“Then what did you have in that primitive brain of yours?”
“I jist figgered to tom-turkey stomp the shit out of you, Colonel. But I’ve cooled off some. We’ll forget it . . . for now. Good night, Colonel.”
“Wait!” Danvers started after Preacher. “What are we going to do to stop these treaty violations?”
Preacher stared coldly and levelly at the colonel. “These incidents will continue unless the Pawnees learn not to mess with us. The best way to do that is to raid their villages, burn their lodges and supplies, run off their ponies, kill a few warriors.”
“That’s madness, man!” Danvers went on to protest vehemently. “There is a treaty. These are not the Indians we came out here to fight.”
Preacher’s amused expression turned to one of intense curiosity. “What Injuns are you supposed to fight? The way I understand it, we didn’t come out here to fight any Injuns. Jist to ‘show the flag,’ ” he tossed the pet phrase of Arlington Danvers back in his face.
Danvers paled, cognizant that his mouth had overstepped his reasoning. “Yes . . . yes, you’re right about that. The fort is to enforce the peace, not incite war. Yet, I must maintain that nothing can be gained from pushing a dispute on the Pawnee.”
Preacher grinned and gave the colonel a wink. “I can think of something. It will provide excellent trainin’ for yer baby Dragoons, that it will.”
Grudgingly, Danvers saw the sense in that. Reluctantly he agreed to allow Preacher and one other guide to observe any Pawnee camps or villages in close proximity to their route of march.
Over the next two nights, Preacher and Antoine Revier scouted as many Pawnee villages. Preacher had reasoned correctly that such a large number of warriors could not come from a small raiding band on the warpath. It took him only to the second night to find what he sought. He would make a third foray to verify what he had learned.
Preacher squatted behind a stunted, wind-twisted bristle-cone pine and looked down into a village. Flickering firelight turned the scene a Dantesque orange. His ears soon picked up the spine-chilling throb of drums and the eerie, wailing of the Scalp Dance, a song he’d painfully learned long ago and had lived to remember. From the gyrating shadows projected onto lodge covers, he estimated that at least six of the marauders lived in this community. At the time, he did not realize he had missed the count by ten.
After half an hour of careful study, Preacher slipped away into the night to rendezvous with Antoine. The first thing the French-Delaware mountain man said was: “You saw it, too?”
“Yep. The Scalp Dance.”
“I counted eleven of ’em got the hoop with the scalps on it passed to them.”
“You did? I marked it as six. My eyes must be goin’ bad. Or I left too soon.”
“May have. From the other side I could see real clear. Made my blood run cold.”
“We’ll check that other village tomorrow night, then tell the good colonel where to hit.”
“I’m for that.”
Together, they turned their mounts to the south and started for the trail of the Dragoon column. On the way, Preacher began to formulate a plan of attack.
After the third night’s visit, Preacher completed his strategy on the ride to the Dragoon camp. He explained it to Lieutenant Colonel Danvers and to his utter surprise, the constantly critical officer agreed entirely. He did make a couple of changes and offered a suggestion.
“Standard Dragoon tactics call for keeping one element of one’s force in reserve. In this case, I think they should be deployed. They can act as a screen, at some distance, to see none of the hostiles escape us.”
“You’re sure gonna make life hard for those Injun folk. I reckon we can work it out right smart.”
Shortly before dawn the next day, the Dragoons eased into position to attack the slumbering Pawnee village. When all was in readiness, Danvers gave the signal. Howling like banshees, the Dragoons stormed in among the lodges. Some of these they set afire. Others they pulled down. Rearing horses trampled firepits and cooking pots. Yapping dogs bristled in challenge, only to be shot down by Dragoons. Preacher took his own course to enter the encampment.
Shocked, he felt a tangible chill along his spine when he saw the horse herd had disappeared. Sudden premonition caused Preacher to try to shout a warning. The first words had barely left his mouth when disaster struck.
Suddenly the tables turned on the Dragoons. Howling Pawnee warriors attacked them from outside the village. Whooping war cries and screaming insults, they charged into the bewildered soldiers.
FOURTEEN
Panic struck the green troops on the outer edges when the Indians appeared so suddenly. It rippled inward to those still occupied with trashing the village. Entire companies milled about in confusion. Who was it shooting at them? There weren’t any Indians. Those furthest removed from the Pawnee menace had no idea of the terrible death that threatened them.
Preacher put heels to the ribs of his stallion and drove a wedge through some Dragoons paralyzed by fear. “Spread out an’ get them weapons workin’, damnit! There’s Injuns right over there.” He pointed the way and his calm, purposeful demeanor broke the spell.
First by ones and twos, the Dragoons opened space between one another and brought their Hall carbines into action. An arrow hissed past Preacher’s ear and he jinked his head to the side automatically. A Walker Colt filled his right hand, and he fired almost point-blank into the chest of a Pawnee warrior. With a final shriek, the brave rolled backward off the rump of his pony.
Preacher sought another target, to find himself face-to-face with Three Sleeps Norris. “Muldoon is over on the other side, tryin’ to organize some sort of defense.”
Preacher assimilated the information and nodded. “Antoine is right over there. I’ll send him to Muldoon. You an’ him can keep us in touch.”
BSM Terrance Muldoon found himself alone in the command structure. Two young lieutenants had gone down in the first bevy of arrows to descend on the unsuspecting troops. Both officers took only wounds, but one was serious. No sign of Captain Dreiling, the most reliable and steadiest of the company commanders. None of the others had been on this side of the village. After the initial shock of the swift, swirling assault, Muldoon shouldered his mount into that of one Dragoon after another and shouted loudly enough to break their glazes of shock.
“Get that damn rifle to workin’, soldier!”
“Bu-But the Indians,” one had blathered back at him.
“Sure an’ they ain’t bulletproof, ye idiot.”
By the time he had bullied enough of the wild-eyed troopers into a passable defensive formation, with every other man dismounted, the Pawnee had disappeared into the tall grass to prepare for a second rush. When the seed clusters at the tops of the stalks began to weave in snake-like patterns, Muldoon spoke low and reassuringly to the men he commanded.
“Easy now. Let ’em come to us. Be ready, stand fast, lads. Standing men kneel. Prepare to fire by volley. Hold yer fire. Take aim . . . Kneeling rank . . . fire!”
Lighted by the muzzle flash of fifteen carbines, the predawn murk turned to orange sunrise. “Reload. Mounted rank . . . take aim . . . fire!”
Again the sun rose in the south for the Pawnee. “Reload. Kneeling rank, take aim . . . fire! Reload. Steady, lads, steady. Mounted rank, take aim . . . fire! Reload. Kneeling rank, take aim . . . fire!”
Seemingly oblivious to the hail of balls that snapped through the air in their direction, the warriors came on. At each volley, ten to twelve Pawnee fell in the grass, killed, stunned or wounded by the Dragoons. After the third volley, the distance between them and the soldiers had narrowed enough that the Dragoons did not have time to reload their carbines.
Muldoon judged the situation well. His voice rang calm and clear over the defenders. “Replace carbines. Draw pistols . . . Fire at will.”
A wave of staccato reports rippled along the file of Dragoons. The sheer volume of fire sent dread through the swar
m of warriors. In disarray they thrashed their way back into the concealing grass.
“Keep it up, bies, that grass can’t stop a bullet,” Muldoon cheered on his rag-tag band of soldiers.
“Muldoon’s checked them on the north,” Antoine Revier reported to Preacher after he rode up in a fog of dust.
Preacher gestured to the empty plain that stretched from the village to a deep gully. “They ain’t showin’ themselves so free and easy over here. I found a couple of the company commanders. They got their troops outta their daze and blasted hell outta the Pawnee a short while back.” He beckoned to Three Sleeps. “Git yerself over to Muldoon, take some of this surplus of officers we’ve got here with you. Tell him I expect the next charge will come at this side any time now. I’m gettin’ tired of runnin’ this show for the Army. Time to let the one’s supposed to do it.” He paused and looked around, a puzzled frown creasing his powder-grimed brow.
“Speakin’ of which, where in daylights is Colonel Danvers?”
“Don’t see him anywhere,” Antoine remarked.
Then Preacher replayed the first moments of pandemonium when the Pawnee attacked. He pursed his lips and slapped a thigh with an open palm. “As I recollect, when the hostiles fu’st hit us, Danvers disappeared into one of the tipis still standin’. Funny thing, I ain’t see him since.”
Antoine was full of helpful suggestions. “Let’s go see if we can find him.”
“We will, soon’s I figger out which one he went to.”
Preacher and Antoine drew blanks on the first two lodges. At the entrance flap of the third, Preacher found a private standing post as though on garrison guard duty. He poked his head inside and found Lieutenant Colonel Arlington Danvers.
Seated on a camp stool that Preacher sometimes thought must have grown out of his ass, Danvers directed his officers by way of messengers. One of the latter saluted smartly and stepped hurriedly in Preacher’s direction. Taken aback by the unreality of what he witnessed, Preacher stared in disgust. At last he found control of his vocal cords and stomped into the lodge, Antoine right behind. Danvers’s high-pitched voice elevated more in complaint.
“I don’t understand why we have not heard from the north side of the village. Has Captain Dreiling taken leave of his senses?”
Preacher stepped in front of the colonel then and spoke with an obvious effort to control his loathing. “Might I suggest, Colonel, that if you were out there, where the fighting is goin’ on, you could learn firsthand what is going on and why. You might even be able to personally direct your subordinates, which would free up all these messenger-boys to take part in the battle.”
Danvers tried to wither Preacher with his most contemptuous stare. “That’s what company commanders and platoon leaders are for,” he told Preacher coldly. “Company commanders are supposed to observe, supervise and direct.”
That he failed to intimidate became immediately obvious. Preacher turned partway from the prim, icy-eyed colonel, then swung back, fists balled and eyes turned to steel. “My point is, Colonel, that you sure as hell can’t see much cringing inside a tipi like a yeller-bellied cur.”
He stomped to the entrance to the lodge and was bending to exit when a shrill roar came from Danvers, only to be drowned out by war cries and explosions of Hall carbines from outside. Preacher made for the fight at once.
Warriors from the other villages had to be in on this, Preacher reasoned correctly. Even if all sixteen of the braves involved in the torture and killing of the Dragoons lived in this camp, there simply weren’t enough lodges to account for the number of Pawnee who surrounded the troops. A man usually figured three warriors to a lodge. By count of tipis, this village should account for some fifty-four warriors.
Hell, Preacher thought, that many had already been killed or knocked out of action. And, he recalled, the other two villages had been larger by half than this one. Ruefully he acknowledged that the sneaky Pawnee had gotten one up on him again. Time to worry about that later. Preacher took aim and shot a lance-wielding warrior off his pony. Quickly he reloaded his Hawken. There had to be a better way of ending this, he told himself.
During the next assault, an idea came to Preacher. When the lull that followed the charge extended far longer than the previous ones, he decided to put it to use. To do so, he sought out Antoine Revier. He found Antoine standing in the shade cast by a lodge, loading his pistols.
“Antoine, ol’ friend, I think we’re overdue in bringin’ an end to this mess. Get that long-range Frenchie rifle of yours an’ let’s go out an’ change the odds.”
Antoine turned a beaming countenance on Preacher. “I think I know what you have in mind. We should have done this sooner.”
“They hadn’t settled down enough. I’d say they was gettin’ some grub right about now. Should work perfect.”
Ten minutes later, Preacher and Antoine Revier slipped out of the besieged village and headed due east. A mile from the circles of lodges, they turned north, skirted the Pawnee flank and worked their way to within half a mile of the enemy. Both mountain men spent a tense fifteen minutes in concentrated study of the hostiles through long, brass telescopes. Satisfied that they had identified the proper individuals, they moved in a bit closer.
Being long-range sporting arms, both Preacher’s Le Mat and Antoine’s Alouette had been fitted with simple, unsophisticated telescopic sights. At ranges up to six-hundred yards, they could reasonably be expected to hit a man-sized target with every shot, and cause a fatal wound three out of five times. At least, in the hands of these expert marksmen that was possible. They used Y-shaped metal barrel rests that came with the weapons, carried in the stock, behind hinged butt-plates. After easing their way into suitable prone positions on a gentle upslope, they settled in and sought their targets.
Preacher found one first, took careful aim and pressed the set trigger. Then his finger curled around the firing trigger, and he fined his sight picture. A gentle squeeze and the .36-caliber rifle fired. At that range, he had the weapon clear of the stand and the old cap off the nipple before the head of a tall, wiry Pawnee with a face split by black and white war paint, snapped backward slightly and a geyser of gore spurted from the back of his crown.
Preacher had the powder charge rammed home by the time the other Pawnee reacted to the startling sight. Muffled by distance, the report of his Le Mat did not reach them until nearly two seconds after the ball that killed one war leader. A stiff crosswind had disbursed the powder smoke. Confused as to how and from where this blow had come, the Indians milled about, providing Antoine a target as easy as Preacher’s had been.
His man went down rubber-legged a moment before Preacher fired again. A third war leader died. “I reckon one more each and we’d best get out of here,” he advised Antoine after the latter had fired his second shot.
“Mais oui. Or we will leave our hair with the Pawnee.”
Their guns reloaded, they sought out fresh marks and fired simultaneously. Another pair of war leaders clutched their chests and keeled over, their hearts pierced by deadly metal. Quickly, Preacher and Antoine folded up their gear and crawled off through the tall grass to where they had left their mounts on the far side of the low swell.
Six most important men killed in less than three minutes did it for the Pawnee. Muttering darkly about bad medicine, they abandoned the fight and rode off toward the other nearby villages. Even the inexperienced Dragoons knew that the battle had ended long before Preacher and Antoine rode into the battered encampment.
Iron Shirt stood before the assembled councils of the Northern Cheyenne. Many had journeyed far to hear the message of the Blackfoot messiah. Not all, though, were captivated by his promise to drive out the whites and bring back the old days. Some, including Cloud Blanket, privately believed, like the Crow, that some means must be found to live alongside the whites in peace. Cloud Blanket had heard appeals such as Iron Shirt’s before.
They had failed to impress him then, and still did. He winced a
s Iron Shirt reached the part about how his secret medicine would make ordinary red men proof against the white man’s bullets.
“Not a man shall die of white bullets after joining in the ritual of the Iron Shield Society. Some of you may have heard of how some warriors died from the white man’s many-balls gun. Recently the Spirit who guides us revealed to me what needs to be done to make my medicine proof against even these.”
What nonsense, thought Cloud Blanket. At close range, a shotgun— yes, he knew the proper name for it— could bring terrible destruction. An old friend among the whites, Preacher, had once told him that it was the awful shock to the body from being hit so many times at once that killed. Unless, the mountain man had added, a man took a load in the heart or got his head blown off. Iron Shirt had reached the climax of his boastful speech, the exhortation to join.
“I want ten double-hands of brave Cheyenne warriors to step forward and become brothers in the Iron Shield Society. All is in readiness for the ritual. Those who do not join us are asked to leave now.”
It heartened Cloud Blanket to see so many turn away. Yet, some eighty stood as though enchanted by the words of Iron Shirt. This would be a bad thing for the Cheyenne, Cloud Blanket admitted to himself. He turned to an old friend, Four Bears.
“I am thinking of moving my band toward the Black Hills. Iron Shirt is like a stick of green wood in a fire. It spits and pops and throws sparks in the air. But sparks are not a blaze . . . unless they land in your sleeping robes.”
Four Bears nodded thoughtfully. “You are right. I will ask my people to do the same.”
Back on the march again, the Dragoons seemed more confident and at ease, though somewhat subdued. Five of them had been killed; more than thirty took wounds. Most bore only minor injuries, and wore their white swatches of courage with noticeable pride. The six serious cases rode in wagons, under the care of Major Claire Couglin, the company surgeon. Troubled by the condition of his charges, Major Couglin left the wagon in which he tended three of them, and on his dapple-gray mare rode to the head of the cavalcade.
Blackfoot Messiah Page 13
