THEY circled the breastworks, came around to the horse camp, moved back to the side fronting the Yellowstone. Little danger to be apprehended here along the river bend, while the entire enemy force was out there in front.
“Hey, Herndon!' Bridger called out. “Everything quiet here?”
A grunt broke from Bridger. Carson leaped forward beside him to where the dark shape of Herndon leaned over the log defense. At Bridger’s touch, the, figure slipped sideways. With an astounded oath, Bridger straightened up.
“Dead and scalped! Smith! Consarn it, where are ye?”
Smith too—knifed, scalped, already-stiffening. No one was in sight No Indians were near. Suddenly Carson vaulted the logs. “Here. Jim! Look at this!” A snow patch that was not a snow patch. A buffalo robe, heaped and covered with snow, now fallen aside. Clear enough, at a glimpse, what had happened. Covered by this robe and snow, moving forward by feet and inches, an Indian had killed the guards. “Wait a minute,” said Bridger. Carson waited not, but followed as Bridger leaped away. Followed to the back of the hide lean-to, where Reynolds lay. There was a long slash in the hide; no sound came from within. Bridger paused grimly.
“They opened the way for his ghost. Thanks for the trouble.”
“What do you mean? They killed Reynolds?”
“Nope. He passed out during the night. I ain't told nobody yet. No use looking now; no time to talk. They snuck in, got the pelt, and went. It’s gone—”
No time to think of that now. The daylight was mounting, the sky overhead was slightly hazed. The Blackfeet were in turmoil, whooping in wild exultation. Carson saw half a dozen trappers loping back to watch the river side. He, like the others, stared at the sky.
The eastern horizon was banded with rose, deepening momentarily. That to the north was veiled by a turbid pall, hanging like a curtain. The rays of the yet unseen sun, reflected on this suspended dust in the air, were turning the pall to scarlet. Exclamations of wonder, of awed alarm, ran along the breastworks.
“That’s the sign!” blared Laforay’s staccato. “Just as I dream!”
Bridger cursed such talk. “The blood’s over their heads, not our’n.”
“Hey! They’re a-coming!” went up sharp yelps. “Look out, all hands!”
They came on, under that red sky, over the bare ground of winter. They spread out, came forward like a wave, drew back again, the whistle of Plenty Eagle shrilling.
Carson cautioned the men around him. No battle here, unless the whites could be tempted out into the open.
When the powder-smoke thinned, the host was seen drawing away. Yells of whooping derision burst forth.
Carson, watching those warriors retire, knew the truth; his heart sank, as dismay and consternation laid hold upon him with a cold grip. The white beaver was gone.
Then Bridger was coming, beckoning him in silence. Danger past, fires were being built up and a meal prepared. The two went back to the slashed lean-to. “We’ll go in the way his ghost went out,” said Bridger grimly, pulling the hide aside. “Come on. Make sure. I pulled the blanket up over his face last night—”
No blanket at all, now; the dead man had been scalped. Then, looking again, Carson suddenly froze at sight of spotted face and chest. He caught Bridger’s arm.
“Measles? No, Jim. Smallpox!”
“I suspicioned it,” said Bridger calmly. “How d'ye know?”
“I nursed Bent once; he had it bad. The men at his fort, the Cheyennes, the ’Rapahoes. all had it.”
“And Reynolds ketched it from that infernal Sioux blanket.”
“But the beaver pelt?” Carson forced the words. “Where is it? How—”
“Listen. After Shunan lit out, I thought he’d hooked it. Nope. I found Reynolds lay in a stew and muttering; had the white pelt in his hands.''
“Who gave it to him?”
“He took it; his medicine made him do it. I tossed it back into a corner of the storehouse. When I found him last night, he’d got it again. Dying man’s medicine ain't to be gainsaid. I aimed to smoke out the sickness from it later. The varmint who scalped him got it and ran off. Now what do you figger. Kit?”
“Shunan looked in, saw Reynolds bedded with the pelt, recognized smallpox, and ran. That’s what he was trying to tell me.”
“Yep. He run to warn Plenty Eagle. The trail o’ that pelt’s a death trail. Let it go. Come spring, there won't be no more crowded Blackfoot lodges. You ain’t seen smallpox hit in prime territory, Kit. It’ll kill more'n bullets. But don't tell the men. They’d make tracks out of here; we’re in no shape to travel. We got to slide Reynolds under the ice without anybody seeing him.”
When they had done this, Carson turned and met the gaze of Bridger.
“Well, Jim? You and me thinking the same thing?”
Bridger scowled. “It ain't our doin’s. I don't savvy all this different medicine talk. Some tribes claim the white beaver comes later; some say the Blackfeet—”
“Hold on. Jim,” Carson said. “Don't hide the trail. Do we go out?”
“Won't do no good. They won't believe us.”
“No matter. We got to tell ’em. I'm leaving soon enough on my own business. I aim to have my grip in the Eagle’s top feathers. But—”
Bridger stood silent for a moment, scowling, then made the sign that the talk was ended, and turned.
HALF an hour later they rode out, 20 men riding after them. Laforay, Rube Herring and two others rode out also, each party to contact redskins if possible and seek a parley. Bridger evaded curious questions with specious excuses that allayed curiosity.
Carson always remembered that ride with a little shrinking horror, as one remembers what might have been but was not.
No word came from Rube Herring’s party. Their own outfit, later in the day, sighted Blackfeet, or more correctly a hunting party of Piegans. The peace sign. Bridger and Carson riding forth alone, gradually quieted suspicion, and a chief came out to meet them while his warriors took cover. Somehow, Carson felt as though the desperate earnest of them both had impelled that chief forward, as through their own frantic inward urge had brought him to quiet their very souls.
They talked, by sign and word. They warned of the smallpox, they told what had taken place. The Piegan chief listened, and his eyes glittered at them in derision.
“You are children,” he made response. “You are women. Your tongues are forked. You come with lies because the White Beaver medicine is ours. Go back to your lodges and wait until we come to take your scalps and give you to our women for torment.”
And making the “talk ended” sign, he turned and rode away.
“Satisfied?” asked Bridger grimly. Carson shrugged and assented.
Back in the fort again, they came on high talk and vociferous boasting. Rube Herring was back with his party, bootless. Plenty Eagle himself had jumped them, with a dozen warriors.
The four had fought off, had ridden off, had somehow got clear.
“I tell you,” braved Herring. “I seen the bullet, lift the sack on the varmint’s chest! He’s lead proof, dead sure.”
“What’s that?” Carson came alert. “You had a shot at Plenty Eagle?”
“As fair as ever I took at standing buck, Kit! I drawed fine and pulled, with the bead centering his medicine sack. I’ll swear the sack swung when the ball hit. But the devil just swung his hoss and rode off like nothing had happened.”
We’ll march nor’west for the heads of the Missouri.” Bridger announced. We’ll trap the season out. then swing down to Fort Hall on the Snake to refit with what’s needed, and make for summer rendezvous on the Green. All suited?”
They were off at last, as the first of the fresh beaver cuttings floated down the streams, and the hills greened. And as they went, no trace of Blackfeet.
One day, the advance party rode well in the lead. Carson. Laforay, Herring—20 in all. with rein loose and rifle at ease, eyes and ears on guard.
Suddenly Laforay pointed.
“Look! You see Injun on them rock, making sign of enemy come? They try to hold the way. Village close.”
“Wait! Look hyar!” Matson, one of the men who had ridden off to scout was waving at them.
They rode to join him. He had halted near a travois litter, abandoned beside the trail, a blanket-covered form on it. Carson shrank a little He knew what was coming. And he was right. Matson turned to climb back into the saddle, face beaded with sweat.
“Don't tech it! Dead buck in it. I looked in; died o' smallpox. Yonder in the bresh is a woman’s body. I’ll not take this trail! Death trail sure.”
Laforay said: “Live Injuns on that ridge. I go that far anyhow.”
“Me too,” Herring agreed. “That medicine had turned sour. But we’ll clear the ridge.”
Carson rode on in the lead, up the pass for the ridge. The men strung along.
A hundred or more Blackfeet up there, obviously. Taunts were hurled down. One voice, well remembered, came above the others, gibing at Carson.
“Ho, Little Chief! You are all women. Turn around. Go back to your pots. Up here are men.”
“If you’re a man and not a squaw, wait!”
Carson’s shout pealed up: he shook his rein, sent his horse forward. Laforay tumbled off his mount. “Wait, Kit! I go too!” Carson dismounted. Laforay was a host in himself. He heard Herring behind him, heard the other men cheering, laughing, as they ran with him and Laforay for the slope of death.
Carson heard his own voice yelling in the Snake lingo:
“Wait for me, Plenty Eagle! Stand in my way, squaw! Wait!”
The fire died down. They had reached the crest, came flooding over it.