Buffalo Palace (44 page)

Those cries of enemy warriors raised the hair on the back of Scratch’s neck. Something so primitive, primordial, something that reminded him of the Arapaho warrior who, though already dying, had flung his war club at Titus …

Bass dropped to his belly, yanking the buttstock under his arm, into the crook at his shoulder as the handful of warriors came screaming toward three or four trappers—one of them swinging over his head what appeared to be a long-handled war club with sharp iron spikes driven through its round head like an ancient ball of mace.

Pulling the trigger, Bass watched the bullet catch the warrior high in the chest, shoving his upper body back
with its velocity as the soft lead flattened out … the Blackfoot’s legs continuing to pump forward nonetheless—until he landed flat on his back, squirmed and kicked convulsively a few moments as Bass brought the muzzle to his mouth and blew.

From the corner of his eye he watched the warrior quit twitching as Bass dropped powder down the barrel and drove a ball home.

“Beckwith!”

Titus turned to find the one called Sublette calling. Off to his left, the mulatto fired a shot from behind some willow, then turned to shout in reply.

“Over here, Billy!”

“I see you,” Sublette shouted, then pointed off toward another of the enemy dead. “See that dead nigger?”

“Yup! I do.”

“What say the two of us go get that red nigger’s scalp afore them friends of his drag him off!”

Beckwith’s coffee-colored face creased with a wide smile, his head bobbing. “Fine notion, Billy! A real fine notion!”

The two laid aside their rifles, then crabbed onto their hands and knees. Crawling from one bit of scrub brush to the next, Sublette and Beckwith took separate paths to reach the last bit of cover closest to the warrior’s body. It was there that Sublette bellied down flat on the ground and began crawling into the open.

“C’mon, Beckwith,” he growled. “I cain’t haul ’im in on my own!”

Plopping to his belly, Beckwith joined Sublette by crawling into view. An arrow flew over the white man’s head just as he reached out for the warrior’s ankle.

“Goddamn, that was close!”

Beckwith seized the other ankle and frantically began dragging the body back some two feet at a time. From the far brush at the lakeshore, the Blackfeet realized what was taking place and set up a horrible roar: howling in dismay as their comrade slowly disappeared toward the brush where the Shoshone and their white allies lay hidden.

But while Titus watched, it became clear that warrior
wasn’t dead. The Blackfoot began shaking his head groggily.

“Jim!” Bass shouted in alarm.

It was as if the Indian came to in the space of a heartbeat and immediately realized what was to be his fate. Twisting his torso as he was being dragged, the Blackfoot reached for tall tufts of grass, strained for a hold on the low branches on the brush—anything he could seize that would slow him down.

“Sonuvabitch ain’t dead!” Sublette huffed in surprise. “Kill ’im, Beckwith!”

“With what?” the mulatto demanded as the warrior kicked out with his legs. “I left my gun back there like your’n.”

“Where’s your pistol?”

The warrior began to thrash even harder now. “Ain’t got it!”

“Stab ’im!” Sublette ordered. “Cut his throat!”

Like a blur a Blackfoot warrior leaped from behind some nearby cover to snap off a shot from his trade musket, the ball slapping through the brush near Beckwith—then the warrior kept on racing right for the two trappers.

Sublette growled, “Jesus and Mary!” as he began to rise to his knees, his hand slapping for knife and tomahawk at his belt.

At that moment the warrior leaped over some more low brush, balls whistling past him. As he landed flat-footed, the Blackfoot gripped his musket’s barrel in both hands and swung it high over his head, bringing it down on Beckwith’s back with a loud crack before the mulatto could scoot out of the way.

With a grunt of pain Beckwith fell back, losing his grip on the wounded warrior’s ankle. His face drawn up in shock, the mulatto rolled and rolled again to get away, crabbing up onto his knees, then lunging forward painfully, onto his feet to retreat even more.

“Come back here, Beckwith!”

Sublette was on his knees too, pushing against the warrior, both of them with a lock on the enemy’s empty trade musket. Slowly the white man rose to his feet, straining to pull the Blackfoot off balance.

“C’mere, you yellow coward!” he shrieked. “Beckwith!”

Twisting this way, then twisting another, the two struggled muscle against muscle.

“I swear, Beckwith—I’ll kill you myself for this!”

Then the warrior smashed his heel down hard on top of Sublette’s moccasin, causing the trapper to yelp, hop, and yank one hand off the musket. With a great wrenching the Blackfoot tore the rifle away from Sublette, then shoved, sending the trapper sprawling onto his back.

Just as the warrior raised the weapon over his head, preparing to savagely bring it down on Sublette, Beckwith flung himself back into the struggle. Flying over the low brush, the mulatto drove his head and shoulder into the warrior, sending the enemy hurtling, his musket sailing in another direction. Without delaying to find his weapon, the Blackfoot scrambled to his feet and retreated at a dead run.

Three balls nicked the bushes around the two trappers as they redoubled their efforts to drag the wounded warrior back to cover.

Crabbing over to where the pair had disappeared in the brush, Bass found Sublette and Beckwith whispering loudly with another trapper.

“You want the scalp or don’cha?” Sublette demanded.

The wounded trapper could barely lift his head up, much less argue. “You kill ’im your own self,” he said weakly, clearly in a great deal of pain.

Beckwith prodded, “This is the black-hearted son of a bitch what shot you. Ain’t you gonna kill him?”

“Can’t you both see the man ain’t got the strength to kill nothing?” Titus demanded.

For a moment Sublette and Beckwith stared down at their seriously wounded companion—but only for a moment—when the wounded Blackfoot came to again and flopped over to crawl away with only one good leg left him.

“Awright,” Sublette growled harshly. “I’ll kill the sumbitch for you!”

Leaping onto the Blackfoot’s back, Sublette shoved his knee down on the back of the warrior’s shoulder,
grabbed a handful of the Indian’s hair with his left hand so he could pull the neck up taut, then with the flash of his skinning knife sliced once—long and deep—across the enemy’s throat. Frothy crimson spurted as much as three feet onto the grass as the Indian struggled for a few quick heartbeats; then his body went limp.

Quickly Sublette hacked off the scalp in a crude manner of one not accustomed to removing the hair of his enemies, then stood with the dripping trophy to show it to his wounded companion. His knife, hand, and forearm all dripped with bright blood, resplendent in the summer sunshine.

“Now, you—get over here,” he hollered at the far line of brush. “I need some of you to drag Hinkle off and get him back to the village.”

As soon as the wounded man was taken away, Sublette and the rest returned to the task at hand. Arrows sailed overhead. Lead balls smacked through the leaves and limbs. Shoshone taunted Blackfoot, and the Blackfoot cursed at their ancient enemies. The white trappers screeched above it all, knowing neither tongue but clearly understanding the age-old language of war. Hour after hour the stalemate dragged on until the sun eventually slid far beyond midsky.

Bass figured they had been fighting for the better part of six hours when one man after another began to grumble of his hunger. It took only that first one to remind the rest that they hadn’t eaten since breakfast—and only those who had been up early enough to eat before the firing began, those who weren’t suffering a throbbing hangover in this afternoon heat.

One after another added his voice to the complaints until Sublette agreed that his trappers could reward themselves with a temporary retreat. After telling the Shoshone warriors that they would return shortly, Sublette told the Snake that they should rub out as many of the Blackfeet as possible before the trappers would come back—because when the white men returned, there would soon be no Blackfeet to kill and count coup upon.

It wasn’t a short ride back to Shoshone camp where Sublette’s men began to scrounge about for something to eat. About the time the trappers found some slivers of
dried meat to chew on and were gulping down water to quench their terrible thirst, the first of the Shoshone warriors appeared back in the village.

“What the hell are they doing here?” Sublette demanded.

Bass watched a group of the warriors ride up and dismount, their bronze bodies glistening. One in particular was most handsome, his carefully combed hair greased to perfection; over the crown of his head he had tied the stuffed body of a redwing hawk, the thongs knotted under his chin. He had the classic profile not seen in many of the others, with the hook high on the nose, the prominent cheekbones, and those oriental eyes filled with obsidian flints that glinted haughtily as he strode up to the white men.

Gazing after the group come to take their own refreshment, Titus said, “I s’pose we wasn’t the only ones hungry, was we, Sublette?”

“Damn them,” Sublette grumbled. “Now them Blackfoot gonna get away.”

“You fixin’ to have us go back
now?”
Fraeb asked, dragging a hand over his mouth, his beard dripping with the water he had been guzzling.

“Damn right,” Sublette answered. “Let’s go! All of you—now! Saddle up—we’re going back to finish what we started!”

By the time the first of the trappers returned to the battleground, they found only a dozen or so Shoshone stationed among the brush to watch over their dead companions so they would not be scalped. But as the white men dismounted and began tearing through the willow and trees at the lake’s edge, they were surprised to find more than thirty Blackfeet bodies had been abandoned.

“They damn well left in a hurry, didn’t they?” Beckwith asked as he came up to stand with Bass and some others.

“You ever see’d Injuns leave any of their own like this afore?” asked one of the group.

“Never,” another answered, incredulous.

“No, not me, never,” Beckwith agreed.

“What made ’em take off so fast that they left their dead behind?” Titus asked.

With a shrug one of the trappers answered, “Yellow-bellied niggers is what Blackfoot is. Bad mother’s sons when they got the jump on you. But they’re yellow-bellied in a stand-up even fight of it.”

In the end that night the Shoshone village was alive with celebration, wailing, and mourning. While they had killed far more of the enemy, they nonetheless had lost the scalps of the first five victims, along with the death of eleven more warriors killed in the battle. Yet those bodies and their hair had not fallen into the hands of the enemy. The drumming and singing, the keening and chanting, continued till daybreak as the Snake conducted their wake over their dead and celebrated the spoils taken from the bodies of their enemies.

Meanwhile, downstream in the trapper camps lay seven wounded men expected to survive their wounds if they were allowed to get their rest. Still, the Smith, Jackson, and Sublette men, along with Provost’s outfit and the many free trappers still in the valley—all were anxious to celebrate their victory, right down to the last cup of liquor the general had hauled out from St. Louis.

For better than a day and another night the white men reveled in their defeat of the Blackfeet. Tales were told and retold of how that hated tribe first deceived the men with Lewis and Clark, then went on to take their revenge on Andrew Henry’s men trapping out of their fort in the Three Forks area.

For the better part of two decades now, the specter of a monstrous enemy had steadily grown all the bigger with every Blackfoot skirmish, fight, and pony raid. But now American trappers had fought their first concerted battle with a large force of Blackfeet warriors.

Already a new crop of legends were beginning to take shape around those glowing campfires that midsummer of 1826 in the Willow Valley.

Yet the story of Blackfeet against American trapper would be a tale long, harrowing, and most bloody before it reached its conclusion.

“Mountaineers and friends!” William H. Ashley began, several days after that skirmish with the Blackfoot. “Most of you who know me must know by now that I’m not much good at this speech making.”

Never a man who felt at ease speaking on his feet, even among friends, the sturdy forty-six-year-old businessman and trader had nonetheless been prompted by the emotion of this moment to gather all those who had until recently owed him their allegiance. From this day these hundred-plus men would give their fealty to the new company in the mountains: Smith, Jackson, and Sublette. So this morning before he set off for St. Louis with his 125 packs of furry treasure—a fourth more than he had reaped last season—the visionary Ashley felt compelled to call these crude, unlettered, fire-hardened men together for his final farewell not only to them, but to these Rocky Mountains.