Buzzard Bait

by Jory Sherman

  Something. A soft rustle, not far away. Matt stifled his breath, moved his head almost imperceptibly. The sound came from a different direction. It was a cautious sound, like that of a man sliding a boot or a moccasin onto a stone. Whoever he was, he was good. Matt felt a twinge of admiration. Not many white men could move that quietly.

  But where were the others?

  Asleep, maybe, before the shot, but too quiet afterwards. Something, someone, must have gotten to them, slipped into camp, put a knife in each one. Three men! It was hard to believe, but there was nothing stirring yonder. The moon seemed to be full of whispers as it moved silently over the broken landscape. Matt had to move. He needed to know where his adversary was, who he was.

  He kept low and moved in the direction where he had last heard sound. His pistol's hammer was thumbed back, the caps tight on the nipples. The Remington .44 was heavy in his hand. He wished he had his rifle, but the .44 would be enough if the range were right. It also had the advantage of giving him five extra shots without reloading. He slithered across a rock like a lizard, scarcely making a sound. Something told him to keep moving, to get behind another tree, fast.

  Matt moved. There was no way to do it without making noise.

  From his right, and above him, another shot rang out. The ball crackled as it ripped through bark, then whined as it sang off a rock, beyond. This time, Matt saw the fire from the barrel, the spew of sparks from the burning black powder. He fired once, the pistol bucking in his hand. He fired again, lower and to his left. Then, he fired to the right, covering. He heard a thunk on the second shot and a muffled cry of pain. The air was foul with the taint of burned powder. He listened for the sound of a powder horn or flask, the copper spout against the barrel. He listened for the whispering sound of a ramrod pushing patch and ball down over the powder.

  He heard none of these sounds. But a moment later, he heard the sound of brush cracking underfoot, what sounded like a groan, and then a body moving rapidly away, kicking rocks loose, tearing at branches.

  Three shots left in the pistol.

  He decided against trying to reload in the dark. The three full cylinders would have to do. Matt rose up from his cramped position and started after the sounds. He came to the spot where he had shot at the ambusher. He peered at the rock, the ground. He wiped at a spot on a large stone near his feet. His finger came back wet. He tasted it. Blood. He wished it were daylight so he could look at the true color of it. A man could tell, sometimes, where his ball had hit by the color and texture of the blood.

  So, his man was hurt and he was trying to get away. It was dangerous to track a wounded armed man at night, yet it might be possible to overtake him before he had a chance to reload his rifle. He probably carried a six-gun. Most men in the territories did, for one reason or another. Mainly for protection or reassurance, the latter being a dangerous reason, in some situations. Matt followed the sound in his tracking. The moonlight played tricks with his eyes. Still, he was able to see some sign of the man's passing: a broken branch, a dark wet splash on the side of a tree, making him think the wound was low, in the leg or thigh, possibly in the side.

  There was no way he could be sure, of course, but instinct, experience, told him that his man was not fatally wounded. Instinct told him that, even now, the man might be waiting for him in a pocket of land, his hammer cocked. Matt slowed down, moved more cautiously, continued to listen intently. He still held his pistol in hand, at the ready. He kept track of the direction he had traveled so that he wouldn't become lost in the dark.

  A thrashing noise some distance ahead of him caused him to pause, to sort out the sound in his mind. There was silence, then the unmistakable creak of leather. A moment later, he heard the crack-click of shod hooves over stone, the rustle of horseflesh moving away from him, heavy in the night with its muscular weight, its breathing.

  "Damn!" Matt muttered under his breath.

  He raced ahead, hoping for a clear shot. He broke into a meadowy clearing. At the far edge of it, he saw the horse and rider. The rider was leaning to one side, his right, favoring the left. Matt brought his pistol up straight ahead of his eyes. He sighted down the barrel and tried to calculate the range, all in an instant. He cocked the single action and, holding low across the horse's rump, squeezed off a shot. Flame shot from the barrel of his revolver. Horse and rider disappeared in the trees.

  He couldn't tell, for sure, if he had hit the man. Objects were tricky at night. The distance was uncertain. Soon, he heard nothing more. He stayed in the shadows at the edge of the glade and caught his breath. The grasses were silver-grey and silent. After a while, he moved to his left, in the direction of camp. He would track that man in the morning.

  When he came to a safe place where the moonlight was bright enough, Matt stopped to reload his pistol. He emptied the charge into the empty cylinders, placed a round ball atop the cylinder and rammed it home, brushing off the thin sliver of metal that remained from the over-sized ball. He pulled a tin of bear grease from his pocket and smeared it in all of the cylinders, since the blasts had burned most of it away. He wiped his pistol and holstered it. Then he made his way slowly back to camp, careful in the way he walked.

  The three bedrolls were still, eerie in the wash of moonlight. Matt circled the camp to make sure that the man he'd hit hadn't doubled back on him. Satisfied, finally, that there was not another ambush waiting for him, the tall man crept up to one of the bedrolls. The rheumy eyes of Bud Byrd stared up at him, glazed over with the film of death, glistening oddly in the moonlight. In Bud's neck someone had cut a wide smile through the flesh, severing the larynx. Bud's mouth was open as if he had tried to cry out. Matt drew a blanket over the head and moved quickly to the next sleeping bag.

  Bob Searles was dead, too, his throat savagely cut. He lay on his stomach. He had tried to crawl away, it appeared, and the loss of blood had stilled his movements. A large pool of it was spread out where he had breathed his last.

  Matt heard a moan.

  He raced to Chet's bedroll. He threw off the blanket.

  "Matt," Chet croaked. The assassin's knife had missed his throat. Instead, there was a deep gash just below it, in the top of the chest. Matt lifted Chet in his arms. The wound in his chest wouldn't have killed him. The bones had held the knife back, kept it from penetrating deeper in its hasty slash.

  "Stomach," Chet managed, through tight teeth. Matt ran his hand down to the cowhand's stomach. It came away sticky with blood.

  "Who was it, Chet?"

  "One of 'em. Slipped up on me. Gawd, it hurts."

  "Yeah. Was it Big John? One of his sons?"

  "Son. Carl, I think."

  "Take it easy. Don't try to talk anymore."

  Matt thought fast. Yes, it would have been Carl. Folks said he was mean for the sake of being mean. He fancied the knife, too. He didn't care to give a man a chance, either. Yes, Carl would pick this way to rub a man out. Sneak up on him in the dark and cut his throat. Laugh about it later.

  He dragged the bodies of Bud and Bob over to a shallow ditch, blankets and all. When he got back, Chet was dead, too. He dragged him into the makeshift grave and began piling stones over the bodies. It was the best he could do under the circumstances. When he was finished, he moved his own camp deeper into the woods, under a deadfall where he couldn't be seen. He turned the horses loose and tied his own where it could graze some on the already drying grasses. In the morning he would begin to hunt a man.

  As Matt bedded down, he heard the far-off howl of a wolf, its keening cry chilling the August night. He could sense the changing of the seasons. Soon it would be the time the Sioux called the Moon of Drying Grasses, September. He heard a deer snort near the creek. The Indians would be coming back from hunting Pte, the buffalo, about now, tanning the winter hides, making the robes and blankets, curing the meat. Tashunka Wawogala would be wintering along the Yellowstone in another month, hunting deer and elk for the last of the meat before the snows locked them in until sprin
g.

  Somewhere out there was a killer, Carl Lathrop. He had made Luke suffer, had carved up three good men with a Bowie. Matt had to find him before he could track his father and brother. They would come later. Carl was like an animal gone bad, killing for the sake of killing. He couldn't rest until he'd culled him from the herd of good men. When he found him, he would kill him without mercy, they way he would kill any predator.

  Matt slept lightly, attuned to the night sounds. Once, his horse nickered, but grew quiet again, grazing. An owl floated by on silent wings, hunting. The moon drifted off through the trees and left blackness in its wake. A rabbit screamed in the grip of sudden death. And then it was still, until morning.

  Matt was up before dawn. He saddled his horse and checked his guns and powder. He built no fire, nor did he linger. Riding off, he chewed on a chunk of jerky. Within a half an hour he had picked up the trail of Carl Lathrop. It was difficult to follow. He found where the man had bedded down, tended to his wound or wounds. The earth had been dug up, leaves scattered, some of them bloody. He hadn't built a fire to cauterize his wound. Perhaps, Matt thought, he was not hurt so bad after all. He hurried, following the horse's tracks north and west.

  Chapter Five

  Carl Lathrop knew he had to keep moving. He had to find his father and brother, get them to back him. He had no illusions about Matt Cord. Not anymore. One of his bullets had streaked through his left leg, tearing flesh and cartilage, bruising the bone. He had had to stop and pack dirt and leaves in the two wounds. Luckily, the ball had passed clean through. It had left an ugly channel. The exit wound was nigh to .60 caliber, he figured.

  The jolting in the saddle jarred his wound. Shoots of pain burned through his leg until, after a while, it went numb. He needed to wash the wound with alcohol or water. He was sure the lead would poison him if he didn't. Yet, he rode away from the Powder, hoping he could reach Big John and Ross up on the Tongue, dress his wound there. He would have to move faster than he was, but every step of his horse brought searing pain to his leg. He would have to stick to the Bozeman Trail and skirt Fort Phil Kearny. There would be too many questions he couldn't answer, too many things to account for if he was to stay there to wait for Cord to catch up to him.

  The Bozeman was a dangerous road, especially in 1866, despite the three forts that had been put up that year. Some called it the Bozeman Trail now, but it was also called the Bozeman Cutoff and the Montana Road. It was a shortcut to the gold fields, cutting out some 400 bone-tiring miles. The gold-hungry travelers with their overloaded wagons no longer had to cross the Continental Divide twice to get to Alder Gulch, Virginia City, and the other rich diggings around the Tobacco Root Mountains, along the Grasshopper River at Bannack City. The Sioux hated the Bozeman Trail and they attacked the wagon trains often. A lone traveler had more chance of survival than a group. In fact, John Bozeman and his partner, John Jacobs, had marked the trail in 1863, finding it easier to stand off Sioux than fight the high peaks of the Rockies.

  Carl knew it was his only chance. Cattle were slow moving animals. They had to graze as they traveled. The beef had to be in good shape, even better shape at their destination and Big John knew that. Two hundred head were as hard to handle as a thousand in that country. Big John would be drifting them off the trail often to avoid trouble with the Indians and any challenge by an Army patrol.

  Carl rode hard and fast despite his pain toward the Tongue River where he felt sure he would rendezvous with his father and Ross. Behind him, he knew, was a man he had missed, a man bent on vengeance. The thought spurred him on, and after a time, he began to watch his back trail and to pick places where his trail could be lost by a tracker. This is what saved him, for a time. Half-crazy with agonizing pain, he became clever in his delirium. He picked his way through rough country, followed creek beds, doubled back over hard ground and took another course. Eventually he made his way to the Tongue and then rode down it, to a point where it met the bloody Bozeman Trail.

  And there, he waited, his .45 caliber Berdan rifle loaded, his six-gun loose in his holster.

  Big John couldn't understand it. Two bunches of Sioux had come upon them and had not attacked. One bunch had even cut out some cows, arrogantly, then returned them to the herd after checking out the C Bar M brand. It didn't make sense. He and Ross had been ready to draw their rifles from their saddle scabbards, but the Indians had ridden away both times.

  "Whatcha' think them redskins wanted?" Ross asked his father.

  "I don't know. My scalp felt awful itchy there for a while."

  "No foolin'. Well, some of 'em hankers to play games like that. We better keep our eyes peelt from here on in."

  "I don't like it none. It ain't natural."

  "I bet Oren's constipation went away that last time." There had been eight Sioux in the party. Six of them had rifles which they kept trained on Ross, Big John and Oren while the other two, expert horsemen, cut several cows out of the herd. Then, mysteriously, they had run the cattle back in and with wild whoops, had ridden away over a hill. Their cries still lingered in the still afternoon air.

  "Bring Oren and the girl on up. We'll camp at the next stream, get an early start in the mornin'." Big John started pushing the herd ahead of him. They were sluggish and he wanted to reach the Tongue by noon. He was worried about Carl. He should have made his loop by now. Six days they had been pushing the herd.

  Big John had been boiling inside for a long time. Now that Carl hadn't shown and the Sioux were acting up, his nerves were on edge. He kept touching the butt of his .44 Colt of 1851 vintage, rubbing the wood grips as if for reassurance.

  He was angry because Bull Roumal hadn't told him everything. Bull had just held out the carrot and he had followed blindly. Oh, he could guess at some of it. It was more than the cattle, he knew. They were part of it. Not just these two hundred head, either. The thousand or more head at the C Bar M were to be stolen and driven in to Last Chance Gulch or somewhere. He knew that much. But the plan was too daring to be just that and no more. Bull had something else up his sleeve. This was almost like suicide, driving cattle through this country. It wasn't only the Sioux. The Cheyenne and Arapaho also hunted here. Ever since Bozeman had opened his road, the redskins had been swarming like smoked hornets because the game kept getting scarcer and scarcer. No, Bull had some big thing in mind and he was determined to pull it off, quick and brutal, then light a shuck out of the territory. There were vigilantes now, and the Army. Soon there would be bona fide lawmen with sawed-off Greeners and tricky pistol work gunning down the lawless men who preyed on the settlers and gold-seekers.

  The trouble was, Big John didn't know the whole picture, and that rankled him.

  "Oren, set out ahead and get the camp set up at the next stream!" Big John roared as the chuck wagon came alongside.

  "Yair, Big John," said the man, whipping his team. Addie Malone shot a dark glance in Lathrop's direction before she was jolted away.

  "Come on, Ross, let's keep 'em movin'!" Big John shouted to his son. "We're two hands short and a long ways from supper!"

  Somehow, the two men managed to do the work of four without spooking the herd. They were sweaty, gritty, and mad when they saw the cattle stream out, finally, and head for water. Oren had the chuck wagon set up on a grassy knoll, under shade, no more than thirty paces from the creek. Ross and Big John sat on their horses while the cattle drank, then moved them out to grazing space and bunched them up. They hobbled their horses and let stringers trail from their bridles.

  They ate smoky beans and stringy antelope that was just a touch above spoiling. Oren had heaped in some extra fat to kill the taste and give them all some gumption for the next day's drive. The beans weren't quite done. The coffee was bitter from not-quite cured beans, but they drank it anyway because there was a chill to the night and the brew was warm.

  Big John looked at Addie Malone, wondering why she didn't complain about the food. Maybe she was one of those spoiled Eastern women who couldn't
cook and didn't know the difference. In fact, she hadn't said a word in the past three days. He had tried to give her some privacy, but she was, after all, a prisoner. He let her sleep under the wagon and made Oren throw his blanket some distance away. He didn't want anything to happen to her before he delivered her to Roumal.

  "It won't be long now, Miss," he told her. "You'll get to see that brother of your'n."

  Addie's eyebrows raised slightly.

  "Well, you want to see him, don't you?"

  Addie shrugged.

  "You got a tongue, woman?" Big John snapped.

  "I know you mean to harm my brother. I've seen the way you and your sons take pleasure in cruelty. My brother is not a violent man, nor would I wish it so. But I sincerely hope, Mr. Lathrop, that he shoots you and your sons dead."

  Her voice was an icicle on the air, needling every man there. Ross gagged on his coffee. Oren's eyes glittered in the firelight. Big John's jaw hardened.

  Inwardly, Addie was pleased. Her words had had the desired effect. For days she had built up to this moment. She wanted the men edgy, off balance. Ross got up, as she knew he would, to take the first watch.

  "Guess I'll get out to the herd," he told his father. "Can't do no good here."

  "See you at midnight, son," his father said, as he had said for the previous five nights.

  "Guess I'll get 'er done," Oren said, rising to his feet, also predictably.

  Addie watched Ross walk out to the herd, carrying his rifle. The herd was located over a rise and couldn't be seen from their camp on the knoll. Their sound, however, carried to the fireside. Addie waited, wondering if she had the courage to do what she must do. Underneath her long dress, she wore riding breeches. The pockets were stuffed with tidbits of food, scraps that she had hoarded ever since that first nightmarish night when she had learned that her brother was the next target of these outlaws.

  She was counting on the men doing the same things tonight as they had on previous nights. They were, she discovered, like most people, creatures of habit. She was counting on their sticking to routine, and so far, they had not varied one whit from the things they had done on previous nights. Yet, she was apprehensive and careful, because she knew the kind of men surrounding her. If she made a mistake, their guns would speak first.