Tucker hobbled to Jack and knelt beside him. “You all right?”
“Get the hell out of here,” Jack yelled and waved in the direction Blue Boy rode. “Go!”
Tucker patted Jack on the back. “I’ll be back for you.” He staggered to where they’d hobbled their horses, the pain in his leg so much less than the pain in his heart if he couldn’t find Blue Boy.
CHAPTER 39
* * *
Lorna heard her terror long before she saw it. The water surged down the gully where she was tied to the dead cottonwood. The torrent carried rocks and branches, the bones of some dead animal, a decayed trunk of some settler who tried crossing the prairie with too many fancy things. It caromed off the bank just under where Lorna struggled against the leather rope. She screamed, but the water, the rain, and the thunder drowned out her voice, and she could not even gather enough voice to pray to her God to save her.
An uprooted cactus the size of a cat crashed against her. Barbs stuck in her leg, and she screamed louder. She struggled against the rope that bound her to the tree she could never move. Her strength ebbed as she thrashed against the water and debris pounding the bank and the tree trunk. The water was up to her chest now. Rising. She tried maneuvering to keep the tree between her and the water assaulting her. But the rope held.
The water rose.
The storm drowned out her cries.
Her Lord had forsaken her.
CHAPTER 40
* * *
The thunderstorm pounded the Badlands gumbo into a slippery, gray goo. Tucker spurred the horse up a bank. It slipped and went down, rolling over onto its side and trapping Tucker’s leg. He felt the stitches tear loose, but he held tight onto the saddle horn. He knew the gelding had to right itself. It did, catching its footing, and stumbled erect as Tucker coaxed the horse up the bank.
He caught sight of Blue Boy’s dun as it disappeared over a hill a hundred yards distant. He’d chased Blue Boy for a quarter hour and was gaining. The Indian’s horse, though a magnificent animal, carried tremendous weight, and it was beginning to slow.
Tucker’s horse stumbled in a water-filled prairie dog hole, and he struggled to stay in the saddle. The ground that had been as hard as any brick used to build a house an hour ago had been turned into a soggy bog.
Tucker dug his boots into the horse’s flanks and rode up a steep embankment. Twice the horse slipped in the mud, and twice Tucker hung tight, prepared to kick himself free if he needed to. But the animal kept its legs under it and reached the top. The rain poured down at a steep angle, pelting Tucker’s face and neck with hard raindrops. He shielded his eyes with his hand and looked for Blue Boy.
Nothing. Tucker sucked in a breath. Lorna was out here somewhere. God knew where she was, or what the Indians had done with her. All Tucker knew was that only God and Blue Boy knew where she was, and he’d better not lose sight of either one.
Movement at the bottom of a hill a quarter mile away. Blue Boy rode his horse at full gallop toward a rapidly filling creek bed. Tucker spurred his horse after him, riding the rim of the hill overlooking the creek below, gaining on the Indian.
Tucker’s heart stopped a beat; he’d lost sight of Blue Boy.
Then Tucker caught movement at the bottom of the creek bed, beside a partially submerged cottonwood.
A figure thrashed wildly in the water.
Lorna.
Even at this distance and wearing Indian buckskins, he recognized her. She frantically beat her arms while she fought to keep her head above the rising torrent that crashed debris against the tree that held her.
Tucker dug his heels into the horse’s flank, and it bolted, running headlong toward the creek bank. It stumbled. Tucker clutched the saddle horn as the horse fell and sank up to its chest in the mud. Tucker flew over the saddle, rolling, slipping. When he gathered his legs under him, the horse had righted itself and bolted away.
Tucker staggered down the hill, knowing he could not reach Lorna before Blue Boy did. Tucker’s side screamed from lack of air, running, stumbling, fighting to reach her before Blue Boy plunged the knife into her to avenge the deaths of his warriors.
Tucker slowed, still sixty yards away. He drew his gun and looked for anything to rest his hand on. There was nothing, He spread his feet wide and grabbed the Remington with both hands while he picked up the front sight. He jerked the trigger; the shot burrowed into the gumbo off to Blue Boy’s right. Tucker willed his breathing to slow, his heart to stop racing as he lined the sights on Blue Boy’s broad back.
And pressed the trigger slowly.
The bullet kicked up mud between Blue Boy’s feet but narrowly missed him. He stopped and turned, as if seeing Tucker for the first time, then disappeared over the bank toward Lorna.
Tucker holstered and ran as fast as his wounded leg and bursting chest would allow. When he reached the creek bank, he doubled over, his breaths coming in great gasps. His vision blurred as much from running as from the storm, and he rubbed water from his eyes. Blue Boy—now at the water’s edge—dove into the creek; the only thing visible, his knife jutting out of the water. He gained his footing and splashed toward Lorna, now forty yards upstream from him.
Tucker drew the Remington. He knelt and rested his hand on a rock and fired his last shot. The slug hit Blue Boy in the shoulder, and he toppled into the water. When he came up, he still clutched the knife. He looked back at Tucker for only a brief moment before he stumbled toward Lorna, a man possessed with killing a woman for his own revenge.
Blue Boy was ten yards from Lorna when Tucker leapt into the water after him.
He saw Tucker splashing up behind him. Ignored him. Now within knife distance from her.
Tucker flung himself onto Blue Boy’s back. He flicked Tucker away as if he were a sack of feed.
Tucker drew his Bowie and stumbled toward Blue Boy. He heard Tucker and turned just in time to avoid Tucker’s slashing blade.
Blue Boy, a full head taller and sixty pounds heavier, faced Tucker. With a reach that put his knife at the end of those long, muscular arms, Blue Boy thrust his blade out. Tucker flung himself back into the water, catching the tip of the Indian’s knife high on his collarbone, ripping muscle.
Tucker circled, his knife held high out of the torrent rushing down the creek bed. He fought his leg cramping, fought to remain standing in the swift water. A log rushing by just under the water line struck Tucker in the knee, and he stifled a scream. Blue Boy feinted right, then darted left. Tucker tried pivoting to meet the attack, but his leg buckled. Blue Boy’s slice ripped a shallow gash just under Tucker’s armpit.
Then Blue Boy hit him flush on the chin. Tucker fell into the water. The current carried him downstream. His arms flailed for a hold of anything, his knife lost to the flash flooding creek.
His hand brushed a submerged root, and he grabbed at it. He hauled himself erect and looked frantically for Blue Boy. He had reached Lorna. She fought to keep her nose above water, the water-soaked buckskins dragging her down, thrashing about, screaming as Blue Boy’s knife plunged below the surface.
Tucker struggled toward Blue Boy and flung himself on the Indian’s back. Tucker wrapped his arms around Blue Boy’s thick neck and locked his hands together. Blue Boy clawed at him, and Tucker felt the skin on his neck ripped deep by sharp fingernails. He buried his face in Blue Boy’s back, increasing the pressure on his neck, ignoring the shredded shoulder muscle ripped by Blue Boy’s blade. His efforts grew less and less frantic, until the Lakota went limp in Tucker’s arms. He let Blue Boy drop into the water and splashed toward Lorna.
Her leather thongs had been cut, and she had climbed atop the cottonwood. She coughed water from her lungs, her face as red as a fire from the effort. She threw her arms around Tucker’s neck. He carried her, crying, to the weeping shore. They struggled up the slippery gumbo bank, and he gently laid her on the ground above the creek.
“He saved my life,” Lorna sputtered when she was able to speak. Tucker slapp
ed her back, and water was expelled from her lungs.
“What?”
“Blue Boy. He saved my life.” She held her hands so Tucker could see the freshly cut leather thong. She rubbed her wrists. “When the Indians left to find you, they tied me to that tree. The creek was dry then. They never thought about a storm. If Blue Boy hadn’t come back, I would have drowned.”
Tucker held Lorna close. “It’s all right now.”
“Not so, wasicu.”
Tucker turned around to face Blue Boy towering over him. His neck bore red marks from where Tucker had choked him unconscious, and blood seeped from the bullet wound in his shoulder. He held his knife low beside his leg. “She is my woman. For that I will kill you. And for killing my warriors.”
Tucker pried Lorna’s arms from around his neck. He used a boulder to help him stand. The wound in his leg had reopened, and the pelting rain slapped angrily against his trousers. He hobbled towards Blue Boy, keeping himself between the Lakota and Lorna, one arm dangling useless at his side.
“You can’t have her.” Tucker stared at Blue Boy’s knife, aware that he faced an armed man half again as large as he. “She is mine. Lorna has always been mine.”
Blue Boy looked past Tucker. “Is that true?”
Lorna nodded. She stood and stumbled to Tucker. “He is my man,” she announced proudly. “And I’ll have no other.”
“And you, little man—you would fight me for her, knowing you have no chance of victory?”
“I would,” Tucker answered, “fight you for her.”
“You are in no shape to fight anyone. Especially me.”
Tucker stepped away from Lorna and set himself for his last fight. “And any other warrior you send to kill me.”
“Then you are a fool.” Blue Boy wiped rain water from his eyes and motioned with his knife to Lorna. “For she will be mine.”
Tucker stepped closer, preparing for the attack he knew he could not defend. “She’s mine. Call it white man’s honor.”
“And if I kill you?”
“Then I’ll die knowing I died as I’ve lived—with honor and dignity.”
The rain cascaded down Blue Boy’s face and streaked his war paint, his massive chest black with the pigment. He slipped his knife into his belt sheath and stepped closer to Tucker. “You are a worthy enemy. Where are you from? What is your name?”
“Tucker Ashley. From Pennsylvania way before the war.”
Blue Boy nodded. “I have heard of you. A very worthy enemy. I will return and count coup on you. That is my assurance I give to you, white man. But I will do so honorably. When you heal sufficiently, I will visit you when you do not look for me. We will fight for the woman, you and me. But we will not fight this day.” He motioned to Lorna. “This day it is sufficient that her life has been spared.”
Blue Boy slowly backed away. He looked past Tucker one final time, and a faint smile creased the Lakota’s face. He walked to his horse without looking back and swung a leg over the dun. He nudged the gelding’s flanks. Soon he was lost in the storm, his fading hoofbeats a faint reminder that he was even here.
Tucker limped back to Lorna. She met him halfway and threw her arms around his neck. He winced and held her away from his bloody shoulder as she kissed him. Not deeply, just a brushing of the lips, for they were not married. And Tucker was an honorable man.
He held Lorna’s hand, as much to prevent him from tripping in the mud as from her falling over into the wild water. They made their way toward Tucker’s horse, which stood with his face to the rain, yards away. “Was that true?” he asked. “Are you mine?”
“You made the statement.” She smiled. “And I’m going to hold you to it.”
Tucker nodded. “Consider it held,” he said as he helped her into the saddle. “Let’s go find Jack and head for home.”
“And find a preacher, too?” Lorna added.
“And find a preacher, too.”
As they started up the hillside away from the creek, Tucker did an odd thing, for him. Since he was captured at Antietam, he told himself he would never look back on a battleground as he had that day. But today, he paused and looked back at where he had fought Blue Boy, the Indian’s words echoing in Tucker’s mind. Blue Boy promised he would find Tucker, and they would fight for Lorna when he had mended. Of that, Tucker was certain. He’d have to look over his shoulder until that day came.
But for this day, this time, this moment in his life, he would enjoy his time with her. This time next month, the creek would be dried up, hiding her secrets as it had today for the next hapless passerby to uncover. But Lorna would still be his.
Blue Boy’s promise or not.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
* * *
C. M. Wendelboe entered the law-enforcement profession when he was discharged from the marines as the Vietnam War was winding down.
He served in diverse roles during his career, yet he always felt most proud of “working the street. ” He retired after twenty-six years, when he pursued his true vocation as a fiction writer. He is the author of Spirit Road Mysteries, a Berkley Prime Crime series about law enforcement on Native American reservations of the contemporary West. He now calls Cheyenne, Wyoming, home.
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