by Ron Schwab
It was nearly two o'clock in the morning when Ethan was awakened by the sound of distant gunfire. He sat up and pushed his blanket aside. He looked about the campsite and saw that McLarty had lifted his head but had not otherwise changed positions. Jeb was stirring and tossing his blankets aside. Jeb spoke softly, "Trouble for somebody."
"Your Indian friends, I'd guess," McLarty replied.
"The shots are in the direction of the river," Jeb said.
"Badger Claw and his outfit just made their acquaintance with the varmints we're tracking," McLarty said.
"Shouldn't we go help?" Jeb asked.
"Too late for that by the time we'd get there," McLarty said. "I'm going to get some more shuteye. I'll take a look over that way at sunrise."
McLarty closed his eyes and his chin dropped to his chest again. End of conversation. Ethan looked at Jeb. "I'm wanting to check this out, but One Ball's right. There's nothing to be done right now." He lay back down and listened until the gunfire became sporadic about fifteen minutes later and, in another fifteen minutes, ceased altogether. His mind resisted sleep as it ran through the different scenarios that might be playing out along the river trail, but finally he drifted off.
When he awakened, Ethan saw that McLarty had disappeared. He guessed that the old mountain man had left to check out the early morning disturbance. They were not all that far from whatever hostilities had broken out, so there would be no fire this morning. He would ferret out whatever he could find of the jerky and crumbling biscuits for breakfast, but he was ready to have Jeb put together a real meal soon.
Jeb got up and joined him, but he decided to let Running Fox sleep until McLarty returned. "Did you hear One Ball slip out of camp?" Ethan asked.
"Hell, no. I can't hear him move around when I'm wide awake. He's a creepy old bastard, but I've got to admit I sleep better with him around."
"I won't argue with that. I'm afraid I'm getting a little lazy about watching out for trouble. I know my eyes and ears aren't up to his standards."
"I'm curious as hell to know what he finds over by the river."
Several hours later McLarty returned. He walked into camp without saying a word and started helping himself to the scraps that comprised breakfast. Then, he reclaimed his tree and sat down to eat. Ethan knew that the old man was playing a game of some kind, waiting for someone to ask. He surrendered. "What did you find?"
"Like I said, your Indians found some trouble. Four dead, one dying, and the other wounded. The one you called 'Badger Claw' will probably make it. That's the way it works. He led the fools into the ambush, and he gets out alive. Ain't never no justice."
"Where is he now?"
"Gathering up their horses and waiting to send his friend off to the Happy Hunting Ground. I said he could wait for us or go on by hisself. Didn't make us no matter. I'd bet he waits."
"What about the men that ambushed them?" Jeb asked.
"Well, Mr. Oaks, they've moved on up the trail. They had a big camp over by the river. Fifteen or so men, I'd say. Not counting the three or four women. Got to be the friends you're after. They was smart enough to keep the trail guarded, and I'd guess they had plenty of warning about their Indian visitors. They was pretty much packed to move up the trail this morning, I'd guess. When the fools parade showed up, they took care of them and decided to get on their way."
"I'd like to see the camp near the Powder," Ethan said. "And we need to see what Badger Claw has in mind. We could use another fighting man, if he'll follow orders."
"You can follow my trail back to the river. Then you can stay on the river trail for a spell. I'll try to scout east of the trail through the woods and see what they've got for lookouts. Kill one or two, if need be. Odds are they're not thinking much about a second batch of fools this soon. And they're not just on the run. They know more or less where they're headed."
"But they're going deeper into Cheyenne country, and they haven't been too friendly lately."
"Not just the Cheyenne. The Sioux and other tribes up this way have got something brewing, and they ain't fussing much with each other right now. These folks ain't up here for a damned vacation."
19
After McLarty disappeared into the trees, Ethan rousted Running Fox out of his robe, and they followed the mountain man's tracks back to the river, where they found a subdued Badger Claw wedging his dead companions into the lower branches of trees along the river. The top of the warrior's scalp was matted with blood, some drying, but scarlet still leaked from a wound. Ethan vowed to examine it when the Sioux was finished with whatever he was doing with the bodies, which were now five. He had asked the boy to talk to Badger Claw and see what he could learn of the man's injury and find out what he was doing. Running Fox had seemed pleased to have an assignment and linked up with his fellow tribesman immediately, helping with the placement of the corpses when needed. It seemed a macabre task for a small boy, but he supposed this was nothing in comparison to what the boy had dealt with in his ravaged village.
Ethan and Jeb studied the abandoned campsite while Badger Claw and Running Fox attended to the placement of the bodies. Jeb wandered off to the camp's edge and shortly called to Ethan. "Come take a look at this, Boss."
Ethan joined him in a little clearing set off from the camp and found the cowhand standing next to the charred remains of a fire. The ground was pretty much devoid of vegetation, and the sparse grass that did exist was flattened, obviously by sleeping occupants. He noticed immediately the small moccasin tracks that were scattered about the area. "This must be where they kept the women. Or at least they spent time here."
"That's what I figured. They . . . or some of them . . . were still alive while they were here."
Ethan circled the clearing and found a break in the brush. He stopped and pushed his way past the barbed gooseberry bushes that were on both sides of the opening. He returned quickly, wrinkling his nose.
"What's the matter, Boss?"
"Above ground latrine." He continued his perusal of the clearing fringes until he paused at a narrower opening and again stepped into the woods. "I'm going to see where this goes. Why don't you and Running Fox see if you can catch a few fish, and we'll stick around here for some dinner."
"No argument from me. About time for some fresh biscuits, too."
As Chief of Scouts at Fort Laramie, tracking had been Ethan's strong suit, and he saw something that interested him. A lone woman's moccasin-clad feet left prints angling into the forest. Broken pine sprigs and flattened blades of grass leading deeper into the woods intrigued him more. A captive would not likely have been permitted to wander this far from camp, and the woman seemed to be moving fast, making no effort to hide her tracks. He followed the woman's trail until he came to a tall gnarled aspen, where it was obvious another woman had joined her. The two had then swung west toward the river. This showed no indication of being an authorized journey. There was no evidence of pursuit, so any search must have been disorganized. He wondered if there was a distraction of some kind.
It took no special skill to track the women to the river's edge, but the trail stopped abruptly there. He did find other, larger moccasin tracks along the river bank—two men, it appeared. He remembered Otter had mentioned that several Pawnee rode with the raiders. The women were without doubt on the run, and they had either crossed the Powder or been swept away by it. He could find no signs of a struggle, so the pursuers had not captured them here. The river was wide at this point and appeared to run shallow. He took off his own moccasins and waded into the water. The rush of the river was strong against his legs, but he stepped cautiously and found the footing solid.
When he stepped up on the other bank, Ethan quickly picked up the trail. The women had crossed the Powder, but there was no doubt that the Pawnee were still on the hunt. This triggered a sinking feeling in his gut. There was no way the women would outrun the Pawnee. He began to move ahead at a trot, following the tracks and other signs that left a virtual map for a man
of his experience.
Three hours later the trees started to thin out and the incline turned noticeably steeper. The mountain slopes in front of him promised a more serious climb, and all the tracks and loose rock indicated both duos had angled toward a good-sized stone outcropping on much higher terrain. He studied the mountainside above him. Some hundred feet south of the rock formation, he saw the black, shadowy vultures circling and swooping—dozens of them. The sight was nothing but ominous, and he steeled himself for the worst as he commenced his ascent.
Suddenly, a rifle cracked twice, kicking up rocks at his feet, and he dived and rolled downhill, coming up near a clump of aspen with his rifle ready. He was certain the shots came from near the outcropping which was a logical sniper's nest. But why would someone be hiding in that place? There would be no reason for anyone to be expecting him. If the Pawnee had captured the women, they had either returned them to the camp via another route or killed them, which he feared was the case. They would not be holed up behind the rocks. This left him baffled. Surely one of the women had not fired the rifle. If so, she knew how to handle the damn thing.
He had decent cover in the trees, but he couldn't leave the spot without giving the shooter a tempting target. The rifleman could escape in the opposite direction but, certainly, was not going to come Ethan's direction without exposure to his own fire. It was pretty much a standoff for now. The night was his friend, however, for that was when the puma stalked. And darkness would descend on the mountains in a few hours.
Ethan waited, studying the lay of the land and planning a route up the slope. He would need to work his way south, so he did not attempt his assent in the line of fire. His thought was to inch up the mountainside and come in behind the shooter. If the Pawnee were ensconced in the rock, Ethan had to keep an eye out, for it was possible one of the warriors might take a notion to sneak away with the thought of taking the attack to him.
As the shadows began to cover the mountains, Ethan slowly and silently eased his way down the slope, disappearing into the more heavily forested zone. Under cover of both trees and darkness, he slipped quickly through the woods at the mountain's base until he felt he was out of sight to anyone hidden in the rocks. Then, clinging to his rifle and staying in the shadows and close to the ground, he began to work snail-like up the incline.
It took him nearly two hours to finally get a bit higher than the outcropping and some fifty yards to the south. He had a clear view of the objective and in the moonlight that streaked through cloud cover could make out the outline of someone standing with a rifle at the far end of the rock escarpment. His long hair fell over his shoulders, and Ethan figured the rifleman had to be one of the Pawnee. But where was the other? He was positioned to assure a clean shot with his rifle. Still, he felt he needed to verify his enemy before taking the man down. With his Winchester ready to fire at the squeeze of the trigger and belly to the ground, Ethan began crawling toward the rifleman.
When he was within nearly twenty paces, he stood and aimed. "Drop your weapon and turn around," he commanded. He hoped the Pawnee spoke some English.
The rifle clattered to the ground and the figure turned toward him. In the same instant, out of the corner of his eye he caught movement and turned his head to see someone racing toward him with a skinning knife in hand. Just as the attacker was within reach, Ethan swung the barrel of his rifle down and hammered it against the side of the man's head. The attacker dropped like a sack of corn and the knife fell away. He instantly whirled to face the other party, who was reaching for the rifle. "Don't even think about it," he yelled, "or you're dead."
He moved closer to the shadowy figure. The Pawnee evidently understood some English, or he would be dead. "Where are the women?" he asked.
"Why do you ask that? We are the women. Who are you? I do not recognize you?"
A woman's voice. What in the hell? "My name is Ethan Ramsey. Who are you?"
"I am called She-Bear. And I have seen you in our village with Sky-in-the-Morning."
"My God. I almost shot you. Where is Skye?"
She-Bear raced past him. "Behind you. She is the one you struck with your rifle."
"No," he uttered in disbelief. "But she tried to kill me. I thought you were both Pawnee."
"And we thought you were one of the barbarians who slaughtered our people."
They both knelt beside Skye, who was flattened on her back, stirring in a futile effort to turn over, and moaning loudly. Thank God. At least, he had not killed her. His fingers pushed the hair away from her face, and he was stunned by what he saw there. The rifle barrel had struck her above the left eye and left a bloody mass that covered her forehead. But the right side of her face was also swollen with raw wounds that appeared they might have resulted from savage raking by a grizzly bear's claws.
"It's turning cold. We need to get her near a fire where she can get some warmth and where we can look at her wound."
She-Bear pointed at a pocket behind some boulders. "Our buffalo robe is over there, and a fire pit is nearby. There should be coals underneath the ashes. I can start a fire, but we have been afraid to let one burn at night, because it might lead someone to our hiding place."
"The barbarians, as you call them, are gone. We have made camp there, and you are safe now. It would be good if my friends saw a fire. It might reassure them of my own safety."
He lifted Skye from the ground, and, although she flailed helplessly, he easily carried her to the robe and placed her on it, thinking that the five and one-half foot woman must weigh less than a hundred pounds. While She-Bear stirred the hot coals and tossed tinder in the shallow fire pit, Ethan pulled a kerchief from his coat pocket and retrieved the canteen he spotted among the fugitives' scant gear. He sat down beside Skye and began to wipe the blood from the flesh about her eye, which was already nearly swollen shut. An enormous knot had erupted on her brow above the eye. A cut there seemed to be the source of the bleeding, but it did not seem terribly deep.
He spoke softly to her as he cleaned her face. "Skye, can you hear me? It's Ethan. Everything is going to be fine now."
Her good eye fluttered and then opened. She seemed to be taking in her surroundings. He continued to assure her of her safety, telling her repeatedly who he was. She remained silent for some minutes before she spoke groggily. "Ethan, what are you doing here?"
"I have been looking for you. Thank God, I found you."
"What happened to me?"
How did he explain this? "It's my fault. I hit you with my rifle barrel."
She seemed to be trying to make sense of his answer. "Why would you hit me?"
"I thought you were someone else . . . one of the Pawnee."
Again, she did not respond for some time. Then she finally spoke. "I tried to kill you, didn't I?"
"Yes, and I'm happy to report you were not successful. But I'm sorry I hurt you."
"This is all very confusing, and I am tired."
"Everything's fine. Go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
Her eyes closed and she drifted off quickly. The fire's flames were delivering warmth his way, and he looked at the flickering blaze and, through the smoke, saw She-Bear staring back at him, studying him with dark, intelligent eyes. He flipped part of the robe to cover Skye and scooted nearer to the fire. He returned the young woman's gaze and it struck him that she was younger than he first thought, probably no more than seventeen or eighteen. And the dust and sweat of days on the trail could not hide that she was quite attractive. He had noticed that she was tall for her people, male or female, likely five feet and nine or ten inches.
She was obviously fluent in his language, thankfully, so he decided to satisfy his curiosity. "Can we speak now?" he asked.
"Yes, I have questions."
He thought he was going to be asking the questions. "Very well. You first."
"How did you come to be here?"
He gave her a brief version of his story, explaining his arrival at the village and the mov
ing of her people to his ranch and finishing with the ambush of Badger Claw's Sioux warriors on the trail. "I found signs of your escape and followed you here. I also discovered the Pawnee tracks, and I feared you were dead. I did not know Skye had escaped the camp, but I suspected."
"We killed the Pawnee." She plucked the scalp from her crude belt and held it up. "We each had a kill. I took a scalp. Sky-in-the-Morning would not do so." She described the trap they laid for the Pawnee pursuers in detail and with evident pride. "Sky-in-the-Morning is very brave, but you would not have been in any danger if she had tried to shoot you this night. You must teach her to use the gun."
"I'll do that if she will allow me. You apparently need no help with your rifle."
"No, you are alive because I did not recognize you and chose only to warn with my shots."
"Thank you for that kindness. Now, I could use a few hours' sleep. Why don't you share the robe with Skye? I can curl up here near the fire and keep it going."
"Do you not wish to share the robe with her after making this journey?"
Her question flustered him for a few moments. "Uh, no, I do not think she would appreciate that."
"But you would be willing," she said with a knowing smile. "I do not think you traveled these many miles to rescue me."
Ethan tugged his coat collar up about his neck and stretched out near the fire. "I'm going to get some shut-eye."
20
Skye sat on the buffalo robe watching Ethan as he slept near the fire. The sun had already crawled over the mountain peaks and nearly blinded the only eye that was working. At least, unlike Captain Quint, her disabled eye would function soon. It was difficult to pinpoint a place her head did not hurt. She could feel the massive lump above her eye, and the stabbing pain seemed to shoot out in all directions from there. And then the side of her face that had taken the blows of the quirt had seemed to swell more and bring renewed agony. She feared infection that would leave scarring that would turn her into a one-armed witch woman. But she was alive, she reminded herself.