Riding the Line Page 7

  ‘I’m sure he’s as proud of you as you are of him,’ Jim told her. ‘Not many people would have undertaken this journey.’ By Jim’s reckoning the journey had to be at least three hundred miles.

  ‘Who else should do it?’ she asked. ‘I am the last of his family.’

  ‘Even so, it wasn’t without danger.’

  ‘My grandfather dreamed and it removed all fear. Wakatanka, the Great Spirit, travelled with us. Grey Eagle would not die until he’d reached his chosen place.’ She paused a moment, looked at the figure asleep beside her. ‘We are here,’ she said. ‘He will not see the sun go down.’

  Jim Braddock studied Waktaya. Never before had he seen anyone capable of displaying so much ferocity and then so much serenity in such a short space of time. She had a longish face, emphasized by the distinctive high cheekbones of her people. Her dark eyes reduced to narrow slits when she was angry but were wondrous large when, as now, her mood was gentle.

  A surge of unexpected jealousy swamped Jim’s senses; his was a history of a cowboy’s loneliness: it was all he had known. No one had ever looked at him in such a manner – and never would. Loyalty and respect were both evident in her expression but there was also something much deeper and warmer: love, Jim supposed, and he found it necessary to wipe his arm across his mouth to distract himself from the thoughts in his head.

  ‘Who told you that there were soldiers chasing us?’ Waktaya suddenly asked.

  ‘I met a cavalry patrol earlier,’ Jim replied. ‘They’ll take you back to Pine Ridge.’

  Before he’d finished speaking the girl had moved with a suddenness that startled Jim. She’d snatched up the rifle and held it with violent intent. Fierceness flashed in her eyes, the flames of the fire reflecting in them adding a devilish aspect to her countenance.

  ‘I will not go with soldiers,’ she hissed. ‘I will kill them if they try to touch me again.’ She swung the rifle until it was pointing at Jim’s chest. ‘I will kill anyone who tries to touch me.’

  Jim raised his hands in placatory fashion.

  ‘I’m not going to hurt you,’ he told her, but such was the vehemence of her expression that Jim wasn’t at all sure that his words had any meaning for her.

  A noise like a cough, guttural but soft, turned their attention to the old man. His eyes were open and fixed on Jim Braddock. He spoke again, nothing more than a single word that drew his granddaughter to his side. She bent down to him, placing the rifle on the ground while she spoke soft words of solace to him. Jim turned away, diplomatically returning to his post at the mouth of the cave.

  The snow was falling with less intensity. Soon, Jim figured, he would be able to quit the shelter of the cave and get back to the cabin. He’d hardly spared a thought for Dean Ridgeway and Harvey Goode since coming across the Sioux couple; he was probably as much needed there as he was here. Indeed, the girl was a great deal more competent than his boss’s son in almost every respect.

  He looked back into the far reaches of the cave where Waktaya was kneeling at her grandfather’s side. She had done little to ameliorate her own discomfort, but the blanket around the upper part of her body was slowly drying in the warmth created by the small fire. Her legs remained bare but she hadn’t shown any sign that she was suffering from their being cold. Jim almost smiled as the thought crossed his mind that she had no need of outer warmth because she clearly had a fire – an inferno – burning inside her. But he didn’t smile, instead he wondered what tragedy had occurred in her young life to have left her with such vehement hatred of Americans. It added another layer to her courage: travelling so far with an old, dying man when she expected nothing but a threat to her own safety from those she met on the way.

  Several minutes later, while he was talking to and stroking the horses, he heard the first low notes of a melody. The girl was singing: amusing her grandfather, Jim supposed, in the weariness of his infirmity. Only when her voice began to rise did the mournfulness of her singing become apparent; her keening was a dirge.

  Waktaya ignored the American when he reached her side and continued her song even while she prepared her grandfather for the world beyond. Her prediction that he would not see the sun go down had come true. From among her chattels she produced an ointment which she rubbed into the dead man’s skin, rendering him as white as the snow beyond the entrance of the cave. She placed three eagle feathers and a stone axe in his folded hands: symbols of wisdom and war, then she wrapped him tightly in the blanket on which he was lying. Jim’s hand’s were brushed aside when he tried to help, and moments later, when it was apparent that she meant to use the great bear robe as a shroud, his protest was greeted with a scornful look.

  ‘You need to wrap that around yourself,’ he told her. ‘His winters will no longer be as cold as yours.’

  ‘My grandfather’s coat was known to all the people of the village he left behind,’ she told him. ‘It will identify him in the village he is going to.’

  She had told him that her name meant The One Who Guards, but if she had earned it for her care of Grey Eagle, then that was a duty duly dispensed. There was nothing more she could do for him; she needed to consider her own safety, but perhaps, he figured, he was treading into the territory of her religion where he had no right to interfere. He watched as she used a long bone needle to stitch together the edges of the robe. It wasn’t an easy task but when it was completed the cadaver was completely enclosed. It was a gesture, Jim guessed, to emphasize her determination in the matter. So tough had it been to force the needle through the thick coat that she had been left with bleeding fingers. It increased Jim’s appreciation of her mettle but did nothing to ease his concern. The long journey back to Pine Ridge would be more arduous if the winter conditions persisted, there was little chance of survival if she continued to disregard her own well-being.

  Snow was no longer falling when her ministrations were completed. Jim Braddock could no longer delay his return to the line cabin but he was curious about Waktaya’s plans.

  ‘There are holy grounds near here. Grey Eagle chose them as his last resting place. I will take him there.’

  Jim Braddock knew the place she referred to; they were called burial grounds by the Sioux but no one had ever been put in the ground there. The shrouded corpses had been lifted on to platforms and left to decay with the passage of time. It had been many years since the body of the last Sioux warrior had been offered to the elements at that place, yet still there were hidebound mounds atop long-legged platforms. How the slight girl standing before him proposed to hoist her dead grandfather on to such a structure defied reason.

  ‘The travois always had another purpose,’ she told him, explaining her determination not to abandon it in the snow.

  ‘Even so,’ said Jim, ‘even if, despite this unexpected snow, you were able to erect the platform, you wouldn’t be able to get him up there on your own.’

  The girl’s reply surprised him. ‘Grey Eagle travelled in the belief that all would be well, that Wakantanka would provide me with assistance. Before he died he told me that you were the one sent by the Great Spirit.’

  The protest that Jim knew should have been his immediate response never passed his lips. He wasn’t sure why he couldn’t refuse to help but he did know that he couldn’t abandon the girl to a Herculean task that he knew she would tackle with or without him. Clearly, she was involving him because of a promise she’d made to her dying grandfather, but she couldn’t disguise her distrust. Once again the rifle was in her hands and her eyes watched warily every move he made.

  ‘There’s an injured man back at my cabin,’ he told her. ‘I must get back there as quickly as possible.’

  With the girl astride the pony and the travois hitched behind, Jim led the way to the burial site. Before leaving he had thrown a long blanket over the girl’s lap which reached down to cover her bare legs. Waktaya had been both surprised by and suspicious of the act, but after that he had ignored her and she saw nothing but his back on the
short journey to the Sioux holy ground.

  Converting the travois into a funeral platform proved a simple operation for Waktaya. Even cold and ankle-deep in snow, she worked adroitly and completed the task swiftly. Fixing the legs securely into the ground was the most difficult part of the job, but the small shovel Jim carried behind his saddle for rescuing trapped beeves came in handy for hole-digging, too. The finished structure wasn’t as high as many of the others, which did not please the girl, but which proved a boon when it came time to raise the body. They used ropes and the horses to hoist the body. It was an inelegant but effective procedure.

  ‘Come back to the cabin with me,’ Jim invited. ‘It will be warmer there and I’ll give you some food for the journey home.’

  He was surprised when she didn’t refuse.

  ‘I know a little bit about medicines,’ she said, keeping her eyes averted, talking as though her reason for staying with him was because she had a debt to repay. ‘Perhaps I can help your injured friend.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  They rode in silence, the girl to the left of Braddock and half a length behind. From time to time the cowboy twisted in the saddle to check that the Sioux girl was still with him. Since he had encountered her the overriding emotion she had displayed had been suspicion. Despite his assistance at the burial place and his efforts to protect her from the winter storm, he didn’t think he’d chipped away even a small portion of the hard shell that encased her emotions. He wouldn’t have been surprised if, wordlessly, she’d struck out on a different route, but every time he looked back she was there, her head covered and eyes lowered so that she seemed capable of seeing little more than the neck of her pony.

  Her thoughts, he figured would be centred on the grandfather who had predicted his own death with such accuracy, so he was loath to interrupt her melancholy. Further attempts at conversation could keep until they’d gained the refuge of the line cabin. If she would permit it, he would help her to prepare for the return journey to Pine Ridge, although currently he had no idea what form that assistance would take.

  At the back of his mind still lingered the notion of handing her over to the cavalry detail he’d encountered; they needed to be informed of the death of Grey Eagle to put an end to their patrol, but Waktaya’s earlier reaction to the idea of contact with soldiers was still fresh in his mind. Her fear of them was genuine, the result, perhaps, of being in a village that had been devastated by military action. He doubted if he would ever learn the truth of the matter but he was reluctant to put her into a situation that caused her distress; he was still in awe of the devotion that had brought her on such a journey.

  Later he concluded, when they’d had time to consider the ramifications of the eastbound journey, they would decide the best way to get her back to the reservation. He threw another glance behind. It seemed to him that he caught a slight movement of her head, as though she had averted her eyes, reluctant to let him know that she had been watching him.

  Progress down the snow-covered hillside was slow. More than once his iron-shod mount slipped, instilling caution in both rider and horse. It prompted thoughts about the accident earlier in the day and, briefly, guilt nudged Jim’s mind. Perhaps it had been a mistake to remain with the girl; his first duty was to the man who paid for his labour, but he’d done what seemed right at the time. Besides, Hec Ridgeway wanted his son to learn the rougher side of ranching and that wouldn’t be achieved by holding his hand every step of the way. Dean had to learn that sometimes a man had to find his own answers to the problems that arose.

  If Jim had remained at the cabin he could not have done more for Harvey Goode than he’d instructed Dean Ridgeway to do. It was simply a matter of keeping him alive until the Red Hammer outfit sent someone to evacuate the injured man back to the ranch. Jim’s thoughts strayed to Zeb Walters and the progress of his mercy dash. Had he outrun the snow and reached the ranch, and was a crew already on its way to reach their injured comrade? Or had caution dictated their response and delayed their departure until the morning’s new light?

  A sudden unexpected sound interrupted his meditation. It was distant and distorted, muffled by the layer of snow, which was killing sounds that usually echoed in the air as they bounced off hard rock surfaces. It carried to Jim as little more than a pop, almost playful in its tone and abruptness, but he knew it had been a gunshot. More important, it had come from the direction of the line cabin, which was little more than a quarter of a mile ahead. He turned in the saddle to look at the girl.

  It was clear that Waktaya, too, had heard and recognized the sound. She had stopped her pony and pushed the blanket away from her head as though anxious not to miss any subsequent noises that might be relevant to her own safety.

  ‘It came from the direction of the cabin,’ Jim told her calmly. ‘It must be my partner. Perhaps there are wolves prowling around.’ He had no idea what Dean could be shooting at but, to ease any anxiety that might be growing within the girl, he’d felt a need to offer a possible explanation. In fact, his speculation wasn’t groundless; it was quite possible that hungry wolves had caught the scent of the cattle they’d herded up from the creek.

  It was the likelihood of Dean Ridgeway in the role of protector that Jim had difficulty accepting. Never before had he shown himself capable of handling two tasks simultaneously and, having already been given the job of tending to the needs of Harvey Goode, it was unlikely that he would stray beyond the confines of the cabin. Jim shrugged; he would learn the reason for the gunshot when he got there. They moved on, slowly, Jim casting glances all around as he rode.

  Their angle of approach brought them to a point above the rear eastern corner of the cabin. Smoke was rising in a peaceful curl from the stovepipe, which made Jim anticipate the hot coffee waiting within, but for a moment he paused, casting an eye over the small bunch of beeves that were milling around in the corral below. He couldn’t detect any undue distress, no sign that they’d been disturbed by a predator. He gathered up the reins and prepared to guide his mount down to the crude timber building.

  Unnoticed, Waktaya had pushed her pony alongside Jim’s horse and now, silently, she reached out her right hand and rested it on the cowboy’s left forearm. It was a gentle touch, virtually weightless but powerful enough to dissuade him from urging his horse forward. He turned to the girl, curious at her intervention, then transfixed by the almost mystical expression on her face. Her countenance showed none of those signs that inform the watcher of pleasure or pain; no smiles, no frowns. Across her facial bones her soft skin was taut but lustrous and unaffected by the icy chill. It was the very stillness of her features that transmitted the message that required attention. Her large, black eyes seemed to be gazing into another world, a place in which it was unsafe to travel without a friendly guide.

  Jim Braddock wanted to question her, wanted her to tell him what she knew, but at that moment was wary of using words, afraid that talk would destroy her concentration and disperse the information she had already acquired. Although, to Jim, the lapse of time seemed almost endless, it was, in fact, a mere moment until Waktaya pointed to a place at the foot of the bank that was twenty yards from the front of the cabin.

  Jim could see a snow-covered mound with an object that resembled a grey blanket tossed on top.

  ‘What is it?’ he wondered. ‘Let’s take a look.’

  Waktaya, whose hand still rested on Jim’s arm, pressed harder, a warning of danger although she couldn’t specify its nature.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, but before moving forward he surveyed the area again. There were three little buildings at the far side of the cabin: a privy, a work shed where they kept tools, wire and an assortment of implements necessary when isolated from the main ranch, and the small shelter that was used as a stable. Jim could see Dean Ridgeway’s horse moving around inside and felt a tug of irritation that the young man hadn’t fully closed the door to keep the animal warm. He figured that Dean’s excuse would be that he’d bee
n preoccupied with his patient and that care of his horse had slipped his mind. That was the kind of sloppy attitude Hec expected Jim to knock out of his son but, like shooting at wolves while caring for a sick man, handling two tasks at once again seemed to be beyond Dean’s capabilities.

  ‘There are horses,’ Waktaya said as the high whinny of an unseen, disgruntled animal carried to them from the other side of the cabin.

  Briefly, the thought occurred to Jim that Red Hammer had reacted more quickly than expected, but he soon dismissed that thought. Logic told him that a response in such a short space of time was impossible. The more likely caller was a Broken Arrow rider with a message from the boss. Such a visitor would have pleased Dean; he would have someone else to share the responsibility.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s see who has come a-calling.’

  If Jim Braddock was relieved by the thought that Dean Ridgeway had not been alone for the past few hours it was an emotion not shared by the Sioux girl. Although she released her hold on Jim’s arm as though granting permission for him to go forward, her words kept him beside her on the bank.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ was all she said and she stretched out her arm again towards the snow-covered mound as though it held an explanation for all things.

  The deep snow killed the sound of the horses as they walked down the incline, the riders swaying slightly with the exaggerated movement caused by the slow pace of the animals. By the time they reached the bottom of the slope they could see that there were four horses tethered to the hitching pole at the front of the line cabin. Jim’s brow furrowed; he recognized none of the horses and none of them carried the brand mark of the Broken Arrow. The identities of his visitors were a mystery that added extra weight to Waktaya’s warning of something being wrong.

  They followed the line of the bank, a route which would bring them to the front of the cabin and close to the place where the grey mound bulged strangely in the flat whiteness. As they rode Jim’s attention alternated between scrutinizing the mound and watching for activity within the cabin. He could see a timid light glowing beyond the cabin’s small window but, for the moment, it appeared that their arrival had passed unnoticed by those within. The further they descended, however, the more his interest was captured by the shape at the foot of the incline. The material he could see was unexpectedly familiar. The moment that he recognized Dean Ridgeway’s clothing coincided with the perception that the form he was observing had arms and legs, that it was a man face down in the snow, not a discarded blanket.