Fannin studied their faces for a few moments. He wasn’t sure what the lady expected of him. “I’m afraid I can’t offer to escort you back to that mining camp,” he said. “My men would be too greatly outnumbered to protect you. I can’t even condone your going back by yourselves. My advice to you is to accompany us back to Fort Laramie, find yourself someone who knows the territory. Then, after the hostiles have moved out of this area, come look for your man. And that advice is against my better judgment and my orders as a soldier,” he added.
“What about him?” Rachael Andrews asked, pointing a finger at Clay. “He knows the territory.”
Fannin’s eyebrows rose as he glanced at the tall, broad-shouldered scout. “Him? He goes his own way. He’s working for me right now, but he pretty much does as he pleases.”
She turned then to face Clay. “Is that right? Do you do pretty much as you please?”
Clay could not prevent the beginnings of a wry smile from nudging the corners of his mouth. Like a precocious child, with her chin tilted up to gaze into his face, she looked ready to pitch a fit if he didn’t answer to her satisfaction. He couldn’t help but be reminded of another lady of considerable spunk, a lady who always resided in the private chambers of his brain. He kept that lady there to be summoned forth when he was alone by a lonely campfire, high in the mountains. Katie was a lot like this young lady—set her mind on something, and she was determined to have it her way. And as it often was with Katie, Clay didn’t necessarily agree with what the lady wanted to do. This new proposition was something he hadn’t even considered. He had figured that Fannin would fall back on his orders, and insist that the two of them return to Laramie with the patrol.
After a moment, he answered her. “I don’t reckon I’ve given it much thought. I figure any man oughta do what he thinks best”—he shot a quick glance in Fannin’s direction—“unless he’s a soldier.” He looked back at Rachael, his smile gone now, replaced by a serious frown. “What the lieutenant just told you is good advice. The only thing I would add to that is that you should forget about waitin’ a few days and then goin’ into the mountains. The best thing for you to do is to go on back to Dry Fork. If you’re spotted by a war party, they ain’t gonna ask you if you’re lookin’ for a murderer. You’d just be another couple of white miners to them, two more scalps to hang on a lance.”
Rachael answered his frown with one of her own. She glanced quickly at Lon, then back at the unperturbed scout, and finally at Lieutenant Fannin. “Lieutenant, I’m afraid I can’t accept your invitation to accompany your patrol. I thank you for your offer of protection, but Lon and I have business to complete, so we’ll bid you goodbye.”
God, Clay thought to himself, so much like Katie Mashburn she could be her daughter. He looked to see how Lon Fortson was taking the young lady’s proclamation. The deputy was not visibly enthusiastic about the idea. His zeal to avenge the murder of Sam Ingram had been cooled somewhat by common sense and the information that the hills were swarming with angry Sioux.
Fannin slowly shook his head in exasperation. “Miss Andrews, I don’t think you’re considering the danger to yourself. I’m afraid I’ll have to insist that you and the deputy accompany us back to Fort Laramie. Maybe Colonel Bradley will dispatch a larger detachment to help you search.” He avoided eye contact with Clay after he made the statement, knowing the scout knew there was no way in hell the colonel was going to send troops on such a foolish endeavor. “Now I believe we’ve lingered long enough. We’d best be on our way.” He turned to his sergeant. “Sergeant DuBois, get the men mounted.”
Without another word, Rachael turned and stalked deliberately to her horse. Once she was seated in the saddle, she backed her horse away a few paces. Her face a mask of icy determination, she said, “I thank you again for your concern, sir, but I am not one of your soldiers.” The discussion ended as far as she was concerned, she wheeled her mount and prepared to depart. “Come on, Lon, we’ve already wasted too much time.”
Lon made no immediate move in response. Still afoot, holding his horse’s reins while watching the troopers climb into their saddles, he was giving serious consideration to the wisdom of following the headstrong young woman into almost certain death. It took only a few moments more for him to make his decision, all the while acutely aware of Rachael’s impatient glare for his lack of response. “What the lieutenant says is true, Miss Andrews. It don’t make no sense to get ourselves killed. That ain’t gonna help your husband none. We’d better turn back while we still got our hair.”
With a look of utter disgust and disappointment, Rachael announced, “Then I guess I’ll be traveling alone.” With that, she whipped her horse, and bolted off toward the mountains.
“Damn,” Lon swore softly, still standing there, holding his horse’s reins.
“That is one stubborn and foolish young lady,” Fannin remarked as he sat in the saddle. He made no move to stop her, thinking there was little he could do if the woman was intent upon suicide. Officially, he had the authority to restrict her travel into Indian territory, but he was reluctant to place her under physical arrest. “Well, if that’s what she wants to do . . .” He shrugged. “Sergeant, move ’em out.”
Clay looked long and hard at the lady’s back as she rode away. Maybe Fannin was right. She was being foolish. But he understood the stubborn nature, again thinking of the woman far away in Canyon Creek. Women like that were special, and he wished that he could save her from herself. But he had an obligation to lead the patrol back to Fort Laramie. You aren’t responsible for the way people think, or how they want to die, he told himself, and tried to put her out of his mind.
“Damn,” Lon uttered again. Moving very slowly, he stepped up into the saddle, his eyes riveted upon Rachael’s back as she rode, leaning forward in that familiar awkward position. Unable to allow her to ride off alone, he shook his head in forlorn surrender. Glancing briefly at the tall scout mounted beside him, he once again uttered, “Damn.” Then he wheeled his horse and galloped after the young woman.
Clay sat there watching them for a long moment before turning away to proceed to the head of the column. I hired on to lead this patrol, he thought. Besides that, he was expecting to meet his brother, Jim, in Fort Laramie sometime within the next week or so. He was not willing to admit it to himself, but he might also take a little ride over to Canyon Creek to see how a certain lady was faring. He had no time to worry his mind about the welfare of the two greenhorns heading straight into Paha Sapa, the hills that are black.
Chapter 5
With his arms loaded with wood for the fire, Lon hesitated before kneeling down, stopped by the clear call of a night bird somewhere off in the darkness. A quick glance in Rachael’s direction was enough to tell him she had not heard it. Was it a bird? Or was it a signal from one Sioux warrior to another? There it was again. Maybe he should take another look on the other side of the stream, he thought, even though the sound came from the trees that framed the stream. He had just come from there with the limbs he had collected for firewood. I’m just getting spooked by every sound I hear. It’s a damn bird. That’s all it is. Before darkness found them in this narrow valley, they had spent most of the afternoon trying to find a way around a blind gulch they had ridden into. They had seen no sign of Indian activity of any kind. Lon couldn’t help but question the reliability of Clay Culver’s report on the number of hostiles in the area. Maybe it was just talk to keep us out of here. He dumped the wood on the ground and fed a few more limbs to the fire.
Rachael had been quiet ever since they’d made camp. Having observed Lon’s cautious behavior all day as they explored one ridge after another, looking for a trail that might lead them around the mountain, she now began to experience a portion of guilt. She had been smugly satisfied when he couldn’t bring himself to abandon her, and came galloping after her when she rode away from the patrol. Now, as she watched him pause to listen to every night sound that drifted across the stream, she realized
that she really had no right to trade on the man’s conscience.
“Lon, I haven’t thanked you for coming with me today. I’m sorry.” When he turned to face her, she continued. “I really don’t have the right to ask you to put your life in danger for my sake. I wouldn’t blame you if you want to go back in the morning. I won’t think ill of you, I promise.”
Lon didn’t know how to respond. There was no doubt that he wanted to discontinue the search, but he knew she had no intention of going back. And it just didn’t seem right to leave a woman alone in this country. He didn’t answer her immediately, while he thought back to recall the purpose of their journey. He had to admit to himself that he hadn’t even thought about Billy Ray since before meeting the cavalry patrol. It seemed like a year since he had left Dry Fork to wander around blindly in an endless series of high mountains and narrow valleys with a woman too stubborn to admit the folly of it. He decided it was time to speak his mind—they were lost, they couldn’t find Billy Ray if they wandered around in these hills for a year and he was heading back with or without her. He was about to speak when he was startled by a voice.
“Your fire’s puttin’ out a little too much smoke.”
Lon whirled around and reached for his pistol, but there was no one to be seen in the darkness beyond the fire’s glow. Crouching defensively, he turned around in a circle, straining to see into the inky-black night. Rachael, meanwhile, had acted instinctively. Upon hearing the unexpected voice, she had immediately plunged into the darkness and out of the light of the fire. Rolling over and over, she tried to pull the pistol from the wide leather belt strapped around her, only to come to a sudden halt at the feet of a towering figure in the darkness.
“It’s me, ma’am, Clay Culver. Sorry I startled you.” He reached down and placed a firm hand on hers, which had just then found the handle of her pistol. When he felt her hand relax, he withdrew his and stood up straight again. “It’s all right, Deputy. It’s just me.” Reaching down again, he took Rachael by the elbow and helped her to her feet. “You folks didn’t get very far since this morning,” he observed after Lon relaxed and put his weapon away.
“You coulda got yourself shot, walkin’ up on a man like that,” Lon said sheepishly when Clay led Rachael back into the light.
“Yeah, reckon it was a mite careless at that,” Clay replied, knowing that, if he had been a Lakota warrior, Lon would have been a dead man.
Still stunned by the sudden appearance of the tall scout, Rachael recovered her composure enough to question him. “How did you find us? We didn’t think our fire could be seen beyond the banks of this stream.”
“I smelled it,” Clay replied. “Probably burned some green limbs, put out a little too much smoke.”
“Did the lieutenant send you to bring us back?” Rachael wanted to know.
“No, ma’am,” Clay replied. “He sent me to take you to that miners’ camp so you can see if the man you’re lookin’ for is there.” He saw no necessity for explanation beyond that. The fact was that he had been unable to leave the two of them to the mercy of fate. Since Lieutenant Fannin didn’t need a guide to lead him back to Fort Laramie, and being of like mind with Clay, he readily encouraged his scout to go back and find them. Maybe, the two men thought, the sight of eleven dead miners would be enough to discourage continuance of their search. At any rate, they had both been convinced that Rachael and Lon would be lost before nightfall, and Clay had felt an urgency to overtake the two before they got too far into the maze of high mountains and narrow, winding valleys.
He had easily trailed them as they approached the southernmost mountains, which loomed dark and mysterious. Even without an obvious trail to follow, he would have guessed that they would follow a stream that appeared to weave its way through the sheer cliffs on either side. Two summers before, Clay had followed the same stream, only to find himself boxed in, looking at a steep rock wall that forced him to turn around and look for another way.
His ego singed a little by the ease with which Clay had walked into their camp, Lon was nevertheless happy to see the big scout. Even more so than Clay, he knew he was lost. And even though he knew it was useless to try to talk Rachael into turning around, he was certain their quest was hopeless. As Clay and Fannin had thought, Lon hoped that the scout could take them to the site of the miners’ massacre, and that would be enough to send Rachael back to civilization. Already, their supplies were running low. Lon had counted on being able to find game to supplement their food supply, but even if he had sighted a target, he was reluctant to fire his rifle for fear the sound would bring a horde of Sioux warriors down upon them.
As if echoing Lon’s thoughts, Rachael apologized for their lack of hospitality. “I’m afraid we don’t have much food to offer. There is a little salt pork left. Lon was going to hunt in the morning. We do have plenty of coffee, though.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Clay replied, “but I don’t need anything. I noticed a good many pronghorn tracks around the banks of the stream where you entered this valley. Maybe we can sneak up on one in the morning.”
“I’ve been kinda shy about shootin’ at somethin’ in these hills,” Lon said. “Figured the noise would carry for miles.”
“You’d be right,” Clay replied. “That’s the reason I carry a bow.” He looked directly at Rachael when he said, “We’ll go back the way you came in the mornin’.” Before she could protest, he added, “The trail you’re on leads to a box canyon. I’ll take you to the mining camp.”
She relaxed, feeling that she was at last in good hands. Lon was doing the best he could, but he never made any claim to know the country. This tall, quiet scout seemed to not only know it, but to be a part of it. She studied him intently as he disappeared into the darkness, then reappeared a few moments later leading his horse, a rather scruffy-looking paint that was no doubt an Indian pony. After he had tended to his horse, he joined them beside the fire.
* * *
Rachael awakened the next morning at first light. Reluctant to stir from her blanket, she lay there for a few minutes, listening to the sounds around her. She had failed to notice it the night before, but now she could hear the soft murmur of the stream as it labored quietly in the early-morning mist. The stillness of the little valley was complete, save for the random calling of a mountain thrush, and an occasional snort from one of the horses hobbled near the water. For a moment, she forgot the reason for her presence there and closed her eyes briefly while she let her soul absorb the peaceful stillness of the valley. A moment later, she heard a groan from Lon, sleeping on the other side of the fire, and her mind returned to her task.
Rising on one elbow, she looked across the embers of the fire. Lon was still sleeping, his back toward her. The groan she had heard was no doubt the result of a dream, for he showed no signs of stirring. It was still early. She turned to look at Clay, and her heart lost a beat. He was gone! She sat up then, looking all around the camp. He was nowhere to be seen. All traces of the man were gone, his bedroll, his saddle. It was as if the man had never been there. She looked quickly toward the horses then—two horses and a mule, but no Indian pony. She was at once alarmed. “Lon,” she exclaimed, “wake up!” When Lon finally rolled over and sat up, she said, “He’s gone.”
“What?” Lon mumbled, still not fully alert. After a moment, he realized what Rachael had said, and roused himself. On his feet then, he looked around him to confirm what she had said. Clay was gone all right, but Lon couldn’t understand how he could have saddled his horse and left the camp without making a sound. “Maybe he’s just takin’ a look around to make sure there ain’t no Injuns about.” Even as he said it, he wondered if the man had just decided there were healthier places to be.
“Maybe you’re right,” she replied, and got to her feet. Poking the fire to encourage the coals, she then laid a few sticks on to catch the first flames. “Might as well make some coffee and fry what’s left of the pork.” She tended the fire while Lon walked off toward a
stand of tall berry bushes. When he was out of her sight, she made her way across the stream, carefully stepping from rock to rock. There was a healthy stand of pines at the foot of the slope where she preferred to perform her toilet. Out of sight of the campfire, she began to unbuckle her trousers when she heard his warning.
“You might wanna hold up there a minute.”
Startled, she almost stumbled as she turned, looking for the source of the comment. From behind a screen of young pines, he walked his pony slowly down to the stream. Even the man’s horse walks silently, she couldn’t help but think, at the same time breathing a sigh of relief to see him again. “I thought you had gone,” she said.
“No, ma’am. I just thought we could use a little fresh meat.” She noticed then the carcass of a young pronghorn resting across the pony’s withers. He nudged the paint with his heels, and proceeded toward the camp. “You can ease your mind a little,” he said in passing. “There ain’t no sign of hostiles about.”
By the time Rachael returned to the campfire, Clay, with Lon’s help, was already in the process of butchering the antelope. Before she had filled the coffeepot with water from the stream, Clay had already placed strips of the animal’s flesh over the fire. The aroma of roasting meat, which filled her nostrils as she approached the fire, reminded her of her craving for fresh food after a constant diet of salt pork.
Reading the sudden change in her expression, Clay answered her question before she asked. “Like I said, there ain’t no hostiles close enough to smell our breakfast.”
“That’s a pretty good shot with a bow and arrow,” Lon remarked as he inspected the single wound just behind the right front leg of the pronghorn. He had been eyeing the primitive weapon with some interest, impressed that such a simple tool could deliver enough power to bring even a small animal down with one shot. “How long a shot was it?”
Bloody Hills Page 6