* * *
As best he could remember, it was about fifty miles to Missoula and the easiest way to travel was to use the Mullan Road that the army had built. It followed the Clark Fork all the way. They were getting a late start in the day due to the visit with Lieutenant Conner, but Hawk had planned to make it a day-and-a-half trip, anyway, with the intention of making the trip a little easier on Rachel. By her own admission, she had never spent much time in a saddle. When looking back from time to time, he thought he saw signs of discomfort on her face and wondered if the small saddle was already causing her grief. She never complained, however, but when they stopped to rest the horses, she appeared unable to stand up straight. He couldn’t resist the urge to comment on the matter.
“Are you doin’ all right, Rachel?” Hawk asked.
“Oh yes,” she replied at once, “I’m doing fine.”
“You look kinda like you’re walkin’ on eggshells,” he said. “Maybe that little saddle wasn’t a good idea after all. You mighta been more comfortable just ridin’ on a blanket.”
“Oh no,” she insisted. “I’m fine, maybe just a little stiff. That’s all.” She tried to keep a straight face, but the doubting expressions she saw on both his and Monroe’s faces caused her to giggle instead. “My bottom feels sore as a boil,” she finally confessed. “And my back might be broken.” She shook her head and giggled harder, causing a chuckle from both of them. “I thought my poor bottom was going to have calluses on it after riding on a wagon seat all the way from Minnesota, but this is a different kind of sore.”
“I reckon,” Hawk said. “I swear, though, I thought you’d be more comfortable on a saddle with your feet in the stirrups.”
“So did I,” Monroe said. “Maybe it’ll help if we put a blanket on the saddle—give you a little cushion. If that doesn’t work, you can try it with no saddle at all.” They all agreed on that, so when the horses were rested, they continued on along the road, with Rachel sitting high in the saddle atop a folded blanket.
“If that ain’t better for you,” Hawk suggested, “we can just let you ride in Monroe’s saddlebag, as small as you are.”
She responded with a grimace for his attempt at humor. Although she made no more complaints, she was extremely grateful when Hawk declared it was time to make camp while there was still daylight left.
When they came to a small stream that emptied into the river, Hawk entered it, then turned his horse to follow it upstream, cautioning Rachel and Monroe to keep their horses in the water. “I don’t think we’ve got anything to worry about,” he explained. “Conner’s most likely right about there bein’ no Indians in the area, but there’s no use in bein’ careless.” They had advanced no farther than a hundred yards when Hawk abruptly pulled his horse to a stop. He looked back at Monroe and Rachel and motioned for them to be quiet. The faint smoke from a fire had been the reason for his sudden stop, so he dismounted on the bank of the stream and moved forward on foot until reaching a place where he could see what he had almost blundered into. He smiled to himself when he recognized a cavalry patrol in bivouac beside the stream. No doubt it was the patrol Conner had mentioned. He couldn’t help wondering if Monroe might question the ability of the scout he had hired if he thought about how close he had come to riding into the camp before he knew it was there.
“I reckon we couldn’t find a better place to camp,” he told Monroe when he returned to the horses. “We’ll camp close to a cavalry patrol tonight.” To the surprise of the soldiers, they rode on into the camp and informed them that they’d like to camp a short distance upstream from them if they didn’t object. A totally astonished second lieutenant on his way back from a patrol could think of no reason to. In respect to Rachel, he politely introduced himself as Lieutenant Peter Wallace. Aside to Hawk and Monroe, he assured them that his men would confine their individual calls of nature a respectful distance downstream. Hawk thanked him for his consideration, then picked a spot to camp about fifty yards upstream and prepared to spend the night.
Eager to pull her weight on the trip, Rachel was quick to gather wood and soon had a healthy fire burning. Although the blanket on her saddle was easier on her than the bare saddle had been before, she was still stiff and sore from the day’s trip. Determined not to show it, she filled the coffeepot and sliced bacon to be fried in the two small frying pans they had with them. She sorely missed her pots and pans, as well as the supplies to cook with, all having been taken from the wagon by the Sioux. She especially regretted the loss of her Dutch oven and expressed as much to her two fellow travelers. “I wish I could bake you some biscuits to go with this salty meat but I don’t have anything to bake with.”
“You’ll have everything you need once we get home to the Triple-P,” Monroe said. It was one of the few times he had mentioned the ranch in the Bitterroot Valley, named for the three Pratt brothers. “We’ll make it on venison and sowbelly and coffee till we get there. That’s about all we’ve had to eat since Hawk and I teamed up.”
“I could make you some slapjack,” Hawk volunteered. When his offer was met with two quizzical faces, he explained. “Slapjack,” he repeated. “Kinda like biscuits.” Their expressions were still blank, so he told them the recipe. When his suggestion was still met with no enthusiasm, he said, “Well, I’ll make some up, anyway. I’ve got some flour and we bought some sugar back at Fagan’s. You can try ’em if you wanna.” An interested observer, Rachel watched him as he mixed flour with a little sugar and water until he had formed a paste. “They’re better with some yeast, but you don’t have to have it,” he informed her as he patted the paste into little cakes, then dropped them in to fry in the bacon grease. When they were done, he plopped them on a piece of cloth to let them cool.
Making a face like a chipmunk, Rachel bit off a tiny bite after watching Hawk tear into one with apparent gusto. “Well,” she allowed, “they’re not as bad as I thought they would be.” She took another bite, this one a little bigger than the first, but still ladylike. It was enough to give Monroe the incentive to join in. “When we get home,” Rachel declared, “I will make us some real biscuits.” Her reference to the Triple-P as home didn’t escape Monroe’s notice. He saw it as a positive sign.
* * *
For the better part of the afternoon the three warriors had followed the two white men and the white woman, always staying far enough back to avoid being spotted. All the while, Spotted Pony repeated his medicine words, preparing himself for the attack he planned. When Hawk had left the trading post, there had been no opportunity to plan an ambush because he stopped a short distance later to visit the soldier camp. Afraid to get too close to the encampment of soldiers, the warriors had watched from a distance until Hawk finally led his two companions on the road again. Thinking that at last he would get his chance to avenge his brother, Spotted Pony was eager to ambush them, but his two companions urged him to wait until they were farther away from the soldiers. He reluctantly gave in to their caution and agreed to follow Hawk until he made camp. Then they would surprise them and kill them, even the woman.
“I think we are far enough from the soldiers now,” Spotted Pony said, his patience at an end. “I say we should catch up with them now and kill them.”
“Maybe so,” Crooked Leg said. “But it is getting late now. They surely will be making camp soon. I think this man has big medicine. It would be wise to attack when he is eating his food and is not alert to danger.”
Spotted Pony was not totally satisfied with that plan and insisted on picking up the pace to get closer to the three. His impatience was lessened, however, when they came to a stream where the tracks stopped. Upon closer inspection, they discovered a careless print at the edge of the stream that told them Hawk had turned off the road to find a place to camp. Excited, Spotted Pony was ready to use Crooked Leg’s suggestion to attack when Hawk had relaxed his caution by the campfire. The warriors rode a wide arc through the trees, parallel to the course of the stream, seeking to spot the
campsite. Spotted Pony stopped suddenly, holding up his hand for silence. “Listen,” he whispered. Crooked Leg and Running Bird stopped at once, having heard what he had.
“Voices,” Running Bird said. “It sounds like many people talking.”
Confused by the unexpected sounds, they tied their ponies in the trees and proceeded to make their way through the heavy forest between them and the stream. When they came to a place where they could see the banks of the stream, they were stunned to discover a party of soldiers camped. There near the center of the camp, they saw Hawk, Monroe, and Rachel talking to the soldiers.
“He came here to join the soldiers,” Running Bird whispered.
“It would be foolish to try to kill him now,” Crooked Leg said, immediately discouraged. “There are too many soldiers.”
“I must avenge my brother,” Spotted Pony insisted, almost crushed with his disappointment. “I cannot turn back now.”
“There are too many,” Crooked Leg repeated. “I won’t fight when there is no chance to win. I’m going back to the others.”
“Crooked Leg is right,” Running Bird said. “It is foolish to try to fight so many. I will go back with him. You must come with us. If it is meant to be, you will have another chance to seek your vengeance. But if you try now, you will only be dead like your brother, by Feather In His Hat’s hand, or that of a soldier. Come with us now, live to fight another day.”
Spotted Pony did not move for a long moment, staring in the direction of the camp by the stream, but seeing nothing, his eyes glazed by the infuriating frustration that possessed him. His initial reaction to their refusal to support him in his determination to seek his redemption was one of anger. But after a moment, he finally surrendered to the common sense his companions had tried to make him see. He turned and walked with them back to their horses, but with resolve that the day would come when he would face this man and take his vengeance. He felt in his heart that Man Above would not deny him the vengeance he deserved.
CHAPTER 9
With the rising of the sun, the twin camps of soldiers and civilians rekindled the fires of the night before in preparation to cook breakfast before getting under way. Whereas Hawk would normally prefer to start out immediately and stop for breakfast when it was time to rest the horses, he thought it best to alter that today. For one reason, Missoula was now close enough to reach and rest the horses there. A second reason was to allow Rachel time to enjoy some coffee and bacon before having to climb into the saddle again. A brief meeting he and Monroe had with Lieutenant Wallace left him with the notion that there was little danger of encountering a Sioux war party between there and Missoula. And once they reached Missoula, there should be no Indian activity down the Bitterroot Valley, even though there had been reports of isolated encounters with the Salish. So the two camps parted after both had eaten breakfast. Had there been anyone watching, they would have seen that they went in opposite directions. But the three Sioux warriors were no longer there to see that the two white men and the white woman were left to defend themselves in the event of an ambush.
After a ride of approximately twenty miles, the three travelers came upon the site of the new permanent fort under construction that Lieutenant Conner had told them about. Since the fort, aptly named Fort Missoula, was to be an open fort, there were no walls being built, consequently they could see that the buildings, though under way, were not in the final stages of construction. Both Hawk and Monroe were surprised to see only a few soldiers on the site, instead of the expected crew of workers, two full companies of men, according to Conner. Thinking it a good place to rest and water the horses, they selected a shady spot not far from what Hawk guessed to be a barracks.
“How far do you reckon your ranch is from here?” Hawk asked Monroe.
“From right here, I’d say about twenty, maybe twenty-five miles,” Monroe replied. He glanced at Rachel, who was busy filling the coffeepot. Obviously hearing Hawk’s question, she paused to hear his answer. It was easy to imagine that she might be getting nervous about meeting the rest of her family now that the time was rapidly approaching. “If you’d rather have something a little more substantial to eat than bacon or jerky,” he said to her, “there’s a nice little diner in town.”
“Oh no . . .” she replied, pausing. “Whatever you men want to do is all right with me.” She suspended the half-filled coffeepot over the water, waiting for a decision.
“Maybe we’ll eat in town,” Monroe decided. “But a cup of coffee would go well while we’re waiting for the horses to rest up.”
“Might as well make it a full pot,” Hawk advised, nodding toward a soldier who was approaching from the unfinished barracks building.
“How you folks doin’?” Corporal Moss greeted them. “Ma’am,” he added in deference to the lady.
They returned the corporal’s greetings, then Monroe commented, “Doesn’t look like much building going on. Must not be in much of a hurry to finish the fort.”
Moss looked surprised. “I reckon you folks ain’t heard the news.” He could see by their expressions that they had not. “Captain Rawn, he’s the company commander, took every man but my squad to chase after a bunch of Nez Perce Injuns.”
“Nez Perce?” Monroe replied. “I thought they were going to the reservation.”
“Not all of ’em,” Moss said. “Chief Joseph and Chief Lookin’ Glass said they ain’t goin’ to no reservation. Said they’re goin’ to Canada. They came down the mountains and Captain Rawn tried to stop ’em on Lolo Pass, but the Injuns just went around him. Now our boys are chasin’ after ’em down the Bitterroot Valley.”
This immediately captured Monroe’s attention. “Down the Bitterroot!” He exclaimed, at once concerned for the safety of his mother and brother. He looked at Hawk. “We’ve got to get down to the Triple-P right away! We don’t have time for coffee or eating!”
“How long ago did the Nez Perce start down the valley?” Hawk asked the corporal. When Moss said that was two days ago, Hawk turned to Monroe. “Two days ago—that means they’ve already passed your ranch, if it ain’t but twenty-five miles from here. I expect they were movin’ pretty fast, too, if the soldiers were after ’em.” He could see that that didn’t ease Monroe’s concern, so he said, “We’ll go right on down there, but we’ll get there quicker if we give the horses a chance to rest first.”
Even as anxious as he was, Monroe couldn’t argue with that, and he resigned himself to the probability that the Nez Perce were already past the Triple-P and there was nothing he could do to prevent any harm that may have been done. “You’re right,” he conceded. “What’s done is done. We’ll wait till the horses are ready to go.” He gave Rachel an apologetic look, glanced over at the questioning expression on Corporal Moss’s face, then looked back at Rachel and said, “Go ahead and make the coffee. Maybe the corporal would like a cup.”
“Yes, sir, I surely would,” Moss responded. “That’s mighty nice of you folks.”
* * *
Leaving the small settlement of Missoula, with Monroe leading now, they followed the Bitterroot River down a valley framed by the rugged peaks of the Bitterroots on their west and the Sapphire Mountains to the east. The valley, a pristine example of nature’s more beautiful creations, seemed unspoiled by the passage of a whole village of Indians. This, even though they could readily see the trail cut by the large number of Indian men, women, and children as well as that left by two companies of soldiers and civilian volunteers. Although anxiously looking for signs of destruction as they passed a series of small farms, there were none to be seen. When within three miles of the ranch, they came upon a man and his small son about to cross the river. They pulled up to ask about the Nez Perce exodus.
“You’re Pratt, ain’tcha?” the man asked before Monroe could inquire.
“One of ’em,” Monroe replied.
“I thought so. I’ve seen you a couple of times at Skinner’s,” the man said, referring to a small trading post a mile ab
ove the northern boundary of the Triple-P. “The name’s Wooten,” he went on, “Lonnie Wooten. I’ve got a farm on the other side of the river.”
“Monroe Pratt,” Monroe said, impatient with the introductions. “I’ve been away for a spell and I just heard about the Nez Perce uprising. Was there much damage?”
“No, there weren’t no damage,” Wooten replied. “There weren’t no uprisin’, neither. They was just peacefully passin’ through, tryin’ to get to Canada. Matter of fact, I did some tradin’ with a group of ’em, peaceful as you please. You wouldn’ta thought so, though, when the soldiers came chasin’ after ’em.”
“They did no damage, then?” Monroe asked.
“None I heard of. The soldiers shoulda just let ’em go on up to Canada. Those folks weren’t lookin’ for a fight. They just wanted to go someplace where they could live free.”
Monroe was still confused. “But they went down the valley. If they were trying to go to Canada, they should have been going north.”
“Would seem that way, wouldn’t it?” Wooten replied. “I reckon the soldiers kept ’em from headin’ north, so they musta figured on circlin’ around ’em.”
“But there were no attacks on the people in the valley?” Monroe asked. Wooten assured him there were none.
Hawk thought he could almost see the flood of relief on Monroe’s face, but his urge to hurry home was no less. They bade Lonnie Wooten a good day and were quickly on their way. Although the concern for his family’s safety was lessened, Monroe was still burdened with the tragic news of the cruel death of his brother Jamie and the introduction of Jamie’s widow. He was not alone in his anxiety, however, for Rachel was facing the uncertainty of her reception by her mother-in-law and brother-in-law. And according to Monroe, they were now no more than half an hour from the house. To Hawk, long a loner, it might prove to be an uncomfortable reunion for him, caught up in a family’s problems. He was tempted to ride up into the mountains to hunt while Monroe and his family dealt with the trauma of the youngest brother’s death.
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