The Vigilante's Bride

by Yvonne Harris

  Deep into Crow land, the trees thinned. They broke into a large clearing filled with mud-and-stone lodges, wooden huts, and smoking tipis. The camp dogs ran at them, barking and snarling around the horses, setting up a racket.

  Black-haired, dark-eyed people were everywhere, working, talking in small groups around campfires. Outside their houses, cinnamon-skinned women ground meal or scraped animal skins pegged to the ground. Two women in knee-high moccasins were weaving on a loom strung between two poles. A baby hung in a cradleboard on one of the poles.

  All activity ceased at their approach, the villagers falling silent, staring at the two white men. Luke’s mouth went dry, remembering what he’d heard Indian women did to white male captives. In front of a large lodge, the Crows dismounted. With a Crow brave steadying each of them, Luke and Scully were pulled off their horses.

  Little Turtle pointed to the low doorway. Luke and Scully exchanged wary glances, ducked their heads, and went inside.

  Chief Black Otter looked from Luke to the brave standing beside him. In Crow, he asked, “Is this Light Eyes?”

  “Yes. They came after cows. I told them nothing,” Little Turtle said.

  “Why you tie him up?”

  “He is angry inside.”

  Black Otter nodded. His sons had told him about the Sioux attack on Luke’s family. “He has reason. Untie him,” he said. He gestured for Luke to sit on a pile of buffalo skins on the floor.

  “Rest easy in your mind, Sullivan. You welcome here.”

  Luke’s eyes widened at the use of his name. “Are you Black Otter?”

  The chief nodded, a faint twist in the corners of his lips. “My sons know you. They say you teach them to shoot.”

  Luke let out a long, ragged sigh of relief, and he sank down onto the buffalo skins. Slowly, his heartbeat smoothed to something close to normal. Rubbing his wrists, he said, “White men stole our cattle. We thought they drove them here,” he explained.

  “They did. They here.”

  “We looked. There are no tracks.”

  “You no see tracks. Men come with one called Iron Hair. They drive cows through river – a long way.”

  “Bart Axel’s men?”

  “Two are same men who beat you. Little Turtle, his braves, they stop them.” Black Otter frowned. “You not know we tie you on horse, send you home?”

  “That’s right, Luke,” Scully broke in. “I knew those were Injun knots!”

  Luke looked at Little Turtle, caught a slight softening of expression, then a brief nod of affirmation. A pang of guilt needled Luke. If they hadn’t grabbed his gun, he would have shot the man.

  He pulled in a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said to Little Turtle. “I was wrong.”

  As quickly as he could make Black Otter understand, Luke explained about the two herds of cattle. When he’d finished, the chief stood and left the lodge without speaking. He called for his horse, then beckoned Luke and Scully to come outside with him. He led them back to the Little Bighorn River. A mile downstream from where his braves had found them, he showed them the tracks. For a hundred yards the bank was caved in where cattle had climbed out of the river.

  “From the looks of it, he sure didn’t want nobody following this herd,” Scully said.

  And Luke thought he knew why. “Chief, did you get a look at the brand on these cattle?”

  “They yours. All New Hope’s,” Black Otter said.

  “Axel took a chance bringing them in here,” Luke said to Scully. “He knows this is Crow land. And I bet the man taking the herd to Parker knew we were following them.” He slammed his fist into his hand. “I was so sure those were our cattle! Every cattle thief around here dumps in Parker.”

  Scully was confused. “If the other herd ain’t ours, why’s he want us to follow them?”

  “He’s setting us up,” Luke said.

  “To kill you,” Black Otter added.

  Luke’s mind raced, going over in his head what he had to do and how he had to do it.

  “I want to come in here after our herd, Chief,” he said, “but Axel’s men won’t let them go without a fight.”

  Black Otter nodded, his face serious. “I show you good place.”

  Luke reached out an arm, touched the chief, surprised that he considered the man an ally. “I don’t want to cause your people trouble with the government.”

  For the first time in his life, Luke Sullivan heard an Indian laugh. Black Otter threw back his head and burst out laughing, deep belly laughs that shook his shoulders. “No trouble, Light Eyes. You take cows. That day, Crows see nothing.”

  “Luke,” Scully broke in, “the minute we stop trailing them, Haldane will guess we’re wise. What’ll he do then?”

  “Come after us,” Luke said.

  His face impassive, Black Otter stared out over a bend in the Little Bighorn, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully. “No. You come.” Winding his hand in the pony’s mane, the chief sprang easily onto its back.

  It was long after dark when Luke and Scully found where the New Hope crew was camped.

  “We were getting worried about you two,” Henry Bertel said. Tom and John Cosgrove and Will Brown were sitting in front of the fire. An owl hooted in the trees. Henry stiffened. “Something moving out there. We got company, Luke,” he said, reaching for his rifle.

  “Easy, Henry. It’s all right. They’re with us.”

  Six Crow Indians stepped into the firelight.

  “Little Turtle,” Luke said, “over here, so we can talk.”

  The Indians dropped to the ground, eyes moving from white face to white face. They sat silent, expressionless, while Luke told New Hope’s crew what Axel had planned.

  “They want us to follow them so they can bushwhack us in Treasure Canyon. But we’re not going there. With the help of the Crow we’re going back to the reservation and get our herd. Little Turtle and his men will take our places and follow the Parker herd instead of us. Haldane won’t know we’ve gone.”

  Standing, Luke started unbuttoning his shirt. “We need to switch clothes and horses, so let’s get started. We want to be off this range before daylight.”

  Half a dozen red men moved around the fire, trading clothes back and forth with half a dozen white men. Crow fingers fumbled with buttons and snaps, both races wrinkling their noses at the unfamiliar odors of the garments.

  “Ugh! What these people eat make them stink bad,” a brave muttered in Crow to Little Turtle.

  Little Turtle, the tallest of the Indians, didn’t answer. He sat on the ground, wrestling Luke’s riding boots over his feet. Standing, he teetered back and forth, a look of near dismay spreading over his face.

  Running Wolf, a fierce-looking brave with a shaved head, strutted around in a pair of long johns in a peculiar manner.

  Reaching behind him, he fisted the buttons off the drop seat in back. A quick yank and a square of ribbed fabric sailed into the fire. Running Wolf bent over and touched his toes, his naked skin visible through the open window of the underwear. “That better,” he said.

  “Look what he done to my drawers,” Will Brown sputtered, fishing the flap of his burning underwear out of the fire with a stick. It was too late. The edges were blackened and a tongue of flame curled around one corner. Disgusted, Will kicked it back in the fire and tugged at the breechclout hanging down his front. “I miss my underwear. It don’t feel right with nothin’ on under these skins.”

  Scully sniffed and spit. “Drafty too.”

  “Gives me the creeps. Skin almost feels alive on you, don’t it?” Tom Cosgrove whispered, stretching his arms out and shaking the fringe on the sleeves of the buckskin shirt he had on.

  Henry stroked a fringe of silky strands sewn across the cuffs of his shirt and woven into the side seams. “Sure is soft. Wonder what kind of fur this is?”

  “Ain’t fur. It’s hair,” Scully said.

  Henry’s mouth fell open. He snatched his hand away from the hair just as Running Wolf pulled off a
necklace of bear claws and rattled them over Henry’s head. With a wary look, Henry plucked the string of yellowed toenails away from his chest. “They’re real nice, Running Wolf,” Henry managed to say. “Real nice.”

  “Better bring your ropes and your rifles,” Luke said. “We’ve got to switch horses and get out of here.”

  Red-skinned cowboys with braids and breezy, unbuttoned flies boosted six clumsy Indians onto Crow ponies for the ride back to the reservation. Wordlessly, the Crows watched the men from New Hope jounce bareback off into the night. When a heartfelt cussword floated back, they slapped their thighs and doubled over with laughter.

  All except Little Turtle. The captain of the Dog Soldiers sighed and shook his head. Walking bowlegged, he limped back to the fire and sat down. His feet hurt.

  The next morning Bugle’s nostrils flared wide and held. Once again, he rolled his eyes to the side. His rider was like a feather. Only the pressure of weight dead center in the middle of his back revealed the saddle held a man. The horse swung his head around. The stirrups flapped loose and empty at his sides, the rider’s legs dangling free.

  Barely opening his lips, Bugle stretched his neck and nick-ered to Henry’s mare plodding beside him with lowered head. Peevishly, she flattened her ears and nipped at him. With a hop sideways he managed to get his muzzle away from her just in time. She was in a foul mood herself that morning. Someone had braided her tail.

  Out on the range that night, Haldane stretched his long legs toward the fire and sipped his coffee, staring into the flames, going over in his mind the events that had followed an odd conversation with Axel. Funny, he thought, the way Axel had reined him in after the trip to Billings.

  Granville Stuart showing up with his Committee and escorting Sullivan and Miss McCarthy home worried Axel as nothing else had.

  The plan had been for him to pick Sullivan off on the range – from a distance, nice and clean – and then leave for Kansas.

  But then Axel changed his mind, saying no just ten minutes after the sheriff had left. Tucker had made him nervous, all right. In fact, from what Haldane had seen, Bart Axel’s hands shook when the sheriff started nosing around Haldane’s big Appaloosa like he’d never seen a spotted horse before, talking about murder and attempted murder and what a coincidence it was that two of the three attempts on Sullivan’s life – the beating and the gunfight in town – had been by X-Bar-L hands. “And whose horse did you say this is, Mr. Axel?”

  Absently, Haldane scratched the mat of straw-colored fuzz covering his arms and the backs of his hands. Never could tell about people. Haldane yawned and slung the dregs of his coffee into the fire. Spreading his bedroll, he rolled onto his side and was asleep in minutes.

  The next morning they were packed and ready to head out when Wesley rode in fast. He’d been out scouting the New Hope party, making sure they were still back there. With Treasure Canyon coming up, losing them was the last thing Haldane wanted.

  “Haldane,” Wesley called, jumping off his horse. “Something strange going on back there.”

  “Like what?”

  “They were eatin’ rabbits for breakfast.”

  Haldane looked at him in surprise. “So Sullivan likes a little meat with his flapjacks. What’s strange about that?”

  Wesley shook his head. “Weren’t no flapjacks. No coffee, neither. Just berries and rabbits on a stick.”

  Haldane wrinkled his nose. The stink of rabbits cooking that early could make a man puke. “What’d you get that close for, anyway?”

  “Figured I’d maybe pick up something we need to know. Then, just as it’s getting light, I see three of ’em go into the woods. They were back in five minutes, I swear, with a whole armful of dead rabbits – and I never heard a shot.”

  “Look,” Haldane said, “I don’t care what they eat or if they eat.” He massaged his midsection. “I got a weak enough stomach as it is, and you ain’t making it one bit better.”

  Wesley bristled. “I’m just doing my job. You don’t like it, you send someone else. And another thing – you know how Sullivan babies that big horse of his? Well, those horses were saddled and ready to go with daylight still an hour off. I bet they ain’t been unsaddled since yesterday.” With that, Wesley stomped off.

  Haldane pursed his lips thoughtfully. Saddled all night? Now that was strange.

  CHAPTER

  19

  “They’ve spotted us, “ Axel said in a low voice, looking straight ahead.

  Side by side, the two men rode through the Crow reservation ahead of the New Hope herd. From the moment they’d entered the ravine, both had been alert for Indians.

  Uneasy in this barren landscape, Clete’s hand slid across and closed around his pistol. On both sides, menacing dark cliffs dropped like slate waterfalls to the canyon floor. Nothing but rock and stone and sagebrush, the eerie silence broken only by the clopping of their horses and the whispering of trapped wind as it funneled through the canyon. Clete’s eyes darted. Not an Indian in sight.

  “I don’t see them,” he said.

  “Didn’t see them the day you jumped Sullivan, either,” Axel said, “but they saw you. Most likely, what’s up there is a scouting party, wondering why we’re here, so forget about pulling your gun. If they meant to kill us, they would have by now.”

  “How many are there?” Sweat beaded Wade’s forehead.

  “Half a dozen. Probably more. Knowing Injuns, there’s probably three times that many up there. Play this one nice and easy, you hear? Because one way or another, we’re going through.” Axel rode silently for a minute, his mind working.

  “Tell you what. Go back and stop the herd, let the cattle graze where they are. Maybe the best thing is to go see Black Otter himself.”

  “Not me.”

  “Then you better go on ahead.” Bart gave a nasty laugh.

  “I’m going to call our red friends down, and I don’t think they like you.”

  Clete jerked the reins. He had no desire to powwow with Crows, not then, not ever. Clucking his tongue, he kicked his horse into a trot back in the other direction to hold up the herd.

  Axel squared his shoulders and sat tall in the saddle. He cupped his mouth and shouted up at the empty rocks above.

  “Black Otter, where’s Black Otter?”

  On the ridge above the canyon, Luke grabbed Tom Cos-grove’s shoulder and pushed him down. “Keep that yellow head of yours out of sight. He thinks we’re Crows.” Frowning, he turned to the young brave at his side. “Curly Bear, it seems Axel wants to see your chief.”

  The brave nodded, then stepped into the open. Like most of the Crow men, Curly Bear was over six feet tall. In buckskins, silhouetted on top of the cliff, the big Indian was an impressive sight. He raised his arm. “Ho,” he called, pointing to a flat area near the end of the canyon.

  By the time Axel got to the spot, Curly Bear was already there. Without a word, the Indian turned his pony and galloped over a small rise for the forest beyond, leaving Bart Axel sitting on his horse. Axel had no choice but to follow.

  Curly Bear reached over and seized the bridle of Bart’s horse, slowing him to a walk through the camp. He stopped, indicating the large lodge on their right. On a tripod behind Black Otter’s lodge hung the chief ’s red and blue war shield, painted with zigzag lines and a running bear. Made of shrunken buffalo hide, it was handsome and smooth and tough enough to stop an arrow or a bullet.

  Standing inside, Black Otter gestured an open hand toward the pile of soft buffalo robes across from him. Three other lesser chiefs sat cross-legged around the fire.

  Now that he was there, face-to-face with Black Otter, Bart hesitated, unsure quite how to begin. The Crows looked at him silently, expressionless, yet he had the distinct impression they’d been expecting him, been waiting for him.

  It had been years since he’d seen Black Otter. For some reason, he remembered him as being a smaller man, a younger man. Certainly not this imposing Absaroka chief with the beautiful manner
s, towering over him in a buffalo-horn headdress. Axel stared at the lethal pair of horns curving from a close-fitting feathered cap and wondered why this man who had pledged “everlasting friendship” with his white brothers was wearing a war bonnet.

  Bronze skin across jutting cheekbones was pulled taut by a heavy jaw. Pinpoints of light from the fire glowed blood red in the black of his eyes.

  Axel cleared his throat, reminding himself to be careful. Black Otter had been a ferocious fighter. The scar on his face was a monument to that. Underestimating this man would be a grievous mistake. This chief was no fool. Though he could neither read nor write English, he was a keen thinker, a pretty fair philosopher, and as vindictive as they came.

  Crows never forgot a wrong, and that worried Axel. He remembered a white trader – a blustery, big-nosed giant of a man from Canada – who once tricked a River Crow chief out of three horses, three potbellied ponies. He had the good sense to leave the territory. Before he did, the Canadian compounded his misfortune by leaving the chief ’s daughter with a half-white baby to raise.

  Seven years later they found him – or pieces of him – in Louisiana, minus his scalp. From the hole in his chest, where his heart should have been, stuck the handle of a Crow knife. Axel shuddered. Louisiana. Fifteen hundred miles away.

  In Black Otter’s lodge, Bart glanced over at the hatchet-faced chief in the headdress facing him. The points of the curved buffalo horns gleamed like ice picks in the firelight.

  He tucked his legs under him, imitating the chief. So far, no one had spoken a word to him. Protocol required Black Otter to speak first, but Bart was in a hurry.

  “I’m driving a herd through your land,” he said.

  Black Otter stared back coldly for a moment, then nodded for him to continue.

  Pretending to be exasperated, Bart let his hands fall heavily in his lap and shook his head. “Now, mind you, Chief, we did not drive them here. Strangest thing I ever saw. I was taking my cows to Wyoming and something spooked them at the river junction – a snake, most likely.” Axel gave him an ingratiating smile. “I’ll pay you, of course, to let us through.”