While riding northwest to the Bridger post Sam decided that if he were to live another year, much less five or ten, he would do well to map a plan of attack. This thought led him to a long and careful appraisal of the nature of his enemies. There were some curious advantages on his side. The whiteman was far more adult than the redman, who, in fact, was only a child in his emotions—impulsive, hotheaded, and by turns craven or reckless. The whiteman, faced with danger, decided instantly and acted swiftly; the redman was in some measure inhibited by his burden of superstitions, and had to wait on medicine men and propitious signs. The whiteman had no boss, no chief. The redman was the servile creature of ritual and ceremonial—he spent a part of his life in such monkey business as touching the earth with the bowl of his pipe and then turning the stem upwards to invoke medicine magic. Even so, the redman thought the whiteman as brainless and vacant as the fool hen, as slow as the turtle, and as gullible as the antelope. Why, he asked, did the whiteman put the centers of logs in his fires, instead of the ends? Look! There they were, hours later, with the centers burned out and the ends lying on either side of a dying fire. It was true, Sam had decided, that the whiteman was buffalo-witted in some ways.
Well, one fact to keep in mind was this, that if sixty redmen faced an enemy every single one of them would figure that if one and only one of his party was killed he would be the dead man. If two were killed, or three or five, he would be one of them. It was for this reason that the warriors of most tribes would turn and run after one or two or three had been killed. The whiteman, on the other hand, figured that if only one of sixty were to die the odds were fifty-nine to one in his favor. He was likely to think the odds greater than that, for the reason that he did not look on himself as an average fighter.
On arriving at Bridger’s post Sam was so sunk in brooding and plotting that he carried a part of his pelts in, asked for a reckoning, and turned to leave. Jim’s strange eyes had been studying him. Jim called out, "I doan see hide ner hair yer wife."
Sam turned. "She’s dead."
"How thet happen?" asked Jim, showing no astonishment.
"Crows."
Jim took a few moments to consider that and then followed Sam outside. "Sartinly not the Crows, Sam." Bridger had in mind that Beckwourth and Rose had been Crow chiefs, and that a number of the free trappers had taken Crow women. His eyes said he didn’t think the Crows had done it.
"The Crows," Sam said, cinching up his packs.
"I jist can’t believe it. Did ye find plenty sign?"
"Plenty."
To change the subject Jim said, "Black Harris wuz here. Says a million Mormons is comin through this summer. All back there on Misery Bottoms gitting their wagons ready."
Sam was no longer interested in Mormons and Brigham Young and his wives.
"'Heerd anuther thing," said Jim, trying to get Sam to talk.
"Lot of the boys are meetin up at Laramie bout now. They might know if the Crows done it. There’s Powder River Charley—"
Sam said, "For what I have coming give me credit. Watch your topknot, Jim."
"Jist a minute," said Jim. He walked over to Sam and looked at Sam’s eyes. "Yer kinda young. Ye intend ter go inter the Crow country?"
"Right through the middle of it," Sam said.
"I wooden do that, Sam. Ye intend ta fight the hull nation?"
"The hull nation."
Jim was still looking at Sam’s eyes. He put forth a gnarled hand and said, "I reckon, then, I best give ye a handshake, fer I doan spect I’ll see ye agin."
"I figger you will," Sam said, and clasped the hand.
From Bridger’s on Black’s Fork he rode east and north to Green River; then east and north to South Pass, the Sweetwater, and the Oregon Trail, which he followed east to the Laramie post, where he would trade for supplies and, if lucky, a fast horse. On this long ride he tried to lighten his mood by singing songs, but the only one that would rise from his depths was "Sorrow, Sorrow, Stay.” He couldn’t sing "To Ce1ia" any more, or "When Laura Smiles" or a dozen others, for there rose before him the picture of his girl-wife on that long sweet journey south, and he would reach behind him to touch the blanket that enfolded the bones and flowers.
A few of the free trappers were at the post; after their long lonely winter they were eager to swap talk but Sam did not want to talk. Lost-Skelp Dan came over to him. Dan was a big man; he stood a good six feet two in moccasins and weighed two hundred and twenty. He had large full pale-blue eyes that were cold and mean but that had a light touch of warmth when he looked at Sam. Dan had heard that Sam’s wife had been killed, though how he had heard it Sam was never to know, for no rider had passed him on the Trail.
Dan wanted to express sympathy but he was clumsy and tactless. He did manage to say at last, "Sam, ever need any help, jist holler."
"Thanks,” Sam said. He would never holler. What he wondered was whether Crows at this post had talked about the death of Lotus.
Mick Boone was there and Mick had also heard about it. All the trappers knew that Mick had one of the fastest horses in the West, a big strong bay with the lines of a racer. Mick first asked Sam if he would join him in a drink. Sam thanked him and said he never drank. "Bad habit," Mick said, and put on the queer smile he had when self-conscious. It took him a few moments to get the words out. He said he figgered as how Sam might like to use his bay for a while.
Sam looked into Mick’s brown eyes and said, "I couldn’t take your bay."
"Not a thing to stop you," Mick said. "If ya aim to ride plum through Crow country—and I figger ya do—you’ll need a fast horse or ya might never reach the other side."
"You might be right," Sam said.
"I’1l change the saddles," Mick said.
So Mick took the stud and Sam set off on the big bay. The news would spread fast that the Crows had killed Sam Minard’s wife and unborn child, and that after declaring war on the whole nation Sam was showing what kind of business he meant by riding clear across, it, alone. When he rode away into the north Sam was not thinking of that. He was again thinking of the nature of his enemies. The vast plains-and-mountains area, which they claimed as their own and fought to hold, lay chiefly upon the southern drainage of the Yellowstone—upon its tributaries, the Bighorns, the Rosebud and the Powder and the Tongue. The heart of the Crows was the valley of the Bighorns, though they claimed the lands lying in all directions from these rivers, to a considerable distance. Sam had heard it said by some of the older trappers that the Crows had the finest bodies of all the redmen; that they were the handsomest; and the ablest hunters; and the most expert thieves; and that of all the red warriors they were the deadliest shots with the whiteman’s weapons. The American Fur Company had built four, the Missouri Fur Company two posts solely for their convenience in
trading.
It saddened Sam to think that these people had made him their enemy, for he had been a little enchanted by them. Four hundred Crow lodges on the move was a remarkable spectacle in rhythm and color—the warriors in their richly ornamented robes, with floating and flowing fringes and feathers and headpieces; and with the principal squaws in really elegant mantles and cloaks of birdskins, spangled over with beads. Standing upon the mother’s backs were a hundred papooses, in cradles as richly ornamented as the mothers’ garments, the children swathed tight but standing, their bright black eyes expressing joy in life. Behind the procession or ahead of it or on its flanks were hundreds of ponies under huge burdens, as well as hundreds of dogs so covered over with camp litter that almost no part of them was visible. From a distance it looked as if a prairie of brilliant colors was flowing in a gentle wind.