“A small body?” he asked, his skin cold with apprehension.
This time the Indian shook his head. “No child in the blankets. Three large bodies. Men.”
“Did … did you see your sister at the fire?”
“No.”
“But you did not look at the three bodies—”
“No,” and this time the warrior reached out to grip the white man’s arm. “If the child is alive, then the mother is alive too.”
“Why can you be so sure?”
“A woman can give birth to many Blackfoot warriors.”
He stared down at the Indian’s hand on his forearm, the words sinking in, then gazed back into the Crow’s eyes. “All right. To go through with this, I must believe that she is alive. That Magpie lives too. I will trust you on this—even though I don’t know that I can ever trust you again.”
Strikes-in-Camp was startled. “Why do you distrust me?”
“You are a thief.”
The warrior leaned his face closer, nose inches from the trapper’s. “What did I steal?”
“You and Stiff Arm, with the others who were killed when the Blackfoot attacked, you were going back to your village after you had robbed me of my traps.”
“Your traps?”
“You wanted to drive me away,” Bass argued. “Because it’s not a good thing to kill your sister’s husband.”
Shaking his head, the Indian said, “I did not steal your traps.”
“The others, they stole them for you.”
“I—did—not—steal—from—you.”
“Not to drive me farther and farther away from your village?”
“You will believe me only if your heart wants to believe me,” the Crow sighed. “No one I know stole your traps. The only men in that country near your camp who would have taken your traps have now taken your wife and your daughter.”
It struck like a slap of cold wind. “The Blackfoot.”
“I am not ashamed to steal a white man’s horses, or his rifle if he is careless,” Strikes boasted, wiping a hand across his feverish face. “But I would never stoop to robbing anything from my sister’s husband.”
He had to admit, it did make a lot of sense. The Blackfoot. Too quick to accuse those he knew had shunned his wife, Titus could now see that the jagged edges of those pieces had only seemed to fit perfectly—until this moment …
“White man,” the warrior said, tightening his grip on the arm, “some time ago you told me you would stay with me when it is my time to die of the sickness.”
“Yes. I will stay by your side.”
“But you said this to me when you believed that I had stolen your beaver traps?”
“You are the brother of my wife. You honored me the day I made the marriage vow to your sister. Why is it so hard for you to believe that I would stay with you until your death, that I would return your body to your wife and children, to your mother?”
“All this time you believed I was a thief?” the warrior asked in a whisper. “How could you believe that I would rob from you—when you had honored me? Before the entire village of my people the day of your wedding—you honored me. How can you ever think I would steal from you?”
“I … I—”
“White man, I would protect you with my life,” he explained, gripping the trapper’s arm. “You must believe that.”
“I want to believe you, Strikes-in-Camp.”
“You must,” he said to Bass, pointing at the sky graying in the east, “because it is time to put your life in my hands.”
27
How small he felt, nothing less than ashamed, as he crept through the darkness, quietly moving through the trees and boulders, inching his way toward the guard who stood watch north of the Blackfoot camp.
Ashamed that he had ever believed Strikes-in-Camp had become a thief to drive him out of Absaroka.
Bass heard the snuffle of a pony. He stopped, scolding himself that he must remember to concentrate, must pay heed to the rise and fall of the breeze. Couldn’t allow the Blackfoot ponies to smell him and raise a warning.
For the two of them to get a jump on the seven, he had to push everything else out of his mind now. Concentrate only on those who had stolen his traps, taken his packs of beaver and his plunder. Robbed him of everything—including his wife and daughter. Mostly his wife and daughter.
Before leaving the boulder, the two of them stripped off their coats and divided the weapons. There were six pistols and four long weapons—two rifles, a smoothbore trade gun and a smoothbore English fusil. Ten balls to account for those seven. Trusting what Strikes had encountered—that three of the Blackfoot were already dead and wrapped in blankets for their final journey home—then the two of them must surely be carrying enough firepower into this fight to tip the odds in their favor.
Titus had Strikes-in-Camp stuff two of the pistols into the sash he knotted around his coat, a smoothbore clutched in each hand. In addition to one pair of pistols Bass carried at the back of his belt, he stuffed his knives and a camp ax. Beneath the front of his belt he jabbed another pair of pistols, then took up the two rifles, nodded farewell to the warrior, and slipped into the darkness.
Slowly letting his breath out now, he felt for the breeze, listening for another sound from the enemy’s horses. After an agonizing wait Titus decided the animals hadn’t winded him. His eyes slowly crawled across the snow to the next tree—measuring the distance, calculating his route. Couldn’t stand to get caught out in the open. He had to bring down the horse guard, maybe even drive the ponies right through the enemy’s camp to cause confusion, give the two of them a little more of an edge … then he knew he couldn’t take the chance of one of those horses trampling right over Magpie in the dark.
She should be sleeping by the fire. And the horses wouldn’t go anywhere near the fire. Magpie and Waits might be all right if they were near the fire—
But if they weren’t, could he chance it? When the ponies came charging through the camp, wouldn’t they know enough not to get anywhere close to the fire?
He heard one of them clear his throat. Low voices drifting over from fireside. A voice calling out to the guard from camp. The guard answered. He could follow the sounds of the one moving out from camp. Perhaps they were rotating their guard—
Then he saw them. They stopped there in the dim light of those broken clouds, nothing more than shadows that moved while the trees and rocks did not. He could drop them both from where he stood, but that would put him too far from camp to make certain none of the Blackfoot killed his wife or daughter at the moment the enemy knew they were under attack. Hard as it was, he swallowed down that instinct to start the killing there and then.
Bass knew he had to reach the edge of the firelight before he opened the ball. He had to see if he could spot which of the shadows around the fire were his loved ones before the terror began. He was trusting in the Crow that he too would do everything in his power to know which of the forms were the warriors before the soft lead balls went smashing into bone and muscle, sinew and blood.
He shivered with the aching cold, staring intently, his breath shallow, afraid of making a sound, of making breathsmoke. Now there was one shadow. It turned and stepped back among the horses where the shadow disappeared.
Scratch was moving at the same moment, hoping that the warrior’s movement across the snow might dull the sound of his own approaching footsteps. Tree to tree he crept, waiting and listening for a moment … then
