The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  “The scouts said the soldiers were camped on War Woman Creek,” Jack Black Dog said, “not in the direction that man is riding.”

  Iron Claw jerked his head around to glare at the half-breed. He didn’t like Jack Black Dog, primarily because of his impure blood but also because he traveled freely among the white people. He didn’t trust the breed, and he was always inclined to question anything Jack Black Dog told him. He was further irritated by Jack Black Dog’s incessant whining about the white girl’s rescue from Iron Claw’s tipi. Jack Black Dog had wanted the girl. Iron Claw had no use for her, and would have killed her but for the satisfaction he derived from knowing of Jack Black Dog’s lust for her. “It is obvious that the soldiers have left War Woman Creek, and are now somewhere north of there.” He held Ike’s Spencer high over his head and motioned toward the galloping horse in the distance. “After him!”

  “You’re making a mistake,” Jack Black Dog insisted. “He’s just leading us off somewhere so the soldiers will have time to get away.”

  Iron Claw’s eyes blazed with anger as he told the insolent half-breed, “Go where you choose! You are no longer welcome here.” He wheeled his pony and started out after the white man at a full gallop.

  Feeling the sting of Iron Claw’s rebuff, Jack Black Dog’s temper flared, and had it not been for the condemning glances of the warriors who filed out after the angry war chief, he might have been tempted to put a bullet in Iron Claw’s back. There may be other times, he thought as he watched the huge war party ride away without him. There are other villages, he said to himself, and turned his pony toward the west. As he rode away, his thoughts returned to the young white girl. She was rightfully his. Iron Claw had had no right to keep her. He had delivered the girl’s parents to Iron Claw’s war party, and this had been his reward. Feeling betrayed, he thought about the girl’s fragile being, and the milky white skin he had caught glimpses of beneath her skirt. He was obsessed with thoughts of knowing her entire body. It was a pleasure he had promised himself when he had first led Franklin Lyons out of Fort Laramie. It was an obsession he had no intention of abandoning.

  Chapter 11

  The broad-chested buckskin gelding seemed to sense the importance of the race he ran. Matt bent low over the big horse’s neck, leaning forward to balance his weight over Ike’s withers as he sped across the prairie. Ike felt solid under him, his hooves pounding a relentless beat upon the prairie floor, never breaking stride over gullies or rises. Flying so recklessly over the ground, their flight could come to a fatal ending with the sudden appearance of a prairie dog hole, for there was no time for caution. Behind them, the war party had taken up the chase, and when Matt looked back, it seemed like the entire Sioux nation was coming after him. Looking ahead, he wondered if he had overestimated the buckskin’s ability, for the hills he sought refuge in now appeared farther away than he had first thought. Still the big horse answered the call, his hooves pounding the grassy plain in steady rhythm with the solid beat of his lungs taking air in measured breaths. The buckskin gelding had never before been pushed to the limit of his capacity. This might be the day, Matt thought.

  At last there appeared to be some progress in cutting down the distance, for the hills began to inch closer to him. Looking back periodically, he determined that Ike was holding his own with the Indian ponies—with two exceptions. Two of the warriors were racing out in front of the others and were gradually gaining on him. Matt looked ahead toward the hills again. It was hard to guess whether he would be able to reach them before the two warriors closed the gap. Everything depended upon the buckskin’s stamina. He couldn’t say how long the horse had been running at full gallop—maybe four or five minutes. It seemed longer, and he feared Ike might founder if he didn’t let up soon. He felt sure the buckskin could last as long as the ponies chasing him, even though he carried the extra weight of saddle and pack.

  He heard the crack of a rifle, followed almost immediately by a second shot. Although the bullets fell short of the galloping buckskin, they told Matt that the two warriors were closing within range of their rifles. “Come on, boy,” he whispered softly, “just stay with it.” The horse seemed to respond to his encouragement, reaching out with his neck on each stride as if pulling the hills to them. Another rifle shot rang out behind him. This time a puff of dirt jumped up beside him. The quick Indian ponies had pulled within rifle range.

  Soon the two warriors would be raining a steady shower of lead upon him, and there was no place to take cover. Out on the open plain, he was totally exposed and at their mercy. Still the buckskin chewed away at the distance, his head bobbing slightly with each stride. Suddenly Matt felt a stinging blow as a bullet ripped through his shirt and creased his shoulder. “Come on, boy,” he pleaded, wondering if the warrior’s next shot would cut center. But the next shot fell short again.

  He looked back to see one of the warriors suddenly pull up and stop. Seconds later, the other one did the same. Some one hundred yards behind them, the rest of the war party began to slow as well, and Matt realized that the buckskin had won. “Hod damn!” he blurted out. “You did it! You ran the bastards right into the ground. I ain’t never been so proud of a horse in my whole life.”

  He pulled back on the reins until Ike settled into an easy lope, and they continued toward the hills, which were now looming up before them, the first one no more than two or three hundred yards away. He heard several rifle shots sing out in frustration as the powerful horse, still blowing and gasping for air, gained the cover of the trees that formed a dark ring around the base of the hill. As soon as he was out of sight of his pursuers, he slid off of Ike’s back and started up the slope on foot, leading the horse. He had not had time until that moment to take a look at the slash on his shoulder where the bullet had grazed him. In spite of a slight stinging, he deemed it not worthy of wasting time, and continued up the slope.

  Willing at first, the big buckskin followed for a few yards, then hesitated, his powerful lungs laboring for air. Matt paused, puzzled by the horse’s reluctance to continue. “What is it, boy?” he wondered as the horse stopped, head down with his muzzle almost touching the ground. As Matt watched, bewildered, Ike pulled his back legs up under him as if trying to take weight off his front legs, while still grunting for air. Horrified, Matt realized that the buckskin could not breathe.

  He looked back toward the prairie. The Sioux war party was still following him, walking their ponies after the unsuccessful attempt to overtake him. He figured he had a quarter of an hour’s leeway at best. He glanced up toward the tops of the trees. Long shadows had now vanished, replaced by a solid gloom in the pines where he stood. The sun had long since departed, leaving the forest in total darkness. Turning back to his disabled mount, he tried to soothe the stricken animal. “Come on, boy,” he pleaded, holding Ike’s head in his arms. “Take it easy. It’ll come.” The buckskin rolled his eyes, confused and frightened. Matt knew at that moment that the big gelding was finished. He had broken his lungs. Still Matt was reluctant to admit it. He was at a loss as to what he should do to help Ike. He quickly loosened the girth strap and pulled the saddle off. Ike gazed at him with wide and mournful eyes. Seconds later, the horse’s knees buckled and he went down on his chest.

  “Get up, boy,” Matt pleaded. “You gotta stay up on your feet.” He knew that once the horse went down, he was finished. With no time to waste, he tried to pull the horse back up, but his efforts were to no avail. Ike was foundering, suffocating from lack of breath. The gelding had given his all, everything he had in him, and Matt was sickened by the thought of losing him and the heartbreaking choice left to him.

  “I’m sorry, boy,” he said, pulling his pistol. Holding the weapon next to the horse’s head, he hesitated, reluctant to pull the trigger. The two of them had been through so much together, it was almost too much for him to bear, but Ike was suffering. Over his shoulder, he heard the war party approaching the foot of the hill. There was no more time. The buckskin had g
iven his life to outrun the Indian ponies. It would be a senseless waste of the big horse’s sacrifice if Matt allowed himself to be caught now. He pulled the trigger.

  Taking only what he had to have to survive, mainly his rifle and cartridges, his bow and quiver, he hurriedly looked around for a place to hide his saddle. He was not afforded the luxury of a lot of time, but he didn’t like the idea of leaving his saddle for the hostiles to find. The only place that offered any potential was a shallow gully that cut a groove between two boulders. He didn’t hesitate, throwing the saddle as far as he could manage into the deepening shadows. Maybe they won’t see it in the dark, he thought. Then with nothing but his weapons and flint and steel, he set off up through the pines, pausing briefly only once to try to set the place in his memory. I’ll play hell trying to find this place again, he couldn’t help thinking. I might have just thrown my saddle away.

  * * *

  Arriving at the bottom of the slope, Iron Claw directed his war party to spread out and proceed with caution. He had witnessed on too many occasions the danger in charging recklessly after the white devil with the gun that never rested. There was no doubt that this scout they had chased across the prairie was the very devil who had killed many of his people. He was certain, after hearing Rising Moon’s description of him, that it was also the same devil who had blatantly walked into his tipi and taken the white girl. Iron Claw was tormented by the thought that the white man could continue to frustrate him. The man they now chased could be no other. He recognized the big buckskin horse the white man rode. Igmutaka, some had named him. Mountain lion. Iron Claw could almost feel the mountain lion’s rifle being trained upon him from somewhere in the darkness above him. The sensation caused no fear in the war chief’s heart, only anger—anger at the realization that the white man had led the war party away from the army patrol, anger that he had not listened to his own scouts, with no choice but to chase after the hated white man instead, and anger because the irritating half-breed, Jack Black Dog, had warned him that he was being led in the wrong direction. He knew that he must not fail in killing the white Igmutaka to prove that his medicine was stronger than that of the hated white man. Already aware of some muted comments from a few of the warriors, expressing doubts concerning their leader’s medicine, he was desperate in his resolve. If Igmutaka escaped this time—and killed more of his warriors—the village might lose all confidence in him. His thoughts were interrupted by a cry of discovery in the darkened forest.

  “Here!” a warrior cried out. “Here is his horse!”

  Iron Claw hurried to follow the voice. Upon arriving at the dead gelding, Iron Claw’s heart immediately soared. He is on foot! “Comb these trees,” he commanded. “He cannot have gotten far.” He divided his war party into three groups, directing one third to search the woods around the right side of the hill, one third to search around the left, and the rest, led by himself, to search straight up toward the top. With so many warriors, he felt confident that they would flush their quarry.

  * * *

  No more than seventy-five yards above the mass of warriors, weaving his way slowly through the trees, Matt climbed up through the pines and rocks. Moving at a trot whenever the slope permitted, he dared not stop to catch his breath. Below him, he could clearly hear the shouts as one warrior yelled something to another. They had already found the buckskin’s carcass. He had to move fast, but his progress was impeded somewhat by the necessity to carry a rifle and all of his extra cartridges, and further hampered by the bow and quiver slung on his back by the bowstring.

  Suddenly the pines ended, and he found himself in a meadow at the top of the hill. Moving steadily upward, breathing hard from the exertion, he left the cover of the trees. It was fully dark now, for which he was truly thankful. Without pause, he headed straight up to the top of the hill, anxious to cross over to the opposite side and feeling vulnerable to a shot from the trees below him—even though it was a moonless night and he would be very hard to see from any distance at all.

  Once he gained the very top of the hill, he paused only briefly to look back on the meadow behind him. He couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t appear that the war party had worked their way through the trees as yet. He hurried down the other side, almost at a trot, afraid of taking a tumble if he tried to go any faster. Upon reaching the ring of trees again, he had to slow to a walk in order to see where he was going.

  The slope was steep, the ground beneath the pines matted with pine needles, making the footing treacherous in places. As a result, he was forced to be more careful in the darkness. Being more careful meant more time, and he worried that his pursuers might gain on him. His hope was that he could leave the war party searching around the hills for him in the dark while he struck out across the prairie on foot. He still had it in his mind to warn Lieutenant LeVan. He desperately needed a horse, but he felt he had no choice but to make an attempt on foot to reach the patrol before morning. As near as he could figure, War Woman Creek was probably around thirty miles away.

  About to leave the cover of the trees, he was suddenly stopped by a sound to his right. Cocking his head to listen, he tried to identify the rustling noises, realizing an instant later that it was the sound of many warriors moving through the brush near the bottom of the slope. Another moment passed and he heard the same sound off to his left. They’ve already circled the base of the hill! He had not expected them to cover the distance so quickly. In a few minutes, if he remained where he was, they would converge on him. He didn’t like his chances in a footrace on the open prairie, so he reconsidered making a run for it. The only way open to him was to go back up the slope. If he could get to the clearing again before the rest of the war party came up from the other side, there was a chance that he could move across the ridge to the adjoining hill.

  He didn’t wait to explore further options. Back up through the pines he ran, taking the steep slope in long, powerful strides. When he reached the meadow above the tree line again, he paused, gasping to fill his lungs with air. With no hostiles in sight, he forced his aching legs to sprint along the ridge to the second in the line of hills. Over a grassy knob, dotted with small boulders, he sprinted until he reached the cover of a thick clump of sage. Unable to push his weary legs farther without rest, he dropped down on the ground long enough to calm his breathing. While he knelt there, his lungs straining for air, he heard Iron Claw’s warriors as they reached the top of the hill behind him. He tensed, preparing to run again, but the hostiles continued over the top of the hill and down the slope, just as he had at first. They were on foot, which told him that their horses had been left at the bottom of the first hill. Too damn far away for me to try to work back and steal one of them, he thought.

  Feeling like a fox with a pack of hounds after him, he got up again and ran farther along the ridge. At this point, he decided to change his plan. Instead of trying to get to War Woman Creek to warn the soldiers, he would find a place to hide. It was obvious to him now that Iron Claw was determined to track him down, so the longer he could keep the warriors occupied with searching for him, the better the chances that the soldiers would be long gone. Unless, he reminded himself, Lieutenant O’Connor is still hell-bent on coming after me.

  * * *

  “He is gone from here,” Gray Bull said after searching every bush on the hill. It had been hours since they had seen the white scout disappear in the trees. “Maybe there is some truth in what some say about the white mountain lion’s medicine.”

  “Nonsense!” Iron Claw retorted angrily. “He is here. He must have slipped by us and crossed over to the next ridge.” There was already too much grumbling among the warriors that too much time had been wasted on this one man—that while they stumbled around in the dark, the army patrol might be getting away, and with them, the opportunity to capture guns and ammunition. “We must pay homage to the memory of our brothers who have been killed by this man,” Iron Claw insisted.

  Lame Deer said nothing for a few moments, b
ut he agreed with Gray Bull. The white man had obviously managed to slip by them, and they might spend the rest of the night trying to find him in these hills. He was reluctant, however, to question Iron Claw’s wisdom. Finally he spoke his opinion. “What Gray Bull says may be true. I say we should forget this white devil and attack the soldiers before it is too late.”

  “He is here,” Iron Claw insisted. “He must have crossed the ridge back there.” He pointed toward the ridge bridging the two slopes. Realizing that he was losing the confidence of his warriors, he offered a compromise. “We will search that hill. If he is not found, then we will give up.”

  Lame Deer saw the anger in Iron Claw’s eyes, even in the dark. “I will go back and get my pony, and circle around to the edge of the hills to make sure he does not come out on the other side.”

  Two Kills spoke up. “I’ll go with Lame Deer.”

  * * *

  Upon reaching the bottom of the second slope and the edge of the trees, Matt paused before heading out across the open prairie. He looked up at the deep sky hanging over the rolling land, a dark canopy sprinkled with a million tiny stars, but no moon. He took a moment more to make sure of his bearings. Confident of the direction, he started out, then abruptly stopped when a solitary Lakota warrior suddenly appeared out of the darkness.

  Matt instinctively dropped to one knee. His rifle ready, he remained stone still, uncertain if the rider had seen him at the edge of the trees. When the Sioux showed no sign of having spotted him, but continued to slow-walk his pony along the tree line, Matt started to cock his rifle. He needed a horse, and fate had provided one. Having second thoughts then, he carefully laid his rifle down beside him and took his bow from his back. No need to bring the rest of the party down on me, he thought.