Crossed Arrows (A Long-Knives Western Book 1)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Uh … well … could I have another cookie please?”

  ~*~

  The trading post was quiet in the night’s darkness with only a single lantern burning inside the store room. The Indian agent Elmer Jordon stood at the rear window looking out over the prairie. The sky was filled with patchy, drifting clouds that allowed sporadic moonlight to illuminate the area while the winds aloft gently gusted.

  After a few moments, a dark bulky shape appeared in the distance. As it drew closer the image slowly evolved into the shape of a mule-drawn farm wagon with a man on the seat.

  Jordon stepped outside to wait for the vehicle’s arrival. The sound of bumping wheels in the dips in the terrain became discernible ten minutes before the wagon drew up at the back door. The driver was Colin Hamm, a large rotund beefy man with a full, untidy, tobacco-stained beard. He nodded to Jordon. “Howdy, Elmer.”

  “How’re you doing, Colin?”

  The big man struggled down from the high seat and spat a stream of tobacco juice. He was wearing a greasy leather vest, a red long john pull-over, and buckskin trousers. His hat was a wide-brimmed affair with a dented crown. “Let’s see what you got.”

  They went inside were bales of government blankets and other items were stacked. Jordon pointed to the wool spreads. “Six bunches with a dozen in each.”

  “What do you want for ’em?” Hamm asked.

  “Twelve dollars a bale.”

  “Eleven,” Hamm countered.

  “Eleven and four bits.”

  “Did,” Hamm agreed. “What else you got?”

  “Long handle shovels,” Jordon said. “Good ’uns, by God. Number thirteen gauge steel blades twelve inches deep. Got a half dozen. Five dollars.”

  “Three dollars.”

  “Four dollars,” Jordon bargained.

  “Did. Anything else?”

  “Three iron pots,” Jordon replied. “Six gallon size made of cast-iron. Ten dollars.”

  “Five dollars.”

  “Eight dollars,” Jordon said. “That’s as low as I go.”

  “Did,” Hamm said. “You figger up the bill while I throw this stuff up on the wagon.”

  He started with the blankets while Jordon began scribbling down the sale prices on a scrap of foolscap. When he finished, he called out, “A hunnerd and seventeen dollars.”

  As soon as Hamm had all the goods on his wagon, he came back and pulled some coins out of his inside vest pocket. He laid out five double-eagles worth a total of a hundred dollars, a ten dollar eagle gold coin and two quarter eagles worth two and a half dollars each. “It ‘pears that I’m two dollars short,” Hamm said. “Put it on the next bill, will you?”

  “Sure thing,” Jordon said.

  “Much obliged,” Hamm said.

  “Hell! I know you’re good for it, Colin.”

  “Tell me something, Elmer. Ain’t these Injuns figgered out they’re getting shorted on them things the Gov’ment is supposed to give ’em?”

  “According to my books all the stuff I’ve ever got for distribution has been passed out to the Redskins. And I got their marks on all the receipts that prove they received each and every item.”

  Hamm laughed. “They be big advantages to having customers what cain’t read or write, huh?”

  “A man has to take what opportunities he can find to make-do in this cruel world, Colin,” Jordon said.

  “But them Injun kids is getting book learning,” Ham pointed out. “You ain’t gonna be able to fool ’em like you can their parents.”

  “Maybe I gotta figger me a way to get rid of that schoolmarm.”

  “Yeah. That’d take of the problem all right.”

  “See you next month, Colon.”

  “You can count on that.”

  Chapter Four

  Captain Mack Hawkins could see the farm from the wheel-rutted trail that served as a crude road. It had taken him a full hour on horseback to ride from Fort Lone Wolf to the outlying reaches of the Kiowa and Comanche Agency. Hawkins rode into the yard and spotted two Kiowa women cooking outside a teepee.

  Next to the traditional Indian lodge was a weather-beaten, neglected frame cabin. This was a structure put up by the government for the new native farmers. The Department of the Interior wanted the Indians to develop into more civilized beings by living inside the small houses, but after lifetimes of free wandering on the plains, they still preferred their time-honored dwelling places. This particular property, like the others, was part of Washington’s plan to change the Kiowa and Comanche tribes from nomadic people into an agricultural community of food growers.

  The project was a misguided notion that completely ignored certain undeniable facts. The men who were expected to plant and harvest had been wandering warriors, hunters and plunderers since time immemorial. The idea of taking a single generation and turning their traditions inside out was ludicrous, and the fact fast became apparent. But the powers-that-be stuck to their guns and, in typical bureaucratic fashion, ignored the cultural disaster unfolding around them.

  On the farm where Mack Hawkins had just arrived, one of the women stirred a pot of rabbit stew. She glanced up at the army officer, giving him a surly, mistrustful look without uttering a greeting. The other ignored him altogether. Both were dressed in the types of calico dresses sold or bartered for at the agency trading post.

  Hawkins tipped his hat. “I’m looking for Eagle Heart.”

  “Eagle Heart not here,” the first woman said. Her ability to speak English showed the quick intelligence of the Indian people. Although that generation was not grammatically skillful, they had acquired a working knowledge of the white man’s tongue in a remarkably short time.

  “Are you his wife?” Hawkins asked.

  “We both his wife,” she said.

  The second woman finally spoke. “Eagle Heart is drunk someplace. He not do nothing wrong. Go ’way.”

  Hawkins sensed their hostility came from his uniform. He knew that on more than one occasion during their girlhoods, the two women had been forced to flee at the appearance of soldiers. Their hostility was a learned reflex that would never completely fade away. No doubt they suspected he was there to make trouble for the husband they shared.

  “I have good news for Eagle Heart,” Hawkins said. “A chance to make money.”

  Like most plains Indians, it never occurred to the women that the officer might be lying. Even if they suspected the worst, their uneasiness could be allayed with a few carefully chosen words. That lack of guile and sneakiness had hastened the subjugation of the native peoples almost as much as army weaponry and tactics. They had in point of fact believed the lies of politicians and bureaucrats during treaty negotiations.

  The first woman stood up. “You mean money to buy things at trading post?”

  “Yes,” Hawkins said. “Better than bringing in crops to trade for things.”

  “Our men hunters not farmers. Not many crops for Indians,” the younger commented. “Not much for us at trading post.”

  “Indians are poor,” the older said. “Not like when we follow buffalo.”

  “That can change,” Hawkins assured them. “At least for a few of you. Can you tell me where Eagle Heart might be?”

  The younger woman stood up and pointed toward the southwest. “Somewhere out there. He ride that way yesterday. He away all night. Prob’ly meet friends and them drunk.”

  “Thanks,” Hawkins said. He pulled on his horse’s reins and rode away in the direction indicated.

  A half hour’s slow traveling across the open countryside brought Hawkins up on the crest of a hill. He saw a lone horse standing in a draw, feeding on the sweet spring grasses that had begun to sprout with the warmer weather. Hawkins headed for the animal. As he drew closer he could make out the figure of a man lying on the ground. The captain continued his approach and drew up when he reached the spot.

  Eagle Heart lay near the animal. He was dressed in badly-worn, store-bought pants and an old blue army shirt
. It seemed to Hawkins that the Kiowa was drunk and passed out. A nearly empty whiskey bottle had bounced off a ways when dropped as he slipped from his horse.

  Hawkins took a closer look and saw an arm across the Indian’s eyes to shield his face from the sun. Eagle Heart had evidently awakened and would soon be recovered enough to get back on his horse.

  “Eagle Heart!” Hawkins said. The Kiowa moved his arm and peered with bloodshot eyes at the captain. He scowled and covered his face again. Hawkins dismounted. “Eagle Heart, I have been looking for you.”

  “Why? I no kill nobody. I no steal nothing for a long time now.”

  “I know,” Hawkins said. “You are in no trouble.”

  “No guardhouse?”

  “No,” Hawkins answered.

  “Stupid Indian farmer no kill nobody or nothing,” Eagle Heart said. “No buffalo. No soldier. Nothing. Just scratch the dirt like dog to try to make crop grow.”

  “How would you like to stop being a farmer?” Hawkins asked. “How would you like to be a fighting man?”

  Eagle Heart looked up into the officer’s face. He weighed what he had just heard for a moment, then sat up. “What you say to me?” He stared intently at Hawkins. “I know you. You Hawkins.”

  “I certainly am,” Hawkins acknowledged.

  “Now tell me again what you say. You ask if I want for to be fighting man.”

  “That’s right,” Hawkins said.

  “No more farmer?”

  “No more farmer,” Hawkins answered. “You can be a soldier. In a new outfit—war party—called the U.S. Scouts. Indians can join up to wear uniforms and fight.”

  “Are other tribes back at war?” Eagle Heart asked. “You want me to scout against them?” He laughed. “I kill and scalp godamn Pawnee!”

  “No,” Hawkins replied to the statement about one of the Kiowas’ worst enemies. “This is to help the Army against all sorts of bad men. And you’ll do more than just scout or break trail. You will also guard things for the Army. Take messages. They will pay you the same as white soldiers. I will be your chief.”

  “Me in Army?” Eagle Heart asked. He tilted his head back and laughed again “You say they call me U.S. Scout?”

  “I want you to be a sergeant,” Hawkins said. “They will pay you a sergeant’s pay. Seventeen dollars every month.”

  Eagle Heart got to his feet. Despite toiling at farming he was still a handsome man with the look of the classic plains warrior. Even hung-over he had a natural dignity that complimented his high intelligence and incredible physical courage. Hawkins knew that a few weeks of active duty would harden Eagle Heart up again.

  Eagle Heart said, “I tell you, Hawkins. I a sergeant for you.” He grinned and executed a clumsy salute, trying to do it like he’d seen soldiers do.

  Hawkins returned the salute. “I want you to help me get more Kiowas and Comanches. We need four more.” He held up his fingers. “That many. Can you find good men for me?”

  “Easy,” Eagle Heart said. “All Indians good man, Hawkins. ’Cause they no be farmers.”

  “You call me captain,” Hawkins said.

  Eagle heart nodded, looking Mack Hawkins straight in the eye. “You call me sergeant.”

  “Very well, Sergeant Eagle Heart,” Hawkins said. “Shall we round up some Kiowas and Comanches?”

  “Sure, Cap’n,” Eagle Heart said. He gracefully swung himself up on the back of his horse. He glanced down at the bottle that still had a few swallows of whisky in it. “Before today, I take that and drink it. Now you bring me good news. I no want more whiskey. Maybe Army make me Injun again.” He laughed once more, seeing the humor in having the very organization that had destroyed his culture now become his savior.

  Hawkins nodded, knowing he’d made a damn good choice for a senior-ranking scout. The two men left the gulley and rode out across the prairie, skirting Eagle Heart’s farm and going to the next. When they arrived, the scene was much like the new sergeant’s place. A teepee stood beside a neglected wooden cabin. A Comanche man, woman and three children waited for the visitors to ride up.

  Hawkins nodded to the man. “I know you. You are Running Cougar.”

  “You Hawkins,” Running Cougar said. He was short and stocky with a growing paunch.

  Eagle Heart wasted no time. He launched into a speech in a combination of English, Kiowa and Comanche to explain Hawkins’s offer. When he finished, he looked over at the officer. “A sergeant got three stripe on arm, right?”

  “Right.”

  “If somebody got two, he under me to help be chief, right?” Eagle Heart asked.

  Hawkins, pleased at the Kiowa’s grasp of military organization, nodded. “That’s the way it works.”

  “I want Running Cougar wear two,” Eagle Heart said. “What that?”

  “That would make him a corporal,” Hawkins said. “He would be directly under you. And that is what you want?”

  “I ask you for that,” Eagle Heart said.

  “That’s fine with me,” Hawkins said. “Does he want to join the U.S. Scouts?”

  “Yes,” Eagle Heart replied.

  “When we go?” Running Cougar asked.

  “I will return to take you to Fort Lone Wolf,” Hawkins said. “You will make a mark on some paper and get your uniforms and weapons.”

  “What about horse?” Running Cougar asked. “Indians now have plow horse. No good for fighting.”

  “The Army will give you a horse and saddle,” Hawkins explained. “You will get everything from the Army.”

  “Come when you ready,” Running Cougar said. “I wait here.”

  Hawkins and Eagle Heart left the farm and visited another owned by a Comanche named Tall Bear. He was also eager to get out of the humiliation of scratching at the earth for a living. Tall Bear was not a pure Comanche. His father had been a warrior of the tribe who had taken a white woman captive as one of his wives. She would eventually be Tall Bear’s mother. He had black hair and bright green eyes that gave him an exotic look. As tall as Hawkins, the half-breed was heavily muscled because of the savagery he exhibited when tackling the hard physical work of farming. Tall Bear was a fortunate man. He looked upon whiskey as the whites’ scheme to poison the Indians. Since having developed no fondness for liquor, he was still in excellent physical condition.

  “Come take me to Fort Lone Wolf,” Tall Bear said. “I fight.” He looked at Eagle Heart. “I happy. Do we kill Pawnee?”

  “I no think so,” Eagle Heart said sadly.

  Hawkins interrupted. “You will fight bad people no matter who they are.”

  Hawkins and Eagle Heart waved farewells, then traveled toward another farm. Hawkins glanced at his companion. “Who do we go see now?”

  “He other you know,” Eagle Heart replied. “Swift Horse.”

  Hawkins smiled. “You are going to bring together all your old friends, aren’t you?”

  “You say to me; get the best.”

  When they arrived at Swift Horse’s farm, they found him as easy to recruit as Running Cougar and Tall Bear. There was also another man visiting the place who was a Kiowa-Comanche by the name of Red Moon. He and Swift Horse were planning on a hunting expedition to get some antelope. Red Moon knew Captain Mack Hawkins well, and he didn’t wait to be invited to join the new unit. He stepped forward and spoke plainly and loudly, saying, “I want join U.S. Scouts too.” He was short and slight with a look of agility about him.

  “He make good U.S. Scout,” Eagle Heart pronounced.

  “All right then,” Hawkins said. “It’s fine with me. Then it looks like the roster of the Kiowa-Comanche Detachment is filled out.”

  “That good,” Eagle Heart said. “I want die with blood in my mouth like warrior no like drunk farmer with whiskey in my mouth.”

  “That might be all our fates,” Hawkins said, remembering what the sergeant major had told him at regimental headquarters. He waved at the three men. “I’ll be back in less than a week to get you.”

  Th
e officer galloped out of the farmyard and turned toward Fort Lone Wolf.

  ~*~

  Colonel John Bennington had spent a long day in his office, and when he arrived at his quarters, he was surprised to see that Mrs. Bennington had waited supper for him. Usually, he got no more than warm-ups when he was late, but today the Mrs. Colonel had a good reason for wanting to eat with him.

  “John,” she said, as they sat down at the table, “we must talk.”

  Bennington sighed under his breath, not really anxious for a serious discussion that particular evening. He waited patiently while the maid served them, then turned his attention to the roasted quail.

  “Look at me, John,” Daphne Bennington said.

  He raised his eyes. “Yes, dear.”

  “I want you to get that lout Captain Hawkins cashiered from the Army as quickly as you can.”

  He almost dropped his fork. “I know you don’t like the fellow, Daphne. I don’t much care for him either, but getting an officer cashiered is not an easy matter.”

  “Well, perhaps it won’t be too difficult,” she said. “Not only can you cite his latest misconduct of burning down a town, but he’s proven to be no more than an immoral rake.”

  Bennington frowned in puzzlement. “What are you talking about?”

  “He has been carrying on with that schoolteacher at the agency in a most notorious manner,” Daphne complained. “Everyone is shocked by their wicked behavior. It’s an absolute scandal, John!”

  “I haven’t heard anything about it.”

  “Nevertheless it is true,” the Mrs. Colonel insisted. “And it’s cause to get rid of both of them.”

  “Mmm,” Bennington said thoughtfully. “You may have something there, my dear. I tell you what. I’ll send a letter up to department headquarters first thing tomorrow morning. I’ll cite Hawkins’s conduct with that young woman along with all of his past transgressions, reckless behavior and conduct unbecoming an officer that he committed.”

  “Don’t forget I also said Miss Halverson should be removed, John,” his wife pointed out. “She is obviously an immoral woman who should not be allowed to teach children. A strong letter of condemnation should bring an end to her career too.”