Ride to Valor

by David Robbins

“What’s that fancy talk, technically?” Burr interrupted. “Talk plain.”

  “Technically,” James patiently resumed, “yes, this isn’t Indian land. But you are near the Sisseton reservation, which was established back in ’sixty-seven.”

  “Listen to you,” Burr mocked him. “And if we ain’t on no reservation, we’re not doing anything wrong.”

  “It’s not the Sissetons you have to concern yourself about. Other bands are on the warpath and they might be in this area.”

  “I ain’t scared of no heathens. Now leave us be.” Burr went to return to the stream.

  “I’m afraid,” James said politely, “that we are under orders to escort any civilians we find to safety. You’ll accompany us to Fort Sisseton and remain there until the uprising is over.”

  “Like hell we will.”

  “Be reasonable, Mr. Burr.”

  “I’ll give you reasonable, damn you,” Clinton Burr growled, and jerked his Winchester up.

  James was quicker. He pointed his Colt at Burr’s face and thumbed back the hammer before Burr could press the stock to his shoulder. “Set that down.”

  Burr froze, the Winchester only halfway up. “You wouldn’t.”

  “Try me.”

  “I’m a—what’s the word?—civilian. The army doesn’t go around shooting civilians.”

  “You don’t shed that rifle, I will sure as hell shoot you,” James said. In the leg or in the arm. Burr was right in one regard; the army took a dim view of officers who shot citizens.

  “This ain’t right,” Burr said as he slowly lowered the Winchester to the grass.

  “The rest of you do the same.”

  A heavyset man with dropping jowls said, “We ain’t done nothing. You can’t threaten us.”

  Private Howell trained his carbine on the man’s belly. “Care to bet, mister?”

  Resentfully, the others obeyed. James had Plover climb down and gather up their weapons. He sent another soldier, Private Kearns, to bring the captain and the rest of the patrol. Dismounting, he holstered his Colt and stepped to the bank. The sluice was a simple affair, the pans battered and scraped from a lot of use. “Find any gold?”

  “None of your damn business,” Burr snapped.

  “Oh, hell,” said the last of them, a younger man with a shock of red hair and freckles. His pants were too short and stopped inches above his ankles and his shirt was so baggy it could fit two of him. “Why are you and Treywick bein’ so contrary?” He turned to James. “No, we ain’t found nary any, and them sayin’ as how we’d be rich.” He added a few choice cusswords.

  James chuckled. “Who might you be, firebrand?”

  “Chester,” the young man with freckles said. “Chester Gilliam. I’m from Arkansas.”

  “A Southern boy like me!” Private Howell exclaimed. “I like that.”

  Chester regarded him with interest. “You’re Southern and you’re a blue belly?”

  “Back up a step, cousin,” Private Howell said. “For one thing, the war is long over. For another, you’re too young to have taken part, so what’s it matter? For another, a soldier is a soldier on the inside and not because of the uniform.”

  “I reckon as how that’s true,” Chester allowed, and offered a bony hand. “Shake, then, hoss. From here on you and me are friends.” He bobbed his head at the stream. “As much success as I’ve been havin’ at this gold business, maybe I should see about wearin’ one of those uniforms my own self.”

  “Have you seen any sign of Indians?” James asked all four of them.

  Burr muttered. Treywick’s jowls quivered with anger. Melleck poked a toe at the ground.

  Chester Gilliam looked at the three of them and did more swearing. “The bunch I am in with,” he said with marked disgust. “I can answer that.”

  “You hush, boy,” Burr said.

  “I ain’t the fruit of your loins, nohow,” Chester said. “What harm can it do? You heard him. The army is runnin’ us off anyway.”

  “Don’t,” Treywick said.

  “You two are a pair.” Chester pointed at a height across the stream. “You see that hill yonder, Yank? Just last evenin’ there was an Injun sittin’ there on his paint as bold as you please, watchin’ us.”

  “All he did was watch?”

  “For about ten minutes, I’d say it was,” Chester said. “Burr wanted to go after him, but Treywick said to leave him be and he’d leave us be.”

  “He just rode off?”

  “Just like that,” Chester said, and snapped his fingers.

  “Think it was a friendly, sir?” Private Plover asked.

  James had no way of knowing. It could have been a Sisseton from the reservation, perhaps on a hunt. But there were also renegades about.

  “Of course it was,” Burr said. “The Injuns know we’re here and leave us be. You should, too.”

  “I’m following orders,” James said.

  “You can as easily unfollow them,” Burr said. “Don’t mention you saw us.”

  “Too late for that,” James said. “Our patrol will be here in about ten minutes. Then I think I’ll go look for sign of that Indian you saw.”

  “No need for that,” Chester Gilliam said.

  “Why not?”

  Chester pointed at the hill. “Because it appears he came back and brought his friends.”

  James turned.

  The top of the hill was covered with warriors.

  42

  Whether the Indians were hostile or friendly was demonstrated the very next instant as they erupted in war whoops and fierce cries and charged down the hill.

  James’s men and the prospectors were momentarily stunned by the abruptness of the attack. He wasn’t. “Reclaim your weapons and get your horses into the trees,” he shouted.

  The war party was five hundred yards away and coming on fast, spreading out as they closed. Only a few had rifles and they would wait to shoot so as not to waste lead.

  Private Howell and Private Whitten were following his orders. The prospectors were at their horses, fingers flying, removing the hobbles.

  James ran to his mount and climbed on. As he was reining around, he saw that Private Plover was agape with fear. “Snap out of it, Private. Into the woods.”

  “They’re coming to kill us.”

  “Move,” James ordered.

  “They’re really coming to kill us.”

  James reined closer and cuffed Plover across the cheek. Not hard, but it jarred him.

  Plover blinked, and swallowed. “Sorry, sir,” he said. He clumsily hauled on his reins and brought his animal around.

  James paced him, continually looking back. The war party was still out of range and they gained cover without incident.

  His men and the prospectors were apprehensively awaiting his instructions.

  “Do we run or do we fight, sir?” Private Howell asked.

  “We run,” James said. There were too many to fight. They would be overwhelmed and slaughtered. “We fly to Captain Stoneman and I do mean fly.” He lashed his reins and jabbed his heels.

  The yips and war whoops were louder. The hostiles had reached the stream. It was so narrow and shallow they barely slowed.

  James thought of Peg and her condition and promptly put her from his mind. Now wasn’t the time. He avoided a tree, vaulted a log. In the years since Kansas he had become an accomplished rider.

  The two Southern boys, Howell and Chester Gilliam, rode as if they and their horses were one. James had found that Southern soldiers, by and large, thanks to childhoods spent on farms and in the country, were better riders than recruits from the North. Plover and Whitten were pitiful riders. Burr and Treywick weren’t much better. Melleck rode by the novel technique of pressing himself to his mount and clamping his long limbs tight.

  It didn’t bode well. They needed speed and lots of it or the warriors would overtake them before they reached the patrol.

  James prayed that Captain Stoneman heard the din and came at a gal
lop.

  The lowland climbed gradually toward the hills. The undergrowth was a checkerboard of thick and thin so that one moment they were racing and the next they were forced to slow.

  It was frustrating, the more so because the cries of their pursuers grew.

  They weren’t going to make it, James realized, even as an arrow thudded into an oak he was passing.

  There was a shriek, and Melleck flung his arms out and pitched from his horse, a shaft sticking from between his shoulders blades.

  A tight cluster of saplings loomed. James flew in among them and yelled for the others to stop and dismount. He was off his horse before it stopped moving. The carbine in his hands, he aimed at a bronzed bare chest and squeezed.

  Howell and Plover and Whitten and Gilliam were off their horses and firing.

  The hostiles broke and sought cover. Within moments it was as if the earth had swallowed them.

  James stopped shooting and yelled, “Cease fire! Don’t waste ammunition! Only fire when you have a clear target.”

  The problem with that was that the Indians were too versed in woodcraft to show themselves, and all the while they were closing in.

  James looked for the other prospectors, and swore. Burr and Treywick had kept on going. All they cared about were their own hides.

  Private Howell suddenly fired. The retort was greeted with a cry of pain, and he laughed. “Like shootin’ turkeys at the county fair,” he crowed.

  A second later Chester Gilliam’s rifle spoke and he, too, laughed. “This is a lot more fun than gold huntin’.”

  Southern boys, James thought.

  “I see a bush moving,” Private Plover whispered. “Do I shoot, Lieutenant?”

  “Only if you see the Indian moving it,” James replied. He lowered his voice in case any of the Indians knew English.

  “All of you, listen. We’re retreating in skirmish order. Flatten and crawl until I say to rise.”

  “What about our horses, sir?” Plover asked.

  “Leave them.”

  “But the Indians will get them.” Plover was so upset he forgot to use “sir.”

  “We try to ride off, they’ll hear us and be on their own horses and after us before we get twenty yards.” James sank down and began crawling. When he was sure they wouldn’t be seen, he rose and jogged.

  Private Whitten was limping.

  “Were you hit?” James asked. He didn’t see blood.

  “No, sir. I twisted my ankle when I jumped from my horse. But don’t worry. I’ll keep up.”

  “Good man,” James encouraged him.

  The woods were silent. James listened for the column but didn’t hear them. He wondered if he had gotten turned around in the excitement and was going the wrong way. No, a check of the sun confirmed he was moving in the right direction. He looked over his shoulder—and stopped cold.

  Bounding toward them were a dozen painted wolves.

  “Behind us!” James warned, and wheeled. “Turn and choose your targets.” He sank to a knee and raised his Springfield. A painted face filled his sights and he fired.

  An arrow split the air and sliced into Private Whitten’s rib cage. He staggered but didn’t cry out and brought his carbine to bear.

  More arrows flew. The troopers and Chester Gilliam replied with lead. Indians fell. The rest sought cover with remarkable alacrity, so that in the blink of an eye they were gone.

  Private Whitten collapsed. James ran to him, knelt, and lifted the young soldier’s head onto his leg. Whitten was conscious, his eyelids fluttering. “Hang on,” James urged. “We’ll get you out of this.”

  “No, you won’t, sir,” Whitten said, pink froth flecking his lips. “I’m done for and I know it.” He coughed and scarlet bubbled with the pink.

  The other privates and Chester Gilliam were behind trees, watching for hostiles.

  “Go,” Whitten urged. “I’ll only get you killed if you stay.”

  “We’re not leaving you,” James said. Not while breath remained.

  Whitten tried to say something, but all that came out was more blood. He sagged and placed a hand on the shaft in his body. “Do me a favor, would you, Lieutenant?”

  “Anything.”

  “Write to my family in Ohio, would you? Tell them I was thinking of them. Tell them I was a good soldier.”

  “I will,” James promised, hoarsely. He hardly knew Whitten, but the bond of their profession made him feel the loss more deeply than he would otherwise.

  “Thank you, sir,” Private Whitten said, and died.

  James lowered him to the grass. He was loath to leave the body knowing the hostiles might mutilate it. Motioning for silence, he backed away. When he had gone a short distance, he turned and ran, Howell and Plover and Gilliam pumping hard at his heels.

  A sharp cry made James think the hostiles had spotted them. He twisted and glimpsed two-legged forms flying with deerlike bounds away from them, not toward them. “They’re running off,” he said, and stopped.

  A rumbling explained why. Hooves pounded and a blue crescent swept from the greenery with the glint of gunmetal in every hand.

  Captain Stoneman drew rein and Sergeant Strake bellowed for the men to halt.

  “We heard the shooting and the cries,” the captain said, scouring the woodland, his pistol cocked. “Where are the hostiles?”

  “They heard you coming and wisely fled.” James pointed. “I would guess fifteen to twenty are left.”

  “Stay with them, Sergeant,” Stoneman said to Strake. Rising in the stirrups, he gave the command to advance at the ready and the patrol flowed on.

  Private Plover leaned against a trunk, his face flushed, his chest heaving. “I don’t believe it. We actually lived through that.”

  “Hell, Yank, that was nothin’,” Private Howell said. “I’ve been in a lot worse scrapes.”

  “I thought we were dead,” Plover said. “As God is my witness I didn’t expect to live out the day.”

  “Where are my so-called partners?” Chester Gilliam asked.

  Until that moment James hadn’t realized that Burr and Treywick weren’t with the troopers. He asked Sergeant Strake where they had gotten to.

  “We saw no one, sir. You say they were coming our way? They must have gone in a different direction.”

  “Or they heard you and hid,” James guessed.

  “Why would they do that, sir?”

  “I can answer that,” Chester Gilliam said. “The no-accounts lit out because they don’t want you soldier boys taking them away. They think there’s gold in these parts and they mean to find it.”

  “Then they’re fools,” Sergeant Strake said.

  “You’ll get no argument from me,” Chester said. “I ever see those coyotes again, I aim to give them a piece of my mind.”

  The vegetation had swallowed the blue line.

  James straightened. “Howell, Plover, move out ten feet to either side. Sergeant Strake, you’re with me. Stay on your horse. You can see better from up there. Gilliam, you can follow us or stay here.”

  “Where are we going?” Private Plover anxiously asked.

  “Where are we going, sir,” Sergeant Strake corrected him.

  “Have you forgotten Private Whitten?” James said. “We must see to his body and find our horses.”

  “Why don’t we leave that to the captain, sir?”

  Sergeant Strake abruptly turned his horse so that it practically pressed Private Plover against a tree. Bending down, he poked Plover in the chest. “Did I just hear you talk back to an officer?”

  “I was just—” Plover started to respond, and Strake’s thick finger pressed on his throat.

  “When an officer tells you to do something, you follow orders. You don’t question. You don’t complain. You don’t suggest a better way. You do as you’re damn well told. Do you hear me, Private?”

  Plover looked more scared of Strake than he had of the hostiles, if that was possible. “I hear you, Sergeant.”


  “Good. Because if I ever again hear you do what you just did, I’ll make your life as miserable as I can make it.” Strake uncurled and swung his horse to James’s side. “Sorry about that, sir. It won’t happen again. Will it, Private Plover?”

  “No, sir. No, sir.”

  Sergeants, James had sometimes mused, were the glue that held the army together. He made a mental note to buy Strake a drink when they got back. “Let’s go.”

  Just then the woods were rocked by gun blasts and the yowls of renegades.

  43

  The hostiles had fired shots from the hill as the patrol emerged from the trees. None scored, and with displays of bluster they galloped to the northwest.

  Captain Stoneman posted pickets and had the men dismount. The bodies were gathered and hasty burials took place. James oversaw the digging of Private Whitten’s grave. After examining the arrow extracted from Whitten’s body, Sergeant Strake, who had been on the plains longer than any of them and clashed with several tribes, was of the opinion that the band they had just fought were Sioux.

  Within half an hour the patrol was ready to move out again.

  James was puzzled that the Indians hadn’t taken any of the horses. Then again, they had been busy trying to take life and then preserving their own.

  James rode at Stoneman’s side. Plenty of tracks and newly churned clods of dirt made it easy for them to stay on the hostiles’ trail.

  “What do you say, Lieutenant Doyle?” the captain said as they crossed a stretch of plain sprinkled with buffalo wallows. “I’m for following this band to the ends of the earth. Are you with me?”

  “It’s our duty to bring them to bay.”

  “That goes without saying,” Captain Stoneman said. “But we could follow them for a day or two and give it up as a lost cause and Colonel Maxton would be perfectly pleased.”

  “Whatever you decide is fine by me,” James assured him.

  “Don’t be so quick to agree,” Captain Stoneman said. “When I said we should dog them to the ends of the earth, I meant it. Left free, they’ll go on killing and butchering. Settlers, wagons trains, all will suffer. For their sake as well as our own, we must put an end to these hostiles.”