Wrath of the Savage Read online

  • • •

  “Now, what the hell?” Jake had exclaimed when he heard the shooting from the creek. The first thought that came to mind was, He had to go stir up trouble. He couldn’t just leave them alone.

  Even more alarmed than her husband, Ruby exclaimed, “Lame Dog!” fearing that he had been shot. She ran to the back door and followed Jake out in the yard to listen for more gunfire. All was quiet now, which caused Ruby to worry even more.

  “They might have shot Lame Dog,” she said fearfully. “You need to go down to creek to see.”

  “And get my ass shot full of lead?” Jake responded. “Right now ain’t a good time to go walkin’ up on that camp. That hardheaded son of yours oughta stayed away from there, like we told him. Now they’re liable to shoot at the first thing they see.”

  “If you not go, I go,” Ruby declared. “Make sure my son all right.”

  “No, damn it,” Jake replied. “Ain’t no sense in you gettin’ yourself shot, too. I’ll go down there.”

  He knew the woman would do what she said, and he wouldn’t be any kind of man at all if he let his wife risk the danger of getting shot. He couldn’t avoid the thought that went through his mind that his life might be more peaceful without her. But he wasn’t sure how long the Indians would let him stay there if she was gone.

  “No, you just stay right here, and I’ll go find out if that was John that caused all the shootin’.” It was a little more than a mile, so Jake put a bridle on his horse but didn’t bother with the saddle. Using a rail of the corral as a stool, he crawled up onto the horse’s back and rode off along the creek, leaving Ruby still in the yard, listening.

  Approaching the camp through the trees, just as Lame Dog had done, Jake pulled up short of the clearing to announce his presence. “Hello!” he yelled. “Nate, it’s me, Jake. You hear me?”

  “Yeah,” Coldiron called back. “We hear you. Come on in.”

  “Anybody hurt?” Jake asked when he rode up to the fire and slid off his horse.

  “Don’t reckon so,” Coldiron replied. “We looked in the trees there, where this feller came from, but he’s gone away from here. Don’t know if we hit him or not. It’s too dark to tell if there was any blood around, and he lit out like his tail was on fire. I think me and Bret made it a little too hot for him to make another try for the horses.”

  “Well, I’m glad nobody got hurt,” Jake said. Then remembering his manners, he asked, “You all right, ma’am?” Myra said that she was. Turning back to Bret and Coldiron, he said, “I don’t know how anybody knew you folks were camped here. Musta been one of those young bucks from Black Bear’s village. Probably stumbled on you by accident.” He was hoping it was too dark to see the traces of the lie on his face.

  “Likely so, I reckon,” Coldiron said. “Just cost us a little sleep and a few cartridges is all.”

  “Well, I expect I’d best go on back to the house and let the old lady know all you folks are all right,” Jake said. “She was a little worried. I reckon I’ll see you in the mornin’.” He made an attempt to jump on his horse’s back but failed by a couple of feet. Coldiron clasped his hands together to make a step for the short little man, and boosted him up on the horse. “Much obliged,” Jake said, and turned the horse back toward his cabin.

  “Why do I get the feeling that ol’ Jake there might have an idea who our visitor was?” Bret wondered aloud.

  “I don’t know,” Myra said, “but I wonder why I have a hard time believing that Indian woman he lives with was worried about our safety.”

  • • •

  As Ruby Red Bonnet had estimated, it took her two days to complete Bret’s new outfit of deerskin, including winter moccasins. All traces of his life in the army disappeared when he tried them on, and he was pleasantly surprised to find how well they fit him. Bret had expected a rather baggy creation of stiff leathery hide to have been finished in such a short time. He had been certain that it was not a job Ruby relished, for her icy disposition toward them never improved. But he should have suspected that the woman’s pride in her sewing would not permit her to turn out a product of inferior quality. There was the possibility that he might tell someone who did the job. Although he was keen to try the moccasins, he planned to keep his boots in case the moccasins didn’t work out.

  “You look like you belong in these mountains now,” Coldiron told him. “All you need is to get ’em broke in a little bit, and take some of the new shine off ’em.”

  There had been no more visits from any horse thieves during the night, but both men took turns watching the horses anyway. Bret had in mind the possibility of trading the two extra horses for winter coats, probably bear skin or buffalo, if their search for Lucy Gentry took them into the winter. According to Coldiron, their best bet to trade for any supplies they needed would be at Fort Benton, which was ten or twelve miles short of the confluence of the Marias with the Missouri.

  “Is that a military post?” Bret asked. “You think a band of Piegans would have a village that close to an army post?”

  “It used to be the Blackfoot Agency,” Coldiron said. “But it ain’t no more, not since they moved it to Choteau. The army weren’t the first to use the fort. It started out as a fur tradin’ fort before trappin’ went to hell. Last I heard, the settlers built a right good-sized town around the old fort. I expect we can find about anything we need there.”

  When all the trading that was to be done with Jake Smart was finished, the three travelers said farewell to the little man and his stoic wife. Ruby walked out to stand beside her husband and watched them ride up the slope to the river trail.

  “Why they don’t ride toward the village?” Ruby asked, referring to the Blood village of Chief Black Bear. “They don’t look for woman there?”

  “Why, I don’t know, hon,” Jake replied. “Maybe they plan on circlin’ around the village and watchin’ it from the other side.” He could not tell her that he had told Coldiron the woman was taken to a Piegan camp, the same village their son resided in. In an effort to get her mind on something else, he said, “That sure was a fine piece of work you did on that young feller’s outfit.”

  “Huh,” she snorted. “I hope if I see it again, it’s got arrow hole in it.”

  • • •

  Fearing that time was against them, and concerned that the young woman they searched for might already be dead, they followed the river north for half a day until it reached the Missouri. Then, after resting the horses, they followed the Missouri northeast for another fifteen miles by Bret’s estimate before camping for the night.

  There had been no sign of any Indian activity after leaving the confluence of the Smith River with the Missouri. In fact, they saw a couple of isolated homesteads across the river on the north bank. The sight was a reassurance for Myra that the entire country was not a savage wilderness.

  In the evening of the third day, they made camp within a few miles of Fort Benton, where the river turned in a series of curves to form an S. Coldiron told them that they were going to go a bit farther the next morning before crossing over to the north side of the river.

  “If we cross here, we’ll have to backtrack just to keep from havin’ to cross it again.” The fort and the settlement growing up around it were all on the north side.

  The prospect of swimming the horses across was not one that Myra looked forward to. All during the day’s ride, there had been no section of the river that appeared to offer an easy ford, at least in her opinion. She would never admit to her fear of deep water, or the fact that she could not swim. She thought about the night they had camped near the Musselshell, when she had gone behind a big boulder at the edge of the creek and tried to drown herself. The idea of water trying to enter her lungs had terrified her, causing her to abandon any thoughts of suicide in that fashion. And that was in water no deeper than her waist. What if she fell off her horse dur
ing the crossing? Realizing that if she continued thinking these things she was going to be a nervous wreck by morning, she ordered herself to forget about facing it until the time came.

  “What are you workin’ so hard on in your head?” Coldiron asked her. He had been watching her from the opposite side of the small campfire as they finished their supper. “I don’t think we have to worry too much about the Injuns this close to Fort Benton. A lot of the Injuns come into the town to trade. The Blackfeet were the ones who got the American Fur Company to build Fort Benton on the north side of the Missouri, so they’d have a place to trade their furs.”

  “I’m not worrying about the Indians. My mind was just somewhere else,” Myra said, refusing to admit her fear to Coldiron. “I’m tired, I guess. Maybe I was worrying a little bit about Lucy, and what’s happening to her while we’re sitting around this fire drinking coffee and eating venison.”

  • • •

  The next morning, the three travelers followed a well-used trail along the river. Coldiron and Bret took some time to look over the banks, trying to decide on a good place to cross over to the other side. After passing up one possibility after another, because of steep banks, or swirling water, Bret made a suggestion.

  “This trail we’ve been following looks to me like it’s well traveled, not only hoofprints, but wagon tracks, too. More than likely these folks were on their way to Fort Benton, so I’d bet we just need to keep following the trail and see where they ford the river. That’s most likely the best place to cross.”

  Grinning, Coldiron responded, “Well, now, that makes a helluva lotta sense, don’t it?” He turned his sturdy buckskin gelding back toward the trail, without any discussion. They were within sight of some of the buildings of the town when the trail took a sharp turn down to the river.

  “I reckon this is it,” Coldiron said. They paused on the bluff to look over the crossing. An island situated more than halfway across split the ford into two phases. The first appeared to be the deepest and the widest.

  “Might as well take a look,” he said, “see if there’s any trouble.” He nudged the buckskin, and the big horse went forward without hesitation into the water. “Bottom seems pretty good,” he called back when nearly halfway across the channel. “Ol’ Buck’s swimmin’ now, though,” he said when the water came up on his thighs. He started to come out of the saddle when the horse seemed to struggle, but realized that the buckskin had found footing again. Coldiron reined the horse to a stop when it came up on the island. Then he turned and beckoned for Bret and Myra to follow.

  Bret tied Coldiron’s packhorse on a lead rope behind, thinking it best if he led two horses while Myra led one. “You go next, Myra,” he told her. “I’ll come behind you in case I have to fish you out of the river.” Although he was teasing, he thought it a worthwhile precaution.

  “You’re not gonna have to fish me out,” she blustered confidently. “I might have to come back and fish you out.”

  Her fear of the crossing was greatly diminished, thanks to Coldiron’s seemingly easy crossing. She nudged the Appaloosa and entered the water boldly, no longer hounded by thoughts of drowning. It went as smoothly as she anticipated, until she reached the point where the bottom dropped off.

  Startled, when it felt the bottom suddenly gone, the usually gentle Appaloosa lunged forward in an effort to find footing again. Caught by surprise, Myra came out of the saddle and into the water. The thought immediately flashed through her mind that the river had claimed her, just as she had feared. Screaming and flailing frantically, she was swept back to collide with her packhorse, which was now swimming after the Appaloosa. Myra’s thrashing arms caught a strap of the packsaddle and she was pulled safely up onto the island.

  An astonished Nate Coldiron gaped at the thoroughly soaked woman. “I never knowed you was one of them fancy trick riders,” he deadpanned. “Rode into the river ridin’ the Appaloosa, and come out ridin’ the packhorse.”

  Having observed her antics from behind, Bret came out of the water after her and could not resist a comment as well. “Now you know that these aren’t just packhorses. They’re also lifeboats for river crossings.”

  Still sputtering from her impromptu dunking, Myra was not in a mood to appreciate the humor at her expense. Dripping wet, she still had a small channel of the river to cross before she could be done with the Missouri. “I reckon you can go awhile now before you have to take another bath,” Coldiron remarked, remembering that she had felt such a strong need for one when they were back on the Musselshell.

  “Now that I’ve given you two jackasses something to entertain you,” she retorted, “can we get on across this damn river?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Coldiron replied grandly, with a sly smile aside to Bret, who could not help beaming as well. “Would you like to lead, in case you decide to change horses again?”

  She refused to dignify his question with a reply. Instead, climbing onto her horse again and giving it a kick, she plunged into the narrow channel of water, leading her packhorse behind her. She had already embarrassed herself by screaming frantically when she was dumped, and she was determined not to show her fear again. Much to her relief, the water did not rise above the stirrups. When she climbed up on dry land, she looked back and admonished them. “Well, come on. We’re wasting time lollygagging around this crossing.”

  “I expect it’d be a good idea to stop for a little while to see if we can dry out the lady’s clothes a little,” Bret said when he joined his two companions on the bank. He and Coldiron were only wet from the thigh down, and would have simply let the sun dry them eventually. But Myra was soaked, and he knew she was uncomfortable, even though she was making a brave show of wanting to continue.

  Now that she was on the north bank, she began to cool down a bit, both from the river water and a feeling of sheepishness over having lost her temper. “We don’t have to lose any more time, if we just stop long enough for me to change,” she said. “My dress is in one of the packs on top, and it doesn’t look like they got wet.”

  “If you’re sure you’re all right,” Bret said. “I mean, if you don’t feel like you need to rest for a spell.”

  “I just got wet,” she came back. “I haven’t been doing anything to get tired.”

  “If it was me,” Coldiron allowed, “I’d just let ’em dry on me. As wet as those clothes are, they’ll shrink like hell. If you keep ’em on, they’ll fit a lot better when they do dry.”

  “As much as I respect your advice, Mr. Coldiron,” she replied sarcastically, “I think I’d rather ride into Fort Benton in dry clothes.” Her tone was enough to inform the two men that there was no need for further discussion on the matter. Bret couldn’t suppress a smile. Then he realized that the river crossing had provided the first light moment in their journey. It only lasted for the time it took for Myra to get out of her wet clothes and put on her tattered dress. And then the grim purpose of their trip returned as they rode on into Fort Benton.

  Chapter 8

  Lucy Gentry sat at the back of the tipi, her legs drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them, trying to get in as small a shell as possible. The voices of the people in the village carried to her as she cowered there, seemingly unconcerned that she was being held captive by one of their young warriors. She hoped with all her heart that Bloody Hand was feasting on the fresh antelope that the day’s hunt had provided. Maybe if he filled his belly with meat and some of the whiskey that his cruel friend, Lame Dog, had brought back from the Blood village, he might be too sleepy to pay any attention to her.

  Her life had effectively ended the day her husband was struck down and she was snatched off her feet by a screaming Blackfoot warrior. She had no idea how many days had passed since she was cast into a terrifying nightmare of scowling, leering Indians, who poked, prodded, cursed, and spat upon her, their faces filled with the contempt they felt for her. She had done the
m no harm, yet they seemed intent upon punishing her for something. It was too much for her mind to maintain its balance.

  At first, she had Myra Buckley to help her hold on to her sanity, but now Myra was gone, maybe dead. She had not seen or heard of her since they were separated at a village on some river. Who was the more fortunate, Myra or her? She would never know, but she knew that Myra’s fate could not have been worse than hers. Purchased from her captors by a Piegan warrior, who had an insane desire for her, she was certain that there was no greater hell than the one she had fallen into.

  She had screamed and almost fainted when he came for her. One of the most feared warriors in the Piegan village, he was a vile-looking man with only one ear. On the left side of his head there was only a hole where his ear had been before being sliced off by a Lakota warrior’s hatchet. On his left shoulder, there remained an ugly scar where the hatchet had struck him after it severed the ear. Bloody Hand had earned the respect of his fellow warriors when he opened the Lakota warrior’s belly with his knife. The severed ear, dried and shriveled, was still worn on a rawhide cord around Bloody Hand’s neck. The thought of it was enough to cause her to shiver.

  After one night in the Piegan village, Lucy had abandoned all hope of rescue. How could anyone find her? The village would be moving in a few days. Convinced that she could not endure the abuse from Bloody Hand, as well as that from his mother, Dark Moon, she decided that she would take her own life. That resolution was more difficult to accomplish, owing to the lack of means to effectively kill herself quickly. She was never allowed to use any object that might inflict damage on her or anyone else. Bloody Hand lived in his mother’s tipi whenever he was in the village, and Dark Moon willingly took on the responsibility for keeping a constant eye on his captive. Lucy had considered the possibility of overpowering the vigilant Piegan woman, but feared it would only result in failure. Dark Moon was a strong old woman, and would undoubtedly win any contest between them. Lucy had attempted to starve herself to death, since that was the only option available to her. But Dark Moon, wise to what the white woman was trying to do, forcefully fed her, standing over her with a stick to make sure she swallowed every mouthful. Firmly believing there was no hope for her, Lucy could only pray that God would see fit to take her from this hell she found herself in.