Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  Her discomfort lasted for little more than half an hour before Charley guided the horse down into a treeless ravine where another horse was tied to the branches of some low scrubby bushes. Charley took his time dismounting, talking all the while.

  “I brought a horse for you to ride if you behave yourself,” he said, obviously enjoying the irony of the situation that only he appreciated. “It’s Marlowe’s horse, but he’s just plumb tickled to let you ride him. Marlowe don’t do much riding anymore.” Still in no hurry, unconcerned with her bruised stomach and ribs from the recent bouncing on his saddle, he untied the rope holding her ankles and hands under the horse’s belly. “ ’Course, if you don’t behave, it’s all the same to me if you go the rest of the way on your belly again.”

  Grabbing a handful of her dress, he pulled her off of the horse, standing aside to let her land on the ground. With her hands and feet still bound securely, she could not maintain her balance. As a result, she went down on her back. Almost as soon as she landed, he was on top of her. Straddling her, he held her firmly until she exhausted herself in her attempts to fight him off.

  “Damn,” he swore, in mock amazement, “you sure are excited to see me, ain’tcha darling?” He lifted her head and untied the bandanna that had gagged her. “There, now you can tell me how much you appreciate me rescuing you from them Injuns. How about a kiss for your dear brother?” Grabbing her face, he tried to kiss her, but she struggled against his efforts, shaking her head from side to side violently. It only served to make him more determined, and he clamped down on her jaw as hard as he could, finally succeeding in overcoming her resistance.

  Martha tried not to breathe as he forced his whiskered face down on hers. Her lips pressed as tightly together as she could manage, she tried to draw away but could not. Her mind reeled with the realization that this was actually happening to her. To be attacked in this way by her own brother-in-law was almost enough to send her out of her mind. After what seemed an eternity, Charley sat up, and she could breathe once more.

  “Get off me!” she screamed furiously as soon as he ended his loathsome embrace, her voice almost cracking with the anger boiling inside her. Forgetting her fear for the moment, she cursed her former brother-in-law. “You disgust me! Let me go at once!”

  Charley’s face flushed red with Martha’s stinging remarks. “Oh, I disgust you, do I?” he replied heatedly. “I suppose you think I ain’t good enough for you. Why, you ain’t nothing but a damn whore, sleeping with any dirty Injun that comes along—too good for your own kind.”

  “I never was your kind,” she retorted, struggling again to free herself from his embrace. “I told you before, I don’t want to be rescued. I belong with my village now. Why can’t you just go away and leave me in peace?”

  The lascivious grin returned to his face as he sat astride her, amused by her helpless efforts to free herself. “Go away and leave you in peace,” he mocked. “And here I went to so much trouble just to save your hide, too. But I guess I ain’t as good as a damn savage Injun, am I?”

  “Let me go, Charley,” she demanded.

  He ignored her, his dark eyes smoldering now with the memory of her earlier rejection. “I wasn’t good enough for you back in the cabin, either, was I? All I ever asked for was a little bit of your time. Hell, Robert wasn’t taking care of you.”

  “That’s disgusting,” she spat. “Robert would be ashamed to hear you talking like that. Now, let me go.”

  He glared at her for a few moments before replying. “I’ll let you go . . . when I’m through with you. I figure you owe me for all the times you wiggled your bottom at me, walking up the hill to the cabin.”

  “I never—” she started.

  “Shut up!” he roared, and slapped her hard across her face. “I’m tired of playing with you.” He got off her then, and pulled her up on her feet. “You’re gonna pay me what you owe me, all right, but we’re a little too close to your Injun friends right now.” Holding her under her arms, he dragged her over to the horse tied to the bushes. “Grab onto that saddle horn, and hold still while I untie your ankles.” He hooked her bound wrists over the saddle horn while he hurriedly worked the knot loose at her feet. “Get up there,” he commanded while he pushed her up on the horse. Once she was seated in the saddle, he pulled the rope under the horse’s belly, tying her ankles together. Satisfied that she would either stay on the horse or be trampled trying to escape, he took her reins and climbed up on his horse.

  From the lower end of the ravine, Charley led them to the top of a long grass-covered ridge where he paused for a few minutes, listening for any sounds that might indicate Martha’s absence had been discovered. There was nothing to disturb the quiet night except the occasional snort from one of the horses, so he started out toward his camp by the river, feeling sure that he was not being followed.

  Martha rode silently behind her abductor under the dark starry sky, her feet barely touching the stirrups; Charley did not bother to adjust them for her. As she rode, she contemplated what fate might await her. She had already given up hope of talking Charley out of his evil intentions. He was determined to satisfy his lust for her, a lust that she knew had been nurtured since they had first set out for the Black Hills. She was prepared to fight him with every ounce of strength she possessed. But she knew that, with no weapon, she had very little chance of preventing him from having his way with her. The thought of it filled her with a loathing so repugnant that she shivered with dread. Although she wanted to cry out in her anguish for someone to help her, she held her tongue, not willing to give Charley any additional pleasure.

  After a ride of a little over an hour, Charley cut back to the river, and led them into a stand of trees where she saw the packmules she had seen earlier in her village. Once inside the trees, she discovered the faintly glowing embers of a campfire that the two sleeping men lying nearby had apparently left unattended. From the size of the prone figure closest to the fire, Martha guessed it was the man called Marlowe. She felt a clammy hand gripping her insides as she recalled the hairy brute that had accompanied Charley to Bloody Axe’s camp. Would he be next when Charley was finished with her? The other, a few yards back from the fire, appeared to be an Indian, sprawled as in a drunken sleep. She bit her lip, trying to hold back the tears that threatened to form in the corners of her eyes.

  Charley would have ridden right over the body near the fire, but his horse balked, refusing to step over it, and Martha realized then that Marlowe was not sleeping. The knowledge that he was dead made her thankful that she would not have to endure his assault. The casual indifference displayed by Charley as he dismounted filled Martha’s mind with a new fear. He would not hesitate to kill her when he was done with her.

  “You just set right where you are,” Charley commanded sternly while he tied her horse’s reins to a tree. “I wanna build this fire back up so I can see you real good.” He reached up and patted her thigh, laughing when she tried to pull it away. “I don’t want you to get cold with your clothes off.” Leaving her to form that horrifying image in her mind, he picked up some dead limbs and stirred up the coals of the fire. Once the fire had caught up again, he grabbed Marlowe’s corpse by the boots and dragged it several yards away in the brush. “Come on, Marlowe, quit hogging the fire.” He laughed heartily at his own joke.

  Martha was horror-stricken by the scene before her. Charley had always reviled her, but she had no notion of the evil he was capable of until that moment. Even in the dim light of the fire, she could see the dark stain where Marlowe’s blood had soaked into the ground. And the way Charley found humor in the grisly corpse made Martha tremble with fear.

  Glancing now at the second corpse lying in the darkness just beyond the firelight, she could only see enough to know that it was an Indian. She shivered uncontrollably with the realization that maybe Robert was not murdered by outlaws as Charley had said. He had not seemed to be overly grieved back in the village when he had told her of his brother’s d
eath. Martha closed her eyes for a second, praying for God to help her. When she opened them, it was to look directly into Charley’s face, grinning up at her.

  “It’s time for our long-overdue little party,” he said. Untying her ankles, he pulled her from the saddle, her hands still tied. “I promised myself a long time ago I was gonna have some of your honey—and then you up and run off with a bunch of Injuns.” Standing her on her feet, he took the rope that had tied her ankles together and knotted one end of it around her wrists, holding onto the other end. “Well, it’s just you and me now, darlin’.” She tried to run, but he immediately jerked her back with the rope. “Now, don’t be that way, darlin’,” he cooed wickedly. “You’re about to get it like you never had it with ol’ Robert.”

  In desperation, she tried to appeal to his sense of conscience. “Please, Charley, don’t do this. I’m your sister. It wouldn’t be right. Think what your mother and father would say. They’d be so disappointed to know you violated your brother’s wife. Please. Just let me go, and we’ll forget it ever happened.”

  Charley fixed her with a long look of amusement. Then he threw his head back and laughed. “I swear, Martha, that’s about the most tender story I’ve ever heard. You keep on and you’ll have me in tears.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Martha spat.

  Her venom seemed to please him, exciting him even more. “That’s more like it,” he said, still grinning. “If you do it right, maybe I’ll let you live a little longer. But if you don’t please me, I’ll just slit your throat and leave you to keep company with ol’ Marlowe over there.”

  “You go to hell.”

  The grin faded from his face, and he suddenly reached out and tried to rip her dress away. But the snow-white antelope skin was too tough and did not tear. She immediately reacted by slapping him hard across his face. Infuriated, he struck her with his fist, knocking her backward. As she struggled to keep her balance, reeling from the force of the blow, he plowed headfirst into her, driving her to the ground. In a flash, he drew his knife and held the point of the blade hard up under her chin, causing her to cry out in pain.

  “By God, you’re gonna give me what I want, or I’ll slice you up right now.” He had hoped she would surrender to him out of fear, but he could see that it was going to be a battle. Staring her down for a moment while he considered his next move, he suddenly pulled his knife away and got to his feet. Picking up the loose end of the rope again, he pulled her over to a tree where he looped the rope around it and tied it. On her feet now, her hands still tied securely together, she pulled against the rope with all her strength while she backed around and around the tree, trying to keep him at bay. Her efforts to avoid him became a sadistic game for him, and he laughed at her while stalking her in a circle around the tree. After a few moments, he tired of the game, and lunged forward, knocking her off her feet.

  Though struggling desperately, she knew that she could not fend him off. He took her ankles and dragged her away from the tree trunk until her arms were stretched helplessly straight out above her head. With his body pinning her legs to the ground, she was helpless to fight him. Triumphant, his lips parted in a satisfied smile, he slowly pulled her skirt up, revealing the soft white thighs that he had long pictured in his mind. The anticipation of what was to come was enough to cause drool to collect in the corners of his evil grin. She screamed out in horror when she felt his coarse hands groping her inner thighs.

  “That’s right,” he goaded, “yell all you want. I like to hear you holler. It makes it . . .” Suddenly his words were lost in a clap of thunderous hooves and the lightninglike snap of a rawhide whip. It happened so fast that Martha would remember it as only a blur—like an explosion, the horse bursting forth from the darkness outside the campfire—the instant appearance of rawhide coils wrapping around Charley’s throat—and then she was free.

  The force of Black Elk’s attack yanked Charley off Martha and dragged him fully fifty feet before the infuriated warrior brought his charging pony to a stop. At once, Black Elk was on the ground, his war axe in his hand. Rolling over and over in an attempt to scramble to his feet, Charley clawed at the rawhide coils wound tightly around his neck. In his confusion, he was unable to loosen it as he looked around him desperately trying to find his assailant in the flickering light of the fire. Then suddenly he appeared. Like a painted phantom stepping into the circle of light, the warrior stalked his prey, war axe in one hand, a long skinning knife in the other. The shadows from the flames danced across the massive chest and shoulders of the Blackfoot warrior, his face an enraged mask that promised certain death.

  Terrified, Charley reached for his pistol, only to realize that he had removed it before his assault upon Martha. In a panic, he made a desperate move toward it. Quicker by far, Black Elk cut him off, standing in his path, quartering him with eyes as black as the dead coals in the fire. Charley froze. His cold fear seeped throughout his entire body, leaving him almost helpless to move. As Black Elk moved slowly toward him, Charley’s hands began to tremble. Unable to move seconds before, he now turned and tried to run for his life. With one swift leap, Black Elk planted one foot firmly upon the whip handle trailing in the dust, the other end still knotted around Charley’s neck. Yanked off his feet again, Charley landed hard on his back. Grunting with the impact, the frightened man clawed at the rawhide again, his desperation enabling him to loosen the whip this time. Free for the moment, he scrambled to his feet, and ran wildly toward the brush on the riverbank. Right behind him, Black Elk stopped, planted his left foot, took deliberate aim, and hurled his axe end over end, landing it squarely between Charley’s shoulder blades.

  Charley screamed in pain, and crashed to the ground. He struggled back up on his hands and knees only to feel the powerful hand that grasped his hair and jerked his head back. The hellish scream that emanated from deep inside him was silenced abruptly when Black Elk’s long skinning knife sliced through his windpipe. There followed a silence that seemed almost as loud, as the Blackfoot warrior stood over his kill.

  Martha had been transfixed in a state of shock while she witnessed Charley’s terrifying execution. With her hands still bound to the tree, she could do nothing but sit and watch as her husband expunged his wrath on the hapless white man who had been her brother-in-law. Such was his fury, that Martha found herself to be terrified, afraid to speak even after Black Elk turned to look at her. She had never before witnessed the full fury of her husband, not even when he had rescued her from the Crow raiding party. For a long moment, he stood motionless, staring through her, as if not really seeing her at all until, gradually, he released his taunt muscles and relaxed his fierce frown. The flood of his blood lust having finally receded, he came to her.

  Emotionally drained, she fell into his arms as soon as he had untied her hands. Clinging tightly to him, she pressed her face against his bare chest, and whispered, “I was afraid I was never going to see you again.”

  His tone at once gentle again, he replied, “Did you think that I would not come for you?” He looked down at her and smiled. “I will always come for you. Know that, if you know nothing else.”

  Exhausted, she lay back while he gently examined the broken skin beside her eye. Reading the loving concern in his gaze, she could not help but tremble when she remembered the intense fury that blazed in those eyes short moments before. She smiled at him then, knowing that—as he had said—he would always come for her, no matter what.

  When morning came, they rounded up the horses and the pack mules. Out of respect for Charley’s father, Martha persuaded Black Elk to leave his scalp, which he did reluctantly. He even helped her dig a shallow grave. Marlowe received no such consideration. After Black Elk scalped him, he left the corpse for the buzzards. They wrapped Wolf Tail’s body in a buffalo robe found in one of the packs, and Black Elk lifted it up on one of the mules, to be taken back for a proper burial.

  After opening one of the packs to see what manner of trade goods the white
men carried, Black Elk decided to carry all the packs back to the village for the people to share. All except the firewater. One by one, he smashed each of them with his axe. When that was done, he looked at Martha and said, “We go now.”

  Martha never looked back as they led the mules out of the stand of willows by the river, hoping she could somehow erase the horrible memory from her mind. Charley was dead. She would never have to fear him again. Robert was dead, too, in all likelihood murdered by his own brother. She felt compassion for Robert’s parents, decent people who would probably never know what had happened to their sons. She shivered involuntarily as the memory of Charley’s evil sneer flashed through her mind. She would sleep very close to Black Elk this night.

  Chapter 15

  “I see ’em,” Badger said in response to Clay’s outstretched arm. The old scout had been watching the circle of buzzards for the last two miles. “More’n likely it’s just some dead animal, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a look.”

  They cut away from the trail they had been following since sunup that morning and made for the trees bordering the river, both men with a sharp eye out for any sign of danger. It appeared that whatever the buzzards had found was in the stand of willows close beside the riverbank. “I expect it would be best if we duck into the trees below that spot,” Clay suggested, “instead of riding right in off the open plain.”

  “I expect so,” Badger agreed. This was dangerous country they were riding through—Blackfoot country—it wouldn’t pay to get careless.