Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 5
“Don’t you go giving me advice or telling me what to do!” Coburn snapped. “You step outta your place with me, and you’ll find yourself in deep trouble. Anyhow, their beef issue is due pretty quick, so them redskins ain’t gonna starve to death.”
Coburn had no use for the black man. Jeffries didn’t conduct himself or even speak like the blacks the agent was used to in his home state. Rather than shuffle like a slave with a hangdog look in front of white men, Jeffries carried on as his environment and upbringing had dictated. He was independent, and his method of speaking was not the subservient monosyllabic manner of a field hand. The scout had spent most of his childhood and all of his manhood among white men and Indians.
When Jeffries came into the store the first time, Coburn had refused to serve him. Jeffries, having no other source of shopping for necessities, complained to Major Matt Devlin. The fort commander informed the agent that Jeffries was under contract to the United States Government as a scout and interpreter, and had a right and need to make purchases at the agency store. Afraid making trouble might bring in competition if the army authorized a sutler at Fort Buffalo, Coburn gave in. But he made Jeffries fetch the things he needed off the shelf.
The first time he made up a bill for the black man, he almost doubled the price and was sorely surprised when Jeffries proved his ability to not only read and write, but to work arithmetic as well. It was another skill the scout had acquired growing up with the trader.
“I’m taking War Heart over to Fort Buffalo,” Jeffries said.
“You ain’t taking him nowhere!” Coburn yelled. “This here is agency business, and I’m the official agent!”
Jeffries said nothing more. He packed his purchases into a cloth bag he’d brought with him and walked out of the store, motioning War Heart to follow him.
The two mounted up without comment to each other and rode the short distance over to Fort Buffalo’s headquarters. The other Kiwotas, patient and willing to let the matter take its course, followed without comment.
The sight of the hunting party riding into the middle of the garrison caused some preliminary alarm among the dragoons. But when they noted Jeffries and the fact that the Indians were not arrayed for war, the soldiers relaxed. Those who were able stopped their tasks to watch what was going on.
Jeffries took War Heart into the building to a desk manned by the acting sergeant major. The noncommissioned officer, a pipe-smoking veteran named Edgar O’Rourke who had spent considerable time in the field with Jeffries, gave him a warm greeting.
“How’ve you been, Fred?” O’Rourke said. “I think this is the first time I’ve seen you since that December blizzard.”
“Things may not be so good right now, Edgar,” Jeffries said. “We may have some trouble with hunters on treaty land. Is Major Devlin in?”
“That he is,” O’Rourke said with a serious expression on his face. “Wait a minute.” He went to the commander’s office door and knocked on it. The sergeant stuck his head inside and exchanged a few inaudible words. Then he came back. “The major says to go in now.”
Jeffries and War Heart went into Devlin’s office. The Indian found the interior of the building stifling and confining. He wanted to get the business over with as soon as possible.
Jeffries quickly related to the major what had happened. When he finished, he sighed and said, “I was hoping for a quiet summer.”
“Damn it!” Devlin said. He looked at War Heart. “I’m upset about this, too. Don’t worry, I am going to take immediate action and run those sons of bitches off the Buffalo Steppes.”
Jeffries said to War Heart, “Looks Ahead’s heart is hot with anger. He will take soldiers and find the hunters and make them leave the treaty land.”
“Tell Looks Ahead that our hearts are hot as well,” War Heart said. “The buffalo are wasted except for their horns and bones. But we need more than cups and ladles and digging tools and sled runners. We need meat to eat and hides to make robes and lodges and leggings. If we find the white hunters, we will kill them because they have made bad medicine for the People. If it happens again, our young men will be angry and do what they want.”
Jeffries didn’t bother with a direct translation. He summed up the situation, saying, “Major, the Kiwotas are gonna raise some hell if them hunters ain’t stopped. You and I both know that can spill over and the young warriors is gonna ride off the reservation and kill more’n buffalo hunters.”
“Do you think War Heart can keep the tribe calmed down, Jeffries?” Devlin asked.
“For a while, maybe,” Jeffries said. “I can help some, too. But when this hunting party goes back without news of a kill and tells what they found, the Kiwotas is gonna start grumbling. I’ll have a talk with Running Wolf, too. That’s the one hothead we got to fret about. He’ll prob’ly cool down this time, but remember it’ll go just so far.”
“Thank God the beef issue is due almost any day,” Devlin said. “But I’m still worried.” He stood up and went over to take his cap off the rack in the corner. “Tell War Heart I’ll be personally taking the patrol out to find those trespassers. I’m asking him to delay any hunting for at least a couple of days.”
Jeffries nodded to War Heart. “Looks Ahead is going to lead some soldiers out and find those whites. He wants you to not seek buffalo for two suns.”
War Heart smiled. “I will do that because the white hunters will be caught by Looks Ahead. Now my anger cools. The young men will not act crazy.”
Jeffries went to the door and opened it. “Major, War Heart figures you can handle the situation, so that’s gonna help things.” Then he added, “This time.”
Devlin walked past them, motioning them to follow. When he reached Sergeant O’Rourke’s desk, he said, “My compliments to Captain Teasedale. Have him assemble B Company for an immediate patrol of three days’ duration.”
O’Rourke quickly got to his feet. “We ain’t back to Injun fighting, are we, sir?”
“If things don’t go right, we sure as hell will be,” Devlin said. He left the building to get himself ready for the field as Jeffries and War Heart joined the waiting Indians.
Chapter Five
Ned Wheatfall took the jug of whiskey and tipped it up. He treated himself to three deep swallows before lowering it and wiping his mouth.
“I’ll tell you something, boys,” he said to the numerous men sitting around the scattered campfires within the circle of wagons. “There ain’t nothing that tastes better’n free whiskey.”
A burly fellow called Red-Eye Morgan growled, “Liquor’s fine, but how’s come we couldn’t get no women to come along on this here job, Ned?”
“We cain’t have ever’thing, can we?” Wheatfall remarked.
“There’s plenty o’ damn women who’d work a crew like this,” Red-Eye said. “It’d make it easier for a long summer’s stay.”
“You’ll get some chances at squaws,” Wheatfall said. “Anyhow, y’all’d end up fighting over some ugly ol’ whore after you been out here a while.”
“Only us romantic ones, Ned,” Red-Eye said. “Some of us got tender feelings toward women. We kinda work up an affection of one in particular now and then. Why, hell! We don’t even beat ’em up more’n once a week or so.”
Wheatfall gave the jug to a man named Pockets Dugan. “Pass this around, Pockets.”
Pockets was generous with himself as he drank his turn at the jug before passing it to another man. “We shoulda skinned them carcasses. The more we take, the more extry cash money we can end up with. That’s what I say. All we took was enough meat to eat.”
“We ain’t out here for hides,” Wheatfall said angrily. “I ain’t a-gonna keep reminding you o’ that! If we get a chance to skin a few, we’ll do it. If I figger it ain’t convenient, then we won’t.” His gray eyes flashed under the heavy brows making his gaunt features almost demonic. “The pay you fellers is getting is to rile Injuns. I told you that when you signed on. So just fergit about lugging a lotta buffalo outta here whether it be the insides or the outsides of ’em.”
“There ain’t nobody complaining ’cept Pockets,” Red-Eye Morgan assured him.
“I ain’t bellyaching!” Pockets Dugan retorted. “I was just wondering, that’s all. A feller can wonder about something now and again, can’t he?”
“Sure!” Wheatfall said. “As long as he keeps it to himself. Now, I don’t want to hear nothing else about it.”
Pockets got to his feet. “You been showing a big mouth lately, Wheatfall. And I’m growing weary of it. A feller’s got a right to speak his mind.”
“Not in my crew, he ain’t!” Wheatfall said. The gang leader, skinny as a rail, sized up the other man. Although the potential challenger was much larger, Wheatfall felt no fear. “You got some muscles on your ass, Pockets, but I’m the fastest knife man on either side o’ the Mississippi River. You want to bring this to a head?”
Pockets Dugan glared at him. He knew he could pick up Wheatfall and break him like a dried tree branch. But he would have to kill him, because Ned Wheatfall would get the knife into him someday for it.
Wheatfall sneered. “Well?”
Pockets calmed down and showed a lopsided grin. “Hell, I’m making good money anyhow. I ain’t got no complaints.” He sat down and went back to stirring the pot on his fire to show the situation was over as far as he was concerned.
Wheatfall surveyed the crowd for any more potential trouble before squatting down to tend to his pot of boiling stew. It had taken him several long months to round up that crew of frontier rabble-rousers. Most had been living rustic, but comfortable lives in hunting camps and outlying settlements, getting along by living off the land. Others, who had wandered into civilization, had been worse off. Because of their lack of marketable skills or trades, they could not earn decent livings. This situation forced them to settle into the roughest parts of towns and cities, outcasts from normal society where they never could fit in. Wheatfall had located half of these in local jails and lockups awaiting trial for various offenses involving disturbing the peace.
But his persistence, and Senator Osmond Torrance’s money, had resulted in the organization of a crowd of some of the roughest men who ever sallied out from civilization and society’s demands of decorum to seek their fortunes in the wild, unsettled lands of the West.
Red-Eye Morgan joined Wheatfall at his fire. He sat down and pulled a flaming splinter of wood out to light his pipe. “How long you reckon we’ll be out here, Ned?”
“All summer,” Wheatfall answered. “That’s something else y’all been told.”
“I know,” Red-Eye said. He gestured at the others. “There’s more’n fifty of us in this outfit, Ned. Somebody’s paying out a lot o’ money to keep us all here all that time.”
“What’re you leading up to?” Wheatfall asked.
“I ain’t stupid,” Red-Eye said. “There’s got to be one hell of a good reason fer taking on all that expense.”
Wheatfall stared into the fire. “Now, don’t you start getting nosey, Red-Eye. It ain’t healthy.”
“Hell, Ned, I ain’t nosey,” Red-Eye said. “I just figger that if there’s a chance for more work, I’d like to stay on. Get my drift?”
“Sure,” Wheatfall said. “I’ll keep that in mind, but let me tell you something. I don’t know the full story myself, and I don’t figger to until the right time—if ever.”
Their conversation was interrupted when a scuffle broke out between a couple of the hunters. It was one of those quick, violent episodes that frequently occurred between that sort of men. After exchanging some punches and kicks, they had gone to their knives and now moved warily around in a circle, making feints at each other.
Ned Wheatfall knew that both would end up badly hurt if not dead. One way or the other it meant the loss of two men. He strode over and spoke loudly, “I’ll have no damn knife fighting! Both o’ you pull back.”
The combatants still went on with their testing, their eyes glaring at each other in anticipation of an attack.
Wheatfall pulled his own knife. “I’m telling you to stop and step back and put them blades away. I mean it!”
One of them, a short, bandy-legged little man named Dan Lilly, did as he was told. He slipped his knife into its scabbard. The other fighter suddenly lunged at him, slashing out with a downward movement of his arm.
Wheatfall reacted quickly, flipping his own knife which turned only once before sinking up to the hilt in the man’s neck.
The victim gurgled in frightened surprise, grabbing at the thing that was now lodged so deep in his neck that it stuck through his throat, blocking off the air he tried to breathe into his heaving lungs. He whirled and stumbled, falling to his knees in weakness as his strength drained away with the pumping of his life-blood that soaked his shirtfront down to the waist. Finally, in desperation, he gestured to the watching crowd for some kind of help.
He never got any.
Ned walked over to what was now a corpse and withdrew his knife. “Y’all know there ain’t gonna be nothing but fist fighting tolerated in this outfit. Anybody that pulls a gun or a knife on anybody else is dead. Understand?”
“He started it, Ned!” Dan Lilly exclaimed, defending himself.
“I ain’t faulting you, Dan,” Wheatfall assured him. “What the hell was the ruckus about anyhow?”
“He took one o’ my blankets,” Lilly said. “He was the only one who coulda done it.”
Pockets Dugan said, “Are you talking about the red one with the black stripe?’
“That’s the one,” Lilly said, kicking the corpse. “This son of a bitch stole it from me.”
“No, he didn’t, you dumb bastard,” Pockets said. “You traded it to me for that Sioux medicine pouch, remember?”
Lilly thought a moment, then slowly grinned. “Oh, yeah! That’s right. I forgot.”
The crowd broke out into loud laughter at what they considered the humor in the situation. Lilly took some ribbing, and his face reddened in embarrassment.
“Hey!” The shout came from the edge of the camp from a man named Early Denmore, who had gone out to relieve himself. “Looky yonder! Soldiers!”
All the hunters gave their full attention to the prairie outside their camp. Quick glances around showed they were completely surrounded by a large number of blue-clad horse dragoons still about a hundred yards away. The troops, with carbines at the ready, slowly approached.
“Y’all keep your mouths shut!” Wheatfall cautioned them. “Pockets, you and Dan drag that dead son of a bitch outta sight afore they ride in here. Hide him under one o’ the wagons and pile some stuff on him. I don’t want to have to explain nothing to no damn army officer.”
When the soldiers arrived, most stayed on the other side of the wagons. But two officers, with ten men following, came in through the opening between two wagons.
“Who is in charge here?” Major Matt Devlin, in the lead, asked.
Ned Wheatfall walked up. “That’d be me, Major. Howdy do to you.”
“What’s your name, mister?” Devlin asked.
“Ned Wheatfall,” he answered. “What’s yours?”
The hunters all laughed.
Devlin’s expression was one of cold anger. “You and these friends of yours are on Indian Land. Are you aware of that?”
“By God!” Wheatfall said, feigning surprise. “I didn’t see no signs when we come in here to do some buffalo hunting.”
“I’m ordering you out of here immediately,” Devlin said.
“That don’t make no sense,” Wheatfall protested.
“I’m not interested in explaining things to you,” Devlin said. “I’m ordering you out of here.”
“Well, Major, I was in the army myself,” Wheatfall said. “Five years and didn’t get no bobtail discharge neither. I ended up a sergeant. But I ain’t a soldier no more, so I got no inclination to take shit off some officer.”
“If you served in the army, you know how much authority I have in a situation like this,” Devlin said. “I am going to tell you again, get the hell off this reservation. That means you have to get on the east side of the Des Lacs River.”
“What if we want to go north?” Wheatfall asked. “Or south or west?”
“You will go east,” Devlin said in a cold, angry voice. “That’s the shortest distance to the reservation boundary.”
“We’d like to finish our grub,” Wheatfall said. He pointed to some uncooked buffalo meat on the tailgate of one of the wagons. “We should have her et up in three or four days.”
Devlin motioned to Captain Paul Teasedale. “Put your men to work, Paul.”
“Yes, sir,” Teasedale said. He gestured to his senior noncommissioned officer. “You know what to do, Sergeant Kennedy.”
“Yes, sir!” the dragoon answered. “Get to it, lads! Don’t waste no time!”
The soldiers immediately dismounted and began kicking over pots of food. A couple took the meat and threw it on the nearest fire. Pockets Dugan made a move toward the soldiers, but Devlin pulled his revolver and aimed it at the man.
“Stand fast, mister!”
Pockets stopped and instinctively raised his hands. “I ain’t gonna do nothing.”
Devlin rode closer to Wheatfall. “I’ll not bother the food in your wagons unless I have more trouble from you or your men. Now, as I said before, you are to vacate this area immediately. That means now, goddamn you!”
“Yes, sir,” Wheatfall said. He walked over to his own gear and began loading it onto a wagon. Senator Torrance had told him what to do in case of confrontation with the army. “Let’s go, boys!” he hollered. “The major’s right. We got to get out of here.”
“And you’ll not return!” Devlin snapped.
Wheatfall said nothing. His men, also remaining silent, quickly went about the chore of packing up.
