Bloody Hills

by Charles G. West

  When Red Bull fell, there was an instantaneous gasp of disbelief from the warriors crowded around the two combatants, followed by the demands for vengeance from several angry voices. Clay feared he must now pay a price for killing the war chief. He prepared to meet the attack that seemed inevitable. “Kill Wanigi Ska!” a voice cried, followed by several others that cried out for the white man’s blood. The warriors began to close in around Clay.

  “Wait!” Little Deer commanded. “Red Bull gave this man his word that he would go free. You dishonor Red Bull’s word if you kill Wanigi Ska now.” It was enough to cause hesitation among the angry warriors. Little Deer had given the matter of the white ghost considerable thought over the last few days while they had raced to catch up with the white man and woman. He now gave voice to those thoughts. “Ghost or man, he has only killed when he himself was attacked. Who among us would do otherwise? Though he has roamed in our sacred mountains, he has not spoiled the land, looking for the yellow dirt. Now he wants to leave Paha Sapa. It would be wrong for us to dishonor Red Bull’s word, and kill this man.”

  Reluctantly, the warriors heeded Little Deer’s words. Though he spoke not a word, Clay paused to express a silent thanks to Little Deer. The Lakota met his gaze, and nodded in response, both men acknowledging their respect for the other. Then Clay turned, and the warriors parted as he walked back to the rocks where Rachael waited.

  Little Deer watched the departing scout until he disappeared behind the boulders. Then he turned to the others and said, “Come, let us take care of our fallen brother.”

  Chapter 14

  It appeared that summer might finally make her appearance when Rachael and Clay struck the Platte. The past two mornings had come without the spring chill that had heralded every sunrise in the mountains of Paha Sapa. While the hint of summer was welcome, it did not warm the dark corridors of Rachael’s soul. Gradually over the last several days—as the terror of the Black Hills trailed farther and farther behind her—her mind began to unlock some of the secrets it had been reluctant to recall. And then, upon seeing the wide, sprawling waters of the Platte, memories came flooding back in vivid detail. Billy Ray—and Henry Izard—the names stung her heart like darts, and she suddenly felt soiled when she recalled the horror she had endured.

  Clay couldn’t help but notice Rachael’s growing despondency. Ordinarily, the woman had little to say, as she rode easily in the saddle, no longer straining forward in the stirrups as when he had first met her. But on this morning, on the northern bank of the Platte, there was a deep concern etched in her face, and her mind seemed to be far removed from the simple camp they had established the night before. “I reckon we’d better get started,” he finally said, pouring the dregs from the coffeepot on the small fire. According to what she had told him, Dry Fork was still close to three full days away. “Are you ready to ride,” he prodded, hoping to get her to talk. Showing signs of severe weariness, she would only reply with a nod, before getting to her feet.

  The flood of memories was complete by the time the cottonwoods lining the banks of Horse Creek came into view. Each vile indignity upon her body during her captivity came back now to assault her mind, tormenting her with images of Billy Ray’s scornful smile. Her desperate desire to escape the hell she had known in the Black Hills was now replaced with a deep dread of returning to the settlement of Dry Fork—a town in which she and Will had not really lived long enough to call home. She felt that everyone would know what she had suffered at the hands of Billy Ray, as if her soiled past was written upon her face. It promised to be a sorrowful homecoming, but where else could she go? At this juncture in her life, Dry Fork was all she had.

  Clay guided the gray Indian pony into the dark waters of Horse Creek, and pulled up on the other side to wait for Rachael to cross. When she caught up to him, she announced somewhat reluctantly, “I guess I know the way from here. It’s not but a day’s ride.” The finality of it hadn’t really struck her until that moment, but she now realized how dependent upon the tall scout she had become. What had been only days since Clay had found her seemed like years, and she dreaded the thought of going on alone without him to guide and protect her.

  She made an effort to put on a brave face as she waited for his farewell. The thought of returning to Dry Fork alone was not one of a pleasant homecoming. Although all but the most recent bruises and cuts were healed, she felt that her shame was still there to be read by everyone in the town. Feeling Clay’s steady gaze upon her, she looked up to meet his eyes. Tall and powerful, he was never wasteful of words, saying more with a smile or gesture than most men conveyed in speeches.

  Reading the thoughts behind the contrived expression of confidence, he smiled at her and spoke. “I reckon I’d best see you to your home.” When she attempted a weak protest, he interrupted. “It’ll give me peace of mind,” he insisted. Leaving room for no more discussion on the matter, he wheeled the gray and started out on the trail to Dry Fork. Relieved and grateful, Rachael followed.

  * * *

  Sonny Demry was the first to spot the travelers. Raking some wet hay from the back stall of the stable, he glanced up to see the two riders approaching the north end of town. Unable to identify them at a distance, he walked around to the front of the stable for a better view. As they came closer, he knew he had never seen the big man leading the packhorse, but in a moment, he realized the person following was Rachael Andrews. “Well, I’ll be . . .” he muttered, dropped his rake and ran to the sheriff’s office to tell Walt Collins.

  The recently installed sheriff greeted his stable boy’s news with mild curiosity. “You sure it’s Rachael?” he asked as he got up from the desk. When Sonny assured him that it was none other, Walt walked out to stand on the front steps. He looked toward the end of the street, where the riders were now passing his stable. “That ain’t Lon with her. That’s Rachael, all right, but that sure ain’t Lon.” He glanced at Sonny. “Better run on over to tell the mayor. I expect he’s over at the Lucky Spur, having his evening drink.”

  While Sonny departed at a trot, Walt turned back to await the riders, now approaching his office. There was going to be a slight problem when Rachael found out Wilson Greenwell had moved into her old house. His wife, Peggy, had a high school education, so the mayor had decided to appoint her the new schoolteacher. Walt guessed someone would take Rachael in. To be honest about it, no one in Dry Fork ever expected to see Rachael or Lon again. Well, he thought, that’s the mayor’s problem to deal with. At least, he won’t have to tell Lon he’s out of a job. He stepped off the front step, and walked out in the street to meet them. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw John Castleberry hurrying from the saloon, a concerned look upon his face. The mayor was followed by Sonny Demry and Pete Svensen.

  “Well, I’ll be damned!” Castleberry exclaimed when he walked up beside the sheriff. “It is Rachael. But who the hell’s the big fellow with her?”

  “Nobody I know,” Walt replied, still studying the formidable figure riding easy in the saddle.

  Clay pulled up to let Rachael go before him when they got to the sheriff’s office. Castleberry stepped forward, seemingly to welcome her back. “Well, Rachael,” he began, “we were all worrying about you. I’m glad to see you’re all right.” An interested observer, Clay listened while, in his opinion, the mayor of Dry Fork delivered a somewhat less than emotional welcome. He got the distinct impression that it seemed more like the return of a problem child. The mayor went on. “What happened to Lon?” Castleberry asked, all the while eyeing the buckskin-clad stranger behind her.

  Following his inquiring gaze, Rachael said, “This is Clay Culver. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Well, I guess we owe you our thanks then,” Castleberry said, manufacturing a smile for the imposing stranger.

  Clay nodded acknowledgment of the mayor’s gesture, but said nothing. He remained an interested observer as Rachael explained that Lon had been killed by Billy Ray, and that Dry Fork�
��s infamous son had, in turn, been killed himself. She did not go into vivid details of Billy Ray’s demise. Clay doubted that she retained a clear picture of the incident of that horrible experience. He was somewhat amazed by the lack of emotion from either the mayor or the sheriff. He would have expected a much more enthusiastic homecoming for someone so long missing.

  In a matter of minutes, they were joined by Cyrus Brumby, who hurried from his general store when he realized what the gathering was about. “As I live and breathe,” he exclaimed when he approached them. “Rachael, we thought you were dead.”

  “Mr. Brumby,” Rachael acknowledged politely. Turning back to Castleberry, she said, “I want to go home now. We’ve been riding for many days.”

  Brumby and the sheriff both shot sideways glances at the mayor. Castleberry paused a moment, reluctant to give her the news that she no longer had a home. Unable to think of any way to soften it, he said, “Well, now, Rachael, that’s gonna be a problem. Wilson Greenwell and his family moved into your old house. Him and Peggy have those four young’uns. That doesn’t leave a lot of room, but they might take you in.” When he saw the instant look of disbelief, he hastened to remind her, “You know the town built that house, and to be honest, we never expected you’d make it back from Injun territory.”

  With his disgust growing by the second, Clay watched the homecoming until he could hold his tongue no longer. “What about the house Greenwell moved from?” he asked.

  “Burned down,” Walt Collins answered. “That’s why Wilson had to move.”

  Rachael was at a loss for words. Peggy Greenwell had been one of only two women in town who had made her feel welcome when she and Will moved in—the other being Doris Castleberry. She could think of no others she might turn to. As if reading her thoughts, the mayor was quick to remark, “I’d offer to have you come move in with us, but with the new baby, we don’t have any room.”

  Cyrus Brumby quickly chimed in, “I reckon the situation’s the same with us.” He looked around him, seeking confirmation from the mayor and Walt. “Lord knows we ain’t got room enough now for my brood. If it weren’t for that . . .”

  “Where are my things?” Rachael interrupted, hardly able to believe the cold reception from her former neighbors. She had not expected an especially warm welcome, but neither had she anticipated being regarded as a problem returned.

  “Well, you know there wasn’t much,” Castleberry replied, “a few keepsakes that Wilson has in the back of his print shop. But most of Wilson’s furniture was lost when the house burned.” He paused. “And you know . . .”

  “I know,” she finished his sentence, “the town built most of our furniture.” Forgetting the silent scout seated upon the gray Indian pony behind her, she allowed her shoulders to slump in despair as she realized that she was truly alone in the world—and for some unfathomable reason, no longer welcome here. After what she had endured at the hands of Billy Ray, she could not understand why God chose to punish her further.

  As a token of his misplaced compassion, the mayor offered a suggestion. “Willett Burns has still got that room in the back of his saloon. You might be able to stay there until you work something out.”

  The pathetic irony of the suggestion struck her like a cold steel spike in her heart—the back room of the Lucky Spur—the room where Billy Ray used to live. “I think not,” she stated defiantly. “I’ll find someplace else.”

  Clay had heard enough. “Rachael, there’s still a little bit of daylight left. Get on your horse, and we’ll make camp on the trail. I can’t wait to get the stink of this place out of my nostrils. I’ve gotten a better welcome from a nest of badgers.” When she looked up at him, perplexed, he explained, “I’m taking you to Canyon Creek. There’s a lady there who’ll be tickled to have some company. You’ll like her.” I know I do, he thought.

  “There’s no cause for remarks like that,” Castleberry responded, feeling a need to justify the town’s reputation.

  “After what this lady’s been through, you folks oughta be ashamed of yourselves.” Looking back at a befuddled Rachael, he softened his tone. “It’ll be all right, ma’am. Go ahead and get on your horse. I can’t understand why you wanted to come back to this badger hole, anyway.”

  Feeling as if he should be backing up his mayor, the sheriff issued a warning. “Hold on there, mister. Maybe you’d better keep your opinions to yourself.”

  His patience with the mealymouthed townsfolk exhausted, Clay shot back, “Or what?” He fixed Walt with a steely gaze. “Right now, I’d love to take this town apart.”

  The men standing around the sheriff unconsciously backed away from him, anticipating the possibility of a violent reaction. Walt, however, made no move toward the stranger. Oftentimes the bully, and always the man respected for his strength, the sheriff was not a complete fool. There was something in the steady gaze of this buckskin-clad scout that conveyed a distinct message of confidence. He looked fully capable of backing up his threat. Walt decided he was not being paid enough to test this mountain man.

  Sensing that his sheriff was not going to answer the obvious challenge just issued, Castleberry was quick to intercede. “There’s no need to get crossways with each other here over a little misunderstanding.” Turning to Rachael, who was already taking Clay’s advice to mount, he said, “I’m sorry things are what they are, Rachael. I’m sure we can find some place for you, though, if you want to stay.”

  With a look of disgust for him, she replied, “I think I agree with Clay. I need to get the stink of this town out of my nostrils as well.” Turning to Clay, she smiled. “It looks like I’ll never be able to repay my debt to you. But if you think Canyon Creek will have me, then I’m ready to go.” Looking back at the mayor, she announced, “I want my things.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Castleberry quickly replied, and turned to Sonny Demry. “Go fetch Wilson Greenwell. Tell him we need to get into the print shop.”

  * * *

  Katie Mashburn stepped back and cast a scalding glare upon the stubborn honeysuckle root that insisted upon establishing residence in the middle of her sweet peas. “By God, you’re coming out of there if I have to hitch up the horse to drag you out,” she threatened. Taking a solid stance, her feet spread wide, she prepared to have another round with the defiant root, when suddenly she sensed something. Standing up straight again, she listened, searching for sound foreign to her ears. Turning around to face the ridge that bordered her piece of the valley, she saw him. Halfway down the ridge, he sat motionless on his horse, watching her battle with the root. She couldn’t actually see it at this distance, but she knew there was a wide grin upon his face. “Damn you, Clay Culver,” she muttered, in actuality cursing her heart for beating with excitement each time she saw the tall scout.

  Seeing that Katie had spotted him, Clay nudged the gray, and proceeded down the slope. Hands on her hips, like a mother awaiting a wayward son, she watched, only mildly surprised when she saw the woman emerging from the trees behind him. “Another stray,” she muttered in false exasperation. In reality, though she would never admit it, she looked forward to some company. She already knew whoever the woman might be, she would be welcome company. Otherwise, Clay would not have brought her to Canyon Creek. As long as he ain’t coming to introduce his wife, she thought. Nah, he knows I’d kill him if he did.