Far as the Eye Can See (35 page)

Little Fox jumps to his feet. I take the knife from him and put it back in my belt, grab the carbine, and we leave the half-gutted deer right where it lays and start running back. I go fast for a long time. Little Fox can’t keep up but he knows where I’m going. I race downhill headlong, working like hell to stay on my feet, dodging trees, holding the carbine at the ready, and I hear two more shots, loud and final. I stop for a second to listen, so out of breath I can’t break out of the noise I’m making. It’s like the woods have no sound. I don’t even hear Little Fox coming up behind me. I feel my heart hammering against my ribs. I think I can still hear the echo of them pistol shots moving through the trees and out into the sunlight. And then I don’t even hear my breathing or the pounding of my heart. I stand in the light-scattered forest and listen. But there ain’t no noise at all, and I know whatever happened is over now.

Chapter 24

When we get back to camp, everything is gone except for two white men laying on the ground near the tree where Ink was sitting the last time I seen her. One has been shot right in the left eye and at the base of his neck. The only thing moving near him is a couple of flies that circle and drop over the gurgling wound. His other eye don’t see nothing at all. The other fellow is still alive but holding on to his lower gut like it’s on fire. He squirms and breathes, hisses like a big snake. He sees me and tries to slither away, but I go over to him and stop him with the barrel of my carbine right in the space between his shoulder and his jaw and he don’t move a inch.

“I’m done for,” he says. “He’s killed me.”

“Who’s killed you?”

“The Injun that was a-settin’ here.”

“Really.”

“Help me,” he says.

“What Injun?”

“A little fellow,” he grunts out. “We was trying to take the horses back.”

“What do you mean take them back?”

“He stole our horses.”

“The hell he did. Those was our horses.”

He looks at me hard, like he can’t really make me out. He gasps for air. I sling the carbine over my shoulder and squat down next to him. He ain’t no more than twenty years old, if that. He’d have a hell of a time getting a beard to sprout. He’s missing his front teeth and he ain’t seen a bath in a long time. He’s wearing a dirty buffalo-skin jacket and blue regular army trousers. Leather moccasins cover his feet. He’s got thin, wispy blond hair and dark brown eyebrows. Right now pine needles and chips of wood cling to his hair. I can see he’s sweating to beat all. Blood seeps through his shaking hands.

“Help me,” he says.

“Ain’t nothing for it,” I say.

“Ohhh, Lordy, Lordy.” He commences crying a little bit, and I feel embarrassed for him.

“Was you the ones that stole our horse yesterday?”

He don’t say nothing.

“Cut it loose from the tether as we was moving up the path?”

He nods his head. “Help me.”

“Where’d he go?”

“Who?” He looks at me.

“The Indian.”

“They took him. They’ll make him pay.”

“Who took him?”

“Treat,” he grunts it out. “Treat.”

“Treat?” I say. “Treat. I’ll be damned.”

He looks at me.

“Treat’s a young fellow, ain’t he?”

He scrunches his face up a bit in pain. Then he gasps, “Near about my age.”

“How many?” I say.

“There was five of us. We was in the militia and run together. That’n over there’s my big brother.”

“Well, he’s done for.”

Little Fox has put a arrow in the other fellow, and he stands over him now getting ready to do it again.

“Little Fox,” I say.

He looks at me with them dark eyes.

“We’re gonna need them arrows.” I hold my hand out palm down and signal by cutting the air in front of me. “Stop it.”

“Ohhh, God. Oh, God,” the dying fellow says.

“Where was Treat headed?” I ask him.

“I can’t feel nothing below my waist.”

“It’s probably a good thing. Tell me. Where was they headed?”

Suddenly he comes back to hisself a little bit and it hits him that he don’t know who I am or what I might be up to. “I ain’t telling you nothing.”

“Suit yourself,” I say, and stand up.

He starts to try and move away, and I put the barrel of the gun against his jaw again. “You ain’t going nowhere.”

He’s crying some more, but not out loud. “I need water.”

“I got no water.”

“I sure could use some water. My canteen . . . my canteen . . .” He can’t finish. He breathes so fast, he’s turning red.

Neither one of us says nothing for a spell. It’s going to take a very long time for him to die, and when it’s finally over, he won’t have vocal chords left because of all the screaming he’s bound to do. The bullet has made a big hole in his lower stomach, and I can already smell it.

“You are bowel shot,” I say. “If you’re lucky you’ll bleed to death. I seen it happen to some folks. Most die of the infection, though. That’s a long time.”

New terror bulges in his eyes. He’s seen this kind of death before, even as young as he is.

“It could be real bad,” I say.

“Finish me,” he gasps.

“I’d be more than happy to,” I say. “Just tell me where Treat was headed.”

He thinks about it for a spell. I see his eyes staying fierce for just a little bit, but then something in them gives way. He don’t see no point in suffering for folks that left him here to die. “It’s Treat and two others. They was headed for the Yellowstone.”

“Where they going from there?”

He shakes his head, like he needs to get fog out of it. “The Black Hills.”

I lift the carbine up and let it hang over my shoulders. He lays there, staring at me, his mouth open a little, and dry as a sunbaked rock. Every time he breathes, it takes everything moist out of his mouth and eyes. When he tries to talk some more, his tongue seems to stick to the roof of his mouth and it makes a noise like something that’s slapped into a bowl of molasses.

“Help me,” he manages to say.

“You got a pistol?”

He nods.

I squat down again, lay the carbine next to me, and open his jacket. He’s got a Schofield revolver tucked in his trousers. I pull it out, empty all the shells but one out of it, and give it back to him. “You do it,” I say. “I don’t want to.”

I go back over to his brother and remove his pistol—it’s a Colt dragoon, the exact same kind of pistol as the one I give Ink, except it’s got a fancy pearl handle. I search him for ammunition and find a pouch of it tied to his belt. I give the pistol and the pouch to Little Fox. I can see the pistol is right heavy for him, but when I move to take it back, he looks at me and stuffs it into the waistband on his leather breeches. “Ne ah esh,” he says.

I ain’t even thought yet about the fact that I’m on foot now. I got no food. I got a little boy with me I don’t understand, and we got to move fast to find Ink.

I hear a click behind me and turn to see the wounded fellow sitting up, holding the Schofield to his head. “Shit,” he says. “It misfired.”

I walk back over to him.

“I’m still here,” he says, and he actually gives this little laugh. Like the joke is on him.

“Yes, you are.” I take the gun away from him and put a few more shells in it, then I hold it next to his head, just above his ear. “Thank you,” he says. “I would probably miss.” He looks straight ahead, like a man waiting for the barber to make the first snips of his hair. I pull the trigger and it clicks a second time.

“Damn,” he says.

I pull the trigger and it clicks again. “I hate these god-damn Confederate pistols,” I say.

“One more time ought to . . .” he starts to say, but this time when I pull the trigger it goes off. His head snaps away from me, a splash of blood flying with it, and he falls over.

I drop the gun where he lays and start off down the hill, walking as fast as I can toward the clear ground away from the trees. I don’t even look at Little Fox, but I know he’s coming right behind me. I want to get away from these pine needles that leave no track where people or horses walk. I figure I’m following at least seven horses, and Cricket is one of them. I think Treat will want to be near water, so he’ll lead them down to the river. The ground in the foothills, closer to the river, will be easier to track them in. I want Treat to have good sense—to want to stay near the river. I don’t want him to be smart enough to wonder what that last shot was all about; I don’t want him to know I am following him.

I try not to think of what they plan on doing with their “Injun” captive.

Chapter 25

We’re on foot. I got nothing but my carbine and a sheath knife. Little Fox has that Colt pistol and the bow and arrow. I don’t think he knows a thing about how to shoot the pistol, but he seen me fire the Schofield, so maybe he’s a fast learner. He’s got a skin hat on his head, and so do I. I have a canteen of water that I stole from that young fellow I shot. I am hunting in a kind of killing rage.

I find the track near the river, and it’s headed west, and for some reason it hits me that I’m now going toward Eveline. It comes to my mind even though it’s something I forgot. It feels like something I long ago give up on.

I think we’re on the right track because I recognize the small place in Cricket’s hoof where Ink scraped out the burr. I know for sure when Little Fox finds Ink’s garments laying alongside the trail by the river. At first I think it’s a dead rabbit or something, but when he picks it up I realize what it is. There’s blood on the shirt up around the collar, and on the pants too. We spend the better part of half a day walking around that spot—all the way down to the river, and up and down it a good ways, too, looking for a body, but find none. I’m in such a panic, I start moving again, fast, almost running. We get to where the Yellowstone turns south from the Missouri and the track goes that way. They are on the eastern side of the river. I don’t even think about Hump or nobody that may be following me. Half the time I don’t even hear the breathless gasping of my little companion trying so desperately to keep up with me.

I try not to think nothing but how to keep going. I know with such a large party they’ll stop soon, and I won’t. I’ll just keep on. Sometimes I find myself running, carrying my carbine in one hand, leaping over stones and small branches. I’m trying to be quiet, and I stay pretty much to the low side as I run. Then I remember Little Fox and I stop and wait for him, breathing hard, impatient. When I walk, I stay bent low and try to keep the small trees and bushes near the river between me and what might be in front of me or to my left. I keep the river on my right as I move, and I’m always ready to fire my carbine.

But finally we do stop. We have to. I don’t see how Little Fox can go on. He can’t catch his breath. He stands next to me, waiting, and I realize if I wanted to go on, he would do it. I am amazed that he has kept up with me. Whoever his father was, he prepared him well for this kind of hunt. It’s the middle of the night on the second day, and so cold I see our breath as we gasp for air. I’m exhausted, too, and sweat runs in my eyes; I think I might fall down unconscious if I don’t eat something and drink some water.

We lay down in a thicket near the river. When I can finally breathe normal again, I roll down to the riverside and begin to drink. Little Fox crawls up next to me and does the same. It is ice-cold sweet water. I cover my face with it, wet my whole head. Then I lay there trying to sleep. Above me the moon seeks the cover of a dark curtain of clouds. I think I can see starlight but then I’m gone somewhere. When I wake up, the sun bakes my face and flies and mosquitoes buzz all around my head. Little Fox is shaking me. I don’t know how long I been laying here, but I know I’ve lost some time. The sun is very high above the horizon, almost overhead. The air is warm again. I gather my things, refill the canteen with the cold water, and we both start running. This time I try to keep track of Little Fox. I pace myself. For a while I lose the trail and I stop and wander around a bit until Little Fox finds it. They’re still on this side of the river.

Near dusk the third day, we come upon them. We’re moving at a steady pace, Little Fox silent and right there with me, his bow in hand. I see the horses first. Then I see two heads way in front of me, on the other side of a line of brush. They got their backs to me. I hear the horses nickering some. I know Ink has heard me coming up, but the others don’t know a thing. I motion to Little Fox to get down and he sinks to the ground with the bow ready. I flatten my palms on the ground and pat it twice to let him know I want him to stay put. He is not afraid. He takes a arrow out and nocks it in the bow. I crawl on my belly along a small ravine that runs next to the river and to the right of where they are camped out. It ain’t dark yet, but they already got a fire. I see a thin wisp of smoke in front of me and I crawl slow up the embankment, at the base of the place where the brush ends. I feel the damp mud of the riverbed seeping through my shirt. In the waning light of day, the campfire starts to reflect on faces and limbs and I see Ink sitting exactly across from me, on the other side of the fire. She is staring right at me. She is naked, her dark hair covering her breasts. Her eyes are dark and fierce. The way she sits, I realize her hands are tied behind her back. They’ve put a stake in the ground behind her and tied her to it. The young one, Treat, holds his hunting knife up to the light, looking at the edge of it. He’s got two others with him. One, I notice, is Joe Crane. He’s crouched by the fire, poking it with a stick. He’s still got Preston’s hat.