Vengeance Moon

by Charles G. West

  “I’m all right,” P. D. answered for herself. Leaning forward in the saddle, lying across her horse’s neck, she opened her eyes briefly. “You two stop arguing, and let’s get goin’. I ain’t gettin’ no better layin’ across this damn horse.” She had had plenty of time to think about her situation during the morning while her horse was being led across the treacherous mountainside. With her face pressed tightly against the warm neck of the dark stallion, she fought to remain conscious. With all sense of time lost, she felt that she had been led helplessly for days, through dark pine forests, across rocky stretches of soft shale, through scattered patches of snow. All the while, a burning hatred for the man called Slaughter continued to intensify, and she wanted to scream out her rage for her body’s weakness. Time and again, she tried to will her body to sit upright in the saddle. Each time she failed.

  She finally decided to curb her immediate passion for revenge, reluctantly accepting the fact that she had lost too much blood. She would have her revenge for the death of her youngest son, but it would have to wait until she was recovered enough to take on the task. Slaughter had proven to be no easy prey, and one who might be too much for Arlo and Bo to handle without her help. There was also the underlying craving to take Slaughter’s blood with her own hand. She would have her revenge, this she vowed upon her soul.

  Upon backtracking to pick up the game trail, it turned out that Bo had been right. After winding almost halfway around the mountain’s midsection, the trail led to a narrow hogback that joined the neighboring slope. Feeling vindicated, Bo assumed additional authority. “When we get on the north side of this here mountain, we oughta be able to risk a shot without them Injuns hearin’ it. I can find us somethin’ to eat. Ma needs fresh meat to build her blood back up.”

  “That’s a fact,” P. D. softly agreed, resigned now to what had to be done. I’ll find him again. I found him this time, and I’ll find him again.

  * * *

  “Three horses,” Wounded Horse announced as Matt and Looks Ahead caught up to him. There was no need for Matt to step down from the saddle to examine the hoofprints crossing the little patch of snow. They clearly revealed three distinct sets of tracks. Up to this point, they had assumed they were following two men on two horses.

  “Maybe three men,” Wounded Horse speculated. “Maybe two men, one packhorse.” Judging by the depth of the imprints, it was obvious to them that all three horses were carrying loads—whether riders or packs, it was difficult to say. The fact that the men they chased had not taken the precaution of riding around the small patch of snow told Matt that they were no longer concerned with being followed. It struck him as kind of careless on their part—either that, or perhaps they were smarter than he gave them credit for. Perhaps they purposely left tracks, planning to draw them into an ambush.

  The trail had not been difficult to follow, but there had been occasions when a little extra time was required to make sure they were still on it, especially in the dark forest of lodgepole pines where the pine straw was hardly disturbed. At one point the bounty hunters had left the game trail and climbed up out of the trees, only to return once again to follow the trail. Matt was familiar with the mountains around his cabin, so it was not difficult to guess what had caused them to return. He had hoped that the wasted time on the bounty hunters’ part would allow him to make up a great portion of the distance, but there was still no evidence that would suggest he was getting close to them. They were making good time, and that worried him. He had hoped to overtake them before they were able to find their way out of the mountains. It had not happened, and the trail was no warmer than it had been two days before when it emerged from the trees and ended in the steep bluffs beside the river.

  Following the tracks down close to the river’s edge, they came upon the half-butchered remains of a six-point buck. Their arrival disturbed a feast under way as a half-dozen buzzards worked on the carcass. It was not difficult to re-create the scene that had taken place here. The deer had evidently been shot almost exactly where he now lay. The butchering had been hasty and wasteful, taking only a haunch—only enough for a couple of meals, and the rest left behind.

  “Cook meat here,” Looks Ahead called to Matt. The ashes of a small fire bore evidence that the bounty hunters had camped in a willow stand only a few yards away from the carcass. Looks Ahead dug his fingers into the ashes to feel their warmth. “Not long,” he said. “Maybe half a day.”

  Matt knelt down beside him to feel the ashes himself. He had to agree with Looks Ahead’s estimate. At last they were gaining on them. The quantity of ashes told him that the men had camped overnight. The warmth suggested they had left the camp no more than four hours before. Horse droppings close to the campfire confirmed the time factor as well. There was renewed excitement stirring Matt’s emotions as he climbed up in the saddle and nudged the paint up into the bluffs. There were tracks, but he did not bother to study them, for he was confident now that the bounty hunters were heading for the Yellowstone, with no evident intention of returning.

  Following the trail along the Boulder River as it flowed north to its confluence with the Yellowstone, Matt was intent on making the best time possible. Behind him, Looks Ahead and Wounded Horse pushed their ponies to keep up. His eyes constantly searching the trail ahead of him, he counseled himself to be alert lest he ride headlong into an ambush.

  At last he could see the waters of the Yellowstone ahead. Under a gray, overcast sky, the mighty river’s waters seemed milky and dull as they consumed the Boulder’s body. Following the trail he had last used when making his vengeful visit to rid the world of Bordeaux and his cutthroats, he continued toward the sandy ford where he had crossed before. Some three or four hundred yards to the east, and on the opposite shore, he could see the blackened walls of the former trading post. Thoughts of Zeb lying broken and bleeding at the bottom of a narrow ravine returned to his mind as he paused to look for any sign of the men he followed. Wounded Horse pulled up beside him.

  “White men long gone,” he stated simply.

  Matt had already noticed a growing decline in enthusiasm for the hunt on the part of his two Crow scouts as the afternoon hours passed. It had been two days since leaving his burned-out cabin, and he now detected a reluctance to continue past the confluence with the Yellowstone. Wounded Horse and Looks Ahead obviously thought the chase should be terminated, the bounty hunters had been chased away, apparently for good. But, having volunteered to come along, it was also obvious that they felt obligated to continue. Seeing this to be the case, Matt knew it was his responsibility to release them. He knew that his skills as a tracker, while better than most, were not equal to those of either of the Crow scouts. But he had a feeling that the men he hunted had decided to leave this part of the mountains, possibly to enlist others to help them claim the reward money. He could only speculate on their reasons, but after picking up their trail on the opposite shore of the Yellowstone, it appeared they might be heading toward Virginia City. Tracking them should be fairly easy.

  “I thank you both for your help,” he began after the trail west along the river was confirmed by both Crows. “It is better for me to go on alone now. Give my thanks to Broken Hand when you get back.”

  In spite of an effort to hide it, Matt detected a look of relief in the eyes of both scouts. They offered a polite protest, insisting that they would stay with him until the men were run to ground. When Matt again declined, they wished him good hunting, and wasted little time heading back home. He was alone again, a state that caused him no concern. Turning west, heading once again toward the mountains, he set out along the Yellowstone. The men he chased could not be far ahead of him.

  * * *

  Bo Wildmoon pulled his horse to a sliding stop and dismounted. “Looks like we run up on a piece of good luck,” he announced excitedly.

  “What is it?” Arlo asked. When they had heard a single rifle shot beyond the hills ahead of them, they had immediately ridden down the riverbank
to seek cover. While Arlo stayed with P. D., Bo had ridden ahead to scout the river beyond.

  “Injuns,” Bo reported. “Three of ’em.” He grinned at Arlo’s look of concern. “They’re butcherin’ an antelope. That was the shot we heard. They’re on the other side of that hill yonder, down near the water.”

  “Maybe we’d best set tight right here till they’re gone,” Arlo said.

  P. D., resting against the trunk of a small tree, spoke then. “We could use the meat. Three of ’em, you say?”

  Bo’s grin widened mischievously. “Yessum, three of ’em, but ain’t but one of ’em got a rifle.”

  “We need the meat more’n them damn Injuns,” P. D. said. She had felt a slight improvement in her weakened state after a good meal of venison the night before. She was no longer feeling faint and light-headed, and was once again able to take charge of her sons. The prospect of readily available fresh meat was especially appealing to her at this point. She had been in a daze when they left their last camp that morning. Otherwise, she would not have let her two unthinking sons leave the major part of that deer behind. “I ain’t gonna be much help with one arm in a damn sling,” she said, “but you two boys oughta be able to handle three Injuns that ain’t got but one rifle between ’em.”

  “Damn right,” Bo exclaimed, immediately thinking about the opportunity to add to his string of scalps.

  “Help me up on my horse,” P. D. said, “and we’ll go fetch our supper.”

  Bo led the way, holding close to the riverbank until approaching the hill rising up from the river. Halfway up the hill, he reined his horse back and waited for P. D. and Arlo to catch up to him. “We’d best leave the horses here and go the rest of the way on foot,” he whispered.

  Arlo nodded, then asked, “What about Ma?”

  P. D. answered, “I’ll stay here with the horses. And Bo, you boys oughta wait till they’ve finished all the butcherin’. Might as well let them do all the work.”

  “Might as well,” Bo echoed, eagerly anticipating the fun ahead.

  “You gonna be all right?” Arlo asked.

  “I’m all right,” P. D. answered. “A helluva lot better than I was last night. You just be sure you take care of them Injuns. We don’t want any of ’em to get back to their village and bring the whole damn band after us.”

  After making their way up to the top of the hill on foot, Arlo and Bo lay low on the ground to watch. Below, at the base of the hill where it sloped down to the riverbank, the three unsuspecting Blackfoot hunters worked away at the antelope carcass. They estimated the range to be close to two hundred yards. Knowing their instructions were to make sure none of the three Indians escaped, Arlo declared, “I’d like to get a little closer if we could.”

  Bo, the better shot of the two, was of the same opinion although he was fairly confident he could make the shot from where they were. “Wouldn’t hurt to get a little closer,” he said. They both studied the descending slope for a few moments before he suggested, “I suspect we could crawl down to that gully below us.” Arlo agreed, and the two brothers made their way halfway down the slope, most of the way on their hands and knees.

  “This is better,” Arlo commented when they had settled in the gully. They both crawled up to the edge and laid their rifles down in the grass, sighting in on the three Indians busily carving up the carcass. “Which’un you aimin’ at?”

  “The little one on the left,” Bo replied, his finger resting lightly on the trigger, his target a Blackfoot boy of perhaps thirteen or fourteen.

  “All right, then, I’ll take the one in the middle. Let ’er rip.” They fired almost in unison. Both targets staggered backward before dropping to the ground. The third hunter seemed paralyzed for a moment as his two companions fell away from him. But then he scrambled to his feet and started running toward the trees on the riverbank. In no particular hurry, Bo got to his feet and braced for the final shot. Taking dead aim, he squeezed the trigger. The running Indian tumbled, rolling over several times before lying still, a bullet squarely planted between his shoulder blades.

  “Hoo-wee!” Bo yelled excitedly, and started running down the slope to claim the scalps.

  Arlo got to his feet, stood there a moment watching his brother charge down the hill, then went back over the crest to get his mother. When he and P. D. arrived at the site of the slaughter, Bo was busily engaged in the taking of his grisly trophies. “Boys will be boys,” P. D. snorted, not really caring. “Arlo, start packin’ that meat on one of them Injun ponies. I expect we’d best not linger here in case they got friends come lookin’ for ’em.” She cocked her head to glance at Bo again. “And, Bo, mind you clean that knife before you go carvin’ up any of that antelope.” Bo, happily sawing off the last of the three scalps, merely grinned in reply.

  * * *

  Matt pulled the paint to a sudden stop and paused to listen. Two shots carried to him on the gentle wind, followed shortly after by a single shot. They seemed to have come from the hills he could see rising before him, and probably had been fired by the men he chased. They told him that he was rapidly closing the distance between himself and the bounty hunters. He nudged his horse gently, and the paint immediately sprang into a lope.

  He had covered no more than a quarter mile, however, when the trail he had followed since leaving the Boulder suddenly veered off to his left. Exercising caution again, he followed the tracks down the riverbank with a sharp eye for any sign of ambush. Below the bank, near the water’s edge, he found tracks that told him his prey had stopped here for a short period, and then had gone on. He could see no explanation for the sudden veering off their line of travel. Perhaps, he thought, they might have sighted an Indian war party, and hid there until the hostiles had passed. Whatever their reason, they had resumed their original trail, but only until reaching the first of a line of hills. At that point, the tracks led up the slope of the hill. Matt had a feeling that if he followed the tracks to the top of the slope, he would discover what had prompted the shots he had heard. His hunch proved to be right.

  There, at the base of the hill, lay two bodies—Indians from their appearance. Thirty yards or so toward the trees lining the river, another body lay sprawled in the grass. Matt sat motionless for several minutes while he surveyed the scene below him. There was no sign of anyone else around. When he was sure of this, he rode down for a closer look.

  Stepping down from the saddle, he knelt beside the body of a boy. Although the skin on his forehead had sagged and wrinkled slightly—a result of having been scalped—Matt could see that he was no more than a boy. There was little doubt who was responsible for the killing. It only intensified his passion to catch up to the murderers. Seeing the remains of an antelope, he was able to guess what had happened. The three Indians had been assassinated without warning, and at a distance, he speculated. Two had been shot in the chest, one in the back. They had not been dead long, so he wasted no more time at the bloody scene. Stepping toward his horse, he grabbed the saddle horn with one hand and placed his foot in the stirrup. Before he could pull himself up, he felt a solid blow on the back of his left shoulder, followed by the sharp crack of a rifle. Dropping immediately, he reached for his rifle as he fell. Everything went black with a blow to his head, and he never heard the shot that grazed his skull, knocking him unconscious.

  Chapter 14

  Black Fox charged down the slope and leaped from his pony in such haste that he almost stumbled and fell. Taking his war ax in hand, he strode angrily toward the fallen white man, intent upon bludgeoning him to death. He paused for a moment when he saw the mutilated bodies of his friends. Unable to control his anger, he threw his head back and screamed his rage to the heavens—for the young boy was his wife’s brother. Then he straddled the helpless white man, and raised his ax for the lethal blow.

  “Wait,” Little Hawk said, and grabbed Black Fox’s wrist. Startled, Black Fox stared at his friend, confused by his action. “He may not have done this evil thing,” Little
Hawk said. Looking around him then as the rest of the hunting party gathered to watch, he explained. “If he killed our brothers, where is the meat? The antelope is gone. Where are the scalps that were taken?” He waited a moment for a response before concluding. “I think someone else killed them, and he has only found them, the same as us.”

  Black Fox was still intent upon extracting vengeance. “Maybe that is true,” he allowed, “but what does it matter? He is a white man, and probably a friend of those who did this.”

  “Turn him over,” Little Hawk said. Black Fox got off Matt and rolled him over on his back. Matt’s eyelids fluttered briefly, then opened wide as he regained consciousness. He immediately tried to spring up, but was held firm by Black Fox and one of the other hunters. Little Hawk gazed into the wounded man’s face for a long moment. “This is the white warrior who killed the evil men at the trading post and burned it to the ground. It was he who gave us these rifles and ponies.” Black Fox hesitated, not sure now what to do. Little Hawk continued to argue the wounded man’s case. “I think he is hunting the men who did this.”

  Held securely by the Blackfoot warriors, Matt was helpless to resist. There was blood in his right eye from the scalp wound where the second bullet grazed him, and his shoulder felt numb. He did not understand the Blackfoot tongue, so he had no idea what the discussion was, nor why the fierce-looking Indian with the ax had decided not to kill him. He figured he was done for unless by some miracle he was given an opportunity to make a break for his life. His miracle came in the form of broken English, spoken by the Indian who had had the discussion with the fierce one.

  “You see me before?” Little Hawk asked. Matt, staring up at the seemingly hostile faces gathered over him, slowly shook his head. Little Hawk raised his rifle in the air. “You give me rifle, burn store.” Matt remembered then. At the time, his mind had been so filled with rage that he had taken little note of the faces of the Indians that had been at Bordeaux’s. It came to him now; this was the Indian who had hidden behind the counter. He nodded slowly. Little Hawk smiled and pointed to his chest. “Little Hawk,” he said, then pointed at Matt.