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  CHAPTER V

  MORSE JUMPS UP TROUBLE

  "Threw me down, didn't you?" snarled West out of the corner of hismouth. "Knew all the time she did it an' never let on to me. A hell ofa way to treat a friend."

  Tom Morse said nothing. He made mental reservations about the wordfriend, but did not care to express them. His somber eyes watched thebig man jerk the spade bit cruelly and rowel the bronco when it wentinto the air. It was a pleasure to West to torture an animal when nohuman was handy, though he preferred women and even men as victims.

  "Whad he mean when he said you could tell me how he'd settled withher?" he growled.

  "He whipped her last night when I took her back to camp."

  "Took her back to camp, did you? Why didn't you bring her to me? Who'sin charge of this outfit, anyhow, young fellow, me lad?"

  "McRae's too big a man for us to buck. Too influential with thehalf-breeds. I figured it was safer to get her right home to him." Thevoice of the younger man was mild and conciliatory.

  "_You_ figured!" West's profanity polluted the clear, crisp morningair. "I got to have a run in with you right soon. I can see that.Think because you're C.N. Morse's nephew, you can slip yore funnybusiness over on me. I'll show you."

  The reddish light glinted for a moment in the eyes of Morse, but hesaid nothing. Young though he was, he had a capacity for silence. Westwas not sensitive to atmospheres, but he felt the force of this youngman. It was not really in his mind to quarrel with him. For one thinghe would soon be a partner in the firm of C.N. Morse & Company, ofFort Benton, one of the biggest trading outfits in the country. Westcould not afford to break with the Morse interests.

  With their diminished cargo the traders pushed north. Theirdestination was Whoop-Up, at the junction of the Belly and the St.Mary's Rivers. This fort had become a rendezvous for all the traderswithin hundreds of miles, a point of supply for many small postsscattered along the rivers of the North.

  Twelve oxen were hitched to each three-wagon load. Four teams had leftFort Benton together, but two of them had turned east toward WoodMountain before the party was out of the Assiniboine country. West hadpushed across Lonesome Prairie to the Sweet Grass Hills and from thereover the line into Canada.

  Under the best of conditions West was no pleasant traveling companion.Now he was in a state of continual sullen ill-temper. For the firsttime in his life he had been publicly worsted. Practically he hadbeen kicked out of the buffalo camp, just as though he were a drunkenhalf-breed and not one whose barroom brawls were sagas of thefrontier.

  His vanity was notorious, and it had been flagrantly outraged. Hewould never be satisfied until he had found a way to get his revenge.More than once his simmering anger leaped out at the young fellow whohad been a witness of his defeat. In the main he kept his rage sulkilyrepressed. If Tom Morse wanted to tell of the affair with McRae, hecould lessen the big man's prestige. West did not want that.

  The outfit crossed the Milk River, skirted Pakoghkee Lake, and swungwestward in the direction of the Porcupine Hills. Barney had been atrapper in the country and knew where the best grass was to be found.In many places the feed was scant. It had been cropped close by thegreat herds of buffalo roaming the plains. Most of the lakes werepolluted by the bison, so that whenever possible their guide foundcamps by running water. The teams moved along the Belly River throughthe sand hills.

  Tom Morse was a crack shot and did the hunting for the party. Theevening before the train reached Whoop-Up, he walked out from camp totry for an antelope, since they were short of fresh meat. He climbed asmall butte overlooking the stream. His keen eyes swept the panoramaand came to rest on a sight he had never before seen and would neverforget.

  A large herd of buffalo had come down to the river crossing. They wereswimming the stream against a strong current, their bodies low in thewater and so closely packed that he could almost have stepped from oneshaggy head to another. Not fifty yards from him they scrambled ashoreand went lumbering into the hazy dusk. Something had frightened themand they were on a stampede. Even the river had not stopped theirflight. The earth shook with their tread as they found their stride.

  That wild flight into the gathering darkness was symbolic, Morsefancied. The vast herds were vanishing never to return. Were theygalloping into the Happy Hunting Ground the Indians prayed for? Whatwould come of their flight? When the plains knew them no more, howwould the Sioux and the Blackfeet and the Piegans live? Would theLonesome Lands become even more desolate than they were now?

  "I wonder," he murmured aloud.

  It is certain that he could have had no vision of the empire soon tobe built out of the desert by himself and men of his stamp. Not evendimly could he have conceived a picture of the endless wheat-fieldsthat would stretch across the plains, of the farmers who would pourinto the North by hundreds of thousands, of the cities which wouldrise in the sand hills as a monument to man's restless push ofprogress and his indomitable hope. No living man's imagination had yetdreamed of the transformation of this _terra incognita_ into one ofthe world's great granaries.

  The smoke of the traders' camp-fire was curling up and drifting awayinto thin veils of film before the sun showed over the horizon hills.The bull-teams had taken up their steady forward push while the quailswere still flying to and from their morning water-holes.

  "Whoop-Up by noon," Barney predicted.

  "Yes, by noon," Tom Morse agreed. "In time for a real sure-enoughdinner with potatoes and beans and green stuff."

  "Y' bet yore boots, an' honest to gosh gravy," added Brad Stearns,a thin and wrinkled little man whose leathery face and bright eyesdefied the encroachment of time. He was bald, except for a fringe ofgrayish hair above the temples and a few long locks carefully disposedover his shiny crown. But nobody could have looked at him and calledhim old.

  They were to be disappointed.

  The teams struck the dusty road that terminated at the fort andwere plodding along it to the crackling accompaniment of the longbull-whips.

  "Soon now," Morse shouted to Stearns.

  The little man nodded. "Mebbe they'll have green corn on the cob.Betcha the price of the dinner they do."

  "You've made a bet, dad."

  Stearns halted the leaders. "What's that? Listen."

  The sound of shots drifted to them punctuated by faint, far yells. Theshots did not come in a fusillade. They were intermittent, died down,popped out again, yielded to whoops in distant crescendo.

  "Injuns," said Stearns. "On the peck, looks like. Crees and Blackfeet,maybe, but you never can tell. Better throw off the trail and dig in."

  West had ridden up. He nodded. "Till we know where we're at. Get busy,boys."

  They drew up the wagons in a semicircle, end to end, the oxen bunchedinside, partially protected by a small cottonwood grove in the rear.

  This done, West gave further orders. "We gotta find out what's doin'.Chances are it's nothin' but a coupla bunches of braves with a cargoof redeye aboard, Tom, you an' Brad scout out an' take a look-see.Don't be too venturesome. Soon's you find out what the rumpus is,hot-foot it back and report, y' understand." The big wolfer snappedout directions curtly. There was no more competent wagon boss in theborder-land than he.

  Stearns and Morse rode toward the fort. They deflected from the roadand followed the river-bank to take advantage of such shrubbery asgrew there. They moved slowly and cautiously, for in the Indiancountry one took no unnecessary chances. From the top of a small rise,shielded by a clump of willows, the two looked down on a field ofbattle already decided. Bullets and arrows were still flying, but thedefiant, triumphant war-whoops of a band of painted warriors slowlymoving toward them showed that the day was won and lost. A smallergroup of Indians was retreating toward the swamp on the left-hand sideof the road. Two or three dead braves lay in the grassy swale betweenthe foes.

  "I done guessed it, first crack," Brad said. "Crees and Blackfeet.They sure enough do mix it whenever they get together. The Creesce'tainly got the jump on
'em this time."

  It was an old story. From the northern woods the Crees had comedown to trade at the fort. They had met a band of Blackfeet who hadtraveled up from the plains for the same purpose. Filled with badliquor, the hereditary enemies had as usual adjourned to the groundoutside for a settlement while the traders at the fort had locked thegates and watched the battle from the loopholes of the stockade.

  "Reckon we better blow back to camp," suggested the old plainsman."Mr. Cree may be feelin' his oats heap much. White man look all sameBlackfeet to him like as not."

  "Look." Morse pointed to a dip in the swale.

  An Indian was limping through the brush, taking advantage of suchcover as he could find. He was wounded. His leg dragged and he movedwith difficulty.

  "He'll be a good Injun mighty soon," Stearns said, rubbing his baldhead as it shone in the sun. "Not a chance in the world for him.They'll git him soon as they reach the coulee. See. They're stoppin'to collect that other fellow's scalp."

  At a glance Morse had seen the situation. This was none of his affair.It was tacitly understood that the traders should not interfere inthe intertribal quarrels of the natives. But old Brad's words, "goodInjun," had carried him back to a picture of a brown, slim girlflashing indignation because Americans treated her race as though onlydead Indians were good ones. He could never tell afterward what wasthe rational spring of his impulse.

  At the touch of the rein laid flat against its neck, the cow-pony herode laid back its ears, turned like a streak of light, and leaped toa hand gallop. It swept down the slope and along the draw, gatheringspeed with every jump.

  The rider let out a "Hi-yi-yi" to attract the attention of the woundedbrave. Simultaneously the limping fugitive and the Crees caught sightof the flying horseman who had obtruded himself into the fire zone.

  An arrow whistled past Morse. He saw a bullet throw up a spurt of dirtbeneath the belly of his horse. The Crees were close to their quarry.They closed in with a run. Tom knew it would be a near thing. Heslackened speed slightly and freed a foot from the stirrup, stiffeningit to carry weight.

  The wounded Indian crouched, began to run parallel with the horse, andleaped at exactly the right instant. His hand caught the sleeve of hisrescuer at the same time that the flat of his foot dropped upon thewhite man's boot. A moment, and his leg had swung across the rump ofthe pony and he had settled to the animal's back.

  So close was it that a running Cree snatched at the bronco's tail andwas jerked from his feet before he could release his hold.

  As the cow-pony went plunging up the slope, Morse saw Brad Stearnssilhouetted against the sky-line at the summit. His hat was gone andhis bald head was shining in the sun. He was pumping bullets from hisrifle at the Crees surging up the hill after his companion.

  Stearns swung his horse and jumped it to a lope. Side by side withMorse he went over the brow in a shower of arrows and slugs.

  "Holy mackerel, boy! What's eatin' you?" he yelled. "Ain't you got anysense a-tall? Don't you know better 'n to jump up trouble thataway?"

  "We're all right now," the younger man said. "They can't catch us."

  The Crees were on foot and would be out of range by the time theyreached the hilltop.

  "Hmp! They'll come to our camp an' raise Cain. Why not? What businesswe got monkeyin' with their scalping sociables? It ain't neighborly."

  "West won't like it," admitted Morse.

  "He'll throw a cat fit. What do you aim to do with yore friendMighty-Nigh-Lose-His-Scalp? If I know Bully--and you can bet a silverfox fur ag'in' a yard o' tobacco that I do--he won't give no glad handto him. Not none."

  Morse did not know what he meant to do with him. He had let an impulsecarry him to quixotic action. Already he was half-sorry for it, but hewas obstinate enough to go through now he had started.

  When he realized the situation, Bully West exploded in languagesulphurous. He announced his determination to turn the wounded manover to the Crees as soon as they arrived.

  "No," said Morse quietly.

  "No what?"

  "I won't stand for that. They'd murder him."

  "That any o' my business--or yours?"

  "I'm makin' it mine."

  The eyes of the two men crossed, as rapiers do, feeling out thestrength back of them. The wounded Indian, tall and slender, stoodstraight as an arrow, his gaze now on one, now on the other. His facewas immobile and expressionless. It betrayed no sign of the emotionswithin.

  "Show yore cards, Morse," said West. "What's yore play? I'm goin' totell the Crees to take him if they want him. You'll go it alone if yougo to foggin' with a six-shooter."

  The young man turned to the Indian he had rescued. He waved a handtoward the horse from which they had just dismounted. "Up!" heordered.

  The Indian youth caught the point instantly. Without using thestirrups he vaulted to the saddle, light as a mountain lion. His bareheels dug into the sides of the animal, which was off as though shotout of a gun.

  Horse and rider skirted the cottonwoods and disappeared in adepression beyond.