The Scalp Hunters (3 page)

Evelyn King froze every muscle in her body. One bite from the rattler and its deadly poison would course through her veins. Even if her friends sucked out the poison there was no guarantee she would live. She stared into the vertical slits of the angry serpent's eyes, and a chill ran down her spine. It was poised to sink its fangs into her flesh.

There was the twang of a bowstring. An arrow cored the rattler's head and imbedded itself in the ground, pinning the rattlesnake to the earth, and the snake, although dead, went into a paroxysm of thrashing and coiling and rattling its tail.

Evelyn swallowed and let out the breath she had been holding. Strong hands gripped her and pulled her to her feet. Her eyes met those of the archer and what she saw in them sent a different kind of tingle down her spine.

Dega thought his heart would burst when the snake went to strike. He had notched a shaft and let fly almost before his brain realized what his body was doing. Half fearful Evelyn had already been bitten, he vaulted from his horse and helped her up. “You be all right?” he anxiously asked.

“A little bruised, is all.” Evelyn's arms were warm
where he touched them. “Thank you for saving me. You're awful quick with that bow.”

“I worry—” Dega said, and stopped. His voice sounded husky and his throat was oddly tight. Letting go, he stepped back and slung his bow over his shoulder. “I glad you no hurt.”

The others brought their mounts in close. Waku leaned down and put a hand on Evelyn's shoulder.

“Are you sure you are not hurt, Evelyn King?”

“I'm fine. Really.”

Teni had caught the mare before it could run off, and now she held out the reins. “Here you are,” she said in the Nansusequa tongue.

“Thank you.” Evelyn felt slightly embarrassed. The mishap wasn't her fault, but being unhorsed was always unsettling. She checked that her Hawken hadn't been damaged in the fall, then climbed back on.

Dega placed his foot on the snake just below the head and extracted his arrow. It took some doing. The barbed tip became caught in the skull and he used his knife to pry it free. Wiping the shaft clean on the grass, he slid the arrow into his quiver.

Moving on, they stayed well shy of the prairie dog town. Twice they spotted rattlers sunning themselves.

It occurred to Evelyn that they should have brought the dead snake with them and chopped it up for supper. Not that she was all that partial to snake meat. She'd eaten it on occasion, but she much preferred venison or rabbit or squirrel. It wasn't that snake meat had a bad taste. In fact, it was quite good. It was the notion of eating
snake
. Crawly things were her least favorite creatures in all creation.

Toward the middle of the afternoon Dega brought his mount up next to the mare and rode at Evelyn's
side until he mustered the courage to ask, “You like me, Evelyn?”

“I like you just fine,” Evelyn admitted. “You're just about the best friend I've ever had.”

“Friend.” Dega had hoped she might like him a little bit more. He didn't have the white words to express what he wanted to say, and he was worried he might offend her if he didn't do it right.

“Someone you care for a great deal. Someone who means the world to you.”

“I know what friend be.”

Evelyn wondered why he sounded upset. “Why did you ask? Did you think I don't like you?”

“Oh. No. I know you like,” Dega assured her. She had misunderstood. Added proof that he must be careful what he said and particularly how he said it. “I like you much, too.”

“Did you have friends like me back in your village?” Evelyn asked without thinking, and regretted it when his face mirrored sadness.

“Many friends, yes.”

Evelyn knew she should let it drop, but she wanted to know. “Female friends?”

Dega was thinking of the massacre, of the many relatives and friends he lost. “Many females, yes.”

“Oh.” Evelyn didn't like the sound of that. She wondered if maybe there had been a special girl, but she was afraid to ask.

Up ahead, Tihikanima looked back at them and then turned to her husband. “Will you like her as a daughter-in-law?”

In the distance were specks that might be large animals, and Waku was intent on learning if they were buffalo. “What are you talking about?”

“Dega and Evelyn. When they are husband and wife, she will be part of our family.”

Waku tore his gaze from the specks to thoughtfully regard his wife. “Do you truly believe it will come to that?”

“Do you have eyes? She has touched our son's heart. You have only to look at his face when he looks at her.”

Adopting a casual air, Waku gazed about them, making it a point to gaze behind them, as well. “I see no difference than when he looks at you or me.”

Tihi indulged in an exaggerated sigh. “That is because you are a man. You are not sensitive to feelings, as women are.”

“I am as sensitive as you.” Waku was mildly offended. He took great pains to be the best husband and father he could be.

“Do you want her as your son's wife?”

“Why do you ask such a thing? Now, of all times?”

“The others will not hear us if we talk quietly.”

“That is not what I meant.” Waku would rather talk about it in the privacy of their lodge than out here on the prairie when he was trying to find buffalo.

“It will not be long, I tell you, before he decides to court her. Given how she feels about him, we have important decisions to make.”

Resigned to the inevitable, Waku asked, “How do you know how she feels? Has she told you?”

“She does not need to. Do you think she came with us because she likes to butcher buffalo? No, she came to be with Dega. Have you not noticed that she spends every moment in his company? She cares for him, Waku. He cares for her. Are you ready to lose him?”

“If they marry, we do not lose a son. We gain a daughter,” Waku said.

“Must I explain everything?” Tihi let out another
sigh. “What is the Nansusequa custom when a young man and a young woman bind hearts?”

“The woman comes to live in the lodge of the man and his parents,” Waku answered.

“What is the white custom?”

“Eh?”

“Blue Water Woman is a Flathead, is she not? She took Shakespeare McNair as her man and lives in his lodge.”

“Yes. So?”

“Winona is a Shoshone. She took Nate King for a husband. Do they live in a lodge with her people or do they live in Nate's lodge far from the Shoshones?”

“They live in his lodge, but—”

“Zachary King has married a white woman, Louisa. Do they live in the same lodge as Nate and Winona or do they have a lodge of their own?”

“They have their own lodge.” Waku saw what she was getting at, and it troubled him.

“What makes you think Evelyn will be different? What makes you think she will come live with us? I suspect she will want to do as her parents and her brother and live in a lodge of her own.”

Waku had looked forward to one day having his grown children and their families share his lodge. That had been the Nansusequa way since there were Nansusequa. It was why they built their lodges so large. Two or three or sometimes four generations all lived in the same dwelling, all devoted to one another, the old imparting their wisdom to the young, the young looking after the old when the old could no longer look after themselves.

Tihi had gone on. “I have something else for you to think about. We are the last of our kind. None of the other tribes live as we did. When our daughters
grow of age and take husbands, they will probably go live with their men. We will be alone with no one to look after us.”

Deep sorrow came over Waku. It was bad enough to be the last of the Nansusequa. To think that when he and his wife died, the Nansusequa way of life died with them—forever—was a sadness that surpassed all others.

“We cannot blame our children,” Tihi said.

“We can't?”

“What else are they to do? With all our people slain they must look for mates elsewhere.”

Waku's mood turned bitter. Usually he tried not to think of the fate of their people; it depressed him too much. So long as he focused on his family and what he could do to make their lives happier, he kept the sadness at bay.

Shaking himself, Waku straightened. Time enough later to ponder the future, he told himself. At the moment he was after buffalo. The stick figures had disappeared while he was talking to Tihi. He continued in that direction, hoping that whatever they were they hadn't gone far.

The vastness of the prairie staggered him.

All his life, Waku lived in the deep woods. The forest nurtured him. Its bounty enabled his people to thrive. It was everything; sanctuary, provider, mother. He'd never imagined a world with no forest, never conceived there was a sea of grass to rival the sea of trees.

Waku liked the mountains more than the plain. The mountains had their meadows and glades and clearings, but in many respects the high timber reminded him of the woods he had forsaken when he and his family fled.

“Waku?” Tihi said.

“I do not care to hear any more about Dega and Evelyn.”

Tihi pointed. “What are those?”

Squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, Waku spied more stick figures. These were to the north and moving south. They were moving fast and if they kept on would pass within a few arrow flights in front of them.

“Men on horses.”

Waku had come to the same conclusion. Two riders, racing across the prairie as if their lives depended on it. He drew rein. “Everyone look there!” he shouted, in both Nansusequa and English.

Evelyn was debating the best way to ask Dega if there had ever been a girl he was particularly fond of. Twisting, she rose in the stirrups. “Warriors! I can't tell the tribe yet.”

“They in hurry,” Dega said.

Too much of a hurry, Evelyn thought. The pair were riding like the wind—or as if they were being pursued. She didn't see anyone else. “We should talk to them.”

“Is that wise?” Waku asked. “Maybe they are our enemies.”

“If there's a war party hereabouts, we need to find out.” Evelyn checked that her Hawken and her pistols were loaded.

“One man is bent over,” Waku mentioned.

Evelyn had noticed that, too. It looked as though he was hurt. The other warrior stayed at his side and reached out to him from time to time.

The pair changed direction, reining to the southeast, away from Waku and his family.

“They have seen us.”

“Come on,” Evelyn urged. The mare had been
held to a walk for so long that she was eager to let herself go.

“Wait!” Waku cried. He was worried that if anything happened to her, Nate King would blame him. Slapping his legs against his mount, he hastened after her. He had little chance of catching up. She had been riding since she was old enough to sit a horse; he'd only learned to ride recently.

“Evelyn!” Dega shouted, and gave chase. Her impulsive nature bothered him. She was constantly taking him by surprise.

Evelyn paid them no mind. She wasn't near enough to the two warriors to be in any danger. The wind whipping her hair, she urged the mare to go faster.

The warrior who appeared to be hurt caught sight of her and yelled to the other one.

Waving her rifle, Evelyn yelled at the top of her lungs, “Friend! I'm a friend!” She did the same in Shoshone and in Crow.

The pair were flying. If they understood her, they gave no indication.

Evelyn knew she should stop, but she kept going. Call it stubbornness. Call it curiosity. She wanted to talk to them, by sign language if no other way. She was aware of Dega thundering behind her and the rest of the family strung out after him.

The warrior who was bent over his horse seemed to be clinging on for dear life. The other warrior swiveled at the hips and raised both arms as if in supplication.

Puzzled, Evelyn waved. She realized the second warrior was holding something.

“Stop!” Dega frantically yelled.

Evelyn never had liked being told what to do.

“You must stop!”

A sharp retort was on the tip of Evelyn's tongue, but it died as it hit her exactly was the second warrior was doing. She glanced skyward and her skin crawled at the sight of a glittering shaft arcing out of the sky toward her.

“Evelyn!” Dega cried.

Evelyn had heartbeats in which to react. With a silent prayer she wrenched on the reins.

Plenty Elk swiftly notched another arrow to his bowstring, but the young white woman drew rein when his arrow imbedded itself in the dirt near her horse. Those with her also stopped. He felt safe in lowering his bow and shoving the arrow back into his quiver.

He couldn't believe it when he first saw them. Indians all in green! And a white woman! This was a day of unexpected events. First the scalp hunters; now these others.

Plenty Elk did not know what the woman's intent was in giving chase. She might have been friendly, but she was well armed and he was not taking chances, not with his friend wounded. “Can you keep riding?”

“Yes.” Wolf's Tooth gritted his teeth against the pain and tried not to think of all the blood he'd lost. He had been dizzy for a while, but the bout had passed. Now he was weak but not so weak that he couldn't ride. “Who were those people?”

“Strangers.” Plenty Elk shouted to be heard above the pounding of hooves. “One of them was white.”

“Maybe they are with the scalp men.”

Plenty Elk doubted it. The scalp men would take
the hair of any Indians they came across, including those in green.

“Is there sign of them?”

Plenty Elk scoured the prairie to the north. “No.” It puzzled him. He'd expected the scalp hunters to give determined chase.

The pair galloped on until their horses were lathered with sweat. A ribbon of cottonwoods along a narrow stream offered shade from the heat and water to clean Wolf's Tooth's wound. Plenty Elk cut a strip of buckskin from his friend's shirt to bandage it.

“There. Do not use the arm much and in a moon you will be almost healed. The bullet went all the way through. You were fortunate.”

Wolf's Tooth placed his good hand on his hurt shoulder and grunted. “I do not feel fortunate.”

Plenty Elk stepped to the stream. Kneeling, he washed his hands clean of the blood. “We must warn our people about the scalp men. We must warn our friends, the Cheyenne.”

“We must kill them.”

“When Tall Bull hears that his son is dead, he will raise a war party. He loved Short Bull very much.”

“I want to go with them. I want to see the scalp men die with my own eyes,” Wolf's Tooth declared.

“You cannot fight with one arm.”

“I can use a knife. I can swing a tomahawk.”

Plenty Elk wiped his hands dry on the grass. He went to his horse, opened a parfleche, and brought over a bundle wrapped in badger fur. Opening it, he held out a piece of pemmican. “Eat. You must keep your strength up. It is a long ride to our village.”

“We should start back.”

Plenty Elk selected another piece and bit off the end. Chewing, he said, “There is no hurry. There is
no sign of the scalp men, and you need to build up your strength.”

“I can ride.”

Bobbing his head at their horses, Plenty Elk said, “They need rest, too.” Both animals were hanging their heads in exhaustion.

Wolf's Tooth put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes. “I still can hardly believe it. Short Bull and Right Hand, gone. They were our best friends. We played together when we were small.”

Plenty Elk couldn't believe it, either. It had happened so fast. “We were fools to track those men. I tried to talk Short Bull out of it. You heard me argue with him.”

“He never listened to any words but his own.”

“Right Hand did not want to do it, either. He only went along because the rest of us did.”

“His woman will wail and cut herself.”

“And her, heavy with child,” Plenty Elk said glumly.

“She can go live with her parents. Or she can come to my lodge. I have always liked her.”

“You would raise the child as your own?”

“Right Hand was my friend.”

Plenty Elk stood. “I will take a look around.” He walked through the cottonwoods to the edge of the grass. To the north, nothing. To the west, nothing. He checked the south, too, with the same result.

“Well?” Wolf's Tooth prompted upon his return.

“We are safe.”

“You do not sound certain.”

Plenty Elk squatted. He picked up a stick and poked at the dirt. “It was too easy.”

“What was?”

“The scalp hunters should have come after us. They didn't. It worries me.”

Wolf's Tooth leaned on his good arm and studied Plenty Elk. “You have always worried too much. When there is nothing to worry about, you worry about that.”

“You do not worry enough.”

“Did you see horses?”

“I told you. No one is after us.”

“No. Not now. When the scalp men tried to kill us. Did you see their horses anywhere?”

“I saw only the scalp men.”

“There is your answer. They had to run to their horses. We had too much of a start and they could not catch us.”

Plenty Elk would like to think it was that simple. “It would be easy for them to track us.”

Wolf's Tooth forgot himself, and shrugged. Wincing, he said, “Tracking takes time.”

“It is daylight. Our tracks are fresh.”

“You forget. They were white men. Few whites are good trackers.”

“One of them had black skin,” Plenty Elk reminded him. “And I have heard there are whites who can track as good as anyone.”

“Worry they are tracking us if you want to.” Wolf's Tooth eased onto his back and placed his arm over his eyes. “While you worry, I will rest. Wake me when the horses have recovered enough to head for our village.”

Plenty Elk rose and went back to the edge of the prairie. Sitting with his back to a bole, he placed his bow across his legs. The sun was warm on his face, the wind stirred his hair. Somewhere in the cottonwoods a robin warbled. A yellow butterfly fluttered past.

The world was at peace, but the same could not be said of Plenty Elk's spirit. Again and again he
searched the far horizon in all directions, and always it was the same. He would like to believe Wolf's Tooth was right. He would like to accept the fact they had escaped. But he had looked into the eyes of the scalp hunter who spoke their tongue, and what he saw had unnerved him. They were not normal eyes. Looking into them was like looking into the violent depths of a rabid animal.

Plenty Elk swallowed and licked his lips, and sighed. There was still no sign of anyone. Maybe Wolf's Tooth was right. He worried too much. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. He could use some rest, too. The deaths of his friends, the long ride, had drained him.

A cricket chirped. High in the sky a hawk screeched. A fly buzzed near his ear. The usual sounds of a usual day. Peaceful sounds. Plenty Elk drifted into a gray realm between wakefulness and sleep. Part of him wanted to doze off, but another part, the part that always worried, warned him he shouldn't. Despite what Wolf's Tooth said, it wasn't safe.

He fell asleep anyway.

Plenty Elk dreamed he was running. It was early morning, and fog blanketed the land. Something or someone was after him, but he couldn't see what or who it was. He kept looking over his shoulder, but all he saw were shadowy shapes—and glowing eyes. Eyes like wolves. He ran and he ran, but he couldn't outdistance them. They were always back there, always glowing bright with evil glee.

In his dream Plenty Elk tripped. Before he could rise, the shadowy shapes were on him. They bore him to the earth. Some pinned his arms while others pinned his legs. He struggled with all his might, but they were many and he was one. A knife appeared,
sweeping out of the fog like a scythe. He tried to twist his head aside but a burning sensation filled his throat and he felt warm drops of blood trickle down his neck.

With a start, Plenty Elk sat up and gazed wildly about. He sucked air into his lungs and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.

“That was silly.” Plenty Elk pushed to his feet. The prairie was still empty of life. He glanced at the sun and was surprised to note how high it had climbed. He had been asleep much too long.

The horses were dozing. Wolf's Tooth was still on his back, his arm over his eyes.

“Wake up. We must be on our way.”

When Wolf's Tooth didn't stir, Plenty Elk walked over and went to nudge Wolf's Tooth's foot with his own. Only then did Plenty Elk see the ring of red around his friend's head. He took another step—and saw pink flesh where there should be hair.

Recoiling, Plenty Elk gripped the hilt of his knife. He had the blade halfway out when he was struck a terrible blow to the back of the head. Excruciating pain flooded through him. His senses swam, his legs grew weak, and his legs buckled. He came down hard on his knees. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to draw his knife, only to have it kicked from his hand. Another blow, not quite as hard as the first, stretched him out on his side. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of his weapons and having his legs tied at the knees and at the ankles. His hands, though, were left free. Why that should be mystified him until he was roughly rolled onto his back.

It was the black man. He had a rifle in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. A smile without warmth
creased his cold features. Wedging the tomahawk under his belt, he leaned the rifle against a leg. Then his fingers flowed in fluid sign. ‘When brain work, Dog Eater, we sign talk.'

Plenty Elk tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He looked at Wolf's Tooth, at the fate that soon awaited him, and felt great regret. He loved being alive. He did not want to die.

The black stared at him, waiting.

Plenty Elk wondered why he was still alive. Forcing his hands to move, he posed the question in sign.

‘Big man want talk you.'

By “big man,” Plenty Elk gathered that the black meant the man who spoke Arapaho. ‘Question. Why he talk me?'

‘He ask where you sit. He ask how many you people. He ask how many warriors. How many women. How many children.'

Fear filled Plenty Elk, not for himself but for his people. He resolved not to tell the scalp men where his village was or how many lived there, no matter what. ‘I no sign talk.'

The black did a strange thing; he laughed. ‘You talk. Him make all people talk.'

Plenty Elk didn't like the sound of that. The scalp men tortured as well as scalped. Truly, he told himself, they were evil.

Squatting, the black regarded him with amusement. ‘Question. You called?'

Plenty Elk signed his name. ‘Question. You?'

‘No sign talk my name. I speak name.' The black touched his chest. “Rubicon,” he said slowly.

“Rubicon,” Plenty Elk repeated. ‘You first black man I see.'

‘I last black man you see.'

Plenty Elk sank his cheek to the grass and closed his eyes. The pain had lessened a little and he could think again. Unless he did something, quickly, he wouldn't live to greet the next dawn. But other than try and grab Rubicon's rifle, what could he do? He looked up at his captor. ‘Question. Why you take hair? Take hair bad.'

Rubicon held his right hand out from his chest and curled his thumb and index finger to make a near-complete circle.

It was the sign for money.

Hope flared in Plenty Elk's breast. ‘Question. You cut rope I give you my horse? You sell horse. Have money.'

‘Your hair more money.'

In the distance hooves drummed.

Plenty Elk stiffened. It must be the rest of the scalp hunters. He started to lower his hands to the rope around his legs. Without warning Rubicon sprang and swung the stock of his rifle in a tight arc. Plenty Elk nearly cried out. His ribs felt as if they had caved in.

“Don't get no ideas, redskin.”

Plenty Elk understood the warning tone if not the words. He gazed through the trees to the west, seeking sign of his impending doom. They would torture him and kill him and lift his hair, and there wasn't a thing he could do. In his frustration and helplessness, he raised a loud lament to the sky.

Rubicon rose. Smirking, he cradled his rifle. “Listen to you howl. That's your death chant, ain't it?”

The drumming hooves slowed as they neared the cottonwoods. Plenty Elk girded himself and dived at Rubicon's legs, but the black man was too quick for him and leaped out of reach.

Snarling, Rubicon raised his rifle to hit Plenty Elk again.

That was when the brush crackled and out of the trees came the last person Plenty Elk expected: the young white woman.