by J. R. WRIGHT
Being tired of cold camps, Luke went about gathering wood for a small fire. It was then the idea struck him: why not build a big fire? If he couldn’t find those Indians, perhaps he could make it easy for them to find him.
Later, sitting before the fire with his back to a cottonwood tree, wrapped in the buffalo robe, big bore cradled in his arms, he waited. All he had to alert him of approaching danger was the paint horse grazing on some lifeless grass nearby. The crackling fire made far too much noise for him to ever hear them if they should come from behind out of eyeshot. This concerned him, but not extremely so. He had made up his mind a long time ago to risk death, if necessary, for the opportunity to get Breanne back. He just hoped he would be up to the task when the time came. Both his and her welfare would depend on it.
As it was, his stay here was short. He had noticed a red glow in the sky for some time now, but had attributed it to his own fire. That is, until it had burned down considerably and no longer fit with the larger glow. Standing for a better look, he realized there was another fire off in the distance. How far he couldn’t tell; however, he wasted no time in gathering the saddle to go find out. With a little luck, it would be the campfire of the ones he searched for: the savages who held his beloved Breanne captive. If so, they may be reunited soon! Excited now, he hurried for the horse.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
He traveled toward the distant glow for several miles, and with each new line of hills he crossed, it seemed to be just over the next. Luke went on this way until near daybreak before topping the final ridge and finding the source of the fire below. It was a settlement of some sort. It was readily evident there had been several log buildings, white man’s buildings, all ablaze, and all nearly burnt to the ground.
He scanned the area for a sign of life, but saw none. Finally, after taking stock of his own surroundings, he rode down for a closer look. At first he circled widely around before venturing into what appeared to be a yard area among the glowing remains of all six of the structures. His attention was so taken by the radiance of the crackling fires that he near rode over something that lay in his path. And he would have if the sensitive horse hadn’t taken it upon himself to balk and then rear back from something in the darkness at his feet. What was motionless before was struggling to become upright. It was clear now it was a woman on her knees, reaching a hand up toward him.
Luke dismounted quickly and knelt by her side, taking her into his arms. Her eyes were wide, showing fear, shifting wildly. Her hair was fair, but no way was this Breanne, as he had hoped at first glance.
“My husband!” she feebly pointed toward one of the fires. “He’s inside the cabin.”
Luke looked again at the nearby structure before turning back to her. “I’m afraid if he was in there, ma’am, he’s a goner.” The cabin was near burned to the ground.
“Oh, God!” she said, taking a look for herself. “Frank…!”
“Are you hurt bad, ma’am?” he asked, examining a wound on her head that was covered with crusted blood.
“They struck me on the head with something. I guess I’ve been out for a while.” She spoke slow and determined. “They broke through the door last night. Frank went for the rifle, and I ran out here.”
“Was it Indians?”
“Indians…? Yes, it was Indians!” She started to cry as if the horror of it all had just reached her.
“How many were there?” he asked and helped her to her feet.
“I don’t know. By all the hooping there must have been several.”
“Not just two them?”
“No, many more,” she said and walked with him to a nearby tree where she sat again, facing the radiance of the fires. “They have a camp up the creek there about an hour’s ride. Frank was up there yesterday. He said there were maybe a dozen teepees.”
“Why did he go?”
“They have been harassing us ever since they moved in there a few weeks ago, trying to steal our horses. Frank finally had enough, and went there and fired on them. I told him not to go! Now he’s dead!” She placed her face into her hand and bawled loudly.
Luke patiently stood by until the young woman calmed somewhat before asking, “Did your husband happen to notice if there was a captive white woman among them?”
With that she sobered, lifted her face, and looked up into his eyes. “Your woman missing?”
“Yeah, near three weeks now. They took her from our camp east of here. I’m thinking it might be some of those that done it.”
“I’m so sorry. No, he never mentioned a white woman,” she said struggling to her feet, using the tree to steady herself.
“Are you okay?” Luke asked and took her arm.
“I’ll be fine. Just a little dazed,” she said, looking into his eyes again. “My name is Sarah Martin.”
“Luke McKinney,” he returned, looking her over more closely now. She was taller than Breanne, and older by maybe five years, but not as pretty. Kind of plain. However, she had good teeth from what he could tell. “You mind telling me what you’re doing way out here?”
“We came five years ago. Frank had this notion to raise horses and sell them to the Army once they come. But they never did. It’s been lonely, just Frank and me. But then, Frank was a loner.” Her eyes watered up again. “We did do some trading at a settlement north of here called Pembina. That’s also where we get our supplies.”
“How far is it to this Pembina?”
“Most of four days by wagon. That’s why we went only twice a year – spring and fall.”
“We’ll be needing to get you away from here. I don’t suppose they left you a horse?” He looked to the corral near where the barn had obviously been and saw the gate wide open, the space within empty. In fact, the only living things around seemed to be a few chickens scratching for grit in the yard.
Sarah was looking, too. “We had… Don’t look like they left us any.”
“Well then, we’ll just have to make do with this one. Can you ride?”
“I can manage,” she said, taking one last look at the smoldering ruins of the cabin before turning toward the paint horse to be helped aboard. “Shouldn’t we be waiting for the fire to burn out so we can give what’s left of Frank a proper burial?”
“That will take days,” Luke protested. “I’ve got my wife to locate.”
“Of course,” she responded, “how selfish of me.” She stuck her left foot in the stirrup and allowed Luke to help her on.
Sarah was in a dress, and that didn’t work well with the saddle. Noticing this, Luke pulled the buffalo robe from behind the saddle and placed it over her lap so that it draped down the sides and did a good job of covering her legs, especially when tucked behind the stirrups.
“I’ll be going up near that Indian village for a look-see,” he said, after starting off on foot through the snow away from the farmyard.
“I don’t weigh as much as a sack of potatoes, soaking wet,” Sarah said. “I think the two of us could sit this horse.”
“I wouldn’t feel right doing that,” Luke said and kept on walking, the big bore cradled in his arms. He hadn’t had any sleep the night before and really wasn’t up to the task, but he’d be damned if he was going to sit saddle with a married woman, her husband freshly killed at that. Not in this lifetime.
Who was she to argue? The man had just saved her life! Perhaps when tired he would change his mind. She hoped so. She felt bad, him having to walk while she rode, especially since it was his horse. She wasn’t used to such chivalry. Frank would never have been so kind. He was a hardened old man when she met him and never softened a bit during the five years of their marriage.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Luke gave the creek a wide berth the entire way north. Then, when Sarah thought they’d gone about the right distance, he left her behind and climbed a ridge of low hills that separated them from the creek for a look at what he hoped would be on the other side.
As it turned out, she was nea
rly right. The village stuck out brightly in the morning sunlight just a quarter mile further up creek. Slipping back in the wet snow to the hillside, Luke made his way to a small tree he had spotted as a marker from above. Getting to where he wanted to be, he carefully crawled to the crest, removed his hat, and nestled low in the tall grass.
The village was quiet except for a few squaws going about their chores and some children playing nearby in the snow. Luke suspected the bucks were sleeping in the teepees after their long night of plundering, killing, and burning at the Martin ranch.
A makeshift corral of lodge poles at the edge of the village contained no less than forty horses. All were not Indian ponies. About a dozen were larger and of solid colors. They must be those from the Martin place, he thought. The fact that so many ponies were there for such a small village supported his theory that the men were in camp.
Luke lay quietly watching for near an hour as the women and children came and went from the lodges. There was no sign of Breanne.
Before long, Luke saw a chubby squaw go to the horse pen, lead out one of the larger horses, and take it to the center of the village. Several others joined her in holding it while another walked to its side and thrust a knife into its neck, severing the jugular. The horse squealed loudly and attempted to rear, but the many squaws restrained it until it finally weakened from loss of blood and fell to its knees, then rolled to its side.
Without wasting time, the squaws slit open the big white horse’s belly and began pulling out and cutting lengths of gut, of which they cracked like whips, throwing the contents through the air. The gut itself was then thrown to the snow where the children gathered to snatch pieces almost as soon as they hit.
The noise of the squaw chatter as they worked must have awaked the bucks. Before long at least twenty had gathered at the downed horse and began eating as the meat was being cut away. Luke looked closely and noticed none of them wore a claw necklace or a breastplate like he had taken from the dead Indian. Even though he saw nothing to connect these people with those that had taken Breanne, these before him were still murderers and thieves. The thought of it angered him, and he had a sudden urge to shoot into them with buckshot from the big bore. After a time he managed to contain himself, knowing full well that if he did, they would chase him down, and he had Sarah Martin’s welfare to be concerned about.
When Luke had seen enough, he slid back down the hill and went to where Sarah waited, propped against a tree, the buffalo robe draped over her shoulders. She was so frightened when he suddenly appeared over the low ridge and dropped down to her that she began to scream before seeing it was him.
“Hold on there now,” he said to calm her. “It’s me.”
“Oh, goodness, I guess I dozed off,” she said and scrambled to her feet. “I thought they had come back for me.”
“We’d best get going. They may have heard that scream.” He gathered the horse and hoisted her aboard before climbing on behind her. “If they come, they’ll find our tracks in the snow and likely follow. If that happens we’ll want to have a good start on them, seeing as it’ll be slow going with both of us on this horse.”
“I’m sorry! Are we going to your camp?” she asked, pleased he had decided to share the horse.
“Unless you have someplace else you’d rather go?” he said, a little disturbed at having to take time from his search for Breanne.
“No.”
“Well then, I guess you’re stuck with us till the time comes we can get you out of here.”
“Us?”
“Pierre,” Luke heeled the paint horse to a trot and headed him east. “He’s my partner.”
By mid-afternoon the horse was tiring and Luke got off to walk. “I reckon we’ll rest the horse for a spell at that next ridge. We’ll be able to keep an eye on our surroundings from up there…”
“What is it?” Sarah asked, seeing something had caught his attention. She looked back to see what it was.
“They’re coming,” he answered quickly. “Come on, let’s get to the top.” He pulled the horse to a trot.
“I didn’t see anything,” Sarah shouted from the saddle.
“They just dropped below that hill behind us.”
Once over the crest of the ridge, Luke ordered: “Take the horse on down out of sight!”
“Who is it?”
“Those Indians from back there, I reckon! I don’t know who else it could be,” Luke replied, straining to see with the mid-afternoon sun in his eyes. “I saw the shadows they cast over the snow as they crossed over that far hill. Looked like several of them dogging our trail. Toss me that bullet bag off the saddle before you go.”
“I’m scared, Luke,” she said, removing the bullet bag from the saddle horn and throwing it to him. “Maybe we ought to make a run for it!”
“Then we’ll be out there,” he said, pointing east to the open snowy plains beyond this last ridge of hills. “Now go, before they see you!”
Reluctantly, she rode down and took cover behind three closely grouped cottonwood trees near a dry creek.
With the big bore rifle already loaded with six of the pea size buckshot, Luke lay low in the snow awaiting their arrival. Before long, he saw them top the final hill and come down the near side. They were charging directly at him; however, he doubted they knew he waited there. They had their bows in hand, but they were not readied with arrows, he noticed by the way they carried them. It was clear now, at a hundred yards out, that there were six of them.
He patiently waited until they were within a hundred feet, then lifted the rifle and fired into the middle of the group. The shot caused such a commotion of rearing horses and flying snow that the result of it was not readily known. He took full advantage of the time to quickly reload again with buckshot.
He had noticed two horses down when he rose to reload, and three warriors riding to the bottom of the hill. The other three Indians were down in the snow, out of sight somewhere. He hoped they were dead, but just in case, he kept a watchful eye out for them, as well as those who had disappeared below.
A few moments later the three remaining warriors regrouped and were charging up the hill once again. Luke heard them coming and knew this time they would be ready, bows stretched with arrows when they arrived.
Best not let them get too close, he thought. He knew the pattern of the shot would be broader from a distance. Besides, at a distance there was less chance of being overwhelmed if he should miss any of them.
When they popped into view and were less than a hundred yards out and grouped tight, he fired. Standing quickly thereafter he saw all three of them fall from their ponies.
He again quickly began reloading the rifle and, while doing so, noticed Sarah suddenly appear by his side. It so startled him that he near drew his knife.
“Go…!” he shouted into her face, then frantically went about reloading the rifle, spilling powder and shot as he went about it.
“They’re dead Luke, look at them!” Sarah stood her ground with the other rifle, from the scabbard on the horse, in her hands.
“They play possum!” he said, remembering what Pierre had told him once.
“I know blood when I see it, and they’re all staining the snow where they lay,” she argued.
Lifting his eyes from the reloading to see what she saw, he counted only five dead Indians scattered across the hillside. But before he could tell her that, a painted warrior popped up from behind a dead horse and charged at them, knife in hand, screaming and yelping from fifty feet away. It was so blood curdling that Luke dropped the big bore and reach for his knife.
Startled, Sarah lunged back and accidentally fired the rifle from her hip, causing it to fly from her grasp and fall to the ground, where she joined it.
Sarah’s shot had brought the Indian down but, unfortunately for him, had not killed him. He lay on the snowy ground now, screaming and writhing in pain, his groin area completely blown away.
Luke didn’t want to do it, but he step
ped forward and put the dying man out of his misery anyway. He did it by driving the knife through his skull just above the ear, which silenced him immediately. Standing, then, he visually made certain all the others were dead, or soon would be from blood loss, before going to Sarah.
He found her a goodly distance away, where she must have crawled after falling initially. She was curled on the hillside, arms wrapped about her head, quivering miserably from fear. The poor woman hadn’t even had the chance to fully absorb the ordeal that killed her husband, and here she was, forced into another horrifying situation in which she thought she might be killed.
“It’s okay,” he said, kneeling beside her and taking her by the arm. “It’s over now.”
With that, Sarah came up quickly and threw her arms around him. He held her tight for a few moments until she regained some composure, then lifted her to her feet.
“Did I kill him?” she asked, not being able to see from where they were.
“You stopped him. That’s what counts,” he said and marched her down the hill to where the horse was tied at the cottonwoods.
“They had it coming,” she said in a low voice as they traveled.
“If you’ll wait here,” he said, “I’ll take the horse and round up the ponies that are left alive.”
Sarah simply nodded and slipped weakly down by one of the trees, where she clutched herself and looked blankly about as if wondering how she had gotten there.
At the top of the hill, Luke gathered the rifles and reloaded them both before moving on to a badly injured horse and cutting its throat. He then rode to the bottom of the hill where he gathered the three remaining ponies and took them back up over the ridge.
Back with Sarah, he asked, “Which one of these fleabags would you rather ride?”
“That one with the blue eyes,” she said, quickly getting to her feet. “I had a blue-eyed pony when I was a young girl.” She began petting him.