White-Hollow-Horn personally led the pinto. They were part of a band of twenty warriors who paralleled the Missouri River. Another band crossed and roved to the east, while a third swung to the west to scour the fringe of the prairie.
It was believed that the whites were coming by canoe, but some of the Sioux were of the opinion that the women stealers might cache their canoes and try to sneak up on the village from another direction.
Black Buffalo was in charge of the group that included Davy. For that Davy was glad. The high chief seemed to be the only one capable of keeping a tight rein on Struck-By-Blackfeet, whose constant glares were ample proof that he was just waiting for his chance to finish Davy off.
That evening they camped in a clearing close to the gurgling water. Davy was unceremoniously dumped beside a log and left to his own devices while the warriors tended to the horses and a fire. Several men went off to hunt, returning with a fine buck in good order.
White-Hollow-Horn brought Davy a portion on a makeshift plate of bark. “It is all that is left,” he signed apologetically as he perched on the log.
Famished enough to eat a bear, Davy dug in with relish. It was truly paltry, but to a starved man any food is a feast. Licking his fingers clean of grease when he was done, he burped, then grinned.
“Would you like water, too?” White-Hollow-Horn signed.
“Soon,” Davy said, more interested in something that had stirred his curiosity. “Tell me, friend. Why would white men steal Teton women when they can get women of their own anywhere else?”
“These men do not steal just ours,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “They have taken women from the Rees, from the Mandans, from the Crows, and others.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“They have been doing it since before I was born. I remember my grandfather telling me how a cousin of his disappeared when she went to pick berries with other girls. They found the tracks of white men and horses. My grandfather and a large party chased them for many sleeps but could not catch them. He was very sad at the loss. She was a pleasure to be around.”
“Why are the women stolen?”
“No one knows.” White-Hollow-Horn paused. “Once, during a truce, a Ree chief told us that he had heard from a white trapper about a tribe that lives far to the south. This tribe is made up of some men who are Indian, some men who are white, and some men who are half of both. They buy and sell women of all kinds.”
Unreliable hearsay, Davy reckoned. He had never heard of any tribe fitting that description, and with all the stories bandied about concerning the frontier, he was sure that he would have if the tribe really existed.
Yet there was no denying that the whites who had been taking women were making life doubly hazardous for innocent traders and trappers who might come along after them. Like Davy, they would be branded guilty simply because they were of the same race.
The Sioux did not do anything halfway. When they were at war with a tribe, they were at war with the entire tribe, not just a band or two. The same would apply if they formally went on the warpath against the women-stealers. Because the culprits were white, the Sioux would make war on all whites.
Davy signed, “Question. What will happen if these men admit that they do not know me? Will I be spared?”
The young Teton stared toward the fire, where Struck-By-Blackfeet sat. “I cannot say, Tail Hat. I would set you free, but I am not the one who will decide. Perhaps you will be taken back and brought before the council again.”
“I wish I may be shot if I let that happen,” Davy said aloud to himself. Something told him that if he ever set foot in their village again, he would never leave it. Popular sentiment would be against him this time, especially if the stolen Oglalas were not rescued.
“This is hard for you, I know,” White-Hollow-Horn signed. “But you must not lose your temper as you almost did earlier. Should you hit Struck-By-Blackfeet or any other warrior, they can kill you. I will not be able to interfere.”
Davy made a mental note not to forget the advice. He cast the piece of bark aside, and in doing so his shackles rattled. It reminded him of the comment the young warrior had made that morning. “You mentioned a Blood warrior who wore these,” he signed, rattling them again.
“Mad Wolf. Yes. He was hurt by an arrow while trying to run off six horses. We removed the arrow and tied him to a stake. Some were worried he would bite through the rope in the night, so those were brought and put on him.”
“How did you free him when the time came?”
“We did not. He freed himself and escaped. Later we heard from the Cheyennes that the Bloods had a great laugh at our expense over how cleverly Mad Wolf tricked us.”
Davy examined the irons with renewed interest. How had a man who had never seen the contraptions before managed to get shut of them? “Where was Mad Wolf when this happened?”
“Near the river,” White-Hollow-Horn said. “He had been taken there to wash his wound. The men who were picked to watch him turned their backs for just a few moments. When next they looked, they found those lying in the grass.”
There was so much rust that flakes rubbed off at the merest touch. Davy ran his fingers over the right shackle, which otherwise was undamaged. He found no hidden buttons or any other means of opening the lock. “Was there blood?” he inquired. Since no other way presented itself, he guessed that the Blood warrior must have had exceptionally thin legs and been able to slide his feet out, scraping his skin raw in the process.
“None,” White-Hollow-Horn answered, deflating his theory. “We believe he had powerful medicine to open them like he did.”
The warrior went to join the circle around the campfire, leaving Davy alone in the gathering gloom. Evidently the Tetons did not rate his medicine as high as the Blood’s; none bothered to stand guard over him.
Davy studied the string of horses. Tethered among them was his sorrel, which had been appropriated by none other than Struck-By-Blackfeet. So had his rifle and tomahawk.
The family of the man Davy had accidentally shot had laid claim to Davy’s pistols, while another warrior who had been on the buffalo hunt and had ridden up shortly after Davy had been knocked out wound up with Davy’s knife.
The last item could easily be replaced once Davy reached a trading post. A new pair of pistols would cost a pretty penny, however, as would a rifle.
His tomahawk had been a gift from a Creek warrior he befriended in the Creek War. Superbly balanced, and as keen as a razor, it was one of Davy’s most valued possessions.
Davy positioned himself with his back to the log and folded his arms. No one had thought to provide him with a blanket, so he was in for a long, chilly night. Resting his chin on his chest, he contemplated the fix he was in, and before he knew it, he was sound asleep.
The feeling of being touched snapped Davy awake. He was surprised to see that the fire had burned low and most of the warriors were spread out, slumbering. White-Hollow-Horn stood over him adjusting a Hudson’s Bay blanket.
“I brought an extra,” the Sioux signed. Smiling, he moved to a cluster of Tetons who were still awake. Included in the group was Struck-By-Blackfeet.
Davy rolled onto his left side to make himself more comfortable. His feet, weighted by the heavy chain, became entangled. He tried to separate them, but the chain had snagged under his bottom moccasin.
Sighing in exasperation, Davy brought his knees up to his chest and lowered his arms. He quickly disentangled the loop, then placed the chain beside his legs. His hand happened to brush the shackle on his left ankle. For no real reason other than petty spite, he gripped the metal loop where it was chafing his skin, and yanked.
Something clicked.
Davy felt the lock swing open and was so excited that he nearly gave himself away by partially throwing the blanket off him so he could see better. His sudden movement drew the interest of Struck-By-Blackfeet.
To fool the scarred warrior, Davy made a show of shifting onto
his back and then onto his side again, hoping to give the impression that he was having trouble getting to sleep, and that was all. Pulling the blanket as high as his chin, he feigned closing his eyes but actually left them open a crack.
Struck-By-Blackfeet stared a bit longer, then became embroiled in a conversation with one of the others.
Davy’s mind was racing. All this time, and not once had he thought to give the leg irons a good, solid pull to verify that they were locked. He had taken it for granted they were, when, in fact, they were so rusted that the locks no longer worked properly. He took hold of the shackle on his right ankle, hunched his shoulders, and snapped his wrists outward. Nothing happened. Dreading that only the one would open, Davy tried again. And again. Yet a fourth time. The shackle resisted his every effort.
He had to be careful not to move about when he exerted himself or Struck-By-Blackfeet might notice and come over to investigate.
Easing onto his right side to obtain better leverage, Davy wedged the fingers of both hands under the metal loop, tensed, and pushed with all his might. A muffled grating noise, like the scraping of a nail on metal, inspired him to keep on pushing even though his fingers hurt abominably and his face was growing beet red from the strain. He would not give up now! Not when he was so close!
The second leg iron parted so abruptly that Davy lurched forward, his hands slipping off and thudding the earth. His joy at having the constraints off was short-lived. For when he glanced at the fire, Struck-By-Blackfeet had risen and was heading toward him.
Davy snored lightly, feigning sleep. The scarred Teton slowly approached, circling to get behind him. It prompted Davy to wonder if the warrior had seen something suspicious, or if he had a more sinister reason for sneaking over.
Muttering, Davy rolled onto his back. Now he could see that the warrior had halted and partly drawn his long knife. Struck-By-Blackfeet’s countenance was a study in baffled hatred and blood lust. He yearned to kill Davy so badly that the arm gripping the knife shook slightly.
Davy saw the Dakota lean toward him. In another moment the deed would be done. Crying out might give Struck-By-Blackfeet pause. It also might incite the warrior to spear the blade into his body before anyone could interfere. Yet he could not just lie there. Davy compromised. Opening his eyes, he stared right at the other man.
Struck-By-Blackfeet froze, uncertainty erasing the hatred. He had the knife almost out. Another inch or so and it would be clear of the scabbard. His dark eyes darted at the men seated close to the fire. Gradually, the knife was lowered, the hand raised.
“You are as good as dead, white man,” Struck-By-Blackfeet signed. “Do you know that?”
Davy did not respond.
“You think that your friend White-Hollow-Horn will convince my people to let you go. But I tell you now that my word counts for more than his, and I will see your belly slit wide and your guts spill out.” Then the Dakota stomped off.
Davy drew the blanket up to his cheek and lay still as the fire dwindled. One by one the last of the warriors turned in. Tiny fingers of flame were all that lit the clearing when he rose onto his knees, draping the blanket over his shoulders as some of the Indians had done. On cat’s feet he stalked toward his tormentor.
The time had come to take the bit in his teeth and make himself scarce in those parts, or die trying.
Chapter Eight
Davy Crockett had a reputation for being one of the finest hunters in all of Tennessee. His skill, everyone said, was on a par with that of the Indians.
Now was his chance to prove it. A single misstep and the Sioux would be on him like riled bees on a bear. Of the entire war party, only White-Hollow-Horn and possibly Black Buffalo had any interest in keeping him alive.
The camp was so quiet that the crackling of the embers was loud by comparison.
Tiptoeing past the outer ring of sleepers, Davy crept toward Struck-By-Blackfeet. It was lunacy, he knew, but he was not leaving without his rifle and his tomahawk.
Not all that long ago, Davy had been captured by a Fox band and escaped in the middle of the night, just like now, and the experience had taught him valuable lessons. For one thing, he’d learned never to walk between a sleeper and the fire if he could help it. For some reason, even if the man was snoring loud enough to rouse the dead, it was apt to wake him up.
For another, Davy had discovered that it was unwise to put his foot down within six inches of a sleeper’s ear. No matter how quietly he did it, sometimes the faint stirring of air was enough to interrupt the man’s slumber.
Accordingly, Davy methodically picked his way closer to the center of the band, where Struck-By-Blackfeet slept. The Teton had placed the rifle, ammo pouch, and powder horn beside him, but the tomahawk was wedged under the top of his breechclout.
It was to Davy’s advantage that the Sioux had not posted a guard. Indians rarely did, except when they were certain enemies were close by.
It had surprised Davy to find out that most tribes did not even bother to post sentries around their villages at night. It was a tactical weakness other tribes always exploited by attacking at first light to cause the most confusion.
The same flaw had worked to the benefit of the whites during the Creek War. Time and again, they had completely surrounded unsuspecting Creek towns and either wiped them out or taken the inhabitants prisoner. Time and again, the Creeks had failed to learn by their mistake.
Now, treading carefully past a stout Sioux who rumbled like a thundercloud, Davy felt something under his sole, something that started to bend under the pressure of his weight. Instantly lifting his foot, he saw a thick twig that would have snapped like a gunshot and given him away.
The low flames cast a feeble glow over the nearest warriors. Otherwise, shadows shrouded the camp, which protected Davy seconds later when he skirted the stout Dakota and suddenly the man stopped snoring and opened his eyes.
With the blanket pulled up over his head as if to ward off the chill, Davy could pass for a warrior if he were not given a close scrutiny. So rather than stand there flat-footed, he walked on toward the fire, shuffling wearily as might a man who had just woken up.
The ruse worked. The stout Sioux smacked his lips a few times, rolled over, sighed, and was fast asleep in moments.
Davy went around three more men. Finally he was behind Struck-By-Blackfeet, who was facing the fire on his left side. Hunkering, Davy slowly reached across the warrior and reclaimed Liz, which he propped against his leg.
Retrieving the ammo pouch and powder horn required greater care. Both had long leather straps and were liable to bump against Struck-By-Blackfeet if not held just right. He lifted each as if they were fragile eggshells.
Next came the tomahawk. Davy lightly grasped the head to slide it out, but when he did, Struck-By-Blackfeet muttered in his sleep and turned partway. Davy jerked his hand back before the warrior could brush against it.
A new problem presented itself. The Teton’s elbow had shifted and was covering the top half of the tomahawk.
Davy dared not touch it again until the elbow moved. But he could not squat there half the night waiting for that to happen. So either he left it there or he took a calculated gamble.
Plucking a blade of grass, Davy leaned closer and ever so delicately ran the tip across Struck-By-Blackfeet’s neck. The warrior fidgeted but did not move his elbow, so Davy lightly slid the tip along the Teton’s jaw.
Struck-By-Blackfeet moved his legs a few inches, but not his arms.
Every moment wasted was precious. Davy scanned the rest of the war party to confirm that none had stirred. Then he brushed the grass against Struck-By-Blackfeet’s ear. It got a reaction, but not exactly the one he had bargained on.
Struck-By-Blackfeet rolled onto his stomach, turned his head toward the fire—and opened his eyes.
Davy had no forewarning, no chance to draw his arm back or to flatten.
The Sioux’s brow knit. He blinked a few times. Yawning, he scratched himself, th
en his eyes began to close again.
It must have been intuition that made Struck-By-Blackfeet aware that someone was beside him. Davy did not make a sound. But the next moment the warrior tensed, pushed onto his elbows, and swiveled.
His arm a blur, Davy snatched his tomahawk out, whipped it on high, and brought it crashing down against the Teton’s hard skull with brutal force. Struck-By-Blackfeet’s eyes had started to widen, his mouth to open. The blow rendered him senseless, and he collapsed without uttering an outcry.
None of the other Sioux had budged.
Davy did not linger. Sticking the tomahawk under his belt, he slid the ammo pouch over his left arm, the powder horn over his right, and hustled to the string.
Thanks to the blanket White-Hollow-Horn had lent him, his scent was masked. Several of the horses swung their heads around, but none whinnied. He stroked the sorrel as he stepped to the rawhide rope, which parted easily at a single slice of the tomahawk.
Davy hopped on the sorrel, patting it to keep it calm. He backed from the tether, never once taking his eyes off the Dakotas. He removed the blanket, folded it three times, and draped it over his shoulder. He aimed to take it with him, but then he recollected how poor White-Hollow-Horn and Willow Woman were. They could ill afford to lose a fine blanket that must have cost them dearly in trade. Folding it once more, he slid off the sorrel, dashed to the log, and deposited it next to the shackles where the young warrior was bound to find it.
The sorrel shook its head as Davy climbed back on. Clucking softly, he moved to the head of the rope. Scattering the horses was the sensible thing to do, but he hesitated.
White-Hollow-Horn and Willow Woman owned only two. If Davy ran the string off, White-Hollow-Horn might never recover his. The loss would be devastating. A Sioux warrior was as dependent on his horse as a blacksmith was on his forge. Without them, neither could provide for his family.
Sioux Slaughter (A Davy Crockett Western Book 2) Page 8