by Neil Hunter
Issuing classic fiction from Yesterday and Today!
When Luke Kennick answered the urgent summons that drew him back to the Army fort, it brought him face to face with ghosts from his past he wanted to stay long buried. Despite his concerns, he agreed to escort the captive Comanche warrior Kicking Bear across the country to face his trial.
It meant a lonely, dangerous trek across an increasingly hostile land, with vengeful men who wanted to kill him and the unexpected burden of a beautiful young woman he found abandoned along the way.
Luke Kennick was forced to face the shadows of his past and the dangers of the present, and he had no way to go except the violent trail that made his Savage Journey, knowing that there would have to be a showdown at the end.
SAVAGE JOURNEY
By Neil Hunter
First published by Avon Books in 1968, under the pen-name Richard Wyler
Copyright © 1968, 2004 by Michael R. Linaker
Published by Piccadilly Publishing at Smashwords: June 2014
Names, characters and incidents in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each reader.
Cover image © 2014 by Edward Martin
edwrd984.deviantart.com
This is a Piccadilly Publishing Book
Series Editor: Ben Bridges
Text © Piccadilly Publishing
Published by Arrangement with the Author
Author’s Note
Certain liberties have been taken in the writing of this novel in that a non-existent Army post—Fort Cameron has been placed on the map. Also, the author hopes that those who know the State of Texas will bear with him in his descriptions and geographical details. One hopes, too, that the introduction of a factual personality—Ranald S. Mackenzie—will be acceptable to those who enthuse over historical Western fact.
Chapter One
The lone rider came slowly across the burning, empty plain toward Fort Cameron, Texas. Behind him stretched the Texas badlands, a dry, cruel land of eroded rock, sand and dust, towering mesas and flat plain. Ahead of him, far to the north-west, beyond the fort, lay the silent wilderness of the Llano Estacado: The Staked Plains.
It was mid-August. The time of white-hot days that brought with them a shimmering curtain of silence, shrouding the savage land and everything on it.
Up on the catwalk of the fort wall, a sentry had spotted the rider. He watched with red-rimmed, dull eyes as the man reined in his tired horse before the fort’s high double gates.
The rider looked up at the watching trooper.
‘Luke Kennick to see Colonel Broughton,’ he called.
The sentry signaled for the gates to be opened, turned and watched the rider guide his horse across the dusty parade ground and stop before the Company Headquarters Building.
A second sentry strolled over to the first one. He nodded down at the slowly dismounting rider. ‘I never thought Ld see Luke Kennick back at Fort Cameron.’
His companion grunted, leaned out over the wall and spat tobacco juice.
‘Wait ’til Griff McBride hears about it,’ he said.
Unaware of this interest in his arrival, Luke Kennick paused outside the door of the headquarters building to slap off some of the trail dust he’d accumulated. As he did, he glanced out over the parade ground. The place hadn’t changed much, he decided. A little more weathered, but otherwise the same.
Kennick knocked dust from his pants with a battered cavalryman’s hat. He hesitated a moment longer, a tall, lean man in his early thirties, marked by a life spent mostly beneath a hot sun. His thick fair hair was bleached near white. His face, shadowed by a five-day growth of beard, was almost the color of his saddle; a deep, red-tinged brown. His eyes were blue, a pale gray-blue. Normally, their expression was one of almost lazy indifference, but that could change in an instant into a flint-hard look that made an observer wonder if he were looking at the same man.
Abruptly Luke Kennick turned and opened the door of the headquarters building. He stepped into a small outer office that held filing cabinets and a desk. In the chair behind the desk sat a chunky, balding corporal, intently studying a pile of papers.
‘What’s the trouble, Cobb? Too many forms to sign?’ Kennick asked softly.
Cobb looked up, and his pleasant moon face cracked in a wide smile. ‘Lieutenant Kennick!’
Kennick took the man’s outstretched hand. ‘Hello, Cobb. And it’s Mister Kennick now. Has been for the past two and a half years.’
‘Sure doesn’t seem that long. Where’ve you been hiding yourself, anyhow?’
‘Spent sometime in the Dakotas, then moved to Wyoming to settle.’
‘We sure were sorry to see you go, sir.’
‘Yes, I know, and I’m grateful,’ Kennick said but his smile faded. Abruptly, he said, ‘The colonel’s expecting me, I think?’
Cobb got up off his chair. ‘I’ll tell him you’re here.’
He crossed to a door marked ‘Commanding Officer, Willis A. Broughton, Col.’ He knocked and went in. Kennick heard muffled conversation beyond the door, then Cobb stepped out again and signaled for him to enter.
Luke Kennick stepped into the inner office. He heard the door close behind him. Memories flooded back to him as he stood there, vivid, warm memories that belonged in this room, along with the wall maps and pennants and tintype portraits.
The commander of Fort Cameron sat behind an old oak desk. Colonel Broughton was an impressive figure. His uniform, as always, was immaculate despite the wilting heat. He looked as if he’d stepped from the pages of an academy yearbook: solid, dependable, tough, and one-hundred percent cavalryman. It had been one of Luke Kennick’s failings, that he’d never felt, never looked comfortable in those tight-fitting, stiff uniforms.
Broughton leaned back in his chair and eyed Kennick from beneath thick eyebrows. ‘At ease, Mr. Kennick,’ he said. Then he got up, walked around the desk and took Kennick’s hand. ‘Luke, it’s good to see you.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Broughton slapped him on the arm and stepped back. ‘Damned if you haven’t put on weight.’
‘You had a habit of keeping your officers on the move. Especially young lieutenants.’ Kennick grinned.
Broughton’s gray eyes sparkled. ‘I still do,’ he said. ‘Sit down, Luke. Drink?’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Kennick eased into a chair and let his tired muscles relax. He took the glass Broughton handed him, waited until the colonel was seated behind the desk. ‘Your health, sir.’
‘How’s it been, Luke?’
Kennick rolled the now empty glass between his hands. ‘It was rough to start with. I knew it would be. But once I’d convinced myself that moping around would do no good, I settled down and found things weren’t so bad.’
‘You bought yourself some land up around Laramie.’
Kennick nodded. ‘You’re looking at an honest-to-goodness cowman now. I’ve got a small herd getting fat on sweet Wyoming grass. Couple more years, if nothing goes wrong, I’ll have myself a real solid stake.’
Broughton rubbed his broad chin with a big hand. He studied Kennick soberly. It was obvious he was trying to come to some decision.
‘Luke, I’ll tell you why I asked you to come. I hate pussyfooting around. You know me—’ Kennick nodded, and Broughton went on, ‘Here it is then. You’ve heard about the latest Indian troubles, I suppose?’
‘Heard nothing else for weeks.’
‘The Comanche and Kiowa have gone o
n the worst rampage the territory has ever seen, Luke. It’s a bloodbath. The country’s in a panic. The Army’s being run off its feet trying to keep order. It’s the same old story, Luke. Not enough men, not enough supplies coming through.’
The colonel got up and paced the office. He stopped before the room’s only window, which faced out over the parade ground.
‘A month back one of our patrols ran into a bunch of Penetaka Comanche. There was a skirmish and all but two of the Indians were killed. These two were brought back to the fort and put in the stockade. They’d been there for three days before one of our Tonkawa scouts recognized one of them and came and told me....’
Broughton turned away from the window and faced Kennick. ‘Luke, one of those Comanches is Kicking Bear,’ he said very quietly.
Luke’s head came up as if someone had slapped him across the face. He stared at the colonel. When he spoke, it was in a hoarse whisper. ‘Kicking Bear! My God!’
Broughton sat down again. He picked up his pipe—an old one he’d had for years, from way back before the war—watched Luke over the bowl as he lit up.
‘We don’t know what Kicking Bear was doing with such a small band,’ Broughton said, talking around the stem of the pipe. I’m not particularly concerned either. The important thing is this: we’ve got him, and we intend to keep him.’
Luke frowned. ‘Have hostilities increased since you got him? His tribe must have realized he’s missing by now.’
‘So far, I don’t think they know he’s here. But I’m taking no chances. I’ve had patrols out night and day. Until Kicking Bear is off my hands, I’ll keep my patrols on the move, rousing every buck from here to hell and gone, so’s they don’t know their butts from their breechclouts.’
‘There’ll be hell to pay if they do find out Kicking Bear’s here. Every Comanche in Texas will be heading for Fort Cameron. In a straight line.’
Broughton nodded. ‘I know. And headquarters must be thinking the same. I’ve had orders to get Kicking Bear out of Cameron. He’s to be taken, secretly, to a prearranged spot along the Brazos and handed over to a detail from Fort Worth. They’ll take him somewhere else to await trial by a military court.’
He drew on his pipe, and watched Kennick, waiting for a reaction.
‘Brazos is a hell of a long way to take someone secretly,’ Kennick said slowly. ‘How do you expect a troop of cavalry to make it without the Comanches catching on?’
‘There’ll be no troop, Luke. Just Kicking Bear—and one man to escort him.’
Luke Kennick stiffened visibly. Outside on the sun baked parade ground a troop of mounted cavalrymen trotted toward the fort gates.
Colonel Broughton cleared his throat, put down his pipe. ‘I’d like that one man to be you, Luke,’ he said quietly. ‘I want you to take Kicking Bear. Alone.’
Chapter Two
Luke Kennick walked slowly across the parade ground toward the fort sutler’s store.
Broughton’s words still echoed in his ears. He shook his head slowly, and thought that, had circumstances been different, he might have been able to laugh at the calm, deliberate way Broughton had set him up. But he was too deeply involved for that.
He noticed, without really looking at them, that three horsemen had ridden out of the civilian stable and were walking their mounts his way. His mind was still back in the colonel’s office. Though he’d wanted to say no to Broughton, he hadn’t. After the first moment of surprise, he’d had second thoughts. And he realized that when he did go back to see the colonel, his answer would be just what Broughton knew it would be. If he’d thought Luke would turn him down, he wouldn’t have sent all the way to Wyoming for him.
Kennick was jerked back to awareness of his present surroundings as a horse snorted close by. The animal brushed heavily against his shoulder, almost knocking him down.
‘Friend, watch where you ride next—’ He stopped, looking up at the man who sat the horse.
‘Hello ... kid killer,’ the man said.
His name was Griff McBride. Part-time Army scout, part-time buffalo hunter, and full-time troublemaker and loudmouth. His kind could be found hanging round Army posts throughout the Territory, looking to make an easy dollar and not too particular how they made it. McBride and Kennick had crossed words before, but it was more than words between them this time.
With McBride were his two constant companions, always in the background, waiting to back any play he made. There was Joe Beecher, short and stocky, a deadly mixture of Mexican and Kentucky mountain blood. Beecher was a hard, violent man, handy with a knife and brutal with his fists. And there was Bo McBride, Griff’s brother. A year or so younger than Griff’s thirty-five, Bo was a tall, heavily built man with huge, strong hands.
‘You enjoyin’ your visit, kid killer?’ McBride asked.
‘Get out of my way, Griff,’ Kennick said, struggling to keep cool. ‘I did all my talking to you a long time back. I don’t fancy going over it again.’
Griff McBride scratched his unshaven jaw. ‘Well now, I reckon you ought. See, it’s been a time since I heard you tell it. So tell me again Kennick . . . how you killed my brother, Hal.’
Kennick felt his anger rising fast, and repressed an urge to drag Griff from the saddle.
‘Get your horse out of my way, McBride,’ he said again.
But even as he said it, he knew Griff McBride wasn’t going to back down. Kennick didn’t want to start anything, but instinctively his right hand moved closer to the worn butt of his holstered .44-40 Colt.
‘I’m waiting, McBride,’ he said.
“You reckon we ought to let him pass?’ Joe Beecher said, his eyes challenging Kennick.
‘I think that would be the best thing all round!’
The voice boomed across the parade ground. Kennick recognized it instantly, and in spite of the tension, started to grin.
‘And I’d do it right now,’ the voice went on.
Then the owner of the voice came up. He shoved at Griff McBride’s horse.
‘O’Hara, stay out of this,’ Griff said angrily.
Sergeant Brendan O’Hara grinned. ‘But I couldn’t do that, Griff, me boy. Me friend here is a tired and thirsty man. Now I know you boys wouldn’t like to keep him from relieving that thirst. Would you?’
For a moment it seemed as if Griff was determined to argue. Then he wheeled his horse around.
‘I can wait, Kennick,’ he snapped.
‘I’ll be around,’ Kennick told him.
‘Aw, Griff,’ Bo protested.
His brother cut him off and headed his horse back toward the stable. Bo followed.
Joe Beecher leaned forward in his saddle. ‘Amigo, you should have stayed gone,’ he said. Then he, too, turned away from Kennick, his horse kicking up dust.
‘Bren, thank you.’ Luke Kennick grinned at his old friend.
O’Hara’s round face shone. ‘Ah, twas nothin’. God, though, it’s a grand thing to see you. C’mon, I’ll buy you a barrel of George’s best beer.’
Kennick felt a warm rush of affection for the sergeant. The burly Irishman was one of the remembered ones from his past whom Kennick always looked back on with a good feeling. He’d known O’Hara from way back, when he was a green young officer envisioning shining victories and the glory of Indian fighting.
O’Hara had taken a great liking to Luke Kennick; in fact, his attitude was almost fatherly. Patiently he’d taught the young man all he knew about frontier war. Kennick soon had all his illusions shattered, and he made a good officer. He was levelheaded, with a calm, deliberate manner that enabled him to assess and decide quickly. Even O’Hara had been surprised at the way Kennick shaped up so quickly into a tough veteran of a score or more heavy skirmishes against the warring Comanches and their Kiowa allies.
It wasn’t long before Kennick was promoted. He was the talk of the territory in Army circles. It was said that he was destined to go places in the cavalry. If he had any thoughts on the subject, Luke Kennick
kept them to himself.
It had been a bad month all round when the incident that was to change Luke Kennick’s life occurred. It was hot and dry—hard, merciless weather that made life miserable. And it was the month the kill-crazy Comanche bucks went on the rampage.
The main cause for the Indians’ killing spree was a young Comanche warlord called Kicking Bear. Claiming to have spiritual guidance, he whipped up his warriors into a frenzy of hatred. Kicking Bear was a hater of everything connected with the whites. Unlike some of the older, wiser leaders of the Comanche, who were beginning to see reason in terms of peace treaties, Kicking Bear was determined to destroy the whites who had settled on the lands of the Comanche. And, like many of his kind, he had a sincere, unshakable faith in his convictions. Because of this, he was able to pass on the fever to the mass of young bucks ready to be led. He built them up with fanatical promises, convinced them he was invulnerable, then sent them out to fulfill his prophecies.
The command at Fort Cameron was kept in the saddle every hour of the day and night. The Comanche raiders used the hit-and-run technique of fighting. A small, well-armed, well-mounted band would come out of nowhere and attack a homestead, then vanish into the empty wilderness like phantoms. By the time the nearest cavalry patrol arrived at the scene, the best they could do was bury the dead and escort any survivors to the comparative safety of Fort Cameron.
Then came the day when a patrol often men, including Kennick and O’Hara, came across a small homestead which had been attacked by Comanche raiders. For once, the resistance of the homesteaders had proved too much for the Indians. After a long drawn out fight, the Comanches had withdrawn, leaving four dead warriors behind.
The Comanches had been gone only half an hour, and the cavalry patrol went after them. Kennick and his men trailed the Comanches throughout the rest of that day and well into the next. Then they lost the trail in a sprawling rock bed that thrust up out of the land like the stumps of snapped off teeth. They wasted a half-day more trying to pick up the trail again. They failed mostly because of weariness, hunger and thirst. It had been nearly three days since they’d stopped and rested. Men and horses were exhausted, filthy, and Kennick decided to make camp and let the patrol rest up.
