“You found me,” LeVan said, impatient to hear why Zeb was looking for him, and not willing to wait out the crusty old scout’s dallying. “Out with it, man!”
Zeb blinked, surprised by LeVan’s departure from his usual lack of emotion. He glanced around him again, searching the bivouac. “Where’s Slaughter?” he asked in response.
“He lit out about an hour ago,” Sergeant Barnes answered for the lieutenant.
“That’s right,” LeVan said. “He’s gone. Now why were you looking for me? Or did you ride all the way out here just to wonder where Slaughter was?”
Zeb grinned. “As a matter of fact,” he said, taking his time in spite of the lieutenant’s impatience, “I’d best go back and fetch Lieutenant O’Connor. He’s about a mile behind me, with half a dozen soldiers.” Zeb had been instructed by O’Connor to remain silent regarding the purpose of his mission so as not to give Slaughter warning. The news that Matt had already gone put his mind at ease, for he had decided to warn him in spite of O’Connor’s orders. In the short time he had known Slaughter, Zeb had come to think of him as a man you could count on. He might have killed an officer in Virginia, like they said. Zeb wasn’t concerned about it—didn’t care whether he did or did not. Most likely, he had his reasons. After all, Slaughter had worn Confederate gray during the war back east. If Zeb had been back east during the conflict, gray would have been the color he would have worn, too.
He nodded to Spotted Horse and Red Hawk, who were standing aside and watching. Both of the Crow brothers’ faces were expressionless, devoid of any sign of emotion. It occurred to Zeb then that Red Hawk had not been with LeVan’s patrol when it left Fort Laramie. Understanding immediately, he fixed his gaze upon Red Hawk’s face and nodded slightly again. Then he turned back to LeVan. “My orders is to keep my trap shut, find you, and go back to get Lieutenant O’Connor,” he said, climbing back into the saddle. “He’ll be here directly.” With that, he wheeled his horse and went back the way he had come, leaving LeVan shaking his head in bewilderment.
“Tell ’em they can build fires if they want to,” LeVan finally said to Sergeant Barnes. “We might as well just stay where we are and wait for O’Connor.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes answered.
In a short time there were several small fires crackling with dead cottonwood branches as the men took the opportunity to boil some coffee. LeVan sent Spotted Horse and Red Hawk out to scout the area north of the creek, since that was the most likely direction from which any Sioux war party might come. He didn’t expect to encounter any hostile activity because most of the bands had agreed to come in for the peace talks. But he made it a habit to act with caution until he knew for sure there was no need. The ambush he had ridden into in that narrow canyon was still fresh in his mind. He didn’t intend to let it happen again. He had lost some men on that day—would have lost a good many more had it not been for the action taken by Slaughter. “Damn!” he swore when reminded of the scout. “How could I have been so wrong about a man?”
Although Zeb Benson had said O’Connor was about a mile behind him, almost an hour passed before the scout returned with the six-man detail and Lieutenant James O’Connor. LeVan got to his feet, emptied the last swallow of coffee from his cup, and waited while they crested the low ridge on the far side of the creek. “What’s up, Jim?” he greeted O’Connor.
“Fred.” O’Connor returned the greeting, looking anxiously about, expecting to spot Slaughter. Zeb had not deemed it necessary to inform the lieutenant that the man he had come to arrest had already departed. Not seeing Slaughter, O’Connor dismounted. “I’ve been ordered to arrest your man Slaughter, and take him back to Fort Laramie to stand trial,” he stated.
“Stand trial?” LeVan exclaimed. “For what?”
“Murder,” O’Connor replied. “Back east in Virginia—he killed a U.S. Army officer in a scuffle over some land or something.” He continued to look around him, searching for the fugitive. “Anyway, I was sent to get him. Where is he?”
“Well, no damn wonder . . .” LeVan muttered, realizing that it had been no coincidence that Slaughter had deserted just before Red Hawk appeared. He almost laughed at the irony of it, knowing how much Jim O’Connor disliked the young scout. Seeing O’Connor’s puzzled expression as he waited for an answer, LeVan rubbed his chin thoughtfully and replied, “Looks like you’re too late. I was just told no more than an hour or so ago that Mr. Slaughter has deserted the column. Unless I miss my guess, I expect he’s heading straight into Sioux country.”
“Damn the luck!” O’Connor swore. “The murdering son of a bitch’s luck is gonna run out pretty soon, and I aim to be right there when it does.”
“Well, he’s gone from here. What are you planning to do? Go into hostile territory after him?”
“Damn right I am!” O’Connor exclaimed. “I aim to see that man in irons.”
“With six men?” LeVan replied.
O’Connor looked surprised. “With your patrol we’ll have twenty-one and scouts.”
LeVan reacted immediately. “Oh, no, mister. This is as far as this patrol is going. We’re heading back to Laramie. I’m already farther north than I was ordered to go”
“Under the circumstances,” O’Connor sputtered, “I think my orders would supersede yours.”
“Like hell they would. I’m not taking a column this size into that country. Dammit, Jim, we almost got our asses fried with a lot more troops than we’ve got here—or don’t you remember that little fracas over by the Powder?”
O’Connor flushed slightly at the mention of that ill-fated patrol. He was still smarting from the display of panic he had suffered. “The man murdered an officer,” he protested weakly. “My orders are to bring him back to Laramie for trial.”
“Look, Jim,” LeVan said, his tone deadly serious now, “I know how much you hate Slaughter. But taking a small patrol into the Powder River country isn’t a healthy thing to do right now—and it damn sure isn’t a wise one.”
O’Connor’s flush deepened, this time fueled by anger as it began to sink in that Slaughter was going to get away. There was no uncertainty in LeVan’s tone. If he was going to try to follow Slaughter, it was going to be with no more than the six men he’d brought with him. Deep down, he was reluctant to venture into hostile territory with so few, but he registered one last feeble protest. “The Sioux have already sent word that they’re coming in to talk. They won’t attack a patrol now.”
LeVan shook his head slowly back and forth, as if confronting an unruly child. “Tell that to the folks we just buried back there.” He paused for a moment, watching O’Connor’s silent battle with himself. Then he made the decision for him. “We’ll sit here a little longer, so your men can have a chance to have some coffee and rest the horses. Then we’ll start back to Laramie.”
“Begging your pardon, sir,” Sergeant Barnes said. “There ain’t a whole lot of daylight left, and we’ve got good water here—might be a good idea to go ahead and camp right where we are. If I recollect, there ain’t no water for a good ways back the way we come.”
LeVan thought about it. He squinted up at the cloudless sky for a few moments before deciding. “Maybe you’re right, Sergeant.” He paused for a moment more. “All right.” He finally gave the order. “Tell the men to make camp—but, Barnes, get the scouts out.”
“Yes, sir,” Barnes replied, and went to tell the men.
Turning his attention back to O’Connor, LeVan said, “If you want to take your detail and go looking for Slaughter, it’s your decision to make. We’ll be right here till morning. But at sunup I’m heading back to Laramie.”
O’Connor had no real desire to venture deeper into Sioux country without LeVan’s support, but he again protested. “Dammit, Fred, my orders were to arrest Slaughter and bring him back. How’s it gonna look if I don’t do that?”
LeVan was weary of the discussion. He was rather sharp in his reply. “Your orders were to intercept my patrol and arr
est Slaughter. If he isn’t riding with my patrol, you can’t be expected to arrest him. Your orders didn’t say to chase him all over hell and back, did they? You did what you were ordered to do. Slaughter’s gone—nothing you can do about it.” He watched O’Connor’s reaction for a few moments. “Dammit, man, it’s damn near dark already, and I doubt you could find him in broad daylight if he didn’t want to be found.” He shrugged and sighed. “Cheer up. The Sioux will probably kill him.”
* * *
Separated from the patrol by a good five miles and two steep ridges, Matt guided the buckskin into a stand of pines that crowned a low ledge overlooking a sharp bend in the river below. It had been his intention to cross over to the other side of the river and continue up into the Bighorn Mountains—thinking to possibly find one of the old camps that he and Ike Brister had used. That plan was delayed, however, by the necessity to avoid riding up on two Sioux scouts who were watering their ponies near the lower end of the ledge. Not certain that the two Indians had not seen him, he drew his rifle just in case he had to defend himself. But the warriors’ attention had been focused on a couple of antelope some fifty yards downstream. He took the opportunity to slip into the trees before they became aware of his presence.
After tying his horse to a pine bough, he made his way down to the edge of the ledge, where he had a clear view of the two hostiles. I hope to hell you two aren’t going to linger there all day, he thought. He had to assume that O’Connor would be tracking him, and he preferred not to waste any more time than necessary. The two scouts appeared to be in no hurry, however, and were evidently not tempted to stalk the antelope. Well, I can’t sit here much longer, he decided after watching them for almost half an hour. There was no other choice but to backtrack and go around them. He was about to make that decision when he saw the war party appear at the top of a slope about a quarter mile from the river.
One of the scouts below him jumped on his pony’s back, rode out onto an open flat beside the river, and wheeled the pony around in a circle, waving a rifle over his head. He continued until he got a response from the slope. The war party proceeded down the slope, heading directly toward the scouts.
Well, that’s just grand, Matt thought. They’re heading right for me. He took a moment to consider his options. He could go back the way he had come and take a chance on meeting a patrol led by Lieutenant O’Connor. He could backtrack a quarter mile or so and make a wide circle to avoid the war party. The problem with the second option was that he was presently holed up in the only spot that offered real concealment. Even if he made a wide circle, there was the chance that he might be spotted before he reached the cottonwoods that grew along the river, even in the fading light. Of course, I could just take off straight north till I strike the Yellowstone, but I don’t know what’s between here and the Yellowstone. According to what Spotted Horse had told him, there were several large Sioux villages in that area. After no more than a few seconds’ thought, he decided to stay put and let the Sioux war party pass—and hope none of the warriors would find any reason to ride up through the stand of pines.
That’s too damn big to be a hunting party, he thought, as the line of warriors descended the slope and approached the shallow river crossing. He did a quick count and estimated the party to be at least a hundred strong—all wearing paint and stripped down for battle. He didn’t have to guess what their objective was. He figured that the two scouts had probably been following LeVan’s column of soldiers and were waiting to guide the war party to them.
He shifted his body slightly when he felt a pine root pressing against his stomach. When he looked back at the advancing war party, he suddenly tensed. There was no mistaking the hawk-faced warrior who rode up to take the lead. Iron Claw—I should have known, he thought. Images of Ike Brister’s mangled body hanging between two trees came rushing back to fill his mind. He reached back and clutched his rifle, his first thought being to rid the world of the evil savage. Bringing the Henry up to bear on the unsuspecting warriors, he settled the front sight squarely upon the chest of the menacing war chief. For a long moment, he fought to maintain his self-control as he held die sights on his target. His finger, resting lightly on the trigger, seemed to go numb, losing all sense of touch. In less than a heartbeat, it could be over. Ike Brister’s killer could be sent to hell with only an ounce more pressure from his trigger finger. Fate stepped in to intervene, though, for in that moment of indecision, Lame Deer pulled up beside Iron Claw, blocking Matt’s line of sight. This was the second time he had had the murdering savage dead in his sights and failed to pull the trigger.
He lowered the rifle slowly until it rested upon a small rock before him as a cool head replaced the fury that had seized him a moment before. That one shot might have settled the score for Ike, but it would have surely brought the entire war party down upon him—and hundred-to-one odds meant certain death, even to a man with a Yellow Boy Henry rifle.
There’ll be other chances, Ike. I’ll see to it. With that solemn promise, he backed a few inches away from the rim of the ledge and watched the war party approach. Within seconds, the riverbank below him was filled with ponies crowding each other for water. Amid the noise of the grunting, snorting ponies, the snort of curiosity that came from his own horse in the trees behind him went unnoticed by the throng of warriors. After a quick glance toward the thicket where he had tied the buckskin, Matt returned his gaze to the milling swarm below him. He watched as Iron Claw consulted with the two scouts who had awaited him. Pushing his horse up through the mob of ponies, a rider joined in the parlay with the scouts. At first glance, Matt thought it was a white man dressed in buckskins. Upon closer observation, he decided the man was most likely a half-breed. The name Jack Black Dog instantly struck his mind. Iron Claw paused briefly to listen when the breed spoke, registering a deep scowl upon his face that seemed to imply irritation. Then with a toss of his head, the war chief dismissed the breed’s comments and resumed his parlay with the two scouts.
Watching the animated conversation and the many gestures toward the direction he had come from, Matt confirmed what he had figure—the scouts were telling Iron Claw about the army patrol he had just deserted. Uh-oh, he thought. LeVan’s patrol is in for a helluva surprise. There was no doubt in his mind that the Sioux war party meant business. At least one hundred strong, they were painted for war, and LeVan was leading a fifteen-man patrol. Matt had no idea how many men O’Connor could add to the total, but it was unlikely his detail was more than fifteen. Upon further observation, Matt realized that the war party was well armed, with more than half carrying rifles of various makes, most of them single-shot, although he spotted several Sharps cavalry carbines. I sure as hell don’t have to worry about O’Connor now, he thought. He’s going to be up to his ass in redskins. The thought of the arrogant young lieutenant surrounded by a horde of screaming savages brought a modicum of satisfaction, he had to admit. But there was not a moment of indecision on his part when it came to his moral duty. There were also innocent lives to consider, one of which was that of Lieutenant LeVan. He was just going to have to take a chance on being able to warn the soldiers without being taken prisoner himself—by O’Connor or Iron Claw. There was a chance that he might lead the hostiles away from the army column if he used himself as bait—and if he could eventually lose them, he could get back to LeVan and warn him. The big buckskin gelding had demonstrated his power and stamina several times before this. With a sizable enough lead on the swift Indian ponies, Matt was confident that Ike could hold his own for an indefinite time.
The only question before him now was how much time he had before the column arrived. If O’Connor was coming after him, they might not be far behind, riding right into Iron Claw’s war party. With that thought to worry him, he backed away from the ledge and retreated to the pines where he had left his horse. Untying the buckskin, he led the horse up through the pines toward the top of the ridge where the trees thinned out. Crossing the crest of the ridge, he pa
used to take a quick look behind, expecting to see Sioux scouts appear at any minute. He could still hear the war party, but they were evidently still watering their ponies. He took another moment to stroke the big buckskin’s neck before climbing up in the saddle. “Ike, boy, don’t let me down now,” he said, addressing the gelding by the name he had given him. Before him, he faced nothing but open prairie with no apparent cover for several miles. Off to the northeast, there was a line of low hills. He decided that he would try to lure the Indians in that direction. At least there was no cavalry patrol in sight as yet. Glancing at the sky then, he realized that the light was fading fast. It would not be long before the prairie would be cloaked in darkness. One hour before hard dark, he thought, wishing it was less. He patted the buckskin’s neck again as he climbed into the saddle. It was going to be a race.
Holding the horse to an easy walk, he started down the east side of the ridge. His intention was to go easy on him until he was discovered by the war party, hoping to get as much distance as he could before calling on Ike to run for it. Once he had descended the slope, still without any sign of the war party, he kicked up the pace a notch, letting the buckskin lope comfortably through the tall spring grass, taking an occasional look behind him. The minutes passed, each one gaining additional ground as he increased his lead. He figured he had put almost half a mile behind him when he heard the first distant cry of alarm. The race was on. “All right, boy,” he said softly. “They’ve spotted us—it’s up to you now.”
* * *
“There!” Two Bears shouted to the warriors behind him and pointed toward the distant figure fleeing in the fading light. “A scout!”
Iron Claw pulled up beside him and scowled as he stared after the rapidly disappearing figure. It angered him that the war party had been discovered before he could strike the soldier column. “After him!” he ordered immediately. “We have to catch him before he gets back to warn the soldiers! He must have followed our scouts back to us.” He glanced accusingly at the two young warriors who had scouted the column of troopers.
The Hostile Trail Page 14