Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  On his back now, White Bull struggled in vain as Pike ripped the eight-inch blade out and thrust it in again, this time into the middle of his belly. He wrenched the rifle from White Bull’s hands and flung it aside. The Lakota warrior could resist no more as his strength ebbed with the flow of his blood on the sandy soil. Pike, his conquest now in hand, taunted his victim as he butchered him.

  “Now, you son of a bitch, you never did nuthin’ but bad-mouth me. I been wanting to see what your gizzard looked like when it was carved up just right. Now, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna carve your guts up good then I’m gonna take a piece of that topnotch of yourn. Right now you’re a dead man. But it’s gonna take a little while. It ain’t gonna be quick.”

  Finished with his gruesome work, Pike took his leisure in preparing to start out again after Abby. He tied White Bull’s rifle to the warrior’s pony and tied a lead line to his own saddle. Satisfied that he had left nothing that might be useful to him, he climbed in the saddle. Before he rode out, he paused to leave some parting words for the dying warrior.

  “Well, Mister White Bull, I have to hand it to you. You ain’t making much fuss for the fix you’re in. Hurts like hell, don’t it? If you feel like it, you could try to get up and walk out of here. ’Course, your innards’ll most likely fall out on the ground. Well, I best be going along. I got me a crazy woman to catch.”

  * * *

  When Jason found him, White Bull still lay where he had fallen. It was late afternoon when the tall scout first sighted the cabin set back against the slope of the mountain. He had tied the paint out of sight and worked his way down the stream on foot. The wounded man was easily seen, lying near the water’s edge, but at first Jason couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive. He took the time to carefully scout the rocks and trees around the clearing to be sure there was no one else waiting in ambush. There was no one there. He went back to get his horse and then rode into the clearing.

  “Damn,” he murmured softly under his breath when he came up to White Bull. The Sioux warrior had been brutally butchered and left to die a slow, agonizing death. No man should have to die that way. It was plain to Jason that there was little he could do for the man but he knelt down beside him to see if he could somehow ease his pain.

  White Bull, his eyes open and aware, though wracked with the intense pain he felt, stared helplessly at the white scout bending over him. The look he saw in Jason’s eyes was one of compassion and he knew the scout was trying to help him. His hands were covered with his blood as he pressed them close to his abdomen, holding his intestines in. After great effort, he forced one word between his lips. “Water.”

  Jason nodded and fetched his canteen. He let the water trickle over the Indian’s lips, permitting only a little at a time to enter his mouth. White Bull started to retch when the cool water leaked out of his torn stomach and into his bowels. Jason Coles knew there was no hope for the man. He was as good as dead already but it was Jason’s guess that the warrior would last for several hours or more before his agony was finally over. When White Bull’s spasms from the water subsided enough to permit him to lie still once more, he looked up into Jason’s eyes. He seemed to be pleading for relief from his pain.

  Jason bent close over him. “The white woman. I must find her. Was she here?” White Bull tried to speak but was too weak. He nodded slightly. “Who did this to you?” White Bull could not speak. “Was it a white man?” White Bull nodded. Jason sat back on his heels. It was the man with the nicked horseshoe—he had suspected as much—and that man was still after Abby. Judging from the way he had slaughtered the Indian, Jason feared for Abby’s life. He hoped the butcher was intent on keeping her for a wife and not hunting her for revenge.

  Jason looked down at White Bull once more. Their eyes met and held briefly then the warrior took his hand from his stomach and signed that he was dying. Jason nodded understanding. He signed back, “Go in peace,” and got to his feet. Moving out of the dying man’s eyesight, he went around behind him. He stood there for a moment, looking down at him. He didn’t want to do it but he knew the Lakota warrior would thank him for it. He slowly drew his pistol from his belt and as quietly as he could, cocked the hammer back. Hesitating just a moment more, he put a bullet through White Bull’s brain, ending his suffering.

  He stood over the now-still form for a few moments longer. “I’m sorry I can’t give you a proper burying, but I’m afraid I’m running out of time.”

  Chapter XII

  “Come on, damn you!” Abby bent over the little nest of tinder and dead grass she had formed and struck the flint over and over without results. The grass was dry enough. It should have caught a spark but, no matter how hard she labored, it refused to light. “Damn it!” She cursed the grass and blew on it lightly, trying to encourage the reluctant kindling. She paused for a few moments, sitting back on her heels and looking around to reassure herself that no one would be likely to find her in the pine-covered ravine she had chosen for her camp.

  She had been at a loss to explain why the Indian warrior had chosen to warn her about Pike. But she was grateful to the man. He had terrified her at first when he suddenly appeared behind her but something in his manner made her know that she had no reason to fear him. Whatever the reason for his warning, she had wasted no time putting some distance between her and the little miners’ cabin. She was not skilled in estimating miles, but she was confident that she had bought herself a good head start. She had pushed her horse hard until darkness overtook her and she was forced to stop for the night for fear of breaking the animal’s leg. The country was rough and there were too many gullies and holes to step into in the dark ravines.

  “Dammit!” she cursed, knowing she had waited too long before trying to get her campfire started. She could barely see the kindling before her as she set in on the flint and steel again. Over and over she struck the flint. The sparks flew like tiny little stars in the darkness, lived for half an instant and then died. She shivered with the chill of the evening. It was cold down in the ravine when the sun disappeared. Still she worked the steel until finally a tiny red glow appeared in the dead grass and she picked the nest up, cupping it in her hands while gently blowing life into it. A thin wisp of smoke rose from her hands and then a fragile flame followed reluctantly, and she nurtured it with the shavings and twigs she had gathered. At last, she thought, a fire.

  Somehow she had the feeling she could hold everything together as long as she had a fire to keep warm with and to cook her food. Her fire was gaining strength now and she placed some larger sticks on it. Confident that it was past the danger of going out, she put her flint and steel away and watched the flames strengthen to a healthy blaze. She put on more wood and sat back to watch it. Her shivering stopped and she once again regained the confidence she had in her ability to survive in this wild country. Then a sobering thought struck her and she spent an anxious moment wondering if her fire was too big and might be seen. She got to her feet, her rifle clutched tightly in her hand, and walked up the side of the ravine a few yards, looking around in an effort to pierce the dark shroud that covered her retreat. No one can see, she decided. Pike would have to be right on top of me to see my fire. She went back to her camp.

  She took some strips of the meat she had tried to dry and looked at them carefully. She wasn’t sure what jerky was supposed to look like. She had eaten jerky that Jason had provided and it didn’t look like that which she had prepared. Maybe there was something else you were supposed to do to it other than just drying it in the sun. She decided to roast it over the fire. She was hungry and didn’t care what it looked like—it was meat.

  She was awakened the next morning by the sound of her horse gnawing the bark of a stunted shrub. She lay there for a little while and watched the first rays of the sun filter through the pines and settle on the rim of the ravine. She knew she could not afford to linger but she wasn’t feeling up to snuff for some reason. There was an uneasy feeling down in her st
omach and she decided she must be hungry, although she didn’t really feel like eating anything.

  “I guess I’d better keep my strength up,” she announced to the horse and roused herself from her blanket. There were a few of the strips of meat left from the night before so she ate them and washed them down with water from her canteen. As soon as her breakfast was finished, she saddled up and got under way again, striking due east, hoping to find the Missouri.

  It was past midmorning when she first began to feel queasy. It was puzzling to her that she felt somewhat under the weather but, assuming she would soon shake it off, she pushed on. She stopped at every high point she crossed that offered a long view of her backtrail, watching the country behind her, fearing the possibility of seeing a rider coming on fast. So far, she had seen no sign of anyone.

  Another hour of riding found no improvement in her discomfort and, in fact, she began to feel worse. Soon discomfort gave way to nausea and dizziness and she realized that she was becoming physically ill. It must have been the meat, she thought. It had spoiled. She should not have eaten it but it was too late to think of that now. Her stomach began to churn and she feared she was going to vomit. Good, she thought in her misery, maybe I can empty it out of my stomach. Barely moments later, the contents of her stomach rushed to her throat and she lay on her horse’s neck and retched.

  Once started, her stomach began to convulse over and over in waves that left her fighting for breath. She could no longer stay upright in the saddle. Feeling a desperate need to be on solid earth, she tumbled from the saddle while trying to dismount and landed on her back. The horse stopped and stood looking at her. At that moment she didn’t care what the horse did. She was too sick to care. Finding that she couldn’t stay on her back because the earth kept spinning beneath her, she rolled over and got up on her hands and knees as another wave of retching swept over her. There was nothing left for her stomach to give up, but still she heaved uncontrollably. She tried to lie down on her side, but this only started the earth’s spinning again. The only position she could tolerate was on her hands and knees.

  She stayed in this position for what seemed hours, though it was really only a short time. When at last the world around her seemed to stabilize, she gradually became able to function on a rudimentary level once more. No longer wishing to die, she began to think about her safety again. She told herself that she had to get back on her horse and ride, but she was so weakened by the retching of her insides that she longed to rest for a little while. Giving in to the desire, she pulled herself up beside a tree and lay back against the trunk. Her horse stood patiently watching her. “Good boy,” she mumbled, for she had been too violently ill to even think about tying his reins. She closed her eyes.

  A clicking sound penetrated her dozing mind and she opened her eyes again, not really focusing. How long had she been there sleeping? Her mind skipped back and forth between waking and sleeping for a brief moment before she became aware of her surroundings and she was once again fully alert. She glanced up, her heart almost skipping a beat as her eyes focused on a pair of dusty black boots. Raising her eyes quickly, she was stunned to discover the dark figure of Jack Pike, his pistol leveled at her head, standing before her. The clicking she had heard had been the sound of the hammer as he cocked it.

  There was an immediate feeling of panic and she reacted at once, bolting upright and trying to get to her feet. But she was stopped cold by the roar of the pistol almost in her face and she was stung by the sand kicked up only inches from her head. Terrified, she turned to the other side, only to be stopped again by another shot that splintered the bark of the tree she had been resting against. The shock of it was so sudden that she didn’t even hear herself scream involuntarily. Thinking that she was staring death in the face, she froze, her eyes wide with fright, her heart beating against her breastbone.

  “Hello there, Miss Sassy Britches.” The floppy brim of his wide black hat shaded the deep-set eyes, giving him the appearance of a dark specter, an angel of death. “You know, you’ve caused me a damn sight of trouble, chasing after your ugly ass.”

  Regaining some measure of her calm when it appeared he wasn’t going to murder her right away, Abby made an attempt to hide her fear. “Why the hell don’t you leave me alone, Pike? I’ve got nothing for you.”

  Pike snorted a laugh. “Oh you ain’t, huh? Well, I say the hell you ain’t. The way I figure it, you run up quite a bill with me and I aim to collect on it.”

  “I don’t owe you a damn thing, you son of a bitch.”

  Her response seemed to delight him and his beard parted in a wide grin. “Well now, I recollect as how you murdered my partner and stole that ’ere horse. And there’s a little matter of a poke of gold dust you run off with. I figure you owe me plenty and I’m taking the first payment outta your behind.”

  Not realizing at first that he meant that literally, she sneered at the vile narrow-faced menace as he leered down at her. When he continued to leer at her, it occurred to her that he intended to have his way with her. She responded in kind. “The hell you are.” In spite of her weakened condition, she resolved to defy any attempts on her person from the likes of the dingy and foul-smelling Pike. She reached down to pull her pistol from her belt.

  Pike may have looked slow and clumsy but he proved to be deceptively quick, moving to block her attempt before she had drawn the weapon halfway out of the leather holster on her belt. His hand closed on her wrist with the force of a beaver trap, while with the other hand he brought the barrel of his pistol sharply across the side of her face. Stunned by the impact of the cold steel against her jawbone, Abby went limp. Her head spinning, she fought to remain conscious, knowing that if she fainted she would be finished. Her effort proved in vain because Pike, fully aware of the fight in the woman, had no intention of permitting her to recover. He cracked the heavy cavalry pistol across the back of her head and everything went black inside her brain.

  When she began to come to, the first sensation that registered in her brain was an intense throbbing in her skull. A few moments more and she remembered where she was and what was happening. In a panic, she tried to get to her feet, although she could not yet seem to focus her eyes. Everything was spinning around her head and she felt the nausea rising in her stomach. Then she became aware of a tugging at her legs, which she tried to resist but could not. Finally her head cleared enough to see what was happening to her and she realized that her trousers were down around her knees and Pike was struggling to take off her boots. The sight of the evil man was enough of a shock to jolt her out of her passive stance.

  “Oh, no, you don’t, you son of a bitch!” She tried to strike him with her fist, realizing only then that her hands were bound together and tied to the tree behind her. “No!” she screamed and tried to kick with her feet.

  Pike paused and looked up at her, a grin spread wide across his whiskered face, his eyes reflecting his evil intent. “You might as well relax and enjoy it.” She tried to kick out at him but he held her ankles immobile. “I reckon you ain’t so high and mighty right now, are you? If I like it, I might keep you alive.”

  “I’d rather die than be with you.” She spat at him.

  He easily avoided the saliva hurled at him. It only served to amuse him. “Have it your way, then. You could make it easy on yourself and join in the fun, but I like a horse that bucks a little too.”

  He tugged at her boot but she hung on with her foot, refusing to straighten it. Soon he tired of the struggle and took out his skinning knife. “All right, dammit, keep your damn boots on!” With the knife, he started hacking away at her trousers until he had cut them apart, freeing her legs. When he had ripped the last shreds of her trousers away, he stood up and leered down at her nakedness. Then he unbuckled his own buckskin pants and dropped them around his boot tops, exposing his dingy gray underwear.

  Abby was desperate. She was helpless to defend herself yet determined to die trying before permitting this foul excuse fo
r a human being to violate her body. She wanted to look away when he peeled his underwear off but she forced herself to keep her eyes steady and unflinching. Unable to fight him off physically, she tried to combat him mentally.

  “You call yourself a man? Why, you ain’t much bigger than a little boy.” He was surprised by her comments but they did not dissuade him. She tried again. “I bet you ain’t had many women with no more than that to work with—maybe a frog would be more your size.”

  The smile suddenly disappeared from his face and he looked down at himself, not sure if she really thought him that lacking. Then the anger twisted his eyes into narrow slits and he reached down and hit her with his fist. “Shut up or I’ll kill you right now!” Her head rocked back with the blow and, within moments, a trickle of blood ran down from her nose.

  Refusing to yield to his brutality, she kicked at him again. “You dirty bastard!” She tried to struggle out of his grasp but he hit her again. Knowing she was fighting a losing battle to save her life, she refused to submit, although he slapped her again and again. She tried to fight with her feet, the only defense left to her, and she fought hard enough to cause him to drop his pistol and use both hands to immobilize her flailing legs.

  “By God, I’ll take you dead if I have to,” he swore as he strained to force her legs apart.

  Resigned to her fate now, she spat at him again. “By God, you’ll have to!”

  Stalemated for the moment, he picked up his pistol again and pointed it at her forehead. She stared him down, her eyes defying him to the end. The fierce rage reflected in his eyes told her that he had made up his mind to end it. He cocked the hammer back and she closed her eyes for an instant, waiting for the blow that would end her life. Then, in one final moment of defiance, she determined to look death square in the face. When she opened her eyes again, she caught a movement over Pike’s shoulder and her eyes opened wider. There, on the ridge behind them, she saw him, sitting tall in the saddle, his rifle in one hand, silhouetted against a cloudless sky.