Way of the Gun (9781101597804) (10 page)

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Red Shirt had been right, and Lame Foot thought about how certain the half-breed had been that Cut Hand and Walking Fox were dead. From the beginning of their chance meeting with Red Shirt, Lame Foot had been the one who had uneasy feelings about joining the notorious renegade. The death of his two friends told him that Red Shirt's medicine was bad, and they should not have gone with him to hunt this white devil with the medicine gun. Lame Foot believed now that Red Shirt knew this man, Carson, would kill his friends, otherwise he would have warned them not to go after the horses. So he decided to leave before he, too, was sacrificed to the medicine gun.

His first thought had been to recover Cut Hand's and Walking Fox's bodies, since the white man had gone when he found them. But he soon realized that he could not carry both bodies without the horses, so he returned to the fork of the creek where they had tied the horses. He had a change of heart when he got there, thinking that he should forget the bodies and save himself from more of Red Shirt's bad medicine. He decided it was also wrong to leave all the horses with Red Shirt, so he jumped on his pony, took the reins of their horses, and rode out to the south, leaving Red Shirt to deal with his own fate.

Farther up the bluff, Red Shirt paused suddenly to listen.
Someone was stealing the horses!
In a panic, he backed away from the edge of the bluff and raced down toward the creek in time to see Lame Foot galloping away, leading two horses. Enraged to think he had run out on him, he raised his rifle and fired, but Lame Foot was not an easy target as he rode behind the high bushes on the bank of the creek. It was only then that Red Shirt realized that his horses were still there. That was still not enough to quell Red Shirt's anger. He sprinted toward the horse and was in the saddle within a few minutes' time, flailing the blue roan mercilessly as he set out after Lame Foot.

Above him, running through the ruins of the fort, Carson arrived at the edge of the plateau just in time to see their assailant ride away. “Red Shirt!” he exclaimed when he saw the black horse that had once belonged to Luther Moody. The evil half-breed was still stalking them. For a moment, he was torn between two choices: go after Red Shirt immediately or get Nancy and Frank away to a better place to defend themselves. This was the second time he had tangled with Red Shirt, and the second time Red Shirt had suffered the loss of men. The half-breed was not likely to accept his defeat and call it a day. Carson knew it was simply a matter of time before it had to be settled between them. He looked back at Frank, who had taken a few steps out from the charred timbers, and now stood watching him, waiting to be told what to do. He was clearly unable to make sensible decisions yet, so Carson again felt the responsibility for the couple's welfare and quickly made his decision.

“Frank!” he yelled. “Get Nancy ready to ride. We've got to get out of here now while we've got the chance. Sooner or later that son of a bitch is gonna try to get on our trail again, so we need to put as much distance between us and him as we can.”

“Right!” Frank yelled back, then hesitated. “Jonah. What about Jonah?”

“We'll put him on his horse and take him with us,” Carson answered. “When we get to a safe place, we'll bury him there. All right?”

“All right,” Nancy answered for her husband. “Come on, Frank.” They ran toward the ruins where Carson had left the horses.

Carson watched them for a brief second before turning back to look in the direction he had last seen Red Shirt. He was distracted then by the sound of a horse's whinny, and his attention was called to a lone packhorse standing near the edge of the creek below the bluffs. Red Shirt had galloped away in such a fury that he hadn't spent the time to take it with him. The mental image of the furious murderer caused Carson to make sure he didn't lose any more time himself. He paused another moment to decide, however, then ran down to the forks of the creek and untied the packhorse. An extra horse could afford them the advantage of distributing the load on their packhorses, not only lightening the load, but speeding up their flight as well.

Red Shirt had even added to their convenience by leaving the packsaddle on the horse. Carson did not bother to search through the packs, but there was a sack of grain he was glad to find. He kept it and dropped the other packs to the ground, but one item caught his eye. Strapped to one of the packs, a small wooden rod about five feet long with wisps of various shades of hair had fallen from the pack strap to land at the edge of the water—
Red Shirt's scalp stick
. Carson picked it up with a gnawing feeling of disgust when he remembered the half-breed adding Luther Moody's and his posse man's scalps to his coveted trophy. In a moment of anger, he propped one end of it on the ground and stomped it with his foot, breaking it in two. Then as a sign for the savage, he stuck the two broken halves in the sandy shore. With that small feeling of satisfaction, he led the horse back up to the fort.

Frank and Nancy were working frantically to make sure everything was ready to travel, and when Carson arrived with the extra horse, he found them struggling with Jonah's body. “Here,” Carson said to Nancy, and handed her the lead rope on the packhorse. She stood back then and watched while Carson and her husband loaded her brother-in-law across his horse. Once the corpse was settled, Carson took a length of rope from the saddle to make sure Jonah stayed put after telling a teary-eyed Frank to go shift some of the packs to the spare horse.

When all was ready, they said good-bye to the ruins of Fort Phil Kearny with no regrets in leaving. Carson led them across the western branch of Little Piney Creek and set a course for the Big Horn Mountains. He could not estimate how much time they had before Red Shirt would pick up their trail, but he figured their best chance of losing him was to leave the Bozeman Trail and take to the mountains.

Chapter 7

Carson set a fast pace toward the mountains with two of the packhorses trailing behind his bay gelding. Nancy led the other packhorse and followed, with Frank bringing up the rear, leading his brother's horse. Watching Carson sitting tall in the saddle ahead, Nancy found it hard to believe that he was so young. His coolness under pressure and his ability to assess the situation, then take charge of it, were nothing short of a godsend when she and Frank had been plainly devastated. She forgave Frank his moments of indecision, for she could hardly blame him when seeing his brother struck down so suddenly. She was not so compassionate for her own actions, however. She had held Jonah in high esteem and certainly had fond feelings for Frank's older brother, but she had always prided herself in her ability to respond strongly to any test of will or strength. She had a feeling that she had better not have any more of those moments of indecision, because they were not out of danger yet. She looked beyond the tall young man to the mountains where they hoped to find refuge. They had been riding toward the lofty, foreboding peaks for what seemed like hours, yet they seemed to be no closer than they had been when they first crossed the river. Then they followed a narrow valley through the hills and came out to find the mountain suddenly looming right before them.

Carson let up on the bay and allowed the horse to set its own pace for a while as he rode parallel to the base of the mountains. When he came to a wide stream coming down from the slopes above, he stopped and told Nancy and Frank what he wanted them to do. “Ride straight into the water, like you were goin' straight across. Make sure those horses you're leadin' go straight after you. Then when you get all of 'em in the middle, turn downstream and stay in the water. Don't let 'em leave any prints on the banks. Just do like I do.”

“You mean turn upstream, don't you?” Nancy asked. “I thought we were trying to get to the mountains.”

“We are,” Carson replied. “I'm just hopin' we can buy us a little more time. If Red Shirt follows us this far, he might figure we're tryin' to hide in the mountains. He'll see we never crossed over the stream, and know we're tryin' to hide our trail. If we're lucky, he'll ride the stream up into the mountains, lookin' for the place we came out of the water. It'd be a whole lot easier if we weren't leadin' horses, but if we're careful, we can do it without leavin' tracks.” He gave his horse a nudge and entered the water. He had to ride almost to the other side before the two packhorses were both in the water, but after that there was no problem in leading them downstream. Nancy and Frank followed his example and all the horses filed after him.

The stream began to narrow after about a quarter of a mile, so Carson watched for a good place to come out of the water. A stone shelf that extended into the stream was the answer, so he led them out at that point, onto a grassy slope, and headed north once again. He looked back to check on his followers and received a smile of confidence from Nancy.

The sun was settling down in the western sky when they came to a likely path into the mountains. Carson chose a game trail that led up a ravine, because it appeared to have a gentle rise that would not tax their horses greatly. By this time the horses were in need of rest, and their riders were past ready to make camp and prepare something to eat. As they rode in the heavy shadow of the mountain, it seemed to be later in the day than it actually was, so Carson took extra care while guiding the bay up the narrow game trail.

Frank and Nancy rode silently behind their young guide, never questioning his choice of trails or suggesting alternative plans. Without consciously thinking about it, both had put their complete trust in the man they had known for such a brief amount of time. They were sure Carson would find the right place to camp, and their confidence appeared to be justified when the game trail they followed leveled off at the top of the ravine and took a sharp turn to follow a ledge that led them to a narrow stream. A small meadow was bisected by the busy stream, and just below it, a belt of evergreen trees circled the foot of the mountain. It was a perfect campsite, Nancy thought, and she marveled at Carson's instincts to find such a place. It not only provided grass and water, but more importantly, it appeared that the only access to it was to follow the narrow trail along the ledge. It would be hard for Red Shirt to get across that ledge without being seen.

The same thoughts were alive in Carson's mind as he assessed the campsite, with some slight difference in viewpoint. He had had no idea where the game trail would lead them when he started up it, and he was fully as surprised as Nancy was when they saw all that it offered. He had suspected that the night might be spent with no grass or water for the horses, but because of the lateness of the hour, he had had to pick someplace while there was still enough light to make camp.

After Carson and Frank lifted Jonah's body from his horse, all three helped in taking care of the horses. No one voiced it, but neither Frank nor Nancy could think about preparing a meal before burying Frank's brother. Looking around her, she picked a spot near the upper end of the little meadow and pointed to it. “That would be a good place to lay Jonah to rest,” she suggested.

“Yeah,” Frank said. “Jonah would like that. Nice and high. He can look out over that little valley below.”

“We'd better get to diggin' a grave before it gets much darker,” Carson said.

“Right,” Frank replied. “I'll get a shovel and a pickax from the packs.”

“I'm going to need wood for a fire,” Nancy said when Frank returned with the pick and a short-handled shovel.

“There oughta be plenty of it down in those trees,” Frank said. “I'll go scare up some for you before we start digging.”

Nancy looked uncertain as she glanced at Carson. “Do you think it's all right to burn that wood? Pines and firs make a lot of smoke, don't they?”

“Well, yeah,” Carson replied. “I reckon they do, but I don't think anybody would be able to see it, dark as it is back in this hollow. They'd be more likely to smell it, but I doubt it, as high as we are above the prairie, and I don't think Red Shirt is anywhere near enough this soon. I'll go help Frank gather wood.”

It was not an easy task, digging in the hard, rocky soil under the grass. The short-handled shovel was especially irritating to work with for someone with a long, lanky frame like Carson's. It was well after dark when the job was completed, the final dirt excavated by lantern light. Nancy's bacon and beans, having been set to warm at the edge of the fire, had already dried out to the extent that a little while longer wouldn't cause much more harm. So they decided to go ahead and lay Jonah to rest and then eat.

Nancy asked Frank if he felt like saying some words over his brother's body before they lowered him into the Wyoming mountainside, but he declined, saying he didn't know what to say. So she offered a prayer for Jonah's safe passage to heaven, and promised that she and Frank would never forget him. Carson stood to the side and watched, waiting to fill in the grave. It was a short ceremony, but one with proper mourning, especially for Frank, who had looked to his older brother to make the important decisions for him. When it was done, they retired to the campfire to eat.

There was a sense of relief in the camp that night, with a feeling of safety in their mountainside meadow. Carson alone seemed concerned about the possibility of a night visitor in the person of a revenge-seeking savage. He had seen the brutal hostile up close and knew the passion to kill that drove him relentlessly. Having no idea when Red Shirt would return to Fort Phil Kearny to pick up their trail, he could not guess how much time they had before he came. But even if it was right away, it would be impossible for him to catch up with them tonight. And if they were lucky, he might not find their trail after they left the stream. They had left the water onto a rock ledge and ridden across a grassy rise. By the time he was on their trail, the grass might have recovered enough so that their hoofprints were no longer visible. All that considered, he figured they could count on a peaceful night. However, just in case, he decided he would spread his blanket at the head of the ledge and tether his horse beside him to help alert him if anyone came calling.

The night passed without incident, and the sun woke the camp early when it shone brightly on the east side of the mountain. Carson led his horse to the stream and watched him drink, his mind turning over the options available to the party of three. He knew they could return to the base of the mountain the same way they had come up, and start again to the north. But the adventurer in him caused him to wonder where they would come out if they continued to follow the game trail that led them to this place. When the bay finished drinking, he dropped his reins and walked to the other side of the meadow near the freshly dug grave and looked out across the mountain as far as he could see. The trail appeared to lead deeper around the mountain, toward another mountain.
Maybe,
he wondered,
there's a passable valley between them.
He was still contemplating the possibility when Frank and Nancy came up behind him.

“We're ready to go,” Frank said. “I guess we'll have to ride back down that ravine the same way we came up here.”

“Yeah,” Carson said, hesitating. “Or we could keep followin' this game trail around the mountain and see where it takes us.”

“Wouldn't that just take us up the mountain?” Nancy asked, wondering how that would help them when their goal was to reach Montana.

“I don't think so,” Carson replied. “I would guess that it's a trail through the mountains. The only tracks I've seen on it are deer tracks, and they ain't likely wantin' to climb up to the top of this mountain. I'm thinkin' this trail might lead us through to a valley or someplace where we can just head straight north again for the Yellowstone, and leave Red Shirt to keep lookin' for us on the Bozeman Trail.” He paused to hear their thoughts on the idea. “I ain't sayin' I'm right, but it would make Red Shirt's job a lot harder, and we can always turn north somewhere, even if we're deep in the mountains.”

Frank looked at Nancy and shrugged. From the look on both their faces, Carson could see that they had no strong objection to the gamble. He did not realize that they had no notion as to a good plan or a bad one. After Jonah's death, the two of them were lost. Jonah was the older brother who always led, and he was the only one of them who had actually been to Big Timber. So now they looked to Carson for leadership. It didn't matter that he had never been in this country before, because they both had the feeling that he would find a way. They feared Red Shirt, but a bigger fear would be the possibility of losing Carson. Frank and Nancy were prone now to follow Carson's instincts. “It might be the right thing to do, at that,” Frank said. “I like it better than going back down the way we came and maybe running into that murdering Indian on his way up.”

So it was decided. Frank and Nancy said a final farewell to Jonah, and the travelers started out again, following the narrow game path farther into the rugged Big Horn Mountains.

* * *

As peaceful as the night had been for the party of three white people, it had proven to be one of desperation for the Lakota, Lame Foot. He had not been lucky enough to escape without having been seen by Red Shirt. Racing over the rolling prairie, he had whipped his laboring pony mercilessly, but the angry avenger's blue roan was steadily closing the distance between them. In desperation, he released the two horses he was leading, hoping Red Shirt would go after them, and let him go. Red Shirt ignored the two horses and continued after Lame Foot, his anger too strong to allow Lame Foot to escape after having betrayed him.

Up a dusty draw and over a gentle rise, dotted with sagebrush, Lame Foot pushed the exhausted horse, knowing he had to find a place to make a stand. Another quarter of a mile and he saw a line of bushes that defined a small creek, and he knew that was going to have to be the place, so he whipped the failing pony and headed toward it. He could defend himself now that he had the Spencer carbine Red Shirt had given him. He was a Lakota warrior; he should not fear the notorious killer. The thought had no sooner entered his mind than he was startled by the snap of a rifle slug passing close beside him. Red Shirt had closed to within range of the Winchester he carried. Lame Foot shrieked involuntarily and whipped his horse again. The wind-broken horse made it to the creek, where it collapsed, sliding through a crop of berry bushes and throwing Lame Foot from the saddle to land in the middle of the shallow creek.

On hands and knees in the water, Lame Foot looked around him frantically, trying to find the carbine that had been tossed somewhere in the bushes when the horse went down. It was nowhere in sight. In a panic, he scrambled out of the creek just as Red Shirt pulled his spent horse to a stop twenty yards away and dismounted. Seeing that Lame Foot had no weapon, Red Shirt stood watching the frightened man, savoring the advantage he held. Short in stature, but powerfully built with wide shoulders and muscular arms, he looked to be the devil incarnate as he stood holding the Winchester in one hand, leering wickedly at the hapless Lame Foot.

They stood motionless for a few moments, staring at each other, one with a sickening expression of fear on his face, the other with the gloating smile of an executioner. “I got no use for a cowardly dog who betrays me,” Red Shirt scorned.

In fearful anticipation of the bullet he knew would be coming to claim him, Lame Foot began to sway slightly from side to side, and he began to chant his death song. The mournful notes from the frightened man served to please Red Shirt even more, and he let Lame Foot suffer the anticipation of his death several minutes more before he slowly raised his rifle and ended his song.