The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  Franklin was still working on the wheel when the sun went behind the Bighorns. Libby persuaded him to put it aside for the time being, saying the job might as well wait until morning. He reluctantly agreed, and sat down to a plate of side meat and beans just as Jack Black Dog returned. Without taking time to unsaddle his horse, he went immediately to the campfire to help himself to supper. With a lecherous wink for the silent young girl, he sat down beside her and proceeded to gobble his food noisily. Libby and Franklin exchanged frowns. It was obvious to them both that Jack might prove to be a problem before they reached Montana.

  They had no way of knowing exactly how long the Sioux war party had been watching them. And they would not know of the Indians’ presence until it was too late. As darkness settled in to surround the tiny campfire, Libby got up to collect the empty plates. She could not help but wonder at the foolish grin on Jack Black Dog’s face as he handed her his plate. A muted sound in the darkness behind the guide caused her to look up in time to see a menacing-looking figure step into the firelight.

  Followed immediately by several other warriors, Iron Claw strode up to the fire, glancing around him at the stunned family. His fearsome appearance rendered Libby as incapable of speech as her daughter at that moment. Desperately trying to gather his wits, Franklin made an attempt to offer hospitality. “We pretty much finished our supper,” he stammered, “but my wife can cook up some more if you’re hungry.

  Iron Claw gazed at him for a long moment with eyes filled with contempt. Then he calmly raised the pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger. Libby screamed in horror as Franklin slid to the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead. Her scream had not died away before a second shot tore into her breast. Terrified, Molly ran to help her mother. Iron Claw raised his pistol again, but Jack Black Dog yelled, “No! She’s mine!” And he grabbed Molly by the arms, holding her back.

  Iron Claw hesitated. He fixed Jack with a cold stare while he deliberated. The Sioux war chief had little more than contempt for the treacherous half-breed, but he was useful on occasion. “I will take the girl,” he decided. “Maybe I’ll give her to you later.”

  “Please don’t hurt my baby” were Libby’s last words before a Sioux warrior silenced her for good with one quick slash across her throat.

  * * *

  The morning broke cold and rainy on the day Matt and Ike rode into Fort Laramie. It was sometime around the first or maybe the middle of March, by Ike’s reckoning. There was no way he could be sure, since neither partner really cared to keep track of the days. At the beginning of winter, when they had left Fort Laramie before, they had not planned to return until late spring. The incident with Iron Claw’s hunting party had caused them to change their plans, however. The Lakota war chief became obsessed with the capture of the two white hunters, and the weeks that followed the fight in the ravine became a deadly cat-and-mouse game. Sioux war parties combed the mountains east of the Bighorn River, searching for the two intruders who were trespassing on Lakota hunting grounds. Almost every scouting party they saw had the same leader. At first Matt recognized him by the paint pony he rode. On one occasion, when he and Ike were almost surprised by a small war party, there was no time to run. Figuring they were going to be forced to make a stand, they hid the horses in a ravine and took cover in some rocks along the top. The Sioux warriors appeared to be following their trail as they approached the ravine, but they made no motions directly toward the two white men hiding in the rocks. They appeared to be confused.

  “Hold on a minute,” Ike whispered. “I don’t think they know we’re here.”

  In fact, the warriors seemed to be arguing among themselves. Finally one of them, the rider of the paint pony, spoke, and the others immediately ceased their bantering. With the first real opportunity to see the man up fairly close, Matt looked long and hard at him, interested to see one who seemed so dead set upon finding him and Ike. He was certain he would recognize him again. He was even closer than he had been when Matt and Ike were trapped in the ravine. The pronounced hawklike quality of the warrior’s face made him appear always to be angry.

  After that close encounter, they decided it was too dangerous to remain in one camp for longer than a day or two before moving to another. Finally, after more close calls, they decided it was getting a little too hot altogether for them to stay in the territory. They had talked about moving on west toward the Wind River country, but the prospect of gainful employment with the army offered the opportunity to restock supplies and ammunition. The decision made, they returned to Fort Laramie, both men and horses lean and weary from a hard winter spent in the midst of hostile country.

  On the day of their arrival, there was a full-dress formation on the parade ground. The two hunters skirted the formation, heading for the post trader’s store. “What in tarnation is that all about?” Ike exclaimed. “Nobody but soldiers would dress up in their Sunday suits and march around in the rain for no reason at all.” Matt didn’t reply. He had served in the army, although it was not the Union Army, and he knew that all armies were prone to parade for no reason at all.

  * * *

  Seth Ward glanced up through bushy black eyebrows to squint at the two men dressed head to foot in deerskins. “Well, Ike, I thought you were gone till spring,” the post trader said. “What’s the matter? Too cold up there in the mountains?”

  “Too damn many Injuns,” was Ike’s gruff reply. “How you doin’, Seth?”

  “Tolerable,” Seth replied. “I swear, I’m surprised to see you back so soon, though. Thought maybe you’d go Injun for good, maybe join up with ol’ Cooter Martin.” He chuckled when Ike grunted in response.

  “Hell,” Ike opined, “I ain’t gone loco yet.” He turned to explain to Matt. “Cooter Martin’s some old man that’s supposed to been livin’ with the Sioux and Cheyenne for so long he’s gone Injun hisself—or maybe crazy—or both. Lot of people talk about him, but ain’t many seen him. I never saw him. I don’t know if he’s even real or not, might be just another tale some folks made up.”

  “Oh, he’s real all right,” Seth insisted. “He’s been in here a time or two tradin’ pelts for ammunition and coffee.” He grinned at Matt. “I expect ol’ Ike here will end up like Cooter.” With his attention on Matt, he went on. “How you doin’, young feller? I’m sorry I don’t recollect your name right off.”

  “Slaughter,” Matt replied, not surprised the post trader hadn’t remembered his name. He had met the man only once, and that was several months past.

  “Right. Slaughter,” Seth echoed. He looked back at Ike and grinned before adding, “Well, Slaughter, I’ve gotta hand it to ya. You’ve gotta have plenty of starch to put up with Ike for one whole winter.”

  Ike grunted briskly, giving back as good as he got. “That’s mighty generous praise from a man that’s made a fortune off’n poor folks like me and Matt here.”

  “Now you know I deal fair and square with ever’ body, even Injuns. To show you my heart’s in the right place, I’ll buy your first drink for ya. Come on over to the bar.”

  “Now you’re makin’ sense,” Ike said. “Say, what’s all the hoopla on the parade ground? Is this a holiday or somethin’?”

  “Nah, it’s a welcomin’ formation for the new post commander, Major Evans,” Seth answered as he led them to the other side of the store.

  Ike looked surprised. “Hell, I thought Colonel Maynadier was the commanding officer when we left here.”

  “He was,” Seth replied, shrugging his shoulders. “There’s been a couple since you’ve been gone. You know the army. They just turn ’em over like flapjacks. I took over the store here in 1857, and I could count on one hand the number of post commanders to hold the job long enough to take a comfortable squat in the outhouse.”

  “How ’bout chief of scouts? Is Captain Boyd still the man?”

  “He is,” Seth replied. “Why? You and your partner thinkin’ about joinin’ up?”

  “Maybe,” Ike answered.
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  “Well, he might have a job for you, since you’ve been livin’ in the Powder River country all winter. I expect he might be interested in what the Injuns has been up to.” He shifted his gaze toward Ike’s tall young friend then. “Your partner don’t say a helluva lot, does he?”

  Ike smiled. “He takes spells. Sometimes he might say three or four words at once.”

  Leaning against the counter, Matt laughed. “Ike does enough talkin’ for the two of us,” he said.

  “I expect that’s a fact, all right,” Seth said with a chuckle. “I’d be glad to put in a word to Captain Boyd for you.”

  * * *

  Captain Parker Boyd of the Eleventh Ohio Volunteer Cavalry, chief of scouts, had been appointed to his position by Major Evans’ predecessor, Colonel Henry Maynadier. His qualifications for the job of commanding the scout detachment at Fort Laramie could be summed up in the fact that he was Colonel Maynadier’s nephew. While he had as yet never taken the field in this position, he was nevertheless determined to be successful as commander of the scouts, if only to prove the validity of his uncle Henry’s judgment. In the only private meeting he had with the new post commander, he came away with the distinct feeling that he had not impressed Major Evans. When Evans had pressed him for information on the activities of the Sioux during the past months, Boyd had been forced to admit that he had very little knowledge of even the location of the larger hostile villages. For this reason, he eagerly received the two hunters who came to his office seeking employment.

  “Seth Ward tells me you men have been camped in the Powder River country all winter,” Captain Boyd said in greeting Matt and Ike.

  “Yes, sir, that’s a fact,” Ike replied. Matt stood silently by, content to let Ike do the talking, since his partner took to the job so naturally.

  Boyd paused a few seconds while he looked the two over. Dressed from head to foot in deerskins, the pair looked little different from a great many rudderless drifters who wandered through army posts all over the western frontier. The big one was obviously older than his friend, and Boyd could not recall ever having seen a man of larger size. When he pulled his fox-skin cap from his head, he revealed a bald dome where not a single hair found purchase. In contrast, his face, from his ears down, was hidden beneath a great bush of gray whiskers from which his deep voice resonated when he spoke.

  “What can you tell me about Sioux activity in that area during the winter?” Boyd asked. “Do you know where Spotted Tail’s band is located? Or Red Cloud?”

  Ike looked puzzled for a moment, thinking that everybody should know what activities any Indian village would be involved in during a cold, hard winter. “Well,” he answered after a long pause, “I s’pect they was doin’ about the same thing we was—tryin’ to keep warm and find somethin’ to eat.” Seeing the disappointment in the captain’s face, he glanced over at Matt before embellishing a bit on his report. “I don’t know whose camp it was, but there was a big village on the Powder, maybe two hundred tipis. We come across huntin’ parties ever’ where. That’s why we finally had to get out. There was too damned many Injuns.”

  “Where on the Powder?” Boyd asked. He opened a drawer and pulled out a crude map. “Show me.”

  Ike immediately glanced back at Matt, looking for support. He really had no idea of the location of the Sioux camp. He and Matt had never actually seen a village. They had made it a point to confine their hunting to the western side of the mountains and the Bighorn River valley. They had just assumed there had to be a big village somewhere along the Powder River. Matt rolled his eyes, doing his best to suppress a grin. Seeing that Matt was going to let him worm his way out of it without help, Ike leaned over the desk, squinting his eyes at the map. For a long moment, he said nothing, appearing to study the map. Finally, Boyd placed a finger on the map and said, “Here’s the Powder where it branches off from the Yellowstone.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ike replied at once, thankful that Boyd had pointed it out, for Ike couldn’t read. “That’s the Powder all right.” He poked the map with his finger, about halfway down the river. “About there, that’s where they was.” He turned to Matt again. “Wouldn’t you say so, partner?”

  Without bothering to look at the map, Matt replied, “I reckon.”

  Boyd turned to study the heretofore silent partner then. Up to that point, his attention had been captured by the formidable figure that was Ike Blister. Upon a closer look, he realized that Matt was a big man as well, although not as thick of trunk as Brister. Rather, he was tall and lean, giving a sense of animal grace even while standing patiently by. His eyes were alert and clear, like the eyes of an eagle. Maybe, he thought, this is the man who should be doing the talking. Before he could voice it, Ike continued.

  “’Course I doubt if they’re there now,” he said. “They’ve probably moved that village by now. I expect me and my partner could find ’em again, though.” He glanced over at Matt and winked.

  Boyd continued staring at the map for a few moments while he decided whether or not to put the two on the payroll. In numbers, he already had a full complement of scouts, both Indian and white. In quality, however, he was lacking. He had no qualms about the Crows and the Rees. But there were only a couple of the white scouts who had impressed him as men of integrity. Most of the others were little more than whiskey-soaked vagabonds, too lazy to do anything else.

  There was something about the two standing before him now that gave him a sense of assurance, however, especially the young one. Slaughter looked like a man who was born to ride the high country. He seemed to have said more with his eyes than what his huge friend had blurted out for the last twenty minutes. The decision made, Boyd concluded the interview. “All right, I’m going to take a chance on you. The corporal will show you where to sign up.” He called his clerk in to escort his new recruits out.

  “Well, I reckon we’re gainfully employed,” Ike announced with a chuckle as they left Boyd’s office and led their horses across the parade ground. “Don’t seem like too hard a job, does it? Lay around the post here while the army buys our supplies and feeds our horses.” So far, their only orders were to stay close and to report in with the other scouts every morning. The idle time lasted for only two days, however, for they were posted on their first assignment as scouts on the third day after signing up.

  A settler named Robert Hostetler, his wife, and two teenage sons had built a cabin near the south fork of the Cheyenne River during the past summer. They had been advised that the Sioux considered that area their own and did not welcome white settlers. But Hostetler was firm in his conviction that when the Indians saw that he was a peaceful man with no intentions of spoiling their hunting grounds, he would not be harassed. Maybe, he thought, his family might even become friends with the Sioux.

  His son, Albert, in later conversation with army scouts, said it appeared that his father was right. They had seen occasional Sioux and Cheyenne riders stopping on the bluffs above the cabin. The Indians would simply watch the activities of the white family for a while, and then disappear again. There were no threats of any kind. The Sioux merely seemed to be curious. The Hostetlers were left in peace until two days after Matt and Ike arrived at Fort Laramie.

  There was no warning. Suddenly, in the middle of the afternoon, a line of thirty or forty Indians appeared upon the bluffs across the river. Albert’s brother, Joseph, was the first of the family to spot the war party. He ran to alert his father. Upon seeing the line of hostiles, still silently watching from the bluffs, Hostetler was undecided what to do. Maybe, he thought, like the small groups of two or three that had wandered by before, they were simply curious, and might fade into the prairie as the others had. Still, they might have their eyes on the livestock. So as a precaution, he sent Albert to bring the horse and mules back to the corral.

  As Albert later related, by the time he had rounded up the two mules and his father’s horse and was headed back to the cabin, the line of warriors had forded the river and ridd
en right up to the cabin. From the hill south of the homestead, Albert saw his father standing in the yard awaiting the visitors. The boy paused when he saw his mother come from the cabin to stand beside her husband. She was holding up a cake of corn bread that she had baked just that afternoon. Before Albert’s horrified eyes, one of the Indians raised his bow and drove an arrow deep into his father’s chest. Stunned, Hostetler sank to his knees, only to receive a second arrow just below the first one. His wife, stricken with terrified disbelief, dropped the corn bread and tried to scream. The arrow that slashed through her throat cut her cry short, and she collapsed to the ground beside her husband. Joseph tried to escape to the river, but was ridden down before reaching the bank. It had all taken place within the span of a handful of seconds, during which time Albert was rendered helpless, paralyzed by the horror he had witnessed. Too far away to have come to his family’s aid, he realized at that moment that he had not yet been discovered by the Sioux warriors. With no other choice, he dropped the mules’ reins, jumped on the horse’s back, and sped away down the other side of the hill.

  Hearing the departing horse, the Sioux gave chase, but Albert’s lead was enough that they gave up the pursuit after a couple of miles, more interested in looting the cabin. Albert pushed the laboring animal through the night, reaching Fort Laramie just before sunup. The exhausted horse foundered on the parade ground.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Frederick LeVan had been charged with the responsibility of seeking out the hostile Sioux party, with orders to bring them back in chains if possible. With a column of eighty troopers, eight Crow scouts, a seasoned white scout named Zeb Benson and the two recently hired white scouts, LeVan set out for the Cheyenne River.

  Following the Bozeman Trail, the first day’s march found the column some forty miles northwest of Fort Laramie, where they made camp in the shadow of the Laramie Mountains. Even though there was very little daylight left, Lieutenant LeVan sent the scouts out to look for any evidence of recent hostile activity. Zeb Benson had ridden scout for LeVan before, and he told Matt and Ike that the lieutenant was strictly by the book when it came to patrols. Most of the other officers were somewhat relaxed when in the field, but LeVan ran his command with strict adherence to prescribed military conduct. It did not make him popular with the rank and file. But most of the men would grudgingly admit that in a fight, you could count on him to lead the action while still remaining dedicated to a responsibility for the safety of his command. “He ain’t gonna set down and chew the fat with you at suppertime,” Zeb summed up, “but you know he ain’t gonna run off from a fight without his dead and wounded.”