Chapter 7

By the time Luke had finished with the burial and taken care of the horses, there were barely a couple of hours left before daylight. He decided to start out as soon as they could break camp, thinking it best to get Mary Beth away from the scene of her husband’s death as soon as possible. As they had already planned to travel at night before the attack occurred, most of the camp had been packed away on the wagon. With very little left to do, Mary Beth attempted to occupy her mind with cleaning the coffeepot and washing cups that had already been washed. Try as she might, however, she was unsuccessful in blocking dreadful images of David’s face in death. In the beginning, when David first began to woo her, she had not been sure that she loved him enough to marry him, but she was certain now. She had loved him with all her heart. The thought caused her to break down in tears once again, even as she was aware of the half-savage guide standing helpless as to what he should do.

Finally he spoke. “I expect we’d best move away from here. There’s a couple of Sioux ponies back yonder in the brush. I’ll fetch ’em, and then I’ll hook up your horses for you. Can you drive your wagon?” She answered with a nod. He hesitated, reluctant to ask the question, but he figured he needed to know now. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but what are you figurin’ on doin’?”

“I don’t know,” she answered truthfully, for she had been unable to think beyond the fact that David was gone.

“You want me to take you back to Fort Fetterman, or Medicine Bow maybe? Or are you still figurin’ on goin’ on to the Yellowstone?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, then shook her head several times, as if to clear her mind of sorrow. “Can you give me a minute to think?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered. “I’ll go round up those Indian ponies while you decide.”

Both ponies submitted peacefully to him as he took their reins in hand and led them back to the wagon. “I guess I smell enough like an Indian to you,” he said to the spotted gray. Mary Beth was laying out the harnesses when he brought the ponies back, put them on a lead rope, and tied it to the wagon. “Here, ma’am, I’ll do that for you.”

“Thank you,” she said, and let him take over. “I could do it, though.” She watched as he harnessed the team and looped the reins around the side of the seat. “We’ll go on to Coulson,” she announced, and climbed up to the wagon seat.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and climbed up on the paint. “We’ll follow the river for a while as long as it’s still headin’ straight north. The river takes a big swing to the east before it works its way back on the line we’ve been followin’, so we can save a fair amount of time if we cut straight across and strike it again in about a day and a half.”

So they started out under a clear sky with the moon settling upon the distant hills as day approached. Behind them, a lonely grave and the bodies of two Lakota warriors lay as testimony to the savagery of the harsh prairie. And a tentative partnership between a grieving widow and an uncertain guide continued on its way. It was not the first time Mary Beth had driven the horses, but they seemed to know it was not David’s hands holding the reins and they seemed a bit balkier than usual—so much so, in fact, that Luke came back and took hold of the bridle of one of the horses and led them until they picked up the pace. They seemed better after that, but Mary Beth really wasn’t aware of the change. Her mind was laden with guilt and worry, guilt over encouraging David to stand guard when there was a danger of Indians coming after them—and worry over the decision she had made to continue on to Coulson. No matter which choice was for the best, leaving David behind was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. And how could she explain David’s death to his brother? John and Doris would certainly take her in, but what would she do for the rest of her life? She couldn’t live with them forever.

Then her thoughts centered on the broad back of the man on the paint pony, and her original fears about him came back now to concern her. Would his manner change now that she was a woman alone? It would be so easy for him to murder her and ride off with all her possessions. He had said in the beginning that he would guide them only because he needed the money. With David gone, would he now be thinking about taking all of her money? In the middle of this godforsaken prairie, no one would ever know what had happened to her. Or would he simply rob her and ride off to leave her to the Indians and the lonely prairie? She reached down for David’s shotgun and propped it up close beside her.

Up ahead, Luke was turning over concerns of his own in his mind. He was wondering if he would come to regret the decision to lead the couple to the Yellowstone now that he had a grieving widow on his hands. He was now more anxious than ever to find Mary Beth’s people as quickly as possible. He had to assume that her late husband’s brother would take her in, but what if he found this place they had talked about and the brother was not there? He had agreed to take them to Coulson, and that was all. He had no obligation beyond that. But, damn it, he thought, I can’t leave her alone if her in-laws ain’t there. She seemed to be so vulnerable and helpless since David was killed. It might have been a wiser decision for her to return to the place they started from. Who could say what was best for the woman? What will be will be, he decided with a sigh of resignation and gave the paint a nudge with his heels to quicken the pace a little.

Sometime around noon, he reined back to let Mary Beth catch up to him. When she pulled the horses to a stop beside him, he took a moment to study her face. She looked tired and haggard as the sunshine reflected off freshly formed trails left by her tears. He made a decision to stop for the rest of the day to let her rest. “The next little patch of trees we come to, we’ll make camp and go on in the morning. We’ll most likely leave the Powder after that and figure on strikin’ it again in about a day’s travel, and maybe we’ll be far enough north by then that we won’t have to worry about that band of Sioux anymore.”

“Whatever you think best,” she replied.

* * *

Once Luke settled on their campsite, Mary Beth dutifully began gathering wood for a fire while he took care of the horses. He took a few minutes to give the two Indian ponies a closer inspection. Both horses seemed docile enough, considering the new experience of trailing behind a wagon. Neither horse had a saddle; both were haltered with a cord made of woven strands of buffalo hair about the size of Luke’s little finger. Of the two, he preferred the spotted gray, although the sorrel appeared to be the younger horse. He hobbled all but his paint and left them by the water to graze. When he returned to the wagon, Mary Beth had her fire started and was filling the coffeepot. He noticed that she was again wearing her father’s pistol belt around her waist. He really couldn’t blame her for being cautious, and he knew there was no way he could reassure her that she was safe with him.

“I’m gonna ride back to that low ridge we passed a while back and take a look behind us,” he told her. “I won’t be gone long.” She nodded solemnly and continued grinding the coffee beans.

He didn’t expect to see anyone along their back trail, but he thought it wouldn’t hurt to check. It was difficult to hide a trail left by wagon wheels, but he figured the odds were in their favor. The paint loped along comfortably as he neared the ridge until Luke reined him back to climb up to the top. He paused there for a few moments while he scanned the horizon. Bringing his gaze back to the south along the river, he was startled to detect movement beyond a clump of bushes on the bank. He immediately backed his horse below the crown of the ridge while he scrambled back to determine if he had caught sight of antelope, or deer—or man. Kneeling at the top of the ridge, he waited, staring at the bushes that now blocked his view. If it was a herd of deer that caught his eye, they might have gone down to the water’s edge to drink. He waited and watched.

“Damn,” he swore when he saw them emerge from the screen of berry bushes. There were six of them—no doubt Lakota; he couldn’t tell at that distance. “Damn wagon,” he cursed as the Indians followed the obvious tracks of the wagon’s wheels. The tracks presented a clear picture to the scouting party following them—a single wagon, settlers probably, and little means to protect themselves from six armed warriors. If the trackers were keen enough, they could determine that it was indeed a farm wagon, and not a heavily loaded freighter, probably meaning a weaker defense. “Damn the luck,” he swore for the third time, for he had hoped not to run into any more Sioux parties, even though they had continued to come upon many trails heading west. Judging from the distance, and the evident pace of their pursuit, he figured he had about half an hour before the six warriors would reach the stand of trees and the wagon. He returned to his horse at once and hurried back to Mary Beth.

She paused when she saw him racing back to their camp at a gallop, knowing that the reason for his haste could not be good. Without thinking, she emptied the coffeepot full of water on the fire, anticipating his call to pack up. “No time to waste,” he called out as he pulled the paint to a sliding halt. “We’ve got to get outta here! There’s an Indian war party on our trail.” He slid off his horse and ran to bring the others up from the river. Mary Beth tossed the coffeepot and her cooking utensils into the wagon, then ran to help him with the horses.

With no thought toward running, he followed the river with his eyes, searching for a better spot to defend. “There,” he said, pointing to a deep gully on the other side of the river a few hundred yards distant. “We’ll pull your wagon up in the mouth of that gully and park it. It’ll give us some protection from the front.” He could have hoped for a better place to stand off an Indian attack, but there wasn’t time to be choosy. He glanced at Mary Beth as she helped him hitch up the horses. She might have wondered why he had chosen a place out in the open where there was no place to hide and little cover beyond shoulder-high brush along one side of the gully, but she did not question him. In fact, she displayed little emotion of any kind, going about fastening the harness as if in a trance. Misinterpreting her expression, he hoped she wasn’t about to go loco on him.

In truth, Mary Beth had resigned herself to the same destiny that had befallen her husband. Friends back in Minnesota had advised against her and David’s decision to strike out for a future in the undeveloped West. Now David was gone, and she was convinced that she would soon be joining him. She had cried herself out over David’s death. There were no tears left in her, certainly none for herself. She was now resigned to wait patiently for her fate, and possibly making it costly for the Indians bent upon killing her. As for Luke Sunday, there might no longer be a reason to fear what his ultimate designs might be on her meager possessions, or her body. They would never make it to the Yellowstone. The Indians would see to that.

When the three Indian ponies had been tied to the tailgate, Luke climbed up on the wagon beside Mary Beth and took the reins. Giving the team a sharp pop of the lines, he started them off at a fast walk, heading out through the cottonwoods toward the bend in the river. Once across the river, he drove the wagon as far up into the mouth of the gully as the horses could pull it, causing Mary Beth to wonder how they would be able to pull it out again. Wasting no time, he looked back inside the wagon. “Pile everything you can up against the side of the wagon,” he instructed. “That mattress and the beddin’, stuff it against the sideboards—and that trunk.” She responded immediately, preparing their fortifications while he jumped down to unhitch the horses and lead them, along with the others, to the back of the gully. When he saw her start to move their store of smoked meat out of harm’s way, he said, “Leave it. It’ll stop a bullet.”

When the horses were safe and they had done all they could to prepare their battlements, there was nothing to do but wait. Luke picked up David’s shotgun and checked it to make sure both barrels were loaded. “You might have better luck usin’ this shotgun instead of one of these carbines those two Sioux had back at the forks.” He placed the box of shells next to the trunk she had pushed against the side of the wagon. “This is a good spot for you to sit and shoot from.” He paused and looked her in the eye. “I didn’t ask you if you know how to shoot that thing.”

“I know how,” she replied calmly.

“Good,” he said, for he remembered that she was none too accurate with a pistol. “Might be a good idea to eat a little somethin’ while we’ve got a chance, ’cause we’re liable to be a little busy before long. Matter of fact, a cup of coffee would go a long way.” He looked around at the shrubs beyond the wagon. “I believe I can find enough branches in those bushes to make a fire.”

Having said no more than a few words since leaving their previous camping spot, she picked up her coffeepot and started toward the water’s edge to fill it. “I’d better get water before they show up,” she said. “We’re so out in the open, we might not be able to get to the water when they find us.”

“I know it ain’t shady in this gully,” Luke replied. “But we’ve got a helluva lot better chance of keepin’ our scalps here where we can see ’em comin’ after us. They can hide back there in the trees, but they’re gonna have to cross a wide space of open bluffs, or swim across the river, if they’re plannin’ on attackin’ us. And if they do, I hope I can make it so hot for ’em that they’ll change their minds about jumpin’ us.” He didn’t say it, but he also knew there was the possibility of a long siege, depending on what the Indians had in mind and how patient they were. If they mounted an all-out attack, he hoped he could inflict enough damage to discourage them, and possibly cause them to give up before incurring too many casualties. On the other hand, if they were patient, they could wait him out, hanging back far enough to minimize the range of his rifle until he and Mary Beth had to make an attempt to run.

He didn’t have long to wait, for in the next few minutes, the six warriors appeared at the edge of the trees, talking among themselves and pointing to the wagon tracks just recently left on the bank. In the next instant, one of them looked up and spotted the wagon in the gully several hundred yards away and began talking excitedly as he pointed to it. “Lakota,” Luke pronounced dryly. They were still too far for him to recognize the markings on their ponies as a symbol of that tribe, but he had a gut feeling. He could also feel Mary Beth tense as he said it and pull the shotgun up to her shoulder. “Let’s wait and see what they’re gonna do,” he told her. “They’re a little out of range right now.”

The warriors took only a few minutes to decide their plan of attack. It was the option Luke had hoped for, because he could use his rifle most effectively that way. Screaming out their war cries, they spread out in a fan and charged across the bluffs. “Wait,” Luke cautioned Mary Beth. “Let ’em get a little closer.” He climbed up behind the seat where he could steady his rifle.

Forgetting her earlier morbid thoughts of doom, Mary Beth drew the hammers back on both barrels of her shotgun and braced herself, her fear having been replaced by a thirst for vengeance for David’s death. Anxious now to make someone pay for it, she could wait no longer, and pulled the trigger when they were still a hundred and fifty yards away. Her shot, ineffective, was followed by one from the other barrel with the same results. With little choice, Luke took his first shot at the lead warrior, knocking him from his pony’s back. The Sioux were well within the Henry’s effective range, but Luke had planned to let them get within fifty yards, figuring that he would have time to eliminate two or three before they could retreat out of range. As it was, the five remaining warriors scattered to draw back out of range. In hopes of a lucky shot, he threw another round after them, but missed.

Thanks to Mary Beth’s premature shot, Luke’s plan to deliver a devastating blow to the war party was rendered ineffective. It would do little good to admonish her for it, or complain that her impatient action would probably serve to lengthen their siege. So instead, he patiently advised her that her shotgun would be of little use at that range.

“We got one of the bastards, though,” she said as she loaded two fresh shells into her shotgun.

“I reckon,” he replied, and resisted the temptation to tell her that if she had waited just one or two minutes longer, he would most likely have eliminated three of the warriors, and the rest might have gone home. In considering their present situation, however, he had to lay some of the blame at his feet. Thinking that most of the hostile Sioux were already in Sitting Bull’s and Crazy Horse’s villages, he had underestimated the number of small bands of warriors still leaving the reservations to join them. Already, they had been discovered by two different parties while traveling the Powder River Valley, and his thoughts returned to curse the wagon once more. Damn wagon, he thought, like dangling bait in front of a wolf. It was at this point that he decided to abandon it, although he had to admit that he had probably subconsciously made the decision when he had driven the wagon so far up the gully. His thoughts were interrupted then by a question from Mary Beth.

“What do you think they’re gonna do?”

“Don’t know,” Luke replied, although he had a pretty strong idea. “They pulled back to talk about it. We’ll know soon enough.” He climbed down from the wagon. “I’ve got some things to do while they’re makin’ up their minds. You keep your eyes peeled on that riverbank and sing out if you see any of ’em movin’ toward us again.”

While she watched for any signs of another attack, he gathered up David’s extra rope and, using straps cut from the traces, began to fashion some packsaddles for the horses. He was convinced that the only chance they had of eluding this and any other war party was to abandon the wagon. It was going to be a hard decision for Mary Beth, but it was impossible to run from any hostiles that spotted their tracks in this open country, so it was now a matter of survival. For this reason, he didn’t tell her yet. He still had another decision to make. There was no doubt that she would want to take more than they would be able to carry on the horses. But with five horses, three of which to use as packhorses, she could take a fair amount as long as it could be carried on a horse’s back. The thing that troubled him was the fact that the two horses pulling the wagon were shod, while the other three were not. This fact meant they would still leave a white man’s trail, even though they were traveling faster. David had the tools on the wagon to remove the shoes, but then they would be confronted with the probability of horses with sore feet slowing them down. It was a simple fact, the two of them on horseback, leading one packhorse, would move faster and more easily hide their trail.

“They’re coming back!” Mary Beth called over her shoulder.

Luke dropped the pack he was working on and moved up beside her in the wagon. He saw at once what had caught her attention. The five warriors were spread out again, moving cautiously among the bluffs of the river in an attempt to get within range of their weapons. Without knowing how well they were armed, Luke had to wait to see what they considered an effective range. He was answered soon enough when one of the hostiles popped up from behind a tree at the edge of the riverbank and fired a shot that knocked a hole in the wagon’s sideboards. Both Luke and Mary Beth ducked behind her trunk. “That ain’t good,” Luke muttered. “One of ’em’s got a rifle—sounds like an army Springfield.” The news was not good because it told him that the hostiles had a longer-range weapon than his Henry, and judging from the hole in the wagon’s sideboard, they knew how to shoot it. To confirm it, a second shot rang out, sending another chunk of wood flying from the wagon.

Before scrambling around the end of the trunk toward the wagon seat, he had a pretty good idea what was going on. And when he eased his head up so he could see, it was confirmed, as a third shot punched a hole in the mattress propped up against the side. As he guessed, the warrior with the rifle intended to keep Luke down while his brothers made their way closer to the gully, probably carrying weapons of shorter range than the Springfield. Come on, then, he thought, let them get a little bit closer and we’ll see. “Stay down behind that trunk,” he told Mary Beth. It was an unnecessary command. He crawled back to the tailgate and dropped to the bottom of the gully. Crouched behind the gully wall, he ran past the wagon tongue to a notch in the sandy soil. Laying his rifle in the notch, he eased up high enough to see the riverbank before him. After a few moments’ search, he spotted the other four hostiles working their way in closer to him. Patiently, he waited for the shot. Finally one of the Indians broke from the bluffs about one hundred yards downriver and started to cross. Luke took careful aim and squeezed the trigger. The warrior collapsed and floated slowly down the river with the gentle tide. As soon as he fired, Luke moved a half-dozen yards to a new spot. Moments later, the Springfield spoke again, kicking up gravel in the spot he had just vacated.

“Keep your head down,” he called to caution Mary Beth again as shots from less powerful weapons opened up. From the popping sound of them, he guessed they were carbines similar to the Spencers he had taken from the first party. Searching back and forth along the bluffs, he waited for a glimpse of one of the warriors. When their assault offered no signs of success, the hostiles became impatient. It was what Luke was counting on. Anxious to be the first to kill the white man, one of the hostiles leaped up from his hiding place and bolted toward a high hummock near the water’s edge. Luke took aim, leading him a little less than he would have a deer, and patiently shot him in midstride, causing him to tumble and roll a few times before remaining still.

Luke had barely withdrawn from the spot before two quick shots from the Springfield tore into the rim of the gully. “That damn Injun’s pretty good with that rifle,” he muttered as he shifted to a new location. Crawling up beneath the branches of a clump of sagebrush, he found a better place to scan the terrain between the gully and the cottonwoods on the opposite bank. For a while, there were no more opportunities for a clear shot, for the two remaining hostiles, who had moved in closer, had evidently seen enough of Luke’s accuracy with his Henry rifle to discourage them from continuing to advance upon the gully. All was quiet for quite some time before the two suddenly sprang from their hiding places and fled back to the cover of the trees as fast as they could run. Luke was not quick enough to hit either one. He cursed the missed opportunity.

“I think that’ll most likely be it for the afternoon,” Luke said when he moved back to the wagon.

“Do you think they’ll give up and leave us alone now?” Mary Beth asked, still huddled behind the trunk and clutching the shotgun.

“Don’t know,” Luke replied. “Maybe. There’s three of ’em dead. That might be enough for ’em. On the other hand, they might just be waitin’ for dark and try to sneak in on us. They probably figure one of ’em can get around behind us and we can’t cover all three of ’em. That’s more likely what they’re plannin’ on.” He looked up at the afternoon sun. “It ain’t gonna be much longer before dark, and they know we can’t drive this wagon outta here with them sittin’ there watchin’ us.”

His assessment of their situation did very little to comfort Mary Beth’s fears. From what she could see, they could not leave the gully without great odds of getting shot, and it was impossible to drive the wagon up the back of the gully. It was already wedged fairly snug in the mouth of it. “What are we going to do?” she asked, not at all comfortable with the idea of sitting in this grave they had dug for themselves and waiting for their executioners to close in on them.

“We’re leavin’ here as soon as it gets dark,” he answered. Before she could question him further, he laid it out for her. “We’re leavin’ your wagon right where it is. We can’t outrun anybody with that wagon, and it leaves a trail that a blind Injun can follow, so we’re ridin’ outta here on horseback.” He paused to comment, “I hope to hell you can ride. Even if you can’t, that’s the way we’re goin’.” She at once looked alarmed, and began to glance around in the wagon, concerned for all her possessions. Guessing her thoughts, he continued. “You’re gonna have to leave most of this stuff. I rigged up a packsaddle for that sorrel, so we’ll take the most important stuff, whatever we can get on the packhorse and behind us on the other two ponies.” Without waiting to hear her protests, he asked, “Can you ride a horse?”

“Well, I have ridden one,” she answered, still struggling with the notion that she might lose all her earthly goods.

“Good,” he replied curtly. “I expect you’ll do better in the saddle, so I’ll put you on my horse and I’ll ride the spotted gray pony.”

“We didn’t bring much furniture because David’s brother said we could build most of what we needed out there,” she said. “But we have the bedstead and my trunk and some personal things that I can’t leave. We can’t carry all that on the horses.” She frowned her distress. “My mother’s china, I can’t leave that, our grandmother clock—” That was as far as she got before he interrupted.

“Ma’am,” he said sternly, “you ain’t got no choice. If we’re gonna get to your brother’s house alive, you’re gonna have to leave all that stuff. Take some clothes, some food, somethin’ to cook it with, and whatever money you’ve got—guns and cartridges—that’s all we have to have. We ain’t takin’ but one packhorse.” He went on to explain his reasons for setting her two horses free. “I know it’s a hard thing for you to part with your things, but that’s the way it’s gotta be if you’re gonna save your scalp. I’m ridin’ out of here as soon as it’s dark—with you or without you.” He knew he was putting it to her pretty harshly, but he didn’t want to give her any room to argue the point. In truth, he would never leave without her, but if it became necessary, he would take her forcefully, convinced as he was that it was their best chance for escape. He felt now, since their recent Indian encounters, that it was too dangerous to try to continue pulling a wagon through the Powder Valley.

On her knees in the back of the wagon, she stared at him, stunned by the realization that she must discard possessions that had belonged to her mother and father, and desperate in the knowledge that her immediate fate depended on the rugged sandy-haired scout. The feelings of distrust she had felt in the beginning came back to frighten her now, but what choice did she have? He had threatened to leave without her if she balked. “All right,” she said finally, “I’ll get my things ready to go.” She couldn’t help adding “I guess you want to make sure I take all our money, money we saved up for our new home.”

“Only a hundred dollars of it,” he answered. “The rest is up to you.” He turned his attention back to the expanse of sand and gravel between the gully and the trees on the opposite bank of the river. Without turning to look at her again, he said, “Put everythin’ you wanna take on the tailgate and I’ll pack it on the horses.”

When the sun began to drop low on the hills to the west of them, he slid back down from the perch he had taken on the rim of the gully. “Crawl up there and keep your eyes open while I load the horses,” he instructed her. “Be mindful of the river both ways in case one of ’em tries to swim across and get in behind us.”

She dutifully did his bidding, although greatly disturbed that her situation had been so drastically changed. She no longer held any authority over a man she had originally hired. The fact that she was in no position to challenge his decisions added to her dismay, all the while knowing that if she was to escape this siege with her life, it would be him that saved her. These were the thoughts that crowded her mind while she strained to detect movement of any kind in the long shadows of twilight. They were not helped by the underlying basic fear that, at any moment, a screaming savage might suddenly spring up to take her scalp. So intensely was she watching the river and the bluffs beyond that she didn’t hear his question. “What?” she asked.

“I said, is there anythin’ else you wanna take?” he repeated. “’Cause this horse can carry a little more than what you pulled out here.” He took another look at the items she had selected. “Maybe you don’t need some of these things. You could leave ’em and take some more of your personal things.” He nudged a heavy large gunnysack with his toe. “What’s in this?”

“Corn,” she replied.

“Well, like I said, maybe you’d wanna leave it and take somethin’ else instead.”

“No,” she quickly said, “I want to take it. I can’t leave it.”

He was confused by her insistence. “What is it, seed corn?” She nodded. He shrugged and reached down to heft the sack up on the horse. “Damn!” he involuntarily blurted, for the sack was a good deal heavier than he expected. “This must be some special kind of corn. I’m gonna have to repack this stuff to balance the load. You got somethin’ else you wanna pack on here?”

Surprised, she turned to look at the horse, for she thought she would be told that she had chosen too much. She hurried back to the wagon to select some of the personal items that she had thought to sacrifice, amazed by the efficient way in which he had fashioned the pack. While waiting for her, he took over her post as lookout. “Be quick,” he called back softly as the sun sank out of sight and the shadows faded into evening. “We’ve got to get outta here right now.” The river valley that had been bathed in twilight only moments before was now cloaked in darkness as if someone had suddenly blown out a lantern. He wanted to move out of the gully before the moon came up, knowing that the Sioux warriors would probably try to sneak in close to them while it was darkest. And he intended to be gone when that happened.

When all was packed and tied securely, Luke saddled the paint and helped Mary Beth up in the saddle. He saw at once that he had to adjust the stirrups for her shorter legs, which he did while she sat quietly as the Indian pony shifted nervously. “He’ll be all right,” Luke assured her, “once he gets used to you.” Knowing that the horse was accustomed to more weight than that of the slender woman, he packed a good portion of their dried meat behind the saddle. Satisfied that they were ready, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

With his rifle in hand, he climbed up the back of the gully on foot. Near the end, where it reached the top of the bluff, he dropped to his hands and knees to search the darkness, upstream and downstream. He saw no one in the deepening night. About to rise to his feet, he stopped suddenly when a slight movement near a clump of berry bushes caught his eye. Unconsciously lowering his body close to the ground, he then remained motionless while locking his eyes on the bushes. In a few seconds, his suspicions proved to be accurate as a shadowy form emerged from the clump and moved stealthily toward him. Judging by his movements, he figured the Indian had not spotted him, so he very carefully backed away from the edge of the gully and drew his skinning knife, hoping to do what he had to quietly. He continued to edge his way back down the gully until he came to a spot that formed a little bit of a step that created a darker hole below it. Deciding he was not going to find a better spot, he crouched there against the sandy side of the gully and waited.

Behind him, he heard one of the horses snort at the bottom of the gully. It served to hurry the warrior, who was now at the top. Anxious to surprise the occupants of the camp, he stepped down in the rough trench, his carbine at the ready. Unaware of the demon awaiting him until it sprang up from the darkness to plunge the skinning knife deep into his gut, the Sioux warrior expelled a sharp grunt, as much a reaction of surprise as a cry of pain. Down they went, in a tumble, to land at the feet of the waiting horses, causing them to fidget nervously to get out of the way. Like an enraged puma, Luke withdrew his knife from the hostile’s gut and drew it across the warrior’s throat while the hostile struggled helplessly in his grasp.

A witness to the violent execution, Mary Beth sat rigidly in the saddle, terrified by the savage exhibition of hand-to-hand combat. She grabbed the saddle horn with both hands to keep from coming off the horse when it became excited by the two bodies rolling near its hooves. When the Sioux warrior was finally subdued, Luke dragged his body to the side, then freed Mary Beth and David’s team of horses. He tossed their bridles in the wagon and glanced at Mary Beth. “Come,” he said, and jumped deftly on his pony’s back. She did not follow at once when he started up the gully, still stunned by the horrible scene. “Come!” he repeated sharply, and she followed immediately, afraid not to. With the lead rope in hand, he started up the back of the gully, his rifle ready, in case the other two hostiles had moved faster than he figured. Once he was clear of the gully, he quickly scanned the bluffs, and when he was certain no one else had headed them off, he motioned for Mary Beth to follow. Much to her relief, the paint responded obediently to her urging.

Even though it was dark there in the bluffs, she felt as if she was exposed to anyone in the valley, and expected to hear gunshots ring out at any minute. A few yards ahead, Luke looked back briefly at her before walking his pony along the bank until entering the water at a low spot about twenty yards above the gully. Walking the horses slowly to minimize their splashing in the knee-deep water, he led Mary Beth down the river. After they had made their way about a hundred yards downstream, Luke felt they were clear of any ambush by the other two warriors. He rested the heavy Henry rifle across the gray’s withers since he had no saddle, and consequently, no scabbard for the rifle. What happened next was dependent on the disposition of the remaining Sioux warriors, he decided. He could not guess what they would do when they found the body in the gully. He had taken a toll on their small scouting party, reducing it to two warriors. He hoped they would consider their medicine bad on this scout, pick up their dead, and break off their pursuit, but there was also the possibility they would follow, determined to avenge their dead. For this reason, he remained in the river, hoping to disguise their trail.

Mary Beth finally relaxed to let her body adapt to the gentle motion of the paint pony. She had been rigid for so many tense moments that she now ached in her legs and back. It was going to take some time, however, before the picture of the killing just witnessed would leave her mind. It was stronger even than that of David’s gaping throat, and she wondered how many of these brutal scenes she could live through before she was driven out of her mind. Then she thought of the many things left behind in the wagon to be stolen or destroyed by savages. And the horses, what would become of them? She had seen both of them follow the Indian ponies out of the gully and down to the river’s edge, but they had stopped there, content to drink and graze. She would never see them again, and she hoped that they could survive on their own. There was very little left of her and David’s life, a few sentimental trinkets, some dishes, some clothes, a few other things. She suddenly felt tears inching down her cheeks as she found herself in hopeless despair, and though fearful of the man leading her down the river, she was more afraid to be without him.

Luke continued down the river for almost a mile before coming to a low bank covered with short grass. Figuring this to be as good a place as he was likely to find to leave the river, he turned the gray toward the west bank and climbed up out of the river. He dismounted and waited for Mary Beth to catch up. “You doin’ all right?” he asked. “Just got your feet wet a little, I reckon.” She only nodded in reply. He took a minute to check the packs on the sorrel. “Looks like nothin’ got too wet. I ain’t sure those other two ain’t found out we’re gone yet, but if they were of a mind to come after us, we shoulda heard somethin’ from ’em by now.” She remained silent, nodding only to acknowledge understanding. He went on. “We’d best make as good a time as we can while we’ve got a clear night. I don’t know how much longer this weather is gonna favor us. It’s mighty unusual for this time of year. We’re gonna leave the Powder now and head on a more straight line for where we’re goin’. If we head west and a little north, we can strike the Pumpkin by daybreak, now that we ain’t slowed down by a wagon.”

It didn’t occur to her that he had said more words at one time than he had ever spoken before, so she was unable to recognize his clumsy attempt to set her mind at ease after the shock of their narrow escape. “If we still ain’t seen any sign of ’em after a couple more hours, we’ll stop and rest the horses—and get you a little somethin’ to eat.” He felt reasonably sure that, if there was no sign of the two Sioux warriors by the time they reached Pumpkin Creek, he could stop worrying about them. Hopefully, they would see fewer trails left by other hostile parties since that should place them about three or four days northwest of the big Sioux camp. If he could believe reports the Crow and Shoshoni had told General Crook, Sitting Bull was camped somewhere along Rosebud Creek, and would probably move toward the Big Horn. The mental image of General Crook led him to thoughts of the scout who had caused him to lose his job. It should have been Bill Bogart in that saloon back at Fort Fetterman instead of Sonny Pickens, he thought. But he had not been given a choice when Pickens took a shot at him. He had not given Bill Bogart any thought for quite some time, and he wondered why he came to mind now. I’ve got a strong dislike for that son of a bitch, he thought. It’s a good thing I’m done with him, else one of us would wind up dead for certain.