Like a natural fortress, the boulders that formed a half circle at the base of the cliff were tall enough to provide protection for Matt and his horses. Moving quickly, but without undue haste, he led the buckskin back to the wall that was formed by the steep cliff and looped the reins around a scrub pine bough. He paused briefly to look at the Indian pony before deciding there was no need to tie her. The persistent mare had adopted the buckskin whether Matt approved or not.
His horses protected, he moved back to position himself for the assault to come. Settling in behind a boulder, he laid his cartridge belt out beside him for quick access, cranked a cartridge into the chamber, and waited. In less than a minute, he saw them approach. The hawk-faced warrior on the paint pony! Their paths had crossed again. Matt began to believe that one of them must have been destined to kill the other.
Skirting a clump of pines below him, they stayed short of the clearing that led up to the cliff, using the trees for cover. Matt followed their progress carefully until they disappeared from his view. They’ll be moving up to the edge of the pines on foot, he thought while scanning the line of trees for likely places for the hostiles to fire from. After several minutes, he saw them again, inching up to the trees on the edge of the clearing. He could see only two of them, and he automatically looked up behind him at the ledge some fifty feet above his head for signs of the missing member of the party. As a precaution, he moved back a little to position himself farther under the overhanging ledge. Confident that it would be difficult for anyone to get a clear shot at him from above, he returned his attention to the pines.
The distance separating him from the two hostiles below was no more than a hundred yards, a range where any weapon other than a bow or a pistol would be accurate. He wondered what firepower the Indians could bring to bear on his position. In the next few seconds, his question was answered when the stillness of the quiet afternoon was suddenly shattered by the initial barrage of shots. He recognized the sharp snap of a Spencer rifle at once. He had heard Ike’s weapon enough to be familiar with the distinct sound it made. The thought reminded him that the rifle Ike had carried was now in the hands of the hostiles who had killed him. Matt felt a sudden numbness, knowing that the weapon was now being used to try to kill him. The other weapon sounded like a single-shot rifle, like the Springfields most of the soldiers had been issued during the war. The shots from both rifles ricocheted harmlessly off the boulders protecting him. At this short range, the outcome was going to be determined by which one of them was careless enough to expose himself to take a shot.
He continued to wait, knowing the hostiles had not pinpointed his location and were just wasting bullets, hoping to draw his return fire. He counted on their impatience, and pretty soon his strategy bore fruit. From the base of a small pine, one of the Sioux suddenly jumped up and sprinted toward an outcropping of rock farther up the slope. Quick as the strike of a rattlesnake, Matt stood up and pumped two shots into the running warrior, causing him to tumble, turning a double somersault before landing in the grassy meadow, dead. Not waiting to judge the results of his shots, Matt turned at once to spray the pines with three more shots, effectively keeping Iron Claw from getting a clear shot. At the same instant when he pulled the trigger on the last shot, he felt a spattering of loose dirt on his head and shoulders. Without having to think about it, he turned the Henry up and emptied the magazine. He heard a grunt of pain, and a few seconds later, the body of the third Sioux came crashing down almost at his feet. It had all happened within moments, and now Matt thought about the one remaining as he methodically reloaded the magazine of the Henry rifle. It was a duel now between the hawk-faced Sioux and himself, at a distance of one hundred yards.
In the cover of the pine trees, Iron Claw was almost staggered by the suddenness with which the odds had been changed. He stepped back, mentally recoiling from the loss of his two closest friends within seconds of each other. His brain was pounding with the rage that filled his entire body as once again he had suffered at the hand of the white demon with the spirit gun. A thought flashed through his mind then. Was this truly a ghost he was trying to kill—as some had feared? Though it gave him pause, it was for only a moment. He vowed to kill this white evil spirit, be he man or demon. Clutching the Spencer rifle, he moved to take cover behind a tree closer to the edge of the meadow.
After making sure the warrior at his feet was dead, Matt moved to the other side of the apron of rocks and settled himself between two small boulders. With a flicker of movement of pine boughs, a shot rang out, the bullet glancing off the rock Matt had just vacated. Matt returned fire, clipping the pine bough in two. His shot was answered by Iron Claw, this time the bullet ricocheting off the rock by his head.
This exchange of shots went on for half an hour, neither man willing to risk stepping into the open, where sudden death was sure to come. An extended pause followed while both men considered their options and their chances for survival. Though almost consumed by anger, Iron Claw was not willing to rush foolishly at the white scout with the spirit gun. He wanted more than anything else to tie this white man’s scalp to his lance, but he recognized the fact that they were at a standoff for the time being. He decided to change tactics, thinking to circle around the scout and surprise him. First, he must convince his enemy that he was quitting the fight.
Suddenly the silence was shattered once more, this time not by a barrage of rifle shots but by the loud wailing of the Sioux warrior in the pine trees. The ranting went on for several minutes, leaving Matt to speculate on the message, since he understood no more than a few words of the Lakota language. Minutes later, he heard the sound of hooves, and he ran to the edge of the rocks in time to catch a glimpse of the paint pony as it topped a rise in the prairie beyond the pine forest.
Gone. Somehow he had not expected the hawk-faced warrior to retreat from the duel. Maybe it was as Ike had sometimes said: “An Injun will stay after a thing till he decides he’s spent enough time on it. Then to hell with it, he’ll go do somethin’ else.” Matt walked out into the meadow, staring at the rise where he had last seen the belligerent hostile. The sun was sinking ever closer to the craggy mountains to the west. Soon it would disappear behind the hills. Perhaps the warrior had decided that he had fought enough for one day. Maybe Ike was right, and the Indian just decided he had dueled long enough. There was a distinct feeling of regret that the issue had not been settled, for Matt somehow felt that his promise to Ike might be forgiven if he had killed this one particular Sioux. He was convinced that this hawk-face was the man responsible for Ike’s death.
He walked halfway down the meadow to the body of Yellow Hand to see if there might be any .44 cartridges on the corpse. There were none, only some .58-caliber shells for the Springfield lying a few yards away. He picked up the rifle and began to climb back up the hill. Almost back to the rocks, he was startled by the sudden appearance of the paint charging up from a ravine that ran from the other side of the cliff. Iron Claw rode low on his horse’s neck, his rifle aimed for the kill. Caught in the open, barely thirty yards from the charging warrior, Matt knew in that instant that the Indian couldn’t miss. Iron Claw squeezed the trigger, but nothing, happened. The cartridge had jammed in the chamber.
Matt dived to the ground, expecting a bullet that never came as the paint thundered past him. Hardly able to believe he had escaped being hit, he rolled over on his belly to try to get off a shot of his own, only to look directly into the setting sun. Blinded for the moment, he nevertheless fired at the retreating savage, hoping for a lucky shot.
Iron Claw heard the snap of the bullet as it passed over his head. He flattened his body as low on his pony’s neck as he could and whipped the paint mercilessly for more speed. The Spencer had misfired, costing him the chance for an easy kill. He wasn’t sure if it was because the white man’s medicine was strong or because his own medicine was weak. The white man had also missed. Maybe both men’s medicine was strong. Iron Claw was uncertain if the spirits w
ere taking a hand in the confrontation between the two men, but he felt strongly that he was being given a message to wait another day to kill the white scout.
“I think we’ve seen the last of that son of a bitch for this day,” Matt said aloud. He wasn’t sure why; it was just a feeling. He had had enough killing for the day—he was sure of that. As he made his way back up to the rocky fortress, he thought again of the close call he had just survived. He had been caught dead in the Indian’s sights—at point-blank range. He had never been one to entertain thoughts of the spirit world, but he couldn’t help but wonder if Ike’s rifle had just refused to kill him. It was a sobering thought, but one he preferred not to explore further.
“We’d better get on outta here and find us a place to camp with some water while there’s still some light,” he advised the buckskin. Leading his horse out between the boulders, he paused when he started to walk around the body of the Sioux who had been on the cliff above him. He put the toe of his moccasin under Broken Bow’s shoulder and rolled the corpse over on its back. When he did, the setting sun caught a glimmer of metal on the dead warrior’s neck. Matt knelt down to see what had caused the reflection. It took a few seconds to register in his mind, but then the reality of what he saw caused his heart to skip a beat. There were thousands of Saint Christopher’s medals, and a Sioux warrior could come by one in any number of ways. But this medal was on a silver chain like only one other he had ever seen. It was the medal given to him by his mother, and the very one that he, in turn, had given to a young girl at Fort Kearny.
“Molly,” he recalled softly as her image formed in his mind. Molly, the shy girl who could not speak, who had been a mute since birth. She was the daughter of the woman who ran the dining room in the hotel in the town close by the fort. Libby was her mother’s name. He couldn’t recall the last name. He might not ever have known it. Feeling the silver medal between his fingers brought back the memory of the night he had given it to Molly. He would most likely be dead now if Molly had not acted when she did. Unarmed, he had found himself staring into the muzzle of a Spencer rifle, held on him by an outlaw named Tyler. There had been no doubt concerning Tyler’s intentions: He had come to kill him. Matt had not thought about that night for a long time. How, he wondered, had the medal come to be in the possession of a Sioux warrior? So far from Fort Kearny? Somehow it didn’t seem probable to him that Molly would have given it away. Stolen? Maybe. There were other possibilities, none of which he cared to consider. The thought of Molly being taken by savage Indians almost sickened him. If that were the case, even if she was still alive, she would be living a virtual hell as a captive of the Sioux. He feared that he was letting his emotions run away with him, but there was no decision to be made. He had to know the answer.
* * *
Red Hawk flinched with the pain when the Lakota woman administered a stinging lash across his bare shoulders with a cottonwood limb, but he refused to cry out. He was not walking fast enough to suit the old woman, but then, she would not have been satisfied if he ran. The burden of wood that he labored to carry was hard enough to manage at a normal pace. She could whip away at his shoulders and back until he dropped. He still would not be capable of moving any faster.
It had been almost a moon since the Lakota war party had ambushed Red Hawk’s hunting party. Red Hawk and his friends were Crow, and they were all aware that they were hunting deep in Lakota territory and the danger involved in that. The hated Sioux had watched them kill three deer, and waited until they had removed the hides and butchered the meat. Then, when the meat was packed on their horses and they started back home, they were suddenly swarmed by a large war party.
All of the Crow hunters had been killed except Red Hawk, who had suffered a shoulder wound and had been knocked unconscious by a Sioux war club. When he came to, it was to find the Sioux warriors standing over him, arguing over the way he should be killed. One among them was more fierce than his friends, and seemed to be the leader of the warriors. Red Hawk was to learn later that the man was called Iron Claw. Iron Claw stated that it was his bullet that had wounded the Crow and he would decide how the hated enemy of the Lakota would die.
“Give me my knife, and I will fight you. Then we will see who shall live and who shall die.” Red Hawk had suddenly blurted the challenge, startling the Sioux warriors.
Broken Bow had reacted by aiming his rifle at Red Hawk’s face. “Crow dog! I’ll send you to the spirit world right now.”
Iron Claw had laughed, amused by the Crow’s insolence. “Wait,” he said, placing his hand on Broken Bow’s rifle barrel. “I think this coyote wants a quick death.” He reached down and grabbed Red Hawk by his hair and jerked his head back, looking directly into his eyes. “I think my mother could use a slave to do women’s work for her. We’ll see how good a woman you are. Then I’ll kill you when I’m ready.”
The weeks that followed seemed like months. Iron Claw’s mother proved to be as ruthless and cruel as her son, forcing Red Hawk to suffer humiliation as her slave. His shoulders and back were crisscrossed with a pattern of stripes from her cottonwood whips. At night, he was tied hand and foot and left to sleep outside the lodge with Iron Claw’s favorite pony. What food he was given was barely enough to keep him alive, and his shoulder wound was left to heal on its own. The one constant thought that sustained him was the promise he had made to himself that he would escape as soon as his shoulder was strong enough, and return to exact vengeance upon the hated Sioux.
He was not the only captive in the Sioux camp. A week after he had been captured, Iron Claw returned to the village with a young white woman. The war chief made a present of the woman to his wife. Red Hawk never talked to her, for she was allowed to sleep inside the lodge, while he remained tethered outside like a horse.
* * *
“Hurry!” the old woman screamed, punctuating her command with another stinging swipe of the cottonwood switch. She followed along behind him, holding the rawhide rope that was tied around his neck. When they reached the tipi, she suddenly jerked on the rope, causing him to stumble under the huge load and dump the firewood before the entry flap. “Clumsy dog!” she screamed. “Pick it all up! You will get no food tonight because of your carelessness.”
On his hands and knees, he gathered up the scattered wood, aware of the constant surveillance he was under. He could easily overpower the old woman, but there were always others close by, and there were always many eyes watching him. He sensed that most of them were hoping he would try to escape. It would provide great sport for them to punish him for his efforts. Once again, he felt the sting of the cottonwood branch. He braced himself for the next blow, but it did not follow. She had been distracted by a welcoming cry on the other side of the village. Soon other cries were heard. Iron Claw had returned.
The fearsome war chief had been gone for several days, and in their excitement to welcome him, most of the people rushed toward the edge of the camp to watch him approach, only to suddenly lapse into silence. Red Hawk gazed toward the river and watched as Iron Claw rode through the pony herd on the opposite shore and crossed over. He was alone. The two warriors who had remained with him after Lame Deer returned with Black Shirt’s body were not with him. A soft murmuring of concerned voices soon escalated into a general dirge of mourning, for the people knew that the white ghost had killed them as well.
It occurred to Red Hawk then that he was being allowed to pause and stare for quite some time without a threat or a blow from the old woman. Then he realized that only he and the old woman were left on this side of the circle of tipis. There was no one else within thirty yards or so. Distressed to see her son returning without Broken Bow and Yellow Hand, she looked around her frantically, trying to decide what to do with her slave. “Come!” she commanded and jerked on the rope, pulling him toward the tree where he was bound at night.
He got to his feet as if to obey, one large piece of firewood still in his hand. It happened so quickly that the old woman had no time
to react before the makeshift club thudded against her skull. She dropped the rope and staggered backward but did not fall down. Stunned, she did not cry out for help. Moving swiftly to finish the job, Red Hawk set upon her immediately, clubbing her again and again until she crumpled to the ground. He turned then, expecting a mob of angry Sioux charging upon him, but no one had noticed the isolated bit of drama near the edge of the lodges.
He pulled the rope from his neck and threw it upon the fallen woman. Alive or dead, he could not tell, and he didn’t take the time to find out. There was no time to waste. Iron Claw would most likely come directly to his lodge. Red Hawk ran from the village, keeping Iron Claw’s tipi between him and the throng of people for as long as possible before cutting back toward the river below the camp. Luck seemed to be with him, for he heard no outcry by the time he entered the water and began to make his way downstream. He was a long way from home with no horse and no weapon. Though he was free, his situation was precarious at best. He would be hunted like a rabbit.
Chapter 7
Matt paused to listen. The buckskin whinnied inquisitively a couple of times, and Matt sensed that something or someone had caused the horse to inquire. He had long since learned never to ignore the big horse’s warnings, so he got up from his campfire and took a quick look around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary along the bank of the creek where he had made his camp. He took another look at the buckskin he had christened Ike. The horse did not seem to be agitated or alarmed. Probably a muskrat, he decided and returned to the chore of fashioning a spit to roast some of the deer meat.
He had followed the trail left by the hawk-faced warrior for most of the previous day before losing it where the Sioux had entered the creek. The Sioux village had to be close now, however. The Little Bighorn River should be just beyond the line of hills that stood to the west of his camp, so he was naturally cautious about any strange sounds. Deciding he was probably just a little jumpy, he propped his rifle beside him and turned his attention back to his supper. The buckskin cocked his ears and snorted. Matt paused to listen again. After a long interval when no strange sounds reached his ears, he admonished the horse, “You’re gettin’ more jumpy than I am. You’re just hearin’ a muskrat or somethin’.”
The Hostile Trail Page 8