* * *
Red Bull pulled a strip of dried elk from his parfleche and chewed thoughtfully as he stood on the edge of the meadow, his eyes scanning the forest before him. The first faint light of morning failed to penetrate the thick pines. He shifted his gaze upward toward the mountain peak, where the trees ended and the slope steepened. This white ghost was at home on the high slopes. Red Bull questioned the wisdom in trying to follow him up through the trees. He considered that he, Red Bull, could easily lose any man trying to follow him through such a maze. He also considered that, if Wanigi Ska was alone, he might remain in the high cliffs, making it necessary for Red Bull to climb up to find him. But Wanigi Ska had two others with him. He would seek to lead them to safety.
“Are you ready to begin the search?” Little Deer asked, breaking into Red Bull’s thoughts.
Red Bull looked at the warriors gathered around him, eager to disperse into the trees. “No,” he said, looking back down the valley. “Wait a moment.” It was a hunch, but one that he felt strongly about. After another moment’s thought to make up his mind, he turned to Little Deer and said, “It is my feeling that we waste our time looking for a ghost on this mountain. I think he’ll try to reach the valley behind us. He will try to lead the other two out of the mountains. If we are quick enough, we should overtake them before they have a chance to disappear in the mountains again.”
* * *
While Rachael and Lon prepared to boil some coffee, Clay rode back along the way they had just come. There was a large boulder near the base of the mountain, where they had emerged from the pines about an hour earlier. He left his horse to graze on the new valley grass while he climbed up on the rock to study their back trail. Carefully scanning the slope above the tree line high up the mountainside, he searched for signs of movement that would indicate the presence of the Lakota warriors. But the only movement in the trees was that caused by the steady breeze that combed the needles. Possibly, the Sioux had not been able to pick up their trail through the thick forest of pines. Maybe they had lost their pursuers. Still, it would not pay to linger, for it would only be a matter of time before the Lakota scouts would discover the narrow path around the rock wall where they had passed the night.
While Clay was away, Lon and Rachael had taken a few moments to discuss their plans from that point forward. Rachael had confided that she had changed her mind about the importance of finding Billy Ray. After her introduction to the untamed territory called the Black Hills, she was ready to concede that her mission was nothing short of desperate, and offered little chance of success. Judging from her experiences of the past few days, she seriously doubted that Billy Ray was even alive if, indeed, he had actually come to the Black Hills. More than likely, she reasoned, his scalp already decorated some Lakota warrior’s lance. She would make her peace with her husband’s memory, knowing Will would understand.
“So you’re ready to head back to Dry Fork?” Lon asked, his face a mask of indifference, hiding the relief he felt for the decision he believed long overdue.
“Yes,” she replied contritely, “and I know I should tell you how sorry I am to have imposed upon you to accompany me.” Though weary to the bone, she attempted to smile. “And I want to thank you for helping me. Frankly, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you had decided to go to Fort Laramie with the soldiers.”
He shrugged, not sure of what to say. “I couldn’t let you go off by yourself in this country,” he finally managed. He was seeing a side of Rachael that she had not revealed before. The hard shell of determination seemed to have crumbled, leaving a tired and frightened young lady, hardly reminiscent of the strong-willed woman who had successfully shamed him into continuing a quest he knew to be foolhardy. It was a welcome change. Now they could go home. The thought made him wonder if he still had a job as deputy sheriff. It seemed like months ago that he and Rachael had left the little settlement near Cheyenne. Further contemplation was interrupted by the return of the tall army scout.
“No sign of Indians yet,” Clay said as he rode up. “That don’t mean they ain’t comin’.” He glanced from Rachael to Lon, then back again. He could tell by their faces that some kind of decision had been made.
“I expect we’ve decided to give up our search for Billy Ray,” Rachael announced. “If you can lead us out of these mountains, we would like to go home.”
Clay nodded in reply. “I reckon we’ve lingered here long enough. We’d best get started.” He was glad to hear of their decision because he had planned to lead them out anyway, regardless of their wishes. In his mind, it was a damn-fool undertaking to begin with.
Clay watched as Lon saddled Rachael’s horse for her, mounted his own horse and grabbed the lead rope on his mule. Fed and watered, the horses made no protest as they started out along the stream. Clay held his pony back for a few moments to take one last long look behind them before catching up. Ahead of him, loping along comfortably, Lon rode, leading his pack mule. Following Lon, Rachael rode, her peculiar cramped style now a familiar sight to him. No wonder the woman is so damned tired every night, he thought, shaking his head. Most people would have learned how to sit a horse by now.
Clay urged his pony forward, pulling up beside Rachael. Without a word, he reached over and placed his hand squarely on her bottom. Her reaction was immediate. Startled, she slammed her bottom down hard in the saddle, her face a vivid mask of surprised indignation. Withdrawing the offending hand barely in time to save it from being crushed, he said, “There, that’s where your bottom is supposed to be, sittin’ in the saddle, not up in the breeze. It’s a wonder your legs don’t give out, riding all bent over that way.” Speechless, she watched helplessly as the big scout rode past Lon to take the lead.
Moving at a fast walk, the three riders had not ridden quite halfway the length of the valley when the first Lakota scout was sighted. Approximately a mile behind them, the warrior turned and signaled the war party not yet visible to the three white people. “Damn!” Lon exclaimed when, upon looking back to check on Rachael, he sported the scout.
“Keep moving,” Clay said as he pulled up and let them pass. He turned to face their back trail while he considered this new threat. “That’s twice I underestimated you,” he muttered to himself, for he was convinced it was the same short, stocky war chief who a few days back had divided his warriors and followed him up the mountain, instead of taking the more obvious trail of escape. “It ain’t the first time I’ve been outsmarted by an Injun,” he mumbled, and remained stationary there, waiting for the appearance of the rest of the war party. He didn’t have to wait long. There was little doubt in his mind, but he still wanted to make sure it was the same bunch. It was, for the solid form of the war chief was familiar to him now. He watched a moment longer as Red Bull signaled his warriors to press the pursuit. There was nothing left but to run for it. Clay wheeled his horse and went after Lon and Rachael.
As soon as he caught up, he hurriedly gave his instructions. “We’ve got to run for it. The odds are in our favor right now. Our horses are fresh, and they’ve got to have been pushing theirs pretty hard to catch up to us this quick. So ride like hell, and maybe we can clear this valley before they can close the gap.”
There was no necessity for further encouragement, for his companions were ready to run at the initial sighting of the forward scout. Clay let them get a head start before giving the paint his head, knowing the swift Indian pony would overtake the two horses in a flash. This fact was of concern to him now. It was true that their horses were fresher than those chasing them, and they should be able to maintain—even increase—the gap between them and the Sioux. But for how long? The bay that Lon rode, and the blue roan carrying Rachael were stout horses, but no match in the long run for the Indian ponies in terms of stamina. Grain fed and unaccustomed to long periods of surviving upon grass alone, they would founder long before the Indian ponies. It was going to be necessary to find a place to hide. With that thought in mind, he led Lon and Rachael
down the heart of the valley, racing along through a meadow of spring grass, already high enough to whip the horses’ fetlocks as they galloped.
Clay’s estimate of the Sioux ponies’ condition proved to be accurate, for they increased the distance between themselves and their pursuers for the first quarter mile. But Rachael’s horse proved to be short-winded, and soon began to show signs of tiring. Before covering another half mile, the winded animal started to drop behind, forcing Clay to hold his pony back to stay with Rachael. Lon’s pack mule was now making better time than the blue roan. Worse yet, Clay discovered upon looking back that the Sioux ponies were no longer losing ground. There was no question about who was going to win this race. The thought was emphasized by the sharp cracks of several rifles, as some of the warriors fired their weapons at the fleeing whites. The range was too great to worry Clay, but it would soon be shortened.
With time running out, Clay could not be picky about finding a hole to jump into. Already Rachael’s horse was threatening to falter, so he was quick to take the first likely avenue of escape from the valley. Following a gentle turn in the valley floor that temporarily hid them from Red Bull’s view, they galloped along at the base of a wide cliff. Near the center of the cliff, Clay discovered a rocky stream that flowed down the mountain into the broad creek they had been following. Pulling up before the confluence of the two waterways, Clay followed the course of the stream with his eyes as it led up through a notch carved between two huge boulders and disappeared into the pines above. His hesitation was but a moment. “This is about as good as any,” he commented dryly, and prodded his horse. Entering the stream, he held the paint to a slow walk in an effort to disturb the rocky stream bottom as little as possible. Lon and Rachael followed suit. If we’re lucky, he thought, that bunch will come by here so fast they won’t notice. The thought came without a great deal of confidence, however, since their luck had all seemed bad so far that day.
Following the stream up through the notch between the boulders, they discovered a flume that angled upward another thirty yards or so. After the recent gallop along the valley floor, the horses were blowing hard for breath, and the climb up the flume was fairly severe. Clay worried that Rachael’s horse might founder, but the weary animal somehow made it to the top, where they reached a ridge covered with ponderosa pines. Once they were safely out of sight from below, Clay dismounted and signaled the others to do the same. “We’ll let the horses blow for a minute while we wait to see if we gave ’em the slip.” It was in his mind that the top of the flume would be an ideal ambush site if their flight up the stream was detected.
Seated nervously on a bed of pine needles, Rachael glanced nervously over her shoulder at the tall trees. Thick and dark, the pines stood, silently reminding her that this was sacred Sioux territory, and she was not welcome here. Thoughts of vengeance for her late husband were overshadowed by a fear that she might perish in this cruel land. Even the sight of the tall scout, as he calmly unbuckled the girth strap and pulled the saddle off of her horse, did little to bolster her confidence. He seemed as much a part of the country as the savages who pursued them. She was obviously slowing them down. Would he abandon her to save his own skin? As soon as the thought entered her mind, she immediately dismissed it as unwarranted. She was just scared, she admitted, as frightened as she had ever been in her entire life.
Her mind filled with thoughts of her own salvation, she suddenly realized that Clay was only pulling the saddle off the blue roan. Her attention now focused on his actions, she watched as he walked over and began untying the packs on Lon’s mule. Standing nearby, Lon asked no questions, and made no protest as Clay dropped the packs to the ground. Without a word of explanation, he threw the saddle upon the mule’s back. After checking to make sure the saddle was secure, he turned to Lon and said, “You might wanna look through those packs and get whatever possibles you can carry in your saddlebags.” Turning back to the roan, he stroked the exhausted animal’s neck a few times, then gave it a slap on the rump. “Reckon you’re on your own now, boy,” he said as he watched the horse stumble a few paces away, then stand to stare at them.
Forgetting her fear for the moment, Rachael suddenly felt a wave of indignation. That was her horse—Will’s horse—that Clay had summarily discarded, without so much as a by-your-leave in her direction. She determined to at least inform him that she should be consulted before he arbitrarily discarded any further property of hers. Getting to her feet, she looked up at Clay, and asked, “What do you intend to do with my horse?”
With more pressing issues on his mind at that moment, he paused to look down into her upturned face. “Why, nothin’, ma’am. I reckon he can do what he wants now.”
“Why, we can’t just leave him. That was my husband’s horse. He loved that horse.”
Clay didn’t know what to say at first. He glanced briefly in Lon’s direction to see if possibly the deputy was equally as naive. Lon merely shook his head as if dismissing the lady’s inexperience. Being as gentle as he could take the time to be, Clay replied, “With all due respect to your late husband, ma’am, he wasn’t much at judging horseflesh. That horse is foundered. I expect, if you’re dead-set on keepin’ him, we’d best throw him on the mule with you.” Seeing the look of dismay in her eyes, he tried to reassure her. “He’ll be all right on his own. If we don’t cut him loose, we’ll run him to death.” She nodded, realizing how asinine her protests must have seemed in light of their desperate situation. The roan, seemingly grateful for his freedom, took a few weary steps away, then turned to stare at the three people. After a short pause, it ambled slowly down the slope, disappearing into the trees.
Cautioning Lon and Rachael to be ready to ride, Clay went back to the head of the flume on foot to await the arrival of the Sioux warriors. In a few minutes’ time, the war party thundered by below him, whipping their ponies hard, the short stocky war chief in the lead. To Clay’s relief, they galloped on past the tiny stream, and onward along the valley. He returned to his companions.
“Well, they didn’t notice that we took to the hills, so we’ve got a little while to catch our breath. But that fellow leadin’ the war party is pretty smart. It won’t be long before he figures out where we left the valley.” He glanced in Lon’s direction. “I expect we’d better hide these packs. Then you and Rachael can move up through the trees.”
“What do you aim to do?” Lon asked.
“I’m gonna stay back here for a while to see just how quick that Injun figures out we climbed up that stream. I might have to buy us a little time.” He stepped back in an effort to better see the slope above them. Scanning the trees for some landmark to use, he finally settled for a notch formed by an outcropping of rock about eight or nine hundred yards distant. “See if you can make your way up to those rocks. I’ll catch up with you there.” He hesitated a moment before adding, “Don’t wait too long, Lon. If I ain’t there inside an hour’s time, you’d best keep movin’. I’ll find you.”
Lon nodded his understanding of the situation, and stepped up into the saddle. He took his mule’s bridle and held it while Clay helped Rachael onto the mule’s back. “He’s been rode before,” Lon assured Rachael. “He won’t give you no trouble.”
“You are coming after us, aren’t you?” She couldn’t help but ask the question, for it was still in her mind that the tall mountain man might find it much easier to slip by the hostiles on his own.
“Yes, ma’am,” Clay replied. If he chaffed from the young lady’s implied suspicions, he didn’t let on. Turning again to Lon, he advised, “If you walk ’em slow and easy through the trees, you won’t leave much of a trail—as thick as that pine straw is.”
Lon nodded. Clay stood aside then, and watched the two start up through the pines. Rachael, evidently having forgotten her riding lesson, resumed her cramped posture, leaning forward in the saddle, all of her weight upon her knees. Clay shook his head at the sight. In a matter of minutes, they were out of his sight. He drew
his rifle from the saddle sling, and led his horse back to the head of the flume.
Making himself as comfortable as possible, he laid his rifle on a rock beside him, and fished around in the pocket of his doeskin shirt until he found a strip of dried antelope meat. Chewing thoughtfully, he looked around him at the silent mountainside. It was a peaceful place. Under different circumstances, a man could find this a comfortable spot to make camp. There was a generous flow of water from the stream that forced its way down through the forest before plunging down the rock floor of the flume. And at the bottom of the flume, on the valley floor, there was plenty of good grass for his horse. I might come back here one day.
His brief reverie was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of the blue roan at the bottom of the flume. “Damn that fool horse,” he muttered. “He’s gonna lead ’em right to us.”
Like a trained bird dog, Rachael’s horse stood at the base of the rocky flume, contentedly pawing the new spring grass. “Git!” Clay cried out softly. He picked up a stone and threw it at the horse, but the distance was beyond his range, and the stone fell some ten yards short. Even so, he tried several times more, only to watch the rocks splash harmlessly in the shallow water. “Damn!” Clay cursed the guileless animal as he crouched helplessly at the top of the flume, hoping the Sioux war party was too far past the stream to notice the horse standing like a signpost. Realizing there was nothing he could do about it at the moment, Clay watched the horse carefully for signs that would indicate the Sioux had spotted the grazing animal. “Shit,” he muttered as the roan suddenly raised his head, his ears flickering constantly, alerted by sounds that Clay couldn’t hear, but didn’t have to guess as to the origin. In a few more seconds, the horse snorted, his head and tail now up, alert for danger, and Clay knew he would soon have company. I should have shot that damn horse.
Bloody Hills Page 9