Little Wolf stood trembling. His body ached with sorrow and his brain screamed with despair. His very soul had been torn and wounded. His world, his happiness, lay before him lifeless and cold. The women of the village had found Morning Sky lying mutilated and bloody in the berry thicket. They had bathed her body and dressed her in a clean buckskin tunic. He had never before known such rage and he drew his knife and slashed his chest and stomach repeatedly in mourning, but nothing eased the pain from within. He was not sure he wanted to live this life without her. Morning Sky was dead. How could he accept it? He sobbed when he thought how she had met her fate, at the hands of the white vermin he had ordered from the village. Morning Sky gone? Surely this was a bad dream. Surely he would awaken and hear her soft singing as she went about her chores. He touched her hand, once warm and feeling, now cold and stiff. He would never again feel her warm caress. Then the weakness left him and he could feel the fiery hot venom of revenge filling his veins. He swore he would not rest until he had found the men who had done this.
Sitting Bull came to comfort him in his grief. They would organize a great war party to find the two buffalo hunters, he said, and to wreak revenge on all whites for this outrage. But Little Wolf refused the chief’s offer of help. No, he told him. He alone must be allowed the right to punish the two white men. They must die by his own hand before Morning Sky’s spirit could walk in peace in the other world. Sitting Bull understood and respected Little Wolf’s wishes. It was his right.
A Sioux scout had ridden out after the men as soon as Morning Sky’s body was discovered. He returned on the same day Little Wolf returned from the hunt. The scout reported that he had followed their trail, catching up with the two men after nightfall. They were joined by a third white man, who shot one of the buffalo hunters and tied them both up. The next morning, the large giant of a man tied them to their horses and took them away. They went toward the white man’s fort. Since the large man appeared to be a formidable foe and seemed to be always alert, the Sioux scout decided not to attack the three men, and returned to report his findings to Sitting Bull.
After Little Wolf had mourned for Morning Sky for three days, he readied himself for his mission of vengence. Word had been brought back to the village that the two white men had been placed in the stockade at Fort Lincoln. Little Wolf set out on a chilly fall morning, bound for the fort. His mind was of one purpose—to kill Morning Sky’s murderers. Nothing else mattered. Sleeps Standing and Lame Otter pleaded to accompany him but he refused. It was for him and him alone to avenge his wife’s death.
A light rain fell as Little Wolf rode, hunched over slightly, a hood of antelope hide over his head for protection against the steady drizzle. The Appaloosa ate up the miles with a steady gait that soon saw the Beaver River and the Little Missouri behind them as he crossed the harsh, rolling prairie toward Fort Lincoln. The high mountains were far behind him now. Near another river, he saw the first signs of the white man’s advances into the sacred lands of the Sioux and Cheyenne. There was a roughly built log hut with a horse corral and some planted crops growing around it. He stopped at a distance and stared at the homestead for a long while before continuing on his journey. After another day’s ride he saw what could only be Fort Lincoln on the horizon. He must be alert now for he was surely in the land of the white man. The hatred that had driven him on to this place must now give way to cunning—he had devised no plan to find the two he hunted. First I must sleep, he counseled himself, so that my senses will be keen. After I have rested, I will think of a plan.
Skirting another settler’s cabin, he rode until he crossed a small stream south of the fort. Here he made his camp, and after a supper of pemmican, he slept. His was the sleep of the weary. He was tired and his heart was heavy under its burden. He dreamed of his wife, preparing his food, sewing the hides he had taken, making love to him. And then he saw the faces of the two buffalo hunters, filthy and evil, and he was powerless to cast them out of his tipi. He fought with them but they became the mountain lion he had first dreamed of when he was still a boy searching for his vision. Then, as in that vision, the lion was overpowered by a great grizzly. When he awoke, he felt the strength of the grizzly from which he took his power and he knew that the dream was a good omen and his medicine was still strong.
Keeping a safe distance from the guard posts, he scouted the fort, searching for a way to steal into the encampment and find the two hunters. It became clear to him that if he was to find them, it would not be as he was, a Cheyenne warrior. In order to get close enough, he would have to be a white man again. He thought for a long time before he decided on a plan: he would go back to the first settler’s cabin he had passed and wait for dark. Then he would go in and kill the occupants and take what clothing he needed. This decided, he got on the Appaloosa and retraced his trail.
* * *
He tied his horse to a small sapling and made his way through the trees that overlooked the rough cabin. From there he watched for a while. There was a cornfield between the woods and the cabin. The stalks were brown and barren but it would offer enough cover for him to get closer to the house. Looking beyond the cabin toward the river, he could see a man plowing a small patch of ground with one mule. There was one sorrel horse and a cow in a stable next to the cabin, and a large dog lying in the yard. Smoke from the chimney told him there was at least one person inside.
As he watched, a boy came out of the cabin. He was about the same age Little Wolf was when Spotted Pony found him, he guessed. The thought caused his mind to drift back to that time and he remembered how helpless and frightened he had been. It seemed a million summers ago. Though he could barely remember how it was to be a white boy, he could vividly remember the fear of being alone in the world. Suddenly he did not want to do what he had come to this cabin to do. The thought of leaving this young boy alone in the world caused a cold dread in his heart and he had to concentrate on the picture of his murdered wife in an effort to strengthen his resolve. The boy’s father was stealing the land that belonged to the Indian. He must remember that. The white man was the enemy of his people. They had killed everyone he loved. He could not afford compassion at this point.
His attention was called from the boy playing in the yard to a movement beyond the cabin. When he glanced in that direction, he saw the father coming from the field. The afternoon sun was still high in the sky when the man put his mule in with the other stock. Little Wolf had anticipated a longer wait before the man returned to the cabin, but even in broad daylight, there was enough cover in the cornfield to work his way close to the cabin to do what must be done. He left the tree he had been watching from and made his way silently down between the rows of cornstalks. Moving cautiously and patiently, he worked his way to the edge of the field nearest the cabin. He had made sure he was downwind because of the dog. Now he could hear bits of conversation drifting on the wind.
The man took a pan and dipped water out of a rain barrel and began to wash his arms and face. The boy was standing beside him, talking to him. Little Wolf could hear the sound of their voices but was unable to make out the words. Keeping almost flat to the ground, he pulled himself a few rows closer. Now he was almost to the end of the field. He froze when a woman stood in the doorway holding a towel for her husband. Little Wolf reached back and drew an arrow from his quiver. His rifle would be too noisy, he decided. Little Wolf was certain now that there were only the three of them and he knew he could put an arrow into the man’s back and a second one into the woman before she could run for a weapon. Slowly he raised up on one knee and, taking careful aim, drew the bowstring back. At this distance, he could not miss, but he hesitated. Something the boy said made him wait.
“Pa, remember, you said as soon as you got done plowing the back field. You promised.”
“I remember,” his father replied. “But I thought you’da done forgot it by now. Wouldn’t you druther do it tomorrow evening?”
“Ahhh, Pa, you said.”
“The boy’s right, Alvin. You promised him.” His wife handed him the towel.
He paused a moment, looking as if he was treed. Finally he gave in. “All right, a promise is a promise. Go get the poles and we’ll go catch us a couple.” He turned to his wife and grinned. “That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, Ma? You could fry a couple of fish to throw in with supper.”
“I reckon so,” she replied and smiled broadly.
Little Wolf sank slowly back between the corn rows, relieved that they were simplifying his task. Now there was only the woman to deal with. His heart was lifted of the dread he had suddenly felt over having to kill the family. If only the woman would go with them, he thought.
As if in answer to his wish, the man called back. “Why don’t you come on with us, Ma? Supper can wait, can’t it?”
“Me? Lord no, I’m almost ready to put supper on the table. I can’t go traipsing off to the river with you two.”
“Come on, Ma,” her son pleaded. “Me and Pa’ll show you how to catch a fish.”
Lying in the dust of the cornfield, Little Wolf listened to the exchange and silently pleaded, Go with them, woman. It may save your life.
She stood smiling in the doorway, watching her husband and son walk away. Suddenly she called out, “Wait a minute and I’ll cover the food. But don’t complain to me if your cornbread is cold when we get back.”
Little Wolf watched until they were out of sight before leaving the cover of the cornfield and walking unhurriedly into the cabin. Bloody Claw would have scoffed at his hesitation to kill the white family but Little Wolf refused to feel any guilt for his lack of aggressiveness. It was better this way. He could take what he needed and leave.
The aroma of hot cornbread filled his nostrils as soon as he entered the cabin. He walked over to the fireplace. The boy’s mother had placed a big iron pot in the corner of the hearth to keep warm. A pan of cornbread was perched on top of the pot. Taking a rag from the table, he pulled the pot and pan out on the floor. The pot was filled with beans, cooked with some strips of fat pork. He took a large ladle from the table and ate from the pot until he was satisfied. Then he broke off half the cake of cornbread and ate it while he looked around the cabin for the things he needed.
One end of the cabin was divided into two rooms by blankets hanging from the ceiling. He found a shirt and trousers and a wide-brimmed hat in one room. There were boots in the other, but they were too small for his feet. He would have to get by with his moccasins. The one piece of furniture other than the bed was a chest of drawers. On top of it was a small mirror and Little Wolf stood staring into it for a few seconds, fascinated by the image looking back at him. The smooth, tan face looked Indian, especially with his long black hair. Maybe, if he piled his hair up under the hat, he would look more like a white man. He took the mirror with him along with the clothes.
Before leaving the cabin, he looked around to see if there was anything else he could find a use for. But there was nothing that interested him. Outside, he stood on the steps, looking in the direction of the river, and listened. There was no sound of the family returning. He looked at the horse and mule in the corral. If he stole the horse, the man would no doubt go to the fort to report it. It was not worth the risk. Satisfied, he strode off through the cornfield to the trees where he left his own horse. Before riding away, he wheeled and took one look back at the rough homestead. The boy would not be alone and he felt good about that.
* * *
Muley Rhymers straightened up from his work to stretch his back muscles for a few minutes. This was the third broken wagon wheel he had to fix this week. Sometimes he suspected the army’s drivers of busting wheels on purpose, but it was no skin off his back as long as the army paid him to fix them. He took a red bandanna from his pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead as he stood gazing out across the baked compound that served as a parade ground. He had been a blacksmith since he was thirteen, working with his father. That was thirty years ago. He had been the smith at Fort Lincoln for two years now and he was never surprised at the things he saw around an army post. For that reason, he was no more than slightly curious about the figure approaching him from the front gate. Another piece of trail fodder looking for work or a handout, he figured. Probably been up in the Black Hills looking for gold and lost everything but his horse and his hind end. This one looked half wild, riding a fine-looking horse but sitting an Indian saddle and bridle. Muley said nothing as the stranger pulled up and dismounted.
Little Wolf broke the silence. “Howdy.”
“Howdy,” Muley replied. There followed a long silence as the two men stood looking each other over. Finally Muley ran out of patience. “Somethin’ I can do for you?”
It was still a moment before Little Wolf replied. He didn’t want to make the man suspicious but his problem was that he didn’t know what to say. He was out of place in the white man’s world. He looked around him at the busy army post and the realization struck him that he was in the midst of his enemies. He looked back at the blacksmith. All he really wanted to do was look around until he found the two buffalo hunters. The longer he stood there saying nothing, the more suspicious, or stupid, he would look. Finally he blurted out, “All right with you if I tie my horse up here for a while?”
“Hell, man, you can tie your horse up anywheres, ‘long as it ain’t in the army’s way . . . or mine for that matter.” He studied the tall young man more closely. “You look like you run into a spell of bad luck. You been prospecting?”
“Yes, prospecting,” Little Wolf agreed.
“Looks like you been up in the hills for a spell. You ’bout to grow outta them pants, ain’tcha?”
Little Wolf looked down at his stolen pants. The bottom of the trousers barely reached his ankles and the waistband was gathered up by a rawhide thong he had tied around them. “Yes,” was his simple reply.
The stranger’s Appaloosa had caught Muley’s eye. He knew good horseflesh when he saw it and, never one to pass up an opportunity, he figured there might be a good chance to take advantage of the young man’s desperate situation. “I don’t reckon you’re fixed too good for money, are you?”
“No.”
“That there horse might be worth a little somethin’ if you was of a mind to sell him. Looks like an Injun pony, but he might fetch enough to get you a grubstake.” He paused when there was no immediate response to his suggestion. “You looking for work with the army?”
“Yes. I’m looking for work with the army.”
“I thought as much. Well, I can tell you who to go see about it but I doubt they’re hiring on right now.” He assumed the young man would be seeking work as a scout. He carried a rifle but precious little else. “You work much with horses?”
“Some.”
“I might could give you a few days’ work around here if you don’t mind cleaning out stables and doing rough chores.” He watched the young man as he thought it over. “Give you somethin’ to eat and a place to sleep.” He waited for a reply. “Maybe grain for your horse.”
“All right,” Little Wolf accepted the offer. It would give him the opportunity to scout out the fort although he didn’t care much for the thought of cleaning up after the army’s horses. Though not dignified for a Cheyenne warrior, he supposed it would have to do for a white man with no money.
“Fine,” Muley responded. “What’s your name, anyway?”
Little Wolf had to check himself before answering. “Robert,” he said.
“Robert? Robert what?”
“Just Robert,” was the stoic reply.
Muley studied him for a moment then shrugged his shoulders. “All right, Robert. Folks call me Muley.” He guessed the man had his reasons. Muley really didn’t care that much. A lot of men showed up on the frontier with no last name. He was probably an army deserter from back East.
Little Wolf worked in the stable for the balance of that day, keeping his eyes and ears open. That night, when Muley was ready to go to his quarters, he told Little Wolf there would be a sentry walking a post around the stables at night but he would tell the sentry there would be somebody sleeping in the blacksmith shop. Otherwise he might be shot as an intruder. After they had eaten and Little Wolf was at last left alone in the stable, he took off his hat and let his long black hair fall around his shoulders. The hat made his head ache and it felt good to be free of it for a while. From inside the stable, he watched the guard detail mounted and made a mental note of where each sentry was posted. It was especially important to him where the guards for the stockade and the stables were posted and how often they made a circuit of their posts.
When it was fully dark, he went to the back fence of the corral and waited for the sentry to appear at the stockade. As soon as the sentry rounded the corner of the building and disappeared from view, he vaulted the fence and moved quickly across the deserted parade ground to the stockade and pressed his body against the side of the building. The building could not have been built very long before because the lumber was freshly hewn and smelled strongly of pine tar. Through the heavy iron bars in the windows, he could hear the murmur of voices. At any minute the sentry would complete his circuit. Little Wolf pulled himself up on the eaves of the building and rolled over onto the roof. There he waited until he saw the sentry pass below him and again disappear around the corner. Swinging back down to the ground, he made his way quickly along the back wall where barred windows indicated the location of prisoners. None of the cells were occupied except one and this was where he found them. There was no mistaking them, these were the two vermin who had ridden into Sitting Bull’s camp and taken the life of his wife. As he peered in the corner of the window, Little Wolf could feel the bile rising inside him but he knew he must be patient. Quickly, he pulled himself up on the roof again while he waited for the sentry to pass once more. Afterward, he took a brief look at the bars on the windows. They appeared to be bolted through the new pine with large nuts on the outside. He would have to find a way to take them out. He would think on it.
“What was that?” Moody sat up straight on the small cot. “Did you hear somethin’?”
Kroll was unconcerned. “You’re gittin’ kinda spooked. I didn’t hear nothin’.”
Moody was adamant. “Didn’t you hear it? I swear, it was a kind of bump or something on the roof.”
Kroll was more interested in going to sleep. “Maybe it was an angel coming to git us outta here,” he said sarcastically.
* * *
“Let’s set a spell, Robert,” Muley gasped when the wagon wheel was finally seated snugly on the axle. “Damned if I ain’t gittin right short-winded. I must be gittin’ old. Used to be I could hold up the wagon bed and fit the wheel on right by myself. No more. Damn, I’m panting like a dog.”
Little Wolf said nothing but sat down next to his rotund employer. He accepted the outstretched dipper and drank deeply. The work was not hard but he still found it demeaning. It was his opinion that Muley didn’t really need help with his work as much as he needed someone to talk to. The blacksmith was a lonely man. He lived alone and, while there were a few women on the post, they were soldiers’ wives. Even had there been single women about, it was doubtful they would have shown interest in the portly figure of Muley Rhymers. Little Wolf studied the man carefully. Muley took frequent rest periods. He constantly complained about the work he had backed up but Little Wolf saw no cause for complaints. If only the man worked steadily, he could easily keep up with the demand for his services.
“God’s truth, Robert, I don’t know what they’d do around here if it weren’t for me. I do ever’thin’ that gits done.” He took out his bandanna and wiped the sweat from his face.
Little Wolf did not respond at once. In a moment, he asked, “You build the stockade?”
“You mean the new guardhouse there? Nah, the carpenters built that. I made the cell doors and the bars on the windows.”
Little Wolf pretended to notice the windows for the first time. “How did you nail those bars in?”
“They ain’t nailed. They’s bolted with six one-inch rods right through the window frame.”
“What’s to keep a feller from taking the bolts off and just pulling the bars off the window?” He attempted to sound as if he was merely making idle conversation.
Muley took another drink of water. “Well, for one thing, he’d have to have that there T-bar there to back the nuts off.” He pointed to a heavy tool lying under his workbench. He took another drink of water then turned the dipper over his head, letting the cool water run down his neck. “And that won’t do him any good after we get time to get over there and heat up some iron to braze them threads. I been meaning to get to that as soon as I get caught up with these damn wagons.” He groaned as he forced his bulk off of the tiny stool he had been resting on. “Ain’t no hurry. The bolts is on the outside. Ain’t nobody likely to try to break in the jail, is there? Gittin’ out is the problem.”
“I reckon you’re right,” Little Wolf replied.
That night Little Wolf offered a prayer of thanks to Man Above for showing him the way to avenge Morning Sky’s murder. As soon as Muley had retired to his room for the night, Little Wolf saddled the Appaloosa. Then he took two army saddles from the stable and cut out two of the sturdiest horses from the corral. When he had saddled them and thrown on a coil of stout hemp rope, he settled back and waited for the darkness to deepen.
He looked up into a motionless sky. The stars seemed to flicker as a gentle wind brushed the leaves of the one scrawny live oak that stood at the corner of the corral. The camp was quiet except for the murmur of voices from the sutler’s store at the far end of the parade ground. Still he waited. He could see a few tents glowing from candle flames along the line of enlisted men’s bivouac. He would wait until he was sure the post was asleep. Finally it was time and he climbed silently over the corral fence and ran across the parade ground.
Thoughts and images of Morning Sky flashed through his mind as he waited in the shadows, pressed close against the guardhouse wall. Then he heard the steady tread of the sentry approaching the corner of the building and he tensed his body for the attack. It must be done quietly, he reminded himself, and drew his knife. The sentry passed no more than three or four feet from him. Little Wolf waited until he was several steps past him then moved quickly up behind the unsuspecting guard. It was quick and it was silent. One hand over the startled soldier’s mouth, pulling his neck back at the same time, and the blade of the knife opened the unfortunate man’s throat. The sentry crumpled in a heap without uttering a sound. Little Wolf dragged the body back against the building and went quickly back to get the horses.
* * *
“Hey, what the hell . . . ?” It was Kroll’s voice.
“Quiet!” Little Wolf whispered.
“Who is it?” Moody wanted to know.
“A friend,” came the reply. “Now shut up if you want to get out of there.”
Even with the leverage afforded by the T-bar, it was difficult to break the huge bolts loose. Muley had tightened them down pretty snug. Once he broke them free, it was short work backing them off the bolts. As he removed the final two, he pushed the rope through and told Kroll to secure it to the bars. Kroll wasted no time in complying but he was still baffled by the whole turn of events.
“How come you’re busting us out?” he wanted to know as he worked feverishly to tie a secure knot in the rope, hindered somewhat by the bullet Squint Peterson had put in his right shoulder. “Who the hell are you? Who sent you?” Their mysterious benefactor’s voice sounded remotely familiar. He had heard it before, but he couldn’t place it.
“Does it matter? You want out, don’t you?” He removed the last of the bolts. There was nothing holding the bars in now but the pine boards framed up around them. “Where is the other guard?”
Moody had been watching the lone guard, stationed in the front of the guardhouse while Kroll and the stranger were working at the bars. He answered Little Wolf’s question. “Sleeping like a baby.”
“All right, get ready, ’cause when this window comes out, you won’t have much time before the whole fort wakes up.” With that, he left the window and jumped up on the Appaloosa. The rope was tied to the saddle horn of one of the army mounts he had taken. He reached down and grabbed the reins and led the horse away from the building, taking the slack out of the rope. The horse hesitated briefly when he felt the resistance on the end of the rope but buckled down and pulled when Little Wolf brought the loose end of the rope down hard across his rump. The bars came out with a loud cracking sound of green pine.
Inside the cell, the two prisoners waited anxiously while this was going on. Kroll, still uneasy with the situation, harbored some misgivings at their seemingly good fortune. “Who the hell would be bustin’ us out?” he demanded of Moody. “We ain’t got no friends that I know of.”
“I ain’t worrying about it,” Moody shot back. “Maybe he’s got us mixed up with somebody else. I don’t care. I sure don’t cotton to stayin’ in here and gittin’ hung.” Barely a moment after the bars were ripped from the wall, he was through the open window and headed for freedom. Kroll didn’t waste time thinking about the matter further. He followed his partner.
Outside on the dark parade ground, they found the stranger, who was holding two horses for them. “Hurry!” he said. “Follow me!” He turned his horse and took off at a gallop around behind the stables and out the back of the compound. Without hesitating, they jumped on the horses and followed. Behind them, the sleepy guard was not yet aware of what had happened, having just been awakened by the sound of the breaking window frame.
Once they had put a safe distance between them and the fort, Little Wolf slowed to a canter for a short distance before finally letting the horses walk. Kroll and Moody pulled up beside him, both breathing a lot easier since making a successful escape from the hangman’s noose.
“Whoeeee,” Moody squealed, “that was slicker’n owl shit!”
“Yeah, that was slick all right,” Kroll added, still suspicious of the tall dark form on the Appaloosa. The exertion had caused the wound in his shoulder to throb painfully, and his patience was running out. “Now I’d like to know what’s in it for you. You ain’t sprung me and ole Moody jest ’cause of our good looks. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I told you, a friend.”
“We ain’t got no friends.” He reined his horse to a halt. “All right, friend, this is as far as me and Moody go.” For the first time, he noticed the rifle cradled in the stranger’s arms. “We thank you for busting us out but we’ll go our own way now.”
Little Wolf said nothing for a moment. He could shoot them both right there and be done with it, but he didn’t want them to get off that easily. “The man who hired me told me to give you rifles and food. He has a job for you. He’ll be here in the morning. If you want the job, there’ll be money in it for you. If you don’t, you can go your own way in the morning.”
This tweaked Kroll’s interest. “Is that so? What man?”
“I don’t know his name. I’m just doing what he paid me to do.”
Kroll thought about this for a moment. “Well, where’s the rifles and food?”
“He’ll bring them to my camp. That’s where I was taking you.”
“All right then, let’s go.”
Little Wolf led them back to the place in the trees where he had hidden his things before putting on the white man’s clothes and riding into the fort. It was still dark although morning was not far away by this time. Kroll was impatient to get his hands on a weapon, but Little Wolf convinced him that there were no rifles there, they would be brought in the morning. Saying they might as well get some sleep, Little Wolf unsaddled his horse and pretended to settle down for the night. Kroll and Moody made beds with their saddle blankets and, after a great deal of grumbling, drifted off to sleep shortly before dawn. As soon as Little Wolf was certain they were asleep, he arose and went to the place where he had hidden his buckskins and his bow. He made not a sound as he returned to the camp, moving silently around the fire to a position facing the two sleeping men. The first rays of the sun began to creep into the trees where he stood and he waited for the screen of darkness to dissolve.
Moody was deep in sleep, dreaming of the hangman’s noose, when he was abruptly jolted awake. At once he was aware of a heavy weight in his chest and a fiery rod through his belly. Totally disoriented, he floundered awake, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. His heart almost stopped when he managed to focus his eyes and discovered the tall Cheyenne warrior standing over him, his long hair just touching his shoulders with one eagle feather braided into the dark locks, his face painted for war. Still befuddled by sleep, he tried to jump to his feet but the intense pain in his stomach stopped him cold and he looked down at his round belly. For a full moment he stared in disbelief at the arrow shaft protruding from his stomach. When he put his hand on it, he screamed with the pain caused by the movement. As he screamed, Little Wolf calmly let fly a second arrow. The arrow hit the rotund little man with a dull thump, shattering a rib and piercing his lung. Moody’s scream increased in his agony.
Kroll, awakened by his partner’s screams, rolled over on his side and lay there for a moment while he struggled to rid his brain of its slumber. “Jesus!” he yelled when at last he realized what he saw. He lunged to his feet but fell again in a heap, his ankles having been tied together. Aware now that he was fighting for his life, he attempted to crawl on his hands while dragging his feet. It was to no avail. Little Wolf caught him by the thong that bound his ankles and dragged him back into the clearing and dropped him in the middle of the campfire. Kroll roared like a grizzly and rolled out of the hot coals, landing on his back. He looked up to see the arrow aimed directly at him, the bow drawn fully. There was no time to react. The shaft of the arrow slammed into his midsection. He pulled frantically at the shaft but only caused himself more pain. Like Moody, he finally lay back, trying to be still in order to minimize the agony.
“Her name was Morning Sky,” Little Wolf calmly stated. “She was my wife.”
Kroll sank back against the ground. The horrible realization struck him fully then and he now recognized his assailant. “Little Wolf,” he mumbled, knowing that it was futile to beg for mercy.
Little Wolf drew another arrow from his quiver and embedded it in Kroll’s chest. “You will die slowly and, while you are waiting to die, you will think about the girl you killed. I will stay with you until I am sure you are dead.” He fitted another arrow on his bowstring and sent it into Kroll’s groin. The shaft pinned the man’s testicles to the ground. The shock of it caused Kroll to lose consciousness. Little Wolf walked to the stream and brought back some water to revive his victim. Kroll jerked awake with a scream. While Little Wolf was at the stream, Moody attempted to escape, dragging himself away from the tree under which he had spent the night. Unconcerned, Little Wolf revived Kroll before going after Moody. He caught him before Moody had dragged himself ten yards. Taking out his knife, he reached down and scalped the helpless man and left him to die.
Kroll, realizing his life was running out on the ground in the blood that had begun to puddle around him, cursed weakly at his executioner. “Damn you to hell, you son of a bitch. I didn’t know that damn squaw was your wife.”
Little Wolf stared at him, his expression almost blank. He had long before exhausted his rage for these two men. Now he was only intent on avenging Morning Sky’s death in a meticulous manner, making sure the two of them understood the fate they had brought on themselves. “I will hang your scalps from my lance so that you will wander forever in the other world.”
Kroll died shortly after Little Wolf took his scalp. To be certain, Little Wolf slit both men’s throats and left them for the buzzards, along with the white man’s clothes he had stolen from the cabin. A heavy burden lifted from his heart. He began his journey back to the mountains knowing they had paid with their own lives for the atrocity committed upon his beloved wife. But still there was no peace in his heart and there was no filling the emptiness Morning Sky’s passing had left.