knoll that stood between him and the sounds of battle.
“Hep! Hep-hepa!” he bawled at the animal beneath him, and at the mule he yanked into motion.
With a bray Samantha shot into a rolling gait as they burst from the timber at the bottom of the hill, galloping up the slope on a slant, clods of icy snow kicked up by every hoof, streamers of it slapping against his blanket- wrapped leggings. Both animals lunging, their breath chugging as he ripped the long fringed gun case from the muzzle of the rifle, twisting about to stuff the cover beneath his ass.
Reaching the top of the knoll, he peered down, his own breath ragged as he tore back on the reins and stopped the animals.
Here the sounds were more distinct. Beyond, where the creek knotted itself into a horseshoe bend then loosened itself again and disappeared from sight around another hillock, Bass saw blurs of movement. Legs and arms, horse tails and manes, shields and war clubs, lances and bows. Another gun boomed. Indian smoothbore.
Yips and growls of men in a fighting lather. Grunts and wails of the wounded or dying, men left underfoot, abandoned in the war-lust.
Common sense stated that one side of that bloody fracas had to be the Crow. And whoever their enemy was, those Crow warriors appeared to be getting their arses whipped but good.
Stabbing his moccasins into the pony’s ribs, Bass bolted off the crest of the hill, thundering down the slope toward the sparse creek-bottom timber where more of the combatants emerged, fleeing in his direction before they turned and set themselves to meet their attackers.
From their hair, the markings on their clothing, he figured the bunch readying for the onslaught had to be Crow. No more than a handful of them now, if there ever were any more when the scrap had begun. Likely a hunting party, he thought. Maybe even the bunch who had stolen his traps before moseying on back to their village.
Twice their number burst from the shadows at the edge of the timber, shrieking as they fired arrows, flung war clubs and tomahawks at the four Crow still standing, the last to put up a defense. One of the warriors who had his back to Scratch screamed with such fury that it made the tiny hairs stand at the back of Bass’s neck. The warrior was standing there as arrows rained down around him, rallying the others.
Titus reached the bottom ground, yanking the flintlock’s hammer back to full cock.
From the snow at his feet the Crow warrior pulled an enemy arrow, clutched it overhead, and screamed his challenge to those about to overrun him.
With a click Bass set the back trigger.
Then the Crow rammed the arrow point through the long decorative flap at the bottom of his leggings— pinning himself to that spot. This warrior-wanting-to-die was proclaiming he would go no farther. Here he would die, never to retreat unless one of his friends released him from this death vow by pulling up the arrow for him.
The enemy were all over the four Crow in the next heartbeat. No way to tell them apart as Scratch yanked brutally back on the reins, lifting his leg to release Samantha’s lead rope as she burst on past and clattered away, looping to the right in retreat. As his pony quartered to the right as if to follow Samantha down the backtrail, Scratch squeezed the animal with his knees, shoved down on the stirrups—instantly stopping the horse.
By the time he got the rifle to his shoulder and peered down the low top flat of that octagonal barrel, the brave Crow warrior had scrambled to his feet in the midst of his attackers, leaving two of his enemies on the ground. Still there were three, lunging across the bloody snow where they had just smashed in the heads of two of the Crow.
Those odds clearly spelled doom for these last two warriors bravely fighting off what Bass took to be Piegan, all smeared up with paint and gussied with feathers and totems for this bold foray into Absaroka. Likely they’d lain in wait for a small hunting party to come along, then sprung their trap. As much as he hated these two Crow warriors for stealing his traps, Bass figured he hated the Blackfoot even more.
When one of the Piegan pinned the Crow’s arms back, a second warrior closed in with a glittering brass tomahawk raised at the end of his arm.
Sweeping the gun’s muzzle over the pony’s head as it pranced sideways at the edge of the timber, then came to an abrupt halt when he angrily squeezed his knees into its ribs, Bass brushed his fingertip across the front trigger. With a roar and a burst of orange flame, the rifle erupted. Twenty yards away in the open, the warrior with that glittering tomahawk blade vaulted backward into the snow, writhing, clawing at his chest with both hands.
Every warrior jerked around at once—both of the surprised Crow, and those four Blackfoot who were about to complete their slaughter.
In that moment of surprise, one of the Crow swept upward with his knife, catching one of the Blackfoot low in the abdomen, plunging the blade in just above the pubic bone, ripping upward as the startled attacker flailed at his enemy for a heartbeat, then frantically fought to prevent his riven intestines from spilling from the gaping, steamy wound as he collapsed to his knees. Foot by slippery foot of purplish gut oozed over his hands into the reddened snow as the Crow spun on another Blackfoot descending upon him with a stone club.
The other Crow, his arms still imprisoned by an attacker, continued to struggle by kicking both his legs at the last of the Blackfoot who slammed the butt of his English fusil along the Crow’s head—bringing the stunned man to his knees for a moment before the warrior fell onto his face in the snow.
As Bass vaulted off the pony onto the frozen ground, the Blackfoot pitched his rifle aside to pull a short bow from the quiver draped over his right shoulder. As that warrior reached back a second time to snag a handful of arrows from the quiver, the Blackfoot who had locked the Crow’s arms behind him leaped onto the collapsed Crow’s back. As he gripped the warrior’s hair with his left hand, the Blackfoot savagely yanked the Crow’s head back and jerked the knife from the Crow’s own belt.
The muscular neck exposed, the Crow’s eyes widened—staring not at the enemy about to slash his throat … instead the Crow gazed at the onrushing white man.
Swapping the rifle to his left hand, Titus yanked the first of the big pistols from his belt, sweeping back the hammer to full cock with his left forearm an instant before he flung his right hand forward, already in a dead run for the Blackfoot who was flexing his arm downward, looping the blade around the Crow’s neck, inches and an instant from delivering the death blow.
The round lead ball caught the Blackfoot low, just above the bottom rib with an audible crack of bone as it smashed through the Indian’s torso, flinging him off the man he was preparing to kill.
Transfixed, Scratch slid to a halt, staring at the face of the Crow sprawled on the ground, the man whose life he had just saved—
“Ooxpe!” cried the other Crow.
That shrill warning ordering him to shoot snapped something taut within Bass, yanking him about to find the Blackfoot, dropping to a knee, his bowstring snapping forward.
Without thinking, the trapper hurtled sideways—the arrow springing from its rawhide string. As Bass fell sideways, his empty rifle tumbling across the icy snow, the painted shaft hissed through the thick elk-hide coat. Landing hard enough to knock the breath from him, Scratch dragged his shoulders out of the snow, rocking onto a hip as he spotted the second Crow scrambling up behind the Blackfoot who had another arrow already nocked in his string. Titus pulled the second pistol into his empty left hand, crudely dragging the huge dragon’s head hammer backward with his right wrist.
As he looked up, his left arm shooting forward to aim at the bowman, Scratch found the bowstring snapping, flinging its arrow his way. Holding his breath that instant it took to aim, he fired.
The knapped-stone point parted the gray muzzle blast the way a bolt of lightning might tear through a coal- cotton storm cloud. Titus was moving too late. The arrow slammed through his right forearm, the point stabbing him high in the belly.
Collapsing onto his back, Titus yanked back on his arm, freeing the stone tip from his clothing, relieved to find that it had only caused a wound barely deep enough to bleed, penetrating only the skin, not near deep enough to pierce the thick bands of muscle over his gut.
Suddenly he dragged his legs under him, rolled onto his hip, and reached at the back of his belt for a tomahawk to defend himself from—
The bowman was on the ground, struggling beneath the Crow warrior until the Blackfoot’s legs thrashed no more.
