Vengeance Moon

by Charles G. West

  “Don’t pay it no mind,” Zeb replied, his attempt to disguise his discomfort not quite convincing. “Hell, it’s been bleedin’ off and on, anyway, even when I was just layin’ around Singing Woman’s tipi.”

  Matt exchanged a quick glance with Molly. She acknowledged his feelings with a frown. Zeb didn’t look good. The ride up the mountain had exhausted him. Matt had expected that, but Zeb looked old and worn out, and Matt began to worry that maybe the old man was not going to recover from his wounds.

  Zeb must have read the concern in their eyes, for he was quick to assure them, “I’d druther bleed to death comin’ up this mountain than lay around that Crow camp for another week. I’ll be all right now. The ride up is the only part that mighta done me in, and we’ve already made that.”

  Matt just shook his head. “You old buzzard, you ain’t ever gonna die, anyway. One of these days, you’ll just turn into a pile of dust and blow away.”

  “I expect so,” Zeb replied with a weak chuckle.

  The first order of business was to get Zeb settled comfortably. After that, Matt took care of the horses while Molly began making some soup with a bundle of roots that Singing Woman had given her. The Crow woman claimed they would help speed up Zeb’s recovery. Molly decided they couldn’t hurt, so she cut up some strips of venison and threw them in the pot, thinking she and Matt could eat the soup as well. At suppertime, Zeb did appear to be feeling better, so Matt decided to go after his elk the next morning if his friend was still showing signs of improvement.

  Just before dark, Matt heard the horses snorting. He knew the paint’s various sounds, and this sounded like a warning snort, so he walked outside to investigate. Something had disturbed them. The paint was tossing his head nervously, and Zeb’s sorrel was pawing the ground repeatedly. Matt stepped back inside the cabin door and picked up his rifle. Back outside, he walked around the back of the small corral he and Zeb had built, his eyes constantly sweeping the slope behind the cabin.

  He was about to decide there was nothing there. Maybe the horses were spooked by the wind shaking a light snowfall from the branches of the fir trees on the ridge. Then he saw the cause of their concern. Igmutaka, he thought, the Lakota word for mountain lion, and the name the Sioux had given him. The tawny predator had watched the man come from the cabin, and now moved silently inside the tree line on the ridge, pausing once as if taking one last look at the cabin. Matt slowly raised his rifle and sighted on the big cat’s right shoulder. The lion did not move. After a few long seconds, Matt lowered the rifle, reluctant to shoot the animal. There was really nothing to fear from the mountain lion. There were no chickens or dogs to be concerned for, and the big cat was not likely to approach the horses and risk getting kicked. After another moment, the mountain lion suddenly disappeared into the trees. If Matt believed in such things, he might have felt the lion’s visit to his cabin to be an omen, meant to warn his namesake of the four ominous figures approaching the Crow village in the river valley below.

  * * *

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” P. D. exclaimed when she rode free of the narrow rock walls that formed the steep canyon and found herself staring at some fifty or seventy-five tipis clustered in a small meadow near the river. “Look at that! You suppose ol’ Bill was tellin’ the truth when he claimed this camp was just ahead?” For, in fact, they had ridden for only an hour since leaving Bill Cotton’s body for the vultures. She threw her head back and laughed. “The joke’s on me, boys.”

  “It sure is, Mama,” Arlo responded, joining in the laughter.

  Though finding it amusing, P. D. remarked that it really made little difference. “Ol’ Bill woulda kilt us if he got the chance, and no doubt about that.”

  While P. D. and Arlo were entertaining themselves with the irony of finding the village close to where Cotton had said, Bo had an eye on the Crow camp. They had already been spotted by someone in the camp, as evidenced by the gathering of several people at the edge of the river. “We’d best watch ourselves,” Bo warned. “Them Injuns has already spotted us.”

  “Don’t get jumpy,” P. D. cautioned. “They’re Crows—supposed to be friendly.” She cast a quick glance in the direction of Arlo and Wiley. “Just keep your rifles handy where them Injuns can see ’em. They ain’t likely to try nothin’ with the four of us.” She grinned then. “Anyway, we’re just friendly folks, lookin’ for one of our kin from back east.”

  Broken Hand got to his feet and went outside to stand in front of his lodge when he heard shouts that strangers were approaching. He squinted in the afternoon sunlight, trying to recognize what appeared to be four white men crossing the river and heading toward the village. He continued to stare until they passed the outermost tipis before deciding he had never seen them before. Each man was armed with a rifle, but they appeared to come in peace, judging by the polite exchange of greetings between them and the people who had gathered by the bank.

  Judging Broken Hand to be one in authority, since the men and women at the river parted to clear a path for him when he came down to join them, P. D. directed her greeting to him. “P. D. Wildmoon’s the name. These here is my boys. We’ve come lookin’ for my cousin.” She did her best to display a smile that would convince her audience that she was honest and friendly. It was difficult for P. D. because she had no use for Indians of any tribe. When Broken Hand did not reply at once, but continued to gaze at the strangers in curiosity, she asked, “You speak white man’s talk?”

  Broken Hand nodded, then said, “Yes.”

  “Good,” P. D. said. “Like I said, we’re lookin’ for my cousin. We got an important message for him from the family back east. Some folks told me he might be stayin’ around here someplace. His name’s Slaughter.”

  Broken Hand’s reaction was little more than a raised eyebrow, but the mention of Slaughter’s name brought a murmur from the others gathered around the strangers. Their reaction was enough to tell P. D. that she was on the right track. “It’s important that we find him,” she went on. “We’ve got some news from his family.”

  Singing Woman edged up closer to her brother. Like him, she felt a sense of suspicion for the white visitors. From Zeb, they had both learned that Slaughter had enemies in the white world who sought to hunt him down. And the four sitting their horses before them now bore a decided look of deceit. She glanced at Broken Hand and frowned. It was unnecessary, for Broken Hand had already speculated that, if the four had a cousin, it would more likely be a coyote.

  “If he ain’t hereabouts,” P. D. asked impatiently, “maybe you can tell me where I can find him?”

  Broken Hand slowly shook his head. “I don’t know this man Slaughter.”

  “Young feller—had a woman ridin’ with him?” P. D. pressed. “And an old man?” Broken Hand continued to shake his head. P. D. grinned. Although Broken Hand denied knowing him, several others standing around them had automatically looked toward the eastern ridge in answer to her question. Following their gaze, she stole a quick look at the ridge. Thick with pines, the slope was cut by many game trails, leading in many directions. She then cast a sharp glance in Singing Woman’s direction. The Indian woman’s frown had not escaped P. D.’s notice. “Well, then,” she said. “Looks like we was told wrong. I guess we’ll just have to look for Cousin Slaughter somewhere else.” She wheeled her horse around. “Come on, boys, let’s not bother these nice folks no more.”

  With a polite nod to Broken Hand, she kicked her horse with her heels and started back the way they had come. Her sons followed along behind her, casting insolent sneers at the faces looking up at them, except for Wiley. He merely looked confused, unable to understand why they were leaving so soon after having traveled days just to find the village.

  “Keep an eye on that camp, Arlo,” P. D. said when they started to cross the river. “Let me know if you see anybody ridin’ out right away.” She had a strong hunch she was planning to follow up. She was willing to bet the bankroll she carried in her pocket that Sl
aughter’s camp was somewhere up the ridge now on her right, but she continued to ride back north along the river. Once they had rounded the bend and were hidden from sight of the Crow village, she turned her horse’s head back to the east, spurring the animal up the steep slope. “Well, come on,” she prompted when Arlo and Bo hesitated, not sure where she was going.

  Finding a ravine that cut between the ridge and the tall mountain beyond it, P. D. led her sons through a dense forest of lodgepole pines, making her way back to a point across the river from the Crow village. “Leave the horses here,” she ordered, and climbed up to the top of the ridge on foot, to a point where there was a clear view of the camp.

  “What are we doin’ up here, Ma?” Bo asked.

  “We’re just gonna set a spell and watch that camp,” P. D. replied.

  “I’ll build us a fire,” Wiley volunteered.

  “No, honey, don’t build no fire. They could see the smoke across the river, and I don’t want them to know we’re watchin’ ’em.”

  Bo reached over and knocked Wiley’s hat from his head. “I’ll build us a fire,” Bo mocked. “Wiley, you’re dumber’n a sack of turds.”

  With no warning, P. D. burned a welt on Bo’s back with her rawhide whip, causing a yelp of pain from the injured man. “I told you to quit pickin’ on that boy. Now, keep your eyes on that Injun camp.”

  “What are we watchin’ for?” Arlo asked. “You think they’ll get a war party after us?”

  “No. They ain’t interested in us. If my hunch is right, they might lead us right to Slaughter.” So they waited for about a quarter of an hour before P. D. saw what she was looking for. “I thought so, by God,” she exclaimed with a chuckle. Arlo followed her gaze down toward the bank where a single rider was forging the river. It was difficult to tell at that distance, but P. D. was fairly confident that it was the Indian woman who had sidled up to Broken Hand. “Wiley, go get the horses,” she calmly ordered while she got to her feet and stared after the rider.

  Unaware that she was being watched, Singing Woman passed a half dozen game trails leading down from the mountain before she picked one and urged her pony to follow it. In a second, she disappeared from view, but P. D. marked the trail she had chosen, and as soon as Wiley was back with the horses, they rode down across the ridge to intercept the same trail.

  It was not an easy path to follow, an old game trail leading through a forest of lodgepole pines at the base of the slope, with a thick carpet of pine needles underneath. In fact, the trail might have been impossible to follow had not Singing Woman’s pony just disturbed the needles. The trail led up the mountain until it emerged from the pine forest and abruptly turned to lead almost straight up through a maze of boulders and fir trees until reaching a ledge of solid rock with trails branching off in three different directions. With no evidence of tracks on the rock, P. D. had to make a decision. She picked the one that was widest and appeared to continue in the same direction they had been climbing.

  They followed the rocky trail, climbing higher up the mountain until it leveled off and descended once more, seeming to double back. After more than a half hour’s ride, they arrived back at the same rock ledge. “Dammit!” P. D. exclaimed. “We just rode around in a circle. Bo, get down and find that pony’s tracks.” Of her three sons, Bo was by far the best tracker. He dismounted and began examining the ground around the other two trails.

  “Here’s where a horse kicked up some rocks!” Wiley panted excitedly.

  P. D., irritated at this point for having wasted over half an hour riding in a circle, had lost her usual patience with her youngest. “Wiley, dammit, them’s our tracks. We just rode around that trail.” She jerked her head around at once to cast a menacing eye on Bo, who was already grinning at his brother. “You keep your mouth shut and find me the right trail.”

  Bo, still smirking at his slow-witted brother, dismounted and started out along one of the other trails, walking in a half crouch, his head down, eyes searching the rocky path. P. D. motioned to Arlo. “You might as well start lookin’ up that other trail.”

  Bo followed the trail until he finally left the solid rock floor and came to an area of loose shale. He stopped and looked up the trail ahead, shaking his head in resignation. Then he called back to his mother, “I reckon it’s the other trail—ain’t no horse or nothin’ else crossed over this shale without leavin’ tracks.”

  At almost the same time, Arlo sang out, “I got her! Here’s the trail!” He waited for the others to catch up to him. “There’s more’n one set of tracks that are pretty fresh.”

  P. D. didn’t bother to dismount to examine them. “Well, let’s get goin’ then. We’ve already wasted enough time runnin’ around in circles.”

  Chapter 9

  A light tap on his shoulder brought Zeb abruptly back from a dream of chasing antelope across a wide prairie. Still drowsy, he jerked his head up to see what had disturbed such a pleasant vision. Molly was standing before him, signaling for him to listen. His hearing not being as sharp as hers, he was puzzled at first. “What is it?” he asked. “Whaddaya hear?” She signed that someone was coming. He was immediately alert then.

  He struggled to get up from the side of the cabin where he had been snoozing in the sunshine. Molly extended her hand to help him up. On his feet, his makeshift crutches under his arms, he stood listening for a few moments before he heard the sound of a horse making the last steep climb up to the stream. “Better fetch me my rifle, honey,” he said to Molly. She went at once to get it. They were not accustomed to having visitors. Once in a great while, someone from the Crow village might visit, but not very often, so it paid to be cautious.

  Still moving with a great deal of discomfort, Zeb moved over to the corner of the little cabin and waited, his gaze locked on the fir trees where the trail crossed the stream. Molly retreated to stand in the cabin door to watch. In a few minutes, a horse topped the rise, carrying a familiar figure.

  “Well, lookee here, Molly,” Zeb exclaimed when he recognized Singing Woman. “Looks like we got company.” Taking a few unsteady steps away from the cabin, he moved to meet the Indian woman. “So you started missin’ me already,” he started to say, but his voice trailed off when he saw the serious expression on Singing Woman’s face. He took hold of the bridle while she slid off her pony’s back.

  “Some white men came to our village looking for Slaughter,” Singing Woman said, her voice reflecting the concern Zeb had read in her face.

  Zeb glanced briefly at Molly, who was now at his elbow, then back to the Indian woman. “White men?” he asked. “Were they soldiers?”

  “No, not soldiers,” Singing Woman answered excitedly. “Four white men, bad-looking white men. The one older man said he was Slaughter’s cousin.”

  Instinctively, Zeb glanced quickly over her shoulder to make sure there was no one behind her. “Did you tell ’em how to get here?”

  “No. Broken Hand told them he did not know the man they looked for. They went back up the river, the way they had come. I waited until they had gone before I rode up here.”

  “Good,” Zeb said. “Matt ain’t here. He’s gone huntin’. I don’t know if he’s got any cousins he wants to see or not, but I kinda doubt it.” It entered his mind that the four might be bounty hunters. “Four of ’em, you say? What’d they look like?”

  “Bad—they looked like bad men—one older man, three younger men.”

  Zeb scratched his beard while he thought about it. He didn’t know what to make of it, four men looking for Matt, but he could fairly well assume that it meant trouble. Maybe they were friends of the Frenchman. “You say they went back up toward the Yellowstone?” Singing Woman nodded. “Well,” he decided, “maybe they’re gone to look somewhere else. We’ll keep a sharp eye for a spell. We ’predate you ridin’ up here to tell us.”

  Molly listened to the exchange between Zeb and the Crow woman, her face etched with a concerned frown. She wished that Matt was there, but he had said he
would probably not be back for a couple of days, depending on his luck in finding an elk. Singing Woman had said that the men had gone back the way they had come, so maybe she was worrying needlessly. She decided that was the case. Tapping Singing Woman lightly on the arm to get her attention, she asked in sign if her Crow friend was hungry.

  Singing Woman started to answer in sign, then remembered that Molly was not deaf. “No. Thank you, but I better not stay. I want to get back before dark.”

  “You’d best rest that horse for a little spell,” Zeb said. “Looks like you rode him pretty hard comin’ up this mountain.”

  Singing Woman smiled at him fondly. The old trapper had wormed his way into her heart since he and Slaughter had built their cabin in the mountains above her village. She turned to Molly. “Did you make him soup from the roots I gave you?” Molly nodded with a smile. Back to Zeb, she said, “It will make you strong again.” She favored him with an impish smile. “Then you can come to visit me again.”

  * * *

  Singing Woman started back down the mountain after a short visit with Zeb and Molly. It was getting on in the afternoon, and she didn’t want to delay her return to the village. The trail could be treacherous in the dark, with many steep stretches and sharp turns through trees and boulders.

  Reining back on her pony to prevent the horse from sliding on a steep patch of loose shale, she carefully guided him around a cabin-sized boulder where the trail almost doubled back on itself. Rounding the side of the huge rock, she found herself face-to-face with P. D. Wildmoon. The swarthy female bounty hunter sat on her horse, effectively blocking the narrow path, her rifle lying across her thighs, a bemused grin displayed upon her broad face. “Well, hello there, honey. I reckon you’ve been up to tell Slaughter we’re lookin’ for him, ain’tcha?”