Storm in Paradise Valley

by Charles G. West

  “You worry too much,” Malcolm said, although he was entertaining some of the same thoughts expressed by his brother-in-law. The fact of the matter was they were where they were. It was too late to consider whether the Frenchman at the trading post on the river below was a scoundrel or not, bent upon sending a party of warriors to ambush them. As far as the real or imagined existence of the man the Blackfoot called Joe Fox, Father Paul claimed to have known him as a boy before the legend was created. And it was the priest’s conviction that Joe Fox, if he could be found, was the best bet to find Malcolm’s brother and the rest of the party that set out to follow a northern route to Oregon.

  Malcolm was not a man to take unnecessary risks, and he had advised his brother against joining a party of seven families that was determined to join an earlier group that had made the journey by wagon the year before. Because of a late start, and the fact that there had been reports of Sioux war parties along the South Pass route, they had decided to cross farther north through the mountains, hoping to strike the Mullan Road. The road, blazed by an army captain named John Mullan, was reported to be the first wagon road across the Rockies, running from Fort Benton on the Missouri to Fort Walla Walla in Washington.

  Reports they had heard told of poor conditions on the road, so they decided their chances were better if they traveled by mule train instead of trying to cross with wagons. They were led by a man named Skinner who claimed to know a route to Mullan Road that was safe and short. He claimed that he would have them safely in the Willamette Valley before August. It was now late September, and already some snow had fallen in the mountains, with no sign of the pilgrims. His brother, Bradley, had promised to telegraph him as soon as they had safely reached Fort Walla Walla, and there had been no word.

  Malcolm feared the worst. Everyone he had talked to who had any knowledge of the Rocky Mountains had told him the undertaking was a fool’s mission this late in the season. But he was determined to do all he could to find the missing party. Accompanied by his brother-in-law, he had followed the route of the mule train as far as Helena, where the trail disappeared. Asking around several businesses in Helena, they came upon some store owners who remembered the mule train and told them it had moved on toward the west. Malcolm and Pete had met with no luck in picking up their trail.

  Coming upon a mission run by a Jesuit priest named Father Paul, he and Pete had sought help there. Father Paul had advised them to search for Joe Fox, stating his belief that Fox was their best chance of finding the party of settlers. “No one knows the mountains better than Joe Fox,” Father Paul had claimed, after first questioning the wisdom of the undertaking. “And he can travel through the Blackfoot country without fear of harm by the Indians.”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Father,” Malcolm had said, “but how in the world would we ever find Joe Fox? If nobody but Injuns has ever seen him, what chance have we got? We could wander around in those mountains for fifty years and never lay eyes on him, especially if what they say about him not wantin’ to be found is true.”

  “That’s probably pretty much the truth,” Father Paul had confessed. “But the only reason I’m suggesting it is because one of my congregation, Sam Black Crow, told me just yesterday that he was sure he had sighted Joe Fox on the east slope of Blackjack Mountain, up near the cliff.” Seeing their puzzled expressions, he had advised them that he could tell them how to find Blackjack Mountain. “I’m told that he often camps in these parts this time of the year. You may think it too dangerous to seek him out, but I think it’s your only chance of finding your brother and the others.” So now they stood, staring at a blank stone wall, with no idea where to go from this point.

  “You know your sister’s gonna be mad as hell at you if anything happens to me,” Pete joked half-heartedly.

  “Hell,” Malcolm replied, “she’d most likely hug my neck.” Beginning to feel a bit stupid for climbing up a mountain in hopes of finding a single soul in this vast wilderness, he nevertheless gave one last call. “Joe Fox!”

  “What do you want?”

  Both men jumped, startled by the soft voice right behind them, where there had been no one moments before. Like a ghost, the tall figure seemed to have materialized from nowhere to stand before them, dressed in animal skins, holding a rifle ready to fire. Struck dumb and stunned, Pete, without thinking, started to lift his rifle from the ground.

  “Don’t do that,” the ominous figure cautioned.

  Realizing then, Pete dropped the rifle to the ground. “I wasn’t gonna . . .” He hesitated. Malcolm, noting the serious warning in the man’s eyes, carefully laid his rifle upon the ground as well.

  “Why do you call my name?”

  Sensing no immediate threat, Malcolm asked, “Are you Joe Fox?” When he was answered with a simple nod, he continued, “We were hoping you would help us find a party of white families that musta got lost somewhere in these mountains on their way west.”

  “Who told you to come to me?” Joe asked, his face expressionless, his eyes gazing unblinking at the two white men who had somehow stumbled into his domain.

  “Father Paul, at the mission,” Malcolm quickly responded, hoping that would influence the emotionless man. Studying him carefully, Malcolm was not certain if he was Indian or white. It was hard to tell, dressed as he was in skins, clean shaven, and wearing his dark hair in two long braids. He was tall, taller than either Malcolm or Pete. The Blackfeet were a tall people, but Joe Fox was taller still. Under his soft cow-skin shirt he wore an unadorned breechcloth and leggings that reached to his thighs. A belt held a knife sheath and a small pouch. In addition to an early-model Winchester, he had a bow strapped to his back and a weasel-skin quiver of arrows. Malcolm had never seen a more fitting image of a Blackfoot warrior, and yet this magnificent specimen of raw power was possessed of fine-chiseled facial features more suggestive of a white man. Malcolm decided that Joe Fox was a half-breed.

  It was obvious to the two strangers that the mention of Father Paul caused the man to pause. In truth, Joe had not thought about the man who had tried to teach him the ways of Christianity for quite some time. “Why would Father Paul send you to me?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, suggesting a lack of recent use of English.

  “Like I said,” Malcolm replied, “we’re lookin’ for some folks that mighta got lost in these mountains. The army wouldn’t help us, said they didn’t have the troops to spare. Father Paul sent us to find you, said there wasn’t nobody that knowed the mountains like you.” He watched Joe Fox carefully, trying to gauge the stoic man’s reaction as he continued to consider the two intruders in his home. It was plain to see Joe Fox’s reluctance to involve himself in their plight.

  Joe shifted his gaze from one of his visitors to the other, sizing them up in his mind. He could read nothing in the face of either man that held a hint of larceny. The one who did all of the talking had a look of sincerity in his eyes. The other seemed more concerned with thoughts of his personal safety. After a long pause, Joe finally spoke again. “Those folks you’re looking for musta been crazy to try to cross through all the mountain ranges between here and Oregon country. You’re lucky you two got up this far with your scalps still on. Many of my people have gone to the reservation, but many have not and still live as Na’pi meant the Sik’-si-kau to live. The Blackfeet don’t like the white man, and it is dangerous for two white men to pass through this country.” He glanced again at Pete before continuing. “I saw your horses below by the stream. I thought about stealing them, but I was curious to see what fools would leave their horses alone by a stream where two game trails crossed.”

  The castigating remark was ignored by Malcolm as he continued to present his case. “The folks we’re lookin’ for are good Christian people. My brother and his wife are with ’em. They ain’t out to bother the Blackfoot or any other tribe. They’re just wantin’ to pass through on their way to Oregon.”

  Joe studied the two men for a few moments more while he made up his mi
nd. He was reluctant to have anything to do with a party of settlers, even if they were not intent upon settling in his mountains. He had to give in to a weakness for helping those who could not help themselves, however, so he finally wavered. “I know the party you speak of,” he said. “I watched them as they tried to cross this mountain range. I counted thirty-six mules, all packed heavy.”

  “That’s right,” Pete interrupted. “There was eight families and each one of ’em took four mules.”

  Joe glanced briefly at Pete. He was not an educated man by any stretch of the imagination, but he knew that eight times four was not thirty-six. He was not interested enough to question it, however. “Mighty tempting to a Blackfoot war party,” he said. “They tried to come in following the river, but they had to turn around when they got to the falls. They tried two more times before giving up and moving on.”

  Excited to find that Joe Fox had actually seen the party, Malcolm pressed, “Where’d they go then?”

  Joe shook his head before answering. “I don’t know. I was just glad they left.” When he saw the disappointment in Malcolm’s eyes, he added, “All I can tell you is they pushed on north of here, lookin’ for another place to try, I s’pose.”

  “Can you find ’em?” Pete asked.

  “I might if I was lookin’ for ’em,” Joe answered, paused, then added, “if they’re still alive.”

  “We don’t expect you to do it for nothin’,” Malcolm said. “We can pay you.” He hesitated then. “How much would it take to get you to track ’em?”

  Joe had to stop and think about it for a moment, for he was still making up his mind whether or not he would help them. He had no idea about charging a fee for guiding someone. In principle, he wasn’t for hire, but he had decided that Malcolm was a good man, so he said, “I never said for sure that I could find ’em, but I’ll see what I can do. For my part, I’ll ask for extra cartridges for my rifle and some supplies—sugar, salt, and coffee. I ain’t had no coffee in four months.”

  “Done!” Malcolm responded eagerly, and thrust out his hand. Joe simply stared at it for a long moment before shaking. Saying nothing more, he turned abruptly and strode off toward the trees. Malcolm and Pete exchanged puzzled glances, then hurried off after him.

  “We need to fetch our horses,” Pete called out after their new partner. “We lef’ ’em below by that stream.”

  Without turning his head, Joe said, “They’re with my horses,” causing them to exchange glances again. “Keep up. I expect there’ll be a Blackfoot war party up here any minute now.”

  His words caused considerable concern for the two white men. “Damn!” Pete exclaimed. “I told you that damn Frenchman would set the Injuns on us.”

  “The Frenchman didn’t tell anybody,” Joe said, without turning his head to face them. “He didn’t have to. Every Blackfoot this side of the mountains could hear you yellin’ my name and follow your trail up here.”

  Moving rapidly, although seemingly without effort, their tall, silent guide led them along a rocky ledge, covered with a light dusting of snow, that carried them away from the face of the cliff and into another thick forest of firs. After a few minutes’ walk, they came upon a small clearing to discover their horses tied beside two belonging to Joe Fox. Without offering any instructions, Joe went directly to a paint pony with an Indian saddle and mounted. He reached down to take the lead rope on his packhorse, then pausing only to make sure his two partners were following suit, he turned the paint’s head toward a small game trail that led down the mountain. Still nervous and unsure about their contract with this silent enigma, Malcolm and Pete dutifully followed.

  It was dusk, with darkness rapidly approaching, by the time they reached a narrow river at the base of the mountain. “Make camp here,” were the first words spoken by their somber guide since leaving the cliff. He slid gracefully off the back of his horse and led it to the water to drink. “We’ll cook some of that salt pork in your packs tonight. Maybe in the mornin’ I’ll find some fresh meat.”

  It was not lost on Malcolm that Joe Fox had evidently looked through their packs when he first found their horses. He could see no point in commenting on it, however. “Where does this river lead?” he asked, thinking it looked to be a possible passage through the solid mountain range before them.

  “It leads to some waterfalls about halfway up the mountain on the other side of this one we’re lookin’ at,” Joe answered. “Your friends thought the same thing you’re thinkin’. They followed it till they had to turn back at the falls. There’s a way around the falls, but I reckon they couldn’t find it.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Wouldn’ta done ’em much good if they had. They’da probably got lost. Those mules woulda had to have wings to get over the mountains on the other side of the falls.”

  Malcolm nodded, then asked, “So they headed north from here, along the base of these mountains?”

  “After they tried a couple more places,” Joe replied, “both of ’em box canyons.”

  Almost surprised that their tight-lipped guide could actually talk beyond a few short words, Pete asked, “Think you can track ’em?”

  “Maybe,” Joe replied, “but it ain’t likely. It’s been two months since then. I doubt there’ll be any tracks to follow.”

  Confused by his answer, Pete sputtered, “Then how the hell are you gonna . . . ?”

  Joe shrugged his shoulders again, his expression never changing. “All I can do is show you the way to get through the mountains. I can take you to a couple of trails the Kutenai and Flatheads use to get to the buffalo country over on this side. If your friends were lucky, they mighta took one of those.”

  Obviously dismayed by the news, Pete looked at Malcolm and commented, “I was thinkin’ he might be able to track ’em. They coulda wandered off anywhere in them mountains and we might never find ’em.”

  “Maybe you changed your mind about goin’ with me,” Joe said, seeing his dismay.

  “No, no,” Malcolm was quick to reply. “We ain’t got a chance in hell on our own.”

  It was settled then, and they went about making their camp by the river. Pete sliced some of the salt pork they carried while Malcolm filled the coffeepot with water and set it on the fire Joe built. There was little conversation after their supper, and all three were soon in their blankets. Malcolm lay awake for a while after he heard Pete’s lusty snoring. As when fully awake, their new partner was silent in his slumber, but Malcolm speculated that he would be alert at the slightest sound. Malcolm thought about the happenings of the day as he lay there staring up at a moonless sky, wondering about the strange man he and Pete had taken on as a guide.

  Malcolm was not the first person to wonder about Joe Fox. No one really knew where he came from, not even Joe Fox, and there was some uncertainty about his exact age. He was two or three, or maybe four when he was found by an old Blackfoot woman named Crying Woman. The boy was sitting beside the body of his mother on the bank of Gray Fox Creek. His dead mother looked to be Piegan, and Crying Woman speculated that she was possibly a casualty of the bloody war between the Piegans and the Gros Ventre. But the boy looked more white than Piegan, causing Crying Woman to further speculate upon the heritage of the father.

  Childless, Crying Woman took the boy home to her village, where she and her husband endeavored to rear him as a Blackfoot warrior. At first the child would not speak beyond a single word. Whenever he was addressed by either his adoptive mother or father, he would respond with the word, Joe. Crying Woman decided that it was his name that he repeated. When it was time to give him a proper name, his new father decided to call the boy Joe Fox because he was found beside Gray Fox Creek. The boy seemed satisfied with his name.

  A gangly youngster in his early years, he was often the butt of many of the other boys’ jokes. His Blackfoot father was not pleased by the development of his son, but Crying Woman never lost faith in Joe’s promise. She saw a quiet courage in the youngster that she believed would one day reveal its
elf. By the time he reached an age of thirteen or fourteen, the gangly youth had disappeared, justifying his mother’s faith. A leader among his peers in the village, he was soon allowed to accompany war parties into Crow country, an honor for a boy of his age.

  It was about this time in his life that a Jesuit priest built a mission on the Teton River. Along with some of the other boys who were curious about the white priest, Joe visited the mission and became friends with the priest. Realizing Joe had a latent knowledge of English from his early childhood, the priest encouraged him to practice it. Thinking it a game, Joe participated in the lessons until he decided the priest was too focused on saving his soul. The visits to the mission ceased when Joe was around eighteen years of age. While he was visiting the priest, a Crow war party, seeking revenge for an attack on a Crow hunting party, raided the Blackfoot village, killing many, among them Joe’s mother and father. Consumed by grief and guilt, he blamed his parents’ deaths on himself. He had not been there to protect them. He knew their deaths called for retaliation on his part, so he rode with a war party that caught up to the Crows near the same creek where he had been found by Crying Woman. A fierce battle ensued, with warriors killed on both sides. Joe accounted for two of the Crow dead.

  After the battle, there was much singing and dancing about the Blackfoot victory, but Joe could not eradicate his feeling of guilt for the loss of his parents. Seeking help, he went to an old medicine man, named Hears Thunder. The old man listened while Joe recounted the turmoil with his inner demons of guilt. Then he told him he must go to the mountains, fast for three days, and ask Na’pi to send a vision. “You must stay and meditate until Man Above visits you and shows you your path,” Hears Thunder had said.

  Joe’s fast lasted for four and a half days before he fell, exhausted and weak, into a deep sleep. Many unrelated things flew haphazardly through his mind, but upon awakening, one vision remained in his memory. A man came to him, a white man. He did not say so, but Joe felt certain it was his father. Neither white nor red are you, but a man alone, the vision said. You must go your own way and follow the voices of the trees and rocks.