by L. J. Martin
I give him a tight smile. "From your lips to God's ears, old man."
He nods. "We'll be back in a week. I'll bring Pretty Cloud or one of the ladies to teach y'all somethin' about what you can eat that grows hereabout. But they won't be much till spring. Did you see them women breaking up buff bones? They be mixin' the marrow with fat and berries for pemmican. I got a bag for you in that pile. It'll last you all winter. It's woman's work, but since you ain't got no woman...."
With that he and Pretty Cloud head down the slope to where the rest of the Indians are packing up. I can’t help but watch her walk away. She’s a fine specimen of a woman—not so fine as Pearl, but fine. The thought of Pearl makes me clamp my jaw and determine myself to think on other things.
Now, before we do anything else, I've got to walk down the stock.
"I'm heading out to find the animals," I say to Ian.
"I'm coming with you," he says.
"No, sir. Sure as hell's hot there's wolves following those buffs. We gotta figure out how to protect our meat and get us a fireplace built. You work here, I'll get the critters back. We gotta divide our labor."
"If some of them damn savages ain't got your stock stole or et."
"We've had pretty good luck with them damn savages so far."
"I fear it'll take more'n luck before we head up river."
"Let's make our own luck. My daddy always said the harder you work the luckier you get. You figure a place to stow our meat, lay out more to jerk, and when that's done, get on the fire."
"Yes, sir, cap'n sir," he says, his voice teasing, "and you try and keep your hair and get back here. It'd be a lonely winter just me and them passin' buffalo."
"I'd hate you to be lonely. If I ain't back by spring you come looking."
"Hell, Brad boy, I'll come in a month or so, soon as I run out of meat, should you not show back up."
The weather is decent although the sky lays flat gray and dead without a whisper or streak from wind blown cloud. It's freezing, but as I make my way up the long ravine, stomped with buffalo tracks heading for the river with a dozen or so shoeless mustang tracks—the Lakota's horses—heading the other way. I hope somewhere to find where my horses may have broken away from the churned soil.
I have one advantage. The percheron tracks are damn near twice the size of the mustang's, much larger than the buffalo, and shod. I occasionally catch a piece of a track so know I’m traveling in the right direction. Then, no more partial tracks. So I presume they've turned away from the now quarter mile wide mulched prairie so I double back when the buffalo tracks become scarce and more widely spaced.
I only move a couple of hundred yards backtracking until I come across the large percheron horse tracks and the much smaller mule and saddle horse tracks. They lead off toward the pine forest where I'd killed the elk.
It doesn't take long before I come upon the boned carcass of one of my percherons. Sonofabitch, the Lakota have killed and butchered one of my animals...but then, why would they as they had all the meat they could carry?
I’m a bit heartbroken as I love my mares and the thought of them being on the spit sickens me. I pray it’s not Sadie, my lead mare.
The tracks lead away from the direction Carbone had pointed to where the Lakota village lay, a day's ride away. As I follow, more and more mustang tracks join up with the tracks of my horses and mules, and I presume the tracks of whoever has butchered my percheron. The bastards.
I am headed straight north, along the east side of the river. North, following more than two dozen mustang tracks in addition to those of my animals. The farther I follow, across the upper end of ravine after ravine leading down to the river, the dumber I think my quest must be. I'm following more than two dozen tracks of mustangs, unshod, obviously savages, as if there were something I could do to recover my stock. I'm a damn fool...but then it's not the first time.
They are horseback and I'm afoot, but they are driving my stock, so if I move as quickly as I can I'll catch up. So long as there are not any extreme uphill grades, and so far they've stayed up on the plain above the ravines and cuts falling off down to the river. After more than two miles, I come to a steep uphill slope and by the time I top it out, I'm winded. The Sharps I'm carrying, the Colt's on my hip, the possibles bag and the bundle of jerky and bottle of water—empty of pie cherries and corked—I'm carrying on my back must be over thirty pounds...not much but still tiring when you have a quarter mile or more of steep climb. I top out the climb and can see a mile ahead, and across another deep wooded ravine.
And I don't see any riders ahead, nor almost a dozen horses and mules being driven. So they must still be in the forest below.
As it's nearing dark, I presume there's water in the bottom of this deep wooded cut, and that they've found a spot to camp.
I hope so, as I'm at least seven or eight miles from camp, and don't want to stray much farther...particularly when it's one against at least two dozen.
Finding an outcropping where I can see up and down the ravine and across to the far slope, I settle down to chew some jerky, drink some water, and watch.
Just as the sun falls beneath the horizon on my right, I see a tendril of smoke snaking out of the trees in the bottom of the ravine.
They've camped.
There's still the ever-so-slight chance it's Shamus Carbone and the Lakota band, but I don’t think so. I'm beginning to think Many-Dogs is an honorable man and that Carbone is a friend, so I'm sure it's not them. So who is it?
Who is it that has butchered one of my Percherons and stolen them and the rest of my stock.?
I'm sure that whoever they are, they will have guards posted, so there's no approaching in daylight. The good news is the sun is below the horizon. So it's wait, stay alert, stay awake, and be patient until any guarding the camp are settled and half asleep. If there's one thing being in Mosby's command taught me, it's how and when to pursue an enemy, and sometimes as important, when to wait.
And it's not pursuing while they're alert and have plenty of light.
So I wait.
The good news is there is not an early moon. Lots of starlight, but no shadow casting moon. When I figure it's at least midnight, I begin to work my way down the ravine side. Entering the tree line I move very slowly, putting each foot down until I'm sure there's not a breakable twig or rock about to give away underfoot.
I'm at least an hour moving the five hundred yards down the side of the ravine, until I can hear the sound of water over rocks, then after a few more yards, the occasional blowing and nickering of stock. And I can smell smoke and horse dung. Now I know there's a guard somewhere in front of me. Unlike the boys in blue, they won't be smoking and lighting up a stogy or chewing and spitting. A hock and spit or the splatter of piss on a flat rock has given away more than one guard's position in my experience.
But singing...singing is another thing altogether. And somewhere, not more than twenty yards in front of me, between me and where I hear horses pawing and nickering, is a man singing a singsong guttural rhythm. Singing low, but singing. Almost like a drum beating, his voice is low and rhythmic.
I drop to my belly and ease forward, my Sharps being picked up and eased forward a quiet foot at a time. Luckily there are at least three small campfires still glowing in the camp forty or fifty yards ahead and below and the guard, who's sitting leaning against a tree trunk, his head laid back against the bark, is backlighted. I'm able to move behind him. It takes me another fifteen minutes to slip up to only three feet from the trunk. I ease to my knees, and his humming stops, as if he's sensed something wrong.
His weight shifts and his head appears around the trunk, making me suck in a breath as his face is painted half black. He looks, just in time to catch the heavy butt of the Sharps as I drive it against his forehead. He goes down, sprawling, and kicks in the pine needles for a second. I'm over him, ready to drive the butt of the rifle against his head again, but it's unnecessary as he's still as the tree trunk against whi
ch he was leaning. I rise to my feet, but in a deep crouch, move forward, then freeze as a horse neighs loudly. I wait until they settle, then close the distance. My horses are not among the first few I pass, as the three remaining white Percherons are easy to distinguish, and so much larger than the Indian mustangs or even my mules.
Like the Indian guard, the mustangs wear paint. Yellow, red, and white adorn them.
Dropping to one knee, I bring the muzzle of the Sharps to bear on the camp below as I hear some stirring. It's a man adding a branch to the largest of the three campfires. There are no teepees, only bodies rolled in skins surrounding the fires. I don’t think there's a woman among them, and if not it's not the Lakota as they left with woman accompanying them, or at least not Many Dog's people.
Finally I come to a mare I know well, who nickers softly in welcome. Sadie, my lead mare, thank the good Lord. I remove her lead rope and set her free, dragging her rope as I mean to lead her as the rest will follow. But they have to be untied. I do so, one by one, and luckily none of them are intent to wander and merely drop their heads to reach the grass they haven’t been able to while tied. I've found the sorrel and use his lead rope to tie a Spanish hackamore. Before I move away from the picket line of horses, I untie all the others.
Still without mounting, I lead the sorrel back to where Sadie is quietly grazing. I mount the sorrel with Sadie's lead rope in hand and gig my horse into a slow walk, moving up the hill. The others follow as I was sure they would.
Then when I'm no more than forty yards up the hill, I hear a shout from the camp and turn to see a man moving from body to body, kicking the others awake, and yelling.
I cock the Sharps and put a big chunk of lead into the largest of the camp fires, sending a shower of sparks and scattering the rising men who scramble away, madly seeking the cover of darkness.
But I have no interest in waiting to see them react, and give heels to the sorrel, leading Sadie behind. Running a horse in the dark on a wooded slope is not the smartest thing a fellow could do, but waiting to get your hair lifted may be even more stupid. I’m slapped by a hundred branches, scratched and damn near knocked from the sorrel’s back a time or two. But I hang on.
The sorrel is sure footed and leaps more than one time when I can see no obstruction to clear, and Sadie does the same, followed, I hope, by all my other animals.
We don't slow until we clear the crest of the hill and then only to a trot. By the noise behind, I'm sure I'm well accompanied by my stock, and maybe more. I may have gained a few mustangs. I won't know until we get a bright moon, or maybe even the morning sun.
If I live that long.
Chapter 21
When we break out of the trees onto the flat, I slow to a walk. The moon is over the horizon to the east, and rising, and I can see and hear a number of horses clomping along behind. Far more than I set out to capture. I hope I’ve left the whole band afoot. Then again, how the hell am I going to feed another two dozen critters even if I could hang on to them, which I’m sure I can’t as this whole band will be after me even if only on foot. They will catch up when I slow down.
I’d run the damn Indian mustangs off so my pursuers might be less eager to lift my hair, but that’s easier said than done. Odds are they’ll follow no matter how many times I push them away, if I know horses. They’ve taken a shine to old Sadie as the lead mare.
So I decide it’s time to pay a visit to Shamus Carbone and Many-Dogs and his people, a day to the northeast if Carbone was pointing in the right direction and not trying to mislead me. Besides, the last thing I want to do is lead this band of angry savages back to Ian and our river camp, which is south a few miles and a bit west.
I can only hope this band are friends of the Lakota and should we all come together, my hide can be saved by Many-Dogs and Shamus.
Pushing hard I keep moving until the sun is directly overhead, as much as can be told through the heavy overcast, then I dismount by a clear running stream and let the stock graze. I’m being followed by thirty-seven horses, by my quick count. They seem content to graze in a deep plush meadow, free of snow, and I move up a low slope, leading then staking the sorrel, where I can see my back trail, hoping to get a couple of hours of shuteye.
I don’t.
Three mounted riders are coming our way, a mile away and moving fast at a distance eating but animal saving lope.
There’s no way I can stay ahead of them and expect my horses to keep my pace, so I guess it’s good ol’ southern boy ambush time. I really have no interest in starting out my occupation of this land by killing folks, but I’ll be surprised if I have a choice.
So I find a cleft in the rocks where I can see my back trail for three hundred yards across the clearing that’s a plush knee deep, if now golden, meadow, and wait for them to pass through a stand of red bark willow between my position and the crest where I spotted them.
I want them to get well out of the trees so they can’t turn and find cover before I can reload, but don’t want them to get closer than two hundred yards. The first shot should be easy as they’ll likely be moving cautiously with their horses in sight, then it will mean dropping a running rider, and I’ll likely not get a third shot as I can’t reload fast enough. Which means at least one of them will get back to the cover of the willows.
At least that’s my logic, but I learned early on in battle that logic is often merely folly.
And there they are. They pause at the edge of the willows and study the lay of the land, then move forward at a slow walk. All three have long guns in hand.
I let them get a hundred yards from the willows, two hundred yards from me, then decide to drop my aim to the chest of the lead horse.
The Sharps bucks and roars, and the pinto horse drops to his knees. I may be a fool, and if so, I could pay with my life.
The now dismounted man runs to the side and dives behind an ant mound that’s even taller than the grass, and to my surprise they don't retreat. All of them begin firing in my direction. They are hitting nowhere near me and probably won’t determine my location until I fire again. But it looks as if I’ll have to change my tactics as the second and third savage do not retreat to the willows, but give heels to their mounts and charge, but into the milling herd of mustangs and my saddle mounts and Percherons and mules. I would guess the savages will try and turn the animals back the way they’d come, but to my surprise they don’t. They charge on through and by the time I have a clean target, they are one hundred yards, laying low so as not to offer a target, and coming hard.
All this time the man behind the ant hill is firing what must be a Spencer as the shots are coming too fast for a muzzle loader or single shot breech loader.
I decide to try one more time, and shoot the gray ridden by the nearest savage in the chest, and as he’s at a full gallop, he goes head over heels and I can only hope has injured his rider beyond continuing the fight.
But the third man keeps coming, and he’s less than forty yards and at a full gallop by the time I’m reloaded. And he knows my location and he’s coming hard for the rocks I’m behind.
No choice. I fire for him, laying low across his bay mustang, and cuss myself as I miss.
No time, so I pull the Colt and have to drop to my back and fire up at him as the bay leaps the rocks. I spin and see he’s dismounted and bringing his rifle up while he screams a yell that would cause a banshee to take flight...and I fire again and he stumbles back. His weapon discharges into the rocks and kicks gravel over my lower legs, and I fire again, and he’s driven back a step or two, blood flowing from his mouth. The fourth shot blows him to his back, and he’s unmoving.
I move forward to make sure he’s out of the fight and hear a scream behind me. Ducking, dropping to my knee, a man flies over my head, and before he can recover I put a slug into his back and he goes to his face atop the first Indian.
Both men are nearly naked, even in the cold.
Then I remember that the first man whose horse I’d s
hot was still in the game, and rise to see him running my way, no more than twenty yards from the rocks.
One shot left in the Colt, so I have to make it good.
I wait until he tops the rocks, a hatchet in one hand, a knife in the other. He must have expended all the shells in his Spencer and I’m glad he did.
He leaps and has a foot atop the rocks only ten feet from me when I fire, but his momentum keeps him coming and his ax glances off my head and I’m seeing stars.
I roll to the side and am on my knees trying to clear my vision, when I see all three of my attackers in a tangled pile only a half dozen paces from where I’m trying to catch my breath and clear my eyes. It certainly wasn't planned, but I've stacked them, rather pell mell but stacked.
Reaching up, my hand comes away bloody and I feel a cut in my head and my ear seems half detached. Blood begins dripping off my chin onto my chest.
Better than a split skull, I decide, and drop to my butt on the rocks. I put my face in my hands and realize my heart is beating so hard it might explode from my chest. For some strange reason, I think of Pearl, and hope she's safely arrived at Fort Benton. I think it odd that she comes to mind at this particular time. Then turn my attention to the horses and mules.
After a few deep breaths I walk back to the rocks and recover, and reload my Sharps...and realize I'm down to four slugs.
With any luck at all these three at my feet, unmoving, are the only savages to have found mounts for my pursuit. With any luck at all.
The hell of it is, the stock seems to have been considerably disturbed by the gunfire and have scattered in every direction.
As my head and ear continue to bleed, I tear the tail off my shirt and bind my head.
