Savage Cry by Charles G. West Page B

required. No, she could not put her faith in her husband, nor his conniving brother for that matter. There was no one. Even if there were, how could they find her? They had traveled for four days to get to the Blackfoot village—she might as well be on the moon.
    Rising to her feet, she picked up her basket, and looked around her, searching for another patch of the edible roots. Moon Shadow called to her, and pointed toward an area close to her. Martha smiled and nodded, then went to work beside Moon Shadow. “Ground hard,” Moon Shadow offered in way of conversation.
    “Ground hard,” Martha repeated in agreement, using some of the few words she had learned. The thought of it amused her. What would her father think of his daughter if he could see her now? He would no doubt remind her that he had discouraged her from going west in the first place. Then her thoughts strayed to the cabin in the Black Hills. At the time, she had wondered what on earth they would eat when the last dried beans were consumed, and they were reduced to nothing but the wild meat Robert and Charley could kill. When all about them, the earth was filled with plants and roots of all kinds—camas, wild carrots, wild turnips, bitterroot, and others she did not know the names of. She had certainly come a long way from Virginia and the life she knew there. A word from Moon Shadow interrupted her thoughts.
    “Black Elk,” she uttered in a tone approaching reverence.
    Martha looked up and followed Moon Shadow’s gaze toward the ridge above them. He had stopped to watch his wife for a few moments, waiting for her to sense his presence. When she saw him, he signaled with one arm to call her attention to the antelope carcass draped across his horse. Moon Shadow beamed and waved to him, and he proceeded down the trail toward the village.
    “Good,” Moon Shadow said to Martha. “Black Elk has brought the antelope skin that I asked for. Now I will help you make a new dress to replace those rags you’re wearing.”
    Seeing that Martha was unable to follow all of her words, she repeated them while using sign to help, pointing to Martha’s worn and ragged clothes. Martha smiled and nodded her understanding. The two women picked up their baskets, and followed Black Elk down the trail to the village.
     
    Separated from the Blackfoot village by some two hundred miles of rugged mountain country, Robert Vinings sat with his back propped against a small boulder overlooking a rushing stream that cut the center of German Gulch. Breaking off a piece of the pan bread he had baked over the coals of the fire, he wiped it across his tin plate, then around the edges, neatly mopping up every last drop of bean gravy until the plate was almost dry. Watching him, smirking silently, a look of disgust on his face, Robert’s brother Charley suddenly threw the remains of his supper into the water, complaining, “When the hell are we gonna spend some of the dust we’ve got for some decent food?”
    Robert jerked his head back, recoiling in surprise.“What do you mean?” he asked. “What’s wrong with the food?”
    “It’s the same old shit day after day—beans and pan bread, beans and pan bread.”
    Robert was genuinely puzzled by his brother’s outburst. “What’s wrong with that? It’s nourishment.” When Charley only shook his head, the look of disgust deepening, Robert asked, “What do you want? We could take a day off, and go hunting if you want.”
    “Hell, I don’t wanna go huntin’.” He stood up and stared at the offending tin plate in his hand. The impulse to throw it in the stream was strong, but he knew he wouldn’t have anything to eat on if he did. So, instead, he reached down and gave it a halfhearted swish in the swiftly running water, then flung it back up the hill toward the tent, where it bounced noisily across the rocky ground. He cut his eyes at Robert, silently daring him to comment on his little fit of anger. I might just throw your