“Well, what is it you came to see me about? Out with it, man! I’ve got a couple of thousand savages and a peace commission to worry about, and right now I’m damn busy.”
“Yes, sir,” Zeb humbly replied, wishing that Major Evans was still there. “I was just wantin’ to say something about one of the scouts, name of Slaughter. Lieutenant O’Connor was sent out to arrest Slaughter for something they say he did back east, and I was hopin’ you might use your authority to cancel them orders for his arrest.”
Van Voast made no effort to conceal his exasperation. “Now why in the world would I want to do that?”
“’Cause Slaughter has saved your soldiers’ bacon on more than one occasion, and it would make no damn sense a’tall to send a man like him to jail. Even if he did kill somebody back east, he’s done more’n enough to make up for it.”
The major threw a furtive glance at the corporal as if confounded that the clerk had interrupted his work to talk to this backwoods lunatic. Looking at Zeb again, he concluded the interview. “Mr. Benson, was it? This is something to take up with the post adjutant’s office. If there’s a warrant out for this Slaughter person, there must have been a damn good reason. I see no chance in hell of ignoring it. That’s not the way things are done in the army. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got important issues to address.” With that, he turned on his heel and returned to his desk, closing the door behind him.
Zeb looked at the corporal, who shook his head and offered a faint sympathetic smile. Feeling as if he had just made a fool of himself, Zeb nodded his head and turned to leave. It had been a rather naive attempt for a pardon, he realized, but he’d felt that something should be said in Slaughter’s defense. It was probably a waste of time, anyway. Slaughter was most likely riding the high country, heading up into the Wind River Range, or maybe over to the Absarokas. Damn, he thought, I wish I was with him. I never was worth a shit anywhere but in the woods, he complained to himself as he took his leave. Outside the post commander’s office, he cut diagonally across the parade ground, past the end of the infantry barracks, headed for the post trader’s store. Maybe Seth Ward would stand him to a drink.
* * *
It was almost dark when Matt and Cooter paused to water their horses in a small stream that emptied into the North Platte River. “There’s a sizable camp up ahead, judging by the shine of them campfires in the trees,” Cooter remarked. “Could be Red Cloud’s village. I’ll ride in and see who it is.”
They approached to within a hundred yards of the camp, and then Matt dismounted near a little clump of willows while Cooter went on. While he waited, Matt passed the time by checking the paint’s hooves. He had thought the horse had recently shown a tendency to favor its left front hoof, and he feared that it may have split it. The horse had been challenged to do some hard riding over the last several days, and there had been little opportunity to give it much attention. Upon close inspection, however, he could see no sign of injury. He decided that what he had perceived to be an injured hoof was, in fact, just a characteristic peculiar to the horse’s gait. Thinking back, he realized that the tendency surfaced only during a fast walk or lope. At a full gallop, there was no sign of the irregularity. Though he was relieved, he still took the moment to admonish himself for not paying more attention to the paint’s welfare.
He took the stallion’s muzzle in his hand and stroked its face gently. It was a good horse, he thought—maybe not as stout through the chest as the buckskin he had just lost, but possibly a wee bit faster, and a little smaller. “I reckon it’s time I gave you a name,” he said. He thought for a minute. “I think I’ll call you Buck. Whaddaya think about that?” He playfully rubbed the paint’s neck. “Is that all right with you? Buck? I think it suits you.” The horse responded with a gentle whinny, which Matt interpreted as approval.
In a few minutes’ time, Cooter loped up to the willows. “That’s a Cheyenne camp. They said Red Cloud’s camp joins theirs down the river a ways. So I reckon I’ll ride on in.” He sat looking down at Matt for a few seconds. “What are you gonna do?”
“I’m not sure,” Matt replied. “I can’t go with you, and I damn sure can’t ride in to Fort Laramie. I reckon I’m just gonna have to lose myself in the crowd of soldiers and Indians somehow till I can find Jack Black Dog.” The thought occurred then that there was one place where he might find refuge. “I guess I’ll ride on down to the Crow camp.”
Cooter nodded, understanding Matt’s predicament. “Well,” he finally said, “good luck to you, Slaughter. I hope ever’thin’ turns out for the best. If you was to happen to settle up with Jack Black Dog, I don’t reckon there’d be many Sioux lodges in mournin’.”
* * *
He had never before seen so many Indians in one place. Riding toward the fort, he passed camp after camp of Sioux and Cheyenne, as well as some Arapaho. In total numbers, there had to be thousands, enough to annihilate the few hundred soldiers presently manning the fort. He couldn’t help but think of the difference it would make if the various tribes ever united into one great army instead of dividing as they did, even into separate bands within a tribe. Looking at the many campfires flickering among the trees near the river, he could hardly believe that only a few hours earlier he had been running for his life from these people. It caused an eerie feeling, although no one seemed to pay any attention to him as he rode by.
Red Hawk’s people had been camped east of the fort when last he visited his friend, about halfway between the fort and Horse Creek, the treaty grounds for the peace talks back in ’51. Zeb had been there for that treaty, and had once commented on it. “A big powwow with a helluva lot of promises,” Zeb had said, “and in the end, it didn’t settle a damn thing.” Zeb speculated that this new peace conference wouldn’t fare any better. The government was going to try to persuade the Indians to quit attacking prospectors and settlers using the Bozeman Trail. “Any fool can tell you the Sioux ain’t gonna agree to that. Hell, it runs right through their best huntin’ grounds.” A faint smile traced Matt’s lips when he thought of the grizzled old scout. He’s probably standing at the bar right now, trying to talk Seth Ward out of a free shot of whiskey, he thought. It caused him to smile, but only for a moment before worrisome thoughts returned to his mind.
Approaching the fort, he kept to a wide circle around the complex of buildings, lest he chance upon someone who might recognize him. The odds of that were small, but there was a chance, and he wouldn’t be of much help to Molly if he was locked up in the guardhouse. Thoughts of Molly brought a frown to his face, reminding him of the uncertainty of his mission, and the lack of a definite plan to protect her.
In all common sense, it would seem that the safest place for the young girl would be right where she was—in the midst of a fort full of soldiers. Yet he had a bad feeling about the half-breed renegade he searched for. Cooter had commented that Jack Black Dog was crazy. He thought the half-breed was obsessed with the “white bird with no song,” and crazy enough to try to steal her. Jack Black Dog had often been to Fort Laramie, had been employed as a scout on occasion. He could probably move freely about the fort without being challenged. Hell, Matt thought, I could probably ride right through the middle of the place myself without anybody noticing. He would have been even more worried had he known that Major Evans was no longer the post commander and the new commander knew nothing about the accusations made against Jack Black Dog—and for that matter, was far too occupied to give them consideration in any case.
Matt tried to form a picture of Molly in his mind as he had last seen her, but it kept fading away, to be replaced with that of the dangerous half-breed. He considered riding into the fort to the doctor’s house, but he could not be sure how the surgeon and his wife would react. They must surely know of the warrant for his arrest. He wasn’t particularly concerned with what Martha Riddler thought of him, but he found it of utmost importance to him that Molly should know the truth about the murder he was wanted for. Several times
he reined the paint to a stop, then circled the outbuildings of the military post while he tried to decide whether or not to go to her. Finally he convinced himself that it was best to find Red Hawk and ask him to carry a message to Molly.
* * *
Red Hawk was surprised to see his friend riding through the circle of lodges in the Crow camp just below the confluence of the Laramie and Platte rivers. Knowing the risk Slaughter was taking in being there, he strode forward to signal him. At almost the same time, Matt spotted the pony stolen from Iron Claw tied outside one of the lodges, and headed toward Red Hawk’s campfire.
“Come inside,” Red Hawk said while quickly glancing around to see if anyone else in the camp had noticed the white man. There were several women tending their cook fires, but none appeared to pay much attention to the buckskin-clad rider. Wasting no time, he took the paint’s reins and hurried Matt inside. Matt and Red Hawk’s mother stared at each other, dumbfounded, for a few moments until the Crow warrior followed him inside. After explaining to the old woman who their unexpected guest was, he turned back to Matt while his mother made an effort to find some food to offer. “What are you doing here?” Red Hawk asked. “The soldiers still look for you.”
“I know,” Matt replied. “I don’t wanna make trouble for you, but I need your help.” He went on to explain why he had returned to Fort Laramie, and his concern for Molly’s safety.
“Jack Black Dog no good,” Red Hawk said after he heard of the half-breed’s obsession with Molly. “He maybe crazy enough to try to steal her. What you want me to do?”
“I can’t take a chance on goin’ into the post,” Matt replied. “I want you to go to her, and warn her not to go anywhere by herself, to stay close to the doctor’s house, at least until the treaty talks are done and the Sioux clear outta here.”
Red Hawk agreed immediately. “I’ll go at once,” he said. “If I see that mad dog, maybe I kill him for you.”
“Just warn Molly to be careful,” Matt said. “Meanwhile, I’ll try to see if I can spot Jack Black Dog.”
“How you gonna do that?” Red Hawk asked, more than a little skeptical that Matt could get close enough to Red Cloud’s camp to do so.
“I don’t know,” Matt answered honestly. “I guess I’m countin’ on some luck.” In truth, he had little hope beyond a chance encounter with the half-breed. “If he’s really after Molly, he’ll be snoopin’ around the post. Maybe I’ll get a chance to spot him.”
Red Hawk shook his head, unconvinced. “Maybe soldiers get a chance to spot you,” he said. “It’s best I keep my eye out for Jack Black Dog.”
“It ain’t your chore to do,” Matt said. “That breed is a dangerous son of a bitch. There’s no call for you to get in the middle of it.”
Red Hawk drew back as if insulted. “Molly my friend, too,” he said indignantly.
Matt couldn’t help but recall the same reaction not long before when he had asked Red Hawk to hold the horses while he went into Iron Claw’s camp to rescue Molly. “I reckon you’re right,” he said. “Maybe you can keep an eye on her while I scout around the Sioux camp, and maybe spot him outside the fort—maybe when he ain’t got too many friends with him.”
“Jack Black Dog ain’t got many friends, even in Sioux camp.”
“You may be right,” Matt said.
“Where you gonna camp?” Red Hawk asked.
“Looks like nobody much is camped up the Laramie River. Most all the Indians are along the Platte. So I guess that’s where I’ll go.” He stopped to recollect. “You know where that little double-fork creek joins the river just past those high bluffs about a mile down from the Platte?” Red Hawk thought for a few seconds, then nodded his head. “Well, I’ll look for a place close to that creek.”
Chapter 15
Finished with the supper dishes, Molly folded her dish towel and carefully put it away. After she threw the dishwater out the back door, she placed the pan on the shelf beside the stove. Then she turned to attract Martha Riddler’s attention. With a signal that had become familiar to the doctor’s wife, she indicated that she was going for a walk. Martha smiled and nodded.
Molly took a walk almost every night. And while she never let on, Martha knew that the young girl’s walk usually led to the chapel. She suspected that Molly’s prayers were most likely for the safety of a certain sandy-haired outlaw. It was a sad thing, a dream that had very little chance of ever coming true. Martha found it hard to believe that the young man she had met would be capable of committing the crime he was charged with, but there was apparently enough evidence for the army to pursue him. She shook her head sadly as she watched the worried young girl go down the front steps and turn in the direction of the chapel. So much sadness in such a nice young girl’s life—it hardly seemed fair.
Molly was not a religious person, having been raised by a mother who had very little time, and no inclination, to attend church services. But she felt a peace inside the little whitewashed chapel. There was never anyone there in the evening, and it was never locked. Seated on one of the hard, backless benches in the dim quiet, she could think about the things that were most important to her. And foremost among these was the one person she longed to see more than anyone else in the world. She would often find herself far away in the mountains on the horizon, drifting along winding game trails, looking out over high cliffs to isolated valleys below—mentally seeing the places she imagined he saw. Sometimes, she would suddenly realize that she had been away from the house too long, and she would have to scurry back before Martha became concerned.
They said he had murdered an army officer in Virginia and, like many other outlaws, was on the run in this untamed country. She knew that should matter to her, but she could not—would not—believe he was capable of cold-blooded murder. There had to be some mistake. She knew in her heart that she could not feel this longing for such a man. Every night she prayed to God to watch over him, to hear her prayers even though she had not been the Christian she should have been for all her young years.
As on most evenings, the chapel was empty on this night. Molly pushed the door open and peeked in to make sure. Satisfied that she was the only lonely soul seeking solace, she went in and closed the door behind her, then stood there for a few moments while her eyes adjusted to the dim evening light. Then she went to the front bench and sat down. For a few minutes, she simply gazed at the wooden cross behind the raised pulpit. Far from ornate, it was a rather crude symbol, constructed by one of the post carpenters. But it served to encourage the proper atmosphere for soulful meditation. After a short reverie, she silently recited her standard plea for God to watch over her knight in buckskins.
Her mind wandered again to the high places where she dreamed of going with him. Then she thought about the night he had suddenly appeared to rescue her from Iron Claw’s tipi. She pictured him when he had sat before the campfire at night on the journey back to Fort Laramie, making conversation with Red Hawk and Cooter Martin. Cooter had said the Sioux called Matt Igmutaka, mountain lion. She could understand the reason, but even if he was as fierce and deadly as they claimed, she knew that this mountain lion possessed a compassionate heart. She suddenly felt an ache in her soul and a feeling of despair, for she longed so desperately to see him again.
She permitted her mind to dwell on what could never be for longer than she had intended, for she realized then that it was getting quite dark in the chapel. Anxious to get back before Martha began to worry, she got to her feet and hurried toward the entrance. Stepping out the front door, she paused to look toward the parade ground. It was almost deserted, with only an occasional soldier or two crossing on his way to Seth Ward’s bar or back to the barracks. It was already too dark for anyone to notice her standing before the chapel.
Turning to look over her left shoulder, she could see the soft, rosy glow of campfires hovering over the closest Indian camp—a band of Oglala Sioux, Dr. Riddler had informed her. They were more than a mile away, yet the sky glowed w
ith their fires. She involuntarily shivered when she thought about the thousands of savages that surrounded the fort. Pushing that thought from her mind, she turned and started across the parade ground, in a hurry now to get back to the house.
Walking briskly toward the officers’ quarters, she picked up her step a little. She had never had any fear of the dark, but she suddenly felt very alone, as if sensing that something was wrong. She had reached the center of the darkened parade ground when she heard a soft footfall behind her. Startled, she almost turned to look, but told herself she was letting her imagination run away with her. She hurried on, certain now that Martha would be standing on the porch looking for her. There it was again! This time she knew it was not her imagination. Someone was behind her, and was closer than before. Frightened, she spun on her heel to face him. In the dim light, she was unable to identify him at first, but she could see that he was an Indian. Her heart fairly leaped into her throat. Moments later, she exhaled a great sigh of relief. It was Red Hawk.
“You must not go out alone no more till Sioux are gone,” he said. “Slaughter sent me to tell you, you’re in danger.”
Slaughter, she signed excitedly. Here?
Red Hawk nodded, then said, “Slaughter’s here, but can’t come to you—soldiers get him.”
Where? She wanted to know, unaware of the pounding of her heart.
“He’s camped on the Laramie. He told me to find you. You got to be careful. Jack Black Dog’s lookin’ for you.”
Jack Black Dog. The name instantly brought chills to her spine. Well aware of the savage half-breed’s insane lust for her, still she could not believe he was crazy enough to risk coming after her in this place. An image of his leering face came immediately to her mind, causing her to shudder involuntarily when she remembered his insistence that he would one day possess her. How, she wondered, could the treacherous half-breed think he could come for her with soldiers all around?
The Hostile Trail Page 19