Finally, a man said, “We’re goin’ after those fellas? Why?”
“Because I won’t allow them to get away with what they’ve done. It’s as simple as that.”
Another man spoke up, and his voice had an ugly tone to it. “You mean stealin’ a squaw? Hell, there are hundreds of squaws out here. Maybe thousands. Sure, they ain’t all as pretty as that one was—”
“That young woman was not an Indian,” Scarrow said. “She was white.”
That announcement got the same sort of surprised and disbelieving looks that Plumlee had given Scarrow earlier.
“She sure looked like a squaw to me,” one of the men muttered.
“That’s because none of you got close enough to look into her eyes.” None of you care enough about a woman to look into her eyes, Scarrow thought. “They were blue. As blue as a clear mountain sky.”
“I’ve heard that a half-breed Injun might have blue eyes. Shoot, there are probably trappers’ brats scattered all over this part of the country.” This from another man.
“No doubt, but I’m still convinced about this one,” Scarrow said. “The girl was a white captive. Stop and think about it, for God’s sake. Somewhere back east there’s probably a wealthy family who’ll pay a hefty sum for her safe return.”
The men looked at each other. Scarrow’s theory was possible, but even if the former prisoner was indeed white, she might also be from some family of poor immigrants who had long since given her up as lost and wouldn’t have a dime to pay for her, even if they did want her back.
Scarrow didn’t intend to stand there arguing. In a brisk tone of command, he said, “Three of you will stay here to guard the furs and the supplies we leave behind. You can choose who it will be by lots or some other way. I don’t care. The rest of us will follow those men who raided our camp last night.”
That would give him a party of a dozen men plus himself, he thought. More than enough to deal with the handful of thieves who had taken the girl.
Some might consider it odd that he regarded them as thieves, when he and his companions had come to the mountains for the express purpose of murdering trappers and stealing their furs, but that was the way Scarrow felt. Those men had taken something that belonged to him, and he was going to get it back.
One of the men abruptly shook his head. His name was Denver, Scarrow recalled.
Denver stepped forward and said in a harsh voice, “This is crazy. I’m not gonna throw away everything we’ve worked for just to chase after some Injun gal. She’s not worth it, Scarrow. No female ever born would be worth that.”
Mutters of agreement came from several more men.
This was troubling, Scarrow thought. He didn’t need a mutiny on his hands, and there was only one way to put a stop to that. He looked at Hogarth Plumlee.
The second in command stepped up to Denver with a friendly smile on his ugly face. Denver had no idea what was about to happen, so he didn’t have a chance to block the hamlike fist that crashed into his face with no warning. Denver went over backward, blood welling in thick, dark red gouts from his broken nose.
Plumlee knelt beside him and held his knife to Denver’s throat, pressing down just hard enough to make a few drops of blood ooze out around the blade. “All you got so far is a busted beak. You can keep arguin’, in which case I’m gonna push down with this knife and not stop until it’s scrapin’ your backbone. Or you can shut your trap and do what the boss tells you. You oughta know by now that whatever he does, he’s got a mighty good reason for it. He ain’t steered us wrong so far, has he?”
Denver was afraid to move. It wouldn’t take much pressure for Plumlee’s knife to slice his throat open.
“Let him up, Hog,” one of the men said.
His name was Taylor, Scarrow recalled. He and Denver were friends.
“He’ll do like the boss says from now on.” Taylor looked at Scarrow. “I give you my word, Mr. Scarrow.”
“And I’ll take your word,” Scarrow said. “Hog, let Denver up.”
Plumlee lifted the knife away from Denver’s throat, straightened to his feet, and stepped back. Denver rolled onto his side, his breath bubbling and gurgling through the blood that filled his broken nose.
“One of you should set that nose for him,” Scarrow went on, “or else it will heal crooked. There’s no need for disfigurement. Right now, though, let’s finish what needs to be done so we can start out on the trail of those thieves. I don’t want to waste any more time.”
Taylor helped Denver up. The men got back to work. Scarrow nodded his thanks to Plumlee. He didn’t like the idea of ruling by fear—so far during this expedition, pure greed and ruthlessness had been enough to hold the men together—but if that was what it took to get the men to do his bidding, Scarrow was willing to take that step.
Anyway, Denver didn’t know how lucky he truly was. For a moment there, Scarrow had given serious thought to pulling out his pistol and blasting a ball through the man’s brain.
* * *
The night on the ridge passed quietly. Preacher took the first guard shift, then was able to sleep for a couple of hours while Hawk stood watch.
Instinct roused him early, before dawn. He stepped over to where Hawk stood beside a boulder and asked quietly, “Any sign of pursuit?”
“Not yet,” Hawk replied. “Do you believe they will come after us, Preacher?”
“I wouldn’t, if it was me. We didn’t take anything except the girl. I’d go on about my business. Of course, that’s what I’d do if I was the same sort of no-account varmint those fellas are . . . which I ain’t.”
“In the past two days, we have killed a good number of them,” Hawk pointed out. “Most men would want vengeance.”
Preacher nodded in the shadows. “That’s true. And dependin’ on how attached they were to the girl, they might want to get her back, too, just like ol’ Angry Sky. So, between the Blackfeet and that bunch o’ murderin’ fur thieves, we can’t afford to let our guard down.”
“There are always men who wish to kill you, aren’t there?”
“Seems like it,” Preacher said with a wry chuckle. “Been goin’ on now for a long time, too. But I’d have to go back east to get away from ’em, and I sure as hell don’t want to do that. Might not do any good, anyway.”
“Evil is stubborn and would follow.”
“That’s been my experience, yeah.” Preacher looked around at the still-sleeping figures of their companions. “Did Butterfly seem to be restin’ all right?”
“I heard her make a few noises . . . as if she were having frightening dreams.”
“I did while I was standin’ guard, too,” Preacher said. “And I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if that’s what was goin’ on. From what she said, though, she was lucky. Things could’ve gone a lot harder on her. I don’t think she was really mistreated so far, just handled kinda rough.”
Hawk nodded. “Yes, I agree. If we can find a safe place for her, she can still have a good life.” He paused. “But with a man such as Angry Sky after her, can anyplace truly be safe?”
“Reckon we’ll find out. We’d best wake ’em all up. Horses’ll be rested by now, and we can put some distance between us and anybody coming up behind us, red or white.” He started to turn away, then stopped. “You might want to let Butterfly ride with White Buffalo today. That scrawny ol’ man weighs less ’n you do. It’d be easier on his pony carryin’ double.”
The sky was light enough that Preacher was able to see the frown that appeared on Hawk’s face. Obviously, the young warrior didn’t like that suggestion.
“That old man cannot be trusted around young women,” Hawk objected.
“Don’t worry. We’ll keep an eye on him. Anyway, he’s feeble enough that if he gets too much outta line, Butterfly can just wallop him one. She’ll probably be tradin’ around and ridin’ with everybody at one time or another before this is all over, so don’t let it put a burr under your saddle.”
“Fine,” Ha
wk said, but he didn’t sound like he thought it was fine at all.
He went to wake Butterfly. When he knelt beside her and lightly rested a hand on her shoulder, she gasped and bolted upright. Hawk had to grab her shoulders and say quickly in Crow, “It is all right! You are safe, Butterfly. It is only me, Hawk That Soars.”
“Oh.” She was breathing hard.
Preacher, standing a few yards away, could tell that she’d been terrified for a second. He supposed that was understandable, since she had gone directly from being a captive of the Blackfeet, bound for a life of slavery and degradation, to being the prisoner of a bunch of white murderers and thieves, where she wouldn’t have any reason to expect much better.
She calmed down as Hawk continued kneeling in front of her and speaking in a quiet voice.
Preacher went over to Charlie and Aaron and nudged them awake with a foot. He didn’t have to wake White Buffalo because Dog had taken care of that already. The big cur was licking the old-timer’s wrinkled, leathery face.
“Dog tells me it is time to rise and face the new day and whatever dangers it may bring,” White Buffalo said to Preacher.
“Maybe there won’t be no danger.”
White Buffalo looked over at Dog, who had sat down beside him. “You are right, my friend. Preacher has gone mad. A day without danger? Impossible!”
“He didn’t say I’d gone loco,” Preacher objected.
“Can you be certain of that?”
Preacher just shook his head and turned away to get a small fire started. He found Hawk standing in his way. The young warrior wore a puzzled and concerned frown on his face.
“What’s wrong?” Preacher asked.
“I was talking to Butterfly just now . . .”
“I know. I saw how spooked she was when you woke her.”
Butterfly was now on her feet, looking around as if in search of some brush where she could have a few moments of privacy.
“But you did a good job of calmin’ her down,” Preacher went on.
“It is difficult to say because the light is not good yet, but when I looked at her, I thought I saw something I did not expect, Preacher.”
“What in the world was that?”
“I believe she has blue eyes,” Hawk said. “I think she may be white.”
CHAPTER 11
Hawk’s theory was unexpected, but the idea that Butterfly might actually be white came as no real surprise to Preacher. Immigration from back east had increased in recent years, but for more than a decade, would-be pioneers had been heading west in search of new hopes and new dreams. Many brought their wives and children with them. It was inevitable that some of those families would encounter hostile tribes. Massacres had taken place, and white captives had been carried off to serve as slaves, or in some cases, to be taken into the tribes. White children, especially, were sometimes raised as Indians.
So it was entirely possible that Butterfly had been born to a white family, even though a person couldn’t tell that by looking at her.
If that was the case, she had probably been living with the Crow for a long time. Her skin was deeply tanned like that of someone who lived a mostly outdoor life, and she was fluent in their tongue. When Preacher and the others spoke English around her, she gave no sign that the words meant anything to her. No matter what the circumstances of her birth, she was Crow now.
“That don’t really change nothin’,” Preacher said to Hawk. “She still has Angry Sky after her, and we can’t rule out some of the bunch that was holdin’ her prisoner comin’ after her, too.”
Hawk nodded. “I know. But I thought you would like to be aware of the possibility.”
“Yeah, we’ll check into it later,” Preacher promised. “For now, don’t say anything to the others, all right? I don’t know how Aaron and Charlie would take it.”
He could imagine, though. If Butterfly really was white and the two young trappers found out, they might think that she should be taken back east to live among her true people. They would have a harder time realizing that as far as Butterfly was concerned. The Crow were her true people.
Hawk nodded his agreement, then went to check on the horses. Preacher built a small fire, as he had started to do a few minutes earlier before the low-voiced conversation with his son. He boiled coffee and fried up some salt pork from their supplies. Hawk and White Buffalo had no use for coffee, but Charlie and Aaron certainly appreciated it. Preacher had developed a fondness for the strong black brew himself.
While they were having breakfast and preparing to break camp, Preacher noticed that Butterfly never strayed far from Hawk’s side. He didn’t know if the girl was already smitten with him or just trusted him the most because he was the one who had rescued her from the gang of killers and thieves.
She didn’t like it when he told her that she would be riding with White Buffalo.
“I would ride with Hawk That Soars,” she said with a frown.
“White Buffalo weighs less, so it’ll be best to let his pony carry double for a while,” Preacher explained. “You’ll ride with Hawk again another time. If we can, we’ll get you your own pony sometime.”
A sullen look came over her face, but Hawk spoke to her quietly enough that Preacher couldn’t make out the words, and she nodded. The boy could probably talk her into durned near anything, Preacher mused. He hoped Hawk was honorable enough not to try to take advantage of that.
They mounted up and headed west again, aiming for that mountain pass Preacher knew of. On the far side of it, the terrain wasn’t as rugged and they would be able to make better time.
That was good. In that region of steep slopes, thick brush, and deep gullies, determined pursuers, even on foot, might be able to keep up with them. They needed to get through that pass in order to shake off, once and for all, anybody who might be after them.
* * *
Only one member of Jefferson Scarrow’s group, an older man named Paulson, had much experience on the frontier. The others, including Scarrow himself, were more accustomed to the shadow-cloaked back alleys and smoke-filled taverns of cities back east. All of them had headed west at various times because the law was after them and had arrived eventually in St. Louis, the largest westernmost city. That was where Scarrow had gathered the group and proposed that they band together for the purpose of amassing a fortune in furs . . . illegally, of course.
Paulson was no more scrupulous than any of his companions, but he had been on the frontier longer and had made several legitimate trapping trips up the Missouri River. Because of that experience, he could read sign better than any of the others.
“This here is where they crossed the creek,” he said, pointing to marks on the bank that Scarrow might not have noticed. “And I can see from here where they came out on the other side.”
“Are you certain?” Scarrow asked.
Paulson nodded. “I’d bet a coonskin cap on it, Jeff.”
Scarrow didn’t like it when the men called him Jeff. He tolerated the familiarity from Hog Plumlee since he had known Plumlee longer than any of the others. But he was willing to not make an issue of it with them. He wanted to save his authority for more important matters . . . such as going after the girl and the men who had stolen her away.
As planned, they had left three men back at the camp to watch over the supplies and pelts. The others had waded across the creek to the eastern bank and started up it searching for tracks. Plumlee was convinced he had heard the riders heading north the night before, and Scarrow trusted his second in command.
Paulson had confirmed that.
Scarrow asked the man, “Can you follow the tracks on the other side?”
“I reckon there’s a good chance I can,” the grizzled Paulson replied. “I expect they were hurryin’, just tryin’ to put some distance betwixt us and them, so they wouldn’t have been takin’ the time to cover up their trail.”
“We can only hope,” Scarrow muttered, then raised his voice to order the men across the cre
ek.
They held their rifles and powder horns above their heads as they waded through the stream.
Once on the other side, Paulson had no trouble following the hoofprints left by the riders’ horses. As he had suspected, the men didn’t seem to have been trying to make it difficult for anyone to trail them. Scarrow had a hunch that wouldn’t continue to be true. Anyone smart enough to have stolen that girl away from them would soon realize that they needed to take some precautions.
Scarrow pushed the men as hard as he dared, keeping them moving at a brisk pace all morning. They had to climb in and out of arroyos, fight their way through clinging brush, and struggle up steep, hogback ridges.
Several times, Paulson pointed out tracks. “See, along here they had to dismount and lead their horses. They been leadin’ more than they been ridin’. Looks like you might’ve been right about us bein’ able to keep up with them, Jeff.”
“We have to do more than keep up,” Scarrow snapped. “We have to catch them.” He looked around at the others and could tell by the expressions on the faces of some of them that they still considered this chase a fool’s errand. His hold over them was precarious, he knew. “We’ll take five minutes to rest.”
That eased the looks of displeasure but didn’t get rid of them completely. Scarrow thought about offering the men a little extra from his share of the money they would make from the sale of the furs, but he didn’t want to take that step unless it became absolutely necessary. He liked money as much as any of the others.
Something about that girl compelled him, and he realized that he would do whatever he had to in order to get her back.
* * *
The men had drawn lots, as Scarrow suggested, to determine who would stay at the camp with the supplies and pelts. Most of them considered whoever stayed behind to be the winners in that competition, because they thought Scarrow’s pursuit of the men who had taken the girl was a fool’s errand. No woman was worth the money waiting to be made by continuing to murder any trappers they came across and steal their furs.
The three men left behind were Lew Merrill, Rex Norman, and Will Blassingame. All of them had been thieves for as far back as they could remember, and Blassingame had murdered several women in Kentucky, each of the killings committed with a knife. The three men weren’t exactly friends, but they got along all right, which was good since they didn’t have any idea how long they would be stuck there, waiting for the others to get back.
Preacher's Rage Page 8