Savage Cry (29 page)

After Clay and Badger had their fill, they sat before the fire and told Martha and Black Elk of their
journey to find Clay’s lost sister. Martha, in turn, told of her capture by Black Elk’s warriors, and the events that ultimately led her to adopt her new way of life. In an earlier time in his life, Clay might have found it incredible that Martha would be drawn to such a wild and primitive existence. But in this time and place, it seemed not the least bit unusual, for he realized that he was also drawn to the wild mysteries of the high mountains.

When it was finally time for sleeping, Clay experienced some slight discomfort at seeing his little sister snuggle under a buffalo robe with a Blackfoot warrior. After he thought about it for a minute, however, he realized that he was probably seeing Martha as contented as he could ever remember. Nodding his head as he made his final judgment of the union, he decided that she was where she wanted to be, so he was content as well. That done, he turned his back to them and went to sleep to the low drone of Badger’s snoring.

The next morning Clay and Badger visited with the people of Martha’s village. Clay couldn’t help but be amused by Badger’s enthusiastic conversations with the “treacherous Blackfeet”—as Badger had always referred to them. The village certainly seemed peaceful enough at present. They talked at great length with Bloody Axe and Black Elk, answering the questions the Blackfoot chief asked about the soldiers that were rumored to soon be taking over the old trading posts on the Missouri. Badger assured the chief that his band of Blackfeet were too far away from the forts to be concerned. It was their enemies, the Sioux and the Cheyenne, who had to be concerned with the army’s intentions.

“This has been my thinking,” Bloody Axe said.
“There is no reason for the white man to come to this country. It will always be the land of the Blackfeet.”

Listening to the conversation, Clay had to agree with Badger. This wild, open country was so far removed from the rest of the world that there seemed little chance settlers would ever push this far north. Who but an Indian could live here?

The remainder of that day was spent with Martha and her husband, and before the day was over, Clay decided that there was much to be admired in his sister’s choice for a mate. Black Elk was very much interested to know about the war between the white men in which Clay had fought. It was difficult for him to understand what the two sides were fighting over, however. Clay tried to explain, but when it got right down to it, he wasn’t certain himself.

After the evening meal, Martha and Clay sat by the fire and talked late into the night. They talked about home, and she wanted to hear all the news about her mother and father and her brothers. Black Elk and Badger had long since drifted off into deep slumber when Martha wrote a short letter to her parents on a square piece of deer hide, written in black paint made from charcoal. Clay promised to see that the letter reached their parents, and he took the rolled piece of hide and packed it carefully in his parfleche.

“Clay, Mama and Papa are going to find it hard to understand why I don’t want to come back with you.” Her voice softened as a tiny tear caught by the firelight glistened in the corner of her eye. “Try to make them understand that I’m happy where I am.”

“I will,” Clay promised. “Don’t worry your mind over it. Just be happy. That’s all the whole family wants for you.”

The following morning was a day of parting. The village was busy as the women took down the lodges and packed them on travois and ponies, along with all their belongings, in preparation to move to buffalo country. Clay and Badger prepared to start back toward the Yellowstone where Badger was anxious to find his wife’s people. It had been a long time since he had left Gray Bird back on the Belle Fourche, and he complained that he had an itch that only she could scratch.

“What will you do now, Clay?” Martha asked as she and Black Elk stood by while her brother and his partner secured their packs on the horses. “Will you go back to Virginia right away?”

Clay hesitated before answering. “I don’t know,” he finally admitted. “I haven’t made up my mind yet. “This country kinda grows on you.” Ignoring the knowing grin on Badger’s face, he went on. “I’m sure of one thing, I wasn’t cut out to work a farm, so I’m not planning to go back to Virginia to stay. Pa and the boys don’t need me, anyway. I expect I’ll go back for a while, though, just so I can let everybody know that you’re all right—and tell Robert’s folks what happened to him and Charley.” He shook his head thoughtfully. “I guess I’ll have to put a coat of paint on Charley’s story so it’ll look a little better to his folks. No sense in telling them what a bastard he turned out to be.”

“You could come back here,” Martha suggested.

Black Elk nodded and said, “My wife’s brother would be welcome in our village. Come back and we will hunt together.”

“You never can tell, I might,” Clay said to Martha, smiling as he gave her a quick hug. Turning to Black
Elk, he replied, “I thank you for the invitation, but for now I have to see that this old scout gets back home to his wife.” He looked at Badger and grinned.

Badger snorted indignantly. “If you’re goin’ with me, you’d best mount up. We’re burning daylight.”

With a quick wink for his sister, Clay Culver stepped up into the saddle. With a smile on his face, he drew gently on the reins, turning his horse toward the rolling prairie to the east, knowing that Martha was where she belonged. He had a feeling deep inside that this wild country had already claimed his soul as well.

Completely at peace now that all the pieces of her life had seemingly found their proper places, Martha stood by her husband’s side, her hand gently resting upon his arm. She had traveled a long and difficult path, but she was content knowing that she, Six Horses, was where she was meant to be.
You’re where you belong, too,
she thought as she watched her brother wheel his pony with only a slight movement of his hand. There was no resemblance to the boy she had watched as he marched off to join the army. Tall and confident, it was obvious to her eye that Clay Culver was now as much a part of this wild country as the solemn mountains behind her.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s Imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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