The Saga of Harlan Waugh (The Mountain Men) (11 page)

On the way back to their camp, Big Eagle wore a huge smile. He had bested many mountain men in a shooting contest and in so doing had won a small fortune in horses and furs. In addition, he had bested one of the hated war sub-chiefs of the Northern Cheyenne, one who had probably participated in the killing of his family and tribe. Enjoying the memory of his performance with the Hawken in front of all those mountain men and Indian spectators, he found himself brought up short by Harlan during the ride.

Harlan moved his horse over to Big Eagle and, guessing the grand thoughts Big Eagle was thinking about his shooting prowess, said, “Did you ever see such poor shooting as that chief’s with one of our fine Hawken rifles?”

Big Eagle grinned and said, “He was a pretty poor shot, wasn’t he?”

“Well, just so you keep it in perspective, realize you had a helping hand in his poor shooting ability. You see, when I dragged that rifle off the mule to trade for your sisters, I quickly moved the hindsight so it would be off a mite, no matter who shot the rifle.

I thought that chief would probably find himself at odds someday with some hapless Indian or another mountain man and would use that rifle to exact his revenge. So I knocked the rear sight off its center full well knowing he would never check it and hoping I might be giving some unfortunate a second chance at living.

So don’t you get a big head because I had a direct hand in his poor performance. Now, don’t get me wrong—you did very well and have learned from our winter training sessions. But in this particular instance, you had a hand helping you make him look like a fool.”

Without a look back, Harlan resumed the lead as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The matter was never brought up again, but Big Eagle, perplexed by what Harlan had just told him, found himself smiling at his good fortune in having such a great dad and teacher.

Arriving back in their camp, the man and two boys began making ready for the long trip back to their winter site. Goods were stacked according to bulk and weight for each mule or horse to be packed the next day. The animals were curried and grained. In the meantime, the two women assumed the camp duties, and soon the delicious smell of cooking food began to fill the air from the center cooking fire.

This accommodation with the women might not be too bad, thought Harlan with a grin as the smells of cooking other than his own made him hungry.

Harlan’s eyes flew wide open, and in that instant he knew he was in danger! That awareness was followed by the braying of his bell mule, Martha. Rolling quietly out of his sleeping furs, he grabbed his tomahawk and Hawken in the pitch dark and silently crawled toward a large cottonwood log near the edge of camp.

Peering into the darkness, he strained for any sight or sound of danger. There was none as the inky darkness quietly kept its secrets. Sniffing hard but quietly, Harlan could not detect the smell of sweat or rancid bear grease of hostile Indians or the rankness of the ever-present grizzly bear.

There was no trace for the longest time. Suddenly, there it was! The smell of stale tobacco, either from chewing tobacco or smoking a pipe. Now he was more than sure that extreme danger was at hand as he silently cocked the hammer of his Hawken against his shirt. Then, he heard the faint rustle of leaves not ten feet from the log behind which he was lying. Silently grabbing his tomahawk, he listened and waited.

The sound drew closer until he could almost sense a form in the dark just inches away. Then came the rustling of leaves next to his log once again, accompanied by the same strong smell of tobacco.

The next thing he knew, a rifle barrel slid over the log not a foot from his face. Realizing that he needed to warn the camp, he grabbed the barrel and slammed it violently downward. Boom went the rifle into the dirt, arousing the camp as Harlan swung his tomahawk viciously where he felt the shooter might be at the butt end of the rifle. There was a thump followed by a terrible screech as something wet and warm splattered Harlan’s arm, face, and hand.

Boom—boom went two more rifles in quick succession off to Harlan’s right. Memorizing the muzzle-flash locations, Harlan vaulted the log, pulled his knife, and sprinted like a bobcat towards the closest of the shooters. By then the boys had returned fire into the night in the direction of the two muzzle flashes as well.

It had been fortunate that Harlan had managed to hide behind the log before the ambush began. The first shot had gone harmlessly into the dirt, thereby alerting the camp. At the sound of danger, Big Eagle and Winter Hawk had rolled out of their sleeping furs and away from the light of the remains of the camp’s small fire, and the two shooters had fired into their empty sleeping furs.

Pow—pow went two pistol shots from the unknown shooters as Harlan continued running toward a dark figure standing to shoot into his camp. Swinging his Hawken like a club, Harlan smashed its cold steel into the human form and followed the blow with a knife attack so vicious that his assailant was disemboweled with one swipe of the blade.

Stabbing again and again, Harlan became aware of Big Eagle wrestling with the other assailant beside the man Harlan was killing. Grabbing his bloody knife to help, he was foiled as Winter Hawk viciously tomahawked the man who was locked in mortal combat with his brother. The blow split the man’s skull, and he folded like a sack of flour.

Looking quickly around, Harlan and the boys saw no other threat to their camp. As he made doubly sure, Big Eagle told Autumn Flower in Crow that everything was all right and told her to build up the fire so they could see better. Standing their ground at the edge of the trees in the light of the rebuilt campfire, the three continued to look for any sign of danger.

Finding none, they moved back to the three men they had killed. They discovered that their attackers were the three fur buyers from the rendezvous who had refused to trade with Harlan because of his association with Crow Indians. Harlan found that he had split the first man’s skull cleanly from the top of his head to the neck vertebrae.

After disarming the three dead men, they came away with three knives, three good-grade rifles, and four single-shot pistols with accessories. Without wasting any time, they used horses to drag the dead men to the edge of camp and left their bodies for the scavengers.

Looking over their work, Big Eagle thought, I figured back at the rendezvous that these three would be trouble once again, and they were. Now they belong with the ages and the flesh-eaters of the plains.

Back in camp, Birdsong began a low wail. Moving over to her side, Harlan discovered that her baby had been hit by a stray bullet and killed instantly! There was nothing he could do, so he let her two brothers and sister console her for the loss of her child.

Leaving the sorrow back at camp, Harlan took up his unfired Hawken. Checking to see that it still had a percussion cap attached to the nipple, he began a search for their assailants’ livestock. It didn’t take him long to discover three horses and three pack mules tied in some brush a short distance away.

They must have known we were camping in that grove of cottonwoods and used the smoke from our campfire to find us, he thought grimly.

A quick look at the mules showed all three loaded with supplies from the rendezvous.

Fraeb must have kicked all three troublemakers out of camp, he surmised.

A rustling in the bushes told him Winter Hawk was at his side, and the two of them brought the six animals into their camp for safekeeping. Birdsong continued her low wailing from the shelter of the lean-to while Autumn Flower kept the fire roaring and began cooking a hearty breakfast of Dutch-oven biscuits, deer steak, and boiled dried fruit.

The ever-present coffee was bubbling away over the cooking rod, and soon all could eat. Once chow was ready, everyone except Birdsong sat down to eat, aware of the long ride before them. Birdsong continued to cry over her loss, and the rest gave her the space she needed for her grief.

After breakfast, they began packing their mules, their extra horse, and the three horses and mules the assailants had brought to the ambush as well. Daylight was chasing the dark in the east when they finished packing and were ready to go.

Harlan wasn’t sure what to do with the dead baby, but Birdsong settled that issue. Smearing ashes on her face and arms from the now dying campfire, she took the small bundle wrapped in furs and mounted her horse. She continued to cry, but she knew they must move on and was ready to go. Harlan couldn’t help but admire her and her stoic acceptance of grief. In fact, he admired her in more ways than met the casual eye.

Retracing their earlier trail into the valley. Harlan led the way, with Big Eagle bringing up the rear. Winter Hawk took up his position alongside the pack string that now included many horses and mules, and the two women rode behind Harlan. Several other changes had occurred. Each male carried a Hawken over his saddle and had another tied on the first animal behind him for emergencies. In addition, they now carried two .79-caliber horse pistols apiece. Last but not least, each woman carried a long-bladed buffalo-gutting knife.

Whoever tangles with this pack string is going to have a hard and deadly time, Harlan thought grimly. As he looked back over his group, his eyes met those of Autumn Flower and Birdsong.

The first opportunity I get, those two women are going to learn to shoot a pistol and a rifle. Never again are they going to be defenseless, he thought with determination.

Chapter Thirteen

Burial, the Long Trip Home, and a Happening

Several days later, Birdsong secured her baby’s body high in a pine tree on the east side of the Wasatch Mountain range so that it could face in the direction of their winter camp. Once that was done, she mounted her horse as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred and continued the long ride. No one said anything. They rode silently out of respect for Birdsong’s grief and the loss of her firstborn.

The group frequently rode across the tracks of many Indians on the move, but fortunately they encountered none. After cautiously traveling for several more weeks, they entered the last grove of timber prior to arriving home.

As they rounded the last stand of timber before their cabin, Harlan was alerted by the smell of wood smoke from a campfire. When they came into view of their cabin, they saw four mountain men unloading their pack animals in front of the door, as if the cabin were theirs.

“Hello, the cabin,” yelled Harlan so as not to startle the busy men.

Instantly the men rushed for their rifles and stood grimly to greet the newcomers. As if on command, Harlan and the boys quietly cocked the hammers on their Hawkens in case shooting started. The two women quickly peeled out of the pack string and rode their horses to the rear.

Riding up to the men, Harlan said, “Good afternoon. My name is Harlan Waugh, and these here are my boys, Big Eagle and Winter Hawk. The two squaws are Birdsong and Autumn Flower. Who might ye fellers be?”

For a long moment none of the strangers said anything. Finally, a short man with a massive beard said, “We be the rightful owners of this here cabin.”

“How can that be?” exclaimed Harlan with a lightness not betraying the seriousness in his voice or the plain damn meanness rising in his guts at being displaced from his own cabin by these four strangers. “The boys and I built this here cabin last year. We have our cache nearby and claim these here beaver trapping grounds as ours.”

“We was here’n first,” answered the short, bearded one, “and intend to stay!”

Stepping off his horse as if he were going to a tea party, Harlan strode over to the obvious leader of the group and said, “Look, this is our cabin, and I can prove it. My name is carved on an inside rafter with the year of Our Lord beside it. Seem’ that is the case, I don’t see how you folks can claim this property as your’n.”

“I wouldn’t know, seein’ I can’t read, and neither can my partners,” snarled the short one, in the same breath clutching his rifle even tighter as if he was considering using it.

Suddenly Martha the bell mule let out a bray, and soon the sounds of many horses’ hooves could be heard approaching from the timber below the cabin. Joe Meek and about twenty Snake warriors came into view, and the four men in front of Harlan, fearing an attack, broke and ran for the cover the cabin offered.

Reining up alongside Harlan, Meek called loudly, “Welcome back home, you three.” Then, looking again, he said with a big grin, “Well, I see you haven’t traded off them ‘squars’ you picked up at the rendezvous yet. We came to see if you and your’n might want to go and make some meat. But I see you have some guests.” His grin turned to puzzlement over the presence of four strangers.

“Well, not really,” said Harlan. “They are claiming the cabin as theirs even though I told them we built it and it is mine.”

A cloud flew across Meek’s face, and he quickly dismounted. Boldly walking up to the front door of the cabin, he yelled for the men to come out before things got messy. Soon the four newcomers exited the cabin with their rifles held at the ready.

“You boys is in the wrong cabin. This here cabin belongs to that man and his youngsters. They built it last year and trapped here all fall and spring. Besides, this is Chief Low Dog’s territory of the Snake Nation, and he ain’t given any of you permission to trap in this here area like he has Harlan and the boys.”

“Who the hell are you, coming in here and giving orders like you belong?” blurted out the short one, pissed at this new intervention.

“I am Joe Meek, the meanest son of a bitch in the valley, part he-wolf and part wolverine. I am the best-shooting beaver-trapping son of a gun to walk these here parts, and if you folks don’t move on peaceable-like, these here braves of Low Dog’s will have to convince you that to lose your topknot over a cabin that ain’t your’n ain’t in your best interest!”

Nervously looking over the odds now confronting him, the short one said, “Well, I guess we could move on if’n you put it that-a-way. Come on, boys, let’s pack our critters and skedaddle. This here ain’t no place for us to touch down if’n we ain’t wanted.”