Black Eagle

by Charles G. West

  For an hour, they walked their horses up and down the streambed, looking for sign. When that proved fruitless, they split and rode a wide circle around the ravine, Shorty going one way, Jason the other. It was to no avail, the rain had washed all traces of the trail away. Reluctant to give up on a trail that had seemed so promising, they continued to scout the territory all along the line of smaller hills. Finally, when darkness threatened, Jason had to concede defeat.

  It was frustrating because he knew Black Eagle was up in the higher hills somewhere. He was there . . . but there were hundreds of places for the renegade to hide. Jason would have to have a trail to follow, otherwise he could search for months and still not chance upon him. Still, with the patience of a man who had spent over half his life tracking animals and men, Jason knew he would find Black Eagle eventually, if he had to search every crevice and crack in those hills. He’d find him—if Black Eagle didn’t find Jason first. He and Shorty headed back to the fort.

  * * *

  It was well after dark when they rode into Fort Fetterman. A good portion of the regiment was out of the garrison, away on patrols, looking for the kidnapped baby. Knowing his best chance of finding Black Eagle was closely tied to Shorty Boyd’s loins, Jason broached the subject.

  “Reckon it’s too late to call on your Sioux lady friend?”

  Shorty cleared his throat, making a barking noise as he tried to dislodge a piece of tobacco caught halfway down. He spit at the flagpole as they rode by, missing it by a foot. “Hit won’t be too late if I take ’em a sack of food. Hell, I s’pect that brother-in-law of hers would let me ride his wife if I brought enough food.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Naw, I reckon I could go over there fer a while.” He shot Jason a sideways glance. “She better tell us something pretty damn soon. This ol’ hoss ain’t got but so many rides left in him.”

  Harvey Singleton was still open to catch any spare change anyone might have in exchange for a drink. He was leaning on the bar of his store when Jason and Shorty walked in.

  “Howdy, boys,” Singleton greeted them. “I knowed if I stayed open a little longer, I was bound to catch a few drunks. What’ll it be? Whiskey? Beer?” He didn’t see the anticipation in their faces he had hoped for. “How ’bout it, Shorty? I know you’re wanting a drink. Jason, you got credit on the books. What’ll you have?”

  Shorty struck a dignified pose. “I don’t know if I like being called a drunk.” He pretended to be indignant. “I’ll have you know we didn’t come in here for any of that panther piss of your’n. We need some supplies.” For emphasis, he aimed a brown stream in the direction of the spittoon, spattering the counter a foot above it. He wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “But you can pour me one drink of that whiskey to scald some of this dust outta my throat.”

  Jason reminded his companion why they had come in. “You better take her a lot of presents this time. I need to know where that son of a bitch is hiding out.” To Singleton, he said, “Put this on my account.” Then he specified. “One drink of whiskey. Give us a sack of flour and a sack of sugar if you got it. How ’bout some bacon?” He glanced at Shorty, Shorty nodded. “Maybe some coffee beans,” Jason continued. “That oughtta do it.”

  Shorty tossed back his drink and thought of something he wanted to say, but Jason cut him off. “We’ve gotta go now. We don’t want to hold Shorty up.” He placed a firm hand on Shorty’s elbow.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Shorty responded, grinning widely. “I’ve got some business to tend to.” He picked up the sacks of groceries and sent a stream of tobacco juice toward the spittoon. It hit dead center. Startled, Shorty paused to consider it a moment, then turned and started toward the door. “Yessir, I got business to tend to.”

  Outside, Jason helped his friend with the packages while Shorty climbed aboard his horse. “Don’t kill yourself over there,” he said. “I don’t want to have to carry you on the back of a pack mule tomorrow.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me. I may be getting old but I’m still part panther.”

  Jason watched him ride off toward the small gathering of tipis, then he started toward the sergeant-major’s hut, leading Black. He didn’t look forward to facing Ruth Woodcock but he felt he needed to share his plans with her and Wes.

  * * *

  Ruth opened the door when Jason knocked. Over her shoulder, he could see Wes seated at the table, drinking a cup of coffee. The look in her eyes told of the anxiety she suffered, expecting any news of the child to be bad. She stood, still holding the door, waiting for him to speak.

  “Ruth, I hope it’s not too late to be knocking on your door but I saw you were still up.”

  She seemed dazed and made no move to invite him in. Behind her, Wes called out, “Well, ask him in, hon. Don’t make the man stand out there on the porch.”

  As if shaken from a trance, Ruth stepped aside. “I’m sorry, Jason, I ain’t been myself lately. Come on in. I’ll fix you a cup of coffee.” She moved back toward the kitchen. “Are you hungry? I’ve got some cold biscuits. I can fry you up some bacon if you want.”

  “No thanks, Ruth. Don’t trouble yourself. I will take a cup of coffee and maybe one of them cold biscuits.” He came in and sat down in the chair Wes pushed out from the table for him.

  Jason was moved by the depth of affection the Woodcocks demonstrated for their adopted son . . . and in such a short time. Ruth was a natural mother and would have probably mothered any infant creature but she had formed a special attachment to young John and his abduction had left her under a terrible mental strain. Because she wanted some encouraging news about the child so desperately, he tried to paint an optimistic picture for her.

  “I know you think I ought to be out with the cavalry patrols, looking for the youngun, so I wanted to come by and tell you what I’ve found out so far.” He went on to tell them of his hunch that Black Eagle was sticking close to the fort and the fact that his hunch was verified. He explained the reason Black Eagle would continue to stay close until Jason was dead. “He’s got the boy hid out somewhere in the hills on the other side of the river and, if we have a bunch of troopers riding all over the place and raising hell—excuse me, Ruth—it’s just going to drive him deeper in the hills.” He paused to sip the coffee. “Shorty and me were on a trail that I’m sure led straight to him today but the rain washed it out.”

  He went on to explain Shorty’s mission in the Indian camp and the hoped-for information it might yield. There was a definite show of relief in Wes’ face for, in truth, he had begun to doubt Jason’s approach to finding the boy. He realized that what Jason told him was true, if there wasn’t a trail to follow, it could take years to find Black Eagle. Ruth, on the other hand, still worried although she took some comfort in Jason’s words and his promise that he would stay on the trail until he found the boy.

  They talked late into the night and, before Jason left to spread his bedroll for the night, Ruth insisted on frying him some bacon and warming up some beans for him. He was grateful, for he had not eaten since early in the day. When he finally took his leave, both Wes and Ruth saw him to the door and wished him Godspeed.

  * * *

  While Jason sat at the Woodcocks’ kitchen table, several hundred yards away in the Indian camp, Shorty paid his call on Blackbird. Most of the people in the tiny village were in their beds when the little scout rode in. Blackbird herself was prepared for bed, her sister and brother-in-law had already turned in when they heard Shorty’s low whistle outside the tipi. Blackbird crawled to the door flap and peered out to find Shorty rekindling her cookfire. When she whispered over her shoulder that it was Little Thunder, her sister and her husband exchanged puzzled glances.

  Shorty, busy with the fire, glanced over to discover Blackbird’s face in the door opening. “Hey, honey, I apologize fer coming to see you so late but I had a real hankering to see you again.” She seemed less than enthusiastic about his surprise visit but she exhibited a bit more interest when he showed
her the sacks of groceries he had brought.

  “Come on out here, darlin’. It’s too early to turn in. Come on out here and boil me some of this coffee I brung.” Still, she hesitated. It reminded him of coaxing a dog out from under the bed. “Come on. I just want to talk awhile.”

  Reluctantly, she pulled a buckskin robe over her shoulders and started to come out, then hesitated to answer a question from inside the tipi. “No, it is not necessary for you to leave the tipi. Go back to sleep.

  “What is it? Why have you come?” Blackbird did not expect to see the white scout for at least two or three weeks. That seemed to be the standard setting for his biological clock. Sometimes it was even longer than that. Something must be wrong for him to return after only one night.

  “I told you,” Shorty insisted. “I just want to talk and I don’t want to wait till morning.” Already, he had brought the dying cookfire back to life and he settled himself before the bright new flames. In answer to her unspoken question, he assured her, “I ain’t drunk. Come on out here.”

  She seated herself beside him and immediately started searching through the sacks he had brought, pulling out the items, oohing and aahing over each. Food was hard to come by for her people since they had given up their natural life. The country where they were now camped was almost completely gleaned of animals to hunt, and the promised government beef was slow in coming and short in number when it did come. Staples—like flour and sugar, coffee and beans—were special treasures. So when Little Thunder came bringing these gifts, he was welcome at any time of night or day. She looked over at him and smiled. He patted her on the knee.

  “I’ll get the stones,” she whispered and crawled back into the tipi to fetch the two special stones she used to grind the coffee beans. In a few minutes time, she had a kettle on the fire and coffee boiling. Shorty watched the kettle closely and pulled it off the flame just as it started to boil. Blackbird never seemed to understand the necessity to remove it at just that right time. If he left it to her, she would be content to let the coffee boil until it was all gone. Shorty wasn’t fussy about many things, but he liked his coffee done right.

  The coffee ready and a couple of corn cakes to soak it up and Shorty felt strangely at peace. A notion flitted through his mind that he could get used to this . . . a woman to cook and do for him, sitting before a warm fire. He reached over and patted Blackbird on the leg again. She didn’t look too bad in the firelight, her oversized nose seemed to lose some of its sharpness, and her one bad eye was hidden in the shadow. I must be getting old, he thought. No matter, he decided, he liked the feeling that was passing over him. For her part, Blackbird was unable to share Shorty’s domestic bliss. In her eyes, he was no more than the strange little bald man who brought gifts in exchange for sexual favors. She often had thoughts of remarrying, hoping that day might come before she became too old to even think about it. But when thoughts like that occurred, they never included Little Thunder. She was not without affection for the wiry little scout—in fact, she was quite fond of him—she just never thought of him as a candidate for a husband.

  With his belly satisfied, Shorty reminded himself of the real purpose for his visit. “Let’s talk some more about them Cheyennes over there,” he started. “Did one of their women go off across the river to take care of that youngun Black Eagle stole?”

  Blackbird immediately stiffened. She did not want to talk about Black Eagle. The Cheyenne warrior was bad medicine and it was not wise to even speak his name. “I don’t know,” she answered, “let us talk of other things.”

  “Blackbird, it’s important for me to know who’s helping that buck and you could tell me if you just would.” He put his arm around her shoulders and gave her a little squeeze. “I bet you could even tell me where he’s hiding out, couldn’t you?”

  “No,” she quickly whispered. “No one knows where Black Eagle camps. He goes and comes when he pleases. It is best to speak of other things.”

  Shorty’s patience was wearing thin. This buck had managed to put the fear of God into the Sioux as well as his own people. He was convinced that Blackbird knew where he could find the renegade if he could somehow manage to overcome her fear of the man. Keeping a rein on his impatience, he tried a new approach. “You know, over in the sutler’s store, I seen the brightest red bolt of cloth I’ve ever seed. It was so bright, I bet you could see it a mile away. I bet you’d really shine in a dress out of that cloth.” She said nothing but he could see that he had definitely sparked her interest. “Of course, he’s got some of them little ol’ blue and white beads too. You’d need some of them to go with that red dress.” Now he really had her attention. He let her think about it for a few minutes while he took a stick and stirred up the coals of the fire.

  She stood it as long as she could but, before long, she laid her head on Shorty’s shoulder and pressed her body up against his. They sat there in silence for a time. Finally . . . “I could look pretty for you in a red dress, Little Thunder.”

  “I know you could, darlin’.” Shorty replied. “I know you could.”

  “My people would think you were a great man if you could get these things for me. They would respect you.” She pulled even closer and laid her hand on his thigh.

  “I reckon,” he said. “And I’d get ’em fer you too, if you’d tell me what I need to know.”

  “Please, Little Thunder, I do not know where this man is.”

  “All right then,” Shorty sighed. “I shore would have liked to see you in that red dress. No matter though, I’m gonna catch that son of a bitch anyway. You could have just saved me some time.” He pretended to dismiss it from his mind.

  They sat there before the fire for a long moment, neither saying anything more. Then Blackbird sighed and spoke. “I want the red dress and the beads.” She purred as she said it and ran her hand a little farther up his thigh.

  Shorty could feel his blood rising but he kept his head about him. He knew she was making a counteroffer for the red dress and beads but what she offered in exchange was something he figured he’d already paid for with the groceries. He was interested only in exchanging the red dress and beads for the whereabouts of Black Eagle. “I want you to have ’em, Honey. I swear I do . . . and I’ll get ’em for you when you tell me where he’s got that child hid.”

  “He would kill me,” she stated as a matter of fact.

  “Not if he’s dead, he won’t.”

  She did not give him a definite answer right away, pretending to forget the matter, hoping he would give in to her desire for the cloth. They talked of other things until the fire began to die out again and Shorty announced that it was way past his bedtime. The rest of the camp had gone to sleep long before. Blackbird’s sister and her husband could be heard inside, their snoring combined in a hoarse duet.

  “I reckon I’d best get going,” Shorty announced, having no intention of doing so.

  “It’s late. Stay here with me tonight. We can sleep here by the fire.”

  “I don’t know. I got to ride out early in the morning.”

  “I’ll tell you what you want to know.” Seeing his obvious interest, she hastened to add, “No one must ever find out that it was I who told you.”

  He grinned to himself and started pulling off his boots while Blackbird crept back into the tipi and returned with a blanket. While he removed his trousers, she smoothed out a place by the fire and spread her robe. Then she laid the blanket on top of the robe and their bed was made. When it was ready, she lay down and, holding the blanket for him, giggled while he slid in beside her.

  Their lovemaking was more of a gentle nature on this night. It was a new experience for Shorty. Maybe it was because this time he was not of such a desperate nature, having just satisfied his animal needs on the night before. She was warm and loving and she held him close to her bosom while she cooed and petted him. He responded with a gentleness to match her own and she seemed to glow with a passion he had never witnessed. He had never imagine
d it could be so warm and fulfilling.

  When their passion had peaked and delivered its promise, he lay in her arms exhausted. She continued to hold him close to her and she whispered things that a woman whispers to her lover. Then she told him of a cave in a deep ravine that was marked by two single pines that stood taller than the scrubby pines around them where the wife of Man Who Sings stays with the white child.

  Knowing contentment he had never known before, Shorty drifted off to sleep in Blackbird’s arms, exhausted mentally and physically. There was a smile on his face as the last fuzzy thoughts drifted through his brain. I’ll tell Jason in the morning. We’ll get that son of a bitch and then I’m gonna buy me that bolt of red cloth.

  He slept the deep sleep of the innocent, with dreams of his childhood, dreams of long, long ago . . . before his mother died and his father left his farm in Illinois to join the throngs of dreamers heading to the new territories in the west. He was happy in his dream. He was safe and warm with his mother and father to watch over him. And so he slept. He stirred only slightly when he felt the touch of a hand on his forehead and then he was jolted out of his sleep by a hand clamped tightly over his mouth. There was a terrible sound, a rasping, gurgling sound, and he realized at almost the same instant he felt the pain that the sound he was hearing was his own struggle for breath through his slit throat. His eyes opened wide and he carried the image of the smirking face and the hand holding the bloody knife into the darkness of death. Shorty Boyd’s last conscious thought was knowing that he had at last met Black Eagle.

  CHAPTER XV