"I wanted to wish you luck," said Falconer. "And to warn you about Sixkiller. I know him well. He's not a bad sort, but he plays dirty."
"He'll have a trick or two up his sleeve, that's sartin," agreed Rube Holly. "It's hell for leather to the lances and back."
Sixkiller was astride his pony now, a high-stepping black stallion. The Flathead had stripped down to a loincloth. He rode bareback. A braided quirt dangled from his wrist. The stallion reared as soon as it felt the Indian's weight, gnashing at its rawhide bit. Sixkiller clung like a tick to the stallion's back and let out a whoop of exultation. Eben realized bleakly that if the Appaloosa were to rear like that he would wind up eating dirt, with a broken neck into the bargain. But the mare just stood there, stock-still, as lively as a statue carved from stone, and Eben found himself wishing, in a somewhat contradictory vein, that the creature would display at least a little energy.
"Think I ought to get shed of this apishamore, Rube?" he asked, indicating the Indian saddle.
Rube shook his head emphatically. "A few pounds won't matter to this cayuse. No, you stand a better chance staying aboard with it."
"You've got a fine horse," said Falconer. "She has a sweet mouth and a smooth stride. Just stay low and keep an eye on Sixkiller."
All I'll see is the back of his head, thought Eben glumly, but he did not give voice to his doubts. Instead, he nodded, putting on a brave front.
Falconer and Rube Holly moved away as Sir William Drummond Stuart stepped forward. He had been chosen to fire the shot that would start the contest. He was a sight to behold, wearing a knee-length elkskin coat with more quill-and beadwork than Eben had ever seen on a single garment, along with a scarlet vest, plaid trousers tucked into mud-caked cavalry boots, and a red beret sporting an eagle feather. He carried one of a matched pair of silver-inlaid English dueling pistols.
"To your marks, gentlemen," he said, standing before the contestants, with one hand behind his back, the pistol pointed at the azure sky.
Eben expected him to say something else, perhaps "get ready," but instead he triggered the pistol.
With a shriek that startled Eben more than the pistol's discharge did, Sixkiller savagely applied his quirt, and the black stallion leapt forward into a stretched-out gallop. Eben kicked the Appaloosa in the ribs. The mare almost exploded out from under him. It was all Eben could do to stay aboard. He fumbled with the reins, slowing the horse in the process. Realizing his mistake, he gave the mare her head. Belatedly he remembered Falconer's advice and bent low. Half-blinded by the mare's wind-whipped mane, he was astonished to see that he was actually gaining on Sixkiller. The ground was a dizzy blur sweeping past. The thunder of hooves was loud in his ears. Falconer was right! The Appaloosa's stride was smooth indeed—like flying on the wind. The sheer, exhilarating power of the splendid beast beneath him took Eben Nall's breath away. I cannot lose this animal, he thought. How dull life would be without her!
The ground rose gently, a long, tan, grassy slope. Eben could see the two lances at the crest of the rise, silhouetted against the cloudless summer sky. Halfway to the lances the Appaloosa had drawn even with the black stallion. Sixkiller threw a look of disbelief at Eben, who laughed out loud.
Then Sixkiller lashed out with the quirt.
The braided rawhide caught the Appaloosa across the nose. Eben's deliriously joyful laugh turned into a strangled cry of impotent rage. The mare snorted and missed her stride, stumbling. Eben's heart lodged in his throat as, for a terrifying instant, he thought he was going to be thrown. But the Appaloosa recovered, and lunged forward without his having to urge her on. Eben felt the animal's great lungs bellow, every muscle strain, and he could almost believe that the mare was bent on revenge, so violently did she strive to close with Sixkiller, who had surged ahead.
The Indian was first to reach the lances. Plucking one from the ground, he used it to strike the second down. Eben shouted an incoherent protest. Sixkiller's harsh laugh seared Eben's nerves as they passed, Eben nearing the crest, the Flathead on his way back to the starting point a half mile away.
Eben knew he could not dismount to retrieve the fallen lance and hope to win the race. A vision flashed before his eyes—the Nez Perce horseman leaning low off the side of his galloping pony to pluck the whiskey jug off the ground. A part of Eben's mind screamed that it was sheer lunacy for him to try a similar feat. But what did he have to lose? Better to break his fool neck now than to suffer humiliating defeat. Try it. Try it!
Letting go of the reins, Eben grabbed a handful of the Appaloosa's mane and slid sideways off the apishamore, straining to reach down as far as he could. Tall grass whipped painfully at his face. He tried to keep his right leg hooked tightly over the apishamore. But it was slipping! He grabbed desperately for the lance. He had it! Exultation as sweet and wild as the mountains washed over him. But it was short-lived. He couldn't get back up square on the apishamore. A cry of despair escaped him. It seemed to him that he dangled precariously on the side of the Appaloosa for a hellish eternity. Sixkiller's insolent laugh rang in his head. With one last herculean effort he tried to pull himself upright. The muscles in his arm and leg burned with the effort. But it worked. He was astride the mare again.
He was amazed to find that the Appaloosa had turned on her own accord and was in hot pursuit of Sixkiller back toward the camp. The mare seemed determined to win in spite of her rider. Pride in the magnificent beast swelled Eben Nall's heart.
Even so, Sixkiller's lead was such that Eben did not see how the Appaloosa, game as she was, could close the gap in time. But then the Flathead used his quirt once too often, lashing viciously at the stallion's flank. The stallion balked, crow-hopping and spinning at the same time. Sixkiller managed somehow to stay aboard but spent precious seconds regaining control, and by the time he had the stallion straightened out Eben was only a length behind.
Seeing that his opponent was gaining infuriated Sixkiller. He swung the lance, trying to strike Eben this time rather than the mare. He missed—barely. Eben felt the lance brush his wind-tousled hair. The Appaloosa surged forward, drawing nearly even with the black stallion. Again Sixkiller swung the lance. This time Eben was ready. He struck at Sixkiller's lance with his own, jarring the weapon loose from the Indian's grasp. With an angry shout, Sixkiller lashed out with the quirt. He did not even consider going back for the fallen lance. The rawhide gashed Eben's arm, ripping through the buckskin sleeve and slicing deeply into the flesh. Eben gasped at the searing pain. Sixkiller steered the stallion into Eben's mare. The horses collided. Sixkiller grabbed for Eben's lance. The stallion snapped at the Appaloosa. For an instant men and horses both were locked in combat. Just as a furious Eben Nall wrenched the lance away from Sixkiller, the mare's blunt teeth tore a bloody wound in the stallion's neck. The stallion shrieked and veered away with a stiff-legged hop that caught Sixkiller by surprise. The Flathead had been riding with his knees, leaving both hands free to grapple with Eben for possession of the lance. Now, before he could grab a handful of the stallion's mane, he lost his seat and toppled into the grass.
A roar rose from the crowd of mountain men congregated at the starting point. The Appaloosa mare covered the last hundred yards with great leaping strides, carrying a shaken Eben Nall to victory.
Belatedly, Eben thought to slow the mare. The Appaloosa had the wind in her teeth, and Eben had a vision of a dozen trappers being trampled beneath the animal's thundering hooves. But again the Appaloosa took the initiative; locking her front legs, she came to a skidding halt as the crowd of buckskinners closed in. Before Eben knew what was happening, strong rough hands bore him from the apishamore and pounded him on the back and shoulders so roundly that but for the press of bodies he would have been driven to the ground. His knees were jelly.
Rube Holly bulled his way through the crowd of men congratulating Eben. "Give the boy some air, goldurnit!" roared Holly. "Get back! Stand aside!" As he reached Eben's side, Rube beamed like a proud father. "You whupped h
im, boy! By thunder, you've got gumption!"
"Not me," gasped Eben. "It wasn't me. It was the mare."
"She's one hell of a horse, that's sartin."
Shouts of alarm mingled with a savage, bloodcurdling cry. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Eben caught a glimpse of Sixkiller astride the galloping stallion, bearing down on him. He shoved Rube Holly out of harm's way. Sixkiller launched himself from the stallion's back and carried Eben to the ground. The impact of the Indian's body knocked the wind out of Eben, leaving him too weak for an instant to defend himself. The quirt bit deeply into his shoulder. Realizing that Sixkiller was aiming for his face, Eben flailed away with his fists, one of which grazed the Indian's jaw. Sixkiller wasn't fazed. His features were twisted with cold fury. He raised the quirt to strike again . . .
Falconer kicked him in the guts.
The blow knocked Sixkiller sideways off Eben. The Indian rolled and came lithely to his feet, snatching a knife from the belt sheath of a mountain man before the latter could react to prevent the theft. The Flathead fell into a knife fighter's crouch, sunlight flashing off the blade. Falconer grimly drew his own belduque.
Scrambling to his feet, Eben Nall grabbed Falconer by the shoulder and spun him around.
"Damn it, I'll fight my own fights," he cried, enraged.
Then, realizing he had dared lay a hand on the legendary Hugh Falconer, he stepped back, horrified.
But Falconer was smiling.
"My apologies," he said. "You're absolutely right."
Twirling the Green River, he offered the knife, handle first, to Eben.
Eben hesitated. He didn't want to kill anybody or—as was more likely—get killed himself. Against all odds he had bested Sixkiller in the race; he had an even more infinitesimal chance of whipping the Indian in a knife fight.
His dilemma was of short duration. The man whose knife Sixkiller had appropriated jumped the Flathead warrior, striking the weapon from the Indian's grasp and then knocking him to the ground. Dazed, Sixkiller looked up into a circle of grim, bearded faces. It was Falconer who intervened, shouldering his way through to give Sixkiller a hand up.
"I don't want you to kill that boy, Sixkiller," said Falconer. "He's going to California with me. Fact is, I was hoping you'd come along, too."
Sixkiller was inscrutable. "I not kill."
"Look here," said Eben standing at Falconer's side. "I've got two horses now. Got no use for a third. You keep your stallion, Sixkiller."
Anger flared in the Indian's eyes again. "No," he snapped, turning brusquely away. "You keep." Pushing through the press of mountain men, he stalked away.
Bewildered, Eben turned to Falconer. "What did I say? I was only trying to patch things up."
"You managed to insult him," replied Falconer. "Sixkiller's a prideful man. You won the stallion fair and square. The last thing he wants is your charity."
"I wasn't thinking," sighed Eben.
"Your heart's in the right place, lad. You just need to learn a few more things about the way things work out here. For now, just watch out for Sixkiller. He might get a notion to cut that good heart of yours right out of your chest." With that, Falconer went his way, chuckling.
Eben Nall didn't think it was at all amusing.
Chapter 5
FROM THE JOURNAL OF EBEN NALL
July 6, 1837. Since the race I believe I have become the most popular person in camp—except, perhaps, among the Indians, who wagered heavily on Sixkiller. More than a few Indians have challenged me to a contest, and many are the trappers who have begged me to accept, but I have steadfastly refused. Rube tells me I am a marked man now among the Indians. To defeat me in a race would be big medicine. He is of the opinion that I should take on all comers, as I am now the proud owner, he says, of two horses that are without a doubt the swiftest in the camp. But I am not interested in making any more enemies. Sixkiller is more than enough in that respect.
Were he not my brother I would swear I have another enemy in Silas. He lost everything betting against me and refuses now to even speak to me. I am sorry for his misfortune. Rube says I should be offended that Silas thought so little of me that he would ask me to intentionally lose the race. Perhaps I should be, but Silas is my brother, and in spite of his shortcomings I cannot remain angry at him. I am sure Silas will recover from his disappointment. We may see things with different eyes, but we are the same blood.
The word that Hugh Falconer is going to California has spread through the camp. It seems as though every mountain man present is eager to accompany him. They are confident of a fair share of adventure and glory in a brigade led by such a man. Part of it, too, is the sorry state of the fur trade. The traders have brought word that the market is truly on its last legs. As Rube is fond of saying, too damn many trappers, too damn many silk hats.
The trappers are living it up like there is no tomorrow. Perhaps, in a sense, they are right. There is much drinking, gambling, and carousing. Scarcely a day goes by that there is not at least one fight. Rube says a man or two will get killed before the rendezvous is over—said it so matter of factly that one might have thought he was referring to the weather. Likely the blood will be spilled over a squaw.
Speaking of squaws, Rube keeps after me to pick one. Says I could get a right fine woman for the stallion. I cannot bring myself to trade for a human being as one would for a blanket or a gun. It doesn't seem proper. There are plenty of eligible young Indian maidens to choose from, however. They are forever sashaying through camp dressed in their best buckskins. You can hear them coming a mile away, as every last one is decked out top to bottom with little bells and tin trinkets. I am given to understand that an Indian girl will generally prefer a white trapper to a man from her own tribe for a husband. The mountain man treats his woman much better. They say an Indian is kinder to his horse than he is to his wife. If a mountain man has two horses he will load his possibles on one horse, his squaw on the other, and save the walking for himself. In the same situation an Indian will load his possibles on his squaw, ride one horse, and lead the other, making her walk. Some of the young Indian women are very pretty, and I suppose I must be considered quite a catch, with the stallion and the Appaloosa mare, because at times they are thick as fleas in the vicinity of our lean-to, but I am not inclined to take a wife just now.
A Captain Bonneville arrived in camp today. Resigning from the army several years ago, he raised sufficient capital to finance an expedition to the frontier, and he established a trading post, which is located not far from Horse Creek. He was not well received by the trappers, and as a result his venture has not been at all profitable. Yet he remains in this country, and his true motives are a mystery. I have the distinct impression he came here for the express purpose of seeing Hugh Falconer . . .
"I have a confession to make, Hugh," said Bonneville.
They sat alone around a small, crackling fire in front of Falconer's lean-to, on the edge of camp. The river was nearby, murmuring pleasantly to the cool, star-crowned night. Crickets chorused from the marsh grass at the river's muddy verge. Bonneville had brought some sipping whiskey, genuine Tennessee sour mash, a far cry from the "panther piss" rotgut sold by the cup—at exorbitant prices—by the St. Louis traders.
"I'm no father confessor," said Falconer.
Bonneville smiled. "And I am no retired army officer."
"You're not?"
"Not retired. I am officially on leave of absence."
"Since '32? That's one hell of a leave of absence, Benjamin."
Bonneville nodded. He was a solidly built man of medium height, his square face framed by bushy black side-whiskers. "I was given permission to explore these mountains, to map them, for the United States government."
"What does the government want with these mountains?"
Bonneville laughed softly. "This is part of the United States of America, Hugh. I realize you and your kind think of this country as your own private domain, but even if it has been, for all practi
cal purposes, it won't remain so for much longer. Civilization is coming, Hugh."
"Good God," said Falconer, disgusted. He began to pack his clay pipe with honest-to-God tobacco, which he had recently purchased, along with powder and shot, a new blanket, and a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets.
"It's inevitable. The one certainty in this world is that it is constantly changing. You mountain men don't realize it, but you're the pathfinders. You blaze the trail for others to follow. The settlers are already beginning to arrive. The merchants will follow. Then the army will come along, too, in order to protect the settlers and the merchants. Towns will spring up in these valleys. Roads will be carved out of the wilderness."
With a sigh Falconer gazed into the night. He seemed to be sniffing at the air like a wily old bull elk. Bonneville wondered if he was checking to see if he could smell the stench of civilization.
"They'll dam up the streams, cut down the timber, turn over the grass with their middle-busters," growled Falconer.
"One of my reasons for coming out here was to report on the fur trade. There's no denying it, Hugh. The trade is dying."
"I know that," said Falconer gruffly, puffing vigorously on the pipe to develop a good, even burn in the bowl.
"Is that why you're going to California?"
"Word gets around."
"A couple of Iroquois trappers came to the fort yesterday. Everyone here knows of your plans. You're looking for twenty, thirty good men to go along with you. When I heard that, I thought it somewhat odd. You ride alone, Hugh. You always have."
"I worked with a brigade when I first came out here. Turned out to be a bad experience. Some of the men were damned fools. Picked a fight with the Absaroka Crow and nearly got us all killed. I relied on the booshway, and he let me down. I have not relied on anyone since."
Falconer's Law Page 3
