Wrath of the Savage (19 page)

Each of the four had reached a critical juncture in his or her life with no clear future in sight.
A family of misfits,
he thought, but one that might possibly have a stronger bond than a blood family. So he made up his mind he would honor this commitment, knowing that of the four, he would contribute the most. The balance of money he had left in the bank at Bozeman was the only money available to finance their endeavor. He wondered if his late father would approve of his use of his inheritance.

They sat by the Teton River until the coffee was finished, then climbed into the saddle again to complete their trip to Fort Benton. High-spirited, they looked forward to a future. Even though it was not set in stone, it was a step in that direction. They rode into town at half past four o'clock in the afternoon. With a pretty strong notion that Lucy would like to throw away her doeskin dress, Bret led them directly to the dry goods store where Myra had purchased her clothes. He gave Myra some money to buy Lucy a complete set of clothes with a little extra in case Myra desired some clothes of a more feminine nature. Since they were across the street from the Missouri Saloon, he anticipated Coldiron's question and offered to buy a drink before he asked it.

“Just to make our new agreement official,” Coldiron said with a twinkle in his eye. “Otherwise, I never touch the stuff.”

Hank Lewis recognized the two men when they walked in the door. “Well, howdy, boys,” he greeted them cheerfully. “Did you find that Injun camp you was lookin' for?”

“Yep, we sure did,” Coldiron answered. “And we thought we'd give you a little business on our way back through town. Have you still got some of that good stuff you gave us last time?”

“I do, indeed,” Hank said with a grin. Looking directly at Bret, he japed, “Want me to send somebody over to the fort to see if your ol' friend Corporal Murdock can come over and have a drink with you?”

“I'd just as soon you didn't,” Bret replied. “We're kinda hoping to have a quiet drink and be on our way. We've got two ladies waiting for us outside.”

“Oh,” Hank said. “Well, you don't have to hurry off. Tell 'em to come on in and have a drink.”

“I said two ladies,” Bret repeated, emphasizing the word
ladies
.

“Beg your pardon,” Hank was quick to reply. “No offense.” He filled two shot glasses and stood ready to refill them if so directed.

Coldiron lifted his glass and held it out before him, proposing a toast. “Here's to our new partnership.”

Bret brought his glass up to meet Coldiron's. “Luck to us,” he said. “We're most likely gonna need it.” They tossed the whiskey back. “One more and we'll go meet the ladies.”

Hank obliged. “Where you fellers headin', now that you've found that lady?”

“Headin' south,” Coldiron said, “down across the Musselshell to that big valley of grass above Big Timber.” He looked at Bret and grinned. “And we can't get there too soon, right, partner?”

“South, huh?” Hank asked. “I might can give you a little piece of advice. A couple of soldiers were in here the other night. And they was talkin' about goin' out on patrol down that way, because of some trouble some Blackfeet was causin' east of the Little Belt Mountains. I don't know if that's the way you was thinkin' about goin', but if it is, you might wanna ride to the west of them mountains.”

“Much obliged,” Bret said. “We were going that way. Maybe we oughta take your advice and go west of the mountains. Whaddaya think, Nate?”

“Maybe you're right,” Coldiron said. “It'll put us outta our way a little, but what the hell have we gotta be in a hurry for, anyway?”

•   •   •

The women were still inside the dry goods store when Bret and Coldiron walked back across the dusty street.

“Might as well go in and look around,” Bret suggested, “see what they've got to sell in there.”

Seeing Myra at the counter with an accumulation of items stacked up before her, including some basic supplies like flour, salt, lard, leavening, and sugar, Bret stepped up to give her a hand.

“I figured you'd use all the money I gave you on things to wear,” he said.

She smiled and replied, “I thought you might rather have some biscuits. I'm satisfied to wear the clothes I've got right now.”

“Where's Lucy?”

“She's in the storeroom in back, changing clothes,” Myra told him. “She couldn't wait to get outta them Injun clothes.”

“I reckon,” Coldiron said, then walked over to the other side of the store to look at a rack of firearms.

“I'll carry this stuff out and load it on the packhorses,” Bret volunteered. “You all paid up?” Myra said that she was, and the store clerk thanked them for the business.

•   •   •

“Whoa,” Private Bowden said. “Look comin' outta the dry goods store with his hands full of stuff, Murdock. Ain't that the feller that bounced a whiskey bottle offa your head?”

Corporal Murdock stopped to glare at the tall man wearing buckskins, his arms loaded with parcels as he walked to a packhorse.

“It's him, all right,” Murdock growled. “The son of a bitch almost cracked my skull.”

“I don't see that ol' big'n he had with him last time,” Bowden said, the memory of flying over the counter still fresh in his mind.

It was a coincidence that the two soldiers happened to be in town that day, and a lucky one in Murdock's mind, for he longed to seek revenge for the tender bump on his head. He didn't hesitate, and hurried up the street, pulling his army model Colt as he ran, intending to catch Bret while his hands were still occupied and his back was turned.

“Well, look who's back in town,” he taunted when he tapped the barrel of the .44 against the back of Bret's head. “Turn around, you long-legged bastard. You made a helluva mistake showin' your ass back in this town.”

Bret turned slowly to face his aggressor. “Well, Corporal,” he said calmly, “I see that little rap on the head didn't do any permanent damage.” He took a quick look at Private Bowden, who was standing beside Murdock, his hand resting on the handle of his pistol, but the weapon still holstered. Shifting his eyes back on the corporal, he said, “I hope you aren't getting ready to make another mistake.”

“Ha!” Murdock blurted. “Mistake! I'm fixin' to spill your guts all over this street. The only mistake is you showin' up here again. Now, suppose you just drop down on your knees, and mind you don't drop any of them parcels when you do.” Bret was far too calm to suit Murdock. “Damn you!” he cursed. “Down on your knees!”

“I don't reckon that'll be necessary,” Bret told him with no hint of panic in his tone for the two soldiers facing him, for he could see Myra coming out the door behind them. His expression never changed as he watched her pick up a long-handled shovel on display beside the door, testing its weight.

“Necessary?” Murdock roared in disbelief. “I'll show you what's—”

That was as far as he got before his words were replaced by the sound of the shovel as it rang loudly against the side of his head. Stunned, he went to his knees, dropping the pistol as he did. Bret, his hands still occupied with Myra's purchases, raised one foot and kicked him over on the ground. Stunned almost as completely as the corporal, Private Bowden turned to see Coldiron charging out of the store. With no desire to engage the monstrous man a second time, he took off at a dead run, back the way he had come. Coldiron chased after him for a dozen yards or so before conceding the race to the more motivated competitor.

Across the street, having heard an altercation taking place in the street, Hank Lewis stood in the saloon door. “Murdock,” he commented to no one, “he don't never learn.”

In the street, Coldiron returned to the scene of the short skirmish. “You all right?” he asked Myra, who was still standing poised over the body, lest Murdock show signs of needing another swing of the shovel.

“Yes, I'm all right,” she replied, “but this buzzard better think again before he threatens a member of this family.”

Coldiron threw his head back and laughed. “Damn right,” he said, then placed his foot in the middle of Murdock's back and flattened him on the ground again when the dazed and confused corporal started to stir. He laughed when Bret, still standing with his arms full, asked if anyone was going to help him load the parcels on the packhorse.

“Why, shore,” he replied. “It's a good thing you held on to what you got. Myra mighta tried out that shovel on you if you'da dropped that bag of flour and let it bust.” He picked up Murdock's pistol and handed it to her. “Here, this'll be easier to handle. I'll put the man's shovel back, unless you're thinkin' about buyin' it now that you've tried it out.” He propped it up against the side of the door just as Lucy came out, dressed in a riding skirt and jacket, keeping only the moccasins she had been given to wear while a captive.

“Well, lookee here,” Coldiron remarked. “Ain't you pretty as a picture?”

Unaware of what had gone on while she was changing clothes, she gazed, astonished, at her new family and the prone soldier in the street. By this time, Murdock was clearing some of the cobwebs from his brain, but he wisely chose to remain where he was and count himself lucky to have suffered no worse.

“Let's mount up,” Bret said. “We're ready to travel.”

It was approaching twilight when the two warriors came to the banks of the Teton River. The tracks of the six horses they had followed were plain to see, telling them that the four people they followed had no longer felt it necessary to try to hide their trail. It struck Bloody Hand as an insult. He slid down from his lathered horse and let the exhausted animal go down to the water's edge to drink with Lame Dog's horse.

Lame Dog knew better than to make any comment at this point, aware of the fury burning inside his violent companion. They had ridden their ponies to the point of collapse in Bloody Hand's determination to overtake the fleeing white raiders. Now they had no choice but to wait for their horses to recover from the grueling pace they had been held to all day.

Bloody Hand stood at the edge of the river, staring at the tracks left by the six horses while absentmindedly fondling the dried ear on the rawhide cord around his neck. He remained in that trancelike pose for a long time before suddenly turning to walk over to the ashes of a fire higher up the bank. He knelt down and stirred the ashes with his fingers. They told him that it had been only a few hours since the woman and her rescuers sat beside the fire, eating and drinking coffee. The thought of it was enough to make him pick up a sizable stub of half-burned wood and fling it in anger into the water, causing the horses to jump, startled. Drowning in the frustration of knowing he was so close to overtaking the hated white raiders, but could not dare to follow them into Fort Benton, he stood up and kicked at the ashes.

After a few moments, when Bloody Hand appeared calm enough to question, Lame Dog spoke. “We cannot kill the white dogs in the town full of soldiers. What are we going to do now? I fear the woman has gotten away. Maybe it is just as well. Maybe it is best for you to forget this white coyote bitch. She is not worth the trouble to search for her any longer.”

Bloody Hand cocked his head around sharply to glare at Lame Dog. His expression plainly told the half-breed that his advice had not been solicited and was not welcome.

“I will not stop until I have the unworthy woman under my knife, and I have the scalps of the two men who took her. I did not ask you to come with me. You came because you wanted to. Now, if you no longer want to ride with me to avenge this wrong, you may turn back. I will go on alone. I am Bloody Hand. I need no one.”

Afraid that he was about to lose the somewhat shaky status he thought he was gaining by volunteering to accompany the incensed warrior, Lame Dog was quick to make amends. “I will ride with you until vengeance is done,” he pleaded. “I can be of great help to you. I have many friends in Chief Black Bear's village near here. I camp with them when I go to visit my mother. They are Bloods, but are friendly with the soldiers at the fort. I can go into the town. I have done so many times before. Maybe I can find them, and maybe find out where they are heading.”

The suggestion gave Bloody Hand new hope. It made sense that the soldiers and the white merchants did not know one Indian from another. Black Bear's people were on friendly terms with the town, so they could not know that he and Lame Dog were from the hostile Piegan band. The risk they ran was being seen by the woman. She could identify both him and Lame Dog, so they must find her and her rescuers without being spotted.

It was an uncomfortable subject to comment upon, but Lame Dog felt that he must suggest that he should go into town alone. “Your fierce appearance would be very noticeable to anyone who saw you, and they might talk to other people about seeing you,” he said, hoping that Bloody Hand would accept it without going into another rage. Surely he would agree that a warrior with such a grotesquely scarred face, and missing an ear, would have an impact on everyone who saw him. And if it generated enough talk, the word was bound to get around to the white woman. “I can go into town and the soldiers would pay me no mind.”

Lame Dog was relieved to find that Bloody Hand considered what he suggested without a flare-up of fury.

“What you say is true,” the fearsome warrior said, after thinking about it for a few moments. “We will do as you say.”

•   •   •

Having decided what they were going to do, the people that Bloody Hand was so desperate to overtake were making camp just west of Fort Benton on the banks of the Missouri. Their plan was to start out in the morning and retrace their previous journey back to Jake Smart's trading post. They figured it to be a ride of a day and a half to reach the confluence of Hound Creek and the Smith River.

While there was no particular need to stop at Jake Smart's store since they had ample supplies, Bret figured it a good place for an overnight camp—even though there had been trouble with a horse thief when they camped there before. As Jake had said, it had been a rare occurrence and the thief was most likely a rogue Indian from one of the bands up on the Judith.

Bret was concerned about pushing Lucy too hard. She was still in a fragile state both physically and mentally, even though she insisted she was not. Maybe half a day of rest would help. Coldiron and Myra were in agreement, knowing the treatment the young woman had suffered while in the Piegan camp. Also, Coldiron and Bret agreed that it would be a good opportunity to use that half day to hunt for fresh game.

“Get that fire good and hot,” Myra commanded, “'cause I'm gonna bake some biscuits. It's time we ate like civilized people for a change. I'd cook some beans, too, if I'da had a chance to soak 'em long enough. I might boil up some of 'em anyway, if you don't mind a little crunch in your beans.”

“Suits me whatever you do with 'em,” Coldiron said. “It's the biscuits I want.” He winked at Bret. “It'll be a good chance to see if she can bake biscuits.”

Equally as sassy, Myra responded, “They'll be the best biscuits cooked in a skillet that you ever ate. You'll get a chance to eat a real baked biscuit when we get settled on our cattle ranch and get me a good iron stove. We'll show 'em some real cookin', won't we, Lucy?”

Lucy responded with a shy smile, but said nothing. It was going to be some time yet before she felt completely at ease. While she was extremely grateful to have been rescued, she could not yet fully believe their acceptance of her as genuine. She feared that deep down they judged her as damaged goods, somehow blaming her for the misfortune that had befallen her.

Myra seemed so at ease with the two men who had come to her salvation, but Lucy had not had the time to really come to know them. The one, Coldiron, was such an ominous-looking giant of a man, who appeared to be capable of unrestrained violence, yet joked with Myra like a jolly old uncle. The other was harder to define. A much younger man than the grizzly he partnered with, probably close to the age of Carlton, her late husband, he spoke like an educated man. Tall and confident. Myra said he had been an officer in the army, and had been cashiered unfairly, because of a lying witness. But that was his version of his departure. What if there was another version? Greatly troubled by these thoughts and still-fresh memories of her captivity, she had no choice other than to wait to see what happened as time passed. Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a request from Myra.

“Come help me with these biscuits. I wish I had a board to roll this dough out on. They're gonna be funny-looking biscuits.”

“Long as they eat good,” Coldiron said, having overheard her comment as he walked up with an armload of limbs to feed the fire. A loner for most all of his life, the big man was wallowing in the glow of being a member of a family.

Well, I guess it's a typical family scene,
Bret thought as he paused to watch Coldiron. His oversized friend seemed almost joyful with their situation, but Bret still wondered if he truly was. Maybe he wasn't ready to be responsible for a family, especially one not of his own making.

“Hell,” he muttered to himself. “It is what it is. I said I was for it, so I'll live up to what I said.”

Besides,
he thought,
fresh biscuits come with the deal
. He went back to work on the Indian saddle he was trying to adjust to fit Lucy's slender legs.

•   •   •

Harold Carter, owner of Carter's Dry Goods, walked back inside his store carrying the shovel and pitchfork he had displayed out front. He was met just inside by his wife, Flora. “What were you talking to that Indian about?” she asked. “Another one begging for something?”

“No,” Harold replied. “He wasn't begging. I've seen that one around here a time or two. He was looking for those two fellows who are escorting the two white women that were in here buying clothes.”

“What in the world did he want with those folks?” Flora asked.

“He said they hired him as a guide, but he can't find them anywhere, wondered if I had seen them.”

“He's not much of a guide if he can't even find the people who hired him,” Flora commented. “What did you tell him?”

Harold shrugged. “I told him those folks were already gone. He wanted to know which way they went, but I told him I didn't know. When they left here, they rode out the west road, but I didn't know where they were heading.”

“I expect those folks are better off without him,” Flora remarked. “He was a surly-looking fellow.”

•   •   •

Lame Dog whipped his horse when it settled into a slower lope, demanding it keep up the pace on his way back to the Teton River. There was really no need for his haste, since it was already getting dark, and there was little chance Bloody Hand would insist upon starting after them before daylight. Still, he was anxious to report his findings to the savage Piegan.

Upon reaching the Teton, he turned his pony's head to follow the river westward for half a mile, walking his horse more carefully now as it made its way along the bank.

“Hy-yi!” he called out as he approached the camp.

Bloody Hand stepped out from behind a tree, where he had taken cover when he heard a horse approaching, and released the hammer on his rifle. Anxious to hear Lame Dog's report, he exclaimed, “You saw them?”

“No,” Lame Dog replied as he slid off his pony. “They have already gone from there.”

Bloody Hand's frightening features immediately twisted into a storm warning of coming rage.

“Gone?” he roared, for he had assumed that Fort Benton was their destination, at least for a time. “Where? Did you find out where they went?”

“The storekeeper told me he didn't know where they were heading, but he said they left Fort Benton on the road west. Maybe they are going back the way they came, and I know that trail.”

“Did you only ask one person?” Bloody Hand asked. “Maybe they talked to someone else.”

“I asked several people,” Lame Dog lied, afraid to tell Bloody Hand that he had not. “None of them knew as much as the storekeeper. And they will not allow Indians in the saloon, so I couldn't ask anyone there.” Seeing Bloody Hand's angry grimace, Lame Dog was quick to say, “I know the road that leads out of town. If they leave the road and cross the river, then I am sure they are going to the trading post where my mother lives. It will be easy to catch them there, and they will be away from the soldier fort. There would be no one to help them.”

“We will go there as soon as the sun is up tomorrow,” Bloody Hand decided.

“They cannot outrun us forever,” Lame Dog encouraged. He could have taken Bloody Hand to the road leading out of town that night, but he was glad the irate Piegan did not insist upon it. He wanted to eat and rest.

•   •   •

It was still not midmorning by the time they circled around the fort and struck the west road out of town. There were many tracks on the wagon road, some from shod horses, some from unshod, most of them old, but many that were relatively new. It was impossible, however, to isolate the tracks of the six horses they had followed from their camp on the Marias. With no other option available to them, they continued along the road. Lame Dog's sharp eyesight was responsible for the first lucky break in their search. No more than two or three miles from town, he spotted a place beside the road where a party of horses had turned off and gone down beside the river.

After dismounting and taking a close look, the two trackers could not be sure there were six horses that had left the tracks, but at least two of the horses were shod. They had to be the same tracks they had followed from the Marias. It could not be a coincidence. Eager now, they jumped onto their ponies and followed the tracks down to the water's edge, where they discovered the remains of a camp. It was recent, so recent that there was no doubt that it was the party they trailed, and they had found their camp from the night before. It made sense that they would have camped there, for there were signs of older camps evident in the shady clearing.

Bloody Hand stood erect, his hands clenched into fists so tight that his fingernails brought blood to his palms. He felt the nearness of his prey and his nostrils flared with the scent of the woman he thought he could smell on the wind. She was only hours away! Quickly returning from the trancelike daze that had taken over his brain, he was now impatient to finish his quest.

“Hurry!” he implored.

“Here!” Lame Dog exclaimed. “This is where the horses were tied. The tracks lead back toward the road.”

Kneeling, he bent close to the ground, examining each clear hoofprint closely, hoping to find some identifying mark that would set it apart from the many other prints on the wagon road. Realizing then what Lame Dog was looking for, Bloody Hand reined in his impatience and dropped to his knee to join in the search. It had not been necessary to look so closely while following the six horses to Fort Benton, for they had been the only set of tracks to follow. Now they would be mixed in again with the traffic on the river road.

“There!” Lame Dog exclaimed triumphantly. Bloody Hand bent close to see. Pointing to the print of one of the shod horses, Lame Dog touched the forward arch of the shoe with his finger where it showed a small nick.