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Authors: Charles G. West

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Historical, #Westerns

Savage Cry (6 page)

BOOK: Savage Cry
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Once through the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that surrounded the tent area, Clay nudged Red into a trot until he reached the detachment of mounted infantry that represented the army’s strength. A group of several soldiers standing at ease before the tent watched him approach with obvious disinterest. When he pulled up before them and dismounted, one of them asked if he could help him.

“I’m looking for a man named Badger. I was told I could find him here.”

The soldier, a man of perhaps forty or forty-five, with sergeant’s stripes on his arm, scratched his chin as he searched his memory. “Badger? I don’t know anybody by that name.” He turned to his companions, and asked, “Any you boys know somebody named Badger?” When no one did, he turned back to Clay. “I’m sorry, mister,” shaking his head apologetically. “Is he one of the peace commissioners?”

“I don’t know,” Clay replied, “I don’t think so. O.C. Owens, over at the sutler’s store, said I could find him here.”

The sergeant shook his head. The name meant nothing to him. “Sorry I can’t help you.”

“Well, much obliged,” Clay said, and turned
around, looking at the surrounding Indian camps as if hoping to discover some clue that might tell him where he should go from there. He was about to take his leave when the sergeant stopped him.

“Hold on a minute. Here’s somebody who might know.”

Clay turned to see a tall thin man with scraggly whiskers and deep-set eyes stepping out of the tent to stretch his legs for a bit. The expression on his face reflected pain from joints grown stiff with age, as he rolled his shoulders to loosen them. He seemed to pay no attention to the small group outside the tent entrance until the sergeant called to him. “Mr. Bridger, feller here’s looking for somebody called Badger.”

Bridger cocked his head to give Clay a looking over. After a long moment, during which he appeared to be considering whether he was even going to acknowledge the statement, he finally responded with a simple, “Is that a fact?”

“Yessir,” Clay replied. “Badger—I don’t know his first name. O.C. Owens said I might find him over here.”

“I don’t know that he’s got a first name,” Bridger said, “and I’ve knowed him for twenty years.” He continued to look Clay over for a few moments more. Then deciding that Clay was most likely looking for Badger for peaceful reasons, he took a few steps away from the entrance and pointed toward a group of lodges close by the riverbank. “Them’s Red Cloud’s people. Find Little Hawk’s lodge, and Badger will most likely be nearby.”

“Much obliged,” Clay said, turned and nodded to the sergeant, then stepped up into the saddle.

“That’s a right fine-looking sorrel you’ve got there,” the sergeant commented.

“Thanks,” Clay replied, smiling. “The fellow I got
him from still wishes he hadn’t let him go.” Red snorted in agreement, and leaped forward at the touch of Clay’s heels in his sides, showing off for the benefit of those watching, as he pranced shamelessly away from the tent.

Clay guided the big chestnut stallion toward the group of lodges pointed out by Jim Bridger, aware of the eyes that silently watched his progress. He knew very little about the wild people who inhabited the lands west of the Missouri, only tales occasionally brought back east from mule skinners who made the long trip hauling freight—and newspaper accountings of Indian raids upon helpless settlers. So he felt an uneasiness that made him want to keep his hand resting upon the stock of his Winchester as he guided his horse around small groups of warriors talking around their campfires. As he approached each group, the talking stopped while every pair of eyes turned toward him. Not sure if he should appear cordial or polite, he just kept his eyes straight ahead while he passed.

There was a gathering of six men seated before a tipi decorated with drawings of warriors on horses chasing buffalo. One of them was a white man, and Clay had no doubts that this was the man he sought. Sitting Indian-style on the ground, eating from a bowl carved from bone, was the man known simply as Badger. At first glance, one might mistake him for an Indian. He was dressed much in the same fashion as his companions—entirely in animal skins, except for the weathered old campaign hat with the front and back brim turned up. Upon closer inspection, one would notice the stubble of a beard, more gray than the black of his shoulder-length hair. Upon even closer inspection, one would realize that the clear blue eyes were not those of an Indian. And those eyes were
watching Clay closely as he rode up, although his face gave no indication of even a passing curiosity.

“Mr. Badger?” Clay inquired, stepping down from the saddle.

Badger’s five Lakota companions, all silently staring at the lone white rider up to that point, now turned as one to watch Badger’s response. “I’m Badger,” was the simple reply.

If Clay had expected a more cordial greeting, he would be disappointed, for the crusty old scout held a cool reserve for strangers, especially white strangers. Already feeling the coolness of his reception, Clay stepped closer to the men, and said, “O.C. Owens said that you might be able to help me.”

“That so?” Badger replied. “And who might you be?”

Badger listened, unblinking and expressionless, as Clay told him who he was and the mission he had taken upon himself to find the Indians who had stolen his sister. If Clay’s story provoked any compassion from the rough scout, it was not obvious to the eye. Badger’s first reaction to the account of Martha Vinings’s abduction was that she and her husband weren’t supposed to be there in the first place. It seemed simple logic to him that, if a man sneaked into a bear’s cave to steal his food, “He might oughta expect to run into a bear.” If this young fellow’s sister and her husband were up in the Black Hills, then they probably got what they deserved. The longer Clay talked, however, the more Badger’s coolness thawed, for he soon realized that Clay was not a settler, a gold miner, or a trader. His only reason for being there was, as the young man had stated, simply to find his sister. It couldn’t hurt to at least show some hospitality.

“Set yourself down, young feller, and have something to eat.”

Clay dropped Red’s reins, and settled himself opposite Badger, nodding politely to the other faces seated around the fire. They nodded cordially in return, having seen Badger’s friendly gesture. A solidly built middle-aged Indian woman came from the tipi and glanced briefly into the iron pot hanging over the fire. Satisfied that there was enough boiled meat to accomodate another visitor, she quickly moved away again—but not before giving the young white man a thorough looking over.

Badger handed Clay his bowl, and said, “Here, dip in there and get some of that meat.” When Clay nodded but hesitated a moment, he added, “It’s deer meat . . . it wouldn’t be polite not to eat some, even if you ain’t hungry.” He smiled and Clay realized that Badger’s Indian friends did not understand English.

“Thanks,” Clay said, and dipped eagerly into the iron pot. He
was
hungry, but he had hesitated because of stories he had heard about some Indians’ love for dog. And this gristled-looking mountain man looked as close to an Indian as a white man could.

Badger gave his guest a few minutes to eat some of the venison before talking again. “Now . . . Mr. Culver, was it? What was you lookin’ for me for?”

“I was hoping you could help me find my sister,” Clay answered. He felt that Badger had already assumed as much. “I don’t have a lot of money to pay you, but my family scraped up a little, and I can pay you fifty Union dollars to help me look for her.”

Badger didn’t say anything right away while he studied Clay’s face. When he did respond, it wasn’t to encourage Clay’s resolve. “You know, son, there’s a heap of territory between the Black Hills and the divide. And there’s a whole lot of different tribes and villages spread all over creation. I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t tell you there ain’t much hope in finding
one white woman in all that country.” Seeing the disappointment in Clay’s face, he tried to console him somewhat. “Just because she was took don’t mean she’s being treated bad. Most Injuns treat captive women pretty decent.”

“Can you guide me?” Clay asked simply.

“I’m sorry, son, but I’m fixing to head back to the Powder River country with my family.” He gestured toward the tipi with his head. “I’ve been scouting for the army for the last six months, but they’ve laid me off for the time being. They said the army’s cut ’em way back on expenses. They even cut Bridger back to five dollars a day.” Seeing no weakening of the determination in Clay’s eyes, he offered one favor. “About the best I can do for you is find out if any of the Sioux has got your sister. ’Course all the Sioux ain’t here at these talks, but I can find out from the ones who are here. Most likely they’ll know about some of the others.”

Clay was silent for a few moments, obviously disappointed. Then he thanked Badger for his help. “I’m much obliged to you, Mr. Badger, but I reckon if I can’t find somebody who knows the country, I’ll just have to go by myself.”

Badger shook his head slowly. “You seem like a nice enough young feller. You’re just gonna get yourself kilt, especially now since these talks ain’t goin’ so good. There’s already bad blood over so many white folks traipsing through Lakota hunting grounds. That’s what these talks was all about. The army said they wanted to get the Injuns to quit attackin’ wagon trains traveling across their lands on the way to the gold diggings north of the Yellowstone. Red Cloud told ’em that his warriors wouldn’t be attackin’ the dang settlers if they wasn’t trespassin’ into Lakota huntin’ grounds. Now, come to find out, some colonel just
showed up with a whole passel of soldiers, fixin’ to build forts along the trail whether the Injuns agree to it or not. Well, that didn’t set too pretty with Red Cloud. He’s already said him and his folks is packin’ up and goin’ back home. There’s gonna be trouble over this, and you don’t wanna be caught in the middle of Lakota territory right now.” He pushed his hat back while he scratched his head, and paused to see if his words had any effect on Clay. “Why, hell,” he went on, “you wouldn’t get ten miles from Fort Laramie before some buck bushwhacked you for that fancy horse you’re ridin’.”

“I appreciate your concern, Mr. Badger, and I thank you for the food, but I best be on my way.” He got to his feet, and turned to leave. He was about to put a foot in the stirrup when he thought of something more. “Could I trouble you to point me toward the Black Hills?”

“You’re still set on going alone?”

“I reckon I don’t have much choice. I’ve got to find my sister.”

Badger shook his head, exasperated. “You do beat all I’ve ever seen. How the hell are you gonna find somebody when you don’t even know where
you
are?” Before Clay could answer, he went on. “Just hold on for a minute, and let me think.” Ordinarily, Badger wouldn’t care if a greenhorn wanted to commit suicide or not. But this Clay Culver showed a lot of quiet determination that he couldn’t help but admire. It would be a shame to think of this young man lying cold somewhere out on the prairie while some buck rode off on his horse.
But, hell, I ain’t got no time to wet-nurse no innocent young pup.
He thought about it a few moments longer while Clay stood there, puzzling over the old scout’s hesitation. Then making
up his mind, Badger said, “I can take you as far as the Powder, but you’ll be on your own from there.”

Clay could not hide the excitement Badger’s change of heart brought. “Thank you, Mr. Badger,” he said, beaming. “I really appreciate it. When will we be starting?”

“Tomorrow morning, sunup. Little Hawk—that’s my wife’s brother—anyway, Little Hawk’s band is pullin’ out of here tomorrow, and we’ll be travelin’ with them. So if you still think you want to go to the Powder River country, you’d best go on back and fetch your pack animal and your possibles, ’cause I ain’t gonna waste time lookin’ around for you come sunup.”

“I don’t have a packhorse. All my possibles are in that saddle pack,” Clay replied.

Badger was amazed. “You mean you come all the way out here from Virginia with nothin’ more’n you could carry on that horse?” Clay nodded. “Well, mister, you shore do travel light. I’ll give you that.” He shook his head, chuckling as he said, “You must not eat a helluva lot.”

Clay shrugged. “I brought a little coffee and salt from home. I hunted for what I needed to eat. I’m a fair shot with a rifle.” He didn’t feel the necessity to tell the old scout that he had slept in the open for over two years when he was in the army—winter and summer—with nothing but a rubber sheet and a blanket. He had flint and steel, his new Winchester, and a Green River knife. As long as he didn’t run Red to death, he had felt confident that he could make it all right. Sleeping and feeding himself had not been the problem that feeding Red had been. Like most army mounts, Red had been grain-fed. The little bit of grain Clay packed had lasted only eight days. After that,
Red had to learn to survive on nothing more than prairie grass.

“Well, boy, you’ve got grit a’plenty.” Badger started to say more, then another thought struck him. “What was you gonna do if you found your sister? Throw her on that horse, too?”

“I reckon not. I reckon I planned to get another horse.”

“Where was you gonna git it?”

“The same place I got this one,” Clay replied, his face expressionless.

Badger’s grizzled face cracked with a thin smile. He didn’t have to ask where Clay had gotten the sorrel; he had a pretty good idea from the determined look in the young man’s eyes. It was still too early to judge, but Badger had a feeling that he was going to like Clay Culver. “Well, Clay Culver, come on with me, and I’ll show you where you can tie that fancy horse of your’n. You can sleep in my lodge tonight.”

BOOK: Savage Cry
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