A light tap on his shoulder brought Zeb abruptly back from a dream of chasing antelope across a wide prairie. Still drowsy, he jerked his head up to see what had disturbed such a pleasant vision. Molly was standing before him, signaling for him to listen. His hearing not being as sharp as hers, he was puzzled at first. “What is it?” he asked. “Whaddaya hear?” She signed that someone was coming. He was immediately alert then.
He struggled to get up from the side of the cabin where he had been snoozing in the sunshine. Molly extended her hand to help him up. On his feet, his makeshift crutches under his arms, he stood listening for a few moments before he heard the sound of a horse making the last steep climb up to the stream. “Better fetch me my rifle, honey,” he said to Molly. She went at once to get it. They were not accustomed to having visitors. Once in a great while, someone from the Crow village might visit, but not very often, so it paid to be cautious.
Still moving with a great deal of discomfort, Zeb moved over to the corner of the little cabin and waited, his gaze locked on the fir trees where the trail crossed the stream. Molly retreated to stand in the cabin door to watch. In a few minutes, a horse topped the rise, carrying a familiar figure.
“Well, lookee here, Molly,” Zeb exclaimed when he recognized Singing Woman. “Looks like we got company.” Taking a few unsteady steps away from the cabin, he moved to meet the Indian woman. “So you started missin’ me already,” he started to say, but his voice trailed off when he saw the serious expression on Singing Woman’s face. He took hold of the bridle while she slid off her pony’s back.
“Some white men came to our village looking for Slaughter,” Singing Woman said, her voice reflecting the concern Zeb had read in her face.
Zeb glanced briefly at Molly, who was now at his elbow, then back to the Indian woman. “White men?” he asked. “Were they soldiers?”
“No, not soldiers,” Singing Woman answered excitedly. “Four white men, bad-looking white men. The one older man said he was Slaughter’s cousin.”
Instinctively, Zeb glanced quickly over her shoulder to make sure there was no one behind her. “Did you tell ’em how to get here?”
“No. Broken Hand told them he did not know the man they looked for. They went back up the river, the way they had come. I waited until they had gone before I rode up here.”
“Good,” Zeb said. “Matt ain’t here. He’s gone huntin’. I don’t know if he’s got any cousins he wants to see or not, but I kinda doubt it.” It entered his mind that the four might be bounty hunters. “Four of ’em, you say? What’d they look like?”
“Bad—they looked like bad men—one older man, three younger men.”
Zeb scratched his beard while he thought about it. He didn’t know what to make of it, four men looking for Matt, but he could fairly well assume that it meant trouble. Maybe they were friends of the Frenchman. “You say they went back up toward the Yellowstone?” Singing Woman nodded. “Well,” he decided, “maybe they’re gone to look somewhere else. We’ll keep a sharp eye for a spell. We ’predate you ridin’ up here to tell us.”
Molly listened to the exchange between Zeb and the Crow woman, her face etched with a concerned frown. She wished that Matt was there, but he had said he would probably not be back for a couple of days, depending on his luck in finding an elk. Singing Woman had said that the men had gone back the way they had come, so maybe she was worrying needlessly. She decided that was the case. Tapping Singing Woman lightly on the arm to get her attention, she asked in sign if her Crow friend was hungry.
Singing Woman started to answer in sign, then remembered that Molly was not deaf. “No. Thank you, but I better not stay. I want to get back before dark.”
“You’d best rest that horse for a little spell,” Zeb said. “Looks like you rode him pretty hard comin’ up this mountain.”
Singing Woman smiled at him fondly. The old trapper had wormed his way into her heart since he and Slaughter had built their cabin in the mountains above her village. She turned to Molly. “Did you make him soup from the roots I gave you?” Molly nodded with a smile. Back to Zeb, she said, “It will make you strong again.” She favored him with an impish smile. “Then you can come to visit me again.”
* * *
Singing Woman started back down the mountain after a short visit with Zeb and Molly. It was getting on in the afternoon, and she didn’t want to delay her return to the village. The trail could be treacherous in the dark, with many steep stretches and sharp turns through trees and boulders.
Reining back on her pony to prevent the horse from sliding on a steep patch of loose shale, she carefully guided him around a cabin-sized boulder where the trail almost doubled back on itself. Rounding the side of the huge rock, she found herself face-to-face with P. D. Wildmoon. The swarthy female bounty hunter sat on her horse, effectively blocking the narrow path, her rifle lying across her thighs, a bemused grin displayed upon her broad face. “Well, hello there, honey. I reckon you’ve been up to tell Slaughter we’re lookin’ for him, ain’tcha?”
Singing Woman tried to back her pony away, but Arlo appeared from the back side of the boulder and rode his horse up to block hers. Seeing that she was trapped, she said, “Slaughter is not there. I could not warn him. Now, let me pass.”
Her comments caused P. D. to chuckle. “He ain’t there, huh? I don’t know why I don’t believe you. Earlier this mornin’, you said you didn’t even know him. Whaddaya think, boys? Think we oughta just turn around? The little Injun woman says he ain’t there.”
“Reckon we oughta,” Bo replied, enjoying the game. He stood up from where he had been lying in wait on top of the boulder. “She sure has got pretty black hair,” he commented, thinking of the string of scalps he carried in his saddlebags.
“Let me pass,” Singing Woman repeated, realizing she was in grave danger, but trying her best to conceal her fear.
“Now, honey, you know I can’t do that and let you go down there and tell all your Injun friends,” P. D. replied. She winked at Bo then, and with a mischievous twinkle in her eye said, “’Course maybe you’d promise you wouldn’t tell nobody we’re up here.”
Desperate for any chance to escape, Singing Woman said, “I won’t tell.” There was no possible way to get back to warn Zeb and Molly. All she could hope for was to save herself. With no response from P. D., other than a scornful sneer for her agreement not to tell, she had no choice left to her. With a sudden kick with her heels, she attempted to force her pony past P. D.’s. Ready for such a move, P. D. braced herself and held firm. Bellowing like an excited bull, Bo leaped from the top of the boulder, catching Singing Woman by her shoulders, and the two of them landed on the ground almost under her pony’s hooves.
Grabbing her by her wrists, Bo dragged the dazed woman out of the way of her frightened pony’s feet. Brief seconds later, he was joined by his two brothers, each one anxious to help hold the struggling Indian woman down. Spotting the skinning knife Singing Woman wore on a deerskin belt, Bo drew the weapon with his free hand and examined the blade. “You keep a keen edge on this here knife,” he taunted. “I bet it would be just the thing to take that pretty black hair.”
“Hold on a minute,” P. D. ordered. “I wanna talk to her.” She cast a stern eye toward her youngest son, who was taking advantage of the opportunity to grope the helpless woman. “Wiley!” she scolded. “She ain’t nothin’ but a damn Injun.” Wiley grinned sheepishly, but did not remove his hand from the helpless woman’s breast. Thrusting her face down almost in Singing Woman’s, P. D. said, “Is he up ahead somewhere? How many’s with him?” she asked, smiling, then whispered, “If you was to tell me, I might let you go.”
Knowing that to be a lie, Singing Woman’s reply was to spit in her face.
“Damn you!” P. D. exploded. “Kill her, Bo.”
Bo gleefully responded by shoving the knife to the hilt under Singing Woman’s ribs. The Crow woman grunted heavily, arching her back as she strained against her captors, and then exhaled noisily. Bo withdrew the knife and thrust it deep into her abdomen again, grinning as she trembled violently before collapsing limply on the rocky path, no longer straining against her captors.
“I don’t reckon you’ll be goin’ to get no war party.” P. D. smirked as she wiped Singing Woman’s spittle from her face.
Bo wasted little time in scalping the dying Crow woman. Wylie remained wide-eyed, gaping at his brother as he performed the grisly mutilation. Arlo, a less fascinated observer, asked, “What the hell are you gonna do with all them scalps you’ve been carryin’ around?”
“I ain’t decided,” Bo replied, and held his trophy up to admire. “Maybe I’ll braid me a rope out of ’em. That’ud be somethin’, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t take many more and I’d have enough.”
“Quit that jawin’ and let’s get goin’,” P. D. scolded. “We got work to do.” She had little patience with Bo’s fondness for his macabre trophies, but she supposed there was little harm in it—no more than collecting animal pelts.
“She ain’t dead yet,” Wiley said. While Bo had been busy with his knife, Wiley had taken advantage of the opportunity to fondle the fatally wounded woman’s breast again. “I felt her move a little bit.” He pulled out his pistol. “I’ll finish her off.”
Before he could bring the weapon up to aim it, P. D. struck him hard across his face with her whip. “Dammit, Wiley!” she blurted. “Ain’t you got no sense a’tall? You shoot that pistol, and ever’body miles around would hear it.”
Bo started to slap his younger brother on the back of the head, but seeing the look in his mother’s eye he thought better of it, and decided to settle for a verbal insult. “I swear, Wiley, if dumb was water, you’da done drowned in it.”
“Well, she’s still alive,” Wiley pouted.
“She won’t be long,” P. D. said. “Drag her outta the way, and get mounted. I’d like to find this Slaughter jasper before Christmas. Arlo, take hold of that horse and bring him along.”
Bo took Singing Woman by her wrists and dragged her body over to the side of the narrow trail. Then he stood aside while his mother passed, followed by Arlo leading Singing Woman’s horse. After they had started up the trail, he turned to Wiley. “Come on, dummy,” he said, and went to retrieve his horse from behind the boulder.
After following the steep trail for another fifteen minutes, they came upon a waterfall, created by a small stream that flowed over a cliff above them. P. D. held up her hand to halt the boys while she studied the trail before them. Looking above the waterfall, she could see blue sky. On either side there were mountain peaks that blocked her view of the sky, so it appeared that the stream probably ran through a clearing, possibly a crotch between the two mountains. “We’d best take ’er slow from here on,” she cautioned. “Arlo, go on up ahead and see what’s on top of that rise.”
“Yessum,” Arlo replied, handing the Indian pony’s reins to Wiley and pushing on past P. D. He followed the winding trail as it wove its way through the scrubby pines and firs, stopping to dismount before cresting the slope. Going the rest of the way up the cliff on foot, he stopped just short of level ground, and inched up to take a look beyond on his belly. After a long look, he scrambled back down to his horse and returned to make his report.
“It’s his place, all right,” Arlo said upon reaching P. D. and his brothers, waiting on the trail below. “He’s got a cabin up there in a little valley.”
“Did you see him?” P. D. asked anxiously. The thought of the balance of the reward money finally moving within reach was enough to stir a little excitement in her mind.
“No,” Arlo answered. “I didn’t see nobody outside the cabin. There’s a fire goin’ inside, though. There’s some horses in a little corral beside the cabin.”
P. D. gave Arlo’s report a few minutes’ thought. It sounded like there was somebody home in the cabin, but she hesitated to attack it without first knowing just who was inside. According to what the lawyer, Jonathan Mathis, had told her, Slaughter was traveling with a young woman and an older man. It wouldn’t do to go into that clearing with guns blazing, only to find that Slaughter wasn’t there, possibly scaring him off for good. She squinted up at the sky. The sun was already past the peak of the mountain to the west of the valley. There would not be much time before dark. “We’d best circle around and get up on that mountain above the cabin, where we can watch ’em for a while till we see what’s what.”
Molly picked up her bucket, and walked down to the stream to fill it with fresh water. Zeb was inside by the fire. The old man was not healing very rapidly from his wounds. She would have to boil some more of the roots Singing Woman had brought. Zeb had eaten the soup she had first made with the roots, but he had balked at sipping some tea Molly had brewed with them. The old buzzard, she thought fondly. I’m gonna cure him in spite of himself.
Feeling a breeze freshen down the valley, she paused to breathe in the cool fall air. As the wayward breeze combed the needles of the fir trees behind the cabin, causing the horses to nicker, she looked toward the far end of the tiny valley. Their little valley was already draped in shadows. Soon it would be dark. She sighed, knowing it was unlikely Matt would be back that night.
Her bucket full, she started back to the cabin, feeling the chilly breeze upon her back. It made her shiver, thinking of the cold weather that would soon be coming. The horses were moving about in their small corral. Zeb’s horse snorted as she approached the cabin door. Molly paused before entering. She was suddenly struck by a feeling that there was something out there. She stood still for a few minutes and listened. She heard nothing but the wind. Maybe that mountain lion Matt saw last night is prowling around again, she thought, and dismissed her concern.
Inside, Zeb looked up and gave her a smile when she came in. “It’s startin’ to get a mite chilly outside, ain’t it?” She nodded in response. “I expect we’re gonna see some snow pretty soon.”
She placed her bucket of water on the stone hearth and picked up the plate of stew she had given him for supper. He still had very little appetite. Only half of the stew had been eaten before he pushed the plate aside, and he had moved his chair over by the fireplace. She shook her head and signed, Eat—make strong.
“I just ain’t hungry,” he replied.
She sighed, as if dealing with a difficult child. Then she picked up his cup. Finding it still filled to the top with Singing Woman’s herbal brew, she stomped her foot in mock anger, barely making a sound on the earthen floor of the cabin. He pretended not to notice, looking away from her—a game he liked to play when she tried to scold him. She punched him on the shoulder, but he still refused to look at her, pretending to doze. Fully aware of the little charade he was playing, she picked up the dipper and scooped up a cup of water from the bucket.
“Hold on!” he quickly protested. “I’m hearin’ you.” He couldn’t help but chuckle, knowing how close he had come to getting a bath. He looked directly at her then, taking the scolding she intended. Her sign vocabulary was extensive, but he always made it difficult for her whenever she was trying to scold him. Feigning confusion, he would shake his head and constantly interrupt with “Who? What?” until she would stamp her foot in anger. In the end, he would concede to her determination, and take a few sips of the bitter liquid. Then she would stand over him until he drank it down.
“I can’t drink no more of that stuff,” he stated vehemently and banged the tin cup down firmly on the table. Satisfied that she had forced him to drink more than half of the dose, she relented and left him to sit by the fire in peace. After a few minutes, however, he got up from the bench, grumbling with the pain the movement caused. “I swear, that stuff runs right through you. I don’t see how in hell it can do you any good. It don’t stay with you long enough to, just runs right on through.” He hobbled slowly to the door on his crutches and went out, leaving her to look after him, shaking her head in exasperation.
Outside, Zeb paused by the door to let his eyes adjust to the deepening darkness. Then, using only one crutch, and one hand on the log wall to steady himself, he made his way around the corner to the side of the cabin where he performed his toilet. Normally, he relieved himself in the cover of the forest, but he found it painful to walk that far with a broken leg, and it was already getting dark anyway. Leaning with one hand on the cabin wall for support, he managed to get his business done, and was in the process of tying up his trousers again when struck.
Zeb knew in that moment that he had erred fatally. The dirty hand that clamped down tightly over his mouth stifled his attempt to cry out a warning to Molly at almost the same instant that his body tensed in response to the cold steel blade that plunged into his side. Already weak from his slowly healing gunshot wounds, he nevertheless retained the will to fight his assailant even as the long skinning knife was withdrawn and thrust deep into his side again. His efforts were useless in the face of Arlo Wildmoon’s strength, and within minutes the determination to resist faded with the draining of his soul from his body. Zeb slumped to the ground at Arlo’s feet.
“I thought for a minute there I was gonna have to help you,” Bo whispered.
“Shit,” Arlo scoffed indignantly.
“Quiet!” P. D. whispered.
Inside the cabin, Molly paused to listen. She wasn’t certain, but she thought that she might have heard a muffled voice. Maybe she had just imagined it. On the other hand, possibly Zeb was calling for her. In his weakened condition, he could have stumbled and caused his wounds to bleed again. Any other time, she would have immediately gone to see if he was all right. But since she knew the purpose of his trip outside, she was reluctant to rush out and embarrass him. I’ll wait a bit, she decided, and went back to the meat she was tending over the fire.
A few minutes passed and she heard him at the door. Whatever the sound she thought she had heard before, he was evidently all right. She didn’t bother turning to look at him as the door creaked open. When he did not speak, she turned to ask him if he was hungry. Astonished at first to discover a short, barrel-shaped man standing in the open doorway, she was frozen for an instant. When she recovered partially from the shock of a stranger standing in her cabin, she glanced beyond P. D. to see if Zeb was behind. Instead, two more strange men followed the short, stocky figure. These two were obviously younger and considerably more formidable. They filed into the room, standing on either side of the older one, a wide grin spread across each face.
No one spoke as the three just stood, glaring at her with their insipid smiles in place. Confused and frightened, she looked toward the open door, waiting for Zeb to come in to explain. After a long moment, and no sign of Zeb, cold terror began to creep into her veins. She glanced nervously at Zeb’s rifle propped in the corner. P. D. followed her gaze, and finally broke the silence. “I don’t hardly think so, honey.” She jabbed Wiley in the shoulder and motioned toward the rifle. He immediately went to retrieve it. Molly’s attention was drawn back to the door again when Arlo entered the cabin, wiping a bloody knife on a piece of buckskin cut from Zeb’s shirt. The full force of what had just occurred struck her then, turning her blood to ice and her brain numb with the inability to accept it. Her knees threatened to buckle under her as she stood helplessly before the intruders. There was no place to run, even if her legs would support her flight, for the four stood blocking the only way out.
“Where’s Slaughter?” P. D. demanded calmly.
Still in a partial state of shock, Molly could not respond at once. P. D. walked over to the frightened girl to stand face-to-face. “Where’s Slaughter?” she repeated, this time in a voice not so patient. When Molly made no response, P. D. slapped her hard across the face, hard enough that Molly had to take a step backward to keep from falling.
“She can’t say, Ma,” Arlo reminded his mother. “That lawyer feller said she can’t talk.”
P. D. chuckled then, as if she had been the victim of a clever joke. “Damn, that’s right. I plum forgot about that.” Looking back at Molly again, she said, “You shoulda said somethin’, honey.” Then she laughed again, this time at her own joke.
Her sons joined in the laughter, all except Wiley, who started to remind his mother again. “She can’t, Ma . . .” Bo promptly reached over and popped Wiley on the back of the head, leaving the confused young man clueless as to the reason for his brother’s abuse.
“Leave him be, Bo,” P. D. lectured sternly. Then, turning her attention back to focus squarely upon the frightened woman, she said, “Deef and dumb, that sure-nuff makes it hard to get any answers outta you, don’t it, honey?”
Molly gave no indication that she understood, simply staring with eyes glazed with fear and held captive by the cold gaze of P. D. Her mind, numb up to that moment, began to function once more. They referred to her as Ma, she thought, realizing that P. D. was, in fact, a woman. The discovery gave her a flicker of hope that she might not be about to face her death after all. Moments later, she found that mercy and compassion were traits that took no root in P. D. Wildmoon’s soul.
P. D. took a closer look at the frightened young woman, noticing for the first time the slight bulge in the otherwise loose-fitting deerskin shirt. “I swear, looks to me like you done got yourself pregnant. Look at that, boys, the little lady is gonna have pups. “Well, little lady,” P. D. concluded, “I reckon you ain’t no use to us if you can’t talk.”
“Whaddaya gonna do, Ma?” The question came from Bo.
P. D. answered calmly, “Well, I reckon I’m gonna shoot her. Then we won’t hafta worry about the dummy sneakin’ up on one of us with a knife.” The fearful reaction in Molly’s gaze caught P. D.’s attention. “Wait a minute,” she said. “You understood that, didn’t you? Boys, I believe little yeller-hair here knows what we’re sayin’. Don’t you, honey?” she demanded. When Molly still made no response, she pulled her pistol and pointed it at Molly’s forehead. Terrified, Molly nodded. “I thought so,” P. D. snorted. “Is Slaughter comin’ back tonight?” Molly shook her head. “Is he comin’ back tomorrow?” Not sure when Matt would return, Molly could not say yes or no. She tried to convey that with sign language. “I can’t understand that Injun talk,” P. D. responded. Then she guessed, “You ain’t sure when he’ll be back. Is that right?” Molly nodded.
P. D. thought about it for a moment. She still didn’t know if Slaughter was gone for a long time, or just a short hunting trip. Most likely, she decided, he would be back by morning or later in the afternoon. At any rate, she saw no further use for the girl. “Well, I reckon we’ll just make ourselves comfortable, and wait for Slaughter to show up. Most likely he’ll turn up pretty soon.” She raised her pistol again and pointed it at Molly. “But I reckon we don’t need you anymore, darlin’,” she said as she cocked the weapon. “Ain’t nothin’ personal. I just don’t fancy havin’ you sneakin’ up behind me with a knife.”
“Wait a minute, Ma!” Bo interrupted. “I want her.” His outburst was only seconds ahead of one about to come from Arlo. “Hell, ain’t no use to shoot her yet.”
“That’s right,” Arlo chimed in. “Only Bo ain’t got no claim on her. I’m the oldest. I oughta get first claim.”
P. D. released the hammer slowly while she paused to consider her sons’ reaction. She was still of the opinion that a dead girl posed the fewest problems, but she understood the desire that prompted the boys’ reaction. After all, she had desires herself about once a year, and her sons had precious few opportunities to consort with women who didn’t do it for money. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to have somebody to do the cooking and chores while they waited for her husband to return—if they were married—which she doubted. The decision made, she returned the pistol to her holster.
“All right,” P. D. said. “You can keep her, but I don’t want no fightin’ over the little bitch, or I’ll shoot her in a minute. Arlo’s right; he’s the oldest. He oughta have her first.” Arlo glanced toward Bo and smirked.
“Dammit, Ma,” Bo complained, “that ain’t fair. I spoke up first.”
“I’ll say what’s fair and what ain’t,” P. D. responded, watching Molly’s reaction closely while the two brothers argued over her fate. “You’re both gonna be responsible for watchin’ her every minute. She might look frail, but she’s liable to slip a knife between your ribs if you give her half a chance. First off, she’s gonna finish cookin’ that meat for our supper.” Molly backed away fearfully when P. D. stuck a finger in her face to emphasize her words. “Before you eat, though, Bo, you and Wiley drag that old man somewhere outta sight, then take them horses off somewhere away from the cabin where nobody can see ’em. I don’t want Mr. Slaughter to see he’s got company.”
“What about Arlo?” Bo wanted to know. “What’s he gonna be doin’ while me and Wiley are doing all the chores?”
“Well, he ain’t gonna be humpin’ on no little gal,” P. D. snorted. “Not in front of his mama. Now, get.”
“Come on, Wiley,” Bo said, still irritated by having to concede to his older brother, and stomped out the door.
Wiley, in a state of confusion, a state in which he often resided, paused before following his brother. Unlike his two older brothers, Wiley sometimes had difficulty sorting things out in his mind. He was confused now by his mother’s casual decision to kill the girl. He understood the murder of Bill Cotton. Like P. D. had said, Cotton was figuring on killing all of them. As for the hapless Crow woman, she was nothing more than an Indian. He was undecided about the killing of the old man. Maybe it was necessary. But the fair young white woman had done nothing wrong, although when he thought about it, P. D. had warned that Molly would try to kill one of them if she got the chance. P. D. was always right, so he supposed it was disrespectful on his part to question her. That settled in his simple brain, he turned his thoughts again toward the young pregnant woman. He had never had an opportunity to know a woman in the most intimate sense, and his head was filled with curiosity over the pleasures of the flesh. Why should Arlo and Bo be allowed those pleasures, and not himself? “What about me, Ma?” he asked, glancing toward the terrified girl backed against the wall.
P. D. followed his gaze, and replied, “You’ve still got plenty of time before you need to worry about rollin’ in the hay with some floozy.” Seeing the disappointment in his eyes, she said, “We’ll see. Now go on and tend the horses.” She almost succeeded in constructing a motherly expression as she watched her favorite exit the cabin. It was replaced in an instant when she returned her gaze to fall upon the hapless girl cowering near the fireplace. “Tend to that meat! I’m hungry.”