Free Savage Cry by Charles G. West Page B

downhill.
    Turning back to Clay, he said, “Come on. You can pull your saddle off and throw it in my lodge. Then you can turn your horse out with the pony herd to graze.” When he saw the young man arch an eyebrow in response, he chided, “Afraid somebody’ll steal him? All Injuns are horse thieves, but they don’t steal horses from their own people. Ain’t nobody gonna steal your horse.”
    Clay didn’t say anything for a few moments while he looked around him at the circle of lodges. “How come those horses are hobbled by the lodges instead of running loose with the others?”
    “It ain’t unusual for a man to keep his favorite war pony hobbled by his lodge, in case he might need him in a hurry,” Badger answered patiently. “But there ain’t much danger of gittin’ attacked here at Laramie. Some warriors just do it, anyway—habit, I reckon. Hell, my horses are running with the rest of ’em.”
    In spite of Badger’s assurance, Clay was reluctant to turn Red loose in the company of several hundred Indian ponies. The old scout appeared to be a straight-talking person, but Clay still harbored some inbornsense of suspicion. He had heard some stories of the tricks and treachery of some Indians, so he cautioned himself to be wary. Granted, the stories he had heard were second- and thirdhand. Still, it might not be wise to discount them entirely. How could he be sure Badger was not the biggest scoundrel of all? Clay decided he would never relax his guard that night, and he stood watching the big chestnut for several long minutes before finally turning away to return to Badger’s tipi. Reluctant or not, he was forced to trust the crusty old mountain man, for without his help he had no chance of finding Martha. Red, on the other hand, did not share his master’s cautious intuition, and was soon grazing happily in the midst of a sea of horses. Clay watched for a moment longer before drawing his rifle from the boot and throwing his saddle on his shoulder. The shiny new rifle did not escape Badger’s eye.
    “I swear, that’s one of them new Winchesters, ain’t it?”
    “Yep,” Clay replied and handed the weapon to the old scout.
    Badger took it eagerly and examined it closely, bringing it to his shoulder and down again several times, sighting on various targets around the encampment. “I heard about it, but I ain’t ever seen one. That’s some rifle. Is it as accurate as it is pretty?”
    “I can hit most anything I aim at,” Clay replied modestly, causing Badger to cock an eyebrow.
    “I hope so,” the old mountain man stated evenly as he returned the weapon.
    Supper that night consisted of some more boiled meat, placed before him in the same bowl he had used that afternoon. In addition, Badger’s wife put meat cakes of some kind between Clay and her husband. Badger picked one up and began gnawing on it, indicating to Clay that he should do the same. Clay hadlearned not to be particular about what he ate when he was in the army, but he hesitated before taking a bite of these cakes, picking one up and turning it over and back, to examine it.
    Badger seemed amused by his tenderfoot guest’s cautious antics. “It’s pemmican,” he volunteered. “It’s good. Take a bite.”
    Clay smiled, embarrassed that his caution had been that transparent. “What is it?” he asked.
    “Pemmican,” Badger repeated in a tone that indicated he thought even a greenhorn from back East should be familiar with the term. “This here’s dried buffalo Gray Bird pounded up with some fat and marrow and wild cherries to give it a little flavoring. We won’t have no more fresh meat till we get a chance to do some hunting tomorrow or the next day.”
    Satisfied then that he knew the ingredients, Clay bit off a piece of pemmican. To his surprise, it proved to be quite appetizing. He slowly chewed it, then bit off a larger chunk. Nodding his approval, he looked up at Gray Bird, who was watching him intently. She smiled