by Peter Grant
Tad whistled as he listened to the story. “That’s mighty big medicine in an Injun’s book, if it has all twenty claws like that. I wonder how it wound up that far east? If I was you, I’d keep that handy. If we come across Injuns who want to talk, put it on. If they ask where you bought it, tell ’em you didn’t buy it, you killed for it. That ain’t lyin’, but they won’t know you killed a man, not a bear. That’ll get you a whole lot more respect from ’em.”
“How will we talk to them?”
“There’s a sign language known to all the Plains Injuns. You can use it to talk to a dozen tribes, even if you don’t speak their tongue. I’ll teach you, if you like.”
“I’d like that very much. Thank you.”
From then on, every time they rode together, Tad taught him more signs and their meanings, and showed him how to string them together to make a sentence. He also began to teach him the significance of Indian markings on weapons, horses and clothing, and what they said about the person using them. Walt soon realized it would take years to learn all about the Indians, and how much customs differed among the various tribes.
One day he showed Tad the ornately embroidered buckskin rifle sleeve he’d taken from the leader of the outlaws the year before. The scout examined it closely. “The stitch patterns an’ the bone hair pipes make this Kiowa work. See the sign of the bear paw? Along with the bear claw in the tassel, that means power an’ strength. The eagle feather in the tassel shows farsightedness, an’ the owl feathers, wisdom. I reckon this came from what the Kiowa call a Dog Soldier, a warrior who’s made a name for himself. Notice how long it is? I reckon this was made to fit something like a Kentucky rifle. Some of them had barrels four feet long. Ain’t seen one of ’em in a long time, though. That prob’ly means this was made a while back—before the War, for sure.”
“So how did it end up with an outlaw in Missouri, with a Sharps rifle in it?”
“At a guess, mebbe he took the rifle from one man an’ the cover from another, p’rhaps while raidin’ into Kansas durin’ the war, or by robbin’ someone who came from there. Keep your Sharps handy. If we run into Injuns who want to talk an’ we have time to prepare, get it before we ride out to meet ’em. Hold it across your arm in this sleeve an’ have your bear claw necklace showin’. That’ll get their attention for sure. One thing, though. If they ask how you got the sleeve, tell ’em the truth. You don’t want ’em thinking you killed one of their warriors to get it. That’d make some of ’em look for revenge. If you tell ’em you killed the man who took it from one o’ their warriors, that might make ’em respect you without wantin’ t’ kill you.” He shrugged. “O’ course, they may do that anyway, being Injuns.”
“Well, aren’t you just the Job’s comforter?”
Their laughter echoed across the whispering grass.
―――――
At Fort Riley, the scouts, including Walt, went to meet the fort’s scouts to get the latest information about the next section of the trail. They found the Fort Riley men both excited and frustrated at the bustle all around them.
“They’re formin’ a new cavalry regiment here, the Seventh,” the chief scout explained to them. “It’ll be stood up in the fall. They’re sendin’ out that long-haired golden boy, Custer, to take command. Fort Riley’s gonna be the base for campaigns against the Plains Injuns next year, when the railroad reaches out further west.”
“Lots of work for you, then,” Tad sympathized.
“Yeah, an’ that ain’t the half of it! There’s gonna be hunters by the score, shootin’ as many buffler as they can to feed the railroad workers. Don’t you jus’ know how happy that’s gonna make the Injuns?”
Tad rolled his eyes. “Without buffalo they can’t survive, an’ they know it. They’ll paint for war, sure as we’re standin’ here.”
“They already are. They see what’s comin’, just like we do. You’re gonna find the rest of your journey real interestin’, I’m thinkin’, ’specially when you get past Fort Ellsworth. The Injuns’ll be thick as fleas. By the way, you heard the news about Fort Fletcher?”
“No. What about it?”
“It’s been open less than a year, but they’re already closin’ it down. They’re gonna rebuild it bigger an’ stronger on a better site, an’ call the new place Fort Hays. It’ll be an advanced base for troops to take on the Injuns next year.”
“But we got twenty wagons consigned to Fort Fletcher.”
“Better tell your boss to check with the commanding officer here, ’cause by the time you reach it most of the garrison prob’ly won’t be there no more.”
“I’ll do that, thanks. It’s gonna be a problem for our escort, though. We’re supposed to pick up a new one at each fort. They take us through to the next fort, then go home while we head out again with a new bunch. If Fort Fletcher ain’t there no more, what will Fort Ellsworth do? Their garrison’s smaller than this place. They won’t wanna send one of their platoons halfway across the state to Pond Creek. It’ll take ’em more’n a month to get there, wait while we unload, then escort us back to Ellsworth.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna be a problem. Somethin’ else for your boss to talk about with the boss here, I guess.”
When they told Jones the news, he cursed luridly. “It’s not just the wagons for Fort Fletcher, or the escort. My biggest problem is that we have to buy our own supplies when we get to each fort if we’re going to have enough for the next leg. We ain’t got room in the wagons to carry enough for the whole journey. If Fort Fletcher’s not there anymore, will Fort Ellsworth sell us enough to make it all the way to Pond Creek? If they won’t, what do we do? If they will, where do we put it?” He sighed. “Lemme go talk to the boss here.”
He stomped off, muttering darkly to himself, only to come back even more frustrated. “He says he’ll give us a twenty-man platoon to help us get to Pond Creek an’ back again. Trouble is, they’re new recruits waiting for the Seventh Cavalry to form. They’re green, untrained. They got it all to learn. He reckons the trip to Pond Creek an’ back will be good seasonin’ for them. The only veteran is the sergeant in command. He served in the war back east, but he don’t know the plains. We’re gonna have to hold their hands all the way. As for the Fort Fletcher wagons, he ain’t got no orders about them. The most I could get him to agree to was that we can park ’em out back of the Quartermaster’s warehouse, an’ leave them there while he waits for instructions from Fort Leavenworth about what to do with ’em. That means I’ll have to leave their crews here too, to take the wagons back to Topeka when they’re eventually unloaded. I’ll be payin’ ’em for weeks to jus’ sit here an’ do nothin’!”
“What about the supplies we would have bought from Fort Fletcher for our own use?” Tad asked.
“Ain’t his problem, he says. We gotta find a way.”
Walt said thoughtfully, “You don’t need to leave all the teamsters and all the mules here with the twenty wagons for Fort Fletcher. Why not use some of their mules to form pack trains, to go with us? They can carry extra supplies for our use, and they’ll be spare animals in case Indians steal or kill some of the teams. You can bring along most of the teamsters to manage the mules and spell your other drivers from time to time, an’ leave just a couple here to look after the rest of the teams and wagons until you collect ’em on the way back.”
“That ain’t a bad idea,” Jones admitted. “Never done it afore, but there’s no reason why not. We can borrow pack-saddles from the fort. They’ve got plenty. Still, where are we gonna get our supplies?”
Walt winked. “Ever heard of a midnight resupply?”
Grins appeared on the faces of the scouts, all of whom had either served in the military themselves, or had extensive contact with troops. The company owner looked narrowly at Walt. “I know the term. So?”
“If the boss here told you to park the wagons out back of the warehouse, he’s taking responsibility for their cargoes. That’s the way the army works. First thing you do,
right now, is send a message to Fort Leavenworth. A letter might be better than a telegraph message, ’cause it’ll take longer to get there. Tell Leavenworth’s Quartermaster what the commanding officer here told you, and advise him you’re going to comply with his orders. Make sure you use that word, ‘orders’. That puts the responsibility on his shoulders, not yours.
“Tonight, before we move the wagons, we’ll sneak into ’em and take out what you need to get to Pond Creek and back. We’ll tie everything up again all nice and tight, park the wagons tomorrow morning just like we’ve been told to do, then head out for Fort Ellsworth. We’ll put the supplies in our wagons, and on the mules in our pack train. We can take extra for the escort they’re assigning us, too, so we can keep ’em happy. No one’ll be the wiser, and the other forts will get everything they’re supposed to get. By the time Fort Riley gets orders from Fort Leavenworth to do something with the wagons for Fort Fletcher, their cargoes will have been here long enough for local troops to have rifled through ’em. That won’t be your problem. You just obeyed orders. You can tell Fort Leavenworth so.”
Jones shrugged and smiled. “Why do I get the feeling that those wagons will be half the weight tomorrow mornin’ that they are now, and we’ll be the best-fed wagon train the troops at Pond Creek have ever seen?”
“Well, you wouldn’t want us to go hungry, would you?”
“All right. Go away an’ leave me in peace to write a letter to Fort Leavenworth. I don’t wanna hear another word about this—at least, not officially.”
Walt salved his slightly guilty conscience with the thought that he wasn’t stealing anything for himself, just helping the wagon train to get through without starving. He brought along a grinning Samson and Elijah to help with the midnight resupply, together with the other drivers. They stocked up on everything they’d need. At Walt’s insistence, they also took several cases of ammunition for the escort’s carbines and revolvers. As he pointed out, “These new recruits may have fired a dozen shots since they’ve joined, if they’re lucky, and they won’t carry enough ammunition to practice a lot. If we’re going to face Indians out on the plains with them, we need to teach them to shoot, and bring enough bullets to fight our way through to Pond Creek. That ammunition won’t do anyone any good sitting on a wagon back here.”
Samson found a case of unexpected luxuries: jars of fruit preserves, boxes of candy and cigars, and half a dozen bottles of good bourbon whiskey, all consigned to officers formerly based at Fort Fletcher. He and Elijah carried it and their other newly-acquired supplies back to the wagon, where Rose had waited up to help them stow everything.
“You’re a larcenous, shameless individual and I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” she informed Walt severely as he eventually crawled into their bed.
“Well, you don’t have to drink any of the bourbon or eat any of those preserves if your conscience bothers you,” he told her cheerfully.
“It doesn’t bother me that much,” she admitted sheepishly. “After all, if we didn’t take it, the troops here would.”
“That’s just as well, seeing as how I’m going to bother you right now, Mrs. Ames.”
“Why, Mr. Ames, how forward of you!”
He silenced her giggle with a kiss.
At Tom Jones’s request, Walt approached the NCO detailed to command the platoon assigned as their escorts. On their first day out of Fort Riley, he invited Sergeant Buell to ride with him and talk about the trail ahead.
He listened with real sympathy as the noncom fumed about the ineptness and lack of knowledge of the recruits under his command. “I don’t know what scares me more,” Buell concluded, “the fact that the army would send these kids out to be slaughtered knowing so little, or that they’d send me out with them!”
“I know how you feel,” Walt assured him. “I was a sergeant during the war too.”
“You was a Johnny Reb, wasn’t you?”
Walt blinked in surprise. He was so accustomed to keeping his Confederate service a secret that the other man’s nonchalance about it took him by surprise.
“You knew?”
“So would you if you ever listened to yourself talk, or that pretty wife o’ your’n.”
“Oh! Well, I started out in Tennessee, learned to be a scout an’ courier, then got sent to Virginia with a message. I transferred to the First Virginia Cavalry rather than go back. Spent two years with them up until Appomattox.”
The sergeant studied him narrowly, frowning. “I recall the First Virginia. We ran into them at Yellow Tavern.”
“You were there? What unit?”
“First Michigan.”
“Y’all did damned well. You overran one of our artillery batteries in a charge just before General Stuart was shot. I had to run like hell to get out of your way!”
The sergeant couldn’t help smiling at the compliment. “Yeah, but the First Virginia chased us off again. They weren’t scared to fight. What happened to you after that?”
“After General Stuart fell, command passed to Fitzhugh Lee. I spent the next couple of days watching where Sheridan was heading, and passing word back to him.”
“Uh-huh. It was a hell of a fight, wasn’t it?”
“It sure was.” Walt reached for his saddlebag, where he’d secreted a bottle of the bourbon intended for Fort Fletcher. “Here’s to those who died there, blue and gray alike.”
“Michigan and Virginia. I’ll drink to that.”
Buell accepted the bottle and upended it, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he took a long swig. “Aaahh! That’s the real stuff, right there!” He handed it back, a little reluctantly.
Walt took a more moderate drink, then returned the bottle to him. “Keep it, from one sergeant to another. I think we’re going to need to work together if we’re going to get this wagon train to Pond Creek in one piece. I hear the Indians are painting up.”
“Yeah. I’m real worried about my new boys. They’re not ready for this, not by a long shot. Most of ’em can’t even sit a horse properly yet, let alone ride one all day! Their butts are gonna be bleedin’ by nightfall. As for shootin’, a couple of ’em have hunted before, but others hardly know one end of a gun from t’other.”
Walt knew from bitter personal experience with raw recruits that Buell wasn’t joking about their lack of skill. “Maybe I can help,” he offered. “If you teach ’em how to ride better, and handle their horses cavalry fashion, and how to move together and cover each other in a fight, I can teach them to shoot. We’ve got enough ammunition to let them fire a couple of hundred rounds each, and still have plenty to get to Pond Creek.”
“Mr. Ames, you might just be the answer to a prayer!”
“Call me Walt.”
“Walt, then. I’m Frank.”
They shook hands, and nodded solemnly at each other.
“I can take half of them to shoot while you take the other half to ride,” Walt went on. “We can swap halves each day. I reckon we can also stop for a few days between here and Fort Ellsworth, to give them a chance to train together as a unit. By the time we get there they should know a lot more than they do now. After we leave there we’ll pause for another day or two, so the scouts can teach all of us what to expect on the prairie and how to react.”
The training began that very day. Walt had to suspend his excursions with the scouts while he taught the recruits how to handle their carbines and revolvers, but he figured it was worth it. The lives of everyone on the wagon train might depend on how well these soldiers could fight.
Three days after leaving Fort Riley they came across a well-watered camp site large enough for the whole wagon train. They decided to halt there for three days, so that the trooper recruits could undergo intensive instruction. The scouts helped with the training, while the teamsters took the opportunity to perform routine maintenance on their wagons and harness, and poke fun at the soldiers while they sweated. Sergeant Buell soon taught the troops to give as good as they got, to everyone’s amus
ement.
On the third day, Walt stayed behind while Buell took the whole platoon out with Tad Sorrel, as if on patrol through territory infested with Indians. He was going over his wagon’s harness when Tom Jones hailed him. “Ames! Take a look!”
Walt climbed up on his wagon seat and followed the company owner’s pointing arm. A cloud of dust was on the southern horizon. He took out his spyglass, extended it and peered through it. “It’s a herd of cattle,” he called down to the freighter. “There are riders with them. They’re coming this way.”
“We’d better warn ’em to stay clear. I don’t want ’em getting mixed up with our wagons and teams.”
Hurriedly saddling their horses, they rode out towards the herd. As they approached two riders galloped to meet them, reining in their horses abruptly with their rifles in their hands. “Who are you an’ what do you want?” one of them asked curtly in a Texas accent.
Jones stiffened at the hostility in the man’s voice. “I’m the boss o’ that train back yonder. I’m askin’ you to steer clear of our wagons and teams.”
“Oh!” The two glanced at each other, and suddenly relaxed. “Sorry, mister. I figured you for more of them Kansas jayhawkers. They tried to steal our herd as we crossed the border.”
“I don’t get it. Why would they do that?”
“Because they’re thieves, that’s why! We ran into a bunch that claimed our cattle was diseased and wanted to confiscate ’em. We got rid of ’em, then turned west until we were south and west of Wellington. We reckoned that was far enough to avoid the farmlands where the trouble was, so we turned north there and headed for Nebraska. We plan to turn east when we get there. There’s cattle feeders in Iowa who’ll buy cows for decent prices, fatten ’em on local corn, then ship ’em by rail to Chicago an’ New York for slaughter.”
“Sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is, but it’s worth a try. The war’s left Texas beat down, but we’ve got millions of stray cows runnin’ around doin’ nothin’ but gain weight an’ breed. May as well use ’em to feed Yankees. They cost a couple of dollars a head in Texas right now, but we can get five times that in Iowa, if we can get ’em there in good condition.”
