Four days out from Fort Lincoln the patrol halted in a grove of trees near the banks of the Little Missouri. It had been a long, tedious patrol and Tom decided the men could use a little rest and the opportunity to shake some of the dust out of their clothes. He was the ranking officer on this detail, Captain Benteen having remained in Lincoln with a slight case of the dropsy. It was one of the few opportunities Tom had to command a patrol of longer than three days and fifty miles. He usually rode second in command to the captain and he was enjoying the temporary freedom to make his own decisions. There was no real anticipation of trouble of a major nature since the Sioux had been relatively quiet over the summer with no hostile activity beyond scattered raids on settlers or freighters. With both Andy and Squint along as scouts, he had little fear of riding into ambush, at least not this close to Fort Lincoln. While the men and horses rested in the shade of the cottonwoods, both scouts were out on the western side of the river, Squint to the south and Andy to the north.
He settled himself with his back against a tree and removed his hat to wipe some of the perspiration from his forehead. From his position he could see out across the muddy river to the rolling plains and the distant mountains on the horizon. The mountains looked to be no more than a half day’s ride from the tree he was leaning against, but he knew they were probably two full days away. “Everything is distorted in this damn country,” he muttered. “It sure is a long sight from Mississippi.” The memory passed through his mind of that hot summer day near Vicksburg when he lay in a muddy ditch and saw his first cavalry charge. That war was a million years removed from the war he was fighting now. Back then, it was a war with rules. A man knew who and where the enemy was because most of the time he was coming straight at you, firing volleys of rifle fire. Cannon roared and foot soldiers charged, bayonets fixed. And the cavalry was glorious, galloping into the fray with swords drawn and brightly colored sashes flying. With that thought in mind, he looked about him at the weary troopers taking advantage of the short break in their march. There was no glory to be won out here. Most of the time they never caught sight of the savages they hunted, only where they had been. It was like chasing spirits. On the occasion when a war party was actually spotted, it was usually because they wanted to be seen, hoping they could lead you into an ambush in some blind draw. Or, if you outnumbered them and gave chase, they would simply disappear in a country where you could see for miles all around you. Maybe Custer was right. Maybe the only way to fight the Indians was to attack them in their winter camps. Then the memory of Washita came to mind and he at once experienced a sour taste in his mouth. That engagement had sickened him with the aimless killing of women and children. They had even shot the camp dogs. It would be a long time indeed before he could rid his nostrils of the stench of that burning village. He took a deep breath and tried to shake the scene from his mind. He didn’t like to think too long on that battle, as Colonel Custer referred to it. It was more like a slaughter in Tom’s mind.
He stared at the tiny cloud of dust on the far side of the river for a good thirty seconds before he brought his mind back from its meandering and realized the dust cloud had been kicked up by Squint Peterson’s horse. Squint topped a rise and headed for the river and Tom was forced to call his attention back to the present. He was still a good distance away, but even at that distance, there was no mistaking the solid figure that was Squint Peterson. Joe was a solidly built roan and big as most horses go. He had to be to carry Squint’s bulk. But Squint made him appear to be no bigger than an Indian pony from a distance. He crossed the river and headed toward the grove of trees where the detachment was resting, Joe working at an easy gallop. Tom guessed that whatever Squint had found, it wasn’t important enough to overwork Joe. Tom stood up and walked to meet him.
“Lieutenant,” Squint said calmly. “Might be somethin’, I don’t know, but I reckon you might want to take a look.”
Tom reached for his horse’s reins. He had been with Squint long enough now to know that as with Andy Coulter, if he suggested some action, there was usually cause to take action. “What is it, Squint?”
“Smoke, off to the northwest,” he replied. “Could be a brush fire, too big for a smoke signal.” He paused and Tom guessed that his next suggestion was what Squint really thought it was in the first place. “But it could be some settlers’ wagons burning.”
Tom was already in the saddle. “Sergeant Porter, mount ’em up!”
The detachment forded the river in a column of twos. Tom sighted Andy Coulter in the distance, angling across the prairie to intercept the column. Within a half mile’s length, he reined in beside Squint and Tom.
“What do you make of it?” he asked Squint.
“Pilgrims, I reckon, or freighters,” Squint replied. “Probably got hit by a Sioux war party.”
“Yeah, that’s what I figure. You can tell by the color of the smoke that it ain’t no brush fire. That looks like folks’ goods burning.”
They rode four or more miles before they reached a horseshoe-shaped grassy draw that appeared to contain the origin of the smoke. Tom slowed the troop to a walk while Andy and Squint rode out ahead to scout the area. He didn’t want to go charging into the draw just to find out he was badly outnumbered by hostiles who were eagerly awaiting him. Not more than ten or fifteen minutes passed before Andy reappeared on a knoll above the draw and signaled him to come on in.
The scene awaiting him was by no means unusual to Tom. He had witnessed the same scenario a few times before, only with different wagons, different bodies. This time there were two wagons burning, the livestock gone from one wagon. The other still had a team of horses hitched, all dead. This puzzled him somewhat. It wasn’t like an Indian to leave good horses behind. The thought left him when he heard Andy behind him.
“I count six dead, five by the wagons and one more up the rise there.” He pointed toward a lump halfway up the other side of the knoll. “All of ’ems been scalped. Three of ’em got arrows in their backs, Sioux markings.”
“Poor bastards,” Tom replied. “Looks like a typical raiding party.” He stood looking at the smoking wagons for a long time before continuing. “But what in hell were they doing this far up in hostile territory? We aren’t that far from the old Bozeman Trail. You don’t reckon they were crazy enough to try to go through that way, do you?” His question went unanswered when Squint, who had been looking over the area pretty thoroughly, interrupted.
“Lieutenant, there was three wagons altogether. One wagon, loaded down, set off to the south, up yonder way.” He pointed toward a range of low-lying hills. “I figure they took the team off that wagon and hitched it up with the team on the wagon they run off with.”
“I wonder why they left these horses. You’da thought they’d have stole them too,” Andy said.
Squint glanced at Andy. Andy nodded in agreement with what Squint was about to say even before Squint said it. “If it’a been Injuns, they most likely would have took the horses. But this weren’t the work of no Injuns.”
Tom looked surprised. “But what about the arrows and the scalps?”
Andy spoke up, “There ain’t no tracks around this whole place but them that belongs to the wagon teams and whoever was riding the two shod horses that was flanking ’em. Ain’t no sign of Injun ponies anywheres about.”
“You mean you think they were murdered by some of their own people?”
Squint answered, “Looks like that, or somebody they met up with. And whoever done ’em in wanted to make it look like Injuns done it. But they sure as hell weren’t very bright about it. Them men was kilt with guns and then whoever done it scalped ’em and stuck them arrows in their backs. Take a look at this.” He motioned Tom over to one of the corpses. “This poor devil was shot right in the face. That’s what kilt him. See that arrow stuck in his back? Hell, it ain’t in deep enough to make him grunt. I’ll bet you a plug of tobacca the bastard that done it drove it in with his hand.” He stood up. “Look at them other two. The arrows is stuck in the same spot on their backs.”
Tom stood looking down at the unfortunate teamster. “This is some dirty business here.”
“I’d say,” Andy answered. “And I’ll tell you somethin’ else. If they keep on the trail they lit out on, they’re heading straight into Sioux country. They ain’t thinking about taking that wagon back to Bannack or Virginia City.”
“Could be gold from Montana,” Tom speculated. “But the Sioux don’t have any use for gold.” He studied Andy’s face. “You thinking rifles? You think they’re taking rifles to the Indians?”
“Could be. Could be anything. But whatever it is, they got a wagon loaded down with it.”
“Damn!” Tom swore. He was faced with a difficult decision. His orders were clear. He had provisions for a ten-day march. That meant five days out and five days back. He was to take note of and report any Indian activity he encountered. His was not an offensive mission, merely a patrol. Of course, if he encountered any small bands of hostiles, he was to use his discretion as to any action he deemed necessary, and he was to lend assistance to any civilians under attack. Had this piece of work been done by hostiles, he would have followed routine procedures and attempted to track the guilty band if possible and punish them if the hostile force was not superior in numbers to his own. Otherwise it was just another six fatalities in the war against the savages. But that wasn’t the case. Now he might be dealing with renegade civilians who were selling guns to the Indians. What would Captain Benteen do? He always went by the book. Tom thought on it for a moment and then reluctantly decided. “Well, there isn’t much we can do about it now. I haven’t got the men or provisions to start out across hostile territory. We’ve been out four days. We can follow that wagon trail for another half day to see if they change their course. Then we’ll have to abandon the search and head back. Sergeant Hale, get a burial detail and put these men in the ground.”
* * *
The trail led south for a few miles and then turned due west for a couple of miles until it crossed a small stream. Then it turned south again and followed the stream. They were taking no pains to cover their trail. Since they were traveling in hostile territory, this further indicated their lack of fear of attack by Indians. Tom could only guess how much lead they had on the column but he pushed his troops ahead at a canter. Darkness caught the column near a fork in the stream and Tom ordered the march to halt there and make camp. He informed his sergeant that the patrol was to be ready to circle back toward Fort Lincoln the following morning. The two scouts went out on reconnaissance to make sure there were no hostiles about. Pickets were posted and the detachment settled in for the night.
Squint unsaddled Joe and gave him a ration of oats. “You’re gettin kinds spoiled, ain’tcha, boy? Eating army grain for supper every night. I might need to take you back in the hills before you forget to eat grass.” He rubbed the horse’s neck for a few minutes before going over to the small campfire to help himself to a cup of coffee. It would be a while before the tin coffee cup would be cool enough to touch it to his lips so, while he waited, he glanced around to see where the lieutenant might be. He spotted him leaning back on his saddle, talking to Andy Coulter.
“My ass is sore as a new bride’s,” Squint confided as he strolled over to the two men.
Andy laughed. “You jess gittin’ too damn old. That’s your trouble.”
“You know, you might be right. Why, I can feel my hand just a’tremblin’ trying to keep from spilling this hot coffee on your sorry ass.”
“Set down before you give us all a bath.” Andy moved over a little, offering him a portion of the small sapling he was using as a backrest. Squint settled himself and tested his coffee.
“Damn!” he cursed when the tin cup still proved a bit too warm. Gingerly, he approached the offending vessel with his lips pursed tightly until he managed to sip a small portion of the hot liquid. Satisfied that he was at last making some progress, he spoke, “You know, it’s a dirty damn shame to let those bastards go. We’re liable to be looking at the business end of them damn rifles . . . if that’s what they’re hauling.”
Tom replied, “I know it, Squint, but dammit, I can’t go running off against the whole Sioux nation with a handful of men. Besides, I’ve got my orders.”
“Oh, I know that, Lieutenant. Hell, ain’t no sense in gittin these boys kilt over some no-account renegades.” He paused to take another sip of the coffee. “But I was thinkin’ you could send me out to follow ’em in the morning, just to see what they was up to.”
“Have you gone loco?” Andy retorted.
“I couldn’t do that,” Tom said. “It’s too dangerous. You’d more than likely lose your hair.”
Squint shrugged. “Dangerous for a column of soldiers but not for one man. Hell, Lieutenant, I been traveling this country by myself for more years than you been in the army. I ain’t got no intention of losing my hair.”
Tom thought over the proposal for a minute. “It would be helpful to know who we were trailing and where they were going with that wagon. But hell, Squint, I don’t know.”
Andy studied his friend for a moment before asking, “Squint, what in hell do you want to go sneaking after that wagon for? Mind you, I know you can do it and I’ll go with you if you want me to. But what do you want to do it for?”
“I’ll tell you the truth, Andy, I just feel like doing it. I just feel an itch to see what them buzzards are up to.” He turned back to Tom. “How ’bout it, Lieutenant? All right with you? I don’t want the army to say I went on vacation and cut my rations.”
“All right, if you want to do it. But Squint, be damn careful.”
“Mister, you can count on that.”
* * *
At sunup the next morning the troop broke camp and headed back east toward the Little Missouri. Squint rode out to the southwest, following the trail left by the renegades. Andy again volunteered to go with Squint but Tom didn’t think it wise to return without at least one of his scouts. It didn’t matter to Squint. Andy Coulter was a good man to have along on any occasion but Squint was just as glad to be on his own this time. “Unless you got an army with you, the fewer the better in Injun territory,” he told Joe as he wheeled the horse around and took a last look at the departing column before crossing the stream and heading deeper into Sioux country.
Once the sun climbed a little higher in the sky, the morning chill disappeared and soon Squint pulled off his buckskin shirt and tied it behind his saddle. He had a feeling he was gaining on the wagon, but since there had been no rain for some time, it was still hard to tell how old the tracks were. He had hoped to overtake them by nightfall, but as mile after mile passed, he was not so sure. They were making good time. Of course, with a double team hitched to one wagon, they could have plowed their way across the prairie by now, he thought.
It was necessary to be more cautious now, as late afternoon approached, because he was crossing through the rolling hills that lay at the feet of the Big Horns. Smack in the middle of Sioux hunting grounds, Squint thought. He couldn’t avoid losing some of the ground he had gained that morning due to the necessity of having to keep to the low draws wherever possible, looking long and hard before crossing any open flat stretch of ground. He knew his only chance of coming out of this with his hair was to see any hostiles long before they saw him.
He had been in this country many times before. It had been a while but he remembered enough to know that he was getting mighty close to the Powder River. By his reckoning, it couldn’t be too far to the fork where the Crazy Woman joined the Powder, a favorite camping place of the Sioux. When night caught him still not within sight of the men he followed, he decided to play a hunch. He was willing to bet that the destination of the renegades was indeed the fork of the Crazy Woman and the Powder. They had been heading straight for it all day long. The trail might be hard to see at night but he was of a mind to keep going in the same direction in hopes of making up some ground on them. The odds were against their changing direction so he pushed on in the darkness.
He rode on under a three-quarter moon that shone brightly enough to form sharp shadows under the occasional patches of trees that lined the rims of the basin. He kept as close to the tree line as he could, so as not to cast a solitary silhouette under the moonlit sky. As he rode, he strained to see as far ahead as he was able, and to each side, watching for any shape in the shadows that didn’t look just right. Along about midnight, by his reckoning, he topped a gently rising hill and suddenly there was a hazy glow on the horizon.
Campfire, he thought, and a pretty good-sized one at that, too big for the men he was trailing. He nudged Joe to pick up the pace a little while he kept his eyes on the glow, his mind busy calculating what he was riding toward. It had to be a village, and more than likely, it was Sitting Bull’s village. From the size of the blaze, it had to be a council fire. He would know soon enough. If the glow spread out as he approached it, it would tell him he had found a village sure enough. This time of year, the squaws would be cooking outside the tipis. He guided Joe down a draw and up over another rise. Then he confirmed what he had suspected. It was a Sioux village all right, and a big one. There were hundreds of tiny cook fires stretching along the river. Squint felt a chill run down his spine and he suddenly felt very alone. He reined Joe to a halt and stepped down from the saddle. Leading his horse, he walked toward a stand of trees near the riverbank, his eyes darting constantly from the trees back to the glow of the cook fires across the river. Under cover of deep shadows, he stopped to listen and decide what his next move should be.
Well, he thought, they beat me to the camp. Ain’t nothing I can do about that. I sure as hell ain’t goin’ in looking for ’em. His initial feeling was that he had lost, that they had gotten away with the dirty business back on the prairie. But he wasn’t quite ready to give up that easily. Hell, I might as well find me a place to hole up and wait around for a spell. Maybe they’ll come back this way, unless they mean to stay with the Injuns and my guess is they ain’t. I reckon they’ll be wanting to take payment and head north to Virginia City or south to Salt Lake. Either way, they’ll most likely come back in this direction. Any other way, they got to go straight over the mountains. He thought about it for a moment more and it seemed to make sense. Another man might have simply turned tail while the getting was good and returned to Fort Lincoln. But Squint had a real strong desire to see the faces of the men who murdered those six freighters, and to see them hang for it.
* * *
Across the river from where Squint stood in the shadows, Kroll and Moody strutted triumphantly in the firelight of the large council fire, holding a new Spencer rifle in the air. About fifty yards away, a mob of Sioux warriors and women crowded around their wagon, pulling one treasure after another out for inspection.
“Empty it out!” Kroll called out, grinning first at his sidekick then back at the Sioux chief Sitting Bull. “Just like I told you. Chief. I told you we’d be back. Yessir, we got a load of trade goods there too, and rifles, just like you wanted.”
The old chief stared unemotionally at the wild-talking white man for a while before turning to Little Wolf, who was acting as his translator. When he heard Little Wolf’s translation, his expression remained stolid and he instructed Little Wolf to tell the man that there were only two cases of rifles and twelve boxes of bullets in the wagon. He needed more than this. Most of the items the white men brought would be useful to the women but not to fight a war. When Little Wolf relayed the chief’s message, the white men became concerned.
“Look here,” Kroll said. “You tell the chief that this here is all we could git this time but we know where there’s plenty more rifles . . . and ammunition too. You tell him we’ll bring him more next time if we git a good price for this wagon. Tell him that.” He attempted to force a friendly smile in the direction of Sitting Bull.
Little Wolf scowled. He did not like these two and he didn’t like the fact that he had to be the chief’s go-between in negotiations with such vermin. Before he passed Kroll’s response to the chief, he moved a few steps to the windward to avoid the smell of them. Then he turned back to Sitting Bull and said, “These buffalo hunters say they will bring many more rifles if you give them a good trade for this wagon-load of trinkets.”
Although he had no way of knowing what Little Wolf actually said, Kroll smiled broadly and nodded vigorously as if in agreement. His sidekick, Moody, seemed a little more nervous about the ring of Sioux and Cheyenne warriors that had gathered around the negotiations. It was becoming obvious, even to one of Moody’s limited intelligence, that the two of them were not exactly received as welcome guests. He knew for sure the tall brave doing the translating had no use for them at all and it wouldn’t take much to cause him to come after their scalps. At this point, both he and Kroll knew they would not be permitted to leave the village with the rifles. It was a question of whether or not the chief would permit them to trade the rest of the goods with the Indians standing around waiting for his decision.
Through Little Wolf, the chief asked, “You have firewater?”
“Yessir,” Kroll was quick to reply, his face lit up measurably. “I shore do, four one-gallon jugs of genuine rye whiskey.” He glanced at Moody as if to say, “Now we got ’em!” His enthusiasm was short-lived, however, when he heard the chief’s response.
Little Wolf translated. “Sitting Bull says there will be none of the white man’s firewater in his camp. He will not have his braves poisoned and he orders you to pour the jugs out on the ground. When you do this, you will be permitted to trade your trinkets with the people.”
* * *
The trading went on for most of the night. Kroll and Moody didn’t do as well as they had hoped, due mostly to the fact that the wagons they had stolen contained merchandise more suited to white prospectors than Sioux Indians. Still, they traded enough hides to load three pack mules. They didn’t want the wagon anyway. Moody had managed to hold back a small jug of whiskey for the two of them and when the wagon was finally empty and the last of the mules were traded, they moved off to the edge of the village to have a drink before going to bed.
“I shore would like to have me a woman,” Kroll said as they watched the men and women disappear into their tipis for the night. “I seen one or two of them squaws that looked pretty good.”
“Hell,” Moody replied, “I didn’t see any of ’em that didn’t look good.”
“I’m gittin gawdamn rutty is all I know, with nothin’ but your scabby ass to look at for the last month.”
Moody changed the subject to one of more serious concern to him at the moment. “Kroll, we better git ourselves out of here. I don’t cotton to hangin’ around no damn Sioux camp for very long. They might git to thinkin’ ’bout us being white men.”
Kroll thought about it for a moment. Moody was probably right although he felt sure Sitting Bull wouldn’t cut off a possible source for guns. Still it didn’t make much sense to hang around too long. Maybe the best thing to do was take their pelts and skedaddle. “Hell, I’m tired. We’ll lay up for a day and then light out for Virginia City and sell them hides.”
* * *
It was apparent to the two traders that the people of the village were not too pleased to see the sun come up the following morning and find the two of them still in their midst. Men and women avoided the two white men as they lay next to their own campfire and, when Kroll approached a woman in hopes of striking a trade for some female companionship, she ran from him. Soon they were visited by Man Who Kills Horses. Kroll knew only a few words of Sioux but Man Who Kills Horses’ message was unmistakable. They weren’t welcome here.
“Well, that’s a helluva way to treat friends,” Kroll whined. “Why the hell ain’t we welcome?” His dander was getting up at the thought of being treated as inferior to a bunch of savages. Man Who Kills Horses’ expression remained blank; he was unable to understand Kroll’s words.
“You are not welcome because our people do not welcome coyotes and vultures in our camp.”
Both white men were startled by the words. They had not heard the tall Cheyenne warrior come up silently behind them. Kroll jerked his head around, his eyes flashing with anger as he started to respond violently, but thinking better of the notion when he met the steely gaze of Little Wolf. At once his expression softened and he forced a twisted smile across his face.
“Hell, pardner,” he whined. “You got no call to talk like that. Why, me and Moody is friends. Didn’t we bring you them rifles and stuff?”
Little Wolf’s face was hard, his voice cold as iron. “You are enemies of my people. You kill off the buffalo we need to live. We have given you skins for the things you probably stole from your own people and now you will go back and kill more buffalo as long as the soldiers pay you. You think you traded for hides but what you traded for were your lives. Sitting Bull has allowed you to leave this village unharmed. Take your stench away from here while you can. Do not come back to this place.” He paused to make sure his message was being received. “I go now with a hunting party. Remember my name. I am Little Wolf. If you are here when I return, it is Little Wolf who will kill you.” He turned and walked away, leaving them speechless.
“Damn!” Moody exclaimed. “That buck means business. I reckon they don’t want our company around here.”
“That red-skinned son of a bitch,” Kroll muttered. “Ain’t nobody running me out before I’m damn good and ready to go.” His hand dropped to the pistol stuck in his belt.
Man Who Kills Horses stood silently watching the two men. He had not understood a word Little Wolf had spoken to the two white men but he did not fail to understand the intent of the message. Now he watched Kroll, waiting to see his reaction. Moody looked around nervously, noticing that several warriors who stood silently watching now seemed interested in the conversation between the white men and Little Wolf.
“Look here, Kroll, you’re fixin’ to git us both kilt. Let’s us just ease on out of here before the rest of them bucks git riled.”
Kroll was mad but he cooled down enough to see that Moody was right. They couldn’t fight them all. Better to take their pelts and go. “Yeah, all right. Don’t piss your britches.” He looked at Man Who Kills Horses who in turn made sign language for sundown. Kroll did not mistake the meaning. “Yeah,” he grumbled, “sundown.” He and Moody began gathering their belongings to leave.
Kroll was in one of his deepest black moods when the two of them led their mules out of the village and followed the river downstream. Moody didn’t like to see Kroll in one of those moods. Usually it meant somebody was sure to get killed and he felt sorry for the poor bastard who got in his way. But this time there were too many Indians. If Kroll started something, they were both bound to get killed. This frustrated Kroll and only served to deepen his black mood. Moody decided it best to say as little as possible to him until he got it out of his system. The opportunity for Kroll to vent his rage came sooner than Moody expected.
The mules were loaded down so they continued downstream for a while, looking for a shallow crossing. A hundred yards or so below a section of the village where some Cheyennes had put up their tipis, they came upon a group of women picking wild berries. Kroll pulled up and sat leering at the women for several minutes. Moody knew what was on his mind and kicked his horse up beside Kroll’s.
“They’s too many of ’em, Kroll, and we ain’t hardly out of sight of the camp.”
“I don’t recollect asking you nuthin,” Kroll shot back and continued to stare at the women who, by this time, had stopped their berry picking and watched the two white men warily. One of the women held her nose with her fingers in a gesture indicating a foul odor and the rest of the women laughed. “Gawdamn whores!” Kroll spat and kicked his horse hard. Moody followed, grateful that Kroll had not brought down the whole tribe on them.
Around a bend in the river they came to a shallow place and crossed. Once on the other side, they climbed the bank into a dense area of brush and trees. There was a path through the bushes and they followed it through the undergrowth, looking for a way out to the open country. Suddenly Kroll pulled up sharply. Moody, behind him on the narrow path, could not see what was ahead and called out, “What is it?”
Morning Sky was not aware of the two men until she heard Moody call out. Curious, but not alarmed, she left her berry pouch on the ground and straightened up to see who might be coming down the path. When she saw Kroll leering at her she was still not alarmed and, by the time she realized what he had in mind, it was too late. Instinctively, she tried to run into the bushes, out of the path of the horses, hoping to be able to make her way through the thicket where it might be too difficult for a man on horseback to follow. But Kroll was not to be denied this opportunity. He kicked his horse hard and crashed into the thicket, knocking Morning Sky to the ground. While Moody was still trying to see what was taking place in the thick brush ahead of him, Kroll was already out of the saddle and on top of the Indian girl. Although stunned, Morning Sky fought desperately, scratching and screaming until Kroll hit her several times with his fist, finally knocking her unconscious.
“Damn, Kroll!” Moody whined when finally he was able to see what had happened. “You’re jest hell-bent on gittin’ us kilt, ain’t you?”
“Shut up and fetch them mules,” he spat. The expression on his face told Moody that neither he nor anybody else was going to stop Kroll from doing what he had in mind. “I told you I was rutty, dammit, and I need to cut meat.”
Moody was frantic. Kroll looked like a crazy man, like he had suddenly gone berserk, and they weren’t that far away from the Sioux camp. “What if somebody else comes through this here path?” he asked, looking desperately in one direction then another.
Kroll dragged the unconscious girl farther into the bushes. Moody stared at her face, fascinated by the blood forming below her nose and under her eye. Kroll drew his long skinning knife and began hacking away at the girl’s clothing until he revealed her naked body. He stood for a moment, leering at her young body. Moody, forgetting his fear, crowded in and peered over Kroll’s shoulder. He reached down and put a dirty hand on Morning Sky’s bare breast. Kroll took one hand and pushed him away, swearing.
“Git away, gawdammit, and give me some room.” He hurriedly undid his trousers and pushed them down around his boot tops. “Git on back to that path and keep your eyes open. And watch them damn mules!”
“What about me? I’m jest as damn rutty as you.”
“When I’m done.” Kroll was losing his patience. “Now git on back there and take care of them mules!” Morning Sky started to regain consciousness just then and began to struggle under the weight of her attacker. “Listen, little girl,” Kroll told her, “you’re gonna give it to me one way or ‘nother. You might as well jump in and enjoy it. How ’bout it?” In answer, she aimed a foot at his groin, which he easily avoided. At the same time, she wrenched one of her hands free from his grasp and clawed at his eyes. “Have it your way, honey,” he hissed and struck his heavy pistol against the side of her head, one, two, three times until she finally went limp.
Moody waited nervously on the tiny path through the bushes, watching for any sign of someone approaching. Several feet away but hidden from his view, he could hear Kroll’s heavy grunting as he worked his fever out on the helpless Indian girl. He could feel his own excitement mounting as he listened. Moody only knew two emotions, fear and lust. Now he could hear the sound of the two bodies thrashing about in the brush then, finally, Kroll reappeared on the path, his face bleeding from the scratches under his eyes. He pulled his trousers up as he walked back to the horses.
“Did you let her go?” Moody was frantic.
Kroll scowled. “She ain’t going nowhere. Hurry up if you aim to have your turn. I ain’t staying around here long.”
Moody scrambled down from his horse and disappeared into the bushes. After a brief time he reappeared, tying up his britches. “Damn, Kroll, you coulda waited to kill her till I had my turn.”
“Quit your whining. You got some, didn’t you?”
“I reckon. But it didn’t seem right. I mean with her belly all laid open and bloody. I almost didn’t shoot my wad.”
* * *
Squint was beginning to think he had played the wrong hunch and the renegades were staying with the Indians after all. That, or maybe they had managed to slip out of the village and he missed them. He was just about to call himself a fool and give up the vigil when he spotted two men emerging from a thicket of bushes on the eastern side of the river. They were leading three pack mules. He climbed up into a tree for a better place to watch until they turned north.
“Virginia City, I reckon,” he decided. “Ain’t but two of ’em and they shore seem to be in a mighty big hurry.”
He climbed down from the tree and took his time saddling Joe. Looking around to make sure he left no evidence of his presence there, he stepped up into the saddle and guided Joe out of the trees. He made a wide circle around the Sioux camp and cut the renegades’ trail upriver. He was in no hurry to overtake them right away. Might as well wait until they got closer to a point directly west of Fort Lincoln before he jumped them and not have to bother with them until then.
He cut their trail easily enough but it was plain to see they were taking pains to cover it this time. Before, with the wagons, they acted as if they didn’t care who knew where they were going. This time they crossed the river three times and once rode more than a mile up a rocky creek before doubling back and following the river again. “Mighty strange,” Squint told Joe. “It’s like they know somebody is trailing them. They must not trust their Injun friends, probably thinking them redskins is thinking about keeping the wagons and the hides too. Yessir, they shore are going to a heap of trouble to cover their tracks. And any fool can see they’re following the Powder all the way to Montana.”
The two men rode their horses hard, making about forty miles before stopping to camp in a large washout near the river. Squint was getting fairly tired of riding himself, and was glad when they finally tied their horses off and went about making a small campfire. He found a well hidden gully with an oak tree hanging over it and settled down to wait for dark. His would be a cold camp—it wasn’t wise to risk showing a glow from a fire.
When it was dark enough, Squint moved silently up to the rim of the washout. If he hadn’t been following them and seen them go in there, he wouldn’t have been able to find them in the dark. From his vantage point, he could see the two of them settling themselves around the tiny fire, both men preparing to sleep. Obviously they didn’t feel the necessity to stand guard, thinking they had covered their trail sufficiently. He waited until there was no longer a murmur of conversation and they appeared to be drifting into sleep. Then Squint got up and casually, but silently, walked into their camp.
“Evenin’, boys.”
Both men reacted as if he had thrown an angry rattle-snake in their midst. Moody almost rolled into the fire in an effort to get to his feet. Squint calmly kicked him over on his back again, keeping his pistol trained on Kroll, knowing this was where the more serious trouble was likely to come from.
“I wouldn’t,” Squint warned when Kroll started to reach for his rifle, which was laying next to his bedroll. “I don’t know how fast you are, but if you want to see if your hand can beat this bullet to that there rifle, why, hell, give her a try.”
Kroll was angry but he was alert enough to know that the imposing figure standing across the fire from them had the advantage. He slowly drew his hand away from the rifle and sat up to face Squint. “What the hell do you want?” He spat the words defiantly, uncertain as to the nature of the attack on their camp.
“Why, I’ve come to be your personal escort to Fort Lincoln, make sure nothin’ happens to you on the way. First though, we need to take a little inventory. Let’s see how many guns we can find on you. You can start by taking that rifle by the barrel and sliding it over this way.”
“Fort Lincoln?” Kroll growled. “We ain’t going to Fort Lincoln. Who the hell are you, anyway?”
After he had relieved them of their weapons, Squint threw a couple of sticks on the fire and fanned the flames back to life. He had a feeling he had run across these two before and he wanted to get a better look at them. “Well, well,” he said. “Now, I’m not surprised it’s you two sweethearts.” He recognized them as the scum he had the run-in with back at Deer Crossing.
Moody finally found his voice, “What you bothering us for, mister? Hell, if it’s skins you’re looking for, maybe we could cut you in for a share.”
“Shut your mouth, Moody,” Kroll warned. Looking back at Squint, he spat, “We ain’t cuttin’ you in for nothin’. We worked for these skins. You ain’t gittin’ shit.”
Squint laughed. “I reckon I could cut myself in for all of ’em if I wanted to, since I’m the one holding the gun. You say you worked for ’em? I saw how you worked for ’em. I helped bury the six men you left back there in the hills. So I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do. I’ll take you back to Fort Lincoln where you can have a fair trial. Then I’m gonna set in the shade and watch while the army hangs your sorry carcasses.”
Kroll did not answer immediately. He sat there and glared at the man he now remembered. After a long pause, he said, “We don’t know nothin’ about no six men. You got the wrong two.”
Squint snorted. “We ain’t gon’ waste time talking about that. I tracked you to that Sioux camp. And I followed you here. You done it all right.”
“It’s a long ways to Fort Lincoln and they’s two of us. I don’t think you can make it before one of us gits you.”
“Well now, I’m real sorry to hear you say that. I’d hoped we could go along like family. But I’m obliged to you for warning me.” That said, he cocked the hammer back on his pistol and put a bullet into Kroll’s right shoulder. The impact knocked Kroll over backward. “That’ll give you something to think about on the trip besides jumping me.”
The sudden explosion of the pistol startled Moody so badly that he thought he was shot too. “Gawd a’mighty, mister, don’t kill us!” he screamed, fearful that the next bullet would surely be for him.
“Shut up. I ain’t gonna shoot you if you behave yourself. Now take that rag off your neck and stuff it around his shoulder to stop the blood. I don’t reckon he’ll die before we can get him to his hanging.”
After taking care of Kroll’s wound, Squint held a gun on Moody while he had him tie up his wounded companion. Then Squint tied Moody up and settled in for a few hours’ sleep before heading for Fort Lincoln at first light. He had it figured that Kroll was the real threat, and now that he was neutralized with a bullet wound, Moody would pose no problem. They started out with the first rays of the sun. Moody led, followed by the pack mules, then Kroll, cursing and groaning at every rough spot in the trail. Squint rode behind the procession. The trip to Lincoln took four days from the spot where Squint captured them, four days of hard riding with no more than a few hours of sleep for Squint. He was more than happy to see the gates of the fort just before dark on the fourth day.
* * *
“Well, good morning! Danged if you didn’t sleep right through reveille.” Andy Coulter set a cup of coffee and a mess tin down on the small table between the two cots. “I brung you some breakfast. Figured you’d be hungry if you ever did wake up.”
Squint sat up on the edge of his cot. “Much obliged.” He glanced out the open doorway. “Damn! It’s past sunup. I reckon I did sleep, didn’t I?”
“I reckon.”
“I didn’t get much the last four nights. Tell you the truth, I was a mite shy of closing my eyes very long around them two, even if they was tied up.” He blew on the coffee and took a couple of careful sips of the boiling-hot liquid. “Ain’t nothing stronger than army coffee.” He set the cup down and stumbled to the door. Looking right and left to be sure no one was around, he walked barefoot around the corner of the building to relieve himself. The colonel was mighty particular about pissing off the porch. Squint and Andy usually did it anyway when they got up. When he finished, he returned to the small room he and Andy shared and sat down to his plate of biscuit and gravy.
Andy tilted his chair back against the wall, cut himself a chew of tobacco and watched Squint eat. “Well, I see they got your two boys locked up in the guardhouse, waiting for trial.”
Squint looked up from his plate. “Waiting for trial? Hell, I figured they’d just hang ’em and be done with it. If I’da knowed they was gonna go through all that horseshit, I’da just done the job myself.”
Andy laughed. “Maybe you shoulda. You oughta know how the army operates by now. Tom Allred said the word was they would have a full investigation into the charges. Ain’t no tellin’ how long them boys’ll be in the stockade.”
“I reckon ole Custer just wants to have a big military trial to break up the monotony around here.”
“I reckon.” Andy lowered his chair back down on the floor and stood up. He walked to the door and spat. Wiping the brown tobacco residue from his chin, he said, “Soon as you’re dressed, we got to go see Captain Benteen. He’s taking the whole troop out on patrol in the morning.”