Savage Cry (9 page)

“There’ll be a big feed tonight,” Badger said. “You’ll git a chance to sample some real good eatin’. You ever et buffalo hump? Or tongue?”

“Reckon not,” Clay said, smiling, “but I’m anxious to try it.”

“Well, you’ll git your chance tonight,” Badger said, laughing as they walked over to a carcass that Gray Bird was busily butchering.

The scout’s wife smiled up at her husband, cut off a bloody chunk, and held it out to him. Badger took the offering eagerly and ripped off a huge bite. His mouth stuffed full, he offered the remainder of the chunk to Clay.

“What is it?” Clay wanted to know.

“Liver,” Badger said, extending his hand. “Eat it. It’s still warm.”

Clay backed away, shaking his head. “No, thanks. I don’t eat the insides of any animal, especially if it’s not cooked. You can have the guts—I’ll eat the outside meat.”

Badger laughed. “You don’t know what you’re missin’. Look at the young’uns workin’ on that warm liver—same as candy to Injun young’uns.”

“I don’t like candy,” Clay replied dryly. “There’s a helluva lot to eat on a buffalo without having to eat the insides.”

“It’ll surprise you what a man will eat if he gits hungry enough,” Badger said, his expression turning serious for a moment.

Badger’s remark triggered a fleeting picture that flashed through Clay’s mind of a starving regiment of Confederate soldiers—wearily slogging along roads rendered to rivers of mud by the spring rains—forced to retreat from the trenches at Petersburg in a desperate attempt to avoid Grant’s columns. He remembered the utter desolation felt by the hungry troops when supplies promised to be at Amelia Court House were not there. Pushing on toward Appomattox, his belly pasted flat to his backbone, that was a time when he would have eaten raw liver—or a raw chicken—if he
could have gotten his hands on one. No, he would not be surprised what a man would eat if he was hungry enough.

As Badger had promised, there was a huge feast that night, as well as the following nights until the last of the work had been done, the meat and hides all packed, and the camp ready to resume the trip to the Powder. Clay acquired a taste for the fat meat of the buffalo’s hump immediately. He also found himself to be very comfortable amid the jovial and lighthearted people of Little Hawk’s village—so much so that he experienced a sudden feeling of guilt when after two days, he realized that he had not thought about Martha since the hunt began. He promised himself that he would part with his new friends in the morning, and get his mind back on the business of finding his sister.

Although Clay awoke early the next morning, he found himself in an empty lodge. Badger and Gray Bird were already up and preparing to depart the Belle Fourche. Knowing from experience that Gray Bird would not delay the striking of her lodge for a sleepy white man, Clay wasted no time in getting his possibles together. Outside, he declined the offer of some boiled meat from Gray Bird, and seeing no sign of Badger, walked down to the water’s edge where he had hobbled Red for the night.

“Don’t sass me, Red,” Clay warned when the big chestnut side-stepped away from the saddle. The protest was of only one step’s duration, then Red stood quietly, accepting the saddle Clay threw on his back. “Probably miss the days after I first got you, when I didn’t use a saddle. Don’t you, boy?”

“That horse ever answer you back?”

Clay turned to see Badger riding along the riverbank, leading two packhorses. He laughed. “He
doesn’t say anything when other folks are around.” He led Red up from the edge of the water to meet Badger.

“This’un’s your’n,” Badger said, and handed Clay the lead rope to a mouse-colored horse with a shaggy mane. “I traded your pistol for her.”

Clay paused to puzzle over the loaded horse. “What’s all that stuff on her back?”

Badger shook his head impatiently, as if bothered by such an asinine question. “What does it look like? It’s dried meat and skins you’re gonna need before we’re through. I swear, Clay, what was you planning to do if we don’t find that sister of your’n before spring?”

“But I can’t pay for those supplies,” Clay protested. “You said yourself, money’s no good out here.”

“You don’t owe nothin’ for the meat and skins. They’re your’n. Hell, you helped in the hunt, same as ever’body else. You’re entitled to a share of the meat.” Before Clay could express his appreciation, Badger changed the subject. “Now, I found out somethin’ from one of Black Crow’s warriors that might interest you. He told me him and a couple of his friends come across a burnt-out cabin in a canyon deep in the mountains over yonder. There was sign. Looked to be Blackfoot to him. I’m thinkin’ it’s more’n likely the place your sister got stole.”

Clay’s heart was beating against his chest. “When did you find out?”

“Couple of days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Clay demanded, irritated that Badger had seen fit to sit on the information.

Unfazed by his young friend’s agitation, Badger answered simply. “Right now, two days won’t make that much difference—the sign’s pretty old—and our
supplies were pretty slim to go traipsin’ off after a Blackfoot raidin’ party. We needed that hunt.”

Partly angry that he hadn’t been told before now, and at the same time overjoyed to know that the old scout was planning to help him find Martha, Clay didn’t know what to say. Finally, he asked, “Does this mean you’re going with me?”

Badger huffed as if reacting to a minor irritation. “Well, you sure as hell wouldn’t git far on your own.”

“I’m much obliged,” Clay said, his grin a mile wide. His common sense told him that his chances of finding the band of Indians that kidnapped his sister were far greater with Badger’s help. But his confidence in his ability to accomplish damn near anything he set out to do assured him that he would get a helluva lot further than Badger figured.

Martha Vinings sat back on her heels, arching her back in an effort to stretch muscles grown stiff from the constant bending. While she stretched, she glanced about at the Indian women scattered around her on the hillside. They worked in groups of two or three, chatting cheerfully as they dug into the hard earth with tools made from bone or antlers, harvesting the wild camas bulbs that would later be buried under a fire and baked for several days. Only she worked alone. Pausing for a moment, she stretched her neck and shrugged her shoulders to relax the stiff muscles. Glancing back toward the other women, she caught Moon Shadow’s eye. Black Elk’s wife favored her with a slight smile.

Of all the women in Bloody Axe’s village, it seemed ironic to Martha that Moon Shadow had been the only one to treat her with kindness. Over the weeks since her capture, the other women had progressed in their treatment of her from open hostility to general indifference. Moon Shadow alone had shown compassion for her from the beginning—this in spite of the fact that Black Elk had brought the white woman to live in her tipi.

There was no doubt concerning Martha’s status—
she was a slave, and she was Black Elk’s property, the same as his horses and weapons. In spite of this, Moon Shadow never demonstrated any sign of animosity toward her white slave, often interceding on Martha’s behalf whenever some of the other women were bent upon abusing her. Even after the first day back in the village, when Martha attempted to escape again—only to suffer another taste of Black Elk’s quirt on her back—it was Moon Shadow who rubbed grease into the welts, and spoke to her in compassionate tones. From the first day of her capture, Martha had resolved that she would resist enslavement, vowing to fight for her dignity—to the death if necessary. Moon Shadow’s kindness had all but defused her determination to fight back. Before very long, their relationship leaned more toward friendship than one of slave and mistress.

In the tipi at night, Martha often stole glances at the Blackfoot warrior and his wife, and puzzled over the union of the two. Black Elk was a fierce warrior of such obvious strength that he stood out among all the other men of the village. And Moon Shadow was such a frail little woman, certainly not among the fairest of her sisters. In time, Martha learned that the marriage was arranged as a favor to Bloody Axe, Moon Shadow’s father. Black Elk had shown no interest in taking a wife, but he did this for his chief. Watching the two of them now, Martha was touched by the tender regard the fierce warrior showed for his fragile wife. Moon Shadow confided in her that she wanted to give Black Elk a son, but she’d been unsuccessful in doing so. It grieved her to fail him, although he never complained. The other women were concerned for her. They said she was too weak to carry a baby. Martha couldn’t help but feel deep compassion for Moon Shadow’s plight.

Turning her attention back to the business of
gathering camas bulbs, Martha thought about her life before being captured. It seemed a century ago instead of a matter of months. The first couple of weeks, she constantly thought of rescue. Now it seldom crossed her mind. There would be no rescue. For who would rescue her? Robert? She wasted no thought on that hope. She didn’t fault Robert for his weakness. It was simply not in his nature to face a challenge such as would be required. No, she could not put her faith in her husband, nor his conniving brother for that matter. There was no one. Even if there were, how could they find her? They had traveled for four days to get to the Blackfoot village—she might as well be on the moon.

Rising to her feet, she picked up her basket, and looked around her, searching for another patch of the edible roots. Moon Shadow called to her, and pointed toward an area close to her. Martha smiled and nodded, then went to work beside Moon Shadow. “Ground hard,” Moon Shadow offered in way of conversation.

“Ground hard,” Martha repeated in agreement, using some of the few words she had learned. The thought of it amused her. What would her father think of his daughter if he could see her now? He would no doubt remind her that he had discouraged her from going west in the first place. Then her thoughts strayed to the cabin in the Black Hills. At the time, she had wondered what on earth they would eat when the last dried beans were consumed, and they were reduced to nothing but the wild meat Robert and Charley could kill. When all about them, the earth was filled with plants and roots of all kinds—camas, wild carrots, wild turnips, bitterroot, and others she did not know the names of. She had certainly come a long way from Virginia and the life she knew there. A word from Moon Shadow interrupted her thoughts.

“Black Elk,” she uttered in a tone approaching reverence.

Martha looked up and followed Moon Shadow’s gaze toward the ridge above them. He had stopped to watch his wife for a few moments, waiting for her to sense his presence. When she saw him, he signaled with one arm to call her attention to the antelope carcass draped across his horse. Moon Shadow beamed and waved to him, and he proceeded down the trail toward the village.

“Good,” Moon Shadow said to Martha. “Black Elk has brought the antelope skin that I asked for. Now I will help you make a new dress to replace those rags you’re wearing.”

Seeing that Martha was unable to follow all of her words, she repeated them while using sign to help, pointing to Martha’s worn and ragged clothes. Martha smiled and nodded her understanding. The two women picked up their baskets, and followed Black Elk down the trail to the village.

Separated from the Blackfoot village by some two hundred miles of rugged mountain country, Robert Vinings sat with his back propped against a small boulder overlooking a rushing stream that cut the center of German Gulch. Breaking off a piece of the pan bread he had baked over the coals of the fire, he wiped it across his tin plate, then around the edges, neatly mopping up every last drop of bean gravy until the plate was almost dry. Watching him, smirking silently, a look of disgust on his face, Robert’s brother Charley suddenly threw the remains of his supper into the water, complaining, “When the hell are we gonna spend some of the dust we’ve got for some decent food?”

Robert jerked his head back, recoiling in surprise.
“What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s wrong with the food?”

“It’s the same old shit day after day—beans and pan bread, beans and pan bread.”

Robert was genuinely puzzled by his brother’s outburst. “What’s wrong with that? It’s nourishment.” When Charley only shook his head, the look of disgust deepening, Robert asked, “What do you want? We could take a day off, and go hunting if you want.”

“Hell, I don’t wanna go huntin’.” He stood up and stared at the offending tin plate in his hand. The impulse to throw it in the stream was strong, but he knew he wouldn’t have anything to eat on if he did. So, instead, he reached down and gave it a halfhearted swish in the swiftly running water, then flung it back up the hill toward the tent, where it bounced noisily across the rocky ground. He cut his eyes at Robert, silently daring him to comment on his little fit of anger.
I might just throw your ass in the damn creek,
he thought. They had quarreled over this before. Robert didn’t want to part with a single speck of gold dust, especially at the inflated prices asked for food in the towns; Charley was sick and tired of living like a beggar when they had panned a sizable poke from their claim. He was anxious to spend some of the gold and reap some benefit from their months of labor. There were saloons and bawdy houses in Virginia City—places where a young fellow could enjoy himself. What was the use of mining gold if you couldn’t enjoy it?

“Now, Charley,” Robert began. “You know we’ve talked about our plan to work until we get enough for both of us to have us some kind of business.”

“I don’t wanna hear about your plans no more. I don’t know who gave you the right to plan for me, anyway. I’ll make my own damn plans and do what I
want with my share.” He glared defiantly at his brother for a long moment, but he knew Robert would not rise to his bait. Robert never showed any violent emotion. And since Martha had been carried off by Indians, Robert had become more and more like an old woman—worrying about every little leaf that fell off a tree. It was getting on Charley’s nerves.
I know what’s eatin’ at him. He’s ashamed of himself for not going after those Injuns—not rescuing his sweet little darling. Damn fool! Well, ol’ Charley’s got better sense than to dangle his ass in front of a gang of redskins—not for no damn woman.

Charley occasionally entertained thoughts of Martha, but not of the same guilt-ridden variety that hung over his brother’s head. Regret was what came to mind when Charley spent any time thinking about his sister-in-law.
I should’ve just had my way with that bitch while I had the chance. Hell, Robert wouldn’t have done anything about it. Well, I bet she’d druther take a roll in the hay with me now—since she’s probably been rode by a dozen Injun bucks. I’d like to see how persnickety she’s actin’ right about now.

Robert watched his brother as Charley stomped angrily up the hill toward their tent.
Going into our gold dust again
, he thought to himself.
He’ll be riding into town to throw it away in the saloon.
Robert couldn’t understand what had gotten into Charley in the past few weeks. He’d gotten sullen and moody, and he’d taken to riding into town to hang out with the loafers who were always looking for someone to buy them a drink. Robert tried to impress upon his younger brother the importance of working hard and saving their earnings in order to have a fortune to start a new life elsewhere. But Charley had started to run with a bad crowd in the mining towns, and there was really no way Robert could force him to be more
frugal. They were seeing some color, but not in quantities so great that they could squander it.

It would have been more fortunate if they had gotten to the Montana goldfields sooner, in the early days of Alder Gulch. By the time they arrived, it was difficult to find a patch of creekbank that hadn’t been turned over with a spade. Little towns had already sprung up—Virginia City, Junction, Adobetown, Summit, and others—all in a stretch of less than twenty miles. The two brothers had scant success panning for gold in Alder Creek or Stinking Water. It was here that Robert first began to worry about Charley because, when they had no success in their efforts to find the precious metal, Charley casually suggested that they might consider jumping someone else’s claim, or even dry-gulching some defenseless miner. Robert found it hard to believe Charley could even consider such a thing. But Charley just shrugged it off, saying that it was a dog-eat-dog world in the goldfields—the strongest were justified in taking from the weak. Robert wondered then if he and his brother were going to eventually have to part company. When news of a new strike in German Gulch reached Virginia City, Robert was quick to suggest that they should pack up and go. The prospect of a more lucrative claim was enough to appease Charley’s grumbling for a while. So they wasted no time in staking out a new claim.

They struck pay dirt right away, washing thirty dollars a day from the stream. The claim showed good color for over a month before the take dropped to around ten dollars a day. It wasn’t long after that when Charley’s enthusiam for the work waned once more, and soon Robert found that he was doing most of the work while Charley was doing most of the spending.

When Charley started hitting the saloons again,
Robert feared that he was going to run through all their savings. So he secretly started filling a separate poke with a portion of the dust every day, and hid it under a rock at the corner of the tent. Charley was none the wiser.

“I’m goin’ to town to get me a drink,” Charley announced upon emerging from the tent.

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to ask you not to spend our gold to buy drinks for the riffraff that hangs around town,” Robert said.

“No,” Charley shot back. “I don’t suppose it would. Half of that dust is mine, and what I do with my dust is my own damn business.” His defiant stare was enough to cut short any further entreaty Robert might have felt like making. “Don’t wait up for me,” he smirked as he threw a saddle on his horse.

Robert stood watching his younger brother ride up the ridge once again to come home who-knew-when, all liquored up, usually belligerent, and not much good for work the next day. When Charley’s horse disappeared from sight, Robert went back to the fire to stir up the coffeepot still heating on the coals. Pouring himself a cup of the bitter black brew, he settled down by the fire to watch the approaching darkness descend upon the gulch.

These were the times when Robert sadly reflected upon the path his life had taken. Sitting alone in the growing darkness, he could admit to himself that he lacked the courage to forge a life for himself in this untamed country. He was afraid. Thinking back over the years, he realized that he had been afraid all of his life. When the war came, he had avoided enlistment for as long as possible, joining up only because he had to in order to save face. His first battle had been a nightmare he would never be able to forget—filled with the screams of dying men and horses, amid
a tempest of cannon flame, and the deadly rain of grapeshot that maimed indiscriminately. Terrified, he had lain in a muddy ditch, paralyzed by the horrifying sounds of death that hung over the battlefield in a hellish chorus. When the order to fall back was sounded, it was all he could do to force himself to leave the cover of the ditch, in mortal fear of the rifleshot that he was convinced was waiting for him. When it did indeed find him, it was a blessing. For he was hit in the left shoulder as he ran to the rear. After two days in the hospital, he was sent home to recuperate and enjoy a hero’s welcome. He never reported back after recovering, telling everyone in Fredericksburg that he had been discharged. The tides of war had turned so badly for the Confederacy by then that he felt secure in his belief that there would be so much chaos in Lee’s retreating forces that his desertion would never be noticed. Thousands of men had deserted on both sides. Was it such a terrible thing? For him, personally, there was no choice. He could not conquer the cold fear that gnawed away deep inside him. He could not go back to that hell.