The House of Crow E-Book

John W. Wood

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Through generations, their honor and bravery prevailed.

In the early 19th century, a Blackfoot Indian warband slaughters a group of Irish immigrants. Soon after, another war party finds the wagon - and a baby still alive in the wreckage.

He soon becomes known as the White Crow - one of the Dog Soldiers of the tribe - and makes a name for himself as a warrior. But after a journey to Old California, his life takes a drastic turn.

This historical fiction saga follows the life of the Crow family, from their beginnings in 1816 to the American Civil War and the times of the U.S. Marshals, and finally to the story of Charles Crow - the last son of The House of Crow.

Leseprobe

The House of Crow

The House of Crow Book 3

John W. Wood

Copyright (C) 2017 John W. Wood

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2019 by Next Chapter

Published 2019 by Next Chapter

Cover art by Cover Mint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

Dedicated To Mary Felix, the love of my life, who pushed and encouraged me to write also Kerry Watts Rich Wildbur (editing) Julia Hall Robert Muccigrosso Richard Jenkins James Spears Michael Schroeder David Hunt Ted Koppenaal Gerd Heinz Siemer

SAN FRANCISCO PRESENT DAY

The heavy armor of the black limousine muffled the sounds of the outside world to its four occupants. The driver and a bodyguard rode up front, separated from their two charges seated in the back, by a sliding glass partition. In the back of the limousine, Sixty-year-old William Crow looked over at his nephew, Marine Captain Charles Crow. At twenty-five, Charles was an athletic six feet tall. His thick black hair was clipped high and tight in Marine fashion. Though handsome, the most noticeable feature one noticed was his intense blue eyes, a family trait. Charles was gifted, as most of his ancestors had been, with a high degree of intelligence and near perfect hand-eye coordination. Charles had graduated in the top five percentile of his class at Annapolis. The Marine Corps' upper echelon had their eyes on him.

Charles' mother, Jennifer, had just died after a long illness. They had attended her funeral that very morning. William silently gazed out the dark-tinted window, watching the traffic and buildings of San Francisco pass by. It was his duty to inform Charles that he was now a major stockholder of Corvidae Enterprises. One of those enterprises was Corvidae Security, or as one son-of-a-bitch had dubbed them, “The Whores of War.” William thought of Corvidae as peacekeepers for hire. They often protected heads of state in war zones and had stood guard when a new nation's populous went to the ballot box for the first time. At this moment, they were providing protection for American convoys, freeing the US military to fight in Iraq, where Captain Crow had just finished his second tour.

The limo slowed, and then pulled into a long, brick-paved driveway leading to a nineteenth-century Victorian home. Two men, appearing to be gardeners, lay down their tools and moved parallel with the car. Stopping at the front entrance, the limo driver got out and moved back to William's door to open it. One of the gardeners opened the opposite side door for Charles. William spoke to the bodyguard, gave a wave to the gardeners, and stepped around to Charles. “It's been a long day. Let's get you settled, and then we'll have something to eat.

Inside the house, Charles followed his Uncle to a door at the end of a long, wide hallway. William turned the knob, and the heavy door opened smoothly into a suite of three furnished rooms. “This is yours for as long as you wish to use it, Charles. At one time, this was your great grandfather's office. It's gone through many changes since then, but I think you'll find it comfortable.”

Charles walked to the green marble fireplace where a sword with an ivory hilt and matching scabbard hung above the mantel. Above the sword hung a double-barreled shotgun with large hammers. The short ten gauge barrels looked like dual cannons. A piece of black ebony, carved into the image of a crow in flight, was inlaid into the stock.

“Where did you get these Uncle Bill? That's a real Mameluke sword! I have a similar one, issued to me by the Marine Corps, for parades.”

“They belonged to your Great Grandpa, Jedadiah Crow. The sword is an original Mameluke given to him by a Marine, and the shotgun belonged to an outlaw.”

Charles turned to his Uncle, “An outlaw?”

“Your Great Grandpa Jed was a lawman back in the 1800s. That shotgun wounded him twice and saved his life a couple of times. Now let's get you settled. Supper is at six. We can talk later.”

Later, after supper, they moved to the living room. Uncle Bill lit his pipe and offered Charles a brandy.

“Do you have a beer? I have a real taste for a cold one.”

Bill pressed a button near the fireplace, and a manservant came into the room. “Sir?”

“Bring Charles a glass of Heineken.”

The beer arrived in a frosted glass with a thick head of foam. Charles took an appreciative swallow and then saluted his uncle with the glass as he wiped the foam from his upper lip.

“Charles, I have some things to tell you that will surprise you, and may even make you angry. However, I want you to know that what we did, right or wrong, was done out of love for you.”

Charles' blue eyes became serious as he settled back in his seat.

“Charles, you are now a wealthy man. When your mother died, you inherited immense wealth; and with that, responsibility, should you choose to accept it. As you know, your father died when you were just a baby.”

“Yes, he died at sea,” responded Charles. “Mom told me.”

“Charles, your father, was killed while leading an attack on pirates.”

Charles mulled it over in his mind quietly, trying to absorb what he had just heard.

“When your father was killed, your mother asked me not to discuss your father or the family with you. Her fear was that you would follow in his footsteps and get yourself killed. Her wish was for you to go to college and become your own man.”

“What was my father involved in that frightened my mother so much that she would lie to me? I grew up thinking he was an executive for a shipping company.”

“Your father and I owned, and now, you and I own that shipping corporation. It's been in the family for over 120 years. We also own several other enterprises. We've had a business presence in China since before the Boxer Rebellion. Corvidae Enterprises has branches around the world. We've developed great influence here in the States and with several foreign governments over the years. It's time you learned who you are. Then you can make your own decision as to what you want to do.”

“Tell me about my father and why my mother was so afraid of him.”

“First of all, your mother had no fear of your father. She loved him with all her heart. She fell in love with him thinking she could deal with who and what he was, but she found she couldn't. She was afraid of what he was, not who he was. That's why she left him. I think for you to understand, I need to start at the beginning. Through word of mouth and a great deal of research, we think it all began in Ireland in the early 1800s with a man named Brian Pringle.”

IRELAND 1816

When you met Brian Pringle, the first thing you noticed was his piercing blue eyes; eyes that could beguile or make a man look away. Brian Pringle, well-known for his fighting abilities, had a price on his head. That came about when two drunken soldiers of His Majesty's Royal Army tried to have some sport by poking him with their bayonets. Brian took the first unexpected thrust in his arm. His immediate response was to wrench that musket away from his attacker, then smash his attacker's head with the butt-end. When the second soldier tried to avenge his friend by shooting Brian, Brian threw the dead soldier's musket and bayonet like a spear, killing him also.

The Pringle Clan gathered in council and convinced Brian that he and his new wife should escape to America.

Now, three years after arriving, Brian and his family were on the great plains of America looking for a place to settle. Brian walked alongside the oxen, guiding them with his walking-staff. His wife, Elizabeth, sat in the back of the covered wagon with their two-year-old son, Little Brian. Brushing the hair from her face, she smiled as her son struggled to open a small wooden box. She kept her 'bits of precious' in that box which included a cross Brian had given to her. It was a Celtic cross made of silver, engraved on the back, 'E. Pringle'. Elizabeth reached to take the box from Brian when he managed to open it and scatter the contents. “Oh, Brian, you must be careful! Now help me pick these up.”

A short distance from the wagon, hidden in a fold of land, a war party of Blackfoot warriors watched the travelers. With a hand signal from the Indian leader, the raiders broke the silence with their war cries. The pounding hooves of their war ponies shook the ground as they charged.

Brian desperately tried to get his musket from the wagon, but it had become wedged under the seat. He heard a shot from the back of the wagon as Elizabeth, protecting her son, met the challenge. Unable to retrieve his musket, Brian with a Celtic war cry swung his heavy walking staff knocking an Indian from his mount. Another well-placed strike of the staff cracked the warrior's skull. Brian sagged as an arrow struck him in the thigh. Regaining his footing, he struck a mighty blow with his staff to the forelegs of a passing war pony. The pony stumbled, sending the rider over its head. In fear and agony, the pony danced around stomping the fallen warrior.

When Elizabeth heard the war cries, she'd pushed Little Brian to the floor of the wagon and grabbed her musket. A warrior tried to jump in the wagon. She shot him in his painted face. No time to reload, she grabbed an axe they kept in the wagon; but an arrow struck her in the back. Mortally wounded, Elizabeth fell forward on top of Little Brian. The last thing she saw was her silver cross in the small hand of her son.

It was not a good day for the Blackfoot raiders. They'd lost three braves and a war pony. Now, from out of nowhere, came a band of Crow, the enemy of the Blackfoot. The Crow made short work of the Blackfoot warriors who were intent on plundering the wagon.

The Crow leader found Elizabeth and the lifeless warrior in the back of the wagon. He spied the small hand of Little Brian protruding from under his dead mother, clutching the silver cross. Roughly, he pushed Elizabeth's body aside with his foot. Little Brian now covered in his mother's blood, stared up at the Crow warrior with his father's eyes.

The Present

“It must have been his eyes,” said Uncle Bill. “That and the fight his parents put up because they took Little Brian with them. The Crow warrior took him into his family and raised him as his own. They called him White Crow. He grew big and strong like his father, Brian, must have been. He became a Crow warrior known for his courage and horsemanship. They say he could ride and shoot without equal.

“Then one day, a Mountain Man named Yahoo Putnam came to spend the winter with the tribe. White Crow's life would be forever changed.”

CROW INDIAN VILLAGE

The winter wind whistled across the smoke-hole of the tipi, rattling the hide-walls against the lodge poles. Buffalo robes covered the floor. The flickering yellow firelight cast a moving shadow of a man on the walls of the tipi. Yahoo Putnam sat cross-legged as he worked on a broken trap. The slightest bump and it would snap shut. Putnam looked up from his work when wind, snow, and an Indian came through the tipi entrance. The young brave was handsome with thick black hair; his hair was so long that it was held in a net hanging down his back. Putnam eyed the rabbit held in the Indian's hand and smiled.

“What you got there?” He asked.

“White Crow gives to you,” he said, handing the dressed rabbit to Putnam.

“Well set yourself down. I'll stick this critter on the fire. You'll stay and eat?”

White Crow answered with a flash of teeth in a broad smile. Dropping his buffalo robe to the floor, he squatted by the fire. His blue eyes watched Putnam's every move as the Mountain Man prepared the rabbit for the fire.

As Putnam worked, he watched the boy. This was the first time he had wintered with this tribe. He'd heard about the white Indian from other trappers but shrugged it off as just another tall tale told around the fire.

While the rabbit cooked, Putnam again began to fiddle with the trigger of the trap. White Crow watched as Putnam set the trap and placed it on the floor. Taking a stick, he poked the trap from the side. When nothing happened, he poked the trigger, and the jaws snapped shut on the stick.

“That ought-a get it,” he said, as he removed the stick from the jaws. Handing the trap to White Crow, he said, “Here, put that in the sack with the others.”

White Crow took the trap and pulled the sack to him and placed the trap into the bag. There were now sixteen traps inside, cleaned and ready for the spring season. He pulled the drawstring tight and then pushed the bag upright. That's when he saw the thick book with water stained covers. The covers had once been black, but wear and moisture had turned them a dirty gray. White Crow opened the book. On a page, he saw a drawing of a boy dressed in a loincloth, his arm pulled back, a sling whirling over his head. At the feet of the boy lay a pile of armor, in front of him stood a giant dressed in full armor, with a spear and sword. White Crow looked up at Putnam questioningly.

“That's David and Goliath,” said Putnam. “See the armor? The king, David's chief, gave him armor to fight the warrior Goliath, but David didn't use it. He said the Great Spirit would protect him. That's a sling he's using. It can throw a rock like a bullet. He killed Goliath with it, and the enemy ran away.”

“He was a Dog Soldier?” asked White Crow.

“Well, no, he was a shepherd; a boy who protected the tribe's sheep. He had a vision that told him to fight, and that he would win a great victory and become chief.”

“What are these?” asked White Crow, pointing at the words.

“Those are words, they tell the story. Here let me show you. 'And David went down to the river and selected five round stones and placed them in his pouch.' ”

“They say that?”

“Yes, here.” Putnam placed his finger under each word as he read.

“You will show me how this is?” asked White Crow.

“So you want me to teach you how to read, do you?”

The blue eyes fixed on Putnam's face, “Yes, teach me to read.”

Present Day

Uncle Bill shook his head. “Old Putnam worked with White Crow all that winter. White Crow was smart and a quick study. Of course, Putnam was no slouch himself. He had several books; even some Shakespeare. When spring came, White Crow could get by, and later, there was many a night the two read to each other. It was just the beginning of what White Crow was to learn from Yahoo Putnam.

“Putnam was born and raised in Virginia. His father grew cotton and tobacco. He was schooled; even had some college. It was at college where his life changed. He met a girl whom he fell in love with. However, a local boy took offense and challenged Putnam to a duel. Putnam chose pistols and shot him dead. Well, there was hell to pay because both boys' families were wealthy and powerful. The duel had been held in the dead boy's town, so his family had the edge with the law and had Putnam arrested. Sometime during the night, two men that worked for Putnam's father showed up and broke him out of jail. His father met him on the road with a good horse and a bag of coin and sent him on his way. Putnam ended up in Missouri, and because he could read, write, and do numbers, he got work with a fur company. The next year he went out with the supply wagon to buy furs and sell supplies to the Mountain Men. Well, when he returned to Missouri, he quit his job, bought two horses, a set of traps and a fine Hawken rifle. He headed for the Yellowstone and never looked back.”

Charles asked, “Why'd they call him Yahoo?”

“He got the name Yahoo when he'd gone out with the supply train. Putnam had a voice that could be heard over a stampede in a thunderstorm. When excited or angry, his voice would rise, and anything with ears could hear him for miles!”

Uncle Bill took a sip of his brandy. Quiet, he became lost in thought until Charles asked, “White Crow left the tribe then? He went with Putnam?”

“Yes, he left that spring with Putnam, but it wasn't an easy thing for him. He went to his Indian father and told him what he wanted to do. He told his father that he was excited to go, but that he felt great pain at leaving. He was unsure of which feeling he should follow. His father told him, 'You have learned the way of the Crow. You followed the path of the Dog Soldier and have counted many coups. You should go with the white man, learn their ways. Then you can decide which path to follow.' ”

Charles asked, “Dog Soldier? What's a Dog Soldier?”

“They were the top of the heap. The Dog Soldiers wore their hair uncut, some having to carry it in a net or pocket, it being so long and heavy. Around their waist, they wore a sash called a Dog Rope. When they fought, they'd drive a peg or arrow into the ground, and then tie the sash to it. They would unfurl their long hair, and that's where they'd fight. There was no retreat for them. Some mighty serious folks they were. They gave away what they took in raids to the widows and orphans and watched over those that couldn't fend for themselves. They were looked up to.”

“And my great, great grandpa, he was one of those?” asked Charles.

“Yes, and the discipline of the Dog Soldier made him good to a fault. He thought nothing of giving away what he had if someone was in need. But he would kill a man in a heartbeat if he thought he'd been wronged or challenged.”

“What happened to them?” asked Charles.

“Well, the story goes that they trapped together for two, maybe three years. Putnam taught White Crow how to read, write, and do numbers. Putnam gave him the Christian name, Isaiah Crow; after the Christian Saint Isaiah, the protector of widows and orphans, just like a Dog Soldier was. Your great, great, grandpa was called by many names during his life, but Isaiah Crow was the name he used. Years later, using the name engraved on the cross, we found out about Brian Pringle.

“Well, it was about three years or so after he and Putnam left the tribe. They were running their trap line when Yahoo started talking in a slurred voice and then fell to the ground. From the description, I think he had a stroke because he lost the use of his arm, and his great voice could only make terrible sounds.

“Your great, great, grandpa took him back to their camp. When he saw that Putnam wasn't going to get better, he built a cabin. A short time later, Yahoo Putnam died.”

Charles was fascinated with the story. He took a sip of beer, and then asked, “What did he do after Putnam died?”

“Well, shortly after Putnam passed, Isaiah got mauled by a grizzly bear. He would have died, but a man named LeRue came along and saved his life. LeRue was an original Texican and had left home three or four years before he met your great, great, grandpa. He'd joined the Hudson Bay Company but heard about the Americans they were beginning to call Mountaineers, later to be called Mountain Men. So he headed for the Yellow Stone for a look-see. When they met, Isaiah and LeRue were both having a bad day.”

THE YELLOW STONE 1824

LeRue felt like one of the animals he trapped for a living, panicked and ready to gnaw his injured leg off at the knee. Damned packhorse had kicked just as he'd stepped around behind while checking the load. Now, as if nothing had happened, the hammerhead was munching grass with Baron, LeRue's ride. The pain in LeRue's right leg made him sweat, and breakfast threatened to see the light of day. His Hawken rifle lay next to him. Picking it up, he used it as a crutch to stand.

“Alright, let's give it a try.”

Softly, LeRue called out to the horses. They paid him no mind, their big teeth crunching the grass. As he approached, he was fearful Baron would shy away, but he only looked at LeRue and then went back to the grass. LeRue pushed the rifle up and in front of Baron's saddle, and prayed he wouldn't shy away. Gripping the saddle, LeRue pulled with his arms and pushed off with his good left leg.

“Don't stop! Keep going; only one shot at this,” he said to himself. His injured leg caught on the cantle of the saddle. Frantically, he worked at freeing his leg as Baron began sidestepping.

“Whoa, you son-of-a-bitch,” LeRue cried out.

Although his leg was free, there was no mercy; the pain was increased by the swell of the horse's belly. With both hands on the saddle, he slipped his good foot into the stirrup and straightened himself in the saddle. Grasping the rifle in one hand and the reins in the other he guided Baron towards the packhorse.

“You spook you bastard I'll kill and eat you,” LeRue threatened.

As if he understood, the packhorse met them halfway. LeRue snagged the lead rope he'd draped over its neck.

“Apology accepted. Maybe I'll let you live.”

Looking around, LeRue took stock. The mountains of the Yellow Stone stretched toward the blue sky.

'No sign of snow, but that can change. I've got to find shelter and take care of this leg,' LeRue thought. “Not sure where we are, let's head down towards those trees; see if we can't find us a place by the river.”

The ride was painful. The swelling of LeRue's foot stretched the seams of his moccasin. LeRue came to full alert when the horses jerked their heads up, their ears twitching. Then he heard it too; another horse calling out. 'Indians?' LeRue wondered. Then, through the trees, he saw a trapper's cabin, rough but sturdy; next to it was a small corral. Two horses in the corral were looking towards LeRue. LeRue stayed in the trees, something wasn't right. Whoever lived here must be gone. There was no smoke from the chimney. Then he saw the door was open, not much, but open.

“Hello the house, we're friendly, don't mean ye any harm!”

There was no response. The horses in the corral were moving back and forth along the fence, stopping to look towards LeRue.

LeRue spoke softly to his mount, “Let's take a look, Baron.”

LeRue found a man and a bear behind the cabin. From the look of it, the bear had come after the horses, or maybe the man had just surprised it, but it was clear there had been a hell of a fight.

“You see that, Baron? He wounded the bear, it headed towards the woods, and he tried to get to the cabin. It musta' happened yesterday, or so. Guess we found ourselves a place to stay.”

His leg sending lightning strikes of pain from foot to knee, LeRue managed to get down from Baron. 'Got to get this leg up to take the swelling down,' he thought. “Don't know how I'll take care of you.,” he said to the dead man. “Sure can't dig a hole right now.”

LeRue turned toward the cabin door, the pain in his leg making the short trip seem to take forever.

“Well, will you look-a-here,” he said to himself.

There, propped against the wall of the cabin was a hickory staff. LeRue pulled it to him, taking the weight off his injured leg. As he tested his stance with the staff, he heard a noise. Now at full alert, LeRue dropped the staff and cocked the Hawken. Listening, he gauged his chances of making it through the door. Then the sound came again, a scraping sound!

“Qu'est-ce c'est? What's this?”

His own pain pushed out of the way, LeRue hobbled to the man. He rolled him over. There still clutched in his bloody hand was a knife. The blade had broken, but not until it had killed the bear. The man was heavy. Moving him was pure hell for LeRue with his injured leg.

Nevertheless, he got it done. Later, he sewed the man's wounds as best he could. LeRue skinned the bear, saving the meat for stew. It was several days later when the injured man came around…

CROW'S CABIN

The cookfire lit the room of the cabin as the aroma of bear stew filled the air. LeRue sat on the earthen floor, his back resting against the log wall. He'd rolled a blanket and tucked it under the knee of his injured leg. It felt better since he'd lanced the pocket of blood that had formed. It wasn't broken, and the whiskey he had poured on the cut had kept infection away. He hummed a French tune as he worked, tightening the seams of his moccasin. LeRue looked up from his work when movement across the room caught his eye.

The owner of the cabin lay on his stomach, his face turned towards LeRue. The light from the fire danced across his bearded face, his eyes were open. Like a cat watches a bird, he watched LeRue pick up the hickory staff and haul himself upright.

“Ol' Ephraim (the bear), get you too?” asked the wounded man.

“No, my horse kicked me. You kill't the bear; hide is outside on a stretcher. Big one it was.”

“How long has it been?”

“I figure you were down one, maybe two days before I found you. It's been a few days since then. Think you'll live?”

“Hell, the way I feel, don't know if I want to!”

“You worked damned awful hard at staying alive. Hate to lose you now.”

“Reckon I'll stick around then. Do I smell bear meat cooking?”

“That and a bit of venison I had, you feel like eating do you?”

“Maybe I'll have a bit of broth.”

The Present

Uncle Bill moved in his chair and stretched his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. “That's how your grandpa met LeRue.”

“My grandfather killed a Grizzly Bear with a knife! I've read adventure stories about the Mountain Men, but my grandpa was one, and he killed a bear with a knife!”

Uncle Bill smiled, “There's also the story about the time he fought the man-bear. LeRue and grandpa decided to trap together. They'd been bringing in prime furs every day. It was near the end of the season; LeRue and your grandpa were working a river. Both were knee-deep in the water, each working a bank. Now on grandpa's side, there was a high bank undercut by the river. LeRue had just replaced a trap and took a look-see over at grandpa. Grandpa was working on a tangled floatstick when on that high bank, a bear rose up right above him. LeRue reached for his rifle…”

THE YELLOW STONE 1826

LeRue stopped when the bear did an unusual thing. It launched itself from the bank at Crow, growling, “Gotcha!”

At the sound of the voice, Crow threw himself toward the overhanging bank. The bear hurtled past the now crouching Crow striking the river in an explosion of water. In an instant, Crow leaped upon the back of the bear as the strong current rolled Crow and the bear downriver.

LeRue heard Crow yell, “Quick. He's knocked himself out!” It wasn't for long. Suddenly, to LeRue's amazement, the bear stood up dumping Crow into the river. Blood flowed from the bear-man's scalp, “Gee-horse-a-fats, ye damned near kill't me Crow!”

“Couldn't ye just say howdy?” Crow asked, wading to the man and throwing his arms around him. “Come on let's get dried off afore we freeze.”

With arms across the others' shoulders, they turned to head for the bank then stopped. There was LeRue, knee-deep in the river, crouched with his rifle at the ready, his fur hat cocked over one eye and his mouth forming a perfect “O.”

“LeRue, this here is Buford, who is supposed to be in Saint Louis. You'll learn to like him, but never turn yer back on him!”

The Present

Charles grinned at the story, as he took a sip of beer. Uncle Bill continued, “Well, Grandpa Crow, LeRue and Buford loaded up their furs and headed for what they called the rendezvous. It was a meeting place where the mountain men brought their furs to sell and replenish their supplies. They would meet up with old friends and find out who'd lived or died. The Cache Valley Rendezvous of 1826 was special and is still talked about today…”

CACHE VALLEY RENDEZVOUS 1826

Crow spotted what looked like a good campsite and headed towards it. “Let's rest it here,” said Crow. They dismounted and made camp.

Later, Crow and LeRue returned from selling their furs; most were considered prime and paid up to six dollars each. Between Crow and LeRue, they had nearly two-thousand dollars. Crow was just stepping down from his horse when one hell of a commotion broke loose. Indians and trappers, rifles in hand were riding as if the devil himself was after them. Buford rode into camp, hauling his mount up so fast it nearly sat on its haunches.

“Come on!” Buford exclaimed. “A bunch of Brown Skins killed some of the Snakes! There's a hell of a fight!”

“Must be Bug's Boys (Blackfoot Tribe),” said Crow, as he grabbed his rifle and his possibles bag. The Blackfoot, an enemy of the Mountain Men and the Crow, was out looking for trouble.

The air was already thick with burnt powder and war whoops when Crow and LeRue found Buford taking cover behind a deadfall reloading his rifle. The two men jumped from their mounts and joined him.

Excited, Buford said, “Got me one, they're holed up yonder by them trees. Be a bunch of 'em!”

LeRue peered around the end of the fallen tree. He saw movement but no clear shots. Crow's rifle cracked, and an Indian stood up then fell forward. Buford handed Crow his loaded rifle and began reloading Crow's rifle. Buford's rifle fired, and there was a thrashing in the brush in front of their stand. 'Headshot,' thought LeRue, and handed Crow his loaded rifle, and began reloading the empty. 'Sure can shoot!' he thought. LeRue pulled the wiping stick from the bore of the ten-pound Hawken rifle. He dusted the pan and made ready to hand it to Crow. They'd been at it for some time now, and LeRue was amazed at Crow's endurance. Crow seldom missed, his shots making wolf meat of several Blackfoot.

Crow brought the rifle to his shoulder and fired. The bullet hit with a “thuck” followed by a moan.

“That one was close,” said Buford. Curious, he rose up to take a look. A shot was heard that resulted in a “thuck.”

Buford cried out, “Sirree!”

Dropping to one knee, Crow looked down at the still, bloody body of Buford. Before LeRue could think, Crow snatched the loaded rifle from his hand and drew his war-hawk from his belt. Leaping over the log, Crow let out a war whoop that set LeRue's hair on end. LeRue rolled to the end of the deadfall and looked out in time to see Crow on the dead run. With his head thrown back and his long black hair flying in the wind, Crow again howled his war cry. Two Blackfoot stood to answer his challenge. LeRue grabbed the loaded rifle from the fallen Buford's hands. He stood to shoot but was too late. Crow was gone, and the two Blackfoot lay dead.

LeRue nearly left his skin when he heard Buford's voice. “What's the sign like, where's Crow?” Buford was up on one elbow, trying to look at his bloody chest. “I said, where's Crow?”

LeRue dropped down next to Buford and said, “When you got hit, Crow figured you were meat. He took out of here after them Brown Skins. Kill't two out yonder, and then he was gone.”

“You didn't go with him?” Buford wasn't looking friendly.

“Buford,” LeRue replied defensively, “the man moves like a ghost, He took one look at you then he was gone!”

“Buford, I thought sure you were meat!”

Buford and LeRue looked up into the bloodied face of Isaiah Crow.

“Take more than a musket ball to put this child down,” said Buford.

Crow came around the log grinning, a rifle in one hand, scalps in the other. “Counted coup on five, kill't four,” and held up the bloody scalps. “I thought they'd killed you,” said Crow. LeRue was sure he saw tears in Buford's eyes, turned away, and picked up his rifle.

“I think the ball passed through, but I won't be worth a damn for a while, I'm thinking.”

The sound of horses caught their attention. Ten mountain men pulled up whooping and a hollering, “We made wolf meat today boys,” one yelled. “We're heading back in for some skull varnish, figure the Snakes can finish off what's left of the Blackfoot. Hey Buford, you been kill't?”

“They ain't got me yet, so you save me some of that whiskey!”

More horses came thundering in; this time rode by Snake Indians. “Where you boys headed?” asked a trapper.

“We drink too, take plenty scalps, count many coup, now thirsty.” said the leader of the Indians.

“Well, Crow,” said Buford, “help me up on my horse afore they eat and drink everything in camp!”

The Present

Uncle Bill slapped his hand on the arm of his chair. “Well, it was a celebration! It's recorded that the Blackfoot lost 173 scalps and an unknown number of wounded. The Snakes lost eleven killed while the trappers counted seven or eight wounded. As the day progressed, and the whiskey flowed, stories of the day's battle were the main topic of conversation. Many men had their reputations made that day for their daring during the Cache Valley Fight. Crow's name began to make the rounds with the others. Men talked of his eye with a rifle and his one-man attack when he thought the Blackfoot killed his friend. During the day, men stopped by to pay their respects and hear the story. Now Buford, who was well into the whiskey, had been propped up against a tree so no one would step on him. The musket ball had passed through the skin of his chest just under the arm and cracked a rib, but he wasn't showing any sign of a punctured lung. He was so full of skull varnish; he wasn't feeling any pain either. Every time someone stopped by, he'd tell them about Crow and how he'd charged the Indians.”

Charles leaned forward and asked his Uncle, “Did Buford get better?”

“Oh, he recovered alright, but in Missouri. When his wound became infected, Crow and LeRue took him back to Missouri to heal. They never saw Buford again because they struck out for California where they met the Don of a large Rancho.

“The don had a daughter. She was a beautiful girl; and she and Great, Great, Grandpa Isaiah Crow fell in love. Later, with her father's blessing, they got married. Now, California at that time still belonged to Mexico. If an outsider wanted to settle, and/or get married, he had to join the Catholic Church. That's how you and I came to belong to the Church.

“They received a land grant from the Mexican government to some property where they built a house and started raising horses. LeRue stuck around and became quite a ladies' man, much to the dismay of the area gentlemen. Crow and his bride had a son, and they named him Jedadiah, after Jedadiah Smith, a Mountain Man your grandpa held in high regard. Jedadiah was a fine-looking lad with an Irish / Mexican mix. Life was good until the day the banditos came.”

Charles interrupted his Uncle, “It's like a movie, Uncle Bill; banditos?”

“Old California was full of them. It was a dangerous time. Well, one day Crow was away from the ranch when a group of these bad guys showed up. They raped and killed your great, great, grandmother, and burned the house. When Crow came home, he found his house burnt to the ground, his wife raped and murdered, and he thought his son was dead in the fire. Unknown to Crow, LeRue had taken the boy hunting and was unhurt.

“However, Crow didn't know this. So he removed his shirt and then painted his face with the ashes of his burned home. Taking the saddle from his horse, he mounted up Indian style and rode off to kill the men who had destroyed his family. Shortly after he'd left, LeRue arrived with Crow's son Jedadiah…”

OLD CALIFORNIA, EL HOMBRE DE LA HATCHA - THE MAN WITH THE AXE

LeRue read the sign and knew that Crow was on the warpath. He was sure Crow would fight to the death, thinking he'd lost everything. LeRue and Jedadiah rode like hell to the father-in-law's ranch. LeRue needed help and wanted to leave the boy in safety.

Meanwhile, it took Crow a full day to catch up to the banditos. They were camped near a stream and had no idea that anyone was after them. It was the next morning when a shot rang out. A man standing next to the bandit leader fell dead, a bullet in his head. The banditos saw what appeared to be an Indian sitting astride a horse, calmly reloading a rifle. He finished loading, then called out to the bandit camp.

“I am Isaiah Crow. You killed my family. I have come to kill you!” Crow leveled his rifle and shot another bandit dead. Throwing down his empty rifle, he drew his war-hawk and charged. On a nearby hill, LeRue, Crow's father-in-law and six men from the ranch arrived. They watched in disbelief as Crow hurled his challenge at the bandits. As Crow charged, his war cry filled the air. Unknown to LeRue and the others, young Jed had joined them. When he saw his father charge the bandits, he charged down the hill yelling at the top of his lungs. A surprised LeRue spurred his horse and raced down the hill. The rancheros now caught up in the excitement followed LeRue and young Jed.

Crow slipped to the side of his mount, Indian style, as he smashed into the bandits. He turned his mount, then sitting upright; he began to kill with his war-hawk. A bullet slammed into his side and another into his leg. Even so, he continued to kill terrified bandits until another bullet finally brought him down.

LeRue and the rancheros hit the bandits on their flank and killed the rest.

The Present

“Did grandpa live, Uncle Bill?”

“Yes, he recovered, but he was never the same after the death of his wife. A few years later, a small detachment of American soldiers invaded California, and suddenly, California was part of the United States. People began coming from the East to settle, and they needed people to guide and teach them how to survive in this new land. Crow and LeRue signed up to lead wagon trains out of Missouri. They took Jed with them. On the way, Crow took him to the Crow village where he'd grown up. The white man had taught grandpa to read and write, but the Crow taught him how to live. It was a lesson that had served him well in life. He wanted the same for his son. He told Jed to stay with the Crow and learn their ways. He'd be back in a year, and they'd go back to California. But Isaiah never made it back. The wagon train he and LeRue were leading had stopped for the day and sometime during the night your Great, Great, Grandfather Isaiah died. The following spring, LeRue rode back and got Jed, and they returned to California.”

“How old was grandpa when he died?” asked Charles.

“It's hard to say, but we think he was about forty, maybe forty-five.”

“What happened to LeRue and Jed?”

“They lived on Jed's grandpa's ranch until the 'War Between the States' broke out. Jed decided to go, but LeRue said that he was going to head north to see what was there. No one ever saw or heard from him again.”

“What side did Jed fight on?” asked Charles.

“He fought with the North. He also won The Medal for Heroism. There's a copy of the letter of commendation. I'll get it out for you someday if you want.”

“He won the Medal of Honor?”

“Yes, that and the Civil War Campaign Medal.”

“The shotgun and the sword in the bedroom, they were his?”

“That's right. After the war, Jed returned to California with a man named Earl Stump. They rode together during the war and stayed friends for nearly fifty years. They, with your Great Grandfather Banister, built an empire.”

“I thought Jed was a Deputy US Marshal?”

“He was. He and Earl joined the Marshals and made quite a reputation as law officers. It's a well-documented time in our family's history. It was around 1879 when things began to change. It began with a robbery by the man who first owned the shotgun that hangs in your room. It was the robbery that would set off a chain of events that set the course for our family's legacy.”

MOJAVE DESERT 1879

Notified of a robbery of the Gold Bug Mining Company, Jedadiah Crow and Earl Stump arrived at the way station the next day. As promised, the local sheriff was there to meet them.

“Jason, how the hell are you?” Earl called out. “How long has it been?”

“Must be a year or more.” replied the sheriff.

Two men stepped from the doorway of the way station. “Jedadiah Crow and Earl Stump!” shouted the taller of the two, McCauley, his Scottish brogue thick. “God love ya!” The four men heartily shook hands, slapping each other on the back. Jason smiled, “I see you all know each other.”

The other man, James Barley, turned to Jason, “McCauley and I trooped with these two during the war. You bet we know em.” James stopped smiling. “Jed, Earl, we lost some friends here: Smitty, Billy-James, the Smith brothers, and Sampson. They were riding guard on the wagon.

“We found Smitty barely alive by the privy. He was shot all to hell, but he got three of them. He killed one in the rocks, one beside the shack and wounded one. He'd hung on long enough for us to find him, said he'd be damned if he'd die behind someone's shithouse. He might have lived had we found him sooner; lost a lot of blood. The robbers knew what they were doing because this is the only station without a wire. It was a full day before we knew something was wrong.”

“Let's go inside,” said Jason, “and we'll show you how we think it happened.”