Across the Sweet Grass Hills Page 8

  Liza wiped her eyes.

  “I’ve got to get you out of here,” he said, half aloud. “If it’s the last thing I do, I swear I’ll get you out of here.” He reached out with his trembling hands, touching her cheeks. “You are all I have left. All that I have of your mother, all that I have in the world.”

  It was almost more than she could bear. She closed her own fingers around his. “Yes, we will get out of here, Father. We’ll go back to St. Louis—or somewhere,” she added quickly. “Anywhere—”

  He didn’t answer. Exhausted, he fell back and closed his eyes. Liza studied him, noting the lines that creased his cheeks and eyes and the ghostly pallor that clung to his features.

  If they didn’t get help soon, it would be too late.

  CHAPTER 10

  Crying Wind stood at the door of his lodge shouting his invitations. One by one, the men came. Each sat around the host according to his standing in the tribe: first, Red Quiver, the sun priest, then warriors of higher rank and others.

  After all were seated, Crying Wind’s wives placed dishes of food before them while he cut up tobacco. The guests ate slowly. There was boiled meat, berry pemmican and stewed berries, as well as berry soup.

  Finally, Crying Wind spoke. Others spoke, too, each in his turn, sharing past victories in battle or thrilling escapes while riding for buffalo. After awhile, the talk turned to visions, quests, and dreams; Red Quiver shared the dream he’d had during the night.

  “We were moving along the edge of Big River when it grew dark. As the sun set, a raven, black against the dim sky, flew toward us from the east. He circled three times, then flew back to the eastern foothills. When he returned, he circled three more times. We watched him closely. This time, he flew north. We waited and watched until the night was black, but the raven did not return.”

  The men seated nearest the sun priest looked around the circle. Closing his eyes, Red Quiver continued. “My vision is a good sign. The Above Ones have favored us. The raven came to give us their message.”

  “Yes!” cried Running Antelope, a younger warrior seated across from Red Quiver. His eyes glimmered in the halo of light encircling them. “The raven is the wisest of birds, a true friend of Pikuni warriors.”

  Others nodded in agreement. Then, Red Quiver spoke again. “It does not free us from being cautious now that we have left the Sweet Grass Hills. But our journey will be a good one and if Earth Maker gives us plenty of buffalo, we will have a good winter in the valley along Bear River. Our women and children will grow fat.”

  Several men grunted and smiled, turning to one another. Crying Wind spoke last. “Your vision is a powerful one, Red Quiver.”

  Red Quiver nodded sagely, his gray-black hair falling around his wrinkled face. “The signs are good.”

  The men returned to their food, their voices soft and pleasant. When all his guests had finished eating, Crying Wind picked up a stone bowl and dropped the chopped leaves of tobacco into it. He handed the bowl with its long stem to Red Quiver.

  Because he was the sun priest, Red Quiver touched a burning stick to the tobacco mixture, blew a whiff of smoke to the sky, and spoke several words of prayer. He blew another puff of smoke to the ground, repeating the prayer. He inhaled deeply and handed the pipe to the man seated next to him in the circle. The pipe was smoked by all present, travelling east to west in accordance with the daily course of the sun.

  The pipe circled three times. Then, knocking the empty bowl, Crying Wind said loudly, “Kyi! Itsinitsi!”

  Immediately, the men rose and left the tipi.

  Crying Wind followed them out into the brisk evening air and stretched. He had always hated being closed up for long periods. His world was wide, limited only by the rugged moun­tains that were the backbone of the Pikuni world. His peace he found when the wind brushed his face.

  At last, Crying Wind slipped back into his lodge and stretched out on his pallet. It was good that the tribe’s departure this morning was blessed. As a holy man, he believed in the power of prayers and signs. He would add another prayer, too, one to the God Who Hung on the Cross, the god he had learned about while living with the whites. This god had something to offer the people, though he was unsure about those who had brought word of him.

  He touched the crucifix hanging from his neck and remembered the question the old black robe had asked him, his blue eyes filled with wonder. “Who knows the final truth?”

  Crying Wind had never forgotten that question, and often considered it as he examined the tiny figure engraved on the cross. It seemed logical that the one with the most to give would give himself over to death. Any great warrior understood that sacrifice. Any great warrior was willing to die for his people and for truth.

  But Crying Wind had not shared his questions or this god with others in the band. Even as a respected leader, he was not sure the people would listen. There had been too much heartache as the whites settled across the Pikuni lands, taking what did not belong to them.

  Indeed, apart from matches, guns, beads, and blankets, Crying Wind believed this god was the only thing of value the white man possessed.

  Now, as the Early Fall Moon approached, Crying Wind prayed that this god would also listen to the prayers of his peo­ple. They needed a good hunt, since the tribes competed, not only with each other but with the white buffalo runners, for meat and hides. Bitter feuding had erupted between neighbor­ing tribes as they invaded each other’s territory in search of the migrating buffalo herds.

  But according to Red Quiver, this winter would be better than last.

  ****

  Red Eagle and Bull ate their breakfast in silence. Careful to avoid any confrontation, Red Eagle kept his eyes on his food.

  “So, where you headed to, breed?” grumbled Bull, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. Oil from the bacon slid down the frizzled ends of his yellow beard, making it shine.

  “To join my mother’s people,” said Red Eagle. He had no intention of telling him about Liza and her father.

  Bull’s voice hardened and his small, pale eyes narrowed. “That be ole Crying Wind’s band?”

  Red Eagle hesitated before responding. “Yes.”

  Bull nodded. “Hell of a buffalo hunter,” he said approv­ingly. “I once saw him drive his lance plum through the eye of a big, fat cow. At a dead run,” he added. “I hafta admit, I ain’t never been that capable.”

  Red Eagle glanced at the trapper without raising his eyes.

  The big man continued. “Crying Wind never did me no harm. No sir, guess I gotta say that as a Injun, he’s about as white as they come. He ain’t like Mountain Chief. That one’s as full of venom as a rattlesnake in August. When they catch him, they oughta hang him after they skin ’im. Leastwise, that’s what I’ll do if I cross his path.”

  Red Eagle kept eating, but his attention was on Bull. He wondered if the man carried more than the two knives and pis­tol hanging from his belt. No doubt, he had taken his share of scalps over the years, for both his enormous square hands boasted a missing finger and several deep scars.

  This man was no fool, even though he enjoyed playing the part. That made him dangerous.

  As the trapper continued ranting about Mountain Chief, Red Eagle’s thoughts returned to Liza. He had to get to her. If she was still alive, she needed his help.

  If only he hadn’t left her in the first place.

  “You ain’t listenin’ to me, breed!” bellowed Bull. “I expect you to listen to me.”

  Red Eagle turned his attention back to the trapper. “That’s better,” grinned Bull. “I know you talk plain enough and you understand plain enough, too.”

  Red Eagle concealed his growing anger. He had to get away.

  Suddenly, the big man jumped to his feet. “You know, breed, I ain’t had no kind of fun in a hell of a spell. I tell you what. We gonna have us a contest. See that spindle tree over there, by the water, ten yards from them others? If’n you can take the single branch off its left side, ther
e, then I’ll let you walk outa here. How’s that? If’n you cain’t and I do, well then, you’re mine.”

  Red Eagle had already gotten up, his eyes searching for the limb Bull indicated. It was a small one, twisted and broken. Bull shouted, “Speak up! Is it a contest?”

  Red Eagle nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, bully for you,” he chuckled. “Your pa woulda been game, too. Indeed, that’s the reason I’m even considerin’ such a deal. Had in mind to haul you into the fort and demand a ran­som. Figured you was one of Mountain Chief’s renegades. Maybe on the run.”

  Red Eagle let the big man finish. “I am not an outlaw and I do not follow Mountain Chief.”

  “That’s good, ’cause if I had reason to doubt you, I’d just plug you with a bullet—and end the matter. But I do believe you an’ I always did admire Cryin’ Wind. I ought to give you a chance for his sake. His and your pappy’s.”

  Bull Lassly ambled over to his mule and slipped his long rifle out of the scabbard. Cradling the carbine carefully in his arms, he took a wide stance and slowly raised the gun. Red Eagle followed the direction of his aim. Suddenly the trapper turned to Red Eagle. “Mebbe I’ll let you fire the first shot.”

  Red Eagle stepped up and took the gun. Bull’s voice hardened. “I’ll have a bullet for you if’n you think you can wheedle your way outa this.”

  Ignoring his threat, Red Eagle raised the rifle slowly. It was heavy and awkward, but Red Eagle had learned to shoot all manner of guns. As a boy at the forts, the soldiers often chal­lenged him to shooting and knife-throwing contests. He had rarely missed.

  And he couldn’t miss this time.

  He took slow and steady aim, even as he held his breath. He drew back and fired.

  The ‘kaboom’ shook the air around them.

  Bull hollered and laughed.

  Red Eagle let the rifle drop to his waist, narrowing his eyes as he studied the target.

  “Hell’s bells,” chuckled Bull. “I knowed you could do it. Well, a deal’s a deal an’ I ain’t ever been known to renege on no deal. Not even with a Injun.”

  Red Eagle moved uneasily toward the big man. Was this a ploy, or did the trapper mean what he said? A warning voice whispered in his ear, and he heeded the warning.

  Bull smiled. “I tell you, I’m lettin’ you go. Hell, I growl bigger than I bite, boy, don’t you see that?” He laughed heartily and stretched out his hand. “Take your blade and git on outa here, afore I change my mind. You got a hell of a scalp and a fine hide, but I don’t relish takin’ no hide off’n Cain McCullough’s pup. So, foot it.”

  Red Eagle hesitated for only a moment, then slipped his knife into its scabbard and glanced up at the big man. Then he was gone, moving down the footpath that wound away from the stream and trees, into the emptiness that rolled eastward.

  If he was lucky, maybe he’d reach Liza by tomorrow.

  ****

  “I must build some kind of shelter,” Liza announced.

  She knew their situation was growing desperate. They had few supplies and the weather was changing quickly. No one had come along since Private Scott, and it was unlikely anyone would come now. Autumn was brief in the Montana territory and winter came quickly. Settlers traveled in the spring and summer, not the late fall.

  “We will use the wagon,” she continued. “I think we can get you under it today. In the meantime, I’ll gather some branches and mud.”

  “Splendid,” her father said, trying hard to smile. Liza knew only too well he still struggled with guilt over hiding his past and shame that he couldn’t move more than a few inches by himself. He had never been helpless in his life.

  “I bet you never thought I could manage on my own,” she said briskly, hoping to cheer him. “I was pretty useless.”

  He shook his head. “Never,” he said. “I have dreamed all my life of living off the land, of teaching you and your brothers how to hunt and fish. I never doubted your ability to survive,” he added. “If I had, I wouldn’t have brought you west. Only, I didn’t bargain on you having to teach me—”

  Liza bit her lip. She had only meant to tease him.

  Her father’s next words startled her. “Elizabeth. Over there.”

  Dropping a load of branches, Liza gasped. She tried to keep her heart still as she choked back a cry of fright.

  A hundred yards away on the far side of the stream, sat an Indian warrior on horseback. Only it wasn’t Red Eagle.

  He was magnificent. The ends of his long hair waved softly in the breeze, even as the mane of his dappled horse moved.

  Liza hesitated, taking another look at the stern-faced brave, then ran to grab her mother’s pistol. Trembling, she faced the enemy holding the weapon out in front of her. Though the gun was empty, perhaps the sight of it would be enough to scare him away. She’d often heard that an Indian, like any beast, respected strength.

  She tried to conceal her fear. Holding the gun as steady as she could, she stood with her legs apart and head up, unblinking, her breath coming in short, shallow puffs.

  Silence loomed like a heavy mist as the man’s horse stepped carefully through the streambed. The horse seemed to sense the currents and sniffed at the water, keeping to the shallower depths.

  Liza cautiously moved to her father’s side as the Indian warrior approached, still keeping the pistol pointed on the man’s chest as she crouched on one knee. Unexpectedly, her father reached up and pulled the gun out of her hands.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he said, his face paling from the effort. “He’s probably not alone. Besides, I didn’t come out here to kill innocent men.”

  “Innocent? How do we know that?” returned Liza. “He could be part of a war party. He looks nothing like Red Eagle. Maybe he’s after scalps. Ours.”

  “He may be peaceful. At any rate, I came west to live among the Indians.”

  “I don’t want to live among them. You’ve heard the sto­ries. You can’t want us to be taken captive. How could you?” Holding her emotions in check, she glared at her father. Dear God, how crazy could he be?

  She eyed the gun, but Ralston had already slipped it under his blanket. “Elizabeth, what has come over you?”

  “I can’t believe you’d sacrifice us like this. I can’t believe you’d turn your daughter over to a heathen!” She glanced over at the warrior; his eyes were bright and his expression hard. But her father had raised his right arm and was waving to him. “Father, no! What are you doing?”

  “What else is there, Elizabeth? We have nothing left, and I do not expect the United States Cavalry to come for us; there is no one to report our absence. Lieutenant Cole made it clear he could not ensure our safety if we traveled without escort. And your friend, Red Eagle, is gone.”

  Liza crossed her arms and glared at the Indian brave swinging down from his horse. She pursed her lips to stifle her fear.

  ****

  Running Antelope approached the girl cautiously. His horse whinnied as if he, too, sensed a snare.

  He could see the man was weak and disabled, though the girl was healthy. She was also angry and, therefore, dangerous.

  Two long, dark braids hung down to her breasts, which swelled with each intake of air. Taller than most women in his tribe, he could see her form even under the layers of garments. From this distance he could also see that she fought to control her emotions. Her slender face and her wide, round, dark eyes were steeled against him. He liked her eyes, the color of brown leaves in autumn. Sparks seemed to fly from them.

  This would be one to tame, he thought idly, noting the stubborn chin and stony expression. He liked her courage.

  He stopped and hesitated, pointing to the man and his blanket. Under it, he knew, there was a pistol. He had seen the man take it from the girl and he had seen her protest.

  Running Antelope pointed again. This time the man tossed the gun aside. The girl looked as if she might go after it but the man stopped her, his voice hard and demanding.

  Running Antel
ope pointed to his horse. He told the man he must go with him, that he would ride the horse and the girl would walk. He could not speak English, so his words were sparse and he signaled with his hands.

  The man understood. So did the girl, but she was not happy. She frowned before bending over the man. Then she ran to the wagon, and Running Antelope, afraid she meant to get another weapon, drew his own rifle. He pointed it at the girl.

  Immediately, the man on the ground protested, but Running Antelope waited, watching the girl carefully. A woman could be as cunning as any man. Many Pikuni women were even more so.

  As the girl returned, however, Running Antelope could see the tears falling from her eyes. She carried a bundle and had wrapped something around her shoulders. He pointed to the bundle with his gun and, gritting her teeth, the girl opened it carefully. He studied the contents; there was a brush, pieces of fabric and a small blanket.

  He nodded his approval then directed the man to get up. The man tried to move but it was soon apparent that he could­n’t. Running Antelope led his horse closer and, handing the leather reins to the girl, leaned over and helped him to his feet. He was surprised by how little the man weighed. He had seemed bigger. No doubt the man had grown weaker and thin­ner because of his injury.

  It was easy to swing the man onto the back of his horse. In pain, he fell to one side and the girl quickly rushed forward, placing her hands on his leg, her voice tremulous and shrill. It would be good to get the man to camp. There, Red Quiver could help him.

  Leading the horse, Running Antelope pressed the girl to walk ahead of him. He did not trust her and was anxious to get back to the people. They had already broken camp earlier in the day and were headed north. If he hurried, he could rejoin them by nightfall, providing this man did not die before then.

  Urging the girl to step up her pace, Running Antelope pointed to the rising foothills ahead. All the while, he kept his eyes on the sway of her hips. Yes, she would make a good Pikuni wife, he thought, and he wondered what her white flesh would feel like under his hands.

  ****

  Liza walked along, suppressing a desire to run. Only for her father’s sake had she not struggled. If only she'd had a loaded gun, she could have shot the warrior and taken his horse.