Kneeling on one knee, he remained absolutely still for a long time, listening and watching before leaving the cover of the willows. Buck was cautious by nature, but he was especially alert in Blackfoot country. The country around Pierre’s Hole was smack-dab in the middle of Shoshone and Bannock territory, but Blackfoot war parties frequently raided in the area. And Blackfeet weren’t too hospitable toward white trappers. Jim Bridger had counseled against Buck and his partner, Frank Brown, going to South Pass alone. There were beaver galore in the hundreds of streams that etched the Wind River and Sweetwater Mountains, he had said. But it was too dangerous for two free trappers to go it alone, even old hands like Buck and Frank. Buck wouldn’t presume to know better than Bridger—Old Gabe was very seldom wrong when it came to trapping and fighting Injuns. But when Bridger had decided to sell out to the American Fur Company the year before, the two old friends had made up their minds they could do better as free trappers. And they figured that though they had kept their hair for more than a few years in these mountains working with a brigade of trappers, it might be a sight easier for just the two of them to keep out of sight from the Blackfeet and the Gros Ventres.
Up to now, they had had considerable good fortune. It was still early spring, and they already had cached several packs of beaver plews. But now there was something mighty curious going on, and Buck aimed to find out what—or who—was robbing his traps. When he felt certain that no one was around, he left the cover of the willows and went down to the water’s edge.
Just as before, he found the trap lying on the bank near the dam, the string and float still attached—but no beaver. Dammit to hell, he cursed silently and searched the ground for prints or any sign that might give him a clue as to who or what was the thief. He was certain it wasn’t the Blackfeet. If they had found his traps, they’d be waiting to ambush him. And if it was a critter, it’d have to be a pretty smart one to take the beaver out of the trap instead of gnawing off everything but a foot.
“Well, we’ll see about this,” he muttered under his breath, determined to get to the bottom of it if it took all day. He began a careful study of the creek bank downstream. He had already discounted the possibility of a scavenger being the culprit. It had to be a two-legged thief. The puzzling part was, if it was another trapper—one of those thieving bastards from the American Fur Company, maybe—he couldn’t figure on getting away with stealing one pelt a day for very long before he caught a rifle ball in his backside. And if it was food he was after, why in hell would he rob beaver traps when the mountains around him were teeming with deer and elk? Buck was determined to find out.
What made the whole thing even more puzzling was the fact that this one particular trap was the only one raided—but it had been raided three days in a row. He continued to search downstream for sign that would tell him where the thief had left the creek, for he was certain the culprit had entered the water some ways down in an effort to hide his tracks. Crossing over, he searched the opposite bank up to the dam, then back downstream again. It took some time, but he finally found a print of a naked foot beside a rotting cottonwood log about thirty yards downstream from the beaver dam.
“Well, now, that is curious for certain,” he mumbled and pushed his foxskin cap back so he could scratch his head and puzzle over the footprint. It was a small print, smaller than a grown man’s. No boot, no moccasin—just a bare foot. Buck traced the outline with his finger. The way the forward part of the print was deeply embedded, while the heel was only lightly sunk in the wet sand, indicated to Buck that the thief was almost tiptoeing—like his feet were tender. It took only a few seconds for Buck to confirm that the thief had put his boots back on while sitting on the log and then proceeded to leave a plain trail through the trees toward the hills to the west. Why didn’t ya just paint up a big sign that said, “I’m goin’ thisaway?”
From the size of the prints, Buck didn’t deem it necessary to wait for Frank to help him go after the thief. Besides, Frank was working his own traps in a stream on the far side of a high ridge that divided the little valley. From the clues he had turned up, Buck already guessed that he was tracking a rank greenhorn. No experienced woodsman would leave a trail through the grass like the one he was now following. And most trappers wouldn’t take their boots off and walk barefooted up the rocky bottom of a creek like that.
He paused a moment before following the tracks across an open meadow between the cottonwoods and the base of the hills. Ever mindful of the possibility of an ambush—the trail was so damned obvious that he had to consider that—he studied the belt of fir and pine that ringed the lower hill. If I get my ass shot off by a damn greenhorn, Frank’ll tell every living soul at the rendezvous. After a few minutes’ consideration, he continued, figuring the thief was too inexperienced to set up an ambush.
After a twenty-minute climb up through the pines Buck was wondering if he should have left his horse back on the far side of the creek. His breath became slightly labored as the route steepened, and he was about to scold himself for running a fool’s errand when he smelled the smoke of a campfire. Moving more cautiously now, he pushed on. Soon he could see a trail of blue smoke drifting up from a narrow ravine about twenty-five yards in front of him. Might as well send up smoke signals to ever’ Injun in the territory while you’re at it.
Down on his hands and knees, Buck crawled up to the edge of the ravine and positioned himself behind a log. Raising his head slowly, he peered over the log. The scene that met his eyes was just as he suspected. There was a small fire burning brightly in a cramped space between two boulders. Green limbs, only half burned, were the culprits that produced the blue smoke that he had seen some ways back. On the ground not far from the fire were the remains of the missing beavers. Buck shook his head in disgust when he saw the mess the thief had made of butchering the animals. But there was no sign of the thief. That was the last thought that flickered through Buck’s mind before the back of his head exploded and everything went black.
When Buck opened his eyes some minutes later, he at first thought he was drowning, as water from his own canteen was poured over his face. The instant his eyes flickered open, the torrent of water stopped, but the next sensation he was aware of was a pounding ache in the back of his head. It felt as if someone had hung a heavy rock from his skull. As his senses gradually returned, he realized that he had been coldcocked, taken completely by surprise. His first impulse was to reach for his rifle, only to find it gone.
“This what you’re looking for?”
Still flat on his back, Buck jerked his head to the side, whence the voice had come. He found himself staring into the business end of his own rifle. Sliding his gaze up the long barrel toward the stock, he locked eyeballs with a pair of deep-blue eyes that returned a no-nonsense message to the shocked trapper. Unable to say anything for a moment, Buck stared at his captor, who had taken a step closer, still holding the rifle on him. Finally he sputtered, “Well, I reckon it is. What the hell are you aiming to do with that rifle?”
“I don’t know,” the boy answered frankly, “I reckon that depends.”
“Well, if you ain’t aiming to shoot me, how ’bout gittin’ that dang barrel outta my face. That there rifle’s got a touchy trigger.” By that time, the world had stopped spinning around Buck, so he struggled up to a sitting position. The boy backed away a step to give him room to sit up, but he still held the rifle on him. No longer fearing his immediate death, Buck mostly felt irritation, and beyond that, embarrassment. His captor was no more than a lanky, skinny boy dressed in brown homespun, with an unruly shock of sandy hair hanging over his forehead. “What in tarnation did you bushwhack me for?”
The boy shrugged, almost apologetically. “Hell, I thought you was an Injun.” Then the sternness returned to his face. “You ought not be sneaking up on people like that.” He feigned a threatening motion with the rifle. “I still ain’t sure but what you ain’t a durn Injun.”
“Well, I ain’t,” Buck repl
ied, gingerly feeling the back of his head, almost expecting to find it cracked. When he found nothing but the beginnings of a large bump, he pulled himself up to sit on the log he had fallen across. Mortified and grumpy, he pushed the offending gun barrel aside and commanded, “Put the damn rifle down.” He closed his eyes briefly and rubbed the back of his skull. “What did you hit me with, anyway?”
The boy, still holding the rifle but no longer pointing it at Buck, answered with a glance at a large pine limb lying near the log.
“Damn. It’s a wonderment you didn’t kill me.”
Buck just sat there looking at the boy and rubbing his sore head for a few moments until he suddenly remembered what the whole encounter was about. “What the hell was you doing raiding my traps? Don’t you know you could get shot for stealing a man’s traps?”
“I was hungry,” the boy replied unemotionally.
“Hungry?” Buck grunted. “This country’s so full of deer you have to be careful you don’t git run over by one. You didn’t have to spoil a prime beaver plew, stealing outta my traps.”
“I didn’t have no gun to shoot a deer.” He hesitated. “’Til now.”
Buck’s eyebrows flicked up. “Now, hold on a minute, boy. Don’t go gittin’ no ideas ’bout that rifle.”
The boy raised the rifle barrel again as he fixed Buck with a wary eye. “Mister, I don’t know who you are. All I know is you come sneaking up on me like an Injun.”
Buck studied the young man for a long moment. Young and skinny as he was, he presented a determined front, and Buck decided he would use that rifle if given a reason. But he also saw something else in the deep-blue eyes, something that told him there was no evil residing there. “I reckon you got reason to be cautious at that,” Buck said, the gruffness gone from his tone. “But I wasn’t sneaking up on you. It don’t pay to run around in this country, announcing to ever’body that you’re a’coming. If I’da been of a mind to sneak up on you, you’da never had a chance to bushwhack me.”
The boy was undecided. This rough-looking, grizzled old mountain man with a face full of silver whiskers was probably up to no ill intent. As he maintained, he was merely looking for the cause of his missing beaver. The boy couldn’t blame him for that. But what if he misread the man’s eyes? Having recently witnessed a savage assault in this wild mountain country, he was not willing to risk his young neck again. The question was what to do now. Give up the man’s rifle—and his own advantage as well? While he was making up his mind, he still trained the rifle on Buck.
Buck, weary of the game by then, asked, “Are you gonna give me my rifle or not?”
“I don’t know,” the boy answered honestly.
“Don’t fret, Buck. I ain’t gonna’ let this young’un shoot’cha. I ain’t got the patience to break in a new partner.”
Buck and the boy were both startled by the voice behind them. The boy, seeing Buck’s broad grin, turned to discover the formidable figure of Frank Brown standing on the brow of the ravine, his rifle looking square at him. The boy didn’t drop Buck’s rifle right away, but looked from one of the men to the other, still deciding what his next move should be.
“Go on and drop it, boy,” Buck said. “We don’t mean you no harm.”
The boy hesitated only a moment more before carefully laying the weapon down, propping it against the log Buck was seated on. Then he stepped away while watching intently as Frank moved down the side of the ravine. Buck, realizing the situation had been defused, didn’t bother to pick up his rifle. He got to his feet and waited for his partner to make his way down to them.
No one said anything for a few minutes until Frank got to the bottom of the ravine. Wearing a big smile, Frank glanced at Buck briefly before turning his gaze to the young stranger who had held his partner at bay with his own rifle. The grin broadened. Buck didn’t make any comment. He knew Frank was going to have his fun with this one, and Frank didn’t disappoint him.
“Well, damn, partner,” he began, trying to hold a serious expression on his face. “What kinda beaver is this’un? I ain’t ever seen one this young before. Ain’t got much fur on ’im, has he?”
Buck was too mortified even to attempt to explain how he had gotten in the fix he had been in, so he didn’t bother to respond to Frank’s wisecracks. He knew he had it coming, so he just sat back down on the log and took it, waiting for Frank to get his fill of it. The boy, for his part, was unsure what his fate was to be at the hands of the two trappers. He thought about making a break for the woods, but decided he wouldn’t get far before Frank’s rifle ball would catch him.
Frank cast an appraising eye on the rather somber young pup in brown homespun and tattered boots. He was amused to notice the obvious stiffening of the young man’s backbone under the scrutinizing gaze. “Well, Buck, what in the big blue-eyed world have you got here?” Turning to the boy, he said, “I’d sure be tickled to hear how you come to be out here in the middle of Blackfoot country. S’pose you tell us.” He lowered his rifle and waited for the boy’s reply.
The boy stood, feet wide apart, trying to maintain an air of defiance, determined that he would show no fear to the two buckskin-clad mountain men. He had made up his mind that he wouldn’t tell them anything. But when Frank laid his weapon aside, and neither man showed any hostile indications, he decided it was in his best interest to be civil. It might be wise if he could join up with the two of them—at least they seemed to know where they were, which was more than he could say for himself. Finally he spoke.
“I was just aiming to get away from the Injuns.”
Frank waited for further explanation, but saw that it was not forthcoming, so he prodded. “You must not have wanted to get away from ’em too much, burning that green wood there. You’re smoking up the whole Rocky Mountains.” While he said it, he started kicking dirt over the boy’s fire.
“I was fixin’ to tell him that,” Buck inserted, still rubbing his sore head.
The boy merely shrugged his shoulders. Frank glanced around at the scattered remains of the beavers. “It’s a wonder the buzzards ain’t led a war party to you.” Suddenly annoyed, he snapped, “What the hell were you raiding our traps for anyway?”
“I was hungry.”
“That’s all I got out of him,” Buck said, slightly amused that Frank was getting a taste of the boy’s reticence to expound.
Fixing the boy with a stern eye, Frank muttered, “Three prime beaver plews—wasted.” He shook his head, exasperated. “I wish to hell somebody had learned you how to properly skin a beaver.” Then he jerked his head back and locked an accusing eye on the young man. “Boy, where’s your folks? What in hell are you doing out here?”
“I told you,” the boy fired back. “Running away from the dang Injuns—and I ain’t got no folks, leastways I ain’t now.”
Frank softened a bit at that. “Injuns kill your folks, boy?”
“They killed my pa.”
“When?” Buck inquired.
“About three or four days ago.”
“Where?” Frank asked.
The boy shook his head. “I don’t know.” He pointed behind him. “Back yonder in the hills somewhere. I don’t know. I’ve been running, just trying to get away.”
“Blackfeet,” Buck said.
“Of course they was Blackfeet,” Frank snapped, “Who else would they be?” With an involuntary reflex, both men looked around them at the very mention of the word, as if to be sure there were none close by. Turning back to the boy, Frank said, “I still don’t know what in thunder you and your pa were doing in this part of the country. It’s too far off the main trail. What was you doing, prospecting?” The boy nodded yes. “Didn’t find much, I’d bet.”
“Didn’t find any,” the boy quickly replied. There was a modest amount, enough to grubstake a man for a year, maybe. There was certainly no fortune to show for almost a year’s backbreaking work. He saw no reason to let on to these two strangers that there was a little pouch of dust hidden in
a pile of rocks near the rough cabin that had been home to him for ten months.
Frank studied the boy’s face for a long moment, much the same as he would have studied a horse to evaluate its worth. He decided he saw some spunk in the lad. “Well, that there’s a familiar song a lot of folks from back East are singing. I’m sorry your pap was kilt, but I reckon that’s just part of living out here. What about your ma? The Injuns get her too?”
The boy shook his head. “My ma’s back home in St. Louis.” He paused to think about it a moment. “I reckon I’d best get back East to take her the news about Pa.” As he said it, he couldn’t help but recall the last days in St. Louis before he and his father struck out for the gold they were sure was waiting for them in the mountains to the west. His mother was dead set against it from the beginning, but his father had made up his mind. There was no way he could see any hope of owning his own farm unless he found the gold he was convinced he would find in the Rockies. The rumors were rampant. It seemed that every day, some bearded and shaggy dreamer staggered in from the far country telling wondrous tales of gold strikes in the busy streams that sliced through the rocky divides. The fact that these drifters were ragged and penniless did little to discourage his father’s faith in the truthfulness of their tales. He was certain that with his ability to work hard, it would take no more than a year—two at the most—to amass a sum equal to ten years’ pay from Blunt Brothers Freight Company.
His mother had pleaded with his father to forget about his dreams of owning a farm. She was content to make the most of it there in St. Louis. True, they lived in a tiny house, not much more than a hovel, really, but they had food to eat and he and their elder son, Cameron, had steady jobs at the freight company. But his father was adamant in his decision. No matter how he tried, however, he was unable to make his wife see that there was no future for him or Cameron as long as they worked for meager wages. She pleaded, but there was no changing his mind. So in the summer of 1834, he said good-bye, promising that he would give it no more than two years and then he’d return, no matter what his fortune. He took young Jim with him, leaving Cameron to support his mother until their return. Between his two sons, Jim was the logical choice to make the trek west. He was a born outdoorsman, and folks often commented that Jim had his father’s blood in him.
Wings of the Hawk Page 2