O’Connor recoiled, insulted. “How dare you get insolent with me,” he fumed. “I’ll have you court-martialed. You’ll never work as a scout again!”
Zeb was just before inviting the insufferable officer to embrace his backside when Slaughter suddenly rode out of the trees at the base of the hill, causing them all to turn to look. Forgetting the lieutenant for the moment, Zeb turned and strode forward to meet him. “By God, partner, you’re sure as hell a sight for sore eyes!”
Matt couldn’t help but mirror the grin on Zeb’s face. “Zeb, how the hell did you get yourself holed up like this?”
“Just dumb-ass luck,” Zeb replied. “Rode right into an ambush. I reckon I was caught settin’ on my brains.”
“Well, you’d best not linger here any longer,” Matt said. “You’d best head straight south from here, then cut back toward Fort Laramie. There’s a helluva big war party headin’ toward War Woman Creek. LeVan’s already headin’ home.” He glanced beyond Zeb toward the others. “Red Hawk said you went out with six soldiers and the lieutenant.”
“Yeah, we lost three of ’em in that ambush,” Zeb replied as O’Connor and the enlisted men walked up to join them.
“I suppose we owe you a word of thanks,” O’Connor said begrudgingly. He suffered the pain of it for a brief moment before his next remark. “I assume you’ve come to give yourself up.”
If the remark startled Matt, it did not show in his face. His expression never changing, he replied softly, “I reckon not. I came to warn you about a war party led by Iron Claw. Then I reckon I’ll be on my way.”
O’Connor stiffened. “Then I guess I’ll have to inform you that you are under arrest. I’ll ask you to hand over your weapon.”
“Afraid I can’t do that, Lieutenant,” he said, cradling his rifle across his saddle.
“Then, by God, I have no choice but to have you taken by force,” O’Connor flared. He took a step back, and ordered his men to arrest him.
There was no immediate response to the lieutenant’s command. The three troopers stood dumbfounded, none anxious to make the first move. Zeb was the first to act. He stepped over to stand beside Matt’s horse, his rifle held ready before him, and turned to face the soldiers. “I reckon I gotta stand with Slaughter in this fight,” he informed them. He threw a quick glance up at Matt, and asked casually, “Where’s that buckskin you usually ride?”
“He’s gone under,” Matt replied, equally as casual. “I rode him to death.”
“That’s a shame. I liked that horse.”
“So did I.”
O’Connor was mortified, unable to believe the casual exchange between the two. He turned to the soldier standing nearest him. “Pull him off that horse!” he commanded.
In response, the private took one fearful glance at the two scouts, then backed away. The other two made no move to raise their weapons, choosing to stand mute. O’Connor was beside himself with anger. “By God,” he blurted, “I’ll have you all court-martialed when we get back!”
“You do, and I’ll have to tell the court about you cowarding on your belly back there like a yeller dog, wantin’ to trade our rifles to them Injuns if they’d let us go,” Zeb said.
“It would be my word against yours,” O’Connor replied. “The word of an officer against that of a piece of civilian trash.”
“I got three witnesses,” Zeb said.
O’Connor turned to examine the faces of his soldiers. To a man, they all nodded in agreement with Zeb’s statement. The lieutenant realized then that the conspiracy was complete. Still he would not surrender without a feeble attempt to bluster. “We’ll just see about that,” he threatened. “You men will live to regret this day.” Then he spun on his heel and stalked back to catch his horse. The three troopers fanned out to round up the other mounts.
“Is he goin’ to cause trouble for you?” Matt asked.
“I doubt it,” Zeb said. “He’s all full of piss and vinegar right now, but you shoulda seen him when them Sioux was peppering us back in that gully. I think he’ll keep his mouth shut about it and hope I do the same. Besides, none of the four of ’em could find their way back without me.” Changing the subject, he asked, “Where are you headin’?”
“Don’t know for sure. Kinda thinkin’ about Wind River country, but I haven’t made up my mind.”
“I swear, I’ve half a mind to go with you.” Then abruptly changing the subject again, Zeb asked, “Did you really shoot that damn army officer back in Virginia?”
“Nope,” Matt answered honestly, feeling no need to volunteer anything further on the matter. “You’d best get goin’ now.”
Zeb nodded, then extended his hand. “You watch your scalp, Igmutaka,” he said with a grin. “Maybe we’ll meet up again.”
“Maybe so,” Matt said, taking Zeb’s hand. “You take care of yourself.” He turned the paint’s head west and was soon lost from their sight.
Chapter 13
“They were here,” Iron Claw muttered softly, not really talking to anyone. Stirring the ashes of one of the small fires, he made a guess as to how much of a head start the patrol had on his war party, a war party with tired ponies and frustrated warriors. “Half a day, maybe,” he decided, knowing that they could not catch the soldiers before they reached Fort Laramie. He was to return to his village with nothing more than a few rifles. It would be a shameful return. Slaughter! He cursed the name, for it was he who had covered the distance to War Woman Creek in time enough to let the soldiers escape. His brooding thoughts were interrupted by a cry from one of his warriors.
“Gray Bull comes!”
Iron Claw looked west along the creek bank to see Gray Bull and Three Horses making their way toward them. There were warriors missing, which immediately concerned Iron Claw. Was there to be no end to the bad news? He hurried to meet the scouting party. Before he could question Gray Bull, Three Horses blurted out, “Igmutaka!” Iron Claw’s warriors crowded around the small scout party, anxious to hear. When Gray Bull related how the white man called Slaughter had appeared out of the sun and killed four of their brothers with his spirit gun, there were many gasps and foreboding groans among the crowd of warriors. Iron Claw clenched his teeth, biting off the cry of frustration that threatened to escape his throat. There followed a great deal of grumbling and angry discussion, and it was the general feeling that there had been too many bad signs from the start of the raid.
Iron Claw did not try to persuade the others to continue. Though frustrated and angry, he knew that he had lost the confidence of his warriors. His medicine had not been strong enough to overcome that of the hated Igmutaka. The war party would return to the village. Now there was no doubt but that he must kill this mountain lion. Only then would he regain the confidence of his warriors.
* * *
The object of Iron Claw’s loathing was making his way west toward South Pass, still undecided as to what he should do. He thought it best to skirt the southern end of the Bighorns, since that area was getting a little hot for him. Maybe, he thought, if he laid low in the Wind River country, or the Bitterroots for a while, things might cool off a bit, and then he might have a better chance to pay Iron Claw a little visit. Riding through the rolling meadows of summer grass with the mountains rising up ahead, their peaks still crowned snowy white, Matt felt a sense of peace. There was a feel about this country that struck deep in his soul, a feeling that he was returning home even though he had never ventured past the Bighorns before this day. He remembered how Ike had talked about the Wind River country, and he had promised himself that he would see it firsthand.
The thought of Ike reminded him of the vow he had made to exact vengeance for Ike’s death. Iron Claw was behind him now, and seemingly far away, and there had already been so much killing. It caused him to wonder, to question his own sanity, and he paused to examine his motives. Had he turned into a heartless, conscienceless killer—like the mountain lion the Sioux had likened him to? Then he thought of Ike’s body whe
n he had found it suspended in the trees by the river, and the image of Iron Claw’s snarling face formed in his mind. Before he realized it, the muscles in his arms tensed in response, and he knew that he would never rid his mind of his vow.
He tried to clear his thoughts of such deep and sobering obligations by concentrating on a brace of antelopes bounding across a grassy ridge a few hundred yards off to his right. Like free spirits, they seemed to bounce across the earth, darting this way and that, barely touching the ground at all. For some reason he could not explain, the sight of them brought the young girl, Molly, to mind. At this distance, the antelopes seemed silent, floating effortlessly over the prairie, reminding him of the willowy movements of the slight and silent girl. For a moment, he felt regret for what might have been, but now seemed unlikely. There was no time to dwell on it, however, for in the next instant, a rider emerged from the ridge, his head and shoulders rising up from the crest and finally the horse beneath him.
Matt immediately jerked the paint’s head toward a small ravine that looked deep enough to conceal him and his horse. Sliding the Henry from the saddle sling, he dismounted and moved quickly to the top of the ravine where he could watch the rider. He realized then that there had been a reason for the antelope to be so excited. Thinking the rider an Indian at first, he hugged the ground, using the knee-high grass along the ridge as cover. The rider seemed to be alone, for there was no sign of another. Matt intended to lay hidden and let him pass. On his present line of travel, the rider would pass by him at about seventy-five yards at the closest point. Matt watched as the rider came closer. Something about the Indian looked familiar. Suddenly it dawned upon him—it was Cooter Martin.
Still, Matt did not make known his presence. Cooter was as much a Sioux as most of the warriors. It might not be a good idea to hail the old trapper until he was certain there was no one with him. After Cooter had reached the closest point and there was still no one else in sight, Matt stood up and called out to him. The old man reined his pony to a stop immediately, then turned the animal toward Matt.
“Damn,” Matt exclaimed when Cooter approached. “In all this big country, how in hell could I run into you? That’s one helluva coincidence.”
“Howdy, Slaughter,” Cooter replied casually and stepped down. “Weren’t no coincidence a’tall. Hell, I’ve been lookin’ for you.”
“Lookin’ for me?” Matt questioned. “What for?” Before Cooter had time to answer, he added, “How the hell did you find me, anyway?”
“Weren’t hard to figure,” Cooter answered. “That nogood half-breed Jack Black Dog turned up at Red Cloud’s camp t’other evenin’. He was talkin’ about your little set-to with Iron Claw.” The mere mention of the name of Jack Black Dog caught Matt’s full attention at once. Cooter went on. “We heared tell of that fight you was in with some of Iron Claw’s boys this mornin’, too.”
“How’d you hear about that?” Matt asked, since it had only just occurred.
“Injun telegraph,” Cooter replied. “Hell, word passes quicker among Injun tribes than it does on the government wire. Last time I seen you, you was fixin’ to do some scoutin’ for the army, but Jack Black Dog was goin’ on about the white ghost, Igmutaka, raisin’ hell with Iron Claw’s boys. You were the only mountain lion I knew about, so I figured you musta quit the army and was tendin’ to business on your own. When I bumped into you and that little gal, and that Crow, you was askin’ me about the Wind River country. I just kinda got me a hunch that you might be headin’ that way now, so I took a chance you’d be following the old settlers’ trail over South Pass. Figured if I seen you, I’d see you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t.”
Matt laughed. “Well, I reckon you seen me.”
“I reckon,” the old man agreed. “I figured there was somethin’ you needed to know.” He paused to watch the reaction in Matt’s eyes. “Red Cloud’s bunch is on their way to Fort Laramie to the treaty talks—and Jack Black Dog is goin’ with ’em.”
Cooter was right. The news that the treacherous half-breed had the gall to return to Fort Laramie was of more than casual interest to Matt. He said nothing for a long moment while he thought of the man who had killed Molly’s mother and stepfather and abducted Molly. When finally he spoke, his voice was soft, his words measured, “That man ain’t fit to live on God’s earth.” Then he looked Cooter in the eye accusingly. “Why does a great chief like Red Cloud allow a low-down murderin’ devil like Jack Black Dog to live with his village?”
Cooter shrugged. “Don’t many folks in Red Cloud’s camp know much about Jack Black Dog in the first place. Besides, what would they have against him? It ain’t likely they would be mad at him for killin’ white folks, now is it?”
Matt nodded thoughtfully. “I reckon not,” he agreed. “But after Molly made it back to tell ’em, the army knows about the son of a bitch now. As soon as he’s spotted, he’ll be arrested.”
Cooter shrugged again. “Son, there’s gonna be thousands of Sioux, Cheyenne, and maybe Arapaho camped around Fort Laramie for them talks. It ain’t likely anybody’s gonna spot one half-breed that don’t wanna be spotted in all that crowd. On top of that, ain’t nobody gonna be lookin’ for Jack Black Dog.” He nodded his head for emphasis. “I reckon that’s the reason I come lookin’ for you. I don’t think Jack Black Dog’s got it outta his head about that girl, Molly. I thought you’d wanna know about that.” He hesitated for a few moments, watching Matt’s reaction to his words. Anticipating the question, he volunteered, “I’d shoot the bastard myself, but I’ve been livin’ with the Sioux for too long—they might not understand. Hell, there’s even some folks in Red Cloud’s band that claims Jack Black Dog as kin.”
Matt thought about it for a long moment. His first reaction to Cooter’s statement was to question the old man’s reasoning. In his opinion, Cooter should have shot the evil half-breed on sight, kin or no kin. But after a moment’s reflection, he saw the old trapper’s point of view. “Well, you were right about me headin’ to the high country. I’m glad you found me. I don’t know if that damn half-breed is crazy enough to go after Molly in the middle of a fort full of soldiers or not. He just might be. I reckon it’s somethin’ I can’t take a chance on. The problem is, I’m takin’ a helluva chance on goin’ back to Fort Laramie myself.” He went on to tell Cooter about the warrant for his arrest for murder. “But,” he concluded, “I don’t see that I’ve got much choice in the matter.”
“I’m supposed to join Red Cloud at Laramie,” Cooter said. “We can ride back together. ’Course, I don’t recommend ridin’ into Red Cloud’s camp together—you ain’t exactly welcome in a Sioux camp—so we’d best split up before we get there.”
“I’m obliged to you,” Matt said. “I expect we’d better drop down toward the Sweetwater, though. Iron Claw’s boys might still be on my tail, and they’ll most likely shoot first and ask questions later. If they see you ridin’ with me, they might figure you’ve gone back to being a white man.”
Cooter smiled at that. “I expect you might be right. Iron Claw ain’t never been too fond of me in the first place. If me and Red Cloud wasn’t friends, Iron Claw would most likely already be sportin’ my scalp on his lance.” He paused to scratch his beard while he thought about Red Cloud’s treacherous cousin. “Iron Claw’s Oglala, same as Red Cloud’s mother, but they don’t share much love for each other. Right now, they’re farther apart than ever since Red Cloud’s goin’ in to talk peace with the soldiers.”
Chapter 14
Major James Van Voast, Eighteenth Infantry, looked up from his desk and frowned at his clerk. “Who is he?”
“He’s one of the civilian scouts,” the corporal replied. “He came in with that lieutenant and three troopers who got cut off from Lieutenant LeVan’s patrol.”
“Well, what’s he want?” The major’s mind was fully occupied with a peace commission from Washington and the ominous prospect of several thousand Indians camped around the post. Having just arrived at his new
assignment this very month, he was not familiar with any of the personnel, especially the civilian scouts.
“He says he just wants to talk to you a minute. He was looking for Major Evans.”
Van Voast’s first inclination was to tell his clerk to send the man to the chief of scouts, but he reconsidered. Maybe the man had something important to say. “All right. Tell him I’ll see him in a few minutes.”
Zeb nodded in response to the clerk’s message from the major. He stood there, shifting his weight back and forth from one foot to the other while the clerk returned to the preparation of the morning report. After a few long minutes had passed with no word from behind the closed office door, Zeb broke the silence. “Where’s Major Evans? I ain’t never heard of Major Van what’s his name.”
“Van Voast,” the corporal said. “Major Van Voast just replaced Major Evans as post commander.”
“Van Voast,” Zeb repeated. “What kinda feller is he?”
The corporal shrugged indifferently. “I don’t know—he’s an officer.” He returned his attention to the ledger in front of him, not really interested in conversation with the rough-looking old scout rocking impatiently from foot to foot. He was spared further questions when the door to the office opened and Major Van Voast appeared.
A short, stocky Dutchman with a close-cropped beard, the major stood in the doorway while he looked Zeb over. A painful frown spread across his face as he asked, “There was something you wanted to see me about?”
“Yes, sir,” Zeb replied respectfully. “My name’s Zeb Benson. I’m ridin’ scout for Lieutenant LeVan. You know him?”
“I’ve met the lieutenant,” Van Voast responded impatiently, anxious to get back to his desk. “If you have some sort of grievance with Lieutenant LeVan, you should take that up with Captain Boyd.”
“Oh, no, sir,” Zeb quickly replied. “I got no grief with Lieutenant LeVan. He’s most likely the best officer you’ve got on the post. That ain’t what I come to see you about.”
The Hostile Trail Page 18