They didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, the Lakota hunters rode out of the valley, their ponies grunting with the effort. Deerskin fringes fluttering in the wind, the party drove toward the passage that led to the next valley. Suddenly the leader held up his hand and halted his warriors. He had seen something in the soft floor of the valley, a sharp hoofprint where the white men had swerved toward the ravine. “Well, I reckon we ain’t lucky,” Ike opined when he saw them stop.
* * *
“We have them trapped,” Broken Bow exclaimed as he pulled his pony up beside Iron Claw. “There is no way out of that ravine but the way they went in.”
“There are only two of them,” one of the other hunters said. “Why don’t we rush them?”
“We would risk losing lives if we charge them,” Iron Claw said. “I think it would be wise to find out how well they are armed before we decide the best way to attack.”
“Maybe they don’t have guns,” Broken Bow offered. “The elk was killed with arrows.”
“I think they have guns,” Iron Claw replied. “I think these are the two white men who have been camping in the mountains all winter, and some of our hunting parties said they have heard gunshots on several occasions.” Iron Claw was especially interested in seeing the white men who had made their winter camp in Lakota hunting ground. There had been many times when evidence of their existence was found, even though no one had ever actually seen the white hunters. Some in his village were even beginning to speak of them as ghosts that were impossible to see. Iron Claw was not one to believe such stories, but he had come to be fascinated with the white men.
“I’ll find out if they have guns,” Gray Bull, the warrior who had suggested rushing them, volunteered. “Who will go with me?”
Two of the others quickly spoke up. Iron Claw cautioned them. “If you go charging into that ravine, you will be killed. A better plan would be to divide our party and climb the slopes on both sides. There is plenty of cover above them, and we will have them in a cross fire.”
“Iron Claw is right,” Broken Bow said. “Why risk our lives foolishly?” Without waiting for further discussion, he wheeled his pony and said, “Half of you come with me. We’ll circle around this side. The rest can go with Iron Claw.”
* * *
Matt and Ike watched the Sioux party as they decided upon their plan of attack. “That one doin’ most of the talkin’ must be the big dog,” Ike remarked, referring to Iron Claw. Even at that distance, the Sioux warrior was an imposing figure.
“I reckon,” Matt replied. Like Ike, he had focused upon the warrior riding the paint pony. With deep-set eyes glaring out from under a prominent brow, and a pronounced hook nose, the warrior reminded Matt of a hawk.
In the next moment, the Indians split up and rode off in different directions. It didn’t take a great deal of speculation to determine what was about to take place. Both men looked around them at the steep sides of the ravine and the rocky patches above. There was plenty of cover for the Sioux on either side. “Next time it would be nice to pick a ravine with a back door to it,” Matt commented as he repositioned himself to cover his side of the ravine.
“Next time maybe we can ask the Injuns to give us a little notice so’s we can pick a better spot,” Ike replied.
Using a trench for cover, both men knelt and watched the rim of the ravine above them. “Most likely they’re gonna test us to see what kind of firepower we’re totin’,” Ike said. “So when they show up, just shoot once, then wait a little between shots. Make ’em think we’ve just got single-shot rifles. My guess is they might try to rush us if they think we have to take time to reload. That’s when we’ll have the best chance to cut down the odds, maybe make ’em think twice about jumpin’ us again.”
“All right,” Matt said. The plan sounded good to him. He felt no need to comment that if it didn’t work, they could be trapped there indefinitely.
The first shot came from Ike’s side of the ravine, the bullet kicking up dirt some two feet in front of the trench. Ike aimed at the spot where he thought he’d seen a muzzle flash and fired a return shot. Moments later, a barrage of shots rained down from both sides of the ravine, pinning Matt and Ike down in the trench. When there was a lull in the firing, they each returned a single shot. This was repeated several times, with the Sioux firing at random and the two white men responding with single shots spaced about thirty seconds apart. Thus far in the assault, there were no casualties and none likely since there were no clear targets on either side. There followed a lull in the firing from the Sioux, and Ike warned Matt to get ready. “They’re thinkin’ it over now.”
* * *
“We’re wasting bullets,” Three Horses complained. “They don’t have the spirit guns. They are reloading after every shot. I say we should attack them after they shoot again. We can be upon them before they have a chance to reload.”
Iron Claw considered Three Horses’ words for a few moments. What his friend said was probably true, but what if the white men were trying to fool them? “What do you think, Gray Bull?” Iron Claw asked.
“I think Three Horses is right,” the warrior replied. He, like most of the others, was getting impatient with the ineffective assault. “I think we should rush them after their next shots. We can kill them with our knives before they have a chance to reload.” It was agreed then, and Iron Claw signaled to Broken Bow on the other side of the ravine.
* * *
Down in the trench, Matt watched the rim of the ravine carefully. “They’ve been talkin’ a long time,” he said. As soon as he had uttered the words, a fresh barrage of lead was thrown down upon them.
“Here they come!” Ike warned as they both answered with single shots. Moments later, the Sioux warriors poured over the sides of the ravine and charged down the slopes.
There was no time for either man to worry about his back. Each had to trust his partner to take care of business on his side of the fight. Matt raised up enough to clear his upper body so that he had freedom of motion to sweep the slope with rifle fire. Firing and cocking and firing again without pause, he proceeded to cut down three of the charging Sioux with deadly precision. He could hear Ike’s Spencer barking behind him, but dared not take time to judge the results. The three remaining warriors on his side, realizing the killing machine they had triggered, tried to turn as fast as they could. But the steepness of the slope made retreat difficult. Two managed to escape over the rim of the ravine unharmed. The third, the hawk-faced warrior, was hit in the thigh but made it over the rim with the help of his friends. Only then could Matt turn to see what was taking place behind him.
“I got two,” Ike said, reloading his rifle as quickly as he could. “I maybe hit another one. I ain’t sure. But we sure as hell run ’em off for now.”
Matt didn’t wait to talk it over. He ran back down the ravine to get the horses. Leading them toward the mouth of the gulch, he yelled, “We need to get the hell outta here while we’ve got the chance. I don’t fancy spending the night here.”
Ike was in complete agreement. If the village the hunting party had come from was close by, the six or seven survivors of the fight would soon be back with reinforcements. He jumped up in the stirrup and followed Matt, who was already galloping out of the ravine, leading the packhorse with their supply of elk meat.
Back on the ridge, Iron Claw, furious over having been tricked by the white men, struggled to his feet with the help of his two comrades. Ignoring the blood that soaked his thigh, he stared angrily at the fleeing white men, burning the image of the young rifleman with the spirit gun into his memory.
Chapter 2
Libby Donovan Lyons paused to recall the day her first husband had bought the shawl of white lace she held in her hands. It had served as her bridal veil two months before when she married Franklin Lyons. She folded it carefully now to be put away once more in her trunk, where it would no doubt lie until some other special occasion called for it. What that occasion might
be, she could not imagine. It would likely not be to celebrate the birth of a child. At her age, child birthing was a thing of the past. With a seventeen-year-old daughter, she couldn’t imagine having a baby, anyway. Besides, Franklin had no desire to start a family, having already raised one.
Libby and Franklin’s marriage had been one of convenience for both parties. Franklin’s wife had succumbed to pneumonia more than two years before. He had a grown son with a family back in Omaha, but had lost touch with him after deciding to head west. He had intended to pass on through Nebraska City last winter, but decided the weather was too bad to push on. Like most folks who passed through Fort Kearny, he soon discovered Libby’s Kitchen, the hotel dining room run by a widow woman with a daughter who could not speak.
Libby took note of the rather distinguished-looking middle-aged man who had begun to show up for every meal. He always took off his hat before seating himself at her table—obviously a man of manners and respect for a lady. And he always had a warm smile for her. Soon he began lingering a few minutes after eating to engage her in friendly conversation. He was a widower, he told her, and with no family to provide for, he had decided to follow the search for gold in the Montana hills. It was a daring thing to do for a man at his stage in life, she had told him. “What stage?” he had retorted. “I may be more’n half a century by yearly count, but I’m still a pup inside.”
His remark had caused her to think about her own situation. She was pushing fifty herself, and she found that she was thinking a lot about Franklin Lyons. She must have exhibited signs of her interest in the polite widower with the graying temples, for he soon began to appear in her kitchen well before the advertised mealtimes. She was not quite sure when their relationship passed from casual to one of special interest, but when he proposed that she might consider a union between the two of them, she could not come up with a strong enough reason to refuse. It seemed that she had been unaware of how tired she had become of running a kitchen for the hotel until that moment. And she realized that she did not want to spend the rest of her life dishing out hash and beans until she dropped in the traces.
And what of Molly? Would Molly grow old slaving away in the kitchen if Libby declined? Molly had been her greatest concern when she was considering Franklin’s proposal. How would the slender young girl react to the idea of her mother getting married again? As it turned out, her daughter was fine with the idea. She recognized the decency in Franklin Lyons and was happy for her mother. Franklin was more than happy to provide for mother and daughter.
Thinking of the seemingly melancholy young girl, Libby gazed again at the lace shawl she held in her hands. It was unlikely the lace would be worn in a wedding for her daughter. For whatever reason, God had not seen fit to provide Molly with the ability to speak. When she was a young child, Molly would attempt to speak, but the sounds that she made were cause for laughter and ridicule. So she stopped trying to talk, preferring to withdraw into a silent world. Libby often despaired over the shame of it. Molly was not a beautiful girl, but neither was she overly plain. If she had not been so shy and withdrawn, she might have had a chance at someday finding someone and starting a family. Libby shook her head sadly. Molly was destined to a life alone. The only thing romantic the poor girl could cling to was a little silver Saint Christopher’s medal that she wore constantly, given to her by a young man dressed in buckskins. He intended it as a token of his appreciation after her quick thinking had prevented his being shot in an altercation at Libby’s Kitchen. Though it was only a kind gesture, Molly treasured the medal as if it were a wedding ring. Of course, the handsome young scout had gone on his way, never to be seen around Fort Kearny again, just another one of the wild ones that rode the high plains. Libby was certain the young man had no clue of Molly’s infatuation. She didn’t even remember his name.
It was with little regret that she said good-bye to the hotel dining room that had known the name Libby’s Kitchen for more than eight years. She had made only a few friends during that span of time—none that she couldn’t bear to leave. John Bryant, who owned the hotel, was perhaps the saddest to see her go, for she would be hard to replace. She ignored the advice of those who thought it folly for a woman of her age to set off on a journey that would take the measure of someone younger. “How much do you really know about this man?” John Bryant had asked, referring to Franklin Lyons.
“All I need to know,” Libby had replied, confident in the kindness she read in her new husband’s eyes.
“What does he know about mining for gold?” Bryant had questioned.
“As much as any dreamer who’s willing to risk a little hardship and disappointment,” Libby said. She didn’t add that it was better than withering away in Nebraska City.
* * *
It was early spring when Franklin Lyons, wife, and daughter had rolled into Fort Laramie. Already the trip had been difficult, the winter having been especially harsh that year. But they arrived at the busy outpost still in good spirits, their determination intact.
It had been Franklin’s plan to join others who planned to follow the Bozeman Trail to the goldfields in Montana Territory. However, his eagerness to embark upon the journey brought his new family to Fort Laramie a bit too early in the season to rendezvous with other parties bent upon adventure. The decision left to him and Libby was whether to wait there at the fort until other gold seekers showed up or to strike out for Montana alone. They were strongly advised against the latter by Colonel Henry Maynadier, the post commander. There had already been some hostile Indian activity reported, and a wagon alone would be a risky endeavor.
“Are you familiar with the country between here and Montana?” Colonel Maynadier asked.
“Well, no,” Franklin was forced to admit. “I expect we’ll be looking for a guide if we decide to go on alone.”
The decision had been a tough one to make. Franklin and Libby talked it over and reluctantly decided to take the advice given by the colonel. They camped there near the river and waited. A week passed with no appearance of additional prospectors. With their provisions steadily declining, it became more and more frustrating to sit and wait. To make their delay even more intolerable, the weather had turned pleasant, giving signs that spring may have arrived early. The incident that had reversed their decision to wait was the chance meeting of one Jack Black Dog at the post trader’s store.
Jack Black Dog was well known around Fort Laramie. The son of a white trapper and a Brule Sioux woman, Jack had dark, sullen eyes set deep within a narrow face, and he dressed in smoky buckskins. He worked off and on as a scout for the army, but was not trusted as a full-time scout, due to a tendency to disappear occasionally, only to show up a few weeks later looking for work again. None of the Crow scouts wanted to work with him, for it was widely known that he spent most of his life living with various bands of Sioux.
Jack Black Dog was prone to swap stories with anyone who was willing to buy him a drink, and he quickly befriended Franklin Lyons. Over a glass of beer, he had told Franklin of his many adventures in Indian territory and boasted about his intimate knowledge of every ridge and ravine between Fort Laramie and Virginia City. “Hell,” he proclaimed, “I rode that country up the Powder, east of the Bighorns, long before John Bozeman even thought about markin’ a trail.”
The longer they talked, the more eager Franklin became to get started. Before the night was over, they had entered a contract together. Jack agreed to guide Franklin and his two women to Montana for wages of three dollars a day. Franklin did express concerns about the wisdom of passing through Sioux country, but Jack assured him that there was little danger as long as they were with him. “Hell, I go and come as I please, all the time,” he boasted. “I live with the Lakota half the time. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about when you’re with me.
Libby was not confident that Franklin had made the right decision, and she said as much to her husband. She was even more doubtful when the post trader, Seth Ward, advised against
it. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a lot safer thing to wait till some other folks show up, so we could all go together?” Libby asked. “Most folks around here believe that half-breed you’ve hired would just as soon stick a knife in you as look at you.”
Franklin was patient in answering, but he was convinced that it was not as risky as Seth claimed. “Jack says the soldiers always make it sound more dangerous than it really is,” he said. “Don’t you see? Seth Ward would like to have us hang around here all spring, so we’d buy more supplies. I think we’ll be all right if we’re careful. After all, the man travels through that country all the time,” he insisted, referring to Jack Black Dog.
So here they were, four days after leaving Fort Laramie, gathered around the broken wheel of their wagon, the Bighorn Mountains watching silently from the west. “Reckon you can fix it?” Jack Black Dog asked. He seemed to be irritated at Franklin for the bad luck.
“I reckon,” Franklin replied, “but it’ll take some time.”
“We can leave the wagon and take what we can carry on the mules,” Jack suggested.
“No,” Franklin replied with no uncertainty. “I need the wagon.” He gave Libby an apologetic shake of the head, then set to work mending the wheel. Libby and Molly went about the business of making a fire and rustling up something to eat.
“I expect I’d best ride on up ahead a piece to make sure there ain’t no hostile Injuns about,” Jack announced. He paused for a moment to leer unabashedly at Molly, who accidentally exposed a milky white calf as she climbed down from the wagon. He grinned when she hurriedly pulled her skirt down. Then he stepped up in the saddle. “I’ll be back directly. Maybe you’ll have that there wheel fixed.”
Libby stood, hands on hips, shaking her head, watching their scout ride off toward the north. “I reckon helping you fix wagon wheels ain’t in his contract,” she said in disgust.
The Hostile Trail Page 2