The Scalp Hunters

Chapter Five

Plenty Elk swiftly notched another arrow to his bowstring, but the young white woman drew rein when his arrow imbedded itself in the dirt near her horse. Those with her also stopped. He felt safe in lowering his bow and shoving the arrow back into his quiver.

He couldn’t believe it when he first saw them. Indians all in green! And a white woman! This was a day of unexpected events. First the scalp hunters; now these others.

Plenty Elk did not know what the woman’s intent was in giving chase. She might have been friendly, but she was well armed and he was not taking chances, not with his friend wounded. “Can you keep riding?”

“Yes.” Wolf’s Tooth gritted his teeth against the pain and tried not to think of all the blood he’d lost. He had been dizzy for a while, but the bout had passed. Now he was weak but not so weak that he couldn’t ride. “Who were those people?”

“Strangers.” Plenty Elk shouted to be heard above the pounding of hooves. “One of them was white.”

“Maybe they are with the scalp men.”

Plenty Elk doubted it. The scalp men would take the hair of any Indians they came across, including those in green.

“Is there sign of them?”

Plenty Elk scoured the prairie to the north. “No.” It puzzled him. He’d expected the scalp hunters to give determined chase.

The pair galloped on until their horses were lathered with sweat. A ribbon of cottonwoods along a narrow stream offered shade from the heat and water to clean Wolf’s Tooth’s wound. Plenty Elk cut a strip of buckskin from his friend’s shirt to bandage it.

“There. Do not use the arm much and in a moon you will be almost healed. The bullet went all the way through. You were fortunate.”

Wolf’s Tooth placed his good hand on his hurt shoulder and grunted. “I do not feel fortunate.”

Plenty Elk stepped to the stream. Kneeling, he washed his hands clean of the blood. “We must warn our people about the scalp men. We must warn our friends, the Cheyenne.”

“We must kill them.”

“When Tall Bull hears that his son is dead, he will raise a war party. He loved Short Bull very much.”

“I want to go with them. I want to see the scalp men die with my own eyes,” Wolf’s Tooth declared.

“You cannot fight with one arm.”

“I can use a knife. I can swing a tomahawk.”

Plenty Elk wiped his hands dry on the grass. He went to his horse, opened a parfleche, and brought over a bundle wrapped in badger fur. Opening it, he held out a piece of pemmican. “Eat. You must keep your strength up. It is a long ride to our village.”

“We should start back.”

Plenty Elk selected another piece and bit off the end. Chewing, he said, “There is no hurry. There is no sign of the scalp men, and you need to build up your strength.”

“I can ride.”

Bobbing his head at their horses, Plenty Elk said, “They need rest, too.” Both animals were hanging their heads in exhaustion.

Wolf’s Tooth put his hand to his brow and closed his eyes. “I still can hardly believe it. Short Bull and Right Hand, gone. They were our best friends. We played together when we were small.”

Plenty Elk couldn’t believe it, either. It had happened so fast. “We were fools to track those men. I tried to talk Short Bull out of it. You heard me argue with him.”

“He never listened to any words but his own.”

“Right Hand did not want to do it, either. He only went along because the rest of us did.”

“His woman will wail and cut herself.”

“And her, heavy with child,” Plenty Elk said glumly.

“She can go live with her parents. Or she can come to my lodge. I have always liked her.”

“You would raise the child as your own?”

“Right Hand was my friend.”

Plenty Elk stood. “I will take a look around.” He walked through the cottonwoods to the edge of the grass. To the north, nothing. To the west, nothing. He checked the south, too, with the same result.

“Well?” Wolf’s Tooth prompted upon his return.

“We are safe.”

“You do not sound certain.”

Plenty Elk squatted. He picked up a stick and poked at the dirt. “It was too easy.”

“What was?”

“The scalp hunters should have come after us. They didn’t. It worries me.”

Wolf’s Tooth leaned on his good arm and studied Plenty Elk. “You have always worried too much. When there is nothing to worry about, you worry about that.”

“You do not worry enough.”

“Did you see horses?”

“I told you. No one is after us.”

“No. Not now. When the scalp men tried to kill us. Did you see their horses anywhere?”

“I saw only the scalp men.”

“There is your answer. They had to run to their horses. We had too much of a start and they could not catch us.”

Plenty Elk would like to think it was that simple. “It would be easy for them to track us.”

Wolf’s Tooth forgot himself, and shrugged. Wincing, he said, “Tracking takes time.”

“It is daylight. Our tracks are fresh.”

“You forget. They were white men. Few whites are good trackers.”

“One of them had black skin,” Plenty Elk reminded him. “And I have heard there are whites who can track as good as anyone.”

“Worry they are tracking us if you want to.” Wolf’s Tooth eased onto his back and placed his arm over his eyes. “While you worry, I will rest. Wake me when the horses have recovered enough to head for our village.”

Plenty Elk rose and went back to the edge of the prairie. Sitting with his back to a bole, he placed his bow across his legs. The sun was warm on his face, the wind stirred his hair. Somewhere in the cottonwoods a robin warbled. A yellow butterfly fluttered past.

The world was at peace, but the same could not be said of Plenty Elk’s spirit. Again and again he searched the far horizon in all directions, and always it was the same. He would like to believe Wolf’s Tooth was right. He would like to accept the fact they had escaped. But he had looked into the eyes of the scalp hunter who spoke their tongue, and what he saw had unnerved him. They were not normal eyes. Looking into them was like looking into the violent depths of a rabid animal.

Plenty Elk swallowed and licked his lips, and sighed. There was still no sign of anyone. Maybe Wolf’s Tooth was right. He worried too much. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. He could use some rest, too. The deaths of his friends, the long ride, had drained him.

A cricket chirped. High in the sky a hawk screeched. A fly buzzed near his ear. The usual sounds of a usual day. Peaceful sounds. Plenty Elk drifted into a gray realm between wakefulness and sleep. Part of him wanted to doze off, but another part, the part that always worried, warned him he shouldn’t. Despite what Wolf’s Tooth said, it wasn’t safe.

He fell asleep anyway.

Plenty Elk dreamed he was running. It was early morning, and fog blanketed the land. Something or someone was after him, but he couldn’t see what or who it was. He kept looking over his shoulder, but all he saw were shadowy shapes—and glowing eyes. Eyes like wolves. He ran and he ran, but he couldn’t outdistance them. They were always back there, always glowing bright with evil glee.

In his dream Plenty Elk tripped. Before he could rise, the shadowy shapes were on him. They bore him to the earth. Some pinned his arms while others pinned his legs. He struggled with all his might, but they were many and he was one. A knife appeared, sweeping out of the fog like a scythe. He tried to twist his head aside but a burning sensation filled his throat and he felt warm drops of blood trickle down his neck.

With a start, Plenty Elk sat up and gazed wildly about. He sucked air into his lungs and wiped the sweat from his brow with a sleeve.

“That was silly.” Plenty Elk pushed to his feet. The prairie was still empty of life. He glanced at the sun and was surprised to note how high it had climbed. He had been asleep much too long.

The horses were dozing. Wolf’s Tooth was still on his back, his arm over his eyes.

“Wake up. We must be on our way.”

When Wolf’s Tooth didn’t stir, Plenty Elk walked over and went to nudge Wolf’s Tooth’s foot with his own. Only then did Plenty Elk see the ring of red around his friend’s head. He took another step—and saw pink flesh where there should be hair.

Recoiling, Plenty Elk gripped the hilt of his knife. He had the blade halfway out when he was struck a terrible blow to the back of the head. Excruciating pain flooded through him. His senses swam, his legs grew weak, and his legs buckled. He came down hard on his knees. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to draw his knife, only to have it kicked from his hand. Another blow, not quite as hard as the first, stretched him out on his side. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of his weapons and having his legs tied at the knees and at the ankles. His hands, though, were left free. Why that should be mystified him until he was roughly rolled onto his back.

It was the black man. He had a rifle in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. A smile without warmth creased his cold features. Wedging the tomahawk under his belt, he leaned the rifle against a leg. Then his fingers flowed in fluid sign. ‘When brain work, Dog Eater, we sign talk.’

Plenty Elk tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He looked at Wolf’s Tooth, at the fate that soon awaited him, and felt great regret. He loved being alive. He did not want to die.

The black stared at him, waiting.

Plenty Elk wondered why he was still alive. Forcing his hands to move, he posed the question in sign.

‘Big man want talk you.’

By “big man,” Plenty Elk gathered that the black meant the man who spoke Arapaho. ‘Question. Why he talk me?’

‘He ask where you sit. He ask how many you people. He ask how many warriors. How many women. How many children.’

Fear filled Plenty Elk, not for himself but for his people. He resolved not to tell the scalp men where his village was or how many lived there, no matter what. ‘I no sign talk.’

The black did a strange thing; he laughed. ‘You talk. Him make all people talk.’

Plenty Elk didn’t like the sound of that. The scalp men tortured as well as scalped. Truly, he told himself, they were evil.

Squatting, the black regarded him with amusement. ‘Question. You called?’

Plenty Elk signed his name. ‘Question. You?’

‘No sign talk my name. I speak name.’ The black touched his chest. “Rubicon,” he said slowly.

“Rubicon,” Plenty Elk repeated. ‘You first black man I see.’

‘I last black man you see.’

Plenty Elk sank his cheek to the grass and closed his eyes. The pain had lessened a little and he could think again. Unless he did something, quickly, he wouldn’t live to greet the next dawn. But other than try and grab Rubicon’s rifle, what could he do? He looked up at his captor. ‘Question. Why you take hair? Take hair bad.’

Rubicon held his right hand out from his chest and curled his thumb and index finger to make a near-complete circle.

It was the sign for money.

Hope flared in Plenty Elk’s breast. ‘Question. You cut rope I give you my horse? You sell horse. Have money.’

‘Your hair more money.’

In the distance hooves drummed.

Plenty Elk stiffened. It must be the rest of the scalp hunters. He started to lower his hands to the rope around his legs. Without warning Rubicon sprang and swung the stock of his rifle in a tight arc. Plenty Elk nearly cried out. His ribs felt as if they had caved in.

“Don’t get no ideas, redskin.”

Plenty Elk understood the warning tone if not the words. He gazed through the trees to the west, seeking sign of his impending doom. They would torture him and kill him and lift his hair, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. In his frustration and helplessness, he raised a loud lament to the sky.

Rubicon rose. Smirking, he cradled his rifle. “Listen to you howl. That’s your death chant, ain’t it?”

The drumming hooves slowed as they neared the cottonwoods. Plenty Elk girded himself and dived at Rubicon’s legs, but the black man was too quick for him and leaped out of reach.

Snarling, Rubicon raised his rifle to hit Plenty Elk again.

That was when the brush crackled and out of the trees came the last person Plenty Elk expected: the young white woman.