There was a great deal of grumbling among the men unlucky enough to be picked to form the search party for the escaped prisoners. Tom wasn’t too thrilled with the idea himself. He had just gotten back from patrol the day before. It was the normal routine to get at least one day off after an extensive patrol of troop strength. But that was the price B-Troop paid for having the two best Indian scouts in the regiment in Squint Peterson and Andy Coulter. Custer put the task of recapturing the escapees firmly on Captain Benteen’s shoulders. Benteen, in turn, assigned the chore to Tom. So it was that Tom found himself back in the saddle on this chilly autumn morning.
The trail was easy enough to pick up. Three horses, hell-bent for leather, lit out the back of the fort behind the stables. Squint found it interesting that only two of them were shod, the two stolen from the stable. The other was an Indian pony. It didn’t take a detective to discover what had taken place. According to Muley Rhymers, a young fellow who worked for him had disappeared too. He obviously stole the two horses, pulled the window out of the guardhouse and made off with those two buzzards Squint had brought in. They had circled back south of the fort and appeared to be heading in a southeasterly direction.
“I don’t remember Muley havin’ anybody working in the stable with him,” Andy said as he and Squint dismounted to check sign.
“He didn’t when we went out on that patrol,” Tom answered. “The fellow just walked in a couple of days ago. Ole Muley’s not too popular with the colonel right now . . . Two army mounts stolen from right under his nose.” He didn’t need to mention that a young soldier had been killed during the escape, a fact that supplied all the motivation he needed to track down the three of them. He waited while his scouts mounted, then followed their lead down across a grassy bottom and along a skinny stream.
The sun was gaining on the morning sky when Andy stated, “Don’t take much tracking to follow that trail.” He pointed toward a group of scrub oaks on a creek bank about a mile away where half a dozen buzzards were circling.
Andy was right. It was the two buffalo hunters—at least, what was left of them. Tom looked at the grotesque figures of the two men for a few minutes and then turned away to get a breath of fresh air. The bodies had not been dead long enough to stink, but already the buzzards had found them and were circling closer and closer when the soldiers approached. Andy and Squint peered at the scalpless victims, their bloody wounds already crawling with flies.
“From the look of it,” Squint decided, “I’d say the other feller sprung ’em just so’s he could kill ’em hisself.” He tugged at one of the arrows and, finding it deeply embedded in the man’s chest, stood up and motioned to Tom. “Lieutenant, these arrows was shot at mighty close range. They’re all in too deep to pull out without breaking ’em. Remember how them arrows was just barely stuck in them mule skinners we found . . . to make it look like the work of Injuns? Well, sir, these was shot with a pretty powerful bow, I’d say, and he must have been standin’ right on top of ’em.”
“Cheyenne,” Andy pronounced. “See the way that scalp was slit? Across the front and partway back? That’s the way a Cheyenne Dog Soldier lifts a scalp.” He was talking more to Squint than he was to Tom. “Fer my money, I’d say that third feller is a damn Injun right enough and no foolin’ at that.”
“It shore looks it, don’t it?” Squint agreed. “And from the looks of this here arrow pinning this one’s balls to the ground, it had to do with violating somebody’s squaw, I’d bet.”
“I’ve seen a lot of bodies mutilated by Indians for no reason at all, just for the hell of it,” Tom said.
“Yessir,” Squint replied. “But usually they do all kinds of shit when they’re just mutilating them for the hell of it . . . Cut their balls off and stuff ’em in the dead man’s mouth, such trash as that, gouging out eyeballs and such. This ain’t the case here. I ain’t no detective but that’s the way it looks to me. Anyway, them two coyotes, ain’t no tellin’ what they been up to. I don’t reckon there’ll be a whole lot of mournin’ over their passing.”
“You think this man’s an Indian then?”
Both scouts nodded in the affirmative. “And I think he’s got a pretty good start on us if you’re thinking of going after him,” Squint added.
“Why the hell would Muley hire an Indian? A Cheyenne at that?” Tom was still puzzled over the apparent execution. He ran it over in his mind for a few moments longer before bringing his attention back to his mission. “Hell yes, we’re going after him, all right. The man killed a sentry.” He paused for a moment before adding, “And he stole two army mounts.”
“Well, sir, we damn shore better git goin’ because I got a feelin’ this son of a bitch ain’t your ordinary ever’day Injun.”
Tom decided there was little value in trying to send the bodies back to the fort, so he had them buried where they were, and then the detail started out after the Indian. The trail was not hard to follow for a few miles until they reached a point where the hoofprints divided. Tom halted the detachment while Squint and Andy circled and returned to report. It was obvious to them that the Indian turned the two army mounts loose.
“It’d be my guess you’ll find them horses not too far away if you wanna send somebody after ’em.” Andy scratched his head and aimed a stream of tobacco juice in the direction of a large black beetle scurrying out from under his horse’s hoof. “Don’t figure though, an Injun lettin’ two good horses go.”
“I reckon he don’t want nobody trailing him. Three horses are hard to cover up,” Squint said.
“I reckon.”
“Follow the unshod one?” Tom asked.
“Follow the unshod one,” Squint confirmed and they continued tracking the Indian pony.
The trail became more difficult to follow but Andy and Squint were able to stay with it. Eventually it led onto an outcropping of rock that hung out over a narrow creek. It was obvious the Indian felt it necessary to cover his trail, but had been waiting for the right place to start. “He picked a good one,” Andy commented, and he and Squint combed the stream for a good half hour, trying to determine if he went north or south. It seemed impossible for a man to ride down a creek bed without leaving one single hoofprint. It was like he just rode up on the rocks and then started flying. Squint was beginning to think he had somehow doubled back on them when Andy sang out that he found a print. It led north.
Squint studied the single hoofprint for a long time. Something about it didn’t look right. He walked a few steps farther back and found another one near the edge of the water, just barely into the sand. “Wait a minute, Lieutenant.” He turned and splashed downstream, below the rock outcropping. Stepping very carefully, he made his way slowly downstream, searching the creek bed until he found what he was looking for. A handful of small pebbles had been disturbed, leaving a partial imprint of an unshod hoof. “Just as I figured,” he announced triumphantly. “This ole boy is a sly one. He went in the water headin’ north, just to throw us off. Then he backed his horse up to the rocks, probably right there,”—he pointed to a low shelf—“came out and went in the water again, headed downstream.” Squint grinned like a schoolboy catching his first possum. “Yessir, this ol’ boy is a sly one. We’re gonna earn our money on this one, Andy.”
It was slow going until they finally picked up the trail where Little Wolf left the stream and once again headed west across the prairie. They would stay with it for as long as the lieutenant said, but Squint was not overly optimistic about catching the man. Not only were they slowed down by the difficulty in following the trail, the army mounts were no match for the Indian pony in a flat-out chase, if it came to that. Joe might stay with the Indian for a while but, eventually, he would probably wear Joe out. As he saw it, their only chance to catch him was if he got careless and figured he had covered his trail. And somehow Squint didn’t figure this Injun to get careless.
For the rest of that day they followed the Indian’s trail, losing it occasionally, circling, then picking it up again. It was plain to see they had little chance of overtaking him at this rate for, even though it was obvious that he was in no hurry, they were unable to gain any ground on him. When they camped that night, Tom made a decision. From the direction of the Indian’s trail, both Squint and Andy were confident their fugitive was making straight for Sitting Bull’s camp. If they continued tracking him at the present pace, he would reach the village before they could catch him and they would have to turn back, or risk stirring up the entire Sioux nation. There was a slim chance, however, that they could overtake the Indian. Tom decided it was worth the risk.
The next morning only three of them—Tom, Squint and Andy—went on after the lone Indian. They each took two extra mounts. They planned to ride full gallop until a horse was worn out then cut him loose and switch to a fresh mount. By riding hard and switching mounts there was a chance they could get to the Little Missouri ahead of the Indian, especially since he still did not seem to be in a hurry. The rest of the troop was left with Sergeant Porter with instructions to follow along making the best time possible. A separate detail was dispatched to pick up the extra mounts the three of them cut loose.
* * *
Little Wolf sat cross-legged on top of a low hill and watched the horizon toward the east. As he watched, he cleaned the last bit of meat from the bones of a large hare he had killed that morning. His hunger satisfied, he threw the bones aside and continued to stare at the endless sea of prairie behind him. What he saw puzzled him. He knew the soldiers were tracking him, but he also knew they were not gaining on him. Now, to his surprise, he was seeing a small group of soldiers riding hard and rapidly closing the gap between himself and his pursuers. He found it difficult to believe the army’s horses could reduce the distance that rapidly. He continued to watch because he had no fear of the soldiers and he was confident in his ability to lose them if he desired. Now, as they drew closer and he could see them more clearly, he discovered that they were three soldiers with three extra horses. As he watched, they halted abruptly, switched saddles and bridles onto the three extra horses and set off again at full gallop. He realized at once what their plan was. They were no longer tracking him. They were trying to get in front of him.
“So, if you are no longer tracking me, then I will track you.” He rose and walked down the hill where the Appaloosa was waiting.
* * *
“There it is, there’s the river,” Squint sang out and reined his lathered mount to a halt. He was soon joined by Andy and Tom, their horses wheezing as they strained for air.
“You think we beat him here?” Tom asked.
“Don’t know. I’d shore be surprised if we didn’t,” Squint replied. “We’d best be seeing about where he might cross. Right here is where them two buzzards came across before. From the looks of the tracks, I’d say more’n one Injun crosses here.”
“He could cross anywhere,” Andy pointed out.
“I reckon,” Squint agreed. “But it’ll have to be somewhere between here and the bends of the river. Ain’t no other place for two miles. We’ll be damn lucky if he ain’t been here and gone. I reckon we better spread out and cover as much of this turn of the river as we can. Maybe one of us will be lucky enough to get a shot at him. Better water the horses first so’s they’ll be quiet.”
“Our orders are to capture him if possible,” Tom was quick to remind his two scouts.
“It ain’t likely it’ll be possible.” Andy spat a brown stream that caught the lieutenant’s horse on the forelock. He shook his head as if to apologize. “‘Specially since it’ll likely be one agin’ the other. More’n likely you’ll have to kill him.” He looked to Squint for confirmation and Squint nodded his agreement.
“I reckon he’s right, Lieutenant.”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if he offers to surrender, let him. Now, we better get ourselves under cover or he’ll find us first. Andy, why don’t you spot from this big tree down around that bend. Squint can take this section of crossing and I’ll ride upstream a couple hundred yards. That all right with everybody?” They both nodded agreement and dispersed to their assigned area of ambush. As an afterthought, Tom called after Andy, “How long do you think it’ll be before he gets here?”
Andy looked back over his shoulder. “Not long, if he ain’t already beat us here and crossed.” He knew the odds were mighty slim they would even see the man, and once he got on the other side of the river, he’d be damn near impossible to catch.
Tom watched until both men were no longer visible then turned and rode upstream until he came to a clump of trees thick enough to hide him and his horse from anyone approaching the river. Drawing his carbine from his saddle pack, he checked to make sure it was ready to fire. Satisfied, he started to dismount, but decided to stay in the saddle in case he had to ride to support Squint or Andy in a hurry. He waited.
The afternoon sun began to settle into the trees on the hills across the river and Tom buttoned his jacket as the warmth of the afternoon started to dissipate into the chill of the autumn night. There was no sound save that of the river behind him and the occasional soft creaking of saddle leather whenever he shifted his weight, punctuated by the periodic swish of his horse’s tail whenever a fly began to bite. He waited. Time passed as if on leaden wings. He looked at his watch and saw it was almost five o’clock. There was not much daylight left. He wondered if they were on a fool’s vigil. The Indian might be miles away.
It was only a faint metallic click but it sliced the silence like a razor. Tom knew instantly what it was. Nothing else made a sound like that but the cocking of a rifle. He whirled around immediately and a cold shock numbed his body along the entire length of his spine. He was looking into the barrel of a rifle, aimed directly at his eyes, no farther away than ten feet. There was no time to raise his own carbine. He braced himself for death.
But death did not come at once. In the fraction of time following, when he could not understand why he was still alive, the image of the man who would be his executioner was burned into his brain. He was taller than most Sioux or Cheyenne. One eagle feather adorned his long black hair and the necklace of bear claws told him that the man who was holding him helpless was none other than Little Wolf.
He already carried one bullet from Little Wolf’s rifle. Now the savage was back to finish the job! Why did he hesitate? Maybe he wanted Tom to make a move to save himself. Custer had said the man was really a white man gone renegade. Tom couldn’t say—he looked Cheyenne enough to him. It mattered little at this point. Tom thought about making a try with his carbine, but knowing he didn’t have a chance, he just sat there, almost in a trance. Finally he blurted, “Dammit, shoot if you’re going to!”
Little Wolf’s finger slowly tightened on the trigger but something made him hesitate. While the soldier sat stunned before him, he had recalled a picture in his mind of another river, on another day, and another young officer sitting a horse, his weapon drawn and aimed at a young Cheyenne girl. It was the same soldier.
In English, Little Wolf said, “Drop your rifle on the ground.” When the rifle fell to the ground, he ordered, “Now the pistol, slowly.” When the officer was disarmed, he spoke quickly and quietly. “I am giving you back your life in payment for sparing Morning Sky’s life at Black Kettle’s village on the Washita. You could have shot her but you did not. I know, too, that you saw me on the riverbank and you turned away. So I turn away now. But know this. The debt is paid. The next time we meet, I will kill you.”
Tom, barely seconds from his grave just moments before, could scarcely believe his life had been spared. He was unable to react, sitting numbly in his saddle, his eyes held captive by the icy gaze of the savage. He watched, helpless, as the tall warrior quickly picked up his pistol and rifle and turned to leave. He was surprised himself when he heard his own voice. “Little Wolf?” he asked.
The Indian hesitated, surprised. “Yes, I am Little Wolf,” he stated and stood there for a moment before he suddenly disappeared into the bushes and was gone, leaving the stunned lieutenant staring after the empty space where he had stood.
Tom did not move for a full minute. He had never been that stunned before. He couldn’t explain it. He wasn’t frightened by the face to face meeting with death as much as he was simply rendered helpless, like a fly in a spider-web. The Indian, Little Wolf, wore the look of a predator, calm and deadly. He had caught Tom dead to rights. Tom was still shaken when he heard Squint’s horse approach.
“Lieutenant! You all right?”
“Yeah . . . yeah, I’m all right.” Tom shook himself out of the near-trance he had been caught in. “It was him. I let him sneak right up behind me and get the drop on me, like a damn tenderfoot shavetail. He lit out across the river I think.”
Squint turned momentarily as Andy reined up beside them, then looked back at Tom. “Yeah, I seen him when he come out on the other side. That’s why I come a’runnin’. I was feared he might have cut your throat.”
“What happened?” Andy asked. He had not heard or seen anything until Squint broke cover and galloped toward Tom.
“Little Wolf,” Tom answered.
Squint’s eyes went wide, the shock registering on his awestruck face.
“Little Wolf?” Andy responded. Then noticing that Tom had neither rifle nor pistol, he looked first at Squint and then back at Tom. “Are you shore it was Little Wolf?” He found it hard to believe Tom was still among the living if he had been jumped by Little Wolf.
Tom knew what he was thinking. “It was Little Wolf.” Then he told them why his life had been spared. “But we’re wasting time sitting here. He’s getting too much of a start.”
“Hold on, Tom.” Andy usually called him Lieutenant except when he felt the need to give fatherly advice. Then it was always Tom. “We ain’t got a chance in hell of catching that redskin now. For one thing, we done run these horses near to death already just gittin’ here and his’n is pretty fresh. Even if our’n weren’t wore out, we’d play hell trying to catch that pony he’s riding.”
“Andy’s right, Lieutenant. We missed our chance. That one’s gone.” Squint had been listening to Tom’s account of the incident on the Washita and he had been doing some thinking. Up to that point, they had been chasing a nameless Indian. It was a pretty sobering statement to Squint when Tom called the Indian Little Wolf. More than one Indian was named Little Wolf but this one sounded uncomfortably close to the Little Wolf he knew as a boy. He began to add up some facts in his head and the conclusions presented a bizarre situation, one he had to clear up in his mind.
‘We might as well camp here tonight,” Andy said. “This day’s about done. We can ride back and meet the troop in the morning. That all right with you, Lieutenant?” The question came as an afterthought.
“Yeah, all right.” Tom wanted to continue on after the renegade but he knew his scouts were right. His detachment wasn’t prepared to go on an extended patrol deep into hostile territory and he didn’t want to chance getting anybody killed.
After they took care of the horses and arranged their saddles into beds, they settled in for the night. Andy hustled up a fire in an attempt to make some coffee before Squint did. Whenever Squint made it, it was always so strong he was afraid it would melt his tin cup. While Andy busied himself at the fire, Squint sat down beside Tom.
“Lieutenant, how do you know that Injun’s name was Little Wolf?”
“I ought to know. I’ve run across him before.”
“Yessir, but how do you know his name is Little Wolf?”
Tom shrugged his shoulders. “Hell, I asked him.”
“You asked him? In English? And he told you . . . in English?”
“He did. I forgot, you weren’t with the company then, back at Fort Reno, when we got ambushed by his band. Yeah, he told me in English. The story is that he’s not really an Indian, just raised by them. It’s hard to say though, when you meet him.”
Squint’s mind was racing. “Tell me about him. I mean, you just saw him up close. What did he look like?”
“Like a damn Indian,” Tom replied, but when he saw the intensity in Squint’s face, he described the tall, dark-haired warrior who had spared his life that day. “Why are you so interested?”
Squint ignored the question. “Did he have on a shirt?”
“Not when he jumped me.”
“Did you notice anything odd about him? Like a scar or something?”
Tom thought for a moment, trying to picture the man in his mind. He didn’t want to tell Squint that he was too numb at the time to notice very many details. “Come to think of it, there was an odd-looking place on his shoulder. Could have been a scar . . . a big one.”
This seemed to satisfy Squint’s curiosity. He settled back against the tree they were seated under. “It was a scar all right. I put it there. Leastways, there was a bullet there and I put a big hole in him trying to git it out.”
This sparked Tom’s interest in a hurry. “You know Little Wolf? You never mentioned you knew Little Wolf!”
“It never come up.”
Tom pulled a rock out from under his blanket and threw it aside. “If I ever get him in my sights again, I’ll put a bigger hole than that in him.”
Squint, sure of himself now but still scarcely believing what he had discovered, replied smugly, “Maybe, but maybe you wouldn’t want to at that.” When Tom responded with nothing more than a puzzled look, he continued, “Lieutenant, where are you from?”
“I was born in St. Louis.”
“You had a brother, did you?”
“Well, I had one younger brother but he left us when he was just a little fellow, ten or so.”
“Your brother, he went off with a mule skinner, right?”
Tom was astonished. “How the hell did you know that?”
“He told me. His name’s Robert, ain’t it?” He didn’t have to wait for an answer—Tom’s wide-eyed expression confirmed it. Squint went on, “I shoulda put two and two together I reckon but I never thought nothin’ of it. I mean your name being Allred and his being Allred. Why, hell, Lieutenant, I wintered with your brother up in the Wind River country.”
Tom could hardly believe what he was hearing. Little Robert had been taken from the family when he was just a tyke, no more than nine or ten years old as best he could remember. “Damn!” he exclaimed. “Squint, are you sure? Are you sure it’s my brother?”
“Sure as spit.”
When Squint did not elaborate, Tom pressed for more. “Well, where is he now? I’d like to see him. Where can I get in touch with him?”
Squint could not help but laugh. “You already have. You met up with him today.”
At first Tom didn’t understand but, after a moment, it dawned on him what Squint was telling him. For the second time that day, he was stunned. “Little Wolf?”
“Little Wolf,” Squint confirmed.