In the Shadow of the Hanging Tree Page 15

  You already know what you’re going to do, so why don’t you just think about how you’re going to do it and stop chewing over things that don’t matter any?

  He took his own advice and began to work on the problem.

  Outside of some trees in the immediate vicinity, the southeast side of the lake—the side Henry had first arrived and then departed from—was wide open plain and a rider could be spotted a long way off. He’d circled well around the camp to some breaks a mile to the north of the lake. Then he was able to follow a creek—probably the one feeding the lake—that offered good cover. He tethered Harriet to a tree on the creek bank, then worked his way as close to the lake as he felt was safe. If the Indians were watching for an attack—which they most certainly were—they’d know this was the direction that it would most likely come from. They’d have posted lookouts and most likely there were some braves roaming the breaks; looking for game if nothing else. He decided to stay where he was until full dark. He’d just have to hope Harriet wasn’t discovered in the meantime.

  Over the last three and a half years the pain of Eliza’s memory had receded. Occasionally there were days he didn’t think of her at all. Now, lying on his back in the clump of scrub, waiting like he’d waited in another patch of brush years before, her voice came back to him.

  “You’re going to be a father. You’re going to be the father of a free child,” she said, smiling up at him and holding out a small hunk of the pork and the last of the stale bread. Henry ignored the offered food, and stood over her, his mouth agape. “You best close your mouth before something flies in it. I was going to tell you some days back but I wanted to be certain. Then Master Cromwell freed us, and—”

  Henry fell to his knees and put his hands to the sides of her face. “Are you sure?”

  “I just said I wanted to be certain, and I am.”

  “You don’t look…I mean…when? How long?”

  “In the spring.”

  “Well, we have some time to get settled, then.”

  She set the pork and bread down in her lap, put her hands over his, gripped them, and pulled him close. She kissed him softly.

  “Did you find a good place for your snares?”

  “Yess’m. You’ll be eating rabbit this evening. Or mayhap squirrel.”

  “Good. Now do you want this?” She picked up the pork and bread.

  “Yes, but I want somethin’ else, first.” He slid his hand up her dress.

  “You can have whatever you want.”

  It was the last time.

  3

  Henry waited until well after midnight before working his way down toward the lake. He wept off and on during those hours. The tears were lurking just below the surface again, like they had in the weeks following Eliza’s death. He fought them back the best he could and tried to devise a plan to free the woman. At moments, however, the similarities between the present and the past were just too overwhelming.

  He only had two options: either create a distraction, or slip in and out quietly. He liked the former, but the only diversion that would have a chance of working would be running off their horses. He could probably do it, but the horses were on the southeast side of the lake, and the woman was on the northwest side. It was a small lake, but he would still lose any advantage of surprise and disorder by the time he reached the woman. There were two other snags as well: the battle-hardened horses may not spook easily, and the Cheyenne may already be on the lookout for Pawnee horse thieves.

  He chose surreptitiousness, which came with its own risks.

  Squatting in the dewy mix of grass and wildflowers, fifty feet from the stand of trees where he’d seen the woman, Henry tried to calm himself. If he were caught he would almost certainly be killed, and Standing Elk would be humiliated and lose much of his status. He had the Spencer rifle, but no intention of killing anyone. If it needed to be used, it would be stock forward.

  The May moon was in its third quarter and there was enough light for Henry to see a little, but not so much that he felt exposed. He crept up slowly to the stand of trees.

  She was there.

  Looking at her long, black hair, she could easily have been an Indian woman, but her skin was so white that the faint whisper of moonlight gave it a pale, almost unearthly glow. She was lying on her side not fifteen feet away. She was facing Henry. There was a man sleeping on the other side of her: Short Bull, Henry assumed.

  Gazing into the stand of trees, he could see other sleepers scattered about. The nearest was less than twenty feet away. Henry stayed where he was, indecisive. He began wishing he would have tried running off the horses. He didn’t see any way he could succeed in getting her away. Even if he were able to wake her without disturbing Short Bull—if it was Short Bull—could he then silently convince her to go with him? He considered leaving. He could ride back to Fort Laramie and tell whoever it was the army currently had in charge about the woman. They’d send someone, an officer, along with a company of cavalrymen. They could be here inside of a week…

  He recalled what happened the last time he chose not to act right away. He saw Eliza, lying in the brush, beaten and bloody. Was their unborn child already dead inside her? Or did it survive as long as she did? Was there pain, or fear? The tears once again spilled down his face. He put down the Spencer—thinking of how, only moments before he’d pledged not to kill anyone—and pulled his hunting knife from its hide scabbard. Crawling slowly but deliberately he closed the distance between himself and the two sleeping figures.

  He circled around slightly so he came at their heads. Short Bull was sleeping on his back; there was no doubt it was him. Henry reached out, and in one motion clamped his left hand tightly over Short Bull’s mouth while simultaneously sawing at the Cheyenne chief’s throat with the hunting knife in his right. He used all the force he could muster and cut nearly halfway through Short Bull’s neck in three quick strokes. A gush of hot blood splashed all over Henry’s hands and arms. Short Bull’s back arched and his legs began kicking; the woman let out a breathless cry to his left. The strength ran out of Short Bull in mere seconds. Henry released him and looked at the woman. She was staring at him, but it was too dark to read her face. He scanned the other sleeping figures; there was no movement. He turned back and leaned toward her. She recoiled slightly but stayed where she was. Henry whispered, “Come with me, I’ll get you somewhere safe.”

  The woman kept staring at him but didn’t move. He was about to repeat what he’d said when she slowly raised her arm toward him. At first he didn’t understand, then she raised her arm a little higher and he saw it. There was a strip of hide tied to her wrist.

  He reached out and hooked two fingers around the strip and followed it. The other end was tied to Short Bull’s forearm.

  Henry pulled his knife, slick with the dead chief’s blood, and flicked the razor sharp blade across the thin strip of hide. “Come on,” he whispered, and began crawling away.

  She was following, he could hear her. He stopped and picked up the Spencer, then stood.

  “Can you walk?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Follow me. Watch my legs, not my back, and walk right where I walk.”

  He fought the urge to hurry and walked carefully back up the creek on shaky legs. Soon he was able to make out Harriet’s shape silhouetted against the muted moonlight.

  “What’s your name?” Henry asked, as he squatted by the creek and began vigorously washing his hands and arms.

  “Clara Hanfield. You killed him.” Her voice was flat.

  “Yes’m, I did.” He stood and walked over to Harriet. “Come on, we have to get as far away from here as we can before they wake up. We’ll have to ride together.”

  He untied the reins from the tree, climbed up and reached a hand down to her. Clara looked at the proffered hand for a moment before taking it and allowing Henry to pull her up behind him. She let out a short cry when she hit the saddle.

  “Are you hurt?”


  “No…yes, a little. Please, let’s go.

  “Hang on then.”

  Clara didn’t move.

  “Ma’am, you have to hold on or you’ll fall off.”

  “Yes, of course. I know.” She reached around his waist and clasped her hands together.

  Nine

  1

  Randall awoke, but couldn’t open his eyes. After a few moments of confusion he realized they were open.

  He was blind.

  He was lying on a thin and uncomfortable bed in a stuffy room. His head ached terribly, his ears were ringing, and he was so thirsty that his tongue felt swollen to twice its normal size. He raised a shaky hand to his head; it was bandaged. He remembered the painted young Indian swinging some sort of hammer at him. Then nothing.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright. His head throbbed sickeningly. Clara.

  He lowered his head back down. “Hello?” he said, in a barely audible croak.

  “Is anyone there?” a little louder this time.

  “Hello?”

  Footsteps. A door opened nearby.

  “You’re awake,” a man’s voice said amiably.

  “Is Clara well?”

  “Clara?”

  “Yes, I was travelling with a young woman, Clara Hanfield. Is she here?”

  “I don’t recall anyone saying anything about a young woman. Clara you say?”

  “Yes. Dear god, where is she? Where am I? Where is this place? I cannot see, I’ve been blinded.”

  “Sir, please try to calm yourself. You’ve taken quite a blow to the head. The arrow wounds were both superficial; the one in your back wasn’t even an inch deep. But your skull’s been fractured quite severely. As far as a woman is concerned, this is the first I’ve heard of one. You were the only one brought here. I was told there were four other men found with you. You were the only survivor.”

  “Someone must have seen her. May I please have some water?”

  “I have some right here.”

  The owner of the voice walked next to the head of the bed. Randall could hear him pouring water, from a pitcher or some other receptacle.

  “I’m going to lift your head.”

  “Are you a doctor?”

  “Verily. Doctor Sam Evans, at your service. You’re lucky I was here, friend. The resident sawbones apparently vanished one night this winter. He was last seen staggering around the parade grounds, drunk, and the next morning, he was gone. I was called out from Independence to see to the former commander’s broken leg; he was thrown from his horse—drunk too, more like than not. The leg was rotten by the time I arrived and the good colonel died two weeks ago. Now, every time I plan to leave, something seems to require I stay. In this case, you.”

  He put a hand under Randall’s neck and gently lifted his head. “Just a little now,” he said, holding the tin cup to Randall’s lips.

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. There is a possibility that in time your sight will come back. I’ve heard of it happening, although I wouldn’t set your hopes on it.

  “And I’ll inform Major Brighton you’re awake. Perhaps he knows something I don’t and can shed some light on things for you. I’ll bring you something to eat, as well. I’m sure you must be hungry. I hope you like beans.”

  “Is this Fort Laramie? How long have I been here?”

  “You’re at Fort Kearny, such as it is, and you’ve been here four days. A captain and eight men heading for Fort Laramie found you, and managed to right your wagon. They hitched up some of their own horses, removed the arrow from your back, broke the shaft off the one in your backside, then wrapped you in a blanket and put you inside. They used every inch of daylight and then some, not to mention wearing out their horses getting you here.”

  “I am indebted to them.”

  “Well, I’m sorry won’t get a chance to tell them. They stayed two days then moved on.”

  After the doctor left, Randall worried over Clara.

  His head ached horribly and he was having trouble concentrating. Perhaps the doctor had a powder…

  “Mister Eastman? Mister Eastman?”

  The voice pulled Randall from his doze. Not the doctor. Someone else. He opened his eyes and had an unsettling moment when there was still darkness. Then he remembered he was blind.

  “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Major Brighton, Mister Eastman—”

  “How do you know my name?” Where is Clara?”

  “You were identified three days ago by a man named Theo Brandt. Brandt is a representative of Mister Jonathon Hanfield from New York who, incidentally, telegraphed us some time ago requesting us to be on the lookout for you and his daughter. In addition to Mister Hanfield’s telegraph we also received one from an angry New York senator.

  “As far as Miss Hanfield’s whereabouts we can only assume she was carried off by the Indians who attacked you.”

  “Oh my, Clara…what is being done? You are searching for her?”

  “Mister Eastman, Mister Hanfield claims that you brought his daughter out here against her will. He’s demanding you be tried and hanged. The senator’s correspondence was not quite so bluntly stated, but amounts to nearly the same. I myself find the veracity of these charges questionable. There were several letters found among the items not taken by the Indians. They were addressed to one Lieutenant Elliot at Fort Laramie. I recall meeting the lieutenant only weeks ago, right here. I also recall him saying he was from New York. Mister Brandt was pompous, unhelpful, and downright evasive when I questioned him regarding Lieutenant Elliot’s connection to Miss Hanfield. His welcome quickly wore thin, and he’s since moved on. I’ve sent a telegraph to Fort Laramie inquiring about the lieutenant, but have yet to receive any word in return. If you are as concerned about Miss Hanfield as you appear, you’ll explain all of this to me so I can best decide how to be of service to the missing young woman.”

  Major Brighton struck Randall as a man who was intelligent and fair-minded. He told him the entire story—omitting Clara’s theft and maternal revelation—beginning with Jonathon Hanfield’s fit of temper, and ending with the young Indian swinging the club.

  The major listened intently, interrupting only occasionally to ask Randall to clarify something or to offer him a drink of water.

  When Randall was finished, the major was silent for several minutes. Finally he spoke: “It’s plain to see that no crime has been committed here—at least not by you. The murder of the four men and the apparent abduction of Miss Hanfield is another matter. The army doesn’t mediate family affairs, Mister Eastman, and I’ll not reduce this post to such picayune use unless I receive a direct order to do so. The doctor tells me you’ll live, though you likely never see again. You’re welcome to stay here while you mend. After that, other arrangements will have to be made. Perhaps you have relatives somewhere, well away from New York?

  “What about Clara?”

  “I’ve sent out fifty men; all I can spare. Try to sleep, Mister Eastman. I’ll keep you informed.

  Ten

  1

  The scouts returned at a gallop. Picton signaled the men to halt, then waited for whatever word they carried. John, who’d been riding at the rear, rode up beside Picton.

  “It appears they have news of some import,” Picton said.

  John remained silent.

  The scouts reached them and reined in. One of the ex-Confederates spurred his horse forward until he was facing Picton and John.

  “We got a war-party,” he said breathlessly. “Or…well, could be a hunting party. I could see that Pawnee fella was scared, but I can’t understand half of what he says…there was a bushel of ‘em, to be sure. Indians…on horseback.”

  “Indians are less intelligent than niggers, Mister Blaylock. We are lucky our Pawnee friend can speak English as well as he does. Now, assuming we are speaking of more than sixty four pints of Indians, please tell me how many there were? Then you can tell me where they were along with any other p
ertinent details.”

  The men—excluding John—who were nearest to Picton, chuckled nervously.

  “Well, sir, it looked to be about a hundred and fifty, possibly more, an’ they were about fifteen miles west of here. They was heading west, same as us. The only reason we came on ‘em is they’s movin’ slower than us. They had more than a few rifles.”

  “Thank you, Mister Blaylock. Rest your horses. In one hour we head north.”

  There was a murmur among the men. John looked at Picton but said nothing. Picton reached into his saddlebag and retrieved his map. After fighting the ever-present wind and consulting the flapping map for several minutes, he folded it and looked at John.

  “It’s a six day ride back to Fort Laramie. We’ll resupply there, then head northwest, further up the Platte, then into Powder River country.”

  “We’re not going after them, Colonel?” Bill Taylor, one of Picton’s regular men asked.

  “Of course not, Mister Taylor. We’re not manned nor equipped for open battlefield forays, and we’ve no need for it. Have faith. We’ll achieve our goals through stealth and patience.”