Already preparing to skin his kill, Matt Slaughter grinned up at his friend. “I’d have paid money to see that,” he teased. “Seein’ as how you two are about the same size, you’da made a handsome couple.”
“Huh,” the big man snorted. “Next time you can be the bait, and I’ll do the killin’.” They both knew that was just idle talk, because Ike couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bow. Ike would say that he had just never had any use for a bow as long as he had his Spencer rifle. Although he would never mention it, Matt knew there were other reasons—reasons that Ike didn’t care to acknowledge. Sometimes a man aged faster when forced to live by his wits most of his life. Lately, Matt could see signs of his partner’s aging—a hand not as steady as before, an eye that was not as keen as when he was a young man. Still, the old man was not quite ready to return to the settlements just yet. And before he reached that stage, Matt promised himself that he would take care of him.
As far as the bow was concerned, Matt took to it like he was born with one in his hand. This particular bow was special. It held sentimental value for both men. It had belonged to a young Cherokee boy who had been killed only a few months before by a white bushwhacker. Crooked Foot had been held in high regard by Matt and Ike, and Matt had kept the boy’s bow. He had spent a good deal of time practicing with the weapon, and it had proven to be time well spent. Making a winter camp in the Bighorn Mountains, the two partners found the bow essential. It was not only a silent weapon, it saved on the consumption of precious .44 cartridges.
The need for silence and secrecy was especially important now that there had been an increase in Indian activity between the Bighorns and South Pass. It was a dangerous time for two lone white men in the Powder River country, even in the dead of winter. The Sioux and Cheyenne had raided all summer along the Bozeman Trail, attacking any parties traveling that route to the Montana gold fields. It had not helped matters when the army built Fort Reno on the Powder River just that past August. The fort, originally called Camp Connor, had not been garrisoned as yet, but Chief High Backbone and Red Cloud knew there would be soldiers there soon. It was fairly obvious to the Sioux leaders that the purpose of the fort was to protect travelers on the Bozeman Trail.
At the beginning of winter, the partners had planned to wait out the cold weather at Fort Laramie. After a couple of idle weeks, however, they decided there was nothing of any nature for them to do for employment. The army would not be hiring any more scouts until spring. And it was painfully obvious that what cash they had would soon disappear if they spent their days hanging around the post trader’s store. At the beginning of their third week at Fort Laramie, Ike announced, “Hell, I’d rather head for the hills and live like an Injun than set around here till spring.”
Matt wasn’t sure the bushy-faced old trapper was serious, but the idea suited him just fine. He wasn’t comfortable in crowded places, and Fort Laramie was beginning to close in on him. Ike’s remark was all it took. They set out for the Powder River country the next day. Even a blizzard on the second day out failed to dull their determination as they made their way northwest with the Laramie Mountains to the west of their trail.
After seemingly endless travel from one snowy camp to another, they found themselves in the Bighorn Mountains, and decided to make their base camp there. In a narrow canyon, protected from the winter winds by steep rocky walls, they built a shelter for the horses, using young pine trees. Game was not that plentiful where they made their camp, but they agreed that it was better to ride some distance from their base to hunt so as not to draw any curious Sioux. Firewood was also a problem. The canyon was convenient to abundant pine, but green pine burned with far too much smoke, causing them to travel considerable distances to find suitable wood for the fire. If they had allowed themselves to consider the difficulty of their situation and the hardship it created, they might have headed back to the settlement.
“I’da heap druther you was a nice young cow,” Ike commented to the elk as he worked to force his knife through the tough flesh. “This ol’ boy was gettin’ on in years. I’ll bet he was as old as I am.”
“I hope to hell he’ll be better eatin’ than you’d be,” Matt teased as he packed snow into the chest cavity to soak up the blood. They had been so long without fresh meat that they did not have the luxury of being picky. Old and tough, this elk was the first game they had found in almost a week. And to make matters worse, they had come across recent sign of Indian hunting parties close to their camp. Sioux or Cheyenne, they couldn’t tell which, but as Ike had commented, two white men in their country were not welcomed by either tribe.
“I reckon the Great Spirit took pity on us, and sent this old bull wanderin’ up here before we got so hungry we started eyeballin’ each other,” Ike said with a chuckle. “He musta got run off by some younger bull and lost his ladies.” He sat back on his heels, and threw off his bearskin robe to give himself more room to work. “Well, it was just a matter of time before he got took down by a pack of wolves. He’ll serve a better purpose feedin’ the likes of us.” Ike rambled on as he worked steadily away at quartering the elk until he realized that Matt wasn’t listening. He looked up to see his partner signaling him to be silent.
Matt listened for a few moments, his ear turned to the wind. He turned then to look at the horses. His buckskin’s ears were twitching, and a moment later Ike’s horse neighed softly. “Best get that meat loaded on the horses,” he called back over his shoulder as he got to his feet and scrambled up to the top of the ridge.
Detecting a sense of urgency in his partner’s tone, Ike dropped his skinning knife on the elk hide beside the half-butchered carcass, and hurried after Matt. “Damn,” he exclaimed softly as he flattened himself beside him in the snow. They were still over a half a mile away in the valley below the two white men. Riding single file in the narrow gulch, a hunting party of a dozen Sioux made their way at a leisurely pace toward the ridge. “We ain’t cut meat in a week, and when we finally find one ol’ tough elk, along comes a huntin’ party,” Ike complained.
“I don’t know if they’ve been trackin’ the same elk,” Matt said, “but if they have, he’s gonna lead them right to us when they reach the snow line.” A couple hundred yards more and the hunting party would reach the snow line, and a clear trail with not only the elk’s tracks, but also those of three horses. It would lead them right up the slope. “I expect we’d better get busy,” Matt said, his voice devoid of any sign of excitement.
They withdrew from the crest of the ridge, and wasted no time getting back to the business at hand. The safest action would be to flee immediately, but neither Matt nor Ike had any intention of leaving the entire supply of fresh meat to the Indians. Working feverishly over the carcass, both men chopped at the bones and sliced the flesh into quarters. While Ike started loading the meat on the pack horse, Matt ran back up to the top of the ridge to check on the progress of the hunting party. There was no time to linger. The Indians were already closer than he had anticipated, and had just discovered the tracks in the snow. He could hear bits of excited words carried on the wind as the Lakota hunters talked among themselves. Matt didn’t wait any longer.
“Tie down what you’ve got!” he sang out as he hurried down the hill. “We don’t have time to take the rest.” Ike did as he was told, and Matt grabbed one of the remaining sections of meat and tied it with the loose end of a strap while the big man ran for his horse. The pack secure, Matt stepped up in the saddle and held the buckskin back while he grabbed the pack horse’s lead rope. Ike, his huge bulk plowing through the knee-deep snow like a buffalo bull, took a giant leap for the saddle, only to miss the stirrup with his foot. The resulting collision between man and horse caused the bay to sidestep and kick its hind legs in the air.
“Damn you!” Ike roared. “Hold still!” The bay, however, was leery of further contact with the big trapper, and continued to pull away until Matt drove the buckskin up to block it. “Damn fool horse,” Ike grumbled
as he stuck his foot in the stirrup, embarrassed even in the face of imminent danger. It didn’t help when he looked up to see Matt’s wide grin. “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he said, and gave the bay a sharp kick with his heels. Matt followed, and the two white men charged down the slope, driving their horses as hard as they dared through the snow.
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