Winter on the Belle Fourche

He had come down in the cold from the Big Horn Mountains and crossed the Powder River moving east toward the Belle Fourche, all this time without finding any sign and leaving little of his own. There were wolf tracks next to the river and he saw where they had gone across the ice, which told him they were desperate and hungry, that they would turn on each other before long. An hour before dark, he pulled the mount up sharp and let his senses search the land, knowing clearly something had been there before. Finally, he eased to the ground and took the Hawken rifle with him, stood still in the naked grove of trees, stopped and listened to the quiet in the death-cold air, heard the frozen river crack, heard the wind bite the world. He looked south and saw the Black Hills veiled in every fold, followed them with his eyes until the land disappeared in the same soot color as the sky. He stood a long time and sniffed the air and the water moving slow beneath the ice. He let it all come together then and simmer in his head, and when it worked itself out, he walked down in the draw and started scooping off the snow.

A few inches down he found the ashes from the fire. They had camped right here the night before, made a small supper fire and another in the morning. He ran the ashes through his fingers then brought them to his nose. They were real smart Injuns. They hadn't broken dead sticks off the trees but had walked downstream to get their wood. Cupping more snow aside, he bent to smell the earth. Six, he decided. If he dug a little more he'd find they all had mounts, but he didn't need to bother doing that. They wouldn't be on foot out here.

This close to the Powder and the Belle Fourche, they could be any kind of red nigger and not any of them friends. He knew, though, this bunch wasn't Sioux or Cheyenne, but Absaroka. He'd smelled them right off. Crow warriors certain, and likely from Big Robert's camp.

He straightened and looked east, absently touching the bowie at his belt, the scalp ring next to that. That's where they'd gone, east and a little north, the way he was headed, too. They weren't after him, didn't know that he was there. And that was something to chew on for a while.

The snow came heavy in the night, slacking off around the dawn. He was up before light and keeping to the river. Soon he'd have to figure what to do. It was two hundred miles to Fort Pierre on the Missouri, a lot more than that if he kept to every bend in the river. Del Gue would be waiting at the fort; he didn't need to be chasing after Crow, there were plenty out sniffing after him. Still, it wouldn't take much time to see what kind of mischief they were up to over here. The Absaroka were a little far east from where they rightly ought to be. He didn't think they'd want to keep on riding and maybe tangle with the Sioux, who would go without breakfast any day to skin a Crow.

At noon he found the answer. The snow had lightened up enough for tracks and he saw where the Crow had taken off, digging up dirt in the snow and hightailing it across the frozen river, heading back northwest into Absaroka country. Now he went slowly, keeping his eyes open for whatever had spooked the Crow. Sioux, most likely, though the Cheyenne could be around, too. Hard winter and empty bellies made everybody brave, and a man might go where he hadn't ought to be.

He smelled the death before it saw it. The cold tried to hide it, but it came through clear and he was off his horse fast, leading it down to cover in the draw. The dead were in the trees just ahead, and though he knew there was no one there alive he circled wide to make sure, then walked into the clearing, the Hawken crooked loose against his chest.

Three men, mostly covered by the snow. He brushed them off enough to see they were soldiers, a white lieutenant and two buffalo troopers. Each had been shot and soundly scalped, then cut up some in the playful manner of the Sioux. The soldier's clothes and boots were gone; the Sioux had taken everything but long-handle underwear and socks.

A quick look around showed the Sioux hadn't taken them by surprise. They'd stood their ground and gotten off a few shots, and that was of some interest in itself. North, he found high ground and lighter snow and saw where the Sioux had walked Army-shod mounts northwest among their own. Ten or twelve riders. They'd gone back to the river with their trophies; the Crow had seen them then and turned for home. About this time the day before, the massacre a little before that.

He stopped and tried to work the thing out. What had the three troopers been doing up here? And why only three? It was maybe a hundred and fifty miles to Fort Laramie, a powerful lot to go in heavy snow and the cold maybe thirty-five below. Troopers didn't have a lot of smarts, but anyone'd know more than that.

He mounted up and crossed the river, circled and crossed again. Two miles down he found the trail. Something about the tracks caught his eye, and he eased out of the saddle and squatted down. Now there was puzzle for sure. One of the horses had ridden double--before those boys had been hit by the Sioux. But there were only three bodies in the snow. Which meant the red coons had likely taken one alive, carried him back home for Injun fun. Nothing you could do for that chile, except hope he got to die, which wasn't real likely for a while. Del Gue had been taken by the Sioux the year before, and barely got out with his topknot intact. A trooper would get an extra measure sure, a skinning and worse than that.

He had the whole story now. There was no use following tracks back to the clearing, but he did. He'd kept his scalp for twelve years in the wilds, and part of that from being thorough, taking two stitches in a moccasin when one might do as well, winding up a story like this to see how it came about.

He came upon the cabin without knowing it at all, reined the horse in and just sat there a minute and let the sign all around him sink in. The cabin was built low against the side of a ravine, nearly covered by a drift and he'd damn near ridden up on the roof. He cursed himself for that. It was the kind of aggravation he didn't like, coming on something like this after he'd gotten the whole story put away. He could see it clear now, like he'd been right there when it happened. The troopers had ridden past this place into the trees, sensed trouble up ahead, and the man riding double had ridden back, stopped at the cabin, then turned and joined his comrades again. Which meant he'd left someone behind. There were no more tracks in the snow, so whoever that'd be was still there, unless they'd sprouted wings and flown to Independence like a bird.

Snow was nearly three feet high against the door, and he carefully dug it clear. Jamming the stock of his Hawken in the snow, he pulled the Colt Walker and the bowie from his belt and stepped back.

"You inside there," he called out. "I'm white an' I don't mean ye any harm, so don't go a-shootin' whatever it is you got."

There was nothing but silence from inside. Edging up close, he bent his head to listen. There was someone in there, all right. He couldn't hear them but he knew.

"Mister," he said, "this chile's no Injun, you oughter have the sense to know that." He waited, cussed again, then raised his foot and kicked solidly at the door. It was old and split and snapped like a bone. Before it hit the floor he was in, moving fast and low, sideways like a bear, coming in with the Colt and the knife and sweeping every corner of the room. Kindling and dead leaves. The musty smell of mice. A fireplace nearly caved-in. Half a chair and a broken whiskey crock. An Army blanket in the corner, and something under that. He walked over and pulled the blanket aside with his foot.

"Great Jehoshaphat," he said aloud, and went quickly to the still and fragile form, touched the cold throat and felt for signs of life he was sure he wouldn't find.