“How much are you asking?” Bret replied as he examined the paint’s mouth.
“Oh, I’d have to get fifty dollars for a horse as stout as this one.”
“I’ll be paying cash money,” Bret told him as he continued to look the horse over. “He’s closer to six than he is three years old, and I’ll have to ride him before I make up my mind.” He climbed into the saddle, not waiting for Ned’s reply, and gave the paint a little kick with his heels. The horse reacted immediately and they were off at a jump. Ned stood, helplessly watching his property gallop out the end of the street to vanish around a curve in the road.
Bret liked the horse immediately. It was quick with good wind, and responded to commands given with a light touch. He rode the horse for a couple of miles, before stopping to give it a closer inspection. His mind made up then, he climbed aboard and returned to town, approaching the stable and an anxious stable owner at a comfortable lope. “Whaddaya think?” Ned asked when Bret looped the reins over a rail of the corral.
“I need a packhorse, too,” Bret replied, “that one.” He pointed to a sorrel standing in the middle of the corral watching them.
“You got a good eye, mister,” Ned said. “You picked out my two best horses right off, and since you’re buyin’ two, I’ll let you have both of ’em for a hundred dollars.”
Bret wasn’t sure if that was a good price or not. He hadn’t been in the market for one for some time, but they seemed worth it to him. “All right,” he said. “I’ll give you one hundred, but you’ll throw in the saddle and a pack rig for the other horse.” He pulled out a roll of bills and started to count it out.
“I don’t know about that,” Ned said, scratching his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “That’s a mighty fine saddle. . . .” He stopped when Bret folded the money back and replaced it in his pocket, then was quick to accept. “All right, I’ll do it. Mister, you drive a hard bargain.”
Bret’s next stop was the small building next to the saloon that proclaimed itself to be a gun shop and hardware store. Since he could afford it, he was immediately attracted to the Winchester ’73 displayed prominently in the shopkeeper’s window, and he told himself that he was going to need a good rifle. He was soon on his way with the rifle in his possession, along with an ammunition belt and a good supply of .44 cartridges. He was certain he would need them for what he had planned to do, a decision made during the sleepless portion of the night just passed. With that thought in mind, he went from the gun shop to the general store to outfit himself with supplies and cooking utensils for a long trip. When all his purchases were completed, he left the little town of Bozeman and turned the paint in the direction of the Gallatin River. Since most of his day had been spent preparing himself for his existence after his brief career with the military, he traveled for only about fifteen miles before making camp for the night.
Starting out early the next morning, he rode up the eastern side of the Gallatin River until reaching the stream that rushed out of the mountains and emptied into the river between the two huge boulders—the stream Sergeant Duncan had called Coldiron Creek. He followed it up the mountain, half expecting the big scout to suddenly appear to challenge him. But there was no sign of the bearlike man. And when he made his way up the narrow passage to the cabin, there was still no sign of Coldiron. At first, he thought he might have made a useless trip in hopes of finding the scout, but he immediately changed his mind. Coldiron’s sign was not propped against the door of the cabin, and when he looked around back, he saw one of his horses in the small corral adjoining the cabin. So he figured Coldiron was somewhere close about, and would be returning soon enough. With that in mind, he unsaddled his horse and unloaded the packhorse. That done, he decided to make himself at home while he waited.
After building a fire in the ashes of many earlier fires, he took his brand-new coffeepot to the stream and filled it with the cold mountain water, then put it near the flames. When it got hot, he dumped his coffee in and watched it until it started to boil. When he deemed it ready to move back a little from the flames, he poured himself a cup of the steaming black liquid and sat down to enjoy it. He had begun to get a little drowsy in the warm glow of the campfire when he was suddenly jolted awake by a booming voice.
“Mister, you’ve got a helluva lot of gall, parkin’ yourself in my cabin,” Coldiron charged. “I don’t recollect sendin’ out no invitations.”
“I figured it didn’t matter since the sign wasn’t up,” Bret replied.
“Bret?” Coldiron questioned, recognizing the voice. “Is that you?”
“Reckon so,” Bret replied. “I see you’re as hospitable as ever.”
“Well, I’ll be . . . ,” the big man stammered. “What the hell are you doin’ here? They kick you outta the army?”
“As a matter of fact,” Bret replied.
Thinking he had been japing his young friend, Coldiron realized then that Bret was serious in his reply. He then noticed the missing symbols of rank on his shoulders, and immediately felt embarrassed. “I swear, I didn’t mean . . . ,” he started. “I mean, what the hell did you do?”
“Pour yourself a cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you the story,” Bret said. He then proceeded to relate his reception at Fort Ellis, his time in the guardhouse, and his subsequent trial by three of his fellow officers. Coldiron was left shaking his head in amazement when Bret had finished.
“Well, hell,” he said. “We can fix that up right quick. I’ll just ride on back to Fort Ellis with you and tell them officers the straight of it.”
A tired smile spread on Bret’s face. “I appreciate it, but I’m afraid that won’t work. They painted you with the same brush. Those two privates testified that you and I both ran off when we were attacked, and left them to fight the Indians alone.”
“Ha!” Coldiron blurted. “That’ll be the day.” He quickly returned the focus to Bret. “It don’t matter a helluva lot to me what they think I did. You’re the one just gettin’ started on your military career. They’ve ruined your life. Mine’s pretty near over.”
“It’s over and done with,” Bret insisted. “Maybe it’s somebody’s way of telling me the army’s not the life for me.”
“Well, those low-down, dirty skunks,” Coldiron said, thinking again of McCoy and Weaver. “They ain’t worth the powder it’d take to blow ’em to hell. Whaddaya aim to do about it?”
“There’s not much I can do about it,” Bret said. “They know how I feel about it, though.” He held his hands out to show Coldiron his bruised and scraped knuckles. “I reckon that was about it.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Coldiron swore. “If that don’t beat all. They kicked you outta the army on the word of those two.” He still had difficulty believing it. Then remembering, he asked, “Where’d you get the horses?”
“With some money I had saved up. I had to buy everything I needed. The army took everything.”
Coldiron shook his head again. “When I came down the mountain, I thought I was gonna have to throw somebody outta my house. I saw that paint and the sorrel in my corral, and I knew they didn’t belong to anybody I knew. So what are you aimin’ to do now?”
“That’s the reason I came looking for you,” Bret said. “I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do with the rest of my life. And since I don’t, I’m heading back up on the Musselshell to see if I can find those women we started out after. I feel kinda responsible for quitting on them when we weren’t that far behind.” He looked at Coldiron and shrugged. “That’s what I’m gonna do. I just came looking for you to see if you wanted to go back with me. Whatever the army paid you, I’d be willing to pay—at least till the money gives out.” He paused to wait for an answer, but the big scout just seemed to be gnawing on his lower lip as he gave it some thought. “Of course, I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if you weren’t interested,” Bret went on. “I expect you’ve got your own lif
e to live.”
Coldiron still did not reply, his broad, bushy face knotted in deep concentration as he processed the proposition. Finally he spoke. “You’re wantin’ me to go ridin’ off up in Blackfoot country again—just after we got back with our scalps still on? Without no detachment of cavalry soldiers—just the two of us? Without a chance in hell of ever findin’ those ladies?” He shook his head as if flabbergasted by such a proposal, then replied, “Why, hell yeah, I’ll go!”
• • •
It didn’t take long for Coldiron to get ready to leave again. He was always in a state of leaving on a moment’s notice. Bret suspected that the abandonment of Myra Buckley and Lucy Gentry had weighed a bit heavy on the big man’s conscience, even though he gave the impression that he didn’t have one. Evidence of that was apparent when he declined payment for his services.
“If you’ll pay for the supplies and cartridges we’ll need, that’ll be payment enough. Hell, I wasn’t gonna do nothin’, anyway, but do a little huntin’ before winter set in good.”
“All right, then,” Bret said. He’d had a feeling that he could count on Coldiron all along. “We’ll start back north in the morning.”
With that settled, they turned their attention to the coffeepot again. “Looks like you got yourself all fixed up to go huntin’ Blackfeet,” Coldiron remarked. “Lemme see that fancy new rifle you got there.”
Bret pulled the Winchester from the saddle scabbard and handed the weapon to him. Coldiron looked it over closely.
“That’s the model ’seventy-three, ain’t it?”
Bret nodded. Coldiron brought it to his shoulder and aimed it several times, brought it down, then repeated the motion again.
“It’s got good balance to it. I like that furniture under the barrel,” he said, referring to the wood forearm. “The barrel on my Henry gets pretty hot to hold if you do a lotta shootin’.” He handed the rifle back to Bret. “Can you hit anything with it?”
“To be honest with you, I don’t know,” Bret confessed. “I’ve only fired it a few times, and that was just to get an idea how it shoots. And a tree doesn’t move around much while you’re trying to hit it.”
“You’ll be all right with it once you get used to it,” Coldiron predicted. “I’ve seen you in a tight spot with that army-issue Spencer you had.”
He had seen enough evidence of Bret’s natural instincts to recognize the young man’s efficiency with a weapon when it counted. There was none of the tendency to lose precious moments to take deliberate aim before pulling the trigger. For most accomplished marksmen, the weapon became an extension of the shooter’s mind, sending the bullet where his eyes were looking without thinking about whether or not the rifle was aimed properly. It would be the same with the Winchester as it had been with the Spencer.
“That looks like an Injun pony you got there, too. Which one are you ridin’, the paint or the sorrel?”
“The paint,” Bret replied. “He was an Indian pony, I reckon. He’s not wearing shoes, and his feet are nice and hard, with no evidence he ever has worn shoes.”
“That ain’t a bad idea where we’re headin’,” Coldiron said. “How ’bout the sorrel?”
Bret shrugged. “Shod.”
“So’s my packhorse,” Coldiron said with a chuckle. “That’ll give anybody trackin’ us somethin’ to think about, I reckon.”
They passed the evening quietly talking about what their odds were for a successful mission. Common sense told them that they were playing a long shot, but Bret couldn’t think of anything of more importance in his life at the present time. As for Coldiron, if the truth be told, he was reaching a stage in his life when calls for his services came much less frequently, and he was happy to be needed. There were a great deal more silver threads in the long ponytail hanging down his back, but he was not yet close to the time to crawl off someplace and die. On the other hand, if he was closer to that time than he thought, this task they were about to set out on was as good a cause as any to cash in his chips. Besides, he had decided that he liked young Bret Hollister.
• • •
Starting out early the next morning, they were already on the move when the sun found its way through the spruce trees behind them on the mountain. Being an optimistic sort, Coldiron packed a couple of extra saddle blankets to be used to make beds for the women. He also packed his bow. Bret had purchased some basic supplies, but they figured to rely heavily on wild game for their food. Before they left the log hut on the mountainside, Bret had to remind his big partner that he had not propped up his sign to trespassers.
“Thanks for tellin’ me,” he said. “I plumb forgot about it.” That was only partially true. He had let himself forget because of a gnawing feeling that he wasn’t coming back to his cabin.
When they left the Gallatin River, they cut across the foothills north of the mountains and retraced their recent journey up the valley. After three full days of travel, they reached the Musselshell River once again, and scouted the banks to see if the tracks were still there. They soon recognized the spot where the Blackfeet had crossed the river, and split up on the other side. But they had no clue which direction they should go. The tracks, more than a week old now, still told no story beyond the fact that they had to choose which party to follow. They made their decision by flipping a silver coin. It landed heads up and consequently sent them to the west, following the Musselshell. Tracking was out of the question, since they soon found themselves on a well-used trail, and the tracks they sought were mixed in with those of many others, going in both directions.
“I reckon we’ll just have to get lucky,” Coldiron remarked.
Later in the afternoon, they came upon another trail that joined the river trail they were on. Then more trails were joined, telling the trackers that they must be getting close to a sizable village, and from the looks of the many trails, one that had been there for some time.
“I got a kinda itchy nose that’s tellin’ me we’d best find us a place to keep outta sight till the sun goes down.”
With respect for the big man’s instincts, Bret didn’t argue, and they picked the first likely spot they came to, a horseshoe bend in the river with plenty of foliage on the banks and a grove of cottonwood trees in the closed end of the horseshoe. They watered the horses and led them back up out of the river to nibble on the sparse patches of grass between the serviceberry bushes and the trees. Satisfied that it’d be hard for anyone to come upon them, they settled down to wait out the daylight.
When the sun dropped below the mountains close by, they climbed into the saddle again, and proceeded to follow the common trail along the river. Darkness was not long in finding the river valley, but they continued on. According to Bret’s gold pocket watch, it was eight thirty when they rounded a bend in the river and saw the rosy glow of campfires on the night sky.
“There she is,” Coldiron announced.
“Looks like it might be a good-sized village,” Bret remarked.
“Looks like,” Coldiron agreed. “Plenty of Injuns to go around. We won’t have to worry about runnin’ out of ’em.” Both men pulled their rifles and checked to make sure they were fully loaded before dropping them back in the saddle slings. A sudden shift in the evening breeze brought the sounds of singing and drums to them then.
“Sounds like they’re havin’ a dance,” Coldiron said. “I thought they were up kinda late, from the sight of all them fires. That oughta help us out a little. They’ll have that on their minds.”
Holding the horses to a fast walk, they approached close enough to see the individual fires that had combined to form the glow in the sky. They paused then to try to pick the best spot to get a look into the camp.
“North of it, I’d say,” Bret volunteered. “That way, we’d have those hills behind us, in case we have to get outta there quick.” Coldiron agreed, so they turned off the trail and rode
around a large horse herd to reach the first of a line of foothills before the Little Belt Mountains.
Approaching from the north side of the camp, they rode as close as they thought sensible, then tied the horses in a narrow ravine about two hundred yards from the camp. Then they went the rest of the way on foot until they reached a clump of laurel bushes that were near enough to the outer tipis to get a good look into the center of the camp. What they saw confirmed their earlier guess. A huge fire in the center of the lodges was being fed more wood as a ring of warriors danced and chanted a war song. It was the first such sight that Bret had ever seen.
“Does that mean they’re getting ready to go to war against somebody?” he asked.
“Maybe,” Coldiron replied, keeping his bull-like voice as low as he could manage, “but not always. Might not be a war dance. They might be thankin’ Man Above for somethin’.”
“You see any sign of the women?” Bret asked as he took his field glass out. Coldiron said that he did not. Bret put the glass to his eye and focused it on the women and children sitting outside the ring watching the dancers. Scanning carefully over every group he could see, he started to hand the glass to Coldiron and said, “Damned if I see anything that looks like a white woman.” As soon as he said it, he exclaimed, “Wait a minute!” Then he scanned back toward the outer circle of tipis. “There’s one of them!” He handed the glass to Coldiron then and said, “Look at those lodges on the left, on the outer ring. There’s a woman sitting beside one of them. It’s hard to tell in this light, but it looks like she’s wearing white women’s clothes.” It might be too much to hope for, finding the two women in the first village they came to.
Coldiron took the glass and brought it to focus on the woman. “You may be right, might be why she’s settin’ there by the tipi, instead of up there watchin’ the dance. It’d help if she’d raise her head, so I could see her face.”
“Somebody’s walking toward her,” Bret told him. “One of the men.”
Wrath of the Savage Page 8
