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Overview
On the run for a murder he didn’t commit, Matt Slaughter is lying low in the badlands with a new life, and a new woman. But old troubles are right behind him: her name is P.D. Wildmoon, a hard-drinking bounty huntress armed with a .44, a rawhide horsewhip, and three wild-eyed sons bred to kill. Their job? Bring Slaughter back to Virginia—dead or alive.
Making matters worse is a Sioux war that has Slaughter caught between the vengeance of a hostile tribe and the blind greed of a gun-crazy mother who’s blocking his only way out. But for Slaughter, there’s even more at stake. By his side is Molly, the vulnerable love of his life. And she’s just the pretty little tool Wildmoon and her killer brood need for hitting Slaughter straight through the heart.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780593441480 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Penguin Publishing Group |
| Publication date: | 10/25/2022 |
| Series: | A Matt Slaughter Novel |
| Pages: | 288 |
| Sales rank: | 676,508 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.10(w) x 6.70(h) x 0.90(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CORNERED MAN
It would have been the easiest thing to simply put a bullet in Matt Slaughter’s back. P. D. would have preferred to do it that way, but Mathis had offered an extra two hundred and fifty dollars if Slaughter was brought back to stand trial.
“Slaughter!” P. D. called out. “If you leave that rifle. . .and come out peaceful-like, we won’t kill you.”
“Where’s Molly?”
“I got her safe and sound, waitin’ for you.”
“Who the hell are you?” Matt asked.
“I’m the one come to take you back to Virginia. I always get who I go after. The only choice you have to make is whether you go back sittin’ in the saddle or belly-down across it.”
“If you show me the girl, I’ll come out.”
“Dammit, I told you she ain’t here,” P. D. replied heatedly. I shoulda just shot him in the leg while I had the chance. “I ain’t got all day. You come on outta there now, or I’m gonna hafta burn you out.”
“I reckon you’re gonna have to come and get me.
VENGEANCE
MOON
Charles G. West
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
All he had was a name, P. D. Wildmoon, and a post office box where this person might be reached in Cheyenne, Dakota Territory. Jonathan Mathis was aware that the person he traveled to meet recognized no line between lawful and lawless activity. This fact did not overly concern him, for as a successful criminal attorney in Springfield, Missouri, he had dealt with any number of men of the most evil convictions. Two years of frustrating dealings with regional provost marshals in Virginia and the Dakota Territory had hammered home one cold, hard fact that Jonathan Mathis could not accept. As far as the army was concerned, Matthew Scott Slaughter was going to get away with the murder of Jonathan’s brother.
The thought of his brother’s murder brought the bitter taste of bile to his throat. He had been duly proud of his younger brother’s successful rise to the rank of captain in the Union Army. His death had been hard to accept. Harvey had survived two years in the war only to lose his life after the fighting was over—murdered by a wild young Rebel over a land dispute. Especially galling was the army’s seeming disinterest after this man, Slaughter, fled to the West.
To add to his frustration with the army’s incompetence, Mathis had learned that the fugitive had actually been in custody in the post hospital at Fort Laramie, and was allowed to escape. Nothing more had been seen or heard of Slaughter for over a year, but Mathis refused to abandon his quest for justice for the murder of his only brother.
Riding now on the train as it pulled into the newly built station in Cheyenne, he took out a piece of paper, unfolded it, and stared again at the name at the bottom. P. D. Wildmoon it was signed, at the end of a short, childish scrawl that informed him that the sender of the letter would be in Shianne on the fifteenth of the month and could be reached at Cassidy’s Saloon. Mathis could only imagine the manner of man he was on his way to meet. He knew nothing about him other than the fact that Wildmoon was a name well-known in the murky shadows outside the law, in the dark world of bushwhackers and bounty hunters. The name had been given to him by a sympathetic lieutenant in the regional provost marshal’s office in Omaha, along with a word of caution. “Don’t say I gave you the name,” he had said. “There’s not much difference between Wildmoon and an outlaw. But if you’ve got any chance of finding Slaughter in that country out there, Wildmoon’s your best bet.”
Mathis remained seated until the train rolled to a complete stop. He gazed out the window at the sprawling town created by the arrival of the Union Pacific Railroad. He was a day early for his appointment with P. D. Wildmoon and, from his first impression of the wild frontier town, he already regretted the necessity of having to stay there for two nights before being able to take a train back to civilization. Resigned to his self-imposed task, he pulled his suitcase from under the seat and stepped down onto the station platform.
“Cassidy’s?” the operator in the telegraph office responded. He took a moment to eye the rather distinguished-looking gentleman asking for directions. Dressed in a business suit of obvious eastern fashion, he didn’t look the part of one of Cassidy’s patrons. Finally the telegrapher replied, “Cassidy’s Saloon is down at the far end of Front Street, next to the stables.” He felt compelled to warn the stranger, “None of my business, sir, but if you’re wanting a drink, there’s another saloon in Cheyenne that might suit you better. If you’re looking for a place to stay, Cassidy has a few rooms upstairs, but I’d recommend you try the hotel instead.”
“I appreciate the information,” Mathis said. “Where is the hotel?”
The operator walked outside with him and pointed out the Railroad Hotel. Mathis thanked him and departed the train station.
* * *
The following morning found Mathis taking his time over breakfast in the hotel dining room. There had been no time of day specified for his meeting with Wildmoon, but he felt pretty confident that it would be a waste of his time to look for him in the saloon this early in the morning. So the rest of the morning, until noon, was spent killing time, talking to the desk clerk, reading a legal brief he had brought to work on, and taking a short walk down the main street to locate Cassidy’s. After a noon meal at the hotel, he walked down to the saloon again.
Though still early in the day, the saloon was already half filled with patrons. Mathis could see right away why the telegraph operator had seen fit to advise him against Cassidy’s. It was obviously a gathering place for the less genteel folk of Cheyenne. Mathis felt a slight shiver race down his spine as he stepped inside the door. Feeling as out of place as if he had entered hell’s waiting room, he walked straight to the bar under the gaze of a sea of curious eyes.
“I’m looking for P. D. Wildmoon,” he said to the bartender.
The bartender, a stubby-bearded man wearing a filthy apron, took a moment to study the stranger before answering in a bored tone. “That’s P. D. and the boys yonder,” he said, nodding toward a table in the back corner of the room.
Mathis turned his head to follow the direction indicated. At the very back of the saloon, a group of four dusty individuals sat around a table. By the collection of empty beer mugs corralled in the center of the table, he reasoned that he could have come earlier after all. He thanked the bartender and walked to the table. Focusing his gaze on the obviously eldest member of the group, and the only one clean-shaven, he inquired, “Mr. Wildmoon?”
All went quiet at the table. The person addressed looked up, fixing Mathis with a dull stare for a long moment before shifting her gaze to look him up and down. “Missus Wildmoon,” she then replied evenly. “You’d be Mr. Mathis?”
Taken aback, he could not disguise his surprise. After the initial shock, he recovered briefly, only to feel a slight tinge of irritation in discovering that he might have traveled halfway across the country to find that P. D. Wildmoon was in fact a woman. Surely this was not the case. Taking a closer look, he could understand why he had taken her for a man, and a hard-looking one at that. Thinking that, surely, one of the other three must be the man he was there to meet, he answered, “I’m Mathis. Where is Mister Wildmoon?”
His question brought grins to the faces of the three younger men. “There ain’t no Mr. Wildmoon,” the woman replied. “I’m P. D. Wildmoon, the one you come to see. These here is my boys: Arlo, Bo, and Wiley.” She nodded toward the young man seated on her left. “Wiley, pull up another chair so’s the gentleman can set down.”
Mathis was perplexed at that moment, undecided as to whether he should bother wasting time with the woman and her sons, or just do an about-face and leave. He wondered if the lieutenant back in Omaha knew P. D. Wildmoon was a woman, and if he did, why he hadn’t told him so. He hesitated long enough for his decision to be made for him when Wiley dragged a chair from the next table and shoved it against the back of the lawyer’s knees, leaving him no choice but to sit. “Charley,” P. D. yelled, “bring the gent some beer.” Turning her attention back to Mathis then, she said, “Let’s talk business.”
In his law practice, Jonathan Mathis had defended some despicable individuals, but he could not recall having confronted a more vile collection of degenerates than the three men grinning at him at this table. The one introduced as Arlo was a rough-edged brute of a man. His brothers, though not as imposing physically, appeared to be cut from the same rough stock. The younger one, Wiley, seemed to be permanently fixed with an openmouthed, vacant stare. Mathis would have taken him for a moron.
Glancing around at the general clientele in the saloon, he began to worry that he had stumbled into a den of rattlesnakes. He also worried that to suddenly withdraw might cause him some discomfort. There was a slight distraction when the bartender set a mug of beer down before him, hard enough to cause a good portion of it to spill on the table. As one, the three sons looked in their mother’s direction expectantly. She dismissed their inquiry with a simple shake of her head. Obviously disappointed, they sat back to ponder their empty mugs.
Resigning himself to the task, he finally voiced what was troubling him. “Uh, Mrs. Wildmoon,” he began.
“P. D.,” she corrected.
“P. D.,” he amended. She smiled patiently then and nodded, exposing a wide gap where her two front teeth had once been. He continued, “When I wrote you, I just naturally assumed I was contracting with a man—a bounty hunter, I was told. I’m not sure you understand the nature of the job I have in mind.”
If she was offended, she did not show it. Rather, she nodded as if understanding his confusion, doubtless having faced the situation before. “I understand what you want,” she said. “You want a man tracked down. That’s what I do. I catch them what can’t be caught by your prissy soldiers and lawmen.” She nodded toward her three sons. “These boys is like a pack of hounds. I raised ’em that way. When we get on a scent, cold trail or no trail, we run ’em to ground, sure as bears shit and briars don’t. All I need to know is whether to catch ’em or kill ’em. If the money’s all the same, I’d just as soon kill ’em—less trouble. I guarantee proof of the job—anything you want, the head or any other parts.” She leaned back in her chair then, waiting for his response.
He was too dumbfounded to reply at once, continuing to sit there staring at the committee of self-proclaimed scavengers, totally aghast when confronting such callous disregard for human life. His gaze darted from one villainous face to the next, settling upon that of the matriarch. Looking into the cruel eyes of the pudgy-faced woman with stray wisps of graving hair protruding from under a Montana Peak hat that framed deep ruts across a weathered forehead, he was struck with the realization that she was fully capable of doing everything she claimed. At that moment, he almost wished he had never undertaken his mission. But then he reminded himself of the shocking death of his only brother, shot down while performing his duty in a small Virginia town, and he made his decision. “How much are we talking about?”
“Depends,” P. D. shot back. “Who we talkin’ about? And where do me and the boys have to go to get him?”
Mathis laid out the history of events, as he had learned them, starting from young Matt Slaughter’s flight from Virginia. Then came his appearance at Fort Laramie, his time as a scout for the army before they learned he was a fugitive, and finally his escape from the authorities at Fort Laramie. “He’s supposed to have spent a good deal of time living in the Powder River country. The people I’ve talked to at Fort Laramie seem to think he could be anywhere between there and Virginia City.”
“Powder River country,” P. D. repeated. “That’s pretty hot country right now. There’s a damn war goin’ on with the Sioux and Cheyenne. I expect that’s the main reason the army ain’t interested in findin’ your man. They ain’t got the time. There’s fightin’ all along the Bozeman Trail.”
“Are you saying it’s too dangerous to go after Slaughter now?”
“Oh, it’s dangerous all right. But it ain’t enough to stop me and my boys. I reckon we’ve kilt our share of Injuns. Bo, there, has a scalp string he’s right fond of.” The son named Bo, who was at that moment absentmindedly occupied with the excavation of his nose with a grimy forefinger, was distracted long enough to smile at Mathis. “No, we ain’t a’feared to track him in that country,” P. D. continued, raising one eyebrow as she summed it up. “It’ll just cost a little more, that’s all.”
“How much?”
“If this varmint is hidin’ out in the mountains,” she answered, continuing to justify her price, “we might be trackin’ him for three or four months.” She grimaced as if thinking hard. “We’re gonna need a lot of supplies.”
“How much?” Mathis repeated.
She shook her head, still concentrating, reluctant to throw the figure out, trying to judge what her client might bear. Finally, she responded, “Two thousand dollars.”
“Fifteen hundred,” he countered.
“Done,” she immediately responded. “Half now, and half when we get the job done.”
“Five hundred now,” he shot back, realizing that he could have gotten her cheaper.
She sat back again and shook her head in mock exasperation. “Damn, mister, I hope your under-drawers ain’t as tight as your purse strings.” She waited a second while her sons laughed at her comment. “All right, then, five hundred now.” She got back to business then. “Tell me ever’thin’ you can about this polecat.”
Mathis shrugged. “I’ve told you pretty much all I know.” He remembered one more thing. “When he escaped from Fort Laramie, he was traveling with a woman and an old trapper.”
P. D. cocked her head up at that. “Wait a minute! You didn’t say nothin’ about him havin’ two people with him.”
Mathis was quick to counter any notions she might have for an added fee. “A young girl who can’t speak and an old man,” he insisted. “No need for concern.”
She thought about that for a moment before dismissing it. Then her curiosity prompted her. “Whaddaya mean, a young girl who can’t speak?”
Mathis shrugged then. “Can’t speak. She’s a mute. That’s what I was told. She shouldn’t be any worry for you.” He thought about it a moment before suggesting, “She might make it easier to find Slaughter.”
“Might at that,” P. D. agreed, nodding her head. “All right, then, this feller Slaughter’s a dead man.” She extended her hand, and Mathis took it.
He thought about the deal he had just made, and changed his mind. “I’d like to try Slaughter in a court of law, and then see him hang.” P. D. shrugged, frowning. Obviously it was not her preference. “I’ll pay you two hundred and fifty extra if you bring him in alive.”
This changed things. “Does it matter what kinda shape he’s in,” P. D. asked, “long as he’s breathin’?”
“Just as long as he can understand what’s happening to him,” Mathis replied. “When can you get started?”
“As soon as I get that five hundred,” she replied.
Mathis got up from his chair. “The money is in the hotel safe. If you could go with me . . .” The picture of the swarthy-looking woman accompanying him back to the hotel came to his mind then. “Or I could just go and get the money, and bring it back here.”
“Arlo can go with you, and you can give it to him,” P. D. said, much to his relief.
“Fine, we’ll do that,” Mathis said. “I’ll also give him a card with instructions on how to telegraph me.” He stood back while she got to her feet. “I hope I’ll be hearing from you soon.”
“We’ll be headin’ out in the mornin’ for Fort Laramie,” she said. “I figure that’s the best place to start.”
He took one last look at her before departing, wondering if he was about to throw five hundred dollars away. As if she could read his thoughts, she gave him a broad, gap-toothed smile as reassurance. Dressed in men’s clothing and knee-high boots, she presented a solid picture that would remain vivid in his mind. With a .44 revolver strapped around her ample girth and a rawhide horse whip in her hand, she stood watching confidently as he and Arlo walked out the door. Behind her, her other two sons remained seated, watching them depart, like two young vultures waiting in the nest for mama to return with food.
* * *
Heading due north out of Cheyenne, P. D. led her three sons toward Fort Laramie. It figured to take two full days’ ride, so she departed the town at sunup. Arlo, her eldest, rode directly behind his mother, with Wiley directly behind him. Bo lagged farther behind, still grousing to himself about having to arise so early. Of the three Wildmoon men, Bo was the maverick, a role he seemed to enjoy.
Hoping to gain information on the whereabouts of Matt Slaughter, P. D. was disappointed upon reaching Fort Laramie. Figuring that the post trader’s store was the most likely place to get information on her prey, the sutler’s was the first stop.
Seth Ward glanced up when the four entered his store. He paused to take a longer look before greeting them. “Well, P. D. Wildmoon,” he finally acknowledged, with no hint of cordiality. “I ain’t seen you and your boys around here for a spell.”
“Reckon not,” P. D. responded.
“What poor soul is unlucky enough to have you on his trail?”
P. D. smiled, pleased to have a reputation precede her, and indifferent to the fact that it was one without respect. She ignored Seth’s sarcastic tone. “I’m lookin’ for a feller name of Matt Slaughter,” she replied. “Know him?”
Seth paused for a long moment before answering. He knew Matt Slaughter, counted him as a friend, and even if he didn’t, he would be reluctant to give the likes of P. D. Wildmoon any information that would help her find him. After a few more moments of silence, he answered, “I know him. A lot of folks around here know him, but he’s long gone from these parts.”
“I expect I know that,” P. D. replied, “but I figured you might know where he headed when he left Fort Laramie.”
“Hell, who knows? He didn’t exactly leave no forwardin’ address,” Seth snorted. “Why don’t you go ask at the post adjutant’s office? They’re the folks who let him get away.”
P. D. didn’t reply at once, responding only with a sarcastic smile. He knew the army had no liking for P. D. and her kind. She was well aware of the fact. “I don’t expect I’d get much help from them soldier boys,” she said. “I figured you might tell me more about him.” She waited for a few seconds for his reply. When he merely shrugged his shoulders, she added, “We’re just doin’ a job. The man’s wanted in Virginia for murder.”
“Yeah, that’s what they say,” Seth replied, “but I ain’t so sure.” He shrugged again. “Anyway, it was a while ago he left here. I don’t expect he’s anywhere in this part of the country.” Seth had known Matt Slaughter for a brief time, but in that time he had come to believe that the Matt Slaughter he knew could not have shot someone down in cold blood unless the shooting was justified.
P. D. was not willing to accept it at that. She had a suspicion that the post trader knew more than he was willing to share. She glanced behind her at her three sons, standing idly by like so many dumb cows in a pasture. “We’re gonna find him. It’s just a matter of when.” Seeing that she was wasting her time with Seth, she tilted her head toward the door. “Let’s go, boys. Can’t ever’body on this post be a friend of that murderin’ son of a bitch.”
P. D. lingered in the store only long enough to let her boys have a glass of beer. Leaving the sutler’s, she next went to the post stables to inquire about the possibility of leaving the horses there overnight. Informed at the stables that they had no arrangements for boarding civilian horses, she asked if there was a stable that did. A young private on stable duty walked outside with her to point out the direction to a stable in the nearby settlement.
“You fellers just passin’ through?” Private Adams asked, making conversation and, like most everyone else, not realizing P. D. was a woman.
“That’s a fact,” P. D. answered. “We’re tryin’ to find a cousin of mine from back east. All we know is he passed this way.”
“Is that so?” Adams replied. “What was his name?”
“Slaughter,” P. D. answered. “Matt Slaughter. He was my sister’s oldest boy, and we’d dearly love to find him.” There was a noticeable widening of the soldier’s eyes, so she asked, “Did you know him?”
“I didn’t rightly know him, but I heard about him. Hell, ever’body did.” Adams hesitated then, uncertain if he should say more, since these folks claimed to be kin of Slaughter’s. He glanced up at the three men sitting their saddles, all looking back at him with identical blank stares.
Sensing his hesitation, P. D. sought to encourage him to go on. “Ever’body in the family knows about Cousin Matt’s wild ways. Why, I believe I heard that he was under guard here, but busted out.” She shook her head, seeming to laugh at the picture forming in her mind. “He always was a wild one, that Matt.” She glanced up in time to catch Wiley about to say something. She cut him off with a frown and a shake of her head.
Private Adams grinned then. “I reckon so,” he said. “They had a guard on him in the hospital, but he broke out. Lieutenant O’Connor caught him right here at the stables. He thought he had him cornered. Slaughter and Zeb Benson rode off and left O’Connor hangin’ in a tree back of the stables.” Adams had a good chuckle as he thought about the lieutenant dangling from a tree limb.
“That sounds like somethin’ ol’ Slaughter would do, all right,” P. D. said, joining in the laughter. “Reckon where he headed when he left here?”
“Virginia City, most likely,” Adams said. “Folks that knew him said him and Zeb talked about them mountains beyond the Big Horns all the time.”
* * *
P. D. and her sons rode out of Fort Laramie early the next morning, heading for Virginia City. Several attempts to gain additional information regarding the whereabouts of Matt Slaughter had been met with little success the night before. Private Adams had been the only one who even speculated where the fugitive might have gone. After giving it some thought, P. D. decided that it was a fifty-fifty shot that Adams might have guessed correctly. Virginia City was a reasonable place to look for an outlaw on the run. She would have preferred odds better than fifty-fifty, but she figured she had to start searching somewhere. Why not Virginia City? Her decision made, the main concern to be dealt with was the Sioux Indians. The recent government parlay with Red Cloud and his allies, the Cheyenne, had met with failure, and the Sioux leader had stormed out of the peace talks vowing to kill any white men trying to travel the Bozeman Trail across Sioux hunting grounds. While P. D. was confident she and her boys, all with repeating rifles, could handle a small hunting party, she was not willing to risk an encounter with a sizable war party. With that in mind, the Wildmoon family took a trail leading northwest along the North Platte, figuring to strike the Sweetwater and South Pass. It promised to be a hard ride to Virginia City, and the long way around, but there was a sizable payday at the other end.
Chapter 2
Hoping to make the trip to Virginia City in little more than two weeks’ time, the bounty hunters rode free of trouble until skirting the southern end of the Big Horn Mountains. Crossing over wide-open prairies with rolling hills for most of that day, they were glad to see a small stream in the distance. After fifteen minutes or more, they entered the trees that lined the stream and let the horses drink. After horses and riders had their fill of the cool water, they were in the saddle again with Arlo taking the lead. He had not cleared the line of cottonwoods on the west side of the little stream when he suddenly pulled his horse to a stop. “Ma!” he called out, and pointed toward a long ridge on the northern slope of the valley.
P. D. pulled her horse up beside Arlo’s. “Damn!” she uttered as she looked toward the ridge. “I wonder how long they’ve been watchin’ us.” Sitting impassively on the brow of the ridge, a line of thirty or more Sioux warriors watched the progress of the four white riders as they followed the valley west.
“What do you reckon they want?” Wiley asked.
Bo, never hesitating to remind his younger brother that he was the simpleminded member of the family, answered him, “Now what the hell do you think they want, dummy? They want that pretty head of hair you’re wearin’.”
“What they want is these rifles we’re carryin’,” P. D. said as she quickly surveyed the terrain around them. Looking directly ahead, she picked her spot. “I expect they’re waitin’ for us to come out in the open after we cross the stream.” She pointed toward a pocket of trees near the base of the western slope. “If we can get to that bunch of pines on the other side of the clearin’, we oughta be able to hold ’em off—maybe run ’em off for good if we can cut down a few of ’em.” She pushed her horse up ahead of Arlo’s. “You boys follow me. We’ll take it nice and easy till we get clear of these trees. Then ride like hell for that pocket over yonder.”
High on the ridge that formed the northern side of the valley, the Sioux war party waited, watching the trees for sign of the white men. Spotting a rider about to emerge into the open, then stop, Iron Claw, leader of the war party, signaled his warriors to wait. When the four white riders suddenly charged out of the trees at full gallop, he knew his warriors had been spotted. “After them,” he shouted. Sweeping down the slope, the war party drove its ponies hard to cut off the white trespassers’ escape.
It was a race, but P. D. and her sons managed to gain the angle on their pursuers and capture a sizable lead. Whipping her horse, calling for all the stallion could give her, P. D. rode low on his neck, calling out encouragement to her sons behind her. Seeing that they had lost their advantage, Iron Claw’s warriors began shooting at the fleeing four, but to no avail. P. D. and her boys reached the safety of the pocket with lead flying harmlessly in the trees around them. While Bo and Wiley led the horses back into the trees where they would be safe, P. D. and Arlo took cover in a gully at the edge and began to return fire.
“By God, that slowed ’em down,” P. D. exclaimed as she laid her front sight on a warrior riding a white pony and knocked him off the horse. Equally adept with a rifle, Arlo accounted for another warrior down. Wiley and Bo scrambled up beside them, their rifles searching for targets.
With two warriors killed, Iron Claw called his war party back out of range. Furious at having let the white men gain the cover of the wooded pocket, he drew back to decide on another plan. Two dead was already a higher price than he had intended to pay. With the rifle fire now coming from the gully, it was confirmed that all four had repeating rifles, and he was determined to have the weapons. “They have closed themselves up in a trap,” Iron Claw said to one of his warriors, a man called Yellow Horn. “I’ll take half the warriors and cross over the ridge, then circle above them on the slope. The rest of you can use the cover of the stream bank to work your way down in close to that gully.”
Yellow Horn agreed. He could see that Iron Claw would be able to shoot down from above the white men and drive them out in the open, where they would be picked off by him and the others.
Back in the shallow depression that served as their protection, P. D. had much the same thought. “Bo,” she called out, “get on back there and see what kinda hole we landed in. Them devils might be able to get up behind us.”
Bo did as he was told, crawling away from the gully and disappearing in the trees where the horses were tied. After a quarter of an hour, he returned to report. “We ain’t in too good a spot. If they’re smart enough to get up on that slope above us, they can make it pretty damn hot for us.”
“Damn,” P. D. swore. “I was afraid of that. Maybe they won’t think of that.”
“Ma,” Wiley called out, “they’re sneakin’ down the crick, tryin’ to get closer.”
P. D. turned back to take a look for herself. Then she fired a couple of shots at a glimpse of buckskin, her bullets kicking up dirt on the stream bank. As near as she could tell, the war party didn’t seem as big as before. “They’ve already split up,” she decided. “Arlo, you and Bo drop back and find you a place to watch that slope behind us.”
There was nothing they could do but wait until the Sioux made some move toward their position. Using the stream bank as cover, the warriors offered no opportunity for P. D. and Wiley to pick a target. “You boys keep your eyes peeled back there,” P. D. yelled over her shoulder. More than a little angry at her poor choice of defensive positions, she was determined to make the assault costly for the Indians. In her own defense, she had to admit that there had been few choices in the short amount of time she was allotted to choose. “Make every shot count,” she said to Wiley.
“If they ever give me somethin’ to shoot at,” Wiley complained in reply.
“They will,” P. D. said. “They’re just waitin’ for the rest of their crowd to get above us.”
To confirm P. D.’s prediction, several minutes later the short period of silence was blasted by a sudden barrage of rifle fire from the slope behind them. “Here they come!” P. D. exclaimed as Arlo and Bo opened up with their weapons. But Yellow Horn and his warriors remained concealed behind the banks of the stream. Behind her, the sound of a heavy exchange of shots told her that Arlo and Bo had their hands full. Worried that they might be overrun, and puzzled by the lack of fire from the Sioux at the stream, she sent Wiley back to help his brothers. “I can cut anybody down that shows his ass over that bank,” she assured him.
It soon became apparent to P. D. why the warriors in the stream had remained quiet, as she spotted the appearance of a rifle barrel here and there. The Indians had been busy digging out firing pits. Within a few minutes after Wiley had retreated to help his brothers, the warriors before her began to deliver fire in her direction, kicking up dirt and gravel on either side of her. It was apparent that they did not have her position pinpointed, and she knew that as soon as she returned fire, they would have. “Well, this ol’ gal is smarter’n that,” she mumbled. Raising up slightly, she cranked out four quick shots, spraying the bank, then ducked down and scrambled several yards to her left. As she expected, the spot she had fired from was immediately peppered with rifle balls. She soon realized that the best she could expect to do was to hold them at bay, for it appeared they were not going to risk an all-out charge across the clearing.
On the slope behind her, the battle continued with no sign of letup from the attacking warriors. However, the momentum was gradually being gained by Iron Claw’s warriors. “Gawdam!” Bo exclaimed when a rifle ball tore the bark off the tree trunk a scant few inches above his head. Lying as flat as he could manage, he pushed himself backward, looking for a better spot. Glancing to his right, he tried to see where Arlo was, realizing then that both Arlo and Wiley had already been forced back to find safer positions. “Arlo!” he called out.
“Over here!” his brother called back, some ten yards below him in the trees.
“You bastard,” Bo yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me you was droppin’ back? Leavin’ me here to hold ’em off by myself.” Without further comment, he rolled over and, half crawling, half running, scrambled down the slope to join his brother. “Where’s Wiley?” he blurted upon settling behind a pine trunk beside Arlo.
“Over here,” Wiley answered, lying behind a small boulder a dozen yards to Arlo’s right.
“You hit anythin’?” Arlo asked anxiously.
“Shit no,” Bo came back. “The son of a bitches don’t never show theirselves.”
The three brothers tried to hold where they were but, as before, the hostile fire soon became too hot around them, forcing them back down to the bottom of the slope, almost backing up to P. D. Still trying to get a clear shot at one of the warriors in the stream, P. D. was alarmed to discover her sons had been pushed back from the slope. For the first time, she realized that there might not be a way out of the trap she had ridden into. It was obvious that the Sioux plan was to push the four of them out in the open where they would be easily cut down by the warriors by the stream. Fighting off a rage that was building up inside her, she was forced to concede defeat, furious that she was to cash in this way—cut down by a bunch of wild Indians. There was no choice but to take as many with her as possible. “Boys,” she called back, her voice solemn as a preacher’s, “you’ve got to hunker down and don’t let ’em push you any further back down the mountain. If we let ’em drive us out in the open we’re goners, sure as hell.” The three young men took what cover they could, but were still trying to shoot at targets they could not see.
* * *
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.
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“Rarely has an author painted the great American West in strokes so bold, vivid, and true.”—Ralph Compton