The light had become better . . . good enough for Scarrow to see the frown that appeared on Angry Sky’s face as the Blackfoot war chief considered the proposal that they join forces.
After a moment, Angry Sky said, “Your men told us where to find you.”
“The ones we left at our camp by the creek?” Plumlee asked.
Scarrow glared at him for a second. He was the one negotiating with Angry Sky for their lives. The addition of a second voice might just complicate things unnecessarily.
“One man answered my questions,” Angry Sky said without really addressing what Plumlee had asked. “The other two were already dead. The third man said the girl was your prisoner.”
“I’ve already explained that,” Scarrow said. “Keeping her tied was for her own good. We fed her, protected her, kept her from wandering off again. As I told you, she was out of her head. Touched by the spirits, isn’t that what your people say?”
Angry Sky grunted. “What you say may be true,” he allowed, “but how can you be allies with us when we killed three of your friends?”
“That is unfortunate.” Scarrow shrugged. “But I think we all understand perfectly well the notion of practicality. You outnumber us by a two-to-one margin. You can kill us with scarcely any effort, and I seriously doubt that we could kill more than one or two of you in return.”
Plumlee said, “I, uh, don’t know that I’d be pointin’ those things out to him, Jeff.”
“Nonsense,” Scarrow responded. “Angry Sky is an intelligent man, obviously. He knows the situation every bit as well as we do.” He smiled. “And he knows that we have a common enemy and a shared objective . . . that young woman.”
“You talk too much,” Angry Sky snapped. “But for now, you live. That is my decision. Tell your men not to test my mercy.”
“We’ll cooperate. I give you my word on that.” Scarrow added, “You can consider us part of your war party now.”
* * *
“White?” Charlie and Aaron exclaimed in surprise at the same time. They turned their heads to stare at Butterfly, who suddenly looked frightened, as if she wanted to bolt.
Hawk hurried over and spoke to her in a low voice, assuring her that no one was upset with her or intended her any harm.
“How is that even possible?” Charlie asked. “I mean . . . look at her.”
“She certainly appears to be an Indian,” Aaron added.
Preacher shook his head. “Like I said, she has blue eyes. I never saw an Indian who did, even a half-breed. Her cheekbones are pretty high, her hair is dark, and her skin is tanned mighty deep. Put all those things together, and she resembles a Crow, sure enough. But that don’t make her one.”
“Where did she come from?” White Buffalo asked.
“Ain’t no way of knowin’, unless she can remember enough to tell us,” Preacher said. “Chances are, her family was on its way out here to settle somewhere when they got attacked, and she survived.”
White Buffalo shook his head. “The Crow are a peaceful people, except when fighting the Blackfeet.”
“Yeah, most of the time, but they’ve had some clashes with the whites. And the girl’s family could’ve been jumped by a war party from some other tribe that took her prisoner. Slaves get traded around from tribe to tribe.” Preacher shrugged. “Or maybe nobody took her prisoner. Could be she was the only survivor after a battle and wandered off on her own. The Crow could’ve found her and took her in.”
“That is more likely to have happened,” White Buffalo said. “The Crow are also a kind, generous people.”
Aaron said, “Does any of that really matter? What’s important is that if she’s white, we should be thinking about taking her back to St. Louis instead of trying to find some Indian village where we can leave her.”
“That’s right,” Charlie said. “We might even be able to find out her real name and where she comes from. She could have relatives who are worried sick about her.”
That was exactly the way Preacher had expected the two young trappers to react to the news.
He said, “As far as she’s concerned, Butterfly is her real name, and she comes from that Crow village the Blackfeet attacked. She’s been out here long enough she probably doesn’t remember anything else. As for any relatives . . . I reckon it’s been long enough that they’ve given up on ever seein’ her again.”
“But shouldn’t you at least try to find out what she remembers?” Aaron insisted. “It seems to me like the only decent thing to do.”
Charlie nodded in agreement.
They still had to wait a while longer to let the horses rest more, so Preacher decided he might as well humor his two young friends. “I’ll talk to her, but it’s likely she won’t remember nothin’ except what she’s already told us.”
White Buffalo muttered, “It is best just to leave this be. No good can come of meddling when things cannot be changed.”
Preacher sort of agreed with the old-timer, but he went over to Butterfly anyway. The girl looked apprehensive as she stood there with Hawk and Dog.
“Enough, Preacher,” Hawk said in English. “She is frightened.”
“I’m not gonna hurt her, and you know that. I’m just gonna talk to her, that’s all.”
Hawk frowned but didn’t argue as Preacher looked intently at Butterfly and smiled. “I want to ask you a few things, Butterfly,” he said in Crow. “Do you remember ever being called anything else?”
The question made her look confused as well as nervous. “You mean . . . before I was Butterfly? I have always been Butterfly, ever since I lived with the Crow people.”
“No, I mean before that,” Preacher said. “When you lived with white people like me and Aaron and Charlie.”
Her gaze darted to the two young trappers for a second, then back to Preacher. “I never lived with Aaron and Charlie.”
“Not them, but people like them. An older man and a woman, maybe some kids about your age. A family. A white family that you were part of.”
Butterfly shrank against Hawk, who put his arm around her shoulders as she said, “Why does he ask these things? I do not know what he’s talking about.”
In English, Hawk said to Preacher, “You are scaring her. You should leave her alone and let her be Butterfly.”
White Buffalo nodded in agreement with that statement.
Preacher had seen a flicker of something in Butterfly’s blue eyes, however, and it goaded his curiosity that much more. He said in Crow, “Don’t be frightened, Butterfly. Nothing will change. You will stay with us, and we will protect you. But we need to know what you remember about the long-ago days before you came to live with the Crow. Before they were your people. When you were a little white girl.”
She shook her head stubbornly and whispered, “That . . . that was a bad time.”
“You do remember it?” Preacher prodded.
“I remember . . . a man. He wore . . . a long black coat. He shouted words I . . . I never understood. And there was a woman. She was kind, but . . . her words . . . I cannot recall them. I rode with the two of them in a . . . a lodge that moved. Big beasts . . . like buffalo . . . pulled it.”
“A covered wagon,” Preacher said in English. “Pulled by a team of oxen. She’s rememberin’ her folks.” He went on in Crow, “What happened then, Butterfly?”
She shook her head, closed her eyes, pressed her face against Hawk’s chest, and shuddered. “It was bad,” she said, her voice muffled. “Very bad. Much shouting. Loud noises. And people . . . people being hurt . . .”
“That is enough,” Hawk snapped in English. “You have proven that she was part of a settler’s family, Preacher. What else do you need to know? Why does any of this matter?”
“It’s important because we need to know where she came from,” Aaron said before Preacher could reply. “If we can find out where she belongs, we can see to it that she gets back there.”
“She belongs here!” Hawk cried. “Even if she was white once, sh
e is Crow now! She has no place in the white man’s world. Look at her!” Bitterness came into his voice as he went on. “In their eyes, she is a filthy redskin. No one would want her.”
Preacher had a hunch the boy was right about that. White children who had been raised as Indians had been returned to civilization before. Preacher had heard about a number of such cases. And very few of them, he recalled, had ended well for anybody. The youngsters couldn’t give up Indian ways, and the whites, even their families, regarded them as unclean.
“It might not be the best thing for her to go back—” He stopped short when Butterfly whispered something else.
Hawk, with his arm still around her shoulders, looked down at her and asked, “What was that? What did you say, Butterfly?”
“C-Caro . . . line. Caroline. I remember . . . the woman . . . she called me that.” She lifted her eyes, looked at the circle of men around her, and asked, “Is that my name? Am I . . . Caroline?”
CHAPTER 15
Angry Sky and his party of searchers were mounted, and they even had a few extra of the sturdy Indian ponies they rode. Not enough for each of Jefferson Scarrow’s men to have his own horse, but some rode single and some rode double, and that way they were able to keep up with the Blackfoot warriors.
The white men and the Blackfeet exchanged plenty of wary, hostile looks. The truce between them was a very tentative one, based solely on the shared obsession of the two leaders. Some of the men in both groups surely wondered what it was about the young Crow woman called Butterfly that would inspire anyone to go to such lengths to find her.
It wasn’t just the desire for a woman that prompted this pursuit, though, Scarrow knew. Even more than that, it had to do with pride and respect. He and Angry Sky couldn’t maintain their leadership positions if they sat back, did nothing, and allowed someone to steal from them. Such audacity had to be punished. Their followers had to know that anyone who dared to cross them was taking his own life in his hands.
Now that they had joined forces with the Blackfeet, they didn’t have to rely on Paulson to follow the trail anymore. The Indians would have scoffed at the idea that a white man could read sign as well as they could. They might have even been offended by such a suggestion, and Scarrow didn’t want to give any offense to them until he had what he wanted.
After Angry Sky had talked to some of his men in their tongue, hopefully making sure they understood that the white men were not to be killed, he started riding toward the pass that was still several hundred feet above them. That was the way Scarrow’s party had been going, so Scarrow knew the Blackfeet agreed with Paulson about where the trail led.
The warriors surrounded the white men as they rode, no doubt to keep them from trying to escape or any other tricks. As they moved along, Plumlee brought his pony alongside Scarrow’s mount—as the leader and second in command of their group, they didn’t have to ride double—and said quietly, “Jeff, have you given any thought to what we’re gonna do once these heathens get their hands on that girl? They’re still gonna outnumber us by a bunch, and then they won’t have no more use for us.”
“You’re not telling me anything I haven’t already considered, Hog,” Scarrow replied, also keeping his voice low enough that the conversation wouldn’t be overheard. Other than Angry Sky, who had already demonstrated that he understood English, Scarrow had no way of knowing which of the other savages also spoke the language of civilization, if any. “The only thing I was thinking about back there was keeping us alive for the moment.”
“And I’m mighty glad you did, don’t get me wrong about that. I just think our days are still numbered unless we think of some way to turn the tables on these redskins.”
“I know,” Scarrow said. “I have been thinking about it, and it seems the best way to preserve our lives is to make certain that we control the girl’s fate, not the Blackfeet.”
“You mean we’re gonna steal her from the Injuns after they steal her from the fellas we’ve been chasin’?”
“Something like that . . . however we can manage it. But she’s our path to freedom and safety, Hog, mark my words about that.”
Plumlee scratched his bristly chin. “I hope you’re right, Jeff. I surely do.”
A short time later as they approached the pass, Angry Sky signaled for his men to halt, and surrounded by Blackfoot warriors as they were, Scarrow’s party had no choice but to do likewise. Angry Sky sent a couple of men ahead as scouts. They disappeared into the pass.
“You reckon those fellas might’ve set up an ambush on the other side?” Plumlee asked Scarrow.
“Highly unlikely. I believe their main concern ever since they raided our camp by the creek has been to put miles behind them. But anything is possible, I suppose, and Angry Sky, obviously, is a cautious man.”
After some time had gone by, the scouts returned. They weren’t hurrying, which told Scarrow they weren’t being pursued and hadn’t really found anything on the other side of the pass except maybe some tracks left by their quarry. The warriors reported to Angry Sky, who listened gravely to them, then nodded and turned halfway around on his pony to wave the group forward. The large party, now over forty men strong, moved into the pass.
As they descended the tree-covered slope on the other side, Paulson pointed out a clearing with a spring-fed pool to Scarrow and Plumlee. “That was where they made camp last night, I reckon. I can see signs that horses were here, and it’s a good place to stop.”
“But they’re not here now,” Scarrow said.
“Nope. I figure they’ve been gone for a while, but they’re up there ahead of us somewhere. We’ll catch up to ’em.” Paulson sighed and echoed the concern Plumlee had shown earlier. “And then there’s no tellin’ what’ll happen . . . but I reckon there ain’t much chance of it bein’ good.”
* * *
The stricken look on Butterfly’s face as she asked if her name was Caroline touched Preacher, so his voice was gentle as he told her, “I ain’t sure why you’d know that name if it wasn’t yours. Unless maybe it was your ma’s name.”
Hawk still looked protective. “Leave her alone,” he said bluntly. “This torturing her with memories serves no purpose.”
Preacher supposed he was right, but it was Butterfly—or Caroline—herself who said in Crow, “No, I . . . I should know who I am.” She must have been able to tell what Hawk was saying by the tone of his voice. Or else she understood more English than any of them had realized.
Maybe on some deep-down level . . . Preacher wondered. He said, “Think back. You know what happened to the man and the woman you remembered.”
She gave a quick shake of her head. “No. It was bad. I do not want to remember. There was much blood, so much . . .” She took a deep, shaky breath. “But after that, I was alone. I walked and I walked and I walked . . . And then the Crow were there, and I was one of them. I was Butterfly. My mother was Red Deer. My father was Iron Bow. Many summers went by, and I was happy. Then the Blackfeet came . . .”
All that talk was in the Crow tongue.
Charlie asked, “What is she saying? What does she remember, Preacher?”
“She thinks her name may have been Caroline,” Preacher explained. “I don’t know where else she would’ve ever heard that unless it was her name. Or maybe that’s what her ma was called. Her real ma, not her Indian one.”
“It doesn’t seem likely that would have stuck with her for this long if it was her mother’s name,” Aaron said. “Surely it was what she was called.”
“What else does she remember?” Charlie asked.
“A man and a woman . . . bound to be her folks . . . and from the way she described the man as wearin’ a long black coat and shoutin’ all the time, I can’t help but wonder if he was some sort of preacher.” The mountain man grunted. “I saw a fella like that on the street in St. Louis once, and seein’ him had a lot to do with how come I’m called Preacher . . . But hell, you’ve heard that story more ’n once. Ain’t no need
to go into it again.
“Best I can tell from what the girl said, she and her folks started west in a covered wagon. She didn’t say anything about other kids, so it may be that she was an only child. Then somethin’ bad happened to the grown-ups. Jumped by hostiles, more than likely. Butterfly got away somehow and was on her own, wanderin’ around, when some friendly Crow came upon her and took her in. That was many summers ago, she said.” Preacher rubbed his chin in thought. “Ten or twelve years, I’d reckon, but that’s just a guess. She’s lived with the Crow ever since. She was a Crow, as far as she or anybody else was concerned. That’s the story.”
“What a tragedy,” Aaron said in a hushed voice.
“For her folks, it was,” Preacher agreed, “but from the sound of it, things could’ve wound up a heap worse for her. She survived whatever happened, found herself another family, and lived a happy life for a long time.”
“Lived a happy life? As a savage?” Charlie exclaimed.
With a chilly note in his voice, Hawk said, “I was raised in an Absaroka village and was content with my life until the Blackfeet came. More than content.”
“Well, sure, but you’re not—” Abruptly, Charlie stopped whatever he’d been about to say.
“Not white?” Hawk finished for him. “Should I have been happy as a savage only half the time because I am only half Indian? Does a person somehow know that without being told?”
“Stop this wranglin’,” Preacher said. “It don’t accomplish a damn thing. Anyway, it’s time we were movin’ on again.”
“You don’t think we should take her back to St. Louis and try to find out who she really is?” Aaron wanted to know.
“I don’t think we should be worryin’ about anything right now except stayin’ ahead of a bunch of varmints who’d just as soon kill us and steal her back.”
“Are you talking about those fur thieves?”
“And Angry Sky,” Preacher said. “Don’t forget about him. I’m more worried about his bunch, because they might have horses. We know those other fellas are afoot. The Blackfeet might still catch up to us.”
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