He moved with the surefooted grace of a man endowed with the skills necessary to survive in a world of wolves and grizzlies, where strength and cunning were mandatory traits. Scouting a wide circle around the sleeping trading post, he searched for any sign that might give him a clue to Zeb’s departure from that place. Morning approached with a thin gray light that filtered through the leaves of the cottonwoods by the riverbank. Soon the sun would show itself above the rolling prairie to the east. His horse had been left to feed on the green shoots beside the river, tethered safely out of harm’s way. His rifle in his hand and his bow on his back, he moved quickly toward a thick clump of bushes at the back of the log compound.
Seeing what he thought was a hoofprint in the gray light, he knelt down for a closer look. It would have been easy to miss it in this early morning light, but it was what he had searched for. He was directly behind the trading post at this point, and there was certainly no trail, not even a game trail through the thick patch of brush. So there had to be definite purpose for a horse to have pushed through there, and he feared he knew what that purpose might be. He examined the ground carefully, looking for another print. When he found it, he could then confirm the general direction in which the horse had been moving. Looking ahead through the tangle of vines and scrubby trees, he spotted what appeared to be a drop-off of some kind, probably a ravine. He could feel his blood beginning to heat up as a picture formed in his mind of his partner’s fate.
With a renewed feeling of urgency, he hurried straight for the ravine. Behind him, he heard Bordeaux’s mongrel dog bark. Knowing he was down-wind of the store, he was sure the dog had not caught his scent. Still cautious, however, he knelt down on one knee and waited, listening. After a few minutes, the ill-tempered mongrel stopped barking. He rose and continued on toward the ravine. As he approached the edge, he could see clear evidence left by a horse pushing through a thicket of low brush bordering the rim. He followed the trail until he came upon a sudden drop-off into a deep gulch with steep sides that appeared to converge into a narrow chasm. In the gray light of morning, it was too deep to see the bottom from where he stood on the brim. Without hesitation, he scrambled over the side, descending as fast as he could manage while still trying to keep from tumbling head over heels down the steep precipice. Alternately finding handholds on rocks and scrubby pines, while holding onto his rifle with one hand, he slid most of the way down before finally reaching the narrow bottom.
It was still dark in the bottom of the gulch, so he paused to look around him until his eyes adjusted to the poor light. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he was able to see the confines of the pit he had descended into. No more than ten feet wide where he stood, the ravine extended to his right and left with no end in sight in either direction. There was no sign of the body he had been certain he would find, but the light was so poor that he could not really tell what might lie twenty feet away.
He decided to search to his right first, and had started to take a step when his foot snagged something that almost tripped him. Looking down at his feet, he discovered the skeletal remains of a human body. Stunned for a moment, his common sense told him that it couldn’t be Zeb. These bones had been there for a long time, long enough for some predator to have devoured the flesh. It told him something else—Zeb, if he was down here, was not the first body to be discarded over the side of the gulch.
Moving carefully now, Matt followed the narrow defile as it wound around the base of the ridge above. It was just a guess, but he figured there was a good chance the ravine might have started in the bluffs by the river. There would not be decent light in the steep-sided gulch until the sun shone directly overhead, but the deep darkness faded a little as daylight descended upon the river, allowing him to at least see the rocky bottom. He could not be certain, but he thought it appeared that something or somebody had been dragged along the loose gravel of the ravine floor. Coming to a sharp bend in the gulch, the question was answered for him just as he made the turn.
The body lay facedown against the side of the ravine. Matt knew in an instant that it was Zeb. Like a bolt of lightning, a sudden burst of anger surged through his brain when he saw the pitiful body. They had stripped him clean, leaving nothing but shirt and pants. Unable to act for a long moment while the shock of finding his friend seemed to halt the flow of his blood, Matt finally moved to kneel by Zeb’s side.
Very gently, he rolled the body over. It was obvious why they had not taken the deerskin shirt. It was crusted solid with the blood that had flowed from two bullet holes in the chest. “Damn, partner,” he uttered softly, “why didn’t you wait for me?”
Zeb’s eyes fluttered weakly. His lips barely moving, he whispered, “I was drunk.”
Matt sat back, astonished, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, wondering if he had actually heard what he had just heard, or if it was his imagination. “Zeb? And you came back here for more?” Matt asked, hardly believing.
“I wasn’t after more,” Zeb protested weakly. “I come back ’cause that whiskey they sold the Injuns was watered down so bad I had to drink damn near a gallon to get drunk. That’s why they jumped me.”
Zeb’s eyes fluttered again before remaining open. “I figured you’d come lookin’ for me.” His words were weak, with barely enough strength to be heard.
“Damn! I thought you were dead,” Matt said, still finding it hard to believe he wasn’t.
“Me, too,” Zeb said. “I still ain’t sure I ain’t. I’m hurtin’ pretty bad inside, and I think I broke my leg when they throwed me down here.”
Matt looked down at Zeb’s leg. From the angle of his foot, it was apparent that the bone below the knee had snapped. “I expect you’re right,” he agreed. “I’ve gotta get you outta here, back to Broken Hand’s village.”
“I don’t know, Matt,” Zeb forced between clenched teeth. “I think somethin’s busted up inside me.” He paused to allow the pain of talking to subside a moment before continuing. “Damned old fool—I let ’em get the jump on me.” He paused again to groan. “I was holdin’ my own with ’em until that Bordeaux feller shot me.” His voice trailed off then. After a moment, he mumbled, “I was tryin’ to drag myself outta here, but I don’t know . . .”
“I’ll get you outta here,” Matt insisted. “You’re too damn ornery to die from two puny little bullet holes. You were already headin’ in the right direction—if I’m guessin’ right. I figure this damn gully has to lead to the river. I expect you were thinkin’ the same.” He paused a moment while he looked at Zeb’s chest. “I ain’t much of a doctor, but it doesn’t look like you’re bleedin’ right now. There ain’t much I could do to help those wounds, anyway. Your shirt’s stuck to ’em, but it’s probably best to leave it alone right now. Maybe it’s what’s keepin’ ’em from bleedin’.” He turned his attention to the leg. “Maybe I can set the bone in that leg, though.”
With his skinning knife, Matt cut a split down Zeb’s trouser leg so he could see the leg. It was already bruised and swelling, the location of the break obvious. He had never set a leg before, but he had seen it done during the war. “Think you can stand it?” he asked. Zeb nodded briefly and closed his eyes. “All right,” Matt said. “Here we go.” With one hand on Zeb’s knee, and the other on his ankle, he pulled with all the strength he could muster. Zeb’s eyes, closed tightly moments before, opened wide as he clenched his teeth. Unable to remain silent, he grunted one loud protest before his eyes rolled toward the top of his head and he fainted away.
Seeing that his patient had passed out, Matt strained to exert more pressure until the leg became straight. Then he let the broken ends of the bone draw back together. There was no way he could be sure they had settled back in perfect alignment, but the leg looked to be straight. “Best I can do,” he mumbled apologetically.
Using his knife, he hacked away at a couple of little pines growing on the side of the ravine until he had fashioned a splint. The problem then was to find something to tie the splint with. Looking around him, he could see no vines or anything that might serve the purpose, until his eye lit on the decorative fringe on Zeb’s shirt. He promptly cut off a dozen of the deerskin strings. Knotting them together, he was able to make a cord long enough to bind the pine stakes to form Zeb’s splint.
It was going to be a sizable task to carry Zeb out of the ravine. He decided he’d better explore a little farther along to make sure he would come out near the river before loading Zeb on his shoulder. He considered the fact that he might even find that he could lead his horse down into the dark chasm. After following the narrow gulch for about two hundred yards, he found what he was hoping for, but not entirely. The ravine did, in fact, start out as a deep gully, cut into the high bluffs along the river, not too distant from where he had left his horse. It began as a fifteen-foot sheer drop into a narrow slit of a crevice, however—too severe for a horse to negotiate. He studied the problem for a few moments longer. Well, at least there’s a way out of this hole, he thought, and retraced his steps to fetch the wounded man.
He returned to find his friend alert again, but in severe pain. “This ain’t gonna be pleasant, but there ain’t no other way to get you outta here.”
“Reckon not,” Zeb replied weakly, not certain at that point if he could even stand up.
After considerable effort, and a great deal of pain, Matt got the old scout standing on his one good leg, leaning against the wall of the gulch for support. He first thought he would heft Zeb across his shoulder, but Zeb was sure that he would be unable to tolerate the pain it might cause his bullet wounds. They finally decided that piggyback was the only way he could make it. So with Zeb’s legs locked around his hips, and his arms around his neck, Matt started toward the river carrying his partner on his back.
Zeb was not a small man, and Matt was beginning to wonder if he was going to have to stop and rest before reaching the river. The floor of the ravine was rough and uneven, causing him to stagger several times in the semidarkness, each misstep resulting in a painful grunt from his passenger. As he labored toward the end, he could feel a growing patch of wetness on the back of his shirt; perspiration or blood, he was not sure which. Finally a splash of bright sunlight illuminated his path, and he knew he had made it to the river. A few yards farther, and he staggered up to the head of the gully. As gently as he could manage, he sat Zeb down against the side. Zeb groaned and released a long, painful sigh before lying back.
Breathing heavily from the effort just expended, Matt stood over him for a long moment, watching him intently. As he had feared, the rough passage had started Zeb bleeding again. “Dammit, you’d damn-sure better not die after I carried you all the way here.”
“I ain’t makin’ no promises,” Zeb groaned painfully.
“Rest here while I go get my horse. Then we’ll pull you up outta this hole.” He turned his head from side to side, still looking the wounded man over carefully. “If you’re thinkin’ about givin’ up before I get back with my horse, I’m warnin’ you, I’ll kick your ass until you come back to life.” He crawled up out of the gully then and paused to listen for sounds from the trading post, some two hundred yards downstream. Satisfied that there was no one coming his way, he went to retrieve his horse.
Although it took less than a quarter of an hour to fetch his horse, he was more than a little apprehensive by the time he returned to the gully. Zeb hadn’t looked too good when he left. He had lost a little more blood, a good bit of it on the back of Matt’s shirt, and Matt was concerned that the ordeal of raising him out of the gully might be the final straw for the suffering man. There was, however, no alternative.
Taking a coil of rope from his saddle, Matt dropped down into the gully. Zeb was slumped over against the clay side, his chin almost resting on his chest, with his eyes closed. Matt stood over him for a few moments, watching intently, thinking that he was too late. Sorrow, mixed with an intense anger toward the men who had done this to his friend, overcame him.
“I ain’t dead yet,” Zeb mumbled softly, his eyes still closed.
The announcement startled Matt for a moment, but he recovered quickly enough to fire back, “Are you sure? ’Cause I’ve seen men dead for two weeks that looked better than you.” He went to work then—looped the rope under Zeb’s armpits and knotted it. “Keep your back toward the side of the gully, and I’ll pull you up outta here. All right?” Zeb nodded weakly, and Matt climbed up out of the gully again.
On top of the bluff, he led his horse into position and looped the loose end of the rope a couple of turns around the saddle horn. Holding the paint by the bridal, he led the horse slowly away, gradually lifting Zeb up out of the pit. Once Zeb was safely on top, Matt untied him and boosted him up in the saddle. He climbed up behind him and they departed the banks of the Yellowstone, cutting a wide circle around the trading post.
* * *
When she heard cries of recognition from some of the women down by the river, Molly hurried from Singing Woman’s lodge, anxious to meet the approaching riders. Giving silent thanks for Matt’s safe return, she ran gleefully until stopped in her tracks by the sight of Zeb Benson. Sagging weakly, held upright only by Matt’s arm around him, Zeb looked little more than barely alive.
Matt pulled the paint up to a stop before her. Seeing the distress in her face, he shook his head solemnly. “He’s hurt bad,” he confirmed. “They left him for dead.” Within seconds he was surrounded by a multitude of helping hands as the people of Broken Hand’s village came to assist him. Devastated by the sight of their friend’s blood-encrusted garments, Molly bit her lip in an effort to keep from crying. She looked at Matt helplessly. “He’s got two bullets in him and a broken leg,” Matt answered in response. “I set the leg as best I could. I reckon we’d best see if we can get the bullets out.”
Several of Broken Hand’s warriors carried Zeb inside Singing Woman’s tipi, and laid him on a buffalo robe that the Crow woman had prepared for him. The medicine man, Burning Sky, was sent for, and when he arrived, he sent all but Singing Woman away. Matt was reluctant to leave the old scout’s side, but Broken Hand assured him that Burning Sky had treated many bullet wounds. Matt was not totally convinced, but he knew of no better alternative. “He’s lost a helluva lot of blood,” he insisted. “It’s gonna take a lot more than a medicine man wavin’ some eagle feathers over him.”
Broken Hand smiled patiently, although he could have taken offense. “Burning Sky took the bullet from my side when we fought the Blackfeet,” he said. “He will remove the bullets from your friend, and Singing Woman will make some strong potion to give his blood strength.”
Knowing he could offer Zeb nothing better, Matt nodded, and immediately turned his mind to another matter that required his attention. Molly read his eyes, and immediately knew what he was thinking. She grabbed his arm, pleading with her eyes. Fearfully concerned, she signed, No! with her trembling fingers, wishing with all her heart that she could cry out to him.
He looked down at her, feeling her concern, but unable to quell the flame of fury that had been rapidly building every mile of the way back from the Yellowstone. “I’m gonna clean that nest of rattlesnakes outta there,” he said in a soft, even voice. It was as final a judgment as if God Himself had uttered it.
Molly locked her arms around his waist, holding him as tight as she could in a desperate effort to keep him from going back. He made no move to escape her embrace, but reached down to stroke her hair. “It’ll be all right, little one,” he whispered.
“That is an evil place,” Broken Hand said. He had been silently watching the drama taking place between the man and woman. “The Frenchman sells my people firewater that steals away their ability to reason. Others have gone to trade there, never to return. We will mount a war party to go with you.”
Matt thought the suggestion over for a moment or two. It was tempting to accept the offer, but he felt the need to personally avenge the wrong done his partner. Furthermore, he envisioned a wild Indian attack on the palisades of the trading post. He could imagine a stout defense by the white men, resulting in the sacrifice of innocent Crow lives. It would be easier for him to get inside if he were alone. Besides, he figured he had war party enough in the form of his Henry rifle. “No,” he decided. “This is for me to do alone, but I thank you for your offer. If you’ll take care of Molly for me, that’ll be enough.”
It was more than an hour before Burning Sky emerged from the tipi, followed by Singing Woman carrying a clay basin that she took to the edge of the camp and emptied. While she went down to the river to wash the basin, Burning Sky came to talk to Matt and Molly. “The bullets are deep,” he said. “I could not remove but one of them. I cleaned the wounds and wrapped them. If he is strong enough, he will be well again. Another day will tell us.”
It was not the report that Matt had hoped for, but at least Zeb’s chances seemed to be fifty-fifty. He is a tough ol’ bird, he thought. Maybe his chances are better than that. While Zeb slept, Singing Woman prepared food with Molly’s help. After eating, Matt declined an invitation to stay in the tipi, preferring to spread his bedroll under the trees by the river. He remained there for the rest of that day to let his horse rest. After the camp was settled for the night, Molly picked up her blanket and stole quietly from the tipi to join Matt by the river. While a veil of stars looked down through the branches of the trees, he made love to her. Then she fell asleep in his arms. When she awoke in the morning, he was gone, having left hours before sunup.
* * *
“Rider’s comin’,” Ed Varner called out. He was standing in the open gate of the stockade built around the Frenchman’s trading post. Only mildly interested, he pulled absentmindedly at the full, bushy, black beard that covered his face from ear to ear while he watched the rider approach. “Looks like that Slaughter feller that was in here a couple of days ago,” Varner said. “Looks like that paint pony he was ridin’.”
Behind him, near the door of his store, Bordeaux was examining a buffalo robe brought in by two Blackfoot men. He paused then to look toward the gate. He had not responded when Varner had first announced a visitor. When Ed identified the rider as Slaughter, however, he became interested. Leaving the two Indians to wait for their whiskey, he moved unhurriedly to stand by Varner at the gate.
“By hisself this time,” Bordeaux said. “I wonder what the hell he wants.” There had been something in the steady eye of the young mountain man that hinted he was not to be underestimated. He cocked an eye in Varner’s direction. “You didn’t leave that old man’s body layin’ around where somebody could find it, did you?”
“Nah,” Varner replied, still unconcerned. “We threw it down that gulch with the rest of ’em. He ain’t found nuthin’—probably just wants a drink of likker. You gave him too good a deal on them hides he brung in.” He paused to spit a stream of tobacco juice at a beetle scurrying across the open gate. “Wish he’da brung that pretty little wife with him.”
“We’d best keep an eye on him,” Bordeaux said. “I don’t like the way he kept askin’ questions about that old trapper. He might wanna cause some trouble.”
“I hope to hell he does,” Varner blurted. “We’ll throw his ass down that hole with his partner if he wants to find him that bad.” He grunted and spat again. “I fancy that paint he’s ridin’. I might wanna ride it back to find his camp and that little honey-haired woman.”
Bordeaux grunted in return. “I expect we might have to draw lots to see who got the horse and who got the girl if it comes down to that. The others might have a say in it.”
“To hell with ’em,” Varner snorted.
They continued to stand in the gate, watching the rider approach. As before, the ill-tempered mongrel dog ran out, snarling a warning, but when it approached the visitor, it remembered the paint pony and stopped well short of its hooves. When Matt was within a dozen yards, Bordeaux called out, “Welcome back. Slaughter, ain’t it?” Matt did not reply, but continued walking the paint up to them, then reined the horse to a stop a few yards before them. “Still lookin’ for that partner of yours?” Bordeaux asked.
His face deadly calm, without expression, Matt stared at the two men standing before him. Shifting his gaze from Bordeaux’s attempted innocence to the confident smirk of the bearded man, he replied softly, “That’s right.”
“Well, you missed him,” Bordeaux said. “He came back lookin’ for you, not long after you was here—didn’t he, Ed? He was pretty drunk when he left—mighta rode off a cliff or somethin’.”
“Mighta,” Matt replied stoically. “I expect it more likely he got thrown into that pit behind your place.”
Both men blanched. Realizing that Matt had discovered his dark game, Bordeaux’s hand dropped to his pistol. Matt, the Henry rifle already cradled in his arms, whipped the weapon around and pumped two shots into the Frenchman’s chest. Varner, his face twisted with anguish, managed to get his .44 halfway out of the holster before meeting the same fate as his partner. As the two men crumpled into the dust of the stockade, Matt cocked the Henry again with an eye on the two Indians, who wisely departed the compound. When they had disappeared, he calmly prodded the paint with his heels. Stepping around the bodies, the horse walked toward the trading post. Matt did not look down at them as the horse walked past; he knew they were dead.
Alerted by the rifle shots, two more of the Frenchman’s gang of cutthroats appeared in the doorway of the store. They were executed where they stood. Calm and seeming as impersonal as the rifle he carried, Slaughter continued toward the door. The burning anger that had fired the blood in his veins was past him now, having been replaced by a dull, single-minded mission. There was no thought of the taking of human life. It was no less moral than the methodical extermination of a rat’s nest. He owed it to Zeb, and to the other poor soul whose bones he had tripped over at the bottom of the gulch. The job was not finished, however. There were two more rats inside.
Intent upon cheating a Blackfoot hunter out of a half-dozen prime fox pelts in exchange for a small jug of watered-down whiskey only moments before, Bordeaux’s two remaining thugs were suddenly jolted by the second barrage of gunfire. Since there was no one in the compound except a couple of the Blackfoot’s friends, the two white men, Luther Rainey and Bill Cotton, had assumed that the initial round of rifle fire had come from Bordeaux or Varner. The cause was of no particular interest to them. They were always shooting at something, Cotton had commented in an attempt to calm the alarmed Blackfoot hunter, who didn’t know if he was in danger or not. “They’re maybe trying out a new rifle or somethin’,” Cotton had said. But in the next instant after these last shots, they were stunned to see their two partners crumple in the doorway, both stone dead.
“Jesus!” Rainey blurted, dumbfounded. His sudden paralysis lasted for no more than a second, however, and he set his feet into motion. Straight for the back window he ran, grabbing his rifle on the way. The Blackfoot ducked behind the counter.
Equally confused, but of a stouter fiber than his partner, Cotton yelled after the fleeing man, “Rainey!” But all he saw was Rainey’s rear end as the frightened man went out the window. Angry at having been left alone to face whatever threat awaited, he pulled his pistol and wasted two shots at the now empty window. He then moved quickly to take cover behind the bar. Not wishing to be part of it, the Indian moved to the other end of the short counter. Cotton took a moment to snarl at the Blackfoot before concentrating his attention on the doorway.
Consumed by panic, which was intensified by the two pistol shots that whined through the window over his head, Rainey landed headfirst on the ground, clambering to get to his feet. He only managed to get to his knees before he discovered the moccasined feet standing before him. He immediately shrank back in terror, fumbling with his rifle as he fell back against the log wall of the store. The bullet that split his forehead sent him on his dark journey wearing the frozen expression of cold fear that gripped his face.
Inside the store, Cotton heard the fatal shot and swung his revolver around to aim at the window. A moment later, a head appeared in the open window. He emptied his pistol, firing until the firing pin clicked on an empty chamber. Only then did he realize that it was Rainey’s head. He had pumped his last three shots into a corpse. Panic-stricken then, he scrambled out from behind the counter and ran for the door. Outside the window, Slaughter let the bullet-riddled body of Luther Rainey drop to the ground. There was no time to get off a certain shot, as Cotton reached the door faster than Slaughter anticipated. He managed only one shot before the fleeing man cleared the doorway, catching Cotton in his right shoulder.
His work not yet done, the solemn angel of death walked around the cabin to the door, expecting to find Cotton’s body just outside. It was not there. A sudden pounding of hooves behind him caused him to spin around and drop to one knee, ready to fire again. Too late, he got only a glimpse of Cotton as the wounded man rode out of the gate at a full gallop. Matt lowered his rifle. While the venom of vengeance was still in his veins, he gave no thought to chasing the remaining bushwhacker. There had been enough killing for one day, and the nest of vermin had been destroyed.
He paused then to look around the stockade while he reloaded the magazine of his rifle. There was no one else inside the log walls of the compound, the Indians who were there having fled when he started shooting. Shoving the two bodies blocking the doorway aside, he entered the store and walked over behind the counter where Bordeaux had kept ammunition. A slight movement at the other end of the counter triggered an instant reaction. In the blink of an eye, he turned, the Henry leveled at the figure crouched there.
Huddled against the back of the counter, the Blackfoot hunter awaited a fate that seemed certain. A knife, the only weapon he had, was in his hand. Only a split second before firing, Matt relaxed his grip on the Henry. Then, waving the rifle barrel, he motioned for the Indian to get up. The man hesitated for a moment before doing as he was bade, sensing that he was not about to meet death, after all. “You talk white man?” Matt asked. The Indian nodded. “Go find your friends. Take anything you can use. I’m gonna burn this place to the ground. You understand?” The Blackfoot nodded again.
While the Indian hurried out the door to summon his friends, Matt took all the .44 cartridges on the shelf. There was not much in the way of other inventory on the shelves. It was apparent that the Frenchman’s main merchandise consisted of watered-down whiskey. He took a bag of green coffee beans, and left the rest for the Indians. Outside, he opened the corral and walked Zeb’s sorrel out. He led the horse, along with his paint, to the stockade gate. There he waited while the Blackfoot hunter returned with his friends. They paused when they saw him standing at the gate until he motioned for them to continue.
In a matter of minutes, the small party of Indians had cleaned out the store of anything remotely useful. Carrying firearms and ammunition, they wasted no time in clearing the structure. Outside, Matt waited stoically while the Indians collected the weapons from the bodies of Bordeaux and Varner. Pausing at the corral, the Indians hesitated to take the horses, looking instead at the menacing figure with the deadly rifle. With another wave of his Henry, Matt signaled his permission. They were quick to comply. He watched until they had disappeared beyond the bluffs, hurrying to return to their village to relate this strange turn of events and show off their recent bounty. Matt figured they were probably owed that much if they had been trading with the Frenchman for very long. He wondered then how many more remains he might have found if he had searched in the direction away from the river when he was at the bottom of the gulch.
Alone now in what had been a den of thieves and murderers, he went back inside the store. There was a small iron stove in the middle of the room with a coffeepot sitting on one corner. Opening the grate, he discovered that the coals were still hot. There was a box of kindling over against the wall, along with some split firewood. He dragged it over to the stove. Then he stood back and kicked the stove over, spilling most of the glowing coals out on the plank floor. Using the kindling and firewood, he fed the coals until he had a strong blaze going. Then he piled on everything he could find in the building that would burn. Soon he had a roaring fire going in the center of the store. Satisfied that would do the job, he then went outside to his horses, and waited there until the flames began lapping the outside walls of the log structure.
Feeling drained and tired, he stepped up in the saddle and turned the paint toward the Crow village, burdened with the heavy dread of finding his partner dead when he got there. As he rode out, the ill-tempered mongrel ran out from where it had been waiting behind the gate. Yapping and snarling, it attacked the paint’s hooves, this time forgetting its earlier lesson. This time the dog came too close, and paid for its indiscretion with a kick of the paint’s hind legs that sent the belligerent mutt flying. “I reckon that about does it for this place,” Matt commented wryly.
* * *
It was late afternoon when Matt arrived at the Crow village. Leading Zeb’s sorrel, he walked the paint slowly across the rocky shore of the river past the pony herd, where some young boys watching the horses waved to him in greeting. Hearing shouts of greeting from several of the people in the village, Molly walked outside, hoping it was the visitor she waited for. She could feel her heart beat fast in anticipation, and her face blossomed with a huge smile of relief when she saw that it was, indeed, Matt. He saw her running to meet him, so he dismounted and caught her when she jumped up into his arms.
“I told you I’d be back,” he said, unable to keep from laughing when she clung to him so tightly. His expression quickly turned serious when he asked, “How is Zeb? Is he gonna make it?”
Her face was still firmly pressed against his chest, but he could feel her nodding, yes. She pulled away from him then to give herself room to sign, Bad, hurt bad. He winced as if feeling the pain himself. They walked to Singing Woman’s lodge, leading the horses, Molly holding onto Matt’s arm with her free hand.
Molly was right; Zeb looked bad. Lying on the bearskin pallet Singing Woman had prepared for him, the old scout looked for all the world like a man glimpsing death. Matt nodded to the Crow woman when he entered the tipi. She returned his greeting, then backed away from her patient to give Matt room.
“You old buzzard,” Matt said softly. “I thought you’d be dead by now.”
Zeb’s eyes flickered open and a faint smile formed beneath the grizzled beard. “I ain’t sure I ain’t,” he replied weakly.
“I believe you’re gonna make it. I brought your horse back. As soon as you get strong enough to ride, I’ll take you home.” He looked up at Singing Woman and smiled. “That is, if Singing Woman will let me.” Standing beside the Crow woman, Molly frowned and slowly shook her head. Matt understood. “Might be a better idea to let you lay up here a while longer,” he said. “Looks like Singing Woman’s pampering you pretty much. You might wanna play sick for a long spell.”
“Did you get them bastards?” Zeb asked, with obvious effort in his voice.
Matt nodded. “I got ’em. They won’t be throwin’ any more poor souls down that ravine.”
“Bordeaux?”
“The whole bunch,” Matt answered, “except for one of ’em, and I’m pretty sure I winged him, but he hightailed it outta there. I don’t expect he’ll be back.”
“I’m obliged, Matt.” Zeb rolled weary eyes up at his young partner. “I reckon I cooked up a stew too big for me to eat. But I never meant to drag you into it.”
“Hell, we’re partners, ain’t we?” Matt shrugged. “You’da done the same for me.”