Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 10
The Kiwotas, as was their custom, did not bother to organize a guard when darkness settled in. If someone was concerned enough, he would sit up and keep an eye on things. If not, then all would peacefully snooze the night away. In the case of that particular war party, all were tired after the day’s excitement, and all rolled up in their blankets to go to sleep after making sure the horses were secure.
The next day began in the same informal, relaxed manner. The first men awake stirred up the coals and reheated the meat left over from the previous evening’s meal. Then, by twos and threes, the others joined them for a leisurely breakfast and preparation for the day. The sun was a quarter of the way off the eastern horizon when they finally broke camp and once again headed south behind Running Wolf.
It seemed the remainder of the morning was going to be without incident. Then, just before the sun was at its zenith in the sky, careless whites once again gave themselves away to the alertness of the Indians.
This time it was noise. The loud voices of boisterous men could be faintly heard from the southwest. Slowing down in order to be able to hear better, Running Wolf led the war party toward the source of the sounds. The search led them back toward the same creek where they’d spent the night, a long body of water that meandered for miles through the prairie. At that point, it began to widen until it was almost the size of a small river.
Running Wolf, once again with Bear Claw as a partner, left the others and went forward to see what the situation offered them. The Kiwota scouts were able to find some trees along the river that offered them plenty of cover when they finally found the exact spot where the whites were located.
This time there were no rolling boxes. Five riders with packhorses had stopped to make a camp and cook food for a midday meal. They were all in a good mood, laughing and talking. One of them took a drink from a bottle and passed it to the others.
“Whiskey!” Bear Claw happily exclaimed.
“The whites are drunk,” Running Wolf said. “Bah!” He spat and stood up. Slowly and deliberately he set an arrow in place on his bow. Drawing back the string, he took aim and let the missile fly. It went completely through the neck of the nearest man, continuing on across the creek to land in the prairie grass.
The victim’s sudden, gurgling scream shocked his companions. He staggered around holding his neck, and blood gushed from the wound like water from an underground spring. His shirt quickly took on a wet, scarlet color as he weakened and fell awkwardly to the ground.
Now Bear Claw shot another. This time the arrow went through an arm, pinning the limb to the target’s body. Bellowing in pain and rage, the man pulled his holster and began to fire in the wrong direction.
The noise brought the other Kiwotas. They quickly caught on to the game. While the drunken whites staggered around their camp in sodden bewilderment, the Indians meticulously picked them off one by one. The last fellow, quite portly, looked like a porcupine from the eight arrows that had entered his fat body. He finally became so weak that he sat down. Unable to raise his pistol, he watched the approaching Indians through half-closed eyes.
Running Wolf walked up to the corpulent individual. He removed the man’s hat and set it on his own head. Then, pulling his tomahawk from the belt around his waist, the Indian raised it high and lowered it with full force on top of the wounded fellow’s head. The skull split open in a spray of blood and brains.
They found another who was still alive. He was dragged over to the campfire and thrown on. The sudden pain and shock sobered him up, and he screamed in a loud, shrill voice as he was repeatedly kicked and pushed back into the flames. Finally, in utter desperation, he picked out one of his tormentors and charged. It was Snake, and the victim grasped him tightly around the neck and pushed him toward the flames.
Laughing, the other Kiwotas stepped back and watched. The white man was large and muscular, much heavier than Snake, and he managed to throw the Indian onto the blaze several times.
Snake was angry, embarrassed, and in pain. He pulled his knife and, wildly yelling, sliced the man until the badly bleeding sufferer finally keeled over and quickly died.
Now all the whites lay dead and immobile. Running Wolf suddenly remembered White Elk, Lone Cougar and Spotted Calf. Their mutilated bodies guaranteed an eternity of suffering in the Spirit World. Snarling, he set about working on the fresh corpses to make sure all would be crippled and blind when their spirits left the earth. When he finished, he raised his bloody knife and tomahawk to the sky and yelled out his battle cry.
It was good to be at war.
Chapter Ten
The return of a patrol after weeks out in the wilderness was an exciting event on any frontier army post. Tensions eased in the garrison as emotions ran the gamut from grateful relief to outright joy when all members of the mission returned safely from an outing that offered every opportunity for contact with hostile Indians.
Even men from other companies, who barely knew the troopers who had gone to the field, came to watch them ride back into the garrison area and give them a friendly greeting. It was their way of showing comradeship to fellow soldiers while demonstrating that the regiment was truly their home. Another, very serious consideration in isolated garrisons facing threats of Indian attacks was the relief that the number of soldiers at the post had not diminished.
The patrol led by Lieutenant Emil Standish of A Company received its share of the usual greetings and attention along with the accompaniment of shouting children and barking dogs when it returned to Fort Buffalo. As the people who first met the homecomers noticed the patrol’s unusual situation, they quickly hollered out for any stragglers to hurry and join the early spectators.
The reason for this particularly attentive crowd was the fact that the first two dragoons in the column each held a small, blond-haired youngster in front of him on his government-issue Grimsley saddle.
As the young lieutenant led his detachment past officers’ row, he noted the wives standing there gaping at the sight. He was more concerned about the children than the attention he received. As he came alongside Mrs. Beth Devlin, Standish leaned down to speak to her.
“Ma’am, we could use some help from the ladies,” the patrol leader said in an urgent voice. “We have come upon a most unusual and vexing situation.”
“So I see, Lieutenant Standish,” Beth replied, looking at the disheveled children. “Poor dears!” She motioned to her friend Mrs. Dora Teasedale, wife of Captain Paul Teasedale, who commanded B Company. “I don’t know what in the world is going on, but I would certainly appreciate your help. We must take those children and tend to them.”
“Of course!” Mrs. Teasedale said.
The pair of dragoons were glad to turn their small charges over to the officers’ wives. The children, with no expressions on their little faces, allowed themselves to be handed down to the two ladies, showing neither distress nor happiness.
“Thank you most kindly, Mrs. Devlin,” Lieutenant Standish said. “You, too, Mrs. Teasedale.”
The women, tightly holding on to the little boy and girl, hurried away with several other ladies following after them.
The patrol continued through the post until reaching Company A’s orderly room. At that point, Lieutenant Standish turned the unit over to his senior sergeant and, wasting no time, went directly to post headquarters where Major Matt Devlin would be waiting for him.
After turning his horse over to the duty orderly, the young lieutenant presented himself to the adjutant and was immediately ushered into Devlin’s office.
“Sir!” Standish said, saluting. “Lieutenant Standish of A Company reporting to the post commander after completion of patrol duties.”
“Stand at ease, Lieutenant Standish,” Matt said, returning the salute. “I’ve already received word that you’ve returned with two lost children.”
“Two orphans to be absolutely correct, sir,” Standish said. “Your wife and Mrs. Teasedale have been kind enough to take charge of them.”
“What are the circumstances that have brought them to our care?” Devlin asked.
“We found three burned-out wagons and the charred remains of several adults at a location approximately twenty miles to the south of Bear Gap,” Standish explained. “We’re not quite sure how many were killed because of the condition of the corpses. The children had been left alive by the raiding party for some strange reason. The hostiles were Kiwotas, Major. Of that, there is no doubt. The location and a couple of broken arrows plainly point to that tribe.”
“War Heart has been at the agency several times during the past week, so I know he’s not been up to any mischief,” Devlin said. “If I were forced to make a guess as to who led the war party, I would say Running Wolf. I knew that shortage of rations was going to create problems. Not to mention those damned buffalo hunters out there.”
“I agree, sir,” Standish said. “I gave the site a vigorous investigation. The wagons carried some school books that had been scattered around the scene. No doubt the Indians could not figure out what they were for.” He reached in his tunic and pulled out a copy of the Bible. “I found this, too, sir. If you look on the inside, you’ll see by the inscription it was a gift to someone in the Mission of Indian Reform.”
Devlin took the Bible and looked at it. “I’m familiar with the organization. They are an influential group that feels the answer to the Indians’ spiritual and physical salvation is to be turned to civilized ways.”
Standish showed a slight, sardonic smile. “I guess those particular Kiwotas had no desire to be transformed into farmers or merchants.”
“None of the plains tribes do,” Devlin said. “I am not an expert on anthropology, but it seems to me that trying to turn nomadic hunters and warriors into a sedentary society is a lost cause from the beginning.”
“It would be necessary to destroy their spiritual beliefs and customs,” Standish remarked. He was well aware of Indian religion and their great trust in the strong medicine of the supernatural.
“I am certain that religious conversion is part of the program,” Devlin said. He laid the Bible down on his desk. “Continue with your report, Lieutenant.”
“Because of the children’s exhausted condition, I detailed a couple of men to stay with them while I immediately mounted a pursuit of the hostiles, but I’m afraid they had a lead of at least three days, sir,” Standish said. “We followed the hostiles’ trail in a southerly direction until reaching a point on Deacon Creek where we discovered another outrage. The bodies of five white men, recently murdered, were scattered within a short area along the watercourse. They were badly mutilated, of course, and whatever animals or other possessions they might have had were taken. At that point, I had already gone beyond the bounds of normal patrolling and returned to retrieve my men and the children. As stated, as I rode into the garrison area I turned the little ones over to the ladies.”
“Well done, Lieutenant Standish,” Devlin said. “You’re dismissed to put the report into writing. Triplicate, if you please, for forwarding to departmental headquarters at Fort Snelling. Also, any sketch maps you could make to accompany it would be greatly appreciated.”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said. He saluted, executed an about-face, and marched from the office.
A few moments later, after straightening up the last figures on an ordnance report, Devlin picked up his cap and left his office. He went directly to his quarters where he knew Bess would have the children. He found a half dozen of the other officers’ wives in the parlor when he entered.
“Oh, hello, Major Devlin,” the wife of one of B Company’s subalterns greeted him. “Mrs. Devlin is in the kitchen with Mrs. Blanchard and Mrs. Teasedale. They’re giving those poor children baths.”
Devlin went through the house and stepped into the kitchen. The little boy, his face showing no emotion, stared blankly from where he sat in a tub of warm water. Beth and Rose Blanchard gently sponged the lad. Meanwhile, Dora Teasedale sat in a chair nearby, holding the little girl who had been wrapped in a warm blanket.
“Have they said anything?” Devlin asked, looking at the children.
“Not a word from either of them,” Beth said, looking up from her work. “The poor little things have been terrorized to muteness. They didn’t even have a desire to eat, and I know they must be half-starved.”
Devlin, his fatherly instincts brought strongly to the surface by the plight of the orphans, walked up to the little girl and knelt down, showing a gentle smile.
“Hello, sweetie,” he said in a mellow voice. “My name is Matt. What’s yours?”
The child looked in his direction, still showing no sign of being aware of his presence. Then she raised her blue eyes and focused them on the army officer’s face. For a moment she did nothing. Then, very slowly, her features drew up into a frown, and she began to cry softly. Her weeping grew in intensity until she shook violently.
Devlin took the girl in his arms and pressed her to him. “There, there, little sweetie. Not to worry, hear? Everything is all right now.”
Next the boy broke down, his crying louder as heavy sobs racked his little body. Beth pulled him from the bath and began to dry him.
“Thank the good Lord!” she said. “They’re coming back.”
“Maybe we can get some hot food into them now,” Dora Teasedale said.
Devlin handed the girl back to her. He looked at his wife. “I’ll be gone for a bit. I have some business to take care of.”
He left the house, walking through the parlor as the younger women went to the kitchen to see what they could do. Devlin went directly to the stables and, rather than wait for the sergeant to detail a man to the job, saddled his own horse for a ride over to the agency.
He found Wheeler Coburn and Ned Wheatfall sitting at a table behind the trading store counter. The pair were engaged in a game of two-handed poker, playing five-card draw for cigars.
“Coburn!” Devlin snapped. “Are you aware some of the Kiwota warriors have left the reservation?”
“Have they?” Coburn asked, studying his cards. He pulled out a couple and laid them down. “Gimme two.”
“Two it is,” Wheatfall said. He dealt the cards, then glanced at the dragoon officer. “Ain’t the army supposed to ride herd on them damn Injuns?”
“We are supposed to be informed when any members of the tribe are absent without authorization,” Devlin said. “They hit a small wagon train and killed an unknown number of adults. For some reason, they left two children unharmed at the site.”
Wheatfall gave himself a card. “That don’t sound like redskins,” he mused. “They gener’ly bash the young ’uns against a tree or something if’n they don’t want ’em.” He gave Coburn a close scrutiny. “I’ll bet a cigar.”
“Raise you one,” Coburn said with a grin.
Devlin jumped over the counter and walked up to the table, giving it a kick that sent cards and tobacco flying. “When I’m here on official business, you son of bitches will give me all your attention!”
Wheatfall leaped to his feet. “I’ve had about enough o’ your pushy ways, Major! You been warned about how you act around us!”
“That’s right, by God! You ain’t got no right to call me and Ned sons of bitches!” Coburn said angrily. “I’ll be making a report on this. You can be sure it’ll go to somebody who’ll do something about it, too.”
Devlin, mad as hell, snarled, “I’m not sure I remember who your patron is, Coburn. A Senator Torrance, is it not? I know all you Indian Bureau types owe your jobs to some wag in Congress. Tell me about your boy. Did you buy some votes for him? Shine his shoes? Or maybe you got some names off tombstones to put down as votes during a difficult election.”
“Never you mind, Devlin!” Coburn snapped. “The Right Honorable Senator Osmond Torrance is gonna make plenty o’ trouble for you.”
“Yeah!” Wheatfall said. “Especially when he finds out you can’t protect folks from renegade Injuns.”
“You do what you feel you must do,” Devlin said. “In the meantime, I’m going to try to sort this thing out and put an end to this latest foray on the warpath before more blood is spilled.”
“You ain’t supposed to do nothing without my authority or request,” Coburn reminded the army officer.
“I swear I just heard you ask for help in this matter,” Devlin replied. He went back outside and mounted up, then he turned the horse directly for Fred Jeffries’ cabin, riding at a brisk canter as he crossed the flat country of the Buffalo Steppes.
Jeffries, who had returned to his soddie, was outside chopping wood when the army officer rode up. He laid down his ax, knowing that serious business was afoot when the post commander appeared at his place.
“Howdy, Major,” Jeffries said.
“How do you do, Mr. Jeffries,” Devlin replied. “A patrol has returned with the word that some of the young warriors on the reservation have taken off to do some raiding.”
“I ain’t surprised,” Jeffries said. “The Kiwotas have been real uneasy this past week. I got turned away when I went over to see if there was any buffalo meat for trade. I think there’s been some trouble out on the steppes they been keeping to themselves.”
“Something is going on, no doubt,” Devlin said. “I think we’ll find Running Wolf at the bottom of all this.”
“He’s the one all right,” Jeffries agreed.
Devlin said, “I’m going to need an interpreter.”
“You want to talk to ’em, huh?” Jeffries said. “Hang on while I saddle up. It won’t take long.”
Within a few minutes, both men rode toward the Kiwota village. It took them almost a half hour to reach the camp, and upon arrival, the pair wasted no time in ferreting out War Heart’s lodge.
Devlin recognized the designs decorating the chief’s tepee. Like his war paint, the Kiwota battle leader had white stripes painted all around the living quarters. There was no conventional or customary reason for War Heart to choose that pattern except that it had come to him in a dream.
