The calf was already dead, and he knelt over it, cutting up as much of the meat as he could carry. Then he moved back to the stream, and leaving his meat, returned for more. When he reached the stream after his second trip, he collected sticks and built a fire.
While he was broiling the meat, he studied the situation. For all his effort, he had made no more than two miles, yet once he had eaten, he should be able to do better. As he sat over the fire, his eyes kept noticing some dark object lying out toward the ruts of the wagontrain, and finally he decided it was a man.
Thinking of that, he let his eyes wander over the trail, and after a bit, he picked out another. His lips tightened and he felt something well up within him that was between rage and hatred. He ate, his eyes averted. When he had eaten what he could, he rolled the rest of the meat in a haversack made of the poncho, and got to his feet.
He walked slowly, but directly toward the body lying upon the trail. It was Ban Hardy, and he was literally riddled with bullets. Matt knelt over him and went through his pockets. He found his wallet, containing a picture of Sarah Stark and a few faded letters. Matt stowed it away in his pocket, then got to his feet. It took time he needed, but he gathered a few stones and covered the body, then he went on.
The second body was that of Will Stark, one of Aaron’s sons. Will was only sixteen. He had been shot twice through the chest.
“There must be some back behind me,” Matt told himself, “but not many. I think I was pretty far back.”
He found two more bodies before reaching the Tongue. One was a man from Coyle’s company, and the other was Bill Shedd.
Shedd, too, had failed. He had set out to get Sun Boyne, and he had failed. How many more would he find at the Tongue? By now, an idea of the situation was beginning to fit itself together in Matt’s brain. The attack had been premature because they had known something of the plans made by Bardoul and the rest. Massey had not waited for the Tongue, but had struck at once, taking advantage of the scattered wagon train when there was no chance of unified defense, and when due to the terrain and the travel as well as the driving rain, it was impossible for them to be together. It had been a neat piece of generalship, there was no question of that.
Yet it left Massey with a problem. He had still to get the wagons to a place where they could be hidden or disposed of, and he did not have drivers enough. For that reason if for no other, few of the wagon train personnel would be shot if they did not offer any resistance. There was a chance no women would be annoyed for the same reason, as peace must be kept as long as possible to get the wagons out of reach of appeal to the fort.
That left the only chance the prisoners had for survival, to lie with an accidental meeting with an Army patrol, or Matt.
Of course, nobody on the wagons knew he was alive. In that lay his greatest chance of success, yet it gave the people of the wagons very little to hope for.
When he had crossed the Tongue, he was on the edge of what had been their camp for the night. He sat down and cooked more of the meat, and drank thirstily. After resting, he got up and made a careful survey of the campsite.
He found where a number of the men and women had been herded together for better guarding, and where they had been fed. A few scraps of food and many tracks in a close area, and very few tracks elsewhere aside from other, more scattered signs, proved this was the correct conclusion.
Bathing his head for the first time, Matt found that mud and blood had caked together to stop the bleeding. The bullet had curved around his head under the scalp, and was still under the skin on the back of his head. Taking a chance, he cut a slit in the scalp and forced the bullet out. Then he bathed the wound again and rested.
He was weak from loss of blood and shock, but despite the walking, he felt better. Yet he knew he had come but a short distance and the wagons, hurried by Massey, would have covered at least forty miles in the two days of travel. Without a horse he would fall farther and farther behind. Had he his full strength, he could have overtaken them on foot, but there was no chance in his present condition.
The course the wagon train was taking would lead them to the Little Big Horn, and from there they might strike across toward the Big Horn itself, or follow a route that would take them south between the river and the mountains. Yet he had no way of guessing their actual destination without following the trail.
Darkness came swiftly, and Matt rolled up in his poncho, but despite his weariness and the throb in his head and side, he lay awake for a long time. Finally his mind a confusion of dreams, he slept.
He awakened with a start, long before daylight. Rolling out, he built a fire and then went to the stream where he bathed his face and head, then cooked the best of the remaining buffalo meat and ate all he could manage. He had no way of carrying water, but with the recent rain there was a chance he could make it. The Little Big Horn lay some twenty miles to the westward.
His head throbbing, his face dark with beard, he started out. Somewhere ahead of him was the wagon train, and when he found it, he would know what to do. Head down he started plodding along the ruts the wagons had left.
The grass was high now, high as the wheels on the wagons that had rolled across this prairie, and had he possessed a rifle there would have been no need to worry about food, for there was all the game a man could want. Prairie chickens and rabbits darted away as he approached, and once, late in the afternoon, he saw off in the distance a pair of antelope, but this time there were no wolves to make his kill for him. Three times during the morning he stopped to rest, once for all of an hour. Yet despite his weakness, he kept going, content only when he was moving. Once, in midafternoon, he stumbled from weakness and fell headlong, and that time he lay long before moving again, and when he started once more, rested every little way. He must keep going, but at all costs, he must not stop or be stopped.
His years along the frontier and the hard, rough life he had lived had built stamina that did not fail him now. When he started again, he moved along for a mile, then rested and started once more. He was determined to make the river before he stopped, no matter how many hours it took him, and the distance was between eighteen and twenty miles. Once, sighting a band of horsemen, he took to the brush. Even at that distance he recognized them for Indians, for their manner of riding was distinctive. Concealed in the brush, he waited, and after only a few minutes, saw six Indians riding along the wagon trail.
Clutching his knife, he waited. They were Sioux, and young warriors, which was all he needed to know, for if they found him they would not hesitate to kill him and take his scalp, and he was without any weapon but the knife. Once, they reined in, and he saw a tall young warrior on a spotted pony staring down at the trail. Once, he half turned his pony as if to ride toward the brush, but the others shouted something at him, and rode along. Twice, he turned in his saddle to glance back.
Obviously, the warrior had seen his trail, and probably was undecided whether it was made at the time the wagons passed or not. Yet when they had gone on, Matt did not at once emerge from cover, but kept to the shallow place between the hills, utilizing every bit of cover. It slowed his pace, but after a few minutes, he saw the Indian on the spotted pony returning.
Evidently he had noticed the tracks he had seen did not continue, and saying nothing, had decided to count coup on the straggler by himself. Matt eyed the Indian with care. He was a young warrior, agile and strong. He possessed no rifle, and no doubt was hoping to get one when he found his man. It was the paint pony that interested Matt… if he could get that horse … he crouched in the brush, waiting.