CHAPTER 5
ON THE EVE OF MARCH 18, 1855
RENEGADE
A thousand miles west of St. Louis and four hundred miles south of the Powder River, abrupt columns of granite rose like broken chimneys from the slopes of the foothills around the mouth of the Cache la Poudre River Canyon. Rugged hogbacks arched their red sandstone faces from the valley floor east of the canyon. The midday sun warmed pockets of grass, struggling to show the first spring green. Patches of leafless brush oak, bitterbrush and mountain mahogany meandered in and out of the boulder strewn hillsides, their thin branches poking from patches of old snow on the shadowed north slopes between scattered junipers and pine.
Black Feather made his way carefully through the grassy paths between outcroppings on the eastern ridge overlooking the valley. His tall, angular frame leaned slightly forward in a cat-like, half-crouch as he moved toward a figure that knelt, peering over the top of a boulder on the lip of the ridge. The heavy elk leather of Black Feather’s leg moccasins, turned down mid-calf, made no sound as he climbed, even when the vegetation along the path gave way to crumbled granite. He moved with sinewy, deadly agility. From time to time he stopped, one outstretched, long-fingered hand and exposed bronze forearm balancing his frame against a boulder. He drew himself up a few paces from the man, who was engrossed and unaware of another presence. Below, farther than a bullet could fly, a faint wagon trail wandered through the heart of the valley.
The lookout was smaller than Black Feather. His thin, wiry body was covered in a dirty, heavy, cotton pullover shirt, which hung below the tops of his leather loincloth. Old bloodstains soiled one side and there was a jagged rip in the fabric across the lower back— no doubt a narrow escape from a knife blade. A sweat-stained, leather headband with a single row of beads kept his long unkempt strings of hair swept behind his shoulders. An ancient Enfield musket leaned, muzzle up and within easy reach, against the boulder that he hid behind.
Black Feather paused for a moment behind the unsuspecting figure. He raised his rifle and slammed the buttplate into the man’s back between his shoulder blades with enough force to stun, but not kill or maim.
The man grunted and collapsed, the wind knocked out of him. He lay on his back on the ground, knees bent, struggling to regain his breath. His dark brown, almost black eyes stared up at Black Feather’s swarthy features towering above him, fear evident in the rapid blinks of his eyelids and wildly darting pupils.
“Snake, I have told you many times. When you’re on lookout you watch from the side of the rock not from the top. Even the white eyes can pick out your ugly face etched against the sky. We have been waiting here three days for prey. Far worse will happen to you if your stupidity causes that time to be wasted!”
“I understand,” gasped Snake. “The rock was”—he wheezed— “too rounded to see well from the sides.”
“Then find another rock. Get back on your feet. There will be wagons on this road and the men are getting restless.”
Black Feather turned and trotted, almost jumping, down the slope, as a surefooted as a cougar.
He followed the base of the hill to where it turned south into a small draw. The warmth of the March sun radiated off the rocky faces from all sides, a natural heat-reflecting amphitheater. The picket line at the mouth of the little canyon strung an assortment of horses, big and small, several pintos, appaloosas, mustangs, and even a few stolen quarter horses, a new breed from the East. Each had a different brand, all were lean and muscular, and many had hairless scars along a flank or haunch. Two dozen men lounged here and there, one group still sleeping around a whiskey jug cradled between the saddles they used for pillows. Others were in small clusters talking. Three stocky men—one of them could be called fat—squatted, speaking Spanish, and passing a thick stick of jerky between them. They wore straw sombreros, and shawls or serapes whose bright colors had long ago faded.
The heaviest of the three rose as Black Feather moved toward them.
“Patron,” he grated in Spanish, “the men become uneasy. We’ve had no spoils or women for weeks and no coffee for three days.” His brown eyes squinted up at Black Feather between corpulent folds of wrinkled brown cheeks. His gaze was steady, but deferential. “May we have one small fire?”
“We need patience, not a fire, Pedro. We have spent three days here. I’ve never seen that wagon track go empty for more than a week this time of year, I’m sure there will be a group of white eyes traveling south after wintering at Fort Laramie. We shall strike quickly, take what we wish and head east.” Black Feather’s lips curled into a wicked sneer which grotesquely twisted the thin white scar above them. “Perhaps there will be women. Maybe even young women.”
The two men laughed. Pedro’s two front teeth were missing and the gap made a hissing sound as he cackled.
It was early the next morning when they came. First light had not yet crested the buttes of the Pawnee Grasslands to the east. The horizon was a narrow, steel blue stripe that tapered into the spreading rose of a coming sun.
Black Feather was still in his bedroll, his long limbs pressed together to retain warmth under the two wool blankets. He heard gravel roll behind him. Swiftly sitting up, he spun in one smooth motion, a long, savage-looking blade in his outreached hand.
Snake had been bending down to report to him, but leaped back. “It’s me, Snake.”
Black Feather lowered the knife. “Speak.”
“Wagons. Four of them headed south just as you thought.”
“Get the men up. We will meet at the horses. Tell them to be quiet. No dust. Have Pedro send Hernandez a mile to the northeast. Tell him to walk his horse. I don’t want to be surprised by a stray Cavalry patrol. Signal the lookouts up on the hill to stay where they are and keep their eyes sharp.” Snake lingered for just a second. “Move,” snarled Black Feather.
He rose and checked the loads in the .36 caliber 1851 Navy, Army issue Colt revolver, and his U.S. Model 1847 .45 caliber Smoothbore Musketoon. He paused for an instant to smile at the buttplate with the U.S. Army insignia. Thank you, trooper. A fine scalp, a warm shell jacket, and a good rifle all at once made for a very good day.
There was excited chatter as the men, standing near their horses, untethered their mounts. Several men were checking their firearms. Others honed the blades of knives or tomahawks.
“Quiet. Gather around,” Black Feather ordered.
The conversation ceased immediately. “González, take three riders and position yourself down at the east end of the valley near Horse’s Tooth Rock, just in case they try to run for it. Many Ponies, take two men and station at the west end of the valley. The rest of you follow me. No noise. Lead your horses and keep their hooves from the rocks. We will stop just below the crest of the hill. When I give the signal, mount and move down on them.”
The men nodded, spread out, and began to ascend, each picking his own trail. They gathered again below the top of the ridge, out of sight of the unsuspecting wagons. Snake began to raise his head up over his lookout rock, then quickly retracted his body, glancing back at Black Feather. He sank to his hands and knees and edged one side of his face around the side of its rough edge. After a moment, he gestured.
Black Feather rotated his gaze around his men. “It is time. Mount up. We will do the usual. Kill the men first. Leave the women, unless they are trouble, and we will decide on each of them later.”
Silently the band swung onto their horses. Black Feather waved his arm, and they advanced to the peak of the incline. He was in the lead, just his head peeking through a swale in the last contour. The front wagon was a prairie schooner with a man, woman and what appeared to be a younger woman sharing the driver’s seat. Behind the prairie schooner was an older, smaller, canvas-covered supply rig. Driven by one man, its canvas was partially rolled up over the ribs from which corners and legs of furniture protruded. The last two were small cargo wagons with flat tarps. Probably loaded with supplies, flour, powder, and foodstuffs, Black Fea
ther quickly guessed. The tail rig had two men. One appeared to have a rifle at the ready.
Black Feather surveyed the wagons again. He did not like surprises. Finally he was satisfied. This will be easier than I thought. The food is needed, and it looks like they’re moving their household so there must be some valuables. A slight smile played on his lips. And a young woman. He raised his rifle horizontally above his head. The band of renegades crested the hill and began to descend slowly in a wide line of horses, weapons and men.
The wagons made considerable noise as the wheels bumped along the primitive road, hitting still frozen ruts where it was shaded. Black Feather’s band continued to move without haste. They were now but one hundred and fifty yards from, and slightly behind, the wagons.
They still do not know we are here. They are close enough now that there is no escape. Using the barrel of his Musketoon he pointed to four of his men, then at the wagons, and slid his finger across his throat horizontally. The men nodded and raised their rifles. The four shots sounded almost as a single report. Both men in the rear cargo carrier slumped over.
The driver in the third wagon toppled off the seat onto the ground and the rear wagon wheel rolled over his back. The man in the second wagon lurched, then steadied himself and positioned his rifle over the back of the wagon seat to use its edge as a rest. In one smooth motion, Black Feather coolly leveled his Smoothbore, brought the stock to his shoulder, and fired. The man’s rifle dropped from his hands and his head slumped over the backrest, his body suspended by his chin caught on the rough, wood edge. The driver of the family in the prairie schooner frantically slapped his horses with the lines. The team struggled into an uneven run and the wagon bounced wildly, its wheels rising in the air as they hit ruts and rocks. The tailgate sprung open and boxes and baskets fell out from under the rear canvas. Black Feather coolly reloaded and then spurred his black stallion diagonally across the valley. Three of his men followed. The chase was short. Two of the bandits halted the wagon team. The driver was middle-aged, and in good shape except for a slight potbelly that tightened the fabric of his overalls and suspenders. He wore a farmer’s floppy, brimmed, brown wool felt hat. He dropped his old musket and raised both hands in the air in surrender.
His wife, of the same age, had short nappy hair, dark with touches of grey, under her wool sun bonnet and a pleasant but wrinkled face. She trembled uncontrollably, her mouth open and tears rolling from the corner of her eyes. She clutched her daughter, who was shaking like a leaf, her face buried in her mother’s side. The girl’s thin shape was just taking on the form of a woman. She had long blond hair and a clear complexion. Black Feather judged her to be in her early teens. He looked from one to the other, saying nothing.
The farmer began to speak in a cracking voice. “Whatever you want. Please take it. We have some valuable things here. We’re just going back to our ranch down on the Big Thompson. The house was not quite finished so we spent the winter at Fort Laramie. Please, this is all we have.”
The Smoothbore lay across Black Feather’s forearm, its muzzle to the side of the stallion’s neck, pointing at the man’s head. “Thank you for your offer. But we already know that we can have whatever we want.” Black Feather let his eyes slip to the hysterical girl.
“Now, wait just a…” The blast from the Smoothbore blew off the top of the man’s head. The .45-caliber ball sprayed blood, splattering the women and the wagon canvas. The black stallion squealed in protest at the percussion and reared to the side.
The mother rose, her hands in the position of prayer in front of her chest, pleading, “Please…” A shot rang out from one of the men at the fore of the wagon team. The woman clutched her throat, bright red blood squirting from between her fingers, gurgled and fell backward into the wagon. The girl’s sobs grew more violent, but the shock had stolen the sound from her.
She doubled over, her immature breasts pressed against her knees. She covered her head with shaking hands, her frame racked with hysterical shudders. Black Feather noticed the clear, smooth skin of her wrists and long fingers where they dug into her blond hair. Deep within him a grim, long buried memory stirred.
“Crow!” Black Feather turned to the man behind him. “Take her away from the wagons.”
Crow kicked his horse forward. Black Feather reached out the long barrel of the Smoothbore and placed its length against the man’s chest. “Do not hurt her.” Crow nodded and urged his horse forward again. Black Feather pressed the side of the barrel, more firmly this time, against Crow’s neck. “And do not touch her.” A slight look of anguish flitted across the outlaw’s face, but he looked in Black Feather’s eyes and nodded.
Black Feather waited until Crow and the girl were one hundred yards away on the other side of the wagon. He climbed on the wagon seat, reached into the bed, and dragged the front half of the mother’s body from behind the canvas. He checked quickly to make sure he was out of sight of Crow and the girl. His blade flashed in the sunlight and moved several times in a saw-like motion, its sharp edge making a swishing sound like a rough finger drawn back and forth across wet parchment. Black Feather rose, scalp in one bloody hand and the silvered knife dripping in the other.
Hoisting the prize in the air, his bronzed arms lifted high, he tipped back his explosion of long, dirty, brown hair, shook the scalp and the knife at the blue sky that seethed with morbid pink-hued memory, and screamed in triumph; his muscular torso etched against the morning grey, his silhouette framed to the south by Longs Peak and to the west by Rawah Range. Around him, the unkempt members of his renegade band had gathered. They, too, raised their rifles and bows to the sky, joining his bloodcurdling howl.
He jumped from the wagon directly into the saddle on the stallion. “Men, strip everything of value. Don’t forget the food, and do not fight over the scalps. We won’t torch. Smoke would be dangerous.” The band scattered with whoops and shouts except for Pedro, his lieutenant, who rode up beside him, awaiting orders.
He turned in his saddle and spoke sharply to him in Spanish. “Pedro, after the men have stripped the wagons, get the girl and bring her to me. Bind her wrists. Wet the rawhide first. I want it tight but not so that it marks her. She is mine.”
Pedro puffed out his chest. “But we always share…”
Black Feather’s fist, clenched around the hilt of his knife, struck out, delivering a meaty backhanded blow to Pedro’s face. The paunchy man’s voice died in a gurgle as he fell from his horse. Black Feather glowered down from the stallion as the fat man rolled back and forth on the ground, clutching his bloody nose and whimpering in pain. Black Feather watched with impassive detachment.
“One more word Pedro, and your scalp will join those of the white eyes on my belt. If I tire of her, perhaps I will give you a taste, or perhaps I will kill her.”
Raucous laughter caught Black Feather’s attention. He cursed and trotted over to where Crow and another outlaw with a toothless grin were roughly holding the girl’s arms to keep her upright. Crow was fondling her breast and licking his lips. The heel of Black Feather’s foot connected square with Crow’s right temple. He staggered backward and released the girl who slumped to the ground.
“I told you not to touch her, Crow.”
Crow was rubbing his head. “Shit, boss, wasn’t doing nothing. You never been so particular before.”
Black Feather silently dismounted and crouched in front of the girl’s shuddering figure. One small pert breast was still exposed where Crow had ripped her blouse and chemise. He slowly reached out one hand toward her face, as if offering a first-time smell to a new horse. He gently pressed two fingers under her chin and carefully lifted her face toward his. The black pupils of her terrified eyes almost obscured their hazel color.
“What is your name, girl?”
She said nothing. Black Feather wasn’t sure she could hear, or, if she could, if his words were registering. With his fingers still under her chin, he moved his thumb to remove the smear of blood from her
cheek. Her skin was young and smooth. This gesture drew no reaction either. He stood, turned to his stallion, and untied the leathers holding his bedroll. From under the bedroll he drew out a black and tan wool coat with a sheepskin collar.
He knelt down to her. “It’s well-worn but it has warmth.” Her eyes remained vacant, her body listless. He extended the coat but she made no move to reach for it. Black Feather carefully drew the wool over her shoulders. He began to rise. The coat, much too large, slipped from one side, exposing her arm. He squatted, one long arm rearranging the wool to cover her. He remained squatting, staring at her, unsettling visions again trying to claw from the depths of his mind where he had long ago buried them.
Standing, he turned to Crow who had three fingers pressed against the purple welt that was rising above his eye. “Put her on the saddle behind me after I mount. Tie her to me if she can’t hold on. Use that lariat if you have to.”
Crow stepped forward to obey the command. Black Feather grabbed him by his shirt collar and pulled his face close to his. He gave the smaller man a savage look. “Gently.” Crow looked astonished, but nodded vigorously.
Black Feather mounted and Crow hoisted the young woman, who was breathing in deep tortured gasps, into position. She slumped forward into Black Feather’s back, her small white hands clutching the sides of the blue army shell jacket he had taken from the dead trooper.
“Will you hold on?” There was no response. “Crow, tie her off around the middle to me. Not too tight.” Black Feather looked up and realized his entire band of cutthroats was dispersed in a loose circle around him. They were all staring, several with mouths agape.
He ignored them. “We will head out to the grasslands and then northeast to the Platte. Less chance of cavalry. Better chance of wagon trains, bigger wagon trains.” He laughed. “Let’s ride.”
Maps of Fate Page 4