Crack in the Sky (76 page)

And as he gazed off to the west and that band of indigo blue shrinking to black, Scratch was sure they were warming themselves around a fire right then too.

“You niggers go right on and sleep real snug,” he said quietly to the night. “Titus Bass is coming.”

The half-moon was just climbing over the tops of the bare cottonwood downriver when he felt he had restoked his own inner flames enough to push on into the darkness. With the snow beginning to brilliantly reflect the feeble starshine and the light of that rising moon, Scratch felt certain he could follow the trail of trampled snow heading west up the Yellowstone.

Stepping into the travois, he secured his rifle back under two ropes, then turned and hoisted the drag. Leaning against the saplings, he plunged into the darkness, into the wilderness, into the unknown.

“What’s one goddamned white nigger gonna do?” he groused under his breath as he struggled along, dragging the travois behind him across the sagebrush and rocky ground.

“Bet that’s what them Sparrowhawk bastards is asking themselves!”

They ain’t worried one whit about me.

And that made Titus smile.

Jehoshaphat, but did they have a surprise coming!

The sky behind him had just begun to faint up the last time he had turned his head and looked over his shoulder to the east. The cold, frozen mist clung beside the river-banks, thick among the brush and bare-bone cottonwood. Damned cold here, but this was where they cut their trail through the snow. A mist so thick and dark all night long that it made him think of cotton bolls dipped in tanner’s black. But finally, far behind him to the east, it appeared
the sky was finally relinquishing its first hint of the dawn to come.

He had to keep pushing, Bass reminded himself. Couldn’t slow up now. Come first light—they’d be up and on the move again. Maybe not right at sunup, but soon after. They weren’t worried about hurrying out of their blankets, not cocky as this bunch was.

Turning his nose back upriver, he leaned into the vee and lunged forward, driven to keep moving here past the point of exhaustion, though his feet felt like chunks of ice and every stirring of the breeze tormented his frostbitten face. Time and again he rubbed his nose, the tops of his cheeks, with a mitten, trying his best to somehow keep the flesh warm enough that it would not die, turn black, and sluff off. He had seen enough men who carried such disfiguring scars: ears and noses and cheeks.

Tugging the fur of the coyote-skin cap down lower on his forehead, Bass suddenly stopped and sniffed the breeze again.

How the quickening wind made his raw flesh cry out in agony … but suddenly that breeze also carried on it the smell of something new to his nose.

He’d be boiled for the devil’s tater if that didn’t smell like … like firesmoke.

Damn—if that didn’t take the circle!

Scratch peered through the dim light of dawn coming, straining his eyes into the thick, murky, frozen fog clinging along the riverbank. Now, they might be camped up ahead before the Yellowstone took a gentle sweep to the north, or they might be camped just beyond, where they would likely have taken shelter behind that low rise.

He sniffed again and again until he felt sure of making a savvy guess. The fragrance of firesmoke was so faint that it couldn’t be coming from very close. That fire, and those who were gathered beside it, had to be around that river bend, just on the far side of that low hill jutting toward the north and forcing the river to flow around it.

With a sudden surge of energy he threw himself forward into the cold and the darkness, drinking in that hint
of a fire, that faintest shred of hope that he was nearing the end of his pursuit.

Where once he had been bone weary and benumbed at his night-long chase, now Bass congratulated himself on deciding to push on while his quarry slept confident that no man would be following them through the long winter night.

Out of the trees he stepped, staring at the low hill he would have to climb now to follow the trail. There was no room left for man or horse to walk between the vertical bluff and the Yellowstone itself. Left without a choice, he continued in the wake of those hoofprints.

Stopping near the crest of the rise as the scent of his enemy grew stronger in his nostrils, Scratch sensed more of the firesmoke greeting him on that breeze rising from the river valley.

Quietly he let the travois fall to the trampled snow, stepped out of the vee, and cautiously approached the top of the hill. Just shy of the crest he went to his belly and pushed himself up between some stunted cedar.

Smoke struck him in the face, strong as anything he had ever smelled.

And there below him in the rising, dispersing mist were the dancing flames of that fire.

Around it stood four figures more shadow than substance. Then a fifth emerged from the brush readjusting his breechclout. He immediately snatched up a blanket and pulled it over his shoulders.

For a moment more Bass watched them talking around that fire, some of them gesturing; then finally two of the Crow turned away and began rolling up buffalo robes while another pair started kicking snow into their fire pit, snuffing the flames and sending up an eruption of thick smoke. He was watching that column rise into the graying sky when a familiar sound suddenly reached him where he lay on the crest of the hill.

Hannah’s plaintive, brassy bawl.

Off to the side he watched the fifth warrior attempting to approach the mule secured to a tree trunk. As the man inched closer, she began to swing her rump toward him,
preparing to kick—but he deftly leaped away. Five times he attempted to maneuver in like that without success; then the warrior lunged to the side and swept up a chunk of deadfall about as long as his arm. With this held overhead he dashed toward the mule.

Leaping onto his knees, Bass let out a pained howl just as Hannah
scree-awwwed
again. Loud enough that she drowned out her master’s call from the hilltop.

It felt as if he had been smacked between the eyes the moment that piece of wood cracked against her head.

He felt his stomach lurch, empty and cold as he watched the mule stumble sideways. The Indian with the club quickly stepped in and yanked her lead rope loose from where he had tied it against a low-hanging branch.

Strutting in victory, the warrior pulled the stunned mule toward the other ponies and horses as the faint trickle of laughter drifted up the side of the hill and reached his ears with a cruel clarity.

Before he could rise from his knees to get to his feet, the stunned trapper watched the five Indians leap atop their horses, turn about, and head out. Riding off toward the west once more. Into the shadows of predawn.

Far enough out of reach that it made him ache to his core.

He had managed to stumble here too late to save her.

Bass dived into the brush the instant he spotted the blackened tops of those buffalo-hide lodges, dropping his travois.

Here—just past midday—a thick pall of firesmoke clung to the bone-bare branches of the leafless cottonwood, clotted in a dirty halo about the graceful whorl of poles that rose above every lodge. The air barely moved, not so much as a sigh of wind in the valley of the Yellowstone now.

Cursing himself for not spotting the low-hanging smoke earlier, Scratch knelt there in the brush, his heart hammering against his ribs. What with the way the low, heavy clouds had moved in right after sunrise, and the way the air barely stirred all morning, a man didn’t have a chance of spying that camp smoke rising from every fire pit, no chance of smelling the village before he bumped right into it.

Titus glanced across that ten yards separating him from the travois … and his rifle. Then back at the village, if they saw him, they saw him. He’d damn well need that gun if they did anyhow. Bass quickly crabbed out to the bundle, crouching behind it to reach up so he could grip the buttstock, pulling the rifle free of the two ropes.

Then in a crouch he scurried back to his hiding place in the brush.

Sure enough, the raiders’ trail had brought him right to the village. He swallowed at the scratchy knot in his throat, his mind galloping, digging away at his options the way he’d scratch at a troublesome mosquito bite that refused relief for anything longer than a moment. Then Titus decided that he had left himself no other choice.

After all, what had he stumbled all these miles through the snow for? Why had he crossed the Yellowstone and damn well froze himself to death? If not to confront the horse thieves, then why had he trudged on through the night so he could catch up to the raiders while they rested?

Through those trees lying between him and the village drifted the tatters of laughter and trilling tongues, cheers and war whoops. Dogs joined in and children shouted too—then he heard Hannah’s bawl.

And remembered the way it had torn him apart that morning just before dawn as he’d watched the Crow warrior smack his mule across the head with that piece of firewood.

With that remembering Bass knew why he had endured the miles and hours, the icy snow and the river crossing. He had come to reclaim what was his.

Licking at the ooze of blood seeping from the wide crack in his lower lip, Scratch slowly swiped the mitten down his face, feeling the agonized torment the harsh wool sanded through his windburned, frostbitten flesh. He stood and pulled that mitten from his right hand under his left armpit, stuffing his fingers into his shooting pouch so he could scoop out a half-dozen .54-caliber lead balls. Plopping them into his mouth, he tongued them over so they would lie between his cheek and gum, then squared the pouch where it hung beneath his right elbow.

After looking to the priming powder on both the rifle and the pistol he stuffed back into his sash, Titus laid the long weapon across the crook of his left arm and stepped out of the brush, striding purposefully along the ground
trampled not only by the pony raiders returning to this village, but by a growing number of converging trails.

At that moment it began to snow lightly—huge, ash-curl flakes swirling down on the still, frozen air. The heavy fragrance of firesmoke slapped him in the face, reminding him that he was one, walking into a village to confront the many who had done him wrong.

Licking at the oozy lower lip, the wound yelped in pain as he entered the thick belt of cottonwood and brush behind which the tops of the lodges disappeared. A few more steps and he realized the village actually sat across a narrow river that dumped itself into the Yellowstone.

For no more than the measure of a few heartbeats he stopped among the leafless willow and studied the lodges on the western bank. Then looked at the river itself, and the ford leading down to it. After drawing back the rifle hammer to full-cock, Bass dragged the pistol from his sash … and moved out of the brush, down the trampled, muddy snow to the ford.

Straight into the icy water that swirled around his ankles, then up his calves to splay the bottom of his capote out upon the river surface as he reached midstream. A woman coming down to the bank upriver to his left stopped, watched for a moment, then turned about and lunged up the trampled snow, shouting. Her shrill cry sent a trio of magpies bursting from the low branches hanging over the far side of the crossing.

Knots of children suddenly emerged from the open places between the lodges, hurrying for a glimpse of him as he reached the west bank. A half-dozen horsemen whooped up out of the thickening snow, halting with a cascade of icy clods, brandishing their weapons and shouting at him.

Camp guards.

Stopping, he glared at them, each one in turn, letting them see that he was not afraid of their boasts, letting them see that though his rifle was not pointed up the low rise right at them, it was nonetheless ready to fire in their direction. He brought the pistol arm up and rested the long barrel of the heavy rifle across the left wrist. And
pushed on up the rise toward the outlying lodges as more of the curious gathered to watch his approach.

Around to his left poured three horsemen, piercing the thick grove of cottonwood, perhaps seeking to sweep behind him.

Bass turned, his knees slightly bent, whirling and bringing up the rifle’s muzzle. One of the riders signaled the other two, and they all three halted; then the one sent the pair across the river.

“No, you stupid red nigger!” Scratch growled at the horseman. Then he quickly stuffed the pistol back into his belt and raised that left hand, holding up one finger. Quickly he brought that finger down to jab at his own chest. “There’s only one of me!”

Yanking the pistol back out of his sash, Scratch continued to the top of the low rise as children, women, and dogs began to part before him, opening a wide gauntlet for the stranger. Faces emerged out of the crowd, heads poking around others, children staring out between the legs of adults, dogs slinking behind him to sniff warily at his heels until he wheeled and swung the heavy iron muzzle of the rifle at one of the curs—catching the animal in the ribs, bowling it over, driving the dog off yelping and whimpering with its tail between its legs.