Savage Cry Page 10

  “I’m much obliged, Mr. Badger. I hope I can find a way to pay you for your services.” Since traveling with Badger and Gray Bird from Fort Laramie, Clay had been touched by the obvious affection the old trapper’s Lakota wife held for him. He wondered now if he might be asking too much of Badger to leave his family and friends. And yet, Badger certainly didn’t strike Clay as the kind of man who would go anywhere, or do anything, he didn’t want to. Still, he felt he had to say something, for it looked to be quite uncertain how long they would be away. “I feel I’m asking a helluva lot of you. I reckon I could go on to Fort Union by myself, and let you get back to your family.”

  “I reckon,” Badger replied. “I could tell you where Fort Union is. That’s easy enough. It’s where the Yellowstone branches off from the Missouri. Problem is, how do you find the Yellowstone? There’s a heap of country between here and the Yellowstone, and a heap of water to cross. And there ain’t no signs tellin’ you which river is which. You’d have to guess—Belle Fourche, Little Missouri, Powder, Tongue—you might pick the wrong one and find yourself tryin’ to talk a passel of Injuns outta liftin’ your scalp. I expect I’d better go with you.”

  That ended conversation on the matter, and Clay was satisfied that he had a guide. Badger could have told him the real reasons he had made up his mind to take him up into Yellowstone country. It was as much Badger’s nature to yearn for faraway places as a bear’s need to hibernate. He was content living with Little Hawk’s people, but he could not stay in one place for very long before he longed to be on a lonely mountain trail, away from other people. Gray Bird understood her husband’s needs, and knew that he would always return to her tipi when he had answered the call within him. It had been a while since Badger had shared a campfire with Pete Dubois, and part of the reason he was going to take this young fellow to Fort Union was to see if ol’ Pete was still alive.

  Badger had always considered himself to be a reliable judge of people. And this young Clay Culver seemed to him to be a straight-dealing man of worthwhile character. He had taken an almost instant liking to him. Clay didn’t waste many words, saying only what needed to be said, and Badger liked that. They should travel well together. Aside from the natural urge to wander, there was a deeper, more serious reason that prompted Badger’s willingness to go. By taking Clay to look for his sister, Badger would not be faced with taking sides if Red Cloud called on his people to fight the soldiers.

  Early the following morning, Badger rode out across the meadow, leading his packhorse. Clay followed on Red, leading the mouse-colored mare. Behind them, the grim remains of his sister’s cabin lay stark and black, like a cancer on the otherwise pristine slope of the hill.

  Far to the northwest, the morning approached. Still and cool, a soft mist rose from the river and floated ghostlike several feet above the water. Already the Blackfoot village was alive and bustling, as the women scurried back and forth, carrying water from the river or gathering firewood to replenish that burned during the night. Thin streamers of smoke reached up from the smokeholes in the lodges to gather into a filmy haze above the village.

  The sun had just begun to peek over the bluffs on the eastern side of the river, but already Moon Shadow and Martha had put the meat on to boil for Black Elk’s morning meal. The men were going to hunt today, for buffalo had been spotted moving several miles away toward the south. It would be a busy day for all the people of the village, but especially for the women who would do most of the butchering, then pack the meat and hides on travois to bring back to camp.

  This would be the second such hunt for Martha, and this time she would know what to expect. The first time had been a near-chaotic confusion of dead carcasses, swarmed over by laughing women and shouting children, as the butchering began. She had been at once overwhelmed and repulsed by the sight of so much blood as the animals were skinned and the meat cut into sections. Moon Shadow had rescued her, and in her patient way, showed her how to cut away the various portions of the carcass. Martha learned quickly. Before her capture, when a deer or antelope had been killed, Robert and Charley skinned and dressed it. She did very little of the actual butchering. With Moon Shadow’s help, she became quite competent. And by the time the two of them were butchering the third buffalo that Black Elk had killed, Martha was holding her own. Now, on this day’s hunt, she would do a major portion of the work, for she was much stronger than Moon Shadow.

  These were strange times for Martha Vinings. For all her fears when she was captured, she was at first confused that she had not been tortured and raped. Other than a few light whippings for disobedience, she had been treated kindly, and at once befriended by Moon Shadow, whom she soon came to regard fondly. The dark-eyed fawn with the slight and fragile body seemed to delight in teaching Martha the basic things that every Blackfoot girl knew. She learned how to tan hides and make clothes from them, dry meat and prepare it for the winter caches, make pemmican, and a hundred other things. Before Martha was fully aware of it, she had begun to think in terms of the village, and thoughts of escape no longer filled her waking hours. Even the other women of the village had warmed to her presence among them, some even making friendly overtures. Still, she told herself from time to time that she must not forget where she came from, and that escape was her duty, and certainly the desirable thing. Even these thoughts troubled her. Why, she wondered, did she never long for Robert and pray to God that she should be reunited with him? She wondered if she should feel guilty for not trying to escape. There were opportunities, for Black Elk had discontinued tying her ankles at night soon after they had returned to the Blackfoot village. She had told herself that it would be foolish to run. She would be lost and probably wander farther and farther into hostile territory. Even if Black Elk did not track her down, what chance would she have of finding her way back to civilization? Although the thought lay dormant in the back of her mind, she would never admit to herself that she was becoming comfortable in her new life.

  Leaning over the fire, she peered into the iron pot of boiling meat to make sure it was not being overcooked. Without looking back, she sensed his presence. He was standing behind her, silently watching as she prepared his morning meal. When she moved aside, looking up at him, he held her gaze for a long moment before nodding briefly to her. Black Elk seldom directed any words toward her, but she often caught him studying her intently as she worked under Moon Shadow’s direction. What was he thinking behind those piercing dark eyes? Her life was so uncertain. She could only guess what would be her ultimate fate. Maybe, she told herself, it was time to think of escape again.

  Sounds of the boys and some of the younger men, driving the horses in, caught Black Elk’s attention, and he looked away. She took that opportunity to study him. Tall and powerful, with his buffalo robe draped across broad shoulders, he stood watching the ponies as they romped and pranced before the drovers. In spite of her situation, Martha begrudgingly admitted that he was a magnificent specimen of a warrior—handsome, even. She immediately reprimanded herself for even thinking such a thought about a wild Indian.

  Glancing briefly at the white captive, he moved briskly away toward the river’s edge. Martha watched as he joined some of the other men of the village where they had gathered on the shore. He let the robe drop from his muscular shoulders, and with no further hesitation, plunged into the chilly water. Martha shivered at the thought, glad that Moon Shadow did not insist upon that ritual now that the mornings were getting colder. The two women heated water to cleanse themselves in the privacy of the tipi.

  “He bathes in the river almost every morning. All of the men do. It toughens them for the winter months ahead.”

  Martha turned quickly. She had been so absorbed in watching Black Elk that she had failed to hear Moon Shadow come up beside her. Embarrassed at having been caught gazing so intently at Moon Shadow’s husband, Martha at once turned her attention back to the pot of meat on the fire. “The meat is ready,” she said, making an attempt to change the subj
ect.

  Moon Shadow smiled and nodded in reply. It pleased her that Martha admired her husband. Most of the women in the village admired the powerful war chief. Many, she suspected, were envious of her, especially since Black Elk seemed so devoted to her. It was common knowledge that he had taken her as a wife primarily as a favor to her father. Knowing that, it puzzled some of the maidens of the village that Black Elk had not seen fit to take another wife, as many of the other men had. It would have made the work easier for the fragile girl. That was the main reason she had welcomed Martha into her tipi, and encouraged Black Elk to keep the white woman when other men of the village made offers to trade for her. Moon Shadow smiled to herself when she thought of it. Reluctant at first, Black Elk quickly gave in, for he very seldom denied her anything that might please her. He teased her good naturedly about the price it had cost him. One of the more ardent young men had offered six horses for her, and that was why Black Elk gave Martha her Blackfoot name, Six Horses. While he always referred to her as Six Horses, Moon Shadow called her Marta.

  “Moon Shadow, what will Black Elk do with me?” Martha suddenly asked.

  Moon Shadow knew that Martha feared she might be traded to someone not as kind as Black Elk. She was quick to reassure her. “Black Elk will not trade you,” she said softly. “He will keep you because I want him to. You are now my sister.” She gave Martha a little squeeze, and said, “Now, let us get ready for the hunt. Black Elk will be finished with his bath and ready to eat.”

  There were other, more ominous parties interested in the Blackfoot village’s preparations for the buffalo hunt on that chilly morning. Lying close to the ground in the high grass on the eastern ridge above the camp, a Crow raiding party watched the men of Bloody Axe’s village as they went to fetch their favorite ponies, and the women as they caught the packhorses and hitched the travois.

  The Crow warriors waited patiently. Led by the fierce war chief, Gray Wolf, they lay concealed in the high buffalo grass, watching as the Blackfoot village prepared for the hunt. Outnumbered more than tenfold, the Crows were not so foolish as to attack. Their mission was to steal horses from their hated enemy, and Gray Wolf knew that most of the fighting men would be gone from the village, and the huge horse herd would be left to be guarded by a handful of men and boys. They only had to wait until the Blackfoot hunters, and their women behind them, were beyond the sound of their gunfire.

  The sun was high overhead now. It had been more than an hour since the last of the Blackfoot hunting party had disappeared beyond the ridge. Gray Wolf’s Crow warriors were tense, impatient to act, lying still for so long. He held them hidden there in the high grass while he stole silently down the bluff overlooking the river to take a closer look at the Blackfoot village. After a few moments more, when it appeared there was no one left other than young boys and old men, he slowly rose to his feet and signaled with his hand.

  Eager to act, the Crow warriors immediately made their way down through the long grass to the bluffs. Leaving their horses in a narrow coulee, guarded by three of their youngest warriors, Gray Wolf’s raiders descended the bluff and forded the shallow river. Using the riverbank for concealment, they made their way upstream until directly opposite the Blackfoot horse herd. There he halted them while he crawled to the lip of the riverbank to locate the guards. There were three young boys; the closest to the river was a boy of fourteen summers. Gray Wolf planned to kill the boy with his bow, so as not to alert the peaceful camp. With hand signals, he instructed two of his best bowmen to take the other two when he signaled them.

  Some distance downstream, young Crooked Lance guided his pony through the many gullies that had eroded down from the bluffs above. His prized possession, a Henry rifle, lay cradled in his arm. He had hoped to find some small game to shoot, but he had been unsuccessful in his hunt. Disappointed that Chief Bloody Axe had assigned him to stay in the village to guard the horses, Crooked Lance had decided to go out by himself in hopes of finding a deer or antelope. The three boys could watch the pony herd for a hour or two without his being there to direct them. Besides there were many of the older men who had remained in the camp as well.

  Walking his pony along the water’s edge, watching for signs of muskrats, Crooked Lance moved comfortably with the animal’s easy motion when suddenly his senses were alerted. Listen! A splash! Just beyond the crook in the river—from the sound of it, a large muskrat, perhaps a larger animal. Crooked Lance nudged his pony with his heels. As his horse scrambled up the bank to a higher point above the river, the young Blackfoot warrior pulled him up short. What he saw crouched behind the opposite bank, no more than one hundred yards distant, almost made his heart stop. Crow raiding party! Without hesitating, Crooked Lance cocked his rifle and fired three times in rapid succession, aiming at the center of the line of raiders. One of the enemy yelped in pain, clutched his chest, then tumbled down the bank into the water.

  On the far bank, Gray Wolf was startled. About to drop his hand to signal his bowmen to strike, he turned to see one of his warriors killed. Now the Blackfoot warrior who had spotted them was shouting the alarm to the rest of the village. His face twisted with rage at having lost the element of surprise, Gray Wolf desperately signaled his warriors to go for the horses. It was too late. The Blackfoot camp reacted immediately. The young boys guarding the ponies were quick to drive the herd away from the river. Yelling and whistling, they raced their ponies back and forth, stampeding the milling herd toward the hills beyond the village. From the circle of lodges, old men and women, even children, came running to defend the village. Well armed, they soon leveled a hailstorm of rifle fire upon the intruders, forcing the Crows to seek the cover of the riverbank once more.

  The unexpected show of force caused Gray Wolf to reconsider his plan to storm the village. He had not counted on so many guns in the Blackfoot camp. And now, pinned down behind the riverbank, he found that he could not charge the lodges. Already, two more of his warriors had been hit—one of them dead. He was going to have to retreat, fearing that the noise of the battle might carry to the Blackfoot buffalo hunters. He had counted heavily upon surprise—striking the pony herd quickly, running off most of the horses before the village was aware of what was happening. The hated Blackfeet had too many guns. Now he had to be concerned about being cut off from his own horses.

  “Back!” he cried out. “Get back to the horses. They are too many!”

  The Crow raiders needed no further encouragement, for the shallow riverbank was alive with bullets, snapping like angry wasps flying overhead. They picked up their wounded and dead, and as quickly as they could manage, retreated across the river. The Blackfeet, encouraged by the rout of the enemy raiders, ran after them, filling the air with bullets and arrows. Young Crooked Lance, still on his pony, fired his rifle until the iron forearm became too hot to hold. Staying after the vanquished enemy until the Crows had scurried up the bluffs and disappeared over the ridge, the elders and boys of the village still fired their weapons in the air, chanting and singing of victory. Not one pony had been stolen.

  Unaware of the battle just waged back in their village, the Blackfoot women were hard at work butchering the fallen buffalo. Like dark mounds scattered across the broad valley floor, dead and wounded animals lay waiting the knives of the excited swarm that would expertly skin them and carve them into slabs of meat. Moon Shadow looked up at Martha and smiled. “Finish packing the meat onto the travois. I’ll start to work on this one over here.” Martha nodded and continued loading the meat from the young cow while Moon Shadow picked up her knife again and started toward the carcass of a large bull some fifty yards away.

  It had been a good hunt. The people should want for nothing in the coming winter. Today’s kill should be enough to more than fill the food caches that would nourish them through the cold months ahead. Moon Shadow looked far off toward the point where the valley narrowed. Black Elk and most of the other hunters were somewhere beyond the point, still following the stampeding bu
ffalo. Here and there some of the men rode among the fallen buffalo, killing those still not dead, while small groups of women followed behind them, ready to butcher the huge beasts. Moon Shadow smiled to herself, taking pride in the fact that she and Martha could work as fast as any of the others. Black Elk would be pleased to see how much Martha had learned.

  Swift Runner, one of her husband’s closest friends, guided his pony toward her as she approached the massive hulk of the fallen bull. “Moon Shadow,” he called out. “Be careful, that one is still breathing.”

  She smiled. Unable to hear what he said, she waved cheerfully, and continued to walk toward the wounded animal. Sitting upright, the bull’s legs had crumpled under his body, and he was unable to move. With his life’s blood seeping from his nostrils and mouth, he sat helplessly awaiting his fate. Moon Shadow did not realize he was still alive until she saw the wild glaze of his eyeballs as they suddenly focused upon her. She immediately jumped backward, but she was not quick enough. With one desperate sweep of his massive head, he tossed the unsuspecting Indian girl several feet in the air, one deadly horn tearing a slash into her side.

  Hearing Moon Shadow cry out in pain, Martha looked back to see the fragile body flung aside, like a rag doll thrown by a bored child. “Moon Shadow!” she screamed, and ran to her. In that horrible moment, Martha realized how close the two of them had become. Her heart beating wildly, she knelt by Moon Shadow’s side and took the frail Blackfoot girl into her arms. Already blood was seeping through the ragged hole in Moon Shadow’s dress as Martha tried to comfort her, rocking her like a baby while she tried to stop the flow of blood now staining the brown prairie grass beneath her.

  Within moments, the other women—those within sight of the incident—converged around the wounded girl. One crack of rifle fire startled Martha when Swift Runner finished the bull, and a moment later, he was standing over her. Moon Shadow’s eyelids fluttered open, then closed, and Martha feared her little sister was gone.