Wrath of the Savage

by Charles G. West

  • • •

  “I am home, old woman,” Bloody Hand slurred drunkenly as he pushed the tipi flap aside and entered. “You can go to your bed now.”

  “You’ve been drinking the white man’s firewater,” Dark Moon scolded. “It is bad for you. It will make you crazy. Lame Dog should not bring it to our village. If he was a true warrior like you, he would not want the crazy water, but he has white blood in his body. He is not a good friend.”

  “You worry too much, old woman,” Bloody Hand replied. “Lame Dog is a good friend. Now go to your bed.” Grumbling under her breath, she did as he ordered. “Wait,” he said. “Did you take her to make water?”

  “She didn’t have to,” Dark Moon replied.

  “You should have made her,” he chided, knowing that as soon as he approached her, she would start making her frantic motions and crying over and over one of the few Piegan words Dark Moon had taught her: Pee, pee, pee! He was well aware that the only reason she did it was to try to kill his desire for her. It did her little good, for it only caused him to be especially brutal in his mating with her.

  “Do you want me to take her now?” Dark Moon asked, making no effort to hide the disgust she felt for her son’s infatuation with the white woman. It had been a dark day for the old woman when Bloody Hand brought the white woman back to the village, intent upon making her his wife. Dark Moon was reviled by the thought of mixing Bloody Hand’s pure Piegan blood with that of the inferior white blood. She feared the union might result in another half-breed like his friend Lame Dog. What a fitting name he chose for himself, she thought, for she had no respect for the man.

  “No, go to bed. I’ll take her,” Bloody Hand said in answer to her question. He turned to Lucy then. “Come!” When she did not respond as quickly as he preferred, he reached down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her roughly out of her balled-up protective position, causing her to emit a feeble yelp of pain. He then picked up a coil of rope with a noose tied on one end and looped it over her head to draw it tight around her neck. Much the same as leading a dog, he took her to the willows beside the river to let her perform her toilet.

  The noose was now a standard practice, because the first time he took her, there was none. She had motioned for him to turn around, because she was shy. He decided to placate her, but when he turned around, she had tried to run away. She earned a severe beating for that little trick, plus the noose she now wore. When he took her to the willows on this night, she no longer had any modesty left in her. She didn’t even bother to motion for him to turn around, knowing that he would refuse to.

  Bloody Hand stood there, stoically watching his captive wife perform the most basic of bodily functions, his brooding face a reflection of his innermost thoughts. Although respected by the men of his village as a fearless and mighty warrior, he was never looked upon favorably by any of the women. He was aware that this was because of his hideous face, and his missing ear. When the opportunity came to buy himself a beautiful white woman, he did not hesitate to part with six good ponies to ensure that he would no longer be without a wife. He took solace in telling himself that she no longer fought him when he came to her because she was beginning to care for him.

  “I’m not finished,” she protested when he pulled on the rope, knowing he did not understand her words, but thinking he might understand her tone.

  He, however, knew that she was merely stalling for time, so he jerked on the rope and commanded, “Come!” She blotted her bottom with the skirt of the long doeskin dress she now wore, her own dress and undergarments long ago destroyed. He led her back to Dark Moon’s tipi and the living hell that was now her life.

  • • •

  Bret counted the money he had left in his saddlebags. There was still a substantial sum remaining from what he had withdrawn from the bank in Bozeman. He counted out twenty dollars and handed it to Myra, who seemed genuinely surprised. “What’s this for?” she asked.

  “I expect you might need a few new undergarments, and maybe some other personal things,” he said. “Looks like this place might have something you can use.” He nodded toward a store that claimed to have general merchandise.

  “God bless you, Bret Hollister. You are the most thoughtful man I’ve ever met,” Myra told him, beaming with the pleasant anticipation of shopping for underwear.

  “Spend it wisely,” Bret said, “because it’ll be running out soon.” He turned to face a grinning Coldiron.

  “Most thoughtful man I’ve ever met,” Coldiron echoed. “I reckon that just counts for women.”

  Bret smiled at his oversized friend. “I reckon I might go for a couple of shots of whiskey to cut some of that dust we’ve been breathing for the past couple of days.”

  Coldiron’s grin extended almost to his ears. “I knew your heart was in the right place. Myra’s right, you’re a damn thoughtful man.”

  “Yeah, well, I said a couple of drinks. We’ve still got some riding to do today.”

  “Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Coldiron japed.

  From where they stood in front of the Missouri Saloon, they could see the fourteen-foot adobe walls of the fort, and the blockhouses on the corners. The buildings looked in need of repair, from what they could see through the open gate. Bret could not help feeling a sense of injustice upon finding himself in close proximity to an army post, the first such occurrence since leaving Fort Ellis in disgrace. It reawakened the anger he held for the treatment he had received at the hands of his former commanding officers and peers, but only for a few moments before Coldiron broke into his thoughts.

  “Somebody in the saloon oughta know where that Piegan camp is,” he said, not willing to delay his drink of whiskey any longer.

  “Right,” Bret replied, and followed the big man into the saloon. As usual, the first appearance of the huge scout anywhere he went drew everyone’s attention in the saloon. Coldiron went straight to the bar, where a sleepy-eyed bartender with a drooping mustache stood polishing a tray of shot glasses. Like everyone else in the saloon, Hank Lewis paused to gawk at the two strangers.

  “Howdy, gents,” he greeted them. “What’ll it be?”

  “You got some decent whiskey, somethin’ that ain’t kin to kerosene?” Coldiron asked.

  Hank chuckled in response. “I reckon so. All my stock comes straight up the river from Bismark, and they get it from Omaha.” He placed two of the recently polished glasses on the bar and poured. “Ain’t seen you two fellers in here before,” he remarked.

  “Last time I was in Fort Benton this saloon weren’t here,” Coldiron said as he held the glass of whiskey up to let the light from the window shine through the amber liquid. “Clear as a mountain stream,” he ac- claimed, savoring the anticipation. Then he tossed the shot back and paused to enjoy the burn, smacked his lips to express his approval, and set the glass back on the counter for a refill. Hank obliged.

  Bret, as amused by Coldiron’s sampling of the whiskey as the bartender, downed his shot of whiskey without the theatrics performed by his friend, and set his empty glass beside Coldiron’s.

  “I didn’t know you were such an expert on whiskey,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I figured you’d drink anything that wasn’t used to remove paint.”

  “And you’d be right,” Coldiron confessed. “But I ain’t had a drink for quite a while, and I wanted to enjoy it. As quick as you knocked yours back, it was gone before you had a chance to let your belly know it was comin’. And since we’re only gettin’ two shots, you need to make ’em last longer’n just a quick fire in your gut.” Practicing what he preached, he let his second drink sit there on the bar for a minute while he anticipated it.

  Amused by the big man’s show, Hank asked, “You fellers just passin’ through town, or are you lookin’ to sign on with the army as scouts?”

  “Just passing through,” Bret answered. “Maybe you can help us. We’re looking
for a village of Piegan Blackfeet that’s supposed to be somewhere on the Marias River.”

  “The only one I know about was located about forty miles up the river, according to what a couple of trappers told me,” Hank said. “That’s about as close as they get to the army post here, and that’s about as close as I want ’em.”

  “Much obliged,” Bret said, satisfied to hear confirmation that they were camped on the Marias as they had been told by Jake Smart. “I guess we’ll be on our way as soon as you get around to finishing that drink,” he said to Coldiron.

  “What’s your hurry?” The question came from a trio of soldiers at the end of the long bar. “As long as you’re buyin’ drinks for that old buffalo, you might wanna buy a round for us soldiers, who are protectin’ your ass from them Piegans.” The one who spoke was a husky man, wearing corporal’s stripes.

  “Probably not,” Bret answered simply, and turned his attention back to Coldiron. “How about it, are you gonna drink that drink? I expect Myra might be already waiting for us.” The corporal had the look of a bully about him. Bret hoped he was wrong, but thought it best to avoid the possibility of further delay, just in case.

  “Let’s let it set for a minute,” Coldiron replied softly. “And this old buffalo will drink it when he’s good and ready.”

  “Well, whaddaya think of that, boys?” the corporal asked in a loud voice. “Soldiers ain’t good enough for sorry drifters like that to have a drink with. Besides, Myra’s waitin’. She must be their mama.”

  No such luck, Bret thought. The corporal was obviously intent upon causing a fight. He looked like a troublemaker, the type who enjoys a good barroom brawl. It would do little good to warn him that it would be a grave mistake to underestimate the huge scout by his gray whiskers and his long gray ponytail. He understood the corporal’s motivation, however. He had been the biggest man in the saloon until Coldiron walked in, and being an obvious brawler, he felt moved to prove his worth. And there was not much chance that Coldiron would even consider backing down to the sneering corporal. Bret figured it worth a try, so he turned to face the corporal. “Why don’t you just back off, soldier? We just came in here for a drink before we’re on our way. We aren’t looking for any trouble.”

  “Well, you’ve already stepped in it, sonny,” the corporal shot back. “And the only way you’re gonna get out of it is to get on your knees and crawl out that door.”

  Uh-oh, Coldiron thought as a grin spread under his heavy whiskers. Bret don’t like to be called sonny.

  “What the hell are you grinnin’ at, old man?” the corporal asked as he moved down the bar to face them, his two companions walking close behind.

  “You’ll see,” Coldiron said, still grinning.

  Bret, fully irritated now, glanced at the bartender and asked, “How much for that full bottle of whiskey?”

  “Twelve dollars,” Hank replied quickly, having seen the roll of bills earlier when Bret paid for the drinks.

  “I’ll take it,” Bret said, and grabbed the bottle by the neck. If the last-minute transaction puzzled the corporal, he didn’t show it, for he took a square stance con- fronting the two strangers. Bret took one deliberate step forward, bringing the full bottle of whiskey sharply up against the side of the corporal’s head to land with a sickening thud. The surprised soldier’s knees buckled under him and he dropped to the floor.

  With no intention of missing out on the fun, Coldiron grabbed the soldier closest behind the fallen corporal, and lifting him in one powerful move, like a sack of grain, he threw him over the bar to land crashing against the wall. Seeing what had happened to his friends, the third soldier turned to run, once again a misjudgment of the big man’s quickness. The chuckling monster caught him within three strides, grabbed him by his collar and the seat of his pants, and used his momentum to hurl him out the door, landing him in the street next to the horse trough. He wasted no time scrambling to his feet and heading toward the fort, passing an astonished Myra, who was standing by the horses.

  “I guess we can go now,” Bret said when Coldiron came back to have his drink. He was still holding the bottle, which had not broken when it thudded against the side of the corporal’s face. He held it up to make sure it was not cracked. “A damn expensive bottle of whiskey,” he commented as he stepped aside to allow the soldier who scrambled out from behind the bar to run past him to the door.

  “You can have it for six,” Hank Lewis said, having enjoyed the altercation, even though some of his shelves behind the bar had been knocked down by the flying body.

  “What about him?” Coldiron asked, nodding toward the body still not moving on the floor in front of the bar. “Want me to drag him outta here?”

  “Murdock?” Hank replied. “No, just leave him there. He’ll wake up directly and drag his ass back to the post. This’ll give him a chance to see how the shoe fits on the other foot. It’s usually him that leaves some poor feller on the floor. Maybe this’ll take some of the orneriness out of him.”

  They said “so long” to Hank, promising to stop in again if they came back this way. “What in the world was going on in there?” Myra asked when the men returned to the horses. She looked from one of them to the other, questioning, as Coldiron tucked the bottle of whiskey inside one of the packs.

  “Nothin’ much,” Coldiron answered her. “We was just havin’ a little drink with some soldiers. We even brought along a bottle, so you can have a little drink tonight with your supper.”

  “Well, you wasted your money if you bought it for me,” she retorted. “I wouldn’t drink the evil stuff.”

  “I know what you mean,” Coldiron said, stepping up into the saddle. “It’s nasty-tastin’ stuff. I wish I had a barrel of it.”

  Bret gave her a boost up onto her horse. “Did you find anything you could use in that store?” he asked.

  “I did. Thank you very much.”

  In the saddle again, they rode past the fort and the collection of buildings around it, to follow the river once more and look for its confluence with the Marias.

  • • •

  They reached the Marias early in the afternoon and stopped to rest the horses there before starting what they anticipated to be at least a forty-mile trip following that river. Since it was already too late to cover the entire distance that day, they only drove their horses for another few hours along the winding river before making camp for the night.

  The spot they picked was at a sharp bend where the river almost doubled back on itself. It afforded them plenty of wood for a fire and grass for the horses. All three seemed to be tired that night, so when Myra produced flour for pan bread that she had bought with some of the money Bret had given her, it raised the spirits of them all.

  Soon there was a good hot fire and pan bread baking in the skillet. Bret had to wonder at this point if all souls were still enthusiastic about the search for Lucy Gentry. It had been many days now, with no realistic reason to expect success in their search. Even if they finally found her, would it be too late to salvage the poor girl’s sanity? These were troublesome thoughts, yet both Myra and Coldiron claimed there was no lessening of their determination to find the captured woman. As for Bret, he felt they had invested too much time and money in the search to turn back now that they were supposedly approaching the Piegan camp.

  • • •

  They were on their way again after a restful night of pan bread and smoked venison for supper, and a couple more drinks from the bottle Bret had used to get Corporal Murdock’s attention. Spirits were high because they were closing in on the village where Lucy might be held. At the same time, their nerves were more than a little edgy because of the danger of being discovered. For the latter reason, Myra had put her foot down during the evening when the bottle was produced.

  “I’m putting a limit on you two,” she had informed them. “Two drinks each, and that’s all for the night.
I’ll be damned if I’m gonna be left to defend myself from savage Indians while you two are lying around here drunk.”

  “The lady is surely talking sense,” Bret had said, “so fine by me.”

  He had no intention of drinking more in the first place. The only reason he would participate at all was to make sure Coldiron didn’t consume the whole bottle. As a result, all three set out on this morning with clear heads and alert brains.

  The farther up the river they rode, the more signs they saw of tracks left by hunting parties, crossing trails made by people coming to and from the village. Finally they decided they were getting too close to continue riding in the open.

  “Maybe we’d best find us a place to get outta sight till it gets a little closer to dark. That village can’t be much farther. I’m gonna ride up that ridge over yonder, and take a look around.”

  “We’ll ride around that point where the trees come down close to the river and pick a spot to rest the horses,” Bret told him.

  Coldiron untied the lead rope from his saddle and handed it to Bret, so he could take his packhorse with him and Myra. Then he wheeled the buckskin and headed for the ridge at a lope. Bret and Myra continued on along the bank to the point where the snakelike river took another turn.

  “That looks like a good spot,” Bret said, pointing to an opening in the trees that came down close to the water. “We can build our fire there, and nobody could see it unless they were on the other side of the river, and that’s pretty rough-looking rock on that bank.”