Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Charley’s face was twisted with anger he made no attempt to hide. His deep-set eyes flashed with a renewed hatred for this woman who had held herself too good for him, choosing instead to live with a savage Indian. He was tempted to raise his rifle and clear out some of the crowd gathered around, but his instincts told him that the satisfaction would most likely cost him his life. Seeing Marlowe already backing away toward his horse, Charley reluctantly conceded. “I’m going,” he snarled between clenched teeth. He shot one more threatening look in Martha’s direction, a silent warning that this might not be the last of it, then he followed Marlowe.

  Wolf Tail, after seeing the ill feelings that were spawned by the visit of the two white men, stood aside with his uncle, silently watching Charley and Marlowe cross the creek and pick up their packmules. Lest there be any question where his loyalties lay, he would bide there a while before leaving again for his own village. But he had no intentions of losing the jug of firewater that had been promised him for guiding the white men to Bloody Axe’s village. As he watched Charley and Marlowe catch up the lead lines and start off downstream, he was thinking how fortunate it had been for them that most of the men were off hunting.

  They had ridden no more than ten or twelve miles when Charley pointed toward a stand of trees along the riverbank. “That looks like a good place to camp.”

  Marlowe looked around, surprised. “It’s a little early to set up camp, ain’t it? There’s a lot of daylight left, and we ain’t far enough away from that Blackfoot camp to suit me.”

  A sly grin creased Charley’s face. “We don’t wanna be too far away when some of them bucks slip outta camp and come looking for their firewater. Besides, I saw which one of them tipis Martha came out of. I might just pay her a little social call tonight.”

  “Damn!” Marlowe swore, his patience with Charley’s single-minded craving for Martha having just about run its course. “You’re just bound and determined to git us kilt over a little piece of tail, ain’tcha? Well, I say hell no. We’ll keep on ridin’ if we know what’s good for us, and the devil take that damn woman.”

  The grin on Charley’s face immediately disappeared, and his dark brows pressed down until his eyes were no more than tiny black coals glaring out at his partner. When he spoke, there was more than a hint of warning in his voice. “You got no say in it. This ain’t no partnership. I own every last scrap on these mules, and I reckon I’ll decide where we camp.”

  The two men continued to glare at each other for a long moment, locked in a fierce battle of wills. There was no backing down by either man, so Marlowe decided right then and there that this would be Charley Vinings’s last night above ground. That decision made, he affected a thin smile, and said, “I reckon you’re right. It’s your goods we’re haulin’. I’m just sayin’ it ain’t healthy to camp this close to them Blackfeet.”

  “We’ll take our chances,” Charley replied, smug in his triumph in the battle of wills. Charley was not quite the fool Marlowe had labeled him, however. He would watch his back with extra diligence from this point on. The time had come, he figured, for the inevitable parting of the ways. Charley sorely needed Marlowe to guide him to Black Shirt’s camp, but he had long ago decided that it would be better to be on his own than to have to constantly watch his back. He motioned for Marlowe to lead the way into the stand of trees by the water.

  There was very little conversation between the two as they went about the business of setting up camp. Each man was careful to keep a wary eye on the other as the mules were unpacked and turned out to graze. When the animals had been taken care of, Charley took the one nearly empty whiskey jug down to the river and filled it half full of water. After adding more whiskey from one of the other jugs to bring the watered-down jug to the top, he set it aside. Satisfied with that, he then built a fire and sat down with his back against a tree, his rifle on the ground within handy reach of his right hand. Equally as cautious, Marlowe carried his rifle across his forearm when he took the coffeepot down to the river to fill it.

  The sun was not yet resting upon the distant mountains when Wolf Tail showed up. “Well, lookee here,” Marlowe smirked when he spotted him. “I didn’t figure it’d be too long before ol’ Wolf Tail come to collect his pay.” The two partners sat where they were, chewing on their meager supper of dried buffalo meat, watching the familiar figure as he approached.

  “Yeah,” Charley said, “come for his jug. Well, I’ve got it ready for him.”

  Still some fifty yards distant, Wolf Tail hailed the camp, and was waved on in. The appearance of a third party served to relax the strain between the two partners for the moment as they sat watching Wolf Tail trot his pony into the clearing. After greetings were exchanged, the Blackfoot warrior wasted no time in inquiring about the whiskey Charley had promised him.

  “It’s right here,” Charley said, “just like I said.” He patted the watered-down jug beside him. “Filled to the neck.” When Wolf Tail started for it, Charley held up his hand to stop him. “Hell, it wouldn’t be polite to drink up all your whiskey. Let’s have a couple of drinks of mine, then you can take your jug with you.”

  This suited Wolf Tail just fine. So he sat down beside the fire and joined them. Charley poured a cup of whiskey, and before long, tongues were loosened and the conversation was flowing easily. Wolf Tail expressed his regrets that Charley and Marlowe were treated so coolly at Bloody Axe’s camp, but reminded them that he had warned them before.

  “Ah, there’s no hard feelings. T’weren’t your fault,” Marlowe assured him.

  “That’s a fact,” Charley chimed in, “it wasn’t your fault.” He passed the cup to Wolf Tail again. “I guess all the hunters are back in the village by now.”

  Wolf Tail shook his head. “No. They’re not back yet—maybe in the morning.”

  This was the news Charley wanted to hear. He leaned back against the tree, a smug smile etched across his face, ignoring the scowl from Marlowe. He wasn’t even disappointed when Wolf Tail told them that there would be no one from the village coming to find them. Bloody Axe was dead set against the evils of the white man’s firewater, and none of the boys or older men left in camp cared to risk his disfavor by trading prime furs for the fiery liquid. No matter, Charley thought, I’ll still get what I came after.

  It was not yet dark when Wolf Tail finally succumbed to Charley’s generosity—and passed out, very nearly falling face-first into the fire. Charley, sober as a hangman, got up and stood over the drunken Indian for a few minutes. “Let’s get going,” he tossed over his shoulder at Marlowe. “I want to get back to that village close after dark.”

  Marlowe’s expression was like stone. “So you’re still plannin’ on goin’ after the woman.”

  “Damn right,” Charley replied. “That’s what I came out here for.” Marlowe didn’t respond for a long moment, so Charley went on. “We’ll go get the woman. Then we can take our goods to Black Shirt’s camp, just like we started to in the first place.”

  “What about him?” Marlowe asked, nodding his head toward the unconscious Indian. “You just gonna leave him layin’ there?”

  Charley looked down at Wolf Tail as if seeing him for the first time. “Him? Hell, he ain’t gonna bother nobody.” He drew his knife from his belt, kneeling as he did, and in one quick motion, brought it up under Wolf Tail’s chin, opening his throat from ear to ear.

  “Damn!” Marlowe exclaimed, surprised by Charley’s ruthlessness. “Damn,” he repeated, this time with a note of disgust in his tone. “There weren’t no need to do that. Wolf Tail’s been tradin’ with me for a long time.”

  “Did you think I was gonna leave that Injun here with all my goods while we go back to that camp?” He rolled the body over with his foot. “He ain’t got no complaints. He died happy.” He wiped his knife clean on Wolf Tail’s shirt. “Let’s go. I want to get there right after dark.”

  Marlowe remained seated. “I ain’t goin’ back to that Injun camp for no damn woman. Y
ou’re takin’ a mighty big chance of havin’ that whole village on your tail. She don’t wanna come with you, anyway. It sure as hell ain’t worth stickin’ my neck out just so’s you can grab yourself a play-pretty.”

  Charley didn’t say anything right away. He just stood there looking down at Marlowe as if giving his comments serious thought. It did not escape his attention that Marlowe’s hand was resting close to the handle of the pistol in his belt. After a few moments, he said, “Well then, maybe I’ll just go by myself. Maybe you can stay here and see that no mischief happens to my goods.”

  A sly smile creased Marlowe’s lips. “Why, shore, I’ll wait right here and keep an eye on things. I reckon that’s the least I can do.”

  “I’m obliged,” Charley said as he reached down and picked up the whiskey jug that Wolf Tail had paid for with his life. “Well, we saved us a jug of whiskey. Hold onto this.” As soon as he said it, he tossed the jug to Marlowe.

  Marlowe, forced to react quickly in order to catch the jug, reached out with both hands. Charley took that opportunity to pull his pistol from his belt, but the front sight caught on his belt, causing Charley to rush the shot. Consequently, his first bullet smashed the jug and sent Marlowe rolling over and over on the ground, trying desperately to pull his own weapon. Charley stepped quickly to stay right over him, firing point-blank at the huge man. Two shots caught Marlowe squarely in the back, causing him to yelp in pain. Still he tried to scramble away, fighting to gain enough room to get his own pistol out. Cursing wildly, spraying blood-flecked spittle with each oath, he managed to pull the stubborn weapon free of his belt, but Charley was too quick. He stomped Marlowe’s wrist, pinning his gun hand to the ground, and fired another shot, this time hitting Marlowe in the neck. Marlowe’s pistol fired off two shots as a result of the big man’s struggle to free his hand. The bullets buried themselves harmlessly in a tree trunk.

  “Damn you, die!” Charley grunted as he emptied the revolver into Marlowe’s back. Finally the brute of a man ceased to struggle, lying still at last. Charley, his foot still planted on Marlowe’s wrist, reached down and pulled the pistol from his hand.

  Suddenly drained from the exertion, Charley stepped back to catch his breath. The big man had taken a lot of killing. Charley felt exhausted. Then, hearing a low groan from Marlowe, Charley realized that he was still alive. Bending low over the body again, he could hear Marlowe’s heavy breathing. In a fit of exasperation, he emptied Marlowe’s pistol into the back of his head.

  Chapter 14

  Martha stood outside her tipi for a few minutes after Red Wing left her. The old medicine woman had sensed Martha’s need to talk to someone after the unexpected meeting with the two white men that afternoon. The encounter had clearly upset her white friend, so Red Wing made it a point to visit her. Although she had been unable to follow the words spoken between Martha and the one white man, Red Wing was wise enough to realize the true significance of the discussion. Six Horses had obviously declined an opportunity to go with the white men, choosing instead to remain with the people.

  Black Elk would probably not return from the hunt until sometime the next day, and Six Horses would be alone, with no sisters or other wives to comfort her. It was not good for a young woman to be without family, Red Wing had told her. “Maybe Black Elk will take another wife, and then you will have someone to help you,” Red Wing had said.

  “Black Elk had better not bring another wife into my lodge,” Martha had replied, laughing.

  Her reply had puzzled Red Wing. “Ah, young people,” she had sighed, shaking her head. “You would still be the sits-beside-him wife. Another wife would be there to help make your work easier.”

  Martha just shook her head as she recalled Red Wing’s well-meaning words. Many of the men had more than one wife, some several. Usually it was because the first wife had sisters that were taken in by the husband. Black Elk could easily find another wife if he so desired. He was much admired by all in the village. A mighty warrior, he was the leader of the I-kun-uh’-kah-tsi—the tribal police force that was called upon whenever discipline or punishment was necessary. There were many young maidens who would be honored to come to Black Elk’s lodge. Martha did not deny that she had “gone Injun,” as Charley had accused, but there were some customs that she was not ready to accept. Another woman in her lodge was one of them. She was grateful that it was not an issue in her marriage, anyway. Black Elk was not desirous of another wife. Of that, she was certain. She would gladly do without the added help in her chores, knowing that she and her husband were content to be alone.

  Red Wing disappeared from her sight as the old medicine woman made her way around the lodges that stood between hers and Martha’s. Trying desperately to avoid thinking about Robert and Charley, but unable to keep her mind from returning to the subject, Martha was alone again with her thoughts. Taking one long look at the last rays of light that signaled the end of another day, she sighed and turned to go inside.

  One bite of the boiled antelope was all she took before deciding she was not hungry. Pushing the pot aside, she picked up the dress she had been working on and tried to concentrate on her stitching, but she soon found her mind trying to form an image of her late husband. The picture that came to her was vague and confusing. It had been a long time since she had thought about Robert. And now to learn that he was dead . . . Robert, mild-mannered and sometimes meek—so much so that he permitted his younger brother to dominate him . . . It seemed so unlikely that he would meet with violent death. Murdered by outlaws, Charley had said. Her feelings of guilt returned once more. She was sad to hear of Robert’s death but not devastated, as one should be to hear of a husband’s demise. This was the cause of her remorse, more so than the fact that he was gone.

  Feeling a need to pray for forgiveness for her indifference, she closed her eyes and asked God to have mercy on Robert’s soul, and to let him know that she was sorry. I miss Black Elk! The sudden thought had burst forth in the midst of her reverie, even while she was concentrating so hard on Robert’s soul. “I wish he was here,” she whispered and laid the antelope skin aside, unable to put her mind on her sewing. Black Elk and the other men had been away for several days now. They should have been back by this time. The hunting was evidently not that good, or they would have returned. She closed her eyes again and asked God to watch over her husband. After thinking about it for a moment, and just to make sure, she also said a little prayer to Na’pi. Feeling that she had done the best she could for him spiritually, she tried to sweep the worry from her mind.

  It would be chilly again that night, so Martha looked at her stack of firewood. It might be a good idea to bring in a little more, she decided, so she got up from her place by the fire and started toward the entrance of the lodge. Pausing a moment to glance at the pot of boiled meat, she realized that she was not hungry at all. Might as well throw that out. It won’t be any good in the morning. She picked up the pot and took it outside where she felt sure she would find one of the camp dogs waiting for scraps of meat.

  A moonless night had descended upon the little valley, causing the great circle of tipis to glow faintly, like an array of skin-covered lanterns. Martha stood outside the doorway of her lodge, listening to the soft murmur of voices from those lodges closest to hers. It was a peaceful sound, and one that had become one of her favorites because it brought to mind a sound of harmony. She smiled and started toward the stack of firewood beside the lodge, amazed that none of the dogs had sniffed her pot of meat as yet. She whistled softly a couple of times, but there was no response, so she continued to the woodpile.

  A figure suddenly stepped from the shadows, and Martha was snatched off her feet. Locked in a steellike embrace with one dirty hand clamped over her mouth, she was unable to scream for help. “Was you whistling for me?” a coarse voice whispered in her ear, his mouth so close she could feel his breath upon her neck.

  Charley! her mind screamed at once as the pot of meat fell from her hand and land
ed in the dirt, splashing some of its contents on his boots. It seemed to amuse him, and he grunted a soft chuckle and kicked the offending vessel out of his way. Martha struggled furiously, but Charley’s hold on her was too much for her to overcome. He carried her down through the shadows until they were deep in the stand of trees by the creek where he had tied his horse.

  “Now, Miss Priss, I’m gonna put you down for a second, and I don’t wanna hear a sound outta you. If I do, I’m gonna have to hurtcha. You’re going with me one way or the other, so you might as well make it the easy way.” He lowered her to the ground. While holding onto her arm to keep her from running, he slowly removed his hand from over her mouth. Anticipating her reaction, he immediately dropped his hand to the handle of his pistol, and as soon as she drew in her breath to scream, he laid the weapon hard against the side of her head, knocking her senseless before she could utter a sound. “Have it your way, darlin. Suits the hell outta me.”

  She lost consciousness only for a minute or two, but it was long enough to be trussed up and gagged. Her first lucid moment afterward was a sense of extreme discomfort as her body was being bounced and jostled. It took a few more moments before she realized what was happening. As her muddled brain began to clear, she realized that she was draped across a saddle like a deer carcass. She tried to move, but discovered her hands and feet were joined by a rope underneath the belly of the horse.

  “Well, lookee who woke up already,” Charley sneered. “You better hold still if you know what’s good for you. Keep jumping around like that and you’ll wind up under this horse, and most likely get stomped to death.”

  She tried to curse him, but could make very little sound due to the tight gag in her mouth. Knowing that what he said was true, she stopped struggling, and tried to let her body ride with the motion of the horse. Aware then of a throbbing pain beside her right eye, she remembered the blow that had rendered her helpless. There was a stinging sensation as well, so she knew that the pistol had broken the skin. Aware now of another feeling, she forgot the pain in her face. Charley’s hand was resting squarely on her bottom, groping her as he rode behind the saddle. Furious, she tried to wriggle away from the offending hand. Her futile struggles only served to please him more.