Backed to the Wall

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “What’s this?”

  “Maynard Miles got hold of old man Moore in Sioux City by telegraph.” Jack draped his canteen over his saddle. “Lorna’s father put up the reward money. Now every amateur in the area will be mucking up their tracks trying to find her. I heard that the first person who grabbed one of these fliers was Simon Cady.”

  “Great.” Tucker swung up into the saddle. “All we need is a professional bounty hunter getting in our way.”

  Tucker washed jerky down with tepid river water and handed the chunk back to Jack. “Lakota usually kill women outright if they got a mind to. Not take ’em. If they still got Lorna, there’s a reason they want her alive. And you can bet the farm she’s doing whatever she can to be a burr under their saddle and slow them down.” Tucker grabbed the reins and started following the Indians’ trail.

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  Blue Boy sat his horse overlooking the river below. The dun gelding—as the wasicu called it for the yellowish coat and dark stripe down the back—stood with muscles twitching, eager to take Blue Boy as far and as fast away from here as it could. The horse, stolen in a raid last year of four wagons crossing into the land of the Cheyenne, had caught Blue Boy’s eye. Larger by far than other horses he had ridden, the gelding suited him well. It was perhaps the only horse he had owned that did not make him look too big to sit its back, and he was still able to keep pace with his band.

  He shielded his eyes against the bright setting sun until he spotted his warriors far below as they skirted the banks of the wakpa’ sica. The Bad River. His warriors picked their way carefully amidst the sharp rocks and fields of prickly pear cactus with their wildly blooming yellow flowers, around boulders the size of tipis, and through sage as tall as a horse’s withers.

  His gaze fell upon the white woman. Blue Boy’s first reaction upon taking her last night was of a headlong rush to the Great Wall of the Badlands. But Black Dog, his trusted friend and cooler head, objected. “Soldiers will hunt us,” he told Blue Boy after they had taken the yellow-haired woman from the river store. “Maybe those who enforce the white man’s law will follow as well. They will come after us, and they will come with blood on their lips. If we race through the prairie like wild buffalo, even the soldiers will spot our trail.”

  Black Dog had been right, of course. Blue Boy knew that. He watched the line of single-file riders led by Black Dog, as they avoided clumps of porcupine grass. A fast rider would tramp the grass down in the direction they headed and point out to the soldiers the direction they went. Still, the strong urge to scoop up the woman and race to safety gnawed at him.

  By thinking and taking their time, they would make it to the Badlands without interference. This was country that would confuse even the best trackers the soldiers could send after them. Black Dog was right: they would be hunted relentlessly. Taking a white woman was a serious matter and not to be done without counsel. But seeing the woman for the first time last night, something inside him had snapped, and he knew—even over objections of the others—that he had to have her. The woman would slow them down, but that bothered Blue Boy little. He would elude the scouts as he always had, and they would enter the Oski-ski, the Badlands, without incident. And in the end, she would be his and provide the basis for a new generation of Miniconjou Lakota.

  He studied intently the horse in the middle of the line of riders. Blue Boy had stolen the large paint mare from the Shoshoni, and he would often ride her to give his gelding a rest. But on this journey, Blue Boy had set the woman on the tireless pony in front of Jimmy Swallow. Even at this distance, he marveled at her long locks blown across her face by the stiff wind; at her chin-up attitude that showed defiance even as captive. And whenever she glared at Blue Boy, it was out of eyes as blue as any lake in the He Sapa—the sacred Black Hills.

  Blue Boy checked their back trail before riding down to join the others, pleased by their progress. Guessing by the sun, they were a half-day’s ride from the river town. They had trussed the woman up last night and followed the big river south without covering their trail. When he was certain soldiers could track them to the river bluffs, Blue Boy had led his people north to pick up the Bad River, now cautious with their tracks. By the time the soldier-scouts had worked out their ruse and discovered their direction, they would have gained another half day.

  The column stopped abruptly, and Blue Boy nudged the dun down the steep hill. He reached the warriors just as the woman dropped to the ground beside Swallow. She looked back over her shoulder at Blue Boy as he rode down the embankment. The woman’s chin jutted upwards in that haughty posture Blue Boy had come to expect from white women, and she disappeared over the bank toward the water. Blue Boy stopped and dismounted beside Swallow. “What is happening?”

  Swallow threw up his hands. “She wanted—no, she demanded—to go to the river.”

  “And you let her?”

  The young man shrugged. “She is stubborn. She needed to . . . rid herself of water. What could I do?”

  “You could keep her close, like I told you.”

  Black Dog dismounted beside them. He leaned over and plucked a clump of buffalo grass growing on the hillside. He began rubbing his horse’s shoulders and withers, smoothing the sweat from the its lathered hide. “If you wish her to reach the Badlands”—he chin-pointed to the woman’s form, barely visible as she squatted by the muddy water—“we need to slow. She is frail. I am afraid she cannot ride like a Miniconjou woman.”

  “If she were a Lakota woman I would not have taken her,” Blue Boy blurted out and instantly regretted it. He had been with Black Dog since he was wounded and scalped and left for dead by soldiers at the Washita two years before. Even though he was several years Blue Boy’s junior, he possessed wisdom well beyond those years. Blue Boy knew he should listen to him. “All right. We rest. But just until the woman catches her wind.”

  Blue Boy pulled a clump of the grass and began rubbing the dun’s flanks, when he caught Hawk staring at him. “You wish to say something?”

  Hawk jerked his thumb at the woman’s back. “She slows us.”

  Blue Boy smiled. Hawk had that little man-attitude Blue Boy had come to recognize in many men his size. But Hawk’s attitude was even worse than most. The young man went through life bragging about his accomplishments, from the Spencer rifle he carried that he claimed he’d taken off a dead trooper at the Fetterman fight, to the scalp locks tied to the mane of his war pony Blue Boy knew he’d found. Even the army mount he rode hadn’t been stolen from soldiers but traded for two fine ponies, just so he could brag he stole the soldier-horse in battle. “Something else bothering you, little one?”

  Hawk stiffened at the name. “The store last night held many rifles, and yet we came away with her.”

  Blue Boy continued brushing his horse. “And you think we should have forgotten about her. Broken into the store and stolen the rifles?”

  “He is right.” Wild Wind dropped from his pony and stood beside Hawk. They could have been twins, if one discounted Wild Wind’s missing ear. “We will have nothing to show for our long journey to the river town.”

  Blue Boy looked at them and nodded. “You both are right.”

  Their stiffness left them. Blue Boy knew they expected to be slapped to the ground for their insolence. Instead, he talked to them as equals.

  “It is my fault that we did not gather up rifles and what else the store had to offer.” He waved his hand in the direction of the river town. “So I will allow you two to ride back to the white man’s town. Wait until this night and break into the store. Take whatever you desire.”

  Hawk and Wild Wind exchanged looks.

  Blue Boy tossed his handful of grass aside and stepped toward them. He glared down at them. Gone was Blue Boy’s friendly demeanor, replaced by the look of a man about to kill another. “You know I lead this band of warriors.”

  They nodded.

  “And I lead at the whim of those who follow me. So”—h
e waved his arm to the others—“if you wish someone else to lead you, then now is the time to speak.”

  Hawk took a step back and tripped over sagebrush, while Wild Wind began trembling. “That is what I thought. If no one else has a problem with being led by me . . .” He let his words trail off. No one spoke. No one came forward. After long moments, Blue Boy smiled and clamped his hand hard on their shoulders. “Go. Attend to your ponies. We leave soon.”

  Paints His Horses grinned as he watched the two young men walk their horses toward the river. He had walked his mare toward Black Dog and stood leaning on her, much as old men do when they are exhausted. And Paints His Horses was—in the way of the warrior—an old man. “In time they will learn humility.”

  A sad look overcame Blue Boy. “I wonder if they ever will.”

  “You were like them once.”

  As the eldest member of Blue Boy’s band, Paints His Horses was old enough to be the father of anyone there. This was the old man’s last raiding party, Blue Boy was certain, and he wished to make the most of it. He wanted the old man to ride into his lodge with something to show for his last effort. But when Blue Boy saw the woman last night . . . “Do you have a problem with my decision to take the woman?”

  Paints His Horses took out a pipe and tamped it with tobacco from a pouch made from a Crow’s penis. “It was . . . spur of the moment, is how I believe the wasicu calls it. We could have ridden to the Badlands fat with trade goods: rifles and powder and knives to barter with the Cheyenne and Arapaho. But to answer your question, I have no problem with whatever decision you make. I am just here to count coup once more.”

  Blue Boy looked over at Pawnee Killer. As always, he was the thinker among the young braves following him. He stood beside his horse and talked quietly to the animal, as if gaining insight into what he should do.

  “You have not spoken about last night,” Blue Boy said.

  Pawnee Killer adjusted the hackamore rubbing the top of his pony’s nose. “What is there to say? I know so little about such things. If you say it was necessary to take the woman rather than guns and powder, then you are right.”

  Blue Boy wished the other youngsters were like him. Pawnee Killer had been stolen from the Pawnee during a raid in the Sand Hill country when he was an infant. Raised a Lakota, the other boys taunted him, for they knew he was not one of them. And he worked every day to prove he was more Lakota than they ever were.

  Blue Boy handed Pawnee Killer the reins to the dun and walked to the edge of the bank overlooking the river. The woman bent to the water with her back to him, and her lithe form produced an elongated shadow on the muddy bank of the Bad as she knelt. She dipped her dress into the brown water and wiped the dust from her face and neck. She became aware that he watched her and spun around as if seeing him for the first time. “So you cannot ride for long,” he called down to her. “Not like a Lakota woman, who rides all day—walking beside her horse to let it rest.”

  “You speak—”

  “Your English?” He walked the last few feet down the embankment and handed her a deerskin water bladder. “I was raised around whites. But that is a story for a long winter night.”

  The woman drank of the lukewarm water before handing the bladder back. She craned her neck up to look him in the eyes. “I am not used to travelling. Not like this. It hurts. Very much it hurts. Please let us rest a moment longer.”

  Blue Boy looked into eyes that were as deep blue as his, and he saw no lie lurking there, yet he remained cautious. He had not lived a violent life so long not to be wary of this woman who could cloud his mind if he allowed her to. “We will rest. For a moment. But I will lose my patience if you lie to me.”

  “Thank you.”

  As she scrambled up the bank, she lost her footing and slid down the embankment. Blue Boy thrust out his hand and caught hers. For a moment they stood in awkward silence until he pushed her in front of him up the hillside. “What do they call you,” he asked, “back in the river town?”

  Lorna smoothed her dress. “Lorna Moore.”

  She walked past him towards where the others waited, placing her hands at the small of her back and stretching. Once again he wondered at her beauty, at the way she stretched like the coyote stretches, graceful underneath her bustling white woman’s dress. She reminded him of his own mother, and he dismissed the thought from his mind. Instead, he imagined his hands on this woman’s small waist as he admired her free flowing golden hair cascading down her back as she looked skyward. In beaded buckskins, she would be a wonderment for all. In buckskins, all would envy his possession. This one, he thought, would be his alone. No other man would have her, as was their custom. He might even divest himself of his other wives to be with her alone. Except for one, perhaps two others, to pitch the lodge, skin the tatanka, and render the buffalo fat to make pemmican for long hunting journeys and raiding forays. For he could not see this one soiling her hands doing such work.

  Blue Boy mounted his horse, a signal for the others their rest was over.

  Jimmy Swallow swung his leg atop the mare and held out his hand for the woman to grab. He hoisted her in front of him, and Blue Boy watched as she flattened her dress over her legs. She turned her head and caught him staring at her.

  He looked away, blushing, he was certain, thinking of the last time he had taken a woman in a raid. It was before White Swan had walked the Wanagi Tacanku, the Ghost Road. Blue Boy had been called by the ailing chief to attend his deathbed. His sicun, his guardian spirit, he told Blue Boy, wanted him at the old man’s side. White Swan had passed to Blue Boy his wish that Miniconjou kill all wasicu. And until last night, his singular purpose was to carry out White Swan’s wishes. The last thing on his mind as they crept into the town to steal rifles had been taking a woman captive.

  They had lain hidden in the shadows in back of the river store listening to the uproarious drunken crowd a block away and the sound of riverboats testing their steam machines. They had planned to break into the store and steal rifles and powder, knives and trades axes, and leave before anyone saw them.

  Then Lorna Moore walked past the window, silhouetted by flickering kerosene lamplight, and Blue Boy had rubbed his eyes. A woman like he had never seen before passed the window for the briefest moment, and he was certain he had just beheld a vision. Then the lamplight dimmed, and the woman emerged, walking beside a tall man in the garb of the shopkeeper. Blue Boy had drawn a sharp breath, as had Black Dog beside him. “We will take her,” Blue Boy said at once.

  No one said anything against the altered plan until Hawk spoke up. “We must get those guns. They will make us as many. They will make others in the lands of our fathers as many, as well.” That had been the only discussion as they waited while the shopkeeper walked Lorna outside the mercantile and upstairs to a room. They spoke words Blue Boy could not hear a moment before the shopkeeper bent to her, his lips brushed hers lightly, and she drew back. Blue Boy nearly bolted to her defense as she spoke a single word of anger to the man and quickly disappeared into her room.

  “We must get those rifles,” Hawk repeated.

  “I think he is right,” Black Dog whispered so the others did not hear him. “If we take the woman, we cannot take what is in the store. We will be seen. We need those rifles.”

  “I cannot allow such a woman to remain here in a white-man world,” Blue Boy said. “Such beauty was meant for the Lakota.”

  And so they had waited outside the trade store, hidden by the deep shadows until the light in her room went out. He positioned two of his braves to watch the storekeeper in case he heard something, and Blue Boy took Pawnee Killer with him. They had crept up the steps, the creaking under Blue Boy’s weight loud in the humid night air. Yet there were other sounds of the town that drowned them out, and they reached the upper floor unseen and unheard.

  Blue Boy rubbed his cheek where Lorna’s long fingernails had gouged him when he burst into her room. Pawnee Killer had clamped a hand over her mouth, and she h
ad bit him. She’d drawn in a deep breath to scream when Blue Boy hit her on the chin. Not hard enough to damage someone as lovely as she but sufficient to silence her for a short while. As Blue Boy looked at her sitting tall on the horse in front of Jimmy Swallow, he knew that, in time, she would forgive him.

  “Hawk,” Blue Boy called.

  The young brave stopped his pony beside Blue Boy.

  “We get hungry.”

  Hawk started to speak when Blue Boy held up his hand to stop him. “I know: if we would had broken into the mercantile, we could have stolen oysters. Maybe peaches in those cans you like. But we didn’t.” Blue Boy motioned ahead. “Go and find us game. And build a fire so that we may cook.”

  “Put the woman to cooking.”

  Blue Boy shook his head. In his younger life, he would have run Hawk through with his blade for his insolence. But now he needed to keep his warriors together and alive. Nothing was more important than getting Lorna safely to his lodge. “And when you are done cooking,” he said, ignoring the protest, “you will bury the campfire and the bones of whatever you bring us. Do not leave any sign for those who may follow us.”

  Hawk’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing as he rode ahead of the others. He unsheathed his Spencer carbine as he disappeared over the next rise.

  The column rode up the steep embankment, and Blue Boy rode ahead to take the lead. It would be better for their survival if he rode in front where the sight of the woman would not affect his judgment. There would be time enough later to gaze in awe upon her. After the Great Wall.

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  Tucker stopped just below a hill above the Bad River that overlooked a deep, parched valley. He stood in his stirrups and shielded his eyes with his hand. Somewhere on the other side of the heat-shimmering waves Lorna rode with the Indians who’d taken her. “They’re close. I can smell them, and Ben can, too.” The mule’s ears laid back, his eyes drawn to the west as his nose tested the hot, dry wind.