Savage Cry (21 page)

“Well, this is a fine mess,” Charley Vinings complained, standing, hands on hips, staring at the sheer rock walls on either side of the river. “Dammit, Marlowe, you led us into a blind draw. How the hell are we gonna get these wagons around this?”

“I told you I didn’t know if we could git wagons through this stretch of the river,” Marlowe snarled.

“You’re the one that said you knew where to find your Blackfoot friends,” Charley insisted, his frustration growing by the minute. With two wagons loaded down with trade goods and whiskey, apparently at a dead end, he was in no mood to be forgiving.

“I do know where to find ’em, by God, but I ain’t never tried to follow this damn river up there. I told you that. I always come over from the Yellowstone country before. I told you back at Pea Vine that we probably oughtn’t to try it with wagons.”

Charley didn’t say anything for a few seconds. He didn’t recall any such advice from his sullen partner when they were loading the wagons. He stared at the narrow trail that wound up through the boulders before him, then to the right and left. “Well,” he finally sighed, “what do we do now?”

“What I said we oughta do in the first place,”
Marlowe replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Unhitch them mules and start loadin’ ’em up.”

“Jesus Christ, man, we can’t get all that load on these mules! We’re gonna have to ride two of ’em. That don’t leave but six mules to carry all this stuff.”

“Well, I reckon we’re gonna have to cache what we can’t carry,” Marlowe said, making no effort to disguise his own impatience with Charley’s whining.

“Cache the rest . . .” Charley started, but was interrupted before he could finish his complaint.

“We got company,” Marlowe growled, holding up his hand to silence Charley. He pointed to the bluff over Charley’s right shoulder.

Charley turned to follow the direction pointed out by Marlowe. Stone still at the rim of the bluff, two Blackfoot warriors sat on their horses, watching the two white men arguing below them. Charley’s entire body tensed, and his first reaction was to drop his hand on the handle of his pistol. Seeing the panic in Charley’s eyes, Marlowe was quick to caution him.

“Don’t make no sudden moves,” he warned while keeping his eyes on the two Indians above them. “They might be friendly. They ain’t got nothin’ but bows. If they had rifles, they’da done shot us.”

“A couple of shots with a rifle ought to scare ’em away,” Charley said.

“No. Hell, no.” Marlowe quickly replied. “We don’t know how many more of ’em there are. We best act real friendly till we find out if there’s any of their friends hangin’ around.” Without waiting for Charley’s concurrence, he raised his arm and waved, calling out, “Come on down. We are friends.”

High on the bluff, one of the Indians raised his arm in return. The two of them deliberated for a few seconds before reining their ponies back from the rim of the bluff and disappearing from view. In a few
minutes, they reappeared on the narrow trail through the boulders. Charley moved over next to his wagon to make sure his rifle was handy while he watched their visitors descend.

“Don’t look like there’s but two of ’em,” he said. “We can knock them off before they know what hit ’em.”

“Just hold your horses,” Marlowe shot back. “There might be two hundred of ’em within sound of a rifle shot. They look friendly enough. I think they’re just lookin’ for somethin’ to trade.” He shot another glance at Charley and grinned. “Besides, this might be a piece of good luck. They might be willin’ to help us cache our goods for a drink of that whiskey.” He started gathering some dead wood. “Might as well build a fire. We’re probably gonna have to feed ‘em.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Charley reluctantly relented. After all, he conceded, that’s what he came out here for, to trade with the Indians. He took a step away from the wagon and stood by Marlowe as the two warriors approached.

“Welcome, friends,” Marlowe greeted them, getting up from the small fire that was just beginning to show signs of life. His Blackfoot-speaking skills, while not fluent, were sufficient to communicate, aided by use of sign language.

The two warriors were surprised to happen upon the likes of Charley and Marlowe to say the least. With glances of curiosity, first at the two white men, then at the two heavily loaded wagons, they introduced themselves and dismounted. After an exchange of greetings, one of the Blackfeet—a solidly built young man, called Heavy Owl—asked the obvious question, “How will you get your wagons over the rocks?”

Marlowe explained that the wagons were going to
be left behind, and the contents carried forward, packed on the mules. Heavy Owl nodded his understanding, but the expression on his face suggested that he doubted the mules’ ability to carry all that he saw in the wagons. Thinking it impolite to point out the white men’s faulty planning, Heavy Owl changed the subject. “We have a fresh-killed rabbit we can share with you.”

“That would be good,” Marlowe said. “We have coffee and some hardtack.”

The white men and the Indians sat down together, the two Blackfeet on one side of the fire, and Charley and Marlowe on the other. While they waited for the rabbit to roast, Marlowe explained that they were going to have to cache a good portion of their goods, and he wondered if Heavy Owl and his friend knew of a good place where they would be safe. Taken aback by the white man’s apparent naı ¨veté, Heavy Owl eagerly responded that he did indeed know of such a place. Marlowe confided that he had a wagon filled with jugs of firewater, and that he would give one to each of them if they helped them hide the rest of their load.

“It’s real strong firewater,” Marlowe assured them, “I’ll git you a taste to see for yourself.”

He went to the back of the wagon and pulled one of the gallon containers out and poured a generous amount into a tin cup. Returning to the fire, he offered the cup to Heavy Owl who eagerly accepted it. Taking a sip of the raw liquid, he held it in his mouth for a few moments while he tasted it. He nodded briefly to his companion then spat the mouthful of whiskey into the fire, smiling with satisfaction when the potent brew caused a sudden burst of flame.
This buck’s had some watered-down whiskey before,
Marlowe thought, grinning as he watched Heavy Owl’s reaction. With proof
that the whiskey was satisfactory, the two Blackfeet agreed to help unload the wagons.

With Heavy Owl and his friend’s help, the two white men soon had a good portion of their merchandise, the stove and stovepipe, stored away under a ledge of solid rock. The two Blackfeet remained on hand to help fashion packs for the mules as well, never questioning the fact that Charley and Marlowe loaded all eight mules, apparently leaving the two white men to travel on foot. If their thoughts had not been occupied with the prospect of returning to the cache after the foolish white men had gone, the Indians might have suspected that Charley and Marlowe had no intention of walking.

When the wagons were empty except for two saddles, Heavy Owl asked if they were going to be left in the wagon. Marlowe grinned at Charley while he translated the Indian’s question. Both men laughed at that. “No,” Marlowe replied. “Them saddles go on your ponies.” His response puzzled the two Indians for a moment, and before Heavy Owl could thank him for the generous gifts, Charley and Marlowe had their pistols out. Marlowe shot Heavy Owl’s companion in the back of the head before the surprised Blackfoot warrior had time to react. Heavy Owl made a dash for his horse, but he had taken no more than five steps before Charley’s bullet smashed into his spine.

“I thought for a minute there you was gonna let him git away,” Marlowe commented dryly.

Charley smirked, calmly replacing the bullet he had fired. “I reckon I coulda shot quicker if I’d wanted to, but I wanted to see how fast he could run.” He cocked a warning eye at Marlowe. “Don’t ever worry about how quick I am.” Receiving only an insolent grin in return, he locked eyes with his partner in crime for a brief second before breaking it off. “We’ve wasted
enough time here. Let’s drag these bodies over and throw them in the river.” Reaching down to grab Heavy Owl by the heels, he glanced at Marlowe again and said, “I hope to hell these two weren’t from the same village you’re supposed to be leading us to.”

“Matter of fact, they was,” Marlowe casually replied. “Leastways they said they was from Black Shirt’s village. I never seen ’em before, but, hell, I never went there. The only time I ever seen any of ’em was when they came to Fort Union.”

“You never . . . Whaddaya mean?” Charley demanded. “You told me you and them Blackfoot was big friends. Now you’re telling me you ain’t ever been to their camp?” Charley was beginning to realize the folly in partnering with a liar.

“Hold on,” Marlowe growled. He didn’t care much for Charley’s tone. “I said I knew where Black Shirt would likely be, and I do. We’ll find him. Don’t you worry about that.”

“Well, we’d better,” was all Charley said in return, but he had already made up his mind to settle Marlowe’s hash when the time came.

After the bodies were disposed of and the wagons pulled into a deep ravine, the next order of business was the introduction of the Indian ponies to the heavy leather saddles Charley and Marlowe had brought along. As it turned out, the saddles themselves were not the biggest problem. The horses accepted them, although reluctantly, in exchange for the lighter Indian saddles. The trouble came when they were introduced to the bit. Their Blackfoot masters had simply fashioned a makeshift bridle, which consisted of a length of rope with a couple of half-hitches, and tied it around the pony’s lower jaw. That was all that was necessary to guide the horse. When subjected to the leather bridle and the cruel metal bit, both horses
balked, refusing to take it. It was only after almost an hour of combat between horse and man, that the two Indian mounts were beaten into submission, and Charley and Marlowe set out once again—on ponies with severely sore mouths, leading eight mules packed with an odd assortment of trade goods and six gallon-size jugs of whiskey.

Martha opened her eyes, blinking the sleep away. It would be sunup pretty soon. She must rouse herself and see to the fire, but she was reluctant to leave her bed. It was snug and warm where she lay, pressed up against Black Elk’s back. She smiled when she thought of her husband, and put her arm around him, pulling herself even closer against his bare back.
He sleeps like a dead man,
she thought,
never tossing, never turning.
It was true. Always, after he made love to her, and whispered good night, he would turn on his side and sleep like a stone, never moving from that position until rising the next morning. Martha sighed, dreading to slide out from under the soft buffalo robe. Finally, she forced herself to move.
I don’t want the other women to think Black Elk has a lazy wife.

As she busied herself reviving the fire in preparation for cooking Black Elk’s breakfast, she couldn’t help but think about little Moon Shadow. The image of the slight girl often came to mind whenever Martha was busy with the daily chores that filled the life of every Blackfoot woman. For Moon Shadow had taught her everything. Every chore she now performed had been patiently demonstrated by her adopted sister. Martha paused for a moment to give the thought her full attention. She missed Moon Shadow.

Tomorrow would be a busy day for all the women of the village, for Bloody Axe had said that it was time to leave the mountains and move the camp to
the buffalo country. Martha looked forward to the journey. The winter just past had been the most enjoyable one she could remember, for she had embraced the simple straightforward life of the Blackfeet. And now spring would soon be here, a new spring for Martha, like no other spring before, in a new life without fear or shame.

She had come to terms with her conscience regarding Robert. In the early days after her capture, she had prayed for Robert to come for her, only because of the harm she feared might befall her. She realized now that she had never really loved Robert, and the two of them had drifted apart long before her abduction from the cabin in the Black Hills. How could she have foreseen the strange twist of fate that would open a whole new life for her. She had fretted with it at first, thinking it sinful to dishonor her husband with her lust for Black Elk, a lust that she had been unable to deny. But she had put all guilty thoughts out of her mind for good now.

Behind her, the soft rustle of the entrance flap told her that Black Elk was awake. She turned and looked up at him, smiling. “I wondered if I was going to have to wake you,” she teased. “The sun is already high in the sky.”

He smiled. “I was only waiting for my lazy wife to cook my breakfast. I think if it is not prepared by the time I come back from the river, I will have to give you a good beating.”

She laughed delightedly. Springing to her feet, she picked up a small stick and playfully rapped him sharply across the buttocks. “We’ll see who does the whipping around here.”

“Yow!” he yelped in surprise when the blow was a little sharper than he expected. Then, embarrassed that he had uttered a sound, he grabbed Martha,
locking his powerful arms around her so that her arms were pinned to her sides. He lifted her until her face was level with his. Affecting a fierce scowl, he said, “I think I’ll throw you in the river and be done with you.”

Giggling like a child, she kissed him, covering his face with kisses until, totally embarrassed, he put her down, quickly looking around to see if anyone had witnessed this foolish play between a man and his wife. “If you don’t learn to behave, I’m going to give you back to the Crows,” he said, trying hard to look annoyed.