by Lauran Paine
Kit raised his arm, took off his hat, and waved it. The other bucks turned and stared. The long, ominous blue line was a solid twinkling wall of aimed muskets. One man made a high, trilling sound of warning. The broken-nosed warrior twisted without moving and let his words trail off into thick silence.
Kit squatted then, and looked hard at the warriors. “There is one friend for you here. Me. I will be your friend and help you only if you will send two men to those warriors up in the trees to tell them to come down here and bring the girl they have stolen with them.”
“A girl?” Owl asked, dumbfounded. “Where did they get a girl?”
“She was with the soldiers. I want her back here. If I don’t get her back here before nightfall, I will turn my back on the Dakotas.”
“If you do get her back,” Owl asked. “What?”
“Then you will be prisoners of war. You will not be massacred. I will go to your villages and bring in your people. I will see that they are fed.”
“And what of us?”
“I will promise you nothing. I cannot. You are the army’s prisoners.”
“You are Ohiyesa to the Dakotas,” Owl said strongly. “You are trusted by them. Will you swear to help us all that you can?”
“I will swear to that,” Kit said firmly. Shrewdly he added: “For the sake of my dead brother, White Shield Owner.”
“Owgh! It is the only way,” an old warrior said with a glum look at the ground before his moccasined feet.
“Owgh!”
“Owgh!”
Kit listened, watching their faces. The only actively reluctant one was the buck with the broken nose. He agreed because he had to, not because he wanted to. There were other recalcitrants, but the pointing guns from the heat-spanked line of blue kept their grumbling to a minimum.
Owl stood up and gazed at Kit. “It isn’t much, Ohiyesa,” he said.
Kit stood, also. “It can’t be much. You have lost the battle.”
“White Shield Owner and Big Eagle did that,” the angry warrior said, with his twisted beak making the expulsion of his breath whistle. “They made us stay, even after the scouts said there were Comanches coming.”
Kit looked at him with a dawning recollection.
“Comanches?”
“Yes, the scouts who went after two who escaped from the wagon train ran into Comanches. One warrior was killed. The two whites got away. Maybe the Comanches got them.”
Kit didn’t enlighten the council about who the escapees were or how the Comanche sign came to be deep in their companion. The garrulous fighting man went on in his rumbling tone.
“They said we had to stay and conquer. That you—Ohiyesa—had stolen our horses and humbled the Dakotas. You … one man. You had to be taught your lesson. They made us stay. This was no good. Now …”
“Now it is over. But unless you agree to send for the girl and—”
“Send for her,” the angry Dakota said with a disdaining gesture. “Send for her and herd us back like tame dogs. Take our land and our lives, our children and villages and—”
“No one will touch your villages or your children. They will be cared for.” He turned swiftly toward Owl before anyone could break in upon him again. “Which are your two best travelers?”
“I will go,” Owl said.
Kit shook his head. “No, you stay.”
“You stay,” the angry warrior said dourly. “They need a hostage, Owl. You must stay with your neck bowed.”
“Be quiet!” Kit deliberately insulted the man. His nerves were raw and writhing. They exchanged a long, black stare, then Kit turned back to Owl. “Send two of your best runners. They can pick up the tracks where they went into the trees. There will be no other unshod horse marks there.”
“You wait here,” Owl said.
“No, I’m going back.”
An old man whose body had a grass poultice tinted pink under a strip of blanket along his ribs nodded gravely. “Let him go, Owl.”
No one objected. They seemed to settle into a deep lassitude, even the man with the broken nose. Their eyes hung on the ground with a dull luster.
Owl called out two names. Blue Crane and Red Soldier. These two were sent after the mounted Dakotas. Kit watched them lope away side by side, their bows held ready and their heads turned distrustfully toward the soldiers. He went over to his horse and swung up. The dejection of the proud Dakotas struck a compelling sympathy somewhere inside him. He looked at Owl.
“I will tell the soldiers everything will be all right. I will ride to the emigrant train and tell them they are not to shoot any more.”
No one spoke. He hadn’t expected them to and rode at a stiff trot back where Captain Forrester, his bullet-torn hat restored, was sitting on the ground in the shade of his horse, smoking a pipe.
“Did you pull it off?”
“Yes, at least they sent two runners to find the other bucks and bring them back.”
Forrester said nothing. He made a mental reservation, however, regarding the fate of the mounted bucks, if they came back without their captive.
“I’m going over to the wagons.”
“I’ll come along.”
“No, you’d better stay here. It might not be over yet.”
Chapter Seventeen
Kit rode back across the no-man’s-land between soldiers and Dakotas, made a shambling circuit of the waiting Indians—busy with their wounds, their dead, and their final defeat—and headed down the land, toward the wagons. He could hear them crying out his name long before he was close enough to identify any of them by appearance.
When he swung down and led his horse the last few hundred feet through the emigrants, questions flew as thick as the bullets had only shortly before. A strong hand gripped his sleeve, finally, and stopped him. He looked over into the perpetually squinted, gray, old eyes of Reuben Burgess.
“Where is she?”
He took Burgess’ arm and led him along as he walked into the center of the circle. One swift glance showed the drawn, lean faces of the people and the tucked-up look of the animals. When they were a little apart, he dropped the older man’s arm and faced him.
“The Indians captured her just after the fight started. Wait a minute! They’ve gone to get her … some other Indians. I think they’ll fetch her back. I told them the Indians would be massacred if they didn’t bring her back right away.”
Burgess’ face was the sick color of putty. The defiance and determination he had shown all through the ordeal was suddenly gone. He turned without another word and walked unsteadily toward his wagon. Kit started to go after him. A hand clawed at him. It was Lige.
“Dang! You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Where were you? I didn’t see—”
“You won’t believe it, maybe, but I fell asleep under a wagon just when your soldiers lit into ’em. I reckon a man can get too much unslept once in his life, anyway. Where’s Allie?”
“They got her. I sent—”
“Damn!”
Kit wagged his head exasperatedly. “I think they’ll bring her back all right, Lige.”
“I’ll fetch her back … damn their—”
“No, Lige!” He had to grab quickly. Lige was moving with more speed than Kit had seen him show in a long time. His face was working savagely. “Hold on, Lige.”
“I’ll—!”
“You’ll do nothing. They’ve already sent two runners after her. They know their lives depend on her coming back unhurt.”
“But how d’you know she ain’t … hurt … already?”
“I don’t, but there’s a good chance of it. They aren’t cannibals. It’s the best way, Lige, the only way.”
“How long’ll it take ’em? By dawn, I could run ’em down in—”
“They ought to be back before sundown.”
“There’ll be two of us, Lige. Now … how’re things here?”
“We lost a few more. The day after you left, the Indians pulled out and didn’t come back for two days.”
“I know. I killed one that was trailing us and made up a fake Comanche arrow and stuck it in him.”
“Oh, well, good for you. It gave us a breather. We didn’t suffer too much, but if there hadn’t been a creek running through this circle, we’d’ve been starved out.”
“The horses don’t look very good. How many more casualties?”
“Hell, the stock’s suffered more’n we have. No grass left. Altogether we got about forty-two hurt, of which ten can’t hold a gun. The rest of ’em’s full of fight. We even had the womenfolk and that redheaded kid and his cronies under the wagons. It was a hold off, Kit. All we had to do was keep ’em off and pray.” Lige made a dour face. “I’m no praying man, but I sure made up for the lost years this last five days, boy.” He searched Kit’s face with swollen eyes. “You run into anything much?”
“Nothing much, Lige. Just one little bunch that trailed us.”
They didn’t have another chance to talk for a long time. Kit was swamped with questions. The emigrants were elated at his success. The men were still full of brimstone, but the women cried. The sounds of their keening made a dismal background to the noises that were flooding outward from within the circle. But the time passed, and Kit glanced often at the lowering sun. Lige and Reuben Burgess—sitting apart with his arm around the huddled shapelessness of his wife—alone knew what was lying black and heavy under Kit’s heart.
The noise was distraction, and he needed it right then. Fear was growing. Lige’s set face didn’t leaven it any—that, and his growing quietness and the long, bitter way he would glance beyond the wagons at the huddling, completely surrounded Dakotas.
Then Kit heard the bugle again. He didn’t know the call, but it brought his spirit up with a rush of fear and anguish. He walked toward a gap between wagons and leaned on the rough ash tongue that was lashed to the running gear of the wagon in front. His fingers bit deeply into the old wood, scoring it. He leaned there, waiting, seeing the deep red splash of sunlight on the strange circle with its motionless Indians inside.
There was a freighted silence, too, until Lige came over with too casual a step and slouched, leaning against the oaken boot of the wagon, his swollen eyes fixed like stones, unmoving with an awful intensity, on the only thing that moved in all that vastness.
Horsemen and Indians were coming down out of the trees very slowly, riding as though they were reluctant to go out into the open country again. They were a long way off. Kit was straining every faculty to see them.
Lige pushed off the wagon and went stumping through the heavy dust. He wasn’t gone long, and when he returned he had a long brass spyglass in his hand. He worked the telescopic adjustment with fretting impatience and held it to his right eye, squinting. It was the sound of breath hissing past his tight lips that made Kit turn.
Lige lowered the glass without taking his eyes off the straggling cavalcade. “Here,” he said, holding out the telescope. “Take a quick look.”
Kit hoisted the glass and leaned back with his legs spread, as though to receive a blow. The Indians were all out on the valley floor now. Their tired horses were shambling along, heads down and gaunt flanks rippling hollowly. The first two riders each had a second rider behind them, riding double. With unsteady hands Kit moved the glass slowly, studying each dejected, defeated man of war as he moved down the line. Then he saw her.
The black hair was loose, and even from that distance, with artificial aid, he caught the deep blue sheen to it. He lowered the glass.
“Allie.”
“Yeah,” Lige said. “God bless her.”
Kit handed back the spyglass and slumped down on the wagon tongue. “Lige, I’m going out there. Tell her folks, will you?”
“Be proud to, old-timer. See you when you fetch her back.”
He watched Lige walk away before he stood up and started on weak legs for his horse. Swinging up, he waved away the people who would have detained him, rode out through the wagon circle, and made his circuitous way toward the knot of men by Captain Forrester.
The officer was smiling gently. All his earlier anger was gone. He shrugged to his feet, dusted his seat, and stood with one hand on Kit’s horse’s mane. “Go get her, Mister Butler. She’d like that better’n a soldier escort, I believe.”
Chapter Eighteen
Kit rode to meet her. The Dakotas kept on riding toward the blue cordon, but they watched him closely. One called out a hollow greeting in a thick, tired voice. Kit returned it the same way, then he motioned them on toward the soldier line and swung in beside Allie. The girl’s dress was torn again, and her face was scratched from low-hanging limbs and spiny brush. Her eyes were swimming and smoky-looking.
“Your folks are all right, Allie.”
She shook her head at him and blurted out a fast sentence: “I can’t talk right now, Kit.”
“I know,” he said, reining far around the surround. “Let’s go this way. It’ll give you time to get set to see ’em, Allie.”
They rode slowly around the soldiers and ignored the curious, steady stares they got. Back at the wagons a great shout went up. It carried far. Kit rode through the emigrants to the Burgess wagon and handed her up to her father. He dismounted and waved the people away and led his animal past the throng with a shake of his head at every question. He found Lige and told him not to let any of them annoy the reunited family.
She needed time. He knew that. At the break in the circle he remounted and sat there slumped, looking back. The emigrants were in a festive mood. The women were scurrying between the old wagons and the cooking holes. The men and boys were talking too loudly. The strain seemed to have vanished like mist from their grimed, drum-tight faces.
He rode steadily across the trampled grass toward the Indians. From far across the circle he saw Forrester coming, too. There were four soldiers with the officer. They met where Owl and his tragic-faced warriors were watching them approach balefully. Some of the bucks were chewing pemmican and wasna. Kit dismounted and dropped down among them without a word. As though he wasn’t there at all, the Dakotas went on eating and looking at the ground.
When Captain Forrester dismounted, he clanked with metal. The Indians swallowed with difficulty at the sound. Kit thought, too, it had an echo of chains to it.
To Kit’s surprise Forrester knew wibluto, sit-wait. He knew it very well, too. Kit’s respect for the soldier climbed. Without any preliminaries Forrester started to address the Dakotas. He told them they were strong men of war. He said their hearts were strong and his own heart was good toward them. He then asked them what Kit had promised them in return for the girl.
Owl started to speak in Dakota. Forrester frowned and made the Indian sign for deafness. He didn’t understand the tongue. Owl switched over to sign talk. Kit watched closely. The young warrior explained everything exactly as it was. Forrester looked at Kit with raised eyebrows. Kit nodded.
“That’s exactly what I told them.”
Forrester nodded. “All right. That’s easy enough. We’d do that much anyway.”
Owl was looking straight at Kit. “Can we camp here for tonight, or do we have to start the Long Walk now?”
Kit asked Forrester. The officer said they might stay if they gave him their word they wouldn’t try to escape in the darkness. It was a weak stipulation, and they all knew it. If the army had tried to herd them through the pass in the darkness, they would have lost them all, anyway.
“You can stay,” Kit said. “We will march at dawn.” He understood why Owl wanted to wait. “Where is your hayoka?”
“He is dead,” Owl said, “but we have a strong medicine man still alive.”
Kit stood up stiffly. “You have my word,” he said to the council in Dakota. “My heart is good. I am still your friend and your brother. I will work for you. Trust me.”
“Owgh!”
“Owgh!”
Even the vanquished warrior with the broken nose grunted belief and approval.
Forrester stood, then walked around to Kit, and offered his hand. “There was one time today that I could have shot you, Mister Butler,” he said.
“The name’s Kit.”
“Kit, then. But I’ve got a bad fault. I can see both sides too easily, sometimes. I understood how you felt when you did that. We won, anyway. That’s what counts, isn’t it?”
Kit gripped the hard, bony hand and nodded. “I reckon so, Captain.” Kit was embarrassed. “Shall I move the train out at dawn?”
“Yes, we’ll make a dry camp and keep every man to horse all night. I don’t believe they’ll try anything … but I’m no gambler, either.”
Kit dropped Forrester’s hand. “We’ll put the bells on the teams when we’re ready to move out, then. See you tomorrow.”
He rode back into the circle just before darkness fell. The emigrants were laughing and shouting. The sounds were strange to him. He turned his horse loose and sought Lige.
“Pardner, you keeled over asleep, you said. Well, I’m going to, right now.”
“Fair enough,” Lige said with a hard grin. “Take that wagon yonder. I already put your stuff in it.”
“Good. Lige, break the camp at dawn and have ’em put on the team bells if I’m not awake by then.”
“All right,” Lige said, looking up into the sunken eyes. “Allie sent you word she wants to thank you, Kit.”
“It’ll keep.”
He went to the wagon, sprang over the tailgate, found a soft place, burrowed low, and didn’t even bother to take off his hat or boots.