“If they keep on in this direction, they’re headed for the Crazy Mountains,” Coldiron said. He pointed toward the rugged peaks, clearly seen, even though they were half a day’s ride away. “Hard to say what they’ve got in mind,” he went on. “Maybe they’re supposed to meet up with the bunch we’ve been trailin’ somewhere up in the mountains. Maybe they’ll stay clear of the mountains and go on up to the Musselshell. I reckon we’ll find out.”
After a stop to eat something and let the horses rest, they were back in the saddle to resume their mission. Eventually the trail led them to a small pond, fed by a strong stream coming from the mountains. The Indians had followed the stream from that point on, and the closer they came to the foothills, the more it became obvious that they intended to follow it up into the mountains.
At Coldiron’s suggestion, they stopped when within about five miles from the odd cluster of high mountains sitting like an island of rocky peaks in the middle of the plains. The reason, Coldiron pointed out, was the ease that the two of them could be spotted on the rolling prairie by a lookout high up a mountain. So they held up in a stand of trees bordering the stream and waited for darkness to cover their approach to the mountains. Unwilling to risk even a small fire, they spent the time catching up on some of the sleep they had missed the night before, each napping while the other kept watch.
• • •
While Bret and Coldiron waited for the cover of darkness to advance farther into the Crazy Mountains, an interview was being conducted some thirty-five or forty miles southwest of them, as the crow flies. It was a serious fact-finding interview, the second since the two heroic soldiers had returned, leading their dead comrades on their horses. Colonel John Grice, acting commanding officer, since several companies of cavalry and infantry had departed the fort to intercept a band of Nez Perce fleeing their reservation, opened the questioning. “Now, Private Weaver, tell us again what happened to your patrol on the Yellowstone.”
“Yes, sir,” Weaver said respectfully, after a glance at Private McCoy. “Well, like we told the Officer of the Day when we came in this afternoon, we picked up the trail of them Blackfoot that massacred those poor folks, and we was followin’ them up the river. Come nightfall, we made camp. About nine thirty or ten that night, the Injuns jumped us. We didn’t have a chance before they was all over us.”
Grice interrupted. “Did not Lieutenant Hollister post any guards?”
“No, sir,” Weaver lied. “Sergeant Duncan asked him if we shouldn’t post some guards, but the lieutenant, he said we didn’t need none—said them Injuns was long gone. I don’t think he cared much whether we caught up with ’em or not.” He paused while Grice cast a glance at the other two officers seated at the table with him.
“Go on, Private,” Grice said.
“Well, sir, like I said, we never had a chance. They was on top of us so quick, we didn’t have time to defend ourselves. Me and Private McCoy was just lucky we could get to our weapons and fight ’em off. They didn’t have many rifles, so the two of us was able to kill enough of ’em to make ’em think twice about what they was doin’.”
“Just the two of you,” Grice commented. “What about Lieutenant Hollister and the scout, Coldiron? Where were they during the fighting?”
“Sir,” Weaver replied, with another glance at McCoy, “we was wonderin’ about that ourselves. We had our hands full, tryin’ to fight them Injuns off. But as near as we can figure it, the lieutenant and Coldiron musta just cut and run, ’cause they sure weren’t anywhere in sight when mornin’ came, and me and McCoy was the only two left standin’.”
“You haven’t said anything about what happened to Sergeant Duncan. His body is missing. Did he go with Lieutenant Hollister and the scout?”
Weaver had to think quickly then. “The sad fact is, them Injuns mutilated poor ol’ Sergeant Duncan so that there wasn’t enough left of him to bring back over a saddle. Me and McCoy figured the respectful thing to do was to just go ahead and bury what they left of him.”
“Do you have anything to add to that?” Grice asked McCoy.
“No, sir. It’s pretty much like Weaver said.”
“But you were able to save all the horses?” one of the other officers asked.
“Yes, sir,” McCoy answered. “Me and Weaver got between the Injuns and the horses where we had ’em tied in the trees. We saved ’em all, except Coldiron’s and the lieutenant’s, but they were already gone. The Injuns tried to steal ’em two or three times, but we finally convinced ’em that it would cost ’em every time they did. So they finally gave up and lit out.”
“But there was one more horse missing,” Grice pointed out. “So the hostiles must have killed one. Is that right?”
McCoy had to pause to think, remembering then that the lieutenant had taken Sergeant Duncan’s horse with him. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “That’s right, they got off a lucky shot and killed one of the horses—Sergeant Duncan’s, I think.”
“When morning came, and the Blackfeet were gone, did you think about searching for Lieutenant Hollister and the scout?” Grice asked.
“Oh, yes, sir,” Weaver replied. “We took a wide circle around that whole place, but there weren’t no sign of either one of ’em. They was long gone.”
“So then, you recovered all the bodies of the patrol and loaded them on their horses?” Grice asked.
“Yes, sir,” Weaver replied. “We figured it was our duty as soldiers to bring all the boys back here to bury. If it had been the other way around, I know any of them would have done the same for me and McCoy.”
Grice looked to the other officers at the table to see if anyone had more questions. When it appeared they did not, he addressed the two privates seated before them. “Well, I guess that’s all we need for now. I want to commend both of you for your bravery and your outstanding performance of duty. I think you deserve a little time for rest and recovery after what you have just been through, so I’m advising your company commander to relieve you from all duty rosters for a couple of days.”
“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said. “That’s mighty nice of you. I might add that we ain’t got no hard feelin’s against Lieutenant Hollister for runnin’. Every man’s different when it comes to a hot fight, when it don’t look like there’s any way out of it but to fight or run. I reckon nobody knows what they’ll do until they get throwed into it.” They both got to their feet, saluted smartly, then turned and left the room.
Grice waited until the door closed behind the two survivors of the massacre before commenting to the other officers, “That’s a damn disappointing report on young Hollister, and a sad one. I had higher hopes for him.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the panel said. “I thought he had the makings for a good officer. But I guess you can never predict how a man will respond to danger.”
Outside the post commander’s office, the two conspirators exchanged grins. “That went pretty well, didn’t it?” Weaver remarked. “Two bona fide heroes, that’s what we are, and ol’ Lieutenant Fancy Pants ain’t lookin’ so good right now.”
“I reckon so,” McCoy said. “But what are we gonna say if Hollister shows up with those women?”
“Use your common sense,” Weaver told him. “There ain’t a chance in hell of them walkin’ into the middle of a Blackfoot village and gettin’ them two women. I’m bettin’ that’s the last anybody will see of those two bastards, and good riddance at that. You know Blackfeet ain’t got no use for white men, especially soldiers, so I’m thinkin’ they’re dead men.”
• • •
With the coming of darkness, Bret and Coldiron climbed into the saddle again and continued following the stream until reaching the foothills. They were forced to halt for the night then, since it became too dark to see the tracks. They made their camp close to the stream, which was now flowing deeper and stronger as it made its way from the mountain above, car
ving a rocky path down to a canyon beyond them, which seemed as dark as sin. Ready for some coffee, Coldiron gathered some branches and built a fire in a gully that ran from the spruce trees to the stream.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been in these mountains,” he said while he fussed over his kindling of small twigs and dried grass. “There ain’t a lot of game that I was ever interested in huntin’ in these mountains. Course there’s a lot of small game and goats up high, but deer only occasionally. At least that’s been my luck. I wonder where them Injuns is goin’. Best I can recollect, there ain’t no way out of this canyon but the way you ride in.” He looked at Bret and grinned. “That don’t sound like we’re in a very good spot, does it?”
“I was thinking that,” Bret replied.
Coldiron chuckled. “I was just japin’ you. There’s a couple of ways out about a mile and a half in. When we start out in the mornin’, we’ll be climbin’ right off. There’s a waterfall about halfway up and a little lake above it. I’ve seen sign of Injuns camped there by that lake before, and I wouldn’t be surprised if this bunch we’ve been followin’ ain’t been plannin’ to meet up with their brothers there.”
“Well, I guess we’ll find out in the morning,” Bret said as he moved some small rocks aside and spread his blanket, seemingly unconcerned, “if they don’t decide to come back out tonight.”
Coldiron chuckled again. “I’ll tell you the truth, Lieutenant. I ain’t run into many officers who would take off into this part of the country with nobody but a guide, especially an officer green outta West Point. Most officers I’ve worked for have got to have a detail of at least fifteen soldiers around ’em before they’d set foot outside the fort.”
“Oh, I suppose there’re quite a few,” Bret replied casually. “You just haven’t run into them yet.” Now that the fire was showing signs of life, he got up and filled his cup with water and set it at the edge of the fire to boil. Then he sat down to watch it until it was ready to dump in the coffee, wishing he had a coffeepot so he wouldn’t be eating half the grounds. “Why don’t you stop calling me Lieutenant? My name’s Bret.”
“All right, Bret,” Coldiron said with a parting of his whiskers to make room for a wide grin. “I won’t call you Lieutenant . . . or Sonny.” And he chuckled at his remark. “My friends and my late wife always called me Nate. I reckon I include you in that group.”
Coldiron decided at that moment that Bret Hollister was worthy of being his friend, even if he was an officer.
• • •
The night passed peacefully enough for the two new friends. They started out the next morning, following the tracks they had followed the day before, but on this day they proceeded much more slowly and cautiously. It soon became obvious that it was unnecessary to look for tracks, because it became impossible to go up the rugged mountainside unless they followed the narrow trail. Boxed in on both sides by the enormous cliffs that formed the canyon, they saw very few places to hide from any lookout that might be stationed high above them. Both men constantly scanned the cliffs for any sign of a Blackfoot scout as they continued on. The trail had left the floor of the canyon now and started a steep climb up toward rocky ridges that looked too rough for a horse to travel.
Another half mile brought the trail out of the confines of the canyon and onto a ridge from which they could see smaller mountains to the east of them, ringed with tall spruce and pine around the lower portions. Bret commented that one of these would be an easier place to camp than the treacherous trail they continued to follow beside the stream that was now a rushing torrent as it steepened. Coldiron explained that the campsite by the lake over the falls was considered a holy place by several Indian tribes, so the Blackfeet probably hoped to make big medicine there.
“I reckon this is about as close as we better go with these horses,” Coldiron advised when they reached the top of the tree line and a ledge that ran off to the right. “We can take ’em around on that ledge there and tie ’em in the trees, and go the rest of the way on foot.”
After the horses were secured, they loaded up with ammunition and returned to the trail. “We’ll be in a helluva fix if one of those bucks stumbles on those horses,” Bret couldn’t help commenting.
“You got that right, partner,” Coldiron was quick to agree, “but we sure as hell couldn’t sneak up on that camp with the horses.”
Bret was soon to find out what he meant. They had not climbed for more than a quarter of an hour when the sounds of the Blackfeet camp came to them from above. The sounds of talking and war chants, although muted by the crashing of the water coursing down the rocky streambed, could be heard.
“To get us a good look into that camp,” Coldiron said, “we need to go off to the side here and work our way up above the camp.” So they moved off the trail about fifty yards and started climbing again, being careful now where they placed their hands and feet to prevent causing a shower of rocks to go rumbling down the mountainside.
“This oughta be high enough,” Coldiron decided, so they worked carefully back to a point overlooking the edge of the lake.
When he got his first good look at the lake, Bret could easily understand why the Indians attached a sense of magic to it. It looked as if a giant hand had scooped out a huge portion of the mountain to form a basin for a high alpine lake. The natural beauty of the setting made Bret forget for a moment the reason he was gazing down on the peaceful lake, which spilled over the side to form the waterfall they had passed below. He was brought quickly back when his gaze swept across to the horses grazing in a small meadow near one side of the lake, and the warriors taking their leisure on the animal hides they used for bedding. He pulled his field glass from his haversack and extended it to search the camp. Taking his time to examine each individual on the far side of the small lake, he scanned back and forth several times.
“I don’t see but about half a dozen Indians,” he said. “Where are the rest of them?”
“Damned if I know,” Coldiron replied. “But you’re right. There oughta be about a dozen more of ’em if they joined up with the other bunch.”
Bret scanned the edge of the lake again, slowly, but there was no sign of the two white women. “I don’t see them,” he said and handed the glass to Coldiron.
Coldiron put the glass to his eye and scanned the camp back and forth several times, then handed the glass back to Bret. “I don’t see ’em, either. They ain’t here.”
Bret searched again to be sure, but could not find the women. He focused the glass on every boulder of size enough to hide someone. He had to conclude that, if they were in the camp, he could surely see them.
“Well, it seems pretty plain to me that the other bunch of warriors have got the captives with them, and they’re still somewhere ahead of us, heading to who knows where.”
“It ’pears like this bunch ain’t worried about anybody chasin’ after ’em, ’cause they don’t seem in any hurry to leave.”
“I can see why,” Bret said. “They could hold off a regiment trying to come up that steep little trail.” It was time to decide what to do next. He had to think about their odds of success, if he decided to punish the remaining six warriors for their part in the massacre of the two white families. Positioned as they were, high above the Indian camp, he and Coldiron could probably pick off two or maybe three of the six before they could scatter for cover. At that point, it might turn into a standoff that would likely last until dark. Then it would be a contest of stealth as each side would be stalking the other, with the hostiles standing between them and their horses below the lake. In the meantime, the war party that had taken the two women would be getting farther and farther away. He reminded himself that his primary mission was an attempt to save the women, so he told Coldiron that he had decided to leave the hostiles as they were and get on the trail of the other group.
Coldiron listened to Bret’s reasoning with more th
an a little interest. “I’m damn glad you see it that way,” he said. “’Cause we’d be damn lucky to shoot all six of ’em.”
In agreement then, they began to retrace their steps, working their way carefully back down the rocky slope above the lake. “I expect they’re headin’ for home,” Coldiron said. “Most likely a village somewhere above the Big Belt Mountains, on the Musselshell, maybe. Might even be above the Missouri, on the Judith, or anywhere up that way. That’s Blackfoot territory.”
“What you’re saying is you can’t guess where they’re heading,” Bret said.
“What I’m sayin’ is the only way we’ll find those two ladies is if I can pick up their trail and follow ’em,” Coldiron told him.
“Think you can do that?” Bret asked.
“I reckon,” Coldiron answered, “if I can pick up their trail offa this mountain. Remember, I told you there were a couple of ways offa here without goin’ back down that canyon. I just have to find which way they took.” He stopped to listen when there seemed to be a pause in the voices above them. When they started up again right away, he went on. “Thought for a minute they mighta just found out they had company.” Back to the subject then, he said, “If I can pick up some sign on whichever game trail they followed down, then there oughta be tracks enough when they get to the bottom.”
“Let’s give that a try,” Bret said, and continued on his way back to the ledge where they had left the horses.
When they got there, Coldiron went back to where the horses had been tied in the trees. After looking around a few minutes, he spotted what he was looking for. He reached down and picked up a few clumps of horse manure one of the horses had dropped, and threw them over the side of the ledge. “No need to leave ’em a sign that we were here,” he said, answering Bret’s unspoken question. “That woulda told ’em how long ago we were here, too.”
Wrath of the Savage Page 5