"Who speaks?" she replied.
"A blood brother of the Comanche," he lied, "and of the Cheyenne."
"You do not belong here in Red Cloud's hunting grounds."
"I am wounded," he replied. He held the Colt steady on her. He would hate to kill her, but his hand did not waver. "Are you alone?"
She hesitated. "No. My people are near. They will kill you."
Wyoming grinned in the darkness. The slight hesitation had given her away. What the hell she was doing here in the night and alone was too much for him to think about now. He struggled up on one knee. She backed up a step.
His mind worked fast. If anyone was nearby, he couldn't let her reveal his presence. He would have to ride, though he knew he needed rest. He groaned and staggered to his feet. She moved another few steps away from him and then he fell backward, splashing into the spring.
He lay still, eyes closed, listening intently. She did not move for' a long time, but finally her curiosity got the better of her and she stepped closer to him. He began to groan, and slowly opened his eyes. She was standing over him, the blade of a knife glinting in the dim light. She stooped and threw her arm back to strike; Wyoming knocked her in the head with the barrel of the Colt. She slipped to the ground and lay still.
Wyoming took the knife and slipped it into his boot, then scouted the spring area. If she was alone, he thought, she must be running for some reason. She carried nothing but the knife and he could find no sign of pack or horse nearby. He returned to the spring.
After tying her hands and legs and gagging her, he began splashing water in her face. She came out of it slowly, and opened her eye. She twisted against the leather thongs violently.
Wyoming put his hands on her shoulders and spoke softly in Cheyenne. She refused to listen at first, but finally she stopped her wriggling and stared at him.
"I did not lie," he said, "and I am a friend of the Sioux." He unwound the leather binding his wound, just enough to show her the blood and the swollen joint of the shoulder. "I was gored by a bull buffalo."
Her eyes flashed and she shook her head and tried to say something. He began removing the gag. "You say your people are nearby. You may think that if you scream, they will come help you. But if you scream," he picked up her knife, "nothing will help you."
She glanced at the knife and back at Wyoming. Her eyes dulled.
Wyoming reached out quickly and slashed the leather holding a small pouch on her breast. "Your medicine will not protect you," he said, and threw the pouch into the stream. She stared wild-eyed at him. "Your medicine will not keep you from this—" he held up the knife menacingly —"if you should try to call to your people."
He pulled the gag out of her mouth, and she spit in his face. He slapped her hard with his good hand. She spit again. He slapped her a second time and stuffed the gag back in her mouth. He examined the leather bonds that held her, and satisfied they were secure, lay back on the grass.
His shoulder began to ache acutely now. The movement of falling into the spring, faking a faint, had landed him squarely on the injured left side.
"You are not wise," he said softly in Cheyenne. "You are stupid like most squaws because you cannot think like a man and do not know when to believe and when not to believe. I speak the truth and you try to kill me. If I were a bad white, with a bad heart, I would have killed you. Is that not so?"
His shoulder throbbed and his head ached and he was hungry and exhausted. The memory of Curly strapped to the pole near the flames, of his own dash to put his friend out if his pain, filled his mind with hate.
He raised himself on his good elbow and stared at her. Why shouldn't I take her? he thought. I've been hide-hunting for four months without so much as a smell of a woman. She would slit my throat and carve my gizzard first chance she got, then run and holler to every damned Sioux Red Cloud's got to come look at her handiwork.
He stared at the flat, wide face and the small eyes and the curious nose that was strong and slender. "You're a no-good red-skinned bitch," he said vehemently, "and I oughtta—"
He dropped back and closed his eyes. "You're lucky, woman," he said. "Lucky that I'm too tired and full of sickness over my fight, or I'd give you what for damned quick."
He closed his eyes and slept.
She had not moved. The sun was low in the west and he knew he had slept the rest of the night and into the day. He was refreshed but still weak.
She tried to speak.
He pulled the gag out of her mouth and sat back on his legs, grinning at her. "Still want to holler?" he said in English, then rephrased it in Cheyenne. "Or do you want to be peaceful?"
"During the day, just a little time ago," she said huskily, "a bull deer came. He did not drink and will not leave the spring because it is too far to another watering place. If you are a good hunter, you could slay him."
"Hungry, huh?" Wyoming grinned. "All right, I guess I could use a little something myself." He shoved the gag back into her mouth and stood up.
He selected a strong hickory branch and stripped it down to a one-inch, six-foot shaft. He lashed his longer and stronger knife to the end of it and nodded.
Wyoming picked up the tracks of the deer in a few minutes. He followed it for fifteen minutes and discovered he was back on the same trail. The animal was circling the spring waiting for them to leave so he could go in and drink. Wyoming examined the area carefully, and after deciding the beast was moving clockwise and had made at least two turns around the water, he moved into a clump of brush downwind of the trail and waited for the animal.
He did not have to wait long. He heard the easy stalking plod of the buck and then saw the animal push through the trees sniffing the air as it stopped every fifteen feet or so. Wyoming sat with the lance and waited. The animal, which was not very large, moved closer. It stopped several feet away from Wyoming and lifted its head, sniffing the air. It turned to look back over its trail and Wyoming drove the lance into the side of the beast, behind the shoulder and angled toward the heart.
The buck reared back. Wyoming leaped at the beast with the girl's knife, and forcing himself to use the injured left arm, grabbed the animal's hind legs and slashed both hamstrings. The beast hobbled a few steps and then fell. Wyoming drove the lance into the animal's heart quickly and the buck lay still. Dripping with perspiration, shaky and weak, he wiped the warm blood on the buck's hide and walked back toward the spring.
She was standing up. "He's dead," Wyoming said. He left the gag in her mouth, but loosened the bonds on her feet. He marched her ahead of him back to the dead buck, pulled out his Colt and handed her a knife. "Work," he said. And then, spinning the heavy gun on his forefinger, he cocked it. "Do not think that I will hesitate to shoot you."
She nodded and bent to the buck.
They ate the liver and the heart raw. He winced trying to get the bloody meat to stay down. She laughed at his squeamishness, her white teeth flecked with blood. She had told him she could make a smokeless fire, but Wyoming would not chance it. When they were finished eating, he allowed her to wash in the spring. The day was nearly gone by then and Wyoming, his belly full and his strength coming back, was eager to get out of the country. As long as he could look forward to having money to spend after he and Curly had sold the hides, he could stand being away from civilization. But there was no reason to keep him here now, and plenty of excellent ones to leave.
"What's your name?" he asked.
"Little Foot," she said.
"Red Cloud's village?"
"Yes."
"What are you doing out here alone?"
She did not reply, but stared at him with the blank expression he had learned most Indians used when they did not want to answer. She broke into Sioux, using sign language.
He interrupted her in Cheyenne and she broke off and began speaking slowly. "I am lost," she said.
"It would not be hard to find your people." Wyoming grinned. "Red Cloud's braves are everywhere."
"But
I must also hide," Little Foot said. "Have you not wondered how Little Foot, a Sioux, speaks Cheyenne."
"I have so wondered," he replied.
"White Wolf, a subchief of Dull Knife of the Cheyenne, gave eight horses to my father many summers ago when I was a papoose. I was sent to live with Dull Knife's Cheyenne and to learn their ways. One summer Little Foot live with Sioux of Red Cloud, another summer Little Foot back with Dull Knife and Cheyennes. Soon White Wolf will take me." She stopped.
Grinning, Wyoming nodded. "And you don't think much of White Wolf, eh?"
Her face and body underwent a change that shocked Wyoming. "White Wolf not think much of Little Foot," she said angrily. "Much dishonor come on my father's tipi, and he now must return the horses."
"You're sure in a fix, honey." Wyoming said, recognizing the frightening situation the young girl was in. He thought for a moment. "What are you going to do?"
"I do not know," she replied.
Wyoming hesitated. "Would Little Foot give me her word that she will not betray me, if I free her?"
Gravely, the young Indian replied, "Little Foot so speaks."
He cut the leather thongs on her legs and wrists. She stood up and stretched and began massaging her arms and ankles.
"I will leave with the first sun," he said. "I have far to go."
"How does a white man speak Cheyenne and Comanche?" Little Foot asked.
"Spent the first ten years of my life living in Texas with the Comanche and the next ten years with the Cheyenne."
"You are good friend of the Indian?"
"When I meet Indians who are friendly, then I am also friendly. I did not live in the Cheyenne and Comanche lodges. Only in their country, to learn their ways and their tongue."
"Texas." She pointed to the boots. "The white man wiggles and totters like a squaw." She threw back her head and laughed.
Wyoming grinned, and then he frowned. The night noises were no longer there. He pulled the Colt the instant a Cheyenne arrow dug into the ground between them. Wyoming jerked up. The spring was surrounded with a dozen Cheyenne, their bows drawn.
Little Foot screamed.
CHAPTER THREE
White Wolf was taller than Wyoming by half a head. He wore a breechclout and leggings, a sash of beads, and a single multi-colored feather in his headband. His face was lined with age. He stepped toward Wyoming. "What are you doing here with her!"
Wyoming spoke slowly. "I am blood brother to the Cheyenne," he said. "I run before Red Cloud's braves after big battle. Wounded, I slept here, and awoke to find Little Foot. We have eaten of the buck deer and talked of White Wolf."
The old Indian's face was immobile. He swung his head and looked down at the frightened girl. "I do not like white men!" he snarled.
The surrounding braves commented among themselves.
"White Wolf is a great chief of the Cheyenne," Wyoming said. He had not moved his hand and the Colt was steadied on the belly of the subchief. "Great Cheyenne chiefs are leaders because of many coups in their lodges. Great chiefs are leaders in war. But this is not all that makes a great chief." He met the old Indian's gaze. "White Wolf is great because he recognizes the forked tongue of a liar and the true voice of one who speaks facts."
The girl broke in and tried to say something, but the old man silenced her with a kick. "Do not speak, you dog!"
Wyoming took a deep breath. "No dishonor has been done to this squaw."
The old man's eyes flashed, but his face remained still. He pointed to the Colt. "You think to kill me if I order your death." He pulled himself up straight. "I am not afraid to die."
"White Wolf will live many summers to enjoy Little Foot. White Wolf will not die, for White Wolf knows I speak the truth." Wyoming began to perspire. "Little Foot is in fear of the Cheyenne leader. Is that not so with all squaws?"
The old man stared at Wyoming for a long time, holding his face still, commanding the Texan to return the stare. "Take him," he said to the others. "The Cheyenne will determine if dishonor has come to Little Foot, this dog of a squaw who does not deserve the honor of White Wolf. If the white is not afraid of this, let him kill me now and then die himself."
Wyoming did not hesitate. He reversed the butt of the Colt and offered it to the Cheyenne leader.
They rode for two days, stopping only to eat and drink. At night they moved more slowly, but there was no pause for sleep. They followed the outer ranges of the Black Hills southward to the Cheyenne River and spent a day on the trail beside the summer-dried stream.
On the morning of the fourth day they entered a small valley that flanked from one of the Cheyenne River's contributing creeks. Dull Knife's village of more than fifty tipi was bustling with the routine of morning activity.
They entered the village slowly, with White Wolf leading the party proudly, Wyoming and Little Foot in back of him. The squaws and children and a few of the braves stopped their work to stare.
They pulled up at a huge tipi that had a huge medicine bundle hanging just beside the flap. White Wolf dismissed the other braves and signaled Wyoming and Little Foot to follow him inside.
There was the smell of sweating flesh and dried meat inside the buffalo hide tent. Gradually, as Wyoming's eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw an old woman sitting cross-legged before a bank of red coals. Her skin was lined and wrinkled, and when she looked up at White Wolf, her eyes were flat and yellow.
White Wolf spoke to her and Wyoming could hear the respect in his voice. "Old woman, wise with many summers."
"Speak," she said.
"White Wolf promises a fine buffalo robe to warm your chilled bones in the coming winter winds if you will determine if this girl is still a maid or if there has been dishonor done to White Wolf!"
The old woman made a sign with her hands and White Wolf turned, shoving Wyoming outside before him.
Wyoming was taken by four strong braves to the end of the village clearing, where a pole had been dug into the ground. He could see old women bringing in bunches of straw and brush. They lashed him to the pole and piled the brush around his feet and halfway up his body. The braves and women backed up when their work was finished. They squatted on their haunches a hundred feet away and stared at him.
White Wolf turned away and strode back to the woman's tent and sat before the door. The sun was high. A hawk circled the area slowly.
It was nearly dark before the pain in Wyoming's arms and legs ceased and his body became numb. Deep into the night he heard riders enter the village, but he did not even look up when he heard them approach. . . .
At dawn, White Wolf was still sitting before the old woman's tipi. Wyoming straightened up suddenly. His eyes had caught something unusual, but he could not focus on it. The ache in his shoulder would not allow him to turn and find exactly what it was. He studied the Cheyenne village, trying to detect the detail that had jarred him.
Four saddled horses—white man's saddles with carbines rammed into the saddle sheaths—were hobbled a hundred feet away.
Before Wyoming could figure out this unusual and startling discovery, he saw White Wolf straighten up. The old woman was standing before the aged subchief, gesturing and pointing to the sky, then toward Wyoming Jones.
White Wolf stood up and turned toward the white man lashed to the fire pole. He walked slowly, head erect and high, his eyes boring into Wyoming. Several braves approached him, one carrying a blazing torch. White Wolf ignored them and continued toward Wyoming. The old Indian walked to within four feet of the pole.
"The old woman says no dishonor has been done to White Wolf," he intoned, and ordered Wyoming to be released.
Wyoming was taken by two braves and walked down the center of the village. "You will be given your weapons and horse; then you will leave Cheyenne country," White Wolf said.
"White Wolf is a wise chief, and I am happy that he has seen the truth."
As Wyoming walked, stiffly, the reassuring weight of his Colt heavy on his hip, he remembered the
horses. He swung his gaze around and eyed the four range ponies. They had been ridden hard, and there wasn't an accompanying pack animal with provisions. Wyoming stopped still, and it was difficult for him to swallow. Rammed into one of the saddle sheaths he saw his own hand-carved oak carbine stock. There couldn't be two unfinished stocks like that in the whole Territory.
He passed on, watching the tipi, trying to see into the leather hide tents and find the men who had ridden the saddle broncs.
He heard their voices a moment later coming from a large tipi. As he approached the tipi, he turned sharply away from the accompanying braves and tried to enter the tent. He was stopped immediately and shoved ahead.
Wyoming turned for a closer look at the stock of the carbine. There was no mistake about it. It was his own, lost during the fight with the Sioux. He had broken the rifle and it had taken him nearly a week to carve the new one out of a block of oak.
The talking inside the tent stopped as he passed. He slowed his pace. "You in there! One of you got a homemade stock for his rifle—"
A tall man came to the flap of the tent. A full beard covered half his face.
"That's my shooter," Wyoming said, pointing to the horse. When he turned back, he saw a pair of arms push the big man out of the flap and back into the darkness of the tipi. There was a harsh command, and then silence.
The Indians urged him on down the street.
Wyoming stumbled a few steps, his hand dropping to his Colt. Immediately there were half a dozen braves surrounding him; to draw the gun would mean death. He glanced at the flap of the tipi again. "I'm going to find out about that gun of mine—"
The braves took him forcibly now, hurried him away from the tent, and walked him to the pony herd near the water. One of the braves called to the sentry watching the horses and ordered Wyoming's pony brought out.
Wyoming saw the rider cut out the pinto he had taken from the Sioux and bring it toward him.
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