Savage Cry Page 11

  “Lay her flat,” an older woman said, and Martha lowered Moon Shadow gently back on the grass. Then the woman used her skinning knife to widen the hole in Moon Shadow’s dress, exposing the jagged tear in the young girl’s side. Martha inhaled sharply at the sight of the bloody wound, and she suddenly realized how desperately she wanted Moon Shadow to live. Helping to hold the wound closed while one of the women wrapped it tightly with a strip of cowhide, Martha cooed softly to the stricken girl. After a few moments, Moon Shadow opened her eyes again and attempted a weak smile.

  “We must get her back to the village,” the woman who had cut her dress said. “Where is Black Elk?”

  “Beyond the far end of the valley,” Swift Runner replied.

  “Someone must go to find him,” one of the other women said.

  The others nodded agreement, but the gray-haired woman insisted, “She cannot wait. Someone go and find Black Elk. I and Six Horses will start back right away. He can overtake us.”

  “I’ll go,” Swift Runner said, and leaped upon his pony.

  Together with several of the other women, Martha carried Moon Shadow and placed her on a travois loaded with a small stack of hides, tying her on securely with a strip of rawhide. “Don’t worry, little sister, I will take care of you,” she whispered softly. Moon Shadow tried to smile. Martha gave her hand a little squeeze, then quickly scrambled up on the horse’s back. The gray-haired woman caught up another pony, and they started out for the Blackfoot village.

  Gray Wolf was angry. The raid on the Blackfoot pony herd had been spoiled by the unlucky arrival of one Blackfoot hunter. A few seconds more and they would have struck the herd before the village knew they were even there. They captured no horses, but worse than that, they had suffered one dead and two wounded. It was a humiliating defeat at the hands of some old men and boys, and a damaging blow to his status as a war chief.

  After beating their shameful retreat from the Blackfoot village, the Crow party made their way across a low line of hills, staying close to the treeline until reaching a deep ravine that offered both water and concealment. It was here they stopped to decide what they should do. Scouts were sent out to ride the ridges, and watch for any enemy that might be near. Gray Wolf, anxious to regain his prestige in the eyes of the others, petitioned to remain in enemy country a few days longer and wait for another opportunity to steal horses. His appeal was met with a general lack of enthusiasm, and there was a definite lack of confidence for any further raids on a Blackfoot village of such underestimated strength. It was felt that Gray Wolf’s medicine was not strong, and this was the reason for their failure. Most of the warriors agreed that it would be better to return to their own land, and wait for another time to raid an enemy as dangerous as the hated Blackfeet.

  The discussion continued on into the afternoon, with Gray Wolf speaking passionately on the necessity to return to their village victoriously, with stolen horses to prove their bravery and skill. Some were in agreement with him, but the majority felt the same as the eldest of the group, High Hump, who said, “Gray Wolf, you are a mighty warrior. Your medicine has been strong in the past. It may be strong again. But it is my feeling that this raid was not favored by Man Above at this time, and it may anger him if we continue. It would be wise to leave this country before the Blackfoot hunters return to their camp. There are too many for us to fight.” There being nothing more to be said on the matter, the Crow raiding party prepared to start back, and the scouts were called in. It was a painful rebuke for Gray Wolf, but he had no choice but to accept the decision of the majority.

  One of the scouts on the ridge north of the ravine did not come in with the others. Instead, he appeared in a clearing above the ravine and rode his pony around in a circle, signaling. “Follows The Wind has spotted something,” High Hump said.

  “I’ll go and see what he has found,” Gray Wolf quickly replied, and jumped on his pony. Anxious to atone in some way after having lost face with the others, he galloped up the side of the ravine toward Follows The Wind.

  Follows The Wind waited for a moment until Gray Wolf had almost reached the clearing. Then he wheeled his pony and bolted off along the ridge. When Gray Wolf caught up to him, he had dismounted and was kneeling upon a long flat rock that jutted out over the edge of the steep slope. When Gray Wolf came up beside him, he pointed to the valley far below. There on the valley floor, Gray Wolf spotted two horses—a rider on each horse, and one pulling a travois.

  “Women,” Follows The Wind said. “I think the one on the travois is a woman, too. At this distance, it’s hard to tell.”

  Gray Wolf did not speak for a few moments, his mind still laden with frustration and anger over the failed raid on the Blackfoot pony herd. He watched the women intently, scanning the trail before and behind them, looking for any indication that there were others. While he watched, he could feel the blood beginning to boil in his veins as the desperate need for revenge bored into his brain like a weevil. When he spoke, his voice was low and husky with condemnation. “They shall pay with their lives for the Crow warriors their men shot.”

  “Maybe we should talk of this to High Hump and the others,” Follows The Wind suggested. While the idea of killing the three Blackfoot women was appealing to him, he wasn’t sure it was worth the risk of having the entire Blackfoot camp on their trail. “It might be best to let them go in peace.”

  “You would not avenge our dead and wounded?” Gray Wolf had already made his decision; he would not be swayed from his lust for blood. Without hesitating further, he moved back off the rock and leaped on his pony. He had no intention of waiting for the others in case they felt the same as Follows The Wind. Quirting his horse viciously, he raced down across the slope on a course that would intercept the unsuspecting women near the narrow pass that led out of the valley.

  Following along behind the gray-haired woman, Martha sent many anxious glances back toward Moon Shadow, lying motionless on the travois. The frail Indian girl made no sound, even when occasionally jostled roughly whenever the trail became broken and uneven. Martha feared her friend might be mortally wounded, and she wished they could hurry the horses along. But knowing the rough ride might cause Moon Shadow’s bleeding to start anew, she was forced to endure the slow pace set by the old woman on the horse ahead.

  It happened so suddenly that Martha was not sure what had occurred. The old woman was sitting rigidly straight on the horse before her when Martha took another quick glance at Moon Shadow. It was only a moment, but when she looked forward again, the old woman suddenly jerked her head back sharply, crying out in pain. At almost the same time she saw the arrow in the old woman’s side, Martha heard the pounding of flying hooves behind her. Still baffled, she turned to discover the charging horse exploding from the trees, and already almost upon her. Terrified, she tried to pull her horse aside, but it was too late. Both horses bolted to escape the charging Crow pony. Grabbing the travois poles to keep from being thrown, she was only vaguely aware of seeing the gray-haired woman land heavily upon the ground. There was no time for rational thought. Her instinct for survival—for herself and Moon Shadow—was all that was keeping her on the horse’s back. But the Crow warrior was upon the hapless woman before she could control the startled pony. Using the bone handle of his quirt as a club, Gray Wolf landed a blow beside Martha’s ear that knocked her from the pony’s back, and the frightened beast galloped away wildly, dragging the travois bumping and bouncing along the rough trail.

  Stunned, unable to stagger to her feet, Martha struggled to get up on her hands and knees, her vision blurred and fuzzy as she tried to see her assailant. Unable to defend against an attack that came from her blind side, she screamed when her hair was suddenly snatched back, lifting her head and arching her neck. It was only then that her eyes, wide with fright, focused on her attacker. At that terrifying moment, Martha looked into a face so twisted by rage that she was convinced it belonged to a demon from hell itself. Knowing she was helpless to defend h
erself, she prepared to die.

  His knife poised inches from the pale throat, Gray Wolf hesitated. His fury only partially under control, the soft auburn hair he clutched caught his attention. A white woman! Yanking back harder on her hair in order to get a better look at Martha’s face, the anger in his face turned to one of smug surprise. This was an unexpected catch, one that pleased Gray Wolf’s revengeful state of mind. Still clutching a handful of Martha’s hair, he pulled her up until she was on her knees. Looking his prize over more carefully for a few moments, he then placed his foot in the middle of her breast and kicked her over on the ground.

  Lying flat on her back, Martha was too frightened to move as the half-naked savage stood over her, the long knife still in his hand. Not sure what was about to happen to her, she tried to draw away from him as he took a step closer. As punishment for drawing away, he struck her hard across the face, shouting an order she did not understand. Then he reached down and pulled her skirt—the soft antelope skirt that Moon Shadow had helped her make—up almost to her waist to expose the creamy white thighs above her leggings. He stared at her for a long moment while she trembled with fright for what she feared was to come next. But the assault she dreaded did not come. Instead, he simply seemed fascinated by the whiteness of her skin.

  Then as if suddenly aware of his surroundings, he backed away a step and looked around him. The horse pulling the travois had already disappeared through the narrow pass at the end of the valley. Some twenty or thirty yards away, the pony ridden by the old woman stood watching him. He glanced briefly at the gray-haired woman a few yards away, struggling to pull the arrow from her side, her hands drenched in her own blood. He watched her struggles for a moment, as if only curious. Then, warning Martha not to move, he walked over to the wounded woman, jerked her head back, and drew the knife across her throat. While she gasped for her last breaths, he considered the thin gray scalp. After a moment’s contemplation, he decided it would only bring derision from the other warriors, so he released her hair and let the old woman drop in the grass.

  Thinking now of his own safety, Gray Wolf decided it best not to linger in the open valley. Taking a length of rope from his saddle, he quickly tied Martha’s hands together and drew a hasty loop around her feet. Content that she would be unable to free herself for a few minutes, he then slowly walked over to retrieve the old woman’s horse. The horse offered no resistance, which pleased Gray Wolf, for now he had a horse as well as a white captive. Collecting his prisoner, he led her back up the slope into the trees to rejoin his band of warriors.

  High Hump was openly disturbed when Gray Wolf returned with the white captive. Facing the fiery war chief, however, he maintained a courteous demeanor, befitting a Crow warrior. “Gray Wolf, I am pleased that you were able to attack the Blackfoot women and return without making our presence known to the enemy. I am wondering why you brought this woman with you.”

  Gray Wolf could not repress a smirk. He knew full well that behind High Hump’s polite inquiry there was a subtle reprimand. In matching tones of politeness, he responded. “She is a white woman. She will amuse me for a while. Then, maybe I will kill her. She has fine-looking hair. It will look good on my shield.”

  There was a low rumble of murmurs among the warriors gathered around Gray Wolf and his captive. Many of them were concerned that the missing woman and the body of the other one would trigger an all-out war party of Blackfoot warriors. High Hump spoke for them all.

  “We have been at peace with the white men for some time now. I think it might be a mistake to keep this woman. Maybe we should take her to the soldier fort.” Most of the warriors nodded agreement with High Hump’s words. Many of them had served as scouts for the army and feared that the presence of a white captive in their village might be discovered by the soldiers, and would mean trouble for them all.

  Gray Wolf stood defiantly before High Hump. “The woman is mine to do with as I wish. I alone was brave enough to ride down into the valley and take this woman and this horse. I have no fear of the white soldiers.” Still inflamed by his loss of prestige for the ill-fated raid on the Blackfoot village, Gray Wolf saw High Hump’s opposition to his prisoner as another rebuke. He was determined to have his own way.

  High Hump could readily see that to try to persuade Gray Wolf to release the woman was useless. “I would rather that you had just killed the woman and left her there with the other one. That would have been better than taking her as a captive.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But I will speak no more on the subject. You will do as you think you must do.” He took one long look at Martha before he turned toward the rest of the warriors. “We must leave this place now and cover our trail carefully. When the Blackfeet find the dead woman in the valley, they will try to track us down.”

  Wasting no more time, the Crow raiding party set out for their village on the Yellowstone River. The journey would take three days, and High Hump was anxious to cover as much distance as possible before the coming night. Being no more than thirty warriors, they could not afford to be caught on the open prairie by a larger force of Blackfeet.

  With scouts out on either side, and two riding behind the main body to watch their backtrail, they hurried through the mountain passes, intend upon gaining the low hills before darkness dictated a stop. Astride the gray-haired woman’s pony, Martha sat—her hands tied together and bound to the crosspiece of the Indian saddle. Her body swaying slightly with the horse’s uneven gait, she remained in a daze—partially from the blows she had received from the sullen Gray Wolf, and partially due to the mental devastation at having been captured. She dared not imagine what her fate might be at the hands of the scowling Gray Wolf. Each time he looked at her, his eyes promised unthinkable horrors awaiting her.

  Her thoughts shifted now to Moon Shadow and what might have happened to her. Knocked from her horse by Gray Wolf, Martha had been rendered senseless for a few minutes, but she was somehow aware that the horse had bolted, dragging the helpless Blackfoot girl on the travois. Martha feared that the stampeding horse might cause Moon Shadow’s wound to bleed profusely. Her only hope was that Swift Runner had found Black Elk soon enough to track Moon Shadow and take her back to the village where she could be cared for.

  The Crow warriors pushed their ponies hard, continuing to ride until it was almost dark before making their camp where a small stream nurtured a stand of willows at the bottom of a shallow ravine. As the Indians prepared to make camp, Martha was dragged roughly from her horse by Gray Wolf. Stumbling, trying to maintain her balance, she cursed the sullen Crow. Whether he understood her words or not, he definitely understood the tone, and slapped her hard across the mouth for her insolence. The thin trickle of blood that resulted seemed to please him, for an evil grin played upon his ugly face. He ignored her defiant stance while he took a length of rope and tied one end of it around her neck. Holding the other in his hand, he jerked hard on it, almost causing her to fall as he led her to a place under a willow a little apart from the rest of the warriors.

  Using gestures and sign language, Gray Wolf directed Martha to gather wood for a fire and then to get water from the stream. He followed along after her as she did his bidding, holding the rope tied around her neck as if she were a dog or a mule. Whenever she misunderstood a command, or failed to act quickly enough, he administered a hard yank on the rope, causing it to cut into her throat. When at last he sat down to eat some dried meat, she had a few moments’ peace. Even then, however, he tormented her with his eyes and his insolent stare. She was terrified even more than the first time she had been captured by Black Elk. For then she had no idea what lay in store for her. This time, there was no doubt in her mind what lay ahead. The thought of the squat, sneering savage putting his hands on her—bloody hands that had callously slashed the gray-haired woman’s throat—reviled her to the point where she was not certain she could hang onto her sanity. As she sat waiting for her fate, she tried not to think about it, but she found she could not put it out
of her mind. She did not realize she was crying until a tear dropped onto her hands, which were still tied together. The tiny drop of moisture seemed to capture her attention, and she stared at it as if it were her life’s blood. You will . . . you must live through this, she tried to tell herself, knowing deep in her soul that the brute would kill her when she no longer amused him.

  Black Elk drove his white war pony hard in an effort to catch up to Moon Shadow and Six Horses as quickly as he could. Swift Runner rode close behind. Knowing his wife was not a strong woman, Black Elk feared that she might be mortally wounded, for Swift Runner had said that she lost a great deal of blood. He was glad that Six Horses was with her. Moon Shadow was very fond of Six Horses—Marta, as she called her—and the white woman seemed to be genuinely fond of Moon Shadow. He knew she would do her best to care for his wife.

  Galloping through a narrow valley, Black Elk suddenly pulled his horse to a sliding stop when he spotted something in the trail ahead, near the pass. Looking right and left, to either side of him, he scanned the slopes, looking for any suspicious signs. Then he looked back at the object in the trail. It appeared to be a body. The next moment, Swift Runner slid to a stop beside him.

  “Careful,” Black Elk warned, and pointed to the body. Then he nudged his pony with his heels, and approached the body, alert to the possibility of an ambush.

  “Two Willows!” Swift Runner exclaimed, recognizing the gray-haired woman who had accompanied Moon Shadow and Six Horses.

  Both men quickly slid from their ponies and rushed to her side, only to find that they were too late to help the poor woman. Black Elk looked at the arrow in her side. “Crow,” he uttered, his tone filled with an age-old hatred. Then, alarmed, he stood up and looked around, expecting to see other bodies. There were none, a fact that offered only temporary hope. Had Moon Shadow and Six Horses managed to get away? Or were they captives of the Crows? Black Elk had to caution himself to calm his emotions and do what must be done. He and Swift Runner scouted the area around Two Willows’s body carefully. The story was plainly written on the grassy floor of the valley. The horse pulling the travois had bolted toward the pass. Other tracks showed only two other horses. One would be the horse Two Willows rode. That meant there was only one Crow pony. A single Crow warrior in Blackfoot country? This seemed highly unlikely to Black Elk, and the thought immediately occurred that a Crow raiding party may have attacked the village.