by Ron Schwab
The buck, picking up the movement behind him, threw Sarah harshly to the ground and leaped for his rifle as Tom bore down. Just as the Sioux pulled the rifle to his shoulder to fire, Tom's saber hacked like a timber axe into the Indian's forearm, slashing well into the bone. The rifle clanked against the shale as it bounced under the Indian's pony, and blood formed pools on the ground as it spewed from his mangled arm. With his good hand, he pulled a keen, narrow-bladed knife from a wrinkled, buckskin sheath hanging at his side, and, with a blood-curdling yell, leaped in the air toward Tom who stumbled backwards, thrusting the sword with a mighty, upward drive, as he fell to the ground. The Sioux fell after him, the sword impaling him through the midsection, its bloody point emerging near his spine. Tom rose, rolling the Sioux away, withdrawing the saber with a single motion.
Sarah grabbed the reins of the Sioux pony and moved to Tom's side. "Tom, are you all right?" she asked worriedly as he rubbed his tightening, aching shoulder.
"Yeah," he said, breathing heavily. "The old shoulder just wasn't ready for this kind of work yet." Then, turning to her, "What was the idea of running out there like that? What if he had just shot instead of chasing after you?"
"But he didn't," she reminded him.
"Well, I'll say this . . . you're one tough lady," he sighed as he walked away to get a shovel. "But if you were in the army, you'd have been shot by now for insubordination."
"You're a pretty tough hombre, yourself, Captain," she called after him. "But I'm not afraid of tough guys," she added.
26
JOE AND STONE Dog did not return that night, but Tom was not especially alarmed. Stone Dog had indicated they might be gone several days, and they would probably not return until they had located the camp where they thought Billy might be.
Tom had doused the fire before dark. He had left the camp momentarily to relieve his bladder and, as he walked back, his eyes scanned the dark, endless space above him. Not a star in the sky tonight, he observed, and with the wind whipping though the canyon, he could tell it was not going to be a very pleasant night.
Suddenly, he was startled by the appearance of a dark form looming in the creek, and he drew his Peacemaker, crouching instinctively in readiness.
"Hi, Tom," the woman's voice called cheerfully. "Come and join me."
Perplexed, he walked toward Sarah's voice. He stopped abruptly in awe and confusion as he came to the edge of the creek and saw Sarah sitting neck-deep, her back resting against a huge boulder, as the icy waters swept around her. The clothes spread out on top of the boulder confirmed his suspicions that she was stark naked.
"Are you crazy?" he said. "That water's ice-cold freezing."
"My dad always said cold water helped the circulation," Sarah answered. "Helps the smell, too. And, with all due respect, I think you're ready for a bath, Captain Carnes," she teased. She giggled mischievously, and her white, rounded breasts bobbed above the surface momentarily.
Tom gulped and felt that familiar stirring in his trousers again. "Yeah, well, have a nice bath, Sarah," and he started walking back to the shack.
"Captain Carnes," Sarah taunted, "you're a coward and you smell like a billy goat. What's the matter . . . you Johnny Rebs afraid of water?"
Ruffled, Tom made an about face and marched toward Sarah. Shaking his finger at her sternly, he said, "Now, listen, Sarah, there's no call to be this way about—“
"Captain Carnes, would you please be gentleman enough to turn around?" Sarah said disdainfully, as she stood up in the creek. "I swear, you southern gentlemen have no sense of propriety whatever."
Tom turned quickly, catching an ample glimpse of her well-proportioned body in spite of the dark. As she dressed, he could hear the rustling of her clothes, and the images he conjured in his mind nearly drove him wild.
Shortly, Sarah said, slightly more condescending, but still with a tone of mockery, "Good night, Tom. You really do need to take a bath.
He stood there dumbfounded as he watched her walk away. "Oh, what the hell,” he muttered to himself, and he started pulling off his boots. Stripping to the buff, Tom leaped to Sarah's spot in the creek and, slipping on the slick, grease like stones, tumbled backward into the creek. "Jesus Christ!" he screamed as the frigid water swirled around his neck. He shot from the creek like a cat that had its tail stepped on. Shivering uncontrollably and teeth chattering, he pulled on his trousers and, snatching up his other clothes, dashed for the camp.
Sarah was waiting with a blanket to wrap around him. "Oh, you look ever so much healthier, Captain Carnes. Smell better, too, I must say. By the way, they also tell me that a cold bath does wonders for inflamed passions. Is that right, Captain?" she said with mock naivety.
Tom just looked at her in disgusted silence, but his cold, shriveled organ answered in the affirmative.
Later, as Tom curled up his thick bedroll, his shoulder throbbing with dull pain, he felt the damp coldness crawling down from the mountains. It will frost tonight, he thought, and that damn wind won't help anything. He shivered and pulled the blankets over his ears. Then he heard Sarah scooting into her own blankets next to his. Still smarting from her earlier needling, he feigned sleep. He felt Sarah's hand touch his shoulder gingerly.
"Tom," she asked with genuine concern, "your shoulder hurts, doesn't it?"
"Just a little," he responded guardedly.
"Can I rub it for you?" she said, and without waiting for a response, pulled the blanket from his shoulder and began kneading and massaging his back and tender shoulder gently. After a time, his eyelids became heavy, and, as he dropped off to sleep, his last memory was of Sarah snuggling up behind him, emanating a warmth reminiscent of the fireplace at Red Oaks plantation.
27
LATE THE FOLLOWING afternoon, Joe and Stone Dog rode into camp. The Indian's face was impassive and told Tom nothing. As Joe dismounted, however, Tom read trouble in the firm set of his jaw and the grim tightness of his mouth.
"Well, spill it out," Tom said, as he took the two horses.
Joe said, "We're almost positive we found the right Sioux village. Stone Dog says it's an Oglala camp . . . likely Crazy Horse's bunch." Joe went on to explain that he and Stone Dog had observed the village for most of the previous afternoon and then scouted its perimeters early this same morning. They saw no sign of Billy, but they did see a huge, black-bearded man who matched Sarah's description of Bear.
Stone Dog sketched a rough map in the dust as Joe elaborated. The Oglala village was located near one end of an expansive, grassy, spring-fed valley not far from the Little Powder River. One side of the village ended at the base of the same ridge of barren buttes that ultimately led southward to form one flank of the canyon where they were now camped. The other three sides had no natural barriers and blended into lush, open meadows that did not give way to the surrounding mountains for some miles. Protected by the mountains and with bountiful forage for their ponies, the Sioux had probably established a permanent village there, Joe noted.
"You can't ride near the camp from the meadows without being spotted," Joe said. "Stone Dog and I agree that the only way we can get into camp is down the slopes behind. They're steep enough in a few places, but otherwise, they drop off fairly gradual. Anyhow, we want you to hear us out on the plan we've come up with."
Joe pointed out that the slope leading to the camp was impassable for a horse, but it could be scaled without great difficulty by a man. It would be easier to get into the village than to get out, since the exit up the incline would be slow and tedious, exposing the climbers to considerable danger if discovered. Once reaching the mountain crest there were two possible escape routes. One was over a series of trails that branched southwesterly leading ultimately to Fort Fetterman over one hundred miles to the south. The other was southeasterly in the direction of the canyon where they were now camped. There was no town or army outpost for miles, but Fetterman could eventually be reached over this route by making a wide circle eastward to the edge of the Bl
ack Hills and then traveling southwest again.
"Here's what we think we ought to do," said Joe. "Stone Dog and I should climb down into the village and—“anticipating Tom's protest—“if we have to help a little boy out of there, Tom, your gimpy shoulder might keep us from having the edge we need. If you'll think like a soldier, you'll know I'm right." He continued, "We'll find this man called Bear and, one way or the other, we'll find out if Billy's in camp—“ he hesitated and glanced uncomfortably toward Sarah—“or what's happened to him. If the boy's in the village, we'll find him and beat it out of there. Tom, we'll have you and Sarah posted on the hillside to provide us cover if we need it."
"After we get to the top, we'll split up. Stone Dog and I will take the southwest trail toward Fetterman. We'll leave signs for the Sioux to follow, and, since it's the most likely escape route, they'll be more apt to go that way. Tom, you can take Sarah and the boy and head back this way—we'll leave the pack horses and supplies here—stay in the canyon a few days, and then take the long way out. We'll rendezvous at Fetterman; Stone Dog will tell you how to get there before we leave. Even if the Sioux don't swallow the whole bait, we're bound to confuse them and buy more time. Anyhow, Stone Dog says, with winter coming on, the Sioux aren't so interested in making war, and we're likely only to have a few of the more ambitious bucks on our trail. Well, what do you think?"
Sarah said, "I don't know. I'd like to know what Tom has to say about it."
Tom was thoughtfully silent. "There isn't a good plan for this situation," Tom said, "but I think you're right—this is the best we can come up with. I've been to Fetterman and know the country around there pretty well. If Stone Dog can steer me in the right direction, we should be able to make it. When do we go?"
"We figured early afternoon tomorrow," answered Joe. "We can be there in three hours.
“We want to get there before dark so we can try to spot this Bear character, but we won't want to go into the camp until after dark. The Sioux are nervous about traveling at night, and old Stony says they won't look too hard till morning."
"Let's hope they don't look too hard any time," said Tom.
28
BILLY PULLED THE warm goosedown quilt over his ears and pressed his head into the soft, fluffy pillows as he curled up on the straw-filled mattress beneath him. A streak of light crept beneath the door, and he heard the boisterous laughter of men and women ringing from the rooms down the hall. He closed his eyes and fell quickly to sleep, secure in the assurance that he was once again among his own kind.
Crawdad and Jasper had deposited Billy at the Grate mansion when they had ridden, tired and saddle sore, into Cheyenne late that afternoon. The two men had spent a good part of the day arguing about Billy's disposition.
"A whorehouse ain't a fit place for a boy," Jasper had insisted.
"Oh, hell," Crawdad had countered, "This boy needs a woman's touch real bad. He lost his mama, and he ain't been with nobody but savages and a bunch of gold-crazy miners for weeks. Yep, he needs a woman bad. . . . In a different way, maybe, than you and me . . . but just the same, he needs a woman. Besides, can you name a better person in the whole world than Big Wilma?"
Jasper could not.
When they rode up in front of the big, white house, Billy's eyes widened in awe. He had never seen such place—two stories high and an honest-to-goodness covered porch with rocking chairs and benches. As they stepped on the porch, Big Wilma paraded out of the door and grabbed Crawdad with a big bear hug, lifting him a good foot in the air. Kissing the old man lavishly on the lips and cheeks, she laughed raucously.
"Crawdad, you old fart, I thought you'd never get back to see Big Wilma," and then, seeing Billy, "Oh, sorry, honey. Crawdad, who's your handsome young friend?"
Crawdad told how he had found Billy at the miners' camp. When he related what had happened to Billy's mother and family, huge tears rolled down Wilma's fat jowls, and she pulled the boy to her gargantuan bosom.
"He'll stay here with me till he decides what he wants to do . . . and don't you dare say otherwise, you dirty old . . . man. Now Billy, honey, you just come in here with me," she said as she led the boy through the door. She turned back to the old miner. "Crawdad, you've got yourself a special reservation with Big Wilma tonight. After you get that mud scraped off, you just come up and we'll . . . talk awhile. Okay?" she winked.
The grizzled miner's face turned a bright scarlet; Jasper coughed nervously.
At supper that evening, Billy had almost foundered himself on fried chicken and mashed potatoes, finished off with two big pieces of apple pie. A gracious hostess, Big Wilma, a silver-haired lady in her mid-fifties, weighed nearly two hundred pounds, was a sharp contrast to the sleek, voluptuous ladies that joined them at the table. Billy had never seen so many pretty ladies gathered in one place, and he was especially smitten by Carmella, an olive-skinned woman with round, black eyes, who laughed a lot, and made a big fuss over him. Even at his young age, he was entranced by the cleavage between the bulges that looked like they were about to pop out of her low-cut gown. The young creole woman had a smooth, soft voice. Strangely, she had a way with words, and when she spoke in her barely perceptible French accent, it was like warm honey rolling off her lips. Billy gazed at the young woman dreamily; he did not know what a whorehouse was, but he thought it was a nice place to be.
After breakfast the next morning, Crawdad came to visit Billy and Big Wilma. They sat at the table in the warm cozy kitchen, Crawdad fingering a tin cup of black, steaming coffee nervously.
"Come on, old man, out with it. You weren't so slow on the draw last night," Big Wilma laughed, jabbing an elbow sharply to his ribs.
Wiping coffee from his whiskers, Crawdad said, "I checked with the sheriff this morning and got some word about Billy's family. Seems like his new deputy was mustered out of the infantry at Camp Robinson in Nebraska a few weeks back. Billy's sister had been there not many weeks before."
Billy's face brightened, and he grinned broadly. "I knew it, I knew it," he said excitedly.
"The deputy," said Crawdad, "told me that Billy's folks had been killed by a Sioux raiding party. I guess Billy'd already figured that out, but he never was sure about his sister. Anyhow, she was up at Camp Robinson looking for Billy. The deputy said she was travelin' with the strangest bunch you'd ever seen—some ex-army officer, a big negro, and a dried-up, old Pawnee Indian. The army must have had some trouble with the men 'cause the deputy didn't speak too highly of them. Anyways, they pulled out. Billy's sister said they was headed for the Black Hills to find her brother. Damn it, they was riding direct into a hornet's nest, and we could've just missed them. Now what do we do with this spunky young feller?" he asked, reaching his hand across the table, mussing Billy's hair affectionately.
"I'll wait here for Sarah," Billy said confidently.
Crawdad said solemnly, "Billy, we don't even know for sure she's still alive. You know as well as I do that the Black Hills is no place to be these days. They could've turned around and gone back home, though we'll notify the authorities down there, and let them know you're here."
"That's okay by me, Crawdad," Billy said, "but you're wasting your time. Sooner or later, Sarah's going to show up here. She'll find me. . . . I know she will. She's a Kesterson just like me."
"I'll bet he's right," chuckled Wilma. "He'll stay with me till his sister shows up."
29
THE FOUR RIDERS slowed their horses to a walk as they rode single file along the crest of the ridge. They traveled light, the pack horses and other supplies having been left at the camp.
With luck, Tom thought, he, Sarah, and little Billy would be back at the cabin by dawn tomorrow. They would hole up there for a few days until the Sioux had a chance to calm down; then they would head for Fort Fetterman to rendezvous with Joe and Stone Dog.
The footing became increasingly uncertain as the firm trail that sloped steeply off one side fragmented and turned to loose shale and fine-grained stone. Tom tug
ged the fleece-lined collar of his mackinaw up around his neck and pulled his head turtle-like into the depths of the coat.
Searching the overcast sky worriedly, he commented to Sarah who rode behind him, “It’s got to be near freezing, and that wind could be nasty before the day’s out. I heard Stone Dog tell Joe we could be in for some snow. He said it might be a good thing since the Sioux wouldn’t be looking for trouble.”
Tom could understand Stone Dog’s thinking. If the Oglala thought it was going to snow, they would be less likely to have scouts on the trail, and that certainly lessened the chances of encountering a stray war party. On the other hand, he did not much like the idea of being caught in these mountains in the middle of a snowstorm, but was likely too early for much of a snow anyway.
The rescuers rode for several hours, halting from time to time while they waited for Stone Dog to scout the trail ahead. Finally, the Pawnee admonished the riders to dismount and lead their horses. Joe noted that they should be only about an hour from the village.
Later, as they came over a rise, Tom could see streams of billowy smoke floating upward from the Sioux village at the base of the mountain below. Through the scattered pine jutting from the steep slopes, he could make out the hide-covered tepees scattered about the village.
Following Stone Dog’s lead, they tied their horses in a small ravine that sliced the incline opposite the village.
“There must be fifty tepees in the camp,” worried Tom. “It’s going to be a job finding the white man, let alone the boy. It’s going to get dark early tonight; do you suppose it’d be safe to move down closer now?”