by Terry Grosz
Winter came with a vengeance. Many a night it was so cold that the trees, especially the aspen near the cabins, popped their bark! Hearing the baby fussing one morning, Winter Hawk rose, dressed, and rekindled the fire in the cabin fireplace.
Satisfied that it would last until he returned, he left the cabin to greet the day. It was just getting light as he positioned the ladder against the cache house. Climbing up, he unlocked the door, reached in, and took out a large chunk of moose meat. Closing the door and latching it so the crows, ravens, and magpies couldn’t get in and eat the meat, he climbed back down the ladder and removed it so no land-based varmints could climb into the cache house.
Laying the ladder to one side, he returned to his cabin and headed for the cooking pot so he could put the moose meat into it. Seeing that it needed more water in order to make a large stew for the family, he grabbed the water pail, opened the cabin door, and stepped out. Quietly closing the door so he would not wake the others, he headed down the trail from the cabin toward the lake.
Something made him instinctively stop and look toward the lake. Boom—boom went two rifles in unison. Winter Hawk spun around from the bullets’ impact, flying into the snowbank next to the cabin! A bright-red stream of blood splattered the snow where he came to rest. As he lay there in the snow, the blood began to pool beneath his inert form.
Harlan and Big Eagle, hearing the report of heavy rifles close to their cabins, scrambled out of bed, grabbed their rifles, and threw open their front doors at almost the same time.
Boom— boom went two more shots from the hidden rifles. Harlan felt hot lead pass alongside his cheek, just breaking the skin and cleanly taking off the lobe of his right ear. The bullet meant for Big Eagle was off its mark, smashing into the front door and tearing it out of his hand. Both quickly slammed the doors shut, but not before Harlan had spotted Winter Hawk lying in a crimson- stained heap by the other cabin.
Knocking out a shooting-port plug, Harlan chanced to see a man out in front of his cabin about thirty yards away, lying prone behind a small log used for pitch- wood. He was lying on his side, hurriedly reloading his rifle, when Harlan raised his rifle and snapped off a shot at the arm and shoulder showing above the log.
Boom!
“Ahhh-eeeeow,” screamed a human as Harlan’s shot smashingly found its mark. That sound was quickly followed by the whimpering of a man in abject pain.
A hand or arm wound, thought Harlan as he quickly grabbed his reserve Hawken from its pegs over the front door. Birdsong, already out of bed, bolted the back door and, grabbing her pistol, stood at the ready. Still looking out through his shooting port, Harlan saw movement behind the horses and mules in the corral, but the nervous horses were moving around enough to make a shot in their general direction a poor choice unless he wanted to kill his livestock. He knew it would be a death sentence in that country to lose his means of transportation.
Boom! went Big Eagle’s rifle, and Harlan saw snow and dirt spew by another log at the edge of the timber off to one side of his cabin. Watching that spot for any sign of movement, Harlan finally saw some. He quickly raised his rifle, but the movement disappeared from sight almost as fast. During the next few moments, Harlan and Big Eagle spotted at least three armed men shooting at their cabins, not counting the wounded one who just lay behind his log, still crying out loudly in pain.
Three against two, but no way to get at them and no way for them to get at us, Harlan thought grimly. I need to wait until night and then break out and kill them one by one. But if I wait that long, Winter Hawk, if still alive, will bleed or freeze to death.
Big Eagle was thinking the same thing. Here they were trapped while his brother, if still alive, was lying out there dying or freezing to death. Tears rose in his eyes as the frustration almost overwhelmed him.
Zip—thunk went an arrow into the left eye of the shooter behind the horse corral, exiting through his right ear. The man was dead before he hit the frozen ground. Hearing his partner fall with a muffled crump off to his left, another shooter behind a log at the edge of the forest chanced a quick look in that direction. In that glance he saw an arrow heading for his face a microsecond before it sank deeply into his nose and continued into the base of his skull. He never felt his body hitting the frozen ground.
Seeing his remaining partner fall with an arrow to the face, a short, bearded individual lying by another log rose and bolted for their horses tied in the timber behind him. Boom—boom went a Hawken quickly fired from each cabin.
The two heavy slugs hit with such force that it slammed the runner into a tree fifteen feet before him, splitting the front of his skull on the stub of a tree limb. The wounded one, now realizing his mortality was upon him, tried to rise on his remaining arm, only to have Harlan’s tomahawk explode his head like a melon. He never felt another thing.
Quickly looking around now that he was out in the open, Harlan saw an Indian walking toward him from the corral, holding his bow high in the air over his head in a sign of peace. By then Big Eagle was out the door, covering the Indian, who still held his bow high in the air as he walked toward Harlan.
The Indian quickly signed that he was from Low Dog’s tribe of Snake Indians once he saw the looks of extreme killing anger on the trappers’ faces. Continuing to sign, he said, “I heard the shooting while hunting and decided to see what was going on. I thought it might be some members from my tribe hunting, but soon I saw the four white men shooting at your cabin. Low Dog and Joe Meek consider you friends, and since that is my clan, so do 1.1 tried to help as fast as I could, but it appears one of your friends is hurt.”
Realizing the Indian was a friend, Harlan ran to Big Eagle, who was now bending over the bleeding Winter Hawk.
“He is still alive, Harlan! Help me move him inside before he freezes or bleeds to death,” yelled the frantic Big Eagle.
The two men grabbed Winter Hawk, carried him into the cabin, and laid him gently down on his bed. Autumn Flower and Birdsong quickly pushed the two men aside and began to wipe the blood off Winter Hawk to see where he had been hit. One shot had left a dark, ugly purple burn across his ribs. The other had grazed his head from the crown all the way across the side above his ear.
“Bloody but no brains,” said Harlan with a sigh of relief.
The two women continued to tend the groaning Winter Hawk while Harlan and Big Eagle realized they had left the Indian who had helped them standing outside. With that realization, they moved rapidly out the door. The Indian man had not moved, and his bow was still held high in the air as a continuing sign of peace.
Harlan strode over to the man, held out his hand in friendship, and said, “The boy still lives. He has a bad head wound, and the women are working on him to see if they can save him. Big Eagle and I wish to thank you for your help. Without it they had us trapped, and we couldn’t use the back doors because we feared they had those areas covered as well.”
They walked over to the man who had been shot by Big Eagle and Harlan as he tried to escape. It was obvious that he was dead. The bullets from the two rifles would have killed him before he hit the ground, but the final fling into the tree with the impact of those two hits had more than done it. Rolling him over with his foot, Harlan recognized the bearded trapper who had tried to claim their cabin some months earlier. Big Eagle just grunted and then thanked his instincts for showing him this man in a true light.
The three disarmed the four shooters and stacked their bodies by the corral. Saddling his horse, Big Eagle dragged the men one by one across the snow to the boneyard at the end of their meadow until all the evidence of the fight was left to the dead men’s God and the always hungry wolves and coyotes.
They returned quickly to the cabin to check on Winter Hawk. He was very pale, was breathing very shallowly, and looked as if death was just around the door. Sick at the sight, the men went outside to the fire pit and kindled a roaring fire.
As they warmed themselves by the fire, Harlan asked the man who
had saved their lives to tell them about himself. At first he was reluctant to talk about himself, but he soon opened up, especially after a scalding cup of coffee had been thrust into his hands by Autumn Flower.
What he had to say dropped like a mad bear on Harlan and Big Eagle. His Snake name was Dog Eater, but his Crow name was Runs Fast! He had been captured as a young man of fifteen summers, had been adopted into the Snake tribe, and belonged to Chief Low Dog.
Harlan and Big Eagle were stunned. Autumn Flower, who was bringing the man another cup of coffee laced with lots of sugar, dropped the cup into the snow at her feet upon hearing those words from another Crow Indian. The only sound heard for a long time was the crackling of the pine limbs in the fire.
Then Autumn Flower regained her composure, picked up the empty coffee cup, and fled back into her cabin. Runs Fast never took his eyes off her until she disappeared inside. Shortly thereafter, and with more composure, she returned with another cup of coffee, and this time she managed to get it into Runs Fast’s hands with a smile that was more than returned.
Turning to Harlan, she said, “Winter Hawk’s eyes are open, but he doesn’t see anything and still does not talk.”
Jumping up, Harlan and Big Eagle left their guest sitting on the log by the fire and returned to the cabin to see for themselves. The women had Winter Hawk bundled up in a buffalo robe and had bandaged his head wound. They had left the ugly purple wound along the rib cage as it was because there were no broken ribs and there wasn’t much they could do to alleviate the pain of that kind of wound.
Painful? Yes. Was the rib injury life threatening? No, thought Harlan. However, a look into Winter Hawk’s staring but unseeing eyes led him to fear that death was not far from the cabin’s doorstep. Winter Hawk was mumbling words that could not be understood, and it was plain that he was struggling to live through what must be a terrible concussion. Laying his hand on his son’s shoulder, Harlan became aware of the coldness it projected. Tears came into his eyes, and he had to turn away before the others saw his pain.
Stepping back outside and leaving Big Eagle to sit by his brother, Harlan returned to the Indian on the log by the fire. Sitting down by the man, he turned to him and said, “Runs Fast, you are more than welcome at my campfire any time you desire. You single-handedly saved us from those buzzards lying at the end of the meadow waiting for the varmints to finish the job. I will be forever grateful for your prompt action in joining the fight and helping us win. What can I do for you in return?” Runs Fast sat for a moment and then said, “Nothing, Harlan. Just the right to join you anytime I am free to do so would be reward enough.”
“Done,” said Harlan as he extended his hand in the sign of peace and deep thanks to the young Crow Indian who was a Snake slave. “Now, let us go and see if we can find those fellows’ horses and mules. They have to be getting kind of lonesome out there by now and fearful of the wolves.”
Joined by Big Eagle, they backtracked the culprits who had shot Winter Hawk and located their animals within an hour. There were nine horses, five of which were fully packed with camp gear and beaver plews.
There were also four mules carrying several tepee skins and the rest of the party’s camp gear. It was obvious that the men had been living in tepees, and when the weather got harsh had decided to take over Harlan’s camp when the Snakes were not nearby to help. However, they had not counted on the deadly shooting of Runs Fast when they had made plans to wipe out Harlan and his clan.
They brought the animals back to camp and unloaded them. There were four packs of beaver plews, which Harlan and Big Eagle took into one of the cabins for safe storage. Then there was camp gear and provisions for a party of four for a year’s trapping. Harlan quietly sorted out the goods and then loaded two of the pack mules back up with powder, lead, food items, traps, knives, beads, coffee, sugar, and two Hudson Bay five-point winter coats, previously unworn.
Strapped to the outside of the packs were coffee pots, Dutch ovens, and frying pans. He cut out one of the horses from the dead men’s string and tied it in with the mules. In short, he set apart everything valuable to an Indian living in the wilderness. Then Harlan took the best of the rifles from the dead men along with two pistols and a gutting knife. Walking over to Runs Fast, he handed him the items.
Harlan figured that since all the man had was a bow and arrow, he could use a good rifle. He was surprised when Runs Fast recoiled at the presentation of the rifle and other firearms.
“What is the matter?” asked Harlan.
“I do not have full status as a tribal member but am still considered as having come from the outside, since I am a Crow. I am not allowed to have firearms but only bows and arrows,” Runs Fast replied quietly.
“Well, then, you shall have much treasure to present to Low Dog when you return in celebration. Big Eagle, why don’t you and Runs Fast ride over to the end of the meadow and lift those four varmints’ scalps so our friend also has the trophies of the fight to bestow even more honor on Chief Low Dog?”
Turning to Runs Fast, Harlan said, “Please advise our friend Low Dog that we appreciated the brave assistance from one of his clan in our fight. Also tell him that I will provide a big feast for his clan just as soon as the ice goes out because of your help in saving our lives.”
Those words brought a huge grin to Runs Fast, whose head was spinning with what had just happened and the many goods from battle he had just acquired.
Just imagine, he thought, what it will be like when I return with much treasure for Low Dog and the tribe. That plus the scalps from the four men who tried to kill their friends. The big grin continued to spread across his face when he pictured the honor he had earned, especially in the eyes of the tribal members who still considered him a second-rate warrior.
The grin got noticeably wider when Autumn Flower once again brought him a cup of scalding coffee loaded with much brown sugar—and in her hurry forgot to bring any to Harlan and Big Eagle.
***
A week later, a still somewhat confused Winter Hawk pulled out of his partial coma. The two women made much of him as if nothing else mattered, and soon he was sitting up in bed, eating a little, and talking. A week later he was up and moving around, still a little wobbly and having bad headaches when he stood up too fast, but on the mend. If the slug to his head had been one- quarter inch closer, he would have been killed.
During that time, Winter Hawk had a frequent visitor in Runs Fast. They talked a great deal, but it was obvious that Runs Fast was there mostly for the attention he received from Autumn Flower.
Their affection was not lost on anyone else in the little group, especially Harlan, who realized that if those affections became an issue, he, a guest of Low Dog, would have to cross the lines of hospitality to see what he could do. Harlan was still keenly aware of what he had had to do to get Autumn Flower and Birdsong from the Northern Cheyenne chief.
I really don’t need that kind of problem in my own backyard if I can possibly avoid it, he thought. Then, with a grin, he remembered his dad’s old saying: Life doesn't always wait for the waters to calm.
Finally, Winter Hawk was well enough to assume his role around camp, and that in and of itself brought much joy to the group. In fact, Winter Hawk hit the ground running just in time for spring trapping, and trap they did.
The men were able to trap over three hundred beaver before the animals went out of prime. In the process, they about wiped out the beaver population in their valley. That made Harlan aware that this must be their last year in this location if they wanted to survive in the fur trade. They would have to move elsewhere after the summer rendezvous… and where he knew not.
Dismissing that thought for the moment, Harlan decided he would face that issue when the time came. In addition to the five hundred-plus beaver they had trapped, they had more than two hundred beaver from the men who had tried to kill them during the winter. In addition, they had twenty-one dressed wolf pelts, fifty-nine coyote pelts, a dozen river-
otter skins, eighteen deer-hides, and twelve elk hides. Rounding out that complement, they had sixty-two muskrat hides from inadvertent catches, twenty raccoon hides, and fifteen pelts from both grizzly and black bear.
After the beaver went out of prime, they traded with their friends the Snakes. Here they unloaded most of their fusils (cheap flintlocks), red and blue beads, Green River skinning knives, extra flints, some powder and shot, and several kegs of uncut rum. In return, they received over sixty buffalo skins that had been tanned by tribal members during the winter months. All in all, aside from the shoot-out with the renegade trappers and the wounding of Winter Hawk, it had been an exceptional year, especially considering the affection Autumn Flower and Runs Fast were now openly showing for each other.
And it was about to get better—in fact, a whole lot better...
Chapter Sixteen
A Celebration Among Friends, and a Whole Lot More
Harlan and the boys peeped over the ridgeline and down into the draw some fifty yards below. About three hundred unwary buffalo were grazing there. The three of them took their shooting positions, and the killing began.
In about five minutes it was over, and twenty buffalo lay dead or dying when Harlan raised his hand to signify “enough.” From behind their shooting positions, the women brought the horse and mule string, now grown with the addition of the dead trappers’ animals to an almost being unruly number. The rest of the afternoon was spent in salvaging the best cuts of meat for the long trek back to the cabin in preparation for the next day’s feast and events to follow. What remained was left for the critters. After all, there were always more buffalo just over the next ridge...
Daylight the next morning found Harlan and crew busy around the cabins with three large roaring campfires. Their largest cast-iron pots were filled with generous chunks of buffalo meat and beans and set at the edge of the campfires to simmer. Smaller pots were also set around the fires to simmer with huge chunks of buffalo, spices, and rice to be added later.
