Savage Cry (13 page)

Using gestures and sign language, Gray Wolf directed Martha to gather wood for a fire and then to get water from the stream. He followed along after her as she did his bidding, holding the rope tied around her neck as if she were a dog or a mule. Whenever she misunderstood a command, or failed to act quickly enough, he administered a hard yank on the rope, causing it to cut into her throat. When at last he sat down to eat some dried meat, she had a few moments’ peace. Even then, however, he tormented her with his eyes and his insolent stare. She was terrified even more than the first time she had been captured by Black Elk. For then she had no idea what lay in store for her. This time, there was no doubt in her mind what lay ahead. The thought of the squat, sneering savage putting his hands on her—bloody hands that had callously slashed the gray-haired woman’s throat—reviled her to the point where she was not certain she could hang onto her sanity. As she sat waiting for her fate, she tried not to think about it, but she found she could not put it out of her mind. She did not realize she was crying until a tear dropped onto her hands, which were still tied together. The tiny drop of moisture seemed to capture her attention, and she stared at it as if it were her life’s blood.
You will . . . you must live through this,
she tried to tell herself, knowing deep in her soul that the brute would kill her when she no longer amused him.

Black Elk drove his white war pony hard in an effort to catch up to Moon Shadow and Six Horses as quickly as he could. Swift Runner rode close behind. Knowing his wife was not a strong woman, Black Elk
feared that she might be mortally wounded, for Swift Runner had said that she lost a great deal of blood. He was glad that Six Horses was with her. Moon Shadow was very fond of Six Horses—Marta, as she called her—and the white woman seemed to be genuinely fond of Moon Shadow. He knew she would do her best to care for his wife.

Galloping through a narrow valley, Black Elk suddenly pulled his horse to a sliding stop when he spotted something in the trail ahead, near the pass. Looking right and left, to either side of him, he scanned the slopes, looking for any suspicious signs. Then he looked back at the object in the trail. It appeared to be a body. The next moment, Swift Runner slid to a stop beside him.

“Careful,” Black Elk warned, and pointed to the body. Then he nudged his pony with his heels, and approached the body, alert to the possibility of an ambush.

“Two Willows!” Swift Runner exclaimed, recognizing the gray-haired woman who had accompanied Moon Shadow and Six Horses.

Both men quickly slid from their ponies and rushed to her side, only to find that they were too late to help the poor woman. Black Elk looked at the arrow in her side. “Crow,” he uttered, his tone filled with an age-old hatred. Then, alarmed, he stood up and looked around, expecting to see other bodies. There were none, a fact that offered only temporary hope. Had Moon Shadow and Six Horses managed to get away? Or were they captives of the Crows? Black Elk had to caution himself to calm his emotions and do what must be done. He and Swift Runner scouted the area around Two Willows’s body carefully. The story was plainly written on the grassy floor of the valley. The horse pulling the travois had bolted toward the
pass. Other tracks showed only two other horses. One would be the horse Two Willows rode. That meant there was only one Crow pony. A single Crow warrior in Blackfoot country? This seemed highly unlikely to Black Elk, and the thought immediately occurred that a Crow raiding party may have attacked the village.

“The two ponies went that way, up the slope toward the ridge,” Swift Runner said. “He did not go after the travois.”

“Maybe he killed the old woman for her horse, and let the others go,” Black Elk replied. “Come, we mustn’t waste any more time.” He leaped upon his horse, then looked back at Swift Runner. “I’m going after Moon Shadow. Put Two Willows on your horse and take her to the village. But be careful, the rest of the Crows may be nearby. Maybe I will see you there before too long.”

He had not ridden more than two miles before he spotted the horse grazing at the foot of a low hill, the travois still intact. Black Elk slowed his horse to a walk as he approached the nervous pony. It appeared that Moon Shadow was still on the travois, but he could not determine if she were all right or not. He could see no movement as he slowly closed the distance between them, speaking calmly to the pony all the while. Six Horses was nowhere in sight. This did not look good. He felt a sharp spike in his heart as the fear of what he might find filled him with dread.

He cooed softly to the horse, which was now eyeing him suspiciously. Although nervously stamping his front hooves, and snorting his distrust, the horse did not bolt, but remained where he stood, letting Black Elk approach. Taking only seconds to get the horse under control, Black Elk hurried to Moon Shadow. At once alarmed by the blood-soaked blanket that was wrapped around her frail body, he feared he was
too late. She did not move when he first whispered her name. But when she felt his gentle touch on her cheek, her eyes flickered open to gaze upon his face.

“Don’t look so worried,” she whispered. “I’m all right.” But he could see that she was not. She paused, the strain of talking obviously demanding extreme effort. She managed a slight hint of a smile in an effort to reassure her husband, which almost immediately turned into a worried frown. “Mar-ta,” she gasped. “Is she all right?”

Black Elk shook his head. “I think the Crow warrior took her away. You must lie still now while I look at your wound.”

“You must find her . . .” Moon Shadow started, but Black Elk placed a finger on her lips to shush her.

“I will find her, but now I have to take care of you.” He removed the bloody strip of cowhide binding the wound in her side to reveal the jagged hole in her fragile body. He had to stifle his reaction so as not to alarm her. The wound was deep and still bleeding, and he feared the bull’s horn had damaged the organs deep inside. Seeing there was nothing he could do for her now, he could only bind the wound tightly again, hoping to stop the flow of blood.

Moon Shadow tried to smile for him. “I think I am dying.”

“Don’t say that!” he exclaimed. “You will not die. I’ll take you back to the village, and Red Wing will make you well.”

Moon Shadow closed her eyes, but the weak smile remained upon her face. He was immediately alarmed, but after a moment’s rest, she spoke again. “You must find Mar-ta. She will take care of me.”

“I will, I will,” he quickly assured her, while working feverishly to remove the straps that had held her to the travois. Time was important to him now, and
he didn’t want to waste any of it on a slow-moving horse pulling a travois. He didn’t bother untying the travois poles. It would be simple enough for one of the others to catch the horse later on. Now it was important to get Moon Shadow to the old medicine woman in the village as quickly as possible. And on his swift white war pony, he could make it there in a few hours’ time. Lifting her tiny body in his powerful arms, he easily held her while he climbed on the horse’s back. With no thought toward sparing the horse, he set out for the village, his wife cradled in his arms.

Long shadows spread dark fingers across the narrow trail as the new moon floated above the treetops on the eastern ridge. Witnessed only by a somber gray owl, a lone Indian warrior passed almost silently beneath the winged night hunter, almost as much at home in the darkness as the great bird above him. Pushing on through the moonlit night, Black Elk’s mind was a cauldron of conflicting thoughts. He had been reluctant to leave Moon Shadow’s side, but she had pleaded with him to bring Six Horses back, urging him to hurry before the Crow raiding party was through the mountain passes and closer to Crow country. It was only after Red Wing had practically pushed him from the tipi that he agreed to leave. The old medicine woman said Moon Shadow was so worried about her white friend that she would not rest until she knew she was safe. Even then, the old woman had to promise Black Elk that Moon Shadow was not going to die. “If you want to help her get well,” Red Wing had said, “bring back the white woman.” Confident that his wife would be all right, he didn’t wait for the other young men to return from the hunt, and set out on a fresh horse alone.

So now, as he rode the dark passages, trails he knew
by heart, he told himself that this desperate feeling of urgency was entirely due to his need to fulfill his wife’s wishes. He dared not admit that there was any concern for the white woman herself, not willing to acknowledge the empty feeling that clutched the pit of his stomach when he discovered that she had been stolen. Lately, it seemed, every time he returned to the village after hunting, and saw the auburn-haired woman helping Moon Shadow in her chores, the sight of her immediately triggered troubling thoughts. These thoughts worried Black Elk. The white man was an inferior race, was he not? Almost all the white men he had been in contact with were dirty, hair-faced men, smelling of whiskey and unwashed bodies. The few white women he had seen at Fort Union looked to be as bad as their grimy husbands. Yet, Six Horses did not seem to be that way. She seemed to be more like the women of his village. Sometimes this confusion she caused in his thoughts made him wish he had left her at her burned-out cabin in the Black Hills. Still, he had rejected all offers for her from other men in the village—because of Moon Shadow’s fondness for her, he told himself. And now, his mind was tormenting him with pictures of what might be happening to her at the hands of the hated Crows.

He had followed the raiding party’s trail from the ridge, through the pass, to their first campsite in a shallow ravine near a small stream. Much to his relief, there was no blood in the sand near the banks where their blankets had been spread. As soon as he felt certain they were following the old buffalo trail to the open plains beyond the mountains, he felt confident that he could close the distance between himself and the Crow party by riding on through the night.

Alert and tireless, he needed no rest as he was driven on by the urgency inside him. Stopping only to
rest his horse for a couple of hours at daybreak, he was back on the trail again, knowing now that he was rapidly gaining on the Crows. Judging by the freshness of the horse droppings he examined at their last campsite, he could only be hours behind them. He would catch them at their next camp.

Martha sat with her back to a tree, her hands tied around the slender trunk behind her. Tired to the point of exhaustion, and weak from hunger, she was rapidly losing the will to survive. Three days they had ridden, following an old game trail through the mountains, wasting no time in leaving the Blackfoot land behind. Now, on the third night, she was aware of a lighter mood on the part of the Crow warriors, and she assumed that they must feel there was less danger now. It was a frightening thought for her, for she now feared that her scowling captor might feel it was safe to indulge his savage appetites and fulfill the carnal threats his leering eyes had promised.

Her head down, she could not see Gray Wolf, but she could hear him talking with several of the other warriors. They seemed to be arguing about something. She couldn’t understand their words, but she was terrified by a feeling that she was the cause of the discussion, and she feared that her fate was being decided. The simple fact that Gray Wolf had not seen the necessity to waste even a scrap of food on her was indication enough that they planned to kill her soon. At this point, she no longer feared death. It was the thought of the tortures before death took her that filled her with terror. She wished they had done whatever they planned to do to her when she was first captured, instead of forcing her to agonize over the thought of it for three days. But she knew the only reason she had been spared this long was because the
Crow warriors were more concerned with reaching the safety of their own land.

Lost in her despair, she did not realize the discussion had ended. Suddenly, she cried out in pain, jolted from her anguished reverie when Gray Wolf yanked on the rope around her throat. When she looked up to meet his leering face, broad and cruel, his eyes told her what she had feared most in her heart. Her time had come. Complete terror, like a cold clammy hand, clutched at her heart and throat, threatening to choke off her windpipe.
Got to resist till my last breath,
she told herself as Gray Wolf untied her hands. But she knew she was almost helpless to resist. Too weak from hunger and fatigue, battered from the many cuffings and beatings, she knew that he could have his way with her.

Disapproving of their comrade’s behavior, the other Crow warriors withdrew to a spot across the creek opposite a small meadow where their horses were grazing, not wishing to witness the scene about to take place. Torturing and raping women of their enemies was a common practice, but the Crows were allied with the white soldiers now. The woman should be taken to the soldier fort. But Gray Wolf was bitter over the shame he had felt at the Blackfoot village, and he was determined that someone would suffer for it. The woman, in High Hump’s opinion, was a bad choice. There was too much at stake if the soldiers found out. The woman would have to be killed after Gray Wolf had satisfied his vengeful lust.

Back up the creek some forty or fifty yards, Gray Wolf dragged Martha roughly away from the tree. She tried to hold on to the slender trunk, but he easily overcame her weak attempt, growling in low guttural grunts as he pulled her to him. Untying the rawhide thongs that had bound her ankles together, he favored
her with an evil grin, pleased with the fear he saw in her eyes. Her ankles free, he shoved her legs apart, and thrust a rough hand up into her crotch. She could not suppress the scream that resulted. The other warriors downstream merely glanced in her direction before turning their attention back to the discussion around their campfire.

Gray Wolf readied himself to take her, removing his shirt and breechclout, taking great pleasure in her efforts to look away from him. Her brain was on fire with fear and revulsion, and she heard herself begging for mercy when he jerked her skirt up over her hips, even though she had not consciously spoken. Knowing that she could not resist him physically, she tried to fight him mentally, trying desperately to delay the sickening violence that she must surely endure.

“Dirty!” she cried, speaking in the Blackfoot dialect she was now familiar with, hoping the Crow brute understood. He paused for a moment, a puzzled look upon his face, then continued to pull her toward him. “Dirty! Need to wash myself,” she blurted frantically, using sign language to try to make him understand.

Finally he understood, for he suddenly halted his efforts to pull her legs around him. Remembering then the hard travel for the past three days, when he had not permitted her to clean herself, even forcing her to relieve herself where she was tied for the night under the watchful glare of his eyes. He wrinkled his nose and sniffed contemptuously. “I’ll clean you, dirty coyote bitch.” With that, he got to his feet and dragged her down the bank into the chilly waters of the creek, almost drowning her before he let her up for air. “Wash!” he commanded, while he stood over her in the dark chest-deep water.

While tears of terror streamed down her face, she dutifully went through the motions of cleaning herself.
Impatient now, he waited only a few moments before he decided she had done enough, and ordered her up the bank. When she didn’t respond quickly enough, he slapped her hard, and grabbing her arm, dragged her out of the creek. Absorbed by the raging lust within him now, he paid little heed to the shouts downstream when the pony herd suddenly stampeded. His mind barely registered the warriors running after their horses, trying to stop them before they scattered in the trees beyond the creek.

Slammed down hard on her back, she somehow summoned the strength for one last attempt to protect herself. Easily avoiding her flailing arms, the Crow brute taunted her efforts before slapping her again and again until she succumbed and lay back in surrender. Pulling her wet skirt up over her hips again, he leered at her triumphantly. The look he saw in return was one of wonder—as if she had seen a vision. It was so strange that he turned to look behind him to discover the source of her vision.

For a moment, he was paralyzed by what he thought was an apparition. Then, too late to leap for his weapons, which were still by the tree where the woman had been tied, he realized that the terrifying sight that filled his eyes was real. In full stride, a lethal combination of muscle and sinew was bearing down on him with the speed of a deer, his eyes burning with the fury raging inside him. Gray Wolf was not a coward, but he experienced genuine terror for the first time in his life. Scrambling to his feet, he turned to meet the attack just in time to catch the full force of Black Elk’s charge. The impact took Gray Wolf off his feet, knocking him backward several yards. A lightninglike flash of firelight on Black Elk’s knife was all Gray Wolf saw of the fatal thrust before the enraged Blackfoot warrior drove the blade up under his rib cage,
tearing at his insides. The hand clamped quickly over his mouth muffled his scream of pain when he felt the knife—white hot in his organs—rip its way out of his body to plunge in once more. He felt his life draining out of him as his eyes were transfixed on the searing gaze of Black Elk.

“Black Elk!” Martha gasped in wonder, hardly believing her eyes, yet somehow deep inside her she had known that he would come for her. He helped her to her feet, and she immediately came into his arms, her arms locked around his neck, her face pressed against his massive chest.

He held her close for a few moments, letting her cling to him while tears of relief streamed down her cheeks. Then he gently took her shoulders and whispered, “Come, we haven’t much time.” Springing into action once more, he swept her up into his arms, and sprinted toward a willow brake at the bend of the creek where his horse was tied. Behind them they could hear the distant cries of the Crow warriors as they chased after their horses, still unaware at this point of the daring rescue upstream. Placing Martha gently upon his horse’s back, he then led the animal down through the willows into the creek. Making his way upstream in waist-deep water, the tall Blackfoot warrior led the pony almost a hundred yards before reaching a rocky shelf that offered a trackless exit. Once out of the creek, Black Elk quickly leaped up behind Martha, and urged the pony into a gallop.

Making no effort to avoid open ground or hide his tracks, Black Elk held his pony to a hard run, in a straight line that led back to his village—the same trail traveled by the Crow raiding party the day before. Holding Martha tight against him, he urged the laboring pony on and on. Having relaxed completely moments earlier, knowing she was now safe in Black
Elk’s arms, she now began to worry that they were not yet out of danger. The Crows would surely give chase when they discovered what had happened. It was a long way back to the village, and the horse could not last long at this pace. As powerful as Black Elk was, he could not fight all of the Crow warriors.

After a mile or so of hard riding, they once again crossed the creek. As before, Black Elk dismounted and led the horse into the water. But instead of continuing across to pick up the trail again, this time he led them back the way they had just come, remaining in the water for a short distance until he found a grassy place where the horse’s tracks would not be easily spotted. Then, selecting a line directly east, he led the horse up through a tree-covered slope in a direction that would take them ninety degrees away from the old trail.

“We should have time for the horse to get his wind back now,” Black Elk said. “There are too many Crows to outrun, but it will take them a long time to find our trail. I think they will soon stop looking for it and just keep on the old hunting trail, hoping to catch us before we can get back to the village.”

She saw the wisdom in his actions then. Instead of heading straight for home, he was going in another direction, probably to find a place to hide far away from the trail the Crows would be searching. Once again, she felt safe, and could sense her body relaxing from the tension that had claimed her. It did not register in her mind at that moment, but in her earlier fears that they would be overtaken by the Crows, and she might never see home again—
home
had brought to mind a Blackfoot lodge—not a cabin in the Black Hills, nor a frame house in Virginia.

She had barely spoken during the race away from the Crow camp, but now that they seemed out of
immediate danger, Martha was anxious to know about Moon Shadow. For a brief time, when fleeing for their lives, she had forgotten about her injured friend. Now she worried for her Blackfoot sister. “Moon Shadow?” she asked as Black Elk lifted her from his horse.

He waited to answer until he had gently settled her upon the ground. Then, shaking his head slowly, he spoke. “Red Wing is taking care of her, but she was gored badly. She is so weak that I fear she will not . . .” His voice trailed off as the image of the fragile Blackfoot girl filled his mind.