“I’m sure she’s just gotten distracted somewhere,” Riddler said and got up from his desk. “I’m about ready to quit for the day. I’ll be home in a few minutes.” He walked his wife to the door just as the first notes of mess call sounded out across the parade ground. “She’ll probably be there when you get back,” he assured her.
As they stepped outside the building, Lieutenant O’Connor rode by. He reined his horse to a halt, and exchanged greetings with the doctor and his wife. “Say, Jim,” Dr. Riddler said, “the missus here is looking for our houseguest. You haven’t seen her, have you?”
“No. I’ve been down at the peace talks all day,” O’Connor replied. “On my way back to the stables now.”
“Maybe Molly went over there to see that horse of hers,” the doctor remarked. “If you see her, tell her we’re wondering where she is.”
“I’ll be glad to,” O’Connor said.
* * *
Private Darren Murphy reported for duty at the stables as he had the previous three evenings—the extra duty a punishment tour for drunkenness. He arrived at the stables a few minutes before Lieutenant O’Connor rode in. With one arm resting on the handle of a hay rake, he offered a somewhat indifferent salute to the officer as O’Connor dismounted and led his mount inside. Like most of the men in his company, Murphy had very little respect for the arrogant lieutenant, especially in light of the officer’s recent performance under fire. His disgust for O’Connor was further intensified by the insulting fact that O’Connor was Irish, the same as he.
O’Connor, aware of the disrespect being exhibited, was of a mind to take the private to task for his lack of courtesy. “Soldier!” he barked. “You’d best snap to attention when an officer enters the building.”
“Yes, sir,” Murphy drawled and made a halfhearted stab at coming to attention.
O’Connor was just before launching into a tirade when two riders approaching the corral caught his eye. Without another word, he handed his reins to Murphy, and moved quickly to a window, not willing to trust his eyes. He stood peering out the window for a long moment, scarcely able to believe his good fortune. Slaughter—the man who had managed to frustrate his attempts to arrest him—was riding right into his arms.
Murphy stood puzzled by the officer’s strange actions until O’Connor glanced briefly at him and motioned frantically for him to lead his horse to a stall. When the private finally led the horse away, O’Connor drew his revolver and made his way toward the front corner of the barn, the closest point to the corral gate, where the riders seemed to be heading. Upon reaching that point, he knelt there just inside the stable door and waited. As the two horses came closer, he could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, and he had to shift the pistol to his other hand briefly in order to wipe the sweat from his palm. Recalling a mental picture of Slaughter’s Henry rifle in action, he had second thoughts about what he was about to do. Glancing back toward the rear of the stables, he thought to signal Murphy to come forward, but the private was in the tack room.
Maybe I should wait until I have a proper arresting party under my command, he thought. Then an image came to mind of Private Murphy regaling the enlisted men with tales of Lieutenant O’Connor hiding behind the door until Slaughter had gone. Damn the murdering dog! He fumed, unable to make up his mind.
* * *
“Don’t see anybody around,” Matt said as he reined the paint up before the corral gate. “Must be inside. I’ll unsaddle your horse, and you can get on back. They must be worried about you.” He dismounted and went to help Molly down.
His back pressed against the wall of the stable, Lieutenant O’Connor inched closer to the door, his palm wet again as he grasped the handle of his revolver. With his heart almost choking his throat, he peeked cautiously through the crack in the door. The first thing that caught his eye was the Henry rifle sitting securely in the sling of an empty saddle. Shifting his gaze quickly, he saw the broad back of the tall scout as Matt stood waiting to assist the young lady to dismount.
His mind a whirlpool of irrational thoughts of loathing and fear of this man of the mountains, O’Connor was gripped by indecision. His hatred for the man who had humiliated him in front of his men overcame any sense of military duty at that critical moment when Slaughter was at his mercy. The temptation was too great. Slowly he pushed the barrel of the revolver through the crack of the door where the hinges were nailed. His hand was shaking so badly that he had to steady it with the other one. Still the barrel of the revolver bobbed up and down uncontrollably.
The sudden report of the pistol shattered the silence of the stable, causing both horses to bolt. Molly grabbed the saddle horn and held on desperately to keep from being thrown. Matt dropped to the ground, a bullet in his back. Seeing the tall scout fall, O’Connor was stunned for a moment, unable to move. When he realized that Slaughter was actually helpless, he cocked the pistol again, but before he could pull the trigger, the stable door slammed against his hand, causing him to drop the revolver. Confused and stunned, he looked up to see Private Murphy scrambling to his feet after having just thrust his shoulder into the door. There ensued a race then to get to the pistol on the ground. Murphy got to it first.
Horrified, Molly fought to control her horse long enough to slide down from the saddle and rush to Matt’s side. On her knees beside him, she tried to stop the blood that was already beginning to spread across his back. Unable to stem the flow that soon soaked his shirt, she looked around her, frantically seeking help from someone. Murphy came to her aid while a stunned Lieutenant O’Connor staggered back against the side of the stable to stare helplessly at the still body on the ground.
“We need some help here,” Private Murphy yelled to a couple of soldiers heading for some off-duty relaxation at a gambling parlor off post. They had stopped when they heard the report of the revolver. One of the two responded immediately, and his friend followed after a moment. “Bring that handcart yonder,” Murphy instructed. “We’ve gotta get him to the hospital.”
“Excuse me, ma’am.” One of the soldiers took Molly gently by the arm. “I need to get in here.” He knelt down to take hold of Matt’s shoulders. Murphy and the other soldier carefully lifted the wounded man and placed him on the cart.
With Molly hurrying tearfully along beside, the two enlisted men started pushing the cart toward the hospital just as the guard detail marched up to post the stable guard. Murphy left the others to explain what had just happened to the sergeant of the guard. He climbed on Matt’s horse and sped off at a gallop to alert the surgeon.
Seeing the guard detail, Lieutenant O’Connor seemed to recover from the stupor that had immobilized him seconds before. He rushed up to the sergeant and blurted out, “That man’s a murderer! He’s under arrest!” His eyes wide with excitement, he then pointed to Murphy galloping away. “And he assaulted me when I was trying to carry out my orders!”
The sergeant took a moment to consider the lieutenant’s words. Like most every man on the post, he was well aware of O’Connor’s cowardice in the field, and the fact that the lieutenant had retreated from an ambush, leaving his men to fend for themselves. “Yes, sir,” he answered calmly, taking note of the officer’s empty holster and the fact that Murphy had had a revolver stuck in his belt. “I’ll notify the officer of the day as soon as I finish posting the guards.”
O’Connor was not satisfied. “The man’s a dangerous murderer,” he insisted. “It was me or him.”
“Well, sir, he don’t look too dangerous right now, does he?—what with him being shot in the back and all. It don’t appear like he’s liable to run off anywhere. I expect you’d best let me take care of it.”
* * *
“You poor darling,” Martha Riddler murmured when she found Molly sitting in a chair beside the door of Dr. Riddler’s surgery. “I heard about what happened.” She opened her arms to receive the distraught young woman, and Molly came immediately to her. Her skirt and blouse covered with Matt’s blood,
she pressed close to the older woman and released the flood of tears that she had been holding back. Martha well understood the pain the girl was experiencing. There was no doubt that Molly was hopelessly in love with the untamed young scout. And she could see nothing but heartbreak and disappointment for the girl. Matt Slaughter was wanted for murder by the army. Like Molly, Martha wanted to believe the army had made a mistake. It just didn’t seem fair. The girl had had nothing but tragedy all her life.
After a few minutes, Molly seemed to relax from the sobbing that had at first racked her body, and she pulled away to try to regain her composure. “Has John been out to tell you anything yet?” Martha asked. Molly shook her head. “I’ll see if I can find out what’s going on,” Martha said, her voice gentle and comforting. “You wait right here.”
“Dammit, I’m busy,” John Riddler scolded when he heard the door open behind him. “I’ve got a patient on the table.”
“It’s me, John,” Martha responded. “How is he?”
When the doctor realized who had entered the room, his tone softened. “Oh . . . Martha. What are you doing here?” Before she could answer, he glanced at the orderly assisting him. “Hold that lamp over to this side a little more. I can’t see a damn thing for all this blood.”
“Molly’s outside, sick with worry,” Martha said. “How is he?”
He paused to consider the blood now on his wife’s dress for a brief moment before answering. “He’s damn near dead is all I can tell you. He’s lost a lot of blood, and I can’t seem to stop the bleeding. The good news, if there is any, is that it doesn’t appear any of the vital organs were hit. All the bleeding is coming from the wound—doesn’t seem to be any in his lungs or heart.” He paused to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. “I’m going to have to leave the bullet in there. I’m about to kill him trying to get it out.”
“Is he going to live?”
“Hell, I don’t know—if we get the bleeding stopped, maybe. If he makes it through the night, then I guess he’ll probably recover.”
It wasn’t much in the way of encouragement to give Molly, but neither was it entirely discouraging. The young girl wanted to stay there all night, but Martha finally persuaded her that she could see Matt in the morning, that her husband would pull him through. She fervently prayed that she was not giving the girl false hope. As they were leaving the hospital, the sergeant of the guard met them at the door with one sentry. Martha paused to confront the sergeant. “Is that really necessary?”
“Probably not, ma’am, but the officer of the day thinks we’d best be cautious. He is a wanted man.”
* * *
Matt was alive the next morning, but so weakened by the loss of blood that he didn’t care much whether he lived or died. Molly was there almost constantly, although he wasn’t aware of it for the first two days. Gradually his strength returned, and on the third day he woke up feeling tired and hungry. He opened his eyes, to be met with the wide-eyed questioning gaze of Molly. Much to her relief, he smiled at her, and attempted to sit up. She was quick to respond, springing from her chair to help him.
“What the hell happened?” he mumbled, his words only barely discernible through parched lips. He was pretty sure he had been shot, but he had no idea by whom. He may have been told sometime during the past couple of days, but if he had been, he didn’t remember.
Molly, though she tried, could not, of course, tell him. She made several motions in an effort to convey the information, but none that made any sense to him. It wasn’t hard to figure out that he had been shot. The part that puzzled him was why he was simply shot on sight, instead of an attempt being made to arrest him. He wanted answers, but at the moment, he had a more urgent problem to solve. Studying his eyes, Molly guessed the problem. She pointed to the bedpan on the floor beside the bed, a question in her eyes. He looked down at the innocuous object, realizing only then what it was for. Preferring to get up and stagger to the hospital sink behind the building, he started to throw the sheets back, only to discover he had nothing on but a gown. He flushed in his embarrassment, further mortified by Molly’s benevolent smile. “Gimme the damn pan,” he said, “but you’re gonna have to leave the room.” Smiling broadly, she did as she was bid.
Intent upon completing his awkward endeavor, he was unaware of the person stepping quietly inside the door until startled by the booming voice. “Hod damn, I didn’t know you could ride one of them things. Be careful it don’t throw you.”
The sudden outburst almost succeeded in doing just that. “Dammit, Zeb,” Matt fumed, “don’t you know a closed door means you oughta knock?”
“Molly told me you was takin’ a piss,” Zeb said, laughing. “Where’d that girl learn to talk sign like that?”
“Red Hawk,” Matt said, smiling when he remembered.
“’Course, I thought you was standin’ in the middle of the bed to do it. I reckon there ain’t no sign language for one of them bedpans.”
At Matt’s insistence, Zeb slid the offending bedpan under the bed. Then he proceeded to enlighten Matt on the circumstances of his injury. Matt listened, feeling more frustration than anger. He was more angry at himself than he was at Lieutenant O’Connor. “That was mighty damn careless of me,” he said. “I should have checked to see if there was anyone around.”
“Hell, how could you know that little weasel was hidin’ in the barn? Wouldn’t surprise me a’tall if that little son of a bitch caught one in the back hisself, next time he’s in a skirmish. And I expect he’ll have a chance before the summer’s over. Red Cloud and the other chiefs has done pulled out of the treaty talks, and said they was gonna fight anybody tryin’ to use the Bozeman Trail. Anybody with a thimbleful of brains wouldn’t hardly expect him to agree to lettin’ whites cut through his best buffalo ground. But the thing that killed the treaty right quick was a whole passel of new soldiers pullin’ in here day before yesterday from back east. There’s a colonel in charge—Carrington, I think I heard somebody say—and he claims his orders are to march on into Powder River country, staff old Fort Reno, and set up two more forts along the Bozeman. They said Red Cloud got madder’n hell—he told ’em that the army has already sent troops to build forts, and he ain’t agreed to nothin’ yet.”
Zeb paused in his diatribe, and lowered his voice, changing the subject completely. He looked over his shoulder as if concerned that someone might hear. “What are you aimin’ to do?”
Matt didn’t understand the question. “About what?” he asked.
“About the army fixin’ to ship you back east to stand trial.”
The question brought Matt back to the reality of his situation, which he had been too incapacitated to think about until that moment. He didn’t have to spend much thought on it to express his intent. “I reckon I don’t plan to go back,” he said evenly.
“That’s what I figured,” Zeb said. “Can you ride?”
“I don’t know. If somebody could help me get on a horse, I could give it a helluva try.”
“Doc says your insides is all right. The bullet didn’t cut into none of your organs. Let’s see if you can stand up.” He moved close to the bed to give Matt a hand. “Be quiet about it. There’s a guard outside the door.”
Matt nodded and very gingerly eased his legs over the side of the bed. With some help from Zeb, he sat up, a low grunt the only indication of the pain it caused. He rested there for a minute before attempting to stand up. Then, with a nod to Zeb, he pushed on up to stand unsteadily by the bed, one hand on Zeb’s shoulder for support. “Hell,” Zeb snorted, “you’re ready to run with the antelopes.”
“Not quite,” Matt said, “but I reckon I could ride if I had to.” As he was about to say that he might be a little more likely to walk in another day, the door opened and Molly returned to the room. Startled to see Matt standing, she opened her eyes wide as if she were about to speak. Then she frowned and placed her hands on her hips like an irate mother hen. There was no mistaking her meaning.
&n
bsp; “Don’t go gettin’ all in a fuss,” Zeb said. “He’s just tryin’ out his legs. He’s been lazin’ around in that bed too long, anyway.”
She shook her head as if perplexed, and moved to help Matt back into bed. He allowed it, but only because he once again realized that he was wearing nothing but a gown. “Zeb’s right, Molly. I can’t lay around in this bed.”
“Can you ride by tomorrow night?” Zeb asked.
Matt didn’t hesitate. “Yeah, I can ride.” He studied the old scout’s face for a long moment before asking, “What are you thinkin’ about?” Before Zeb could answer, he said, “I can’t let you get involved in this. Hell, you’ve got your job to worry about. Besides, when I bust outta here, somebody’s liable to get hurt. I don’t want it to be you.”
Zeb grinned. “Is that so? Well, lemme ask you this. How the hell are you gonna bust outta here without help? Somebody’s gotta get your horse and your belongings. How are you gonna get past that sentry standin’ outside the door? What are you gonna do—just say, ‘Sorry, boys, but I’m leavin’ now’?”
“I guess it does sound a little foolish,” Matt admitted, “but I’m damn sure not going back to Virginia to stand trial for somethin’ I didn’t even do.” He glanced at Molly, who wore an expression of complete dismay. “You shouldn’t even be hearing this talk. I don’t want you to get in trouble.” He jerked his head back to stare at Zeb again. “Why in hell are you so all-fired determined to stick your neck out for me, anyway?”
Zeb’s face broke out in a wide grin. “Because I’m sick of the settlements, and I’m tired of scoutin’ for damn fools like Lieutenant O’Connor. I hear you talkin’ about goin’ up to the Wind River country and the Bitterroots. Dammit, I wanna go with you. I know you think you’re pretty much a loner, but a man needs a partner to make it in that country. Besides, I know that country. It’s been a while, but I still know which way the wind blows up that way.” He walked over to the bed and stuck out his hand. “Whaddaya say? Partners?”
The Hostile Trail Page 21