“Here!” Bloody Hand called and held up a scrap of material that had been torn from Lucy’s sleeve by a broken laurel limb. “They ran this way!” He pushed through the laurel, coming to a clear patch of sand near the water. He stopped there and held his torch close to the ground, and discovered a clear footprint. It was a woman’s print.
“They’re running to the sound of the gunshot,” he said, “trying to find the hunters.” He started up the creek at a trot, hoping to overtake them.
“What about our horses?” Lame Dog called after him. He didn’t think it wise to become separated from their ponies.
Bloody Hand paused for only a second, too intent upon catching two frightened women running for their lives.
“Go back and get our horses, and then bring them along behind me.”
He was off again, at a trot, confident he could run the women down before they reached safety.
On he went, stopping occasionally to search a sandy spot for footprints, becoming more and more anxious as he found them, knowing that the feeble light from the burning limb was nearing exhaustion. A dozen yards farther found him nearing a sharp bend in the creek where it changed course to flow around a twelve-foot bluff. He paused to try to get a better look at the ground ahead a moment too late. For in the next instance, he felt the blow of a .44 slug, knocking the smoking limb from his hand. Too startled to keep from emitting a yelp of pain, he was quick enough to drop to the ground and roll over the edge of the creek bank.
“Damn it, I shoulda waited,” Coldiron swore. “I think I hit him, though—don’t know how bad he’s hurt.”
The target he had was just a tiny flicker of flame, but he was afraid he wouldn’t get a much better one, so he took the shot. There were no answering shots, so they were not sure of what might be coming at them.
After several minutes had passed with still no return fire, Coldiron asked, “You think maybe I got him?”
“Maybe,” Bret answered, his eyes scanning the dark creek bank below them, searching for movement of any kind, something that would tell him if there was a war party even now working around their position on the bluff. He looked behind him then where Myra and Lucy were huddled up against the steep face of a low hill with his and Coldiron’s horses beside them. A few more minutes ticked slowly by with nothing to break the deep silence of the creek but an occasional ripple from a muskrat.
Finally Bret declared, “I don’t think there’s a war party down there. I think the man you shot at was alone, and the only way we’re gonna find out if I’m right is for me to go down there to see.”
“Well, that don’t make a helluva lotta sense,” Coldiron said. “That might be just what they’re hopin’ you’ll do.”
“Maybe,” Bret said. “But I don’t intend to sit up here all night, waiting for somebody to come after us. I’ll go back and cross the creek upstream and see if I can work around behind them.”
He didn’t wait to get Coldiron’s opinion, and was scrambling down from the bluffs in a matter of seconds. He knew it was risky, but he was tired of running from a vengeful Indian, who seemed to have set his mind on dogging Lucy until he caught her and dragged her back to his tipi. Of additional concern to him was the thought of the horses and packs with all their possessions back at the camp.
As he made his way in a wide circle around the section of the creek bank where they had seen the flame, he became more and more convinced that it had been only one man stalking the women. There was no sign of horses or a large party of warriors combing the creek banks.
When he came up behind the place where he thought Bloody Hand had been shot, there was no one there. He was sure it was the right spot, because he saw the smoking limb that had served as the Indian’s torch lying on the edge of the bank. He turned to call Coldiron at once.
“He’s not here, Nate! We’ve got to get back to the camp before we lose everything we own.”
The same thought must have occurred to Coldiron, because within seconds, the big man came crashing down through the bushes leading the two horses with a frightened woman on the back of each.
“Might be the same son of a bitch that tried to steal our horses before,” he said, panting for breath. “Keep a sharp eye,” he warned needlessly, and they started back down the dark creek at a trot, leading their horses and fearing that they might be too late to stop the raider, or raiders, from absconding with all their possessions.
Bret was of a different opinion. If the Indian was only after the horses and their other possessions, he would have taken the four back at camp and gone with them and their possibles while he had a chance to escape with no damage done. Bret was convinced that it was the crazed Piegan warrior coming after Lucy, just as Ruby had warned.
Although it seemed far, they were actually no more than a quarter of a mile from the camp behind Jake Smart’s store. Intent upon getting to their camp as soon as possible, they were forced to become cautious as they approached the clearing.
In the darkness they could not be certain where their enemy was, or how many, even though Bret’s gut feeling was that there was no war party, and probably only the one Piegan obsessed with Lucy. But because he couldn’t be sure of that, he and Coldiron were hampered by the necessity to keep the women with them, lest they be found in some hiding place without his protection.
Moving through the pine trees that surrounded the clearing on three sides, Bret told the women to stay with the horses while he and Coldiron crawled a few yards to the edge of the trees where they could get a better look into the clearing. The campfire had died to little more than a rosy glow that gave very little light beyond about a six-foot circle.
“Can’t see a helluva lot, can you?” Coldiron expressed the obvious. “With those young eyes of yours, can you see the horses?”
“Just barely,” Bret answered. “I can see them moving a little bit, at least enough to know they’re still there.” After a few moments more of straining to make out anything else on the edges of the clearing, he concluded, “The packs and saddles are right where we left them. It doesn’t look like anybody bothered them. But there could be a regiment on the other side of that fire and you couldn’t see them.”
“Got any great ideas?” Coldiron asked. “I know I ain’t got any big desire to walk into that camp.”
“We gotta figure that you musta wounded that Indian back there by the bluffs, but not bad enough to keep him from running. He knows we’ve got to come back here to protect our horses and supplies, so the best thing for him to do is sit right here and wait for us to show up. That way, he can just pick us off when we come riding into that clearing. Is that about the way you see it?”
“I expect it’s what I would do,” Coldiron said. “Looks like that’s what he’s got in mind, else he’da stole the horses and anything else he could find and be gone.” He shook his head, perplexed, having come to the same conclusion that Bret had already arrived at. “Nah, he’s got killin’ on his mind—and gettin’ Lucy. I expect Jake’s wife told Lucy the truth when she said that it was Bloody Hand come to fetch her.”
“Looks to me like we’ve got a standoff until daylight,” Bret said, “and that’s a pretty long time yet.”
“Looks like,” Coldiron agreed. “And don’t you get no ideas about sneakin’ across the clearin’ before daylight,” he scolded, thinking of Bret’s impatience back there on the bluffs. “We’ll just sit tight, till we’ve got a better idea what we’re up against. We can’t see him, and if we ain’t made too much noise, he can’t see us.”
With little choice in the matter, they withdrew from the edge of the trees to do what they could to find protection for Myra and Lucy as well as the two horses. Once they were satisfied they had done all they could for them, they settled in for a long sleepless night.
Chapter 13
Bloody Hand unwound the bandanna from his hand to look at the mutilated stumps where two of
his fingers once were. Without the makeshift bandage, the bleeding began anew, causing him to scowl with anger. He wrapped the bandanna around his hand again and let Lame Dog tie a rawhide thong around it to hold it in place.
“It’s lucky it’s my left hand,” he said, and to test it, he quickly brought his rifle up as if to shoot. “They will have to come back here, and when they do, remember not to shoot the young woman. I will kill her in time, but I have use for her before then.”
He thought of the slender girl, so vulnerable and helpless in his lust for her, powerless to deny him his way. Then an image of her obvious disgust for him whenever he had approached her came to him, causing his anger to overpower the pain throbbing in his wounded hand. Unable to prevent the surge of frustration that rose from deep inside his bowels, he emitted a low thin whine that startled Lame Dog, who knelt beside him beneath the bank of the creek.
“Your hand?” he asked. “Does it pain you?”
“This wound is nothing,” Bloody Hand snapped in contempt for the question. “The pain I feel is an aching to kill the white men.”
Out of habit, he clutched the shriveled ear in his right hand so hard that his fingernails brought blood to his palms. Finally pushed to the limit of his patience, he suddenly rose to his feet and sang out his war song, daring the white men to face him in battle. Shocked by the unexpected wail of the tortured warrior, Lame Dog quickly drew away from him, expecting a barrage of rifle shots to follow.
On the other side of the clearing from the warriors, the four white people were also jolted by the sudden release of Bloody Hand’s frustration. Lucy moved closer to Myra when the eerie howl drifted to them across the open grass of the meadow.
“What the hell is that?” Coldiron blurted.
“You’re the Indian expert,” Bret replied. “You tell me.”
The war chant continued for a couple of minutes. “I know a little Blackfoot talk,” Coldiron said. “Sounds like he’s singin’ his war song, somethin’ about how many enemies he’s killed, and some other stuff I can’t make out.”
“Can you tell where it’s coming from?” Bret asked. “Sounds to me like it’s over close to the creek bank, near those two tallest trees.”
“Maybe,” Coldiron replied, “hard to tell.”
Bret thought about it for a couple of seconds before suggesting, “Maybe he’s hoping he can tempt us to fire a few rounds in that direction so he can see our muzzle blasts and get a target.”
“He might at that,” Coldiron allowed. “I hadn’t thoughta that. Wonder if it would work on him, and give us a target to shoot at? Hell, I can sing him a war song if that’s what he wants.”
“It might beat sitting here waiting for daylight,” Bret said, not expecting Coldiron to actually attempt it.
A second later he was stunned by an outburst akin to a rusty pipe organ. The big man sang out lustily to the tune of an old Irish drinking ditty, but the words were of his own creation. Devoid of rhyme, he sang a confusion of insults to the Piegan warrior, labeling him a coward and next in kin to a groundhog. His offering was met almost immediately by a barrage of rifle fire, clipping the limbs above their heads and filling the air around them with stinging hot metal.
“Damn!” Coldiron blurted as he dived to the ground.
“Get flat on the ground, ladies!” Bret called back behind him. “To the right of that biggest tree!” he exclaimed to Coldiron, and pumped three quick shots at the spot where he had seen the muzzle flashes. Coldiron fired three of his own; then they both moved to the side several yards. “Everybody all right back there?” Bret called to Myra.
“We’re all right,” Myra called back. “But I hope to hell Nate ain’t got any encore numbers. I don’t think that Indian appreciates his singing.”
Under less dire situations, Bret might have laughed at Myra’s graveyard humor. As it was, he shook his head in amazement at the woman’s calm. After the sudden eruption of gunfire, everything went quiet again. “That was a helluva lot of fire for one man,” he said.
“Yeah,” Coldiron agreed. “He’s got help—two of ’em is what I think. At least it looked like two different muzzle flashes. Course it could mean there’s a hundred of ’em over there, but only two of ’em shot at us.”
It was a signal to both of them that they were going to have to be even more cautious, knowing for sure that it was not one man alone.
There were still several hours to wait before daylight, and the more thought Bret gave to their situation, the less inclined he was to sit there. With the coming of dawn, the clearing would be even more of a no-man’s land, leading to the prospect of the two sides sniping away at each other, probably with no clear winner. The time to act was now, he decided, under the cover of the darkness that now held them helpless. His mind made up, he told Coldiron to stay close to the women and to keep a sharp eye on the clearing. “What the hell are you gonna do?” Coldiron demanded.
“I’m gonna fall back and take a wide circle around behind their position,” Bret said. “If I can get in behind them, I might be able to end this standoff. If we wait for sunlight, we’re not gonna be in any better position than we are right now.”
“There you go again,” Coldiron scolded. “What if you work your way around them and find out you walked right into a whole bunch of Blackfoot warriors just lyin’ low and waitin’ for us to make some dumb-fool move like that?”
“Then I’d be the one to wear the dunce hat, wouldn’t I? But there ain’t any Blackfoot war party over there. That’s for sure. So look after our women. If you need help, Myra’s got her forty-four.”
His last comment was an attempt to joke, but he felt confident that the plucky woman would step up if she was needed. Then, while Coldiron was formulating his objections, he was off before the big scout could put them into words.
The ring of pines that framed the creek was about thirty yards wide. Outside the ring was an almost treeless ridge with a common wagon road running along it. It was the road that he, Coldiron, and Myra had followed to the trading post on their trip down the Smith River. Reasonably satisfied that he could not be seen on the road, he ran along it at a trot, planning to leave it at a point some seventy-five yards short of the path that led down to Jake Smart’s store, and work his way back into the trees behind the two warriors. There was no sign from the trading post of any possibility that Jake might be investigating the shooting that he had surely heard. But what Bret should have considered, maybe even expected, was the possibility that his adversaries might have had similar thoughts.
In fact, Lame Dog had already suggested the same tactic to Bloody Hand. The tormented Piegan eagerly accepted the plan and insisted that he should be the one to carry it out. The mangled mess that Coldiron’s bullet had made of Bloody Hand’s fingers, however, refused to stop bleeding to the point where the soaked bandanna was no longer effective. The pain from the wound caused his arm to throb all the way to his shoulder, which served to increase his frustration.
Lame Dog, seeing an opportunity to gain the respect of his fearsome friend, sought to convince Bloody Hand that he could drive the white men out of the trees and into the clearing, where he could kill them. Finally admitting that his left arm was becoming more and more stiff and useless, Bloody Hand gave in to Lame Dog’s plan. Since fate has its own agenda, it would seem more than coincidence that Lame Dog decided to circle around the clearing by way of the wagon road.
With rifle in hand, Bret trotted along the wagon track, slumped slightly in a subconscious attempt to make as small a target as possible. When he reached the spot he had picked to leave the road to make his way down through the trees, he paused a moment to look back the way he had come, and listen for any sounds that might alert him. There was nothing. The road behind him stood out in the eerie light like a bright ribbon in the faint light of a nearly eclipsed moon. With one last look toward the trading post, and seeing no activity from tha
t quarter, he left the narrow road and started toward the ring of trees, to suddenly find himself face-to-face with the lean, dark figure of a Blackfoot warrior.
Equally startled, both men stood frozen for a long moment, unprepared to encounter a combative adversary. In the next instant, both men recovered and sprang into action, each one trying to level his rifle and fire, and each one grabbing the barrel of the other’s rifle to prevent the rifle from being aimed at him. A desperate battle of strength ensued as each man strained to overpower his opponent in what proved to be a fairly equal contest. Back and forth they struggled, knowing that to weaken would result in the ultimate penalty, one that neither man was willing to accept.
Finally Lame Dog managed to swing his foot to catch on Bret’s ankle, causing him to trip and fall. Refusing to release his grip on Lame Dog’s rifle, Bret pulled the half-breed toward him as he fell, causing him to flip over him to land on his back. The collision with the hard ground was enough to make them both lose their grip on their rifles, resulting in a frantic scramble to recover their weapons.
Lame Dog was quick, reaching his rifle first, but not quick enough to keep Bret from diving on him to prevent him from bringing it to bear on him. With one hand under Bret’s chin, Lame Dog strained furiously to push him away, but to no avail, as Bret fought to gain control of Lame Dog’s rifle. Thinking of the long skinning knife he wore on his belt, and feeling the drain on his strength, Lame Dog suddenly released his hold on his rifle and reached for the knife. It was a mistake. Bret, acting instantly, grabbed the rifle with both hands and rolled away from the half-breed. With his knife raised to strike, Lame Dog launched his body to land the killing thrust. Praying that there was a cartridge already chambered, Bret only had time to pull the trigger. The bullet caught Lame Dog in the chest, killing him instantly. His lifeless body landed across Bret’s legs.
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