The Holy Warrior (21 page)

“I seen your boy, Chris!” Con slapped his thigh and lifted his voice, “I swear to God, it’s him!”

A shocked silence enveloped the group. Chris licked his lips. “But—he’s dead, Con!”

“That’s what that Injun said,” Con nodded. “But he lied. I was there fer jest two days, and as they was lettin’ me go, this young boy come runnin’ out. One of the bucks grabbed him and hauled him off, and I seen they’d been keepin’ him hid from me.”

“What did he look like?” Chris asked.

“Why, he looked like you! He was wearing Injun garb—but I seen his face plain as I see yours right now. His skin was too light to be all Indian.”

“Lots of Indians with white blood.”

“Shore—but how many of ’em have reddish hair and eyes blue as that sky up there?” Con shook his head, and his voice rang with certainty. “He’s got the same sort of face as you—wide forehead that narrows down like... jest like yours.”

Chris stood motionless, his eyes fixed on Con. Then he nodded and turned to Missy and his parents. “It can’t be—but I’ll have to go see for myself.”

Missy could not speak, and she felt Julie’s arm go around her, giving her the strength to respond. “Yes. You go see the boy, Chris. The wedding will have to wait.”

“Will the bishop let you leave, son?” Nathan asked.

“I think he will—but I’m going, in any case.”

“I’ll be goin’ with you, Chris,” Con said. “And Frenchie, he’s bound to tag along.”

Missy asked, “But Chris, even if he is your boy, how will you get him? The Indians won’t let him go, will they?”

“No. When they adopt a white child, he’s like one of theirs. If it is Sky, I’ll have to take him any way I can.”

“You don’t think we could ransom the child?” Nathan asked. “If it’s just a matter of money—”

“Only ransom they’d take is Chris’s scalp,” Con broke in. “Them Pawnees is real good haters—and they got long memories. If they knew we was after the boy, they’d knock him in the head to keep Chris from gettin’ him!”

Chris had no doubt about that. Their was a grim light in his eyes as he spoke to Con. “You need to rest. We’ll pull out at dawn.”

“How—how long will it take, Chris?” Missy asked.

The others, seeing the two needed to be alone, turned to go into the house. “You can sleep here tonight, Con,” Nathan told him.

After they had left, Chris said, “Let’s walk a bit, Missy.” She followed him off the porch. He said nothing until they came to a clump of trees that hid the house. Then he stopped and put his hands on her shoulders, searching her face.

“I know this must be hard on you.”

“It’s all right,” she murmured, resting her head against him as he took her in his arms and held her close. “You’ve got to find out. If he’s your son, bring him back. He’ll be our boy.”

Her words brought a warm light to his eyes and he kissed her softly. “I knew you’d say that—though most women wouldn’t. But you have to understand, Missy, he’s an Indian. That’s all he’s known. It’ll be hellish for him, being pulled out of the only world he’s had. Like as not, it’ll be as bad for you.”

“I’m not afraid, Chris.” She raised her head and gazed
steadily at him. “God will help us. Go get Sky, and I’ll be waiting for you!”

As they turned to go back to the house, Missy thought again of what her father had told her the night that Chris had asked for her hand:
Every one of us has to carry a special load of grief. Someday, Missy, you’ll have yours.

Chris left the next morning. Dan took him aside briefly, saying, “Don’t worry about things here, Chris. I’ll see to it that your church is taken care of. Just be careful—don’t get yourself killed. I don’t know what Missy would do if something happened to you.”

The two men headed for the Missouri. Despite his age, Con didn’t seem bothered by the difficult journey. They reached the fort on the upper Missouri in two weeks—record time—and six days later they stepped out of the canoe to be greeted by Frenchie Doucett. “Ah, my friend!” He grabbed Chris and gave him a tremendous hug. “You ’ave come for your boy—and Frenchie Doucett, he ees ze one who will help you.” He gave Con a contemptuous snort. “Thees one ees too old. We leave him here weeth ze women.”

Con gave him a beatific smile. “You heathen! I brung Chris all this way to see you git religion.”

Frenchie sobered, and shrugged. “I theenk it weel be much bettair if we don’ ’ave too much religion till we finish weeth zem Pawnees!”

“It’s going to be real tight. I don’t think either one of you should go,” Chris said.

“If them Pawnees git one look at that red hair and blue eyes of yours, Chris, it’ll be too late to pray,” Con warned. Then he added, “But let’s look on the bright side of it—if they scalp us, there won’t be no expensive funerals to pay for!”

They left at once, taking only their rifles and what food they could carry. It took a week of hard traveling, the last few days only at night, to avoid any chance of being seen.

“There’s the camp,” Con informed them. They stood on
a rise, looking down into a valley where a large collection of lodges lay against the foothills.

Chris studied the camp for a minute before he announced, “It’ll take a miracle to even locate the boy—much less get him out.” But he felt a surge of sudden faith. “Let’s see what kind of medicine we can make!”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE RESCUE

“If we could jest git sight of that young’un,” Con complained, “mebbe we could grab him and run.”

The three men were hunched over a small fire—one of the few they’d allowed themselves during the four days they’d scouted the Pawnee camp. A brush fire had filled the air with smoke, and they saw their opportunity to roast a small deer that Frenchie had brought down a great distance from the enemy camp. Since the Pawnee dwellings lay in an open space far from the trees that covered the hillside, the men had not dared to get close enough to identify the boy.

Chris tore at the meat, chewed slowly, then answered, “We’d not make it, I’m thinking. The boy would slow us down—since I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t go willingly—and the Pawnees know the trails better. We’ll have to take the river. Break in the bottoms of all the canoes but the ones we take. If we can get a good start, we might make it.”

The other two considered it; then Frenchie said, “Me, I like zat bettair.” He was a born boatman and felt much safer in a canoe than on foot. “I tell you somtheeng, Chris—we bettair not fool around much longair. Zem Pawnees, they find us pretty soon, you bet.”

It was a thought that all of them had entertained, but none had dared to voice it until now.

Con spoke up. “I been ponderin’ this business, and jest ’fore dawn it come to me.” The aging trapper looked very worn, and Chris realized,
Why, Con must be over sixty now!
“I ain’t really up on this prayin’ business, Chris, but I asked the Lord to give me some kind of direction—and He done it!”

“You mean God, He speak to you?” Frenchie demanded, skepticism in his sharp eyes. “I know zees releegion make you crazy!”

“Didn’t hear a word,” Con said with an air of confidence about him that made the hopes of both men soar. “Jest had a thought that fell on me—and I can’t shake it. Anyway, it’s the only shot we got, so I hope it’s the good Lord speakin’.”

“What is it, Con?” Chris asked.

“Why, it’s plum simple. These Injuns know me. When I left I told them a passel of lies about how I’d be back pronto with guns and whiskey to trade. Only way I could get away. Wal, I’m back—and all I got to do is go in and dicker with them. Be sure to spot that boy if I hang around and keep my eyes open long enough.”

“Con, that’s too risky,” Chris objected.

Con laughed. “My land, Chris, we been in tighter spots than this a heap of times! This’ll be easy. When I get the young’un pinned down, it’ll take some doin’ to get him loose—so you two think on that while I’m palaverin’ with them redskins down there.”

He picked up his rifle and Chris rose and said quietly, “You don’t have to do this, Con. He’s my boy.”

Con regarded him, and replied, “I’m about at the end of the trail, Chris, and I ain’t got but one regret. Never had me no boy.” A faint sadness clouded his faded eyes. “Seems like a man ought to leave something that’ll last after he’s gone. Mebbe the boy will think of ol’ Con once in a while. No matter what, it’d be worth it.”

He blinked his eyes and grinned. “ ’Sides, if this don’t work, Frenchie, at least I won’t have to worry about eatin’ no more of your cookin’!”

Frenchie stared at him, his face serious. “You come back safe, an’ I’ll make ze beegest steak dinnair you ever seen! Go weez God, my friend.”

“Con—thanks,” Chris said.

He would have said more, but Con cut him off. “You stay put. When I spot the boy, I’ll sneak off somehow so’s you can go spoil the canoes, Frenchie. Then you and me will go in an’ git ’im, Chris.”

With that he turned and left, and the two watched him walk away. “Zat ees one brave man,” Frenchie commented. “I theenk he won’t do it, Chris.”

For the next three days the two dared not move, for if they were taken the Pawnees would know that Con was lying. They stayed in the same spot, not knowing when he might appear—though the possibility that he would come during the day was small.

Sometime after midnight on the fourth day Chris and Frenchie caught the sound of someone running, and they leaped to their feet, rifles ready. Then Con appeared, and cried, “I got him located, Chris! And the main bunch rode out this morning on a buffer hunt!”

“Thank God you’re all right!” Chris said, giving the old man a hug.

“Jest quit slobberin’ all over me,” the old man responded testily. “We gotta git ourselves outta this spot. Frenchie, pick the two best canoes and put the rest out of commission. Take all our gear and have that boat ready to go—jest in case we stir up a hornet’s nest. You ready, Chris?”

“Sure. Frenchie—if we’re not there by dawn, don’t wait, you hear?” He clapped the burly Frenchman on the shoulder, then ran to catch up with Con, who had disappeared into the darkness.

They circled the village and paused in the outer edge of the trees, looking down on the lodges. A pale sliver of a moon shed a feeble light on the flatland. “That’s the one—right there,” Con said, pointing.

Chris nodded, thinking of the time nine years earlier when he had led the attack on Red Ghost’s village.
Seems like once in a lifetime would be enough to have to do something like
this.
Shaking off the memory, he voiced his thoughts. “I don’t see any easy way to do this—we better go over the game plan right now.”

“The hard thing is gonna be the first minute in that lodge, Chris,” Con told him. “It’ll be dark, prob’ly—unless they got some sort of oil lamp burnin’—which they do sometimes. But we can’t count on it. And not all the men went on that hunt—so we gotta assume that there’ll be at least one Pawnee brave in there—mebbe more. If him or his squaw lets out one beller—it’s hello Mister Gabriel!” He pulled something out of his coat and held it up. “Picked up some rich pine. There’ll likely be a camp fire with hot coals. It’s risky, but I say we light the pine, make a jump into the lodge. Them Injuns will be blinded by it—at least, they better be! It’ll give us one chance to put them down before they can make a squawk.”

Chris grinned in the darkness. “Glad you’re on my side, Con.” Then he said, “You light the pine and make the jump into the lodge. I’ll take care of the rest of it.”

Con took a deep breath, saying quietly, “Wal, we’re in the good Lord’s hands.” Then he moved out of the trees and Chris followed. They dropped to the ground, crawling silently across the beaten earth, pausing once as Con pointed to a smoldering campfire. Rising to his feet, Con moved to stand next to it, and thrust the rich pine torch into the coals. The resin caught at once, bursting into flame, but he left it there until it was burning steadily. He looked back at Chris, who had moved to stand in front of the lodge, waiting for a signal.

Chris pulled his knife from the sheath, gave a short nod, and Con jerked the burning brand out of the coals and ran to the entrance. Without hesitation he pulled the flap back and leaped inside, holding the torch high.

Chris was right behind him, his eyes searching the lodge. The flickering blaze highlighted the bulky forms along the walls of the lodge. One of them stirred, and Chris leaped, knife raised, and found himself looking into the eyes of an old Indian woman. She opened her mouth to scream, so he
hit her head with his left fist. As she fell sideways he caught a movement to his left. He wheeled and saw a thick-bodied Indian diving at him. Chris was off balance, but Con rushed in and hit the Indian over the head with a war club the trapper had picked up.

Pushing the Indian off him, Chris looked up in time to see Con leap to one side. A small figure had appeared out of the shadows, and Chris scrambled to his feet and made a wild grab at the assailant. He caught a handful of leather and jerked backward—it was another woman; he knew by the size and by the braids down her back. He clapped his hand around her mouth, and she began to kick and claw at him. He caught her wrist with his free hand, gave a tremendous squeeze, and heard a knife strike the floor of the lodge.

“Look out, Chris!” Con hissed. Still holding the struggling woman, Chris felt a small body strike against him, and at the same time a voice cried out something in Pawnee.
He’ll raise the camp!
Desperately, Chris struck out with his left hand, catching the boy in the temple. The boy was driven to his left, unconscious. Chris was afraid he had killed the lad, for although he had softened the blow, he knew he was a powerful man.

“Hold this squaw, Con!” Chris swung the woman around, trading her for the torch Con held. The old trapper grabbed her, holding her mouth tightly.

“Have to put her out!” Con whispered.

“No! Just hold her!” Chris knelt beside the boy, and was relieved to see the chest rising and falling. He put his finger on the throat and felt the pulse pumping strongly. It was too dark to see much, but one look at the face told him that the boy was half white. He thought he could see a flash of red in the hair, but the blue eyes that had convinced Con were closed—even at that, it was too dark to tell.