Mountain Game

Chapter Six

The Siege

Letter From Family

April 30, 1823

Dear Sir:

My brother recently answered your advertisement for employ. I wish to reach him with some important news. Could you please forward the enclosed letter to Isaac Gibson, or let me know how he can be reached?

Sincerely,

Daniel Gibson

* * *

 Five riders came full tilt across the rolling meadow, the lead man bursting through the break in the trees on the edge of the outer rim of the encampment, about five rods ahead of the others. Zeb rose, lifting his rifle, as Willie came on the run, barefoot, still struggling with the top of his one-piece-wool underwear.

Zeb spun at the sound of a war cry that pierced the air and a shower of arrows rained down on the camp.

Willie shrieked out in pain as an arrow struck his left side, passing through his rather abundant love handle, and another lodged itself in his right thigh, just above the knee. The man stumbled, caught his balance with the butt of his rifle and staggered to the nearby cover of a group of trees.

The lead horseman, with rifle in hand, reined his horse at the sound of the enemy. The animal began a slide, going down on its front legs. While still in the slide, the man threw his left leg over the front of the saddle, leaving his mount and continued at a run to try and reach his friend and ward off the attackers.

Zeb turned to his right, catching sight of a brave hurling insults in front of a large smattering of pine trees. The warrior spun, bending over, and exposed the fleshy side of his seat, still screaming insults.

Zeb raised his rifle and fired in one quick motion, hitting the brave in the backside. The bullet shattered the tailbone and snapped the backbone, throwing the brave forward into the branches of a small pine tree. Zeb heard Clay’s rifle discharge a short distance behind, at which both men made a break for the nearby cover of a large fallen tree.

Two other riders came to a halt at the break of the camp, but too close to come off unscathed. The foremost horseman, on an Appaloosa, turned his ride as an arrow lodged itself in his calf, while two others struck his horse in the neck and rump, causing the animal to falter then rear up; but weakened and off balance the Appaloosa fell over backwards.

A brave, charging from the cover of nearby brush, launched himself at the other rider on a white Indian pony. With both legs straddling the rider, the Indian drove the man from the saddle simultaneously grabbing the man by his long beard and driving his blade into the right shoulder, missing the intended spinal cord at the base of the neck.

Zeb pulled his German horse pistol from his belt and set it in easy reach then began to reload his rifle. Before he could finish, an Indian charged him from his left. Grabbing his horse pistol he shot the brave cold, then dropped both his pistol and rifle. With a defiant cry, Zeb pulled his tomahawk from his belt to meet the charge of a second hostile emerging from the nearby cover of trees.

Zeb deflected the swing of the enemy’s war-axe with his tomahawk, while bending slightly to retrieve his long, Green River butcher’s knife from his boot. In one seemingly continual motion he plunged the blade deep in the abdomen of his would be assailant. With the forward motion of the brave and the disemboweling upward cut, Zeb threw the Indian over his head, clearing the fallen tree now at his left side.

A third enemy pounced with a horrid scream. Zebulon spun, deflecting two stabbing cuts with his hunting knife, then caught the attacker in the crotch with an upward swing of his tomahawk. His enemy staggered as Zebulon tried to plunge his blade into the assailant, but the stroke was deflected by the opponent’s knife. With one fatal swing of the battle-axe Zeb cleaved the top of the warrior’s ear and buried his weapon an inch into the skull of the Indian. The enemy fell back lifeless, wrenching the axe from Zeb’s grip.

A pistol shot grabbed Zeb’s attention. Turning he noticed two of his fallen comrades at the break in the camp. One was down with an Indian pulling his blade through the dead man’s scalp, removing the top patch of hair. Behind him another brave was leading off, as spoils of war, Zeb, Clay, Willie’s and the now scalped man’s horse.

In the field beyond a spooked Appaloosa charged through the meadow dragging a man whose right leg was caught in the stirrup.

The brave on the back of Zeb’s dead friend stood, lifting the scalp high and looking right at Zebulon yelling out a defiant challenge as he waved his bloody prize in the air.

Zeb was distracted by a sound behind and spun in time to meet the attack of an Indian coming over the top of the fallen tree. The enemy jumped, as Zeb ducked under the assailant’s right side, bringing his blade up into the abdomen of his foe. Using the forward momentum of the assassin, Zeb pulled himself around and behind the bleeding warrior, grabbing him by the hair. As the victim fell to his knees, Zebulon freed his knife from the man’s stomach and carved his blade through the scalp of his would-be assailant. He then lifted the bloody black locks of hair and hide in full view of the defiant warrior he was again facing: the one who had taken his friend’s scalp. “You yellow squaw, let’s see how you fair with me.”

The Indian began his charge with a fierce war cry; but not moving far, flew backward spinning at the report of a rifle sounding about two rods distance from Zeb’s and Clay’s location. Zeb watched as the warrior hit the ground still clutching the scalp, a large hole through his chest.

Zebulon looked in the direction of the discharge, seeing Claude who had veered his horse from the meadow to the east of the camp.

“Whatcha do that for?” barked Zeb, looking over at Claude.

Clay fired his rifle pitching a warrior into the crotch of a tree.

“Dun’t have time fer nun of dat,” spat Claude, yelling back at Zebulon.

Zeb ducked as a torrent of arrows perforated the earth around his position, one hitting him in the leg.

Another hit Clay in the hip. “I tink it ta be time ta be going,” Clay grimaced.

Zeb nodded pulling the shaft from his thigh. “I’m right behind you,“ and gathered up his rifle and pistol looked over the fallen tree at Claude, “Meet at Big Yellow.” Then waving his arm, “Git yer topknot outta here before you lose it fer sure.”

Claude, reloading his rifle yelled back, “I’ll git the otter packers.” Then ran to where he left his horse.

While retrieving his tomahawk, Zeb glanced at Clay busy reloading his muzzleloader. “Where’s Willie?” Zeb asked.

Clay stayed low and close to the trunk of the fallen tree. “He’d blew,” was the response, as he removed the rod from its barrel and slipping upward against the tree for support, Clay grabbed the shaft of the arrow and pulled it from his hip without even a grunt. Taking a breath, he grimaced. “Broke the ridge yonder,” nodding to the Northeast.

Claude reached his horse, then threw the opposite rein around the animal’s neck and looped it through a notch in the saddle. Reaching up with his left hand, he grabbed the hair of the mane just in front of the pad. The animal, somewhat spooked by the noise of the war party, began to spin its back end away from the rider, making almost a full circle around the trapper. Claude managed to get one foot in the stirrup, spinning some on his right foot, when the animal broke into a dead run out into the meadow. With rifle in right hand, and one foot in the stirrup, Claude pulled himself forward with his left hand then dropped back and hopped with his right foot and swung into the saddle already some distance from where he had started his journey.

The whoops and hollers of the war party, reveling in the victory and spoil of the conflict, prepared for another assault. It was a customary behavior that signaled a short break. Clay reloaded his pistol and began to crawl toward Zeb. For a time the war party had seemed to lose interest in their game, but the break wouldn’t last long.

Zeb nodded as he turned and worked his way down the length of the fallen pine. He then paused to finish reloading his rifle, then the pistol. Looking up, he saw Claude with a good lead on a small band of eight Indians in pursuit. Zeb leveled his rifle on the lead rider of the war party. It was a long shot, but Zeb felt the need to even up the odds some for Claude. Taking in consideration of the distance and the speed of the riders, Zeb led his target and fired. About the time the smoke cleared from the discharge the lead Indian dropped from his buffalo-pad saddle. The two companions then slipped into the dense underbrush and foliage of their surroundings.

Claude, looking over his shoulder was assessing his options, when the lead Indian fell from the saddle. He then heard the report of the rifle. He knew Zeb had dropped the enemy; it was the shot of a marksman that few men could have made. He thanked Zeb under his breath, then reined his horse to face the oncoming enemy.

Two of the Indians fired rifles at Claude as he heard the fusee balls whistle by. With horse stopped and now facing the assault Claude took aim and fired, hitting an assailant. The party split apart with some still continuing their charge. Another fusee whistled by.

Claude now knew he had misjudged the time he had. Without removing the rod or lifting the rifle from his side he pointed the barrel at the two Indians approaching from the right and fired from the hip at the brave furthest back of the two, knocking him from the saddle. 

 In a fortunate chain of events his ramrod had shattered upon the discharge of the weapon and a large section of the rod lodged itself in the left shoulder of the foremost rider, almost dropping him from his mount. 

 He then drew his pistol from his belt and fired at his attackers from the left as a war lance grazed his right shoulder. The ball hit its mark and Claude spurred his horse forward when another rider drove his mount at full speed into Claude's animal, turning his ride and knocking his mount to its knees. The force of the impact caused Claude to drop his pistol and lose his balance as the attacker with battle-axe held high plunged forward over the top of his pony at the impact, hitting Claude in the chest, driving him from the saddle. Both hit the ground, but Claude was able to break free of his assailant, rolling to the side and away from his enemy at the same time pulling his knife.

Jumping to their feet, facing each other, they then lunged in an all-out charge, both yelling a war cry. Claude collided with his foe blocking the downward swing of the tomahawk with his left forearm while driving his knife into the abdomen of his enemy lifting him off the ground with the force of his right shoulder’s impact. He then ripped the battle-axe from the dying man’s hand and turned to face two more riders charging in at full speed with bows ready.

Both riders had held back some from the others of their party. Seeing Claude as a formidable enemy and not sure of his weaponry they rode the side of their mounts: one leg over the back of the horse, with bow at full draw under the animal’s neck.

The Trapper had seen this type of attack before when in the company of eight others: trapped on a small wooded delta three years back. Half the enemy of about forty strong would ride using their horses as a shield to draw fire and get closer into bow range against a force of rifles while others approached the delta by stealth. It was a desperate battle that lasted several days, in one hundred-degree temperature. The white men’s horses had been killed early on and by the third day the smell of the rotting animals, gunpowder, human waste and dead comrades, was almost unbearable. Weak from feeding on raw rancid horse flesh, and an inability to get to the river during the day, Claude was selected on the third night to escape and get help before they were all too weak to travel. He had successfully evaded the enemy, but upon returning four days later with a party of twenty white trappers, found the mangled remains of the small group of hostages.

Today Claude's chances of escape looked less probable. The horsemanship of Claude’s enemies was unmatched. The guerilla fighters were armed with horse and bow and he with only hand-to-hand weapons. Claude made a break for his horse as the two riders rode by at full gallop passing within a rod’s distance unloading their bows. Both missed as Claude reached his animal, grabbing the front of the saddle with both hands. The horse broke into a gallop as Claude jumped forward of the animal, with both his legs together, still hanging onto the front bridge of the saddle while being carried by the horse away from his enemy. The forward motion of the horse pivoted Claude's feet to the animal’s side as the man repeated his maneuver, jumping forward then swinging into the saddle.

The enemy, upon missing their target swung upright into their saddles almost in unison. Reining their horses to a sliding stop with sod flying and back ends low the horses spun on their hind legs turning a full 180 degrees and broke out into pursuit of the quarry.

Claude looked back over his left shoulder to see his short lead when his eye caught sight of a gray Appaloosa lifting its head up from the meadow’s grass. It was Jed’s horse. Claude had seen Jed being dragged. The animal must have gotten tripped up and gone down. Jed carried two pistols on his saddle and perhaps Jed’s rifle was still in its boot. He hoped they were still there.

Claude slid his left hand down his animal’s neck taking the rein and turned his mount to the left. His enemy was gaining with bows drawn. Time was short. Claude slipped his left stirrup and swung to the right side of his...