The Sioux had turned aside from the trail and was following his path through the grass toward his first hiding place. Carefully, Matt slid backwards through the brush, rearranging the grass and branches as he moved, trying with all his skill to cover his trail. In his present weakened condition, an attack upon the Indian would be sheer suicide unless he was at once successful.
When he reached a dense section of brush he went into it, and after passing through, concealed himself in the grass near his trail. He lay very still, gripping the knife.
The afternoon was warm and very still. The sun lay upon his back, and the dew-heavy grass smelled fragrant to his nostrils. Flat as he could lie, pressed tight to the earth but with one leg drawn up and his toe dug in for a quick move, he lay waiting.
A fly droned lazily in the warm summer sun. It sat upon a leaf and walked about curiously, then flew to Matt Bardoul’s hand, where it prowled without apparent purpose, then took off. The sun warmed his back, and his muscles soaked up the heat. His hand upon the haft of the knife grew sticky and he drew the hand away, wiping it on his left sleeve.
No sound came from the brush, but suddenly the Indian was there, lean and powerful with tan, lithe muscles. He was led among the leaves at the edge of the brush, his eyes studying carefully the open valley before him, dotted with clumps of brush. He carried a bow in his hand, and an arrow ready for shooting.
Matt needed no one to tell him how quickly that arrow could be let go. He had seen the Sioux in action before this. He lay very still, breathing carefully, his eyes riveted upon the warrior. There could be no escape now, for the Indian was too close, and he would trail Matt and find where he had doubled back. There was only one chance, and that was Mart’s ambush. When the Indian came abreast of him, he must be killed.
The whole action must take no more than a split second, and there must be no sound. The knife must win on the first stroke. In ordinary condition, without his wounds, Matt could have bested the Indian in a hand to hand fight, but now there was no room for a gamble. None at all.
The Sioux was careful. Young he might be, but he had seen war. You knew that in the way he moved, and there was confidence in him, too, the confidence of victories past. Mart’s grip tightened on the knife, and he waited, tense and ready.
The warrior moved from the brush and crouched, staring down at the trail, then he straightened and looked all around him. There was something in that trail he did not like, and Matt almost grinned to see the Indian’s face, so close now that every change of expression could be noted. From the trail the Sioux knew the man he was following was not trying to get away, he knew the man understood how to leave or conceal a trail.
Now, the Indian moved. Matt was aware of the faint, earthy smell, of the slight movement of the tall grass as the Indian came forward, and of the fly that buzzed mournfully about. In the far distance, above the low hills, a bit of lonely cloud drifted across a pale blue sky.
The eyes of the Sioux were black, his skin dark and his hair black and greasy. When he moved there was only the whisper of the grass. He wore only a breechcloth, and carried beside the bow and quiver of arrows, only a scalping knife.
Mart’s tongue touched his dry lips. The Indian was abreast of him, but looking ahead, searching the brush and the hillside. He hesitated there, and Matt Bardoul held his breath, and then the Indian took a step, then another.
In a long, soundless leap, Matt shot himself from the earth. The Sioux, warned by some small sound or a premonition of danger, wheeled like a cat, but Matt was too close for the bow and arrow, and the Indian dropped them, wasting time in a futile grab at his knife. Matt struck with his own knife, and the Indian caught the blade on his arm.
Blood whipped from it in a crimson curtain that covered his arm like a sleeve. Matt struck with his left fist and caught the Sioux in the mouth, staggering him. He struck again with the knife, blade held low, stabbing for the soft parts of the Sioux’s body. Again the Indian warded it off, getting only a thin red scratch across his stomach, but now he had his own knife out.
Matt struck with his left for the Indian’s wind as they went down into the tall grass and thrust again with the knife. That time it struck home, and the Indian gasped, his black eyes ugly with hatred and battle lust. Matt got the knife out, and they rolled over. He felt a flash of pain across his shoulder and then he got the Indian’s wrist and forced it back, fighting desperately to hold the blade away from his body.
Wild with fear, for he knew his strength was going fast, he lunged and threw the Indian off. The Sioux was on his feet like a cat, and sprang for Matt, and Bardoul dropped on his back as the Indian leaped for him, and stabbed upward with the knife. Too late, the Sioux saw his mistake and tried to twist away from the blade, but it sank into his body just below the ribs and went in to the hilt.
For a moment then there was a bitter, soundless struggle. Matt shoved on the blade, twisting and gouging to point it upward toward the Sioux’s heart, his breath coming in great, agonizing gasps. He finally jerked the knife free, and in a last desperate effort, thrust again.
The body tightened under him, then relaxed. For a long time, Matt lay still, then he withdrew his knife and wiped it on the grass. Gathering up the bow and arrows, he crawled, gasping for breath and faint with weakness, for the brush. In a haze of pain and sickness, he knew he could not remain where he was. The other warriors would be returning, looking for the missing Indian. He had to get that horse and get away, and quickly as possible.
Despite his weakness, he managed to get to his feet. He looked around before he moved. The grass where they had fought was bloody and crushed as though wolves had made a kill. He moved into the brush, then hesitated. The paint pony was tied to a tree not twenty feet away!
He moved toward it, but the pony smelled the blood and jerked his head back, rolling his eyes. Matt spoke softly to him, but the paint wanted no part of him. The strange smell of a white man as well as the blood made the pony snort and jerk his head wildly, yet Matt moved toward him, and finally got a hand on the rawhide with which the pony was tied.
This was a battle that had to be won here, for he was in no shape to ride a pitching horse. He spoke softly again, talking to the pony with low voice and soothing tones, then tentatively he put out a hand and after some effort, got it on the pony’s neck. He caressed it gently and talked softly. On a sudden inspiration, he moved the quiver of arrows closer to the pony’s nose, and the familiar smell seemed to quiet the animal. Matt unfastened the rawhide and swung to the blanket that did duty for a saddle. Then he guided the pony back down the trail, and when he saw a draw running north and away from the route followed by the Indians, he took it, letting the pony run, which he seemed eager to do.
When he was at least three miles from where he had killed the Sioux, Matt turned the pony back toward the Little Big Horn and rode on. He felt sick in his stomach and his head throbbed painfully. He had been cut slightly on the shoulder and the wound had bled, but the bleeding had stopped and now his buckskin shirt was stuck to the wound with dried blood.
Sick, he reeled in his seat, and the pony shied violently, so violently that he lost his seat and fell headlong. With a startled leap, the pony was gone, racing off into the late afternoon.
Wearily, Matt got to his knees, then to his feet. The pony was gone, but the ride had helped. There ahead of him was the dark line of trees, of which he could see only the tops, of the valley of the Little Big Horn. Moving on, Matt kept going doggedly, fighting against weariness and sickness until he reached the dense growth of willows along the bank. With his last remaining strength he crawled into them, and concealing his route as well as possible, crawled until he found a low hollow under some wild berry bushes, a place made by a wolf or some large animal. Crawling in, he put his head on his arm.