Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  When they entered the trees, the two men split up, Clay pulling his horse off to the right of Badger, leaving a space of about twenty yards between them. In this fashion, their two pairs of eyes could take in more of the scrub they were riding into. Walking their horses slowly, they filed through the clumps of gooseberry bushes and junipers, skirting the thickets that hugged the river’s banks, all the while glancing back and forth, never letting their gaze linger on one spot for more than an instant. Clay did it without thinking. After months of riding with Badger, he had acquired the habit of seeing everything around him, constantly looking for sign. It was a healthy habit because ambush was the Blackfoot’s stock in trade.

  It didn’t take long to discover what had attracted the buzzards. There was a small clearing in the midst of the willows where someone had obviously made a camp. Near the edge of the clearing, one large buzzard sat on the chest of a corpse while half a dozen others flapped about, squawking raucously.

  Satisfied that whoever had killed the man was long gone, Clay and Badger rode on into the clearing and dismounted. Using their rifles as clubs, they scattered the cluster of buzzards around the body, backing the hissing scavengers away long enough to take a look at the corpse.

  “He’s a big’un,” Badger said as he bent over the mutilated body. “White man, shot full of holes. Somebody wanted to make sure he was good and dead.” He straightened up again. “Git back!” he yelled at the emboldened buzzards as they began to crowd in, reluctant to give up their feast.

  Clay moved around to get a better look at the man’s face, what was left of it. The back of the man’s head was shattered, a result of too many bullet holes to count accurately. “He’s been scalped,” he observed. Looking at the congealed blood around the top of his head, he said, “He ain’t been dead more than two or three days.” Clay had seen enough dead men during his time in the war to make a fair estimate.

  “That’s about right,” Badger agreed, moving around to have a closer look himself. Then it occurred to him. “Damn, Clay, ain’t he that big ol’ feller you whacked on the nose at Fort Union? Marlowe, I believe Pete called him.”

  Clay took another look and considered. “Hard to tell.” He studied the corpse for another few seconds. “I believe you’re right, though. I wonder what he was doing way out here. He’s a helluva long way from Fort Union.”

  “No tellin’. That low-down son of a bitch was more’n likely up to no good, I’ll bet.”

  Unwilling to give up what they figured rightfully belonged to them, the ring of buzzards closed in once more on the two men standing over the corpse. Dancing closer and flapping their wings, they issued a loud challenge, retreating only when Clay or Badger would make an aggressive move toward them.

  “I wanna take a look around this camp,” Badger said. “Let’s drag this bastard down in the bushes a’ways, and let the buzzards finish their supper.” He and Clay each grabbed a heel, and pulled the heavy corpse down through the brush. The buzzards followed behind them, squawking like chickens waiting to be fed.

  There was plenty of sign to tell at least part of the story. The most obvious were the shattered jugs. Badger bent low and sniffed a broken shard. “Whiskey. I thought so. That’s what that ol’ boy was up to.” He stood up again, and looked about him at the ground. “Looks like he tried to sell firewater to the wrong Injun.”

  “They must have had somebody tied to a tree,” Clay observed aloud as he examined the ground around a slim willow. “You can see where the rope burned the bark on this little willow.”

  Badger nodded his head. “Yeah, looks like ol’ Marlowe run into a heap of trouble.”

  By the trampled bushes and droppings in the trees, they could readily see where Marlowe had hobbled his packhorses. Puzzling were the other bloodstains apart from those where Marlowe’s body had lain. “Maybe he got a couple of ’em before they got him,” Badger offered as explanation. Then Clay found something outside the clearing, almost hidden by a clump of gooseberry bushes.

  “There’s a fresh grave over here,” Clay called out.

  Badger dropped the top half of a jug he had been holding, and came at once to examine the grave. “That sure is peculiar now, ain’t it? If it was Injuns what done this, why would they bury one of ’em and leave the other’n for the buzzards?” He looked at Clay, a question on his face. “I think I’ll take a look at who’s buried in this grave.”

  “Why?” Clay wondered aloud. He couldn’t see that it would help them any to find out.

  “Curiosity, I reckon,” Badger replied as he started back to his packhorse for a shovel.

  The grave was still fresh enough for the dirt to be soft, and after only fifteen minutes’ work with the shovel, Badger uncovered the body of a white man. He tossed the shovel aside and pulled the dirt away from the dead man’s face with his hands. After another few seconds, he sat back on his heels and said, “Ain’t nobody I know.”

  Clay knelt down on one knee to get a closer look at the corpse. At first, it didn’t look like anyone he knew, either. The features were wooden and drawn in death, a ragged slash gaping beneath the scrubby beard. And yet, there was something familiar about that face. He studied it a moment longer before he suddenly realized who he was staring at. “Charley Vinings,” he blurted. Then looking back at Badger, he repeated, “Charley Vinings.”

  “Who’s Charley Vinings?” Badger wanted to know. The name meant nothing to him.

  Clay explained that Charley was Martha’s brother-in-law. “That might explain why Marlowe was in Blackfoot country. Maybe Charley hired him as a guide, and they were trying to find Martha.”

  “He picked a helluva guide,” Badger snorted.

  Clay stepped back away from the shallow grave to give himself some room to think. With Charley here, where then was Robert? Maybe some of those other bloodstains in the clearing belonged to Robert. Maybe the murdering Blackfeet took him captive. Could be that I’ve misjudged Robert and Charley. They may have been looking for Martha all along. The cruel image of the savage Black Elk returned to his conscious thoughts, and he could feel his muscles tense as he pictured what had taken place at this lonely campsite.

  As if to confirm Clay’s thoughts, Badger commented, “That’s what it looks like, all right. They was camped here and the Blackfeet jumped ’em.” He scratched his head thoughtfully. “What I can’t figure out, though, is why they buried this feller, and not the other one. And they scalped Marlowe, but not this one.”

  Badger dismissed it as just another example of how unpredictable the Blackfeet were. For Clay’s part, he wasn’t concerned with the why of it. His mind was focused on the murder of Martha’s brother-in-law by the Blackfeet, and in his mind, it was by the hand of Black Elk. Who could say what Robert’s fate was? The urgency to get underway again was now more crucial than ever. This massacre had occurred no more than a couple of days before. Black Elk could not be far away. Clay only hoped that he would reach Martha and Robert before they were slaughtered, too. He had little hope of being able to help Robert. In all likelihood, the Blackfeet would have already tortured and killed him. But he would not permit himself to think that Martha was dead. The reports they had received from Black Shirt’s camp indicated that a white woman was traveling with Bloody Axe’s village. Martha has to be alive. Why would they kill her after all this time? One fact seemed to be painfully clear, however. There would be no peaceful negotiations with this band of Blackfeet. Probably Robert and Charley had tried that. Charley’s battered body attested to the failure of their efforts.

  “Well, partner, looks like we’d better decide just what the hell we’re gonna do.” Badger’s comment broke into Clay’s thoughts. “I don’t think we’re far from them Blackfeet you’re lookin’ for—and there’s a plain enough trail they left when they rode outta here. The part I ain’t sure about is, what are you plannin’ to do when we catch up to ’em?”

  Clay was already giving that question plenty of thought. There were only a couple of things he kn
ew for sure. If Martha was in the camp, he was going to get her . . . or die trying. The second thing he was certain of was that he would hunt Black Elk down and kill him. There were other concerns that he had to give serious thought, however. He had no right to jeopardize Badger’s life in this personal, and perhaps fatal, quest that now consumed his mind. After a long pause, he finally answered Badger’s question. “Nothing’s changed. I’m going after Martha.” He turned to look the old trapper in the eye. “I don’t expect you to risk your neck any further. You’ve gotten me this far, I reckon I can follow this trail the rest of the way.”

  Badger studied his friend’s face for a moment before replying. He liked this young firebrand, who could smolder so intensely with a fire within, while giving no indication of the burning passion on the outside. “You know it don’t look likely this band of Blackfeet is gonna waste time talking. If you try to go in peaceful, you’re liable to end up like these fellers.”

  “I know,” Clay replied. “I don’t plan to talk to them. I’m gonna tail them until I find where they’re keeping Martha. Then I’ll wait for a chance to get to her.”

  Badger continued to study Clay’s face, considering his words. “All right, say you do that, and you do get a chance to snatch her. Then what are you gonna do?”

  “I don’t know,” Clay answered truthfully. “Just run for it, I guess. I’ll just have to take it as it comes.” He shrugged his shoulders, dismissing the concern. “I’ll make it somehow. I always have.”

  “These fellers lying here always made it, too, till they met up with this bunch of Injuns. You ain’t got no more chance than a chicken in a den full of foxes. Nah, I reckon I’m gonna have to go with you. You’re gonna need my rifle.” That said, he turned and gathered up his horse’s reins, preparing to mount. As he put a foot in the stirrup, he added, “We’re still gonna lose our scalps.”

  They followed a trail that led north, away from the river and toward Willow Creek, as best Badger could guess. They concluded that it had to have been a small party that jumped Charley and Marlowe because the tracks they followed were left by no more than ten or twelve horses. That conclusion was not one hundred percent accurate, Badger pointed out, because the Blackfeet often went on foot if they were going to steal horses. But he had a feeling that the massacre they had just left was not the result of a horse-stealing party.

  The sun had not yet set when Badger reined back hard near the brow of a long ridge. “Hold up,” he called back. When Clay caught up to him, he pointed to a fringe of cottonwoods and alders that defined a creek no more than half a mile away. Beyond was a gathering of at least a hundred lodges. “Well, there’s your Blackfoot camp.”

  Clay’s heart was pounding with the excitement of knowing that Martha might be less than a mile away. He could feel the blood surging through his veins as he realized that the end of a journey that started nearly a year before had finally been reached. Now he must confirm whether or not Martha was actually here. After looking over the layout of the village from the ridge, they agreed that there was very little concealment nearby. If they were going to scout the camp up close, it was going to have to be at night.

  “Best thing we can do right now,” Badger advised, “is head for them hills over there.” He pointed toward a chain of hills off to the west toward the mountains. “Find us a place to leave these packhorses.” He was also thinking of the best possible avenue of escape if indeed they were successful in rescuing Clay’s sister. He could already picture a desperate race for their lives with a horde of angry Blackfoot warriors on their tails. They would have a better chance in the hills. Knowing what Badger had in mind, Clay agreed, and they rode westward along the ridge until the hills between them and the village blocked their view.

  Crossing the creek well below the Blackfoot camp, they rode up through the tree-covered slopes until they found a narrow gulch running down toward a tiny stream winding its way drunkenly through a tiny meadow. After scouting the meadow for sign, they decided that it was well off the beaten path of the Blackfoot hunters. In fact, there were no tracks to be found, not even old ones. So they hobbled the horses and waited for darkness.

  It was a long wait for Clay Culver. Now that he was so close to Martha, he could not help but worry. He had waited so many long days to find her that he feared something might happen to prevent him from reaching her. What if it was not the right village? But it had to be. The trail from Charley’s grave led straight to this camp. It was the right village, and the murdering savage he had built up such a hatred for was in that village. Black Elk. The mere thought of the man caused his muscles to tense, and he unconsciously dropped his hand to the handle of his knife. I’ll open his throat the same way he did for poor Charley. He glanced over at Badger, his head propped up on his saddle, his hat pulled down over his eyes, sleeping the innocent sleep of the newborn. Clay shook his head, amazed at the man’s lack of concern. Then he got to his feet and walked up to the top of the gulch to take a look around.

  From where he stood, on the rocky crown of the hill, he could not see the Blackfoot camp some three or four miles distant. But he could see the faint wisps of brown smoke that wafted up from the lodges by the water’s edge, and he could imagine his sister working as a slave in one of those lodges. The thought prompted him to turn and cast an accusing glance at the sun. It would still be hours before dark. Other, darker, thoughts crowded his mind. And he wondered if Robert was still alive or if Martha had been forced to witness her husband’s slow torture at the hands of Black Elk. “Damn,” he swore, his impatience about to get the best of him.

  In the Blackfoot camp, the women were preparing meat for the feasts that many of their husbands were calling for. It had been a good day hunting, and there was fresh antelope roasting over the fire. Throughout the camp, men were calling out invitations to their friends to join them in a feast. Martha sat before her fire, watching her supper boil in a new iron pot that had been among the trade goods on Charley’s packmules. She was preparing food for herself only, since Black Elk had accepted an invitation to feast in Jumping Horse’s lodge. As she stared at the shiny black pot, she wondered if the day would ever come when she could look at it and not be reminded of Charley and the violent ending of his life. For that reason, she had been tempted to give the pot to Red Wing, but she could not bring herself to part with it, since her old pot had a crack in the side. Without a good pot, she couldn’t cook the meat until it was thoroughly done. Only a few women in the village had no metal containers. For those unfortunate few, meat had to be boiled in a crude stone pot, or a hole in the ground with a green hide for a liner and hot stones to heat the water. As a result, the meat was never cooked thoroughly, usually only long enough to lose the red color.

  Ridding her thoughts of Charley, Martha sat back and gazed at the last rays of the setting sun as they streamed through the notches in the mountains to the west, setting a thin layer of clouds ablaze with shades of red and gold. Life was good. She had found a perfect peace here. And while she often had thoughts of her father and mother and her brothers far, far away on the little Rapidan River in Virginia, she would not choose to give up this life she had found here. They would never be able to understand this. In fact, they might be horrified to know that she would choose to live with Black Elk rather than return home to Virginia. For this reason, she knew that she would never see her parents again. The thought always made her feel melancholy, and she would find herself trying to picture each member of her family in her mind, memorizing each face so she would never forget. The one she always saved for last was Clay. Clay was her favorite—tall and strong, always sure of himself. She whispered a little prayer that he would return from the war safely. The war, she thought. I have forgotten about the war. It had once been the most important event in her young life, now it had not crossed her mind in well over a year. Virginia was so far away, packed away in another lifetime like an old trunk in the attic.

  She realized then that the clouds she had been gazing at
had lost their gilded edge, and were now only dark blue-gray streaks floating over the distant peaks, as the last rays of the sun faded away. It would be dark soon. I hope Black Elk does not linger. The coming darkness did not frighten her; she simply longed for her husband’s return.

  Lost in her reverie, she had almost forgotten her supper. Turning her attention back to the iron pot, she tested the meat with a wooden spoon to see if it was tender. Satisfied, she dipped it out of the pot into a stone bowl. Placing it before her, she smiled in a brief moment of reflection as she looked at the bowl. She traced the rim of it with her fingertip. Moon Shadow had helped her make the bowl. She had helped her search for the right size rock, a soft rock found along the bluffs of the river. Together, they had pounded it and ground it with a harder stone until it was shaped into a bowl. The memory brought a sad smile to her face. She missed Moon Shadow. She was sure Black Elk missed her, too, but he never spoke of her. It was not polite to speak of the dead.

  A soft whisper of buckskin told her that her husband had returned. Without looking behind her, she teased, “I hear my clumsy husband tromping his way home. Or maybe it is one of the horses coming up from the pony herd.” She took great delight in their gentle teasing, especially when he attempted to affect his stern expression, pretending he was offended by her playful remarks.

  “Maybe I have returned to throw my lazy wife out of my lodge—send you back to your mother.” He tapped her playfully on her head. “I think I should get myself a wife like Jumping Horse’s, one who really knows how to take care of her husband.”

  Martha laughed. She knew that Black Elk did not think much of Brown Calf. “How did you enjoy the feast?” she asked, a mischievous gleam in her eye as she turned to look at her husband.

  Black Elk crumpled his mouth, making a sour face. “The meat was roasted black. It had the taste of ashes. I don’t understand why that woman cannot see when the meat is cooked.”