Trial at Fort Keogh

by Charles G. West

  “Morning, sir,” Cox returned.

  “Have you drawn rations and ammunition?”

  “Yes, sir,” Cox replied, “rations for five days and each man a hundred rounds of ammunition, that’s what I was ordered.” He hesitated for a moment before asking, “It’ll only be about an hour before Mess Call. Will we be eating breakfast before we go?”

  “No,” Landry said. “We’re going to get started right away. I want to reach that ranch early. We’ll take a short rest there to eat.” He gave Cox a smile then and said, “Maybe the folks at the Double-V-Bar will show some hospitality and offer us some breakfast.”

  Cox grinned. “Maybe so,” he said. It was a good sign. The sergeant had not had the occasion to serve in a detail under Landry’s direct command. The lieutenant’s remark might be a hint that the new officer wasn’t intent upon being hard-assed, as some of the recent academy graduates tended to be.

  In truth, the lieutenant felt pretty certain that they would be invited to breakfast, and that was the real reason he ordered the detail to march before mess. He took his reins from the soldier holding them.

  “Let’s get mounted,” he said to Cox, and the patrol was under way.

  * * *

  “Hey, Clint,” Hank Haley yelled from the hayloft, “here come your soldier boys.” Clint walked out of the barn. In a few minutes, Hank joined him, and they stood watching the cavalry patrol as they approached. “Ha! Lookee yonder,” Hank said. “That looks like that young rooster that’s been courtin’ Miss Hope. They didn’t send many soldiers with him, did they?”

  “Yeah, I reckon not,” Clint replied. “They don’t expect to have to deal with any more than the two that got away. Maybe you might better go tell Milt he could have some hungry soldiers to feed, in case they left before breakfast. I’ll go up and tell Mr. Valentine.”

  By the time the small column of soldiers filed into the yard, Randolph Valentine had walked out to join Clint in greeting them. He was surprised to see the officer in charge was the young man who had been calling on his daughter.

  “Good morning, Mr. Valentine. I’ve been assigned to go after those Indians Mr. Cooper encountered,” Justin said as he dismounted and extended his hand. Then he turned to Clint and said, “I’m guessing you’d be Mr. Cooper.” He knew Clint’s name although they had never been introduced. He offered his hand to him as well.

  “That’s right,” Clint replied.

  “Glad to see you boys are gonna take a look into this Indian trouble,” Valentine said. “Clint here can show you where he and one of the other men had the fight. But maybe you and your men would like a little something to eat before you get started.”

  “That’s mighty kind of you, sir,” Landry said, and turned to give Sergeant Cox a wink. “As a matter of fact, we did leave before breakfast. I certainly wouldn’t want to impose on your hospitality, however. We are supplied with field rations.”

  “No trouble at all,” Valentine insisted. “We were expecting to have breakfast for your men—give them something a little better than field rations. Hank there can take them to the bunkhouse. You, of course, will be welcome to have something with us at the house.” Clint started to walk toward the bunkhouse with the soldiers, but Valentine stopped him. “Clint, why don’t you come to the house with us?” he said. “I expect the lieutenant might wanna ask you some questions.”

  “Yes, sir,” Clint said, and turned back. “I’ve already had my breakfast, but I reckon I could find room for another cup of coffee.” He was thinking that this patrol to find renegade Indians was looking more and more like a Sunday picnic.

  * * *

  Like any young lieutenant fresh out of the academy, Justin Landry was eager to prove his qualifications to lead men in battle. He looked upon this assignment as an opportunity to demonstrate his ability to command, and he had no intention of wasting it. He figured that it didn’t hurt to curry favor with the men in his patrol by allowing them to enjoy a good breakfast before setting out in search of the two renegade Indians. They should be more willing to respond to his orders if they thought he was fair-minded when it came to the tasks he might command them to do. Besides, hungry soldiers were reluctant soldiers, and he intended to lead an eager party after these Sioux murderers.

  In spite of his desire to win the loyalty of the men in his small patrol, however, he was not willing to waste a great deal of time enjoying the hospitality of Randolph Valentine. He was disappointed when he followed Valentine into the kitchen and Hope was not there. One of the reasons he wanted to stop at the Double-V-Bar was for the opportunity to impress her as the officer in command of the patrol. His disappointment dissolved moments later with the appearance of Valentine’s daughter after he was seated at the table.

  The young lieutenant jumped to his feet, almost toppling his chair, when Hope walked into the kitchen. Valentine stared at the young officer, puzzled, until he turned to see his daughter standing behind his chair. “Hope, look who’s come to have breakfast with us. I believe you know the lieutenant,” he teased.

  “Good morning, Hope,” Landry gushed, a wide smile of delight played across his handsome face. “It’s always my pleasure to see you, even under circumstances such as these.” He was still fairly amazed to have discovered a flower so fair in these rugged breaks of the Yellowstone.

  Surprised, for Clint had not mentioned that the soldiers who would show up at the ranch would be commanded by Landry, Hope reflected his smile. “Well, good morning, Justin,” she said with an almost musical lilt to her voice. “I must say I didn’t expect you.”

  Oblivious to his daughter’s staged entrance into the kitchen, and puzzled as to why Landry was still standing, Valentine motioned with his hand and said, “Sit down, Lieutenant, before your food gets cold. We don’t stand on many formalities around here.”

  Pleased by the young man’s awkwardness in her presence, Hope fairly floated by the table to help Rena, who met her with a lifeless gaze as she thrust a bowl of fried potatoes into the young girl’s hands. The expressionless Crow woman shifted her gaze to Clint, seated at the end of the table. Although her stoic countenance never showed it, she didn’t miss much that happened around the ranch. And in spite of the somber indifference displayed on Clint’s square-jawed face, she detected the hint of a frown on his brow. Before this occurrence she was wise enough to have recognized a certain spark in Clint when he was in Hope’s presence. She could foresee heartbreak in the young man’s future, however, for she knew he would never let his feelings be known.

  She turned her attention to the lieutenant. His face was good, she decided. There was nothing to be read in his eyes that would indicate a lack of character. He was probably a good man. She discarded thoughts on the matter then. It was not her place to care whether Hope had any feelings for Clint beyond those of a friend or a brother.

  While the lieutenant enjoyed the hardy breakfast Rena had prepared for him, he questioned Clint about the fight with the Sioux raiding party, since he had only Captain Rodgers’ account of the confrontation. He paid close attention to Clint’s answers, distracted only when Hope moved past the table. After he had heard the complete report, he asked, “Where do you think they headed from your range?”

  “I have no idea,” Clint replied bluntly. “The only thing I can do is find their trail and follow it. Maybe Ben might have a feelin’ for where they’re headin’, but to know for sure, you have to follow their tracks.”

  “Who’s Ben?” Landry asked.

  “Ben Hawkins,” Clint said. “He was the fellow with me when we jumped the Indians. He taught me everything I know about trackin’.”

  “Suppose we could get him to accompany us?” Justin asked. “Sounds to me like the two of you work together pretty well. Might make our mission a little easier.” He paused to smile up at Hope when she brought the coffeepot over from the stove and filled his cup.

  “I reckon t
hat’s up to Mr. Valentine,” Clint said, then added, “and Ben.” He shrugged indifferently. “If the boss doesn’t want both of us gone, you might wanna just take Ben. Can’t nobody track any better’n Ben.” For reasons he didn’t want to admit, even to himself, he had just as soon not accompany the lieutenant.

  “I’d really like to have both of you,” Landry said, “if Mr. Valentine can spare you for a couple of days.” He didn’t express it, but he felt fairly confident that the patrol would turn back as soon as they found evidence enough to suggest the hostiles had long since left the valley.

  “Oh, I expect we can survive without the two of them,” Valentine joked. “Take Ben along with you, Clint.”

  “Good,” Landry said, glancing at Hope. “I guess we’d better get started, although it’s difficult to leave such pleasant company.” He extended his hand to Valentine. “Thank you for the breakfast, sir. I know my men appreciated it as much as I did.” On his feet then, he turned toward the door, where Hope stood holding it open, and paused to tell her, “I suppose it’s you ladies I should thank for that fine breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said.

  Catching Clint’s somber gaze as he stood patiently by the door, she gave him a friendly smile and a wink before turning back toward the table to help Rena clear the dishes.

  * * *

  Always anxious to partner with Clint whenever his young friend was called upon to handle problems on or off the ranch, Ben was pleased when Clint told him to ready himself to go on the patrol. He casually introduced himself to Lieutenant Landry and gave the soldiers standing by their mounts a casual nod. “It appears you have a few scars from the encounter with the hostiles,” Justin said.

  Ben immediately reached up to feel a couple of deep scratches on his face. “Yes, sir, I did pick up some scratches at the time.” He glanced sheepishly at Clint, who was smiling broadly and watching his reaction. Mercifully Clint did not divulge the cause for the battle scars—hand-to-hand combat with a berry bush.

  Once the patrol was under way, Ben rode up beside Clint, leaving the lieutenant and his men to follow behind. A ride of two hours took them to the low ridge near the river where they had waited until dark enough to attack the hostiles’ camp. They pulled up there to wait for the patrol to catch up, so they could tell them how things had happened two nights before.

  “Can you show me the bodies?” Landry asked after hearing Clint’s accounting of the confrontation that took place.

  “Reckon so,” Ben answered, pointing to half a dozen buzzards circling above the river bluffs. “Looks like they’re still here.”

  He didn’t say so, but he was somewhat surprised that the buzzards were still circling, and he wondered if there were a greater number on the ground feasting on the remains of the carcasses. Maybe, he thought, the buzzards had lost the feeding rights to wolves or coyotes. If Clint was of a like mind, he didn’t say. Instead he nudged his horse and started down the ridge to see for himself.

  Ben and the cavalry patrol followed along behind him as he rode through the ring of cottonwoods skirting the river. They caught up to him when he reined the bay gelding to a stop at the place where they had left the corpse of the hostile who had taken the first shot at Ben. But there was no longer a body there.

  Clint didn’t comment, but rode on through the trees to the clearing and the ashes of the campfire where the first of the other two had been killed. There were no buzzards or other scavengers feasting on the bodies—because there were no bodies. Clint dismounted to take a closer look around. Ben did the same.

  “Looks like the buzzards had to settle for the few scraps of that cow they butchered,” Ben said. “We got the best part of that cow.”

  “Are you sure this is the place where you had the fight?” Landry asked, still seated in the saddle.

  “Yep,” Clint answered. “We left them right where they fell, and that was here, back there in the trees, and on that bluff where the horses were.”

  “Well, there are no bodies at any of those places now,” Landry pointed out needlessly. “Are you thinking that maybe buzzards ate them?”

  “Hardly,” Ben answered him. “Buzzards don’t usually eat the rifles and moccasins and bows and arrows and skinnin’ knives and everything else these bucks were wearin’. And all that stuff is gone, too.” He figured it was pretty obvious what had happened, and he shouldn’t have to tell Landry.

  “All these bluffs look pretty much the same,” Landry said, somewhat skeptical of their version of the fight now. “Maybe this isn’t the right place. After all, you said the fight happened at night.” He paused to emphasize his following suggestion. “Or possibly you only thought you shot the hostiles. Maybe they got away in the darkness.”

  “We only thought . . . ?” Ben retorted in anger before he caught himself. He studied the lieutenant’s face intently for a few moments, deciding then to chalk it up to the young officer’s inexperience.

  Clint, who had been concentrating on the ground where the bodies had been, almost laughed when he heard Ben’s response. “If you’ll climb down offa that horse and look around,” he said to Landry, “you’ll see where a good-sized bloodstain soaked into the dirt where this body was. You’ll also see a helluva lot of tracks left by Indian ponies. I’d say twelve or fifteen. And that oughta tell you that the five we fought were only part of a bigger war party that came back to pick up their dead. So I reckon that’s gonna be bad news for you and your patrol of six men.” He looked at Ben then. “What do you say, partner?”

  “That’s about the way I see it,” Ben replied. He in turn looked back at Landry and asked, “Whaddaya plannin’ on doin’ now, Lieutenant?”

  Before Landry had a chance to answer, Sergeant Cox interjected, “I expect Captain Rodgers would want you to return to the post and report a sizable war party in the area, sir.”

  It was obvious to Landry that the veteran sergeant was not anxious to engage a party of superior numbers with a patrol of six troopers, but he wasn’t sure what he should do. So he dismounted and stalled for time while he decided. He busied himself by examining the spots of blood and the many unshod hoof and moccasin prints on the riverbank.

  After a few minutes to think of possible questions Captain Rodgers would likely ask, he made what he thought to be the proper decision. “We need to know which way this war party was heading when they left here. It’s important to know if any other farms or ranches are in danger of being attacked.” Turning back to Clint then, he asked, “Can you and Mr. Hawkins track them?”

  “That wouldn’t be hard to do,” Clint said.

  “Just far enough to tell us if there are innocent people in danger, or if the hostiles are heading away from Miles City, and maybe going back to their village somewhere,” Landry said. “I don’t want to put you or my men in danger unnecessarily.”

  “We can do that,” Clint said, looking to get a nod from Ben. “I’d like to know for damn sure they aren’t thinkin’ about circlin’ back toward the Double-V-Bar.” He turned to Ben and said, “I’m thinkin’ it was a good thing we told Charley and the boys to turn the cattle back closer to the ranch.”

  Chapter 3

  Instead of crossing the Yellowstone to escape into the rugged hills above the river, the Sioux hostiles stayed on the south side and followed the river to the northeast. It was only for a distance of about five miles, however, before they left the river and turned due east.

  “That don’t look too good,” Ben said. “All the tracks are headin’ east,” he confirmed.

  He and Clint had hoped that the trail left by the hostiles would continue to follow the Yellowstone, or cross over and head directly north. If that had been the case, then they could reasonably conclude that the Indians were intent upon leaving this part of the country. With this swing back to the east, however, it indicated that the raiding party planned to remain close to the Double-V-Bar range as
well as to the other ranches operating in the Yellowstone Valley.

  Clint stood up in his stirrups and peered out across a seemingly endless stretch of draws and high bluffs. “If they hold to that line, they’ll strike the Powder River after about—whaddaya think—fifteen miles?”

  “That’s about right,” Ben agreed. “The question then is, what will they do when they strike the Powder?”

  There was always the chance that the raiding party would cross the Powder and continue east. But if they did not, and followed the Powder south, that could mean they intended to ride in a wide circle and possibly strike one of the ranches that grazed cattle on that prairie.

  “Well, we’ll find out when we get to the river,” Clint said. He sat down in the saddle again and turned his horse to face Landry and the patrol, which was about half a mile behind them. “These horses are gonna be ready for a rest by the time we reach the Powder, so we can rest ’em there where there’s water. Maybe we’ll find out what those Indians have in mind then.”

  * * *

  As Clint had predicted, the horses were tired and thirsty by the time the patrol reached the Powder, so named by the Indians for the powdery soil that lined its banks. Some said the soil resembled gunpowder. This analogy came to Clint’s mind as he looked at the multitude of tracks left by the Sioux raiding party.

  “It’s damn hard to tell how many of ’em we’re trailin’, lookin’ at this place where they camped,” Ben said. “There’re so many tracks.”

  “Looks like too damn many for a patrol of six men to engage,” Sergeant Cox said, reminding the lieutenant, and obviously not too enthusiastic about continuing on.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Ben said, “seein’ as how you boys are all totin’ Spencer repeatin’ carbines, and me and Clint are totin’ Winchesters. If your boys can hit anything with those carbines, we could raise a lot of hell with a party of Injuns twice our size. ’Cause I know me and Clint can shoot. It depends a lot on what kinda weapons those Injuns have. I reckon it’s up to the lieutenant whether or not we try to catch up with ’em.”