by Jory Sherman
He was conscious of his own breathing. He kept his mouth closed and drew the air in through his nose. There was no telltale puff of steam issuing from his mouth. He watched the snow build up, the gully lose its depth, its sides. He marked every bush he could see, let his eyes become accustomed to the dark shapes amid the white building up faster and faster.
He heard a branch crack on the farthest slope, above him.
He drew a deep breath and cocked an ear in the direction of the sound. The silence became eerie, maddening. Still, that had been enough. He was in the right place. A few moments later he heard a horse snorting. His eyes burned from peering into the bleak floury depths of the snowfall. He wiped snow from his front sight, looked down his barrel. The rear sight was clean, the lock and hammer dry where they rested next to his chest. He held the rifle so the muzzle wouldn't block up with snow. He had no wish to plug his barrel and ring it. Such things happened. He had seen men blow barrels up by not seating the ball over the charge properly. A twig, a collection of snow, could do the same thing.
There was another sound. This one was more elusive. It sounded like a blanket being dragged over a floor. Or a man wading through deep sand.
Or, a horse moving slow through thick snow.
Matt had to force himself not to stiffen up, to stifle the tautness creeping into his belly like a tightening cinch. This was not a time for buck fever. He blinked his eyes again and let his breath flow back to normal. He was very careful not to move. He was one with the tree.
He heard the horse whicker not far away. A moment later, he heard the sound of leather creaking. He strained his ears and heard the flap of reins.
The man was dismounting.
It would not be long now. Matt squeezed the trigger of his rifle and cocked the hammer back silently. He eased the hammer back to normal position. The cocking had made no sound. There was a second trigger for a hair touch, but he didn't set it. It would be too tricky with the cold and his gloves. Once the hair trigger was set, it would take only a slight touch to set it off.
And, too, he was not a bushwhacker. He wanted to see the man, wanted to give him a chance while keeping the edge.
There was a long silence.
Matt thought that the man had outsmarted him. Yet, this was dangerous. He couldn't relax, couldn't move to check out his vagrant hunch. It was still best to wait. He had to wait.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw movement. It was only slight. He peered hard in the direction of the quick flash of dark that had caught his vision.
There! He saw it again!
A man's hat bobbed toward him over the crest of the gully's far ridge. There was little cover and the hat began to move.
Matt brought his rifle down slightly, moving it slowly until the barrel rested at eye level.
He glimpsed the man's head, his shoulders, then his trunk. Finally, the man stalked down the slope. He stopped, raising his head.
"Lathrop!" Matt yelled.
Ross Lathrop, startled, raised his rifle and tried to find the source of the voice.
"What the . . . !" Ross exclaimed.
Matt stepped from behind the tree, his Hawken leveled at Ross.
"I'm just sorry as hell it isn't your rotten brother," Matt said, holding his sight on the man's chest.
Ross swung his rifle, a full second too late.
There was a droning chunk as Matt squeezed the trigger of the Hawken. A shower of sparks burned through the snow, smoke mingled with the flakes.
Ross fell backwards, a bright rose flowering on his chest where the blood from his heart pumped a deep red that soon darkened as it thickened and began to freeze.
Matt walked over to the fallen man and looked into his frosty eyes.
"That was for Little Red Fox, you son-of-a-bitch!"
Ross Lathrop's eyes stayed open, but they couldn't see anything. Neither could his ears hear.
Matt was satisfied. His nostrils smarted from the stench of black powder. He poured a measured amount of powder down his barrel, wet a piece of cloth in his mouth, put it on the muzzle and placed a round ball atop it. He rammed the ball down with a short starter and cut the patch off. He rammed the ball down farther, then took his ramrod and seated the ball. He capped the nipple of his rifle and turned away from the dead man.
He felt empty. Ross was only one of the men who had murdered his brother. It looked, in fact, as though he had been the least of them. He had died too easily.
Now, he had to find his horse, get back to Addie.
He hoped Talking Horse could read the sign. Little Red Fox had been avenged, but there was no one to know it yet.
Suddenly, apprehensive, Matt began to run.
Chapter Ten
Big John Lathrop checked himself from moving too quick.
He heard the shot that killed Little Red Fox, saw Matt and Addie disappear through the trees. He waited a long time before trying to follow since he didn't know what he might run into. When he did leave, he made a wide sweep to the high ground, marking the direction the shot had come from, and allowing for it as he rode to a point where he could take a look at things, undetected.
It took him only a few moments to see what had happened. He was curious, though, about who had shot the Indian. He watched as Matt and Addie tracked the ambusher. He wanted to follow them, and was about to strike out on their trail when he saw another Indian ride up to the place. It was Talking Horse, but he didn't know the name of the warrior. He only knew that he looked important, a chief, perhaps. Big John was unable to move as long as Talking Horse was there, so he waited, watched.
The warrior dismounted and saw the tracks. He uttered an unintelligible cry and looked in the direction where Matt and ridden. He shook his rifle in the air and made a sign that Big John understood.
It was a sign to kill.
Then, Talking Horse carried the body of the dead Indian to his horse and put him over the saddle. He walked off, leading his horse. He called out, just as Big John was raising his own rifle for a shot. More Indians appeared and Big John lowered his rifle. He heard snatches of their conversation but could make nothing of it. One of the braves dismounted and gave his reins to Talking Horse.
While they were busy talking and gesticulating, Big John rode off, slow, circling to intersect Matt Cord's trail.
He knew Matt Cord hadn't killed the Indian, but he had a hunch the others didn't know that. There was a chance the tall warrior might do his job for him. In the meantime, he had to make sure Matt was accounted for—and the girl, too. When he thought he was far enough away from the gathered Sioux, he stepped up his pace. He crossed their tracks and began following, cautiously.
The shot brought him up short.
It came from a different direction than he had expected—not straight ahead, but off to the left, higher up. He left the tracks and rode up in the direction of the gunshot.
The sound of the shot, he knew, had little chance of carrying back to the Indians. The snowfall was too thick. Or, at least, he hoped it was. Something had happened and he had to find out what it was. Either Matt had been shot, or he had shot someone. Who?
His horse floundered up the slope to the ridge, its hooves slipping on the wet loose snow. He continued riding past the top of the gully until he ran into a set of horse's tracks. These were heading down into the gully. He looked at the tracks closely. He started to shake as he realized that he was following his son's tracks. He tried to stop the shaking, but the premonition persisted. There had been but a single shot. One man possibly lay dead in the snow. Would it be Ross or Matt?
Big John was not so cautious now. He knew he was following a trail that led to death. He felt a numbness creeping into his sensibilities that was not of the cold. He was trying to steel himself for what he might find in the heart of the gully. The snow blew into his face and eyes, but he paid it little mind. Something seemed to be swelling in his chest and he found it difficult to breathe.
He rode into the gully and saw the sorrel standing
hipshot, its back to the lightly blowing snow. He felt a wrench in his stomach and his hands on the reins seemed to lose all feeling. He made out the fast fading tracks and continued on his way, an invisible band tightening around his chest. The breathing came even harder.
He saw the figure sprawled in the snow and knew it was Ross.
Big John dismounted even before he got to the body. He staggered to it and saw the face, first. It was white as chalk, covered with snow. He knelt down and brushed the snow away from Ross's dead eyes, off his cheeks and lips. It was then that he saw the hole in his son's chest, dark and ugly. Despite himself, tears came to his eyes.
"Ross!" he screamed, and his cry fell in the muffled gully like a mossy stone on thick grass. Big John picked his son up by the shoulders and held him tight against his chest. Tears stung his eyes.
"Ross," he crooned, "he done kilt you, boy. Why? Why'd you let him, Ross boy?"
He squeezed the tears out of his eyes and loosened his grip on his son.
"This h'aint no place to die, Ross. You should'a lived to be as old as me, die on a porch some'eres' where the sun was warm on your face. Your ma won't like this none and hit's all my doin'. I'm gonna git the man what done this, Ross. You can be sartin sure of that."
It was useless, and Big John knew it. He just couldn't help himself. Carl was wounded and now Ross was dead. All because of him. He didn't feel very big at that moment.
The tightness in his chest began to go away, replaced by a burning anger, a violent hatred of Matt Cord.
"He kilt you, Ross. Matt Cord. I'll git him for ya. He'll draw few breaths I'm thinkin' afore he jines up with ye."
He laid his son back down in the snow and looked at his quiet face, the closed eyes, for a long time as the snow continued to fall. He stood up and looked around. He saw a likely spot to place his boy to rest and walked over to the brush. He moved it aside and began clearing the snow away. He carried Ross' body over to the dry ground and folded his hands on his chest. He loosened his pistol belt and took it off, slung it over his shoulder. He walked over and picked up his rifle.
"I'll keep these, boy, in 'membrance of ye."
He put the weapons on his horse and went back, covered the body with brush. He knew it was not good enough, but he was hoping the snowfall would hide Ross long enough so that the Indians wouldn't get to him. The coyotes or wolves would, in time, no matter what he did. His hands were cold and his face felt raw as though he'd just shaved with cold water. He stood there by the makeshift grave for a long time until the snow covered up enough of Ross to satisfy him.
He mounted his horse, went and got the sorrel. He tipped his hat in Ross' direction as he rode away, following the depressions in the snow that marked the trail of Matt and Addie. He led the sorrel and looked down at his son's pistol belt every now and then, a deep sadness soaking through him.
The night began to close in around him as he neared the Bozeman. There was no hurry now. He knew where Matt and Addie were headed. He would sleep light and get started early in the morning. He would be headed, the same as they, for the C Bar M. The only difference was, Big John knew what was waiting for him—Bull Roumal and the rest of the bunch. The thought gave him comfort as he found shelter and bedded down for the night, the tears in his eyes long dried and left on his back trail, the same as Ross.
* * *
Talking Horse, Little Dog, Shaggy Elk and Walking Hawk found Ross' body at twilight. There was not much left of it when they finished cutting off various parts. The snow was bloody for yards around. The Lakota warriors were in a frenzy. Little Dog and Walking Hawk were all for calling down the entire tribe on the new fort built on the Rosebud, slaughtering all the soldiers there. Shaggy Elk wanted to follow the tracks of Little Red Fox's killers and count coups on them. Talking Horse said that he knew where to find the killers of Little Red Fox and said that they should go back to the camp and make preparations, gather more friends to go with them.
The men held a long and heated council.
There was a compromise. Talking Horse, Shaggy Elk, and Little Dog would follow the trail of the long knives. Walking Hawk would go back to camp and try to get two dozen warriors to ride with them. They gave hunhs of assent, and split up.
Shaggy Elk carried Ross's genitals with him.
Little Dog took his heart.
Talking Horse carried the bloody scalp thonged to his rifle.
They, too, headed for the C Bar M, following three sets of tracks, one set very recent.
* * *
Matt was exhausted, but he rode fast, following the tracks in the snow.
Addie waited where he told her to and watched him until the snowfall closed behind him like a curtain.
He flushed the rabbit and slid out of his saddle, his rifle in hand. The rabbit started to circle and Matt whistled. The rabbit stopped even as Matt brought his Hawken up to his shoulder. He held just below its ear, on the neck, and drew a deep breath, held it. He squeezed the trigger very gently.
There was a loud crack and a puff of smoke. The lead ball caught the rabbit square in the head, blowing it apart. The rabbit leaped up into the air and flopped down into the snow, its hind feet kicking spasmodically. Fresh blood stained the snow red.
Matt went to the rabbit and reloaded his rifle as he stood over the convulsive animal.
"Thank you, my brother," he said in Sioux. "You will feed me now. Someday my flesh will feed the earth that feeds your brothers. Forgive me for killing you. We must eat."
It was something he had learned from the Sioux. No game was killed without an apology. Nothing of the earth was harmed without mentioning the connection between all living things. To the Indian, everything was alive, even the rocks.
He picked up the rabbit and, with his knife, deftly skinned it and cleaned it. He wrapped the fresh carcass, along with the heart, liver and kidneys, in the skin and put the bundle in his pocket. He left the entrails in the snow to feed whatever animal might come by.
It was getting dark and he knew they would have to keep moving a while longer. He had to make a fire to cook the rabbit and he didn't want to be surprised by anyone who might be following them. He found Addie waiting for him, shivering from the cold.
"We'll move on down for a ways," he said.
"I'm exhausted, Matt. Can't we make a camp now?"
"No. Our tracks are still fresh behind us. Come on."
She was mildly surprised at his sudden curtness. But, then, she had never known him really well. He was just the brother of her betrothed. She had wanted his approval, but never felt she had gotten it. Maybe she had been expecting too much from a half-savage, barely civilized man. She repressed the urge to argue and, gritting her teeth, followed him on a path parallel to the Rosebud.
The snow was frightening to her. She felt as though she was in a tunnel. The light grew dimmer as they rode on and she kept looking back to see if anyone was following them. Soon, she could barely see the rump of Matt's horse and she stopped looking over her shoulder. She felt relief when he finally stopped in a thick clump of cedar.
"We'll eat here," he told her, dismounting.
"Won't we stop for the night? It's getting so dark."
"No, we'll get some nourishment and camp farther down. There will be light and the smells, fair invitation for unwanted company."
"Matt, I—I can't go on much longer."
"Tie up your horse, Addie, and don't whine."
"I'm not whining," she said, indignantly.
"Good. I'm glad to hear it. I'll build us a fire and cook this rabbit. It's little enough, but it'll have to do."
She wanted to curse him at that moment, but she held her tongue.
Matt didn't waste time. He cleared the snow away from the ground, making a small circle in the thick of the cedars. He gathered wood, shaved some with his knife, took tinder and flint, striking steel from his possibles bag and started the fire. He blew on the tinder until the tiny blaze caught the shavings. He piled up bigger and bigger kindling
until the blaze was sufficient to go on its own. He cut two forked sticks and stuck them into the ground on two sides of the fire, pounded them in solid. He cut another straight stick and skewered the rabbit on it and placed this between the forked sticks, over the fire. He kept the heart, liver and kidneys inside the rabbit skin and put this into the fire after it was going well.
Addie hunkered next to the fire, watching Matt, who seemed oblivious to her. He seemed even more a savage to her since the recent events. He was as wild as the Indians who lived in the hills and plains around them. Yet the resemblance to Luke was uncanny. She was unnerved by the likeness, something in her wanting to reach out to him, as she had to Luke. She warmed her hands over the licking flames. The snow seemed to be beaten back, momentarily, by the fire, but she knew it was only an illusion. The darkness drew even closer around them.
The smell from the dripping roasting rabbit made her realize how hungry she was. She watched as Matt turned the animal on the spit, the flames licking at the flesh, but never lingering for more than a second or two. Her mouth watered. She had eaten rabbit before, but never in such primitive fashion. When it was done and Matt cut her off a tender foreleg, she ate it eagerly. He handed her his canteen and she drank from it. She ate another portion as he pulled the cooked liver, heart and gizzard from the flames. He offered the morsels to her.
"No, thanks," she said, "I'm getting quite full."
Matt ate the back and hindquarters and the innards, staring at the darkness instead of at the fire. He pushed snow onto the dying embers when he was finished and stood up.
"We have to move," he said.
"Do we? Who could be following us? It's very quiet now, and the snow's quite deep."
"I don't know. A lot happened back there. Depends on who reads the sign and how they read it."
"What do you mean?"
"Somebody might just want to come onto this fire and catch us by surprise. I would, if I was hunting a man real hard."
