Winding down through the mountains, following an old game trail that led down to the Boulder River valley, Matt and Molly emerged from the dense forest to arrive on a long ridge that overlooked the river. Born high in the Absaroka-Beartooth Mountains, the Boulder surged north, tumbling down over a bed of small rocks and around large boulders where grizzlies waited for unwary fish, and deer and elk came to drink. Through mountainous canyons its crystal-clear waters flowed, angry at times, forming silver waterfalls and treacherous rapids. Leaving the mountains, it became peaceful and forgiving as it flowed into the Yellowstone near the site of the Frenchman’s trading post.
From the ridge, they could see the Crow village where the valley broadened to accommodate the juncture of the west fork of the river. The Crow camp lay between the forks of the river in a lush meadow among a scattering of spruce trees. Consisting of some seventy-five lodges, the village had remained in this one spot for most of the summer, having moved only once to find new grass. The abundance of game in this valley, as well as in neighboring valleys, further contributed to the attraction of this camping spot, making it unnecessary to move constantly.
As Matt and Molly rode into the gathering of tipis, they were greeted warmly by the people they passed. Thanks to Zeb’s ambassadorship, the Crows were openly friendly with the three white people who had built a cabin in one of the high valleys. Zeb was already like one of their own, and the Crows were highly amused by his obvious affection for Broken Hand’s sister, Singing Woman. Matt was held in somewhat different regard. Quiet and reserved, Zeb’s young friend, although friendly, was still of a cautious nature, seeming to be always alert. He had been immediately accepted by the Crows when they learned that he had been a friend of Spotted Horse and Red Hawk, two brothers from the village who had ridden with the soldiers as scouts at Fort Laramie. It was said that the tall, fair-haired young man had killed many of their enemies, the Sioux, and that the Lakotas had given him the name of Igmutaka, mountain lion.
They found Broken Hand sitting before his lodge, dozing in the afternoon sun. After a few minutes’ conversation, it became apparent to Matt that the Indian had been trying to sleep off a drunk. This could explain why Zeb had failed to come home. Zeb and alcohol usually made an unpredictable combination. Upon further questioning, Matt learned that some of the younger men of the village had returned the night before with whiskey from the Frenchman’s. Zeb had evidently decided to go get more that morning. Broken Hand made an attempt to be hospitable, even though it was quite obvious that his head was aching severely. Matt declined his invitation to stay and have something to eat, explaining that he had best go looking for Zeb, and that he would have to leave right away if he was to reach the trading post before dark.
“Zeb is not here,” Broken Hand said, forgetting that he had already told Matt that. “He was here last night, but left here to go to the trading post this morning.”
“I understand,” Matt said, not sure his Crow was good enough to catch everything Broken Hand had said. “Zeb went to the Frenchman’s.”
“Yes,” Broken Hand replied, nodding. Then he rolled his eyes sorrowfully, registering his regret. “I drank the white man’s firewater. No good—it makes my head crazy—no more.”
Matt looked at Molly and shook his head. Zeb had obviously made the same mistake. It seemed to him that the older Zeb got, the more childlike he became. When he left the cabin, the old scout had not taken any of his hides, so Matt wondered what he planned to trade for his whiskey. “We’d best go find him,” Matt said.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Matt and Molly arrived at the mouth of the Boulder, where it emptied into the Yellowstone. Just as he had been told, he found the trading post near the confluence of the two rivers on the bank of the Yellowstone. The Frenchman, Bordeaux, had evidently used some of the old timbers of the abandoned fort to erect a small stockade big enough to afford protection for him and his four men in the event of hostile activity.
Matt pulled his horse to a stop while he sized up the rough structure before crossing over to the other side. Other timbers had been used to build a sizable cabin, which from all appearances served as a store as well as a dwelling. Behind the cabin, Matt saw a corral with eight or ten horses within. There were no horses tied to a hitching post out front, and Matt wondered if he had gotten there too late to catch Zeb. The whole establishment didn’t look like much of a trading post, and if he hadn’t needed ammunition for his rifle, he might have decided to forgo the visit. “It don’t look like much, does it?” he said to Molly before guiding his horse down the bank to cross at the ford below the camp.
Their arrival was announced by a barking dog that rushed down to the river to yap and snarl around the paint’s hooves until the horse aimed a kick that almost caught the ill-tempered mongrel in the head. The near miss served to teach some respect for the paint’s hooves, and the dog retreated to redirect his attack to Molly’s horse. Matt, concerned that the dog might cause her horse to buck, quickly untied the bow that rode beneath his right leg and, using it as a whip, promptly dispatched the bother-some mongrel.
“One of these days somebody’s liable to shoot that damn dog.” The comment came from the doorway of the cabin. Matt looked up to find Bordeaux standing on the step. “Good evenin’ to you, stranger, and welcome.” He stood watching as they rode up to the hitching post, looking Matt over thoroughly before turning his gaze upon the slight young woman on the dun. “Don’t believe I’ve seen you around here before.”
“Howdy,” Matt replied. Under Bordeaux’s watchful eye, he dismounted and helped Molly down.
“Evenin’, ma’am,” the Frenchman said. “We don’t get to see many white women around here, and that’s a fact, ’specially one as pretty as you.”
Molly nodded shyly and favored him with a faint smile. She stepped over close to Matt. “She don’t talk,” Matt explained when Bordeaux seemed to be waiting for her response. He reached over the saddle and drew his Henry rifle from the sling.
Still watching the stranger’s movements carefully, Bordeaux suddenly exclaimed, “You’re Slaughter, ain’t you? The feller the Injuns talk about.” When Matt failed to answer, Bordeaux went on, “You folks come on inside. Looks like you’ve got a right smart passel of skins to trade.” He stood aside to permit them to enter. “I bet you’d like a drink of likker. I’ve got some as smooth as anythin’ you’d find in St. Louie.”
Matt had little doubt that whiskey was the main thing Bordeaux sold the Indians. “No, thanks,” he replied. “Have you got any .44 cartridges?” He glanced at Molly. “Maybe some coffee and sugar?”
“I sure have,” Bordeaux replied. “Why don’t you and the little lady go on inside, and I’ll take a quick gander at them skins there.”
Inside, there were five men seated around a table playing cards. They were a rough enough bunch, and all five turned to stare brazenly at the man and woman in the doorway. One of them, a heavyset man with a bushy black beard, grinned blatantly as he looked Molly up and down. Molly stepped even closer to Matt. Glancing from one dirty, unshaven face to the next, Matt noticed a badly bruised eye on one, and a swollen and cut lip on another. They had obviously been in a recent fight. Little wonder, he thought, noticing the whiskey bottle in the middle of the table. He decided to do his trading as quickly as possible, and depart. In the meantime, he cautioned himself to make sure he didn’t present his back to the five at the table.
Bordeaux came inside then. Turning to keep an eye on him as well, Matt said, “I expected to see my partner here. Zeb Benson’s his name.”
“Zeb Benson,” Bordeaux repeated. “There was a feller here this mornin’.” He looked quickly toward the table. “Luther, was that the feller’s name was in here this mornin’?” He turned back to Matt. “Older feller. He didn’t stay long. He was wantin’ some whiskey.”
“Hell, I don’t know.” The surly answer came back from the table.
“Well, like I said, he warn’t here long,” Bordeaux said.
“I won’t be either,” Matt said. “Let’s count up those hides.” Taking Molly by the elbow, he turned and went back outside to the packhorse.
“These look mighty prime,” Bordeaux said as they took the hides off one by one. “Too bad hides ain’t bringin’ as much as they used to.” He sorted them into two piles, then added up the amount of credit he would offer.
Matt was surprised. It could not be considered generous, but he had expected much less. A voice inside his head warned him that Bordeaux might be planning to cheat him on the trade. “All right, then,” he said when he was told the final figure. “We’ll go back in and get what we need.” He was about to follow the Frenchman inside when Molly tugged impatiently at his sleeve. He turned to look at her, and she nodded toward the corral. He at once saw what she was trying to tell him. “Hold on, mister,” he said softly. “That’s Zeb Benson’s sorrel.”
Bordeaux stopped at once. There was only a hesitation of five or six seconds before he smiled and said, “Why, right you are.” He walked over and propped one foot up on the bottom rail as if looking the sorrel over. “Your friend wanted to buy some whiskey pretty bad, but he didn’t have much to trade for it, so I traded him a little mare I had, and a gallon of good whiskey to boot.” His smile still in place, he turned back to face Matt. “He seemed pretty happy with the trade. He took his jug and headed back up the river, yonder.”
“Is that a fact?” Matt said, not at all satisfied with the story. I’ll have to see about that, myself, he thought. Maybe that’s the way it had happened, and maybe it wasn’t. If what Bordeaux said was true, he would have most likely met Zeb coming back up the river. One thing for sure: he wouldn’t trust Bordeaux or the five saddle trash he saw inside any farther than he could spit. “Well, I’ll take my goods and be on my way,” he announced abruptly. Seeing the frown of concern on Molly’s face, he said to her, “Climb on your pony, girl. We’d best be goin’.”
“You oughta stay a while and play some cards.”
Matt looked back to see the man with the black, bushy beard standing in the doorway. Although the words were aimed at him, the man’s gaze was settled directly upon Molly, watching her every move as she climbed up on her horse. “Reckon not,” Matt replied with little emotion as he finished tying off the supplies he had just traded for. The thought ran across his mind that he might have gotten a fair price for his hides because the Frenchman planned to get it all back. Black Beard stepped outside the door. Matt’s hand immediately dropped to settle on his rifle propped against the hitching post.
“Whoa, mister!” the bearded man quickly blurted. “You’re a mite touchy, ain’t you?” When Matt declined to answer, he stared at him a while longer until he had stepped up in the saddle. “I’ve heared some stories ’bout you and that there Henry rifle. That is, if you’re that Slaughter feller the Injuns talk about.”
Matt didn’t take the trouble to respond. Speaking softly to Molly, he said, “Go along, now. I’ll be right behind you.” He waited for a few moments while she led the packhorse down toward the river. Facing the two men outside the cabin, he sat calmly, his rifle cradled across his arms, until Molly disappeared below the high bank. Then he backed the paint slowly away. When a safe distance away, he wheeled the horse and followed after her, chased several yards by the same snarling mongrel that had greeted him on the way in.
“Come back when you ain’t in such a hurry,” Bordeaux called after him.
“And don’t forget to bring the missus,” the man with the bushy beard added, laughing.
* * *
When Matt caught up with Molly at the ford, she began signing frantically, too fast for him to interpret, in fact. He held up his hand to quiet her. “I know what you’re tryin’ to tell me,” he said. “And you’re right. Zeb ain’t never got so out-of-his-mind drunk that he’d trade that sorrel. That fellow’s story stunk to high heaven. I’m takin’ you back to Broken Hand’s camp. If Zeb ain’t there, I’m coming back to find him.”
Fingers flying, she immediately protested. “You’ll be all right, honey,” he said. “You can stay with Singing Woman. You’ll be safe there. I’d take you back to our cabin, but I’m afraid I’ve already lost too much time.” He didn’t express it, but he was also afraid that he could guess how the cuts and bruises on two of the five back at the table had happened. It had been all he could do to maintain his calm back at the Frenchman’s, but his first concern was to remove Molly from danger. Thoughts of the old scout, lying in a ravine somewhere with his head bashed in, made him almost sick with anger. The old fool, he thought. Why didn’t he wait for me to go with him? Then he told himself to quit fretting about it. Zeb did what he did, but there was no question about it. Matt would find him, or tear that trading post apart if he didn’t.
As he had feared, Zeb had not returned to the Crow village. It was past dark when Matt and Molly rode into the meadow by the river. As expected, Singing Woman was more than willing to have Molly stay in her tipi. Broken Hand offered to send several warriors back with Matt, but he declined, preferring to go alone.
“It is dark in the river canyons,” the Crow chief cautioned. “Maybe you better wait till morning.”
“I wanna be there before sunup,” Matt replied. “Besides, I’ve been there and back already. I reckon I can find my way in the dark. All I have to do is follow the river.”
I can help you, Molly signed.
Matt shook his head. “No. I need to know you’re safe.” She rushed to him then, throwing her arms around his neck. He held her close for a long moment before gently pushing her away. “I’ll be back soon,” he said. “You can give Singing Woman some of that coffee and sugar.”
Singing Woman hurried from her lodge with some dried deer meat wrapped in a hide pouch, and pressed it in his hand. “Thank you,” he said, “and thank you for lookin’ after Molly.” With one last reassuring smile for Molly, he mounted and wheeled the paint to retrace his trail.