Longtree rode into the hills with only the vaguest of directions from Deputy Bowes as where to find the nearest of the Blackfeet encampments. The wind had died down from what it was earlier in the day and the temperature was above freezing. Longtree'd experienced things like that before in Montana and Wyoming. Blizzards and freezing winds followed by a brief warming trend, a thaw that would turn everything to slush and then to ice a week later when the temperature took another dive below freezing.
The country above Wolf Creek in the foothills of the Tobacco Roots was beautiful. Brush and scrubby cedar on open slopes gave way to snowy peaks, twisted deadfalls, and thick stands of pine and spruce. The mountains were huge and jutting above the timberline, barren and majestic.
But dangerous.
This whole country was like that. It was almost a religious experience viewing it, but the reality was sobering. This was a place of sudden landslides. Blizzards that kicked up with no warning. Frozen winds that seemed to rise up out of nowhere. Starving wolf packs. Marauding grizzlies that were anxious to pack extra meat and fat in their bellies before hibernation. It was also the home of the Blackfeet Indians, considered by some to be the most bloodthirsty nation on the upper Missouri.
Coming up over a ridge, Longtree saw the camp. Knowing they'd probably seen him coming for some time.