THE NIGHT OF THE MISSING CHILDREN
By Andamogirl
Author's note: season 3.
References to my stories The Night of the Comanche Moon and The Night of the Deadly Showboat.
Reference to The Night of the Freebooters, The Night of the Golden Cobra, The Night of the Big Blast, The Night of the Man-Eating House, The Night of the Lord of Limbo, The Night of the Colonel's Ghost, The Night of the Bogus Bandits The Night of the Bubbling Death & The Night of the Firebrand.
President Grant: Don't shoot, boys. The country's got problems but this isn't the way to solve them.
TNOT Arrow.
Warning: cuddling & snuggling & kissing and some nudity.
Many thanks to my beta reader Tripidydoodah.
WWW
TEASER
Wyoming Territory
It was bitterly cold.
Chilled to the bones, Artemus Gordon pulled the collar of his thick warm coat up tight and kicked the flanks of his horse, setting Lockpick in motion.
He was leaving the small town of Ranchester when the snow began to fall, dense in the frosty chill of the wind battering his face which was already red raw from the freezing temperatures. He regretted having forgotten his scarf, as he could have used it to protect his mouth and nose.
He sighed heavily with lack of enthusiasm, his breath misting instantly in the frigid air.
It was going to be a long way to the Crow Indian reservation – which he would reach in two days minimum or three days maximum, depending on the weather (whether it would improve or worsen) and unforeseen obstacles like fallen trees on the way, frozen and therefore very dangerous rivers to cross, bridges in bad condition, ready to collapse, not to mention hungry wolves, hungry mountain lions too because buffalos and Elks were rare now... and he hated long rides ending inevitably with saddle sores and back pains, he mused.
He touched his bearded face white with snowflakes and scratched his chin – it itched - regretting again having forgotten his portable shaving kit which was in his sleeping compartment. But he remembered how President Grant had wanted him on the way as fast as possible, because the situation was very serious, urgent, and he had complied.
He alone – not Jim and him. Of course Jim wasn't happy to stay behind, but he knew that he had more experience with Indians, knew how to deal with them. He was an adopted Comanche after all. President Grant knew that too and counted on it, he added in his mind.
He had left the Wanderer in quite in a hurry… before he could shave the (real) beard already existing on his cheeks that he'd let grow the previous three weeks when he was on leave at his mother's home, in Green Hill, too lazy to get rid of it. He had done nothing for almost a month, recovering from an utter (and almost deadly) exhaustion, spending his time in his bed, cat-napping, dozing, sleeping deeply, and in between reading and drawing and eating his mom's delicious cuisine. His mother, he remembered with shame, had to force him to leave his bed once in a week to go take a bath – but he had not shaved, it required too much energy… Energy he had barely had, he reflected.
He had said goodbye to Jim and left the comfort of the Wanderer one week ago in Denver where the train had been stuck in the railroad yard for repairs. He was now riding toward Crow Agency, located in the western reaches of the Yellowstone River Valley, north of the Absaroka Range of Mountains, in the Montana Territory.
Snow covering both he and his horse – his hands and feet turning into ice blocks – Artie continued his musing: three weeks ago twenty-one Crow children had been kidnapped from the reservation in the middle of the night and had vanished without leaving any traces apart from those left by the kidnappersin the form of shod horse hoofprints. This had led the tribe to conclude that the kidnappers were white men. His mission was, One, to find out what had happened to the children, Two, to find them, and Three to bring them back to the reservation along with the group of Crow warriors who had followed the traces let by the kidnappers,. They had done so with the blessing of Black Bear the leader of the Crow band of Otter Creek whose settlement was west of the Powder River Basin, into the western portions of the Yellowstone Valley, Montana Territory., They had not, however, obtained federal authorization from the US Bureau of Indian Affairs. That group of Crow (Apsáalooke - "children of the large-beaked bird" - in their own language) warriors had entered the Big Horn Mountains called Iisiaxpuatachee Isawaxaawuua in Crow language, outside the reservation and had scared the people living there. A few Indians had been killed as well as a few fur trappers and buffalo hunters defending the settlers. Patrols from the US Army posts placed along the boundaries with the other territories and Canada had searched for the children everywhere but hadn't found anything. People living in the area had quickly formed small groups to locate and kill the AWOL Indians they considered as intruders and enemies. Soldiers of the U.S. Army post of Fort Brennan close to the reservation limits tried to find them too. In order to accomplish his assignment Artie needed to talk to Black Bear as soon as possible. He had to persuade him to recall his braves and stop the bloodshed. If Black Crow refused, Grant had authorized him to promise the Crow leader something that would persuade the old warrior to change his mind. The President was determined to do everything possible for his 'peace policy' with the Indians to hold.
President Grant had sent him to investigate and meet Black Bear in the Crow reservation, because Artie knew him personally. He had met Black Bear five years earlier during a peace treaty between he and his warriors and the Lakota war chief Little Fox and his warriors at Fort Laramie. It was one of his first missions as an agent of the Treasury Department – under Grant's direct orders. Grant had asked him to escort Colonel Samuel D. Sturgis commander of the 7th Cavalry to that peace treaty, to protect him and to be his eyes there. He wanted to be informed of everything as soon as possible. The President had indeed started an Indian peace policy initially to reduce frontier violence.
Artemus interrupted his thoughts, blinking flecks of ice from his eyes and kicked Lockpick into gallop and the gelding complied, galloping along the icy snow covered path.
He resumed his musing: one night, while Sturgis and his officers had dinner in the mess in complete safely, he had left the fort to go to the Crow's campsite. He knew that the Crow were generally friendly with the settlers, and he hoped to meet Black Bear, to speak with him. Everything related to Indians fascinated him, their language, their traditions, their religion... Black Bear had welcomed him under his tepee and they had talked about everything Crow-related till dawn and the war chief of the Crow had become his friend.
He interrupted his thoughts again feeling his face sting, burnt by the cold.
He noticed that the snow had almost stopped. There were only a few stray flakes dusting the all-over-white freezing nature around him. The temperature had dropped drastically and the biting cold wind had picked up, blowing layers of accumulated snow all around.
He let out a curse as he realized with deep worry that the snowstorm was transforming itself into an ice-cold blizzard and realized too with dread that he could get lost at the foot of Big Horn Mountains, in the Big Horn forest in sub-zero temperatures.
Lost!
He forced down the panic that threatened to rise within him. Many people died lost in blizzards, he thought, "Artie, you need to find a shelter and to get warmed up soon or else you'll freeze to death."
He looked around him, squinting.
He thought about his partner – sitting in the warm and comfy parlor car of the Wanderer in Denver, waiting for his return, home. "Lucky you, I'd like to be at your side Jim, petting my cat, holding a steaming cup of coffee in the other hand - and not traveling in this icy wilderness", he said. His teeth chattering he whispered, "If I come back alive…" he halted his horse and unclasped his frozen-stiff fingers from the reins to flex them. He had lost feeling in them, in spite of his gloves.
His toes had gone numb too. His bones felt heavy and he was very tired and his breathing had started to slow down.
He was bordering on mild hypothermia, he thought distractedly.
He slapped his face, hard, several times. "Stay awake!" then he shook his hands, trying to get the blood flowing in them again. He shaded his eyes against the snow, but the blizzard was so thick that he couldn't see further than the top of his horse's head. He could hear the trees creak, their shadows swaying, shaken by the strong wind and clusters of accumulated snow fell to the ground with loud noises.
He reached forward and patted the chestnut's neck. "Find us a shelter, Lockpick."
Lockpick who had a better view headed forward. Artemus let him go. His horse was very intelligent and like him wanted to be sheltered from the snow & blizzard.
The horse trotted for a couple of minutes toward a gray mound and stopped in front of a crevice, formed between two large rocks forming an arch and topped with lodge pines piled with snow and covered with frozen icicles hanging from the branches.
Grinning Artie tapped Lockpick's neck. "That's a good boy!" he said, his teeth chattering in the blizzard as the chill pierced his face like needles.
Artemus grimaced. His body felt cold as ice and he was sure that his skin was turning blue and his energy was fading by the second.
He dismounted in slow motion, his whole body trembling, and he headed there as the light of the day was dimming rapidly.
It was the middle of the afternoon and it was almost dark. The snow crunched beneath his feet; before they sank into it as it was so deep that it was reaching just past his knees. Taking the reins, he headed to the small place first, gun in hand. It could be the den of a wild animal, a bear, a mountain lion or a lone wolf.
But fortunately it was empty.
Relieved, Artemus led Lockpick toward the opening.
Luckily there was just enough room for him and his horse, he reflected.
The horse neighed feeling cramped and Artie nodded. "I know, it's not your warm and comfy stable and I miss the Wanderer too, big boy." Once he was sheltered from the raging blizzard he shook off the snow from his clothes and used his hand to brush it from his horse. Then he sat on the icy ground, leaning against the icy rock wall, his entire body shivering in violent spasms. "We're going to stay here till tomorrow morning, Lockpick, waiting out the rest of the storm," he said to his beloved horse.
The gelding lowered his head and Artie stroked his horse's forehead where a white mark formed the shape of a lock pick.
Lockpick nuzzled Artie's hand with affection. "That's a good boy."
He pulled the collar of his coat up tight again. The coming night promised to be cold. Fortunately Lockpick would keep him a little warm in that small place, he thought.
His teeth chattering, he pulled his knees up against his chest to keep warm but couldn't stop the shivers making his whole body tremble in an attempt to generate heat.
He looked outside between the legs of his horse. Snowflakes were swirling madly in the wind and the wind was howling. The blizzard was reaching its full force. "You saved us both by finding this place, Lockpick," he said, feeling the wetness from his clothes on every inch of his cold skin. He grimaced, not sure that he had any blood left in his extremities.
It was almost dark outside now, he noticed.
Beginning to feel a little less cold thanks to Lockpick's body heat, the howling wind acting like a lullaby, he moved on his side and curled up in a ball.
He closed his eyes and, very tired, he was deeply asleep a split second later… forgetting the snow tempest which continued to freeze the outside world to a standstill.
WWW
The next morning
Artemus Gordon woke up at dawn, stiff and cold and disoriented.
He shook the cobwebs from his brain and was welcomed by his horse nuzzling his hair. "Hiya Lockpick," he said, smiling, rubbing the gelding's big velvet muzzle.
The horse huffed in pleasure.
He stood, wincing, his aching joints creaking. "Oh boy! That's why I don't like humidity and cold – at all. I have pain in all my joints… ow! And I'm not getting any younger either." He sneezed twice and shivered. "And I am going to catch a cold… just great!" Yawning, he rested his head against Lockpick's long, flat, forehead. "It's time to leave my boy; we still have got a long way to go – unfortunately."
The horse nodded before moving back.
Once outside, Artie was relieved to find out that the snow was falling lightly and the blizzard died down. The orange sky was cloud-less and it was freezing.
Frozen and sore Artie was leading his horse away from the edge of the forest when the snow finally stopped, and a pale sun appeared through loud grayish clouds.
Suddenly Lockpick's ears pricked up and swiveled warily, then fidgeted fretfully.
He nickered in alarm.
His sixth sense ringing 'danger! Danger!' bells Artie was instantly on full alert. He asked, "What is it boy?" then he immediately thought: 'Wolf or mountain lion' and his back stiffened.
A few seconds later there was a low growl and the gelding moved prudently to the side.
Then a massive mountain lion appeared on top of a big flat rock. It cocked its head at him, and began prowling forward, snarling.
Frowning in alarm, Artie immediately lowered his hand toward his revolver but the intense cold was making everything slower.
He wasn't rapid enough. He didn't have time to be afraid . The mountain lion jumped him before he could un-holster it.
Lockpick squealed in fright and recoiled violently.
Man and feline crashed to the hard iced snow-covered ground a couple of seconds later.
Landing heavily on his back, Artemus rolled back in a reflex to avoid his horse's stamping hooves. Then his vision blurred and everything went black for a few seconds.
Unconscious, he didn't see a golden eagle leave the top of a lodge pine, starting to make circles in the crisp air above him, rising in the air.
Lockpick reared and frightened, he fled, following his instinct, galloping away from the predator before it could maul him.
Letting the horse flee, the mountain lion circled Artie, lying motionless on the thick blanket of snow, hungrily eying the human who had entered his territory.
Slowly, Artemus regained consciousness and tried to blink the black spots out of his vision. Hearing a growl, he remembered what had happened – in a split second.
"Oh God…" he breathed, feeling a spike of fear hit his pounding heart.
Before Artemus could reach his gun, the big feline was on top of him, pinning him, its front paws crushing his chest and the claws of its hind legs digging into his thigs. He cried out in both pain and fear when the mountain lion's sharp claws sliced his arms and hands as he tried to push the animal back. Soon his sleeves and gloves were shredded and bloodied.
Then the powerfully-built beast bit its prey's neck, sinking his sharp teeth into Artemus's flesh, inflicting puncture marks on his shoulders, through his thick, heavy coat. Artemus screamed as he could feel the warm liquid running down his neck. When the wild animal belabored his chest with its claws, he arched and screamed again, louder and with more pain in his voice – still doing what he could to fight the mountain lion. But he was losing his strength rapidly, growing weak, affected by the pain and the shock and the blood loss.
Somehow Artemus managed to punch the big feral cat in its nose and the beast moved back in one jump with a loud mewl of displeasure and began again to circle its prey – growling menacingly, showing its sharp teeth dripping with blood – licking them.
Artie's lungs burned as he gasped for frigid air. He curled in on himself, trying to protect himself the best he could, biting on his lip hard enough to draw blood as the excruciating pain was sending stabs of white-hot agony up and down his upper body.
It was an instinctive reaction – and a futile one.
His head swimming, Artie shut his eyes, knowing that he won't re-open them , at least not here, in this world, he thought.
He was going to die, he mused, calm and resigned to his fate. He would be dead soon. He didn't fear death – death was part of his life for a long time now, since he had enrolled in the Union Army. He had accepted that one day he'd die brutally.
But what was upsetting him was the way he would die. Being eaten alive – devoured - by a wild beast wasn't of course part of his top ten list of favorite ways to die instantly and painlessly. His number one being a bullet in his heart. Number two, in his head.
Both quick and painless.
Being stabbed in the heart came in third position. It would be quick and painless too.
He drifted off, slipping away, his body chilled to his core, numb, weakening even more.
He distantly hoped someone would find his body and bury what would be left of him after the mountain lion has feasted on its flesh and bones.
His body felt heavy, like he was slowly turning to a block of ice.
His mind was clouding. His last thought was, 'Sorry Jim, you're gonna need a new partner'. He went limp, as his vision whited out and his eyes closed.
The mountain lion growled, showing fangs, its muscles coiled to spring.
Tbc.