Rufus led the way, following the Platte River to Fort Laramie, a journey he planned to make in two weeks or better. Trace rode behind on the paint, leading the bay. He had assumed that Rufus would want him to lead three of the pack animals while Rufus led the other three. But Rufus insisted that the mules would trail just fine. They had done it many times before. This suited Trace, as it afforded him an opportunity to occasionally string the bay behind the last mule, leaving him free to range out to the sides and work the paint a little.
Trace was satisfied that he had bought two good horses with his money. He found that while the bay was as good a horse as a man could hope for, the paint was the more nimble of the two. In a race, the bay might nose ahead of the paint after a mile or so, but the paint would beat the bay out of the gate and could cut as quick as a rabbit. Riding across the endless expanse of prairie, Trace was soon free of worrisome thoughts of the Blunts and St. Louis. The only things that occupied his mind were the horizon before him and the river that led to the mountains.
On the third day out, Trace spotted a Pawnee hunting party on the far horizon while he was ranging away from the mules. He quickly guided his horse down into a gully and dismounted. Leaving the paint to nibble at the grass, he crawled back up to the edge to see if the hunting party had spotted him. About a quarter of a mile away, the Pawnees gave no indication that they were aware of his presence. They continued on, riding in a direction that would cross Rufus’s intended trail if they held to it. He looked back to see how close the mule train was. There was no sign of Rufus, but Trace knew he couldn’t be far behind the slope that he had crossed moments before when he had first seen the Pawnees.
Scrambling back down to the gully, he jumped on the paint and, riding low beneath the crown of the slope, hurried back to warn Rufus. He met him near the foot of the slope, about to lead the mules up it.
“Injuns!” Trace called out as he galloped up. “Keep them mules below the rise.”
Rufus was immediately alert. “Where?” he replied, looking right and left. Trace told him there were about six or seven and they would most likely cross their trail about a mile ahead. Rufus, relieved to find that an angry horde of redmen was not about to descend upon him, slid his rifle back in its deerskin sheath. “Pawnee, I expect—probably a hunting party. We’d best hold up and give them a chance to clear our path.” There was little danger as long as the hunters did not discover their presence.
During the days that followed, there were a couple more incidents when small hunting parties were sighted at a distance. Trace always seemed to spot the Indians before they saw him, and Rufus soon came to appreciate his sharp-eyed young friend. Each time Rufus had made the solitary trek to Fort Laramie in the past, he never failed to count himself a fool for making the trip alone, counting on sheer luck to save his neck. He truly wished the boy would consider throwing in with him, even though that would make the trip only one shot safer. The safest thing to do was to wait until a sizable train made up in Westport or Council Bluffs, with twenty or thirty teamsters for protection against the Pawnee and the Sioux. But that was not Rufus’s style. He was an independent businessman. This way he could make a trip whenever it was convenient for him, and he had always felt that a smaller train like his would be less likely to attract the attention of a large hunting party. Small parties of five or six hunters did not cause him concern. He carried two rifles and two pistols, enough to discourage a party of that size.
The days were still comfortably warm for the most part, but the nights brought a crisp chill that made the campfire feel real friendly. At dusk after the horses and mules had been brought in close to the fire and hobbled, Trace would ride out and take a wide circle around their camp to make sure there were no uninvited guests lurking about. It was a habit acquired during his time with Buck and Frank. When Rufus commented that Trace seemed overcautious, Trace expressed his astonishment that Rufus never took such precautions himself. “You’re wearing your scalp a little loose,” he told him.
By the time Chimney Rock appeared in the distance, Rufus had—without realizing it—relinquished all responsibility for selecting campsites and line of travel to the boy. In addition, Trace provided meat when he deemed it safe to fire his rifle. Rufus had begun to wonder how he was going to make it back to the Missouri without the companionship of the alert young man.
The journey almost over, Trace began to feel excitement welling up in him again. In two days’ time they should sight the wooden palisades of Fort Laramie. Most of the trappers would have scattered into the mountains for the fall season, but someone at the fort should be able to tell him where Buck and Frank were trapping. He had made up his mind during the ride from Council Bluffs that he would cast his lot with the two old buzzards. Pleasant thoughts of trapping filled his mind when he topped the rise and found himself facing three Sioux warriors.
They were as startled as he was. When Trace reined back hard on the paint, sliding to a dead stop, they did likewise. In that same instant, Trace saw fifteen or twenty warriors at the bottom of the rise behind the three—all painted for war. He remembered then that Rufus had said the Cheyenne and the Sioux were making war on some of their old enemies during the past summer—as well as all white men. Time stood still as the boy stared wide-eyed at the savages, the Sioux staring back in wonder at this white boy so near the banks of the Platte. The fact that Trace did not immediately turn and run probably saved his life.
Thinking there were perhaps many white men on the other side of the rise behind the boy, the Sioux hesitated—surely the white boy was not alone. The three braves in front began talking among themselves, and then one of them gave the sign of peace. Trace returned the sign, and the Sioux moved forward to meet him. He could feel their eyes examining his Hawken rifle and pistol. Backing the paint slowly while still keeping an eye on the approaching Sioux, Trace knew he was going to have to make a run for it. He had learned enough from Buck and Frank to know that the Indians were peaceful just as long as it took them to find out how many men were with you. When they topped the rise and saw that he was alone, the whole mad horde would be swiftly upon him.
This was a war party, ready for mischief, probably on their way to steal horses from the Pawnees, their old enemies. It was just Trace’s misfortune to get caught in the middle. There was always the chance that they would simply pass him by, having more important business to take care of. Yet Trace knew the folly of that line of reasoning as soon as the thought passed through his mind. No lone white man was safe on the prairie. He could feel his scalp tingling already.
Frank had said that Indians respect bravery in a man, so you must never show fear in confronting one. Trace thought about that as he continued backing toward the top of the rise. His better sense told him that they might respect him if he attempted to stand before them, but he would also be respectably dead. His fears were confirmed when he reached the summit. One of the Sioux could contain himself no longer. He suddenly notched an arrow and let it fly, the shaft narrowly missing Trace’s head. Like a signal, the brave’s action triggered loud whoops from the warriors behind him, and they whipped their ponies into a gallop. Trace calmly raised his rifle and knocked the foremost warrior off his pony. Outraged, the war party charged up the rise like a swarm of angry hornets.
Trace wheeled his pony, and the paint sprang into flight without any encouragement. They bounded down the back side of the rise at full gallop, Trace bending low in the saddle, hoping to avoid the arrows and musket balls that chased after him. He was thankful for the roughness of the terrain that prevented his pursuers from taking dead aim. Trace still held his rifle in his hand but he did not attempt to reload it while galloping over the gullies and knolls, afraid he might drop the weapon in the process. With his free hand, he managed to slide the Hawken’s rawhide sling over his shoulder and draw his pistol from his belt.
Hoping to gain some ground, he suddenly jerked the paint around in a quick turn and charged off in a different direction. It had the desired effect of catching his pursuers by surprise, widening the distance between him and the warriors chasing him—all except for one. Out in front of his brothers, the Sioux anticipated the change in direction and angled across to intercept the speeding paint. He was well mounted and gradually gained on Trace. Trace glanced back to see the determined warrior, a war axe in his hand, lying low on his pony’s neck. There was no time to be frightened. Trace called on his pony for all the speed he could give him, but the paint could not match the speed of the Sioux brave bearing down on him. Trace wished he had ridden the bay that day.
When he chanced another look behind him, he could see that the two of them were outdistancing the rest of the war party, but the lone Sioux brave was almost behind him. Not willing to risk a missed shot with his pistol, Trace waited until the Indian pony’s neck was abreast of the paint’s rump. He looked back into the warrior’s face, a mask of scornful fury, his eyes wide in anticipation of the kill, his cheeks adorned with jagged streaks of red and black war paint. His arm was raised to deliver a crushing blow with his stone war axe. Trace aimed his pistol at the Indian’s stomach and fired. He would never forget the look of shocked disbelief that replaced the brave’s angry expression as the Sioux rolled off his pony and landed in the grass.
His situation was improved, but only by a little. Seeing the second of their number fall victim to the fleeing white man caused the war party to drop back in the chase. But the pursuit was quickly taken up again with renewed fury. Trace, realizing that he could not risk leading the savage mob back to Rufus and the mule train, veered once again and headed directly north, away from the river.
It was a horse race now. The thing Trace was not sure of was the paint’s endurance. He had never fully tested it, and he longed again for the bay. Still, the little pony maintained a steady gallop, stretching out across the rolling plains. Glancing behind him, he could see his pursuers still coming on, maintaining the pace but not closing the distance. How much longer could his horse hold out? He could see flecks of foam flying from the animal’s mouth already. He glanced back again. He was not outrunning them. He had to go to ground.
Veering from his course once more, he headed the pony toward a narrow defile at the base of a hill, the Sioux no more than a hundred yards behind him now. The tired horse almost stumbled as he scrambled over the side of the gulch. Trace leapt out of the saddle immediately. He scrambled back up to the brow of the defile, hastily measuring powder and selecting a lead ball. After seating the ball and patch with the hickory rod, he laid the rifle aside and loaded his pistol. Satisfied that he had done all he could do for himself, he took up his Hawken and prepared to die.
The Sioux raced down to the flat before the hill, and charged toward the defile in which Trace had taken cover. Suddenly they pulled their ponies to a stop, still seventy-five yards away. Their ponies dancing and eager, the warriors appeared to be discussing something among themselves as they held their restless mounts back. Trace was puzzled by their hesitation. They’ve already lost two of their number. They must have a helluva lot of respect for my rifle, he thought.
He could have easily picked off the leader at this close range, but he decided to wait and see what they were going to do. Why didn’t they advance? He looked to his right and left, thinking they might be waiting while some of their friends crept around to rush him from the sides. He couldn’t spot anyone. Still they waited. A few minutes more passed, and then, to Trace’s astonishment, the Sioux started slowly backing away. Maybe they had seen Rufus coming along behind and decided to go after him first. Maybe they simply respected his firepower and had decided not to lose any more warriors. He began to feel confident again, thinking that maybe he had faced down the entire band. He looked back quickly to make sure his horse was all right. When he did, a shadow caught his eye, causing him to glance up. There, on the crest of the hill behind him, was a long line of fifty or more warriors, silently sitting their ponies, watching the retreating line of Sioux.
Saved from the frying pan moments before, Trace was now in the fire for sure. In a panic, he scrambled across to the other side of the gully and prepared to meet an attack from the other direction.
Staying as low as he could, he raised his rifle and aimed at the warrior in the center of the file. The others all seemed to be watching him for a signal, so Trace figured him to be the leader. He remembered stories told by the trappers that sometimes a whole war party could be totally demoralized by the death of their war chief. Reluctant, however, to trigger the chaos that his shot was bound to ignite, Trace hesitated, deciding to let them fire the first shot. It occurred to him then that they had given no sign that they had even spotted him below them in the narrow passage. Instead, they seemed intent upon the party of Sioux, who now looked slightly disorganized, as if deciding what to do.
Trace lowered his rifle. He looked hard at the silent line of warriors above him and decided they were Crow. Even if they did sight him, he would be of little interest to them at this point, when a small band of their traditional enemies was before them. Badly outnumbered, the Sioux made their decision. Suddenly they turned and bolted toward the river. Trace heard a chorus of war whoops above him, and the Crows immediately swept over the crest of the hill in hot pursuit of the fleeing Sioux.
Trace was totally confused, uncertain what his course of action should be, caught as he was between two warring tribes. It appeared that he was out of danger for the moment. He watched wide-eyed while the band of Crows charged down the hill to the left of his position, ignoring him while yelling and whooping after the Sioux. When the last of the line had descended and were racing across the flat, Trace led his pony out of the defile and jumped into the saddle. He pointed the paint toward the side of the hill and angled across the path of the retreating Indians. His one thought now was to cut back toward the river to try to intercept Rufus, who must have heard all the commotion and was no doubt seeking a place to hide.
Racing along a wide ravine, he emerged upon the open flat, only to discover the battle had reversed its momentum. The large band of Crows was now on the run back toward him. Beyond them, toward the river, he could see what looked like an army of Sioux chasing them. “Sweet Jesus!” Trace exclaimed, looking around him in a frantic effort to find cover somewhere. Off to his left, there was a line of trees that indicated a stream. He headed straight for it.
The beating of his heart seemed to be in rhythm with the pounding of the paint’s hooves in the sandy bank of the stream as he searched for a place where the bank was steep enough to protect him and his horse. Hearing the cries of the retreating Crows only yards behind him, he guided the paint down in the shallow water where a cottonwood leaned out across the stream.
Hastily tying his pony’s reins to a willow whip, he crawled back to the base of the cottonwood to a position from which he could fire. To his immediate dismay, the retreating Crows had the same notion he had. Within seconds, the now disorganized band of fleeing warriors descended upon the bank of the stream. Warriors yelled to each other, horses screamed protests, lead balls snapped overhead. The desperate Crow ponies jumped and slid down the banks, seeking cover from the fierce pursuit. As quickly as possible, the riders were off their ponies and scrambling to defensive positions behind the banks. Painted warriors fell in on either side of Trace, only a few yards away, their bows ready to repel their enemy. They apparently took no notice of the white boy in their midst.
Like his unlikely allies, Trace was more concerned with the charging mob of Sioux, and he leveled his Hawken and took aim. The foremost of the attacking Sioux were now within two hundred yards of the stream. Trace set his sights on the lead man and squeezed the trigger. The Hawken spoke and the Sioux warrior rolled backward off his horse. Trace quickly reloaded. As he did, he glanced briefly to his right to meet the astonished eyes of the Crow warrior beside him. Clearly, the Crows had never seen a rifle with the long-range accuracy of his Hawken. There was no time for introductions. Trace aimed again and knocked another Sioux off his pony.
The second kill caught the attention of many of the other Crows in the stream, and out of the corner of his eye, Trace could see first one and then another of the embattled warriors as they craned to see from where the deadly fire was originating. Ignoring them, he reloaded as quickly as he could and fired again. Three enemies dead, and the Sioux were not yet in range of the Crows’ bows and muskets.
Equally as confused as the Crows, the Sioux slowed their charge somewhat when three of their number were killed before they were within fifty yards of the stream. Clearly, their attack was disrupted, for one of the dead was their war chief. The assault continued, but without its initial resolve. The Crows, on the other hand, saw their wavering as a sign of defeat. One among them, an older warrior with three eagle feathers in his long graying hair, leapt up and yelled a challenge to his brothers, admonishing them to rise up and kill the hated Sioux. Almost as one, the Crows rose from the banks, their war cries splitting the air as they sent a deadly rain of arrows toward the approaching Sioux.
In the confusion that followed, Trace was not sure what had actually taken place, or when he decided to join in the countercharge. He only remembered that he fired his rifle as fast as he could reload it amid the swarm of arrows and musket balls until everything went black.
* * *
“How long will you drag this white boy with us?” Yellow Bear asked. He stood gazing down at the injured young man on the travois. “It has been two days and still he babbles like a crazy man. I think he is already in the land of the spirits. It is only his mouth that won’t die. I think we should leave him here.”
Buffalo Shield listened patiently to Yellow Bear’s words, well aware of the young warrior’s distrust of all white men. He, too, looked at the young boy lying on the travois. He looked to be no older than his own son, Black Wing. “He fought beside us against the Sioux. It would not be right to leave him. It was his rifle that turned the Sioux attack when it looked like they might overrun us at the stream.”
Yellow Bear scowled. “It was not the white boy who made the difference—it was that rifle. Anyone could have done it with the medicine gun.”
Buffalo Shield gently reminded, “You tried to shoot the gun and could not get it to fire.”
“The gun is useless,” Yellow Bear retorted, a look of disgust on his face. “There is no flint to make the powder burn. The boy must have broken it.”
“We’ll keep it with him anyway. Maybe he knows how to fix it,” Buffalo Shield decided.
Yellow Bear stood a few moments longer, staring down at the injured white boy. “His head is broken,” he concluded, and turned to mount his pony. “We have rested long enough. It’s time to get started again. If you want to continue to take care of this dead white boy, it is for you to decide. If it were up to me, I would leave him here and take his horse. It is a fine-looking animal.”
Buffalo Shield made no reply, but prepared to get on his horse. After he was mounted, he picked up the reins on Trace’s pony and joined his fellow warriors on the trail north, leading the injured boy on the travois. He had been very impressed with the unusual young man who had joined in their fight with the hated Sioux. The strange new gun the boy carried reached out and killed two Sioux warriors before they were even in range of the few rifles the Crows had. His people had not had guns for very long, but they knew how to use them. This boy’s weapon used powder and ball, like theirs, but the piece that held the flint was not there. Buffalo Shield was confident that the boy could explain it, if he ever came back from the land of the spirits. He believed the boy’s unusual skill with the rifle was caused not by any strong medicine he possessed but merely by this new gun that they had not seen before. Buffalo Shield was interested in any new gun that would kill an enemy from two hundred yards away. He had decided to look after the sick boy until he either recovered or died. The boy deserved that—he had fought well. He had no one to look after him, anyway, for Buffalo Shield was sure that the white man’s body they had found scalped near the river must have been the boy’s friend—maybe his father.
For two days, as the Crow war party journeyed northwest, on their way back to their village on the Powder River, Trace bounced along on the travois—sometimes sleeping, sometimes murmuring incoherently on the edge of consciousness. Buffalo Shield was about to admit that Yellow Bear had been right, that it had been useless to drag the boy this far. But on the morning of the third day of their journey, when Buffalo Shield bent low to observe his patient, he was met by two wide blue eyes staring up at him.
Trace was at once alarmed. Upon awakening after what seemed a deep sleep and finding himself staring eyeball to eyeball with a Crow warrior, he was certain he was about to be scalped. He started to bolt upright, only to be stopped by a stabbing pain in the back of his skull that sent flashes of lightning before his eyes. He realized then that he had been injured. He sank slowly back down on the travois, aided by the gentle hand of the Crow warrior.
“Ah, you are back,” Buffalo Shield said, smiling at the boy. “We thought you might be dead.” The puzzled expression on Trace’s face told him that the boy did not know his language. “Do you understand my words?” he asked. Again there was no response. Buffalo Shield continued to gaze upon the injured white boy for a few seconds longer before smiling reassuringly at him and rising to his feet. He turned to his son, Black Wing. “The boy does not speak our tongue. Go and ask Big Turtle to come make talk with him.”
In a few minutes Black Wing returned, followed by a short, solidly built warrior. “So the white boy is not dead after all,” Big Turtle said. He walked up close to Trace and stared down at him. “He looks like he is still a little crazy from that musket ball that bounced off his skull.”
“It’s hard to tell,” Buffalo Shield replied. “He doesn’t talk, or even groan—and I don’t think he understands our tongue. Maybe his head was cracked.”
Big Turtle looked back at Trace and smiled. To Buffalo Shield he said, “We’ll find out.” Speaking now in broken English, he knelt down close to Trace and asked, “Can you understand my talk?” Trace’s eyes lit up at once, and he nodded his head. Big Turtle continued. “Can you talk?”
Again Trace shook his head yes, then said softly, “Yes.”
“Good,” Big Turtle said, nodding vigorously. He turned to Buffalo Shield. “Good,” he repeated in the Crow tongue. Buffalo Shield nodded in response.
Big Turtle explained to Trace that he had been grazed by a Sioux rifle ball and had been asleep for a long time. Trace’s memory of the fight near the Platte slowly returned to him, and he remembered shooting his rifle repeatedly, but nothing after that. Big Turtle explained that Trace was struck down from behind by a Sioux warrior, who was just about to reload and finish the boy off when Buffalo Shield sank an arrow into the Sioux’s heart.
Trace shifted his gaze to the tall, lean warrior standing over him and smiled. To Big Turtle, he said, “Tell him thank you.” After waiting while Big Turtle relayed his thanks, Trace asked, “Am I a prisoner?”
Big Turtle quickly flashed a wide smile. “No, you are welcome guest—big medicine—shoot gun that kill far off.” He nodded toward Buffalo Shield. “His name Buffalo Shield. He take care of you for two days. Not sure you alive or dead.”
“Two days?” Trace gasped. “Have I been laying here for two days?”
Big Turtle nodded. “Three, counting today.”
“Damn,” Trace exhaled, then remembering, “Rufus!” His eyes wide in alarm, he asked, “There was another white man, driving a mule train—is he . . . ?”
“Dead,” Big Turtle affirmed. “Sioux find him.”
Trace sank back. This news was distressing. He felt a deep sadness for the loss of Rufus Dees, who had been so kind to the young boy setting out on his own. Then another thought struck him. “You say the Sioux killed him?” Big Turtle nodded. “Did they take everything?”
Big Turtle shrugged. “Reckon so. When we find him, there was nothing else.”
The Sioux had obviously made off with all of Rufus’s supplies, as well as his own bay horse, his traps and supplies, and the extra ammunition for his rifle. The thought of being unarmed caused him to glance sideways—at least the Crows had let him keep his Hawken and the lead and powder.
While Trace was silently contemplating his present situation, Big Turtle related their conversation to Buffalo Shield. When Buffalo Shield asked a question, Big Turtle turned to Trace and asked, “What is your name?”
“Jim. . .” he said without thinking, then quickly added, “Trace.”
“Jim Trace?” Big Turtle asked.
“No,” Trace replied, “just Trace—my name’s Trace.” It might not be important that this wild band of Crows knew his real name, but there was no use taking the chance that they might pass it along to some white man. As feeble as he felt, Trace decided he was lucky to have been picked up by the Crows. When he thought about it, there could be few places better to hide from the Blunts than with a band of Crow Indians.
After having been unconscious for two days, Trace was badly in need of nourishment. Buffalo Shield and Black Wing soon brought him food and water. Rebounding with the healing capacity of youth, Trace spent only one more day on the travois before he was able to discard it and ride his horse again. Though his head still felt a little fragile, it was better on the paint than on the jolting travois. Most of the time, Black Wing rode by his side. Trace took an instant liking to the son of Buffalo Shield. He had a constantly pleasant disposition, and the two boys, while unable to talk to each other, still managed to communicate to some extent through nods, smiles, and gestures.
In the evening, Big Turtle would talk to Trace. He explained away the confusion Trace had felt when caught between the two warring tribes. The smaller group of Sioux that Trace had accidentally encountered were waiting to entice the Crows to chase them into an ambush, laid for them by the larger force of Sioux warriors. The Sioux were returning from a horse-stealing raid in Crow country, and the Crow war party, led by Yellow Bear, had been riding to overtake them.
Big Turtle said it was lucky for them that Trace had surprised the Sioux, getting them to chase after him, for it had brought them out in the open. Buffalo Shield, upon seeing the band of Sioux that chased Trace into the defile, counseled Yellow Bear to reconsider attacking the smaller party. He argued that this was not the same party of Sioux that had stolen their horses—they had no extra horses with them. But Yellow Bear had blood in his nostrils and would not wait. He led the charge down the hill and after the Sioux, only to be met by the larger band, waiting in ambush along the riverbank. They were lucky to escape with only a few dead. Buffalo Shield maintained that the main reason the Sioux decided to break off the attack on the disorganized Crows taking shelter in the stream was the rifle of the white boy.
Trace realized then why he was a welcome guest and being treated cordially by all the braves. All except one, that is—Yellow Bear. During the ride back to the village on the Powder, Yellow Bear presented nothing but a scowling face to Trace. Big Turtle said it was because he had a strong resentment toward all white men. He considered them inferior. Big Turtle himself was barely tolerated by Yellow Bear because of his own family history. Big Turtle told him that his father had been a white trapper who hunted for the Hudson’s Bay Company. His father lived with the Crows until his death at the hands of a Gros Ventres warrior. But the fact that most warriors believed Trace and his medicine rifle were the reasons they had defeated the Sioux at the stream, only added to Yellow Bear’s resentment of the young man.
The party of Crow warriors, along with the lone white boy, were on the trail for two more days before descending a line of low-lying bluffs that bordered the Powder River. On the opposite side of the river, in a grove of cottonwoods, Trace saw the lodges of Red Blanket’s village. The camp stretched along the riverbank for what Trace estimated to be at least a quarter of a mile. At that moment in his young life, it seemed to be as far from St. Louis as the moon was from the earth. No one would find him here.
Through Big Turtle, Buffalo Shield invited Trace to come to live in his lodge with him and Black Wing. Black Wing smiled broadly, nodding vigorously, as Big Turtle translated. Trace accepted graciously, but voiced some concern as to what Buffalo Shield’s wife might think of the arrangement. Buffalo Shield was quite puzzled that the boy would think Dull Moon would object. In fact, when told of Trace’s part in the fight with the Sioux, Dull Moon was honored that he would come to her tipi.
Over the next few days, Trace was introduced to a way of living that was much to his liking. The simple, honest openness of the Indians’ way of dealing with life’s daily decisions appealed to Trace. They ate when they were hungry, slept when they were tired. When the grass was grazed out and the game became scarce, they packed up and moved to a new place. It seemed a natural way of life, one that he immediately embraced.
Trace’s reputation as a marksman was established soon after he joined Red Blanket’s village when he participated in a hunt for buffalo. The nights were becoming chilly by then, and the women of the village were busy working hides and drying meat for the fast-approaching winter. Buffalo had been sighted only two days’ ride from their camp on the Powder, so the entire village packed up and moved north. Having fully recovered from the nearly fatal blow to the head, Trace was eager to join in the excitement of the hunt. He had never hunted buffalo, though he had heard Buck’s tales of killing the great beasts of the prairie.
Black Wing was as eager to introduce Trace to the excitement of the tribal hunt as Trace was to go. He was helping Trace adorn his pony with bright jagged slashes of lightning in red and black paint when Yellow Bear rode by.
“So you go on your first buffalo hunt,” he observed in a dry tone bordering on sarcasm. “How do you think to kill the buffalo? You have no weapon.”
Although Trace was learning the language rapidly, he was unable to catch all of Yellow Bear’s words. So Black Wing answered for him when he saw that his friend did not understand. “He will use his gun, the one that killed the Sioux warriors.”
“Huh!” Yellow Bear snorted. “The gun is no good. It won’t shoot anymore. He has broken it.”
Trace, listening carefully, and watching their gestures as they talked, guessed what Yellow Bear’s remarks concerned. Big Turtle had told him of Yellow Bear’s earlier comments about the gun that no longer had flint to ignite the gunpowder. He held his Hawken up and pointed to it with his other hand, gesturing that it was big medicine. Yellow Bear snorted contemptuously and wheeled his pony, riding rapidly away.
A short distance away, readying his own horse for the hunt, Buffalo Shield had paused to watch the brief meeting. He was confident in the belief that the white boy would make the gun shoot. He would keep Trace close to him during the hunt, for he was curious to see how the boy would make the rifle fire again. Watching the two young boys preparing for the hunt brought a smile to the old warrior’s face.
Scouts had been sent out ahead to find the buffalo and to determine the best plan of attack. They returned to the camp, which was now packed up and on the move, to report their findings. The most efficient way to kill as many animals as possible—stampeding the herd over a cliff—was not an option because of the absence of such terrain. Since the country near them offered no natural places to box in the buffalo so they could be slaughtered easily, it would have to be done on the run. Each hunter would fly into the herd and kill as many as he could from a galloping pony. This was the method that pleased Black Wing most. It was by far the most exhilarating.
Trace and Black Wing fell in with the other hunters and rode out to where the animals had last been seen. The scouts, leading the way, signaled for quiet as they made their way around a low line of hills that prevented the beasts from sighting them. Downwind of the grazing herd, the Crow hunters circled around until they were abreast of the largest concentration of the animals. They waited while six other braves came up from behind the herd to drive the buffalo toward the waiting hunters.
They waited for what seemed like an eternity to Trace. Finally the sound of musket fire broke the stillness, accompanied by the whoops of the riders coming up from the upper end of the valley. The hunters moved into position, straining to hold their skittish ponies back. Trace checked his load and seated the lead ball properly. Then he reached into his bullet pouch and retrieved a percussion cap. Buffalo Shield, watching the young man closely, muttered, “Ahh. . .” when he saw the small copper cap placed in position. Yellow Bear will not be pleased with this, he thought, smiling.
Red Blanket warned the anxious hunters to be patient and instructed them to hold their nervous mounts until the foremost buffalo had passed their position. Trace could see the herd now, so many that they filled the broad valley from side to side. As Trace watched in awe, the beasts in the rear started to run, causing those directly in front of them to bolt into those ahead of them. And so it progressed, like a great wave that begins slowly, picking up momentum until it crashes on the shore.
Red Blanket held his hand up, holding his hunters until the buffalo were within range of their bows and muskets. In the excitement of the moment, a young hunter behind Trace, struggling to keep his horse from backing into the hunter behind him, accidentally discharged his musket. A couple of hunters in the rear, thinking the signal had been given, charged over the crest of the hill, straight down toward the valley. Red Blanket tried to stop them, but it was too late. The leading buffalo turned and stampeded away from the waiting hunting party.
There was no choice but to follow and join in the chase. Hunters raced to get within range of their bows and the poorly made fusees, the muskets many of the Crows had traded from the Hudson’s Bay Company. Trace gave the paint his heels, and the little pony tore off across the valley after the thundering herd. When he had closed the distance to within an effective range for his Hawken, he looped the reins around his saddle horn and brought the rifle up. They were such huge targets, how could he miss? He squeezed the trigger and dropped a large cow from a couple of hundred yards away. He reloaded as quickly as he could while hanging on to the racing pony with his knees. Another shot, and another buffalo tumbled, and again he reloaded. Still, they were not close enough for the Crow hunters to shoot.
By the time the main body of hunters had closed within range of their weapons, Trace had accounted for four of the huge shaggy animals. He was caught up now in a wild torrent of grunting dark bodies, veering right and left in a crazed panic, while daring Crow riders—their naked torsos painted with their own individual designs—darted in and out, loosing their deadly missiles. And then suddenly, on an unseen signal, the hunt was over. Trace pulled up and watched as the stampeding beasts turned down a narrow draw and thundered out of sight in a cloud of dust.
In spite of the premature warning that had set the herd off too soon, it was a successful hunt. A carnival atmosphere now descended upon the valley as the women and children began skinning and butchering the fallen beasts. Hurrying to the great dark mounds, the women were quick with their knives. The children waited eagerly for choice hunks of the still-warm livers, laughing delightedly at the blood-smeared faces of their playmates. It was all a fascinating spectacle to Trace.
To his surprise, Trace found himself the object of considerable attention. Many of the men came up to him to pat him on the shoulder and express admiration for his shooting. They were curious to examine the Hawken rifle, nodding to each other with smug expressions of approval. Of these hunters, Buffalo Shield was the most interested. He called Big Turtle to come and talk to Trace.
Trace explained that the rifle was an improvement over the older flintlocks, and he showed Buffalo Shield the small percussion caps that replaced the flints of the weapons that some of the braves were using. The rifle’s much greater range was not due to the percussion cap, though, he explained. The Hawken was a rifle of enviable accuracy and power, far beyond that of their muskets.
“We have not seen a gun like this before,” Big Turtle said, as he ran a finger along the octagon-shaped barrel. “You’re the first white man we’ve seen in a long, long time. Are all the white trappers carrying these new guns?”
“Well, no,” Trace replied, “not all of ’em—but all that can get their hands on one.”
Trace came to realize a general acceptance by Red Blanket’s village after the hunt. Red Blanket, unlike Yellow Bear, held no deep hostile feelings toward the white man. He merely felt it prudent to avoid him whenever possible. In Trace, he recognized the potential to become a Crow brave, and he welcomed the boy and his rifle. Yellow Bear, on the other hand, was still unbending in his distrust for anyone of pale skin, and continued to show his contempt for the boy by ignoring him.