Savage Cry (17 page)

Pete disagreed. “Blackfoot don’t take kindly to white folks to begin with, and we’ve kilt four of their warriors. I expect them four that’s left is bent on taking some revenge for the ones we kilt. They’ll wait us out—till we starve or make a run fer it.”

After a short while, the Blackfeet grew tired of wasting their ammunition firing at the sandy mound. Impatient for some form of retaliation for the loss of their four brothers, they shifted their fire to concentrate on the thicket where the horses were hobbled. “Hellfire,” Badger swore, “I didn’t think they’d shoot at the horses!” Without waiting for anyone to give the order, all three beat a hasty retreat toward the thicket, crawling, running, and scrambling to make the cover of the thick bushes before a rifle ball caught them in the open.

“Put ’em down!” Badger yelled as he reached for his horse’s head, and wrestled the animal to the ground. “Lay on his neck!”

The packhorses would have to be left to take their
chances on being hit. Each man went for his best horse. In a few short moments, Pete was lying across the neck of his horse, but Clay was having difficulty with Red. Unlike the two smaller Indian ponies, the big chestnut was frightened by his master’s sudden wrenching of his neck, and his inclination was to fight it. With bullets ripping through the leaves around him, Clay struggled with the confused horse. In a panic created by the gunfire from the opposite bank and his master’s strange assault upon him, Red jerked his head free and reared up on his hind legs, knocking Clay flat on his back. He was a target the Blackfoot rifles could not miss. One bullet crashed through the ribcage of the screaming horse while the second drove deep into his broad chest.

Stunned by the sight of his magnificent sorrel crumpling in a heap among the tangle of brush and vines, Clay could only cry out in shocked disbelief. “Red! Red!” he wailed. The big horse managed to pull himself up once more before sinking to the ground again, his legs collapsing under him. Clay crawled quickly over to him, trying to get Red on his feet, but the handsome chestnut stallion slowly rolled over on his side, and Clay knew he had lost him.

Ignoring Badger’s shouts to put his packhorse down to keep it from getting shot, Clay just sat there for a long moment, half in disbelief, half mourning the loss of the best horse he had ever owned—and the only one he had ever stolen. Sitting there with Red’s head in his lap, Clay was oblivious to the continuous rifle fire from across the river, even the occasional round that found the carcass of his horse. He barely registered the sound of Badger’s voice, seemingly in the distance, as the old trapper pleaded, “Clay, git down! Dammit! Git down!”

Clay looked around at Badger and Pete, pinned to
the ground, laying across their horses’ necks, then back at his own dead horse. Suddenly the sense of great loss was replaced by one of anger, pure white-hot anger, over the senseless killing of such a fine animal. He grabbed his Winchester and cocked it.

“Clay! For God’s sake, what are you doin’? Tryin’ to git yourself kilt?” Badger thought his young friend had lost his senses.

“They shot my damn horse,” was all Clay answered as he climbed up over the sand mound and started running toward the log he had spent the night behind. Ignoring the shouts of both Badger and Pete to come back, he ran, zig-zagging across the open bank, daring the Blackfeet to hit him. With bullets kicking up sand on either side of him, he dived for cover behind the fallen tree.

With no uncertainty of purpose, he started rocking the log to loosen the end resting in the sand until he was able to move it. Once it was free, he rolled it into the water, sliding his body into the chilly current behind it. There was a momentary pause in the firing from the opposite bank while the Blackfeet puzzled over the stange behavior of the white man. Assuming that he was making an attempt to escape by floating downstream, the warriors suddenly emerged from a long coulee where they had been hidden from view. Amid loud war whoops of excitement, the two carrying the Springfields rushed down toward the water to get a better shot at the white man in the river. Not to miss out on an apparent turkey shoot, the other two warriors ran downstream to be in position with their bows when Clay floated by. All four were taken by surprise when the man behind the log pushed straight across, heading directly for them.

From behind the sand mound in the center of the little island, Badger and Pete inched their heads up
enough to find out what was going on. What they saw would be a story that Badger would recount many times over during the coming years. Pushing the log ahead of him in the narrow channel, Clay was charging straight for the Indians, his rifle held safely above the water. On the opposite bank, the two Blackfeet with rifles were firing and reloading as fast as they could. Huge chunks of rotten wood were sent flying in the air as the bullets struck the log, but Clay never wavered. With his head low in the water behind the log, he was almost across when he paused, waiting for the impact of two more shots in the log. Then, while the Indians were reloading, he suddenly appeared from around one end of his floating fortress. Standing waist-deep in the water, he drew down on the closest warrior. The Winchester spoke, knocking the surprised Blackfoot backward, shot through the chest. Clay quickly cocked the rifle and turned to settle with the other rifle—just in time to see that warrior double over with a shot in the belly from Badger’s rifle. Hesitating for only an instant, Clay pushed the log aside and waded ashore, his sights set on the two remaining Indians some fifty yards downstream.

With no thought for his own safety, Clay charged out of the shallow water, his shoulders slightly hunched and his head thrust defiantly forward like a mountain lion closing in for the kill. The two young warriors each notched their arrows and sent them flying, but they lost their will to fight when their arrows landed harmlessly at the feet of the wild man bearing down on them with no apparent regard for his life. It was clear to them that this was no ordinary white man—perhaps he was a demon of supernatural powers—and they decided it prudent to run for their lives.

While Clay chased after the retreating Blackfeet,
Badger and Pete brought the horses across from the island. After calmly assessing the situation, Badger surmised that two things were certain. Clay, in his water-soaked buckskins, wasn’t going to catch the two Indians before they reached their horses; and Clay was now in need of a horse himself. With that in mind, Badger kicked his pony into a gallop, making a run to cut the two warriors off. He spotted the ponies standing in a clump of willows but not in time to intercept the two sprinting warriors. However, it was a close contest. And seeing Badger boring down on them, the two Blackfeet quickly concluded that they didn’t have time to save the rest of the horses. They were already disappearing over a rise in the prairie when Badger reined his horse to a stop. A few minutes later, a breathless Clay charged into the willows.

The two men didn’t say a word for a few moments while Clay caught his breath and Badger just sat in the saddle, looking at his young friend, a wide grin on his face. When Pete rode up, leading the pack animals, Badger turned to flash his grin on the old man. “Well, Pete, looks like our young grizzly here is done run off all the Injuns. He wasn’t plannin’ on savin’ any of ‘em for me and you.”

Pete matched Badger’s grin with one of his own. “Looks like,” he replied. “I thought I’d seen ’bout ever’ way a man could commit suicide. That was one I hadn’t thought about, though.”

Clay, still fuming, looked up at the old man, and simply mumbled, “They shot my horse.”

“Don’t pay to rile him too much, does it?” Pete remarked, shaking his head in amazement.

“Peers not,” Badger replied. Turning back to Clay, he said, “Well, you’ve got your pick of a new one.” He motioned toward the half-dozen Indian ponies still standing among the willows.

Unimpressed with the selection left to him, Clay stared at the horses for a long moment. “They don’t look like much,” he finally remarked.

Badger, also looking over their newly acquired stock, was of a different opinion. “They may not look as sleek and pretty as that big ol’ horse of your’n. But believe me, son, any one of them there ponies’ll carry you a lot farther than that grain-fed dandy you just lost.” Clay had seen enough evidence by then of the speed and stamina of Indian ponies to know that what Badger said was true. Still, he would miss the big horse that had carried him home from the war.

Her legs crossed Indian fashion, Martha Vinings sat before the fire sewing the final ornamentation on the toes of a new pair of winter moccasins for Black Elk. At Moon Shadow’s suggestion she had designed a three-pronged symbol representing the three major tribes of the Blackfoot nation. When she had finished, she held them up for Moon Shadow to see. The wounded Blackfoot girl had been lying quietly on the other side of the fire, watching Martha as she worked.

“Let me see,” Moon Shadow said, holding out her hand. Martha got up and handed the moccasins to her. Moon Shadow smiled as she took them, turning them over and over, admiring Martha’s obvious skill with a bone needle. “Black Elk will be pleased. They are better than the moccasins I made him last winter.”

“No, little one,” Martha replied, smiling warmly. “They may be different, but not better.”

Moon Shadow did not reply, merely smiling in response. She knew that her white friend was very modest about her sewing talent. She also knew that Black Elk was very fortunate to have a woman with Martha’s skills to take care of him while his wife was too weak to perform her duties. It was a good thing when
Na’pi
—Old Man—the creator of the Blackfoot people,
sent Martha to them. She was a strong woman, strong enough to take care of Black Elk and Moon Shadow.

“It’s beginning to get a little chilly out here,” Martha decided. “I’d better take you inside now.” She helped Moon Shadow to her feet. Supporting most of the young girl’s weight, she walked her slowly back inside the tipi, and settled her on the soft buffalo robes that served as a bed. Moon Shadow lay back, exhausted from the simple effort required to return to her bed.

“Thank you, Marta,” she said softly. “You are a good friend to take care of me so well.”

“You would do the same for me,” Martha said, smiling down at her. “When you get well, I will lay by the fire and watch you work,” she joked. Moon Shadow smiled and nodded slightly. Martha strived to maintain a cheerful and optimistic attitude in Moon Shadow’s presence. But inwardly she worried about her friend. There had been no improvement in the fragile girl’s condition. In spite of the herbs administered by Red Wing, and the gentle care given by Martha, the wound in Moon Shadow’s side appeared to worsen, leaving her weak and in almost constant pain. Martha feared the bull’s horn had done irreparable damage to some of the organs inside, because she was unable to hold any food down. Every time she tried to eat any solid food, it immediately came back up, and there was always blood in her vomit. Martha feared she was losing the best friend she had ever known—and the only true friend among the other women of the village.

It had been a truly unexpected blessing that the two women had become so close in the time since Martha’s capture. And now, Martha could not bear the thought of losing her. Although she tried not to let such thoughts occupy her mind, it was impossible not
to think about what her fate might be if Moon Shadow did not recover. Would Black Elk keep her? Or would he trade her to one of the other men of the village while he mourned for his wife? The Blackfoot customs were strange in some ways. Martha had learned that there could be long and extensive periods of mourning when a man died, or was killed in battle. And usually there was some physical sign of grieving: a finger cut off, hair cut short, scarring of legs. But this was almost never done when a woman died. What would Black Elk do if Moon Shadow died? He possessed such obvious affection for his wife that Martha felt certain he would be devastated to lose her. These were troubling thoughts indeed for Martha, for she had to admit that her affections were strong for both of them.

“You must take good care of Black Elk when I am gone.”

Moon Shadow’s softly murmured command startled Martha, and she wondered if her young friend had somehow read her thoughts. Fearing that her embarrassment might be evident in her face, she quickly responded, “Don’t say such things. You will soon start to get well.”

Moon Shadow smiled, but her eyes told of her weariness and pain. “He should have already taken you as a wife. I had no sisters till you came. Now I have a sister, and you will make him a good wife. I have told him this.”

Martha was outwardly flustered by Moon Shadow’s frankness in a subject she felt was extremely delicate. She hardly knew how to respond. The custom among the Blackfoot people, for a man to take more than one wife, was not an easy concept for Martha to accept. Admittedly, she had all but forgotten what her life had been before her capture, having fit comfortably into the life forced upon her. But there was a strong
aversion toward sharing one’s mate with another. An instant flashback rekindled a picture of Charley Vinings’s leering grin when he used to watch her climb the hill to the cabin. At the same time, she knew there was no correlation between the two circumstances. Black Elk had shown her nothing but kindness, almost from the beginning. She was his property. He could do what he would with her. Yet he treated her like a sister to Moon Shadow. Still, she knew there were deeper feelings in the heart of the proud warrior. She could not help but sense them. There had been a pronounced change in his bearing around her since he rescued her from the Crow war party, and she knew that Moon Shadow was too astute not to notice it as well.

“Let’s not talk of such things,” Martha finally responded. “You are the only wife Black Elk needs.” Seeing Moon Shadow about to protest, she hurried to interrupt. “But don’t worry. If something happens to you, I’ll take care of Black Elk.” She paused, still flustered. “He wouldn’t have to marry me.”

Martha stood over Moon Shadow for a moment, studying the stricken girl intensely. Fragile to begin with, her face now showed the effects of her injury. The natural brightness of her dark eyes seemed somehow dulled by the pain that was with her constantly, and her cheeks were drawn and ashen. There was nothing more she could do to help her little sister, and it was becoming painfully evident that Moon Shadow was not strong enough to do it on her own. Afraid the frail Blackfoot girl might read the fear in her eyes, Martha turned away from her. “I must go to get more wood for the fire. You must try to rest now. Black Elk will be back soon, and you know you want to be fresh for him.”

Outside the lodge, Martha made her way along the
path by the river. The walk to fetch firewood was getting longer and longer each day as the women of the village were rapidly using up all of the usable wood close by. Martha carried a hand axe to chop the larger pieces and a deerhide flap to bundle her wood. The fact that she was allowed to carry an axe and go unchallenged anywhere she pleased was no longer novel to her. It no longer occurred to her to try to escape. She was content here where daily life was an uncomplicated search for food and water. In a land where buffalo, elk, deer, antelope, and even bears were plentiful, there was a never-ending source for food and hides for warmth. It was little wonder that the Blackfeet were a happy people.

She had not gone far down the path when she met two women returning with their bundles of firewood. She stepped off of the path to let them pass. “How is it with you, Six Horses?” the first woman asked, calling Martha by the name Black Elk had given her.

“I am fine, and you?” Martha returned.

The second woman, the wife of Swift Runner, asked, “How is Moon Shadow? Is she any better?”

Martha told them of her concern for Moon Shadow, and the fact that she seemed to be getting weaker as each day passed. Both women nodded solemnly, showing their own concern. “We will be leaving this place within a day or so,” Swift Runner’s wife said. “I hope she will be strong enough to travel.”

This was something that had also worried Martha. As she left the two women and continued down the path, thoughts of the coming days filled her mind. The weather was beginning to get cold now. Already there had been frost in the mornings, so Bloody Axe had called for the people to ready themselves to move farther west into the mountains for winter camp. It had been a good and bountiful summer. The food
caches were filled with ample supplies of dried meat as well as dried sarvis berries, bull berries, dried and ground chokecherries, bitterroot, and camas roots. It was time to move before the snows came to the prairie, but Martha feared that Moon Shadow might be too weak to travel. She knew that Black Elk shared her concern.

Bringing her mind back to the task at hand, she moved among the trees that lined the river, picking up dead branches and fallen limbs. It was late in the afternoon, and she was alone in her search for firewood, so she worked quickly to fill her bundle. When she had gathered all she could carry, she walked down to the water’s edge to wash her hands. There was still no one else close by, and as she splashed the cold water over her hands she was tempted to take the opportunity to take a bath. She had often marveled that the men of the village found the cold river water refreshing, no matter the temperature. And it would soon be too cold for her to even consider bathing outside the tipi. She was a couple hundred yards from the village, and she was sure she could hear anyone coming down the path in plenty of time. The decision made, she laid her bundle of wood down by the water while she hurriedly removed her leggings, pulled her cowskin shirt off over her head, and pulled her long skirt up, tucking it into the tie at her waist.

The water felt icy as she cautiously placed one foot in and then the other. A chill ran the length of her spine, and she almost changed her mind about bathing, thinking it might be wiser to wait until morning and wash in the warm lodge. Still, she was drawn by the freedom of splashing in the gently moving river.
I’ve come this far,
she thought,
I might as well go through with it.

Shivering with each step, she waded in up to her
knees before deciding that was as far as she dared. Splashing a little on her exposed thighs in an effort to acclimate her body to the cold, she couldn’t help but utter a smothered squeal as each handful of the icy water chilled her, raising goosebumps all over her body. Taking a deep breath to strengthen her resolve, she cupped her hands and doused her face and shoulders with the frigid water. After the initial shock of it, she didn’t permit herself to pause, splashing water upon her chest and arms, rubbing vigorously. By the time she considered it enough, she was gasping to catch her breath.

Moving back to the bank, she stood there shaking and rubbing herself, wishing she had a towel. Glancing down at her naked breasts, she laughed to see her nipples standing cold and hard in the chilled air.
Martha, girl, I believe you’ve taken leave of your senses.
Suddenly her smile froze as a feeling swept over her that she was not alone. She was at once alarmed. She could not explain the sensation. She had heard no sound. In fact, the whole riverbank was silent. Turning slowly, she looked down the path toward the village. There was no one there. Then turning back toward the opposite bank, she saw him.

Black Elk stood motionless, his eyes captured by the vision across the narrow river. Unblinking, he gazed at the nearly naked woman no more than a few yards distant. Startled, but making no effort to hide her nakedness, Martha gazed back at the powerful Blackfoot warrior. There was a long moment when the world stood still, and they were held in a silent embrace. Abruptly, the stunned warrior seemed to recover his senses, and without saying a word, suddenly turned and walked toward the village, leading his horse behind him. Exhaling finally, Martha felt strangely calm. She could not explain why she had
simply stood there under his intense gaze, making no move to cover herself, meeting his eyes with hers. She stared at his broad back as he strode gracefully along the riverbank, and she began to shiver again, but not from the chilly air.

Still standing in ankle-deep water, she watched him until he and his horse finally disappeared in the trees. Only then did she seem to be released from the fiery hand that had clutched her emotions. Having no desire to explore feelings that ran contradictory to her sense of propriety, she labored to put the incident out of her mind. Still, she could not deny the strange sensation that she felt in her bosom. There had been a silent message between them. She could not deny that, and it frightened her.

Martha returned to the lodge to find Black Elk kneeling beside Moon Shadow, stroking her hair. He didn’t turn to look at Martha when she entered the tipi and placed her bundle of wood beside the fire. Her voice weak and halting, Moon Shadow strained to tell her husband something, but he gently shushed her. “Do not try to talk, little one. You must rest.” Still without turning his head, he said, “Six Horses, there is an antelope on my pony.” Without a word, Martha turned and left the lodge.

It was almost dark by the time Martha managed to drag the antelope carcass from Black Elk’s horse. She began to skin the animal. Due to the rapidly fading light, it was necessary to put more wood on the fire outside the tipi to provide some light to work by. Working as quickly as she could, she carefully slit the hide so as not to damage it, laying it back so she could butcher the meat. After a short while, Black Elk emerged from the lodge, and stood looking down at her for a few moments.

“I’m sorry that I got back so late. I had to travel a
long way today to find this animal. It is late. I’ll help you butcher.” With that said, he drew his knife and knelt down beside her. “We will leave this camp tomorrow, so there will be no time to dry the meat properly.” She nodded silently, afraid to look at him, although she could feel his eyes upon her, watching her as she carved the portions away. “We will eat the fresh meat tonight and share with the others,” he continued.

With the butchering not yet finished, Black Elk left her to complete the task while he walked among the lodges calling for friends to come and take portions of the meat. The offer was graciously accepted, and soon the carcass was disposed of. When the last of Black Elk’s friends departed, Martha picked up the remains of the butchering—what bones and entrails the dogs did not take—and put them in the fire to burn.
I should have known,
she thought when she looked at her hands and arms, covered with the blood of the antelope. Having just recently exposed her body to the chilling waters of the river, she had no choice but to visit the river again.