by J. R. WRIGHT
There was a broad trail made by over a hundred horses, including the shod stock of the Martins, leading away to the west from the village. Luke followed it. It appeared to be only a few hours old, and he was anxious to see where it led him. ‘Could these people have Breanne?’ he wondered.
Luke often switched to one of the ponies as he traveled to spare the red stallion and make better time. It was close to being midnight when he rode upon the village. Even from where he was, a distance of nearly a half mile, he heard much commotion and excitement taking place among the two hundred or so lodges in the valley below. Fires burned brightly and many danced about them.
Luke studied the village briefly before moving widely around to the west, where most of the activity seemed to be taking place. After tying the three ponies in a group of cottonwoods a mile away, he move in on foot, leading the stallion. He wanted the red horse close for a fast retreat if that became necessary.
When he got to the edge of the village, he tied the horse and crawled up behind some brush within fifty yards of the action. He had hoped to catch a glimpse of Breanne, no matter how remote that may seem. But there were no females among them, not even squaws. It was a group of a hundred or more painted and half-naked young warriors, wildly dancing around a fire. These savages were obviously celebrating the successful raid on the smaller village. The smell of fresh blood in their nostrils must have driven them to such craziness, he thought as he patiently observed. Those words had come from one of Pierre’s stories, he remembered.
The merriment continued until the early hours of the morning before settling down to just a few warriors. Luke was about to make his way back to the red horse when something caught his eye in the firelight. With so many about before, he had not noticed until now, behind the fire was a pole, and to it was tied two buck Indians. These two were different from the others. The dancing Indians, even though it was cold, wore only breechclouts, while these two were fully dressed in buckskins. Apparently they were captives from the village they had just raided.
But that wasn’t all that made them different – these two also had white bone breastplates on their chests, and claw necklaces dangling over those. Seeing this, Luke could hardly contain his excitement. These had to be the ones he searched for: the ones who had Breanne. So, where was Breanne? Was she here somewhere as well? He would never find out unless he could get them away from here before they were killed. As surely they would be in time, once they had finished having their fun with them.
The few Indians that remained were getting great pleasure from poking the captives with sticks. And as they did, the captives, trying to avoid the jabs, moved around the pole where they were tied arm to arm with their backs to it.
Soon one of the remaining warriors stepped forward, drew a knife, and began cutting away the clothing of one of the captives. First the buckskin blouse, then the leggings, then the breechclout. Each piece was tossed into the fire as it was cut away.
The warrior stepped forward one more time with the knife and went for the captive’s neck.
Luke’s vision was then cut off as others gathered around, but sadly he figured the warrior had sliced the captive’s throat. When the warrior backed away, however, dangling from his up-stretched arm was the breastplate and bear claw necklace. And that too went into the fire with much cheering. It was the last item that marked this captive as a proud Santee. And, to the Tetons present, most important of all. Now he was nothing but just another naked savage, ashamed and humbled before those he had hoped would become his brothers.
The same warrior then went to the other captive and cut away his clothing. And again he held the breastplate and claw necklace high in the air before tossing them into the fire. Now that they were both naked, except for their moccasins, the warriors went back to their torturing with the sticks. They poked and beat them until both slumped into the thongs that tied them. Soon after this, the fun seemed to go out of the group, and they began to fade away into the darkness among the many teepees that surrounded this area.
After they had all gone, Luke wasted no time in springing from behind the brush and running as fast as his legs would carry him to the captives. There he swiftly drew his knife and cut them loose. He then made his way back to the red horse and rode to collect the ponies tied a mile away.
Little did Luke know, all the while he was freeing the captive Santee, he was only a few yards from the unguarded teepee where Breanne slept soundly among the buffalo robes.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was near daybreak when he saw them. They were sneaking along the creek that bordered the east side of the village. At some point during their escape, they had come across blankets and had them tied about themselves. They weren’t moving fast, but were doing all they could to stay hidden as they traveled north.
Luke rode down the hill from where he had been watching with the three ponies in tow alongside. When he reached them, one, who obviously recognized him as the one who had cut them loose, quickly mounted one of the ponies and encouraged the other, who had begun to back away, to do the same. From there, they headed north as fast as the horses could carry them. Once they were several miles away and clearly weren’t being followed, Luke reined up. He would try to communicate with what few signs Pierre had taught him. If this didn’t work, he would take them back to camp, where Pierre surely would be able to.
He had no more than stopped, however, when one of them pushed him from the red horse. This caused the ponies to pull free of his grasp on the lead ropes, and the two of them rode off to the east.
Luke wasted no time in remounting and taking pursuit. The Indian ponies were no match for the red stallion, and he caught them within the first mile. He clubbed each of them with the stock of the big bore as he passed, knocking them to the ground. He then circled to halt their escape on foot. After an extended skirmish, the exhausted pair halted.
Having their attention now, Luke immediately began questioning them in English, in conjunction with the uniform signs Pierre had taught him.
“Where is the white woman you took captive from my camp to the east?”
At first they had puzzled looks on their faces. The larger one groaned and signed back, “No captive.”
“White woman?” Luke asked again. “Captive?”
“No!” he answered forcefully. “No white woman. No go east. No captive!”
Knowing now he understood, even though he didn’t like the answers, Luke continued.
“The white woman, where is she?”
“No woman white see,” he signed in that order.
“You’re lying!” Luke became angry.
He was certain these were two of those that had taken Breanne. With all that had happened weighing on his mind, he nudged the horse up and struck the one answering his signs with the butt of the rifle, knocking him to the ground. The smaller one began to run. Already having had enough of these two, he put a stop to the running Indian with the big bore. It was a glancing shot, purposely aimed low. Now the young Santee, with buckshot in both legs, lay on the ground yelping loudly and writhing in pain. Luke didn’t know if Pierre would approve of what he had just done, but right now he didn’t care. He was anxious to get Breanne back, and at the moment there was no limit to what he would do to accomplish that goal. He hadn’t meant to kill the young Indian, but it looked as though some of the buckshot may have entered his midsection as well. Blood was soaking the blanket wrapped about him.
Seeing this encouraged the larger Santee to talk, and he did so very rapidly, while fearfully backing away. All this jabbering, however, did Luke very little good, as he reloaded the rifle. He understood practically none of it. He did make out ‘Teton’ and ‘white woman,’ but that was all. He had heard Pierre speak of the Tetons often. And, if he remembered correctly, they were the same people as the Lakota, which is what they preferred to be called by other tribes.
Now he wondered if, probably, those they had come across at the James River weren’t part of this trib
e. He preferred to believe not. That first tribe had been so generous in bringing them the deer and the antelope when they were near out of meat. And they had been so attentive in giving them safe passage all the way to the Cheyenne. It was hard to believe that a familial tribe had been the ones to destroy that little village and murder those innocent children. But then, what did he know about the ways of the Indians? From what he’d seen so far, it could go either way with these people.
“Where is the white woman?” Luke tried again, with genuine anger in his tone this time.
“Dead! Killed by Teton – at burnt village – to the east,” he signed.
Not believing what he had just been told, Luke raised the big bore and leveled it at the frightened Santee before him. “You’re a lying son of a bitch!” He near pulled the trigger before catching himself.
“No kill – no kill – no kill!” the Indian screamed, jumping around as if undecided on whether to make a run for it. “Teton kill!”
“Show me!” Luke demanded, then pointed at a pony standing nearby as if waiting for orders.
“Show,” he signed, then scurried for the pony and leapt aboard.
Several times on the trip, the Santee dashed away as Luke dozed in the saddle. And each time he awoke and chased after him, until finally he had had enough. He then took to leading the pony, with the Indian’s hands tied to its rawhide strap around the pony’s neck.
“Now where is she?” Luke demanded once they had reached the village, near sundown. He brought the young Santee down from the pony.
Both anger and sorrow filled Luke’s heart when he again looked about the carnage that lay around him.
The blanketed Indian searched the site. At first he seemed confused, and went from where one teepee had been to the next, circling the small village many times, before finally pointing to one.
Luke rode to where he stood and looked down on the charred body of a small female. He stepped down from the horse and knelt in the ashes beside her. Tears began to flow down his cheeks as he examined it, from head to foot, several times. There was nothing recognizable about the body. It was near the size of Breanne. That, and the fact that the body had boots attached, even though only the heels remained, convinced him it was really her.
After a time, he rose to his feet and removed the bedroll from the horse, spread it on the ground and gathered the remains into it. It made a small package when laced and tied to the red stallion.
Through all of this, Luke lost track of the Santee. He looked around and saw him running along the creek, near a quarter mile away. The red blanket he wore made him stick out like fire against the snowy ground he traveled over.
He mounted the great horse and went in pursuit. Once he caught up to him, he drew the big bore from its scabbard and took careful aim. The thunder of it echoed off the surrounding hills, and the exhausted Santee spilled out onto the snowy ground. Scrambling wildly from where he lay, he was soon back on his feet and running once again, even though tired and hopeless now.
Luke watched him go for a time, then steered the horse across the shallow creek and over the familiar hill beyond.
Whatever punishment would eventually be handed out to the last Santee was out of his hands now, Luke thought. But surely he would not make it for long. He had no weapons, no horse, no food, and no way of getting supplied. No doubt a pack of wolves, heard howling in the distance every night, would get him when he weakened and dropped from hunger. If not then, he would eventually freeze, with only the single blanket for warmth.
But none of that mattered to Luke anymore. He had the sorrow of losing Breanne to deal with now, and surely that would be no small burden to bear once he had rested, and his mind was clear to think on it.
The journey back to camp was a slow one. Luke gave the stallion his head, allowing him to walk throughout the night. At times, when he could no longer consciously grieve, he slept in the saddle. Being so completely drained now that it was over, he could not resist. No longer was there the adrenaline of the chase to keep him alert, and his body was shutting down from the punishment he had given it over these past long weeks.
Sarah ran up as Luke rode into camp the following morning, but did not speak as he slowly passed. She felt something was wrong and held her tongue. He dismounted, took an axe from the wagon box, and moved to a spot near the creek. There he began to chop at the frozen ground. It was the place where he and Breanne had spent their last night together.
Finally, when she could resist no longer, Sarah approached him.
“Pierre is out checking traps and setting a few more,” she said and waited for a response. When none came she asked, “Are you alright?” Still Luke did not answer. “I’ll bet you’re starved? You want some beaver soup? Pierre made it fresh yesterday. It’s real good.”
When Luke reached a depth of three feet, he stopped, retrieved the bedroll from the horse, placed it gently in the hole, and pulled the dirt over it. When he had finished, he sat quietly by the grave and was still there when Pierre returned a few hours later.
As Pierre walked into camp, Sarah kept her distance. It was clear to her now what had happened. She felt it best the two of them have their private time to grieve.
Pierre walked to Luke’s side, placed a hand on his shoulder, and lowered himself to his level. No words were said. None needed to be. One look at each other and they both, ever so quietly, began to cry.
Sarah observed all of this and did some painful crying for her own loss, as well as theirs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
It was late in June when Beaver Charlie entered their camp on the little creek. It had been nearly two and a half months since Luke McKinney had returned to bury the remains of his beloved wife, Breanne. Since then, the cabin had been completed, and the spring beaver season had come to an end.
“How-de-doo,” Charlie called up to Luke, who was busy at scraping pieces of rawhide thin for the intended purpose of covering two narrow window holes left in the cabin walls to let in light.
The voice, even though somewhat familiar, startled Luke, and he turned about quickly. The only feature he recalled about this man, shy of all the bulky furs he previously wore, was the massive rusty red beard.
“I see you finally found us,” Luke said, putting aside the axe he was using for the scraping. “Charlie, isn’t it?”
“That be me,” he responded, coming up puffing from the short climb. Trailing behind him was his white mule, Francis. “Thought it was about time I paid a visit. I’ve been meaning to for some time, ‘cept now I got a piece of news for ya.”
“Yeah, and what might that be?” Luke threw his full attention to the shaggy man and stepped forward.
“Heard tell there’s to be a rendezvous over at a place near the Mississippi, come the moon in July.”
“That can’t be far off,” Luke said, trying to think how long it had been since the last full moon. If, in fact, there had been one in June yet. Actually, he wasn’t even certain it was June. He was simply going by what Pierre said last week when they pulled the traps: ‘Prime trapping season ends the middle of June.’
“That missionary that told me, said it was to be held the last week of July. That would make it about a month hence,” Charlie said, giving his beard a good rub, as if that helped him to remember.
“So how did it come about you bumped into this missionary?” Luke asked, remembering the one who had married him and Breanne. Pearson was his name. Too bad what had happened to him.
“He just rode into the village of my woman’s people last week. Young fella, named Harry Budd. Said he rode over from Fort Union on the Missouri. That’s north of Fort Pierre a good piece. Near straight west from here,” Charlie answered, pulling a twist of tobacco from his buckskins and biting off a piece.
“How far?”
“Not sure. Two weeks’ walk, maybe. Riding would be faster.”
“Where exactly is this rendezvous going to be held?”
“Place called Woodhole on the C
row Wing River. I’ve never been there myself.”
“I have...” Luke said, to Charlie’s obvious surprise.
“What would you be doing that far east?” Charlie stepped closer and spit a string of tobacco juice to the side.
At first Luke thought to lie. There wasn’t a day or night that he wasn’t haunted by the memory of it all. He felt he shouldn’t have to share that with anyone, and hadn’t. Even Pierre was not told whole story about what killed Breanne. It was just too painful for him to talk about yet.
“Three renegade Indians took my wife. I ended up over there while trailing them,” he finally said, making it as simple as possible.
“She’s a fine looking gal,” Charlie said, his piercing eyes glued to Luke’s. “Ever get her back?”
“She’s dead,” Luke said in a hushed voice. “That’s her grave there by the creek.”
Charlie glanced to the grave, then threw his eyes back on Luke’s. “Did ya get the varmints that done it?” Charlie forcefully spit again.
“Yep...!” Luke looked away, tears welling up in his eyes. He wished now he would have shot that last Santee, as he had the first one.
“Good,” Charlie nodded his approval. “Sorry to hear of it. I buried two wives of my own over the years. Both squaws. Got a notion the one I got now will be burying me, though. She’s tougher’n nails and mean as a polecat. Got a bad streak in her, that’s why I gotta get out now and again.”
“How’s the beaver in these parts?” Charlie asked after a time of silence.
“Got near two hundred,” Pierre said, proudly stepping onto the porch from the open door of the cabin. He had heard most of what was said since Beaver Charlie arrived, but chose now to make his appearance.
