Wrath of the Savage (15 page)

“If it was me,” Coldiron allowed, “I'd just let 'em dry on me. As wet as those clothes are, they'll shrink like hell. If you keep 'em on, they'll fit a lot better when they do dry.”

“As much as I respect your advice, Mr. Coldiron,” she replied sarcastically, “I think I'd rather ride into Fort Benton in dry clothes.” Her tone was enough to inform the two men that there was no need for further discussion on the matter. Bret couldn't suppress a smile. Then he realized that the river crossing had provided the first light moment in their journey. It only lasted for the time it took for Myra to get out of her wet clothes and put on her tattered dress. And then the grim purpose of their trip returned as they rode on into Fort Benton.

Lucy Gentry sat at the back of the tipi, her legs drawn up to her chin, her arms wrapped around them, trying to get in as small a shell as possible. The voices of the people in the village carried to her as she cowered there, seemingly unconcerned that she was being held captive by one of their young warriors. She hoped with all her heart that Bloody Hand was feasting on the fresh antelope that the day's hunt had provided. Maybe if he filled his belly with meat and some of the whiskey that his cruel friend, Lame Dog, had brought back from the Blood village, he might be too sleepy to pay any attention to her.

Her life had effectively ended the day her husband was struck down and she was snatched off her feet by a screaming Blackfoot warrior. She had no idea how many days had passed since she was cast into a terrifying nightmare of scowling, leering Indians, who poked, prodded, cursed, and spat upon her, their faces filled with the contempt they felt for her. She had done them no harm, yet they seemed intent upon punishing her for something. It was too much for her mind to maintain its balance.

At first, she had Myra Buckley to help her hold on to her sanity, but now Myra was gone, maybe dead. She had not seen or heard of her since they were separated at a village on some river. Who was the more fortunate, Myra or her? She would never know, but she knew that Myra's fate could not have been worse than hers. Purchased from her captors by a Piegan warrior, who had an insane desire for her, she was certain that there was no greater hell than the one she had fallen into.

She had screamed and almost fainted when he came for her. One of the most feared warriors in the Piegan village, he was a vile-looking man with only one ear. On the left side of his head there was only a hole where his ear had been before being sliced off by a Lakota warrior's hatchet. On his left shoulder, there remained an ugly scar where the hatchet had struck him after it severed the ear. Bloody Hand had earned the respect of his fellow warriors when he opened the Lakota warrior's belly with his knife. The severed ear, dried and shriveled, was still worn on a rawhide cord around Bloody Hand's neck. The thought of it was enough to cause her to shiver.

After one night in the Piegan village, Lucy had abandoned all hope of rescue. How could anyone find her? The village would be moving in a few days. Convinced that she could not endure the abuse from Bloody Hand, as well as that from his mother, Dark Moon, she decided that she would take her own life. That resolution was more difficult to accomplish, owing to the lack of means to effectively kill herself quickly. She was never allowed to use any object that might inflict damage on her or anyone else. Bloody Hand lived in his mother's tipi whenever he was in the village, and Dark Moon willingly took on the responsibility for keeping a constant eye on his captive. Lucy had considered the possibility of overpowering the vigilant Piegan woman, but feared it would only result in failure. Dark Moon was a strong old woman, and would undoubtedly win any contest between them. Lucy had attempted to starve herself to death, since that was the only option available to her. But Dark Moon, wise to what the white woman was trying to do, forcefully fed her, standing over her with a stick to make sure she swallowed every mouthful. Firmly believing there was no hope for her, Lucy could only pray that God would see fit to take her from this hell she found herself in.

•   •   •

“I am home, old woman,” Bloody Hand slurred drunkenly as he pushed the tipi flap aside and entered. “You can go to your bed now.”

“You've been drinking the white man's firewater,” Dark Moon scolded. “It is bad for you. It will make you crazy. Lame Dog should not bring it to our village. If he was a true warrior like you, he would not want the crazy water, but he has white blood in his body. He is not a good friend.”

“You worry too much, old woman,” Bloody Hand replied. “Lame Dog is a good friend. Now go to your bed.” Grumbling under her breath, she did as he ordered. “Wait,” he said. “Did you take her to make water?”

“She didn't have to,” Dark Moon replied.

“You should have made her,” he chided, knowing that as soon as he approached her, she would start making her frantic motions and crying over and over one of the few Piegan words Dark Moon had taught her:
Pee, pee, pee!
He was well aware that the only reason she did it was to try to kill his desire for her. It did her little good, for it only caused him to be especially brutal in his mating with her.

“Do you want me to take her now?” Dark Moon asked, making no effort to hide the disgust she felt for her son's infatuation with the white woman. It had been a dark day for the old woman when Bloody Hand brought the white woman back to the village, intent upon making her his wife. Dark Moon was reviled by the thought of mixing Bloody Hand's pure Piegan blood with that of the inferior white blood. She feared the union might result in another half-breed like his friend Lame Dog.
What a fitting name he chose for himself,
she thought, for she had no respect for the man.

“No, go to bed. I'll take her,” Bloody Hand said in answer to her question. He turned to Lucy then. “Come!” When she did not respond as quickly as he preferred, he reached down, grabbed her arm, and pulled her roughly out of her balled-up protective position, causing her to emit a feeble yelp of pain. He then picked up a coil of rope with a noose tied on one end and looped it over her head to draw it tight around her neck. Much the same as leading a dog, he took her to the willows beside the river to let her perform her toilet.

The noose was now a standard practice, because the first time he took her, there was none. She had motioned for him to turn around, because she was shy. He decided to placate her, but when he turned around, she had tried to run away. She earned a severe beating for that little trick, plus the noose she now wore. When he took her to the willows on this night, she no longer had any modesty left in her. She didn't even bother to motion for him to turn around, knowing that he would refuse to.

Bloody Hand stood there, stoically watching his captive wife perform the most basic of bodily functions, his brooding face a reflection of his innermost thoughts. Although respected by the men of his village as a fearless and mighty warrior, he was never looked upon favorably by any of the women. He was aware that this was because of his hideous face, and his missing ear. When the opportunity came to buy himself a beautiful white woman, he did not hesitate to part with six good ponies to ensure that he would no longer be without a wife. He took solace in telling himself that she no longer fought him when he came to her because she was beginning to care for him.

“I'm not finished,” she protested when he pulled on the rope, knowing he did not understand her words, but thinking he might understand her tone.

He, however, knew that she was merely stalling for time, so he jerked on the rope and commanded, “Come!” She blotted her bottom with the skirt of the long doeskin dress she now wore, her own dress and undergarments long ago destroyed. He led her back to Dark Moon's tipi and the living hell that was now her life.

•   •   •

Bret counted the money he had left in his saddlebags. There was still a substantial sum remaining from what he had withdrawn from the bank in Bozeman. He counted out twenty dollars and handed it to Myra, who seemed genuinely surprised. “What's this for?” she asked.

“I expect you might need a few new undergarments, and maybe some other personal things,” he said. “Looks like this place might have something you can use.” He nodded toward a store that claimed to have general merchandise.

“God bless you, Bret Hollister. You are the most thoughtful man I've ever met,” Myra told him, beaming with the pleasant anticipation of shopping for underwear.

“Spend it wisely,” Bret said, “because it'll be running out soon.” He turned to face a grinning Coldiron.

“Most thoughtful man I've ever met,” Coldiron echoed. “I reckon that just counts for women.”

Bret smiled at his oversized friend. “I reckon I might go for a couple of shots of whiskey to cut some of that dust we've been breathing for the past couple of days.”

Coldiron's grin extended almost to his ears. “I knew your heart was in the right place. Myra's right, you're a damn thoughtful man.”

“Yeah, well, I said a
couple
of drinks. We've still got some riding to do today.”

“Yes, sir, Lieutenant,” Coldiron japed.

From where they stood in front of the Missouri Saloon, they could see the fourteen-foot adobe walls of the fort, and the blockhouses on the corners. The buildings looked in need of repair, from what they could see through the open gate. Bret could not help feeling a sense of injustice upon finding himself in close proximity to an army post, the first such occurrence since leaving Fort Ellis in disgrace. It reawakened the anger he held for the treatment he had received at the hands of his former commanding officers and peers, but only for a few moments before Coldiron broke into his thoughts.

“Somebody in the saloon oughta know where that Piegan camp is,” he said, not willing to delay his drink of whiskey any longer.

“Right,” Bret replied, and followed the big man into the saloon. As usual, the first appearance of the huge scout anywhere he went drew everyone's attention in the saloon. Coldiron went straight to the bar, where a sleepy-eyed bartender with a drooping mustache stood polishing a tray of shot glasses. Like everyone else in the saloon, Hank Lewis paused to gawk at the two strangers.

“Howdy, gents,” he greeted them. “What'll it be?”

“You got some decent whiskey, somethin' that ain't kin to kerosene?” Coldiron asked.

Hank chuckled in response. “I reckon so. All my stock comes straight up the river from Bismark, and they get it from Omaha.” He placed two of the recently polished glasses on the bar and poured. “Ain't seen you two fellers in here before,” he remarked.

“Last time I was in Fort Benton this saloon weren't here,” Coldiron said as he held the glass of whiskey up to let the light from the window shine through the amber liquid. “Clear as a mountain stream,” he ac- claimed, savoring the anticipation. Then he tossed the shot back and paused to enjoy the burn, smacked his lips to express his approval, and set the glass back on the counter for a refill. Hank obliged.

Bret, as amused by Coldiron's sampling of the whiskey as the bartender, downed his shot of whiskey without the theatrics performed by his friend, and set his empty glass beside Coldiron's.

“I didn't know you were such an expert on whiskey,” he said. “To tell you the truth, I figured you'd drink anything that wasn't used to remove paint.”

“And you'd be right,” Coldiron confessed. “But I ain't had a drink for quite a while, and I wanted to enjoy it. As quick as you knocked yours back, it was gone before you had a chance to let your belly know it was comin'. And since we're only gettin' two shots, you need to make 'em last longer'n just a quick fire in your gut.” Practicing what he preached, he let his second drink sit there on the bar for a minute while he anticipated it.

Amused by the big man's show, Hank asked, “You fellers just passin' through town, or are you lookin' to sign on with the army as scouts?”

“Just passing through,” Bret answered. “Maybe you can help us. We're looking for a village of Piegan Blackfeet that's supposed to be somewhere on the Marias River.”

“The only one I know about was located about forty miles up the river, according to what a couple of trappers told me,” Hank said. “That's about as close as they get to the army post here, and that's about as close as I want 'em.”

“Much obliged,” Bret said, satisfied to hear confirmation that they were camped on the Marias as they had been told by Jake Smart. “I guess we'll be on our way as soon as you get around to finishing that drink,” he said to Coldiron.

“What's your hurry?” The question came from a trio of soldiers at the end of the long bar. “As long as you're buyin' drinks for that old buffalo, you might wanna buy a round for us soldiers, who are protectin' your ass from them Piegans.” The one who spoke was a husky man, wearing corporal's stripes.

“Probably not,” Bret answered simply, and turned his attention back to Coldiron. “How about it, are you gonna drink that drink? I expect Myra might be already waiting for us.” The corporal had the look of a bully about him. Bret hoped he was wrong, but thought it best to avoid the possibility of further delay, just in case.

“Let's let it set for a minute,” Coldiron replied softly. “And this old buffalo will drink it when he's good and ready.”

“Well, whaddaya think of that, boys?” the corporal asked in a loud voice. “Soldiers ain't good enough for sorry drifters like that to have a drink with. Besides, Myra's waitin'. She must be their mama.”

No such luck,
Bret thought. The corporal was obviously intent upon causing a fight. He looked like a troublemaker, the type who enjoys a good barroom brawl. It would do little good to warn him that it would be a grave mistake to underestimate the huge scout by his gray whiskers and his long gray ponytail. He understood the corporal's motivation, however. He had been the biggest man in the saloon until Coldiron walked in, and being an obvious brawler, he felt moved to prove his worth. And there was not much chance that Coldiron would even consider backing down to the sneering corporal. Bret figured it worth a try, so he turned to face the corporal. “Why don't you just back off, soldier? We just came in here for a drink before we're on our way. We aren't looking for any trouble.”

“Well, you've already stepped in it, sonny,” the corporal shot back. “And the only way you're gonna get out of it is to get on your knees and crawl out that door.”

Uh-oh,
Coldiron thought as a grin spread under his heavy whiskers.
Bret don't like to be called sonny
.