Wagon Train West

by Lauran Paine

  “About a half mile through the trees. There’s a little valley over there.”

  “Good. The horses?”

  Lige smiled widely. “That’s even better,” he said. “They got ’em all on this side of the meadow with two more guards.”

  Kit twisted his head and looked into the glowing eyes of the emigrant behind him. “Go back where we saw our last man. Take him with you and trail back where the first fellow was. All three of you go back where the horses are and bring ’em up here.”

  The man got up very slowly, turned, and started back along the trees without a word. Kit swung back to Lige. “Look like they’ve got any new bucks in with ’em?”

  “No. The same two bands, as near as I could make out. Sleeping like logs, too. They figure that, outside of you and me, those whites are bogged down in fear, hiding behind their wagons, scairt to death.”

  “Damned good thing they figure things like that, Lige.” Kit sat up and crossed his legs under him and watched the other men do the same. “Did you see any other sentinels out?”

  “Didn’t see any, Kit, but from the edge of their meadow you can see a bony peak that’s behind the trees. They can see the wagon train from up there, so I expect there’s a buck watching from there.”

  “How do we get to him?”

  “Follow right through the trees here. Smack the way you’re facing. Due south and a mite west. Don’t you want me to stick around and guide you in?”

  Kit shook his head. “No. We’ll come a-horseback and bring your animal, Lige. You go back and keep an eye on ’em. If they’ve got sentinels above the valley, they might’ve seen us moving. You watch and see if anyone comes trotting in to waken ’em. If not … fine. If a sentry does come, do all the horse damage you can, then run like hell back here.”

  Lige got up. His leathery face still had the same sheen of excitement to it. “I’ll be looking for that horse, boy. Hate like hell to have to try and outrun some of those long-geared bucks at my age, afoot.”

  Kit nodded soberly and watched Lige melt back into the forest again. He explained what was next while he waited for the horses to come up. The emigrants grunted soft questions and Kit could tell from their faces that most of their uneasiness was gone and a tingling excitement had taken its place.

  Chapter Eight

  When the horses came, they mounted and followed Kit into the forest. The darkness was complete then. A brooding, vast blackness steeped in a frightening silence.

  Kit rode with a worried feeling that some of the emigrants might become separated from the others among the trees. When Lige appeared suddenly at his stirrup, he looked down at him. The old mountain man made the sign-talk sign for dismount. Kit swung down and leaned toward his partner.

  “Right ahead. See yonder, where there’s a little gray light beyond the trees? Well, that’s where the meadow is. If you go any farther with the horses, the danged Indian critters’ll smell ’em and nicker, maybe.”

  Kit handed Lige his reins and went forward afoot without a sound. When he got to the edge of the trees, he peered out. The camp smells of men and animals and cooking fires hung in the air. The horses were between him and the distant, obscure mounds that were sleeping warriors. He ducked back and hurried to where Lige was holding Kit’s reins and the reins of his own horse. “Lige, it couldn’t have been better if we’d made it that way.”

  “I know. How you want to do it? Hit the herd, then ride over the bucks?”

  “No.” Kit shook his head. “Just the horses. Hit ’em hard and fast, like the Indians do, and push ’em back out into the valley as fast as we can. Don’t bother to fight. Just get their horses.”

  Lige nodded. “Want me to tell the boys?”

  “We both will.”

  They rode among the emigrants and explained the strategy. None dissented, although two were reluctant to let the Dakotas off so cheaply. Kit explained to them that setting an Indian afoot was worse than death anyway. The warrior not only had the shame and humiliation to bear, he also had to walk through miles of hostile country to get back to his village.

  They went all the way to the edge of the forest before an Indian horse nickered. The sound didn’t carry very far. It was the soft call of a horsing mare. Kit tightened in his saddle and reined as far south of the herd as he dared. Not until he was coming out of the trees did he see the Indian standing as erect and suspicious as a piece of lean, dark wood, staring at the mare that had called. He was raising his gun when the Indian must have heard an iron shoe strike a rock. He whirled like a panther, squatting low, his carbine held in both hands.

  “Hit ’em!”

  Three guns exploded at once. The Indian went over backward under the impact of lead. He rolled against a lightning-shattered stump and lay there. The emigrants knew how to herd horses, if they didn’t know how to fight their owners. They hit the herd in a rolling mass of human and horseflesh and never stopped. Several raised the yell.

  Kit saw Lige whirl past. He held his horse back under a fretting rein and watched the encampment. Warriors came rolling out with cries of consternation and fury, their voices hoarse. Kit watched the emigrants under Lige’s leadership sweep the Dakota horse herd down through the trees in a reckless plunge.

  The Indians threw shots into the forest and broke into screams of fury. Understanding came slowly to their sleep-drugged minds. Kit lifted his revolver and fired four times, as fast as he could thumb back the dog, then he followed his companions through the forest.

  The unexpected fury of the shots threw the Dakotas into a scramble. They raced for cover among the trees to the east of the little glade, and Kit never once looked back. All his efforts were bent on getting out of the forest safely.

  When the valley floor showed ahead, he reined up once more and listened. The shouts were distant but pursuing. He eased his animal out again and loped down across the silvery grass, searching for the moving blur that would be Lige and the Dakota horses.

  The howls of the men of war could be heard even after Kit caught up with the others. Full comprehension came slowly, but it came. The Dakotas were beside themselves with rage. Lige turned a shiny face with a livid grin on it. His wolf call came up out of his throat with a high, staccato sound and died away in the guttural, coughing barks. Then he laughed, and the weak light shone off his teeth.

  “Done it, son,” he chortled to Kit. “We done it, by granny … and with emigrants so cussed green they smell like grass.”

  “Hold it for the hole in the circle, Lige,” Kit said. “Plenty of time to crow later.”

  They ran the horses almost all the way back. When they slowed, it was to send a driving wedge of horsemen ahead to hold the excited Indian horses and slow them until they cooled enough to calm down.

  The wagon circle loomed eerily, like a monstrous coiled snake, in the craggy, black-girt valley. Kit looked and felt the beauty of the scene, despite the peril streaming orry-eyed behind them. The spires on both sides of the valley swept up abruptly from the plain and presented great, dark faces that seemed to frown, in the milky light, down upon the men and the forted wagons toward which they were trotting.

  The moon was curled in anxiety and the sky was a shroud of purple flung over the universe like a solemn mask. Somewhere, far off, an elk trumpeted, unmindful of the racket that was small and weak in the hugeness of the night—or perhaps because he was aroused by the noise. The world waited while the wild-appearing riders swung in close and threaded the snorting, half-wild Dakota war horses into the enclosure. The dust, churned up by many horses’ hoofs, was like black flour in the air, on their clothing, and in their nostrils.

  Kit swung down before his horse had responded to the tug. He turned on one booted foot and pointed where the gap was. “Set up that tongue and those barricades again, boys.”

  Only the men and women who had known that the others had ridden out came streaming, fear and r
elief scratched deeply into their tired faces. The first woman Kit saw was Allie Burgess. Behind her was a sturdy old man with a patriarchal beard, almost white.

  “Allie,” Kit said with much more calm than he felt. “You reckon you could hustle some food for the boys? They’ve had a mite of a ride and a trifling scare tonight. They could use food now like they never could before.”

  “Yes,” she said, wide-eyed, searching his face for a rapt second before she went back down the circle the way she had come.

  Kit stood beside his panting horse, watching the gracefully moving outline. She was tall and regal and poised, even when she moved. He turned to the big old man and smiled wryly. “She’s the handsomest filly I’ve ever seen,” he said.

  “Do you think so, Mister Butler?” The question was almost as mild as the look in the man’s blue eyes. It was an amused, close, wondering, speculative look.

  “Yes, sir. I’ve seen white women before, a lot of ’em. Not in the past half dozen or so years, but I’ve seen ’em. Never one like that, though.”

  “I’m glad you think that,” the old man said softly. “I’m sort of the same opinion. Y’see, she’s my daughter.”

  Kit found his voice and balance with an effort. He swung away and left the old man standing, stock-still, looking after him. There was a blank thoughtfulness in Reuben Burgess’ face, a faint sort of doubt and dread and wonder.

  “Lige? Everybody all right?”

  “Fit as a fiddle, Kit. There’s damned good horses in that bunch. We found sixteen so far that’ve got government brands on ’em.”

  “No wonder they had good mounts. How many are there?”

  “We must’ve lost a passel in the trees, but there’s still about a hundred-odd head. Maybe closer to a hundred and twenty. It’s a couple of times over what the emigrants’ve lost, and then some.”

  “Good,” Kit said, turning away. “We’ll need ’em, Lige, because we’re going to roll these cussed wagons out of here in the morning.”

  He didn’t see Lige’s stunned look or his gaping mouth. He also didn’t see Burgess walk slowly over beside Lige and stand there, looking after him.

  Allie was supervising the getting of a cold meal. He raised an eyebrow at her. “Who told you not to build a fire?”

  She looked up, serene and confident. “No one. I just said we’d serve them cold food. It’s better not to have a fire, isn’t it?”

  He nodded, looking at her with respect. “I underestimated you, ma’am,” he said slowly.

  “I did the same thing to you … once.”

  He was left with that when she moved on. It was something he took into himself and held close in an inviolate spot, then the man named Reaves came up with his weak, peevish face, showing the long strain.

  “How’d you do it, Kit?”

  He shrugged away the admiration in the words and glance. “How are your boys on the watch, Reaves?”

  “My boys? Oh, you mean us who was doing sentry watch. Oh, we’re doing fine. A few of us spelled the others off. Some of us are pretty damned tired.”

  “I reckon,” Kit said dryly. Reaves didn’t get it. “Well, I’ll send you the rest of the boys and you can sort of boss the guarding duty. That all right?”

  Reaves showed a stain of red pleasure in his face. “I’ll do my level best,” he said with considerable embarrassment.

  Kit turned and watched the women for a while, then very slowly, with a deep frown, he walked back where the emigrant men were recounting their experience to those who had been left behind. The stories were colorful, and Lige was grinning from ear to ear when Kit stopped beside him, looking with his brooding frown at the crowd of people admiring the raiders and the Dakota war horses.

  “Lige, go through the men and sort out those that drive wagons. Send ’em all over here where we’re standing.”

  Lige looked up quickly. “Kit. You weren’t serious.”

  “Dead serious.”

  “Just dead,” Lige said quickly, “if you try and move these people in the face of all those Indians.”

  Kit relaxed and threw all his weight on one leg. “Listen, Lige, we took a long chance tonight. The only way we’ll get out of this mess is if we take the initiative. I mean … if we make the first moves and keep the Dakotas guessing.”

  “We were just damned lucky tonight, Kit, and you know it.”

  “Call it what you want. The thing is, we crippled ’em bad, Lige. Hit ’em where it’ll hurt from now on. They’re afoot and—”

  “Hell,” Lige interrupted with a loud snort. “They’ll be around here like buzzards over a bull elk’s carcass from dawn on. We’ve just started things, Kit, not finished ’em.”

  “I know that,” Kit said with his weariness making his control slip a little. “Let ’em come. They’d’ve come anyway, Lige. Now we’ve got the initiative and, by God, we’re going to keep it. If we don’t, they’re going to butcher us like cattle. Now go get the drovers and send ’em back here while I hustle ’em, too.”

  He didn’t wait for further argument but went among the talking groups of filthy people and told every man he saw that he wanted the wagon owners and drivers apart from the others. Lige did his work well. The men drifted along when Kit walked away from the horses. Lige came up with his eyes alight, steady and level on Kit’s face.

  “Boys, I want you to take your critters and harness up.” He stopped deliberately, watching their expressions in the murky light. Astonishment spread like water among them. Kit nodded grimly. “Those of you that’ve had a broke horse killed, lash an Indian horse beside your good animals. Those with oxen dead, use Indian horses. When you’ve got ’em all ready, run a jerk line from your lead teams to the running gear of the wagon in front of you. One thing above all else will save you. Don’t leave any gaps between the teams and the wagons ahead of you!”

  “How about the danged Injuns?” a man called out from the rear of the crowd.

  “They’ll be afoot, so they won’t dare come up too close, but they’ll be ready to shoot whenever they get a chance,” Kit said.

  “Well, hell,” another emigrant protested loudly. “They’ll get our critters.”

  “I’m gambling they won’t,” Kit said. Then wearily: “Do like I say, boys. We can make a run for it, or we can stay here and let ’em eat us up a little at a time.”

  Lige sided with Kit out of loyalty alone. He thought the idea was worse than madness, but on the other hand he knew, also, that staying here indefinitely was impossible.

  The emigrants went shuffling back to where the women were waiting. Kit and Lige trailed in their wake, answering questions and pointing out the futility of staying where they were.

  Allie saw Kit and Lige standing back and to one side of the others. She made up two tins of cold food and took them to the scouts. Then she stood silently, watching them eat. Kit worked up a wan smile and very gravely winked at her. She flushed and threw him a dark look of warning that he duly ignored.

  “Allie, it’s either good or I’m hungrier’n a bear.”

  “You’re hungry,” she said, “and dog tired. You look old.”

  “I am old,” he said. “I’ve never felt as old in my life as I do right now.”

  “Ten hours of rest would fix that, Kit.”

  He shook his head. “No, the only thing that’ll fix that, Allie, is the sight of Fort Collins from the wagon box of one of those cussed Conestogas.”

  “Will we ever get there, Kit?” There was a wistfulness to the way she said it that wasn’t in the steadiness of her gray glance.

  “Lord knows, Allie, I don’t. We’re going to try, though, in the morning.”

  “You mean … move out?”

  He saw her face tighten. “Yes, ma’am. If we stay here, we’re goners. If we move out, they may get us anyway, but at least we’ll be going in the right direction. It’s st
and still and get scalped or run and get scalped.”

  She didn’t speak again until they were both finished eating. Then she saw the men leading animals out, lifting harness and yokes, and rattling the coarse chain tugs. Realization came slowly. It was borne in upon her by the unmistakable activity. She turned her head slowly, seeing the grim, bitter determination in the way the men worked and in the way the women loaded up the wagons again. Her heart sank.

  “Kit …”

  “There’s no other way, Allie,” he said gently. “It’s run or stand. We’ve stood about all we dare. Now we’ve got to run.”

  She turned and walked slowly back where the other women were breaking camp. He let out a long rattling sigh and nudged Lige. “Let’s get our horses. We’ll want ’em to line out right at dawn.”

  “Kit,” Lige said softly, “the Indians’ll be out there, lying in the grass like pebbles.”

  “I know it, Lige. I know it.”

  They found that someone had grained their horses. There were several boys around, admiring the horse herd. Kit resaddled his horse, turning the blanket over so the sweat side was up, then mounted and waited for Lige. A tall youth with fiery red hair came over deferentially.

  “Mister Butler, sir. Do you reckon a man’d dast take a horse to ride out of what’s left?”

  “Have they gotten all the teams they need?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, then, I reckon it’d be a good thing if every fellow your age among the wagons dug up a saddle and rode. As a matter of fact,” Kit said, eyeing the youth, “when you’ve got about ten or twenty lads mounted, hunt me up, and I’ll give you a job. We’ll need every cussed rider we can get from here on.”

  The youth’s face lit up with an immense smile. He watched Kit and Lige ride away, his lips moving without sound and his eyes shining damply.

  “They might get hurt, Kit.”

  He shrugged. “Get hurt anyway, Lige, if we don’t make it.”

  “I reckon so,” Lige said morosely.

  “Look at that tomfool emigrant, anyway.”