Savage Cry

by Charles G. West

  A half-moon hung low over the ridge far to the east of the little valley Clay had just crossed. It provided just enough light to cast faint shadows from the silent cottonwoods along the creek bank as Clay made his way through the trees looking for a good spot to tie his two horses. It was important to pick a spot that he could easily find again in the dark because, if things went the way he hoped, he’d be in one helluva hurry when he came back. Contrary to Badger’s thinking, Clay was not intent upon committing suicide, but he was determined to settle the score with Black Elk. He owed Martha that much—somebody owed her; Robert and Charley had failed her. So it was up to him.

  Ahead of him, he could now see the glow from the cook fires through the trees. Most of the women were cooking outside this time of year, and all but a few had already finished, leaving the flames to die. He decided to wait to make sure the camp had settled in for the night before advancing to the lodge where he had first noticed the young warrior on the night before. As he sat waiting, he remembered how impressed he had been when seeing the powerful warrior. He should have guessed then that the man he was watching was none other than Black Elk, if only by his physical appearance. He stood out among all other Blackfoot men Clay had seen. Under different circumstances, he might have thought it a shame to kill such a specimen, but Clay could not rid his mind of the terrible abuse Martha must have suffered at the hands of one so powerful.

  At last it was time. Clay felt the excitement of this long-awaited confrontation. It would have to be done with his knife; a rifle shot would bring the whole village down on him in an instant. He would need to find a convenient place to leave his rifle so he would be able to get to it in a hurry if he had to.

  Thoughts of Martha ran through his head as he checked to make sure his rifle had a full magazine. He wished he could apologize to her for taking so long to find Black Elk, but it couldn’t be helped. Once his rifle was ready, he removed his cartridge belt and hooked it over his saddle horn, ridding his body of anything that might be cumbersome. He hoped it wouldn’t be necessary to use his rifle, but it might be the only thing that would permit him to escape after he had done what he came to do. One last look at his horses and he turned to make his way silently through the trees.

  Working his way slowly and cautiously forward, he moved to the same point from which he had first seen Black Elk. Kneeling low to the ground, he waited there for a while, watching and listening, staring at the cowskin lodge. As before, the white pony was tied close by. He looked away toward the other lodges. All seemed quiet in the Blackfoot camp. While he scanned the sleeping village for any sign of sentries, he thought about the look of sheer power in the warrior’s shoulders and arms. A man of lesser courage might have thought twice about engaging such a physical specimen in hand-to-hand combat. Clay never questioned his resolve to conquer the Blackfoot warrior.

  Then another image invaded his thoughts. On that first night, he had watched while the warrior playfully picked his wife up in his arms and carried her into the lodge. Clay snorted silently like a mountain lion trying to rid its nostrils of an offending odor, and shook his head in an effort to clear away thoughts of his prey as a loving husband. His was a mission of vengeance. He could not think of the effect Black Elk’s death would have on his widow. To remind himself of the cruel nature of the man he stalked, Clay forced his mind to picture Martha, beaten and starved, tortured and raped. Once again his anger flamed up in his soul, and he rose to his feet. Knife in hand, he advanced toward the Blackfoot lodge.

  Sensing her husband’s eyes upon her, Martha turned to smile at him. Black Elk found it fascinating to watch her brush her hair. Her soft dark tresses seemed to reflect the firelight so that there was a mystical sheen about it. And the way she pulled the brush slowly through them caused the long gentle locks to float about her shoulders with the softness of a cloud. It pleased him that she had found the brush in the packs he had taken from the two evil white men. She brushed her hair with it every night, and he never tired of watching her. He didn’t say anything when she smiled at him. She knew his heart. Words weren’t necessary.

  Finished with the brushing, she began to braid her hair again in the style worn by the other women in the village. He continued to watch for a while before returning his attention to the bowl of boiled meat before him.

  “Red Wing says that we will soon pack up our things and follow the buffalo,” Martha said as she tied a braid with a rawhide strip.

  Black Elk nodded, and then said, “In two days. I talked to Bloody Axe and some of the others. The ponies have eaten most of the grass here. It’s time to leave.”

  He sat quietly watching while she finished braiding her hair, and then she came to sit beside him while he ate. Pushing the bowl aside, he put his arm around her and pulled her close to him. She smiled contentedly as he stroked her hair softly. It pleased her that he was fascinated with the fiery softness of her hair.

  “You pet me like you would pet one of the dogs that follow the camp,” she teased.

  He smiled. “Maybe, but I don’t share my bed with the dogs.”

  She laughed and playfully slapped his hand. “You may not want to sleep with me when winter comes again, and my belly is this big,” she said, holding her hands out before her.

  Laughing at her exaggeration, he replied, “If your belly gets that big, my son may come out fully grown—or maybe you are going to have a buffalo.”

  She started to say something else, but he held a finger to his lips in a gesture to silence her. Then he cocked his head to one side, listening. Then she heard it, too. His horse was whinnying and pawing the ground outside as if a wolf or coyote was near.

  “War Cloud is nervous tonight,” Martha said.

  “It’s probably nothing,” Black Elk said, still listening. When the pony continued to fidget, he sighed and said, “I’d better see what’s bothering him.”

  Black Elk pushed the skin flap aside and stepped out into the chilly night air. He stood for a brief moment, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness before he turned to look at his favorite war pony. Seeing nothing out of the ordinary, he walked over and took the pony’s head in his arms, stroking its forelock to calm it. Suddenly sensing a presence, he turned his head quickly toward the rear of the tipi where he discovered a figure standing in the shadows watching him. More curious than alarmed, Black Elk stepped away from the pony to get a better look at the figure now walking slowly toward him. Thinking it to be one of the men of the village—for he was dressed in clothes made of animal hides—he stood waiting for the man to identify himself.

  Clay spoke not a word as he slowly approached the Blackfoot warrior. He continued to advance until he reached the edge of the firelight. As the mysterious figure emerged from the deep shadows, Black Elk suddenly realized that it was a white man. Startled by the discovery, he quickly looked beyond the lone figure, expecting to see others following, but there appeared to be no one. Now, confounded by the mysterious appearance of a white man in the heart of Blackfoot country, Black Elk could only stand mystified.

  Both men stood completely motionless for a long moment—Black Elk not knowing what to make of it; Clay silently measuring the powerful warrior before him. Then Clay spoke. “Are you called Black Elk?”

  “I am Black Elk.”

  “Prepare to die, Black Elk.”

  Clay’s charge was so sudden, and so quick, that Black Elk was barely able to escape the long knife that searched for his ribs. Moving with the nimbleness of a puma, the Blackfoot warrior just managed to evade the upward thrust of the gleaming blade as it slashed the air inches from his side. In the wink of an eye, Black Elk was on the counterattack, rushing to meet his assailant. The two men met, their bodies colliding heavily while they strained to gain control of the knife. Locked in powerful conflict, each man sought to overpower the other, like two great beasts, knowing that to yield would mean certain death. Each man now fully realized the power of the other. They were both equal in strength.

  Clay co
uld feel the muscles in his back rippling like steel bands as he fought against Black Elk’s efforts to bend him backward. Calling on every ounce of strength he possessed, he strained against the relentless pressure from the powerful arms until gradually Black Elk was slowly forced back. Then suddenly his feet went out from under him as Black Elk hooked his leg around him. Both men went down, landing heavily on the ground. Over and over they went, each man desperately struggling to gain the advantage as they rolled beneath the startled white pony, causing it to squeal and try to jump out of the way. Out of a tangle of straining bodies and stamping hooves, Clay managed to end up on his feet, his knife still in his hand. Scrambling from under the nervous hooves of his horse, Black Elk hurried to his feet, only to bear the full force of Clay’s flying body. Crashing against the side of the tipi, Black Elk’s wind was knocked from his lungs when Clay’s shoulder drove deep in the Indian’s midsection. Straining for breath, Black Elk tried to roll away from the tipi, but Clay quickly jumped on his back, locking an arm around the warrior’s neck. In that instant, both men knew the Blackfoot was doomed. Though fighting with all his strength to break Clay’s choke hold on his neck while gasping to regain his breath, Black Elk could not grasp the hand that held the knife. Clay pulled back on the warrior’s neck with all his might while he held the knife poised to strike deep into Black Elk’s stomach. The moment of vengence he had waited for over so many months had finally come.

  “Stop!” The words rang out from behind him moments before he felt two hands lock onto his wrist, straining to stay his arm from delivering the fatal thrust. Perplexed, but still enmeshed in the fury of mortal combat, Clay fought to overcome this new adversary even as his brain registered the familiar sound of the woman’s voice. “Stop!” Martha screamed again, fighting with all the strength she could summon, determined to save her husband’s life.

  Equally determined to accomplish the execution of the hated Blackfoot warrior, Clay fought to free his wrist from the desperate woman’s grip, finally managing to fling her against the stack of firewood beside the tipi. The effort caused him to loosen his grip on Black Elk’s windpipe momentarily, enabling the powerful Blackfoot to wrench himself free, quickly rolling over on his back. With one solid kick to the kneecap, he sent Clay reeling backward a couple of steps before he could regain his balance. By the time he did, Black Elk was on his feet and poised to attack.

  “Stop!” Martha sobbed, as she scrambled to her hands and knees in her panic to rejoin the fight. Suddenly finding a heavy piece of firewood in her hand, she charged the dark assassin, her weapon ready to strike.

  Seeing that he now faced two adversaries, Clay stepped back into the firelight and prepared to meet the attack from both quarters. He welcomed the challenge. So intense was his lust for revenge, that there was no concern for his personal safety. His blood was hot, scalding his veins as he threw his foxskin cap aside in order to see his enemies clearly. “Come on, you murdering bastard,” he growled, beckoning with one hand, his knife in the other.

  Martha was stunned, unable to believe her eyes. She was stopped in her tracks by the unexpected image of her brother as the light from the fire revealed his familiar features. “Clay,” she gasped, then screamed, “Clay!” Both men were stopped by her outburst, but for only a moment before slowly advancing toward each other.

  The horrible realization of what was happening suddenly struck Martha with such force that she felt her heart stop. Frozen for a moment, she then thrust her body between the two combatants. “Clay! Stop! I love him! He’s my husband.”

  Her words reverberated through Clay’s brain like echoes in a canyon, and he realized then that it was Martha standing before him and not a vision sent to befuddle him. Dazed, he suddenly relaxed, releasing the fury that had driven him, as he stared at his sister. Hair braided and dressed in antelope hides, looking very much like an Indian . . . still it was his sister. “Martha?” he asked, “is that really you?” She smiled then, and nodded yes. Scarcely able to believe his eyes, he stepped back, almost stumbling. “Well, I’ll be . . .” That was as far as he got before she rushed to embrace him. He picked her up and whirled her around, forgetting the perilous situation he had been faced with moments before, and the dangerous adversary still poised to attack him. “I thought you were dead. I swear . . .” He put her down. Then he grasped her by the shoulders and held her at arm’s length while he looked at her. Realizing then that she was the woman he had mistaken for a Blackfoot on the first night he had scouted the camp, he shook his head, amazed.

  Greatly confused by this astonishing turn of events, Black Elk did not understand why the white man had ceased to fight. Close to death only moments before, and angry over the unprovoked attack by this mysterious stranger, he started to push Martha out of the way so he could settle with this crazy man. Martha quickly stepped in front of Clay again to protect him while she frantically explained to her husband. “This is my brother. He doesn’t know how it is with us. He came to rescue me.”

  Suddenly, several people from the nearby lodges appeared, attracted by the noise of the fight. In a few minutes, several more appeared, and Clay began to wish he was closer to the spot where he had left his rifle. Martha was almost hysterical in her effort to quickly explain to Black Elk that it had all been a tragic mistake, that Clay was not an enemy. But Clay didn’t like the looks of some of the warriors who were now crowding around, a few of them making threatening gestures. Much to his relief, Black Elk understood what Martha was trying to explain. The powerful warrior relaxed his stance, and held up his hand to quiet the angry voices in the crowd. “It’s all right. The white man means no harm. He is Six Horses’s brother. He thought she was in danger.”

  Immediately the crowd calmed, and Clay drew a long breath in relief. In the silent void that followed, his ears caught the unmistakeable sound of a Henry rifle cocking. It came from the darkness behind Black Elk’s lodge. Clay tensed at first, then smiled. “Is that you, Badger?”

  “Reckon so,” the familiar voice came back. “I figured you’d have yourself in trouble the minute I left you alone.”

  “Well, you might as well come on in and join the family reunion,” Clay said, then turned to explain Badger’s sudden appearance to Martha and Black Elk.

  There was another swell of murmuring among the gathering of people around Black Elk’s lodge when the grizzled old mountain man walked into the firelight, carrying a rifle in each hand. “Here’s that Winchester of your’n,” he said, handing the rifle to Clay. “I was kinda hopin’ this big ol’ buck here had already scalped you so’s I could keep it.” He looked Black Elk up and down, then turned his attention to Martha. “Evenin’, ma’am. From what I heard back yonder, looks like me and Clay wasted a heap of time and effort trying to rescue you.”

  Before long, the entire village had turned out to meet Six Horses’s brother and his friend. Noticing that Clay and Black Elk were still eyeing each other warily, Martha pulled the two aside. These were the two men she loved most in the whole world, and it was important to her that there must be a truce between them. Clay had been so surprised to discover Martha alive, and overwhelmed by the news that she was married to a Blackfoot warrior, that he had forgotten another concern. Suddenly he remembered. “Robert,” he blurted. “Where’s Robert? We found Charley back there by the river, and I thought maybe Robert had been captured.”

  “You didn’t know about Robert?” she asked, then went on to explain that Robert had been killed.

  When told of Charley’s probable role in the treachery, Clay couldn’t say that he was surprised to hear it. “I never did have much use for Charley Vinings,” he said. After hearing all the facts, Clay’s disposition toward his new brother-in-law took on a much warmer tone. Speaking in the Blackfoot tongue, he apologized to Black Elk for attacking him.

  “I understand,” Black Elk replied. “I might have done the same if I thought as you did.” He smiled at Martha, then said, “We must find something to eat for your brother and his
friend. It is late now, but tomorrow we must have a proper feast for them.” Turning back to Clay, he said, “You and your friend will sleep in my lodge tonight.”

  Clay and Badger graciously accepted the invitation, and after retrieving their horses, unrolled their blankets inside Black Elk’s tipi. It was an odd experience for Clay, looking around him at the typical Blackfoot lodge and the simple homemaking utensils that were now his sister’s. The furnishings of her home in Virginia, hardly elegant at the time, seemed luxurious compared to her present cowhide dwelling and the few simple tools she used to cook and sew. He found he could not keep himself from staring at Martha, still finding it hard to believe how she seemed so at home in these surroundings. Her movements were silent and efficient as she busied herself around the fire. Every few minutes she would pause and smile at him as she prepared food for her guests. Like an Indian, he thought. Martha married to a Blackfoot warrior—it’s gonna take some getting used to. Glancing back at his host, the quiet Blackfoot warrior, he marveled, Sure is a helluva difference from Robert Vinings. He was also quite different from the savage image Clay had carried in his mind for so long.

  The food prepared, Martha sat down across from her brother, and watched him while he ate. She could well imagine how different she must seem to Clay as she sat next to her Blackfoot husband. But he had changed as well. All traces of the impetuous young man were gone from his handsome face. She supposed the war had been responsible for that. In its place, there was a quiet confidence that no doubt sprang from the strength that had come within a hair of killing someone as powerful as Black Elk. She could not help but tremble when she recalled that frightening moment. Clay, always her favorite, before her now, every bit as much a mountain man as the grizzled old scout seated at his right hand. We have come a long way from Fredericksburg, Clay and I, she thought.