Cheyenne Justice

by Charles G. West

  “Till he says that’s far enough, I reckon.” His answer was curt but Ryman wasn’t any more comfortable this deep in hostile territory than the rest of the men. The hostiles they were chasing had been sniping at the river steamers that brought supplies up the Yellowstone. That was not anything unusual, but this bunch—the Crow scouts said they were Arapahos—had killed two soldiers who had been sent ashore to cut wood for the steamer’s boilers. The colonel was determined to punish the hostiles this time and he sent out three patrols. Lieutenant Jeffers was dead set on being the one to catch up with them and the scouts had picked up their trail easily enough. Well, Ryman thought, he might just get us all dead if he keeps pushing farther and farther down this river.

  Of more serious concern to the colonel was the fact that the Indian snipers were armed with repeating rifles. Granted, they weren’t very good marksmen but a steamboat is a pretty good size target. The boats were often transporting new troops on the river, and these recruits began to get the idea right away that the Indians were better armed than they were, which didn’t help morale one bit. The army’s standard issue for the infantry was the Springfield rifle. Even though it was a single-shot rifle, the Springfield was superior at long range in the hands of a man who knew how to use it. Still, that didn’t help a raw recruit when an Indian warrior rode in close and banged away with a repeater.

  Page Jeffers was a conscientious young officer. He had seen action in three engagements with the Sioux and he was confident that he could overcome a body of hostiles three or four times greater in number than his scouting patrol. Although in garrison at Camp Carson for only a few months more than a year, he had seen enough of the Indians’ style of combat to know they were no match for seasoned cavalry in a pitched battle. In reality, their tactics were infuriating to the young officer—hit and run, raiding and hightailing it, never standing to fight.

  “Coffee, sir?”

  Jeffers glanced up at Ryman and smiled. “Thank you, Sergeant.” He handed his metal cup to Ryman and watched as the sergeant filled it from a small kettle.

  Ryman handed the cup back to the lieutenant and settled himself down against a tree trunk. He didn’t say anything for a few minutes, seemingly occupied wholly with the sipping of his coffee. Jeffers had seen it before. His sergeant was about to either question his intentions or offer some unsolicited advice. Jeffers waited patiently. He respected the sergeant’s ability to handle the men and he was not reluctant to give him credit for having more experience in the Indian wars than he had himself. Ryman had been assigned out here since the war back East had ended. Granted, he had seen more action against the hostiles but, in Page Jeffers’s mind, that didn’t necessarily make his judgment any more sound when it came to confronting the enemy.

  “Well, sir,” Ryman started, as if making idle conversation, “looks like we ain’t making up much ground on that bunch.”

  Jeffers graced his sergeant with a condescending smile. “No, but we don’t seem to be losing any ground either. And, if anything, the trail is getting easier to follow.”

  “Yessir. That’s what’s got me to thinking. It is getting easier to follow and I’m wondering why. It don’t make no sense to me.”

  Jeffers stretched his legs out in front of him and shrugged his shoulders to work out some of the stiffness of the trail. “I don’t think it’s any great mystery. They don’t expect anyone to follow them so they’re careless about their trail.”

  “Well, maybe so.” Ryman shook his head as if thinking hard on what the lieutenant had just said. “It looks like they’re too damn careless.”

  A wry smile creased Jeffers’s face. “You don’t think we should continue to pursue this band of renegades, do you?”

  Ryman shrugged. “Well, sir. I wouldn’t never try to tell the lieutenant what to do. I’m just saying that usually, when Injuns are this careless about their trails, they want you to find ’em, is all I’m saying.”

  “I understand your concern, Sergeant, but I feel sure this band is simply running away.” Noting Ryman’s doubtful expression, he continued. “Look, Ryman, these hostiles have been sneaking in to raid settlers and stage stations and shoot at the steamers for too long now. They raid and then run back into the hills where they think the army won’t follow them. Well, this time they’ve got somebody on their tail who’ll chase the bastards all the way to the Snake if necessary.”

  “Understand that, sir. All’s I’m saying is they’re acting mighty damn careless, like they was thinking about an ambush.”

  “Ambush?” Jeffers seemed surprised. “I hope they lead us straight to their village. We better not ride into a damn ambush. That’s what those two Crow scouts are out there for.” His face lightened a bit. “I think you’ve just been out here too long, Sergeant. You’re starting to see Indians behind every tree.”

  “Maybe so, sir. I wouldn’t disagree. I reckon I’m just kind of fond of what little bit of hair is left on this old head.”

  * * *

  The noon rest over, the troop moved out again. The two Crow scouts rode out ahead once more to either side and about a quarter of a mile ahead. Since the trail was plain to see, it wasn’t necessary for them to track. So they rode the flanks to keep an eye out for any other hostiles. Before riding out to their positions, however, they wanted to talk to Lieutenant Jeffers. It was their feeling that the column was probing too far into Sioux country and that it might be wise to turn back. Jeffers had little patience with them and advised them that he would decide when the column would about-face. Even though they did not protest, Ryman didn’t like the way they looked at each other before silently mounting their ponies and riding out ahead.

  Ryman looked back at the column of men plodding along behind him. Veteran campaigners, most of them, a typical troop of field soldiers. One might wonder, at first sight, if they were soldiers or simply an odd assortment of vigilantes. There were at least five different varieties of hats. Most of the men favored broad-brimmed campaign hats but few of them wore army issue. Consequently there were several different styles and colors. The usual uniform while in the field was the garrison casual dress blue shirt and light blue wool trousers. But at least a third of the detail wore buckskin pants instead.

  That was one thing he liked about Lieutenant Jeffers. He didn’t hold for much spit and polish, especially in the field. For an officer, he was well tolerated by the men. The only negative quality Ryman could find in the man was a sizable sense of arrogance when it came to fighting Indians. Jeffers thought he could take one regiment of cavalry and defeat the entire Sioux nation. The sergeant couldn’t help but be reminded of another brash officer who had under-estimated the fighting ability of the Plains Indian, and he was determined not to be a participant in another massacre like the one Captain Fetterman rode into back in ’66. Ryman figured Jeffers would make a first rate officer, if he lived long enough. He just needed more time and experience out here. Three minor engagements with the hostiles—chasing three Lakotas who had killed a farmer’s cow and two incidents while escorting a wagon train—that was the sum total of Jeffers’s combat against the Lakota Sioux. It wasn’t enough to establish a feeling of invincibility. With a little luck, he thought, maybe we can keep him from taking us all to glory. He turned his attention back to the front.

  After two more hours and still no sight of the band of Arapahos, Private Fannin pulled up beside Ryman. “Sarge, reckon you ought to tell the lieutenant we’re too damn deep in Injun territory?”

  “Shut up, Fannin. Get back there where you belong and keep your eyes open.” He hated to admit it but Fannin was right. Probably all the men were thinking similar thoughts but Fannin was the only one with gall enough to open his mouth. Further thoughts on the matter were interrupted when he saw the Crow scouts galloping back to meet the column.

  Lieutenant Jeffers held up his hand and pulled up to await his scouts. He stood in the stirrups and scanned the country before them with his field glasses, searching for any cause for the Indians
’ rapid return. The rolling, treeless plains before them were devoid of any living creature. After a minute, he sat down again in the saddle and watched as the Crows pulled up before him.

  “Soldiers, go back now. Too much danger ahead.” This from the expressionless face of the Crow scout called Two Horses.

  Jeffers seemed eager to question them. “What did you see? Have you spotted them?”

  “No. Not see but good sense tell me go back.” He groped for the words to explain his feelings of intuition in order to make the white soldier understand. “Don’t have to see—Arapaho, Cheyenne, maybe. See here.” He pointed to his heart. “Not here,” pointing to his eye. Two Horses looked to his comrade for confirmation and the other Crow nodded his head vigorously.

  Jeffers didn’t say anything for a long moment. “Jeezus wept,” he uttered then in disgust. He turned and scanned the horizon all around then returned his gaze to Two Horses. “I think you see here,” he said, pointing to his backside. Two Horses shook his head, no. “My God, man. You can see for miles,” Jeffers insisted. “There’s no place to hide.”

  “Arapaho, maybe Cheyenne,” Two Horses repeated stoically.

  “Sergeant Ryman, what do you make of this?”

  “Well, sir, these people have a way of feeling the presence of an enemy sometimes…and we are operating pretty deep in hostile territory.”

  The lieutenant looked at his sergeant as if the man had disappointed him. He looked back at the two Crow scouts for a moment before returning to Ryman. “Well, I’m not turning back just because two Crow scouts are feeling a streak down their backs, especially when I can clearly see the country I’m marching into. We’ll go on. Send the scouts back out.”

  Ryman turned to instruct the scouts but, before he could speak, Two Horses shook his head. “No. Too many warriors. We go back now.”

  Jeffers’s nostrils flared. “You’re taking pay from the U.S. Army to find those Arapahos. Now, get your ass out there and find them!”

  Two Horses was unmoved. “No, we go back. You want to find Arapaho? Keep going. You find ’em pretty soon now.” Not waiting for the lieutenant’s response, the two Crows kicked their ponies and galloped off.

  Private Fannin, who had been listening to the exchange between his lieutenant and the scouts, called out. “Want me to shoot ’em, sir?” He raised his carbine to take aim.

  Before Jeffers could answer, Ryman ordered, “No. Dammit, Fannin, put that rifle down.”

  “The sergeant’s right, Private. No need to advertise our presence out here. Let them go. We don’t need scouts anyway, as plain as this trail is. Sergeant, send two men out to ride point. I hope that damn savage is right about his feeling.” He raised his arm again and signaled forward march and the column was in motion again.

  Toward the middle of the afternoon, the trail cut back between two low ridges toward the river again. Jeffers halted the column and conferred with Ryman on the possibility of an ambush since the column would have to pass through the narrow ravine.

  “Well, if they was of a mind to ambush us, this would be a dandy place to do it, sir, right where the men can see water just beyond.” He looked around him at the ridges on both sides. “There sure don’t seem to be much cover on them bare hills to hide anybody, though.”

  Jeffers studied the ridges for a few moments. “Well, no use taking any chances. Send a couple of men up ahead to scout out those ridges.” In spite of his confidence that his men could handle a large force of undisciplined savages, he was beginning to have second thoughts about pushing on much further. He had fully expected to overtake the Arapahos before that morning, and already he was almost three days down the Tongue River. He thought about it for a few moments more and decided they had gone far enough. They had only drawn five days’ rations and grain, so turning back after today would see them arrive at Camp Carson with empty bellies. “Sergeant, we’ll go as far as the river, water the horses, and then return.” To himself he thought, Dammit, I hate going back empty-handed.

  Ryman was relieved. “Yessir,” he snapped smartly and turned to the men behind him. “Fannin, you and McManus get up on those ridges and make sure we ain’t riding into anything. And watch your behinds.”

  He waited a moment as Fannin and McManus pulled out of line and galloped out ahead. Then he went over beside Jeffers and watched with the lieutenant as the two troopers split up to climb the ridges on each side of the ravine. Jeffers followed the two with his field glasses as they slowed their mounts and worked their way along the tops of the ridges until they disappeared from sight. Every eye in the column was now straining to watch the ridges, the men quiet and listening. There was no sound except an occasional snort of a horse and a nervous stomping of a hoof. It seemed like a long time with no sight of the two troopers until one, then the other was seen loping back along the ridge tops.

  “Clean as a hound’s tooth,” Fannin called out as he reined up before the lieutenant, McManus a few yards behind.

  “Nothing?” Jeffers asked and, when Fannin shook his head, the lieutenant turned to McManus. “You see anything?”

  “Nossir. There ain’t really no gullies deep enough to hide no Injuns. I could see the trail down below. There ain’t no Injuns in that pass. I reckon they just passed through on their way to water.”

  Satisfied, Jeffers gave the order to go forward and the column entered the ravine at a fast walk. Just to be safe, he cautioned the men to watch their flanks carefully to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. Fannin and McManus were right—there were no hostiles lying in ambush and the troop broke out of the ravine on the other side and descended a shallow coulee that led to the edge of the river.

  Fannin, taking it on himself to assume the role of scout now that the Crows were gone, galloped ahead to the shallow water. He wheeled around and shouted, “Here’s where they crossed!” Ryman rode up to join him. “They crossed right here, Sarge, and this trail ain’t very old. Looks like the water ain’t much deeper than shoulder high.”

  Ryman didn’t say anything for a moment while he looked up and down the river and stared at the tracks plainly visible on the far side. They sure as hell ain’t concerned about their trail, he thought. I suppose they don’t figure us to be crazy enough to follow them this far. He turned back to get the lieutenant’s orders.

  “Looks like they’re hightailing it back home as fast as they can ride, Lieutenant. I reckon we can water the horses and head back to the post.”

  Jeffers was studying the bluffs on the far side of the river. Three days in the saddle and he hadn’t even gotten a glimpse of the hostiles. He was weighing the choices before him. He had said he would go to the river and no further, but the desire to see his enemy was strong and he was tempted to follow them across the river in hopes they would make camp soon. It was getting late in the afternoon and the thought that they might be just ahead was enough to entice him to see for himself.

  “Sergeant, we’ll ford the river and follow that trail up to the top of those bluffs. Let’s get moving, it’s getting late.”

  Ryman jerked his head around to look at the lieutenant. He didn’t say anything for a few moments. “You gonna keep after ’em?”

  Jeffers was impatient with the question. “That’s what I said, Sergeant.” Then he softened his tone a bit. “Just to the top of the bluffs to have a look at the country beyond.”

  “Yessir,” Ryman answered. He turned to face the troopers, most of whom were dismounted, holding their reins while the horses drank. “Mount up. We’re going across. Fannin, you look like you want to play scout. Go on out at point—and don’t lead us into no holes. I don’t feel like taking a bath right now.”

  They entered the water single file and started across, Fannin leading. The footing was firm and the water came up no further than just above their stirrups in the deepest part. Fannin reached the other side and turned to watch the rest of the column, some twenty yards behind. Ryman glanced up at him just at the moment the arrow struck Fannin’s che
st. Ryman could hear the thump of the arrowhead when it shattered Fannin’s breastbone, even above the rippling of the water around him. For a moment he was too stunned to react. One moment Fannin was sitting on his horse, grinning and waving to his comrades to come on. The next moment the arrow shaft seemed to materialize from nowhere—it almost appeared that the arrow had come from inside Fannin and had suddenly protruded outward.

  Ryman’s paralysis lasted for only a second before the reality of the moment took hold of him and he sprang into action. Behind him, he heard one of the men cry out as another arrow found its mark. Then he was aware of a swarm of arrows piercing the water around the troopers. Another cry rang out from a wounded man, and a horse screamed and foundered, thrashing about in the middle of the river. Then the river bottom exploded with rifle fire and he was suddenly in the midst of a hailstorm of flying lead.

  Ryman pulled his carbine off his shoulder, almost losing it in the river. Looking frantically around him, he tried to locate the source of the hostile fire. Behind him was chaos as the stunned troopers tried to escape the deadly fire, not knowing which way to run. Directly in front of him, Lieutenant Jeffers was blindly firing his pistol at the riverbank. In another moment, Ryman sized up the situation. The ambush was set up behind them and on both sides of the column so that they were caught in the middle of the current and could run neither upstream or downstream.

  Barking out orders at the top of his voice, he yelled to his men to follow him, but he was too late to stop some of the men who had tried to escape to either side, only to ride right into a killing swarm of lead. There was only one route of escape and that was to plow on across the river and try to gain the cover of the bluffs. “Across!” he yelled while trying to control his horse with one hand, with the other firing wasted shots from his carbine. “Make for the other side! Follow me!” Lieutenant Jeffers quickly joined in and urged his men to make for the far bank. They kicked and pleaded with their horses, begging for speed, and the frightened animals struggled in the belly-deep water, straining for the other side.