Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  Hawk’s logic proved to be accurate, for they had not gotten very far into the ravine when they came upon the spot where Jamie had apparently made his stand. Much to Monroe’s distress, it was obvious that his brother had been trapped there between the steep sides of the narrow gulch. “I reckon he stood ’em off as long as he could, at least maybe till he ran outta cartridges.” He pointed to the empty shells lying about on the ground near a small shoulder of rock. “I expect he had his wife behind that rock.” Seeing the heartbreaking effect his speculations were creating in Monroe’s eyes, he said, “Maybe that ain’t what happened. That’s just what it looks like to me.”

  Monroe quickly reacted. “No, you’re probably seeing it like it happened. It sounds like what Jamie would have done. He would have fought until he couldn’t anymore. I can’t understand why the soldiers didn’t say anything about these spent shell casings. Maybe they didn’t spend much time looking around.” He looked at Hawk as if expecting an explanation. When there was nothing from his scout but a shrug, Monroe continued, “The only hope I have is that we still haven’t found any bodies.” He motioned around him with a sweep of his arm. “And there’s no sign of blood anywhere.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Hawk said, hesitating to add that there wasn’t likely to be after this amount of time. “But I wouldn’t get my hopes up too soon. Let’s look a little farther up this stream toward the back of this ravine.” They followed the stream to a point where it went into the ground when the ravine ended at the base of a cliff. It was here that they found the evidence Monroe had hoped never to find.

  Monroe, a solidly built man, appeared almost to buckle when they came upon the grisly scene. Patches of shredded clothes lay scattered in the narrow confines of the rocky gulch and near the opening in the rocks where the stream went underground, a sun-bleached skeleton’s empty sockets stared grimly at the sky above. Unable to speak for a moment, Monroe looked at Hawk, hoping for some chance that it was not his brother. “Ain’t much I can tell you,” Hawk said. “It looks like a man, from the size of it. Looks like he got boxed in here at the back of this ravine and there wasn’t any place left to run. I reckon whoever done this musta carried the woman off. Either that or she somehow climbed up the side of this gulch and got away.” He pointed to some loose gravel and dislodged stones in the steep side of the ravine. “It sure looks like somebody, or some animal, tried to climb up over the side. It’d be a tough climb, specially for a woman.”

  Stunned, Monroe stood and stared at the gleaming skeleton, still unable to believe it was once his brother. The scraps of clothing that still remained were definitely those of a man. “Nothing but bones,” he uttered. “What did they do to him?”

  “Most likely it was coyotes or wolves that cleaned up the bones,” Hawk answered. “Maybe buzzards, too.” He knew that created a horrible picture for Monroe to envision, but he had asked for an explanation.

  After a few more moments, Monroe began to regain control of his emotions. “I want to dig a grave and bury what’s left of him. We can at least do that.”

  In spite of the hard ground, they dug a shallow grave in a short amount of time, just deep enough to make sure it was in no danger of being opened by scavenging animals. Hawk stood respectfully by while Monroe stood over the grave and silently offered his regrets for not having been there in time to make a difference. After a few minutes, he turned to Hawk and expressed his intentions. “I want to track down the bastards that did this,” he stated in no uncertain terms. “I don’t care how long it takes.”

  “I expect you wanna find the woman,” Hawk said, “your sister-in-law.”

  “Of course I do,” Monroe replied at once. He couldn’t help feeling some guilt for having forgotten his brother’s new bride in his despair. “I just hope she hasn’t been killed, too.”

  “Most likely not,” Hawk said, “being as how she was a young woman. If it was Indians that did this, and it looks like they did, they oftentimes take young women captive. Like I said before, there ain’t much chance I can track ’em after this length of time. The best chance I can offer right now is to find Walking Owl’s village. He’s a Blackfoot chief who usually makes his summer camp near the southern edge of the mountains where his hunters can easily ride down onto the prairie grassland to hunt buffalo.”

  “You think this business was done by the Blackfeet?” Monroe asked.

  “I hope to hell not,” Hawk responded, thinking of his friend Bloody Hand, who lived in Walking Owl’s village. “But they keep a pretty close eye on everything that’s happenin’ in this part of the territory.”

  “And you know where their village is?” Monroe asked.

  “Not exactly. I know where a couple of their favorite places are. If they’re not there, Rubin Fagan will know if they’re anywhere in the area. Rubin runs a tradin’ post on the Clark Fork River, a day’s ride from here.”

  “All right,” Monroe said. “Let’s get started, then.”

  * * *

  Hawk led Monroe up into the mountains, following one game trail after another until Monroe became thoroughly turned around. He began to suspect that the confident scout was, in fact, lost, but they eventually rode out of a thick forest of firs into a wide grassy meadow circling a small lake. This was the spot Hawk had described to him, but there was no Indian camp. Hawk took a little time to look around for sign that might tell him if his Blackfoot friends had been there recently, and there was plenty. The circles in the grass left by the tipis told him that the camp had been moved no more than a week at most. The grass in the meadow had been eaten down significantly, suggesting the reason for moving, and a relatively broad trail down the opposite side of the mountain pointed the way they exited. “The only thing I can’t say for sure is whether or not it was Walkin’ Owl’s village,” Hawk said.

  “We can follow their tracks and find out,” Monroe suggested, looking at the obvious trail down through the trees, created by a whole village of people and horses pulling travois. It was not a large village, having left only twenty-two circles where tipis had stood. And this, Hawk had said, was close to the size of Walking Owl’s camp.

  “I expect so,” Hawk said, in response to Monroe’s suggestion. “But we’d best let these horses rest up a bit right now. We ain’t in no hurry. This trail’s a week old and most likely they’ve already got to where they were headed.”

  * * *

  It was late in the afternoon when they were back in the saddle and starting out after the Indian camp. When they reached the open prairie at the bottom of the mountain, the trail spread out and headed in a westerly direction. By the time the sun sank below the hills before them, they reached a stream where the village had made their first camp after leaving the mountains. With little daylight left, they made their camp on the same spot. The following morning, they were in the saddle early, following a trail that continued on a westerly course. “You think we’re catching up with them?” Monroe asked, thinking that maybe Hawk could tell by examining horse droppings left along the trail.

  “No,” Hawk reminded him. “Like I said, this trail is about a week old, ain’t much I can tell after this time.” He knew Monroe was looking for some assurance that they were not riding a wild-goose chase, but he had very little to go on. “If this is Walkin’ Owl’s bunch, we oughta catch up with ’em by tomorrow night. ’Cause I suspect they’re headin’ to another one of their favorite spots in another range of mountains,” Hawk said, referring to the Garnet Mountains a short distance north of Rubin Fagan’s trading post on the Clark Fork River.

  The tracks they followed continued to take the route Hawk would have ridden had he been on his way to the often-used campsite where Nevada Creek emptied into the Blackfoot River. It appeared that Walking Owl was secure in his habits of the past several years, and Hawk looked forward to seeing his friend Bloody Hand again. There was a good chance that Blackfoot hunters were responsible for the tracks of the unshod ponies at the site of the attack on the wagon. They might even
have seen who did it and what happened to the woman. He hoped by some twist of fate that Rachel Pratt might be with Walking Owl’s camp. For the old Blackfoot chief had made peace with the soldiers, and the girl should be safe with his people.

  Hawk was mildly surprised when they reached the spot where he expected to find the Blackfoot camp and there was no one there. The tracks they had been following continued on closer to the mountains. Possibly they thought it would be better to camp farther up the creek where there was better cover among the trees. When finally coming to a rise where they could see faint traces of campfires in the trees, Hawk suddenly reined the buckskin to a halt. Something in his brain triggered an alarm. Instead of riding blissfully into that camp, maybe I’d best be sure it’s Walking Owl’s camp, he thought. When Monroe came up to a halt beside him, he pointed to the mouth of a ravine at the foot of the mountains. “Head for that gulch yonder. We’d best see what’s what before we get any closer to that camp.”

  Sensing Hawk’s sudden precaution, Monroe asked, “What’s the matter? I thought they were friends of yours.”

  “Just bein’ careful,” Hawk answered. “I’m gonna get in a little closer to take a look at the camp to make sure who they are. I’ll be able to move in better on foot, so I’ll leave my horses with you. If you hear shots fired, mount up and get ready to ride, ’cause I’ll most likely be in a powerful hurry.” He turned his horse right away and headed for the ravine before Monroe had time to insist on going with him. He preferred to scout the Indian camp alone, knowing he could get in a lot closer without someone else to worry about.

  “Damn it, you be careful,” Monroe said when they dismounted at the mouth of the ravine and Hawk handed him his reins. “I wanna see you earn that money I promised.”

  “I plan to,” Hawk replied, and was off at a trot.

  When within about seventy-five yards of the camp he could see more clearly through the spruce and pines growing along the banks of the creek, although he could still not make out the shapes of the tipis. It occurred to him that the site of the camp looked to have been selected with a thought toward concealment. Just natural precautions against an enemy raiding party, he thought with a shrug. Just Indians being Indians. Sighting a tangle of berry bushes some twenty-five yards closer to the glow of campfires, he moved silently toward them, seeking the cover they would offer. Making his way through the bushes, he stopped when he came to an opening that gave him a better view of the camp. He could see the warriors moving back and forth among the campfires and realized almost immediately that he had not been following Walking Owl’s village. Instead, he found himself peering at a party of Lakota Sioux warriors. There were no women or children. There were no tipis. It struck him that he had happened upon a Sioux raiding party that was tracking the Blackfoot village, just as he was.

  Taken totally by surprise, he dropped to one knee while he decided what to do about the unexpected turn of events. He might have known there was a party of warriors following Walking Owl, had not the trail he followed been so old. If he had been able to trail them right when both were fresh, he would have discovered that there were two separate patterns of tracks. His first thoughts were of concern for his Blackfoot friends. I need to warn them, he thought, if I knew where the hell they are. Longtime enemies of the Sioux since their overwhelming numbers drove the Blackfeet from the southern plains, Walking Owl had to be warned. But where had he moved his village? Hawk’s thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a slight rustling of the branches a few feet from where he knelt. Thinking he had disturbed some small rodent’s nest, he reached over and pulled a handful of branches aside. Stunned momentarily, he found himself peering at what appeared to be a child, curled up in a ball. Even in the darkness, he could sense it trembling in fear, too frightened to speak, for which he was thankful. For if the child cried out, he would find himself with a Lakota raiding party after him.

  In the confusion of the moment, he didn’t remember what he had just realized moments before—there were no other children in the camp. Relying on the little Lakota he knew, he tried to say that he meant no harm, but the child responded by simply crying and trying to draw farther away into the bushes. It was then that he realized it was not a child. It was a woman, a small, fragile woman, and the name leaped immediately to his mind. “Rachel?” She stopped at once, still frightened and confused. “Rachel Pratt?” Hawk asked. Still she did not reply, but nodded her head rapidly. He understood the situation clearly then. “Is somebody after you right now? Are you tryin’ to hide from them?” She nodded anxiously again. He looked around him quickly to make sure he was not about to be attacked. “I’ve come to get you, so let’s get the hell outta here.” He reached out and she took his hand. “Can you walk?” he asked, not sure if she had been injured or not.

  “Yes,” she replied, the first word she had spoken.

  “I thought you were a child back there under those bushes,” he said.

  “I thought you were an Indian with that feather stuck in your hat,” she said.

  He chuckled softly, even in their precarious situation, pleased with the twist of fortune that had brought about this lucky encounter. “Come on,” he said, and started back the way he had come. It was not to be that easy, however, and his rescue mission might have ended right there had it not been for the firelight reflected on a knife blade. Reacting with the quickness that had saved his scalp many times before, he brought his rifle up to block the hand holding the knife before it could plunge it into his chest. In the next moment, he shoved Rachel aside and lunged with his shoulder into the midsection of the dark form that had risen up out of the bushes without warning.

  The force of Hawk’s charge resulted in both parties landing on the ground hard and fighting ferociously to gain advantage. The contest was reduced to which man could take control of the knife still held firmly in the Indian’s hand. Hawk locked the Lakota’s knife hand with a viselike grip on his wrist. His other hand was captured by the Indian’s free hand, neither man willing to risk releasing his grip. While Rachel watched, terrified, the two men strained against each other, rolling over and over on the creek bank. When they finally stopped rolling with Hawk on top, he decided he had to take a chance. He suddenly released the Indian’s knife hand and pulled away from him. Already straining with all his might, the warrior’s arm came forward in an attempt to stab Hawk. The knife blade came within a hair of Hawk’s throat before he grabbed the back of the striking hand, and with all the force he could muster, drove it down and into the warrior’s stomach.

  Reacting with a deep grunt, the warrior’s body stiffened as he arched his back upward. He released Hawk’s other hand and began to claw at his face and neck. Hawk responded by driving the knife deeper and deeper. When the Indian suddenly drew a desperate breath, Hawk clamped his hand over the stricken man’s mouth, thinking he was about to yell out. Although the warrior wasn’t able to make a sound, Hawk held his hand over the warrior’s mouth until he finally relaxed in death. “Damn,” Hawk gasped, nearly exhausted. He looked over at the wide-eyed terrified woman and asked, “I reckon this is the buck you were tryin’ to hide from?” She nodded. “Was anybody else helping him look?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He was the only one calling me.”

  He looked around him hurriedly until he found his rifle in the darkness of the bushes, then took her hand. “Let’s get the hell away from here in case somebody else decides to help him look for you.”

  * * *

  Monroe Pratt walked a few paces from the mouth of the narrow ravine and peered into the darkness in the direction of the Indian camp. He was beginning to become a little concerned, thinking that the camp wasn’t that far. Hawk should have been back by now, or given him a yell to come on in. He took his watch from his pocket and tried to see the time in the dim light but returned it when he found the shadows too dark to see the face. It occurred to him then that he hadn’t checked the time when Hawk had left, so it wouldn’t have told him how long h
e had been gone, anyway. Something might have gone wrong. He was in the midst of considering a decision whether or not to go after him when he heard a soft whistle like that of a bird. Not sure, he pulled his .44 handgun and continued to peer into the night. A few moments later he relaxed when he recognized Hawk’s voice.

  “It’s me,” Hawk announced. “I brought somebody with me.”

  “It’s a good thing you finally said something,” Monroe said. “I was preparing to shoot you if you didn’t. Why in hell didn’t you just sing out?” He assumed the somebody who was with him was one of his Blackfoot friends from the village, so he was surprised to see the slight figure of a woman behind him. He assumed she was a Blackfoot. It was difficult to make out her features until she moved up close beside Hawk. It was then that he saw the light color of her hair and the tattered cotton dress she wore.

  “This, here, is your sister-in-law,” Hawk said.

  “What?” Monroe blurted, unprepared for the unexpected announcement. “This is Rachel? How in the world . . . ?” He was too stunned to finish.

  For her part, Rachel was shaking with the emotions of what had just transpired within a time lapse of no more than an hour. That was when she had been presented with the opportunity to slip away from her Sioux guard when he had a sudden call to evacuate his bowels. She had not given thought at the time as to where she could run to. She just ran, not realizing how hopeless her escape was, but knowing anything would be better than to stay with the savage who had claimed her. The joy she felt for her rescue was all mixed up with the awkward feeling of meeting Jamie’s brother under such circumstances. And she still did not know who the man was who actually found her. She did her best to keep from crying, but found it difficult when she finally spoke. “I prayed so hard for someone. . .” she started, but could not finish. She paused in an effort to calm herself before she tried to speak again. “Are you Monroe?” she asked, her voice a little more steady then.