Wrath of the Savage (23 page)

“All right,” Coldiron called back. “We're comin' out if you think it's clear.”

“Come on, then,” Bret confirmed, confident that it was all right for the time being, but thinking that it would be wise to pack up and leave as soon as it was daylight. “I'm going to take a look to make sure that Indian isn't waiting on the other side of that hill,” he called out again. Then he started out in the direction Bloody Hand had fled, moving at a steady trot, still carrying two rifles. When he reached the top of the hill, there was no sign of the wounded man on the other side of it, and none on the rolling expanse of treeless prairie beyond. It seemed likely that the man was intent only upon escaping.

By the time he returned to the clearing, Coldiron and the women were already in the process of packing up. “Somebody put a dent in your new coffeepot,” Myra said when he walked up to join them. “I found it halfway across the clearing.”

“You all right?” Coldiron asked. When Bret said that he was, the big bearlike man went on. “I wasn't much help,” he said. “I shoulda been down here helpin' you.”

Bret realized that his oversized friend was feeling genuine remorse for not having taken part in the fight. “You were protecting Lucy and Myra so I didn't have to worry about them.”

“Yeah, well, you gotta start tellin' me what you're thinkin' about doin' next time before you go ahead and do it. Now, where's the one you killed?”

“He's up by the road,” Bret said.

“Let's go take a look at him,” Coldiron said.

“I'm going with you,” Lucy spoke up then.

Myra quickly responded, “You don't need to see a dead Indian. It might not be a pretty sight.”

“I want to see if it's him,” Lucy insisted. “I have to know he's dead.”

“You're having enough nightmares as it is,” Myra told her. “There's no sense in adding another one. Bret can tell you if it's Bloody Hand. From the way you described him, it shouldn't be too hard.” She turned to Bret then. “Can't you, Bret?”

He realized that he was not absolutely certain, because of the desperate struggle in the dark, but he didn't recall noticing that an ear was missing. He remembered wondering afterward if the man he killed was Bloody Hand, but that was after he had already left the body.

“I suppose,” he hedged. “It was so dark, and I was pretty busy at the time, but I'll take a closer look for you.”

“Looks like you picked up an extra rifle,” Myra commented as the two men started to walk up to the road.

“What?” Bret replied absentmindedly. “Oh . . . yeah, a Winchester.”

“Well, unless you think you need both of them, then I could use one,” she suggested.

“I hadn't thought about it,” Bret said. “Sure, you're welcome to it. You know how to use it?”

“Just like the one I shot that deer with, I suppose.”

He chuckled at that. He had forgotten about it. “Right, just like that one.” He handed her Lame Dog's rifle.

“And that means I get the pistol you've been carrying,” Lucy was quick to advise Myra.

“Damn,” Coldiron chuckled. “Everybody totin' a weapon. We best be careful we don't go to shootin' each other.”

•   •   •

With the coming of daylight, Jake Smart ventured out of his store to see what all the shooting had been about. Bleary-eyed from spending the night moving from window to window, he had sought to protect his store in the event the shooting got closer. Also unable to sleep, Ruby suffered more concern than her husband. She was well aware of the cause of the shooting, for she knew what Lame Dog and Bloody Hand had planned. Soon after first light, and all was quiet in the valley, she implored Jake to investigate. And this was how he came upon Bret and Coldiron standing over the body of his son. When still not close enough to identify the deceased, he called out to the two men, “Sounds like you fellers had another busy night. Somebody tryin' to steal your horses again?”

“Not this time,” Coldiron replied. “They had somethin' more in mind. It was that crazy son of a bitch after Lucy again. That's why we're packin' up. This place ain't brought us nothin' but bad luck.”

“Well, looks like that one won't be botherin' you no more,” Jake said. “So he was after—”

That was as far as he got when he came close enough to see the body. Stunned, he stared in disbelief, unable to speak.

“Damn, Jake,” Coldiron said. “You look white as a sheet. You know this feller?”

“He's my son,” Jake answered softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

His simple statement cast all three men into a stony silence. Bret and Coldiron exchanged shocked glances, left speechless, for what words were appropriate for such an occasion? After what seemed an eternity, it was Jake who broke the silence.

“I knew he was runnin' with a mean bunch, but I didn't know he was plannin' nothin' like this against you boys.” He stood there, continuing to stare at the corpse.

Bret knew he should say something to justify the killing, so he offered his condolences and tried to explain how it happened.

“I didn't have any choice, Jake. He was trying to kill me, and I was just the lucky one who came out on top. It was him or me.”

Bret's attempt to explain loosened Coldiron's tongue, and he wanted to make sure that Jake understood the facts of the matter.

“Don't go blamin' Bret for what happened here. We didn't have no idea your boy was one of them two out to kill us and steal the girl again. God's honest truth, neither one of us woulda knowed your son from any other Blackfoot warrior. Bret did what he had to do. Your son was the one did the choosin'. And that's the truth of it.”

Jake considered what Coldiron said for only a moment before replying, “I know what you say is most likely the way of it, but what can I tell his mama?” There was no answer coming forth from either Coldiron or Bret. “Maybe you can help me carry him to the barn, and then I expect it'd be best if you fellers get on your horses and get on outta here.” He didn't have to explain why.

“We can surely do that,” Coldiron said, “and we'll be outta here by the time you go to the house to tell Ruby. I'm real sorry your son had to come to an end like this, but like I said, he didn't give Bret no choice.” He turned to Bret then and said, “I can tote him to the barn. You go back and get the women on their horses and meet me here at the road.”

“Right,” Bret replied. “We'll be ready to ride.”

He turned at once and hurried back down through the trees to the clearing, feeling as if he had somehow committed a crime. He wasn't sure how he should feel, however, sorry for Jake and Ruby maybe, but also knowing that their son was an evil son of a bitch that deserved killing. He was going to have to tell Lucy that the man he killed was not the one-eared monster as she hoped. But when he recalled how Bloody Hand was lying low on his horse's neck, he felt confident that he was critically wounded. If he didn't die, he would be a long time recovering, and by that time, they would be long gone from this territory.

When he got back to their camp, he found the women packed up and ready to leave, so he told them to climb on their horses, and in a matter of minutes, they were heading up through the trees toward the wagon track. Lucy wanted confirmation of Bloody Hand's death before she got on her horse.

“Bloody Hand's gone,” he told her. “You don't have to worry about him anymore. Right now we've got to ride. I'll tell you all about it when we stop to rest the horses and maybe eat some breakfast.”

She was perplexed by his reluctance to simply tell her that the Piegan monster was dead, but it was obvious that he was not going to take time to discuss it then. So she didn't resist when he hurriedly cupped his hands to give her a boost up on her horse.

When they reached the road up above the creek, Myra asked, “Where's Nate? Ain't he going with us?”

The big man was nowhere in sight, but within a few minutes' time, he suddenly appeared, shuffling along at a rapid walk.

“We're all set to go,” he said as he took his reins from Bret and climbed aboard the big buckskin.

Finally it was too much for Myra to hold her tongue.

“Will somebody tell me why we're running away from here like we robbed the place? Are there some more Indians coming after us?”

“No,” Bret told her. “But we need to make tracks. We'll tell you why after we put some distance between us and this place.”

With that said, he asked the paint gelding for a fast lope, and they headed south along the river. He had a notion that when Ruby found out about her son's death, she would come looking for vengeance equally dangerous to that of a war party.

•   •   •

Approximately twenty miles north of the trading post, Bloody Hand lay where he had fallen from his pony. Weak from blood loss, and in severe pain, he gazed at his bloody hand but was in too much pain to appreciate the irony in the appropriateness of his name. His shirttail was soaked with blood from the bullet wound in his back, and he was not sure he had the strength to get back on his horse. When the afternoon sun began to settle closer to the hills, he began to chant his death song.

•   •   •

The angry explosion back at the trading post that Bret and Coldiron predicted came about as anticipated. Ruby Red Bonnet screamed in agony when Jake told her that they had to bury her son. Brought to her knees by the news that Lame Dog had been killed by Bret Hollister, she cried out her pain and began ripping her arms and face with her fingernails. Jake tried to comfort her, but she pushed him away. “Where is he?” she demanded.

“I carried him into the barn,” Jake said.

“Into the barn!” she exploded again. “You treat him like a horse or cow?”

“I just took him there so I could tell you about it before I just came carryin' him in the house,” he tried to explain quickly.

She wasted no more words on him but got up from the floor and rushed out the front door. She found him lying on a bed of hay in the back stall and collapsed by his side, her grief overpowering. Jake could only stand by, helplessly watching her, as she sobbed and moaned with her pain.

After a long period, her grieving tears suddenly turned to anger. Without a word to Jake, she got to her feet and ran to the store. Jake wanted to give her comfort, but he didn't know how he could, so he followed her to the store, only to be met by her on her way back, carrying his shotgun.

“Whoa, hon,” Jake attempted to reason with her. “Where you goin' with that shotgun? Them folks has already pulled outta here. They're gone.”

It was too much for her angry frustration. Using the shotgun as a club, she swung it at him, barely missing his head. He jumped back a couple of steps in fright.

“Why you didn't kill them?” she asked. “He was your son!”

“Why, hon, I thought about it,” he whined defensively. “But I couldn't hardly see how I could blame them folks for defendin' theirselves. Could you?”

“He was your son,” she repeated, thinking that was reason enough.

“You shoulda told me John was fixin' to ride into that camp to kill them folks and take that young woman back. He ought'nta done that.”

“Why you call him John? His name is Lame Dog, Blackfoot warrior,” she said.

“Yess'm,” Jake replied respectfully. “But I expect we'd best get him in the ground.”

•   •   •

They buried Lame Dog on the hill behind the barn, and Ruby stayed there by the grave, mourning long after Jake returned to the store. Later in the afternoon, she came back and got the shotgun again, then disappeared into the trees between the trading post and the clearing where Bret and the others had camped. Jake figured she went to their camp to mourn, but he began to worry when she didn't return by nightfall. Deciding it was too dark to try to find her, he decided he had no choice but to wait until morning.

The next day, he looked for her, but she was nowhere around the clearing, and he feared she might be trying to track Coldiron and his friends, seeking revenge. He shook his head in frustration, knowing she had little chance of catching up with them on foot.

Two days passed before she returned to the trading post, looking half-starved and bleeding from the many self-inflicted wounds that testified to the intensity of her mourning. He greeted her at the door.

“Damn, hon, I'm glad to see you. You look like you could use a cup of coffee and a biscuit or two, although them biscuits ain't as good as the ones you make.”

He hoped she'd gotten over Lame Dog's death. He knew that he had. A man couldn't begin to explain the why or the wherefore for the way things happened. It didn't do any good to worry about it, one way or the other, and he wouldn't have to worry about hiding the forty-four cartridges anymore.

“I reckon the best thing for us to do is to put all that meanness behind us now and go back to livin' with what we got,” he counseled.

“What do you know about living, white man?” she responded curtly.

Three full days of hard riding found Bret and his “family of misfits” in camp by a healthy creek at the foot of the Crazy Mountains. They had planned to stop there for the night only, but after finding deer sign all around the creek, they decided to stay over for a day or two more. The tragic happenings on their last night at their camp at the confluence of Hound Creek and the Smith River were well behind them now. There had been no sign that anyone was following them, and even Lucy seemed to be less tense and nervous. It was a good opportunity to release the tensions that had captured everyone since Lucy's rescue from the Piegan village.

After a successful day's hunting, while butchering two fine young deer, Coldiron spoke the words that were on everybody's minds.

“I could sure get used to this little valley between the Crazies and the Big Belts. This is all a free man could ask for right here—the mountains behind you with plenty of game to hunt—a sea of grass in front of you to graze on between the mountains.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Myra said, having overheard Coldiron's comment. “I brought you some more coffee.” She filled the cups for both men. “Plenty of lumber in the foothills behind us to build a house and a barn.” She turned to look at Lucy beside the fire. “What do you think, Lucy?”

“Whatever you say, Myra,” the young lady replied.

The concept began to take hold on all four minds, even to the extent of creating interest on Bret's part. This even though he suspected the three of them of ganging up on him to sell the idea.

“Who owns all this grazing land between these mountain ranges?” he asked.

“Nobody,” Coldiron said. “It's free range. At least, last I heard.”

“Then I say why don't we homestead it?” Myra suggested. “It sounds like the place we talked about before when we decided to stick together like a family.”

Bret shrugged. “I don't know. How far is it to Bozeman?” He was thinking about supplies and tools.

“'Bout fifty miles,” Coldiron answered, a big smile struggling to be seen beneath the heavy gray beard.

“Hell, I don't know,” Bret confessed. “We said we were gonna set up a place somewhere. Whatever the rest of you think, I reckon I'll go along.”

Myra and Coldiron looked at each other, both grinning, so Myra spoke for both of them. “Then I guess we're home.”

They all laughed at that, and began exchanging handshakes, oblivious of the deer blood passed from Bret's and Coldiron's hands.

•   •   •

The following days were busy ones for everyone, the first order of business being to establish a permanent camp. Coldiron and Bret were able to cut enough small trees with the hatchets they carried in the packs to build a sizable lean-to that would keep the four bedrolls dry in anything less than a driving rainstorm.

Since they were in the dry season on the plains, they hoped to get a cabin built before having to face winter storms. But there were tools and other things needed to build a good cabin, including a two-man saw to cut the larger logs for the cabin walls.

“There are some other things we're gonna need if we're gonna raise cattle and horses,” Bret said. “It's a little difficult to raise horses when you don't even own a mare. Same thing goes for cattle.”

“Hell,” Coldiron said, “that ain't no problem. We'll use that money of yours you've been keepin' in the bank. We can buy some breedin' stock from one of those big ranches up at Deer Lodge. We'll have us a herd started in no time.”

Bret had to laugh. “Well, I'm happy that you're gonna let me have a hand in your big stock enterprise.”

The work that followed in the next couple of weeks seemed to have been a cathartic for everyone, especially Lucy, who was gradually healing inside. Her downcast manner was soon replaced by one without the constant shame she had come to them with.

Much progress was made, but the summer days were waning, and winter was not far away. It was time to make the trip into Bozeman to buy a wagon, and the tools and supplies they would need to build a proper cabin. Bret, of course, had to go, for he had to withdraw the money from the bank. They could not all go, they decided, because they were not comfortable leaving the temporary camp they had built and running the risk that it might be found by some other wanderers looking for a place to settle. There was no one Bret could think of who was a better protector of their homestead than the huge bear of a man he now partnered with, so Coldiron stayed at home.

“I guess either me or Lucy oughta go with you,” Myra suggested.

“Why?” Bret asked. “I don't need anyone to go with me.” He grinned and added, “Besides, somebody's got to be here to feed Coldiron.”

“Because you might decide to just keep on going,” she said, joking. She turned serious then. “You need to go tell those officers at Fort Ellis that you brought a witness for the defense,” she said. “You told us what they did to end your military career.”

Her words were sobering. He had not thought about it for a long time.

“We talked about this before,” he said. “I told you when we made our agreement to work together that I didn't care to return to the army. And I meant it.”

“The three of us appreciate that,” Myra said. “But it might be the right thing to do to clear your name. And I'd be proud to tell the bastards that you and Nate rescued us.”

He couldn't help considering the possibility. “I don't know, Myra. It might be a waste of time to tell them. The charge against me that cost me my commission was that Nate and I ran when the Blackfeet attacked. The fact is that we went on to rescue you and Lucy after we came back the first time without you. So you see, that doesn't disprove what those two soldiers testified—that we ran from the fight.”

“Yes, but it seems to me that you would want the truth to be known,” she persisted.

“Tell you the truth, I don't give a damn what the army thinks anymore,” Bret told her emphatically. Then he shrugged and said, “If you just want to ride into Bozeman with me, that's fine, if Lucy and Nate can get along without you for a few days.”

“I think they can,” Myra said, then looked at Lucy for confirmation. “Can't you, honey?”

“We'll be all right,” Lucy said. Her response was encouraging to Myra, for she knew the injured girl had come a long way back from her fears. In the beginning, Lucy had feared the intimidating Coldiron almost as much as she had her Indian captors. But in the time since, she had come to realize that he was her protector, and was genuinely concerned for her well-being. Thinking of that progress, Myra smiled to herself. They really were becoming a family.

“All right, then,” Bret said. “No use delaying any longer. We'll head out in the morning.”

After discussing it with Coldiron, he decided to ride the two packhorses to Bozeman, because both his paint and Myra's Appaloosa were Indian ponies and might not adapt very well to pulling a wagon. Myra started to protest but thought better of it. Plans all settled then, Bret and Myra left early the next morning.

Coldiron cautioned Bret to keep a sharp eye out for any roving bands of Indians.

“There's still some Sioux and Cheyenne renegades that ain't took to the reservation yet.” Bret was well aware of that, and promised to be careful. “I'm glad you're takin' Myra along for protection,” Coldiron joked. “Me and Lucy won't worry about you as much.”

•   •   •

The trip into town was uneventful. They made it in one long day, causing Bret to think the distance was shorter than the fifty miles Coldiron had estimated. They arrived in Bozeman just at dusk and rode into the stable to find the owner, Ned Oliver, preparing to leave for supper.

“Evenin',” Ned greeted them, and tipped his hat to Myra. “You lookin' to board those horses?”

He studied the young man dressed in buckskins intently, thinking that he had seen him before, but unable to recall when.

“That's right,” Bret answered. “And in the morning, I might do a little business with you on some other things I need.” This perked Ned's interest up a bit more. Bret went on. “I'm gonna need to find a wagon and harness to hitch these two horses to it. Can you help me with that?”

“I sure can,” Ned replied. “I've done business with you before, I'm thinkin. I just can't remember when.”

“I bought one of these horses from you, the sorrel,” Bret said, “and another one, a paint Indian pony.”

It struck Ned then, and his face seemed to light up. “I remember now. You got two good horses, and a saddle and pack outfit to boot.” He grinned at them both. “I got it now. You were wearin' an army suit. Them buckskins is what threw me off. Yes, sir, I can help you. I can even help you with a wagon. I just bought one from a homesteader who decided he'd had enough hard winters and dry summers and headed back East.”

“Good,” Bret said. “We'll see you in the morning, then.”

“Yes, sir, I can sure fix you up,” Ned muttered to himself as he watched them walk up the street toward the hotel.

It's a good thing I'm going to the bank in the morning,
Bret thought when he paid for two rooms in the hotel. Thinking then of the many places his money would have to go to set up their ranch, he wondered how many cattle he would be able to buy with whatever amount was left.
Might not be but one cow,
he thought.
I hope to hell she's carrying a calf
. He smiled at the mental picture.

“What are you grinning about?” Myra asked, already looking forward to sleeping in a bed.

“Nothing,” Bret replied. “We'll go on upstairs and take a look at the rooms. Then if you're ready, we'll go on down to the dining room for some supper.”

“I won't have to take much of a look,” Myra said, anticipating the luxury of having someone cook for her. “I hope Lucy and Nate are enjoying their deer jerky tonight while we're dining like rich folks.”

•   •   •

Colonel John Grice, acting commander of nearby Fort Ellis, sat at a table near the back corner of the room with Mrs. Grice and her sister and her sister's husband, a prominent lawyer from Omaha. Since his wife's sister was only going to be in town for the night, Colonel and Martha Grice met them for supper in the hotel dining room.

Looking up to signal their waitress for more wine, Grice suddenly paused, astonished, when he saw the tall young man wearing animal skins walk into the dining room with a woman dressed in men's clothes. Grice forgot the waitress then, his gaze following the couple to a table on the other side of the room. There was no doubt in his mind, it was Bret Hollister.

Knowing what he had to do, Grice told his guests to excuse him for a moment and he would be right back. He got up from his chair then and walked across the room.

Bret, seated with his back to the center of the room, was not aware of the visitor until Myra looked up and nodded. Bret turned then to see what she was staring at so intently.

“Bret?” Colonel Grice spoke.

“Colonel Grice,” Bret acknowledged calmly, even though he was as startled as the colonel had been. He was surprised that Grice would approach him.

“Ma'am,” Grice greeted Myra politely before saying his piece. “Now, before you tell me to go to hell, Bret, hear me out. All right?”

“I thought all our talking was over,” Bret replied. “I know I've got nothing to say to you.”

“I know you're angry,” Grice went on. “And I don't blame you one bit, but I'm trying to make amends here.”

“Well, you're wasting your time. You and the army have done all the damage to my life that you're capable of doing. So go on back to your table and let us eat in peace.”

Myra quickly put two and two together and came up with who the colonel was.

“Let me introduce myself,” she interrupted. “My name's Myra Buckley. I was kidnapped by Blackfoot Indians along with Lucy Gentry. After your army gave up on us, Mr. Hollister and his friend Mr. Coldiron refused to quit until they rescued both Lucy and me. And I wouldn't be here today if he had abandoned his search for us.”

Grice listened, impatient to continue what he had to say. “I believe you, ma'am, but please listen to me for a minute, and then I'll leave you in peace. I want to tell you about a fight between two men in the Second Cavalry last week. These men were supposed to be friends. I think you will recall Private McCoy and Private Weaver.” Bret blanched at the mention of their names. Seeing then that he had Bret's attention, Grice continued. “I don't know what started the fight, but it got ugly, with Weaver cutting McCoy nearly in half with a bayonet. The sergeant of the guard got there in time to stop the fight before Weaver killed McCoy. He threw Weaver in the guardhouse and McCoy in the hospital.”

Not really interested, Bret interrupted. “All very entertaining, Colonel, but I don't give a damn if those two liars kill each other.”

“Well, maybe you'll be interested in this,” Grice insisted. “That little fight turned McCoy into a parrot that wouldn't stop talking. He told the doctor that Weaver was the cause of that massacre of your detail that night on the Yellowstone. Weaver was on guard, but he went to sleep, and when he saw the fighting going on, he ran to save his own hide. He said the two of them cooked up that story to make heroes of themselves and shift the blame on you. He also said that it was you and Coldiron that drove the Indians off, saving his life.”

Finished then, Grice stood back to judge Bret's reaction.

It was profound. Bret did not speak for a long moment, sitting there as if just having his life pass before his eyes. There was really nothing he felt appropriate to say. He wondered if the colonel thought he should be dancing a jig to celebrate. If he did, he was to be disappointed, for Bret still felt the injustice of his sentence. Only Myra seemed openly pleased.