Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 11
War Heart, already hearing of their arrival, waited for the pair to ride up. He gave a casual greeting as they dismounted. Devlin wasted no time in speaking through Jeffries.
“Some of your young men have left the reservation,” Devlin said.
“All the People are hungry and angry, Looks Ahead,” War Heart said.
“I know the beef rations were short, and I am trying to take care of that,” Devlin replied. “I think you can find enough buffalo to help you through these hard times until the rest of the cattle arrive.”
“There are no buffalo on the reservation,” War Heart replied. “The white hunters have run them off. They killed our friends who tried to make them stop.”
Jeffries, knowing most of the warriors personally, asked, “Who was killed by these white hunters?”
“White Elk, Lone Cougar, and Spotted Calf,” War Heart said. “My heart is heavy because White elk was my best friend. They were cut so they would be crippled and blind in the Spirit World. It is wrong.”
Jeffries took Devlin aside to translate his conversation with War Heart.
“We got bad troubles here, Major. Them white hunters killed three Kiwota braves,” the scout said. “One of ’em was War Heart’s best friend. They was mutilated, too. That makes it double bad ’cause these folks believe your spirit is in the same shape as your corpse.”
Devlin was silent for several moments. Now he was certain of the suspicions he’d had all along. Ned Wheatfall’s sudden appointment to the Indian Bureau as assistant agent had not meant his gang of buffalo hunters were gone. They were still under his control and making mischief out on the steppes by keeping the herds turned away from the area and murdering Kiwotas.
“War Heart,” Devlin said through Jeffries. “My heart is heavy, too. A few of your young men have killed some white people. Those dead ones did no harm to you or the Kiwota tribe. They were innocent and not on the reservation. The Great White Father will be angry with his Kiwota children. The warriors who did this must be punished.”
“We are not his children,” War Heart said. “We are warriors and hunters and have sired our own children.”
“I did not mean it that way,” Devlin said. “I meant that he has kind thoughts of the Kiwotas.”
“Then, tell him to get off our land and keep his children away,” War Heart said. “Tell him to tear up the treaty and stay away from us. We will stay away from all white people.”
“I cannot tell him anything; I am his son,” Devlin said. “But the young men who ran off and killed whites did wrong and must be punished.”
“I will not punish them,” War Heart said. “It is not for me to do.”
“You must turn them over to me to be punished,” Devlin insisted.
“I will never do that, Looks Ahead,” War Heart vowed. “I would rather die myself than to betray any of the People. Your Great Father of the whites is powerful, but he is as weak as a newborn baby when he tries to rule over my heart.”
“Who led the war party?” Devlin asked. “Running Wolf?”
From that moment on, War Heart would not speak. He stared beyond the two men who tried to talk to him. Finally, Devlin gave up and signaled to Jeffries that they must leave.
As they walked to their horses, Jeffries asked, “What’re you gonna do, Major?”
“The first thing is to track down those Kiwota raiders and capture them,” Devlin said.
“That’ll delay getting that beef ration problem took care of,” Jeffries pointed out.
“That can’t be helped,” Devlin said. “Can you be ready to move out at first light in the morning?”
“Are we going to war, Major?” Jeffries asked.
“There is no getting out of it,” Devlin said grimly as he swung up into his saddle.
Chapter Eleven
A few days later another emotional crowd gathered at Fort Buffalo’s western gate.
This time, however, there was no jocosity as had been demonstrated when Lieutenant Emil Standish led his patrol back into the safety of the garrison. The troops assembled and mounted on this particular day were not returning from a mission. These were going out into the wild country. This time the operation was more than just routine patrolling or reconnaissance. This detachment would actively seek combat with hostile Indians. Their only mission was to find, destroy, or capture the renegade Kiwota war party led by Running Wolf.
Major Matt Devlin decided to personally lead the operation. Unfortunately he could detail no more than twenty dragoons on this patrol. To take more men away from Fort Buffalo would seriously weaken the garrison. Although this would not afford him a numerical superiority over the hostiles, he had no choice. The possibility that War Heart might suddenly decide to attack Fort Buffalo was something that could not be ignored. Even under strict military discipline, married men would hesitate to leave their families behind if the post was weakly defended.
The major stood with his wife and their three children as the patrol was formed up under the less-than-gentle leadership of Sergeant Theodore Dawson. Devlin looked down at his offspring, giving young Freddie extra attention.
“I want you kids to be especially good while I’m gone,” he warned them.
“Yes, Papa,” eight-year-old Mattie responded. “I’m always good. But Freddie and Bobby are bad sometimes.”
“You do your share of misbehaving, too, young lady,” Devlin said. “I want a promise from each of you.”
“I promise, Papa!” Mattie said.
“Me, too,” Bobby said.
Devlin looked at Freddie. “Well?”
“I’ll do my best, Pa,” he said.
“That’s not good enough,” Devlin said in a stern voice.
“Pa!” Freddie pleaded. “I don’t want to lie or make a promise I can’t keep. All I can say is that I’ll do my best to be good.”
“I suppose that’s better than nothing,” Devlin conceded. “But not much.” He looked over to see that the patrol was formed up. He smiled at Beth. “We’ll get back as quickly as we possibly can.” They had already said their goodbyes the previous night. A public showing of affection between the commanding officer and his wife would not be considered in the best taste.
“Take care, Matt,” she said.
“I shall,” he said, as he subtly pushed his hand toward her and she gently laid her own on it. A look of affection cast into each other’s eyes took the place of a kiss.
“I’ll pray for you, Matt,” Beth said with a faint smile.
“Goodbye,” he said. He gave each boy a rub on the head and bent over to lightly kiss Mattie’s face. Then he went straight to his horse.
Devlin left Captain Bernie Blanchard to command the post during his absence while he took half of Company A with him. Three packhorses carrying enough rations for up to six weeks gave grim evidence that the job was not going to be quick or easy. It was to Lieutenant Standish’s credit that he volunteered to return to the field after enjoying the comforts of the garrison life for only a short time since his last patrol. But he knew exactly where to start the hunt for the war party.
The people seeing the detachment off waved goodbye on that cloudy, early morning as Devlin and the contract scout Fred Jeffries, with Standish behind them, led the column out onto the prairie.
The detachment turned southwest after skirting the agency building and headed for the last place Running Wolf and his men had been spotted on Deacon Creek. The trail would be terribly cold and stale, but it was the only place they had to start.
Devlin’s manner of conducting an active campaign consisted of more than simply traveling from one point to another. The veteran officer’s philosophy of war included the opinion that active and aggressive action made things happen his way. The Kiwotas may have thought this medicine allowed him to peer into the future, but Devlin was the sort of leader who simply made things happen by aggressive action and tempting fate.
He sent flankers and scouts ahead and around the column in wide sweeps just in case Running Wolf and his men had decided to return or were hoping to lay an ambush for any unwary troops heading their way. These teams of dragoons found nothing but empty prairie, but all had to agree it was no waste of time. The activity kept the Kiwota war party from springing any deadly surprises.
The first day went well as the line of horse soldiers and their scout plodded across the wide expanse of the Dakota wild country. They rode onto Greasy Flats, continuing to the south until that first evening when they reached the northern limits of Bear Gap, a low stretch of country measuring some five miles between distinctive rises in the terrain on both east and west. Since the skies had begun to cloud up, Devlin headed for the higher country to make the first camp of the patrol.
The senior sergeant of the detachment, a dour old soldier named Dawson, was the type of noncommissioned officer who knew his duties and performed them without any reminder from anyone. He immediately set up a guard roster, assigned sleeping places, and saw to it that the men made their horses comfortable before seeing to their own well-being.
“The army can enlist any tramp off the streets to take yer places,” he growled at the men. “But good horses is hard to come by. So rub ’em down, feed ’em, and give ’em a goodnight kiss.”
The men obeyed the order to the letter, except for the kisses. Each individual trooper knew his life depended on a rested, nourished mount if any nasty or dangerous situation came up. For that reason, and to avoid trouble with Sergeant Dawson, not a dragoon sought out his own camping area until his horse was taken care of and safely placed in the picket line.
Since Devlin would not allow the luxury of tents, the men’s sleeping arrangements consisted of a pair of dragoons forming into a team. Each man, in spite of the warm weather, carried two blankets and had his winter overcoat on the pommel of the saddle. For sleeping, they spread out one blanket on the ground and used their saddles for pillows. Next they laid down their overcoats and added the two horse blankets to the crude bed. They used the remaining blanket to cover themselves. That way, even if the night produced a heavy dew or rain, they had dry blankets to put on the horses’ backs the next morning. This protected the horses’ sensitive hides and also ensured that no dragoon would be forced to walk while having to lead a horse suffering from a sore back.
Most of the experienced troopers had ways of keeping any heavy rain off them. Bits of canvas, rubberized covers, and even blankets tightly woven then shrunk to the point that no moisture could penetrate the material were kept handy if needed.
Devlin, Jeffries, and Standish settled down together. Because of their own privately purchased camping gear, the three did not have to combine blankets in order to fix up a comfortable place to spend the night. This was particularly true in Jeffries’ case, whose Cheyenne wife saw to it that he was well-equipped for spending time out on the prairie.
With the first guards posted through Dawson’s persistent efforts and the rest of the detachment settled in, the two officers and scout sipped coffee and gnawed on the salt pork furnished by Commissary Sergeant Harrigan.
“I got to tell you,” Jeffries said. “I didn’t see no sign o’ them Kiwotas. If they passed through here, they didn’t leave a track or a hank o’ hair or nothing.”
“I just hope they haven’t gone so far south that we won’t be able to find them,” Standish said.
“You’re right,” Devlin agreed. “If they mate up with any Comanches, they might try raiding down in Texas.”
“Or Mexico,” Jeffries added.
Devlin finished his coffee and poured another cupful for himself. “They might go pretty far south, but eventually they’ll swing back up this way toward the Buffalo Steppes. This is their natural home, and they won’t stay away for long.”
“There’s something I want to point out, Major Devlin,” Jeffries said. “I been able to learn that there’s a bit more’n twenty warriors in that party. That means there’s a coupla more of them than us.”
“That’s right, sir,” Standish agreed. “I was able to determine that when I followed their trail to Deacon Creek. Since we’re the hunters and they’re the hunted, the advantage is going to be theirs all the way.”
Devlin nodded, then grinned. “But our hearts are pure and we’re in the right. Doesn’t that give us an advantage?”
Jeffries didn’t appreciate the humor. “They think they’re hearts is pure and they’re in the right, so I reckon we won’t have much advantage in that department, will we?”
“I suppose not,” Devlin admitted.
“We’ll just have to fight like hell,” Standish surmised. “Like always.” He winked at his commanding officer. “Of course that is always combined with your vigorous and fiendishly clever field tactics.”
Fred Jeffries tipped his head back and emitted a laugh so loud that the outlying pickets turned to look in his direction. “Them Injuns do call you ‘Looks Ahead,’ Major. Have you got any big medicine you been keeping to yourself?”
Devlin shrugged. “To fight an Indian and beat him, one must think like an Indian. That’s all I try to do.”
“You done good so far,” Jeffries complimented. “But that was back on the Buffalo Steppes. Out here, things is gonna be more wide open. Another thing to consider is that Sioux or Comanche or Kiowa warriors might decide to join up to have some fun with them Kiwotas.”
Standish gave the scout a serious look. “What are the possibilities of that?”
“A hell of a lot more’n I like to think about,” Jeffries admitted.
Just then they were interrupted by Sergeant Theodore Dawson’s appearance. He saluted Devlin, reporting, “First relief is posted, sir. I got the packhorses along with the rations and extry ammunition set between the two picket lines o’ mounts.”
“Good idea, Sergeant,” Devlin said. “If any raiding hostiles come in, they’ll want those items even more than scalps.”
“Yes, sir,” Dawson said. “The camp is laid out, and ever’body is quartered proper. I’m settled in with Corp’ral Dientz over yonder. Corp’ral Baily and Corp’ral Monroe is ’twixt us and the mounts. We’ll all be close if you need something.”
“Thank you, Sergeant,” Devlin said. “You’re dismissed.”
But Dawson didn’t make an immediate withdrawal. He stood there awkwardly a moment, then said, “Begging the major’s pardon.”
“Anything else, Sergeant Dawson?” Devlin asked.
“Well, sir, the lads want you to know that they been through a hell of a lot with you in the past,” Dawson said. “They asked me to tell you that they’re right happy to be out in the field under your command again, sir.”
Devlin felt pleased. “Thank the men for me, Sergeant. Please tell them that I feel confident having such good troops under my command.”
“That I will, sir!” Dawson saluted and made an about-face to march off to where the dragoons had settled down with their blankets.
Standish gave his commander a most respectful glance. “Damn! I hope that when I’m up in a rank I have the unswerving loyalty and confidence of my men.”
“Win battles and keep casualties light,” Devlin advised him. He sighed and pulled a cigar from the inner pocket of his jacket. “So far I’ve been lucky.” He bit the end off the tightly rolled tobacco. “I’d appreciate it if you would make a round of the guard posts at least once in the night.”
“Yes, sir,” Standish said.
Jeffries also fished out a stogie. “So, Major, you consider yourself a lucky officer, do you?”
“Most certainly,” Devlin replied. “I hope good fortune continues to hold up for me.”
“The best luck you might be able to have out here could prove none too good,” Jeffries observed. “Just getting back with our hair in place might be considered a real accomplishment.”
Standish, who didn’t smoke, watched his campfire companions light up. He frowned at the scout. “You don’t seem particularly optimistic about our chances, Mr. Jeffries.”
“I ain’t,” Jeffries said in a frank voice. “We’re heading out into the wilds o’ the prairie where about ever’ tribe o’ Injuns we’re bound to run into is gonna want to pick a fight with us. That don’t exactly lighten my mood none, Lieutenant.”
“Then, why are you here?” Standish wanted to know.
“Same reason you are,” Jeffries said. “Same reason Major Devlin is. Same reason all them dragoons is. I signed up for the job.”
Devlin chuckled. “Also a bit of insanity does help, right?”
The other two laughed, then turned this attention to the last of the coffee that boiled away on the fire. When the brew was finished, the evening’s dusk had begun to settle in. The camp went into its night routine with the posting of the second relief of the guard. The dragoons of the first watch then fed themselves and prepared to settle in and grab what sleep they could until the roster came around once more to put them back on sentry duty.
An hour later a bright moon came into the sky, giving a brilliance to the primitive scene. But eventually heavy clouds eased in from the south and cast darkness on the camp. A light, intermittent rain began. The sprinkles lasted until an hour or so before dawn. When Sergeant Dawson began waking the troops to begin the new day, he found them slumbering under wet blankets. Each pair of sleeping dragoons enjoyed a damp warmth brought on by their combined body heat.
Fires were quickly started to heat the coffee so necessary on a cool morning in the field. Hardtack crackers and jam were produced by a few hearty individuals while others broiled hunks of salt pork on sticks.
“It’s times like this that I miss Tommy Kubelsky,” Devlin said. “That is one soldier who can brew up excellent coffee in the field.”
“Too bad he got so crippled up with the rheumatiz,” Jeffries said. “I recollect enjoying his cooking back before he got so bad he couldn’t take to active campaigning no more.”
“He’s just a poor old soldier,” Devlin said. “He can’t read or write. If he was discharged back to civil life, I’m afraid he wouldn’t last long out there before too much drink and too little nourishment would do him in.”
