Black Eagle
Page 22
“Bright Feather . . . John?” Jason blurted when the baby’s eyes fluttered open. He had been sleeping until the sudden jolt of the woman’s fall had awakened him. A flash of recognition sparked in the boy’s eyes and he started to cry.
When the fatal shot did not come immediately, the woman opened her eyes and stopped moaning. She studied the rifle, still inches away, and then shifted her gaze up into the face of the white man, curious as to why she was still alive. Perhaps he meant to torture her. Knowing she had no alternative, she sat and waited patiently for her fate. After a few more moments passed and still no bullet, she spoke. “You are Coles,” she stated flatly, knowing it could be no other.
He answered with a nod, then, “Where is Black Eagle?”
“He is gone down the mountain, looking for you.”
“Where were you going? Why aren’t you with Black Eagle?” He moved the rifle aside and reached behind her to examine the baby.
Reading his concern, she quickly volunteered, “I take good care of the little one. I was returning him to the soldier fort.” She studied Jason’s face intently, searching for some sign of his intentions. “Are you going to kill me?”
“No,” he answered softly. “I ain’t gonna kill you.” He looked at the boy to make sure he was all right while keeping a wary eye on the woman. He still had recent memories of a knife wound, administered by a Ute squaw.
He questioned her about the whereabouts of Black Eagle and the location of his camp. There was little need to question her about the savage’s intentions, he knew what they were. She answered his questions eagerly and, in his opinion, honestly. It had been her intention, she explained, to return the child. Although she feared Black Eagle’s anger and possible retaliation, she felt certain the soldiers would kill her and her family if the baby was not returned. Jason was convinced she was telling the truth when she told of her reluctance to participate in Black Eagle’s abduction of the child and that she and her family had nothing to do with the renegade’s slaying of Shorty. They had sought nothing more than peace and her husband’s nephew had been an unwelcome guest in their lodge.
Jason listened to the woman’s passionate insistence that she and her husband were unwilling participants in Black Eagle’s schemes until he was satisfied with her story. Knowing that Black Eagle himself was somewhere within a few miles of where he now stood, it was hard to turn back but he knew the most important thing to do now was to get the boy safely back to Ruth Woodcock.
“How are you called?”
“White Feather,” she replied.
“All right, White Feather, I’m taking you home.” He helped her to her feet and led her back to his horse. Before helping her up behind the saddle, he relieved her of her skinning knife. “I’ll just hold on to this for you till you get home.” He climbed up into the saddle and turned Black back toward the river, White Feather and the boy behind him.
* * *
Ruth Woodcock attacked the weathered boards furiously as she sought to rid the small porch of the dust of the parade ground. It would avail her very little because she knew within minutes the porch would be covered with dust again. It was the wind. It seemed to Ruth that the wind blew constantly at Fort Fetterman. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered hanging up wash on the line. Part of the year there was enough grass on the parade ground to hold the dust somewhat. If the weather was dry, and it usually was, and there was not a great deal of hostile Indian activity so that there were more drill formations, then there was not much grass left. Still, she fought a daily battle with her broom to keep the dust from taking over. And lately, since John had been abducted, it seemed she sought more and more solace in hard work.
She paused in her sweeping to see where the boys were playing. “Jeremy, don’t get too far. Come back here close to the porch.” Her rational mind told her that she needn’t be overcautious. John was a special case. There was a definite reason he was snatched and it had nothing to do with her other two boys or with her and Wes. But she couldn’t help but want Jeremy and Lemuel close to her all the time now.
She glanced up, her gaze drifting to the edge of the parade ground, toward the Indian camp. A lone rider loped into view. For some unexplained reason, the rider caught her attention and held her gaze. The broom dropped from her hand and clattered on the wooden porch, unnoticed by her. It was Jason Coles. She could recognize the black-speckled Appaloosa and the easy way the rider moved with the motion of the horse. On the saddle before him rode a small child. She did not wait until he reached the cottage.
“John!” she cried out. “John . . . my baby!” Running as fast as her round body permitted, she met Jason halfway across the parade ground and he handed the baby down to her.
In her excitement over the reunion with her adopted son, she was all but overcome with emotion. Holding the baby so close to her that Jason feared she might crush the youngun, she released the agony she had been holding back. The child, swept under by the flood of emotion, hugged her tightly around her neck and both mother and child sobbed together. Jason was almost overcome himself.
Such was Ruth’s joy that she was oblivious to Jason’s presence and he became simply a spectator. Still seated on Black, Jason watched the reunion and the thought struck him that there was no doubt left in his mind. The boy’s place was with the sergeant and his wife. A chapter in his life, a chapter that featured Lark and little Bright Feather, was finally ended. One last detail needed dealing with, Black Eagle, and the book could be closed.
“Jason!” He turned to see Wes Woodcock running from the headquarters building. “Glory be, you found him!” In a few seconds, the sergeant-major had joined the reunion. After several minutes when Wes had hugged the baby and Jeremy and Lemuel had jumped all around their mother and father, looking for a chance to touch their little brother, things calmed down to the point where Ruth could carry John back to the cottage.
She had taken a few steps toward the house when she suddenly stopped and turned around, looking up at the scout. “Thank you for bringing my boy home, Jason.” Her face was radiant with the joy that seeped from inside her heart. He nodded in response. There seemed to be no necessity for words.
Jason, leading his horse, walked back to headquarters with Wes. Colonel Fleming stood in the open doorway to greet them. After congratulations were offered for the boy’s safe return, Fleming listened to Jason’s recounting of the events that led him to find the child.
“So you think these Indians camped outside the fort should not be punished for the murder of Shorty Boyd? Or the abduction of the child?”
“No, Sir, I don’t. I think the last thing those few lodges over there want is trouble. Black Eagle came in there uninvited and scared the hell outta everybody and they were too weak to go against him. Shorty’s murder was Black Eagle’s doing, just like running off with that baby, all his doing.” He could see Colonel Fleming working his mind on what he said, unsure of whether he should take any action on the camp or not. “When I found the woman, she was bringing the child back, on foot. Black Eagle had took her horse but she was going to walk back here with the youngun. I think she was trying to do the right thing.”
Fleming gave in. “Maybe you’re right, Coles. I guess we can’t hold them responsible for one bad Indian.”
“No, Sir. Now I reckon I’d better get back out there and find that son of a bitch. It’ll be dark before long.” He climbed in the saddle and wheeled Black around.
Wes stepped off the porch and stood beside Jason’s horse. “Captain Blevins’ troop rode out after him. You might pick up their trail across the river. They’ve been gone since morning.”
“Who’s scouting for him?”
“Those two Crows of yours, Little Hawk and that one that don’t ever talk.”
Jason nodded. “He’s got good scouts then. Maybe I’m wasting my time but I think I’ll go have a look-see myself. I’ll see if I can’t catch up with them.” He had a feeling it wasn’t going to be easy cornering this wildcat. Black
Eagle wasn’t the kind to go down without taking a considerable number with him. He gave Black a firm nudge with his heels and the Appaloosa responded immediately. He was almost past the long rows of tents when he heard his name called. He looked toward the cavalry tents to see Sergeant Aaron Brady running to intercept him.
“Hold on a minute, Jason,” Brady panted, his breath unwilling to keep up with his legs.
Jason reined up and waited for the sergeant to catch up. He grinned at Brady while he slowed to a walk. “Damn, Aaron, you’ve been in the cavalry too long. You forgot how to walk.”
“I ain’t used to running without something chasing me.” He took a moment to catch his breath. “Where the hell have you been, anyway?”
“Here and there,” Jason replied. “I figured you’d be glad to have me out of your hair for a while. What’s the matter? Can’t get anybody to drink that damn coffee of yours?”
“It shore as hell beats that rancid mess you boil up,” he retorted, then his expression sobered and he held a letter up to Jason. “I heard you was going out after H Troop. This here letter came for Lieutenant Anderson. I thought maybe you ought to take it to him.”
“Anderson? Thad? What’s he doing with H Troop?”
“He wanted to go along so the colonel let him since B Troop’s standing down for a few days.” The sergeant’s face took on a more somber expression. “Jason, I’m a little worried about that boy. He ain’t been the same since he come back from Laramie. He’s moody all the time and wants to volunteer for everything that comes up if there’s gonna be any fighting in it. I think it’s got something to do with that little gal visiting Major Linebaugh, although he don’t say nothing about it.”
Jason took the letter and stuck it inside his saddlebag. “What makes you think this letter’s so important that it can’t wait until he gets back?”
Brady scratched his head thoughtfully. “I don’t know. I just figured it might be something important. It’s from her. Maybe it’s something he’s been waiting for. I don’t know. But one thing’s for shore . . . she’s got his head messed up for some reason and I’m afraid if he don’t get it straightened out, he’s gonna do something stupid.”
“I’ll see he gets it.” Brady backed away and Jason nudged Black. It seemed a trivial thing but Jason understood Aaron’s concern. Thad was a young man and he had been out on the frontier ever since the war back east had ended. That was a long time for a young man to deprive himself of the pleasures of a civilized world. That kind of existence often caused men to do some strange things, even take desperate measures. Some simply deserted and went back east. Some found solace in the arms of an Indian girl. Some—and this was what Aaron worried about—decided life had no meaning and wasn’t worth pursuing. These were the men who carelessly took needless risks in battle, often placing themselves in danger for no apparent purpose beyond simply being in danger. They usually became heroes or martyrs, depending upon the roll of the dice.
Jason thought about these things as Black loped along toward the river. He thought back on the dinner party he attended at Major Linebaugh’s quarters and he could understand how a young officer could be smitten by the grace and beauty of Martha Lynch. He had not seen much of Thad since the campaign on the south fork of the Powder, but evidently he and the young lady had spent some time together while he was convalescing at Laramie. Maybe Aaron was correct in his speculation. Thad might have become reckless in his approach to his duty. Or maybe Aaron was just becoming too much a father figure to his young lieutenant. Jason had seen that happen too. Whatever, he decided, he’d see for himself when he caught up with the troop.
Thinking about Thad Anderson’s plight triggered thoughts about his own life and he let his mind delve into Jason Coles’ existence. There had been many hardships in his life, too many to remember all of them, because hardships were an integral part of a scout’s life. Did he regret the path he had chosen? Not really. He couldn’t see himself in any other occupation. He was a free man, to come and go as he chose, scouting for the army when he wanted to, going his own way when he wanted to. When he took a critical look at his life, he had to conclude that survival was his occupation—pure and simple—and he was damn good at it.
There had not been many women in Jason’s life. A few had left permanent impressions on his soul, some had left scars. But he was not that far removed from his youth that he could not realize there was still a future for him and one never knew what that might bring. At any rate, he never worried about it. He believed what was written for a man would come to pass, and in the meantime, the best you could do was keep a sharp eye on the trail and see to your rifle and ammunition. He was coming up on the river now. It was time to rid his mind of trivia and get back to business.
* * *
He sat motionless, watching the line of blue-shirted cavalry threading through the narrow pass below him. A dragonfly buzzed by his face but he seemed not to notice the insect, so intent was he upon the soldiers following the trail far below the cliff he sat on. Unconsciously, a sneer formed behind the red and black paint on his face, triggered by the knowledge that they searched for him—and knowing that it was he who had found them.
At this distance, he could not tell if the white scout he sought was with the soldiers. He assumed that he would be. Now he could only see two scouts with the soldiers, and at that distance, he could not be sure if they were Indians or white. Stupid scouts, he thought, they follow a trail left by an old man from the camp, going into the mountains to hunt.
Black Eagle had no thoughts of running from the soldiers. His blood lust was for Jason Coles and, if Coles was with the soldiers in the pass, he would kill all of the soldiers to get to him. Uppermost in his mind was to devise a way to get Coles alone. He desperately needed to fight Coles hand-to-hand. He wanted to count coup on the scout’s body. It was important to him because Coles had killed Stone Hand in close combat. As the last of the column of soldiers disappeared from his sight, he got to his feet and moved to the other side of the ridge.
He waited until they emerged from the pines and came into his view again. Moving with the speed and agility of a mountain lion, he worked his way farther down the ridge to get a closer look at the two scouts. “Crow!” he spat. Instantly he was furious that Coles was not with the troop. Almost matching his anger was his contempt for the Crow scouts. He sat back and gave consideration to the situation as it was now presented to him. No Coles . . . that was unfortunate but Coles would come. He knew that to be true, he felt it in his heart. Coles would come, especially if he started killing off the troopers who, even now, boxed themselves in a narrow pass that made them easy targets for one warrior with a repeating rifle.
* * *
Captain Blevins held up his arm to signal a halt. He sat and waited for Little Hawk, who was riding back to meet the column. Thad Anderson pulled up beside him.
“I don’t like the looks of this,” Blevins said. “This damn trail has gotten more and more narrow. I don’t think it leads anywhere. I think we’ve come to a dead end.” He stood up in the stirrups and looked back over the way they had come, his troop strung out along a trail barely wide enough to ride two abreast and even more narrow in some places. He realized that his troop was in an extremely vulnerable position and was anxious to get through the pass and onto better ground.
Thad sat his horse impatiently. He did not reply to Blevins’ remarks, intent instead upon watching Little Hawk as he reined up hard before them.
“No way out,” Little Hawk said in his broken English. “Trail gone. Go straight up.” He emphasized his last words with his hand, indicating a steep mountain.
“Damn!” Blevins, disgusted, turned to Thad. “Looks like we picked the wrong trail to follow. Let’s get the hell out of here.” He signaled an about-face and started to make his way around the line of troopers in order to head the column. Before he had passed two horses, the sharp crack of a rifle confirmed his fears that he had been led into an untenable position.
High up on the side of the hill, Black Eagle’s blood pumped with excitement as he aimed and fired as rapidly as he could. He managed to hit three more troopers before they were able to find cover from his punishing rifle fire and the rest were effectively pinned down. One more soldier was cut down as he foolishly made a dash for a dropped cartridge belt. That made six of his enemy dead and his blood was hot with the sensation of the kill.
“Where the hell is he?” Blevins called out. “Anybody see him?” He was lying as flat as he could make his body behind a small rise beside the trail. He raised his head no more than necessary to see over the rise in an effort to determine where his troops were scattered. Almost immediately, a bullet snapped into the ground barely a foot before his face, causing him to flatten in the dirt again. “Jesus! Anybody see him?” They were effectively pinned down by a lone rifleman, unable to move without calling down more shots.
The horses, how riderless, were milling around in the narrow pass and first one and then several began to run back down the trail. “The horses!” someone yelled and Blevins shouted out an order to stop them from running. It was too late. Two of his men darted out from behind a rock and attempted to turn the crazed animals. There were two more cracks from the unseen rifle and both troopers fell in the dirt. The horses galloped over their bodies, making a run from the bedlam of the narrow pass.
Thad Anderson crawled up beside Blevins. “What are you gonna do, Linus?”