Wind River

by Charles G. West

  “He’ll bring them to my camp. That’s where I was taking you.”

  “All right then, let’s go.”

  Little Wolf led them back to the place in the trees where he had hidden his things before putting on the white man’s clothes and riding into the fort. It was still dark although morning was not far away by this time. Kroll was impatient to get his hands on a weapon, but Little Wolf convinced him that there were no rifles there, they would be brought in the morning. Saying they might as well get some sleep, Little Wolf unsaddled his horse and pretended to settle down for the night. Kroll and Moody made beds with their saddle blankets and, after a great deal of grumbling, drifted off to sleep shortly before dawn. As soon as Little Wolf was certain they were asleep, he arose and went to the place where he had hidden his buckskins and his bow. He made not a sound as he returned to the camp, moving silently around the fire to a position facing the two sleeping men. The first rays of the sun began to creep into the trees where he stood and he waited for the screen of darkness to dissolve.

  Moody was deep in sleep, dreaming of the hangman’s noose, when he was abruptly jolted awake. At once he was aware of a heavy weight in his chest and a fiery rod through his belly. Totally disoriented, he floundered awake, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened. His heart almost stopped when he managed to focus his eyes and discovered the tall Cheyenne warrior standing over him, his long hair just touching his shoulders with one eagle feather braided into the dark locks, his face painted for war. Still befuddled by sleep, he tried to jump to his feet but the intense pain in his stomach stopped him cold and he looked down at his round belly. For a full moment he stared in disbelief at the arrow shaft protruding from his stomach. When he put his hand on it, he screamed with the pain caused by the movement. As he screamed, Little Wolf calmly let fly a second arrow. The arrow hit the rotund little man with a dull thump, shattering a rib and piercing his lung. Moody’s scream increased in his agony.

  Kroll, awakened by his partner’s screams, rolled over on his side and lay there for a moment while he struggled to rid his brain of its slumber. “Jesus!” he yelled when at last he realized what he saw. He lunged to his feet but fell again in a heap, his ankles having been tied together. Aware now that he was fighting for his life, he attempted to crawl on his hands while dragging his feet. It was to no avail. Little Wolf caught him by the thong that bound his ankles and dragged him back into the clearing and dropped him in the middle of the campfire. Kroll roared like a grizzly and rolled out of the hot coals, landing on his back. He looked up to see the arrow aimed directly at him, the bow drawn fully. There was no time to react. The shaft of the arrow slammed into his midsection. He pulled frantically at the shaft but only caused himself more pain. Like Moody, he finally lay back, trying to be still in order to minimize the agony.

  “Her name was Morning Sky,” Little Wolf calmly stated. “She was my wife.”

  Kroll sank back against the ground. The horrible realization struck him fully then and he now recognized his assailant. “Little Wolf,” he mumbled, knowing that it was futile to beg for mercy.

  Little Wolf drew another arrow from his quiver and embedded it in Kroll’s chest. “You will die slowly and, while you are waiting to die, you will think about the girl you killed. I will stay with you until I am sure you are dead.” He fitted another arrow on his bowstring and sent it into Kroll’s groin. The shaft pinned the man’s testicles to the ground. The shock of it caused Kroll to lose consciousness. Little Wolf walked to the stream and brought back some water to revive his victim. Kroll jerked awake with a scream. While Little Wolf was at the stream, Moody attempted to escape, dragging himself away from the tree under which he had spent the night. Unconcerned, Little Wolf revived Kroll before going after Moody. He caught him before Moody had dragged himself ten yards. Taking out his knife, he reached down and scalped the helpless man and left him to die.

  Kroll, realizing his life was running out on the ground in the blood that had begun to puddle around him, cursed weakly at his executioner. “Damn you to hell, you son of a bitch. I didn’t know that damn squaw was your wife.”

  Little Wolf stared at him, his expression almost blank. He had long before exhausted his rage for these two men. Now he was only intent on avenging Morning Sky’s death in a meticulous manner, making sure the two of them understood the fate they had brought on themselves. “I will hang your scalps from my lance so that you will wander forever in the other world.”

  Kroll died shortly after Little Wolf took his scalp. To be certain, Little Wolf slit both men’s throats and left them for the buzzards, along with the white man’s clothes he had stolen from the cabin. A heavy burden lifted from his heart. He began his journey back to the mountains knowing they had paid with their own lives for the atrocity committed upon his beloved wife. But still there was no peace in his heart and there was no filling the emptiness Morning Sky’s passing had left.

  CHAPTER 21

  There was a great deal of grumbling among the men unlucky enough to be picked to form the search party for the escaped prisoners. Tom wasn’t too thrilled with the idea himself. He had just gotten back from patrol the day before. It was the normal routine to get at least one day off after an extensive patrol of troop strength. But that was the price B-Troop paid for having the two best Indian scouts in the regiment in Squint Peterson and Andy Coulter. Custer put the task of recapturing the escapees firmly on Captain Benteen’s shoulders. Benteen, in turn, assigned the chore to Tom. So it was that Tom found himself back in the saddle on this chilly autumn morning.

  The trail was easy enough to pick up. Three horses, hell-bent for leather, lit out the back of the fort behind the stables. Squint found it interesting that only two of them were shod, the two stolen from the stable. The other was an Indian pony. It didn’t take a detective to discover what had taken place. According to Muley Rhymers, a young fellow who worked for him had disappeared too. He obviously stole the two horses, pulled the window out of the guardhouse and made off with those two buzzards Squint had brought in. They had circled back south of the fort and appeared to be heading in a southeasterly direction.

  “I don’t remember Muley havin’ anybody working in the stable with him,” Andy said as he and Squint dismounted to check sign.

  “He didn’t when we went out on that patrol,” Tom answered. “The fellow just walked in a couple of days ago. Ole Muley’s not too popular with the colonel right now . . . Two army mounts stolen from right under his nose.” He didn’t need to mention that a young soldier had been killed during the escape, a fact that supplied all the motivation he needed to track down the three of them. He waited while his scouts mounted, then followed their lead down across a grassy bottom and along a skinny stream.

  The sun was gaining on the morning sky when Andy stated, “Don’t take much tracking to follow that trail.” He pointed toward a group of scrub oaks on a creek bank about a mile away where half a dozen buzzards were circling.

  Andy was right. It was the two buffalo hunters—at least, what was left of them. Tom looked at the grotesque figures of the two men for a few minutes and then turned away to get a breath of fresh air. The bodies had not been dead long enough to stink, but already the buzzards had found them and were circling closer and closer when the soldiers approached. Andy and Squint peered at the scalpless victims, their bloody wounds already crawling with flies.

  “From the look of it,” Squint decided, “I’d say the other feller sprung ’em just so’s he could kill ’em hisself.” He tugged at one of the arrows and, finding it deeply embedded in the man’s chest, stood up and motioned to Tom. “Lieutenant, these arrows was shot at mighty close range. They’re all in too deep to pull out without breaking ’em. Remember how them arrows was just barely stuck in them mule skinners we found . . . to make it look like the work of Injuns? Well, sir, these was shot with a pretty powerful bow, I’d say, and he must have been standin’ right on top of ’em.”

  “Cheyenne,” An
dy pronounced. “See the way that scalp was slit? Across the front and partway back? That’s the way a Cheyenne Dog Soldier lifts a scalp.” He was talking more to Squint than he was to Tom. “Fer my money, I’d say that third feller is a damn Injun right enough and no foolin’ at that.”

  “It shore looks it, don’t it?” Squint agreed. “And from the looks of this here arrow pinning this one’s balls to the ground, it had to do with violating somebody’s squaw, I’d bet.”

  “I’ve seen a lot of bodies mutilated by Indians for no reason at all, just for the hell of it,” Tom said.

  “Yessir,” Squint replied. “But usually they do all kinds of shit when they’re just mutilating them for the hell of it . . . Cut their balls off and stuff ’em in the dead man’s mouth, such trash as that, gouging out eyeballs and such. This ain’t the case here. I ain’t no detective but that’s the way it looks to me. Anyway, them two coyotes, ain’t no tellin’ what they been up to. I don’t reckon there’ll be a whole lot of mournin’ over their passing.”

  “You think this man’s an Indian then?”

  Both scouts nodded in the affirmative. “And I think he’s got a pretty good start on us if you’re thinking of going after him,” Squint added.

  “Why the hell would Muley hire an Indian? A Cheyenne at that?” Tom was still puzzled over the apparent execution. He ran it over in his mind for a few moments longer before bringing his attention back to his mission. “Hell yes, we’re going after him, all right. The man killed a sentry.” He paused for a moment before adding, “And he stole two army mounts.”

  “Well, sir, we damn shore better git goin’ because I got a feelin’ this son of a bitch ain’t your ordinary ever’day Injun.”

  Tom decided there was little value in trying to send the bodies back to the fort, so he had them buried where they were, and then the detail started out after the Indian. The trail was not hard to follow for a few miles until they reached a point where the hoofprints divided. Tom halted the detachment while Squint and Andy circled and returned to report. It was obvious to them that the Indian turned the two army mounts loose.

  “It’d be my guess you’ll find them horses not too far away if you wanna send somebody after ’em.” Andy scratched his head and aimed a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of a large black beetle scurrying out from under his horse’s hoof. “Don’t figure though, an Injun lettin’ two good horses go.”

  “I reckon he don’t want nobody trailing him. Three horses are hard to cover up,” Squint said.

  “I reckon.”

  “Follow the unshod one?” Tom asked.

  “Follow the unshod one,” Squint confirmed and they continued tracking the Indian pony.

  The trail became more difficult to follow but Andy and Squint were able to stay with it. Eventually it led onto an outcropping of rock that hung out over a narrow creek. It was obvious the Indian felt it necessary to cover his trail, but had been waiting for the right place to start. “He picked a good one,” Andy commented, and he and Squint combed the stream for a good half hour, trying to determine if he went north or south. It seemed impossible for a man to ride down a creek bed without leaving one single hoofprint. It was like he just rode up on the rocks and then started flying. Squint was beginning to think he had somehow doubled back on them when Andy sang out that he found a print. It led north.

  Squint studied the single hoofprint for a long time. Something about it didn’t look right. He walked a few steps farther back and found another one near the edge of the water, just barely into the sand. “Wait a minute, Lieutenant.” He turned and splashed downstream, below the rock outcropping. Stepping very carefully, he made his way slowly downstream, searching the creek bed until he found what he was looking for. A handful of small pebbles had been disturbed, leaving a partial imprint of an unshod hoof. “Just as I figured,” he announced triumphantly. “This ole boy is a sly one. He went in the water headin’ north, just to throw us off. Then he backed his horse up to the rocks, probably right there,”—he pointed to a low shelf—“came out and went in the water again, headed downstream.” Squint grinned like a schoolboy catching his first possum. “Yessir, this ol’ boy is a sly one. We’re gonna earn our money on this one, Andy.”

  It was slow going until they finally picked up the trail where Little Wolf left the stream and once again headed west across the prairie. They would stay with it for as long as the lieutenant said, but Squint was not overly optimistic about catching the man. Not only were they slowed down by the difficulty in following the trail, the army mounts were no match for the Indian pony in a flat-out chase, if it came to that. Joe might stay with the Indian for a while but, eventually, he would probably wear Joe out. As he saw it, their only chance to catch him was if he got careless and figured he had covered his trail. And somehow Squint didn’t figure this Injun to get careless.

  For the rest of that day they followed the Indian’s trail, losing it occasionally, circling, then picking it up again. It was plain to see they had little chance of overtaking him at this rate for, even though it was obvious that he was in no hurry, they were unable to gain any ground on him. When they camped that night, Tom made a decision. From the direction of the Indian’s trail, both Squint and Andy were confident their fugitive was making straight for Sitting Bull’s camp. If they continued tracking him at the present pace, he would reach the village before they could catch him and they would have to turn back, or risk stirring up the entire Sioux nation. There was a slim chance, however, that they could overtake the Indian. Tom decided it was worth the risk.

  The next morning only three of them—Tom, Squint and Andy—went on after the lone Indian. They each took two extra mounts. They planned to ride full gallop until a horse was worn out then cut him loose and switch to a fresh mount. By riding hard and switching mounts there was a chance they could get to the Little Missouri ahead of the Indian, especially since he still did not seem to be in a hurry. The rest of the troop was left with Sergeant Porter with instructions to follow along making the best time possible. A separate detail was dispatched to pick up the extra mounts the three of them cut loose.

  * * *

  Little Wolf sat cross-legged on top of a low hill and watched the horizon toward the east. As he watched, he cleaned the last bit of meat from the bones of a large hare he had killed that morning. His hunger satisfied, he threw the bones aside and continued to stare at the endless sea of prairie behind him. What he saw puzzled him. He knew the soldiers were tracking him, but he also knew they were not gaining on him. Now, to his surprise, he was seeing a small group of soldiers riding hard and rapidly closing the gap between himself and his pursuers. He found it difficult to believe the army’s horses could reduce the distance that rapidly. He continued to watch because he had no fear of the soldiers and he was confident in his ability to lose them if he desired. Now, as they drew closer and he could see them more clearly, he discovered that they were three soldiers with three extra horses. As he watched, they halted abruptly, switched saddles and bridles onto the three extra horses and set off again at full gallop. He realized at once what their plan was. They were no longer tracking him. They were trying to get in front of him.

  “So, if you are no longer tracking me, then I will track you.” He rose and walked down the hill where the Appaloosa was waiting.

  * * *

  “There it is, there’s the river,” Squint sang out and reined his lathered mount to a halt. He was soon joined by Andy and Tom, their horses wheezing as they strained for air.

  “You think we beat him here?” Tom asked.

  “Don’t know. I’d shore be surprised if we didn’t,” Squint replied. “We’d best be seeing about where he might cross. Right here is where them two buzzards came across before. From the looks of the tracks, I’d say more’n one Injun crosses here.”

  “He could cross anywhere,” Andy pointed out.

  “I reckon,” Squint agreed. “But it’ll have to be somewhere between here and the bends of the riv
er. Ain’t no other place for two miles. We’ll be damn lucky if he ain’t been here and gone. I reckon we better spread out and cover as much of this turn of the river as we can. Maybe one of us will be lucky enough to get a shot at him. Better water the horses first so’s they’ll be quiet.”

  “Our orders are to capture him if possible,” Tom was quick to remind his two scouts.

  “It ain’t likely it’ll be possible.” Andy spat a brown stream that caught the lieutenant’s horse on the forelock. He shook his head as if to apologize. “‘Specially since it’ll likely be one agin’ the other. More’n likely you’ll have to kill him.” He looked to Squint for confirmation and Squint nodded his agreement.

  “I reckon he’s right, Lieutenant.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if he offers to surrender, let him. Now, we better get ourselves under cover or he’ll find us first. Andy, why don’t you spot from this big tree down around that bend. Squint can take this section of crossing and I’ll ride upstream a couple hundred yards. That all right with everybody?” They both nodded agreement and dispersed to their assigned area of ambush. As an afterthought, Tom called after Andy, “How long do you think it’ll be before he gets here?”

  Andy looked back over his shoulder. “Not long, if he ain’t already beat us here and crossed.” He knew the odds were mighty slim they would even see the man, and once he got on the other side of the river, he’d be damn near impossible to catch.

  Tom watched until both men were no longer visible then turned and rode upstream until he came to a clump of trees thick enough to hide him and his horse from anyone approaching the river. Drawing his carbine from his saddle pack, he checked to make sure it was ready to fire. Satisfied, he started to dismount, but decided to stay in the saddle in case he had to ride to support Squint or Andy in a hurry. He waited.

  The afternoon sun began to settle into the trees on the hills across the river and Tom buttoned his jacket as the warmth of the afternoon started to dissipate into the chill of the autumn night. There was no sound save that of the river behind him and the occasional soft creaking of saddle leather whenever he shifted his weight, punctuated by the periodic swish of his horse’s tail whenever a fly began to bite. He waited. Time passed as if on leaden wings. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost five o’clock. There was not much daylight left. He wondered if they were on a fool’s vigil. The Indian might be miles away.