Jim Culver awoke before the first light of day sought out the dark valley floor. Sore and cramped, and stiff from the early-morning chill, he tried to ease his aching arms and legs. It was to no avail, for his bonds were too tight to permit much movement. Turning his head as far as he could manage, he strained to see the stillsleeping form of his captor. Close by the remaining coals of his campfire, snug under a heavy buffalo robe, Slocum presented the image of a huge mound, not unlike a sleeping buffalo bull. Having been afforded two days’ worth of Slocum’s hospitality, Jim knew that the core of that mound was pure, ruthless evil.
Even though his rational mind told him it was useless to struggle against the rawhide rope holding him fast to the trunk of the pine, still he strained to break his bonds. Ignoring the blood that seeped around the tough rawhide that held his wrists, he pulled with all the strength he could muster. It was not enough, for Slocum knew his business well. Finally, unable to summon another ounce of effort, Jim lay back, exhausted. In spite of the frost that glazed the toes of his Crow moccasins, he could feel the sweat from his exertion trickling down his brow. Shaking his head in an attempt to keep the sweat from his eyes, he winced as the motion caused the dried blood caked on the back of his head to crack. He could tell by the stinging sensation in his scalp that there was an open wound on the back of his head. But he seemed to be thinking clearly, so maybe the big son of a bitch hadn’t cracked his skull after all. Cracked or not, however, it had taken a while for his head to stop spinning.
A grunt from the buffalo mound signaled that the brute was awake. As Jim watched, the mound began to move until, finally, the robe was thrown off and Slocum’s massive head and shoulders emerged amid a series of snorting and coughing that rivaled a rutting elk. At once he turned to make sure his prisoner was secure. Seeing Jim leaning against the tree trunk brought a smile to his face, barely discernible under the heavy brush of beard.
Taking a stick of deadwood from the little pile he had gathered the night before, he poked around in the ashes of his fire to stir up the live coals. After he had resurrected a serious flame, he added firewood and watched it until he was sure it had a hold on new life. Content that his breakfast fire was established, he walked over to stand by his prisoner and nonchalantly emptied his bladder. “Ain’t you even gonna say good mornin’?” he chided as he finished relieving himself. “What would you like for breakfast? How ’bout the same thing I fixed for you yesterday?” He chuckled at his own joke, since he had not seen fit to offer Jim any food. It was a long ride to Fort Lincoln, if in fact he decided to take his prisoner all the way back, and Slocum had no intention of keeping Jim’s strength up. He would give him what he deemed enough to keep him alive, no more. Judging from his prisoner’s size, and the width of his shoulders, he looked to be a match for most men. Slocum didn’t include himself in that group. He had never met the man who was a match for him when it came to fighting. Still, it made no sense to nourish him.
When there was no response from Jim to his cajoling, Slocum returned to his fire to prepare his breakfast. He put a small coffeepot on the fire to boil while he fried some bacon, all the while glancing in Jim’s direction to see if his prisoner was picking up the aroma of the cooking meat. “Damned if I ain’t gonna have to fix me up some of them dried beans I got in my saddle pack tonight. It’s a helluva long ride to Bismarck on an empty stomach.” There was still no response from his prisoner, but Slocum was confident that Jim’s belly had started growling a long time ago. He promised himself that Jim would be talking before it was over, begging for his own death. When the meat was done, Slocum poured himself a cup of coffee and came over to eat by Jim. Brushing a light film of snow from a rock, he sat down and made himself comfortable.
Looking Jim over while he ate, Slocum continued to taunt. “Looks like that place on the back of your head is bleedin’ again. I sure hope I didn’t crack your skull with the barrel of my rifle. That’s a damn fine rifle, and I wouldn’t wanna bend the barrel by bouncin’ it off a hard head like yours.” He knew Jim had already recognized the Winchester .73 as the rifle Johnny Malotte had stolen from him. “I had to slit the throat of the son of a bitch that took that rifle off of you. He thought he was gonna slit mine.” He watched Jim closely, trying to determine whether he understood the message. Then he took a long gulp of his coffee. “Damn, that’s good coffee. Don’t nobody west of the Missouri make better coffee than me.” Getting back on the subject, he said, “I mighta cracked the skull of that little bitch you was about to mount back there.” He laughed when he recalled the incident. “She musta really thought you was somethin’—coming at me with that damn paddle like she did. I put my fist right through her face. I could feel the bones breakin’. You reckon you could hit somebody that hard?”
Determined to meet his captor’s taunting with silent defiance, Jim found he could not hold his tongue any longer. “Why don’t you cut me loose, and we’ll find out,” he said.
This brought a grin to Slocum’s face. “Now, that’s a damn good idea. I’ll tell you what: We’ll wait till we git past the Belle Fourche, and then I’ll cut you loose, and me and you’ll have a go at it.” He laughed when he thought of the shape Jim would be in after that many days without food. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s time to break camp.”
He walked back to the fire and picked up the coffeepot. Holding it up so that Jim could see, he then poured the remains of the coffee in the fire, grinning at his prisoner. Jim did not miss the smug grin of satisfaction parting the thick whiskers on Slocum’s face. Slocum decided at that point that he would take Jim all the way back to Fort Lincoln. He was enjoying Jim’s misery too much to kill him right away. He would give him enough water to make sure he was barely alive when he reached Bismarck. That, after all, was the only condition in his original agreement with Captain Boyd. He was not forgetting the fact that Boyd had told him the army was no longer interested in Culver. That didn’t matter to Slocum anymore. He just wanted the satisfaction of dragging Jim’s nearly dead body across the parade ground and dumping it on the captain’s porch. Slocum always got his man; it was important to his sense of ego that Boyd understood this. If the army still insisted they wouldn’t pay him, he’d simply slit Culver’s throat right there.
* * *
Clay Culver stepped down from the saddle and led his horse to the ashes of a campfire. Only glancing at the remains of the fire at first, he looked around him to make sure he was alone. The early-morning sky was still gray, although it was getting lighter by the minute. Thinking of his horse first, he led the paint down to the stream to drink. Then he returned to take a closer look at the ashes. This was Slocum’s first camp. The trail had been easy enough to follow. The big bounty hunter had made no efforts to hide his tracks. Probably satisfied that there was no one to follow him, Clay figured. Pulling a frost-covered stick from the ashes, he stirred them up, then felt them with his hand. Stone cold, he thought. This camp was probably two days old. Due to the frost and the light covering of snow on the ground, it was hard to tell for sure, but he was confident that he had made up some of the time between them.
The light snow that had fallen during the night had not been enough to completely cover the tracks, so Clay took a few minutes to study the campsite. Judging by the sign, he guessed that his brother had been tied to a tree. At least it was an indication that Jim was still alive. The tracks leading out of the camp were in a northeastern direction, pointing toward a gap in the mountains some twenty-five or thirty miles away. According to Katie, the first time Slocum had shown up in Canyon Creek, he claimed he had come to take Jim back to Fort Lincoln. Assuming that was still the man’s intention, Clay had to believe that Slocum intended to skirt the Wind River range and the Bighorns, and strike the Belle Fourche. It was a helluva dangerous way to go at this particular time, even if it was winter. He would be traveling in Indian country all the way.
Having ridden the paint hard during the night, Clay decided to rest there before taking up the chase again. I could use some rest myself, he thought. So he unsaddled his pony and hobbled him near the branches of a fir tree where the snow had not been thick enough to hide the grass. Then, using his saddle as a pillow, he crawled up under the lower branches and set his mind for two hours. In a few seconds he was sound asleep, knowing that if there were any danger, his pony would warn him.
In approximately two hours, Clay opened his eyes and immediately crawled out from under the branches. While watering his horse, he breakfasted on a cold biscuit that Katie had stuffed in his saddle pack. Wasting no time building a fire to cook the bacon she had provided, he saddled the paint and took to the trail again. Keeping his senses sharp, he kept his mind on the tracks he followed and avoided thinking about what might be happening to Jim. Worrying wasn’t going to help Jim any, but it could damn sure cause a man to get careless. You just stay alive, little brother. I’ll find you.
Employing common sense as much as his skills as a tracker, Clay continued to gain ground on Slocum. For much of the way there were clear choices on the best way to cross a ridge or circle a mountain. So Clay didn’t waste time doggedly following the tracks. As a precaution, however, he checked them periodically to make sure he was on the right trail. By use of this method, he was able to arrive at Slocum’s next campsite before dark. The ruthless bounty hunter didn’t appear to be in any particular hurry.
Testing the ashes, he found there was enough warmth in the ground beneath them for him to guess he was no more than possibly eight or ten hours behind. As he had done before, he scouted the campsite in order to get a clue as to Jim’s condition. The sign indicated a similar scene to the night before, with Jim tied to a tree all night. Confident that Jim was still alive, Clay was in the saddle again, wasting very little time. There was a sense of urgency now, stronger than before, with the thought of overtaking Slocum in one more day’s hard ride.
* * *
On the eastern side of the slopes that Clay was approaching, Slocum rode at a leisurely pace, his prisoner following along behind. The huge man glanced back frequently, pleased to notice that Jim, despite a defiant effort to fight it, was beginning to weaken. This would be his third day without food, and only the water he could get from eating snow. And judging by the back of his shirt, he had lost a lot of blood. Another day or so, and he would be too weak to cause any trouble, even if Slocum happened to get careless.
His arms aching from having his hands tied behind him for so long, Jim tried to keep his mind off of his discomfort. With thoughts of revenge the only nourishment available to him, he vowed to remain strong and feed off of those thoughts. Somewhere between these rocky ridges and Fort Lincoln, Slocum had to make a mistake. And when he did, Jim was determined to be ready to take advantage of it.
Trying to keep his mind occupied with thoughts other than the emptiness of his belly, Jim looked around him as they made their way along the rugged foothills of the Wind River Mountains. It was not far from here that Johnny Malotte had left him for dead, half floating in a tiny stream. If it had not been for the prompt arrival of Iron Bow, he would be dead now—and never have had the pleasure of meeting the surly beast on the horse leading his. The irony of it brought a faint smile to his face.
Just happening to glance back at his prisoner at that point, Slocum was puzzled to see what appeared to be a grin on Jim’s face. It irritated him. “Time to rest these horses,” he abruptly grunted, and stepped down from the saddle. Walking back to stand beside Jim, he demanded, “What the hell are you grinning about?” Then, grabbing him by the arm, he yanked Jim out of the saddle and sent him sprawling to the ground.
Landing on his shoulder, Jim could not help but grunt in pain when he fell to the ground. He tried to scramble to his feet, but with his arms tied behind his back he was barely able to get to his knees before Slocum knocked him to the ground again with the butt of his rifle.
Jim lay there a moment before struggling to gain a sitting position, a fresh trickle of blood running down his cheek. “You’re a regular grizzly bear, ain’t you?” Jim growled. “How are you against a man that ain’t got his hands tied behind him?”
Delighted by the show of defiance from a man whose strength was close to running out, Slocum grinned as he looked down at Jim. “Now, that there’s mighty brave talk from a man that shot my brother in the back. Here, let me help you up.” He grabbed Jim’s shirt and dragged him to his feet. “There, now we’re standin’ eye-to-eye.”
“I didn’t shoot that piece of shit in the back,” Jim said evenly while trying to stand squarely on wobbly legs. “He jumped me and got what he deserved.”
A spark of anger flashed in Slocum’s eyes. “You lying bastard. The only way you coulda kilt Blackie was to get him in the back. You might as well own up to it.”
Seeing how it incensed the surly giant, Jim couldn’t resist taunting him. “Right in the chest—he was looking right at me. I pumped three slugs into the son of a bitch.” The words were barely out when Slocum struck him. Jim tried to sidestep the punch, but it caught him beside his ear. Slocum grabbed his shirt to keep him from going down and then landed another punch flush in the face. Jim’s legs collapsed under him and he crumpled to the ground.
“There, you had your chance to stand toe-to-toe. Next time I might even untie your hands, you lying bastard.”
* * *
On a ridge overlooking the stream where Slocum had stopped to rest the horses, eight painted Indian ponies stood patiently while their masters watched the two white men below. Puzzled by the attack of one of the white men upon the other, the Crow warriors watched silently, their feathers fluttering in the steady breeze that swept the top of the ridge. Wolf Paw, son of Iron Bow, nudged his horse and moved farther down the ridge for a closer look. Something about the man whose hands were tied intensified his curiosity.
Seeing his friend’s interest, Leads His Horse moved down beside Wolf Paw. “Do you think that is the man we have been following?” he asked. The war party had been trailing a solitary set of tracks for over a week. They were searching for the man who killed Red Wing, their medicine man. When Newt didn’t return to camp overnight, a search party had ridden out to look for him the next morning. Near the south end of the valley the stiffened body of the old man was found where it had fallen in a berry patch. His pony had been found grazing near the bank of the river. Tracks of a shod horse led away from the valley. The old man was revered in the Crow camp, and while the people grieved his death, Wolf Paw and seven others mounted up immediately and rode out to find the person who had killed him.
Wounded Leg had suggested that the war party should withdraw to the top of the ridge to watch the white men to make sure they were not advance scouts for a larger party. When the riders were close enough so that the Crows could see one of the men was the prisoner of the other, the warriors continued to watch in simple curiosity.
Wolf Paw did not answer his friend at once, but continued to stare at the white men. After a few moments he turned to Leads His Horse. “Look closely at the man who was struck down,” he said. “It is Dead Man.”
Leads His Horse was taken aback. As Wolf Paw suggested, he strained to get a better look at the man lying on the ground. “You’re right!” he exclaimed. “It is Dead Man.”
“He’s not riding the pony Iron Bow gave him, or I would have recognized him sooner.” Wolf Paw immediately turned and signaled for the others to join them. As soon as they were around him, he told them what he had discovered. “Dead Man is a captive of the big white man down there. I think the big one may be the man we have been following. Maybe Dead Man tried to kill him, but was unable to overpower him. We must rescue Dead Man,” he added, his voice sharp with a sudden sense of urgency. There was immediate response to his urgent tone, for they all held Jim in the highest regard. A quick conference was held to decide the best plan of attack. Haste seemed to be imperative, since they weren’t sure whether the big white man was going to kill Jim right away or not. At Wolf Paw’s suggestion, it was decided to spread out and charge down the slope of the ridge, hoping to overpower Slocum before he had a chance to use his rifle.
* * *
Gradually Jim’s head began to clear, and he struggled to turn over onto his side. The force of Slocum’s blow had rattled his brain for a few moments, but he was now thinking clearly again. The pain in his shoulder told him that he had landed hard, and the rawhide binding his wrists was cutting into the skin. He turned his head, trying to find Slocum, and spotted him over by the stream, filling a canteen, his back to him. Maybe this was his chance! The brute evidently thought Jim would be unconscious for a few minutes.
It wasn’t much of a chance, but he figured he might not get another one. So he struggled up onto his knees as quietly as he could, watching the back of the surly giant carefully. So far, so good, he thought, and got his feet under him to push up. Unsteady from lack of food and water, he almost went down again. He looked at his horse, some ten yards away. Toby looked back at him as if wondering what his master had in mind. Jim’s gaze concentrated now on the stirrup, hanging impassively against Toby’s belly. How could he step up in the stirrup without the use of his hands? His common sense told him he couldn’t. But his defiant determination told him that he was going to try. One more quick glance back at Slocum, and he made the commitment. Doing his best to run on wobbly legs drained of energy, he headed straight for Toby. He saw right away that it was a foolish quest. He could not jump up in the saddle. His attempt was woefully short, and he slammed into the horse’s side at the same time an explosion of rifle fire erupted behind him.
Thinking it somehow came from Slocum, he hit the ground and rolled under Toby’s belly. As he did, he glimpsed Slocum sprinting for his horse, cocking his rifle as he ran. They were under attack, but Jim wasn’t sure from whence it came. Rifle slugs were whining everywhere overhead, but he realized that none were close to him. Maybe they hadn’t seen him roll under Toby’s belly. At this point, he was in more danger of getting stomped under the horse’s hooves as the nervous animal reacted to the gunshots. Looking up he saw Slocum, now in the saddle and returning fire, his grizzled face a mask of anger as he tried to get a steady shot off. Rolling over on his side, Jim looked in the direction Slocum was shooting and saw the Indians, half a dozen or more, storming down from the ridge.
There wasn’t much he could do to protect himself, with his hands tied behind him. He resigned himself to accept his fate. Hell, he thought, it’s no worse getting killed by Indians than it is by this son of a bitch. With that thought, he looked up again at Slocum, the huge man’s horse pawing and sidestepping, straining against the reins as the bullets from the Indian war party kicked up dirt around its hooves. Forced to hold the horse from running with one hand on the reins, Slocum was trying to fire his rifle with the other. As Jim watched, Slocum angrily realized that he was overpowered and would have to make a run for it.
Amid the confusion of the attack, Jim would remember the mask of pure fury that was Slocum’s face at that moment. Unwilling to abandon his prisoner, but with no time to get Jim on his horse, Slocum determined to kill Jim before he fled. Jim realized this only when Slocum suddenly turned his rifle to point directly at him and pulled the trigger. Jim’s brain went numb for a second before he realized that the hammer had fallen on an empty chamber. In the time it took for Slocum to slide the rifle in the sling and pull his pistol, Jim rolled back under Toby. Still fighting his frightened horse, Slocum tried to wheel the animal around to get a clear shot at Jim. Each time he did, Jim rolled back to the other side, using Toby as a shield.
When the war party was within one hundred yards, Slocum found it too dangerous to linger. The bullets were ripping up dirt too close for his comfort. He was forced to abandon thoughts of executing Jim. “Damn you! It ain’t over yet,” he spat with one final glare of hatred before he turned the impatient horse and bolted toward the other end of the narrow valley at a gallop. Having dodged death from one quarter, Jim prepared to deal with the new threat.
The Indian warriors veered from their charge down the slope to pursue the man galloping away. I guess they figure I ain’t going anywhere, Jim thought as he unconsciously strained at his bonds while he tried to think of some means of escape. The only chance he had was to somehow climb in the saddle and make a run for it while the war party occupied itself with Slocum. But the effort it had taken to avoid execution at the hands of Slocum had used up most of the little strength he had left.
He managed to get to his feet, only to find that the first seemingly simple step, to untie Toby’s reins from a willow limb, was going to be a challenge. Slocum had pulled the knot tight. Jim went to work on it with his teeth, even then wondering what he would do if he succeeded in untying it and Toby decided to run. “Easy, boy,” he murmured, trying to calm the big Morgan stallion while he worked feverishly at the stubborn knot. Little by little, he managed to loosen the reins until he suddenly realized that the shooting had stopped. Taking a quick look back, he discovered that the war party had given up the chase and was now riding back toward him. “Well, shit,” he mumbled in frustration. Looking over into the eyes of his horse, he confided, “I doubt I could have gotten in the saddle, anyway.” He took a step away from Toby and stood defiantly to meet the war party.
As the riders approached, Jim suddenly realized they looked familiar. A few yards closer and he recognized faces. “Wolf Paw,” he said softly. This ain’t my day to ride to the spirit world after all, he told himself.
Wolf Paw’s look of concern turned to one of joy when he saw Jim’s smiling face. “Dead Man,” he called out, his greeting echoed by the seven warriors with him. Soon Jim was surrounded by smiling, chattering faces, as his Crow friends expressed their joy in seeing him. Then seeing the dried blood matting Jim’s hair and the back of his shirt, Leads His Horse was quick to pull his knife and cut the rawhide binding Jim’s wrists. Jim winced with the pain that the movement of his arms caused after having been immobile for so long. Seeing that his friend was weak from hunger, Wolf Paw persuaded him to sit while he got some dried antelope meat from his parfleche. Jim greedily chewed the tough jerky while telling his Crow friends how he happened to be in the situation in which they had found him.
“I think that was the man we have been looking for,” Wolf Paw said. “We have bad news to tell you.” Then he told Jim of Newt Plummer’s death, and how the war party happened to be this close to Shoshoni territory. “I think that if we look at the tracks of the horse we just chased, they will be the same as those we followed from the Bighorn valley.”
It was hard for Jim to believe Newt Plummer was dead. How could that be? Jim had expected to be able to make many trips to the Crow camp to visit Newt in the old man’s waning years. Knowing the old medicine man as well as he did, Jim supposed Newt would probably have said it was better to die the way he had, instead of dying gradually of old age by the campfire. Even so, it didn’t keep the world from being worse off without the old trapper. Then thoughts of the ruthless villain who had just succeeded in escaping Wolf Paw’s war party crowded into his mind. How could one man cause so much grief in the world? It wasn’t right to let a man like that live.
Talk among the warriors returned to taking up the trail again to go after Slocum. If he continued on the course he had ridden out on, he was more than likely heading for Fort Laramie. Jim was quick to stress that it would be a mistake to permit Slocum to gain a head start, and he insisted that he was strong enough to ride with the war party.
A couple of the warriors began to talk about the wisdom of continuing after Slocum in view of the direction he was now heading. The small war party had already ventured far from their village. And even though they approached Shoshoni country, they were willing to continue for a few more days. But now that the chase seemed to lead on a more southeasterly course, there were other things to consider. There were reports of many Sioux camps in that territory. And while the Shoshoni were not especially friendly with the Crows, they were not at war with anyone at present. The Sioux, on the other hand, were on the verge of war with just about everybody, and were sending out many raiding parties. This had to be given serious consideration by a Crow party numbering only eight. Further discussion was interrupted when one of the Crow warriors warned, “A rider comes!”
All eyes turned at once, searching in the direction indicated by the outstretched arm of the warrior. Descending a steep slope near the end of the same ridge the Crow war party had ridden down, the lone rider sat easily in the saddle, his body leaning back slightly to balance himself as the Indian paint pony carefully picked its way down the incline. Curious, the Crow warriors silently watched the unexpected rider. Had their attention not been captured by the broad-shouldered scout, dressed in buckskins, they might have noticed the wide smile on Jim’s face. Wolf Paw was about to warn his warriors to be on their guard when Jim spoke. “It’s my brother Clay,” he said, and got to his feet to welcome him.
“Ah, Ghost Wind,” Wolf Paw replied, a definite tone of respect in his voice. “I have heard my father talk about him.”
* * *
Following Slocum’s trail, Clay had heard the shots while still several miles away. There had been a pause after the first and second shots, causing him to fear they signaled the possible execution of his brother. But when those shots were followed by an almost continuous volley, he knew it more likely to be an ambush. Afraid of what he might find, he pushed his pony mercilessly until arriving on the ridge above the tiny valley. He saw Jim, his hands tied behind his back, stagger out to face the eight warriors, galloping hard toward him. Knowing he could not reach his brother in time, he had drawn his rifle from the saddle sling and quickly dismounted. Kneeling behind a small boulder, he had rested the rifle on it and lined his sights up on the leader of the war party. Waiting to let the warrior get a little closer, he had kept the sight on the Indian’s chest. At the moment he was ready to squeeze the trigger, he had been astonished to see the warrior raise his arm in a friendly greeting. Glancing again at his brother, he had been surprised to see Jim taking a few steps to meet the riders. He had removed his finger from the trigger and looked at the warriors riding behind the leader. They were also greeting Jim. Clay watched the reunion below him by the stream for a few minutes more before he had put the rifle away and stepped up onto the paint.
Reaching the floor of the valley, Clay continued to slow-walk his horse toward Jim and the Crow warriors, who had all turned to watch him approach. Though his demeanor seemed casual, he was nevertheless keeping a cautious eye on the warriors, his rifle cradled across his arms, just in case the scene wasn’t as it appeared. He relaxed in earnest, however, when Jim called out to him.
“Well, it’s about time you showed up. I thought that ugly son of a bitch was gonna drag me all the way to Fort Lincoln.” His grin filled his face. “Lucky for me Wolf Paw and his friends showed up when they did.”
“Looks to me like you’da been a heap luckier if they’d showed up a little sooner,” Clay replied, seeing the bloody evidence of his brother’s wounds. It was not in his nature to express it, but he had been worried about Jim and was genuinely relieved to see him. “Looks like there was a catfight on your head.”
“Feels like there was a catfight on my head,” Jim returned.
Wolf Paw and the others stood back while the brothers clasped hands and greeted each other. He, especially, was in awe of the Ghost Wind, for he had heard stories of the mighty warrior from his father, Iron Bow. Seeing Clay in person, he was even more impressed and pleased to find the legendary scout as imposing a figure as Iron Bow had said.
After Clay had greeted each of the Crow warriors, Jim told him what had happened there by the stream, and the direction in which Slocum had fled. Then he asked the questions that had bothered him the most.
“Clay, what about Lettie? And Katie?” he quickly added. “Are they all right? I saw Luke go down. There wasn’t anything I could do about it.”
Clay’s casual mood changed instantly as he was reminded of the grim mission that had led him here. “Katie’s all right. Lettie got hurt pretty bad. There ain’t much I can tell you about her except she’s still in a bad way, but Katie’s taking care of her.”
Jim made no reply, obviously having hoped to hear better news. Searching his brother’s face for indications of better news to follow, he finally asked, “But she’s gonna be all right, isn’t she?”
Clay frowned uncomfortably. “I don’t know, Jim. She was hurt pretty bad. I’m not even sure she knows what happened to her. She ain’t exactly in her right mind right now.” He studied his brother’s face, now stunned and devoid of expression. “I’m sorry,” he said. Then, to change the subject as well as remind Jim that time was being wasted, he said, “The thing I’ve got to do right now is catch the animal that did it to her.”
Jim nodded soberly, his mind still thinking about Lettie, silently blaming himself for his carelessness in not taking his rifle with him when he had walked down to the river with her. “We’d best get started,” he said.
Clay gazed at him for a long moment, studying the determination in his younger brother’s face. He decided that determination was the only real strength Jim had at the moment. He was obviously weak from his wounds, or starvation, or both. He looked in no shape to ride, at least as hard as Clay planned to. Slocum already had a good hour’s start on him, and Clay had to move fast. “I think it best if you stay with your friends here and get your strength back.”
“The hell you say,” Jim was quick to respond. “That bastard has been hunting me all over the territory—knocked me in the head and damn near starved me to death. I reckon I’ll be the one to settle up with him.”
A quiet fury had been ignited within Clay Culver’s soul when he had arrived in Canyon Creek too late to prevent the wanton murder of Luke and the vicious attack upon Lettie. Now that Jim was safe, the fury still smoldered, but was controlled by the calm and rational thinking that was typical of the tall mountain man. He understood Jim’s passion for vengeance, but his brother was obviously still too weak to ride with him. Clay fully appreciated the danger involved in a confrontation with the ruthless Slocum. A well and physically fit Jim Culver was a match for any man, but Clay was afraid Jim’s wrath would push him beyond reasonable caution. And with a man like Slocum, that might prove fatal. There was no doubt in Clay’s mind that Slocum was a killer without conscience, like the wolf and the coyote, and like those killers, born with a cunning that testified to his survival. In short, Clay preferred to go after Slocum alone. He didn’t want to worry about Jim’s safety. His decision final, he said, “All right, get on your horse.”
“I need a weapon,” Jim said.
“Just get on your horse first,” Clay replied stoically.
Wolf Paw and Leads His Horse stepped back to give Jim room, watching the brothers with great interest. Jim released the willow branch he had been using for support and took a few wobbly steps toward Toby. He started to reel, but stopped until he regained his balance. Wolf Paw looked at Clay and shook his head. With great determination, Jim steadied himself and started toward his horse again. With stumbling steps he reached Toby’s side and grabbed the saddle horn for support. While Clay and the Crow warriors watched his efforts in silent fascination, Jim managed to get a foot in the stirrup, but could not summon the strength to step up into the saddle. After a couple of feeble attempts, he looked at his brother and said, “I might need a little help here.”
“I reckon you’d best stay here,” Clay said, his voice gentle but with a tone of finality. Jim was about to protest, but Clay turned away and directed a question toward Wolf Paw. “Can you take him to your village and tend to that cut on the back of his head?”
“You go after this man alone?” Wolf Paw asked. Clay nodded, and Wolf Paw said, “We will take care of him.”
Jim was sick inside with the realization that Clay was right. He would be of little use to his brother, and might even be a hindrance. He couldn’t even get up on his horse without help. Resigned to the way things had to be, he pulled his foot from the stirrup and remained standing there holding on to the saddle horn. “Be careful, Clay. The man’s dangerous as hell.”
“I know,” Clay replied with a faint smile. Then, with a nod to Wolf Paw, he was off.