Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  When Charley started hitting the saloons again, Robert feared that he was going to run through all their savings. So he secretly started filling a separate poke with a portion of the dust every day, and hid it under a rock at the corner of the tent. Charley was none the wiser.

  “I’m goin’ to town to get me a drink,” Charley announced upon emerging from the tent.

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you not to spend our gold to buy drinks for the riffraff that hangs around town,” Robert said.

  “No,” Charley shot back. “I don’t suppose it would. Half of that dust is mine, and what I do with my dust is my own damn business.” His defiant stare was enough to cut short any further entreaty Robert might have felt like making. “Don’t wait up for me,” he smirked as he threw a saddle on his horse.

  Robert stood watching his younger brother ride up the ridge once again to come home who-knew-when, all liquored up, usually belligerent, and not much good for work the next day. When Charley’s horse disappeared from sight, Robert went back to the fire to stir up the coffeepot still heating on the coals. Pouring himself a cup of the bitter black brew, he settled down by the fire to watch the approaching darkness descend upon the gulch.

  These were the times when Robert sadly reflected upon the path his life had taken. Sitting alone in the growing darkness, he could admit to himself that he lacked the courage to forge a life for himself in this untamed country. He was afraid. Thinking back over the years, he realized that he had been afraid all of his life. When the war came, he had avoided enlistment for as long as possible, joining up only because he had to in order to save face. His first battle had been a nightmare he would never be able to forget—filled with the screams of dying men and horses, amid a tempest of cannon flame, and the deadly rain of grapeshot that maimed indiscriminately. Terrified, he had lain in a muddy ditch, paralyzed by the horrifying sounds of death that hung over the battlefield in a hellish chorus. When the order to fall back was sounded, it was all he could do to force himself to leave the cover of the ditch, in mortal fear of the rifleshot that he was convinced was waiting for him. When it did indeed find him, it was a blessing. For he was hit in the left shoulder as he ran to the rear. After two days in the hospital, he was sent home to recuperate and enjoy a hero’s welcome. He never reported back after recovering, telling everyone in Fredericksburg that he had been discharged. The tides of war had turned so badly for the Confederacy by then that he felt secure in his belief that there would be so much chaos in Lee’s retreating forces that his desertion would never be noticed. Thousands of men had deserted on both sides. Was it such a terrible thing? For him, personally, there was no choice. He could not conquer the cold fear that gnawed away deep inside him. He could not go back to that hell.

  Thinking back on it now, he was amazed that he had the courage to propose marriage to Martha Culver. She had shown a fondness for him before he left to join the army, but would not commit herself to a lasting relationship. Maybe it was the image of a wounded soldier returning home that swayed her affections. He wondered, Would she have married me if she knew I had really deserted my regiment?

  There had been a short period of absolute bliss, when his every thought was filled with the wonder of his new bride. But soon the realization that the war was coming to an end, bringing with it the almost certain exposure of his military record, began to prey on his mind. Living with this on his conscience, Robert sought to escape the memory of his cowardice by leaving Virginia far behind and finding new beginnings in the West. Even then, he did not possess the courage to undertake the adventure alone. So he persuaded Charley to go with him and Martha in a search for gold. The thought of Martha immediately released the demons of guilt upon him again. He had hoped to hide his lack of fortitude from her, but he lived in constant fear the entire time they had worked the stream in the Black Hills. I guess she knows by now. Maybe she had already guessed that his lack of ardor might have stemmed from the burden of fear that was with him every waking hour.

  His mind would be forever tortured by the knowledge that his first thought upon returning and finding Martha gone, and the cabin burned to the ground, was to be thankful he had been away when the Indians attacked. If only he’d possessed the courage to go after her. But the thought of being captured and tortured by wild savages still terrified him. Thinking about it now, he could not resist the impulse to peer around him—peering into the darkness—even though there were reportedly no hostile Indians anywhere close to German Gulch.

  “Get a’hold of yourself,” he scolded, still stealing furtive glances into the darkness. He knew he’d better busy himself before he started seeing shapes forming in the shadows. So he dumped the contents of his coffee cup, got up, and went around the tent to the back corner. Rolling a stone the size of a large watermelon over on its side, being careful not to make marks in the sand, he reached down to retrieve a large knotted rag under it. You’re gonna thank me someday for this, Charley, he thought.

  With the bundle in hand, he walked back to the fire and beyond where several large stones ringed the base of a dwarf cedar. As he had done at the corner of the tent, he carefully rolled the smallest of the stones aside and pulled a buckskin pouch from the hole beneath it. He kneeled there for a moment, hefting the pouch, feeling its weight. This was the sum total of his and Charley’s toil, a pouch that held a sizable fortune. He only wished that Charley was as concerned about providing for their future as he was. The thought caused him to shake his head sorrowfully.

  Untying the knotted corners of the rag, he exposed the little mound of gold dust it held. Taking care not to spill any, he poured a small amount on top of the mound on the cloth. Then he returned the buckskin pouch to its hiding place, and resettled the stone. He reknotted the corners of the rag, and held it up to feel its weight. Satisfied, he retraced his steps to the back corner of the tent to return it to its hiding place.

  “You sneakin’ back-stabbin’ bastard! So that’s your game, is it?”

  Robert, still on his knees, felt his heart stop for a moment. The sudden voice had so startled him that he couldn’t find his own. Terrified at first, he relaxed a little when he recognized the voice as his brother’s. “Charley,” he stammered, “you scared the hell outta me. I thought you went to town.”

  “I bet you did,” Charley shot back. “I thought I’d better hang around a while, and just see what kind of mischief you were up to behind my back. My own brother . . .”

  “What?” Robert started, then: “Now, wait a minute, Charley, don’t go getting the wrong idea.”

  “Oh, I ain’t got the wrong idea. Nossir, not a’tall, you cheatin’ skunk. I figured you were cheatin’ me all along.”

  “Charley, I swear . . .” Before he could finish, Charley’s boot caught him squarely in the back, sending him face forward in the dirt.

  Rising to his hands and knees, Robert tried to crawl out from under his enraged brother’s reach. Charley quickly bent down, and with both hands, lifted the huge rock that had hidden the cloth filled with gold dust. So intense was his anger that he raised the stone as high as he could manage, then slammed it down. There was a dull thud as the heavy rock smashed against the side of Robert’s head.

  Charley, still consumed by his own anger, stood over his fallen brother, waiting to administer more punishment. “I’ll teach you to steal from me.”

  After a moment when Robert failed to move, Charley took a step backward, just then realizing that he might have killed his brother. “Get up, Robert,” he commanded. But there was no response from the still body at his feet. He poked the body with his toe. No response. He stood staring down at Robert for a long time. Then he went to the fire and pulled a flaming brand from it. Going back to the body, he held it close to Robert’s face to inspect the results of his uncontrolled fury. As the light from the flame flickered across Robert’s face, Charley jerked back, recoiling in shock. Looking up at him, one eye bulging from its socket as a result of the crushed skull, hi
s brother stared back at him. The one eye fixed on him, condemning grotesquely. Frightened, Charley nearly stumbled as he quickly backed away. “It’s your own damn fault!” he cried out. “You shouldn’ta cheated me.” Still not certain if his brother were alive or not, he waited, watching for any movement until it became obvious that Robert was never going to move again.

  Charley went back by the fire and sat down to think over what had just taken place. It was not his fault, he reasoned. Robert was stealing from him, and he had been justified in hitting his brother with a rock. He didn’t intend to kill him. It was an accident—and Robert deserved it for deceiving him.

  He poured himself a cup from the coffeepot that was still heating on the edge of the fire. Frequently glancing at the still form several yards away in the darkness, he tried to decide what to do. The foremost thought that occurred to him was that now all the gold was his. He was considerably more wealthy now that he had Robert’s share. The thing that was important, then, was to make sure he held onto it. He had to think about that.

  This claim in German Gulch was not an isolated camp like the cabin they had built in the Black Hills. There were neighboring digs on both sides of his, almost in hollering distance. People might ask questions. The more Charley thought about it, the more he worried about someone getting nosy about Robert’s disappearance. The earlier days of the vigilantes in Alder Gulch were over now, but they would still hang a man for murder. Charley decided the best thing to do was to go on into town, like he had originally planned, have a few drinks with the boys, let everybody see him in the saloon. Then he could come back and “discover” poor Robert, bushwhacked by some murdering bandit.

  “I’ll sing out loud enough for everybody up and down the creek to hear me,” he said, feeling smug about his plan. “I’ll even show ’em the empty rag where the gold was hid under that rock.” Satisfied that things were at last to his liking, he started back into the trees where he had tied his horse. Glancing at the body of his brother as he passed, he said, “It’s your own damn fault. Gold was wasted on you, anyway.”

  Chapter 5

  Clay Culver stood for a moment, staring into the charred timbers of what had once been his sister’s home. Scattered here and there among the cold lifeless ashes, he saw pieces of broken dishes and occasional scraps of scorched cloth—the only evidence that Martha had been there. Looking around him, he tried to imagine her in these rough surroundings. The sluice box at the foot of the hill, that had been tumbled and dragged from the stream, the tiny cabin, the two-rail corral left intact to guard the bleached bones of the mules—it was a far cry from even the modest house on the banks of the Rapidan in Virginia. There was a deep ache inside him as he thought of how terrifying it must have been for her. The image his mind recalled was of a young schoolgirl, instead of a grown-up young lady, for she was in her last year of schooling when he last saw her. He remembered what she had told him when he packed his few belongings and left to join the army. Now, don’t go trying to be a hero, Clay Culver. I’m depending on you to come back home—even if I have to go find you, and bring you back myself.

  Several yards away, near the corner of the cabin, Badger knelt, tracing a moccasin print in the ashes with his finger. He had already scouted around the entire clearing, searching the ground for any sign outside the obvious evidence of the attack. He had to conclude that there was little to go on other than who was responsible for the raid.

  “They was Blackfoot all right,” Badger said, getting to his feet again. “They left their callin’ card.” He picked up the two halves of a broken arrow and held them up for Clay to see.

  Clay walked over to examine the arrow. “You suppose Martha was wounded?”

  Seeing the immediate concern in Clay’s eyes, Badger hastened to reassure him. “Probably not. I doubt if there was any shootin’ a’tall—no need to, with nobody there but the woman.”

  “But what about this?” Clay questioned, holding up the broken arrow.

  “Like I said, that’s just their callin’ card. Probably shot it in one of them posts there, just so the Sioux would know they had been in their territory. I expect one of Black Crow’s boys pulled it out and broke it in two.”

  Although somewhat reassuring, Badger’s speculation did not free Clay’s mind from worrying about Martha’s treatment at the hands of the Blackfeet. He could not rid his mind of the picture of his sister, beaten and starving, toiling under the watchful eye of some savage. For that reason, he was anxious to start out in search of this band of Blackfeet, and was becoming impatient with Badger’s apparent dawdling. Finally, he prodded the scout. “I expect we’re just wasting time around here. We might as well get started after them.”

  “That so?” Badger asked. “Which way you think we oughta go?”

  Clay shrugged. It seemed obvious to him. “That way,” he pointed. “The tracks lead off toward that ravine.”

  Badger nodded thoughtfully, as if giving Clay’s suggestion deep consideration. “Well,” he said, “them tracks’ll lead you back to the Belle Fourche. Them’s Black Crow’s tracks.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “ ’Cause they’re fairly fresh,” Badger answered, his tone patient as if counseling a child. “Besides, it’s the right number of horses. There ain’t much sign left from that party that burnt this cabin—been too long. I found a few tracks leading out past the corral there, leading yonder across that meadow. The grass is growed up since then, but I did find part of a small print next to the corner pole of the corral. My guess is it’s a woman’s. Your sister mighta made a run for it, tryin’ to git to them woods yonder.”

  The thought of it made Clay’s heart pound, and the urgency to go after them returned. Badger saw it in his face, so before Clay had a chance to say anything, the scout held up his hand to silence him. “Now, hold your horses, son. Let’s take a little time to look the sign over real good and make sure we’re on the right track.” He didn’t say it, but he also wanted to determine if the woman was truly captured, not killed trying to escape. He had a strong feeling that Martha was still a captive, but there was still the possibility that their search might end in the spruce trees on the other side of the grassy meadow.

  Badger stood for a moment at the back corner of the corral, looking across the meadow, figuring that, if the woman were running, she would head for the nearest point of cover. This was the direction in which he started out, toward a point where some tall pines jutted out beyond the timber line. Clay followed along behind, leading the horses while Badger scanned the grass around him as he slowly walked toward the trees. He paused briefly when he discovered a lone hoofprint that had been deep enough to prevent its being washed away by the summer thunderstorms. He nodded as if to confirm his opinion, then continued toward the edge of the forest.

  Before reaching the outer line of pines, Badger stopped when he came to a tiny spring, no more than a trickle of water bubbling up from deep in the mountainside. Kneeling low to the ground, he traced several deep scars, etched in the soft ground around the spring. “Well, she didn’t make it to them trees. They caught her right here is what I’m thinkin’.” He pointed to the deep prints left by a horse coming to a sliding stop. Leaving Clay to study this small bit of evidence, he proceeded to have a look in the trees beyond. “I reckon she ain’t dead,” he announced when he rejoined Clay.

  “How do you know that?” Clay wanted to know.

  “Ain’t no bones. Even if wolves or coyotes got her, there’d be some bones scattered around. They’d a’been chewin’ and pullin’ on her carcass in every direction, fightin’ over the best parts.”

  Clay winced, repulsed by Badger’s graphic description. “All right!” he blurted. “I understand. Let’s get on with it.”

  There wasn’t much to go on. The only thing they could tell for sure was that the Blackfoot raiding party had left the meadow in a direction that was generally northwest. Badger could only guess that the party was heading for their home territory. When ques
tioned by Clay, he explained his reasoning. “They was a small party—no more’n fifteen or twenty, I’d say—and they was a long way from home. I wouldn’t expect them to hang around too long in Sioux territory with no more of ’em than that.”

  “Can you track them back to their village?”

  Although it seemed a foolish question to him, Badger remained patient, allowing for Clay’s inexperience. “I expect not. I doubt if a coyote could follow a trail this old. The only thing we can do is head for Blackfoot country and start lookin’. I know it’s not much to go on, but it’ll have to do, ’cause there ain’t no tellin’ where this band’s village is by now. This late in the season, they’re followin’ the buffalo, layin’ in supplies for the winter. They could be anywhere between the Yellowstone and the Milk this time of year.”

  This was not very encouraging news to Clay, and although his resolve was as strong as ever to find his sister, he was beginning to have serious doubts about the possibility of success. Badger was talking about searching a territory between here and the Bitterroot Mountains, from the Yellowstone up into the British possessions.

  Badger sensed his young friend’s dismay, and he tried to reassure him somewhat. “We’ll work our way up to Fort Union. There’s a friend of mine usually hangs around there, if he ain’t been scalped by now. He’s one of the few white men I know that can move among the Blackfeet without no trouble. Used to trap for the Hudson’s Bay Company before the American Fur Company built Fort Union. They was the only ones could deal with them damn Blackfoot. Ol’ Pete Dubois—damn Frenchman—if anybody knows where the different bands are camped, it’d be Pete. He might know about any white captives, too.” He paused and nodded, thinking back on times past when he trapped for beaver along more rivers and streams than he could name. “We’ll set out in the mornin’ for Fort Union.”