The Hostile Trail

by Charles G. West

  At that distance, it was hard to tell who the rider was. It could be Slaughter. LeVan decided that he had been warned, and he decided to act upon it. Then he hesitated again, remembering O’Connor.

  Red Hawk anticipated his next question. “Slaughter rides to warn O’Connor,” he said. “He said for you to go right now.”

  “He said he was going to warn O’Connor?” LeVan found that hard to believe. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

  “That’s what he said,” Red Hawk insisted.

  LeVan thought about that for a few moments, wondering if he could believe it. In the end, he decided he had to make the decision that was best for the greatest number of troops under his command. “Sergeant Barnes,” he barked, “mount ’em up!”

  Barnes, who had been listening to the conversation, responded at once. “We gonna chase after him?”

  “Hell, no,” LeVan snapped. “Get ’em mounted. We’re getting our asses back to Fort Laramie.” He had a lot of faith in Matt Slaughter, feeling that he had judged the man’s character correctly after all. Barnes winked at Red Hawk as he turned to obey the lieutenant’s order.

  * * *

  “Damfool business, this,” Zeb Benson mumbled to himself as he guided his horse up the side of another empty ravine. He turned to look behind him to make sure the officer and six enlisted men were following. “I was a damn fool to come on this damn patrol,” he continued to lecture himself. “Out here where Sioux warriors is thicker’n fleas on a yard dog. Might as well wear a big sign sayin’ ‘Easy pickin’s—scalp me, scalp me!’” He glanced back at the lieutenant again. “I swear, if we get jumped by a big war party, I’m gonna shoot that arrogant son of a bitch myself. I shoulda never come on this little party.” Even though he scolded himself for a poor decision, he knew he’d had to come because he believed that Slaughter deserved a head start, and he had planned to warn him.

  Zeb had scouted for the army, on and off, for more than eight years. Even though he was approaching his fifty-fifth birthday, as near as he could recollect, his eye and instincts were as sharp as those of a younger man. But on this particular morning, his mind was elsewhere as he grumbled to himself about the foolishness of his mission. Otherwise, he most probably would never have ridden into the ambush.

  Private Enrico Trintini rode at the rear of the single file of six troopers that followed the lieutenant and Zeb Benson. Trintini always brought up the rear. Unable to speak proper English, having enlisted in the army to obtain citizenship, he felt it his place to be last. Three more years in the army and he would be free to go where he pleased in this new land. He would go back east and open a shoe repair shop like his father had in the old country. Those plans were canceled in one split second with the impact of the rifle ball that cracked his skull.

  Startled, Zeb’s horse flinched at the sharp crack of the rifle, and the old scout jerked around in the saddle in time to see Trintini topple over and drop to the ground. Snapped immediately out of the daze into which he had allowed himself to be drawn, he yelled out to O’Connor, “This way! Follow me!”

  O’Connor’s initial reaction to the rifle shot had been to go back the way he had come. Consequently, he found himself facing the remaining five troopers who had been following. In the narrow confines at the top of the ravine, his retreating action created a jam of horses as two more shots rang out from the tall grass on both sides. Two more troopers slid from their saddles.

  “Don’t go back!” Zeb shouted. “This way, dammit!” He kicked his horse into a gallop, knowing their best chance was to race forward, and possibly escape the trap before it closed upon them. The three remaining troopers followed his lead, almost knocking O’Connor out of the saddle in their haste to escape the deadly rifle fire. Wild-eyed and flustered, O’Connor managed to turn his confused horse around and follow the three troopers. “Ride like hell!” Zeb shouted back over his shoulder, all the while whipping his horse for all he was worth.

  Galloping recklessly over the lip of the ravine, the lieutenant just managed to clear the top of the hill before the Sioux warriors closed in from both sides. With bullets snapping around him like furious wasps, he plunged down the slope after his men. In the lead, Zeb pushed his horse for all the speed he could get out of the frightened animal. In full flight, and with no time to consider choices, he headed straight for the first cover he could see. A dry gully that ran like a gash across the base of a small hill offered the only immediate protection, and Zeb wasted no time plunging into its scanty sanctuary. “Get them horses back behind us,” he ordered, taking command of the confused soldiers. “I can’t tell how many there was, but I reckon we’ll soon find out.”

  On his hands and knees, the lieutenant crawled up beside Zeb. “We can’t stay here,” he whined, his voice trembling in fear. “We’ve got to get back to the patrol.”

  Already agitated by the fact that he had allowed himself to be caught in such a desperate situation, Zeb had scant patience for O’Connor’s fear. That their situation was indeed desperate there was little doubt. They were pinned down in a dry gully with a dozen hostiles surrounding them—at least that was the number he estimated—three green troopers, two of them barely able to speak English, and an officer scared out of his gizzard. Answering O’Connor’s fearful remark, Zeb informed him none too gently, “We ain’t goin’ nowheres for the time bein’. Set foot outta this gully and you’ll get your ass peppered properly.” He looked past the lieutenant to give directions to the men. “You there,” he commanded, pointing to one of the soldiers, “get up on the other side of that rock near the top of the gully.” He sent the next man to cover the opposite side. The third trooper was positioned to watch for any attempt to get to the horses. With the three in place as best he could deploy them, he turned back to O’Connor. “All right, Lieutenant, you and me’ll keep our heads down and wait right here in the middle, me on this side, you on that one.” O’Connor meekly obeyed.

  They waited. There had been no more shots fired since they had reached cover in the gully. “Go easy on that water, soldier,” Zeb warned when the trooper watching the horses reached for his canteen. “What’s your name?”

  “Private Smith,” the soldier answered.

  Zeb grunted, certain that Smith was not the name he had been christened with in the old country. “Well, Smith,” he said, keeping his voice calm and compassionate, “we might be pinned down here for a helluva long time, so you’d best make that water last.” The trooper nodded and capped the canteen.

  * * *

  Gray Bull pulled the ammunition belt from one of the dead soldiers and looped it over his shoulder. He took a moment to inspect the Sharps carbine, then grunted his satisfaction. Three Horses pulled the tunic from one of the other corpses and tried it on. It was a little small for him, but he kept it on while he proceeded to take the scalp.

  “They were lucky to get away,” Gray Bull complained, “but they didn’t get far.”

  “Igmutaka was not with them,” Three Horses said. “The one with the soldiers is an old man. Maybe we should forget about them and go back to the others.”

  “They have guns and bullets,” Gray Bull protested. “I say we should kill them all and take the guns. There are only five of them.”

  What Gray Bull said made sense to the rest of the scouting party. They were twice as many as the soldiers pinned down in the gully. And while Iron Claw seemed bent upon killing Igmutaka, the main purpose of the war party was to attack the army patrol to gain guns and ammunition. This lust for the white scout’s death had become a sickness in Iron Claw’s head, and it appeared that the sickness was getting worse. Gray Bull held no fondness for Jack Black Dog, but he agreed with the half-breed that it was a waste of time to have chased after Igmutaka. He believed the patrol had camped at War Woman Creek, just as their scouts had reported. Who could say where the soldiers were now? Too much time had been wasted. Gray Bull and Three Horses had at least persuaded Iron Claw to send out scouting parties to the east and west
while the main body of warriors continued on to War Woman Creek. If the army patrol moved in any direction other than returning to Fort Laramie, one of the smaller scouting parties should find them. “Come,” he called out to the others. “We will kill the rest of them.”

  Zeb looked up at the noonday sun. It was going to get pretty warm in this sunbaked gully. Too bad I couldn’t have picked one with some shade trees, he thought, glancing around him at the open land. “But there wasn’t none handy,” he muttered to himself.

  “What?” O’Connor asked in a loud whisper.

  “I said keep your eyes peeled,” Zeb replied without looking back at the lieutenant. Suddenly one of the troopers behind him fired off a shot. Zeb turned quickly in response. “Where?” he blurted, looking for a target, only to be met with a blank stare on the face of Private Smith.

  “I thought I saw something there,” Smith replied sheepishly as a large lizard scurried back to cover behind a rock some thirty yards behind them.

  Zeb shook his head solemnly, realizing at that point that it was going to take a miracle if they were to survive this day. “Ever’body,” he announced, “hold your fire till you see a damn Injun. There ain’t no tellin’ how long we’re gonna have to set in this damn hole. Till dark, most likely. Then maybe while they’re tryin’ to sneak in, we can sneak out.” He paused, then added under his breath, “If the Good Lord sends that miracle.”

  They waited. It seemed like a long time with no sounds to indicate that the hostiles were even there. In reality, it was no more than a few minutes, while the Sioux warriors positioned themselves in a half circle above the gully, using an outcropping of rocks for cover. The first hostile fire came almost in a volley, kicking up soil on the grassy rim of the defile. The soldiers crouched low, trying to keep their heads below the edge.

  “They’re spread out amongst them rocks,” Zeb said, having been the only one with an eye at risk. He looked back at the soldier he had posted near the horses. “Try to keep them horses quiet,” he said. “They’re already gettin’ nervous.”

  The soldier nodded, even though he was more interested in keeping himself from being exposed. Balled up in an almost fetal position against the side of the gully, he made no move to quiet the nervous mounts. Zeb was about to emphasize the importance of keeping the horses safe when another volley sent dirt showering down upon them. The shots came too close to the fidgety horses, kicking up a pebble that struck Zeb’s mount in the side. The startled animal scrambled up out of the gully. Before Zeb could get back to stop them, the other horses followed in panic.

  He called out frantically to his horse, but the frightened animal galloped away, seeking safety, followed by the army mounts, their empty stirrups flogging away at their sides. “Damn,” was all he could mutter, realizing that the small detail of soldiers was most certainly doomed. The Sioux would fire away at them until they tired of it and decided to overrun the gully. Well, he thought, ain’t nothing to do but make ’em pay dearly for this old scalp.

  The afternoon wore on, the sun directly overhead now as the Sioux warriors contented themselves with occasional shots at the gully to keep the troopers pinned down. They allowed the soldiers’ horses to remain loose, obviously tempting the trapped men to make an attempt to recover them. But no one of the cornered troopers was willing to expose himself to the hostiles’ rifle fire. Finally, Gray Bull became weary of the waiting game.

  “The soldiers are not coming out of there until they run out of water,” he said impatiently. “And I don’t want to wait that long. We must make them come out and fight.”

  Down in the sunbaked gully, his face almost in the dirt, Zeb watched the rocks. As he stared at the rugged hillside, he caught sight of a figure, crouching as it ran, moving quickly among the rocks toward the trees that formed the base of the slope. Zeb squinted extra hard, straining to pick up any further movement of the man. In a few seconds, the warrior was on his feet again, darting from rock to rock. Zeb turned to look beyond the rocks, where a scattering of pines dotted the slope. There was little doubt what the hostile had in mind. Zeb turned back to the lieutenant.

  “One of ’em’s tryin’ to work around us to come up the gully behind us. If he does, he’ll be shootin’ right down our backsides. I’m gonna try to cut him off. You crawl up here and keep your eyes peeled.”

  O’Connor hesitated, unwilling to position himself too close to the edge of the gully. “We’re badly outnumbered,” the lieutenant declared, his voice halting and shaky. “Maybe we should try to negotiate a surrender.”

  Zeb, already poised to move out after the hostile, had to pause when he heard O’Connor’s remark. “Whose?” he questioned. “Ours or theirs?”

  Catching the sarcastic tone in the scout’s reply, O’Connor tried to regain a modicum of authority. “I’m thinking about the men. If we continue to resist, they’ll overrun us and kill us all. I think there’s a chance that, if we give them our weapons, they may agree to let us go.”

  Zeb couldn’t believe his ears. “Why you yellow—” he began, but was unable to find profanity enough to finish the insult. “They want our rifles, all right. And it looks like they stand a damn good chance of gettin’ ’em. But they damn sure intend to take our scalps along with ’em. You go on out there and talk to ’em if you think you can trade your gun for your life. Me and the boys here are gonna take a few of the son of a bitches with us to hell.” He turned toward the three troopers, who looked as fearful as the lieutenant. “Smith, get up here and keep your eye on them rocks—one of ’em shows his face, bust him.” With one last look of disgust for O’Connor, he scrambled off toward the head of the gully.

  Near the end of the gully the trench became quite shallow, forcing Zeb to crawl almost flat against the ground. Each time he stuck his head up to see where he was going, the dirt around him was peppered with rifle bullets, causing him to quickly duck again. It left little time to try to catch sight of the warrior making his way from tree to tree now. When Zeb had crawled as far as he could without exposing himself, he placed his rifle on the ground in front of him and waited.

  Just as he had figured, the hostile suddenly appeared, running now toward the head of the gully. They saw each other at the same time. Zeb was quicker, his bullet splitting the Indian’s breastbone. He ducked down again immediately as a hailstorm of lead spattered the ground around him. Afraid to turn around for fear his rump would be too appealing a target, he hugged the ground and shoved himself backward until he could breathe easy again. There was a short pause, and then the firing resumed. But this time there was something different about it. Puzzled, he cocked his head to listen. Then it dawned upon him—three shots in rapid succession, a short pause, then three more—and he recognized the sound of a Henry rifle. Slaughter!

  “Glory be!” he blurted out, for there was not a sweeter sound on this earth. Even before he had time to slide back down the gully to a place deep enough to get up on his knees to look, the Henry barked four times more. There were other sounds now as the Sioux returned fire haphazardly while scrambling to escape the deadly fire that had descended upon them. He thought he even heard Private Smith’s carbine a couple of times.

  By the time Zeb reached the deepest part of the gully where the others waited, he saw the hostiles in full flight, their ponies galloping over the crest of the hill. Looking back toward the top of the hill, he spotted their rescuer. With the afternoon sun almost directly behind him, he stood like a dark avenger, his features blurred by the bright sunshine. He paused there for a few moments before casually ejecting an empty shell from his rifle. Then, satisfied that the hostiles showed no signs of regrouping, he walked down through the rocks, checking each of the four bodies for signs of life.

  “Slaughter.” Zeb muttered the name, still astonished by the man’s sudden appearance on the hilltop. They had been goners for sure. Of that, Zeb had no doubt. Although he had had every intention to make it extremely costly for the Sioux warriors, the outcome would have been inevitable.
Without realizing it, at that moment Matt had acquired a friend for life.

  Satisfied that the four bodies posed no further threat, Matt turned and climbed back up the hill, disappearing over the top. To one who might be a believer in things supernatural, it would almost seem that Igmutaka had suddenly come from the sun, and had now disappeared into it once more. Zeb started to call out to him to wait, but held his tongue, figuring Matt was just going to get his horse.

  He turned his gaze back to the troopers, who were just now confident enough to leave the protection of the gully. He blinked away green spots appearing before his eyes from staring directly at the sun moments before. The spots danced from one pale trooper to another, each one realizing they had been given a second chance. The spots gradually faded away as his gaze settled upon the flushed face of Lieutenant O’Connor. The lieutenant was no doubt thinking about the surrender talk he had made, realizing the image it had formed of his valor, and regretting the fearful outburst. The thought of it prompted Zeb to grunt contemptuously.

  “Well, the man you wanna hang just pulled our bacon outta the fire,” Zeb commented as O’Connor crawled up from the gully. “Seems to me like the ledger oughta be balanced. He shot one officer, and saved the life of another’n. That oughta make him about square with the army.”

  O’Connor’s flush deepened. No longer facing immediate death, he sought to regain his authority. “He’s still wanted for murder. It is our duty to take him back for trial.”

  “Shit,” Zeb grunted in disgust, finding it difficult to believe the man’s lack of gratitude. He just stared at the lieutenant for a long second before finally remarking, “You know, Slaughter knows you came lookin’ to arrest him. He didn’t have to come save our behinds, but he did. Don’t that tell you he ain’t the kinda man that murders somebody in cold blood?” He glanced from the lieutenant to the faces of the three troopers, then back at O’Connor. Out of patience with the brash young officer, he said, “It was probably some rock-headed officer like you, anyway.”