Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 3
“Well, the claim will go through in spite of the fact that the land is on Indian territory,” Torrance explained. “There would be no trouble there unless we went out to the place and started to occupy it.”
“Then, how in the hell are we gonna be able to get that gold outta there without the Injuns and ever’body else finding out what we’re doing?” Planter asked.
“The answer is obvious, DeWitt,” Torrance said. “We must take the land away from the Indians, mustn’t we?”
“I don’t see how you’re gonna get them hills away from the Kiwota tribe, Senator,” Planter said.
“Quite simply, DeWitt, by getting those redskin rascals to break the treaty,” Torrance said.
Planter smiled as the idea slowly began to dawn on him. “You aim to stir them Injuns up, don’t you, Senator?”
“Stir them up? That is an understatement, DeWitt,” Torrance said.
“If they go on the warpath, the dragoons’ll move in and wipe ’em out,” Planter said. “That Major Devlin whipped War Heart once, and he can sure as hell do it again.”
“Of course. Remember, however, we must drive those Indians into raiding outside their territory, too,” Torrance said. “There’re plenty of farms and little towns in Minnesota and Kansas Territory that would prove tempting to enraged savages.”
“A lot o’ folks might die,” Planter said.
“A lot of folks will die, DeWitt,” Torrance said. “I believe a certain geologist already has.”
“I reckon it’ll be worth it to be rich and be able to have anything you want, huh?” Planter said.
“I believe you are right,” Torrance said.
“I’d like to buy me a cotton plantation and have carriages and slaves and a real beautiful wife,” Planter said.
“Oh, why bother with a plantation when you can have a mansion and lots of land without worrying about crops and weather and all that, DeWitt?” Torrance said.
“By God, Senator!” Planter said. “I believe you’re right. I ain’t gonna have to work at nothing, will I?”
“That’s right, DeWitt,” Torrance assured him. “The money is just going to be rolling in. Why, it’ll come so fast you won’t be able to count it.”
“Oh, Lord!” Planter happily exclaimed.
“Now, let’s get down to some more business,” Torrance said. “We’re going to have to pull in someone else to help us out, but he’s not to know of the gold.”
Planter continued to grin. “I know who—Ned Wheatfall, right?”
“Right!” Torrance answered. “He has plenty of experience out west, and I know he’s growing restless down there in Georgia since his return after that unpleasantness with the farmers in Missouri.”
“I reckon some folks just don’t believe in keeping slaves,” Planter remarked.
“That’s something that’s going to come to a head real quick with those damned Yankees,” Torrance said. “But that’s another problem. Right now, I want to get ahold of Ned as quickly as possible.”
“He knows the Buffalo Steppes, Senator,” Planter said. “He used to deal with French trappers outta Canada up there.”
“I remember that as well,” Torrance said. “I think our old friend Ned has just the talents we’re looking for when it comes to stirring up Indians. I’ll have Harvey telegraph him right away.”
“Do you need anything else from me today, Senator?” Planter asked. “All of a sudden, I’m powerful tired. I got to tell you that I been agitated as hell from holding this news inside. What I really got a hankering for is a room and to get some sleep for a while.”
“There’s a boardinghouse over on North Capitol Street,” Torrance said. “It’s run by a lady named Mrs. Murphy.”
Planter frowned. “North Capitol Street? That ain’t a good part o’ town, Senator!”
“We can’t have you staying on here at the Willard or the National,” Torrance said. “We got to keep you outta sight. Don’t worry. I know the landlady real well. Just tell her that I sent you over, and everything will be fine. Another thing, DeWitt, I don’t want you coming back here ’til I send Harvey over to fetch you, understand?”
“I sure do, Senator,” Planter said. He stood up, saying, “I’m going now. I’ll wait for you to send for me.”
The men shook hands, and Torrance again complimented the surveyor on his wise handling of the gold he’d learned about on Kiwota land. Planter left the office and hailed a hansom cab. The driver wouldn’t take him all the way to his destination for fear of being robbed. When Planter stepped out of the vehicle, he walked as fast as he could down North Capitol Street in the rough neighborhood until he reached the boardinghouse.
At first the landlady was suspicious of him. Most of her clientele were not the sort who wore decent clothes and carried a fine leather suitcase. But when he mentioned Senator Torrance’s name, Mrs. Murphy beamed.
“Why, sure then and it’s welcome y’are, sir!” she said, holding the door open for him. “And I’ll be giving ye the best room in the rear o’ the house. The fights on the street won’t bother ye near as much back there.”
“Thank you kindly, I’m sure,” Planter said.
The surveyor found the room small, dingy, and with dirty windows. But, out of respect for the senator, he settled in as best he could. He spent the rest of the afternoon and into the evening lying on the lumpy bed, biding his time. In spite of his fatigue, he could only sleep in short, fitful naps.
Mrs. Murphy called him down for a supper of stew and corn bread. The rest of the boarders looked at him with sullen suspicion, then went back to slurping up their food. Planter finished as quickly as he could and retreated back to his room.
The evening passed, and darkness descended on the city. Noise increased on the streets as drunken shouts and other disturbances ranged up and down the avenue. With no lantern in his room, Planter sat in the gloom feeling miserable until he drifted off to a restless sleep.
The knock on the door startled him to wakefulness. He looked around and noted where he was. It was quieter now, so Planter knew the hour was late. Once more someone pounded on the door.
“Who is it?” Planter asked.
“The senator sent me,” a voice said.
Planter leaped out of bed and happily rushed over to answer the summons. He opened the flimsy portal and could see the shadowy figures of two men in the hall.
One moved quickly forward with a swing of his hand. Planter didn’t realize the icy sensation he felt in his belly was a knife thrust, but by the time the second man sliced him across the throat, he knew it was an attack.
The assailants stabbed and cut numerous times until the surveyor was dead on the floor, his blood flowing slowly across the room to drip down through a crack in the boards.
“That’s that, then,” one of the men said in a husky voice. “An easy fifty dollars, Tim.”
“I wonder what this was all about,” the second man remarked.
“Sure now and I don’t know any more than the skinny runt paid me the money and told me where this bucko was,” the first said. “All we had to say was that the senator sent us and he’d open the door.”
Then, thinking of all the whiskey they could buy along with bedding a decent-looking whore, the two killers eased the door shut and snuck through the house back to North Capitol Street.
Chapter Three
During the remainder of the fall season working on the Buffalo Steppes Agency, the squadron of dragoons stationed there did very little drilling or other military activities. Most of their working days, rather than being spent as soldiers, found them toiling as carpenters, masons, and laborers. The pressure of the coming Dakota winter made work schedules long in the relentless drive to get the job done as quickly as possible.
Only a few absolutely necessary martial duties such as guard and patrolling took the troops away from the very important chores of building both the trading post and the fort that would administer the Kiwota Indian treaty.
Most of the men grumbled about the hard work since many had enlisted in the army to avoid the drudgery of manual labor. But they had to admit to themselves that with the harsh Dakota winter coming on, lives would depend on strong, blizzard-resistant buildings in which to live and work.
By late October the job was done. Fort Buffalo, with four one-story barracks buildings, officers’ quarters, a headquarters building, stables, latrines, and a line of small houses called soapsuds row where the married sergeants lived, was an established and working army post.
The Buffalo Steppes Agency consisted of one large building that served as a trading store, agency office, and residence of Mr. Wheeler Coburn, the government agent.
The Kiwotas passing by the place during hunting forays were amazed at the change in the area. What had once been empty prairie was filled with the white men’s structures and activities. The Indians were particularly astonished by the fact that a couple of the buildings were used for the sole purpose of tending to nature’s call and to bathe. They considered the quicklime dumped down into the holes periodically by the soldiers to be a very strong medicine. Nothing less would take away the smell of feces. The Kiwotas simply moved away from an area when it became so fouled as to offend the sense of smell. They didn’t return to that spot for a few seasons, waiting for the passage of time to diminish the odors until it was a fit place to camp again.
In early November, just before the first snows came, a flurry of excitement swept across the place. Soldiers’ families, who had been waiting back in Fort Snelling, Minnesota, arrived. The Indians, especially the women, made an appearance at this event. They had rarely seen white men with white women and were curious as to how the couples lived. The children, in particular, were a source of gentle curiosity to the Kiwotas who indulged their own offspring when very young.
But the tribe’s interest in the army families came to a quick close at the arrival of the first quarterly beef issue of two hundred head of cattle to be given to them as part of the treaty agreement. While the Indians prepared to draw their meat-on-the-hoof, the married soldiers enjoyed being able to renew their domestic existence and live again with their wives and children. The post commander, Major Matt Devlin, was no exception.
During her fourteen years of marriage to Matt, Beth Devlin had given birth to five children. Two had died in infancy, but three had survived the health-threatening climates and environs of frontier army posts. Twelve-year-old Freddie, his sister Mattie of eight years, and their five-year-old brother Bobby were among the worst hellions of a breed of misbehaving, mischievous, and devious youngsters known as “army brats.” When the children and numerous dogs of the post caused any disturbance or outright physical damage, the Devlin kids were sure to be in the middle of the fracas with Freddie in the vanguard.
While the adults settled into their new quarters, the children broke away to begin exploring their new battleground, quickly acquiring additional allies in their adolescent campaigns of terror and turmoil—the youngsters of the Kiwota tribe.
The busy occurrence of the issue of the cattle brought all the children together. Acquaintances and friendships were quickly formed in spite of the language barrier. For the girls it was an opportunity to learn about each other’s clothing and toys. The Kiwota lasses had their own form of dolls usually made for them by grandmothers. The white girls, on the other hand, had more realistic store-bought varieties. A bit of trading went on in which trinkets, bracelets, and necklaces were exchanged as games of baby caring spontaneously began.
The Kiwota girls showed the soldiers’ daughters how to make a miniature village in which make-believe chores were done. The white lasses reciprocated with their own versions of playing house. This playtime was filled with wonderful and tender moments between the girls.
The boys’ relationships, on the other hand, began on a less-than-friendly level. Unspoken challenges resulted in wrestling matches, foot races, and other physical activities that finally settled down to some serious exchanges of pocketknives and other boy-type toys and possessions after bartering and grunting at each other. A few of the youngsters paired off as friendships developed. Freddie Devlin became pals with a Kiwota boy of his age named Swift Rabbit. But this came about only after testing each other in a series of rough-and-tumble wrestling matches that didn’t come to an end until both boys were nearly exhausted.
The children’s games broke up as the Indians took possession of the two hundred head of cattle that would help see them through the winter. The Indians boys had herding chores to attend to, and they made an abrupt exit following the guttural commands of their fathers and uncles. The Kiwota girls would be helping with the butchering when the beef reached their village, so they, too, were obliged to break off the play session and prepare for serious work.
A week later, the established rapport between the children picked up where it left off. Many hours were spent together in the quickly shortening daylight hours until the first snows arrived. At that point, things slowed down, and everyone lapsed into a winter routine as the cruel winds of the north brought activity on the Buffalo Steppes to a frigid standstill.
The dragoons spent a lot of time in barracks, going out only for the most necessary of chores such as tending to their horses in the stables or guard duty, along with housekeeping tasks that were essential in keeping Fort Buffalo running smoothly in spite of the awful weather.
Out on the prairie, the Kiwotas settled into their lodges, content with the dried beef and buffalo meat that would see them through the unpleasant months ahead. Some of the camp dogs would eventually give their lives to add fresh meat to the menu now and again during those days of no hunting, but mostly the People dined on the preserved variety of animal flesh.
War Heart shared his tepee with his two wives, children, and a few nieces and nephews. His first wife, Summer Wind, was the one he had chosen and courted in the fashion of the People. His second wife, called Medicine Woman, was the widow of his brother killed in battle against the Crows. War Heart, as was the custom, had taken her and her children into his lodge. She had two children by her first husband and had already been impregnated by War Heart before the winter actually arrived.
The chief, like the other warriors and boys, ventured out to do some trapping when the weather gentled enough. This was due to Wheeler Coburn offering them knives, hatchets, and trinkets in exchange for beaver and otter pelts. The practice was not entirely legal, since the Indian agent was not to embark on any commercial activities. But Coburn took advantage of all opportunities to make some extra cash.
The black scout and interpreter, Fred Jeffries, lived with his Cheyenne wife, Moon Deer. Their habitat was situated as he preferred it to be, separated from both the Indian village and the military post. He had a sturdy, comfortable soddie dwelling constructed of chunks of prairie earth. The roof was alternating layers of logs and more earth. Its natural insulation required little heat, so a small stove with its pipe sticking high above the roof to keep it out of the deep snow was all that was required for health and comfort. With his own dried meat and being able to purchase goods at the trading post from his army pay, Jeffries and Moon Deer enjoyed a comfortable, virtually carefree life in their small quarters.
Jeffries had come out to the Dakota Territory as a young boy. He couldn’t remember if he had been employed by or a slave of an itinerant white trader who moved among the Indians selling and trading whiskey, guns, and other goods in demand by the tribes.
Eventually tiring of the wandering life, the man had set up a trading post and enjoyed moderate success in the venture. By the time the old fellow died, Jeffries had grown an expert in several Indian languages and could also boast of an intimate knowledge of the Buffalo Steppes and surrounding territory. Never much of a shopkeeper, Jeffries had drifted into trapping jobs until his skills had come into demand by the U.S. Dragoons. He’d become a contract scout for the army a couple of years after rescuing his wife from a Lakota raiding party. The Indian woman had settled in with him, and they had been living together ever since.
While the people on the Buffalo Steppes wintered as best they could, a half continent away in Washington City, a meeting between two men was held on a cloudy afternoon in the latter part of January.
Senator Osmond Torrance had spent a frantic four months trying to locate one of his constituents, an enigmatic man named Ned Wheatfall. One of the reasons for the difficulty in finding an individual like Wheatfall was the fact that he was not entirely welcome in a lot of places. In others, he was very much wanted—not for his charming company, but to face charges on felonies that ranged from armed robbery to murder. Wheatfall had extensive Indian-fighting experience through working as a guide for wagon trains. He had also served five years in the army from which he surprisingly received an honorable discharge in the rank of sergeant. Along with those lines of work, he had trapped fur-bearing animals in the Rocky Mountains and done a lot of buffalo hunting on the plains.
Wheatfall’s latest project had gotten him into serious trouble. He signed on as a hired gun with a pro-slavery faction trying to move into a county in Missouri where the majority of residents were abolitionists. The end result of this invasion was a bloody war in which assassination, robbery, rape, and lynchings ran riot. Before the slavers were defeated, Ned Wheatfall had increased his reputation as a cold-blooded killer to such an extent that a five-thousand-dollar reward was offered for him dead and a thousand to anyone who brought him in alive.
When Senator Torrance’s secretary, Harvey Puffer, informed him of Wheatfall’s predicament, the politician wasn’t surprised that his old friend Ned would be difficult or even impossible to find. But Puffer’s persistent efforts finally paid off when Wheatfall was discovered working as an overseer on a Mississippi cotton plantation.
When Wheatfall arrived in Washington City, unlike the unfortunate DeWitt Planter, he was put in one of the better hotels. Torrance even advanced the man some cash to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh offered in the metropolis’s brothels and saloons. After a week of celebration and debauchery, Wheatfall was ready to settle down to business and find out why the senator had summoned him all the way from Mississippi.
