Brings the Lightning (The Ames Archives Book 1)

by Peter Grant

  Tad whistled. “Hawken made their Rocky Mountain Rifle from the 1820’s onwards, so it mighta come from one of the old mountain men—Injuns killed plenty of ’em. Some are still around; Jim Bridger, Kit Carson, an’ a few more. They scout for the army sometimes. If you ever run into one of ’em, ask ’em to take a look at it. They might recognize it.”

  “I will. There are some letters carved into the stock, but I can’t make them out. They’re too badly worn. I reckon I’ll keep it as a trophy, along with the knife, tomahawk and headband.”

  “You sure earned ’em! Come on, let’s ride out to where that medicine bundle fell. I figure they’ll have left it there. They’d reckon it the worst kind of bad luck to touch it after you killed it like that.”

  Sure enough, the bullet-torn bundle was lying in the grass where it had fallen. Tad dismounted, picked it up, and handed it to Walt. “Reckon you got one hell of a memento there.”

  “Thanks. Yeah, I reckon I have.”

  Riding back to the wagons, they paused at the heap of dead horses. The army men were dragging the last of the dead Indians from among the animal carcasses. “Dig a common grave for ’em right here,” Tad told the soldiers. “No sense in leavin’ ’em to rot. Their friends won’t be comin’ back. Carry that other dead ’un over here to bury with them.”

  “Oh, yeah?” one of the troopers said belligerently. “We don’t take orders from civilians.”

  “All right. In that case, I’ll get the sergeant to tell you hisself.”

  “You’d better!”

  Walt felt his anger flare. “You! Trooper! You know I wore sergeant’s stripes in the war. All I can say is, if that’s your attitude, you won’t live long enough to see Pond Creek. You’ll be killed before we get there. This scout knows more about the plains and Indians than you ever will, so you’d better listen to him if you want to live. Grow up and shape up, or else!”

  “I–”

  “DO AS YOU’RE DAMN WELL TOLD, SOLDIER!”

  The man literally jumped. “Y– yessir!”

  Walt glared at him. “And DON’T CALL ME ‘SIR’, dammit! Do I look like a blasted shavetail? I was a sergeant. I worked for a living!”

  “Y– yessir!”

  Beside him, Tad shook with laughter as they rode back towards the wagons. “You sure put a scare into that one. Reckon sergeants must get issued an attitude like that along with their stripes.”

  Buell was grinning as they rode up to him. He was sitting up, his chest now tightly strapped. “I see you set Murphy straight. Thanks for doing that. He’s all right, he’s just got a hot-headed streak. I’ll have a word with him to back up what you said.”

  “Probably a good idea,” Walt acknowledged as he swung down from his saddle. “They all need to learn that uniforms ain’t magic, an’ the army don’t know everything all the time.”

  Buell nodded. “Listen, I ain’t gonna be doin’ too much ridin’ for the next couple of weeks with these ribs all strapped up. Will you take out my patrol from time to time? I know you’re a civilian now, but you was a sergeant, an’ from what I seen so far I reckon you was a good ’un. I’ll tell ’em that they gotta take your orders just like they would mine.”

  “If you think that would be helpful, sure, I’ll do it. Have you picked out anyone who might make a good second-in-command? I figure Duffy might make corporal in due course. He seems to know his left from his right, anyhow.”

  “I was plannin’ to talk to th’ Commandin’ Officer at Pond Creek about givin’ him temporary rank until we get back to Fort Riley. If he can handle it, I reckon it’ll be made permanent before long.”

  “So how did they hit you?”

  “I reckon it was just one of those things. We came over a rise an’ there they were, ridin’ in a long line. We musta seen each other at the same instant. They could see there was more o’ them than us, so they turned an’ charged at us. I reckoned with green troops we’d be better off gettin’ back to the wagons where we’d have more support. We fired a volley to discourage ’em from gettin’ too close, then rode for the train.”

  “Well, your troops ain’t green no more. They held together under fire without panicking, made it back here as a unit, and fought back as soon as they got the chance. I’d call that good work for men who were raw recruits just a few weeks ago. You can tell ’em I said so, if you like.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  Rose hurried over. Walt smiled as he saw her, reached out an arm, and hugged her to him. “Everything’s all right, love. It’s over.”

  “Oh, thank heaven! I was worried about you every single moment you were out there!”

  “Nothing to worry about. The Indians have gone.”

  Tom Jones came over and held out his hand. “I reckon we owe you, Ames. You and your two men stopped ’em cold.”

  “I reckon everyone on the train did his part.”

  “Yeah, but still… I could hardly believe how you shot Hunting Wolf’s medicine bundle out of his hands from so far away. When the story gets out, that shot’s gonna be talked about all over the Plains for years to come, you mark my words.”

  Walt made a dismissive gesture. “I’m just glad we’re all alive. What next?”

  “We’ll finish buryin’ those Injuns, then we’re gonna cook up that buffalo meat an’ have us a real good supper. First thing tomorrow mornin’, we’ll be on our way.”

  Ten days out from Fort Ellsworth, they woke to an unpleasant surprise. The sentries on the dawn watch began shouting the alarm as soon as the growing light allowed them to see over the grasslands surrounding the wagon train.

  Walt was roused from his sleep next to Rose in the ambulance by their loud calls. He hurriedly untangled himself from the blankets and went to the front of the wagon, looking out. To his astonishment, he saw a line of mounted Indians about half a mile away from the circled wagons. They were spread along a slight rise, seated on their horses, making no sound or movement. He counted rapidly.

  Behind him Rose said sleepily, “What’s going on, dear?”

  “Indians, about eighty of ’em,” he said succinctly. “They’re lined up half a mile out, but not doing anything—no, one of them’s riding forward now, real slowly.”

  He grabbed his spyglass and looked through it. The lone rider walked his horse to a position halfway between the line of Indians and the wagon train, halted, then jabbed his lance point downward into the dirt. He waited there, motionless.

  Walt turned and looked for Tad. He saw the scout hurriedly getting dressed, and called, “What’s going on, Tad?”

  “Looks like they wanna pow-wow. I’m gonna ride out an’ see what they want.”

  “Need company?”

  “Naw. They sent one man out, so only one of us should ride to meet him.”

  Walt dressed quickly as Tad rode out of the circle of wagons, cantering over to where the Indian waited. The two men talked for several minutes, then Tad turned his horse and headed back. He came straight over to the ambulance.

  “Seems you’ve made a name for yourself, Walt. Satank hisself is out there. He wants to talk to the man who killed Hunting Wolf’s medicine. That brave speaks English, enough to get by. He’s said he’ll translate if you’ll ride out there. I figure you should go on your own. That’s a test of courage in their eyes. If you go alone, you show you ain’t scared. If you bring anyone else with you, they’ll figure you’re afeared of ’em.”

  “Then I guess I’d better go alone.”

  “Walt! No!” Rose objected vehemently as she finished dressing. “It could be a trap! What if they want revenge?”

  “I don’t reckon so, ma’am,” Tad tried to reassure her. “I reckon Satank’s just real curious about Walt. He’ll be cautious about fightin’ him until he’s taken his measure.”

  “And what if he takes Walt’s measure out there and decides he can fight him right away? It’ll be one man against eighty!”

  “It won’t happen today, ma’am. Their spokesman said Satank offers a
truce. An Indian sense of honor ain’t like ours, but when they say something like that, they generally mean it. I reckon Walt will be safe to go out an’ come back, at least this mornin’.”

  Walt smiled at her. “Don’t worry, love. I think it’ll be all right this time.” However, despite his confident words to Rose, he couldn’t help feeling a thrill of apprehension. If he went out, could he really be certain he’d come back, despite Tad’s assurances?

  “Don’t forget to wear your bear claw necklace, an’ take that rifle sleeve with you,” Tad reminded him.

  As Walt walked his horse out of the circle of wagons, he saw another figure leave the line of Indians and ride towards the man waiting by his lance. Walt studied the other rider carefully as he approached. He was an older man, wrinkled but whipcord tough. His eyes were hard, determined, calculating, with a shrewd look that hinted at intelligence. He wore a sash made of some sort of animal hide running over his shirt from his left shoulder to his right hip, and carried a rifle in his right hand.

  They arrived at the interpreter’s position together. Walt forced control upon himself, trying to prevent the tension that was knotting his stomach and fizzing like champagne in his veins from revealing itself in his voice. He said to the interpreter, speaking deliberately slowly, “Satank wished to meet me. I am here.”

  “This is Satank,” the other said in a guttural tone, indicating the older Indian. “How are you called?”

  “Walter Ames.”

  The man turned to the older Indian and broke into rapid Kiowa. Satank listened, then said a few words himself. The messenger turned back to Walt. “Satank asks if you are the man who broke Hunting Wolf’s medicine.”

  “I am.”

  Another brief exchange in Kiowa. “You carry the rifle sleeve of a Kiowa Dog Soldier on your arm. Are you the man who brought the lightning at Fort Ellsworth?”

  Walt had to hold back a grin. The Arapaho must have spread the word of what had happened there. “I am,” he acknowledged.

  There was another discussion between the Indians. “Satank says you must have powerful medicine, to bring the lightning at the fort and to shoot Hunting Wolf’s medicine bundle from his hands at so great a distance. He asks how a white man comes by such medicine.”

  “Tell him I earned my medicine in battle, fighting in the great white man’s war. I was with the gray soldiers, not the blue. The blue soldiers defeated our armies, but they did not defeat me. I kept my medicine. Now I seek to make a new life for myself and my wife at the distant mountains,” and he gestured to the west, “far from the blue soldiers who now live in the place that once was my home.”

  Walt could almost imagine that a hint of sympathy crossed Satank’s face as he spoke to the interpreter. “Satank says he understands what it is to be driven from your lands. It has happened to the Kiowa too. However, he asks why you ride with blue soldiers now.”

  “Because I must. If I tried to ride through this country with just my wife and two hired hands, we’d all be killed within a matter of days.”

  “Satank understands. Because you would not stay in your homeland after it was lost to the blue soldiers, and because you do not seek to take land from the Kiowa in which to make your home, he says you and your friends may pass safely through these lands, that have always been our hunting grounds. He will not attack your wagons, and will send word to the rest of the Kiowa to let you pass in peace.”

  “Please thank him for me.”

  “Satank asks where you got that rifle sleeve.”

  “I took it from the body of an outlaw in Missouri last year. He and five of his friends tried to attack my wagons. We killed all of them. I don’t know where he got it.”

  “Satank asks if he can look at the sleeve. He thinks he knew the warrior who owned it.”

  “Of course.”

  Walt lifted the heavy Sharps rifle, pulled the sleeve from it and lowered the rifle onto his saddle, careful to ensure that its barrel pointed away from the two Indians. He folded the sleeve and held it out to the interpreter. The man took the sleeve, turned, and handed it to Satank. The old man unfolded it and peered closely at the beadwork, fingering the eagle and owl feathers in the tassel.

  “He says this belonged to Laughing Crow, a Dog Soldier of our tribe. He was Satank’s blood brother and friend. He was killed in a fight with buffalo hunters long ago, before the white men made war on each other.”

  Walt could see a flicker of emotion on the old warrior’s otherwise impassive face as he recalled his friend. He was struck with a sudden inspiration, and asked, “Did Laughing Crow have any sons? Are any of them Kiowa warriors today?”

  Satank didn’t respond in words; instead, he half-turned on his horse’s back, pointed to a lithe young man astride a grulla horse, and motioned to him to join them. The warrior trotted his horse forward, halting at Satank’s side. The old man handed him the rifle sleeve, saying something in Kiowa. The new arrival unfolded it and stared, stroking it in a way that seemed almost reverent.

  Walt said to the interpreter, “Please tell Satank it’s only right that Laughing Crow’s rifle sleeve should return to his tribe. If this man is his descendant, I will give it to him.”

  Satank looked surprised as he listened to the translation, and the young warrior’s head jerked up as he stared at Walt. The old man spoke through the interpreter again. “This is Laughing Crow’s grandson. He is named Laughing Raven, and this is his first year on the raiding trail. The rifle sleeve is strong medicine. Are you sure you wish to give it up?”

  “I am sure. Laughing Crow’s medicine will not pass to me, because I am not Kiowa. However, it may be that it will pass to his grandson, Laughing Raven, if he proves worthy of it. He should have it.”

  There was a glint of approval in Satank’s eye. “You have medicine as strong as any Kiowa, you have shown courage in battle and skill with your weapons, you are generous, and despite your youth, you are wise. You are a warrior. If you were Kiowa, you would be a Dog Soldier like Laughing Crow, just as Laughing Raven hopes to be one day.”

  “I thank Satank for his words. Coming from a war leader and medicine man such as he, I value them.”

  The young Kiowa said something to Satank, who replied. After a brief conversation, the interpreter said, “Laughing Raven thanks you as well. Our custom is that gifts between warriors should be exchanged. Satank says it would be fitting for Laughing Raven to give you his tomahawk in return for the rifle sleeve. He asks if you agree to this.”

  Walt nodded. “Yes, I agree.”

  The young man pulled a tomahawk from the waistband of his loincloth and handed it to the interpreter handle-first, who passed it on in the same way. Walt hefted it experimentally in his hand. It was beautifully balanced, with a straight wire-bound wooden shaft more than two feet long, bearing tribal patterns and supporting a wickedly sharp head. The base of the shaft was decorated with a dangling tassel of yellow and red beads in an intricate design, as well as a red-dyed feather.

  Walt looked directly at the young warrior and nodded as he said, “Please thank Laughing Raven for his gift. It is a powerful weapon.”

  Satank spoke again, and the interpreter said, “Satank says it is fitting that a man like you, strong in your own medicine power, should be the one to bring back to the Kiowa Laughing Crow’s rifle sleeve and its medicine power. He gives you a new name. Among our people, you shall be called Brings The Lightning from this time onward.”

  “Satank honors me. I will be a friend to the Kiowa in my dealings with them from this time onward.”

  “Satank is pleased. He says you and your wagons will have no trouble until you reach Pond Creek. He says if you go past there, you may have to fight the Cheyenne. Several of their raiding parties are out in what you call Colorado, which was theirs before the white man came.”

  “I thank him for his warning. This wagon train will turn around at Pond Creek and return east, but my wife and I will go on through Colorado Territory. We’ll be careful.”

>   The old warrior nodded. He didn’t say goodbye, but simply turned his horse and rode steadily back to the line of Indians, not looking back. Laughing Raven followed him, folding the rifle sleeve once more and putting it carefully over his arm. The interpreter plucked his lance from the soil. “We leave you now. Go in peace.”

  “You as well.”

  Walt sat his horse, watching as the line of Indians turned to the west and began to walk away, those at the back moving forward to form a double line with those in front. Laughing Raven waited on top of the rise as the others rode past him. As the last riders approached, the Indian raised his hand to Walt in salute, and he returned the gesture. The young man turned his horse and rode over the rise, following the rest of his party, the rifle sleeve still folded over his arm.

  Walt heaved a long sigh of relief, feeling the tension run out of him like water. Smiling, he turned his horse and slowly rode back to the wagon train. He found Rose, Samson, Elijah, Tad and Tom Jones waiting for him in a group. Swinging down from his saddle and putting a reassuring arm around his wife, he told them what had happened.

  Jones nodded slowly. “I don’t believe in Injun medicine, but if I did, I’d reckon you’ve been real good medicine for us on this trip, Ames. If Satank says we can pass in peace, we won’t have any more Injun trouble until we reach Pond Creek. It’s as good as a gold-plated guarantee.”

  “Yeah,” the scout agreed, taking the tomahawk from Walt and inspecting it closely. “That, plus this tomahawk, ain’t a bad trade for an old rifle sleeve.” He returned it handle-first. “You musta really impressed Satank with that shot.” Tad suddenly laughed. “As a matter o’ fact, I’d say you did him a helluva favor. He’s gotta be well into his sixties by now. There’ll be lots o’ young bucks like Hunting Wolf, all feelin’ their oats an’ wantin’ t’ take his place. You just reined in the whole lot of ’em, real hard.”