Hell Hath No Fury

by Charles G. West

  Interrupting the sniping between his two scouts, Conner gave them his orders for the trip back to the fort. “We’ll pull out of here in the morning and head south toward Three Forks. I’ll send you two out a little ahead, one on each flank of the column.” His purpose now was to return his patrol safely to the fort and maybe pick up any sign of hostile activity in the grazing lands just north of Three Forks.

  * * *

  The patrol awoke to a steel gray sky and a light snow shower the next morning. Unexpected this late in the spring, but not unheard of, it nevertheless caught the sleeping soldiers by surprise, as evidenced by the griping and cursing about their wet bedrolls and cold boots. Accustomed to the chorus of complaints from the soldiers, Hawk had long since decided that bitching never seemed to improve conditions. He saddled his horse and took a long look at the sky before approaching Lieutenant Conner for any last orders before he set out.

  “You and Nestor hold up a little while,” Conner said upon greeting him. “It’s kinda a nasty morning, so I’m gonna let the men make some coffee before we start—give ’em a half hour or so to warm up a little. But we won’t cook up any breakfast until we have to rest the horses.”

  “Suits me,” Hawk said. “I’m always ready for a cup of coffee.” He looked up at the sky again. “This ain’t gonna last long, though.”

  “Is that so?” Conner asked. “How do you know that?” He was always skeptical of anyone predicting how long bad weather would last simply by looking up at an overcast sky.

  His question caused Hawk to pause, puzzled. He’d never thought about it before. “Hell, I don’t know,” he said. “You just know by lookin’ at it.”

  Enjoying the discussion now, Conner continued to push him. “You say it won’t last long. How long is that—an hour, a day, how long?”

  Aware that Conner was japing him, Hawk nevertheless took the bait. “Looks to me like it’ll clear up and warm up by the time we stop to rest the horses,” he predicted.

  Nestor walked over to join them then, as he usually did anytime he saw Hawk and Conner talking, convinced as he was that Hawk was out to gain the lieutenant’s favor. Conner decided to continue the game he had started. “What do you think about this turn in the weather?” he asked Nestor.

  “What do I think about the weather?” Nestor repeated, confused by the question. “I think it ain’t worth a damn. Why?”

  “How long will this snow last?” Conner pressed.

  “Well, how the hell would I know that?” Nestor replied. “Till it’s over, I reckon.” Unable to believe that the two of them had been talking about the weather, he couldn’t resist a snide comment. “Why don’t you ask Mr. Hawk, here? He’s the one who spends so much time with the damn Injuns. Maybe he’s got some big medicine from them Blackfeet.” Conner just laughed and gave Nestor the same information he had given Hawk about delaying the march for about half an hour.

  * * *

  With the scouts out to either side and riding about a half mile in advance of the column of troopers, Conner’s patrol rode south, close to the creek that served as a boundary between the ranges of two cattle ranches. Both outfits had been subject to some cattle rustling in the past couple of years. And with the current activity of the raiding Sioux, they would both seem to be potential targets for the war parties. The patrol was about five miles north of the Gallatin River when Hawk spotted the circle of buzzards over a stand of cottonwoods near a small creek. He turned Rascal toward it, thinking some rancher might have lost a cow.

  As a precaution, he pulled the buckskin up to a stop on a low rise some fifty yards short of the trees and paused there for a minute to scan the trees in each direction before riding down to investigate. It was only then that he spotted a thin ribbon of smoke beyond the trees. A campfire, maybe—it was no more than a wisp of smoke. There appeared to be no activity in the trees, no sign of horses, cows, or men, so he rode on down to the creek. Guiding on the buzzards above the trees, he walked Rascal slowly through the cottonwoods until hauling back suddenly on the reins when he came upon the source of the feast. He immediately drew the Winchester from his saddle sling and hurriedly looked all around him to make sure he was alone. Reassured, he gave Rascal his heels and charged forward at a gallop, scattering the squawking birds in all directions. He pulled the buckskin to a sliding stop a few feet from the remains of a corpse and jumped out of the saddle. From what was left of the body, Hawk figured he was a cowhand, judging by his clothes, which were in tatters. They had been ripped away by the vicious claws of the hungry scavengers in their frenzy to get to the flesh, of which there was very little left. In fact, there was not enough left of the poor victim to speculate over, and little need to speculate at that. There were many hoofprints, all left by unshod horses, and long marks in the creek bank, leading from the water, told him the unfortunate man’s story. He had been dragged in the creek and pulled out of the water at this point. Hawk hoped the poor devil was already dead by then.

  He hesitated for a moment before firing his rifle to signal the patrol, as he lunged first this way, then that way, trying to keep the anxious buzzards from returning to the feast. If he fired a couple of shots, would he also be signaling the savages who did this? Taking another look at the corpse, he decided the party that did this thing was long gone. To reinforce that opinion, he looked at the tracks around the body and the creek and decided they were hours old. When he looked back at the body, he saw the buzzards gathering around it again, so he fired a couple of shots into the bunch, sending them scurrying again. He realized then that there was not enough of the victim left to fight the buzzards for, so he gave up on his efforts to save what remained. The shots should bring the patrol to find him, so he decided to look for the source of the smoke he had seen, wondering if there were more bodies to be found.

  Leaving the noisy birds to finish their banquet, he stepped up into the saddle and started toward the smoke, now barely visible through the branches of the cottonwoods. He rode no more than fifty yards before coming to a small clearing and the smoldering remains of what must have been a line shack. It was a relief in a way, because he had feared he might find a wagon and the remains of a woman and children. “That ain’t to say I’m not sorry you had such poor luck, partner,” he muttered. “I’m just glad it wasn’t worse.” He didn’t spend much time scouting around the cabin. There was nothing left to speculate on, so he rode back to the buzzards to await the patrol’s arrival.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Conner was about to call his detail to a halt when he came to a creek. He had planned to make it to the river before stopping to rest the horses, but they were showing signs of fatigue. The sky had cleared above them and the morning had even warmed a bit. As soon as that registered on his mind, he couldn’t help grinning. It’s time to rest the horses and the weather has cleared, he thought, just like Hawk said it would. He chuckled to himself then, causing Corporal Johnson to give him a questioning look. Just a lucky guess, he told himself. Or maybe he does have big medicine. Moments later, he heard the rifle shots. They sounded as if they had come from farther up the creek he was just then approaching.

  * * *

  “How long ago?” Conner asked when he rode up the creek to find Hawk waiting for him.

  “Can’t say for sure,” Hawk said as he watched the soldiers trying to scare the buzzards away from what was now no more than a skeleton. “Mighta been last night. I can’t find any tracks that look fresh. I figure this fellow was usin’ that line shack up the creek a ways.”

  “Right,” Conner said. “Let’s go take a look at that shack.” He turned to the corporal standing close by. “Johnson, have a couple of the men dig a hole and bury that poor devil.” Back to Hawk, he asked, “You’re sure whoever did this isn’t still around?”

  “Long gone,” Hawk answered.

  The lieutenant and his two scouts rode up the creek to the charred remains of the line shack. Upon seeing the lightly smoldering timbers, Nestor stated the obvious. “This p
lace burnt down a long time ago. Those bastards are long gone.”

  “Any guess as to which way they went from here?” Conner asked, addressing Hawk.

  “I’d have to look around before we’d know for sure,” Nestor answered before Hawk could reply.

  “They headed out that way,” Hawk said, pointing south. “Toward the river and Three Forks.” He had already scouted the creek bank while he waited for Conner to bring the patrol to meet him and found a plain trail left by the hostiles.

  “Maybe they did and maybe they didn’t,” Nestor spoke up at once. “I’ll take a look, myself.” He wasn’t happy with the way Conner seemed to be asking Hawk all the questions.

  “Always a good idea,” Hawk commented. “I mighta missed something.”

  Conner ignored Nestor’s comment, still focusing his questions on Hawk’s findings. “You don’t suppose they’re planning on hitting Three Forks, do you? Hell, that’s not much more than five or six miles from here. As far behind them as you say we are, they could already be there.”

  “We could hear some shootin’ if they were attackin’ the town,” Nestor said.

  “I expect so,” Hawk agreed. “But as far behind as we are, they most likely would have already been there and gone. I don’t think this bunch would hit Three Forks, anyway.”

  “Why not?” Nestor asked at once. “How do you know whether or not they’d hit Three Forks? Hell, that’s what war parties do. They go out and kill white folks.”

  Hawk refused to rise to Nestor’s bait, although it was getting more and more difficult to ignore his every challenge. “When you take a look at the tracks, you’ll see why, Nestor. I figure this party ain’t much more than half a dozen warriors. And I don’t think they’d wanna take a chance on raidin’ a town the size of Three Forks. There’s too good a chance half of ’em, maybe more, would get killed.”

  “Maybe,” Nestor allowed. “To be sure, I’d best go scout those tracks, myself.”

  “Good idea,” Hawk said. Back to Conner then, he said, “There’s a more likely target, I’m thinkin’. There’s a rancher between here and Three Forks that’s a much more likely target than the town. That’s the folks I’m worried about, and the only hope we’ve got is that these raiders might be layin’ around waitin’ for night before they hit ’em.”

  “Damn, you’re right,” Conner said. “That makes a lot more sense. Do you know where the ranch house is?”

  “Not exactly,” Hawk answered. “At least not from where we’re standin’ right now. Do you, Nestor?” Nestor had to say he didn’t, so Hawk continued. “I rode by that place about a year ago. It’s close by the river, but from where we’re standin’ right now, I couldn’t point right at it. So I think as soon as the horses are rested, we need to follow the trail the Indians left us and hope we can get there in time.”

  “What if the damn Injuns ain’t goin’ after that ranch?” Nestor saw fit to ask. “What if they’re fixin’ to raid somewhere else?”

  Conner answered him. “We don’t know where else they might raid. And Hawk’s right, they aren’t likely to take a risk attacking the town. So this ranch is the only place that makes sense. We have an obligation to tell the people at the ranch that this man was killed, anyway, so that’s where we’ll go.” After resting the horses, although for not as long as they normally would have, the soldiers moved out, following the tracks left by the Sioux.

  As usual, Hawk and Nestor were out ahead of the column, this time riding together since the tracks were plain to see. After riding a distance of approximately two miles, they came to a low ridge covered with pine trees. The trail they followed led up the ridge to the top where the tracks told them the Indians had paused there to look around them. The reason they had remained there for a while was obvious to see. “There’s the ranch house,” Nestor said as they looked across about a half mile of open prairie to a log ranch house and barn with a corral attached. Beside the barn, opposite the house, stood what could be assumed to be a small bunkhouse. Completing the ranch headquarters was a smokehouse and an outhouse. All were standing in good shape and there were horses in the corral. “Looks like everythin’s all right to me,” Nestor commented. “Them Injuns must be headed somewhere else.”

  Hawk was not so sure. The Sioux might have headed off in another direction from this spot on the ridge. Their tracks down the other side should tell them that, but he was of the opinion that it was more likely they had decided to hide out and wait for darkness to strike. If that was the case, he felt the lieutenant was in luck, for the cavalry had arrived in time. “I’ll bring the lieutenant up,” he said to Nestor, and turned Rascal back the way they had come.

  “I’ll wait,” Nestor said, “and take a look down this hill to see where they headed from here.”

  In a short while, Hawk returned with Conner. “You’re right,” the lieutenant said. “They’re holed up somewhere waiting for darkness.” Like Hawk, he was speculating, but it made sense to him that a raiding party like the one they chased would find this the perfect target. To be determined now was the best plan of action, for there were several. Nestor returned from his scout down the other side of the ridge to report that the Indians had ridden off to the north. Hawk and Conner both looked in that direction, searching for the most likely place for the hostiles to wait. “That’s where I’d pick,” Conner said, pointing to a low line of hills to the north.

  “I agree,” Hawk replied. “It’s half again closer to that ranch than we are right here and it looks like there’s plenty of cover.”

  Now, assuming he and Hawk were right, and the hostiles were hiding in the hills, Conner had to decide how to proceed—to go at them right away and try to flush them out into the open, or wait until dark and try to fight them when they attacked the ranch. Or should he march his troop into the ranch right now to defend it, thereby discouraging the Indians from even considering an attack? After all, his first responsibility was to protect the ranchers. But if he chose that plan, the Sioux party would most likely choose to flee and look to raid someplace else. This plan was not especially favorable to him because the purpose of his patrol was to capture or kill the Sioux raiders to stop the raids, Still undecided, he said, “That’s a long line of hills. I wish I knew exactly where they’re holed up.”

  Hawk studied the hills, partially covered with trees with many open meadows between. He looked back the way they had just come. “I might be able to get a look at ’em if I circle back around this ridge and can get to the lower end of those hills without them seein’ me.”

  “That might be kinda dangerous,” Conner said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t order you to try it.” When Hawk merely shrugged in response, Conner couldn’t suppress a guilty smile. “It would surely tell us where and how to hit them, and keep the fight away from the house.”

  “Reckon so,” Hawk allowed, and waited. After a long pause, he asked, “Is that what you wanna do?”

  “Yep,” Conner replied right away. “But, you be careful. If you find you can’t get close enough to see them, turn around and get your ass back here.”

  “That I will, make no mistake,” Hawk said, and climbed into the saddle.

  Conner watched him as he descended the back side of the ridge. Turning to Johnson, he remarked, “He’s as good as having one of the Crow scouts along.”

  “He oughta be, he’s lived with the damn Injuns long enough.” This came from the gruff voice of Roy Nestor, who had walked up to stand behind them. “He’s liable to get his ass shot off.”

  * * *

  Hawk pulled up at the northern end of the ridge he had just descended to study the terrain between himself and the easternmost tip of the line of hills that ran east to west before reaching the river. A shallow draw stretched most of the way to the first in the line of hills, a distance of perhaps three hundred yards. Although shallow, he felt it was deep enough to give him and his horse cover, so he prodded Rascal forward. He’d decide what to do when he got to the end of the draw, if he got to th
e end of the draw. With that part of the plan completed without incident a few minutes later, he halted at the end of the draw and considered the open stretch of grass prairie between him and the low hills. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all, he thought. What the hell, I’ve come this far. He reasoned that the hostiles would more likely be watching the ranch and not the hills behind them. So he gave Rascal his heels and the big buckskin knew what he wanted. Up out of the draw they sprang and charged across the open grass. Lying low on Rascal’s neck, he was ready to veer off and run for his life at the first shot. But there was no shot fired and he galloped safely into the ring of trees at the base of the hill.

  Wasting no time, he dismounted and led Rascal deeper into the trees until reaching the start of the incline. He wrapped the horse’s reins on a branch, tightly enough so Rascal would stay, but loosely enough for him to easily break away. This was in the event he failed to return. He didn’t like the idea of the buckskin being tied to a tree if no one came to find him. He pulled his rifle then and made his way up the hill on foot. Over the top of the first hill, he descended to cross a saddle between it and the second hill, circling around through the trees whenever he came to an open meadow. Moving quickly, but cautiously, he worked his way to the fourth hill in the chain before he suddenly froze when he heard a horse whinny. He dropped to one knee and listened, his rifle held ready to fire. Then he heard another whinny. This time, he determined the direction from which it came. On his feet again, he crept carefully through the branches of the trees to discover a ravine just ahead of him. Dropping to his knees at once, he crawled to the edge of the ravine to discover eight Indian ponies gathered at the bottom. Two of them were without saddles of any kind. That makes it six, he thought. Now, where are they? In answer to his question, he heard the sound of a man’s voice coming softly but clearly on the opposite side of the hill from the ravine.

  Moving along the rim of the ravine as quickly as he could without making a noise, he made his way to the top of the hill before dropping down on his knees again. An inch at a time to avoid any noisy cracking of a pine bough, he moved slowly forward until he suddenly froze again. Halfway down the slope an Indian crouched, his back toward him. Hawk slowly lowered himself to lie flat on the ground. A lookout? He wondered, then a voice called out somewhere from below the crouching Indian, followed by the sound of laughter from several others. In response, the crouching man called back. The language was definitely Sioux although Hawk couldn’t catch enough to know what was said. At that point, he really didn’t care. He knew what he had come to find out. They were Sioux, there were six of them, and they had holed up in a wooded pocket on the back side of a ravine that ran up the fourth hill.