CHAPTER FOUR

Eagle Plume

“Well, Mike,” Mr. Cook said as he settled down on a porch chair in front of the cabin the Hendersons had rented them. “Think you can last till dinner?”

Mike, who was stretched out contentedly on a hammock slung between corner posts, opened one eye sleepily. “Depends on what day,” he said.

“I meant tonight.”

Mike held up a hand in protest. “Oh no, please! I won’t be able to touch a bite till next Tuesday.” He sighed happily. “You know, it’s a real pleasure to meet a woman like Mrs. Henderson. She never batted an eye when I asked for thirds.”

“You sent her into a state of shock, most likely,” Sandy ventured. “She couldn’t believe it after what you packed away.”

“I couldn’t believe it myself,” Mike agreed, stretching lazily. “I must have lost my head. Oh, well,” he said, smothering a yawn, “I’m just a poor kid who didn’t know the ropes. Give me another chance, officer. I’ll go straight.”

“All right,” Sandy said severely. “Bread and water for three days. Next case.”

“Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you. I’ll never forget you for this.”

“Say,” interrupted Mike’s father, putting his long legs up on the porch railing. “If I can break into your act for a moment, I’d like to find out how things went this morning. We were so busy talking about hunting at lunch that I forgot to find out if you got your feet wet in some white water.”

Sandy and Mike exchanged glances. On their way back to the Hendersons’ they had decided it would be just as well to skip over the experience at Dog Leg Falls.

“Why, sure,” Mike replied casually. “We went through three or four times.”

“Was Doug a good teacher?”

“The best.”

Mr. Cook groped for pipe and tobacco pouch. “I thought Doug acted sort of funny all through lunch. Excited is more what I mean.” He cupped his hand over the pipe bowl and began to fill it. “Anything happen this morning?”

Sandy caught Mike’s eye as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “Nothing special.”

“Hmmm.” Mr. Cook was drawing on his pipe. “You knew, didn’t you,” he said between puffs, “that I’d hired a guide?”

Mike propped himself up on one elbow. “No, Dad, you didn’t tell us.”

“Well, I have. Fellow Mr. Henderson recommended.”

“Who is he? What’s his name?”

Mr. Cook pulled his feet down from the railing and stood up. There was a look of amusement on his face as if he was enjoying a private joke. “If you turn around, Mike, I’ll introduce you. He’s been standing behind you for the last two minutes.”

The two boys whirled around in surprise. Standing near the porch was a short, dark man with deep-set brown eyes. His straight black hair, worn long, was carefully brushed back and held in place by a battered gray felt hat. A red checked shirt, well-worn suspenders and a loose pair of trousers tucked into high-topped shoes completed his outfit. There was a feeling of relaxed strength and quiet power about his bearing that reminded the boys of the mountains that towered in the distance beyond the river. He looked as if he were carved out of the same stuff—solid granite.

Mr. Cook shifted his pipe and extended his right hand. “Come on up and meet the boys. Mike,” he said, “I’d like you to meet Chief Eagle Plume.”

Mike almost pitched forward on his face as he scrambled out of the hammock. The Indian glided over the porch steps and suddenly he was standing next to all three of them. Sandy had never seen a man move so effortlessly.

“And this,” Mr. Cook went on, “is Sandy Steele, the third member of our expedition.”

The Indian nodded gravely as he acknowledged the introduction. Mike, who was clearly puzzling over what to say next, decided the proper thing to do was bow formally.

“Heap glad you come with us,” he said solemnly. “We go trip together, we catchum plenty—uh—” He glanced over at his father for some support, but Mr. Cook was busy with his pipe.

Mike gritted his teeth and plunged on. “Catchum plenty—ah—”

“Scalps?” the Indian suggested helpfully.

Mike blushed furiously. “Yes, I mean—no—”

There was a flash of white as the Indian broke into an amused laugh. “Sure hate to disillusion you, Mike. But that sort of thing’s a little out of date.”

Mike stared at him with a dazed expression. “But I....” He grinned sheepishly. “I thought you were an Indian. That name, Chief Eagle Plume....”

“Oh, I am—a full-blooded Blackfoot. And your father got the name right. It’s Eagle Plume, only most people call me Joe. It’s simpler.” He threw Mike a friendly grin. “You wouldn’t guess it, but I even went to college.”

“No kidding! Where?”

“Agricultural school in Montana.”

“So you’re a farmer,” Mr. Cook said.

Joe shook his head. “No, I studied animal husbandry. I figure on owning a cattle ranch some day. Got one all picked out.” He gestured to a chair. “Mind if I sit down?”

“No, no. Here.” Mike pushed over a chair.

Joe lowered himself comfortably and took off his hat. “Incidentally,” he said, “last time I used that ‘Me heap big Injun’ routine was when I was hired as an extra by a movie company.”

Sandy moved over to the porch railing and hoisted himself up against a post. “Gee, a movie star! Were you a real bad Indian?”

Joe laughed. “I was a real dead Indian, that’s for sure. I got killed eight different times in that picture. Some fun. The only trouble was that I had to pretend to be a Crow Indian.”

“What’s bad about that?”

“Nothing really, I suppose. It’s just that Crows and Blackfeet never got along too well together. Our ancestors fought over the same hunting ground for years. We were always at war.”

Mr. Cook scratched another match along the arm of his chair. “But that’s all finished now, isn’t it? There’s no bad feeling any more.”

Joe took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and huddled over a light. “You better not pay any attention to me. I just happen to know some Crows I’m not too fond of.”

“But that’s personal,” objected Mr. Cook. “Nothing to do with the whole nation.”

Joe hooked one leg over the other and frowned at the glowing tip of his cigarette. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s personal, all right. And mutual.” A look of hard anger clouded over his face, then disappeared almost as quickly as it had come. “Well,” he said after a pause, his good humor apparently restored, “so you’re going down Lost River to meet Hank Dawson?”

Mr. Cook’s face lit up. “Do you know Hank?”

The Indian shook his head. “No, but I’ve heard of him. Where’s he meeting you?”

“At Mormon Crossing.”

“Dad,” Mike interrupted, “I’ve been meaning to ask you about that place. I thought the Mormons settled Utah—around Salt Lake City.”

“They did,” his father answered. “But some of them didn’t like it.”

“And moved on,” Sandy chimed in.

Mr. Cook turned to Sandy in surprise. “Right! How did you know?”

“That last day before we left Oakland, Mike and I went downtown to do some last-minute shopping. Remember?”

“Sure.”

“When we finished Mike said he wanted a soda. With Mike, that’s a full hour’s proposition. I didn’t want any, so I said I’d meet him at the library.”

“Squealer,” muttered Mike.

Joe looked at Mike in amazement. “You mean it takes him an hour to drink a soda?”

Sandy shrugged. “You know how it is. One soda leads to another.”

“I see.” Joe nodded gravely. “He drinks.”

Sandy sighed and nodded his head. “That’s about the size of it.”

Joe looked over at Mike sympathetically. “Poor fellow.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” cried Mike. “I’m not as bad as that. I can take them or leave them alone.”

“That’s what they all say,” his father said. He turned back to Sandy. “But what’s this got to do with you knowing about the Mormons?”

“Well, I went to the library,” Sandy explained, “and looked up Mormon Crossing. I was just curious about the name.”

“What did it say?” Joe suddenly sat forward, looking watchful.

“It seems there was this party of Mormons on their way west from Ohio. They didn’t stop in Utah, as so many of them did. They pushed on farther west, planning to join the settlement in Nevada that was set up in 1849. It’s not clear whether they never got there, or whether they got there and turned back. The last anyone ever heard about them, they were in Idaho. Mormon Crossing was where they forded the Lost River.”

“What do you mean—the last anybody heard of them?” Mike wanted to know.

Sandy threw up his hands. “They vanished. The theory is the Indians massacred them. But nobody knows for sure.”

“They were massacred, all right,” declared Joe, staring off into space. “Every last one of them was killed.”

Sandy frowned in bewilderment. “How do you know that?”

Joe looked up sharply. “What?”

“I said, how do you know? There weren’t any records. I asked.”

“Oh,” said Joe, reaching for another cigarette. “I mean, that’s the way it must have happened. It was pretty wild country then, and it all belonged to my people. I’m afraid they didn’t take too kindly to strangers.”

“In any event,” said Sandy, changing the subject, “that’s how Mormon Crossing got its name.”

“And that’s where we’re going,” said Mike, throwing himself back on the hammock. “Sounds like a real garden spot. Any of your relatives still hang around there, Joe? Let me know and I’ll keep out of their way.”

Joe grinned and shook his head. “We’re all nice and tame now, Mike,” he said.

“You never go on the warpath any more?” Mike made it sound as if he were disappointed.

“Just little ones. We kinda yell in whispers.”

“To keep in practice, you mean?”

“That’s it,” said Joe, throwing back his head in a laugh. “Then we’re always ready in case another movie company wants to hire us.”

“Don’t take any jobs for a month, Joe,” Mr. Cook said as he leaned over to knock the ashes out of his pipe. “You’re all booked up.”

“Suits me.”

“When do we start, Dad?” Mike asked idly.

“I thought in about two days.”

“Two days!” The Indian was suddenly on his feet and over by Mr. Cook. Again it crossed Sandy’s mind that Joe moved with the grace of a cat. “I don’t mean to speak out of turn or anything,” he said, “but why waste all that time?”

“There’s a lot to be done,” Mr. Cook pointed out mildly. “The gear’s got to be sorted and packed in trip boxes. The boats have to be loaded—”

Joe sat down on the porch railing. “I can do it this afternoon.”

“It’s a big job.”

Joe shrugged. “I’ll handle it.”

Mr. Cook looked up at Joe curiously. “You seem in an awful hurry to get out of here.”

Now Joe became flustered. “No,” he stammered. “That’s not it. It’s just that ... that every day you stay here is a day lost.”

Sandy remembered their appointment at Mormon Crossing. “What about Hank Dawson? We’re not due to meet him for another five days.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Mr. Cook replied. “Hank’s probably there now—getting in some fishing.”

“Then there’s nothing to hold you?” It was Joe again.

“No,” Mr. Cook conceded. “Just the problem of getting ready.”

Joe stared down at the porch flooring. “Well, suit yourself,” he said, but it was clear he was not too happy about it.

“Why don’t we go!” cried Mike suddenly, bounding up from his hammock.

Mr. Cook was still unconvinced. “We have to check our ammunition and sight in the guns. We haven’t had a chance to do that yet.”

“Why don’t you do it right now?” Joe suggested eagerly. “You go on downriver while I get things organized here. We’ll be ready by morning. I guarantee it.”

“Well,” Mr. Cook said dubiously. “What do you boys think about it?”

“I’m all for it,” Mike asserted.

“Sandy?”

Sandy nodded. “The sooner the better for me.”

Mr. Cook laughed. “Okay, Joe. You win. I’ll get the guns and you do the rest.”

“Yes, sir!” Joe grinned as he vaulted down the steps. “I’ll go see about the boats.” The next instant he was gone and running down the path toward the river.

Mr. Cook watched him go and turned to the boys with a puzzled expression. “Did you get the feeling there was something odd about all that?” he asked.

“I sure did,” Sandy said emphatically. “It started when I began talking about Mormon Crossing.”

Mr. Cook nodded in agreement and led the way into their cabin. “Let’s take the guns a mile or two upstream and chew this thing over while we’re walking. Frankly,” he concluded with a frown, “I don’t think I like it much.”