Novel 1950 - Westward The Tide (v5.0)

by Louis L'Amour

  Darkness came swiftly, and Matt rolled up in his poncho, but despite his weariness and the throb in his head and side, he lay awake for a long time. Finally his mind a confusion of dreams, he slept.

  He awakened with a start, long before daylight. Rolling out, he built a fire and then went to the stream where he bathed his face and head, then cooked the best of the remaining buffalo meat and ate all he could manage. He had no way of carrying water, but with the recent rain there was a chance he could make it. The Little Big Horn lay some twenty miles to the westward.

  His head throbbing, his face dark with beard, he started out. Somewhere ahead of him was the wagon train, and when he found it, he would know what to do. Head down he started plodding along the ruts the wagons had left.

  The grass was high now, high as the wheels on the wagons that had rolled across this prairie, and had he possessed a rifle there would have been no need to worry about food, for there was all the game a man could want. Prairie chickens and rabbits darted away as he approached, and once, late in the afternoon, he saw off in the distance a pair of antelope, but this time there were no wolves to make his kill for him.

  Three times during the morning he stopped to rest, once for all of an hour. Yet despite his weakness, he kept going, content only when he was moving. Once, in midafternoon, he stumbled from weakness and fell headlong, and that time he lay long before moving again, and when he started once more, rested every little way. He must keep going, but at all costs, he must not stop or be stopped.

  His years along the frontier and the hard, rough life he had lived had built stamina that did not fail him now. When he started again, he moved along for a mile, then rested and started once more. He was determined to make the river before he stopped, no matter how many hours it took him, and the distance was between eighteen and twenty miles. Once, sighting a band of horsemen, he took to the brush. Even at that distance he recognized them for Indians, for their manner of riding was distinctive. Concealed in the brush, he waited, and after only a few minutes, saw six Indians riding along the wagon trail.

  Clutching his knife, he waited. They were Sioux, and young warriors, which was all he needed to know, for if they found him they would not hesitate to kill him and take his scalp, and he was without any weapon but the knife. Once, they reined in, and he saw a tall young warrior on a spotted pony staring down at the trail. Once, he half turned his pony as if to ride toward the brush, but the others shouted something at him, and rode along. Twice, he turned in his saddle to glance back.

  Obviously, the warrior had seen his trail, and probably was undecided whether it was made at the time the wagons passed or not. Yet when they had gone on, Matt did not at once emerge from cover, but kept to the shallow place between the hills, utilizing every bit of cover. It slowed his pace, but after a few minutes, he saw the Indian on the spotted pony returning.

  Evidently he had noticed the tracks he had seen did not continue, and saying nothing, had decided to count coup on the straggler by himself. Matt eyed the Indian with care. He was a young warrior, agile and strong. He possessed no rifle, and no doubt was hop-ing to get one when he found his man. It was the paint pony that interested Matt … if he could get that horse … he crouched in the brush, waiting.

  The Sioux had turned aside from the trail and was following his path through the grass toward his first hiding place. Carefully, Matt slid backwards through the brush, rearranging the grass and branches as he moved, trying with all his skill to cover his trail. In his present weakened condition, an attack upon the Indian would be sheer suicide unless he was at once successful.

  When he reached a dense section of brush he went into it, and after passing through, concealed himself in the grass near his trail. He lay very still, gripping the knife.

  The afternoon was warm and very still. The sun lay upon his back, and the dew-heavy grass smelled fragrant to his nostrils. Flat as he could lie, pressed tight to the earth but with one leg drawn up and his toe dug in for a quick move, he lay waiting.

  A fly droned lazily in the warm summer sun. It sat upon a leaf and walked about curiously, then flew to Matt Bardoul’s hand, where it prowled without apparent purpose, then took off. The sun warmed his back, and his muscles soaked up the heat. His hand upon the haft of the knife grew sticky and he drew the hand away, wiping it on his left sleeve.

  No sound came from the brush, but suddenly the Indian was there, lean and powerful with tan, lithe muscles. He was led among the leaves at the edge of the brush, his eyes studying carefully the open valley before him, dotted with clumps of brush. He carried a bow in his hand, and an arrow ready for shooting.

  Matt needed no one to tell him how quickly that arrow could be let go. He had seen the Sioux in action before this. He lay very still, breathing carefully, his eyes riveted upon the warrior. There could be no escape now, for the Indian was too close, and he would trail Matt and find where he had doubled back. There was only one chance, and that was Matt’s ambush. When the Indian came abreast of him, he must be killed.

  The whole action must take no more than a split second, and there must be no sound. The knife must win on the first stroke. In ordinary condition, without his wounds, Matt could have bested the Indian in a hand to hand fight, but now there was no room for a gamble. None at all.

  The Sioux was careful. Young he might be, but he had seen war. You knew that in the way he moved, and there was confidence in him, too, the confidence of victories past. Matt’s grip tightened on the knife, and he waited, tense and ready.

  The warrior moved from the brush and crouched, staring down at the trail, then he straightened and looked all around him. There was something in that trail he did not like, and Matt almost grinned to see the Indian’s face, so close now that every change of expression could be noted. From the trail the Sioux knew the man he was following was not trying to get away, he knew the man understood how to leave or conceal a trail.

  Now, the Indian moved. Matt was aware of the faint, earthy smell, of the slight movement of the tall grass as the Indian came forward, and of the fly that buzzed mournfully about. In the far distance, above the low hills, a bit of lonely cloud drifted across a pale blue sky.

  The eyes of the Sioux were black, his skin dark and his hair black and greasy. When he moved there was only the whisper of the grass. He wore only a breech clout, and carried beside the bow and quiver of arrows, only a scalping knife.

  Matt’s tongue touched his dry lips. The Indian was abreast of him, but looking ahead, searching the brush and the hillside. He hesitated there, and Matt Bardoul held his breath, and then the Indian took a step, then another.

  In a long, soundless leap, Matt shot himself from the earth. The Sioux, warned by some small sound or a premonition of danger, wheeled like a cat, but Matt was too close for the bow and arrow, and the Indian dropped them, wasting time in a futile grab at his knife. Matt struck with his own knife, and the Indian caught the blade on his arm.

  Blood whipped from it in a crimson curtain that covered his arm like a sleeve. Matt struck with his left fist and caught the Sioux in the mouth, staggering him. He struck again with the knife, blade held low, stabbing for the soft parts of the Sioux’s body. Again the Indian warded it off, getting only a thin red scratch across his stomach, but now he had his own knife out.

  Matt struck with his left for the Indian’s wind as they went down into the tall grass and thrust again with the knife. That time it struck home, and the Indian gasped, his black eyes ugly with hatred and battle lust. Matt got the knife out, and they rolled over. He felt a flash of pain across his shoulder and then he got the Indian’s wrist and forced it back, fighting desperately to hold the blade away from his body.

  Wild with fear, for he knew his strength was going fast, he lunged and threw the Indian off. The Sioux was on his feet like a cat, and sprang for Matt, and Bardoul dropped on his back as the Indian leaped for him, and stabbed upward with the knife. Too late, the Sioux saw his mistake and tried to twist away from the blad
e, but it sank into his body just below the ribs and went in to the hilt.

  For a moment then there was a bitter, soundless struggle. Matt shoved on the blade, twisting and gouging to point it upward toward the Sioux’s heart, his breath coming in great, agonizing gasps. He finally jerked the knife free, and in a last desperate effort, thrust again.

  The body tightened under him, then relaxed. For a long time, Matt lay still, then he withdrew his knife and wiped it on the grass. Gathering up the bow and arrows, he crawled, gasping for breath and faint with weakness, for the brush. In a haze of pain and sickness, he knew he could not remain where he was. The other warriors would be returning, looking for the missing Indian. He had to get that horse and get away, and quickly as possible.

  Despite his weakness, he managed to get to his feet. He looked around before he moved. The grass where they had fought was bloody and crushed as though wolves had made a kill. He moved into the brush, then hesitated. The paint pony was tied to a tree not twenty feet away!

  He moved toward it, but the pony smelled the blood and jerked his head back, rolling his eyes. Matt spoke softly to him, but the paint wanted no part of him. The strange smell of a white man as well as the blood made the pony snort and jerk his head wildly, yet Matt moved toward him, and finally got a hand on the rawhide with which the pony was tied.

  This was a battle that had to be won here, for he was in no shape to ride a pitching horse. He spoke softly again, talking to the pony with low voice and soothing tones, then tentatively he put out a hand and after some effort, got it on the pony’s neck. He caressed it gently and talked softly. On a sudden inspiration, he moved the quiver of arrows closer to the pony’s nose, and the familiar smell seemed to quiet the animal. Matt unfastened the rawhide and swung to the blanket that did duty for a saddle. Then he guided the pony back down the trail, and when he saw a draw running north and away from the route followed by the Indians, he took it, letting the pony run, which he seemed eager to do.

  When he was at least three miles from where he had killed the Sioux, Matt turned the pony back toward the Little Big Horn and rode on. He felt sick in his stomach and his head throbbed painfully. He had been cut slightly on the shoulder and the wound had bled, but the bleeding had stopped and now his buckskin shirt was stuck to the wound with dried blood.

  Sick, he reeled in his seat, and the pony shied violently, so violently that he lost his seat and fell headlong. With a startled leap, the pony was gone, racing off into the late afternoon.

  Wearily, Matt got to his knees, then to his feet. The pony was gone, but the ride had helped. There ahead of him was the dark line of trees, of which he could see only the tops, of the valley of the Little Big Horn. Moving on, Matt kept going doggedly, fighting against weariness and sickness until he reached the dense growth of willows along the bank. With his last remaining strength he crawled into them, and concealing his route as well as possible, crawled until he found a low hollow under some wild berry bushes, a place made by a wolf or some large animal. Crawling in, he put his head on his arm.

  A long time later, he opened his eyes. It was dark, and his mouth felt dry and his head throbbed. Every muscle in his body seemed to be stiff and sore and when he moved it was all he could do to repress a groan. Crawling out of his cover he got to the river bank and drank long and deeply, and then he bathed his face and head with the cold water.

  The night was clear, and glancing at the stars, he could see that it was well past midnight. Crawling back to his cover, he was soon asleep.

  Sunlight through the brambles awakened him and he lay very still for a few minutes. The last of his meat had been lost when he was thrown from the horse, but he had retained his poncho. He bathed in the Little Big Horn, then crossed the stream. He was no hand with a bow, although some Crows had once instructed him in its use and he believed there was a chance he might find some game that he could kill. Matt found a few berries and then kept on until he came to the place where the wagon train had stopped.

  He was standing beside a huge tree studying the scene when he heard a slight movement in the brush. Fading back, his heart pounding, he waited. Then he heard it again.

  It was a horse, walking through the brush. Now it had come to an open place, and apparently it hesitated there. Listening, he heard another movement, and then saw three Indians, Brules by the look of them. Obviously they were trailing the unsuspecting horseman. The horse started on again at a slow walk, following a course that would bring him close by where Matt Bardoul was standing!

  His hand reached for the bow, and he notched an arrow, waiting. Then the brush near him parted and the horse came through. Instantly, his face broke into a grin. It was the dun! His own horse!

  Carefully, he lifted a hand. The dun’s head came up with a jerk, and he moved toward it, whispering.

  The dun hesitated, rolling his eyes, then something familiar must have arrested his attention, for he stretched an inquiring nose toward Matt. And then Matt was beside him, slipping the Winchester from its scabbard. “Stand, boy!” he whispered. “We’ve work to do!”

  An Indian came through the brush, and evidently they had seen the horse and believed it riderless, for he stepped right out in the open, and then he glimpsed Matt and gave a startled grunt and whipped up his own rifle. Matt fired from the hip at no more than thirty yards, then whipped the rifle to his shoulder and nailed the second Indian. The third vanished into the tall grass, and Matt swung into the saddle.

  Quickly, he searched his saddlebags. There was food here, and ammunition. It was easy to see what had happened. When he had been shot from the dun’s back, the horse had dashed away, frightened. When it recovered from the fright, it began to follow the wagon train, seeking the company of the horses it knew.

  A few minutes ride proved that the wagons were headed for the Big Horn, and Matt hesitated over what course to adopt. A day’s good riding would take him to the vicinity of Fort No. 1 and the Army, where he might get help to recover the wagon train. On the other hand, matters must be reaching a crisis with the train. If they had not met the reinforcements they expected, most of the men of the train would be needed as drivers, and there was small chance Massey would allow the women to be molested and risk an out and out revolt by the men, so there was a chance.

  Matt wheeled the dun and headed down the Little Big Horn. He was in very bad shape, but just being in the saddle and having a rifle again made him feel much better.

  It was a beautiful country through which he travelled, with some fine strands of timber along the Little Big Horn, and grass that grew three feet tall, while there were wild cherries, currants, wild strawberries, gooseberries and grapes in profusion. The dun seemed glad to have him in the saddle again, and kept a good pace.

  Matt was riding at a lope through the broken and precipitous hills along the east bank of the river when suddenly he noticed a rusted field kitchen. He slowed his pace, and then in the space of the next two miles he saw weathered saddles, tin pails, canteens and tin plates with here and there an overcoat or cap.

  This was the Custer battlefield where the might of the Sioux had fought their last battle. In a short distance, Matt Bardoul counted sixty-nine graves, most of them merely a thin film of earth thrown over the body. Here and there wolves had dug into the graves, and under one tree he saw a skull in an Army cap.

  Matt did not stop, riding over the field and heading back closer to the river. At night, he was still riding north, but there was no time for delay, he watered and rested the horse, then remounted and continued. Dawn was graying the sky when he glimpsed the fort.

  Several headquarters and barracks buildings were nearing completion, and already carpenters were moving out to their work. Below, in a long hollow, numbers of tents were pitched in regular rows, and soldiers were moving about, washing mess gear. Matt touched a spur to the weary dun and cantered down into the camp.

  A sentry challenged him, and then seeing he was a white man, looked at him curiously. Matt’s beard was days
old, and the wound on his head was still matted with blood where he had not dared wash too much of it away. His shoulder and side were dark with the stain of it, and he carried his rifle across his saddle bows. “Where’s your commanding officer?”

  The soldier indicated a tent, his eyes curious. Matt rode on, hoping the officer would turn out to be the same they had met earlier. He swung down in front of the tent, and walked up to the flap, that was drawn back.

  A tall young man with blond hair and a mustache was writing over a camp desk. He looked up when Matt spoke, his eyes sweeping him with obvious irritation at the interruption. Quickly, Matt explained, but even as he talked he could see the rising scepticism in the officer’s eyes.

  “You want me to let you have a patrol?” he said. “My orders wouldn’t allow it even if I felt it essential. From what you say yourself, the trouble is among the personnel of the wagon train, not with Indians. I have no orders to interfere in anything of the sort.”

  “But, Man!” Matt protested. “Those men are outlaws! One of them is Sim Boyne, the Natchez murderer!”

  “Sorry!” the officer shook his head, “I can do nothing for you. My orders are to build this fort and to avoid trouble with the Indians. That is all. I have received no information about any wagon train, nor about any such person as Sim Boyne. Certainly, I can’t be ordering troops out on the whim of every would be settler, who believes he is in trouble.”

  “Listen!” Matt protested, rage rising within him. “I’m a Deputy United States Marshal!”

  “You are? You have your papers, I suppose?”

  Bardoul clapped a hand to his coat. They were gone! Of course, he might have known they would take them. “No, I don’t,” he said, “they were stolen from me.”

  The officer shrugged. “I can’t do anything for you. As a matter of fact, I am only acting in command. The officer commanding should be back at the post by Monday, at the latest. He might help you.”