MORE weeks had passed; weeks of blizzard, of frozen snowy loneliness, of work, of winter. Indeed, winter was of short remaining life.
The winter camp sat securely upon the bottoms along the right bank of the Yellowstone, an acre-square huddle of smoking lodges and huts defended by breastwork of logs and poles.
And all winter, as yet, no sign of marauding Blackfeet.
“Looks as though the varmints ain't so keen on getting the medicine skin after all,” Bridger declared one day. “Come trap season, we’ll take it to them.”
“No,” said Laforay. “There’ll be the red sky.”
“Plenty red skies already. Morning—evening; free choice.”
“Not that kind. A sky all blood, in the night. I see it, same as their medicine man. I see heap Blackfeet marching through the sky, Jim. And last night I see an eagle flying off with the pelt in his claws. The Blackfeet make ready for one big try; they wait for the medicine to say when.”
Bridger went out, and when he came in again, he said: “I've put Reynolds in the hide lean-to off’n the stores. ’Pears to me he’s coming down with the measles.”
The signal gun of the lookout sounded, and Carson, Bridger and Laforay ran out of the lodge. The lookout was calling and pointing upriver. In a moment, everyone could see the cause — a single horseman, riding hard. A large man. constantly glancing over his shoulder.
“The big Frenchie!” cried Laforay.
Shunan indeed, as flying red hair and beard testified. He swerved in for the camp, and hauled his sweated mount short. Chilling eyes met him—astonished, hostile.
“How, Bridger! I come as a friend,” he said hastily, and saw Carson. “How, Kit! We have talk. My heart is good. I claim sanctuary, refuge!”
Carson felt curious eyes glancing at him, but had no words. Bridger growled.
“Out with your yarn and then get out yourself.”
“Non! Non!” bleated Shunan. “I make appeal, you cannot refuse. I put up my hoss. By gar, I not get out! You’ll understand when we talk.”
“Going to kill him, Kit?” said Herring.
“Depends on Bridger. I’d sure like to.” And Carson’s blue eyes rested icily on that flaming countenance.
“Leave your hoss; we’ll talk in my lodge,” said Bridger ungraciously. “That is, if there’s air enough with you there. Come on. Kit. Sit in council.”
“We pass the pipe and sit like friends?” said Shunan.
“Nope. The pipe is cold,” Bridger rapped out. “If you got a talk to warm it, ears are open. Else go back; fast as you come.”
“I can't go back. I come from the Blackfeet. I come fast because arrows are faster. By gar, there is death in the woods! I struck Plenty Eagle in the face; some day I take his scalp. Now I claim refuge here. When you march. Shunan will help you fight Plenty Eagle.”
“Relative of your’n. ain’t he?” Bridger said drily. “You've sat in his lodge. Your talk’s no good. Your tongue is forked. Shunan. Get out!”
“Non! I stay.”
“Why didn't you stay at Fort Hall?” snapped Carson, tight-lipped. “Or didn't you go there?”
“I went there. Three time I mos’ get rubbed out. one time by bullet, two time by arrow. I think maybe Plenty Eagle send somebody for kill me, so I never come back for the leetle squaw. So I go back by short trail to get that ’Rapahoe squaw. Plenty Eagle, he laugh at me. He say his sister wife enough for me. So I see my daughter.”
While listening to the rapid burst of words. Carson sniffed the air. His blue eyes lit up. Then Shunan was talking again, swiftly, earnestly.
“She tell me Plenty Eagle act according as his medicine say. I stay there, but my hair feel loose. Two time, arrows fly with song of death. By gar, I get mad. I tell Plenty Eagle he’s be one bad-heart liar, and hit him. He would kill a Hudson’s Bay man? Not Shunan! I ride away, to offer myself to Americans as good friend. Las' night in the woods, an arrow from the dark through my blanket, by gar! I change camp, I sit up outside the fire. At daylight I hear a leetle snap, I jump for my hoss. An arrow whistle through my hair. I ask refuge from the head chief here, you. M’sieu Bridger. I stay where those Blackfeet will not come on me like wolf in snow. I will march with you as brother.”
Bridger said disgustedly. “A tall yarn. Don't believe a word of it, Shunan. What you come for?”
Carson, his eyes alight, rose and slipped out. When he came back, Shunan was talking excitedly.
“I not know nothing about medicine skin. Let Plenty Eagle find it, hein? His medicine tell him to wait. The medicine wait for him on the Yellowstone, for a red sky that has drunk up the snow.”
Carson whipped his hand from behind him and held out the fox-fur cap. He threw a glance down at the broad moccasins.
“Your cap. Shunan. And your tracks in the snow, back by that island winter camp. It was you who shot at me that day—”
He checked himself abruptly. His thoughts went back to those other tracks in the snow, which Laforay had declared to be Arapahoe. He caught his breath, his eyes widened. But Shunan was panting out hot words, eager excuses.
“She’s be my cap, sure. Why? I tell you. I shoot at you, put no bullet on top the powder. A warrior see me get angry, we fight. I lose my cap, yes. I run with everybody, and I go back and have trouble with Plenty Eagle.”
“A pack of lies.” Carson threw down the cap.
But Jim Bridger rubbed his jaw, meditated. At length he voiced decision. “Mebbe true, mebbe not. You can stay. Keep to camp and you keep your hair. Try any tricks and you lose it. Dunno but what I’d rather have you under my eye than ranging loose on fetch and call between the Hudson’s Bay and the Blackfeet.”
They went outside, all three, and paused. Shunan spoke, as by careless thought.
“You have the medicine skin safe. Bridger?”
“Sartin, sartin.” said Bridger. and jerked his head. “In that storehouse over there, safe from varmints. Door has no lock. The bar is lead—and he tapped his rifle.
“What’s that smoke in the leanto?” Shunan asked.
“A sick man. Keep away from there or you’ll catch the itch. While you’re here, Carson will look after you.”
The day passed; the night: another day. Shunan idled about the camp and boasted with thinly veiled” insolence. He slyly taunted Carson, secure of his ground now that Bridger had made the camp safe for him. Carson watched him and slept ill, ridden by fear lest he lose a chance to put a bullet into the vaunter. Meantime, Reynolds grew no better, but worse. Measles, said Bridger, and took all care of the sick man himself.
DOZING, Carson stirred, slept again, roused. Daybreak? No, it was the paler gray of morning, mustering for the sunrise! He sat up. stared. Shunan was gone.
A leap, and Carson was up. reaching for hunting shirt and moccasins. He seized rifle and “fixings” and slid outside.
Ah! There was the shaggy bulk, at the entrance of the leanto, just emerging! Carson’s heart leaped. The connecting door from leanto into the storehouse, the white beaver pelt! Shunan had been after that medicine skin, had stolen it—
Shunan plied legs and moccasins for the horse pen, running like a madman.
He jumped the top rail. The pen was a confusion of rearing, snorting animals suddenly startled. Shunan emerged from the welter, already astride. Even as Carson broke into a run, he vaulted the rail and was away, hammering with his heels, and next instant his horse rose to the breastwork barrier.
Carson calculated as he ran. Perhaps waste his shot at that mark, with' no time to reload? No; better make sure. Must make sure! Shunan had stolen the pelt and was off with it. The plains were red with blood!
Once in the pen, Carson nabbed the best horse to hand, vaulted astride, was over the rail and after Shunan.
The miles flowed behind, and Shunan sent his horse plunging at an opening draw. Carson could hear the spatter of the snowy gravel as he tore after. Up the winding draw, he had glimpse of man and horse. He cocked his rifle.
The draw narrowed. Any instant, now! Another curve. Carson rounded it, and saw how the draw ended in a high cut bank. Shunan’s horse was slipping and floundering on the steep slope to the right. The animal came to its knees.
Shunan turned and his fusil came up. Carson jerked his mount about and through the smoke-gush of his own gun saw the fusil discharged. The ball whistled past him; then Shunan was squirming in the snow, his horse wildly scrambling.
Carson reloaded; the job must be finished. Shunan staggered up, then sank down again, clinging to the reins, one hand pressed to reddening left shoulder. Carson drew in, rifle ready.
“Non! You must not shoot,” burst forth Shunan, eyes desperate. “One moment! I give you the ’Rapahoe squaw! I have something to say—”
Carson’s gaze was blue ice. “All right. I’ll take you back to Bridger, if you say the word. You know what that’ll mean—”
“I will not go!” screamed Shunan. “It is one camp of death! You shall hear what I have to say. Why did I run? That is one pelt of death to you all in camp! Shoot—I defy you! All are dead man, you and the rest! My ghost will laugh—”
The man was in frightful earnest. Carson, despite himself, hesitated and wondered.
Then the eyes of Shunan widened, fixed and staring. His jaw fell, his mouth hung open with no word issuing. There was a sharp hiss, a dull twang — spatt! The arrow singing past Carson’s ear had sunk its feathers in Shunan’s breast.
Carson had only half turned to the twang and the exultant whoop, when a figure came bounding down the slope. Recognition snapped through him. It was the young Arapahoe brave, who loved Singing Bird. Carson remembered everything—those mysterious tracks in the snow, the arrows Shunan had blamed on lurking Blackfeet. All the while, Brave Elk had been on the vengeance trail.
Charging on to the dead man, Brave Elk struck the staring face with his bow. “Coup!” He bent over, slashed with his knife, stood erect with the scalp in his hand.
“It is mine!” he shouted at Carson. “You wounded him, but I killed him. I reached him first; I counted coup.”
“We won't quarrel over the hair,” Carson said grimly. “But I claim what’s under his shirt. I take that, you take the rest.”
Brave Elk laughed jubilantly; the trophy thus assured him. In his exultation, enmity for Carson was swept away.
“You can have what is under his shirt. The rest is mine.”
The Elk stooped, parted the folds of Shunan’s shirt, and explored. He straightened up and kicked the dead thing in contempt.
“Onlv a dirty skin. You are welcome to it.”
Carson stared, incredulous … It was true. No white beaver pelt—nothing! Then, what did Shunan’s mad flight mean? What had his words about death meant?