Wrath of the Savage (8 page)

With one less to worry about, Bret could now give Weaver his full attention. Just beginning to regain his breath, Weaver got up as far as his knees before Bret, anxious to expel all his hateful vengeance upon the men who had ruined his career, wound up and delivered everything he could against the side of Weaver's face. Weaver dropped like a sack of flour. Bret, his thirst for revenge not yet slaked, turned again to McCoy, who raised his head to gaze pitifully at his executioner. Walking deliberately up to him, Bret slammed him with one more right hand, this one sufficient to end the assault, leaving McCoy flat on the ground.

Satisfied that there was no further threat from either, Bret had to stifle the urge to make their misery permanent by killing both of them with his bare hands. He gave it another moment's thought before deciding he didn't need to have the military after him for murder.

“Gentlemen, it was a pleasure,” he said, turned to pick up his sack, then continued on his way to Bozeman. It had been the two enlisted men's misfortune to pick a fight with a man who had been one of the best heavyweight boxers to graduate from West Point.

After paying for a hot bath and supper in the hotel dining room, Bret went up to his room and got a good night's sleep. He planned to have a busy day in town the next morning preparing for the rest of his life. Sleep didn't come easily, however, for he found it impossible to put the events of the last three days to rest in his mind. Colonel Grice's hostile attitude was something he could not understand. Grice had graduated from the academy in the same class with Bret's father. They had served in the same regiment in Major General John McClernand's XIII Corps. Grice had even courted Bret's mother before his father swept her off her feet at the graduation ball held at the academy. That thought caused him to pause and reflect for a few moments, but he immediately discarded the notion as ridiculous. A man of Grice's stature would hardly let something like a college fling influence his decision on something as important as an officer's destruction.

As soon as the bank opened the next morning, he withdrew a good bit of the money he had deposited there. Leaving a still sizable balance of his inheritance, he decided to keep it right where it was until he figured out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. Next he went to the stable on the other end of town to look over any horses there for sale. He found the owner, Ned Oliver, cleaning out a stall in the back of the stable. “Mornin',” Ned greeted him. Bret returned the greeting and told him he was interested in buying a couple of horses if he had any for sale. “I sure do,” Ned replied and propped his pitchfork against the wall of the stall. “I've got some good ones. Let's walk out to the corral and we'll look 'em over.” Bret followed him outside. Standing outside the corral, Ned pointed out the horses for sale, then let Bret pick out any he was interested in. “Don't the army furnish you with a horse?” Ned asked, curious about his customer, who was dressed in an officer's uniform, but without any insignia of rank.

“I'm not in the army anymore,” Bret answered briefly. “I'll take a look at that paint in the corner.”

“That's a right smart choice,” Ned said. “Strong horse, that one, Injun pony, won't have to shoe him, broad through the chest for an Injun pony, too.”

“Is he saddle broke?” Bret asked.

“Yes, sir, saddle broke and gelded,” Ned assured him. “That horse ain't but about three years old.”

“Let's put a saddle on him, and I'll try him out,” Bret said.

Ned took the paint out and threw a well-used single-rigged saddle on him, studying the soldier intently as he did. It occurred to him that he might be a potential horse thief, arriving as he had with no visible possessions other than a cotton bag—and wearing a uniform stripped of all insignia. There was a distinct possibility that when he took the horse for a trial ride, he might just keep going. “How you figurin' on payin' for this horse?” Ned asked while still holding the reins.

“How much are you asking?” Bret replied as he examined the paint's mouth.

“Oh, I'd have to get fifty dollars for a horse as stout as this one.”

“I'll be paying cash money,” Bret told him as he continued to look the horse over. “He's closer to six than he is three years old, and I'll have to ride him before I make up my mind.” He climbed into the saddle, not waiting for Ned's reply, and gave the paint a little kick with his heels. The horse reacted immediately and they were off at a jump. Ned stood, helplessly watching his property gallop out the end of the street to vanish around a curve in the road.

Bret liked the horse immediately. It was quick with good wind, and responded to commands given with a light touch. He rode the horse for a couple of miles, before stopping to give it a closer inspection. His mind made up then, he climbed aboard and returned to town, approaching the stable and an anxious stable owner at a comfortable lope. “Whaddaya think?” Ned asked when Bret looped the reins over a rail of the corral.

“I need a packhorse, too,” Bret replied, “that one.” He pointed to a sorrel standing in the middle of the corral watching them.

“You got a good eye, mister,” Ned said. “You picked out my two best horses right off, and since you're buyin' two, I'll let you have both of 'em for a hundred dollars.”

Bret wasn't sure if that was a good price or not. He hadn't been in the market for one for some time, but they seemed worth it to him. “All right,” he said. “I'll give you one hundred, but you'll throw in the saddle and a pack rig for the other horse.” He pulled out a roll of bills and started to count it out.

“I don't know about that,” Ned said, scratching his chin whiskers thoughtfully. “That's a mighty fine saddle. . . .” He stopped when Bret folded the money back and replaced it in his pocket, then was quick to accept. “All right, I'll do it. Mister, you drive a hard bargain.”

Bret's next stop was the small building next to the saloon that proclaimed itself to be a gun shop and hardware store. Since he could afford it, he was immediately attracted to the Winchester '73 displayed prominently in the shopkeeper's window, and he told himself that he was going to need a good rifle. He was soon on his way with the rifle in his possession, along with an ammunition belt and a good supply of .44 cartridges. He was certain he would need them for what he had planned to do, a decision made during the sleepless portion of the night just passed. With that thought in mind, he went from the gun shop to the general store to outfit himself with supplies and cooking utensils for a long trip. When all his purchases were completed, he left the little town of Bozeman and turned the paint in the direction of the Gallatin River. Since most of his day had been spent preparing himself for his existence after his brief career with the military, he traveled for only about fifteen miles before making camp for the night.

Starting out early the next morning, he rode up the eastern side of the Gallatin River until reaching the stream that rushed out of the mountains and emptied into the river between the two huge boulders—the stream Sergeant Duncan had called Coldiron Creek. He followed it up the mountain, half expecting the big scout to suddenly appear to challenge him. But there was no sign of the bearlike man. And when he made his way up the narrow passage to the cabin, there was still no sign of Coldiron. At first, he thought he might have made a useless trip in hopes of finding the scout, but he immediately changed his mind. Coldiron's sign was not propped against the door of the cabin, and when he looked around back, he saw one of his horses in the small corral adjoining the cabin. So he figured Coldiron was somewhere close about, and would be returning soon enough. With that in mind, he unsaddled his horse and unloaded the packhorse. That done, he decided to make himself at home while he waited.

After building a fire in the ashes of many earlier fires, he took his brand-new coffeepot to the stream and filled it with the cold mountain water, then put it near the flames. When it got hot, he dumped his coffee in and watched it until it started to boil. When he deemed it ready to move back a little from the flames, he poured himself a cup of the steaming black liquid and sat down to enjoy it. He had begun to get a little drowsy in the warm glow of the campfire when he was suddenly jolted awake by a booming voice.

“Mister, you've got a helluva lot of gall, parkin' yourself in my cabin,” Coldiron charged. “I don't recollect sendin' out no invitations.”

“I figured it didn't matter since the sign wasn't up,” Bret replied.

“Bret?” Coldiron questioned, recognizing the voice. “Is that you?”

“Reckon so,” Bret replied. “I see you're as hospitable as ever.”

“Well, I'll be . . . ,” the big man stammered. “What the hell are you doin' here? They kick you outta the army?”

“As a matter of fact,” Bret replied.

Thinking he had been japing his young friend, Coldiron realized then that Bret was serious in his reply. He then noticed the missing symbols of rank on his shoulders, and immediately felt embarrassed. “I swear, I didn't mean . . . ,” he started. “I mean, what the hell did you do?”

“Pour yourself a cup of coffee, and I'll tell you the story,” Bret said. He then proceeded to relate his reception at Fort Ellis, his time in the guardhouse, and his subsequent trial by three of his fellow officers. Coldiron was left shaking his head in amazement when Bret had finished.

“Well, hell,” he said. “We can fix that up right quick. I'll just ride on back to Fort Ellis with you and tell them officers the straight of it.”

A tired smile spread on Bret's face. “I appreciate it, but I'm afraid that won't work. They painted you with the same brush. Those two privates testified that you and I both ran off when we were attacked, and left them to fight the Indians alone.”

“Ha!” Coldiron blurted. “That'll be the day.” He quickly returned the focus to Bret. “It don't matter a helluva lot to me what they think I did. You're the one just gettin' started on your military career. They've ruined your life. Mine's pretty near over.”

“It's over and done with,” Bret insisted. “Maybe it's somebody's way of telling me the army's not the life for me.”

“Well, those low-down, dirty skunks,” Coldiron said, thinking again of McCoy and Weaver. “They ain't worth the powder it'd take to blow 'em to hell. Whaddaya aim to do about it?”

“There's not much I can do about it,” Bret said. “They know how I feel about it, though.” He held his hands out to show Coldiron his bruised and scraped knuckles. “I reckon that was about it.”

“Well, I'll be damned,” Coldiron swore. “If that don't beat all. They kicked you outta the army on the word of those two.” He still had difficulty believing it. Then remembering, he asked, “Where'd you get the horses?”

“With some money I had saved up. I had to buy everything I needed. The army took everything.”

Coldiron shook his head again. “When I came down the mountain, I thought I was gonna have to throw somebody outta my house. I saw that paint and the sorrel in my corral, and I knew they didn't belong to anybody I knew. So what are you aimin' to do now?”

“That's the reason I came looking for you,” Bret said. “I don't have any idea what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. And since I don't, I'm heading back up on the Musselshell to see if I can find those women we started out after. I feel kinda responsible for quitting on them when we weren't that far behind.” He looked at Coldiron and shrugged. “That's what I'm gonna do. I just came looking for you to see if you wanted to go back with me. Whatever the army paid you, I'd be willing to pay—at least till the money gives out.” He paused to wait for an answer, but the big scout just seemed to be gnawing on his lower lip as he gave it some thought. “Of course, I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if you weren't interested,” Bret went on. “I expect you've got your own life to live.”

Coldiron still did not reply, his broad, bushy face knotted in deep concentration as he processed the proposition. Finally he spoke. “You're wantin' me to go ridin' off up in Blackfoot country again—just after we got back with our scalps still on? Without no detachment of cavalry soldiers—just the two of us? Without a chance in hell of ever findin' those ladies?” He shook his head as if flabbergasted by such a proposal, then replied, “Why, hell yeah, I'll go!”

•   •   •

It didn't take long for Coldiron to get ready to leave again. He was always in a state of leaving on a moment's notice. Bret suspected that the abandonment of Myra Buckley and Lucy Gentry had weighed a bit heavy on the big man's conscience, even though he gave the impression that he didn't have one. Evidence of that was apparent when he declined payment for his services.

“If you'll pay for the supplies and cartridges we'll need, that'll be payment enough. Hell, I wasn't gonna do nothin', anyway, but do a little huntin' before winter set in good.”

“All right, then,” Bret said. He'd had a feeling that he could count on Coldiron all along. “We'll start back north in the morning.”

With that settled, they turned their attention to the coffeepot again. “Looks like you got yourself all fixed up to go huntin' Blackfeet,” Coldiron remarked. “Lemme see that fancy new rifle you got there.”

Bret pulled the Winchester from the saddle scabbard and handed the weapon to him. Coldiron looked it over closely.

“That's the model 'seventy-three, ain't it?”

Bret nodded. Coldiron brought it to his shoulder and aimed it several times, brought it down, then repeated the motion again.

“It's got good balance to it. I like that furniture under the barrel,” he said, referring to the wood forearm. “The barrel on my Henry gets pretty hot to hold if you do a lotta shootin'.” He handed the rifle back to Bret. “Can you hit anything with it?”

“To be honest with you, I don't know,” Bret confessed. “I've only fired it a few times, and that was just to get an idea how it shoots. And a tree doesn't move around much while you're trying to hit it.”

“You'll be all right with it once you get used to it,” Coldiron predicted. “I've seen you in a tight spot with that army-issue Spencer you had.”

He had seen enough evidence of Bret's natural instincts to recognize the young man's efficiency with a weapon when it counted. There was none of the tendency to lose precious moments to take deliberate aim before pulling the trigger. For most accomplished marksmen, the weapon became an extension of the shooter's mind, sending the bullet where his eyes were looking without thinking about whether or not the rifle was aimed properly. It would be the same with the Winchester as it had been with the Spencer.

“That looks like an Injun pony you got there, too. Which one are you ridin', the paint or the sorrel?”