The Scalp Hunters by David Thompson Read Free Book Online

to nudge Wolf’s Tooth’s foot with his own. Only then did Plenty Elk see the ring of red around his friend’s head. He took another step—and saw pink flesh where there should be hair.
    Recoiling, Plenty Elk gripped the hilt of his knife. He had the blade halfway out when he was struck a terrible blow to the back of the head. Excruciating pain flooded through him. His senses swam, his legs grew weak, and his legs buckled. He came down hard on his knees. Struggling to stay conscious, he managed to draw his knife, only to have it kicked from his hand. Another blow, not quite as hard as the first, stretched him out on his side. Dimly, he was aware of being stripped of his weapons and having his legs tied at the knees and at the ankles. His hands, though, were left free. Why that should be mystified him until he was roughly rolled onto his back.
    It was the black man. He had a rifle in one hand, a tomahawk in the other. A smile without warmthcreased his cold features. Wedging the tomahawk under his belt, he leaned the rifle against a leg. Then his fingers flowed in fluid sign. ‘When brain work, Dog Eater, we sign talk.’
    Plenty Elk tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. He looked at Wolf’s Tooth, at the fate that soon awaited him, and felt great regret. He loved being alive. He did not want to die.
    The black stared at him, waiting.
    Plenty Elk wondered why he was still alive. Forcing his hands to move, he posed the question in sign.
    â€˜Big man want talk you.’
    By “big man,” Plenty Elk gathered that the black meant the man who spoke Arapaho. ‘Question. Why he talk me?’
    â€˜He ask where you sit. He ask how many you people. He ask how many warriors. How many women. How many children.’
    Fear filled Plenty Elk, not for himself but for his people. He resolved not to tell the scalp men where his village was or how many lived there, no matter what. ‘I no sign talk.’
    The black did a strange thing; he laughed. ‘You talk. Him make all people talk.’
    Plenty Elk didn’t like the sound of that. The scalp men tortured as well as scalped. Truly, he told himself, they were evil.
    Squatting, the black regarded him with amusement. ‘Question. You called?’
    Plenty Elk signed his name. ‘Question. You?’
    â€˜No sign talk my name. I speak name.’ The black touched his chest. “Rubicon,” he said slowly.
    â€œRubicon,” Plenty Elk repeated. ‘You first black man I see.’
    â€˜I last black man you see.’
    Plenty Elk sank his cheek to the grass and closed his eyes. The pain had lessened a little and he could think again. Unless he did something, quickly, he wouldn’t live to greet the next dawn. But other than try and grab Rubicon’s rifle, what could he do? He looked up at his captor. ‘Question. Why you take hair? Take hair bad.’
    Rubicon held his right hand out from his chest and curled his thumb and index finger to make a near-complete circle.
    It was the sign for money.
    Hope flared in Plenty Elk’s breast. ‘Question. You cut rope I give you my horse? You sell horse. Have money.’
    â€˜Your hair more money.’
    In the distance hooves drummed.
    Plenty Elk stiffened. It must be the rest of the scalp hunters. He started to lower his hands to the rope around his legs. Without warning Rubicon sprang and swung the stock of his rifle in a tight arc. Plenty Elk nearly cried out. His ribs felt as if they had caved in.
    â€œDon’t get no ideas, redskin.”
    Plenty Elk understood the warning tone if not the words. He gazed through the trees to the west, seeking sign of his impending doom. They would torture him and kill him and lift his hair, and there wasn’t a thing he could do. In his frustration and helplessness, he raised a loud lament to the sky.
    Rubicon rose. Smirking, he cradled his rifle. “Listen to you howl. That’s your death chant, ain’t