Vengeance Moon Page 3

High up the mountain on a ledge below the tree line, a lone figure sat astride a paint pony, a silent observer of the skirmish taking place three hundred feet below him. Following an old game trail on the far side of the mountain, Matt Slaughter had heard the gunfire and decided to take a look for himself. From the sound of it, someone was in real trouble. High above the thick ring of lodgepole pines, he had taken cover in the boulders of a broad rock formation when he saw the party of Indians filing up from below him. As he watched, they spread out and disappeared into the trees. It became obvious to him right away that they were intent upon attacking someone at the foot of the mountain.

  Leaving his horse in the rocks, he drew his Henry rifle from the saddle sling and made his way down the slope on foot. Working his way carefully from one patch of trees to the next, he descended to a spot directly above the stalking warriors. He could see them clearly now, since they were not expecting anyone above them on the mountain. They were Sioux, as he had expected. As he watched, one man stood up and, with hand signals, gestured toward a group of trees below him. Matt followed the direction of his signal. A glimpse of a man crawling up behind a tree was all he got, but it was enough to identify him as a white man. Matt scanned the trees below the warriors. A slight movement several yards past the white man caught his eye, telling him that there was at least one more hiding in the forest.

  His attention was brought back to the line of Sioux warriors when the war chief signaled again, and a barrage of gunfire burst out, rattling the pine boughs below them. About to lend a hand to the entrapped white men, he suddenly hesitated. Taking another look at the Sioux war chief, he realized that he had seen that savage face before. At first he could not believe his eyes, and he paused to focus his gaze to be certain. Iron Claw—it was him all right. There could be no mistaking the cruel, hawklike face of the Sioux war chief, and thoughts came rushing back to his brain—thoughts of the savage murder of his friend Ike Brister. Ike’s death at the hand of Iron Claw had been a slow and torturous one, judging by the battered body Matt had found suspended between two trees. He had made a promise over Ike’s grave that he would avenge his death, but it had never come to pass. He had searched for the notorious Lakota war chief for most of a year before giving up hope of ever finding him. Zeb and Molly had finally persuaded him to leave thoughts of Iron Claw in the past. Now, on this day when he no longer searched for Iron Claw, providence, the Great Spirit, or whomever, had caused their two paths to cross. Iron Claw, he thought, and up to his favorite trick—killing innocent white men.

  With grim determination, he cranked a cartridge into the chamber of his rifle and started working his way farther down the slope. When he arrived at a position on a small hump some forty yards above the line of advancing warriors, he dropped to one knee and prepared to go to work. From this vantage point, he could now see the shape of things as they were planned to happen. There were more than two white men. Of that he was certain. How many more, he could not yet tell, but there were evidently more in a gully at the base of the slope. In his descent from the slope above, he had lost sight of Iron Claw momentarily, but he was determined that the bloodthirsty war chief would not escape again. In the meantime, he began to reduce the odds against the white men. In rapid succession, he fired three times, each shot claiming a Lakota warrior. Then, before the Sioux could determine where the killing rain had come from, he moved quickly off the hump and down into a pine thicket where he prepared to shoot again.

  Confused by the sudden attack from behind, the warriors were uncertain from which direction they should take cover. Several scattered to find safer protection, only to expose themselves to the deadly fire of their unseen antagonist. Two more warriors fell.

  Halfway to the bottom of the slope, Iron Claw was stopped in his tracks by the solid barking of the rifle fire behind him. He heard cries of alarm from his warriors and screams of pain from one of the casualties. But it was the sound of the rifle that triggered the emotion in his brain. He had heard that sound on more than one occasion, and it brought back agony and frustration that had dwelt in his mind to this day. Slaughter! It could be no other—the devil the Sioux called Igmutaka, the mountain lion.

  His mind ablaze with deep, burning fury, Iron Claw forgot the four white men trapped between him and the stream. The Great Spirit had seen fit to grant him one more chance to rid his tormented soul of the hated Igmutaka. “Back!” he commanded the warriors on either side of him as he turned to charge up the slope, following the sound of the repeating rifle known to the Sioux as the Spirit Gun. Confused by the sudden order to retreat and the blistering rifle fire above them, his warriors were left to thrash about, uncertain as to which direction they should take. Most of them, however, followed Iron Claw as he pushed himself feverishly up the slope.

  They spotted each other at almost the same instant. “Slaughter!” Iron Claw roared in uncontrollable rage. Impassioned to carve the very heart out of the white man he hated above all others, he cast his rifle aside and charged his enemy with war ax raised to strike.

  Equally eager to rid the world of the man responsible for the death of his old friend, but with the patience of the lion he was named for, Matt remained in control of his passion. He stood unmoving, patiently waiting for the charging warrior to clear the screen of pine boughs. When Iron Claw was clear of the trees, Slaughter dropped to one knee again, and took careful aim. When the enraged warrior had closed to within ten yards of him, he calmly squeezed the trigger and the Henry spoke once more. An ugly black hole immediately appeared in Iron Claw’s forehead. The momentum of his charge carried him forward to crash at the feet of his adversary.

  It was done; Matt’s promise to Ike Brister’s soul was fulfilled. He dwelt upon the thought for only a moment before realizing that the danger was not over. Spinning around to level his rifle at the warriors who had followed Iron Claw up the mountain, he started to cut the closest one down, but hesitated. The forest had suddenly become silent. The warriors, stunned by the death of their chief, one they had thought to be invincible, were certain that there was big medicine at work, and Iron Claw’s medicine was obviously not strong enough to fight it. Without a signal, the remaining warriors turned and left the battle, knowing the spirits were not on their side. Content to let them leave unharmed, Matt stood aside, rifle cradled in his arms, and watched in amazement.

  Distracted by the conflict above her, P. D. turned to see her three sons retreating from the slope above. “We couldn’t hold ’em,” Arlo shouted as he and his brothers scrambled back to join P. D. in the gully. “There’s too many of ’em.”

  “Damn!” P. D. swore, disgusted by her sons’ failure. “Well, we’re in a helluva pickle now.” She looked around her frantically to see if there was any way they could improve their fortifications and prepare for an all-out assault from front and rear. “How many did you kill?” she asked, hoping the odds were trimmed down some.

  Arlo looked at Bo, then at Wiley. They both shook their heads. “We didn’t kill any of ’em,” he said.

  “Not a one?” P. D. asked in angry astonishment. “I heard a helluva lot of shootin’ goin’ on up there. And nobody hit a damn thing?”

  “Most of that happened after we left,” Bo said. “I don’t know what they was shootin’ at, ’cause we was done gone.”

  “Well, ever’thin’s quiet now,” P. D. warned. “They’re most likely sneakin’ down through the trees. Get ready, ’cause hell’s gonna break loose any minute.” Fearing she had been distracted too long, she turned her attention back to the stream bank. Everything was quiet there as well. “That’s mighty peculiar,” she muttered when she realized she could no longer see rifle barrels protruding from the firing pits dug into the bank. She turned once again to look behind her. “See any sign of ’em yet?” All three replied that they had not. They waited through a full quarter of an hour of eerie silence before P. D. announced in utter amazement, “They’re gone.” A few seconds later they heard the sound of the Sioux ponies departing on the o
ther side of the ridge.

  Still finding it hard to believe, P. D. crawled up out of the gully and stood there for a moment, halfway expecting a shot to ring out. There was nothing. “Well, if that don’t beat all,” she murmured. “They had us squeezed in like rats in a corncrib.” She was about to walk over to the stream to see for herself when a voice called out.

  “You fellows all right down there?”

  It had come from the trees behind them. P. D.’s immediate reaction was to dive back for the cover of the gully. Looking desperately back and forth, she searched for the source of the question. It occurred to her that the voice had spoken in English, but she still considered the possibility of a trick.

  “The Indians have pulled out.” This time the voice came from a closer point, some thirty yards above them.

  The whole picture became obvious to P. D. then. Whomever their benefactor, he was the source of all the shooting on the mountainside after her boys had fled, and the cause of the Sioux’s sudden departure. She propped her rifle against the side of the gully and climbed out again. Her sons followed her, and all four stood on the edge of the gully to meet their rescuer. “Come on down, mister,” P. D. said. “You sure enough saved our bacon, and that’s a fact.”

  He suddenly appeared then, emerging from the trees, a tall broad-shouldered man dressed from head to foot in animal skins, cradling a Henry rifle in his arms. “Yessir,” he replied. “It looked like you were in a bind.”

  P. D. strode forward to meet him. “I’m P. D. Wildmoon, and these are my boys.”

  Matt looked from one face to the next, then back again at P. D. They were a rough-looking bunch, he decided, but so was everybody who rode through this part of the territory with no wagons, womenfolk, or children. They were definitely not settlers. “Where you fellows headin’?” he asked.

  “Virginia City,” P. D. answered.

  Matt nodded. That made sense. They looked the kind to follow the scent of gold. “Well, I reckon you’d best stay south of the Big Horns, and maybe you won’t run into any more Sioux war parries till you make the other side of the Absarokas.” That said, he turned to leave.

  P. D. stopped him. “Hell, mister, we owe you some thanks for runnin’ off them Injuns. What’s your name?”

  Matt thought about it for a brief second before answering. “Johnson,” he replied. “No need for thanks—you’da probably done the same for me.” He saw no need to give his real name to someone he didn’t expect to see again. There was no point in taking the risk they might pass it along to someone looking for him.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson, if you’re headin’ toward Virginia City yourself, you might as well ride along with us. We’d be glad to have you—as handy as you are with that rifle.”

  “Thanks just the same,” Matt replied, “but I’m headin’ straight north.” In the next instant, he was gone, disappearing into the forest without so much as one small tremor of a pine needle.

  “Well, ain’t he the odd one,” Bo remarked as he stood staring at the empty pines where the stranger had disappeared.

  “He saved our bacon,” P. D. said. Then, remembering, she added, “After you boys hightailed it down that mountain.”

  “Hell, Ma, there was bullets flying everywhere, and we couldn’t see where they was coming from.”

  P. D. shook her head in disgust. “Let’s get the hell outta here before them Injuns change their minds.”

  They wasted no time fetching the horses and leaving the gully behind them. P. D. always believed she was lucky, and the sudden appearance of the lone mountain man confirmed it yet again in her mind. He had appeared, almost ghostlike, out of nowhere, and then he was gone. Mighty peculiar, she thought with a shake of her head and a smile.

  Chapter 3

  Stepping gracefully from one rock to another, Molly tracked the movements of the unsuspecting fish working its way through the channels of the narrow creek. It was getting on in the summer, but there were still some beds along the banks, out of the current. Glancing briefly at the sun overhead to make sure she would not cast her shadow upon it, she moved to a large rock closer to the bed, and squatted upon her heels to watch the miniature drama taking place.

  Distressed to find a short stick forced into the creek bottom next to its bed, the fish paused a moment to sort things out. The stick was one thing, but the crude hook resting among the unhatched eggs was of immediate concern. Moving then to remove the offensive object from the nest, it tried to fan the hook away with its tail, only to find that it was anchored by a small rock tied several inches above it on the short line. After moving around the bed to fan its tail from several different angles, the fish abandoned that unsuccessful effort and took a bolder approach. Darting in quickly, it took the hook in its mouth to carry it away from the eggs. Watching from her position on the rock, Molly smiled sadly as the unsuspecting fish set the hook when it reached the limit of the short line. She always felt sorry for each fish she caught this way. Zeb liked to tease her about her tender feelings. The old scout would say, “Maybe we could hold a little funeral service for the poor fish. It ain’t nothin’ but the ol’ papa fish, anyway. The mama’s probably glad to be rid of him.”

  Sure that the fish was caught, she stepped over next to the bank and pulled the stick out of the sandy bottom. Holding her catch up to admire it, she smiled in satisfaction. Adding it to the three others she had caught, she tiptoed back across the rocks to the opposite bank. Matt would be pleased.

  Thoughts of the tall, broad-shouldered young man brought an instant smile to her face. Though hard in her younger years, life for Molly was now as good as she could have ever dreamed. She supposed that some might think life in this rugged part of the world was difficult for a woman, but it never seemed that way to her. The past year and a half had presented some rough months when the mountain passes had been piled high with snow, and the frigid winds had swept down from the lofty peaks, making it dangerous for man or beast to be away from the fireside. Those were the times when Matt and Zeb spent almost all their time and effort in pursuit of food for them and the horses. The mountains were unyielding in their demands, but they were also protective, for no soldiers ventured into the valleys of these mountains. Zeb called them the Upper Yellowstone Mountains. Matt called them the Absarokas because they had long been home to the Crow Indians. They were also home to all manner of game—deer, elk, moose, sheep, grizzly bear—and Zeb and Matt could always find food, no matter the weather or the season.

  No matter how cold the winter nights, Molly was always warm in the snug cabin the men had built during that first summer. Constructed of lodgepole and white bark pine, and chinked with clay from the banks of the stream, it served them well on the coldest of nights. Under a bearskin robe, snuggled close to Matt, she knew complete contentment. And on some of those nights, when Zeb’s snoring threatened to shake the snow from the roof, she knew total fulfillment in Matt’s arms. She could not want for more.

  As harsh as the winters were in the mountains, the spring and summer were equally brilliant. The valley meadows were transformed into blankets of wildflowers throughout the summer and into the fall. The mountains wore dark green cloaks of spruce, fir, and pine draped about their massive shoulders below the rugged, rocky peaks that pierced the deep blue sky above. To some, it might seem to be a hostile and unforgiving land, but to those who accepted her terms, like Matt Slaughter and Zeb Benson, it was a land of plenty and peace.

  Molly led her horse over beside a rock so she could climb on the mousy dun’s back. She very seldom saddled the horse for her short rides down to the creek, and without the stirrups she needed a platform to give her a boost. Up through the meadow she rode, heading for the trail that wound its way through the spruce trees and over the eastern ridge to the little valley beyond and the cabin by the rushing brook.

  When she approached the cabin, she could see that Matt had not returned from hunting. Zeb’s horse was not in the small corral next to the cabin, either. Probably visiting the C
raw village, she thought, smiling. Zeb spent quite a bit of time at the Crow village in the Boulder Valley, sometimes staying as long as three or four days before returning to the cabin. He always denied it, but Matt said it was because of Broken Hand’s sister. Her husband had been killed in a raid against the Blackfeet five years before, and she had never remarried. She always gave Zeb a lot of attention whenever he visited Broken Hand. Molly was happy that Zeb had found someone to shine up to. He was not a young man, and he needed a good woman to keep him warm at night. She halfway expected Zeb to one day announce that he was moving in with her. He would still be close. The Crow village was only a half day’s ride from the cabin.

  * * *

  She had just finished cleaning her fish when she heard her horse nicker in the corral—a friendly greeting. She could tell by the sound that the dun had recognized either Matt’s or Zeb’s horse returning. She picked up the fish, and walked back up to the cabin in time to see Matt ride into the clearing. With a proud smile, she held the fish up for him to see as she went to meet him.

  “Well, aren’t they pretty?” Matt commented, smiling broadly. “You’re gettin’ to be so good at catchin’ fish, I don’t know why I even bother with huntin’. I might just start layin’ around the cabin all day, and let you go after the meat.”

  She beamed silently, delighted by his teasing, and stepped back while he dismounted. As soon as he was on the ground, she laid her fish down and threw her arms around his neck, almost causing him to lose his balance. “Whoa!” he exclaimed as he steadied himself to catch her. Then he picked her up in his arms. “You keep gettin’ bigger, and soon I won’t be able to pick you up.” He was about to say more, but was silenced by her lips upon his. He placed her carefully back on her feet then, and gently patted her stomach, which was swollen with the child inside—four months by her reckoning.

  She walked with him to the corral, and stood watching him in her silent way as he pulled the saddle off his horse and stowed it under the rough lean-to that served as a barn. While he pulled the bridle off the paint Indian pony, she took the lead rope in hand and led his packhorse to a large pine near the stream. This was where he always butchered and dressed the meat he brought home.