Westward the Tide (1950) (27 page)

Wild with fear, for he knew his strength was going fast, he lunged and threw the Indian off. The Sioux was on his feet like a cat, and sprang for Matt, and Bardoul dropped on his back as the Indian leaped for him, and stabbed upward with the knife. Too late, the Sioux saw his mistake and tried to twist away from the blade, but it sank into his body just below the ribs and went in to the hilt.

For a moment then there was a bitter, soundless struggle. Matt shoved on the blade, twisting and gouging to point it upward toward the Sioux's heart, his breath coming in great, agonizing gasps. He finally jerked the knife free, and in a last desperate effort, thrust again.

The body tightened under him, then relaxed. For a long time, Matt lay still, then he withdrew his knife and wiped it on the grass. Gathering up the bow and arrows, he crawled, gasping for breath and faint with weakness, for the brush. In a haze of pain and sickness, he knew he could not remain where he was. The other warriors would be returning, looking for the missing Indian. He had to get that horse and get away, and quickly as possible.

Despite his weakness, he managed to get to his feet. He looked around before he moved. The grass where they had fought was bloody and crushed as though wolves had made a kill. He moved into the brush, then hesitated. The paint pony was tied to a tree not twenty feet away!

He moved toward it, but the pony smelled the blood and jerked his head back, rolling his eyes. Matt spoke softly to him, but the paint wanted no part of him. The strange smell of a white man as well as the blood made the pony snort and jerk his head wildly, yet Matt moved toward him, and finally got a hand on the rawhide with which the pony was tied.

This was a battle that had to be won here, for he was in no shape to ride a pitching horse. He spoke softly again, talking to the pony with low voice and soothing tones, then tentatively he put out a hand and after some effort, got it on the pony's neck. He caressed it gently and talked softly. On a sudden inspiration, he moved the quiver of arrows closer to the pony's nose, and the familiar smell seemed to quiet the animal. Matt unfastened the rawhide and swung to the blanket that did duty for a saddle. Then he guided the pony back down the trail, and when he saw a draw running north and away from the route followed by the Indians, he took it, letting the pony run, which he seemed eager to do.

When he was at least three miles from where he had killed the Sioux, Matt turned the pony back toward the Little Big Horn and rode on. He felt sick in his stomach and his head throbbed painfully. He had been cut slightly on the shoulder and the wound had bled, but the bleeding had stopped and now his buckskin shirt was stuck to the wound with dried blood.

Sick, he reeled in his seat, and the pony shied violently, so violently that he lost his seat and fell headlong. With a startled leap, the pony was gone, racing off into the late afternoon.

Wearily, Matt got to his knees, then to his feet. The pony was gone, but the ride had helped. There ahead of him was the dark line of trees, of which he could see only the tops, of the valley of the Little Big Horn. Moving on, Matt kept going doggedly, fighting against weariness and sickness until he reached the dense growth of willows along the bank. With his last remaining strength he crawled into them, and concealing his route as well as possible, crawled until he found a low hollow under some wild berry bushes, a place made by a wolf or some large animal. Crawling in, he put his head on his arm.

A long time later, he opened his eyes. It was dark, and his mouth felt dry and his head throbbed. Every muscle in his body seemed to be stiff and sore and when he moved it was all he could do to repress a groan. Crawling out of his cover he got to the river bank and drank long and deeply, and then he bathed his face and head with the cold water.

The night was clear, and glancing at the stars, he could see that it was well past midnight. Crawling back to his cover, he was soon asleep.

Sunlight through the brambles awakened him and he lay very still for a few minutes. The last of his meat had been lost when he was thrown from the horse, but he had retained his poncho. He bathed in the Little Big Horn, then crossed the stream. He was no hand with a bow, although some Crows had once instructed him in its use and he believed there was a chance he might find some game that he could kill. Matt found a few berries and then kept on until he came to the place where the wagon tram had stopped.

He was standing beside a huge tree studying the scene when he heard a slight movement in the brush. Fading back, his heart pounding, he waited. Then he heard it again.

It was a horse, walking through the brush. Now it had come to an open place, and apparently it hesitated there. Listening, he heard another movement, and then saw three Indians, Brules by the look of them. Obviously they were trailing the unsuspecting horseman. The horse started on again at a slow walk, following a course that would bring him close by where Matt Bardoul was standing!

His hand reached for the bow, and he notched an arrow, waiting. Then the brush near him parted and the horse came through. Instantly, his face broke into a grin. It was the dun! His own horse!

Carefully, he lifted a hand. The dun's head came up with a jerk, and he moved toward it, whispering.

The dun hesitated, rolling his eyes, then something familiar must have arrested his attention, for he stretched an inquiring nose toward Matt. And then Matt was beside him, slipping the Winchester from its scabbard. "Stand, boy!" he whispered. "We've work to do!"

An Indian came through the brush, and evidently they had seen the horse and believed it riderless, for he stepped right out in the open, and then he glimpsed Matt and gave a startled grunt and whipped up his own rifle. Matt fired from the hip at no more than thirty yards, then whipped the rifle to his shoulder and nailed the second Indian. The third vanished into the tall grass, and Matt swung into the saddle.

Quickly, he searched his saddlebags. There was food here, and ammunition. It was easy to see what had happened. When he had been shot from the dun's back, the horse had dashed away, frightened. When it recovered from the fright, it began to follow the wagon train, seeking the company of the horses it knew.

A few minutes ride proved that the wagons were headed for the Big Horn, and Matt hesitated over what course to adopt. A day's good riding would take him to the vicinity of Fort No. 1 and the Army, where he might get help to recover the wagon train. On the other hand, matters must be reaching a crisis with the tram. If they had not met the reinforcements they expected, most of the men of the train would be needed as drivers, and there was small chance Massey would allow the women to be molested and risk an out and out revolt by the men, so there was a chance.

Matt wheeled the dun and headed down the Little Big Horn. He was in very bad shape, but just being in the saddle and having a rifle again made him feel much better.

It was a beautiful country through which he travelled, with some fine strands of timber along the Little Big Horn, and grass that grew three feet tall, while there were wild cherries, currants, wild strawberries, gooseberries and grapes in profusion. The dun seemed glad to have him in the saddle again, and kept a good pace.

Matt was riding at a lope through the broken and precipitous hills along the east bank of the river when suddenly he noticed a rusted field kitchen. He slowed his pace, and then in the space of the next two miles he saw weathered saddles, tin pails, canteens and tin plates with here and there an overcoat or cap.

This was the Custer battlefield where the might of the Sioux had fought their last battle. In a short distance, Matt Bardoul counted sixty-nine graves, most of them merely a thin film of earth thrown over the body. Here and there wolves had dug into the graves, and under one tree he saw a skull in an Army cap.

Matt did not stop, riding over the field and heading back closer to the river. At night, he was still riding north, but there was no time for delay, he watered and rested the horse, then remounted and continued. Dawn was graying the sky when he glimpsed the fort.

Several headquarters and barracks buildings were nearing completion, and already carpenters were moving out to their work. Below, in a long hollow, numbers of tents were pitched in regular rows, and soldiers were moving about, washing mess gear. Matt touched a spur to the weary dun and cantered down into the camp.

A sentry challenged him, and then seeing he was a white man, looked at him curiously. Mart's beard was days old, and the wound on his head was still matted with blood where he had not dared wash too much of it away. His shoulder and side were dark with the stain of it, and he carried his rifle across his saddle bows. "Where's your commanding officer?" The soldier indicated a tent, his eyes curious. Matt rode on, hoping the officer would turn out to be the same they had met earlier. He swung down in front of the tent, and walked up to the flap, that was drawn back.

A tall young man with blond hair and a mustache was writing over a camp desk. He looked up when Matt spoke, his eyes sweeping him with obvious irritation at the interruption. Quickly, Matt explained, but even as he talked he could see the rising scepticism in the officer's eyes.

"You want me to let you have a patrol?" he said. "My orders wouldn't allow it even if I felt it essential. From what you say yourself, the trouble is among the personnel of the wagon train, not with Indians. I have no orders to interfere in anything of the sort."

"But, Man!" Matt protested. "Those men are outlaws! One of them is Sun Boyne, the Natchez murderer!"

"Sorry!" the officer shook his head, "I can do nothing for you. My orders are to build this fort and to avoid trouble with the Indians. That is all. I have received no information about any wagon train, nor about any such person as Sun Boyne. Certainly, I can't be ordering troops out on the whim of every would be settler, who believes he is in trouble."

"Listen!" Matt protested, rage rising within him. "I'm a Deputy United States Marshal!"

"You are? You have your papers, I suppose?"

Bardoul clapped a hand to his coat. They were gone! Of course, he might have known they would take them. "No, I don't," he said, "they were stolen from me."

The officer shrugged. "I can't do anything for you. As a matter of fact, I am only acting in command. The officer commanding should be back at the post by Monday, at the latest. He might help you."

"Monday!" Bardoul's jaw stiffened. "That's three days. It will be too late!"

He wheeled and walked from the tent, catching the reins of his horse as he left. Walking rapidly, he went down to a camp kitchen that still smoked lazily. The cook looked up. "Anything to eat?" Matt asked wearily.

"Sure thing!" The cook glanced at him curiously. "You look like you could use it. What's the matter?"

Over a cup of coffee, Matt explained. The cook nodded, then jerked his head at the tent from which Matt had come. "What you might expect of him. He's a stickler. Never makes a move unless he's told to or it is covered by regulations."

"How about making me up a pack of grub?"

The cook looked at him. "You going out again? The way you look?"

"You're damned right I am! I'm riding out tonight."

"Better get some rest. That horse of yours could use it, too. I'll fix you a bit of grub, though. And say, there's a carpenter over there, third building down. He's got him a pair of Colt pistols, brand, spankin' new. If you've got the money, you might buy 'em."

At daylight, the Colts slung about his hips and plenty of ammunition bought or borrowed from the carpenter in his saddle bags, Matt Bardoul rode out of camp on the zebra dun. He had no plan, only to come within striking distance of the wagon train, and to reach, if possible, some communication with Murphy or Stark. If he could get guns in the hands of a few of the honest men, there would be little to worry about. They would at least have a fighting chance.

All that day he rode, and the following morning he picked up the trail of the wagons once more. Washed, shaved and refreshed from his brief stay in camp, he was feeling ready for anything. The doctor who dressed his wounds had just looked at them grimly, and told him he was a fool for luck. Then added that he should have rest and quiet. "From the look of you," he went on to say, "I doubt if you'll get it. And you'll probably live!"

They had grinned at each other, and the doctor, to whom he had told his story, added, "I wish I was going with you. It would be worth it."

The dun took to the trail like he had reasons of his own for catching the wagon train, and as he rode, Matt tried the Colts. They were better balanced than his own guns, a beautiful pair of guns. He tried them on a couple of rabbits, then fed shells into the empty chambers and returned them to their places.

He rode and rested, then rode and rested again. When he rested he made coffee or soup, but for the most part he ate in the saddle. He rode into the ruins of old Fort C. F. Smith, near the foot of the mountains, and the first thing he saw was the body of a man, partly covered by brush. It was Ben Sperry. He had been shot three times after being brutally beaten.

Mart's face was hard when he swung back into the saddle and headed south, riding swiftly. The trail turned up a creek toward a deep canyon that cut into the hills, and Matt slowed his horse to a walk. There could be no outlet in this direction for they were driving right back into the mountains, heading southeast. Then he was close, very close.