Cruel Rider

by Charles G. West

  Jordan paused and patiently waited for Ike to finish. He had not paid much attention to the horse when Polly had visited his camp a couple of nights before. From Ike’s defense of the sale, however, he could surmise that it had definitely been in his favor. When Ike paused, Jordan said, “I didn’t come to complain about the sale.” He then went on to explain that he hoped to trail Polly and her guide. “And I was hopin’ you could tell me somethin’ about the horse that could make my job easier.”

  “Oh,” Ike said. “Hell, not much I can tell you. It was just a horse.”

  “Shod?”

  “Well, shore, it was shod.” He hesitated for a moment, not certain he wanted to share a bit of information he had withheld from Polly. Deciding to accept Jordan’s claim that he was not concerned about the fairness of the trade, he finally said, “That little mare split her left front hoof somehow, and I had to take a wedge and build the shoe up on that side to keep the hoof from splittin’ any worse.”

  Jordan figured the horse was more than likely getting on in years to boot. But at present, he wasn’t concerned that the lady had been properly skunked on the deal. He was more enthusiastic about the news that he might be following a horse that left a signature. Concluding that there was little more information he could get from Ike Lester, he took his leave. “’Preciate the help,” he said in parting, “but that still don’t make you much better than a polecat for takin’ advantage of that lady.”

  “No trouble a’tall,” Ike responded. And as a final statement in his defense, he said, “It were a sight better-lookin’ horse than that thing you’re ridin’.”

  “I reckon,” Jordan replied without looking back. There you go, getting insulted again, Sweet Pea. The thought brought a smile to his face.

  Before the sun was fully peeking over the eastern horizon, Jordan was scouting the trails leading north from Fort Laramie. He knew he was taking on an almost impossible task, but he felt that someone owed the lady as much. Walking most of the morning, crossing back and forth across numerous trails, some new, some weeks old, he covered a wide arc over hills and ravines, all to no avail. There were just too many tracks. He was tempted to start out in the direction he had taken when he last rode to the Black Hills, and rely on blind luck to strike a trail. “That would be a damn fool thing to do,” he confessed to Sweet Pea. He had to know he was following the right trail, so he continued to search for a hoofprint with a built-up shoe. It was late in the afternoon when he found it.

  Plain as day it was, sharply etched in the wet sand of a small stream where dozens of horses had crossed. He knelt beside it and studied it to make certain it was the print he searched for. The discovery gave him hope that he might not be too late to help Polly Hatcher. If Iron Pony were with him, his Crow friend would say it was a sign from the Great Spirit that Jordan was to find the woman. He got to his feet and led his horse in the direction indicated, only to lose the print again in the jumble of tracks in the trail. He was about to return to the stream to start over when he saw what he had hoped for—the built-up shoe again and the tracks of an unshod pony, the two sets of prints veering off alone. Now the job could begin in earnest.

  Chapter 4

  “You ever use that thing?” Jim Eagle sat on his heels beside the fire, chewing a tough piece of bacon while he watched Polly strap the gun belt around her waist.

  Polly looked her stoic guide in the eye when she answered. “Yes, I’ve used it.”

  Jim Eagle barely suppressed a derisive grunt. He gazed steadily at her as he licked the grease from his fingers. “Did you hit anything with it?”

  She hesitated for a brief moment, recalling the image of Bill Pike reeling backward with the impact of two slugs ripping into his chest. “Yes,” she said softly. “I hit what I aimed at.”

  Jim shook his head slowly before turning his attention to the coffeepot sitting in the coals. For some reason, he did not doubt her. She had a strong determination about her that led him to believe she would fight if cornered. For two days, he had watched her strap the pistol on each morning, and take it off at night, only to hold the weapon in her hand while she slept—if she slept. He could not say for sure if she ever did. Each time he had gotten out of his blanket during the night, he would discover her eyes wide open and following his every move. It annoyed him, but so be it, he told himself. He had time. Eventually, she would become exhausted from lack of sleep. Then he would easily disarm her without risk of taking a bullet in the process.

  Polly knew now that she had made a dangerous mistake in accepting Jim Eagle’s offer to guide her to Deadwood. The half-breed was obviously not to be trusted. After the first day, he had started to lead her off toward the west, changing directions only after she balked at following him. He tried to excuse himself by saying he had only intended to detour around an area where there might be a Sioux camp. She had unfolded the rough map that Alton Broom had drawn for her, and made a show of studying it before pointing to the north, and announcing, “Deadwood is that way.” It was a crude map at best, and not useful for any purpose beyond providing a general direction. But she led Jim Eagle to believe it held detailed directions. Her charade was sufficient to convince him that she could monitor his performance. Consequently, he stuck to a proper course toward the Black Hills.

  “If you got a map,” he asked, “why do you need a guide?”

  “I just believe I’ll find Deadwood a lot quicker if you can lead me straight to it,” she answered. “How much farther is it?”

  “That map don’t say?” His tone was laden with suspicion.

  “Not exactly,” she hedged.

  He shrugged. “Two, three days—hard to say.” He studied her eyes carefully, certain now that he detected signs of weariness. This was what he had been watching for. Suddenly, a slow grin crept across his cruel mouth, causing her to shiver involuntarily.

  “Let’s get started then,” she said in a tone as abrupt and commanding as she could muster. She could not help but recall the lecherous sneer so common on Bill Pike’s face when he took a notion to satisfy his lust.

  Jim Eagle showed no signs of responding, taking his time to finish his coffee before moving a muscle. She began to fear that he was going to refuse to go, knowing that she would be totally lost in this prairie. Much to her relief, he finally got to his feet and casually walked to his horse.

  He led her on a hard day’s ride, pushing on until nearly sunset before reaching the banks of the Cheyenne River. All during the long day, she was aware of his eyes upon her, watching her for signs of exhaustion. By the time they sighted the river, her horse was favoring its left front hoof, causing it to limp noticeably. She realized that she had not bargained for much of a horse. Weary to her bones, she bravely attempted to hide her despair as she helped gather wood for a fire. With a healthy fire going, Jim Eagle drew his knife and began slicing off strips of bacon. As he worked, he studied Polly’s face constantly, prompting her to make conversation, if only to break the intensity of his gaze.

  “How much farther to Deadwood?”

  “What map say?” Jim Eagle responded.

  Tired of playing the game, Polly replied, “The map doesn’t say.”

  A slow grin spread across his face. “Two, three days,” he said.

  “That’s what you said this morning,” she insisted. “Are you sure you know where Deadwood is?”

  “Two, three days,” he repeated stoically, and turned his attention to the bacon he was ready to cook over the fire. In fact, he wasn’t sure how far Deadwood was from the Cheyenne River. He had been in the Black Hills many times, but never to the mining town of Deadwood, nor did he intend to visit the town on this occasion. The weariness in the woman’s eyes told him that the time was near when he could end this pretense.

  Their simple meal finished, Jim Eagle promptly spread his blanket, and announced his intention to sleep. “Maybe get to Deadwood tomorrow,” he said. “Time to sleep now.”

  Polly made no comment questioning the revision o
f his estimate from two, three days. She was just thankful that he was intent upon going to sleep. She withdrew a few yards from the fire to a sizable tree trunk. Wrapping her blanket around her, she sat with her back to the tree. She decided it a good idea to remain awake on this, possibly the last night of her journey. In a matter of minutes, her eyelids were heavy.

  It had seemed like only a few seconds. She blinked her eyes rapidly, attempting to chase the sleep from them, realizing she had dozed. Almost at once, she was aware of a presence, and she opened her eyes wide. He was squatting on his heels, no more than a couple of steps from her, casually spinning the cylinder of her pistol. She instinctively reached for the empty holster. Her sudden movement prompted him to turn to look directly at her. The intensity of his gaze caused her to freeze.

  He held her there with his eyes, studying her with the same regard he might have had for a trapped animal. Then he deflected his gaze to the pistol in his hand. “Forty-four,” he stated. “Pretty good shape.”

  “I’ll have it back now,” she said, in an attempt at bravado, and held out her hand.

  He moved so fast, she had no time to protect herself. With the back of his hand, he slapped her hard across the face, knocking her back against the tree trunk. Horrified, she sat stunned for a moment before regaining her senses, and tried to scramble away from him. Moving quickly to block her escape, he stepped in front of her and backhanded her again, knocking her to the ground. He stood over her, waiting for her next move, but she made no attempt to get up, realizing she was helpless before him.

  He tucked the pistol in his belt, and drew a length of rawhide he had looped over his knife scabbard. Pulling Polly’s wrists together, he bound them tightly. In workmanlike fashion, he dragged the helpless woman over to his horse, pulled a longer coil of rope from his saddle, then dragged her back to a tree, where he tied her. Demonstrating very little emotion, he stepped back and seemed to study his captive. Satisfied that she was tied securely, he then spun on his heel, and went directly to her saddle pack. Discarding items he deemed useless to him, he went through her belongings in search of anything that might please him. Finding little of interest, he left the contents of her pack strewn upon the ground.

  Returning to the bound woman, he stood over her for a few moments while she cringed before his leering eyes. “Where’s the money?” he demanded.

  Terrified to think what might be in store for her, she barely managed to answer, her voice trembling with fear. “I’ve already paid you all the money I had.”

  Her reply did not please him, and he responded with a kick in her side. “Don’t lie to me, bitch! Where’s the rest of your money?”

  Crying out in pain, she pleaded, “I swear, I don’t have any more!”

  Finding that hard to believe, he immediately began to search her, roughly ramming his hands in her pockets, ripping apart the seams in her jacket, all to no avail. In a final attempt to find a hidden fortune, he pulled her boots and trousers off and fumbled through her undergarments. Frustrated, he threw the trousers in her face, and stood staring down at her once more, finally convinced that she was indeed penniless. “God damn,” he cursed, disappointed. “Well, maybe I can trade you for somethin’ in Crazy Horse’s village.” He left her tied to the cottonwood, and returned to his blanket to sleep.

  She remained that way for the rest of the night, unable to sit or lie down, the rough bark of the tree pressing into her back. Stunned and afraid, she tried to tell herself that she was lucky he had not killed her. But what lay in store for her? He had mentioned a trade, which spread a new wave of despair to torment her. She feared she could not endure life in captivity. It would be better if he had killed her.

  As the night passed, her thoughts swirled in her head, ranging from debilitating fear to anger at herself for having to pay the penalty for her faulty decision. Hiring Jim Eagle had been a foolish thing to do, but she had been so desperate to leave her past behind that her judgment had been impaired. Now it was almost certain that the hangman’s rope would have been preferable to what might lie ahead. Even though exhausted, sleep was impossible for her, and as the night wore on, she became numb to the pain from the ropes that bound her. In the wee hours before dawn, she finally lapsed into a comalike fit of semiconsciousness. Sunrise found her slumped at the base of the cottonwood, supported only by the ropes.

  Jim Eagle stood casually observing his captive while he emptied his bladder. He was reconsidering his initial decision to take the woman to Crazy Horse’s camp. What if she somehow managed to escape, and got back to Fort Laramie? It would be the end of his ability to go and come as he pleased. Maybe it would be best to take what pleasure he desired from her, and then kill her. Too bad, he thought. There would be little gained beyond the money she had paid him to guide her. Even the horse she rode was lame, and worthless as trade. The more he thought about it, the angrier with her he became.

  Seeing she was in no condition to run, he untied her bonds. She collapsed helplessly to the ground, her legs unable to support her. Looking around him then, he spied a small pot among the articles he had left strewn on the ground. After filling the pot with water from the river, he returned to empty it upon the motionless woman—splashing most of it in her face. She responded by slowly turning over, seemingly oblivious to the shock of cold water.

  He remained standing over her, watching with mild curiosity as the stricken woman gradually began to show signs of life. His gaze wandered from her head down toward her undergarments, and he paused to consider the curve of her hip. His curiosity aroused now, he reached down and tugged at her cotton underpants. When they resisted easy removal, he drew his knife and slit them down the front, leaving her naked from the waist down. She made a feeble attempt to cover herself. He continued to stare at her body with an appraising gaze, devoid of passion, akin to the manner in which he had considered her horse. And, again, not unlike his appraisal of a horse, he decided to take a trial ride.

  There was little emotion involved in his decision to violate the woman. He did it simply because he had the power to do so, and in keeping with his approach to all living things, his manner was brutal. Realizing the breed’s intent, Polly attempted to struggle from his grasp, only to reap a savage backhand across her face. Had she not been in such a severely weakened state, she might have put up a more determined battle to repel him. She knew, however, that she was powerless to prevent what was about to happen, so she tried to separate her mind from her body, and hoped the ordeal would end soon. It was nothing new to her, for she had endured countless criminal assaults upon her body by her husband. Brutality and pain were the only emotions she had ever associated with the intimate relations between man and woman.

  When he had satisfied himself, and was finished with her, he allowed her to crawl to the water’s edge. Still too weak to properly clean herself, she let her battered body slip into the cold water until submerged up to her waist. He watched dispassionately while she lay there in the water’s cool embrace, trying to make up his mind about what he should do with her. After giving it a few moments thought, he made his decision. He pulled the pistol from his belt and aimed it at the back of Polly’s head. Realizing what was about to happen, she steeled herself for her departure from life. She heard the shot and the snap of a bullet over her head, but it was not her pistol she had heard.

  The shot came from a rifle, and from the sound of it, probably at a distance of more than one hundred yards. Jim Eagle felt the breeze created by the wake of the bullet as it barely missed his nose. Reacting immediately, he flung himself flat on the ground and rolled over behind a rotten log. The pistol, aimed at Polly’s head just moments before, was now seeking a target from the cottonwoods that lined the river. At first, he saw nothing as he frantically searched back and forth from the stand of willows near the water’s edge, to the cottonwoods on the bluff. He looked at his horse, some thirty yards away, and wished that he had the rifle still resting in the sling. When he was about to make up his mind whether to
risk a desperate run for the rifle, he was startled by a sudden explosion of horse and rider from the thick brush around the willows. He was momentarily stunned by the sight of the charging horse bearing down upon him at full gallop. There wasn’t time to identify the rider before Jordan opened up with his rifle, sending Jim Eagle diving for cover behind the log again.

  With the reins clamped between his teeth to free both hands, Jordan kept a continuous barrage of fire directed at the log that shielded the half-breed. At a gallop, Sweet Pea provided as steady a firing platform as any horse, and Jordan proceeded to tear the rotten log to splinters. In desperation, Jim Eagle hugged the ground and emptied the pistol in a frantic attempt to hit something while a shower of rotten wood fragments rained upon his head and shoulders. Jordan was almost upon him. Jim Eagle could feel the beat of the horse’s hooves through the ground. He pulled the trigger twice more, only to hear the fatal click of the hammer on an empty chamber each time. He knew his time was up.

  Emitting a loud Sioux war cry in final defiance, Jim Eagle sprang up from behind the shattered log and made a desperate run for his horse and the rifle in the saddle sling. Jordan grabbed the reins and pulled Sweet Pea to a sliding stop. Once the horse was steady, Jordan dropped the reins and took careful aim at the sprinting half-breed. The shot caught Jim Eagle exactly in the center of his shoulder blades, slamming the breed headfirst into the sand.

  Jordan dismounted, and cautiously walked up to the wounded half-breed who was struggling to get up. Watching dispassionately as Jim Eagle pushed up to stand on his feet, Jordan stopped a few steps away. A trickle of blood crept from the corner of Jim Eagle’s mouth as he steadied himself. Still, there was a wild maniacal glint in his eyes, a signal that he was not finished yet. In one final show of defiance and rage, he drew his knife. “You have a knife,” he growled. “Lay your rifle aside and fight me, man-to-man.” He seemed to regain strength as he braced himself for Jordan’s response. Jordan hesitated but a second, then raised his rifle and put a bullet between the half-breed’s eyes.