by Gary Paulsen
Outside it was so white, so bright and dazzling that Francis had to close his eyes for a minute to keep from getting a headache. They had a bit of trouble getting out of their home—the snow had drifted nearly four feet deep over them—but once out, Francis was amazed to feel the warmth of the sun.
Mr. Grimes didn't allow him much time to marvel at things, or even over the fact that they were still alive.
“Come on, Mr. Tucket, we've got to put these horses back on their feet and get to Spot Johnnie's. We're not in clover yet …”
Getting the horses up turned out to be quite a job. They were stiff—Mr. Grimes said the only reason they hadn't frozen to death was that the snow had made a sort of blanket around them—and before they could stand, the circulation had to be rubbed back into their legs.
Once up, the mounts had to be walked back and forth through the snow to loosen them up some more. It was nearly an hour before Francis and Mr. Grimes loaded the beaver pelts and started off.
They had ridden hard—even in the storm—and Francis was surprised to find that they were much farther along than he had thought—well out of the main river valley they had tried to follow out of the canyon country and back up on the plains. It was a good thing, too. The deep snow in the bottom of the valley made it almost impossible to ride, and the horses floundered again and again.
Once they had fought their way to the top of the bluff wall—where the wind had swept the snow along—the going was much easier. There were drifts now and then, but they rode around the really big pileups.
It was cold—almost zero—but without the wind, and with the sun on his back, Francis felt fine. His mare was in good shape again, and the world was a bright new land—crisp, clean, alive. Steam boiled out of the ponies’ nostrils.
They rode slowly most of the morning, letting the horses stop to graze now and then, and early in the afternoon, Mr. Grimes called a halt near a stand of brush.
“Why are we stopping so soon?” Francis asked. “We could make another ten miles before dark.”
“And freeze to death, Mr. Tucket? They wouldn't find us until spring—if then. We're stopping to build a lean-to out of those willows and get a fire going. We're stopping to eat—if you can find some meat around here somewhere—and we're stopping to let this sun work on those beaver pelts for a spell. That take care of your question?”
Francis nodded, sliding from the mare. They cut the pelts loose and spread them, fur-side up to dry the moisture out of them. Then they tethered the horses, and Mr. Grimes took his knife and cut small willow poles for a shelter. Francis shouldered his rifle and ambled off in search of game.
They had been seeing rabbits all morning— jackrabbits in the open places, and cottontails in the brushy beds of streams. In only a few minutes he had got two of the bigger jackrabbits and was carrying them back to camp. There he found a cozy, three-sided bungalow waiting, with a roaring fire in front of it.
Mr. Grimes was standing near the fire, warming himself, and Francis smiled. It all looked like a picture his father had hung up in their barn back in Missouri. The picture showed an old lumberjack, in the middle of the woods, standing over a small fire wanning his hands and grinning, while in the background, a bear was sneaking out of the lumberjack's tent with a side of bacon.
“You're sure grinning a lot, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said with a snort. “Especially for someone who couldn't do any better than a couple of scruffy rabbits. I was sort of figuring on you bringing back an antelope or two …”
Francis told him about the picture in the barn, and Mr. Grimes snorted again.
“Must have been an eastern bear. Out here we've got grizzlies, at least up in the peaks. If a grizzly decided to take a side of bacon, he'd like as not take it over your body.” While he talked, he was dressing out the rabbits and spitting diem over the fire. Before long, they were sizzling and hissing.
They ate quietly—the rabbit meat so tough Francis thought his moccasins might be easier to chew—and after polishing off botfi rabbits, Mr. Grimes gathered up some of the pelts for the lean-to while Francis led the horses to a clear spot nearby so they could graze.
The afternoon turned to dark early, and with the darkness they heaped wood on the fire and went to sleep, wrapped in beaver pelts.
The next morning they were up before the sun. By first light—still stiff and a bit cold—they were riding. They rode at a good clip most of the day. By late afternoon, Francis could see smoke on the horizon, and he pointed it out to Mr. Grimes.
“I see it, Mr. Tucket. Spot Johnnie's, unless I miss my guess or took a wrong turn somewhere. Only …”
“Only what?”
“Only there seems to be a bit more smoke than there should. Let's see if we can get a run out of these ponies.”
He kicked Footloose in the ribs and upped his stride. Francis kneed his mare into a following gallop and the pack horses kept up.
There had been something different in the mountain man's voice—a hardness that wasn't usually there, not even when the Crows had jumped them. Francis wasn't sure, but he thought it was the first time he'd ever heard Mr. Grimes sound even a little alarmed.
And the smoke got thicker as they neared.
ON THE RIDGE overlooking Spot Johnnie's Mr. Grimes pulled to a stop. Francis reined in beside him a second later. What met their eyes was total carnage.
Down below, all the buildings were on fire— including the storage sheds—-and they were burning so fiercely that the snow around them was melted for more than a hundred feet.
Around the house area could be seen small humps, like gray rocks, scattered here and there. There were perhaps twenty of these humps, and with sudden shock, Francis realized that they were bodies. They rode down toward the house.
“Pawnees,” Mr. Grimes said, examining several bodies. “Braid and his boys.”
Above the burning trading post, toward the east about two miles, tliey now saw a wagon train of twenty or more wagons. These were not arranged in a circle, but scattered this way and tliat, and two of the wagons were burning. They looked like small torches in the snow.
Mr. Grimes heeled Footloose and started at a walk toward the house. His rifle was balanced across his lap, and his back was slouched in a way Francis had never seen.
Francis followed. The pack horses automatically followed and slowly the procession approached the trading post.
There were bodies of Pawnee Indians everywhere. They lay as they had fallen, some running, some stretched out as though sleeping.
“I count twenty-three,” Mr. Grimes said. His voice was hollow. “Old Spot put up one whale of a fight.”
They dismounted and searched the ground around the post, but could not find the bodies of Spot or his family.
“Maybe they got away,” Francis offered, “and made it over to the wagon train.”
“No-ah, Mr. Tucket. That's a nice thought, but there are too many dead braves around here. They wouldn't have let Spot get away.”
“But they aren't out here …” Francis's voice trailed off as his eyes went to the still-burning house. The fire was roaring now, as the pitch in the log walls started to burn.
“In—in there?” Francis asked, pointing to the flames. “Spot … ?”
Mr. Grimes gave a short nod. He stood for a moment, watching the fire, breathing deeply. Then he broke off and studied the dead Indians on the ground.
“What are you looking for?” Francis asked.
The mountain man didn't answer. Presently he finished his examination, looked off across the hills, and mounted.
“C'mon, Mr. Tucket, let's go talk to the farmers.”
When they were a hundred yards from the wagon train, three men came out to meet them. Two of them held rifles at the ready; the other one —in the middle—a stocky man with red hair and a red face, did the talking.
Mr. Grimes dismounted again. “They hit you long ago?” he asked.
“Maybe an hour, maybe more. Fifteen or so came down on
our wagons and another forty jumped the trading post.”
“You lose many men?”
“Two. Thing is, they kept us hopping while they nailed the post. We couldn't get out to help …”
Mr. Grimes nodded. “They were after powder. Did—-did anyone get out of the house?”
The stocky man shook his head. “At least, if they did, we didn't see ‘em. Friends of yours?”
Mr. Grimes was quiet, staring at the snow-covered hills.
“I know how you feel,” the man went on. “One of the two we lost was my brother …”
There was silence for a while. Francis realized that the stocky man was crying, but that his lips were moving back and forth in anger.
Mr. Grimes broke the silence. “Well, it appears that the time has come to do something about Braid.” He turned to look at Francis. “Remember me telling you, Mr. Tucket, that if I ever did kill Braid, it wouldn't be because he had something I wanted. This is different, Mr. Tucket, very different.”
He walked over to Footloose, removed the saddle, threw it on the ground, and mounted bareback. “What's your name?” he asked the stocky man.
“Groves. Ben Groves.”
“Well, Mr. Groves, I'd take it kindly if you'd keep you eyes on Air. Tucket, the boy here, for me.”
“Now wait a minute—” Francis began.
“There's a fair chance I won't be coming back from this ride,” Mr. Grimes went on, ignoring Francis. “Fact is, he's kinda headstrong, and if somebody doesn't watch him, he's likely to do just about anything. Understand me, Mr. Groves?”
The redheaded man nodded. He motioned to the other two men, and before Francis could move, they had grabbed him, pulled him from his horse, and were holding him fast.
“Hey!” he yelled. “Wait a minute! Mr. Grimes, you can't just go out there and jump a whole tribe of Pawnee.” He tried to wiggle free but failed. “They'll—they'll kill you. That's dumb. You can't do that, Mr. Grimes. You can't be dumb. You wouldn't let me be dumb …”
“Now, now, Mr. Tucket. You're rattling on, and that won't do at all. Mr. Groves, if I don't come back by morning, my saddle, all those beaver pelts, and the ponies belong to the boy. I'd be happy if you'd make sure he gets them—not, of course, that anybody'd be foolish enough to try to take them away from him.”
“No!” Francis yelled.
“Also,” the mountain man continued, “would your train be going to Oregon?”
Mr. Groves nodded. “The Willamette Valley.”
“The boy's got folks out there. You might take him with you—maybe make him work his way.”
“No! No!”
“I'll do everything you ask,” the farmer answered. “I'll hand deliver him, with his pelts, to his folks if you want. But I'd rather be riding out with you …
“No-ah, Mr. Groves. It just takes one. Two, and they'd kill us both. One, and I might get close enough—by insulting Braid.”
“No!” Francis screamed again. “Even if you win, you lose. For what? There's no reason to die. It's done, Mr. Grimes—and done is done.”
“And now, Mr. Tucket.” The mountain man turned at last to Francis. “Before I go—and I don't want you getting some kind of swelled head out of this—I'd like to say it's been sort of fun having you around. Be seeing you …”
He wheeled his horse and started off, northeast, riding loose and fast.
“Mr. Grimes, come back!” Francis yelled after him. “Come back, come back, come back …”
But Foodoose, without the saddle, gained speed rapidly and before Francis could think the mountain man had vanished in the dying evening light.
FRANCIS RODE HARD.
It was a strange mount, but he now knew how to ride well enough to stay on almost any horse. This one was a big black—long legged and fresh. And stolen.
An hour after Mr. Grimes had gone, just after moonrise, Mr. Groves had made the mistake of not watching Francis closely. In a flash, he had run to the corral, thrown a war bridle on the black, and with nothing but his rifle, had left the camp.
The trail cut in the snow and lighted by the half moon was easy to follow. But the hour lead Mr. Grimes had on him worried Francis. Footloose had been tired, it was true, but without a saddle—and considering also that Footloose was a big horse—it was entirely possible that Mr. Grimes would catch up to the Pawnees before Francis could catch up to him.
Francis drove the horse hard. Every time the black even thought of slowing, he laid his rifle barrel with a vengeance across the gelding's rump. What, exactly, he was going to do when and if he caught up with the mountain man, Francis wasn't sure. Try to stop him, of course, but—if he couldn't talk Mr. Grimes out of tangling with Braid, then at least help him. Two guns were always better than one.
Two hours of riding brought the moon higher and made it practically as light as day when it was actually almost ten o'clock at night.
Ten o'clock, Francis thought, goading the black to even longer strides. How I've changed. There was a time when ten o'clock at night meant getting wrapped in a huge quilt and bundled into bed, and feeling the warmth leave my face as the fire in the wood stove died. Died. There was a time when I didn't even think of things that died. I didn't know anything about all this killing. Nothing died, ever, except a farm animal now and then.
He pushed these thoughts from his mind. They were making him afraid—afraid that he might not catch up.
There would be times, later, when he would wonder about all the little things that kept him from reaching Mr. Grimes in time. If he had beat The black harder, or tried to make his break from the wagon train earlier …
As it was, he was only a split second late—the time that it takes a man to pull a trigger. He rode over a rise, and there, in a small, flat meadow, were Braid and Mr. Grimes.
They were riding hard at each other and, in the moonlight, the snow flying up around their horses as they closed looked like the fine spray thrown up in front of a ship. They were bodi stripped to the waist and carrying rifles. When the horses were fifty feet apart, the two men fired. Francis saw the rifles flash and both men tumble from their horse.
They had fired at the same instant, and the one-armed and one-braided men landed within ten feet of each other.
Francis's mind went blank when the mountain man fell from his horse. He rode up, dismounted, and if he noticed the fifteen mounted warriors on the other side of the battlefield, he gave no sign of it. He didn't care.
“Howdy, Mr. Tucket,” the mountain man said, wincing as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His shoulder was turning red. “I sort of figured you'd be along. Glad you could make it in time for the fun …” He winced again.
Francis tore his shirt off and wrapped it around the shoulder. Mr. Grimes pushed him away. “Noah, Mr. Tucket. Not done yet.” He propped himself on one knee, then slowly stood, grunting, weaving.
“What do you mean?” Francis asked. “Braid's dead.” He pointed to where the Indian lay in the snow. The mounted warriors were now around the body in a half circle. “It's done.”
“Not done yet,” Mr. Grimes repeated, staggering. He pulled out his skinning knife. “One more thing to do.” Weaving drunkenly, he made his way to the body of his enemy. Then he leaned down.
“No!” Francis screamed. “You can't …. “He ran and pulled the mountain man away. This, somehow, was worse than all the rest. To kill Braid was one duing, perhaps even right, in the cold-blooded justice that ruled the prairie. But not this—this animal thing.
“Can't Mr. Tucket?” Mr. Grimes said, laughing hoarsely. “And why not? He would have done the same to me …”
Francis stared in horror, then turned away. Many things were suddenly clear to him, and the biggest was that Mr. Grimes was right. He could do what he was doing, simply because he was ruled by The same law that ruled Braid. He was of the prairie, the land, the mountains—and was, in a way, a kind of animal. It was not wrong—not for Jason Grimes.
But for Francis Alphonse Tucket? For
someone from a farm in Missouri? For someone with a family waiting in Oregon?
There were different rules for different people. One set for Mr. Grimes, but, Francis thought, as he reached his horse, there was a different set for him. He was not and did not want to be a “mountain man.”
He mounted the horse. Mr. Grimes would be all right, he knew. The fight had been fair in the Indians’ eyes, and besides, they wanted to keep on trading for powder. No, the Indians wouldn't kill Mr. Grimes, and his shoulder would heal. Soon he would be trapping again.
But this time without me, Francis told himself, squaring his shoulders. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. A boy named Francis Alphonse Tucket might stay and live wild and follow the beaver ponds. But Francis Alphonse Tucket wasn't a boy anymore. Jason Grimes had made that boy Mr. Tucket and Mr. Tucket was going to Oregon, to his family, to his kind of life—to his set of rules.
Francis slapped the horse as hard as he could and headed for the wagon train. And somehow he knew he'd better not look back at Mr. Grimes—not even to wave a good-bye.
CALL ME
FRANCIS TUCKET
Dedicated to Jeff Edwards and Joe Fine for their devotion to excellence, and to Se-quoyah, Cimarron, Summit, and Central middle schools and all their students and faculty
Lrancis Alphonse Tucket sat the small mare easily, relaxed in the saddle, his legs loose, the short Lancaster rifle lying casually across his lap, and looked out at the edge of the world.
The prairie stretched away to the horizon. He felt strangely settled, quiet, in a way he had not felt in many months. It had all begun with this very rifle, the beautiful little Lancaster Pa had given Francis on his fourteenth birthday. June 13, 1847. Somehow Pa had managed to hide the rifle with another family in the wagon train that was taking Francis's family—Ma, Pa, Francis, and Rebecca, who was nine—from Missouri to Oregon. Francis had dropped behind the train to practice with the rifle and he'd been captured. Taken prisoner by Pawnees. It was Jason Grimes the mountain man who had shown up hi the Pawnee camp and rescued Francis, taught him to survive as they traveled together. But they had parted ways just the day before, after Grimcs's brutal fight with Braid, the Pawnee brave.