Joe LaPorte sat in the back of the disabled prairie schooner, its broken wheel causing the wagon to sag toward the right. Four mules lay dead in their traces where his Blackfoot war party had shot them down. While his Indian friends plundered through the sacks and barrels thrown from the wagon, LaPorte thumbed through a cloth-bound family album that contained a stack of letters.
LaPorte stared at the pages of words, all of them meaningless to him since he could not read. Still, he leafed through them as if hoping to find some clue that might indicate that the young man lying dead beneath the wagon was the boy he searched for. Some were written in large, bold strokes, some in a more delicate script. He glanced down at the mutilated body before him and shook his head in disgust. This was not the boy. Angry, he threw the letters aside and climbed out of the wagon to join in the whooping and laughing of the circle of warriors as they indulged in the slow torture of the young man’s wife.
She had been a pretty little thing, and there had been quite an argument before he could convince his Blackfoot friends that she must be killed. Lame Fox’s nephew, Two Humps, wanted very much to keep the woman. But LaPorte insisted she had to be killed. He couldn’t leave witnesses alive. Otherwise, he would not be free to come and go in the white man’s forts. It was Lame Fox who saw the logic in this and ordered his nephew to take her life.
She was almost dead now, her homespun dress soaked with blood, as she knelt on the ground, her chin resting on her chest. Her screaming had stopped long before as she waited for the blow that would take her away from this world of suffering. When it came, she made no sound other than the rush of her final breath. She sagged to the ground, the axe still buried in her neck.
Four years was a long time to search for one white boy in a wilderness that stretched beyond the Rocky Mountains. LaPorte was halfway convinced that Jim Tracey—or McCall, whatever his name was—no longer existed. No doubt he had fallen prey to a war party and his bones lay bleaching in the sun somewhere in the vast regions of endless plains—or perhaps he hadn’t come west at all. LaPorte had long since given up on earning the five hundred dollars that Morgan Blunt had dangled as enticement to find and eliminate one fourteen-year-old boy. After four years, the boy was closer to a grown man than he was to a kid. How would he recognize him if he saw him? Still, Morgan Blunt journeyed out from St. Louis to find LaPorte each spring, admonishing him to find the boy. LaPorte had taken the lives of several young white men who had the misfortune to be traveling alone, yet none was the boy he so desperately searched for.
He opened the flat tin box and looked again at the money inside, a sizable sum saved up to start a new life beyond the mountains, no doubt. There was not much else of value to be gained by the murder of the young couple—a small amount of powder and shot, some flour, some salt pork, a bolt of cloth, and a few trinkets. LaPorte toyed with the idea of taking this young man’s head to Morgan Blunt and claiming it was that of Jim Tracey. He was tired of waiting for the reward Blunt had promised him. It was unlucky that the man’s hair was dark brown; Blunt had specifically told him that young Tracey’s hair was sandy. “Damn!” he uttered in disgust and turned to fetch his horse. He called to Lame Fox, “If your boys are through having their fun with the woman, let’s get out of here.”
* * *
It had not been a rewarding spring for Buck Ransom and Frank Brown. There were too many trappers in the mountains, and there were not many beaver streams that had not been trapped out. Some of their old friends had already given up on trapping as a way of life. To make matters worse, the price of beaver plews had dropped even further since the year before. Five years ago, a prime beaver pelt brought six dollars; last year it brought three. Sublette predicted that in a year or two you wouldn’t be able to give one away. Silk, he lamented, was what had killed beaver.
“Well, I reckon we’re gonna have to give up on beaver,” Frank said as they discussed the gloomy outlook. “Buffalo hides is the thing now.”
“Give up?” Buck retorted indignantly. “Why, I reckon not! Beaver’ll shine agin. Just wait till them silk hats start coming apart in the rain. They’ll be wantin’ beaver right enough.”
“I swear, Buck, sometimes I wonder if you ever notice what the hell’s goin’ on around you. We ain’t never had such a skimpy load of plews before, and this close to rendezvous.” Without thinking, he looked from side to side before adding, “And we had to come this far up in Blackfoot country to git these.”
They had both seen sign during the last couple of days, most likely hunting parties passing through the mountains. And just the day before Frank had been forced to lay behind a creek bank, neck-deep in icy water, to avoid being seen by a party of about twenty Blackfeet. For safety’s sake, it was time to cross back over to the western side of the mountains and start working their way down toward the Green River.
After looking over their packs to make sure everything was tidy, both men climbed aboard their horses. Buck took the lead as they filed out of the shallow gorge where they had camped for the previous two days. He had just cleared its rim when a musket ball whistled past his nose. By the time he heard the shot, he had already jerked his horse back down into the gorge again. He heard his pack mule scream behind him as an arrow buried itself in the animal’s neck.
Frank wheeled in beside him, bending low in the saddle. “Head for the creek bank,” he yelled and raced for cover with Buck on his heels. Behind them, the air quickly filled with musket balls and war whoops.
“Blackfoot!” Buck yelled as he whipped his horse frantically. The race was on, the Indian ponies swiftly closing the distance between them. Buck drove his horse recklessly over the rough gullies that wound down to the creek bottom. When he was within a dozen yards of Buck’s pack mule, one Blackfoot tried to get a shot off with his bow, but the roughness of the terrain spoiled his aim and he gave it up. Driving hard, the warrior instead caught up to the pack mule and grabbed the animal’s tail, hoping to slow the mule down. Buck pulled his pistol out and blasted the warrior off his pony. This caused the rest of the war party to pause momentarily before charging after them again. It was all the time the two trappers needed to reach the safety of the sandy creek bank.
They slid off their horses and quickly hauled them down behind the high bank. Buck tied the animals in a patch of willows while Frank scrambled back up to the lip of the bank to hold off their attackers.
“Give me your rifle,” Frank barked, “and hurry up with them mules!” He fired, killing a charging young buck with a ball in his chest. As the warrior fell, Frank grabbed Buck’s rifle and killed the warrior directly behind the first one. This stopped the charge while the savages reconsidered swarming the sharp-shooting trappers. Frank quickly reloaded both rifles. “Buck, what the hell are you doin’?”
“Just hold on, dammit! I’m trying to git this dang arrow outta my mule’s neck.”
“Damn that mule! You’re gonna be tryin’ to pull arrows outta your ass if you don’t git up here and help me!”
Buck crawled up beside his partner. He took his rifle from Frank and reloaded his pistol. “What are you frettin’ about, Frank? You stopped ’em, didn’tcha?”
“We thinned ’em out a little. They’re setting behind that bluff, tryin’ to decide if they’re gonna give her another try or wait till dark.”
“Hell, they ain’t gonna come at us agin,” Buck said. “That ain’t their style. They’ve done lost three. They’ll be waitin’ till dark to try to sneak up on us.”
“Maybe,” Frank allowed. He never took anything for granted.
“They’ve had enough,” Buck insisted. “I know Blackfeet. They ain’t willin’ to risk any more necks.”
No sooner had the words left his mouth when the savages rose up from the bluffs and mounted another charge upon the two trappers. “Oh, shit,” Buck blurted and fired, taking out the lead rider. Frank waited a few seconds, giving Buck time to reload, before he picked the closest brave and cut him down, reloading himself as soon as he had pulled the trigger. In seconds, Buck was ready to fire again. Firing at staggered intervals, they were able to inflict heavy losses upon the Blackfeet. When their leader called the attack off, there were four more warriors lying dead before the creek bank.
“You all right?” Frank asked when a lull in the fighting occurred.
“Reckon so,” Buck answered. “They shore tore up this cottonwood over my head, though.” He motioned toward the shattered tree trunk with his head while reloading his rifle.
Frank glanced up at the splintered bark only inches above Buck’s head. “There’s more than a few old fusees in that bunch. Somebody’s got a decent rifle.” He squinted toward the bluffs where the band of Blackfeet had once again retreated. “I reckon they won’t be trying that no more. Nuthin’ to do now but sit tight until dark. Then we’d best git our asses out of this place.”
Buck nodded. Frank had just about summed it up. The spot they had landed in by the creek was defensible against a frontal charge, like the two they had successfully repelled. But he knew that they would be sitting ducks if they stayed there much longer. Even if they defended both sides of the creek, they were still vulnerable from the upstream and downstream sides. Their only hope was to slip out under cover of darkness.
On the far side of the bluffs, Lame Fox was visibly distressed. After seeing their firepower, he had thought it unwise to rush the two trappers the second time. But LaPorte had persuaded him to take the risk, and now he had lost seven of his bravest warriors. LaPorte himself had not participated in the headlong assault, preferring to remain hidden in the bluffs, taking shots from a distance. He could not, he insisted, afford to be seen by the two white trappers in the event that Lame Fox’s warriors were not successful in overrunning them.
“Their guns are too strong,” Lame Fox complained. “It was not a wise thing to do. Now I have lost seven warriors, and the white men are still alive.”
“You should have kept going,” LaPorte replied coldly. “You almost had them when you turned back. They can’t reload but so fast, and your warriors were almost on top of them when you quit.”
Lame Fox did not take the criticism kindly. “Their guns are too strong,” he repeated, openly irritated. “They are better than the few old muskets we have.”
“We don’t wanna let those two old buzzards get away. They’ve got rifles—pistols too—and powder and lead, and horses. You need that stuff.” And I need those two scalps, he thought to himself. Ever since his confrontation with Buck and Frank four years before on the North Platte, he had been waiting to catch the two of them when he had Lame Fox’s warriors with him.
Lame Fox certainly desired the guns and powder, but the fire that burned in him now was for his seven dead warriors lying between the bluffs and the creek bank. They must be avenged. He would wait for darkness, when his warriors could surround the two white men and slip into their camp under the mantle of night. Upon LaPorte’s suggestion, however, he sent warriors out right away to station themselves upstream and down, as well as behind the trappers on the other side of the creek.
Frank lowered his head a bit when he heard the solid thump of another arrow embedding itself in the trunk of the tree above him. “There’s one of ’em down there somewhere near the bend of the crick. If he shows his pretty head, I’ll light up his ass for him.”
“Well, they’re on both sides of us now. Keep your eye peeled ’cause there’ll be some more workin’ around behind us.” He took his knife and worked a little more dirt away from the shallow trench he had fashioned, in which he planned to lay his rifle. “I’m sorta surprised they didn’t git a little discouraged when we thinned ’em out like that. Somebody must want our scalps pretty bad.”
Frank agreed. “They must. Too bad we’re gonna have to disappoint ’em.”
They settled back and waited. Both men knew they were pretty much painted in a corner with little chance of slipping out with their horses and mules. If it was the horses the Blackfeet were after, the two might be able to slip out on foot. But then it would be only a matter of time before the Indians tracked them down. Without admitting the possibility to each other, both men resigned themselves to meet the fatal end that many trappers came to in this wild country. At least they were prepared to make it a costly victory for the savages.
The afternoon wore on, and the shadows began to lengthen. The two trappers lay quietly behind their dirt fortifications, one on either side of the creek. The still of the afternoon was broken only occasionally by a grunt or a whispered comment by one of the men—or the urgent whine of an arrow passing overhead. When the sun started its descent behind the mountains, the silence was broken by the singsong chant of Lame Fox’s warriors on the far side of the bluffs.
“Sounds like they’s gittin’ wound up to go,” Buck said.
“I reckon,” Frank replied. “You wanna stick it out here or make a run fer it?”
“I’d just as soon stick it out here as long as there’s light to shoot by. When it gits too dark to see, maybe we can slip out while they’re slippin’ in.”
They waited, fully aware that their chances of slipping by the Blackfeet in the darkness were not very good.
The singing that had continued uninterrupted during the late afternoon suddenly stopped. Moments later, the crack of rifles and shrill war cries split the air. Frank and Buck bolted up, ready to repel the attack, each man frantically searching the bluffs before him, trying to find a target. But there was no sign of anyone. Still the shooting and yelling continued behind the bluffs, as if a major battle was taking place. Baffled, Buck crossed back over to Frank’s side of the creek. “What in tarnation are they doin’?” In only a few moments his question was answered.
Suddenly a handful of Blackfeet came charging over the bluffs. Frank and Buck readied their rifles. “Hold on a minute!” Frank yelled, for the Indians were not making a charge toward them. They were running for their lives.
“What the hell?” Buck said. The trappers wasted no more time talking but opened fire on the fleeing Blackfeet and managed to reduce their number by two more before they were out of range. There was no time to rejoice, however, for a party of fifty or more Indians appeared at the top of the bluff, racing down after the routed Blackfeet.
“Crow!” Frank announced. “No wonder they’re running.” Both men had the same thought—just when things looked as bad as it could get, they suddenly got worse. Though they were spared by the Crows’ onslaught, their lives were equally in danger from the very same band of warriors that continued to thunder after the Blackfeet. There were more than twice as many Crows as there had been Blackfeet, and Crows were not overly friendly toward white men at the present time, either. The trappers rapidly reloaded their rifles.
“Maybe we can sneak out of here before they see us—they’ll be so busy chasin’ their old enemies they ain’t gonna pay no attention to us,” Buck suggested.
“I don’t know,” Frank replied. “If they ain’t seen us, it might be smart to just lay low here till they’re gone.” He crawled up to the top of the bank to get a better look at the running battle between the two Indian forces. In little more than a moment, he eased himself back down behind the bank. “It’s too late. This stew’s still cookin’.”
Buck crawled up to have a look for himself. There, on a low rise overlooking the bluffs, half a dozen Crow warriors sat on their ponies, the rest of their party having disappeared over the rise after the retreating Blackfeet. The Crows were involved in an animated discussion, with one of them periodically pointing toward the two white men. Buck had a pretty good guess what the conversation was about. He slid back down the bank. “Well, partner, I thought we was in the clear, but I reckon we’re gonna be here a while yet.”
* * *
“There are only two of them,” Yellow Bear insisted. “I say we go down and kill them.”
Buffalo Shield glanced at Trace briefly before turning back to see how their chief would answer Yellow Bear. He had thought about the possibility of this confrontation with white men ever since he had taken Trace to live in his tipi. It had been a concern of his that the boy, though almost thoroughly embracing the Indian way of life, would have a difficult decision to make when this time came. Trace was now fully accepted by the band of Crows as one of them. But would his white blood dominate when it came to the question of fighting his own kind? He watched Trace closely as the boy walked his pony close up beside his adopted father.
Red Blanket was not as eager as Yellow Bear. He looked around him at the bodies of dead Blackfoot warriors. After a moment he spoke. “I see the bodies of nine of our enemies lying on the ground. I think we’d better think some more before we charge those two white men, or our own dead will be lying with the Blackfeet.”
Yellow Bear was beside himself. Two of the cursed hair-faces were boldly making a stand in the heart of Crow hunting grounds. “Are you saying that we should ride off and leave the evil dogs in peace?”
Red Blanket was patient with his fiery warrior. “I didn’t say we should leave them in peace. I only said that we should think before we fight them. I think we must wait until the others return. Then we can surround them. What do you say, Buffalo Shield?”
“I say we should join the others who are chasing the Blackfeet and leave these two in peace. After all, they have killed many of our enemies, and they have killed none of our people.”
Yellow Bear became enraged. “Buffalo Shield speaks like a woman because of his white son.” His face was dark with anger as he stared defiantly at Buffalo Shield. “I will not leave these dogs in peace. They are our enemies. I, Yellow Bear, will ride against them alone if none of my brothers have stomach for the fight.”
“These white men have committed no crime against us,” Buffalo Shield insisted. “If they kill our enemies, are they not our friends?”
Before Red Blanket could answer, Yellow Bear shot back, “The white man is no friend to any of our people! He is in our land, killing our game. They must die! If we let them live, more will come.”
Red Blanket listened patiently to the argument between the two warriors, knowing in his mind that he would not be swayed by either. What Buffalo Shield said was true—the two white men had done them no harm. But who could say that tomorrow these same two men would not aim their rifles at Crows? It was better not to trust the whites. “I think it is best to kill the white trappers. We need their horses and guns. We will wait until the rest of our warriors have returned.”
Trace backed his pony up a few paces. More than an interested spectator, he had listened intently to the discussion between the chief and his warriors. A hailstorm of thoughts was swirling inside his brain as he realized the significance of these moments in his life. For now he must choose—Indian or white? He had had recurring thoughts of this possibility during the last four years, but he had shunted them away in the back recesses of his mind, not wanting to think about it—hoping the moment would never come. He had had no contact with whites these past years, except on those occasions when the village traveled to Fort Cass to trade their pelts for supplies and ammunition. Even then, he had remained in the background, and the traders never suspected that he was not a Crow. He had hunted with his friend Black Wing, and he had fought with him against the Blackfeet and the Gros Ventres. He had found peace within himself while living with the Crows. But something inside told him that the blood he felt racing through his veins was white blood.
Now, listening to talk of killing two trappers, his mind was in turmoil, creating confusion. Thoughts of his father filled his mind now—and the vivid image of that time, four years ago, when he had found his father and Henry Brown Bear slaughtered by the Blackfeet. He knew right then that he could not participate in the killing of these white trappers. For a brief summer, he had been a trapper himself. And, but for the unfortunate meeting on the Platte that had taken Rufus Dees’s life, he would be trapping now.
Trace reined his pony back a few more paces, separating himself from the Crow warriors. He looked toward Buffalo Shield, who was even then searching the boy’s eyes, then back at Red Blanket. “I cannot do this thing,” he said. “These trappers are the same blood as my father and mother. If they were evil men—if they had committed a wrong against the Crow people—then I would not hesitate to fight them. But these men have not harmed us. I won’t raise my hand against them.”
Yellow Bear scoffed openly at the young white man. “It is as I said from the first day Buffalo Shield brought this whelp into our village. He could never be a Crow. He is white, like the two curs down there.”
Ignoring the insults of Yellow Bear, Buffalo Shield moved up beside Trace. Placing a reassuring hand on Trace’s arm, he said, “I understand what is in your heart. It’s all right. You don’t have to join in the fight.”
“If he does not, then he must be driven from the village,” Yellow Bear said, his voice filled with venom, “or killed along with his white friends.”
Red Blanket raised his arm, demanding silence. “Long Rifle will not be harmed. He is a friend. It is his decision to make if he fights the white trappers or not.” He was about to say more when he was distracted by movement near the creek bank.
“The white men are trying to sneak away!” The shouted warning came from a young warrior behind Red Blanket. All eyes turned immediately to the creek. One of the trappers was leading his horse through the willows on the other side of the creek. The other was not far behind him. They had not reached the end of the willows when the rest of Red Blanket’s Crows suddenly appeared before them, returning from their pursuit of the Blackfeet. Their escape cut off, the two trappers had no choice but to return to their positions on the creek bank.
Trace’s heart caught in his throat. During the brief moments when the trappers were scrambling back to cover, he got a glimpse of them out in the open. He recognized them immediately—it was Buck and Frank! Confusion swirled his emotions for only an instant. Now it became crystal clear what his choice must be. It was no longer a simple decision not to join in an attack on two white trappers, for now the trappers were no longer nameless, faceless trespassers. Buck Ransom and Frank Brown were his friends. There was no choice before him.
He pulled his pony even further back and his eyes sought those of Buffalo Shield. The man had been a father to him for the past four years. He shifted his gaze to the open, honest face of his friend Black Wing. His gaze was met with one of equal intensity, questioning the steely determination he now saw in Trace’s eyes. There was a long moment of silence as his Crow brothers waited for him to speak. When he finally spoke, it came from his heart.
“I know those men,” Trace began. “They are my friends. They once helped me when I was alone and desperate.” He looked directly into Red Blanket’s eyes. “I ask that you leave them in peace.”
“Ha!” Yellow Bear grunted, and would have added scathing words to his contempt, but Red Blanket silenced him with a raised hand.
“The white men do not belong in our land. They have no right to take our game. If we let these men go, then more will come. We cannot permit this.” Red Blanket turned to Buffalo Shield, knowing the old warrior’s affection for the tall young man. “I think your white son has a decision to make.”
Trace had thought at first to make a plea to let Buck and Frank go. But he realized it was not as simple as that. For now it was plain where his allegiance stood, and it would only be a matter of time before another such situation presented itself, requiring him to choose again. He was a white man. He could not fight white men. He turned to Buffalo Shield.
“The time has come for me to go back to the white man’s world. I feel a deep sorrow in my heart to leave you, my father, but I hope you will understand. I cannot kill my friends.”
Buffalo Shield sadly shook his head. “It is for you to decide. You must go where your heart tells you.”
“Take his weapons!” Yellow Bear said and pulled his pony around as if to block Trace’s path. “He will use them to shoot Crow warriors.”
Trace’s feeling of remorse was overcome by a sudden anger. Yellow Bear had antagonized him since his first day among the Crow, and he truly despised the fiery warrior. “You might take my rifle, but I promise you, you’ll get a lead ball first,” he said, his voice low and even as he raised the Hawken to aim at Yellow Bear’s belly.
“Let him go!” Red Blanket roared.
Yellow Bear, aware of the rifle’s firepower, reluctantly backed away and let Trace pass. When the two of them were shoulder to shoulder, the sneering warrior uttered a low warning. “Before this night is over, I will have your scalp on my lance, white dog.”
As the first of the returning Crow warriors galloped up the rise, Trace slowly walked the paint down toward the creek below the bluffs, past Buffalo Shield, knowing that the old warrior would probably watch his back in case Yellow Bear decided to put an arrow between his shoulder blades. As he passed his Crow father, they exchanged glances and Buffalo Shield nodded sadly. The pain Trace saw in the old man’s eyes was but a reflection of his own reluctance to leave a way of life that had taught him to live as one with the mountains. Black Wing turned away, refusing to look into the eyes of his friend. As Trace descended the bluff, he could hear some of the returning warriors asking where Long Rifle was going. Back to the white man’s world, he thought, and probably to my own funeral.
“Now what?” Buck asked when he spotted the lone rider descending the bluff.
Frank, following Buck’s line of sight, stared at the Crow warrior approaching them at a walk. “I don’t know. He ain’t carrying no white flag. Maybe he’s just showing the rest of ’em how brave he is.”
Buck snorted in reply. “Well, I reckon I can hang a little medal on him for his bravery.” He raised his rifle and sighted down on him.
“Hold on a minute,” Frank said, his curiosity aroused. “He don’t act like he’s fixing to try to count coup or nuthin’. Maybe he’s wantin’ to talk.”
“Probably wants us to surrender right peaceful-like so’s they can scalp us without losing any warriors.” He continued to hold the rider in his sights. “First queer move he makes, he’s a dead Injun.”
“Hold on, Buck.” Frank stared hard at the rider. There was something familiar about the way he sat his pony. Then he noticed the long shock of sandy-brown hair. “That ain’t no Injun!” he blurted out.
Their curiosity fully taking over, both men squinted in the late afternoon shadows in an effort to identify the approaching rider. As the rider neared the creek, he made the sign of peace. When he was within earshot, he spoke.
“How did you two old buzzards get yourselves in a fix like this?” It had been a while since Trace had spoken English, and the words felt strange on his tongue.
Still puzzling over who was addressing them, Buck replied, “It were easy.” His rifle still trained on the rider, he asked, “And who might you be?” He was suspicious of any white man who rode with a band of Indians.
“I swear, Buck, your memory ain’t no better than your manners. Hold your fire, I’m coming in.”
“Well, you just come on then, but you’d be advised to keep your hands where I can see ’em, mister.” Buck had seen his share of tricks played by Indians, and by white men who rode with them. He wasn’t about to be taken in by this sassy young buck.
While Buck had been doing all the talking, Frank had been studying the young stranger intently. When the young man guided his horse over the bank and down into the creek bottom, Frank muttered, “Well, I’ll be . . . is that who I think it is?”
Trace grinned and nodded. “Yep,” he said as he slid off his pony and stood before them.
“Jim! Well I’ll be go to hell,” Buck chimed in, his eyes wide in amazement. “Boy, we been lookin’ fer you fer four years. We ’bout decided you’d gone under.”
Even under the precarious conditions, Trace couldn’t help grinning. The two old trappers forgot the band of Crows above the bluffs for a moment and stared in disbelief at the tall young man standing before them. Dressed in moccasins, leggings, and breechclout, he was a far cry from the skinny fourteen-year-old they had stumbled upon back at Pierre’s Hole. Standing face to face with him, Frank had to look up to meet the young man’s eyes.
“Damn, what they been feedin’ you? Last time I seen you, you weren’t no higher than this.” He held his hand up to his chest. “Was he, Buck?”
Buck just stood there, grinning and shaking his head back and forth in bewilderment. Then both men descended upon Trace, laughing and pounding him on the back. The celebration was short-lived, however, broken up by the shrill sound of a war whoop. The three of them turned to see the Crow warriors amassed along the edge of the bluffs. The reunion would have to wait as the reality of their peril was thrust back upon them.
“What are they thinkin’ up there?” Frank wanted to know.
“Right now they’re deciding whether or not they’re gonna rub us out or let us go,” Trace replied.
“Us?” Buck asked. “Ain’t you ridin’ with them Crows?”
“Was,” Trace said. “I reckon I had to make a choice, and I guess I found out I ain’t a Crow after all.”
“So that’s how it is,” Frank said. “Well, welcome back, son, but you picked a helluva time to turn back white—just in time to go to your own funeral. You might be smart to ride on back up there and tell ’em you’re on their side. There’d be no hard feelings—would there, Buck?”
“Well, I guess not,” Buck said, “but I’d shore admire havin’ that there Hawken on our side.”
Trace smiled. “I’ve already made that decision. I reckon it’ll be the three of us.” That settled, the three partners dug in, and prepared to repel the attack they felt certain was coming.
They weren’t kept waiting long. The sun was now below the hills and the creek was cloaked in shadow. It would be dark soon. Red Blanket split his band into three groups—one group broke off and rode upstream, another galloped off toward the lower bend of the creek. That left most of the warriors to mount a frontal attack.
“He’ll wait until it gets darker and then try to slip in close,” Trace said. “That bunch will try for the horses when Red Blanket’s warriors attack us from the front.” He had ridden with Red Blanket’s war parties many times. He knew the chief would come in under the cover of darkness to reduce the risk of taking too many casualties. He also knew that Red Blanket respected the mountain men’s skill with their rifles and believed the darkness would work in his favor.
“You gon’ be able to shoot at your Injun friends?” Frank asked Trace. “You spent a long time with ’em.”
“I don’t know,” Trace answered honestly. “I wish I didn’t have to.” He hesitated before finishing. “But I reckon if they’re shooting at me, I won’t have much choice.”
While the three trapped men watched, Red Blanket split his group yet again, sending half of the remaining warriors galloping off downstream after the first bunch. “I reckon that bunch’ll be crossing over to come up behind us,” Buck said. “They’re gonna be sneakin’ up on us from all sides.” He looked over at Trace. “I reckon it were your unlucky day, running up on us and endin’ up in this kettle of stew.” Trace didn’t reply. He was busy seeing to his rifle and bow.
Frank was quietly studying the line of warriors left sitting their ponies, patiently waiting for the light to fade into total darkness. Red Blanket had divided his war party until there were only a dozen braves between them and the hills beyond. When he had made up his mind, Frank spoke. “I reckon it ’pears we’re caught down here in this crick. If we dig in here, we’ll make ’em pay, but we’ll end up with our scalps loose.” He got up and, staying in a crouch, moved over toward the horses. “I don’t cotton to waitin’ around here for them devils to come lift my hair. Let’s ride the hell outta here.”
Buck saw the smaller force of warriors facing them and came to the same conclusion Frank had. “By God, you’re right. We can bust through that bunch and hightail it up in the hills. If we’re lucky, we can take out three or four of ’em.”
No one took the time to evaluate the plan. It was better than sitting where they were. They scrambled to the horses and readied them to ride. There was a brief discussion of the wisdom of keeping the pack mules, but neither man was willing to part with his hard-earned plews.
It was already dark in the willows by the creek as they led the horses as quietly as they could manage, stopping just below the edge of the bank. Behind them in the western sky, a long line of gold- and red-tipped clouds provided the only light. “See that cut in the hills yonder?” Frank asked. “We’ll head fer that. If I recollect, that leads up a draw that comes out on open prairie. When we ride—and I mean ride like hell—stay in a line. In this half-light, they won’t be shore what’s coming at ’em.”
“I’ll go first,” Trace volunteered. “My pony is fast, and I don’t have to lead a mule.”
“All right, then,” Frank quickly agreed. He would have suggested that anyway, but he was glad Trace volunteered to take the point. “So’s we don’t waste shot aiming at the same folks, I’ll look to my left. Buck, you shoot to the right. We’ll blow a hole right through them devils.”
Trace had a deeper reason for wanting to lead the breakout. He had made a choice as to which side he must fight on, but he had no desire to bring any harm to his Crow friends, especialy Black Wing and his father, Buffalo Shield. As he watched from the cover of the creek bank, he noticed that Black Wing and Buffalo Shield had positioned themselves at the far end of the line of twelve warriors, opposite Yellow Bear. Trace would lead Buck and Frank straight toward Yellow Bear.
“All right, Trace,” Frank whispered, “let’s git the hell outta here.”
Trace leaped upon his pony and charged up out of the creekbed. Frank and Buck, already mounted, sprang up behind him, and the sprint was on. They tore across the darkened flat before the bluffs, Trace leading, riding low on his pony’s neck. Buck followed close behind, with Frank bringing up the rear. Luck was with them, for the Crow warriors were taken by surprise. They had given no thought to the possibility that the cornered trappers would mount an attack. Total confusion spread among the waiting warriors. At first Red Blanket thought there was a single rider galloping toward them in the darkness. When he realized there were more than one, it was too late to alert his braves. He yelled to the others to shoot, but by that time, Trace was almost upon them, heading right at Yellow Bear.
Yellow Bear, struggling to hold his startled pony, fought to bring his musket to bear on the charging rider that was suddenly bearing down on him. He fired the weapon, but the shot was yards wide of his target. He didn’t even see the war axe that bounced off his skull, knocking him off his horse and leaving him senseless on the ground as two more horses and two mules thundered by him. Behind him, Trace heard the reports of two rifles, followed by cries of pain, and he knew Buck and Frank had both found their marks. He felt a slight twinge of guilt when he heard the shots, but he didn’t have the time to worry about it.
The initial breakout was successful, but now it became a question of pursuit. Although taken completely by surprise, Red Blanket quickly rallied his warriors to give chase. His band, having been split to surround the creek bank and too far away to be of any help now, was reduced to nine warriors. Two of these, Buffalo Shield and his son, Black Wing, were less than enthusiastic about overtaking Trace. Red Blanket was smart enough to realize that, and it weighed heavily on his mind as he raced headlong after the fleeing white men. In effect, he knew he had only seven braves against three sharp-shooting mountain men, odds that he did not relish. The three, only vague shadows bobbing up and down in the darkness now, were running toward a long draw that no doubt provided any number of likely ambush spots. He had lost two warriors for certain, and Yellow Bear might be dead as well. If he continued to follow these white men up that dark ravine, he would be lucky to lose only three more. The stakes were too high. After only about ten minutes’ chase, he called out to his warriors to let them go, even though they were clearly gaining on the three fleeing white men.
When his braves gathered around him, Red Blanket spoke. “It is foolish to ride into the dark after them. Their guns are too strong. I could not be your chief if I led you into a slaughter. We’ll let them go for now. Maybe we can find their trail tomorrow.”
Buffalo Shield said nothing, but when he turned to meet the gaze of his son, he saw the hint of a smile on Black Wing’s face.