by Peter Grant
“That’s it!” Tad exulted as he rose to his feet, turning to call over his shoulder. “Let’s get ’em skinned and dressed. Not you, though. You’ve got that Henry, so get up on your hoss where you can see further an’ keep watch. Cover us while we work.”
Walt took the Henry rifle from his saddle boot, replacing it with the Sharps, then began scanning the prairie. He turned the horse slowly, making sure he kept the entire area under surveillance as knives flashed, hatchets thudded and big joints and sections of meat were cut away. The mules brayed uneasily at the smell as sacks of meat were tied to their pack saddles.
Walt suddenly stiffened as a faint gunshot sounded from behind a rise about a mile away. Almost at once the cavalry patrol crested it, riding hard in his direction. Buell brought up the rear, he and a couple of others turning to fire shots from their revolvers now and then. Two of the troopers were clinging to their saddles, their horses led by other riders.
Walt called, “Mount up now! Troopers on their way, and they’re shooting at something!”
Even as he shouted, a number of mounted Indians came into view, obviously in hot pursuit of the soldiers. They were brandishing lances and bows, and some were armed with rifles. A few tried to take pot-shots at their fleeing foes, but from the back of a fast-moving horse accuracy was almost impossible. As he watched, more of them followed the first riders until there were between two and three dozen in sight. He couldn’t get an accurate count due to the clouds of dust raised by the galloping animals.
Walt called again as the two teamsters and Ted scrambled aboard their horses, “Indians are chasing the troopers! They’re headed towards the wagons!”
“So are we,” Tad shouted back. “You two, lead the pack mules. Walt, guard the rear. I’m going to warn the others.” Without waiting for a reply he put spurs to his horse. It jumped forward up the rise and over the knoll, and disappeared in the direction of the wagons.
Walt let the two teamsters ride past him, tugging at the lead ropes of the mules, then fell in behind them. He twisted in his saddle as his horse topped the knoll. The leading troopers were no more than half a mile behind them now, still riding fast although their horses were flecked with foam and blowing hard. They’d clearly been running for a few miles already. He turned again and spurred his horse. Tad was already well ahead of them, his mount flying over the ground.
As Tad got within a mile of the wagons, Walt saw the scout’s right hand dip and come up holding his revolver. Tad fired three shots into the air, spaced out, their flat cracks carrying across the grass. Walt could see heads turning and people standing up in the wagons, peering out in their direction; then everyone burst into a frantic flurry of activity. The riders mounting guard over the grazing mules closed in on them, herding them back towards the wagons as fast as they could get the animals moving. Other teamsters tightened the ropes between the wagons, leaving a few gaps for the teams, the hunting party and the soldiers to re-enter the circle before closing them as well.
Walt could see Rose climbing nimbly up to the seat of the ambulance. He knew she’d be retrieving her carbine. As he drew closer he saw Samson and Elijah climb onto two wagons, carrying their rifles. Both men set something on the seat, probably boxes of ammunition, and braced themselves against the foremost canopy bow, aiming out towards where the soldiers approached. He was pleased to see they didn’t immediately open fire, but waited for the range to decrease.
Walt and the teamsters came up to the wagon train in time to enter the circle with the last of the mule teams. “Hold the opening for the soldiers!” he called to those standing ready by the ropes as he slid to a halt by his wagon, leaping from the saddle with his rifle in his hand. “They aren’t far behind!”
“We see them,” Tom Jones called, his eyes fixed on the approaching patrol and the Indians in hot pursuit of it.
Walt hugged Rose briefly as she ran to meet him. “I’m fine,” he assured her. “Fall back behind our wagons and stand by. Don’t fire unless they reach the wagons, then shoot any of them that get over or between them. I’m going to climb on that wagon.” He nodded to the freight wagon ahead of her ambulance. “I’ll add my fire to Samson’s and Elijah’s. We’ll try to keep them at a distance while the patrol gets inside and they seal off the openings.”
“All right, darling. Be safe!” She reached up and kissed him hard.
He grinned. “I was about to tell you the same thing. Oh—get me some boxes of Henry bullets, love.”
He didn’t wait to hear her reply as he ran to the wagon, clambered onto its seat and looked out. The patrol was approaching the wagon train, but the Indians were no more than forty to fifty yards behind them. If they kept up their pace, they’d get into the gaps between the wagons before the soldiers had cleared them.
“Samson! Elijah!” he called loudly. They looked in his direction. “Open up on the Indians as soon as the patrol reaches the wagons. Shoot their horses—they’re a bigger, easier target. We want to keep them at a distance so they can’t get inside the circle of wagons.”
“Yassuh!” the two replied in unison before turning back to their targets.
Rose hurried up to the wagon. “Here you are!” She tossed him two boxes of .44 rimfire ammunition, one after the other. He caught them and placed them on the seat beside him, ripping one open to have easy access to the rounds inside, then braced himself against the canopy bow and took aim. As soon as Sergeant Buell, still bringing up the rear, began to slow his horse, Walt fired his first shot. An instant later, Samson and Elijah opened fire as well.
The rapid staccato bark of the three Henry rifles sounded like a stuttering drumbeat as it battered their ears. Between them they were firing four to five shots every second, aiming into the mass of the leading riders rather than trying to target individual opponents. The foremost Indian horses neighed and screamed in pain, crashing into each other, knocking one another off their feet, sending their riders tumbling. Some of the horses behind them smashed into them, adding to the chaos. Other riders had to swerve to either side to avoid the tangle of fallen horses and men. As they did so, the rest of the teamsters opened up on them. None of them had Henrys, but a few had Spencer carbines and others used single-shot breech-loaders or revolvers.
As Walt fired his twelfth shot, he saw the Indians spin their horses around in rump-scraping tight turns and race away from the wagon train. The volume of fire had proved too hot for them. A few displayed marvelous horsemanship as they swung towards the fallen men and horses, scooping up their injured comrades and pulling them onto their ponies before riding away. Walt drew a bead on one of the rescuers and put a bullet into the Indian’s spine as he straightened. Mortally injured, he arched his back, released the wounded man he was trying to save, and toppled from the other side of his horse. Another rider swooped in to pick up the man he’d dropped.
Suddenly it was over. The surviving Indians galloped away, coming to a halt safely out of range several hundred yards off. They left a pile of eight or nine horses, some still neighing frantically and trying to stand despite wounds and broken limbs, and half a dozen bodies sprawled on the ground. Walt called to Samson and Elijah, “Kill the wounded horses, then put another bullet into each of those Indians. We can’t risk any of them playing dead, hoping to sneak closer when we aren’t looking.” Their rifles joined his in a slow, steady tattoo as they aimed carefully and made sure of their targets.
Walt looked around. The army men had grabbed their carbines and joined the teamsters at the wagons nearest to the Indians. Four of them were stretched on the ground, receiving attention from their comrades and a couple of teamsters. With an unpleasant jolt in his stomach, Walt realized Sergeant Buell was among the wounded. He reloaded his Henry, then jumped down from the wagon and ran to the injured men.
“How badly are you hit, sergeant?”
Buell grimaced, panting, as the teamster beside him pointed to his ribs. “I’m not that bad. Bullet cut across my ribs as I got off my horse an’ turned to f
ight ’em at the wagons. Feels like something’s broken, but I’ve busted ribs afore. I’ll be all right. The other three should be too. Ain’t none of ’em badly hurt.”
“Good man! Stay down and don’t push yourself. We don’t want a broken rib making a hole in your lung. This far from a doctor, you’d never survive that.”
He felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked up to see Tom Jones. The older man held out his hand as Walt came to his feet. “That was damned well done, Ames! Those three Henrys put out enough bullets in a hurry to jam up the Injuns before they got close.”
“That’s why we brought them.” Walt grinned at Samson and Elijah as they approached him. Rose was with them. “You hear that? You were right about the Henrys. Rose, would you see what you can do to help the wounded? Sergeant Buell needs his ribs tightly strapped. Where’s Tad?”
“Over there.” Tom Jones pointed, and they hurried over to the scout.
Tad looked around as they approached. “Nice shootin’! You an’ your teamsters bought us time to close the gaps in the circle. It would’ve been a big win for the Injuns to wipe out an entire patrol, but the sojers got clean away; then you an’ your men shot hell outta their leadin’ riders an’ messed up their charge before they could reach us. They’ve gotta be wonderin’ why their medicine’s gone bad.”
“Any idea who they are?”
“I reckon they’re those Kiowa we heard about. Their war paint an’ some of the markin’s on their hosses look that way. I’ll have to take a closer look at the dead ’uns out there to be sure. The markin’s on their arrows an’ lances will tell us for certain.”
“D’you think this might be that band of young men under… what was his name? Hunting Wolf? You know, the young buck the captain told us about?”
“Likely.” He peered out. “They fit the description he gave us, anyways. They’re bunchin’ up out there. Can’t make out what they’re doin’.”
Walt reached into his pocket. “Here, get up on a wagon and use this.” He handed Tad his spyglass.
“Great! Thanks.” The scout clambered nimbly onto the seat of the nearest wagon, extended the telescope and peered through it. “They’re havin’ a big pow-wow. Lots o’ wavin’ arms. They’re gathered around one man. He’s young, carryin’ a long rifle, prob’ly an old front-stuffer. He’s got a deerskin pouch in his other hand, maybe what they call a medicine bundle. He’s—yeah, he’s wavin’ it in the air like he’s callin’ on the Great Spirit for answers. He must be makin’ fresh medicine for their next attack.”
Walt was struck by a sudden inspiration. “Come with me!” He spun on his heel and ran for Rose’s ambulance.
Tad shouted, “Hey! Ames! Where ya goin’?” as he jumped off the wagon.
Walt didn’t bother to reply. He took the Berdan Sharps rifle from the saddle boot on his horse, laid it on the seat of the ambulance and climbed up after it. Propping his Henry against the seat, he thrust down the loading lever of the Sharps and stuffed a linen cartridge into the breech. He closed the action and flipped up the ladder sight.
“How far d’you reckon, Tad?” he called.
“At least five, maybe six hundred yards. Are you serious?”
Walt set the sight for a range of six hundred yards, then braced himself against the foremost canopy support.
“What are you doin’?” Tom Jones demanded as he came up. “They’re outta range!”
“Not for this rifle,” Walt assured him as he lined the weapon. He muttered in frustration as he found he couldn’t hold it steady enough. His heart was pounding and his chest was heaving under the stress and tension of the moment. He looked around, then grabbed a roll of bedding and placed it on the seat. He got down on one knee behind it in the wagon bed, resting the rifle’s long barrel and fore-end across the roll of blankets, and took aim again. The Indian had laid his rifle across his saddle. He was now holding the medicine bundle over his head in both upraised, outstretched arms, face turned to the sky, apparently praying in some fashion.
Walt pulled the rear trigger of the Berdan Sharps, setting the front trigger to break with a pressure of only a few ounces; then he concentrated on his sight picture. He breathed in and out a couple of times, quickly, deeply, then let out half a breath and held it, forcing himself to stillness, holding the tip of the front sight directly on the Indian several hundred yards away. His finger caressed the front trigger, tightening… tightening…
The rifle boomed loud in the stillness, a cloud of white smoke erupting from its muzzle as it kicked back into his shoulder. Walt opened the breech, reaching for another cartridge as his eyes peered through the smoke. The bullet seemed to take forever to reach its target. Suddenly, the medicine bundle went flying out of the man’s hands, tumbling end over end and falling to the ground behind his horse. A yell of surprise and shock rose from all the Indians, audible even at that distance.
“You shot his medicine bundle right outta his hands!” Tad exulted, peering through the spyglass. “Damn, that was a helluva shot, Ames! You just killed it!”
“What do you mean?” Walt asked, still staring out at the Indians. Their leader had lowered his arms and was staring at his hands, as if unable to comprehend that they were now empty. He twisted in his saddle and stared at the medicine bundle lying in the grass, then turned back towards the wagon train.
“When you shot that bundle, it’s like you killed all his medicine power. If that’s Hunting Wolf—an’ I reckon it prob’ly is—he staked his future on showin’ that his medicine was as strong as Satank’s, or even stronger. Well, he ain’t got no medicine no more, thanks to you.”
The Indian gave a sudden cry, a long high-pitched wail that they could all hear clearly; then he grabbed his long rifle and kicked his pony into a gallop, heading directly for the ambulance. The other Indians didn’t follow him, but sat their horses silently, watching.
“What’s he doing?” Walt called.
“The way they see it, he’s gotta kill you an’ take your medicine power to cancel out your takin’ his, or die tryin’. If he don’t do that, he’d have to admit to Satank an’ the council that all his braggin’ was empty.”
“All right. Nobody shoot! He’s mine!” Walt called out. An anticipatory murmur arose amongst the watching men. He heard Tom Jones and the others take up the cry, echoing it around the circle of wagons. “Nobody shoot! Leave that Injun to Ames!”
As the Indian drew nearer, Walt reached up and adjusted the ladder sight, dropping it down so that the rifle would be zeroed at a distance of one hundred yards. No sense in shooting at long range again, he thought to himself. My sights were set too high—he must have been closer than six hundred yards. It was pure luck that I hit his medicine bundle. I was aiming for his chest! Still, I may as well let everyone think I planned it that way.
The Indian rushed closer, his horse flecked with foam, its chest heaving and nostrils dilated as it struggled for air, already tired after chasing the soldiers for several miles. As the range shortened, Walt raised the rifle to his shoulder, braced himself against the canopy bow and took aim. As the horse and rider reached one hundred yards from the wagons, he fired. Another loud boom, a puff of white smoke—but just as he pulled the trigger, the horse raised its head into his line of fire. His bullet tumbled it to the ground in a flailing tangle of limbs, dead on the spot. Its rider was flung over its head. The Indian rolled himself into a ball as he landed, still clutching his long rifle, and immediately sprang to his feet. He wavered a moment, clearly dazed, then shook his head as if to clear it and began running towards the ambulance once more.
Walt cursed as he saw the horse fall, then laid the Sharps on the seat and reached for his Henry rifle, thumb-cocking the hammer as he brought it to his shoulder. Maybe Hunting Wolf’s medicine saved him that time, but let’s see how it does against rapid fire, he thought grimly. He pulled the trigger, his bullet staggering the young Kiowa as it slammed into his chest. The Indian fired a half-second later, but he was shooting on the run, making
it almost impossible to aim accurately. His bullet punched a hole in the canvas cover a couple of feet from Walt’s body. Walt levered the Henry and fired a second time, then a third, placing each shot in the Indian’s chest. The young man took three more steps, slowing, staggering; then his legs gave way and he toppled. He hit the ground hard, bounced once, and lay still.
Another wild yell rose from the watching Indians, a shrill, wavering, mournful cry; then one by one they turned and rode away, forming a double file as they slowly walked their horses, none of them looking back. As Walt and the others watched, the leaders rode over a rise. Two by two, the others followed, until the last of the riders disappeared from sight.
Walt jumped down from the wagon, still holding his Henry. “I’m going to check on that man. Tad, d’you want to come along?”
“Sure. Let me get our horses. Let’s ask Sergeant Buell to have his soldier boys check out the bodies in that heap, too.”
“Do you think the danger’s past?” Walt asked as willing, eager hands untied the ropes between two wagons, opening a path for them.
“Yeah. You just ruined their whole day. The rest of them won’t dare carry on the fight, because if Hunting Wolf’s medicine’s gone that bad, it’ll be bound to bounce back on the rest o’ them too. They’re notional that way.”
They rode up to the body of the fallen Indian. He was lying face-down, utterly still. Walt climbed down, approached him warily, and flipped him onto his back using the toe of his boot and the muzzle of his Henry. The man flopped limply. His face was young and strong; he was probably handsome under his war paint, Walt thought. A headband around his forehead held three eagle feathers. Walt slipped it off, then removed a sheathed knife and a tomahawk from the waistband of the Indian’s loincloth. He picked up the long rifle, examining it closely.
“Hey, this is a Hawken percussion rifle! Looks to be about a half-inch bore. The barrel’s about three feet long. The wood’s pretty dark, but that may be due to ingrained smoke and dirt, of course. The breech is engraved and chased with silver. The lid of the patch box in the stock also looks to have been silver at one time, although most of the plating’s worn off.”
