Lame Foot stood at the top of a rocky mesa, barren of all but a few trees.
“There,” he said to his companion, Hunting Owl, and pointed toward a thin black column of smoke drifting up on the western side of a low line of hills.
Hunting Owl climbed up beside him to see. He said nothing for a few moments while he considered the thin column wafting straight up before being sheared off by the breeze drifting across the crown of the hills.
“White man,” he said, for it would be unusual for an Indian to build a fire out of something that would make that much smoke unless he was trying to signal someone. “Wagons, maybe.”
“Let’s go see who it is,” Lame Foot suggested. “It might be soldiers.”
“Should we tell the others first?” Hunting Owl asked. The rest of their hunting party was at least a mile behind the two scouts, on the return to their camp on the South Platte.
“Let’s go see who made the fire. Then we can warn the others if there is danger,” Lame Foot advised.
When Hunting Owl agreed, the two Arapaho warriors jumped on their ponies and rode down from the mesa, then galloped across the narrow valley to the line of hills beyond. Leaving the horses on the side of the hill, they crawled to the top, making their way to a spot where they could see the camp by a stream. The camp, which was almost completely hidden by a bank of willows, might have been overlooked had it not been for the smoke drifting up through the tops of the trees.
“It is hard to tell,” Lame Foot said, “but I think it is only one or two men. I can see part of one horse between the willows and the stream.”
“That is good,” Hunting Owl said. “That means they can’t see us if we move up on the other side of the willows.”
Both warriors were surprised to find a party of only one or two white men in this Arapaho and Cheyenne territory. These were troubled times between white man and Indian since the cowardly attack at Sand Creek by Colorado volunteers, and consequently, white people seldom passed through unless they were heavily guarded. This bit of luck might result in the acquisition of guns, and that was very much on their minds as they decided how best to approach the camp.
“Maybe we should split up. You can sneak up from downstream,” Lame Foot suggested. “And I will approach from upstream and make them think I am alone and come in peace.”
“They may shoot at you,” Hunting Owl said.
“I’ll be careful. If they start to aim their guns at me, I’ll escape into the trees. I think there’s a good chance they will want me to come closer, and you can slip up behind them with your bow.”
Hunting Owl nodded in agreement. It was a good plan. Lame Foot was older than he and was wise in the ways of combat.
“Give me a little time,” he said, for he would have a greater distance to go to be in position. They split up then and descended the hill, one angling downstream, one upstream.
When Lame Foot reached the willows by the stream, he was about forty yards from the camp. He could see two horses in the trees between him and the camp. He could also clearly see one white man, sitting by the fire.
Is there another one? Maybe in the bushes relieving his bowels, he thought.
He edged a few yards closer. There was still no sign of another man. He could see the white man clearly now. He had a strange look about him that puzzled Lame Foot for a moment. Then he realized there was a bandage wrapped around the man’s face.
He has been wounded. Maybe he is running from a battle. Lame Foot decided then that the man was probably alone, so he stepped out of the shadows of the trees and called to him.
“Hey, white man, I come in peace.”
His shout caused the white man to scramble to his knees and reach for his rifle.
Ah, Lame Foot thought, recognizing the Henry, he has the medicine gun that shoots many times.
Knowing he must be careful not to make the white man shoot, he called out again, “No need to worry. I come in peace. I am hungry. I saw your fire and I think maybe you share some food.”
Wary, the white man finally spotted his visitor. “Yeah,” he called back, “come on in. I’ll give you some food.”
Come on in a little bit closer, he thought, and I’ll give you some lead to eat.
He got up from his knees then and stood watching the Indian approach, his rifle held casually across his thighs.
When Lame Foot advanced to within fifteen yards, the white man sneered. “You come in peace, huh? Well, there ain’t no peace between me and a damn begger-ass Injun.”
He brought his rifle up to his shoulder, but before he had time to aim, he was stunned by the solid impact of an arrow in his back. He turned to face his assailant only to be staggered by another arrow. The air was split then by the war cries of both warriors, and he was struck by two more arrows. Staring in horror at the thin shafts driven deep into his stomach, he dropped to his knees and fumbled with his rifle, which suddenly seemed foreign to his hands. He remained in that position for a few moments until Lame Foot walked up and kicked him over on his side.
Lige Tolbert, his broken face sagging even more after his scalp had been taken, lived for thirty additional minutes of pain before death decided to have mercy on him. Left on the bank of a nameless stream, a meal for buzzards, or wolves, whichever found him first, he would not be missed in Denver City, although his name might come up occasionally when there was a discussion of sons of bitches at the Miner’s Rest.
• • •
Their plan was simple, keep riding north along the base of the mountains until reaching South Pass, where Riley was certain he knew the way to Idaho from there. After they’d left the stream north of Denver City, two days of steady riding brought them to a wide creek that caused a spark in Riley’s memory.
“I swear,” he exclaimed, “I’ve been here before. I know this place—Crow Creek. I tracked a deer down this stream from the South Platte, back in ’forty-nine.” He gave Joel a self-satisfied grin. “I told you I knew this part of Dakota Territory. Hell, I kilt buffalo not too far from here.”
“I wish we’d see some buffalo now,” Joel said. “I’d like to skin one and make a buffalo robe.”
The days were already getting colder, and he was beginning to think the coat he had traded for in Denver City wasn’t going to be enough when the real winter hit. The last couple of days, while they had held to a steady northern track, with the Rocky Mountains to the west of them, seemed to see the temperature drop with each mile gained.
“We ain’t even past summer good,” Riley said. “What month you reckon it is?”
Joel paused to think for a moment. “I’m not sure—end of September, maybe first of November.” He gazed over to his left at the mountains, and the mantle of snow covering the tallest peaks. “I’ll bet it’s pretty damn cold up there.”
“You’re right about that,” Riley quickly agreed. “Wait till you get to my age. When your bones get older, winter gets in ’em a whole lot quicker, and it takes longer to warm ’em up in the spring.”
They decided to follow a fairly used trail along Crow Creek, thinking to follow it to its confluence with the South Platte. They had not ridden more than a few miles when they came upon a log cabin built close beside the water. Thinking it a homesteader at first, they then realized it was a trading post of sorts, although it seemed a lonely spot to have one.
“You reckon he might have some whiskey?” Riley wondered, having long since finished the bottle they had bought at Denver City.
“I’d sure as hell be surprised,” Joel replied. “I’m wonderin’ if he might have some coffee beans.”
They still had a supply of coffee beans, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to buy some more if they were available. Based on the remoteness of the country they had been traveling, he wasn’t sure they’d see another town anytime soon, and he knew he’d miss his coffee a lot more than whiskey.
When they were within fifty yards of the log structure, they saw an Indian woman step out from behind a porch post and go inside the building. She had evidently been watching their approach for some time.
“Wouldn’t be a bad idea to make sure that carbine is settin’ nice and loose in your scabbard,” Riley cautioned.
In a couple of minutes, however, a man came out the door and walked into the clearing in front of the cabin. Joel and Riley continued their approach. As they neared the cabin, the man suddenly threw up his hand and yelled, “Welcome, strangers! Come on in.”
They could see that he was a white man, although from a distance he might easily be mistaken for an Indian. He was dressed in animal skins and wore his long hair pulled back in a braid, Indian-style, and he was clean shaven. They acknowledged his wave with one of their own and rode on in.
“I swear, Little Robe said it was two white men, but I didn’t believe it till I saw you with my own eyes.” He craned his neck, taking inventory of his visitors and their possessions, trying to determine what manner of men they were to be traveling alone in Indian country. “I don’t see many white men out this way,” he went on. “The name’s Seth Burns. This here’s my store, but most of my trade is with the Arapahos.”
He motioned toward a short hitching rail beside the porch.
“Joel McAllister,” Joel said as he stepped down, “and my partner here is Riley Tarver. I reckon we’re as surprised to see you as you are to see us. We could use a few things if you happen to have ’em.” He looped Will’s reins over the rail. “Would you happen to have any grain for the horses?”
“No, I ain’t,” Seth replied. “I sure ain’t.” He craned his neck to look at the horses again. “Them two horses in the back look like Injun ponies. They do better on grass than them others. I can see your other horses are needin’ the grain, all right. I’m right sorry I can’t fix you up with some.” He shrugged and announced, “I can fix you up with some other things, though, like beans, flour, coffee, things like that. You got here at the right time. I just got back from Fort Laramie with a wagonload of supplies last week.” He walked around to their packhorses to take a closer look. “Seems like you fellers are packin’ a pretty good load. Is that for tradin’, or you thinkin’ about cash or dust?”
“I reckon it depends on which you’d rather do,” Joel told him. “Maybe we’ve got some things you could use.”
“Like what?” Seth asked.
“Like some brand-new Sharps carbines and cartridges to go with ’em,” Joel said. When he noticed a definite spark of interest in Seth’s eyes, he continued. “I expect you could do a lot of tradin’ with your Arapahos for a weapon like that.”
“That’s a fact,” Seth allowed. “But you might be lookin’ for a helluva lot in trade for a new rifle like that.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” Joel replied. He had been eyeing Seth’s fringed buckskin trousers and shirt with some interest. “What would it take to get a buckskin shirt like the one you’re wearin’?” Riley cocked an eyebrow at that, surprised by Joel’s interest in the trader’s clothes.
Seth shrugged. “Why, it wouldn’t take much. I’ve got a right sizable stack of skins already dried and softened. My wife is a Jim Dandy seamstress.” He spread his arms to show them. “She made this shirt, and every other’n I own. Just take a couple of days, dependin’ on how much fancied up you wanted it.”
“How long would it take her to make me one without all the fancy fringes?”
“Both of you?” Seth asked, glancing then at Riley.
Joel shifted his gaze toward his partner also. The idea sounded sensible to Riley, so he nodded. Joel turned back to Seth and said, “Yeah, both of us.”
Seth turned to his wife, who was standing on the porch, watching the discussion. He spoke to her in Arapaho, after which she took a step to the side, better able to estimate the extent of the project. When she advised her husband, Seth turned back to his customers.
“Little Robe says two days, maybe three. She says she’s got some nice soft doe hides all ready to make me a new shirt.”
“Whaddaya think, partner?” Joel asked Riley.
“Hell, fine by me—sounds like a helluva idea,” Riley responded. “While we’re at it, maybe he’s got some buffalo robes, too.”
Enthusiastic over the prospects of a good trade, Seth said, “Well, come on inside and take a look. I might have some other things you need. Little Robe can make some coffee, and maybe find you a little somethin’ to eat. You can camp right here on the creek.” He turned to lead the way inside. “Maybe you can show me one of them carbines you’re lookin’ to trade. Where are you fellers headin’, anyway?”
“Silver City,” Joel said as Riley went back to fetch one of the Sharps.
“Where’s that?” Seth asked, having never heard of it.
“Over on the Snake River, Idaho Territory,” Joel replied.
Seth turned his head to level a questioning gaze. “Damn, that’s a fur piece. Kinda late in the season to be startin’ out for that country, ain’t it?”
“You could say so,” Joel said. “I reckon we’ll get as far as we can—see how our luck holds out.”
“Well, your partner is right, you’re gonna need some good buffalo robes where you’re headin’.”
• • •
They made their camp a few dozen yards upstream from Seth’s store while they waited for their buckskin garments. Little Robe was a cheerful soul, who seemed to enjoy sewing the clothes for the two white men. In addition, she took time out to prepare food for her guests. The evenings were spent exchanging tales between Riley and Seth.
“How’d you pick this spot to build your store?” Riley asked one afternoon.
“Until a year ago, I had a place on Dry Creek,” Seth said. “One day a couple of white fellers came ridin’ in with a fifteen-man soldier escort. I thought they was lookin’ for some wild bucks that raided a white settlement on the South Platte. But they said they didn’t know nothin’ about no Injun raids. Them two civilians said they worked for the Union Pacific Railroad, and they was scoutin’ the best route for the railroad they said would be comin’ this way in two or three years. Well, they picked this spot on Crow Creek for a crossin’, so I figured the thing for me to do was move my store right here, and if the railroad showed up, I’d have me a front-row seat. Even if it don’t show up, I like this spot better.”
After the bargaining was concluded, and the sewing job done, Joel and Riley said farewell to Seth and Little Robe and set out from Crow Creek, clad in new buckskin outfits, riding well-rested horses. The clothes just recently purchased in Denver City were stowed away on their packhorses, hardly broken in. Seth Burns was content with his acquisition of two new Sharps carbines and two boxes of cartridges.
The trading took a total of four days out of their already tight travel time, but they considered it worth the delay. They used the time to saddle-break the two Indian horses to the cavalry saddles. Both horses seemed faster than their regular horses and they accepted the strange new saddles without much of a fuss. Joel decided to ride the gray and lead his chestnut. Feeling a slight guilt for choosing the unshod horse over his longtime partner, he justified it in his mind by telling himself that Will deserved the rest. For his part, the gelding showed no sign of complaint, and probably appreciated the rest, for Joel was a sizable man.
A trip that Riley had estimated to be about six days turned out to take a full week. But they finally reached South Pass, a thirty-five-mile-wide saddle of sagebrush and open prairie between the Wind River Mountains and the Oregon Buttes. They made camp beside the Sweetwater, a river that many wagon trains had followed across the country’s midsection on their way to Oregon. They had had no contact with anyone, nor seen sign of any Indian activity during the whole trip from Seth Burns’s trading post. But Indians were unpredictable. They might be friendly one day and set on destruction the next, so Joel was happy not to have encountered any hunting parties.
Upon reaching the Sweetwater, they saw the obvious ruts from countless wagons to confirm Riley’s claim that he could find the Oregon Trail. They figured their trip to Silver City to be at least halfway accomplished, even though Riley warned that there was some rugged country ahead of them after they reached the Snake River. As if to emphasize his warning, a light dusting of snow roused them from their bedrolls the next morning.
“Not enough to worry about,” Riley said. “It’s just the Rockies lettin’ us know we ain’t that far from winter.”
Leaving South Pass, they pushed on away from the mountains with Riley pointing the way. Joel couldn’t help noticing the air of excitement in his elder partner, as Riley relived the first time he followed that trail. Although quite a few years ago, there were wagon ruts still evident along the way. The next five days found them following a path through a series of shallow valleys with mountain ranges in the distance that seemed to be lined up one behind the other. But the threatening snow never came and the horses were all in good shape, so they made good time while the weather cooperated. Actually, Joel worried very little about the possibility of bad weather. Like Riley on his first journey across the Great Divide, he was too awed by the majesty of the rugged mountain peaks to worry about winter closing in. He enjoyed the confidence of knowing that whatever befell them, he would deal with it.
With the mountains behind them now, they ascended to a wide, almost flat plain, and Riley said that the traveling would be easier for a good spell, at least until they reached the Snake River Plain.
“We’ll be comin’ on Soda Springs,” he said. “We stopped to rest up here. There’s hot springs all over the place, bubblin’ up like you ain’t never seen.”
Joel agreed that the prospect of a hot soak wouldn’t be bad at all. Within a short time, however, his thoughts were directed toward another confrontation with hostiles, for he suddenly heard gunshots in the distance. He reined the gray back and he and Riley stopped to listen.
“They’re a fur piece off,” Riley said, and Joel nodded his agreement. “Could be a huntin’ party—huntin’ buffalo, maybe.”
It was difficult to tell exactly which direction the shots came from, because they were partially muffled by a ridge to the northwest of them.
“I expect we’d best keep a sharp lookout to make sure we don’t ride up on a huntin’ party,” Joel said. They continued on the same track they had been following since morning.
They had just entered the edge of the broad, open valley that Riley said was called Soda Springs when Joel spotted smoke rising lazily in the distance. Without speaking, he pointed. Riley nodded.
“Yeah, I saw it, too,” he said.
Cautious now, they continued to ride along the valley, angling slightly south of the fire until they could identify the source, leaving room to retreat to the hills if necessary. Gradually closing the distance, they were at last able to make out two wagons set ablaze, the obvious explanation for the gunshots they had heard earlier.
“Injuns,” Riley said. There appeared to be none around at the time. “Looks like they’ve done their deviltry on some poor folks and left the wagons to burn.”
“There ain’t no sign of anyone,” Joel said, fearing the worst. “From the look of that fire, it couldn’t have happened too long ago.”
As they drew closer, they could see several lumps on the valley floor that were no doubt the bodies of the unfortunate owners of the wagons.
“Kinda risky business, ridin’ this trail with just two wagons,” he remarked solemnly.
“They musta got hung up somewhere back along the trail. Maybe they were tryin’ to catch up with the rest of their wagon train. Let’s ride on in and take a look. Might be somebody left alive.”
He turned the paint’s head toward the burning wagons. Joel followed.
They had approached to within a hundred yards when they were suddenly surprised by the sharp snap of a rifle ball as it passed between them. It was followed almost immediately by the report of the weapon.
“Whoa!” Riley exclaimed loudly, and jerked hard on the reins, almost colliding with Joel’s horse. “Hold on!” he yelled, when the shot was not followed immediately by a second. “We’re friends. Hold your fire, damn it!”
“All right, friends,” a suspicious female voice came back, “come a little bit closer, so I can get a better look at you.”
“Well, don’t go shootin’ that rifle at us,” Riley answered. “We just wanted to see if we could help. If you don’t want any help, then, hell, we’ll just be on our way and leave you be.”
“Come on in,” the woman replied.
There was still a hint of caution in her voice. When they approached within thirty yards of the burning wagons, she stepped out from behind the front wheels of the one wagon that was only halfway consumed by the flames. Dressed in a man’s trousers and shirt, and wearing a heavy woolen coat, she held a breech-loading, single-shot Remington rifle ready in case her visitors made a suspicious move. She relaxed her stance a little when they came closer.
“I couldn’t tell for sure,” she said. “Dressed up in those animal skins like you are, I thought you were some more of those damn Injuns comin’ back for another try.”
Joel looked around the scene of the attack, astonished that the woman had been able to survive. The lumps they had seen from a distance were, in fact, the bodies they had suspected. And there were more on the other side of the wagons, most of them white, but there were also two Indians among the dead.
“Ma’am,” Joel said, “looks like you’ve had some awful bad luck. Are you the only one alive?”
“That’s right,” she answered, with no hint of emotion in her voice. “Those red devils killed my sister and her husband and my uncle. They killed Peter Ferris, his wife, Ethel, and their two boys. They snatched up Ethel’s daughter, Ruthie, and ran off with her.”
“My God,” Joel said, amazed by the woman’s composure with no sign of the grief he would have expected. “I’m right sorry we couldn’t have gotten here a little sooner. Maybe we coulda helped.”
“How did you manage to come outta this alive?” Riley asked. As it did to Joel, it seemed to him an unlikely happening.
“I don’t rightly know,” she replied. “They came up to us like they were real peaceful, so they could see what we were carryin’, I reckon. David—that’s my uncle—said he knew Injuns, and we could give ’em some food, and they’d leave us alone. It looked like he might be right, but all of a sudden, one of ’em pulled a pistol out of his belt and just started firin’ away. The others cut the horses loose. My sister and her husband tried to run to the wagon to stop ’em, but they shot both of ’em before they got more’n three steps. Then all of ’em started shootin’. Some of ’em cut Peter and Ethel down, and when the boys tried to defend their folks, the Injuns shot them. One of ’em tried to shoot me, but his rifle misfired, and I grabbed my uncle’s rifle and killed that son of a bitch. I crawled under the wagon and reloaded. When another’n tried to grab me by the foot and drag me outta there, I let him have it right between the eyes. I reckon they decided it wasn’t worth it tryin’ to get me, so they backed off, yellin’ and howlin’ like a bunch of coyotes. I held the rifle on ’em, like I was goin’ to shoot if they came near me again, and I was hopin’ and prayin’ they didn’t, because my rifle was empty. The cartridges were inside the wagon and I was afraid to make a try for ’em. I don’t know when they set the wagons on fire, because they looked like they were in a hurry to get away from here.”
“Damn, lady,” Riley softly exclaimed. “You’ve been through a terrible time.”
“The thing that hurts my heart,” she said, “was I couldn’t save Ruthie. I called for her to crawl under the wagon with me, but before she could, one of those devils snatched her up and rode off with her.”
“Maybe we can still catch up with ’em,” Joel said. “Might not be too late for the girl.” He looked up toward the sun. “There ain’t all that much daylight left. They oughta be stoppin’ to make camp, if they ain’t got a village nearby.”
“Easy enough to track,” Riley said, examining the hoofprints leading away from the wagons. “How many were there?”
“We counted seven when they first caught up with us,” she said, “so that leaves five not countin’ those two.” She nodded toward the bodies.
Riley finally asked the question that had first occurred to him. “What in God’s name were you folks doin’ out here by yourselves?”
“When we left Fort Laramie, we were part of a train with twenty wagons. Two days out, the Ferrises’ wagon broke a wheel, so they had to take it back to get it fixed. The rest of the train wouldn’t wait, ’cause we were already so late in the season, so we volunteered to wait with them, figurin’ on catching up with the others later.”
“That was bad luck,” Joel said, and then he thought to introduce himself and Riley. “My name’s Joel McAllister and this is Riley Tarver. We’re on our way to Silver City, but we’re gonna see if we can follow those Indians first, and hope we’re lucky enough to find the girl unharmed.” He glanced at Riley to make sure he was thinking the same, and he quickly nodded his agreement. “How old is the girl?”
“She’s goin’ on thirteen.”
“That might explain why they rode off with her. If she was a little older, they mighta killed her on the spot. Sometimes they keep the young children captive.” He looked at Riley and shook his head. The old sergeant nodded in return, signifying that he was ready to ride after the hostiles. Joel looked back at the woman. “What’s your name, ma’am?”
“Elvira Moultrie,” she answered.
“Well, Elvira, we can’t ride off and leave you by yourself. Can you ride bareback? We’ve got a horse for you, but we don’t have an extra saddle.”
“Hell yes, I can ride bareback. It was how I learned to ride on my daddy’s farm in Nebraska.”
“Good,” Joel said. “I’ll put you on that chestnut there. He’s gentle enough, and I expect he’d like to have the company. I think we’d best not tarry if we wanna catch up with those Indians.”
He watched while she gathered the few possessions she had managed to save from the Indians, at the same time paying more attention to the manner of woman they had picked up. She looked strong physically, and there was no doubt that she was mentally tough as well. Otherwise she would have been weepy and in despair after what she had just gone through. He suspected there was much more to learn about the fiber that ran through Elvira Moultrie, but at a later time. Now it was time to go after the girl.
• • •
The tracks left by the Indian raiding party led off across the valley floor in the direction of a range of mountains to the east. Riley wasn’t sure he remembered what mountains they were, but the fact that a good portion of the hills were covered with pine, fir, and spruce made him guess they were the Caribou Mountains. It was reasonable to assume the Indians sought a place to camp with good coverage where they wouldn’t be discovered. This caused further speculation that the party was raiding in territory claimed by some other tribe. Joel thought at once of the Blackfoot.
“Those two Indians Elvira killed back there,” he asked Riley, “could you tell what they were?”
“Damned if I know,” Riley answered. “I don’t know one Injun from another.”
“Blackfoot,” Elvira said, overhearing the question. “At least, that’s what David said they were.”
“It don’t much matter, does it?” Riley said.
“I reckon not,” Joel answered.
By the time they reached the foot of the mountains, the sun was already perched atop the higher peaks of a distant mountain range to the west.
“In an hour or more, we’re gonna be trackin’ in the dark,” Riley speculated.
“We’ll stay with it for as long as we can see the tracks,” Joel said, but it soon became obvious that their time was rapidly running out.
After crossing over a small stream, they came upon a game trail that appeared to circle the base of the mountain. In the final seconds of daylight, they were able to determine that the raiding party had followed the game trail.
“We may be in luck,” he told Riley. “Looks to me like they’re following this trail now. We can’t see their tracks anymore, but I think it’s worth the gamble to stay on this path. Whaddaya think, Riley?”
“Makes sense to me,” Riley replied.
“Me, too,” Elvira said, surprising them both. It was only the second time she had uttered a word since leaving the wagons. It was still too soon to tell, but Joel was already forming an opinion that Elvira was accustomed to having a say on most any subject.
The game trail soon became too dark to follow comfortably on horseback as it wound through a thick forest of firs, so they dismounted and led the horses. Making their way silently over the narrow path, they walked for what Joel figured to be close to a mile when he suddenly stopped and signaled Riley and Elvira to be quiet. When Riley moved up beside him, he pointed to the faint image of sparks floating up through the tops of the trees.
“Looks like we found their camp,” Joel said. “Let’s go take a closer look.”
Leaving Elvira and her Remington there to take care of the horses, Joel and Riley continued cautiously along the trail until reaching a point where it descended to a narrow stream, most likely the same one they had crossed a little way back. From there, they got a good view of the camp. Their horses, including four that were still wearing wagon traces, were on the other side of the stream, while all five of the Indians were seated around the fire. Unable to locate the girl, Joel scanned the area of the camp that he could see in the firelight. Fearing at first that they had decided to kill the girl somewhere along the way, Joel had to fight the urge to raise his carbine and start shooting. He felt a tug at his elbow and turned to see Riley pointing toward the bank of the stream. He stared for a few moments before he finally made out the form of the frightened girl, her hands tied behind her back, and a rawhide noose around her neck. The noose was tied to a spruce limb.
Now that the girl was located, they had to form a plan of attack. Afraid that when the shooting started, the girl might catch a stray bullet, Joel suggested that he should get her out of harm’s way before they opened fire on the warriors.
“I oughta be able to go up this mountain a ways, make my way around the camp, and come up from behind her. They’re not expectin’ anybody to come after them, so I should be able to sneak her away without them even knowin’ it.” Riley nodded while Joel continued. “Maybe you’d best pick your spot somewhere on this trail between the Indians and the back trail, to make sure none of ’em get away and wind up in Elvira’s lap.”
“Whatever you say, Lieutenant,” Riley replied without thinking.
“I’ll take the first shot,” Joel told him. “So when you hear it, cut loose, because that’ll be my signal that the girl is safe.”
He checked his carbine then and started climbing up the side of the mountain, leaving Riley to stand between the hostiles and Elvira.
In a matter of minutes, he had circled above the camp and begun to make his way down through the trees until he reached the stream. Moving silently along the bank, he reached a point where he could clearly see the frail body of the girl, Ruthie, silhouetted in the firelight beyond her. He paused there for a moment to make sure he knew where each of the warriors was, and that they had not moved since he circled above them.
When he was certain that all remained peaceful, he moved a little closer, to within ten yards of the captive girl. Not willing to chance a startled cry from the girl, he slung his carbine on his shoulder and inched up behind her. When he was close enough to hear the soft sounds of her terrified weeping, he drew his knife from the scabbard he wore and moved up close to her. Sensing someone there, she started to turn, but not in time to cry out when he clamped his hand over her mouth.
“Don’t make a sound,” he whispered. “We’ve come to get you.”
He felt her go limp as he cut the rawhide line binding her to the tree, and he was just able to catch her before she collapsed.
With the unconscious girl lying helpless across his arms, he backed slowly away, keeping a sharp eye on the five warriors gathered about the fire, lest they became aware of what was taking place. Still concerned that she might regain consciousness at any moment and cry out, he hurried to find someplace to leave her where she would be safe. Unnoticed by him, her eyes fluttered, then opened wide.
“Who are you?” she asked, still not certain what was happening.
Though not loud, her voice was heard by the warriors seated around the fire. One of them got to his feet and started walking toward them. He had taken no more than a few steps when he realized that she had somehow gotten loose. He immediately began to trot toward the place where he had left her.
There was no time to waste. Seeing a shallow gully behind him, Joel dropped the girl into it and pulled his carbine off his shoulder.
“Stay there!” he ordered, and turned to meet the warrior, who was now charging, his skinning knife drawn.
The shot was fired at point-blank range, knocking the warrior backward as his feet continued to run out from under him. Joel heard Riley’s rifle only seconds after his, and one of the four remaining Indians keeled over. Four more shots followed rapidly, two from each of them, and that quickly, what amounted to little more than a mass execution was all over. Joel chambered another round just in case.
“Come on in, Riley,” Joel called out. “I think they’re all done for.” He turned then to discover the girl still cowering in the gully. “You can come outta there now, miss. Nobody’s gonna hurt you.”
She did as she was told, but with an obvious show of hesitation. She was still not sure where she had ended up. She looked toward the fire, seeing Riley walking up to make sure the Indians were dead, then looked back at the man who had snatched her away and told her to stay in the gully. Seeing how the two men were dressed, not unlike the Indians who had carried her away from her parents, she was not at all sure she had been rescued. Seeing her consternation, Joel tried to put her at ease.
“Ruthie, ain’t it? Elvira sent us to fetch you back. She’s back up the trail a piece.”
The girl still seemed to be in shock. Joel supposed she had not yet accepted the fact that she had indeed been rescued, so he walked back toward the rise where he and Riley had hidden while they scouted the camp.
“Come on in, Elvira,” he shouted. “It’s all over!”
He was not sure she could hear him, but in about ten minutes’ time, she appeared at the top of the rise, leading the horses.
The sight of the gregarious woman striding down the path, leading half a dozen horses, was enough to bring Ruthie out of her uncertainty. The woman and the girl both cried out a joyous greeting, and Ruthie ran to the open arms of the woman she had come to think of as an aunt. Her sense of relief lasted for a moment only before the cold reality of the hostile attack came back to her.
“Mama and Daddy?” she asked.
Elvira shook her head sadly. “They’re gone, child, your brothers, too. Same as my sister and Ed, and my uncle David. Me and you are the only ones left, and we wouldn’t be here if these two fellers hadn’t come along.”
Elvira cradled the weeping girl in her arms while Joel and Riley checked the bodies to see if there was anything useful to salvage.
“I thought they were gonna kill me,” Ruthie murmured tearfully.
“I know,” Elvira said, “but they didn’t get the chance—same for me. Ain’t no use tryin’ to figure out why things happen, but it looks to me like the good Lord has got more work for me and you. So let’s put it behind us, and get on with our lives.”
Ruthie nodded, determined to do as Elvira suggested. Still she was unable to match the older woman’s bravado. “I don’t know what to do now. What’s going to happen to us?”
“We’ll just see as we go along,” Elvira assured her. She held her at arm’s length and looked her in the eye. A wide smile spread across her broad face. “You’ve got your ol’ aunt Elvira to watch over you. We’ll be all right.” She glanced over at their two rescuers, now engaged in checking out the extra horses the attack had provided. “We were damn lucky these two fellers found us. They seem like decent men, and if they ain’t, I’ll do some ass-kickin’ to straighten ’em out.” She gave Ruthie a mischievous wink.