Savage Cry (7 page)

Badger got to his feet. Speaking in the Lakota tongue, he excused himself from his companions around the small campfire. Clay, of course, could not understand his words, but from the laughter of the five warriors, he guessed that he was the butt of the joke. He didn’t care. Badger had agreed to take him to the Powder River country, and that was a start toward finding Martha.

“First thing,” Badger said as Clay followed him toward a large tipi near the center of the camp, “we’d best go see Little Hawk.”

Although there were many curious eyes that followed their progress as they made their way through the camp, Clay sensed few hostile stares. For the most part, there were simply looks of curiosity, no doubt wondering what business the white man had with their chief. Little Hawk, upon hearing Badger’s greeting,
came out of his lodge to meet them. Wearing only a breechclout and leggings, the chief stood tall and straight, almost as tall as Clay himself, and half a head taller than Badger. His chest and left shoulder were marked with old scars, wounds from many battles. Though his hair was generously streaked with gray, he still had the rigid bearing of a young warrior, and Clay sensed a quiet dignity about the man that immediately commanded his respect.

Badger and Little Hawk exchanged polite greetings before the old scout explained Clay’s presence in the camp. Clay stood back and waited while they talked, glancing around him occasionally whenever members of the tribe paused to stare at him. He was beginning to feel a bit uneasy, and he couldn’t help but recall some of the bloodcurdling tales he had heard back East about Indian atrocities. Still, Little Hawk looked friendly enough when he glanced past Badger and nodded at Clay.

“Little Hawk says you’re welcome in his village,” Badger finally said when he turned again toward Clay. He felt no need to tell his guest that he was welcome for two reasons only: He was vouched for by Badger, and he was not wearing a soldier’s uniform. After the recently unsuccessful peace talks, Badger knew there was going to be war between the Lakota and the soldiers. Red Cloud had spoken for Little Hawk and many others when he angrily withdrew from the talks. The Lakota would protect their hunting grounds from any white men attempting to travel over the trail that Bozeman had blazed. There would be bloodshed if the wagons kept coming.

The situation was not an easy one for Badger himself, for he was forced to make a decision as well. He had worked for the army as a scout for many years, but his wife and her family were in Little Hawk’s
camp. Little Hawk was his friend. He could not draw the tommyhawk against his friend—his wife’s brother. Nor could he in good conscience draw down on a soldier. Already, Badger’s mind was beginning to ache with these troubling thoughts, and when the time came to choose, he hoped there would be some out for him. For the time being, he would return to his wife’s village and think on it later. Badger had never bothered his mind by looking too far ahead into the future, preferring to deal with each new day as it dawned.
Hell, maybe Red Cloud and the other chiefs will forget about making war on the soldiers.
Even as he thought it, he knew better. It was coming, sure as water was wet and flowed downhill.

Turning back to Clay, he said, “Come on. You can pull your saddle off and throw it in my lodge. Then you can turn your horse out with the pony herd to graze.” When he saw the young man arch an eyebrow in response, he chided, “Afraid somebody’ll steal him? All Injuns are horse thieves, but they don’t steal horses from their own people. Ain’t nobody gonna steal your horse.”

Clay didn’t say anything for a few moments while he looked around him at the circle of lodges. “How come those horses are hobbled by the lodges instead of running loose with the others?”

“It ain’t unusual for a man to keep his favorite war pony hobbled by his lodge, in case he might need him in a hurry,” Badger answered patiently. “But there ain’t much danger of gittin’ attacked here at Laramie. Some warriors just do it, anyway—habit, I reckon. Hell, my horses are running with the rest of ’em.”

In spite of Badger’s assurance, Clay was reluctant to turn Red loose in the company of several hundred Indian ponies. The old scout appeared to be a straight-talking person, but Clay still harbored some inborn
sense of suspicion. He had heard some stories of the tricks and treachery of some Indians, so he cautioned himself to be wary. Granted, the stories he had heard were second- and thirdhand. Still, it might not be wise to discount them entirely. How could he be sure Badger was not the biggest scoundrel of all? Clay decided he would never relax his guard that night, and he stood watching the big chestnut for several long minutes before finally turning away to return to Badger’s tipi. Reluctant or not, he was forced to trust the crusty old mountain man, for without his help he had no chance of finding Martha. Red, on the other hand, did not share his master’s cautious intuition, and was soon grazing happily in the midst of a sea of horses. Clay watched for a moment longer before drawing his rifle from the boot and throwing his saddle on his shoulder. The shiny new rifle did not escape Badger’s eye.

“I swear, that’s one of them new Winchesters, ain’t it?”

“Yep,” Clay replied and handed the weapon to the old scout.

Badger took it eagerly and examined it closely, bringing it to his shoulder and down again several times, sighting on various targets around the encampment. “I heard about it, but I ain’t ever seen one. That’s some rifle. Is it as accurate as it is pretty?”

“I can hit most anything I aim at,” Clay replied modestly, causing Badger to cock an eyebrow.

“I hope so,” the old mountain man stated evenly as he returned the weapon.

Supper that night consisted of some more boiled meat, placed before him in the same bowl he had used that afternoon. In addition, Badger’s wife put meat cakes of some kind between Clay and her husband. Badger picked one up and began gnawing on it, indicating to Clay that he should do the same. Clay had
learned not to be particular about what he ate when he was in the army, but he hesitated before taking a bite of these cakes, picking one up and turning it over and back, to examine it.

Badger seemed amused by his tenderfoot guest’s cautious antics. “It’s pemmican,” he volunteered. “It’s good. Take a bite.”

Clay smiled, embarrassed that his caution had been that transparent. “What is it?” he asked.

“Pemmican,” Badger repeated in a tone that indicated he thought even a greenhorn from back East should be familiar with the term. “This here’s dried buffalo Gray Bird pounded up with some fat and marrow and wild cherries to give it a little flavoring. We won’t have no more fresh meat till we get a chance to do some hunting tomorrow or the next day.”

Satisfied then that he knew the ingredients, Clay bit off a piece of pemmican. To his surprise, it proved to be quite appetizing. He slowly chewed it, then bit off a larger chunk. Nodding his approval, he looked up at Gray Bird, who was watching him intently. She smiled broadly, then went back outside to tend the fire. Still nodding, Clay turned toward a grinning Badger. “I like pemmican,” he said.

Clay awoke the next morning amid a whirlwind of activity as the women of Little Hawk’s camp made preparations to leave. He opened his eyes to discover Badger standing over him.

“Better ’rouse your ass outta that blanket, son, or Gray Bird’ll strike this tipi right on top of you.”

Clay sat straight up, ashamed to be caught sleeping when it appeared everyone else was up and working. He took another look at Badger, a wide grin on the old scout’s face, and sprang up from his bed as if his blanket was on fire. “Damn,” he mumbled, “I don’t know why I slept so late.” Feeling the warm flush of
embarrassment creeping up his neck, he remembered his intention of the night before to sleep with one eye open.

Gray Bird was already untying the rawhide straps that tethered the bottom of the tipi when Clay walked outside. She smiled at him and said something that he of course did not understand. He took it to be a “Good morning,” since she did not look as if she expected a reply. At that particular moment, he was more concerned with what to do about a full bladder, when to worsen his situation, Badger offered him a cup of coffee. Clay looked around him nervously. There was no obvious place to relieve himself now that the rising sun eliminated all the convenient shadows of the night before. There was not even a tree within a hundred yards of the lodges. His concern must have been transparent, for Badger grinned and said, “You can go behind the tipi, but you’d best be about it before Gray Bird takes it down.”

Clay glanced at the Indian woman, still busily loosening the ties around the bottom of the tipi. He wasn’t any too comfortable with the thought of doing his business with Gray Bird moving like a busy beaver as she worked her way around the circumference of the lodge. But if he didn’t get to it, there wouldn’t even be a lodge to hide behind, so he didn’t hesitate further. It didn’t help his sense of modesty that Badger was so highly amused by his predicament.

Although there were other lodges around Gray Bird’s, no one seemed to pay any attention to the embarrassed white man standing close behind the tipi, pleading with his sluggish organ to hurry. Just managing to finish as Gray Bird worked her way to the rear of the tipi, Clay strode quickly back to the fire where Badger was still holding the cup of coffee for him.

“I reckon I’ve got room to hold it now,” Clay said,
making an effort to seem unperturbed. One look at Badger’s beaming face told him that it was not convincing.
By God,
he told himself,
I’m damn sure not going to be the last one up anymore.

By the time the sun had gained a reasonable foothold in the morning sky, the Lakota camp was loaded on packhorses and travois and ready to depart the banks of the North Platte. Clay could not help but be amazed by the efficiency of it. The women did all the work, while the men saw to their horses. Clay concerned himself with saddling Red and repacking his own meager supplies while Badger conferred with Little Hawk and other men of the village over the trail to be taken.

Clay no longer harbored cautious feelings as he moved about the camp, for there had been no signs of hostility from anyone.
Besides,
he figured,
if they planned to scalp me, they’d have most likely done it last night while I was sleeping like a baby.
Still, he remembered what Badger had said the night before—there would be war between the Sioux and the soldiers. Clay told himself that he would not be concerned with any such war, other than to steer clear of it. His main concern was to find Martha. That accomplished, he wouldn’t mind catching up with Robert and Charley Vinings. He figured he had a score to settle with those two. As he looked around him in this seemingly peaceful camp, he could not imagine that he had any cause to fight these people. And he was still too fresh from Appomattox to feel any loyalty to Yankee soldiers.
If the Sioux and the Union army want to fight, let ’em. It ain’t none of my affair.

For the next few days, Clay rode beside Badger in the advanced scouting party, as Little Hawk’s village traveled toward the Powder River valley. Behind
them, the rest of the village stretched out for over a mile with the horse herd in the middle of the procession. They were followed by women, some riding, their lodges and possessions on travois, leaving deep scars on the prairie floor. Flanking scouts rode far out from the moving village, vigilant for signs of game or any enemy that might threaten the safety of the people. Children were all about the wide column, some riding ponies, some on foot, running in and out among the leisurely moving horses. Clay looked back on the procession behind him. For all the appearance of bustle and confusion, it was surprisingly efficient, and it certainly was a spectacle for a greenhorn’s eye.

According to Badger, the trail they traveled was generally in the same direction as the disputed Bozeman Trail, which more and more white wagon trains were using. “This is what the Sioux is all het up about,” he said. “This feller Bozeman cut a shortcut to the goldfields right smack through Sioux territory, and Red Cloud and the other chiefs aim to put a stop to it. And they didn’t get it done peaceful back yonder at Fort Laramie, so they figure on gettin’ it done another way.”

“If it comes to war, as you say, whose side are you gonna take?”

Clay had asked the one question that had troubled Badger for more than a few days now. Unlike Clay, Badger felt a strong loyalty to the blue-coated troopers at Fort Laramie. They were just one army to him, he had never had to concern himself with north and south. He had served as scout on more patrols than he could remember, and many of the officers and enlisted men were his friends. Added to this was the fact that he was a white man—even though he had an Indian wife, a man couldn’t go against his own kind. On the other hand, he couldn’t see himself leading a
cavalry patrol against Little Hawk. This was one of the reasons he was now going back to the Powder River country with his wife—he preferred to be away from the fort when Red Cloud announced an end to the peace talks by walking out. “I don’t rightly know,” he finally answered Clay. “I reckon I’m on both sides, so I guess I’ll try to stay clear of it.” He didn’t say anything more on the subject, but he was giving a great deal of consideration to the notion of going back up in the mountains, trapping, until the fighting was over.

It didn’t take long for Clay to become comfortable in his new living arrangements with Badger and Gray Bird. He even became accustomed to Gray Bird’s unblinking gaze, which seemed always upon him—and which immediately transformed into a broad smile that made her eyes crinkle whenever he caught her staring.
The woman certainly knows how to take care of her husband,
he thought, watching her scurry around to anticipate Badger’s every need. There was little wonder why the old scout chose this way of life.