their news at the quartet of free trappers.
“A bunch of bad Injuns just jumped the Shoshone camp, boys!” a rider announced, pointing. “Come riding down off the hills. Cutting up the Snakes’ camp something fierce. I s’pose they didn’t know we was here—or didn’t care.”
Cooper stirred only enough to push his hat back from his face and ask, “What tribe?”
“Blackfeets.”
“Blackfeet,” Titus repeated almost at a whisper, his heart beginning to slam in his chest so hard, he thought it would squeeze right out between his ribs.
“That’s right,” a second horseman said. “Bug’s Boys!”
“Grab your gun and c’mon!” the third Ashley man ordered as more hooves pounded close.
A half-dozen riders shot by, whooping and yelping, knees like pistons in the stirrups as the wind whipped back the brims on their hats, fluttered their long hair out behind them just the way it did the horses’ manes and tails. In their wake came a rider who peeled himself off and brought his mount crow-hopping to a jarring halt before Titus and Tuttle as the other trio of riders kicked their horses into motion and tore out after the six.
“You comin’, Scratch?” Jim Beckwith asked breathlessly.
“Fight them Blackfeets?”
He nodded, swallowing. “Ain’t none of us ever gonna have a better chance to get in our licks.”
Cooper snorted in derision, then said, “Sounds like pretty big words comin’ from a black-assed Negra.”
Beckwith glared for a moment at the giant, then snarled, “I sure as hell don’t see you grabbin’ up your gun to show us all just how brave you are.”
“You come down off’n that horse, Negra-boy … I’ll show you who’s brave an’ who I can pound into mule- squat!”
Beckwith turned from Cooper as if to ignore him the best he could. “I’m going, Scratch. You can come with me … or you can stay with these here.”
“He’ll stay with us,” Silas snapped, “’cause he knows better. That ain’t his fight.”
Hooks echoed, “Yup—not your fight, Scratch.”
Then Titus watched another dozen or so riders race past in a flurry of hooves and hair, weapons, whooping, and dust a’flying.
“Maybeso it oughtta stay atween just them Shoshone against the Blackfoot,” Tuttle apologized for his reluctance.
Wagging his head, Bass replied, “Looks to be it ain’t just the Snakes’ business. No, I gotta go.”
As he whirled about to race over to unlash his horse from its picket pin, Cooper bellowed, “You go get yourself hurt in this foolishness—don’t y’ come whimperin’ to me.”
“I won’t,” Bass promised, his heart rising to his throat as he yanked his horse back toward the spot where his blankets lay.
Silas continued, “We got us plans for the fall hunt. If y’ go off an’ get yourself hurt—don’t figger on trapping with us none. I ain’t dragging along no bunged-up, strapped-down whimper boy!”
“Awright,” Bass agreed as he swept up his rifle and dropped his pouch over one shoulder, “that’s a bargain: I get myself hurt by them Blackfoots, you three just go on off to hunt ’thout me this year.”
Cooper was beginning to rise, his face growing more crimson as he found his warnings were going unheeded. “You ’member that scuffle we had us with the Arapaho, don’t y’?”
“I do,” Titus replied, leaping atop the horse, bareback.
“You was cut up good, y’ dumb nigger,” Silas reminded. “You was damned lucky it were winter time so we had us the time to wait on y’ to heal up—or we’d damn well left y’ to rot on your lonesome right there with them Utes!”
“C’mon, Beckwith,” Bass said bravely as he reined around, turning his back on Cooper. “There’s Blackfeet to fight.”
He gave the horse his heels in its ribs and flanks, setting the animal into a run. Although Bass could not make out the loud, angry words Silas flung at his back, he hoped Cooper’s anger would cool by the time he returned. It just might be an even wager: fighting the worst Indians in the northern Rockies, or suffering another one of Silas Cooper’s beatings.
After no more than a quarter of a mile’s run they spotted the first of the buffalo-hide lodges in the distance. And gathered just this side of them were a swirling knot of trappers dismounting and handing off their horses to others on foot. At their center stood three men: Fitzpatrick, Fraeb, and one man Bass did not know.
Leaping to the ground near the group, Titus asked Beckwith, “Who’s that younger fella with Fitz and Ol’ Man Frapp?”
“Sublette.”
Scratch joined Beckwith at the fringe of the group, whispering to the mulatto, “Billy Sublette?”
Beckwith nodded as a small party of Shoshone raced up through the village on horseback. The trappers backed away slightly as the warrior leader sought out the chief of the trappers.
“Gut Face!” the Shoshone called in English when he recognized Sublette.
“I am Cut Face, yes!” the partisan replied, stepping forward.
In troubled English the chief explained to Sublette, “Three of my warriors and two of our women—out gathering roots on the other side of camp—they are killed by the Blackfeet!”
“I know,” Sublette hurried to say above the crackle of gunfire on the far side of the village. “We are here to help you fight those Blackfeet!”
For a moment the Shoshone leader’s eyes roamed over the crowd. “You say that your warriors can fight, Cut Face? You say that they are great braves?”
“They are brave fighters.”
“Now let me see them fight—so that I may know your words are true.”
Clutching his rifle to his breast with one hand, Sublette swept the other arm in a wide arc to indicate the white trappers. “You shall see them fight, and then you will know that they are all brave men.”
“They are ready to die today?”
Nodding, Sublette answered for them all, “I have no cowards among my men. Yes, we are ready to die for our Snake friends!”
The chief turned briefly as the gunfire seemed to rumble all the closer, accompanied by the yells of men in battle. “Then bring your warriors to join mine.”
Sublette turned from the war chief and shouted above the battle’s din to the trappers, “Now, men—I want every brave man to go and fight these Blackfeet. We must whip them—so the Snakes can see that we can fight. By damn, we’ll do our best in front of the Snakes and the Blackfeet as a warning to all tribes that would cause an American trouble!”
“Let us at ’em!” a voice cried out.
“That’s right!” Sublette replied. “I want no man following me who is not brave. Let the cowards remain in camp!”
“No cowards here!” another shouted.
With a wave of his war club, the Shoshone war chief ordered, “Bring your ponies!”
“Follow me, men!” Sublette echoed as he leaped back onto his horse and reined away after the Shoshone warriors.
At the far edge of the village the trappers suddenly confronted a wide crescent of the Blackfeet pressing against the lodge circle. But there was surprise, even shock, in the eyes of the enemy as they saw the numbers arrayed against them: white men and Shoshone alike, streaming through the lodges like water through a broken beaver dam.
The painted, blood-eyed enemy began to inch back toward the willow and cottonwood. Farther and farther they retreated, foot by foot, yard by yard, darting among the shadows and behind what cover they could use skillfully. After those first few minutes Bass finally saw his first real target—something more than a flitting shadow.
Dropping to his knee, Titus yanked the hammer back, set the trigger, and squeezed off his shot in one fluid motion. He thought he saw the enemy warrior spin about, clutching his side as the gunsmoke billowed up from the muzzle. Then Titus lunged forward, eyes intently watching that spot where he had seen the enemy. There, yes—the
