Wrath of the Savage (10 page)

“Don't worry,” she assured him. “I'm not gonna fall off.”

The sound of the drums and the singsong chanting of the warriors faded away behind them, with no sounds of alarm as they rode deeper into the hills, continuing to ride until deeming it a safe distance to stop and decide what to do next. Guiding the horses up a low hill where they could see the moonlit prairie behind them, they pulled up and dismounted. “We'll catch our breath here for a minute,” Bret told Myra as he helped her dismount, “and you can tell me what happened to the other lady, Lucy Gentry. You said some other group of Indians took her somewhere. Who were they? Do you know where they took her?”

“First thing,” she replied, “I wanna thank you two for coming after us. God love you. I never thought we'd see the light of day after they grabbed Lucy and me. I reckon at my age I was better able to handle it than poor Lucy. I wish you coulda got here sooner. I kinda helped her hold on to her wits, and I'm fearful for her all by herself with those savages that took her from here. I don't really know who they were. They were just Indians like the ones who stole us. They were here in that village when we got here, and they were more like visitors. Well, one of them, one of the scariest-looking savages I've ever seen—didn't have but one ear—took a fierce craving for Lucy as soon as he saw her, and he wouldn't rest till he convinced the one who grabbed her to trade her to him for a whole bunch of horses.”

“That don't sound too good for her,” Coldiron said.

“It worries me no end,” Myra said. “I've grown kinda fond of that little girl since we came from Missouri in the same train, and built our homes right across the river from each other. She's like one of my own children. Since I just had two sons, she was the daughter I never had. Just like me, those savages killed her husband.”

“Do you have any idea where these other Indians were going?” Bret asked.

“I don't,” Myra said. “I'm sorry, but I don't have any notion where they took her. I don't even know where I am. Even if they talked about it, I couldn't understand any of that Indian gibberish they talk.”

“I reckon not,” Bret said. “Did you see them when they left the village, which direction they went?”

“They rode off up the river, pretty much the same way we just rode out.”

“From what the lady is tellin' us, it sounds like maybe some visitors from one of the other bands of Blackfeet was the ones she's talkin' about—the Piegans, or the Bloods,” Coldiron mused. “The Blackfeet ain't friendly with too many other tribes, so it'd be a good bet that's who traded for her. It's been over three years since I've been up this way, but back then there were several bands of Bloods that liked to camp on the Smith River, near where Hound Creek runs into it. From where we are now, I'd say that's about a two-and-a-half or three-day ride. But maybe this bunch are headin' to a village up that way.”

Bret considered what Coldiron was saying, but he was now faced with a decision that was not easy to make. What should his first responsibility be—to the lady just rescued, or to the one still in captivity? Should they settle for the one woman rescued and take Myra back to safety, or should they proceed on to search for Lucy Gentry? It would not be fair to expose Myra to the danger they might face if they ventured farther into Blackfeet territory, and yet he found it difficult to abandon Lucy.

Coldiron watched him carefully. He guessed that his young friend was grappling with yet another tough decision. “Whaddaya think we oughta do?”

“Whatever we do,” Bret answered, “we'd better do it quick before those hostiles back there find out their captive is missing.” He turned to Myra then, thinking he owed her an explanation for his decision. “I don't want to turn my back on Lucy Gentry without trying our best to find her, but I feel responsible to you to get you back to Fort Ellis and out of danger right away. I don't feel like I've got the right to take you two or three days deeper into Indian country—country that's not friendly to white people right now. But I promise you this, I will come back to try to find Mrs. Gentry as soon as I possibly can after I know that you are safe.”

“That might be too late,” Coldiron remarked.

“I know that,” Bret replied. “We might be too late already. We don't know if we can find this new bunch.”

Myra didn't hesitate to let him know in no uncertain terms where she stood on the matter. “We've got to find Lucy,” she said. “That's the most important thing right now. That poor darlin' is liable to go out of her mind if we don't find her.” She looked at Bret, pleading. “It would be a sin not to try to save her. If you're really worried about me, you can stop right now. I don't have anything to go back to. Lucy's the closest thing to family I've got now, so let's go look for her.”

Bret looked at Coldiron's serious face, then looked back at Myra's concerned frown. He shrugged and said, “Well, if we're gonna find that Blood village, I reckon we'd better get started.” His decision was met with determined smiles on both the lady's and the huge scout's faces.

“Those bucks back there mighta found out that Myra's gone by now, but they'll most likely think she ain't got very far, so we oughta have a little head start. But I can't do much trackin' in the dark, 'specially when I don't know what tracks I'm supposed to be followin'.” He left the obvious conclusion for Bret to express.

“There really isn't any trail to follow,” Bret said. “So why don't we just head up the river like Myra said they did, and see if we can find a village?”

“Suits me,” Coldiron said. “We need to go ahead and ride on up the river a ways tonight before we make camp, anyway, in case some of the boys back yonder decide to look for Myra up this way.”

“Makes sense,” Bret said, then looked at Myra. “You ready to ride?”

“I'm ready,” she replied confidently. She had been completely honest when she told them she was not afraid to go farther into Blackfeet country. There was nothing to fear anymore, as far as she was concerned. Her husband of almost twenty years was gone, along with her sons. So why worry about what might happen to herself now?

They continued on for another two hours, following the south fork of the Musselshell before feeling it safe to make camp. The spot they chose was on a small creek that fed down from the Little Belt Mountains. As an added precaution, they followed the creek back for a couple hundred yards and settled on a spot surrounded by trees. The men took care of the horses while Myra built a fire. They decided to use a little of their precious coffee to wash down the salty bacon that Bret had bought in Bozeman, causing him to remark, “We're already running short of some of our supplies. I wish we could find a trading post or some place to resupply.”

“There used to be one at the fork where Hound Creek joins the Smith River,” Coldiron said. “He might still be there, feller name of Jake Smart.”

“That would put him right in the middle of Blackfoot territory, wouldn't it?” Bret asked, surprised that a white man would be allowed to stay there.

“Yep,” Coldiron replied. “He's been there quite a spell—gets along with the Injuns, because he married a full-blooded Blackfoot woman, I reckon. Most of his trade is with the Blackfeet.”

“I've still got a fair amount of the money we started out with,” Bret said. “It should buy us some coffee and maybe some beans, so we could have something besides salt pork to eat.”

“If you have enough for a few ingredients, I might be able to make some pan bread,” Myra suggested.

“That would surely be to my taste,” Coldiron muttered, and rubbed his belly.

“We'll see if Jake Smart is still in business,” Bret said. “I would enjoy some bread myself.”

“We're gonna have to take some time to go huntin', especially if Jake ain't there no more,” Coldiron said. “We could use some fresh meat.”

Besides hunger, Myra had one additional need, and she expressed a desire to take care of it. “I really need to give myself a good bath,” she announced. “There hasn't been an opportunity since those savages carried me off from my home, and I feel like I'm covered with grime from head to toe.” She pointed toward a sizable boulder that extended out into the creek. “I suppose the other side of that rock is as good a place as any for the ladies' washroom.”

“I can understand how you feel,” Coldiron said. “I get the urge to wash up, myself, from time to time—when the bugs start to bite, or my socks get a little rank. But it'll be a while yet before then. Too much washin' will weaken a man. I think a little sweat and trail dust builds a protective coatin' around your hide, keeps you from catchin' pneumonia and stuff like that. So I'd better build the fire up a little, so you can warm up good when you're done.”

“Thank you, sir, I would appreciate that,” she said with a contrived lilt in her voice. “I'm so fortunate to have been rescued by such gentlemen.”

“You're welcome, ma'am,” Coldiron replied, completely unaware that she was joking, or why she and Bret were both grinning at him.

“Sorry I don't have any soap to offer,” Bret said, “but I guess you can at least rinse off. There may be something in one of those packs to dry off with when you're done.”

“I declare, if she ain't a proper lady,” Coldiron said after Myra had disappeared behind the boulder.

•   •   •

Alone for the first time since being captured, except for the brief time when she had been tied to a stake while her captors participated in their war dance, Myra suddenly allowed herself to feel the weight of her misery. A heavy weariness settled about her shoulders as she stepped out of sight of the two men who had rescued her, and her mind's eye recalled the horror of witnessing the slaughter of her husband and her two sons. Cliff had been in the barn when the savages attacked. She had no idea of the evil descended upon her family until Boyd, her eldest, staggered inside the kitchen door and fell forward on the floor, three Blackfeet arrows in his back. When she had run to help him, she saw her youngest lying facedown in the front yard and a line of savages advancing toward the house. Her screams brought Cliff running from the barn, only to be felled by a Blackfoot hatchet as he came out the barn door. She must have collapsed then, because her only recollection of what happened after that was when she found herself with hands and feet bound, lying in the yard while her home was engulfed in flames.

Born with a fighting spirit and a natural determination to overcome adversity, she had refused to let her captors see her grief, no matter how they tried to provoke her. Then when Lucy Gentry was captured, Myra had to assume a posture of strength and comfort for the young woman's sake. Poor devastated and frightened Lucy, she was so close to losing her mind, she had to have someone with strength to rely upon. So Myra was forced to take on that responsibility and lock her own grief away inside her in an effort to instill a sense of silent defiance in her for Lucy's benefit. That facade of boldness was still displayed even after Bret and Coldiron freed her, but now, in the calm quiet of the night, when she was alone with her thoughts, she released the pretense and let her sorrow out.

She had kept it buried too long, so when she freed it, it became impossible to stop. She fell to her knees at the edge of the water, sobbing silent tears of fear and loneliness, grieving for her family, lost to her forever. She cried until there were no more tears left to fall and her body was racked with dry sobs until, finally, she called again upon the inner strength that had sustained Lucy.

Feeling weak and exhausted, she got to her feet and waded out to the middle of the creek where the water was waist deep. She had always had a fear of water over her head, but she submerged her whole body in the cold, swift current. As the water closed over her head, she remained there, holding her breath for as long as she could. The thought entered her mind that it would be best for her to remain under the water until it took her to be reunited with her husband and sons.

But at the moment when her breath was gone, she could not do it. Her fear of deep water was too strong. That, combined with a fighting spirit to overcome, was too much to allow her to drown, and she lunged up from the watery grave, coughing and sputtering with the water attempting to enter her lungs. She at once berated herself. Lucy needed her strong shoulder to rely upon. What would Cliff think of his usually determined wife?

“That's the last time you'll ever have a failing like that, Myra Buckley,” she admonished. “You're a fighter—always have been.” She wrung the water from her hair as she turned and waded out of the creek.

Shivering now, as she stood naked on the bank, she dried herself as best she could with the blanket from the bedroll that had been tied behind her on the packhorse. She had searched the packs as Bret suggested, but there had been no article of clothing there. She would try to dry the blanket by the fire before she turned in for the night. Thoughts of what luxury some clean clothes would be right then made her sigh in resignation as she got back into her cotton frock.

“Well, sure looks like you took a good one,” Coldiron blustered when she returned and he saw her hair wet and dripping. “Come on up here close by the fire before you take sick in this night air.” He threw one of the extra saddle blankets he had brought down closer to the fire for her to sit upon.

“It'd take a lot more than a little dip in the creek to make me sick,” she replied smartly. “This ol' bird is tougher than you think.”

“I reckon,” Coldiron snorted with a laugh.

“Here, put this over your shoulders,” Bret said, and pulled his shirt blouse off to drape over her.

Coldiron laughed again. “Now you're wearin' the lieutenant's coat, so I reckon you're the boss—although it ain't got no bars on it no more.”

Having not approached the subject to that point, she thought it time to ask. “Why didn't the army send some more men with you? You are in the army, aren't you?”

“No, ma'am,” Bret replied. “I just haven't gotten around to buying myself some clothes.” He saw no purpose in giving specifics pertaining to his disgraceful separation from the military.

“So the two of you just took it on your own to try to find Lucy and me? Well, then I'll say it again. God bless you both.”

“Best not bless us till we get you outta this country to somewhere safe,” Coldiron remarked as he spread the other saddle blanket he had brought for her bed.

•   •   •

Up with the sun the next morning, the three searchers made ready to get under way once more. Bret and Coldiron loaded the packhorses, adjusting the makeshift saddle they had fashioned for Myra. When Myra asked if she should revive the fire, Bret told her that they would get a little farther up the river before stopping to rest the horses, and then they would fix some breakfast. When all was ready, Coldiron led as they retraced their ride of the night before, following the creek until it emptied into the Musselshell, then turning northwest once again.

After a ride of about twenty miles, they stopped at a point where the Musselshell took a decided bend straight to the north, toward its origin in the high mountains. “I betcha I camped on this very spot,” Coldiron claimed as he led them to a clump of trees near a bank covered with knee-high grass. “I was trappin' on up this river with Big Sam Swift, musta been a hundred years ago. I killed a deer around that bend yonder. I bet deer still cross the river at that spot.”

“After we eat some breakfast, maybe we'll take a look,” Bret said, then helped Myra gather limbs for a fire. When the fire was going well, he pulled a slab of bacon out of one of the packs and unwrapped the cloth around it.

Referring to his earlier remark, he said, “I'm sure we'd better check that deer crossing you talked about, because this pork is starting to look a little more green.” He took his knife and sliced off an end piece and showed it to Myra. She scrunched up her nose in response.

“Well, hell,” Coldiron remarked, “it ain't gonna kill us, long as we cook it up till it's really done.”

“That pork's not that old,” Bret complained. “I guess I should have taken a closer look at it. I hope the rest of it's not as bad as that slab.”

“I reckon that means we're goin' huntin',” Coldiron said.

“I hate to lose any more time,” Bret told him, “but we've gotta eat, so I guess we'd better see if we can find some kind of game before we go any farther. We haven't seen any signs that would tell us we're anywhere near a village, so we'd better do it before we get any closer to one.”

“We might spot some deer this early in the day,” Coldiron speculated. “We'd have a better chance if it was evenin', and they was comin' out to feed. But, hell, maybe we'll be lucky.”

“I'll stay with the horses,” Myra said.

“Will you be all right alone?” Bret asked. “We haven't seen any sign of Indians, so far.”

“Oh yes,” Myra replied. “I'll be all right. I'd feel a lot safer if I had a weapon of some kind, but I'll be fine.”

“Maybe I can fix you up with one,” Coldiron said, and went to his packhorse to untie the bow and quiver of arrows he had brought with him. “Can you hit anything with that?” Bret asked when he caught up with him.

“You've been eatin' deer meat that I killed with it ever since that first day on the Yellowstone,” the huge man replied. “If we was to happen to get close enough, I'll guarantee you I can hit somethin' with it. And I was thinkin' it might not be such a good idea to use a rifle, anyway. I don't know if we're close to a village or not, but there ain't no use to make noise if we don't have to.” Bret couldn't disagree with that. Myra looked a bit skeptical, thinking she might as well be unarmed as left with a bow and arrow. But Coldiron assuaged her fears. “I'll leave you my rifle.” He handed the Henry to her. “It's got a full magazine. All you have to do is crank the lever and it's ready to shoot.”

Relieved, she said, “I can do that.”

It was not a long walk to the place in the river that Coldiron remembered as a deer crossing. And much to his delight, it appeared to still be in use by deer, antelope, and all kinds of animals, for there were tracks of all shapes and sizes leading down to the water. “What did I tell you?” Coldiron gloated, pointing to the tracks. There were no animals in sight, but they had been there recently.

They walked around a dense thicket of berry bushes and followed a trail the animals had beaten through the tall grass on the bank—Coldiron with an arrow notched on his bowstring just in case. When almost to the water, they heard a sudden rustle of leaves in the thicket they had just passed. Turning at once, the startled men saw a small herd of deer flushed from the bushes and scattering through the trees.

“Damn!” Coldiron blurted, and swung around, drawing his bowstring. Bret, who was walking behind him, was quick thinking enough to drop to the ground to give Coldiron room to shoot. He only had time for one shot before the deer were gone, and his arrow was deflected harmlessly by the thick bushes. Bret scrambled to his feet and both men ran back up the bank in an effort not to lose sight of their prey, but it was too late. “Well, if that ain't somethin',” Coldiron complained, frustrated. He had no sooner said it than they heard a rifle shot in the direction of their camp.

“Myra!” Bret exclaimed. “We shouldn't have left her alone.” Both men started running back through the trees, skirting thickets and jumping gullies in an effort to come to her aid.

Bret, being the younger, as well as the slimmer, outran the older and heavier Coldiron, but not by a great length. With rifle ready to fire, he approached the camp, looking frantically from side to side in an effort to spot the raiders. He saw Myra then, standing near the bank of the river, Coldiron's rifle in hand. She turned when she heard him pushing through the willows, and gaped at him in astonishment.