The butchering done, he wrapped what he could use in the hide and packed it away for later. Disposing of the remains in the brush, he made his bed beneath a cottonwood where he could keep an eye on the riverbank in case he was wrong about the dead Indian’s friends. That’s one of them, Ike, was his last conscious thought before drifting off to sleep.
Morning brought a clear day to the valley of the Tongue. Matt awoke with a start, sensing that he had slept later than usual, for the first rays of the sun were already reaching the tops of the cottonwoods on the far side of the river. A late sleeper might be a dead sleeper in Injun country. The phrase passed through his thoughts. It was one he had heard Ike use on several occasions. He attributed his tardiness to the full stomach with which he had gone to bed.
He sat up and reached for his rifle when he heard the buckskin whinny. Quickly scanning the area around him, he could see no reason for alarm. From his bed under the cottonwood, he had an unrestricted view of the riverbank, both upstream and downstream. A gentle mist rose above the waterfall, causing the willows on the opposite bank to appear dreamlike. He rose to one knee, the Henry ready, and peered through the mist in an effort to see everything more clearly. Ike whinnied again, and when Matt turned to look at the horse, he detected a slight movement in the bushes that fringed the river below him. His reaction was instantaneous. Flattening himself upon the ground, he cocked his rifle and aimed at the spot that had caught his eye. At the same time, he couldn’t figure out how they could have found him so quickly.
He waited, wondering if he should shower the bushes with a barrage of .44 slugs. Then, a few feet over, he saw the berry bushes move again, this time closer to the edge of the thicket, and he got ready to pull the trigger. After what seemed an eternity, the branches parted to reveal a horse’s head. Matt lowered his rifle. It was the dead Indian’s pony. The horse had followed them from the first campsite.
“Damn,” Matt mumbled and lowered the rifle. “That’s all I need, an Indian pony following me around, leading ’em right to me.” He got up then and took a cautious walk around the area to make sure the pony had not already led a war party to his camp. Then he walked down to the thicket to see if he could shoo the pony away. “Git!” he shouted, waving his arms over his head. The horse, a mare, backed a few feet away, then stopped to marvel at the man’s antics. “Git, dammit!” Matt insisted. He picked up a pebble from the water’s edge and threw it at the pony. The horse was moved to depart, but only to a distance of forty yards or so. “Am I gonna have to shoot you, dammit?” he pleaded, knowing he didn’t have the heart. He gave up on trying to scare the horse away and returned to his small campfire to cook breakfast. By the time a few strips of meat were sizzling over the fire, the Indian pony had sauntered back toward him. When he glanced over his shoulder to look at Ike, he discovered the pony standing next to the buckskin, the two horses whinnying softly.
“Damn,” he uttered in disgust. “It looks like I’ve got me a horse, whether I want one or not.”
After he had eaten, he walked over to saddle Ike. The Indian pony backed away a couple of steps, but then stood there, head and tail drooping submissively. Matt paused to scrutinize his uninvited guest. A dun like the buckskin, the horse was a darker shade, what he would call a mousy dun, with a black tail and mane and a faint white blaze on her face. Moving slowly and deliberately, he walked up to her, expecting her to bolt. Instead, she raised her head and submitted her muzzle to be stroked.
“Hell,” he said, “you ain’t nothin’ but a pet.” Her former owner had obviously spoiled her. No doubt she was the Sioux warrior’s favorite pony, probably tied by his tipi instead of running free with the rest of the horses. He thought about the Indian he had killed then. A young man. Matt wondered if he was one of the bunch that killed Ike. In death he didn’t look as brutal and savage as the image Matt was beginning to form of Sioux in general. Maybe he was just a hunter like myself, he thought, just trying to get by. Then a picture came to his mind of Ike’s mutilated body, hanging in the willows, a necklace of human ears around his neck. “Hell, no,” he blurted, lest he forget the graveside promise he had made to his former partner.
He rubbed the mare’s face lightly as he examined her more closely, surprised that his smell did not seem strange to her, enough to make her cautious, anyway. There was no saddle on her, only a bridle fashioned from a single length of rope with two half hitches in the middle, looped around the horse’s lower jaw. He had to admit that the mare was a fine-looking animal. With a deep chest and legs a little shorter than the buckskin’s, she looked to be a strong runner.
He returned to finish saddling Ike. Giving the girth strap a final tug, he dropped the stirrup and said, “Looks like we’ve got a new addition to the family. Is that all right with you?” The big buckskin made no response beyond a disinterested snort. “You’re an indifferent son of a bitch, aren’t you?” He stepped up in the saddle then, and turned the buckskin toward the river. Looking back at the mare, he said, “Well, come on, then. We’d best get movin’ before some of your relatives show up.” He didn’t bother to tie a lead rope on his new horse, thinking there was still a possibility that she might change her mind about following him. She loped along behind him, however, as he followed the riverbank, looking for a shallow ford.
* * *
“Little bird with no song.”
Startled, she did not hear him when he walked up behind her. But she recognized the voice she had come to despise—the sneering tone of Jack Black Dog. Helpless to flee his presence, she tried to pull away from him, straining at the rawhide rope that held her captive. Her efforts served to amuse him as he walked slowly around her, leering openly. He laughed when she looked frantically toward the river, where Iron Claw’s wife, Rising Moon, had gone to bathe.
“Looks like little bird’s been left all alone,” Jack said. “So me and you can have us a little visit.” He would not have been so bold, but he knew that Iron Claw had left the camp with three others to search for Black Shirt’s killer. He reached out to take her chin in his hand, laughing when she pulled away, her eyes flashing with the hatred and contempt she felt for him. He reached again, this time trapping her chin firmly. She spat at him. Reacting furiously, he slapped her hard, knocking her back against the tree. She glared at him defiantly, determined not to shrink before him. He drew back his hand to hit her again, but a thin trickle of blood at the corner of her mouth made him hesitate. It might not be healthy for him to leave evidence that he had approached Iron Claw’s captive.
“I will have you, little bitch,” he threatened, his black eyes blazing with undisguised lust. “Rising Moon will soon tire of you.” He grabbed her thigh, leering wickedly when she was unable to escape his grasp. “Even if she doesn’t, I will come for you, and take you anyway.” Then, glancing toward the river, he saw Iron Claw’s wife returning. Releasing Molly’s thigh, he gave her one last smirk and repeated his promise. “I will have you, little bird with no song.” With that, he turned to slink away behind the tipi before Rising Moon saw him.
Molly released a sigh of relief. For once, she was glad to see her cruel mistress approaching. This was the first time the despicable half-breed had been bold enough to physically accost her, such was his fear of Iron Claw. The Sioux war chief barely tolerated the devious half-breed, yet Jack continued to show up in the village from time to time, like the cur dogs that followed the camp. The fact that he was hanging around even more of late was solely because of the presence of the young white captive.
“Huh,” Rising Moon grunted listlessly as she stopped to stand over her slave. The blood that traced a thin line down one side of Molly’s chin had caught her attention. Curious, she took the girl’s chin in her hand and turned her face up so she could examine it more closely. Jack Black Dog, she thought, and quickly looked right and left on the chance she might see him hurrying away. Everyone else had lost interest in the skinny white girl who couldn’t talk. Only Jack Black Dog continued to skulk around, watchi
ng her. Maybe Iron Claw should give in to the craven half-breed, and then she would be free of the nuisance of having to keep an eye on her. “Huh!” Rising Moon grunted again at the thought, knowing she would rather work Molly to death than let the lecherous Jack Black Dog have her. “Wood!” She suddenly screamed at Molly, and began to whip the helpless girl repeatedly with a willow switch, ignoring the fact that Molly was still tied to the tree and could not respond.
Unable to protect herself from the blows, Molly did her best to stand up under the unwarranted attack, uttering not a whimper, until Rising Moon tired of the beating and untied her so she could fetch some wood for the fire. As she stumbled painfully before the cruel Sioux woman, she wondered how much longer she would be able to survive the harsh treatment before she became too weak to work. She feared that when that time came, they would kill her, or worse, give her to Jack Black Dog.
* * *
Iron Claw rose to his feet and stood gazing out across the river, sniffing the morning air as if searching for a scent. The body of Black Shirt lay at his feet, shot through the chest. Black Shirt was his wife’s brother, and would be mourned by the village. Iron Claw’s emotions ran more toward anger than sorrow, however. He truly hated the white man—and this particular white man more than all the others. The lead slug lodged in his thigh caused it to ache in the cool morning air, and he subconsciously rubbed at the dull pain. The white man and the giant he had ridden with had spent the winter in Lakota country, hunting their game, defiling Lakota country. Iron Claw could not rest until the white man was dead.
There were some in the village who said these two white men had shown no signs of disrespect to the land, killing only the game they needed for food. But Iron Claw had no patience for such talk. The white man clearly intended to drive the Lakota out of their sacred country, and he intended to kill every white man he found in Lakota country. Red Cloud and some of the others were discussing the possibility of attending peace talks with the soldiers at Fort Laramie in the summer. Such talk sickened Iron Claw, and he had vowed that he would never attend any peace talks. There could be no peace with the wasicu. It would soon be peji to wi, the Moon of Tender Grass, and the white men would again be following their fools’ trail through the Powder River country on their way to look for the yellow dirt. If the white man really wanted peace, he would go away and leave the land as the Great Spirit had made it.
“Here!” Lame Deer cried out. “He follows the river.”
Iron Claw walked over to see for himself. He stared at the hoofprints for a long moment, hating even the tracks left by the white man. It galled him to see that the white man was riding deeper into Lakota territory. Anxious to get after the intruder, he turned to Lame Deer. “Take Black Shirt back to the village. I will find this white dog and gut him.”
Lame Deer protested. “There will be only three of you. Maybe I should go with you, and we can come back for Black Shirt. If this white man is really no man at all, but a ghost, as some say, he may be hard to kill.”
“No,” Iron Claw replied. “Three warriors are more than enough. I will go after him alone if you all think this puny white man is a ghost, and all three of you can take the body back to the village.”
His comment was met with immediate protest, Broken Bow foremost. “I go with you,” he said. “I don’t believe he is anything more than a man. He has been lucky so far, that’s all.”
“I go with you,” Yellow Hand echoed.
Iron Claw nodded. The four Lakota warriors then wrapped Black Shirt’s body in a blanket and lifted it onto Lame Deer’s pony. Lame Deer started toward the mountains to the west and the village beyond them on the Little Bighorn. The others set out on the trail along the Tongue, tracking the white man.
* * *
As the afternoon wore on, Matt became discouraged with his search along the river. The only sign he discovered was an occasional hoofprint that had been left long before. There was no evidence of recent Indian activity in the valley of the Tongue. Maybe, he thought, the band of Sioux he sought had crossed over the mountains dividing the rivers and were camped somewhere on the Bighorn or the Little Bighorn. Hell, I could keep on this way until I hit the Yellowstone, he thought. His gut feeling, however, told him that the village he sought was not that far away. He decided to cross over to the Little Bighorn. Although he was now farther north along the Tongue than he had ever been before, he had the pattern of the rivers in his mind, so he was fairly confident that he could strike the Little Bighorn if he crossed over the mountains, keeping to the west and maybe bearing a little to the south.
Following an old game trail, he made his way up into the hills. The dun mare followed along behind him like a pet dog. He had thought about putting a lead rope on the Indian pony, but it appeared the mare had no intention of letting him and Ike out of her sight. It had also occurred to him that the persistent pony might help him locate her former master’s village. Maybe, he thought, if I get close enough, the damfool horse will strike out for home.
Near the top of the second ridge, he came to a small meadow where a tiny stream, fed by the recent snowmelt, carved its way through the rocks. Thinking it a good place to rest the horses, he decided to take advantage of the grass and water, and maybe roast a little more of the meat from the pronghorn. Ike gave him a questioning look when he retrieved the meat from his saddle pack, and Matt explained. “We ain’t gonna camp here, boy, so I’m leavin’ your saddle on.”
After making a small fire, he unwrapped the chunk of pronghorn haunch and examined it. The air was still cool enough to have kept the meat from spoiling, but he decided it wouldn’t keep much longer after that day. He should have taken time to dry the meat when he first killed the animal, but his urgent desire to extract payment for Ike’s death had not permitted him to linger.
He thought about his promise to his late partner and the five soldiers whose ears had been hacked off to make the grisly necklace around Ike’s neck. The thought served to stir the anger in his blood, but the passion with which he had made the vow had faded somewhat. Reflecting now, he questioned the practicality of his intent. He had promised ten dead Sioux, one for each ear On the rawhide string. Then what? Just go on killing every Indian I see? His thoughts flashed back to the recent war between the North and the South, and the part he had reluctantly played—a sniper, a job he had likened to that of an assassin. He recalled how much he had always hated the assignment. Now he was once again an assassin, seeking targets of opportunity, regardless of the time or situation, just as long as the victim was a Sioux. The mental image left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he knew that he really wanted only to extract vengeance from the individuals who had slain Ike—primarily the hawk-faced war chief that rode the paint pony. I promised, he thought, reminding himself, and put it out of his mind.
Chapter 6
Stripped of the blanket of snow that had covered their slopes during the past winter, the Bighorns seemed almost benign. With snow covering only the higher peaks, the lower elevations offered a varied display of terrain, from pleasant meadows to thick stands of pine forest and rocky cliffs. There could be little wonder why the Indians loved this land. Game of all kind abounded. Already there were signs of deer and occasional elk along the streams and lower meadows. Matt could not deny a feeling of reverence for the work of the Great Spirit. On this bright new morning, it was difficult to retain his purpose of vengeance. His feeling of peace would not last long, however.
They spotted each other at almost the same instant. Several hundred yards lay between the white scout and the three Sioux warriors, Matt higher up the slope, Iron Claw and the other two warriors in the valley below him. He realized then that he was the one who was being tracked, and not the other way around. “Fine,” he said softly. “Come on then.”
Both parties stood motionless for a few seconds, gazing at their adversary, contemplating the battle that was to follow. After a moment, Iron Claw raised his rifle high over his head in a gesture of defiance, a promise
of what was to come. Matt did not respond to the challenge. Instead, he unhurriedly looked around him, selecting a place from which to await the attack. “That looks as good as any,” he murmured, spotting a rocky apron below a steep cliff some thirty or forty yards farther up the slope. Still with no sign of haste, he turned the buckskin toward the cliff. As if on signal, the three Sioux warriors broke into a gallop, charging up the slope after him.
“He’s going to stand and fight,” Broken Bow yelled to the others as their ponies labored up the steep incline.
Seeing this to be the case, Iron Claw motioned for them to let up on the ponies. “Save the ponies,” he directed. “The white man is taking cover in the rocks. There is no need to hurry.” Looking the situation over, he said, “He has chosen a good place. It will be hard to rush at him across that open meadow. One of us should climb up on the cliff above him.”
“I’ll go,” Broken Bow volunteered and immediately veered off to his right to work his way around the slope.
Iron Claw frowned, gazing after the white man, who by this time had reached the safety of the rocky apron. The menacing face that had struck Matt as hawklike before was now even more pronounced with the intense hatred of the man who had caused him to walk with a limp. He lifted his rifle, the Spencer he had taken from the body of the giant white man, and held it high over his head as if challenging the spirits themselves. So intent were his thoughts upon his vengeance that Yellow Hand was moved to question him, thinking that the war chief had lapsed into a vision.
“Are we not going to kill this white man? Broken Bow will soon be at the top of the cliff.”
Iron Claw shifted his gaze to fix upon his companion. A slow smile formed at the corners of the cruel face. “Yes,” he said, speaking softly, “we are going to kill him.” With that, he sank his heels into his pony’s ribs, and the paint sprang into a gallop, leaving Yellow Hand to follow.
The Hostile Trail Page 7
