Wrath of the Savage (24 page)

Finally Bret spoke. “Well, I'm glad that you and that panel that tried me know the truth now. I appreciate your taking the time to tell me.”

“I tried to find you to give you the news,” Grice said. “I don't think you understand what this means. I'm pretty sure I can get you reinstated, and your rank and commission back.”

Bret took another pause to think about what the colonel had just told him. Then he glanced over at Myra, whose expression of joy had now turned to one of serious concern. He gave her a brief smile, then turned his attention fully on Grice.

“I know what you're telling me, Colonel, but I've got other plans.”

Grice seemed shocked. “Do you fully understand what I just said? You can regain your status as a second lieutenant, and that court-martial will be cleared from your record.”

“Maybe you should think about that, Bret,” Myra felt compelled to say, even though she feared that he might.

“It's a rare occasion when a man gets a chance to see what's best for him. When I left the academy, I was fully primed with the sense of integrity and honor that comes with being an officer. Reality struck me when I found that that integrity could be questioned on the word of two newly enlisted privates, while the word of an officer was rejected. If it happened once, it could happen again, and I do not choose to serve under those conditions. I count myself fortunate to have the opportunity to start my life anew. Now here comes our supper, and I'm sure yours is probably getting cold, so good evening to you, Colonel. Thanks for telling me.”

“Suit yourself,” Grice snapped, feeling properly rebuffed. He turned on his heel and marched back to join his dinner party.

Myra cast a serious look at Bret. “Are you sure you're doing the right thing?” she asked. “You might be throwing away a great career.”

“And miss an opportunity to be a cattle baron?” Bret replied with a grin. “I decided being a soldier just because my father was one is a mistake. Now let's eat this stew before it gets cold.”

She fairly beamed. “If I was twenty years younger, I swear, I'd ask you to marry me.”

•   •   •

Bret and Myra were waiting at the bank when it opened the next morning. Instead of drawing out all his money, as he had originally planned, he decided to withdraw only what he figured he would need for the time being. When the time came to buy stock, it might be better to do it with a bank draft.

“That way,” he jokingly told Myra, “I won't have to find a hiding place to keep you and Lucy out of it.”

From the bank, they went directly to see Ned Oliver at the stable. There was a fairly new-looking farm wagon parked conspicuously in front of the stable when they walked up. It occurred to Bret that Myra probably knew more about wagons than he did. She certainly had more experience farming than he, so he asked her to look it over and tell him what she thought. She did, and told him that it looked to be in good shape, so he bought it. She next helped him hitch the horses up to the wagon, making him wonder how he would have gotten along without her.

Next stop was the hardware store, where they loaded their new wagon up with the tools they thought they would need to build a cabin. From there, they went to the general store, which was really the other side of the hardware, where they loaded basic supplies they would need, like flour, sugar, molasses, lard, cornmeal, dried beans, and coffee. One last stop was at the saloon, where Bret picked up a bottle of whiskey and made Myra swear not to tell Coldiron about it until there was a proper occasion to open it.

Starting back, they had barely cleared the sawmill at the edge of town when the two horses decided they didn't like working as a team. Both sorrels, they began protesting and kicking at each other, resulting in a jerky, lurching ride for the passengers. When they refused to settle down after a quarter of a mile, Myra suggested switching them. The idea sounded as good as anything else they could try, so they pulled up and hitched Coldiron's horse on the right of the wagon tongue and Bret's on the left. It worked, for no logical reason, and the ride smoothed out from that point forward.

“Just goes to show you how crazy horses are,” Myra said.

“I don't know,” Bret joked. “Maybe Nate's horse is just like his master, he always wants to be on the right side of things.”

The trip back to their homestead was a good deal slower because of the wagon, so they had to camp overnight. Late in the afternoon, they came upon the first water they had seen in the last six or seven miles, so they decided to stop there. The stream was little more than a trickle coming down a ravine from the hills at the south end of the Crazy Mountains, but it was enough to satisfy their needs. The ravine provided a place to pull the wagon out of sight of anyone out on the prairie, as well as a good place to build a fire where the smoke would not be easily seen.

After a hastily prepared supper of coffee and bacon, Myra promised to do some real cooking when they got back to their camp. When Bret returned to the fire after climbing up the ravine to the top of the hill to take a look around, he found Myra in a mood to talk about their future.

Although they had speculated about building a ranch of serious consequence, he had never really thought much beyond what he would do the next day. Myra was more interested in what he saw in the future, not just his, but all four of their futures. Her concern was what might happen to Lucy and herself. As young and virile as he was, he might simply decide one day to ride away and not come back. There was nothing really holding him to the casual promise to remain with them. True, he was investing all his money in the current project, but he didn't seem to be the kind of man who treasured his money so much that he couldn't ride away and leave it. And she was convinced that the three of them, Lucy, Coldiron, and herself, needed his strong hand to make it work.

“Have you ever thought about getting married one day?” she suddenly asked.

The question surprised him. “Why, no, I don't reckon I ever have,” he answered honestly. Remembering her joking remark a few days before, he asked, “Are you fixing to propose?”

She laughed at the thought. “No, I don't think I'd wanna take on a man as young as you are at my age. It might be the death of me. I'll just be your aunt Myra, how about that?” She reconsidered then. “Maybe your older cousin would be better.”

“All right, Cousin Myra,” he said, laughing.

“No, I expect you'd do better with someone about Lucy's age,” Myra said.

Alerted then that she was leading into some more of her devious ways to try to shape the future of the family, he quickly retreated. “I reckon the last thing I need right now is a wife. I doubt I'll ever marry, or ever want to.” Then he laughed and said, “Unless I can find a nice Blackfoot woman like Jake Smart did.”

“Huh,” Myra grunted at the thought of the sinister woman. “Every man should have to be married to a bitch like that for a while. Then they'd all be better husbands the next time around.”

She let the subject die for a brief moment before returning to it again.

After pouring him another cup of coffee, she commented anew, “I worry about Lucy. She's so young and full of promise. She didn't have a chance to even get her marriage started.” When he made no reply to her comment, she continued. “After what she's been through, I don't guess most men would consider her for marriage.” She quickly added, “And they'd be so wrong. Lucy would make the best wife a man could have.”

Bret was not so naive that he couldn't recognize the web that the scheming Myra was hoping to weave. She was already thinking about expanding their little family, hoping to start a breeding program. And he was the only eligible candidate for stud service, so he decided to stop her before she ventured farther.

“I don't hold anything against Lucy for what she's been through. None of that's her fault. You're right, I suppose she'd make some lucky man a good wife. I hope for her sake one comes along. Like I told you, I doubt I'll ever get married. I just don't see it in the cards right now.”

“Oh, I wasn't talking about you,” Myra quickly responded. It was a lie, and she knew that he knew it by the doubting expression on his face. She would let it rest for now, but he and Lucy were both young. Myra would not abandon the project. She had a strong desire to build a real family, and she was convinced that the best way to do it was to have good breeding stock, like Lucy and Bret, to raise many children. There was a part of her that felt the insecurity of a partnership without marriage ties, something to hold a young man to his responsibilities. She had not yet learned that Bret never made casual promises, and when he promised to help her build a family unit, that's exactly what he would do—without marital ties.

They got an early start the next morning, hoping to make it back to their camp by suppertime. The horses had adjusted to their harnesses and no longer fought against the wagon tongue, so the day's pace went well, and the sun had not yet set when the hills behind the camp came into view.

“I hope Lucy's cooked plenty of food,” Myra commented. “She'll be surprised to have company for supper, I expect.”

“We'll find out in thirty or forty minutes,” Bret said. “Maybe we can get there before Nate finishes it off.”

“Supper's ready!” Lucy called out to Coldiron. The big man was a couple of dozen yards down the creek where he had been marking off a site for the cabin they would build. Always ready when called to supper, he sank his hatchet in a small stump and came at once.

“Hmmm,” he sighed when he approached the fire. “Those biscuits smell pretty good. If I'da known you was bakin' biscuits, I'da been here a lot sooner.”

Lucy laughed. “I thought I'd give you a chance to test some of my biscuits. They might not be as good as Myra's, but nobody's ever thrown them back at me.”

“Well, they smell just as good as Myra's,” he said.

She dipped a heaping serving of beans from the pot sitting in the coals and deposited them on a metal plate, being careful to see that she got plenty of the salt pork with it. She handed him the plate, then poured his coffee before she served her plate. After she seated herself across the fire from him, she asked, “When do you suppose they'll be back?”

“Don't know,” he said through a mouthful of biscuit. “Depends on whether or not he finds everything we need, I reckon. It might be hard to find a wagon without goin' to Helena. Course, if he finds one, they'll be a lot slower comin' back than they were goin'.”

She got quiet again, but he was aware of the fact that she was beginning to talk more and more lately as she got farther away from her despair. He knew she did better when she had Myra close by, but there was no doubt that she was healing. He took a big gulp of coffee and looked around him at the valley they had settled in. He liked it. It already felt like home. He glanced at Lucy and gave her a wide grin. Nathaniel Coldiron wasn't going to grow old and alone in the mountains, and that was enough to grin about.

•   •   •

Unknown by the two homesteaders at the edge of the valley below, a lone observer knelt on a rocky ledge jutting from the ridge behind them. Watching the peaceful scene with great interest, he shifted his gaze from the two people by the fire to the four horses grazing on the lush grass across the creek, then back to the packs piled up near the fire. He was patient now, because he could tell by the camp they had built that they were going to be there for a while.

Feeling a phantom twitch of pain, he looked down at his mutilated hand and the ragged stumps where two fingers had once been, wondering how he could feel pain in fingers that were no longer there. It was part of the curse the white man had somehow put upon him. There was no other explanation for it, but he was satisfied that the curse would be destroyed when the white man was destroyed.

Still calm, he arched his back and stretched his neck back and forth. The bullet that was still in his back would be buried there forever, for the wound had healed around it. It still pained him, but not as much as his hand. The medicine man in Black Bear's village had told him that it would have been too dangerous to try to get the bullet out. He had ridden there for help after being shot, refusing to die until he had fulfilled the quest he had set for himself. They had told him there that Lame Dog had been killed. He felt no sorrow for the half-breed's death, only anger that Lame Dog had not gotten around behind the white men and driven them out into the clearing as he had planned.

Returning his concentration to the scene below him, he wondered if it was possible that the other white man and woman were not coming back to join these two. His passion for vengeance told him that to be fulfilled, he must kill all four of the white devils who had brought him grief. But the woman who had been stolen from him was there in the camp below with the big grizzly called Coldiron. His brain was still tormented by his obsession for her, and her death would be long and painful. He had watched her for two days, waiting for the missing two people to return. His desire for the woman was too much to delay any longer. He decided he would wait no more, and strike while there was still daylight. He fingered the shriveled blob of cartilage on the cord around his neck while he thought of the satisfaction he would enjoy with the killing of Coldiron.

•   •   •

Lucy covered the biscuits in the pan with a cloth, knowing Coldiron would probably finish them off before he turned in for the night. She picked up the plates and cups, dropped them in the iron pot with their spoons, and carried them down to the creek to wash them. She glanced at the gentle giant as he walked down to lead the horses back closer to the camp, and smiled when she thought of the compliments he gave her on her biscuits.

Looking down again to wash her dishes, she jumped, startled by the sound of a rifle shot somewhere behind her. She looked up again to see Coldiron fall, and her heart stopped for a moment before racing with terror.

It was all happening again! He had come back!

Terrified, she didn't know which way to run, but knowing in her heart that it was none other than Bloody Hand, she could not wait for him to come for her.

With her pulse pounding in her head, she ran for the nearest possible place to hide, a long ravine leading up to the ridge behind the camp. Stumbling in her panic, and hoping he could not see where she had fled, she prayed he could not find her. As she struggled to race up the ravine, she was aware of the absence of the heavy revolver bumping against her thigh. She had stopped carrying the pistol in her skirt pocket only a couple of days before. She thought of Coldiron, lying, maybe dead, in the long grass of the valley floor, her protector. There was no one to protect her now! The thought of it caused her to give in more to her panic, and soon she felt she couldn't breathe.

Gasping for breath, she made it to a pine thicket halfway up the ridge. Desperate to hide from the monster coming after her, she crawled between the crowded trunks of the pines and crouched in the carpet of needles like a mouse hiding from a great cat. Afraid to make a sound, she reached back to try to smooth over the needles she had scuffed up in her haste to hide. There was no sound in the forest, save that of her hurried breathing, all the ordinary sounds of the clicking and chirping of the vermin and insects had been stilled by the sound of one rifle shot. Then the silence was broken.

“Woman!”

It came from the bottom of the ravine, and the guttural gruffness of the Piegan warrior's voice chilled the blood in her veins, threatening to cause her to faint. So choked with fear she was now barely able to breathe, and she tried to wiggle back deeper into the thicket.

“I come to get you now, woman,” Bloody Hand called out, confident that there was no longer anyone to stop him. “Did you think you could run and hide from me? You will beg for your death before I let you die.”

He knew she did not understand what he was saying, but it gave him satisfaction to threaten her. Running at a trot, he followed her up the ravine, certain that it was where she had fled. Fearing to move now, lest he see her in the thicket, she balled up as small as she could in hopes he would not find her.

Searching the narrow ravine, right and left, as he climbed up toward the ridge, he taunted her continuously with his violent promises to make her pay for her rejection of him. Higher he climbed until reaching the heavy pine thicket, where he stopped upon noticing a slight disturbance of the pine needles at the edge. A lascivious grin spread across the grotesque face of the evil brute, for he was certain he had found her. Pushing into the thicket a few feet confirmed his discovery, for there among the slender pines lay his pitiful prey, trying with all her might to become part of the earth beneath her. Growling lustfully, he reached out and grabbed her foot from under her balled-up body and pulled her out of the thicket. In a desperate fight for her life, she tried to hold on to the tree trunks with her hands. It was to no avail, for his strength was too great, and he pulled her out into the middle of the ravine.

Like a rattlesnake about to strike, he gazed lustfully at his captured prey, his eyes reflecting the evil he was promising to cast upon her. With his mangled hand, he grabbed her chin and forced it up so she had to look at him. But she would not, and closed her eyes, hoping the nightmare would end. He slapped her hard.

“Look at me!” he demanded, and grabbed the collar of her blouse. With one powerful yank, he tore the blouse halfway off.

“Take your filthy hands off her, you God-damned dirty savage!”

The command was like the roar of an angry cougar as it reverberated off the sides of the rocky ravine. Bloody Hand released her at once and spun around to see the ominous avenger advancing toward him, poised to strike like the mountain cat he resembled.

Bloody Hand tried to bring his rifle to bear on the enraged avenger, but had no time to cock it before the human projectile launched his body into Bloody Hand's midsection, driving the hapless brute into the rocky ground behind him. Almost blind in his fury to destroy the evil predator, Bret did not think to use his rifle, driven instead to wrench the life out of him with his two hands.

Fighting for his very life, Bloody Hand realized his rifle was useless, so he dropped it and tried desperately to draw the knife from his belt, even as the breath was being crushed from his windpipe. Blindly grasping for the knife handle, he was forced to abandon the attempt when the last breath of life was wrenched from his lungs and his struggling ceased. Mauled like a prairie dog snared by a mountain lion, his body relaxed in death.

“Bret. . . . Bret.” The sound of someone calling his name finally penetrated the shroud of fury that had enveloped him. Gradually he came back from the fog of rage that had consumed him. “Bret, he's dead. He's done for. It's over.”

He recognized Myra's voice then, and rolled off Bloody Hand's body to sit exhausted beside it while he tried to regain his senses.

After a few minutes, he was able to bring his mind back to the moments before the attack, and he remembered the rifle shot that had set him into motion.

“Where's Nate?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Myra answered, relieved to see he evidently had his wits about him again. She was holding Lucy close to her as the terrified girl was still trembling from the touch of the Piegan monster.

“He's down there with the horses,” Lucy managed to say between uncontrollable sobs.

Bret was immediately alert again. Fearing the worst, he got to his feet and started back down the ravine. Behind him, Myra and Lucy followed, but not before Myra cocked her rifle and pumped two rounds into Bloody Hand's corpse.

“Just in case,” she explained.

When he reached the bottom of the ravine, he saw Coldiron on his hands and knees, trying to crawl back to the creek. “Nate!” he yelled, and splashed across the creek as fast as he could run. “Stay there!” Bret yelled again. “We'll take care of you!” He slid down in the grass beside his wounded friend. “Just be still,” he ordered, “and we'll see what we need to do. Where are you shot?”

“In the back,” Coldiron said—his words labored with the pain he was suffering. “Where else would a back-shootin' son of a bitch shootcha?”

He lay down on his side then and Bret could see the bloody stain spreading on his back. His spunky remark was a good sign to Bret, however. The big grizzly still had his bite. Myra and Lucy arrived then after they, too, ran through the creek. Bret checked the front of Coldiron's shirt, but there was no exit wound.

“Well, we know what we've got to deal with,” Myra said. “First thing is we've gotta get him back across the creek and close to the fire. It's gonna be dark pretty quick now, and I'd like to be able to see while I still can.”

She apparently felt it her responsibility to take care of the doctoring, which Bret was thankful for, because he was afraid he might do more harm than good if he was called upon to do it. The alarm for the wounded man had also evidently pushed the hysteria aside for Lucy, because of her concern for Coldiron.

Getting the wounded man across the creek was no easy chore, even considering Bret's strength. They finally decided that the best way to accomplish the task was to get Coldiron to ride piggyback on him while Bret waded across through water about four feet deep in the middle. This was decided upon as a safer alternative than attempting to jump from rock to rock with a man the size of a small horse on his back.

Once Coldiron was safely across, they settled him close to the fire, and Myra, with Lucy's help, went to work on the bullet wound. In spite of there being no indication that Bloody Hand was not alone in the attack, Bret scouted a wide area around the camp just to be sure. When he was, he went back up the ravine to drag Bloody Hand's body away and dump it in a deep gully where Lucy was not likely to see it again.

Grotesque in life, the bloody monster's appearance was even more menacing in death. Bret took a long look at the face that had terrified Lucy, and had little wonder that the poor girl had nightmares. He puzzled for a moment over what appeared to be a piece of dried gristle on a cord around the Piegan's neck. It occurred to him then that it might have at one time been attached to his head beside the unprotected hole where an earlobe had been.

Finished with Bloody Hand for good and all, Bret returned to the campfire to see how Coldiron was doing.

“He's gonna make it,” Myra told him as soon as he walked up. “That bullet's in too deep for me to try to get it out, but I don't see any signs that it's hit anything that would make him bleed out.”

“How 'bout it, partner?” Bret asked the patient. “You think you're gonna make it?”

“You heard the boss,” Coldiron answered, obviously trying to talk through considerable pain. “If she says I'll make it, then I reckon I ain't got no choice.” He grimaced when he tried to shift his body and was rewarded with a stab of pain. “When I got hit, it knocked me to my knees, and I thought I was shot pretty bad, but I don't think it's as bad as I thought now.”

“Well, it looks like you've got a couple of good nurses,” Bret said. “Just don't get too used to lying around taking it easy. We've got a lot of work to do to build us a cabin.” To Myra then, he said, “You might wanna make use of that bottle we brought back from town. When I bought it, I didn't know it was for medicinal purposes.”