The stream began to narrow after about a quarter of a mile, so Carson watched for a good place to come out of the water. A stone shelf that extended into the stream was the answer, so he led them out at that point, onto a grassy slope, and headed north once again. He looked back to check on his followers and received a smile of confidence from Nancy.
The sun was settling down in the western sky when they came to a likely path into the mountains. Carson chose a game trail that led up a ravine, because it appeared to have a gentle rise that would not tax their horses greatly. By this time the horses were in need of rest, and their riders were past ready to make camp and prepare something to eat. As they rode in the heavy shadow of the mountain, it seemed to be later in the day than it actually was, so Carson took extra care while guiding the bay up the narrow game trail.
Frank and Nancy rode silently behind their young guide, never questioning his choice of trails or suggesting alternative plans. Without consciously thinking about it, both had put their complete trust in the man they had known for such a brief amount of time. They were sure Carson would find the right place to camp, and their confidence appeared to be justified when the game trail they followed leveled off at the top of the ravine and took a sharp turn to follow a ledge that led them to a narrow stream. A small meadow was bisected by the busy stream, and just below it, a belt of evergreen trees circled the foot of the mountain. It was a perfect campsite, Nancy thought, and she marveled at Carson’s instincts to find such a place. It not only provided grass and water, but more importantly, it appeared that the only access to it was to follow the narrow trail along the ledge. It would be hard for Red Shirt to get across that ledge without being seen.
The same thoughts were alive in Carson’s mind as he assessed the campsite, with some slight difference in viewpoint. He had had no idea where the game trail would lead them when he started up it, and he was fully as surprised as Nancy was when they saw all that it offered. He had suspected that the night might be spent with no grass or water for the horses, but because of the lateness of the hour, he had had to pick someplace while there was still enough light to make camp.
After Carson and Frank lifted Jonah’s body from his horse, all three helped in taking care of the horses. No one voiced it, but neither Frank nor Nancy could think about preparing a meal before burying Frank’s brother. Looking around her, she picked a spot near the upper end of the little meadow and pointed to it. “That would be a good place to lay Jonah to rest,” she suggested.
“Yeah,” Frank said. “Jonah would like that. Nice and high. He can look out over that little valley below.”
“We’d better get to diggin’ a grave before it gets much darker,” Carson said.
“Right,” Frank replied. “I’ll get a shovel and a pickax from the packs.”
“I’m going to need wood for a fire,” Nancy said when Frank returned with the pick and a short-handled shovel.
“There oughta be plenty of it down in those trees,” Frank said. “I’ll go scare up some for you before we start digging.”
Nancy looked uncertain as she glanced at Carson. “Do you think it’s all right to burn that wood? Pines and firs make a lot of smoke, don’t they?”
“Well, yeah,” Carson replied. “I reckon they do, but I don’t think anybody would be able to see it, dark as it is back in this hollow. They’d be more likely to smell it, but I doubt it, as high as we are above the prairie, and I don’t think Red Shirt is anywhere near enough this soon. I’ll go help Frank gather wood.”
It was not an easy task, digging in the hard, rocky soil under the grass. The short-handled shovel was especially irritating to work with for someone with a long, lanky frame like Carson’s. It was well after dark when the job was completed, the final dirt excavated by lantern light. Nancy’s bacon and beans, having been set to warm at the edge of the fire, had already dried out to the extent that a little while longer wouldn’t cause much more harm. So they decided to go ahead and lay Jonah to rest and then eat.
Nancy asked Frank if he felt like saying some words over his brother’s body before they lowered him into the Wyoming mountainside, but he declined, saying he didn’t know what to say. So she offered a prayer for Jonah’s safe passage to heaven, and promised that she and Frank would never forget him. Carson stood to the side and watched, waiting to fill in the grave. It was a short ceremony, but one with proper mourning, especially for Frank, who had looked to his older brother to make the important decisions for him. When it was done, they retired to the campfire to eat.
There was a sense of relief in the camp that night, with a feeling of safety in their mountainside meadow. Carson alone seemed concerned about the possibility of a night visitor in the person of a revenge-seeking savage. He had seen the brutal hostile up close and knew the passion to kill that drove him relentlessly. Having no idea when Red Shirt would return to Fort Phil Kearny to pick up their trail, he could not guess how much time they had before he came. But even if it was right away, it would be impossible for him to catch up with them tonight. And if they were lucky, he might not find their trail after they left the stream. They had left the water onto a rock ledge and ridden across a grassy rise. By the time he was on their trail, the grass might have recovered enough so that their hoofprints were no longer visible. All that considered, he figured they could count on a peaceful night. However, just in case, he decided he would spread his blanket at the head of the ledge and tether his horse beside him to help alert him if anyone came calling.
The night passed without incident, and the sun woke the camp early when it shone brightly on the east side of the mountain. Carson led his horse to the stream and watched him drink, his mind turning over the options available to the party of three. He knew they could return to the base of the mountain the same way they had come up, and start again to the north. But the adventurer in him caused him to wonder where they would come out if they continued to follow the game trail that led them to this place. When the bay finished drinking, he dropped his reins and walked to the other side of the meadow near the freshly dug grave and looked out across the mountain as far as he could see. The trail appeared to lead deeper around the mountain, toward another mountain. Maybe, he wondered, there’s a passable valley between them. He was still contemplating the possibility when Frank and Nancy came up behind him.
“We’re ready to go,” Frank said. “I guess we’ll have to ride back down that ravine the same way we came up here.”
“Yeah,” Carson said, hesitating. “Or we could keep followin’ this game trail around the mountain and see where it takes us.”
“Wouldn’t that just take us up the mountain?” Nancy asked, wondering how that would help them when their goal was to reach Montana.
“I don’t think so,” Carson replied. “I would guess that it’s a trail through the mountains. The only tracks I’ve seen on it are deer tracks, and they ain’t likely wantin’ to climb up to the top of this mountain. I’m thinkin’ this trail might lead us through to a valley or someplace where we can just head straight north again for the Yellowstone, and leave Red Shirt to keep lookin’ for us on the Bozeman Trail.” He paused to hear their thoughts on the idea. “I ain’t sayin’ I’m right, but it would make Red Shirt’s job a lot harder, and we can always turn north somewhere, even if we’re deep in the mountains.”
Frank looked at Nancy and shrugged. From the look on both their faces, Carson could see that they had no strong objection to the gamble. He did not realize that they had no notion as to a good plan or a bad one. After Jonah’s death, the two of them were lost. Jonah was the older brother who always led, and he was the only one of them who had actually been to Big Timber. So now they looked to Carson for leadership. It didn’t matter that he had never been in this country before, because they both had the feeling that he would find a way. They feared Red Shirt, but a bigger fear would be the possibility of losing Carson. Frank and Nancy were prone now t
o follow Carson’s instincts. “It might be the right thing to do, at that,” Frank said. “I like it better than going back down the way we came and maybe running into that murdering Indian on his way up.”
So it was decided. Frank and Nancy said a final farewell to Jonah, and the travelers started out again, following the narrow game path farther into the rugged Big Horn Mountains.
* * *
As peaceful as the night had been for the party of three white people, it had proven to be one of desperation for the Lakota, Lame Foot. He had not been lucky enough to escape without having been seen by Red Shirt. Racing over the rolling prairie, he had whipped his laboring pony mercilessly, but the angry avenger’s blue roan was steadily closing the distance between them. In desperation, he released the two horses he was leading, hoping Red Shirt would go after them, and let him go. Red Shirt ignored the two horses and continued after Lame Foot, his anger too strong to allow Lame Foot to escape after having betrayed him.
Up a dusty draw and over a gentle rise, dotted with sagebrush, Lame Foot pushed the exhausted horse, knowing he had to find a place to make a stand. Another quarter of a mile and he saw a line of bushes that defined a small creek, and he knew that was going to have to be the place, so he whipped the failing pony and headed toward it. He could defend himself now that he had the Spencer carbine Red Shirt had given him. He was a Lakota warrior; he should not fear the notorious killer. The thought had no sooner entered his mind than he was startled by the snap of a rifle slug passing close beside him. Red Shirt had closed to within range of the Winchester he carried. Lame Foot shrieked involuntarily and whipped his horse again. The wind-broken horse made it to the creek, where it collapsed, sliding through a crop of berry bushes and throwing Lame Foot from the saddle to land in the middle of the shallow creek.
On hands and knees in the water, Lame Foot looked around him frantically, trying to find the carbine that had been tossed somewhere in the bushes when the horse went down. It was nowhere in sight. In a panic, he scrambled out of the creek just as Red Shirt pulled his spent horse to a stop twenty yards away and dismounted. Seeing that Lame Foot had no weapon, Red Shirt stood watching the frightened man, savoring the advantage he held. Short in stature, but powerfully built with wide shoulders and muscular arms, he looked to be the devil incarnate as he stood holding the Winchester in one hand, leering wickedly at the hapless Lame Foot.
They stood motionless for a few moments, staring at each other, one with a sickening expression of fear on his face, the other with the gloating smile of an executioner. “I got no use for a cowardly dog who betrays me,” Red Shirt scorned.
In fearful anticipation of the bullet he knew would be coming to claim him, Lame Foot began to sway slightly from side to side, and he began to chant his death song. The mournful notes from the frightened man served to please Red Shirt even more, and he let Lame Foot suffer the anticipation of his death several minutes more before he slowly raised his rifle and ended his song.
His thirst for vengeance satisfied, only then did he pause to assess his situation. His horse was spent, it was already late in the afternoon, and he was several miles from his packhorse. Thinking that the three white people he was determined to kill might have taken the opportunity to escape, he knew that he had no time to waste. There was no choice but to walk back to the fort and lead his horse. He looked quickly back behind him to see if the two extra horses Lame Foot had released were anywhere in sight. They were not, and he cursed them for running away. He looked then at Lame Foot’s horse and knew that it was spent. Angry again, he took the time to take Lame Foot’s scalp before turning to glimpse his carbine a few yards away in the bushes. He put the Spencer in his saddle sling, and with his Winchester in his hand, he took the blue roan’s reins and started back.
He reached the forks of Little Piney Creek in the fading light of day to find his packhorse gone and his packs spilled upon the ground. His horse went immediately to the water to drink. Red Shirt, furious that he had to admit to himself that he should not have chased Lame Foot, was now faced with the loss of many of his supplies. He could not carry them all on one horse. He needed a packhorse, and in his anger he had left Lame Foot’s horse behind. It would have been no more trouble to lead the horse along with his. The thought caused his fury to rise to a level he could not contain. Then he looked at his horse drinking from the creek and discovered the two broken pieces of his scalp stick, stuck unceremoniously in the sand at the water’s edge. He threw his head back and howled like a wolf, thinking it a challenge from the young white man. “I will cut your guts out and eat your liver!” he roared out at the dark and silent fort on the plateau above him.
To confirm what he already knew to be true, he went up the bluffs to the deserted army fort. They had gone, but there was enough light remaining to see the direction they had taken. He followed a difficult trail on the baked-out dirt until reaching a portion of the parade ground that was knee high in grass and weeds. Even in the growing darkness, the trail left through the weeds by seven horses was plain to see. It told him that they had left in a hurry, taking no time to hide their tracks. Unfortunately for him, he could not follow their tracks until morning, no matter how anxious he was to catch them. But he promised himself that he would follow Carson Ryan to Canada, if he went that far.
* * *
As Carson had hoped, the game trail led them around the mountain and descended to pass between the mountain they had camped on and a higher one north of it. The trail wound back to the west, where they appeared to be approaching a dead end at the foot of the rock face of yet another mountain. To their surprise, there was a small passage on the south side of the mountain that the game trail entered. It brought them to a narrow canyon bisected by a wide stream. Since it had been a hard morning’s work for the horses, they decided it best to rest them there. With the steep walls of the mountains on either side of them, they settled down to eat their midday meal. There was a sense of protection within those high walls, shutting out the evils of the surrounding prairie grassland. It was almost enough to lull the small party of travelers into a false sense of safety, so much so that Frank suggested staying there for the rest of the day. “Our horses are looking real tired, and I’m thinking they sure need a little more time to rest up.” Carson had to agree with his assessment of the horses’ condition, even though the bay he rode appeared much stronger than theirs. He was not enthusiastic about delaying their escape that long, but justified it for the simple reason that the horses would serve them better in the long run. So they stayed where they were, gave the horses an extra ration of grain, and let them rest for the balance of that day.
Nancy gave voice to the feeling of security. “As many twists and turns as we’ve taken today, I don’t think anyone could have followed us.”
Carson reminded her that even though the way had been difficult at times, they had been following a game trail. “Anybody else could follow the same trail,” he said. “And Red Shirt can follow where there ain’t no trail.”
“I declare, John, you sure know how to spoil a perfectly good picnic.” She stood over him, about to refill his coffee cup. “I’ve a good mind not to give you any more coffee until you can show us you can smile.” She nodded to her husband then. “And the same goes for you, Frank. I know you’re hurting. I miss Jonah, too, but we’ve got to turn our thoughts toward making a new life in Montana.”
“I know what you’re trying to do,” Frank said. “It’s just a little bit too soon for me to start kicking up my heels and singing a song. We only laid Jonah to rest last night. I need a little more time to get over the fact that he’s gone.”
She said no more, but proceeded to fill the cups of both men, then busied herself with the chore of washing their plates in the stream. Her life had been nothing less than one terrifying moment after another ever since they had left Custer City in the Black Hills. And she was terribly afraid of the vengeful murderer who seemed determine
d to kill them all. But she was reluctant to tell Frank of her fears, for she felt that he was as afraid as she, and she was trying to maintain a brave and cheerful front to encourage him. God help us if anything happens to John, she thought. She paused then to look back at their young guide, sitting by the small fire they had built to cook their food. He’s so serious. Then another thought entered her mind. Some guide, he doesn’t know where we are, or where we’re going. That bit of irony made her chuckle in earnest.
As they expected, the night passed peacefully with no guests.
Back in the saddle the next morning, Carson led them along the stream until he found the point where the trail began again. They followed it between two more mountains and out onto a broader valley. At this point, the game trail took a sharp turn and headed almost due south, following the valley. Carson pulled up to confer with his fellow travelers. “It ain’t gonna do us no good to stay on this trail.” He pointed to the sun, then back to the trail. “We need to keep the sun on our left shoulder. If we follow that trail any longer, the sun’ll be on our right shoulder, and that ain’t the way to the Yellowstone.”
“Well, whaddaya wanna do?” Frank asked.
“If it was up to me, I’d say stay with this valley till it runs out,” Carson answered. “It’s headin’ in the right direction for one thing.”
“Well, it is up to you,” Nancy quickly remarked, “so I guess that’s the best thing to do.” There was no argument from Frank, so they turned north and followed the valley.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 11
