The Blackfoot Trail

Spring arrived early that year. Everyone in the camp was eager to vacate their dank, dark earthen hovels and continue on to what they hoped would be their promised land. There was still some trepidation, for no one could know for sure when all the passes would become clear of snow and ice. So they waited, and the men talked about it, and everyone prayed together for guidance at the Sunday service. The one thing that dismayed Bradley was there was no sign of Joe Fox. He, Jake, and Raymond talked about the possibility of sending someone to find the reclusive mountain man. After much discussion, it was decided that the likelihood of finding Joe’s camp was remote at best. So they prayed some more for some sign that it was safe to start out over the mountains, hoping God would send a message in some form, biblical or physical. A message was, in fact, on the way, but not the one the people were praying for.

A war party, numbering twenty-three Gros Ventre warriors, plus five young boys eager to prove themselves in battle, went into camp less than two days from Missoula Mills. Wounded Elk sat down before the fire to confer with Long Walker and Little Buffalo. “I fear they are both dead, killed by Joe Fox,” Long Walker said. It had been a full moon with no sign of Yellow Hand and Red Sky, when they should have returned to the village many days ago—unless they were not successful in killing the Blackfoot ghost. “I fear that their deaths might bring bad luck to our attack of the white camp.”

“I think that we have two more of our brothers to avenge,” Wounded Elk replied. “I don’t think their deaths could bring bad luck to our mission, because we do not go to attack Joe Fox. Our fight is to avenge the warriors killed by the white men with no wagons.”

Little Buffalo and Long Walker considered what Wounded Elk had said, then agreed that his counsel was probably wise. With the exception of the two missing warriors, all the other signs had been favorable. The weather had been kind to them on the journey from their village, and they had made good time in reaching the Missoula Valley. “What should we do about the white man’s settlement upriver from the people that live in the ground?” Little Buffalo asked. “We don’t know how many there are, or if they will come to help the mole people.” His concern was shared by Wounded Elk and Long Walker, for all three were well aware that they were far from their home range.

“I think if we follow my plan, we will kill the mole people and be gone before the whites at the trading post can come to help them.” When the others agreed, Wounded Elk said, “Good, we should get to their camp before the sun comes up two more times.”

As Wounded Elk had said, the Gros Ventre war party reached the creek from which Yellow Hand had watched the white camp before. Wounded Elk halted his warriors there to wait out the night before the dawn attack. They would proceed from this point on foot, leaving four of the young boys to hold the horses. While they waited, the warriors applied new war paint and asked Man Above to favor them in battle. When it was time, half of the war party followed the creek down to the river, then worked their way back up the river to be in position between the water and the bluffs, facing the cave openings. Two of Wounded Elk’s bravest warriors stole across the open meadow in the gray light before dawn to pull rails from the corral to create a hole to drive the livestock out. When the first rays of the sun inched across the isolated patches of old snow, the rest of the war party advanced toward the village of caves—slowly at first, then gradually gaining momentum as the sun showed its face, until a cry of alarm from the camp signaled a full charge and the raiders opened fire on the few early risers walking between the caves and the corral.

At almost the same time, war cries were heard from the corral, and the horses and mules were stampeded through the gap. Flushed from their beds by the hellish sound of war cries and gunfire, the settlers grabbed their weapons and raced out to defend their camp, only to be cut down by the warriors below the bluffs as they emerged from the caves. Those lucky enough to have been missed by the volley of shots scrambled back inside to construct hasty ramparts, using their packs, bedding, and anything else to protect themselves.

The attack was well planned, with the warriors by the river keeping the settlers pinned in their earthen barricades while the rest of their war party charged up behind the caves. If all went as Wounded Elk planned, all the whites would be trapped in their holes in the ground. He had underestimated the tenacity of the white settlers to defend their families and possessions, however. Malcolm Lindstrom and Pete Watson were quick to recognize the danger of holing up inside the catacombs of caves. Scrambling outside their hole, they took positions on the ground between their cave and Jake Simmons’, and began firing at the Indians led by Wounded Elk. Down the line of dwellings, several of the other men did the same, and soon the warriors’ attack was blunted and they were forced to halt and seek cover.

Meanwhile, the warriors below the bluffs found themselves with no real protective cover from the rifle fire coming from the caves. After the initial barrage, the besieged settled down to snipe at the Indians on the edge of the water. Soon, due to an absence of effective cover, one by one the Gros Ventre casualties began to pile up until they were forced to withdraw down the river. Encouraged by the arrival of reinforcements from the sawmill and general store, the embattled settlers were able to vacate the caves and join in the fight behind them. The battle became a single-front skirmish as the warriors from the riverbanks joined Wounded Elk and his warriors in the open field before the line of caves.

Amid the heat of the conflict, Max Starbeau at first cursed himself for not having left the mule train when he first had the notion. He had dallied too long on his decision to head for Butte. With no thoughts of helping defend his fellow travelers, he sought to escape the battle altogether, his priority being the preservation of his hide, and the others be damned. But his greed would not permit him to go without the money in Nancy Lindstrom’s little wooden box. It occurred to him then that the attack by Indians might have given him the perfect opportunity to liberate that money. The thought forced a smile to appear on his craggy face.

Easing his bulk out of his cave, he made sure there were no Indians remaining below the bluffs before moving cautiously down the line of caves. “Come on, Starbeau!” Luke Preston shouted as he ran by him. “We’ve got ’em on the run!”

“Right behind you,” Starbeau replied, then paused to let Preston disappear over the top of the mound. He watched for a moment and saw that Luke was right. The Indians were withdrawing and the men from the settlement were giving chase. Starbeau grinned. Go get ’em, boys. Then he turned his attention back to the row of caves. There was no one in sight. He wasted no time in getting down to Bradley Lindstrom’s cave, and without hesitating, ducked inside. In a hurry, he went directly to the stack of pots and pans where he had first seen the wooden box. There it was, just as he had left it. He snatched it from the stack, opened it, and exhaled a great sigh of satisfaction to find the money still there.

Startled, he turned to find Nancy Lindstrom huddled against the back corner of the cave with a shotgun aimed straight at him. In his haste to get his hands on the money, he had failed to see her hiding behind a pile of bedclothes. With no possible explanation available to him, he took the only option still open. “Well, now, just hold your horses, ma’am,” he said while his hand dropped casually to rest on the handle of his .44. “This ain’t what it looks like.”

“I think I know what it is,” Nancy retorted. Those were her last words. Starbeau suddenly drew the pistol from his belt and fired, hitting the surprised woman squarely in the chest, and knocking her back against the wall. To be certain, he took a step toward her and placed another shot in her forehead.

He went to the mouth of the cave and stopped to listen before stepping outside. The sound of gunfire told him that the counterattack was still going on, and evidently successful for the settlers. He then stuck his head outside and looked left and right. Seeing no witnesses to his evil deed, he stepped out and walked briskly away, the money a comforting lump in his pocket.

His mind on other things now, he trotted along toward the fighting in hopes he might find his horse. The counterattack had been spirited enough so that the raiding Indians had had no time to herd the horses and mules, consequently they were scattered along the river and over the open meadow. He would have struck out for Butte right then if he had his horse. He didn’t care about the mules, or most of the things he had packed on them. With the money, he didn’t need the household items in those packs. He would have preferred to be gone when Nancy Lindstrom’s body was found, but no one saw him, so he wasn’t overly worried.

There was no rejoicing over the successful defense of their mule train, for there had been lives lost. Immediately after the final retreat of the Gros Ventre war party, the weary settlers went about the business of recovering their livestock and mending the corral, with the unhappy task awaiting to bury their dead and comfort the survivors. Most of the victims were men, cut down as they ran out of the caves in the initial assault. Some, like Nancy Lindstrom, were harder to explain. Nancy had been shot at close range, yet no one had reported seeing any Indians on top of the bluffs. It was just one of life’s mysteries to a grieving husband until he happened to find that the money was missing from the little wooden box.

It was highly unlikely that an Indian had taken the money. Nothing else had been disturbed, so all suspicions went directly toward Starbeau, but there was no proof one way or the other. Bradley insisted upon facing the huge bully with the accusation, anyway, and along with his brother, Malcolm, and several others, he called Starbeau out shortly after burying Nancy.

“You’re barkin’ up the wrong tree, Lindstrom,” Starbeau slurred when confronted by the delegation. “I was fightin’ them damn Injuns alongside everybody else. You got a helluva lotta nerve askin’ me about how your wife got kilt. How the hell would I know? I might oughta break your back for you, throwin’ somethin’ like that up in my face.” He looked around at the others with Bradley and smirked. “She probably got shot ’cause you were someplace hidin’ from the Injuns.”

“That ain’t all of it, Starbeau,” Malcolm interjected. “There’s a little matter of two hundred and fifty dollars that’s missin’ from Bradley’s cave, and I’m thinkin’ you’re the one who most likely took it.”

“Why, you son of a bitch!” Starbeau exploded. “I oughta kill you right now.” He dropped his hand to rest on his pistol, and stopped only when he saw several rifles immediately bob up to a firing position. Changing his tone then, the familiar sneer returned to his face. “I reckon I ought’n to hold it agin you. I mean, losin’ your wife and all, but I ain’t the only sinner in this outfit. Coulda been anybody, includin’ the damn Injuns, that stole that money. I’m lettin’ you get away with it this time, Lindstrom, but I’d better not hear no more talk outta you about no stolen money.” He glared at them for a moment before ordering, “Now go on and get the hell outta my face before I lose my temper.”

Not ready to concede, Bradley started toward the big man, but Malcolm and Raymond Chadwick caught him by his arms and pulled him away. “That’s all we can do right now, Brad,” his brother said, knowing that Starbeau would most likely tear Bradley apart if they fought.

Starbeau snickered contemptuously. “That’s right, Lindstrom. You’d best listen to him. You can’t prove a damn thing, and if you keep runnin’ your mouth, you’re liable to have to back it up.” He shifted his gaze then to focus on Jake Simmons and grinned. “And there ain’t no half-breed to save your ass this time.” The comment caused Jake to flush slightly before glaring defiantly at the belligerent troublemaker.

Bradley started toward Starbeau a second time, but this time Malcolm and two of his friends dragged him back and started walking him toward a large campfire in the center of the clearing behind the caves. “We ain’t done with this yet!” Bradley called back over his shoulder.

Still standing before Starbeau, Raymond Chadwick took it upon himself to speak for the whole community. In a voice calm and quiet, he gave the huge troublemaker notice. “I’m speakin’ for the congregation now, Starbeau. We’ve done our best to give you every opportunity to salvage your Christian soul, but I reckon there’s just some things that prayer won’t change. So we think it best if you go your own way now, and let us go ours.”

Starbeau chuckled delightedly. “You’re throwin’ me out?” he asked, laughing. “Well, much as that sorrows me, I guess I’ll just go then. Hell, I’ll leave first thing in the mornin’.” He was still chuckling as he turned and left Raymond standing there astonished that the quarrelsome bully found it so humorous.

The burials and cleanup continued throughout the rest of the morning and into the afternoon before some sense of normalcy returned to the now-depleted group of pilgrims. Doing what she could to help, Callie visited several caves where women had been widowed to offer her comfort and assistance. There was little she could do to ease their grief, but she felt the need to at least make coffee, fix the children something to eat, and provide a shoulder to cry on.

Left to himself, shunned by the congregation, Starbeau readied his horse and pack mule for an early-morning departure. From a natural sense of survival, he was careful which way he turned his back while tying up his packs. Ordinarily he would not have given a thought to the need for such caution among the gentle Christians he had traveled with from Bismarck. But Bradley Lindstrom was lying around the camp somewhere, sulking over his dead wife. He might get himself worked up to the point where he thought about taking a long-range shot at the man who murdered his wife. The irony of it caused Starbeau to grin, thinking about how frustrated Lindstrom must be, knowing that Starbeau probably killed his wife, and not being able to prove it. And got away with the money, too, Starbeau added, extending his smile even wider.

Starbeau was right about the grieving widower. Bradley Lindstrom could not be consoled. Nancy had been his life, and he could not bear the thought of living without her. The marriage had produced no children, but they felt blessed as long as they had each other. Now it was as if the light of life had been blown out, and nothing remained but the darkness in which his lonely soul must dwell.

His brother, Malcolm, and Pete Watson remained with him to try to give him support until Bradley begged to be left alone with his memories of Nancy. Reluctant though they were to leave him in such an obvious state of grief, they gave in to his insistence that he would be all right. It was growing dark and he expressed the need for sleep, so they filed out of his dwelling and left him to grieve alone.

The despondent new widower sat there with his back against the wall where Nancy’s body had been found until he heard no more noises outside, telling him that the camp had settled in to cook their suppers. Confident that no one would notice, he crawled to the front of the cave and strapped on his pistol belt, knowing that what he was determined to do was not sanctioned in the eyes of the Lord.

Outside, in the fading twilight, he slipped between the caves and walked along behind them to the end of the row and Starbeau’s dwelling. He paused a moment to consider the saddled horse and loaded pack mule tied to a pine sapling a few feet from the cave’s entrance. With dogged determination and fear of facing the world without Nancy greater than that of facing Starbeau, he called out for the brute.

“Who is it?” Starbeau demanded when he heard his name called. Pulling his pistol from the holster and belt lying beside the entrance to his cave, he edged up to the opening and peered out in the growing gloom. Recognizing Bradley Lindstrom then, he guessed the reason for the visit. Remaining at the edge of the opening with his huge body all but concealed, he said, “What the hell do you want?”

Starbeau edged his head out far enough to look around to make sure there were no witnesses before answering. Then, unable to resist the opportunity to taunt his victim, he said, “Yeah, you’re right. I shot the bitch. I even thought about doin’ a little more, but a man would have to be damn hard up to want any of that.” A wide grin spread across his face while he waited for Bradley’s response to that.

Without further hesitation, Starbeau stepped outside and in one quick motion shot Bradley down before the unfortunate victim knew what was happening. “The Lord decided,” Starbeau taunted calmly, and put the fatal shot in Bradley’s defenseless body. He reached down then and took Bradley’s revolver from the holster and placed it in the dead man’s hand. Standing erect again he turned to walk away, only to be startled by the sight of Callie Simmons standing paralyzed by the shock of what she had just witnessed. “Where the hell did you come from?” he asked. Seeing then that she was too shocked to answer, he said, “You saw it. He tried to kill me, but I got him instead. It was self-defense.”

“You put it in his hand after you shot him,” she cried. “I saw you.” Recovering from the shock that had immobilized her, she realized the danger she was now in, and spun on her heel to run for help. But he had slowly moved too close, and with a couple of quick steps, he caught her by the arm. She started to scream but was immediately silenced by the barrel of his pistol across the back of her skull, knocking her unconscious.

Quickly looking around him again, in a hurry to finish this business before others came to investigate the two gunshots, he saw people emerging from the caves, but no one at the far end where he was. Knowing he must permanently silence the girl, he pulled his knife from his belt and grabbed a handful of her hair. Pulling her head back, he exposed her white throat, but hesitated before slicing her windpipe. I’ve got a better use for you, missy, he decided, picking up the limp body and hurrying to his horse.

With a quick look toward the other end of the caves, he tried to calculate the amount of time he had. A crowd of people had gathered, and were working their way cave by cave up the line. It was enough time, he figured, to bind and gag the girl. When that was done, he pulled a couple of the packs off the mule and threw Callie across in their place. Working fast for a big man, he vacated his cave with all he thought he would need, and while the crowd of searchers was still fifty yards away, he dragged Bradley’s body behind the cave, then led his horse into the cottonwoods on the other side of the clearing. With one more look back to confirm that he had not been spotted, he stepped up in the saddle and loped off along the creek, leaving the ill-fated mule train behind him.

Lighting the way with a torch, Jake Simmons held it close while he and the others bent down to confirm Bowen’s identification. “My Lord in Heaven,” Jake gasped upon seeing Bradley’s startled expression frozen forever on his lifeless face. He stood back away from the body when Malcolm pushed his way through the crowd.

Upon seeing his brother lying cold and still in the muddy clearing, he fell to his knees beside him and roared out his grief. First Nancy, then Bradley, it was almost too much to bear. He and Pete had come all the way from the Dakota Territory to find Bradley. After finding him, to have it end this way, was more than he was prepared to deal with. He rocked back on his heels, oblivious to the mud, and sobbed. The first suspect that popped into everyone’s mind was Starbeau. “Come on,” Pete Watson said, “let’s get him out here!” He led the way around to the front of Starbeau’s cave. Malcolm staggered to his feet to follow. There would be no notice to part company. This time, it was almost a unanimous decision that it was time for a hanging.

“He’s lit out!” Luke Preston yelled from the entrance to Starbeau’s cave. He turned to face the crowd that had grown to include everyone in the camp. Holding up a discarded pack, he said, “His horse is gone, too, and it looks like he left in a hurry.”

Jake looked around at the gathering of faces, unable to find that of his daughter. “Callie!” he called out. When there was no answer, he yelled her name again. There was still no answer, so he asked, “Has anybody seen Callie?” No one had.

“No, no, no . . . ,” Cora Simmons uttered in anguish, as she pushed her way through the people gathered at the mouth of the cave, and looked inside. Her face pale with dread, she exhaled a small sigh of relief. She had feared she might find the body of her daughter there. Her relief was only for a moment, however, before she began to call out Callie’s name again. There was no answer. The crowd, having caught the fever of Cora’s alarm, began to disperse, all looking for the missing girl while Cora and Jake hurried back to their cave in hopes she was there.

Every inch of the riverbank was searched, and the cottonwoods, the meadow, the corral. The girl was gone. The moon was high in the sky before the last of the searchers gave up and returned to the fire to report their failure. “He’s got her,” Cora gasped, almost collapsing before Jake caught her and lowered her gently to the ground. “That monster took her,” she sobbed loudly. “He took our baby.”

Malcolm Lindstrom was already a step ahead, calling for volunteers to go with him and Pete. Every man there volunteered to join the posse, some wounded and not really fit to ride. Malcolm picked eight of the volunteers. “Get saddled up,” he shouted. “We’ve already lost too much time.”

Still shaken, but determined to go after his daughter, Jake left Cora in the hands of Raymond Chadwick’s wife, Pearl, and hurried to join the posse. There was no clear trail to follow, especially in the dark, but the one they decided the most likely was the one through the cottonwoods to the south. It was the trail cut by Joe Fox when he had left the camp the first time. Since there had been a bit more traffic over the same tracks from Indians and Joe’s horses when he left for good, it would have been difficult for a real tracker to determine if any of the tracks were recent. Urgency ruled the night, however, and with the need to take some positive action, the riders stormed out through the cottonwoods, churning up any fresh trail had there been one.

Out of the trees and onto the broad treeless plain that rolled toward the distant mountains they rode, determined men, resolute in their intent to find Starbeau and Callie. Unprotected by trees, however, the snow on the open plain had melted during the recent weeks of warmer weather. The riders were slowed by the need to inspect the ground more closely for tracks in the darkness of the night. Soon the posse was broken into smaller groups as men circled about, checking the little isolated patches of old snow in gullies and ravines. Finally, when the moon was sinking behind the mountains, even Jake was forced to admit that they were going in circles and might as well give up. It was a difficult decision for Jake, his mind already half-crazy with thoughts of Callie in the hands of that evil brute, but there were promises by all to take up the search in the morning when they could see.

“It ain’t that long till daylight,” Jake protested when several of the men prepared to return to camp. “We might as well stay right here till sunup.” Feeling helpless and frustrated, and eaten up inside with worry, he did not want to return to tell Cora they had failed.

Malcolm spoke for the rest of the men when he said, “We left in a kinda hurry, Jake. And we ain’t that far from camp as it is. So we might as well go on back and pack in some supplies. We don’t know how long this is gonna take. We’ll get back on it in the mornin’, ready to ride to Texas if we have to. I got as much reason to catch that son of a bitch as you do.”