“I thank you for your hospitality,” Slater said. He had a pretty good picture of the lack of space for him and Red Basket, especially since Red Basket had mentioned that Broken Ax and Summer Rain had a young daughter still living with them. “But I like to camp in the open.”
“As you wish,” Broken Ax said. “But you must come and eat with us.”
“I’d be glad to do that,” Slater said. “I need to take care of my horses first, though.”
He and Red Basket followed her brother and his wife to their tipi, leading the horses. When they got to Summer Rain’s tipi, Slater pulled the saddle off Red Basket’s dun gelding and helped her carry it and the supplies from her packhorse inside the tipi. When she was all moved in, with help from Summer Rain’s daughter, Little Wren, Slater left to make his own camp before turning the horses out to graze.
He picked a spot under a large cottonwood to park his saddle and arrange his possibles and supplies from the packhorse. Then instead of turning his horses out with the herd of Indian ponies, as he had done with Red Basket’s two horses, he hobbled them close-by his camp. He figured his stay in Lame Elk’s camp would be a short one, so he might as well have his horses close.
He felt comfortable with the warm welcome Summer Rain had extended to Red Basket, and he was satisfied that she would be all right there while she acquired the buffalo hides and poles to build her own tipi. He had left her with sufficient funds to buy what she needed to make her home.
With his camp set up, he walked down the riverbank a short distance, picking up dead limbs to use as firewood later on. When he had gathered a sizable armload, he returned to his camp to find Little Wren waiting for him. He had to take a second look to realize she was Summer Rain’s daughter. He had not really noticed the young girl when he had been unloading Red Basket’s possessions because Little Wren had been working hastily inside the tipi, making room for her aunt.
“Little Wren?” he asked to make sure.
“Yes,” she answered. “My mother sent me to tell you there is food prepared for you to eat.” Looking quizzically at the armload of firewood he carried, she asked, “Are you going to cook your food?”
Suddenly finding himself dumbfounded, he realized after a moment that he was openly staring at the lithesome young girl, who returned his gaze with a puzzled frown. Moving closer, her steps as graceful as a fawn, she was about to repeat her question when he recovered and answered, “No, I just picked up this wood for a fire later, maybe not till mornin’.”
“Come, then,” she said, smiling, “and we will eat.”
He followed her back to the tipi, still mystified by the strange disruption the girl had generated in his emotions, causing him to be speechless for several long moments. He had never been around anyone before who caused him to lose control of his voice. In truth, he had never really been around anyone as young as she, male or female. The more he thought about the effect she had on him, the more he was convinced he should get her out of his head.
He found a place beside Red Basket and sat down by the large fire built outside the tipi. Many of the other people of the village were there to welcome Broken Ax’s sister home as well. They ate freshly killed antelope that some of the young men had shot that morning, and Summer Rain baked bread using the flour Red Basket had brought. There was coffee, too. Red Basket laughed as she teased Slater.
“He is like Teddy Lightfoot,” she said. “He has to have coffee to drink or he will turn to stone.”
All during the feast, she watched Slater’s reactions around Little Wren. He seemed to display discomfort whenever she came near him. To Red Basket, that was a good sign. Maybe the lissome young girl would melt the steel-like somberness in his heart.
It would please Teddy if this were so, she thought.
As the evening progressed, more and more of the people of the village came to welcome Red Basket and to hear about the Lakota war party that had slaughtered the tiny camp of old people in the Absarokas. Red Basket related the tragic attack again, repeating the story of the devastating vengeance taken upon the Lakota by Slater.
In spite of the grunts of approval from those around the campfire, it once again made Slater uncomfortable. The evening was still young when he thanked Summer Rain and Broken Ax for their hospitality and got up to leave.
“Sleep well,” Red Basket said to him as he walked by her. He nodded in response.
“Your friend seems very sad,” Broken Ax said to Red Basket. “Is he mourning the loss of those who were killed in Crooked Foot’s village?”
“No,” she replied. “Shoots One Time has always been like that. Teddy had hoped that he would learn to laugh, but he has always been sad. Teddy used to say that he had broken his funny bone.” She smiled, thinking about the huge man.
“From what you have told us, he is a mighty warrior,” Broken Ax said. “Yet he does not seem to be proud.” He watched the departing man until he could no longer see him in the darkness. “Is he a cruel man?”
Red Basket shook her head. “Only to those who would harm his friends,” she said.
“I think it would be good if Little Wren were married to such a fierce warrior, even if he is a white man.” Remembering then that Red Basket had married Teddy, he added, “Some white men are honorable men, like Red Buffalo.”
“She would be a good wife for him,” Red Basket quickly agreed. “She is certainly of age. I’m surprised that she has not married yet.”
“She has no interest in marriage,” Broken Ax complained. “Lame Elk’s youngest son, Running Fox, was willing to offer ten ponies for her hand. The disrespectful girl said she would cut her hand off and give it to him before she would let him enter her tipi. And Running Fox is the best hunter in our village.” Broken Ax shook his head in frustration.
“The soldiers at Fort Ellis want him to come and scout for them,” Red Basket said. “I don’t know if he wants to do that or not, but I think that’s what he will do.”
* * *
Slater walked down to the edge of the river where his horses were drinking. Although the sun had set, hard darkness had not yet settled over the valley. Looking back downstream, he could see the many glows of campfires, since everyone cooked outside as long as the weather permitted. He could still hear the faint sound of voices from the people who had gathered around Summer Rain’s tipi to welcome Red Basket home. He was glad that she was well received, and he no longer felt any necessity to stay.
He stroked the paint’s neck when the horse came up to greet him, nudging his chest with its nose affectionately. Slater could not help remembering the trouble that old Walking Stick and Martin Greeley had had with the spirited horse.
“How you doin’, boy?” Slater asked as he gently scrubbed the paint’s neck. “You gonna be ready to ride outta here in the mornin’?”
“When you talk to the horse, does he ever answer?”
Startled, Slater spun quickly around to discover Little Wren standing behind him, holding something wrapped in a cloth. “Not all the time,” he blurted in answer.
She laughed softly, enjoying his embarrassment for not having heard her approaching. “You mean sometimes he does?”
Recovering slightly, he replied, “Most times he does, just not by talkin’.” He gave the paint a dismissive pat and walked up from the water’s edge, still feeling discomfort at having been surprised. “I reckon I woulda heard you comin’ if the wind hadn’t been blowin’ back toward you,” he said in his defense.
“Maybe,” she allowed. Then, holding her bundle up for him to see, she said, “Red Basket was going to bring this bread to you, so you would have it to eat with your coffee in the morning. She said you would most likely make coffee as soon as you woke up.” She pulled the cloth back so he could see the end of the bread loaf. “I told her I would bring you the bread. She was still greeting old friends.”
She extended her arms and
he took the bread from her. “Much obliged,” he mumbled. “This’ll go good in the mornin’.”
To his surprise, she walked right up to the paint then, gently pulled its head against her breast, and started scratching behind its ears. “Red Basket said your horse was an angry horse and was hard to train,” she said as she stroked the paint’s neck.
Astonished by the horse’s affectionate reaction to the girl, Slater said, “That’s a fact. He ain’t a mean horse. He just don’t like nobody to touch him but me.” He hesitated before adding, “And you, I reckon.”
Seeing then that it was missing out on the petting, the red sorrel packhorse plodded over to beg for a portion of Little Wren’s affection, nudging her in the back with its nose.
Slater couldn’t help blurting out, “Damn, my horses ain’t gonna be fit to ride if you don’t quit pettin’ ’em.” He experienced that uncomfortable feeling again that he had felt before when he first met the girl, still unable to explain a reason for it. He gave the sorrel a smack on its croup and chased it away. “Thank you very much for bringin’ the bread,” he said, and walked back to his campsite.
Pleased with the obvious effect she had on the fierce warrior, she followed.
When he got to the rudimentary camp he had set up, he thanked her again and said, “Well, I reckon it’s about time to turn in. You need me to walk you back?”
“No,” she said, smiling warmly. “It’s only a little way. Sleep well.”
“Yeah, I will,” he said, and watched her stepping gracefully along the riverbank until he could see her no more. “I will,” he repeated, but he found that he couldn’t when he pulled his blanket over himself and tried to sleep.
He turned on his left side, which was usually the side he slept on, but he felt uncomfortable. So he turned on his right. It was no better, so he alternated sides for what seemed hours with no chance of sleep. His mind was too full of troublesome thoughts and questions that he had no answer for.
Why did the young girl bother him so?
He realized that he had never before thought about girls in general. Whenever he had given any thought about taking a wife, he had figured that it would be when he was much older, like Teddy when he took Red Basket to wed. Hopefully he would find one who was a good cook and had a sensible disposition. Those feelings he was experiencing mostly frightened him, for he didn’t know what to do about them.
Having never had the advice some boys had gotten from a wise father, he didn’t realize that he was going through a phase that other boys experienced at a much younger age. He troubled over it until weariness eventually came to claim his troubled mind, and he fell mercifully to sleep.
* * *
Red Basket woke early the next morning, surprised to do so, since she had been up so late talking to the people who came to sit at their fire. Seeing that the others in the tipi were still sleeping soundly, she got out of her blanket as quietly as she could so as not to wake them. It was obvious that she was one of the few early risers in the camp as she left the circle of lodges and walked downstream beyond the pony herd to answer nature’s morning call.
When she got back to the tipi, she took some small sticks and rekindled the fire that was still fighting for life, thinking Slater would be up soon, since he had gone to bed early. She smiled as she thought, And he will want coffee.
When the fire was showing signs of recovery, she walked upstream to Slater’s camp. He was not there. She looked around her. There was nothing there. His two horses were gone—the packs of supplies, his saddle and blankets—all gone. She exhaled a long, weary sigh.
Well, that’s that, she thought, disappointed that he didn’t stay long enough to feel as though he belonged.
When she returned to Summer Rain’s tipi, the two women were up. “Did you sleep well?” Summer Rain asked. “We will cook some breakfast when the lazy men leave their blankets.”
“We will only need to cook for one lazy man,” Red Basket said. “Shoots One Time is gone.”
“You could not find him?” Summer Rain asked. “Maybe he went to the bushes.”
“He is gone,” Red Basket repeated. “His horses, his saddle, his packs, everything is gone.”
Summer Rain looked surprised, then shrugged, accustomed to the changing nature of a man’s mind. The concerned look of disappointment on Little Wren’s face did not escape Red Basket’s notice.
It only lasted for a few moments, however, before being replaced by one of smug confidence. “He will be back,” Little Wren said, trusting what she had read in the young man’s eyes.
* * *
At the time the three women were discussing his unannounced departure, Slater was more than fifteen miles south of their village on the Musselshell. He had decided sometime during the near-sleepless night that the best thing for him was to report back to Colonel Brackett and sign on as a scout.
Approaching the majestic peaks of the Crazy Mountains, he was once again in awe of their mysterious splendor, and he was aware of the beguiling call of their slopes and canyons. Unfamiliar mountains always beckoned to him, and the urge to know their secrets was pulling hard on his mind.
When he came to a shallow creek, he decided to stop and rest his horses. He found enough wood on the creek bank to build a small fire. When it was going well, he got his coffeepot from the packs, found a couple of flat rocks to grind his coffee beans, and before long had coffee boiling.
When it was ready, he got out the bread Little Wren had brought him the night before and sat down to eat his breakfast. He picked a large rock for his seat and faced the east so he could gaze at the early-morning sun shining upon the tree-covered lower slopes of the mountains.
By the time he had finished the generous portion of loaf that Red Basket had sent him, he was fighting an overpowering desire to follow that creek up to see where it was born. The more he thought about it, the less important it seemed to report to Fort Ellis right away.
What the hell? he thought. Wouldn’t hurt to go see what’s up in those hills. His mind made up, he packed up again and headed up into the mountains, following the creek.
The climb up the lower slopes was not especially hard on his horses, so he continued to follow the creek until he came to a clearing and he found himself facing a steep cliff. There was a small pond at the base of the cliff, formed by a waterfall that spilled over the edge some eighty feet above.
“Looks like we’d best find another way up this mountain,” he said to the paint, and looked around the pond for sign of game, figuring it an ideal place to find it. There was no lack of tracks—deer, antelope, and elk.
I’ll damn sure be back here to hunt, he thought, but at the moment he was more interested in exploring the slopes above him. Noticing a game trail that crossed the creek below the pond and led around the mountain, he decided to follow it.
The trail began a gradual climb as it circled the mountain, so he figured it might eventually take him up to what now appeared to be a grassy summit at the top, devoid of the trees that cloaked the lower slopes. He was certain that when he reached that meadow, he would get a better look at the higher peaks, but the trail descended after crossing a long ridge, leading him down to the base of the mountain again. He looked around him to see if there was another easy way up to the meadow. There seemed to be none, so he continued on the game trail.
After a few hundred yards, it curved in the direction of a narrow gulch between two steep mountains. He was about to abandon the trail when he was suddenly startled by a mule loping out of the gulch and coming straight at him.
His first thought was that the mule must have escaped from its owner. It was wearing a bridle, but no saddle, and no collar or hames, so his natural reaction was to stop the mule. Since the trail was narrow, with rocks and brush close in on each side, it was not difficult to corral the runaway. Slater could not help feeling disappointed to find that there were people h
ere already—prospectors, he supposed.
Once it had calmed down, the mule obediently allowed Slater to tie it on behind the sorrel packhorse. In the saddle again, Slater proceeded to follow the trail down into the gulch, expecting to meet the mule’s owner frantically giving chase.
Riding deep into the chasm, he came to a wide, busy stream that took up most of the width between the two rocky walls. There was still no sign of anyone chasing the mule. Even more curious now, Slater continued up the stream. Upon rounding a sharp curve where the water flowed between two giant boulders, he discovered a mining claim. Unaware of his presence, two men were hunched over a sluice box, oblivious of everything else around them. Slater pulled up short to look the situation over.
On one side of the stream, a tent was rigged between two pine trees that appeared to grow right up beside two boulders. Beyond the tent, there was a small clearing where four horses grazed on the little bit of grass they could find. Thinking the men must have no idea that their mule had escaped, Slater started to announce his presence.
But before he could call out, a woman suddenly popped out of the tent. She froze when she spotted the stranger, dressed in animal skins, astride a paint Indian pony.
“Injuns!” she screamed, and ducked back in the tent, causing both men at the sluice box to scramble for their weapons.
His reactions natural, and lightning fast, Slater quickly leveled his rifle ready to fire. “Hold on!” he yelled. “I ain’t an Injun. I’m just bringin’ your mule back.”
With no chance to reach their weapons before being cut down by the stranger, the two had no choice but to freeze in their tracks.
Not at all surprised by their reactions, since he had not had a chance to announce his presence beforehand, Slater went on to explain, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you. I just wanted to bring your mule back.”
The two men looked at each other as if astonished to still be standing. For a long moment there was a frozen standoff until the woman appeared at the tent flap again, this time brandishing a rifle.
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