A long time later, he opened his eyes. It was dark, and his mouth felt dry and his head throbbed. Every muscle in his body seemed to be stiff and sore and when he moved it was all he could do to repress a groan. Crawling out of his cover he got to the river bank and drank long and deeply, and then he bathed his face and head with the cold water.
The night was clear, and glancing at the stars, he could see that it was well past midnight. Crawling back to his cover, he was soon asleep.
Sunlight through the brambles awakened him and he lay very still for a few minutes. The last of his meat had been lost when he was thrown from the horse, but he had retained his poncho. He bathed in the Little Big Horn, then crossed the stream. He was no hand with a bow, although some Crows had once instructed him in its use and he believed there was a chance he might find some game that he could kill. Matt found a few berries and then kept on until he came to the place where the wagon tram had stopped.
He was standing beside a huge tree studying the scene when he heard a slight movement in the brush. Fading back, his heart pounding, he waited. Then he heard it again.
It was a horse, walking through the brush. Now it had come to an open place, and apparently it hesitated there. Listening, he heard another movement, and then saw three Indians, Brules by the look of them. Obviously they were trailing the unsuspecting horseman. The horse started on again at a slow walk, following a course that would bring him close by where Matt Bardoul was standing!
His hand reached for the bow, and he notched an arrow, waiting. Then the brush near him parted and the horse came through. Instantly, his face broke into a grin. It was the dun! His own horse!
Carefully, he lifted a hand. The dun’s head came up with a jerk, and he moved toward it, whispering.
The dun hesitated, rolling his eyes, then something familiar must have arrested his attention, for he stretched an inquiring nose toward Matt. And then Matt was beside him, slipping the Winchester from its scabbard. “Stand, boy!” he whispered. “We’ve work to do!”
An Indian came through the brush, and evidently they had seen the horse and believed it riderless, for he stepped right out in the open, and then he glimpsed Matt and gave a startled grunt and whipped up his own rifle. Matt fired from the hip at no more than thirty yards, then whipped the rifle to his shoulder and nailed the second Indian. The third vanished into the tall grass, and Matt swung into the saddle.
Quickly, he searched his saddlebags. There was food here, and ammunition. It was easy to see what had happened. When he had been shot from the dun’s back, the horse had dashed away, frightened. When it recovered from the fright, it began to follow the wagon train, seeking the company of the horses it knew.
A few minutes ride proved that the wagons were headed for the Big Horn, and Matt hesitated over what course to adopt. A day’s good riding would take him to the vicinity of Fort No. 1 and the Army, where he might get help to recover the wagon train. On the other hand, matters must be reaching a crisis with the tram. If they had not met the reinforcements they expected, most of the men of the train would be needed as drivers, and there was small chance Massey would allow the women to be molested and risk an out and out revolt by the men, so there was a chance.
Matt wheeled the dun and headed down the Little Big Horn. He was in very bad shape, but just being in the saddle and having a rifle again made him feel much better.
It was a beautiful country through which he travelled, with some fine strands of timber along the Little Big Horn, and grass that grew three feet tall, while there were wild cherries, currants, wild strawberries, gooseberries and grapes in profusion. The dun seemed glad to have him in the saddle again, and kept a good pace.
Matt was riding at a lope through the broken and precipitous hills along the east bank of the river when suddenly he noticed a rusted field kitchen. He slowed his pace, and then in the space of the next two miles he saw weathered saddles, tin pails, canteens and tin plates with here and there an overcoat or cap.
This was the Custer battlefield where the might of the Sioux had fought their last battle. In a short distance, Matt Bardoul counted sixty-nine graves, most of them merely a thin film of earth thrown over the body. Here and there wolves had dug into the graves, and under one tree he saw a skull in an Army cap.
Matt did not stop, riding over the field and heading back closer to the river. At night, he was still riding north, but there was no time for delay, he watered and rested the horse, then remounted and continued. Dawn was graying the sky when he glimpsed the fort.
Several headquarters and barracks buildings were nearing completion, and already carpenters were moving out to their work. Below, in a long hollow, numbers of tents were pitched in regular rows, and soldiers were moving about, washing mess gear. Matt touched a spur to the weary dun and cantered down into the camp.
A sentry challenged him, and then seeing he was a white man, looked at him curiously. Mart’s beard was days old, and the wound on his head was still matted with blood where he had not dared wash too much of it away. His shoulder and side were dark with the stain of it, and he carried his rifle across his saddle bows. “Where’s your commanding officer?” The soldier indicated a tent, his eyes curious. Matt rode on, hoping the officer would turn out to be the same they had met earlier. He swung down in front of the tent, and walked up to the flap, that was drawn back.
A tall young man with blond hair and a mustache was writing over a camp desk. He looked up when Matt spoke, his eyes sweeping him with obvious irritation at the interruption. Quickly, Matt explained, but even as he talked he could see the rising scepticism in the officer’s eyes.
“You want me to let you have a patrol?” he said. “My orders wouldn’t allow it even if I felt it essential. From what you say yourself, the trouble is among the personnel of the wagon train, not with Indians. I have no orders to interfere in anything of the sort.”
“But, Man!” Matt protested. “Those men are outlaws! One of them is Sun Boyne, the Natchez murderer!”
“Sorry!” the officer shook his head, “I can do nothing for you. My orders are to build this fort and to avoid trouble with the Indians. That is all. I have received no information about any wagon train, nor about any such person as Sun Boyne. Certainly, I can’t be ordering troops out on the whim of every would be settler, who believes he is in trouble.”
“Listen!” Matt protested, rage rising within him. “I’m a Deputy United States Marshal!”
“You are? You have your papers, I suppose?”
Bardoul clapped a hand to his coat. They were gone! Of course, he might have known they would take them. “No, I don’t,” he said, “they were stolen from me.”
The officer shrugged. “I can’t do anything for you. As a matter of fact, I am only acting in command. The officer commanding should be back at the post by Monday, at the latest. He might help you.”
“Monday!” Bardoul’s jaw stiffened. “That’s three days. It will be too late!”
He wheeled and walked from the tent, catching the reins of his horse as he left. Walking rapidly, he went down to a camp kitchen that still smoked lazily. The cook looked up. “Anything to eat?” Matt asked wearily.
“Sure thing!” The cook glanced at him curiously. “You look like you could use it. What’s the matter?”
Over a cup of coffee, Matt explained. The cook nodded, then jerked his head at the tent from which Matt had come. “What you might expect of him. He’s a stickler. Never makes a move unless he’s told to or it is covered by regulations.”
“How about making me up a pack of grub?”
The cook looked at him. “You going out again? The way you look?”
“You’re damned right I am! I’m riding out tonight.”
“Better get some rest. That horse of yours could use it, too. I’ll fix you a bit of grub, though. And say, there’s a carpenter over there, third building down. He’s got him a pair of Colt pistols, brand, spankin’ new. If you’ve got the money, you might buy ’em.”