Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  “Mr. Badger?” Clay inquired, stepping down from the saddle.

  Badger’s five Lakota companions, all silently staring at the lone white rider up to that point, now turned as one to watch Badger’s response. “I’m Badger,” was the simple reply.

  If Clay had expected a more cordial greeting, he would be disappointed, for the crusty old scout held a cool reserve for strangers, especially white strangers. Already feeling the coolness of his reception, Clay stepped closer to the men, and said, “O.C. Owens said that you might be able to help me.”

  “That so?” Badger replied. “And who might you be?”

  Badger listened, unblinking and expressionless, as Clay told him who he was and the mission he had taken upon himself to find the Indians who had stolen his sister. If Clay’s story provoked any compassion from the rough scout, it was not obvious to the eye. Badger’s first reaction to the account of Martha Vinings’s abduction was that she and her husband weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. It seemed simple logic to him that, if a man sneaked into a bear’s cave to steal his food, “He might oughta expect to run into a bear.” If this young fellow’s sister and her husband were up in the Black Hills, then they probably got what they deserved. The longer Clay talked, however, the more Badger’s coolness thawed, for he soon realized that Clay was not a settler, a gold miner, or a trader. His only reason for being there was, as the young man had stated, simply to find his sister. It couldn’t hurt to at least show some hospitality.

  “Set yourself down, young feller, and have something to eat.”

  Clay dropped Red’s reins, and settled himself opposite Badger, nodding politely to the other faces seated around the fire. They nodded cordially in return, having seen Badger’s friendly gesture. A solidly built middle-aged Indian woman came from the tipi and glanced briefly into the iron pot hanging over the fire. Satisfied that there was enough boiled meat to accomodate another visitor, she quickly moved away again—but not before giving the young white man a thorough looking over.

  Badger handed Clay his bowl, and said, “Here, dip in there and get some of that meat.” When Clay nodded but hesitated a moment, he added, “It’s deer meat . . . it wouldn’t be polite not to eat some, even if you ain’t hungry.” He smiled and Clay realized that Badger’s Indian friends did not understand English.

  “Thanks,” Clay said, and dipped eagerly into the iron pot. He was hungry, but he had hesitated because of stories he had heard about some Indians’ love for dog. And this gristled-looking mountain man looked as close to an Indian as a white man could.

  Badger gave his guest a few minutes to eat some of the venison before talking again. “Now . . . Mr. Culver, was it? What was you lookin’ for me for?”

  “I was hoping you could help me find my sister,” Clay answered. He felt that Badger had already assumed as much. “I don’t have a lot of money to pay you, but my family scraped up a little, and I can pay you fifty Union dollars to help me look for her.”

  Badger didn’t say anything right away while he studied Clay’s face. When he did respond, it wasn’t to encourage Clay’s resolve. “You know, son, there’s a heap of territory between the Black Hills and the divide. And there’s a whole lot of different tribes and villages spread all over creation. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you there ain’t much hope in finding one white woman in all that country.” Seeing the disappointment in Clay’s face, he tried to console him somewhat. “Just because she was took don’t mean she’s being treated bad. Most Injuns treat captive women pretty decent.”

  “Can you guide me?” Clay asked simply.

  “I’m sorry, son, but I’m fixing to head back to the Powder River country with my family.” He gestured toward the tipi with his head. “I’ve been scouting for the army for the last six months, but they’ve laid me off for the time being. They said the army’s cut ’em way back on expenses. They even cut Bridger back to five dollars a day.” Seeing no weakening of the determination in Clay’s eyes, he offered one favor. “About the best I can do for you is find out if any of the Sioux has got your sister. ’Course all the Sioux ain’t here at these talks, but I can find out from the ones who are here. Most likely they’ll know about some of the others.”

  Clay was silent for a few moments, obviously disappointed. Then he thanked Badger for his help. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Badger, but I reckon if I can’t find somebody who knows the country, I’ll just have to go by myself.”

  Badger shook his head slowly. “You seem like a nice enough young feller. You’re just gonna get yourself kilt, especially now since these talks ain’t goin’ so good. There’s already bad blood over so many white folks traipsing through Lakota hunting grounds. That’s what these talks was all about. The army said they wanted to get the Injuns to quit attackin’ wagon trains traveling across their lands on the way to the gold diggings north of the Yellowstone. Red Cloud told ’em that his warriors wouldn’t be attackin’ the dang settlers if they wasn’t trespassin’ into Lakota huntin’ grounds. Now, come to find out, some colonel just showed up with a whole passel of soldiers, fixin’ to build forts along the trail whether the Injuns agree to it or not. Well, that didn’t set too pretty with Red Cloud. He’s already said him and his folks is packin’ up and goin’ back home. There’s gonna be trouble over this, and you don’t wanna be caught in the middle of Lakota territory right now.” He pushed his hat back while he scratched his head, and paused to see if his words had any effect on Clay. “Why, hell,” he went on, “you wouldn’t get ten miles from Fort Laramie before some buck bushwhacked you for that fancy horse you’re ridin’.”

  “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Badger, and I thank you for the food, but I best be on my way.” He got to his feet, and turned to leave. He was about to put a foot in the stirrup when he thought of something more. “Could I trouble you to point me toward the Black Hills?”

  “You’re still set on going alone?”

  “I reckon I don’t have much choice. I’ve got to find my sister.”

  Badger shook his head, exasperated. “You do beat all I’ve ever seen. How the hell are you gonna find somebody when you don’t even know where you are?” Before Clay could answer, he went on. “Just hold on for a minute, and let me think.” Ordinarily, Badger wouldn’t care if a greenhorn wanted to commit suicide or not. But this Clay Culver showed a lot of quiet determination that he couldn’t help but admire. It would be a shame to think of this young man lying cold somewhere out on the prairie while some buck rode off on his horse. But, hell, I ain’t got no time to wet-nurse no innocent young pup. He thought about it a few moments longer while Clay stood there, puzzling over the old scout’s hesitation. Then making up his mind, Badger said, “I can take you as far as the Powder, but you’ll be on your own from there.”

  Clay could not hide the excitement Badger’s change of heart brought. “Thank you, Mr. Badger,” he said, beaming. “I really appreciate it. When will we be starting?”

  “Tomorrow morning, sunup. Little Hawk—that’s my wife’s brother—anyway, Little Hawk’s band is pullin’ out of here tomorrow, and we’ll be travelin’ with them. So if you still think you want to go to the Powder River country, you’d best go on back and fetch your pack animal and your possibles, ’cause I ain’t gonna waste time lookin’ around for you come sunup.”

  “I don’t have a packhorse. All my possibles are in that saddle pack,” Clay replied.

  Badger was amazed. “You mean you come all the way out here from Virginia with nothin’ more’n you could carry on that horse?” Clay nodded. “Well, mister, you shore do travel light. I’ll give you that.” He shook his head, chuckling as he said, “You must not eat a helluva lot.”

  Clay shrugged. “I brought a little coffee and salt from home. I hunted for what I needed to eat. I’m a fair shot with a rifle.” He didn’t feel the necessity to tell the old scout that he had slept in the open for over two years when he was in the army—winter and summer—with nothing but a rubber sh
eet and a blanket. He had flint and steel, his new Winchester, and a Green River knife. As long as he didn’t run Red to death, he had felt confident that he could make it all right. Sleeping and feeding himself had not been the problem that feeding Red had been. Like most army mounts, Red had been grain-fed. The little bit of grain Clay packed had lasted only eight days. After that, Red had to learn to survive on nothing more than prairie grass.

  “Well, boy, you’ve got grit a’plenty.” Badger started to say more, then another thought struck him. “What was you gonna do if you found your sister? Throw her on that horse, too?”

  “I reckon not. I reckon I planned to get another horse.”

  “Where was you gonna git it?”

  “The same place I got this one,” Clay replied, his face expressionless.

  Badger’s grizzled face cracked with a thin smile. He didn’t have to ask where Clay had gotten the sorrel; he had a pretty good idea from the determined look in the young man’s eyes. It was still too early to judge, but Badger had a feeling that he was going to like Clay Culver. “Well, Clay Culver, come on with me, and I’ll show you where you can tie that fancy horse of your’n. You can sleep in my lodge tonight.”

  Badger got to his feet. Speaking in the Lakota tongue, he excused himself from his companions around the small campfire. Clay, of course, could not understand his words, but from the laughter of the five warriors, he guessed that he was the butt of the joke. He didn’t care. Badger had agreed to take him to the Powder River country, and that was a start toward finding Martha.

  “First thing,” Badger said as Clay followed him toward a large tipi near the center of the camp, “we’d best go see Little Hawk.”

  Although there were many curious eyes that followed their progress as they made their way through the camp, Clay sensed few hostile stares. For the most part, there were simply looks of curiosity, no doubt wondering what business the white man had with their chief. Little Hawk, upon hearing Badger’s greeting, came out of his lodge to meet them. Wearing only a breechclout and leggings, the chief stood tall and straight, almost as tall as Clay himself, and half a head taller than Badger. His chest and left shoulder were marked with old scars, wounds from many battles. Though his hair was generously streaked with gray, he still had the rigid bearing of a young warrior, and Clay sensed a quiet dignity about the man that immediately commanded his respect.

  Badger and Little Hawk exchanged polite greetings before the old scout explained Clay’s presence in the camp. Clay stood back and waited while they talked, glancing around him occasionally whenever members of the tribe paused to stare at him. He was beginning to feel a bit uneasy, and he couldn’t help but recall some of the bloodcurdling tales he had heard back East about Indian atrocities. Still, Little Hawk looked friendly enough when he glanced past Badger and nodded at Clay.

  “Little Hawk says you’re welcome in his village,” Badger finally said when he turned again toward Clay. He felt no need to tell his guest that he was welcome for two reasons only: He was vouched for by Badger, and he was not wearing a soldier’s uniform. After the recently unsuccessful peace talks, Badger knew there was going to be war between the Lakota and the soldiers. Red Cloud had spoken for Little Hawk and many others when he angrily withdrew from the talks. The Lakota would protect their hunting grounds from any white men attempting to travel over the trail that Bozeman had blazed. There would be bloodshed if the wagons kept coming.

  The situation was not an easy one for Badger himself, for he was forced to make a decision as well. He had worked for the army as a scout for many years, but his wife and her family were in Little Hawk’s camp. Little Hawk was his friend. He could not draw the tommyhawk against his friend—his wife’s brother. Nor could he in good conscience draw down on a soldier. Already, Badger’s mind was beginning to ache with these troubling thoughts, and when the time came to choose, he hoped there would be some out for him. For the time being, he would return to his wife’s village and think on it later. Badger had never bothered his mind by looking too far ahead into the future, preferring to deal with each new day as it dawned. Hell, maybe Red Cloud and the other chiefs will forget about making war on the soldiers. Even as he thought it, he knew better. It was coming, sure as water was wet and flowed downhill.

  Turning back to Clay, he said, “Come on. You can pull your saddle off and throw it in my lodge. Then you can turn your horse out with the pony herd to graze.” When he saw the young man arch an eyebrow in response, he chided, “Afraid somebody’ll steal him? All Injuns are horse thieves, but they don’t steal horses from their own people. Ain’t nobody gonna steal your horse.”

  Clay didn’t say anything for a few moments while he looked around him at the circle of lodges. “How come those horses are hobbled by the lodges instead of running loose with the others?”

  “It ain’t unusual for a man to keep his favorite war pony hobbled by his lodge, in case he might need him in a hurry,” Badger answered patiently. “But there ain’t much danger of gittin’ attacked here at Laramie. Some warriors just do it, anyway—habit, I reckon. Hell, my horses are running with the rest of ’em.”

  In spite of Badger’s assurance, Clay was reluctant to turn Red loose in the company of several hundred Indian ponies. The old scout appeared to be a straight-talking person, but Clay still harbored some inborn sense of suspicion. He had heard some stories of the tricks and treachery of some Indians, so he cautioned himself to be wary. Granted, the stories he had heard were second- and thirdhand. Still, it might not be wise to discount them entirely. How could he be sure Badger was not the biggest scoundrel of all? Clay decided he would never relax his guard that night, and he stood watching the big chestnut for several long minutes before finally turning away to return to Badger’s tipi. Reluctant or not, he was forced to trust the crusty old mountain man, for without his help he had no chance of finding Martha. Red, on the other hand, did not share his master’s cautious intuition, and was soon grazing happily in the midst of a sea of horses. Clay watched for a moment longer before drawing his rifle from the boot and throwing his saddle on his shoulder. The shiny new rifle did not escape Badger’s eye.

  “I swear, that’s one of them new Winchesters, ain’t it?”

  “Yep,” Clay replied and handed the weapon to the old scout.

  Badger took it eagerly and examined it closely, bringing it to his shoulder and down again several times, sighting on various targets around the encampment. “I heard about it, but I ain’t ever seen one. That’s some rifle. Is it as accurate as it is pretty?”

  “I can hit most anything I aim at,” Clay replied modestly, causing Badger to cock an eyebrow.

  “I hope so,” the old mountain man stated evenly as he returned the weapon.

  Supper that night consisted of some more boiled meat, placed before him in the same bowl he had used that afternoon. In addition, Badger’s wife put meat cakes of some kind between Clay and her husband. Badger picked one up and began gnawing on it, indicating to Clay that he should do the same. Clay had learned not to be particular about what he ate when he was in the army, but he hesitated before taking a bite of these cakes, picking one up and turning it over and back, to examine it.

  Badger seemed amused by his tenderfoot guest’s cautious antics. “It’s pemmican,” he volunteered. “It’s good. Take a bite.”

  Clay smiled, embarrassed that his caution had been that transparent. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Pemmican,” Badger repeated in a tone that indicated he thought even a greenhorn from back East should be familiar with the term. “This here’s dried buffalo Gray Bird pounded up with some fat and marrow and wild cherries to give it a little flavoring. We won’t have no more fresh meat till we get a chance to do some hunting tomorrow or the next day.”

  Satisfied then that he knew the ingredients, Clay bit off a piece of pemmican. To his surprise, it proved to be quite appetizing. He slowly chewed it, then bit off a larger chunk. Nodding his approval, he looked up at Gray Bird, who
was watching him intently. She smiled broadly, then went back outside to tend the fire. Still nodding, Clay turned toward a grinning Badger. “I like pemmican,” he said.

  Clay awoke the next morning amid a whirlwind of activity as the women of Little Hawk’s camp made preparations to leave. He opened his eyes to discover Badger standing over him.

  “Better ’rouse your ass outta that blanket, son, or Gray Bird’ll strike this tipi right on top of you.”

  Clay sat straight up, ashamed to be caught sleeping when it appeared everyone else was up and working. He took another look at Badger, a wide grin on the old scout’s face, and sprang up from his bed as if his blanket was on fire. “Damn,” he mumbled, “I don’t know why I slept so late.” Feeling the warm flush of embarrassment creeping up his neck, he remembered his intention of the night before to sleep with one eye open.

  Gray Bird was already untying the rawhide straps that tethered the bottom of the tipi when Clay walked outside. She smiled at him and said something that he of course did not understand. He took it to be a “Good morning,” since she did not look as if she expected a reply. At that particular moment, he was more concerned with what to do about a full bladder, when to worsen his situation, Badger offered him a cup of coffee. Clay looked around him nervously. There was no obvious place to relieve himself now that the rising sun eliminated all the convenient shadows of the night before. There was not even a tree within a hundred yards of the lodges. His concern must have been transparent, for Badger grinned and said, “You can go behind the tipi, but you’d best be about it before Gray Bird takes it down.”

  Clay glanced at the Indian woman, still busily loosening the ties around the bottom of the tipi. He wasn’t any too comfortable with the thought of doing his business with Gray Bird moving like a busy beaver as she worked her way around the circumference of the lodge. But if he didn’t get to it, there wouldn’t even be a lodge to hide behind, so he didn’t hesitate further. It didn’t help his sense of modesty that Badger was so highly amused by his predicament.