Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  Rose was still giggling about that when he waved goodbye and started up the street, riding one of the delivery team horses and leading the other. “You should have told him you’d already sold the gun shop,” she said. “He might have felt safer.” Walt couldn’t help laughing.

  They examined the wagon carefully. Its box was twelve feet long and four feet wide, with sides three feet high, riding on iron axles. A false bottom eighteen inches deep allowed goods to be stored beneath those more frequently required. Curved hickory bows rose above the sides. A heavy canvas cover was stretched over them, with flaps at the front and a pucker-string to tighten the back, making the interior largely weatherproof.

  “The seat’s not sprung,” Rose noted. “It’ll be a lot less comfortable than my ambulance.”

  “Yes. After driving those army mule wagons last year, and remembering what they did to my behind, I think I’d better buy a couple of good thick cushions to make this seat more bearable.”

  The next week was spent carefully servicing the Rucker ambulance and its harness after their months of idleness, and preparing both wagons for the trail. They’d start out heavily loaded, but much of the cargo would be made up of food for people and horses. It would be eaten as they traveled, lightening the load every day.

  The ordeal of packing commenced. This time, however, there were only their personal weapons to be loaded, rather than the more than two hundred guns they’d brought from St. Louis. Walt installed a hard leather tube and a military flap holster behind each wagon seat, to hold a Henry rifle and a revolver ready for immediate use. He gave Rose the last Whitney revolver he had in stock to ride in the ambulance’s handgun holster, backing up the Colt Pocket Police pistol she’d carry. When Walt rode his horse he would carry two Remington revolvers on his hips and one on his saddle, as well as a Henry rifle in a saddle boot. He kept one Army Colt from the shop to ride in the freight wagon’s holster next to the driver’s Henry rifle. The musket-shotguns were slipped into sleeves Rose made from the old blankets they’d brought from St. Louis. Three went into each wagon. Two thousand rounds for the Henrys rode in the wagon and five hundred in the ambulance, with ammunition for the other weapons divided along similar lines.

  Rose made a list of enough food to sustain four people for up to three months on the trail, where resupply could not be guaranteed. She bought dehydrated cubes of mixed vegetables and potatoes, dried beans, dried peas, two small barrels of salt beef, two more of salt cod, two sides of well-cured bacon, flour, cornmeal, oats, hardtack biscuits, sugar, salt, pepper, spices, molasses, honey, coffee beans, tallow, oil and vinegar. She also bought travel food, such as beef jerky, dried fruit and nuts, that they could eat while riding or driving. Just before their departure, she bought as much in the way of fresh eggs, butter, fruit and vegetables as they could eat before it went bad. They’d also hunt for fresh meat.

  Walt scrubbed out the wagons’ water barrels, air-dried them, then filled them with fresh water from the pump. He loaded sacks of oats and nosebags for the horses, leather to repair their harness and tack, rope, yarn, an axe and saw, kerosene for the lanterns, first aid and medical supplies, and other tools and necessities. The last thing he added was firewood, because he figured the prairie would have been well picked over by those who’d gone before them. It was stored in a cowhide stretched beneath the rear of each wagon, known, to Rose’s amusement, as a possum belly.

  Meanwhile Rose laundered all their clothing, packing their finer garments into a trunk apiece. Their traveling clothes went into carpet bags. She kept only a few favorite items of furniture, and added a trunk filled with carefully selected books. Blankets and pillows were formed into bedrolls. She and Walt would sleep in the ambulance on the trail, or in their Sibley tent during longer stopovers, while Samson and Elijah would camp beneath the freight wagon.

  On the last night before departure Walt and Rose luxuriated in hot baths, then dined on a three-course meal at a local hotel. After supper they went for a walk to settle their stomachs.

  “It seems strange to be leaving all this,” Rose said softly, looking around at the imposing buildings in the center of the city. “It’s as if we’re leaving civilization behind.”

  “I reckon in Denver City they’d object to you saying that,” Walt teased her. “I’m sure they think of themselves as civilized.”

  “Yes, but it’s basically a mining camp that’s grown into a town. It doesn’t have any history to speak of. This city’s been here for thirty years.”

  Walt shrugged. “Boston’s been around for a couple of hundred, and a lot of European cities go back ten times that long. This is a young frontier.”

  “I suppose you’re right.” She sighed. “Even so, it feels like we’re stepping out into the unknown. From the way Samson and Elijah talk, we’re almost certainly going to have to fight for our lives before long. What will happen to us? Where will we end up?”

  Walt shrugged again. “In a coyote’s belly, if worse comes to worst, I suppose,” he said, deadpan.

  “Walter Ames!” She slapped his shoulder. “I do declare! You are simply impossible!”—but she couldn’t disguise the twinkle of laughter in her eyes.

  It took them five days of leisurely travel to get to Topeka. They used the time to make sure the wagons were functioning properly, let the horses get used to the trail, and settle down into a comfortable travel routine. There was little prospect of hostile Indian trouble so close to major cities, but as always there were criminals who’d prey on travelers if they could; so Walt and Rose joined a small group of wagons, traveling together and helping to mount guard over all the teams at night.

  The Jones Freight Company had set up its new headquarters in a huge barn outside town, with a big corral for its horses and an enclosed yard for its wagons. It was filled to capacity when they arrived, with more wagons parked outside. They found Mr. Jones in a harassed and distracted state.

  “It’s the army,” he apologized after interrupting them to yell at the driver of a wagon that was moving too slowly for his liking. “They want to run a fast train through to four posts. Here, let me show you where we’re going on the map.” They followed him to a big map, pinned to the wall. “We’ll leave here in three days with a hundred mule-drawn wagons and a platoon of soldiers escorting us. I’ll be comin’ along m’self. I wanna talk t’ the fort commanders along the Smoky Hill Trail t’ find out how things are fixin’ to be this year, so I can plan for the rest of the season.

  “We’ll go to Fort Riley first, north of Junction City. We’ll drop thirty wagons there, then head down to Fort Ellsworth, leavin’ another twenty wagons. A new escort will join us there to travel to Fort Fletcher, where we’ll leave twenty more wagons, and another escort will see us all the way through to the Pond Creek Stage Station, near the border with Colorado Territory, with the last thirty wagons. The last two stages’ll be the most dangerous. Satank and his Kiowa raid there, an’ Comanche sometimes come up from Indian Territory. They say they’re after buffler, but they don’t mind lootin’ a wagon or a stagecoach or a stage stop while they’re at it. Takin’ loot home makes ’em big men with the ladies.”

  “Is it still in order for us to join your wagon train? Pond Creek is where we’re headed, and from there over into Colorado Territory to Denver City.”

  “I guess it’s all right with me. I’ll talk to the escort commander, but that’ll be a shavetail lieutenant for the first stretch. Most of ’em think the sun shines out o’ the seat o’ their britches. They spout regulations like they was the Ten Commandments o’ God. They figure they know it all, an’ they won’t listen to nobody.” He turned his head and spat into a waste bin, his face twisted in a bitter, sour expression. “The luff may object to civilians on the train, even though all my drivers are civilians if it comes to that.”

  “Why not tell him we’re employees too?” Walt suggested. “My wife cooks a darn good meal, if I say so myself, and if you provide food for yourself and your wagonmaster, she can feed you
during the journey as well as our party. You already know Samson and Elijah. They can stay on your books as unpaid teamsters, even though they’re working for me now.”

  “An’ what about you?”

  “I was a scout and courier during the war. I daresay I can help your scouts along the trail. They can teach me how things work on the prairie, and I may be able to teach them a few tricks of the trade I learned back east.”

  “What unit?”

  Walt braced himself. “Second Tennessee and First Virginia Cavalry Regiments.”

  Jones’ face darkened. “You rode for the South?”

  “The war’s over, Mr. Jones. I signed the parole General Grant issued at Appomattox. As far as the United States Government is concerned, I’m no longer a rebel.”

  The man was clearly struggling with something inside himself. After a moment he said slowly, “It’s hard to just forgive an’ forget. My brother never came home from the war. He was with the Fourth Missouri Volunteer Infantry.”

  “I’m sorry. My brother never came home either. Too many good people died on both sides in that damned war.”

  The freighter sighed. “I guess you’re right. I’ve done business with you before, so I know I can trust you, no matter who you fought for. All right, Ames, I’ll put you on the books as an assistant scout. You’ll have a lot to learn—the prairie’s different from the hills an’ forests further east—but with that background I guess you’ll pick it up fast enough. I’m not payin’ you, mind! This is just to make it legal to take you with us.”

  Walt grinned. “That’s all right. I’ll earn my keep anyway.”

  “I reckon you will at that. Jus’ don’t talk too loud about havin’ been a Johnny Reb. Some of the soldiers won’t like it.”

  Privately, Walt thought he might know more about the plains and the mountains than the haulier realized. He’d read a lot about them during the winter, particularly the descriptions written by scouts, pioneers, soldiers and mountain men. Adding that theory to his experience as a scout, even though that had been in different terrain, he figured he could at least avoid some of the most common mistakes. The rest would come with time.

  Samson and Elijah were waiting for them. They greeted Walt and Rose happily, and brought their gear and bedrolls over to the new wagon. He warned them to buy whatever they needed before hitting the trail. “I’ve got plenty of ammunition and food, so don’t worry about that. Make sure you’ve got enough hard-wearing clothing and good, stout boots. It’s a long way to Denver City.”

  The two drivers guarded the wagons while Walt escorted Rose to buy fresh food and other supplies to replace what they’d used. Prices in Topeka were appallingly high, at least three times more for fresh produce than they’d paid in Leavenworth City the week before. Rose complained bitterly as soon as they left the store, but Walt shrugged.

  “There are a lot of railroad workers, army men and teamsters in town. Demand’s high and supply’s restricted—there’s only one railroad line to bring in goods for sale. The stores know there’s nowhere else to buy, so they can charge what they like.”

  Samson confirmed Walt’s words when they got back to the wagons. “Dat’s right, ma’am. Iffen you wants to buy anyt’ing, you got to pay dem.”

  “But it’s daylight robbery!”

  “Nighttime robbery too, ma’am. You ain’t seen de tent saloons in de town at de head of de rail. Dey pitch tents for a few weeks, den move de whole t’ing as soon as de rails move on far enough. Cain’t buy decent whiskey nowhere. De saloonkeepers make real nasty likker in stills out back. Dey start it by fermentin’ potato peelin’s, rotten fruit, moldy bread, anyt’ing at all. Dey distils dat to get de raw alcohol, den adds tobacco juice to color it an’ hot peppers to give it a bite. Dey sell it for a nickel a shot. Dere’s even one place dat puts a couple o’ liddle snake’s heads in every bottle. You can see dem lined up behind de bar wid dere jaws open.” He shuddered. “It almost bad enough to make me swear off strong drink!”

  “Almost,” Elijah said with a sly grin.

  Rose grimaced, even as she laughed at Elijah’s quip. “No wonder they call it rotgut! Oh, boys, that liquor isn’t good for your body or your soul. You must promise me you won’t have any more!”

  Walt nodded. “At the very least, no drinking while we’re on the trail unless I say so.”

  Samson nodded vehemently. “Yassuh! We wanna keep our hair. A man drink dat stuff on de trail, he ain’t gonna be alert for Injuns. Dey gonna take his scalp fo’ sure.”

  ―――――

  Walt rode out every day with the wagon train’s scouts during the five-day run to Fort Riley. He soon demonstrated to their satisfaction that he’d learned a great deal about scouting back east. He needed only to figure out how to apply that knowledge on the prairie.

  “It’s deceptive,” the chief scout, a grizzled man named Tad Sorrell, told him as they rode together ahead of the wagons. A line of bushes off to their right, studded with clumps of trees here and there, marked the course of the Kansas River. “It looks like a level field of grass, but there are dips and hollows in it that could hide a platoon of troops or a big Injun raiding party. You’ve got to look for patterns in the grass. You’ll see a ripple in it as a gust of wind blows over. Follow it with your eyes, and look to see if a gap opens up in it. If that happens, that means there’s a hollow there. When the ripple shows up again to close the gap, it’ll be on the other side of the hollow. If you blink, you’ll miss it.”

  Walt grimaced. “Seems I’ll have to look much further out than I was used to back east. There, you couldn’t see very far through the trees much of the time. You looked for movement closer to you.”

  “You can’t ignore the ground up close, but yeah, you’ve got to look further out as well. If Injuns see you coming they’ll get down into a hollow like that, get off their horses an’ make the animals lie down next to ’em. They train ’em to do that. You can ride right past ’em an’ never know they’re there. As soon as they’re on your flank or rear, they’ll get their hosses up, jump on ’em, and be upon you almost faster than you can yell a warnin’. They don’t give a wagon train time to form a circle. They’ll pick out a few wagons, kill everyone on ’em, then loot ’em while the rest run for their lives. If there’s enough of ’em, they can wipe out an entire train.”

  “Sounds almost like they read some manuals on light cavalry tactics.”

  “Don’t let anyone tell you Injuns are uneducated savages. They got as much military savvy as anyone I know. I’ve heard o’ army units that got badly cut up. A few Injuns would show up at a fort, loose off a few arrows, hurt a couple of men, steal a couple of horses, then light out for the horizon. The sojers would figure they outnumbered ’em, so they’d send a patrol out after ’em like the devil after a yearling. The Injuns would hold back a bit, to let the soldier-boys think they were catching up slowly, but stay just out of harm’s way. Soon as the patrol’s horses were tired an’ they were strung out by the pursuit, the Injuns would turn around an’ charge them from the front while their friends jumped up from either side where they’d been waitin’. The sojers would be hit from three sides before they could come together to defend themselves. Often the result warn’t pretty.”

  “I guess not. If it’s that dangerous, why won’t the army issue repeaters to the troops out here? They’re still using single-shot carbines, for gosh sakes!”

  “Yeah.” Tad’s voice was redolent with disgust as he spat into the grass. “Them Washington pencil-pushers want to save pennies. They reckon sojers’ll just waste ammunition if they can fire a lot of it in a short time. I guess they worry that they’ll shoot without takin’ proper aim. Besides, the more they shoot, the more ammo the army’s got to buy an’ get to them somehow. That means more paperwork, an’ pencil pushers hate work like the Devil hates holy water. I figure those people in Washington have never had to face a wall o’ Comanche comin’ down on ’em in a cloud of dust, faces painted, screamin’ their war cries, all tryi
n’ to be the first to count coup. First time you see it—first time you hear it—it’ll loosen your bowels, I promise you. It sure did mine!”

  “Coup—that’s from the French word meaning blow or strike, right? I read about it.”

  “Yeah. They try to touch an enemy, usually with a bare hand or a coup stick, sometimes with a war club or somethin’ like that. It’s a big thing in some of the warrior tribes, includin’ Kiowas an’ Comanches. It’s supposed to be a test of courage an’ skill. Someone who can get close enough to a livin’ enemy to touch him, then get clear without bein’ killed, gets a hell of a reputation, ’specially if he does it often.” He sniggered. “O’ course, those who try it end up dead rather often, too.”

  “But it adds to the reputation of those who survive, I suppose.”

  “Yeah, an’ also to the number of Injun widders! Still, that don’t seem to faze ’em none. They got their own ways, an’ I sure don’t understand many of ’em. You couldn’t pay me enough to do somethin’ like that.”

  “They seem to set a lot of store by something called their medicine. What’s that?”

  “Their medicine men are big noises. Satank, the Kiowa war leader, they say he’s a medicine man as well. Adds to his power, the way they see it. Kind o’ like a priest. Some of their biggest an’ baddest warriors will follow him on a raid where they won’t follow anyone else. He’s what they call a Koh-eet-senkoh, one of the top ten warriors in the Kiowa nation. Each warrior has his spirit animal, an’ he’ll carry a medicine pouch with him, stuff that the medicine man has told him will make his body an’ spirit stronger, or protect him from harm. Some animals have a whole lot o’ medicine power, like the eagle, wolf, and bear, f’r instance.”

  “Would that be why they wear parts of those animals, like eagle feathers?”

  “Sure would.”

  “What about a necklace made of the claws of a grizzly bear?” Walt explained about the one he’d taken from the bushwhackers in Kentucky.