Savage Cry (5 page)

“I guess not,” Clay allowed, still of the opinion that he could have somehow influenced his sister, had he been there. He thought about what his father had just told him for a few moments longer before concluding, “So that’s why you don’t know exactly where Martha is now.” Reading more than concern in their faces, he had a sudden feeling that there was more to it than that. “Martha is all right, isn’t she?”

Raymond Culver glanced briefly at his wife before sighing sadly. “No, son, she ain’t all right. We got a letter from Robert last month saying your sister was took by wild Indians. They burned the cabin they was living in and run off with Martha.”

Like a blow from a hammer, the news struck Clay right between the eyes.
Martha abducted! She may even be dead!
At once, he felt a staggering sense of
guilt for not being there to protect her. He had always watched over his sister, from the time they were little more than toddlers. He had taught her how to swim, showed her how to catch a fish. It didn’t matter that a rational mind would tell him that he could not possibly have protected his sister when he was half a continent away. He felt responsible for her. Even the news that she had married didn’t change that.

Recovering from the initial shock of his father’s words, Clay searched Raymond Culver’s eyes, hopefully looking for some sign that there was more to the story, something more encouraging. When there seemed to be nothing more from anyone, he questioned his father. “Where was Robert when the Indians attacked? And Charley? Why weren’t they killed? Didn’t they try to stop them?”

Raymond simply shook his head, choked with the emotion of having to relive the tragedy. When it was apparent that his father was too wrought with sorrow to continue, John answered. “All we know, Clay, is what was in Robert’s letter. According to him, both him and Charley were away from the cabin, deer hunting. They didn’t know anything about the raid until they came back and found their cabin burned down . . . and Martha gone.” He paused and shot a quick glance at his mother before adding, “They said there wasn’t no sign of blood or nothing, so they were pretty sure the Injuns just carried her off.”

“What the hell did Robert do about it? Didn’t they go after her?” Without knowing if he had reason to or not, Clay was already angry with Robert and Charley for permitting Martha to be stolen.

John shrugged. “All the letter said was that they had tried to track ’em, but they couldn’t catch ’em.”

Clay sat there in silence for a few minutes. He tried not to picture his sister in captivity, straining to push
thoughts of rape and torture aside in order to clear his mind for rational thought. When he had ridden across the Rapidan less than an hour earlier, he was unsure what his immediate plans would be now that he was home again. His mind had been so occupied with the simple objective of returning to his home that he had spent very little thought on anything beyond that. Now there was no longer any uncertainty. He was heading west. If Martha was still alive, he would find her. He would not assign any blame, but unlike the rest of his family, Clay could not be content to rely on the likes of Robert and Charley Vinings.

With the buildings of Fort Laramie now in sight, Clay dismounted and led Red down a low bank to drink from the river. While he stood watching him slake his thirst, he pondered the trail he had taken over the past few weeks. His visit with his family in Virginia had been a short one, staying only long enough to outfit himself for the task he felt compelled to take on. There was a deep sadness in his mother’s eyes when she watched her son—only recently returned from the ravages of war—riding off once more, maybe this time for good. It pained him to cause her more concern, but in his mind, there was no choice in the matter.

John and Stephen both wanted to go with him, but they were needed at home to run the farm. His father couldn’t make it without them. And Clay could plainly see that they could get along just fine without his help. Besides, little James was already beginning to do a man’s work. In fact, when he thought hard on the matter, Clay decided that he might be one too many trying to make a living from his father’s farm.

Red raised his muzzle from the water, and turned his head back toward his new master. “Had enough, boy?” Clay asked. The big horse shook his head from
side to side, throwing a spray of tiny droplets of water as he did. Clay led him back up the bank and stepped up in the saddle his father had given him. He reached down to pat the stock of the shiny new Winchester- 66 rifle riding in the saddle boot. He had already developed a habit of keeping a close eye on the weapon. There were not many of them available. He wouldn’t have one himself were it not for the fact that his uncle worked for the manufacturer. One of the first of the new rifles manufactured by Oliver Winchester—and the first model bearing his name—it was a marvelous weapon in Clay’s mind. With a magazine holding sixteen cartridges, the rifle could be fired as rapidly as a man could cock it and pull the trigger. Clay felt he could hold off an entire company of cavalry with the repeating rifle. And, unlike the Henry that preceded it, the Winchester was fitted with a wooden forestock that protected a man’s hand from an overheated barrel. The side ammunition port made it a good deal easier to reload, but the feature that pleased Clay the most was the accuracy of his new weapon. He had acquired quite a reputation for himself as a marksman when he was in the army, so he appreciated Mr. Winchester’s dedication to accuracy. While he might grudgingly admit that the army’s single-shot Springfield could be a shade better at long range, it was no match for his Winchester under most conditions.

In one sense, he felt a measure of guilt for accepting the rifle. It had been a peace offering from his father’s brother—an attempt to make amends for his decision to remain in New Haven when the war broke out. But his father and his brothers insisted that he should receive something for donating his share of the farm to his brothers. And they wanted to contribute something of their own toward the mission to rescue Martha. All things considered, he found himself suitably
outfitted for the task he had set for himself. Since he was the one going in search of their sister, the whole family had wanted to do their share as well, contributing all they could. Clay figured giving up his share of the farm to his brothers was fair—he never had any strong urges toward farming, anyway.

A natural feeling of uneasiness about riding into a Union army post descended upon him as he passed the outbuildings, and headed toward a building with a flagpole before it. The war had been over for a year, but it was not easy to rid himself of the sense that he was riding into an enemy camp. Blue bellies, as he had come to know them, were everywhere as he made his way at a slow walk up to the headquarters building. He had no earthly idea where to go in search of his sister, but he knew that Robert Vinings’s letter had been sent from Laramie. So that looked to be the natural place to start.

As he stepped down from the saddle, he heard a voice behind him. “That’s a right fine-lookin’ horse you got there, mister.”

Clay’s hand automatically clamped around the butt of the Winchester, pulling it out of the saddle sling as he dismounted. Turning toward the voice, he found a young private smiling at him. Realizing at once that the soldier’s remark had been nothing more than a casual compliment, he rested his rifle in the crook of his elbow and returned the greeting. “Thanks. He’s a pretty stout horse, all right.” He remembered to give a silent thanks to the lieutenant who had originally owned him—glad that the horse had been the personal property of the officer, and consequently, had no army brand. “Is this where I can find the commanding officer?”

“Usually,” the private replied. “But he ain’t here now. He’s out at the peace talks.” When Clay’s blank
expression told the soldier that he didn’t know what the young man was talking about, the private explained. “There’s a big powwow going on with a bunch of the Injuns. He’s over to that. Sergeant McCoy is inside. More’n likely he can tell you most anything you need to know.”

“Thanks,” Clay replied, and stepped up on the porch.

Sergeant Lionel McCoy was polite—friendly, even—but there wasn’t much help he could offer. The two men Clay inquired about, Robert and Charley Vinings, had been to see the colonel some time back. They had asked for help in finding Martha, but the colonel could offer very little assistance. Due to the fact that their cabin was over four days’ ride from Laramie, and there was little chance in overtaking a war party after so much time had passed, the colonel could see no wisdom in mounting a patrol to ride that distance. Since they had been camped in Sioux country—and weren’t supposed to be there, he reminded them—the best he could offer was to inquire about the woman during the peace talks. McCoy told Clay that many bands of Sioux had gathered to talk of peace with the army. The colonel had asked about a white woman captive, but none of the chiefs had any knowledge of one in any of their villages. Beyond that, there was very little the army could do.

“What about the two men?” Clay asked. “Do you know where they are now?”

“I’m sorry, mister. I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what their plans were when they left here. One of ’em was pretty hot about it, as I recall. I reckon he expected the colonel to send about a dozen patrols out lookin’ for the lady. The colonel tried to explain that it would be a useless waste. We don’t have the manpower to go chasing all over creation lookin’ for
one woman.” Realizing that his tone might be reflecting a sense of indifference on the part of the army, Sergeant McCoy added, “You might check with O.C. Owens at the sutler’s store. I saw them hangin’ around there before they left.”

“Much obliged,” Clay said, and took his leave.

O.C. Owens, a wiry man in his early sixties, barely glanced up from the counter when the tall young man walked into his store. O.C. had spent most of his life trapping and trading among the Indians before failing eyesight and frazzled nerves reduced him to clerking in the sutler’s store. And he had seen enough young greenhorns, fresh off the pilgrims’ trail, to recognize one without close inspection. “Mornin’ to you, sir,” he offered politely as Clay made his way through an array of blankets and trinkets—meant for Indian trade—as well as stacks of canned goods and boxes of dried apples to supplement the soldiers’ fare. “What can I do for you?”

“Mornin’,” Clay returned. “Are you Mr. Owens?”

“I am.”

“I’m hoping you can help me. I’m looking for two fellows from Virginia. Sergeant McCoy said you might be able to help me. He said they were hanging around here for a while.” O.C.’s eyebrows lifted slightly, and his face took on a cautious look—a look that Clay would learn to expect in this part of the country when a stranger came asking questions about anybody. Clay went on, “One of ’em’s my brother-in-law. My sister was stolen by some Indians, and I’m trying to find them.”

O.C. hesitated a few seconds while he appraised the straightforward young man. Finding no deceit in the young man’s eyes, he said, “They was here, all right. Did some tradin’ with me. Vinings was the name, if I
recall.” When Clay nodded, O.C. continued. “So the lady that got stole was your sister . . .”

“That’s right,” Clay replied, anxious to know if the man could give him any help. If Owens couldn’t, he wouldn’t know where to start looking for Martha.

“And you come all the way out here from Virginia to try to find your sister,” O.C. went on.

“That’s right,” Clay said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If she’s still alive, I aim to find her.”

There was something in the young man’s bearing that told O.C. this was no idle boast. He probably meant what he said. He might find her, but most likely he’d die trying. “You know much about the territory north and west of here?” He asked it knowing that Clay had probably never set foot west of the Missouri before.

“No,” Clay confirmed. “But Robert and Charley have been out here for over a year. I was hoping I could catch up with them, if I just had some idea where they’re searching for my sister.”

O.C. said nothing for a few moments while he took a long hard look at the young man across the counter from him, deciding what he was going to say. Finally he told Clay what he knew to be true. “Young feller, I don’t know how good you know your brother-in-law, but them two boys ain’t got no intentions of lookin’ fer your sister. They found out the army ain’t gonna go lookin’ fer her, and they wasn’t too interested in ridin’ into Injun territory and takin’ a chance on losing their own hair.” He watched Clay closely for his reaction, but he saw no shock in the young man’s eyes, just a stone-cold glint, and a noticeable set of his jaw. “They had a little gold dust they traded for a new outfit, and joined up with a party from St. Louis headed fer the gold fields up in Montana territory.”

Clay said nothing for a long moment while he thought over what O.C. had just told him. He could not really say he was surprised that Robert and Charley Vinings lacked the intestinal fortitude to venture into hostile country.
But, dammit, Martha was Robert’s wife!
It was hard to understand a man like this. Clay could feel the anger rising in his spleen, and the thought of Robert and Charley riding off to look for gold while Martha was suffering who-knows-what, was incentive enough to find the two cowards if he had to ride all over Indian territory to do it. But first, he reminded himself, he had to find Martha.

“You’ll be going back to Virginia, then?”

Clay glanced up from his thoughts to look O.C. straight in the eye. “No,” he answered softly. “I’m not going back to Virginia. I came out here to find my sister, and I expect that’s what I’ll do.”

“That camp them fellers had was up in the Black Hills, if they was tellin’ the truth about it. The Sioux is mighty particular about white men messin’ around in that part of the country. Tell you the truth, it’s a dad-blamed miracle that them two boys got outta there with their scalps.” He paused to gauge the effect of his words on Clay, then went on. “A man sure oughta know which way his stick floats if he’s thinkin’ ‘bout ridin’ into Injun country.”

“I understand what you’re trying to tell me, Mr. Owens—and I appreciate it. But Martha is my sister, and I reckon I’ll just have to chance it. I can’t just cross her off and forget about it. Like her husband did,” he added.

O.C. shook his head slowly back and forth while studying the young man standing before him. There was something about this young fellow—a quiet confidence that made a man think he’d do to winter with—and would watch his partner’s back in a fight.
Clay started to thank him for his help, but O.C. interrupted. “I tell you what, son. If you’re determined to go get yourself kilt, I’ll give you the best piece of advice I can give you. Ride on down the river about thirty miles to where Red Cloud’s Sioux is camped. There’ll be other chiefs there, too. But he’s near the tent the soldiers set up for the talks. Tell one of the soldiers there that you want to talk to Badger. You find Badger, you tell him O.C. sent you. He might help you.” O.C. paused, then, “Might not, too, but it’s worth your while to try.”

“Badger,” Clay repeated. “Is he a soldier?”

“Nah, he scouts for the army when he feels like it. He’s the only man I know that moves freely through all the Sioux camps, whether they’re at war or not. Folks might think the famous Jim Bridger is the Injuns’ friend, but the Sioux look at Badger as one of their own kind. And I reckon he is more Lakota than white. Anyway, you find Badger—tell him what you’re planning to do.”

Clay had little difficulty in finding the meeting site. There were hundreds of Indian campfires along the banks of the river. It seemed that in every direction he looked, there were groups of Sioux or Cheyenne warriors talking among themselves, and between the groups of lodges, young warriors rode back and forth on their ponies, proudly displaying the nimble-footed quickness of their mounts. Clay had never seen this many Indians gathered in one place before. They by far outnumbered the detachment of soldiers deployed near a large tent in the center of the meeting ground. The sides were rolled up on the tent to let the warm breeze through. Inside, Clay could see a small group of officers seated on camp chairs while, before them, maybe fifteen or more Indians sat on the ground. The
thought struck him that the soldiers would be helpless to defend themselves against such numbers should the treaty talks turn nasty.

Feeling as if he were riding into a boiling stew of hostility, Clay continued forward. Looking neither right nor left, he made straight toward the large tent, his body erect in the saddle, ignoring the blatant stares of the warriors he passed.
Mr. Owens said these were peace talks,
he thought, as one after another warrior reined up to inspect the magnificent chestnut he rode.
If these savages are peaceful, I don’t want to see them when they’re on the warpath.