Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Seeing the concern in his eyes, she reached out to him, laying her hand on his forearm. “I will take care of her.”

  He did not reply, but the steady gaze of his dark eyes told her that he was grateful. Meeting his gaze, she looked deep into his eyes, and she thought she could almost feel the compassion he felt for his wife. Eyes that had harbored the menacing warning of an eagle when he had swept down on Gray Wolf, cold calculating eyes that had registered total indifference when she first confronted him in her cabin, were now filled with a defenseless plea for her help. She could not help but wonder how her world had become so confused. Robert Vinings had not crossed her mind in weeks, and she wondered if she should feel guilty about that. Maybe her capture by the Crows provided the shock that made her realize how content she had become living with Black Elk and Moon Shadow. And one crystal-clear truth struck her then, one that she had denied until this very moment: She had no desire to return to her life with Robert.

  Realizing that they had been gazing intently into each other’s eyes for a long moment, Black Elk quickly looked away. “I must find some food for you,” he finally said. “There is a little pemmican in my parfleche. That will give you some strength until I can find some fresh meat. After we rest for a while, we’ll circle around the Crow war party and go home.”

  She nodded and smiled, then lay back, content in the knowledge that he would watch over her. She was hungry, but there was a greater need for rest. Released from the terrifying tension of the last three days, she immediately relaxed, and soon her eyes closed. Kneeling beside her, Black Elk lingered for a few minutes, watching the exhausted girl, aware of the strange emotions stirring inside him once again. Why do I have these confusing thoughts whenever I look at her? She is white, and not worthy of a Blackfoot warrior. He worried over it for a moment, then thought, But Moon Shadow treats her as an equal, even calls her sister. After another moment, he could not resist reaching out and gently stroking her hair. She smiled, although her eyes remained closed. Soon she was asleep.

  Chapter 7

  There was more than a hint of fall in the air when Clay and Badger reached the confluence of the Yellowstone and the Missouri Rivers. The mornings had been chilly ever since they had left the Black Hills, struck the Powder and followed it to the Yellowstone, then followed that river to the point where Clay now stood. Now, even the afternoons were chilly, cooled by almost constant breezes that promised icy winds soon. His homespun garments having been discarded in favor of buckskins sewn for him by Gray Bird, he looked almost as wild as Badger. Looks only counted for so much, however, for Clay had come to believe that Badger was more timberwolf than human—and certainly more Indian than white. Over the past several days, as they crossed through country that filled Clay’s mind with wonder, he had acquired an enormous respect for the old mountain man’s cunning.

  Almost as soon as they had struck the Yellowstone, they came upon a large Crow village. Badger deemed it prudent to skirt the village, even though the Crows were supposed to be friends to the white man. “They may be friends to a detachment of cavalry,” he had explained. “But that don’t mean they’re gonna cozy up to every stray white man that passes through their territory. Besides, I reckon I got too much Lakota scent on me. We’d best give ’em a wide berth.” Clay still remembered the strange rush of excitement he felt on that moonless night when he and Badger passed the Crow camp. There was a ruby glow that had hung over the peaceful village like a rose-colored canopy, lit by more than three hundred individual cookfires. It was a strange sensation, passing so close to potential danger. Clay liked the feeling.

  Now, as he stood on this small rise, waiting for Badger to tighten a loose strap on his packhorse, he looked across the river at Fort Union. Glancing up at the sun, he judged it to be close to noontime, and the walled structure looked to be as busy as a city market. Outside the formidable walls with their twin guard towers on opposite corners, he could see many small camps gathered in the plains around the fort. It reminded him of a mother hen, surrounded by her baby chicks.

  Badger told him that the fort, built by the Upper Missouri Outfit of the American Fur Company, had been doing most of the trading with the Indians since the late twenties. It had been established mostly as a post for the Assiniboin, but other tribes had traded there—Blackfoot as well. “As a matter of fact,” he had said, “a feller by the name of Culbertson used to be the booshway at Fort Union—and he was married to a Blackfoot woman, name of Natawista. Right handsome woman as I recall.” Badger paused as if trying to remember. “Near as I can recollect, he was the booshway at Fort Benton, too.”

  Impatient to go now, Clay looked back at Badger, wondering how long he was going to fiddle with that pack. He was anxious to reach the fort and find Badger’s friend Pete Dubois to see if there was any information about Martha. Badger had cautioned Clay not to get his hopes up too high. At best, Pete might be able to give them a place to start looking for Martha. At worse, he would have found out that she was dead. In spite of the warning, Clay was counting on some positive information about his sister’s whereabouts, and now he was getting a bit irritated at Badger’s seemingly blasé attitude about reaching their destination.

  Glancing up at his young friend, Badger guessed what Clay was thinking. “Just hold your horses, young feller. I don’t wanna lose this here pack in that river yonder. There’s a place to ford upstream a’ways—even so, the horses is gonna have to swim a little piece.”

  Clay nodded. Still impatient, but knowing that Badger was just making sure they didn’t lose part of their food supply as well as a couple of buffalo robes that would come in mighty handy in a few weeks, Clay decided to check his own packs. “This friend of yours,” he asked, “does he work in the fort?”

  “Nah,” Badger said, “Pete don’t hardly work nowhere. He’s got a little shack ’bout a mile upriver he stays in when he ain’t livin’ with one band or another. I expect we’ll find him there this time of year.”

  Badger figured correctly. Pete was there all right. They found him sitting on a wooden stool in front of his cabin. A squat little man, wearing buckskins blackened with age and hundreds of campfires, he sat skinning a rabbit before a small fire. He didn’t bother to get up as the two riders approached his cabin—just cocked his head and squinted, trying to make out who his visitors could be. He gave no indication of recognition even when they pulled up before the cabin and dismounted, continuing to work on his rabbit while he waited for his visitors to state the purpose of their visit. It was Badger who broke the silence.

  “Hey, you old bastard, can’t you even get up off your ass to say howdy to a friend?”

  Pete hesitated for just a moment before the dingy-gray whiskers parted in a crooked smile. “Badger? Well, I’ll be go to hell . . .” He laid the rabbit carcass on the skin just cut away and stood up to greet his old friend.

  Clay stood by smiling as the two old mountain men pounded each other on the back and shoulders. He had never tried to guess how old Badger might be. He was obviously quite a few years away from a rocking chair. But Pete Dubois looked as old as the distant hills. Like the scrubby pines near the peaks of the mountains, his spine was permanently bent from the cold north winds, giving him a hunched-over look even when standing. While the two friends brought each other up to date on the twists and turns of their separate trails, Clay looked around him at Pete’s camp. The tiny log cabin appeared to be as run-down as its owner. It had a definite lean toward one side—probably in the direction of the prevailing winds, Clay speculated. The yard was strewn about with antlers of various sizes, and several deer or antelope hooves were scattered here and there—probably as far as the old man had been able to throw them. A tiny corral was attached to the back wall of the cabin where two horses stood staring over the top rail. Clay was reminded of a packrat’s nest as he surveyed the little Frenchman’s abode. “This young feller’s Clay Culver,” he heard Badger say, and he turned to grasp the outstretched hand.

  “Ple
ased to meet you, Mr. Dubois,” Clay said as he felt the iron in Pete’s grip.

  Dubois said nothing, squinting hard at him for a long moment before nodding. Then he released his hand and immediately turned back to Badger. “I’da shore thought you was dead by now. Last I heered of you, you was nestin’ with a Sioux woman.”

  Badger laughed. “Still am.” Looking over Pete’s shoulder toward the cabin, he asked, “Where’s that Blackfoot woman you was married to? Little Feet, weren’t it?”

  “Light Foot,” Pete corrected. “She took sick winter before last. Carried on somethin’ fierce for about a month before she went under.”

  “Well, that’s a shame, I declare,” Badger commiserated. “She was a fine little woman, as I recollect.” He paused to take a look around at the general state of disarray. He should have guessed the absence of a woman. “Reckon you’ll be lookin’ for another’n now.”

  Pete chuckled at the thought. “Reckon I’m a mite too old to go after another’n. Nah, I reckon I’m ’bout near the end of my string. I can’t see no more. Hell, I didn’t know who you was till you ’bout stepped on my toes. Fact of the matter is I just come back here to die. No, I sure ain’t lookin’ for another woman. I couldn’t do her no good, and I reckon I’ve got used to quiet, anyway. I don’t know that I could stand to hear a woman chatterin’ around me no more.”

  “Hell, Pete,” Badger scoffed, showing no sign of sympathy for the old man, “you been talkin’ ’bout dying for the last ten years.”

  “Is that a fact? Well, this time I mean it. When a man gits where he don’t wanna leave the campfire no more, he’s as good as dead, anyway. Hell, I can’t hunt no more—nothin’ besides trappin’ rabbits and such. Hell, it’s time to go.”

  Listening to the conversation, Clay was not at all optimistic that Badger’s old friend could be of any help in finding Martha. From the looks of things, it appeared the old man was now nothing more than a hermit, waiting to wither away like the weathered old cabin he called home. For that reason, when Badger stated the purpose of their visit, Clay was relieved to hear that Pete had spent most of the summer with Light Foot’s people on the Milk River. Maybe he could tell them where to start looking for Martha after all.

  “I did hear there’s a white woman livin’ with Bloody Axe’s band,” Pete continued. “A huntin’ party come into the camp one day, and they was talkin’ about it. I don’t rightly know where Bloody Axe’s people is now. This time of year, they’re most likely gone into winter camp somewhere; weather’s fixin’ to turn any day now. Bloody Axe ain’t what I’d call real sociable, anyway. He likes to keep as far away from the tradin’ posts as he can. I know he ain’t come to Fort Union in at least a year or two.”

  Clay could feel the increase in his heartbeat at the mention of a white woman in Bloody Axe’s camp. It had to be Martha. He looked at Badger and the old scout nodded in return. Turning his attention back to Pete, Badger pressed for more information. “You got any idea where Bloody Axe is most likely to winter?”

  “Well, like I said, I ain’t had no dealings with that particular band of Blackfoot. But I know that he keeps pretty much to the north of the Milk in the summertime. I wouldn’t have any idea where he winters. Maybe the mountains to the west, I couldn’t say.” He paused to pull at his chin whiskers for a moment while he thought.

  It wasn’t much to go on. The excitement Clay had felt moments before was rapidly giving way to discouragement. Even though Badger had cautioned him against getting his hopes up too high, Clay had counted on Pete Dubois to be able to tell them exactly where to find Martha. The thought of winter snows that might close the mountain passes was especially discouraging, and the nagging urge to hurry was upon him once more.

  Having given the question more thought, something else occurred to Pete. “There’s a good possibility that Crow Fighter—that’s Light Foot’s brother—he might know where Bloody Axe is camped.”

  This was at least a possibility. “Where can we find Crow Fighter?” Badger asked.

  “He’s with the band I summered with, old Black Shirt’s bunch. They weren’t even fixin’ to move back up in the hills when I left to come back here to die. Black Shirt’s got two or three favorite places to camp in the winter, but he don’t generally go to ’em before the first signs of snow. If he’s moved before you git there, I expect you’ll find him in one of his regular winter camps.”

  Badger scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I reckon I can find him right enough. That ain’t the part that worries me. You know, them dang Blackfoot ain’t too friendly to many white men. It don’t hold that we can just ride in to their camp and ask ’em where we can find Bloody Axe. We might not ride out again.”

  Pete nodded in silent agreement. “That is a consideration,” he allowed. The two mountain men continued to look at each other for a moment, Pete still nodding his head as he thought. “Hell,” he finally blurted, “I’ll go with you. They won’t give you no trouble if I’m with you.”

  Badger grunted. “Huh, I thought you come back here to die.”

  “Well, I expect I can die just as good up above the Milk as I can here,” he shot back. “Matter of fact, I was just thinkin’ what a sorry place to die this is, anyway. Most of the folks I’ve knowed at the fort are gone. The ones that are there now don’t give a damn about us trappers that was here when beaver was shining. New man, name of Marlowe—mean son of a bitch—told me not to hang around there no more unless I had somethin’ to trade.” He snorted his contempt. “Word has it that he ain’t gonna be around long hisself. There’s talk that the army is plannin’ to buy Fort Union.” He snorted again for emphasis. “And there ain’t nothin’ to hunt around here anymore, ’cept rabbits and prairie dogs. Hell, I was thinkin’ on eatin’ my horses when you boys showed up.”

  “Well, if you come with us, it would make things a mite easier at that,” Badger said. “But are you sure you’re up to it?”

  “Oh hell yeah,” Pete tossed off, “it’ll be better’n settin’ around here wonderin’ when this damn shack is gonna fall over.”

  It was settled then. Clay suspected that the opportunity to hit the trail again was a tonic that might lift the old man out of his fatal melancholy. He certainly appeared spry enough as he collected his possibles and prepared to leave his cabin. After talking it over further, they decided to stay there for the night and go to the fort in the morning for some extra supplies before setting out for the Milk. Badger and Clay had a few buffalo hides to trade, and there might not be another opportunity before winter set in.

  Supper that night was a combination of rabbit, dried buffalo meat, and some pemmican that Gray Bird had packed for them. Pete fell asleep while Badger was still reminiscing about a time when they had spent the winter at Three Forks. He hardly stirred when Badger and Clay carried him inside the cabin and spread his blanket over him. The two of them elected to bed down outside by the fire. Both said they preferred the night air. But Clay suspected that, like himself, that Badger was afraid the rotten old cabin might collapse during the night.

  The next morning, after a breakfast of buffalo jerky, the three travelers saddled up and prepared to depart. In a fitting gesture of finality, Pete Dubois set fire to his cabin, which pretty much answered the question of whether or not he planned to return.

  They arrived at the fort just as the huge doors were opening, anxious to get what supplies they needed and be on their way as quickly as possible. After trading for some dried beans and coffee to supplement their rations of buffalo and deer jerky, the rest was used to buy extra cartridges for their rifles. Clay left Badger and Pete to indulge in one last shot of whiskey before leaving this final outpost of civilization, while he took Red over to the blacksmith to be reshod.

  “Shore you don’t want one?” Badger called after him as he led the big sorrel away. When Clay shook his head, Badger stood watching him for a moment. Then he turned to Pete and said, “We’re gonna have to trade that damn horse for one that don’t wear shoes.
Even a drunk Injun could track that big ol’ horse.” Pete only grunted in reply. They both turned their attention back to the glasses on the counter before them, but Badger was thinking that it was something he was going to have to take up with Clay real soon. In the territory they were going to be traveling in, a shod horse would most likely lead a war party straight to a person. Clay thought a lot of that big red horse. They could just take the shoes off, but Badger knew it would take about a year before Red’s feet would toughen up enough to go barefoot, especially over rocky ground. Clay wasn’t gonna like it.

  “It’s gonna be a little while yet before that horse is shod,” Badger said. “And that first drink burned a gully down my throat that oughta make another’n feel about right.” Pete was in agreement, since Badger was buying. So they ordered up another round.

  “Has that old fool got the money to pay for them drinks?”

  Badger and Pete turned to find a large, heavyset man standing in the doorway behind them. His deep-set eyes, glowering contemptuously from beneath heavy black eyebrows, were locked on the two mountain men. “Marlowe,” Pete mumbled almost below a whisper.

  “They paid for ’em, Mr. Marlowe,” the bartender offered.

  This seemed to disappoint Marlowe. He pushed on through the doorway, filling up a sizable portion of the room. “Well, drink up and be on your way. I’ve done told you I’m tired of you hanging around here, wearing out my clerks’ ears with all those stories about the good old days.” He moved over to the end of the counter where he paused to look Badger over thoroughly. “I reckon this is another dirt-poor trapper looking for a handout. Take him with you.”

  Badger didn’t say anything at first. In fact, he was too taken aback by the big man’s uncalled-for attitude. In all his years as a trapper and a guide, he could never remember being told he wasn’t welcome at any trading post. To the contrary, he was accustomed to a certain amount of respect—for surviving this long without losing his scalp, if for no other reason. It took a moment for the insult to settle in before he responded.