The Yellowstone by Win Blevins Read Free Book Online

ducked underwater above the logjam. His feet disappeared. And nothing reappeared.
    “Come on, Dancer,” came his grating voice from the darkness.
    Mac took a huge breath and dove. Under the logs he groped for a way up. Wood everywhere. He didn’t have enough air. He thought of turning around and swimming back out. The current had him pushed against the logs. He was going to drown. He began to see lovely colors, rainbows like oil on still water.
    A strong hand grabbed his arm and yanked. He banged his head on a log, opened his eyes into sweet, breathable air, and saw Skinhead’s rough face.
    Jim popped up in the next log hole over. They couldn’t get to him. He was smiling slyly.
    “How far back are they?” asked Skinhead.
    “Not far enough,” answered Jim.
    Skinhead nodded his huge head a couple of times. “Wagh! lad, you done right. Weapons is better than a dog.
    “Quiet!” Skinhead pointed upstream. Mounted Indians came to the creek, split up, and rode down both banks.
3
    Mac woke to the smell of smoke and burning flesh.
    Dreaming again. He had crawled up out of the water, mostly onto a drift log. In the creek he was freezing, colder than he’d ever been in his life.
    When he lay on the log, he could doze. But when he dozed, he dreamt. And in the dream Magpie burned the logjam, with the three trappers in it. Mac’s last sensation was not even the agony of the fire—it was the stench of his own flesh, burning.
    So he was glad to be awake. But exhausted.
    He wished they could move out. But not until dark.
    He whispered. No whisper could carry over the shoosh of the creek. “Magpie’s Bloods?”
    Skinhead nodded.
    Mac started to speak again, but Skinhead’s big hand gripped him roughly. Down, Skinhead gestured. Mac slipped into the water up to his eyes.
    A moment later the Bloods rode by quietly on both banks going the other way, upstream. Not so many of them now. The others must be searching the banks downstream for signs of where the trappers came out of the water.
    Skinhead winked a huge eyelid at Mac.
4
    In the full dark they slipped out of the logjam. They had to climb out upward. It was impossible to push upstream underwater against the current.
    Then they walked downstream in the water, swimming when necessary, Jim always holding the precious bow high.
    The going was slow, perhaps a mile an hour. But Skinhead stuck doggedly to the creek.
    Shortly after first light they came into the broad, crosswise valley of the Yellowstone River. Slowly they worked their way to the confluence. To Mac the north bank of the Yellowstone represented the far edge of Blackfoot Territory, and the south bank felt like safety. He wondered if the Bloods would be waiting at this spot. The great river rolled by, deep and strong.
    “Just let it take you,” said Skinhead, “and stay near me.”
    They floated along in the big river, sometimes touching bottom, sometimes not. The river seemed benevolent, but beneath the surface Mac could feel its strength. He thought of the great waterfalls upstream, in the geyser and hot spring country, and their awesome force. That force was here, subtle and sinewy.
    The sky brightened steadily. The sun rose behind gray clouds far to the east. Mac couldn’t help thinking what good targets the three swimmers made from the north bank.
    After about a mile Skinhead turned onto his side and started kicking for the south bank, Mac and Jim close behind. Soon they were hard against some sandstone bluffs, floating in deep, strong water. Skinhead kicked hard toward a crevice. When he got there, he muscled out quickly, leaving room for Mac and Jim. The two friends followed Skinhead up the six-foot chimney and out onto bare rock. No tracks.
    Skinhead slapped Mac’s shoulders and grinned. They were maybe halfway to the Cheyennes. Mac wanted to whoop and holler, but he didn’t dare. Right behind him he heard—a coyote cry.
    It was Jim. Jim was yipping a full-blooded coyote song, a primal call.
    The song