Buffalo War (The Dragoons #1), page 8
Pendergrass shrugged. “You are right, Major. We have the same problem in the infantry. But—”
“I know,” Devlin said. “I shall, of course, submit a report as to what I am personally doing to keep down the desertion rate.”
“That is all you can do,” Pendergrass said.
“Is there anything else?” Devlin asked.
“Until Mr. Wheatfall arrives, I think not,” Pendergrass said.
Devlin gritted his teeth as he tended to his social responsibilities as post commander. “May I tender an invitation to you to dine with Mrs. Devlin and me in our quarters this evening at eight o’clock?”
“I would be delighted, thank you,” Major Pendergrass said. He replaced all the papers in his dispatch pouch, and stood up. “Now I believe I shall retire for a hot bath and a bit of a rest. That’s quite a trip out here from Fort Snelling.”
“Yes, it is,” Devlin said. “Good afternoon, Major Pendergrass.”
“Good afternoon, Major Devlin.”
Major Matt Devlin stayed in a bad mood for the rest of the day. That evening, when Pendergrass came for dinner, he was barely cordial for a while. But Beth, an experienced army wife and hostess, sensed the animosity between the two. She wisely kept the conversation informal and even humorous. After a while Devlin’s mood lightened as he came to know Pendergrass on a different level. Before the evening was over, he realized the other army officer was only doing his job. The final toast of the evening was a sincerely cordial one between the two.
Things got even better in the next couple of days. Pendergrass made a quick inspection of Fort Buffalo and wrote a splendid report, complimenting the commanding officer and all personnel for a good job done under difficult and even potentially threatening circumstances. That evening, he and Devlin were on a first-name basis and got drunk together in the unfortunate Lieutenant Standish’s quarters. That young officer spent another drafty, sober night in the visitors’ tent.
The next day, Major Matt Devlin, in a better mood, went about his duties feeling fresh, enthusiastic, and even a bit optimistic.
Then Ned Wheatfall arrived.
Devlin remembered his orders to apologize. That was one thing he wanted to get over with as soon as possible. Assembling all his officers and calling on Major Harold Pendergrass, Devlin went over to the agency store and found Wheeler Coburn behind the counter.
“What brings y’all over here?” Coburn asked.
“Did you file a report on the beef shortage?” Devlin asked.
“I sure did, Major,” Coburn said. “That just worries me to death.”
Devlin decided not to hesitate. “Do me a favor and fetch your new assistant agent, will you? I need to speak to him. I believe his name is Wheatfall, is it not?”
“With pleasure, Major Devlin,” Coburn said, grinning. “With pleasure!”
When Wheatfall came out of the back room, he was positively beaming. “Why, looky here now!” he crowed. “If it ain’t my old friend Major—er, what was that name again—soldier-boy?”
Devlin clenched his teeth, speaking in a strained voice. “I am Major Matthew Devlin, commanding officer of Fort Buffalo.”
“So y’are, yes, so y’are!” Wheatfall said. “What can I do fer you—soldier-boy?”
Pendergrass stepped forward. “Disrespect on your part will not be tolerated, Mr. Wheatfall. There is no army regulation that requires an officer to stand and take insults.”
Wheatfall backed down, knowing he had wandered into a sensitive and dangerous area. “Why, that’s just my little joke. I didn’t mean to rile nobody. If I did, I’m right sorry. Why, I served under the colors myself and was honorably discharged in the rank o’ sergeant. And that’s a fact.”
“It sure is,” Coburn said, backing him up.
“Listen to me, Wheatfall,” Devlin said. “I am apologizing in public to you for making you leave the Buffalo Steppes Reservation.”
Wheatfall chuckled. “Now, ain’t that neighborly? I’m right glad to see you’ve changed your ways, Major.”
Pendergrass’s own temper started to boil. “Major Devlin was ordered to render an apology by the departmental commander. He has obeyed that order.”
Now Wheatfall knew he had not really beaten the army officer. “Well, we’ll try to get along anyhow, won’t we? Especially since I’m the agent here now.”
“Assistant agent,” Coburn pointed out. He regarded all the army officers with some amusement. “Do y’all understand you ain’t to take no action out there on the reservation without my say-so?”
“We do, Mr. Coburn,” Devlin said. “Good day.”
The two agents remained silent until the group of army men had left the store.
“They sure didn’t stay any longer’n they had to, did they?” Wheatfall remarked.
Coburn pulled a cigar from his vest. “I think we got ’em where we want ’em.”
“Yeah,” Wheatfall agreed. “As long as the senator can put on the pressure, we’ll be able to run things out here exactly like he wants ’em.” He poked the other in the belly. “Get one thing straight, Wheeler. I ain’t your assistant. You understand?”
“We got to act like you are, don’t we?” Coburn said. “How else are you gonna be able to move free around here.”
“I just wish them boys o’ mine had the same privilege,” Wheatfall said. “It’d made our job easier.”
“Don’t worry,” Coburn said. “The senator is right in the middle of this. Things will keep getting better and easier for us.”
Wheatfall chuckled. “That’s fer sure!”
Coburn leaned against the counter as he languidly puffed on his cigar. “After all, Senator Torrance done a good job with the Injun Bureau in cutting the cattle herd for the Kiwotas.”
“He’s a powerful man,” Wheatfall said.
“I wonder what the senator really wants out here?” Coburn mused.
“He wants a damn Injun war,” Wheatfall said.
“So he can get the Buffalo Steppes for hisself?” Coburn wondered. “It don’t make sense. There’s plenty o’ prairie country all around if he wanted it. Hell, there’s millions o’ acres just for the taking.”
“I reckon we’ll just have to wait and see,” Wheatfall said.
“I’ll tell you one thing, Ned,” Coburn remarked. “I’m powerful glad them boys o’ yours is out here. I was mighty worried about them Injuns, I don’t mind telling you.”
“When they get riled, they won’t bother us this close to the fort, anyhow,” Wheatfall pointed out. “They’ll head out to other parts o’ the country to take scalps.”
“The sooner things start, the better as far as I’m concerned,” Coburn said.
“Don’t worry about it,” Wheatfall assured him. “In about two days, them Injuns is gonna be ready to forget all about that damn treaty.”
Chapter Eight
White Elk and the two braves with him, Lone Cougar and Spotted Calf, allowed their horses to meander across the open prairie as they carefully studied the ground for sign of buffalo. With no idea where the nearest herd might be, the Indians saw no sense in keeping their mounts traveling in any particular direction. The only attention the Indians gave the animals was to keep them moving when they stopped to graze on the sweet, fresh grass.
The three were one of several teams of trackers acting on suggestions by War Heart to find out if any more scattered bison had wandered onto the reservation. The remainder of the beef cattle had been slaughtered and consumed a week previously. The hides, when treated as the Indians had learned to do the skins of buffalo, did not turn out well. The cow skins ended up stiff and leathery, of no use except to make shields. No Kiwota would huddle comfortably under one of those when the next Moons of Cold Hunger came upon the prairie.
White Elk and his companions could find no sign of buffalo. They wandered farther west to Greasy Flats which marked the edge of the reservation in that direction. White Elk, a tracker with a strong instinct for the job, suddenly felt the presence of the animals or at least of a trail.
“Ah! My medicine tells me there is a herd nearby!” White Elk exclaimed.
Long Cougar laughed. “Is it your medicine or do you smell buffalo shit?”
Spotted Calf smiled. “My belly and the bellies of those in my lodge care not if it is medicine or stench. Which way is the herd?”
White Elk pointed the direction in which he wished to go and pushed on with Lone Cougar and Spotted Calf following. They rode out onto the flats, able to see for great distances in the area where only the barest rise of ground existed.
Lone Cougar pushed himself up and stood on his horse. He peered around in all directions. “I see nothing of buffalo,” he complained.
“There is something,” White Elk insisted. “I can feel it. Even if it is nothing more than tracks, we can follow them. If we find the herd, we can turn it toward the reservation and drive it where we can kill many animals without breaking the treaty.”
The trio of warriors continued on their quest. After a short time they discovered some tracks and dung. Spotted Calf slid from his horse’s back and studied the droppings.
“Ah!” he exclaimed happily. “They came by here two suns ago.”
“Yes,” White Elk agreed. “The main herd must be farther that way. These are the marks of young bulls who have yet to mate. The old bulls keep them away.”
Lone Cougar laughed. “Like an old man with young wives who are wanted by men of their own age.”
“Come!” White Elk said. “You make your jokes later. Now let us find this herd and turn it east. Then one of us will go to the village and bring other men to make the kills.”
“I will go,” Spotted Calf volunteered.
“Wait until we find them,” White Elk said. “If we can drive them closer to the village, it will make an easier kill.”
The warriors picked up the pace a bit until they found the tracks of a medium-sized herd. There would be enough meat to feed the People for a short while and relieve the hunger that had begun to set in from the shortage of beef and the slaughter of the large herd.
“Hold!” White Elk said. “More tracks. Look! White men’s horses, see?”
Spotted Calf pointed to the ground. “They are turning the herd to the west.” He looked around. “I think the white men came from the south and found the buffalo. Look at the tracks now. The buffalo started to run.
“The white men drove them away from the reservation so we could not find them,” Lone Cougar complained. “I thought Looks Ahead told those hunters to go away.”
“Maybe they will slaughter the herd and leave them to rot like they did before,” White Elk said. “If they do it off the reservation, we can do nothing.”
“I think that Running Wolf will then look for those whites and kill them,” Lone Cougar said.
“I will help him!” Spotted Calf said.
“And I!” vowed White Elk. “But let us see if the buffalo got away and maybe turned back toward the east. Come!”
More riding and tracking showed no dead buffalo, but the Kiwotas reached a place where the marks of the shod horses indicated they had turned in another direction.
“The buffalo kept going away from the reservation, so the white men knew they had done what they wanted to,” White Elk said. “At least they did not kill the buffalo. That means we might find them again someday.”
“The whites have still done us harm,” Spotted Calf reminded his companions. “The People will once again feel hunger. It is not right or proper during the Moons of Warm Weather.”
“The whites are on the reservation. Let us follow these hoof prints and find them,” Lone Cougar said. “They are not many. If we use stealth, we can kill them.”
“I agree,” White Elk said. “I will watch the ground. You two look around as we ride so nobody will sneak up on us.”
The sun went a quarter of its journey across the sky to the west as the tracking continued. By that time, the trail had veered slightly to the east out of the Greasy Flats and back onto the Buffalo Steppes. Scattered copses of trees became more numerous until there were enough of them to stop the east wind’s gusty wanderings across the reservation. The trail the Kiwota warriors followed meandered in and out of the formations of sporadic growth of elms, cottonwoods, and spruce.
“I think these whites did as we have been doing,” White Elk surmised. “They were a small group out hunting buffalo.”
“Not hunting buffalo,” Spotted Calf corrected him. “They searched for buffalo to run off so we would not have them.”
“Let us find those dung-eaters and kill them!” Lone Cougar exclaimed. “They have caused misery for our women and children.”
White Elk pressed on with his two companions. Suddenly smoke and bright flashes appeared in one of the tree lines. A split second later, the whine of bullets cut the air around them.
The Kiwotas whirled and rode in an oblique direction to seek shelter in another wild orchard. But fire came from there, too. Spotted Calf grunted and slipped to the ground. He managed to get back to his feet as Lone Cougar rode toward him. But the young Kiwota collapsed to sprawl in the prairie’s deep grass before help could arrive.
White Elk’s horse took a hit and stumbled. He slipped from the animal’s back, staying on his feet. He quickly knelt and fired in the direction of the attack. Then he went to his bow and arrows, sending three of the projectiles flying toward the targets. Two fell short, and one entered the trees.
The heavy firing continued, and Lone Cougar took several hits simultaneously. He went limp and fell from his horse. The way he hit the ground showed White Elk he was already dead. Now White Elk could see numerous white men coming at him from three different directions. He and his friends had stumbled into a cleverly concealed camp that was scattered between the different stands of trees.
White Elk sent arrows flying as he turned from group to group. He made no strikes, and his efforts came to a halt when a bullet shattered his skull. Collapsing to the dark earth, he joined his companions in death as the two unhurt Indian horses galloped off.
Coming across the open space, walking cautiously, the attackers approached to inspect the three corpses. Pockets Dugan was the first to arrive. He went to each Indian and bashed in their skulls with the butt of his Hawkens rifle.
“I ain’t a-going to put up with no possum playing,” he said. “I seen redskins lay still ’til it suits ’em to jump up and fight again.”
Red-Eye Morgan, Dan Lilly, and Earling Denmore joined him. One of the others finished off White Elk’s injured horse with a shot in the head.
“Poor ol’ thing,” he said in sincere sympathy.
“I’ll tell you one thing about Injuns,” Pockets remarked. “They can be real dumb bastards sometimes, can’t they?”
“These three thought they was tracking no more’n a half dozen of us,” Red-Eye said. “They damn sure didn’t know we’d have our camp scattered and hid in these trees like this neither.”
The remainder of the gang gathered up the Indians’ firearms and ammunition. They checked for other belongings that might prove useful, taking what they wanted. Red-Eye Morgan took out his hatchet and started chopping at the corpses, leaving gaping wounds. He slashed the legs so bad that a slight tug would separate them.
Dan Lilly chuckled. “Do you believe the same as them Injuns that a mangled dead man is going to the afterlife as a cripple?”
“Shit no!” Red-Eye replied. He had been left in charge by Ned Wheatfall. “I always do this for the misery it gives their pals and squaws on account o’ they think the dead’uns is gonna be stumbling through the Happy Hunting Ground for eternity like this. They got the belief that they’ll have to depend on the charity of others in the afterlife or whatever they call it.”
“Anybody want scalps?” Pockets Dugan asked. “It’s gonna be first come, first served.”
“Hurry up at it if you do,” Red-Eye said. “And don’t get real comfortable when we get back in the trees. We’re gonna have to leave early to be south o’ Bear Gap by late tomorrow like Wheatfall wants.”
After the scalps were taken by a couple of the hunters, they all went back to their various camps. The Indian corpses, mutilated and robbed, lay in undignified positions from the rough handling they’d received.
A couple of hours later, when the sun set and the evening breeze came up a bit, the darkness settled in over the remains of White Elk, Lone Cougar, and Spotted Calf.
No animals came near the dead men that night. The strong smell of humans coming from the three closely located bivouacs made the wolves, coyotes, and even the bears wary. When first light came the following morning, a heavy dew covered the bodies still lying in the same positions. By the time the sun was high enough to evaporate the moisture, Red-Eye Morgan and the rest of Wheatfall’s men had broken camp and were cantering south across the prairie, skirting the Buffalo Steppes as they headed for Bear Gap.
The insects, having no fear of humans, were the first to descend on the remains. Buzzing blow-flies landed on the gaping wounds, sticking their proboscises through the congealed blood to reach the still-liquid stuff farther down. They swarmed over the bodies, across the open eyes, and into the mouths of the dead Kiwotas.
A crippled coyote, his kill-limiting injury making him desperately bold, wandered in closer. The smell from the camps was still strong, but he had not eaten in three days. The famished animal bit into White Elk’s belly, pulling away flesh to expose the organs. The wild canine was able to take one mouthful of intestine and bite into the belly cavity for another before the arrow slapped into its shoulder. The animal yelped and tried to get at whatever had attacked it, stumbling on injured legs.
A second arrow from Running Wolf’s bow put the animal out of its misery.
The group of a half-dozen Kiwotas had picked up the dead men’s trails late the previous evening. Curious about the buffalo tracks, Running Wolf had decided to see where White Elk, Lone Cougar, and Spotted Calf had gone.
