Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  The scene wasn’t difficult to create in his mind. They had been jumped, taken by surprise, but not by hostile Sioux. This didn’t look like the work of Indians. Poor Lon had been stabbed countless times, and from the trail of blood left on the grass blades, it appeared he had crawled—or been dragged—several yards before he died. He had been scalped, but it was such a ragged job that Clay was willing to bet it had been done by a white man—most likely trying to make the murder look like it was done by Indians. Clay had seen more than a few remains left by an Indian massacre, with bodies stripped of their clothes and grotesquely mutilated to hinder their spirits in the next world. Convinced that this shameful business had been done by white men, he proceeded to scout the campsite to try to determine how many white men he faced.

  He took a few paces back to the remains of a fire, his eyes searching. The grass was already growing, and the impressions of Lon’s and Rachael’s blankets could still be detected to the trained eye. Glancing toward the stream, Clay could see where the new grass had been grazed, telling him the horse and the mule had been tethered there. Then a flicker in the grass caught his eye as something reflected the rays of the sun. He knelt down to discover two cartridge casings. The two shots, he thought, and went back to take another look at Lon’s body. He had missed them at first, but when he pulled the corpse over on its side, he found two bullet holes in Lon’s stomach.

  After a thorough search of the camp, he decided that there had been no more than two men, judging by the tracks that were evident. If he had to guess, he would say they pretended to approach the camp peacefully before committing their deceitful business. Why else would Lon let them get close enough to gun him down with a pistol? For a moment now, Clay allowed a brief thought of Rachael. He had purposefully avoided thinking about her plight because he could pretty well guess what the circumstances were. And there was nothing he could do to help her at this point. The only promise he could make was that he would hunt her abductors down, if it took the rest of his life. There was nothing left to do here but bury Lon. He glanced up again to note there were several more buzzards seeking to join in the party. “Not today, boys,” Clay murmured.

  * * *

  It was late afternoon when he found the second camp. Searching the deserted campsite, he was able to confirm his original speculation that he trailed no more than two men. There were five horses, possibly three and maybe a couple of pack animals. One of the men was riding an Indian pony. The others were shod. With his eyes, Clay followed the direction the tracks led from the camp. Glancing at the sun, now skimming the mountaintops to the west, he thought, They’re heading north. There were a lot of rugged mountains between the spot he stood upon and the gentler country directly north. He looked up at the sun again. I best get moving—use what daylight I’ve got left.

  Following the tracks that provided an obvious trail, he rode along at a comfortable lope for as long as the ground was relatively level. As the valley narrowed, he glanced only occasionally at the tracks, for there was only one reasonable path to follow. The valley continued to narrow until it ended at the base of a high ridge that joined two mountains. At this point, he dismounted and walked a few yards, examining the tracks to be sure of the trail up the ridge.

  He prepared to step up into the saddle again when a movement in the trees caught his eye. Thinking it might be a deer or an elk, he paused to take a longer look at the spot. In a few seconds, the animal moved again, partially exposing its head and shoulders. It was a mule. Curious, Clay rode over to approach it.

  With no sense of alarm, the mule stood watching, fully as curious as the man approaching. Clay stepped down and took the mule by the bridle. It figured to be one of the mules he had been following. Wondering why a good pack animal had been discarded, Clay examined the mule to find it was missing a shoe. He led the animal for a few yards, watching it walk. Already got a sore foot, he thought, because the mule was obviously favoring it. “Well, I don’t have any tools to shoe a horse, so I reckon you’ll just have to limp till your foot toughens up.” He removed the bridle and gave the mule a slap on the rump. Instead of bolting, the mule took a few leisurely steps away, and turned to look at the man. Clay was afraid the mule was now going to tag along after him, but the jaded animal made no move to follow as the man rode off up the ridge.

  * * *

  Rachael slumped dejectedly in the saddle as her horse—Lon’s bay—followed along behind Billy Ray. Her mind tormented, her body weary, she was too exhausted to fight the horse’s natural motion, letting her hips flow with the bay’s gait. It was a harsh irony that she at last rode with the horse, as Clay had instructed, instead of fighting it. She was too drained to even be aware of it. Her mind registered one foreboding thought, however. The sun was getting low. They would be stopping to make camp soon, and her nightmare would resume. As long as they traveled, she was free from Billy Ray’s constant pawing and abuse. Repulsed to the point of suicidal thoughts when first captured, she was now reduced to detached submission, regarding her body as a dead thing, no longer attached to her mind. Not even sure if Clay was alive or dead, she had abandoned any hope of rescue. The vile old man in the raccoon cap had led his little party through countless narrow passes and over heavily forested ridges. Rachael could not imagine that anyone, even Clay Culver, would ever be able to find them.

  “Yonder’s a likely spot to camp,” Billy Ray volunteered, as they descended a ridge into another of the many draws with rivulets trickling down from the mountaintops.

  Henry answered with a grunt, then said, “There’s plenty of daylight left yet.” He knew the only thing on Billy Ray’s mind was to get at the woman again. “I got a spot picked out to camp. Tain’t much further.” He glanced back at his disgruntled young partner. “I wanna git the hell outta Red Bull’s backyard. Besides, I got a hankerin’ for some fresh meat, and where we’re goin’, they’s plenty.”

  “I got a hankerin’, too,” Billy Ray grumbled under his breath, and shot another glance back at Rachael. And I’m getting damn tired of you calling all the shots. He was still peeved at the old man for stopping him from shooting the mule when it had thrown a shoe.

  Henry chuckled under his breath, knowing that his hotheaded young partner was irritated at having to follow his lead. He was certain that Billy Ray regretted teaming up with him, probably as much as Henry realized his mistake in taking on the young fool. There was going to be a parting of the ways in the not too distant future, but Henry preferred to postpone it until they were clear of the Black Hills and the threat of running into Red Bull’s warriors. Billy Ray was a gun without a brain, but he was a gun. In the meantime, Henry planned to discourage any thoughts Billy Ray might be entertaining to end their partnership before he was ready. To that end, Henry purposefully led them in a roundabout maze of game trails, keeping Billy Ray totally lost for much of the time, and dependent upon Henry’s knowledge of the mountains.

  I swear this draw looks like one we crossed this morning, Billy Ray thought. If he wasn’t so damn cocksure about it, I’d think the old man was lost. He looked up at the sun, now almost riding along the western rim of the ridge, and thought, Now we’re heading due west. I know damn well we were going north about an hour ago. His speculations were interrupted by Henry’s announcement.

  “There’s a dandy place to make camp on the far side of that ridge. I’ve camped there many a time—good water and grass for the horses.”

  His suspicions were set aside with the prospect of making camp, and Billy Ray turned his thoughts toward the woman again and the evening ahead. Rachael, her eyes downcast, failed to see the lecherous grin he favored her with. “Don’t look so sad, Mrs. Andrews,” Billy Ray mocked. “It’ll soon be bedtime. You’ll get plenty of what you need.” He laughed at her lack of response.

  As soon as the horses were taken care of, Henry went about the business of building a fire. “We’re far enough away from Red Bull now. I’m thinkin’ ’bout lookin’ for some fresh meat in the mornin’. I�
�m gittin’ sick of salt pork, and that’s a fact.” He fanned the small flame until it grew strong enough to take a bite of the dried plum branches and feed itself. Satisfied, Henry sat back on his heels to watch it take hold. He turned to cast an appraising gaze upon Billy Ray and his captive. The woman was now reduced to a state of unconscious lethargy, thanks to the numerous beatings from Billy Ray. She stood, unresisting, while Billy Ray prepared to tie her wrists together.

  “I have to go,” she said, breaking her long silence, still with eyes downcast.

  “You have to go?” Billy Ray repeated, delighting in a word game that always seemed to amuse his simple mind. Knowing well what she meant, he said, “Rachael has to go, Henry.” Grabbing her chin roughly, he jerked her head up to face him. “Where are you goin’? Back to Dry Fork?”

  Tired of watching the mindless game, Henry said, “Why don’t you just let the woman pee?”

  “When I’m good and ready,” Billy Ray shot back defiantly.

  Ignoring the angry gaze from his partner, Henry backed away from the fire a little when the flames began to generate more heat. “It’s about time the woman started earnin’ her keep, ain’t it? Don’t make much sense for us to do the cookin’ when we got a woman to do it for us.”

  “When I got a woman,” Billy Ray quickly corrected. “We ain’t got nuthin’.” He led Rachael off into the plum bushes that grew in a bunch beside the stream, and watched unabashed while the tormented woman relieved herself. He did not dismiss Henry’s comment, however. It didn’t really make sense for him and Henry to cook for her.

  When she managed to finish her business under his watchful eye, he led her back to the fire, but did not tie her hands again. “It’s time for you to do your part,” he said. “Git that slab of bacon outta the pack yonder, and slice off enough for supper. Fetch some water first and boil some of them dried beans in that sack by Henry’s saddle.”

  There was a long moment before she responded, as if his demands were slow in penetrating her dazed mind. Billy Ray was about to give her a kick when she silently turned and obediently picked up the pot Henry tossed over toward her. Billy Ray watched her closely as she filled it with water from the stream, then returned to place it on the fire. Satisfied that she had at last accepted her situation, and lost the will to defy him, he grinned at Henry and settled back by the fire.

  After making sure the pot was steady on a couple of the larger limbs, she put a couple of handfuls of beans in the water, paused and looked toward Henry. He motioned for her to add more. She obeyed. After returning the beans to the sack, she picked up the slab of bacon, and paused before Billy Ray. Holding the meat before him, she stood, silently waiting.

  “What the hell are you waitin’ for?” he demanded.

  Henry snickered. “I reckon she needs somethin’ to slice it with.” With gleeful anticipation that some entertainment was forthcoming, he moved over to the opposite side of the fire and waited for his partner’s reaction.

  “Oh,” Billy Ray said with a grunt. He drew his long skinning knife from the sheath on his belt and tossed it at her feet. “Mind you dean that blade after you use it.”

  Oh, she will, Henry thought. She’ll clean it all right. Unable to suppress a smug smile, he settled himself comfortably to watch the fun. Rachael was not the first woman captive, beaten and abused, whose fury Henry had witnessed. In his earlier years, when he and Ned had tried to earn an honest living trapping beaver, he had seen the trouble an Indian woman could make if a man gave her half a chance. He was certain now that Billy Ray was about to receive a lesson on the combative nature of women in general, and this one in particular. He had been watching Rachael closely during the last couple of days, and he was willing to bet she would fight as hard as any Sioux or Blackfoot woman if given a chance.

  Rachael reached down to pick up the knife, her motions slow and deliberate as she stood up again to pause motionless, her eyes locked on Billy Ray. Ever slow of wit, Billy Ray stared back stupidly. Fully anticipating what was about to follow, Henry grinned delightedly. It wasn’t long in coming. Moving suddenly, Rachael uttered a guttural scream and threw the slab of bacon in Billy Ray’s face, lunging at him with the knife raised to strike.

  Unprepared for the attack, Billy Ray was barely able to ward off her initial thrust. The force of her assault put him off balance, and he went over backward, grasping desperately to capture the crazed woman’s wrist. Over and over they went, Billy Ray on top, and then Rachael, both desperately straining in a frantic effort to gain control of the knife. Chuckling delightedly, Henry hopped to one side when they rolled over toward him. “Ride her, Billy Ray!” he exclaimed, moving quickly to prevent becoming involved in the struggle. Seeing the handle of Billy Ray’s pistol protruding, he snatched it from the holster as the combatants rolled away from him again. If, in the midst of the struggle, the woman happened upon it, Henry feared she might shoot them both.

  The desperate battle went on for several minutes. Amid the strained curses from Billy Ray, and the frantic sobbing of the woman, Henry judged the contest about even. Rachael was holding her own, much to Henry’s entertainment. But in a short while, the woman’s strength began to ebb. Feeling the weakening of her grip, Billy Ray realized she was exhausted. It was enough to give him the strength for one final effort. Gasping for breath, he wrenched one hand free of her grasp, and struck her with his fist. Her head rocked drunkenly as he pounded her several times until, unable to fight any longer, she collapsed, unable to defend herself.

  Completely spent, Billy Ray rolled away from the unconscious woman, and sat panting for air. He picked up his knife, which had dropped from Rachael’s hand, and stared at it as if puzzling to understand what had just happened. Unable to speak for a few moments, he continued to sit there, glancing occasionally at Rachael. Gradually, he gathered his wits about him, still smarting from his injured pride, and he turned his head to look at Henry. Because he was still stunned, it took him several seconds to realize that Henry was standing, watching him closely—with a gun in his hand. Alarmed then, he quickly reached to his side to find an empty holster.

  An amused grin began to slowly form across the old bandit’s mouth as he witnessed the look of panic on Billy Ray’s face. It was tempting. Henry couldn’t help but consider it. It might be an opportune time to dissolve his partnership with the young fool. Neither spoke for several long moments—the old man grinning vindictively, the younger one gaping anxiously, his future riding on the next few seconds. Finally, Henry broke the silence.

  “You might wanna brush some of the dirt offen that bacon before you throw it in the pan,” he said as he flipped the pistol around and offered it to Billy Ray butt first. He couldn’t suppress a chuckle when Billy Ray scrambled immediately to take it, unable to disguise the look of relief on his face.

  When Billy Ray sat back heavily on the ground again, still smarting from his desperate battle with the woman, Henry walked over to look at Rachael. She lay unmoving, her mouth cut and bleeding, her eye already beginning to swell. After watching her closely for a few moments, he announced, “Well, she ain’t dead, but you give ’er a pretty good whuppin’.” He cast a sideways glance in Billy Ray’s direction. “I reckon she’ll know not to tangle with you again.” He said it with a caustic sarcasm that left little doubt he was laughing at Billy Ray. “Reckon it’s up to me to finish the cookin’.” He picked up the slab of bacon, and brushed most of the dirt from it before drawing his knife to slice it.

  Rachael’s desperate attempt to exact revenge from her tormentor gained her a night free of Billy Ray’s lust. But she paid a price more dear than the obvious cuts and bruises. Billy Ray’s repeated blows to her head caused damage that would take time to repair. For Billy Ray’s part, his ego had been severely damaged, to the point where he made up his mind that both witnesses to his shame must be eliminated. For the rest of that night, he could not rid his mind of the embarrassing image of being wrestled to a draw by a woman. If he had not been able to jerk a han
d free long enough to strike her with his fist, she might have gotten the best of him. It was a difficult thing to admit, even to himself, and he tried to rationalize his poor performance to having been taken by surprise. One thing he remembered was the look of contempt on Henry’s face, and the cold glint in the other man’s eyes as he held the pistol. He decided that he had better sleep with one eye open from this point on.

  * * *

  Morning found the battered woman still lying where she had fallen the night before. Oblivious to the spring chill that had seeped into the valley during the early hours, she began to stir as the first conscious thoughts came to her. Pain, like the jagged edge of a knife, tore through her brain from temple to temple, causing her to sink back down for a few moments. Thinking she could not linger in bed, she determined to rise in spite of the pain, so with great effort, she raised herself onto one elbow, and looked around her. She could not recall where she was, but there were two others sleeping nearby, and it must be time to get up and start breakfast.

  His eyes barely open, Henry watched the woman stirring on the other side of the fire, realizing then that Billy Ray had not tied her up. Curious, and somewhat surprised that she seemed to have survived the brutal beating of the night before, he remained still in his blanket while watching her movements.

  After a few moments, she sat up and paused there while she raised an exploring hand to her face, gingerly touching her swollen eye, apparently puzzled to discover her injuries. He must have rattled her brain some, Henry thought. Even more puzzling to him, she struggled wearily to her feet, and began to collect branches to revive the dying coals. Well, I’ll be . . . he thought. She don’t know what she’s doing. In fact, confused by her surroundings, and finding no explanation for her being there, she simply went about chores that she had done since a little girl. She always tended the fire and started breakfast while the menfolk slept. First it was for her father and brothers; later it was for Will.