Wrath of the Savage (9 page)

“The paint,” Bret replied. “He
was
an Indian pony, I reckon. He's not wearing shoes, and his feet are nice and hard, with no evidence he ever has worn shoes.”

“That ain't a bad idea where we're headin',” Coldiron said. “How 'bout the sorrel?”

Bret shrugged. “Shod.”

“So's my packhorse,” Coldiron said with a chuckle. “That'll give anybody trackin' us somethin' to think about, I reckon.”

They passed the evening quietly talking about what their odds were for a successful mission. Common sense told them that they were playing a long shot, but Bret couldn't think of anything of more importance in his life at the present time. As for Coldiron, if the truth be told, he was reaching a stage in his life when calls for his services came much less frequently, and he was happy to be needed. There were a great deal more silver threads in the long ponytail hanging down his back, but he was not yet close to the time to crawl off someplace and die. On the other hand, if he was closer to that time than he thought, this task they were about to set out on was as good a cause as any to cash in his chips. Besides, he had decided that he liked young Bret Hollister.

•   •   •

Starting out early the next morning, they were already on the move when the sun found its way through the spruce trees behind them on the mountain. Being an optimistic sort, Coldiron packed a couple of extra saddle blankets to be used to make beds for the women. He also packed his bow. Bret had purchased some basic supplies, but they figured to rely heavily on wild game for their food. Before they left the log hut on the mountainside, Bret had to remind his big partner that he had not propped up his sign to trespassers.

“Thanks for tellin' me,” he said. “I plumb forgot about it.” That was only partially true. He had let himself forget because of a gnawing feeling that he wasn't coming back to his cabin.

When they left the Gallatin River, they cut across the foothills north of the mountains and retraced their recent journey up the valley. After three full days of travel, they reached the Musselshell River once again, and scouted the banks to see if the tracks were still there. They soon recognized the spot where the Blackfeet had crossed the river, and split up on the other side. But they had no clue which direction they should go. The tracks, more than a week old now, still told no story beyond the fact that they had to choose which party to follow. They made their decision by flipping a silver coin. It landed heads up and consequently sent them to the west, following the Musselshell. Tracking was out of the question, since they soon found themselves on a well-used trail, and the tracks they sought were mixed in with those of many others, going in both directions.

“I reckon we'll just have to get lucky,” Coldiron remarked.

Later in the afternoon, they came upon another trail that joined the river trail they were on. Then more trails were joined, telling the trackers that they must be getting close to a sizable village, and from the looks of the many trails, one that had been there for some time.

“I got a kinda itchy nose that's tellin' me we'd best find us a place to keep outta sight till the sun goes down.”

With respect for the big man's instincts, Bret didn't argue, and they picked the first likely spot they came to, a horseshoe bend in the river with plenty of foliage on the banks and a grove of cottonwood trees in the closed end of the horseshoe. They watered the horses and led them back up out of the river to nibble on the sparse patches of grass between the serviceberry bushes and the trees. Satisfied that it'd be hard for anyone to come upon them, they settled down to wait out the daylight.

When the sun dropped below the mountains close by, they climbed into the saddle again, and proceeded to follow the common trail along the river. Darkness was not long in finding the river valley, but they continued on. According to Bret's gold pocket watch, it was eight thirty when they rounded a bend in the river and saw the rosy glow of campfires on the night sky.

“There she is,” Coldiron announced.

“Looks like it might be a good-sized village,” Bret remarked.

“Looks like,” Coldiron agreed. “Plenty of Injuns to go around. We won't have to worry about runnin' out of 'em.” Both men pulled their rifles and checked to make sure they were fully loaded before dropping them back in the saddle slings. A sudden shift in the evening breeze brought the sounds of singing and drums to them then.

“Sounds like they're havin' a dance,” Coldiron said. “I thought they were up kinda late, from the sight of all them fires. That oughta help us out a little. They'll have that on their minds.”

Holding the horses to a fast walk, they approached close enough to see the individual fires that had combined to form the glow in the sky. They paused then to try to pick the best spot to get a look into the camp.

“North of it, I'd say,” Bret volunteered. “That way, we'd have those hills behind us, in case we have to get outta there quick.” Coldiron agreed, so they turned off the trail and rode around a large horse herd to reach the first of a line of foothills before the Little Belt Mountains.

Approaching from the north side of the camp, they rode as close as they thought sensible, then tied the horses in a narrow ravine about two hundred yards from the camp. Then they went the rest of the way on foot until they reached a clump of laurel bushes that were near enough to the outer tipis to get a good look into the center of the camp. What they saw confirmed their earlier guess. A huge fire in the center of the lodges was being fed more wood as a ring of warriors danced and chanted a war song. It was the first such sight that Bret had ever seen.

“Does that mean they're getting ready to go to war against somebody?” he asked.

“Maybe,” Coldiron replied, keeping his bull-like voice as low as he could manage, “but not always. Might not be a war dance. They might be thankin' Man Above for somethin'.”

“You see any sign of the women?” Bret asked as he took his field glass out. Coldiron said that he did not. Bret put the glass to his eye and focused it on the women and children sitting outside the ring watching the dancers. Scanning carefully over every group he could see, he started to hand the glass to Coldiron and said, “Damned if I see anything that looks like a white woman.” As soon as he said it, he exclaimed, “Wait a minute!” Then he scanned back toward the outer circle of tipis. “There's one of them!” He handed the glass to Coldiron then and said, “Look at those lodges on the left, on the outer ring. There's a woman sitting beside one of them. It's hard to tell in this light, but it looks like she's wearing white women's clothes.” It might be too much to hope for, finding the two women in the first village they came to.

Coldiron took the glass and brought it to focus on the woman. “You may be right, might be why she's settin' there by the tipi, instead of up there watchin' the dance. It'd help if she'd raise her head, so I could see her face.”

“Somebody's walking toward her,” Bret told him. “One of the men.”

As if hearing Coldiron's request, the woman raised her head when she heard the warrior approaching. The light from the huge fire gave Coldiron a clear look at her face.

“She's white, all right,” he confirmed. “She's just settin' there 'cause she's tied to a stake in the ground.” He handed the glass back to Bret, who was anxious to see for himself.

He got just a quick look before she dropped her chin to her chest when the warrior reached her, but it was enough for Bret to agree that she was white. The warrior threw something on the ground before her, looked to be saying something to her, then returned to the dance. When he had gone, she reached down with both hands tied together and picked it up. When she attempted to brush the dirt from the object, Bret realized that it was a piece of meat. And as she eagerly bit into it, he couldn't help thinking,
Like you would feed a camp dog.

“That's one of the women, all right,” he said. “I'd have to guess that it's the older lady, Myra Buckley. Now we've got to find the other one.”

“Well, damned if I can see her, so far,” Coldiron said. “At least she don't seem to be staked outside a tipi like that one. She might be tied up inside one of 'em. Ain't no way to find out except askin' the one we see. Might be a good idea to wait and watch a little longer. Maybe the other'n will show up. It sure would be a whole lot easier if she was in one of the other tipis on the back row, like that one, 'cause I don't see no real trouble to sneakin' up there and snatchin' her.”

He looked at Bret, who nodded his agreement. “Besides, the longer we wait, the more these bucks will get into the spirit of their dancin', and nobody's liable to pay attention to us.”

“That makes sense to me,” Bret said, so they continued to search out the village for some sign of the other woman.

They remained where they were for at least an hour, before deciding that wherever Lucy Gentry was being held, she was not going to be seen from where they sat. There was also the possibility that the woman they were watching was not one of the two they were looking for, but she was obviously there against her will. As they had anticipated, however, the entire village seemed to be captured by the dance, as the young warriors became more and more lost in the ritual.

“We might as well make our move,” Bret decided. “The young one's not gonna show up.”

They left the cover of the bushes then and made their way across a wide area of open meadow to a position only a few yards from the woman tied beside the tipi. There they paused to make sure there was no sound of alarm from anyone who might have seen them. When there was none, they decided on the best plan for abducting the unsuspecting woman. Since they couldn't count on the tipi being empty, they decided that Bret should snatch the woman while Coldiron entered the tipi in case the younger woman was inside. And if she wasn't, he was prepared to silence anyone else who was.

•   •   •

After finishing the piece of dried antelope, Myra Buckley wiped her hands on her skirt and dropped her head down again. Although still grieving the death of her husband at the hands of the savages who now held her captive, she was more angry than mournful at the moment. She didn't understand why she was taken and not killed with the rest of her family. What did they intend to do with her? She knew why Lucy was abducted. She was young and pretty, and the warrior who claimed her had definite plans for her. The thought of it sickened Myra.

As for herself, she felt slightly guilty for not dying with her husband and her sons, and if she ever had an opportunity to strike back in vengeance, she would not hesitate. Her thoughts were interrupted then by a slight sound behind her, which distracted her for no more than a moment. A second later, her head jerked back suddenly when a firm hand was clamped over her mouth and a strong arm surrounded her shoulders, holding her helpless.

“Steady,” a low voice spoke softly. “I'm not gonna hurt you. I've come to rescue you. My name is Bret Hollister, and I've come to take you away from here. I'm gonna take my hand away now, so don't make a sound. All right?” She nodded, enthusiastically, hardly able to believe her ears.

He removed his hand from her mouth and went to work on her bonds with his knife. “Are you Myra Buckley?” She nodded again. “Where are they holding Lucy Gentry?”

“She's not here,” Myra whispered.

“Not in the camp?” Bret asked.

“No, they took her away, some other group of Indians.” She looked distressed to have to tell him. “Poor Lucy, she's scared out of her mind. I'm afraid they're gonna do her terrible harm.”

She rubbed her wrists vigorously when her hands were free and watched nervously while he cut the rawhide cord around her neck, looking back at the campfire in fear they might be seen. Turning her attention back to him, she jumped, startled, when Coldiron came around to join them.

“It's all right,” Bret assured her. “He's with me.”

“Thank goodness for that,” she gasped, awed by the size of the man.

“Ma'am,” Coldiron acknowledged, then asked Bret, “You 'bout through there, partner? We'd best not push our luck too far. What about the other woman?”

“She's not in the village,” Bret answered. “So let's get the hell outta here and get back to the horses.” He took one more quick look back toward the fire to make sure no one was running to stop them, then started toward the horses at a trot. There was no need to encourage Myra to keep up. She kept pace with the two men. When they reached the ravine where they had left the horses, Bret told her that they had an extra horse, but no saddle for her. “Can you ride a horse?” he asked.

“Indeed I can,” she replied. “Which one?”

“Here you go,” Coldiron said as he led the sorrel from the ravine.

She didn't answer right away, distracted as she peered beyond him to the ravine behind him. “Where are the rest of the soldiers?” she asked, assuming he was in the army, and expecting to see an entire detachment of cavalry waiting for them.

“I'm afraid this is it,” Bret said.

“Don't worry, ma'am,” Coldiron said. “A whole bunch of soldiers woulda made too much noise.”

She still found it hard to believe. “You mean the army just sent the two of you to overtake a whole band of Indians?”

“Well,” Bret answered, “not exactly. There were more of us the first time we started out looking for you, but they were killed by a band of Blackfeet.”

Coldiron stifled a chuckle. “That don't make you feel much better, does it?” He picked her up then and hefted her up to set her on the sorrel's back, as easily as if lifting a child. “Since there ain't no more of us, I expect it'd be a good idea to put a little distance between us and this village.” When she was settled, he remarked, “Sorry we ain't got no saddle for you, but you can hang on to that packsaddle pretty good.”