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Overview
In the winter of 1866, trail partners Matt Slaughter and Ike Brister are hunting elk in the high lonesome of the Bighorn Mountains. But a clash with the Sioux—led by the dreaded Iron Claw—turns the knee-deep snow red with blood. Only the deadly rapid-fire of Matt’s Henry rifle—the feared spirit gun—gets him and Ike out alive.
Back at Fort Laramie, Matt and Ike sign up as cavalry scouts. Prospectors on the Bozeman Trail are an endangered species, especially now that Iron Claw has declared war on all whites using the trail. When Matt’s girl is taken captive, a bloody showdown with Iron Claw is inevitable. And it’s destined to take place beyond the mountains Matt and Ike fled for dear life—in a valley called Little Bighorn…
“Rarely has an author painted the great American West in strokes so bold, vivid, and true.”—Ralph Compton
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781101662793 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 09/05/2006 |
| Series: | A Matt Slaughter Novel |
| Sold by: | Penguin Group |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Sales rank: | 81,587 |
| File size: | 658 KB |
| Age Range: | 18 Years |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The first shot came from Ike’s side of the ravine, the bullet kicking up some dirt two feet in front of the trench. Ike aimed at the spot where he thought he’d seen a muzzle flash and fired a return shot. Moments later, a barrage of shots rained down from both sides of the ravine, pinning Matt and Ike down in the trench. When there was a lull in the firing, they each returned a single shot. This was repeated several times, with the Sioux firing at random and the two white men responding with single shots spaced about thirty seconds apart. Thus far in the assault, there were no casualties and none likely since there were no clear targets on either side. There followed a lull in the firing from the Sioux, and Ike warned Matt to get ready. . . .
THE
HOSTILE TRAIL
Charles G. West
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Ike Brister took a cautious step forward in the knee-deep snow, his gaze unwavering as he watched for the first indication that the confused bull elk was about to charge. His rifle was ready, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The elk eyed him suspiciously, tossing his head back and forth and pawing the snow in warning. Moving very deliberately, Ike took one more step and stopped. He was as close to the huge animal as he dared. He glanced toward the clump of pines on the slope to his left. Hurry up, dammit, he thought. This son of a bitch is fixing to jump into my lap. The agitated bull elk had exhausted his patience, with the strange creature seeming to challenge him. He lowered his head and shook his huge antlers back and forth violently as he pawed the snow. Ike raised his rifle and aimed at the massive head, just in case the elk was preparing to charge. He waited, his finger on the trigger. A figure rose silently in the pines, and a second later the elk bolted sideways, an arrow embedded deep in his lung. Enraged and confused, the bull tried to sidestep away from the pain in his side, only to feel the lethal sting of a second arrow a few inches from the first. Ike kept his rifle sighted on the crazed animal in case it was still thinking about charging him. A bull elk sometimes took a little time dying, and this one might take a notion to take Ike with him. If at all possible, Ike wanted to avoid firing his rifle in this part of the mountains. The shot would echo through the canyons for miles and might bring a Sioux hunting party down on them. There had been several Sioux hunting parties working this side of the Bighorns within the past week.
Much to Ike’s relief, the elk did not charge. Confused, it tried to retreat, bounding up the slope, still trying to sidestep away from the pain. But before it could reach the top, its legs became wobbly, and it went down on its knees in the snow. There it remained, waiting for the two white men to finish the kill.
“What in hell was you waitin’ for?” Ike asked when he caught up to his younger friend. “I thought me and that damn elk was fixin’ to have us a dance.”
Already preparing to skin his kill, Matt Slaughter grinned up at his friend. “I’d have paid money to see that,” he teased. “Seein’ as how you two are about the same size, you’da made a handsome couple.”
“Huh,” the big man snorted. “Next time you can be the bait, and I’ll do the killin’.” They both knew that was just idle talk because Ike couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bow. Ike would say that he had just never had any use for a bow as long as he had his Spencer rifle. Although he would never mention it, Matt knew there were other reasons, reasons that Ike didn’t care to acknowledge. Sometimes a man aged faster when forced to live by his wits. Lately, Matt could see signs of his partner’s aging—a hand that was not as steady as before, an eye that was not as keen as when he was a young man. Still, the old man was not ready to return to the settlements just yet. And before he reached that stage, Matt promised himself that he would take care of him.
As far as the bow was concerned, Matt took to it like he was born with one in his hand. This particular bow was special. It held sentimental value for both men. It had belonged to a young Cherokee boy who had been killed only a few months before by a white bushwhacker. Crooked Foot had been held in high regard by Matt and Ike, and Matt had kept the boy’s bow. He had spent a good deal of time practicing with the weapon, and it had proven to be time well spent. Making a winter camp in the Bighorn Mountains, the two partners found the bow essential. It was not only a silent weapon, it saved on the consumption of precious .44 cartridges.
The need for silence and secrecy was especially important now that there had been an increase in Indian activity between the Bighorns and South Pass. It was a dangerous time for two lone white men in the Powder River country, even in the dead of winter. The Sioux and Cheyenne had raided all summer along the Bozeman Trail, attacking any parties traveling that route to the Montana goldfields. It had not helped matters when the army built Fort Reno on the Powder River just that past August. The fort, originally called Camp Connor, had not been garrisoned as yet, but Chief High Backbone and Red Cloud knew there would be soldiers there soon. It was fairly obvious to the Sioux leaders that the purpose of the fort was to protect travelers on the Bozeman Trail.
At the beginning of winter, the partners had planned to wait out the cold weather at Fort Laramie. After a couple of idle weeks, however, they decided there was nothing for them to do for employment of any nature there. The army would not be hiring any more scouts until spring. And it was painfully obvious that what cash they had would soon disappear if they spent their days hanging around the post trader’s store. At the beginning of their third week at Fort Laramie, Ike announced, “Hell, I’d rather head for the hills and live like an Injun than set around here till spring.”
Matt wasn’t sure the bushy-faced old trapper was serious, but the idea suited him just fine. He wasn’t comfortable in crowded places, and Fort Laramie was beginning to close in on him. Ike’s remark was all it took. They set out for the Powder River country the next day. Even a blizzard on the second day out failed to dull their determination as they made their way northwest, with the Laramie Mountains to the west of their trail.
After seemingly endless travel from one snowy camp to another, they found themselves in the Bighorn Mountains and decided to make their base camp there. In a narrow canyon, protected from the winter winds by steep, rocky walls, they built a shelter for the horses, using young pine trees. Game was not that plentiful where they made their camp, but they agreed that it was better to ride some distance from their base to hunt so as not to draw any curious Sioux. Firewood was also a problem. The canyon was convenient to abundant pine, but green wood burned with far too much smoke, so they had to travel considerable distances to find suitable fuel for the fire. If they had allowed themselves to consider the difficulty of their situation and the hardship it created, they might have headed back to the settlement.
“I’da heap druther you was a nice young cow,” Ike commented to the elk as he worked to force his knife through the tough flesh. “This ol’ boy was gettin’ on in years. I’ll bet he was as old as I am.”
“I hope to hell he’ll be better eatin’ than you’d be,” Matt teased as he packed snow into the chest cavity to soak up the blood. They had been so long without fresh meat that they did not have the luxury of being picky. Though old and tough, this elk was the first game they had found in almost a week. And to make matters worse, they had come across recent sign of Indian hunting parties close to their camp. Sioux or Cheyenne, they couldn’t tell which, but as Ike had commented, two white men in their country were not welcomed by either tribe.
“I reckon the Great Spirit took pity on us, and sent this old bull wanderin’ up here before we got so hungry we started eyeballin’ each other,” Ike said with a chuckle. “He musta got run off by some younger bull and lost his ladies.” He sat back on his heels and threw off his bearskin robe to give himself more room to work. “Well, it was just a matter of time before he got took down by a pack of wolves. He’ll serve a better purpose feedin’ the likes of us.” Ike rambled on as he worked steadily away at quartering the elk until he realized that Matt wasn’t listening. He looked up to see his partner signaling him to be silent.
Matt listened for a few moments, his ear turned to the wind. He turned then to look at the horses. The buckskin’s ears were twitching, and a moment later Ike’s horse neighed softly. “Best get that meat loaded on the horses,” he called back over his shoulder as he got to his feet and scrambled up to the top of the ridge.
Detecting a sense of urgency in his partner’s tone, Ike dropped his skinning knife on the elk hide beside the half-butchered carcass, and hurried after Matt. “Damn,” he exclaimed softly as he flattened himself beside Matt in the snow. Riding single file through a narrow gulch below the two white men, a hunting party of a dozen Sioux made their way at a leisurely pace toward the ridge. They were still more than half a mile away. “We ain’t cut meat in a week, and when we finally find one ol’ tough elk, along comes a huntin’ party,” Ike complained.
“I don’t know if they’ve been trackin’ the same elk,” Matt said, “but if they have, he’s gonna lead them right to us when they get to the snow line.” A couple hundred yards more and the hunting party would reach a clear trail with not only the elk’s tracks but also those of three horses, leading them right up the slope. “I expect we’d better get busy,” Matt said, his voice devoid of any sign of excitement.
They withdrew from the crest of the ridge and wasted no time getting back to the business at hand. The safest action would have been to flee immediately, but neither Matt nor Ike had any intention of leaving the entire supply of fresh meat to the Indians. Working feverishly over the carcass, both men chopped at the bones and sliced the flesh into quarters. While Ike started hefting the meat onto the packhorse, Matt ran back up to the top of the ridge to check on the progress of the hunting party. There was no time to linger. The Indians were already closer than he had anticipated, and had just discovered the tracks in the snow. He could hear bits of excited words carried on the wind as the Lakota hunters talked among themselves. Matt didn’t wait any longer.
“Tie down what you’ve got!” he sang out as he hurried down the hill. “We don’t have time to take the rest.” Ike did as he was told, and Matt grabbed one of the remaining sections of meat and tied it with the loose end of a strap while the big man ran for his horse. The pack secure, Matt stepped up in the saddle and held the buckskin back while he grabbed the packhorse’s lead rope. Ike, his huge bulk plowing through the knee-deep snow like a buffalo bull, took a giant leap for the saddle, only to miss the stirrup with his foot. The resulting collision between man and horse caused the bay to sidestep and kick its hind legs in the air.
“Damn you!” Ike roared. “Hold still!” The bay, however, was leery of further contact with the big trapper, and continued to pull away until Matt drove the buckskin up to block it. “Damfool horse,” Ike grumbled as he stuck his foot in the stirrup, embarrassed even in the face of imminent danger. It didn’t help when he looked up and saw Matt’s wide grin. “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he said, and gave the bay a sharp kick with his heels. Matt followed, and the two white men charged down the slope, driving their horses as hard as they dared through the snow.
* * *
Broken Bow paused at the crest of the ridge, and signaled the others. When the rest of the hunters rode up to him, he turned and pointed to the carcass in the snow some forty yards down the other side of the slope. Iron Claw, the leader of the party, nodded and pushed off down the hill toward the site of the butchering.
Arriving at the carcass, the hunters rode back and forth around the site of the killing, looking at the trampled snow and the signs of the activity they had just interrupted. Wasicu, Iron Claw thought as he stared at the remains of the elk. This had to be the work of the two white men who had camped in the mountains all winter. Iron Claw’s nostrils flared in anger. None of his scouts had actually seen the two white men, but there had been occasional sign that told of their presence in the land of the Lakota. This day, the Great Spirit might be smiling upon them, for the wasicu could not be far ahead of them. Iron Claw jerked his head around to look at Broken Bow. “We may have caught the white coyotes this time. Leave the meat,” he directed several of the hunters who were examining the carcass.
With Iron Claw in the lead, the Lakota hunters took up the obvious trail the white men had left in their haste to depart. Pushing their Indian ponies as hard as possible without tumbling in the snow, they followed the trail down the slope to the point where the line of snow stopped. There they paused only long enough to examine the tracks left in the loose shale to make sure they were still on the trail.
Broken Bow looked down the narrow gulch toward the valley beyond. The white men had made no effort to hide their trail. They had obviously been intent upon escaping as fast as possible. “We will catch these coyotes,” he shouted, bringing a chorus of war cries from the others. Descending rapidly to the bottom of the slope, they raced down the gulch at a gallop.
Barely half a mile ahead of the Sioux party, Matt and Ike pushed their horses for all the speed they could muster. At first there was nothing but the sound of their hooves pounding upon the valley floor. But gradually the sounds of excited war whoops began to carry over the beat of the horses. It was not a good sign, for it meant their mounts were being outrun by the swift Indian ponies. To add to their disadvantage, the packhorse was slowing them down. Although not a match for speed with the Indian ponies, the buckskin was holding his own in endurance, but the other two horses were beginning to show signs of fatigue. The Sioux ponies were gradually closing the gap. With no other option available, Matt and Ike both started looking for a suitable place to make a stand.
As they thundered down the valley, Ike shouted something. Matt couldn’t understand what he was yelling about, but the big man pointed toward a rocky defile near the end of the valley. Matt nodded and promptly guided the buckskin toward it. The big horse responded without breaking stride.
Into the mouth of a deep ravine they charged, dismounting as the horses slid to a stop. They led the horses back within the walls of the ravine where they would be safe, then hurried to take up positions on either side of the opening. “If we’re lucky,” Ike said, “they’ll ride right on by.”
With rifles ready and cartridge belts at hand, they prepared for an assault. While they waited, Matt couldn’t resist taking a playful jab at his oversized partner. “Sometime when we ain’t so busy, I’d like you to teach me that quick mount technique you demonstrated back there on the ridge.”
The big man blushed behind his whiskers. “That damfool horse wouldn’t hold still,” he offered lamely. He grinned sheepishly. “I reckon I did come pretty close to bustin’ my ass.”
They didn’t have to wait long. Within minutes, the Lakota hunters rode out of the valley, their ponies grunting with the effort. Deerskin fringes fluttering in the wind, the party drove toward the passage that led to the next valley. Suddenly the leader held up his hand and halted his warriors. He had seen something in the soft floor of the valley, a sharp hoofprint where the white men had swerved toward the ravine. “Well, I reckon we ain’t lucky,” Ike opined when he saw them stop.
* * *
“We have them trapped,” Broken Bow exclaimed as he pulled his pony up beside Iron Claw. “There is no way out of that ravine but the way they went in.”
“There are only two of them,” one of the other hunters said. “Why don’t we rush them?”
“We would risk losing lives if we charge them,” Iron Claw said. “I think it would be wise to find out how well they are armed before we decide the best way to attack.”
“Maybe they don’t have guns,” Broken Bow offered. “The elk was killed with arrows.”
“I think they have guns,” Iron Claw replied. “I think these are the two white men who have been camping in the mountains all winter, and some of our hunting parties said they have heard gunshots on several occasions.” Iron Claw was especially interested in seeing the white men who had made their winter camp in Lakota hunting ground. There had been many times when evidence of their existence was found, even though no one had ever actually seen the white hunters. Some in his village were even beginning to speak of them as ghosts that were impossible to see. Iron Claw was not one to believe such stories, but he had come to be fascinated with the white men.
“I’ll find out if they have guns,” Gray Bull, the warrior who had suggested rushing them, volunteered. “Who will go with me?”
Two of the others quickly spoke up. Iron Claw cautioned them. “If you go charging into that ravine, you will be killed. A better plan would be to divide our party and climb the slopes on both sides. There is plenty of cover above them, and we will have them in a cross fire.”
“Iron Claw is right,” Broken Bow said. “Why risk our lives foolishly?” Without waiting for further discussion, he wheeled his pony and said, “Half of you come with me. We’ll circle around this side. The rest can go with Iron Claw.”
* * *
Matt and Ike watched the Sioux party as they decided upon their plan of attack. “That one doin’ most of the talkin’ must be the big dog,” Ike remarked, referring to Iron Claw. Even at that distance, the Sioux warrior was an imposing figure.
“I reckon,” Matt replied. Like Ike, he had focused upon the warrior riding the paint pony. With deep-set eyes glaring out from under a prominent brow, and a pronounced hook nose, the warrior reminded Matt of a hawk.
In the next moment, the Indians split up and rode off in different directions. It didn’t take a great deal of speculation to determine what was about to take place. Both men looked around them at the steep sides of the ravine and the rocky patches above. There was plenty of cover for the Sioux on either side. “Next time it would be nice to pick a ravine with a back door to it,” Matt commented as he repositioned himself to cover his side of the ravine.
“Next time maybe we can ask the Injuns to give us a little notice so’s we can pick a better spot,” Ike replied.
Using a trench for cover, both men knelt and watched the rim of the ravine above them. “Most likely they’re gonna test us to see what kind of firepower we’re totin’,” Ike said. “So when they show up, just shoot once, then wait a little between shots. Make ’em think we’ve just got single-shot rifles. My guess is they might try to rush us if they think we have to take time to reload. That’s when we’ll have the best chance to cut down the odds, maybe make ’em think twice about jumpin’ us again.”
“All right,” Matt said. The plan sounded good to him. He felt no need to comment that if it didn’t work, they could be trapped there indefinitely.
The first shot came from Ike’s side of the ravine, the bullet kicking up dirt some two feet in front of the trench. Ike aimed at the spot where he thought he’d seen a muzzle flash and fired a return shot. Moments later, a barrage of shots rained down from both sides of the ravine, pinning Matt and Ike down in the trench. When there was a lull in the firing, they each returned a single shot. This was repeated several times, with the Sioux firing at random and the two white men responding with single shots spaced about thirty seconds apart. Thus far in the assault, there were no casualties and none likely since there were no clear targets on either side. There followed a lull in the firing from the Sioux, and Ike warned Matt to get ready. “They’re thinkin’ it over now.”
* * *
“We’re wasting bullets,” Three Horses complained. “They don’t have the spirit guns. They are reloading after every shot. I say we should attack them after they shoot again. We can be upon them before they have a chance to reload.”
Iron Claw considered Three Horses’ words for a few moments. What his friend said was probably true, but what if the white men were trying to fool them? “What do you think, Gray Bull?” Iron Claw asked.
“I think Three Horses is right,” the warrior replied. He, like most of the others, was getting impatient with the ineffective assault. “I think we should rush them after their next shots. We can kill them with our knives before they have a chance to reload.” It was agreed then, and Iron Claw signaled to Broken Bow on the other side of the ravine.
* * *
Down in the trench, Matt watched the rim of the ravine carefully. “They’ve been talkin’ a long time,” he said. As soon as he had uttered the words, a fresh barrage of lead was thrown down upon them.
“Here they come!” Ike warned as they both answered with single shots. Moments later, the Sioux warriors poured over the sides of the ravine and charged down the slopes.
There was no time for either man to worry about his back. Each had to trust his partner to take care of business on his side of the fight. Matt raised up enough to clear his upper body so that he had freedom of motion to sweep the slope with rifle fire. Firing and cocking and firing again without pause, he proceeded to cut down three of the charging Sioux with deadly precision. He could hear Ike’s Spencer barking behind him, but dared not take time to judge the results. The three remaining warriors on his side, realizing the killing machine they had triggered, tried to turn as fast as they could. But the steepness of the slope made retreat difficult. Two managed to escape over the rim of the ravine unharmed. The third, the hawk-faced warrior, was hit in the thigh but made it over the rim with the help of his friends. Only then could Matt turn to see what was taking place behind him.
“I got two,” Ike said, reloading his rifle as quickly as he could. “I maybe hit another one. I ain’t sure. But we sure as hell run ’em off for now.”
Matt didn’t wait to talk it over. He ran back down the ravine to get the horses. Leading them toward the mouth of the gulch, he yelled, “We need to get the hell outta here while we’ve got the chance. I don’t fancy spending the night here.”
Ike was in complete agreement. If the village the hunting party had come from was close by, the six or seven survivors of the fight would soon be back with reinforcements. He jumped up in the stirrup and followed Matt, who was already galloping out of the ravine, leading the packhorse with their supply of elk meat.
Back on the ridge, Iron Claw, furious over having been tricked by the white men, struggled to his feet with the help of his two comrades. Ignoring the blood that soaked his thigh, he stared angrily at the fleeing white men, burning the image of the young rifleman with the spirit gun into his memory.
Chapter 2
Libby Donovan Lyons paused to recall the day her first husband had bought the shawl of white lace she held in her hands. It had served as her bridal veil two months before when she married Franklin Lyons. She folded it carefully now to be put away once more in her trunk, where it would no doubt lie until some other special occasion called for it. What that occasion might be, she could not imagine. It would likely not be to celebrate the birth of a child. At her age, child birthing was a thing of the past. With a seventeen-year-old daughter, she couldn’t imagine having a baby, anyway. Besides, Franklin had no desire to start a family, having already raised one.
Libby and Franklin’s marriage had been one of convenience for both parties. Franklin’s wife had succumbed to pneumonia more than two years before. He had a grown son with a family back in Omaha, but had lost touch with him after deciding to head west. He had intended to pass on through Nebraska City last winter, but decided the weather was too bad to push on. Like most folks who passed through Fort Kearny, he soon discovered Libby’s Kitchen, the hotel dining room run by a widow woman with a daughter who could not speak.
Libby took note of the rather distinguished-looking middle-aged man who had begun to show up for every meal. He always took off his hat before seating himself at her table—obviously a man of manners and respect for a lady. And he always had a warm smile for her. Soon he began lingering a few minutes after eating to engage her in friendly conversation. He was a widower, he told her, and with no family to provide for, he had decided to follow the search for gold in the Montana hills. It was a daring thing to do for a man at his stage in life, she had told him. “What stage?” he had retorted. “I may be more’n half a century by yearly count, but I’m still a pup inside.”
His remark had caused her to think about her own situation. She was pushing fifty herself, and she found that she was thinking a lot about Franklin Lyons. She must have exhibited signs of her interest in the polite widower with the graying temples, for he soon began to appear in her kitchen well before the advertised mealtimes. She was not quite sure when their relationship passed from casual to one of special interest, but when he proposed that she might consider a union between the two of them, she could not come up with a strong enough reason to refuse. It seemed that she had been unaware of how tired she had become of running a kitchen for the hotel until that moment. And she realized that she did not want to spend the rest of her life dishing out hash and beans until she dropped in the traces.
And what of Molly? Would Molly grow old slaving away in the kitchen if Libby declined? Molly had been her greatest concern when she was considering Franklin’s proposal. How would the slender young girl react to the idea of her mother getting married again? As it turned out, her daughter was fine with the idea. She recognized the decency in Franklin Lyons and was happy for her mother. Franklin was more than happy to provide for mother and daughter.
Thinking of the seemingly melancholy young girl, Libby gazed again at the lace shawl she held in her hands. It was unlikely the lace would be worn in a wedding for her daughter. For whatever reason, God had not seen fit to provide Molly with the ability to speak. When she was a young child, Molly would attempt to speak, but the sounds that she made were cause for laughter and ridicule. So she stopped trying to talk, preferring to withdraw into a silent world. Libby often despaired over the shame of it. Molly was not a beautiful girl, but neither was she overly plain. If she had not been so shy and withdrawn, she might have had a chance at someday finding someone and starting a family. Libby shook her head sadly. Molly was destined to a life alone. The only thing romantic the poor girl could cling to was a little silver Saint Christopher’s medal that she wore constantly, given to her by a young man dressed in buckskins. He intended it as a token of his appreciation after her quick thinking had prevented his being shot in an altercation at Libby’s Kitchen. Though it was only a kind gesture, Molly treasured the medal as if it were a wedding ring. Of course, the handsome young scout had gone on his way, never to be seen around Fort Kearny again, just another one of the wild ones that rode the high plains. Libby was certain the young man had no clue of Molly’s infatuation. She didn’t even remember his name.
It was with little regret that she said good-bye to the hotel dining room that had known the name Libby’s Kitchen for more than eight years. She had made only a few friends during that span of time—none that she couldn’t bear to leave. John Bryant, who owned the hotel, was perhaps the saddest to see her go, for she would be hard to replace. She ignored the advice of those who thought it folly for a woman of her age to set off on a journey that would take the measure of someone younger. “How much do you really know about this man?” John Bryant had asked, referring to Franklin Lyons.
“All I need to know,” Libby had replied, confident in the kindness she read in her new husband’s eyes.
“What does he know about mining for gold?” Bryant had questioned.
“As much as any dreamer who’s willing to risk a little hardship and disappointment,” Libby said. She didn’t add that it was better than withering away in Nebraska City.
* * *
It was early spring when Franklin Lyons, wife, and daughter had rolled into Fort Laramie. Already the trip had been difficult, the winter having been especially harsh that year. But they arrived at the busy outpost still in good spirits, their determination intact.
It had been Franklin’s plan to join others who planned to follow the Bozeman Trail to the goldfields in Montana Territory. However, his eagerness to embark upon the journey brought his new family to Fort Laramie a bit too early in the season to rendezvous with other parties bent upon adventure. The decision left to him and Libby was whether to wait there at the fort until other gold seekers showed up or to strike out for Montana alone. They were strongly advised against the latter by Colonel Henry Maynadier, the post commander. There had already been some hostile Indian activity reported, and a wagon alone would be a risky endeavor.
“Are you familiar with the country between here and Montana?” Colonel Maynadier asked.
“Well, no,” Franklin was forced to admit. “I expect we’ll be looking for a guide if we decide to go on alone.”
The decision had been a tough one to make. Franklin and Libby talked it over and reluctantly decided to take the advice given by the colonel. They camped there near the river and waited. A week passed with no appearance of additional prospectors. With their provisions steadily declining, it became more and more frustrating to sit and wait. To make their delay even more intolerable, the weather had turned pleasant, giving signs that spring may have arrived early. The incident that had reversed their decision to wait was the chance meeting of one Jack Black Dog at the post trader’s store.
Jack Black Dog was well known around Fort Laramie. The son of a white trapper and a Brule Sioux woman, Jack had dark, sullen eyes set deep within a narrow face, and he dressed in smoky buckskins. He worked off and on as a scout for the army, but was not trusted as a full-time scout, due to a tendency to disappear occasionally, only to show up a few weeks later looking for work again. None of the Crow scouts wanted to work with him, for it was widely known that he spent most of his life living with various bands of Sioux.
Jack Black Dog was prone to swap stories with anyone who was willing to buy him a drink, and he quickly befriended Franklin Lyons. Over a glass of beer, he had told Franklin of his many adventures in Indian territory and boasted about his intimate knowledge of every ridge and ravine between Fort Laramie and Virginia City. “Hell,” he proclaimed, “I rode that country up the Powder, east of the Bighorns, long before John Bozeman even thought about markin’ a trail.”
The longer they talked, the more eager Franklin became to get started. Before the night was over, they had entered a contract together. Jack agreed to guide Franklin and his two women to Montana for wages of three dollars a day. Franklin did express concerns about the wisdom of passing through Sioux country, but Jack assured him that there was little danger as long as they were with him. “Hell, I go and come as I please, all the time,” he boasted. “I live with the Lakota half the time. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about when you’re with me.
Libby was not confident that Franklin had made the right decision, and she said as much to her husband. She was even more doubtful when the post trader, Seth Ward, advised against it. “Are you sure it wouldn’t be a lot safer thing to wait till some other folks show up, so we could all go together?” Libby asked. “Most folks around here believe that half-breed you’ve hired would just as soon stick a knife in you as look at you.”
Franklin was patient in answering, but he was convinced that it was not as risky as Seth claimed. “Jack says the soldiers always make it sound more dangerous than it really is,” he said. “Don’t you see? Seth Ward would like to have us hang around here all spring, so we’d buy more supplies. I think we’ll be all right if we’re careful. After all, the man travels through that country all the time,” he insisted, referring to Jack Black Dog.
So here they were, four days after leaving Fort Laramie, gathered around the broken wheel of their wagon, the Bighorn Mountains watching silently from the west. “Reckon you can fix it?” Jack Black Dog asked. He seemed to be irritated at Franklin for the bad luck.
“I reckon,” Franklin replied, “but it’ll take some time.”
“We can leave the wagon and take what we can carry on the mules,” Jack suggested.
“No,” Franklin replied with no uncertainty. “I need the wagon.” He gave Libby an apologetic shake of the head, then set to work mending the wheel. Libby and Molly went about the business of making a fire and rustling up something to eat.
“I expect I’d best ride on up ahead a piece to make sure there ain’t no hostile Injuns about,” Jack announced. He paused for a moment to leer unabashedly at Molly, who accidentally exposed a milky white calf as she climbed down from the wagon. He grinned when she hurriedly pulled her skirt down. Then he stepped up in the saddle. “I’ll be back directly. Maybe you’ll have that there wheel fixed.”
Libby stood, hands on hips, shaking her head, watching their scout ride off toward the north. “I reckon helping you fix wagon wheels ain’t in his contract,” she said in disgust.
Franklin was still working on the wheel when the sun went behind the Bighorns. Libby persuaded him to put it aside for the time being, saying the job might as well wait until morning. He reluctantly agreed, and sat down to a plate of side meat and beans just as Jack Black Dog returned. Without taking time to unsaddle his horse, he went immediately to the campfire to help himself to supper. With a lecherous wink for the silent young girl, he sat down beside her and proceeded to gobble his food noisily. Libby and Franklin exchanged frowns. It was obvious to them both that Jack might prove to be a problem before they reached Montana.
They had no way of knowing exactly how long the Sioux war party had been watching them. And they would not know of the Indians’ presence until it was too late. As darkness settled in to surround the tiny campfire, Libby got up to collect the empty plates. She could not help but wonder at the foolish grin on Jack Black Dog’s face as he handed her his plate. A muted sound in the darkness behind the guide caused her to look up in time to see a menacing-looking figure step into the firelight.
Followed immediately by several other warriors, Iron Claw strode up to the fire, glancing around him at the stunned family. His fearsome appearance rendered Libby as incapable of speech as her daughter at that moment. Desperately trying to gather his wits, Franklin made an attempt to offer hospitality. “We pretty much finished our supper,” he stammered, “but my wife can cook up some more if you’re hungry.
Iron Claw gazed at him for a long moment with eyes filled with contempt. Then he calmly raised the pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger. Libby screamed in horror as Franklin slid to the ground with a bullet hole in his forehead. Her scream had not died away before a second shot tore into her breast. Terrified, Molly ran to help her mother. Iron Claw raised his pistol again, but Jack Black Dog yelled, “No! She’s mine!” And he grabbed Molly by the arms, holding her back.
Iron Claw hesitated. He fixed Jack with a cold stare while he deliberated. The Sioux war chief had little more than contempt for the treacherous half-breed, but he was useful on occasion. “I will take the girl,” he decided. “Maybe I’ll give her to you later.”
“Please don’t hurt my baby” were Libby’s last words before a Sioux warrior silenced her for good with one quick slash across her throat.
* * *
The morning broke cold and rainy on the day Matt and Ike rode into Fort Laramie. It was sometime around the first or maybe the middle of March, by Ike’s reckoning. There was no way he could be sure, since neither partner really cared to keep track of the days. At the beginning of winter, when they had left Fort Laramie before, they had not planned to return until late spring. The incident with Iron Claw’s hunting party had caused them to change their plans, however. The Lakota war chief became obsessed with the capture of the two white hunters, and the weeks that followed the fight in the ravine became a deadly cat-and-mouse game. Sioux war parties combed the mountains east of the Bighorn River, searching for the two intruders who were trespassing on Lakota hunting grounds. Almost every scouting party they saw had the same leader. At first Matt recognized him by the paint pony he rode. On one occasion, when he and Ike were almost surprised by a small war party, there was no time to run. Figuring they were going to be forced to make a stand, they hid the horses in a ravine and took cover in some rocks along the top. The Sioux warriors appeared to be following their trail as they approached the ravine, but they made no motions directly toward the two white men hiding in the rocks. They appeared to be confused.
“Hold on a minute,” Ike whispered. “I don’t think they know we’re here.”
In fact, the warriors seemed to be arguing among themselves. Finally one of them, the rider of the paint pony, spoke, and the others immediately ceased their bantering. With the first real opportunity to see the man up fairly close, Matt looked long and hard at him, interested to see one who seemed so dead set upon finding him and Ike. He was certain he would recognize him again. He was even closer than he had been when Matt and Ike were trapped in the ravine. The pronounced hawklike quality of the warrior’s face made him appear always to be angry.
After that close encounter, they decided it was too dangerous to remain in one camp for longer than a day or two before moving to another. Finally, after more close calls, they decided it was getting a little too hot altogether for them to stay in the territory. They had talked about moving on west toward the Wind River country, but the prospect of gainful employment with the army offered the opportunity to restock supplies and ammunition. The decision made, they returned to Fort Laramie, both men and horses lean and weary from a hard winter spent in the midst of hostile country.
On the day of their arrival, there was a full-dress formation on the parade ground. The two hunters skirted the formation, heading for the post trader’s store. “What in tarnation is that all about?” Ike exclaimed. “Nobody but soldiers would dress up in their Sunday suits and march around in the rain for no reason at all.” Matt didn’t reply. He had served in the army, although it was not the Union Army, and he knew that all armies were prone to parade for no reason at all.
* * *
Seth Ward glanced up through bushy black eyebrows to squint at the two men dressed head to foot in deerskins. “Well, Ike, I thought you were gone till spring,” the post trader said. “What’s the matter? Too cold up there in the mountains?”
“Too damn many Injuns,” was Ike’s gruff reply. “How you doin’, Seth?”
“Tolerable,” Seth replied. “I swear, I’m surprised to see you back so soon, though. Thought maybe you’d go Injun for good, maybe join up with ol’ Cooter Martin.” He chuckled when Ike grunted in response.
