Wannie took a deep breath, listening, and breathed a sigh of relief. “Maybe—maybe they let him go.”
Keso held her close. “Maybe they did. Now help me get to the barricades in case they decide to attack again. I wish we had enough water for some coffee.”
She let him lean on her, his good arm around her, and helped him over to the piled-up boxes of the barricade. He seemed a lot stronger now, except for the injured shoulder. “Keso, I promise when help gets here, I’ll make a big pot of coffee and you can have all you want. Why, I’ll bet that scout’s almost there and we’ll have reinforcements soon.”
“Sure we will, honey,” he said but his expression was grim and she knew he didn’t believe it.
She heard a sound and looked out across the landscape. The sun was just coming up behind a rider as he galloped to the crest of the bluff. She recognized Coyote in his war paint on a fine, unusually marked paint horse—the horse Cleve had been riding, she realized suddenly.
The warrior was out of rifle range and he must know it, poised there against the rising sun, arrogantly shouting a challenge to the weary soldiers. A big knife gleamed in his waistband and he carried a war lance. The first rays of daylight reflected off the object that hung from that lance. The wind increased, blowing and moving Coyote’s trophy so that it picked up the light through its silken strands.
Wannie put her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming as she suddenly recognized Cleveland Brewster, Jr.’s magnificent yellow hair.
TWENTY-SIX
Keso stared at the taunting brave in the distance. “Don’t look, Wannie,” he said. “Anybody got a ‘Big Fifty’?”
A soldier put a high-powered buffalo gun in Keso’s hands as Wannie buried her face in her skirt and sobbed. Not even that damned Cleve deserved such a fate. And it was awful for Wannie. Now Keso would keep the secret he’d figured out about Cleve’s parentage forever; no one else need ever know.
He aimed carefully at the ugly Ute on the butte, still taunting them with Cleve’s scalp. Coyote thought he was safely out of range, not counting on someone in this crowd having an old buffalo gun that could shoot such a long distance. Keso took good aim at Coyote’s chest as the Ute waved the yellow hair at the soldiers. He seemed to be promising that their hair, too, would hang from his lance once the Utes overran them. Keso aimed very slowly and deliberately. He wouldn’t get another chance like this once Coyote realized the range of this powerful rifle.
One thing was certain, Keso thought. He would save his very last bullet for Wannie. Rather than let her be taken by the warriors, he would put a gun behind her ear when she least expected it and put a bullet in her brain. One other thing was certain, Keso vowed. Coyote would never live to enjoy her.
Keso took aim and squeezed the trigger. The shot echoed on the still morning even as Coyote’s chest seemed to explode. A look of total surprise was frozen forever on his ugly features as he dropped the lance and tumbled from the pinto horse.
Keso grunted with satisfaction and handed the gun back. “Thanks. There’s one who won’t give us any more trouble.” He took Wannie in his arms, rocking her back and forth to soothe her as he would a terrified child. “It’s all right, honey, it’s all right.”
She clung to him, trembling. All the security she had was in this man’s arms. It always had been.
“Reinforcements will come,” he told her.
She wasn’t sure about that, but she had no more time for the luxury of terror. She took a deep breath, pulled herself together, and returned to caring for the wounded. It was going to be a long day.
It was just barely daylight when Wannie spotted riders coming at a gallop across the prairie. Oh God, the Utes are going to launch a full attack, maybe overrun us, she thought. But even as she opened her mouth to scream, she saw the blue of their uniforms and the brass buttons reflecting the light and their black faces. “Buffalo soldiers! Troopers coming in! Open the barricades quick!”
A cheer went up from the trapped men at the sight of the black cavalry galloping toward them and men ran to open a hole in the barricade. The Utes saw them, too, and laid down a withering barricade of bullets as they came on. Wannie was cheering, urging them on as they galloped through a deadly gauntlet of Ute shells. She hardly dared to hope, as she yelled encouragement. The weary, trapped men were cheering and the Ute fire increased. Suddenly they had made it all the way into the circle, dismounting as the Utes increased their fire and the weary survivors hurried to close the barricade.
The leader dismounted and saluted Captain Payne. “Captain Dodge and Company D of the Ninth Cavalry reporting for duty.”
Captain Payne motioned him down behind the shelter of a supply wagon near Wannie and Keso. The other troopers dismounted and tried to put their horses behind protective boxes and bundles. “Glad to see you, Captain Dodge. How’d you know we were trapped here?”
“Didn’t.” He wiped the sweat from his face. “We’d been alerted that Meeker might need help and were on our way there when we heard all the gunfire.” Captain Dodge looked around at the tired, ragged remnants of the command. “Who’s in charge here?”
“I am,” Captain Payne nodded, “Major Thornburgh’s dead.”
The other officer’s eyes widened with alarm. “What’s the situation at the White River Agency?”
“We can only guess,” Keso said. “I doubt they need your help anymore. Where’s the rest of your men?”
“This is all I’ve got—sorry.”
Like the captain and Keso, Wannie looked around at the grinning black faces and did a mental count. Thirty-five? Thirty-six? That wasn’t nearly enough.
Captain Payne’s face fell as he realized how few black troopers there were. “Joe Rankin’s on his way to Fort Steele for help. We’ve been pinned down so long, we don’t even know how many days it’s been.”
“Today’s October 2, I think,” Captain Dodge said.
Could they have been here that long? Wannie tried to think but time had become a blur of death and gunpowder, sunsets and sunrises. “We’re glad you came, Captain,” she said.
“Hope we can help, miss.” He touched the tip of his hat brim with his fingers in a sort of salute. “My men are mighty brave, even if there aren’t many of them. Maybe we can buy you some time.”
The men all looked weary and glum. Wannie forced herself to smile, although she, too, was exhausted. Almost mechanically, she helped Doc with the growing number of wounded, handing out hardtack and a little water. They were taking their toll on the Utes, too, she thought. Here and there, up on the bluffs, a man threw up his hands and fell as a soldier’s bullet found its mark. Wannie couldn’t be glad. In her mind, she saw the sad, dark eyes of thin Ute women and children as they mourned their men. Two cultures in conflict. One had driven the other to reckless attack and now both sides would suffer.
She thought the day would never end and bring with it the cover of darkness. In the sunlight, the Ute marksmen picked off a soldier here and there although the black buffalo soldiers fought as bravely as any.
Once she paused as she passed Keso and gave him a hug. “I want you to know whatever happens, I love you.”
He smiled up at her. “Do you realize that when we marry, your name will still be Evans?”
She laughed in spite of herself.
Keso looked up at the setting sun and then at Wannie. “Is there—is there any water at all, Wannie?”
She lowered her voice so that the others wouldn’t hear. “No, Keso, I just gave the last of it to a dying man.”
She could see by the expression in his dark eyes what he was thinking. Then he turned and looked out at the tiny creek two hundred yards across burned, bare ground from where the soldiers were forted up. “Keso, no! With that injured shoulder—”
“It’s better,” he assured her. “As soon as it gets dark, honey, someone has to go.”
“Let the soldiers do it.” She grabbed his arm and put her face against it. “Oh, please!”
&nbs
p; “Wannie, honey,” he whispered against her hair, “we may have to survive several more days until help gets here ... if it ever gets here. We can’t do it without water.”
“I—I can’t live if something happens to you.”
“Yes, you can,” he said and kissed the tip of her nose. “You may be carrying my son, Wannie, and I want that son, want him worse than anything you can imagine except you.”
She closed her eyes, imagining that dark, handsome child. He’d be strong and tall like his daddy and then she’d want a little girl, too. “You’re right—someone’s got to go. I’m strong—I could do it.”
“Uh-oh, brat, not you.” He shook his head. “Just hold me a minute. When it’s dark, someone’s got to try for it.”
A big black man crawled over to them, yellow stripes shining on his blue sleeve. “Hey, I heard what you’re talkin’ about. I’m Sergeant Henry Johnson, and I’m game.”
“Sergeant,” Keso said, “gather up all the canteens you can carry. As soon as it’s dark, we’ll go for water.”
There wasn’t any other answer and Wannie knew it. She prayed as she crawled from man to man and dreaded the coming of night.
The time she both welcomed and dreaded finally came; night descended over the desolate valley and the Utes settled in and stopped shooting. At least there would be no more men killed tonight, she thought ... unless Keso and the black sergeant were spotted.
Her heart almost stopped beating as Keso kissed her good-bye and gathered up a bunch of canteens. “I’ll be back in a few minutes, honey.”
“Be careful.” It was such a stupid, inane thing to say, but she said it automatically.
He patted her absently, his mind obviously already on the task at hand. “Sergeant, you ready? Got the canteens?”
She heard an affirmative murmur from the soldier and the two crawled through the barricades. Wannie held her breath and leaned forward, willing them to make it. It was two hundred long yards across barren ground through the cold ashes of the brush fire the Utes had set the first day. It might as well be a million miles.
The moon came out and it seemed to light up the barren land bright as day, throwing the pair’s distorted shadows across the ground as they crawled, dragging the canteens with them. Keso’s wounded shoulder was making it difficult for him to move, but he pulled himself ahead on his elbows. At any moment, she expected a sniper up in the rocks to pick them off. The silence was so loud, she could hear her own tortured breathing as she watched. When a canteen clattered against a rock, it sounded as loud as a locomotive and she winced, thinking at any moment there would be a volley of shots from the buttes. Nothing.
The men had reached the creek now and she could only hope there was enough water in Milk Creek to fill the canteens. She wanted to shout at them to hurry up, but she dared not. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the pair turned and began to crawl back toward the camp in the darkness. Around her, the trapped soldiers watched intently. Like Wannie, she knew they were thinking of water. The soldiers might be able to survive and hold off the Utes until help could arrive, but they couldn’t do it without water.
She watched the pair crawling toward the barricade, expecting deadly rifle fire to shatter the night. There was no sound save the clank of canteens as the men crawled back toward the barricades. About the time Wannie was breathing a sigh of relief, the Utes seemed to discover the pair and opened up with a barrage of rifle fire. It seemed to be echoing around the men, zinging against the rocks.
Keso stumbled to his feet. “Come on, run!”
The sergeant needed no urging. In a half crouch, they ran toward the cheering soldiers, the canteens clanging wildly. Bullets flung up dust in the moonlight as the pair ran, but soldiers scrambled over the barricades, helping the heroes inside. A cheer went up: “Water! We’ve got water!”
Wannie hugged Keso. “I was so worried about you.”
“Here,” he said and shoved the canteens at her, “share this water among the wounded, but first have a drink yourself.”
It was tempting, so tempting. But around her, wounded men were begging, so instead, she knelt by a wounded man. “Here, soldier, have a drink.”
She held the canteen to his lips and he drank thirstily. Not until all the wounded had had a drink did she take a few sips for herself.
In the meantime, Keso was conferring with Captain Payne, Captain Dodge, and the lieutenants. She snuggled in close to Keso to listen.
“All we can do now is wait,” Keso said.
Captain Dodge rubbed his mustache. “And maybe pray that the scout got through.”
“He’s riding my stallion,” Keso said. “Spirit will get him there if any horse could.”
Captain Payne appeared pale and weak. “It’s a long way to Fort Steele and back.”
Lieutenant Cherry said, “We’ve got water now—maybe we can hold out.”
Wannie rested her head on Keso’s chest, only half-listening to the talk. She would not think about dying, or Cleve’s terrible fate. She would concentrate instead on how sweet life was and about spending the rest of her days with Keso and what a wonderful, long life it was going to be. She knew the next several days would be a grueling hell and she was right.
Wannie lost all track of time as she cared for the wounded and tried to organize food for these men. They used up the water and had to make another trip under withering fire. The buffalo soldiers had buried the dead in shallow graves but there was nothing to be done about the dead horses piled around the circle. In fact, the dead horses were providing the soldiers with protection just like the boxes and bales of blankets, but the stench was horrible. This must be what hell is like, she thought in a daze as she worked with Doc. Yet she also knew heaven each night when dusk fell and she settled into Keso’s arms to sleep. His shoulder was beginning to heal and there were fewer new wounded each day. The Utes weren’t shooting at them as much as they had been; maybe they were running low on ammunition.
Wannie felt dreadfully sorry for Cleve Brewster, but she knew he had brought his terrible fate on himself. One of the officers said he knew the Brewster family and would send a telegram as soon as possible; he promised to go see them when this was over and put Cleve in the best light possible.
Finally, on the morning of October 5, the sentries watching to the north suddenly came alert. “Riders coming! I see blue uniforms!”
Around them, soldiers set up a cheer.
Wannie and Keso ran to the barricades, straining their eyes to look toward the north. Sure enough, a column of cavalry was riding over the hill.
Keso held her against him, tousling her hair. “We made it, honey, we made it.” His voice was ragged with emotion.
Wannie wept unashamedly, hugging him as he kissed the tears from her cheeks. “Oh, Keso, I love you!”
Within minutes, a large command rode into the encampment, but there was little rifle fire from the buttes. There had been less and less shooting the last several days.
Keso blinked. “The Utes have been slipping away a few at a time and when they saw the reinforcements coming, the remainder scattered. That old warrior must have made it to Chief Ouray after all!”
The officer led his troops in, dismounted, and saluted the two Captains. “Colonel Merritt and the Fifth Cavalry at your service. Good Lord, what’s happened here? It’s a miracle anyone’s alive.”
Wannie stumbled forward, her voice breaking. “Colonel, Doc and I have lots of wounded. Do you have some coffee for them?”
His face seemed to soften as he looked at her. “Young lady, you sit down and my men will make gallons of hot coffee and soup for you and these men. I’d say you’ve earned it.”
Wannie put her face in her hands and wept then; wept for all the dead and wounded on both sides. The army had suffered fourteen dead, forty-four wounded. There would never be any way to know how many dead or wounded Utes had been carried away by grieving relatives.
Keso sat down beside her and hugged her to him as the reinforcemen
ts hurried to take charge and provide food and medicine. “So the scout made it through?”
“Sure did,” Rankin called out as he rode up, “and look, young fella, I brought your horse back. That’s some animal.”
“Spirit!” They both ran to greet the weary stallion and old Blue nickered a welcome to his stablemate.
Colonel Merritt took charge, complimenting the survivors on their bravery. “I’ll be riding to the White River Agency next. I expect we’ll find Meeker and the others dead.”
Keso nodded. “Afraid so. The Utes have my sympathy.”
“A brave enemy,” Merritt agreed. “You two are finished here—get a plate of hot food. Then you can ride along with my column if you wish.”
Wannie sipped her coffee and smiled at Keso. “Thanks, Colonel, but we’re headed home.”
Wearing a fresh bandage, Keso looked stronger as he teased, “You sure about that, Wannie? I still don’t know which fork to use—I might embarrass a fancy, educated girl.”
“Never,” she declared.
Finally, the couple mounted Spirit and Blue and headed east into the Rockies toward home, riding at a leisurely pace because of the tired horses and Keso’s shoulder.
They hadn’t gone but a few miles when a rider rode out of the woods, blocking their path. It was Ouray.
They reined in, wondering why he came since he rode alone. “I wanted you to know, my son, that I gave orders for my warriors to withdraw.”
“Thank you, my father.”
Ouray tried to speak, but could not for a long moment. Finally, he swallowed hard. “At least, I have found you. That sweetens what is going to be a bitter time for me as the soldiers use this attack to take action.”
“I am sorry,” Keso said. “We both tried, but sometimes brave hearts are not enough. I will ask my other father to speak for the Utes to those in Denver and Washington.”
Warrior's Prize (Panorama of the Old West Book 15) Page 35
