By the time Coldiron returned from his scouting, Bret had unburdened the packhorses and unsaddled his and Myra’s horses, while she was in the process of starting the fire.
“There’s tracks all over that valley between here and the ridge,” Coldiron reported. “I didn’t see no sign of anybody, but I’m willin’ to bet that their village is right ahead of us. From the top of that ridge, I could see a ring of hills, makin’ a half circle next to the river. There’s more’n likely open range inside the hills—perfect place to make a camp.”
“Then I expect we’d better go have a look after it gets a little darker,” Bret said. “That’s gonna be a while yet, so we might as well fix something to eat while we’ve got the chance.”
“If we see Lucy, how are we going to get her?” Myra asked. “Like you did me? I was tied outside a tipi. She might not be somewhere that’ll be easy to get to her from.”
“I don’t know,” Bret answered her. “We’ll just have to wait and see what we find.”
He didn’t voice it, but he had his own doubts about the likelihood of successfully stealing the woman back. He felt the urgency of rescuing Lucy Gentry, but also the responsibility to ensure the safety of all of them. He could not forget that he had Myra to concern himself with. He had come to admire her willing spirit to persevere, no matter what the circumstances or conditions. But he would never forgive himself if he caused anything to happen to her.
When the sun dropped below the chalky cliffs on the other side of the river, they put out their fire and packed up the camp. In the silvery twilight, they set out once again, moving at a casual pace, so as to give the evening a chance to settle in. They approached the southern end of the ring of hills as darkness began to soften the edges of the rocks and ridges. Coldiron was a little puzzled as they guided their horses to climb up the slope of the hill.
“It’s plenty dark enough now. We oughta see a little campfire glow in the sky from a village that size. Maybe I ain’t so smart as I thought.”
At the top of the hill, they stopped to look down in the valley below them. There was no village, nothing but a darkened prairie floor. Coldiron prodded the buckskin and started down the slope to the grassy meadow at the foot of the hills. His vindication came at the bottom when they reached the huge clearing and discovered rings where tipis had once stood and the remains of many campfires.
“Well, you were right,” Bret said. “They were camped here, and quite a while from the looks of it.”
“They ain’t been gone long,” Coldiron said, now on one knee brushing his hand back and forth over the grass. “This grass has been grazed down—ain’t started to grow again.”
He then went over to the ashes of a large fire in the middle of the circle of tipi impressions in the grass. Digging his hands in the ashes, he said, “Down a few inches, these ashes are still warm. They ain’t been gone from here more’n a day or two. If we move fast, we oughta be able to catch up with ’em, as slow as a village moves.”
“You need daylight to be able to see their tracks,” Bret said.
“That’d help, right enough,” Coldiron replied. “But a whole village leaves a helluva big track, even across grass, so we oughta be able to see enough to make sure which direction they’re headin’, and start after ’em right now. Common sense oughta tell us that they’re most likely gonna follow the river. They ain’t gonna be lookin’ to set up their village away from the water. I just need to see which direction they headed.”
Bret didn’t comment for a moment, during which he exchanged questioning glances with Myra. “Well, common sense also oughta tell us that they headed north,” he said. “If they had headed south, we would have run smack into them.”
Coldiron hesitated, taking a long pause while he thought about it, then responded, “Well, yeah, there’s that, too, come to think of it. That was what I was gonna point out next.”
“So I guess we’d best get started north,” Bret said, his grin unnoticed in the dark. “Are you up to it, Myra?”
“Hell yes,” she replied at once, feeling a new sense of excitement, when it seemed they were drawing closer to Lucy. She pointed to a quarter moon climbing over the ridge behind them. “That’ll help.”
Back in the saddle, they started toward the hills in the northern end of the valley. As Myra suggested, the light from the moon was enough to allow them safe footing for their horses. They continued along the Marias until they had to stop to rest the horses, at which point they decided to camp until morning.
• • •
A little before noon on the next day, they spotted the camp stragglers in the distance ahead of them. Their first reaction was to hold up and hang back to keep the Indians from discovering them.
“Well, looks like we caught ’em,” Coldiron said. “Ain’t much we can do now but follow along behind ’em till they stop somewhere to rest.”
“I’d like to get around in front of them,” Bret said. “That way, we can find a place to watch them when they get on the move again, and we’d have a better chance of spotting Lucy Gentry as they’re passing by us.”
“I like that idea,” Myra said.
Coldiron agreed. “This line of ridges beside the river will give us plenty of cover to get around ’em. Probably best to wait till they stop to rest and eat. Then we’d have plenty of time to ride up in front of ’em, find us a good spot, and rest our horses while we wait for them to get on the move again. If we’re lucky, maybe they ain’t already stopped this mornin’.”
So they continued to trail along behind the Piegan camp for another hour before they realized the stragglers were catching up with the rest of the village. “I think they’re stopping,” Bret said.
“I think you’re right,” Coldiron agreed and immediately turned his horse toward a narrow ravine that split the ridge to the east of them.
Once through the ravine, they turned back to ride a parallel course to that of the Indian camp, with the ridge between them and the Blackfeet. Pushing their horses into a comfortable lope, they continued at that pace for half an hour before stopping to check their progress. Bret and Coldiron rode partway up the hill, then dismounted and crept carefully up to the top. Lying on their bellies, they looked down on the river valley to discover the forward part of the village directly below them. “We didn’t ride quite far enough, did we?” Coldiron whispered. “We’re damn lucky they don’t see no use to have scouts ridin’ out to the side and in front.”
“I don’t reckon they think they’ve got any reason to worry about anybody bothering them,” Bret replied. “They’re stopping, all right,” he said when some of the boys circled around to turn the herd of several hundred ponies back to the river. “Maybe they’re going to settle here for a while.”
“I don’t think so,” Coldiron said. “There ain’t enough grass here to feed a herd that size for more’n a week. They’ll be on the move again after they rest a bit. We’ll find us a place up ahead where we can watch ’em good when they go by.” They remained where they were for another half hour while the Piegans built cook fires and prepared food. Both men strained hard to see every woman they could, but they could see no sign of a captive white woman. It was discouraging, but they had to give up and make sure they found a good place to watch the Piegan procession when the camp got started again. “We’ll have a better chance of spottin’ that woman when they’re all walking by us,” Coldiron said.
They pushed back from the top of the hill and returned to their horses. “Did you see her?” Myra asked when they rode down to rejoin her.
“No,” Bret answered, “but it was pretty hard to tell from that ridge. We’ll see if we can’t get a better look when they get on the move again.”
The path the village would take was fairly easy to determine, since there was obviously only one good choice. So they rode along the ridge for about half a mile before selecting a likely spot. The ridge w
as barren of trees of any kind, so the place they picked was a ravine with large rocks on each side. Making sure the back of the ravine was open, in case they had to make a hasty exit, they tied the horses to some scrubby bushes that had defied nature by growing up between the rocks. Once the horses were safely secured, they climbed up to the top of the ravine and picked their spots to wait for the Piegans. They waited more than an hour before the advance guard came into sight.
“Here they come,” Coldiron announced as a column of warriors, two abreast, walked their horses along the river valley.
It was a better position from which to watch, than the hilltop Bret and Coldiron had scouted them from before, but it was still difficult to determine whether or not Lucy Gentry was among them. Myra strained to scan back and forth along the long line of women and children following behind the warriors, searching for the blue cotton dress Lucy wore when they were captured. But there was no sign of it. She’s not here, she thought in despair. And then she saw one of the women, a slight, younger woman, trip and almost stumble. An older woman walking beside her immediately gave her a couple of swipes with a switch she was carrying. Myra stared harder at the young woman. It’s Lucy! She had to catch herself to keep from blurting it aloud.
“I see her,” she whispered. “She’s wearing an Indian dress.”
“Where?” Bret whispered back.
He was intent upon getting a good look at her, as was Coldiron. Even though she was white, she might be hard to identify in the dark of night, when their best chance of rescue was likely to be. He studied her features as best he could at that distance.
They remained where they were until the herd of horses was brought up behind the village. “Well, we’re back to followin’ ’em till they make camp,” Coldiron said. “Then we’re gonna have to see where they put her for the night.”
• • •
The village traveled late that night, later than the nights before, until they reached a point where the Marias changed its course and turned sharply to the west through a wide expanse of grassy prairie. When the three searchers were able to move up close enough after dark to see into the camp, it appeared that the Indians were preparing to stay longer than overnight. After watching for a few minutes, Coldiron said, “They’re fixin’ to stay here. This must be the place they were movin’ to.” He took another look at the camp. “Yes, sir, that’s what they’re doin’. They got plenty of grass and water for their horses, and wood for their fires in the trees at the foot of the hill.”
“And we’re sitting here with two hundred yards of open grass between us and their camp,” Bret pointed out. He took another few moments to consider the situation. “We need to be on the other side of the river.”
“That’s what I was thinkin’,” Coldiron said.
The other bank was thick with willow trees and berry bushes. If there was any hope of working their way in close enough to be able to see what was going on, it would have to be under the cover of those willows.
Chapter 9
Bloody Hand sat by the fire, absentmindedly eating a piece of pemmican while gazing at the white woman sitting on the other side, her chin dropped almost to her breast. It was a position she always assumed whenever he was near her, and one that frustrated him sorely. A few feet from her, Dark Moon sat, a perpetual frown upon her face that had been there ever since her son brought the white woman home.
“Eat!” she demanded, and poked the young woman with a stick she used for a walking staff.
“Leave her alone, old woman,” Bloody Hand said. Then speaking directly to Lucy, he said, “You should be proud to be the woman of Bloody Hand. No other warrior is respected more than I. You must forget the white people. You are now a Piegan, and you are now my wife.”
His words only served to increase his frustration, because he knew that she did not understand them. Sometimes he became so angry with her reluctance to be with him that he thought about killing her, but the hunger he felt for her would not let him take her life. Still she sat there, her head down, refusing to look up at him, until he spat out in anger, “Where is Lame Dog?” His verbal eruption caused the girl to jump, but she quickly resumed her position of silent protest.
“He’s eating with Two Baskets and Iron Pony,” Dark Moon answered him, making no attempt to hide her disgust for her son’s weakness for the white woman. “He does not waste his time eating with white women.” She knew why her son was asking for Lame Dog. The half-breed could talk white man talk, so he could tell the woman in her tongue what Bloody Hand wanted to say to her.
“Did you call my name?” Lame Dog walked up to Dark Moon’s fire, having heard Bloody Hand’s outburst.
“Come make the white man talk with this coyote bitch,” Bloody Hand said.
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“Tell her I own her,” Bloody Hand replied, his frustration creeping into his tone again. “Tell her I gave eight fine ponies for her, so I expect her to be a good wife. Tell her it is an honor to be the wife of Bloody Hand.”
Lame Dog smirked, delighted to talk to the woman, and amused to see the frustration in one he wanted to call friend. Bloody Hand was a mighty warrior and, as he claimed, demanded much respect in the Piegan village. Lame Dog was accepted in the Piegan camp, but he had no status since he was not of pure blood.
“I will tell her,” he said, but he couldn’t resist correcting him. “You might have forgotten, but you only gave six ponies for the woman. Do you want me to tell her six or eight?”
“Tell her what I told you to say,” Bloody Hand shot back with a flash of anger.
“All right,” Lame Dog said, and turned to Lucy. “You make big mistake if you don’t please Bloody Hand. You his wife now. He bought you, so he owns you. You don’t act better pretty damn quick, you’ll be dead.”
Without lifting her head to look at him, she said, “I’m not his wife. I’m a married woman. I’m married to Carlton Gentry, so I can’t be married to him.”
“I’ll tell him, but he ain’t gonna like it. Your white husband’s dead carcass is lyin’ on the bank of the Yellowstone, rotting in the sun with no scalp. If you don’t be good, Bloody Hand will take your scalp, too. You’d be better off if you just spread them pretty white legs and enjoy the ride.”
He grinned wickedly when she recoiled with revulsion. He told Bloody Hand what she had said then, enjoyed the reactions of both parties. Adding to his entertainment, he glanced over to see the look of contempt on Dark Moon’s face.
“Tell her I will kill her,” Bloody Hand said. “Then maybe she can go join her white husband.”
Lame Dog nodded and turned back to Lucy. “Bloody Hand says he’ll kill you.”
“So be it,” Lucy replied. “I might as well be dead as live with that monster.”
Lame Dog leered at her for a few moments while he decided whether or not to tell her what he had learned at his father’s trading post. He decided it would drive her deeper into despair, so out he came with it.
“You know that other white woman who got captured with you? She got away. Some white men got her back. They came to the mouth of the Smith River, at the tradin’ post, lookin’ for you, but they don’t know a Piegan’s got you now. So they don’t know where to look for you.” He was at once gratified by her reaction, as she recoiled with the discouraging news. “You’re never goin’ back to your white folks. You’re Bloody Hand’s wife now.” Turning back to Bloody Hand, he said, “I told her. I think she’s thinking about killing herself.”
Concerned at first that she might do as she claimed, Bloody Hand looked intently at the frail young woman for a few moments, then decided that she would not have the determination do it. He turned to his mother and told her to watch the white woman closely whenever she was not tied securely, however. “It would be better for you if she did kill herself,” Dark Moon told him. “She is making you crazy. I will kill her for
you and then you will soon forget this craziness for her.”
His scarred face grew hot with anger. “Do not harm her, or I will beat you. I will take her to my bed tonight, so take her to the river and wash her. She stinks of sweat.”
• • •
Many of the Piegan women went to the river to wash away the dust and sweat of a long day’s travel. They went about fifty yards upstream where a thick stand of willows offered a screen from the eyes of the village. Several of the young girls were bathing together. One of them whispered to the others when she saw Dark Moon leading the white girl by a rope tied around her neck.
“Here comes Dark Moon with Bloody Hand’s new wife.” Her comment brought forth a titter of giggles from her friends.
“Bloody Hand has to go raid the white farms to find a wife,” one of the girls remarked. “I hope she is strong enough to mate with a horse,” another said.
“Shhh,” the first who spoke warned, “or Dark Moon will hear you.”
They feared the old woman as much as Bloody Hand. It was common knowledge among the people of Bloody Hand’s village that the fearsome warrior’s hideous facial features prevented his being considered a candidate for marriage, especially the ominous hole on one side of his head where his ear once resided.
Dark Moon was getting on in years, but her hearing was still sharp enough to hear the rude remarks from the young girls. She chose not to lash out at them with her stick, choosing instead to move farther upstream away from them. She pulled the doeskin dress over Lucy’s head, then replaced the rope noose around her neck. She led her into the river and forcefully threw her down in the dark shallow water close to the bank.
“Wash!” she ordered when the startled girl came up sputtering for breath. “Wash!” Dark Moon demanded impatiently when it was obvious that Lucy did not understand what the old woman was screaming at her. “Maybe if I hold you under till you can’t breathe, then you’ll understand.” As much as the thought appealed to her, she knew she had to control her urges. As patiently as she could, she made motions of washing herself, then pointed to Lucy. “You do!”
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