The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  Moving silently to a better position on the other side of a small pine, he notched an arrow and drew it back. Once again, he had to pause when another rider appeared, following the first. With no choice but to remain still right where he was, with his rifle on the ground on the other side of the tree, he watched anxiously, wondering how many more warriors were following. When the second rider passed by, trailing the first along the edge of the trees, Matt moved back to pick up his rifle, thinking he might have a passel of Indians on his hands within a few minutes. Once again it was time for decisions. He considered the wisdom in retreating into the forest to try to find a place to hide, and if necessary, to stand off the war party. Or should he continue with his original thought, to set out on the open prairie on foot? If that was his decision, it was absolutely critical that he should slip through the Sioux scouts circling the hill without being detected. He didn’t like the idea of being chased by a hundred hostiles, like a hare running from a pack of hounds, even in the dark. Equally unattractive was the picture of being surrounded by the same mob of warriors in the pine forest. I need a horse. The thought hammered away at his brain.

  As the second Sioux rider faded into the darkness, Matt waited. When, after a considerable lapse of time, no more riders appeared, he realized that there were only two to contend with. There was no longer any decision to be made. He needed a horse. The only problem was that he had to do it quietly without alerting the main war party. With his rifle in one hand and his bow in the other, he started out after the two scouts.

  Lame Deer reined his pony back, unsure if he had heard something moving in the trees. Listening, he squinted his eyes, trying to look into the dark woods, wondering if he should call out to Two Kills, some thirty yards before him. He waited while Two Kills faded into the darkness ahead. After a few moments more, he decided it was nothing. He had just started to nudge his pony forward when he thought he heard the sound of something running behind him. Too late, he turned to look as Matt vaulted up on the horse’s back behind him. Before he could defend himself, he was locked in a powerful death embrace with his head jerked violently backward and his throat laid open with one vicious slash of a skinning knife.

  Matt continued to hold the dying warrior until he felt the life drain from his body. Then he released him to slide off onto the ground at the pony’s feet. Startled, the horse sidestepped away from the body. Matt held it firmly with the reins, calming the frightened animal with his hand. The pony recovered in seconds, responding obediently when Matt turned it and rode back a dozen yards to retrieve his rifle and bow. He had the horse he needed, but there was still the matter of the other scout.

  Two Kills was not sure. It had sounded like a low grunt and then nothing more. He reined his pony to a stop and waited, listening to see if the sound was repeated. He turned his pony and started back to meet Lame Deer. In a moment, he saw the horse and rider materialize in the darkness. Lame Deer appeared to be sitting unusually upright on his pony’s back, as if straining forward in an effort to see in the dark. In the next second, as the two horses converged, he suddenly realized that the figure was not that of Lame Deer. It was the white Igmutaka, with bowstring fully drawn, the arrow aimed directly at him. In that terrible moment Two Kills had no time to react. The arrow struck him full in the chest. At such close range, the force drove the arrowhead all the way through and left it protruding out of his back. Stunned, he was helpless to act beyond grabbing for his pony’s mane to try to remain upright. His rifle dropped harmlessly to the ground. The cruel shaft of the arrow felt as large as a tree limb, tearing at his ribs and organs. He tried to cry out a warning, but could not speak. As the two ponies passed, Matt reached out and shoved the mortally wounded Two Kills off the horse’s back. Pulling his pony to a halt then, he turned around and returned to finish off the dying man.

  Two Kills attempted to get up on his hands and knees, but each movement of his body produced excruciating stabs of pain as the arrow shaft tore at his insides. He had managed to crawl no more than a few feet before the white scout was standing over him. He sank back to the ground, helpless to resist his passage into the spirit world. Looking up at Matt, he whispered through bloody lips, “Igmutaka,” and waited for the end. One quick slash across the Lakota’s throat, and his suffering was over.

  Matt shook his head in apology as he watched the last breath escape. “Sorry I couldn’t have put a bullet in your brain,” he said softly. “It’da been quicker, but I couldn’t chance the noise.” Getting to his feet, he looked down at the body. “Igmutaka,” he repeated. He had heard the word before. Then he remembered—igmutaka, mountain lion. It was the name Cooter Martin had said the Sioux had given him.

  Once he was certain the warrior was dead, he wasted no more time. He jumped back on Lame Deer’s horse, but then hesitated in a moment of indecision. He could feel the strong muscles of the Indian pony beneath him, ready to respond to his command. And thoughts of his own survival surfaced in his mind. I don’t owe that patrol a damn thing, he thought. After all, he reasoned, he had led Iron Claw’s warriors in a chase that had surely given the soldiers ample time to get out of harm’s way. I’ve got my own butt to look out for. He turned the pony to face the east, looking along the line of low hills. There couldn’t be more than an hour or two of darkness left. Ah, hell, he thought, if it was just O’Connor . . . He left the thought to trail off behind him, and turned the pony back toward the south.

  He caught up the reins of Two Kills’ pony and, leading it, started out across the darkened prairie. He drove the horses hard, his uppermost priority to put as much distance as possible between himself and the large war party combing the hills behind him. LeVan’s patrol had been resting at War Woman Creek when Matt had left them. In all likelihood they had moved on, but since he couldn’t guess where they might have headed, he set out straight for the creek. It was his hope that the patrol had already turned around and headed for home. If not, daylight would find them facing about one hundred angry Sioux warriors.

  Reasonably sure that he couldn’t miss the creek if he rode straight south, he pushed on, riding as fast as he could for as long as he could. He rode through the waning darkness until the horse began to weary. Then he changed over to the other horse, took the bridle from Lame Deer’s pony, and left the exhausted horse behind. In less than a mile, he determined that, of the two, this was by far the stronger pony, and he was glad then that he had saved it till last, for this would be the horse he would keep. A paint like the horse he took from Iron Claw, his new mount was broad-chested and solid. Whether or not it would prove to be a worthy replacement for the buckskin was another matter. He had no desire to complain. It sure beat walking.

  Sunup found him crossing a wide, flat meadow that led up to what he was certain was War Woman Creek. However, he wasn’t sure if the army patrol was upstream or downstream. While he tried to decide which way to go, he walked the paint up to the creek to drink. He reminded himself that it was entirely probable that the cavalry patrol had moved on and was no longer at the creek at all. He hoped for their sake that was the case, but since he had come this far, he’d might as well be sure.

  Chapter 12

  “Dammit, Jim, why don’t you forget about the man?” Lieutenant Fred LeVan exclaimed, exasperated with his fellow officer.

  Lieutenant O’Connor struck a defiant pose, his prominent jaw jutting out to match the petulant frown on his face. “I’ve got my orders,” he insisted. “Slaughter’s a murdering savage, and I intend to see him in irons.”

  “I told you last night that I’m going back to Laramie this morning,” LeVan reminded him. “You’re a damn fool if you go looking for him with no more than six men.” He glanced at Zeb Benson, who was standing close enough to eavesdrop on the conversation between the two officers. “What are the scouts reporting, Benson?”

  Zeb nodded his head several times as if priming his vocal cords to act. “Lot of sign,” he finally replied. “They said there’s been a heap of Injuns in the
se parts—most likely huntin’ parties.” He watched O’Connor’s face for his reaction, then added, “Spotted Horse said they ain’t cut no sign of a shod horse, if you’re a’thinkin’ Slaughter’s still around.”

  O’Connor made no reply for a few moments while he studied the craggy scout’s face. Finally, he shook his head, disgusted. “I don’t know why you all seem so damned determined to let that murderer go free,” he said. “Well, I’ve got my orders, and I intend to carry them out.”

  “Lots of sign meaning lots of Sioux, and no shod horse.” LeVan repeated Zeb’s comments. “How do you expect to find Slaughter when you have no idea where to look for him?”

  O’Connor began to realize how ludicrous his intentions were, and consequently how stupid he must appear to the men. He tried to extricate himself from the embarrassing situation he had insisted upon stumbling into. “I just think I want to satisfy myself that he has indeed vanished into Indian territory. I’ll have a little look around before I give up.”

  “Suit yourself,” LeVan said as O’Connor did an about-face and strode off to join his six-man detail. He noted the look on Zeb Benson’s face. The old scout didn’t look any too pleased with O’Connor’s decision.

  “Want me to mount ’em up?” Sergeant Barnes asked as soon as O’Connor had crossed the creek.

  LeVan just stared at the sergeant for a long moment while he made up his mind. O’Connor was too damn stubborn for his own good. It might teach him a lesson if he got his ass chased back to the fort by a bunch of bloodthirsty hostiles. Still, LeVan felt responsible to the men in O’Connor’s detail. “Ah, hell,” he replied at last, “we’ll wait around here for a couple more hours before we start back.” Maybe the damn fool will satisfy his ego by then and come on back, he thought.

  * * *

  “Damn!” Matt swore when he saw the thin veil of smoke that betrayed the presence of the cavalry patrol. They were still encamped on the bank of the creek. They should have been gone, he thought, unless they remained because of him. O’Connor probably brought orders for LeVan to assist him in his search. From the look of the smoke that lay lightly in the cottonwoods, he could guess that the patrol was in bivouac. He realized that if he simply rode in to warn them of the Sioux war party heading their way, he would more than likely be placed in irons for his trouble, and he had no intention of letting that happen. Instead, he would try to find Red Hawk or Spotted Horse.

  Moving up the creek to a position a hundred yards or so from the bivouac, he dismounted and tied his horse in the trees. Then he made his way along the creek bank on foot until he could see the soldiers taking their ease around their tiny fires. He paused then to look over the camp. There were sentries posted. He could see the picket posted closest to him, sitting with his back against the trunk of a tree, evidently focusing upon the camp in case Sergeant Barnes started his way. It’s a damn good thing I’m not Iron Claw, he thought. I could walk right into this camp before they even knew I was here. He wondered if the scouts were out. His desperate ride across the prairie to warn the soldiers might have been unnecessary if LeVan had scouts out between here and the hills to the north. But from the looks of the lounging troopers, he thought he could dismiss that possibility.

  Leaving the clump of berry bushes he had used for cover, he moved closer up the bank, to within forty yards of the picket. The soldier still showed no sign of awareness. Matt knelt in the dark sand, searching. Then he spotted what he was looking for. A short distance from the soldiers, Red Hawk sat next to a large cottonwood, a tin cup in his hand. The dilemma for Matt at that point was how to call out to his friend without being heard by anyone else.

  He looked at Red Hawk, then back at the sentry, only ten or fifteen yards from the Crow scout. Even a loud whisper would be heard equally well by either man. Damn, he thought, exasperated, thinking about the war party that might be arriving at any minute. He considered the situation for a moment more. Then he went back to the Indian pony to get his bow and returned to his position under the bank of the creek. Notching an arrow, he drew the bowstring and aimed carefully.

  Red Hawk sat up straight, surprised by the sudden chunk of the arrowhead burying itself in the tree trunk above his head. Thinking at first that someone had thrown a rock at him, he glanced up, and was startled to see the still quivering shaft of an arrow. Immediately alarmed, he jumped up, preparing to alert the patrol. But something about the arrow caused him to hold his tongue. The shaft bore the marks of the Cherokee nation. The only person he knew who had arrows with those markings was Slaughter. He dropped down on one knee, his rifle ready, but still he gave no alarm. All was quiet in the trees that lined the creek. He scanned the bushes with his eyes, only to be startled again with the solid chunk of a second arrow a foot above the first. This time he was sure the arrow had come from the creek below the camp. Something told him the arrows were not meant to harm him, but were to alert him. It had to be Slaughter.

  Playing his hunch, the Crow scout stood up, pulled the arrows from the tree, and walked toward the creek. As he passed the sentry, he made a casual comment that he was going downstream to relieve himself. “All right,” the picket replied, smiling. “I won’t shoot at’cha when you come back.”

  Once he was out of sight of the sentry, Red Hawk hurried along the bank, searching from one side to the other, certain that his friend was there. As he approached a thick clump of berry bushes, Matt stood up and beckoned to him. Red Hawk couldn’t help but grin, but the smile immediately left his face when he remembered the trouble Matt was in. “The soldiers look for you,” he blurted. “Why did you come back?”

  “To save your hide, I reckon,” Matt replied. Then he wasted no time telling Red Hawk about the Sioux hell that was about to descend upon the patrol. “You’ve got to tell LeVan to get the hell outta here, and I mean right now.” Matt impressed the message upon his friend. “I don’t know for sure how much head start you’ve got. I wore out two horses gettin’ here, so you’ve got a little gap, but tell LeVan not to dally.”

  “Maybe lieutenant wanna fight them Sioux,” Red Hawk suggested.

  “He’d be a damn fool if he did,” Matt replied. “Tell him there’s as many warriors in this bunch as there were in that box canyon where he got ambushed before.”

  “I’ll tell him,” Red Hawk said. “What you gonna do now?”

  “I’m headin’ for South Pass, maybe Wind River country—somewhere where nobody’s lookin’ for me.” He stepped back to take another look toward the camp. “I don’t see Lieutenant O’Connor. I thought you told me he was comin’ to arrest me.”

  “O’Connor and six soldiers were here. He went to look for you. He wants you bad. He says he’s gonna hang you.”

  “Damn,” Matt muttered. “Which way did he go?” When Red Hawk pointed in the general direction from which he had just come, Matt said, “Hell, he might be headin’ for Iron Claw’s bunch.” He paused to think about that for a moment. O’Connor was not riding in the same general direction Matt would take if he, in fact, intended to go to South Pass. He looked Red Hawk directly in the eye. “You tell LeVan to get his ass outta here,” he emphasized. “Don’t wait around for O’Connor to come back.” It would just have to be tough luck for the brash lieutenant. There was no sense in endangering the lives of the rest of LeVan’s patrol. Now Matt had done all that his conscience demanded. The rest was up to the soldiers. He had no further obligation to them, and certainly none to O’Connor. “O’Connor rode out with six soldiers, you say?”

  “And Zeb Benson,” Red Hawk replied.

  “Zeb’s with ’em?” This threw a different light on his thinking. He took a long look back toward the prairie he had crossed during the night, as if expecting to see Iron Claw appearing on the horizon. He liked Zeb Benson. If he had any real friend except for the Crow scouts, it was Zeb. He fought the temptation to be free of the army’s problem. Hell, he reasoned, I warned them. It ain’t up to me to chase after the strays. It was unlikely that they would ride into an a
mbush after they had failed to find him—not with Zeb along. Still, it would be a whole lot better if Zeb knew about the large war party beforehand so he could avoid it altogether. Matt pictured Zeb riding unsuspecting into a trap. “Ah, shit.” He finally caved in to his conscience once again. “You tell LeVan that I’ll go after O’Connor and warn him to cut south to the Platte, so he can quit worrying about him.”

  The issue settled, Red Hawk turned to depart. “You watch out, Slaughter,” he said.

  “Yeah, I will. You take care of yourself.” Once again, the two friends parted.

  Fred LeVan was amazed. “Slaughter was here?” he demanded, finding it hard to believe. “Here? Just a few minutes ago?” He thought the Indian had fallen asleep and had been dreaming.

  Red Hawk nodded his head. “He said Iron Claw was coming to attack us. He said we better get our asses back to Fort Laramie pretty damn quick. Many warriors, too many for this patrol.”

  The lieutenant stroked his chin thoughtfully. What if what Red Hawk said was true? His patrol would be in a helluva lot of trouble if Iron Claw was riding against him with a war party the size of the one Red Hawk claimed. On the other hand, he knew that Red Hawk was very fond of Slaughter. There was always the possibility that he had simply made up a story, hoping to persuade LeVan not to pursue his friend. But the scout had to know that LeVan had no intention to join O’Connor’s search for Slaughter.

  Having been close enough to hear the exchange between the officer and Red Hawk, Spotted Horse looked out through the trees toward the open prairie in the direction O’Connor had taken. “There!” he suddenly exclaimed, pointing toward the distant mountains. LeVan turned to follow the direction indicated just in time to glimpse a rider moments before he disappeared on the horizon.