Nate paired off with a man by the name of Por-tis. Bright and early the next morning they headed out to lay traps. From then on, it was pretty much the same routine day after day.
First, each trap had to be set in about six inches of water near the entrance to a beaver lodge or near a run the beaver used when going onto shore and back into the water again.
To entice the beaver to step onto the trap, a secretion from their glands was rubbed onto a stick or leaf above it. This scent, known as castorium, was taken from glands of previously caught beaver.
At dawn the entire line was checked. Dead animals were skinned. Their hides were stretched over wooden frames, then scraped and dried. To form a bale, each hide was folded with the fur side in and piled one on top of another.
The hides were not the only part of the animal the trappers used. The castor glands were removed and stored in small boxes the trappers carried at all times.
Last of all, the mountaineers saved the tail for their supper. Beaver tail was rated just about the most delicious fare around. Only the meat of painters, known back in the States as mountain lions, was considered better.
It was a routine Nate knew so well that he could practically do it in his sleep. Yet he never tired of the work, never grew bored with the chores involved. After two weeks in the field, his group was ready to return to Fort Ashworth but they stayed over one last night for the hell of it.
Under a breathtaking starry sky the likes of which no citified mortal had ever beheld, Nate and his companions puffed on their pipes, indulged in coffee, and shared tall tales. It was just this sort of relaxed camaraderie that had attracted so many young men to the trapping profession over the years, and it saddened Nate to think that the reports of a drastic downturn in the beaver trade had proven true. In a few years, some predicted, beaver would be replaced by a new material on the market, an improved type of silk.
Nate sighed, cast off his gloomy thoughts by downing more coffee, and heeded Portis, the accepted master at weaving stories.
“Must of been back during the winter of twenty-one or twenty-two, I reckon,” the old man said. “I had me a dugout up in the Tetons and figured on stayin’ put until the thaw so I could get an early start layin’ my line. Well, let me tell you, brothers, that was the worst winter any coon ever saw that ever lived. It snowed day and night from October until June, and when it was done, the snow was piled clear to the tops of the Pilot Knobs, as some call ’em nowadays.”
“It’s a wonder you weren’t buried alive,” a mountaineer commented dryly.
“There’s a tale in itself,” Portis said, and took a puff. “I would have been if not for some mangy wolves. They dug me out and saved my bacon.”
“Wolves?” someone else said with skepticism as thick as curdled milk.
Portis nodded. “It was like this, you see. I woke up one mornin’ and went to step outside, but I couldn’t open my door for all the snow piled against it. There was snow over every window, even at the top of the chimney. I figured I’d freeze to death and no one would ever be the wiser. Then I go me a notion.”
“Uh-oh,” another man said, smirking.
“I had me a side of elk hanging in the back; so I cut off a piece. Then I gathered up all the straight limbs I had for my firewood and other long pieces of wood and lashed ’em together with my whangs. By the time I was done, I had me a pole pretty near a hundred feet long.”
They were hooked. Even Nate listened attentively as a younger man asked, “What did you do next?”
“You ain’t figured it out? Why, I tied that elk meat to the end of my pole, poked the pole out the window, and kept on pushin’ and shovin’ until I could tell I’d poked clean up through that mountain of white fluff.” Portis leaned forward, his eyes agleam. “You see, I had me the idea that there was so much snow, not many critters could find something to eat. The scent of the elk would draw ’em from miles around.”
“And that’s where the wolves come in,” guessed the skeptic.
“Yep. Wasn’t long before I felt somethin’ tuggin’ at my pole. I pulled it back down, and sure enough, the meat was gone. So I tied on another piece and shoved it up; only this time I was real careful. When I could tell I was at the top, I yanked it a bit lower.”
“Right clever of you.”
“Hush, hoss,” Portis scolded. “Anyway, I could hear a lot of howlin’ and growlin’ up above. When there was a nip on the pole, I pulled it lower again. And I kept doin’ that until, lo and behold, a pack of wolves had dug clear down to my dug-out just to get their jaws on my meat.”
“How many were there?”
Portis shrugged. “Oh, twenty or thirty. I bashed each one on the head with my tomahawk as it came through the window. By the time I was done, I had me a heap of wolf peltries and a big ol’ tunnel to reach the outside world.” Inhaling on his pipe, Portis concluded, “Yes, sir. We don’t have winters like that anymore. But if we ever do, you boys recollect my trick and you’ll make out right fine.”
The skeptic got in the last word. “Hellfire, Portis. If bullshit was water, we’d all be drowned to death.”
At first light the next morning Nate led his merry band to the southeast. They had been alert for Indian sign the entire time, but had not seen so much as an old campfire. As near as Nate could tell, that region had rarely, if ever, been visited by the Blackfoot Confederacy.
It was early afternoon when the trapping party came to a meadow and started across. Nate suddenly noticed that the grass ahead had been trampled. The logical conclusion was that deer or buffalo were to blame, but when he reached the flattened area, he saw a heel print in a small patch of bare earth.
Raising an arm to halt his men, Nate showed the partial track to Portis and the two of them made a sweep.
“It was Injuns,” the older man declared. “Twenty or thirty, in a hurry, headin’ due south.”
Nate gnawed on his lower lip. Had the moment he feared arrived? “Maybe they were just passing through. It could be a war party on its way to raid the Crows or Shoshones.”
“Could be,” Portis allowed, his tone implying differently.
A decision had to be made. Nate swung onto his stallion and reined it around. “I’ll follow them and make sure they’ve left our neck of the woods. You take the boys on in and tell the greenhorn not to let anyone else leave the stockade until I get back.”
“What about the other parties out trappin’?” Portis asked. “Should I send somebody to warn “em?
“Jenks and Thomas can take care of themselves,” Nate answered. “Well need every man we can spare at the fort if the Confederacy makes a move against us.”
“Whatever you say, Cap’n.”
With a nod, Nate was off, trotting on the trail of the Indians. The war party, if such it was, had gone by earlier that day and couldn’t be very far ahead. In a couple of hours he found where they had crossed a creek at a gravel bar. In the mud were plenty of distinct prints, enough for him to suspect that they were made by Bloods.
Nate had about assured himself that the band had no intention of lingering in the vicinity when the trail abruptly veered to the east. It troubled him. If the Bloods kept on as they were doing, they’d pass south of Fort Ashworth by no more than a mile or two. Much too close for his liking.
The mountain man rode faster, rising in the stirrups every so often to survey the landscape he was about to cover. An ambush was always a possibility.
Nate grew puzzled when the Bloods again changed course, bearing to the southeast this time. It was almost as if they were searching for something, and he prayed it wasn’t the fort.
Twilight aroused the birds to full chorus. With so many sparrows and robins and jays whistling and shrieking all at once, picking out background noises was difficult. But Nate still heard a faint yell somewhere in front of him.
Taking no chances, Nate dismounted and clutched the reins in his left hand. He advanced quietly, creeping cautiously through high firs until a low spine of land
offered a vantage point. Hitching the stallion to a pine, he took his spyglass and climbed to a notch between enormous boulders.
There was no need for the telescope. In plain view below lay the Blood camp. Nate counted twenty-one warriors, most gathered in a council, others tending to a fire and butchering a black-tail buck.
South of the camp stood a lone warrior. As Nate looked on, the man cupped his hands to his mouth and yipped shrilly, just as a coyote might do. The cry was answered from deep in the woods.
Nate knew what that meant and his blood ran cold. He did not have long to wait before another band of Bloods arrived—or so he believed until he got a good look at their hair and their buckskins.
The newcomers were Piegans, allies of the Bloods and the Blackfeet in the Blackfoot Confederacy. There were eighteen, their faces painted, armed for war.
Nate’s mouth went dry. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the two bands had linked up so close to Fort Ashworth. They must be searching for it. Even worse, the presence of the Bloods and the Piegans hinted that the dreaded Blackfeet themselves might also be converging on the brigade.
The mountaineers had to be warned. Sliding down the slope, Nate replaced the spyglass, mounted, and lit a shuck for the stockade. He had to cross two ridges before he would reach their remote valley, and as he crested the first, he was shocked to see more Indians below, working their way toward him.
Quickly reining the black into thick cover before he was spotted, Nate bent and covered its muzzle with one hand to keep it from nickering and giving him away when the warriors went past.
It wasn’t long before a fierce figure materialized on the rim. The warrior looked both ways, then motioned to those behind him and jogged into the trees, heading in the same direction as the camp of Piegans and Bloods.
Nate’s anxiety mounted as one man after another rose into view and dogged his fellows. Their attire, their war paint, their hair, marked them as Blackfeet. Almost thirty went by. Thankfully, the stallion stayed still the entire time.
Delaying long enough for the warriors to get out of earshot, Nate flicked his reins and resumed riding. His alarm for the safety of his family and the mountaineers spurred him to a reckless speed.
Sixty-six warriors! Nate kept thinking. Sixty-six warriors in that one area alone! How many more might be scouring the mountains for the expedition? He didn’t like to dwell on it. If the Confederacy wanted, the combined tribes could put over two thousand warriors into the field, enough to repel an army. Certainly more than enough to wipe out the brigade.
All of Nate’s long-suppressed fears congealed into near panic. He would never forgive himself if the expedition were to be wiped out. It didn’t soothe his conscience any that he had done all that he could to safeguard every last life. Nor did it help much knowing that Ashworth would have come to the Bitterroot Range without him, had he declined.
The last ridge reared before him. Nate flew up it, his legs flailing the stallion’s flanks. Having learned his lesson, he slowed near the summit and walked to the top, his rifle leveled.
The gathering darkness lent the valley a serene aspect. The fort was a brown island in a sea of emerald green. Dimly visible smoke from a dozen unseen cook fires curled above the ramparts. The gate still hung open, and a pair of hunters, bearing a deer on a long pole between them, were approaching it.
All appeared quiet, but Nate had learned long ago not to judge by appearances. Sticking to thick woodland, he wound down to the valley floor. Rather than expose himself, he turned right and paralleled the tree line.
The birds had long since quieted. Those animals abroad during the day had retired, relinquishing the wilderness to those that prowled at night, the majority of which were big predators.
Nate reined up every fifty feet or so to listen. His only warning of enemies afoot might be the muted snap of a twig or the rustle of vegetation, so he had to be constantly vigilant.
No unusual noises disturbed the tranquility. A soft breeze stirred the leaves and grass but not enough to smother other sounds. It was so peaceful that Nate was almost lulled into believing he had fretted for nothing. Not a single hostile Indian appeared to be anywhere in the valley.
Nate saw the front gate close. He went to hail the post so they would keep it open for him, but he stopped himself. As the old adage went, better safe than sorry. He continued along the edge of the trees, sheathed in the blackness of a moonless night.
Suddenly a bush on Nate’s left crackled. He had swung the Hawken and was thumbing back the hammer before he spied a small bounding farm with large upright ears. The rabbit melted into the gloom, and Nate eased the hammer back down.
He moved on. Presently he was close enough to the east wall of the fort to hear the murmur of voices and the lilting tones of a woman singing. A dog barked. He couldn’t see the sentry in the southeast bastion but there had to be one. It was a standing order that both bastions were to be manned at all times. No exceptions.
The temptation to slant to the gate was almost too strong to resist, but resist it Nate did. He aimed to make a circuit of the stockade, so he pushed on northward until he was about even with the northwest corner.
Not so much as an insect stirred. A few dusky clouds sailed slowly across the sky. In the distance, a wolf vented the lonesome cry of its breed.
Nate stopped. It distressed him to realize that all their hard work might be for nothing, that they might be forced to abandon Ashworth’s enterprise and get out of Blackfoot country while they could still breathe. The greenhorn was bound to raise a fuss, and Nate couldn’t blame him, not after all the man had at stake.
That was another thing about life. There were no guarantees from one day to the next that a person’s efforts would be crowned with success. A man had to take what came in stride and make the best of it.
Annoyed that he had let his thoughts drift, Nate raised the reins to go on. As he did, a shadow separated from the trunk of a tree not thirty feet from where he sat. Even in the dark, Nate recognized the outline of an Indian. It was too late for him to try to hide. The warrior would see him. He had to sit there and hope the man went away. Then six more appeared.
Twenty-One
Nate was caught flat-footed. If he so much as jerked the reins to dash off, the Indians would spot him immediately. The only reason they hadn’t noticed him yet was because they were intent on the stockade and he was slightly behind them, to their left.
Ever so slowly, Nate drifted a hand to a pistol. At that range, he’d rather use the flintlocks. As his palm closed on the smooth polished butt, one of the warriors moved, but not toward him. The man retreated into the vegetation and was joined moments later by his companions.
Nate stayed right where he was. The Indians made no noise, so he had no way of knowing if they had gone elsewhere or were crouched close at hand. He let a few minutes go by. When nothing happened, he eased from the saddle, gripped the bridle, and led the black stallion toward the north wall of the fort. He was tensed for an outcry, for the zing of arrows. The only sounds came from within the stockade.
Halfway to the northwest corner, Nate stopped to scan the forest. He was sure as he could be that he was being watched by unfriendly eyes. Yet if so, why didn’t they fire on him? What were they waiting for?
Nate went on, completely forgetting about the northwest bastion until a harsh command rang out.
“If n you’re white like it looks you are, you’d best pipe up or I’m gonna blow your brains out!”
“It’s Nate King,” the mountain man said, stepping out from the wall so the sentry could see him clearly. “Is that you, Blake?”
“Sure enough,” the other mountaineer responded. “What the devil are you doin’ out there by your lonesome? Where’s the rest of your party?”
Nate went rigid. “Portis and the rest aren’t back yet?”
“Haven’t seen hide nor hair of ’em,” Blake said. “Were they supposed to be?”
“They should have been here before sun
set.” Nate vaulted onto the black. “Keep your eyes skinned. The Confederacy knows we’re here.”
“The hell, you say!”
At a gallop Nate made for the gate. Blake gave a yell and two men were opening it for him. Nate dashed inside, ordering them to close it promptly. As his moccasins slapped dirt, expedition members converged, among them the booshway and Henry Allen.
Ashworth had been treating himself to a few sips from the jug Red Blanket kept filled at all times when he’d overheard the guard’s challenge. As he’d stepped to his door, men had been shouting that there were enemies afoot. “What is this business about Indians?” he demanded.
Briefly, Nate related what had happened, closing with, “Portis should have been here along ago. Either he’s lying low because he knows the Confederacy are watching the fort, or he ran into trouble.”
Henry Allen frowned. “Either way, boss, there’s nothing we can do about it until daylight.”
Unfortunately, the Tennessean was right. Nate wasn’t about to lead another party out into the woods and waltz into an ambush.
Ashworth regarded the high sturdy walls of the fort and commented, “I don’t see why you’re so upset. We have more than enough men to hold off a horde of savages.”
“You’re forgetting a few things,” Nate said. “Jenks and Thomas are both miles from here with their own trapping parties. Add them to the men with Portis, and we’re shy twenty-nine.”
Allen took up the accounting. “Since we lost seven when we tangled with the Crows, that leaves us with two dozen on hand to defend the fort. Plus the women, and sprouts old enough to hold a rifle. That gives us about thirty-eight guns.”
Not enough, Nate reflected. Not if there were as many Indians out there as he feared there might be. “Put two men in each bastion. Have four men man the gate. Change them every three hours. If they see or hear anything out of the ordinary, anything at all, they’re to notify us right away. Savvy?”
Nodding, Allen hustled toward the long barracks.
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