“Reckon we owe y’all an apology, Cap’n,” Phil Vail admitted, dropping to his haunches to stare out across the valley at the high cliffs off to the north.
“I should have been more appreciative to the needs of my men,” Butler admitted.
He stopped where he’d been cutting out the diaphragm and stepped over to Pettigrew, looking him in the eyes. “But you, Corporal, during Sergeant Kershaw’s absence, are second in command.” He pointed a finger. “I expect more from you.”
Pettigrew, however, stared back stoically, as if not hearing.
“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Butler stomped over to Vail. “Don’t you see? I’ve never shirked my responsibilities to any of you. I realize you’ve had your doubts, not only in battle, but on this march. Nevertheless, I know what I’m doing. It should—”
“Ain’t seen any beaver,” someone said.
Butler whirled, wondering which of the men had blurted it out, but Templeton and Peterson were watching the ravens hopping about in the branches and waiting for their chance at the gut pile.
“Who said that? Step forward, and be a man.”
When none of the men moved, Butler told them, “Paw trapped beavers on the upper Wind. We’ll no doubt find them as we get higher. I’ve brought you this far, haven’t I?”
He shook from a sudden surge of anger, snapping, “Goddamn it! What do you expect from me? I’m doing the best I can.”
He muttered under his breath as he pulled the ruined lungs from the chest cavity. The shot had been good, but the .50-caliber bullet had only destroyed the left lung, stopping halfway through.
“At what point in the animal’s death did the bullet fail to perform?” Butler asked himself.
Nevertheless, he glanced at the men. “Don’t think we want to tackle a grizzly with a Spencer, though. Paw says they’re tough as sun-cured rawhide, big, and meaner than the devil himself.”
He sliced open the throat, cutting out the trachea and severing it just below the jawbone. This he tossed to the ravens who fluttered down and began squabbling over it.
Butler walked back to the packhorse and retrieved his ax. With sure strokes, he split the rib cage and propped it wide with a stick to cool. The men had watched with unusual attention, respectful for the first time since Kershaw had left. And, since that fateful day, Butler finally felt more sure of himself.
Maybe an elk would do that.
Butler glanced at Shandy, wishing he had a good pack saddle and panniards instead of the tarp he’d tied on with a diamond hitch.
“What ch’all gonna do next, Cap’n?” Vail asked. “I ain’t never packed nothing bigger’n a deer or hog.”
“We’re going to cut the carcass into halves,” Butler told him. “Front and back. It’s a trick Paw taught me. Then we cut each half down the middle through the backbone, but we don’t cut the hide. That holds the whole load together when you lay it upside down and inside out on the horse with a quarter hanging off either side.”
He pointed. “Front half goes on Apple, the lighter, back half, on Shandy. I’ll lead the horses to where we’re going to camp tonight, and we’ll spend the next couple of days cutting up the meat and smoking it dry over a fire.”
He heard whistles and stamping feet as the men approved.
Right up until the time came to load.
Loose, limp halves of elk were almost impossible to lift. And this was only a calf? Then, as he strained, his legs trembling, blinded by the hairy burden, the horses shied away every time he staggered close to them.
Finally he collapsed onto the fragrant sagebrush, panting and gasping. On one side the horses watched him with wary eyes, the men from the other.
Butler blinked, muttered under his breath, and the horses shifted their wary prick-eared attention to the trees.
The ravens leaped into the air, each with a dangling and bloody treat hanging from its beak. They flapped away, wings slashing the air.
The horses shifted nervously, the air having gone remarkably quiet beneath the breeze blowing down the valley.
He first saw the Indians on the slope below. They had formed a line in the sagebrush. With hand signals, they were ordering several large dogs to circle to the side. Indians for sure, their dress and long black hair could be no other. They had bows in hand, arrows nocked but not drawn.
Butler called, “Atten-shun! Corporal Pettigrew, have your men form a line.”
“Form a line,” Pettigrew bellowed. “Look sharp now!”
Butler wished he had a bugler and drummer, but would make do as the men formed up, looking downhill. Indians! A thread of fear pulled tight in his gut.
“Cap’n, suh?” Kershaw whispered behind his ear. “Reckon y’all otta look to the rear. They done flanked us, suh.”
Kershaw! He’s back!
Butler whirled around, seeing no less than ten warriors emerge from the trees no more than forty yards away. And in that moment, he steadied, almost smiling his relief. Kershaw was back. He could face this new threat.
“Been missing you, Sergeant.”
“Reckon y’all needed some he’p.”
The Indians wore their hair piled high and roached up before it fell down their backs in black waves. Two held large-caliber flintlock muskets, the others carried finely crafted bows with nocked arrows. They had hard, dark faces, their features hawkish, noses thin and cheeks wide and angular. They watched him with wary and unforgiving dark eyes, wide mouths pinched into angry lines. Some had feathers in their hair, others woven strips of fine and glossy fur.
They moved with a fluid grace as they surrounded Butler and his command. And it hit him, their hunting shirts—more like coats actually—were finely tanned and tailored, clean, and trimmed in wolf, coyote, and bear hide. Tall moccasins rose almost to the knee and colorful breechcloths hung at the loins.
“Hold your fire!” Butler commanded his men. “Sergeant Kershaw, order the men to fix bayonets.”
“Fix bayonets,” Kershaw bellowed from behind Butler’s ear.
“Fix bayonets,” Corporal Pettigrew repeated.
One of the Indians, more lightly complected, his hair wavy and brown, stepped forward,
