The Blackfoot Trail

by Charles G. West

  “A prison?” Pete exclaimed. “Well, damned if Starbeau ain’t goin’ to the right place.”

  “I don’t reckon he’ll turn himself in,” Malcolm joked before remembering that Starbeau had murdered his brother and sister-in-law. No one laughed.

  Close to nightfall, they came to a small trading post sitting on the bank of the river. There was a crude sign painted on a wide board that proclaimed the establishment Lowry’s Store. From the look of the freshly milled lumber, it hadn’t been there very long. “I don’t know about you fellers,” Pete said, “but I could use a drink of likker. It’s been a while.”

  “A little snort would go good right now,” Malcolm said. Whiskey had been in short supply while camping with the religious party in the mule train. If anyone in the entire camp had anything stronger than cider, they had kept it a secret. “How ’bout it, Joe?”

  “Maybe,” he said. It had been a lot longer since Joe had imbibed strong spirits, not since a French trapper had shared a jug with him when he was learning English with Father Paul. He had been a little cautious about drinking ever since. The fiery liquid had sneaked up on him after several drinks and robbed him of his reflexes, and he decided he didn’t like being drunk. As a result, on the occasion when a drink was offered, which was very seldom, he limited himself to one drink. It was soon after that when his Blackfoot father and mother were killed by Crow Indians, and Joe decided his life path was to live alone in the mountains where there were no thoughts of drink.

  Frank Lowry stepped out on the porch of his little store when his dog alerted him that he had visitors. “Evenin’, gents,” he said in greeting as he looked the three strangers over. His first impression was, Two white men and an Indian. “What can I do for you fellers?”

  “We could sure use a drink of likker,” Pete declared. “We’ve been ridin’ for a couple of days, and need something to cut the dust in our throats.”

  “Sorry, fellers,” Lowry said. “Looks like you’re outta luck here. I don’t sell whiskey—nothin’ but dry goods and staples to the few families that live in the valley.” When he saw the obvious disappointment in Pete’s face, he said, “I wish I had some myself. I’d offer you a drink. But you’re gonna have to go on into Butte to find a saloon. I’ve got flour and salt, sugar and tobacco, everything else you might need.” He took a sideways look at their tall friend dressed in animal skins with his hair in two long braids. “I’ve even got some bright beads and calico cloth.” He covered half his mouth with his hand and whispered in Malcolm’s ear, “A little word of advice, friend—ain’t no saloon in Butte gonna sell that Injun no whiskey.”

  Although Joe heard the comment, he pretended not to. He was proud of the Blackfoot blood in his veins. Malcolm, however, took the word of advice as an insult to a man he had acquired a great deal of respect for. “Listen here, mister, this ain’t no Injun. This is Joe Fox, and if it wasn’t for him, there’s a lotta white folks that wouldn’t be alive right now.”

  Lowry was taken aback. “Hold on, there, friend. I didn’t mean no harm. I thought I was doin’ you a good turn.”

  “No harm done,” Joe said, stepping in. “Maybe you can do us a good turn at that. We’re tryin’ to catch up with a feller. Might be he came by here—big feller, ridin’ a big dun horse—maybe two weeks ago.”

  “If it’s the one I think it is, I wish he’d stop back by,” Lowry said. “He bought a lot of goods—tobacco, sugar, bacon, coffee. He wanted whiskey, too. I wish I’d had some to sell him. He had plenty of money.”

  “That sounds like our friend,” Joe said. “Was his name Starbeau?”

  “Mighta been at that,” Lowry said, trying to recall.

  “Much obliged,” Joe said. “How far is it to Butte?”

  “Fifteen miles,” Lowry replied, then tried to apologize again. “Listen, mister, I didn’t mean no harm. Stop in if you’re back this way again. I can give you a good price on any supplies you need.” He was still talking as they mounted and pulled away from the store. “Hope you catch up with your friend,” he called after them.

  “Who were you hollerin’ at, Frank?” Lowry’s wife asked when she came from the living quarters behind the store.

  “Two fellers and an Injun that talked like a white man,” he said, “lookin’ for a friend of theirs.”

  The three travelers were amazed to find Butte a regular city, something none of them had expected, with several crossing streets and a main street with stores and shops for most anything a person could want to buy. Having never been in a city of any size, Joe was more astonished than his two companions, and could not help but gape openly at the many people scurrying along the busy street like so many ants in a hill. It might have been hard to determine who did the most gaping, however, Joe or the citizens on the busy street. For it was a rare sight these days for the good folk of Butte to see what appeared to be a genuine savage, a throwback to the days before the mining town was civilized. Had it not been for the fact that this Indian riding up the middle of Main Street on a paint Indian pony was accompanied by two white men, there might have been a call for some of the folks to alert the sheriff.

  Aware of the stares he was getting in return for his own, Joe’s distrust of the white man’s town was confirmed. He had no choice but to go on, however. Starbeau’s trail led to this place. For the first time since knowing the man, Malcolm sensed a bit of uncertainty in the half-white warrior. He understood at once that Joe was completely out of his element, and it occurred to him that it was an opportunity to repay some of the debt he owed the man. “I’m thinkin’ if I was Starbeau, ridin’ into town like we are now,” he said, “I’d most likely head for the first saloon I came to.” He glanced at Pete to see if his brother-in-law had picked up on Joe’s sudden confusion.

  Pete took a quick glance at Joe, whose gaze had been captured by a mannequin dressed in a woman’s lacy frock, complete with parasol. He nodded to Malcolm and said, “I expect that’s what he’d do, all right. What do you think, Joe?”

  Brought back to the purpose of his visit to the town, Joe immediately agreed. “You’re right,” he said. Then, seeing the Copper King, he said, “There’s one there.”

  “I could use that drink we were tryin’ to get last night,” Pete said.

  They tied their horses up in front of the saloon and stepped up on the boardwalk. Still staring at everyone who walked by, Joe pulled his rifle out of the sling as he stepped up on the walk. “I doubt you’ll need that rifle in here,” Malcolm said.

  Joe looked at him quizzically. “Well, I ain’t gonna leave it out here,” he said, looking up and down the street as if expecting to be attacked.

  “Joe,” Malcolm inquired earnestly, “have you ever been in a town before?”

  Joe shook his head. “No, not like this one, not with so many white people.” He could not escape his Blackfoot upbringing and the distrust they held for white men.

  Malcolm nodded compassionately. “Well, me and Pete have, so we’ll help you get the information you’re lookin’ for. Right, Pete?”

  “Right,” Pete replied, then asked, “Whaddaya intend to do if we find Starbeau here in town?”

  Again, Joe Fox looked puzzled by the question. “Kill him,” he replied.

  “Well, now,” Malcolm hastened to say, “that might be a problem.” Whereas the solution the quiet warrior proposed seemed quite biblical—an eye for an eye—the town’s law enforcement might see it differently. And Malcolm knew he would hate to see Joe go to jail for something that God and everybody else could see needed doing. “You see,” Malcolm tried to explain, “they have lawmen here whose job it is to bring murderers like Starbeau to justice. They don’t just let everybody take the law into their own hands.”

  Joe thought that over for only a second before commenting, “I don’t see how they can stop me.”

  “Dammit, Joe,” Malcolm responded, losing his patience, “you gun a man down in the streets and they’ll throw you in jail for the rest of your life. It don�
�t matter if the man deserved killin’ or not. And if there’s one thing I know about you, it’s that you won’t do so good locked up.”

  Joe thought about it for a few moments before responding. “Starbeau killed your brother and his wife, and you know what he did to Callie. He deserves to be killed. It ain’t no business of the people in this town.”

  “They’ll make it their business,” Pete finally interjected. “White folks live by laws, and Butte’s a lawabidin’ city now.”

  “It’s a dumb way to live,” Joe said.

  “Me and Pete are just tryin’ to keep you from spendin’ the rest of your life locked up in a little cell, away from your mountains,” Malcolm pleaded. “Listen, why don’t we just try to find out if he’s in town? If he is, we can maybe get the sheriff to arrest him, and they’ll take care of his punishment.”

  “What if we see him, and he shoots me?” Joe asked.

  “Well, then you can shoot him,” Pete answered.

  “That don’t make no sense to me,” Joe said. “If I shoot him, the sheriff will lock me up. But if he shoots me, I can shoot him? Why can’t I just shoot him and be done with it?”

  Malcolm and Pete exchanged frustrated glances; then Pete answered, “I don’t know. You just can’t.”

  Joe could see the frustration he had caused in his two companions, so he said, “I’ll do what you say. When we find him, we’ll go get the sheriff. Okay?” They both nodded, relieved. If we find him, I’ll kill him, Joe thought to himself.

  “What the hell . . . ?” the bartender exclaimed when he saw the three strangers walk into the saloon. Amazed, he stood gawking at them as they approached the bar.

  “Howdy,” Malcolm said. “We’d like a shot of your good whiskey and maybe a little information.”

  Looking Joe up and down for a long moment, the bartender finally responded, “In the first place, we don’t serve no Injuns in here, and in the second place, I’m gonna have to tell you to take that rifle outside.”

  By that time, all of the saloon’s patrons had discovered the wild-looking customer at the bar. “Better give him some firewater, Tom, before he scalps you,” someone called out from a table near the back. The comment brought a laugh from the others, especially since Tom was bald as a bedpost.

  Joe turned to gaze out across the barroom, his rifle held casually in one hand. His eyes, cold as black ice, seemed to challenge each man individually. The noisy room suddenly grew as silent as a tomb as each man there seemed to sense the potential for chain lightning to strike if the wrong word was said. After a few moments, Joe turned back to the bartender. “I don’t want any of your firewater,” he said calmly. “Give my friends the whiskey they asked for.”

  The bartender said nothing, but hastened to set two shot glasses on the bar and fill them. Pete and Malcolm both tossed their drinks down and asked for another. The bartender complied, again without comment. “These are on me, Pete,” Malcolm said, and tossed the money on the bar. Feeling the respect gained thanks to the mere appearance of Joe Fox, he said, “Now, we’re lookin’ for a friend of ours name of Starbeau—big feller—you seen him?”

  “Can’t say as I have,” Tom answered, his eye never leaving Joe Fox’s face. “Any of you fellers know somebody named Starbeau?” he asked. No one answered.

  “Much obliged then,” Malcolm said. “That’s all we wanted to know.” With every eye upon them, they walked out to the street again.

  Behind them, the noisy saloon came to life again. “Man, I didn’t think there were any wild ones like that within fifty miles of here,” one of the patrons said to Tom. “Reckon we oughta go tell the sheriff there’s a wild Indian roaming the streets?”

  “Nah,” Tom replied. “I reckon they didn’t do no harm, but I’m just glad as hell that Injun didn’t want a drink.”

  As far as Joe was concerned, the visit to the saloon accomplished nothing. There was no way of knowing how many strangers had been in the Copper King during the past few weeks, big and small, and it was unlikely anybody would have remembered Starbeau’s name if he had given it. He relayed these thoughts to Malcolm and Pete when they returned to their horses. They couldn’t deny the possibility, but persuaded Joe to try a couple more saloons. There were plenty in town to choose from, and if Starbeau spent any time at all in Butte, surely someone would remember him. After all, they argued, he was one to leave an impression. It then occurred to Joe that the first place he should have checked was the stables. If Starbeau had spent any time at all in Butte, he would have to stable his horse. A young boy who stopped to gawk at the wild man gave them directions to the nearest stable.

  “Big feller,” Nate Lewis responded, “ridin’ a big ol’ broad-chested dun. I remember him.” He paused to prop his pitchfork against a stall. “Left his horse with me for three nights—paid good money, too. He rode outta here day before yesterday.” Like the patrons in the Copper King, Nate took a good long look at the tall Indian standing behind Malcolm.

  “You recall his name?” Malcolm asked.

  “Not right off. Started with an S, Starman or somethin’. Shorty Wesson over at the Miner’s Chance might know. The big feller spent a lot of time over there.”

  “Starbeau?”

  “Yeah, that sounds about right,” Nate said. “Whaddaya lookin’ for him for?”

  “We’re just some friends of his,” Malcolm answered, “and we heard he was in town.”

  “Did he say where he was headin’?” Joe asked.

  Nate eyeballed the menacing figure dressed in animal skins, a look of astonishment on his face, as if surprised Joe spoke to him in English. “Why, no, he didn’t say which way he was goin’.”

  Joe nodded and Malcolm said, “Much obliged.” They turned to leave.

  When they had almost reached the front door of the stable, Nate called out behind them, “He said he’d be back in a day or two.”

  “Much obliged,” Malcolm repeated, and exchanged glances with Joe. When they reached their horses, Malcolm suggested that it might be a good idea if they sought out the sheriff now.

  “Not yet,” Joe replied softly but emphatically. “Maybe we’ll talk to Shorty at the Miner’s Chance.”

  “All right,” Malcolm said, “but why don’t you let just me and Pete go in this time?” He paused a moment. “Have you got any white man’s clothes?” The look on Joe’s face was answer enough.

  “You know,” Pete said, “I’ve been thinkin’ about this thing—about talkin’ to the sheriff. What makes you think he’s gonna take our word for it that Starbeau done all them things? He don’t know us from Adam’s housecat. And he might not give a shit about somethin’ that happened up at Missoula Mills.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” Malcolm sputtered. “We’re just tryin’ to keep the law offa Joe’s back.” In fact, he had no answer to Pete’s question. A faint smile crossed Joe’s lips. Those were his thoughts on the issue all along, and the reason he had never changed his mind to settle with Starbeau himself.

  The visit with Shorty Wesson produced positive information. Shorty was quick to say he certainly remembered Starbeau, a big man with a big thirst, and apparently plenty of money to satisfy that thirst. He had rented a room upstairs over the bar for two nights and paid in advance. According to Shorty, Starbeau said he’d be back, to hold his room for him. The question now was what to do while awaiting Starbeau’s return. There was no decision to be made by Joe regarding where he would wait. He had no money for stables, so he would make his camp outside of town in the hills, and during the day, he would select a spot where he could watch the goings and comings at Nate’s stable.

  The decision for Pete and Malcolm was more complicated than Joe’s. Now that they had arrived in Butte, they knew their way home, and no longer needed Joe to guide them. They camped with him on that first night and Pete spent a portion of the evening arguing with Malcolm about the wisdom of getting involved in what might develop into a serious gunfight. He understood his brother-in-law’s desire for vengeance.
Even if they found Starbeau and came out on top, there was still a good possibility of getting locked up by the law. It had been a long winter for them, away from their families back east. They had fought both the weather and the Indians, and lost family members and friends, but there was an obligation to return home to the folks who had passed the winter without them. They longed to see the monster Starbeau receive his just deserts, but they wondered whether they were pushing their luck a bit too far to stay and be a part of Joe’s plan for justice. It was Pete’s insistence that Joe would likely run Starbeau to ground and settle up for all of them that finally swayed Malcolm to his line of thinking. They announced their decision to Joe over the evening campfire.

  Feeling as though they were deserting a friend, Malcolm broached the subject. “Joe, me and Pete have been talkin’ it over and we think it’s way past time that we got ourselves back home to take care of our families. We’re still lookin’ at a month and a half or two months before we get home, if we start tomorrow.”

  “I think that’s a good idea. I ’preciate you helpin’ me,” Joe said, referring to the two saloons and the stable where they did most of the talking. “Those fellers in the Copper King looked like they’d like to take a shot at me.”

  “There ain’t no hard feelin’s about us takin’ off before you get settled with Starbeau, is there?” Pete asked. “Because if there is—”

  “There ain’t,” Joe interrupted before he could finish. “Starbeau is for me to take care of, and I don’t reckon I need any help with that.” He didn’t tell them that he was glad they had decided to leave. He worked better alone, and he was already concerned about having to look out for the two of them. So it was a light air that hung over the camp on that evening.

  The next morning Malcolm and Pete were up early, packing their saddlebags, getting ready to start out to the southeast on a course that would eventually take them to the Yellowstone. At Pete’s insistence, Joe accepted a gift of an extra bag of coffee beans and a box of .44 cartridges. “Put one of these in Starbeau’s ass,” he said.