by Chuck Tyrell
“Arapaho? Blackfeet? Not only Cheyenne kill white men,” Raven-that-walks said.
“The broken arrows left behind were Cheyenne. Do Cheyenne Dog Solders give their arrows to Arapaho warriors? To Cree? Or to Blackfeet?”
Raven-that-walks puffed at the pipe. He closed his eyes, dropped his chin to his chest, breathed smoke from his nostrils. “North,” he said. “Leaning Bear rides north.”
“With the women?”
“With one.”
“Where are the other two?”
“South.”
“Why south?”
“Apaches buy. One woman, five horses. Young women.”
“Raven-that-walks, can you tell me what woman goes north with Lean Bear?”
“Big woman. Tall like Dog Soldier. So tough, so strong. Kill two, three braves. Medicine great. No cry, that woman.”
Raven-that-walks passed the pipe to Stryker. Talk of women and dead men was over. Stryker puffed at the pipe with proper decorum as he made plans to ride north, following Lean Bear.
“I thank Raven-that-walks. What you told me is worth much more than one buck deer. When I return, I will bring more meat for you. I promise.”
Raven-that-walks waved his hand back and forth as if he needed nothing, but the look in his eye said meat was always welcome in his camp.
Stryker left the Cheyenne encampment without a backward glance, reining the Tennessee horse straight for Fort Fetterman. Just over ten years ago, Bill Fetterman had charged after a Cheyenne-Arapaho decoy and lost his life, along with 80 men, almost within earshot of the fort. Now he had a fort named after him.
Then, just last year, the boy general George Armstrong Custer, firm in the belief that one cavalryman was worth ten red men, lost his own life and those of more than 260 men who rode behind his flag. The 7th Cavalry, heroes of Washita Creek, where they killed sixteen warriors and a number of women and children. Stryker wondered if Leaning Bear was saving Cat for some red man’s ceremony ... .
Fort Fetterman sat on a bluff above the North Platte, almost impossible to approach from the river. In fact, there was only one road into the fort after the north and south roads from Laramie came together a few miles from the little military community. Stryker rode the Tennessee horse straight to the hitching rail in front of the commandant’s office. A gaggle of women in bustled dresses with crocheted lace collars and light shawls against the nippy air passed in front of him, headed purposefully for who knows where. Officers’ wives. Stryker had nothing against army officers, except they seemed to think of themselves as a breed apart. He wondered if Captain Baldwin considered himself a breed apart, all naked and sliced up with his sawed-off penis in his mouth. Death takes everyone down to the same level, Stryker thought. He ground-hitched the Tennessee horse and climbed three steps up to the porch.
Stryker’s rap on the door brought a crisp “Come” from inside. He entered.
Major Carlton peered at some papers through steel-rimmed reading glasses. “What is it?” he said, without looking up.
“In case you haven’t heard, Cap’n Baldwin and a troop of cavalry, along with Baron Ulrich von Walsberg’s hunting party, was all killed where they’d camped in a meadow down by the North Platte.”
“Fort Laramie wired us about it.”
“Did they say three women were taken captive?”
Major Carlton looked up for the first time since Stryker walked in. “No, Matthew Stryker, that was not mentioned.”
“The Cheyenne at the camp say someone called Lean Bear led the war party. They say the women—one of them is a Belgian duchess—were broke up. Two sent south to be traded to the Apache for horses, one took north, headed into Canada where we can’t get to them, I reckon.”
“Who are the two? I assume the Belgian’s the one being dragged northward.”
“Wives of enlisted men. Laundresses, I hear. Both not yet twenty. Cheyenne said Apaches give more horses for young women.”
“Well, not much we can do about them, then.”
“You could wire posts down the country—Fort Defiance, Fort Whipple, Fort Apache, Fort Bowie—maybe.”
“Yes, I can put out a general warning. Not sure how much good it will do, though.”
“Yes, Major. But no wire means absolutely nothing gets done, right?”
“True. True. I’ll do that. Descriptions?”
“Don’t know, Major. Their husbands went down with Baldwin’s A Troop. Maybe someone at Laramie knows ’em. I shoulda asked.”
“A man can’t think of everything,” Major Carlton said.
“After General Custer’s campaign last year, you’d think we’d have a little peace in this area.”
“Stryker, you know and I know that a little skirmish where a few people get killed is not a war.”
“Yes, Major. Still, by your leave, I’ll head north and try to get that Belgian duchess back.”
“You know I can’t order you around, Stryker. But I must wonder if one woman is worth all the trouble you may see.”
“She’s worth it. Any woman’s worth it for that matter.”
Major Carlton raised an eyebrow at Stryker’s tone. “Worth it, eh?”
“Yes, sir. Completely.”
“Word has it that you’re a woman hater. Well, that you don’t seem to be interested in, what should I say, carnal relationships.”
“I’m not a casual man, Major, and I lost my bride in ’66 to cholera. No one yet measures up to her.”
“Sorry, Stryker. Didn’t know of your loss.”
“That’s all right, Major. Past and gone.”
“Well. You’re headed north, then.”
“I am.”
“Supplies?”
“I’ll manage, Major. Won’t be the first time I’ve lived off the land.”
“Might as well stock up. I can‘t send troopers with you, but I can authorize your supplies from the suttler’s.” Major Carlton picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and scrawled on a handy sheet of foolscap. He sanded the paper, dumped the sand back in its container, and handed Stryker the foolscap.
Matthew Stryker is hereby authorized to get supplies and ammunition from Fort Fetterman suttlery. All charges are to be waived for Mr. Stryker and placed against the post’s general account.
It was signed by Caleb H. Carlton, Major, U.S. Army, but Stryker could not read the signature. “Thank you, Major. I will keep you appraised of what I find.”
“Fare well, Stryker. Fare well.”
“I’m not going up north to die,” Stryker said.
Major Carlton stuck out his hand, which Stryker shook. “Get outta here,” the Major said, “and you might want to stay off the Sioux reservation on your way north.”
“Yes, sir,” Stryker said, and nearly saluted. Some officers were worth a salute. Some were not. Two hours later, Stryker rode out of Fort Fetterman leading a mule loaded with the wherewithal for a month or more on the trail. And if it came down to it, Stryker could eat the mule, just like any self-respecting Cheyenne would do.
Chapter Five
Cat thought herself well aware of her surroundings, but she never saw the war club that struck her down. She’d had time only to draw her Colt Lightning, take a steady stance with her legs spread shoulder-width apart, and empty the six-gun at the whooping savages that invaded the camp. Here, with soldiers all around, she needn’t save a bullet for herself, she thought. The Indians rode quick wiry ponies that could dodge and turn as if dancing. She could not tell if any of her bullets hit, and as she worked feverishly to reload the Lightning from her belt of .38 caliber cartridges, the war club robbed her of consciousness.
When she came to, her arms dangled next to the legs of a horse, and her cheek pressed against its sweaty hide. Her head pounded and she caught her breath. Where? What?
There was no saddle beneath her stomach. An Indian horse? A strong hand held her in place. Who? How? She stayed relaxed, as if still unconscious.
She heard a shout. Then the sound of pounding hooves.
Horses came close. Men conversed in a language she had never heard. She squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to hang limp over the withers of the trotting Indian pony.
“Cat woman.”
Cat did not respond.
“Woman!” The brave slapped her lightly on the rump.
“What do you want, red man?” Cat’s voice was bitter, acidic, filled with the sight of good men felled by arrows and lances.
“Good. Woman wake up. Good.” He said no more until the little band of warriors decided to camp.
The Indian hopped from the pony’s back and pulled Cat so her feet landed first. She stumbled and would have fallen if not for the Indian’s strong arm.
She turned and drew a sharp breath. “Lean Bear?”
“It is so,” Lean Bear said.
“Why? Tell me. Why did you raid our camp?”
“Three Dog Soldiers died. White men must also die.”
“But I killed them. And only after they killed Sergeant O’Malley.”
“Men for men. Women for women.”
Cat narrowed her eyes at Lean Bear as if to bring him into sharper focus. “When will you kill me?”
Lean Bear met Cat’s glare straight on. He shrugged. “Camp,” he said.
One of Lean Bear’s three companions walked over, overly nonchalant. He shoved the nock end of his bow under her chin and forced her to lift her face.
Lean Bear slapped the bow away. Névé'nėheševe! No!”
The warrior sneered, but walked away.
“I will fight him, if he thinks all women are weak,” Cat said. The pain in her head still beat with a dull throb.
“He thinks nothing.”
“Any time. I will fight.”
Lean Bear shook his head. “You will not.”
Cat put on her most ferocious face. “I can.”
Lean Bear barked a laugh. Then laughed again at the surprised look on her face. His own face went sober. “If you wish to live, stand. Do not move.”
With a length of leather cord from a bag slung over his shoulder and across his chest, Lean Bear tied Cat’s thumbs together behind her back. He tied the tail end of the cord to a tree branch above her head. For the moment, Cat stood still. She would watch for the right time to try the bindings. She stood in plain sight as the Dog Soldiers made their camp. One warrior disappeared into the woods with a bow and two arrows. Another gathered firewood. Lean Bear left Cat tethered and ignored her as he built a fire pit with rocks. When it was ready, he disappeared into the willows along the river. He returned with a small bird nest in one hand and a bowed willow stick about three feet long in the other.
What it the world? Cat watched him closely.
From the small pile of firewood, Lean Bear selected a length of wood about as long as his forearm and as thick as his wrist, and another about the thickness of his thumb.
He took a palm-sized stone from his bag, rounded on one side and flat on the other, with a deep dimple in the flat side, and a length of cord. He rounded one end of the straight thumb-thick stick and whittled the other end to a point. Then, using the same knife, he shaved one side of the thick stick flat, cutting nearly to the center. He shaved the underside just enough to keep the stick from rolling.
Cat could not figure out what he was doing.
Finally, he used the point of his knife to dig a pit in the center of the flat larger stick.
Lean Bear tied the cord to the bowed stick, twisted the straight stick into the cord so it went around once, placed the pointed end into the little pit in the large flattened piece of wood he’d prepared. He rubbed his forefinger up and down one side of his nose and rubbed the finger over the rounded end of the straight stick, then repeated the process after rubbing up and down the other side of his nose. The pitted rock fit his left hand with its pit over the rounded end of the straight stick. He knelt on one knee with the other foot holding the flattened stick in place. The conical end of the straight stick in the pit of the flattened one, he started sawing with the bow and cord as if playing a cello. Back and forth he sawed, making the straight stick spin against the rock on one end and the pit in the flattened stick on the other.
As Cat watched, a curl of smoke came from beneath the spinning stick.
Lean Bear stopped and used his knife to cut a notch to the pit in the flattened piece of wood. Again he instated the cone of the straight stick into the pit and started playing the cello. Soon smoke began to rise again, but this time Lean Bear continued his sawing motion. The straight stick spun, the friction causing wood dust to accumulate, then char and smoke. The smoking wood dust overflowed into the notch. Lean Bear stopped sawing and removed the stick from the pit. The accumulated wood dust still smoked. He picked up the flattened piece and blew gently on the smoking wood dust.
The smoke increased.
Lean Bear turned the flattened wood over so the smoking wood dust fell into the little bird nest. He folded the nest, then blew at it. And blew again. And again. The smoke increased. He blew yet again, the nest burst into flames.
“Oh,” Cat said.
Lean Bear ignored her, placing the burning bird nest in the center of the fire pit. He gently added small twigs, and as the fire gained power, larger sticks. He never let the fire get too big, and the dry wood he used gave off minimal smoke that dispersed as it rose into the branches of an overhanging sycamore.
The hunter returned with a grouse and two rabbits, which he soon had skinned, gutted, quartered, and spitted on green willow skewers. Once the rabbits were broiling, the warrior took the grouse and left toward the river. He came back with a ball of mud in his hands, the grouse inside. The ball of mud went on the fire, and he piled more firewood on top.
The fire burned, the rabbits broiled, and Cat stood. Tethered to a tree.
The sun touched the horizon to the west when Lean Bear brought Cat a haunch of broiled rabbit. “You eat?”
Cat somehow kept her lips from trembling. “Yes. Of course.”
He undid the leash and removed it from her thumbs. She reached for the haunch. He pulled away. “Slow,” he said.
Cat reached again, and Lean Bear let her have the charred meat. She bit into it and found the meat juicy and tender, as rabbit should be. With the rabbit in her hand, she was no longer Catherine de Merode, she had become Cat. Feline. Predator. A wild being bent on survival. Lean Bear watched her with approval in his eyes.
She gnawed at the bones, then held them out to Lean Bear. He shook his head and pointed at the fire. “There,” he said.
Cat tossed the rabbit bones into the fire that covered the mud ball with a grouse inside.
“Here,” Lean Bear said. He held the leather tether in his hands.
It was not the right moment to try an escape. She turned her back to him and put her hands together. Lean Bear tied her thumbs and hitched her to the tree again.
The other Cheyenne Dog Soldiers left, leading their horses. Lean Bear heaped dirt over the remains of the fire, burying the mud-encased grouse among the coals. He brought his pony to the fire pit. “Ride,” he said.
Cat nodded and turned her back to him so he could remove the tether. He untied it from the tree, then her thumbs. He boosted her onto the horse and leaped up behind her. They rode into an arroyo almost deep enough to be a canyon. One side was a wall that threw the arroyo into shadow. Lean Bear stopped the horse at the mouth of a small cave, dismounted, helped Cat off, and walked in, leading Cat and the horse.
“Stay,” he said.
“Oui,” Cat said automatically. The time to escape had not yet come.
Lean Bear went out and returned with an armload of springy evergreen boughs that he spread out against the cave’s stone wall. He spread out the blanket that served as saddle on his horse. “Sleep,” he said. “Here.”
“Oui.” Cat lay down on the blanket, which smelled very much like horse. It was more comfortable than she’d imagined. She lay on her side with one arm as pillow. Before she could worry about what had finally become of Ulr
ich’s hunting party, she slept. Lean Bear sat, back against the wall, as if he were keeping watch over her.
Cat opened her eyes without moving. Lean Bear sat where she’d last seen him. His eyes were open and Cat knew he’d seen her awaken. “Bonjour,” she said.
“Come.”
Cat then noticed the blanket was folded over her, keeping the morning chill at bay.
“Come.”
“Oui.” She threw back the blanket and got to her feet. Lean Bear already stood beside her, the tether in his hands.
“Piss? Shit?”
Cat’s eyes went to Lean Bear’s face to see if he was joking. He was not. Would going behind some bush to relieve herself give her an opportunity to escape?
“Piss? Shit?” Lean Bear obviously knew she had not used a privy or private place for nearly twenty-four hours.
“Oui,” she said.
He pointed at the interior of the cave. “Go there,” he said.
Some meters back into the wall of the arroyo, the cave came to a point. The light from the mouth of the cave was dim, but Cat could see enough to know that humans had used the place for toilet before, but the results of their usage were desiccated and had lost all smell. She’d not eaten enough to produce stool. It was “piss” that she must do. Ordinarily she would just heist her skirts, squat, and do her duty. But the split skirt she wore for riding during a hunt would not allow that. She’d have to bare her bottom, as they said. She paid no attention to Lean Bear. With one hand against the wall, she undid the necessary buttons, exposed herself, made sure the skirt was out of the way, and “pissed.” Moments later she returned to where Lean Bear waited.
“Merci,” she said.
Lean Bear had the saddle blankets over his arm. “Come,” he said. He didn’t bother tethering Cat. Perhaps he thought she had nowhere to go. She hesitated, thinking about a way to escape.
“Come.”
Cat followed as the Cheyenne seemed to assume she would. For the first time, she took stock of her captor. His long legs encased in buckskin leggings. His slightly pigeon-toed stride. His sleeveless vest, also buckskin. His muscular arms. His moccasins, which showed wear. His hair, divided in the middle, hung over his ears and down to his chest on both sides, wrapped with soft leather straps about two centimeters wide. No feathers adorned his hair. No jewelry on him anywhere. A knife in a scabbard stuck in straps wrapped around his legs just below the knees. A bow in a case and five arrows in a soft quiver lay near the horse. A lance with two feathers attached leaned against a nearby tree.
