The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  The Crow scouts were the first to realize they had been tricked. They tried to call out to LeVan to stop, but it was too late. The door had been closed. In the next instant, the walls of the gorge erupted with rifle fire and arrows in flight. Caught in a virtual shooting gallery, LeVan found his command outnumbered and fired upon from every direction. He immediately began taking casualties as his troopers broke ranks and tried to find cover from the blistering gunfire. Still taking casualties, he was finally able to fall back toward the entrance to the canyon and form a defensive circle, using the horses as a revetment. Even then, he knew it was only a matter of time before they exhausted their ammunition and were overrun. His only hope was help from Barnes and O’Connor.

  * * *

  Sergeant Barnes was intent upon following his commanding officer into the gorge, but Matt persuaded him to halt before committing his men to the narrow passage. He could already hear rifle fire emanating from the canyon, and moments later a continuous roar of gunfire broke out. “Damn!” Barnes exclaimed. “The lieutenant must be givin’ ’em hell.”

  Matt wasn’t so sure. He figured it more likely the lieutenant had ridden into a beehive of angry Sioux, maybe more than he could handle. “You couldn’t pick a better place for an ambush,” he said. “’Course, you’re gonna do what you think is best. But my advice is not to go ridin’ into that canyon. I figure it’d be a better idea to split up and climb up on both sides of this gulch, work our way down to the fight and see what’s what. If the lieutenant is in trouble, we might be of better use from up above.”

  Seeing the wisdom in Matt’s suggestion, Barnes immediately agreed. They split the detail into two groups. Barnes took five of the men and started climbing the ridge on the left. The remaining five soldiers and Spotted Horse followed Matt up the ridge on the right.

  It was a rugged climb up the steep slope, but the buckskin proved to be up to the task, keeping up with Spotted Horse’s nimble pony. The army mounts labored along some distance behind them. Matt and Spotted Horse rode along the top of the gulch until they got to a point that they figured to be parallel to the fighting below. They waited until the soldiers caught up to them. Then they dismounted and, leaving one man to watch the horses, worked their way down to the rim of the gulch.

  The scene was pretty much the way Matt had expected. Below them on the canyon floor, boxed into a tight defensive circle, LeVan and his men were fighting for their lives against hostiles on all sides. Between him and the lieutenant were countless hostiles hidden in the many gullies in the sides of the gulch, keeping the soldiers pinned down. Matt looked over toward the far side of the gulch, but he could not see any sign of Barnes and his men. Although he could not see them, they were working their way down through the gullies, just as he had. And unknown to him, they had been joined by the remnants of O’Connor’s men from the other side of the ridge.

  Matt directed the soldiers to spread out along the rim of the gorge. When everyone was set, he aimed at a pocket about fifty feet below him where four hostiles were positioned. His shots served as a signal for the rest of the men to open up, pouring deadly fire down upon the unsuspecting Sioux. A few seconds later, rifle fire broke out from the opposite side of the gulch, and Matt knew Barnes had made it to the party.

  With little cover from the soldiers above them, the hostiles, at first confused by the lethal rain of lead, soon found their position a little too hot. After a blistering barrage from the carbines on both sides of the gulch above them, they were soon forced to retreat. In a matter of minutes, the Sioux were in full flight. Below, on the canyon floor, LeVan pressed his troopers to pursue the retreating Indians until the last warrior rode clear of the canyon mouth. Then, fully realizing that he was badly outnumbered after suffering a considerable number of casualties, he ordered the column to turn back and depart the gorge. The Sioux were bound to regroup and return to renew the battle. LeVan was no longer interested in endangering his men again to a force he reckoned to be well over a hundred strong and armed as well, if not better, than he. He picked up his dead and wounded and left the bloody gulch behind him.

  The column moved at a smart pace back up the valley toward home. About a quarter mile past the mouth of the canyon, they found the rest of the soldiers awaiting them. LeVan galloped up to a stop beside Lieutenant O’Connor. “By God, Jim, you saved our bacon back there, and no doubt about it.”

  O’Connor, his campaign hat missing, his blouse stained with sweat and dirt, shook his head in response. “I’m not the one to take credit for that. We ran into an ambush down below that ridge. We lost some men back there, and the rest of us were damn lucky to get out of that trap alive. We ran into Sergeant Barnes on the ridgetop.”

  Surprised, LeVan looked at Barnes for an explanation. The sergeant turned to glance at the buckskin-clad scout just now approaching them. LeVan followed his gaze. “Slaughter?” he questioned.

  Barnes nodded and replied. “Yes, sir, we was about to ride into that trap right behind you, but Slaughter come up with the idea of climbing the ridges.”

  LeVan was about to commend Matt for organizing their rescue when Matt spoke first. “Where’s Ike?” he asked, looking around for his partner. The big man was nowhere to be seen, and no one could answer him. “Where the hell’s Ike?” he demanded, turning a concerned gaze on Lieutenant O’Connor.

  O’Connor shrugged uncomfortably. “I don’t know. He was behind us when we climbed out of that ravine. I thought he was with us.”

  “You thought he was with you?” Matt echoed, more than a little concerned now. Then, becoming fully angry, he demanded, “Dammit, do you see him with you?”

  His feathers ruffled sufficiently by the disrespectful dressing-down he was suffering at the hands of a scout, O’Connor tried to defend his actions. “Dammit, man, we were under a great deal of fire in that ravine. I gave the order to withdraw. I was too damn busy to hold anybody’s hand.”

  “Too damn busy savin’ your own hide to worry about anybody else is more likely,” Matt shot back. “You didn’t even wait to see who you left behind.”

  “You’d best hold your tongue, mister!” O’Connor sputtered, aware that their argument was being watched with keen interest by the men around him.

  LeVan decided he’d better step in before something already ugly developed into something unmanageable. He had just discovered that he had a helluva scout in Matt Slaughter. He didn’t want a spat between the civilian and an officer to escalate to the point where he would have to back O’Connor. “A lot of us made mistakes back there,” he said. “I take the responsibility for riding into that trap. There were just too many hostiles for this column to handle. We suffered a helluva lot more casualties than we should have.” He turned to O’Connor. “How many did you lose?”

  “Four, I think,” O’Connor answered, still ruffled.

  “Four, you think?” LeVan demanded. “Don’t you know how many men you left behind?”

  “Four,” O’Connor replied meekly.

  “Beggin’ your pardon, Lieutenant O’Connor,” a corporal who had ridden with the ill-fated detachment spoke up then. “But there was five left behind, not countin’ that big scout.” Seeing the angry scowl building on LeVan’s face, the corporal quickly added, “I don’t think you saw Baskin take an arrow in the throat when we was scramblin’ up the side of that ridge.”

  LeVan didn’t say anything for a few moments while he stared accusingly at O’Connor. When he spoke again, it was in quiet, even tones. “We’ll go back and recover your dead while the Indians are withdrawn.” With that order issued, he led the column after Matt, who was already headed down the slope.

  As the corporal had stated, there were five bodies left in the clearing. There was, however, no sign of the huge civilian scout. The bodies were all mutilated, some to a more barbaric degree than others. The one shocking mutilation, common to all five, was the absence of ears. All had been sliced off. It was a sickening sight, and an initial introduction for most of LeVan’s g
reen troopers to the cruelty of the enemy they fought.

  “Let’s get ’em up,” LeVan ordered sharply, trying to keep the emotion from his voice. “I don’t know how much time we’ve got before they regroup. Let’s get ’em under way, Sergeant.” He then turned to O’Connor. “Jim, head the column out.” Turning back to Matt, he said, “Slaughter, I’m sorry about your friend, but I guess it couldn’t be helped. You and Zeb can take the point.”

  “Zeb can take the point,” Matt replied. “I’m goin’ back for Ike.”

  LeVan didn’t respond at once. It was obvious that the broad-shouldered man in buckskins did not make idle statements. He thought to try to persuade Matt that he could not go back alone, but decided it was a useless endeavor. “Suit yourself, man.” He wheeled his horse to join the column already under way. Then he turned back once again. “Good luck,” he said.

  Zeb Benson looked at Matt and just shook his head, figuring that this might be the last time he would see the young fellow. It’s a shame, too, he thought, for there was something he saw in Slaughter that told him he was a man you could count on. Turning then, he galloped off to take the point. One remained beside Matt for a few moments longer. Spotted Horse looked deep into Matt’s eyes for a long moment, reading the courage there. He solemnly nodded his head in respect. Then he joined the others.

  Chapter 4

  “It is the same man,” Iron Claw said upon first seeing the captive. “There couldn’t be many men of such great size.” He continued to stand over Ike, staring at the huge man held helpless by the rawhide thongs tying his hands and feet. “I cannot be sure, but I think the other one was on the ridge above us. There was one with a rifle that spoke like the spirit gun, but I could not see him clearly.” Iron Claw’s mind was on the incident in the ravine weeks before, when he and his warriors were tricked into a deadly ambush by the two white hunters. As he re-created the scene in his mind, the lead slug embedded deep in his thigh began to ache. He would carry the spirit gun’s bullet for the rest of his life. The bullet was lodged too far into the muscle to be removed. The wound was almost healed, but he now walked with a slight limp and probably always would.

  Broken Bow studied his friend’s face for a moment. Like Iron Claw, he too still carried a hunger for revenge after the fight with the two white men. But he carried no physical scars from the battle, only the shame he had felt for being so blatantly tricked. Lakota warriors had been killed on that day, most of them by the hand of the white man with the spirit gun. Behind him in the village, the sound of the dancing carried triumphantly on the evening breeze. There was cause to celebrate. It had been a great victory over the soldiers on this day, even though his warriors had been forced to withdraw from the valley. They had killed many soldiers, and the dancing would continue for most of the night. It would have been complete if the big white hunter’s partner had also been captured.

  Gazing down at the battered body, soaked in blood from head to toe, Broken Bow could not help but marvel that the white brute was still alive. His ankles bound, he had been dragged all the way back to the Lakota village, an ordeal that would have killed most men. It had been Broken Bow’s bullet that killed the big man’s horse. A bullet from one of the other warriors had been the blow that grazed the white man’s head, leaving him unconscious on the ground. The bullet had laid open a long, ugly gash along the side of his smooth bald head and streaked his heavy gray beard red with blood. While the two men talked, an almost continuous parade of spectators, mostly women and children, gathered around the captive, curious to see a white man of such proportions. They prodded the huge body with sticks, or threw stones, seeking some response. There was none. The body, battered and broken, appeared to be oblivious to additional pain.

  “This crazy buffalo is too dumb to die,” Iron Claw commented, his thoughts running along the same trail as his friend’s. “It pleases me, for he will be a long time dying.” Broken Bow nodded. There was a long moment of silence while both warriors thought of their desire for revenge, and the partner of the huge captive, the man with the spirit gun. “He will come,” Iron Claw finally pronounced softly. “We have not seen the last of that wasicu.”

  Broken Bow nodded, knowing of whom his friend spoke. “Maybe so,” he allowed, “but he would be foolish to do so. I think maybe many soldiers will come, a lot more than came today. The soldiers will be seeking revenge for their defeat. I think it would be wise to move our village before they come. Some of the elders have already been talking about moving soon, anyway.”

  Iron Claw shrugged indifferently. “Yes, it’s time to move. We have killed off most of the game, and the ponies need new grass. The talk has been mostly in favor of moving to the valley of the Greasy Grass. We have not camped there for many moons.”

  “Is the white giant still alive?” Wounded Bear wondered aloud as he walked up to join Iron Claw and Broken Bow.

  “I don’t know,” Iron Claw answered, his attention focused upon a grisly necklace he was stringing. “He hasn’t moved or made a sound for a long time now, even when the women kicked him. Maybe he is dead.” Not really concerned at the moment, he held the necklace up for Broken Bow to see. Broken Bow grunted when shown the macabre ornament of human ears, sliced from the bodies of the soldiers.

  Wounded Bear decided to see for himself if Ike still lived. He aimed a kick that connected solidly with the big man’s chest. It was powerful enough to rock the huge body, but there was no response from Ike. Wounded Bear grunted, not satisfied. “I’ll see if he’s dead or not.” He drew his knife, and dropping to one knee beside Ike, pressed the blade against his cheek until it drew blood. “Ha!” Wounded Bear grunted when he detected a slight recoil from the big man. Wounded Bear laughed. Pointing to Ike’s smooth pate, he said, “He has no scalp to take.” He then decided to take the next best thing. In one brutal motion, he sliced Ike’s cheek down to his chin and ripped almost half of his beard from his face. Ike finally cried out in pain. Wounded Bear issued a loud war whoop and held the bloody trophy up over his head. With fatal resolve, Ike struck. With his hands tied together, he suddenly reached up and caught Wounded Bear by the throat, choking off the triumphant war whoop in a death grip. Wounded Bear struggled frantically, but to no avail. The powerful hands locked down on his throat, crushing his windpipe. In desperation, the trapped victim tried to free himself by jabbing his knife again and again into Ike’s arms and shoulders. Broken Bow was not slow in reacting, but by the time he could come to his friend’s aid, Wounded Bear’s eyes were bulging wide. Seconds later, his body went limp. Still the huge hands tightened around Wounded Bear’s neck, until they heard it snap. Broken Bow could not break the big white man’s grip until, finally, Iron Claw stepped up behind them, placed his pistol against Ike’s head, and ended his torment.

  Broken Bow was beside himself with grief and anger. Wounded Bear had been his friend. In a fit of rage, he picked up a heavy rock and slammed it against Ike’s head again and again, until his arms were weary.

  The shot that finally ended Ike’s life went unnoticed due to the shooting and dancing going on around the fire in the village’s center. The dancers were not aware of the death of one of their brothers until one of the young boys ran to tell the elders. Enraged, they dragged Ike’s body to the edge of the river and tied it spread-eagled between two stout willows. When they had vented their wrath upon his mutilated corpse, they left it suspended between the two trees as a grisly warning to other white men who might think to enter their country. Before leaving to take care of Wounded Bear’s body, Iron Claw went back to Ike’s corpse and hung his grisly necklace of human ears around the bloodied neck. He backed away to stare at it for a moment. Then, satisfied that it conveyed the message he desired, he joined the others.

  * * *

  As the column filed out of the narrow valley, heading for home, Matt immediately expanded his search around the clearing, looking for some sign that might help him find his friend. Entering the stand of pines near the bottom, he proceeded c
autiously lest, like himself, some of the hostiles might be lingering after the battle.

  In a small clearing beyond the pines, he found the carcass of Ike’s bay, but no sign of his friend. Dismounting, he looked around the area for sign. The tracks he saw told him what had happened there. The detachment had been drawn into an ambush. Indications of a fight before they escaped up the eastern slope of the ridge confirmed O’Connor’s testimony. The trail left in the slope revealed signs of the fleeing soldiers’ panic. As he walked slowly around the clearing, something else caught his eye. The gravel and dirt bore evidence that a heavy object had been dragged away behind the Indian ponies. Matt knew at once what that object had to be.

  He was struck with a cold, clammy feeling as if the blood in his veins had suddenly chilled. The blatant trail could only mean that the big scout was dead. He wondered if he was already dead when they dragged his body away, or if he was cruelly battered to death behind an Indian pony. Without his realizing it, his fists were clenched so tightly in anger that his fingernails were drawing blood. He had known that Ike was probably dead when he did not return with O’Connor, but there had been the remote possibility that he was still alive—held captive or maybe hiding out somewhere, wounded and waiting for Matt to find him. Now there was little doubt that Ike was gone. Still, Matt was compelled to search for him, hoping for a miracle and knowing that had the roles been reversed Ike would be looking for him.