Martha laughed again. “Maybe when you invite them to your lodge, they go back and tell each other that your wife doesn’t let the meat get done.”
“Maybe,” he said, rubbing his stomach as if trying to soothe it. He reached into the bowl beside her and picked up a piece of the boiled meat. She slapped his hand playfully. “Wagh,” he blurted, pretending to be enraged. “You are long overdue for a good beating.” Then he reached down and snatched her off the ground, lifting her up in his arms as easily as if she were a baby. Laughing delightedly, she threw her arms around his neck as he carried her into the tipi.
Clay made his way slowly through cottonwoods that bordered the wide creek. Moving from tree to tree, he worked his way in close to the outer ring of lodges. Taking cover behind a screen of low bushes, he lay on his belly, watching the Blackfoot camp as the evening approached. His eyes darted from tipi to tipi, searching for the familiar face of his sister among the women tending their cook fires. He started to move on to another vantage point when his eye caught sight of a powerfully built warrior returning to a lodge some twenty yards from his spot. A handsome all-white pony grazed peacefully on the sparse grass by the tipi. Badger had said that it was a common practice among the warriors of many tribes to keep their favorite war pony tied by their lodge. Clay could easily understand why the white horse was a prized possession.
Clay turned his gaze back to the warrior. He lingered a moment to watch as the man stopped to speak to the woman seated before the fire. She was, no doubt, the warrior’s wife. It was difficult to see her face clearly in the flickering glow of the campfire, but she looked to be a typical Blackfoot woman. They talked for a few minutes, then Clay could not suppress a smile when the man playfully picked her up and carried her into the lodge.
Moving again, slowly working his way around the perimeter of the camp, Clay cautiously avoided the large pony herd near the bank of the creek for fear they might announce his presence. Crawling on his belly, he made his way up to the rear of a lodge decorated with paintings and buffalo tails. Peering around the edge of the tipi, he could see a great part of the center of the village. So close was he to the back of the lodge that he could hear voices inside, and was even able to catch a few words through the cowskin outer covering.
With evening lengthening, the casual comings and goings in the village began to decrease as the people retired to their lodges for the night. Among all the women busy with their evening chores, there was not a sign of a white woman, and no sign of Robert, either. Maybe, he thought, Badger would have better luck on the opposite side of the village. Disappointed, but not discouraged, Clay remained behind the tipi for almost half an hour, moving only when he heard a man’s voice inside announce that he was going outside to relieve himself. Pushing away from the tipi, Clay crawled backward until he felt it safe to get to his feet and make a quick retreat to the safety of the cottonwoods.
By the time a large silver moon emerged from behind the hills, the village was quiet with only an occasional soul venturing out. Clay retraced his path until he came to the edge of the creek, where he found Badger waiting for him.
“See anything?” Clay wanted to know as soon as he glanced around him to make sure no one was in earshot.
“Nary a thing,” Badger replied. “Leastways nuthin’ that looked like a white woman.” Feeling the disappointment his report brought, he added a word of encouragement. “We can’t tell much slipping around here at night, anyway. Just ’cause we ain’t seen her don’t mean she ain’t here. Maybe we can find a spot close enough to see in the daylight. If she’s here, that’s when she’ll be out workin’ on hides, or diggin’ up roots, or whatever they make her do.”
It was not possible to move in as close to the village during the day as it had been the night before. So Clay and Badger spent a portion of the morning seeking out a workable vantage point from which they could observe most of the camp’s activities. The frustration of their situation began to work on Clay’s patience almost from the first hour of watching.
“Damn this waiting,” he exclaimed, after lying on his belly in a stand of young pines for most of the morning. “I’ve got to get in closer. I can’t tell who I’m looking at from this distance, red or white.”
The problem was, as Badger pointed out, Bloody Axe had picked a pretty good spot for his campsite: creek on one side and over a hundred yards of open ground between the cottonwoods where his lodges were set up and the low hills where Clay and Badger lay. It made it next to impossible for anyone, enemy or friend, to advance upon the village without being seen. Knowing the anxiety Clay had to be suffering at this point, Badger tried to keep his young friend calm, for fear he might do something rash. Remembering the fight back on the forks of the Milk River when the Blackfeet shot that big sorrel that Clay thought so much of, Badger knew the young man had a temper.
“Everything looks peaceful enough,” Badger commented. “If she’s in the camp, we’re bound to see her sooner or later.”
“Maybe they’ve got her tied up somewhere,” Clay replied. He felt certain Martha was in the camp. She had to be. If she weren’t with this band of Blackfeet, he didn’t know where else to search. Badger was telling him to be patient, but Clay was finding it extremely difficult, knowing that Martha might be suffering at that very moment, no more than a hundred yards or so away. The more he thought about it, the more likely it seemed to him that Martha might indeed be tied up inside one of the lodges. Knowing her determination, it was easy for him to assume that she would have tried to escape at every opportunity. For that reason, it was probably necessary to keep her tied. “This isn’t getting us anywhere,” he finally blurted. “I’ve got to come back tonight when I can work my way in close again. I think she’s in one of those tipis.”
“Maybe so,” Badger allowed. “But I doubt it. She’s been travelin’ with this bunch for a long time—too long for them to be keepin’ her tied up. They’da kilt her before now if she kept runnin’ away.”
Clay cocked his head around to look at Badger. He didn’t like to talk about the possibility that Martha was dead. He was about to say as much when Badger suddenly pointed toward the lower end of the camp where a group of women were walking down toward the creek, carrying skin buckets. Instead of stopping at the water’s edge to fill their buckets, they turned and followed the bank downstream toward a sand spit covered with low bushes.
“Berry pickin’, I’d guess if it wasn’t so early in the spring,” Badger speculated. “Ain’t no berries ripe this early. Probably lookin’ for some roots or herbs.” He watched the group as they made their way through the trees on the creek bank, then he looked back at Clay. “There’s about fifteen or sixteen of ’em. Your sister might be one of ’em.”
It took the better part of an hour to retreat from the pines on the hill and work their way around to a point below the camp where they could cross over to the cover of the trees by the creek. Twice they were forced to hide, lying flat, hugging the ground, as a Blackfoot hunting party passed only yards away, talking and laughing among themselves. Thanks to his lessons with Johnny MacGruder’s wife during the long winter months just past, Clay could pick up the occasional word that drifted from the hunting parties. After reaching the concealment offered by the cottonwoods and willows, it was a far easier task to make their way upstream until reaching a point just below the sand spit. The women were already busily digging around the roots of the bushes by the time Clay and Badger were in position.
Laughing and chattering lightheartedly, the women worked through the little point of land jutting out into the water. Clay stared hard at each one whenever he could get a clear view through the foliage. His heart was pounding with the anticipation he felt as his gaze went from one woman to another. It would be the best of situations if she were among the women—a real piece of luck. For if she were one of the party, he could snatch her away and be gone before the other women could get back to the village to give the alarm.
Badger peered at the wo
men, trying to discover a white face. Then after a few moments when he was unsuccessful, he turned to watch Clay’s face for signs of a spark of recognition. There were none. Instead, he saw his young partner’s expression sag with disappointment. “She’s not here,” Clay said.
“You know, son,” Badger began, “I don’t wanna discourage you, but maybe she ain’t with this band.”
“Maybe,” was all Clay would concede at the moment. He had been convinced that Martha was still a captive, bound hand and foot in one of the many lodges. But he could not totally dismiss the worrisome feeling that she could be dead. “We’ll watch the camp for the rest of the day. Then if I don’t see her, I’m going in close tonight. I’ll find her if she’s here.”
“All right,” was all Badger said, but he wasn’t sure he liked the fatal tone of Clay’s voice. He had a pretty strong feeling that, if Clay didn’t find his sister, he would be more determined than ever to find Black Elk. And that sounded like a surefire way to commit suicide. He couldn’t stop the man if he was bound to go in recklessly looking for revenge against the warrior who abducted his sister, and maybe killed her. Clay was too powerful a man to restrain physically. But Badger thought he should at least try to talk some sense into his young friend.
“You know, son, you might not wanna throw all your gunpowder into the fire at once. There’s a heap of Injuns in this here camp. We ain’t hardly give it enough time to see all the women in the whole damn village. Why don’t we give it a few more days before you git in too close? She may be here and we just ain’t seen her yet.” He paused to see if Clay was hearing what he said. “There’s another possibility. She might be somewhere else, not in this camp a’tall, and we just have to keep lookin’. Black Elk mighta traded her to somebody else. You don’t wanna lose your scalp here if she might be with another band of Injuns.”
Clay had considered that possibility, and it gave him pause. Maybe Martha wasn’t here, but he knew for sure that this was Black Elk’s village, and his hatred for the savage that abducted his sister was smoldering inside him, threatening to explode. His rational mind understood what Badger was trying to impress upon him, and he knew that it would be foolish to get overly reckless in his determination to find out what had happened to his sister. Then, too, there was his responsibility to Badger. He could not take any action that might endanger Badger’s life. Still, the longing to avenge Martha was so strong within him that he knew he would not rest until he had settled with Black Elk. As he knelt there in the trees, his mind was in a quandary. He was tempted to go back, get his horse, ride right into the middle of the village, and challenge this Black Elk to face him.
“That would really be suicide,” Badger retorted when told of Clay’s thinking. “Let’s just keep watchin’ ’em like I said before.”
“All right,” Clay replied impatiently. “We’ll watch ’em, but I’m going in tonight.”
Since they were already on the lower side of the village, near the creek, they decided to work their way up to a cluster of alders across the water from the pony herd. Once they had advanced as close as they dared, Badger made himself comfortable and pulled out a piece of deer jerky to chew on. Offering some to Clay, he joked, “Here, better keep your strength up since you’re figurin’ on fighting this whole band of Injuns.”
Clay declined the offering. “There ain’t but one of ’em I’m looking to fight,” he stated.
The afternoon wore on. There were a great many people coming and going in the gathering of lodges near the creek. Hunters in twos, threes, and some larger parties returned to the village as the sun settled low in the mountains beyond. The women scurried about busily, taking charge of the day’s kill, gathering firewood, and preparing for the evening meal. But amid all the activity, Clay saw no sign of Martha or Robert. By the time the sun began sinking low on the second day of their surveillance, Clay was convinced more than ever that she was dead. He rejected the possibility that she had been traded away. As the shadows lengthened among the alders, he and Badger withdrew from their position near the creek bank. It was time to return to their camp in the hills to take care of their horses.
“Git down!” Badger suddenly whispered, just as they were about to leave the trees below the camp. Both men dived for cover behind a fallen cottonwood only moments before a party of six Blackfoot hunters entered the clearing between the creek and the hills. Their ponies padded softly by, no more than a few yards from where Clay and Badger lay hugging the ground behind the dead tree. So close were the hunters that Clay could plainly hear their conversation.
“The hunting has been good today,” one of the hunters said. “There will be many feasts in the village tonight.”
Another answered. “It has been good, but I think Bloody Axe is ready to go and find the buffalo that have been reported to the east. At least, that’s what Three Bulls told me this morning. What do you think, Black Elk?”
Like a sharp knife, the name Black Elk slashed a jagged scar down the length of Clay’s spine, numbing him to his fingertips. As quickly as he could, he crawled over to the end of the dead tree where he could risk taking a look without exposing himself. It was him! The powerfully built warrior he had seen the night before. He scolded himself for not guessing as much when he first saw the young warrior. Now Black Elk was answering the warrior who had asked the question, but the words were lost on Clay. His soul was so filled with the fury that had been building for almost a year that he couldn’t even hear Badger’s whispered warnings. “Easy, son, easy.” His concentration centered on one thing, Clay began to slowly rise up from the ground until he felt the steel grip of Badger’s hand on his arm, holding him back.
He was about to wrench his arm free of Badger’s grip when he looked back into the old trapper’s face. Badger slowly shook his head, then motioned over his shoulder. When Clay looked in the direction indicated, he saw why Badger was trying to hold him. A second party of hunters was following Black Elk’s party, and was only a dozen or so yards behind. Clay hesitated, stone still for a long moment, as if deciding what to do. Finally, seeing the folly of what he was about to do, and realizing there was also Badger’s neck to consider, he sank back to the ground and waited. He felt Badger’s hand relax as the old trapper sighed in relief.
They remained flat on the ground behind the fallen tree until all the hunters had passed and were out of sight. When the way was clear, Badger scurried up from behind the log and headed for the tiny meadow in the hills where the horses were tied. Clay was close behind him. Once they had gained the cover of the hills, Badger spoke.
“For a minute back there, I thought you was gonna cook our bacon for sure.”
Clay didn’t answer. His mind was still locked on the image of the fierce Blackfoot warrior, and his body was still tense from the closeness of the encounter. Badger, fully realizing just how close they had come to losing their scalps, kept up an almost constant stream of conversation all the way back to their camp, hoping to cool Clay’s temper. It seemed to work, for Clay appeared to be calm once again as the two of them took care of their horses.
“I’m going in after that son of a bitch,” Clay suddenly blurted.
“What?” Badger replied, surprised by his young friend’s outburst. Clay had been sitting silently for a long time, staring into the fire, apparently submerged deep in thought.
As if just coming out of a trance, Clay turned toward him. “I said I’m going in that village after the son of a bitch that killed Martha.” The steady blue eyes firmly fixed upon Badger told of the sincerity of his statement. “I know which lodge is his. I saw it last night when we went down to their camp. I’m not making that decision for both of us, mind you. I don’t want to put you in any danger, so it might be a good idea if you packed up and put a little more distance between you and this place.” When Badger was obviously too dumbfounded to reply right away, Clay continued. “Badger, I’m much obliged for taking me this far, but I’m not gonna risk your neck any further.”
“W
ell, if that ain’t somethin’,” Badger finally found his voice. “That’s about the dumbest thing I’ve heard in a while. Is livin’ that damn unpleasant to you?”
“I know, I know,” Clay said impatiently in an attempt to cut the lecture short. “You might as well save your breath. It’s just something I have to do. But I ain’t asking you to help me.”
“What if your sister ain’t dead? Maybe she’s just with another band of Injuns.”
“She’s dead,” Clay pronounced solemnly. “We know for sure she was with Bloody Axe’s band, and she’s not here now. That murdering devil Black Elk killed her. I know my sister. She wouldn’t give in to them, so he killed her.”
“Clay, what you’re thinkin’ about doin’ don’t make a lick of sense. There’s maybe a hundred Blackfoot warriors in that camp. Even if you git in there and kill Black Elk, you’re gonna have the whole blame bunch of ’em on your tail.”
Clay was unmoved. “That’s why you better make some distance between you and them while you’ve got the chance,” he said calmly.
Badger was about to protest further, but decided it would be wasted effort. “Damn, Clay . . .” was all he offered.
“I know,” Clay said softly. He understood Badger’s concern, and he appreciated it. “I’m much obliged for all you’ve done for me, but I reckon this is where we part company. I don’t aim to commit suicide any more than the next man, but that damn Indian is gonna have to pay for stealing my sister, whether he murdered her or not. I didn’t come all this way to just turn around and go home when I didn’t find her.”
There was little more to talk about after that. Badger could do no more than shrug his shoulders and wonder at the impetuousness of youth. Clay was a grown man, and if he wanted to risk his neck . . . well, it was his neck. Out in this country, a man did pretty much what he wanted to—if he had the iron to back it up. And Clay Culver had more than his share.
Savage Cry Page 25
