by F. M. Parker
“It’s too early in the morning for fighting,” Jake said. “And on an empty stomach too.”
Drum looked past the men at Nathan. “If all of you are going to protect him, then maybe you should choose him to lead you. I’m turning back to Austin.”
“You don’t have to do that, Drum,” Ash said. “We’ve all just got to get along with each other.”
“I’m leaving,” Drum said. He pulled loose from Jake’s hold on his arm and struck out over the prairie for his horse.
“Damnation,” said Ash in disgust. “Well, I’m going on with or without Drum. How about the rest of you?”
“Drum’s turning back doesn’t change anything,” Jake said.
“That’s what I say too,” Les said.
The other men swiftly began to prepare for travel.
Drum returned with his mount and flung the saddle upon its back. The remainder of the band of men, sitting astride their mounts, silently watched him tighten the cinch and tie his gear behind the saddle.
Drum swung up and gathered the bridle reins in his hand.
He touched spurs to the horse’s ribs and without a word left the camp at a trot.
***
The south wind shoved the band of four riders north under the domed sky of endless sapphire blue. The flat plains unrolled monotonously before them. Within Nathan’s view a score of prairie hawks riding their brown wings hung penned against the sky. Their heads were turned down, the keen-eyed hunters searching the grass-covered earth below. Now and then one of the aerial gliders would fold its wonderful wings and plummet like a dart to the ground, then launch himself again upward, climbing the soft ladder of air. Often a mouse or a small bird, and once a wiggling snake, hung clutched in a hawk’s sharp talons.
Nathan pulled his horse to a halt and twisted to look to the rear as a new sound became audible. He stood erect in his stirrups and shaded his eyes. A horseman was spurring his mount at a dead run, directly toward the group.
“That’s Drum,” Ash said, beside Nathan. “Must’ve changed his mind about going with us. But he’ll soon kill his horse at that pace.”
“Look behind him about a quarter of a mile,” Nathan said. “There’s a bunch of riders chasing him.”
“Could be Indians.” Jake had ridden up on Nathan’s side. “And there’s a hell of a lot of them.”
“We’re in Kiowa country,” Nathan said. He recalled Crow’s request that he kill some Kiowa for him. Looks like I ’ ll get that chance, old Crow. But whether or not I ’ ll live to tell you about it is another matter.
“Must be thirty-five or forty of them,” Ash said.
“More like half a hundred,” Jake said. “Why, for God’s sake, did Drum lead them down to us?”
“He’s only thinking about his own hide,” Ash replied.
“We’re his only chance to survive,” Nathan said.
“But will any of us survive?” Jake said quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.
“Do we fight or run?” Ash said.
Nathan swept his view around in every direction. There was only the prairie, flat as a board with not one boulder or sinkhole to seek for protection.
“The horses of the Indians are partly used up,” Ash said. “We can outrun them. Let’s ride for it.”
“They’d catch Drum for certain if we did that,” Nathan said.
“Better him than all of us,” Les said.
“We can’t leave him,” Nathan said. “Everybody dismount! Quick now! Throw your horses down on the ground in a circle. Tie their legs. Build a fort as best you can with their bodies. Hurry, for we’ve got only a minute!”
Nathan sprang down. He spoke to the gray horse. Then sharply again when the gray hesitated to obey. The animal rolled its eyes at Nathan, then obediently dropped down on its knees and fell onto its side. Nathan bound the animal’s legs so that it would not rise when the shooting started.
Nathan’s packhorse was not trained to play the game. After three failed attempts to make the horse fall, Nathan hastened to tie off the front leg with the end of his lariat. Then abruptly he jerked the rope powerfully, pulling the horse’s leg under it, and, an instant later, threw himself with all his strength against the brute’s shoulder. The horse crashed down, pack and all. Nathan threw a loop and caught the two front legs, tied them. Then the two rear legs.
Nathan saw the other men had their riding horses thrown and legs bound. None of their packhorses were yet down.
Drum was within two hundred yards and was driving hard. Sweat covered the racing horse and was flung from the driving legs like dirty clods of snow. To his rear rode forty miniature painted warriors on miniature running mustangs aimed with deadly purpose upon the white men.
Drum pulled his mount to a sliding stop. He leapt down.
“Throw him there,” Nathan shouted, and pointed at a large gap in the makeshift fortress of horse bodies.
Near Nathan, Charlie and Les were struggling with one of the packhorses. The brute, its ears laid back and fighting them with teeth and hooves, refused to go down.
Nathan pulled his Colt revolver. When the uncooperative packhorse was in approximately the correct position to add to the defense, Nathan shot it through the head. The fatally wounded animal collapsed.
“You killed my packhorse,” Charlie cried.
“Better it than you,” Nathan replied. “Now, you and Les grab its tail and swing its rump around in line with that other horse.” Nathan leapt forward and helped them to move the heavy body.
Nathan called out for all to hear. “Check the loads in your guns. Have your extra ammunition handy.”
He reloaded the firing chamber of his pistol as he watched the Indians charging inexorably upon them. He heard their war cries, the blood roar of a hunting pack, deep and savage. They came at the top of their speed, the miniature men becoming full-sized, hardened warriors with painted faces, and weapons of bow and arrow, battle lance, and a few rifles.
Ash came to stand beside Nathan. “Okay if I fight here?”
“Glad to have you,” Nathan said.
“How do you think they’ll attack?”
“Looks like they plan to ride right over us,” Nathan said, eyeing the war party. He raised his voice. “Wait until they get close. We can’t afford any misses.”
The men dropped down, some to kneel and others to lay behind the bodies of the horses.
Nathan saw the war chief riding in the center of his braves. The man was dressed in riding chaps, beaded gauntlet, breastplate, and an eagle plume blowing in his hair. As Nathan watched, the chief shouted something. About half of his warriors slowed and formed a second rank about fifty feet behind the first. Nathan understood the chief’s plan. The lead wave of warriors would draw the white men’s first shots, then the second wave would face only empty rifles.
“Pick your targets,” Nathan directed. He brought his rifle up to bear on the war chief, who was rushing straight on. You are a brave man, he thought. But foolish. I do not want to fight. Yet I ’ m going to kill you.
“Fire!” Nathan shouted.
A shattering roll of rifle fire roared out over the prairie. Nathan never felt the kick of his exploding weapon. His eyes and mind were locked on the Indian chief. The large caliber bullet struck the chief high in the chest and slammed him from the back of his mustang. He vanished under the hooves of the horses of the second wave of riders.
The volley of rifle fire blasted open a gap in the center of the leading rank of Kiowa. Riderless horses raced onward with the rest of the charging animals. As the Kiowa at both ends of the line sped past, they fired with their bows and arrows and rifles down on the white men.
Nathan pulled his revolver and shot a warrior in the second rank. The man continued to grip the back of his running mustang with his leg for a few lunges. Then he leaned to the side and fell, slack muscled and jumble legged, to the ground.
Nathan rotated the barrel of the pistol and fired. Another brave fell, rolling in a cloud of pale
dust.
A feathered shaft with a jasper joint zipped past Nathan from the side, slicing his cheek. He ignored the wound. A rider was bearing down upon him from less than twenty feet away. Their eyes locked. Time seemed to slow to a crawl as the Indian pulled his bow to full draw.
Nathan thrust out his pistol and shot the man through the heart. The hot hostility in the Kiowa’s black eyes faded, was replaced by surprise, and then by death. The horse rushed on, carrying its dead master from Nathan’s sight.
The other white men were firing and yelling wildly. Nathan saw Ash shoot. The bullet struck the head of the horse instead of the man on its back. The animal fell heavily upon its rider, crushing his ribs and the air from his lungs in a short, shrill wail.
The last of the Kiowa sped past. They raced on beyond rifle range and halted. Nathan heard their calls as they gathered in a milling, angry group.
Ash shouted out with relief and triumph. He looked around, excited and happy, joyous that the battle was over and he was still alive. Then abruptly he fell silent as he looked down.
The other men’s view followed Ash’s eyes. Charlie lay across his horse. His face was a bloody specter. A heavy rifle ball fired at close range had torn through the front of his head from side to side, exploding and tearing away part of his forehead.
“Anybody else hurt?” Nathan asked into the silence.
“I am,” Drum said. He sat leaning against the back of his horse, his hand pressed tightly to his chest.
“Bad?” asked Nathan.
Drum tried to answer, but his voice came as a gurgle as blood rose in his throat. Red bubbles burst on his lips. He coughed, and a crimson stream gushed from his mouth. His chest heaved convulsively as he tried to breathe. The stream of blood from his mouth increased. His chest made one last gigantic heave, then moved no more. Drum slid sideways to the ground.
Ash knelt quickly beside Drum. He felt for a pulse in his throat. “He’s dead,” Ash said.
“Well, by God, at least, we got some of them in payment,” Les said, and gestured around with his hand.
The bodies of several Kiowa lay strewn about the small fortress of horse bodies. Three Indian mustangs lay dead. Several riderless mustangs were drifting off over the prairie.
Jake spoke. “Looks like we killed about nine of them, and they killed two of us. I don’t like that kind of a trade.”
“They killed two of our horses too,” Les said. “Mine and Drum’s.”
“You take Charlie’s mount,” Nathan said.
Nathan saw the body of the war chief move, and a hand rose feebly in the air as if he were beckoning to somebody. Nathan walked to stand over the Indian. A steady flow of blood leaked from the big hole in the chiefs chest, where Nathan’s bullet had entered. Nathan knew an even larger hole would be in his back, where the bullet had torn free.
You should already be dead with such an injury, thought Nathan. But the Kiowa lay staring up at him with keen human intelligence and the natural animal ferocity that refuses to die easily.
Then the last drop of blood drained away. Death clouded the war chief’s black, angry eyes.
Nathan returned to the other men. “Reload. Get ready for another charge.”
They reloaded in grim silence and Nathan watched the Kiowa warriors talk and gesticulate among themselves. Without the war chief to lead them, they seemed uncertain whether or not to continue the battle.
The voices of the Kiowa quieted. Some consensus had been reached. They moved, riding in a wide circle beyond easy rifle range around the entrenched white men. Reaching the side from which they had made their assault, the Kiowa dismounted and stood holding their mustangs.
“Now what does that action mean?” Ash said.
“They’re telling us they don’t want to fight anymore and are waiting to pick up their dead,” said Nathan. “Or it could be a trick to get us more out in the open, for they still greatly outnumber us.”
“I know that I don’t want any more fighting,” Ash said.
“Let’s gamble they’ve had enough killing for today,” Nathan said. “Get the horses up and let’s travel. We’ll take Drum and Charlie with us. Bury them later in some secret place where the Kiowa can’t find and mutilate them.”
Jake spoke. “It’s strange that Drum and Charlie out of all of us were the two to get killed.”
“Some men are born with bad luck,” Les said.
“Charlie didn’t live long enough to find a wife,” Ash said.
“And Drum won’t have to make the long journey back to Austin,” Jake said. “But he and Charlie have a long journey to make together. I hope they get along better where they’re going than they did here on earth.”
Warily watching the Kiowa, the band of white men untied their horses and got them onto their feet. The bodies of Drum and Charlie were lashed across the backs of two of the packhorses. The band moved out to the north.
Nathan looked at Charlie’s body. In some ways the young man had reminded him of Jason.
“God, how useless both of those deaths were,” Nathan said. He spoke so low that only the uncaring south wind heard the words.
24
Orrin Grueling and his band of twenty armed Mormons halted their horses near the gate set in the long, log palisade wall of Fort Laramie, in the Wyoming Territory. The small, remote outpost had been constructed at the confluence of the Laramie and North Platte Rivers twenty-five years before, in 1834.
“Wait for me here,” Orrin Grueling told his followers. “Stay close to the horses, for I’ll be gone only a few minutes and we’ll be moving on.” He did not want his men to enter the stronghold of the Gentile enemy because trouble often occurred when the two sides met.
Grueling reined his mount toward the gate. He glanced at the thirty or so tepees squatting on the open grassland north of the fort. Friendly Cheyenne, at least friendly for the moment. A pack of curious Indian children had stopped their play to stare at the white horsemen.
Grueling passed through the open gate, waved on by the lone guard. He had been to Fort Laramie before, and now he swept his gaze around to refresh his memory of the isolated outpost of the U.S. Army. A wide parade ground dominated the enclosed area of the fort. On his right a squad of mounted troopers drilled under the sharp-tongued orders of a sergeant. Beyond the soldiers were the enlisted men’s barracks. The officers’ quarters, five small houses, were on the opposite side of the compound.
Directly ahead were the commandant’s office and the duty officer’s room. Flanking that structure on the left were the armory, a blacksmith, and several other wooden buildings that Grueling did not know the purpose of. On the right was a store and trading post combined. Grueling knew that business was operated by a civilian with a contract from the army.
Three men dressed as civilians sat in the shade of the porch of the store. They watched Grueling as he crossed the compound.
A lieutenant emerged from the commandant’s office. The officer started toward the officers’ quarters, then, noticing the approaching rider, halted.
“Good day,” Grueling greeted the lieutenant. “Are you the duty officer?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the lieutenant. “How may I help you?”
“Have you heard of any Indian trouble to the east between here and Florence?”
“We received a report that some Sioux attacked a riverboat that had run aground about a hundred miles upriver from Florence. Luckily there were enough men with weapons to drive them off.”
“How about Pawnee along the Platte?”
“A small wagon train came through a week or so ago. They said a man was lost along the Platte. He went out to hunt buffalo and didn’t return. They never found out what happened to him. I’ve heard nothing else.”
“Thanks for the information.”
“Did you come in from Oregon?” asked the officer.
Grueling wished the lieutenant had not asked where he was from. Only a few short months before, armed Mormons had faced the U.S. Army, r
eady for battle. That would not be soon forgotten by either the Gentiles or the Mormons.
“No. From Salt Lake City.”
The officer scowled, then said, “Any trouble in that direction?”
“None. All is peaceful.”
“That’s good.” The lieutenant said brusquely. He pivoted on a heel and walked off.
“Are you a Mormon?” asked one of the men sitting on the porch of the store. “I heard you tell that lieutenant you’re from Salt Lake.”
Grueling almost turned away without responding to the question. But the tone of the man’s voice rankled him.
“I belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, if that’s what you mean,” Grueling said.
“Saints! Did you say Saints?” cried the man. “No man can be a Saint who lives with whores. He’s not a Saint but a whoremonger.”
“You tell him good, Ezra,” a second man called in encouragement.
“I’ve been told that old Brigham Young had to build a big three-story house to hold all his whores,” the third man said.
The men grinned at Grueling with grim humor. Ezra spat a stream of tobacco juice in Grueling’s direction.
“Polygamists are a filthy stain on the earth,” Ezra said. “They’re lower than breeding dogs.”
Grueling’s hand jumped to the butt of the pistol buckled to his waist. He caught his red burst of anger before he could draw his weapon. “If we weren’t in this army post, I’d teach you stupid bastards a hard lesson,” he said through slitted lips.
“Stupid bastards!” Ezra’s voice rose steeply. He came to his feet and jumped down off the porch and onto the ground.
“Yes, and cowards,” Grueling said.
Ezra’s face became mottled with red. “Maybe you’d like to go outside the gate and say that again?”
Grueling’s eyes were half closed, hiding his thoughts. He laughed low in his chest. I knew you were stupid.
“Yes. I’d like to go outside the fort and have this out. Bring your two friends with you. I’ll see that they get a lesson too.”
“Come on,” Ezra said to his two cohorts. “I’m itching to get to this Saint with my fists. I’ll fix him so that he’s absolutely no use to any woman in bed, let alone a dozen of them.”
