Bitterroot

by Charles G. West

  He swung back along the creek on his way out of the settlement. He wanted to say good-bye to Ruby, although he had been dreading it all morning. He had been disappointed to find that she was not at the store when he came by.

  An outcropping of rock that seemed to be the community’s favorite place to wash clothes was where he found her, scrubbing some of Jubal’s pants. She looked back when she heard the horses. Seeing that it was him, she stood up and came to meet him. He stepped down from the saddle.

  “Well, looks like you’re leaving town.” She forced a thin smile.

  “Yeah, I reckon so. I just wanted to say good-bye.”

  The sun was just now coming up over the trees on the far side of the creek, and she shielded her eyes with her hand as she looked up into his face. Noticing her discomfort, he moved to the side so she didn’t have to face the sun while they talked.

  “Where will you go?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Right now I plan to head west toward Crow country, maybe north into Shoshone country. Just away from the fort, I guess.”

  She made no reply. There was a long silence while both searched for words. Appropriate ones seemed to come hard. Still, they both felt there was something that needed to be said. Finally, embarrassed by the long void, he simply said, “Well, good-bye,” and started to put his foot in the stirrup.

  “Wait!” She put her hand on his arm to stop him. There was another brief silence while she formed her words. “I want to thank you for what you did for me.” She hesitated. “And I’m sorry you’re in trouble with the army. I reckon you have me and Pa to blame for that.” He started to respond, but she stopped him. “Tom, if you want me to go with you, I will.” Having said it, she quickly dropped her gaze to the ground, embarrassed by her own words.

  He went cold inside, the frigid grip of melancholy like a frozen stone in his heart. He had never been more miserable in his entire life. He had hoped she would say it, yet he didn’t want her to say it, for he knew he could not take her with him. “Ruby,” he struggled, “I can’t take you where I’m going. I’m sorry. I wish I could. The time was just not right for us to meet. I wish it was.”

  She would not beg. She had offered, he could not accept, and that was that. She started to step back, then changed her mind and suddenly put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Her mouth was warm and soft, and she pressed her body tightly against his with fierce passion. Then she released him and stepped away. “That’s just so you’ll remember me, Tom Allred. Now get on out of here!”

  Still somewhat stunned, he replied softly, “I don’t reckon I’ll ever forget you, Ruby.” Then, before his emotions had a chance to change his mind, he stepped up into the saddle, turned Billy around, and rode away. He never looked back, and she was grateful for that. She didn’t want him to see the tears streaming down her face.

  * * *

  Sunup the following morning found Tom already in the saddle. With no destination in mind, he just let Billy have his head and set his own pace. As long as the general direction was away from the little settlement of Ruby’s Choice, he wasn’t particular. Billy chose to leave the low mountain range behind and start out northwest across the prairie. This was Crow country and, while he wasn’t especially worried about it, he was smart enough to keep a sharp eye about him in case he had to duck in behind a hill in a hurry. As far as he knew, the Crows were not causing any trouble. In fact, many of them worked for the army as scouts at the battle of the Little Big Horn. But a white man alone on the prairie might be an entirely different thing. A hunting party of Crow warriors wouldn’t hesitate to leave him with a belly full of arrows and no hair while they made off with Billy and the packhorse.

  The first rays of the sun finally struggled over the distant mountain range behind him, painting the tips of the rolling hills of grass before him a soft butternut gold. Stranded remnants of the night, caught in dark pools around the base of the hills, gradually began to evaporate into the spreading cloak of sunshine as the morning warmed. He pulled his buffalo robe up close around his neck against the chilly spring air. Just the sight of the sunlight warmed him, although the temperature may have dropped a few degrees since before daybreak. It’s going to be a nice day, he thought. Off in the distance, he sighted a small herd of pronghorn antelope leisurely making their way across the prairie, too far for him to consider giving chase. If he needed the meat, he would have set out to stalk them, but for now, he had plenty of provisions. From what he had seen of the country, there was game aplenty. No need to take it if he didn’t need it. That was a nice part about spring. A man knew he could get meat whenever he wanted to. The grass was already getting thick on the rolling plains, and the morning breeze seemed to set the whole prairie in constant motion. Occasionally he passed through scattered carpets of bitterroot, and he recalled the time Squint Peterson pointed out the little pink and white flowers to him. They were on a hunting trip, several days out of Fort Lincoln. Squint said a man could eat the roots of the plant in the spring of the year, but they were bitter as hell come summer. He smiled as he thought of the many such trips he had taken with the old scout. Suddenly, it felt good to be alone in the world again, as good as it had felt to find Ruby’s Choice and to see people again after the long winter he had endured. His thoughts wandered briefly back to Ruby Clay and the way her soft body had melted into his, and then he decided thoughts like these could work on a man’s mind. He had to put the girl out of his head for good.

  Along toward midday, he sighted a flock of vultures circling in the distance. Curious, he pointed Billy in that direction. An hour’s ride brought him near the base of a low butte and maybe half a mile from the umbrella of circling vultures. As Billy topped a grassy rise by the foot of the butte, Tom caught sight of the cause for the convention of the big birds. From that distance, there appeared to be a heaped pile of something at the bottom of a shallow ravine. When he had covered half the remaining distance, he realized that the pile was, in reality, a man pinned under a dead horse. Tom drew back on the reins and paused to study the situation before riding in. He scanned the horizon around him, but could see no evidence of any other living thing. Satisfied there was no threat of danger, he nudged Billy with his heels and continued toward the ravine.

  He had closed to within a hundred yards, close enough to see that the man pinned beneath the horse was a white man, when the man suddenly lifted up on his elbow and brought a rifle up to bear on him.

  “Hold on!” Tom shouted. “Hold on!”

  The man did not fire, but the rifle remained trained on Tom. “Well, come on in a little closer then,” he shouted, “so’s I can get a look atcha.”

  Tom held Billy back to a slow walk, keeping a sharp eye on the stranger, but occasionally glancing around him to the sides and behind. He didn’t like the idea of riding into an ambush. As he approached the fallen man, he could see that he was in a real bind. His leg was firmly pinned beneath the bulk of his dead horse, and by the time Tom had arrived, the buzzards were getting bold enough to swoop within range of the man’s fists. In spite of the gravity of the poor man’s situation, Tom couldn’t help but be amused by the sight of a man trying to fight off buzzards with his fists. He pulled Billy up in front of the man, and as he sat and looked him over for a moment, the boldest of the vultures lit on the rump of the dead horse. For a long moment, bird and man stared at each other. Finally, the man pulled a pistol from his belt and shot the buzzard, causing the rest of the flock to back off for a few minutes.

  “Kinda looks like I got here just in time,” Tom said casually.

  The man squinted one eye against the sun as he stared up at Tom. “Well, I swear, I don’t know,” he replied. “I reckon it depends on whether or not you’re aiming to git this here horse offen me or whether you just come to watch the show.”

  Tom laughed and stepped down from the saddle. Then, noticing a dark stain in the shoulder of the man’s jacket, he stated, “You’ve been shot.”

  “I noticed that,” th
e man replied sarcastically, “but that ain’t my immediate problem. What I’d dearly love right now is to git out from under this damn horse!”

  “Don’t worry, I’m gonna get him off you.” Noticing a rope on the man’s saddle, he took it and tied one end around the dead horse’s neck. The other he looped around his saddle horn. “All right, let’s give it a try.”

  The man watched in silence as Tom prepared to move the animal. As he stooped down, the man spoke. “Take her real slow and easy. I don’t think my leg’s broke, but it could be if you ain’t careful. My dang foot’s still in the stirrup.”

  Tom eased Billy forward until the rope was taut. He looked back over his shoulder and, when the stricken man nodded that he was ready, nudged Billy in the belly. The big horse paused once to test the load, then pulled the dead animal off with no apparent effort. Tom dismounted once again and stood over the man, watching as he tested his leg.

  “My name’s Bris Collins,” he said as he carefully felt his knee and shinbone.

  “Tom Allred.”

  Bris continued to rub his ankle and calf. “Feels like nothin’s broke.” He flashed a smile in Tom’s direction. “Reckon I’m mighty glad you happened along. I was beginning to wonder if me and them dang buzzards was gonna have to start eating on that damn horse to git him light enough for me to lift him.”

  “Better take a look at that shoulder wound.”

  Bris looked down at his shoulder. “Don’t think it amounts to much,” he said as he pulled his coat and shirt away from the wound and stared at the bullet hole. “It bled pretty clean before it started to scab over.”

  Tom got a piece of cloth from his saddle pack, wet it down with his canteen, and handed it to Bris to clean the wound. “Who jumped you?”

  Bris paused and scratched his head as he thought about the question. “Looked to me like a band of Blackfoot, six or eight of ’em.”

  “Blackfeet?” Tom asked. “They were a little out of their territory, weren’t they?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought. I ain’t exactly no expert on Injuns but, if I had to guess, I reckon I’d have to say they was Blackfoot. I know Crow and I know Flathead, and they wasn’t none of them. I don’t reckon it matters none, does it? Injuns is Injuns. Don’t make much difference to a rifle bullet who pulls the trigger. Damn horse is just as dead. It’s a shame, too. That horse was shaping up real nice. Another week or two and he’da been a right smart little cow pony.”

  Bris’s remarks surprised Tom. Somehow he had not expected to find anyone working cattle this deep in hostile territory. Still, he thought, there was no reason to be surprised. The first big herd of cattle was driven up from Texas more than ten years before. It was simply that he had never come into contact with the hardy breed of men who were establishing cattle ranches in the Montana territory.

  “Are you raising cattle near here?” Tom asked. As he said it, he looked around him as if expecting to see some of them. He saw no evidence of any cattle.

  “Well, I ain’t. I mean they ain’t my cattle. I work for Mr. Eli Cruze. He owns a spread up on the Musselshell. Runs a right sizable herd when they ain’t scattered all over hell and some. I was rounding up strays when I got jumped this morning.”

  “You been stuck under that horse since morning?”

  “Yep. I found four head of cattle that musta spent the winter up in a little draw back yonder ’bout three miles. I was heading ’em back when them son of a bitches jumped me. I figured they was after the beef, so I let ’em have the cows and I tried to run for it. One of ’em got my horse right behind his ears. He went down so fast I couldn’t git my dang foot outen the stirrup. That’s when they got me, too, only I didn’t even know it until I wound up under him. Damn, that horse is heavy! Well, I was lucky I could git to my rifle. Come to find out didn’t but one of ’em have a rifle, so I didn’t have no trouble holding ’em off. Well, they hung around for two or three hours, taking shots at me, but I kept ’em peppered so they couldn’t git in range for their bows. After a while they got tired of it and went off after the cows. Then, two, three hours later, you come along.”

  Tom helped him up on his feet, and after a careful step or two, Bris decided there had been no damage done. He just needed to get the blood circulating again. By this time the shoulder wound, although not serious, was causing a good bit of stiffness in the muscle, so Tom fashioned a sling for his arm to take the load off the man’s shoulder.

  “What would you have done if I didn’t happen along? You know, if I hadn’t seen those buzzards, I probably would have passed you by.”

  Bris scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Hell, I don’t know. I hope to hell Eli Cruze woulda sent somebody out to look for me after two or three days. I reckon by then me and the vultures would have eat enough of my horse to git him offen me.” He laughed at the thought of it. “But I’m right proud you come along. Them Injuns might have brought some friends back with ’em.”

  It took some additional help from Billy before Tom managed to free Bris’s saddle from the carcass of his horse. He threw it up on top of his packhorse, and Bris climbed up behind him on Billy, and at Bris’s direction, they started for the Musselshell and Eli Cruze’s spread, the Broken-T. Bris was confident they could reach the ranch before dark, even with Billy carrying double. On the ride, Bris expressed his gratitude to Tom for taking time to carry him back to the ranch and apologized for the inconvenience. Tom assured him that it was no real inconvenience since he was headed nowhere in particular anyway. This lit a spark of interest in Bris.

  “You mean you was just drifting?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “You ever worked cattle?”

  “Nope. I was in the army until last fall.”

  “What you figuring on doing now?”

  Tom didn’t answer right away. He had spent some time trying to make that very decision. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t really decided. All I’ve known since I was eighteen was the army. I can hunt and trap a little. I really don’t know much else.”

  “Eli’s shorthanded. Why don’t you ask him for a job? The pay’s good, thirty dollars a month and grub. You can’t beat that.”

  Tom shrugged. “Like I said, I don’t know anything about working cows.”

  “Hell, it wouldn’t take you long to learn, and since you ain’t goin’ nowhere in particular, it wouldn’t hurt to give her a try.”

  “How do you know Eli will even hire me?”

  Bris snorted. “He’d hire you. Like I said, he’s shorthanded. We ain’t got but a dozen good hands now. Two of the men lit out as soon as the first snow fell. One other feller, a Mexican, come up with us from Texas, stuck it out through the whole dang winter, and then come spring, he left.”

  Tom mulled the notion over for a while. The idea wasn’t completely far-fetched. Maybe it would give him a little time to make up his mind about what to do with the rest of his life. At any rate, it would give him a place to stay for the summer. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “I’ll think about it.”

  The sun was well below the mountains on the western horizon when they forded the river and rode into Eli Cruzes’s home range. It was little more than a camp. There were no permanent buildings, and although it appeared that a bunkhouse and cookhouse had been started, the walls were not chest high as yet. The men lived in two large tents on either side of a chuck wagon. A horse corral and a couple of wagons stood beside it. Between the two tents, behind the chuck wagon, was a makeshift rifle pit, the likes of which Tom had not seen since he was a young private at Vicksburg. He guessed this was for defense in the event of Indian attack. In front of the chuck wagon about ten paces, a healthy campfire blazed like a warm oasis in the approaching chill of evening. A man stood on one side of the fire, cleaning a large skillet with sand. When he spied the two men approaching, he straightened up and, rubbing an obviously stiff back, stared them into the camp.

  Bris called out, “What the hell’s the matter with you, Smoky? Ain’t you never seen two men on a hors
e before?”

  The man called Smoky just stood there, still staring, until Tom and Bris entered the light of the fire and he was sure who had spoken to him. “Odd damn, Bris. Where the hell you been? I thought you mighta lit out after the Mexican.”

  “Why, you know, that’s just exactly what I did. I was all the way down to the Arkansas River and I got to thinkin about your biscuits and turned right around and hightailed it back.”

  “You can kiss my ass, too,” Smoky responded while looking over the stranger Bris rode in with. “Who’s this here?”

  “Where the hell’s your manners, Smoky? Can’t you see we’re starving? Is there any coffee left in that pot?” Bris reached over and picked up a tin cup from the edge of the fire and filled it from a large gray metal coffeepot. He offered it to Tom. “Here, Tom, I don’t know who was drinking out of it, but as long as it warn’t Smoky here, I don’t reckon it’ll kill you.” After he found another cup, he poured himself some coffee and then answered Smoky’s question. “This here’s Tom Allred, and if it warn’t for him, I wouldn’t be enjoying your fine coffee on this glorious spring evening.”

  Smoky nodded in Tom’s direction. “Tom,” he acknowledged. “You boys is too late for chuck, but if you’re hungry, there’s some cold biscuits left.”

  “Thanks,” Tom replied, “that would be just fine. I need to take care of my horse first though.”

  Bris and Smoky looked at him approvingly, knowing that a man’s first responsibility was to the animal that hauled his ass over the prairie. Bris helped him unsaddle Billy and the packhorse and turn them out to graze.

  “You gonna hobble ’em?” Bris wanted to know.

  “They won’t go anywhere,” Tom replied. “Let ’em graze for a while, then I’ll put ’em in the corral if that’s all right.”

  When they had downed a couple of biscuits each, washed down with the bitter dregs of the coffeepot, Bris asked, “Where’s everybody at?”