“There’s two ranch-houses maybe thirty miles south of here.”
“Good,” he said and got up to kick dirt over the fire. They both turned in, both tired.
In the morning when she awoke, the girl found herself alone. She discovered a scrap of paper on a stick stuck in the ground. On it was written in painful scrawl:
“Goin back after Spur. You can make it on your lonesome from here on. Luck.
Pagley.”
She balled the paper in her hands and threw it away. “The Goddam stupid fool,” she said.
The damned Indian creeping out on her like that! Both of them intending to be with Spur and all this good time wasted. Two whole days!
She slapped her blanket-saddle on the bay pony and loaded up the pack-horse. Then, mounting, she headed for the river at a fast lope. By noon she had caught Pagley jogging steadily north. He spotted her almost as soon as she sighted him and waited for her.
His greeting was: “Hell, girl, now you messed everythin5 up good.”
“It’s you who messed things,” she told him angrily. “I meant to leave you at the ranch and then head back.”
Pagley grinned wryly.
“Spur,” he said, “made me promise I’d leave you someplace safely.”
“Damn him to hell,” she returned, “he made me promise the same thing about you.”
“You turn back,” the Indian said. “This is going to be bad enough without Spur worryin’ about you.”
“You have to be alive to worry.”
Pagley pleaded with her.
“Be a good girl and don’t give me trouble.”
“Pagley,” she said, “you can argue till you’re black in the face. I’m goin’ with you or without you.”
They argued for an hour and at the end of it, they trailed north side by side with their pack-horses tagging along behind.
Chapter Thirteen
Spur came to on the spot where he had been clubbed. The two Kiowas who had taken him were not going to the trouble of carrying him. As soon as he showed signs of consciousness, they kicked him to his feet and pushed him in the direction they wanted him to go. He stumbled over some brush and lay on his face, vomiting. The world turned over a couple of times and he was kicked to his feet again. He swung a fist hopelessly at a man he couldn’t see and somebody tripped him. He landed hard, but he didn’t feel a thing. His whole being was numbed. They kicked him to his feet again and something sharp prodded him in his back.
He walked forward on rubber legs and stumbled into bright moonlight.
It seemed that he walked for a year before he heard the barking of dogs and felt sharp fangs rip at his calves. He kicked out and was rewarded by a canine yelp. The sharp thing prodded him again and he turned and smashed it aside with a heavy hand that seemed to go out of control.
He was seized by either arm and thrown forward. This time he managed to keep his balance. Full consciousness started to come to him and he was aware that there were dark faces all around him. Something hard yet spongy hit him in the face and hoarse shrill laughter sounded. He knew that he was face to face with the women.
A little boy ran up and hit him in the face with a stick. He put up a hand to ward off a second blow and a woman ran forward, cursing him gutturally and striking at him repeatedly with a heavy stick. He turned to escape her and walked into the two guards who drove him on. As he went these two half-heartedly fended the women off him, but by the time he reached the tents, he had been beaten soundly with sticks, stones and dung had been hurled at him and one or two of the more enterprising squaws had ripped his face with their nails. He knew that only the presence of the guards stopped them from tearing him to pieces.
Finally, they reached a fire in front of which sat an old man who looked familiar. His hair was streaked with gray and held four eagle’s feathers. He stood confused in front of this man, fumbling in his mind foolishly for a name.
One of the men who had captured him kicked his feet from under him and he measured his length in the dust almost at the old man’s feet.
Spur levered his chest off the ground with weak arms and stared up into the old man’s face. The black glittering eyes stared unfeelingly into his.
Two Bulls.
Spur got his legs under him and squatted. The women surged around, keeping up their deafening clamor. The old man cut the air with the edge of his hand and said something brief and sharp. The noise lessened. Two Bulls barked an angry command sweeping the women aside with his hand. They muttered, but they stepped back.
Spur was thankful. He gulped breath into his hungry lungs.
Men drifted forward. They carried weapons in their hands: rifles, clubs, spears, bows and arrows. Their paint glistened wetly in the firelight, their eyes glittered like obsidian. The smell of Indians overwhelmed Spur. He could have choked on it.
I’ve a snowball’s chance in Hell, he thought.
Two Bulls called out and the cry was taken up by men near him. They all waited, staring down at him unblinkingly.
After a wait of a few minutes, a man pushed himself to the side of the chief. He was tall, showing a wisp of beard and mustache. His pants were buckskin, but he wore a soldier’s coat and a faded blue woolen shirt underneath. His hair was cut pudding-basin fashion and a revolver was strapped to his waist. Spur knew him to be a half breed.
Not taking his eyes from Spur, Two Bulls spoke to the man who squatted down on his hams and said: “Two Bulls ask what your name?”
Spur said: “Spur.”
The name was translatable. The Indians knew the spurs worn by the soldiers, buffalo hunters and cattlemen. The chief nodded gravely. He asked another question.
The half-breed said: “Two Bulls ask - you whiteman kill young men?” He made sign with his hands indicating many days, ride and the river.
Spur answered: “Yes. The young men fought bravely.”
The half breed interpreted and a murmur ran through the warriors standing by. One of them stepped forward and shouted angry, barked words at the whiteman. The chief ignored him, waiting until he had finished.
Then he spoke again and the halfbreed said: “Two Bulls ask what you want. Why you come here?”
Spur struggled to clear his battered brains, to weigh the words he should offer. But he could think of nothing smart.
“Two Bulls knows why I have come. I have been cheated. I came to trade. I want the white girl. I came with many presents to exchange for the white girl. Ask Two Bulls why he tricked me when I came and spoke to him with a straight tongue.”
The halfbreed swallowed hard. He did not like the sound of that. As he began to speak. Spur interrupted him. “You tell him like I say. You tell him the exact words or by God I’ll have your liver and lights.”
The halfbreed snorted a laugh. “You fool,” he said. His eyes showed malice and Spur knew he would translate his words and maybe would even exaggerate them. That last was probably the truth, because when the old chief heard them, his eyes snapped angrily and some of the men standing around started to shout and wave their weapons at Spur. Panic arose in Spur, but he kept a wooden face and stared coldly at them.
When the noise had subsided. Two Bulls spoke again. The interpreter passed on his message.
“Two Bulls say where Man-Who-Catches-Rain-In-His-Hands?”
Spur smiled.
“He is happy hunting in the lands of the Great Spirit.”
The halfbreed was so shaken that he could say nothing for a moment.
“You damn lie,” he said. “Goddam.”
“He came to Whitlock’s to kill me and that wooden-faced old bastard there sent him. I put a ball in his guts, then blew the top of his fool head off.”
The halfbreed sucked in his breath before he passed that on to the old man. Spur looked into his face and the faces of the other Indians and he could see that they thought he was lying. One of them swaggered forward on stiff bowed legs, brandishing a new repeating rifle and was obviously telling the world what should be done t
o this insolent whiteman.
The others appeared to agree. Old Two Bulls sat as motionless as a carved image.
The halfbreed said: “By God, you damn lie. Goddam. Two Bulls say you lie. All men say you lie. No good for men. Give you to squaw. Goddam good.”
Spur took a deep breath and got to his feet. A warrior standing near looked as though he would knock him down, but he did not.
“I killed Man-Who-Catches-Rain,” he said in the loudest voice he could summon. “You tell Two Bulls. I saw Kiowas going to Whitlock’s. They’ll know and they’ll come back and tell him.”
The halfbreed translated that. Two Bulls showed no sign of being impressed. He gave orders and pointed to Spur. At once he was seized from behind. He made no attempt to struggle as they bound his hands and feet, making sure that the rawhide thongs bit deeply into his flesh. When he was secure, he was tripped. The fall hurt him, but he gave no sign.
Two Bulls made an attempt to stand and two young men hurried forward to help him. Erect, he stared down at Spur, then walked away without another word. The women drifted back, but the braves drove them away. Soon Spur was left alone by the fire.
He sat up and looked around him.
The Indians were smart. He had counted on being held in a tipi. Here he knew that one pair of eyes watched him all the time. Maybe more. Escape was out of the question in the light of this fire.
There was only one thing to do and that was to sleep. His wrists hurt like hell already. Soon his hands would be useless.
The man who came to build up the fire awakened him first, then the cold roused him. He was exhausted and wretched by the time dawn came, with his courage running out of him with cold and misery.
Men, women and children came to stare at him in the dawn, huddled in their blankets against the cold. Nobody offered him food or drink. He kept his eyes open for any sign of a white girl, but he saw none.
An hour later, after several pats of dung had been hurled into his face and several bold children had run the gauntlet of the braves and had hit him with sticks and stones, a shrill cry went through the camp and everyone left him to hurry off to the south end of the village. In the earth under his head he heard the murmur of the hoofs of running horses. Old Two Bulls appeared. Shouts went up and the women started wailing.
This is it, Spur thought and his stomach turned over.
Horsemen swept through the camp, yelling. They boiled through the tipis in a cloud of dust and halted near Spur. Men ran forward to take a grisly burden from the leading rider. A sigh ran through the onlookers and a woman started a death-song that was taken up by others. The dead body of the pale-eyed warrior was laid down near Spur. He rolled on one side and looked into the dead, pale eyes.
The halfbreed appeared and Spur shouted to him: “I’m a Goddam liar, am I?”
A doeskin covered toe kicked him in the mouth and he cursed the man who had done it. The man kicked him again, in the temple this time and Spur’s senses reeled.
Somebody growled an order and, turning his head, Spur saw old Two Bulls. The chief was angry.
The din and the dust almost overcame Spur.
The men who had ridden in strutted around Spur, kicking the dust in his face. They seemed shamed by the sight of him. They did not like the look of him and he did not like the look of them. They all talked at once, giving their version of some story to Two Bulls. The old man kept his face immobile, but he was at a loss and could not hide the fact. He gave an order, gesticulating with his right hand. Wailing squaws came and carried off the body of the pale-eyed warrior. A woman spat in Spur’s face. His flesh quivered under the impact of the spittle.
Two Bulls gave more orders; people drifted away. They seemed to forget about Spur. He lay in the heat of the sun throughout the day. Nobody offered him food or water.
The village curs came and sniffed at him. One took a nip at his leg and he kicked at it, two-footed and awkward.
By the afternoon, he began to see that death might not be such a bad thing after all, but he guessed that the death that these people would offer him would be neither pleasant nor quick.
He either dozed or fell into a coma. When he came to himself and opened his eyes, he saw a figure standing not ten yards away by the nearest tipi. It was female and it was dirty; the clothes were in rags. It took several seconds for him to realize that those rags were a remnant of a white child’s dress. It took several more seconds for his dazed mind to take in the fact that he was looking at the Grimes girl.
Whether she recognized him or not he didn’t know She just stood there, dully staring at him, light-colored eyes peering out from a mass of matted hair. Before he could speak to her, she had been driven away by an angry squaw, who beat her with a stick. The child gave him one last frightened glance and fled.
So he had found the girl.
And a lot of good it could do him or her now. But somehow the fact cheered him and gave him courage.
At nightfall, the drums started and he heard the high dulcet notes of a reed flute. Somewhere out of his sight, hands were clapping, feet pounded the dust in dance.
After what seemed a long time, men came and dragged him to his feet. They cut the bonds that bound his ankles. His deadened feet refused to hold him and he fell. They kicked and beat him erect. He staggered, held by either arm, towards the massed Indians.
At the sight of the stake near the fire that burned in the center of the crowd, he realized that this was the beginning of the end.
He shook off the hands that restrained him and staggered on his numbed feet toward the center of the stage. Something like heavy cold clay lay in the pit of his belly. And yet his pride demanded that he walk with his head high. Silly and melodramatic, but that was all he could think of now. He was going to die, so he might as well do it the best he could.
When he reached the stake, he was bound quickly to it and something laughed crazily inside him. This was the scene described in a hundred Eastern dime novels and it seemed for one insane moment that he was nothing more than the central figure of a piece of bad literature.
Lifting his eyes, he saw Two Bulls seated with several under chiefs, ranks of warriors stood beyond stripped to the waist and painted, weapons in their hands. The old man regarded him with undisguised curiosity. Pain was about to be delivered to the whiteman and the dealing and receiving of pain was a matter of great interest to an Indian. This was a game like the game of war. If they made him flinch or cry out, they were the victors; if he neither flinched nor cried out, he would be the victor, even though he died. And they would honor him.
Even though it seemed smart then to be a coward and possibly hasten his own death, his pride rode him and he was determined that he would stand and bear what they had to offer him like any stoical Apache. The tribes would talk of the whiteman who could die as well as an Indian.
And then, as a short, bow-legged man wearing the horns of a buffalo approached him, his courage turned cold in him and he wished that his heart would fail in him and he could be dead before the first instrument of torture touched him.
The man was stripped to his breech-clout, his face painted like a crude and grotesque sun. He danced and pirouetted like a demon out of hell in front of his victim, threw some dust that flared up on the fire and raised his hands exultantly to the night sky.
The drums stopped abruptly.
The bow-legged man came close to Spur and spoke tenderly into his face.
Spur hawked and spat and watched the saliva trickled down over the gaudy paint.
Enraged, the man lifted his hand to strike him, but stopped and contemplated him with a smile.
Turning, the man walked to the fire and crouched over it, poking at it. Bright sparks arose. Two braves came up to Spur and ripped the remains of his shirt from his body. The sweat poured down him.
When the man wearing the buffalo horns turned and faced him, he held in his hands a hot iron. He was still smiling. He capered a little, dancing nearer and nearer to Spur, hopping on
alternate feet, crooning a gentle song.
When he was close to Spur he held the iron near his eyes. The whiteman dropped his lids against the heat and his heart pounded in his breast like a drum.
It’s going to be damned hard, he thought, to show these boys how a man can die.
The heat from the iron traveled down his face, the iron not two inches from his flesh, and suddenly his whole chest was on fire and he wanted to scream and scream so that somehow the deafening noise would blot out the whole world.
Chapter Fourteen
Pagley was worried.
He had every reason to be. He could read sign like another man could read a book and he knew just what had happened here in this beautiful valley. He knew what Spur had done and when he had done it; he knew when the Kiowas had come and exactly how many of them there had been. He knew what they had done to Whitlock. He and the girl had ridden down on the old man’s body as it lay sprawled on the edge of the brush to where he had run when he had realized what the Indians meant to do to him.
Pagley would have given much to have prevented the girl from seeing the result of their handiwork, but it had been too late. She had seen how they had crudely scalped him, ripping his scant gray hair from his skull and she had seen what the enraged young warriors had done to him after.
It was not pretty and it turned even the Delaware’s hardened stomach.
That night he had gone cautiously back into the hills and made a fireless camp. He lay awake late wondering what he should do, wondering what a lone Delaware and a young girl could do for a friend who was in the hands of the savages. All thought of getting the Grimes girl out had fled from his mind. Spur was his sole goal now and he had no idea of what he could do. But he knew that by the next day he would and must do something.
His problem was how he could manage it without the girl. He had made a promise to Spur and he had not forgotten it. He wondered if it were physically possible to get Spur out of the Indian village without some help. He fell asleep without having made any plan.
The following day he spent looking for the Kiowa village. He dare not follow the tracks up the center of the valley in case he should run into any tribesmen. Instead he followed Spur sign along the ridge and this lead him to Spar’s dun horse. Pagley did not know the animal, but he knew it was Spur’s when he inspected the contents of the saddlebags and found the note-book and sketch-book. Surprised that the Indians had not found the horse, he led it back to the girl, after having taken a long look at the village. Jane he moved across the valley into the higher hills and by nightfall was back at the Indian village again.
Man in the Saddle Page 8
