by Jake Logan
“Heard tell the photographer went south.”
“That’s my recollection.”
“Leroq ran into some Blackfoot. A hunting party on the other side of the mountain. If there’s one party out, there might be others. Did Jackson know that?”
“If he did, he didn’t confide in me. He’s a tad closemouthed. Goes with being an artist and photographer. Find something worth painting or shooting, you don’t tell anyone fearin’ they’ll get there first. Not like making maps. We share every detail. Have to. The government expects accurate maps. That’s what they’re payin’ for.” Fenwicke looked up, adjusted his eyeglasses again, and said, “Are you going to bother me any more? Hayden wants this done by the time he gets back with more readings.”
Slocum stewed at how little Fenwicke knew of the others in the party. Hayden didn’t have to report to a subordinate, but Jackson ought to have let Fenwicke know more about his side trip. After all, he was taking Marlene into dangerous territory.
If he even realized it was more dangerous because of the roving bands of Blackfoot.
Or he could be inventing trouble that didn’t exist. Slocum found a spot where he could pitch camp for the night, fixed a small meal, and fell into an exhausted sleep. The sounds of others moving about in camp awoke him the next morning. He stretched and wondered at how long he had slept. This was unusual for him since he usually awoke before sunup.
“You’re lookin’ a sight better than last night,” Fenwicke said, wandering by. The man was dressed in jodhpurs and boots laced up over his calves. His shirt was festooned with pockets stuffed with pencils and wads of paper. He wore a bubble-like helmet with a broad brim in front and back that Slocum thought might have been British. He wasn’t interested enough to inquire.
“Feeling better, too,” Slocum said. “Any word from . . . Jackson?” He wanted to ask about Marlene Wilkes but didn’t feel right coming out and saying the words. She had a reputation to keep up. With him being such a newcomer to the expedition, he wanted to keep gossip to a minimum.
A knot formed in his belly as he remembered how she had given him such a cold stare the last time he had seen her riding away in the darkroom wagon. Chances were good she didn’t need his help—in any way.
“The artists head out for days on end. Sometimes they’re gone for a week. Dr. Hayden always lays out our route for them so they can catch up. We might spend a week in one camp while surveying, so they don’t have trouble catching up.”
“What did he tell them about the expedition’s route?”
“Well, Slocum, not a whole lot since you’re our scout. It’s up to you to range out, find the road, then report back to Doc Hayden with that information so he can tell everyone else.”
“That means Jackson will return here since he wasn’t given any other route.”
“Could mean that. Could be that Hayden thinks Jackson is experienced enough to follow our tracks as we push on. Can’t say since he didn’t confide any of that to me.” Fenwicke started to walk on, stopped, and asked, “You going out to find our route?”
“Hayden didn’t tell me where he intended to go.”
“He went north. You might take that as a hint. If nothing else, you can track him down and ask him.”
That struck Slocum as sensible. After he ate breakfast, he packed his gear and rode south. After William Jackson—and Marlene.
* * *
Slocum grew edgier as he rode. The darkroom wagon left distinctive tracks—and the tracks following the wagon were equally distinctive. The unshod ponies paralleled the wheel imprints. Slocum pictured the Indians following at a distance where Jackson or Marlene would never notice. But had they overtaken the photographer?
He rode faster and found the empty wagon just after dark. He didn’t see any evidence a campfire had been built or any of the cloth-wrapped food packages tucked away inside the wagon had been opened recently.
Circling the wagon, he found footprints leading away. Getting down on hands and knees to better see the imprints in the dark, Slocum sucked in his breath when he realized these had been left by Marlene. Moccasined feet didn’t follow. Those prints circled the woman’s. He knew because some of her tracks came down on top of an Indian’s, showing she followed him. In other places moccasins stomped down on her tracks. The mixture could only mean Marlene had gone with the Indians.
Slocum doubted they could have gone far if both Marlene and the Indians walked. He checked his Colt Navy, then did as good a job as he could to follow the trail. Slocum lost it within a hundred yards.
Momentarily disheartened, he stood, closed his eyes, and let his other senses do the work for him. A faint sound came to him. Indians speaking. He turned slowly in that direction, then took a deep breath and caught the scent of burning pine. His steps took him that way before he opened his eyes. The darkness wasn’t as complete as it had been. A sliver of moon in the sky illuminated the way toward the Indian camp.
He advanced more slowly when he reached a spot where he could hear distinctive voices. The cadence of speech and occasionally identified words told him this was a Blackfoot camp. Since he had crossed the mountains, he doubted it was the same hunting party that had found Leroq. The entire tribe might be moving about, hunting and looking for a spot to make a more permanent summer camp.
The curls of smoke rising against the stars sent him to the ground. He wiggled forward on his belly, alert for sentries. To his surprise, the Blackfoot hadn’t posted guards around their camp. He slipped within a dozen yards and had a good view of the camp where tepees had been pitched. The scent of fresh meat cooking made his nostrils flare.
This was a large camp but hunting parties had brought back sufficient food to maintain it. From the layout, this might be the summer site for almost a hundred braves and squaws.
Slocum heard a commotion farther around the perimeter of the camp and made his way to a spot behind a fallen log where he could see a circle of braves. From the headdresses these were the senior chiefs in the tribe. A pipe worked its way around the circle as they discussed some weighty matter. Strain as he might, Slocum couldn’t make out enough words or overhear anything at all said by several warriors who sat with their backs to him.
Instead of what should have been a solemn discussion, a few of the braves laughed loudly. They were cracking jokes and enjoying themselves, in spite of being in a council. Then the men fell silent as a young brave came from deeper in the camp.
Slocum caught his breath. The brave held on to Marlene Wilkes’s arm, steering her toward the elder chiefs.
As she was pushed to the ground just outside the circle, the Indians began chattering all at once, shouting down one another and gesturing wildly. Slocum had no idea what was going on, but it had to do with Marlene.
He had to admire her calm. She looked composed and let the tumult flow around her. Turning to the brave who had escorted her to the circle, Marlene spoke in a low voice for some time. The brave then waited for the chiefs to fall silent, then spoke clearly enough for Slocum to catch enough of the words to know he had to act fast.
The word “capture” was repeated many times, as was “imprisoned” and a phrase that Slocum took to mean that the Great Spirit would never smile on someone again. He had to believe that meant the Blackfoot had taken Marlene as a slave.
He almost betrayed himself when the brave pulled Marlene to her feet and steered her away from the circle, going deeper into the camp. Slocum touched his six-gun and knew that wouldn’t be the way to rescue the woman. He had to sneak into the Blackfoot camp and somehow get her away without anyone knowing.
How he could ever do that was beyond him. He stood and, taking advantage of shadows, worked his way toward the tepee where he thought Marlene had been taken. Getting away with his scalp might be hard. Getting away with Marlene looked like it would be impossible, but he had to try.
11
; Most of the Blackfoot were gathered around fires, telling their tales of the hunt. Others had disappeared into their tepees. Still, Slocum felt as if every eye was on him as he made his way across stretches of open camp, hunting for the tepee where Marlene had been taken.
But if even one warrior spotted him, the outcry would bring down such destruction on him that he would be lucky to get off even a single shot in reply. Nervous as a long-tailed cat by a rocking chair, he made his way toward a hide dwelling. He drew his thick-bladed knife from the sheath in his boot and cut a small opening in the wall. He had difficulty seeing anything inside. The fire had died down and curls of lazy white smoke blocked his view of the occupants. Moving a quarter of the way around the tepee’s circular base, he repeated the cut in the hide.
He caught his breath. Marlene sat to one side with a guard near the entrance. Slocum tried to figure out how he could enter, remove the guard, and get her to freedom. His problem lay in getting into the tepee before the brave saw him. The man sat cross-legged, looking very alert. For her part, Marlene faced the brave, studying him. Slocum hoped she didn’t make the mistake of thinking she could swarm over the Blackfoot and escape that way. But if she tried, it might give him the chance to clobber the brave so Marlene could get away.
Nothing recommended itself to him other than a bit of subterfuge. He moved around until he was near the opening, then coughed out the few words of Blackfoot he knew. When the guard didn’t come to investigate the odd sounds, Slocum repeated them, louder.
This time the guard replied with a nonstop stream of words that flowed faster than Slocum could ever hope to understand. He couldn’t even get the gist of what the Indian said, so he scratched his hip against the hide wall, pressing in so the brave couldn’t miss the bulge from inside.
This produced the result he wanted. The Indian came out, but he had to duck down to get through the doorway. Slocum balled his hands into fists and brought both down on the back of the man’s neck with as much force as he could muster. The Indian crashed to the ground. Slocum wasted no time grabbing him by his hide vest and dragging him back into the tepee.
Marlene looked up, eyes wide.
“What are you doing? You hit him!”
“We’ve got to go!”
“You assaulted him. You—”
Slocum wasted no more time arguing with her. He clamped his hand over her mouth to silence her. She fought, her fists futilely hammering at him. He swung her around.
“Calm down. If they hear, they’ll have my scalp. What they’ll do to you will be even worse.”
Rather than calming so she would go with him, Marlene fought harder. Slocum had no time to argue with her. He clamped forefinger and thumb over her nose and pinched. With his hand over her mouth, he cut off her air. She continued to struggle, but this only caused her to pass out more quickly. He counted this as a blessing.
He dragged her outside, took a quick look around, and then hoisted her over his shoulder as if he carried a sack of potatoes. Retracing his steps, he got beyond the perimeter of the camp but knew it wouldn’t be long now before the brave recovered and sent up the cry. The entire camp would be after him and Marlene in a few minutes.
“Come on, you have to walk. I can’t carry you. We have to run.”
“Run?” the woman mumbled, still groggy. “No. Don’t wanna run. Stay. Pictures.”
“To hell with pictures. The Blackfoot took you as a hostage. You were going to be a squaw for one of their warriors, if you were lucky. If you weren’t, you’d be given to a squaw to use as a slave. Eventually, the entire tribe would have used you.” He shook her until her eyelids flicked and her eyes came open. They focused slowly.
“You kidnapped me! Not only are you a thief, you’re—I don’t know what you are!”
“Is Jackson in the camp, too? Or did they already kill him?”
“What are you talking about? He made a deal with them to take portraits. He’s going to photograph an entire encampment. Those photos will be of great interest to anthropologists in years to come.”
“The Blackfoot are letting him photograph them? They think that steals their soul, and they won’t be able to get into the happy hunting ground when they die.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” She crossed her arms and tried to turn away in high dudgeon, but she eased back around to look hard at him. “Did you mean it about the Indians thinking photography steals their souls?”
“I can’t believe the Blackfoot are letting him do this. Where is he?”
“Why, they took him to another camp. A Crow encampment and showed him where to set up his equipment. Come sunup he’ll capture that camp in all its primitive glory.”
“The Blackfoot took him to a Crow settlement?” He felt as if someone had punched him in the gut. “The Crow and the Blackfoot are mortal enemies.”
“Why would they do that? It doesn’t make any sense.”
“They don’t care if Jackson is killed. He will be, but the more photos he takes, the more Crow souls that will be lost. The Blackfoot wouldn’t mind it if all their enemies lost their souls.”
“That is a bit far-fetched, don’t you think?” She sounded a bit skeptical, but only a little bit. The reality began to dawn on her.
“Which way did they take Jackson?”
“South, about two hours ago. You’re not lying, are you?”
Slocum had nothing to gain by lying. He said nothing as he considered what had to be done. His mare couldn’t support his and Marlene’s combined weight. He might steal an Indian horse. There wasn’t any way he could anger them more than taking a prisoner out from under their noses. But outrunning the pursuit wasn’t likely to happen.
Worse, where did he go? If he led the Blackfoot back to the expedition, the Indians would kill everyone there. And that did nothing to help William Jackson. The Crow would certainly kill him when they discovered what he was up to. The photographer likely wasn’t even armed, or if he was, he carried a pistol only to defend himself against snakes and other small varmints.
“I have to get you back to the tepee. When they discover you’re gone, there’s no way they won’t find you. They are masters at tracking.”
“But what about the brave you knocked out?”
“I’ll take care of him. First, we’ve got to get back. Can you walk fast and silent?”
“I . . . yes,” she said, her resolve firming.
Slocum set out without saying another word. Time was as much an enemy as the Indians. He had to admit, if he was right, the Blackfoot were shrewd. Get the Crow all riled up over the photographer because he had stolen their souls. This was as good for a Blackfoot warrior to know as if he had run a knife through a Crow’s heart.
The circle where the chiefs sat had diminished. Some of them had gone to their tepees. Slocum hoped the chief responsible for Marlene hadn’t already gone back. There would be two dead men, if so. He came to the rear of the tepee where she’d been held and pressed his eye against one of the slices he had made in the thick hide wall.
“Is it safe?”
“Come on,” he said, grabbing her wrist and pulling her along. Neither of them would be safe unless he worked some kind of miracle. Even if he rescued Jackson, what then? Slocum didn’t have a good answer.
He almost shoved her over the still unconscious brave and into the tepee. Marlene stumbled and went to her hands and knees. She quickly turned over and stared at him.
“What do I tell them when they ask where he is?”
“Tell them you think he went out to pizzle and never came back. Tell them he had a bottle of whiskey. Tell them whatever you want but don’t be too sure about anything.”
He grunted as he got his arms around the brave’s chest and heaved the man upright. He felt a light touch on his arm and looked. Marlene’s hand shook.
“We’re going to be all right
, aren’t we?”
“Right as rain. Remember. Play dumb. You don’t know anything about what happened to this one.” With another grunt, Slocum had the Blackfoot over his shoulder.
He remembered how light Marlene had seemed. The brave had to weigh half again as much. Slocum stumbled a few steps, got his balance, and then ran into the night. He heard the woman sob once, then nothing.
She’d be all right. Their lives depended on her ability as an actress. If she so much as hinted that she knew what happened to the guard, she was dead.
Slocum didn’t like what he had to do, but his life—and Marlene’s and Jackson’s—depended on it. When he had gone a fair distance from the camp, he found a shallow ravine and rolled the Indian into it. He slowly drew his knife. There wasn’t any other way. He had done worse, far worse, in his day. A single quick thrust ended the brave’s life. Then Slocum worked to cover the body with rocks and dirt kicked in from the low banks of the ravine.
Panting from the exertion, he raced back to his horse and stepped up. Finding and following Jackson’s trail in the dark was impossible. He had to rely on luck. After he circled the Blackfoot camp, he got his bearings on the North Star and kept it at his back as he rode into the dark, his only light from the sliver of moon.
* * *
Jackson might have had a two-hour start, but it took Slocum until sunrise to find the man and where he had set up his camera. Jackson hummed to himself as he laid out his carrying cases for unexposed photographic plates, keeping them close at hand so he could take a picture, remove the plate, and insert an unexposed one with a minimum of effort.
His camera was directed at a narrow draw. Just beyond Slocum saw the edge of the Crow camp. Already they were stirring, preparing meals, and getting ready for a day’s hunt. What they hunted would depend on how successful Slocum was in stopping Jackson. Once the Crow spotted him, his life would be forfeit.
Slocum had to wonder if the Blackfoot were right and that the camera took a man’s soul. If so, a considerable number of the Blackfoot’s bitter enemy would be bereft and doomed to roam as wandering spirits once their bodies died. Any hope of being reunited in death with their clan would be dashed.
