MIKE MOLLOY, SHELTERED behind stacked bales of fur, stared glumly at the painted warriors on shore, then at the river, and finally ranged the crippled packet. He had made a remarkable recovery, both from the gunshot wound and the other injury which had rendered him unconscious, but Montana could not blame him for being discouraged.
“I don’t know whether I’m exactly hoodooed or not, but I sure seem to be the stepchild of bad luck,” he observed, the longest sentence which Montana had ever heard him speak. “You’ve gone to a lot of trouble to look out for me, Montana. But I seem to be dragging everybody down with me.”
“You’re blaming the wrong people,” Montana protested. “And luck has a way of turning.”
“Does it? It can run on a mighty long, straight road—and a rough one.”
Molly was surprisingly serene. “Grandma used to say that we lived one day at a time,” she observed. “In those days, I didn’t understand her—but I’m beginning to.”
As the sun climbed and their numbers increased along the near shore, the Indians were working themselves to a state of frenzy, confident of ultimate victory. More arrows were discharged, reaching the stranded boat without difficulty, but doing little damage. The big bales of fur, which would never reach St. Louis, provided useful shelters. But when rifles began to join in, the attack took on a more ominous tone.
There were not many, and most if not all of them were old-fashioned smooth-bores, not very accurate, especially in the hands of untrained men. But the guns were more than a token. While daylight lasted, it would be impossible to leave the Belle and reach shore. Taking to the small boats in such water would have been bad enough under favorable conditions. Now, if they succeeded in the initial part of the effort, they would be wiped out wherever they tried to land.
Captain Russell was displaying a coolness in the face of real danger which he had lacked when the threat was mostly in his mind. He posted a watch, then addressed everyone else in the big saloon.
“We’re in a tight spot,” he admitted, “but not a hopeless one. The first thing to remember is to keep our heads, to remain cool. We have quite a strong force, with plenty of guns. Don’t waste ammunition by shooting back, unless it’s necessary. When they attack, if they do, we can repel them. That stretch of water between us and the shore is just as treacherous to cross one way as the other.
“We’ll have to wait for night, then risk a landing somewhere below. They are on both banks, but they can’t patrol both shores with much force, or move as fast as the current will carry a boat. If we have a little luck, they won’t be able to tell, in the dark, when we start, or where we’ll try for a landing. And there’s another thing.”
He flung both arms in an expansive gesture.
“What they don’t know is that there’s another packet on the way up-river. The Star of the West should be along any day now, any hour, in fact. Today, if we’re lucky. So you see our position is far from hopeless.”
That news gave them needed encouragement. Most responded to the captain’s confidence. Embery confirmed that the Star should indeed be along at any time.
“Another thing: she’s captained by Bill Foster,” he added, and his facial grimace indicated that Foster was no favorite of his. “He’s a good friend of Cap Russell, so he’ll do his best to help, if things work out.” He smiled thinly. “Wouldn’t make me mad at all to see smoke around the bend.”
But there was no smoke heralding the Star’s approach as the day wore on, nothing but the savage push of the current against the crippled hulk, and the efforts of the Sioux to come at their prize. Though he kept his conclusions to himself, Montana found a new reason for apprehension. He was certain that the river was rising steadily, even rapidly. There was a different, more ominous slap of water against the barrier which had been set in its path, and by midday it was apparent to everyone that the wave crests were spattering at least half a foot higher against the sides.
Either the snow thaw in the high mountain tributaries was quickening, or there had been a heavy rain along one of those drainages. They were beginning to feel the effect, and the crippled Belle swayed and groaned. Had she been intact, the additional flow might have been enough to get them off the bar. It still might, but in the process, they would break up, the whole craft disintegrate.
The Sioux were increasingly savage with frustration. Here was the river boat which was the particular object of their hate, but vengeance was just out of reach. It would be a rich prize if they could get aboard, not counting scalps. There were many desirable objects of loot, as well as a fortune in furs, if those could be gotten ashore.
Montana had an idea that it was the value of the pelts which was purchasing them a temporary respite. The warriors would not go all out so long as they believed they had a chance of securing such a prize. But when time began to run out, hate and the thirst for vengeance would take primacy over mundane matters.
A second night was approaching, and with it, they must try to get off the boat. It might not last out the night. The battering force of the current, still rising, might nudge it into movement, which would be followed by disintegration.
“But there’s nothing to worry about until night, at any rate,” Montana said reassuringly. “It may be quite a night, though, so I’d suggest getting some sleep while we have a chance.”
He took his own advice, but roused during the afternoon. Some of the warriors were attacking, launching canoes and rafts from farther upstream. It was a reasonable gamble, for if even one boatload could reach and board the Belle, others could soon join them.
But bravery was not enough, though they might have matched the guns of the defenders. The savagery of the current proved worse than had been expected. One raft capsized, spilling its load, and they were swept downstream like chips. A canoe swept alongside, but was smashed before they could slow it or gain a hold.
A second raft smashed into the big paddle-wheel, still further proof of the current which those on board must contend with in taking off.
The triple catastrophe had a sobering effect on the mounting battle fever; the result was a predictably deadlier mood. The river might accomplish their vengeance, but the Sioux were as unwilling to chance that as to wait.
Clouds were tumbling out of the southwest, a black wall which moved relentlessly. Against the double threat of darkness and rain, the warriors turned to their ultimate weapon, fire.
An arrow soared across the gap, blazing like a small meteor, plopping into the water alongside. It was followed by a shower as the more expert bowmen tried their luck. Some flamed briefly and fizzled in mid-air; others fell short; but a fair number reached their objective.
The stacked bales of hides and other freight afforded shelter for the defenders, but the disarray was also a hazard. Should a fire go unnoticed until it had a good start, they would be in a desperate plight. Everyone worked frantically, running to stomp out the arrows, or throw water where it was required. Most blazes were halted before they could gain headway, but sooner or later, such an assault by fire would succeed. Should an arrow fall between bales, it could smolder unnoticed, then erupt savagely.
All at once it was a battle for survival, those on board shooting whenever they could find a target. But some of the Sioux were finding targets for more than their arrows. Curtis cried out, the harshness back in his voice. It ended in a strangled bubbling, as he loosed off a final shot from a revolver, then fell back. An arrow transfixed his lungs.
Fires were increasing, most of them small, but some nearly out of control. It was a race now against the advancing storm. A curtain seemed drawn over the lower river, but there was still no rain. It might be too late already.
It was time to take to the boats, to trust to the doubtful mercies of a darkening river and hostile shores. Picking a target on the shore, where the frenzied warriors showed with reckless boldness, Montana squeezed off a shot. Actually, a hit did not make much difference. Though suffering several casualties, more than they themselves were inflicting, the numbers on shore were overwhelming.
An angrier shout caused him to turn. It had been caused by a scene of raging confusion near the bow. The fires were flaring higher, casting a fantastic glow all across the decks, with intervening patches of gloom. Even a deluge now would not help. The bales of skins, slow to ignite but stubborn once they were afire, could hardly be quenched.
Outlined in the flames, Slim LaVoie had seen what was happening and cried out. Outrage shrilled his tones.
“Why, you blasted, lousy double-crossers!” Raving, he emptied his revolver toward a ghostly craft already vanishing in the darkness. Its speed was hastened as much by dipping paddles as by the jerk of the river. “You dirty dogs, goin’ off with the gold, leavin’ us to die, double-crossin’ your pals—”
Catching sight of Montana, he checked the tirade suddenly, even had the grace to color. Then he went on recklessly, with the fatalism of a man who sees death closing in from every side.
“All right, so I spied for them,” he flared. “That’s how they knew that you were taking the gold out. I double-crossed my own side for a share of the loot, and now they’re payin’ me and most of their crew with the same coin! They’ve taken the boats, and we’re stranded, to fry or drown!”