“Damn!” Rip’s voice was bitter now. Like all the others, he had been fond of Sparrow.
“Let’s see if these two know what happened.” Preacher went over to Carling and Hodge, who were sitting up by now. Carling held his head in his hands, while Hodge looked around in confusion. “Willard, did you see your sister?” Preacher asked.
“What?” Carling winced as he spoke. “What did you say, Preacher?”
“Your sister, did you see her when you and Hodge got back here?”
“No. I . . . I started inside . . . and Sparrow, of all people, tried to stab me!”
She must have thought that he was one of the Crows, Preacher thought. Carling had probably neglected to call out and identify himself before entering the lodge.
“And then I seem to remember falling,” Carling went on. “I . . . I believe I hit my head . . .” He probed his head and exclaimed in pain as he found a sore lump on the back of it. “Yes, I definitely hit my head. I must have knocked myself out when I fell.”
“I think that’s what happened,” Hodge put in. “I know I saw Willard fall . . . and then some of the savages came at me. I still had a pistol, so I fired at them . . . I think it blew up. Anyway, that’s the last thing I remember.”
Pure dumb luck had saved their lives, Preacher realized. Both men had been knocked unconscious, and the raiders had taken them for dead. Carling and Hodge were extremely fortunate that the Crows hadn’t taken the time to scalp them anyway, or riddle them with arrows.
Carling gripped Preacher’s arm, not paying any attention to the blood splattered on it. “You asked about Faith,” he said desperately. “Where is she, Preacher? What’s happened to her?”
Preacher could only shake his head. “I don’t know. It looks like the Crows may have carried her off.”
“Oh, my God!” Carling raked his fingers through his hair. “You mean she’s a prisoner again?”
Rip put in, “I don’t see Chester around here, neither. You think the Crows got him, too, Preacher? I know he was headed this way.”
The same thought had occurred to Preacher. Sinclair would have attacked against even overwhelming odds if he was fighting to save Faith. If he had been killed, his body would still be here, so that left only one reasonable explanation. For some reason, the Crows had taken Sinclair prisoner instead of killing him.
Now, once again, Sinclair and Faith were captives, in the hands of savages in a savage land.
Chapter Twenty-three
By the time the sun was lowering toward the peaks in the west, the Crows were gone, leaving death and destruction in their wake.
Screams of pain still rose from the devastated village, along with chants of mourning from the wives of warriors who had been killed. The women tore their dresses and beat themselves on the breast and rubbed ashes on their faces. They had plenty of ashes to choose from, since half of the lodges in the village had burned down.
There had been nearly a hundred warriors in the village, but many of them were now dead and others were badly wounded. Badger had survived, but all of the pride and arrogance was gone from his face. He was the chief of a defeated people. A dozen or more captives, mostly children and young women, had been taken away by the Crows. They would be turned into slaves by the hated dung-eaters. If more of Badger’s warriors had survived, he might have gone after the Crows and tried to rescue the prisoners. As it was, though, he had barely enough men to mount a defense of the village if it was attacked again by other enemies.
Preacher searched the entire village, but didn’t find Sinclair and Faith or their bodies. They were gone; there was no doubt about that. And the only place they could have gone was with the Crows.
Carling sat cross-legged on the ground, rocking back and forth and saying over and over, “What are we going to do? What are we going to do?” Hodge paced around ineffectually. Rip tended to the wound in Tom Ballinger’s leg, finally getting the lance out of it and binding up the injury as best he could. Ballinger might live, but he would never be the same again and would probably have a bad limp the rest of his life. He would have to recover for quite a while before he could travel.
Preacher took stock of the situation and didn’t like the conclusions he came up with. Someone had to go after the Crows and try to free Sinclair and Faith. At least, Rip was in pretty good shape, as was Preacher himself. But other than the two of them, the only ones available to join a rescue party appeared to be Willard Carling and Jasper Hodge, who were almost as big a danger to themselves as they were to the enemy.
Preacher walked up to Carling and said sharply, “Stop your moanin’ and get on your feet.”
Carling lifted his head and blinked at Preacher. “What?” He seemed to be half out of his mind with grief and worry.
“I said stand up,” Preacher grated. “Hodge, stop that pacin’. We got plans to make.”
“Plans?” the journalist repeated. “What sort of plans? What on earth can we do?”
“We can go after them damn Crows and get Miss Carling and Sinclair away from them.”
Carling and Hodge stared at him for a long moment. Then Hodge said, “You’ve lost your mind. There are only four of us.”
“There was only one o’ me when I started after Badger’s war party, figurin’ on rescuin’ you folks. I managed to do that.”
“Only by getting captured yourself and almost dying in battle with that savage!”
“Best be careful about callin’ Badger a savage,” Preacher warned. “We’ll be countin’ on him for a little help in the way o’ supplies and arms and such-like.”
“Why can’t he and his men go rescue the prisoners?” Carling asked. “The Crows are their enemies, not ours.”
“That ain’t the way it works. Badger and his people have folks to lay to rest and a village to rebuild. He lost about half his warriors in that fight. He can’t afford to lose any more.”
“But the Crows lost men, too,” Hodge pointed out. “Didn’t you say that a lot of them were killed?”
“Yeah, maybe as many as thirty or forty,” Preacher admitted. “It’s hard to be sure because they carried most of the bodies off with ’em, rather than leavin’ ’em behind to be mutilated. But there’s still probably at least sixty warriors in that bunch. Badger could take every man he’s got left and still be outnumbered.”
“And yet you think the four of us would have a chance?” Hodge asked in amazement.
“What choice do we have, if we ever want to see Miss Faith and Sinclair again?”
Rip added, “And a handful o’ men can sometimes do what a bunch can’t . . . especially when one of ’em is Preacher.”
Carling said quietly, “I could never live with myself if something terrible happened to Faith and I just stood by and let it take place. I have to try to save her.” He looked at Preacher. “Thank you for helping me to see that.”
Preacher saw something in Carling’s eyes he hadn’t seen there before—a hint of steely determination. It was only a hint, to be sure, but it was there.
“You can’t be serious!” Hodge said. “Four men against sixty or more?”
“Five,” a new voice said.
Preacher turned his head and saw Panther Leaping coming toward them. The middle-aged Teton Sioux warrior had picked up his share of bruises and scratches during the battle, but he appeared to be in reasonably good shape. And Preacher knew him to be a good fighting man.
“You know what we’re talkin’ about, Panther?” Preacher asked him in Sioux.
“Yes,” Panther replied in English. “Chester taught me . . . some of your tongue. He was . . . good friend.” The warrior clasped his hand into a fist and lightly struck his chest, signifying the unlikely but strong bond that had sprung up between him and the big Easterner.
Preacher nodded and said, “Five of us, then.” He glanced at Hodge. “That is, if you’re goin’ along.”
“Oh, you’re not going to leave me here alone with these savages,” Hodge replied quickly. “Make no
mistake about that.”
“We’ll start first thing in the morning.”
“Why not tonight?” Carling asked. “Now that we’ve made up our minds, why waste time?”
“Because it’s late,” Preacher explained. “It’ll be night before much longer. We need to eat and rest, get a good night’s sleep if we can. I’ve got a hunch that the Crows will be headin’ back to their usual huntin’ grounds as fast as possible, now that they’ve hit Badger’s people so hard and taken some prisoners. We may have a long chase in front of us.”
“Poor Faith,” Carling murmured. “I’m sure every minute she’s in the hands of those savages will be pure hell for her.”
Faith didn’t know how much longer she could keep going. She was exhausted, and having to help Sinclair along just added to her weariness. He was a big man and had quite a bit of weight leaning on her. She kept her right arm around his waist, and he had his left arm wrapped around her shoulders. It was much too intimate to be proper. . . .
Not that the savages who had taken them prisoner cared one whit about what was proper.
When they had dragged her out of the tepee after killing Sparrow—Faith had caught a terrifying glimpse of the Indian woman’s crumpled body with the tomahawk buried in her chest—the first thing she had seen was Chester Sinclair racing to her aid. At that moment, her heart had leaped with hope.
That hope had been dashed almost instantly as the Crow raiders swarmed over Sinclair, beating him to the ground and knocking him senseless. Faith had fully expected them to chop him into little pieces with their knives and tomahawks, but one of the savages had struck Sinclair with a stick that had a couple of feathers tied to it. A coup stick, that was what it was called, Faith remembered. She had heard Jasper Hodge talking about them as he imparted bits of knowledge he had picked up during his stay in the Teton Sioux village. Some Indians carried the sticks into battle, and it was a point of honor for them to use the coup stick to touch an enemy without killing him. Or something like that. Faith had no interest in the barbaric customs of these people.
But she had the impression that Sinclair’s life had been saved by the Indian’s action. That was why they had taken him prisoner instead of killing him on the spot. The Indian probably planned on making Sinclair a slave, as Faith recalled Preacher and the others discussing a few days earlier.
Sinclair was the only adult male who had been taken prisoner. The other captives were all women or children. And Sinclair was still too groggy to be able to do anything except stumble along with Faith’s help. She hoped that all the blows to the head hadn’t permanently impaired his faculties.
She knew she was going to need his help to survive this captivity.
The two of them were surrounded by the other prisoners, a couple of dozen in all. Faith estimated that the Crows numbered fifty or sixty, so there were plenty of them to surround the captives and prod them along. The warrior who had tapped Sinclair with the coup stick seemed to be the leader of the party. He was short but very muscular, and he strode along at the head of the column with an aggressive confidence that spoke of command. From time to time, he barked what sounded like orders at the other members of the war party.
An hour or so after leaving the village, the Indians and their prisoners came to a small canyon. Faith was surprised to see a large number of horses gathered inside the canyon. She supposed the Crows had left their ponies there before going to attack the village. Now they mounted up, but the prisoners were not allowed to ride as the grueling trek continued. The Crows forced the captives to walk, poking at them with lances if they lagged or stumbled too much.
“Faith, I . . . I’m sorry,” Sinclair gasped out as they struggled along. “I wanted so much to protect you, and instead I failed you.”
“It’s all right, Chester,” she told him. “There was nothing you could do. There were just too many of the savages.”
“I should have done something. . . .”
He sounded more coherent now, so she asked, “Can you walk by yourself? No offense, Chester, but you’re a big man, and it’s hard for me to help you along like this.”
“My head’s still pretty woozy, but let me give it a try.” He took his arm from around her shoulders and straightened. Although he swayed a little, he managed to stay upright. “I can make it,” he said stubbornly. “I’m sorry I’ve had to lean on you.”
“It’s all right,” she said, and to her slight surprise, she meant it. She also found that she missed the feel of his arm around her. She thought about reaching for his hand and clasping it, but of course she couldn’t do something that forward, even under these dire circumstances.
Sinclair seemed to grow a little steadier on his feet as they pressed on. It occurred to Faith that the prisoners were like a herd of cattle or sheep being driven by the mounted Indians around them. The chief, if that was who he was, still rode at the front of the group, and didn’t call a halt to the forced march until the sun was almost down.
By that time, Faith was so tired she thought she couldn’t go another step. The muscles in her legs felt like lead. She sank down onto the ground and moaned.
Sinclair knelt beside her and asked, “Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Not unless you can get me away from these savages,” she said. “And I don’t think you can do that, Chester, outnumbered sixty to one as you are.”
Sinclair frowned and looked around. “You never can tell what might happen. I’ll keep my eyes open for a chance to escape.”
“Oh, no!” she said. “You’ll just get yourself killed. I don’t want that.”
“Are you saying that we should cooperate with them?”
“What other choice do we have?” Faith asked bleakly.
Sinclair sighed in grim acceptance of her words. He gazed off into the distance through narrowed eyes and said, “Maybe Preacher will come after us, the way he did before when we were captured by Bites Like a Badger.”
“You’re assuming that Preacher is even still alive.”
“Of course he’s alive.” Sinclair sounded surprised that she would think otherwise. “He’s too good a fighter to have been killed in battle.”
“I don’t know much about warfare, but I assume good fighters get killed in battle all the time. There must be good fighters on both sides, you know.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still, I’m not going to give up hope—”
Sinclair might have said more, but at that moment, several of the Crow raiders came up and shouted at the prisoners, prodding them onto their feet.
Faith moaned again and said, “I thought we had stopped for the night.”
“I guess not.” Sinclair came to his feet and reached down to extend his hand to her. “Come on. I’ll help you up.”
Faith hesitated. Then she took his hand and let him pull her upright.
She didn’t let go of it, either, as the worn-out and dispirited group of prisoners began trudging northeast again, surrounded by their captors.
Chapter Twenty-four
The men lurking in the trees half a mile from the Teton Sioux village had listened to the screams and shots and other sounds of battle and not known exactly what was going on at first. Then, Luther Snell and Baldy had crept closer until they could see the desperate struggle taking place.
“I ain’t sure, but I think them other Injuns is Crows,” Baldy had said as he and Snell knelt among some tall reeds at the edge of the creek that meandered past the village, a quarter of a mile upstream. “Hard to tell for certain without gettin’ closer, and I ain’t in much of a mood to do that right now.”
Snell grunted. “No, I don’t reckon that’d be too healthy. What’re Crows doin’ down here? This ain’t their normal stompin’ grounds.”
“No, but a Injun’ll go a long way when he’s in the mood for raidin’ . . . and from the rumors I’ve heard, ol’ Medicine Bull has been raisin’ hell lately. Says he’s gonna make this a bloody summer for all the enemies o’ his people.”
> “Which is just about ever’body, when you’re talkin’ about them dung-eaters.” Snell had nodded slowly. “I’ll bet you’re right, Baldy. I bet it’s Medicine Bull an’ his Crows raidin’ that village. Question is, what’re we gonna do about it?”
“Do about it?” Baldy snorted. “I dunno about you, Snell, but I plan on keepin’ myself well clear o’ that village until it’s all over. I may not have any hair to lose, but I’m still a mite partial to this old ass o’ mine!”
“Carling’s in there,” Snell said, nodding toward the embattled village. “Without him, we can’t get rich.”
“Don’t matter how rich you are when your scalp’s decoratin’ a Crow war lance. Anyway, there’s not a damned thing we can do right now. We got to just wait until the fightin’s over and hope that Carling lives through it all right.”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” Snell said with a sigh. “I just wish we’d figured out a way to get our hands on that prissy little bastard before now.”
For almost a week, the party of white men had been hiding out in the vicinity of the Teton Sioux village, keeping an eye on the place and making sure to stay out of the way of the scouts and hunting parties sent from the village into the surrounding area. Snell had used a spyglass to verify that Willard Carling was still in the village, along with the other pilgrims from back East, Rip Giddens and the other frontiersmen who had been hired as their guides—except for the late Ed Ballinger—and that damned Preacher. Carling and the others didn’t seem to be prisoners anymore, though. As far as Snell could tell from watching them, they had the run of the village. Everything was friendly now. Carling was even painting portraits of some of the warriors.
Snell didn’t know exactly how that had come about, but it sure put a crimp in his plans. He and the men with him couldn’t just waltz into the middle of an Indian village and kidnap somebody. Even though Snell didn’t like waiting for anything he wanted, he knew the smart thing in this case was to be patient. Carling and his companions would leave the village sooner or later . . . and when they did, Snell’s men would jump them and take Carling prisoner.
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