Blood Moon

 by Anaya B. (ages 14-17)

A story of Riley Prescott’s father, Robert

 

Montana 1845

 

What would mama think if she saw me now? She’s probably lookin’ down from heaven awonderin’ what kinda rogue pa’s turnin’ me inta. A picture of his mother lying on the floor of a tipi flashed into mind. Her white face smeared with blood and dirt, sweat plastering brown strands of hair to her forehead.

Robert Prescott swiped the grubby sleeve of his buckskin shirt across his face and shook away the memory. Lord it’s been five years. I was only six an’ the only memory of her I have left is watchin’ her die in that Absarokee tipi. Why did that mountain lion have t’ attack her? Why Lord?

    A shrill whistle jerked him from his thoughts. Listening he glanced around. A finch chattered in the nearby willows that lined the creek he was following. It gurgled cheerfully on its way to the Yellowstone River. The gully’s almost vertical walls rose up on his right. Robert’s paint horse shifted under him and the smell of acrid mud floated up tingling his nostrils. Something pricked the back of his neck. He reached up and scratched it then ran his fingers through his brown hair. It was about four inches long and thick with dirt and grime. The whistle sounded again.

“Let’s go see who that is.” He dug his heels into his mounts black and white sides. The paint stepped forward. The mud slurped and squelched trying to suck the horse and rider down into its dark sludgy innards. It only succeeded in blackening the horse’s hooves and pasterns with a thick greyish brown substance.

Robert steered the paint towards the steep walls. He kicked the horse and galloped up it. Greenish brown grass spread out in front of them like a big rolling carpet. A steep rocky ridge dotted with ponderosa and sagebrush rose up on his right. A buckskin clad boy appeared over a rise and galloped towards him. His long matted blond hair streamed out like the fringes on his shirt and leggings. A hunting knife was stuffed into a worn leather belt buckled around his waist. Clear blue eyes looked out from the 14 year old’s tanned face.

Robert grinned. “Howdy Zeke.”

Zeke pulled his bay to a stop a few feet away from Robert. “I think I misunderstood what y’ said. There ain’t no traps at Sage Springs.”

“But thats where I put ‘em. Right t’under that ol’ dead willa tree.” Robert ran his hazel gaze over his friend. “Ya sure they ain’t there?”

Zeke dropped his gaze. “Don’t look at me like that it makes m’ feel like I’ve dun somethin’.”

Robert grinned. “Race ya t’ Sage Springs.” He whooped and dug his heels into his horses sides. The paint took off like a shot.

“Robert wait…” Zeke’s shout faded into the pounding of hooves against sod.

Robert leaned forward and gave the paint his head. The horse stretched out going even faster. The wind whistled in his ears and the paint’s black mane whipped against his face. He slowed to a walk five minutes later at Sage springs. Robert slid to the ground and went to a rotton Willow tree that lay on its side. He walked around it.  There was no sign of the six beaver traps he’d put there the day before.

“They ain’t there.” Zeke halted his horse.

“I kin see that.”

“Then what you lookin’ fer?”

“Those.” Robert pointed to the set of two sets of tracks leading away from the willow. “That one’s yers.” He motioned to the smaller set of hoof prints. “An’ the others pro’bly a half draft hoss packin’ somethin’ heavy. ‘E’s headin’ northeast.” Robert grabbed a hunk of his paint’s mane and pulled himself onto the horses back.

He glanced at his shadow. “It’s two o’clock, let’s follow…” he froze. “It cain’t be two o’clock! Zeke tell me it ain’t.”

Zeke scratched the back of his head. “Waal…it is. Why?”

Robert groaned. “Uncle Henry said I had t’ be back by one and not a minute later. I’m gunna be two hours late. C’mon we need t’ get back t’ the fort.”

“What ‘bout yer traps?”

“They kin wait.”

An hour later they came into view of the seven foot high log stockade walls of Fort Alexander. The  wood shingle roof that belonged to it’s only pernament building stood like a mountain in the middle of a forest of pointy topped trees. Robert and Zeke trotted through the entrance. “Robert Prescott!” A big man stood on the steps of the trading post. He almost took up the whole doorway.

Robert stared at him.

The man’s black hair was unusually combed and his face clean shaven. Instead of the usual buckskin clothing he wore a white flannel shirt and dark blue trousers. “Where in tarnation have you been? I told you to be here at one. It’s three o’clock.”

Robert slid to the ground. “Sorry sir.”

The man’s grey eyes glared down at him from under dark bushy eyebrows. “You are just like you father, boy.”

“Thanks fer the compliment, sir.”

“Don’t smart off at me,” The man snapped. “When you decide your ready to mind your manners come inside. I’ve got someone for you to meet.” The floorboards creaked as he stomped inside.

Robert sighed. He led his paint into the corral which joined onto the far wall of the building and let him go. “Why’s Uncle Henry always so grumpy? Why don’t he like pa?” He rubbed the gelding’s forehead.

“He jist don’t alike the way yer pa goes about doin’ some thin’s.” Zeke opened the gate and let his horse go. “We goin’ inside?”

“Reckon.” Robert walked around to the back door, pushed it open and stepped inside. Zeke followed. Robert stopped short and stared at the interesting creature standing beside his Uncle. It was around five feet and three inches tall. Golden long golden hair cascaded down its thin shoulders and eyes the colour of a mountain bog gentian flower stared back at him. The creature’s waist was no bigger than Robert’s uncle’s arm and it wore a green gingham dress. Robert grunted in surprise. “Zeke lookee it’s a white woman. I h’ain’t seen one of ‘em since me an’ pa went t’ St Louis a few years back.”

“A white woman!” the girl planted her hands on her small hips.

Henry glared at Robert and Zeke. “Esmeralda, this is you cousin, Robert Prescott and his friend Zeke Turner. Robert, this is Esmeralda my daughter.”

“My cousin!” The girl shrieked. “They look like Indians!”

“Yer daughter?” Robert eyed his uncle. “Ya never said ya had one of ‘em.”

“I do and she’s come to live with us. Go get yourself washed up and into some nicer clothes. You look a sight.”

Robert was about to protest then thought better of it. “Yes sir.” His beaded moccasins made no sound as he strode across the room and pushed a door open. “C’mon Zeke.”

His friend followed him inside. The room was fifteen feet by seven. A shelf lined one wall. It had an assortment of bags, cloths and other items stacked on it.  Six or seven sacks of cornmeal and other sorts of grain sat against the adjoining wall. A small window was set in the back covered with a piece of burlap. Robert’s saddle, bedroll, musket, powderhorn, hunting pouch and other gear sat in the far corner.

Zeke raised his eyebrows. “Ya sleep in ‘ere?”

“Yep.” Robert started to go through his things. “It’s a bit of a squeeze. But…” he shrugged.

“What ya gunna do bout yer traps?”

“Go out there t’morra see if I kin track that fulla down an’ if I find him with ‘em he’s gunna have his hair raised an’ be left fer wolf meat.” Robert glanced down at the shirt he was wearing. “This ain’t even dirty.”

“Zeke.” Someone called.

“That sounds like my pa,” Zeke turned. “He said he was stoppin’ by here to pick up some last supplies.”

“You leavin’ fer somewhere?”

“Didn’t I tell ya? We’re headin’ up t’ the Missouri.”

“When?”

“Leavin’ Tomorrow.”

“Oh. g’bye Zeke.”

“Bye Robert. Hope ya get yer traps back.” Zeke walked out of the store room and shut the door behind him. Robert sighed and pulled on some new buckskins. Zeke’s leavin’. I’m gunna be stuck here with uncle Henry and this Esmeralda girl. For the next…however long. Why couldn’t I’ve gone with pa? A few minutes later, Robert came out into the main room they lived in. Henry and Esmeralda were sitting at the roughewn table. A black stove stood to the left, beside a shelf holding tin cups, plates, forks and knives. A doorway into the store stood in the middle of the right wall. Crates and boxes sat in various places around the room. Robert walked over to the table and pulled out a chair. Henry and Esmeralda looked up. “Why I thought father told you to get into some nice clothes.”

“I ‘ave.” Robert sat down.

Esmeralda wrinkled her nose. “Then why are you still in those dirty animal skins? You look like an Indian.”

“Wal… I’va only got these ‘ere buckskins.”

“Robert don’t talk like that in the presence of a lady.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Father told me the people out here were a bit rough,” Esmeralda stood. “But I had no idea that they went around looking like Indians. It’s a good thing I brought these for you.”

“What?” Robert eyed her.

She lifted a box off the floor, put it on the table and pulled out a widebrimmed black felt hat. Robert grinned and took the hat. “Thanks.”

“Don’t forget these.” Esmeralda pulled out a pair of trousers, a flannel shirt and coat. “Go try them on. We can’t have your runnin’ round looking like a savage.”

“Y-you mean I can’t wear buckskins? But…”

“C’mon Robert.” Henry stood up. Robert followed his uncle into his room.

“You ain’t…”

“Aren’t,” Henry corrected.

“You aren’t gunna…”

“Going…”

“You aren’t going to let her boss me around like that are you? How can I go trappin’ in these.” Robert glared at the clothes he held.

“You will mind what your cousin tells you and obey her, understand? Also this will now be her bedroom. You’ll have to sleep in the main room with me.  

Robert sighed. “Alright sir.”

                                                   ******

Robert stared up at the roof and wished for a open sky. Lord your probably gittin’ sick of me sayin’ this but keep pa safe an’ Zeke, Mr Turner, and his wife Shining Star as the head up t’ the Missouri. He sighed and sat up. Grimacing he pulled on the shirt and trousers. What’s wrong with buckskins? They last longer an’ are comfier then these. Guess I’ll have t’ git changed on the way.

He pulled on his moccasins then packed up his bedroll. He grabbed his powderhorn, hunting pouch and slung them over his shoulder then grabbed his musket, saddle and bedroll. He went outside. The sky was dark and dusted with stars. There was no moon and the sun showed no sign of rising. Robert saddled his paint. After loading up his gear he went back inside. Henry and Esmeralda were just rousing. “I’m going to try do some tracking,” Robert dumped some food and a small skillet in a sack. He grabbed a cake of cornbread off the shelf, dumped some molasses on it and took a bite.

“Alright but you better be back before dark.”

 “Acutually I could be gone a few nights. See you Uncle.”

“Robert…”

 He strode outside, grabbed his musket and swung into the saddle. I ain’t really disobeyin’ him he didn’t tell me I couldn’t. Ten minutes later, he halted his horse, changed into his buckskins and was soon back on his way. When he got to Sage Springs the tracks from yesterday were easy to find. Slowly the  sky turned grey in the east,  the stars fled from the suns mighty rays. It beat down on Robert’s back, drawing sweat. He pushed back the felt hat and let the early spring breeze blowing the down gorge cool his hot face. He squinted up at the cloudless blue sky. It shouldn’t be this hot in April.

“Willam.” Robert jerked his paint to a stop and listened.

“Yeah?”

“I got us a Jackrabbit. Shot straight through the head.”

“Looks like your improvin’.”

“Yep. With those traps…” The voices faded.

Robert gritted his teeth. So they have got my traps. He sensed someone else nearby and looked back. He saw no one. He pulled his horse into the shadow of a overhang and waited. A horse and rider came into view.

“Hey.”

Robert squinted. This is probably them’s partner. He leant his musket against the rock wall and pulled his legs up under him. He waited till the horse and rider were even with him then jumped tackling the rider from the saddle. Robert’s strong well muscled build easily pinned the small rider to the ground. Their scream made his blood run cold. He clamped a hand down over Esmeralda’s mouth and stared. “What on earth are ya doin’ ‘ere?” He let up his hand.

Esmeralda let out another terrified shriek, her eyes squeezed shut.

Robert replaced his hand. “Shut up.”

“Esmeralda! Robert!”

Robert jumped up. “Uncle Henry! Why…”

“Father!” Esmeralda sobbed. “Oh, it was horrible. He attacked me and threw me to the ground then…”

“It’s alright.” Henry helped her to her feet. He glared at Robert. “We’re going back to the fort.”

The ride back to Fort Alexander was a long silent one. “Go inside,” Henry ordered.

“Yes sir.” Robert swung down and went inside. He leant his musket against the wall then sat down at the table. When’ll pa git back? He’s be’n gone four months. Is he still alive? He mighta got stuck in a blizzard an’ froze. Or got attacked by a animal…

“Robert.”

Robert jumped and looked up. He cringed when he saw the look on his uncle’s face. “Am I in trouble?”

“Yes!” Esmeralda stomped past Henry. “You nearly killed me.” Scowling she stoked up the fire and started to prepare supper.

“Sorry. Uncle Henry can I go back out tomorrow?”

Henry gave a startled grunt. “Absolutely not. You’re staying right here.”

“But sir what about my traps.”

“Don’t but sir me. I’ll check ‘em for you.”

“Uncle I h’ain’t got no traps set.  I’m tryin’ t’ find ‘em they got stoled.”

“They what?” Henry looked up.

“I was trackin’ the men up that gorge when you came an’ took me back here.”

“Uh huh.” He sat down. “Okay your traps got nabbed. But you disobeyed me. You’re staying here.”

Robert sighed. “Pa would let me go.”

“Your father don’t care a nickel bout you and would let you do anything.” Esmeralda set a pot of beans on the table.

Robert glared at her. “He’s the best pa in the world an’ I’m gunna be jus’ like him an’ Jim Bridger when I grow up.”

Henry snorted. “Robert you can’t be like your pa and Jim Bridger. There the most opposite men I’ve ever heard of. Your pa’s a no good an’…”

“Pa ain’t no no good,” Robert stood up. “I’m goin’ to bed then in the mornin’ I’m goin’ out after those fellas. With or without your go ahead.”

The afternoon sun found Robert crouched behind a large sagebrush peering down at the camp below him? A red tailed hawk circled overhead and all was silent. The only thing left of the mens camp was the blackened ring of ash. Robert sighed, slung his musket over his shoulder and went back to his paint. He followed the tracks up the gorge for about two hours. The sun had sunk to the far corner of the horizon and cast the gorge in shadows.

Robert trotted around a bend and the gorge opened into a wide valley. Wood smoke drifted up from behind a rise a hundred yards away. There they are. He slid to the ground. “You stay here boy.” He gave the horse a pat then made his way to an outcropping that overlooked the camp, so swiftly and quietly it would put some Indians to shame. Robert could see two figures sitting beside a smouldering fire. They were talking. “Ya know I reckon it was divine providence that we found these traps by that dead willow tree.”

The other grunted.

“What d’ we have ‘ere?” Robert whirled. A man stood behind him, a musket in each hand and a pistol was stuffed in his belt.

“Who are ya?” Robert asked. Black hair framed his brown face and a old scar rode high on his cheek bone. “Those are some good lookin’ guns kinive a look? Please?”

The half-breed smirked. “Sure.” He held one of the muskets out the business end pointing at Robert.

Robert grabbed the barrel and shoved the gun back as hard as he could into the half-breed’s side. He swore and reeled backwards, dropped both muskets. Robert leapt out the way as he lunged. The half-breed slammed into the outcropping and sunk to the ground.

Robert grabbed the muskets and scrambled away from the outcropping.

“Ace?” A man appeared in front of Robert. “Hey!” Robert ducked around him and slammed the musket stocks into his legs. He swore and went down. There was a bright flash on the far side of the camp and a musket ball whizzed past Robert’s arm.

Robert threw one of muskets to his shoulder, returning the shot. He sprinted around the camp towards his horse. He stumbled over something warm and he froze.

It was a man. His face was unshaven and his brown hair long and matted. Dull hazel eyes stared into nothingness. A bullet hole made a red circle in his forehead. The familiar pattern on the man’s shirt caught Robert eye. He stared at the beaded buckskin. His mouth felt dry. “P-pa!” The muskets slipped from his grip and he dropped to his knees beside the man. Robert shook him. “Pa! You can’t be dead!”

He glanced at his father’s lifeless face and his vision blurred. “God No! Pa can’t be dead too! No!” Robert clenched his fists. Salty tears trickled down his dirty cheeks, his shoulders shook. He forgot bout his traps, about the half-breed and his partner, about everything and collapsed in the dirt.

Robert cried and cried till he had no tears left. He felt warm breath on the back of his neck and looked up. The paint horse nickered. Robert sniffed and rubbed the horse’s white head. He rose to his feet and didn’t look at the body on the ground. A gunshot sounded and the ball ripped through the paint’s right rein. The horse reared.

“Easy boy.” Robert grabbed the cheek piece of the bridle. Another shot sounded and hit the ground beside Robert. The paint spooked. Robert grabbed his musket and swung into the saddle and the horse bolted. The pounding of hooves echoed in Robert’s ears. The paint ate up the miles with gusto.

Robert jerked awake with a start. He was lying on a sloping grassy hill. His musket lay beside him and his paint grazed nearby. What happened? How did I get here. The sun was gone and stars dotted the inky sky. I must’ve fallen asleep and fell off. Funny I didn’t wake when I hit the ground.

“Are you alright kid?”

Robert jumped at the voice.

A tall broad shouldered man stood over him.

Robert grabbed for him musket.

“Easy son I ain’t gunna hurt ya.”

There was something familiar about the man, about his voice. The Texas drawl—that’s what it was. Robert bit a sob. He talks like pa did.

The man squatted down next to him. “You hurtin’?”

Robert shook his head and stared up into the man’s kind hazel eyes. He had two days worth of stubble and his face was tan and weather beaten. “P-pa?”

“Robert!”

Robert was caught up in a strong hug. He buried his face in his father’s soft buckskin shirt and sobbed. “I-I thought… that man…”

“It’s alright son. That man stole horse an’ beaver from me. I be’n trackin’ ‘em fer days. By the way I found a couple traps with their things. We’re they yers?”

Robert nodded. He didn’t know how long they sat there for but it must have been a long time.

“Son?”

“Y-yes?” Robert looked up.

“Look at the moon.”

He glanced up. The moon was a dark orangey red. “W-What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s a blood moon. Bridger reckon there would be one t’night.”

“Who’s Bridger?”

“Jim Bridger.”

Robert sat up and stared at his father. “You know the Jim Bridger?”

His father chuckled. “It’s a small world. He’s got me a job as an army scout. We’re headin’ fer Fort Laramie in three days.”

Robert leant back against his father’s strong shoulder, stared up at the moon and grinned. “I’m mighty glad yer here now you can keep me out of trouble with Uncle Henry. Did you know he has a daughter?”

“He what?! I think we have some catchin’ up t’do.”