Lord Grizzly, Second Edition by Frederick Manfred

pennyskinned braves rushed out, waiting for it to hit shore. But one of the riflemen, a grizzly mountain man, stood over the men and, using his flintlock for a club, drove the pork-eaters back to their oars. They rowed a way; then buckled completely. It was all the mountain man could do to get the skiff back to the
Yellowstone Packet’s
side again by himself.
    Hugh gave the other three still with him on shore a quick flicking look. “Well, lads, Clyman here is right. There’s nothin’ left but to swim for it.”
    Jim Clyman’s blue eyes flashed as he looked over his shoulder at the fallen mustangs and mute mountain men, out to where the bear-mimicking brave lay over what was left of Aaron Stephens. “Them red devils. We’ll be back someday to collect damages for this.”
    Jim Clyman led the way, with Augie Neill and Jim Anderson close behind, and Old Hugh coming along last and doing well for all his fifty-odd years.
    The moment they leaped into view, howls of rage rose from the Rees behind the picket fence. Some ran out into the open on the sand bar and, kneeling, with bows and guns let fly at the running men. Arrows sleeted and balls streaked around the running men.
    One shot caught Hugh, stung him in the thigh of his already game leg. It went in deep. His whole leg went numb. It threw him into a crablike unwieldy run. A yowl of triumph rose from the Arikarees.
    Jim Clyman looked back. “Hugh?”
    â€œRun, lad, save your hair. Don’t wait for me.” Hugh held his hand over the wound. Blood squirted between his fingers.
    â€œYou’re hit, Hugh, old hoss!”
    â€œJust a nick, lad. Run! Don’t pay me no mind. Dive in!”
    They ran up the sandy shore until they were well beyond the
Rocky Mountains
and then turned and ran into the water, splashing, hoping to make the boat despite the strong current.
    Just before he went in over the hips, Hugh reached up and, barrel first, shoved his flintlock down inside his shirt along his backbone, thrust it down until it was well caught between his belt and body. Then he let himself down into the rushing tan water and swam out.
    His numb leg dragged. He rode the water deep. His buckskin clothing bellied full of water after a while, and it dragged him down too. He had to work like fury to keep his nose above water. He puffed. His gray hair lay sleek over his head and neck. He nosed along like an old gray-whiskered muskrat.
    Augie Neill and Jim Anderson, swimming like slim channel catfish, made it. Each caught hold of a rung on the near side of the
Rocky Mountains
and clambered aboard helped by the eager hands above.
    Despite a numb leg and waterlogged buckskins, Hugh turned in the water to see what had happened to Jim Clyman. He couldn’t find him at first. On his third heave up out of the water he saw Jim. The lad was downstream from him and was having trouble staying afloat. His heels were out of the water; his head under. Hit in the head? Hugh lunged up in the water for a better look and at last saw what the trouble was. Jim Clyman had tried to slip his flintlock down inside his shirt along his backbone too. But something had gone wrong. Hugh watched him go somersaulting with the rushing current, heels, head, back, then heels again, all the while trying to get rid of the gun. Then finally Jim Clyman got rid of it and came up for air and started swimming along. Jim was too far along to catch on with the
Rocky Mountains
so he turned and headed for the
Yellowstone Packet
down river. Hugh waited until he was sure the lad would make it.
    By that time Hugh himself was in danger of missing the
Rocky Mountains
. He’d waited just long enough for the coffee waters to push him toward the stern of the boat. Hugh let out a mighty bellow. “Throw out a rope, lads. Here I come!”
    Augie Neill, leaning over the railing with a dozen other feartight faces, and still gasping from his swim and dripping wet, saw him.