Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  Rachael jumped, startled by the unexpected crack of Clay’s rifle. It served to jolt her mind back to reality, and she turned to face him, silently waiting for his instructions. “I expect we’d best clear out of here fast,” he said. “Are you all right?” She nodded. “All right then, let’s get what we need outta that pack, and load it on the other horses.”

  As luck would have it, the most important pack, one holding several belts of rifle cartridges, was trapped beneath the weight of the horse’s carcass. Clay cut the straps, but found he could not pull the pack from beneath the horse. Concerned that the Lakota war party might be upon them at any moment, he knew he desperately needed the ammunition. He had no choice but to take the time to retrieve the belts. As quickly as he could, he took the rope from Rachael’s saddle, and fashioned a quick noose around the dead horse’s neck. Looping the other end around his own saddle horn, he nudged the gray forcefully. The gray took out the slack, paused to test the load, then dug in and dragged the carcass until Clay pulled back on the reins. With the pack free, Clay wasted little time in retrieving the cartridges.

  Rachael was already in the saddle and anxiously waiting for him, her eyes wide with mounting anxiety as she looked around them, fearful of discovering a horde of screaming savages racing to kill them. What seemed an eternity to her were only seconds in reality before he climbed into the saddle, and started back toward the open valley. She followed close behind.

  The beauty of the flocks of blue and yellow flowers that grew in glorious abundance in the grass of the valley was lost upon her as they raced across the treeless expanse. Under drastically different circumstances, Rachael would have marveled at the colorful carpet under the clear spring sky. Equally oblivious to the scenery, Clay pointed the gray’s nose on a course that would take them diagonally across the valley toward the southwestern corner, pushing the horses hard in an effort to leave the wide grass floor behind for the shelter of the low hills beyond. The cover of the dark pines was no more than one hundred yards away when Clay suddenly jerked back hard on the reins, causing the gray’s front hooves to skid as the horse slid to a stop. Rachael almost came out of the saddle when her horse followed suit. Righting herself once more, she then saw the reason for the sudden stop. From the edge of the forest, six mounted warriors slowly appeared from among the trees, and formed a line to await the two fleeing white people. Little Deer’s hunch had borne fruit. In a few moments, the rest of his warriors filed out of the trees and lined up abreast of the first six.

  With his exit from the south end of the valley blocked, Clay had no choice but to seek an alternative. He scanned the hills that enclosed the valley, looking for an avenue of escape or, at worst, a place to make a stand. He could not go back the way they had come. To confirm it, Rachael gasped, causing him to look in that direction. Entering the north end of the valley, Red Bull rode at the head of his war party, closing on the two white people at a fast lope.

  With no show of alarm, Clay continued to search the surrounding slopes until selecting a seldom-used game trail that led up through two boulders at the base of a hill. Deciding that was going to be the best he could pick in the time available, he calmly said, “Come on, we’d best get ourselves under cover.” With her heart pounding away in fearful cadence, Rachael followed, urging her horse to stay right on the gray’s tail. Realizing their intent, the two war parties converged behind the fleeing riders, and the race was on to try to cut off their escape.

  Clay and Rachael were able to reach the game trail and gain the cover of the rocks just in the nick of time. Frustrated to arrive only seconds too late, the angry warriors shot at them, their bullets glancing harmlessly off the boulders. As soon as the horses were safely behind the rocks, Clay quickly slid from the saddle and handed the reins to Rachael. “Take care of the horses,” he said, not taking the time to wait for her response. With his Winchester and two ammunition belts, he crawled up to the top of the larger of the two boulders to assess the situation. The Indians held the advantage in numbers, but he decided that he definitely held the best hand when it came to defensive position. With the warriors in the open, he could make it plenty costly if they chose to mount an assault. Seeing the two factions pull up to discuss a plan of attack, Clay watched, hoping they would decide it foolhardy to try to storm his position.

  Little Deer rode up beside Red Bull as the band of warriors milled about them restlessly, their ponies stamping impatiently upon the grass. “The white ghost has found a good place to take a stand,” he said. “We could lose many warriors if we try to swarm those rocks.”

  Red Bull nodded to acknowledge hearing Little Deer’s words, but he could not take his eyes off the boulders. Wanigi Ska was no more than a hundred yards away, and Red Bull’s heart was pumping with excitement. So close, he could not let the mountain phantom get away this time. Marveling at the thought, he wondered aloud, “Why does he not shoot at us?” Then he looked at Little Deer.

  “Maybe he has no bullets,” Little Deer suggested.

  “He is toying with us,” Red Bull said. “He thinks we fear him. Let us see if we can force him out of those rocks.”

  Lying on his belly, Clay watched as eight warriors dismounted, and split up, four to a side, then immediately started making their way toward the base of the hill in an effort to flank his position. Backing away, Clay abandoned the larger boulder in favor of a spot behind the smaller of the two, which afforded him a better position to defend. Able to sight on the meadow from a kneeling stance without exposing his body, he prepared to administer a deadly toll upon the war party. Concentrating on the four on his left, he methodically fired three times. The two lead warriors fell. The third and fourth survived only because they both hit the ground upon hearing the first rifle shot. Effectively stopped, they crawled back through the tall grass. Clay turned his attention to the four warriors on his right. Having witnessed the terrible price just paid by their brothers, the four made a hasty retreat, but not before the slowest of the four paid with his life for being heavy of foot.

  “Waugh!” Red Bull roared in anger upon seeing three of his warriors killed. Clay’s fire was answered with a volley from the Lakota, the warriors shooting in frustration, their shots glancing wildly from the boulders. When there was a lull in the useless shooting, Clay rose to his knee again, and squeezed off another shot, eliminating one more of the war party. Furious, almost to the point of losing control, Red Bull was about to call for his warriors to charge the boulders, when he realized that many of his men were already dropping back, seeking protection from Clay’s deadly fire. With little choice, he called for everyone to retreat to the cover of a small swale some fifty yards behind them.

  Keeping low behind the earthen barrier, Little Deer crawled up beside his war chief. “I think that maybe it would be wise to leave this Wanigi Ska alone. It seems he was leaving Paha Sapa, anyway. Maybe we should let him go.”

  “He has taken many Lakota lives,” Red Bull answered. “He must pay.”

  “It seems to me that he has only killed when attacked himself,” Little Deer countered. “We are not in a good place here. There is too much open ground between us and those rocks, and the ponies are not protected.”

  Unwilling to listen to the voice of reason, Red Bull continued to fan his lust for revenge. “I think he may not have many bullets left, and that’s why he isn’t shooting at the ponies. He cannot move from those rocks as long as we are here. He cannot get to water or feed his ponies.”

  “Neither can we,” Little Deer said, his thinking uncluttered with intense thoughts of vengeance. “If he is truly a spirit, maybe he doesn’t need water.” Placing his hand on Red Bull’s shoulder, he spoke to him in the calm tones of a longtime friend. “Red Bull, as war chief, you must think of the warriors already lost to this white ghost. If we continue to attack this spirit, we will lose more. How many is enough?”

  The words of reason from his friend began to sink into Red Bull’s mind, and he realized his responsibility to his
warriors had been temporarily misplaced by his overpowering desire to kill this white ghost. Little Deer was right. He had already lost too many warriors in his pursuit of Wanigi Ska, and a war chief who cannot protect his men will soon lose his position of respect. “You are right, my friend,” he said, calm now at last. “We must not lose another warrior. It is for me alone to finish this thing.” Before Little Deer could say more, Red Bull rose to his feet.

  Clay glanced behind him to see if Rachael was all right. She answered his inquiring glance with a brave nod of her head. When he shifted his gaze back to the valley, he was surprised to see one of the warriors standing unprotected on the crest of the grassy swale. He recognized the man as the short, powerfully built war chief. Raising his rifle, he aimed at the beaded breast plate the warrior wore. His finger slowly squeezing down on the trigger, he hesitated, curious as to why a man would offer himself as such an inviting target. He eased the pressure on the trigger and waited.

  “I am Red Bull, Lakota,” the warrior called out. “I say, come and fight me, hand to hand. We will settle this between the two of us, and no more shall die.”

  Clay thought the challenge over for a moment. Looking at the muscular frame of the warrior, he could well imagine why Red Bull proposed a fight. “Why do you attack me?” Clay finally answered. “I am only trying to take this woman to safety.”

  “You have killed many of my people.”

  Clay was a man of better than average intelligence, so his first inclination was to simply put a bullet into the Indian where he stood. But he realized that he and Rachael could be pinned down behind these boulders indefinitely, until they ran out of bullets, or water, or both. Thinking primarily of Rachael’s welfare, he considered it might be possible to bargain with this savage for her safety. With that in mind, he called out to Red Bull, “If I fight you and win, will you let us go in peace?”

  “You have my oath. I will tell my warriors to let you go in peace.”

  “I will fight you,” Clay decided. “But if you kill me, you must agree to let the woman go unharmed. Agreed?”

  Smiling his satisfaction, Red Bull eagerly conceded. “Agreed. The woman shall go free.”

  Having no knowledge of the Lakota language, Rachael was at a complete loss as to what was about to transpire. Clay had stopped shooting, and he and one of the Indians were shouting something back and forth between them. Frightened and confused, she was astonished to see Clay rise from his position behind the boulder and lower himself back down to her. “What is it?” she asked anxiously. “Are they leaving?”

  “No,” he replied calmly. “But don’t worry. We decided to settle it between us, me and the war chief.” When he saw the look of alarm in her face, he assured her that she was going to be all right. “When this is over, they’ve agreed to let you leave unharmed—with or without me.”

  She realized then that he had bargained with his life for her safety, and she protested, “I can’t let you do this! We can stay right where we are until they go away.” Reaching for the rifle on her saddle sling, she said, “I can shoot a gun.”

  He stopped her. “We’d be all right for a while, but we’ll soon run out of water. They could wait us out forever, and sooner or later, they’re gonna send half of that war party around to come up over this hill above us.”

  Still she protested, “How can you trust them? They will shoot us down as soon as we leave these rocks.”

  “They ain’t gonna shoot us,” he said confidently. “That war chief wants to claim the honor of killin’ me in a fight just between him and me. He’s got some kind of notion that I’m a spirit or somethin’—thinks it’d be a great honor to kill me.”

  “What will happen to me?”

  He gave her a smile. “Why, nothin’—I ain’t plannin’ to lose.” He handed her his rifle. “You just stay right here, and when it’s over, just get on that horse and ride right on out toward the end of the valley. Hold your horse back to a slow walk. Don’t pay no mind to what the Indians are doin’. Just look straight ahead and ride on out. Can you do that?”

  She nodded, but it was with great misgivings that she stepped aside to watch him leave. His instructions to her seemed to be pointed toward an outcome that didn’t include him.

  * * *

  Looking toward the mountain peaks and the sky above them, Red Bull offered a silent prayer of thanks to Wakan’ tanka for helping him find Wanigi Ska. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, filling his lungs. It was a good day to fight. He felt strong and confident as he took off his deerskin shirt, and felt the cool afternoon breeze on his bare torso. Heavily muscled through the shoulders, like the bull from which he had taken his name, he took courage in the knowledge that he had never been beaten in contests of strength among the men of his tribe. Dropping his shirt upon the ground, he laid his weapons on it, all but his knife, which he would use to take the scalp of the white ghost. When he saw Clay step out in the open, and start toward him, he walked to meet him. Behind him, he could hear the excited murmuring of his warriors, as they formed a semicircle that moved in step with him. The two combatants met on a level patch of grass, some fifty yards from the boulders where Rachael waited, her heart almost refusing to beat in her anxiety.

  “You are Wanigi Ska,” Red Bull stated, “the one who rides the high slopes.”

  “I am who I am,” Clay replied. “If you see me as Wanigi Ska, then know that I do not seek to kill you, or any of your brothers. It would be no dishonor if we went our separate ways and parted in peace.” Clay searched the powerful warrior’s eyes. It was important to the war chief that Clay should be more than just an ordinary man. That much was obvious. So Clay didn’t deny it. Standing a full head taller than his bull-like adversary, Clay looked around him as the Lakota warriors pressed in around them, curious to get a close look at the spirit they called Wanigi Ska. He couldn’t help but wonder if he might have made a huge mistake. Nothing to do about it now, he thought, but to go ahead and play the hand I dealt myself.

  “Give us room!” Red Bull commanded, and the warriors took a few steps back. Clay drew his knife from his belt, and stepped forward. Crouching slightly, his weight evenly balanced between his feet, he readied himself to react to Red Bull’s attack. The war chief did not charge into him, as Clay expected. Instead, the heavily muscled Lakota began moving slowly around him, his arms spread slightly, as if balancing on a high wire. Clay was hit suddenly with the thought that he was the novice in this contest. Red Bull had obviously participated in like competition before, though maybe not for the stakes of this match. It seemed apparent that the Indian wanted Clay to make the first move, so Clay resisted the urge to set upon his opponent.

  After several long moments during which the two continued to size up each other, Red Bull finally gave in to his long-awaited desire to battle the white ghost. With a sudden war cry that pierced the heavy atmosphere, he sprang at Clay. Even though day anticipated the charge. Red Bull was quicker than he expected, driving a massive shoulder into Clay’s midsection. The force of the charge sent Clay reeling backward a few steps, as Red Bull’s warriors took up his battle cry. But the tall scout was able to stay on his feet.

  Red Bull had hoped to use his strength to gain leverage on the taller man and slam him to the ground in one sudden burst. But Clay recovered his balance in time to catch the warrior’s knife hand as Red Bull attempted to slash him. With his wrist clamped in a vise-like grip, Red Bull tried to pull away in order to protect himself from Clay’s knife. Unable to break the powerful grip, he grabbed Clay’s wrist with his free hand, and the two engaged in a contest of power, straining against each other, each man trying to free his knife hand. This struggle lasted for several long seconds with no man gaining the advantage. Surprised by the strength of his adversary. Red Bull tired of the stalemate. In a move as quick as that of a mountain lion, he suddenly dropped to his back, pulling Clay after him. Before Clay could resist, Red Bull planted his feet in Clay’s stomach and threw the mountain man over his shou
lder. Reacting immediately, Clay pulled his knees up so that he rolled when he landed, and was on his feet again before Red Bull could take advantage. Shifting his knife to his left hand, he squared himself to meet the Indian’s headlong charge. Waiting, poised, until Red Bull was almost upon him, he suddenly took a step forward, and threw a hard right that caught the charging warrior flush on the nose. Red Bull’s feet went out from under him, and he landed flat on his back.

  Startled by the unexpected use of the white man’s fist, the other warriors murmured their disapproval. Red Bull scrambled to his feet. Clay waited patiently, watching his adversary carefully. Though Red Bull was somewhat wobbly from the solid blow to his nose, his anger drove him to attack again. The trickle of blood that now began to form on his upper lip served to further infuriate him, and although wary of the taller man’s fists, he rushed recklessly at Clay. When Clay feinted with his right hand, Red Bull quickly raised his arm to block the blow. When he did, Clay came up under the outstretched arm, sinking his knife up to the hilt beneath the war chief’s rib cage.

  Already bloodied from a broken nose, a shocked look of surprise covered Red Bull’s face, and he grunted from the force of the fatal thrust as if the wind had been knocked from his lungs. For a few moments, while his life drained away, he struggled to retaliate, but his wrist was imprisoned firmly in Clay’s grip. Finally, he could resist no more, and his body sagged. Jerking his knife out of Red Bull’s gut, Clay stepped back to permit the lifeless body to slump to the ground. The contest over, he stood patiently awaiting his fate, unsure of the consequences of his victory.