To the River's End

by William W. Johnstone; J. A. Johnstone

  Jug came out of the tipi to meet him when he came through the cottonwoods. He had been watching from inside. “Find anything?”

  “I reckon,” Luke declared. “We got us one hacked-off Blackfoot warrior that’s lookin’ to find the son of a gun who killed those three hunters.” He went on to tell Jug what he had found on the mountain. “The good news is that there ain’t but one lookin’ for our scalps.”

  “Say he’s after whoever killed his three friends, huh?” Jug japed in spite of the bad news. “Then, hell, he’s just lookin’ for you. You could save us all a lotta trouble if you’d just introduce yourself to him and maybe explain it to him that his friends was stealin’ our plews and most of our possibles. Most of them Blackfoot is reasonable, if you just talk to ’em.”

  “What were you doin’ while I was gone?” Luke asked. “You musta been suckin’ on that jug again.”

  Getting serious then, Jug asked, “Whaddaya think we oughta do about them traps? It’s time to go check ’em. You think we both oughta leave the camp at the same time? Or should one of us stay here to keep an eye on things?” The streams they were working at present were about three quarters of a mile from their camp. There were two different streams flowing down on either side of a high ridge to form a small pond where they joined at the base of the ridge. Ordinarily, they would be constantly moving their camp as they worked different areas. But this camp was set up for them to wait out the winter, and the winter was coming on rapidly. So they would continue to work out of it until the streams froze over.

  “Well, we got twelve traps set and that’s a lot for one man to handle in quick fashion,” Luke responded, “especially since half our traps are on one side of that ridge and half of ’em on the other side. Dependin’ on what kinda luck we have, it might take a while to skin ’em and reset the traps. I figure we might as well both go, like we always do, check ’em and set ’em as quick as we can. More’n likely that Indian is lookin’ to find our traps, and he’ll have to do that in the daylight. If we’re downright unlucky, he mighta already found the ones we’re checkin’ tonight. So we’d best be real careful when we go, and if he ain’t there, we’ll get our business done as fast as the two of us can go. And get the hell back here.”

  “We ain’t got many more days to trap,” Jug said. “I reckon we’d best get ’em while we can. That’s what we came here for.”

  With that decided, they climbed on their horses and set out in the darkness, following a tiny trail that wound around the high ridge that separated the two streams where their traps were set. At the foot of the ridge, the streams formed a small pond that fed a quiet creek that ran serpentine across a wide meadow. They were somewhat reassured when a new moon rose high enough to reflect off the snow of the grassy meadow, making it a difficult place for anyone to set up an ambush. “That’s where we’re gonna find the beaver,” Luke predicted as he looked out across the meadow.

  “Amen,” Jug agreed. “We’ll find out for sure in the mornin’ when we get done with these two streams. Leastways, I’m pretty sure I’ll move outta my stream in the mornin’.” Luke wasn’t sure he would be ready to abandon the stream he was working. It was still producing some good pelts. Wasting no more time, they split up to check their traps, then went into the frigid water to reset those that had caught beaver. It was a good night as far as the yield was concerned and they had no uninvited visitors. They skinned their catch and returned to their camp satisfied to find everything just as it was when they had left.

  “That was a pretty good day’s work,” Jug commented as he sat before the fire, examining one of the firs they had just brought back. “Look at that,” he said, holding the pelt up for Luke to see. “That’s prime beaver. He’s got his winter fir growed in real thick. That’s a six-dollar plew.”

  Luke smiled. “They’re prime, all right,” he agreed, but he knew they’d be fortunate to get four dollars. And there wouldn’t be many more days to work. “It’s so blamed cold, I don’t know how many days we’ve got left. I reckon you noticed that thin little crust of ice that’s startin’ to form along the banks.”

  “I noticed it, all right,” Jug replied. “I don’t know if we’re gonna have time to run that whole creek out to the river before the winter shuts us down. We’ll see what that creek looks like in the mornin’.” He cocked his head to the side, which by now was a clue to Luke that he was about to hear a story that might, or might not, be totally true. “That freeze can strike without no warnin’ a-tall. I remember year before last, in the Wind River Mountains, at the end of the season, I checked my traps one night, just like we just did tonight. And the next mornin’ that stream I was workin’ was froze solid. I had to use my axe to chop my traps outta that stream. There was a beaver on one of ’em, stiff as a board.” He paused, waiting for Luke’s response. When Luke only smiled, Jug went to another subject. “You did a right nice job on our little tipi. I think it’s even warmer with the floor sunk like this. I can even stand up straight. Too bad your mama never told you when it was time to stop growin’.”

  “I reckon so,” Luke replied, but Jug’s remark caused him to think about his mother for the first time in many years. Georgia Ransom, a woman he really didn’t know at all, because she walked out the back door when he was five years old and never came back. She ladled out a plate of grits and two sausage links and placed it on the kitchen table. She told him to sit down at the table and eat, then went out the door, and that was the last he ever saw of her. He lived with his father for a couple of years after that, but Jake Ransom was not a man suited to raise a small boy. Luke guessed he couldn’t complain. His father fed him and gave him a place to sleep until he was seven. Then one night, his father didn’t come home. He stayed there in that house for a week before George and Vera Spanner came to the house and said they were his aunt and uncle, and he was going to live with them. They were fine folks. Aunt Vera was his father’s sister, and she often told him what a good man his father was until Georgia Jones moved in with him. She said he had some problems, so that was why she brought Luke to live with her and her husband on their farm. She never told him what the problems were, but when he got a little older, Luke figured out his pa’s only problem was him. To pay for his room and board, Luke worked hard on the farm, and when he reached his sixteenth birthday, he set out on his own, working at whatever employment he could find. When he saw the advertisement in the paper for men to keelboat up the Missouri to its end, to trap beaver for the American Fur Company, he knew that was what he wanted to do. So he really couldn’t recall much of anything his mama might have told him. But he was grateful for George and Vera Spanner. They took him in after he had been abandoned and treated him kindly, and Aunt Vera taught him how to read and write. He had no complaints.

  * * *

  At a distance of two and a half miles away, as the crow flies, separated by two small mountains, the Blackfoot warrior Standing Elk sat cross-legged in front of a small fire. Sitting before the small shelter he had formed, binding pine boughs into the shape of a cone and covering it with a heavy buffalo hide, he contemplated his search. Oblivious to the snowflakes falling softly to the ground around him, his hooded robe of antelope hide over his head and shoulders, he, too, feared the possibility of a hard freeze. If that happened, the trapper would crawl into a hole somewhere and would be much harder to find. He had traced miles of streams that day, looking for the tell-tale little bait sticks stuck into the edges of the banks, but he found none. His frustration was multiplied by the fact that the trapper set his traps at night. So, even though he had found no traps today, the trapper might set traps tonight in the streams he had searched that day. Such was his exasperation that he wished he could stand at the top of this mountain now towering above him and shout out a challenge to this trapper to meet him in mortal combat. “I will find you, white man, no matter how long it takes,” he promised himself.

  * * *

  They woke before daylight the next morning as usual, although they were a
little later than their normal time. Jug blamed their “laziness” on the modifications to their tipi. “With that sunken floor, the fire kept the tipi warmer, made for good sleepin’.” His comment rang true as soon as they went outside in the frigid air. Saddling up quickly, they rode out of their camp toward a bright moon lying low upon the hills. It was a sight meant to fool you, Luke thought, for the skies to the northwest were heavy with dark clouds. Reading his thoughts, Jug said, “It’s fixin’ to come up a storm.” After a short ride, they came to the ridge and Jug dismounted to start his inspection of his traps, while Luke headed Smoke up over the ridge to his stream on the other side.

  The harvest went about as each man had predicted. Luke was pleased to find four of his traps had been sprung, so he decided to reset those traps and leave the others for one more day. When he had done that, he started skinning the beaver he had caught. On the other side of the ridge, Jug was disappointed to find only two traps sprung, but he was not surprised. So he pulled his traps out of the stream and moved on down it to the base of the ridge where the pond was formed. Certain of beaver there, because of the lodge constructed on one side, he went to work setting a couple of his traps in the pond. Moving as fast as he could, he left the pond and followed the creek out into the meadow, berating himself for sleeping too late. “We ain’t got much time before this crick will be solid ice,” he mumbled. “We’ll have all winter to lay around sleepin’.” He wasn’t sure what had happened in the next instant. He felt a blow on his shoulder that staggered him, causing him to drop the traps he was carrying. Only then, did he hear the sound, and he realized he’d been shot.

  His next thought was to drop to the ground before the shooter had time to reload his weapon. To take cover from another shot, he rolled over the bank of the creek. He wasn’t sure how badly he was hurt, but he was sure it was in his shoulder and not his back. The problem was he couldn’t get to his rifle without coming out of the creek, but he had his pistol in his belt, so he could protect himself if the shooter came to finish him off. He began to feel a heavy numbness in his right hand as the pain began to increase in his shoulder. He pulled his heavy elk hide coat aside to reveal a bloody stain spreading on the shoulder of the antelope shirt he wore. He thought of Luke and hoped he hadn’t been surprised, too, and might be lying dead with an arrow in his back. But then, he told himself he had been walking away from the ridge when he was shot, so the Blackfoot was hidin’ somewhere in the meadow. He was probably in the creek, the same as he was. Luke had to have heard the shot. Jug hoped he wouldn’t come running to see what the trouble was and end up shot like he was.

  * * *

  I should have waited, Standing Elk thought as he hurried to reload his gun. He might have come closer if I had waited. He had been lying there so long, hoping the trapper would come, that it had been hard to let him get closer, especially when he appeared to be contemplating wading into the water. He was surprised when the trapper rode down from the ridge and dismounted. He had not expected to see a short little man with a long gray beard. Only then did it strike him, the tracks he had read as a trapper and his woman were actually tracks left by two trappers. For surely, the other one was a big man. When it appeared the two of them were not trapping together, he had decided to go ahead and take the shot. He had hit him, but he wasn’t sure how badly the man was hurt. He had rolled over the edge of the bank and had not raised his head again. Thinking he would like to finish him and take his gray scalp, Standing Elk rose up slightly from the creekbank, his gun ready to fire at the first sign of return fire. Over one hundred yards of winding creek lay between him and his wounded victim. He started to advance, slowly and carefully, wary of any sudden retaliation.

  Close to three hundred yards away, Luke rode down through the firs that covered the ridge, dodging the boughs of the trees as Smoke wove his way through the heavy forest. He had dropped the pelts he was scraping when he heard the shot. Alarmed at once when he heard it, he was drastically worried now when he could not see Jug anywhere, even though his horse was standing beside the creek. A moment later, he saw Standing Elk climb up from the creekbank and advance toward Jug’s horse. With only one thought, to stop him, Luke reined Smoke back hard and jumped out of the saddle. His rifle already loaded, he poured powder in the flashpan as he ran to find a clear shot. He was afraid he was a little too far for an accurate shot, but he knew he had no time to get any closer. He dropped down on one knee and took aim. As soon as he squeezed the trigger, he immediately grabbed his powder horn, then rammed another ball and patch down the barrel while still looking to see if his shot had landed true. Gotta get closer, he thought as he saw his shot kick up dirt just short of the Blackfoot’s feet.

  The shot was close enough to let Standing Elk know he was at a distinct disadvantage out in the middle of the wide meadow. There was cover in the creek, but he might be pinned down there indefinitely. Thinking it foolish to remain there until the trapper got within range, Standing Elk decided to withdraw and wait for a better opportunity. He turned and sprinted out of the meadow and into the trees on the other side where he had tied his horse.

  Seeing him running, Luke’s first thought was to go back to his horse and chase after him. But he thought of Jug then and the possibility he might be seriously wounded and need help right away. That being more important, he ran back and climbed on Smoke, then rode back to look for Jug. He found him on the creekbank close to the pond, his horse still standing ten yards away. “Jug!” Luke called out as he reined Smoke to a stop and came out of the saddle. “Are you all right?”

  Jug peered over the bank at his partner. “That damn Injun shot me in the shoulder. My rifle is still on my saddle. I mighta got to it, but the way my arm feels, I wasn’t sure I could use it. So I just sat back here and took it easy and waited for you to come get me. That’s what you’re good at, ain’t it?”

  “Well, I ain’t that good at it,” Luke said, relieved to see Jug wasn’t in serious trouble, “’cause I took a shot at him and missed him. If you can ride, I think we’d best get outta here before he decides to take another shot at us out here in the open.”

  “I can ride,” Jug replied. “Just gimme a hand outta this creek.”

  Luke took hold of Jug’s good hand and pulled him up on the bank. Then he picked up his traps and helped him on his horse, and they turned around to go back the way they had come into the valley. “Ride right on up beside the ridge. I’m goin’ up the other side to pick up some pelts I was workin’ on, and I’ll cross back over to your side.”

  Jug didn’t wait for any further instructions and started up the slope beside the ridge right away. He was intercepted by Luke a few minutes later, when Luke came across the top of the ridge and fell in behind him. “Maybe I’d best take a look at that wound before we go any farther,” Luke called out to him, afraid Jug might still be losing a lot of blood.

  But Jug insisted he was all right. “Let’s get on back to the camp. I think I got the bleedin’ stopped. I stuffed my bandanna in my shirt. This heavy ol’ buffalo coat musta helped slow that rifle ball down. Let’s just make sure we don’t lead that damn Injun back to our camp.”

  * * *

  Fully expecting the trapper to follow him, Standing Elk made no effort to hide his trail as he rode through the forest of fir trees, for he intended to ambush his pursuer. When he came to a ravine leading up the mountain he was now approaching, he turned his horse into it and rode a dozen yards up it. When he was sure the horse was out of sight, he slid off his back and tied it there. Then he returned to the mouth of the ravine to set himself up for the ambush he planned. This time, the white devil would be riding straight to him. He would wait for him to come close enough to make sure he couldn’t miss. He was sure the man who would be following the trail he had purposefully left for him was the man who had killed his brother and his friends. He couldn’t imagine that the little gray-haired man he had shot was the killer of Iron Pony and the other two Blackfoot warriors. This man coming now must be
a strong warrior, he thought. He would wait until he was sure he could place his shot where he wanted it, in the center of his chest. Then, if he was lucky, he could get to him before he died, so he could tell him that it is Standing Elk who takes his life. Then he would take his scalp while he still lived to feel the pain, and Iron Pony would be avenged.

  He waited patiently, although eager, to have this confrontation he so desired, but the white killer did not come. And when he didn’t, Standing Elk’s next thought was that the trapper suspected an ambush. He immediately turned to make sure he hadn’t circled around to attack him from behind. He hurried to the opposite side of the ravine to peer intently into the trees behind him. After a few minutes and seeing no sign, he returned to stare at the trail he had left from the meadow, finally realizing there was no pursuit. The white devil wasn’t coming after him. That told him that the trapper feared him and had run away. “It will do you no good,” Standing Elk declared aloud. “I have a trail to follow now.” He went to get his horse from the ravine and immediately rode back the way he had just fled.

  When he reached the meadow again, he paused for a few seconds in the tree line to make sure there was no one there. Certain then, he rode out to the creek and followed it back toward the mountain. He paused again for just a moment when he came to the spot, just short of the pond, where he had shot the little man. There were plenty of tracks in the light covering of snow to tell him the bigger trapper had ridden his horse there to pick up the one he had wounded. When the tracks led back toward the ridge, Standing Elk grunted in contempt, “They run to hide now.” He followed their tracks up past the pond, but then the tracks separated to climb up the slope on both sides of the ridge, holding close to the two streams that joined to form the pond. Earlier, when he first discovered the bait sticks in the bank of the stream, he had not thought to scout the creek that ran down the other side of the ridge. It wouldn’t have made any difference to him, anyway, they had traps in this stream, they would come to check them. As he thought about it now, he realized this was the reason the unseen one was able to surprise him. Following them now, he had no idea which set of tracks rode out of the valley on the left side of the ridge, and which one went up the right. He would have preferred to know, for one of them was a gray-haired little man who had been wounded. The other was a big man that he knew nothing about. He would have to be wary of him. He decided to follow the tracks up the right side because that was the side he had come down when his partner was shot. To confirm it, he found the remains of the beaver Luke had skinned. Had he waited in the fir trees on that side of the ridge, he quite possibly might have gotten a shot at the big trapper. After climbing three-quarters of the way up the stream, he came to the point where Luke crossed over the top of the ridge to join Jug on the other stream. The combined tracks continued for a short distance until reaching another stream where the tracks entered the water but didn’t come out on the other side. Much to his annoyance, he found that the stream joined another before he had ridden very far and he could not determine if the two horses he tracked stayed in the first stream or switched to the alternate stream. He decided that they probably switched, so he continued on in that stream, walking his horse slowly so as not to miss any sign left by the trappers’ horses. It was apparent that his instincts had been correct when his sharp eye spotted one hoofprint at the edge of the stream.