Trace was good with a bow, and that shot was one of the best he had ever made. The first arrow found its mark, behind the animal’s front leg and low enough to puncture the lung. The elk reared up on its hind legs, then came back down, its front legs folding when it landed. The first arrow was still in the air when Trace notched the second. When the elk came down, the second arrow found its mark some twelve inches behind the first. The elk staggered no more than ten or twelve yards before crumpling.
Trace had butchered the elk right there, listening for any hint of movement in the trees behind him and watching the Indian camp by the shore of the lake. He took his time, removing the hide and packing the meat. He knew that if it was a hostile village and they discovered his presence, they would be on him like a swarm of yellow jackets. When he was finished, and his meat safely packed on his horse, he decided to work his way a little closer to the camp to identify the tribe. Much to his chagrin, he recognized them as Flathead, at that time a friendly tribe. Hell, they would most likely have helped me butcher the animal. He laughed at the memory, but it would have been hell to pay if they had turned out to be Gros Ventres or Blackfeet and had discovered him making meat right on their doorstep.
On this cloudy day in late September, Trace saw no Flathead camp as he came up from the south end of the valley. Something caught his eye, though, and he paused to scan the western shoreline of the lake. He stared hard at a long, grassy flat near the upper end of the water, not sure if he had seen something or not. It was difficult to determine against the cloudy gray sky, but after a few moments he realized the movement that had caught his attention was a thin column of smoke. A campfire? Maybe, but if it was, it was a mighty puny one. Every fiber in his body instantly became alert.
Returning to the cover of the trees on the low hills that circled the little lake, Trace made his way carefully around to a point opposite the source of the smoke. After he had tied his horses in a shallow ravine, he checked the loads in his rifle and pistol, then started toward the lake on foot. Before crossing the last little rise that shielded him from the open flat before the lake, he stopped and listened. There were no sounds that would indicate a human presence.
On his belly, he pulled himself to the top of the rise. Before him was the aftermath of a massacre. Bodies lay everywhere, like droppings from a herd of giant buffalo. Here and there a burned-out tipi still smoldered, sending up the thin spirals of smoke he had first seen. It had been a slaughter. He did not move for a long time while he searched the camp with his eyes, making sure he was the sole living man there. When it was obvious that whoever had done this deed was long gone, he stood up and scanned the scene once more.
Before going down into the camp, he returned to the ravine to fetch his horses. He had seen a lot of bear sign on his way down the slope that morning, so he didn’t want to leave the horses tied to a tree while he investigated the camp. The paint was reluctant to enter the scene of the mass killings, and the packhorse pulled back on the lead rope so violently that Trace decided to hobble them near the edge of the camp while he proceeded on foot.
The bodies had already begun to bloat, and Trace figured the only reason the buzzards had not found them was that low gray clouds had settled in over the valley. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, as he walked among the slashed and mutilated bodies. They were Kutenais, all right. There was enough left to determine that, and he was pretty sure the band he had searched for had been from this village.
He examined a broken arrow shaft. “Blackfoot,” he muttered. The whole village had been wiped out by a Blackfoot war party. Now that he was certain he had found the Kutenai war party, he set about the grim task of looking for Jamie’s body in this field of death. It was with a feeling of gut-wrenching dread that he began the grisly chore—closely examining each female body, turning over those that lay facedown. It was not a simple task because there were so many corpses. After checking all those in the open grass, he discovered more bodies near a scorched willow thicket. Some even floated in the shallow water near the shore. It was not difficult to paint a picture in his mind of the terrible thing that had happened here, and he feared the worst, but he did not find Jamie’s body.
There was hope, then. But as soon as he thought it, he reminded himself that if she had been taken captive, she was now in the hands of the Blackfeet. That thought was none too encouraging. Now the feeling of urgency returned, and he told himself it was time to move on. He would have to scout the area to pick up the trail. He took one more look around him at the thicket, and as he started to leave, something caused him to take a closer look at the body of a child bobbing in the shallow water. Even though the body was swollen, he realized the face was white. He waded out a few feet from shore and pulled the body in so that he could take a closer look. There was little doubt that it was the Tyler girl. There was nothing he could do for the many bodies of the Kutenais, but he could at least commit little Polly to the ground.
The trail was not hard to find. The Blackfeet had left the same way they came. A big party, driving a sizable herd of Kutenai ponies, they left a wide track toward the northeast corner of the valley. Trace looked up at the sky. He was lucky that the snow had held off, although clouds still hung ominously over the mountains. He figured he had better not waste any time, since they had at least a couple of days’ start on him. If it snowed heavily enough, it could cover a trail even as wide as this one.
CHAPTER 7
Although the clouds had threatened all day, there was no more than a dusting of light snow, and most of that fell on the higher slopes. When Plum and his band of cutthroats and Blackfeet left the steep peaks behind and came out on the rolling expanse of prairie, there were even small patches of blue showing though the dingy clouds. From this point on, it was a matter of no more than a few hours’ ride to reach the large Blackfoot village.
Plum and Crown rode at the head of the procession, along with Little Bull. Sowers and Ox rode on ahead of the main body, helping to drive the captured horses. Jamie, her body sore and aching from the beating she had received, rode slumped in the Indian saddle, her hands tied together. Plum kept her close behind him on a lead line.
Plum pulled his horse over close to Crown’s. Speaking to his partner in a tone low enough that Little Bull could not overhear, he said, “Take Ox and ride on ahead to the cache.” The four renegades had a secret hiding place in the bluffs by the river where their stores of trade goods were kept. Little Bull knew of its existence, but had been unable to locate it. There were two kegs of whiskey left from Sowers’s last trip to Flathead Post, and Plum planned to use those two kegs to cheat his Indian allies out of their share of the horses and hides taken from the Kutenais.
“Why don’t you go?” Crown answered.
“Because I told you to,” Plum shot back. His tone softened as he added, “Besides, I need to stay here and make sure Little Bull don’t git suspicious and send somebody to trail you.” Crown always seemed ready to challenge Plum’s authority. One of these days I’m gonna have to kill that bastard, Plum thought to himself.
Crown glared coldly at Plum for a long moment before grunting something under his breath and suddenly kicking his horse into a gallop to catch up with Ox and Sowers. Plum watched him as he rode away, wondering how long it would be before there was a showdown between him and Crown. Crown had been doleful and moody for as long as Plum had known him. Lately, however, it seemed he was getting more and more ill-tempered, and Plum had an idea it was because he was beginning to chafe under Plum’s position of authority.
They had been partners for more than four years. Crown would be a good man to have on his side if his Blackfoot friends ever turned on him. And Crown had no conscience when it came to killing a man, or cheating the Indians. Little Bull’s band feared the dark and somber man. They were convinced that an evil spirit dwelled in his heart. Plum wasn’t worried about an evil spirit, but he respected the potential danger in Crown. And Plum was of a mind to strike first if Crown was approachin
g the point where he wanted to challenge him. But Plum figured if there was going to be trouble it wouldn’t come until after they had cheated the Blackfeet out of their share of the plunder. If he’d thought otherwise, he probably would have simply shot Crown in the back right then as he rode away. At the moment, though, there were other things to think about.
He looked back at the sorrowful girl slumped in the saddle. “It won’t be long now, darlin’. We’ll be there in another hour, and then you can show me what I got for my four horses.”
Jamie, her chin almost touching her chest, was in a state of total despair. Plum’s treatment of her had not been particularly cruel since the terrible beating he had administered two days before, but the dread of what was to come had been devastating to her now fragile state of mind. There had been two nights on the trail with no sexual attacks—perhaps because of Plum’s reluctance to perform where there was no privacy, although she doubted the man had any notion of modesty. Whatever the reason, she was grateful. There had been another argument with the man called Crown over Plum’s refusal to share her. The thought of either man terrified her, and she was not sure she would be able to hold on to her sanity when it happened.
Too frightened to sleep, her hands tied and one ankle tied to Plum’s ankle, she cried silently each night, afraid to make a sound lest she evoke Plum’s anger. She prayed constantly for some miracle to save her. The only hope she had was Trace McCall, and she couldn’t even be sure he knew of her distress. She had prayed for him to come when she was a captive of the Kutenais, but those prayers were never answered. She knew there was not much hope. No one was sure where Trace was. She had not seen him for a year. How could he know? What could he do against a whole band of Indians, anyway? She gave up her last shred of hope and resigned herself to her fate, horrifying though it promised to be.
They rode into the Blackfoot village amid a bedlam of war whoops and gunfire as the people celebrated the triumphant return of the warriors. The captured horses were driven through the middle of the village and out the other side to graze with the Blackfoot horses, and the warriors charged back and forth through the camp, yelling and firing their rifles into the air.
When Jamie was spotted, she was immediately set upon by a horde of angry Blackfoot women, clawing and pulling at her in an attempt to knock her off her horse. Plum shouted and cursed at the frenzied women, beating them back with his whip before they could pull her to the ground. He angrily informed them that this white girl was his property and was to be his wife. Properly chastised, the women reluctantly backed away.
Little Bull, having been an interested spectator of the attack, laughed at Plum’s anger. “Your wife is not very popular, Plum.” Still laughing, he wheeled his horse and rode toward his lodge.
Plum led his captive to a lodge on the outer ring of tipis. Unlike the other lodges, it was covered in plain skins without decorative pictures or symbols. Upon dismounting, he reached up and pulled Jamie off her horse. She landed on her side, crying out in pain from the impact with the hard ground. Plum showed no sympathy for her, merely jerking on the rope that bound her hands. When she did not get to her feet right away, he started dragging her toward the entrance of the tipi. Too frightened to resist, she begged the determined Plum for mercy. It only served to sharpen his sense of desire, which was already honed to a keen edge, and he continued to drag the screaming woman until they were inside the tipi. The horses stood where they were, neither hobbled nor tied, their saddles still on. Plum had only one thing on his mind, and it had been pounding away at him ever since he first had laid eyes on the girl.
Much of that first night in the Blackfoot camp remained a blur in Jamie’s mind. But the one thing that stayed with her forever was the total horror of Plum’s assault. Such was the magnitude of her terror that her mind tried to block out the details of that night of revulsion, leaving her with the feeling that she would never be clean again. She knew that she had fought him, scratching and clawing at his face as he forced himself upon her, until he began to hammer away at her with his fists. She didn’t remember a great deal after that, for she had mercifully slipped into unconsciousness.
When she came to her senses again, she was alone in the tipi. It was dark inside the lodge, but the light of the many fires outside illuminated the skin walls of the tipi, and the sound of drums and warriors chanting in celebration reverberated around her. Her body felt as if it were on fire. Bruised and bleeding from the wounds on her face, she tried to sit up, but found she was tied down, her arms and legs spread. Her initial feeling was one of despair and disappointment that she had not died but had awakened to this world again. If she had not been staked down, hand and foot, she would have sought to take her own life—hell could be no worse than this hurt she was now suffering deep inside. She strained against her ropes, but it was to no avail. Plum had made sure of his captive. She looked down at herself and realized that her skirt was pulled up over her hips, leaving her exposed from the waist down. With her hands tied, she was helpless even to cover herself. She lay her head back down and began to cry softly.
After a time, she fell into a fitful sleep. Sometime during the night she was vaguely aware of the huge form of Ox standing over her, staring stupidly at her exposed body. Then someone, probably Plum, cursing and shouting, drove him outside. She no longer cared. Nothing mattered anymore.
Morning came, and once again she was sorrowfully disappointed to find that she was still alive. Her limbs ached, her head was throbbing, and her mouth was dry from thirst. She tried to get up, but discovered she was still held fast. Aware of a rank odor of sweat and tobacco smoke, she turned her head to the side and saw Plum sleeping a few feet from her. Her eyesight seemed somehow impaired, and she realized then that her left eye was swollen shut. Turning back, she was startled to find Ox hovering over her, barely inches from her face. She screamed involuntarily.
Ox grinned his brainless smile, then returned his gaze to her lower body. He reached out to pull her skirt down to cover her nakedness, but she misunderstood his intentions. Her scream roused Plum from his slumber. He threw his blanket aside and sprang up with a pistol leveled at the giant. “Damn you, Ox!” he cursed. “I told you to stay the hell away from her.” He put his pistol down. “You damn near got your fool head blowed off. Now go on back outside.”
Ox simply grinned at Plum. “I was just lookin’, Plum. I wasn’t touching nothin’.” He continued to stare at the helpless woman before him. “You beat her pretty good. I don’t think she wanted to git married.”
Plum was too tired to exert himself. “Just go on outside like I told you.”
“I’m goin’,” Ox replied, then said, “Lookee here, Plum, she’s done made a puddle.”
Plum was already losing his patience with the overgrown man-child, and Ox’s discovery that Jamie’s long-ignored bladder had finally released on its own didn’t help his disposition. “Git the hell outta here before I git my whip!” Ox retreated without another word.
Now Plum was fully irritated. He had been in his blanket barely an hour before Ox’s intrusion brought him bolting out of a sound sleep. Little Bull’s scalp dance had gone on all night, the celebration winding down only when the first rays of the sun penetrated the morning clouds. When Crown returned from their cache with the whiskey, Plum had made a present of the first keg to his friend Little Bull. After the Indians had emptied it, Plum and Crown drove a hard bargain for the second one. After the trading, things ended up as Plum had planned—he and Crown owned most of the plunder from the Kutenai raid—and Little Bull and his warriors were left with hangovers.
Thoroughly rankled, even beyond his usual sour disposition, Plum kicked his blanket away, laying aside the two pistols he always slept with, and got to his feet. He stood scratching himself for a few moments while he looked down at his bride, a look of disgust on his grimy face. Then he drew his skinning knife from the belt beside the tipi wall, and cut the thongs that tied Jamie down.
“Git your ass up fr
om there and clean yourself up,” he commanded. Then he stood back and watched her, making sure he stood between her and the two pistols he had set beside his blanket
Movement was slow and painful for her. Her limbs, once freed, were stiff and sore, and she almost cried out with the pain of moving them after they had been immobilized for so long. “Come on, dammit,” he chided impatiently, reaching toward his rawhide whip. That motion caused her to hurry as best she could, and she struggled to her hands and knees. It was then that she felt the excruciating pain in her pelvis. Still, afraid of another beating, she pushed herself on up and finally stood on wobbly limbs. He took her arm and pulled her out the entrance flap.
Plum pointed to the creek at the eastern side of the Blackfoot camp and gave Jamie a shove to get her started. He followed close behind her as she stumbled along on legs that were weak and ached with every step as she made her way through the center of the circle of lodges. She kept her head lowered to avoid eye contact with the people moving about in the preparation of the morning meal, but she could nonetheless feel the stares that followed her every painful step. She realized at once why Plum was unconcerned about cutting her bonds. Where could she run? There were at least two hundred pairs of eyes to watch her.
Mountain Hawk Page 10
