Matt scowled at the sunlit plains. If only he knew where the rendezvous with the other outlaws was to be! If it came sooner than the Tongue, it could mean a surprise or a pitched battle. Yet knowing, as Massey now must know, that the honest men of the train were alerted, would he try an attack when there was such great danger of encountering a patrol from the fort? From Fort No. 1?
“Matt,” Jacquine asked suddenly, “did you know about the ammunition being stolen?”
He jerked his head around sharply. “What ammunition?”
“From the wagons. Ben Sperry told Father about it, and Father looked and ours had been taken, too. Someone has gone through all or most of the wagons and taken the ammunition. Sperry believed that was why Elam Brooks was killed … because he found them in his wagon, or discovered what they were doing. He also said that Elam never carried a short gun.”
“No,” Matt said, “I didn’t know that. If I had known the truth about Brooks, I would have arrested Massey then and there, or tried it.”
He rode in silence for a few minutes. “So they have the ammunition? They aren’t taking many chances!” His thoughts raced. Something would have to be done about that, and at once.
When they rode back to the wagon train, he checked his own ammunition. Most of it was gone. They had, he found, overlooked a box of .44’s … enough for quite a battle if need be. Nevertheless, they would need more, and he knew how to get it. The same way Massey’s men had gotten it, but at all costs, without an open battle.
They camped that night on the site of the ruined Fort Phil Kearny.
It was a place of memories for Matt Bardoul, and he glanced around thoughtfully. Many of the charred timbers still remained, the timbers of the fort built so painstakingly under the direction of Colonel Carrington, and burned after it was abandoned, burned by the warriors of Red Cloud.
Buffalo Murphy strolled up to where Matt stood looking around, with him was Brian Coyle. “You know this place?” Coyle asked, momentarily forgetful of their own troubles. “I’ve heard a lot about it.”
“Yes, I know it. There was a lot of blood shed over this plot of ground.” Matt looked around. “Carrington was a smart man, but no military man, certainly. He picked the worst site in miles for this fort. He put it down here in this space between two rivers, and had no water inside the walls, and too many hills close by. It was a beautiful job of construction for the place and the times, and every bit of work on it done with armed men on constant guard.”
“Them Sioux sure hated her!” Murphy commented. “They killed a sight of men along here. The fort was supposed to make the Bozeman Trail safe. Hell! In the first six months after it was built the Sioux killed more than a hundred and fifty men along the trail or at the fort! They ran off a lot of stock, too. Nigh to a thousand head, maybe.
“Right back over yonder,” Murphy pointed toward the buttes, “was where Fetterman was killed. Folks say he was a fighter. Maybe so, but he sure wasn’t no Indian fighter or he’d never have done like he done.
“Powell was supposed to have taken the wood cutters out, and if he had, it would have been different. He knew the Sioux. Fetterman was one of these here flashy sort of fighters, and he aimed to teach the Sioux a lesson.
“Lesson! He learned his lesson, but it didn’t do him much good! Three officers, two civilian scouts and seventy-six soldiers killed, all in a matter of minutes. Only fightin’ of any account was done by the civilian scouts.”
Coyle glanced at Bardoul. “You were at that Wagon Box fight, weren’t you?”
“Uh huh. And hadn’t any business there. I was riding up from Reno and risking my scalp to do it and bring some mail through. I spotted some Indians around the fort, so I headed around and ran into Powell and the wood cutters. Powell was smart. He never raised any fuss about things, but he was a good soldier and careful. He dismounted the wagon boxes from fourteen wagons, and used them for a barricade, piling sacks of grain and other stuff on them to stop arrows.
“It must have looked pretty easy to Red Cloud, only thirty-two white men inside, as they had killed four wood cutters before they could get to the wagons. Red Cloud had about fifteen hundred warriors, and Crazy Horse to lead them. Crazy Horse was worth a hundred men, himself. Red Cloud just didn’t know Powell. Powell had given the best shots two rifles apiece and had the poorer shots loading for them, and they held their fire until the Sioux were right on top of them, and then opened up.
“It was a lot different than the Fetterman massacre. Powell knew what he was up against and he wasn’t a glory hunter, he was a fighting man, pure and simple. It knocked the stuffing out of the Sioux, but they weren’t through. They tried it three or four times more, tried it crawling, charging on foot, and another time on horseback. They got right up against the wagons once, but then they broke and ran.
“We lost seven men and three wounded. Nobody knows what the Indians lost, but Powell figured it around a hundred and eighty. It could have been more, maybe as many as two hundred, for Powell was the sort to underestimate rather than otherwise.”
Brian Coyle put his hands on his hips and looked at Bardoul. “I reckon you think I’m a fool,” he said, “I remember your warning, but I had never run up against anything like this before. Now I can see what we’ve run into.”
Bardoul shrugged. “I wasn’t sure. I was just guessing, then. Now that we’re in it we can’t do any good by thinking of what we might have done or should have done. We’ve got to be thinking of what to do. One thing is to keep our own guards on watch, all the time. And keep our weapons handy. I’m thinking they won’t try anything before the Tongue, but that’s only a guess for I’ve no way of knowing.
“What we should do is keep right on going when we hit the Tongue and head for the fort on the Little Big Horn. There we can report the whole thing and get an escort if need be; however, if we have ammunition we won’t need an escort. Right now we’ve got to think of the women and children in this outfit and getting as near that fort as possible before the fight. Every mile increases our chance of rescue from the fort even as it increases the danger of attack.”
Lute Harless had walked up with Herman Reutz. “I’m for going on as long as we can,” Harless said, “I don’t like this!”
“All right,” Matt agreed, “but all of you stand by tonight. Let your womenfolks stay awake to awaken you, or stay awake yourselves, because there may be trouble.”
Coyle looked at Bardoul. “What are you planning?”
Matt swept the group with a glance. “You’re all safe men. I’ll tell you. I’m going to steal back some ammunition tonight. Just like they stole it from us, only not enough so they’ll know, but enough to make all the difference in case of trouble.”
“You can count me in on that,” Coyle said.
“No,” Matt shook his head, “I want only two men with me, and I know who I’m taking. It must be done quietly, and I want men who have woods experience, men who have fought Indians. If we’re caught at it, we may have a pitched battle, so my suggestion is that in case of trouble you all center on Reutz’ wagons. Assemble there, and it will serve as a rallying point.”
The group broke up and Matt walked back to his wagons. Tolliver and Bill Shedd were loitering nearby, smoking. Matt glanced at the young mountain man. “How’s your girl?”
He looked up quickly, flushing. “She’s some better,” he said. “She wants to see you.”
“All right.” He hesitated. “You two stay by your wagons tonight and stay together, sleep if you want to, but take turn about, and keep your rifles handy.”
Shedd nodded grimly and turning, crawled into his wagon. Matt walked toward the Starks’, listening to the rustle of the Pine Creek as he walked. It was coming again, more fighting, more danger, and it was different when there were women. If he knew for sure, they could act without delay, but they did not know, for even the stealing of the ammunition might be the act of one or two of the renegades hoping to peddle it to the Indians. It was all a vast confusion with many indications of a plot, but nothing upon which one could act legally.