Wind River

by Charles G. West

  It was necessary to be more cautious now, as late afternoon approached, because he was crossing through the rolling hills that lay at the feet of the Big Horns. Smack in the middle of Sioux hunting grounds, Squint thought. He couldn’t avoid losing some of the ground he had gained that morning due to the necessity of having to keep to the low draws wherever possible, looking long and hard before crossing any open flat stretch of ground. He knew his only chance of coming out of this with his hair was to see any hostiles long before they saw him.

  He had been in this country many times before. It had been a while but he remembered enough to know that he was getting mighty close to the Powder River. By his reckoning, it couldn’t be too far to the fork where the Crazy Woman joined the Powder, a favorite camping place of the Sioux. When night caught him still not within sight of the men he followed, he decided to play a hunch. He was willing to bet that the destination of the renegades was indeed the fork of the Crazy Woman and the Powder. They had been heading straight for it all day long. The trail might be hard to see at night but he was of a mind to keep going in the same direction in hopes of making up some ground on them. The odds were against their changing direction so he pushed on in the darkness.

  He rode on under a three-quarter moon that shone brightly enough to form sharp shadows under the occasional patches of trees that lined the rims of the basin. He kept as close to the tree line as he could, so as not to cast a solitary silhouette under the moonlit sky. As he rode, he strained to see as far ahead as he was able, and to each side, watching for any shape in the shadows that didn’t look just right. Along about midnight, by his reckoning, he topped a gently rising hill and suddenly there was a hazy glow on the horizon.

  Campfire, he thought, and a pretty good-sized one at that, too big for the men he was trailing. He nudged Joe to pick up the pace a little while he kept his eyes on the glow, his mind busy calculating what he was riding toward. It had to be a village, and more than likely, it was Sitting Bull’s village. From the size of the blaze, it had to be a council fire. He would know soon enough. If the glow spread out as he approached it, it would tell him he had found a village sure enough. This time of year, the squaws would be cooking outside the tipis. He guided Joe down a draw and up over another rise. Then he confirmed what he had suspected. It was a Sioux village all right, and a big one. There were hundreds of tiny cook fires stretching along the river. Squint felt a chill run down his spine and he suddenly felt very alone. He reined Joe to a halt and stepped down from the saddle. Leading his horse, he walked toward a stand of trees near the riverbank, his eyes darting constantly from the trees back to the glow of the cook fires across the river. Under cover of deep shadows, he stopped to listen and decide what his next move should be.

  Well, he thought, they beat me to the camp. Ain’t nothing I can do about that. I sure as hell ain’t goin’ in looking for ’em. His initial feeling was that he had lost, that they had gotten away with the dirty business back on the prairie. But he wasn’t quite ready to give up that easily. Hell, I might as well find me a place to hole up and wait around for a spell. Maybe they’ll come back this way, unless they mean to stay with the Injuns and my guess is they ain’t. I reckon they’ll be wanting to take payment and head north to Virginia City or south to Salt Lake. Either way, they’ll most likely come back in this direction. Any other way, they got to go straight over the mountains. He thought about it for a moment more and it seemed to make sense. Another man might have simply turned tail while the getting was good and returned to Fort Lincoln. But Squint had a real strong desire to see the faces of the men who murdered those six freighters, and to see them hang for it.

  * * *

  Across the river from where Squint stood in the shadows, Kroll and Moody strutted triumphantly in the firelight of the large council fire, holding a new Spencer rifle in the air. About fifty yards away, a mob of Sioux warriors and women crowded around their wagon, pulling one treasure after another out for inspection.

  “Empty it out!” Kroll called out, grinning first at his sidekick then back at the Sioux chief Sitting Bull. “Just like I told you. Chief. I told you we’d be back. Yessir, we got a load of trade goods there too, and rifles, just like you wanted.”

  The old chief stared unemotionally at the wild-talking white man for a while before turning to Little Wolf, who was acting as his translator. When he heard Little Wolf’s translation, his expression remained stolid and he instructed Little Wolf to tell the man that there were only two cases of rifles and twelve boxes of bullets in the wagon. He needed more than this. Most of the items the white men brought would be useful to the women but not to fight a war. When Little Wolf relayed the chief’s message, the white men became concerned.

  “Look here,” Kroll said. “You tell the chief that this here is all we could git this time but we know where there’s plenty more rifles . . . and ammunition too. You tell him we’ll bring him more next time if we git a good price for this wagon. Tell him that.” He attempted to force a friendly smile in the direction of Sitting Bull.

  Little Wolf scowled. He did not like these two and he didn’t like the fact that he had to be the chief’s go-between in negotiations with such vermin. Before he passed Kroll’s response to the chief, he moved a few steps to the windward to avoid the smell of them. Then he turned back to Sitting Bull and said, “These buffalo hunters say they will bring many more rifles if you give them a good trade for this wagon-load of trinkets.”

  Although he had no way of knowing what Little Wolf actually said, Kroll smiled broadly and nodded vigorously as if in agreement. His sidekick, Moody, seemed a little more nervous about the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that had gathered around the negotiations. It was becoming obvious, even to one of Moody’s limited intelligence, that the two of them were not exactly received as welcome guests. He knew for sure the tall brave doing the translating had no use for them at all and it wouldn’t take much to cause him to come after their scalps. At this point, both he and Kroll knew they would not be permitted to leave the village with the rifles. It was a question of whether or not the chief would permit them to trade the rest of the goods with the Indians standing around waiting for his decision.

  Through Little Wolf, the chief asked, “You have firewater?”

  “Yessir,” Kroll was quick to reply, his face lit up measurably. “I shore do, four one-gallon jugs of genuine rye whiskey.” He glanced at Moody as if to say, “Now we got ’em!” His enthusiasm was short-lived, however, when he heard the chief’s response.

  Little Wolf translated. “Sitting Bull says there will be none of the white man’s firewater in his camp. He will not have his braves poisoned and he orders you to pour the jugs out on the ground. When you do this, you will be permitted to trade your trinkets with the people.”

  * * *

  The trading went on for most of the night. Kroll and Moody didn’t do as well as they had hoped, due mostly to the fact that the wagons they had stolen contained merchandise more suited to white prospectors than Sioux Indians. Still, they traded enough hides to load three pack mules. They didn’t want the wagon anyway. Moody had managed to hold back a small jug of whiskey for the two of them and when the wagon was finally empty and the last of the mules were traded, they moved off to the edge of the village to have a drink before going to bed.

  “I shore would like to have me a woman,” Kroll said as they watched the men and women disappear into their tipis for the night. “I seen one or two of them squaws that looked pretty good.”

  “Hell,” Moody replied, “I didn’t see any of ’em that didn’t look good.”

  “I’m gittin gawdamn rutty is all I know, with nothin’ but your scabby ass to look at for the last month.”

  Moody changed the subject to one of more serious concern to him at the moment. “Kroll, we better git ourselves out of here. I don’t cotton to hangin’ around no damn Sioux camp for very long. They might git to thinkin’ ’bout us being white men.”

  Kroll thou
ght about it for a moment. Moody was probably right although he felt sure Sitting Bull wouldn’t cut off a possible source for guns. Still it didn’t make much sense to hang around too long. Maybe the best thing to do was take their pelts and skedaddle. “Hell, I’m tired. We’ll lay up for a day and then light out for Virginia City and sell them hides.”

  * * *

  It was apparent to the two traders that the people of the village were not too pleased to see the sun come up the following morning and find the two of them still in their midst. Men and women avoided the two white men as they lay next to their own campfire and, when Kroll approached a woman in hopes of striking a trade for some female companionship, she ran from him. Soon they were visited by Man Who Kills Horses. Kroll knew only a few words of Sioux but Man Who Kills Horses’ message was unmistakable. They weren’t welcome here.

  “Well, that’s a helluva way to treat friends,” Kroll whined. “Why the hell ain’t we welcome?” His dander was getting up at the thought of being treated as inferior to a bunch of savages. Man Who Kills Horses’ expression remained blank; he was unable to understand Kroll’s words.

  “You are not welcome because our people do not welcome coyotes and vultures in our camp.”

  Both white men were startled by the words. They had not heard the tall Cheyenne warrior come up silently behind them. Kroll jerked his head around, his eyes flashing with anger as he started to respond violently, but thinking better of the notion when he met the steely gaze of Little Wolf. At once his expression softened and he forced a twisted smile across his face.

  “Hell, pardner,” he whined. “You got no call to talk like that. Why, me and Moody is friends. Didn’t we bring you them rifles and stuff?”

  Little Wolf’s face was hard, his voice cold as iron. “You are enemies of my people. You kill off the buffalo we need to live. We have given you skins for the things you probably stole from your own people and now you will go back and kill more buffalo as long as the soldiers pay you. You think you traded for hides but what you traded for were your lives. Sitting Bull has allowed you to leave this village unharmed. Take your stench away from here while you can. Do not come back to this place.” He paused to make sure his message was being received. “I go now with a hunting party. Remember my name. I am Little Wolf. If you are here when I return, it is Little Wolf who will kill you.” He turned and walked away, leaving them speechless.

  “Damn!” Moody exclaimed. “That buck means business. I reckon they don’t want our company around here.”

  “That red-skinned son of a bitch,” Kroll muttered. “Ain’t nobody running me out before I’m damn good and ready to go.” His hand dropped to the pistol stuck in his belt.

  Man Who Kills Horses stood silently watching the two men. He had not understood a word Little Wolf had spoken to the two white men but he did not fail to understand the intent of the message. Now he watched Kroll, waiting to see his reaction. Moody looked around nervously, noticing that several warriors who stood silently watching now seemed interested in the conversation between the white men and Little Wolf.

  “Look here, Kroll, you’re fixin’ to git us both kilt. Let’s us just ease on out of here before the rest of them bucks git riled.”

  Kroll was mad but he cooled down enough to see that Moody was right. They couldn’t fight them all. Better to take their pelts and go. “Yeah, all right. Don’t piss your britches.” He looked at Man Who Kills Horses who in turn made sign language for sundown. Kroll did not mistake the meaning. “Yeah,” he grumbled, “sundown.” He and Moody began gathering their belongings to leave.

  Kroll was in one of his deepest black moods when the two of them led their mules out of the village and followed the river downstream. Moody didn’t like to see Kroll in one of those moods. Usually it meant somebody was sure to get killed and he felt sorry for the poor bastard who got in his way. But this time there were too many Indians. If Kroll started something, they were both bound to get killed. This frustrated Kroll and only served to deepen his black mood. Moody decided it best to say as little as possible to him until he got it out of his system. The opportunity for Kroll to vent his rage came sooner than Moody expected.

  The mules were loaded down so they continued downstream for a while, looking for a shallow crossing. A hundred yards or so below a section of the village where some Cheyennes had put up their tipis, they came upon a group of women picking wild berries. Kroll pulled up and sat leering at the women for several minutes. Moody knew what was on his mind and kicked his horse up beside Kroll’s.

  “They’s too many of ’em, Kroll, and we ain’t hardly out of sight of the camp.”

  “I don’t recollect asking you nuthin,” Kroll shot back and continued to stare at the women who, by this time, had stopped their berry picking and watched the two white men warily. One of the women held her nose with her fingers in a gesture indicating a foul odor and the rest of the women laughed. “Gawdamn whores!” Kroll spat and kicked his horse hard. Moody followed, grateful that Kroll had not brought down the whole tribe on them.

  Around a bend in the river they came to a shallow place and crossed. Once on the other side, they climbed the bank into a dense area of brush and trees. There was a path through the bushes and they followed it through the undergrowth, looking for a way out to the open country. Suddenly Kroll pulled up sharply. Moody, behind him on the narrow path, could not see what was ahead and called out, “What is it?”

  Morning Sky was not aware of the two men until she heard Moody call out. Curious, but not alarmed, she left her berry pouch on the ground and straightened up to see who might be coming down the path. When she saw Kroll leering at her she was still not alarmed and, by the time she realized what he had in mind, it was too late. Instinctively, she tried to run into the bushes, out of the path of the horses, hoping to be able to make her way through the thicket where it might be too difficult for a man on horseback to follow. But Kroll was not to be denied this opportunity. He kicked his horse hard and crashed into the thicket, knocking Morning Sky to the ground. While Moody was still trying to see what was taking place in the thick brush ahead of him, Kroll was already out of the saddle and on top of the Indian girl. Although stunned, Morning Sky fought desperately, scratching and screaming until Kroll hit her several times with his fist, finally knocking her unconscious.

  “Damn, Kroll!” Moody whined when finally he was able to see what had happened. “You’re jest hell-bent on gittin’ us kilt, ain’t you?”

  “Shut up and fetch them mules,” he spat. The expression on his face told Moody that neither he nor anybody else was going to stop Kroll from doing what he had in mind. “I told you I was rutty, dammit, and I need to cut meat.”

  Moody was frantic. Kroll looked like a crazy man, like he had suddenly gone berserk, and they weren’t that far away from the Sioux camp. “What if somebody else comes through this here path?” he asked, looking desperately in one direction then another.

  Kroll dragged the unconscious girl farther into the bushes. Moody stared at her face, fascinated by the blood forming below her nose and under her eye. Kroll drew his long skinning knife and began hacking away at the girl’s clothing until he revealed her naked body. He stood for a moment, leering at her young body. Moody, forgetting his fear, crowded in and peered over Kroll’s shoulder. He reached down and put a dirty hand on Morning Sky’s bare breast. Kroll took one hand and pushed him away, swearing.

  “Git away, gawdammit, and give me some room.” He hurriedly undid his trousers and pushed them down around his boot tops. “Git on back to that path and keep your eyes open. And watch them damn mules!”

  “What about me? I’m jest as damn rutty as you.”

  “When I’m done.” Kroll was losing his patience. “Now git on back there and take care of them mules!” Morning Sky started to regain consciousness just then and began to struggle under the weight of her attacker. “Listen, little girl,” Kroll told her, “you’re gonna give it to me one way or ‘nother. You might as w
ell jump in and enjoy it. How ’bout it?” In answer, she aimed a foot at his groin, which he easily avoided. At the same time, she wrenched one of her hands free from his grasp and clawed at his eyes. “Have it your way, honey,” he hissed and struck his heavy pistol against the side of her head, one, two, three times until she finally went limp.

  Moody waited nervously on the tiny path through the bushes, watching for any sign of someone approaching. Several feet away but hidden from his view, he could hear Kroll’s heavy grunting as he worked his fever out on the helpless Indian girl. He could feel his own excitement mounting as he listened. Moody only knew two emotions, fear and lust. Now he could hear the sound of the two bodies thrashing about in the brush then, finally, Kroll reappeared on the path, his face bleeding from the scratches under his eyes. He pulled his trousers up as he walked back to the horses.

  “Did you let her go?” Moody was frantic.

  Kroll scowled. “She ain’t going nowhere. Hurry up if you aim to have your turn. I ain’t staying around here long.”

  Moody scrambled down from his horse and disappeared into the bushes. After a brief time he reappeared, tying up his britches. “Damn, Kroll, you coulda waited to kill her till I had my turn.”

  “Quit your whining. You got some, didn’t you?”

  “I reckon. But it didn’t seem right. I mean with her belly all laid open and bloody. I almost didn’t shoot my wad.”

  * * *

  Squint was beginning to think he had played the wrong hunch and the renegades were staying with the Indians after all. That, or maybe they had managed to slip out of the village and he missed them. He was just about to call himself a fool and give up the vigil when he spotted two men emerging from a thicket of bushes on the eastern side of the river. They were leading three pack mules. He climbed up into a tree for a better place to watch until they turned north.