Hero's Stand Page 2
* * *
Mendel Knox appeared at the top of the rise, reined his horse to a stop, and waved the others on.
“Looks like Mendel’s found somethin’,” Clell offered.
“I hope to hell he’s found a way to get off of this damn mountain.” Fry was in a foul mood. They had spent a good part of the morning traversing a lofty mountain, looking for a way through to the western slope. Every trail seemed to dead-end into the shear side of another mountain whose slopes were a thick wall of lodgepole pines. All morning they could see what appeared to be a gap in the peaks that promised to be a valley, but they had been unsuccessful in finding a pass that might lead them to it.
It had not been a productive summer for Fry’s band of outlaws. When things got too hot for them in California, they had followed the late strikes in Montana territory. But they had found the claims too few and too hard to get to, not lucrative enough for their needs. The one sizable strike, at Rottenwood Creek, had looked to be prime pickings until a vigilante committee was formed, making it too risky to remain in that vicinity. So now Fry grumbled to himself as he rode up yet another rise, in need of a place to winter and with a wounded man on his hands.
“What did you find, Mendel?” Pitt asked when the group caught up.
“A way outta these mountains,” Mendel answered, a smug grin on his face. “There’s an old game trail on the other side of this ridge. It leads through a pass, and that valley we’ve been lookin’ for is on the other side.” Fry started to say something, but Mendel cut him off. “And that ain’t all. There’s a little settlement in that there valley.”
This piqued Fry’s interest right away. He looked at Pitt and smiled. “This might be a good day, after all. Let’s go have a look.”
* * *
“Whaddaya think, Fry?” Jack Pitt prodded, leaning forward with his foot propped upon a large rock and his elbow supported on his knee. Like his partner, Pitt had been studying the little settlement far below them in the valley. It seemed peaceful enough, with log houses scattered some distance apart on both sides of a strongly flowing river. When Fry didn’t answer immediately, Pitt said, “Looks ripe for the pickin’ to me.”
Fry nodded briefly to acknowledge his partner’s comments, but he still didn’t answer right away. He was sizing up the homesteads that were visible, wondering how many more were hidden from view in the valley below and estimating the potential for resistance. Behind him, he could already hear comments from the others, anxious to ride down and raid the settlement. When Wiley Johnson voiced the question “What are we waitin’ for?” Fry turned and answered, “We’re waiting for when I say.”
Wiley shrugged but held his tongue. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who called the shots for the gang. To a man, they conceded that Fry was the brains behind their actions, and each knew that any challenge to that fact would be dealt with forcefully by Jack Pitt.
Turning back to Pitt, Fry shared his thoughts on the matter. “I’m thinking we need a place to hole up for the winter. It’s already fall. We’ll be up to our asses in snow before you know it. This place looks like it might be just what the doctor ordered. It’s damn sure isolated enough, and it looks like a bunch of farmers to me. If there’s a rifle in every cabin down there, it wouldn’t be enough to cause us any concern.”
Pitt saw the wisdom in Fry’s thinking. Ordinarily, his philosophy was simply to attack and destroy, but with the coming cold weather, the thought of holing up in a small settlement appealed to him. And this one was so far off the main trails that they could hardly expect any chance of outside help for the settlers when the time came to pillage it. He nodded his head in approval.
“Maybe they got a doctor,” Trask groaned, feeling too sick and feverish to gawk at the collection of cabins in the valley. He had taken advantage of the pause to lie down against a tree, resting his wounded shoulder, which was woefully swollen and painful.
“Maybe he could chop that arm off fer ya,” Mendel said and laughed. Several of the others laughed with him, totally devoid of compassion for their wounded comrade. “You could keep it to use as a backscratcher.”
“To hell with the doctor,” Wiley blustered. “Wonder if they got any women down there?” His question was answered with hoots of approval from several of the others.
“Quiet, dammit!” Fry ordered. “Let’s get something straight right now. There ain’t gonna be no killing and raping—at least, not right away.” His words were met with groans of surprise from the men, and he waited for the protests to die down before explaining his decision. “We need a good, warm place to ride out the winter. This place looks as good as any to me. But if we go charging down there, killing and burning, a lot of ’em will get away—especially those on the other side of the river. Even if we killed all of ’em, then we wouldn’t have anybody to do the work for us. That’s why we’re going down there peaceful-like. If we play our cards right, we just might have ourselves a nice, comfortable winter. When the snows close up these passes, we can do what we want. Nobody’ll be able to get out of this valley to ride for help. Maybe come spring, things in Montana will cool off enough to hit the gold claims again.”
“How the hell are we just gonna ride in and take over if we don’t shoot a few of ’em?” Mendel asked. “What’s gonna keep some of ’em from taking potshots at us?”
“They’re gonna welcome us like saviors,” Fry replied, grinning slyly, “because we’ll be coming to save them from the Injuns.” He paused to see if there were any more questions. When, in spite of the many puzzled expressions, no one spoke, he went on. “Now, let’s get those uniforms out of the pack and get ready to give these poor folks some protection from the Injuns.”
Stolen from a quartermaster’s wagon, the uniforms were an odd assortment—a few garrison tunics, an officer’s sword (which Fry strapped to his side), one pair of blue wool trousers that Hicks wore because he was the only one small enough to wear them, and a half-dozen campaign hats. The gang made a ragtag bunch of soldiers, but Fry thought the uniforms adequate to show at least some semblance of military bearing.
When they were all outfitted and ready to ride, Fry told them how they were to answer if questioned by the folks in the settlement. “It’s best if you just keep your mouth shut and let me and Pitt do the talking. But if anybody asks, we’re part of the Montana militia, and we’ve been chasing renegade Injuns.” He paused, making up his story as he went along. “And we’ve been ordered to winter here to protect this settlement.” He hesitated once more, looking from one face to another. His eyes narrowed as he said, “Now, boys, this might be a real sweet winter with no trouble a’tall if we all mind our manners—and nobody goes off half-cocked. If we play this thing right, we might see the other side of winter fat and sassy. Whaddaya say, boys?”
He was answered with nods and grunts of agreement from all the men. Clell Adams wanted to know what he was supposed to call him. “Captain Fry” was the answer.
“Cap’n it is, then,” Clell chuckled, “but don’t expect me to do no damn salutin’.” This brought a laugh from the others.
“Hell,” Pitt snorted, “the only time you ever bring your hand up to your face is when you’ve got a drink of whiskey in it.” His comment brought another round of chuckling.
“Or when you’re a’pickin’ your nose,” Wiley added.
“All right, then,” Fry said. “Let’s go down and meet the good folks in the valley. And try to act like soldiers.”
* * *
Horace Spratte looked up from his work to catch sight of a party of eight riders making its way slowly down the north ridge. Canyon Creek didn’t get many visitors, especially this time of year, so Horace was naturally curious.
He and his wife, Effie, had found their way into the valley little more than a year before, having taken over the old Kendall place. They had started out from Council Bluffs with a party headed for Oregon, but Effie had come down with consumption, forcing them to drop out at Fort Laramie. It was late
fall before Effie had been well enough to travel again, too late to continue on to Oregon. Luckily for them, they had met an old trapper and guide named Monk Grissom, who had offered to take them to Canyon Creek to wait out the winter.
The Sprattes had been welcomed in the valley, and, since there was a sturdy cabin available, they had found it convenient to settle there until the spring. It had concerned them somewhat that the Kendall homestead was available because of the Indian attack that had resulted in the deaths of John Kendall and his wife. But Reverend Lindstrom had assured them that the threat of Indian trouble was greatly reduced and should not be of concern.
John Kendall had been one of the original settlers to accompany Reverend Lindstrom to Canyon Creek. A tall, rawboned man, he had married a woman from the Shoshoni camp on the far side of the western ridge. They had had a son, Luke. In 1868, Chief Washakie had moved his people to a permanent reservation east of the Wind River Mountains. Not long after, the settlement had been hit with the only raid by hostile Indians it had ever experienced. John Kendall and his wife had both been slaughtered by the Ute raiding party that swept through the valley. The raiders had hit the Colefield place on their way out, killing Robert Mashburn, another of the original settlers. The boy, Luke, was away at the village of his mother’s people on the reservation when his parents had been killed. When he returned to find that his parents were dead, his initial inclination had been to return to the Shoshoni village. Rufus Colefield, Robert’s father-in-law, had persuaded the boy to remain in the valley and live with him and his now-widowed daughter, Katie. Luke had soon developed a strong bond with the old man and his daughter even though most folks in the valley had figured he would return to his mother’s people. Since the Ute raid, there had been no more trouble with Indians.
Katie Mashburn’s husband, Robert, the third victim of the Indian raid, was sorely missed in the community. The widow never talked about that dreadful day when the Utes had swept down on their homestead, and Reverend Lindstrom had told Effie that it was best not to bring up the subject. Effie, from her infrequent contact with Katie, would hardly have broached such a subject, anyway. Katie was a strange, lonely woman who kept pretty much to herself. Doing a man’s work on the little patch of ground she and her father farmed, Katie never seemed to have time for visiting or socializing in general with the other women of the valley. And she was the only woman in Canyon Creek who constantly wore a pistol strapped around her waist. When Horace commented on it to Monk Grissom, Monk told him that Katie had taken to wearing it after the Utes killed her husband, vowing she’d never be caught without some protection again. According to Monk, Katie be lieved that if she had been armed on that day, she could have stood at her husband’s side instead of hiding in a corner of the garden. Newcomers to Canyon Creek found the young woman with the sad face almost unapproachable. She preferred to keep to herself, mixing only with her father and Luke Kendall, the half-breed boy who lived with them.
When spring came, Horace and Effie had decided to settle in the valley permanently in spite of the sad history associated with the prime piece of bottomland by the river. The little settlement hadn’t grown much in the last few years, a fact that troubled Reverend Lindstrom, who still envisioned a proper town there someday. Monk Grissom speculated that the lack of growth was probably a contributing factor in their friendly relations with the Shoshoni village beyond the range of mountains to the west.
* * *
Now that the strangers were closer to the valley floor, Horace could see that they were not Indians, although the horses they drove before them looked like Indian ponies. Effie, just then noticing that Horace was staring out across the river, paused to see what had captured his attention. “What is it, Horace?” she asked, shielding her eyes with her hand as she strained to identify the riders. After a moment, when her husband did not answer, she spoke again. “Are they soldiers? Some of ’em’s wearing army hats.” She picked up her pan, half-filled with the last of the fall peas, and walked over beside Horace.
“I don’t know,” Horace said. “Ain’t nobody I’ve ever seen before.” For a brief moment, he considered going to the cabin to fetch his rifle but thought better of it. The men were on the other side of the river. Besides, they had never had cause to fear white visitors to their little valley. Why appear unfriendly by meeting strangers with a gun in hand? There were eight of them, anyway. He couldn’t do much about it if they were hostile, so he stood watching as they crossed over the meadow and turned down the river. “Headed for the reverend’s place, I reckon,” Horace decided. When the riders reached a point directly across the river from where the Sprattes stood watching, the leader looked their way and gave them a brief wave of his hand. As they passed on by, the men following made no gestures but stared openly at the man and his wife.
“The one in front is sure settin’ in a fancy saddle,” Horace commented, noticing the high cantle and pommel of Simon Fry’s Spanish saddle.
“One of ’em looks like he’s got a bad arm,” Effie remarked as the last of the riders passed from their view.
Not waiting for his wife to suggest it, Horace unhitched his mule from the plow, hopped on its back, and headed downriver to cross at the ford just above the church. By the time he reached Reverend Lindstrom’s place, the strangers had already found the preacher working to repair a hole in the roof of the log structure that served as the valley’s place of worship. As soon as he forded the river, Horace met Whitey Branch coming from the small gathering of men in front of the church.
“Soldiers,” Whitey called out excitedly as Horace approached. He pulled up to talk. Ordinarily, Horace, like most folks in the valley, would have stopped and humored Whitey. The poor devil was a mite slow-witted. Some thought he had been kicked in the head by a mule when he was a boy. But Whitey had no family to attest to that, so nobody knew for sure. Sometimes a nuisance, but harmless and always friendly, he showed up at everybody’s doorstep on a regular basis.
Horace was intent upon hearing the news of the valley’s visitors firsthand, so he didn’t even slow down when he passed Whitey, tossing a “Howdy, Whitey” at his disappointed neighbor and urging his mule up the riverbank. Horace found the reverend talking to two of the men while the others turned their horses out to graze on the ample valley grass.
“Here’s another one of our citizens now,” Reverend Lindstrom said as Horace rode up. “This here’s Horace Spratte. Him and his wife live up the river a piece.” He waited for Horace to slide off his mule. “Horace, this is Captain Fry of the . . .” He turned back to Fry. “What was it?”
“The Montana Territorial Militia,” Fry answered. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Spratte.”
“Seen you go by my place,” Horace replied, offering his hand.
Lindstrom went on. “Captain Fry tells me that he’s been sent out here to give us protection from the Indians.”
This puzzled Horace. “Protection? We ain’t had no trouble with the Injuns.”
“Well, you might have some before the winter’s over,” Fry replied. “‘There’s been some bad raiding north of here, and not too far north at that.”
This wasn’t pleasant news to Horace. “Is that a fact? Who was it? Bannocks? Koutenai?”
“Both of ’em,” Fry quickly replied, “and Snakes, too.” He glanced at Pitt beside him, and Jack nodded silent conformation.
“Snakes?” Horace couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you sure? We ain’t had no trouble with Chief Washakie’s band of Shoshonis since I’ve been living here.” He looked at Lindstrom for conformation.
The reverend nodded and said, “That’s what I was telling the captain here. We ain’t had no trouble with the Snakes.”
“Well, I guess you got some now,” Fry replied, getting a mite testy at being questioned. “I know damn well that Trask over there has a Snake arrow in him, and we damned sure took care of the party that done it.” He started to say more, but Jack Pitt’s warning glance reminded him to hold his temper. “I reckon thi
s bunch must have been renegades,” he allowed, his tone taking on a friendly quality once more. “At any rate, we’ve been ordered to operate out of this valley this winter.”
Reverend Lindstrom was pleased that his little congregation had been selected for special attention. “It’s been over fifteen years since I brought the first of these people over the divide to this valley. This is the first time anybody outside the valley has cared one way or the other what happened to us.”
“Well, we’ve been spread mighty thin,” Fry responded, building on the lie. “But I reckon it’s high time we got some men over here to protect you folks.”
Horace was busy eyeing the six soldiers now taking their ease near the corner of the church building. After a moment, he turned back to Simon Fry. “For soldiers, you boys sure ain’t got much in the way of uniforms.”
Fry was quick to answer. “We don’t put too much stock in spit and polish when we’re fighting Injuns. And like I said, we’re not regular army. We’re volunteers in the Montana Territorial Militia.” Seeing that the lack of uniforms had been noticed, he felt it the opportune moment to broach another subject, one closer to his concern. “Funds are mighty scarce for my brave men, who’ve left their families and homes to take care of the Injun problem so folks like you can live in peace. But the other settlements we’ve been quartered in have been generous in sharing food and grain with us.”
Lindstrom and Spratte exchanged brief glances. After a long moment, the reverend finally spoke. “I guess I speak for the folks of Canyon Creek when I say I’m sure we can provide some food and grain to help you out.” Being a Christian man by faith and occupation, Lindstrom began to warm more toward the idea of sharing with these good soldiers the longer he thought about it. “Of course, we’ll be glad to help,” he decided. “Won’t we, Horace?”
“I reckon,” Horace answered but not with the enthusiasm now displayed on the preacher’s face. “Maybe we can talk about it during prayer meeting tomorrow night,” he suggested.