Blood Feather (2 page)

1

The Predator

The eyes were intelligent but lifeless and were very dark brown, almost black. They carefully followed the movements of the small tribe of Minniconjou Lakota moving far below the large cottonwood where the predator remained motionless. He had taken one of their band and carried the body high up in the branches of the majestic tree. A single drop of blood dripped off his chin and landed on the branch below him. His eyes went down in response to an imperceptible sound then refocused on the band of Sioux. He had just eaten the last bite of the prey's heart and wanted to close his eyes and nap.

His appetite sated for now, the predator would awaken in a few hours with his mind wondering about a new hunger to kill again, another two-legged animal that would challenge his predatory instincts so much better.

The mutilated body of the young Sioux woman lay across a branch nearby. She was no longer a challenge and therefore of little further interest to this muscular predator. She could not run or thrash around, but now just lay still, unmoving, her ears not attuned to the whistling of the meadowlark, her eyes not seeing the super-busy wings of the ruby-throated hummingbird, air-balancing in front of the bright crimson area of her left breast, where her heart had been torn from her body.

The band of Lakota had missed Sings Loud Woman, but nobody was really alarmed yet, as she was wont to wander off while gathering firewood if something tickled her fancy. Considered a dreamer, she was not a hard worker but was exceptionally beautiful. Many men in the circle of lodges had watched her walk, a natural movement of curves and symmetry that stirred the imaginings of all men, the young and the elders. But not anymore. Now she was a bloody, lifeless mass high in the branches of a cottonwood tree along the banks of the Greasy Grass.

In just two years, members of this tribe would take part here in the Battle of the Greasy Grass, which the
wasicun
would be calling the Battle of the Little Big Horn or Custer's Last Stand. Now though, it was a shallow, glacial water–clear, rock– and sand-bottomed, small river with little brook trout streaking to and fro and, when the sun was just right, giving it the look of occasional energy in an otherwise lazy summer afternoon. The thick green foliage of the surrounding cottonwoods and hardwoods made the twists and turns along the waterway obvious to any traveler at a distance, as the rest of its surroundings were large rolling ridges covered with long green prairie grass.

The predator had slept high in his perch, and the red-skinned creatures below were gone. Satisfied for now, he climbed down to the ground and drank deeply from the clear waters of the Little Big Horn River. The trees, the river and its small grass-walled canyon would provide good cover as he began his migration. He started on his slow lope, always heading south, toward his southern hunting grounds, many weeks' travel away. His hunting area was much larger than that of any grizzly or male cougar. As he had so many times before, he'd struck and fed in his northern hunting grounds and now would move hundreds of miles to the south, from the Montana Territory to southern Colorado Territory. Keeping to the shadows and draws, he was seldom if ever seen. When he was seen, it was usually a fleeting glance, often a shadow. The thought of his next stalk and kill, this time of a white-skinned two-legged creature, kept him moving, kept him alert.

The big Concord stagecoach headed east on Road Gulch Stage Road. The road had many years of use as a trail before becoming an offshoot stage route in southern Colorado. The rules for travel on the leather-strap suspension stage came directly from Wells Fargo and were posted inside most Wells Fargo coaches:

• Abstinence from liquor is requested, but if you must drink share the bottle. To do otherwise makes you appear selfish and un-neighborly.

• If ladies are present, gentlemen are urged to forego smoking cigars and pipes as the odor of same is repugnant to the gentler sex. Chewing tobacco is permitted, but spit with the wind, not against it.

• Gentlemen must refrain from the use of rough language in the presence of ladies and children.

• Buffalo robes are provided for your comfort in cold weather. Hogging robes will not be tolerated and the offender will be made to ride with the driver.

• Don't snore loudly while sleeping or use your fellow passenger's shoulder for a pillow; he or she may not understand and friction may result.

• Firearms may be kept on your person for use in emergencies. Do not fire them for pleasure or shoot at wild animals as the sound riles the horses.

• In the event of runaway horses remain calm. Leaping from the coach in panic will leave you injured, at the mercy of the elements, hostile Indians, and hungry coyotes.

• Forbidden topics of conversation are: stagecoach robberies and Indian uprisings.

The coach was crowded, and the passengers were all anxious to get to Cañon City, several days' travel to the east. This coach had left Poncha Springs near the Arkansas River, which ran through a long, winding, high-walled canyon for forty-some miles to Cañon City, where the white-water river poured out onto the prairie and headed through mainly flatlands on its winding journey to the mighty Big Muddy.

The passengers saw a small herd of white Rocky Mountain goats high up on the ridge on the north side of the river shortly after leaving the Poncha Springs area. Then they ran into several large herds of bighorn sheep on the rocky cliffs north of Cotopaxi, named for a mountain in South America.

After a night there, in which the passengers were entertained by the dry humor and colorful stories of white-haired, pipe-smoking Zachariah Banta, the stage had turned south, and within a mile, all six passengers had to get out and walk, as it was a long, winding stagecoach road heading uphill and the driver wanted to take it easy on the horses. Sarah Louise Rudd, visiting relatives in Cañon City, was breathing heavily, struggling against the altitude and her arthritic hips, and felt relieved when the tall Pinkerton agent took a gentle hold of her left arm and helped her up the inclined grade. Finally back in the confines of the relatively roomy stage, they eventually turned east on Road Gulch Stage Road and crossed the north end of the big, beautiful Wet Mountain Valley.

It was on this winding stage road with piñon-covered ridges and outcroppings where the predator came down from his lair on Lookout Mountain. It was the ideal hideout and observation point for both mountain lions and outlaws. To the west lay the beautiful Sangre de Cristo and Collegiate mountain ranges, thirteen– and fourteen-thousand-foot snowcapped peaks stretching skyward from northern horizon to southern horizon. To the south the Sangre de Cristos stretched deep into New Mexico. Lookout Mountain was not that tall, but it stood as a lone rocky sentinel on this, the southeastern end of the Wet Mountain Valley. It overlooked piñon– and stunted-cedar-covered sandy ridges going off in every direction and was a natural vantage point from which to observe all that moved for miles.

This predator had a hunger for human flesh, and more importantly, it had been many days since he had made the kill on Sings Loud Woman. He knew where to make another stalk, testing his skills, moving quietly and unseen among the two-legged creatures.

The stage went slowly through the twisting narrows as it climbed uphill five miles toward Copper Gulch Stage Road. The road wound its way like a granite-scaled serpent, and the predator moved quietly and swiftly over the rocks toward a rendezvous with the upcoming Concord. His eyes seemed empty as his gaze swept back and forth in wide arcs, looking for unseen potential enemies under rocks, behind bushes, and in the shadow of every tree and rocky overhang.

He had watched the stage from his rocky lair and knew that it stopped at this spring to let the passengers fill their canteens or soak their kerchiefs in the cold springwater, to wrap around their necks to help in the sweltering summer heat. It would be here that he would take down his prey, and he could already taste the blood. Like always, he would select one prey out of the herd of passengers. It would be one that stood out as strong, almost
worthy
of being killed. He would soon carry the body up into the rocks to feast on this hot day.

The predator found his hiding place under a rock and between two thick bushes right near the spring. Passengers would walk within a few steps of him, and like before, he would patiently wait for the prey he picked out of the herd.

Jack “Blackjack” Colvin was an outstanding Pinkerton detective and was riding the stage to courier a message to fellow Pinkerton Joshua Strongheart. Blackjack was a tall, slender man with wiry muscles and a leathery face from many years in the saddle, the sun beating on his face, the wind chapping his rugged countenance.

Someone had dubbed him Blackjack because of his black handlebar mustache and because he was an outstanding cardplayer. Actually though, he was great at five-card-stud poker not blackjack. He thought about becoming a dealer and dreamed about owning his own gambling house in one of the big western towns. However, his father was a trapper, a mountain man, and Blackjack had a penchant for the high lonesome. He loved the wilderness and everything about being out in the mountains, desert, or prairie. His ideal roof at night was the Milky Way.

The Pinkerton man loved the black, steep Grand Tetons west of Jackson Hole country, far to the north, and he really loved the Wind River country, but this area was special. Southern Colorado Territory in many places, such as Pueblo and Cañon City, got less than a foot of snow per year and over 330 days of sunshine, yet less than one day's horseback ride away, plenty of snow could be found in the bordering mountains and mountain valleys. There was plenty of wildlife, water, and fertile growing land, and there were also plenty of railroad and stagecoach routes and hearty, self-sufficient residents.

His grandfather was from England and had taught Blackjack as a child the fine art and many nuances and pleasures of tying flies and fly-fishing. The Arkansas River, which emptied its giant bladder out onto the prairie at Cañon City, had the finest brown trout fishing in the world, stretching west from Cañon City all the way to Poncha Springs. There was also great rainbow and cutthroat trout fishing in the area, and Blackjack had told his friend Joshua by wire that he wanted them to spend a day fishing west of Cañon City along the Arkansas. Joshua had made his home in the area and operated out of there, receiving regular telegraphic communications in regards to assignments from his boss, Lucky, in Chicago.

At that moment, Joshua was making arrangements for a friend and excellent fly fisherman from Cañon City to take the two men out along the Arkansas to fish the best pools in the churning, foamy river.

The driver reined in the horses, and Blackjack exited the stage first, to help the ladies down. Clarabelle Sicher had traveled many miles to see her son, daughter-in-law, and grandchildren in Florence and was very excited that they were getting so close. Her legs and back ached from years of hard work and many travails. This final stagecoach ride was especially hard on her, but she was glad they were riding in a large, comparably comfortable Concord stage. Behind her was Joanne Rivers, who was either a dance hall entertainer or, occasionally, a prostitute, depending on her financial straits at the time. Sarah Louise Rudd was the last lady off the stage. Also aboard were the storyteller, Zachariah Banta, and an old cowpuncher, Luther Burrell, riding the grub line, as he had done so many times in the past. He had worked on cattle ranches for years in the Montana and Wyoming territories, but he was tired of snow and cold, another rider motivated by arthritic conditions. He had decided he would head to the Cañon City, Colorado, area and wrangle for his cousin's spread in the Red Canyon locale.

Clarabelle thanked Blackjack and immediately went to the spring, soaking her hankie in the cold water and rubbing it along her neck and face, the breeze running through the gulch cooling the skin as it gently blew across the damp skin. At the same time, she washed away some of the dust and grime of the trail.

Joanne batted her eyes at Blackjack almost automatically as he helped her down, but his mind was on fly-fishing with his good friend Joshua Strongheart. She had looks and a figure that enabled her to ply her trade anywhere, but a horrible four-year marriage to a wife-battering miner in Leadville had sent her packing, disheartened again about romance but determined to survive.

Blackjack waited until all the others had refreshed themselves at the spring and had moved over under a thick bunch of young cottonwoods along the stage road. This is what the predator wanted: to see his prey heading toward him. Lying under his camouflage layer of branches and grasses by the spring and water tank, he had lain perfectly still when the others came over to the spring. Clarabelle Sicher's left foot actually touched up against his leg, but she thought it was just a branch under all the leaves. Disciplined after years of stealthy stalking and killing, the predator patiently did not move, his mind made up to wait on one prey—Blackjack.

The tall, slender Pinkerton agent came forward unsuspecting. The predator looked at the gun on his hip and the belly gun he carried as backup, knowing that those things could kill and wound him. He had been shot years before by one prey, bruising a rib and feeling the burning pain of a bullet crease along his side. It taught him to be more cautious. His eyes looked over at the others, and none were paying any attention to Blackjack, as Clarabelle was passing out sandwiches to the other passengers and the driver. The prey got closer, and he slowed his breathing, muscles tensing and ready to strike as the Pinkerton got closer. Only a few more steps.

Blackjack automatically noticed that there seemed to be more foliage around the spring this trip, and he felt that the stage line should have somebody clear such places, as they could provide great cover and coolness for rattlesnakes. The predator tensed up, breathing slowly, carefully.

Blackjack stepped forward, canteen in his gun hand, ready to dip it into the spring. He was now straddling the predator, and he leaned forward to cup a hand and drink directly from the spring. It was time.