“Closed?” Jim stared. “Why?”
Jane Elliott looked worried. She glanced back at the pack animals.
“It seems there’s a new style in men’s hats,” she tried to smile. “They’re being made of silk now instead of beaver. Uncle Jeff said the beaver pelt market was smashed. No traders had been sent out.”
Jim saw Ben’ thin shoulders sag. They had worked for six months in the mountains. Now their catch was useless.
“There are about fifty of us,” Jim said, “heading for St. Louis with hundreds of beaver pelts.” They were riding in among the wagons.
Ben suddenly pulled in his horse. They saw the big black-whiskered man with the hulking shoulders walking across the enclosure. Big Frenchy Ladreau was still wearing the grease-blackened buckskin suit. He’d traded his fur hat for a white slouch.
Slowly Jim dismounted He handed the reins to Ben and then drew his pistol. He heard the girl gasp behind him but he continued to walk. Men around the fires stared at him, open-mouthed.
“Ladreau,” Jim called softly.
The big man spun around. He saw the pistol in the trapper’s hand and his jaw sagged. Jim thought of the rendezvous in Pleasant Valley. If Big Frenchy’s plan had worked, the bodies of fifty mountain men would have been lying beside the stream, scalped and mutilated.
Big Frenchy’s face was still bruised from the beating he’d received at the hands of the trapper. He grinned evilly.
“You got a horse,” Jim said. “Ride it, Ladreau.”
The French breed looked at the pistol and then he stared into Jim’s cold eyes. He shrugged and walked toward the horse corral. Jim followed him. He saw the white settlers gaping at the: scene.
Big Frenchy saddled his horse, kicked moccasins into its ribs, and started out across the plains. He was heading toward Eagle Pass.
Jim saw the big gray-haired man with the hawk nose striding toward him. He had an army pistol strapped to his side and a whip in his hand. Ben and Jane Elliott rode forward rapidly.
“I’d like an explanation,” the hawk-nosed man snapped. He turned to the girl and he saw the crimson leg of the white horse. His mouth fell and the coldness left the chill blue eyes. “What happened?” he asked weakly.
“I was chased by a grizzly, Uncle Jeff,” the girl said. “I rode over the hill to get a better look at the sunset.” She nodded to the two trappers waiting quietly. “These men shot the bear.”
Jeff Elliott made a motion to hold out his hand. Then he stopped. “I thank you men for my niece’s life,” he said. “What about my scout?” The white settlers were flocking around the little group.
Ben laughed bitterly. “The last time we saw Big Frenchy,” the old man snapped, “he was leadin’ a Blackfoot war party against us.”
“Renegade?” Elliott gasped. His face went white. He looked at the children peeping in among the legs of the men.
Ben nodded grimly. “Any man takes a train through Eagle Pass either don’t know the mountains, or he has somethin’ in mind. Big Frenchy knows the mountains.”
The wagon leader motioned toward his wagon. They broke through the crowd. Jim heard the murmurs. These people were farmers from the east. They didn’t know the mountains and they didn’t know the Indians. Thus far they had had no encounters with them.
They sat down around Jeff Elliott’s fire. Jim saw the worry in the man’s face. Jane Elliott went inside the wagon.
“Ladreau was taking us through Eagle Pass,” the wagon leader explained. “We were camping tonight and moving through in the morning.”
“What’s the matter with the South Pass?” Jim asked him. “How did you get so far north?”
Elliott shrugged. “We were heading west without a guide and we must have lost the trail. If you can lead us to South Pass, we’d appreciate it.”
Ben looked at Jim. “What happened to the fur market in St. Louis?” the younger man asked Elliott.
“You’ll never sell any beaver there,” Jeff Elliott told them. “I came through St. Louis from Springfield. I was in the city for two weeks before starting westward. They’re not sending out any traders and they’re not buying beaver. The market’s glutted and there’s no demand for the pelts.”
“So they’re wearin’ silk hats,” Ben whispered. “Damn ’em!”
Elliott smiled. “This train is bound for Oregon by way of California. We can use your pelts when we get settled, and we’ll need all the hands we can get to build a fort and provide provisions. Oregon territory is virgin land.”
Jim turned and stared at the mountains looming behind them. The day of the mountain man was over because civilized men had decided to wear silk hats instead of those made of beaver. A way of life had to be changed. The fur brigade was no more.
The dark-haired girl came out of the wagon and stood on the steps. Jim stared at her. He heard Ben say softly:
“I reckon you’ll be goin’ to Oregon, son.”
“We need protection now,” Elliott said, “and hunters later on when we reach Oregon.”
“There are fifty of us,” Jim told him quietly.
Jeff Elliott stared around. “Fifty?” he asked.
Ben grinned. “Fifty o’ the toughest Indian fighters in this here country. They’re headin’ fer St. Louis, but we kin bring ’em back here in a day or two.”
“How?” Elliott asked.
“With smoke,” Ben chuckled. “They’ll come arunnin’.”
The wagon leader shook his head in perplexity. It was growing dark and the aroma of frying bacon and hot biscuits assailed them.
“I’ll call a meeting tonight,” Elliott said, “and rearrange the route. We’ll pay you men the same sum we were to give to Ladreau if you’ll take us through the mountains.”
Jim shook his head. “If we’re going through to Oregon,” he observed, “we won’t take anything for it.”
V
He sat on the ground that night after the evening meal and watched the settlers straggling forward. There had been much talk since Big Frenchy Ladreau left and Elliott was feeling a little annoyed at the other pilgrims’ stubbornness.
Jim had watched the darkfaced groups here and there. It had been rumored that the train wasn’t to go through Eagle Pass on the morrow, but that they were to head another hundred miles south. The settlers were tired; the monotony of the long trek across the plains wag wearing them down. They wanted to get through to Oregon and start work on their homes.
“Some of them,” Elliott said grimly, “will have a little talking to do tonight. These New Englanders like to argue a point. I’ve told many of them about the dangers of Eagle Pass but they don’t seem to be impressed.
“You’re the boss,” Ben observed. “Can’t you tell ’em what to do?”
* * * *
Jeff Elliott smiled slowly. “I was elected wagon leader,” he admitted, “but it doesn’t mean a great deal. Any change of policy must be voted on by the men. The principles of democracy still prevail even on the desert.”
The wagon leader called the meeting to order and explained first of all the reason for Ladreau’s sudden departure. Jim saw the black looks they cast at him. Big Frenchy Ladreau had promised to cut off a week or more of the trip by his short cut through the Eagle Pass gap. Now they were being told they had to trek another hundred miles south before they could go over the divide.
“Ladreau,” Elliott explained, “had been working with the Blackfoot Indians. These hunters have known him a long time. He may have been planning an ambush in Eagle Pass. The gap is narrow and—”
Jim heard a man laugh out in the darkness. He turned his head slightly, and then he looked at Ben. Trouble was brewing.
“You have any comments, Ames?” Elliott snapped. He glanced over the heads of the men in the front.
Th
e settler, Ames, spoke up out of the darkness. He had a high-pitched, nasal voice.
“How do we know all this?” he asked peevishly. “Who knows these men?”
The wagon leader bit his lips. He looked at the two mountain men sitting on the ground. Ben was drawing designs in the sand with a stick.
“If Ladreau was innocent,” Jeff Elliott told them, “why did he run out?”
“You’d run too,” Ames told him, “with a gun stickin’ in your back,”
Jim stood up. He saw the wagon leader’s niece standing alone near the wagon. He felt her eyes upon him.
“I’m a stranger to you men,” he said slowly, “but I’ve just come through Eagle Pass. It’s a natural ambuscade. If the Indians attacked, you wouldn’t have enough room to corral the wagons. They could shoot you down from the heights.” He paused. “About a week ago I was with a party of trappers. We were attacked by two hundred Blackfoot Indians. Ladreau was in the camp of the Blackfeet. That’s all I know.”
He sat down again and Ben whispered. “We oughta let ’em ride into the Pass. They’re so blamed smart!”
One of the settlers, an elderly man with a thin tired face, came forward to talk with them.
“I have a wife and three children in my wagon,” he said wearily, “and I want to protect them from the Indians as much as any of you. We’ve been rolling across the plains for a long while and my stock animals are about worn out. If we have to head south for a hundred miles and then make up that distance—”
“We can rest here a week,” Elliott said. “There’s, plenty of grass for the animals. We can get them in shape again.”
“What about provisions?” another man spoke up from the rear. “I’m runnin’ low. I can’t waste another week here and two weeks travelin’ out of our way,”
Jeff Elliott rubbed his jaw. “These trappers tell me that there are fifty hunters about to join our party. I’m sure they’ll be able to kill enough fresh meat to keep us going.”
There was a long silence and then the man from the rear spoke up in nasal voice.
“We’re supposed to wait for the hunters?” he asked. “How long?”
Elliott looked at Jim Beckman. The young trapper shrugged.
“Possily two days,” he said. “Most of them should be in by then. The others will catch up later.”
There was another period of silence. The man in the back laughed and Jim stood up.
“How do we know,” the settler rasped, “that they ain’t bringin’ five hundred Indians instead of fifty hunters?”
Ben slipped a Green River knife from his belt. Jim saw the tightness in the old trapper’s face.
“Reckon I ain’t used to bein’ called a liar,” he said grimly.
The man with the worn-out animals spoke up again. “All we can do, Jeff,” he said, “is to vote on it.”
Jeff Elliott’s face was white. He knew the feelings of the men. In an open vote the large majority would want to go on through Eagle Pass without waiting another hour.
“Anybody goes through that Pass,” Ben snapped, “is crazier than a locoed horse. There are about two hundred Blackfoot warriors troopin’ around the mountains, an’ they’re madder than a lot o’ hornets.”
“If there’s gonna be a vote,” another settler sang out, “pass the ballots.”
Hopelessly, Jeff Elliott tore up the strips of paper and passed them among the men.
“Vote Eagle Pass,” Elliott told them, “if you want to go through that way—South Pass if you think we ought to go south.” Jim and Ben sat on the ground and stared into the crackling fire.
“I ain’t ridin’ with this passel o’ fools,” Ben grunted. “I’m hangin’ onto my hair.”
Jim nodded. It was quite evident which way the settlers wanted to go. They were tired and they didn’t want to waste any more time. Their provisions were low and the animals were fatigued. They had met no hostile Indians in weeks and had lost the fear of the red men.
Elliott picked the white slips of paper from the hat and counted them one by one. His face was haggard in the firelight. The slips on the left were piling up. When he finished, he moistened his lips.
“Forty-two for Eagle Pass,” Jeff Elliott announced grimly. “Ten for South Pass. ’ He crumpled the slips together in his big hand and tossed them into the flames.
Jim watched the papers curl up and burn. He said nothing but he glanced toward the girl by the wagon. He saw the other women, and the small children peeping between the legs of the men.
“We have a chance to strengthen our party by the addition of fifty trappers,
Jeff Elliott said, slowly. “We’ll need all the help we can get if we’re going through Eagle Pass.”
“We can’t afford to wait for anybody, Jeff,” a man called. “We’re strong enough to take care of ourselves.”
Ben laughed bitterly. “Wait’ll they hear the Blackfoot war whoop,” he whispered. “I reckon some of ’em will change their minds.”
“It’s foolish,” Elliott growled angrily, “to go on if we can double our strength by waiting another day or so.”
“How about a vote, Jeff?” the settler shouted. They took it up in the rear and Elliott turned away. He looked at Jim. Another vote would end the same way. The settlers wanted to go on immediately and they would stand for no interference.
The two trappers walked through the crowd toward the horse corral where they had kept their pack animals.
“Of all the damn fools,” Ben grumbled. He stared at the younger man. Jim was already arranging his blanket on the ground. “I reckon you’ll be goin’ with ’em,” he said flatly.
Jim nodded. There were women and children in the party and they had not voted. The settlers would need all the help they could get.
“You can send up your smoke signals,” he told the old trapper. “Explain the situation and then if they want to come through the Pass after us we’ll be traveling slowly.”
He lay on the blanket and looked up into the dark sky. They could hear the settlers singing behind them, accompanied by a banjo.
Ben snorted. “You know what the boys will be doin’,” he snapped. “They’re plumb crazy too—just like you an’ me, Jim. When they hear about the women and the children—”
“I hope you make it in time,” Jim said. “Big Frenchy will be rounding up his friends.”
“You should o’ shot him,” Ben growled. “He’s been crawlin’ on this earth too long.”
In the morning Jeff Elliott sought them out. Already, the men were driving in the cattle and harnessing them to the wagons. Women were cooking the breakfast over hot coals.
“I’m sorry about last night,” the wagon boss apologized. “I can’t override a vote like that. I hope you will be riding with us.”
“Ben is staying behind,” Jim said simply. “He’ll be sending up smoke signals for our friends. They’ll probably catch up with the train in the pass.”
Jeff Elliott’s face lit up. “If we do run into Indians in the pass,” he said, “we should be able to stand them off.”
“There ain’t no ifs about it,” Ben scowled. “Big Frenchy is probably talkin’ to his friends now. They’re watchin’ every move you make.”
Elliott glanced apprehensively toward the towering mountain peaks. He saw the rift where Eagle Pass cut through the wall.
Ben methodically went to work building a big fire. He gathered a quantity of dried grass to make the smoke. The wagons rolling past veered around him. White settlers watched curiously.
The pack animals had been driven along with the wagon train stock. Ben retained his riding horse. He looked like a forlorn figure as he stood on the prairie beside the fire, his horse saddled nearby.
Jim shook hands and then galloped toward the last wagon. He knew Ben could
be trusted to take care of himself. The old trapper would have to keep his signals going up at intervals most of the day, and at the same time he would have to keep a sharp eye for hostiles drawn by the smoke.
“We’ll be moving slowly,” Jim told the older man. “You know the pass and it will take time.”
Ben grunted. “You’ll be goin’ slower than you think,” he grinned. “I cut around the wheel bolts on half a dozen o’ the wagons last night. You’ll be havin’ trouble in a couple o’ hours.”
Jim laughed. He knew the trapper had been up during the night, but as Ben had offered no explanation, he’d asked for none. He knew that the old man was as anxious as he was to save the party.
Riding back to the train he passed Jeff Elliott’s wagon and he saw the girl riding on the seat. He saw the smile on her face.
“I’m glad you’re coming with us, Mr. Beckman,” she said.
“We might be needing every gun,” Jim told her. He glanced down at the rear wagon wheel on the Elliott wagon. The wagon leader’s vehicle would flounder in a few hours. Ben had cut around the bolt with his knife. The wheel would start to wobble before the morning was up.
Glancing back, he saw the column of smoke rising up into the air. Mow the column was cut off. Then two black puffs rolled up into the still morning air.
“Do you think they’ll come?” Jane Elliott asked the trapper. Her uncle had informed her of the smoke signals.
“They’ll be here,” Jim said, “but it may take a little time. They’re widely scattered and the signal will have to be passed along.”
They reached the pass in two hours and started through. Elliott sent scouts on ahead to search the pass. They climbed the cliffs and found nothing.
Jim rode with them and made no comments. At this point in the pass there was nothing to fear. The road was still very wide and the cliffs not too steep. Later, as they rolled into the gorge and the pass narrowed to a few dozen yards, it would be impossible to scale the cliffs. If Big Frenchy had found his Blackfoot friends and brought them here, it would go hard with the settlers.
The Third Western Megapack Page 38