Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  Little Hawk nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving the white scout pinned beneath the horse. Then he said, “It’s him, Wanigi Ska, and I have counted first coup upon him.”

  “Wanigi Ska,” Running Horse echoed, somewhat in awe, and hurried forward to also count coup by touching this infamous legend while Clay was still alive. Clay tried to ward him off, but could not move freely enough to prevent him from touching his arm. Close behind Running Horse, the third member of the party darted in to also touch a flailing arm. Then all three warriors stood back to look at the white scout who had been made a legend among their tribe, knowing they were the first to see Wanigi Ska this close. Always before, it had only been at a distance, before he disappeared like a ghost into the mountains.

  Curious, and in no hurry to end Clay’s misery, Little Hawk cocked his head, looking at him from several angles. Finally, he gave voice to his thoughts. “How is it you are trapped beneath your horse? If you are a ghost, why can you not fade away from sight, as you have done in the past?”

  Having a general knowledge of the Lakota tongue—though it was not as good as his Shoshoni or Crow—Clay understood the question, but had no notion why they thought he was a ghost. If his translation was correct, they had called him White Ghost, a name that didn’t make sense to him. Thinking that he was going to be a ghost in a very short time, he answered Little Hawk’s question with no more than a patient smile. This served to prod Little Hawk’s curiosity even more.

  “If you are truly a spirit, then you will not die if I shoot you with my rifle.” He brought the weapon up, menacing.

  At that moment, Clay thought he had taken his final breath, but Little Hawk did not shoot. Instead, he watched Clay’s reaction, his two companions crowding closer to see for themselves. Thinking that Wanigi Ska would have already disappeared if, indeed, he were able, Little Hawk was now confident that Clay was helpless to defend himself. He expressed his thoughts to his companions. “His medicine is weak. He cannot make himself disappear.”

  “He doesn’t look like a ghost to me,” Running Horse commented. “I say we should go ahead and kill him, and take his head back to Red Bull.” He raised his rifle as if preparing to pull the trigger.

  “Wait,” Little Hawk insisted. “He has killed many of our warriors. I think he should die slowly for the misery he has brought to so many tipis.”

  “Little Hawk is right,” the third warrior said, drawing his knife.

  Listening to the three warriors discussing his fate, Clay continued to stare boldly at them, the only means left to him to show his defiance. He decided that there was one chance he might make it costly for them to kill him, although the odds were against his prevailing over all three. He spoke then. “I have listened to the three of you chatter among yourselves like women picking berries.”

  All three warriors cocked their heads in surprise when he spoke. Little Hawk, pointed his rifle directly at Clay’s forehead. Following his example, his two companions leveled their weapons as well.

  With three rifles pointed at his head, Clay forced himself to remain calm, showing no expression of fear. It was his thinking that he was mere moments away from death, anyway. If his bluff failed, a quick execution by gunfire would be preferable to the slow death they had discussed. “Go ahead and shoot,” he said boldly, “for that will release my spirit again.” When he saw the confusion his words had created among them, he continued his attempt to bluff. “You are right,” he said, looking directly at Little Hawk, for he seemed to be the dominant of the three. “I am Wanigi Ska. The reason you have been able to catch me is because my medicine is kept in my left moccasin, and it is trapped beneath this horse.”

  His statement caused the three Lakota warriors to hesitate in their eagerness to kill him. They exchanged quizzical glances as they considered his words. Little Hawk, however, was not without skepticism. “How do we know this is true?”

  “My medicine is a living thing. It needs air to breathe. It cannot breathe trapped under this horse.” Seeing that he had created enough confusion to make them uncertain, Clay figured his best chance to at least take one of them with him to the spirit world was to build on the myth. “You must shoot me to free my medicine. The only way for any man to capture my medicine is to fight me, man to man, and win it fairly with his knife.” Seeing that his words caused further indecision, he continued to embellish the tale. “I see none among you who is strong enough to fight me.”

  All three recoiled in haughty indignation, as he expected. And as Clay could have guessed, the first of the three to rise to his challenge was Little Hawk, obviously the strongest. “I am not afraid to fight you,” Little Hawk said. Already thoughts of the honor he would gain as the warrior who slew Wanigi Ska filled his head.

  It was the response Clay hoped for. “If you really are not afraid, then take a rope and tie it to your pony, and pull my horse off of me. Then we will fight.”

  Little Hawk gave the challenge considerable thought. Looking at his brother warriors, he found no help there, only indecision in their faces. The temptation was great, indeed, for there was much glory at stake. Still there were doubts. “If I pull your pony off of your leg, then your medicine will be free, and you will vanish—just as you have before.”

  “If a man challenges me face-to-face, then I am bound to fight him. I am Wanigi Ska. I cannot lie,” Clay responded, doing his best to sound prophetic.

  The three warriors withdrew a few paces to discuss the proposition. It was clear to them that there was much at stake here. Little Hawk, having counted first coup on the legend, claimed the right to challenge Clay first. Recognized as one of the strongest warriors in his village, he heard no objections from the other two. “I am confident in my strength to kill him,” he said. “But if I fail, shoot him before he has a chance to fly away.” His friends nodded their agreement. Returning to stand defiantly before Clay, he said, “I, Little Hawk, will fight you.”

  While Little Hawk prepared himself for mortal combat, ridding himself of any items that might prove cumbersome—his deerskin shirt, his rifle and gun belt—one of the other two uncoiled a rawhide rope, looping one end around the dead pony’s neck. The third warrior stood, holding Little Hawk’s weapon and clothing in one hand, while watching Clay closely, his own rifle in the other hand.

  After Running Horse had looped the free end of his rope around his pony’s neck, letting it slide down to the animal’s withers, he led it away until the rope was taut. The pony hesitated when he felt the weight of the dead horse, but accepted the load at the urging of its master.

  Unsure of what condition his trapped leg was in, Clay readied himself for quick action, with no choice but to hope the leg didn’t collapse when he put his weight on it. Shifting his gaze quickly back and forth, he noted carefully the actions of the warrior leading the horse as well as the one watching him with the two rifles. As for Little Hawk, standing ready now, stripped to the waist, his knife poised, Clay was concerned with him least of all. The other two had guns.

  Running Horse’s pony proved to be more than up to the task, pulling Clay’s paint off him with few signs of strain. The instant Clay felt the weight of the carcass off his leg, he reached for his rifle, knowing it was now free as well. The front sight snagged briefly in the crumpled sling, but then freed itself as Clay wrenched it clear. Cocking the Winchester while turning, he whirled around and cut down the startled warrior who was caught trying to drop the extra weapon he held in order to raise his rifle. In the briefest fraction of a second, Clay turned, cranked the lever ejecting the spent cartridge, and started to scramble to his feet. One step and he fell to his knee, the injured leg failing him. He heard the snap of Running Horse’s bullet as it passed directly over his head at almost the same time the Indian fired. With no time to think, he took quick aim and fired. Not waiting to evaluate his shot, for he knew he couldn’t miss at that distance, he turned his attention to the one warrior left.

  Stunned by the sudden eruption of the man trapped ben
eath the horse, Little Hawk stood paralyzed for a mere second. But in that brief span, he was shocked to see his two companions slain before his eyes, while he stood with only a knife in his hand. Then, immediately overcome with anger at having been deceived so blatantly by this cunning spirit, he roared out his fury and charged. With danger from no other quarter now, Clay took his time to aim before sending a bullet through the Sioux warrior’s brain. The momentum of the charging warrior carried his lifeless body to within a few feet of Clay before he crumpled to the ground.

  Clay remained there a few moments, his muscles taut, the blood racing through his veins, his body not yet released from the high state of tension brought about by the mortal combat. In a short while, his pulse slowed, and he calmly looked around him at the carnage that had taken place. There was no movement in any of the three bodies, so he sat there and tested his injured leg. It had failed him, but he was certain that it had also saved his life, for Running Horse’s bullet would have surely finished him, had Clay not collapsed upon his knee. Much to his relief, the leg was not broken, merely numb due to the lack of blood flow while it had been restricted. After he rose to his feet and walked about, it appeared to return to normal.

  There was no time to lose now. The altercation was most likely heard by the rest of the Sioux war party, and he could only guess how far back they might be. If his luck held, they would still be trying to pick up his trail on the other side of the flume. The ambush had left him on foot, so his first priority at this point was to capture one of the Indian ponies. The choice was a simple one. He wouldn’t have to chase after the gray pony, since it was still tied to the paint’s carcass. He would have chosen that one anyway after seeing the strength with which the horse easily handled the task.

  I hope you’re as fast as you are strong, he thought, as he slowly approached the pony. “Easy, boy,” he said softly. Ears pricked, the gray snorted cautiously as it eyed the approaching white man, but it made no attempt to withdraw. Clay took hold of the rope with one hand, while slowly reaching out with the other. The gray took a cautious step to the side, but then allowed the hand to stroke its neck. In a few seconds’ time, man and horse accepted each other, but Clay decided it safest to leave the rope tying the two horses together until he swapped saddles.

  Wasting as little time as possible, while still trying to move slowly enough to give the pony the opportunity to smell the unfamiliar tack, Clay replaced the Indian bridle with his. The gray was confused by the bit, and briefly balked before finally accepting it. “Easy, boy. You’re gonna be fine. It ain’t a hard bit. You’ll get used to it.” He stroked the pony’s neck for a few more moments before attempting to remove his saddle from the paint. It was not an easy task. After releasing the girth, he still could not pull the strap from beneath the weight of the carcass. He removed the hitch and stirrup, hoping the strap would then slide out easily. It didn’t, so he wasted no more time with it, took the rope from the paint’s neck, tied it to the saddle horn and let the Indian pony pull the saddle free.

  Having removed the Indian saddle, he was about to throw his own saddle on the gray’s back when he suddenly paused to listen. Gunshots, two in succession, but they did not come from the direction of the pursuing Lakota war party, and from the sound, they were some distance away. Still listening, he stood there for a few moments, but there were no more shots. They had sounded like pistol shots. He would have suspected they had come from Lon if they had come from higher up the slope above him. But the shots seemed to have drifted up from the valley on the far side of the mountain.

  After a few more moments, and no further shots, he returned to the task of saddling his new horse. He would keep in mind that there was now another presence in the valley to watch for. With that thought, he threw his saddle upon the gray’s back, and was reaching under its belly for the girth when the horse promptly bucked the saddle off. “I thought we had an understanding,” Clay said, patiently as he moved around the horse to retrieve his saddle. Once again, he took hold of the pony’s mane and pulled its head down so that the horse’s nostrils rubbed against his shirt. After the gray had ample opportunity to smell him, he held the saddle up to its nose. “Now, dammit, I’m your new partner. We ain’t got time for no more foolishness.” The gray seemed to understand, and this time stood without protesting while Clay tightened the girth.

  With his horse saddled and the reins loosely tied to a tree limb, Clay went about a quick inspection of the three bodies to see what, if anything, he could use. Ammunition was always welcome, so he took Little Hawk’s bullet belt from the ground where the other warrior had dropped it. Under the circumstances, he was not willing to take the time to chase the other two ponies that were now standing watching him farther down the slope. The dead Indian at his feet carried his ammunition in a hide pouch. Clay took that as well. He briefly examined the two rifles before taking them, along with Running Horse’s weapon, and throwing them as far as he could into the pines. He didn’t want to load his new horse down with plunder. Seeing nothing more of value, he walked over to stand beside Little Hawk’s body. “I reckon you probably think I owe you an apology for trickin’ you. But, hell, you’re a pretty strong-lookin’ man. You mighta whupped my ass. Besides, your partners were gonna shoot me if I whupped you. It mighta been different if it’d been just the two of us. We mighta had a go at it then.” He went back to the tree where the gray was tied, and climbed up in the saddle. The gray sidestepped for a few yards in mild protest of the unaccustomed weight, then settled down. Before turning to lope away, Clay took one last look at Running Horse and said, “You killed a damn good horse—I hope yours can measure up to him.”

  Chapter 10

  It was nearly nightfall by the time Clay made his way up to the rocky outcropping where Lon and Rachael were supposed to be waiting for him. Calling out softly, he approached cautiously, lest Lon mistake him for an Indian. There was no sound from the massive rock formation, no response to his call, not even an inquisitive nicker from a horse. They were gone. They had decided not to wait longer for him. The two pistol shots he had heard earlier came to mind then. At the time, he had not thought to connect them to Lon and Rachael. Now they concerned him. Nothing I can do about it now, he thought, sighing. It’s too damn dark to start out down this mountain. In about fifteen minutes, it’s going to be pitch-black. He decided he’d better use what faint light remained to settle himself and his Indian pony in for the night.

  * * *

  Gradually the complete darkness began to melt, and in the gray light of dawn objects began to take shape. The low clouds that had blanketed the mountaintops and hidden the stars during the night were already moving, thanks to a fresh wind. Clay speculated that it would be a clear day when the sun rose high enough to rid the low valleys of the remaining clouds.

  Wasting no time to start a fire, he breakfasted on some pemmican he had found in Running Horse’s parfleche. It had a distinct taste that he associated with elk meat, but flavored with some herb he could not identify. It’s good, though, he thought, as he chewed the tough sustenance, probably his widow’s secret recipe. As soon as the rocks and trees took form, at least enough to permit him to distinguish between holes in the ground and shadows, he saddled his new partner, and led the pony down the mountain. The gray made no protest when saddled, even though there had been no breakfast available up among the rocks. “Don’t worry. I’ll let you graze as soon as we find some grass,” Clay promised.

  It wasn’t long, less than half an hour, before he came to a small stream that provided water for both man and horse, as well as some leafy tufts for the gray’s breakfast. As Clay watched the pony graze, a shaft of sunlight probed the narrow valley, dancing off the pine needles and lighting the mountainside with a brilliant announcement that the hills were open for business. Up to that point, Clay had taken the only available path down from the rocks above. Now, with light to see, he began to look for signs that would point out Lon and Rachael’s trail. As soon as he decided the pony
had grazed enough, he followed the stream up for a reasonable distance, looking for the point where his two companions had crossed. Finding nothing, he turned back and searched downstream. Within a dozen yards of where he had first stopped to graze his horse, he found what he was looking for. Two horses had crossed—a horse and a mule, he corrected himself. He stood up to look from the hoofprints in the soft dirt of the stream following the direction they indicated. It wasn’t going to be difficult to follow their trail. It was the easiest path down to the winding valley below and, judging by the many deer prints mixed in with random elk tracks, evidently a commonly used game trail. Turning to face his back trail, he took a long careful look at the steep mountainside behind him. There was no sign of the Lakota war party. Satisfied that he had lost them, Clay climbed aboard the gray and started down to the valley.

  The sound of rushing water caught his ear when he was within a few hundred feet of the narrow valley. A few minutes later, he emerged from the trees to discover a waterfall off to his left. Pulling the gray to a stop at the edge of the trees, he paused to take a look around before riding out into the open. It was an ideal campsite, but he saw no sign of Lon or Rachael. At the other side of the clearing he saw the mule Rachael had ridden, but there was no sign of Lon’s horse. After a moment, he realized the mule was wandering free, without hobbles. Something was wrong.

  Taking his time now, he looked from the pool at the base of the waterfall, down along the line of the stream, following its course until it disappeared from his view into a stand of willow and berry bushes. His concentration was distracted for a moment by something overhead, and he looked up to see a pair of buzzards circling above the tiny valley. He nudged the pony with his heels, and moved at a slow walk toward the willows, his eyes constantly watching for the first sign of danger.

  “Well, damn,” he swore softly, as he looked down at the body. He knew it was Lon without having to dismount to get a closer look. After taking another long survey around him, he threw a leg over and stepped down from the saddle. As he did, he glanced up to notice that the buzzards were now joined by a third. Soon there would be a flock assembled to partake of the grisly banquet. “I reckon I can at least save you from being the guest of honor,” Clay muttered as he knelt down next to Lon’s body.