Winter Rage (Mountain Times Book 1)

by John Legg

  “Hell, Nathaniel,” Li’l Jim said grumpily. “A hot fire, some fresh meat and a gallon of good spirits’ll take the chill off all of us.”

  “Aye, that it would, boy.”

  “There’ll be no drinkin’ till our business with the Blackfeet is taken care of,” Train snarled.

  “But, Abner,” Li’l Jim said, nearly whining, “we been out here in this snow and cold for nigh onto forever.”

  “You just heed me.” He had a nasty look on his face.

  “Don’t you threaten me, Abner Train. I been through all you been through and I ain’t complained about it neither. I don’t need you tellin’ me what’s got to be done and what I can and can’t do. ”

  “Just remember what I said, boy.”

  “Or?”

  “Or I’ll show ya who’s boss.”

  “Have at it, then,” Li’l Jim snapped, shoving back the hood of his capote. He started to climb down off his horse.

  “Goddamn, I’m gonna enjoy knockin’ the shit out of you,” Train said, shrugging off his buffalo robe. He, too, started to dismount.

  “Ye coons ought to be savin’ your energies for the Blackfeet, when we be findin’ ’em,” Squire said.

  Both young men stopped in mid-dismount.

  “Now, Li’l Jim, the chances of that bein’ somebody we want to meet up with be small. If’n it be some mountaineers, mayhap they got a mouthful or two of Lightnin’ to ward off this chill. Abner, ye should be rememberin’ that. I reckon Li’l Jim ain’t plannin’ on havin’ himself too big a spree. Are ye, Li’l Jim?” The words were coated with stone.

  “Naw, Nathaniel. Just somethin to warm my bones is all.”

  “Let’s go,” Train snapped. He was angry or sad or frustrated or worried—or all four—almost all the time now. He hated being this way. Li’l Jim was the best friend he ever had, and he did not want to snap at him. But, hell, Li’l Jim would just have to accept it for now.

  He knew in his heart it was too late to save Hannah’s virtue. With all this time passed, Elk Horn would have had his way with her. And if he had, what would Train do? How could he live with the shame of that?

  Squire had tried talking to him about it one day, and although Train wouldn’t admit it outright, the talk had helped. He grinned bitterly whenever he thought about what Squire had said: “Ye ought to not be worryin’ so much about such things, boy. Hannah loves ye and nothin’ that happened will be changin’ that. Ye got to decide if’n ye love her as much. If’n ye do, there ain’t so much of a problem.”

  “But how can I live with the shame of it?”

  “What shame, boy?” Squire had growled. “We find Hannah and Star Path, there ain’t gonna be anybody knows what happened, ’cept us.”

  “What about Elk Horn?”

  “What about him, lad?” Squire asked in a low, deadly rumble.

  Train only nodded. It didn’t matter who did it now, Train thought, but Elk Horn was a dead man. And so all the shame he would have to live with was what he conjured up in his mind. Unfortunately, he thought ruefully, that was a heap sometimes.

  They jogged a little faster, but did not make it to the camp from which they had seen the smoke coming. So they had to spend another frigid night in the open, wrapped tightly in their heavy buffalo-hide robes and Hudson’s Bay blankets.

  They were on their way just after dawn, eager to see who—or what—had made that camp.

  They rode up a rocky hill and looked down into the valley. Hard against the granite cliff across from them was a snug little cabin. There were thick stands of pines on the left, while the right had been cleared away enough to make a small log corral for the animals. There were pines in front, running to the frozen-over creek. Snow covered the ground, deeply in some places, but the site looked like a comfortable spot nonetheless. Smoke curled from a poorly made stone chimney.

  Squire lay on the rocks a while, watching. It was a short distance, but he thought he recognized one of the horses in the makeshift corral.

  “Well?” Li’l Jim finally asked after fifteen minutes or so.

  “Well what, lad?”

  “We goin’ down there, or what? I’m freezin’ my balls off layin’ here on these frozen rocks like this.”

  “What balls?” Squire asked. He had not looked at Li’l Jim, but was still staring down the hill. Someone came out of the cabin, and looked around a moment. Squire’s face lit up. “Mon Dieu,” he muttered. He rattled off some French too fast for either of the youths to understand, even if they had known anything of that language.

  The large mountain man slithered back from the rim and then stood. “C’mon, boys. Time to be goin’.”

  Li’l Jim and Train looked at each other and shrugged, wondering what was going on. They had not seen Squire this happy in all the days they had known him.

  “Know him?” Li’l Jim asked as he and Train hurried to catch Squire.

  “Aye, lad.”

  “Who?”

  “You’ll see.”

  “We goin’ down there?”

  “Aye.” He was on Noir Astre. “But I aim for it to be a surprise, so’s ye lads best not be spoilin’ it.”

  They rode back the way they had come, before turning westward and curling down and around, so that they would come into the valley from the south. They crossed the frozen creek and worked their way silently through the trees.

  Suddenly Squire halted and held up his hand. The others stopped, quiet. With a grin, Squire slipped off Noir Astre and moved forward on foot. Li’l Jim and Train caught a glimpse of a man with a bright white, striped capote and a red wool cap. He sang softly in French as he picked up firewood.

  The next thing the two youths knew, Squire was directly behind the man. The man, sensing something, stopped singing. He stood stock still, except for his head, which turned slowly on the thin, wrinkled neck.

  Train and Li’l Jim edged up and held their breath. Then they heard Squire say, “Pardonez-moi, monsieur. Ou somme nous?” The man spun, and the youths saw that he was old and grizzled, thin of face, thin of body, but certainly not thin of spirit. Squire grabbed the man in a bear hug that threatened the old man’s fragile bones.

  “L’on Farouche! Mon ami! Comment vas-tu?” the old man shouted with a laugh.

  Squire let the small old man go. “LeGrande. Mon pere. Bon. Tres bon. Et-toi?”

  “Comme-ci, comme-ça.” He paused, grinning, hugging the man who towered over him. “I see you ’ave found me, eh? Even though I ain’t where I said?”

  “Pure luck, mon ami. I weren’t lookin’ for ye.”

  “Non? My feelin’s are ’urt.”

  “Bullshit. You ain’t got no feelin’s.” They turned to watch as Li’l Jim and Train strolled up, leading the horses.

  “So?” LeGrande said. “You ’ave brought dese boys, eh?”

  “These and more. But I’ll be tellin’ ye about that later.

  LeGrande, I’d like ye to meet Li’l Jim”—the youth stepped forward and shook the old man’s hand—“and Abner.” He did the same.

  LeGrande looked up at Squire. “You ’ave trouble, non. I can tell by your eyes. So. We will talk. Oui. Come. We will ’ave whiskey and talk of ol’ times, eh? And your troubles. Then we will ’elp you.”

  “We?”

  “Oui. You remember Slocum Peters, eh? ’E is ’ere.”

  “What’n hell’s that ol’ bastard doin’ here?”

  “All will be told, eh. Come. It’s cold ’ere.”

  They hustled back to the cabin. They unloaded their few meager supplies and turned the horses out in the corral. “Eh, Slocum, we ’ave company come to visit,” LeGrande said as he creaked open the wobbly door and stepped into the cabin.

  A voice came from inside: “Some no-good ol’ niggur come lookin’ for a goddamn handout, I’d wager . . . Well, goddamn me and turn me into a Crow,” he said as Squire stepped in, “if’n it ain’t ol’ Nathaniel Squire, here and alive, topknot still riding on his head.”

  “Merde
, I’d a thought ye’d gone under years ago, ol’ hoss,” Squire said happily. “Why ain’t ye up in the Bitterroots or somewhere, wintered up with your hand froze to some Flathead squaw’s plump young ass, ’stead of settin’ here in the cold with this ol’ fart?”

  The three old friends laughed. “Well,” Peters said, “there’s a story in that. But c’mon in now and set a spell.”

  “Oui, oui” LeGrande said in joy. “Sit down, by the fire. I get the whiskey, eh?”

  “Aye,” Squire whispered. “I thought ye’d ne’er be doin’ so.”

  “No!” Train said sharply. Everyone turned to look at him. “We got business, Nathaniel. You promised.”

  “Who’n hell’s this young pup?” Peters asked, grin slipping. “Slocum Peters, meet Abner Train. He be a good man.”

  “He’d be a heap better one if’n he’d learn some manners.”

  “You’d do well to take your own advice, mister,” Li’l Jim said, bulling his way into the cozy cabin.

  “Goddamn, another one,” Peters said shaking his head in wonder. “Where’d ya pick them two up, Nathaniel?”

  “Slocum, meet Li’l Jim.”

  “Can’t say as I’m pleased,” Li’l Jim snapped. “I don’t take kindly to folks who bad-mouth my friends.”

  “Whoa, boy,” Peters laughed. “Don’t go gettin’ your balls in an uproar. Let’s set a spell, have a swallow or two.”

  “Well,” Li’l Jim said, drawing the word out, warming to the idea.

  “I said no before, and I meant it,” Train snarled. “Now, we got things to do, Nathaniel.”

  “Boy, we been ridin’ through the cold and the snow and all for a month. Another day ain’t gonna make the slightest goddamn diff’rence.”

  Train stood, thinking, conflicting emotions evident on his face. Finally, he said very slowly, as if each word had to be dragged out, “Well, I reckon it’ll be all right. But I aim to leave at first light.”

  “Ye won’t be alone, lad,” Squire said, clapping a large hand on the youth’s broad shoulder. He saw Train relax, and he grinned. “But ye boys best be ready for a long night. Ye be about to see three of the rip-snortinest, empty-bellyfullest, long-drinkinest devils this side of St. Louis. Ye two lads ain’t e’er gonna be able to keep up with us.”

  “We’ll just see about that,” Li’l Jim smirked.

  Four of them headed for the fire, and the meat roasting there, while LeGrande went to a corner and pulled forth a large earthen jug. The room was warm, indeed hot, after so many days in the bitter cold. It was a small cabin, and cluttered with the paraphernalia of trapping: steel traps hanging from a wall; plews everywhere; meat hanging from the rafters; blankets and trade goods strewn about; buffalo robes lying in heaps. The place smelled of smoke, sweat, rancid meat, grease, blood, damp hides, unwashed bodies and stale flatulence. It was homey.

  Squire ripped a hunk off the bear haunch cooking over the fire and plopped down. “Dig in, lads,” he said, stuffing a piece of hot meat into his craw and chewing loudly.

  Train and Li’l Jim slid their knives out and attacked the meat. LeGrande uncorked the jug. He tilted it up, resting it on the outside of one buckskin-clad arm, and poured some whiskey down his gullet. Finished, he smacked his lips and said, “Ahhh.”

  “Well,” Squire said as the five men settled in, gnawing on red, sometimes still bloody, meat and passing the jug in a ceaseless circle. “How’d ye come to be here, Slocum?”

  “Well, now,” he said ruefully. “Ya see, I were foolish enough to go thinkin’ I’d be able to winter up in Blackfeet country. But, shit, them bastards’ve been half-froze to raise white hair since they got the shit kicked out of ’em just after rendezvous broke up.

  Goddamn red niggurs run off all my stock, stole all my plews and possibles, and chased my ass across half the goddamn Shinin’ Mountains.” He laughed. “It were a sight, I’m tellin’ ya. Me on a pair of snowshoes, capote and scarf flapping in the breeze, with two dozen Bug’s Boys near enough almost to run right up and jam a lance up my ass.”

  Squire and LeGrande were howling with laughter, and Li’l Jim was trying to stifle his chuckles. Even Train cracked a smile. The picture was amusing, he had to admit. Just the thought of this tall, potbellied, red-bearded man racing across the snow-covered mountains with his coat flying out behind him and his big ears sticking out was enough to make even the most dour person laugh.

  As things settled down a little, Peters said, “I found ol’ LeGrande here over along in the Garnett Range, mopin’ along ...”

  “The ’ell you say.”

  “Eh?” Squire questioned. “What happened? Ye were supposed to be waitin’ up in the Bitterroots for me. How’d ye get here?”

  LeGrande mumbled something as he started taking a sip of whiskey.

  “Don’t be playin’ that game, ol’ man,” Squire said with a grin. “If’n ye ain’t got the balls for sittin’ here and tellin’ some ol friends what happened, ye ain’t got ’em enough for sipping that Lightnin’ neither.”

  “Waugh! Dis coon’s gettin’ too ol’ for such t’ings anyway. I ’ad a fine little Flat’ead squaw, and we ’ad our camp over by the Bitterroot Rivair.” He paused, smiling as he thought about the luscious young body, and . . . “Den she run away wit’ a Flat’ead warrior. Goddamn. Dat was dat, eh. I left dere in a ’urry. I was lonely.”

  “Buff’lo shit, LeGrande. Ye most likely stole that girl from her husband, and him and some of his amis found ye and run your ass out.”

  The three men laughed, each knowing Squire’s version probably was a lot closer to the truth than LeGrande’s.

  When silence came again, LeGrande said, “And what of you, mon ami. What you do ’ere, eh?”

  Between bites of fat-laced bear meat and gulps of potent liquor, Squire explained how he had come into the companionship of these two men, what had transpired on the trail and what they were doing here.

  LeGrande and Peters nodded. “No wonder you was some itchy when you got here, boy.” Peters said to Train.

  The men ate and drank and jabbered on long into the night. The two youths listened to the conversation, in French and English, with some Spanish and even an occasional word in some Indian tongue. The young men drank in the knowledge as much as the fiery whiskey.

  Train and Li’l Jim were the first to fade out, victims of strong drink and too many hours and days in the saddle. Train went first, flopping facedown into the dirt floor, much to the amusement of the others. It made Li’l Jim cocky, but in a scant few minutes, and with only a few more swigs, he, too, went out.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  TRAIN sat in a corner of the littered, malodorous cabin, his aching head in hands. It had been fun last night, with the whiskey burning through him, as he listened to the tales of the older mountain men. There were times even when in the fog of alcohol he had almost forgotten why they were here.

  And then there had been the blissful unconsciousness of drunken slumber. Now, however, he was miserable. His stomach boiled and churned; his head pounded, making him recall the day Squire had coldcocked him with a single mighty punch; his body ached his eyes were bleary. He thought he might feel better if he were abed, but he wasn’t sure.

  He had been outside to urinate six times since he had awoken sick and groggy. He had made two other trips to vomit. Each time the frigid air had cleared his head momentarily, but then the cold would lance deep into him on the edge of the harsh, cutting wind, and he would shiver and stagger back inside, where he’d sit shuddering and moaning.

  Suddenly he realized that the way he felt was nothing compared with what Hannah must be feeling. His stomach lurched as once again the picture of her being bedded by Elk Horn skipped into his mind. He moaned again, ashamed of himself, but knowing the four other men in the cabin were feeling no better than he.

  Somehow the pain of thinking about Hannah’s violation had lessened with the passing of time. His anger at her—and the fear that she might turn against him—did not bu
m as hot as it once had. In trying to assuage his fears, he had originally shifted the blame to her, thinking she had betrayed him. But all along, deep inside, he knew that was nonsense.

  Gradually the pictures of her in his mind had changed: from Hannah being roughly taken by a savage Elk Horn—and her coming to enjoy the abandonment of such lovemaking—to pictures of her standing naked, tinted pink in self-consciousness in a Sioux lodge, and pictures of her squatting over a fire pit in Squire’s dark lodge, her shock of still-short hair curling around an ear onto her soft cheek. He could see the even line of her slim jaw, the curve of her buttocks, the sure, small, work-hardened hands. He could hear her whispering love-nothings or scoldings, or her talking, or maybe singing—the haunting, not-quite-melancholy “Star of the County Down” was one of her favorites.

  Train knew they were close to finding the Blackfeet—and close to rescuing Hannah. She would, he knew with absolute certainty, still love him. He knew equally well that she would be frightened to death that if he was still alive, he would not love her because of what had happened. Many—maybe most—white men reacted that way, turning against their women who had been violated by Indians.

  The pain of knowing what she was going through—physically and mentally—overrode the pain and sickness of the hangover. “Hannah,” he moaned through clenched teeth. “I’m coming, Hannah.”

  He staggered up and lurched to where Squire was lying, mouth slack, staring up at the dirt-and-log ceiling of the cabin. “Time to go,” Train said, biting back the need to vomit.

  “Go where, boy?” Squire asked. He was content to lie here and let the spinning of the ceiling entertain him.

  “Find the Blackfeet.” Train had to sit or else he would fall. He sat, harder than he would have liked.

  “There’s always the morrow.”

  “You promised, Nathaniel,” Train said. He did not sound so certain.

  “How far ye think we’d get, boy?” Squire growled, his stomach pitching and rolling like a rowboat in a storm.

  “Far enough,” Train whispered as he curled up and closed his eyes.

  When he awoke in the afternoon, he felt a sight better, and so apparently did the four other men, who were up and about. He dug into some deer meat at the fire, and drank some water from a skin container. The water was frigid, having just been brought up from the icy stream by Peters. Train felt good when his belly was full and now that the hangover he had worn like a tight hat was gone.