Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  Amazed at first by the woman’s strange behavior, Henry now found it amusing, and was curious to see to what extent it would lead. He threw his blanket aside and sat up. “Morning, ma’am,” he called out cheerfully. Rachael cocked her head around sharply to look at him. “You know who I am, don’tcha?”

  Staring at the stranger, she was obviously baffled, but remembering her manners, replied, “Why, of course, I do. We’ll have some breakfast directly.”

  Henry threw his head back and laughed delightedly. His laughter succeeded in awakening a sluggish Billy Ray, who had fallen into a deep sleep of exhaustion only a couple of hours before—a result of a near sleepless night listening for any sign of foul play from his partner. His pistol in hand, he now sat up to see what the commotion was about. Seeing Rachael stirring up the ashes, he started to spring up, then realized she was not trying to run for it.

  Seeing his young partner awake, Henry said, “Say good mornin’ to the missus.” He laughed again at Billy Ray’s confusion. The young outlaw sat gaping at the woman.

  Rachael turned to gaze at Billy Ray, a quizzical expression upon her battered face. “I don’t remember where I put the coffee,” she said, apologizing for her failure to have it ready when the men awakened.

  “Oh, that’s all right, ma’am. Ain’t it, Billy Ray?” Henry was thoroughly enjoying the lady’s lapse of mind. “You’ll find it in that sack by your saddle over there.” He winked at Billy Ray as Rachael went obediently to fetch the coffee beans.

  “What the hell’s goin’ on?” Billy Ray demanded.

  “She’s gone loco in the head,” Henry whispered. “That whuppin’ you give ’er musta scrambled up her brains pretty good. She don’t know up from down, biscuits from horse apples. See for yourself.”

  Billy Ray got up then, and moved to stand right in front of Rachael. “You know who I am?” he asked.

  With no sign of recognition in her eyes, she nevertheless replied courteously, “Why, I’m sure you’re a friend of Will’s.” Then she frowned as if wondering what was keeping her husband. She felt stiff and sore, and weary to her very bones. She didn’t feel like entertaining guests.

  “Yeah, I’m a friend of Will’s all right,” Billy Ray said, laughing, enjoying her confusion. The irony of her words was obvious even to a mind as dull as his. “Where is that ol’ so-and-so, anyway?” His eyes wide in gleeful anticipation, like those of a child at Christmas, he waited for her response.

  The question added to Rachael’s confusion. “Why, I don’t know,” she answered. Concerned, she looked around her as if expecting her husband to appear. Then her expression softened as a thought occurred to her. “I expect he went over to open the schoolhouse. He’ll be along directly, I’m sure.”

  Her answer caused a roar of laughter as both men delighted in the demented woman’s confusion. “Yes, ma’am,” Billy Ray exclaimed. “I’m sure he’ll show up any minute now.”

  “If he does, I don’t wanna be here,” Henry forced through a fresh fit of laughter.

  Astonished by their bizarre reaction to her simple, polite statements, she paused, the sack of coffee beans still in her hand. Looking from one of the strangers to the other, she decided she wasn’t comfortable with her husband’s visitors. They didn’t look like anyone who would have business with Will, and she felt certain they were not friends of his. Still, she could not be rude. Appalled by their crude appearance, she was shocked a moment later when the older man withdrew no more than a few yards from the fire and proceeded to relieve himself—in plain view, making no attempt at modesty. She quickly turned away, disgusted.

  Even though she was aware of a feeling of nausea, and a steady throbbing of pain over her eye, she would cook breakfast for this riffraff, and then maybe they would leave. Where is Will? Her husband’s tardiness was not at all in character. He was always prompt in his appointments. Then another thought occurred. Why aren’t we in the cabin, instead of eating out here in the open like a bunch of wild Indians? She had not cooked over an open campfire since she and Will had driven the wagon from Kansas City to Dry Fork. She fervently wished that Will would get back from the schoolhouse.

  Finding herself at a total loss, she looked at the packs scattered upon the ground, one of which lay open. She started to ask if the food was in that pack, but changed her mind. How would they know?

  Watching her every move with great amusement, Henry guessed what was puzzling her. “The bacon’s in that there pack, darlin’. I’m afraid there ain’t nuthin’ else to fix.” He took a few steps toward her and took the bag of coffee beans from her hand. “I’ll grind the coffee for you.”

  “And I’ll slice that bacon for you,” Billy Ray quickly volunteered, causing a laugh from Henry. The woman was apparently crazy, but he wasn’t about to risk putting a knife in her hand again.

  “Oh,” she replied, hesitating for just a moment before turning back to the pack. “I’m afraid that will have to do then.” She busied herself with the frying pan she found by the fire. It wasn’t going to be much of a breakfast. She couldn’t even offer to fry some corn mush to go with the bacon. I wish Will would hurry! She didn’t like the way the men stared at her, especially the young one.

  The meager breakfast was cooked, and the three sat down around the fire to eat, Billy Ray and Henry on one side, Rachael on the other. The two men watched her closely while they chewed the tough, salty meat, expecting her to explode emotionally at any moment. Much to their amusement, she did not, but ate sparingly of the simple fare, while keeping a wary eye on her unwelcome breakfast companions.

  The meal finished, Henry roused himself from the comfort of the fire, and announced his intention to go hunting. “I reckon I’ve had about a belly full of salt pork,” he said. “There’s tracks of deer and antelope all over the place—might as well have us some fresh meat.” He gave Rachael a wide grin. “Not that I’m complainin’ about the breakfast, ma’am. Billy Ray can stay here to make sure nuthin’ happens to you.” Noticing the look of disappointment in her face, he added, “Won’t you, Billy Ray?”

  “Oh, I’ll take care of her, all right,” Billy Ray replied enthusiastically.

  “That won’t be necessary,” Rachael was quick to respond. “I’m sure my husband will be along any minute.” She was again mystified by the eruption of laughter from the two men. The bitter coffee had partially subdued the throbbing in her head, but she was suffering from another discomfort. She had had no opportunity to perform her toilet with the two men constantly staring at her, and she was anxious to answer that call.

  Billy Ray remained seated by the fire while Henry saddled his horse and rode off up into the pines. Seeking privacy to relieve her urgency, Rachael picked up the frying pan, and went to the stream to clean it, leaving the indolent young outlaw to leer after her. His eyes never strayed from her as she finished rinsing the pan and placed it upon a rock while she took the opportunity to slip behind a clump of berry bushes.

  Immediately alert when she disappeared from view, he got to his feet and followed after her, fearing that she might be attempting to escape. As soon as he reached the stream, he saw her. The sight of her in such vulnerable posture brought a grin to his face. His lust renewed by her apparent loss of memory, he savored the prospect of having her again. In her present state of mind, it was like having someone new to satisfy his craving. With a smug grin on his face, he sneaked up behind her as she finished her toilet, and suddenly threw his arms around her, each hand grasping a breast. Terrified, she screamed and tried to pull away from him, but he pulled her up tight against his body. Disgusted by his crude attack, she struggled with all the strength she could muster, but she could not free herself. “My husband will be here any minute!” she blurted.

  Billy Ray laughed. “Your husband’s dead,” he sneered.

  Shocked, she exclaimed, “Will’s not dead!”

  “He’s dead, you crazy bitch. I shot him myself. Ain’t nobody gonna come to save you, so you might as well enjoy it.”


  Her mind in total confusion, and horrified by the reality of what was about to happen, she cried out for mercy. Her cries were met with open contempt as he wrestled her to the ground. Fighting with all the strength she could muster, she tried to claw at his face. Her efforts only infuriated him, and he slapped her hard, continuing the blows until she could no longer resist his assault. When he was done with his heartless business, he rolled away from her, and paused to catch his breath while watching her closely.

  Her body far too weary to move, and her face bleeding from new cuts as well as renewed trauma from those administered the night before, she lay as if dead. Battered and bruised, her mind withdrew in a desperate effort to find a safe refuge, leaving her to function with little more than animal instincts. The sound of a rifle shot in the distance caused Billy Ray to sit up and listen, but it did not register in her mind. When he commanded her to get up, she obeyed and followed him obediently back to the fire.

  * * *

  When Henry rode back into camp with the carcass of a small antelope riding before the saddle, Rachael was seated near the fire, her head bowed. A quick glance was enough to tell him what had taken place. He slid the carcass off his horse and stepped down.

  “I heard the shot,” Billy Ray said. “Figured you’d found meat.”

  Henry grunted in response, his attention still focused upon the battered woman. He walked over and stood before her. When she made no response to his presence, not even attempting to cringe, he reached down and lifted her chin up. “I reckon you’ve about beat her to death,” he said.

  Billy Ray beamed his pleasure, thinking Henry’s comment a positive one. “Yep, I reckon I finally broke her. She ain’t gonna buck no more.”

  Henry Izard had never been guilty of compassion when it came to dealing with human life, but even he recognized some limits to the amount of cruelty one human being should inflict upon another. “Why the hell don’t you just go on and put a bullet in her head, and put her out of her misery?”

  “I might,” Billy Ray responded, getting his back up a little at the obvious rebuke, “when I’m done with ’er.”

  Henry didn’t respond, but he was thinking that he was getting closer and closer to the point of terminating his partnership with Billy Ray. I must be getting soft in my old age, he thought, as he took one more look at the downcast woman before turning his attention toward the antelope.

  Chapter 11

  Kneeling in a soft patch of earth at the head of a tiny spring, Wanigi Ska picked up a piece of displaced moss and examined it. No longer moist, the moss told him that he was still at least a day behind Rachael’s abductors. He rubbed the dry turf between his fingers thoughtfully as he studied the tracks before him. The men he followed tended to wander aimlessly in one direction, and then another, but there was a general tendency to gradually head north. Could they know he was tracking them? Or was it a general precaution in case a Sioux scout happened upon their trail? The many turns and deviatitions resulted in making Clay’s job tougher, causing him to spend more time watching for the changes in direction. He felt sure he was gaining on his prey, but the gain seemed gradual.

  Early in the afternoon he came upon another campsite; in this one he found the remains of an antelope carcass. The discovery was a good sign for a couple of reasons. First, since he had left the site of their last camp early that morning—and he could assume they wouldn’t have made camp again until the end of the day—then he must have gained some time. Second, judging by the unspoiled condition of the antelope remains, he guessed that the animal had been killed that morning—and the men had butchered it before setting out again. He might have picked up a half a day on them.

  He took a few minutes more to take a look around the camp before taking up the trail again. It was impossible to say for certain, but he guessed there could be signs of a fight near the ashes of the fire. There was definite evidence of a tussle of some kind in the service berry bushes on the other side of the stream, however. The broken branches and disturbed soil created an urgency in his mind, and he feared the worse for the woman.

  The remains of the slaughtered antelope served to trigger an additional thought. In spite of the urgency he felt to overtake the two men on whom he now seemed to be gaining, he was going to be forced to take the time to hunt. His supply of food had been meager at best, consisting of a small quantity of dried jerky from his own pack, and the elk meat he had taken from Running Horse. Now that supply was exhausted, so he reluctantly gave in to his hunger.

  While still maintaining a close eye on the tracks he followed, he began also to keep a watchful eye out for any potential game. The Black Hills generally provided abundant game, so it was not long before he spotted a likely place. Coming upon a small stream, he noticed a multitude of animal tracks around a bend that widened into a fair-sized pool. It looked to be a popular watering hole. He judged by the hoofprints that the party he followed had stopped to water their horses here as well. Good a place as any, he thought, and guided his pony across the clearing and up into the trees until finding a place to leave it. On foot then, he untied the bow and quiver from his saddle and worked his way down wind of the watering hole. He selected a stand of thick brush near the water’s edge, about thirty yards above the pool, far enough away to conceal his presence, and close enough for a shot with his bow. He felt he was too close to the two men and Rachael to risk having them hear a rifle shot. Settling himself in the thickest part of the brush, he laid his rifle on the ground in front of him, and tested the tautness of his bow string. He was confident that it would not fail him.

  He looked up at the sun. It was getting late in the afternoon, and although he had not been watching the waterhole for more than half an hour, he began to have thoughts of giving up and taking up the trail again. From the trees over his left shoulder, he heard the gray snort a couple of times, and he immediately sharpened his gaze, searching out the brush on either side of the stream. After a few moments, he spotted them. There were three, a buck and two does. While Clay watched, the buck took a cautious step out of the brush, and paused to survey the water hole. Clay waited. Come on, ladies, he thought as he silently notched an arrow and raised the bow. When the buck decided there was no danger, he sauntered casually out into the tiny clearing, and proceeded to the water. The does followed. Clay took careful aim on the smaller of the two.

  After being released with only a soft thud of sinew string against his buckskin shirtsleeve, the arrow flew swiftly and silently to its target. The smaller doe recoiled only slightly, taking a sideways step as the arrow slammed into her belly. Damn, he reproached himself, disappointed at missing his mark, and quickly notched another arrow, sending it true to strike the animal’s rib cage, right behind her front leg.

  With two arrows protruding from her side, the doe staggered several feet as if trying to run. The second arrow had found its mark deep in her lung, however, and she wobbled drunkenly before collapsing to the ground. Confused by her strange behavior, the buck came back to stand over her, nudging her neck with his muzzle. Then puzzled by the blood that appeared, he raised his head and snorted, and only bolted when the slight movement in the brush alerted him to Clay’s presence. Clay emerged from the brush and paused for a few seconds to watch the buck and his surviving lady friend disappear into the forest before going to retrieve his horse.

  He wasted no time in butchering the deer. Taking a few moments to build a small fire, he placed strips of fresh meat over the fire to roast while he completed the butchering. Knowing that he might very well be losing the half day he had gained on the two men, he nonetheless conceded the fact that he required nourishment. Taking as little time as he could manage, he satisfied his hunger. With an hour or two of daylight left, he pushed on, following the trail of Rachael’s abductors until darkness forced him to make camp. After his horse had been taken care of, Clay climbed up a ridge on the off chance he might spot the glow of a campfire somewhere ahead of him in the deepening darkness. There was nothing
but the silent hills under a starless night.

  * * *

  “Who the hell is that?” Henry muttered. From his position at the edge of a small cliff high on the side of the mountain, he looked down on the solitary rider entering the canyon far below. A man alone in this wilderness? With no pack animal or anything to indicate him as a prospector, this individual wore the garb of a mountain man. Having survived in this wild country for years because of a naturally suspicious nature, Henry was inclined to believe the stranger’s presence was not merely happenstance. “That son of a bitch is trackin’ us,” he said. “Now you see why I wanted to climb up here.” He looked back at Billy Ray to see if his young partner was paying attention.

  Billy Ray stood staring down at the rider, seemingly small and insignificant from that great height. “Hell, it ain’t but one man,” he scoffed. “How do you know he’s followin’ us, anyway?”

  “Because I got a feelin’,” Henry replied impatiently. “When you’ve been in my line of work for as long as I have, you get feelin’s. That’s how you keep yourself top notch.” He turned his attention back to the rider in the canyon. “He’s trackin’ us, all right.” He slid back from the edge of the cliff. “We’ll have to be a little more careful, till we know for sure we lost him. There’s always a chance he ain’t followin’ us at all, but I got a feelin’.”

  “It ain’t but one man,” Billy Ray repeated impatiently.

  “That’s a fact,” Henry replied with equal impatience. “But from here, it don’t look like he’s got anythin’ worth riskin’ our necks for. He ain’t got no packhorse, no goods that I can see. It’s best to just make sure we lose him.” He didn’t share it with Billy Ray, but he also had a feeling that the stranger might be a sight more to deal with than a solitary gold prospector. “We best git movin’,” he concluded. “I don’t wanna be stuck on this mountain at dark.”