With the butchering not yet finished, Black Elk left her to complete the task while he walked among the lodges calling for friends to come and take portions of the meat. The offer was graciously accepted, and soon the carcass was disposed of. When the last of Black Elk’s friends departed, Martha picked up the remains of the butchering—what bones and entrails the dogs did not take—and put them in the fire to burn. I should have known, she thought when she looked at her hands and arms, covered with the blood of the antelope. Having just recently exposed her body to the chilling waters of the river, she had no choice but to visit the river again.
Kneeling upon a flat rock that jutted out over the edge of the water, Martha scrubbed her hands and arms until the last of the dried blood and soot from the fire had disappeared. Her mind wandered to the last time she bathed in the river, only a few hours before, and she trembled when she remembered the sensation she had felt. Then a picture of Moon Shadow, lying frail beside the fire, came to her mind. When their friends had come for the fresh meat Black Elk had offered, he had carried Moon Shadow outside by the fire so she could enjoy the social gathering. Martha had roasted a strip of the meat for her to chew on, but Moon Shadow showed little interest in eating. Although her little sister smiled bravely when greeted by her friends, Martha knew she was in great pain. After a short time, Black Elk carried his ailing wife back inside to rest. The dullness in Moon Shadow’s eyes worried Martha, and once again Martha allowed herself to acknowledge the tragic possibility that her newfound sister might not survive the terrible wound she had suffered. She suddenly shook her head, trying to rid her mind of such depressing thoughts.
“I am worried, too.”
Startled, she uttered, “What?” She had not heard Black Elk until he was right behind her.
“You worry for Moon Shadow,” he said softly. “I am worried, too. The camp will be moving tomorrow, and I’m afraid Moon Shadow is too weak to move.”
“I know,” she replied, rubbing her arms to help dry them. “What will you do?” She stood up to face him.
“I’ll stay here until she is well enough to join the others.”
“Good,” Martha said. She had been afraid Black Elk might have been planning to pack the failing girl on a travois and have her endure the rough trip to the higher country. “We can care for her until she’s able to make the trip.”
He did not comment right away. He continued to look deep into her eyes with the probing gaze that Martha had felt so often in the last few days. She trembled, feeling that he could see into the depths of her soul, reading her innermost thoughts. She started to turn aside, but he placed his hands upon her shoulders and held her. “You have been a good friend to Moon Shadow,” he said softly. “I have been thinking about you a great deal, and I think that maybe I will let you return to your home . . .” He hesitated slightly. “. . . and your husband.”
His words stunned her. The thought of being returned to the white world had flown beyond the boundaries of possibility in her mind. She found it difficult to believe that Black Elk would even consider taking her back to her husband. She was even more startled by her own response, a statement from her subconscious, uttered before she had time to think.
“I don’t want to go back. I want to stay with you.” Her gaze, until that moment meeting his, now dropped to her feet, as if ashamed of what she had just said.
She felt a slight increase in the pressure of his hands upon her shoulders—nothing more than this for what seemed a long time—until he moved a hand to gently lift her chin up so that he could look into her eyes again. “I had hoped with all my heart that you would say this,” he whispered, then pulled her close to his body. She trembled at the touch of his muscular arms as they enclosed her, and she melted against his broad chest.
She told herself that she had no choice in what happened on the bank of the river. She was a captive, and Black Elk was a powerful warrior, too strong to resist. What could she do to protect her virtue? It would be useless to try to fight him. Although these thoughts raced through her mind, she could not deny the eagerness with which she received him, matching his passion with a yearning for him that was overpowering. Martha found herself giving her body and soul with an intensity she had never dreamed could exist. And at the supreme moment, she was startled to hear her own savage cry, as it burst forth from deep within her.
When it was over, he lay in her arms. They lay there for a long time, not moving until she began to feel the chill of the autumn wind’s gentle kiss upon her bare skin. He lay so still that she thought he might be asleep, so she pulled a corner of the buffalo robe they laid upon over his shoulders.
“I am not cold,” he said softly, but he pulled more of the robe up to cover her.
Feeling contentment that she had never known, Martha closed her eyes and lay back in the afterglow of a passion that had awakened her innermost lusts. She would admit it to herself now. She had wanted this man, this child of nature, whose dark head now lay exhausted upon her naked shoulder. At that moment, all thoughts of home, family, Robert—all were forgotten. There was nothing but the two of them. And she was content.
It was late when they returned to the tipi. Thinking Moon Shadow was asleep, they entered, taking care not to disturb her, but her eyelids flickered briefly before opening wide at the sound of the entrance flap being pulled aside. When she saw them, her face relaxed, and she smiled, nodding slowly. Martha was certain that the frail Indian girl somehow knew what had happened, and that she was pleased.
“Your forehead feels very warm,” Martha said as she bent over her little sister, her hand on her brow. Looking up at Black Elk, she said, “I fear her fever has returned. I’ll wet a cloth to bath her face.” She started to get up, but Moon Shadow caught her arm and pulled her close again.
“Marta,” she whispered. “You are where you belong. You must take good care of our husband.”
“I will,” she whispered in return, knowing that Moon Shadow was sincere in her hopes that Black Elk would take her as a wife. She glanced up at Black Elk, who was standing over them. He nodded solemly when he met her eye. Looking back at the feverish girl, she gave her an affectionate squeeze, and whispered, “Now I must get a cloth to cool your fever.”
The fire was nothing more than a bed of glowing coals by the time Moon Shadow finally drifted into sleep beside Black Elk. He held her in his arms as she slept, pressed close against him, her face reflecting the inner peace she had found. In the early hours of the morning, she slipped into that peaceful world beyond, knowing that she had left her husband in good hands.
Chapter 10
“How you makin’ out, old man?”
“Don’t worry ’bout me,” Pete Dubois replied haughtily as Badger reined his horse back alongside him. “I’m makin’ out all right.”
“I didn’t wanna tire you out, what with you being in the saddle since sunup . . . a man of your age,” Badger chided, a thin smile on his face.
“Tire me out?” Pete snorted indignantly. “Moose shit! That’ll be the day when I can’t ride you into the ground.”
“Is that so?” Badger teased. “That shaggy overgrown dog you’re ridin’ looks like he’s gonna break down any minute.” He winked at Clay, who had just caught up to them. “Ain’t that right, Clay?”
Clay laughed, shaking his head. “Don’t try to draw me into that argument. Both of you look pretty worn out to me.”
“Is that so?” Badger replied, laughing. “Well, if this old coon knows what he’s talkin’ about, Black Shirt’s camp oughta be less than a half day’s ride now.”
The camp was right where Pete had said they would find it, and, as he had predicted, the village had yet to leave the open country for a more sheltered location for the winter. Clay wondered at their good fortune because already the mornings were frosty and there was a smell of snow in the air. The sun was low on the far horizon when they crested a rise in the prairie and first saw the lodges clustered near the fork of the Big Sandy where it jo
ined the Milk. Clay estimated over two hundred tipis nestled under a thin blanket of smoke, created by the many cookfires tended by the women. The sight inspired a peaceful feeling until Badger reminded him that it was a Blackfoot village, and consequently, potentially dangerous to a white man—this even while Pete protested that while that might be true, it was his village, too.
“Hell, them’s my people down there,” Pete said. “I got a lot of friends in that camp.”
“Yeah, maybe so,” Badger replied. “I reckon we’ll find out soon enough, won’t we? I hope to hell that bunch we tangled with back at the river didn’t come from this camp. Clay, you keep that rifle of your’n handy.” He gave his horse a little kick with his heels and led out again.
The close proximity of the Blackfoot camp was enough to create a tenseness in Clay Culver. He had thought a lot about Martha the night before, the old thoughts that had at times caused sleepless nights—when he would permit his mind to create images of his sister living under the cruel hand of some savage Blackfoot warrior. He could picture her face, crying out for someone to rescue her, and it tormented him at times thinking that she might be lying cold and afraid, maybe tied hand and foot in a Blackfoot camp. And although he knew there had probably been nothing Robert or Charley could have done to prevent Martha’s abduction, still he blamed them for letting it happen.
He closed his eyes tightly for a few moments and shook his head, trying to clear these thoughts from his mind. It was a time for positive thoughts now, he told himself. Someone in Black Shirt’s camp might be able to tell him where Martha was. He reminded himself that there was no guarantee of this. Pete had only said that his brother-in-law, Crow Fighter, would probably know where Bloody Axe’s band was camped. Still, Clay had to have faith that he would find her. Maybe, he thought, Robert and Charley Vinings are searching for her, too. He had no notion of their whereabouts, only that they had left for Montana territory with a wagon train of miners. O.C. Owens at Fort Laramie had assured Clay that Robert and Charley had no intentions of going after Martha when they left there. But he could be dead wrong. After all, Martha was Robert’s wife. How could a man not go after his own wife? I’m going to find out the truth of it, he promised himself.
“Come on up here, Pete, so your friends can see you,” Badger said. “Them devils is just as likely to shoot at the first white man they don’t recognize.” He glanced back at Clay. “Might be it’s a good thing we caught ’em right at suppertime. Maybe they’ll be in a friendly mood.”
Glancing at Badger, Pete shook his head impatiently as he prodded his mangy horse to the front. “Hell, Badger, Black Shirt’s as friendly as any Injun. It’s just some white men he don’t like.”
“Is that a fact? Well, just tell him I’m married to a Lakota woman, and see how much he likes me.”
“We best not tell him that,” Pete conceded.
The dogs were the first to notice the arrival of the three strangers. First one, then several others alerted the people in the village to the presence of the riders skirting the large pony herd on the east side of the river. Clay’s gaze darted quickly back and forth from one side of the Blackfoot camp to the other. So far, there was no indication of alarm. Most of the people were eating their evening meal, and only a handful of men were curious enough to leave their fires to see what had set the dogs off. When the visitors were spotted, there was a good deal more activity among the lodges nestled near the river, and soon a group had gathered near the center of the camp. Still there was no sign of alarm or hostility, merely curiosity as the people watched them approach.
Pete guided his horse to a shallow ford in the river and started across with Clay and Badger close behind. When he reached the west bank, he held up his hand in a sign of peace and called out, “Peace, my friends, how is it with Black Shirt’s village?”
Recognizing the old trapper at once, several of the people returned his greeting, all smiling cheerfully, for they had assumed they had seen the last of the old mountain man. Black Shirt himself called out, “Welcome, Gray Otter. I did not expect to see you again so soon.”
“Gray Otter?” Badger whispered to Clay. “More like Gray Muskrat.”
If Pete overheard the chiding comment, he ignored it. “I’ve come back to the people,” he said. “There is no longer a place for me at the white man’s fort.”
“Ahh . . .” Black Shirt responded, nodding his head knowingly.
As they pulled up before the growing assembly of men, women, children, and dogs, one of the Indians strode forward to greet them. Pete dismounted and the man clasped his forearm, shaking it vigorously. “It’s good to see you again, my friend,” Crow Fighter said, a wide smile covering his face, and the two men pounded each other on the back heartily. The rest of the gathering crowded around the old man, laughing and chattering away in good-natured welcome. Clay was amazed to compare this reception to the one experienced at the hands of the first group of Blackfeet they had encountered at Porcupine Creek. He wondered if Badger might be mistaken in his assessment of the Blackfoot disposition. There might be a different reception, he allowed, if they knew they had killed several of their tribesmen in the fight at Porcupine Creek.
Badger and Clay sat upon their horses, silently watching the homecoming of their companion until Black Shirt, who had been eyeing them intently, spoke. “You have brought some friends with you.”
Pete, having forgotten Clay and Badger for the moment, turned away from an old woman who was pounding him on the back joyously. “These two are friends. They come hoping to find news of a white woman captive, maybe the one I heard about in Bloody Axe’s camp this past summer.”
Black Shirt shrugged. “There was talk about a white woman in Bloody Axe’s camp, but I can’t say for certain. I did not see Bloody Axe this year. He stays far to the north of us.”
“He always winters in the mountains where the sun goes,” Crow Fighter volunteered, gesturing toward the northwest, “near the land of the Kutenai.”
Upon hearing this, Clay was ready to start out immediately for the mountains, but Badger convinced him that it was best to remain there for a day or two to rest the horses. “We might as well enjoy the hospitality of the camp as well. Looks like ol’ Pete was right—they ain’t gonna scalp us right off.”
Pete was evidently highly thought of by the Blackfoot people, for he was certainly received graciously. At Crow Fighter’s invitation, Pete moved into his lodge with him and his wife, who seemed as pleased as Crow Fighter to welcome the old man. Clay and Badger declined an invitation to join them, preferring to bed down outside with their horses. That night, there was little time to prepare anything beyond a simple supper of boiled meat, but Crow Fighter promised a feast the following day. Feeling no threat of treachery, even though they were in the midst of over two hundred Blackfoot lodges, Clay and Badger went to sleep beside a cozy fire close by the herd of Indian ponies.
Clay awakened the next morning to discover a light blanket of new-fallen snow upon his buffalo robe, and the fire was out. The weather Badger had been predicting for the past week had finally come.
Reluctant to stir from his warm burrow of thick buffalo robes, Clay continued to lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of the waking village. Close by his head, he could hear the horses pawing and scraping the light snow away searching for the grass beneath. Across the narrow river, the women were stirring up their cookfires in preparation for making breakfast. Clay glanced over at Badger, still snoring under a white mound of snow and showing no signs of arousing. I guess it’s up to me, he thought, and crawled out of his bed to rebuild the fire. Hearing what he first thought were war whoops, Clay looked quickly back toward the Blackfoot camp to see several of the men gathered by the water’s edge. While he watched, first one and then another threw off their robes and plunged into the icy water. “Damn fool thing to do,” he heard Badger say behind him, and he turned to find the old trapper sitting up in his bed, shaking the snow from his robe.
“Thinks
it makes ’em strong,” Badger continued, displaying his contempt for the practice. “It’s a wonder it don’t kill ’em.”
Clay laughed and resumed his patient labor with his flint and steel until he succeeded in causing a weak flame in the dried moss he had carried in his parfleche. Nursing it lovingly, he fanned it into a healthy flame as he added small twigs and grass, and soon he had the fire rekindled.
Coffee and a little dried venison served as breakfast, since they anticipated a feast of roasted buffalo hump, promised by Crow Fighter. Afterward, when they went in search of Pete, they found the elders of the village discussing the wisdom in delaying the move to winter camp. The early snow was definitely a sign to many of them that they may have lingered on the plains longer than they should have. Others, Black Shirt foremost among them, felt that the hunting had been too good to leave before now, and there was still plenty of time to travel to the sheltered valleys to the west. All were in agreement that it would be unwise to wait any longer, however, so it was decided to strike the tipis and get on the trail the following day.
The rest of that day was spent in preparing to move. It was a busy time for the women of the camp, but Crow Fighter’s wife still managed to roast a large portion of buffalo hump in honor of their guests. It was a typical Blackfoot feast. Each invited guest was served a portion of the roasted meat. It was a generous portion, and if a person couldn’t eat it all, he took the remainder with him. No second servings were offered. Clay found it to be plenty for one man. Counting Clay, Badger, and Pete, there were eight invited guests. Since Crow Fighter was the host, he did not eat. When all had finished eating, Crow Fighter lit a pipe and passed it to Pete on his left. Pete took a long draw, blowing the smoke out slowly, then passed it on to the man on his left. The pipe continued around in this fashion until it reached Clay, who was seated by the door. After Clay smoked, Pete told him to pass the pipe back the way it had come to him, to be passed all the way around to the man seated on the opposite side of the door.
Savage Cry Page 17
