Colter's Hell, page 13
“Crow!” Small Face nearly shouted, and rose up and with his nocked bow, letting loose at the figure he saw there.
“Those aren’t Crow, you fool!” Flying Wasp shouted beside him, but it was too late – the arrow was already gone.
~~~
Stone Bear had a smile on his face, for Strong Foot had just saved his son’s life, that was clear. If he’d not fired when he had, the Cree’s arrow wouldn’t have gone inches above Wolf Calf’s head, it would have gone inches deep into his chest.
Stone Bear turned to Strong Foot to say just that but stopped cold – his companion was standing there with an arrow through his back, the bloody point sticking out of his chest. Strong Foot looked up from the wound to Stone Bear with a dazed expression, then fell to the ground.
~~~
Colter knew they had to get out of there, and it was looking like they might have a chance now. That last arrow that’d sailed out had taken the Indian in front of them, and now the Frenchman was going for that musket. To the other side the group of Blackfeet had been reduced in number considerably. Now just two remained, and one seemed to be more interested in one of the dead boys than the fight around them. Behind them the boy that Arapoosh had hit was staggering backward with blood pouring down his face, all while the young Crow brave assaulted him with words in his native tongue too fast for the mountain man to catch, questions it sounded like. That left the spot to his right, the only clear path out of the small clearing. He looked to the Frenchman and shouted.
“Get that gun and let’s go!” Then he looked over to Arapoosh. “C’mon!” he shouted, though he doubted the boy heard him at all.
~~~
Got you! Larocque thought to himself as his fingers closed over the musket’s barrel and he began to pull it toward him. The wounded Cree Indian laying nearby gave no resistance, so in pain was he from his shoulder wound. The other Cree, however, the medicine man by the look of him, was just starting to recover from the pistol that’d hit him upside the head. Larocque twisted the musket around in his hands and then whistled.
Sand Face turned around to see what the sound was, though his head ached something fierce and he was still seeing stars. His eyes went wide at what he saw next, for there was the Frenchman, and Thin Leg’s gun pointed right at him.
“C'est la vie,” Larocque said with a smile, that’s life.
BOOM!
~~~
Arapoosh had turned back at the mountain man’s words, and had also looked over at the other white. He’d done so with the latter just in time to see the face of the Cree medicine man blown clean off, though he wished he hadn’t – blood and brains flew every which way and splattered the snow-covered trees and bushes on the edge of the clearing. The Crow brave jerked his attention back to the Blackfeet boy that he’d been yelling questions at. His eyes shot to the bushes behind the boy instead, however, for another Blackfoot brave was coming forth, though this one had his eyes on the boy. Somehow Arapoosh knew it was the boy’s father, and he also suddenly knew, without a doubt, that it was time to go.
He looked back at the white that’d just fired the musket and saw him getting to his feet, rushing to the mountain man, who was himself running to the edge of the clearing. Across the way, a couple more Blackfeet boys appeared. Arapoosh didn’t waste another second and turned about and started rushing toward the whites. He’d have a chance to question the Blackfoot boy later, he’d make sure of that.
Part IV – Vengeance
30 – Taking Stock
Buffalo Child’s face was pressed tightly to the shoulder of Little Mouse when he felt a hand on his own shoulder. He didn’t know how long he’d been pressed against his son, but he pulled back, eyes closed so as not to look at the boy again, and turned his head before opening them. There behind him was Silver Heart, his own face a mask of sorrow over the son he’d lost as well. Buffalo Child looked past his fellow Wise One and saw the young brave’s body there, the arrow still sticking from his chest. He looked back at his own son then, seeing a similar sight, an arrow protruding from where it should not. Already Little Mouse’s face was losing color.
The Blackfeet leader felt a seething rage rise up in him at the sight of his son, the sight of Silver Heart mourning his. He looked around and saw that Running Rabbit was dead too, as was his own trusted man, Otter Tail. It’d been a huge loss, this skirmish with the whites, but some murmuring to his side reminded Buffalo Child that it hadn’t been the whites alone. He got up, his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists, and started toward the source of those sounds.
On the ground Thin Leg lay still. He’d lost a lot of blood, he knew, and was feeling weak because of it. The rifle shot to the shoulder had been a bit closer to his heart than Colter had realized when he’d fired, and it’d sapped the Cree leader’s strength something fierce.
Buffalo Child knew none of that as he walked up to the fallen Indian. All he knew was that this band of Cree was where it shouldn’t be, in their territory, or at least that of the Crow, which was as good as theirs anyways. Far worse, however, they’d fired on his group instead of the whites. It didn’t matter to Buffalo Child that his Blackfeet had shouted out to fire on the Cree first, for all he knew was that his son was dead, and someone had to pay.
He reached Thin Leg and bent down, putting his face close to the wounded brave’s. “What are you doing here?” he asked in their shared Algonquin dialect. Thin Leg only moaned in response, a pitiful sound that an old woman would utter while making water. Buffalo Child smacked him across the face a few times. “Who are the whites?” he asked next.
“French...” Thin Leg managed, his eyes beginning to cloud over, “Frenchman.”
Buffalo Child nodded and looked back at the others, all of them gathered around now. There were just seven of them now, including himself, where before there’d been twelve. “French trappers that have come too far south,” he said to them, “and ones we’ll teach a lesson to.”
With that he turned back to the wounded Cree, glanced around at the trampled-down snow around them, and reached for a sizeable rock.
“Tell your ancestors what a Blackfoot’s anger tastes like,” he bent down and whispered into Thin Leg’s ear, then brought the stone up and smashed it down on the Cree’s face, again, and again, and again...
He only stopped when he felt another hand on his shoulder. Turning around he saw Stone Bear and the others looking at him strangely.
“Time to go home,” the Wise One said.
Buffalo Child looked at the others, his eyes narrowing, his face covered in the Cree’s blood. “Go home! Why, we’ve got two whites and a River Crow to kill!”
“No!” Stone Bear said with a calm voice despite the power he’d put behind it. “We’re not going to lose anymore young braves or strong warriors because of your hate.”
“I agree,” Silver Heart said.
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this!” Buffalo Child shouted as he started to get up. He reached down and grabbed a stray tomahawk that was lying there. “Silver Heart, you just lost your son, the second that you’ve lost to these whites in little more than a year. You want to go back and just let them get away with that!”
“I’ve lost Otter Tail too,” Silver Heart said, motioning toward the dead brave’s body, “just as you lost Slow Breeze in the canyons. We’ve both lost a son, and that’s enough.”
“Enough? Enough you say?” Buffalo Child said with a laugh. “Fine, then you cowards head home, back to the village to wait the winter out with the old men and the hags. Go!” He looked at the others for a few moments, and noticed the young braves shifting nervously behind the two Wise Ones. “Flying Wasp...Small Face,” he said, and the two braves looked up, “what say you to this idea of going home?”
“Uh...” Small Face said, for he was still expecting to be punished at any moment for killing Strong Foot with his misplaced arrow. So far that hadn’t been found out, however, and he meant to keep it that way.
“I don’t want to go home,” Flying Wasp said, cutting in when it was clear his companion was at a loss for words.
“Good, then you can come with me,” Buffalo Child said, waving the boys over. Both started to come.
“No,” Silver Heart said, stepping forward, “I won’t let these young braves get caught up in your suicidal vengeance quest!”
“And how are you going to stop me?” Buffalo Child said, a twisted smile coming to his face.
Silver Heart took in a deep breath, surprised at what he was hearing. It was clear that Chief He Who Shouts had been right not to name Buffalo Child as his successor. He took a step forward, meaning to grab the two braves by the wrists and drag them from the clearing, all the way to the Blackfeet village if necessary, but he never got that far. Buffalo Child drew back his arm and then hurled it forward, letting the tomahawk fly. It struck Silver Heart in the chest and embedded itself deeply. The force of the blow knocked the Wise One from his feet and he fell on his back hard, something that knocked the wind out of him.
“What are you doing!” Stone Bear shouted as he rushed toward the Wise One, who was still sucking for breath despite the terrible wound he’d suffered.
“Taking charge of this band,” Buffalo Child said as Stone Bear reached Silver Heart.
Stone Bear didn’t know what to do, for Silver Heart’s wound was too deep, and the man seemed to know that, for he stopped trying for breath and allowed himself to slip away. Stone Bear moved his hand up and closed the man’s eyes, then turned an angry face to Buffalo Child.
“He Who Shouts will hear of this!” he said, standing up and facing his fellow Wise One.
“How are you going to reach him?” Buffalo Child asked with a grin. “With your son and his brave?”
Stone Bear glanced back at Wolf Calf and Quiet Thunder. He didn’t want to put them in harm’s way, and anything having to do with Buffalo Child would be in harm’s way. He turned back to the Wise One, who was clearly becoming anything but. “Let us go.”
“When the whites are dead,” Buffalo Child replied.
A tense silence followed as the two Wise One’s stared at one another, neither wanting to break their gaze first. Finally Stone Bear let out a sigh, looked down, and nodded.
“Fine,” he said, “but know that when the whites are dead, we go our separate ways.”
“As you wish,” Buffalo Child said, and began to walk away. Flying Wasp and Small Face gave their peers confused looks before hustling after him.
Stone Bear turned back to his son and Quiet Thunder. “We’ll get through this,” he said, “I don’t know how, but we’ll get through this.”
He rose and began to follow the others, but behind him Wolf Calf hesitated for a moment before following. He wasn’t so sure his father was right.
31 – High-Tailing It
Colter rushed through bushes, around the trees, over the gullies, and through the creeks. He dodged low-hanging branches and jumped over larger rocks. Dips in the ground were leapt over and rises climbed quickly, all of it, of course, in the snow. He was running, and behind him he could hear the Frenchman doing the same. Whether the young River Crow Indian was still with them he wasn’t sure, but when he’d glanced back ten minutes or so earlier, he’d caught a glimpse of him way back in the trees.
The mountain man ran and ran and would have kept on running all day had not the Frenchman started coughing and wheezing and carrying on something fierce. Finally the man shouted “enough!” and Colter was forced to stop when he heard the sounds behind him lessen. He turned back to see the Frenchman standing there, bent over with hands on knees, coughing his lungs out or near enough. The mountain man scoffed and started back, just as Arapoosh came crashing in behind them.
“C’mon,” Colter said, “they could be right behind us, and likely will be even if they’re taking their time – our trail is obvious!” They were in thick trees, with little more than five feet or so between them, bushes and rocks scattered all over and covered with snow, the better to trip them up.
“I can’t...go...no further,” Larocque managed, coughing up another gob of phlegm for his efforts.
“I don’t think they’re following close behind,” Arapoosh said. His own breathing was labored, but he wasn’t a smoker like the Frenchman. “I stopped a few times to see, but–”
“Stopped!” Colter cried out. “What did you do that for? Are you trying to get killed!”
“No, I’m trying to figure out what happened to my brother!” Arapoosh shouted back, close to tears. He was exhausted, sleep-deprived and hungry on top of it. The stress of the fight and now being yelled at weren’t helping things. Colter seemed to sense this, for he held back.
“Just give me a minute,” Larocque said. “I can...I can...I...”
And with that the Frenchman fell over and landed in the snow. He wasn’t hurt, just exhausted, and a look of relief spread across his face as he lay there.
Colter shook his head but didn’t complain too much – the stop gave him a chance to reload his rifle. That took twenty seconds and seeing that the Frenchman hadn’t recovered in that time, he gestured for the man to throw him the pistol, which he did. Colter had that loaded just as quick and was standing again.
“C’mon!” he said. “Those Blackfeet aren’t going to let us get away so easily – let’s get out of here.”
“Alright, alright...just give me a minute,” Larocque began, but Colter gave him a few seconds, the amount of time it took him to walk over and heft the Frenchman to his feet. The look of surprise on Larocque’s face was quickly replaced by one of dislike, but he swallowed his pride and started after the man. Arapoosh just shook his head to it all and took up the rear, glancing over his shoulder occasionally for the Blackfeet that he hoped were coming.
32 – A New Companion
No Blackfeet came, that day or into the next. The three companions started up the valley on the western face of the Absarokas. It was lush country in summer but snow covered it all now. Buffalo and elk wandered by, as did the occasional wolf. The three travelers eyed the latter but dared not hunt the former – any sign of their passing was the last thing they wanted. All they could hope was that snow would come each night, wiping out that day’s tracks.
Most often it didn’t however, and the men trudged on, out into the wide valley and toward the other distant mountain range, the one that had the Snake River flowing by. That’d lead them back to the Yellowstone, Larocque had said, and that was just fine by Colter, as he’d have an easy go of it back to the fort once he reached the river.
Francois Antoine Larocque was the Frenchman’s full name, Colter had learned over their time together, for there wasn’t much to do while walking save look and talk, and Larocque was quite good at talking. That’s how he’d learned that they’d met once before. The mountain man had thought he looked familiar.
It’d all started when Colter asked him how he’d come to be out in the middle of nowhere, though he’d quickly regretted asking the question – the man would not shut up!
“Got my start because of my uncle, Laurent Leroux, who was one of the earliest trappers with Gregory, MacLeod and Company,” the Frenchman told him.
Colter had nodded, for he’d heard of the British fur trapping company, one that sent men out quite far, and for quite some time. They operated all over Canada and quite a bit in the Pacific Northwest, the mountain man knew, and were quite the thorn in the North West Company’s side.
“How’d they do against the Hudson’s Bay Company?” Colter asked.
“Not too good,” Laroque said, “but then no one can do too well against them, what with how much of western Canada they control. That’s why we have to move ever further toward the Pacific, further into America. That’s what my uncle did, and he mainly focused on the far reaches of the Northwest Territory, right up to the Arctic Ocean. In fact, it was he that started the first trading post way up north on Great Slave Lake.”
“Thought that was Alexander Mackenzie?”
Laroque nodded. “Oh, it was, it was...he and my uncle were travelling together.”
Colter nodded. He’d never heard of the lake, but Laroque had that self-assured smile on his face, the one Colter was getting quite used to. When the man had that look, the mountain man knew it was best just to humor him and nod along with whatever was being said.
“Unfortunately,” the Frenchman continued with a sigh, “the boss of Gregory, Macleod and Company was murdered and the company combined with the North West Company. My uncle would hang on for a few more years before getting into banking in Montreal. After that, his trapping days were done.”
“When was that?”
“Around 1792, well before my time,” Laroque said. “Didn’t get my start until then, for that’s when I left my native Quebec and headed to America. Didn’t know a smidgen of English when I got here, though I can thankfully say that’s changed.”
Colter looked up at the smiling Frenchman, and wasn’t so sure – with an accent as thick as that Colter often thought he should carry a knife around just to cut the air.
“Wasn’t until 1804 that I joined up with the XY Company on the Assiniboine River,” Laroque continued. “A short time after that the North West Company took the small company over and I soon was working for the competition it seemed.” He sighed. “Didn’t much matter to me – I just wanted to get out to trade and trap.”
“And that’s how you ran into the Captains,” Colter said.
“That’s how I ran into the Captains,” Laroque repeated with a nod. “It was the end of November 1804 and you were all wintering with the Mandans for the first time.”
“Aye,” Colter said, “I remember it well now. You wanted to go with us west, but the Captains wouldn’t allow it.”
“Don’t blame ‘em too much – would you want a French trapper that was working for the British to find out all your trade routes?”
Colter smiled. “Not like you could have found ‘em anyways – Captain Lewis had to repair your compass!”
