Savage Cry (22 page)

She watched him as he strode through the circle of lodges on his way to the river to bathe. His long black hair, woven in two dark braids, rested lightly upon powerful shoulders that glistened bronze in the morning sun. She felt herself tremble with thoughts of those shoulders and the night just past.
You’d better get your mind on your chores,
she admonished, looking about her quickly, afraid someone might see the dreamy expression on her face.

“Six Horses.”

Martha looked around to see who had called her name. She smiled when she saw Red Wing approaching. The old medicine woman had become a close friend since the two of them had tried to nurse Moon Shadow back to health. “It is a fine morning, Red Wing,” Martha greeted her friend.

“Yes it is,” Red Wing agreed. “I think it would be a fine morning to walk down the riverbank. I have been watching for the past few days, and I think I know where some ducks are nesting. We could have a nice feast of duck eggs tonight. Why don’t you come with me after you have prepared Black Elk’s breakfast?”

“Thank you. I would like that,” Martha quickly
replied. She knew it would please Black Elk, for he, like most of the people of the village, thought goose and duck eggs were a special treat. It would be a fitting banquet on their last night in this camp. Tomorrow the lodges would be taken down and packed on travois, along with all their other belongings. Martha’s tipi was a small one, only twelve cowskins were required to make it. The larger tipi had been used as a burial wrap for Moon Shadow. Martha herself had sewn it around her little sister, with her favorite cooking pots and utensils for tanning hides inside. Black Elk would soon provide enough cowhides to make her new lodge. She wanted it to be a more fitting home for her husband—eighteen hides at least, and more for the inner lining. She wanted new backrests, too, and antelope skin to make herself a new dress. Black Elk needed new leggings, and a new shirt. There was a great deal to be done. She would be very busy this spring.

“Git back!” Marlowe commanded, his voice a harsh whisper as he frantically motioned for Charley to hold the mules below the rim of the ridge. “Injuns!” he warned as he yanked his pony’s head around, causing the animal to slide back down the incline, almost colliding with Charley’s mount. Scrambling back up to the rim on his hands and knees, he flattened himself to avoid being seen.

“Who are they?” Charley called out in a loud whisper while he struggled to control the string of packmules, unsure if he should be drawing his weapons or not.

“How the hell should I know?” Marlowe shot back, more than a little concerned himself until he could manage to get a good look. “Looks like a huntin’ party,” he said a moment later. “Or maybe they’re just on their way somewhere. Leastways, they ain’t wearin’ paint.”

“How many?” Charley asked.

After a few moments, Marlowe answered. “I count six of ’em. Blackfoot.”

“Well, what are we hiding for? I thought you were friends with the Blackfoot.” Once again, Charley was
beginning to question just how effective Marlowe was as a guide.

“I don’t know every damn Blackfoot in the territory. Hell, man, it always pays to see any damn bunch of Injuns before they see you.” There was a long pause while he continued to watch the party of Blackfeet. Then he volunteered, “Shit, I know this bunch. That’s ol’ Wolf Tail, biggest drunk in the Blackfoot nation.” Marlowe got to his feet. “You can bring ’em on up,” he said, waving Charley on.

While Charley brought the mules up to the top of the ridge, Marlowe yelled out to the line of riders, waving his arm back and forth to catch their eye. The Indians stopped immediately, and paused to consider who might be hailing them, exercising a natural caution at the sudden appearance of white men. Remaining motionless while they watched Marlowe and Charley lead the string of eight heavily loaded mules across the ridge, they constantly scanned the hillsides on either side, mindful of the possibility of flanking riders. When it was apparent that the white men were alone, the Indians’ attention focused immediately upon the pack mules. Their interest fully awakened, they sat their ponies, waiting for the white men to approach.

“Wolf Tail, it’s me, Marlowe. We was just on our way to do some tradin’ with your people, our friends the Blackfeet.”

Wolf Tail recognized the huge man on the Indian pony before he even spoke. He turned to his companions and told them that this was the man from Fort Union who sold him whiskey when the
bourgeois
said it was forbidden. Turning back to face the approaching white men, he held up his arm in greeting. “Marlowe, it is good to see you, my friend,” he said in English.

While his companions gathered around the mules,
eyeing the securely bound jugs, Wolf Tail explained that they were returning to their village after visiting his uncle in Bloody Axe’s camp on Willow Creek. For once, Charley could follow the conversation, since Wolf Tail was eager to demonstrate his mastery of the English language. The courteous exchange of greetings was dispensed with in short order, since Wolf Tail’s interest was concentrated on the gallon-size jugs strapped on the mules. He was well familiar with the contents of jugs similar to these.

There was immediate talk of trade, but the six Blackfeet had very little to trade with them—nothing that Charley wanted, anyway—so they suggested that Charley and Marlowe accompany them to Black Shirt’s village where they had many robes and furs. For now, however, Wolf Tail thought it would be a sign of good will if they were allowed to sample the whiskey. In exchange, he promised, he would lead them to Black Shirt’s camp. Charley thought this an excellent suggestion since he had begun to doubt if Marlowe would ever find the village on his own.

“Keep your rifle handy,” Marlowe whispered. “These boys might git the idea they wanna grab the whole shebang, and our scalps with it.”

“I hope they do,” Charley murmured in reply. “I’d enjoy sending them to meet their friends back at the cache.”

“Let us sit down and eat together,” Wolf Tail said, “we have the hindquarter of an antelope we killed yesterday. We are happy to share our food.”

Yeah, and we provide the whiskey,
Charley thought while affecting a smile as genuine as he could make it. While two of the Indians gathered wood to make a fire, Charley hobbled the mules in a thicket. He released one jug of whiskey from its straps, and set it down, along with a tin cup, in front of the fire just lit.
The six Blackfeet gathered around eagerly waiting to sample the firewater. Charley filled the cup to the brim, then corked the jug and pulled it back away from the fire. There was a simultaneous look of disappointment on all six faces when they realized that one cup was all that would be offered to sample. Wolf Tail shrugged and picked up the cup, taking a quick gulp, immediately followed by another before he passed it to the warrior on his left. By the time the cup came back around to Charley, it was empty, the last of Wolf Tail’s companions having emptied it. This forced Charley to make a show of further generosity. He had not planned to donate more than the one cup of whiskey, but Marlowe whispered that it would be impolite not to drink with their guests, and at least one of the Blackfeet knew the cup was empty, so Charley couldn’t pretend to take a drink. “What the hell,” he muttered and uncorked the jug for one more round.

By the time the cup made another round, the strips of antelope were sizzling over the fire, and Marlowe persuaded Charley to fill the cup once more. In no time at all, the cautious atmosphere abated. Even the stoic companions of Wolf Tail were chattering among themselves as the glow of Charley’s whiskey warmed their bellies.

Chewing thoughtfully on a tough strip of roasted meat, Wolf Tail eyed Marlowe’s white companion, curious about a man who would team up with the notorious loner. As far as he knew, none of the other white men at Fort Union had much use for the sullen bully. And Wolf Tail held no illusions about the professed friendship Marlowe claimed for the Blackfoot people. Marlowe had been his only source for the white man’s firewater. It was as simple as that—and Wolf Tail had a big craving for firewater. This stranger, Charley, appeared to be the owner of the whiskey, for he was the
one who decided when to fill the cup. In spite of the white man’s apparent friendliness, Wolf Tail decided it would be wise to watch his back when Charley was around. He had the look of a weasel, with eyes close together and set back under heavy brows. After studying the man, Wolf Tail could finally curb his curiosity no longer.

“You are new to this country,” he stated, staring at Charley. When Charley said that he was, Wolf Tail nodded and said, “When we first saw you on the ridge, we think maybe you came looking for the white woman.” He smiled. “But then we see Marlowe.”

Charley’s jaw went slack when he heard the words
white woman
. He spat out the half-chewed piece of meat he was eating, and shot back, “What white woman?”

Wolf Tail shrugged indifferently, glancing at Marlowe, then back at Charley as if expecting everyone to know about the woman captive. “The one taken by Black Elk last summer,” he answered.

Suddenly totally sober, Charley asked, “Took her from a cabin in the Black Hills?”

Marlowe stopped chewing long enough to listen to the conversation when he noticed Charley’s rapt interest regarding the white woman. When Wolf Tail seemed unsure about Charley’s question, Marlowe quickly supplied the Blackfoot words for Black Hills. Understanding then, Wolf Tail nodded, “Yes, it was there.”

Charley sank back on his heels, stunned by the news.
Martha!
he thought. Then a sly smile creased his lips.
So the bitch is still alive. Now, ain’t that something?
His thoughts flew back to the cabin in the Black Hills, and the lust he had for his brother’s wife. The thought of her rebuking him, which angered him so at the time, now only widened his smile.
Maybe this
is one helluva twist of fate. She wouldn’t stick her snooty nose up at me now, I reckon.
With a sudden laugh, he dragged the jug from behind him. “Let’s have another round, boys. Hand me that cup.”

Staring at him with a suspicious eye, Marlowe asked, “You’re gittin’ mighty generous with that whiskey, ain’tcha, pardner?”

Charley just laughed again at the thought. “Seed stock, Marlowe. Hell, these boys has got something to trade now.”

Marlowe didn’t understand, so Charley stated his intention to offer all the whiskey they had packed on the mules if neccessary as an inducement for Wolf Tail and his friends to deliver Martha to him.

The announcement didn’t set too well with Marlowe. “What the hell for?” he demanded. “What do you want with a woman, especially one that’s been used up by a bunch of Injuns? We can git a helluva lot of furs for that whiskey. You wanna throw it away for a woman?” He shook his head, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Hell, if you need to plant your pickle that bad, you don’t have to give away all our whiskey for it. We can steal you a squaw for nothin’.”

The smile remained on Charley’s face for a long moment before it gradually faded into a dark frown when he spoke. “In the first place, it ain’t
our
whiskey. It’s
my
whiskey, and I’ll do what I damn well please with it.” He paused to let that sink in while he glared into the angry face of his partner. “We’ve got sixteen more jugs back in the cache. I don’t figure it’ll take more than the five we got on the mules, plus a little piece of this one.” When Marlowe just shook his head, still dismayed, Charley went on to explain. “This ain’t no ordinary woman. Why, this is my dear sister-in-law,” he said contemptuously.

Marlowe didn’t like it, but he didn’t protest further,
mollifying himself with the knowledge that the time would soon come when he would put a bullet in Charley’s back. He sat still, holding his tongue while Charley proposed a trade that Wolf Tail was going to find difficult to resist.

At first, Wolf Tail did not understand. “Whiskey for the white woman? The woman is not mine. She belongs to Black Elk of Bloody Axe’s village. I cannot trade a woman that is not mine.”

“You can steal her, can’t you?” Charley persisted. He motioned toward the packmules. “I would give you all this firewater for the woman.”

Wolf Tail had a strong desire for the whiskey, but this thing Charley proposed was a bad thing indeed. He could not entertain thoughts of stealing from his own people, even when Charley explained that the woman was his sister-in-law. He gazed longingly at the jugs before giving his final answer. “This I cannot do. Black Elk is a blood brother.” This was all he voiced, but he also knew that Black Elk was a fierce warrior, renowned for his bravery in battle, and would no doubt kill the man who stole his property.

Charley was rapidly losing his patience. If Wolf Tail was the drunk Marlowe stated him to be, he should be willing to cut his own mother’s throat for that much whiskey. The thought of Martha was already burning a picture in his mind of the sweet revenge he would enjoy for her rejection of him. He tried further enticement by suggesting there might be even more whiskey to come in exchange for the white woman. The more Wolf Tail resisted, the stronger Charley’s desire for Martha grew.

Disgusted with the foolish offerings of a sizable fortune in trade goods, Marlowe snorted his displeasure and withdrew from the campfire. Muttering that he was going to see to the mules, he walked over to his
horse and pretended to check the girth strap. If Charley succeeded in talking Wolf Tail into trading the woman for the whiskey, Marlowe stood to lose a great deal, payment he figured was owed to him for putting up with Charley in the first place. The question before him now was, what would be the risk if he put a bullet in Charley’s back right then? Would the six Blackfeet then rise up against him? Marlowe’s hand slid down the barrel of his rifle until it rested just above the trigger guard. It was tempting. Charley’s back was unprotected as he continued to haggle with Wolf Tail, but Marlowe didn’t like the odds that would result: one white man with eight packmules, alone against six Blackfeet. It galled him to admit it, but he needed Charley.

Finally, Charley wore Wolf Tail down to a compromise, one that Marlowe found more to his liking. Wolf Tail agreed to take Charley to Bloody Axe’s camp in exchange for one jug of whiskey, but that was all he would agree to. Charley was going to have to deal with Black Elk himself. Marlowe tried to convince Charley that he might be playing a dangerous game, but Charley was confident that a few jugs of whiskey could buy him most anything from any Indian.

Martha paused and sat back on her heels to listen. She thought for a moment that she had heard something, but decided that it was nothing more than the whinnying of the ponies on the other side of the creek. She was about to continue scraping the buffalo cow skin staked out before her when she heard the camp dogs begin to bark. Looking toward the center of the village, she saw Bloody Axe and a few of the other men staring out toward the prairie. Shielding her eyes against the afternoon sun, she turned to look in the
direction they were watching, hoping it might be Black Elk returning early from the hunt.

Someone was coming, all right. She could see them now. But it was not Black Elk. Getting to her feet, she continued to stare out at the approaching riders until she could make out their features. It appeared to be Screech Owl’s nephew Wolf Tail in the lead, a fact that aroused her curiosity, because he had just left the village to return to his own camp. The other five who had accompanied him were not with him now. She wondered if anything was wrong. Now they were close enough that she could make out the riders following Wolf Tail—two men, leading a string of pack mules. Suddenly a cold chill ran the length of her spine as she realized they were white men.
White men!
The thought struck her like a blow to her chest. Her heart threatened to explode inside her breast. The thoughts racing through her mind were thoughts of fear.
White men! What do they want?
Looking around her frantically, she wondered if she should hide.
Calm yourself!
she scolded, never thinking to question her reaction upon seeing people of her own skin for the first time since her capture.
There is nothing to fear. They lead packmules, loaded heavily. They are hoping to trade, that’s all.
Although she was curious as to what trinkets they might have to trade, she decided to remain at a distance.