The Badlands were like no other place that Herne had encountered. A maze of arroyos which twisted and turned between limestone ridges. A jagged landscape almost entirely without water. It was like riding through the land of the long dead.
The chalky, grayish-white of the limestone seemed to be everywhere. Even the patches of scrub or the stunted trees that somehow managed to grow were covered in the same whiteness.
Just occasionally there was a patch of reddish clay; a twisting line of silvery sand left behind by a stream that had long since dried out.
The whitish dust rose up as he rode, coating his clothes, clogging his nostrils and ears and the pores of his skin. His tongue seemed to be coated with it; the back of his throat rasped drily.
If there was a Hell, thought Herne, and there surely was, then it was like this. Not fiery flames that leaped in bright and vivid colors, but constant dry heat and a never-ending, tortured land like this one.
Jesus! he cursed inside his head. Sweet Jesus! This is one bastard of a place!
The hills rose about him on all sides. It was impossible to follow tracks with any sureness. The white dust simply settled back over them, covering them up almost as soon as they had been made.
Now Herne had to rely on his other senses—in particular those instincts that he had trained through years of fighting to survive on the frontier. As well honed as the bayonet blade he kept in his boot, they had saved him many times. Saved him two days before when he had turned at the last second away from the arrow that had dug into his arm.
He thought they would serve him now.
He was following the trail like a man blinded by too much light.
Herne stopped. The sound was distant but unmistakable. He dropped to the ground and went on to his knees, head angled over against the earth. Satisfied, he remounted and rode the horse up the slanting side of the hill, twisting round in the opposite direction once the top was gained. At the end of the next draw three trees huddled round a dried-up spring.
He tethered his mount, then used his rope to hobble it, lest it should somehow break loose and stray.
He didn’t want to be stranded in the midst of the Badlands on foot.
He checked his Colt, replacing shells in the loops of his gun belt where they were missing. Next he took a box of .55 shells for the single-shot Sharps and stuffed some into his pants pockets.
He pulled the Sharps clear from its scabbard and set off at a fast walking pace, heading back in the direction from which he had heard the sound. Not exactly, taking into account the speed of movement of the ponies. Thinking ahead, knowing he was trying to outsmart the Indians at their own game and knowing also that it was imperative he succeeded.
He didn’t fancy dying already in Hell.
White Hell.
Herne crouched low, fingers splayed in the gray-white dust. The band of Oglala Sioux passed into his gaze, no more than a hundred yards away.
They were over to the north, maybe a hundred or so feet lower down. He could see their heads, the tops of their bodies; now and then the bobbing head of one of their ponies.
Some of the braves wore long feathered headdresses, others a small, close group of feathers which sprouted from the back of their dark hair.
It was not so with the leader. Herne focused on the single white feather dangling from the twisted knots of hair that fell towards his neck. A white eagle’s feather.
Herne remembered the giant bird, forlornly fishing above the river. The huge head and bill; the white, wedge-shaped tail.
His attention shifted back to the others. He counted sixteen of them altogether, riding in single file. Some had bows slung over their shoulders, quivers of arrows. He saw war clubs, knives.
Rifles.
As the land dropped away in front of them, Herne noted the heavy, big-bladed hatchet that swung from the leader’s belt.
And other things attached to the same belt. Human hair that swayed with the movement of the pony; hair and skin and dried blood; they had been taking scalps.
Herne wetted his lips and eased the Sharps on to the edge of the ground. He sighted on the leading rider, following his progress along the barrel of the rifle. From that range he could blow him out of the saddle, make a hole in him big enough to drive a man’s arm into.
But it would not be enough.
There were too many of them and he was alone.
It would have to be done in other ways … and there was still the girl.
When the last of the Sioux had gone from his vision, Herne waited a few moments and then set off after them, knowing all the while that tracking the Indian that closely was inviting the worst kind of death.
For an instant the sight of the scalps hanging from the rider’s belt came back to him, but he moved on, dismissing it.
The Sharps in his left hand, he crossed behind where they had gone, seeking the higher ground. Ten minutes later he picked them up again; they were heading deep into the hills.
Herne guessed that they had made some kind of permanent camp and left the girl there under guard. If she were still alive.
Herne moved on again, keeping his movements slow and quiet. He wondered about the girl. Why they had not killed her at the Agency? Why they’d brought her this far? It could be that one of them, possibly the leader, wanted her for a squaw, but that was unlikely.
Perhaps there was another reason, one he hadn’t figured yet. Whatever it was Herne didn’t reckon it would keep her alive for very long. If he was going to get her out it had to be soon.
The land rose, layer upon twisted layer. Herne climbed with it, careful not to get too close nor to let the Sioux too far out of reach.
He rounded a bluff and stopped dead.
The warrior was sixty yards away and facing him; looking directly at him.
Between them yawned a deep canyon with stretches of silvery sand at the bottom.
For what seemed an eternity but could have been no more than a couple of seconds neither man moved.
Then the Sioux reached for his bow and Herne ducked back behind the bluff.
He could have used his gun and likely dropped the Indian there and then but that would only serve to bring the rest down on him fast. There had to be another way.
Herne scrambled upwards, using hands as well as feet. The harsh surface of rock scraped at his skin and once he almost lost his footing and slithered back to the bottom. But he held his balance and then continued, anxious for height.
The Sioux had slipped back from sight also and there was no way for Herne to know whether he had headed back to the camp or had decided to hunt the white man down for himself.
He hoped it would be the latter. After a successful raid the Indian should be feeling his own strength to the full. His pride would drive him on, knowing that if he caught the white man and killed him it would be extra proof of his manhood and status as warrior.
Herne saw the ends of scrub move to the right of the canyon.
He had guessed correctly—the brave was heading in that direction, seeking him out.
Herne leaned on to his left side and slid the bayonet from his right boot.
Okay, friend, he smiled grimly, let him who seeks find what he’s after.
Soundlessly he dropped down on to the ledge below.
He couldn’t see the Indian but assumed he’d be trying to work his way around the deepest part of the canyon and get to where he’d spotted Herne. The exact thing Herne was doing himself, but in reverse.
Exact, except that Herne wasn’t going to cross the canyon.
Yet.
He choose his spot and waited, the hilt of the bayonet tight in the fingers of his right hand. The Sharps was stretched out on the rock behind him, out of the way.
He heard the slightest of movements and held his breath.
Earth shifted and slithered and there was the sound of a man landing on hard ground. Landing and then becoming perfectly still. Herne held his breath. Lines of sweat ran along his arms and rolled from his graying temples into the stubble of his growth of new beard, irritating him.
His eyes were narrowed into the tightest of slits.
Across their line of vision moved an arm, a section of dark hair, then the unrelieved rock once again.
Herne shifted his position silently, taking each fresh step as if he were placing the balls of his feet upon broken glass that would pierce him if he trod too hard.
He had got himself behind the Indian: now to close up.
He got to within a dozen paces before the man sensed rather than heard him and whirled round. The Indian’s hand came forward in a blur and Herne threw himself sideways fast. The knife slashed through the space where his chest had been seconds before. Fractions of seconds.
Herne pushed himself up and began to close.
The Indian reached for the war club that hung at the left side of his breech cloth. The stone head and wooden handle were both covered with hide and several small strips of colored cloth were fastened to the handle end.
His face became a mask of hate, two lines crisscrossing over nose and cheeks in bright white paint.
Herne went right and forwards; another couple of paces and he would be within striking distance.
Before he could take the second the Indian leaped at him, club swinging above his head. Herne ducked underneath it and flashed the bayonet upwards. The edge of the blade carved through the underside of the Indian’s forearm but he kept hold of the club.
Both men turned again to face one another.
Feet spread they began to make a slow circle.
First Herne feinted to attack, then the Sioux. Each man looked for the slightest chance of an opening, knowing that to move at the wrong moment was as fatal as not moving at all.
Finally it was Herne who lunged forwards, right arm extended as far as it would go. The point of the blade struck the quills of the Indian’s breast covering but no more. The Sioux jerked his body sideways and brought the war club down at an angle, driving it on to Herne’s wrist.
Herne grimaced, mouth opened by the sudden shoot of pain; helpless to prevent it. His fingers splayed apart and the bayonet plummeted to the ground.
Before the blade had struck the Indian’s club had gone into a fresh curve and Herne ducked to the left, riding with the blow, feeling the stone head bruise his side but evading the worst of it.
With the club held down at the end of its swing, Herne saw his chance. He bent at the knees and then catapulted himself directly at the Sioux. One hand sought the right arm, the other went for the head, fingers pointed straight, aiming for the eyes.
The Sioux went down under him with a cry and Herne rammed his elbow into the man’s neck, immediately below the chin. He felt the head jolted back and heard a tight gurgling from the Indian’s throat.
The bayonet was less than two feet away.
Herne hammered his left fist into the Indian’s face and dived for the bayonet. With one movement he grasped the hilt and brought it back towards his own body. The Sioux’s face was in hard upon him, the white lines inches away from his face. Fingers sought his throat.
Herne allowed himself to be pushed backwards and down, taking the weight of the Sioux on top of him, the brave’s hand still at his neck. Herne saw the effort written on the Indian’s face. He reached his left arm round behind and pulled him down close. Moved the right...
The blade struck alongside the spine and slid into the flesh of the back. By Herne’s face another mouth opened and eyes bulged. Herne drove the knife deeper. On top of him, the Sioux struggled like a fish on a hook, like a young deer impaled on a lance, like a desperate, dying man.
Herne held the bayonet firm until the Indian began to relax and his flailing movements ceased. The head collapsed against his shoulder; the mouth beneath the white painted lines slowly opened and a trickle of red blood dribbled on to Herne’s neck and chest.
He slid out from under the man and crouched above him.
Pressing his left hand hard on to the back, Herne freed the blade and cleaned it.
He hesitated a few moments, waiting until his breathing was back to normal. Then he stood and looked round. There was no sign of any other movement, no sound. He returned the bayonet to its sheath in his boot and stepped over the dead Indian.
Now he would cross the canyon.
Herne dropped to one knee at the sound. The Sharps seemed to be at his shoulder without movement. His weather-worn hands eased the long barrel to the left; up and up. Frozen against the eroded rock the outline of a buff-colored coyote showed through his sights.
Herne released his pent-up breath and relaxed his muscles, lowering the rifle.
He stood up and moved on.
The ground seemed to have been formed by something Herne could not guess at into solid blocks, one resting on top of another, making a giant stairway down which he climbed.
At the other side he saw a rare cluster of trees, mostly red cedar with some smaller juniper mixed amongst them. Somewhere close by there had to be one of the few streams in the area that had not dried up completely, likely fed by some deep underground spring.
It would not be far from there that the Sioux would have made their camp.
Herne set his boot on the lowest of the slabs and something alongside it caught his eye. He brushed away at the covering of dust and there against his fingers was the fossil of a skull. Long headed with a mouth like that of a large dog and set perfectly into the stone.
Herne crossed into the welcome shade of the trees.
From the other side he could see the beginnings of the hollow. Behind it, layers of rock lifted up towards the sky, culminating in a series of sharp, needle points, so fine that their peaks almost became lost from sight against the light.
Between these strange peaks and the trees was the Sioux camp.
A number of tipis, some make-shift coverings of branches and leaves; a roughly-hewn corral in which their ponies and the stolen horses were penned. At the center of the space a large rounded construction with what seemed to be a forked pole at its center.
A number of braves were sitting cross-legged, talking, sharpening knife blades on a piece of stone. More were gathered by the corral. Herne guessed there were others out of sight.
He looked carefully for the girl but could see no sign.
It was possible that she was inside one of the tipis, but…
Herne’s eyes scanned the heights opposite. If they were careful enough to drop one man behind to watch for any followers, then they would be likely to post guards.
He spotted one on a ledge eighty feet above the hollow, so immobile that he seemed at first to be part of the stone. It was some moments before he saw the second, even higher and resting at an angle with his legs thrust forward, a rifle across his knees.
Herne knew that their vantage point was far superior to his own and that if he showed any more of himself they would notice him amongst the timber line. He stayed absolutely still, even his breathing controlled, scanning the hollow.
After half an hour his vigilance was rewarded.
The flap to one of the tipis was thrown back and a warrior came out. It was the one Herne had noticed riding at the head of the returning group of raiders and he assumed him to be their leader. The same white feather showed clearly at the back of his head.
He spoke harshly to someone still inside the tent and then stepped back inside, bending low. When he re-emerged he was dragging the girl after him.
From that distance Herne could not see her face clearly but her whole manner suggested a mixture of despair and terror. She was wearing a blue dress that was torn at the top and which she kept trying to hold together with her free hand. Her hair had been cut savagely close to its roots.
Only her ankles, Herne noticed, were tied, the hide allowing her room to hobble.
The Indian shouted something at her and half pushed her, half struck her arm. She staggered sideways and tried to prevent herself falling but to no avail.
Herne’s hand moved back down to the trigger of the Sharps but he made no attempt to raise the rifle to his shoulder.
The Indian dragged the girl back to her feet and began pushing her towards the other tipis. In front of them were the makings of a fire and close by the partly skinned body of some animal, most likely a mule deer, was impaled on a stake.
The Indian shouted at the girl and pointed.
When she seemed not to understand, he raised his arm as if to strike her. Instead he gave a curious laugh and pointed once more at the animal.
This time the girl nodded and went over to it, slowly and with difficulty sitting down opposite the brave who was working on the skin. This second Indian started to demonstrate what she should do.
Herne nodded with satisfaction.
For whatever strange reason they had accepted her for the present. At least they were keeping her alive. He wondered how long and at what price.
If that was the tipi of the brave with the white feather, he could guess what demands were being made upon her.
The beast with two backs.
Herne shook his head, clearing the image from his mind.
The girl was fourteen.
Herne backed slowly away. It was coming close to the end of the day. The Sioux would be feasting their victorious raid. He would draw back and make camp himself. In the morning, with the coming of first light, then he would make up his mind what to do.