Warpath of the Mountain Man

by William W. Johnstone

  “Yeah, well, whatever you say. I’ve got to get back over to the depot. The stage is goin’ on through to Trinidad.”

  The driver started toward the door, but Covington called to him. “What’s your name, driver?”

  “Simpson. Arnold Simpson.”

  “Simpson, you keep quiet about what you have told me here. I don’t want you shooting your mouth off to anyone.”

  “You mean about it not being Injuns?” Simpson replied.

  “I mean I want you keep your mouth shut, period. This is a military matter now, and if I find that you have been shooting off your mouth, you could wind up on the gallows.”

  “On the gallows?” Simpson replied. “What the hell have I done that you can threaten to hang me?”

  “If you start spouting off military information, some of it might get back to the Indians we are going after,” Covington said. “If that happens, and if even one of my men are killed because they have advance information, then you’ll be tried for murder, you will be found guilty, and you will hang.”

  “You’ve got no right to talk to me like that,” Simpson said.

  “On the contrary, Mr. Simpson. I have every right. That is the nature of martial law. The administrator, that’s me, has absolute authority. The citizens, that’s you, have no rights except the rights I let you have.”

  * * *

  Sheriff Monte Carson sat in the outer chamber of the governor’s office at the capital building in Denver. He had been waiting for some time, and as he held his hat in his hand, he fiddled with the hatband. Finally, the governor’s personal secretary came over to him.

  “Sheriff, Governor Cooper will see you now.”

  “Thanks,” Monte said, rising from his chair.

  Governor Cooper was a large man with puffy cheeks and a well-groomed handlebar mustache. A lawyer, he had moved to Colorado from Illinois several years ago and had become wealthy, not only in the law business, but also in insurance, mining, and cattle. With a politician’s smile and an extended hand, he came halfway to the door to greet Monte.

  “Sheriff Carson, it’s good to see you again,” the governor said. “How are things down in Las Animas County?”

  “Not good, Governor,” Monte answered.

  “Oh? I heard about the Indian uprising, but it was my belief that Colonel Covington had things well under control.”

  “Perhaps too much control,” Monte suggested.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Governor, Sam Covington has established martial law. And under the auspices of that declaration, he has suspended all civil rights. No telegrams can be sent or received, the newspaper is under his direct censorship, I have been relieved of my duties, the mayor and city council have been relieved of their duties, he has established a ten o’clock curfew, and abolished the right of peaceful assembly. And he has done all of that under your authority.”

  “What?” Governor Cooper replied, barking the word out. “Has the man lost his mind? I granted him no such sweeping power as you describe!”

  Monte smiled. “I’m glad to hear you say that, sir. In fact, I was sure you would say that. That’s why I came up here to see you.”

  The governor returned to his desk, then took out a piece of paper and began writing. “I am hereby revoking this martial law. In fact, I am revoking his commission. Sheriff, I am charging you with the responsibility to reestablish civil law. Do you want a document to that effect?”

  “Thank you, Governor, but with Covington out of the way, I don’t need any further documents. As the duly elected sheriff, I already have the mandate to reestablish and uphold civil law. And that I intend to do.”

  “I’m glad you came to see me,” the governor said. “And please keep me informed of what happens down there.”

  “I will, sir,” Monte said.

  22

  Covington’s Cavalry had been on the trail for half the morning the next day, when Dingo came across Indian sign indicating scores of horses, plus the tracks of a dozen or more travois. He pointed it out to Covington, who immediately halted the march, then ordered his officers and noncommissioned officers to a conference.

  As the officers and NCOs arrived, Covington was sitting casually in his saddle with one leg hooked across the pommel. He was distractedly tapping that leg with his riding quirt and he smiled broadly at his officers.

  “Well, gentlemen, it would appear this is our day,” he said. “Do you see this?” He pointed to the ground behind him where the Indian trail could be easily seen, from the hoofprints and travois tracks to the horse droppings. “The hostiles have made it easy for us. They have practically sent us an open invitation.”

  “Colonel, doesn’t that worry you a little?” Captain Roach asked.

  “Worry me? No. Why in heavens name should it worry me?”

  “I mean, think about it for a moment,” Roach said. “These are people who can make their trail disappear. Now, all of a sudden, it’s almost as if they are putting up signposts saying, ‘This way.’ And that’s not bothering you?”

  “What are you suggesting, Captain Roach?”

  “I’m just saying that we aren’t exactly sneaking up on them. From the looks of things, they’re moving their entire camp, including women, children, and dogs. It just doesn’t seem right they would make it so easy for us to track them.”

  “Well, Captain, have you considered the fact that they may have no choice?” Covington asked.

  “I’m not following you, sir.”

  “I mean, even Indian horses have to eat,” Covington said, as if explaining something to a child. “And what goes in at the front of the horse, inevitably comes out at the rear.” Covington pointed again to the trail. “Unless they have their squaws following behind picking up horse turds, they are going to be easy to follow.”

  Several of the others laughed at the mental image of a group of Indian women walking along behind the horses, picking up the horses’ droppings. Captain Roach, without laughing, took his hat off and examined it for a moment.

  “That’s what I’m talking about, Colonel. You see, I’ve seen squaws do just that.”

  “You’ve fought Indians before, have you, Roach?”

  “I have.”

  “Why is it you haven’t mentioned it before now?”

  “I was with the Seventh during the little fracas we had up in Montana a few years ago. Custer rode into a trap, and you see what happened to him.”

  “You were with Custer?”

  “That’s right. In Reno’s Battalion. The reason I haven’t mentioned it before is because it isn’t something I’m very proud of. Fact is, I joined with you to sort of even up the score.”

  “And now you’re getting nervous that something like that might happen to us?”

  “I’m saying that we could be riding into a trap, yes, sir.”

  “Nonsense. What happened to Custer was the result of pure numbers. There were a lot more Indians than there were soldiers. Well, plainly, we don’t have that situation here. We outnumber the Indians. And as far as riding into a trap?” Covington laughed, a scoffing laugh. “Believe me, I know Indians, and I know that they aren’t smart enough to conceive such a thing.”

  “I hope you are right.”

  “I am right,” Covington insisted. “Now, here is my plan. I’m going to form four squadrons. Captain Roach, you will take one squadron, go south for one mile, then ride west, parallel with our line of march. Lieutenant Conklin, you will take one squadron to the north of our line of march, then proceed west in parallel with our course. That will leave two squadrons, which I will lead, right up the middle of the trail until we encounter the savages. And then, gentlemen, we will attack, leaving the squadrons on each wing in position to cut off any possible retreat.”

  “Colonel, you are going to divide the command?” Roach asked.

  “Do you have a problem with that?”

  “If we divide our command, no single element will outnumber the Indians. And I would remind you, Colon
el, that Custer divided his command.”

  “Stop comparing me with that fool Custer,” Covington said.

  “Very well, sir. Shall we agree upon some signal for assistance?” Roach asked.

  Covington chuckled. “I scarcely think that will be the problem,” he said. “No, sir, the problem will be in keeping them from running away. All right, gentlemen, let us proceed.”

  Roach and Conklin pulled their squadrons away in accordance with Covington’s instructions, while Covington continued right up the path of broken and chewed grass and brown and green horse apples.

  “Well, First Sergeant Dingo, it’s clear to see that Roach doesn’t agree with me. What do you think of my plan of battle?” Covington asked.

  “You’re the commander, Colonel, and it’s your plan. It don’t matter what Roach thinks.”

  “My sentiments exactly,” Covington said. It didn’t dawn on him that Dingo’s reply was rather nonspecific without offering an endorsement.

  Covington stopped the advance while he stared through a pair of field glasses. “Damn,” he said aloud. “How the hell did they get over there?”

  “Beg your pardon?” Dingo asked.

  Covington pointed toward a cloud of dust in the distance, south of the direction they were traveling.

  “It would seem that the Indians have left us a broad highway to travel while they positioned themselves for an attack at my flank. Captain Roach is about to be engaged. Dingo, I want you to overtake Captain Roach. Tell him that I will send Conklin around to cut off any possible retreat, and instruct him to strike at the enemy at once. Do you have that? He is to attack at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Dingo said.

  The ground over which Dingo rode ascended in a long, gradual slope that made riding relatively easy, and a short time later he pulled up at the head of Roach’s column.

  “Has Covington seen them?” Roach asked, indicating the Indians in front of him. Here, the trail had opened into a high meadow.

  “Yes, sir. He says you should strike against them from the front as soon as you can engage them.”

  “A frontal assault?” Roach asked.

  “That’s what he said. He’s moving Conklin’s squadron in position to block the Indians’ retreat, while he comes to your support.”

  “He is coming to support?”

  “That’s what he said, Captain.”

  Roach sat his saddle for a moment, then sighed. “All right,” he said. “Will you be joining me, Sergeant Dingo?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m glad. It’ll be good to have another man with experience. You take the left side, I’ll take the right.” Roach stood in his stirrups and addressed his command.

  “Men, I think you should understand that this won’t be like the attack on the village. There, we killed women, children, and old men. They were unarmed and they were asleep.” He pointed toward the Indians. “These are warriors, armed, deadly, and ready for us.”

  What had started out as a lark suddenly changed, and the men experienced fear for the first time. The horses as well seemed to sense the impending danger, perhaps from the men atop them, and they grew a bit skittish. A couple of the horses began nervously prancing around, moving in and out of the line. A couple of the riders had to turn their mounts in a full circle to get them back into position.

  “Forward at a trot!” Roach shouted, and the squadron started out across the meadow.

  * * *

  “They are coming,” Teykano said.

  Although the total number of soldiers was greater than the total number of Comanche, Quinntanna had outmaneuvered Covington. In addition, Covington had split his forces so that, as the two bodies of men came together, the Comanche would be the superior force on the field.

  “Good. We are ready for them,” Quinntanna replied.

  The soldiers’ advance surged forward at top speed, and soon the sound of galloping horses’ hooves was like rolling thunder. Above all the noise, though, the soldiers could clearly hear the Indians as they whooped and shouted in anticipation of battle. They hurtled toward one another. There were two armies: one uniformed, the other in buckskin—both determined.

  As the two groups closed on each other, both sides opened fire. In the opening fusillade, both Indians and soldiers went down with bleeding bullet wounds. Then the enemies came together in closer, more brutal combat, saber against war club. In that battle the Indians had the clear advantage, for they had used war clubs their entire lives for everything from games to hunting, whereas the soldiers were, for the most part, unfamiliar with and untrained in the use of the saber.

  Dingo was one of the first to go down, his head bashed in by a blow from a war club. Seeing Dingo killed, many of the men panicked and started running. Roach tried to rally them, but he was killed as well. When the others realized that they no longer had anyone in command, they quit fighting and turned to gallop away, leaving three-fourths of their original number dead on the field behind them. Some of the Indians started after the few remaining survivors, but Quinntanna called them back.

  “Let them go!” he shouted. “More soldiers are coming. We must be ready for them!”

  * * *

  When Lieutenant Conklin brought his squadron up, he thought he would be providing support for Roach. Instead, he arrived at the spot where the battle had taken place, marked by the bodies lying on the field. And among the dead, there were many, many more wearing uniforms than there were wearing buckskins.

  “Lieutenant! There’s Captain Roach!” one of the men said, pointing to Roach’s bloodied body.

  “And Dingo!” another said.

  Suddenly, and from all around them, Indians sprang up, screaming hideous war yells. It was as if they had just materialized, so good had been their concealment. The Indians opened fire, shooting as fast as they could cock and fire their rifles. Bullets whistled through Conklin’s command, slamming into men and horses. There were shouts of panic and screams of pain as the Indians pressed their attack, firing almost methodically into the demoralized soldiers. Very few soldiers even had the presence of mind to return fire.

  “Retreat! Retreat!” Conklin shouted. He would have given the order a third time, but he was hit in the temple with a bullet. As if shooting cows in a pen, the Indians continued to work the levers on their rifles, firing at the soldiers until every last one was dead. Then, and only then, did the shooting stop.

  “Aiyee!” one of the Indians yelled, realizing that their victory was complete. The others began yelling and shouting as well.

  “Collect the guns and bullets!” Quinntanna said. “Hurry! We must go now! We must return to our people and get them through the pass to safety.”

  * * *

  Colonel Covington, who had started toward Roach to support him, was surprised to see just over half-a-dozen men in uniform galloping toward him. They were shouting long before they were close enough to be heard or understood. Finally, the gallopers reached Covington’s two squadrons.

  “Hold it!” Covington shouted. “Hold up here! What’s going on?”

  “Dead!” one of the men said. “They’re all dead!”

  “Who is all dead?”

  “All of them! All the rest of Roach’s squadron. And Conklin’s squadron as well.”

  Covington shook his head. “No, that’s impossible,” he said. “They can’t all be dead.”

  “Colonel, you want to go look for yourself?” one of the six soldiers said. All had panic-stricken faces, and all were breathing hard from the exertion of their wild flight.

  “Give me those glasses,” Covington said, reaching his hand out toward a nearby sergeant. The sergeant handed the binoculars to Covington, who raised them to his eyes to study the meadow. He swept his vision back and forth across the field in front of him.

  “I don’t see anyth . . . holy shit!” Covington said in mid-sentence. He trained the glasses on one spot.

  “What do you see, Colonel?” asked the sergeant.

  “Bod
ies,” Covington replied. “Lots of bodies.” Sweeping the field beyond the bodies, Covington saw several Indians leaving the field.

  “Do you see any Indians?” someone asked fearfully.

  Covington continued to study the retreating Indians. By rights, he should be going after them. Sighing, he lowered the glasses.

  “What are they doing?” his sergeant asked.

  “What is who doing?” Covington replied.

  “The Indians. What are they doing?”

  Covington sighed. “There are no Indians,” he said. “They seem to have left the field. Come on, let’s take care of our dead, then go back home. We are going to have to reorganize before we can continue this campaign. By God, maybe people will listen to me now. We have a full-blown Indian war on our hands, as big and dangerous as any uprising in the past.”

  * * *

  “For many years, our people will sing around the campfire of our great victory on this day,” Teykano said excitedly as they rode back to the place where they had left their people.

  “I think not,” Quinntanna answered.

  “What? How can you think that? In all the stories of our people, there has never been a war chief like you. And there has never been a victory like the one we had today.”

  “Perhaps this is so,” Quinntanna agreed. “But I think our village will be no more. Too many were killed. There are no young women for our young men. There are no children to grow up to be warriors and wives, no squaws to have new children. I think soon our young men must go to other villages and other places to find women, and when they do, they will not come back.”

  “You are right,” Teykano said. “The village of Stone Eagle is no more.” He was silent for a moment, then he smiled. “But those who came in the night to murder our people are no more as well.”

  “Yes,” Quinntanna agreed, joining Teykano’s smile with his own. “At least those who came to murder our people are now dead.”

  “What about the place of Howling Winds?” Teykano asked. “Shall we go there now to buy bullets?”

  “There is no need to buy bullets now. The white man’s army has provided us with many bullets, and we did not have to spend one thousand more dollars.”