Chapter One

Big John McTavish was in no hurry. He moved slowly along the dry wash, his gaze swinging back and forth over the ground in front of his quilled moccasins. It was early yet, and still cool, but he detected a hint of warmth in the slanting rays of the morning sun, a halcyon promise in the deep blue dome of the sky. Although it had already snowed once that season, he had high hopes for the next few days, and intended to be home well before a second blustery storm swept the high plains, cloaking the land in a mantle of white.

It was peaceful along the broad streambed. To the south he could hear the trilling of red-winged blackbirds and, closer, the familiar chomp of the horses as they grazed at the ends of their picket ropes. The wind was barely a murmur, coming out of the west like the rustle of mice in the next room.

Big John was a Scotsman, tall and raw-boned like his father, with an angular face tanned to leathery hue by the sun and the wind. His dark eyes were framed by a webbing of crow’s-feet, his hair, beneath his frayed Glengarry cap, was salted generously with gray, falling loosely over his collar. He wore sturdy center-seam moccasins, fringeless buckskin trousers, and a brown and white checked shirt under a red duffel coat. A black wool bandanna circled his throat, and at his waist was a wine-colored sash of woven buffalo wool, worked throughout with blue and green chevrons.

He was a trader, or had been until his recent retirement, living along the Red River of the North that separated the dense forests the Sioux called minnesota from the vast, treeless plains to the west. He’d dealt almost exclusively in furs and pemmican and buffalo robes, passing on in turn good Sheffield knives, sheet-iron kettles, fusils—those smooth-bored trade guns so popular among the tribes—and a sight of other merchandise, as well. His inventories had included beads and vermillion and paper-backed mirrors small enough to fit in the palm of a hand or weave into the mane of a favorite pony. There had been needles and awls and axes, linen thread and iron arrowheads and daggers the Indians sometimes fashioned into lances. Scarlet and blue trade cloth and ornamental silver trinkets in various designs that could be used to decorate an Indian’s hair or clothing.

Over the years Big John had traded among the Chippewas, the Assiniboines, even the Crees, who ranged far to the west, but those days were largely behind him now. In this autumn of 1832 he lived only to live, to watch with a keen but accepting eye the changes gradually overtaking the valley of the Red. He was a hunter like the others, and mostly it was a good life and a fair living, although hard and dangerous. He had hoped to die a hunter as well, living off the great, wandering herds of bison that had once darkened the flat plain bordering the Red River, supplementing the profits of the hunt with what small grains and garden truck he could raise in the summer. But times were changing and sometimes he wondered if he hadn’t lived too long, put too much faith in an economic system he’d once thought was limitless.

Coming to a flattened oval of buffalo dung, he flipped it over with his toe. A black, hard-shelled beetle scurried into the grass, but that was all. The slightly dome-shaped chip was old, and most of the nutritional value that attracted insects had been washed away long before.

Big John picked it up, adding it to the collection of dung already gathered in the sling of his coat hem. A little farther downstream, Gabriel was also scrounging for chips. On the nearly treeless prairies west of the Red River Valley, dried dung was often the only fuel available to travelers.

From the corner of his eye, Big John saw his tall roan stallion lift its head curiously, ears perked to the west. Its nostrils flared as if to catch some errant scent. Seconds later, Gabriel’s horse also threw its head into the air. Stopping, Big John glanced at his partner, but the youth was concentrating on the horses, his face grave with concern.

Returning to the horses, Big John dumped his collection of chips to the ground. By now, even the small bay they were using for a pack horse had turned its attention westward, although none of the horses was able to see above the tall cutbank Big John had chosen to shelter their fire.

“Listen,” Gabriel said, coming close.

Big John strained to hear but picked up only the soughing of the wind. “What is it, lad?”

“Horses.”

“Wild, are they?”

Gabriel shook his head. “No, they are ridden.” He looked at Big John, a trace of uneasiness shading his smooth, dusky features. He didn’t need to elaborate. This was Sioux country, and they were intruders.

“Tighten the cinches on the horses,” Big John instructed curtly. “We may have to make a run for it.” He picked up his long, double-barreled rifle and hurried to the cutbank. He had to stretch to peer over the top.

A moment later, Gabriel leaned into the bank at his side, and Big John heard the boy’s sharp intake of breath.

It seemed obvious to Big John that the man on the Appaloosa wasn’t going to make it. The spotted pony’s gait was choppy, and its head was bobbing erratically. The pursuing Indians were quickly gaining. Reluctantly Big John slid his double rifle over the top of the cutbank.

“They are Chippewas,” Gabriel said softly, without looking around. “They are our friends.”

“Aye, but there’s another out there who’s needin’ our help,” Big John replied. He cocked the rifle’s right-hand hammer. “I’ll not turn my back on a stranger’s needs, just so our friends can help themselves to his scalp.”

“Maybe he deserves to lose his scalp.”

Big John’s lips drew thin. “I’d do the same if it was four white men runnin’ down a Chippewa, lad, and ye know it. ’Tis the odds I’m protestin’, nothing more.”

Gabriel didn’t reply, to Big John’s relief. He brought his sights loosely to bear, waiting for the Chippewas to come into range. After a moment, he added: “I’ll send my first shot across their bow if I can. Maybe that’ll stop ’em.”

“Thank you, Big John,” Gabriel replied. Big John wasn’t surprised when the Appaloosa went down, but he was disappointed. He’d hoped he might be wrong about the man’s chances of reaching the cutbank where he and Gabriel were holed up. He had a feeling the Chippewas wouldn’t be so eager to fight if the odds against them were suddenly tripled. But it wasn’t to be. The Appaloosa’s front legs buckled and it went to the ground, spilling its rider.

“Ah,” Big John breathed, wrapping all his regret into that single exhalation.

The stranger on the Appaloosa tumbled wildly across the short buffalo grass, and for a moment Big John feared he might have been killed in the fall. Then he rose to his hands and knees, shaking his head as if dazed.

“Hurry, man,” Big John urged. “Ye’ve no the time for woolgatherin’.”

The stranger looked up as if he’d heard Big John’s muttered admonitions, then scuttled across the grass to grab his rifle. Big John felt Gabriel’s desperate glance, but couldn’t tear his gaze away from the drama playing itself out before him. It soon became apparent that something was wrong with the stranger’s rifle. He lifted it, lowered it, then lifted it again.

“Misfire,” Gabriel breathed as the stranger surged to his feet, raising the weapon above his shoulder like a club.

“So it would seem,” Big John agreed, swinging his sights on the distant warrior.

The tip of the Chippewa’s lance was less than half a dozen yards away from the stranger’s chest when Big John squeezed the trigger. The rifle boomed, spewing a cloud of gray powder smoke across the prairie. Through it, he saw the warrior topple from the buckskin’s back, saw the second Chippewa yank his horse to a plunging, head-tossing stop. Lowering his rifle, the stranger began to work frantically on his lock.

Big John sighed, feeling Gabriel’s gaze, the silent accusation in his eyes. “There was no time, lad,” he said with little enthusiasm.

Gabriel stared at him a moment longer, then looked away. “He is thinking about it,” he said, referring to the second warrior.

“I fear ye be right,” Big John agreed, cocking the left-hand barrel. Although the second warrior was farther away, he wasn’t moving. Big John knew he would be within the double rifle’s range if he wanted to risk a shot, but he wasn’t interested in prolonging the battle, not if it could be avoided. He waited tensely as the Chippewa appeared to calculate the odds with a show of noble indifference. Finally the Indian reined away, walking his horse back to where the last two warriors had halted well out of range. Big John exhaled loudly and lowered the hammer.

“Fetch the horses, Gabriel. We’d best be gettin’ out there before they change their minds.”

He clambered over the top of the cutbank, then paused to reload in plain sight. The stranger was looking his way, cradling his own long gun in a non-threatening manner. The Chippewas were also watching him, their stance more curious than aggressive. After returning the ramrod to its thimbles beneath the steel web holding the rifle’s twin barrels together, Big John glanced behind him. Gabriel had already swung onto the saddle of the piebald black gelding he called Baldy, and had Big John’s roan in tow. He led the stallion across the dry streambed and up through a break in the cutbank. Back on the little flat where they’d been gathering chips for a breakfast fire, the bay nickered questioningly, but didn’t try to pull loose from its picket.

Big John mounted the roan gratefully, feeling more in control with a good horse under him. The buckskin the first warrior had been riding had circled around to the south and stopped some distance away. Pointing toward it with his chin, Big John said: “See if ye can catch yon pony, lad. I’m thinkin’ we’ll have a man here as’ll be needin’ it.”

Nodding, Gabriel angled off toward the buckskin as Big John set a straight course for the stranger, drawing up only yards away. Meeting the man’s gaze, he offered a faint smile. “’Mornin’, and a lively one ye’ve had, I’d say.”

“Some,” the stranger allowed, letting the dinged stock of his rifle butt rest on the ground between his plain, grease-blackened moccasins. He was short and gaunt and wiry-looking, with a deeply weathered face surrounding the twin pools of his faded blue eyes. A long, bushy tangle of gray hair splayed out from beneath a broad-brimmed, low-crowned hat of cheap wool felt. He wore buckskin trousers with fringe along the outside seam and an old red cotton shirt under a hooded white capote.

The stranger was studying Big John closely in return, his gaze lingering almost enviably on the roan. “That was some slick shooting,” he finally allowed, drawing his eyes away from the stallion and nodding toward the fallen Chippewa.

“Aye,” Big John replied immodestly. “A hundred and fifty yards, I’m guessin’, although he was movin’ toward me, which made it easier.” He rested the double rifle across his quilled pad saddle and nudged the roan closer, extending a hand. “Me name’s McTavish, although if ye’re to know me long, it’ll be Big John ye call me.”

“Pike,” the stranger returned simply.

“Pleased, Mister Pike, and happy I am not to be buryin’ ye this fine but frosty mornin’. Tell me, are there others who might be needin’ our assistance, or do ye travel alone?”

“I’m alone,” Pike replied shortly.

Gabriel’s voice came to them across the distance, tinged with impatience. He was trying to drive the Indian pony toward Big John and Pike, but the buckskin wasn’t having it. Every time Gabriel came near, it would lift its head, then trot off out of reach. And every time it did that, it would draw a little closer to the watching Chippewas.

“Easy, Gabriel,” Big John said, edging a hand back to cover the twin hammers of his rifle.

The Chippewas were starting to show some interest now, as if contemplating a quick charge. Then, like a child abruptly tiring of a game, the buckskin shook its head and galloped toward the Chippewas. Howling shrilly, the bronzed trio quirted their ponies forward, circling the buckskin and driving it away while Gabriel scampered Baldy in the opposite direction.

“Damn,” Big John hissed, then offered Pike an apologetic shrug. “We could have used the pony, if yon beasty was all ye owned.”

“It was,” Pike said grimly, turning his gaze on the fallen Appaloosa. “They got two pack horses and all my traps at first light.”

“Ye’re not from around here, then?”

Pike gave him a brief look. “Nope.” He started for the dead horse. “I’m from the west.”

“A beaver trapper?”

“Some.” Pike leaned his rifle against the Appaloosa’s hip, then bent to loosen the cinch on a heavy, gourd-horned Mexican saddle.

Big John looked away, watching Gabriel’s cautious approach on the dead Chippewa. Pike paused, too, and in that instant Big John saw Gabriel as he knew Pike must, with an outsider’s untinted clarity.

Big John had always thought of Gabriel as the boy he had been—quiet, responsible, prematurely dignified, a wise man’s soul in a youth’s body. Now, through Pike’s eyes, he saw him as he had become—slim and capable and proud.

He was a half-breed sure, with his thick, raven-colored hair cut straight at the shoulder and his dark skin reddish-hued, after his mother’s people. His eyes were black as English flint, his teeth white and even between thin lips. He wore a dark blue factory coat with brass buttons and a tail split for riding, with an embroidered floral design of dyed moose hair added to the cuffs and collar, then wisping down both lapels. Beneath the coat was a yellow calico shirt and a red sash peppered with blue and green.

Gabriel wore wool trousers the color of a mourning dove’s wing and buffalo-hide moccasins that came up under tight-fitting, knee-high leggings. A blue cloth cap with a leather brim held his hair in place. His long gun was an English-made Brown Bess, at least thirty years old; he’d shortened the barrel soon after obtaining the piece, then added brass tacks along the stock and forearm and a quilled leather sling to carry it across his back.

Dismounting, Gabriel rolled the Chippewa onto his back. Looking up with a troubled expression, he said: “We know him. He is one of Tall Cloud’s nephews.”

Big John grunted sharply. “Are ye sure?”

“He is of the Turtle Mountain clan. I am sure of that.”

A sudden regret unfurled within the lanky Scotsman. He glanced at Pike. “I’ve traded with old Tall Cloud and his kith many a winter. It doesn’t set right to be makin’ war on ’em now.”

“Seems to me it was them making war,” Pike said.

“Aye, and no denyin’ that, I suppose. ’Twas the breath of old Clootie hisself ye must have been feelin’, and no good way to die, butchered like a pup for the kettle at the hands of men ye don’t know. Still, ’tis a sorry business. Especially for me and the lad.”

Pike shrugged unsympathetically and turned away. He’d worked the saddle’s underside stirrup free, but the cinch remained pinned beneath the Appaloosa’s body. From time to time as he struggled with the horsehair cinch, Pike would lift his head to look around, but, save for their own little knot of humanity, the wide, gently rolling plains were empty. Not even the shadow of a cloud marred the landscape, and the Chippewas had vanished as if swallowed by the earth itself.

“’Tis the huntin’ of the buffalo they protest,” Big John said after a while, wanting Pike to understand the Chippewas’ position.

“I wasn’t hunting buffalo,” Pike responded without looking up. He braced a foot against the Appaloosa’s hip and gave a hard yank. This time the cinch pulled free, almost dumping him on his butt.

“True,” Big John acknowledged, “but even last season, I’m thinkin’, they would’ve rather traded with ye than tried to rob ye.” Eyeing Pike closely, he added offhandedly: “If ’twas them what blackened their faces first.”

Pike straightened and hooked his thumbs in his belt. “And not some outsider who bit off more than he could chew, you mean?”

“Aye, Mister Pike. I’m wonderin’.”

“It was them that jumped me, McTavish.”

Big John studied the gaunt trapper for several seconds, then nodded. “Fair enough, Mister Pike, and no insult meant.” Looking past them, he studied the distant rim of the horizon. “There were others, ye say, besides these four?”

“A couple of dozen altogether. They jumped me at dawn while I was breaking camp. Most of ’em stayed to go through my packs, but these four hung on like burrs.”

“How far back do ye suppose they’d be, them that stayed to strip ye packs.”

Pike thought about it for a minute. “I was half the morning getting this far at a pretty hard run. I reckon they’d still be several hours away.”

“And the others, lad?” Big John asked Gabriel. “Where are they?”

Gabriel nodded toward a little scab of bare earth about a mile to the south. “They’ll wait there until we leave, then come for the body.”

Big John studied the patch of dirt Gabriel had pointed out, realizing only then that it was the mouth of a coulée. Nodding thoughtfully, he turned to Pike. “Me and the lad were about to fix ourselves a bite to eat when we heard ye comin’, but it might be best if we pushed on a spell. If ye’ve no other engagements pressin’, ye’d be welcome to join us. I’ve a bay pony yonder that I’d be happy to make ye the loan of. ’Tis only a light pack he’s carryin’, and most of the cabbri what young Gabriel here added to the larder last night can be divided amongst us. What do ye say, Mister Pike?”

Although Pike hesitated, he really didn’t have much of a choice. They were a long way from beaver country here. A long way from just about anywhere. Picking up his rifle, then hefting the saddle to his shoulder, the trapper said: “I reckon I’d be obliged to ride with you, McTavish.”

Big John smiled. “Good. Fetch yeself along then and we’ll be off.” He reined his horse around to lead the way to the little flat where they’d picketed the bay. But with his back turned, Big John’s smile faded. He knew his killing of the young Chippewa would not soon be forgotten across the northern plains. Like a stone tossed carelessly into the middle of a still pond, it would ripple outward for a long time, and no way of knowing what it might eventually disturb.