The Blackfoot Trail Page 4

“Here’s the man you wanna give thanks to,” Malcolm said, introducing the guide. “This is Joe Fox, and he’s gonna lead you outta these mountains.”

  “Well, hallelujah,” one of the women exclaimed.

  “Lord knows we’ve been prayin’ for you,” another sang out.

  When Joe nodded as politely as he knew how, Malcolm walked over to meet him. “I saw you kneeling beside those bodies, and I know you were raised by the Blackfeet,” he said. “I know that it must be eatin’ at your heart to have killed some of your own people, but you done the right thing.”

  Malcolm’s statement was met with a look of genuine astonishment. “Atsina,” Joe responded, using the Blackfoot word for Gros Ventre. “They weren’t Blackfoot. They were Gros Ventre.”

  “Oh,” Malcolm responded. “Then it wasn’t such a bad thing for you that we killed them?”

  Amazed that Malcolm was so naive, Joe smiled and said, “It was a damn good thing that we killed them. What I’m tryin’ to figure out is why they’re so far away from their reservation at Fort Belknap. If I had to guess, I’d suspect they’re part of a bigger raidin’ party. I’m sorry two of ’em got away.” Recalling his childhood in the Blackfoot camp, he said, “The old ones told stories about a time when the Blackfeet and the Atsina were friends, and then a war broke out between them over a white horse and two dead Gros Ventre. The Atsina blamed the Blackfeet after seeing the horse in our village. They didn’t know that a party of Snakes had given the horse to the Blackfeet. They were the ones who killed the two Atsina warriors, but there’s been bad blood between my people and the Atsina ever since.”

  “Damn!” Pete exclaimed with a wide grin. “That’s the most words I’ve ever heard you string together at one time.”

  Suddenly embarrassed, Joe shrugged and turned to tend to his horses. “You said he was gonna lead us out of these infernal mountains,” Jake Simmons called after him, although his words were directed toward Malcolm.

  “Well, yeah,” Malcolm replied. “That’s what we came here for.” Hearing Malcolm’s response, Joe paused and looked back at him. “That’s right, ain’t it, Joe?” Malcolm asked.

  This was an answer that everyone wanted to hear, and a silence fell over the group as Joe’s reply was awaited. The hush was broken when Nancy Lindstrom asked, “Can you lead us out of here, Mr. Fox?”

  Joe Fox glanced at Pete Watson, then shifted back to the gathering around Malcolm, finally settling his gaze upon the woman standing beside Bradley. There were many conflicting thoughts running through his mind as he studied the gentle face of the woman. Like a child or an injured animal, she seemed to be pleading for his help. He wished at that moment that he had refused Malcolm’s request to guide them. The gathering of gentle white people made him feel uncomfortable. He had lived alone in the solitude of the mountains since he was a boy of eighteen, living by his cunning and his courage. He came to know himself as neither Indian nor white, although he felt his allegiance was owed to the Blackfoot nation. They were the only people he really knew, but he had never felt a need for any companions but his rifle and his bow. Now he found himself with more than thirty pairs of eyes, all focused upon him, awaiting reassurance in his answer. He had given his word to Malcolm, however, and had taken payment in the form of supplies and cartridges. Besides, the childlike plea in Nancy Lindstrom’s gentle face played wickedly upon his conscience. In the end, he felt he could not leave them to their fate. “I reckon I can, ma’am,” he said in answer to her question.

  “You know the way through these mountains?” The question came from a brute of a man who had been content to listen up to that point. He stepped through the gathering, elbowing his way past Nancy Lindstrom and several standing beside her until he stood squarely before Joe. He looked Joe up and down thoroughly with obvious distrust in his gaze. “We just run one sorry scalawag off that claimed he could lead us to the Willamette Valley. Now you show up claiming to know the way outta this canyon. How do we know you even have a notion where the Willamette Valley is?”

  Joe glanced over at Bradley, noticing the tired look of impatience in his face, before meeting the gaze of the belligerent man standing before him. It took no more than a few seconds to determine the bully nature of the man. Joe’s first impulse was to tell the man to find his way out himself, but the image of Nancy Lindstrom’s face was still in his mind. “I can take you out,” he answered softly, still meeting the huge man’s gaze.

  “Huh,” the big man snorted rudely.

  “I can take you outta here to a better place to camp,” Joe Fox continued. “I ain’t sure you can make it past all the mountains between here and where you’re talkin’ about goin’ before snow closes most of the mountain passes. And I don’t know the Willamette Valley you spoke of, but I know how to find Oregon.”

  This brought an immediate ripple of dismay over the folks gathered around him. “What the hell do you mean?” the bully demanded. “We can’t spend the winter in these mountains.” He turned then to address those closest to him. “I don’t know about the rest of you folks, but I need to get to Oregon before winter sets in. I don’t care what no half-Injun says, I say we quit pussyfootin’ around and strike out straight across these damn mountains.”

  “Hold on, Starbeau,” Bradley Lindstrom interrupted. “There ain’t no call to get your back up till we talk this over.”

  Starbeau turned to vent his rage upon Bradley then. “That’s just the damn trouble we’ve had all along,” he charged. “You and Simmons and Chadwick ain’t been good for nothin’ but talkin’ things over between yourselves. I’ve held my tongue up to now, but I’ll have my say on this. You hired that damn no-account, Skinner. Now you’re hirin’ this half-breed that just dropped down out of a tree somewhere.” He turned once again to point an accusing finger at Joe. “I wanna know why the hell we can’t be past the mountains before winter sets in!”

  Joe stood, silently measuring the man who demanded answers, his eyes displaying no evidence of emotion. He felt no obligation to persuade the people to trust him. He would lay out the simple facts and let them decide.

  Bradley Lindstrom felt it his duty to intercede. “Let’s try to keep a civil tongue here, Starbeau.” He looked at Joe Fox then and asked, “Is what you say our only choice? Why can’t we make it through before winter?”

  “You started too late in the summer,” Joe answered. “You’ve been goin’ around in circles, and you’ve got too far left to go. I said I could lead you outta the mountains. I never said it would be easy, and I never promised you’d make it before spring. A man can’t say for sure what the winter will be. Maybe the snow will come late and the passes will stay open, but I doubt it. I’ve seen no sign. I can take you to Missoula Mills, where you will find some more white people. If you are wise, you’ll set up your winter camp there.”

  Openly disappointed in Joe’s answer, Bradley asked, “What will we do? We’ll perish in these mountains.”

  “You’ll perish if you try to strike out straight west like this damn fool wants to do,” Joe replied evenly, ignoring the fluster in Starbeau’s face. “I’ll lead you north from here until we get to a valley I know. It’s a little longer than the way a hawk flies, but these mules don’t look much like hawks to me. And the way I will take you, there is game for food if you have to settle in for the winter.”

  “If we make it to that valley you mention, will we be free of the mountains?” Raymond Chadwick asked.

  Joe made a concentrated effort to hide his astonishment for the naïveté of Raymond’s question. “No, you will still be in the Bitterroots. There will be many days’ journey beyond that.”

  This was disappointing news to all thirty-seven souls gathered on the bank of the river. The jubilation felt by the deliverance from the Gros Ventre raiders was squelched by the news that their journey was to end when not even halfway finished. To make the report even more discouraging, they now faced the stark possibility of having to wait out the snows in some narrow canyon somewhere. Thoug
hts of the Donner party returned to many of them, and some of the women went so far as to give voice to that concern.

  “Don’t even start that kinda talk,” Bradley warned. “We ain’t the Donner party. We’re able-bodied men, and we can build a warm winter camp if we have to. Joe Fox, here, says he can keep us supplied with food. We’ve just gotta have faith in the Lord and faith in ourselves.”

  “And faith in Joe Fox,” Starbeau added cynically.

  “Ain’t nobody said you had to stay with the party,” Jake Simmons blurted. He’d had about as much of Starbeau’s complaining as he cared for. “You wouldn’t be here in the first place, but you asked to tag along after we left Bismarck.”

  Jake’s wife, Cora, took him by the arm, and pulled him a few steps away. “Let it lay, Jake,” she cautioned.

  “Yeah, little man,” Starbeau warned, “you’d best listen to your wife and let it lay, else you’re liable to get your scrawny little back broke.”

  Starbeau’s threat effectively silenced the noisy crowd, and all eyes turned to Bradley Lindstrom, since he was acknowledged informally as the captain of the train. In a show of support, and sensing trouble, Malcolm moved over to stand beside his brother. In the brief moments before Bradley interceded on Jake’s behalf he was reminded that allowing Starbeau to accompany the mule train had been a grave mistake that now seemed to be coming back to cause trouble.

  Twenty miles out from Bismarck Starbeau had suddenly appeared, riding a broad-chested dun and leading four mules with heavy packs. He said he was a pilgrim, just like the rest of the party, looking for a place to settle where he could practice his Christian beliefs. Bradley should have listened to Jake then when his wiry little friend doubted the rough man’s sincerity. It had not taken long before the rest of the party had doubts about the loner in their midst. With few words for any of the others, Starbeau had kept to himself for the entire journey, never asking nor offering assistance on any matter, and preferring never to participate in the nightly prayers. It was soon apparent that the surly brute was along strictly for the safety of numbers. Now he had permitted his venomous core to emerge and again Bradley felt it his responsibility to defuse the volatile incident.

  “Cora’s right, Jake,” he said. “It’s best to calm down. We’re all just a little bit touchy right now.”

  “Can’t no man talk to me that way,” Jake complained, jerking his arm out of Cora’s hand and bracing himself to face Starbeau. “I’ll have your apology now, by God.”

  “Or what?” Starbeau sneered. “Whaddaya gonna do about it, you little bantam rooster?” He looked around him, glaring at the crowd. “I’ll do what I please, and I’ll say what I damn well please. What are any of you Bible-thumpin’ sons of bitches gonna do about it?” When no one responded, he said, “I thought so,” and turned back to Jake. Dropping his hand to rest on the pistol he wore at his side, he taunted, “All right, you yellow belly, you got a gun on your belt, you ready to back up that big mouth of yours?”

  Bradley Lindstrom was stunned, scarcely able to believe what his eyes were witnessing. A gunfight was about to occur in this camp of religious folk. “We need to calm down . . . ,” was the only thing he could manage to say. There was no doubt in his mind that this fight amounted to suicide for Jake Simmons, but Jake was still trying to push Cora out of his way, determined to defend his pride.

  “Maybe you oughta give her the gun, Simmons,” Starbeau goaded. “She looks like she’s got more spunk than you.” With a sinister chuckle, he winked at Cora and said, “Maybe you oughta come on over to my camp. I believe I could give you a little more of what a woman like you needs. I bet you ain’t gettin’ it from that bantam.” Seeing the fearful effect he was having upon the peaceful congregation, he threw back his head and laughed.

  Standing apart, watching the confrontation with detached interest since he felt no ties to the party of pilgrims, Joe was content to let them settle their differences among themselves. When the argument advanced beyond the mere slinging of insults back and forth, he realized that the bully Starbeau was intent upon killing the smaller man. The only motive that Joe could determine was the simple fact that Starbeau would enjoy the killing. He decided it was time to act.

  Making his way through the ring of horrified spectators, he stepped in front of Jake. Turning to face Starbeau, he raised his rifle and took dead aim on the bully’s forehead. The crowd that had parted slightly when Starbeau had sought to call Jake out now created a wide lane between the two men. “What the hell . . . ?” Starbeau sputtered as the tall hunter held his steady aim at his head. Recovering his belligerent composure, he snarled, “This ain’t none of your affair.”

  With his rifle still aimed at Starbeau, Joe replied, “It ain’t a fair fight.”

  “Ain’t a fair fight?” Starbeau stammered in flustered rage. “It ain’t none of your business, you damn half-breed!”

  “Now it is,” Joe calmly replied, the rifle still aimed directly at the bully’s head. Behind him, Bradley and Cora managed to pull Jake away from the fight.

  Regaining a measure of his bluster, Starbeau said, “All right, mister, if you want a showdown, you can have it. You’re wearin’ a pistol. Put down that rifle, and we’ll see who walks away from here.”

  “Why would I do that?” Joe replied.

  Visibly disconcerted, Starbeau insisted, “For a fair fight, dammit! It ain’t a fair fight with you already holdin’ a rifle on me!”

  “I don’t fight fair,” Joe replied calmly. Being a practical man, Joe could see no sense in entering a contest with Starbeau. To him, killing was not a game. He had never seen a gunfighter, but he had heard of such men, men who practiced drawing their handguns in a quest to be faster than other men. It made no sense to him, for there was no distinction between wrong and right, or evil and good. He had no idea if Starbeau was one who practiced pulling his weapon. The one thing Joe did know for certain was that the fuming bully could not draw his pistol before he squeezed the rifle’s trigger.

  With the showdown effectively brought to a standoff by the unexpected move by Joe Fox, Starbeau was left to founder in a helpless situation. There was little he could do to salvage his pride short of committing suicide. He could not remember wanting to kill a man more than at this moment, as his hand hovered over the handle of his pistol—his fingers tingling with the itch he felt to snatch the weapon free of the holster—but he could not make the move. Staring into the deadly calm eyes of the hunter, he was convinced that the man would not hesitate to kill him.

  Though it was only seconds, it seemed much longer to those who witnessed the impasse between the bullish Starbeau and the mysterious man of the mountains. A low murmur wafted through the relieved crowd of spectators when Starbeau at last abruptly turned with a grunt of disgust, and started toward his tent. Joe lowered his rifle slowly, watching the sullen brute depart until Malcolm appeared at his elbow, distracting him for a second with a comment. “That was too close for comfort,” Malcolm said, and was about to continue when Joe suddenly shoved him aside as the bullet from Starbeau’s pistol made a loud snapping sound as it passed between them. With reflexes sharpened by a life of survival in the wild, Joe whipped his rifle up and fired before the sound of Starbeau’s shot had faded away. The shot slammed into the big man’s shoulder, spinning him around as he fell to the ground, his pistol landing in the sand. Joe cocked the Winchester, ready to fire again.

  “Damn, I’m sorry,” Malcolm uttered, apologizing for distracting Joe long enough for Starbeau to spin around and take the shot. “He coulda killed one of us if you hadn’t pushed me outta the way.”

  Joe didn’t take time to acknowledge Malcolm’s apology. He went straight to the wounded man, his rifle aimed at his head. “Wait!” Bradley Lindstrom yelled and ran to intercede. He reached Starbeau just as Joe was preparing to finish the job. “There’s been enough killin’ without us startin’ to kill each other,” he exclaimed. “He’s wounded, and you were right to shoot to defend yourself, but if yo
u shoot him now, it’ll be nothin’ less than murder.”

  Joe paused briefly to give Bradley a puzzled look. “The man tried to kill me,” he stated. “I don’t give a man more’n one chance if I can help it.”

  “The Bible says, Thou shalt not kill,” Bradley pleaded. “We are Christians, so I’m askin’ you not to pull that trigger. At least let us call a council to talk this thing over.”

  Joe looked at the frightened face of the wounded man on the ground, then looked back at Bradley, hardly believing he had heard right. “What does your Bible say about those Gros Ventre we killed?”

  Joined by Raymond Chadwick and Jake Simmons then, Bradley answered, “They were heathens,” he said, “savages, no different than protectin’ ourselves from a pack of wolves.”

  “Bradley’s right,” Jake spoke up. “I reckon I’m the one most to blame. I forgot my Christian duty when I got my back up over Starbeau’s remarks. I think he’s been punished enough. He’s hurt pretty bad, looks like. I think it’s best to just let him go his own way if he doesn’t share our beliefs, and let the rest of us go ours.”

  “He’s right,” Raymond said. “The whole reason we’re bound for Oregon is to be free to practice our religion as we see fit, doin’ harm to no one.”

  Astonished, Joe glanced over to meet Malcolm’s eye. Bradley’s brother merely shrugged his shoulders, as surprised as Joe. Bradley had never mentioned to him that the real reason for setting out across the prairie was to establish a religious settlement in Oregon. Joe glanced back at Bradley. “He’ll try again,” he said.

  “Maybe not, if we show him mercy and forgiveness,” Raymond Chadwick said, “but we must be sure this whole incident is finished.”

  “What do you say, Starbeau?” Bradley asked. “Is it over?”

  Grimacing with the pain in his shoulder, Starbeau recognized an opportunity, so he took it. “It’s over and done,” he grunted. “I just took leave of my senses for a spell there. I got no hard feelin’s for Simmons or anybody else. And I’d appreciate it if you’d let me stay with the party.”