by Ron Schwab
He got up and fastened his gun belt and retrieved the Winchester which lay next to his bedroll. Then he strolled over to check in with Jeb. "Somebody's out there, aren't they?"
"Can't see them. But, yep, they're here."
"Where's One Ball?"
"Got up two hours ago, right after I relieved you. Disappeared like a damn ghost. The old fart's kind of creepy, if you ask me."
"Yeah, but I'm glad we took him on. He knows this country, and he knows Indians. He may save our scalps."
"Puma." The gruff voice came from the south near the trail that ran along the riverbank.
"I hear you," Ethan called back. "Show yourself."
"Peace?"
"Yes, we want no trouble."
He felt a tugging on his shirt. "That Badger Claw. From my people."
"I know Badger Claw." He did not add that he and the warrior had an uneasy relationship. The Brule coveted Skye and pressed to take her as a second or third wife. She had made it clear that she would be a man's only wife—if she chose to have a man at all. Still, Badger Claw seemed to view Ethan as a rival. On the other hand, Ethan conceded he owed the man his life, because the Brule warrior had appeared with some of his tribesmen at a moment of crisis to take down some men who would surely have killed Skye and himself.
Momentarily, Badger Claw appeared on the trail, leading his spotted horse and trailed by two other warriors and their ponies. He was a man of small stature and a handsome warrior with erect bearing, broad shoulders and sinewy muscles that sheathed the naked arms extending from his vested torso. Ethan knew he was a respected warrior and a sub-chief of some sort. Because of Lame Buffalo's death, it was not difficult to see this warrior assuming leadership of the remnants of the band. It was difficult to guess what direction he might lead.
Ethan waved the visitors into the camp, and they came warily. Badger Claw's eyes searched the site, and he spoke something in Lakota to Running Fox, who had never left Ethan's side. Running Fox translated, "Him say you not have many warriors for war party."
"I thought he spoke English."
"Not many words. No speak good English like me do."
"Tell him he does not have many warriors either, but we know there are more with him . . . at least three others." Ethan was gambling that McLarty had been on target with his estimate.
Running Fox repeated the message, and Badger Claw could not hide his surprise.
"Here's the rest of the so-called war party."
Ethan turned to find McLarty walking out of the pines with his Sharps pointed at the backs of three grim-faced Sioux warriors, who had clearly been disarmed and were now humiliated in the presence of their leader. McLarty's face was expressionless. "Shall I put 'em out of their misery?"
"No, we just need to keep them in front of us. Let's invite them to share breakfast and see what we can find out. Do you speak some Lakota?"
"Some. Just enough to get by. Sounds like the papoose was doing okay. Let him do the talking. Maybe he'll turn out to be good for something."
"Running Fox, invite them to join us at our fire and share our breakfast. We'll talk."
Badger Claw grunted his acceptance, and an hour later, after studying the fare suspiciously, the guests ate voraciously of Jeb's hotcakes, saturated with the last of the maple syrup. They smacked noisily, as they licked and sucked their fingers clean of the sticky mess that had resulted absent the use of forks, which were foreign to them.
While they ate, Ethan learned that Badger Claw and his warriors had been part of the Brule hunting party that had returned to the destroyed village. Most of the hunters had taken the meager meat harvest from the hunt and commenced trailing the exodus from the village. Badger Claw and his warriors had taken on the task of tracking the raiders, not knowing what they might find.
Ethan with the help of his young interpreter told the visitors what they knew about the attack on the village and explained that the survivors of the raid had been moved to Ethan's ranch, which did not seem to set well with Badger Claw. Running Fox also informed the warrior that his wife had been killed in the raid, but his six-year old son survived. The news was accepted stoically, but Ethan supposed the man had been prepared for such a report and, perhaps, was grateful to have salvaged his son.
Ethan suggested the two groups join forces, but Badger Claw rejected the idea immediately. He refused to be slowed by the white eyes, and they would only be in his way, he insisted. Besides, he knew of the man called One Ball. He was not to be trusted. Ethan had a hunch that the humiliation inflicted by McLarty's capture of Badger Claw's comrades factored into the warrior's opinion of the old mountain man.
"We will be following you. If you wish our help, you have only to ask," Ethan said. He decided that the Sioux might be better trackers on this cold trail, so it did not matter if he allowed them to move ahead. Ethan would not be far behind. When the fighting came, they would be shooting at the same enemy.
When Badger Claw and his warriors had collected the weapons McLarty had forced them to abandon in the forest, they rode out of the campsite, taking the trail north that followed the Powder River. It occurred to Ethan that the raiders had never deviated from the river's course, and they clearly were not moving at random. They were headed for a predetermined destination. But where?
Running Fox stood beside him as they watched the Sioux ride off. "Me help?" the boy asked.
Ethan tousled the boy's hair. "Yes, you helped." He had to concede that Running Fox's availability as an interpreter had assisted hugely, although he suspected McLarty was no stranger to the language. For some reason the old man had remained silent during the conversation with their guests, but he had listened and watched with narrowed eyes.
"Badger Claw take Sky-in-the-Morning for his woman."
The remark grabbed Ethan's attention. "Why do you say that?"
"Him say she no be second woman. Now she would be first woman. That why Badger Claw not want us to slow him."
It had not occurred to Ethan that he had a rival. Surely Skye would not be attracted to this warrior, although he had to admit that the man struck a striking physical presence. He had trouble seeing Skye living out her life in a Sioux village or on a reservation, although she had a definite altruistic side and had taught at the Quaker school for several years. Perhaps she would find a life in the service of her people a persuasive call. And what better way than to marry a warrior and truly share their lives?
He found that the whole notion annoyed him and scolded himself that such thoughts were foolish, since he did not even know if Skye was alive.
McLarty was leading his horse over to his saddle, which lay near the dying embers of the fire. "I didn't sign up for this party to spend the days on my ass. If you don't mind, I'd like to move on and get whatever we're going to do over and done with."
Ethan couldn't argue with that thought. "We'll pull out in the next fifteen minutes."
"And we won't take the river trail," McLarty said softly, but with a firmness in his voice.
Ethan considered the man's remark. It made sense. If the raiders were traveling the broken Powder River Trail, they likely expected pursuit and were prepared for it. McLarty knew this country. It would make sense to listen to him, even at the risk of losing more time. "You can take the lead. We'll follow."
As they rode out, Jeb sidled his horse up next to Ethan. "The boy was a big help as an interpreter. Somehow, I just didn't trust McLarty to pass on the words the way you said them."
"What do you know about the Sioux language?"
"Absolutely nothing."
"There are actually three Sioux dialects. The Sioux are spread out across the northern plains . . . from here and north into Canada and east into Minnesota. There are three divisions based primarily on language. The westernmost are Lakota, and they're made up of seven sub-tribes, including the Brule, Oglala and Hunkpapa . . . that's Sitting Bull's bunch. These sub-tribes all speak Lakota. They make up kind of a confederation, sometimes called the seven counci
l fires."
"Sounds complicated."
"Some of the sub-tribes have negotiated their separate peace with the white man. But they're all family. And since the treaties are always broken, you can't count on where they'll line up if war breaks out. The Black Hills are sacred to the Lakota, and the Fort Laramie Treaty of 1868 prohibited white settlement forever. When gold was discovered there four years back, that treaty went to hell. That's what started the current fuss."
"Sounds like something we want to stay away from."
"Yeah, I'd say so."
17
Skye decided immediately that they would be no match for the Pawnee in hand-to-hand combat. She told She-Bear to take her Winchester and move up the slope some twenty yards into a cluster of pine and aspen that cloaked a patch of the mountainside. She calculated that the outcropping that provided their hideaway should block the Pawnees' line of sight, as the young woman scurried away.
Before she left, Skye asked She-Bear, "Can you hit a man from that distance?"
"I believe I can do this."
"Do not shoot until you hear my pistol fire."
"I understand."
As She-Bear worked her way up the incline, Skye pulled the Army Colt from its holster and studied it. She had some knowledge of pistols from observation but had never fired one. All the chambers of the cylinder were loaded. She held the gun in her hand and raised it as if to fire. She found the weapon was heavier than she realized, and her hand shook noticeably. Nothing she could do about it. She sat down on the buffalo robe and tugged it around her, covering any evidence of the gun. Then she waited, her hand gripping the pistol tightly and rubbing her fingers over it, attempting to get acquainted.
The wait could not have been more than fifteen minutes, but it seemed like an hour. The voices had faded to silence, but she could hear the rattle of loose rock rolling away as the Pawnee crept up the mountainside. Abruptly, a squatty, barrel-chested man stepped around the edge of the outcropping. At first, he appeared startled to find her there, and then their eyes met, and his mouth contorted into a scowl. His hand lifted the war axe he carried at his side and he moved threateningly toward her as his taller companion emerged from behind the rock and edged next to him. The second Pawnee said something to the other, and, although Skye could not understand the words, the two men cast their eyes about uneasily, and she suspected they were wondering about the whereabouts of She-Bear.
The squatty warrior stood no more than a dozen feet from her now and began waving the axe wildly and screaming at her. She gathered he was instructing her to get up. She flipped back the robe and aimed the pistol, which was quivering in her hand. She squeezed the trigger, resulting in a deafening explosion, and the gun almost kicked from her hand. The Indians both leaped back, and she realized her shot had missed. The Pawnee charged her like an angry bull, and, for some reason, the weapon steadied now. She heard another shot, and a second, before she fired again. This time, the bullet tore into his throat before she sent another into his chest, and he collapsed on her legs.
She swung the Colt around, seeking the other Pawnee, and then she saw him crumpled on the ground, his head an island in a pool of blood. She pushed the dead Pawnee off her legs and scrambled up. She turned and caught sight of She-Bear, half-running and half-sliding down the rocky slope, with a rare smile on her face. When she reached the outcropping, she went directly to the side of the warrior her rifle shots had taken down. She knelt, and her fingers latched the man's hair and lifted his head. She looked up at Skye and displayed two fingers. "Both shots hit. Did I not tell you I could do this?"
"You did. Your shooting was amazing. And I missed my first shot from ten feet away." Then Skye saw that She-Bear was not listening. She had drawn her skinning knife from its sheath and was focused on removing her dead target's scalp. Skye's stomach was suddenly queasy. "What are you doing?"
"I am taking my first scalp."
"Why, for God's sake?"
"Why not? Our warriors take the scalps of fallen enemies. I think after the things we have done, I am a warrior now, too. This is my second kill and it did not occur to me to take the white sentry's scalp. The scalp of a hated Pawnee is a special prize, though. You should take your kill's scalp."
"No, I think not."
"It will be wasted then. I cannot take the scalp of an enemy I did not kill." She lifted the blood-dripping scalp from the dead man and draped it over a boulder to dry.
"We need to drag the bodies away from here, but first we take their clothes."
"Their clothes? Why?"
"Do you want to keep wearing what remains of our dresses through the brush and brambles? We can wash their things in the stream and get some of the dirt and stink out. They will be warmer and offer more protection to our bodies." She looked over the two dead men. She-Bear's kill was taller and wore faded denim britches and a flannel shirt with a buckskin vest, and the Pawnee she had shot was attired in buckskin pants and a bloody war shirt pocked with several bullet holes. "You take your kill's things, and I will remove these. From far away Quint's killers might not recognize us. We can use your rawhide strips to draw up the waists and cut anything else down that's too long."
When the Pawnee were stripped, She-Bear nodded at the Pawnee she called her kill. "This one mounted me," she said. "His spear has shriveled to a tiny grub. It is fitting. I think I should remove it that he might walk the spirit world without it."
"No," Skye said, "you have done enough."
In a short time, each pulling an arm, they drug the naked Pawnee corpses away from their hideaway behind the outcropping to a rock ledge that stuck out over a small canyon. They rolled the bodies off and watched them drop like dying birds through the air to the canyon floor. Then they washed the pirated clothing in the stream, rubbing the garments over the stones repeatedly and then scraping them with pine bark before laying them out to dry on boulders that surrounded their hiding place.
When the tasks were completed they settled back into what Skye had come to think of as their "nest" in the rocks. They both eased down on the buffalo robe and slept for the better part of an hour. When she awakened, Skye spoke. "I think we should stay where we are for a day, perhaps two."
"But what if someone heard our guns. Will they not come this way?"
"I do not think anyone could tell that closely where the shots came from. Even if someone did, they would likely think the Pawnee had killed us, and they would await a report from the warriors we killed. It is more likely most of the searchers remain on the other side of the river, and, regardless, they probably did not expect us to stray this far from the river. They will likely be searching south until they give up the hunt."
"But how will we know?"
"In a day or two we will go back the way we came and see if they are still camped across the river. If so, we will then start our journey south. If they have left, we will cross again and take the main trail on the other side of the river. I believe some of our people will be searching for us or, at least, following the vengeance trail."
"What makes you think Captain Quint will leave the camp?"
"He was planning to leave before we escaped. He is searching for gold he believes to be at a trading post my father once kept for the Cheyenne and other tribes. He did not say as much, but I believe he knows how to find the post, and that is where he is headed. He thought I knew where the gold was hidden there. If he decides we have escaped, he will not want to tarry here. He is not a stupid man, and he will be aware of the possibility of a war party following him. Unless he is dying, he will move soon."
"If we are to stay here, we must find something to eat."
"We will starve if you wait for me to kill an animal with my pistol. I suggest you go hunting, while I search out some roots and dried berries for a meal."
"I will find a rabbit or a squirrel."
18
It had been two days since Ethan's little party had met up with Badger Claw and his band of warriors. One Ball McLarty had le
d them single-file on a spiderweb of narrow deer paths through the forested mountains. Somehow, Ethan conceded, the old mountain man always sensed which branch in the maze of trails to take and kept the group parallel to the Powder River which was about a mile to the west. Because of McLarty's keen instincts, they had likely lost little time in taking this route instead of the river trail.
It was nearly dusk, and they reined in the horses when they came to a patch of scrub trees and seedlings that could be quickly cleared for a cold camp. As they dismounted, Ethan directed a question to McLarty. "We'll need to connect up with the river trail when we catch up with the raiders, I suspect. How do we know when to change course?"
"I'll tell you," McLarty said softly.
It was pointless to pursue the question further. McLarty rarely spoke, and Ethan had learned the man had little interest in conversation. So far, he had no reason to distrust McLarty, and he would not press.
They broke out some more hardtack and beef jerky, and Ethan found himself remembering why he did not miss his scouting days. The diet was becoming monotonous.
They laid out their bedrolls. Running Fox spread his buffalo robe next to Ethan's spot, and Ethan did not protest. The boy had travelled without complaint and did more than his share of camp chores. Ethan knew he was a bright boy, and probably understood now that he should not have followed, and, accordingly, was determined not to be a problem.
Everyone but One Ball McLarty curled up in their bedrolls. He sat on the ground, leaning against a tree trunk, a wool blanket wrapped about his shoulders and his head resting on his chest. Ethan had noticed the man often slept the entire night in that position—assuming he ever slept. Regardless, he had decided that posting a watch was unnecessary with McLarty in camp.