The trail seemed to head toward the Ute village. He had never been to the Ute camp but he knew where it was. He had been told by a member of one of the two hunting parties that had visited his cabin that their chief, Two Elks, had settled his people on Wild Horse Creek where it bends back on itself. Jason knew the spot, and the trail he had been following for the better part of three days seemed to indicate the Cheyennes were heading straight for it.
As best he could recollect, he figured to be about a half day’s ride from the point where Wild Horse Creek pushed its way out of the mountains and curled around a couple of small foothills, almost meeting itself again. He would have to keep a cautious eye from here on in. With the way the Indian situation had heated up during the past two years, a man could never know for sure what kind of reception he would meet with any of the tribes. His situation wasn’t helped by the fact that he was a lone white man with a string of four Appaloosa ponies. He wouldn’t ride in with such fine-looking horse flesh if it wasn’t necessary. As it was, he couldn’t see that he had any choice if he was to find the baby.
The Ute camp was right where he had anticipated. Crossing the first bend of the stream, he rode up on top of the first of the two hills it encircled. From the top of the hill he could see the entire encampment. Two Elks had settled his band on a grassy plain, near the edge of the mountains on the western side of the stream. Jason counted thirty-two tipis, all facing east toward the rising sun. He stood there awhile, unobserved by the camp, taking in the entire village. Peaceful, he thought. I wonder how long they’ll be able to live this way before the army comes along to round them all up and send them to the reservation.
Jason didn’t care much for reservations, at least the ones he’d seen. The most recent was Camp Supply in Oklahoma territory, where he was scouting for Colonel Holder, and things were in a sad state there. He had done more than his share to cause Indians to be sentenced to the reservation and he wasn’t particularly proud of it. He had been a scout for the army ever since 1853 and he had seen the Cheyenne and the Comanche and the Sioux at their finest, when they ruled the plains. Many times they were his enemy but that was his job, scouting for the army. Seeing this Ute village before him now reminded him of the way it used to be for the Indians and he couldn’t help but feel guilty for being a part of the forces that were rapidly killing off this wild and free way of life.
He might have sat there a while longer but for the sharp eye of a camp dog that started barking, instigating a chorus of yapping from the rest of the pack. Jason nudged his horse and, taking his time, descended the hill and crossed the western bend of the stream, heading toward the center of the village.
A group of women, working on some skins on the far side of the the creek, paused in their task to look at the stranger. Several warriors, upon spotting the visitor, made their way toward Two Elks’ tipi where it appeared the white man was heading. Children stopped in their play to observe the strange man, sitting tall on the Appaloosa. There was no sense of alarm or hostility, merely curiosity for this rare encounter. The camp felt nothing to fear from one lone white man, driving three extra horses.
Two Elks stepped outside to see what caused the murmur of voices in the camp. At first, when he saw the tall scout riding slowly into his camp leading three horses, he guessed that he might be a trapper, hoping to trade for furs. As the man approached and he could see him more closely, he knew it was the scout called Jason Coles. They had never met but he had heard tales of the respected scout and this man surely fit the description. This was the man who had killed Stone Hand. Two Elks had harbored no warm feelings for the notorious Stone Hand but like most men, he respected the renegade as he would respect a rattlesnake. If this Jason Coles did indeed place Stone Hand’s head on a pole, then he must have big medicine. It would be wise to treat this man with respect. When Jason reined up before his tipi, Two Elks raised his hand in a polite gesture of welcome.
Jason returned the gesture and stepped down. There was a moment of silence while the two men measured each other with their eyes. Jason stood almost a full head taller than the chief, but there was a regal bearing about Two Elks that hinted of a strong backbone and demanded respect. By this time a crowd of men, women, and children had gathered to form a ring around Two Elks and Jason. The quiet reception surprised Jason somewhat. This wasn’t the first time he had ridden into an Indian camp alone. Usually he was met with some show of defiance, even threats. It seemed odd to him that there was a sense of quiet respect evident in the Ute village. It puzzled him.
Two Elks spoke first. “I know you. You are Coles. Why have you come to our camp?”
Jason’s command of the Ute dialect was not as good as his Cheyenne and Lakota but he knew enough words to make rudimentary communication with the help of sign. “I have no quarrel with your people. I’m looking for a party of Cheyennes I trailed to your camp. They killed my woman, burned my cabin, and stole my baby.”
Two Elks studied the face of the white man. There was no fear in the deep blue eyes that were fixed, unblinking, upon his. “I have heard you have killed many of my people. Is it not an unwise thing to come into my camp alone? How do you know you will be permitted to leave?”
Jason’s gaze remained constant, his expression showed no emotion. “I have heard of the great chief Two Elks. It is my belief that a chief so great would not be so cowardly as to attack a man who comes in peace.” He glanced around him at the circle of warriors surrounding him. “What you have heard is true. I have many kills, but I have never made war on the Utes. I have killed none of your people. I have killed no women or children as the cowards I follow did. I have only killed in battle.” He nodded toward two young boys, standing at the edge of the circle. “Ask those two young warriors. They can tell you I have not killed any of your tribe.”
A smile slowly broke through the stern countenance of the Ute chief. He had heard of the ill-fated raid on Jason’s horses when young Lame Deer and Red Shirt came back to camp riding on one pony. “Yes, one of those skillful warriors is my son, Red Shirt.” The smile widened. “He came back without his own horse.”
Jason sensed an easing of the tension in the ring of warriors around him. Evidently the two young men had taken a general ribbing about their encounter with the white scout. He recognized the one called Red Shirt as the unfortunate young man who had been squatting on the log.
Two Elks motioned toward the fire, inviting Jason to sit. “Share some meat with me, Coles. I think we should be friends.” Jason accepted graciously and the two men sat down to eat and talk. When they had eaten their fill from a pot of boiled venison, Two Elks told Jason what he came to find out.
“The men you followed were here but they left yesterday. They go to join their brothers with Sitting Bull and the Lakotas. They said the Great White Father in Washington does not keep his word. The people at the reservation are starving and dying of white man’s sickness. There is no game to hunt. The land is a dead land where nothing can live. They will go back to the old ways and if there is war with the soldiers, then so be it.”
Before continuing, Two Elks packed a clay pipe with tobacco and lit it. After taking several deep breaths from it, he passed it to Jason who, in turn, took several draws. The significance of this gesture by the chief was not lost on Jason.
“It is true,” Two Elks went on. “The Cheyennes had a baby with them but they said the child was the son of the Cheyenne, Stone Hand, and it was right that he be returned to his people.”
In his ragged Ute, Jason told Two Elks how he had come to have the baby. A white woman had been brutally raped by the renegade, Stone Hand. Nine months later, the woman gave birth to a baby boy. Wrongly thinking it the product of the assault by Stone Hand, the woman gave the baby to an Osage woman. Jason and the Osage woman came to his valley with the baby to raise as their own. The Cheyennes had no claim on the child.
Two Elks understood and sympathized with Jason’s plight. He freely gave Jason any information he could. He told him there were six Cheyenne warriors, and a woman from his village went with them to care for the child. It was thought that the Lakota chief, Sitting Bull, was camped in the Yellowstone country. The Cheyennes were on their way there to join him. He further warned Jason that the leader of the Cheyenne party was a brave named Black Eagle and that Black Eagle had sworn to kill Jason. He had expressed deep disappointment that Jason had been away from the cabin when they had come for the baby. When Jason asked why this particular Cheyenne had sworn to kill him, Two Elks explained that the man held Stone Hand as a spirit and Jason had killed him. To avenge Stone Hand, Black Eagle must kill Jason. The news concerned Jason but not enough to worry him. He had been threatened before.
After they had talked, Two Elks invited Jason to stay in his camp and rest before starting out after the Cheyennes but Jason was anxious to get under way. He knew it wasn’t going to be easy trying to catch up with them, what with the head start they already had. The whole trip would be through Indian territory and other tribes were not likely to be as hospitable as the Utes.
It was still early afternoon when he said good-bye to Two Elks. He thanked him for his hospitality and, as a gesture of his appreciation, he left the chief with two of his four Appaloosas, one as a gift to him and one to replace his son’s pony. The gesture pleased the chief greatly. Jason had no real use for four horses now. He had to travel fast, and four horses were too much trouble to manage. His horse-breeding days were over anyway, he was back in the scouting business.
* * *
Figuring the Cheyennes would start out toward the east to strike the plateau country before turning north if they were heading for the Yellowstone, Jason scouted up and down the valley in order to pick up the trail. It was easily identified by the prints of that many horses and, when he struck it, he asked the Appaloosa for a little more speed. He had some catching up to do. They had at least a full day’s start on him.
Jason held the Appaloosa to a steady pace for most of the day, stopping every two hours to rest the horses. There was plenty of opportunity to give them water. Even though many of the numerous streams he crossed dried up in the summer, there were plenty more that offered at least a trickle. He came to the first of their campsites before noon on the second day. Driving on until nearly dark, he came upon their next campsite and decided to make his camp there that night.
As was his custom, when operating in hostile country, he made up a dummy bedroll by the edge of the firelight. For himself, he took a buffalo robe Two Elks had given him, rolled up in it, and bedded down by his horses well away from the firelight. If he happened to be attacked, it would most likely be by a hunting party that stumbled on him by chance. He didn’t figure the party of Cheyennes knew they were being trailed.
As he settled himself in for the night, he thought about Henry. Henry was the best horse he had ever owned. No more than a common Indian pony, he had a stouter heart than any horse Jason had ever seen, before or since. Jason had made it a habit to throw his bedroll under Henry and sleep, knowing that the horse would let him know pretty quick if he had company. In the years that Jason and Henry were partners, Henry never once stepped on him. Jason was a little reluctant to try that trick with either of the two Appaloosas. He smiled when he thought about a remark that Sergeant-Major Max Kennedy made about Henry. He said that since Jason rode the ugliest horse in the western territory, he didn’t have to worry with horse thieves. Max may have been right, Henry wasn’t much to look at but he would sure as hell still be going long after the army’s mounts were foundered. It was a sorrowful day for him when Henry was shot out from under him, another thing he could credit to Stone Hand.
As he had guessed, Black Eagle and his friends struck a trail straight north after they came out of the hills and onto the broad rolling prairie. During the course of the day, he came across several trails, some east and west, but most north and south. They told Jason that there were more than a few hostiles going to join the Sioux leader. He wondered if the generals in Washington had any idea what a hornets’ nest they were going to stir up when they tried to put Sitting Bull on the reservation.
The morning of the third day, Jason saddled the other horse and shifted the pack to the one he had been riding. He didn’t favor either horse as yet and he thought it a good idea to keep both mounts accustomed to the saddle. The one he started out on was black all over except for a spotted rump and neck. The one he rode that morning was more white, with black stockings and neck. He had not bothered to name them, referring to them merely as Black and White.
He stayed in the saddle all day, doggedly following the trail that never veered far from its northerly course. He had hoped to pick up more ground on them but they seemed bent on making as good time as they could in their efforts to join Sitting Bull. And too, Jason could appreciate the irony of knowing they were as well mounted as he was, riding his Appaloosas. The fourth day passed without appreciable gain.
In the afternoon of the sixth day, he came to the north fork of the Platte and another of Black Eagle’s campsites. For the first time in several days, he felt as if he might be gaining on the renegades. He pushed on, following the trail that now crossed many other older trails. Jason had expected this because he was now just east of Fort Laramie. Black Eagle gave the fort a wide berth, holding to a trail that led almost always to the north, a trail that would take him east of the site of Fort Fetterman.
Living on jerky and coffee, he was tempted to kill some fresh meat when he came upon two deer, north of the Platte. They were Black Tails, good-sized deer that didn’t seem to love water as much as their White Tail cousins, so it wasn’t unusual to find them roaming away from easy watering holes. Unsure of the lead Black Eagle had on him, he was reluctant to take a shot for fear it might be heard. He tipped his hat to the two bucks, standing stone still now to stare at the lone white man. He held to the pace he had set.
Along about midday, after almost two weeks of trailing, he came upon another campsite and he knew for sure he was gaining on them. Judging by the bones and a few scant remains, it appeared they had taken some time to hunt, antelope by the look of it. It afforded him the opportunity to narrow the gap between them. Jason dug into the ashes of their campfire. They were still warm. If he could keep up his present pace, he might catch up to them before another day. Black Eagle was not pushing it too hard but he was making reasonably good time. Jason figured they were now no more than maybe half a day ahead.
Under a full moon, the prairie seemed almost as light as day so Jason decided to make up some more time. The careless trail left by Black Eagle and his party was easy enough to follow across the rolling land. He pushed on for several hours before stopping to bed down for the night by a narrow stream that wandered down through a stand of cottonwoods. His sense of caution was sharply intensified that night for he could feel he was closing in on the party of Cheyennes. He would sleep light, for he was deep in hostile territory.
* * *
The sun was warm on his shoulders as he followed the trail toward a line of low hills on the near horizon. He had switched his saddle back to Black that morning and he was beginning to believe that of the two horses, he favored Black. He had passed Black Eagle’s last campfire early in the day and was again making good time. He could feel his senses awakening to the danger surrounding him. This land was still roamed by bands of Arapaho and Shoshoni, by Cheyenne and Sioux. He was the intruder here, yet he felt as one with the land. Even with the promise of impending danger, he knew he was back where he belonged. He had been foolish to think he could have settled down on his ranch in the little valley he had staked out. That thought made him think of his Osage wife, little Lark, and he immediately felt a tinge of guilt. He felt guilty for not being there to protect her, but more than that, he felt guilty because he knew now he could not have stayed on the ranch very long before he would be itching to get back in the saddle. He would fetch the baby back if he could and he would even the score with Mr. Black Eagle. That much he could do for her now.
He drew back on Black hard, causing the horse to dig his front hooves in the dirt. Almost in the same motion, he pulled Black’s head around so abruptly, the horse almost fell sideways. A hunting party was passing on the opposite side of the hill and Jason’s thoughts of Lark had almost caused him to blunder right over the crest of the hill, almost on top of them. As quickly as he could, he dismounted and led the horses down the slope until he found a bush to tie them to. Then he grabbed his rifle and scrambled back to the top of the rise, crawling the last few feet on his belly.
There were eight of them, Arapaho by the look of it. Apparently they had not heard him, for they showed no sense of caution. Instead, they seemed to be in good spirits, laughing and talking among themselves, unaware of the white scout no more than forty yards away. Jason could see the reason for their good humor. They had had a good hunt. Their packhorses were laden with fresh meat. He couldn’t help but think of their brothers who had come in to the reservation, waiting for the rations promised by the government but always in short supply. There was nothing much left for them but to hunt for themselves. It was a bitter pill for a people to swallow when they had taken care of themselves for as long as they could remember. He recalled the defeat and desperation he had seen in the faces at the agency at Camp Supply and he knew where he would be if he were a Cheyenne brave. He’d be out here with the so-called hostiles. Damned if I’d rot away on the reservation, he thought. It ain’t right but President Grant don’t come to me for advice so I guess it ain’t none of my affair.
He lay there on the hilltop, watching, until the hunting party had disappeared around a rise in the prairie. “Well,” he muttered. “You were lucky that time, Mr. Coles. Maybe next time you can just fire your rifle up in the air four or five times so they’ll know you’re here.”
Back in the saddle, he struck out for the hills again, picking up Black Eagle’s trail on the other side of the rise. After an hour’s ride, the trail crossed another trail, going in the opposite direction. Jason figured Black Eagle had met the Arapaho hunting party here and, judging by the tracks, they had stopped to talk. Traditionally, the Cheyennes and the Arapahos were friendly toward each other and often even intermarried.
Another hour’s ride saw him approaching the hills he had been riding toward all day. The sun was moving closer to the western horizon and he knew he should rest the horses. He had slowed to a more cautious pace because the tracks he was following were fresh now, no more than an hour old, judging by the fresh horse droppings he found. Coming upon a coulee that the trail skirted, he decided it best to rest the horses here before crossing the line of hills before him.
He pulled off the trail and descended to the bottom of the coulee where he found a trickle of water. Lucky, he thought, because another couple of weeks without rain and this’ll be dried up. He took his hand axe and dug a hole in the sandy bottom to make a basin for the horses to drink from. It was not his usual practice to disturb the ground in that fashion in case someone might come across his trail. But he wanted to make sure the horses got enough water. Besides, anyone happening upon his trail wouldn’t know it was a white man who dug the hole because he never shod his horses.
He held the horses back until the little pool filled before letting them drink. Once they were taken care of, he took his rifle and climbed up the side of the coulee to scout the terrain between him and the hills. In his estimation, it was no more than a mile before the trail would climb up through the pines that dotted the gentle slopes. It had been more than three years since he had scouted this part of the country but, if memory served, that line of hills gave way to more prairie on the far side.
He studied the hills more closely, trying to decide where Black Eagle would most likely climb up through the pines. He picked a spot that he would take, if it was him, following the general direction of the trail. Then he looked back at the prairie between the coulee and the hills. He didn’t like the look of it. He was too close now and the hills would give Black Eagle too good a vantage point to check his back trail if he was of a mind to. Surprise was too big an element in Jason’s plan to give away and he could be spotted too easily crossing that open expanse. “Nothing to do but wait till dark,” he muttered and, after another look around in all directions, scrambled back down to the horses.
Darkness came at last. He hated losing the hours he had spent waiting for it but he knew it made a lot more sense. He roused himself from the position he had burrowed in near the top of the coulee and stretched to pull some of the kinks from his back and shoulders. Then he listened to the night noises to make sure everything seemed right. In a few minutes time, he was riding out of the coulee and heading for the hills at a trot. He wanted to find the cover of the trees before the moon rose too high.
By the time he gained the protection of the pines, the moon had risen high enough to light his way. Since he had only guessed where the Cheyennes would cross the hills, he now had to skirt the edge of the trees at the foot of the hill to pick up the trail. It was not easy, even with the help of a nearly full moon. He dismounted and carefully searched the grass for sign. His guess on the easiest place to climb the hill was not far off, for within a quarter of an hour, he found the trail. He stood there, peering into the pines above him, the moonlight spreading alternating patterns of dark and light, giving the forest a dreamlike appearance. Plenty of places for ambush, he thought, as he stepped up on Black and urged him up the hill.
The hill was no more than about three hundred feet high but there were some steep climbs that caused his horses to labor a bit before reaching the top. Beyond the first hill were two smaller ones. Between the two smaller hills, a stream ran, the moonlight shining on the water and reflecting back through the openings in the trees. Jason followed the course of the stream with his eyes until he saw what he was searching for, a soft red glow near the stream. He was in luck, they had not gone far before making camp for the night.
Jason made his way slowly down the hill, carefully guiding the horses around dead trees and loose rocks. At the bottom, he led them into a thicket of young Ponderosa pine and firs and tied them off. He pulled his Winchester from the saddle boot and checked the action on his Colt forty-four and stuck it in his belt. He then made his way up the first small hill on foot.
From the looks of their camp, it didn’t appear they were expecting any trouble. From his position in the pines, halfway down the hill, he was able to see all six of the men. One of them was tending to the horses while the other five sat around the fire, two of them with their backs to Jason. The woman sat off to one side, feeding the child. The odds were six to one but he figured his Winchester reduced the odds to three to one because he figured to take three of them out before they even realized what was happening. Not knowing what kind or how many weapons they had, he knew he would have to move fast after the initial three shots in case his muzzle flashes attracted a lot of return fire. The odds might still be in their favor at three to one but Jason was comfortable with three to one in a situation like this.
Not ready yet, he waited. The Cheyennes didn’t seem concerned about their safety, what with the size of their campfire and the way they were sitting close around it. Consequently, Jason didn’t expect them to post a sentry on the horses so he waited for the man who was tending the horses to return to the others. He didn’t have to wait long before they were all six around the fire, eating from a sizable hump of meat that was sizzling on a spit. Jason figured it must have been a gift from the Arapaho hunting party they met earlier that day.
Ready now, he steadied himself on one knee and brought his Winchester to his shoulder. He hesitated, for one of the braves had suddenly gotten to his feet and walked out of the firelight. Jason could just barely make his form out in the shadow of the trees. He waited patiently until the Indian had emptied his bladder and returned to take his place by the fire.
Once again he raised his rifle. Before taking his aim, he glanced quickly at the squaw. He calculated that she would roll over to her left when the shooting started because that offered the closest cover. That should take her out of the field of fire. It was anybody’s guess where the remaining three braves would scatter. He would just have to depend on his reactions and maybe a little luck. He laid his front sight on a spot between the shoulder blades of the warrior on his left. “Back shooting is just as honorable as face on when you’re bushwhacking,” he mumbled and squeezed the trigger.
As soon as he fired, he swung the muzzle to the right and squeezed off a second shot. The two Indians with their backs toward him slumped over sideways without making a sound. Before their companions could react to the explosion of rifle fire, Jason cut down one of the braves on the opposite side of the fire. Cocking and firing in one continuous motion, he moved a few yards farther down the hill.
Just as he figured, the squaw made for the nearest cover, holding the child close to her bosum. The remaining braves dived for their weapons, not really sure from where the attack was coming. Jason managed to catch one of them as he jumped up from the fire. The bullet thudded into his breastplate and he fell heavily across the campfire, knocking the antelope hump on the ground. There were two left and they scrambled for the horses. One of them had a Henry repeating rifle and he fired it wildly at the hillside as he ran.
Jason moved to his left, working his way down the hill as quickly as he could, trying to get in position to fire at the two fleeing Cheyennes. Both men reached the ponies before he could get a clear field of fire and in a second they were off at a gallop in different directions. Even with the moonlight, it was too dark to get a good shot and Jason knew he would only have a chance at one of them so he picked the one closest to him. Judging by the sound of the horse’s hooves and a faint image through the shadows, he guessed the direction the rider was heading. He trained his rifle on what he deemed to be the line of flight and targeted a slender opening in the trees where the moonlight shone on the forest floor. In an instant, the rider flashed through the open spot. In the same instant, Jason squeezed the trigger, knocking the rider off his horse.
Five down but one got away, he thought. Without hesitating, he turned and ran back past the campfire and down the path he had seen the Indian woman take. As he left the light of the fire and plunged into the darkness of the trees, he was staggered by a heavy blow on the back of his shoulder and almost dropped to his knees. He thought he had been hit with a log until he felt the searing pain of the knife being withdrawn from his flesh and his shoulder felt like it was on fire. As quick as a cat, he rolled away from his attacker and fell to the ground, landing on his back. It was the squaw and she screamed out as she flew at him in an attempt to make the fatal thrust with her knife. In one quick motion, he pulled the forty-four from his belt and pumped three slugs in the avenging woman. She landed, dead, on top of him.
He held the muzzle of the pistol pointed at her head for several seconds but she did not move. Then he rolled her body off of him and got to his feet. By now the knife wound in his shoulder had begun to throb and he felt the bloody buckskin sticking to his skin. He would have to take care of it pretty soon but there was the matter of the baby and, before that, he had to make sure all five of the warriors were dead.
As he moved from one body to the next, confirming their deaths, he silently cursed himself for letting himself get jumped by the woman. It was his only mistake in the assault but it was a costly one. Already his shoulder was pumping fire through his veins. He didn’t figure the woman to wait behind a tree no more than a few yards from the fire. He figured her to run and keep running in an attempt to get away. His main worry had been that he would have to chase her half the night and maybe not find her and the boy until he could track her the next day.
“Damn!” he swore. “I wish to hell I’d shot her first.” As soon as he said it, he regretted it. The idea of killing a woman did not sit well with him, even if he had had little choice in the matter. “Damn her! Why didn’t she just run?”
All at once he stood still and listened. It was the child. In the heat of the shooting, the child’s crying had gone unnoticed. He followed the sound to a thicket close to the tree where the woman had ambushed him and found the boy sitting on the ground. He picked him up with his good arm, and carried him back to the fire. The child, recognizing Jason, stopped crying as soon as he was picked up and hugged Jason tightly around the neck.
Back by the fire, Jason took a good look at little Bright Feather. That was the name Lark had given him because when he was not more than a few months old, he would entertain himself for hours with a green-tipped feather from a pheasant. The child looked none the worse for wear. Jason cut a strip of meat from the antelope hump, now lying on the ground, and gave it to the child to keep him occupied while he went to the stream and tried to clean his wound. Before going to do for his wound, he dragged the bodies of the three Cheyennes away from the fire circle. The one who had fallen face first across the antelope hump had landed almost in the fire and the fringes of his buckskin shirt were smoldering in the ashes, creating a smell Jason decided he could do without.
He cleaned his wound as best he could in the chilly water and stuffed a piece of the squaw’s skirt inside his shirt to stem the bleeding. That done, he had another thought to consider. He could not be certain what the one Cheyenne who escaped would do. He might be stalking the camp right now, Jason couldn’t know for sure but his best guess was that the man probably kept running for a good while, not knowing what size force had attacked his camp. Jason didn’t plan to hang around that spot long enough for the Indian to make his way back to see for himself. Bright Feather seemed to be content sitting by the fire so Jason cut him another strip of meat and left him there while he went back to retrieve his horses.
He thought about taking the time to scalp the five braves. Jason didn’t believe that a man without his scalp would wander around forever in the spirit world. But the Cheyennes did and, for that reason, Jason thought about doing it. He couldn’t count on what that one surviving Cheyenne would do after he got done running so he figured he’d best not waste too much more time here. Besides, his shoulder was going numb and useless and he didn’t feel like he would be in much shape to fight before long.
At least he had recovered most of the stolen Appaloosas. The hostile who had gotten away rode out on one of them, and another one kept running after Jason knocked his rider off his back with the Winchester. Seven of his horses were left. That left one that he couldn’t account for. They must have sold him or given him away. Hell, he thought, they might have eaten him. He took the hobbles off and tied them on a lead line. After that, he cut the other Indian ponies loose and scattered them, put Bright Feather up on the saddle in front of him and headed up the stream, leading his string of horses. He wanted some distance between himself and this place before daylight.
The one nagging thought that bothered him now was whether or not he had killed Black Eagle. He had no way of identifying the men he had killed. He had only heard of Black Eagle from the Ute chief, Two Elks. As he walked the horses up the streambed, he thought about what Two Elks had told him about Black Eagle. Stone Hand had been imprisoned in the stockade at Camp Supply. Jason, himself, had brought him in for trial. But Stone Hand had killed a guard and escaped. Two Elks said that Black Eagle was the young man who had slipped Stone Hand the knife he used to kill the guard. Jason hoped Black Eagle was one of the bodies left back at the campfire but his intuition told him he was probably not that lucky.