The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  Matt and Red Hawk looked at each other. Both men knew that this was definitely a sign from the spirits. “I’ll get the horses,” Red Hawk said without hesitation.

  “Right,” Matt replied, and scrambled up from the gully. He drew his knife as he ran across the grassy bank, past the two outermost lodges, crouched slightly in an effort to keep as low a profile as possible. It was unnecessary, for he would probably not have been seen in the dark even if someone had been looking his way. The distance to Iron Claw’s lodge was quickly covered, and he fell on his knees before the back of the tipi. He thrust his knife into the wall of the tipi and started hacking away at the tough buffalo hide, but the weathered hide covering proved to be so tough that his progress was extremely slow. Impatient, he withdrew the knife, and ran around the lodge. With his rifle held hip-high and ready to fire, he plunged into the entrance.

  In the gloom of the darkened tipi, he at first thought no one was there. Then he saw her. She was lying on her side, her hands and feet bound tightly and tied together with a length of rawhide rope. Just inches above her shoulder, he could see the rip in the hide covering where he had thrust his knife.

  Though she was unable to speak, her eyes revealed the wonder she felt. Thinking at first that it was a hallucination, or at best a dream, she was afraid to believe her eyes. She had called upon that very image many times since the tall, sandy-haired scout had ridden out of her life. Many, many lonely nights, when her chores in the hotel kitchen were done and she lay sleepless in her bed, she would gently caress the silver Saint Christopher’s medal and concentrate on his features. Only moments before, lying bound and afraid, she had been thinking about him, her eyes closed tight, calling out to him in her mind, so that she had summoned an almost vivid image of him. Then, hearing what she thought was the woman’s return, she opened her eyes to discover a vision so real that she thought her mind was caught between a dream and reality. After a few moments, when the vision remained, she realized that it was not a dream or a creation of her imagination. It was him, her knight in buckskins. In uncontrolled relief, her eyes filled with tears, blurring the image standing over her.

  He went immediately to her, and began sawing away at her bonds. Seeing her tears, he tried to comfort her while he worked to free her. “Molly, it’s me, Matt Slaughter,” he said, not sure if she remembered him. “Don’t be afraid. I’m gonna take you outta here.”

  She nodded her head excitedly, the only way she could answer him. He cut the rope that held her wrists and ankles linked together, and started to work on the bonds that held her ankles together when she suddenly jerked her feet away from him and began to kick at him frantically. Seeing the panic in her eyes, he looked over his shoulder just in time to see Iron Claw’s wife standing in the entrance to the tipi, her eyes wide with surprise. In the next moment, she screamed out an alarm and turned to run. Matt was on her in the blink of an eye, tackling her before she could clear the entrance. With no concern for gender, he hauled the kicking and struggling woman back inside by her ankles. Grabbing anything that she could reach, she threw pots and bowls at him, any object she could throw. When he tried to shield himself with one arm, she jerked away and tried to scramble back out the door. He dived for her again and dragged her back, this time turning her roughly over on her stomach. She continued to wail in shrieks of terror until he sat down hard on her back, knocking the wind out of her. While she struggled for breath, he quickly bound her hands with the rope he had just cut from Molly. Reaching for anything that was handy, he grabbed a blanket and stuffed a corner of it in her mouth to gag her. She tried desperately to spit it out, but he wrapped the blanket around her head several times to hold it. He picked up his rifle, and for a second considered using it to knock her unconscious, but he decided against it. After all, she was a woman.

  Working feverishly now, he dragged her over next to Molly and sat on her while he took the rope off of Molly’s wrists. With it, he tied the Sioux woman’s feet. “Untie your ankles,” he said to Molly while he continued to hold Iron Claw’s wife down. Molly was quick to do as he instructed, and handed him the rope. He used it to bind the Sioux woman’s feet to her hands, just as Molly had been tied.

  With the woman immobilized at last, Matt got to his feet and moved to the door of the lodge, half expecting the entire village to be storming in upon him. But there was no one near. The chanting and singing around the fire had drowned out the Sioux woman’s cries of alarm. Feeling the cold chill of the night air on the sweat on his brow, he shook his head in exasperation and swore. “Damn,” was all he said, looking back at the trussed-up woman. Red Hawk was right—she was a handful. He looked then at Molly. The young girl was on her feet now, and she stood staring at him as if uncertain what to do. “Come on,” he said, extending his hand to her. She immediately took it. Seeing another blanket, he picked it up and put it around her shoulders. “Here, put this around you. It’s a little cool outside.” Then he picked up his rifle again, and led her out into the chill night air.

  Outside the tipi, he paused for a few moments to take a cautious look around him. Everyone in the village was apparently attending the dance. The paint pony tied beside the tipi nickered softly when they started to move away from the entrance. Matt stopped. “Yeah, you’re right,” he said to the pony. “We’re gonna need another horse.” He untied the horse and led it away, back toward the bluffs where Red Hawk waited.

  “Good,” Red Hawk commented when he saw them approaching through the dark shadows of the cottonwoods. He climbed up from the edge of the gully where he had been kneeling, and signaled to Matt. When they reached him, he glanced briefly at the slight figure wrapped in the blanket before turning his attention to the paint pony, a prize of much more interest to him. His broad smile shone in the darkness, evidence of the pleasure the sight of Iron Claw’s favorite war pony brought. Turning to Matt, he spoke. “You gone a long time. Trouble?”

  “No, no trouble,” Matt replied. “Let’s get goin’.” He preferred not to confess that there were moments back in the tipi when he was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to shoot the Sioux woman to subdue her.

  Pausing for a brief moment to listen to the sounds coming from the village, Matt was satisfied that no one had discovered the trussed-up woman in Iron Claw’s lodge. Taking Molly by the hand then, he followed Red Hawk down a deep gully to the water’s edge, where the buckskin and the dun waited. Feeling that she had found the haven she never wanted to leave again, Molly gripped Matt’s hand tightly, so much so that he had to pry her fingers loose when he got to the horses.

  “Come on,” he said gently, and picked her up, preparing to lift her up onto the paint’s back. As soon as she was in his arms, she put her arms around his neck and clung close to him. He realized then that the frightened girl needed to feel the safety of his arms. While Red Hawk watched, puzzled by the lack of urgency, Matt held the fragile girl for a few moments.

  “Pretty soon, we have company,” Red Hawk reminded him.

  “Red Hawk’s right,” Matt said. “We’d best get ourselves outta here.”

  Molly relaxed her hold on his neck, and Matt started to lift her up, but the paint sidestepped away from them. “Easy now.” Matt tried to soothe the skittish pony. It was to no avail. For some reason, the paint did not want the young girl placed upon its back. “We ain’t got time for this,” Matt grumbled, knowing that at any moment a cry of alarm could go up in the Sioux camp. He turned to Red Hawk. “You wanna trade horses? Maybe that dun you’re ridin’ ain’t got anything against women.”

  Red Hawk didn’t have to think about it. He had been eyeing the paint pony ever since Matt led it from the village. It was Iron Claw’s favorite war horse, and would certainly be an object of envy back in the Crow village. Seeing the smile on Red Hawk’s face, Matt realized that he should have given him the pony in the first place. It would definitely raise Red Hawk’s status with his people. Iron Claw’s pony was big medicine. The paint evidently sensed Red Hawk’s confiden
ce, for it remained as docile as you please while the Crow warrior jumped upon its back. The mousy dun seemed indifferent when it came to who climbed aboard, so Matt lifted Molly up, and stood back as the pony promptly followed after the paint. There were a good many hours of darkness left, and Matt wanted to make good use of them. He couldn’t guess how long it would be before Iron Claw returned to his lodge and discovered his captive gone, but he needed only a little head start to make it impossible to follow them in the dark.

  * * *

  As it turned out, Matt was fortunate to gain more than an hour’s start before the Sioux war chief tired of watching the dancers and returned to his tipi. He saw at once that his pony was missing, causing him to become alarmed. Upon first entering the tipi, he thought that his wife was missing as well. The white girl was apparently lying in the same position as when he had last seen her, although it puzzled him somewhat to see her head wrapped with a blanket. Had his wife taken his horse somewhere? As his eyes adjusted to the darkened interior of the tipi, he realized that the figure was not that of the slender white girl. Struck with an immediate flush of anger, he knelt beside the woman and unwrapped the blanket.

  “Waugh!” An involuntary cry of rage escaped from his throat when he uncovered the angry face of his wife.

  She spit the corner of the blanket from her lips and screamed, “Wasicu! Wasicu!”

  “What?” he snarled. “Where?” Confused by the scene to which he had returned, he looked around him frantically, expecting to be attacked, and still mystified that the white girl was gone.

  “A white man came and took the girl,” she screeched excitedly as Iron Claw untied her.

  “How . . .” he started, but could not finish the question. Her words caused him to recall the image of one particular white man, for he knew at once there was only one who would dare to walk into his camp and take the girl and his pony. Almost overcome by fury, he charged outside and stood for a few moments staring into the darkness, knowing it was futile. When his wife followed him outside, he turned and demanded, “What did this white man look like?”

  “Tall,” she replied excitedly. “A young man with no hair on his face. He was not a soldier. He wore animal skins. His hair on his head was the color of a mountain lion.”

  “Waugh!” Iron Claw cried out in agony. It was the white scout who kept crossing his path like a ghost. He cared little for the loss of the white girl, for he had planned to kill her shortly anyway. But the brazen theft of his favorite pony would torment him until he killed the white scout and tied his scalp to his lance.

  His frustration was complete when he thought of the futility in trying to go after Matt before daylight. His other horses were across the river with the pony herd. It would take time to fetch one, giving the white scout even more time to escape. He had no choice but to wait for sunup. He could not track in the dark. “Waugh!” he snarled again, and desperate for some way to vent his frustration and anger, pulled his knife and slashed his chest until his leggings were red with blood. The pain brought no relief for his frustration.

  Chapter 8

  He hated to wake her. She was sleeping so peacefully, and so soundly. He could only imagine how thoroughly exhausted she must be. He knelt beside her, watching her sleep for a few moments longer while Red Hawk stirred up the coals of the small fire. It had been only a couple of hours since they had stopped for the night, but already the first rays of the sun were filtering through the pines on the eastern slope.

  “Molly,” he said softly and touched her gently on the shoulder. “We’d best get movin’.” He reached down and carefully moved a wisp of golden hair away from her face, wondering as he did how she could sleep with the thin strand tickling her nose.

  Very slowly she awakened. Her eyelids fluttered for a moment or two, and then her eyes opened wide to stare unblinking into his. As before, when he had suddenly appeared in Iron Claw’s tipi, she was not certain she was not dreaming. He smiled, and she realized that he was not a vision. Then she remembered where she was and returned his smile. “We’d best get movin’,” he said again. “We’ll take a little time to eat somethin’, and then we’ll get on outta this valley.” He got to his feet. “Looks like you could use somethin’ to eat,” he remarked, gazing at her slender, pale arms. There were so many questions he wanted to ask her, though he knew she could not answer. How, he wondered, did she happen to be here so far from Nebraska City and the dining room run by her mother? “Where is your mother?” Matt asked. She made several signs, trying to explain. He finally understood that she was trying to tell him that Libby was dead. “I’m sorry,” he said, still wondering about the circumstances. It would have to wait. There was little time to linger here.

  “Why she not talk?” Red Hawk asked. He had paused to watch Matt and the young white girl, and her strange demeanor puzzled him. It occurred to him that he had never heard her speak when they were both captives in Iron Claw’s camp.

  “She can’t,” Matt replied, pointing a finger toward his throat.

  “Ahh,” the Crow warrior returned, understanding at last the girl’s silence. He thought about it for a moment, then, “How you tell her what to do?”

  Matt smiled. “You just tell her. She ain’t deaf. She can hear. She just can’t talk.”

  Red Hawk nodded, all the while studying Molly as if discovering a new species of people. Then he smiled and said, “She perfect woman” in his broken English.

  Matt grinned. “I reckon,” he said, turning to look at Molly again. She acknowledged the comment by pretending to frown.

  She pushed her blanket aside and got to her feet, looking around her as if searching for something. Then she made several signs with her hands, which Matt did not understand. “What?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”

  Red Hawk, an interested observer, commented, “She say she need to make water.”

  “Oh,” Matt replied. Turning to his Crow partner, he asked, “How do you know that? Do you understand those signs she’s makin’?”

  Red Hawk shrugged. “No, but we ride all night, and she don’t make water.”

  “I reckon you’re right,” Matt replied, feeling a little stupid. He looked at Molly, and she was nodding vigorously. He flushed, embarrassed by his thoughtlessness. Then he pointed toward a thicket of serviceberry bushes. “We’re gonna have to learn some kind of sign language,” he mumbled, primarily to himself.

  Matt was of a mind to take Molly straight to Fort Laramie as quickly as possible. He informed Red Hawk of his intention in case the Crow still had it in his mind to seek his vengeance against Iron Claw. Red Hawk replied that it could wait. In truth, the Crow warrior had taken a liking to the quiet young white man. And he was fascinated by the girl who could not speak. He decided to accompany them to Fort Laramie. He had relatives camped near the fort. He could visit his brother, Spotted Horse. Maybe he would join him and scout for the soldiers again. The decision made, the three set out on a southeast course, intending to cross the south end of the Bighorns, cross the Powder, and strike the North Platte west of Fort Laramie.

  Once they had the Bighorns behind them, Matt let up on the pace. He did not, however, relax his vigilance. They were still in Sioux territory, and while he thought he had left Iron Claw’s warriors behind, there remained the possibility of encountering a hunting party from some other village. Although the girl appeared to be frail, Matt and Red Hawk soon learned that was not the case. She gave no signs of weakness or fatigue, sitting astride the dun mare for hours each day as the threesome made their way across a seemingly empty prairie.

  Blue sky and an endless prairie. The emptiness was a misnomer, for both Matt and his Crow partner knew the rolling sea of grass was home for a bounty of game—antelope, deer, buffalo, rabbit. A man would have to be dead between the ears to go hungry in such a land of plenty. It was little wonder that the Sioux, the Cheyenne and the Arapaho were upset over the intrusion of white fortune hunters crossing their hunting grounds. The land had once been the home o
f Red Hawk’s people, but the Crow had been driven out by the powerful Sioux tribes. The two tribes were natural enemies, which explained Red Hawk’s hatred for all Sioux, and the pleasure he derived from riding Iron Claw’s favorite war pony.

  After two days with no sign of pursuit, they decided it was safe to stop long enough to hunt for fresh meat, so they camped in a grassy ravine that led down to the Powder River. For the last day and a half they had survived on dried jerky and water, Matt’s supply of coffee and salt having long since been depleted. There was plenty of sign that game was about, so Matt strung his bow and prepared to lie in ambush beside what appeared to be a favorite watering hole. At first sight of the bow, Red Hawk immediately became interested. He had not met many white men who had any real skill with a bow.

  “You not use gun?” he asked, holding his Springfield up before him.

  “Too noisy,” Matt replied, testing the tautness of his bowstring. He glanced up at Red Hawk and grinned. “What’s the matter? You don’t think a white man can shoot a bow?”

  “Not worth a damn,” Red Hawk replied honestly.

  “Well, you can stand behind me with that Springfield, and shoot if I miss with the bow.” Red Hawk took him up on it. He was hungry.

  As it turned out, Red Hawk did not have to waste a cartridge. They had waited for less than an hour when four deer, all does, came down to the edge of the river to drink. With no wasted motion, Matt suddenly stood up, sighted on a young doe, and let fly his arrow. Shot through the lung, the deer tried to turn and follow her sisters as they bolted away from the water. Halfway up the bank, she stumbled and fell. Matt ran to her and quickly finished her with his knife. Red Hawk nodded his approval, impressed with his white friend’s skill with an Indian weapon. Matt supplied him with his extra knife, and the two men skinned and butchered the deer. Molly, through a series of frowns and hand signals, insisted upon doing the cooking, and soon Matt and Red Hawk were relaxing by the river while Molly roasted the meat.