Beauty for Ashes (19 page)

Blue Horse kicked his pony a little and came back closer to Sam. A terrible smile scrawled itself across his face.

A voice sounded in a strange language. Blue Horse turned to the right toward it, looked into the trees.

An arrow rammed through Blue Horse's chest. Sam saw the point come out below his shoulder blade.

Slowly, Blue Horse teetered out of the saddle backward. He hit the earth head first. His neck bent at a terrible angle, and his body crumpled.

Several warriors kicked their ponies up to Blue Horse to touch his body first, or second, third, or fourth, so they could claim the honor, the coup. First was an arrogant-looking man with a two-horned buffalo headdress, second a pock-marked man. At ceremonies they would brag about this deed.

From the creek Coy whined plaintively.

Gideon whipped his horse straight into the trees and bellowed like a madman. Arrows whipped through the air. One must have hit the horse, for the beast screamed. Another sank into Gideon's hip, and he bellowed louder.

Sam wheeled Paladin and dashed straight back along the trail.

No one shot an arrow, fired a ball.
Maybe they really want Paladin.
Fire rose up Sam's gullet.
Maybe they'll try to catch me, we can outrun…

Two sentries walked their mounts into the trail ahead of him.

Sam wheeled Paladin to the left, just beyond the cottonwood grove.

A half dozen riders trotted out in front of him.

A half dozen more flocked behind him.

Live for an hour and you may live until tomorrow.

He dropped the reins. He set his rifle butt on the ground and held the muzzle lightly. He made his mind blank and very clear.
They don't know Paladin will respond to my voice.

Riders from behind came up close.

Two arms ripped Sam backward out of the saddle and slammed him to the ground. The arrogant-looking, two-horned Lakota smiled down at him.
Strong man,
Sam realized through his dizziness. The pock-marked warrior threw a loop around Paladin's neck. Two Horns seized Sam's rifle.

Other Lakotas seized Sam and hauled him to his feet. A loop settled around his neck and pulled half-taut. The pock-marked warrior held the rope and grinned sardonically at Sam.

Blue Horse dead.

Gideon hurt bad, likely dead.

Sam hoped Flat Dog wouldn't ride blindly into this disaster.

Paladin stolen. Coy stolen. The Celt stolen. All our possibles stolen.

I messed up.

I'm dead.

 

W
ARRIORS WALKED UP
to Sam, their faces lit with satisfaction. One took his shot pouch. Others grabbed his butchering knife, his hat. Someone stripped off his cloth shirt and belt. His breechcloth fell into the dust. His moccasins went—since they were Crow made, they would be saved and worn, or traded for value. Someone snatched his
gage d'amour,
his emblem of Meadowlark's affection, and ripped it off. Last, someone took his medicine pouch, with the buffalo hair. Joins with Buffalo had lost his buffalo medicine.

He stood totally naked. He showed no emotion. It would not do to show anything.

They waited. No one said or signed a word to Sam. He felt like trail dust.

Coy trotted over to him. Sam petted the little coyote, then decided to put him through some tricks. By turns, Coy laid down, rolled over, and jumped up to touch Sam's held-out hand with his muzzle.

Some of the Lakotas watched curiously. But the bastard who took Sam's rifle, Two Horns, growled something and they looked away.

In a few minutes an entire village of Lakota came up, all their belongings trailing behind pack horses on pony drags. Big Bellies, women, old people, children, and a phalanx of warriors.

Now Sam understood what had happened. They had ridden headlong into an entire village of Lakotas on the move. He feared something worse. The way these people were headed, they might even be joining the village whose horse herd Sam had stolen.
Good Godawmighty.

Bad luck. “No, mountain luck,” said Hannibal's voice in his head, “which runs just as bad as good.”

The Head Cutters…Sam reminded himself that they wanted to be called Lakotas. They had young men from the warrior societies out in front as scouts. Instead of Blue Medicine Horse spotting them, they had somehow spotted him. No one would ever know how that happened. Warriors sign their mistakes in blood.

It is a good day to die.

The entire village moved up the trail. Sam walked behind the pock-marked warrior, tethered like a mule. Paladin and the pack mules walked nearby, tethered to pony drags. Coy minced along behind Sam, whimpering.

Where is Gideon?
Sam hadn't seen him since he charged off into the cottonwoods, an arrow jacking up and down in his hip. Probably his friend ended up fifty yards down the grove, a hundred at most, arrows sticking out of his back like needles from the branch of a pine tree.

Again, Sam hoped like hell Flat Dog wouldn't come riding into this mess. If Sam knew a god to pray to, he would ask now that Flat Dog see the advance scouts, or the village itself, and get the hell gone. But Sam wasn't sure the God of his childhood held sway out here.

He walked. He paid attention. He cleared his mind, so he could see any opportunity for escape. All day, no opportunity. Before the sun dropped behind the Big Horn Mountains on the west, the parade rode right into the village Sam feared.

His heart went rigid.
Damn well no mercy from these people.

He stood, rope around his neck, while the women put up the tipis and unpacked their belongings. The pock-marked warrior who held the other end of the rope watched Sam idly. Carefully, Sam showed no particular interest in anything he saw.

Two Horns, now holding The Celt, faced Sam. ‘The people will talk about you in council,' the fellow signed, with an indolent smile. Sam knew how that would come out. Tomorrow he'd be turned over to the Lakota women, well bound. They would begin the delicious torture, making his death come as slowly and painfully as possible, giving him every chance to be immensely brave as he died in stoic silence.

“Tonight we will hold you in a small tipi,” said Two Horns. “Don't try to get away. Two men will stand guard. Outside, where you can't get at them. If you come out, they will kill you.”

 

I
T WAS A
small tipi, maybe a travel lodge. Sam was bound, and had to lie on his back the whole time.

The first problem was getting untied. He'd give a lot now to be able to get his hands on the hair ornament knife in his braid.
A weapon
. The thought stirred his heart foolishly.
A weapon.

There was nothing at all inside, so nothing Sam could use. No stones encircled a fire pit. No fire pit. No wood to build a fire with. No flint and steel for making a fire. Nothing but the poles, the lodge skin, and the rope that held the tipi down against strong winds.

Sam snorted. They didn't want the little lodge to blow over and let him escape. Hannibal's voice said in his head, “Even the wind can be your friend.”

He laughed.

Sam snorted. They didn't want the little lodge to blow over and let him escape. Hannibal's voice said in his head, “Even the wind can be your friend.”

He laughed.

He rolled over. Rolled over a couple of times the other way. Found out that was the limit on his freedom, rolling over.

He thought. He didn't feel afraid to die, not especially. He looked around the tipi in the dwindling light, and on the panels of stretched hide between the poles he saw parts of his life, like pictures hung on the walls of a home. Himself and his father, wandering the woods, Sam learning. The feeling the night he untied the painter on the boat there at the family landing, and let go into the current and into the wide world, one of the best feelings he'd ever had. The piercing loneliness of the week and a half he'd waited for Diah and Fitz and the fellows and they didn't come. His dream of melting into the buffalo, so he and the beast were one. The village crier circling through the lodges, declaring that a young man had earned a name, Joins with Buffalo, or in his language, Samalo.

These experiences were his life. If it was time to quit living…

He felt it like a gut burn. No. Because they didn't include sharing love with Meadowlark. No.

He snorted, and felt a spasm of stubbornness. When he breathed back in, his breath smelled like buffalo breath. He gave a crazy chuckle.

“Buffalo is your medicine.” That's what Bell Rock told him. “Watch the buffalo and see what they do. Notice that when the bulls fight, they are not quick, they're big and heavy, but they never flee. A bull will fight until he wins, or he will fight until he is defeated. But one thing he won't do—run away.”

Sam thought of his medicine pouch, with his swatch of buffalo hair. Gone. But he didn't think he needed it. He thought of the bulls and what Bell Rock said about them. They fight until they win or die, but they never run away. He wondered how…

And finally he had a thought. The center rope was anchored to a gnarled piece of limb driven into the ground as a big stake.
I could, maybe I could…scrape the ropes of braided rawhide on the head of the stake, and scrape them and scrape them, and maybe they'll slip down.

He inch-wormed to the stake. He lifted his legs and after a couple of tries caught the bottom strand of rope on its head. Then came the job. He jerked. And pulled. And jerked. And wriggled. And jerked and pulled and jerked and wriggled again.
I don't know or care how long it will take.

At last the bottom strand slipped over his heels.

He heard a peg being pulled out of the door opening.

What if they see?

He rolled quietly away from the center stake and lay still, facing the door. He pointed his feet inconspicuously the other way.

The last peg slipped away, and Pock-Marked ducked in. They looked at each other in the last of the twilight that seeped down from the center hole at the top of the poles.

“Are you afraid?” signed Pock-Marked. “I suggest you spend the night wrapped in the blanket of your fear. In the morning, when you ask, I will save you all that pain with a quick cut of your throat.”

He laughed. “We permit men to be cowards.” He disappeared.

From the inside the door appeared to reassemble itself.

Now that the bottom strand had slipped over his heels, Sam got the rest off easily.

He stood up. It felt good.

In the new darkness he knelt, backed up to the center stake and started working his hands against it hard.

He didn't know how long it took him. It was the most frustrating task of his life. Catch—pull—nothing. Catch—pull—nothing. Catch—pull—nothing.

When he finally found a way, it took a lot of skin off his thumbs. He stuck the sore digits in his mouth and tasted warm, salty blood.

He stood now, moved around silently, swung his arms, and stretched his cramped wrists and fingers. He tied the rope around his waist. Might come in handy. He took out the hair ornament knife and ran his fingers along the sharp edge. Plenty sharp to cut a throat.

Then he stood on his tiptoes and looked up at the center hole. No sign of the moon, Big Dipper out of sight, no idea how much night was left.

Half the night, he guessed.

How do I get out of here?

Pull the stake and use it as a club.

He no more had the thought than he rejected it. If he began to pull out the pegs that held the door together, that would take a lot of seconds, and both guards would be standing there laughing when he stuck his head out.

He wanted to pace but didn't dare. Sometimes he looked up in the hope of a glimpse of the moon. Finally he sat down cross-legged. He remembered not to think. That's what Hannibal taught him. If you keep your mind still, you get ideas.

Where is Flat Dog?

It didn't matter. Since Blue Horse died—since Sam got Blue Horse killed with his horse-stealing scheme—Flat Dog probably wouldn't try a rescue. Sam couldn't blame him for that. Regardless, Sam could not wait to be rescued. Tomorrow morning death would open the tipi door.

When the idea came, at last, it came as a picture.

Without any special thought, he acted. He grabbed hold of the center rope and began to shinny up. Half way to the top his arms started screaming at him. He had to rest—he almost let himself drop to the ground. Then he realized. One chance. Arms never fresher than now. One chance. Reality: Do it or die.

At the top he stuck a foot way out. He squirmed and pushed and nearly fell before he got a toe in behind the lodge pole. A little more squirming and it was wedged between the pole and the lodge skin.

He seized the pole with his exhausted left hand. He took a deep breath, then another. At last he let go of the rope with his right hand and swung free.

Reprieve!

Now, though, his muscles were getting used up fast in a different way.
Time running out.

The lodge skin split under the blade of the hair ornament knife. He gushed out relief.

Quick!

He made the split longer and stuck a leg through. Silently, he slipped his head and shoulders through.

He was in the world again. In the light of the moon he could even see. His own moon shadow angled down the lodge cover.

This position was damned awkward. He…

Sam slid to the ground and went tumbling.

On your feet! Now!

Running footsteps.

He rolled behind a sagebrush.

Pock-Marked ran up, knife ready. In the moonlight he looked up and saw the gaping hole in the top of the lodge.

And saw nothing more, ever.

Blood gushed all over Sam's knife arm. He held the limp body for a moment. Then he let it fall and looked briefly at the bloody neck.
You offered to cut my throat.