Marlowe explained that the wagons were going to be left behind, and the contents carried forward, packed on the mules. Heavy Owl nodded his understanding, but the expression on his face suggested that he doubted the mules’ ability to carry all that he saw in the wagons. Thinking it impolite to point out the white men’s faulty planning, Heavy Owl changed the subject. “We have a fresh-killed rabbit we can share with you.”
“That would be good,” Marlowe said. “We have coffee and some hardtack.”
The white men and the Indians sat down together, the two Blackfeet on one side of the fire, and Charley and Marlowe on the other. While they waited for the rabbit to roast, Marlowe explained that they were going to have to cache a good portion of their goods, and he wondered if Heavy Owl and his friend knew of a good place where they would be safe. Taken aback by the white man’s apparent naı ¨veté, Heavy Owl eagerly responded that he did indeed know of such a place. Marlowe confided that he had a wagon filled with jugs of firewater, and that he would give one to each of them if they helped them hide the rest of their load.
“It’s real strong firewater,” Marlowe assured them, “I’ll git you a taste to see for yourself.”
He went to the back of the wagon and pulled one of the gallon containers out and poured a generous amount into a tin cup. Returning to the fire, he offered the cup to Heavy Owl who eagerly accepted it. Taking a sip of the raw liquid, he held it in his mouth for a few moments while he tasted it. He nodded briefly to his companion then spat the mouthful of whiskey into the fire, smiling with satisfaction when the potent brew caused a sudden burst of flame. This buck’s had some watered-down whiskey before, Marlowe thought, grinning as he watched Heavy Owl’s reaction. With proof that the whiskey was satisfactory, the two Blackfeet agreed to help unload the wagons.
With Heavy Owl and his friend’s help, the two white men soon had a good portion of their merchandise, the stove and stovepipe, stored away under a ledge of solid rock. The two Blackfeet remained on hand to help fashion packs for the mules as well, never questioning the fact that Charley and Marlowe loaded all eight mules, apparently leaving the two white men to travel on foot. If their thoughts had not been occupied with the prospect of returning to the cache after the foolish white men had gone, the Indians might have suspected that Charley and Marlowe had no intention of walking.
When the wagons were empty except for two saddles, Heavy Owl asked if they were going to be left in the wagon. Marlowe grinned at Charley while he translated the Indian’s question. Both men laughed at that. “No,” Marlowe replied. “Them saddles go on your ponies.” His response puzzled the two Indians for a moment, and before Heavy Owl could thank him for the generous gifts, Charley and Marlowe had their pistols out. Marlowe shot Heavy Owl’s companion in the back of the head before the surprised Blackfoot warrior had time to react. Heavy Owl made a dash for his horse, but he had taken no more than five steps before Charley’s bullet smashed into his spine.
“I thought for a minute there you was gonna let him git away,” Marlowe commented dryly.
Charley smirked, calmly replacing the bullet he had fired. “I reckon I coulda shot quicker if I’d wanted to, but I wanted to see how fast he could run.” He cocked a warning eye at Marlowe. “Don’t ever worry about how quick I am.” Receiving only an insolent grin in return, he locked eyes with his partner in crime for a brief second before breaking it off. “We’ve wasted enough time here. Let’s drag these bodies over and throw them in the river.” Reaching down to grab Heavy Owl by the heels, he glanced at Marlowe again and said, “I hope to hell these two weren’t from the same village you’re supposed to be leading us to.”
“Matter of fact, they was,” Marlowe casually replied. “Leastways they said they was from Black Shirt’s village. I never seen ’em before, but, hell, I never went there. The only time I ever seen any of ’em was when they came to Fort Union.”
“You never . . . Whaddaya mean?” Charley demanded. “You told me you and them Blackfoot was big friends. Now you’re telling me you ain’t ever been to their camp?” Charley was beginning to realize the folly in partnering with a liar.
“Hold on,” Marlowe growled. He didn’t care much for Charley’s tone. “I said I knew where Black Shirt would likely be, and I do. We’ll find him. Don’t you worry about that.”
“Well, we’d better,” was all Charley said in return, but he had already made up his mind to settle Marlowe’s hash when the time came.
After the bodies were disposed of and the wagons pulled into a deep ravine, the next order of business was the introduction of the Indian ponies to the heavy leather saddles Charley and Marlowe had brought along. As it turned out, the saddles themselves were not the biggest problem. The horses accepted them, although reluctantly, in exchange for the lighter Indian saddles. The trouble came when they were introduced to the bit. Their Blackfoot masters had simply fashioned a makeshift bridle, which consisted of a length of rope with a couple of half-hitches, and tied it around the pony’s lower jaw. That was all that was necessary to guide the horse. When subjected to the leather bridle and the cruel metal bit, both horses balked, refusing to take it. It was only after almost an hour of combat between horse and man, that the two Indian mounts were beaten into submission, and Charley and Marlowe set out once again—on ponies with severely sore mouths, leading eight mules packed with an odd assortment of trade goods and six gallon-size jugs of whiskey.
Martha opened her eyes, blinking the sleep away. It would be sunup pretty soon. She must rouse herself and see to the fire, but she was reluctant to leave her bed. It was snug and warm where she lay, pressed up against Black Elk’s back. She smiled when she thought of her husband, and put her arm around him, pulling herself even closer against his bare back. He sleeps like a dead man, she thought, never tossing, never turning. It was true. Always, after he made love to her, and whispered good night, he would turn on his side and sleep like a stone, never moving from that position until rising the next morning. Martha sighed, dreading to slide out from under the soft buffalo robe. Finally, she forced herself to move. I don’t want the other women to think Black Elk has a lazy wife.
As she busied herself reviving the fire in preparation for cooking Black Elk’s breakfast, she couldn’t help but think about little Moon Shadow. The image of the slight girl often came to mind whenever Martha was busy with the daily chores that filled the life of every Blackfoot woman. For Moon Shadow had taught her everything. Every chore she now performed had been patiently demonstrated by her adopted sister. Martha paused for a moment to give the thought her full attention. She missed Moon Shadow.
Tomorrow would be a busy day for all the women of the village, for Bloody Axe had said that it was time to leave the mountains and move the camp to the buffalo country. Martha looked forward to the journey. The winter just past had been the most enjoyable one she could remember, for she had embraced the simple straightforward life of the Blackfeet. And now spring would soon be here, a new spring for Martha, like no other spring before, in a new life without fear or shame.
She had come to terms with her conscience regarding Robert. In the early days after her capture, she had prayed for Robert to come for her, only because of the harm she feared might befall her. She realized now that she had never really loved Robert, and the two of them had drifted apart long before her abduction from the cabin in the Black Hills. How could she have foreseen the strange twist of fate that would open a whole new life for her. She had fretted with it at first, thinking it sinful to dishonor her husband with her lust for Black Elk, a lust that she had been unable to deny. But she had put all guilty thoughts out of her mind for good now.
Behind her, the soft rustle of the entrance flap told her that Black Elk was awake. She turned and looked up at him, smiling. “I wondered if I was going to have to wake you,” she teased. “The sun is already high in the sky.”
He smiled. “I was only waiting for my lazy wife to cook my breakfast. I think if it is not prepared by the
time I come back from the river, I will have to give you a good beating.”
She laughed delightedly. Springing to her feet, she picked up a small stick and playfully rapped him sharply across the buttocks. “We’ll see who does the whipping around here.”
“Yow!” he yelped in surprise when the blow was a little sharper than he expected. Then, embarrassed that he had uttered a sound, he grabbed Martha, locking his powerful arms around her so that her arms were pinned to her sides. He lifted her until her face was level with his. Affecting a fierce scowl, he said, “I think I’ll throw you in the river and be done with you.”
Giggling like a child, she kissed him, covering his face with kisses until, totally embarrassed, he put her down, quickly looking around to see if anyone had witnessed this foolish play between a man and his wife. “If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going to give you back to the Crows,” he said, trying hard to look annoyed.
She watched him as he strode through the circle of lodges on his way to the river to bathe. His long black hair, woven in two dark braids, rested lightly upon powerful shoulders that glistened bronze in the morning sun. She felt herself tremble with thoughts of those shoulders and the night just past. You’d better get your mind on your chores, she admonished, looking about her quickly, afraid someone might see the dreamy expression on her face.
“Six Horses.”
Martha looked around to see who had called her name. She smiled when she saw Red Wing approaching. The old medicine woman had become a close friend since the two of them had tried to nurse Moon Shadow back to health. “It is a fine morning, Red Wing,” Martha greeted her friend.
“Yes it is,” Red Wing agreed. “I think it would be a fine morning to walk down the riverbank. I have been watching for the past few days, and I think I know where some ducks are nesting. We could have a nice feast of duck eggs tonight. Why don’t you come with me after you have prepared Black Elk’s breakfast?”
“Thank you. I would like that,” Martha quickly replied. She knew it would please Black Elk, for he, like most of the people of the village, thought goose and duck eggs were a special treat. It would be a fitting banquet on their last night in this camp. Tomorrow the lodges would be taken down and packed on travois, along with all their other belongings. Martha’s tipi was a small one, only twelve cowskins were required to make it. The larger tipi had been used as a burial wrap for Moon Shadow. Martha herself had sewn it around her little sister, with her favorite cooking pots and utensils for tanning hides inside. Black Elk would soon provide enough cowhides to make her new lodge. She wanted it to be a more fitting home for her husband—eighteen hides at least, and more for the inner lining. She wanted new backrests, too, and antelope skin to make herself a new dress. Black Elk needed new leggings, and a new shirt. There was a great deal to be done. She would be very busy this spring.
Chapter 13
“Git back!” Marlowe commanded, his voice a harsh whisper as he frantically motioned for Charley to hold the mules below the rim of the ridge. “Injuns!” he warned as he yanked his pony’s head around, causing the animal to slide back down the incline, almost colliding with Charley’s mount. Scrambling back up to the rim on his hands and knees, he flattened himself to avoid being seen.
“Who are they?” Charley called out in a loud whisper while he struggled to control the string of packmules, unsure if he should be drawing his weapons or not.
“How the hell should I know?” Marlowe shot back, more than a little concerned himself until he could manage to get a good look. “Looks like a huntin’ party,” he said a moment later. “Or maybe they’re just on their way somewhere. Leastways, they ain’t wearin’ paint.”
“How many?” Charley asked.
After a few moments, Marlowe answered. “I count six of ’em. Blackfoot.”
“Well, what are we hiding for? I thought you were friends with the Blackfoot.” Once again, Charley was beginning to question just how effective Marlowe was as a guide.
“I don’t know every damn Blackfoot in the territory. Hell, man, it always pays to see any damn bunch of Injuns before they see you.” There was a long pause while he continued to watch the party of Blackfeet. Then he volunteered, “Shit, I know this bunch. That’s ol’ Wolf Tail, biggest drunk in the Blackfoot nation.” Marlowe got to his feet. “You can bring ’em on up,” he said, waving Charley on.
While Charley brought the mules up to the top of the ridge, Marlowe yelled out to the line of riders, waving his arm back and forth to catch their eye. The Indians stopped immediately, and paused to consider who might be hailing them, exercising a natural caution at the sudden appearance of white men. Remaining motionless while they watched Marlowe and Charley lead the string of eight heavily loaded mules across the ridge, they constantly scanned the hillsides on either side, mindful of the possibility of flanking riders. When it was apparent that the white men were alone, the Indians’ attention focused immediately upon the pack mules. Their interest fully awakened, they sat their ponies, waiting for the white men to approach.
“Wolf Tail, it’s me, Marlowe. We was just on our way to do some tradin’ with your people, our friends the Blackfeet.”
Wolf Tail recognized the huge man on the Indian pony before he even spoke. He turned to his companions and told them that this was the man from Fort Union who sold him whiskey when the bourgeois said it was forbidden. Turning back to face the approaching white men, he held up his arm in greeting. “Marlowe, it is good to see you, my friend,” he said in English.
While his companions gathered around the mules, eyeing the securely bound jugs, Wolf Tail explained that they were returning to their village after visiting his uncle in Bloody Axe’s camp on Willow Creek. For once, Charley could follow the conversation, since Wolf Tail was eager to demonstrate his mastery of the English language. The courteous exchange of greetings was dispensed with in short order, since Wolf Tail’s interest was concentrated on the gallon-size jugs strapped on the mules. He was well familiar with the contents of jugs similar to these.
There was immediate talk of trade, but the six Blackfeet had very little to trade with them—nothing that Charley wanted, anyway—so they suggested that Charley and Marlowe accompany them to Black Shirt’s village where they had many robes and furs. For now, however, Wolf Tail thought it would be a sign of good will if they were allowed to sample the whiskey. In exchange, he promised, he would lead them to Black Shirt’s camp. Charley thought this an excellent suggestion since he had begun to doubt if Marlowe would ever find the village on his own.
“Keep your rifle handy,” Marlowe whispered. “These boys might git the idea they wanna grab the whole shebang, and our scalps with it.”
“I hope they do,” Charley murmured in reply. “I’d enjoy sending them to meet their friends back at the cache.”
“Let us sit down and eat together,” Wolf Tail said, “we have the hindquarter of an antelope we killed yesterday. We are happy to share our food.”
Yeah, and we provide the whiskey, Charley thought while affecting a smile as genuine as he could make it. While two of the Indians gathered wood to make a fire, Charley hobbled the mules in a thicket. He released one jug of whiskey from its straps, and set it down, along with a tin cup, in front of the fire just lit. The six Blackfeet gathered around eagerly waiting to sample the firewater. Charley filled the cup to the brim, then corked the jug and pulled it back away from the fire. There was a simultaneous look of disappointment on all six faces when they realized that one cup was all that would be offered to sample. Wolf Tail shrugged and picked up the cup, taking a quick gulp, immediately followed by another before he passed it to the warrior on his left. By the time the cup came back around to Charley, it was empty, the last of Wolf Tail’s companions having emptied it. This forced Charley to make a show of further generosity. He had not planned to donate more than the one cup of whiskey, but Marlowe whispered that it would be impolite not to drink with their guests, and at least one of the Blackfeet knew the cup was em
pty, so Charley couldn’t pretend to take a drink. “What the hell,” he muttered and uncorked the jug for one more round.
By the time the cup made another round, the strips of antelope were sizzling over the fire, and Marlowe persuaded Charley to fill the cup once more. In no time at all, the cautious atmosphere abated. Even the stoic companions of Wolf Tail were chattering among themselves as the glow of Charley’s whiskey warmed their bellies.
Chewing thoughtfully on a tough strip of roasted meat, Wolf Tail eyed Marlowe’s white companion, curious about a man who would team up with the notorious loner. As far as he knew, none of the other white men at Fort Union had much use for the sullen bully. And Wolf Tail held no illusions about the professed friendship Marlowe claimed for the Blackfoot people. Marlowe had been his only source for the white man’s firewater. It was as simple as that—and Wolf Tail had a big craving for firewater. This stranger, Charley, appeared to be the owner of the whiskey, for he was the one who decided when to fill the cup. In spite of the white man’s apparent friendliness, Wolf Tail decided it would be wise to watch his back when Charley was around. He had the look of a weasel, with eyes close together and set back under heavy brows. After studying the man, Wolf Tail could finally curb his curiosity no longer.
“You are new to this country,” he stated, staring at Charley. When Charley said that he was, Wolf Tail nodded and said, “When we first saw you on the ridge, we think maybe you came looking for the white woman.” He smiled. “But then we see Marlowe.”
Charley’s jaw went slack when he heard the words white woman. He spat out the half-chewed piece of meat he was eating, and shot back, “What white woman?”
Savage Cry Page 20