Another dispute broke out. Judging by their gestures, Blue Water Woman gathered that Hook Nose wanted to take the dead warrior with them but Stout and Rope did not. She figured that they had made up their minds when the horses were ushered beyond the boulders and camp was set up. Rope roughly yanked her off the sorrel and practically threw her to the ground.
Sore and bruised, Blue Water Woman moved to a boulder and sat with her back to it. The Utes ignored her at first. Hook Nose got a fire going. Rope stripped the horses and tethered them. Stout went off down the slope and did not come back until well after the sun had relinquished the sky to the stars.
When the other two looked at him hopefully and Stout frowned, Blue Water Woman guessed that he had gone in search of the dead warrior’s mount and not found it. That would pose a problem if they were determined to take the body along. They had only the four animals. In order to cart the corpse, one of them would have to walk, slowing them considerably.
Their evening meal consisted of pemmican taken from a parfleche belonging to Hook Nose. None was offered to her. Nor was she given any water. Her throat was parched, and she sorely craved a drink. Making bold to slide toward them, she said aloud in her own language, “I thirst. Please share your water with me.”
Rope glanced at her as if surprised by her presence. Standing, he walked up and stared a few moments. She could not tell what he was thinking, but it became apparent the next second when he grabbed her by the hair and dragged her back to the boulders. She clutched at his wrist and received a swift kick in the shins for her effort.
Muttering spitefully in Ute, Rope unwound the rawhide rope from her neck and coiled it tightly around her ankles instead. After giving it a jerk to ensure it was secure, he straightened and smirked.
“You are a heartless bastard,” Blue Water Woman said in English. “I did not mean to kill your friend. It was an accident. Do you understand? An accident.”
She was wasting her breath. Rope kicked her again, although not very hard, and sauntered to the fire. She was left alone with her bitter thoughts and her misery.
The night was endless and cold. At that altitude the temperature dropped quickly once the sun went down, so by midnight she was shivering and strongly tempted to crawl to the fire, where Stout sat up keeping watch while the other two slept. But she held no illusions about what would occur, and she had been beaten enough for one day.
By the middle of the night, Blue Water Woman changed her mind. She could not sleep, it was so cold. Without a blanket, the chill had seeped through her dress into her bones.
Marshaling her nerve, Blue Water Woman crawled toward the small fire. She had to move much as a snail would, by hunching her shoulders and hips and then straightening. It was painful and it was slow, but she eventually came close enough to the flames to feel their warmth.
Stout looked at her. He made as if to stand, then settled back. Glancing at Rope, he pursed his thick lips in thought. With a shrug, he folded his arms and gazed off across the mountains as he had been doing.
The message was clear. Blue Water Woman was intensely grateful. She scooted a little closer, relishing the warm sensation that spread throughout her body. In her exhausted state, she was asleep within seconds, totally oblivious to what went on around her. If a grizzly had wandered into camp and stood on her, she might not have woken up, so soundly was she asleep.
That all changed when pain lanced down her skull into her neck. Startled, she blinked awake, her mind sluggish.
It was dawn. The Utes were preparing to leave. Rope had her by the hair and was dragging her to the horses. Once again she was thrown over the back of the sorrel and the rawhide looped around her neck. She objected but was ignored.
The warriors rode down the slope in single file. The previous evening they had brought the body onto the ridge, and Blue Water Woman was greatly surprised that they now left it there, covered by a blanket.
She understood their purpose when they came to where she had last seen the dead warrior’s mount, and Stout and Rope climbed down to inspect the grass. They were going to track the bay, which meant she was in for a long, agonizing day of being bounced and battered.
Her prediction proved accurate. The bay had wandered aimlessly over some of the roughest patches of ground around. By noon she was queasy. She tugged on the rope to get Rope’s attention.
“Let me ride,” she requested in Flathead.
The warrior did not react.
“Please!” Blue Water Woman said, gesturing at her stomach and grimacing to show how bad off she was.
Rope grinned and kept on going.
Furious, Blue Water Woman gripped the rawhide with both hands at the point where it was coiled around her neck. Bracing herself, she pulled with all her might. It was torn from Rope’s grasp, and he reined up, calling out to the others.
Twisting, Blue Water Woman slid from the sorrel. Her legs were wobbly but held her up long enough for her to grip the sorrel’s mane and swing astride it. Rope was moving toward her. She quickly wound the rawhide, smiled sweetly, and offered it to him.
Coarse laughter erupted from Stout and Hook Nose. Stout made a comment that caused Rope to look as if he had just sat on a thorn. With a sharp snap of his arm, he snatched the rawhide, wheeled his horse, and rode on.
Blue Water Woman kneed the sorrel, keeping pace. They would let her ride! It was a small boon, but it made all the difference in the world to her.
Late in the afternoon, Hook Nose gave a yip and pointed. On a slope below grazed the bay. It heard the shout and regarded them warily, its ear pricked. Slapping his legs, Hook Nose trotted lower to claim it. He had gone half the distance when the bay snorted, pranced, and galloped eastward.
Instantly, the Utes gave chase. Blue Water Woman was hard pressed to stay close enough to Rope to keep the rawhide from biting into her neck. He yanked on it every now and again, even though there was no need.
The bay plunged over a crest. When they reached the spot, the horse was gone, having vanished into heavy timber. Rope made a harsh comment, but Hook Nose motioned and galloped on into the pines.
Once among the trees, Blue Water Woman was constantly jerked and tugged. Rope would change direction without warning, and unless she promptly did likewise, the rawhide would grow so taut that it dug into her neck.
Rope was so intent on catching the bay that he rarely checked on her. So when a meadow broadened before them and they were speeding across open ground, Blue Water Woman slipped her fingers under the noose, wrenched at it until the rawhide loosened, and slid it up and over her head.
Rope never noticed. There was now an added two feet of rawhide between them, making it easier for her to keep up with him. She toyed with the notion of undoing her wrists, but that was bound to rouse his wrath.
The bay ran them a merry chase. Having tasted freedom, it resisted being caught. Mile after mile fell behind them, and still the animal maintained a wide lead.
They were winding into a lush valley when Rope hollered and slowed. Hook Nose and Stout imitated him, their quizzical expressions showing that they did not know what he was up to.
Rope shoved the end of the rawhide into Stout’s hands, then took off as if shot from a cannon, his speckled horse proving once again that it was as fleet and nimble as any alive.
They stayed where they were, watching the pursuit. The bay ran its heart out, its mane and tail whipping in the wind, but the many miles they had already covered had taken a toll, and its sides were slick with sweat.
The shaggy speckled bolt of lightning narrowed the gap rapidly.
Despite herself, Blue Water Woman was impressed by Rope’s horsemanship. He was as skilled as any man she had ever seen, including the Comanches, who were widely regarded as the best horsemen anywhere. He jumped obstacles and avoided others with uncanny mastery. When the bay angled down a sheer slope, Rope never hesitated. He hurtled down too, leaning far back to better balance his body and make it less taxing on his mount. At the bottom, they
flew onward even faster than before.
The bay was running on shreds of stamina. Its coat was lathered white, its head drooping. At long last it halted, unable to run another step. Game to the last, it shied when Rope caught up and tried to grab the reins. He had to virtually ram his mount into the bay in order to lay his hands on the rope. Victorious, he glanced up the mountain at them and yipped like a coyote.
They could not start back right away. The bay was too winded. So Rope tied it to a tree, then turned toward the sorrel. Only then did he discover that the rawhide was no longer around her neck, and an inarticulate growl escaped him, the closest an Indian came to swearing.
Stout and Hook Nose turned. The latter moved toward her as if afraid she was about to bolt, but Stout put his hands on his ample stomach and laughed hilariously. Taking the rawhide from Rope, he shook it and offered a remark that brought a huge smile to Hook Nose but a scowl to Rope.
Much to Blue Water Woman’s surprise, Rope did not press the issue. Throwing his end of the rawhide to the ground, he let her climb down on her own and did not bother her as she stepped to a log and sat.
The Utes held a council. Having no idea what it was about, Blue Water Woman contented herself with licking her fingers and rubbing them across the nasty raw furrow in her skin where the rawhide had bit deep. She stiffened when someone appeared at her side.
It was Stout, carrying a parfleche. Squatting, he rummaged in it and brought forth a buffalo horn covered by a circular strip of buffalo hide. He held it out to her.
Not knowing what he was about, she accepted uncertainly. The horn was heavier than it should be. Something was inside. He gestured, indicating she should remove the hide. Loosening the cord that bound it, she learned that the horn contained a greenish salve similar to herbal medicines her own people relied on. She caught the scent of bear fat.
Stout acted out dipping a finger into the horn and applying some to his neck.
Nodding, Blue Water Woman did so. Almost immediately the burning subsided. Whatever plant had been mixed in with the fat was remarkably potent. After she was done, she handed the horn back, smiling to express her gratitude.
Rope did not appear any too happy. Nor did Hook Nose. They held her to blame for the death of their friend, and they were not the forgiving kind. Why Stout was being so friendly, Blue Water Woman could not guess. Maybe he was just that way by nature. Or maybe he had designs on her and intended to make her his woman.
The sun was low in the sky when the Utes moved to their mounts. Hook Nose examined the bay, which stood with its head low, blowing softly. The rest had not done it any good; the animal was in no condition to go anywhere.
Reluctantly, the warriors made camp where they were. This time, Blue Water Woman was allowed to sit near the fire. And this time, Rope himself brought her a small piece of pemmican.
It had been so long since she tasted food that Blue Water Woman almost crammed it into her mouth and wolfed it down. Reason won out, however, and she chewed slowly, nibbling so it would last longer. Pemmican had never tasted so delicious. When she was done, she felt as if she had partaken of a fine feast.
Hook Nose brought her water. Blue Water Woman thanked him in the Flathead language and he replied in Ute. That they were treating her better was encouraging, but she did not fool herself. Essentially, she was no better off than before. She was still a captive, still fated to be taken to their village, and still helpless to aid her husband, who might already be dead.
Despondent, Blue Water Woman curled up on her side as close to the comforting flames as she could without being singed. She slept soundly enough, although she awakened when one warrior relieved another to stand guard, and later, when sinister snarls from a thicket to their south alerted them to a prowling predator.
Hook Nose added wood to the fire. In the light of the dancing flames they saw a pair of fiery eyes blaze at them from the depths of the thicket. Whether it was a bear or a panther was hard to say. That it would make so much noise hinted at a grizzly, but when it departed, it did so with spectacular stealth. One moment the burning eyes were there; the next, they were gone, and not so much as a rustling leaf marked the creature’s disappearance.
Morning was brisk and windy. The Utes wasted no time, mounting and heading out before the sun rose. Blue Water Woman was no longer led around as if she were a dog on a leash. Rope cut the rawhide a few inches from her wrists, but he was more watchful from then on. They all were. They were not going to let her escape if they could help it.
Noon found them approaching the boulder-strewn ridge. The sight of black specks spiraling above it spurred the warriors into a gallop, Hook Nose frantically lashing his mount up the slope. A piercing cry heralded the panicked flight of more than a dozen buzzards who rose heavily, their long wings beating lethargically.
Blue Water Woman was last on the scene. Even though the Utes were her enemies, she shared their disgust at the wreck the vultures had made of their fellow. Somehow the birds had learned the body was under the blanket. Perhaps a wayward gust was to blame.
In any event, his eyes, nose, and lips were gone, one ear was missing, the other hanging in tatters. Both cheeks were ripped wide. And that was not the worst. From the neck down was indescribable. The foul birds had eaten to their heart’s content before they were interrupted.
Another dispute was born. Hook Nose insisted on taking the body with them, but Rope objected. Stout stayed out of it this time; maybe he was tired of the constant bickering.
Presently, Hook Nose wrapped the remains in the blanket and tied the blanket at both ends so the body parts would not slip out. But when he tried to place the dead man on the bay, the bay would have none of it. Sorting and bucking, the animal forced Hook to step back or be trampled.
Stout lent a hand. The heavyset warrior held the bay steady while the body was draped over it and tied down.
Blue Water Woman perked up when they headed to the south. The last she had seen of Shakespeare, he had been on a shelf a mile or so in that direction. With any luck, the band of cutthroats was still there. The Utes were bound to spot them and spy on them. Somehow, someway, she would contrive a means to embroil the Utes in conflict with the cutthroats so she could spirit her man away during the confusion.
In under an hour, as the whites reckoned time, the shelf appeared. It was higher than they were, the rim open and stark and empty of movement. Blue Water Woman looked long and hard, but there was no one to be seen. The white men were gone. With them went her last hope of saving Shakespeare.
On they rode, holding to a brisk pace but not so brisk that it unduly tired their mounts. Late in the afternoon the Utes grew mildly excited. They joked with one another as they entered a low pass that connected to a magnificent valley dominated by a broad lake.
The lake was much lower and far away, but Blue Water Woman’s keen eyes picked out the lodges that dotted its northeastern shore. Her anxiety worsened. Had they reached a village so soon? She had not heard of one in that area, but individual bands were forever moving around. It must be a summer encampment.
Too depressed to pay much attention to her surroundings, Blue Water Woman did not look up again until a strident yell was voiced by Hook Nose, who was well in the lead with the bay.
Rope wasted no time catching up. His intake of breath was like the wheeze of a bellows. Stout gawked, his skin as pale as a white man’s.
Blue Water Woman hardly noticed the makeshift lodges or the meat drying on racks or the elk hides stretched out on pole frames. She could not tear her gaze from the scores of bodies scattered on the sand. Stiff, pasty bodies, some starting to bloat. All were partially consumed, either by coyotes or the black flock of ugly carrion eaters that had assembled from miles around.
Hook Nose seemed to go crazy. Howling wildly, he galloped in among the lodges, scattering buzzards right and left. Three dropped with arrows in them. The rest leaped into the air and winged upward on ascending currents. Soon the sky was choked with birds, all waiting
for the newcomers to leave so they could resume their feeding.
Stout and Rope climbed down. They were shocked, so shocked that they shuffled among the bodies as if they were dead themselves.
Blue Water Woman had been completely forgotten. A crack of her reins, and she could flee into the pines. The question, though, was whether she could make it before one of the warriors put an arrow into her. Deciding she could not, she slid off.
Breathing was a trial. The stench was awful, the worst she had ever encountered, the sweet, sickly smell of putrefaction mixed with odors so foul they were an abomination to the senses. She saw a woman whose dress had been ripped open by ravaging beaks, whose flesh had suffered even worse.
Turning toward the lake, Blue Water Woman walked to the water and splashed some on her face. All the dead were Utes. The crude lodges and the meat told her that it was a temporary hunting camp. Hook Nose, Rope, and Stout, she surmised, were three of the hunters. Only the fact they were gone when the camp was attacked had spared them.
Who could have done it? Blue Water Woman wondered. The Blackfeet were known to raid this far south on rare occasions, but she doubted they were to blame. The bodies had been literally shot to ribbons. Only whites had that many guns. She thought of the band who had abducted Shakespeare, and just as quickly dismissed them. They had been too few to wipe out a camp this size.
Who, then?
A shout caused the vultures to rise higher. Rope had found something he was brandishing for the others to see. Blue Water Woman moved closer.
It was a shirt. A bloodstained garment discarded because it was caked with blood and had a huge tear in the back.
Blue Water Woman recognized the style. It was the same as that worn by the vaqueros who had been in Manuel de Varga’s camp. Leaping to the only possible conclusion, she tried to imagine why Varga would have made so monumental a blunder.
Another shout, this time from Stout. He had found footprints leading into the trees.
Hurriedly, Hook Nose and Rope carried the body of the warrior whose horse had fallen on him into a lodge. Then they dashed to their horses, Rope gesturing for Blue Water Woman to follow suit.
Wilderness Giant Edition 6 Page 19
