Hoping to make the trip to Virginia City in little more than two weeks’ time, the bounty hunters rode free of trouble until skirting the southern end of the Big Horn Mountains. Crossing over wide-open prairies with rolling hills for most of that day, they were glad to see a small stream in the distance. After fifteen minutes or more, they entered the trees that lined the stream and let the horses drink. After horses and riders had their fill of the cool water, they were in the saddle again with Arlo taking the lead. He had not cleared the line of cottonwoods on the west side of the little stream when he suddenly pulled his horse to a stop. “Ma!” he called out, and pointed toward a long ridge on the northern slope of the valley.
P. D. pulled her horse up beside Arlo’s. “Damn!” she uttered as she looked toward the ridge. “I wonder how long they’ve been watchin’ us.” Sitting impassively on the brow of the ridge, a line of thirty or more Sioux warriors watched the progress of the four white riders as they followed the valley west.
“What do you reckon they want?” Wiley asked.
Bo, never hesitating to remind his younger brother that he was the simpleminded member of the family, answered him, “Now what the hell do you think they want, dummy? They want that pretty head of hair you’re wearin’.”
“What they want is these rifles we’re carryin’,” P. D. said as she quickly surveyed the terrain around them. Looking directly ahead, she picked her spot. “I expect they’re waitin’ for us to come out in the open after we cross the stream.” She pointed toward a pocket of trees near the base of the western slope. “If we can get to that bunch of pines on the other side of the clearin’, we oughta be able to hold ’em off—maybe run ’em off for good if we can cut down a few of ’em.” She pushed her horse up ahead of Arlo’s. “You boys follow me. We’ll take it nice and easy till we get clear of these trees. Then ride like hell for that pocket over yonder.”
High on the ridge that formed the northern side of the valley, the Sioux war party waited, watching the trees for sign of the white men. Spotting a rider about to emerge into the open, then stop, Iron Claw, leader of the war party, signaled his warriors to wait. When the four white riders suddenly charged out of the trees at full gallop, he knew his warriors had been spotted. “After them,” he shouted. Sweeping down the slope, the war party drove its ponies hard to cut off the white trespassers’ escape.
It was a race, but P. D. and her sons managed to gain the angle on their pursuers and capture a sizable lead. Whipping her horse, calling for all the stallion could give her, P. D. rode low on his neck, calling out encouragement to her sons behind her. Seeing that they had lost their advantage, Iron Claw’s warriors began shooting at the fleeing four, but to no avail. P. D. and her boys reached the safety of the pocket with lead flying harmlessly in the trees around them. While Bo and Wiley led the horses back into the trees where they would be safe, P. D. and Arlo took cover in a gully at the edge and began to return fire.
“By God, that slowed ’em down,” P. D. exclaimed as she laid her front sight on a warrior riding a white pony and knocked him off the horse. Equally adept with a rifle, Arlo accounted for another warrior down. Wiley and Bo scrambled up beside them, their rifles searching for targets.
With two warriors killed, Iron Claw called his war party back out of range. Furious at having let the white men gain the cover of the wooded pocket, he drew back to decide on another plan. Two dead was already a higher price than he had intended to pay. With the rifle fire now coming from the gully, it was confirmed that all four had repeating rifles, and he was determined to have the weapons. “They have closed themselves up in a trap,” Iron Claw said to one of his warriors, a man called Yellow Horn. “I’ll take half the warriors and cross over the ridge, then circle above them on the slope. The rest of you can use the cover of the stream bank to work your way down in close to that gully.”
Yellow Horn agreed. He could see that Iron Claw would be able to shoot down from above the white men and drive them out in the open, where they would be picked off by him and the others.
Back in the shallow depression that served as their protection, P. D. had much the same thought. “Bo,” she called out, “get on back there and see what kinda hole we landed in. Them devils might be able to get up behind us.”
Bo did as he was told, crawling away from the gully and disappearing in the trees where the horses were tied. After a quarter of an hour, he returned to report. “We ain’t in too good a spot. If they’re smart enough to get up on that slope above us, they can make it pretty damn hot for us.”
“Damn,” P. D. swore. “I was afraid of that. Maybe they won’t think of that.”
“Ma,” Wiley called out, “they’re sneakin’ down the crick, tryin’ to get closer.”
P. D. turned back to take a look for herself. Then she fired a couple of shots at a glimpse of buckskin, her bullets kicking up dirt on the stream bank. As near as she could tell, the war party didn’t seem as big as before. “They’ve already split up,” she decided. “Arlo, you and Bo drop back and find you a place to watch that slope behind us.”
There was nothing they could do but wait until the Sioux made some move toward their position. Using the stream bank as cover, the warriors offered no opportunity for P. D. and Wiley to pick a target. “You boys keep your eyes peeled back there,” P. D. yelled over her shoulder. More than a little angry at her poor choice of defensive positions, she was determined to make the assault costly for the Indians. In her own defense, she had to admit that there had been few choices in the short amount of time she was allotted to choose. “Make every shot count,” she said to Wiley.
“If they ever give me somethin’ to shoot at,” Wiley complained in reply.
“They will,” P. D. said. “They’re just waitin’ for the rest of their crowd to get above us.”
To confirm P. D.’s prediction, several minutes later the short period of silence was blasted by a sudden barrage of rifle fire from the slope behind them. “Here they come!” P. D. exclaimed as Arlo and Bo opened up with their weapons. But Yellow Horn and his warriors remained concealed behind the banks of the stream. Behind her, the sound of a heavy exchange of shots told her that Arlo and Bo had their hands full. Worried that they might be overrun, and puzzled by the lack of fire from the Sioux at the stream, she sent Wiley back to help his brothers. “I can cut anybody down that shows his ass over that bank,” she assured him.
It soon became apparent to P. D. why the warriors in the stream had remained quiet, as she spotted the appearance of a rifle barrel here and there. The Indians had been busy digging out firing pits. Within a few minutes after Wiley had retreated to help his brothers, the warriors before her began to deliver fire in her direction, kicking up dirt and gravel on either side of her. It was apparent that they did not have her position pinpointed, and she knew that as soon as she returned fire, they would have. “Well, this ol’ gal is smarter’n that,” she mumbled. Raising up slightly, she cranked out four quick shots, spraying the bank, then ducked down and scrambled several yards to her left. As she expected, the spot she had fired from was immediately peppered with rifle balls. She soon realized that the best she could expect to do was to hold them at bay, for it appeared they were not going to risk an all-out charge across the clearing.
On the slope behind her, the battle continued with no sign of letup from the attacking warriors. However, the momentum was gradually being gained by Iron Claw’s warriors. “Gawdam!” Bo exclaimed when a rifle ball tore the bark off the tree trunk a scant few inches above his head. Lying as flat as he could manage, he pushed himself backward, looking for a better spot. Glancing to his right, he tried to see where Arlo was, realizing then that both Arlo and Wiley had already been forced back to find safer positions. “Arlo!” he called out.
“Over here!” his brother called back, some ten yards below him in the trees.
“You bastard,” Bo yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me you was droppin’ back? Leavin’ me here to hold ’em off by myself.” Without further comment, he rolled over and, half crawling, half running, scrambled down the slope to join his brother. “Where’s Wiley?” he blurted upon settling behind a pine trunk beside Arlo.
“Over here,” Wiley answered, lying behind a small boulder a dozen yards to Arlo’s right.
“You hit anythin’?” Arlo asked anxiously.
“Shit no,” Bo came back. “The son of a bitches don’t never show theirselves.”
The three brothers tried to hold where they were but, as before, the hostile fire soon became too hot around them, forcing them back down to the bottom of the slope, almost backing up to P. D. Still trying to get a clear shot at one of the warriors in the stream, P. D. was alarmed to discover her sons had been pushed back from the slope. For the first time, she realized that there might not be a way out of the trap she had ridden into. It was obvious that the Sioux plan was to push the four of them out in the open where they would be easily cut down by the warriors by the stream. Fighting off a rage that was building up inside her, she was forced to concede defeat, furious that she was to cash in this way—cut down by a bunch of wild Indians. There was no choice but to take as many with her as possible. “Boys,” she called back, her voice solemn as a preacher’s, “you’ve got to hunker down and don’t let ’em push you any further back down the mountain. If we let ’em drive us out in the open we’re goners, sure as hell.” The three young men took what cover they could, but were still trying to shoot at targets they could not see.
* * *
High up the mountain on a ledge below the tree line, a lone figure sat astride a paint pony, a silent observer of the skirmish taking place three hundred feet below him. Following an old game trail on the far side of the mountain, Matt Slaughter had heard the gunfire and decided to take a look for himself. From the sound of it, someone was in real trouble. High above the thick ring of lodgepole pines, he had taken cover in the boulders of a broad rock formation when he saw the party of Indians filing up from below him. As he watched, they spread out and disappeared into the trees. It became obvious to him right away that they were intent upon attacking someone at the foot of the mountain.
Leaving his horse in the rocks, he drew his Henry rifle from the saddle sling and made his way down the slope on foot. Working his way carefully from one patch of trees to the next, he descended to a spot directly above the stalking warriors. He could see them clearly now, since they were not expecting anyone above them on the mountain. They were Sioux, as he had expected. As he watched, one man stood up and, with hand signals, gestured toward a group of trees below him. Matt followed the direction of his signal. A glimpse of a man crawling up behind a tree was all he got, but it was enough to identify him as a white man. Matt scanned the trees below the warriors. A slight movement several yards past the white man caught his eye, telling him that there was at least one more hiding in the forest.
His attention was brought back to the line of Sioux warriors when the war chief signaled again, and a barrage of gunfire burst out, rattling the pine boughs below them. About to lend a hand to the entrapped white men, he suddenly hesitated. Taking another look at the Sioux war chief, he realized that he had seen that savage face before. At first he could not believe his eyes, and he paused to focus his gaze to be certain. Iron Claw—it was him all right. There could be no mistaking the cruel, hawklike face of the Sioux war chief, and thoughts came rushing back to his brain—thoughts of the savage murder of his friend Ike Brister. Ike’s death at the hand of Iron Claw had been a slow and torturous one, judging by the battered body Matt had found suspended between two trees. He had made a promise over Ike’s grave that he would avenge his death, but it had never come to pass. He had searched for the notorious Lakota war chief for most of a year before giving up hope of ever finding him. Zeb and Molly had finally persuaded him to leave thoughts of Iron Claw in the past. Now, on this day when he no longer searched for Iron Claw, providence, the Great Spirit, or whomever, had caused their two paths to cross. Iron Claw, he thought, and up to his favorite trick—killing innocent white men.
With grim determination, he cranked a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle and started working his way farther down the slope. When he arrived at a position on a small hump some forty yards above the line of advancing warriors, he dropped to one knee and prepared to go to work. From this vantage point, he could now see the shape of things as they were planned to happen. There were more than two white men. Of that he was certain. How many more, he could not yet tell, but there were evidently more in a gully at the base of the slope. In his descent from the slope above, he had lost sight of Iron Claw momentarily, but he was determined that the bloodthirsty war chief would not escape again. In the meantime, he began to reduce the odds against the white men. In rapid succession, he fired three times, each shot claiming a Lakota warrior. Then, before the Sioux could determine where the killing rain had come from, he moved quickly off the hump and down into a pine thicket where he prepared to shoot again.
Confused by the sudden attack from behind, the warriors were uncertain from which direction they should take cover. Several scattered to find safer protection, only to expose themselves to the deadly fire of their unseen antagonist. Two more warriors fell.
Halfway to the bottom of the slope, Iron Claw was stopped in his tracks by the solid barking of the rifle fire behind him. He heard cries of alarm from his warriors and screams of pain from one of the casualties. But it was the sound of the rifle that triggered the emotion in his brain. He had heard that sound on more than one occasion, and it brought back agony and frustration that had dwelt in his mind to this day. Slaughter! It could be no other—the devil the Sioux called Igmutaka, the mountain lion.
His mind ablaze with deep, burning fury, Iron Claw forgot the four white men trapped between him and the stream. The Great Spirit had seen fit to grant him one more chance to rid his tormented soul of the hated Igmutaka. “Back!” he commanded the warriors on either side of him as he turned to charge up the slope, following the sound of the repeating rifle known to the Sioux as the Spirit Gun. Confused by the sudden order to retreat and the blistering rifle fire above them, his warriors were left to thrash about, uncertain as to which direction they should take. Most of them, however, followed Iron Claw as he pushed himself feverishly up the slope.
They spotted each other at almost the same instant. “Slaughter!” Iron Claw roared in uncontrollable rage. Impassioned to carve the very heart out of the white man he hated above all others, he cast his rifle aside and charged his enemy with war ax raised to strike.
Equally eager to rid the world of the man responsible for the death of his old friend, but with the patience of the lion he was named for, Matt remained in control of his passion. He stood unmoving, patiently waiting for the charging warrior to clear the screen of pine boughs. When Iron Claw was clear of the trees, Slaughter dropped to one knee again, and took careful aim. When the enraged warrior had closed to within ten yards of him, he calmly squeezed the trigger and the Henry spoke once more. An ugly black hole immediately appeared in Iron Claw’s forehead. The momentum of his charge carried him forward to crash at the feet of his adversary.
It was done; Matt’s promise to Ike Brister’s soul was fulfilled. He dwelt upon the thought for only a moment before realizing that the danger was not over. Spinning around to level his rifle at the warriors who had followed Iron Claw up the mountain, he started to cut the closest one down, but hesitated. The forest had suddenly become silent. The warriors, stunned by the death of their chief, one they had thought to be invincible, were certain that there was big medicine at work, and Iron Claw’s medicine was obviously not strong enough to fight it. Without a signal, the remaining warriors turned and left the battle, knowing the spirits were not on their side. Content to let them leave unharmed, Matt stood aside, rifle cradled in his arms, and watched in amazement.
Distracted by the conflict above her, P. D. turned to see her three sons retreating from the slope above. “We couldn’t hold ’em,” Arlo shouted as he and his brothers scrambled back to join P. D. in the gully. “There’s too many of ’em.”
“Damn!” P. D. swore, disgusted by her sons’ failure. “Well, we’re in a helluva pickle now.” She looked around her frantically to see if there was any way they could improve their fortifications and prepare for an all-out assault from front and rear. “How many did you kill?” she asked, hoping the odds were trimmed down some.
Arlo looked at Bo, then at Wiley. They both shook their heads. “We didn’t kill any of ’em,” he said.
“Not a one?” P. D. asked in angry astonishment. “I heard a helluva lot of shootin’ goin’ on up there. And nobody hit a damn thing?”
“Most of that happened after we left,” Bo said. “I don’t know what they was shootin’ at, ’cause we was done gone.”
“Well, ever’thin’s quiet now,” P. D. warned. “They’re most likely sneakin’ down through the trees. Get ready, ’cause hell’s gonna break loose any minute.” Fearing she had been distracted too long, she turned her attention back to the stream bank. Everything was quiet there as well. “That’s mighty peculiar,” she muttered when she realized she could no longer see rifle barrels protruding from the firing pits dug into the bank. She turned once again to look behind her. “See any sign of ’em yet?” All three replied that they had not. They waited through a full quarter of an hour of eerie silence before P. D. announced in utter amazement, “They’re gone.” A few seconds later they heard the sound of the Sioux ponies departing on the other side of the ridge.
Still finding it hard to believe, P. D. crawled up out of the gully and stood there for a moment, halfway expecting a shot to ring out. There was nothing. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” she murmured. “They had us squeezed in like rats in a corncrib.” She was about to walk over to the stream to see for herself when a voice called out.
“You fellows all right down there?”
It had come from the trees behind them. P. D.’s immediate reaction was to dive back for the cover of the gully. Looking desperately back and forth, she searched for the source of the question. It occurred to her that the voice had spoken in English, but she still considered the possibility of a trick.
“The Indians have pulled out.” This time the voice came from a closer point, some thirty yards above them.
The whole picture became obvious to P. D. then. Whomever their benefactor, he was the source of all the shooting on the mountainside after her boys had fled, and the cause of the Sioux’s sudden departure. She propped her rifle against the side of the gully and climbed out again. Her sons followed her, and all four stood on the edge of the gully to meet their rescuer. “Come on down, mister,” P. D. said. “You sure enough saved our bacon, and that’s a fact.”
He suddenly appeared then, emerging from the trees, a tall broad-shouldered man dressed from head to foot in animal skins, cradling a Henry rifle in his arms. “Yessir,” he replied. “It looked like you were in a bind.”
P. D. strode forward to meet him. “I’m P. D. Wildmoon, and these are my boys.”
Matt looked from one face to the next, then back again at P. D. They were a rough-looking bunch, he decided, but so was everybody who rode through this part of the territory with no wagons, womenfolk, or children. They were definitely not settlers. “Where you fellows headin’?” he asked.
“Virginia City,” P. D. answered.
Matt nodded. That made sense. They looked the kind to follow the scent of gold. “Well, I reckon you’d best stay south of the Big Horns, and maybe you won’t run into any more Sioux war parries till you make the other side of the Absarokas.” That said, he turned to leave.
P. D. stopped him. “Hell, mister, we owe you some thanks for runnin’ off them Injuns. What’s your name?”
Matt thought about it for a brief second before answering. “Johnson,” he replied. “No need for thanks—you’da probably done the same for me.” He saw no need to give his real name to someone he didn’t expect to see again. There was no point in taking the risk they might pass it along to someone looking for him.
“Well, Mr. Johnson, if you’re headin’ toward Virginia City yourself, you might as well ride along with us. We’d be glad to have you—as handy as you are with that rifle.”
“Thanks just the same,” Matt replied, “but I’m headin’ straight north.” In the next instant, he was gone, disappearing into the forest without so much as one small tremor of a pine needle.
“Well, ain’t he the odd one,” Bo remarked as he stood staring at the empty pines where the stranger had disappeared.
“He saved our bacon,” P. D. said. Then, remembering, she added, “After you boys hightailed it down that mountain.”
“Hell, Ma, there was bullets flying everywhere, and we couldn’t see where they was coming from.”
P. D. shook her head in disgust. “Let’s get the hell outta here before them Injuns change their minds.”
They wasted no time fetching the horses and leaving the gully behind them. P. D. always believed she was lucky, and the sudden appearance of the lone mountain man confirmed it yet again in her mind. He had appeared, almost ghostlike, out of nowhere, and then he was gone. Mighty peculiar, she thought with a shake of her head and a smile.