Silver City Massacre

by Charles G. West

  “Not by a long shot,” Duncan replied. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m right here,” Nathaniel Coldiron replied, stepping out from between two boulders on the other side of the stream.

  Bret Hollister would never forget his first sight of the old scout. From behind the boulders a man closely resembling a grizzly bear emerged, pushed through a thicket of berry bushes and crossed the stream, oblivious of the water. Clad entirely in animal skins, he wore no hat. His long gray hair, tied in a single braid, hung down his back, almost to his belt. A full beard, more gray than black, covered the bottom half of his broad face. The beard was so thick that until he opened his mouth to speak, there appeared to be no hole there at all.

  “What you doin’ up here, Duncan?” he asked as he eased the hammer down on his rifle—a Henry that looked unusually small in his oversized paw.

  “Lookin’ for you,” Duncan answered.

  “What fer?” Coldiron asked, all the while casting a critical eye on the officer and enlisted men behind the sergeant.

  “Got a little job for you,” Duncan said. “That is, if you ain’t got too old to do some trackin’.”

  Coldiron snorted scornfully. “If you thought I was, I don’t reckon you’da drug your tired old ass up here lookin’ fer me.” He nodded toward Bret then. “Who you brung with you?”

  Standing patiently by while the two old acquaintances greeted each other, Bret spoke up before Duncan could answer. “I’m Lieutenant Hollister. We came looking for you in hopes you might be able to track an Indian war party that massacred two white families over on the Yellowstone near Benson’s Landing.”

  Coldiron nodded thoughtfully, openly distrustful of most army officers—and of all officers as young and green as this one appeared to be. “I heared about that raid,” he spoke after a pause. “Two families got burned out. That was two nights ago. And you’re lookin’ to track ’em?”

  “We’re looking to try,” Bret replied. “Those are my orders.”

  “Orders is orders. Ain’t that right, Duncan?” Coldiron glanced at the sergeant and laughed as if he had made a joke. “That’s a mighty cold trail you’re lookin’ to follow.”

  Bret began to lose his patience with the seemingly sarcastic brute. “That’s the only trail there is. If you don’t think you can help us, then I expect we’d best not waste any more of your time.”

  Coldiron chuckled and winked at Duncan. “Don’t get your fur up, sonny. I didn’t say I wouldn’t help. I’ll go over there with you and take a look around—see what’s what.”

  “Fine,” Bret replied. “That’s all we’re asking, but let’s get one thing straight from the start. My name is Bret Hollister. I’ll answer to Lieutenant, Hollister, or Bret, but don’t ever call me ‘sonny’ again. Is that understood?”

  Coldiron’s head recoiled, surprised by the young officer’s spunk. It was only a moment, however, before he chuckled heartily. “All right, Lieutenant, that’s understood.”

  Also amused by the lieutenant’s defiant attitude, Duncan said, “I reckon we’d best get started as soon as possible—cold as that trail is—and it’s a pretty long ride if we have to go back the way we came.” He looked up, trying to find the sun through the treetops. “It ain’t gonna be long before dark in these mountains.”

  “I expect you’re right about that,” Coldiron said. “Ain’t no use to start out till mornin’, anyway. We ain’t goin’ back the way you came up the Gallatin. We’ll cut across through the mountains, and if we try to make it in the dark, we’re liable to break a leg or somethin’. Besides, I got things to take care of before I can go. I gotta check my traps for certain.” He turned to start up the slope. “You boys follow me and I’ll carve off some deer haunch to cook for supper, unless you druther have that salt pork and hardtack the army gave you.” His remark stirred a quiet murmur of anticipation among the eight troopers as they followed up through the steep path to Coldiron’s cabin.

  Afraid the horses might stumble as the path steepened even more, Bret had the men dismount and led them the last fifty yards to the small clearing where the cabin sat, backed up against the slope. Coldiron had obviously built his small abode using logs from the trees he had cleared. Bret wondered if he had had help with the construction, but from the look of the man, he seemed capable of doing the job by himself. A short distance beyond the cabin there was a sizable meadow where the huge man’s two horses were grazing. Sergeant Duncan and the men took the horses there to graze overnight while Bret volunteered to help their host build a fire.

  “Them Injuns take anybody alive?” Coldiron asked when Bret brought an armload of wood from a pile near the cabin.

  “Not according to the report by the thirteen-year-old boy who rode to Fort Ellis,” Bret answered. “They killed everybody and set fire to the homes.”

  “Like I said,” Coldiron replied, “I heard about the raid. I didn’t hear about nobody bein’ took alive, either.

  “That’s what I was told,” Bret repeated.

  “That kinda surprises me,” Coldiron said. “Sometimes they’ll carry off a young woman.”

  “The Sioux and Cheyenne have been known to take women hostages plenty of times before,” Johnny Duncan commented as he walked up, having overheard the last remarks. “I don’t see why these Sioux would be any different.”

  “Blackfoot,” Coldiron said. “They was Blackfoot. They ain’t Sioux or Cheyenne. They most likely were movin’ too fast to bother with captives.”

  “Huh,” Duncan grunted. “How do you know they were Blackfoot? We were told they were Sioux. Them and some Cheyenne renegades have been attackin’ some farms along the Yellowstone for the last two months.”

  “The Injuns that hit Benson’s Landing was Blackfoot,” Coldiron stated matter-of-factly. “I seen ’em when they came down the river last week. I figured they was lookin’ to steal horses or raid homesteaders, but there ain’t no homesteaders on the Gallatin, so I reckon they moved on. They was a long way from home, if they were from that bunch up near the Judith. I thought that mighta been them comin’ back when you soldier boys came ridin’ up my trail.”

  “Maybe so,” Duncan allowed. “Don’t make much difference, though. Injuns is Injuns. Where’s that haunch of deer meat you was braggin’ about?”

  Coldiron chuckled again. “Still on the deer,” he said, and pointed to a tree by the stream on the far side of the cabin where a carcass was hanging from a limb. “I was just fixin’ to butcher it when I heard you boys comin’ up my trail, soundin’ like a freight train. I hadn’t kilt it more’n fifteen minutes before that.”

  His comment surprised Bret. “We didn’t hear a shot,” he said. “If we were that close, I woulda thought we’d have heard the shot.”

  “Most likely because you boys was makin’ so much noise comin’ up through them bushes,” Coldiron said, then waited for a few moments before explaining. “Coulda been ’cause I shot it with my bow, though.” He looked at Duncan and laughed heartily. “If one of your boys can give me a hand, I’ll go saw us off a haunch. Wouldn’t be a bad idea if we smoked a supply of meat to take with us. We don’t know how long it’ll take to catch up to that raidin’ party.”

  Duncan nodded toward Private Weaver, motioning for him to follow Coldiron.