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  THE HOSTILE TRAIL

  The first shot came from Ike’s side of the ravine, the bullet kicking up some dirt two feet in front of the trench. Ike aimed at the spot where he thought he’d seen a muzzle flash and fired a return shot. Moments later, a barrage of shots rained down from both sides of the ravine, pinning Matt and Ike down in the trench. When there was a lull in the firing, they each returned a single shot. This was repeated several times, with the Sioux firing at random and the two white men responding with single shots spaced about thirty seconds apart. Thus far in the assault, there were no casualties and none likely since there were no clear targets on either side. There followed a lull in the firing from the Sioux, and Ike warned Matt to get ready. . . .

  THE

  HOSTILE TRAIL

  Charles G. West

  SIGNET

  Published by New American Library, a division of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First Printing, September 2006

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2006

  All rights reserved

  ISBN: 978-1-101-66279-3

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

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  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Ronda

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 1

  Ike Brister took a cautious step forward in the knee-deep snow, his gaze unwavering as he watched for the first indication that the confused bull elk was about to charge. His rifle was ready, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The elk eyed him suspiciously, tossing his head back and forth and pawing the snow in warning. Moving very deliberately, Ike took one more step and stopped. He was as close to the huge animal as he dared. He glanced toward the clump of pines on the slope to his left. Hurry up, dammit, he thought. This son of a bitch is fixing to jump into my lap. The agitated bull elk had exhausted his patience, with the strange creature seeming to challenge him. He lowered his head and shook his huge antlers back and forth violently as he pawed the snow. Ike raised his rifle and aimed at the massive head, just in case the elk was preparing to charge. He waited, his finger on the trigger. A figure rose silently in the pines, and a second later the elk bolted sideways, an arrow embedded deep in his lung. Enraged and confused, the bull tried to sidestep away from the pain in his side, only to feel the lethal sting of a second arrow a few inches from the first. Ike kept his rifle sighted on the crazed animal in case it was still thinking about charging him. A bull elk sometimes took a little time dying, and this one might take a notion to take Ike with him. If at all possible, Ike wanted to avoid firing his rifle in this part of the mountains. The shot would echo through the canyons for miles and might bring a Sioux hunting party down on them. There had been several Sioux hunting parties working this side of the Bighorns within the past week.

  Much to Ike’s relief, the elk did not charge. Confused, it tried to retreat, bounding up the slope, still trying to sidestep away from the pain. But before it could reach the top, its legs became wobbly, and it went down on its knees in the snow. There it remained, waiting for the two white men to finish the kill.

  “What in hell was you waitin’ for?” Ike asked when he caught up to his younger friend. “I thought me and that damn elk was fixin’ to have us a dance.”

  Already preparing to skin his kill, Matt Slaughter grinned up at his friend. “I’d have paid money to see that,” he teased. “Seein’ as how you two are about the same size, you’da made a handsome couple.”

  “Huh,” the big man snorted. “Next time you can be the bait, and I’ll do the killin’.” They both knew that was just idle talk because Ike couldn’t hit the side of a barn with a bow. Ike would say that he had just never had any use for a bow as long as he had his Spencer rifle. Although he would never mention it, Matt knew there were other reasons, reasons that Ike didn’t care to acknowledge. Sometimes a man aged faster when forced to live by his wits. Lately, Matt could see signs of his partner’s aging—a hand that was not as steady as before, an eye that was not as keen as when he was a young man. Still, the old man was not ready to return to the settlements just yet. And before he reached that stage, Matt promised himself that he would take care of him.

  As far as the bow was concerned, Matt took to it like he was born with one in his hand. This particular bow was special. It held sentimental value for both men. It had belonged to a young Cherokee boy who had been killed only a few months before by a white bushwhacker. Crooked Foot had been held in high regard by Matt and Ike, and Matt had kept the boy’s bow. He had spent a good deal of time practicing with the weapon, and it had proven to be time well spent. Making a winter camp in the Bighorn Mountains, the two partners found the bow essential. It was not only a silent weapon, it saved on the consumption of precious .44 cartridges.

  The need for silence and secrecy was especially important now that there had been an increase in Indian activity between the Bighorns and South Pass. It was a dangerous time for two lone white men in the Powder River country, even in the dead of winter. The Sioux and Cheyenne had raided all summer along the Bozeman Trail, a
ttacking any parties traveling that route to the Montana goldfields. It had not helped matters when the army built Fort Reno on the Powder River just that past August. The fort, originally called Camp Connor, had not been garrisoned as yet, but Chief High Backbone and Red Cloud knew there would be soldiers there soon. It was fairly obvious to the Sioux leaders that the purpose of the fort was to protect travelers on the Bozeman Trail.

  At the beginning of winter, the partners had planned to wait out the cold weather at Fort Laramie. After a couple of idle weeks, however, they decided there was nothing for them to do for employment of any nature there. The army would not be hiring any more scouts until spring. And it was painfully obvious that what cash they had would soon disappear if they spent their days hanging around the post trader’s store. At the beginning of their third week at Fort Laramie, Ike announced, “Hell, I’d rather head for the hills and live like an Injun than set around here till spring.”

  Matt wasn’t sure the bushy-faced old trapper was serious, but the idea suited him just fine. He wasn’t comfortable in crowded places, and Fort Laramie was beginning to close in on him. Ike’s remark was all it took. They set out for the Powder River country the next day. Even a blizzard on the second day out failed to dull their determination as they made their way northwest, with the Laramie Mountains to the west of their trail.

  After seemingly endless travel from one snowy camp to another, they found themselves in the Bighorn Mountains and decided to make their base camp there. In a narrow canyon, protected from the winter winds by steep, rocky walls, they built a shelter for the horses, using young pine trees. Game was not that plentiful where they made their camp, but they agreed that it was better to ride some distance from their base to hunt so as not to draw any curious Sioux. Firewood was also a problem. The canyon was convenient to abundant pine, but green wood burned with far too much smoke, so they had to travel considerable distances to find suitable fuel for the fire. If they had allowed themselves to consider the difficulty of their situation and the hardship it created, they might have headed back to the settlement.

  “I’da heap druther you was a nice young cow,” Ike commented to the elk as he worked to force his knife through the tough flesh. “This ol’ boy was gettin’ on in years. I’ll bet he was as old as I am.”

  “I hope to hell he’ll be better eatin’ than you’d be,” Matt teased as he packed snow into the chest cavity to soak up the blood. They had been so long without fresh meat that they did not have the luxury of being picky. Though old and tough, this elk was the first game they had found in almost a week. And to make matters worse, they had come across recent sign of Indian hunting parties close to their camp. Sioux or Cheyenne, they couldn’t tell which, but as Ike had commented, two white men in their country were not welcomed by either tribe.

  “I reckon the Great Spirit took pity on us, and sent this old bull wanderin’ up here before we got so hungry we started eyeballin’ each other,” Ike said with a chuckle. “He musta got run off by some younger bull and lost his ladies.” He sat back on his heels and threw off his bearskin robe to give himself more room to work. “Well, it was just a matter of time before he got took down by a pack of wolves. He’ll serve a better purpose feedin’ the likes of us.” Ike rambled on as he worked steadily away at quartering the elk until he realized that Matt wasn’t listening. He looked up to see his partner signaling him to be silent.

  Matt listened for a few moments, his ear turned to the wind. He turned then to look at the horses. The buckskin’s ears were twitching, and a moment later Ike’s horse neighed softly. “Best get that meat loaded on the horses,” he called back over his shoulder as he got to his feet and scrambled up to the top of the ridge.

  Detecting a sense of urgency in his partner’s tone, Ike dropped his skinning knife on the elk hide beside the half-butchered carcass, and hurried after Matt. “Damn,” he exclaimed softly as he flattened himself beside Matt in the snow. Riding single file through a narrow gulch below the two white men, a hunting party of a dozen Sioux made their way at a leisurely pace toward the ridge. They were still more than half a mile away. “We ain’t cut meat in a week, and when we finally find one ol’ tough elk, along comes a huntin’ party,” Ike complained.

  “I don’t know if they’ve been trackin’ the same elk,” Matt said, “but if they have, he’s gonna lead them right to us when they get to the snow line.” A couple hundred yards more and the hunting party would reach a clear trail with not only the elk’s tracks but also those of three horses, leading them right up the slope. “I expect we’d better get busy,” Matt said, his voice devoid of any sign of excitement.

  They withdrew from the crest of the ridge and wasted no time getting back to the business at hand. The safest action would have been to flee immediately, but neither Matt nor Ike had any intention of leaving the entire supply of fresh meat to the Indians. Working feverishly over the carcass, both men chopped at the bones and sliced the flesh into quarters. While Ike started hefting the meat onto the packhorse, Matt ran back up to the top of the ridge to check on the progress of the hunting party. There was no time to linger. The Indians were already closer than he had anticipated, and had just discovered the tracks in the snow. He could hear bits of excited words carried on the wind as the Lakota hunters talked among themselves. Matt didn’t wait any longer.

  “Tie down what you’ve got!” he sang out as he hurried down the hill. “We don’t have time to take the rest.” Ike did as he was told, and Matt grabbed one of the remaining sections of meat and tied it with the loose end of a strap while the big man ran for his horse. The pack secure, Matt stepped up in the saddle and held the buckskin back while he grabbed the packhorse’s lead rope. Ike, his huge bulk plowing through the knee-deep snow like a buffalo bull, took a giant leap for the saddle, only to miss the stirrup with his foot. The resulting collision between man and horse caused the bay to sidestep and kick its hind legs in the air.

  “Damn you!” Ike roared. “Hold still!” The bay, however, was leery of further contact with the big trapper, and continued to pull away until Matt drove the buckskin up to block it. “Damfool horse,” Ike grumbled as he stuck his foot in the stirrup, embarrassed even in the face of imminent danger. It didn’t help when he looked up and saw Matt’s wide grin. “Let’s get the hell outta here,” he said, and gave the bay a sharp kick with his heels. Matt followed, and the two white men charged down the slope, driving their horses as hard as they dared through the snow.

  * * *

  Broken Bow paused at the crest of the ridge, and signaled the others. When the rest of the hunters rode up to him, he turned and pointed to the carcass in the snow some forty yards down the other side of the slope. Iron Claw, the leader of the party, nodded and pushed off down the hill toward the site of the butchering.

  Arriving at the carcass, the hunters rode back and forth around the site of the killing, looking at the trampled snow and the signs of the activity they had just interrupted. Wasicu, Iron Claw thought as he stared at the remains of the elk. This had to be the work of the two white men who had camped in the mountains all winter. Iron Claw’s nostrils flared in anger. None of his scouts had actually seen the two white men, but there had been occasional sign that told of their presence in the land of the Lakota. This day, the Great Spirit might be smiling upon them, for the wasicu could not be far ahead of them. Iron Claw jerked his head around to look at Broken Bow. “We may have caught the white coyotes this time. Leave the meat,” he directed several of the hunters who were examining the carcass.

  With Iron Claw in the lead, the Lakota hunters took up the obvious trail the white men had left in their haste to depart. Pushing their Indian ponies as hard as possible without tumbling in the snow, they followed the trail down the slope to the point where the line of snow stopped. There they paused only long enough to examine the tracks left in the loose shale to make sure they were still on the trail.

  Broken Bow looked down the narrow gulch toward the valley beyond. The wh
ite men had made no effort to hide their trail. They had obviously been intent upon escaping as fast as possible. “We will catch these coyotes,” he shouted, bringing a chorus of war cries from the others. Descending rapidly to the bottom of the slope, they raced down the gulch at a gallop.

  Barely half a mile ahead of the Sioux party, Matt and Ike pushed their horses for all the speed they could muster. At first there was nothing but the sound of their hooves pounding upon the valley floor. But gradually the sounds of excited war whoops began to carry over the beat of the horses. It was not a good sign, for it meant their mounts were being outrun by the swift Indian ponies. To add to their disadvantage, the packhorse was slowing them down. Although not a match for speed with the Indian ponies, the buckskin was holding his own in endurance, but the other two horses were beginning to show signs of fatigue. The Sioux ponies were gradually closing the gap. With no other option available, Matt and Ike both started looking for a suitable place to make a stand.

  As they thundered down the valley, Ike shouted something. Matt couldn’t understand what he was yelling about, but the big man pointed toward a rocky defile near the end of the valley. Matt nodded and promptly guided the buckskin toward it. The big horse responded without breaking stride.

  Into the mouth of a deep ravine they charged, dismounting as the horses slid to a stop. They led the horses back within the walls of the ravine where they would be safe, then hurried to take up positions on either side of the opening. “If we’re lucky,” Ike said, “they’ll ride right on by.”

  With rifles ready and cartridge belts at hand, they prepared for an assault. While they waited, Matt couldn’t resist taking a playful jab at his oversized partner. “Sometime when we ain’t so busy, I’d like you to teach me that quick mount technique you demonstrated back there on the ridge.”

  The big man blushed behind his whiskers. “That damfool horse wouldn’t hold still,” he offered lamely. He grinned sheepishly. “I reckon I did come pretty close to bustin’ my ass.”