Chapter 6
Leaving the Belle Fourche, they rode another full day, reaching another river in the early evening. “I’m hoping this is the Powder River,” Jonah commented as he pulled a roughly drawn map from his saddlebag and spread it out on the ground, so they could all see. From the Belle Fourche, he had pointed his little party in a general northwest direction. “If it is the Powder, then we should strike Crazy Woman Creek by noontime tomorrow, and if we do, then we’ll be close to the old Bozeman Trail.” He paused then to look around at the faces hovering over the map as if expecting an argument. There was none, for the country was new to everyone.
“How will you know the Bozeman when we reach it?” Nancy asked. “Is it marked or something?”
“No,” Jonah replied patiently. “It’s not like there’s a regular road there, but I think I’ll be able to recognize it, even if it has been a couple of years.”
“Seems to me like there oughta be a lot of old horse tracks, and wagon tracks, too,” Carson said. “We should be able to tell when we strike it, but I reckon we’ll figure it’s time to turn north if we run slap into the Big Horn Mountains.” The country was new to him, but he at least knew that the Bozeman Trail ran east of the Big Horns.
“I suppose you’re right, John,” Jonah said, and laughed. “Another day’s travel oughta get us to the Bozeman.” The thought seemed to raise the spirits of everyone as they prepared to feast on more of the deer Carson had shot the day before.
Carson sat with his back propped against a sizable cottonwood, downing the last few swallows of his coffee. Watching Frank playfully teasing Nancy about some private joke between them, then glancing over at Jonah propped against another tree, his eyes closed, his belly full, Carson realized that they had totally accepted him. The subtle looks of caution that had followed him the first couple of days were now gone. It made him feel comfortable, a feeling that all the unfortunate things that had happened to him were in the past and were of no further concern. He looked forward to Montana now more than ever.
As Jonah had predicted, they came to a sizable creek before noon the following day that had to be the Crazy Woman. They stopped there to rest the horses and prepare a noon meal before pushing on to search for signs of a well-traveled trail to the north. They were unsuccessful in finding a marked trail of any kind and, after some disappointment, decided to turn north anyway. They had reached the foothills of what had to be the Big Horn Mountains, so as Carson had said before, why not ride north until reaching the Yellowstone? “I was so damn sure I would recognize the way I had come with Nancy’s father,” Jonah said, scratching his head.
“Hell,” Frank said, “it doesn’t matter how we get there, as long as we get there. Right, John?”
“I reckon,” Carson answered. By noon the following day, they discovered old tracks left by a train of wagons when they crossed over a creek to travel the other side, redeeming Jonah and his map. Now all were sure they were traveling the Bozeman Trail.
* * *
“You’d all be dead if I was a soldier,” he mocked. The three Lakota warriors, sitting around the half-eaten carcass of a calf, were startled by the sudden voice above them on the edge of the bank. They stumbled over each other as they scrambled to get to their weapons to defend themselves against they knew not what. Their wild panic greatly amused the man watching, and he laughed as they dropped pieces of meat and half-gnawed rib bones on the ground in their panic. “You call yourselves Lakota? I think maybe you are Crow women.”
“Red Shirt!” Cut Hand exclaimed when he recovered enough to see who had spoken. He lowered the old single-shot rifle he had managed to grab. “Don’t shoot!” he warned his two companions. “It is Red Shirt.”
“Ha!” Red Shirt spat. “I could shoot you all before any of you had time to pull a trigger. He remained squatting on his heels, the late Luther Moody’s Winchester ’73 cradled across his thighs, watching contemptuously while the startled threesome tried to regain their composure.
“There are no soldiers around here,” Walking Fox stated in their defense. “We had no reason to be careful.”
“There is always a reason to be careful,” Red Shirt said. “It’s a wonder you three are still alive.” Although he was talking mainly to insult them, there was a great deal of truth in his comments. Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull had been defeated, and many of the survivors had escaped to Canada with Sitting Bull. A few, like Cut Hand, Walking Fox, and Lame Foot, had managed to escape the army patrols and continued to make sneak raids on settlers, stealing anything of value, and slaughtering cattle, like the one they feasted upon today. Red Shirt was well known in Cut Hand’s village before his people were scattered and forced to go to the reservation. Although a half-breed, Red Shirt claimed to be Lakota and professed to be always at war with the whites, so he had gained a begrudging degree of respect among the Indians. Much of this was due to the fact that the territorial policemen had put a reward on his head. So the three Lakota warriors tolerated his verbal abuse.
“Why do you hide out here on the river,” Red Shirt asked, “stealing a cow now and then to keep from starving?” He held his rifle up for them to see. “Look at this rifle. I took it from that fat marshal, Moody, after I killed him and took his scalp. I killed the men he had with him, too. It is a Winchester, the newest model. I took many horses, too, because I don’t fight with weapons like those pitiful rifles you carry. My medicine is strong. I know where there are more rifles like this one, and cartridges to go with them. And there are only three men and a woman to guard them.” He paused to let that sink in, but he could tell by their envious eyes that he had captured their interest. As soon as he had come upon them feasting on the stolen calf, he knew it had been the stroke of luck that he needed to seek his revenge against Carson Ryan and the three people he was traveling with. With three warriors, he could easily turn the odds in his favor. “I’m on their trail now and I will hunt them down and take more weapons and cartridges.”
Walking Fox spoke up then. “Maybe if we went with you, it would make it easier to kill the white men.”
“Maybe we could get better weapons for ourselves,” Cut Hand suggested.
“Maybe,” Red Shirt said, pretending to think deeply on the idea. He affected a noble pose then and nodded solemnly. “It is the right thing to do. I will help my Lakota brothers get weapons and cartridges. We must not linger here, though, for they are two days ahead of us.” He knew they would have to ride hard to catch up with Carson, but he was determined now more than ever.
After Swann and Tice were killed, Red Shirt had wasted no time talking trade with Crazy Jack, and practically gave their horses away, but he didn’t care. The defeat at the hands of the young traitor had caused his hatred to fester in his mind until he couldn’t know peace until he had settled the score. It had taken some careful scouting, but he had found their tracks crossing the Belle Fourche. They had continued on a steady course to the northwest, and he followed their trail to the Powder, near the place where Cut Hand and his companions had slaughtered the cow. He had been just about to cross when he had smelled the aroma of beef roasting over a fire. Less than two hundred yards upstream, he had found them. Again, he congratulated himself for his luck. If the wind had come from the other direction, he would not have found Cut Hand and the others. This was a good sign that his medicine was strong. He would find young Carson Ryan and he would add his scalp to his scalp stick.
While Red Shirt unsaddled his horse and left it to graze, the three Lakota warriors talked quietly among themselves to make sure joining him was a good thing for them. “He is respected for his war against the whites,” Cut Hand said, “and he is said to have killed many of them.”
“And we need these guns he speaks of,” Walking Fox commented. “I say it is wise to ride with him.”
Lame Foot had not had much to say since Red Shirt surprised them. “All we have heard about his medicine as a great fi
ghter has come from his mouth. Some in our village don’t think he is an honorable man. That is all I know. But we will join him if that is your wish.”
When he evaluated his war party the next morning, Red Shirt found that it was not as strong as he had hoped. All three warriors were capable, but their weapons were worse than he had at first thought. To be exact, Cut Hand had an old trading post single-shot rifle, while Lame Foot had a double-barrel shotgun, with only a few shells, and Walking Fox had only a bow. He would give one of them his Spencer carbine to use, but that still left them at a disadvantage in a gunfight with the white men. The difference would be made up, he decided, by the superior skills in tracking, stalking, and fierceness of the Lakota Sioux. He would find these people, and he would be avenged. Of that, he was certain.
* * *
Although it was still late summer, the mornings were quite chilly and already there were signs of frost along the lower streambeds. Traveling through rolling foothills, with the rugged Big Horn Mountains reaching up just west of the trail they now followed, the travelers were struck by conflicting emotions. There was a feeling of growing excitement on the part of the Thompsons as they felt they were not far from the Montana border. At the same time, they could not help being concerned by the cooling weather. As Frank put it, “I swear, I wouldn’t be surprised if we got caught in some snow by the time we get to the Yellowstone.”
As for Carson, he could feel the heartbeat of the mountains, pulsing in rhythm with his own, and the call to explore those rugged peaks to the west was stronger than ever. The possibility of early snow did not concern him, for he had complete confidence in his ability to adapt to whatever conditions befell him. He might have decided to say good-bye to his new friends and follow the call of his heart had it not been for the feeling of responsibility that had come over him to see them safely to Big Timber.
One afternoon they came upon the ruins of Fort Phil Kearny. The fort, built on a high plateau between the forks of Little Piney Creek, had been burned by the Indians when it was abandoned by the army. There were a few hours of daylight remaining, but Jonah and Frank decided to camp there that night near the burned remains of the palisade walls of the fort. On the high bluffs, it looked to be an ideal place to camp for the night with a good view of a large segment of the Bozeman Trail. A little extra time to rest was welcomed by everyone, including the horses.
Although accustomed to life alone, Carson had to admit that he enjoyed the family atmosphere of traveling with Jonah, Frank, and Nancy. All three were older than he, and he almost regarded them as aunt and uncles. Nancy came very close to mothering him, even though there was not that much difference in their ages. Watching her preparing their evening meal, he was prompted to ask Nancy if she knew what the date was. “Why, no, I can’t rightly say,” she replied, after pausing to think for a moment. “It’s got to be sometime in the middle of August. Ask Jonah, he keeps a calendar.”
“Ask me what?” Jonah asked as he walked up to place more wood by the fire.
“The date,” Nancy said. “John wants to know the date.”
“August twenty-eighth,” he replied at once. “I checked my calendar this morning. Why?”
“No particular reason,” Carson answered. “I was just wonderin’, that’s all.” In fact, it was of some significance, but only to him, for tomorrow would be his birthday, his eighteenth. He wondered what had prompted him to think about it. His seventeenth had slipped by him unnoticed while he was on a cattle drive. But this one had triggered something in his memory. Maybe it was because it was his eighteenth, and maybe tomorrow would be a lucky day for him and his friends. At any rate, he planned to keep it to himself.
The morning began as every morning had begun before that. They roused themselves out of their bedrolls before sunup and saddled the horses while Nancy made the one pot of coffee they would drain before starting out again on the now well-defined Bozeman Trail. They would stop to eat breakfast when it was time to rest the horses. On this morning, however, they were a little later than usual getting started, because one of the packhorses decided it would not accept the packs. Carson gave Jonah a hand with the reluctant animal, and between the efforts of the two, the horse finally called off the rebellion. By the time all were ready to climb into the saddle, the first rays of the sun were already tipping the leaves in the tops of the cottonwoods down by the creek. “Let’s get started,” Jonah said, and climbed up into the saddle. Carson heard the dull thud of the bullet as it impacted with Jonah’s back at almost the same time he heard the crack of the rifle that fired it. Jonah sat straight up in the saddle as the second shot thudded against his back. Then he slumped to the side, falling into the arms of his brother, who rushed to help him.
“Get down!” Carson yelled, and threw himself at Nancy, who was standing motionless in shock, knocking her to the ground. Realizing they were both stunned by the sudden horror, he grabbed Frank, who was staggering under the weight of his brother, and pulled him to the ground as several more shots zipped over their heads. He made a quick check of Jonah, but he was already dead. “Crawl over behind those timbers!” he directed, pointing toward a low corner of a building about three logs high that the Indians’ fires had somehow spared. “I’ll get the horses!” Moving as quickly as he could, he gathered the reins of all the horses and ran inside what was once a seventeen-acre compound, but was now a burned outline where there had once been log walls. With no prior plans for defense, he looked around hurriedly for a place to leave the horses. The only possibility, a stack of burned timbers that had once been a cavalry barracks, was the closest thing he saw, so he made for them, calling out to Frank as he did, “Get that rifle workin’! I’ll be right back!” He led the horses behind the pile of timbers and tied them, pulled his rifle from his saddle sling, grabbed the extra rifle and a cartridge belt from one of the packhorses, then got back to Frank and Nancy as quickly as possible. The return trip was a good bit hotter since he no longer had the string of horses to use as cover.
With bullets flying all about him, he dived for cover beside Frank, cocked his rifle, and immediately threw shot after shot at the low shrubs by the creek when he saw a muzzle flash. “Could you see any of ’em?” he asked Frank.
“Jonah,” Frank responded. “We’ve gotta get Jonah.”
Carson realized then that Frank was still in a state of shock over having seen his brother shot down, and had not fired a shot at the creek. Carson reached over and felt the barrel of the Winchester he had given him. The barrel was cold. “Frank,” he said roughly, “Jonah’s gone. There ain’t nothin’ we can do for him now, so we’ve gotta keep throwin’ lead at that patch of bushes down by the creek, and maybe we can scare ’em off.” He felt Nancy move up beside his arm.
“Give me the other rifle,” she said. “I’ll shoot it.”
He laid the cartridge belt between them, and she wasted no time in firing at the shrubs he had pointed out. Following her lead, Frank finally put his rifle to use. Carson took a moment to evaluate their position. There was nothing but open space between them and the people shooting at them, so they were not likely to charge them, but he was concerned about their rear. From the shots fired so far, he figured that it was a small party attacking them, but how small? Big enough to split up and send half their force to circle around behind them—maybe to make a try for the horses? He had to make sure. “Can you two keep an eye on that fork of the creek down yonder? I don’t think it’s a very big party, and I doubt they wanna try chargin’ across that open bluff. I need to check behind us in case some of ’em’s thinkin’ about gettin’ us caught in a cross fire.” He figured that was what he would do if he was in their shoes. “We can’t let ’em get to the horses.”
Nancy answered for them. “We can do that. Frank and I will shoot anybody who tries to run across that clearing. But you be careful. Don’t you get yourself shot and leave us to fight the Indians alone.”
“I won’
t,” Carson said. “Just be sure to keep your heads down.” Then he withdrew, trying to keep his head low as he crawled backward. When he felt the contour of the plateau inhibited their line of sight, he got to his feet and ran to the horses. He found them where he had left them, pulling against the reins that tied them to the scorched timbers. Frightened by the sound of constant gunfire, their natural instincts told them to run. He took a few minutes to try to calm them down before finding some protection for himself while watching the open parade ground behind them. As he settled in behind a partially burned doorsill, he couldn’t help worrying about the two guarding the front. Frank seemed visibly shaken by the surprise attack. Carson supposed it was mainly the loss of his brother that had gripped him with such paralysis, but he appeared to have come out of it when Nancy stepped up. Picturing the determined woman, he was at once reassured that she could handle the situation.
* * *
“Damn the luck,” Red Shirt cursed. “If we had attacked them at night, we wouldn’t have had to sit back under this bluff and shoot at ’em at this range.” It was frustrating to have caught up with them and yet be unable to advance close enough to kill them. All the sign he had read during the previous day had told him that he was almost upon them. It prompted him to ride on late into the night until the horses became so tired they were forced to make camp. And then to catch up with them only in time to see them leaving their camp was too much for Red Shirt’s patience. So when the shot presented itself, even at a fairly long range, he could not resist the temptation to take it. He had succeeded in killing one of them, but the others escaped, including the one he really wanted. He slid back down from the bank to confer with his partners after making sure Carson and the other two were not going to make an attempt to ride out the other end of the fort.
“I think it would be a good thing to get around behind them and steal the horses,” Walking Fox said.
Way of the Gun (9781101597804) Page 9