Evil Breed

by Charles G. West

  Following an old game trail that led down through a thick belt of arrow-straight pines that towered high over his head, he suddenly emerged to find himself in a lush green meadow dotted profusely with tall buttercups and blue flag. All thoughts of Virginia and Lettie Henderson were immediately forgotten for the moment, banished from his conscious mind by the sheer beauty of the vista before him. He did not consider himself to be an emotional person, but he could not deny the involuntary shiver that touched his entire body as he pulled his horse up to take it all in. It was too much for the mind to contain. He gazed up at the snow-covered peaks above him. Tall and unyielding, they stood like silent symbols of immortality, reminding him that his time on earth held no more significance than that of the deer fly buzzing around his head. And yet he felt a part of it—the rocky cliffs, the trees, the steep meadows sloping steeply away from him, and the intense blue of the sky overhead—and he had a sense of coming home. Farther down the mountain, the slope of the meadow gradually lessened until it finally came to rest at the edge of an emerald lake that filled the narrow valley. On the far shore, an elk bugled his lovesick call and disappeared into the trees that lined the water. God had outdone Himself. There could be no place on Earth that matched it.

  Jim made his camp by the water’s edge and hobbled Toby close by to graze in the lush grass. Toby didn’t like hobbles, and probably wouldn’t have strayed far anyway, but Jim decided it was best to take precautions. Clay had cautioned him to be careful. It was Indian territory, either Shoshoni or Crow, depending upon how far north he had traveled. In spite of this, he felt at home in this country. He wondered if the horse felt it, too. Toby seemed content enough, even with the hobbles.

  He spent three days camped by the lake. He rigged up a fishing line, he listened to the elks bugle, and he watched the slow, lazy wheeling of hawks high over the valley. And he spent a lot of hours peering up into the starry heavens each night, desperately searching for insights to the life path he should follow. It was to no avail, however. He was still undecided, and he didn’t have a clue as far as what his medicine might be. Maybe that kind of thing worked only for Indians. Maybe white men didn’t have any special medicine. Maybe it was because he didn’t go on a fast. Clay said Indian warriors fasted for several days before attaining their vision. Jim couldn’t see the sense in that.

  “Ah, to hell with it,” he finally exclaimed to Toby on the morning of the fourth day. In spite of his fascination with the country, he was disappointed to realize that he had been unsuccessful in ridding his mind of Lettie Henderson. “Dammit! I ain’t ready to tie my ass to a plow,” he complained loudly. Toby flicked his ears and snorted. Now I’ve got both of us confused, Jim thought, taking note of the horse’s reaction. He picked up his bedroll and tied it on behind the saddle. It was time to leave this perfect spot and move on, but he burned the location deep into his memory, knowing he would return one day.

  As much as the land tempted him to wander, with the snowy peaks in the distance summoning him like pale sirens, still he knew he could not afford to roam aimlessly. Basic supplies and cartridges for his rifle didn’t grow on trees. Seeking a purpose, he made up his mind to ride to Fort Laramie. Maybe he could sign on as a scout, like Clay. That would do for a while until he discovered something else to do.

  Backtracking to pick up the old game trail he had followed into the valley, he stopped to take one last look at the shimmering lake behind him before nudging Toby onward once more. Even though he had decided on a destination, there was no need to hurry. He could take the time to explore the lofty mountain range between him and South Pass.

  * * *

  Working his way around a towering peak, Jim climbed as high up the mountain as he could before Toby began to have trouble finding solid footing. Sidling across an area of loose shale, his horse labored to reach an outcropping of solid rock that would give Jim an uninterrupted view of the southern end of the range.

  Once he reached the outcropping, he dismounted to rest his horse. Toby gazed at him as if saying, This damn sure had better be worth that climb. It was. He was not close to the peak; a horse couldn’t make that climb. But he was high enough to command a view of the rugged slopes around him that only hawks and mountain goats had witnessed. The experience had a profound effect upon him, and he knew then that he would always yearn to breathe in the clear mountain air and let his heart soar where the hawks and eagles flew.

  Man and horse remained on their lofty perch until the sun began to sink toward the distant peaks, the man contemplating his place in God’s plan, the horse content to rest and graze in the sparse patches of bear grass. Realizing late that he had waited too long before starting back down the steep slope, Jim resigned himself to spend the night there. The thought caused no great concern. There was nothing to use to build a fire, however, but he could chew on some dried venison for his supper and he could share his canteen with Toby. So he settled in for the night, watching a glorious sunset of scarlet and gold before a sudden impenetrable darkness settled upon him like a silent shroud.

  Morning found him stiff and shivering from the cold as a gray dawn gradually awakened the mountain range. Though eager to descend to more comfortable climes, he had to wait for the sun to climb high enough to light the dark pockets below him, lest Toby make a misstep and send them both tumbling down the steep mountainside.

  When at last the first golden rays of the morning sun found their way through the narrow gaps of the upper ridges, Jim walked to the edge of the rocky precipice to experience one last look at the rugged expanse below him. Raising his rifle in both hands, he stretched his arms high overhead in an effort to relieve some of the stiffness in his shoulders. With his toes right at the edge of the rock, he glanced straight down at the ledges below him.

  Startled, he almost staggered. Directly under him, some fifty feet at most, he was astonished to discover a lone Indian warrior. Unaware of Jim above him, the man was kneeling, facing the sun, his arms outstretched as if he were performing some sort of ritual. On reflex, Jim immediately dropped his arms, holding his rifle in a ready position, but made no other move or sound. Fascinated by the unlikely presence of the Indian, Jim continued to watch. The man was wearing no more than a loincloth and moccasins, with nothing but one blanket to protect him from the morning cold. Jim was reminded of Clay’s comments about seeking his medicine, and he felt certain that this was what the Indian was attempting. Judging by the Indian’s lack of clothes to make his body suffer, and the fact the man had no weapon other than a knife, it was apparent that Jim had guessed correctly.

  * * *

  War Ax ended his prayer to the Great Spirit. He felt his medicine was strong. He had spent three days and nights on the rocky ledge with no food and only a few mouthfuls of water. On the last night he had dreamed of slaughtering many enemies that had surrounded him in a fierce battle, and this was indeed a strong sign that he would remain a mighty war chief.

  He had not come to this place since discovering it while a boy, searching for his medicine. It was a good place, for he had been successful in finding his path of life, an important undertaking for every Blackfoot warrior. Now it provided a renewal of his strength for the coming raids on his enemies, the Crow.

  Ready to return to his village now, he rose to his feet, pulling the blanket around his shoulders to ward off the morning chill. Suddenly his senses warned him of danger, and he looked up above him. A white man! Standing on a ledge overhead, a white man, holding a rifle, looked down at him impassively. Ordinarily quick to react, War Ax stood, gazing up at Jim, unsure whether he was looking at a vision or a real man. Neither man uttered a sound as their eyes locked upon each other. When the vision did not go away or even fade, War Ax realized that it was a real man who stood over him. The realization also struck him that the white man had stood watching him as he made his prayer to the sun, helpless to defend himself. But the white man did not kill him. Why? War Ax could not explain.

  Several long minutes passed. Stil
l the white man and the Indian stood transfixed, gazing at each other. Finally Jim raised his rifle slightly in a simple salute and turned away. War Ax, below him, nodded in brief response, and turned away as well. Both men prepared to descend from the mountain, each going down a different side.

  * * *

  It was toward the middle of the afternoon when Jim guided Toby down the side of a wide ravine to a trail that appeared to offer a passage to the foothills beyond. He had already spent a good portion of the morning backtracking from previous attempts to find a trail down from the steep slopes of the mountain he had chosen to cross. Although he was keeping a sharp eye for any sign of the warrior he had seen that morning, he had seen nothing. The Indian was almost forgotten by the time Jim found a trail that showed promise of a way out. There were a good many tracks of unshod horses on the trail, which told him that it was commonly used.

  “It’s a good thing I ain’t in a hurry to get to Laramie,” he confided to Toby. “I wonder if the army will hire a scout who can’t find his way to the fort.” He was about to laugh at his own joke when he was startled by the sudden crack of a pistol and the sound of cracking limbs as the bullet ripped through the pines right behind him. Toby jumped at the sudden report, and Jim, ducking instinctively, let the startled horse have his head.

  After lying low on Toby’s neck for about fifty yards until the trail took a sharp turn, Jim drew the horse up to a stop, figuring he had ample cover to try to determine who was shooting at him. His first thought was of the Indian back on the mountaintop. Drawing his rifle, he dismounted quickly and moved back to the point where the trail had taken a turn. Kneeling mere, he slowly scanned the trees up the side of the ravine and back down. There was no sign of anyone.

  Leaving Toby tied to a low tree limb, he climbed up above the narrow trail and made his way back, weaving through the lodgepole pines that covered the slope. He was close to the point where he had heard the shot when he detected the faint sound of someone calling out. He stopped to listen. There it was again! The sound was muffled, as if someone were shouting from inside a cave. He worked his way closer, stopping to listen each time the call was repeated, until he crossed over the trail and continued to move down the slope. Finally he realized he was almost on top of the source, because the call rang out again, and this time he could hear the words distinctly. “Come back, Gawdammit!”

  Jim carefully pulled a laurel branch aside and discovered that he was on the edge of a deep gully. Peering over the rim, he was amazed to find a horse at the bottom with a man seated in the saddle, facing away from him. It was a strange sight, and one that puzzled Jim, for it appeared that the horse and rider were jammed into the narrow end of the gully between two rock sides, waiting there for no apparent reason. At that moment the rider, a young man with long black hair, worn in two braids, Indian-fashion, threw back his head and yelled, “Help! Dammit.”

  “I can hear you,” Jim replied.

  Startled, the young man twisted around in an effort to see who had spoken. Relieved that the reply had been in English, he was further gratified to discover that Jim was alone. “I heard you ride off. I thought you weren’t coming to help me.”

  “I thought you shot at me,” Jim calmly replied. “You didn’t miss by much.” Satisfied that he was no longer in danger of being shot, he pushed through the laurel bushes, walked around to a point above and beside the man, and squatted on his heels while he studied the problem.

  “Sorry,” the rider said, “but my yelling didn’t seem to be doing no good.” He threw up his hands in a helpless gesture. “I could hear your horse, but I wasn’t sure you could hear me.”

  Jim nodded slowly while he considered that, then said, “Why don’t you get off that horse and climb outta there? He looks like he’s dead.”

  Speaking with the forced patience of a man who had long since run out of it, the dark-haired young man replied, “Mister, that’s a God-given fact. He’s dead, all right—broke his neck when the damn-fool nag fell in this gully. Got spooked by a damn groundhog or something, I never did see what it was. He jumped off the trail up yonder, and before I knew what was happening, there wasn’t no ground under us. And I promise you, I’da climbed outta here except for a little matter of having my leg jammed up against the side of this hole.”

  Jim took a moment to consider this, looking the young man’s situation over for himself. He was in a fix, all right. The horse’s body held the man’s leg pinned against the side of the hard dirt bank—a foot farmer and his leg would have been jammed against solid rock. Jim could see where the man had been trying to pick a hole in the dirt with his knife, but he had made very little progress. The problem didn’t appear to be the dirt bank itself, but more specifically a root the size of a man’s arm that crossed over his leg just above his ankle. The trapped rider had succeeded in digging out enough dirt to expose a portion of the root.

  Seeing the job to be done, Jim stood up again. “Well, I expect it’ll take you the better part of a month to saw through that root with your knife. I’ve got a hand ax in my pack that might speed things up a bit. I’ll be right back.” He turned to leave.

  “Much obliged, mister. I’m damn glad you happened along. I thought about butchering the damn horse to get loose, but I didn’t wanna draw the buzzards and wolves with the smell of raw meat.”

  “Reckon not,” Jim replied. “We’ll get you out of there.” He started climbing back up the side of the ravine. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  After bringing Toby to the point where the trapped horse had left the trail, Jim tied a rope to the saddle horn and got his ax from the saddle pack. Making his way back to the gully, he lowered himself down the side until he ended up standing on the horse’s rump. “You’re lucky your leg ain’t jammed up against that rock,” he commented. “I’ve got an ax, but I don’t have any dynamite.”

  The young man laughed and twisted around to extend his hand. “I’m obliged for the ax,” he said. “My name’s Johnny Malotte.”

  “Jim Culver,” Jim said, shaking his hand.

  Jim made short work of the root, chopping it in two in little more than ten minutes. But it took both men digging and chopping another forty-five minutes before the end of the root could be wrenched from the ground, freeing Johnny’s leg. Jim helped him get up from the saddle, carefully pulling the injured leg up from the stirrup. After cautiously testing his foot and ankle, Johnny determined that the leg was not broken, merely bruised and scraped. Relieved to find that he was not seriously injured, he flashed a wide, white-toothed smile at Jim, and shook his hand again, this time with added vigor.

  “Yessir,” Johnny said, nodding his head for emphasis, “I’m damn lucky you happened along. I ain’t sure I coulda got outta here by myself.” He steadied himself on the wall of the gully while he tested his injured leg to see if he could put his full weight on it. It was a little awkward with the two men standing on the dead horse, so Jim helped steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “I ain’t sure about this,” Johnny said. “You might have to help me up.”

  “Grab hold of the rope, and I’ll give you a boost. Toby will do the rest.” Jim cupped his hands together, making a stirrup for Johnny. When Johnny had a good grasp on the rope, Jim called out, “Toby, get up, boy.” And the horse obediently began to walk up the slope, pulling Johnny up the steep side of the gully. Once Johnny was safely up and had scrambled over the edge of the chasm, Jim said, “Back him up and throw me the rope.”

  Johnny stood there brushing the dirt off his trousers for a few moments before flashing his toothy smile at Jim. “I’d love to, friend, but I’m in kind of a hurry. I’ve got about twelve head of horses that are most likely standing around somewhere at the bottom of this mountain. And the Injuns I stole ’em from might be showing up anytime now. I’ve already wasted too much time in that damn hole.”

  “Why, you son of a bitch—” Jim began.

  Johnny interrupted before Jim could say more. “Now, no hard feelings, Jim. I’m a f
air man. I’m trading you that horse you’re standing on—and a damn good saddle—for your horse and saddle, even swap. I wouldn’t leave you here to die. You oughta be able to get yourself outta there if you work at it. I coulda got out myself if I hadn’t got my leg hung up. It’ll just take you a while. I’d love to stay and visit with you some more, but I best be on my way.”

  In a fit of anger, Jim reached for his pistol, but Johnny ducked back out of sight. Furious and feeling like a damn fool, Jim could hear him laughing as he walked away. Jim yelled for Toby, but the horse was too far up the ravine to realize his master was calling. “Damn you, Toby, you’ll let anybody ride you.” He stood there, completely at a loss for several minutes, waiting for his blood to cool down, cursing himself for being so trusting of a total stranger. After another minute or two, he eased up on himself a little. Hell, how could I know? The man was in trouble. The logic was true, but it didn’t make him feel any less the fool. “Johnny Malotte,” he pronounced, “you ain’t seen the last of me.”

  He was determined he would track Malotte down and recover his horse and possessions if he had to track him till doomsday. He was mad, madder than when that lieutenant back in Virginia had taken a shot at him. He could understand the lieutenant’s motivation. Jim had laid open a few welts on the officer’s back with a whip when he caught the lieutenant forcing himself on a young girl. Malotte was different. He had saved Malotte’s ass, and this was how he was repaid for his help. The thought of the dark-haired young man sitting astraddle Toby made his blood boil. Okay, he told himself, the first thing I’ve got to do is cool down and get myself out of this damn hole.

  He immediately began to evaluate his new situation. He still had his ax. He could try to chop handholds in the steep sides of the gully. It would be a lot quicker if he had a rope. As soon as he thought it, it occurred to him to check the saddle he was standing on. Sure enough, there was a coil of rope tied beside the saddle horn. Close beside that he saw the butt of a rifle protruding from a deerskin sling. It was jammed tight between the carcass and the side of the gully, but came out after he gave it a strong tug. An old iron-frame Henry .44, it was a poor swap for his Winchester, but it had a fully loaded magazine. He propped it against the side of the gully and untied the rope.