Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  He gazed at the face in the mirror for a moment longer before turning and leaving his small quarters. Outside, he stepped up on Billy and pointed him toward the main gate. With a gentle pressure of his heels, he urged the horse into a canter and said farewell to the army and his career as a professional soldier.

  Chapter II

  Winter was hard that year, the hardest Tom ever remembered, and not entirely due to the weather. It was cold enough. It always was in Montana territory. It was more that he was orphaned from the military. Before, he was always assured of a warm home base where it was someone else’s responsibility to provide food and housing. Now, for the first time since he joined the army, Tom was on his own, alone in the vast winter wilderness of Montana. Looking back a few months, he was not sure now why he had chosen to go north and west when he left Fort Lincoln. At the time, he felt a strong desire to lose himself completely from all civilization. He had not the slightest notion as to how he could make a living. All he knew was the army. He couldn’t farm, even if he had a desire to, which he didn’t. He didn’t have enough money to buy stock, even if he had a notion to run cattle. There were cattle ranches in Montana. A few brave souls had even pushed herds up from Texas in search of the lush prairies, willing to take on the Indians and the cruel winters. Tom had no experience with cattle. All that was left for him were trapping and panning for gold. Of the two, he figured he knew the least about panning for gold. True, he wasn’t much on trapping either, but at least he had learned a little about it from Squint Peterson during the long winter months at Fort Lincoln, when cabin fever would drive the army scout out of the fort for a few days’ respite. Tom had accompanied Squint on more than one occasion, whenever the duty roster permitted. It had proven to be valuable experience, for he had learned how to build a camp in the snow and how to stay alive in the brutal winters of the plains. He would need this knowledge now because it was the wrong time of year for a man to strike out alone across the Dakota/Montana territory, what with winter just getting its second wind. But he felt the need to be on the move. Still, he disliked the idea of aimless wandering, so he told himself he was headed toward Oregon, the hoped-for destination of hundreds of other displaced souls. Once there, he could see to the business of making a new beginning for himself. But for now, it was enough to simply be on the move.

  He had managed to save a little money from his army pay over the years and, although it didn’t add up to a sizable stake, at least it was enough to provide a start. After buying his basic supplies and ammunition, he had enough left to purchase a dozen #4 beaver traps and a few #2 mink traps. He figured he might as well give trapping a try. He had nothing better to do. There was considerable risk for one white man alone in what was still Indian territory—the weather wasn’t the only threat to a man’s life. Nonetheless, he figured he should be able to survive if he kept his wits about him and was careful about where he made his camps. The main Indian threat had been squashed near the end of the summer with the defeat of the Sioux at the Tongue River and Wagon Box. The survivors, those who had not been forced to return to the reservation, were mainly scattered. Sitting Bull and Dull Knife and several others were reported to have fled to Canada. The rest, the wild ones, were most probably holed up in winter camps. Even so, he was careful to live by the rule Squint had instilled in his mind. The key to surviving in hostile country is to make sure you see them a long time before they see you. Twice he had caught sign of Indian hunting parties, although he did not actually see any hostiles. The only Indians he had encountered since he left Fort Lincoln were a small band of half-starved Arapahos who had decided to give it up and go to the reservation. The party consisted of one man, his wife, and his wife’s two sisters. Tom traded the man his army pistol for a buffalo robe. He threw in a little beef jerky from his precious supply. Gazing at the hollow, hungry eyes of the women, he wished he could give them more, but he had none to spare as it was. The buffalo robe would go a long way in helping him survive the winter cold. He wouldn’t miss the pistol. A pistol was of very little value to a man in the wild unless he was involved in close combat with an enemy. Otherwise, it was no good at any range over thirty or forty yards. He wondered how long the Arapaho brave would be able to hang on to the pistol. He was sure to be thoroughly searched for weapons when he reported to the reservation. Other than that one party of Arapahos, Tom had been virtually alone in this wilderness.

  After a while, he got used to being alone. He couldn’t say that he actually enjoyed it, but at least he didn’t seem to mind it. For the most part, he disciplined his mind to avoid thinking about his past life and the events that led to his forced exile. He tried to always focus on only a few basic things crucial to his survival; to stay warm, to stay out of sight, and to find food for himself and his horse. The latter was the most difficult, but he found that there was food for one man if he hunted constantly. Occasionally he was lucky enough to find an elk, driven down from the high country, but mostly his diet consisted of varmints and the beaver he caught in his traps. Down in the lower basins, near the rivers, Billy could usually scratch around for forage, although it would become more and more difficult as the winter progressed. Billy’s welfare was of primary concern to him. A man’s horse might mean the difference between living and dying. For that reason, a good deal of his time was spent digging in the snow to find grass and roots for Billy and peeling the bark off green tree limbs and the tender willow wisps—anything he thought might give his horse nourishment. The nights were getting steadily colder, causing him to question the wisdom of moving from camp to camp. Already, he often found his breakfast water frozen solid if he allowed his campfire to die down during the night. At night he slept with Billy’s bridle inside his buffalo robe to keep from placing a frozen bit in his horse’s mouth the next morning.

  As the winter lengthened, it became increasingly difficult to stay on the move. Soon the snows came one on top of the other, causing him to wonder if he would be able to survive if he didn’t build a more permanent camp. The last several days had been spent by a winding stream that had provided him with half a dozen prime beaver plews, but the campsite was no good. The surrounding plains offered little protection from the winter blizzards he knew would be coming. He looked out across the rolling hills toward the high country and decided the best chance for him and his horse was to find a camp somewhere under the lee side of a hill. As if to remind him not to tarry in his decision, a cold breeze danced across his face, warning him to find shelter.

  Billy seemed to sense the urgency in their journey as he struggled through snow up to his broad chest. At times, Tom had to hold his feet up sideways to keep the stirrups from dragging in the snow. But Billy was stout and had plenty of heart and he never faltered. Twice darkness forced them to make trail camp in open country before they reached the shelter of the foothills but, finally, they reached a steep hill covered with trees. On the far side, Tom discovered a rock formation that formed a small cliff that slanted back into the hill, creating a slight depression. He knew at once that this was the place they would wait out the winter.

  The next two days were spent digging out some of the frozen ground under the rocks until he had fashioned half a cave where he and Billy could get out of the wind and weather. When he had completed his work, he had a shelter closed on three sides with a fire pit at the back. He next set about finding firewood under the snow to stockpile. He was no longer concerned about concealing his presence in the territory. His concern now was surviving the winter. He wasn’t worried about roving bands of hostiles. Any Indian with a lick of sense was already holed up for the winter, and if a rare hunting party stumbled upon his camp, he would deal with it the best way he could. He decided he’d rather die with an arrow in him than freeze to death.

  The days that followed were spent almost entirely at work to winter-proof his camp, his every thought centered on keeping himself and his horse alive until spring. After he had done all he could to make the dugout secure against the weather, he
hunted for anything he could eat. It didn’t matter what it was as long as it had meat on it, or roots he could boil in melted snow. The meat he was able to procure was cut up and stored outside his camp in the snow. More than one night was ended with a prayer of thanks to Andy Coulter for his Winchester. It fired as true as any rifle he had ever shot, and when cartridges were precious, accuracy was doubly important. Small game seemed plentiful in the mountains beyond the hill he had chosen for his camp, and most of this he managed to catch without wasting bullets. Squint Peterson had shown him how to rig a snare to catch rabbits, and he soon became adept at it. But he needed more than rabbits to make it through the winter. A stroke of luck probably contributed to his survival more than anything else.

  It was late in the afternoon and he was making his way back down the mountain after a disappointing day of hunting. He didn’t like returning to camp empty-handed. He needed to store all the meat he could, feeling the urgency more and more as each day brought colder and colder weather. Something in his bones was telling him that storms were coming and coming soon. The sky had a slate gray cast to it, and there was fresh wind from the north blowing steady all day. As nightfall approached, the wind began to pick up in intensity. He didn’t like the look of it. He didn’t have nearly enough food stored to last him, and he was going back to his camp empty-handed. Already the snow was deep on the mountains and it was slow going, even downhill. Coming to a small stream that had not yet frozen solid, he braced himself to jump across it, a feat made more difficult because of the makeshift snowshoes he had fashioned. He misjudged the distance by a fraction, causing him to slip and ram his foot through the limbs of his snowshoe, resulting in a headfirst tumble down the mountain, ending some eighty or ninety feet later against a tree stump.

  “Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed as he lay prone in the snow. “I’d be in a helluva fix if I broke my neck now, wouldn’t I?” He lay there for a moment longer to make certain nothing was broken. Then he reached for his rifle and checked to make certain he hadn’t plugged the barrel when he took his tumble. Satisfied that it was all right, he brushed the snow away from the lever and hammer. When he turned again to look down below him, his heart almost stopped. There, not fifty feet away, a great black bear stood watching him, evidently confused by this strange-looking animal that had just landed before him, arms and legs flailing as it tumbled wildly to a stop against the stump.

  Tom was lucky that day that his chaotic descent down the mountain served to confuse the great beast, and lucky that he was able to react quicker than the bear. In a fraction of a second, Tom raised his rifle and fired from a sitting position. The bullet made a thud as it entered the animal’s skull immediately below the right eye. The bear recoiled backward in surprise. Tom readied himself for the animal’s charge, getting up to kneel on one knee, his rifle ready for the next shot. But, instead of charging, the beast turned to run. Tom’s second and third shots were no more than two or three inches apart, right behind the bear’s shoulder. The bear roared once, then tried to run, but it seemed to have lost its sense of balance and began to stagger drunkenly from side to side for about twenty feet before crumpling to the ground in a heap.

  Tom could feel his heart racing from the shock of the sudden encounter. His very fingertips tingled with the rush of adrenaline that had been triggered by the expectation of mortal combat with the huge beast. When he realized the bear was dead, his panic was replaced by a great feeling of joy. The killing of the bear meant survival for him. He would now have not only the meat, but the fur and fat as well. He quickly collected himself, and after making sure the animal was indeed finished, he made his way down the mountain, wasting no time to get his horse and get back to his kill before wolves or coyotes found it. It would be impossible for him to drag the bear with him, even downhill. He would need Billy’s strength for that job. As he trudged along toward his camp, his progress impeded by the one broken snowshoe, he couldn’t help but wonder at his good fortune. It was almost as if providence, or whatever power, had sent the bear to him because it was way past time for the beast to be in hibernation. What, he wondered, was the bear doing wandering around after others of his kind were already sleeping, waiting for spring? It gave him a sense of faith, as if it was a sign that he was meant to survive this winter.

  Darkness had settled over the hills by the time he dragged the bear’s carcass down out of the mountains. The beast was huge, and it was a hard pull for the horse, but once again Billy was up to the task. He left a wide trail straight to his camp under the rocks, but Tom was not concerned. His intuition proved to be accurate, for he awoke the next morning to find a fresh blanket of snow over the land, covering any tracks left the night before under a foot of snow. It was to be two full months before he would be able to leave his little valley again.

  * * *

  One morning, it was finally over. Tom was awakened late in the morning by the sound of dripping water from the rocks above his camp. The snow was melting. Still, it would be several weeks before he could leave the safety of his dugout for good. These last few weeks were the worst of the severe winter months. He was almost desperate to get on the move again. He looked at his horse, rooting in the melting snow outside the dugout, searching for anything green. “Billy,” he said softly, “you’re looking a little peaked, but we’ll be on our way before long and, if we ever find any civilized place again, I swear I’ll get you a barrel of oats.” He walked over to the horse and offered him a handful of green bark he had peeled from a willow switch. Billy accepted it gratefully. He watched the horse for a moment as Billy ground the bark and looked at him expectantly, wanting more. “That’s all I got right now. Sorry, son.” He looked back over his shoulder at the hole in the hillside that had served as his home for over three months. “Damned if I haven’t had my fill of wintering alone in this wilderness. If I can help it, I’ll not spend another winter like I did this one.” He was fully aware that he was fortunate to be alive.

  * * *

  He caught sign of the settlement long before he was to see the canvas huts and rough shacks scattered along the banks of the wide stream that served as the lifeblood for the handful of souls gathered there. It was not difficult to tell he was approaching some form of civilization, for the signs he found were permanent scars upon the land. Trees had been felled, no doubt to be used for lumber, and no Indian he had ever encountered chopped down trees for any purpose other than to use them as lodge poles. The deep ruts left by a wagon were still evident, even after having been under a blanket of snow until the recent melt.

  The thought of seeing another human being was enough to lift his spirits and liven his step. He had traveled three days since bidding his winter camp farewell. At least half of the journey was on foot. Billy looked so bony he didn’t have the heart to burden him with his weight. As it was, the half-starved horse had to pull a travois loaded with the plews Tom had managed to trap. This was another reason Tom was relieved to find signs of a settlement. He was more than a little concerned about the trail he was leaving, a trail that a blind Indian could follow. He would have to get himself a packhorse at the first opportunity if he was to keep his hair in this country.

  Nightfall found him still making his way toward a low line of hills that he had guided on for the better part of the afternoon. It was his guess that the settlement he was near had to be in that direction. From the wagon tracks he found, it was apparent that the woodcutters had come from there. To confirm his guess, deepening darkness revealed several small flickers of light that he knew had to be cook fires. He resisted the impulse to push on through the night to reach the town. He thought it better to approach the settlement in the morning, after he had the opportunity to scout it a bit before blissfully riding in. There were all kinds of savages in this territory, not all of them Indians.

  * * *

  The settlement looked pretty much like a dozen others Tom had seen in the years he had spent on the frontier. An odd gathering of tents shacks, some that were half te
nt and half shack, were assembled along the banks of a broad rocky stream that seemed to meander drunkenly through the low line of hills, rushing first in one direction and then almost reversing its flow as it veered sharply around an outcropping of boulders and raced off in another direction. The tents and shacks were scattered haphazardly along the stream as if some giant hand had simply rolled them like dice and they just happened to land right-side up. It was pretty rough for a town, but it didn’t matter to Tom. It was a settlement and there were people there and he was more than ready to see and talk to someone after the long winter alone.

  He rode in on the north end of the stream after having skirted the town from the south. It looked all right to him, a typical diggings with a rickety sluice box here and there in front of a weather-worn shack. As he urged Billy into the icy water at a shallow crossing that led to the main part of the settlement, he noticed a wide board nailed to a tree that served as a sign. The letters had been burned into the wood and proclaimed that this settlement had a name. It read

  RUBY’S CHOICE

  IF YOU DON’T GIVE NO TROUBLE—YOU WONT GET NO TROUBLE

  Fair enough, Tom thought. He nudged Billy with his heels, and they crossed the stream, headed toward the largest structure in Ruby’s Choice.