“Since when does a man have too many horses?” Little Bull asked. “Plum will give three good horses for this worthless woman.”
Two Kills relented, but not before giving Jamie a taste of his knife. He drew the blade lightly across her throat, just enough to draw blood, then he slammed her to the ground, where she lay sobbing. “Maybe you are right,” he said and cleaned his knife on Jamie’s skirt.
Little Bull turned Jamie over with the toe of his moccasin and grinned down at her. “I make your talk . . . you hear?” Jamie nodded. He continued. “Maybe we let you live if you don’t cause trouble . . . you hear?” Tearfully, she nodded a second time. “Good,” he said, “you stay there. If you try to run, I’ll shoot you.” He poked her in the stomach with the barrel of his rifle. Jamie lay back, pulling her knees up to her chest in a protective position. She was no longer sobbing, but her tears continued to pool in her eyes. Satisfied that she was subdued, Little Bull got a length of rawhide from one of the captured saddles and tied her hands and feet, then left her and joined the other warriors appraising the spoils of their raid.
Shivering uncontrollably, Jamie looked around her at the bodies of the Kutenai women and children. It was difficult for her to believe that she was still alive, for she was certain she had been facing death only minutes before. The cold, lifeless lumps lay everywhere, for this Blackfoot raid was not simply to steal horses. This was a scalping party, bent on slaughter, with no notion of taking prisoners. She thought of little Polly Tyler and wondered if the child might have been spared if the Blackfeet had known that she was white. Poor Polly, she thought, the Kutenais turned her into an Indian. Maybe it had cost the child her life.
CHAPTER 6
Jack Plum sat on his horse, a dappled gray with white stockings on his back feet, and watched while his Blackfoot friends rounded up the last strays of the Kutenai horse herd. His sharp, chiseled face wore a sneer, which was the closest Plum ever came to a smile. It was a damn good raid, he thought. The Kutenais’ camp had accumulated a great many horses, and in the Blackfoot camp, horses meant wealth. Ol’ Left Hand had himself a pretty good summer, he thought. The fact that he had often traded with the Kutenai chief in the past had no effect on Plum’s conscience, for the simple reason that the wiry mountain man did not possess a conscience.
He spotted his partner at the far end of the camp, piling buffalo hides on a travois. Plum’s grin widened as he saw Crown pause to drag a small child’s body over to the fire. Crown liked the smell of roasting flesh. Plum almost laughed out loud when he thought about his partner. Even the Blackfeet were afraid of Crown. The only man who did not fear the dark and brooding Crown was Plum himself—and that was because the two renegade trappers had a mutual respect for each other’s venom—much like two rattlesnakes.
Plum turned his horse and rode slowly toward the upper end of the camp, where the other two members of his little gang of white renegades were searching the bodies of the dead for anything of value. Plum was satisfied with the results of the sneak attack on the Kutenais. There was plenty to go around for his men, as well as for Little Bull’s warriors. And later on, when they returned to the Blackfoot camp and Plum brought out the whiskey, most of the Indians’ share of the plunder would end up in Plum’s hands anyway.
He pulled up before the two white men searching the bodies. “Find anything?” he asked.
Sowers looked up at Plum and shook his head. “Nothin’ much worth a shit.” He motioned toward the other man, a huge bear of a man who now stood grinning foolishly at Plum. “Ox got a gold ring offen one of them squaws—looks like a weddin’ ring or somethin’. Musta belonged to a white woman.”
Plum looked at Ox, and the big man nodded his head vigorously as he fumbled in his possibles bag for the ring. When he found it, he held it up for Plum to see. Plum reached out and took it from him. “Now, that shines, Ox. You done right good.” He felt the weight of the ring. “Yessir, you done good.” He handed it back to Ox. “You can keep it till we get back to camp. Just mind you don’t lose it.”
He was about to say something to Sowers when he heard his name called. He turned in the saddle to see Little Bull motioning to him. He and Two Kills stood waiting while Plum rode up. What Plum thought was another body turned out to be a live woman. Before he could ask the Blackfoot why she was still alive, Little Bull spoke, his face a picture of smug satisfaction.
“She is a white woman . . . a young white woman,” Little Bull said.
As Little Bull had anticipated, this captured Plum’s interest right away. “A white girl, you say? Let’s have a look at ’er.” He dismounted while Little Bull grabbed Jamie’s bound hands and pulled her upright. “Well, I’ll be . . .” Plum started, looking into the face of the frightened woman. “Ain’t this somethin’?” His dark, deep-set eyes peered out from under heavy eyebrows and roamed up and down her body, a sinister leer plastered on his face. “That there’s prime stuff, all right.” He looked quickly at Little Bull. “I’ll trade you one of my horses for her.”
Two Kills promptly spoke up. “She belongs to both of us.”
“All right,” Plum shot back, “I’ll give both of you a horse.”
“Two horses each man,” Little Bull replied.
“She ain’t worth that much,” Plum protested, then quickly went on, “I’ll give you three horses for her. Now that’s a fair offer.”
Little Bull glanced at Two Kills and smiled. He had predicted that Plum would give three horses for the white woman. But now he had seen the lust in Plum’s eyes when the white man looked at the slender girl at his feet, trembling like an aspen leaf in the wind. Looking back at Plum, Little Bull said, “Four horses, and we pick ’em.”
Plum looked pained, but he didn’t prolong the dickering. “All right, four, and you can pick ’em outta my string—but that don’t include the gray here.”
Little Bull grunted his satisfaction with the deal, and grasping the thong that tied Jamie’s hands together, he dragged the helpless girl over and dumped her at the gray’s feet. “Now we both have something to ride,” he said, and laughed at his own joke.
“I reckon we have,” Plum said, talking to himself as he dismounted to take possession of his prize. Jamie tried to back away from the leering renegade, but was unable to do so with her hands and feet tied—a fact that appeared to amuse Plum. He stood over her, a thin, wiry man, his buckskin britches and shirt shiny black from the grease and smoke of many campfires. Though hatchet-thin, his face reflected an evil strength, warning that he was not a man to be taken lightly. Jamie wished she could return to her life with the Kutenais—it had been a paradise compared to what she feared lay ahead for her.
Plum reached down and took hold of the rawhide thong that bound her wrists, just as Little Bull had, and slowly pulled her up on her feet. He kept his eyes locked on hers, like a man pulling a badger out of a trap, wary of a sudden attack, ready to strike out if it became necessary. “There, now, little missy, let’s have a look atcha.” She tottered back and forth, trying to keep her balance with her feet still tied together, while Plum walked around her, appraising his new possession. “You ain’t got a helluva lot of meat on ya, have ya?” He reached down and placed a hand on her buttocks, and squeezed hard.
Jamie’s reaction was automatic. She whirled and swung her bound hands at Plum, aiming at his face. She missed, but the suddenness of the movement caused her to lose her balance, and she fell heavily. Plum, having nonchalantly dodged her intended rebuff, moved to stand over her again, a crooked grin on his sharp features. “You know, little missy, you’re some lucky I’m the one what bought you. Now if it’da been Crown what got you, I expect you’da been half used up by now. But me—why, hell, I’m gonna be the sweetest stud that ever rode you. Now, lemme help you up.” He held out his hand and grasped the thong again. When she was on her feet once more, he said, “First, I reckon you and me better have a little understandin’.” Before she could move, he suddenly struck out with the back of his hand. The b
low caught her squarely on the side of her face, knocking her down again.
Jamie screamed in pain. While she lay at his feet, quivering in fear, he reached behind him and pulled a rawhide whip from his saddle. Without hesitation, he began whipping the helpless woman. She cried out with each welt that was laid across her back and buttocks until finally she could no longer make a sound. Expert with a whip, and having beaten women before, Plum stopped short of doing permanent damage to his goods.
“Now, just so’s you understand,” he snarled, his face only inches above hers, “I own your ass—bought and paid for.” He placed a rough hand on one of her breasts. “These is mine.” His other hand pawed at her crotch. “And this is mine. Four damn good horses I give for you, and if I don’t git my money’s worth outta you, I’m gonna cut your nose off and give you to Crown to play with.”
Jamie was devastated. She felt that she was barely alive after the terrible beating, and the prospect of what lay ahead for her was even more terrifying. Afraid to make a sound, afraid it might ignite his rage again, she nevertheless could not control her crying. How, she wondered, could God let this happen to her? Before she had been stolen by Left Hand, she had resolved never to show fear in the face of savage Indians if she ever was called to confront them. It was better to show defiance, she was convinced. But this—she had never imagined anything like the situation she now found herself in. She had been afraid many times since she and her father had left Grand Island on the Platte and started the trek west. But she had never experienced the horror she felt at the hands of this demon in dirty buckskins. It was then she realized that she had been the unfortunate one in Left Hand’s camp. The lucky ones were those who had been killed.
“Get up,” Plum ordered, after cutting the bonds off her ankles. Jamie did as she was told, and stood trembling while Plum tied a rope to the thong that bound her hands. He then climbed in the saddle and led her toward the center of the Kutenai camp, where his partner was now appraising a bay horse that had once belonged to Black Elk. When Crown looked around and saw Plum coming, he paused and squinted his eyes.
“What you got there?” he demanded to know.
Plum smirked and replied, “I got me a tender young rabbit. Meet the new Mrs. Plum.” Then he laughed hard, as if that was the funniest thing he had ever heard.
Crown did not join in the laughter, but continued to stare at the captive girl walking dutifully behind Plum’s horse. Jamie could feel the man’s gaze upon her body. Cold, emotionless eyes roamed over her body, seemingly peering through her clothes and examining her naked body. Jamie shivered involuntarily and immediately hung her head to avoid his gaze. “I fancy her myself,” Crown said, his words slow and measured.
Plum laughed. “I figured you might.”
“Whadaya want for ’er?”
“I ain’t lookin’ to trade ’er,” Plum replied, no longer laughing. “I bought ’er from Little Bull for four horses, and I reckon she’s my property and nobody else’s.”
Crown scowled as he looked first at Jamie, then back at Plum. “That don’t hardly seem fair,” he said. “I figure we’re partners in all the plunder.” He gestured toward the stack of buffalo hides. “We share everything we take.”
Plum’s eyes narrowed. “Not this piece we don’t,” he replied, giving the rope a jerk, which made Jamie lurch forward a couple of steps. He studied Crown’s scowling face for a few moments, then said, “Maybe when I’m through with ’er. We’ll see.”
Crown was obviously not pleased. He continued to stare unblinkingly into Plum’s eyes for a long minute before looking back at the girl again. He moved a few steps closer to Jamie and took a closer look at her face, and the welt left there by Plum’s backhand. He reached out as if to touch the bruise, and Jamie drew back from his hand. Her reaction almost brought a smile to his expressionless face. He turned back to Plum. “I’ll buy half of ’er from ya.”
“No, dammit, Crown. I told you she ain’t for sale, none of ’er.” He pulled Jamie up closer to his horse. “And you can forget any notions about sharin’ ’er. The last time I let you share a woman was that little Pend d’Oreille gal up on the Missouri. I reckon you remember what happened to her—you killed ’er.”
“She didn’t move to suit me,” Crown responded coldly.
“Yeah, I reckon,” Plum said. “But you ain’t gettin’ your hands on this’un till I’m done with ’er.”
Crown didn’t say anything for a few moments, his eyes never leaving his partner’s. After a long silent moment while the two men locked gazes as if measuring each other, Crown growled in a low voice, “Maybe I might just take ’er.”
“You might,” Plum growled back, “but you know I’ll cut your damn gizzard out and feed it to the dogs.”
This was not the first time the two had gone at each other, and like other times, the confrontation amounted to no more than a standoff. Crown was fully capable of carrying out any threat he made—Plum knew that to be a fact. But he also knew that Crown realized that it was Plum who was in bed with Little Bull and his band of Blackfeet. They merely tolerated Crown and the other two white men for Plum’s sake.
Little Bull had already questioned the need for Plum’s three white partners, but Plum had insisted they were necessary. He and Crown had ridden together since the early days with the Hudson’s Bay Company. The two of them had decided it was a sight more lucrative to trap the trapper than to trap the beaver. After they spent two years bushwhacking hardworking company men, the Hudson’s Bay people finally found them out, and they were branded outlaws. Their salvation lay in Plum’s relationship with a Blackfoot woman—Little Bull’s sister. Plum remained with the Blackfoot band after the woman was supposedly killed when her horse bucked her off and stomped her to death. Only Crown knew that she was dead before Plum rigged the accident, beaten to death by Plum’s fists. Little Bull’s band, like most Blackfoot bands, was not friendly with many white men, and if Little Bull tolerated Plum it was only because the man was a source of weapons and whiskey.
When Little Bull questioned the presence of Sowers and Ox, Plum explained to him why they were vital. Since Plum and Crown were outlaws, they would certainly be hung, or possibly shot on sight, if they showed up at any of the trading posts on the upper Missouri. That was why Plum had persuaded Sowers to cast his lot with him. Sowers was a thief, but not a well-known one, so his role in Plum’s little ring of cutthroats was to take the stolen hides to the fort to trade for powder, shot, blankets, knives, hatchets, and the other essentials. Ox was a simpleminded stray that Sowers had picked up at a trading post. His only contributions to their cause were his size and his strength. He always accompanied Sowers when he went to the fort to trade the pelts. None of the other three knew, or cared, where Ox had come from. He just showed up at the fort one day when he was a child, and nobody ever came to claim him. Sowers happened to be there trading some pelts that he, Plum, and Crown had stolen from a free trapper on the Milk River, and Sowers offered Ox some food if he would help load his mules. Ox gratefully accepted the handout and then, like a stray dog, took up with Sowers and followed him back to Little Bull’s village.
* * *
High above the rocky peaks of the Bitterroot range, a red-tailed hawk circled effortlessly on the breast of the wind that swept up the steep slopes. Far below, on the eastern side of the ridge, the hawk could see the smoking remains of the Kutenai village and the band of Blackfoot warriors as they skirted the shore of the lake. Wheeling on its broad wings, it cried out its shrill kreeee as if to alert the lone white man making his way along the steep western slope—searching. If the hawk cared at all about man’s struggle against man, it could have appreciated the irony of the situation—the lone scout was no more than twenty miles from those he searched for—as the hawk flies.
Trace left the old game trail and skirted another deadfall that blocked his path. He was no longer tracking the band of Kutenais. The only things he counted on now were instinct and blind luck as he worked his w
ay along the treeline toward a low slot in the mountains that looked to be a likely place to cross over to the east slope. If his memory served him, there was a lake in the next valley where several tribes sometimes camped, the Kutenais among them. It was late in the season now, but maybe there were still a few who had not abandoned the higher elevations to find a protected valley for the winter. It would take two days of careful traveling, however, before he reached the valley and the lake that was its crown jewel.
It had been a cold night, and the morning broke chilly and cloudy. A few scattered snowflakes drifted past his face as he coaxed the flames of a small fire to life. Squinting up at the slate-gray sky, he wondered if this day might bring the first real snow of the winter. It could get rough this high up if he got caught in a heavy snow. It wasn’t his own well-being that concerned him—he could survive just fine. But if it snowed hard enough, it would close the mountain passes, and he would lose more time to the party of Kutenais he searched for. Warming his hands by a healthy fire now, he told himself there was nothing he could do about the weather. “If it snows, it snows,” he said to his horse. “We’ll just do the best we can. Won’t we, boy?”
Although the prospects of poor weather failed to panic him, still Trace did not linger over the fire. After a breakfast of dried buffalo meat warmed over the flames, he saddled the paint and picked up the trail once more. It was close to midday when the trail broke free of the pines and he got a clear view of the southern edge of the lake.
It had been a year since he had first seen the lake, but he recalled the circumstances that had caused him to discover it. He had followed an elk down from the hills on the northern tip of the lake. As he made his way through the fir trees that covered the low hills near the water, he discovered he was about to ride into a Flathead village. He had to smile when he thought about it. The elk had seemed surprised, too, and it stood rigid as a statue at the edge of the trees. Trace had to think the situation over—he was sorely craving some elk meat, but there was the Indian village, no more than three hundred yards away. At that point Trace was uncertain what tribe they were, whether they were friendly or not. He looked at the village, then back at the elk, still standing like a stone, just begging to be shot. Maybe the elk was smart enough to think the man wouldn’t risk taking a shot this close to an Indian camp. Trace smiled again as he remembered the scene. He had followed that elk for more than two miles, and he didn’t want to give up on it. What the hell, he finally decided. He put his rifle away and reached for his bow. Leaving his horse tied to a fir tree, he stalked the still frozen elk on foot, making his way downwind of the animal until he had closed to within about thirty yards. He knelt on one knee to steady himself, notched an arrow, and stuck a second one in the ground beside his knee. It had to be a kill shot—he didn’t want to merely wound the animal and chance the possibility that it might bolt out into the open and alert the Indian camp of Trace’s presence.
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