The Vigilante's Bride (21 page)
There was no hurry the next morning. Scully treated them all, made flapjacks and boiled two big pots of coffee, while the men lolled around, joking and killing time, waiting until Haldane and his crew got well on up the trail. Leisurely, they broke camp, mounted up, and rode out at an ambling walk, staying out of sight, miles behind the herd. Once, they got close enough to see the dust on the horizon. Another time, they saw where the cattle forded the Bighorn River and turned north. They waded into it themselves and swam the horses across.
On the other side, a few minutes later, Henry Bertel pointed to Luke. “What’s he doing?”
He did look peculiar. Leaning far out of the saddle like a trick rider at a fair, Luke kept Bugle moving, zigzagging him back and forth across the cattle tracks. He stopped up ahead, got off, and waved to the others to do the same. Dropping into a high-kneed squat, he thumbed his hat back and pointed to a clear set of tracks.
“This herd’s been cut since yesterday,” he said.
“Cut again? When? Where’d they go?” Scully asked, his face registering surprise.
“Wish I knew,” Luke muttered.
He sent the Cosgrove brothers, Henry Bertel, and Will Brown off to follow Haldane and the herd going to Parker. He and Scully doubled back to where the tracks first crossed the river and turned north, where the Little Bighorn emptied into the Bighorn River. Luke pointed to a V-shaped spit of sand and rubble jutting into the center where the two rivers joined.
“How come it’s busted up out there?” Luke said.
“It’s where they went across, I guess.”
Luke shook his head. “No. Haldane drove them over about a mile back, remember?”
“A couple got loose, maybe?”
“Take more than a couple to chew it up like that.” For a full minute, he sat there, staring at the confluence of the two rivers. Again and again, his eyes pulled back to the Little Bighorn River curving to his left. “Let’s go down there a ways.”
Sully hesitated. “You forget that’s Crow territory?”
“No.” Luke hadn’t forgotten. His stomach was already knotting.
For the Crows, raiding was expressly forbidden by the treaty. Yet twice since he’d been back, Luke had seen signal fires in the mountains. Every chance they got, small war parties of Crows stole off the reservation, riding miles out of their way to avoid a ranch or a farm and being seen by the whites. Then swinging back, they swooped in on an enemy camp of Lakota Sioux or Cheyenne. So far, they’d left the whites strictly alone. But that could change.
Indian life had changed. All too often for the Crows, bad things happened after white men came in. But increasingly, there were signs of hostility. Until recently, the Crow had been the one tribe the white men trusted. But now, still unexplained, was the disappearance of two itinerant trappers last seen taking a shortcut through the reservation on their way south to Wyoming.
“I ain’t going in there,” Scully said grimly, shaking his head. “I like my ears right where they are.”
“We don’t bother them, they won’t bother us. Wait for me here. I won’t be long.”
He heeled Bugle into the river, and the horse swam the short distance in the middle for the bank on the other side. Water sheeting from his flanks, Bugle drove his powerful hind legs and scrambled out of the water and up the bank.
Scully watched and debated with himself. Tail swinging with each step, Bugle moved rapidly along beside the river, his rider erect in the saddle.
After a minute, Scully sent his own horse down the embankment and into the water, and caught up with Luke. A mile farther on, they stopped.
“Nothing,” Luke said. “Not a sign of them – they didn’t come this way. Let’s go back where they crossed and look again.”
From somewhere in the trees, the mournful howl of a coyote cut across the canyon like a knife, gliding, wavering. A brother answered, unseen but almost at their elbows. Both men spun in their saddles. Their eyes met. From far away, widely separated, others took up the call, not faint or fading but approaching, howling on the run.
“Those ain’t coyotes,” Scully whispered.
“Let’s get out of here.”
They wheeled their horses and kicked them into a gallop, racing along the riverbank to get out of the reservation. Leaning around a sweeping bend of the Little Bighorn, both men reared back in their saddles and plunged the horses to a stop.
Bows at full draw, a Crow war party crouched on the path in front of them.
Luke started to sweat. It seemed as if these copper-faced men had been chosen for their vicious appearance, for the nightmare of Indian cruelty they represented. There was nothing they wouldn’t do. His breath trapped in his lungs.
His stomach had turned to air, hollow as a shell, and a muscle ticked out of control in his cheek. He shot a look at Scully. Eyes wide, Scully’s face sagged with fear. Until that moment, Luke had always thought Scully to be rock solid. Now he wasn’t so sure.
A tall, bare-chested Crow in buckskins and a breechclout held up a hand, palm out, and stepped forward. Attached to the heel of each moccasin was a coyote tail that flopped the ground with every step. He stopped a few feet from them and drove his lance into the earth, then nodded abruptly and pointed to the trail in front of him.
Relief flooded across Scully’s face. “I’ve seen him before. Name’s Little Turtle. Came to New Hope after Black Otter’s boys a time or two. He’s kind of a junior chief, so don’t go getting ideas about pulling your gun,” Scully warned. “Some say he’s a captain in the Dog Soldiers, a secret society you don’t mess with. The spear in the ground means he’s friendly. He wants to talk.”
“Go ahead,” Luke said.
“Ain’t me he’s looking at.”
Slowly, Luke stood in the stirrup, swung his leg over, and stepped down, stalling for time, studying the Crow waiting for him.
Crows were handsome people, tall and fine-featured, with narrow non-Indian noses. This one wore soft yellow-gray deerskin, his moccasins beaded and trimmed with tufts of fur. Around his neck hung a small leather pouch and an eagle claw. Hair, black as night, was cropped into a stiff brush above his forehead, the remainder bound loosely into two strips hanging to the front over his shoulders.
Over six feet tall, the man stood eye to eye with Luke and was in superb condition. Luke blinked slowly and dragged in a long breath.
For centuries, Sioux fought Blackfoot, Blackfoot fought Arapahoe, Arapahoe fought Cheyenne. The Absaroka – the bird people, the Crows – fought every one of them. With a fierce bravery, they ran a constant warpath, protecting what belonged to them.
And this reservation was theirs.
He and Scully were not only armed and trespassing on Crow land, they were following a herd of cattle bearing the New Hope brand and driving right through the middle of their reservation. Somehow, Luke had to convince Little Turtle that it was all a mistake. He cleared his throat and shook off the sweat trickling down his jaw.
“My name’s Sullivan. I’m from New Hope.”
Flat black eyes stared back at him.
“We’re looking for cattle. Our own cattle. They were stolen.”
Not a flicker of movement.
He doesn’t speak English
, Luke thought, and chided himself that he didn’t know sign language, that he’d refused to learn it. Palm up, Luke lifted a hand in a gesture of openness, and turned to go. “We will leave now.”
“No.”
Luke wasn’t sure if Little Turtle had spoken or if he’d imagined it. The lips appeared not to have moved. The face before him could have been carved from leather.
“We meant no harm,” Luke said. In spite of himself, a tight anger coiled in his chest and thudded his heart against his rib cage.
“Come.” With a jerk of his head toward the trees, the Crow yanked his lance out of the dirt.
Luke didn’t move. Instead, he stared at the Crow brave in front of him. The man’s dark eyes locked on his, each man staring the other down.
Pictures flashed in Luke’s mind again, misty, detached. His mother, his sister, his father with his face half gone. Bitterness clawed at the back of his throat. Why was he spared then only for this?
No fair, Lord.
He went for his gun.
The Indian blistered out a stream of Crow. Luke took a step backward and collided with bodies, which weren’t there a moment before. His holster was empty, the Colt already in an Indian fist. Two braves pinned his arms high behind him, rounding his shoulders, stooping him over. Men on ponies moved in and surrounded them. One Indian with a long, thin strip of rawhide in his hands stepped in and bound his wrists behind him, lashing his thumbs together tightly.
Not taking his eyes off the Indian in front of him, Luke gritted his teeth. “What do I do now, Scully?”
Scully’s voice cracked. His own arms were being tied behind him. “I told you not to go for your gun. Crows are supposed to be peaceable to whites. I ain’t so sure now.”
The Crows took their rifles, pistols, even Scully’s pocketknife. One of them held Bugle’s bridle; another grabbed Luke’s shoulder and indicated with his head for Luke to mount the horse. Roughly, Luke was boosted into the saddle. Then the Indians boxed them in, crowding their ponies around the white men’s horses.
Bugle made an ominous rumbling sound in his neck and hoofed a step sideways in alarm. Not wanting the horse hurt, Luke pressed his knees into Bugle to reassure him.
Up and out of the canyon, they rode into dense woods, shadowed and thick with ferns. Here and there, a shaft of sunlight slanted through the branches. Only the stiff creak of timber overhead and the muffled thud of hoof beats broke the silence. Hands tied behind him, Luke rode in silence, wondering if they were the first white men to pass through.
Deep into Crow land, the trees thinned. They broke into a large clearing filled with mud-and-stone lodges, wooden huts, and smoking tipis. The camp dogs ran at them, barking and snarling around the horses, setting up a racket.
Black-haired, dark-eyed people were everywhere, working, talking in small groups around campfires. Outside their houses, cinnamon-skinned women ground meal or scraped animal skins pegged to the ground. Two women in knee-high moccasins were weaving on a loom strung between two poles. A baby hung in a cradleboard on one of the poles.
All activity ceased at their approach, the villagers falling silent, staring at the two white men. Luke’s mouth went dry, remembering what he’d heard Indian women did to white male captives. In front of a large lodge, the Crows dismounted. With a Crow brave steadying each of them, Luke and Scully were pulled off their horses.
Little Turtle pointed to the low doorway. Luke and Scully exchanged wary glances, ducked their heads, and went inside.
Chief Black Otter looked from Luke to the brave standing beside him. In Crow, he asked, “Is this Light Eyes?”
“Yes. They came after cows. I told them nothing,” Little Turtle said.
“Why you tie him up?”
“He is angry inside.”
Black Otter nodded. His sons had told him about the Sioux attack on Luke’s family. “He has reason. Untie him,” he said. He gestured for Luke to sit on a pile of buffalo skins on the floor.
“Rest easy in your mind, Sullivan. You welcome here.”
Luke’s eyes widened at the use of his name. “Are you Black Otter?”
The chief nodded, a faint twist in the corners of his lips. “My sons know you. They say you teach them to shoot.”
Luke let out a long, ragged sigh of relief, and he sank down onto the buffalo skins. Slowly, his heartbeat smoothed to something close to normal. Rubbing his wrists, he said, “White men stole our cattle. We thought they drove them here,” he explained.
“They did. They here.”
“We looked. There are no tracks.”
“You no see tracks. Men come with one called Iron Hair. They drive cows through river – a long way.”
“Bart Axel’s men?”
“Two are same men who beat you. Little Turtle, his braves, they stop them.” Black Otter frowned. “You not know we tie you on horse, send you home?”
“That’s right, Luke,” Scully broke in. “I knew those were Injun knots!”
Luke looked at Little Turtle, caught a slight softening of expression, then a brief nod of affirmation. A pang of guilt needled Luke. If they hadn’t grabbed his gun, he would have shot the man.
He pulled in a deep breath. “I’m sorry,” he said to Little Turtle. “I was wrong.”
As quickly as he could make Black Otter understand, Luke explained about the two herds of cattle. When he’d finished, the chief stood and left the lodge without speaking. He called for his horse, then beckoned Luke and Scully to come outside with him. He led them back to the Little Bighorn River. A mile downstream from where his braves had found them, he showed them the tracks. For a hundred yards the bank was caved in where cattle had climbed out of the river.
“From the looks of it, he sure didn’t want nobody following this herd,” Scully said.
And Luke thought he knew why. “Chief, did you get a look at the brand on these cattle?”
“They yours. All New Hope’s,” Black Otter said.
“Axel took a chance bringing them in here,” Luke said to Scully. “He knows this is Crow land. And I bet the man taking the herd to Parker knew we were following them.” He slammed his fist into his hand. “I was so sure those were our cattle! Every cattle thief around here dumps in Parker.”
Scully was confused. “If the other herd ain’t ours, why’s he want us to follow them?”
“He’s setting us up,” Luke said.
“To kill you,” Black Otter added.
Luke’s mind raced, going over in his head what he had to do and how he had to do it.
“I want to come in here after our herd, Chief,” he said, “but Axel’s men won’t let them go without a fight.”
Black Otter nodded, his face serious. “I show you good place.”
Luke reached out an arm, touched the chief, surprised that he considered the man an ally. “I don’t want to cause your people trouble with the government.”
For the first time in his life, Luke Sullivan heard an Indian laugh. Black Otter threw back his head and burst out laughing, deep belly laughs that shook his shoulders. “No trouble, Light Eyes. You take cows. That day, Crows see nothing.”
“Luke,” Scully broke in, “the minute we stop trailing them, Haldane will guess we’re wise. What’ll he do then?”
“Come after us,” Luke said.
His face impassive, Black Otter stared out over a bend in the Little Bighorn, stroking his upper lip thoughtfully. “No. You come.” Winding his hand in the pony’s mane, the chief sprang easily onto its back.
It was long after dark when Luke and Scully found where the New Hope crew was camped.
“We were getting worried about you two,” Henry Bertel said. Tom and John Cosgrove and Will Brown were sitting in front of the fire. An owl hooted in the trees. Henry stiffened. “Something moving out there. We got company, Luke,” he said, reaching for his rifle.
“Easy, Henry. It’s all right. They’re with us.”
Six Crow Indians stepped into the firelight.
“Little Turtle,” Luke said, “over here, so we can talk.”
The Indians dropped to the ground, eyes moving from white face to white face. They sat silent, expressionless, while Luke told New Hope’s crew what Axel had planned.
“They want us to follow them so they can bushwhack us in Treasure Canyon. But we’re not going there. With the help of the Crow we’re going back to the reservation and get our herd. Little Turtle and his men will take our places and follow the Parker herd instead of us. Haldane won’t know we’ve gone.”
Standing, Luke started unbuttoning his shirt. “We need to switch clothes and horses, so let’s get started. We want to be off this range before daylight.”
Half a dozen red men moved around the fire, trading clothes back and forth with half a dozen white men. Crow fingers fumbled with buttons and snaps, both races wrinkling their noses at the unfamiliar odors of the garments.
“Ugh! What these people eat make them stink bad,” a brave muttered in Crow to Little Turtle.
Little Turtle, the tallest of the Indians, didn’t answer. He sat on the ground, wrestling Luke’s riding boots over his feet. Standing, he teetered back and forth, a look of near dismay spreading over his face.
Running Wolf, a fierce-looking brave with a shaved head, strutted around in a pair of long johns in a peculiar manner.
Reaching behind him, he fisted the buttons off the drop seat in back. A quick yank and a square of ribbed fabric sailed into the fire. Running Wolf bent over and touched his toes, his naked skin visible through the open window of the underwear. “That better,” he said.
“Look what he done to my drawers,” Will Brown sputtered, fishing the flap of his burning underwear out of the fire with a stick. It was too late. The edges were blackened and a tongue of flame curled around one corner. Disgusted, Will kicked it back in the fire and tugged at the breechclout hanging down his front. “I miss my underwear. It don’t feel right with nothin’ on under these skins.”
Scully sniffed and spit. “Drafty too.”
“Gives me the creeps. Skin almost feels alive on you, don’t it?” Tom Cosgrove whispered, stretching his arms out and shaking the fringe on the sleeves of the buckskin shirt he had on.
Henry stroked a fringe of silky strands sewn across the cuffs of his shirt and woven into the side seams. “Sure is soft. Wonder what kind of fur this is?”
“Ain’t fur. It’s hair,” Scully said.
Henry’s mouth fell open. He snatched his hand away from the hair just as Running Wolf pulled off a necklace of bear claws and rattled them over Henry’s head. With a wary look, Henry plucked the string of yellowed toenails away from his chest. “They’re real nice, Running Wolf,” Henry managed to say. “Real nice.”
