text: 12
  
  The next morning they worked until noon, but from about 11 o'clock on, Grit kept glancing toward the house hoping to see Colleen and Astrid. The two men stopped for lunch and had big bowls of stew, but when they had finished eating, there was still no sign of Colleen and Astrid.
  
  "I'm starting to worry, Paulie. Put out the $7.50 sign at the wood pile," Grit said. "I'll start saddling up. After you put out the sign, get us a thousand dollars and hide the rest of the money where nobody'll find it."
  
  A quarter hour later, both men were on their horses headed toward Fort Sully. They drove the horses as hard as they could but still didn't arrive at the fort until after 4 o'clock that afternoon. They went directly to the laundry. When Grit swung off his horse, Lettie, the chief laundress, came running toward him wiping her wet hands.
  
  "Oh Grit, it's just awful," she said.
  
  "What happened?"
  
  "Sergeant Atlock and two troopers deserted last night," she said. "They kidnapped Colleen. The post commander has sent a troop of cavalry after them, but we haven't heard anything since they left early this morning."
  
  "Where's Astrid?"
  
  "Oh, we've got the sweet little thing," Lettie said. "She was sleeping when they forced Colleen to go with them."
  
  "Okay, where do they figure Atlock is going?" Grit asked.
  
  "The fort's commander ordered all the troopers questioned, and they said Atlock had been talking about going to the Black Hills to search for gold, and so the troopers headed northwest along the river, as I understand it."
  
  Grit turned and said, "Paulie, you stay with Astrid. In the morning, take her home and wait for me to return with Colleen. Don't worry about cutting more wood, just sell what we have, but above all, take care of Astrid."
  
  "You're goin' after 'em?" Paulie asked.
  
  "I have to," Grit said. Quietly he said, "Give me $800, and I'll be heading over to the sutler's store to supply up before I hit the trail, and I'll be wantin' to take your horse. You drive the wagon with the two mules back to the house."
  
  "I'd like to go with ya," Paulie said.
  
  "I know you would, and I'd like to have you, Paulie. I could use your help and counsel, but Astrid needs you," Grit said. "She trusts you more than anybody. Be alert and don't let anything happen to her or yourself."
  
  As Grit headed to the sutler's store, a trooper intercepted him and said, "Mister Milburn, sir, the post commander would like to speak with you."
  
  "Alright, lead the way," Grit said.
  
  When Grit stepped into the headquarters building, a man of medium height and slim build came from his office. "Mister Milburn, I am Colonel Lazelle, and I'm very sorry about what's happened with your wife. I've sent a troop of cavalry after the deserters, and I'm hopeful they'll be able to overtake them."
  
  "I appreciate what you've done, Colonel," Grit said, "but I'm going after 'em myself as soon as I get my supplies at the sutler's store."
  
  "I don't advise doing that, Mister Milburn," Lazelle said. "Our troopers will bring the deserters back with your wife."
  
  "I don't have your confidence in your troopers, Colonel," Grit said. "I'm sure they're good men, but my wife is not as precious to them as she is to me. And I'm a free man to make my own decisions."
  
  "The Black Hills are promised to the Sioux, and until that little problem is cleared up, no white men are permitted in the entire region," Lazelle said.
  
  "I'm not planning on going into the Black Hills," Grit said. "I figure to catch your deserters before they get there. I'll only go into the Black Hills as a last resort."
  
  "Can't stop you, but General Custer's soldiers might," Lazelle said.
  
  "I heard Custer was on his way back," Grit said.
  
  "That's right, but he's left a small force of soldiers out there," Lazelle said.
  
  At the sutler's store, Grit filled two sets of saddlebags with enough provisions for a week, including a generous supply of coffee to keep him awake and moving. He also bought 300 cartridges for the Winchester and 30 for the Sharps. He had one rifle in a scabbard on each of the horses, and he carried four blankets rolled behind his saddle and a new winter coat and gloves.
  
  As he was leaving the store, the sutler asked, "You got a good map?"
  
  "No, got none a'tall," he said.
  
  "Take this one," the sutler said. "You needin' some field glasses? I got a pair of old Army glasses here I'll let you have for $2," the sutler said.
  
  "I'll take 'em, might come in handy."
  
  Before mounting up, Grit said goodbye to Paulie and gave Astrid a hug. As he held her, he said, "Paulie will take care of you, little sweetheart, until Mama Colleen comes back."
  
  "Okay, Papa," she whispered.
  
  He rode out due west before trending slightly north to intercept the Cheyenne River, which is what the map showed was the shortest way into the Black Hills. If one followed its course, it would take him right into the heart of the country that the Sioux considered sacred. It was land where Sioux hunting parties often roamed in search of buffalo, and so he stuck to the low ground where possible in order to avoid skylining himself.
  
  Some of the Sioux were friendly, maybe even most, but others it was said were getting more and more cantankerous about white men invading their territory. And the discovery of gold in the Black Hills would attract gold-seekers like a magnet. Fear of the Sioux would dissuade only the cowardly. Others, indefatigable in their zeal for riches and lacking in common sense, would come to the country with no idea what to expect or how harsh it could be, especially in the winters.
  
  Despite knowing the dangers involved, Grit didn't give himself a moment to think about what might happen. His aim was to find Colleen, free her from Atlock and bring her home. His only other aim was to punish the troopers who'd kidnapped Colleen, and for Atlock at least, that most likely meant his death.
  
  Grit rode for two hours over the rolling prairies with grass six inches high before letting the horses graze for a quarter hour. He then changed from the bay to Paulie's dun and rode on. The sun set shortly after, but he kept on moving, riding into the night. Near midnight, he made camp by a small stream and staked out both horses. He lit a small fire in a gap that hid the flames, made coffee and heated a can of beans, which he wolfed down directly from the can. Afterward he doused the fire and slept.
  
  He rekindled the fire in the dark the next morning, boiled a pot of coffee and ate another can of beans before saddling the two horses and riding out in the dimmest of morning light. At mid-morning, he reached the Cheyenne River and began to search for tracks, which he found were plentiful along the banks of the river. The tracks were made by shod horses, and he figured he was now following the cavalry troopers... and the three deserters with Colleen.
  
  For all their dedication, it was not surprising that those troopers didn't care nearly as much about Colleen as he did. And it wasn't so much the troopers as the shavetail lieutenant, not long out of West Point. For him, it was probably a station on the frontier that he didn't want, but it was a job, a duty. Grit appreciated the protection the troops provided, but for him it was about the woman he'd grown to know and love, and he was ready to follow the deserters to the lowest depths of hell to get Colleen back. He simply wouldn't come back without his wife, and as he rode on he decided he was prepared to kill anybody that stood in his way. Soon he would find himself having to do just that to save his own life.
  
  An hour later, he skirted a herd of hundreds of bison grazing peacefully in a lonely hollow with thick green grass. As he rode around the herd, the bison seemed not to notice. They continued to graze away contentedly. He rode on through the lonely country, resting the horses when needed, but moving on after the tracks of the shod hooves.
  
  At noon, he sat on his bay horse on a small rise viewing the country to the west along the Cheyenne River. He thought he saw some dust far, far away on the horizon, and he took out his field glasses and saw men riding in a column. He rode toward the dust as he followed along the river. As he suspected, the dust was being raised by a troop of cavalry coming toward him, and his hopes soared, praying that they'd found Colleen and arrested the deserters.
  
  When Grit drew closer, he waited off the direct path of the troopers and counted 24 soldiers in formation. No, they hadn't found either the deserters or Colleen, and they had turned around and were returning to the fort. The lieutenant in charge led the troop to the little rise where Grit waited.
  
  "Good afternoon, sir. I'm Lieutenant Higgins. And who might you be out here all by your lonesome?"
  
  "Grit Milburn."
  
  "Oh, so you're the woman's husband?"
  
  "That's right. You're goin' the wrong way, Lieutenant."
  
  "There was a bison stampede," Higgins said, "and it destroyed any evidence of shod-hoof tracks. We have no idea where our deserters are going at this point."
  
  Grit stared at the lieutenant for long moments in disbelief and disdain. "Well, I can tell ya one thing for sure, lieutenant. She won't be found in the direction you're travelin'." With that, Grit started to ride on. He'd been right all along. They'd ridden out and given up, prepared to come back home empty-handed.
  
  "I wouldn't advise going on, sir," the lieutenant shouted. "Our scouts are telling us that some of the renegade Sioux and Cheyenne warriors are worked up about all the white men coming into the western Dakotas, and there are roving bands of war parties."
  
  Grit rode on because he knew Colleen would expect him to come. She was counting on him, and nothing in his being would allow him to disappoint her—not even the imminent prospect of death. It just wasn't in him to go back. Wasn't even a thought in his mind.
  
  An hour or so later he saw where the bison tracks had wiped out any evidence of shod ponies, and he kept moving west following the herd. He continued to ride in the lowlands, trying never to be at a high point where he could be seen from great distances.
  
  Late in the day, he found the herd of about 200 bison peacefully grazing in a valley filled with grass grown to the bisons' hocks. Grit rode around the herd to the western side and began casting about for the tracks of shod horses. He felt confident Atlock would stick close to the river, but he could have taken any one of the feeder streams that would still take him west toward the Black Hills. Grit figured if Atlock were smart, that's exactly what he would do.
  
  He was looking hard at the ground when the bay horse he was trailing behind him suddenly jerked hard on the reins, and Grit looked up to find himself facing four Sioux warriors no more than 50 yards away. Grit's first thought was to grab his rifle but he didn't want to seem threatening, so he left the rifle in his scabbard and raised his hand, palm out as a sign of peace.
  
  The warriors continued to stare at him, and then they started to talk among themselves. Grit imagined they were talking about whether to kill him or not, and he knew there was nothing to prevent them from attacking if they took a notion. He was wearing one of the Colt .44s he'd bought in Yankton, but he knew he wasn't very proficient in its use. He could draw and fire the six-gun, but he wasn't much for accuracy. As he sat there, he vowed that if he lived through this encounter, he'd find someone to teach him how to use the Colt and use it well. Grit thought it was funny what crazy thoughts went through your head in times of trouble.
  
  Grit saw the Indians separate, two going right and two going left, and then they charged, whooping and hollering like crazy men. He pulled the rifle from the scabbard, took aim and blew one warrior to his left right off his horse. The other warriors kept coming, but he paid no attention to their war cries. He jacked in another shell and fired at another, but must have missed. Now all three were riding right at him.
  
  He swung his leg over and when he hit the ground, he looked over his saddle, levered in another shell and kept firing at the warriors. He knew that remaining calm and aiming carefully was the only way he'd survive. He aimed and hit one of the Sioux warriors on his right as he felt a bullet tug at his left arm. The wounded warrior clung to his horse's neck.
  
  Grit jumped away from his horses, bellied down in the grass, aimed carefully and brought down another warrior who was coming at him headlong on his horse. The warrior right behind rode at him and leapt from his horse. Grit pivoted and caught the warrior in mid-air, crashing the butt of the rifle into his head.
  
  He turned and saw the wounded warrior leaning over his horse's neck and riding off. "No you don't," he said. He knew he couldn't let the warrior escape and bring help. He aimed carefully, led the warrior and blew him right off his paint horse.
  
  "Damn you all to hell," he said. "I never asked for trouble, but you brought it on yourselves."
  
  He stood in the stink of gunpowder and looked carefully at the nearest warrior to make sure he posed no threat, then he walked to the others and found them all dead but one. He'd been shot through the belly and had no chance of surviving. The warrior still alive had scooped dirt onto his wound to halt the bleeding, and when Grit approached, he stared at him with a malevolent glare, expecting Grit to kill him. Instead, Grit picked up the man's rifle, which lay about 10 feet away.
  
  "Why?" he asked. "I didn't want to fight you."
  
  The warrior looked up with glazed eyes, not comprehending what Grit was saying. "I'm sorry," Grit said as he walked off.
  
  All told, Grit found two Winchester 73s and two Springfields. He stood looking out at the surrounding hills wondering where the Sioux were getting all the rifles. He wrapped the Winchesters in a blanket and tied them with rawhide behind the saddle of the dun. The two Springfields he reluctantly ruined by slamming one against the other until he'd bent them so that they were of no use to anyone.
  
  He could understand the frustration of the Indians as they saw more and more of their traditional hunting grounds invaded by white men, but there was nothing he could do about that. All he wanted to do was find Colleen and bring her back. He didn't care about anything else.
  
  That night, he camped in a stream bottom with a scant few cottonwood trees, his spirits as low as he'd been the day they'd sent him to prison. In the center of the endlessly rolling plains, hunting for Colleen and the kidnappers was like hunting for a black cat in a coal mine. Still he had to keep looking. Fortunately, Paulie had enough money to take care of himself and Astrid for months, or even years, and Grit himself had enough to continue the hunt for weeks if necessary, but he was still hoping he could pick up a trail and find Colleen soon.