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.