“Snow Eye, it’s me, Running Foot!” the man said, then stepped forward. Snow Eye’s eyes went wide at the site, even the one that was blind. There before him was one of his father’s most trusted friends.
“Running Foot…why…why are you trying to kill me?” Snow Eye edged forward, the axe lowered a bit but still at the ready. Its deer antler head shone in the moonlight and Snow Eye could see the older man was scared.
“It was a mistake, I swear!” His hands were held out before him for mercy as he said the words. “It was Shappa’s idea, oh please believe me that I didn’t want to do it.”
“Do what?” Snow Eye asked. “What was Shappa’s plan?”
“We’re to stop you,” Running Foot said, backing up all the while, closer to the river, and away from Snow Eye, “we were to keep you from coming after him to avenge your father’s death.”
Snow Eye stopped dead for the second time that night. “My father…dead?”
Running Foot nodded, the moon catching him in the dark. “Shappa killed him more than two weeks ago.”
“Why?” Snow Eye nearly yelled, his teeth grating. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He lunged forward and grabbed hold of Running Foot’s bead necklace and held him inches from his face.
“Because…because…” Running Foot began to sob, “…because your mother was sleeping with his son and he found out about it after they were killed and–”
“My father and my mother are…dead?”
The axe nearly fell from Snow Eye’s fingers and all the strength went from his grip on the older man. It was as if the life had been let out of him, the only two members of his family still alive after the last bout of the smallpox plague. Now they were gone. He looked down at Running Foot, anger in his eyes, anger at what’d been taken from him.
“I go out on a vision quest for the turning of a moon and I come back to find my family dead and my fellow villagers plotting against me? Tell me, proud Running Foot, how many others are waiting for me back home?”
“None, none!” Running Foot said, his head shaking quickly, causing his beads to rattle.
“You better not be lying to me,” Snow Eye said as he brought the axe up to Running Foot’s throat, “or I’ll come running all the way to hell to kill you again.”
He ran the axe over the older man’s throat and then let the body fall to the river. He watched as the waters took it away, then he looked up at the moon and made a vow that he’d set things right.
Part III – Trapping
23 – The Yellowstone
The snow had melted along the Yellowstone, though the air still held its crispness. Joe Dixon could feel that crispness first hand, on his nose, ears and the tips of his fingers, and he could see it in the clouds of breath that followed him all around.
It was tough trapping, even without the snow, and he couldn’t imagine how the hell they’d make it through the winter. Already his fingers felt half-frozen most of the time and his body held a permanent ache from the endless chill in the air. It bit to the bone it did, and he was already regretting their decision to come this far north.
His partner Forest Hancock certainly didn’t seem to be, but then he went out later in the morning and came back earlier in the evening. Hell, it wasn’t even evening, Joe thought as he trudged through the snow, looking this way and that for wherever his last trap was, it was more like late-afternoon. Of course Forest said he had to get the fire going, dry the skins, clean the traps, and all manner of other things that required him to be where it was warm, not out here trudging along the banks of a half-frozen river like some fool. Oh, to see Illinois again!
In the winter the trapping process was a bit tougher, but much the same. The trick there was finding beaver that used the riverbank for their lodges more than dams. If the stream was deep enough the animals would simply cut into the banks and burrow. They’d begin in summer, with the entrances below the waterline. During the fall they were just two feet below the waterline and that decreased further as the season wore on. To combat how easy the entrance was to see when the snows came, the beavers created false entrances that sometimes even led to false lodges. But the animals could always be found, even when they tried to throw you off by burrowing under trees. In that case the vent of sticks sitting clear in the snow was a sure giveaway that beavers were laying belowground. More and more, Joe realized, the season was starting to work against them.
If the burrow was in the river when the ice came then it was a simple matter of tapping on it with a chisel or axe until you heard the different tone. If there was a hollow nearby you’d get that metallic twang when the metal hit the ice. Then you knew you were close and it was just a matter of finding that entrance, and avoiding the false one. Usually it’d be a whole family of the creatures hiding inside, and that would by a payday indeed. Sometimes it’d just be an old widower or bachelor beaver though, and then it seemed the effort wasn’t worth the reward. That was one of the reasons George had stopped trapping away from the river early on – only solitary creatures burrowed around the trees.
Joe had only found a few of those solitary widowers today, their pelts so gray and worthless that the whole day was a bust. He was just about to curse his luck and say ‘to hell with it’ for the day, let any damn beaver in his last trap struggle out or gnaw its foot off or just up and die and freeze – he didn’t care anymore! More than likely the trap he was looking for had fallen into the river already, or been dragged there by the damn creature…if it was holding anything at all. The three traps that Forest had checked that morning had all been empty, and that’d been the third time this week. And it’s Tuesday, he thought, Goddamn! He was about to curse and turn back, but then he caught sight of it, there, on the bank, the trap…and in it a plump beaver…gnawing away.
“Oh hell!” Joe roared out into the fast-fading daylight. “Not again!”
He’d already lost three beaver since Colter had left, three that’d thought three legs where there used to be four was better than no life at all. One of the varmints had even hastened his chewing once Joe had arrived, and gotten through the last of the skin and bone just as he’d gotten to him. That last one had been close, with Joe’s rifle butt slamming down into the trap just a second after the creature had fled, but that hadn’t been close enough. Empty traps didn’t pay nothing in St. Louis, and unless their luck improved, they were going to have nothing to show for their hard winter.
But there a beaver was now, and a plump one by the look of it, a $2 one! Joe wasn’t going to let it get away. He rushed toward the bank, where the trap was set, and barreled toward it. He wasn’t thinking about much, nothing besides getting that beaver, and so didn’t notice the thin sheen of ice still coating the bank. His foot hit it and he went sliding, right into the trap.
“Oh hell!” he managed before he, the trap, and the beaver still inside the trap all went sliding off the four-foot bank and into the icy Yellowstone River.
SPLASH!
Joe’s breath escaped him as millions of tiny needles of frozen pain shot into every area of his body, those that were exposed twice as much. It was the most painful and shocking thing he’d ever felt and he somehow had the sense to push up when his feet touched bottom, propelling himself to the river’s icy surface.
HYUH!
He gasped, his face touching the surface and making it plain he’d reached air. His lungs filled with the precious stuff, but then he saw he had another problem – he was already several feet downriver, and washing down further still. If he didn’t get out of that water fast, he was a dead man.
“Joe!”
There was a shout, and Joe’s eyes shot to the bank.
“Colter!” he yelled, his eyes going wide in amazement at the sight of the mountain man.
Colter nodded at him and then looked on up ahead and pointed his rifle that way. “The rock!” he shouted out. “Make for the rock!”
Joe looked ahead, and saw what Colter was pointing at – a large rock jutting out
into the river, one large enough for Colter to stretch out from, and close enough for him to get to. He began treading water, trying to make his way toward it.
The water was moving quickly, and God was it cold, but Joe kept up his paddling and made way. It would be close, but Colter was rushing up ahead now, running that fast way he did, and Joe was glad for it – without the mountain man there he was sure he would die…and still might. And then Colter was there, on the large rock and then laying down upon it. He stretched out his rifle and held the barrel steady. All Joe had to do…was…
“Got it!” Colter shouted as Joe’s hands locked onto the Kentucky Rifle. He immediately pulled back and then had one of Joe’s hands in his. He pulled the gun back further and then was getting Joe up onto the rock.
“Thank…you…” Joe managed through shattering teeth.
“Thank me later,” Colter said, getting him up on his feet quickly, “if we don’t get you by a fire soon, you’ll have nothing to thank me for.”
~~~
The fire hissed and crackled, and Joe watched it send up another spark into the twilit sky.
“How you feeling?” Colter asked, bringing him another hot cup of coffee.
“Better,” Joe said.
Colter nodded. His teeth weren’t chattering anymore, it was a start.
“What are you doing back so soon,” Joe said a few moments later, after Colter had gotten settled down by the fire with his own cup.
“I went down quite a few tributaries on the Clark’s Fork, and even went up a bit further than what we know.” He shook his head. “There was beaver, but most are holed up for the winter. The traps I set…half came back empty, the other half chewed out more than not. In the end I got a few dozen pelts.”
“That few?” Joe said, his brow knitted and his face scrunched up. He looked more offended than he had been from the dunk in the river.
“That few,” Colter said, “and I’m worried the take around here won’t be much better.”
“I don’t understand it.”
Colter scoffed. “I do – those damn French trappers coming up through here in the past year or more.”
“How do you know it was them?”
“Oh, I know alright,” Colter said. “Who else was up through here?”
“I guess you’d have to ask the A’anninen,” Joe said, “they’re the last tribe we passed before getting up to our winter camp.”
Colter gave Joe a long look, then nodded. “Aye, the A’anninen. It might be best to pay them a visit now.” He leaned forward and stirred up the fire a bit. “And that winter camp won’t do, neither.”
“What do you mean it won’t do?”
“Wolves.”
“Wolves!” Joe said, or squeaked more like it. His eyes darted about and he clutched the blanket to himself more tightly, as if that could fend of the creatures’ fangs.
“Saw a good-sized pack of ‘em in the trees the other night, prowling,” Colter said after a few moments. “I’m sure there are others around as well.”
“What do we do?”
“Move, to a cave I found on the Clark’s Fork.”
“A cave?”
Colter rose up and started to gather their things. “C’mon,” he said, “you’re about dry as you’ll get – let’s get Forest and see what I’m talking about.”
24 – Making Camp
“This?” Forest said as he looked at the cave. “You want us to stay in this?”
Colter nodded and walked up to the cave entrance. “It’s what we’ll need come the coldest part of winter.”
The two trappers looked from one another to him and back again, not sure what to make of that, or the cave they were looking at. It was dark and dank and not spacious at all. You certainly couldn’t cook in it, and it didn’t look like you could stand either. And how in the world three people were supposed to fit, well…neither Forest nor Joe wanted to much think upon that.
Joe and Colter had headed back to the makeshift winter camp, the one the two had been staying in for the past week. Colter had had them gather up their things and get them in the canoe, and after a short trip downriver they’d landed and walked into the thick trees a ways, towards the crest of a slight butte. There Colter had pointed out the cave, which neither of the two would have seen otherwise.
“I suppose the spot’s a sight better than the riverbank there,” Forest said after a few moments, and as he looked around the location. “More trees at least, more cover.”
“It’s what we need,” Colter said, “but not all.”
“Oh?” Joe said, his interest piqued at that.
“The trapping’s not good here.”
Joe’s brow furrowed at the mountain man’s words. “What do you mean it ain’t good here – we just caught half a dozen yesterday!”
Colter frowned and shook his head, then walked over to the remnants of the fire he’d started that morning. He grabbed a stick and knelt down to push at the coals, coaxing them back to life. “We placed those traps a week ago – a third weren’t even full, while the others had beaver so scrawny that I didn’t much consider them worth the effort.”
“Bah! I’ve seen the beaver that they–”
“I’ve seen the Beaver they got down in St. Louis too,” Forest yelled, cutting off’s Joe’s words, “and I see clearly that what Colter’s saying is true.”
“Don’t give me that guff, Forest – you just want a woman.”
Forest took a step back, and took on a hurt and offended look. Colter hadn’t seen such acting since he was a boy watching the traveling minstrel show.
“Joe, listen to yourself,” Forest said, his tone wounded, but his pride on full display, “just listen to yourself, will ya? Here I am, trying to ensure that we have the wealth from these mountains that we need in order for those Illinois farming dreams of yours to come true. And this is the thanks I get…you saying I’m only interested in a woman?”
Now it was Joe’s turn to look wounded. “Ah hell, Forest – I didn’t mean it like that, it’s just that…well…you won’t be coming back, I just know it, you won’t be coming back!”
Forest turned around this time and looked at his friend. “Joe, where the hell are we gonna go, huh?”
“You’ll go to the Indian maidens, sure enough, and you won’t be coming back,” Joe said, his speech fast and his eyes darting about nervously, like he’d be closed in on as soon as his two companions were out of site. “Oh, you say you’ll be back, but you won’t, something will happen, sure as the sun comes up in the morning, something will happen.”
“What could happen, Joe?” Colter asked. He was carrying another bundle of furs, the same as Forest, getting them stored up in the canoe. They’d already drug it ashore and would tip it over when full. The added protection over the furs would keep the worst of the winter weather out, and ensure they had a profitable time of it come spring and St. Louis.
“What could…” Joe trailed off, flabbergasted and amazed that someone like Colter – a man that’d gone from one end of the continent to the other – couldn’t recognize what could happen. “Why…you could get hurt, killed, the canoe could tip over, an Indian brave could get you, a husband could come after you, the ice could break, a bear could attack, a forest fire, a–”
“A forest fire, Joe?” Forest said, cocking his head slightly. “C’mon.”
“And we’re not even taking the canoe, Joe…that’s why we’re packing her,” Colter added.
“I…I…aw, hell!” Joe finally saw the futility of it all and threw up his hands. He’d be spending the next few weeks alone, that was a certainty.
“We’ll be back before you know it, Joe,” Forest said, trying to assuage some of his friend’s hopelessness.
“Aye,” was all Joe said as he moped back to the cave entrance and set himself down on one of the big rocks out front, “Aye.”
“Listen, Joe,” Forest said, planting his rifle firmly down on the ground butt-first, “we’ve got to go.” He leaned ov
er the barrel of the gun and stared at his friend, his partner of all those years. They hadn’t been separate for more than a day at a time over the past two years, but now that was about to change, Joe saw it clearly in his friend’s expression.
“Aye,” the sullen-eyed trapper said, then picked his stick back up and proceed to poke about the fire the same as Colter had. Forest pushed himself back and whirled the rifle back up into his hands. He turned to Colter, and with a triumphant look said, “let’s get packed.”
25 – Farther Afield
“Stop! Don’t come any closer!”
Snow Eye did as the young Mandan brave instructed, and stopped his slow walk forward. He was at the edge of the Mandan Village, and at night. He’d expected the young braves on sentry duty to be wary, and he’d expected them to be nervous when they spotted him. He just hoped they didn’t kill him…not yet.
“Arikara!” another voice called out, and Snow Eye whipped his head to the right to get a better look with his one good eye. Sure enough, another few braves were coming from that side.
“Arikara!” the voice called out again. “Arikara, what are you doing here!”
“I seek counsel,” Snow Eye said, and slowly began to raise his arms up to his side, showing that he was unarmed…or at least had nothing in his hands.
“Counsel?” the young brave said, coming closer, but not too close.
“Your chief,” Snow Eye said, “let me talk to your chief.”
Before the young brave could respond, one of his companions came up, whispered in his ear. It wasn’t quiet enough.
“I do have shadows around me,” Snow Eye said, echoing the man’s words, “I have shadows of the dead, my family, killed in cold blood and looking for vengeance. I am that vengeance.”
The braves didn’t know what to say to that, so after taking the stranger’s weapons they escorted him to the center of the village.
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