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Authors: Loren D. Estleman
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source of illumination. An hour after sundown it began to snow again, this time in large wet flakes that slithered down our faces and made sizzling noises when they struck the ground. I dug my chin into my chest for warmth. Around me, the Indians rode straight as andirons; in their bearskins they remained as warm as if they hadnât left their fire-lit lodges.
The Flathead camp was laid out across a broad spot in the pass, between two cliffs of sheer rock. Only the tops of the temporary animal-hide structures were visible above the snow. Here and there a torch burned, its flame flaring and faltering beneath the snowâs untiring assault. A hundred yards before we reached the camp we were stopped by a rifle-toting sentry atop the east cliff, who addressed our leader in rapid Salish.
Rocking Wolf answered him in the same tongue, gesticulating in my direction and snarling a string of words that didnât sound much like compliments. The sentry lowered his weapon and waved us on.
âYouâre late getting out of the mountains this year,â I remarked as we entered camp.
âThat is because Two Sisters cannot be moved.â Rocking Wolf kept his eyes trained straight ahead of him. âTen suns ago he was thrown by his horse. His injuries have yet to heal.â
A scruffy dog of uncertain ancestry came bouncing out from behind one of the lodges and announced our arrival in raucous barks. It was joined by another,
and soon we were surrounded by mongrels of every size and description, snapping at our heels and raising enough racket to bestir the corpses on the backs of the partyâs mounts. Here and there a flap was pulled aside and a half-naked brave stepped out of his lodge to stare at us with suspicious eyes.
The chiefâs lodge, a squat cone made of buffalo hide and bearskin sewn together and stretched over six stout poles bound together at the top by a strip of uncured leather, was no grander than those that surrounded it. A colorless haze of heat drifted out through the opening in the top, causing the crossed ends of the poles to shimmer like sunken pilings at the bottom of a shallow pond. Rocking Wolf dismounted before the lodge and, out of habit, landed a glancing blow with the sole of his right moccasin boot alongside the head of a black-muzzled mutt that had gotten too close. The dog shrieked and drew its upper lip back over its yellowed fangs, but it shrank away. The Indian exchanged a few low words with the fur-clad brave guarding the entrance, who ducked inside for a moment, then returned and nodded curtly. Rocking Wolf told me to stay where I was and entered the lodge through the low flap.
News that a white man had been brought in alive along with the corpses of the missing hunting party had spread quickly throughout the camp. Everywhere I looked I met a hostile face, leaving me with little doubt about who they believed was responsible.
I thought of Leslie Brainardâs fate and wondered if they could have anything worse in store for me.
The wails of the women were conspicuous by their absence; I came to realize after a moment that there were few, if any, squaws in camp. Probably they were waiting for their men back at the permanent village west of the Bitterroot. That was proof enough that the prospect of crossing the mountains was no longer a casual one now that they were part of Bear Andersonâs domain. The thought didnât gratify me. A savage afraid, like an animal cornered, was a thing best left alone.
The quickening snow had put out the last of the torches by the time the chiefâ²s nephew emerged from the lodge and signaled for me to enter. I dismounted amid a chorus of threatening growls and elbowed my way through the throng, expecting any time to feel the burning pain of a knife blade being shoved between my ribs.
But the aura of command that surrounded the chiefâs lodge was too great, and presently I found myself blinking in the light of the fire that burned
The Flathead camp was laid out across a broad spot in the pass, between two cliffs of sheer rock. Only the tops of the temporary animal-hide structures were visible above the snow. Here and there a torch burned, its flame flaring and faltering beneath the snowâs untiring assault. A hundred yards before we reached the camp we were stopped by a rifle-toting sentry atop the east cliff, who addressed our leader in rapid Salish.
Rocking Wolf answered him in the same tongue, gesticulating in my direction and snarling a string of words that didnât sound much like compliments. The sentry lowered his weapon and waved us on.
âYouâre late getting out of the mountains this year,â I remarked as we entered camp.
âThat is because Two Sisters cannot be moved.â Rocking Wolf kept his eyes trained straight ahead of him. âTen suns ago he was thrown by his horse. His injuries have yet to heal.â
A scruffy dog of uncertain ancestry came bouncing out from behind one of the lodges and announced our arrival in raucous barks. It was joined by another,
and soon we were surrounded by mongrels of every size and description, snapping at our heels and raising enough racket to bestir the corpses on the backs of the partyâs mounts. Here and there a flap was pulled aside and a half-naked brave stepped out of his lodge to stare at us with suspicious eyes.
The chiefâs lodge, a squat cone made of buffalo hide and bearskin sewn together and stretched over six stout poles bound together at the top by a strip of uncured leather, was no grander than those that surrounded it. A colorless haze of heat drifted out through the opening in the top, causing the crossed ends of the poles to shimmer like sunken pilings at the bottom of a shallow pond. Rocking Wolf dismounted before the lodge and, out of habit, landed a glancing blow with the sole of his right moccasin boot alongside the head of a black-muzzled mutt that had gotten too close. The dog shrieked and drew its upper lip back over its yellowed fangs, but it shrank away. The Indian exchanged a few low words with the fur-clad brave guarding the entrance, who ducked inside for a moment, then returned and nodded curtly. Rocking Wolf told me to stay where I was and entered the lodge through the low flap.
News that a white man had been brought in alive along with the corpses of the missing hunting party had spread quickly throughout the camp. Everywhere I looked I met a hostile face, leaving me with little doubt about who they believed was responsible.
I thought of Leslie Brainardâs fate and wondered if they could have anything worse in store for me.
The wails of the women were conspicuous by their absence; I came to realize after a moment that there were few, if any, squaws in camp. Probably they were waiting for their men back at the permanent village west of the Bitterroot. That was proof enough that the prospect of crossing the mountains was no longer a casual one now that they were part of Bear Andersonâs domain. The thought didnât gratify me. A savage afraid, like an animal cornered, was a thing best left alone.
The quickening snow had put out the last of the torches by the time the chiefâ²s nephew emerged from the lodge and signaled for me to enter. I dismounted amid a chorus of threatening growls and elbowed my way through the throng, expecting any time to feel the burning pain of a knife blade being shoved between my ribs.
But the aura of command that surrounded the chiefâs lodge was too great, and presently I found myself blinking in the light of the fire that burned
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