Wagon Train West

by Lauran Paine

  Two of the Dakota horses, grotesque among the staid, colorless other animals in a wagon’s harness, were bucking, pitching, and throwing themselves under the heavy, chafing chain harness. The strangeness of the white-man smell and the excitement were like electricity to them.

  Kit rode up beside the emigrant who was standing, wide-legged, staring. He bent low from the saddle and touched the man’s shoulder.

  “Pardner, you’ll never get a mile like that. Split ’em up. Don’t ever hitch two wild ones side-by-side. Put a tame one on the side of each wild one, then be sure your lead team’s a broken pair. If you’ll use your head, you’ll make it.” He rode away.

  Lige looked back and swore. The horses had finished throwing themselves about and the tangle of the harness now was holding them down.

  Kit didn’t look around. “It’s all right, Lige. I’d like ’em all to bust loose if they’re going to. Be better here that five miles from here.”

  It took a long time. Kit sat like a brooding statue on his horse, watching. The sounds from the wagon circle sounded doubly loud in the dark, hushed night. Lige came riding slowly up beside him. He was chewing with rhythmic regularity. His eyes were squinted, almost closed with concern. Finally he leaned forward a little.

  “Kit, they’ll be strung out as helpless as babies. The Indians’ll be in the grass on both sides of ’em. It’ll be a slaughter.”

  “No,” Kit said evenly. “I’ve got another idea, Lige. Couple more, in fact. We’ll—”

  “Mister Butler?” It was the redheaded youth. Behind him were at least twenty more youths. Guns shone dully from among them.

  Kit was surprised there were so many. He smiled. “What’s your name? Red?”

  “That’s it, sir. Red … Red Houston.”

  “Are they good men?”

  Red’s face glinted, flushed and eager. “Give us something to do, Mister Butler, and we’ll do ’er as good as anyone could.”

  “All right, Red. Go among your folks and get your pockets full of whatever they’ve got you can eat on a long haul. Once we roll, there’ll be no stopping for Lord knows how long. After that, come back here to me, and I’ll give you a job damn few men could do right. Then we’ll see how good you are, for sure.”

  Lige’s eyes flickered over the boys. He spat and smiled thinly. “Looks like they’d crowd the gate of hell for you, Kit.”

  “It’s going to take that, Lige. Maybe even more.” He stood in his stirrups to see the wagons. The distance was too great and the night too dark. He wheeled his horse. “They ought to have ’em ironed out by now, Lige. Only a little while till dawn. Let’s ride the circle and find out.”

  They rode slowly, talking to men and seeing the deep, solemn questions, unspoken in the women’s faces. Lige squirmed under the hopeful, almost prayerful looks. Kit’s face was impassive and flinty, like his eyes. Whatever he felt didn’t show until Allie Burgess came up out of the darkness and stood framed beside the immense side of a prairie schooner. She regarded him steadily with an expression almost as blank as his own. Their glances met, held, then dropped away as Kit nodded and made no move to stop. Lige looked quickly from one to the other, then followed Kit with a worried frown.

  The people had their wagons loaded, their teams ready, and were waiting with a depth of desperate hopefulness for Kit, who all acknowledged as leader, to pass the next order down the line. He rode to the middle of the wagon circle and leaned forward in his stirrups, seeing the faint, pale globes that were faces. There was a painful silence. He waited until it was drawn out thin, then he turned swiftly to Lige.

  “See that wagon with the fire-arrow holes in it, up ahead? The one on your right?”

  “With the gray leaders?”

  “Yes. Go over to that wagon, Lige, and have that fellow lead out. Wait a minute. As soon as he’s strung out of the circle, the teams behind him are to follow. Make sure they’ve got the teams behind them lashed to the tailgates or running gear of the wagon ahead. We don’t want a space a Dakota can slip through at all.” Lige was listening with a perplexed scowl.

  “See the wagon just ahead of the one with the fire-arrow holes in its shroud?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, have that one swing in close to your other wagon and every wagon behind him follow along.”

  “Make two lines, one beside the other?”

  “No,” Kit said with a shake of his head. “Every wagon’s got to slant outward, Lige. Form the whole wagon train into a big V.”

  “Oh … hell!” Lige said, understanding flooding in. Then he began to grin. The expression grew until it almost split his face. “I’ll be damned. I’d’ve never thought of that, Kit.”

  Unheeding, his eyes slitted, Kit swung an arm backward to indicate the loose stock. “The thing is, Lige, we’ll have our animals protected that way. That’s what the Dakotas’re after right now more than our topknots. That’s why I wanted that redheaded boy to mount up his friends. We’ll put the cattle and horses inside the V and use those boys to close up the back end of it. See?”

  “You’re a regular damned medicine man, Kit. I apologize.”

  “Nothing to apologize for, Lige. You never said anything.”

  “No,” Lige said slowly, “but I sure as hell was thinking a lot.”

  Kit turned when a rider came up beside him. It was the youth on his Indian horse. Kit explained briefly what he wanted done. Red listened, asked several questions, then dropped back to round up his friends. His face was alight with responsibility. He wore it confidently, enthusiastically, as youth always does.

  “Lige, you tell the ones on your side of the wagons what we want, and I’ll take the other half. After that, you stay with the wagons.”

  “What’re you going to do?”

  “Take every man who can fork a horse and throw out a screen of riders across the front and down the sides of our V.”

  Lige fished up a plug, worried off a corner, tongued it, spat, and, throwing back his head, let out his war cry. The effect was startling. The emigrants sprang upright as though the Indians were upon them. Kit looked annoyed but said nothing. The tension showed now more than ever. He stood in his stirrups and shouted out what he wanted them all to do, then he rode toward one wagon, and Lige rode toward the one next to it.

  The actual breaking up of the circle didn’t take long. By dawn’s first gray streaks, the V was taking shape. Men shouted at their animals and one another. The boys on their Indian horses yelled from effervescence only. They had no trouble holding the loose stock within the long wings—fifteen huge wagons long, plus from four to six teams longer. When the huge, ungainly-looking V was moving and straightening out, assuming perspective and shape, Kit dropped back and called out the riders. They came in a gray stream of horsemen. Lige rode loosely ahead of them to where Kit was waiting.

  “Kit? Hell, they don’t need me inside the V. S’pose I take the lead up ahead?”

  “All right. Fine idea, Lige, but watch like a cussed hawk. They’ll be in the grass like snakes.”

  “Too bad it’s too green to burn,” Lige said just before he rode away.

  The emigrant men looked capable enough. Tired, disheveled, filthy—with shiny grease-like sweat, sunken eyes that glittered with deep resolve, and guns gripped more confidently—they were a disreputable-looking lot, but steady. It made Kit feel good to see them coming toward him like that. Funny what adversity does to men, he thought. They don’t even look like the same men Powers governed as wagon boss.

  “Boys, they’ll be out there ahead of us. They’re afoot, as you know, except for a handful of them. They’ll have one advantage over you. They’ll be low in the grass, shooting up. You’ll be on your horses, mounted and good targets.”

  “We could walk,” a man said roughly.

  “No, you’ve got horses and that’s better’n shelter. You can run ’em down
and that’s worth more than being hidden. We’ll have fights right along, I’m convinced of that, but if we don’t break and let ’em draw us off, we’ll whip ’em. Remember that one thing. If you chase a buck, don’t go more than a hundred feet or so. If he gets away, let him go. It’s a damn sight more important to guard the wagons than to kill a few Dakotas.” He looked past them where the high-hooped wagons were rumbling, stirring up dust even though the dew still lay lightly on the ground. Great, cumbersome vehicles, lurching, waddling, rolling across untracked wilderness.

  “Fan out across the front of the train and down the sides. We won’t use much of a rear guard. There’re boys back there, and if we sweep clean ahead, they won’t do much damage behind us. Stay out a couple hundred feet from the wagons. The worst danger right now is the teams. Every horse or ox they down will delay us that much. That’s what you’re for. Protect the wagon train, and don’t take any chances while you’re doing it. Anything that’s moving in the grass, shoot.” He turned his head and looked up where Lige was. “Anyone want to say anything?”

  “Yeah,” a bearded man with a swarthy face said. “How’ll we know who’s to ride where?”

  Kit regarded the man for a moment before he answered him. “Listen, mister … from now on you’re a westerner. You stand on your own damn two feet and you use your God-given head. If you don’t, you’ll make grass grow for future generations. If you do, you won’t have to ask damn fool questions like that. Wherever you see a gap, fill in. Whenever you see an enemy, shoot. Don’t wait for someone to tell you to.” He swung his arm. “Half on the far side of the train, the others here. Point your half circle so’s there’ll be at least ten men up front, behind Lige. Let’s ride!”

  Kit broke away and loped up to Lige. The emigrants milled a little, then several men among them led contingents of the riders around the front of the train and down the north side.

  Lige watched and looked approvingly at the scene as daylight pinkened and the diorama of their strategy showed clearly. Wagons rolling westward, outriders far away on both sides sweeping the valley, and a hard core of older men, mostly bearded and bleak-looking under their old hats, walking their horses slowly, purposefully, up where Kit and Lige sat side-by-side, studying their wagon train. “Damnedest thing I ever seen, Kit.”

  “Me, too. It better work, though.”

  “Work? Hell, it’ll work all right. Only thing now is how we’re going to get through the passes.”

  Kit nodded and lifted his reins. “That’s something else. We’ll sweat over that when we get there. Right now, I’m thinking about Big Eagle’s men of war. They’ll be watching us, figuring where a weak spot is.”

  “There ain’t a weak spot,” Lige said firmly.

  “Better not be.”

  Kit rode to meet the men who were stopped, waiting. “Do whatever Lige tells you to do, boys.” Accepting their tight-mouth nods, he rode on down the skirmish line and didn’t turn until he was almost behind the train. There, he could see how young Red Houston and his cohorts were effectively blocking off the escape route for the loose stock inside the V.

  The entire thing was working out even better than he had hoped it would. Survival, he thought. Corner a weasel and he’ll fight like a grizzly. Show emigrants that they would survive only if they fought like Indians and used cover, even if they had to create it, and they’d learn damn fast.

  He went far around the back of the wide wings of the train and across to the other outriders. So far no one had seen an Indian, evidently, because the only popping sounds came from long rawhide drover’s whips. Still, they hadn’t rolled more than a half mile.

  He completed his circle and found nothing that he would alter. Riding slowly far ahead, where Lige was spearheading the caravan, he swung to travel stirrup to stirrup with his partner.

  “Anything yet?”

  Lige shot him a squinting look. “Nope, can’t make out what they’re up to. Haven’t seen even a sentinel yet.”

  “Don’t fret, Lige,” he said softly. “They won’t disappoint you.”

  Chapter Nine

  The sun came up and dappled them with warmth. It flung down a red banner then faded fast, unrolling its fiery carpet until the land grew dusty again.

  The wagon train was rocking with unwieldy majesty in its unprecedented V shape. Sunken-eyed men, wolflike, rode far out in front and trailed down both sides.

  The Indians appeared as if by magic, when they finally came. Less than two score were astride. The rest were afoot. A long, motionless line of footmen, they stared at the strange sight. Kit snorted and jutted his chin toward them.

  “If they stand and fight, Lige, it’ll be the first time I ever saw ’em do it.”

  “They won’t,” Lige said. But he was wrong. Kit knew they were both wrong when the scouts far ahead drew up before the train, just beyond rifle range, waiting, looking back and waiting. Kit sunk in his spurs and loped ahead. Lige was beside him.

  The Indians didn’t fade away as they ordinarily did. Kit scowled at them and held up his hand to stop the wagons. The soft, billowing cloud of dust came lazily up where the emigrant outriders were. Lige growled deep in his throat.

  Kit swung to face him, still frowning. “More to this than we can see, pardner,” he said. “Take the riders on a circle of the train. Station ’em where they were, on both sides, and make ’em stay there.” He shot another long, thoughtful glance at the Dakotas. “They aren’t all up there, Lige. That’s to draw our attention.”

  Lige’s voice crackled out orders. The horsemen swung in behind him, all but ten or twelve that Lige left with Kit, and made a fast, hard-riding circle. An emigrant got bucked off a Dakota horse, and as the riders swung back with the caught horse—leading it up to the emigrant who was trotting to meet them—they saw the man stop rigid, rise to his full height on his toes before he pitched over face down in the grass. They could see the long, slender shaft sticking out of his back. With a bellow, Lige whirled and led his riders in a furious charge across the valley floor.

  The Indian scouts, far ahead, leaped up wildly and turned to flee. It had been one of them, a hotblood, who had foolishly killed the white man. Now, gunfire shattered the stillness, and Indians ran as hard as they could until they were shot down.

  Back a ways and quite a distance off, a large war party was shouting and running forward to help their friends. They weren’t strong enough, though. The horsemen slid to a grinding halt and used their guns with terrible effect. The dismounted Oglala Dakotas broke and fled.

  “Hold it, dammit! Come back here!”

  Lige’s voice was like the rolling blast of a brass cannon. He was red-faced and icy-eyed. The emigrants turned back and watched the men of war streak it for the trees, with angry glares. Lige motioned for two men to take the dead emigrant back to the wagons, then he swung and shouted orders, splitting up the men and sending them around the rear of the stalled train, where white faces were watching. His words were scathing and fierce, but he told them what they were to do, and the men did it.

  He rode back up to Kit, with a crimson stain still mottling his dark face, sent a withering stare at the watching Indians, and cursed.

  Kit smiled thinly at him. “Got your dander up, didn’t they? Well, let’s see if they’ll stand.” He twisted in the saddle and waved the train forward. The cry of drovers came softly. Cattle lowed and wagons rumbled.

  Kit rode slowly, hardly blinking. The Indians stood steady. When they were within rifle range, Lige held up his gun. The symbol was a warning to the Dakotas. They answered it with an angry shout and a few harmless shots. Kit reined up, looked back, and saw that the wagons were coming at their snail’s pace. Dismounting, he cocked his carbine, kneeled down, took a long aim, and fired. The shot was wasted. He had thought it would be. They were within range, but still too far apart for good aim.

  The emigrants took their cue from Kit. Even Lige,
but the old mountain man shot from his horse’s back, using his left arm, crossed and rigid, as his gun rest. The shots blossomed out savagely, making snarling noises and little puffs of smoke.

  The horses danced a little. Kit remounted and rode steadily forward. The Dakotas fanned out. Some of the long-range shots must have scored. They spread out in the grass, kneeling so that much of their bodies were hidden. The little band of horsemen turned abruptly and rode south, far around the outflung barrier that barred the wagon train’s path.

  Kit watched them closely. The Indian horsemen were the strongest, most mobile hope the Dakotas had. They certainly dared not engage in close warfare with the whites, but they were a long way from being valueless.

  The routed warriors, some limping, all shiny with sweat, were coming down out of the forest far south, where they met the mounted warriors. There was a brief council. Kit couldn’t see what motions they made; the distance was too great. But the horsemen swung far off and paralleled the train, riding slowly down the south side. Kit looked forward again. The majority of the Indians were low in the grass. His insides churned.

  “Lige, the riders are going around behind us. Take fifteen or twenty men and—”

  “Ten’ll do, Kit. You’ll need the rest.” Lige spun and rode back down the line, calling out names.

  Kit had an uneasy moment when he thought of the boys holding the gap behind the train’s V. He sucked his mouth inward. There was nothing he could do back there. Lige would do all that could be done, anyway. He spoke to the man beside him without looking around. “Go collect all the men Lige didn’t take and fetch ’em up here. Hurry, time’s a-wasting.”

  The riders came in a fast gallop. Kit hardly gave them time to draw rein. “Follow me! We’ve got to scatter those men up ahead before they down some animals.”

  They rode, stiff and upright, in a jolting trot until they were close enough to see the smoke puffs and hear the whine of Dakota bullets. Then Kit sat deep in the saddle, drew his handgun, and leaned a little. “Let’s go!”