’s our only chance. If we have to stay here another day, we’ll be licked, even if Ben does manage to break through.”

  Fires were springing up along the rims of both cliffs as the Blackfeet prepared the siege.

  “When do we start?” the wagon boss asked. “I’ll leave it up to your discretion.”

  Jim turned to One-Arm Brown. “I’m going out to find Ben,” he said quietly. “You can organize the men and line them up on the north cliff behind the Blackfoot line.”

  “Every man?” Brown grinned.

  “We’ll need every man,” the young trapper told him. “Get back to your own wagons and start them moving. Ben should be on the way here. We’ll open fire first. When you hear us shoot, rush them.”

  Brown rubbed his jaw. “You might have a little trouble gettin’ outa here, son,” he advised. “Ladreau has his Blackfeet blockin’ the pass where we came in.”

  “I’ll need a fast horse,” Jim told the wagon leader. “They won’t be expecting a break-through,”

  “You can take my animal,” Brown said. “He’s plenty fast.”

  They shook hands with Jeff Elliott and ran back along the wagons. Jim paused at the Elliott wagon. He stuck his head through the opening and called softly to the girl. It was now quite dark. Dozens of Blackfoot fires twinkled at the top of the two cliffs.

  “We’re going to attack,” the trapper told the girl. “We’ll be taking a
ll the men out of the pass. Don’t be alarmed when you hear us open fire.”

  “I’ll wait for you,” Jane Elliott told him. “An’ do a little prayin’,” Brown said. “It’ll help.”

  They clambered quietly over the boulders and moved down to the other line of wagons. Dimly in the dusk, Jim could make out their white shapes. Men loomed up to confront them and Brown called softly. He gathered the twenty unharmed men and spoke to them calmly.

  Jim found Brown’s horse tied to one of the wagons. Fortunately, the animal had not been hit.

  “All set?” he asked Brown.

  The one-armed trapper nodded. “It might take me an hour or more to get the men outa the pass. I’ll take ’em single file through the west end. We can climb the cliffs about a mile behind the Blackfoot line. We’ll be on the north side waitin’ when you come.” He held out his hand. “Good luck, Jim,” he added.

  Jim shook the man’s hand and then walked the horse away into the night. As he followed the line of wagons he heard the children whimpering beneath them,

  * * * *

  Passing the last wagon, he moved around a barricade Brown had constructed. There was no moon and he was sure the Blackfeet could not see him from the cliff. At the end of the pass he saw a big fire glowing. In order to get through, he’d have to dash past the fire. Ben and the trappers were probably coming up the pass already.

  Jim walked the horse till he was about fifty yards from the fire. He saw the dark shapes moving in front of the flames. Pistol in hand, he mounted the horse and dug his heels into the animal’s ribs.

  Brown’s mount plunged forward directly for the fire. The Blackfeet scattered in all directions as the plunging horse hammered toward them. A buck was fitting an arrow to his bow as Jim galloped into the firelight.

  The trapper turned the pistol on the man and shot him down. Two Blackfeet leaped for the horse’s bridle as he swept past the fire. He smashed at them with the barrel of the weapon and they fell away.

  Two more leaps and the horse was out in the darkness. Jim leaned over its neck. A gun crashed behind them and the trapper felt the horse quiver. It had been hit.

  They were moving in among the boulders. Several more rifle bullets whizzed by but had no effect. Jim listened to the labored breathing of the horse beneath him. He had no idea where the bullet had landed but the horse wouldn’t be able to go on very long.

  The shouting died down in the distance and the brave animal continued to run. They were two miles from the Indian fire when the horse stumbled. He was sure none of the Indians had attempted to follow him in the darkness. Big Frenchy, partly white, or Standing Bull, who had lived with the whites, would have risked the demons of the night, but Big Frenchy was at the top of the cliff and the big Indian was dead. The Blackfoot fighters were afraid.

  Jim leaped from the animal’s back when the horse stumbled again. With a tired moan, Brown’s brave horse went down on its knees. In the darkness, Jim listened to the labored breathing. There was nothing he could do with the horse. Knife in hand, he moved up to its neck and then ripped the blade across its throat.

  He ran on foot along the uneven floor of the pass. It was possible Ben was still waiting out on the plains for the rest of the trappers. If so, he would not reach them till morning. It would be too late to do anything.

  Ten minutes later, he heard the soft clump of horse’s hoofs. Crouching behind a boulder he waited, breathlessly. Possibly more Blackfeet were coming up the pass.

  * * * *

  Then he heard the Bearcat’s soft curse and he stepped out.

  The big trapper’s horse shied away, nearly throwing him.

  “Damn,” the Bearcat snorted.

  “Where’s Ben?” Jim asked quietly. “There’s no time to lose.”

  Another horse loomed out of the darkness.

  “Glad you’re all right, son,” the partner whispered. “You had me worried.”

  “We’re trapped,” Jim told the mountain men. “The Blackfeet have split the train up into two parts. They’re hemming us in from both cliffs. We plan to attack them tonight.”

  Clem Hyde stepped forward. “How many men you got in there, Jim?” he asked.

  “There’ll be about forty,” Jim told him, “lined up behind the Blackfoot campfires on the cliff. They’re to attack when we open fire. Brown is leading them.”

  “Then they’ll do all right,” Ben grunted. “That old cuss kin take ’em through hell.”

  “We’re taking the south cliff,” Jim told the trappers. “The Blackfeet outnumber us about three to one.”

  The Bearcat growled. “There ain’t a mountain man livin’,” he grunted, “who can’t handle three redskins.”

  Ben led them up an incline on the south wall. They tied the horses at the bottom and moved forward on foot. The trek back to the besieged wagon train took about an hour. Jim glanced up at the Dipper. He’d been gone nearly two hours. Brown had said it would take him about that time to get his men in position.

  Through the trees they could see the Blackfoot fires twinkling along the edge of the south cliff. Clem Hyde passed the word down along the line of silent men. “Rifles ready an’ spread out.”

  They moved forward as silent as ghosts. On hands and knees they crawled toward the unsuspecting Blackfeet. Jim remained in the center of the semicircle. He saw Frenchy Ladreau sitting at one of the fires with the Blackfoot chieftain. He crawled to within twenty yards of the fire. Ben was at his side.

  “I’ll get that chief,” the trapper whispered. “You take Frenchy, Jim.”

  Jim nodded grimly. Big Frenchy had lived too long. His lien on life was up. He glanced up again at the Big Dipper and then he heard the rifle shot across the canyon, followed by loud yells. Brown and his men were already opening fire. Possibly, one of them had given the alarm.

  “All right,” Jim said tersely. Pistol in hand, he ran forward.

  “Come on, you wildcats!” Ben roared. The mountain men leaped forward, guns crackling. They smashed through the brush and Ben headed for the Indian chieftain. Big Frenchy was retreating toward the cliff, kneeling and firing his pistol at the onrushing trappers.

  Dazed, the Blackfeet tried to fight back. They were in the light of the campfires and the mountain men were still in darkness. Dozens of the Indians dropped to the ground, screaming.

  Jim emptied his pistol at some of them and then headed toward Big Frenchy with his knife. The big Frenchman hurled the pistol at his head, and he ducked. Then Big Frenchy dived for his knees and tried to catch him with his ponderous arms.

  The trapper smashed at the renegade’s head with his fist. He hammered Big Frenchy to his knees. The Frenchman came up with a knife gleaming in his hand. He rushed the younger man toward the brink of the cliff.

  Jim retreated, waiting his chance to plunge in with the knife. Big Frenchy roared oaths at him in French. Jim’s heel struck the root of a tree and he fell backward. His right elbow hit a projecting rock at the rim of the cliff. The knife slipped from his grasp and fell away into the darkness.

  Big Frenchy dived at the man on the ground. Jim rolled forward under the Frenchman’s legs, tripping him. The renegade fell forward, his hands stretched out over the cliff.

  Jim heard the man yell as he struggled to regain his balance. With an ear-splitting scream, Frenchy Ladreau tumbled over the edge of the cliff. One hundred and fifty feet below, his body smashed against the huge boulders rolled down by the Blackfeet.

  All around, the mountain men were mopping up. Many of the Blackfeet had been unable to get possession of their weapons. They were running in all directions. Above the crackle of gun fire and the yells of the mountain men, Jim heard the deep roar of the Bearcat. Across the chasm, One-Arm Brown was howling gleefully as the Blackfeet on the north side retreated along the cliff.

  “The
y’re runnin’,” Ben howled. He looked around. “What happened to Big Frenchy?”

  Jim pointed down and Ben grinned. “It’s a nice fall,” the old trapper said. “Just about deep enough, I reckon.”

  In ten minutes the fight was over. They chased the retreating Indians down along the cliff. They plunged down the precipitous sides where the first Blackfoot charge had taken place.

  In the darkness, Jim heard One-Arm Brown calling his name. Brown’s party was clambering down the other side of the canyon. The bewildered Blackfeet encamped in the pass broke away at the first charge of the white men.

  Jeff Elliott ran up out of the night. He caught Jim’s arm

  “They’re running,” Elliott yelled joyfully.

  Jim felt the blood sliding down his ribs. In the excitement of the battle he hadn’t felt the wound. Probably one of Big Frenchy’s pistol balls had grazed him.

  There was a girl running up out of the darkness. Jim saw her white face. He walked forward slowly. The mountain men were still pursuing the retreating hostiles.

  “They’ll never be able to organize after this,” Clem Hyde said. “We should have no trouble gettin’ through to Oregon.”

  Jim moistened his lips. “You’re going to Oregon?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Hyde told him. “Ain’t you?” The young trapper saw the face of the girl before him. “All the Indians in the world couldn’t keep me away,” he said quietly.

  HANDY MAN TO HAVE AROUND, by Donald Bayne Hobart

  Most folks in Brimstone figured, although Sheriff Bill Doyle was a little too easy-going for a lawman, he was a right handy man to have around. If a man wanted to build a house, repair a gun or do most anything requiring skill with tools—and could get Bill Doyle’s help—they would have a job that was really done right.

  “Just give Bill a hammer and a saw and some lumber and he’ll build you a palace,” Jud Hill, the sheriff’s stout and lazy deputy often said. “Sometimes that man works so hard it gets me all tired out just watchin’ him.”