The Mammoth Book of Westerns

by Jon E. Lewis

  Little Belly started back to the fire, and then he saw that two trappers had risen and were roasting meat. He put the knife at the back of his belt and went forward boldly. He picked up his blanket and threw it around him. He lay down near Stearns and Broken Face.

  One of the trappers said, “Was that Blackfoot sleeping there before?”

  Grease dripped from the other trapper’s chin as he looked across the fire. “Don’t recall. I know I don’t want him sleeping near me. I been uneasy ever since that Blood took up with us.”

  After the white men had eaten they went back to their blankets. The camp became quiet. For a long time Little Belly watched the cold star-fires in the sky, and listened to the breathing of Stearns.

  Then, silent as the shadows closing on the dying fire, the Blackfoot moved. At last, on his knees beside Stearns, with the knife in one hand, Little Belly’s fingers walked beneath the blanket until he touched and gripped the metal rope of Stearns’ great medicine. To kill the owner before taking his medicine would mean the power of it would go with his spirit to another place.

  Little Belly’s fingers clutched the chain. The other hand swung the knife high.

  Out of the dark came a great fist. It smashed against Little Belly’s forehead. It flung him back upon the ground. The white stars flashed in his brain, and he did not know that he held the medicine in his hand.

  Stearns was surging up. Broken Face was out of his blanket in an instant. The hammer of his rifle clicked. Little Belly rolled away, bumping into packs of trade goods. He leaped up and ran. A rifle gushed. The bullet sought him. He heard it tear a tree. He ran. The medicine bumped his wrist. Great was Little Belly’s exultation.

  Stearns’ rifle boomed twice, the bullets growling close to Little Belly; but now nothing could harm him. The great medicine was in his hand, and his legs were fleet.

  The camp roared. Above it all, Little Belly heard Stearns’ mighty laugh. The white man had not yet discovered his terrible loss, Little Belly thought. Stearns and maybe others would follow him now, deep into the lands of his own people.

  When day came Little Belly saw no signs that Stearns or any of the white men were pursuing him. It occurred to him that they were afraid to do so, now that he had stolen their greatest power.

  The medicine was warm. All night he had carried it in his hand, sometimes listening with awe to the tiny talk it made. It frightened him to think of opening the lids, but he knew he must do so; this medicine that lived must look into his face and know who owned it now. He pried one lid open. There was another with a carved picture of a running horse and talking signs that curved like grass in the wind.

  Now Little Belly knew why Stearns’ horse had been more powerful and fleeter than any owned by other members of Broken Face’s company.

  Little Belly opened the second lid. His muscles jerked. He grunted. Golden talking signs looked at him from a white face. There were two long pointing arrows, and a tiny one that moved about a small circle. The song of the medicine was strong and steady, talking of the winds that blew across the mountains, telling of the stars that flowed in the summer sky, telling of the coming and going of the moon and sun.

  Here was captured the power of strong deeds, held in the mysterious whispering of the medicine. Now Little Belly would be great forever among the Blackfeet, and his people would be great.

  The age-old longing of all men to control events that marched against them was satisfied in Little Belly. He pushed the lids together. He held the medicine in both hands, looking at the sky.

  In his pouch was his old medicine that sometimes failed, the dried eye of a mountain lion, a blue feather that had fallen in the forest when Little Belly had seen no bird near, a bright green rock shaped like the head of a pony, the claw of an eagle, and other things.

  When the sun was straight above, the Crows were on his trail. He saw all three of them when they rode across a park. His first thought was to run hard, staying in the heavy timber where their ponies could not go. He had learned that on his first war party against the Crows long ago.

  One of the enemies would stay on Little Belly’s trail. The others would circle around to keep him from reaching the next ridge. It was a matter of running fast. Little Belly started. He stopped, remembering that he had powerful medicine.

  He took it from his pouch and looked at it, as Stearns had done before he killed the bear, before he killed the great buffalo. The medicine made its steady whisper in the silent forest. It told Little Belly that he was greater than all enemies.

  So he did not run. He went back on his own trail and hid behind a log. No jay warned of his presence. No squirrel shouted at him. His medicine kept them silent. And his medicine brought the Crow, leading his pony, straight to Little Belly.

  While the Crow was turning, Little Belly was over the log with his knife. Quickly, savagely, he struck. A few minutes later he had a scalp, a heavy musket, another knife, and a pony. He gave fierce thanks to his medicine.

  Little Belly rode into the open below one end of the ridge. The Crow circling there saw him and came to the edge of the trees. Little Belly knew him at once, Thunder Coming, a young war chief of the Crows. They taunted each other. Little Belly waved the fresh scalp. Thunder Coming rode into the open to meet his enemy. Out of rifle-shot, they ran their ponies around each other, yelling more insults.

  At last they rode toward each other. Both fired their rifles and missed. At once Thunder Coming turned his horse and rode away to reload.

  Little Belly would have done the same, except that he knew how strong his medicine was. He raced after Thunder Coming. The Crow was startled by this breach of custom, but when he realized that he was running from one who chased him, he started to swing his pony in a great circle to come back.

  The Blackfoot knew what was in Thunder Coming’s mind then. The Crow expected them to try to ride close to each other, striking coup, not to kill but to gain glory.

  Little Belly allowed it to start that way. Then he swerved his pony, and instead of striking lightly and flashing past, he crashed into Thunder Coming, and swung the musket like a war club.

  Thunder Coming died because he believed in the customs of war between Blackfeet and Crows; but Little Belly knew he died because of medicine he could not stand against. There was meat in Thunder Coming’s pouch.That, along with his scalp, was welcome.

  For a while Little Belly stayed in the open, waiting for the third Crow to appear. The last enemy did not come. Although the Blackfoot’s medicine was great this day, he did not care to wait too long in Crow country. He went home with two Crow scalps and two Crow ponies.

  The young men called him brave. The old chiefs were pleased. Little Belly boasted of his medicine. With it, he sang, the white men could be swept from the hills. The Blackfeet became excited, ready for battle. The women wailed against the coming bloodshed.

  Each night when the first stars came Little Belly talked to his medicine, just as he had seen Stearns do; but the Blackfoot did not let others see him when he twisted the small stalk that protruded from the flattened ball. The medicine made a tiny whirring noise to show that it was pleased.

  While the Blackfeet made ready for war, sending scouts to report each day on the progress of Broken Face and his company, Little Belly guarded his medicine jealously. It was living medicine. It was what the white men would not reveal to the Nez Perces who had sent chiefs down the muddy river. Little Belly had not gone begging white men to tell what made them powerful; he had stolen the secret honorably.

  Now he had the strength of a bear and the wisdom of a beaver. His fight against the Crows had proved how mighty was his medicine. With it he would be great, and the Blackfeet would be great because he could lead them to victory against all enemies.

  It was right that he should begin by leading them against the trappers. Let the old chiefs sit upon a hill. Every day the scouts returned, telling how carefully the white men held their camps. The scouts named men they had seen in the company, strong war
riors who had fought the Blackfeet before.

  Thunder and the old chiefs were thoughtful. They agreed it was right for Little Belly to lead the fight.

  At last the Blackfeet rode to war.

  For several days Jarv Yancey had been worried. The Delaware outriders were not holding far from the line of travel now; they had seen too much spying from the hills, and this was Blackfoot country.

  “How do they usually come at you?” Stearns asked.

  “When you’re not looking for ’em,” Yancey said.

  “Would they hit a company this big?”

  “We’ll find out.”

  Stearns laughed. “Maybe I’ll get my watch back.”

  “Be more concerned with holding onto your hair.”

  The trappers camped that night in a clump of timber with open space all around it. Yancey sent the guards out into the open, and they lay there in the moonlight, peering across the wet grass, watching for movement from the black masses of the hills. The silence of the mountains rested hard upon them that night.

  Cramped and wet, those who stood the early morning watch breathed more easily when dawn came sliding from the sky and brought no stealthy rustling of the grass, no shrieks of bullets.

  All that day, the Delawares, on the flanks and out ahead and on the backtrail, seemed to be crowding closer and closer to the caravan. They knew; they smelled it. And Yancey and the other trappers could smell it too. Stearns was quieter than usual, but not subdued. His light blue eyes smiled into the fire that night before he went out to take his turn at guard.

  The trappers watched him keenly. They knew how joyfully he risked his neck against big game, doing foolish things. The Bloods were something else.

  Mandan Ingalls was satisfied. He said to Sam Williams, “He don’t scare for nothing. He’s plumb anxious to tackle the Bloods. He’d rather fight than anything.”

  “He come to the right country for it,” Williams said.

  That night a nervous engagée fired his rifle at a shadow. Without shouting or confusion, the camp was up and ready in a moment. Then men cursed and went back to bed, waiting for the next disturbance. The old heads remembered the war cries of the Blackfeet, the ambushes of the past, and friends long dead. Remembering, the veterans slept well while they could.

  When the moon was gone Little Belly led four young men in to stampede the white men’s horses. They came out of a spit of timber and crawled to a winding stream. Close to the bank, overhung with grass, they floated down the creek as silently as drifting logs.

  They rose above the bank and peered fiercely through the darkness. The smell of animals close by told Little Belly how well his medicine had directed him. A guard’s rifle crashed before they were among the horses. After that there was no more shooting, for Broken Face himself was at the corral, shouting orders.

  In addition to the rope enclosure around the animals, they were tied together, and then picketed to logs buried in the earth. So while there was a great kicking and thumping and snorting, Little Belly and his companions were able to run with only the horses they cut loose.

  But still, it was good. The raiders returned to the main war party with ten animals.

  Remembering the uproar and stumbling about when the bear charged the trappers as they prepared to rest, Little Belly set the attack for evening, when Broken Face would be making camp. Two hundred warriors were ready to follow the Blackfoot war chief.

  The scouts watched the trappers. The Blackfeet moved with them, staying in the trees on the hills. A few young men tried to surprise the Delawares, but the white men’s scouts were wary. In the afternoon Little Belly thought he knew where the trappers would stop, in an open place near a small stand of trees. They did not trust the dark forest, now that they knew the Blackfoot were watching.

  Little Belly went to make his medicine.

  He opened the lids to look upon the white face with the shining talking signs. Upon the mirror of the medicine was a drop of water, left from last night’s swimming in the creek. Little Belly blew it away. His face was close to the medicine. The tiny arrow was not moving. Quickly, he put the round thing to his ear.

  There was no whispering. The medicine had died.

  Little Belly was frightened. He remembered how Stearns had laughed through the darkness when Little Belly was running away with the round thing. There was trickery in the medicine, for it had died as soon as Little Belly sought its strength to use against white men.

  The Blackfoot let the medicine fall. It struck the earth with a solid thump. He stared at it, half expecting to see it run away. And then he saw the tiny arrow was moving again.

  Little Belly knelt and held the round thing in his hands. It was alive once more. He heard the talking of the power inside, the power of white men who smiled when they fought. Once more that strength was his. Now he was warm again and his courage was sound.

  Even as he watched, the arrow died.

  In desperation, with all the memories of Blackfoot sorrows running in his mind, Little Belly tried to make the medicine live. He talked to it by twisting the stalk. For a time the medicine was happy. It sang. The tiny arrow moved. But it died soon afterward. Little Belly twisted the stalk until the round thing choked, and the stalk would not turn any more.

  He warmed the medicine, cupping it in his hands against his breast. Surely warmth would bring it back to life; but when he looked again there was no life.

  He was savage then. This was white man’s medicine, full of trickery and deceit. Little Belly hurled it away.

  He went back to the Blackfoot warriors, who watched him with sharp eyes. Wind Eater said, “We are ready.”

  Looking through a haze of hate and fear, Little Belly looked below and saw that Stearns was riding with the lead scouts. “It is not time yet.” The spirit of the medicine had fled back to Stearns.

  “We are ready,” Wind Eater said.

  Little Belly went away to make medicine, this time with the items in his pouch. He did many things. He burned a pinch of tobacco. It made a curl of white smoke in the shape of death.

  Yesterday, it would have been death for Blackfoot enemies. Now, Little Belly could not read his medicine and be sure. After a while he went back to the others again. They were restless.

  “The white men will camp soon.”

  “Is not Little Belly’s medicine strong?”

  “The Broken Face will not be caught easily once he is camped.”

  “Is not Little Belly’s medicine good?” Wind Eater asked.

  “It is strong.” Little Belly boasted, and they believed him. But his words struck from an emptiness inside. It seemed that he had thrown away his strength with the round thing. In desperation he considered going back to look for it. Maybe it had changed and was talking once more.

  “We wait,” Wind Eater said. “If Little Belly does not wish to lead us—”

  “We go,” Little Belly said.

  He led the warriors down the hill.

  The length of Little Belly’s waiting on the hill while dark doubts chilled him was the margin by which the Blackfoot charge missed catching the trappers as the bear had caught them. Little Belly saw that it was so. The thought gave fury to his movements, and if he had been followed to where he rode, the Blackfeet could have overrun the camp in one burst.

  They knocked the Delawares back upon the main company. Straight at the camp the Blackfeet thundered, shrieking, firing muskets and arrows. The first shock of surprise was their advantage. The engagées leaped for the clump of timber, forgetting all else. The trappers fired. While they were reloading Little Belly urged his followers to carry over them.

  He himself got into the camp and fired his musket into the bearded face of a trapper standing behind a mule to reload his rifle. But there was no Blackfoot then at Little Belly’s back. All the rest had swerved and were screaming past the camp.

  Little Belly had to run away, and he carried the picture of Stearns, who had stood and watched him without firing his two-barrelled rif
le when he might have.

  The Broken Face gave orders. His men ran the mules and horses into the little stand of trees. They piled packs to lie behind. Broken Face rallied the engagées.

  It was a fort the Blackfeet tried to ride close to the second time.The rifles of the trappers slammed warriors from the backs of racing ponies.

  There would never be a rush directly into the trees, and Little Belly knew it. The fight might last for days now, but in the end, the white men, who could look calmly on the faces of their dead and still keep fighting, would win. They would not lose interest. The power of their medicine would keep them as dangerous four days from now as they were at the moment.

  The Blackfeet were not unhappy. They had seen two dead white men carried into the trees, and another crawling there with wounds. There were four dead warriors; but the rest could ride around the trees for a long time, shooting, yelling, killing a few more trappers. And when the Indians tired and went away, it would take them some time to remember that they had not won.

  All this Little Belly realized, and he was not happy. True, his medicine had saved him from harm even when he was among the mules and packs; but if the white man’s medicine had not betrayed him before the fight, then all the other warriors would have followed close upon him and the battle would be over.

  He rode out and stopped all the young men who were racing around the trees, just out of rifleshot. He made them return to the main body of warriors.

  “I will kill the Broken Face,” Little Belly said.

  Wind Eater smiled. “By night?”

  “Now. When it is done the others will be frightened with no one to lead them. They will be caught among the trees and we will kill them all.” His words were not quite true, Little Belly realized. The men who rode with Broken Face would not fall apart over his death, but an individual victory would prove how strong the Blackfeet were; and then they might go all the way in, as Little Belly had fought Thunder Coming, the Crow war chief.