by Ron Schwab
Finally, terminating the uneasy silence, Tom rose and moved to wash his tin plate in the boiling kettle of water at the fire's edge. "Better hit the sack pretty soon," he murmured.
Tom and Joe stretched out their bedrolls side by side not far from the fire. Tom felt his small party should sleep in reasonably close proximity in case of surprise attack, but he was reluctant to mention it to Sarah. Again, his concerns were unfounded as Sarah approached his sleeping place and, without comment, rolled out her blankets next to his. With a quick, distrustful glance at Tom, Stone Dog positioned himself on the other side of Sarah. Sarah pulled off her boots and slipped swiftly into the blankets, falling instantly into a deep, exhausted slumber.
Tom unfastened his gun belt and placed it within easy reach, not far from his head. Tugging at his damp boots, he glanced to his right and winced at the sight of Joe grinning mockingly at him in the dark. The mulatto winked knowingly and rolled over.
Looking uneasily to his left, his eyes paused on the peaceful, now almost childlike, face of the young woman turned to him in her sleep. As he stretched out in his blankets, Sarah stirred momentarily and edged closer to him. He could not escape the erotic images that danced in his brain when he felt her soft body pressing innocently against him through the blankets. Then his southern conscience chastised him harshly. Was he really any better than the man who had raped this young woman?
Tom was not a man of vast sexual experience, but he had romped with a few whores in his time and was secure in his manhood. He had even pierced the virginity of a snobbish, but very horny, young woman during an intimate interlude in Cheyenne while he was on a brief furlough from Fort Laramie. He had gone on from his earlier escapades with no feelings of remorse or guilt.
Why was he caught up in this cross fire of emotions when it came to Sarah? Sometimes, she seemed so alone and vulnerable, he wanted to hold and protect her; at other times she appeared so strong and competent, he was compelled to fight and establish his own dominance. There were times he just wanted to be alone with Sarah, to talk and share. But now, he just wanted her. Damn, he thought, I'm losing my mind. Eventually, he escaped into an uneasy and tormented sleep.
10
ALMOST FORTY MILES upriver, embers of another fire glowed in the dark, still night. The blond fair-skinned boy huddled at the base of a gnarled oak was a sharp contrast to the brown, black-haired men hunkered around the fire.
Billy Kesterson's round, blue eyes darted uncertainly from face to face. He was frightened. After Bear and Lone Badger had been joined by another band, the raiders had embarked on an orgy of slaughter, burning, and looting. He had caught a glimpse of his father's gory body, and the matted scalp hanging from Lone Badger's belt was a continual reminder of his mother's fate. Bear had bragged that one of the warriors had remained behind to deal with Sarah, but he had overheard Bear grumbling and fretting because the Indian had not shown up yet.
He had learned quickly not to resist. The reddish-purple mass covering the right side of his face attested to what he could expect if he refused to cooperate.
Billy gazed somberly at the fire, listening to, but not comprehending, the alien gibberish of his Oglala captors. Bear and Long Badger spoke alternately in English and Sioux dialect, often shifting from one language to the other in the middle of a conversation.
Billy had ridden exhaustedly with the Sioux as they blazed their bloody trail along the Little Blue valley. He had seen other children murdered ruthlessly, but no other captives were taken. Bear roughed him up at every opportunity but made no further attempts on his life.
Lone Badger was the leader of the little band and made it clear to the others that Billy was under his protection. The stocky Oglala had lashed Billy's bare back viciously on several occasions since his capture and struck Billy's face repeatedly when he had struggled to escape. Once Billy ceased his resistance, however, the Sioux became more subdued, almost motherly, on occasion. He made an onion-smelling plaster and administered it gently to the inflamed welts that peppered Billy's back and, although Billy's wrists were still bound in front of him, the Indian had untied his ankles so he could move about more freely. Billy brightened with the improved treatment, but fear had crept into his eyes earlier that evening when Lone Badger, grinning devilishly, had stooped down and run his hand up and down the inside of Billy's thigh, pinching at his rump much like his father used to do when he was picking a fat hog to butcher.
Billy's attention was drawn away from the flickering fire when he observed Lone Badger and another warrior mounting their ponies and riding silently out of the camp. Turning back to the fire, his eyes met Bear glaring scornfully at him across the small flame. The big man's lips parted in an evil, toothless smile, and he rose sluggishly and hobbled stiffly over to the boy. The Indians were oblivious to his movement as they continued their incessant chatter. He bent down, his face almost touching Billy's, his rancid breath tainting Billy's nostrils. Grabbed by panic, Billy tried to back away. Bear's hand shot out snatching Billy's hair, savagely jerking his head forward.
"You just stay right here, you slimy little bastard," the big man hissed. "The buzzards ought to be pickin’ the bones of your ma and pa by now . . . that prissy, yellow-haired sister of yours, too. But don't you worry, ol' Bear saw that she got a proper fuckin' before she croaked. If it was up to me, you'd be rottin' back there with them."
Billy began to shake uncontrollably. He bit his lips until they turned white, silent tears streaming down his cheeks.
Bear whispered again, his jaw line tightening and the flesh around his eyes crimping, "You know why you're alive, you little pecker? Lone Badger just happens to have a craving for little boys—know what I mean? He's picked you out for something special. He don't have no squaw; just picks himself up a little boy once in a while . . . uses him until he gets tired of him. You're supposed to be a slave. Just you wait until we get back to the village . . . you're gonna be sleepin' with Lone Badger for a bit till he's through with you. Yes, sir, little boy," he chuckled, "that tight little ass of yours is gonna get fucked raw, and then your days are numbered."
Billy pulled away, only partially comprehending, beads of perspiration forming on his forehead. Bear released him, thumping the boy's chin sharply and ramming him forcefully against the tree. He straightened up and, unbuttoning his trousers, the giant stumbled into the woods, giggling idiotically to himself.
Later that night, Billy was jarred from his fitful sleep by a sharp kick to his buttocks. "Get your ass movin', kid," Bear growled, "Lone Badger says the raidin's done, and we're headin' for the Black Hills. Seems the folks in these parts are kinda upset, and blue bellies are gonna be coming from Fort Omaha."
In minutes, the Oglala warriors were ready to ride and led their horses into the brush on the first leg of their long journey across Nebraska to the Black Hills of southwestern South Dakota. As they departed, Billy looked forlornly over his shoulder, despair clouding his tear-filled eyes.
11
STONE DOG WASN'T anywhere in sight. He roamed far ahead of the others, trying to pick up signs of the raiders. The first several days they had followed a bloody, smoky trail across the flatlands, and Stone Dog guessed they had closed the gap to about ten hours.
As they neared the headwaters of the Little Blue, the Sioux raids seemed to peter out. Early this morning, they had paused for drinking water at a place called the Elm Creek Stockade, where a ruddy-faced man named Keeney reported that the Sioux had launched a half-hearted attack the previous afternoon. The homestead was protected by a picketed log fence some seven feet high that encompassed a large log house and outbuildings. Several families apparently occupied the tiny fortress and, upon being greeted by a rain of rifle fire, the Indians rode hastily away heading northwest, according to Keeney.
After they had retreated from the stockade, the Sioux evidently started to move at a breakneck pace. Joe pointed out that the Indians could travel for hours without food or rest, and the stamina of the smaller, lightly load
ed Sioux ponies would enable them to outdistance the larger, heavier-laden mounts of their pursuers. Tom worried that their earlier gains would soon be frittered away.
It was late afternoon. A light cloud cover dimmed the sun's rays; it was cool for late August. Tom scratched the dusty, rust-colored stubble that was starting to form a healthy beard on his previously clean-shaven face. He looked over his shoulder at Joe and Sarah whose mounts plodded wearily some distance behind his own.
Joe, like the Pawnee, seemed unaffected by the grueling trek. He sat erect in his saddle, his eyes continually scanning the horizon like an eagle in search of prey. Joe was really Pawnee in spirit; strange, but Tom hadn't realized how much before. Indeed, this tough, strapping man, at this moment, looked every inch the confident, indomitable black bull for which his Pawnee brothers had named him.
Sarah never complained, but her wind-burned face was drawn, and dark circles under her eyes gave them a hollow look that vouched for her fatigue. She had become increasingly distant and remote, and her eyes had again taken on that cold, unfeeling look of their first meeting.
Tom's reasoned judgment told him they should give up the chase, but he knew he could not bring himself to suggest it. There was little doubt that Sarah would go on alone, and none of the men would turn back under those circumstances.
This afternoon, the party had ridden into rugged, hillier country again, and now they waited at the end of a deep canyon where a clear, shallow stream wound like a snake through dry, sandy grasslands bounded on each side by steep, jutting sandstone cliffs. Tom marveled at the sculpture-like formations created by nature along the face of the cliffs. Smooth, corrugated ridges that ran sideways at one point along the reddish-brown wall were so evenly spaced they reminded him of a giant washboard. Studying the sheer, canyon walls, Tom could make out a series of small cavities and niches pocking one imposing bluff at the near end of the canyon. An expansive overhang stuck out like an overhanging porch above the indentations, forming a chain of cave-like apartments about fifteen to twenty feet above the canyon floor.
Turning his eyes to the far end of the chasm, Tom could make out Stone Dog's stumpy form astride the durable paint, snaking his way hastily along the harder, rocky footing that fringed the stream. He was moving fast—too fast.
A few minutes later, as the heaving pony galloped closer, Tom read the grim look in the old Pawnee's face. Bad news.
"What's wrong, Stone Dog?" he called as the Indian approached.
"No more trail. No sign." He shook his head soberly. Then, pointing to the greenish, charcoal-colored clouds starting to roll and gyrate ominously in the west, he observed, "Bad storm."
From the unusual concern reflected in the Pawnee's single eye, Tom suspected that his comment was an understatement. "How about those caves?" he asked, pointing toward the sandstone bluffs.
"Good cover," Stone Dog replied.
"All right," Tom commanded, "let's get going." He turned his mare toward the chasm walls. Even as they neared the cliffs, a heavy drizzle drenched their shirts. Abruptly, a deafening clap of thunder echoed through the canyon, and they were engulfed by sheets of intense, driving rain. Stone Dog located a spacious rounded depression at the base of the cliffs where the horses could be secured. The travelers dismounted and unsaddled their horses, stowing their heavier gear at the deepest point of the rocky depression.
Tom led the way up a craggy, narrow ledge to a wide, flat shelf protruding from the bluff. There, they came upon a cluster of small grottoes protected by stone overhangs thrusting outward from the cliff walls above. The larger caves were four to five feet in height and several cut as deep as eight feet into the granular sandstone walls.
Sarah quickly claimed one of the narrower caves, and the men tossed their wet bedrolls and some of the food supplies in an adjacent, wider alcove.
Stone Dog and Joe clambered back down the ledge and returned shortly with armloads of soggy firewood. Tom helped Sarah build a fire in her little cave, and the other two men started a larger cooking fire in their own abode.
By this time, they were saturated, water dripping from their clothes. Tom suggested they eat before drying out for the night. Sarah, her cropped hair wet and knotted, joined her companions for a meager supper of black coffee and hardtack. They ate voraciously, and as the hot coffee did its work, Tom's spirits lifted.
He turned to Sarah, sitting apart from the others, wolfing down her rations in silence, and was struck by the misery and desolation he saw in her eyes—disturbed by the depression he felt was overtaking her. Finishing his supper, Tom suggested, "Sarah, let me take care of the cleanup. You'd better get out of those wet clothes and get dried off." Shaking her head in agreement, she slipped quietly back to her own habitation.
Stone Dog was already shedding his wet garments, and Joe and Tom joined him, stretching the drenched clothes on forked, upright sticks near the fire. Tom found a dry pair of faded denim breeches wrapped in his bedroll and pulled them on. Shirtless and barefoot, he crept closer to the fire in order to capture some of its welcome heat. With some effort, he choked back his laughter when he looked across the fire and saw his two unclothed friends sitting there like naked scarecrows, half-witted smiles spread across their sleepy, contented faces.
"Hey, Joe," he said.
The mulatto lifted his droopy head. "Yeah."
"You know, right now you look just like that expression you're always using," Tom said.
"Which one's that?"
"Pleased as a pig pissin’,” Tom laughed. He ducked as a twig streaked past his ear.
As the evening wore on, the rain pounded even harder against their stony dwelling, and a tornado like wind moved in from the southwest with titanic force. The men, their backs to the wall of the cave, gazed dreamily into the fire, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, Tom decided he had better check on Sarah, and he crawled noiselessly out of the cave. As he crept out, he was pelted by stinging rain and hail, and he stepped swiftly along the rocky outcropping. He ducked down and squirmed into Sarah's tiny shelter, water streaming down his bare neck and back. He stopped short and started to back out when he realized that she was huddled naked in front of the fire with a gray wool blanket pulled over her shoulders and wrapped loosely about her body.
"Hello, Tom," she said softly, and motioning for him to take a place beside her, "sit down and stay awhile."
He swallowed hard when he caught a glimpse of a tender-looking pink nipple set on a firm, rounded breast. His eyes moved upward, meeting hers, and he knew instantly she had been aware of where his eyes had wandered. Tom was discomfited. He had felt like this once before when the Red Oaks cook had caught him and Joe sneaking out the kitchen door with a fresh-baked cherry pie.
Seemingly unembarrassed, Sarah pulled the blanket tighter around her body, removing further temptation from his eyes.
Tom scooted next to Sarah, not daring to look directly at her. He pretended to be entranced by the crackling, darting flames of the fire, but he was helpless to thwart an occasional glimpse of Sarah's shapely white legs out of the corners of his eyes.
After an awkward silence that seemed interminable to Tom, he turned his head slightly toward Sarah. "Are you all right, Sarah?"
She tilted her head toward his and he saw, for the first time, huge, glistening tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto the blanket and making widening dark splotches as they soaked in. She shivered and trembled as if her whole body had been palsy-stricken.
"Tom," she said, her haunting eyes meeting his directly, "will we find Billy?"
He hesitated only a moment and then placed his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, as he responded gently and reassuringly, "Yes, Sarah, we'll find Billy."
She leaned against him, the blanket slipping partially off her shoulders, and buried her head in the soft, sandy hair of his bare chest, her arms clenched tightly around his firm waist. She sobbed uncontrollably, almost hysterically, and he could feel the wetness sp
illing down his chest and belly as he was bathed by her flood of tears. A terrorizing crack of lightning reverberated off the canyon walls; she tensed and grasped him tighter. He felt the warmth and softness of her near-naked body against him, and with a terrifying sense of longing, he wanted to take her then, but he was angry at himself that the thought even found a spot in his mind after what the young woman had experienced the past few days. Instead, he tugged the blanket back around her shoulders and cradled her gently in his arms until she cried herself to sleep.
Shifting his body to lie down, but moving carefully so as not to awaken Sarah, Tom kissed her forehead lightly and stretched out next to her, enfolding her in his arms, and somehow, warm and comfortable, he easily drifted to sleep.
12
SUMMER RETURNED JUST as quickly as it had left. Green blanketed the canyon floor again, and even the fine, olive-gray buffalo grass, normally unperturbed by drought and wind, sparkled and exhibited new vigor. The sandy chasm bottom was springy and soggy, but otherwise all traces of the storm had vanished.
Saddling the horses, Tom looked over at Sarah, and she responded with an impish wink and a quick, warm smile. My God, what now? This was a side of her he hadn't seen before.
When he had awakened this morning, Sarah was already up and dressed and had breakfast on the fire in the larger cave. A cheerful, genial Sarah had greeted him when he stumbled in. It was almost as if she had exorcised some devil from her mind last night. She was still a headstrong, gritty, young woman, but this morning a blithe, warmhearted side of Sarah had blossomed—or come back.
Tom returned Sarah's smile. Damn, she looked almost boyish in that outfit with her short, cropped hair and the straw hat pulled down to within an inch of her eyebrows, but he knew better. What he saw was all woman.
Joe and Stone Dog were mounted. Tom's eyes caught Joe's and the latter's mouth stretched into a wide, knowing grin. Tom stepped into his saddle and edged his horse past Joe. He whispered, “You say one word, and I'll drive your grin down your throat." Joe laughed hysterically. Sarah and the Pawnee stared at Joe quizzically as Tom pushed his mare on ahead at a fast gait.