Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  “I was wonderin’ if you was ever gonna find a spot that suited you.” Billy Ray turned in the saddle to take a look at the woman on the horse behind him. “Me and Rachael was gittin’ anxious to make camp. Wasn’t we, honey?”

  With eyes downcast and puffy from crying, she did not respond. Unable to rid her mind of the brutal slaying of Lon, she had ridden in a trance, her thoughts swimming uncontrollably in her brain. Terrified by what she knew awaited her, she had tried unsuccessfully to summon the strength of will that might sustain her during the next hours. Even in her frightened state, however, as she slumped in the saddle, too weary to fight the horse’s motion, a fleeting thought of irony passed through her jumbled mind. Too weak with fear to strain forward in the stirrups, she was at last settled in the saddle like Clay Culver had advised. Thoughts of the somber mountain man, started her tears anew. She and Lon should have waited by that rocky cliff high on the mountainside. But Lon had feared that Clay had run into trouble and was not coming. She couldn’t blame poor Lon for thinking so. He was only thinking of her safety. Where was Clay now? Dead? Searching for Lon and her? Her common sense warned her that, even if he were still alive, it was unlikely he could follow the trail Henry had taken. Brace yourself, she tried to counsel. This isn’t real. Have faith in the Lord, and He will see you through. The words seemed shallow and without value. She was not sure at all that she could survive the ordeal that awaited her. She had called upon the Lord too seldom in the past to believe that He would hear her desperate pleas at this point. There were thoughts of resisting, but realistically she knew that she was helpless to resist the strength of two men. Lost in her despair, she was not even aware they had stopped until Billy Ray was suddenly standing by her stirrup.

  “Come on, darlin’,” he cooed as he untied the rope from the saddle horn. When she made no attempt to dismount, he reached up and grabbed her around the waist, pulling her forcefully from the horse’s back. The force of his exertion caused him to stagger backward with the weight of her body, and before he could regain his balance, they both landed on the ground, Rachael on top of him. Thinking the mishap humorous, Billy Ray laughed delightedly, rolling on top of her. With a natural instinct to fight him, Rachael struggled to push his body off her, succeeding in freeing herself briefly. Still laughing, Billy Ray rolled over on her again, pawing and grasping as he did.

  Still seated in the saddle, Henry watched the childish attempts by Billy Ray to subdue Rachael, as man and woman rolled frantically around on the ground. Like a damn dog in heat, he thought, shaking his head in disgust. If the woman ain’t willin’, just knock her in the head, and have your way with her. Sighing impatiently, he threw a leg over and stepped down from the saddle. He stood by while the two wrestled furiously—Billy Ray trying to clamp his mouth on hers, Rachael resisting with all the strength she could muster—until the woman was exhausted. Unable to resist any longer, she lay still, her lips pressed tightly together, while the lustful outlaw slobbered over her, groping her body furiously. When he finally released her mouth to take a breath, she defiantly spit his foul saliva back in his face, causing Henry to chuckle. Billy Ray slapped her soundly for her defiance.

  “You got a-ways to go before you tame that one for a gentle ride,” Henry observed, and proceeded to start making camp. He left Billy Ray to the crude abuse of his captive, while he pulled the saddle off his horse, and hobbled the animal to graze in the short grass. Scratching around in the wild plum bushes, he scavenged enough dead branches to start a small fire. When he had a healthy flame going, he glanced back at the struggle taking place behind him. By this time, Billy Ray had his pants down around his knees, and was straining to pull Rachael’s down. In his insane eagerness, he had failed to foresee the obvious problem of trying to remove her trousers without first pulling off her boots. Crazed by the sight of her exposed thighs, he attempted to take the woman anyway, only to find it impossible to spread her legs with her trousers bunched around her knees. Suddenly, in the midst of the tussle, Billy Ray’s youthful inexperience betrayed him. Frantic, he lunged in a frenzied attempt to complete his intent, only to be held at bay by Rachael’s renewed strength to resist him—and the restricting bonds of the trousers around her knees. So close to his first conquest, he could hold himself no longer. His immediate sensation was anger, then humiliation at having failed to complete the violation of his captive.

  The sudden cessation of the carnal struggle caught Henry’s attention once again. Not overexcited about watching Billy Ray’s lustful assault, Henry had become bored with the exhibition, and turned his attention toward the fire and something to eat. Now curious, he paused, frying pan in hand, to see for himself why the sudden silence. His first thought was that his wild young partner had killed the lady, but after a simple glance, he knew what had happened. A wry grin spread slowly across his face. He couldn’t resist adding to Billy Ray’s humiliation. “What’s the matter there, Romeo? Your little train run outta coal before it got to the station?”

  Caught trying to hide his embarrassment, Billy Ray jerked his head around to cast a threatening leer at his partner. “Damn you, old man. One of these days you’re gonna open your mouth one time too often.” He backed away from Rachael then, doing his best to cover his shame. “I was just playin’ with her a little. I’ll settle with her when I’m ready. Right now I’m too hungry to fool with the bitch.”

  Rachael rolled over on her side, completely drained of energy, her mind numb and confused, her arms and legs aching from the desperate struggle. She prayed that God would end her torment. She had been spared the total violation of her mind and body, but she knew that the next assault upon her would soon come. She would not be so lucky next time. Too exhausted to think about making an attempt to run, she lay there in stunned despair, like a wounded animal awaiting the butcher.

  The first round in Billy Ray’s conquest evidently ended, Henry judged the contest a draw, maybe even granting the lady the edge. The entire episode was, in Henry’s mind, comically pathetic. While his partner’s brutal treatment of the woman did not surprise him, Henry was not without some compassion for her. It was his feeling that, if a woman is so dead set against it, a good knock on the head would put her mind to rest, and a man could go about his business without all that struggling. When she woke up, she would be none the worse for it, save maybe a fierce headache. That approach had always worked for him in the few encounters that had not been mutually agreeable. The thought caused him to recall a comely little Cheyenne maiden, quite a few years back. I wish she’d been willin’. I’da probably married her. He shook his head and sighed. That was a long time ago, but he still kept fond memories of her. With dark brooding eyes, and hair black as night, she was a pretty thing. It saddened him to recall that it had been necessary to kill her to keep her from running away and bringing a band of Cheyenne down on him and Ned. I always was too damned sentimental, he thought, and promptly returned his attention to the bacon frying in the pan.

  Billy Ray was downright surly for the balance of the evening, responding in one-word replies, offering no conversation of his own. Finding the woman at fault for his embarrassing failure, he brooded over his supper. Rachael would not have had food at all if Henry had not walked over to where she lay tied to a tree, and offered her a piece of the bacon. She sat up to take the food, although she would not lift her eyes to look at him. It’s gonna be a whole lot worse for you, honey, before Billy Ray’s through with you, he thought. He studied the woman’s features for a long moment, taking notice of her full hips and slender waist. It was a shame to waste such a fine-looking woman on the likes of Billy Ray. Me and you might have a go at it before it’s over. He returned to the fire to meet Billy Ray’s suspicious gaze.

  There were many times during the long night when Rachael prayed earnestly for death to rescue her. The unavoidable assault upon her body was repeated several times before Billy Ray had spent his youthful lust, and lay back to fall into a sleep of total exhaustion. After a point, she had b
een so brutally battered that she could no longer fight to prevent his unrelenting attack. She tried desperately not to think about the brutal violation of her body—a body that only her late husband had known. Her mind at times voluntarily deserted her body, which lay limp and unresisting, and sought sanction apart from reality, only to return to the nightmare that was real. Unable to sleep, although weariness had numbed her to the bone, she lay, tied to the tree again as morning’s first light filtered into the tiny valley. Soon another day would be dawning. How, she wondered, could it be worse than the one just passed?

  Chapter 9

  Clay stood, silently watching the Sioux war party racing along the foot of the cliff, hoping to cut off his escape to the north. So far, so good, he thought. Another hundred yards or so, and they would be past the face of the cliff, where the slope would allow them to climb up to where he was. Only I ain’t gonna be here, he thought as he took the reins and turned the paint’s head south again, in the direction taken by Lon and Rachael. Leading his horse slowly back through the trees, in an attempt to disturb the thick layer of pine needles as little as possible, he figured he had bought himself a good bit of time before the cunning war chief realized that he had doubled back on them. He had no doubt that Red Bull would find his trail eventually.

  When he came to the mouth of the flume again, he felt it safe to climb into the saddle. Glancing down the narrow passage, he saw that the Indian pony was still wedged against the rock walls. It would likely remain there until the buzzards found it. Urging his pony into the water, he crossed the stream and headed toward the rock outcropping farther up the mountain. Moving as rapidly as possible along the top of the cliff, he intended to catch up with Lon and Rachael well within the hour he had set as a limit to their waiting.

  Making good time, in spite of the steepness of the trail he followed, Clay let the paint set its own pace. As he rode, he constantly searched the ledge for signs that might have been left by Lon and Rachael. There were few, but occasionally he spied a partial hoofprint or some disturbed pebbles, which told of their recent passage. Satisfied that they had gone to the rocks he had pointed out to them from below, he felt confident that the war party was far behind, and looking for them in the wrong direction. A moment later, the silence was shattered by rifle shots.

  Caught by surprise, Clay immediately ducked low on his pony’s neck, trying to determine where the shots came from. They could have only come from the ridge below him, and from a fair distance. Two more shots rang out and he heard the whine of a bullet as it snapped within a few feet of his shoulder. At almost the same time, the paint stumbled, dropping to its knees. Before Clay had time to react, the horse tumbled over on its side, pinning Clay’s leg beneath, and jamming his rifle sling so that the weapon was trapped as well. Thinking the horse had stumbled on the uneven trail, he tried to urge the fallen animal to regain its feet, only then discovering the blood flowing from a wound in its chest.

  “Damn!” he uttered in dismay. “Come on, boy, you can get up,” he pleaded. But the paint was already beyond the point of responding, its last breath shuddering through its punctured lung. A few moments later, the horse lay still, its dead weight settling heavily around Clay’s left leg. Trapped, he reached for the pistol he always carried stuck in his belt, only to discover it was gone. “What the hell?” he muttered, looking around him frantically. How could he have lost it? The fall didn’t seem that violent, but evidently it had been enough to dislodge the weapon, for there it was, just out of his reach on the ground. His situation drastically more serious now, he planted his free foot on the saddle and strained as hard as he could to pull the captured foot out. He was unable to move it. After several more tries, he gave up, panting from the effort, and turned his attention to the rifle butt protruding from under the horse. The rifle barrel being smaller than his leg, he was able to move it back and forth, but it was obviously tangled by the sling, for he had no better luck than with his leg.

  With no other weapon available to him, he drew his knife, and settled himself to await his fate. “It’s my own damn fault,” he mumbled. “Serves me right.” He had underestimated the stocky war chief again. He should have expected the Lakota to send part of his war party back along the foot of the cliff to move up the mountain on the other side—just in case the white man decided to backtrack.

  He felt like a fool, sitting there waiting for some Lakota warrior to come kill him. He had faced death many times. Every man’s time comes, he had always accepted that, and it seemed certain that this time the dark piper was summoning him. He didn’t like the idea, but he wasn’t particularly afraid of it. He would have preferred to go under in a more dignified way, however, instead of waiting there like a beaver in a trap.

  There had been no more shots after he and his horse went down. Nothing stirred but the restless needles of the dark pines as a gentle breeze wandered across the mountainside. Clay looked hard at the trees below him, shifting his gaze from rock to rock, in an effort to see his adversaries. The only motion was that of a hawk, circling high overhead, attracted by the gunfire, and curious to see what had caused it. They’re down there, he thought. They aren’t sure whether they hit me or not, and they aren’t taking any chances. Confident that was the reason the warriors had not come charging up the slope to take his scalp, he decided to play dead, and lay back upon the ground. Already accepting the fact that this was the day he was going to solve the great mystery, he was still not inclined to go under without a fight. If the Sioux warriors thought he was dead, he might get a chance to take one of them with him when they tried to take his scalp. With that thought in mind, he slid his knife under his behind where it wouldn’t be seen. He waited.

  His gaze slowly tracking across the forest below him, stopping briefly on the large boulders some one hundred yards down the slope to his left and on the crest of the ridge farther up on his right. He searched for some hint of movement. There was nothing. While he watched, random thoughts drifted into his conscious mind. Katie Mashburn. He tried to bring her face into focus. He remembered her face and how it looked when he last saw her. As usual, he had been leaving again. As he recalled it now, her expression was one of impatience, and possibly disappointment, as she bid him farewell once more, and watched him ride away. I should have married that woman. At least, I should have let her know I had strong feelings for her. Then he thought of Rachael, who reminded him so much of Katie. He immediately felt regret that he was not going to make it to the rocky outcropping as he had promised. Lon’s a good man. He ought to be able to see her safely out of these mountains.

  Suddenly his gaze stopped, focusing upon a large tree trunk near the boulders. His eye had caught a slight movement, and he now focused upon the tree. In a moment, it was verified. He could see the distinct outline of a single feather emerging slowly from behind the tree. In the next moment, a face appeared, cautiously inching out from the protection of the trunk. With only the face showing, the warrior remained there for a long moment, watching the fallen horse. If I could get my rifle out, Clay thought, that’s a target I couldn’t miss. The thought was evidently shared by the Lakota warrior behind the tree, for he was not willing to risk testing the white scout’s marksmanship. The face disappeared again. A second movement out of the corner of Clay’s eye caught his attention then, and he quickly shifted his gaze in time to catch a glimpse of a warrior as he darted from one point of cover behind a dead log to a tree trunk farther up the ridge.

  Well, they’re getting ready to move in, Clay thought, still uncertain how many warriors he might be facing, and knowing it would take only one with a rifle if they knew he was helpless to defend himself. Had he been aware of the legend he had become among Red Bull’s people, he would have understood the extreme caution being taken. In the next moment, the silence was shattered again by the sudden crack of a rifle and the sound of two slugs ripping into the flesh of the paint. The shots came from the warrior near the boulders. All was quiet again, and Clay figured they would come
now, since they had received no return fire. He was right. The warrior he had first caught sight of stepped out from behind his cover, completely exposing his body. When there was no fire from the white man, the second warrior appeared, standing in the open. Certain now that the white ghost was dead, they conferred briefly, then disappeared into the forest. Moments later, they reappeared, leading their ponies, talking excitedly as they hurried up to him.

  Bracing himself, Clay reached underneath his leg and gripped his knife. So intent was he upon the two warriors approaching him, that he had not been aware of a third hostile who had worked his way up the ridge above him until he was right behind him. Reacting instinctively, Clay twisted around immediately, his knife threatening. Caught by surprise, the Lakota warrior jumped back to avoid the knife, like a man avoiding a rattlesnake, almost stumbling over his own feet in the process.

  Recovering quickly, the Sioux warrior leveled his rifle at Clay, but stopped short of pulling the trigger when he realized in that instant that Clay was weaponless except for the knife. He stepped back to take a longer look at the situation, signaling for his companions to come forward. Having paused when they had seen their friend recoil from the white man, they now hurried forward to join him. The Lakota warrior walked around the dead horse so that he could face the trapped man. Helpless to do anything but glare defiantly at his adversary, Clay met the hostile’s gaze with a steady eye.

  “Is he dead?” One of the two approaching called out.

  “No,” Little Hawk replied, a smile forming slowly upon his lips. “He is not dead, but he may as well be.” Then moving quickly, he reached out and touched Clay’s free leg with the barrel of his rifle. Clay responded with a kick at the offending weapon, knowing the Indian was counting coup upon him.

  “Is it him?” Running Horse asked, leading his pony up to them.