The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  Back in the saddle, he stalled out, following the trail left by Ike’s body as it was dragged through brush and rocky soil. Down the length of the ravine and out onto the rolling prairie, where the tracks were joined by those of other ponies, the trail led northward. The combined tracks converged yet again with tracks from another party, and Matt could see then the full strength of the war party that had lured the military column into ambush.

  It was close to sundown when the trail led him to the river, then turned to follow it upstream. No more than a mile farther, darkness began to fall upon the river valley. He was going to have to make camp and continue by morning light. It would be a safe guess that the Sioux had a village farther upriver somewhere, but there was still the chance that the trail might cross over to the Tongue and he might miss it in the darkness. With a great deal of reluctance, he looked along the riverbank for a suitable place to make his camp. Only then did he realize that it had been some time since he had last eaten. He had nothing but some jerked venison and a little sack of green coffee beans. It would have to do. More important, there was plenty of grass along the riverbank for his horse. He could supplement the buckskin’s diet with some bark peeled from a few cottonwood branches.

  Worrisome thoughts crowded his mind as he went about making a small fire to boil his coffee water. He could not avoid thinking that it might have made a difference had he been with Ike. He could do a great deal of damage with his Henry rifle. Maybe it would have been just enough to drive the hostiles off. Things happen the way they’re supposed to, he told himself, but the troublesome thoughts remained.

  * * *

  Daylight brought a cloudy, chilly morning with a dusting of spring snow that left a thin blanket over the ground and covered the bearskin Matt slept under. He awakened to the sound of the buckskin gelding gently nuzzling the light covering of snow to get to the grass beneath. He arose at once. Anxious to return to the trail, he did not waste time rekindling his fire or making coffee. Another piece of deer jerky would suffice for breakfast. He saddled the buckskin, checked his rifle, and was soon on his way once more.

  Although light, the snow was enough to cloak the trail he had followed the day before. It perturbed him to realize that he had no choice but to follow his hunch and continue along the river, even though he had stopped the night before for fear he would lose the trail. Now he couldn’t see the tracks anyway. He pushed on, following the general direction of the gently winding river, half expecting to find a village around each turn.

  A large portion of his day was wasted when he decided to search the opposite bank for tracks that might indicate the Sioux warriors had crossed over, still following the river. However, there were none. His hunch had been wrong, and he was forced to turn around and retrace his route.

  He was within a mile of the previous night’s camp when he encountered the broad path of a large band of riders where they had come out of the river. Looking at the shallow crossing, he could not help but picture the battered body of his friend as the hostiles dragged it across the river. The image brought a stabbing pain to his chest. He looked toward the west, following the general line of the tracks. They led toward a broad ravine that appeared to be a passage through the hills and the mountains to the river beyond. The village is on the Tongue, and not the Powder, he thought.

  Before the sun climbed directly overhead, he began to see other trails crossing the one he was following, and he knew he must be approaching a village. He warned himself to sharpen his eye and tune in to his senses. He could not afford to be spotted by a Sioux scouting party as he crossed the open meadows, so he stopped often to search the valleys and hills before him, always keeping a route of escape in mind. As he crossed over a tree-covered knoll, the river suddenly appeared below him. He had found the village, but he was too late. The people were gone. His ear immediately picked up the sound of snarling animals below him, seeming to come from the edge of the river. Descending into the valley, he didn’t immediately see the reason for the sounds, but as he rode slowly into the abandoned campsite, a macabre apparition suddenly seized his attention.

  Bound by the wrists and ankles between two willows and suspended several feet off the ground, the body of Ike Brister hung spread-eagled, like a bear hide strung out to dry. The sounds he had heard had emanated from a pack of snarling coyotes. The surly animals were fighting for dominance of the body, trying to leap high enough to tear at the flesh. Matt jerked hard on the buckskin’s reins, pulling the big horse to an abrupt stop. Although he had thought he had prepared himself for the worst, the shock of seeing his friend displayed in such a horrific manner was enough to freeze the blood in his veins. For a long moment he could do nothing but stare at the ghastly scene. It was not until the buckskin pawed the ground nervously and backed away a few feet that Matt brought his senses back in focus. With no concern for the sound, he cocked his rifle and fired as rapidly as he could, trying to kill as many of the offending scavengers as possible. The sudden burst of rifle fire served to scatter the survivors of the pack and left four of their number lying dead at Ike’s feet.

  He wheeled the big horse around then and rode the length of the deserted Sioux encampment, chasing the last of the coyotes, yelping and snarling, into the cottonwoods. When he was certain that he was alone in the village, he returned to take care of Ike.

  “Damn, partner,” he muttered softly, “look at what they did to you.” The buckskin was reluctant to move up close beside the corpse, and fidgeted nervously while Matt drew his knife and cut the thongs holding the body. As soon as he cut those on one hand and ankle, the trees separated and straightened, throwing Ike’s body against the trunk he was still bound to. The buckskin almost bolted, and would have backed away had Matt not held it firmly.

  “Damn,” he muttered again, apologizing for the rough treatment, but there was no gentle way to free the huge body. He pulled his horse around the other tree so he could cut the two thongs still holding Ike. Seated on the horse, he found himself face-to-face with his former friend and partner. The sightless eyes stared at him from beneath blood-crusted brows, seeming to demand vengeance. A ghastly string of human ears hung from a rawhide cord around Ike’s neck. The shock was unnerving, causing Matt to gasp involuntarily as he saw the results of Broken Bow’s anger upon Ike’s head. He had obviously been bludgeoned repeatedly with a heavy object. Matt quickly cut the two remaining thongs, and Ike’s body dropped to the ground. Matt knelt beside his old partner, pulled the macabre necklace from his neck and flung it to the ground.

  With a mixture of sorrow and anger boiling in his veins, Matt was determined to give Ike a decent burial. He looked around him, then up and down the river. It struck him as a strangely peaceful place in spite of the violent people who had camped there. Then he looked across the river to the mountains beyond. That was where Ike should be laid to rest. He had loved the mountains, and often said he wanted to ride out the last of his years on a high mountain where he could look down on the world. Matt looked back at the bulk of Ike’s body. It would be a job, but it was the least he could do for his old friend.

  Matt was a strong man, but the task of lifting Ike’s massive bulk up onto his horse was almost beyond his capability. He struggled to get the body to a standing position in an effort to load it on his shoulder. But the body, already stiff, with arms and legs spread wide, proved to be too awkward to load on a skittish horse. After one unsuccessful attempt, he lowered the corpse back to the ground and tried to bend the arms and legs in closer to the body. “I swear, Ike, you’re just as damn stubborn dead as you were alive,” he couldn’t help remarking as he struggled with the limbs frozen in death.

  After considerable effort, Matt succeeded in laying Ike’s body across the saddle. Taking a look at the massive load awkwardly balanced on his horse, he decided it best to walk instead of trying to step up behind Ike. He started out slowly, leading the buckskin away from the camp and toward the ridge that protected the valley. It was not an easy climb, but he was det
ermined to get Ike to the top of the slope. Even though it was not a high mountain, like the ones he could see beyond, it would give a commanding view of the river below, and he thought the big scout would like that.

  He had almost reached the top of the hill when the huge body began to teeter and suddenly slid off, landing heavily upon the ground. Matt stood gazing at the grotesque corpse for a moment, perplexed. It had been hard enough to lift Ike up onto the horse when he was on level ground. On the slope it might prove to be near impossible. After a few moments more, he said, “Well, I reckon you’ve decided this is the place you wanna be buried.” He started digging right where he was.

  Transporting Ike’s body to the top of the ridge proved not to be the real task at hand. Digging a grave adequate to accept the huge remains took Matt into the late afternoon, and by the time he filled in the hole and smoothed the dirt, shadows were long in the valley. He gathered a few rocks to place in random fashion upon the grave, hoping they would disguise it. His grim task finally finished, he stood at the spot for a few minutes more. He felt he should say something, but he was not given to eloquent speech. “I know you ain’t even here,” he finally muttered. “You’re most likely laughin’ at me for totin’ your big ass all the way up this hill. But you were as fine a friend as a man could have.” He paused to think a moment. “And the worst cardplayer I’ve ever seen.” He smiled at the thought of Ike getting fleeced in every poker game he played. Then his mind flashed an image of the battered face lying in the grave, and his thoughts became stone-cold sober. “I promise you this, partner. That band of Sioux will pay for this. I swear it.” As he sat there, his blood boiling with anger, he suddenly thought about the ornament that had been hung around Ike’s neck. There were ten ears strung on the rawhide, five pairs, sliced from the bodies of the five troopers. “Ten, Ike,” he said solemnly. “I swear I’ll kill one Sioux warrior for each one of those ears they hung on you.”

  He sat by the grave long after the sun had disappeared beyond the mountains to the west and the valley below him became cloaked in darkness. He might have sat there longer had not his horse nudged him impatiently. Bringing his mind back to the present, he got to his feet, realizing then that he had not eaten since chewing on that stick of jerky early that morning. He took one last look at Ike’s grave, wishing there was something he could do in his friend’s memory. The only thing he could think to do was to see that the big man’s name didn’t die. He hoped Ike wouldn’t be insulted. He had never named the buckskin horse he rode, so he decided it was time he did so. “Come on, Ike,” he said to the horse as he stepped up in the saddle and headed down toward the river to pick a place to camp for the night.

  Chapter 5

  With Ike laid to rest on the hill overlooking the river, Matt was at last able to think about basic needs for survival. The only staple left in his saddlebags was the sack of green coffee beans, and it was half empty. He had consumed the last of his jerked venison the day before, and his stomach was telling him that it was time to hunt for solid food. “There sure as hell ain’t nothin’ to hunt around here,” he remarked to the buckskin, “unless a man wants to eat coyote.” He looked back toward the scattered carcasses and curled his lip in disgust. “And I ain’t that desperate yet.”

  The Sioux village had depleted all the game in the small valley. “I reckon we’ll have to ride downriver, Ike,” he said, addressing the buckskin by his new name. He left the abandoned Sioux village and followed the river north as it made its way toward the Yellowstone. He decided to stay with the river in his hunt for food, then come back to pick up the broad trail left by the Sioux village. He was now entering an area that was new to him. During the past winter, he had roamed much of the Powder River country and the Bighorn Mountains, but he and Ike had avoided the areas to the north because of the Sioux villages they knew to be there. Late on this day in early April it appeared to be a hostile country that surrounded him, empty of all game.

  It was beginning to look as if he would go to bed hungry that night, for there was no sign of game of any kind as he followed the winding river through occasional gorges and across open meadows. “Complainin’ ain’t gonna help,” he told his growling stomach as he gave up on the hunt and dismounted at a sharp bend in the river. “At least there’s some supper for you,” he said to the buckskin, for there were plenty of young shoots along the water’s edge, as well as new spring grass on the banks.

  He pulled the saddle off his horse and watched for a few moments while the big buckskin ambled down to the water to drink before grazing among the tender shoots. It sure would be a lot easier if I’d learn to eat grass, he thought before turning to gather some dry sticks for a fire. At least he could boil some coffee. He almost missed his one chance for solid food, and would have if he had not suddenly caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye. He glanced up to find a lone pronghorn antelope on the opposite bank. A doe. She stood watching him. He froze, afraid any sudden movement might send her flying, but the pronghorn remained motionless. He turned his head slowly to see where his rifle might be and saw it lying across his saddle, some three or four yards behind him. He wondered if he could get to the rifle, cock it and fire before the doe bolted into the willows behind her. He wasn’t sure if he could move that fast, but he was hungry, and there was meat staring him right in the face. Hoping to give himself a little head start, he moved one foot very slowly back toward his saddle. She tossed her head, sniffing the air. Ever so carefully, he drew the other foot back. That was all the doe would tolerate. She immediately sprang sideways, toward the cover of the willows. Almost as quick as the pronghorn, Matt dived for the rifle, grabbing and cocking it as he rolled over and came up on one knee. His first shot was fired too quickly, missing the bounding antelope as she swerved to avoid a bank of berry bushes. The second shot caught her behind the shoulder, knocking her off balance. She attempted to run again, only to stumble and fall, and he knew she was supper.

  He was after her immediately, leaping from rock to rock over a series of small boulders that took him halfway across the river. He then plunged into the chilly water and waded the remaining distance to the other bank. When he reached the dying antelope, she struggled to move her legs briefly before lying still in shock. He drew his knife and ended her misery.

  She was older than he had first thought, with gray around her ears and eyes. What were you doing out here all by yourself? he wondered as he examined his kill. Did you get chased out of the harem by the younger gals? He took hold of her front legs and pulled her up, testing the weight, wondering if he should go back to get his horse to carry her. He decided he could ford the shallow river without help from the buckskin.

  Kneeling on one knee, he got his shoulders up under the antelope’s belly and hefted her up. With a small amount of effort, he stood and shifted the carcass across his shoulders to balance it. He heard Ike snort and blow as he walked into the water. Looking up toward the other side, he was startled to discover two Indians seated upon their ponies, silently watching the white man’s efforts. What happened next took only seconds, but it seemed to Matt that white man and Indians were frozen in time before one of the Sioux hunters suddenly loosed an arrow that barely missed Matt’s head and buried itself in the pronghorn’s carcass. It was enough to set off the lightning reaction that had served to save his life before. The carcass dropped from his shoulders as he brought the Henry up, firing and cocking again before it was shoulder high. The Sioux who shot the arrow slid over backward and fell from his pony. His friend immediately turned and ran, lying low across his pony’s neck. There was no opportunity for a second shot as the hunter disappeared in the trees.

  Before wading across with a cautious eye on the body sprawled upon the riverbank, Matt glanced quickly downstream to see his supper drifting with the current. Climbing carefully up the bank, his rifle trained upon the body, he paused to take inventory of the Indian’s weapons. He saw no sign of a rifle or pistol, only the bow. He figured neither man had
a rifle, and that was the reason this one’s partner had made a run for it, rather than dueling with a Henry rifle. He turned the body over. A quick check confirmed that the man was dead, shot through the chest, probably in the heart. He gazed at the dead man’s face for a few seconds, wondering if the warrior had had a hand in Ike’s death. This changes things, he thought. Now they’ll know I’m coming.

  He had no idea if he was close to the Sioux village or not, but it was getting darker by the minute. Even if the village was close, they would hardly come looking for him before daylight. But that buck might lead them back to this spot to get his friend, he thought. With that in mind, he threw his saddle on Ike and left to find another campsite. Since his supper was drifting downstream, that was the direction he chose to ride. He found the antelope carcass a short distance downriver, lodged against a rock. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said as he pulled the doe ashore. “Sioux or no Sioux, you and I have plans for supper.”

  Walking Ike slowly along the riverbank, the pronghorn carcass riding before the saddle, and an almost full moon lighting the way, he continued until he came to a tiny waterfall created by a rock shelf in the middle of the river. He judged it to be a safe distance from his first camp and a good place to butcher the pronghorn.

  Supper was late, but it was worth waiting for after such a long time between meals. The doe was old and tough, but she had flavor befitting a lady, and Matt was inclined to compliment her after he had filled his belly. Washed down with black coffee, it was a repast fit for a lord. The only thing missing was the bulk of the big man who had been his partner. Ike’s passing left a considerable void in the world—not just the size of the great man but the size of the life in him. Loud, swaggering, at times downright exasperating, but he was a friend who would lay down his life for you. “Dammit, Ike, what the hell did you have to go and get yourself killed for?”