Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  “Rachael,” he called softly to her. “You’re all right now,” he said in a voice as calm as he could manage. “You’re safe.”

  With eyes still glazed and confused, she turned at the sound of his voice. He stopped. She continued to stare at him for several long moments. Then her body suddenly seemed drained of all energy, and she dropped the pistol from her hand, and sank back to the ground.

  * * *

  Several miles away, making his way along a low ridge, Henry pulled up and listened. He was certain he had just heard a pistol shot echoing through the canyon behind him. “Billy Ray,” he muttered, shaking his head in exasperation. “I expect the damn fool has shot her.” It was a shame. Henry had hoped Rachael might have gotten away from the heartless scoundrel. “I wouldn’t treat a dog like that bastard treated that poor woman.” With that declaration, he gently pressed his heels to his horse’s belly, and continued along the ridge.

  He was still undecided about his plans for the next couple of days. One thing he was certain about was the necessity to remove himself from the little gulch where he had parted company with Billy Ray. If Red Bull or the white scout was anywhere within earshot of the camp, they were bound to come to investigate the cause of the gunshots. He was still curious about the other partner’s share of gold dust, however, convinced that each man would have been in possession of his split of the profits. There was bound to be a second sack of dust back at that camp. If he had the opportunity to look for the dead man’s hiding place, he was certain he could find it if given a little time. Maybe I ought to find me a good snug place to lay up for a day or two, and then go back.

  He pulled the pouch out and hefted it in his hand, trying to guess the weight. There could be three or four ounces of gold in here, he thought. It was no fortune, but it was enough for a good time in a real town. It had been a long time since Henry had visited an honest-to-goodness town, with stores and saloons, and even churches—instead of simple trading posts. Bismarck came to mind. “I ain’t never been to Bismarck,” he confided to Buster, his mule. The notion appealed to him. No one would know him in Bismarck. He was tempted to head for it right away, but the thought of a duplicate pouch of gold dust lying waiting under some rock was too much to pass up. “I’ll give ever’body a chance to clear out. Then I’ll just take a little ride back down the other side of this mountain.”

  * * *

  Drained of all energy, as well as the will to resist, Rachael did not try to pull away when Clay knelt down to pick her up. Somehow sensing the safe harbor in the strong arms that cradled her limp body, she relaxed, her head resting against his shoulder as he rose to his feet and carried her to a grassy area away from Billy Ray’s body. She whimpered softly as he laid her gently upon the grass, like a child awakened during a bad dream. Her eyelids flickered briefly before remaining closed. A moment later, she sank into a deep sleep.

  He didn’t know what to do for the unfortunate young woman, unsure of the extent of the damage upon her tortured mind. Her ordeal at the hands of the brutal outlaw might have been enough to destroy her mind completely. The only thing he could determine for certain was her physical condition. It was obvious that she was half-starved and exhausted. At least he could do something about that.

  He remained by her side for a few moments, watching her sleep, and his heart went out to her as he looked at her battered features. Bruised and cut from countless beatings, her face was almost unrecognizable as the pretty young woman he had first encountered on the trail with Lon Fortson. Her clothes now tattered and dirty, her wrists scraped and burned from the ropes that had bound her, it was a wonder to him that she had survived for this length of time. I’ll do what I can for you, he silently promised. Rising to his feet, he got a blanket from his bedroll and returned to wrap the sleeping woman in it. Then, after building a fire, he went back to dispose of Billy Ray’s body.

  He paused for a few moments, standing over the corpse, taking a closer look at the man he had been trailing through these mountains, and wondered if this might be the man from Dry Fork whom Rachael had come looking for. Clay wondered how such an unimpressive little man, insignificant in death, could have caused so much grief. Reaching down, he picked up the pistol Rachael had dropped. A double-action Colt .45, he thought. This no doubt was the sum total of the little man’s strength. Clay shoved the pistol in his belt, and turned again to the corpse. With less compassion than he would have held for a rabid dog, he took his knife and cut his arrowheads out of the body. Then he took hold of Billy Ray’s boots, and dragged the body toward a gully some yards away from the fire, where he dumped it roughly over the side. I plan to be gone from here by the time you start to stink, he thought. That brought to mind the matter of the dead man’s partner. Clay had found the site of their meeting with the two prospectors, and the remains of those two unfortunates. He wondered how many innocent miners lay dead in these hills as a result of meeting up with these two. From the signs he had found, he concluded that, for whatever reason, the two outlaws had split up—one heading north, the other back here, and now lying dead in the gully. He had to allow for the possibility that his partner might double back, thinking to rejoin the dead man. He gave a thought toward moving farther up the stream, but his common sense told him that, if indeed the other outlaw was planning to come back, he couldn’t make it before noon the next day. We’ll be gone by then, he thought.

  Darkness seeped into the narrow valley, and still the sleeping woman did not stir. Never very far from her at any time since she had fallen into the deep slumber, Clay paused frequently to stand over her, searching for some sign of consciousness. He had thought to prepare some food for her from the packs on Billy Ray’s horse, but it now appeared that she was going to sleep through the night. Maybe I’ll find us a rabbit or something for breakfast, he thought, and ate the beans he had boiled for her. “It isn’t much of a supper, anyway,” he said softly, thinking she needed fresh-killed meat to build her strength.

  His supper finished, he left the glow of the campfire, and took a turn around the perimeter of his camp. Satisfied that all was quiet, he returned to take a final look at the horses before pulling a blanket from Billy Ray’s saddlebag, and settling himself where he could watch her. Staring at the sleeping woman on the opposite side of the fire, he wondered if she was going to make it through the night. As still as she lay, he wasn’t sure she wasn’t dead already. We’ll see what the morning brings, he thought, resigned to the fact that what would be, would be. Seconds later, he was asleep himself.

  Once during the wee hours of the morning, he awakened to the sounds of her groans. Thinking she was experiencing some sort of pain, he went to her side to find that she was only dreaming, no doubt reliving some terrifying moment in the hands of her captor. At least she’s alive, he thought, and returned to his bed. Far up the slope, he heard the soft sounds of a hoot owl calling out in the lonely darkness. It was a sound that had always brought him peace. And remembering an old Shoshoni superstition, he rose up on one elbow to look at Rachael again. “Don’t you fret, little lady. He ain’t callin’ for your soul.”

  * * *

  The gray light of dawn found him crouching in the middle of a sizable plum thicket, silently coaxing a cautious rabbit to take one more hop away from the cover of a laurel bush near the bank of the stream. Come on, he cajoled. It’s time for breakfast, and you’re the guest of honor. His bow ready, an arrow with a small stone head already notched on his bow string, he waited patiently for the unsuspecting rabbit to take its final hop. At last, the little animal decided there was no danger present, and crept a few tiny steps away from the laurel.

  With practiced eye and lightning reflexes, Clay drew the bow string and released the arrow, all in one precise motion. The force of the arrow sent the shaft all the way through the body of the rabbit, spearing it neatly. Clay got up to retrieve the quivering body to quickly end its suffering. This just ain’t your day, I reckon. You’d have probably been supper for that ol’ hoot owl ton
ight, anyway. It’s better to give your life to nourish the crazy lady. He paused for a moment to reflect upon his reference to Rachael as the crazy lady, wondering at that point just in what state of mind the young woman would awaken. That is, he reconsidered, if she did in fact wake up. When he had roused himself to hunt for their breakfast, she had been lying still as a stone again. Then he couldn’t help but ask himself, What the hell am I gonna do with her if she is crazy as a tick? He quickly put that thought aside, knowing he had no answer for it. Carefully extracting his arrow, and cleaning it on the rabbit’s fur, he decided he would concentrate on cooking breakfast, and worry about what to do with the woman afterward.

  The welfare of the woman was his primary concern, but there was yet another issue to be decided upon—the dead man’s partner. Clay gave that a lot of thought as he skinned the rabbit, and prepared a spit for it from a green laurel branch. The man had apparently set out to the north, after having split up with his partner. Maybe he planned to return, maybe not. Clay shot a quick glance in Rachael’s direction. One man had paid with his life, but there was still a reckoning that was due for the other. He felt bound to hunt down the murderous dog, and rid the world of him.

  He turned his head then, and leveled a long intense gaze at the sleeping woman. He thought again of Katie Mashburn, and recalled that Rachael had reminded him of Katie when he first encountered her and Lon in the foothills. He was struck with a sudden feeling of guilt as he pictured Katie, alone, farming her little patch of ground in Canyon Creek. Iron-willed and stubborn to a fault, she had defied Indians and outlaws to cling to that parcel of ground by the river. Even the tragic death of her father had failed to dissuade her from remaining to battle for her existence. They had never talked about a future together, she and Clay, but there had always been an unspoken bonding between them. Looking at Rachael now, alone and vulnerable, he wondered if it might be the responsible thing to give up his beloved mountains, and return to Canyon Creek. He suddenly felt an intense concern for Katie, even though the thought of settling down brought a definite distaste to his mind. Further thought was interrupted by the flicker of Rachael’s eyelids. Thinking she might be about to awaken, he turned his attention back to the rabbit roasting over the fire.

  Her eyes open now, she made no other motions, lying as still as when she had been asleep. It was not something she consciously thought about, but a reactionary defense, for she had learned that when she showed signs of being awake, abuse generally followed. From where she lay, she could see the man squatting on his heels by the fire as he watched over something he was cooking over the flames. She had no recollection of ever having seen the man before. There was no curiosity as to where she was, or who he was at that point. The foremost thought in her mind was that she was hungry. The smell of the cooking rabbit was enough to cause her stomach to voice its needs. She focused her gaze on the rabbit, somehow knowing that she would not be permitted to taste it until the man had his fill, and maybe not even then. She shifted her eyes then to find that he was looking at her. Alarmed at first, she met his gaze and held it, too frightened to look away. Seeing nothing but concern in his eyes, she sensed that he would not hurt her, so she continued to stare at him, trying to make sense of the scene she had awakened to.

  “I reckon you could eat a little somethin’,” he said, breaking the extended period of silence. “You don’t look like you’ve had a helluva lot to eat lately.”

  Still confused, she didn’t answer, but sat up then, shifting her gaze back and forth between him and the rabbit roasting over the fire. It wasn’t necessary for her to speak; her eyes told him that she wanted to eat. She pulled the blanket aside and started to get up, only to find she was considerably unsteady on her feet. When she looked as if she might fall, he quickly moved to help her. Alarmed, she tried to back away from him, and would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her arm and held her.

  “Ma’am, you don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said gently. “I’m not gonna hurt you.” Sensing the sincerity in his voice, she permitted him to lead her closer to the fire. “You remember me, don’t you, ma’am? I’m Clay Culver.” He could see that she was trying hard to recall, but there was no sign of recognition. “You poor thing,” he said, “they’ve just beat the hell outta you, haven’t they?” Her only answer was a blank stare. He tore off a piece of the rabbit and offered it to her. She took it eagerly.

  He watched her as she ate, devouring each piece of the animal as soon as he offered it. He realized then that she must have been approaching starvation at the hands of her captors, and it might be prudent on his part to limit her amount, lest her stomach reject it. “We’d best slow down a tad,” he told her. “If you eat too much right now, it might come right back up. And you need to keep some nourishment down.” Her eyes registered her disappointment, but she did not protest. “You can have some more to eat later,” he said, and finished what was left of the rabbit for his own breakfast. She sat, silently watching him, like a captured animal. He thought again of the kind of heartless villain who could treat a woman so savagely, and a strong desire to hunt the other outlaw returned to his mind. But how could he effectively track the man when he had Rachael to be concerned with? I can’t, he decided, knowing in his heart that his duty was clear. He must take the woman home, and do it as quickly as possible.

  * * *

  When Rachael unconsciously began to unbutton her trousers before him, Clay stepped to her side. Gently taking her by the elbow, he led her away from the fire to some brush by the stream. “Here, ma’am,” he said softly. “Here’s a little more privacy if you need to pee.” She looked at him, astonished when he turned his back and went back to the horses, leaving her to perform her toilet unobserved.

  The extent of her mental damage almost sickened him as he speculated on the treatment a person had to endure to arrive at that state. She had not spoken a word since he found her the day before. Almost infantile in her thoughts, she at least understood simple commands. She might be crazy, he thought as he secured the packs on the one extra horse he decided to take, but at least she ain’t running-around-hollering crazy. As he thought, he heard her approaching, and turned to watch her. When he beckoned her with a motion of his hand, she obediently came to him, although with a noticeable reluctance in her step. He could not help but notice a look of fear in her eyes that quickly turned to relief when he said, “It’s time to go,” and helped her up in the saddle. When she was seated, he paused to take a look at her, shaking his head slowly in compassion. “You’ll be all right, ma’am. You just need a little time to sort things out in your mind.” Even as he said the words, he doubted if the battered woman would ever recover. “I’m fixin’ to take you home—to Dry Fork.” He studied her eyes to see if the mention of the town would stir her memory. If it did, there was no indication in the wide, lifeless gaze she directed at him.

  * * *

  Leaving Billy Ray’s horse to wander freely along the bank of the stream, he let the gray set its own pace, as they started south. He would follow that course as best he could, working his way around the mountains that lay before them until striking the Cheyenne River. Once on the other side of the river, he planned to head more westerly till he reached the Platte. He wasn’t sure exactly where the little settlement of Dry Fork was, but recalling conversation with Lon Fortson, he was confident that he could find it.

  Checking frequently behind him to make sure Rachael was following, he soon decided she had no thoughts other than blindly plodding along behind him. So his backward glances became less constant as he concentrated on the trail ahead. It was his intention to make camp at the site of the burned-out stockade where the eleven miners had been killed. If the Sioux war party was still combing the mountains, he figured there was little chance they would look there again. There was also the chance that returning to that scene might trigger something in Rachael’s memory, and help her find her way back. If they were lucky, they might make the camp before nightfall—maybe even give him s
ome time to hunt for fresh meat.

  Chapter 13

  Henry dismounted. Leaving his horse with the reins looped over a low branch, he moved down the slope to a spot from which he could look over the camp. With the patience that had sustained an extended life span in Indian country, he took his time scanning the entire campsite. He uttered a satisfied grunt when he spotted the late miners’ horses milling about freely, grazing along the banks of the stream. “Looks like I wound up with the gold and the horses, too,” he murmured. Still he did not move at once toward the camp. Thinking of Billy Ray’s irresponsible ways, he continued to shift his gaze to cover the area until he made sure his horse was not milling around loose as well. Then he concentrated on the tent, still standing, wondering if Billy Ray had made another more thorough search of it before going after the woman. It don’t make no difference if he did, Henry thought, confident that the missing share of gold dust was hidden under a rock somewhere outside the tent. Feeling confident that the camp was abandoned, especially since the bodies of the two prospectors were still lying where they had fallen, Henry retrieved his horses and proceeded down the slope to the camp.