The Blackfoot Trail

The day arrived near the end of September when Joe decided he had done all he could to ensure that the party of settlers would have enough to survive the winter. Now there was little time left to tend to his needs. Taking only a small supply of the dried meat, some salt, a large sack of coffee beans, and, at Callie’s insistence, a sack of dried apples; he packed it all on the paint. Malcolm, Bradley, and Jake, along with many others of the community, gathered to see him off as he climbed aboard his horse.

“You’d be a helluva lot of help,” Malcolm Lindstrom spoke up, “just like you’ve been so far. I don’t know how these folks would’ve fared without you leadin’ ’em here and supplying all that meat.” He had more than a casual interest in hoping to see the recluse mountain man again. He and Pete had families back in Dakota, and he wasn’t sure he could remember how to get back through the mountains to the point where they had first found Joe Fox. If he decided not to take this party to Oregon, Malcolm and Pete could sure use his help finding their way home.

Joe nodded soberly to the folks gathered around his horse. “I’ll be back for my horses, anyway,” he said as he glanced around to find Callie Simmons. She was watching him closely, a smile upon her young face. Their eyes met briefly and he gave her a slight nod. She responded in kind. Then he abruptly turned the paint’s head and was off.

He left with a conflict of emotions raging in his brain. Never feeling at ease in a large gathering of people, he was relieved to be free of them. On the other hand, he was encountering emotions of melancholy that he was reluctant to attribute to parting from Callie Simmons. His meeting Callie had introduced a new sensation never experienced before, and he was not at all sure he was comfortable with it. She had stopped by his campfire several times in the weeks that followed her visit with coffee and a biscuit. Bright and cheerful, she had given no indication that those occasions were anything more than being friendly. He was not ready to admit it, even to himself, but there was little doubt that he would come back. His horses were just an excuse to see her again.

Callie turned then to confront her mother’s stern features glaring at her, and she realized that she had been caught fondly gazing after the tall scout. “Mama . . . ,” Callie complained indignantly. Her mother had already warned her against having any interest in a half-savage wanderer with no roots planted anywhere. She spun on her heel and headed toward the cave, seeking to avoid another lecture from her mother. Much to her annoyance, Cora followed.

“I saw you making sugar eyes at him,” Cora insisted. “Who knows what a man like that would do if he had any idea you were sweet on him?” Callie tried to walk faster, but Cora stayed right on her heels. “Malcolm Lindstrom told Bradley and your papa that Joe Fox was raised in a Blackfoot Indian camp. Did you know that? A wild savage—I doubt if he knows right from wrong. I pity the poor woman who takes him for a husband.”

Cora stood, hands on hips, watching her daughter until she disappeared into the earthen hovel that served as the family’s winter quarters. She had always been in tune with Callie’s moods and tendencies, and she was truly concerned about her apparent infatuation with the soft-spoken man of the forest. Even knowing how much Joe Fox had already done for her family and friends, and how grateful they were for his help, she was thankful that he was not remaining in the camp all winter. Callie was only eighteen years old. Maybe she would forget her silly notions about the man over the coming months.

Winter came in with a grudge that year, dumping heavy snowfalls in the mountain passes, accompanied by howling winds that sculpted giant towers in the icy drifts that clogged even the oldest of trails. Although the valley was protected from the raging storms that stalked the mountains around it, still substantial mounds of snow covered the collection of caves along the river bluffs. Malcolm commented that the little community resembled a village of white mole hills. There was little activity in the congregation outside the earthen hovels beyond venturing out for firewood, or answering nature’s calls. The caves were warm enough, and more than a few felt obligated to thank Joe Fox for refusing to lead them off into the mountains. Not one soul complained that they should have tried to push on through to Oregon.

Unless the weather was unusually poor, Sunday services were held every week, and thanks were offered for the group’s survival. Everyone made an effort to attend, except the sick and, of course, Starbeau. Although apparently unable to venture out on a Sunday, it was noticed by all that the surly malcontent found a way to get to the trading post to trade items from his packs in exchange for whiskey. The rest of the time he stayed in his cave, glaring out at passersby as if blaming each one of them for the cruel conditions. His shoulder fully recovered soon after the men in the party finished his dwelling. All the members of the stranded mule train rapidly came to regard him as they might a great bear in his cave, and were content to leave him to his solitary drinking.

Near the end of February, the weather improved a bit, to the extent that more wood-cutting parties could be organized, as well as occasional trips to Templeton’s store to buy what staples he had left on his nearly bare shelves. On a day such as this, when the sky opened briefly to confirm that the sun still resided over the high mountains, Callie Simmons felt the need to venture out to flush her lungs with fresh, cold air. Stepping carefully through a patch of snow, she felt a strong urge to turn and gaze toward the western mountains. Her eyes settled upon a dark object standing out against the whiteness of the snow-covered hills. It attracted her attention because of its gentle swaying motion. At first she thought it to be a fir tree waving in the wind. But then she realized that the tree seemed to be moving toward her. Her curiosity completely captured then, she stared hard in an effort to identify the object, which now began to resemble a great bear, approaching on its hind legs. She shaded her eyes with her hand as she continued to stare through the glare of the lightly swirling snow. Finally coming into focus, the object became a man on horseback, plodding across the snowy meadow, wearing a heavy bearskin coat. She laughed to think that the blinding sunlight upon the white snow had played such a trick on her eyes. In the next instant, her heart skipped a beat when she realized that the rider was astride a paint pony.

Joe Fox. The thought brought a smile to her face, and her hand automatically reached up to tidy her hair. She looked quickly around her to see if anyone else had seen her unconscious motion, pleased to find no one close at hand. Turning her full attention back to the rider approaching, now at a distance of approximately one hundred yards, she could see that the carcass of some animal was riding behind the saddle. He never comes empty-handed, she thought, and beamed delightedly as she gazed at a sight that had become so familiar to all the people in the camp. One could not help but admire the partnership between horse and rider, watching the easy motion of the two, moving as if one.

Her reply caused him to stammer awkwardly, “Why, nowhere else, I reckon.” Then realizing the young lady was simply teasing him, he laughed. “Looks like you’re makin’ it all right.” He reached back and patted the whitetail deer carcass behind his saddle. “I ran across this young feller on the other side of that mountain back yonder. He was just beggin’ to get shot, so I obliged him. Thought your family might could use a little fresh meat.”

She was thrilled to anticipate the taste of fresh venison, but the little ripple of excitement she felt down the length of her spine was not caused by a craving for fresh meat. She could not explain the feelings she had for Joe, and was not even sure if they were not simply fascination for this wild thing—like the fascination for a lion cub. Maybe she was attracted to him for no reason other than that her mother was so fearful of a union between the savage and her. Whatever the reason, she was just glad to see him after all the cold, lonely weeks since he had gone away. She was about to tell him so when a voice behind her exclaimed, “Joe Fox!”

They both turned to see Jake Simmons coming from the corral that had been built to contain the livestock. He sang out again, so that others might hear him. “Joe Fox is back!” He was successful in causing several more heads to pop out of various caves. One of them, Cora Simmons, frowned as she saw the tall mountain man, wrinkling her brow even more when she spotted Callie talking to him. “Look, Mama,” Jake said. “Joe Fox is back!” She did not reply, but followed her husband and several of her neighbors to greet the man striding toward them.

They were joined then by Malcolm and his brother. Pete Watson could be seen hurrying up from the stand of cottonwoods that served as the men’s toilet, still hitching up his trousers. “By thunder, you’re right about that,” Jake said in response to Joe. “We could sure use some fresh meat.” He looked around at the gathering crowd. “We all could. We can have us a feast! Whaddaya say, ladies? We can build up that fire and roast the whole carcass.”

Soon the entire camp was transformed from a sense of cold boredom into a festive air of celebration. One deer was hardly enough to satisfy the needs of thirty-seven people for any length of time, but it was enough to provide one fresh, hot meal for folks in need of something to break the monotony of winter. It was a good bit more than Joe had anticipated. He would have preferred to slip in quietly and leave the deer for Callie’s family to use as they saw fit. When he stopped to think about it, however, he had to admit that Jake was using it as he thought best, and it appeared it was going a long way toward lifting the spirits of the winter-weary travelers. Several of the men set upon the carcass and hung it from a tree limb. Three men started in skinning the deer at the same time. With knives flashing, it was a wonder to Joe that someone wasn’t stabbed.

He was about to step forward to criticize the method in which the hide was rolled back until a beaming Callie Simmons caught him by the elbow and drew him aside. “Let them do it,” she said. “You’ve done your part. Now just sit down over there and watch these folks make fools of themselves, and I’ll bring you a cup of coffee.”

“No, it doesn’t matter,” she said. “What matters is that you got everyone out of their holes, and people look happy again.” A moment after she said it, someone started a chant to get Raymond Chadwick to fetch his fiddle. He didn’t need much persuasion, and soon, by the time the deer was roasting over the huge fire, he struck up a lively tune. He was handy with a bow, and before long some of the younger ones began tapping their toes to the rhythm. Not to be outdone, the older folks stepped out in the clearing to show off their suppleness. Before long, everyone in the party of settlers was dancing, watching the dancers, or tending the meat. Joe was astonished by the spectacle. He had never seen a demonstration such as this, and he was especially fascinated by the instrument upon which Raymond was able to extract such rhythmic sounds. When he glanced at Callie and found her smiling as she watched his reactions, he nodded and returned the smile. Watching from the other side of the fire, Cora Simmons stared tight-lipped at her daughter, a deep frown upon her face.

One other soul was not enjoying the celebration. Starbeau watched from afar. Near the end of the caves, where Bradley Lindstrom and Jake Simmons had dug their abodes, his mind was occupied with thoughts of the two hundred and fifty dollars that had been saved as final payment to Skinner. With everyone’s attention drawn to the dancing, there would never be a better opportunity to slip into the caves and search for the money. Taking one last cautious look to make sure none in the crowd was looking his way, he ducked inside Bradley’s cave.

Pausing for a second to adjust his eyes to the gloom inside the tiny cavity, he glanced around until he spotted the saddle packs stacked against the back wall. Moving as fast as he could manage while trying not to leave evidence of his search, he untied pack after pack, rummaging through clothing and cooking utensils, household trinkets and personal pictures of relatives back east. Never one to hold his temper for long, he became more and more irritated as the search revealed nothing of value. His patience expired, he threw the last pack carelessly against the wall of the cave. Suddenly the music from the fiddle stopped and he knew the meat was ready to be served. “Damn!” he exclaimed, ready to admit defeat. Angry then, he stalked toward the mouth of the cave when he caught sight of a small wooden box stacked amid Nancy Lindstrom’s pots and pans. He almost passed it by, then decided to take a quick glance since he had looked in everything else. He unconsciously let out a low whistle when he saw the money inside the box. “I knew it,” he murmured. “I knew it was here.” He took the roll of money out and fondled it covetously for a few minutes before returning it to its hiding place. “I’ll be back for you,” he said as he replaced the box, being careful to return it to the position he had found it in.

Outside again, he looked around him, satisfied that no one had bothered to look toward the caves. It would not do to take the money now. Even a man as blunt as Starbeau knew that. He was content to wait until the weather improved and he was ready to part company with the unsuspecting pilgrims. He couldn’t help chuckling when he thought about it. There were a couple of other chores to be settled as well. He thought about evening the score with Jake Simmons and Joe Fox as he walked toward the party. There was also the issue of fresh-roasted meat that he didn’t want to miss out on.

Moving through the gathering of people, now standing in small groups as they ate the freshly roasted venison, Starbeau scowled contemptuously, neither speaking nor being spoken to. Like a grizzly moving through a thicket, he left pools of silence behind him as conversation paused until he had passed. Helping himself to a large slab of meat from the deer’s haunch, he sat down on a rock away from the fire and proceeded to eat. As he looked over his neighbors, his glance lit on Joe Fox. The tall hunter was seated on a log beside Callie Simmons, and he was watching the huge bully closely. Starbeau smirked when he caught his eye, and pointed his finger at Joe as if threatening with a pistol.

Seated beside Joe, Callie sensed the sudden tension in his body. She looked up at him to discover the smile had been replaced by a frown. Following his gaze, she discovered the cause of his displeasure. “I wondered if fresh meat was going to rout the ol’ bear outta his cave,” she said. “Papa thinks he won’t stay around when spring comes. Everybody’s hoping he’ll leave before then.” Noticing the tight set of Joe’s jaw, she said, “I wouldn’t worry about him. He just likes to look mean. I think he’s harmless.”

“What is it, Cora?” Jake asked, a touch of irritation in his tone when his wife kept tugging at his coat sleeve. He was in the midst of a conversation with Bradley and his brother, Malcolm, about the possibility of persuading Joe to join them in their journey to Oregon. When Cora insisted that she needed to talk to him right then, he made his excuses and let himself be led over to the side where she could speak privately.

“Look yonder,” was all she said at first, nodding toward the other side of the clearing, where Callie and Joe were talking. When Jake failed to respond as she expected, she spelled it out for him. “Our daughter is throwing herself at Joe Fox, and we’ve got to put a stop to it before something bad comes of it.”

“Dammit, Jake!” Cora exclaimed, causing him to blink hard. Cora used profanity only on occasion when she was genuinely angry or worried. “If we don’t do something, Callie is gonna follow that savage off to some tipi in the mountains somewhere and we’ll never see her again. Is that what you want for Callie? If you weren’t so blind, you’d see that she’s been mooning over him ever since he led us into this valley.”

Jake took a step backward, suddenly awake to what his wife was telling him. “I swear . . . ,” he muttered, realizing that what Cora said was true—Callie had given Joe a lot of attention. He had just not given it much concern before. “Well, what can we do about it?” he asked, then offered, “I can talk to her, I reckon.”

Jake shook his head, concerned. “Oh, I don’t know, Cora,” he started, obviously not pleased with the prospect. “That man’s done a helluva lot for us, all of us, and I don’t mind admittin’ that he probably saved my life when Starbeau tried to trick me into a fight.” He shook his head again. “Maybe you’re seein’ more to it than there really is.”

“I reckon I know my daughter well enough to know when she’s thinking things she oughtn’t. If we don’t stop her, she’s going to do something she’ll spend the rest of her life regretting. And there’s no talking sense to her—I know, I’ve tried. You’re gonna have to tell Joe Fox to go sniffing around somebody else’s hen-house.” She watched Jake’s reaction for a moment, then said, “I like the man, too, Jake, but we have to think about what’s best for Callie.”

Although he had been offered the hospitality of Malcolm and Pete’s cave in the bluffs, Joe was thinking of staying in the cottonwoods upriver for a couple of days. Now that the festivities were winding down, and people were returning to their caves, it was time to make his camp while there was still light. Cora Simmons had called for Callie to come help with some chore, leaving Joe by himself again. It had been surprising to him that he had enjoyed the dancing and merriment. Normally, he would have sought to avoid any such gathering. The fact that Callie was by his side had a lot to do with it. But even aside from that, he wondered whether he could live in a white man’s world after all. His chosen path between the Blackfoot’s and the white man’s worlds had suited him fine for the past several years. Maybe it was time for him to choose one or the other, and with the feelings he had experienced since finding this mule train, he found himself leaning toward the white man’s world. It was something he would have to think about, he decided. Putting the thought away for another time, he picked up the paint’s reins and led it toward the grove of trees.

Jake was relieved to see the fearsome-looking man smiling. His mission was not one he would have chosen for himself, for he was not sure how Joe would react to what he was about to be told. It would have to be handled delicately. Seeing him heading toward the cottonwoods upriver gave him hope that Joe was heading back into the mountains, sparing Jake the necessity of delivering Cora’s message. “You headin’ out again?” Jake asked hopefully when he caught up with Joe.

“No . . . I mean, yeah, I need to talk to you about somethin’.” He took a deep breath and forged on ahead with it. “It’s Callie,” he said and paused again. Joe gazed at him, puzzled. “Callie’s all me and Cora’s got,” Jake started once more. “We want her to be happy, find a God-fearin’ husband when she’s old enough, and raise a Christian family out in Oregon with us.” When Joe still showed no sign that he understood what Jake was trying to tell him, Jake came out with it. “I ain’t throwin’ off on you none, but I’m askin’ you to stay away from Callie.”

Joe made no response right away, but Jake could see the hurt in his eyes when he suddenly realized what Jake was telling him. At that moment he would have taken it back if he could have. “Like I said, we’ve got nothin’ against you. It’s what’s best for Callie, that’s what we have to think about. If you was in my shoes, you’d do the same thing. I mean, you live like an Injun. That ain’t no fittin’ life for Callie. She ain’t used to that.”

Having been totally unprepared for it, Joe was stunned momentarily, his head a maelstrom of confusing thoughts. He felt the sting of rebuke by Jake, but also the impression that her parents feared she might actually have feelings for him. Or was he wrong? Was it possible Callie thought him too bold, and complained to her parents? No, he decided. She had given no indication that she was bothered by his company. He realized then that he had never thought beyond the fact that she was on his mind a good portion of the time. What, he wondered, did I think it would lead to? If anything? When he could not answer that question with any degree of certainty, he thought then of what he could offer her. In view of that, he could not truly blame Jake and Cora for their attitude. Seeing the anxiety in Jake’s eyes, he finally spoke. “I have not spoken to Callie of such things,” he said softly with no sign of emotion.

Joe could not react immediately, shocked by the realization that he was deemed unfit company for Callie. Too astonished to be angry, he didn’t know what to say. Outwardly, his expression betrayed no hint of the turmoil inside him, causing Jake to think he felt no emotion. Afterward, when relating the incident to Cora, Jake would remark that Joe had not reacted at all. “Just like a stone-faced Injun.” He could not know the depth of the hurt in Joe’s heart, for it told him that he was not accepted in the white man’s world in spite of the color of his skin.

Joe continued to look at the little man for a moment more, then without another word, turned and led his horse into the trees. A dozen yards inside the tree line brought him to a suitable place, but he did not set about making his camp right away. Instead, he paused to sort out his emotions and rethink what had happened in the last quarter of an hour. Making a decision then, he tied the paint’s reins to a tree limb and returned to the corral to fetch his other horses. He had a strong desire to leave this place and seek the solace of the mountains. The mountains were his strength and the source of his being. When he was a boy, he had gone to the mountains to seek his medicine and had been shown the path he must follow. He thought about the respect he had earned as a Blackfoot warrior. He had counted his first coup when only fourteen years of age and killed for the first time when he was eighteen. He had proven his courage and was respected in his village. His father had been approached by the fathers of several young girls about the possibility of marriage. It was he who had not been ready to marry. Now, with his heart aching, he thought about the possibility of returning to the world of the Blackfoot, but he feared it was too late. It had been too long. He did not belong to that world anymore. He paused then to recall the vision he had received when a boy, and the words that were spoken in his dream: Neither white nor red are you, but a man alone. “Enough of this thinking,” he resolved. “I must leave this place.”

“I see him,” Yellow Hand said. He had not been with the war party that had attacked the white men on mules and had cost the lives of all but Wounded Elk and Crooked Lance. Crooked Lance had been the leader of that war party, but he was not with them today. Because of the loss of lives suffered, he was thought to be unlucky, and was not welcome on this scouting party. One of the warriors killed on that day was Yellow Hand’s brother, and he had organized a war party to avenge his death and that of the other Gros Ventre warriors. After tracking the mule train for two weeks, they had been forced to abandon the search when the snowstorms in the mountain passes covered the trails.

Yellow Hand had refused to give up the search for the men who killed his brother, insisting that only fools would try to cross over the mountains in the winter. “They have made a camp somewhere to wait for the spring,” he had maintained. And along with three warriors who trusted his leadership, he had scouted a half dozen valleys that offered protection from the winter storms. At last his persistence had come to bear fruit, for here in the Missoula Valley he had found them, burrowed in the ground like prairie dogs.

“This is what I think,” Yellow Hand said. “I think they are not going anywhere until the weather gets better. I think we should go back to our village and mount a full war party. With many warriors, we can kill all the whites. And with many warriors, the people in the white man’s settlement will be afraid to come to help them. That is what I think.”

“It’s best not to take a chance that he might shout an alarm to the others,” Yellow Hand said, as the four withdrew from the thicket from which they had watched the camp. “If he is the one who killed my brother, as Wounded Elk has said, then it is I who should have the right to kill him. When it is dark, then I’ll look for him in the trees. If I can find him alone, I will kill him.”