Wrath of the Savage (5 page)

“I reckon ol' Lieutenant Fancy Pants would like to say it was my fault those damn savages snuck up on us,” he continued to himself. “I hope that bastard is dead.” He applauded himself for having the good sense to escape when he had the chance. “Same thing any of the other boys woulda done in my shoes.”

He pulled his boot on as carefully as he could, grimacing when the extra cloth under his sock made the boot tight. He got to his feet again and trudged back down the side of the ravine. He had no idea how far it was from the bend in the Yellowstone to Fort Ellis, but what little he did know about the location of the fort told him that it couldn't be far. He had left the river a couple of hours back; maybe he would make the fort by that afternoon.

As he walked, he thought about the chaotic moment when he was suddenly snatched from a solid sleep to discover screaming savages sweeping over his comrades, hacking and slicing like wild animals. He had his carbine, fully loaded, but it had occurred to him at the moment that he had not been discovered, hunkered down as he was on a little mound of sand in the willows. There was no thought of firing it and exposing his hiding place.

To run without being seen was the only thing he had any intention of doing, and the sooner the better, because it seemed obvious to him that the whole patrol was going to be slaughtered. His main regret was that he could not get to his horse without the prospect of being seen. So he grabbed his carbine and his haversack and crawled down through the willows until he reached the low bluffs beside the river.

Then he ran as fast as he could, even though he could hear the sound of gunshots that sounded like cavalry carbines. He was sure they were captured weapons in the Indians' hands. When he realized no one was running after him, he crossed the river and kept going in a direction he hoped would take him toward safety.

After another hour, he came upon a well-traveled trail, and he was sure he had struck the main road to Bozeman. Satisfied with his successful escape, he thought of his fellow soldiers and the fact that he didn't get along with many of them. The last image he had of them was of Lazzara with his face split open by a Blackfoot hatchet.

“I reckon you got more to worry about now than whether or not I'm gonna relieve you on guard duty,” he crowed aloud.

Maybe the rest of them would remember that he was the one who predicted Lieutenant Hollister would end up getting them all killed. His gloating was interrupted then when he heard the sound of horses beyond the bend of the road behind him.

A sharp feeling of fear gripped his spine, for he thought it might be the Blackfoot war party coming after him. Looking around him for someplace to hide in a hurry, he dived behind a clump of serviceberry bushes and readied his rifle to protect himself.

In only a few moments' time, a rider appeared around the bend trailing a string of what appeared to be packhorses behind him. After another couple of minutes, the rider came close enough for Weaver to recognize him as Brice McCoy. Then he realized that the horses weren't carrying packs. They were loaded with the bodies of the ill-fated patrol.

“Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered, and got up from the ground.

Upon seeing someone suddenly rise from behind the bushes, McCoy jerked back hard on the reins and prepared to retreat.

“McCoy!” He heard his name called out, and discovered it was Weaver who had popped up out of a bush.

“Well, I'll be go to hell,” McCoy blurted when he saw who it was, and urged his horse forward. “How the hell did you get here?” he asked when he pulled up beside Weaver.

“I, by God, walked here,” Weaver replied, “and I'm damn glad to see a ride.” He walked back beside the trailing horses, looking at the dead. “I don't see Hollister's body, or that big-ass scout, either. What happened to them?” He turned back to look at McCoy. “And how come you're the only one left?”

“My number just ain't up yet,” McCoy answered. He dismounted and told Weaver what had happened, and how he happened to be leading the dead back by himself.

“So ol' Hollister didn't get scalped with the rest of 'em,” Weaver said. “That's right disappointin' news. You know, if I coulda helped you boys, I sure woulda, but there wasn't nothin' I could do. Looked to me like you was all dead, and I couldn't fight all them Injuns by myself. I was damn lucky to get out when I did.”

McCoy fixed a skeptical gaze on him and smirked. “Oh, I know you woulda come a-runnin' if you thought any of us was still alive, but fact of the matter is, you was asleep when they jumped us. Ain't that right?”

“No, hell no,” Weaver was quick to retort. “They musta sneaked up from the other side of them trees, where I couldn't see 'em. I'll admit that I was a little drowsy, maybe, but I never went to sleep.”

McCoy snorted derisively. “Ain't no need to lie to me, Weaver. I don't care, as long as I came outta that mess alive. Hell, I'da done the same as you, if I hadda been in your shoes.”

Weaver grinned meekly. “You know how it is,” he said. “Look out for your own ass first.”

“That's the way I see it,” McCoy agreed. “So right now we can go back and play the heroes. If we're lucky, maybe the Injuns will take care of Hollister for us. I hope to hell he does catch up with 'em, 'cause that'll be the end of that son of a bitch, and that big-ass scout, too. If they ask me where he is, I'll just tell 'em I don't know.”

The idea appealed to Weaver. He hadn't thought about playing the role of hero.
Leave it to McCoy . . . ,
he thought. “Hell, they might even give us a couple of medals,” he said, grinning at the thought. “Wouldn't that be somethin'?” He paused then to look over the column of horses, a body across the saddle of each one. “How come you ain't got an extra horse? That's my horse.” He pointed to a red roan with Copeland's body on it.

“Hollister took an extra horse with him and Coldiron,” McCoy said.

“Well, I ain't ridin' back to Fort Ellis behind no damn dead man,” Weaver snorted. He walked back until he came to a horse carrying Sergeant Duncan's body. “I'll ride this'n,” he said, and dumped the sergeant's body off on the road. “It was a pleasure servin' under you, Sergeant,” he mocked as he dragged Duncan's corpse off into the bushes. He stepped up into the saddle then, and the two heroes set out to lead their dead comrades back to the fort.

Having sent McCoy off that morning with the bodies of his fellow soldiers trailing behind him, Bret returned with Coldiron to pick up the trail of the retreating warriors. It wasn't difficult to follow, and it led straight north. “They're ridin' to catch up with the rest of that war party,” Coldiron said. “Looks like they was more interested in catchin' up than they were in hidin' their trail.”

“I doubt they think we'll follow them, since they know how few we are,” Bret replied.

“They stayed on this side of the river,” Coldiron pointed out. “But if they're goin' where I think they're headin', they're gonna be crossin' over to the other side when the river turns back to the east. So we'll just keep our eyes open to see where they crossed.”

They continued to follow the trail left by the dozen or so horses as the Blackfoot warriors followed the Yellowstone, carrying their dead with them. As Coldiron had predicted, they made a crossing of the river where it took a large turn to the east on its way to join the Missouri. Coming out of the river on the north side, the tracks held to a steady course across rolling, sparsely treed plains.

“If they keep on in this direction, they're headed for the Crazy Mountains,” Coldiron said. He pointed toward the rugged peaks, clearly seen, even though they were half a day's ride away. “Hard to say what they've got in mind,” he went on. “Maybe they're supposed to meet up with the bunch we've been trailin' somewhere up in the mountains. Maybe they'll stay clear of the mountains and go on up to the Musselshell. I reckon we'll find out.”

After a stop to eat something and let the horses rest, they were back in the saddle to resume their mission. Eventually the trail led them to a small pond, fed by a strong stream coming from the mountains. The Indians had followed the stream from that point on, and the closer they came to the foothills, the more it became obvious that they intended to follow it up into the mountains.

At Coldiron's suggestion, they stopped when within about five miles from the odd cluster of high mountains sitting like an island of rocky peaks in the middle of the plains. The reason, Coldiron pointed out, was the ease that the two of them could be spotted on the rolling prairie by a lookout high up a mountain. So they held up in a stand of trees bordering the stream and waited for darkness to cover their approach to the mountains. Unwilling to risk even a small fire, they spent the time catching up on some of the sleep they had missed the night before, each napping while the other kept watch.

•   •   •

While Bret and Coldiron waited for the cover of darkness to advance farther into the Crazy Mountains, an interview was being conducted some thirty-five or forty miles southwest of them, as the crow flies. It was a serious fact-finding interview, the second since the two heroic soldiers had returned, leading their dead comrades on their horses. Colonel John Grice, acting commanding officer, since several companies of cavalry and infantry had departed the fort to intercept a band of Nez Perce fleeing their reservation, opened the questioning. “Now, Private Weaver, tell us again what happened to your patrol on the Yellowstone.”

“Yes, sir,” Weaver said respectfully, after a glance at Private McCoy. “Well, like we told the Officer of the Day when we came in this afternoon, we picked up the trail of them Blackfoot that massacred those poor folks, and we was followin' them up the river. Come nightfall, we made camp. About nine thirty or ten that night, the Injuns jumped us. We didn't have a chance before they was all over us.”

Grice interrupted. “Did not Lieutenant Hollister post any guards?”

“No, sir,” Weaver lied. “Sergeant Duncan asked him if we shouldn't post some guards, but the lieutenant, he said we didn't need none—said them Injuns was long gone. I don't think he cared much whether we caught up with 'em or not.” He paused while Grice cast a glance at the other two officers seated at the table with him.

“Go on, Private,” Grice said.

“Well, sir, like I said, we never had a chance. They was on top of us so quick, we didn't have time to defend ourselves. Me and Private McCoy was just lucky we could get to our weapons and fight 'em off. They didn't have many rifles, so the two of us was able to kill enough of 'em to make 'em think twice about what they was doin'.”

“Just the two of you,” Grice commented. “What about Lieutenant Hollister and the scout, Coldiron? Where were they during the fighting?”

“Sir,” Weaver replied, with another glance at McCoy, “we was wonderin' about that ourselves. We had our hands full, tryin' to fight them Injuns off. But as near as we can figure it, the lieutenant and Coldiron musta just cut and run, 'cause they sure weren't anywhere in sight when mornin' came, and me and McCoy was the only two left standin'.”

“You haven't said anything about what happened to Sergeant Duncan. His body is missing. Did he go with Lieutenant Hollister and the scout?”

Weaver had to think quickly then. “The sad fact is, them Injuns mutilated poor ol' Sergeant Duncan so that there wasn't enough left of him to bring back over a saddle. Me and McCoy figured the respectful thing to do was to just go ahead and bury what they left of him.”

“Do you have anything to add to that?” Grice asked McCoy.

“No, sir. It's pretty much like Weaver said.”

“But you were able to save all the horses?” one of the other officers asked.

“Yes, sir,” McCoy answered. “Me and Weaver got between the Injuns and the horses where we had 'em tied in the trees. We saved 'em all, except Coldiron's and the lieutenant's, but they were already gone. The Injuns tried to steal 'em two or three times, but we finally convinced 'em that it would cost 'em every time they did. So they finally gave up and lit out.”

“But there was one more horse missing,” Grice pointed out. “So the hostiles must have killed one. Is that right?”

McCoy had to pause to think, remembering then that the lieutenant had taken Sergeant Duncan's horse with him. “Yes, sir,” he replied. “That's right, they got off a lucky shot and killed one of the horses—Sergeant Duncan's, I think.”

“When morning came, and the Blackfeet were gone, did you think about searching for Lieutenant Hollister and the scout?” Grice asked.

“Oh, yes, sir,” Weaver replied. “We took a wide circle around that whole place, but there weren't no sign of either one of 'em. They was long gone.”

“So then, you recovered all the bodies of the patrol and loaded them on their horses?” Grice asked.

“Yes, sir,” Weaver replied. “We figured it was our duty as soldiers to bring all the boys back here to bury. If it had been the other way around, I know any of them would have done the same for me and McCoy.”

Grice looked to the other officers at the table to see if anyone had more questions. When it appeared they did not, he addressed the two privates seated before them. “Well, I guess that's all we need for now. I want to commend both of you for your bravery and your outstanding performance of duty. I think you deserve a little time for rest and recovery after what you have just been through, so I'm advising your company commander to relieve you from all duty rosters for a couple of days.”

“Thank you, sir,” McCoy said. “That's mighty nice of you. I might add that we ain't got no hard feelin's against Lieutenant Hollister for runnin'. Every man's different when it comes to a hot fight, when it don't look like there's any way out of it but to fight or run. I reckon nobody knows what they'll do until they get throwed into it.” They both got to their feet, saluted smartly, then turned and left the room.

Grice waited until the door closed behind the two survivors of the massacre before commenting to the other officers, “That's a damn disappointing report on young Hollister, and a sad one. I had higher hopes for him.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the panel said. “I thought he had the makings for a good officer. But I guess you can never predict how a man will respond to danger.”

Outside the post commander's office, the two conspirators exchanged grins. “That went pretty well, didn't it?” Weaver remarked. “Two bona fide heroes, that's what we are, and ol' Lieutenant Fancy Pants ain't lookin' so good right now.”

“I reckon so,” McCoy said. “But what are we gonna say if Hollister shows up with those women?”

“Use your common sense,” Weaver told him. “There ain't a chance in hell of them walkin' into the middle of a Blackfoot village and gettin' them two women. I'm bettin' that's the last anybody will see of those two bastards, and good riddance at that. You know Blackfeet ain't got no use for white men, especially soldiers, so I'm thinkin' they're dead men.”

•   •   •

With the coming of darkness, Bret and Coldiron climbed into the saddle again and continued following the stream until reaching the foothills. They were forced to halt for the night then, since it became too dark to see the tracks. They made their camp close to the stream, which was now flowing deeper and stronger as it made its way from the mountain above, carving a rocky path down to a canyon beyond them, which seemed as dark as sin. Ready for some coffee, Coldiron gathered some branches and built a fire in a gully that ran from the spruce trees to the stream.

“It's been a while since I've been in these mountains,” he said while he fussed over his kindling of small twigs and dried grass. “There ain't a lot of game that I was ever interested in huntin' in these mountains. Course there's a lot of small game and goats up high, but deer only occasionally. At least that's been my luck. I wonder where them Injuns is goin'. Best I can recollect, there ain't no way out of this canyon but the way you ride in.” He looked at Bret and grinned. “That don't sound like we're in a very good spot, does it?”

“I was thinking that,” Bret replied.

Coldiron chuckled. “I was just japin' you. There's a couple of ways out about a mile and a half in. When we start out in the mornin', we'll be climbin' right off. There's a waterfall about halfway up and a little lake above it. I've seen sign of Injuns camped there by that lake before, and I wouldn't be surprised if this bunch we've been followin' ain't been plannin' to meet up with their brothers there.”

“Well, I guess we'll find out in the morning,” Bret said as he moved some small rocks aside and spread his blanket, seemingly unconcerned, “if they don't decide to come back out tonight.”

Coldiron chuckled again. “I'll tell you the truth, Lieutenant. I ain't run into many officers who would take off into this part of the country with nobody but a guide, especially an officer green outta West Point. Most officers I've worked for have got to have a detail of at least fifteen soldiers around 'em before they'd set foot outside the fort.”

“Oh, I suppose there're quite a few,” Bret replied casually. “You just haven't run into them yet.” Now that the fire was showing signs of life, he got up and filled his cup with water and set it at the edge of the fire to boil. Then he sat down to watch it until it was ready to dump in the coffee, wishing he had a coffeepot so he wouldn't be eating half the grounds. “Why don't you stop calling me Lieutenant? My name's Bret.”

“All right, Bret,” Coldiron said with a parting of his whiskers to make room for a wide grin. “I won't call you Lieutenant . . . or Sonny.” And he chuckled at his remark. “My friends and my late wife always called me Nate. I reckon I include you in that group.”

Coldiron decided at that moment that Bret Hollister was worthy of being his friend, even if he was an officer.

•   •   •

The night passed peacefully enough for the two new friends. They started out the next morning, following the tracks they had followed the day before, but on this day they proceeded much more slowly and cautiously. It soon became obvious that it was unnecessary to look for tracks, because it became impossible to go up the rugged mountainside unless they followed the narrow trail. Boxed in on both sides by the enormous cliffs that formed the canyon, they saw very few places to hide from any lookout that might be stationed high above them. Both men constantly scanned the cliffs for any sign of a Blackfoot scout as they continued on. The trail had left the floor of the canyon now and started a steep climb up toward rocky ridges that looked too rough for a horse to travel.

Another half mile brought the trail out of the confines of the canyon and onto a ridge from which they could see smaller mountains to the east of them, ringed with tall spruce and pine around the lower portions. Bret commented that one of these would be an easier place to camp than the treacherous trail they continued to follow beside the stream that was now a rushing torrent as it steepened. Coldiron explained that the campsite by the lake over the falls was considered a holy place by several Indian tribes, so the Blackfeet probably hoped to make big medicine there.

“I reckon this is about as close as we better go with these horses,” Coldiron advised when they reached the top of the tree line and a ledge that ran off to the right. “We can take 'em around on that ledge there and tie 'em in the trees, and go the rest of the way on foot.”

After the horses were secured, they loaded up with ammunition and returned to the trail. “We'll be in a helluva fix if one of those bucks stumbles on those horses,” Bret couldn't help commenting.

“You got that right, partner,” Coldiron was quick to agree, “but we sure as hell couldn't sneak up on that camp with the horses.”

Bret was soon to find out what he meant. They had not climbed for more than a quarter of an hour when the sounds of the Blackfeet camp came to them from above. The sounds of talking and war chants, although muted by the crashing of the water coursing down the rocky streambed, could be heard.