by Terry Grosz
The crowd parted, and up strode the proud Northern Cheyenne chief who had enslaved the two girls, in all his finery. Flinging down a bundle of beaver skins in a challenging way, he pointed an accusing finger at Big Eagle and through narrowed eyes said, “I will shoot against you!”
Big Eagle, realizing that this was a chance to partially avenge the killing of his band, smiled a deadly sort of smile, then nodded his acceptance.
The target was reset in the meadow, and Big Eagle strode up to the firing line and shot—boom! The target was knocked down, and as it was reset, Bridger declared the shot a hit. Next the chief strode to the line and with the Hawken he had just acquired from Harlan took aim and fired—boom! A small plume of dirt flew into the air below and to the right of the target.
“A miss,” declared Bridger, beginning to feel concerned as he realized that something ominous was happening. We may have a trapper-Indian bloodletting after all if this chief flies off the handle at being bested by a Crow Indian and losing face, he thought.
The chief turned and said something in his native tongue to a nearby warrior. In a moment the warrior disappeared and soon returned with the two grizzly-bear rugs and Harlan’s necklace from the previous afternoon’s trading session.
“This against your beaver pelts,” the chief snarled.
Big Eagle, with hatred welling up in his heart and blood in his eyes, stepped forward without a word being spoken and drilled the target dead center once again. That rattled the chief a bit, but he quickly gathered himself up, threw the Hawken to his shoulder, and placed his shot no one knew where.
“Another clean miss,” Bridger declared with little enthusiasm now for what was happening in front of God and everybody. “Big Eagle is the winner,” he continued after a pause, and with that, a loud roar of approval went up from the trappers for the young Indian shooter. They couldn’t help admiring his marksmanship even if they saw him as a stinking, horse-stealing Crow...
The chief blew up, growling threateningly, “We must shoot again! What do you want from me to shoot against all that you now have?”
Without hesitation, Big Eagle said, “Three good horses of my choosing from your herd and that Hawken you are shooting!”
The chief went rigid with anger as well as vain pride, finding himself boxed in and egged on unmercifully by the crowd of trappers.
“It is as you have spoken,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Move the target to one hundred and fifty yards,” Bridger ordered, and two trappers hurried into the field to move it farther back.
Big Eagle let the chief shoot first. Taking his time, the man slowly squeezed off his shot.
“A clean miss,” declared Bridger.
It was apparent that the chief was beside himself with rage as he glowered at the target. Now it was Big Eagle’s turn. Stepping forward, he raised his Hawken and fired into the dirt not ten feet in front of the chief! The crowd gasped in amazement at the aggressive gesture. The youth had just wasted his shot.
“A clean miss,” slowly declared the wondering Jim Bridger.
Looking over at the chief, Big Eagle said, “I missed. It is once again your turn.”
The coldness in his taunting voice spoke of many dark things, and the tone was not lost on the chief. Setting his jaw with determination to whip this young and now hated upstart Crow, the chief took plenty of time preparing for his second shot. It went into the dirt at the base of the target, and a great roar went up from the trappers as Big Eagle stepped up to the shooting line and looked long and hard at the chief.
The message in Big Eagle’s eyes was clear. Then, shouldering his Hawken, he drilled the target dead center with such force that it was knocked off the log on which it sat! Another roar went up from the crowd as the chief, realizing he had been bested, threw down his Hawken at Big Eagle’s feet in a rage.
“Three of your best horses, and I will be by later to select them,” Big Eagle uttered through clenched teeth as he looked the chief coldly in the eyes.
The chief whirled and strode through the crowd of trappers mustering all the dignity he could in light of his defeat at the hands of a mere boy, and a Crow at that.
By now Fraeb’s keg of rum was kicking in, and a great time was had by all during the rest of the day of fur buying and acquiring necessities for the coming year. Harlan took the two boys off to one side and looked at them proudly as they grinned at him.
“Never in a hundred years would I have guessed what you two had up your sleeves. You did good, and badly as well,” he said sternly.
With those last words, both boys furrowed their brows. It wasn’t often that Harlan was critical of their actions. His admonition meant something had gone wrong with their plan, they realized.
“It was not good to rub the chief’s nose in buffalo droppings as you did. Especially in plain view of the trappers and his own kind. I only hope we never run across his band in the bush because if we do, there will be a right good killing taking place—and I only hope it ain’t us.”
The boys, especially Big Eagle, realized the wisdom of Harlan’s words now that they thought over their actions. Big Eagle had intentionally made the chief look bad, especially with that challenging shot into the dirt at his feet, but he felt that he had had good reason.
The chief and his band had slaughtered his family and his tribe. Big Eagle hoped they would get a rematch once again, only next time on the field of combat. If we do, he darkly vowed to himself, I will slit the throat of the chief and smear his blood all over myself as a final act of revenge.
Regaining control of his emotions, Big Eagle went with Winter Hawk to the shooting site to retrieve the great white bear hide and pack it back onto their mule. As for the beaver plews they had won in the contest, Harlan quietly told the boys to leave them where they were. That came as a surprise to the two boys, but they did as they were told. After all, their dad had spoken, and he was to be believed in all that he did.
Chapter Twelve
The Rendezvous Ends, and a Deadly Event Follows
That afternoon Harlan, the boys, Jim Bridger, Joe Meek, and Thomas “Crooked Hand” Fitzpatrick went to the camp of the Northern Cheyenne chief. To avoid any more embarrassment, the chief had all his horses except his favorite buffalo pony gathered in a small herd close by his tepee. As the men sat on their horses overlooking the situation, Big Eagle dismounted and, after careful review, selected three fine horses as his winnings.
With Harlan’s words of caution still ringing in his ears, he approached the chief and in sign thanked him for his generosity. The chief said nothing and with a face still cast in stone glowered at Big Eagle as if memorizing his face for posterity. The party of trappers left, trailing the three horses, with the recent life’s lessons ingrained in the two boys as they fast became men.
Having acquired all the supplies their credit allowed, including some nice bolts of red cloth, iron rings, red and blue beads, and six soft tanned bighorn sheep hides to make dresses for the two females now in their midst, they headed for their camp, but not before Harlan tipped a couple cups of rum with Meek and Bridger while discussing plans for the next rendezvous.
Harlan had returned all the beaver-plew winnings from the shoot-off to their original owners because he knew he had a couple of ringers in the boys when it came to their shooting abilities. Harlan had also quietly returned the two grizzly-bear hides and the claw necklace, but not the Hawken rifle, to the Northern Cheyenne chief.
The chief was still miffed at having been bested by an uncivil Crow youngster, but Harlan hoped the return of these items would somehow take the edge off what had happened that day. Little did he realize that was not to be the case. Harlan decided to keep the hide from the white bear; it had brought such good luck to his new family that he saw little use in trading such a powerful talisman.
On the way back to their camp, Big Eagle wore a huge smile. He had bested many mountain men in a shooting contest and in so doing had won a small fortune in horses
and furs. In addition, he had bested one of the hated war sub-chiefs of the Northern Cheyenne, one who had probably participated in the killing of his family and tribe. Enjoying the memory of his performance with the Hawken in front of all those mountain men and Indian spectators, he found himself brought up short by Harlan during the ride.
Harlan moved his horse over to Big Eagle and, guessing the grand thoughts Big Eagle was thinking about his shooting prowess, said, “Did you ever see such poor shooting as that chief’s with one of our fine Hawken rifles?”
Big Eagle grinned and said, “He was a pretty poor shot, wasn’t he?”
“Well, just so you keep it in perspective, realize you had a helping hand in his poor shooting ability. You see, when I dragged that rifle off the mule to trade for your sisters, I quickly moved the hindsight so it would be off a mite, no matter who shot the rifle.
I thought that chief would probably find himself at odds someday with some hapless Indian or another mountain man and would use that rifle to exact his revenge. So I knocked the rear sight off its center full well knowing he would never check it and hoping I might be giving some unfortunate a second chance at living.
So don’t you get a big head because I had a direct hand in his poor performance. Now, don’t get me wrong—you did very well and have learned from our winter training sessions. But in this particular instance, you had a hand helping you make him look like a fool.”
Without a look back, Harlan resumed the lead as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The matter was never brought up again, but Big Eagle, perplexed by what Harlan had just told him, found himself smiling at his good fortune in having such a great dad and teacher.
Arriving back in their camp, the man and two boys began making ready for the long trip back to their winter site. Goods were stacked according to bulk and weight for each mule or horse to be packed the next day. The animals were curried and grained. In the meantime, the two women assumed the camp duties, and soon the delicious smell of cooking food began to fill the air from the center cooking fire.
This accommodation with the women might not be too bad, thought Harlan with a grin as the smells of cooking other than his own made him hungry.
Harlan’s eyes flew wide open, and in that instant he knew he was in danger! That awareness was followed by the braying of his bell mule, Martha. Rolling quietly out of his sleeping furs, he grabbed his tomahawk and Hawken in the pitch dark and silently crawled toward a large cottonwood log near the edge of camp.
Peering into the darkness, he strained for any sight or sound of danger. There was none as the inky darkness quietly kept its secrets. Sniffing hard but quietly, Harlan could not detect the smell of sweat or rancid bear grease of hostile Indians or the rankness of the ever-present grizzly bear.
There was no trace for the longest time. Suddenly, there it was! The smell of stale tobacco, either from chewing tobacco or smoking a pipe. Now he was more than sure that extreme danger was at hand as he silently cocked the hammer of his Hawken against his shirt. Then, he heard the faint rustle of leaves not ten feet from the log behind which he was lying. Silently grabbing his tomahawk, he listened and waited.
The sound drew closer until he could almost sense a form in the dark just inches away. Then came the rustling of leaves next to his log once again, accompanied by the same strong smell of tobacco.
The next thing he knew, a rifle barrel slid over the log not a foot from his face. Realizing that he needed to warn the camp, he grabbed the barrel and slammed it violently downward. Boom went the rifle into the dirt, arousing the camp as Harlan swung his tomahawk viciously where he felt the shooter might be at the butt end of the rifle. There was a thump followed by a terrible screech as something wet and warm splattered Harlan’s arm, face, and hand.
Boom—boom went two more rifles in quick succession off to Harlan’s right. Memorizing the muzzle-flash locations, Harlan vaulted the log, pulled his knife, and sprinted like a bobcat towards the closest of the shooters. By then the boys had returned fire into the night in the direction of the two muzzle flashes as well.
It had been fortunate that Harlan had managed to hide behind the log before the ambush began. The first shot had gone harmlessly into the dirt, thereby alerting the camp. At the sound of danger, Big Eagle and Winter Hawk had rolled out of their sleeping furs and away from the light of the remains of the camp’s small fire, and the two shooters had fired into their empty sleeping furs.
Pow—pow went two pistol shots from the unknown shooters as Harlan continued running toward a dark figure standing to shoot into his camp. Swinging his Hawken like a club, Harlan smashed its cold steel into the human form and followed the blow with a knife attack so vicious that his assailant was disemboweled with one swipe of the blade.
Stabbing again and again, Harlan became aware of Big Eagle wrestling with the other assailant beside the man Harlan was killing. Grabbing his bloody knife to help, he was foiled as Winter Hawk viciously tomahawked the man who was locked in mortal combat with his brother. The blow split the man’s skull, and he folded like a sack of flour.
Looking quickly around, Harlan and the boys saw no other threat to their camp. As he made doubly sure, Big Eagle told Autumn Flower in Crow that everything was all right and told her to build up the fire so they could see better. Standing their ground at the edge of the trees in the light of the rebuilt campfire, the three continued to look for any sign of danger.
Finding none, they moved back to the three men they had killed. They discovered that their attackers were the three fur buyers from the rendezvous who had refused to trade with Harlan because of his association with Crow Indians. Harlan found that he had split the first man’s skull cleanly from the top of his head to the neck vertebrae.
After disarming the three dead men, they came away with three knives, three good-grade rifles, and four single-shot pistols with accessories. Without wasting any time, they used horses to drag the dead men to the edge of camp and left their bodies for the scavengers.
Looking over their work, Big Eagle thought, I figured back at the rendezvous that these three would be trouble once again, and they were. Now they belong with the ages and the flesh-eaters of the plains.
Back in camp, Birdsong began a low wail. Moving over to her side, Harlan discovered that her baby had been hit by a stray bullet and killed instantly! There was nothing he could do, so he let her two brothers and sister console her for the loss of her child.
Leaving the sorrow back at camp, Harlan took up his unfired Hawken. Checking to see that it still had a percussion cap attached to the nipple, he began a search for their assailants’ livestock. It didn’t take him long to discover three horses and three pack mules tied in some brush a short distance away.
They must have known we were camping in that grove of cottonwoods and used the smoke from our campfire to find us, he thought grimly.
A quick look at the mules showed all three loaded with supplies from the rendezvous.
Fraeb must have kicked all three troublemakers out of camp, he surmised.
A rustling in the bushes told him Winter Hawk was at his side, and the two of them brought the six animals into their camp for safekeeping. Birdsong continued her low wailing from the shelter of the lean-to while Autumn Flower kept the fire roaring and began cooking a hearty breakfast of Dutch-oven biscuits, deer steak, and boiled dried fruit.
The ever-present coffee was bubbling away over the cooking rod, and soon all could eat. Once chow was ready, everyone except Birdsong sat down to eat, aware of the long ride before them. Birdsong continued to cry over her loss, and the rest gave her the space she needed for her grief.
After breakfast, they began packing their mules, their extra horse, and the three horses and mules the assailants had brought to the ambush as well. Daylight was chasing the dark in the east when they finished packing and were ready to go.
Harlan wasn’t sure what to do with the dead baby, but Birdsong settled that issue. Smearing ashes on her face and
arms from the now dying campfire, she took the small bundle wrapped in furs and mounted her horse. She continued to cry, but she knew they must move on and was ready to go. Harlan couldn’t help but admire her and her stoic acceptance of grief. In fact, he admired her in more ways than met the casual eye.
Retracing their earlier trail into the valley. Harlan led the way, with Big Eagle bringing up the rear. Winter Hawk took up his position alongside the pack string that now included many horses and mules, and the two women rode behind Harlan. Several other changes had occurred. Each male carried a Hawken over his saddle and had another tied on the first animal behind him for emergencies. In addition, they now carried two .79-caliber horse pistols apiece. Last but not least, each woman carried a long-bladed buffalo-gutting knife.
Whoever tangles with this pack string is going to have a hard and deadly time, Harlan thought grimly. As he looked back over his group, his eyes met those of Autumn Flower and Birdsong.
The first opportunity I get, those two women are going to learn to shoot a pistol and a rifle. Never again are they going to be defenseless, he thought with determination.
Chapter Thirteen
Burial, the Long Trip Home, and a Happening
Several days later, Birdsong secured her baby’s body high in a pine tree on the east side of the Wasatch Mountain range so that it could face in the direction of their winter camp. Once that was done, she mounted her horse as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and continued the long ride. No one said anything. They rode silently out of respect for Birdsong’s grief and the loss of her firstborn.
