Ride the Moon Down (43 page)

“Ever you see something like this?” Sweete asked as Bass stepped up beside him.

He wagged his head.

“Neither’ve I,” Bridger agreed.

“Damn! Lookee there!” Levin Mitchell exclaimed nearby.

At the very center of the corona the lights no longer merely pulsed. Now to the east of north, bands of crimson lights began to stream skyward from the edge of the earth—brilliant fingers of red, rust, orange, and blood-tinted gold. Every streamer of color wavering, pulsing, expanding, and diminishing, then expanding again as the trappers murmured among themselves.

“Listen,” Bass said after a long time of watching the heavens.

“To what?” Meek asked.

“I don’t hear a thing,” Russell commented.

“That’s just it,” Titus told them. “I ain’t heard them goddamned drums since you come woke me.”

“I believe Scratch is right,” Bridger declared. “Sons of bitches ain’t pounding and dancing no more.”

“They see’d this sky too.”

“Bound to, Scratch,” Shad said. “Lookee there—them
red lights are brightest over in their part of the sky, off to the east yonder.”

For a long time Titus brooded on the heavenly show, then said, “This here gotta be some big medicine to them Blackfoot, fellas. The way Injuns read sign—this bound to be ’bout the biggest medicine any of them niggers ever laid eyes on.”

In all his natural-born days, this eerie display of the northern lights had to be the most frightening exhibition of celestial fire he had ever witnessed. Up to this moment the most dramatic night phenomenon he had seen had been back in the autumn of thirty-three, when the sky rained fire. One shooting star after another, a handful at a time, almost from the moment the sky grew dark enough to spot the starry trails right on till dawn when the coming light made the sky grow so pale the meteor shower was no longer visible.

Remembering how Josiah’s little boy had cried with wonder and fear that night … Joshua.

Bass wondered on him now. The child would be … close to four years old. Walking and talking, likely riding a horse too. How he hoped Josiah had fared well down there in Taos with Matthew Kinkead and that free man, Esau.

Safer there were they all than he up here in Crow country where the damned Blackfoot had come to raid.

He whispered a curse on that thousand surrounding Bridger’s brigade, a breathless curse on their women and children, on their old and on their young who would grow into warriors, an especially hearty curse on their women—for it was they who gave birth to generations of fighting men.

“What did you say?” Sweete asked, stepping over.

He immediately realized he had been muttering in a whisper. “Just asking God to do something for me is all.”

“Never knowed you to be a religious man,” Shad replied.

“I ain’t, not like most.”

“You was asking God to do what?” Bridger inquired.

Scratch sighed. “I asked the same God what made that bloody sky up there to wipe out all them red niggers.”

“You a praying man, Titus Bass?” Meek asked when he stepped close.

Titus thought a moment, then said, “I s’pose I am when it comes down to it, Joe. Leastways—like I said—I’m praying God rubs all them sonsabitches off the face of the earth.”

“I figger ary man can pray for that too,” Bridger added quietly.

And quiet was just the way it remained inside those breastworks for the rest of the night. So quiet, a man could swear he could hear the hum of that northern sky as it pulsated and wavered red as blood. From downstream floated the distant songs and chants, the hearty rhythms as some of the Blackfoot pounded sticks on rawhide parfleches serving in place of drums. They too had to be watching the portent of this terrible sky.

Gradually the east began to lighten, and with the coming of dawn the brilliance of the northern lights softened from crimson to a pale rose. Eventually there were no more streaks of red in the sky as the sun made its appearance downriver. And with that newborn light Titus saw how the frightening cold had settled along the Yellowstone itself, seeping among the trees, its foggy mist clinging in dirty-white smears through the bonelike cottonwood and brush.

“Here they come!”

At the warning cry the sixty-two were instantly jerked into motion, crowding toward that wall of the breastworks where the call had been raised. No longer were these fur men quiet. First they muttered to themselves, then talked low to others nearby.

As those first ranks of Blackfoot emerged from the swirling, icy mist downriver, several of the trappers cursed. Two hundred yards. More and ever more filed behind them. It had to be just as Bridger pronounced. A thousand. Mayhaps even more than a thousand. The enemy ranks filled the wide riverbed from bank to bank, trudging toward the white man’s fortress on foot through
the snow, using the Yellowstone’s unobstructed frozen surface to make their approach.

“This be the day, boys!” Bridger bellowed.

“Take some of them niggers with you!”

All around Bass the trappers were screwing up their resolve now—yelling at one another with that sort of encouragement doomed men give to friends and comrades as the end looms near. At the center of the breastworks the trappers’ squaws began to keen quietly, the young half-breed children whimpering pitifully.

“Hell is where I’ll send as many as I can!” Shad roared.

Popping a half-dozen lead balls into his mouth for the coming fight, Titus vowed, “By God, I’ll see my share in hell a’fore noon!”

On the Blackfoot came. At the center of that first column walked a figure in a heavy white wool blanket, wearing a headdress constructed of numberless white ermine skins to which had been attached polished buffalo horns. Attached to the narrow cord of sinew between the horn tips was a single eagle feather that trembled on each wisp of cold breeze.

No more were any of the Blackfoot hidden by the fog. Now the whole of them paraded in full view of the white men waiting behind the bulwark of their brush fort. What an impressive sight they made: their faces clearly painted, feathers and scalps streaming from lances, bows, and shields, war clubs and rifles at the ready.

“You ever faced anything like this?” Meek asked.

“Shit.” And Bass shook his head. “I ain’t ever see’d this many Blackfoot in one place a’fore.”

Then, just beyond a hundred yards, the one in the white blanket waved an arm, shouting something to those around him, and that first rank of warriors turned aside. Slogging onto the snowy bank, they pushed on through the brush until they reached the open prairie as the wind kicked up old snow around their ankles and calves.

“You figger ’em to work around us, Gabe?” Ebbert hollered.

“I can’t figger ’em for nothing,” Bridger answered. “No telling what they’re about.”

It did indeed mystify the trappers to watch the succeeding ranks of the warriors follow the first. Instead of some going this way while others went that in what Scratch had assumed would be their attempt to surround the breastworks, the Blackfoot all followed the one in the white blanket. Eventually the entire war party had abandoned the frozen river for the open prairie more than a hundred yards from where the trappers stood waiting the attack.

By then the first warriors to reach that open ground were starting to sit. As the hundreds arrived in waves, they too settled into the snow around their leaders, forming a huge council circle in that open-air amphitheater.

“Don’t that take the chalk!” Scratch cried.

“What you callate they’re up to, Gabe?” Sweete asked.

“Can’t say as I know,” Bridger replied.

“Yellow-backed sonsabitches!” Bass flung his voice over the breastworks at the enemy.

Suddenly emboldened, other trappers began to taunt the Blackfoot. “You’re women!”

“Cowards!”

“Can’t fight us like real men!”

Titus screamed with the others, “You ain’t got no manhood!”

“Come on and fight!” Sweete bellowed.

Louder and louder the white men became in their insults. But still the Blackfoot remained in their huge war council just beyond rifle range.

“You want we should fire some bullets at ’em?” Squire Ebbert inquired.

“Just a waste for now,” Bridger declined.

Scratch agreed, “You’ll need your lead soon enough, boys.”

“Damn,” Sweete growled, “I’ll bet there ain’t one of them niggers knows any American talk.”

“Too bad they can’t unnerstand what we’re calling ’em,” Meek added.

With a grin Bass passed his rifle off to Osborne Russell. “Hold this for me.”

“What you fixing to do?” Russell asked.

Turning to Meek and Sweete, Scratch gave instructions, “You two ’bout the biggest niggers there is out in these here mountains. Both of you pull aside some of that brush wall over there.”

“What the hell for?” Meek demanded.

“Them Blackfoots don’t speak no American, so they don’t unnerstand us, right?”

“Right,” Sweete replied, still mystified.

“So I’m gonna talk to ’em in sign so they damn well know what I think of ’em.”

“Shit,” Bridger grumbled, “they too far off! None of them red niggers gonna see you talking in hand sign!”

Smiling hugely now, Scratch shook his head and said, “Them bastards bound to see my sign, Gabe!”

“C’mon, Joe!” Sweete cried, bolting away. “Help me pull this here brush back!”

The moment the two of them had muscled the logs and branches apart, Scratch lunged through. Right behind him Meek and Sweete popped through the narrow opening as every last one of the trappers surged to that wall to have themselves a good vantage point to watch Bass’s “sign making.”

Instead of stopping just outside the breastworks, Scratch kept right on going, halting only after he was more than ten yards beyond the wall—alone and in the open, where he began to attract the attention of those warriors on the outer flank of the council.

Emerging from the breastworks empty-handed, the lone white man unbuckled his belt and flung it to the ground beside him, then yanked off his elk-hide coat. Spinning about in the swirling ground-snow to face the fortress again, Bass dropped the coat and dragged up the long tail of his war shirt, tugging aside the blue wool breechclout to expose his rump. With one cold bare hand he slapped the faded wool longhandles.

From afar came the first shouts of fury. He was certain they understood his sign.

“Come kiss my ass, you yellow dogs!” he screamed as he bent over, staring between his legs at the Blackfoot. “Come kiss my ass!”

Behind Titus, both Meek and Sweete were doubled over, roaring with laughter. At the walls of the brush fort, every one of those sixty-some trappers were screaming at the Blackfoot now, many gasping for breath as they guffawed and yelled, guffawed and bellowed some more. This was damn well about as much fun as a man could have before he went under.

When his rump and bare hands grew numb from the terrible cold, Bass finally stood, wheeled about, and raised the front tail of his war shirt, grabbing his crotch.

“This here’s a man!” he shrieked at the enemy. “You ain’t got a pecker like me ’cause you’re all women!”

“Women afraid to fight!” Sweete cried behind him.

Eventually Titus picked his coat out of the snow, buckling the belt around it, then turned again, bent over, and gave his rump one last slap before he slowly trudged back to the breastworks—accompanied by the hoots and hollers and uproarious cheers of those sixty-one other men.

At the walls Meek and Sweete slapped him on the shoulders, teary-eyed, they were laughing so hard. “Up with him!” Shad ordered.

With that the two of them firmly seized the smaller man and hoisted Titus high into the air. Confused for a moment, Bass thrashed as Meek and Sweete stepped directly under him, settling the skinny man atop their shoulders where he caught his balance.

The cheering grew even louder as two dozen more emerged from that narrow gap in the breastworks, pushing back on it to carve an entrance wide enough for those who carried Bass aloft. Many of the trappers were already growing hoarse from shouting and laughing so lustily in the dry cold air, surging around Meek and Sweete, some bending over and slapping their own rumps to copy how Bass had taunted the enemy.

Back inside the breastworks, Sweete and Meek started
around in a wide circle, still carrying Titus on their shoulders, when Bridger suddenly hollered above the clamor.

“Someone’s fat is in the fire, boys!”

The noise ended abruptly and Scratch leaped to the snow, hurrying to the wall with the others.

The warriors were parting slightly, allowing that warrior in the white blanket to step through their numbers. Halfway between the Blackfoot and the breastworks he came to a halt and began to wave his arms.

First one, then another, of the white men translated the chief’s gestures.

“Says they ain’t gonna fight!”

“Can’t fight us today.”

More signs were made.

“Gonna go back to his village now!”

Shaking his head in wonder, Scratch reflected, “You s’pose them Blackfoot figgered that red sky over their camp was bad medicine for ’em?”

Sweete snorted with a gust of raw mirth and said, “It sure weren’t your skinny ass what scared ’em off!”

As the white men watched in fascination, the chief turned aside and started across the bottom ground for the slopes bordering the valley, starting west for the Three Forks of the Missouri. At the same time less than half of the warriors began to move away in the opposite direction, marching downriver to the east.

“That bunch ain’t going back home,” Meek commented sourly.

“This gotta be a trick,” Ebbert said.

“We’ll wait ’em out and see,” Bridger declared.

A few minutes later, as the last of the Blackfoot were disappearing around a bend in the Yellowstone, Sweete came up and threw his arm around Bass’s shoulder. “You scared ’em off with that bony ass of your’n, Scratch.”

Thin-lipped and melancholy, Bass wagged his head. He pointed downriver. “Not that bunch, Shad. They ain’t running off for home. Them niggers is making for Crow country.”