Comanchero Blood (A Dragoons Western Book 2)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Gavin shook his head. “No, Sergeant. We have to keep to schedule. All we can do is report them and hope that they can be picked up before the Indians catch them or they make it to the East.”

  “Maybe they’ll run into some patrols from Fort Scott or Fort Gibson,” Douglas said.

  “That will give them a quicker, easier death by firing squad or hanging,” Gavin said. “If the Indians catch those two, they’ll be a long time in going to their maker.”

  “They’ll show up in hell still screaming,” Douglas said.

  “Yeah,” Gavin said. “The thought of that bothers me not one bit!” He turned and looked back at the draw. “Well, Sergeant, we have some dead to bury, then some mapping duties before returning to Fort Leavenworth.”

  “The army’s business goes on no matter what,” Douglas said.

  “As always,” Gavin intoned.

  They headed back to where Fenlay had the horses.

  Eight

  Sergeant Ian Douglas gazed over Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss’s shoulder as the officer carefully and fully drew a map of the immediate area where they stood.

  “Damn! You got a good hand, sir,” Douglas marveled. “I swear that’s the most lifelike pencil work I ever seen in all my life.”

  Gavin smiled. “Sketching was one of the few classes in which I excelled at West Point.”

  “Maybe you ought to try painting pitchers like folks hang in their homes,” Douglas suggested.

  “I don’t feel my artistic ability is quite that good,” Gavin said.

  “If I could draw, I’d do them naked ladies like is put up in saloons,” Douglas said seriously.

  “That’s something to consider all right,” Gavin replied in amusement.

  The dragoon detachment, fulfilling its mapping duties, had worked its way to a point north of the junction of the Kansas and Republican rivers. They weren’t far from where the wagon train had made its turn to the place destined to be known as Nadezhda.

  Gavin glanced around at the area, appreciating the lay of the land. “I was just thinking that this would be an excellent place to establish an outpost,” he remarked.

  “Why is that, sir?” Douglas asked.

  “A camp established here for the summer could well support patrols and other activities out of Fort Leavenworth and Fort Riley as well as keep a permanent surveillance on this area,” Gavin said. “Another thing to consider is that the Santa Fe Trail is but a few miles south. If there was any trouble down there, units stationed here would be close enough for a quick response.”

  “Yes, sir,” Douglas said. “It would make for a handier way to get to problems down that track.”

  Gavin continued to look around. “There is plenty of water here, and the open terrain could accommodate a small military outpost.”

  Douglas also gave the place a quick, professional appraisal, picturing where it would be best to locate barracks, latrines, the parade ground, and other features necessary for a proper army installation.

  “I think you’re right, sir.”

  “It would be rather nice for troops to have another good place to stop and rest up for extended patrols,” Gavin added. “Such a situation would be much easier on them than having to face thousands of square miles of wild territory before finding another haven.”

  “Again, I got to say you’re right, sir,” Douglas said. “Are you gonna follow up on this idea?”

  “Yes,” Gavin said. “I believe I shall submit a report and suggest such an action.”

  “In that case, maybe they’ll put an outpost here someday, sir, and call it Camp MacRoss, after you,” the sergeant said with a wink.

  “I doubt if such recognition would come from a simple suggestion in a report,” Gavin said. He chuckled. “But perhaps if I led you and the other five men on a victorious raid against the Comanches down south, that would happen. What do you think of my doing that?”

  “Not a hell of a lot, sir,” Douglas said. He grinned. “I’d prefer if this patrol stuck to mapmaking. Let ’em name the post after somebody else. Especially if they have to take on the Comanche Nation to get official recognition.”

  “I agree,” Gavin said. “Posthumous honors do not interest me in the slightest.”

  “Me either,” Douglas said sincerely. He quieted down to let the lieutenant finish the task.

  Gavin had already drawn a map showing distinct terrain features. To add to that effort, he now sketched a landscape showing certain important lays of the land. He paused and glanced at the men.

  “How is young Carlson doing?” the officer inquired.

  “Attending to his duties proper, sir,” Douglas answered.

  The aftermath of the fight with the deserters had left rookie trooper Carlson badly shaken. When the shootout’s excitement died down and the realization that five of their number were dead sank in, he fell into a melancholy mood. The young man even came close to weeping. Only a superb amount of self-control kept his emotions from bursting forth. It was at that time that another aspect Sergeant Douglas’s leadership qualities came to the fore. He took the lad aside and had a talk with him.

  “Now, it’s a tough thing to lose men from your company, Carlson,” Douglas said. “That’s something that all real soldiers must do. It’s just part of the job.”

  “It ain’t so much all the others as Benny Anderson,” Carlson said.

  “So you and Anderson was barracks and mess mates, was you?” Douglas asked.

  “Yes, Sergeant. Anderson and me were good friends,” Carlson said in a low voice. “Me and him come out here on the same contingent and went through recruit drill together and ever’thing.”

  “There’s nothing I can say that’s gonna make you feel better,” Douglas said candidly. “You’re gonna be grieving and that’s a fact. I lost some close friends myself fighting Injuns and the like.” He put a friendly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I’m leaving you alone for a bit, Carlson. If it makes you feel better to cry over Anderson, then have at it.” He paused. “I’ve done it. The army, as far as us soldiers is concerned, revolves around our little comp’ny. We’re A Comp’ny, and as long as we serve in this regiment, we’ll be the A’s afore anything else. Anderson was your friend, and them other fellers, even the deserters, was A’s, too. Grieve proper, young soldier, your friend Anderson deserves it. He was a good lad.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant,” Carlson said.

  “Join us in a bit when you’re feeling better,” Douglas said. He turned and walked away.

  By the time the graves had been dug, words spoken, and the dirt thrown in on the dead, Carlson had calmed down quite a bit. There was no doubt he was bound to be a good soldier and had the moral and inner fortitude to take whatever hardships and grief he might encounter.

  Paddy O’Hearn, feeling a bit like a big brother, went out of his way to be especially friendly toward the younger man. As they rode together in the column, he told Carlson some amusing anecdotes about the army and allowed the lad to join his and Fenlay’s mess team. That meant he would cook and eat his rations with the two veterans.

  Now, under the warm spring sun of the Kansas prairie, Lieutenant Gavin MacRoss went on with his mapping duties. He had only a pocket compass as an instrument to gauge the azimuths he detailed on the sketches. Distances, when passable, were carefully paced off and written down in the notes that would be turned in with the cartographical efforts. It was not as precise as the Topographical Engineers could do with their surveying paraphernalia, but it offered anyone venturing forth over the trackless wilderness of grass a reasonably good idea where to find water, good camping areas, and a guide to judge distances to travel.

  After completing a thorough job around the rivers, the dragoons moved to the northeast toward Fort Leavenworth. Gavin had been charged with map-sketching in a straight line back to the post. Most travelers followed a more southerly course to the Santa Fe Trail, so that particular part of the country farther east was well-known and documented. Gavin’s efforts would offe
r an alternative westerly route in case of bad weather, Indians, or both.

  Sergeant Ian Douglas, as usual, took extra pains with security so that no war parties of Pawnees or Cheyennes could sneak up on their group. Although their numbers were down because of the desertions and deaths, the dragoons still maintained an alert perimeter while their young commander went about his duties.

  It was Private Olaf Carlson who sighted the two riders at the exact moment they appeared on the southern horizon. He gave out a yell and kept his eye on them as they approached. Sergeant Douglas and Corporal Steeple joined the young soldier in observing the horsemen.

  “Them’s white men,” Steeple noticed after a short bit.

  Douglas, whose eyesight didn’t allow any accurate viewing in the distance, said nothing as he waited to see what would happen.

  “Hey!” Carlson piped up. “Them’s Russians! Look! See how they’re dressed?”

  “You’re right!” Steeple said. “I wonder if they’re running away from that count feller.”

  “There ain’t no law against that,” Carlson said. “Me and O’Hearn was there when the lieutenant told the count he couldn’t whip nobody and didn’t own ’em like in Russia. He told that ol’ count that if any o’ them people wanted to light out, he’d just have to let ’em.” Douglas didn’t give a damn whether the count whipped all those peasants or not. He was curious as hell about what would bring two of them away from the settlement, especially after some of their friends had been killed by Indians for doing exactly the same thing. He nudged Steeple and Carlson.

  “Give ’em a holler,” Douglas ordered. “And show yourselves so’s they’ll know you ain’t Injuns.”

  The pair whooped, whistled, and waved for a couple of minutes before the Russians noticed them. They gestured back at the dragoons and immediately broke into a wild gallop toward them. It took them a full ten minutes of hard riding before they reached the soldiers. From the appearance of the horsemen, they were exhausted and badly disturbed.

  “Lieutenant!” one cried out to Douglas as they reined up.

  “I’m Sergeant Douglas,” he replied in some indignation. Sergeants did not like to be taken as officers.

  “Lieutenant!” the other said frantically. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” He waved a piece of paper at the three American soldiers.

  “I think he wants to give that note to Lieutenant MacRoss,” Steeple said.

  “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!” the Russians cried. “Lieutenant! Lieutenant!”

  “That’s all the English they know,” Carlson observed. “I’ll bet either the count or that Karshchov taught ’em that one word to use.”

  “Damn right,” Steeple agreed. “They been sent to find us. Maybe they was hit by Injuns.”

  “Right,” Douglas said. He nodded to the Russians. ‘C’mon with me, then.”

  Douglas found Gavin on the other side of a stand of buffalo grass, using his compass to shoot an azimuth at a distant rise in the ground. The lieutenant turned at their approach and was surprised to see their two visitors.

  The one with the note leaped from his saddle and, cap in hand, approached the American officer. He bowed and handed the missive over; saying, “Pazhal-usta!”

  Gavin unfolded the message and quickly scanned it. “Good God!” he exclaimed. “This was sent to me by Karshchov.”

  “I take it something bad has happened, sir,” Douglas said.

  Gavin nodded. “Indeed! The Russians have been attacked. Several killed and prisoners taken.”

  “Well, sir,” Douglas said. “We can either go see what we can do, or head for Fort Leavenworth for help.”

  “Fort Leavenworth can’t do much out here,” Gavin said. Worrisome thoughts about Natalia Valenko leaped unbidden into his mind. “The hostiles will have headed either south, west, or north. We’ll go back and get all the information we can on the attack, and see if there’s any way we might help or ease the situation. Order the men to mount up!”

  “Yes, sir!” Sergeant Douglas knew the lieutenant was worried about the Russian girl, but he was smart enough not to make any remarks about it.

  Within moments the entire detachment of seven dragoons, along with their Russian companions, were on their way to Nadezhda.

  “I reckon they can change the name o’ that town from ‘Hope’ to ‘Hell,’” Douglas shouted over the pounding of the horses’ hooves.

  “It won’t be the first settlement to be done in,” Gavin observed.

  “Or the last,” Douglas added.

  The Russians, though near exhaustion, tried to push the pace, but Gavin knew better than to tire the horses unnecessarily or to risk riding into the war party that had hit the Russian settlement. Although he had begun to grow frantic about Natalia’s safety, the lieutenant kept the group down to a canter. There was no way he could inquire about her from the two messengers since they didn’t speak English.

  With Private Paddy O’Hearn as always out in the front to guide them while flankers stayed on the alert to avoid ambush, the dragoons and their Russian companions continued to move as rapidly across the plains country as the lieutenant allowed.

  It took the rest of the day to finally reach their destination. Wisps of smoke on the far horizon gave away the exact location of Nadezhda long before it was in sight. The first view of the newly established town eased out of the distant haze as the column drew closer.

  Finally the burned wagons and the smoldering remnants of unfinished cabins were in perfect view as they finished the last leg of the journey and rode into what was left of Count Vladimir Aleksandrovich Valenko’s dream.

  “God have mercy!” Douglas exclaimed.

  “Amen,” Gavin agreed. He looked around hoping to catch sight of Natalia somewhere in the people hurrying toward them with expressions of panic and fear on their faces.

  Valenko and Karshchov, with a forlorn crowd of the setters following, greeted Gavin as he rode up and dismounted. The count cried out, “My heart is breakink!” He began to weep openly, tears trickling down his cheeks into his heavy beard. “It is a catastrophe! A tragedy!”

  Karshchov, a bit more under control, wailed, “We were attacked in the early morning before all were awake. They were cowards! Wretches!”

  The people, though not understanding the words spoken by the young intellectual, backed him up with mournful exclamations. Several of the women carried on like the widows of the three men killed by Indians had done. The difference this time was that there were so many, it was impossible to control them. The shrieking and yelling became so loud that the American officer could not carry on a normal conversation with Valenko and Karshchov.

  “Shut up!” Douglas roared at them. “Quiet down so’s we can sort this thing out!”

  “I’m sorry,” Gavin said. “You must tell me what happened so I can see what I can do.” He glanced around and noted the dispirited sight of a newly established cemetery.

  “Moya docha!” Valenko interrupted with a wild yell. He finally lost control of himself. The count fell to the ground on his knees and began beating at the dirt. “Moya docha!”

  “He cries for Natalia,” Karshchov said piteously. “How terrible for him and me both.”

  “Natalia!” Gavin exclaimed. “What happened to her?”

  “The villains took her away!” Karshchov yelled. Now he started to cry, his sobbing uncontrollable for long moments. “They took her away with the others!”

  Gavin, extremely upset, used the extra minutes to regain his own composure. When he spoke, he did it in controlled tones, holding down his feelings.

  “Now please explain to me what the Indians looked like. That way we can determine which tribe committed the outrage.”

  “Indians?” Karshchov said. “They were not Indians, Lieutenant MacRoss! They were white men and black men and brown men all dressed like you.”

  “Like us?” Gavin asked. “They were soldiers?”

  “You are not dressed like soldiers,” Karshchov said. Douglas leaned tow
ard Gavin. “Remember, sir. We ain’t in uniform.”

  “Yes,” Karshchov said. “They looked like you, but they had no sabers or army saddles. These were bandits and murderers. They showed no mercy. Even children and babies were killed by those knaves!”

  Gavin looked back at Douglas. “Who the hell could they be? I know of no outlaw gangs operating out here. There are no trains or banks to rob.”

  “I can’t figger it out either, sir,” Douglas said. “What would such frontier riffraff be doing wandering around a wild, unsettled area peopled by hostile Indians?”

  Suddenly Gavin’s face went pale. He grabbed the sergeant’s sleeve and looked into his eyes. “Wait a minute! I can’t believe they’ve come this far north.”

  “What are you talking about, sir?” Douglas asked. “Do you know who those son of a bitches might be?”

  “I know exactly who they are,” Gavin said. “They are the worst! The very worst! God damn their souls to hell!”

  Douglas, knowing the lieutenant’s distress was something to take seriously, almost shouted when he asked, “Who the hell are they?”

  Gavin took a deep breath. “Comancheros!”

  Nine

  The shocked and frightened prisoners endured rough treatment as their captors prodded them along. Although curses and insults were bellowed at them to pick up the pace, none understood the words. Even Natalia Valenko, closely attended to by Irena Yakubovski, could not understand the vulgarities in the shouts. The young noblewoman’s education in English did not include swear words. But the physical abuse crossed any language barriers between the two groups.

  The captives were a mixed lot of men, women and even a few older children. A couple of the males limped from wounds suffered in the raid against their new settlement while others displayed slight injuries that needed tended to.

  The prisoners were closely guarded and surrounded by a large crowd of motley men who kept them stumbling toward the south. Although wild-looking, these sentries had an organization that seemed to be held together by a loose, but strictly enforced discipline. Each individual was nearly fanatic in attending to the duty of making sure none of the unfortunate Russians were able to escape. Constant vigilance, punctuated with shoves and kicks, appeared to be the order of the day.