Brothers of the Mountain
By Jeremy Perry
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 Jeremy Perry
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Henry McCarty steered his buckskin mount slowly through the timbered foothills of the Rocky Mountains. The mountain man had been trailing the small alliance of Blackfeet Indians for two grueling days. He wrangled with a fierce urge to charge into their camp with guns blazing, but he could never compromise the life of his brother. Instead, he continued to bide his time, waiting for the right moment to free Lucas and escape the savagery for which the Blackfeet were known.
The tough mountain man had witnessed an array of tragedies ever since he and his younger brother had arrived in the Rocky Mountains to become free trappers. He had many cold and hellish memories of such vile occasions. It was only two years before that he and Lucas had stumbled upon a young couple that had been brutally tortured and murdered at the hands of renegade Indians. He only hoped this would not be another one of those occasions.
The flashback weighed heavily on the mountaineer’s mind as he rode along.
“Goddamn savages,’’ were the words he muttered under his breath.
Henry rode higher up the hillside and circled into position. He reined in on the stallion. He sat quietly upon his horse and gazed with cold brown eyes at the four Blackfeet warriors below.
“There’s them sons-of-bitches, Chester,” he whispered to his faithful companion.
The small group appeared not to be dressed in decorative war garb, but gave the appearance of a small hunting party. Henry knew that, much like any renegade alliance, this group harbored vigorous killing instincts as well, and would not hesitate to prove it at the expense of any white man.
He watched as two of the vile rogues carefully skinned a large mule deer. Another scoundrel tended to the horses, while the fourth began constructing a fire in the middle of the camp. Presumably, a feast was in the making, and Henry wanted desperately to crash their party.
“Can’t really make out who them injuns are,” he said to his horse. He squinted and then cocked his head to the right, bringing his focus back to the hooligan who was tending the ponies.
“I wouldn’t swear to it, but one of them ruffians looks like ole Mighty Wind himself.” Mighty Wind was the legendary Blackfoot warrior and son of Chief Eagle Spirit. He was infamous among many trappers throughout the western frontier.
Henry’s eyes continued to gaze over the small clearing below. He was about to presume the unthinkable, when he finally discovered his brother tied to a tree on the outskirts of the Blackfeet camp.
“Would you look at that,” he said to Chester. “They got Lucas bound like some crazed animal.”
Lucas appeared to be beaten down and horribly famished, but at least he was still alive. He sat on the ground with his broad, muscular frame slouching forward. His long, sandy brown locks hung down his face hiding his prominent square jowl.
It was then, while looking down upon the camp, that Henry realized Mighty Wind did not intend to kill Lucas, at least not right away. Bringing back a captured white man to the Blackfeet village, Henry knew, would bring great honor to Mighty Wind, and would position him higher in the village council. However, this would not stop the warriors from making Lucas’ life a living hell.
Henry would have to make a decision and make it soon. By morning, the four Blackfeet, along with Lucas, would be on their horses and headed back to their village, and any hope of freeing Lucas would be lost forever.
Time was indeed running out, but the current odds were not in Henry’s favor. As much as he loathed the idea, the mountain man would have to wait for a more suitable opportunity.
“Them damn injuns are gonna pay … and pay dearly,” he said, as he wheeled his horse back around. He and Chester eased back to camp and waited for nightfall.
Now forced to wait, Henry sat in the vast, idle loneliness of the western frontier. He did not like this temporary delay, but he knew there was no other choice.
He struggled while trying to sway his mind in another direction, one that didn’t involve images of his brother being despicably tortured. The Blackfeet had become notorious in the western frontier for their unorthodox treatment of prisoners. They found great pleasure in watching a grown white man beg and plea for his life. Henry’s entire body squirmed as the horrid thoughts swirled inside his head.
Finally, by some unbound grace, the mountain man shifted his thinking. He began reflecting upon the first time he and Lucas had come to the Rockies in 1823. The flashback was a soothing comfort and momentarily transported his thoughts to happier times. He asked himself, had it been seven years already? In his mind, it seemed so long ago. The first notion of stepping off the family farm had seemed almost unthinkable back then. He remembered his mamma lecturing and forbidding him and Lucas to venture off into this unknown land. It was during times like this that he’d wished he’d listened. Vivian McCarty had tried many times to tell her sons of the viciousness and the uncompromising ways of the West. Some men do not live past their first winter, her voiced still echoed loudly in Henry’s mind. However, they had made it past that starkly cold first winter and a few more after that.
The brothers were not strangers to the open wilderness. Henry and Lucas had roamed the hills and hollows of the Appalachian Mountains ever since they were able to take their first steps. They had come west to fulfill their wanton urges to seek out uncharted territories and gain desirable profits as respectable fur trappers and honorable mountain men. They had heard about the grand explorations of Lewis and Clark, and the exciting adventures of John Colter, along with many other exploring pioneers. It had been the tales of these men that had fueled their desire to travel westward.
As Henry became engrossed in his beloved memories, he thought it best to shake these passing reflections.
“It was daydreamin’ and carelessness that got us in this fine predicament in the first place,” he sternly grumbled to himself. After returning from his reverie, uncertainty and frustration once again rushed his mind. He was quickly reminded of his present condition and of his brother’s unfortunate mishap two days prior.
Lucas had ridden downstream to check on some remaining beaver traps, while Henry stayed at camp organizing for the long ride to the approaching trappers’ rendezvous. Since most of the day had passed and Lucas had yet to make his return, Henry had set out to find his little brother. After traveling downstream for many miles, Henry had come upon many unshod pony tracks scattered over the ground, and he had discovered Lucas’ rifle leaning against a tree.
As he sat, scratching his grizzly beard, the mountain man was still confused as he replayed the scenario over in his mind. He could never have imagined his brother making such a crucial mistake.
“How could he be so damn careless?” he grumbled again. “He should know better than to put too much space between him and his gun.” This was the unspoken proclamation made by every trapper who ventured into the untamed wilderness.
As darkness fell, Henry sat at his fireless camp, mulling over his strategy. He would wait until the early hours of the morning before carrying out his plan. By then he hoped the Blackfeet would be long passed out from over consumption of whiskey and venison. The approaching homecoming and the capturing of the white fur trapper were more than enough reasons for the Blackfeet to celebrate, and their revelry seemed, to Henry, almost inevitable.
The frontiersman sat and watched as the moon drifted up and over the farthest mountain peaks. Throughout the night, he listened to the majestic howls and cries of a lone wolf. Henry loved this new land he had ventured to. He’d learned to appreciate and deeply respect the mountains, valleys, and prairies. Henry and Lucas had grown to call the High Lonesome their everlasting home.
As the time approached to depart, Henry began to quietly pack-up his camp. He loaded and tied down both packhorses with all the necessary provisions. He then saddled Chester, preparing to head out in the stillness of the early morning.