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  "Hiyapo!" the Indian said.

  "Let's mount up, Addie," ordered Matt. "This is Little Red Fox. He's going to take us to Talking Horse."

  Addie brought the horses. Matt got up in the saddle as though he had no wound.

  The Indian turned his horse and the two followed him.

  "What did he say?" she wanted to know.

  "He wondered what you were doing here."

  "Why, he never even looked at me."

  "I told him you were medicine. Good medicine."

  She looked sharply at Matt. She thought she could see the trace of a grin on his face.

  "Where are we going?"

  "To the Rosebud. It's not far. Talking Horse is waiting there. He's camped some distance above the trail, but he knows we've had some trouble, I gather. Some of the braves have been keeping account of us."

  "I see," she said, without understanding at all. She wanted to say more, but didn't know how to broach it without offending Matt. Still, she was determined to find out something that had bothered her for a long time. It had resurfaced since the arrival of the Indian brave.

  The snow began to fall in thick flakes, packing onto the ground. Gradually, the sounds of the horses' hooves began to muffle. Little Red Fox seemed to be in no hurry. Matt and Addie followed him along a game trail that was wide enough for two horses side by side.

  Addie waited as long as she could.

  "How can you be friends to these—these savages?" she asked.

  Matt shot her a look that chilled her.

  "I mean, after what you went through."

  She knew what had happened. Luke had told her. The Cord family had traveled from Illinois out to this country. Their wagon train had been ambushed. Many of the people had been killed. Matt had been captured. Their parents killed. Luke had gotten away with another family, gotten back to Cherry Creek. Matt had lived with the Sioux for four years. He had been sixteen when this had happened. He was twenty-two now. The memory should still be fresh in his mind.

  "There was nothing personal in it," Matt said to her. "We were intruders. If a tribe of Sioux had come into our lands in Illinois we probably would have shot them all dead. We're still intruders, but we've got the advantage now. The Sioux's days are numbered. They know that. Talking Horse was my friend. He still is."

  "Maybe he killed your parents."

  "Maybe. That was a long time ago. The Sioux believe the Great Spirit gave them this land. They think more of it than the white man does, or think they do. The Cords came out here too soon. They were always that way, even back in Ireland. We were always ahead of the rest of the bunch. In a few years, the Sioux will be pushed into a corner like the eastern tribes. They won't give up their lands easily, but they will give them up. There are too many of us."

  "You came here. Ted did. To live. Yet, you sound sad."

  "I am sad. I wish the Indian could stay. I wish we could live together, in peace."

  "Can't you?"

  "As individuals, perhaps. Yes, we could. We could learn things from each other. But the Army backs up the settlers. The Army breaks the government's treaties. The Indian has no government to fall back on, no reserves. He is all instinct. He doesn't understand the white man's need to own land."

  "You and Ted want to live here. So did Luke. Why?"

  "Because it's good land. A lot of it is still unspoiled. I stay here only because the Sioux let me, though. If they told me to go, I would leave."

  "You would bring other white settlers in, though."

  "Yes, they would come. They are now. The Army may close the Bozeman, but the settlers will find another way. The Sioux knows this, but he has decided to close the roads that violate the sacred Paha Sapa, the Black Hills. He thinks this will stop the flood of whites onto his land."

  "But it won't."

  "No, Addie, it won't."

  She looked at Matt with new respect. She hadn't realized the depth of his feelings before. She had always pictured him as a hard-driving cattleman, more action than thought. Yet, there was obviously a deeper side to Matt that she never suspected.

  "Why didn't you build your ranch in Colorado?" she asked abruptly.

  Matt looked at her a long time before answering.

  "I like this land," he said. "I spent the best years of my life here."

  She wondered how he could say such a thing when the circumstances were so grim. She had always thought he was an unwilling prisoner of the Sioux, but now she realized that this wasn't entirely true. Looking at him now, she wondered how much of the wildness was still in him. He rode like Little Red Fox, ahead of them. She wondered if he thought like him, too.

  The snow began to thicken as the wind dropped. Addie felt warmer than she had before. Matt had given her his sheepskin coat and a pair of gloves. She was grateful and knew that he must be cold himself, wearing only a light jacket over his wool shirt. The snow was sticking to the ground fast now, and the horses were batting the flakes out of their eyes with fluttering eyelashes.

  Still, Little Red Fox seemed to be in no particular hurry. He picked his way carefully along the game trail. His horse's unshod hooves made little sound on the snow that was piling up fast. He seemed no more than a shadow in front of them at times. Addie rode in front of Matt, who brought up the rear now that they were through talking. They crossed small trickles of water, tiny streams running into the Rosebud. They gained altitude, threading through the firs and aspen.

  Finally, the Indian stopped. Below, they heard the Rosebud gurgling its way, eager with melted snow swelling its size. Matt went up to Little Red Fox.

  "Tashunka Wawogala gahkiya," the Indian said, pointing.

  "Hunh!" Matt grunted.

  The Indian rode north then east. Matt watched him go, waiting while the snow filled the tracks.

  "What is it, Matt? Why did he leave?"

  "He's going back to his camp. Something's up. Talking Horse is over there, in that clump of trees."

  "Why all the secrecy?"

  "I don't know, Addie. It could be dangerous for us. For Talking Horse, too."

  He could smell it, almost. When Little Red Fox's tracks were obliterated by the snow, he moved toward where the Indian had pointed, two hundred yards ahead, close to the Rosebud. Addie followed, bewildered. She saw Matt's hand touch the butt of his pistol and she frowned. It was so quiet and still, and everything was white around her.

  They moved into the trees. Matt stopped and listened.

  A shape moved out ahead of them.

  Addie gasped when she saw the tall Indian. He wore a buffalo horn hat and the robes flowed down from his wide shoulders. He held a rifle in his hand, an eagle feather tied to its stock. He raised his other hand, palm out, in greeting. Matt rode up to him, waving Addie back.

  "Stay here," he said.

  She watched as the two men spoke. She tried to figure out the signs that Talking Horse made with his hands. They were like graceful birds moving in rapid flight. After awhile, Matt rode back to her.

  "Trouble?" she asked.

  "Could be. The Sioux may be getting ready for war. Talking Horse wouldn't tell me everything. It is very dangerous for whites here, and he can offer us no protection."

  "What shall we do?"

  "I told him we were going to the C Bar M. I also told him that the cattle were his, but that I wanted the men who took them myself. He said they had let the cattle through because of our brand being on them. I don't like it, Addie. Come, I want you to meet my friend."

  She rode over to Talking Horse with Matt.

  "Addie," he said to Talking Horse. Then, in Sioux, "Sister. Good woman. Mine."

  Talking Horse grunted. His hands made sign.

  "How, cola," he said. "Hello, friend."

  "We will go now," Matt told him. "We are followed."

  "Yes. Go fast," said Talking Horse in Sioux. "Many Sioux go to camp. Much talk."

  "I will bring you the cattle," said Matt.

  Talking Horse disappeared, his horse moving out of
their sight like a whisper.

  A hundred yards away, on foot, Big John watched them. Snow melted on the barrel of his rifle as it fell. He wiped the moisture away and licked his lips. He had some waiting to do, but when Cord and the girl moved, so would he.

  Chapter Nine

  The shot came from far away, muffled by the falling snow. Matt kicked his horse into action. Addie's leaped from sheer excitement. They rode toward the sound of the shot.

  Big John brought his rifle down from his shoulder. The other shot had saved Matt's life. Big John had been about to squeeze the trigger when Matt had bolted out of his sights.

  "Damn," he muttered. He slogged through the snow back to where his horse was tied. Now he'd have to track Matt all over again. To add to the danger, there were Sioux along the Rosebud. Big John felt a prickly sensation under his scalp. It was a long walk to where he'd left his horse. If he didn't hurry, the snow would fill up the tracks before he could get on them again. If the wind came up it would be worse. He wondered who had been shooting. The shot was too far away to tell.

  Matt rode fast, jerking his Hawken free of its scabbard. Breathless, Addie followed, ducking the branches of trees that threatened to unseat her. They topped a rise and came riding down to an open spot. Some distance away, there was a dark spot in the snow. A spotted pony stood several yards off, trailing its reins. Addie pulled her horse up short. Matt rode over to the figure sprawled in the snow. He dismounted.

  "It's Little Red Fox," he called to Addie.

  "Is he dead?"

  "Yes." There was a bullet hole in the Sioux's back. Matt knew that he had died instantly. The snow beneath his body was rusty with spilled blood. The exit hole in his chest was large. He laid the dead warrior back down in the snow. His eyes followed a line from the wound into the trees. He mounted his horse and rode back to Addie.

  "The trouble will come soon now," he told her.

  They rode to the place where Matt had looked. A man had stood there. A white man by the boot tracks.

  "He shot Little Red Fox in the back."

  "Why?"

  "Because he was an Indian," Matt said coldly. "He was in no danger. Little Red Fox didn't even know he was here."

  Addie looked at Matt. There was a dark and terrible look on his face. Something pulled at her senses, something shriveled inside her stomach. His eyes seemed to flash fire. A muscle in his face twitched. She could almost hear his teeth grinding together inside his tight-lipped mouth. She saw the man and his rifle. They were joined together into a single piece of sculpture.

  "God help him," she said, involuntarily.

  "Little Red Fox? He's beyond help."

  "No," Addie said quietly. "The man who was here."

  Matt swung off through the snow, following the tracks. Addie had no choice but to follow. The sky was darkening and she was hungry, but Matt was possessed, she knew. She could sense his determination by the broad expanse of his back. He seemed to her like a rock bent on starting an avalanche. She began to realize why Luke had worshipped him. There was a feeling of determination and raw power in Matt's presence. She would never forget the awesome look on his face when he had seen the tracks of the bushwhacker. She wondered if he wasn't half-savage after having lived with the Sioux for those four years.

  The tracks were easy to follow. The horseman had ridden fast in his flight away from the murder scene. Blobs of snow were scattered on both sides of the deep holes gouged by the running horse. There was a place where the horse had slid, climbing up through brush away from the Rosebud. There were holes where chunks of snow had fallen from evergreen boughs to mark the passage of man and beast. The tracks veered off to the left, heading back to the Bozeman. Matt wasted no time, but prodded his mount to move faster into the blinding veil of snow that threatened to block his vision as the shadows of day set up stakes to the west that grew longer with every passing moment.

  The tracks became fresher and fresher. Matt slowed his horse. Behind him, Addie panted for breath. He stopped his horse and waited for her.

  "I want you to ride to the Rosebud and wait," he told her. "Down there."

  She looked where he was pointing.

  "Why?"

  "He's circling. I don't want you in the way."

  "Am I in the way?" A flash of resentment sparked her eyes.

  "You could be," he said curtly. "Hurry. He's very close."

  "Be careful, Matt," she said, suddenly concerned. "I'm totally lost out here."

  "I'll be back. Wait by the Rosebud, under shelter. I'll whistle when I come back so you'll know it's me."

  He watched her until she was safely away from him, then continued tracking. He knew that the man was circling to come up behind him. There was nothing he could do for a time, except follow. The tracks were so fresh he was sure he was in earshot of the man he pursued. He picked his way carefully, hesitating to listen. Visibility was only a few feet now as the snowflakes continued to fall in thick relentless streamers. He rode on until he saw where the tracks curved up to the high ground to his left. There was a gully there, a place where a man could find concealment.

  He knew he had to make a decision. He could widen the circle and come up on the other side of the deep gully. Or, he could backtrack and wait for his man. There was a chance he was holed up in the gully, but Matt bet that this wasn't the case. Somehow he had the feeling that the man was tracking him, knew that he was close by. It was just a feeling, but it was strong enough to make Matt do a dangerous thing.

  He rode on for a few more yards then slid silently out of the saddle. A man afoot in such country was asking for trouble. He could easily fall victim to wild animals, Indians, or the weather. Yet it was a chance he had to take. Even so, Matt figured he had the advantage. He was the hunter, and he knew how to hunt.

  The horse stepped off a few yards, stopped and looked back at him. Matt ignored the plea in the animal's brown eyes. He took off his hat and waved it. The horse went a few steps more. Matt began to backtrack and circle toward the gully. He used the trees for cover, moving between them at intervals, listening for sounds, in between.

  He remembered his first deer, back in Illinois. He had been but fourteen, but he had been hunting since he was eight or nine. The November woods had crackled with leaves and deer. He had followed the fresh tracks of what appeared to be a big buck. He carried his first good rifle, a flintlock made by Henry Leman of Lancaster, Pennsylvania. He, Luke, and their father had gone to the factory on Miffland Street, west of Duke, a part of Leman's father's brewery. Luke and Matt were young when they started hunting, but the senior Cord believed in thinking ahead. Matt loved that graceful Pennsylvania rifle and the memory of his first buck was equally important in his mind.

  That's when he had learned that a hunted animal will often double back to get a look at its pursuer. He had been so busy tracking the deer that he hadn't noticed that it was circling, skulking through the woods like a rabbit. Something, perhaps instinct, had made him stop and wait. The buck had come along, following his spoor. Matt raised his Leman rifle and touched the trigger. The flint struck the closed frizzen, a shower of sparks flew into the pan. There was a puff of smoke and then an explosion. The rifled ball had gone true, straight to the buck's chest, exploding its lungs. Later, he went over the tracks to see if it had been the same buck he'd been following. He had learned a valuable lesson that day. The buck had been the one he'd tracked.

  And now, a man was doubling back on him. So, too, was he doubling back on the man. Matt knew the risks involved but knew, as well, he had no choice. The man he was tracking had killed at least once. He had shot another man, an Indian, but a man nonetheless, in the back. He had no wish to die in such a manner. This way he could at least face his adversary. Then let the better man win. This was part of his code, the only one he knew. Death was inevitable, but it need not happen through carelessness.

  Matt kept low and moved quietly, still hunting. He thought of the man as a deer, as prey. He also thought of him as someone
hunting himself, with the ability and means to kill. He moved up through the trees, listening, stepping carefully. He waited a long time between moves, flattening himself against a tree, presenting no silhouette, no target.

  The pain in his shoulder began to throb again. The cold seemed to seek out the wound and sear it with its frosty probe. He was hungry. He worried about Addie, who must also be needing nourishment. There was not much left of the day; the shadows broadened and lengthened in the maze of trees where he wound his way.

  It took him only a short time to reach the gully, but it seemed longer. That was something he had learned from the Sioux. Move as little as possible. Nothing quick. He had stalked both antelope and prairie chickens. He had learned how to be part of the landscape, to move only when it was possible to move without being seen. Now, however, there was a gun waiting for him at the end of the stalk. He moved even more carefully than he would have if stalking game.

  He reached the gully and waited.

  The snow falling had a soporific effect on him. He shook it off, mentally. It was quiet, but that made listening all the more important. He must not miss any sound. His eyes scanned the whiteness, the broken ground. He blinked to shut out the light, strengthen his eyes. He looked for tracks on the opposite slope.

  The fading light was tricky. A man could see things that weren't there.

  He was glad the wind was down. Still, the snowflakes were so thick that his vision was limited. He moved to another tree, took another angle of sight on the gully. It narrowed out of view, yet he knew it would be suicide to steal out for a further look.

  It was time to wait.

  He let the snow cling to him as it fell. He became part of the tree. He hugged it, with his rifle up against it, ready to bring down for a quick snapshot. He checked behind him and to the sides. He was protected from ambush in those three directions. His man would have to come to him from the front. There was the chance, of course, that the one he hunted would make a wider circle, but Matt didn't think he would. The gully was long enough so the backshooter would have to cross it at some point. Matt was betting that he had intercepted the point of crossing to within a few yards.