Praise for the novels of Terry C. Johnston
RIDE THE MOON DOWN
“Bass is a near-mythic Davy Crockett-like character, but author Johnston imbues him with Everyman emotions.… Readers of past Bass adventures will not be disappointed.”
—Booklist
DANCE ON THE WIND
“A good book … not only gives readers a wonderful story, but also provides vivid slices of history that surround the colorful characters.”
—Dee Brown, author of
Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee
“Packed with people, action, and emotion … makes you wish it would never end.”
—Clive Cussler
BUFFALO PALACE
“Rich in historical lore and dramatic description, this is a first-rate addition to a solid series, a rousing tale of one man’s search for independence in the unspoiled beauty of the old West.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Terry C. Johnston has redefined the concept of the Western hero.… The author’s attention to detail and authenticity, coupled with his ability to spin a darned good yarn, makes it easy to see why Johnston is today’s best-selling frontier novelist. He’s one of a handful that truly knows the territory.”
—Chicago Tribune
CRACK IN THE SKY
“No one does it better than Terry Johnston. He has emerged as one of the great frontier historical novelists of our generation.”
—Tulsa World
“Mastery of the mountain man culture in all its ramifications, a sure grasp of the historical context, and the imagination of a first-rate novelist combine to make Crack in the Sky a compelling, fast-paced story family anchored in sound history.”
—Robert M. Utley, former chief historian for the National Park Service and author of A Life Wild and Perilous: Mountain Men and the Paths to the Pacific
CARRY THE WIND, BORDERLORDS,
and ONE-EYED DREAM
“Johnston’s books are action-packed … a remarkably fine blend of arduous historical research and proficient use of language … lively, lusty, fascinating.”
—Colorado Springs Gazette Telegraph
“Rich and fascinating … There is a genuine flavor of the period and of the men who made it what it was.”
—The Washington Post Book World
BOOKS BY TERRY C. JOHNSTON
Cry of the Hawk
Winter Rain
Dream Catcher
Carry the Wind
Borderlords
One-Eyed Dream
Dance on the Wind
Buffalo Palace
Crack in the Sky
Ride the Moon Down
Death Rattle
Wind Walker
SONS OF THE PLAINS NOVELS
Long Winter Gone
Seize the Sky
Whisper of the Wolf
THE PLAINSMEN NOVELS
Sioux Dawn
Red Cloud’s Revenge
The Stalkers
Black Sun
Devil’s Backbone
Shadow Riders
Dying Thunder
Blood Song
Reap the Whirlwind
Trumpet on the Land
A Cold Day in Hell
Wolf Mountain Moon
Ashes of Heaven
Cries from the Earth
Lay the Mountains Low
DEATH RATTLE
A Bantam Book
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Bantam hardcover published December 1999
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1999 by Terry C. Johnston.
Map by Jeffrey L. Ward.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 99-15684.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-76057-9
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Random House, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, New York, New York.
v3.1
For all the trails
he has guided me down,
I dedicate this story
to my old Bantam friend,
Charlie Newland—
you’ve always been there
to lead the way!
CONTENTS
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
About the Author
Let us live o’er those deeds again
Of trap-line, camp and desperate fray;
Where roved the long-haired mountainmen
Who broke the trails and led the way.
—EDWIN L. SABIN, “Old” Jim
Bridger on the Moccasin Trail
1
Damn, if this dead mule didn’t smell like a month-old grizzly-gutted badger!
Titus Bass swiped the back of his black, powder-grimed hand under his nose and snorted with that first faint hint of a stench strong enough to make his eyes water. Without lingering, he spilled enough grains of the fine four-F priming powder into the pan, then carefully raised his head over the dead mule’s still-warm rib cage.
The sonsabitches were gathering off to the left, over there by big Shad Sweete’s side of the ring. Really more of a crude oval the two dozen of them had quickly formed around this collection of ancient tree stumps when they started dropping every last one of their saddle stock and pack animals with a lead ball in the brain.
“Dun’ shoot till you’re sure!” Henry Fraeb was bellowing again.
He’d repeated it over and over so many times it was beginning to nettle the gray-haired Bass. “We ain’t none of us lop-eared pilgrims, Frapp!” he growled back at the trapping brigade leader.
The man they called Ol’ Frapp twisted round on that one leg he was kneeling on, spitting a ball out of his gopher-stuffed cheek into his sweaty palm. “Gottammit! Don’t you tink I know ebbery wund of you niggurs?”
“We’ll make ’em come, Frapp!” Elias Kersey shouted from the east side of their horse-and-mule breastworks, shoving a sprig of long, dusty-blond hair out of his eyes.
“Don’t you worry none ’bout us!” another man growled down Bass’s right.
“Here they come again!” arose the alarm.
Titus twisted, rolling on his hip so he could peer behind him at the far side of the narrow oval, where some of the defenders hunkered behind a stump here or there. Then his eyes slowly climbed over the heads of those other beaver trappers as they all sat entranced, every eye fixed on the half-a-thousand. Sure
was a pretty sight the way those horsemen had been forming themselves up over yonder after every charge, gathering upon that wide breast of bottom ground where the warriors knew they were just out of range of the white man’s long-barreled flinters.
About as savvy as Blackfoot, Bass ruminated as he watched the naked riders start to spill out in two directions, like a mountain torrent tumbling past a huge boulder plopped squarely in the middle of a creek. Foaming and roiling, building up force as it was hurtled into that narrow space between the boulder and the grassy banks itself, huge drops and narrow sheets of mist rising from the torrent into shafts of shimmering sunlight—
“Shoot when you’re sure!” Jake Corn reminded them, the expression on his dark face gone cloudy.
“One nigger at a time!” Reuben Purcell cried out as the hoofbeats threatened to drown out every other sound in this river valley. “One red nigger at a time, my Mamma Purcell allays said!”
Sure as spit, these Indians had grown smart about the white man’s guns, maybe hankering to have a white-man gun for their own.
From the hairstyle, the way they made themselves up, Bass figured them to be Sioux. He knowed Sioux. A bunch of them had jumped him and Sweete, Waits-by-the-Water, and the young’uns too, couple summers back when they were returning down the Vermillion, making for Fort Davy Crockett on the Green. In that scrap Titus had been close enough to see the smeared, dust-furred colors of their paint, close enough to smell the old grease on their braids and forehead roaches. Not till then—no, he’d never seen a Sioux before.
But he and Shad had hacked their way out of that war party and made a desperate run for the fort.
Sioux.
If that didn’t mean things was changing in the mountains, nothing else did. Why—to think of Sioux on this side of the divide. Damn, if that hoss didn’t take the circle—
Titus picked one out. Made a fist of his left hand and rested the bottom of the fullstock flintlock on it as he nestled his cheekbone down in place and dragged the hammer back to full cock.
Down the barrel now that rider somehow didn’t look to be Sioux. Most of them on this end of their grand, fronted charge didn’t appear to be similar to the warriors who had jumped him and Shad two years back. He guessed Cheyenne.
The way they started to stream past, peeling away like the layers of a wild onion Waits gathered in the damps of the river bottoms, he’d have to lead the son of a bitch a little. The warrior took the outside of the procession, screaming and shaking his bow after each arrow he fired.
Titus held a half breath on that bare, glistening chest—finding no showy hair-pipe breast ornament suspended from that horseman’s neck. Instead, the warrior had circled several places on his flesh with bright red vermillion paint. Likely his white, puckered, hanging scars, directly above each nipple where he’d strung himself up to a sun-dance tree. And a couple more, long ones though, down low along his ribs. Wounds from battle he proudly exhibited for all to see. Let his enemies know he was invincible.
Bass held a little longer, then raised the front blade of his sights to the Indian’s head and eased off to the right a good yard. What with the way the whole bunch was tearing toward the white men’s corral at an angle, there was still a drop in the slope—
He was surprised when the gun roared, feeling the familiar slam of the Derringer’s iron butt plate against the pocket of his right shoulder.
What with the muzzle smoke hanging close in the still, summer air, Bass was unable to see if his shot went home. But as the parade of screaming horsemen thundered past his side of the breastworks, he did notice that a handful of ponies raced by without riders. One of those animals had likely carried the big fella with the painted scars.
Farther back in the stream, other horsemen were slowing now, reining this way and that to avoid a horse that had plunged headlong and flipped, pitching its rider into the air. Some of the warriors slowed even more; two-by-two they leaned off their ponies to scoop up a wounded or dead comrade, dragging his limp body back across the coarse, sun-seared grass that crackled and snapped, hooves clawing at the powdery dust that rose in tiny puffs with each hoofbeat, the dead man’s legs flying and flopping over every clump of sage, feet crazily bouncing, wildly sailing against the pale, summer-burnt-blue sky.
Few of their arrows made it all the way to the breastworks they had formed out of those sixty or more animals. The half-a-thousand clearly figured to make this a fight of bravery runs while the waterless white men slowly ran out of powder and lead.
At first some of the trappers had hesitated dropping all the horses and mules. They bunched their nervous animals together, tying them off nose-to-nose, two-by-two. But with those first frantic, wholesale charges, the Sioux and Cheyenne managed to hit enough of the animals in the outer ring that the saddle horses and pack mules grew unmanageable, threatening to drag off the few men who were struggling to hold on to them. Arrows quivered from withers and ribs, from bellies and flanks.
Then the first lead balls whistled in among Fraeb’s men. Damn if those red bastards didn’t have some smoothbore trade guns, fusils, old muskets—English to be sure. Maybe even some captured rifles too—taken off the body of a free man killed here or there in the mountains. One less free trapper to fret himself over the death of the beaver trade.
Arrows were one thing, but those smoothbore fusils were a matter altogether different. While such weapons didn’t have the range of the trappers’ rifles, the muskets could nonetheless hurl enough lead through their remuda that those Indians could start whittling the white men down.
There were a half dozen horses and mules thrashing and squealing on the ground already by the time the St. Louis-born German growled his thick, guttural command.
“Drob de hurses!” Fraeb shouted. “Drob dem, ebbery one!”
Many of those two dozen mountain men grumbled as they shoved and shouldered the frightened animals apart in a flurry. But every one of them did what they knew needed doing. Down the big brutes started to fall in a spray of phlegm and piss as the muzzles of pistols were pressed against ears and the triggers pulled. A stinking mess of hot horse urine splashing everyone for yards around, bowels spewing the fragrant, steamy dung from that good grass the horses pastured on two days back.
In those first moments of sheer deafening terror, Bass even smelled the recognizable, telltale odor of gut. Glancing over his shoulder, he had watched as the long coil of purple-white intestine snaked out of the bullet hole in that mule’s belly so that the animal itself and other horses tromped and tromped and tromped in nervous fear and pain, yanking every last foot of gut out of the dying pack animal’s belly.
He had quickly poured some powder into the pan of his belt pistol, lunged over a horse already thrashing its way into eternity, and skidded to a halt beside the very mule that had been his companion ever since that momentous birthday in Taos.
Stuffing his left hand under the horsehair halter, his fingers went white as he jerked back on the mule’s head, shouting in what he hoped would be a familiar voice, a calming voice. As a horse went down behind Titus, one of its slashing hooves clipped the trapper across the back of his calf and he crumpled to his knees. Gritting his teeth with the pain as he struggled back onto his feet, Bass yanked on the mule’s halter again and shouted as he pressed the muzzle of the short-barreled .54 just in front of the mare’s ear.
“Steady, girl,” he whimpered now. Tears streaming. Some of anger. Some of regret too. Lots of regret. Then pulled the trigger.
He had gripped the halter as she pitched onto her forelegs, her back legs kicking some, struggling to rise, until she rolled onto her side. Nestled now in the shadow of her body lay that dirty, grass-crusted rumple of her gut.
Titus knelt quickly at the head, staring a moment at the eyes that would quickly glaze, watching the last flexing of the wide, gummy nostrils as the head slowly relaxed, easing away from him.
“Good-bye, girl,” he whispered, the words sour on his tongue.
Bass pa
tted the mule between the eyes, then quickly vaulted to his feet and wheeled around to reload. Prepared to continue the slaughter that was their only hope of living out this day.
He remembered another mule, the old farm animal that had grown old as Titus had grown up on that little farm back near Rabbit Hash, Boone County, Kentucky, beside the Ohio River. And then he sensed a cold stab of pain remembering Hannah. The best damned four-legged friend a free man could ever have in these here mountains. Hannah—
The trappers dropped them all. Fraeb and some others still hollered orders above the tumult. Every man jack of them knew what was at stake. The resistant, dying animals must have smelled the dung and the piss, must have winded the blood of their companions already soaking into the dust and sun-stiffened grass of this late-summer morning. They dropped them one-by-one, and in twos as well. Until there was a crude oval of carcasses and what baggage the men could tear off the pack animals and get shoved down in those gaps between the big, sweaty bodies that would begin stinking before this day was done and night had settled upon them all like a benediction.
Twenty-four of them pitted against half a thousand Sioux and Cheyenne. Not to mention a hundred or more Arapaho who had showed up not long after the whole shebang got kicked off with that first noisy, hoof-rattling charge. Damned Arapaho must have been camped somewhere close and come running with all the hurraw and the gunfire.
Titus grinned humorlessly and pushed aside the one narrow braid that hung at his temple. The rest of his long, graying hair spilled over his shoulders like a curly shawl. All of it tied down with a faded black silk bandanna that also held a scrap of Indian hair over that round patch of naked skull left him so long ago. He thought on that bunch of Arapaho who had caught him alone many, many summers before—and stole his hair. Remembering how he eventually ran across the bastard who had taken his topknot … how he had lifted this small circle of hair from the crown of the scalper’s head. Recalling how glorious it had been to take his revenge.
So Titus grinned: maybeso some of the bastard’s relatives were in that bunch watching the Sioux and Cheyenne have at the white man’s corral. Wouldn’t be long now before those Arapaho would figure it was time to grab some fun of their own.
Death Rattle Page 1