Wrath of the Savage (11 page)

“What is it?” he gasped. “Are you all right?” She was about to answer when Coldiron charged into the clearing behind him, equally alarmed. She didn't answer Bret's questions. Instead she turned back toward the river and pointed. The two confused hunters moved up beside her and looked where she pointed to see a four-point buck lying dead at the edge of the water.

“It ran right through the camp,” she explained. “I was holding the gun until you came back. The fool thing almost ran over me, so I shot it.”

Bret and Coldiron exchanged glances of astonishment, neither man knowing what to say until the big scout muttered sheepishly, “Well, ain't that somethin'?”

Bret laughed then. “I guess we know now who should do the hunting.” He looked again at Coldiron. “I reckon you and I can at least do the butchering. But before we drag that carcass up from there, it might be a good idea to take a look around to make sure nobody heard that shot.” The two men walked back to a low rise beyond the trees and scanned the horizon for any sign of visitors, but saw none. “Looks all right, but we'd best take another look every now and then. I'd hate to be surprised by a Blackfoot hunting party.”

They dragged the deer up on the bank and hung it from a tree limb while Myra built the fire up. Then Coldiron gave them a lesson on how to skin and butcher a deer in a short amount of time. He had two interested students, for neither Bret nor Myra had ever actually done it before. By the time Bret had cut some green limbs to serve as spits, Coldiron had sliced off some cuts of meat for roasting. The process took on an almost festive air as the aroma of roasting venison filled the tiny clearing in the cottonwoods—so much so that Bret had to remind himself that it was time to walk back to the rise for another look around. There was no one in sight, so he hurried back to partake of the feast.

•   •   •

Crow Killer lay flat on a grassy hilltop two hundred yards from the grove of cottonwoods by the river, and studied the white man on the low rise close to the trees.
A soldier . . . what was he doing here?
Crow Killer wondered.
Where were the rest of the soldiers?
He looked back to signal his friend, Rides With Fire, who was holding the horses.

“Come,” Crow Killer said. “Soldiers.”

Rides With Fire dropped the ponies' reins and crawled to the top of the hill to see for himself. “Where are the others?” he asked, for like his friend, he could see only one soldier. They had been hunting back in the low hills when they heard the single shot and had followed the sound to this point. There had been no sighting of army troops entering their country for some time now. The word from the trader, Jake Smart, was that the army was occupied with the Sioux and Cheyenne, and just recently sent many soldiers to fight the Nez Perce. So the Blackfeet had no concern for the army's plans against them. Maybe Jake Smart did not know everything the soldiers were doing.

In answer to Rides With Fire's question, Crow Killer said, “I think they must be in the trees. Maybe that one is a guard.”

“We must warn our village that the soldiers are here,” Rides With Fire said, “so they can be prepared to fight.”

“First, let's see if we can get a little closer to their camp to see how many they are,” Crow Killer said. “If they are not too many, perhaps a war party can ride out to meet them before they get to our village.”

“You are right,” Rides With Fire said, then remarked, “Look, he has gone back in the trees.” They looked the situation over and decided that as long as there was no guard on the rise before the trees, they should be able to circle around the lower end of the grove and get close enough to see into the camp. Agreed on the plan, they pushed back away from the hilltop and jumped onto their ponies.

Using the line of hills for cover, they rode a wide circle to approach the stand of cottonwoods and willows upstream from where they figured the camp to be. Once they reached the cover of the trees, they tied their horses and made their way closer on foot. Sliding silently through a stand of willows near the river's edge, they suddenly caught sight of the camp. They dropped at once to the ground and crept closer until they could clearly see into the small clearing. With a look of astonishment for his companion, Crow Killer whispered, “There are only three: a soldier, a man the size of a buffalo, and a woman.”

“Maybe they are scouts, and the rest of the soldiers are somewhere behind,” Rides With Fire suggested.

“We would have seen them when we came this way,” Crow Killer replied. “Besides, they are obviously alone and they have a woman with them. Soldiers would not have brought a woman with them. The big one is butchering a deer. There are no soldiers.”

“But what are they doing here?” Rides With Fire was still puzzled.

“I don't know. I think maybe they are lost. I think, too, that it is bad luck for them. They have guns and horses. I think this will be a better day to hunt than we thought.” He looked at Rides With Fire and smiled, then sniffed the air. “After we kill them, we will feast on the fresh meat they have cooked.”

Armed only with bows, the two hunters sought to move even closer to the camp before risking a shot. When reaching a position as close as they dared, they decided on their targets. Crow Killer took aim on the soldier, while Rides With Fire concentrated on the larger target still busy carving the carcass hanging from the limb. Seeing their victims' weapons close at hand, they knew it was necessary to make the first shots count. They took dead aim and released their arrows.

Bret suddenly leaned forward to catch a piece of hot venison that Myra playfully tossed to him, forcing him to lunge to keep it from landing on the ground when her throw was short. It was the only thing that prevented his being struck in the stomach by the arrow that glanced instead off his shoulder. Catching the flash of the arrow as it flew by him, Coldiron instinctively pulled the deer in front of him in time to catch the second arrow in the carcass.

“Get down!” he yelled, and all three hit the ground as two more arrows narrowly missed their targets. “In the willows!” Coldiron yelled again as both men rolled over to snatch up their weapons. In a matter of seconds, they proceeded to pump round after round into the clump of willow trees, halting the flight of arrows almost at once.

“Keep low!” Bret shouted to Myra as he and Coldiron scrambled to find protected cover to shoot from. Having almost emptied his rifle, he called over to Coldiron, who was using a tree trunk for protection. “I'm down to one shot. My extra cartridges are all back in my saddlebags. How about you?”

Coldiron, who was in the process of reloading his Henry rifle, answered, “I've still got some extra in my pockets.” They remained where they were for a few moments with no more arrows coming from the willows. “We mighta hit somebody,” Coldiron said. “Couldn'ta been many of 'em, for no more arrows than that.”

Bret was of the same opinion. There couldn't have been much protection from the volley he and Coldiron leveled at that thicket. Impatient, he called out, “I'm gonna go see.” He jumped up and ran toward the cottonwoods before the willows.

“You damn fool!” Coldiron blurted, but it was too late. Bret was already among the trees.

Pressing his body tight up against a tree, Bret inched his way around the trunk until he could see the patch of willows from which the arrows had come. He stopped abruptly, his rifle ready. There was no one to be seen, so he cautiously pushed through the willows, looking around him, searching for anyone. He saw no one, but then he heard the sound of breaking limbs and knew at once that someone was retreating through the bushes.

He didn't hesitate, for he knew he couldn't afford to let anyone get away to alert the village to their presence. He plunged into the bushes behind the fleeing Crow Killer, running as fast as he could, afraid the Indian had too much of a head start. But he could see branches swaying on trees and bushes ahead of him, and he knew he was gaining. A few yards farther and he spotted the two horses tied in the trees, and the wounded Indian, limping desperately to reach them. He pushed himself to run faster, but Crow Killer reached his pony and crawled onto its back. Bret fired his last cartridge, hitting the Indian in the back, but the hostile would not fall. He turned the pony toward the open prairie and lashed it with his reins. The pony jumped to his command, but Bret was close enough to dive at the wounded warrior and pull him off the horse. They landed with a thud on the hard ground, rolling over and over before parting.

Desperate, Crow Killer pushed himself to his feet and charged Bret with his knife drawn. Still on the ground, Bret looked frantically around him for his rifle. Even though it was empty, he could use it to defend himself from the Indian's knife. He didn't have time to see where it had fallen, and Crow Killer was almost upon him, his long skinning knife poised to slash. There was no time to think, so when he felt a biscuit-sized stone near his knee, he took the only option he had. He grasped the stone and threw it at the charging savage as hard as he could, striking him in the chest.

The solid thump of the stone on his chest was enough to startle and confuse Crow Killer, causing him to pause. When he did, it gave Bret the opportunity to lunge up under him and knock him off his feet. With Crow Killer down, Bret wasted no time in attacking. He launched his body at the wounded warrior, grasping the wrist of the hand that held the knife while he clutched Crow Killer's throat, pressing against his windpipe as hard as he could. It seemed like minutes, although was actually only seconds, before the struggling warrior's hand finally relaxed, releasing the knife. Bret took the knife and, even though Crow Killer was no longer fighting, sliced his throat to make sure he was dead.

He stood there, looking down at the dead warrior, hardly able to believe that he had escaped unharmed, except for a slash on his shoulder from the arrow that glanced off it. Now that it was over, he wondered why the Indian had stopped charging when he threw the rock at him. It gave him time to catch him by surprise. He had to assume that the stone had struck him so solidly in the chest that he thought at first that he had been shot.
You were damn lucky, Hollister,
he thought. “Damn, you're a helluva man,” he muttered in tribute to the bloody body. He turned then when he heard Coldiron crashing through the bushes behind him. “There were only two of them,” he stated calmly when the huge man burst through to join him, “but I don't know where the other one is.” He pointed to the two ponies standing a couple of dozen yards away. “There're the horses.”

“Let's pack up and get the hell outta here,” Coldiron said. “Ain't no tellin' how many other bucks heard that shot.”

Not willing to leave the deer they just killed, Coldiron hurried to butcher the carcass while Bret went to get the Indians' horses. He found them still standing in the trees upstream where he had last seen them. Leading them back toward the camp, he came to the thicket where their assailants had taken cover when they shot at them. There, he also found the body of the other hostile, his hand still clutching his bow. He had evidently been killed immediately when he and Coldiron had returned fire. Bret pried the bow from the Indian's hand and stood up to test the pull of the bowstring. Interested, he pulled the hide quiver of arrows from the body as well, thinking it might be a good idea to learn to use the weapon, as Coldiron had done.

When he walked back into the camp, leading the two horses, he found that it had not taken the big scout long to cut the portions he was saving and wrap them in the deer's hide. “Ready!” he called out to Bret, while still loading them on his packhorse. He stopped what he was doing then to examine the Indian ponies.

“Appaloosa,” he announced, nodding toward one of them. “Most likely stole it from the Nez Perce. How do they look to you?” he asked.

“I haven't looked them over that closely,” Bret replied. “But they seem to be in pretty good shape.” He smiled at Myra, who was also looking them over. “Both have Indian saddles on them—might make it easier on you than riding that packhorse.” The remark definitely caught her interest.

The two ponies became a little nervous when the strangers gathered around them, prompting Coldiron to advise. “Might better pull the shirt offa one of them dead Injuns and rub it over the faces of them horses. Maybe that'll calm 'em down till they get used to our smell.” His suggestion seemed to work on the captured ponies, for they calmed down enough for a thorough inspection, and when it was done, he concluded that they were of good quality—a conclusion that Bret had already arrived at.

Their horses had not rested as long as they had planned, but they were watered, so the little party of white people left the banks of the Musselshell and struck out for the Smith River. “It can't be more'n ten or fifteen miles to the Smith,” Coldiron said. “We can rest the horses again when we get there.”

•   •   •

When they reached the Smith River, they made camp for the night and Myra helped Coldiron cut the venison into strips for drying over the fire. “It's a good thing it didn't take us much longer to get here,” she said. “A little bit longer and this meat wouldn't be fit to eat, smoked or otherwise.”

“Oh, we coulda still ate it,” Coldiron said. “It'da just turned over a little while in your belly before it settled down.”

Myra shook her head slowly and said, “It's a wonder you've lived as long as you have.” She turned her attention back to the meat she was roasting for their supper, and he continued to fashion drying racks out of green willow limbs for the jerky.

During the next few days, they saw many trails leading along the banks of the river, but they did not happen upon any village, as they had hoped to do. On the second day, they came upon the site of a previous village, but the tracks left by the departing Indians were over a week old. Bret counted evidence of sixty lodges.