Deborah Camp (40 page)

Even though Harlon had said Gus wasn’t home, Tucker followed the dogs as they veered off the ridge toward Gus’ dark cabin. The goats bleated at the dogs and two tongue-lagging curs bounded from the stables to greet Patrol and Sentry. Sentry stopped to leap and sniff at them, but Patrol would have none of it. The big wolfhound trotted to the side of the cabin and whined. He raced back to Tucker and then beat a track back to the same area.

Tucker dismounted and went to the pacing hound. Bending double, he saw the circling tracks, the jumble of hoofprints, the broken ground. This is where they’d ambushed her. Patrol yelped as if he’d been struck. Tucker hurried to him. The dog sniffed the ground and issued a sharp yip of outrage. Drops of blood showed black on the snowy ground.

“Damn them to hell,” Tucker muttered, crouching to touch a finger to one of the splotches. It was nearly dry. Hours old. “Copper, hang on, darlin’.”

The blood was scattered, so there’d been a struggle. Not all of it was Copper’s. Tucker knew this by the difference Patrol made; snarling at
some spots, whining over others. He hadn’t known that dogs could sniff out their masters’ blood, and he didn’t question Patrol’s ability to do so. Copper’s dogs, along with her horses and mule, had earned his unconditional respect months ago.

The blood trail trickled toward the ridge, and Tucker hoped that meant they had taken her alive. He gave Brave a drink from his canteen. The dogs found a puddle and drank from it. Tucker felt his neck muscles protest as he tipped back his head to study the sky. He’d been bent over for hours, his attention riveted to the ground and the tracks left on it, and now his muscles burned as he flung back his head. The sky was clear and ablaze with stars. A thin, sliver of a moon climbed in the east. The wind had died, but the mountains still clung to the mantle of winter. Copper had once said that the mountains loved to huddle under the snow, and she was right. While most regions raced toward spring, the mountains advanced upon it at a turtle’s pace.

He wished he knew the territory better, and often swore to himself that he would study it until he had committed all its names to heart. But it wasn’t easy when every identifiable place, each mountain peak and river, went by several; white names, explorer names, French names, Indian names, regional names. He had learned that this valley was connected to what was known as the Judith Basin by some. Soon he’d be edging into geyser country where many Indians wintered among the warm waters, pools, and mineral springs. It was sacred country. Copper had told him that most of the Indians went out of their way not to make war in that holy region, keeping it neutral and enjoyed by all. However, she had told him also that many factions of the Gros Ventre eschewed other tribes’ wishes. They were not known
to be honorable. Feet Like Wind’s band was a poor one of vagabonds and beggars.

Pausing a minute to relish the safety of Gus’ familiar homeplace, Tucker mentally prepared himself for what might be ahead of him. He checked over the Colt, making sure it was fully loaded and oiled. He had no doubts that he’d have to do some killing to get Copper back. In the event that she was dead, he would have to make a painful decision as to whether he would go out blazing gunfire or retreat to raise Valor. He knew what Copper would want him to do, but he didn’t know if he had the guts or the heart to carry on without her.

The dogs pranced in a circle around him, anxious to be off. Slowly, Tucker mounted Brave again and gave the horse slack reins to follow the hounds that streaked toward the ridge like shots in the dark. The goats bleated and Gus’ dogs followed a little ways before turning back for home. At first it had seemed peculiar to Tucker that Gus would take off on a long journey that wouldn’t bring him back until the shank of summer without telling Copper about it. But then, the trip must be annual and something Copper already knew about. Also, Gus was first and foremost a mountain man, and mountain men didn’t have to tell anybody anything about their comings and goings. That fierce independence was part of the attraction and a good portion of the romance surrounding them.

“Just like the old bear to take off without a word to anybody,” Tucker complained. Brave skinned back his ears to listen. “I could use the old boy, too. Guess I’ll have to make do with two dogs and a big, old gray horse. Huh, Brave?” He stroked the horse’s mane and thought of the black mare he had been riding when the Indians had swooped down and attacked him. The horse, he knew, had been only stunned. The Indians probably took it, he thought. “Took the horse and left me to scalp
later after they’d finished off the other men. Thieving savages.”

A ripple of fear undulated through him, but it wasn’t the stark fear he’d known before. There was a time, not so long ago, when he couldn’t bear to think of that Indian attack without wanting to scream and hide from the memory. He’d been in fiercer battles, but none as foreign. A captive himself, he’d been without weapons to defend himself. Helpless was something he couldn’t tolerate feeling, but it had been forced on him. He’d been totally helpless when the Indians attacked. In other battles he had captained men, shouted orders, mounted arms. But as a kidnapped officer, he’d fallen without ever landing a blow. He’d never felt like a coward until then. That yellow cast had seemed to stick to him ever since. He didn’t know if turning himself in at Fort Union might restore his honor, but he didn’t know what else would. Once he had Copper safely home, he’d strike out for the fort and pray to God he recovered his honor there.

During his time with Copper he had regained some of his footing; a core of strength, or perhaps simply a firm base of knowledge. Copper had taught him the Indian ways and given him ammunition against them. Yes, they were a cunning race, but they were also superstitious and ignorant of the western world. Once a man discovered his enemy’s weakness, the battle was nearly won, and Tucker knew the Gros Ventre’s weakness. They were afraid of Copper’s medicine; so fearful that they wouldn’t simply kill her. They’d sacrifice her to steal her power. She was still alive. He felt it, knew it, clung to it as he rode closer to the enemy camp.

Although it was too dark to see it, Tucker knew he was passing the basin where he’d tried to seduce Copper and had very nearly succeeded. He longed to stop along its shore and remember every
delight, but he knew he couldn’t tarry. The memories came anyway; memories of Copper floating like a golden leaf on the water, the slash of her body arrowing through the lake, and her trembling admission that he had invaded her life, thrown her careful plans into chaos. That day he had known that he could win her, that she was almost within his reach. Dwelling on her beauty, outward and inward, made him all the more anxious for her. Had he brought this fate to her? Had he guided death to her doorstep?

Brave clamored up a loose grade to gain the ridge again. Heeding Floating Flower’s advice, Tucker had gradually moved eastward. The trees thinned, giving a better view of the land sloping down from the ridge. Pockets of water glimmered in the stingy moonlight. A thin stream meandered through the trees, connecting the small pools of mineral water. Sentry and Patrol sat down to rest. Their panting seemed loud among the more natural night sounds of wind and rustling underbrush and the low, throaty hoot of an owl. Coyotes yipped on a far peak. A lone wolf let loose a long, hair-raising howl. The whole world seemed to tremble, perched on the lip of a catastrophic descent into bloody madness.

Floating Flower had warned him that the atmosphere would change. Sniffing the air, Tucker smelled the difference. The breeze felt damp and warmer. Mist hung above some of the land below. The higher elevation made his lungs struggle for decent breaths. Even the dogs were more winded. Their sides caved in and expanded like bellows. Brave shook his head, tossing his mane and stamping his hooves.

“Ready for action?” Tucker whispered, guessing that the horse also sensed that they stood on the brink of battle. Brave’s ears strained forward and he flared his nostrils, catching the scent of something
beyond Tucker’s capacity. “Do you smell Indians?”

Sentry and Patrol whined. The wolfhound stood and quivered with excitement. Tucker tracked the hound’s gaze. A jolt passed through him when he saw the riderless horse silhouetted against the milky horizon. Brave nickered and the horse swung his head in the direction of the summons.

“What the hell? That’s Ranger!” Tucker whispered to himself, even as the shaggy pinto turned toward him.

Tucker let Brave pick his way toward Ranger. The dogs kept a respectful distance from the temperamental horse, but wagged their tails. Even Brave stopped short of Ranger, giving the moody mount the option of coming closer or staying away. Tucker knew something was wrong as Ranger approached, head down, his usual snappy gait a bit staggered. As the pinto shifted from one back leg to the other, Tucker saw the shafts protruding from his hindquarters.

“What’s this?” Tucker slipped from the saddle and padded quietly to Ranger. The pinto bared his teeth. “Stop it. You know me. Let me see what’s happened to you.” He glared eye to eye with the stallion. “And if you bite or kick me, I’ll brain you with my bare fist. You haven’t seen mean until you’ve seen me with blood in my eyes, nag.” For good measure, he grabbed one of Ranger’s ears and gave it a twist. “I’ll be damned if I’ll be cowed by a horse.”

Ranger clacked his teeth, but stood perfectly still while Tucker examined the three arrows stuck in his hide. Blood dribbled in streaks down his spotted coat.

“You put up a fight for her, didn’t you, old son?” A fondness for the pinto surged through Tucker as he tested the depth of the arrows. One was barely hanging in; the other two were deeply embedded. “Ho, there, son.” Tucker grasped the
loose arrow and plucked it out. Blood oozed. Ranger didn’t so much as flinch. Tucker chuckled. “You are one tough little son of a bitch, aren’t you? Damn! No wonder she places such a store in you.”

Tucker grasped one of the arrows and placed his free hand near the other. He patted Ranger’s rump.

“Holler if you want. Kick the devil out of me if you will. But these have got to come out, so here goes.”

Taking deep breaths, Tucker focused on removing the arrows with swift, sure pulls. The first one hung on muscle, but came after a quick jerk. The next came out easier, but brought flesh with it. Ranger shrieked, gave a violent tremble, and crumpled to his knees. Blood spurted from the wounds. In the violet night, Tucker could see the whites of the pinto’s eyes. For a moment he thought the horse would pass out, but then Ranger shook his head, his mane spreading out like a victory flag, and tried to gain his legs again.

“No, wait.” Tucker placed a hand on his muzzle. “Let me staunch that bleeding before you go charging into the night after your mistress.”

Tucker realized he was damp with his own seat. The removal of the arrows had wrenched his guts and wrecked his senses. He paused for a minute to regulate his heartbeats and think of what to do next. He mixed snow with dirt to make mud, then mixed the mud with grass and packed it against the rips in the horse’s hide in lieu of a demulcent. Ranger didn’t complain, remaining surprisingly docile. Tucker admired the horse’s smarts at knowing when to forge a truce.

Tucker wiped his muddy hands on his pants, then stared thoughtfully at the stains. He mixed more mud and smeared it on his face and neck to take the shine off his moonlit skin. He attached a lead rope to Ranger, ignoring the pinto’s angry head tosses.

“You can take us to her, but I’m not letting you loose to ruin everything. You’ll charge in there, get yourself killed, and announce my presence. No, thanks. From here on in, you take orders from me, mister.” He grinned at the familiar order, last given by him to a cocky, young private.

He threw a leg over Brave’s saddle and motioned for the dogs to scamper ahead. Ranger went next, a little wobbly-legged, and Brave came after with Tucker. Looking over his company of four-legged soldiers, Tucker had to laugh to himself. He’d never captained a more pitiful bunch of recruits, but then again, he’d never captained a more devoted one either. Their chances might be less than poor, but their grit was immeasurable.

T
he canopy of stars had faded to only a few distant twinkles against a backdrop of steel gray streaked with pale pink. The Gros Ventre camp spread along the banks of a bubbling, vapor-shrouded spring littered with sharp, oddly shaped boulders.

It was a poor camp. The roughly two dozen tepees bore little ornamentation and the hides were ragged and needed mending. Fires lit the tepees from inside and gray columns wavered from the smoke holes. Three dogs fought briefly over a bleached bone before the smallest cur snatched it and raced away.

Taking Floating Flower’s advice, Tucker dismounted and approached on foot from the east, leaving Brave picketed to an aspen and making Sentry guard the gelding. He left Ranger to his own devices and took Patrol with him as he crept toward the encampment for a closer look.

Closer didn’t make it look better. It was a dreary brown camp. Tucker had spotted the lookouts and had eluded them by hopping from one shadow to another. Two boys in ill-fitting breeches and baggy buffalo shirts sat near a corral that had been hastily strung up around a circle of pines. About forty or fifty small Indian ponies milled in the enclosure with an undercurrent of expectation. That expectation permeated the camp, and it wasn’t only because
dawn was breaking. Something was about to happen. Tucker could feel it in his bones.

Patrol spotted Copper first. The wolfhound whined and wagged his tail like a flag. Tucker followed the dog’s eyesight to the largest, dirtiest tepee. A few slashes of color marked its sides to set it apart from the others. Medicine colors, Tucker guessed, although the symbols meant nothing to him. Probably belonged to either the chief or the holy man. Just beyond the tepee was a tall cross-stake and tied to that stake was a blood-stained, drooping figure, her hair hanging like tangled fire to obscure her treasured face from his view. Copper.