Crow Mountain (20 page)

‘Hello.'

My eyes widened. ‘Hello.'

‘You are surprised I speak your language.'

‘A little, yes.'

He patted the red horse, stroking a hand down his flank.

‘I am often in Fort Shaw, with my father, Two Tails. He is the chief here.'

‘Oh.' I tried to think. Finding common ground was important. ‘My father is a chief too, amongst our people.' It wasn't a lie, after all.

He looked pleased. ‘You are called English, yes? Like your tongue.'

I couldn't see the point in correcting him. ‘Yes.'

‘They are curious.' He gestured to the camp. ‘They have
heard you belong to Pale Eye and want to see his wife.'

‘I'm not his wife,' I said stoutly, surprised at my own voice.

His expression changed. ‘But he has the agreement of your family?'

‘I . . . er . . .' My voice petered out.

He looked at me, his copper-coloured skin smooth in the sun. ‘But Pale Eye claimed you. Before my father. I heard him say it.'

Claimed me?
Claimed?

‘Dog Child? You trying to get me into trouble?' You loped up behind him, elbowing Tara out of the way and putting a large, flat saddle on the red horse.

The boy shrugged, unperturbed. ‘I only told her our customs. If you have not the agreement of her father, have made no offering, you are not married and she does not belong to you.'

You ducked beneath the horse to grab the cinch and straightened, threading it through the rings. ‘Run along now and play with your little toy bow and arrow.'

‘Maybe that arrow will not feel so small if it is lodged in your chest, Pale Eye.'

You snorted with laughter, finishing the knot. ‘You in the market for a suitor now, English? I missed this news.'

The remark confused the young brave. He looked at me, eyes dark, one last time, then walked away.

You shook your head. ‘I leave you alone for a solitary minute and you're playing truant with the chief's son.'

‘I was not!' I said, indignant. ‘He came to speak to me.'

‘Which is against the rules and he knows it.'

‘Rules? Oh yes, you've
claimed
me, apparently,' I retorted sharply, my mettle thoroughly tested. ‘I wasn't aware that the Indians raffled off their women. Did they ask to see a winning ticket?'

You laughed, pretending to stumble and clutching your heart. ‘Nice shot, English. Didn't stop him trying his luck though, did it?'

‘What
luck
? I don't understand,' I said, thoroughly confused by the whole exchange.

‘I gotta explain every last thing to you, Emily?' You tutted, chucking me under the chin. ‘Looking up at him with those blue eyes as if he's the only man in this world, the poor boy don't know where he is.'

‘What on earth do you—'

You talked over me. ‘Your momma did a fine job of raising you up to make a man drunk just talking with you and you know it.'

‘Mama did no such thing and I don't know it. You mustn't say so, because I don't. She and Papa raised me to be good, and kind, and to try my best.'

You adjusted the saddle, pulling on it. ‘They did such a good job maybe even
you
don't know you're doing it.' You glanced at me. ‘Maybe.'

‘If you don't stop I'll . . .'

‘What'll you do?' you teased. ‘Take me over your knee?' You made a show of patting your pockets. ‘Ain't got a spare
horse bit for you to practise your aim with this time. You feel up to trying the rifle again?'

‘Shut up,' I said, then covered my mouth in shock at my bad manners.

You were buckling the throat strap on your red horse, and you laughed out loud at that. ‘I only
claimed
you 'cause we're moving out. You'll be safe here until we get back, if they think you're mine. OK?'

‘Oh.'

‘But the chief's son probably got more sway, and he's definitely got more than one good leg, so maybe it's time to switch your allegiance.' You turned back to the red horse.

‘Do stop. Such humour is in very poor taste.'

You mimicked me in silence, still checking and rechecking the kit behind the saddle. I looked around and saw signs of the camp galvanizing. Women were carrying saddles to horses, braves talked in small groups. Two thin, wiry warriors painted each other's faces with white and black stripes across their eyes. Clear Water and Lucky stood close together by his horse, barely touching, yet Clear Water's adoration of her husband was plain on her face. I looked away, feeling as if I were intruding, and the reality of my situation set in. ‘How . . . how long will you be gone?' I asked your back.

You shrugged, still not looking at me. ‘Don't know.'

‘What are you going to do?'

‘Make a stand against the killing party. Probably start a state-wide war. Bring down the wrath of the
people's
government upon these fool Indians' heads. Get my own shot off.'
You sighed without turning around. ‘Leave you all alone.'

‘No!'

You flung the reins over the horse's neck. ‘You wanted this, remember?'

‘But I—'

At that moment, Rose rode up and barked out a question without looking at me. I stood holding Tara's bridle in a slack hand, staring up at her as you answered, then turned to me.

‘Well, Emily, it's been a pleasure.' Stooping, you touched your lips to my forehead, ignoring my startled intake of breath. ‘Give my regards to Railroad. And don't worry yourself none whatever happens.'

Across the camp, braves were mounting their horses. You swung into the saddle. What if you were shot and I never saw you again? And to sit in a camp where I would be stared at and poked like a butterfly on a collector's pin? No, that held no appeal. Yet if there was to be a battle, I had no place in it. Yet I could not stay here alone without you. No. It wouldn't do. It wouldn't do at all. Besides, Rose wasn't staying behind. I tightened Tara's cinch and stuck my foot in the stirrup. Grabbing the saddlehorn, a second later I dropped into the seat. You both stopped talking and turned to stare at me.

Gathering the reins, I looked at you. ‘Well, I seem to remember this was all my idea anyway.'

‘Em—'

My insides trembled with fear, but I tried to make my voice steady. ‘Why not?'

‘Won't be no place for a woman.'

I fed the leather through my fingers, not looking at you. ‘Rose will be there.'

‘Like I said, Rose can take care of Rose. And she'll probably take care of about five of them too. I don't want to have to worry about you.'

I thought back, listening to my father's interminable diplomatic conversations, and the red flock wallpaper and the bright green ferns of our drawing room. ‘Well then, Pale Eye, you should have left me in that river bed, shouldn't you?'

Rose looked between us, and raised a soot-black eyebrow.

You set your jaw. ‘Well then, Emily Forsythe, let's go.'

Setting our heels to our horses, we left the camp at a brisk trot and headed out towards the east.

The camp, you told me later, was large for the Blackfoot, numbering perhaps two hundred souls, of which there were thirty braves. You and Lucky rode to one side of Two Tails, his sons, including Dog Child, to the other. Rose rode slightly separately. I stayed at the back, the only other woman. The men ignored me. Tara kept up easily and, at that moment, I was pleased with my decision to come. Then the band halted and there was a brief conversation. We were exposed as a large group, that much even I could see. Dog Child had dismounted and was examining the ground. I looked down, seeing rutted wheel tracks running through the grass. The hunters had passed this way.

As the group split into three, wheeling away north and south, you dropped back and fell in with me and Tara.

‘Likely we won't have much time when we get upon them, ain't much element of surprise out here. You stay back when I tell you, and if it all goes to shit, you turn Tara around and you get back to that camp as fast as you can. Yes?'

I nodded. You carried on speaking, to yourself as much as me.

‘We're coming at them from three angles and we got a two-part plan. The first is to scatter the herd. The second is to drop as many of the hunters as possible. It ain't going to be pretty, you know that, don't you?'

‘Yes,' I said, my voice as firm as I could make it.

‘And, worse comes to worst? If something happens to me, and getting away isn't possible, you get near Rose and she'll take care a-you. Lucky, the same. OK?'

‘Nothing's going to happen to you, is it?'

‘Hope not, but when it's your time, it's your time.'

I shifted in the saddle, uneasy. The scout returned. They had found the wagons, which had halted – for reasons of surprise – some distance from the herd. There were three young men driving the wagons, but it looked as if they were preparing to follow the main hunting party. Rose favoured taking them out immediately, by stealth if possible, so as not to alert the main hunting party, who were half a mile further on, approaching the herd. As you relayed the information, I stared at her. She meant killing them. People were going to die.

Rose and two braves rode away. Soon afterwards, one of them returned. The men with the wagons were dead, two by
Rose's knife. We went forward; my hands were shaking and I wound them around the saddlehorn, holding tight even though I looked like a child on a seaside donkey. Arriving over the hill, I looked down on the scene before me. Three wagons, each drawn by two horses, stood below us. On the ground were three bodies, one at a distance – clearly he'd been trying to run. An arrow stuck from his body at an awkward angle. One of the braves was quieting the horses at the head of a wagon; Rose was stooping to pull an arrow from one of the bodies, tugging when it wouldn't come easily. My stomach rebelled and I fought not to gag. As we approached, she knelt and took out her knife. Grasping a lock of hair at the crown of the man's head, she slit a small disc of scalp from his head and pushed it into the bag at her waist. I swallowed a cry.

You held out a warning hand. ‘You wanted this. You. So you just sit there and you take it, Emily.'

Rose straightened, high cheekbones flushed. They remounted, taking their horses from the scout, and we continued, scout at the head. We were climbing steadily. To our right was a high ridge, another to our left, and a river meandered at the base of the valley.

Little did I know, the herd was just over the next rise. Suddenly there was the distant boom of a buffalo gun. Then the air rang with them. You cursed and jabbed a finger at the ground.

‘Wait here. Here! Not an inch in any direction, Emily, or I will tan your hide blue.' Unshouldering your rifle, you
clapped your heels to the red horse, a feral yell breaking from your throat. You and the braves soared over the hill in a phalanx of screaming, yelling warriors, guns and bows held aloft.

As you disappeared, my heart raced. The first of the buffalo were cresting the rise coming in the opposite direction and heading straight for us. You'd told me that the bulls weighed over a ton. Tara stood immobile, a teacup of courage, as they thundered towards us, ground shaking beneath them. I gripped the saddlehorn. Perhaps twenty, of all sizes, from vast adults to calves, streamed past in a sweating, snorting, stinking charge. I found I was gripping Tara's mane, sweat prickling inside my shirt, as their hoof beats died away behind us.

Then I was sitting on Tara alone, in the middle of an empty hillside over which I could hear the racket of tribal war. Something screamed.

I squeezed Tara into a walk. We crested the rise seconds later and saw the battle spread out before us. Buffalo still fled in all directions, but centred below us was the most extraordinary scene. My eyes sought you. I didn't know, at that time, that the rifle which never left your side held six shots in a revolving chamber, like a pistol with a long, wicked barrel. With it you were deadly: a fact the hunters quickly recognized, and you were soon the focus of their attention. All of them had been employed for their skill with a gun. There were almost twenty of them, armed with what you told me later were powerful Sharps rifles. In the dirt lay the bodies of
at least seven buffalo. Men and horses clashed everywhere and I watched as the horses played as much a part in the battle as the men, ramming into their opponents, shoulder to shoulder – riding off, you told me later. You sat on the red horse, a short distance away, calmly reloading, lifting the weapon to your eye, taking shots as they came. But you did it totally exposed, as if inviting a bullet.

I wanted to shout to you, to urge you to seek some cover, but all I could do was watch. I saw you kill three of the hunters before one of them, breaking contact with a brave, galloped towards you. Instantly I regretted that I was there; had I not been, you would have been mounted on Tara. The young, nervy red horse shied violently as the other rode down on him, throwing your weight on to your weak leg. Both hands on the gun, you fell from the saddle, hitting the dirt, rifle discharging. The rider circled and returned. My heart was in my mouth: on the ground you were lame and slow.

Quite how what happened next came to pass I am still, all this time later, unsure.

Tara hurtled on to the plain, my face by her neck, legs tight, reins caught only by a thread. She knew what was required of her, always, and speared straight for the hunter's large bay gelding. Her hooves darted into the dirt and we arrowed towards them just as you gained your feet and the hunter levelled his rifle at you. He had taken his time, gloating, halting his horse and preparing to shoot you from little over ten feet away as you stood and waited for it to come.
What Tara did not have in weight, we made up for in speed, smashing into the gelding's shoulder with a force that made my teeth rattle, bruising my right leg, flinging me against the saddlehorn and down over Tara's flank.