by F. M. Parker
“We will find buffalo to kill for food,” Anton added. “We can make an early camp, and Mathias and I will hunt.”
“Anton is right,” Mathias said. “Now we must hold a proper funeral for our brother John and bury him. Two of you men dig a grave here near where he lays.”
The grave was dug. Mathias spoke the words of the burial ritual and led the people in song. The body, wrapped in a blanket, was lowered into the earth. The excavation was filled and the prairie sod placed over the mound of dirt.
“Prepare to travel,” Mathias told the gathering.
Caroline turned away with a heavy heart. The people were in great peril. She sensed a catastrophe sweeping toward them.
She walked to her tent. Silently she worked with the other three women to dismantle it and load their possessions on the handcart. They finished the task and waited for the call to move out.
Caroline saw Mathias and Anton circling the camp from different directions. The two met near Caroline.
“Have you seen Ellen?” Mathias asked. “The women at her cart are complaining she’s not helping them pack.”
“I saw her first thing this morning but not since then.”
“We’ve looked everywhere among the carts,” Anton said. “I don’t believe she’s in camp.”
“Then I think she may have started back to St. Joe,” Caroline said. “She spoke several times of wanting all of us to turn back. John’s death and the loss of the cattle could have made her decide to do just that.”
“I remember her saying that at Alice’s death,” Mathias said. “She’d be a fool to try to make such a dangerous trip alone.”
“She’s been acting odd lately,” Caroline said. “She may not be thinking clearly.”
“If she is heading to St. Joe, she’d follow our old trail,” Anton said, looking east across the plain. “I don’t see anyone.”
“Ellen is a fast walker,” Caroline said. “If she left soon after we found John, she could be three to four miles away and not in sight.”
“I’ll go and find her,” Anton said.
“Force her to return with you, if you have to,” Mathias said.
“All right. I’ll pack my bedroll and some grub.”
“Take your rifle and ride one of the mules,” Mathias said. “We’ll get along with just three mules hitched to one of the wagons until you get back.”
“I’ll catch back up to the handcart company in a couple of days.”
“We’ll be watching for you,” Mathias replied. “But, Anton, if you don’t find her soon, come back without her. We need you and the mule. The safety of our people here must come before Ellen.”
“I understand,” Anton said. “But I shall not fail to find her.”
***
A smile of great joy wreathed Ellen’s face as she strode along. She was free of the handcart company whose people were dying from exhaustion and Indian knives in the dark. And now that Indians had taken the cattle, more people would soon die from starvation. She was returning to civilization, to the streets and safety of St. Joe.
As she walked, she kept a close watch to the rear. Someone from the handcart company might try to find her and force her to return.
A film of sweat gradually formed on her forehead as the sun climbed its high arc. She took a drink from her canteen and put it back inside her pack.
Near noon, Ellen spotted a figure coming across the prairie far behind her. She hastily went off the trail. After a couple of hundred yards she found a buffalo wallow. Smiling slyly, she lay down in the depression and watched the trail.
A man riding a mule passed and drew away to the east. She recognized Anton. When he was only a tiny, blurred form, she rose up from her hiding place. She could no longer follow the trail because he might be lying in wait someplace ahead and catch her.
She turned south and paced off. She would outsmart the missionary by going in a different direction. She laughed a lunatic’s laugh.
26
DeBreen saw the form of some animal penned against the red disk of the evening sun. Gradually, as the band of trappers traveled on, the figure took distinct shape, a man riding astride a bareback mule. He held a rifle across the mule’s back in front of him.
“Hello,” the man called out as he came near. He lifted a hand and smiled at the band of trappers. “I’m glad to see some white men.”
“Howdy,” DeBreen replied.
“A woman wondered off from our group. Have you seen her along the trail?”
“Nope,” DeBreen said.
Anton was dismayed at the answer. “Have you been on the trail all day?”
“Today and every other day since we left Florence,” DeBreen said. “What outfit are you with? Where are you bound?”
DeBreen saw the man hesitate to answer as his eyes examined the faces of the trappers who fanned out across the trail in front of him.
“To Salt Lake City,” Anton said.
“I see. You’re one of the Mormon people,” DeBreen said in a friendly tone.
“Yes.”
“How many women you got with you?”
Anton knew the question was not innocent. The men’s countenances were hard. The horses they rode looked worn from fast traveling. Had the men came hunting for the Saints?
“A few,” Anton said. He rested his hand on his rifle, a finger curved over the hammer, ready to ear it back. He felt the hand tremble. He had never fought with a gun in his life. “Are you sure you saw no sign of a lone woman walking east?”
DeBreen ignored the question. “How far away are the rest of your Mormons?”
“I’ll guess I’ll get on my way,” Anton said, as if DeBreen had not spoken. He gathered the reins and started to turn the mule to go around the men and horses on the trail.
“Wait a minute,” DeBreen ordered. “Leave the mule with us.”
Anton looked at the trapper in surprise. His hand gripped the rifle. “No, I need the mule to ride.”
“Dead men can’t ride,” DeBreen said. He drew his pistol swiftly, pointed it at Anton, and fired.
The bullet smashed through the bridge of Anton’s nose, tore on through his skull, and exploded out the rear of his head. The heavily charged ball of lead rocked Anton back onto the rump of the mule. His legs came loose from the animal’s ribs. He fell, landing hard upon the ground.
“One Mormon polygamist sent on to his celestial kingdom,” DeBreen said. “As young as he was, he probably didn’t have any wives there. He’ll have to live forever without a woman.”
“Only a couple of dozen more Mormons to shoot,” added Stanker.
DeBreen began to laugh. The other men joined in, and the band’s laughter swelled to an uproarious gale that could be heard for a mile across the prairie.
As the laughter quieted, Stanker spoke to DeBreen. “Did you really want the mule?”
“Sure. We’ll take it with us and return it to the Mormons. That’ll give us more of an excuse to talk with them.”
DeBreen gestured at the body. “Phillips, throw a loop around that dead fellow’s leg and drag him over there, away from the trail a quarter of a mile or better.” He chucked a thumb to the north. “We don’t want him found anytime soon.”
“Sure thing, DeBreen,” Phillips said. He stepped down to the ground with his rope.
***
Wolf Voice halted his mustang. It was time to turn back. They had driven the white men’s animals hard for two days. Now the village of the Pawnee lay but a day ahead.
“Stop,” Wolf Voice called out to the other braves. “We must talk.”
“What is the trouble?” Man of Stone asked.
“It is time for me to go back and take some other thing more valuable than these animals from them.”
“What is that?” Man of Stone asked.
“Something that has not left my memory since I saw her. The pretty white woman with the green eyes.”
“What of the rest of us?” Man of Stone asked.
“Go with m
e and steal your own woman.”
Man of Stone laughed. “That would be a pleasant task. I shall ride back with you. I think it would be easy to take one of their women. Their guards act as if they are deaf and are not difficult to kill.”
“How about the rest of you?” asked Wolf Voice.
The remaining Pawnee warriors were silent, cogitating on Wolf Voice’s proposal.
One spoke. “I have two women now. That is enough.”
Another said, “It is time to return to our village.”
The other braves voiced their agreement with the last man’s statement.
“Then take their animals and go,” Wolf Voice said. “Our people will like the new kind of meat.”
Wolf Voice spoke to Man of Stone. “Let us travel fast, for I am anxious to lay with the fair-skinned woman.” He kicked his mustang into a full run to the southwest.
Man of Stone lashed his mount and raced away beside Wolf Voice.
The two Pawnee journeyed throughout the day. Near dark, they approached the trail the white people had traveled.
Their course dipped down into a depression deeper than they were tall. The surrounding prairie was lost to view. The rays of the low evening sun did not reach the bottom of the sink, and the Pawnee rode in shadow.
A half mile later the depression began to grow shallow. Little by little the wide plain came back into sight.
“Back! Back!” Wolf Voice said quickly. He wheeled his mustang and rode it to a lower stretch of land.
Man of Stone retreated with Wolf Voice. “What did you see?” he asked.
“A white man riding toward the falling sun.”
“Should we slay him?”
“He has a horse. Surely he will have a gun. Maybe two, one for each of us. I think we should kill him and take those things from him.”
“If he has a gun, he can shoot us before we can get close enough to use our bows.”
“We must follow behind until he makes his camp. Tonight, while he sleeps, we shall slay him.”
Man of Stone grinned. “He will be dead when the new morning comes.”
***
The afternoon waned, the sun sank, and then it was night. Sam hounded the trail until the last bit of daylight had faded into black night. He halted where the darkness overtook him. His enemies had matched his pace, and he was no closer to them than when the day had begun.
He staked the roan out to graze. He spread his blankets and dug out provisions for a cold supper. Silently he ate, a hunched form in the gloom lying on the prairie grass.
His thoughts were dismal. He felt the bulk and the weight of the cyst in his stomach. He saw no future for himself beyond catching and reeking revenge by killing DeBreen and the other two men who had been with him on the Missouri.
Sam lay down. He stared into the darkness. He begrudged every hour when travel must stop.
Sometime late in the night he came awake in one fractional tick of time. What had awakened him? Was it something threatening in a dream world he could not remember, or was it something real?
Some primal instinct told him real enemies were near. His hand closed on the butt of his pistol.
He raised up slightly and looked over the top of the grass. The half-moon had fallen below the horizon and he stared hard into the black fabric of the night. There was only the flat form of the prairie, more felt than seen, surrounding him on all sides. The wind sighed and the roan made low, tearing sounds as it cropped the buffalo grass at the other end of its tether. A peacefulness seemed to pervade the earth. Sam believed it to be a false peace.
He took his long-bladed skinning knife into his other hand and waited in the murk of the moonless night. Enemies could have watched him make camp and stolen close. They would know that he would be very near his horse but might not know exactly where he lay.
The stars drifted west, across the black dome of the heavens. Gradually the night wasted away and the first almost imperceptible light of dawn arrived. The enemy had to attack soon or retreat. Otherwise his advantage over Sam would be lost.
A soft thud sounded off to Sam’s left. He raised his head quickly to look.
Immediately he knew he had made a mistake. Someone who had slipped upon him so quietly would not now make a noise. The noise was a trick to cause him to show himself. He twisted back to look to the right.
A dark form had risen from the prairie grass and was hurtling forward not three long paces distant.
Sam thrust out his pistol and fired at the center of the figure. The charging man shook under the impact of the bullet, but his momentum carried him onward. He drove into Sam’s extended arm, knocking the gun from his hand, and crashed down on Sam.
Sam lost his breath with a swish. He thought his ribs had cracked. He thrust strongly upward into the body with his skinning knife.
Even as the blade entered the man Sam knew the half- naked thing lying upon him was lifeless. He shoved the corpse away and rolled hastily to the side.
Wolf Voice rushed in at a right angle to the approach Man of Stone had made. He had seen Man of Stone fall at the firing of the white man’s gun. His rage at the death of his comrade gave speed to his driving legs.
As Sam rose to his feet he heard the man’s racing footsteps coming up fast behind him. He dodged to the side.
Wolf Voice reached out his full arm length, trying mightily to cut Sam, who was moving swiftly out of the way. The knife missed. The Indian halted and spun, his knife ready to strike again.
Sam lifted his blade and held it out in front of him. He hoped there was not yet another Indian, for then he surely would be beaten.
The two men stood for a bit of time, studying each other in the light of the false dawn. Sam had seen how the Indian moved, lithely and quickly. He would be difficult to kill with a knife.
Sam’s breath came shallow and ragged. He had escaped being killed, but only by the miracle that the attack of the two Indians had been uncoordinated by some tiny part of a second. He did not think there would be another miracle.
The Indian moved forward, his steel blade poised to stab and cut. Sam gripped his knife and prepared to defend himself as best as he could. He knew that in a prolonged battle he would lose. Already his breath was short, his muscles weak.
Wolf Voice sprang across the few feet separating him from the white man. His knife flashed out. Then he leapt away, for the white man had blocked his strike and slashed back at him. Then, swiftly, Wolf Voice advanced again on his foe.
The two men fought with their knives, thrusting and parrying, leaping in and out. They danced in the pale dawn, two lethal creatures, scorpions with deadly stingers.
A passing white buffalo wolf that had made its own kill in the night saw the fighting men. It halted to watch the strange tableau of the two-legged creatures with their single fangs.
A minute slid past. Then two. Sam’s strength was gone. The next attack, or surely the one after that, could not be turned aside, and he would die.
Wolf Voice darted in. Sam started to spring back, but his moccasined feet slipped on the mashed green grass and his retreat was slowed. His hands rose as he tried to catch his balance.
The Indian sensed the moment when the white man’s guard was removed. He closed the distance between him and his foe with a bound. His blade stabbed out. The sharp point entered the white man’s stomach.
Sam, as his foot slipped, knew he was doomed. He was off-balance, half falling backward. But just maybe with luck he could take his assailant into the other world with him. He was already raising his hands. He added force to the one holding the knife, thrusting out at the Indian closing in on him.
The honed steel met the neck of the advancing Indian, drove inward to grate off the hard bones of the spinal column in the back.
The Indian’s knife had struck Sam like a fist to the stomach. He fell onto his back. His head smacked the ground. Stars exploded in his brain and spun in a bright red whirlpool.
He rolled to his stomach and tried to rise.
Hurry! Get up! Where was the Indian?
Sam halted on his hands and knees. The Indian lay without movement a few feet distant. Somehow Sam had won. A cold wind blew through his stunned mind and cleared it.
He looked down to see how badly he was wounded. Liquid was streaming from a cut in his deerskin blouse. He lifted the tail of the garment and peered closely at his midsection. In the weak light he saw pus and corruption gushing forth from a hole in his stomach. Unbelieving, he realized the Indian’s knife had pierced the huge cyst where it pressed so tightly against his skin. Now the poisonous liquid that had been contained within was pouring forth.
Sam watched as the cyst diminished in size. He pressed on the last of the bulge to assist in the ejection of the last of the vile, poisonous material. He pressed again and again until the pus ceased to flow and only pale, watery blood oozed out.
He lay down on his stomach in the prairie grass. He was exhausted, his whole body quivering. Later he would sew up the knife wound. For now he would let it stay open to ensure that every possible drop of poison drained from his body.
The curious white wolf waited in the perfectly still dawn and watched the place where the two men lay. After a time when nothing moved, he lost his curiosity. He stretched his full length, shook himself and trotted off for the days hunt.
27
The tall roan stood motionless beneath the sun. Its head drooped tiredly. It was hungry and thirsty, yet it did not stir.
Sam lay on the ground in the shadow cast by the horse. Hour by hour the strength had flown back into his body. The Indian’s knife had cut an inch-long hole in a layer of stomach muscle, but the blade had not penetrated beyond the diameter of the cyst, thus not injuring anything deeper within his body. Now his stomach was flat, and the wound would probably heal quickly. He had not felt this well in weeks.
The patient roan tossed its head and looked down at the man. Sam regarded the inquisitive black eyes of the animal. He knew the horse wanted to be moving, but they would wait a while longer.
