Hunters

by James Reasoner

  Unless the Indian was trying to see how many men were in the group, so he could go back and tell the rest of the war party and they could plan their attack.

  Back in the sixties, when the hunters had first started coming out here to the plains after the war, the Pawnee and the Cheyenne had put up fierce resistance to that unwanted incursion into their hunting grounds.

  Sometimes a single shooter would go out with one wagon and a couple of skinners, and almost inevitably those brave but foolish gents wound up scalped and mutilated. Even larger groups were attacked, too.

  Over time the hunters had learned that parties numbering at least a couple of dozen well-armed men were usually safe. The Indians had tried to attack those groups, too, but the men were good shots and had long-range rifles, and their accurate fire took a deadly toll.

  The cavalry had stepped up its patrols as well. Taken together, those things meant that the danger from an attack by the savages had gone down considerably.

  The threat still couldn’t be ruled out, though. Earlier this summer, a veritable army of Indians had wiped out Colonel George Armstong Custer and the Seventh Cavalry up in Montana.

  If enough of the Indians down here on the southern plains ever got together like that, there was no telling what they could do. A party of buffalo hunters wouldn’t stand a chance in hell against them, that much was certain.

  “Look at that dust up ahead,” McGinty said. “We’ve found ’em, Ward.”

  Costigan nodded. “I think you’re right.”

  Because the buffalo herds moved so slowly, they didn’t really kick up a cloud of dust. But that many hooves shifting around produced a thin haze that hung in the air when there wasn’t much wind, like today.

  It was easy to miss seeing that haze, but experienced hunters were able to spot it. Costigan and McGinty needed to make sure they had found their quarry, though, so they rode on until they would see the vast brown stain across the landscape.

  Ten years earlier, the big herds might include millions of buffalo, and when a herd like that was on the move, a man could sit on a hill and watch them sweep past all day without the shaggy tide ever coming to an end.

  A decade of hunting had reduced those numbers, but a good-sized herd could still have thousands of the beasts in it.

  This herd had been about fifteen thousand strong when they started thinning it out, Costigan estimated. The hunting party had killed several thousand since then, but there were still a lot of buffalo out there.

  The two men reined in atop a gentle rise and sat there for a moment looking out over the grazing herd. McGinty said, “The colonel and the wagons aren’t much more’n a mile behind us. We better get back and let them know what we found.”

  Costigan nodded and started to turn his horse.

  He stopped as all the breath seemed to go out of him. He felt like he’d been punched in the chest hard enough to stop his heart from beating.

  In a choked voice, he struggled to say, “Dave…look over yonder to the north.”

  Another bluff lay in that direction, maybe a quarter of a mile away. Costigan could see clearly the three men who sat there on horseback, unmoving. Even though the three figures were too far away to make out any details, Costigan recognized their watchful attitude.

  “Son of a bitch,” McGinty said softly under his breath. “What do you think, Ward? Are they gonna jump us?”

  “It would be three against two, and we’ve got Sharpses and Henrys. They’d never get close to us, and they’re bound to know that.”

  “Yeah, three against two,” McGinty said, “unless there’s five hundred more of the red-skinned varmints right on the other side of that ridge.”

  Costigan’s shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. “If there are, there’s not much we can do about it.”

  McGinty tightened his grip on his horse’s reins. “Let’s make a run for the wagons,” he suggested. “It’ll be a good race. Those Injun ponies are fast.”

  “Hold on. We’ll go back to the wagons, but we’re not gonna make a run for it. Let’s just take it nice and easy.”

  Costigan heeled the roan into a walk. McGinty followed suit on his dun, but his eyes were big with fear.

  “You think we can fool ’em into believin’ we didn’t see ’em?”

  “I’m not sure we could fool those old boys about much of anything,” Costigan said. “They know we spotted them. And now we’re letting them know that we’re not afraid of them.”

  “Who says we ain’t scared of them?”

  “Well…they don’t have to know it.”

  Costigan watched the three Indians from the corner of his eye as he and McGinty rode back toward the rest of the hunting party.

  The colonel and the wagons had been pushing on the whole time, and Costigan knew it wouldn’t be long before they came in sight.

  Before that could happen, the three watchers wheeled their ponies and disappeared. McGinty heaved a sigh, then said, “I shouldn’t be relieved, should I? They could’ve just gone back to fetch the rest of their bunch.”

  “Or it could’ve been just the three of them out doing some hunting of their own,” Costigan said. “Let’s not borrow trouble, Dave.”

  “I don’t have to borrow it. It usually comes up and drops right in my arms without me even askin’ for it.”

  Not today, though, Costigan thought. The Indians were gone, and he had a hunch they wouldn’t be back.

  At least not right away.

  But even though he was calm outwardly, on the inside he heard the sounds of battle, the screams of dying men, the rumble of artillery like the pounding of distant drums. The smell of blood filled his nostrils, and it didn’t come from the buffalo he would kill today. As it had for years, death rode at his side like a boon companion.

  As they came in sight of the wagons, Dave McGinty blew out his breath and said, “Son of a gun. We made it. I don’t know about you, but I could sure use a drink.”

  Costigan didn’t say anything.

  Some memories all the booze in the world couldn’t banish.

  Chapter 4

  For a long moment following Captain Stone’s pronouncement, Bill could only stare at the officer. When he was able to speak again, he said, “Savages? Depredations? What are you talking about, Captain?”

  “The Indians, of course. The Pawnee, to be precise. They’re on the warpath.”

  “I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” Stone said, with the air of a grown-up patiently explaining something to a child.

  “From what I’ve heard, there hasn’t been any Indian trouble in these parts for a long time. I don’t think they’ve ever attacked the town itself.”

  “Possibly not, but a Pawnee war chief named Spotted Dog led a sizable contingent of warriors off the reservation several weeks ago, and since then they’ve raided several ranches northwest of here and even attacked a train. Patrols are out looking for them, and eventually they’ll either be forced back to the reservation or wiped out. But in the meantime it was deemed necessary to alert the civilian population, so my men and I were assigned to that task.”

  Stone didn’t sound too happy about it, either, Bill thought. The captain probably would have rather been commanding one of those patrols that was actually searching for the renegades.

  For a cavalry officer, winning a battle was the fastest and easiest way of advancing his career.

  To give himself a chance to think, Bill took several sips of the hot coffee. He didn’t know how to handle the threat of an Indian attack. He had figured his main responsibility as marshal would be to break up the occasional bar fight and throw the drunken brawlers in the hoosegow to cool off overnight.

  There might be outlaws to deal with from time to time, too, but a Pawnee war party…that was a military matter.

  “Captain, you’re gonna need to talk to the mayor and the town council and tell them about the Indians. They’re the ones who’ll have to decide what to do about
this.”

  “Whatever preparations they decide to make are none of my business. I’ve done the job I came to do. You can pass along the information to whomever you choose.”

  “Wait just a minute,” Bill said. “They need to hear this from you.”

  Stone sighed in what sounded like exasperation. “Very well. If you can assemble those individuals quickly, I’ll speak to them. But I don’t have a lot of time to waste, Marshal. My men and I need to move out as soon as we can. We have other communities to warn, you know.”

  Bill set his half-empty coffee cup on the desk and started toward the door. He reached for his hat.

  “I’ll go round ’em up right now,” he said. “The town hall’s across the street, a couple doors down from Monroe Mercantile. I’ll tell the council members to get there as fast as they can.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll check on my men and horses,” Stone said.

  Bill hurried out of the office. He headed first for the bank, where he knew he would find Roy Fleming, who owned the establishment and was also the mayor of Redemption.

  Mason Jones, the head teller at the bank and the only one who appeared to be working at the moment, didn’t have anybody at his window, so he gave Bill a friendly nod.

  “Morning, Marshal,” he said. “Come to make a deposit?”

  “Hate to dash your hopes, Mason, but I need to see Mr. Fleming.”

  Jones nodded toward the closed door of the bank president’s office. “He’s in a meeting. Probably be best not to disturb him right now.”

  Bill wasn’t sure some business deal could be more important than the prospect of a Pawnee war party attacking the town, but at the same time he didn’t want to get on Fleming’s bad side. As mayor, he was Bill’s boss, after all.

  “As soon as he’s through, could you tell him to come over to the town hall right away? I’m getting the council together for an important meeting.”

  Jones’s eyebrows went up. A worried look appeared on the man’s narrow face.

  “Another gang of outlaws isn’t about to attack the town, is it?” he asked.

  “No, nothing like that,” Bill said.

  Not outlaws. Just hostile Indians.

  Bill didn’t like keeping the information from the teller, but Mason Jones was a notorious gossip and would spread the news all over town if he got a chance. Bill didn’t want that happening until he found out how the council wanted to proceed.

  “Does this have something to do with those cavalrymen who rode into town a while ago?”

  “Just tell Mr. Fleming what I said, would you, Mason?”

  “Of course,” Jones replied with an offended sniff.

  Bill hustled out of the bank and started toward the law office of Judge Kermit Dunaway. The judge was Redemption’s justice of the peace and wasn’t an official member of the town council, but he was part of the inner circle of the town’s leaders and would be in on any decision, anyway.

  Bill nodded distractedly to people who greeted him on the street. He couldn’t stop thinking about the Indians.

  Where he grew up down in south Texas, around Victoria and Hallettsville, Indians hadn’t been a problem, although some of the old-timers still talked about the Long Raid back in the forties, when a large band of Comanche had come down from their home in northwestern Texas and marauded all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, leaving death and destruction in their wake.

  But even though he hadn’t lived in constant fear of such an attack, like everybody else in Texas he had heard plenty of stories about the atrocities carried out by the Comanche elsewhere in the state.

  He didn’t figure the Pawnee were as bad as the Comanch’, but he was sure they were plenty dangerous. The idea of a war party rampaging through Redemption, setting fire to the buildings and murdering and mutilating the citizens, filled him with both dread and anger.

  Such a thing wasn’t going to happen while he was marshal, he vowed to himself. Not if he had anything to say about it.

  Bill went up the stairs on the outside of the hardware store. Judge Dunaway had his office on the second floor of the building. He answered, “Come in,” to Bill’s knock.

  The judge was at his desk with his coat and beaver hat off and his shirt collar loosened. Papers were scattered in front of him and he had a pen in his hand. He was a heavyset man with a broad, florid face and graying red hair. When he was conducting a trial he could be pretty intimidating, but now as he looked up at Bill he wore a friendly expression.

  “Come in, Marshal, come in,” he said in a hearty voice. “What brings you here on this fine morning?”

  “I’m not sure how fine a mornin’ it is, Judge,” Bill said. “Can you come down to the town hall for a few minutes? I’m getting the council together, and as justice of the peace I figure you ought to be there, too.”

  Dunaway’s bushy red brows bunched in a frown. “That sounds like there’s trouble.”

  “Could be. But I’d just as soon wait until everybody’s together to lay it all out.”

  Dunaway considered for a moment and then nodded. “All right.” He started to get up but stopped while he was still in his chair. “Is there any chance I might need to be armed?”

  Bill thought about it and said, “Might not be a bad idea, Judge.”

  Dunaway opened a drawer in the desk, reached in, and brought out a small pistol. He stood up and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers.

  “I’ll be along,” he said.

  Bill nodded and left the office.

  In short order, he paid visits to the livery stable run by Josiah Hartnett, Leo Kellogg’s tailor shop, and the shed where Charley Hobbs made saddles, holsters, and other leather goods. Hartnett, Kellogg, and Hobbs were all members of the council, as well, and although they were curious, they agreed to come to the town hall for the meeting.

  That just left Monroe Mercantile. Bill’s father-in-law, Perry Monroe, had been appointed recently by Mayor Fleming to serve out the remainder of the term of a councilman who had passed away.

  Bill had waited until last to visit the general store because he knew it was going to be almost impossible for him to keep the truth from Eden. If she asked him what was going on, he wouldn’t have any choice but to tell her.

  Other than a couple of local ladies looking through the bolts of fabric stacked on a table, Perry Monroe sitting on a tall stool behind the counter, and Benjy Cobb sorting out some harnesses that had gotten tangled up, the store was empty. Eden must have gone back to the Monroe house already to prepare lunch, Bill thought.

  “Hello, Bill,” Monroe greeted him. “If you’re looking for Eden, she’s not here. She left a few minutes ago.”

  “I figured as much, sir. And it’s really you I came to see, Mr. Monroe.”

  “Oh? Why’s that? And I reckon you can start calling me Perry any day now, you know, since we’re related and all.”

  Perry Monroe was big, barrel-chested, and had a long white beard like an Old Testament prophet. Bill figured the odds of him ever being comfortable calling his father-in-law by his first name were pretty slim. Right now, though, that wasn’t exactly important.

  “There’s an emergency meeting of the town council about to start in a few minutes,” Bill said. “I’d sure appreciate it if you could go down to the town hall. Benjy can watch the store, can’t you, Benjy?”

  Cobb nodded eagerly. “I sure can, Mr. Monroe,” he said. Bill knew that Cobb was trying to stop drinking so much, and right now he seemed completely sober.

  Monroe frowned. “What’s going on, Bill?” he asked. “What’s this meeting about?”

  Bill glanced at the two customers. The ladies were trying not to look like they were listening, but really they were hanging on to every word, he thought.

  “It’s just some council business,” he said. “I’ll explain when everybody’s there.”

  “I’ll bet it has something to do with those soldier boys,” Cobb said. “Are they gonna build a fort here, Bill? Is that it?”

>   “Not that I know of,” Bill answered honestly. Although a fort would be a handy thing to have around. It would certainly make the town safer from Indians.

  On the other hand, a fort would mean a lot of soldiers who would get drunk, get in fights, and get in trouble when they were off duty, which would mean a lot more work for the local law, namely him.

  Anyway, it didn’t matter because the army wasn’t going to build a fort here. They weren’t even going to leave any troops here temporarily. Captain Stone had made it clear that he and his patrol would be moving on as soon as they could.

  That meant if the Indians did show up, the citizens of Redemption were going to be on their own.

  Monroe came out from behind the counter in the rear of the store, untying his apron as he did so. He tossed the apron on the counter and said to Bill, “All right, let’s go. Have you talked to the other members of the council yet?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “So I was the last one, eh? Probably wise of you, son. If Eden had been here, she would have wormed the truth out of you with no trouble at all.”

  “Yes, sir,” Bill agreed. “I sure know it.”

  It took them only a moment to head down the boardwalk to the town hall. As they did, Bill looked across the street and saw Captain Stone talking to the sergeant. The troopers were sitting or standing on the opposite boardwalk, taking a few minutes of ease while they had the chance.

  The other members of the council were already in the town hall, sitting at the long table where they conducted business and talking among themselves. They fell silent and turned curious looks toward Bill as he came in with Perry Monroe.

  “Thanks for comin’ on short notice like this,” Bill told them.

  Mayor Fleming, round-faced and usually filled with a politician’s natural affability, didn’t look happy at the moment. He said, “I hope this is important, Marshal. I was discussing some business matters with a gentleman who plans to establish a new grain warehouse here in Redemption.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Mayor, I think it’s mighty important,” Bill said. “I’ll be right back.”