Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Then, that’s that,” Douglas said.

  “Is there any coffee back at the fire?” Gavin asked.

  “You bet, sir,” Douglas said. “Let’s go have a cup. It’ll perk us up some.”

  The two soldier-friends walked side by side together back to enjoy some strong army coffee and a bull session.

  Seven

  Gavin MacRoss did not sleep well that last night with the wagon train.

  The supper at Valenko’s wagon was the cause of the restless, interrupted napping on his blankets that went on all through the hours of darkness. All in all, Gavin had to admit it was one of the most unpleasant evenings of his life.

  The little social affair had started off nice enough. When Gavin presented himself at the wagon, Irena was cooking a kettle of soup. The smell coming from the pot was delicious, blending in nicely with the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked bread that the peasant girl had made through an ancient Russian method of baking in an earthen oven using rocks and hot coals to produce a large loaf.

  Valenko greeted the guest in his usual warm, exuberant way, inviting Gavin to join him in a couple of drinks to begin the festivities. That had been rather friendly and pleasant. The lieutenant felt guilty about enjoying alcohol when it was forbidden to his men, but realized that his position as an army officer mandated his participation in the party. This was especially necessary when the host was a member of foreign royalty.

  After the two men had enjoyed three stiff drinks apiece, Natalia showed up arm in arm with Basil Karshchov. Gavin didn’t know if it was the liquor or not, but never had the presence of Natalia bothered him so much. She was most lovely and charming, looking good enough to be the belle of any ball.

  Gavin performed a compulsory, polite greeting to her and Karshchov, then tried to give the count most of his attention. He was determined to keep his eyes off the beautiful girl as much as possible.

  It was a losing battle for the lovelorn young officer.

  The engaged couple sat close together in a couple of chairs, with Karshchov constantly holding his fiancée’s hand. Now and then they exchanged fond glances with each other. Gavin was just glad they didn’t start kissing. He tried to cover his resentment and falling mood with a few more quick, strong drinks.

  After an hour passed, Irena Yakubovski served a supper of soup that was hot, thick, and plentiful. Gavin, as always when in the field, ate well, though he could have done better if Natalia’s presence weren’t continuing to prove to be quite upsetting to him.

  After the meal was consumed, a pair of musicians showed up. One played the mandolin and the other the violin. They performed and sang while Valenko took out a bottle of vodka and some small glasses. Gavin, the count, and Karshchov began to drink toasts. They toasted the United States, The Russian Empire, the czar, the president, Kansas Territory, the prairie, the wagons, and anything else they could think of. The strong liquor went to Gavin’s head in spite of his experience of hard and fast drinking in the army. He began to get drunk enough that it was noticeable. His speech slurred, and he started laughing a lot and making jokes.

  After a while, Karshchov, who had consumed twice as much as his American guest but showed no effects, stood up and requested a song of the musicians. They responded, and he danced a Russian folk dance. It wasn’t long before the count joined him. Gavin, along with Irena and Natalia, clapped in time to the music. Then Valenko and Irena danced, Irena and Karshchov, and Irena and Gavin. Then Valenko got his daughter into the activity, and she danced with everyone, including Gavin as her last partner.

  The closeness and touch of the girl was pure torture for Gavin. He immediately sobered up as he felt his arm around her waist and hers around his neck. She smiled and moved in closer, obviously enjoying the music more than her partner. But the heady smell of femininity and the press of her flesh caused yearnings that Gavin knew would never be fulfilled.

  The young army officer, suddenly cold sober and melancholy as hell, was grateful when the evening finally came to a close.

  After making the proper good nights, Gavin went back to his blankets and lay down. As hard as he tried he couldn’t sleep. All his efforts to keep the Russian girl out of his mind failed, and the remembrance of the slight and feel of Natalia Valenko kept exploding and reexploding in his brain like a shower of shooting stars in a black prairie sky in summer.

  Sometime toward dawn, Gavin began to drift into troubled naps that lasted ten or fifteen minutes. Finally, he sank into a regular sleep brought on by pure fatigue.

  “Sir!” Sergeant Douglas’s voice broke into Gavin’s slumber.

  “Huh?”

  “Sir, get up!” Douglas urged him.

  Instinct bred from years of frontier soldiering brought Gavin into an upright, sitting position.

  “What the hell is going on?” the lieutenant asked, reaching for his weapon.

  “We got some boys that went over the hill,” Douglas said.

  “Deserters?” Gavin asked. “How many?”

  “Five, sir,” Douglas said. “McRyan, Costello, Evans, Rodgers, and Walker. They lit out with their mounts and all equipment. Rodgers was on the last guard relief, so they left after he went on duty.”

  “That means they have at least a two-hour head start on us,” Gavin said.

  “More’n that, sir,” Douglas said. “Rodgers told Anderson he couldn't sleep and took his relief, too. They’ve been gone four hours.”

  Gavin got to his feet. Still dressed, all he had to do was grab his hat and field equipment. “Let's go get them, Sergeant Douglas.”

  The lieutenant was glad to see all the other dragoons were up and ready to go. His own horse was saddled and prepared. As he mounted up, Count Valenko appeared in the growing light. He waved at Gavin as he approached.

  “Good mornink, my friend,” the count said.

  “You got up early, didn't you?” Gavin remarked.

  “Got up?” Valenko laughed uproariously. “I have not been to bed yet! Basil and I still drinkink. I come out here to relief my bladder.” He looked in puzzlement at the soldiers, who were obviously ready to ride out. “Vhat is goink on? You leaf so soon?”

  “Some of the men deserted,” Gavin said. “We must go catch them.”

  “Yes, ve haf that trouble in the Russian army,” Valenko said. “You catch and you shoot, eh?”

  “We have to find out where they went first,” Gavin said. “But in our service, a man isn't legally considered a deserter until he’s been gone at least thirty days.”

  “So! You catch and put in jail, then?” Valenko asked.

  “I hope so,” Gavin said. He leaned down and offered his hand. “I must say goodbye, now, Your Grace. I’ll not be able to return. By the time we catch up with the runaways, we will have to get to our mapping duties right away.”

  “I am wishink you good luck and hope to see you again before long,” Count Valenko said.

  “Thank you.” Gavin turned and signaled to his men. “For’d, yo!”

  They rode out in a double column, easily picking up the trail left by the deserters. Once more O’Hearn took the point as flankers were sent out on each side of their formation.

  “Tell me what you know about the deserters,” Gavin requested of Sergeant Douglas, who rode beside him. Like most officers in the army, his contact with enlisted men was brief and only happened when necessary. The sergeants and the corporals were the ones who personally saw to it that most orders were carried out.

  “Well, sir, you’re more’n familiar with McRyan and Costello,” Douglas said. “Evans and Walker is just a coupla fellers that ended up in the army because they was no good in civilian life. They ain’t much as soldiers either, I reckon, so they’ve decided ciwie street is more pleasant than living in the barracks.”

  “That happens often enough,” Gavin said. “What about Rodgers?”

  “That’s another story,” Douglas said. “I think I know him from somewhere before.”

  “Maybe he’s served previously an
d had to reenlist under another name,” Gavin suggested.

  “That’s it, sir,” Douglas said. “I think he must’ve been posted in the East, ’cause he don’t act like he’s got any experience on the frontier. I figger I seen him somewheres while I was back there to pick up recruit contingents.”

  “But you’re convinced he’s a former soldier, are you?” Gavin asked.

  “Yes, sir,” Douglas answered. “I was suspicious on account o’ he looked familiar like I said, and he took to drill real quick like he already knowed it. Rodgers prob’ly got in trouble and was given a bad conduct or dishonorable discharge. After some tough times on the outside, he made up a new name for hisself and enlisted.”

  “It’s hard to keep track of who’s coming and going in a small army spread across a gigantic continent,” Gavin said.

  “Just the same, I wish the recruiting service was more careful about who they signed up,” Douglas complained.

  “It’s hard to enlist youngsters for soldiers under any circumstances,” Gavin said. “Maybe if the government raised the pay, better men would be attracted to enlist. There seems to be two types—those who are proud to serve and others who do so because of some problem in their lives. That makes it difficult for you noncommissioned officers.”

  “Yes, sir,” Douglas agreed. “But don’t forget them lads like Carlson back there. He’s here looking for glory and adventure. He ain’t a bad soldier either, let me tell you.”

  “Yes,” Gavin said. “He seems eager enough.”

  “He won’t reenlist, though, sir,” Douglas said. “I know the type. He’ll serve to the end of his hitch and get an honorable discharge.” The sergeant chuckled. “Then he’ll spend the rest of his life boring family, friends, and strangers with stories of his army days.”

  “Sergeant Douglas, we shall all do that,” Gavin said with a laugh.

  Up ahead O’Hearn let out a yell and pointed due east, indicating he was changing direction.

  “That’s what I figgered,” Douglas said. “Those son of a bitches is making a beeline for Missouri. I’ll bet a month’s pay that Rodgers knows where they can sell the horses and equipment for a good price.”

  “Once they are in civilian clothing and scattered, then they’ll never be found,” Gavin said.

  “If I ever see Rodgers—or whatever his real name is—back in uniform again, I’m gonna personally give his ass a damn good kicking,” Douglas said. “The army’s been too good to that bastard as far as I’m concerned.” The pursuers continued onward for another hour before Private Paddy O’Hearn signaled for a halt. He rode back and reported to Gavin.

  “Sir, they’re turning south a bit,” O’Hearn said. “I don’t think they mean to. They just ain’t experienced in moving across open country.”

  “You’re right,” Gavin said. “They’re starting to wander off in a circle. That’s easy enough to do in flat country.”

  O’Hearn said, “Sir, I’d like to suggest that we keep heading due east. I’m sure they’ll turn back toward that direction, and maybe we can cut ’em off.”

  “That’s good thinking, O’Hearn,” Gavin said. “Carry on.”

  O’Hearn saluted, then galloped back to his position at the front of the column.

  Sergeant Douglas said, “There’s a good steady soldier, sir. O’Hearn is into his second hitch and doing fine. I think he’s ready for corporal.”

  “Very well, Sergeant,” Gavin said. “If that’s your recommendation, I’ll turn it into Captain Hanover. We’ll have chevrons on O’Hearn’s sleeves as quick as we can.”

  The dragoons settled into a regular routine that went on for the next three hours. Flankers were changed off and positions alternated in the column to keep the monotony down for the men, in order that they might stay alert. Only Gavin, Douglas, and O’Hearn kept to the same positions as they pressed on across the deep sea of prairie grass after the five deserters.

  Suddenly O’Hearn gestured and pointed south. All eyes turned in the direction to see the distant figures of five riders moving steadily in a northeasterly route.

  “That’s them!” Douglas exclaimed. “God damn their eyes!”

  “Gallop, ho!” Gavin commanded.

  The entire group, with the lieutenant leading, rapidly headed toward the other riders. Within five minutes, the deserters spotted them and made a frantic turn due south, breaking into a wild run for freedom.

  O’Hearn, out farther, used his position to turn the escapees into a more westerly route. There would be nothing for them in that direction except wilderness and hostile Indians.

  The pursuers drew in closer and closer through skillful herding of the inexperienced deserters. In less than a half hour, the fugitives headed down into a draw that slowed them considerably. Douglas, taking Corporal Murphy and two men, quickly skirted the gash in the ground and covered the only escape route out of it.

  The chase was over.

  Gavin, Sergeant Douglas, and their seven men quickly positioned themselves until the deserters were completely surrounded. The only advantage they had was good cover down in the gully.

  “I want you to come out of there one man at a time,” Gavin yelled to them.

  McRyan’s voice, defiant and angry, came back shouting, “Go to hell, you son of a bitch!”

  “I know McRyan doesn’t speak for all of you,” Gavin hollered. “Just step into view with your hands raised. Leave your horses behind.”

  Another voice, that of Walker, could be heard. “What’s to happen to us?”

  “You’ll be given a court-martial,” Gavin replied loudly and truthfully. “You’re still not deserters yet, only away from your posts without permission.”

  “Will we go to the guardhouse?” Walker asked in a yell.

  “As sure as shit stinks!” Sergeant Douglas roared back at the fugitives.

  A few moments of silence followed. Suddenly shooting erupted from the gully, and Gavin was forced to leap from his saddle and hit the grass as bullets whined around him: He knew they would have to go in after McRyan and his friends.

  Sergeant Douglas, bent double, trotted over to Gavin and flopped down beside him. “Orders, sir?”

  “Yeah,” Gavin said thoughtfully. “Leave one man at the rear of the gully. Have another care for the horses right here. The rest of us will move in as skirmishers on foot and rout them out of there. It’s going to be close in there, so we’ll use pistols.”

  “Yes, sir!” Douglas made a quick exit. In less than five minutes he returned with six of the men. Their carbines were slung over their shoulders, and each held his pistol, loaded and primed, for the job ahead.

  “I stationed Anderson to cover the rear,” Douglas said.

  “Form as skirmishers,” Gavin ordered. “Move out!” Advancing in one rank with as much space as possible between themselves, the dragoons followed their young lieutenant. He led them slowly and carefully into the dense brush of the draw. Cottonwood and redbud trees grew close together, branches intertwined. Thick vegetation filled the gully floor.

  Gavin strained his eyes as his gaze darted back and forth, searching for a sight of the runaways.

  A shot exploded from the right front, whipping the air ten feet above the skirmish line.

  Sergeant Douglas and the two corporals immediately responded, sending three slugs whipping into the brush. “Oh, God!”

  Walker, the front of his buckskin shirt bloody, staggered sideways from cover. He fell down, then held up an imploring hand. “Say, boys, don’t shoot me again, will you?” A moment later, he collapsed in death.

  “Move on,” Gavin ordered. “Take care now!” He stepped over Walker’s body and led the men deeper into the draw.

  Suddenly a fusillade of shots detonated from straight ahead. Belken, in the skirmish line, pitched forward onto his face. Now everyone returned fire.

  The sounds of men crashing through the brush ahead showed the deserters were quickly withdrawing after firing their desperate volley.

  Dougl
as knelt beside Belken. “Dead, Lieutenant.”

  “Poor old soldier,” Corporal Steeple said.

  “Follow me and keep your eyes open,” Gavin said.

  Another full five minutes of silence followed. Gavin signaled a couple of halts to listen; nothing but silence dominated the scene. Birds and insects had been frightened into flight or silence by the shooting.

  Some shots farther down the gully could suddenly be heard. Gavin picked up the pace, but after going only ten yards, closer firing poured at the skirmish line.

  This time the lieutenant spotted his quarry.

  He gestured to Douglas and Steeple, who followed him over to the left side of the draw. Gavin pointed with his revolver and immediately fired three times. Douglas and Steeple did the same. The sound of bodies falling into bushes could be heard. Gavin and his men moved in with great care until they found the bodies of Evans and Rodgers lying close together when they had been ripped by bullets from the trio of revolvers.

  “That leaves McRyan and Costello,” Douglas said. Gavin yelled, “McRyan! Costello! Give it up! Walker, Rodgers, and Evans are dead. There is no sense in you ending up the same way.”

  No insults or taunts answered the advice. Once more the skirmish line eased into the thick vegetation. Still stopping momentarily, it took almost twenty minutes to travel the length of the draw before reaching the exit. Gavin stepped back up on the level prairie and saw Anderson sprawled in the grass.

  He rushed over and knelt beside the badly wounded man, the other skirmishers joining him. “When did this happen?” Gavin asked.

  Anderson, pale and dying, had blood bubbling from his lips. “McRyan—Costello—shot me—sir,” he stammered with his last breath.

  Douglas stood up and looked outward. “That’s that shooting we heard before we hit Evans and Rodgers. I’ll bet them two set the others up, then snuck off to make a run for it.”

  “Yeah,” Gavin agreed. “They caught poor Anderson here and shot him.” He walked out a few yards and found the trail. “They’re heading due south.”

  “That’s Kiowa and Comanche country down there,” Douglas said. “Are we going after ’em, sir?”