Colter's Hell, page 9
Thankfully, however, it didn’t.
Just a few days after turning back the mountain man was moving up the eastern bank of the Wind River when something caught his ear. Colter came to a halt, looked sideways, and tried to make his ears hear for all they were worth. Something had made a sound...something. It wasn’t the wind rustling the pine needles or snow falling from leaves. It wasn’t a winter bird pecking away nor was it the endless sound of his own boots crunching through the icy snow. The mountain man had heard something, however, and stood there just within the tree line, the vast plain that rose up to meet the Absaroka Mountains stretching out before him just as empty as ever. The wind blew, swirling flakes about, biting at his ears and nose and fingertips. Colter eased one of those fingertips onto the trigger of his rifle, brought the gun up to his shoulder. Something was out there, Colter knew that for sure. That’s when he heard the crunching of the snow.
Colter spun about, bringing his rifle up to his face, but then a moment later he lowered it. The Indian he was suddenly face to face with smiled as he did so.
“Hello,” he said in English.
“Hello,” Colter replied, and then in his limited Crow said, “I’ve been looking for you.”
The Crow Indian’s smile grew larger at that, and he put up his arm, motioning for something. A moment later Colter saw two more braves materialize from the trees, each no more than ten feet away from the other, but just as hidden if they’d been miles away.
“Two days,” the lead Crow said in heavily accented English, “two days we track you.”
Colter nodded. It was clear that this was the Crow band’s leader, and his English wasn’t that good. It was a sight better than Colter’s Crow, however. He’d never been much good with the Siouan languages of the plains tribes, had always had a better ear for the Dhegiha languages of the tribes closer to the Mississippi, but that didn’t do him much good now.
“You speak English,” he said, then a moment later, “comment est votre français?”
The Crow shook his head. “You think my English bad, wait to you hear my French!” The brave spoke a few quick words in Crow to his companions, and a moment later the three were chuckling. When that died down the Indian put his hands to his mouth and whistled. A few moments later Colter could hear more crunching in the snow, and then there were four more Crow Indians in their midst. Colter shook his head and smiled, and the Crow did the same.
“You whites,” the brave said with a smile, “always so surprised to hear what quiet sounds like.”
The mountain man smiled again, and soon he was moving along with the band, westward past the Wind River and further into unknown lands.
18 – On the Hunt
Buffalo Child clicked his tongue and his horse moved forward, into the Shoshone River and then slowly across. The other mounted Blackfeet did the same, and then those that were on foot, which was most. Wolf Calf looked back at those that were walking and once again thanked his lucky stars that he’d been given a horse. As if reading his mind, his father Stone Bear glanced back, caught his eye, and gave a slight nod. Wolf Calf smiled inwardly – he really was a brave now.
My, how far he’d come in just the past few months. Late last year before winter had set in he’d been in this same area, though alone and without permission. He’d come down the Bighorn River, hoping to enter into another vision quest, but it wasn’t meant to be. In the end he’d been gone from the village for six days, and when he’d come back he’d been chided something fierce. A lot of that had come about because the vision quest Wolf Calf had been seeking had never occurred.
He sighed when he thought back on those days many months before, and also what had happened. For it’d been on that river that Wolf Calf had come across the two Crow, boys like himself, both also away from their tribe without permission. They’d been brothers, and they’d spotted the young Blackfoot first. Wolf Calf had tensed up, bringing up his bow and arrow, but the boys had only laughed. Wolf Calf had picked up a bit of Crow, but not as much as the others had picked up of his own language. They spoke up, using his tribe’s own words to sooth and calm him. It’d worked, and before he’d really known what’d happened, Wolf Calf was walking with them, talking, and soon enough, laughing.
The boys spent three days together, splitting off of the Big Horn to head west on the Shoshone. From there they’d headed overland to yet another river, the Clarks Fork, or Small Fork as they knew it as. That’s when things had gone wrong, oh so terribly wrong. Wolf Calf looked up at the big, blue sky and shuddered despite himself. What had they seen that night?
He shook the thoughts from his head, not wanting to relive that night or what’d occurred. He looked around. They were fourteen strong – the three Wise Ones in the lead, their three sons, and then the leading young braves of the Otter and Skunk Bands, five young braves like Wolf Calf and then three older braves, men that each of the Wise Ones trusted and had been allowed to bring along. Chief He Who Shouts had been adamant, Wolf Calf later learned, that the Wise Ones only go out with young braves and one trusted friend. He was really testing the men, really ensuring that the Piegan Blackfeet would be led by the most competent amongst them. Wolf Calf wondered if his father would be the one that succeeded in the end. He knew that if his father didn’t then his own standing in the tribe would be finished. It’d be better to be dead.
Wolf Calf shook the thought away and looked out past the river. It was the Shoshone, and crossing south of it meant they were truly in Crow lands. Would they run into the Indians, perhaps even come to blows with them? It was likely, the young brave knew, for Silver Heart had made it clear that the white was travelling with a small band of the Indians, one he’d met up with just a day or two before. Silver Heart was the best tracker in the tribe, and spent most of his time walking, following the trail that was so easy. They were a few days behind, but since the white and the Crow were on foot, it’d be very soon now.
Wolf Calf smiled. He was ready for vengeance, ready to redeem himself, ready to take his rightful place in the tribe.
19 – Crossing Paths
Colter was enjoying his time with the Crow. There was only one that spoke any English, Toop was his name, and Colter was learning quite a bit about the area from him. It was a slow process, what with the language barrier due to Toop’s lack of skill, though Colter was always quick to point out that his language skills were nothing to brag about. Already the Crow were urging Colter to come back to their village near the Snake River, and the mountain man had finally agreed. They were moving westward now, hoping to come to the last of the Wind River Range that very day. Another couple days would have Colter back at the Gros Ventre Mountains and then he knew it wouldn’t be long before the Snake was sighted.
The day began to grow dark just as the mountains they’d been following for the past two days began to recede and grow smaller.
“We’ll make camp soon,” Toop said, motioning ahead toward a thick copse of trees that was near the base of the Absarokas.
Colter nodded and they pressed on. They were walking in the tree line, the better to be off the main plain. Toop had been adamant that this area was safe for them now, but still, he wasn’t going to walk right out in the open. No, it was better to walk in the tree line, a few dozen feet from the open plains that stretched for dozens of miles before the distant mountains gobbled them up again. They were walking in those trees and looking forward to settling down for the night when up ahead Cottay came to a stop. He was the tracker for the band, and typically walked a good fifty yards ahead of the others. Never before had Colter seen him come to a stop so suddenly, and the mountain man tensed up. A quick look around showed him that the other eight members of the band had done the same.
Colter narrowed his eyes and looked at Toop. The Crow brave was smiling and shaking his head, those bright white teeth of his a stark contrast against that darker face. It was clear he thought no threat existed. The sight put the mountain man at ease, and he relaxed. Any moment now he expected Toop to shout back at him to take it easy – let them handle it. This was Crow country, after all, and Colter should know enough to let them lead.
That shout didn’t come, however, for in the midst of that smile there was the most unusual thing – a stone flew out and hit Toop right on the side of the head. The smile faltered as surprise registered in the man’s brain. That seemed to be all that registered, however, for a moment later Toop began to fall over, that smile still somewhat on his face, though it was gone by the time he hit the ground. He lay there, unmoving, and that’s when the arrows flew out.
“Down!” Colter heard one of the Crow shout out in his native tongue, but it was too late – at least a dozen arrows flew out at them, and the brave that’d uttered the warning only got one through his leg for his effort.
Colter grabbed hold of his gun and looked toward the trees, northward to where the attack was coming from. There was a musket shot nearby, and he knew one of the Crow had gotten a shot off. Another shot came, and he felt confident this attack could be repulsed. No shots were coming from the trees, just arrows. That’s when Colter saw movement and brought the musket up to his face, readying for a shot, just waiting to take aim...
“Ah!” Colter shouted, and he jerked his head away from the gun to look down. There was an arrow through his right leg, just above the knee. Grimacing, he bent down and put the butt of his gun on the ground, brought his hands back up, gripped the arrow and then broke the haft off.
“Ah!” came the sound from his lips, though more of a grunt this time. He grabbed his gun and that’s when he looked around for the first time. All around him, Crow braves were down, including Cottay far ahead. Worse, however, was that those not hit were slinking off, running instead of fighting. The mountain man gritted his teeth and bit his lip, the better not to cry out at them, calling them dogs and betrayers and whatever else he could. It might make him feel good, but it’d only draw the attention of the band of Indians attacking them, Blackfeet most likely, if Colter had to guess. The good news was that the arrows from the trees were following the retreating Indians, and not focused on him. The mountain man got some satisfaction out of that, and instead of returning fire, he got up and turned about, deciding it’d be best to head the other way, getting out of the fight entirely.
He did just that, and ran right into an Indian brave. The smile the young man gave him made it clear – this was not a friend.
~~~
Arapoosh heard the gunshot, then another one close behind it. He craned his neck and put his hand to his ear, listening. A few whoops and shouts came to him. Blackfeet, he thought, for he’d seen their horse’s tracks and even spotted one the day before from a hilltop. They’d spotted something it seemed, and boy did it have them excited!
Without wasting another second, the young River Crow was on his feet and moving west.
~~~
The brave smiled a bit wider then started to move forward, his tomahawk beginning to go up. Colter frowned, and did the only thing he could. He brought up the Northwest Trade Gun and fired. The advancing brave was so close that the force of the blast in his chest sent him flying backward a good five or six feet to crumple against a tree, dead.
The mountain man didn’t waste a second – he dashed forward past the Indian, leaning down to grab the tomahawk. Colter never knew when–
THUNK!
The mountain man’s eyes went wide at the axe that’d embedded itself into the tree trunk just inches from his face. The weapon would have taken him right in the head had he not bent down. He then looked over to see an angry-looking brave just inches from him, and desperately trying to wedge the thing free. It was stuck, Colter knew, and he didn’t hesitate. He brought up the tomahawk he’d just grabbed and slammed it down into the brave’s chest, right between the arms that were outstretched and struggling to free the weapon. Blood spurted out, right into Colter’s face and beard. He let go and saw the brave’s body begin to fall backward. By the time it hit the ground the mountain man was running as best he could, the arrow wound in his leg bleeding something fierce.
~~~
Slow Breeze saw the white man dash off, or at least try to. He was stumbling and hobbling more than anything, and the Blackfoot brave smiled. The arrow he’d put through the man’s leg would be more than enough for him to track him, catch him, and kill him. He didn’t have the yellow hair, but the hair was certainly yellowish, the most Slow Breeze had ever seen at least. This must be the man Wolf Calf had seen.
He gave a quick look around at his companions, the other Blackfeet Indians fighting alongside Buffalo Child, the Wise One he gave allegiance to. All were preoccupied, most with killing Crow. As far as Slow Breeze could tell, he was the only one that’d seen the white. He scoffed and shook his head and stood up. Arrows were still flying about, but they were going in the wrong direction – east toward where the Crow were fleeing. They should have been heading west, and that’s what Slow Breeze began to do, move west, his bow in his hand, his tomahawk in the other, and a wicked smile on his face.
20 – A Chance Encounter
Arapoosh dashed through the underbrush, not caring how much sound he made. There was an attack going on nearby, and he meant to find out what it was. He meant to find out...
The young Crow brave came to a stop, his eyes going wide. Something was crashing right through the bushes toward him, something loud and–
CRASH!
Colter tore through the bushes, not caring at all how much sound he made for he’d managed to reload his rifle. There was more than enough sound behind him as it was, the sound of whooping and hollering and people dying. He’d had enough of that, and with his wounded leg he...
The mountain man came to a halt, his feet struggling for purchase on the stick-strewn and pebbly ground that was beneath the thin layer of snow, for there before him was a young Indian boy, a spear held up over his arm in a ready-to-throw gesture.
Arapoosh didn’t know what to make of it, for he’d never seen a man like this before, at least not out in the wilds. He was a white, that much was clear, but one with a flowing beard covered in blood, scrubby clothing, and quite the large rifle or musket in his hands. He also had a savage wound in his leg, for the young brave could clearly see the blood-soaked trousers and right moccasin that’d turned red.
The two stared at one another for a moment, the eyes of each narrowing in surprise, concern, and question. Was this friend or foe before them, each wondered, and neither could tell. Those thoughts were disrupted a moment later, for the sound of more crashing through the bushes could clearly be heard.
Colter decided that the boy in front of him wasn’t as dangerous as what was likely following him, a Blackfoot brave that wouldn’t hesitate as the boy had. He turned about and brought up his rifle, thinking back on the winter before when he’d been staring into some bushes, a pursuer coming at him unseen, and he just sitting and waiting for the moment to pull the trigger. He wasn’t disappointed.
Just then Slow Breeze tore through the bushes, expecting to see nothing more than another set of bushes that needed to be torn through. The white was ahead of him he knew, but not for one second had the Blackfoot expected the man to be right there, and pointing his gun his way. Slow Breeze closed his eyes up tight as his rush continued, fully expecting the bullet to tear into him.
Colter saw the brave rush out of the bushes and he didn’t hesitate. His finger pulled back on the trigger and the Northwest Trade gun’s hammer slammed down onto the pan...and misfired. A blinding cloud of white smoke rose up and hit Colter right in the face, and together with the kick from the rifle, he was thrown backward. Ahead of him, Slow Breeze smiled.
Arapoosh couldn’t believe what he was seeing. First a white, then a Blackfoot, and then a gun that did more harm to the man that’d fired it! The white was down on the ground now and the Blackfoot was rushing up, bloodlust in his eyes, a smile on his face, and his tomahawk raised high for the killing blow. Arapoosh didn’t hesitate.
The spear flew from the young Crow’s hand as he hurled his arm forward and then released. Slow Breeze was too intent upon his killing dive to see the projectile heading his way, a sharpened cottonwood limb nearly four feet in length. The point of it plunged into the Blackfoot brave’s chest and pushed him backward slightly so that his killing jump was blocked. A look of surprise came over his face as he fell to the ground to land on his bottom, and that’s when he saw Arapoosh standing there, a firm look of justice on his face. The River Crow were no friends of the Blackfeet, after all, for the hostile tribe had raided them enough times for that to be abundantly clear. All Slow Breeze managed was to drool a bit of blood out of the side of his mouth before his eyes glazed over and he fell on his side, dead, the young brave’s spear sticking clean through him.
Colter couldn’t believe what he’d just seen, for he’d not viewed the boy as a threat at all. Obviously he was, however, and the mountain man began to reach for the knife at his belt. He did so slowly, however, for he didn’t think the boy meant him any harm. That suspicion was confirmed a moment later when the boy shook his head at Colter, then flicked his chin over his shoulder, gesturing for the mountain man to follow him. Colter gave a quick glance back at the dead Blackfoot and then the direction they’d both come from. There could be more, and likely would be when this one didn’t come back. Colter looked back at the young brave, nodded, and was soon on his feet and following close behind.
Part III – Tracking
21 – Finding Trails
