Wrath of the Savage by Charles G. West Read Free Book Online Page A

occurred to him at the moment that he had not been discovered, hunkered down as he was on a little mound of sand in the willows. There was no thought of firing it and exposing his hiding place.
    To run without being seen was the only thing he had any intention of doing, and the sooner the better, because it seemed obvious to him that the whole patrol was going to be slaughtered. His main regret was that he could not get to his horse without the prospect of being seen. So he grabbed his carbine and his haversack and crawled down through the willows until he reached the low bluffs beside the river.
    Then he ran as fast as he could, even though he could hear the sound of gunshots that sounded like cavalry carbines. He was sure they were captured weapons in the Indians’ hands. When he realized no one was running after him, he crossed the river and kept going in a direction he hoped would take him toward safety.
    After another hour, he came upon a well-traveled trail, and he was sure he had struck the main road to Bozeman. Satisfied with his successful escape, he thought of his fellow soldiers and the fact that he didn’t get along with many of them. The last image he had of them was of Lazzara with his face split open by a Blackfoot hatchet.
    â€œI reckon you got more to worry about now than whether or not I’m gonna relieve you on guard duty,” he crowed aloud.
    Maybe the rest of them would remember that he was the one who predicted Lieutenant Hollister would end up getting them all killed. His gloating was interrupted then when he heard the sound of horses beyond the bend of the road behind him.
    A sharp feeling of fear gripped his spine, for he thought it might be the Blackfoot war party coming after him. Looking around him for someplace to hide in a hurry, he dived behind a clump of serviceberry bushes and readied his rifle to protect himself.
    In only a few moments’ time, a rider appeared around the bend trailing a string of what appeared to be packhorses behind him. After another couple of minutes, the rider came close enough for Weaver to recognize him as Brice McCoy. Then he realized that the horses weren’t carrying packs. They were loaded with the bodies of the ill-fated patrol.
    â€œWell, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, and got up from the ground.
    Upon seeing someone suddenly rise from behind the bushes, McCoy jerked back hard on the reins and prepared to retreat.
    â€œMcCoy!” He heard his name called out, and discovered it was Weaver who had popped up out of a bush.
    â€œWell, I’ll be go to hell,” McCoy blurted when he saw who it was, and urged his horse forward. “How the hell did you get here?” he asked when he pulled up beside Weaver.
    â€œI, by God, walked here,” Weaver replied, “and I’m damn glad to see a ride.” He walked back beside the trailing horses, looking at the dead. “I don’t see Hollister’s body, or that big-ass scout, either. What happened to them?” He turned back to look at McCoy. “And how come you’re the only one left?”
    â€œMy number just ain’t up yet,” McCoy answered. He dismounted and told Weaver what had happened, and how he happened to be leading the dead back by himself.
    â€œSo ol’ Hollister didn’t get scalped with the rest of ’em,” Weaver said. “That’s right disappointin’ news. You know, if I coulda helped you boys, I sure woulda, but there wasn’t nothin’ I could do. Looked to me like you was all dead, and I couldn’t fight all them Injuns by myself. I was damn lucky to get out when I did.”
    McCoy fixed a skeptical gaze on him and smirked. “Oh, I know you woulda come a-runnin’ if you thought any of us was still alive, but fact of the matter is, you was asleep when they jumped us. Ain’t that right?”
    â€œNo, hell no,” Weaver was quick to retort. “They musta sneaked up from