She had kept it buried too long, so when she freed it, it became impossible to stop. She fell to her knees at the edge of the water, sobbing silent tears of fear and loneliness, grieving for her family, lost to her forever. She cried until there were no more tears left to fall and her body was racked with dry sobs until, finally, she called again upon the inner strength that had sustained Lucy.
Feeling weak and exhausted, she got to her feet and waded out to the middle of the creek where the water was waist deep. She had always had a fear of water over her head, but she submerged her whole body in the cold, swift current. As the water closed over her head, she remained there, holding her breath for as long as she could. The thought entered her mind that it would be best for her to remain under the water until it took her to be reunited with her husband and sons.
But at the moment when her breath was gone, she could not do it. Her fear of deep water was too strong. That, combined with a fighting spirit to overcome, was too much to allow her to drown, and she lunged up from the watery grave, coughing and sputtering with the water attempting to enter her lungs. She at once berated herself. Lucy needed her strong shoulder to rely upon. What would Cliff think of his usually determined wife?
“That’s the last time you’ll ever have a failing like that, Myra Buckley,” she admonished. “You’re a fighter—always have been.” She wrung the water from her hair as she turned and waded out of the creek.
Shivering now, as she stood naked on the bank, she dried herself as best she could with the blanket from the bedroll that had been tied behind her on the packhorse. She had searched the packs as Bret suggested, but there had been no article of clothing there. She would try to dry the blanket by the fire before she turned in for the night. Thoughts of what luxury some clean clothes would be right then made her sigh in resignation as she got back into her cotton frock.
“Well, sure looks like you took a good one,” Coldiron blustered when she returned and he saw her hair wet and dripping. “Come on up here close by the fire before you take sick in this night air.” He threw one of the extra saddle blankets he had brought down closer to the fire for her to sit upon.
“It’d take a lot more than a little dip in the creek to make me sick,” she replied smartly. “This ol’ bird is tougher than you think.”
“I reckon,” Coldiron snorted with a laugh.
“Here, put this over your shoulders,” Bret said, and pulled his shirt blouse off to drape over her.
Coldiron laughed again. “Now you’re wearin’ the lieutenant’s coat, so I reckon you’re the boss—although it ain’t got no bars on it no more.”
Having not approached the subject to that point, she thought it time to ask. “Why didn’t the army send some more men with you? You are in the army, aren’t you?”
“No, ma’am,” Bret replied. “I just haven’t gotten around to buying myself some clothes.” He saw no purpose in giving specifics pertaining to his disgraceful separation from the military.
“So the two of you just took it on your own to try to find Lucy and me? Well, then I’ll say it again. God bless you both.”
“Best not bless us till we get you outta this country to somewhere safe,” Coldiron remarked as he spread the other saddle blanket he had brought for her bed.
• • •
Up with the sun the next morning, the three searchers made ready to get under way once more. Bret and Coldiron loaded the packhorses, adjusting the makeshift saddle they had fashioned for Myra. When Myra asked if she should revive the fire, Bret told her that they would get a little farther up the river before stopping to rest the horses, and then they would fix some breakfast. When all was ready, Coldiron led as they retraced their ride of the night before, following the creek until it emptied into the Musselshell, then turning northwest once again.
After a ride of about twenty miles, they stopped at a point where the Musselshell took a decided bend straight to the north, toward its origin in the high mountains. “I betcha I camped on this very spot,” Coldiron claimed as he led them to a clump of trees near a bank covered with knee-high grass. “I was trappin’ on up this river with Big Sam Swift, musta been a hundred years ago. I killed a deer around that bend yonder. I bet deer still cross the river at that spot.”
“After we eat some breakfast, maybe we’ll take a look,” Bret said, then helped Myra gather limbs for a fire. When the fire was going well, he pulled a slab of bacon out of one of the packs and unwrapped the cloth around it.
Referring to his earlier remark, he said, “I’m sure we’d better check that deer crossing you talked about, because this pork is starting to look a little more green.” He took his knife and sliced off an end piece and showed it to Myra. She scrunched up her nose in response.
“Well, hell,” Coldiron remarked, “it ain’t gonna kill us, long as we cook it up till it’s really done.”
“That pork’s not that old,” Bret complained. “I guess I should have taken a closer look at it. I hope the rest of it’s not as bad as that slab.”
“I reckon that means we’re goin’ huntin’,” Coldiron said.
“I hate to lose any more time,” Bret told him, “but we’ve gotta eat, so I guess we’d better see if we can find some kind of game before we go any farther. We haven’t seen any signs that would tell us we’re anywhere near a village, so we’d better do it before we get any closer to one.”
“We might spot some deer this early in the day,” Coldiron speculated. “We’d have a better chance if it was evenin’, and they was comin’ out to feed. But, hell, maybe we’ll be lucky.”
“I’ll stay with the horses,” Myra said.
“Will you be all right alone?” Bret asked. “We haven’t seen any sign of Indians, so far.”
“Oh yes,” Myra replied. “I’ll be all right. I’d feel a lot safer if I had a weapon of some kind, but I’ll be fine.”
“Maybe I can fix you up with one,” Coldiron said, and went to his packhorse to untie the bow and quiver of arrows he had brought with him. “Can you hit anything with that?” Bret asked when he caught up with him.
“You’ve been eatin’ deer meat that I killed with it ever since that first day on the Yellowstone,” the huge man replied. “If we was to happen to get close enough, I’ll guarantee you I can hit somethin’ with it. And I was thinkin’ it might not be such a good idea to use a rifle, anyway. I don’t know if we’re close to a village or not, but there ain’t no use to make noise if we don’t have to.” Bret couldn’t disagree with that. Myra looked a bit skeptical, thinking she might as well be unarmed as left with a bow and arrow. But Coldiron assuaged her fears. “I’ll leave you my rifle.” He handed the Henry to her. “It’s got a full magazine. All you have to do is crank the lever and it’s ready to shoot.”
Relieved, she said, “I can do that.”
It was not a long walk to the place in the river that Coldiron remembered as a deer crossing. And much to his delight, it appeared to still be in use by deer, antelope, and all kinds of animals, for there were tracks of all shapes and sizes leading down to the water. “What did I tell you?” Coldiron gloated, pointing to the tracks. There were no animals in sight, but they had been there recently.
They walked around a dense thicket of berry bushes and followed a trail the animals had beaten through the tall grass on the bank—Coldiron with an arrow notched on his bowstring just in case. When almost to the water, they heard a sudden rustle of leaves in the thicket they had just passed. Turning at once, the startled men saw a small herd of deer flushed from the bushes and scattering through the trees.
“Damn!” Coldiron blurted, and swung around, drawing his bowstring. Bret, who was walking behind him, was quick thinking enough to drop to the ground to give Coldiron room to shoot. He only had time for one shot before the deer were gone, and his arrow was deflected harmlessly by the thick bushes. Bret scrambled to his feet and both men ran b
ack up the bank in an effort not to lose sight of their prey, but it was too late. “Well, if that ain’t somethin’,” Coldiron complained, frustrated. He had no sooner said it than they heard a rifle shot in the direction of their camp.
“Myra!” Bret exclaimed. “We shouldn’t have left her alone.” Both men started running back through the trees, skirting thickets and jumping gullies in an effort to come to her aid.
Bret, being the younger, as well as the slimmer, outran the older and heavier Coldiron, but not by a great length. With rifle ready to fire, he approached the camp, looking frantically from side to side in an effort to spot the raiders. He saw Myra then, standing near the bank of the river, Coldiron’s rifle in hand. She turned when she heard him pushing through the willows, and gaped at him in astonishment.
“What is it?” he gasped. “Are you all right?” She was about to answer when Coldiron charged into the clearing behind him, equally alarmed. She didn’t answer Bret’s questions. Instead she turned back toward the river and pointed. The two confused hunters moved up beside her and looked where she pointed to see a four-point buck lying dead at the edge of the water.
“It ran right through the camp,” she explained. “I was holding the gun until you came back. The fool thing almost ran over me, so I shot it.”
Bret and Coldiron exchanged glances of astonishment, neither man knowing what to say until the big scout muttered sheepishly, “Well, ain’t that somethin’?”
Bret laughed then. “I guess we know now who should do the hunting.” He looked again at Coldiron. “I reckon you and I can at least do the butchering. But before we drag that carcass up from there, it might be a good idea to take a look around to make sure nobody heard that shot.” The two men walked back to a low rise beyond the trees and scanned the horizon for any sign of visitors, but saw none. “Looks all right, but we’d best take another look every now and then. I’d hate to be surprised by a Blackfoot hunting party.”
They dragged the deer up on the bank and hung it from a tree limb while Myra built the fire up. Then Coldiron gave them a lesson on how to skin and butcher a deer in a short amount of time. He had two interested students, for neither Bret nor Myra had ever actually done it before. By the time Bret had cut some green limbs to serve as spits, Coldiron had sliced off some cuts of meat for roasting. The process took on an almost festive air as the aroma of roasting venison filled the tiny clearing in the cottonwoods—so much so that Bret had to remind himself that it was time to walk back to the rise for another look around. There was no one in sight, so he hurried back to partake of the feast.
• • •
Crow Killer lay flat on a grassy hilltop two hundred yards from the grove of cottonwoods by the river, and studied the white man on the low rise close to the trees. A soldier . . . what was he doing here? Crow Killer wondered. Where were the rest of the soldiers? He looked back to signal his friend, Rides With Fire, who was holding the horses.
“Come,” Crow Killer said. “Soldiers.”
Rides With Fire dropped the ponies’ reins and crawled to the top of the hill to see for himself. “Where are the others?” he asked, for like his friend, he could see only one soldier. They had been hunting back in the low hills when they heard the single shot and had followed the sound to this point. There had been no sighting of army troops entering their country for some time now. The word from the trader, Jake Smart, was that the army was occupied with the Sioux and Cheyenne, and just recently sent many soldiers to fight the Nez Perce. So the Blackfeet had no concern for the army’s plans against them. Maybe Jake Smart did not know everything the soldiers were doing.
In answer to Rides With Fire’s question, Crow Killer said, “I think they must be in the trees. Maybe that one is a guard.”
“We must warn our village that the soldiers are here,” Rides With Fire said, “so they can be prepared to fight.”
“First, let’s see if we can get a little closer to their camp to see how many they are,” Crow Killer said. “If they are not too many, perhaps a war party can ride out to meet them before they get to our village.”
“You are right,” Rides With Fire said, then remarked, “Look, he has gone back in the trees.” They looked the situation over and decided that as long as there was no guard on the rise before the trees, they should be able to circle around the lower end of the grove and get close enough to see into the camp. Agreed on the plan, they pushed back away from the hilltop and jumped onto their ponies.
Using the line of hills for cover, they rode a wide circle to approach the stand of cottonwoods and willows upstream from where they figured the camp to be. Once they reached the cover of the trees, they tied their horses and made their way closer on foot. Sliding silently through a stand of willows near the river’s edge, they suddenly caught sight of the camp. They dropped at once to the ground and crept closer until they could clearly see into the small clearing. With a look of astonishment for his companion, Crow Killer whispered, “There are only three: a soldier, a man the size of a buffalo, and a woman.”
“Maybe they are scouts, and the rest of the soldiers are somewhere behind,” Rides With Fire suggested.
“We would have seen them when we came this way,” Crow Killer replied. “Besides, they are obviously alone and they have a woman with them. Soldiers would not have brought a woman with them. The big one is butchering a deer. There are no soldiers.”
“But what are they doing here?” Rides With Fire was still puzzled.
“I don’t know. I think maybe they are lost. I think, too, that it is bad luck for them. They have guns and horses. I think this will be a better day to hunt than we thought.” He looked at Rides With Fire and smiled, then sniffed the air. “After we kill them, we will feast on the fresh meat they have cooked.”
Armed only with bows, the two hunters sought to move even closer to the camp before risking a shot. When reaching a position as close as they dared, they decided on their targets. Crow Killer took aim on the soldier, while Rides With Fire concentrated on the larger target still busy carving the carcass hanging from the limb. Seeing their victims’ weapons close at hand, they knew it was necessary to make the first shots count. They took dead aim and released their arrows.
Bret suddenly leaned forward to catch a piece of hot venison that Myra playfully tossed to him, forcing him to lunge to keep it from landing on the ground when her throw was short. It was the only thing that prevented his being struck in the stomach by the arrow that glanced instead off his shoulder. Catching the flash of the arrow as it flew by him, Coldiron instinctively pulled the deer in front of him in time to catch the second arrow in the carcass.
“Get down!” he yelled, and all three hit the ground as two more arrows narrowly missed their targets. “In the willows!” Coldiron yelled again as both men rolled over to snatch up their weapons. In a matter of seconds, they proceeded to pump round after round into the clump of willow trees, halting the flight of arrows almost at once.
“Keep low!” Bret shouted to Myra as he and Coldiron scrambled to find protected cover to shoot from. Having almost emptied his rifle, he called over to Coldiron, who was using a tree trunk for protection. “I’m down to one shot. My extra cartridges are all back in my saddlebags. How about you?”
Coldiron, who was in the process of reloading his Henry rifle, answered, “I’ve still got some extra in my pockets.” They remained where they were for a few moments with no more arrows coming from the willows. “We mighta hit somebody,” Coldiron said. “Couldn’ta been many of ’em, for no more arrows than that.”
Bret was of the same opinion. There couldn’t have been much protection from the volley he and Coldiron leveled at that thicket. Impatient, he called out, “I’m gonna go see.” He jumped up and ran toward the cottonwoods before the willows.
“You damn fool!” Coldiron blurted, but it was too late. Bret was already among the trees.
Pressing
his body tight up against a tree, Bret inched his way around the trunk until he could see the patch of willows from which the arrows had come. He stopped abruptly, his rifle ready. There was no one to be seen, so he cautiously pushed through the willows, looking around him, searching for anyone. He saw no one, but then he heard the sound of breaking limbs and knew at once that someone was retreating through the bushes.
He didn’t hesitate, for he knew he couldn’t afford to let anyone get away to alert the village to their presence. He plunged into the bushes behind the fleeing Crow Killer, running as fast as he could, afraid the Indian had too much of a head start. But he could see branches swaying on trees and bushes ahead of him, and he knew he was gaining. A few yards farther and he spotted the two horses tied in the trees, and the wounded Indian, limping desperately to reach them. He pushed himself to run faster, but Crow Killer reached his pony and crawled onto its back. Bret fired his last cartridge, hitting the Indian in the back, but the hostile would not fall. He turned the pony toward the open prairie and lashed it with his reins. The pony jumped to his command, but Bret was close enough to dive at the wounded warrior and pull him off the horse. They landed with a thud on the hard ground, rolling over and over before parting.
Desperate, Crow Killer pushed himself to his feet and charged Bret with his knife drawn. Still on the ground, Bret looked frantically around him for his rifle. Even though it was empty, he could use it to defend himself from the Indian’s knife. He didn’t have time to see where it had fallen, and Crow Killer was almost upon him, his long skinning knife poised to slash. There was no time to think, so when he felt a biscuit-sized stone near his knee, he took the only option he had. He grasped the stone and threw it at the charging savage as hard as he could, striking him in the chest.
Wrath of the Savage Page 10