Across the Sweet Grass Hills Page 4

  Liza nodded. “I know. The rustlers who attacked us took ours.”

  “Rustlers, not a chance. They was Injuns, most likely. Not a one of ’em you can trust. You was lucky you wasn’t scalped. There’s heathens runnin’ all over the Territory, lookin’ for folks to terrorize. The Blackfeet. They’s the worst. Scalpin’ and raisin’ hell everywhere.” He took an enormous spoonful of meat and chewed noisily, smacking his lips as he ate. “Ought to take ’em all out and hang ’em up to dry.”

  Liza looked away. She did not suggest that there was at least one Indian she hoped to trust.

  She sat down across from the trooper, keeping the fire between them. For some reason, her nerves tingled when he looked at her. Was she safe with this man? Red Eagle had never made her feel this way.

  She chided herself. A soldier was certainly the only sort of man she should trust in this wilderness. Hadn’t the troops been sent west to keep peace and protect settlers? At Fort Shaw, the soldiers had been coarse but kind, anxious to answer her every need. Lieutenant Cole had ushered her around quite gal­lantly, even bringing flowers one morning.

  She took a deep breath. “I wish I had some biscuits or bread to go with the meat.”

  Will Scott took another enormous spoonful. “You don’t know how good this grub tastes. The last meat I et was so ripe it didn’t need cookin’. They don’t serve up much in the way of grub out here,” he added. “Coffee tastes more like water scald­ed to death.”

  Liza shook her head. “I’d have thought the army fed its men better than that.”

  “Half the time you’d athought they was dishin’ up soup made outa dirty socks.”

  “Well, it’s not much, just stew. Not even much salt on it,” she said.

  She felt his blue eyes moving over her once again, and wished she were not sitting here alone with this young soldier of the crooked smile and sly looks. She got to her feet and returned to her father’s side.

  If only Red Eagle hadn’t disappeared. He hadn’t even said good-bye. Perhaps there was a reason he’d hidden from the sol­dier. If so, she couldn’t betray him. If not, she had to accept the fact that he was gone.

  The soldier’s voice broke into her thoughts. “Where you from, anyways?”

  Liza turned around. “St. Louis.”

  “Never been there,” said Scott slowly, scraping his spoon across the plate. “I bet it’s quite a city, eh?” His blue eyes sur­veyed her, admiration clearly reflected in them.

  “It’s a wonderful place,” she said. “Only, my father always dreamed of coming west.”

  “Is he a miner?” asked Scott. He held out his empty plate. “Don’t suppose there’s any more?”

  “Of course,” said Liza quickly. She dished up another hearty serving of meat. “My father’s a minister,” she added.

  Will Scott coughed. “Oh.” After a brief silence, he held up his spoon and said, “Ain’t never been to no church. Seems like a body oughta before they die, but I never been in one place long ’nough, I guess.”

  Liza handed him his plate. “Sometimes I think I’ve spent my life inside too many.”

  The trooper took a mouthful of steaming meat, wiping his chin with his tattered sleeve.

  “Tell me,” Liza said, changing the subject, “where are you headed? I mean, are you on patrol or something?”

  “Guess you could say I’m on er—uh—special duty. Headed north,” he added.

  “That’s where we were headed, only we got detained at Fort Shaw when my mother took sick. She died, but by then, the rest of our companions had left. They took our scout and all but our wagon with them. I had hoped we would return to St. Louis after Mother’s death, but my father is a very stubborn man.”

  “He’d hafta be if he was movin’ north. There ain’t nothin’ but mountains and Injuns and wild animals.”

  “Not even a trading post or settlement? Oh, don’t you see, Private Scott, I’ve got to get my father to someone who can help him. Some kind of settlement, hopefully where there’s a doctor,” she whispered, fighting back her tears. “I was thinking you might be headed back to Fort Shaw, but anyplace would do. Perhaps a town?”

  Will Scott raised his eyes, his smile gone. “I kin see you need help. I guess I gotta do somethin’, that’s for sure.” He set his plate and spoon on the ground beside him. “Out here it’s fit­tin’ to help people when they’re hurtin’, cuz anywhere’s a trek to nothin’ much—if you don’t know the way—”

  Liza felt warm tears at the corners of her eyes. “I would be forever in your debt.”

  “Don’t thank me yet,” he drawled, almost angrily, then set­tled back against the ground, drawing his cap over his eyes.

  ****

  Red Eagle sat down. Pulling out a piece of jerked meat, he looked about him. As he noted familiar landmarks, his thoughts returned to Liza.

  She was never far from his mind.

  Was it because she was beautiful, with her dark, snap­ping eyes and long, chestnut-colored hair? Or because she had the spirit of a fine horse, sometimes skittish, sometimes arrogant, sometimes downright foolish, but always alert?

  Of course, he hadn’t known many white women, only a few at the forts and settlements he and his father visited over the years. Most of these, however, made their living doing laun­dry for the soldiers or by satisfying their needs. Liza was in no way like them.

  He sighed, angry for running off, but knowing she would quickly choose the trooper’s help over his. He had seen her eyes light up upon seeing the blue boy’s tattered uniform.

  A flash of feeling settled in his gut. No, lower, in his loins. Red Eagle spit out a hunk of sinew and frowned. The yearning he felt was different than anything he’d ever experienced.

  He wondered what it would be like to lay with Liza. To touch and feel her skin beneath his. He had only known a woman once, an old, wrinkled woman whose soft, flabby layers of flesh repulsed him, even then.

  He had been perhaps thirteen summers old. He’d been to the fort frequently with his father and the soldiers liked to tease him and sometimes gave him small, hard candies. This particu­lar day, he wandered off, a piece of licorice in his mouth, while his father traded with the man at the mercantile.

  His face flushed with shame even now as he remembered. An older woman, with flaming red hair and freckles across her dusted face, approached him, calling him by name. Curious, he entered her small cabin. She closed the door behind him, dropped her robe, and exposed her naked, pale flesh. He nearly fell backing away. But she caught him and drew him to her, pulling him into another room.

  Even now he heard her bitter laughter, for after he was done, his shame was greater than his satisfaction. He rushed to get away. Since then, he had avoided all white women.

  But Liza had stirred desire deep within his loins. He recalled the moment he had spotted her standing by the water. Her skin had shimmered under the moisture. Her eyes had shim­mered, too, in the bright afternoon light.

  And in their depths he had glimpsed her own curiosity.

  But it didn’t matter now. Liza had made it clear she did not want his help. She couldn’t trust him and preferred the dirty, dog-faced soldier who had arrived out of the emptiness. That was why, without a backward glance, he left.

  Red Eagle shook off his disappointment. After all, he needed to find his uncle. Crying Wind would know about the haunting dream that still disturbed Red Eagle’s nights. His mother’s brother was a wise man, a holy man, and surely he would know what the dream meant.

  So why was he angry? Liza and her father would be taken back to the fort and her father would get help. She would return to her world and he would find his place in the Pikuni world.

  But Red Eagle had not visited Crying Wind’s village in many summers, not since before his mother’s death. His father had stayed away, too, because of the resentment growing between the whites and many Pikuni bands; he had known that marriage to a Pikuni woman would not protect him forever, that relationships could easily d
eteriorate.

  And would the bitterness lodged in the hearts of his mother’s people extend to him? Perhaps they would not wel­come him after all the years. People spoke of the Pikuni who had taken up the war trail, following Mountain Chief and Owl Child, two renegade warriors bent on vengeance. Would there be the same hardness in Crying Wind’s heart toward Red Eagle?

  Red Eagle stood, retying his parfleche to his belt. He still remembered the summers spent crossing the beautiful Sweet Grass Hills with his uncle and the people. Like the other boys who waited impatiently to become warriors, he spent those days trapping and hunting small game or riding a pony across the golden prairie at a dead run. There were other days spent feasting and dancing with bands that had come from all over. The food had been plentiful, the laugh­ter warm and friendly.

  He recalled the faces of the slender girls, too, who had watched the warriors dance, their glances hidden, smiles shy. With their bright, dark eyes, he now realized they had been hungry and curious.

  CHAPTER 5

  As dark clouds moved across the sky, Liza sighed. She had not been able to sleep, even though a soldier of the United States Army lay but fifteen feet away.

  Rolling over, she reached out and touched her father’s shoulder. Although he could not feel her or hear her, his pres­ence gave her great comfort.

  But it was Red Eagle’s disappearance that filled her with confusion. True, she had told him they would not go with him, that she didn’t want his help; her position had been clear and he had heeded her words.

  So why was she annoyed? Why was she angry? Good heavens, he was a half-breed, a heathen, certainly not someone she could ever trust—really.

  Oddly enough, her disappointment lingered. He could have at least said goodbye.

  Liza glanced toward Private Scott, who lay near the fire, cap pulled down over his face. She had covered him with a blanket after he fell asleep, and he had curled up in it like a child. Only a few feet away, his horse, just as Will Scott had boasted, stood watch. In the gathering darkness, the animal’s familiar smell and occasional snorts were comforting. Liza rolled over. She should feel relieved; after all, Mr. Scott had agreed to get them to a white settlement.

  And the nightmare would be over. Or would it?

  Resolved to forget Red Eagle and the feelings he had kin­dled, Liza closed her eyes and returned to memories of St. Louis. To that time before this journey into hell and her moth­er’s death, even before her two brothers’ sudden departure and her father’s irreversible decision to move west. She imagined herself in new dresses, at afternoon tea, with school friends, lis­tening to music, and beside a roaring fire in the study of her grandfather’s grand home.

  Just as she fell asleep, she saw a man with black, flowing hair and dark, flashing eyes. He smiled and moved away; she followed him into the hazy distance.

  ****

  Liza awoke with a shudder. The air was cold and the morning damp. Feeling for the blankets, she pulled them up. Autumn was indeed coming to the northern plains.

  She reached out and felt for her father, adjusting his blankets, worried that a chill would settle over him. His breath­ing was shallow but steady. She turned over and stroked his black hair and touched his sunken cheek. He was such a differ­ent man than just one week ago. So dependent on her now, even to the point of attending to his most personal needs. Never had she dreamed she would tend a man in such a way, especially her father. But she was grateful she could. She only wished to do more. Perhaps she’d try to feed him again today. Red Eagle had made some broth, but her father hadn’t rallied enough to be able to swallow; all they dared do was press a wet cloth to his lips to keep his mouth damp.

  The thought of Red Eagle made her feel empty inside. She glanced around the campsite as if he should be standing nearby. Silly, she scolded herself, he was gone, gone forever.

  She got to her feet. Today would be a great day. Private Scott would help them get to a doctor, or, at least, to a trading post or settlement. Perhaps the travois, as Red Eagle had sug­gested, could be rigged with the horse. Or, better yet, perhaps they could repair the wagon enough to make a cart to carry Father.

  Yes, today would be a great day. A day to turn her back on the terrible past.

  Shaking out her skirt, Liza looked over to where Private Scott had been sleeping. His bed was empty.

  “Probably washing up,” she thought. Perhaps he was more modest than appearances. She cast a casual glance around the campsite. Where was his horse? A sudden fear gripped her, and she wrapped her arms about her waist to steel herself against the weakness overtaking her.

  She started for the wagon, then stopped and frowned. The few boxes and barrels she had rescued from the attack and stacked carefully nearby had been ransacked and scattered.

  Liza swallowed a cry of alarm, but as she raced to the wagon, mind reeling, her glance took in everything at once. The little bit of coffee and flour she’d scraped together now dusted the ground like fine, dirty snow, the bags that held them tossed aside. Even the small barrel that contained her winter clothing, and had been overlooked in the first attack, lay on its side, empty. Her heart seemed to settle in her throat.

  Private Will Scott had done this.

  She picked up the sack where Red Eagle had stored their fresh meat. Nothing.

  They’d been left with nothing.

  How could he? How could a soldier in the United States Army do this to people dependent on him? And how would her father survive if she couldn’t feed him? How would she survive?

  She screamed, “I’ll kill him!” Yes, if she could only find him, she would shoot him. She looked around for her father’s rifle, the one Red Eagle had used to take down the antelope. It was nowhere in sight, and Giles’s gun was gone, too, even Father’s boning knife—all gone. Extra blankets, dried fruit, any­thing that could be carried off.

  Gone.

  Liza stood, transfixed; reality was like a slow thaw after a hard freeze. She had foolishly trusted one man because he was white and mistrusted another because he was not. Even the savages, if indeed the attackers had been Indians, had left their provisions; this man had left her nothing, save the clothes on her back and her mother's pocket pistol, still loaded, which had been hidden under her pillow.

  There it was. The terrible truth.

  Liza dropped to her knees, balled fists pressed against her thighs. How could he do this?

  Then she spied a man on horseback, moving into the west­ern skyline, the great purple and white Rocky Mountains rising like the painted backdrop of some stage play. He moved easily, as if his horse were nothing more than a wooden rocking horse. In another few minutes, he would be a black mark on the horizon.

  Jumping to her feet, Liza stumbled forward, trying to yell. She ran, feet pounding the earth like muffled drum beats. Suddenly, he turned in the saddle, his cap moving across the blue sky like a flat disc. Was he waving at her? Mocking her?

  Oh, what a fool she’d been.

  “Damn you!” she screamed after him. “Damn you to hell!”

  The figure continued on, sending out brown dust. In a moment, even that little bit of him would be gone.

  “Please,” she sobbed then, dashing over the hard earth. “Come back! You can’t leave us here to die!”

  She followed the rider’s trail, leaping stones and ignoring the knife-like stubble of the bunch grass. A flock of birds, yellow and black, fluttered up as she ran straight through a patch of taller grass, their shrill twitters filling the air around her. A coy­ote, on his way from here to there, stopped to watch her, eyes keen, ears twitching.

  Liza splashed through a rivulet that twisted around the contour of a ravine. The water was cold and burned her tender feet.

  She continued until she could run no more, her legs too feeble to hold her up. She pushed herself forward. Like the night of the attack, she moved as if in a dream, unable to think or feel. As on that terrible night, her life was disappearing before her, even as Will Scott disappeared into
the landscape.

  At last she had to stop. Panting, her heart pounding, she stared into the skyline. There was nothing, no one, only the phantom shadows that haunted the prairie.

  Terrified, Liza began running again, mumbling, telling herself to hang on. But the world was turning upside down. The sky was at her feet, the rolling landscape was floating past her. A tree, stripped by lightning, stood up out of the emptiness like a scarecrow. She screamed. A band of geese flew past overhead, honking, and she screamed again. Looking up, Liza realized that they, too, were leaving her in their wake.

  “Dear God,” she sobbed, dropping to the ground, stom­ach rising to her throat. Tears overtook her as she pressed her face to the dirt. What would she do now?

  ****

  Willard Lee Scott rode on, his faded blue cap pulled over his brow. The morning sun was bright, but the air was still brisk.

  He knew he ought to feel some sort of remorse after abandoning the dying preacher and his daughter, but he didn’t. He patted the Henry, now strapped to his saddle, and thought of the unexpected bounty stuffed into saddlebags and tied onto his horse. Even the Bibles and clothing ought to be useful in trade, particularly the overcoats.

  The girl had been pleasing enough, with her flashing brown eyes and shapely body. But a minister’s daughter? Whoa, the thought gave him the heebie-jeebies. Not that he was a reli­gious man.

  Besides, the posse would be on his tail soon enough, especially when they discovered he’d killed the fat squaw that brought his meals. Course, it was an accident, he reminded himself; if she’d akept her mouth shut, she’d be alive today. The old toothless fool had tried to stop him.

  “Ain’t no one gonna string me up,” he said out loud, pass­ing a hand over his parched lips. “Wish I had a drink,” he sighed. He hadn’t had as much as a jigger of whiskey in over two weeks. Too bad the preacher hadn’t any. An empty bottle and a dry jug was all he found stashed in the wagon. He had found some coffee and flour, beans, and of course, the best haul was the hindquarter of meat rolled in the sackcloth and the bag full of jerked meat.