Blood Feather, page 14
He would go inside, but only after checking around the outside first.
Joshua found where Blood Feather had dug through the snow to the two bodies. Joshua looked at the frozen bodies of husband and wife and shook his head. Then, he saw that Blood Feather had apparently dug through the snow to find them simply to cut the little fingers off both. Belle had told him about seeing the necklace of fingers around the killer’s neck.
He went inside, but only after he happily saw where Missy had made tracks to and from the outhouse. The killer apparently knew that with the high snows she could not and would not even try running and hiding. He was also relieved to see by the rumpled blankets that Blood Feather had slept by the fire and that Missy had slept in the large feather bed.
Then a piece of firewood came crashing down on the back of Strongheart’s head and everything went black.
The seven-foot-tall figure stood above his prostrate figure and simply stared. He pulled out the giant knife and rolled Joshua over with his foot. He knelt down, opened Strongheart’s coat, tore open his shirt, and moved the knife down above his chest. He started to cut into the chest, and suddenly the scream stopped him.
Missy stood there, tears streaming down her cheeks, and she put her hand out in a halting gesture and shook her head while yelling, “No! No!”
Blood Feather stopped. He had been waiting for this opportunity and had hidden out in the trees watching, knowing Strongheart’s heart would provide him with the strong medicine he needed to feel emotions without killing. However, this was the first time the little girl had uttered a word. She had special medicine from the Great Spirit, and Blood Feather did not want to do anything to upset that. His mind did not work like a normal person’s, red or white. He thought maybe he would keep her longer and be careful. But at some point, when the Great Spirit gave him a sign, he would kill her and eat her heart, too. He would then become the mightiest warrior ever, with the strongest medicine. Although his blank expression belied it, he felt good inside, because he was not eating Strongheart’s heart now. He felt good inside because he knew that this would truly terrorize the mighty warrior Strongheart, letting him know that Blood Feather could let him go and simply plan on killing him later. In the meantime, he would enjoy the challenge of being tracked and trailed by Joshua Strongheart. It would continue to help him feel alive, like he had ever since he took the girl with the powerful medicine.
She ran over and threw herself on Strongheart’s chest, but We Wiyake lifted her up and carried her out the door. He closed the door behind him, but then turned around and reentered. He grabbed some firewood and put logs in the fireplace to build a fire. Blood Feather pointed at Strongheart and the fire, showing Missy that he had done this so she would approve, and they left. His feeling was that this brazen act would frighten Strongheart even more.
Strongheart lay on the floor in front of the fire, unmoving, dried blood on his massive chest where We Wiyake had just begun to cut.
* * *
The warrior moved so slowly through the dense forest, he was barely noticeable. Up close though, he was a marvelous specimen. He could look down and see the top of the head of almost any fellow Lakota Sioux he was ever with. In fact, he had to look down at most people.
Most items that he would grab ahold of would move. They had no choice if he wanted to move them. His long black hair was braided this day, and beneath the red and black war paint, which obscured most of his face, his cheekbones were high, his jaw firm and strong, and his lips thin. His eyes were special—deep, dark brown, they looked very intelligent and, at the same time, like he was always ready to smile.
They scoured the ground in front of him now, sweeping left to right, right to left in ten-foot arcs, and every few seconds he would look up in the trees. About once a minute, he would slowly turn his head and look behind at his backtrail, as the way you walk into an area does not necessarily look the same when you walk out.
At the top of each bicep and at the base of each bulging deltoid, he wore a tight leather band which made the cantaloupe-sized biceps look even larger.
The bow looked tiny in his left hand, and he knelt down to look closely at some tracks. Each track looked like an upside-down letter V, and he looked at the crispness of their edges, then a slight movement caught his eye. A grain of sand had fallen from the edge of one V and down into the track. This deer was less than a minute ahead of him. There was a small pile of round pellets. He picked up one piece of manure in his fingers and examined it closely. It was round like a tiny brown marble, but on one side there was a tiny groove. Although most people could not tell the difference between a buck or a doe by looking at their sign, he could because bucks have a tiny anal protrusion in their bowel which makes a faint groove in each piece of feces. He knew this was a very large, heavy deer just by the size and depth of the tracks, but now he also knew it was a buck, which is what he wanted.
The warrior turned and looked back into the deep green morass to his rear. Finally, she was noticeable. The young Lakota woman had been shadowing him at a distance and was very well camouflaged herself. Even at that distance, her great beauty was obvious—the long, shiny black hair, olive complexion, and dark eyes. He held his hands up to the side of his head, extended fingers sticking up in the air, the sign for buck deer or bull elk. She smiled and remained motionless. This warrior was helping her and her mother so much; he was tall and handsome, and he truly cared, unlike so many braves.
He moved forward slowly on hands and knees, his bow in his left hand. Every few seconds now he paused and looked. He spotted movement, as a large twelve-point buck grazed on buckbrush and tufts of grass a short distance to his front. It took the warrior five minutes, but he rose to his feet and inched forward, the bottom of his bow now almost touching his hip. He moved with his left side forward, his right hand on the bowstring. The nock of the arrow rested between his index and middle finger, and his ring finger curled around the string. He would not look directly at the grazing deer, as he knew that deer and most prey animals, as well as some learned and experienced warriors had a sixth sense, a sense of knowing when a predator was staring at them. This was kind of like the feeling you got, the chill down the spine, when someone stared at your back through a window and you sensed it. The warrior watched a spot a few feet behind the deer, but his dark eyes were looking for one movement. There is a nerve in deer that makes a slight twitch in their tail an instant before they raise their head up. Just by experience alone, this brave knew that deer had a different type of vision than humans, which only allowed for them to see the graze beneath their head when their head was down grazing. He knew from experience and his childhood teachings that the deer, no matter how close, could not see him as a person when its head was up, as long as he did not move at all. Each time, the warrior saw the little flick in the buck’s tail, he froze, even if one foot was raised.
A half hour passed and now he was so close, he also squinted when he froze, so the shine off his eyeballs would not spook the deer. His bow came up slowly, inch-by-inch, and while the head was down, he drew the arrow back.
The tail twitched, and he froze. Most men could not hold the powerful bow at full draw for very long without their arms shaking from total exertion, but this man was conditioned and very disciplined. The deer’s head went down, the string slipped off the warrior’s fingers, and he saw the arrow’s almost instantaneous impact as it tore through the buck’s left flank just behind the lower part of the left shoulder. It passed through the heart and then through the right lung, exiting the far side, as the buck leapt with the shock. He ran less than fifty feet, then struggled as the life drained from him, and lay still.
The warrior prayed to the deer’s spirit and wished it well on its journey. Then the young woman, who was closer to the age of a girl, came forward and watched his dexterity with the knife. He first removed the heavy musk glands on the inside of the buck’s back knees. Then he carefully cleaned the razor-sharp Bowie knife, knowing the smelly gland could taint the meat. She marveled at the heavily beaded and fringed sheath on his left hip, the giant shiny blade, the elk antler handle. He removed the testes and anus and again cleaned the blade thoroughly. He then cut through the pelvic bone and slit the belly all the way up well into the chest cavity. Next, he slit the throat, reached in and cut the esophagus, and then pulled the entrails out along with the lungs and other organs.
Walking to her village, the young woman was amazed at how small the mighty buck looked across this brave’s shoulders. Soon, they were at the lodge, and the carcass was hung outside to be skinned and butchered.
Lila Wiya Waste, which meant “beautiful woman,” was the warrior’s cousin, and her husband had been killed by the great bear. She and her mother had nobody to bring meat to their lodges, but Joshua Strongheart would come to her village and help her to get meat for the lodge because he was her closest relative. She accompanied him so she could learn. Joshua told her not to just marry again but to wait on a warrior who was worthy of her. She wanted to know how to be self-sufficient, for her cousin was not around the village circle very often, just a few times per year.
The tall warrior grabbed his bag and headed to the nearby stream to bathe, clean off his war paint, and change clothes. The Lakota and their allies the Cheyenne and the Arapaho were meticulous about bathing and keeping clean, and he was amused how so many racist wasicun used expressions such as “filthy redksins.” The Lakota actually viewed many whites as being very dirty and unkempt.
Thirty minutes later, he returned from the stream to the circle of lodges. Lila Wiya Waste looked with a great longing at him approaching. She wished he was not her first cousin, but wished more that he would look at her the way the other braves did. He now was dressed in his normal manner and looked like a totally different person, a white man, with Lakota features.
His long, shiny black hair was no longer braided but hung down his back in a single ponytail, and it was covered by a black cowboy hat with a wide, very flat brim and rounded crown. A very wide, fancy, colorful beaded hatband went around the base of the crown.
He wore a bone hair pipe choker necklace around his sinewy neck, and a piece of beaded leather thong hung down a little from the front with a large grizzly bear claw attached to it.
His soft antelope-skin shirt did little to hide his bulging muscles, and the small rows of fringe that slanted in from his broad shoulders in a V shape above the large pectoral muscles, stopping at mid-chest, actually served to accentuate his muscular build and the narrow waist that looked like a flesh-covered version of the washboard the wasicun women used.
Levi-Strauss had recently patented and started making a brand-new type of trousers out of blue denim with brass rivets, which whites were calling “Levi’s.” Joshua had bought a couple pairs from a merchandiser, who bought them himself for $13.50 for each dozen pairs. They were tight, and they did little to hide the bulging muscles of his long legs.
Around his hips, Joshua wore his prized possessions, one a gift from his late stepfather and the other a gift from his late father. On the right hip of the engraved brown gunbelt was the fancy holster with his stepfather’s Colt .45 Peacemaker in it. It had miniature marshal’s badges, like his stepfather’s own, attached to both of the mother-of-pearl grips, and there was fancy engraving along the barrel. It was a brand-new single-action model made especially for the army in this year, 1873, and this one had been a special order by his stepfather’s friend Chris Colt, who was a nephew of inventor Colonel Samuel Colt.
On his left hip was the long, beaded, porcupine-quilled, and fringed leather knife sheath holding the Bowie-like knife with the elk antler handle and brass inlays that had been left to him by his father.
He wore long cowboy boots with large-roweled Mexican spurs that had two little bell-shaped pieces of steel hanging down on the outside of each that clinked on the spur rowels as they spun or while he walked.
Because he had always been trained to keep his weapons clean and knife-sharp, Joshua pulled the large knife from the sheath and examined the blade. As usual, it was scalpel-sharp.
Lila Wiya Waste, his cousin, handed him a cup of hot coffee from the large pot he had given her months earlier. He sipped the steaming brew and thought about his childhood quest to learn about his biological father and search for blood relatives.
Then he stared at her longingly and tossed the coffee aside, sweeping her into his arms. Their lips came together and meshed as they pushed against each other passionately. She released the leather straps on her buckskin dress, and it fell away, revealing her immaculate body.
She breathed into his ear, “Oh, Joshua! Oh, Joshua! I have always wanted you so!”
He stopped kissing her and looked into her eyes, but she was no longer his cousin. She was Belle Ebert, but they were still in the buffalo-hide lodge.
She said, “Oh, Joshua!”
He shook his head and thought, I must be dreaming. She is pushing my head against something that hurts.
He opened his eyes and saw the ceiling of the ranch house and felt the warmth of the fire. He looked around the room and then down at his chest. Something was amiss. Then, he thought, Who started the fire?
Joshua jumped up suddenly, and his hand whipped out his Colt Peacemaker. He looked around, startled, and jumped to his feet. It was night, and his head felt like Gabe was prancing on it with new shoes.
Joshua looked on the floor and picked up the piece of paper that had fallen off his chest. He lit an oil lamp and sat down to read it. It was a little child’s writing. Missy’s. It read:
Mr. Stronghart,
Pleese save me. I am being brave.
Love, Missy
He reached back and felt his head. There was a lump and a cut on it. He looked over and saw on the floor the piece of firewood that We Wiyake had struck him with; then he looked down at his shirt opened up, and the small, sharp cut where Blood Feather’s knifepoint had penetrated his skin. The man had lain in wait for him, followed him into the house to knock him unconscious, and apparently had planned to cut his heart out. What stopped him? Did Missy have some kind of influence? Did she cry and We Wiyake felt sorry for her?
That did not make sense. Strongheart knew he had to get some food into his body and get a night’s sleep while his horse fed and rested. He was not terrorized or frightened. He was angry, very angry, especially at himself for being so foolish. He had let his guard down and probably was only alive by God’s blessing. It would not happen again.
He knew for sure that Blood Feather was now putting distance between himself and the ranch. Gun drawn, the Pinkerton almost ran to the barn and corral to make sure Gabe was still there and unharmed. He was relieved to see that the big gelding was fine.
Returning inside, Joshua made some food and checked for items he might need. He saw where We Wiyake and Missy apparently had gone through clothes to get some cold weather gear, so he was relieved at that. He lit a few more lamps and sat down to write a letter to the posse he knew would eventually show up. He also left the letter from Missy and told the posse she must have dropped it on his chest while the killer was not looking. He itemized the things he was taking from the ranch, vowing to replace or return them, including the gelding in the barn and a pack saddle and panniers.
He would take no more chances with We Wiyake, although he was certain he was safe that night. He took a spoon and wedged the handle above the door. If anybody opened it, the spoon would fall to the floor and he would awaken immediately. He rigged the tops of the windows the same way, although he was positive that Blood Feather was now miles away.
Strongheart went to bed and slept the sleep of the dead. The next morning, his headache was not quite as bad. He put together a pack, even carrying some grain for the pack horse and Gabe, and headed west on the trail of the little girl he was determined to save and the brutal murderer he was determined to kill.
Strongheart just shook his head as he saw Blood Feather’s trail going higher up, directly toward the Big Range and Spread Eagle Peak above him. He entered the big trees and saw that the killer was using a large harem of elk to pave his way through the forest. In a way, Strongheart was glad, because they would also lead him toward areas where the horse could get graze in the deep snow. The sky was sunny this day, and even on the mountainside temperatures were warmer. However, Strongheart also knew that some harems of elk would cross all the way over the Sangre de Cristo range to the San Luis Valley side.
He did feel good about one thing. He had been all through this area before and up above at Lakes of the Clouds. He was worried, as it was late fall, and now much of the snow from the blizzard was melting, and another blizzard could appear anytime. Some of the towering cliffs above the timberline, and even before he got there, were definite candidates for killing avalanches. At Lakes of the Clouds, right at timberline, there were rocky ridges that went almost straight up and came right down to the water. He remembered there were several avalanche chutes there on each ridge.
As Strongheart followed the killer’s trail, he heard a stream of water running down the side of the mountain beside him, but he could not see it. It was rushing down the mountain under the blanket of snow, tunneling its way to the valley floor, creating its own white frozen pipeline. He liked it being there as it covered the sound of him going up the ridge. He came up over the ridge where it flattened out, and there he found Blood Feather’s camp. It was a short distance off the trail in a a grove of evergreens that was part of a small park. He searched it thoroughly and could tell again that Missy apparently had not been touched. He was relieved about that but very upset that she had apparently witnessed the murder of both the rancher and his wife. He could tell by the tracks that We Wiyake also needed sleep and had set out from there late that morning. Strongheart was closing in. The tracks showed that Blood Feather had the other ranch horse as a pack horse and apparently had Missy riding on the pack while he led it.
