He returned the fire, aiming at the sound of the first shot. He cranked off three rounds as fast as he could work the rifle’s lever, then went to ground, bellying down in the brush. More shots roared. Bullets whipped through the brush a couple feet above his head. He didn’t move.
Acutely aware that he had an enemy at his back in the person of the young Sioux warrior watering his pony at the creek, Nathan was caught between two forces and didn’t like the feeling.
He heard a swift rataplan of hoofbeats from the other side of the stream. Sounded like the redskin was lighting a shuck. The shooting must have spooked him. But that left the bushwhacker on Nathan’s side of the creek.
More hoofbeats drifted to his ears. The bushwhacker was leaving, too. Maybe it was a trick to draw him out into the open. He stayed where he was for long minutes before moving. When he heard birds flitting around again and small animals moving in the brush, he knew he was alone.
He stood up and looked across the creek. The Indian was gone, all right, and other than a few unshod hoofprints on the bank, there was no sign he had ever been there.
It was a different story back up the hill. Nathan looked around until he found the spot where the bushwhacker had knelt to take aim at him. He rooted around in the brush and came up with three empty cartridges. The man who’d tried to kill him hadn’t taken the time to collect his brass.
. 44-40, Nathan noted as he studied the spent cartridges. Probably from a Winchester much like his own ... and the one carried by the Sioux on the other side of the creek. He wondered briefly where the redskin had gotten that rifle. From a dead white man, almost surely.
He walked back to where he had left Buck. The horse was out of the line of fire, so he hadn’t been harmed. Nathan swung up into the saddle, rode down the hill, and splashed across the creek. No doubt Lieutenant Pryor and the rest of the patrol had heard those gunshots and were wondering what had happened to him, but he still wanted to take a better look around before he returned.
He had proof that Sioux were in the area, although that warrior could have been a lone hunter. The only way to be sure was to follow him and see if he had hurried back to rejoin a larger party. Nathan’s experienced eyes picked up the trail with ease. To a man such as him, a broken branch, an overturned rock, a bit of crushed grass, were just as good as bold markings on a map.
He tracked the Sioux for more than a mile, up and down hills, until he came to a place where a lot more unshod horses had passed recently. Nathan reined in and studied the welter of tracks. They led toward a rocky ridge about a mile away. He studied it with narrowed eyes for a long moment, then clicked his tongue at Buck and pulled the horse around.
The Sioux had headed for what was probably more rugged country on the far side of that ridge. The patrol had a good place to start now. One thing puzzled Nathan, though, as he rode back toward the river.
Only one set of hoofprints had joined the larger party, so the man who had taken that shot at him from behind hadn’t circled around and rendezvoused with the redskin Nathan had seen.
That left him wondering just who the hell the bushwhacker could have been.
* * *
Lieutenant Pryor rode out to meet Nathan as he approached the patrol waiting beside the Missouri River.
“Thank God!” Pryor said as he reined in. “We heard shooting and were worried that you might have been killed.”
Nathan cast a skeptical glance toward Moses Red Buffalo, who was pointedly not looking his way. “I’d bet a new hat not all of you were worried. I’ve got a hunch that redskin would’ve been downright pleased to find my body and leave it for the buzzards to feast on.”
“Mr. Red Buffalo is a fellow member of this patrol,” Pryor said stiffly. “We should all be loyal to each other.”
Nathan just grunted at that.
“What did you find?” the lieutenant went on. “What was the shooting about?”
“Somebody tried to part my hair with a .44-40 slug.” Nathan reached into his shirt pocket and took out one of the empty cartridges he’d found, then handed it to Pryor. “I don’t suppose Red Buffalo happened to wander off for a spell while I was gone, did he?”
Pryor frowned at the cartridge and shook his head. “He was here the entire time. We all were. No one left.”
“You know that for a fact?”
“I saw it with my own eyes.” Pryor handed the cartridge back to Nathan. “What else did you find?”
“The Sioux are up there, all right. I spotted one of them watering his pony just before I was ambushed.” Nathan didn’t mention that he’d been about to shoot the Indian just before that dangerous interruption occurred. “He took off when the shooting started. Once I was sure the bushwhacker was gone, I followed the redskin and found where he joined up with a bigger bunch on unshod ponies. They headed north.”
“We have to follow them,” Pryor said with excitement creeping into his voice. “They could lead us right to the main body of Hanging Dog’s forces. Once we locate them, I’ll send a rider back to the fort with word for Colonel Ledbetter to bring the entire company. The hostiles will be forced to either capitulate or be wiped out.”
Nathan thought the lieutenant was getting a little ahead of himself. “Let’s just see what we find.”
“Of course.” Pryor turned his horse and shouted to McCall, “Sergeant, get the men mounted and ready to ride!”
Nathan stayed where he was while Pryor hurried back to supervise the preparations. He dismounted to give Buck a chance to rest for a few minutes.
Red Buffalo rode over.
Before the Crow scout could say anything, Nathan asked him, “Sorry to see that I came back alive?”
“I am not surprised. You white men have a saying about how the good die young, and since that description does not fit you . . . I am curious what all the shooting was about, though.”
Grudgingly, Nathan repeated the story he had told Lieutenant Pryor.
Red Buffalo frowned. “I know the ridge you speak of. The land beyond it is rough and broken, and then it rises to a mesa. If Hanging Dog is going up there, it will be difficult to reach him without losing many men.”
Nathan rubbed his chin, caught up in thinking about the situation and forgetting for the moment that he was discussing it with a hated redskin. “Is there any way down from up there?”
“Not a good one. The mesa is surrounded on three sides by a deep gorge. A man might be able to climb down into it and back out again, but not a horse.”
“I can’t see Hanging Dog abandoning his ponies. I don’t believe he would take women and children up there, either. He’d be moving his whole band into a trap if he did that.”
Red Buffalo nodded. “But why would he and his warriors retreat there?”
“Maybe he’s trying to lead us into a trap,” Nathan said.
“That makes no sense,” Red Buffalo replied, shaking his head. “We would have him penned there. We could lay siege to his forces.”
“Yeah, that’s what it looks like,” Nathan admitted. “But who can ever tell how a savage’s brain is going to work?”
Red Buffalo glared and turned his horse away. Nathan didn’t try to stop him as he rode away. He had tolerated the redskin’s presence for as long as he could manage.
The questions they had raised in their conversation were interesting ones, though, and he continued mulling them over as the patrol got ready to move again.
Nathan led the way, while Red Buffalo dropped back to make sure no enemies were coming up behind them. Even Lieutenant Pryor’s inexperienced eyes were able to see the tracks left by the large party of Sioux when Nathan pointed them out. Nathan could tell that the young officer’s excitement was growing. Pryor’s orders were only to locate the hostiles, not to engage them, but Nathan was starting to wonder if Pryor would be able to hold himself back when the time came. Visions of battlefield glory were dancing in the youngster’s head.
They hadn’t reached the ridge by nightfall. With obvious rel
uctance, Pryor called a halt and ordered his men to make camp. “Should it be a cold camp?” he asked Nathan. “Can we risk building fires?”
A humorless laugh came from Nathan. “I promise you, Hanging Dog knows where we are. You won’t be giving away a thing by building fires, and the men might as well have hot food and coffee. I know I could sure as hell use some. Probably be a good idea to double the guard tonight, though.”
Pryor nodded. “I’ll do that. Definitely. Will we catch up to them tomorrow?”
“Depends more on what they want than anything we do,” Nathan said with a shrug. “Anyway, Lieutenant, I thought you weren’t looking for a fight. Didn’t you say something about sending for the colonel and the rest of the men back at the fort?”
“Well, yes, of course. I’ll follow my orders. But I’m allowed some discretion, you know, in the event that the savages initiate hostilities.”
Clearly, that was exactly what the lieutenant was hoping for.
Nathan saw to Buck’s needs, then enjoyed a supper of beans, bacon, biscuits, and coffee after making do with jerky for the midday meal. The patrol had made camp just outside some trees at the edge of a meadow. Nathan sat on a log, nursing a second cup of coffee that he had sweetened with a slug of bourbon from a flask he had taken out of his saddlebags. He had never been a heavy drinker, but a dram like that was a comfort after a long day in the saddle.
He frowned as Red Buffalo came over and sat down on the same log, several feet away. “I don’t recall saying I wanted any company,” he told the Crow scout.
“I don’t recall asking,” Red Buffalo replied. He had a cup of coffee in his hand, too.
“I’d offer you something to give that coffee a mite more punch, but I know how you redskins are about firewater. Just can’t handle it, probably because of your weak mind and moral fiber.”
Red Buffalo sipped from his cup. “I would say it’s more a case of the white man’s puny brain not being able to function without the crutch of liquor.”
“You talk mighty fancy for a savage.”
“And you talk like an uneducated lout... which you claim not to be.”
Nathan sighed. “What the hell do you want, Red Buffalo?”
Without looking at Nathan, Red Buffalo drank some more coffee. “The lieutenant is young.”
“Is that supposed to be some sort of revelation?”
“Young ... and eager.”
“You think he’s going to get us into trouble.”
“I think it is possible. I do not know Hanging Dog, but he would not have risen to a position of power among the Sioux unless he was a cunning warrior. Based on what you said about your encounter, he did not show himself to us deliberately, but by now he knows we are following him and is taking no pains to conceal his trail.”
“Which means he’s trying to take advantage of the situation.”
Red Buffalo nodded slowly. “When we get closer, we will have to make sure the lieutenant listens and heeds our counsel, otherwise we may be doing exactly what Hanging Dog wants us to do.”
“Pryor gives the orders,” Nathan said. “Once he makes up his mind, there’s not much we can do about it.”
“We can do our best to convince him to do what is wise.”
“Sure. That’s our job.” Nathan swirled the mixture of coffee and bourbon that was left in his cup. After they had traded insults to begin the conversation, he and Red Buffalo had been talking like any two scouts would in this situation. Nathan could imagine him and Cullen saying pretty much the same things, or even him and Dietrich Bucher. But Red Buffalo wasn’t a white scout. He was an Indian. And it was damned odd—not to mention annoying—that Nathan seemed to have forgotten about that for a moment.
Won’t forget again, he told himself.
He downed the rest of the spiked coffee and stood up. “You trust these soldiers to keep a good enough watch?”
“Do you?”
“Not really. I’ll take the first half of the night.” He didn’t ask Red Buffalo which shift he would prefer. Nathan didn’t give a damn what the Crow wanted.
Red Buffalo just grunted assent. Nathan went and checked on Buck one more time, then took his rifle and faded back into the shadows under the trees, ready to spend the next few hours silent, motionless, and with every sense alert for any indication of danger.
CHAPTER 18
Nothing happened during the night, but somehow that lack of trouble didn’t ease Nathan’s mind. A sense of unease still gnawed at his guts the next morning, and a breakfast of flapjacks and bacon washed down with more strong coffee didn’t make it go away.
By sun-up, the patrol was moving on toward the ridge. The trail left by the Sioux was still plain to see. In fact, as the morning went on the tracks became even fresher, telling Nathan that Hanging Dog and his warriors were taking their time and not really trying to get away from the soldiers.
“Lieutenant, this doesn’t look good,” he said. “Those redskins want us to catch them.”
“That seems unlikely to me, Captain. How big would you say their force is?”
“Judging by the number of ponies... fifty men. You’re outnumbered.”
“Barely. And we’re well-armed, with a more than adequate supply of ammunition. Can the Sioux say that?”
“The one I saw yesterday was carrying a Winchester every bit as good as this one of mine,” Nathan pointed out. “And a fifteen-shot repeater beats those single-shot trapdoor Springfields of yours any day of the week.”
Pryor shook his head. “You don’t know how many of the hostiles are armed with such weapons. Why, most of them are probably carrying bows and arrows! Perhaps a few old trade muskets. You’re overestimating their capabilities, Captain.”
And the lieutenant was allowing his ambition and pride to blind him to the possibilities, Nathan thought.
Red Buffalo nudged his pony up on Pryor’s other side. “Stark is right. And even though we haven’t been out here for long, you should already know how much it pains me to say that, Lieutenant. Hanging Dog wants us to follow him. Actually, he wants us to catch up to him. There has to be a good reason for that. Good for him, that is. Not us.”
“I appreciate your caution, gentlemen. I really do. But when it comes to tactics and strategy, the final decision is mine, and I assure you, I’m well-equipped to make it.”
“High in your class at West Point, eh?” Nathan said. He knew it was a mistake as soon as the words came out.
Judging by Red Buffalo’s glare, the Crow scout did, too.
“That will be enough, sir,” Pryor snapped. “You may be a civilian, but I won’t stand for such displays of insubordination in the field.”
“Sorry,” Nathan muttered through clenched teeth. “I’m gonna have a look up ahead.” He dug his heels into Buck’s flanks.
“I will go, too,” Red Buffalo declared. He urged his pony to a faster pace before Lieutenant Pryor could give him any orders to the contrary.
Red Buffalo caught up with Nathan and asked from the corner of his mouth, “Are you trying to get us killed, Stark? That boy will never listen to reason now.”
“He wouldn’t have, anyway. He wants a fight, and he’s bound and determined to get one. Ledbetter probably dressed him down when he didn’t find anything on his last patrol, so he’s going to come back from this one with some Sioux scalps... or die tying.”
“I’m not worried about him dying,” Red Buffalo said. “It’s my own hide I’m worried about.”
“Maybe he’s right. Maybe Hanging Dog’s warriors have only a few of those Winchesters and we’ll have them outgunned. The numbers are close enough that superior firepower would swing the advantage our way.”
“How will we know until it’s too late to do anything about it?”
A cold grin stretched across Nathan’s face. “That’s the problem, all right.”
The mesa rose ahead of them. Its southern face was a long slope that wasn’t too steep for horses to climb. Sure-footed Indian ponies wouldn�
��t have any trouble with it, Nathan thought.
Then the ground leveled off for a half-mile or so before dropping off into the gorge that surrounded it on north, east, and west. It was a trap for any mounted force that ventured onto it, every bit as much as a box canyon would be.
Maybe Lieutenant Pryor wasn’t the only commander in the field with a thirst for glory, Nathan reflected. Once the patrol reached the bottom of the slope leading up to the mesa, Hanging Dog might intend to lead his warriors back down in a last-ditch charge. More than likely, the result would be to get himself and all his followers killed... but the rest of the Sioux would sing songs about his courage from then on.
Nathan’s jaw tightened. No. That was the sort of courageous but crazy thing a white man would do. Redskins were more practical than that. They fought for glory and the excitement of battle, sure, but more than anything else, they fought to win. They wouldn’t throw their lives away in some grand but ultimately meaningless gesture.
“I’ve heard stories about you, you know,” Red Buffalo said after they had ridden along for a few minutes in silence.
“Yeah, I know. They call me the Indian Killer. I’m not particularly proud of it, but I’ve never denied it.”
Red Buffalo shook his head. “No. I mean about what started you on that path in the beginning. About what happened to your family when the Pawnee raided the town where you lived.”
Nathan’s backbone went stiff as an iron ramrod. “You’ve got no call to talk about that. It was a long time ago. Years.”
And yet there were moments when it seemed like only yesterday, when the pain was as fresh and strong as if the wounds had just been inflicted . . .
“When I was a young man, the Blackfeet came to steal our ponies and kill our warriors and capture our women and children to make slaves out of them.”
“I didn’t ask you to tell me any of this.”
As if he hadn’t heard what Nathan said, Red Buffalo went on. “I was to be married soon to a young maiden called Bright Meadow. When the Blackfeet attacked our village, she was killed in the fighting. So were my mother and my father and my brother. I was left alone.”
Nathan Stark, Army Scout Page 12