Free Dreams of Eagles by William W. Johnstone Page B

long, for they were a long way from home and he knew they were not on the best of terms, at this time, with the Cheyenne and the Arapaho. He would wait them out.
    The passageway behind him was probably a hundred yards long and twisting, the stone walls around the hidden little valley hundreds of feet high. Even if the horses whinnied, they would not be heard.
    Jamie returned briefly to the horses. They had grazed some, drank their fill of the cold, pure spring water, and rolled. They were fine. Jamie returned to the mouth of the opening. He would remain there until the danger was past.
    Several times during the night, the Blackfoot war chief returned silently to the small copse of timber. He would stand for a few moments, listening, his eyes busy. Jamie could feel his anger and frustration. The Blackfoot war chief knew his prey was near. But if he could not find the opening in the daylight, he certainly was not going to find it at night. He returned once more just after dawn and prowled the timber, actually coming within a few yards of the opening. Still, he failed to spot it. Finally, he threw up his hands, and with a snort of disgust, he walked out into the clearing and yelled. His horse was brought to him and he swung up and rode away. This time, Jamie felt he really was leaving.
    Jamie stayed in the tiny clearing for another twenty-four hours, resting and eating. Come the dawning, he packed up and saddled up, leading the horses to the entrance of the passageway. Jamie stood in the timber for several minutes, listening and watching. Birds pecked the rocky ground for food and squirrels were chattering in the timber above the cul-de-sac. But he knew that really meant nothing. For if the war chief had returned to lie in wait for him, the animals would have grown used to his presence.
    Jamie could wait no more. He walked back to his horses and rode out. At the mouth of the cul-de-sac, he rode smack into the Blackfeet.

Nine
    The war chief had sent most of his men on ahead, staying behind with three of probably his best warriors. With a scream of triumph, the Blackfoot rushed Jamie. Jamie leveled his rifle one-handed and shot the war chief in the chest, the heavy ball knocking the Indian off his horse and creating panic among the three warriors with him, as Jamie had hoped it would. For without their chief, the three others, in all likelihood, would not continue the fight. They would have to make medicine.
    Amid angry shouts, Jamie put the scene behind him and rode hard to the west, hoping to throw off any pursuers. Several miles later he stopped to rest his horses. He could spot no signs of being followed. He had guessed correctly; the Blackfoot warriors were confused and not likely to pick up the chase now.
    But one thing had caught Jamie’s eyes: two of the scalps tied to the war chief’s lance had come from whites. And they were fresh scalps. One of them appeared to be that of a woman.
    Jamie decided to backtrack the war party. He waited an hour, then rode cautiously back to the entrance of the blind canyon. The Blackfeet were gone, riding north, taking the body of the war chief with them. Jamie found the trail of the war party and began tracking it south and slightly east. After two days’ ride, he found wagon ruts and concluded that this must be what some people were now calling the Oregon Trail. He was undecided as to what direction to go, east or west. He finally chose west. A few miles later, he found what he had been hoping he would not find. The remains of a small wagon train. The wagons had been turned over, looted, but not burned.
    The buzzards and ground scavengers had made a mess out of the bodies, but Jamie could tell that some of the women and girls had been raped. He squatted down amid the carnage and thought back. None of those Blackfeet had been wearing any articles of white man’s clothing. They had been traveling light, and carrying no booty. Jamie inspected the wagons. He could not find