The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  When his belly was satisfied, Matt sat back and watched his companions eat. It had been a long time since he’d felt it safe to relax his caution to such an extent. Both he and Red Hawk thought it highly unlikely that Iron Claw was anywhere near them, and they had seen no sign of other Indian ponies since leaving the Little Bighorn.

  After making sure the men had all they wanted to eat, Molly left the fire and sat down beside Matt to finish her meal. She smiled up at him, contented and secure in his presence, causing him to remember something. He reached inside his shirt pocket and retrieved the small silver medal he had placed there. “Here,” he said. “I’ve got somethin’ for you. Maybe it’ll take better care of you this time.”

  She immediately stopped chewing, her eyes fixed upon the medal. She carefully placed the strip of meat she had been eating on a small stone, and wiped her hands on her skirt before taking the medal from him. A tear formed in the corner of her eye as she held the medal in her fingers. Somewhat surprised by the emotional response, Matt reached over, and taking the silver chain, slipped it over her head. “There you go,” he said cheerfully. “It looks better on you than it did on that damn Sioux.” He was not prepared for her reaction. She suddenly threw her arms around his neck, almost bowling him over as she hugged him tightly. Red Hawk chuckled delightedly. Not knowing what to say, Matt mumbled, “It’s all right. Now, finish your food. We can’t stay in this place too long.”

  “You got any kinfolks in Nebraska City?” Matt asked Molly after watching her intently for several minutes. Nebraska City was where he had first met the girl and her mother. She shook her head. He thought about that for a few seconds, then said, “How about back east somewhere?” Again she shook her head and continued chewing on a piece of venison, her eyes trained upon his. “Nobody? Nowhere?” She shook her head slowly, and paused in her chewing. “Well, we’ve got to find some place to take you.” Gazing steadily into his eyes, she slowly pointed a finger at herself and then back at him. Her meaning was unmistakable.

  “Whoa,” he exclaimed. “You can’t stay with me.”

  With her hands held palms up, she shrugged her shoulders and gestured, her eyebrows arched inquisitively.

  “She say, why?” Red Hawk interjected, finding the exchange amusing.

  “I know what she’s sayin’,” Matt snapped, then looking back at her, he tried to explain. “Because you just can’t. I have to go places, places I can’t take a girl.” Again she gestured, obviously asking why. “You just can’t,” he repeated. Exasperated with the girl’s persistence, he looked toward Red Hawk for help, only to be met with a wide grin. The Indian was enjoying his white friend’s predicament. Matt answered the grin with a deep-furrowed frown, then turned back to the girl, who had now stopped chewing to stare patiently at her buckskin knight. “Right now we’ll worry about gettin’ you back to Fort Laramie. We’ll worry about what to do next after we get there.”

  The next two days saw them put a comfortable distance between them and the Powder River. In deference to the lady, Matt did not push for maximum progress, stopping to camp early in the evenings, and keeping an eye out for camping sites that could provide some modest facility for Molly. As for Molly, she quickly became comfortable with her two companions. Red Hawk was impressed with the toughness of the slender young girl, and spent quite some time teaching her words in sign language. She pleased him with her ability to retain almost every word he taught her. Under different circumstances, their journey might have seemed like a pleasant outing.

  * * *

  “One man,” Red Hawk said, stating the obvious, for there was no one else in sight.

  “Can’t tell if he’s Indian or white,” Matt said, his eyes straining to make out the features of the lone rider they had been watching since he first appeared on the horizon. When Red Hawk first caught sight of him, the man had just appeared from behind a low ridge to the west. Still alert to the possibility of Sioux hunting parties, even though they were only one day away from Fort Laramie, they had decided it prudent to take cover until they were sure he was not an advance Lakota scout.

  After a few minutes passed and the rider had progressed to a point that crossed their trail, Red Hawk commented, “White man.” Matt nodded, for it was obvious to him at that point also. Dressed in animal skins, riding a mule, and leading another loaded with hides, the man rode slumped in the saddle as if sleeping. From that distance, he appeared to be an old man, for his face was all but invisible behind a bushy gray beard.

  “The fact that he’s traveling alone in Sioux country doesn’t seem to bother him much, does it?” Matt wondered at the boldness of the man, whoever he was.

  As they continued to watch, the man abruptly changed directions and turned onto the same trail they followed. Some two hundred yards in front of them, he progressed at a rather leisurely pace, still slumped over in the saddle. It appeared that he had the same destination, so Matt decided they might as well catch up to him. They started out again, Red Hawk in the lead, Matt behind him, and Molly bringing up the rear.

  Due to the mules’ unhurried pace—it appeared that the stranger had left it to them to set it—Matt and his two companions caught up to the old man within a few minutes’ time. When they had closed the distance to about fifty yards, the old man still gave no indication that he was aware of their presence. Matt began to wonder if the old fellow might in fact be dead. A few yards closer, Matt called out to alert him. “We’re comin’ up behind you!”

  “Hell, I know that,” was the gruff reply and the only indication that he heard them, for he didn’t bother to turn to look behind him.

  Matt and Red Hawk pulled up on either side of him and reined back to pace their horses with the mules. Molly continued to follow. “Good day to you,” Matt offered in an effort to be neighborly. “Looks like you might be headed for Fort Laramie. That’s where we’re headin’.”

  “Figured,” the old man replied. “I seen you right off, back behind that low ridge.” He barely moved his head to look at Matt. Then he turned the other way, and studied Red Hawk for a few seconds. “Crow,” he commented, as if making a judgment. He was a small man, seemingly without a neck, for his bushy head appeared to be pushed back into his shoulders. Matt realized then that the old man had not been sleeping in the saddle, but was bent in the spine, from either old age or disease, or both.

  He turned his attention back to Matt again. “I reckon you’d be the feller that’s got Iron Claw all riled up. If’n that’s so, you’d best be watchin’ your topknot, ’cause I hear tell that he’s swore to have your scalp.”

  “Is that so?” Matt replied, finding it interesting that this gray-haired old trapper knew anything about him. “How do you know that?”

  The old man snorted contemptuously. “Hell, I been livin’ with the Lakota for seven years—Red Cloud’s people, though, not Iron Claw’s bunch. There ain’t much happens in this country that don’t get passed around to the other villages. I heared tell that a bunch of soldiers run into an ambush over on the Powder—heared it was Iron Claw’s band.” He paused to issue a warning. “Don’t git too close to that mule there, sonny. He’ll take a nip outta that horse.” Matt reined his horse over a safe distance. The old man continued. “Iron Claw’s a mean Injun. I never had much truck with him.”

  Something he had once heard Seth Ward telling Ike suddenly came to Matt’s mind, and he asked, “You wouldn’t be Cooter Martin, would you?”

  The old man jerked his head up to lock eyes with Matt, looking as if he’d been tricked. “I’m Nathaniel Martin,” he replied cautiously. “Some folks call me Cooter.” He glanced over at Red Hawk, then back at Matt. “Tell that Crow friend of your’n that I’ve been livin’ with Red Cloud’s folks, but I ain’t no Sioux.”

  “I reckon you just told him yourself,” Matt replied. “He understands American.”

  Red Hawk grunted in response. “If you were Sioux, I would have shot you on sight, old man.”

  Matt couldn’t help but grin w
hen he heard Red Hawk’s reply. “My name’s Slaughter,” he said. “This is Red Hawk. He’s just recently been enjoyin’ some of Iron Claw’s hospitality, and he ain’t particularly fond of the Sioux right now.”

  “I expect not,” Cooter said. “I ain’t had no truck with the Crows one way or another, so there ain’t no reason for him to be lookin’ at my scalp.” He turned then to look behind him. “What’s she doin’ out here?” It was fairly obvious that Molly was out of place, and was there purely by happenstance. Dressed in a torn cotton dress, with a blanket gathered over her shoulders, and riding a mousy dun still showing faint traces of old war paint, she as much as told of her captivity.

  Matt explained Molly’s presence with them, bringing the first sign of sensitivity from the old man. He turned to speak directly to Molly. “I’m right sorry to hear of your trouble, ma’am. I’d say you was mighty lucky to get away from Iron Claw.” He jerked his head back to look directly at Matt again. “No wonder Iron Claw’s so riled up over you. You better watch yourself, young feller.”

  “I aim to,” Matt replied, thinking to himself that Iron Claw had something to worry about as well if the two of them should meet. There was still a score to settle with the war chief for his treatment of Ike Brister. The promise he had made over Ike’s grave was by no means forgotten, only postponed. Molly had to be taken to safety first. Ike would understand that.

  “I expect we’ll strike the North Platte before dark,” Matt said. “You’re welcome to camp with us if you’re of a mind to. We’ve got some fresh meat, and you’re welcome to share it.”

  “Well, that’s right neighborly of you,” Cooter at once replied. “You wouldn’t happen to have some coffee, would you? I swear, I’d love to have some coffee.”

  “Sorry,” Matt replied, “I haven’t had any myself for a while.”

  “Whiskey?” Cooter asked, looking hopeful.

  “Nope. We’ve got some fresh meat, and that’s all. One more day oughta see us in Fort Laramie, though.” He nodded toward Cooter’s pack mule. “From the looks of your pack, you’ll be doin’ some tradin’ when we get there.”

  “Plan to,” Cooter replied. “It’s been a spell since I’ve been to Fort Laramie, so I figured I might as well trade some of my pelts for some coffee and sugar, maybe even a little flour. Livin’ with Injuns, a man gets a cravin’ for some biscuits after a while.”

  “Why don’t you get down to Laramie more often?” Matt inquired.

  “No cravin’ to,” Cooter answered. “Hell, I wouldn’t be goin’ there now, but I’m carryin’ a message to the soldier chief from Red Cloud.”

  This aroused Matt’s interest. “That so?”

  “Yeah,” Cooter responded, not reluctant to impress them with the responsibility given him by such an important Sioux leader. “I’m comin’ to tell the soldier chief that Red Cloud and some of the others have agreed to come to Fort Laramie to talk about all them white fools that come traipsing through the Powder River country last summer. That country’s the Lakota’s prime buffalo range.”

  “That country don’t belong to the Sioux,” Red Hawk snorted defiantly.

  Cooter cocked an eye in his direction. “Well, I don’t reckon no Crows is gonna have any say in that, are they? If I recollect rightly, they couldn’t hold on to that country when they had it.”

  Red Hawk made a show of slowly drawing the skinning knife Matt had given him and running his finger lightly over the edge of the blade. “Maybe I might take one old gray scalp to tie in my pony’s mane,” he threatened.

  “Maybe you oughta try,” Cooter returned, letting his hand rest on the butt of his rifle. “It might be a harder day’s work than you bargained for.”

  “You talk big, old man,” Red Hawk said. “A dog may sleep with wolves, but he’s still nothing but a dog.”

  Matt couldn’t help but laugh. He glanced at Molly and winked, lest she might take the two roosters seriously. “Well, that would suit me and Molly just fine if you two was to kill each other. Then we wouldn’t have to put up with either one of you.”

  Red Hawk and Cooter glared at each other for a moment more before the Crow snorted contemptuously and returned the knife to his belt.

  * * *

  Upon reaching the North Platte, the unlikely foursome made camp. Cooter helped Matt gather wood for a fire. After it was blazing steadily, the men took care of their stock. Signaling with her hands, Molly told them she would take care of cooking the meat.

  Cooter watched with fascination as the young girl took Matt’s knife and fashioned a spit to roast strips of meat. “She’s as handy around a campfire as any Injun woman,” he commented after a while. “Can’t she make no sound a’tall?”

  Matt paused to look at the old man. “You could ask her. She ain’t deaf.” He glanced over to meet Molly’s eye. She nodded her head to indicate she appreciated his comment.

  Cooter nodded as well, realizing he had made an assumption. “Beg your pardon, missy,” he said, looking directly at her. “I reckon I ain’t come across nobody that just can’t talk. I mean, usually they’s deef and dumb, ’stead of just one way or the other.” She gestured with her hands, dismissing his concern. “I reckon that makes you kinda special,” he said, smiling. She returned the smile, then turned her attention to the meat after stealing one more glance at Matt. Cooter noticed. There wasn’t much that escaped the old man’s eye.

  After he had eaten, Matt decided to take a look around the area just to make sure there were no uninvited guests watching from the shadows. “There ain’t nobody around,” Cooter stated flatly.

  “That so?” Matt asked. “How do you know that?”

  “Hell, I can feel it. You live in these parts as long as I have, a man gets where he can feel the emptiness.”

  Matt smiled. “That’s reassuring, but I expect I’ll take a look around anyway.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Cooter said.

  Matt picked up his rifle, and paused long enough to reassure Molly. “We’ll be back directly. You’ll be all right. Red Hawk will look after you.” Red Hawk, sitting propped up against a cottonwood to ease his full belly, nodded. Then the two white men disappeared into the shadows.

  After making a complete circle around their camp, they paused to stand on the bank of the river where the horses and mules were tied. Cooter had been right. All was peaceful about them. Matt had not expected otherwise, but he preferred to see for himself. He didn’t have the confidence in Cooter’s senses that the old man had. It was quiet enough on the banks of the North Platte, however. The nights were beginning to warm just a little, with the promise that summer would surely not be long in coming. A gentle breeze drifted across the prairie as a full moon appeared over the distant hills.

  “Whaddaya gonna do with the girl?” Cooter asked bluntly. “She got any kin?”

  “I don’t know,” Matt answered. “All I know is that her mother is dead. I guess I’ll try to find someone to take care of her at Fort Laramie.”

  “’Pears to me, she’s figurin’ on stayin’ with you,” Cooter said. “She don’t never take her eyes off’n you.”

  Matt shrugged. “She’s just scared right now—doesn’t have any folks. She knows she can’t stay with me.”

  Cooter almost chuckled. “Man, that young lady ain’t lookin’ at you like you’re her daddy. She’s already pickin’ out names for the young’uns.” When Matt replied that she was only a girl, Cooter did chuckle, amused by Matt’s apparent naïveté. “If she was a Lakota, she’d already be married to some young buck, and already have a bunch of young’uns runnin’ around.”

  Matt’s immediate reaction to Cooter’s remarks was an inclination to tell the old man to mind his own business. But there was something sobering in the old codger’s observation—a thought he had not considered until that moment. Young lady. Cooter had referred to Molly as a young lady. Matt had looked at her as a child, still remembering her as a shy and strange little girl helping her mother in the hotel dining room back
in Nebraska City. Of course she wanted to stay with him. She had already made that known to him. But he figured that was simply because she was frightened and he was the only person she knew in this harsh land. If Cooter was right, then Matt had something more to think about. Rather than dismiss it as an amusing instance of a young girl’s adolescence, he chose to give the matter serious thought.

  He turned to look toward the campfire, where Molly was kneeling to feed more limbs to the flame. As if feeling his gaze, she looked in his direction. He wished at that moment that Cooter had kept his remarks to himself, for he would now see Molly in a different light, and be forced to examine his own feelings.

  He continued to stare at the young woman, knowing that she could not see him standing there in the shadows watching her. It was difficult for him to see her as anything but a frightened girl. There had never been any time in his life for serious thoughts of a woman, and certainly no thoughts of settling down with a woman. His lifestyle would not permit it, anyway. He had joined the army when he was a boy and fought to defend his home in the Shenandoah Valley. After the war, he had been forced to flee the federal soldiers because he took the blame for a murder his brother committed. He never regretted that decision. It was much better that the Union Army pursued him instead of Owen. His brother had a wife and children to take care of. As for himself, he was still an outlaw back east, and there was always the possibility that someday someone might arrive at Fort Laramie and inform the commanding officer that one of his scouts was a fugitive. No, he thought, I’ve got no business thinking about a wife, even if I was attracted to her. It occurred to him then that it was awfully strange that he had never even entertained thoughts of a relationship with a woman until Cooter’s remarks. The old busybody had planted worrisome seeds in Matt’s mind.