Black Eagle

by Charles G. West

  The circumstances were changed drastically for Lieutenant Thad Anderson at this point. Charged with a mission to round up some two dozen poorly armed Cheyenne renegades, he had marched from Camp Robinson with one cavalry troop and eight days rations and forage. Now he found himself with half of his troop dead or wounded and unable to pursue an enemy who was armed with repeating rifles that outgunned his cavalry carbines. He had no choice but to turn back. He was not looking forward to limping back to Camp Robinson with his shot-up troop. No commander would.

  While Thad and Brady prepared the troop for the march back to Robinson, Jason and Little Hawk scouted the Cheyenne campsite. Of particular interest to Jason were the wagon tracks leading to the fork of the creek, the same wagon tracks he had first discovered on the prairie. It was plain to see the renegades had just received their rifles only days before. Jason had a burning desire to meet the driver of that wagon.

  There was another, even stronger burning in his chest and that was to follow the tall warrior he had seen that day. He was certain the man he saw was none other than Black Eagle and there was a score to be settled between them. The band of Cheyennes they had fought that day would most likely keep running now, fearful of full retaliation by a regiment of soldiers from Laramie. But would Black Eagle run with them? According to what Walking Crow had told them, Black Eagle had joined the band just recently. Jason figured Black Eagle’s desire to kill him was stronger than ever now. Walking Crow had no doubt joined the band and would give Black Eagle the news that Jason Coles was scouting for B Troop. It was hard to say what the renegade would do, run or double back to come after him. Jason decided he’d rather hunt than be hunted.

  “Lieutenant, if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll tag along behind our Cheyenne friends for a ways.”

  Thad didn’t answer right away, not sure if he wanted to let his chief scout go off alone. Brady spoke up. “Damn, Jason, you shore don’t value that scalp of yours, do you?”

  Jason smiled. “I don’t aim to lose it.” He glanced back at Thad. “You got two good scouts. I think you can trust both of ’em. I’ll catch up with you at Robinson in a day or two.”

  Thad reluctantly agreed and, after the dead were buried and what little Indian property left behind was burned, he ordered the troop mounted. Jason watched for a moment before turning Black toward the north.

  CHAPTER VI

  The sun was climbing high in the sky by the time Jason crossed the narrow plateau that fronted a low line of rolling hills. On the other side of the hills, the trail he followed struck a more westerly direction and he figured the renegades were heading for the Powder River. If they continued on that course, they would most likely strike the south fork of the Powder before nightfall.

  There was no cover to speak of, so he rode with a cautious eye on the horizon. It was dangerous, trailing the Cheyennes out in the open, but Jason felt confident in his ability to see them before they saw him. He rode on, following a trail that showed no signs of caution. Evidently Black Eagle was not concerned with being followed. It was impossible to know exactly how many hostiles were left after the encounter back at Buffalo Creek. He had counted twenty-seven hide-covered holes the day before when he and Walking Crow scouted the camp. But there was more than one hostile in some of the holes so he had to figure he was now trailing fifteen or twenty Cheyennes. So far, there was no sign that any of them had split off from the rest.

  Climbing to the top of a rise in the late afternoon, he dismounted to take a good look at the terrain before him. In the distance, he could see a tree-lined ribbon cutting through the grassy plain. It had to be the Powder and, by his estimate, a good four or five miles away. It was time to be cautious. He decided it best to circle around to the west and strike the Powder south of where the trail led. He was confident that the hostiles would camp on the river. He would have to make his way up the river, using the cottonwoods and willows as cover.

  He paused in the trees for a few minutes, listening and scanning the riverbanks. Satisfied that all was well, he nudged Black and let the horse walk to the edge of the water and drink. Nothing disturbed the serenity of the gently flowing river as the scout watched the slight ripple of a breeze through the cottonwoods. On the far bank, a muskrat slid into the water and disappeared under the roots of a willow. For a second, Jason forgot the danger surrounding him and was reminded of the peaceful valley back in Colorado territory. He tried to recall an image of Lark’s face, laughing and happy. But his mind would only bring up the vision of her broken skull as he found her on the bank of the stream. The image jerked him back to the present and reminded him why he was trailing the band of Cheyennes. For although he had led Thad to believe he was tracking the hostiles in order to see where they were going, he knew damn well where they were going. His only purpose in following them was the hope to get an opportunity to remove Black Eagle from the face of the earth. A dull ache in the healing wound in his left shoulder served as a signal to alert him to the necessity for caution so he led Black back up into the cover of the trees.

  The shadows were growing long across the river now and Jason judged it to be about two hours till dark. He decided to make a short camp here and wait for twilight before following the river north. He wanted to rest Black before scouting for the hostile camp. It would be a good idea to have his horse fresh in case he had to do some hard riding that night. He took the opportunity to take a rest himself and eat something.

  * * *

  Making his way through the trees, around shallow coulees, across occasional sandy clearings, and always back to the banks, he followed the river north. In the grayness of the twilight, he could just see enough to travel at a fast walk. After about a mile, he was able to see a bright glow through the trees that told him the hostiles were camped on the other side of the river, not more than two hundred yards away. They sure built themselves one helluva fire, he thought. In the fading light, it was difficult to pick a place to ford the river, but he settled on a place that felt solid underfoot. “We’ll just hope it doesn’t go off too deep, Black,” he spoke softly to his horse.

  The horse and rider crossed the river with no difficulty, only getting Jason’s legs wet up to his knees as he sat in the saddle. He had taken the precaution to go downstream another hundred yards in case Black snorted and shook when he came out of the water. He did.

  He made his way upstream until he was within a hundred yards of the Indian camp. Just to be safe, he tied Black to a willow and went the rest of the way on foot. Another fifty yards and he stopped to scout the trees and gullies to make sure there were no lookouts posted. He didn’t expect any but he checked anyway. It was getting pretty dark now and he didn’t want to go stumbling into some buck off in the woods taking a dump.

  Spotting a fallen tree, lying on the riverbank some thirty yards from the camp, he made his way quietly up behind it. From there he could see the campfire and the warriors around it. Now he realized why the fire was so large. The fifteen or twenty renegades he had been tracking had joined another camp on the river, a sizable camp with women and children. Jason could make out the shapes of at least twenty tipis in the light of the large central campfire. It was impossible to say how many more were scattered along the river, hidden from him in the darkness. A real hornets’ nest, he thought. I’ll bet Major Gaston ain’t got a notion there’s this many hostiles camped this close to Robinson.

  Jason’s plans were changed drastically by this unexpected presence of such a large force of hostiles. Sitting Bull was reported to be in camp farther north, somewhere along the Crazy Woman or the Big Horn Valley. Jason didn’t think it likely he would be this far south. Crazy Horse? Gall? . . . could be any of the Sioux tribes, or even Cheyenne—Dull Knife or Little Wolf maybe. Black Eagle would have to wait. This congregation of warriors could spell big trouble if they were of a mind to attack the garrison at Camp Robinson or Fort Fetterman. Utmost in Jason’s mind now was to determine who the village was, their strength and, if possible, their
intentions. And he had to do it before morning because he couldn’t afford to be caught snooping around a village that size in daylight. There weren’t enough places to hide in this country. Before, when he thought he was dealing with fifteen, or twenty at the most, he was not overly concerned. His plan had been to take Black Eagle out if he could get a shot. After that, he was confident he could inflict enough damage on the rest of them that he could discourage pursuit considerably. And if it came to a horse race, he counted on the speed and endurance of the Appaloosa. A whole village, now that was a different critter to skin.

  Knowing the job to be done, he set about his work. The first thing to do was to make sure Black was in a safe place because he was going to have to do his scouting on foot. He decided the best approach was to cross back over to the other side, away from the village. This way he could make his way past the camp and come in above it.

  He retraced his steps and crossed the river at the same place he had originally forded. Then, on foot and leading his horse, he went back upriver, keeping to the trees that lined the banks. Within a few minutes time, he was abreast of the Indian camp on the opposite side of the river. From the sounds that drifted across the water, he estimated it to be a fairly sizable camp. He continued to make his way along the river, now able to see individual cookfires flickering in the darkness as he carefully avoided dead branches and twigs that might betray his presence.

  By his estimation, he walked almost two hundred yards along the riverbank before he was even with the last of the tipis. He walked a few yards farther until he came to a deep gully with a dry creekbed leading down to the river. He tied Black’s reins to a dead log and, after a few moments to listen and feel the night around him, he gave Black a reassuring pat on the neck and waded out into the current.

  Holding his rifle and pistol above the water, he slowly waded across, placing each foot carefully in front of the other. Once he stepped in a hole and almost lost his hat but he recovered in time. He wouldn’t have minded losing the hat but it might have been a little hot for him if some sharp-eyed buck just happened to spot a hat floating down the river. Safely out on the other bank, he decided to leave his hat under a low willow, thinking it not a bad idea to be bareheaded in the event his silhouette might be spotted against the sky. After listening to make sure he had not been discovered, he climbed up the bank into the cottonwoods where he paused once again to look for sentries. Evidently they were not concerned with raiders, since he could not make out any lookouts near the river. He was only about fifty yards from the northernmost tipi now and he decided to circle around to the west of the camp to get a closer look.

  In order to get to the lower part of the camp, it was necessary to cross an open sandy area of perhaps thirty yards. Crouching low, he hurried across and dropped down on the far side to listen. The murmur of voices in the camp remained constant, with an occasional yapping of a dog. He rose and continued around to a stand of trees that afforded a closer look into the camp.

  A gentle breeze stirred the leaves above him and pressed his wet buckskins against his skin. He didn’t notice. He was intent on scanning the hostile village no more than twenty yards from where he crouched. Sioux, he thought. He counted forty tipis but he could not see all of them. There were more on the south end of the camp. This was where he guessed the renegade Cheyennes had dispersed. The camp looked peaceful enough, at least there were no war dances. He got up and made his way around to the south where he counted twenty more tipis. Probably a hundred or maybe a hundred fifty warriors, he thought.

  Glancing down at the ground, he noticed a faint shadow. Looking back over his shoulder, he saw a large orange moon sitting on the hills in the distance. I reckon I’ve seen enough, he thought. I’d better get my ass out of here before that moon gets any higher.

  As quickly and as quietly as he could, he went back the way he had come. When he reached the clearing, he was to find it somewhat brighter with the moon now just reaching the trees. He thought it best to walk across the clearing as casually as he could in case someone from the camp was looking his way. He had not taken three steps into the clearing when a form suddenly appeared in the shadows, walking directly toward him. There was no time to run. He was certain the man had seen him because he stopped in his tracks. Jason casually stepped over to the edge of the little clearing and jerked the rawhide cord on his trousers, dropping them to his knees. He then squatted as if about to relieve his bowels. In the same motion, he pulled his skinning knife from his cartridge belt and held it down beside him.

  The man in the shadows immediately relaxed when he saw Jason squat and he started walking again. “It is a pleasant night,” he said. The tongue was Sioux.

  Jason answered, “Yes it is.” It was too dark to make out the man’s features so Jason was confident that the Sioux could not see him either.

  The warrior walked beyond Jason into the trees and assumed the same position as Jason. Damn if this ain’t something, Jason thought. He had no choice but to continue the charade so he remained there for a few minutes before rising to his feet again and pulling up his pants. He had hoped to be on his way at that point, but before he had taken two steps, he heard the man behind him. Damn, he thought, he’s already took a shit. He must have a rapid-fire rear end.

  “I hope I did not intrude on your privacy,” the Sioux said.

  “No,” Jason replied, trying to keep his head turned away from the Sioux, who was now at his side.

  At that moment, the moon broke through an opening in the branches above them, illuminating the small clearing. “Jason Coles!” the startled man gasped, followed seconds later by a low grunt as Jason’s skinning knife was thrust to the hilt in his gut.

  With his other hand, Jason clamped the man’s mouth shut while he struggled to rid his belly of Jason’s knife. Unable to free Jason’s hand from the knife that was now scalding his gut with searing pain, the warrior flailed at Jason’s face and throat. Jason locked a leg behind the warrior’s knee and threw him to the ground. He wrenched the knife from his belly and drew it across his throat in one quick motion. The warrior’s frantic struggles stopped and the life seeped out of him into the sand until he was still.

  Jason relaxed and sat back on his heels. “Well, Walking Crow,” he whispered, “I reckon our account is settled.” He wiped his knife blade on Walking Crow’s shirt and started to get up. Then, as an afterthought, he drew the knife again and took the warrior’s scalp. Might as well let ’em think an Injun done it, he thought. He pulled the body back in the willows. He glanced back at the former army scout and whispered, “At least you got to take a good shit before you went to hell.”

  He wasted no more time working his way back to the north end of the village and to the willow where he retrieved his hat. The moon was high in the sky now and reflected from the water like shimmering diamonds. He decided it best to get back on the other side so he waded in and crossed. Black greeted him with a low snort as he sloshed ashore. He tried to wring some of the water out of his shirt before untying the reins and leading his horse out of the gully and back through the trees.

  The problem he was confronted with now was how close he could afford to stay to the camp when daylight came. He now knew who they were and how many they were. But he still didn’t know what their intentions were. He decided he would risk hanging around until daylight. Maybe he could get a more accurate estimate of the strength of the camp.

  * * *

  When the first fingers of light probed the willows on the riverbank, south of the hostile camp, Jason stirred his stiff body from the narrow washout where he had made his bed. He listened for a few minutes. There were no sounds except the water gurgling around a log in the river and an occasional stamping of Black’s hooves as the Appaloosa ate a breakfast of willow leaves. Jason watched the horse for a brief minute before getting to his feet and rolling up his blanket. As was his custom, the next thing he did was check his weapons. Satisfied that they were ready to call into action when needed, he got a
piece of jerky and some hardtack from his saddlebags.

  Soon it would be light enough to get a better look at the Sioux camp. In the meantime, he led Black down to the water to drink. Then he checked his saddle and made sure Black was ready to travel. He knew he wouldn’t have time for a long look at the village, hunting parties would be riding out in all directions at sunup, but he hoped to see signs of how long they had been there. That way he might be able to guess how long it would be before they moved. A village that size couldn’t stay in one spot for very long. Their large pony herd would graze the grass out and they would scare off all the game.

  The morning gray began to lighten and the hills behind the village started to take solid shape. In a short while, Jason could see the outline of individual trees and rocks on the hillsides. He moved up closer to the river’s edge, his eyes darting back and forth over the sprawling village, taking in as much of the camp as possible. After a few minutes more, the women started stirring their cookfires outside the tipis and men appeared, some to empty their bladders in back of the tipi, some, more modest, walking to the edge of the trees. Dogs stretched and ambled up to the cookfires, hoping for a scrap of meat.

  As the day brightened, Jason could now see the pony herd. He estimated around four or five hundred head, which seemed typical for a hundred or a hundred fifty warriors. From the looks of the camp, he figured they had been there for longer than a week.

  Off to the western rim of the camp there seemed to be a small commotion as two warriors suddenly emerged from behind the tipis, waving their arms and talking rapidly. Soon they were joined by other men, their rifles in hand, and Jason knew they had found Walking Crow. “Time to leave,” he mumbled and slid back into the brush. He stepped up into the saddle and turned Black toward the south, moving at a fast walk through the cottonwoods.

  * * *

  The first person Jason saw, when he rode back into the bivouac area at Camp Robinson, was Sergeant Aaron Brady. “Well, lookee here, look who’s back,” Brady called out. “And peers like you still got all your hair.”