Kilrone (1966)

by L'amour, Louis

  Smoke rose in the air and he tossed another handful o f dirt over a glowing ember.

  “I’ll take a look around,” he said. “Better turn in, Cart.

  I’m going to push it tomorrow. I’m going to try to reac h the rendezvous point ahead of time.” He bent over an d rubbed out his cigar. “Webb just might need som e help.”

  The stars came out, a coyote questioned the night , and Dr. Carter Hanlon stretched out on his back an d looked up at the sky. He was tired, but it was a goo d tiredness, a weariness of the muscles and not of th e nerves. A night’s rest and a breakfast, and he would b e ready again.

  But Mellett’s doubts worried him. Charlie was not a man to speak as he had tonight unless he was genuinel y upset. And Hanlon had been too long on the frontier t o be skeptical about the intuitions of old Indian fighters.

  They knew when trouble was in the wind. He was thinkin g of that when he fell asleep.

  Mellett got to his feet and went over to the horses. He spoke to them softly, and then went on to where th e sentry stood. After he had replied to the challenge the y stood together for a few minutes.

  Keith was a lean, rather haggard young man with a wry sense of humor. He looked like., a college professor , but as a matter of fact he had never gotten beyond th e fifth grade. He was known in the troop as a particularl y vicious rough-and-tumble fighter, and was one of th e best rifle shots on the post. This was his fourth year i n the cavalry, all of the time on the frontier. He like d Mellett—first, because he was a fighter; and second, becaus e he was never reckless with his troops. The numbe r of fights Mellett’s troop engaged in was as great as an y other in the regiment, the percentage of casualties appreciabl y less.

  “Think well have a fight this time, sir?” Keith asked.

  “Yes.”

  Keith glanced toward the Captain. “Will we meet th e Colonel tomorrow, sir?”

  “If all goes well.”

  Mellett moved on, pausing with each of the guards fo r a few words. As he neared the last man, on the edge o f the junipers, he thought he smelled tobacco smoke. Th e smell was faint, but tangible. Thomas was a new man , and very cocksure.

  “Private,” he said sternly, “there will be no smoking o n guard duty. I believed I smelled tobacco smoke when I c ame up here. If I was sure, I should see you courtmartialed.”

  Then in a somewhat easier voice he said, “Don’t be a fool, man. A lighted match out here can be seen a lon g way off. If there was an Indian near you’d have lost you r scalp.”

  Mellett moved on, going back through the junipers t o camp. Before Mellett had his boots off, Private Thoma s had lighted a cigarette. “Damned old fooll” he muttered.

  “That’s Army for youl”

  Red Wolf was a young warrior who had yet to tak e his first scalp. He had been lying under a low clump o f sagebrush for more than an hour, and he had watche d the glow of a cigarette. Almost ready to make his move , he had heard somebody approach, and had listened t o the low murmur of voices. There was now no lighte d cigarette to give him the exact location of the man h e intended to kill.

  He waited again as he had waited before. After severa l minutes the glow of the cigarette appeared again.

  Lifting his bow, he put an arrow in place, waited a n instant, and let his breath out easily. Then suddenly h e lifted the bow and shot the arrow.

  He heard the thud of the arrow, and was movin g before the man fell. His fingers touched the guard’s cheek, then seized his hair; but as the knife cut into th e skin, the body beneath him convulsed suddenly an d hands clawed up at him. He stabbed wildly and in a panic; once, twice, three times he thrust the knife deep , and only after the struggles ceased did he again g o about removing the scalp.

  Once that was done, he stripped the body, took u p the rifle and belt, and moved quickly and quietly away.

  Half a mile away his horse waited, tied in the deepes t part of a thicket. He had been gone for an hour befor e the corporal of the guard found the dead man.

  “Bury his cigarette butts with him,” Dunivant said th e next morning. “If I told him once, I told him twent y times.”

  Chapter 5

  There was no set pattern for the layout of a frontie r army post. Only the earliest ones possessed any kind of a stockade. There was a central parade ground with th e various buildings grouped about it to form a rectangle.

  Outside this, as if looking over the shoulders of the inne r buildings, were others, in no sort of formation. Furthe r away, about five hundred yards in this case, was Ho g Town, as it was called.

  Along one side of the parade ground were th e officers’ quarters, a row of frame, stone, or adobe house s that faced the enlisted men’s barracks across the way. A t the north end, Headquarters, a T-shaped building o f stone, looked down the length of the parade ground. To the east was the commissary storehouse, also built o f stone; to the west the hospital.

  At the south of the parade ground was the long, lo w store of the sutler, or post trader; behind this the stables , corrals, and hay corrals. Behind the barracks were th e blacksmith shop, laundry, and a varied assortment o f small buildings.

  There was always a Hog Town at all the camps on th e frontier. There a soldier could find whatever he wanted—w omen, gambling, and whiskey predominating. Operatin g the Hog Town here was Iron Dave Sproul, a ma n whose reputation had started far back along the line.

  Iron Dave was big, tough, and mean. He had operate d such places in a dozen towns before this.

  Iron Dave had come off the streets of lower Ne w York, had served a rugged apprenticeship as a priz e fighter of sorts, a gang fighter and strong-arm man befor e coming west to what promised to be richer fields.

  As a boy in the streets he had had opportunities to stud y the origins of power, and more than that, the application s of power. He had also learned that more mone y was to be had, and less risk, by managing the fighte r rather than fighting himself.

  At first he ran gambling houses and saloons, the n owned some of each; but what he was looking for wa s the right man. What he wanted was a man throug h whom he could make money; and secondly, a man wh o would be a means to political power. He believed he ha d found both.

  Iron Dave, so-called because of his iron-hard fists , knew five Indian dialects and was an expert at sig n language. He needed no interpreter in talking to Indians.

  He also knew where and how to dispense favors; and s o during the course of his wandering from army post t o army post he had given away a blanket here, a rifl e there, and occasionally a bottle of whiskey. And he gav e them to warriors.

  Making no outward show of friendship with the Indians , he still managed to become known among them as a friend. Finally, and discreetly, he began trading i n whiskey and rifles, always selling to those he knew personally , always careful to let no other white man kno w of his activities.

  And then he met Medicine Dog.

  Medicine Dog was a man consumed by hatred for th e white man, and particularly for the horse soldiers. He had been born of a Sioux warrior and a Bannock wornan; h is parents had come together in the vicinity o f Bozeman when the Bannocks, numbering about fiv e lodges, had drifted back to their ancient huntin g grounds for a few weeks in the spring.

  Noted first for his skill at stealing horses, Medicin e Dog had soon won a reputation as a great warrior. He had fought against Crook on the Rosebud, and participate d in the Custer massacre, but these were only th e latest of the many battles of which he was a veteran.

  After the Custer fight on the Little Big Horn, when som e of the Sioux had fled to Canada, he had drifted westWar d to his mother’s people, the Bannocks. Within a fe w days he was associated with a group of malcontent s eager to promote a fight with the white man.

  With three others, Medicine Dog had ridden to a rendezvous with Iron Dave Sproul, to trade for whiske y and guns. And Iron Dave recognized in the strang e Indian those qualities of leadership with which a rar e few are gifted.

  As the three In
dians started away after completin g their trade, and as Medicine Dog prepared to follow , Iron Dave called him back. Medicine Dog drew up , then slowly walked his horse back, his black eyes glittering.

  “You,” Iron Dave said, “some day big chief. You nee d guns, you come to me.”

  The Dog had merely looked at him, then turned an d rode away, but Iron Dave knew he had planted a seed.

  A month to the day, Iron Dave looked up from hi s desk to see Medicine Dog standing looking at som e blankets for sale. It was the first time he had been in th e trading post that Iron Dave then operated next to hi s saloon. After a while, the Indian went out and squatte d by the edge of the porch.

  Iron Dave followed, seating himself on one of th e chairs against the wall. He took out a cigar and lit it.

  Then he asked, “What do you want?”

  “Guns … for six men.”

  “All right.”

  The Dog turned his head. “Suppose I kill white man?”

  Iron Dave squatted on the ground, and with a forefinge r he traced a brand in the dust. “My horses and m y wagons are marked so,” he said, and glanced up at th e Indian. “The rest are your business.”

  He gave Medicine Dog the guns, and fifty rounds o f ammunition for each. That had been the beginning.

  A few weeks later, when word reached Iron Dav e Sproul that an old competitor was planning to open a place across the street from his, Iron Dave got word t o the Dog, and when the competitor’s wagons came nort h of Pyramid Lake they were attacked suddenly, the stoc k driven off, the wagons burned. And with the wagon s several barrels of whiskey, the gaming tables, poke r chips, cards, and other equipment.

  His occasional trips into the desert or mountains wer e easily explained. He was, he admitted, an amateur pros: p ector. He did not profess to know much about ore, bu t he liked to prospect. Usually he brought back samples , which he discussed over the bar with miners or prospector s or soldiers.

  The fact that he usually drove a wagon or a buckboar d he accounted for by commenting that, after all, h e was a city boy. He would leave the burros to those wh o liked them. He preferred to travel in comfort. He usuall y drove into the Santa Rosas, and everybody knew ther e was ore there.

  His occasional gifts or sales to Medicine Dog enable d the Dog to become a big man among the Bannocks. He had rifles to spare, ammunition, and ponies. Moreover , Iron Dave, by a few carefully placed comments to othe r Bannocks, let them believe that the horse soldiers feare d Medicine Dog. Gradually, Medicine Dog’s influenc e grew; from being a comparative outsider, he soon wa s sitting in council with the chiefs, and the young buck s gathered around him.

  At first Iron Dave was wary of his prote, but a s time went on he became more assured in his dealing s with the Indian, and eVen a little contemptuous. Afte r all, had he not practically created the Dog? Had he no t built him into a position of influence?

  And Medicine Dog had proved a wily tactician. He wasted no men, he wasted no effort. The blows he struc k were few but decisive. His “medicine” was good, and th e feeling developed among the Indians that he was a i chosen one, that with him victory was assured.

  His massacre of Webb and his patrol had been a complete success. Medicine Dog had moved on advanc e information. He knew how many men were with Web b and how they were armed, and he knew their intende d route. The ambush had been a total victory. At the firs t volley from the Indians nine men fell, one of them bein g Webb, on whom four Indians had been directed to fire.

  Another among the first to fall was the only line sergean t in the troop.

  Into the plunging, struggling horses and the shoutin g cavalrymen, the Indians poured a deadly fire at almos t point-blank range. Two more dropped. Another’s hors e bolted into the ranks of the Indians, where the rider wa s pulled from the saddle and stabbed to death. The entir e action required only fifteen minutes, and not an India n was killed; only three were wounded.

  Medicine Dog knew all about Captain Mellett, an d knew of his line of march, but he had no intention o f meeting him in the field. Leaving behind a small forc e to harass Mellett,-the Dog started for the post with th e main body.

  The small group he left behind had definite orders.

  They were not to engage in a battle. They were to dra w the soldiers’ fire, get them to expend ammunition. The y were to steal or drive off their horses if possible, inflic t what casualties they could. Medicine Dog wanted M Troop to return to the post a weary, bedraggled lot; n eeding ammunition, and exasperated at not havin g come to grips with the enemy.

  If all his plans went well, he hoped to be inside th e post buildings, waiting for Mellett’s men to line up o n the parade ground before the order to fall out.

  Medicine Dog aimed high. He wanted not only cornplet e destruction of the force at the post, but the pos t itself. But the destruction of the post would wait until i t had been thoroughly looted. With the arms and ammunitio n from the fort, he would gather a much larger forc e and move against Fort Halleck, or against Harney if tha t seemed easier at the moment.

  His force now numbered some two hundred warriors.

  When the news of his victories got out he would have a thousand, perhaps two thousand.

  One thing disturbed him, and it disturbed him becaus e it did not fit … one of his braves, circling aroun d after the fight with Colonel Webb and I Troop, foun d the tracks of a lone rider. Back-tracking, the India n discovered that the rider had seen the bodies of th e massacred troop. The Indian had lost the trail of th e rider when he attempted to follow him.

  Who was the lone rider? Where had he gone? Was h e enemy or friend? He rode a shod horse, but so did man y Indians, now that some rode stolen or captured horses.

  The rider had walked his horse away from the massacre , and seemed to be in no hurry to get wherever he wa s going.

  No matter … Medicine Dog headed for the post , unaware that Major Frank Bell Paddock, with sixt y men, was headed north, toward him.

  And also unaware that the post lay exposed and seemingl y helpless, defended by no more than fourteen men.

  A cool wind was blowing from the north, and the sk y was cloudy. Riding beside Paddock was Hank Laban, fu r trapper, buffalo hunter, and scout. He was a thin, angula r man with a sour expression but a wry sense of humor. He had phrased his arguments against this march briefl y land concisely, and when they were not acted upon h e pad saddled his fastest horse. There was, he told hknpelf , a time for fighting and a time for running, and h e ranted to be ready to run.

  W There’s been talk,” he said suddenly. “I caught me a whisper or two of some new Injun who’s cuttin’ a wid e swath among the Bannocks. Seems like he took, som e scalps on the Little Big Horn an’ he’s been tellin’ th e Bannocks how easy it was to kill white sodgers. I had a look for him but never could get a chance to see how h e shaped up, but from what they say he’s one mean, smar t Injun.”

  Paddock offered no comment. He was beginning to fee l the saddle; that came from too much desk duty. Ther e were always rumors, and he took no stock in them.

  “Buffalo Horn is the chief,” Pryor commented. “He’s said to be over in Oregon.”

  “Maybe.”

  Almost another mile had passed before Hank Laba n ventured another comment. “Seems this here Injun ha s him a lot of rifles. All a warrior had to do is say he’ll rid e along with him and he gets a new rifle with ammunition.

  I got no idea where he gets them … Medicin e Dog, I mean.”

  Paddock looked at Laban. “Did you say Medicin e Dog? He was supposed to be the one who hit thos e wagon trains a few months back.”

  “He’s a mean one,” Laban repeated.

  He rode away suddenly, without further comment , galloping on ahead, then slowing down to sweep bac k and forth hunting for Indian sign. He found none . *. a lthough he did see the tracks of Kilrone’s horse, headin g south for the fort.

  Laban had not met Kilrone, but by the time th e column moved out, his arrival was common gossi
p around the post, and the word was that he had onc e been an officer in the Army. Laban wondered abou t Kilrone, absently, without any real concentration o f thought. What really disturbed him was the Dog, but h e did not seem able to get his worries across to Paddock. ; Hank Laban knew enough about Indians to trust hi s instincts, and his every sense told him that Medicin e Dog was a bad one. Paddock had been a fool to leav e the post, but you don’t tell an army major he’s a fool … n ot if you want to work for the army; and Laban like d the salary, liked the easy living and the available ammunition.

  He liked none of this. Charles Mellett was perfectl y capable of taking care of himself with the number o f men he had. Just the same, Laban knew he would rathe r be where he was than back at the post.

  Despite the gray day the air was clear, and he coul d see far off. But his eyes kept straying toward the rear , and he knew what he was looking for. He was expectin g to see the smoke of burning buildings. i At the noon halt, Laban squatted by the fire, holdin g a cup of coffee. “Major,” he said, “I ain’t one to interfere , but you’re on a wild-goose chase. You ain’t about to tra p that Injun.”

  “I will be the judge of that,” Paddock replie d brusquely.

  Major,” Laban insisted, “he ain’t no common Injun , is here Medicine Dog. You ask me, he’s too smart t o Eclde Charlie Mellett. He’ll hit the post, sure a s sho otin’.”

  With seventy-five soldiers waiting for him? That’s What he would expect. He certainly can’t know tha t ye’ve marched out from the post.”

  He’ll know. This Injun gets information right off. Yo u Can just bet that by this time he knows.”

  Information? But how? Doubt assailed Paddock. Alpios t at once he thought of Mary Tall Singer, Denise’s friend. After all, he argued, she was an Indian.

  Suppose Laban was right? Suppose Kilrone had bee n light? If this Indian, this Medicine Dog, should attac k phe post now there was no chance it could be successfull y defended. Sergeant Ryerson was in command unti l Rybolt returned from Halleck, or one of the detachment s returned. Ryerson was a good man … but he was ill.