The Ghost Dancers (A Crossed Arrows Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Now, because the danger to the railroad was over, the president of the line sent rifles in their stock to Fort Lone Wolf for the scout detachment’s permanent use. This windfall included five hundred rounds of ammunition. The repeating long arms had fifteen-round cartridge tubes that provided better firepower than army carbines

  After these unexpected weapons were placed in the ordnance storehouse, Captain Hawkins and his men had one more pleasant surprise. This was an authorization from Department Headquarters at Fort Sill to enlist one more Kiowa or Comanche Indian as a scout. When this was announced, it started a great stir among the male Indians at the agency who had been forced into farming; an activity they loathed with every fiber of their being.

  When Captain Mack Hawkins and Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley went out to the Southern Kiowa-Comanche Agency to enlist a single volunteer, they were overwhelmed by the number of Indians who wanted to join the United States Army. The agent Ned Turpin provided a table and two chairs inside the agency store to hold interviews.

  Many of the applicants were older men even though it had been announced the age for enlistment was between eighteen and thirty years. A few of these individual Indians had actually fought against the U.S. Army in the old days, and argued that age was irrelevant. They had already proven their fighting ability. The youngest of these former Kiowa and Comanche warriors were in their forties while one wrinkled old ex-warrior was obviously in his eighties. There were also some young aspirants with obvious physical disabilities that would prevent them from passing the army medical exams. They were turned down politely and gratefully by Hawkins and Ludlow.

  The process took all that day and it wasn’t until early dusk that the captain and lieutenant enlisted who they considered the right man. He was an eighteen-year-old Kiowa by the name of Michael Strongbow. He was physically fit, intelligent and literate, being a graduate of the agency school.

  When Michael first stood in front of the officers, Ludlow asked him about his name. The young man replied, “My father’s name is Strong Bow. I am now using it as our family name. All my children will have the surname of Strongbow. Then my grandchildren and great-grandchildren forever and ever will be known as the Strongbow family.”

  “That makes sense,” Captain Hawkins allowed. “So why did you choose to call yourself ‘Michael’?”

  “I learned in church that Michael the Archangel cast Satan into hell,” Michael answered. “That makes him the strongest warrior of them all. I wish to carry his name.”

  Ludlow smiled. “That’s a pretty good recommendation, Michael.”

  Hawkins put the enlistment papers on the table. “Sign on the bottom line, Scout Strongbow.”

  Chapter Two

  The town of Hope Wells in the Arizona Territory was located ten miles from the Guerras Apache Reservation. The community numbered some two thousand inhabitants, and was a stop on the Arizona and New Mexico Railroad. This communication with the outside world provided the town with a fair prosperity, although the community wasn’t a regular stop. The trains only halted when a passenger wanted on or off. The main purpose of the depot was as a telegraph relay station.

  A large spring in the hills north of Hope Wells formed a pond that overflowed into an unnamed creek. This channel ran a crooked downhill course into a wide open area where a cattle outfit owned by a leathery old rancher by the name of Arlo Wheatfield was located. It continued on to Hope Wells, narrowing down and flowing through the community to eventually run into an underground cavern in a boulder-strewn gorge. No one knew where it continued from there.

  The waterway was in actuality a small river; three to six feet deep with a varying width between five and ten yards. The water table in the vicinity of the town was high, and the residents digging wells only had to go down ten or so feet to find water.

  Because of the proximity of the Apache reservation, a deputy United States marshal was stationed in the town. This was Dennis O’Rourke who maintained a small headquarters in a corner of the post office. He resided in a boarding house run by a Widow Benson. She provided good food, a clean residence and nice parlor and front porch for lounging and conversation.

  O’Rourke had recently retired from the Army with the rank of regimental sergeant major and found a job with the U.S. Marshal’s office in Bisbee. O’Rourke was given the Hope Wells appointment due to the customary practice that the last man hired always went to that community. This was because it was the most unpopular appointment due to a lack of law enforcement activity. It was also an ironic assignment for O’Rourke. During his military career, he had fought Apaches— including the Guerras— and undoubtedly would come into contact with former enemies on any official business he might have on the reservation.

  O’Rourke, like all marshals, received no regular salary. He was paid two dollars per arrest, six cents for each mile traveled while on duty, and seventy-five cents a day to feed his prisoners. But O’Rourke didn’t have anybody to arrest, no reason to travel and no prisoners to feed. If it hadn’t been for his $22.50 a month army retirement, he would have needed a moonlighting job in town. Thus, he spent most of his days sitting in his office, passing the time by doing bureaucratic paperwork, sifting through wanted posters, and playing endless games of solitaire. Now and then he visited the sheriff’s office for coffee and conversation.

  The local law was enforced by Sheriff Dan Martin and his deputy Arnie Schmidt. They established a rapport with O’Rourke out of professional courtesy. Sometimes they hired him to take the nightshifts at the jail so they could have the evening off. He received a dollar a night for the job.

  O’Rourke, a lifelong bachelor, was a large man, heavy with raw muscle. Many times during his army career he had adjusted the attitudes of surly soldiers with his fists and boots. This restless, frustrated ex-sergeant major seethed at the lack of action and conflict in Hope Wells. His fondest hope was for outlaws to roar into town and rob a bank or commit some other crime. That way he could make some money, and also get a chance to shoot somebody.

  Captain Mack Hawkins had been extremely agitated about two things. The first was the ongoing strife with his fiancée Kristina Halverson who taught school at the Southern Kiowa-Comanche Agency. If she married Hawkins, she would have to give up her job since the Army did not allow the wives of officers to have working careers. So far Kristina could not make herself resign from teaching the Indian kids she cared for with all her heart.

  The second bit of irritation in the captain’s craw was that alert for a possible assignment to the Arizona Territory. It had been hanging over his head since returning from Montana and he was sick and tired of the vagueness of the situation. He eventually turned the detachment over to Lieutenant Ludlow Dooley while he rode to Fort Sill to make inquiries about the Arizona situation. His last order before departing was for Ludlow to check the status of their requisition of .44 caliber ammunition for the Winchester 73 rifles.

  Ludlow had already sent three requests for updates on the matter without any luck during the past week. The problem was that the detachment was not authorized .44 caliber ammunition because their issued weapons were .45 caliber. Thus, after Captain Hawkins rode off to Fort Sill, the young officer decided to take matters into his own hands.

  Ludlow Dooley was from a wealthy eastern banking family. In fact, there were four generations of Dooleys who were millionaires. Robert Dooley his father was president of the Merchants and Investors Bank in New York City. He had set up a trust fund for Ludlow that was twice that of the young man’s $105 a month army pay. Ludlow kept that a personal secret, even from Captain Hawkins. He felt other officers would resent his hefty income while they had to live on their military salaries.

  Ludlow sat down at his desk in the orderly room and penned a letter to his pater asking him to purchase some ammunition for those lovely Winchester rifles, and ship the cargo to the railhead north of Fort Sill.

  Deputy United States Marshal Dennis O’Rourke had just finished a game of solitaire and was shuffling the car
ds for another. He was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of rancher Arlo Wheatfall. This old timer had a contract to deliver cattle to the Apaches at the Guerras reservation.

  “Hey, Marshal,” Arlo blurted out. “I just took a beat-up whiskey peddler over to Doc Simpson’s office.”

  O’Rourke was slightly irritated. “That’s interesting. I hope he gets well quick.”

  “No! No! You don’t understand, Marshal.”

  O’Rourke growled, “What’s not to understand?”

  “Me and my boys was leaving the reservation after delivering cattle to the Apaches. We found that feller and brung him to town.”

  Now O’Rourke was interested since the reservation was within his jurisdiction. “How do you know he was a whiskey peddler?”

  “Because he had likker poured all over him by the Injuns,” Arlo said. “Then they busted up the barrels. After that his wagon was burned up and they stole his mules or horses or whatever he had in the traces.”

  O’Rourke didn’t believe Apaches did it. “It must’ve been a disagreement with another liquor salesmen that got him whipped. I know Apaches, and you can bet they would’ve throwed him in that fire.”

  “Well,” Arlo replied, “somebody— Injuns or whites— beat the shit out of him.”

  “Mmm, he broke Federal law if he was on the reservation with whiskey, “ O’Rourke mused, happy at the thought of the two dollars he’d earn for arresting the man. “Thanks for the information, Arlo.”

  The marshal left his office and strode rapidly down the street to Doctor Harold Simpson’s infirmary. A couple of people were in the waiting room when he arrived, and watched with interest as he barged through the door and into the treatment room. Dr. Simpson was bandaging a patient, and he scowled at O’Rourke’s sudden entrance.

  The smell of whiskey was strong in the room. O’Rourke asked, “Who’s drunk?”

  “Nobody is drunk, Marshal,” the doctor answered. “This fellow was drenched from head to foot with liquor.”

  O’Rourke studied the patient, who eyed him with a surly glaze. The marshal glared back, then turned his attention to the doctor. “How bad is he, Doc?”

  Simpson shrugged. “He’s been given a thorough beating, Marshal. He won’t die, but he’s going to wish he did for a week or so.”

  “Okay,” O’Rourke said. He now looked at the man. “What’s your name?”

  “Horace Blevins.”

  “You was peddling liquor on the Injun reservation, wasn’t you?”

  “No.”

  O’Rourke reached out to grab Blevins and pull him up into sitting position, but the doctor stopped him. The marshal stepped back. “I got a witness that said you was laying among a bunch of busted up whiskey barrels.”

  Blevins showed a weak sneer. “That proves I didn’t sell any.”

  “I’ll give you that, since they poured it all over you,” O’Rourke said. “But you was on an Injun reservation with liquor. That’s as bad as selling it, so I’m putting you under arrest.”

  “Right now,” Blevins mumbled, “I don’t give a shit one way or the other.”

  “Tell me who done it. One of your competitors, no doubt.”

  Blevins showed a sign of agitation. “It was Injuns who done it.”

  “Don’t get smart with me, Blevins! The last thing Injuns are gonna do is beat up a feller that brings liquor to ‘em.”

  “Well, these godamn Injuns just proved that wrong, didn’t they?”

  O’Rourke could tell Blevins wasn’t lying. “You’re still under arrest.” He nodded to Doctor Simpson. “Can he be took down to the jail?”

  “Sure. I don’t suppose it would harm him any to lay on a bunk in the lockup.”

  “Okay. Finish up with him as soon as you can. I’m gonna tell the sheriff to come get him. Then I’m gonna visit the reservation agent and ask a few questions.”

  After calling on Sheriff Mason and making arrangements for confining the whiskey peddler, O’Rourke got his horse from the livery barn for the ride out to the Guerras Reservation. He was in a good mood. Not only had he made two dollars for arresting Blevins, but Sheriff Mason had told him the charge for a day’s food at the jail was twenty-five cents. That meant he could keep fifty cents a day out of what the government would pay him for providing food to a prisoner.

  John Larimer the agent for the Guerras Apache Reservation gave O’Rourke an incredulous look. “Do you have your facts straight, Marshal?”

  “I sure do,” O’Rourke insisted. “Arlo Wheatfall and some of his cowboys found the whiskey peddler out here on the reservation. He was beat up and had whiskey spilt all over him. Then the barrels was knocked apart, and his wagon was burned up. He said Injuns done it, but I figger it was another white man. Apaches would’ve throwed the galoot into the fire or stake him down over an anthill.”

  Larimer was thoughtful for a moment. “And that’s probably correct. Or maybe it isn’t. There’s been some strange things going on among the Injuns for the past few months. They been keeping to themselves and there isn’t been a single drunken fight during all that time. Before now a few of ‘em were always getting drunk and raising hell. It’s kind of eerie, know what I mean? It’s all strange and unusual.”

  O’Rourke the old Indian fighter was surprised. “Anything else that’s out of the ordinary?”

  “Well, things have been quite around here. Real quiet. A few times I saw the flicker of fires over in the hills that went on all night. But like I said, there’s been no trouble. The Apaches come into the agency store and quietly make their purchases, then leave instead of hanging around talking. The same on ration and cattle days. It got me so nervous that I turned in a report to Fort Stryker.”

  “That might or might not bring the Army into the situation,” O’Rourke opined. “Thanks for the information, Mr. Larimer. I got to get back to Hope Wells and see about my pris’ner and write my account of what’s going on.”

  The marshal went out to his horse to begin the ride back to town. He had to agree with the nervous agent. Something was definitely going on with the Apaches. He grinned to himself. This incident could easily evolve into a long investigation.

  Chapter Three

  Captain Mack Hawkins returned to his detachment as agitated as he had been before visiting Fort Sill. Ludlow Dooley had just dismissed the scouts from dismounted drill when he sighted his commanding officer approaching the orderly room. He hurried over to join him.

  “Good morning, sir. Did you find out anything about the Arizona situation?”

  Hawkins shook his head, and entered the building with Ludlow at his heels. The captain settled down behind his desk. “No one knew anything at Fort Sill. Major Whitaker said that a telegraph message had arrived a month or so ago from Fort Stryker about a potential Indian problem. Since then there’s been no further information.”

  “Maybe you should have insisted he make a follow-up inquiry, sir.”

  Hawkins rolled his eyes. “You’re forgetting I’m a captain, Mr. Dooley, and captains do not insist on anything from a major.”

  Ludlow chuckled. “I remember once when you told a major to piss up a rope.”

  “You’re never gonna forget that, are you, Mr. Dooley?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, let’s just ignore that little incident. Nothing bad came of it anyhow. By the way, what about that requisition for the Winchester ammunition?”

  “Still no reply,” Ludlow reported. “But I took some personal action. I wrote my father and asked him to purchase some cartridges and ship them to us.”

  “Good move!” Hawkins exclaimed. “Nothing like having a rich father, hey? How about asking him for some champagne and caviar?”

  Ludlow winced. “Let’s not carry this too far, sir.”

  “Just joking, Mr. Dooley, just joking.”

  “Oh! I almost forgot. Scout Michael Strongbow finished recruit training with the cavalry squadron. So he’s been sent back to us. He returned with a spade and spade sling that
was issued to him. Evidently more will be passed out to the troops when they become available.”

  “Fine,” Hawkins replied without enthusiasm. “Now we know who to call when we need a hole dug.”

  “The training officer said Scout Strongbow did very well. Very well, indeed.”

  Hawkins was pleased. “We obviously made a good choice when we enlisted him.”

  “Indeed we did, sir.”

  “By the way,” Hawkins continued, “there was something positive I did find out at Fort Sill. While I was there, Major Whitaker informed me that because we enlisted that extra man, we can make one of the scouts a corporal.”

  “That’ll give us three noncommissioned officers,” Ludlow said. “Who’re you going to promote?”

  “Tall Bear,” Hawkins replied. “It was a hard choice, but he’s one of the older scouts. None of the others will resent his authority.”

  “I have a suggestion for another change,” Ludlow said. “Since Scout Strongbow is literate why don’t you appoint him as detachment clerk? When we have extra paperwork at the end of the month, he can help us out here in the orderly room.”

  “Good God Almighty!” Hawkins exclaimed with a laugh. “Three noncommissioned officers and a clerk. I feel like I’m in command of a regiment!”

  “Sir,” Ludlow said, “we feel our little detachment is as good as any regiment.”

  It was a dark, cloudy night at the Denton Horse Ranch on the northern edge of the Tierra Brava Desert in the Arizona Territory. J.K. Denton the owner had a contract to provide remounts for Fort Stryker. The business of selling horses to the military had provided a comfortable living for the rancher.

  On this particular night, he was unaware of the two Apache warriors Halkon and Kuchiyo moving across his property as silent as cougars on the prowl. They were on foot while the other half dozen Apaches of the raiding party were on horseback. Halkon and Kuchiyo’s horses were in the care of the youngest man in the group, a sixteen year-old by the name of Muchino. During the waning daylight of evening, they had spotted the crude gate in the barbed wire fence that confined twenty prime horses. Halkon chose that as their objective.