by J. R. WRIGHT
“I figured you to take the other horse,” Pierre said, as he brought over a bag of deer jerky and put it in a saddlebag. “He’d be more accustomed to the terrain.”
“This one will have more speed,” Luke argued. “They already have an hour or more head start on me, judging by the snow in their tracks.”
“Best take the big bore,” Pierre suggested, handing it over along with the bullet bag and powder horn. “I got her loaded with buckshot. You’ll need it if them savages all decide to charge ya at once.”
“Think they’ll have rifles?” Luke asked, as he rolled the buffalo robe to take along.
“More’n likely not. Them’s young bucks.”
“How do you know they’re young?”
“Found more tracks at the creek further up where they came out and got on the horses. The impressions made by their moccasins in the soft mud were no deeper than mine, except one, and he must have been toting Breanne.”
“Be back when I get back,” Luke said and mounted the leggy horse.
“By the looks of it, they’ll be heading east.”
“I thought they were heading up stream, to the west?”
“That’s what they wanted you to think. Go north until you pick up their trail; it’ll be going east,” Pierre said sternly. “And watch your back. Them varmints will cut tail on ya, hear!”
“I hear!” Luke acknowledged and then released the reins on the great horse. He immediately lunged and raced into the woods as if the horse knew there was no time to waste, and there wasn’t.
Luke came upon the trail sooner than expected, only a quarter of a mile from camp. The clever bastards had circled back just as Pierre had expected, and the trail was heading due east, according to his compass. They entered the trail at a lope, outpacing the tracks they followed by at least double. The Indian ponies seemed to be traveling at only a fast trot; however, it could take hours to catch up with the head start they had. That is, if the red horse could endure this pace for as long as that would take.
When nightfall came, and it was too dark to follow the trail, Luke continued on east long into the night. He had hoped to catch sight of a campfire, but when that hadn’t happened after several hours, he stopped and rested the horse till morning.
Other than dozing briefly from time to time with his back to a tree, big bore in his arms, he did not sleep. He had too much worry on his mind to allow that. This was Breanne, his beloved wife, out there with those savages. And only God knew what they were doing to her now, if she was still alive. But of course she was! He had to make himself believe that. Even Pierre had said: ‘Indians don’t steal women to kill them.’ Beaver Charlie warned of her golden hair. Why hadn’t he listened? Why hadn’t they kept it covered, or colored it black with pine soot as he had suggested?
At first light he went south in hopes of picking up the trail. He finally did, but much further over than he had expected. They must have cut southeast after dark before making camp, or else he would have come across them. Crafty bastards, he thought. He would not make the mistake of losing sight of their trail a second time.
A ways further on, he came across horse droppings. They were cold, but not yet frozen. Two hours, maybe three, he estimated. If that were true, the sad conclusion was that he was losing ground, and that didn’t sit well with him, or the red horse whom, it seemed, was always raring to go.
At least he would catch up, eventually, when they reached their village, or whatever their destination was. They couldn’t go on this way forever, he reasoned, and this gave him some relief. However, when nightfall came again, he began to wonder if his confidence was justified.
After another cold camp that night, he started out on foot before full light, judging the trail by broken grass and partings in various patches of brush. When full light came, he noticed a change in the hoof prints left by the Indian ponies. When first he’d seen them back near camp, one set of hoof prints had left a deeper impression. This led him to believe this horse carried two riders, and one of them was more than likely Breanne. But now they were all equal in depth. He wondered now if they had left Breanne behind, back there where he had missed part of the trail. The thought of what condition she may be in, if they did, sent a chill up his spine. Such a fool he had been, dragging her to this savage land in the first place! As much as he hated to admit it, Silas Jones had been right – this was no place for a white woman.
The trail made another sharp turn to the south, and, about a mile up, he found where they had camped for the night. With it came the answer to his most disturbing question: Breanne was most definitely alive. He saw her boot prints there in the soft earth. And even though he was relieved at the sight of them, he soon became saddened by what else he saw. They had tied her for the night, hand and foot, to some wild rose bushes. The rawhide straps were still there, cut short at each knot. What he also saw were knee prints and frozen sperm on the ground where she had laid and been raped.
By the looks of the area, she had put up quite a struggle. Still, he was sickened, and wasted no time in getting back on the trail and riding hard in pursuit. Crazy mad now, he growled like a wolf. He hadn’t been this angry since stringing up Jones and Timmons back at that river north of Fort Pierre. He knew now that he would eventually kill those he pursued for what they had done.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The trail, clearly trampled where they had gone through tall grass, was quite easy to follow. That ended later in the day, when it entered a forest with timber so dense it was difficult to stay with the trail. The fact that the Indians seemed lost, or had purposely zigzagged through the trees, didn’t help either.
That night, the difficult-to-follow trail ended at a small lake. Luke allowed the horse, who had taken interest in some grass along the shoreline, to graze while he searched on foot in bright moonlight, both directions, for any sign of their coming back out of the water farther on. But no exit was found. What he originally thought was another crafty trick appeared not to be.
The lake was long, but very narrow. It was only a few hundred yards across; he could plainly see the woods on the opposite shore.
Luke gave the now tired horse until sunup to get his fill of the grass before moving on. Once mounted and into the water, he discovered the lake was quite shallow; sunlight reflected off the bottom barely two feet below the surface. He could have crossed the night before had he known. And if he would have, he’d have come upon their camp, just as he did this morning upon reaching the opposite shore. And from where they had been, he could plainly see where he was the night before. ‘They must have lain right here and watched me,’ he thought, looking down at the beds they had made of fallen leaves. Maybe even Breanne had seen him! This added another layer of pain to his already over-burdened heart.
“I’m coming for you!” he yelled out with all the voice he had in him. “That’s my wife you have with you! Free her, or I will hunt you down and shoot you like dogs! You hear me? I’m Luke McKinney, and I’m coming for you!”
The far shore turned out not to be the far shore after all. It was an island he was on, with an equal amount of shallow rock bottom lake on the other side. He thought he caught a glimpse of something moving across the lake when he entered the water to cross but, upon second glance, saw nothing. He passed it off, figuring they must surely be hours ahead by now, considering the extra time he gave the horse that morning.
During the day, the trail took him across several creeks and rivers, and each time the Indians had gone either up or down stream before exiting. It was a maneuver that continually cost him much valuable time.
That night, Luke’s worst fear came to pass when it started to snow, large lazy flakes at first that got heaver as the night went on. When morning came there was a six inch blanket wiping out any traces of the trail he had been following. His panic was so intense now that all he knew to do was to ride hard to the east in hopes of finding a fresh trail in the newly fallen snow.
After a half day of this without s
uccess, and a tired horse on his hands, he began to circle the area. This, too, turned up nothing. He felt his best bet would be to continue on east by southeast, since that had been their general direction of travel the entire trip. He hoped that by doing so he would eventually come across their village or at least a trail that led to it.
He traveled this way for the rest of that day, and for three more, catching glimpses of sunlight to guide him through the darkness of the pine trees.
Finally, on the eighth day after leaving Pierre and their camp on the creek, he was ready to concede defeat. He was exhausted, cold, and scared. Scared he had lost Breanne forever.
He stopped early this day, built a fire, and cut the horse loose to paw through the snow for grass. The great animal had done well, but was again in need of nourishment and rest. Luke also needed rest and, when he could fight it no longer, climbed between layers of the buffalo robe and soon was fast asleep.
The following morning brought a bright sun that shone down on his face, awakening him. Luke had rested well, but felt guilty for having done so while Breanne was suffering at the hands of those savage beasts. It was more than he wanted to think of, and soon he was underway once again.
That afternoon he came quite by surprise upon a settlement of white people. They appeared to be just as surprised at his sudden presence as he was to be among them. The women and children ran for their cabins when he rode in, and some of the men quickly claimed nearby rifles.
After a time, one of them stepped forward. He was an older man and unarmed.
“Ah lo,” he said, pushing a huge floppy hat back on his head.
Luke gathered that to be a greeting and returned it from horseback.
“Hello. What is this place?” he couldn’t help but ask while looking around.
“Vel, in our language ve call it something different, to you it’s a voodhole. Ve cut da vood here.”
Luke noticed the large river with several keelboats at the levee a short distance ahead and wondered if he hadn’t somehow made his way back to the Missouri. The place did somewhat resemble the wood station where he and Breanne had been married.
“You cut wood for the riverboats?”
“Vel yah, dat an den some fer da lumber,” the old man said through a bushy white beard, yellowed at the corners of the mouth. “Dat goes down river too.”
“What river is that?”
“It’s called da Crow Ving. It flows to da Mississippi.” The old man took a twist of tobacco from his coat pocket, bit off a chew, then stepped up to the horse and stuck up a hand to where Luke sat. “Olaf Olsen is da name, son.”
“Luke McKinney,” he said, taking the old hand for a firm shake.
“Goot ta meet ya, Luke.”
“The same Mississippi that goes to St. Louis?” Luke was anxious to know.
“Yah, da same,” Olaf said. “Vy do you come to dis place?”
“I’m looking for my wife. She was taken from our camp eight or nine days west of here by three Indians. I lost their trail and thought they might have come this way.”
“Nah, tain’t been no Injuns in dez voods fer years. Day drove dem out long ago,” Olaf said. “Say, you’d best get down from dat horse or dez men might tink yer trouble. Day don’t speak English an day git a bit nervous ven a stranger shows up.”
Luke came down from the horse, as Olaf asked.
“Vill ya be stayin’ long?” Olaf asked, noticing the armed men had gone back to their work of sawing logs both lengthwise and crosswise.
“Just long enough to water my horse over there in the river. He’s had nothing but snow the last couple of days.”
“Vel, it looks to me like he could use some oats. He’s a bit on the skinny side. Der’s some in da barrel over by da horse pens.” He motioned toward a corral where several large draught horses were penned.
“Thanks,” Luke was grateful. “I’ll pay you for what I take.”
“Dat von’t be necessary. Da company brings up more dan ve need. Hep yerself. Looks as yer could use a goot meal yerself too.”
“I haven’t had much these past few days,” Luke confessed.
“Vel, den vater and grain da horse, den come to da cabin fer de venison stew I have on da stove.” Olaf pointed to a small, weathered frame shack a short distance away, which had an inviting porch out front, facing the river. That made him think of Breanne and the porch she wanted for their cabin. It was a pleasant thought for a change, but it soon faded to anxiety once more.
While Luke was heading back to Olaf’s cabin after caring for the horse, he noticed several others had gathered there. It appeared they were having a serious conversation about something, by all the hand gestures flying about.
“Luke,” Olaf said, seeing him coming. “Day tell me der vas some trouble a ways north of here. Some injuns caused trouble fer dem settlers there.”
“Is there a village up there somewhere?”
“Tain’t none now. Day burned it. Day say da ones dat vernt kilt ver driven vest.”
“How long ago was that?” Luke asked and waited while the men conversed with Olaf in a foreign tongue that sounded a lot like German, but wasn’t, gathering from what he had learned from Hans over the years.
“About three veeks ago now.”
“So you think the ones that took my Breanne may be from that tribe?”
“Der’s no tellin’ dat,” Olaf said, rubbing his beard. “I vish I could be more help.”
“That village, how far north is it?”
“Two days ride,” Olaf said. “But I doubt da go back dere. I tink day come lookin’ alright, den go back vest. Come now and eat. The vomen are gettin’ a food bag fer ya. I want you to take some extra oats fer dat poor horse, yah.”
Once back underway, Luke thought he really should have rested the horse for a day before heading out again. But he just couldn’t bring himself to do it, not with Breanne still out there somewhere suffering at the hands of those savages. So here he was, riding away from the wood camp less than two hours after arriving.
They had been a right friendly bunch. He hoped to come back someday, once he had found Breanne, and thank them proper.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Breanne had been taken completely by surprise when the three Indians captured her that morning. After tidying up the camp, she was relieving herself when they grabbed her from behind. One had placed his hand over her mouth, muffling her screams, while the others carried her back into the darkness of the woods. There they struck her on the head with a rock, rendering her unconscious.
It was late afternoon before she finally came around enough to realize what had happened. She tried to scream, but found she couldn’t. They had gagged her with a strip of buckskin cut from the bottom of her jacket. It had been placed between her teeth and tied tightly behind her head. Her mouth was sore and dry, and her head throbbed with pain. She was still somewhat dizzy from the blow to her head, but was alert enough to realize she might be better off pretending to be still unconscious.
Breanne’s legs had been tied together under the horse, and one of the Indians was on behind her holding her to the animal as they bounced over the rough open prairie. She had relieved herself sometime during the day without being aware of it, and now the urine burned her legs where her wet buckskins rubbed against the sweaty horse.
Sometime after dark they stopped and made camp. While she still pretended to be unconscious, one of them brought her to the ground and tied her hand and foot to some willows by a noisy, fast running creek. After a time here, she felt lucky they left her alone. But that luck changed moments later, when one of them dashed up, sat on her legs, and immediately went to work untying the flap on her buckskin trousers.
‘My God, he’s going to take me, conscious or not,’ she thought. Her eyes were wide open now, and they knew she had come around.
The Indian on top of her, a shaggy painted creature, screamed with joy at the fear that showed in her eyes. Again she tried to scream, but the gag prevent
ed it. He mounted her and was soon kicked aside by another, who then fell where he had been.
The young Indians were all dressed in buckskins: blouse, breechclout, and leggings. Each had a necklace of bear claws and breastplate made up in rows of small white bones.
It was the bear claw necklace of the one atop her that dangled in her face now as he desperately tried to enter her. She fought as best she could, twisting and bucking to get free, but the rawhide straps held her firmly in place. Suddenly, there was the weight of two on her, as the one who had been kicked aside earlier pounced on the other and began driving a knife into his back. She thought the violent plunging of the knife would never stop until finally he fell motionless, and with the warm blood that began pouring over her now, she fainted.
When she came to moments later, the one who had done the knifing was having his way with her. Again she put up a fight, but it only seemed to add to his pleasure, so she stopped. And when the third Indian came for his turn at her, she offered no struggle whatsoever. She just wanted it over with now and cried bitterly throughout.
They didn’t offer her any of their meal that night, but she wouldn’t have been able to eat it anyway. As the northern lights danced above, the young bucks gnawed like dogs at a fresh killed rabbit. The blood of the uncooked animal ran down their faces as each pulled and chewed from opposite ends until it finally ripped in half. Once filled, the two lay down to sleep and left her alone the remainder of the night.
The dead Indian was still beside her when she awoke the following morning. He hadn’t died instantly, and several times during the night she heard him moan and even felt his body move against hers. She tried to move away, but couldn’t. Now she was in a puddle of blood – the dead Indian’s blood. It was cold and stiff, and so was he.
They loaded her on the dead man’s pony and again tied her feet under its middle. It was done in such a fashion that if she should lose her grip to the horse’s mane, she would surely fall beneath him and be dragged and, perhaps, trampled to death. The thought of this happening horrified her, and she knew she dare not sleep.
