Bret looked back at Duncan, who seemed to at last be resting peacefully. When he told him what the morning light had revealed, Duncan didn’t respond. He had passed quietly during the long morning hours.
“Damn,” Bret uttered softly. He had not had the opportunity to get to know the sergeant very well, but what he had seen up to this point had been enough to judge him a good man and a proper soldier. “He’s dead,” he reported when he looked up to meet Coldiron’s inquisitive glance.
“I figured,” was Coldiron’s response.
Bret couldn’t help wondering if the sergeant’s death was hurried along by Coldiron’s method of extracting the arrow. They went then to their campsite to check on their dead, six bodies lying grotesquely in various states of surprise as they had been set upon in their sleep. The sight sickened Bret. He had seen mutilated bodies of soldiers when he had buried the dead at Little Big Horn, but these six were under his command, and were dead because of his failure to protect them. None of the other survivors of the attack might see it that way, but that was the way he saw it, and it weighed heavily upon him. Coldiron moved up beside him to comment, “They didn’t waste any time, did they? They didn’t even take time to scalp ’em.”
Bret was staring at a couple of haversacks lying near Copeland’s body. The contents that had spilled out on the ground were primarily his issue of Blakeslee cartridge cases. “If they had known what those were,” he said, “we mighta had a battle for our horses.” Thinking of his one missing man then, he told McCoy to go up to the little rise beyond the willows to look for Weaver’s body. “We’ll bring him back here and bury him with the others.”
“That’s a helluva lot of diggin’ to do,” McCoy protested. “And it don’t make no damn sense to hang around here waitin’ for those Injuns to come back.”
Bret was in no mood to suffer the private’s insolence. “I gave you an order, Private, and I don’t want to hear any more of your mouth. Now get your ass up there and look for Weaver.” McCoy hesitated a moment, burning inside before turning to leave. “I didn’t hear you respond, Private,” Bret said.
“Yes, sir,” McCoy blurted. You son of a bitch, he said under his breath.
About fifteen minutes passed before McCoy returned. “He ain’t there,” he reported. “I looked all around that spot. Nary a sign of him.”
Bret looked at Coldiron. “You think they captured him?”
“I doubt it,” Coldiron replied. “If they thought there was a guard watchin’ the camp, they woulda most likely killed him. I figure they just wanted to pick up their dead and get the hell away from here before daylight caught ’em without no cartridges for the guns they just got.”
“Hell,” McCoy put in, “even a damn Injun ain’t got no use for Weaver.”
Bret and Coldiron had already started digging graves, but they dropped the two hand shovels the patrol had brought with them and went to the rise then to see for themselves. There were traces in the sand where Weaver probably sat, and Lazzara before him, but there was no sign of a struggle having taken place, and no blood anywhere on the ground. Bret didn’t like the picture forming in his mind. Coldiron voiced it for him. “Looks a helluva lot like he turned rabbit on us and took off.” He pointed toward a trail left in the sand among the willows. “Looks like he was crawlin’, leavin’ tracks like that.”
“That son of a . . . ,” Bret started, then checked himself. “We’ll take a wide circle around here to look for him. First, though, I wanna take a look behind that long rise where the hostiles were holed up. Maybe that’ll tell us something.”
A few days ago, he wouldn’t have cared if Weaver had deserted. He would have figured the army would be better off without him. But if Weaver had deserted, leaving his fellow troopers to perish because of his negligence, then Bret was determined to run him down and let him answer for his crime.
An inspection of the low rise where the Blackfoot warriors had taken cover revealed nothing beyond evidence that they had been there. Bret was really only concerned about the possibility that Weaver’s body might have been there. Coldiron, however, was puzzled about something else.
“I can’t figure why they came back here to hit us,” he mused aloud. “How the hell did they know we were trailin’ ’em?” A notion suddenly struck him and he walked to the other end of the rise to confirm it. “It was that Blackfoot band, all right, but it was a different bunch that jumped us,” he told them. “This warn’t the same ones we was following. Their tracks came in from the south. It was just dumb luck that they came up on us. They didn’t even know we were here.” He looked at Bret as if caught napping.
Bret understood the reason for the big scout’s guilty expression, for he had the same feeling. “I take the blame,” he said. “We should have gone on to check on that second house around the bend of the river. If we had, we would have seen that the war party had divided after hitting the first house.” He had been too anxious to follow the obvious trail leading away from the house to be thorough in his investigation.
McCoy, standing behind Bret, posed the question already troubling Bret’s mind. “We gonna take what’s left of us on back to Fort Ellis now?”
It seemed the sensible thing to do, but Bret was reluctant to make that decision. It was not an easy thing to abandon the two women who had been captured, but he had an obligation to report the massacre of his patrol. He turned it over and over in his mind before looking at Coldiron.
“This war party,” he asked, “can you track them?”
Coldiron shrugged. “Yeah, I can track ’em.”
“I’m thinking they’ll lead us to the other war party that took the women, since it appears that the twelve or so you said were in the original party were just half of the whole war party. Is that the way you see it?” Coldiron said that it was the way he figured it. “All right, then,” Bret went on, having made his decision. “McCoy, I’m sending you back to the fort to report what’s happened here. Coldiron and I will continue on the trail of the hostiles.” He looked quickly at the formidable scout to check his reaction. “That’s if you’re agreeable with it.”
Coldiron was somewhat surprised by the lieutenant’s proposal. He would have bet that the three of them would be on their way back to Fort Ellis. He hesitated while he studied the earnest face of the young man. He had to admit that it might have been a mistake on his part for judging Hollister as a typical toy soldier fresh from the academy. He thought of the cool head and apparently fearless way he had handled himself in the heat of the attack—not to mention the accuracy he displayed with his weapon. He decided that Bret would account well for himself in any tight situation. His response on that night had confirmed it.
The fact that he and the lieutenant would be outnumbered bothered him a little, but since the two of them were armed with repeating rifles, while the Indians were without ammunition for the Spencers they had acquired, he was sure they could protect themselves. And it was likely that the warriors they were on their way to join would not be better armed, either. The third factor in his consideration was his skill as a tracker. He didn’t intend to be discovered by the war party until he and Bret were ready to make their move. After quickly considering all of that, he answered the question.
“Yep. Suits me just fine. If we ain’t in time for them poor ladies, maybe we can at least make them Blackfeet pay up for it.”
McCoy started to protest. “Are you sure that’s a smart thing to do, Lieutenant—just the two of you against a pretty good-sized war party, and me ridin’ all the way back to the fort alone?”
“No, it’s probably not the smart thing to do, but it’s the right thing to do. Coldiron and I will be all right, as long as we keep our senses about us, and our eyes and ears open. You shouldn’t have to worry about any danger to yourself. This close to the fort, that war party is obviously headed north as fast as they can go, and you should reach Fort Ellis by noon. Can’t b
e more than about fifteen miles from here. Am I right, Coldiron?”
“That’s about right,” Coldiron replied. “You’ve come about full circle from my place on the Gallatin.”
“Come to think of it,” Bret continued, “for that distance, you could take the horses back with you. Might be best to load the dead on their horses and take them back to Fort Ellis to bury.”
“Sir,” McCoy protested, not at all happy with the idea, “I don’t think one man can handle—” That was as far as he got before Bret stopped him.
“You have your orders, soldier,” Bret snapped, confident that he himself could lead the horses back, and if he could, then McCoy should be able to manage it. “I’ll take Sergeant Duncan’s horse with me. If we’re successful in rescuing those women, we’ll need another horse. That’ll give you one less to mind. Now let’s get those bodies loaded. We’re losing time here.”
“Yes, sir,” McCoy replied obediently while fuming inside.
Coldiron smirked at the complaining soldier and said, “That beats havin’ to dig graves for all of ’em.”
McCoy didn’t respond vocally, but he told himself he’d gladly dig a grave for him and the lieutenant.
• • •
Private Tom Weaver climbed to the top of a deep ravine and anxiously looked back over the way he had come. It was two hours past dawn now and he had been walking since about ten thirty the night just passed. His eyes squinted, straining against the rising sun in an effort to see any sign of anyone following him. After a few long moments of peering back toward the valley, he sat down, relieved to be able to rest before starting out again. If anyone had seen him slink out of the camp, they would surely have caught up with him by this time. Taking another look back to the east just to be certain, he removed his right boot to examine his foot. Cavalry boots were not the best for walking and he feared he was getting a blister on the knuckle behind his big toe.
“Damn,” he swore softly when he found the skin broken. He took his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around the injured foot, then pulled his sock over it. “Best I can do,” he said. Thinking back to where he had just come, he added, “Helluva lot better’n gettin’ scalped like the rest of the boys.” The thought brought a smirk to his face, certain he had escaped a massacre. “My hair wouldn’t look good on some wild Injun’s lance.
“I reckon ol’ Lieutenant Fancy Pants would like to say it was my fault those damn savages snuck up on us,” he continued to himself. “I hope that bastard is dead.” He applauded himself for having the good sense to escape when he had the chance. “Same thing any of the other boys woulda done in my shoes.”
He pulled his boot on as carefully as he could, grimacing when the extra cloth under his sock made the boot tight. He got to his feet again and trudged back down the side of the ravine. He had no idea how far it was from the bend in the Yellowstone to Fort Ellis, but what little he did know about the location of the fort told him that it couldn’t be far. He had left the river a couple of hours back; maybe he would make the fort by that afternoon.
As he walked, he thought about the chaotic moment when he was suddenly snatched from a solid sleep to discover screaming savages sweeping over his comrades, hacking and slicing like wild animals. He had his carbine, fully loaded, but it had occurred to him at the moment that he had not been discovered, hunkered down as he was on a little mound of sand in the willows. There was no thought of firing it and exposing his hiding place.
To run without being seen was the only thing he had any intention of doing, and the sooner the better, because it seemed obvious to him that the whole patrol was going to be slaughtered. His main regret was that he could not get to his horse without the prospect of being seen. So he grabbed his carbine and his haversack and crawled down through the willows until he reached the low bluffs beside the river.
Then he ran as fast as he could, even though he could hear the sound of gunshots that sounded like cavalry carbines. He was sure they were captured weapons in the Indians’ hands. When he realized no one was running after him, he crossed the river and kept going in a direction he hoped would take him toward safety.
After another hour, he came upon a well-traveled trail, and he was sure he had struck the main road to Bozeman. Satisfied with his successful escape, he thought of his fellow soldiers and the fact that he didn’t get along with many of them. The last image he had of them was of Lazzara with his face split open by a Blackfoot hatchet.
“I reckon you got more to worry about now than whether or not I’m gonna relieve you on guard duty,” he crowed aloud.
Maybe the rest of them would remember that he was the one who predicted Lieutenant Hollister would end up getting them all killed. His gloating was interrupted then when he heard the sound of horses beyond the bend of the road behind him.
A sharp feeling of fear gripped his spine, for he thought it might be the Blackfoot war party coming after him. Looking around him for someplace to hide in a hurry, he dived behind a clump of serviceberry bushes and readied his rifle to protect himself.
In only a few moments’ time, a rider appeared around the bend trailing a string of what appeared to be packhorses behind him. After another couple of minutes, the rider came close enough for Weaver to recognize him as Brice McCoy. Then he realized that the horses weren’t carrying packs. They were loaded with the bodies of the ill-fated patrol.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, and got up from the ground.
Upon seeing someone suddenly rise from behind the bushes, McCoy jerked back hard on the reins and prepared to retreat.
“McCoy!” He heard his name called out, and discovered it was Weaver who had popped up out of a bush.
“Well, I’ll be go to hell,” McCoy blurted when he saw who it was, and urged his horse forward. “How the hell did you get here?” he asked when he pulled up beside Weaver.
“I, by God, walked here,” Weaver replied, “and I’m damn glad to see a ride.” He walked back beside the trailing horses, looking at the dead. “I don’t see Hollister’s body, or that big-ass scout, either. What happened to them?” He turned back to look at McCoy. “And how come you’re the only one left?”
“My number just ain’t up yet,” McCoy answered. He dismounted and told Weaver what had happened, and how he happened to be leading the dead back by himself.
“So ol’ Hollister didn’t get scalped with the rest of ’em,” Weaver said. “That’s right disappointin’ news. You know, if I coulda helped you boys, I sure woulda, but there wasn’t nothin’ I could do. Looked to me like you was all dead, and I couldn’t fight all them Injuns by myself. I was damn lucky to get out when I did.”
McCoy fixed a skeptical gaze on him and smirked. “Oh, I know you woulda come a-runnin’ if you thought any of us was still alive, but fact of the matter is, you was asleep when they jumped us. Ain’t that right?”
“No, hell no,” Weaver was quick to retort. “They musta sneaked up from the other side of them trees, where I couldn’t see ’em. I’ll admit that I was a little drowsy, maybe, but I never went to sleep.”
McCoy snorted derisively. “Ain’t no need to lie to me, Weaver. I don’t care, as long as I came outta that mess alive. Hell, I’da done the same as you, if I hadda been in your shoes.”
Weaver grinned meekly. “You know how it is,” he said. “Look out for your own ass first.”
“That’s the way I see it,” McCoy agreed. “So right now we can go back and play the heroes. If we’re lucky, maybe the Injuns will take care of Hollister for us. I hope to hell he does catch up with ’em, ’cause that’ll be the end of that son of a bitch, and that big-ass scout, too. If they ask me where he is, I’ll just tell ’em I don’t know.”
The idea appealed to Weaver. He hadn’t thought about playing the role of hero. Leave it to McCoy . . . , he thought. “Hell, they might even give us a couple of medals,” he said, grinnin
g at the thought. “Wouldn’t that be somethin’?” He paused then to look over the column of horses, a body across the saddle of each one. “How come you ain’t got an extra horse? That’s my horse.” He pointed to a red roan with Copeland’s body on it.
“Hollister took an extra horse with him and Coldiron,” McCoy said.
“Well, I ain’t ridin’ back to Fort Ellis behind no damn dead man,” Weaver snorted. He walked back until he came to a horse carrying Sergeant Duncan’s body. “I’ll ride this’n,” he said, and dumped the sergeant’s body off on the road. “It was a pleasure servin’ under you, Sergeant,” he mocked as he dragged Duncan’s corpse off into the bushes. He stepped up into the saddle then, and the two heroes set out to lead their dead comrades back to the fort.
Chapter 3
Having sent McCoy off that morning with the bodies of his fellow soldiers trailing behind him, Bret returned with Coldiron to pick up the trail of the retreating warriors. It wasn’t difficult to follow, and it led straight north. “They’re ridin’ to catch up with the rest of that war party,” Coldiron said. “Looks like they was more interested in catchin’ up than they were in hidin’ their trail.”
“I doubt they think we’ll follow them, since they know how few we are,” Bret replied.
“They stayed on this side of the river,” Coldiron pointed out. “But if they’re goin’ where I think they’re headin’, they’re gonna be crossin’ over to the other side when the river turns back to the east. So we’ll just keep our eyes open to see where they crossed.”
They continued to follow the trail left by the dozen or so horses as the Blackfoot warriors followed the Yellowstone, carrying their dead with them. As Coldiron had predicted, they made a crossing of the river where it took a large turn to the east on its way to join the Missouri. Coming out of the river on the north side, the tracks held to a steady course across rolling, sparsely treed plains.
Wrath of the Savage Page 4