big-framed Nez Perce from up Idaho, Montana way.
He was at the corral at sunup and by noontime I’d not seen him have a bite to
eat. “You’re a long way from home,” I said, slicing off a chunk of beef I’d had
fixed for a lunch and handed it to him. He looked at me, a long, careful look,
then he accepted it. He ate slow like a starving man who can’t eat a lot at
first because his stomach shrinks up.
“You speak English?”
“I speak.”
Splitting my grub down the middle, I gave him half, and we ate together. When
we’d finished he got up. “Come—you see horse.”
The horse was a handsome animal, a roan with a splash of white with red spots on
the white, the kind of horse they call an appaloosa. Gaunt as his owner he stood
a good sixteen hands. Looked like this Indian had come a long way on short
rations. So I swapped him my old rifle (I’d bought a .44 Henry the day before)
and some grub. I threw in my old blanket.
We were a week out of Santa Fe when we found a spot in the bend of a creek among
some rocks. When we’d forted up they left it to me to scare up some fresh meat
as we planned to live off the country and stretch our store-bought rations.
That Montana horse could move. He could get out and go, lickety-brindle, and he
was smart. We passed up antelope because no matter what folks tell you it’s the
worst kind of Rocky Mountain meat. Old-timers will tell you that cougar meat is
best. Lewis and Clark said that, and Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, Uncle Dick
Woolton, Jim Baker … they all agreed.
Morning, with a bright sun over far hills, shadows lying in the folds and
creases of the country, sunlight on cotton-wood leaves and sparkling on the
river water … a meadow lark calling. Montana horse and me, we sure loved it.
We took off along an old deer trail. This was higher country than before, the
plateaus giving way to long ridges crested with pines and slopes dotted with
juniper or pinon.
Suddenlike, I saw a deer … and then another. Tethering Montana horse I moved
up with my rifle. Feeding deer are easy to stalk if a man is careful on his feet
and doesn’t let them get wind of him. When deer put their heads down to graze,
you can move up on them, and you can keep moving, very quiet. When their tails
start to switch they’re going to look up, so you freeze in position. He may be
looking right at you when he looks up, and he might look a long time, but if you
stand right still, after awhile he will decide you’re a harmless tree or stump
and go back to feeding.
I worked my way up to within fifty yards of a good big buck and then I lifted my
rifle and put a bullet behind the left foreleg. There was another deer no
further off and on my left, and as I fired at the first one I swung the rifle
just as he was taking his first jump and my bullet broke his neck as he hit
ground.
Working fast, I butchered those deer, loaded the choice cuts into their hides
and mounted Montana horse. When I came out of the trees a couple of miles
further on a half-dozen buffalo were running across the wind. Now no buffalo
runs without reason.
Pulling up on the edge of the trees I knew we’d be hard to see, for that roan
and me with my buckskin outfit fitted into the country like part of it. No man
in this country ever skylines himself if he can help it.
Sometimes the first man to move is the first to die, so I waited. The sun was
bright on the hillside. My horse stamped a foot and switched his tail. A bee
hummed around some leaves on a bush nearby.
They came in a single file, nine of them in a row. Utes, from the description
I’d heard from Cap. They came out of the trees and angled along the slope in
front of me.
Now most times I prefer to stand my ground and fight it out for running can make
your back a broad target, but there are times to fight and times to run and the
wise man is one who can choose the right time for each. First off, I sat still,
but they were riding closer and closer to me, and if they didn’t see me their
horses would. If I tried to go back into the trees they’d hear me.
Sliding my rifle across my saddle I said a prayer to the guardian angel of fools
and covered maybe thirty yards before they saw me. One of them must have spoken
because they all looked.
Indians can make mistakes like anybody. If they had all turned and come at me
I’d have had to break for the brush and I’d have been fairly caught. But one
Indian got too anxious and threw up his rifle and fired.
Seeing that rifle come up, I hit the spurs to Montana horse and went away from
there, but in the split seconds before I hit him with the spurs, I fired. As I’d
been timing my horse’s steps I’d shot at the right time and I didn’t miss.
My shot took out, not the Indian shooting at me but the one who seemed to be
riding the best horse. My shot was a hair ahead of his and he missed when
Montana horse jumped. We took out … and I mean we really lit a shuck. There
was nothing around there I wanted and what I wanted most was distance from where
I was.
With that first Indian down I’d cut my sign right across their trail and now
they wanted me mighty bad, but that horse didn’t like Utes any better than I
did. He put his ears back and stretched out his tail and left there like a
scared rabbit.
My next shot was a miss. With Montana horse travelling like he’d forgot
something in Santa Fe, there wasn’t much chance of a hit. They had all come
right at me with the shooting and I saw unless I did something drastic they had
me so I swung and charged right at the nearest Indian. He was fifty yards ahead
of the nearest Ute and which shot got his horse I don’t know, but I fired three
or four shots at him.
Dust jumped from the horse’s side and the horse went down throwing his rider
over his head into the grass, and when I went by at a dead run I shot into that
Indian as I rode.
They were all messed up for a minute or two, switching directions and running
into each other, but meanwhile I rode through a small creek and was out on the
open prairie beyond.
We were eight to ten miles from camp and I wasn’t about to lead these Utes full
tilt into my friends. And then I saw a buffalo wallow.
Slowing Montana horse we slid into that wallow and I hit ground and threw my
shoulder into the horse and grabbed his off foreleg, hoping to throw him, but
Montana horse seemed to know just what I wanted and he went down and rolled on
his side like he had been trained for it … which he probably had, the Nez
Perce using appaloosas for war horses.
Dropping to one knee, the other leg stretched out ahead of me, I drew a careful
bead on the chest of the nearest Ute and squeezed off my shot. There was a
minute when I believed I’d missed, and him coming right into my sights, then his
horse swung wide and dumped a dead Ute into the grass. There was a bright stain
of blood on the horse’s side as he swung away.
It was warm and still. Patting Montana horse I told him, “You rest yourself,
boy, we’ll make out.”
He rolled his eyes at me like he understood every word.
You would never have believed that a moment ago there was shooting and killing
going on, because suddenly everything was still. The hillside was empty, those
Indians had gone into the ground faster than you would believe. Lying there,
knowing any moment might be my last, I liked the feel of the warm sun on my
back, the smell of parched brown grass and of dust.
Three of the Utes were down in the grass and there were six left. Six to one
might seem long odds but if a man has nerve enough and if he thinks in terms of
combat, the advantage is often against sheer numbers. Sheer numbers rob a man of