War Cry

by Charles G. West

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Teaser chapter

  NO KINDNESS GOES UNREWARDED

  Will watched as they continued across his field of fire until he realized they were intent upon retrieving the body of the one he had killed. He would chastise himself later for being softhearted, but he decided to let them pick up the body and leave.

  He got up from behind the tree and stood watching as Brave Elk handed his reins to the wounded warrior and lifted the corpse up onto the pony’s back. Sure would be a clear shot, Will thought, but he stuck by his decision. The warrior who did the lifting looked familiar. Stepping clear of the tree when he realized Brave Elk was looking back at him, Will felt that the Cheyenne warrior was silently expressing his thanks and understanding of the respect shown by his white enemy. Will was sure the warrior valued the gesture to hold fire so he could recover his dead companion—until the Indian suddenly raised his rifle and fired. Will jumped back behind the tree as Brave Elk’s bullet ripped a piece of bark from the trunk. “Why, you son of a bitch!”

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  First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,

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  First Printing, August 2010

  Copyright © Charles G. West, 2010

  eISBN : 978-1-101-19824-7

  REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  For Ronda

  Chapter 1

  Will Cason was not averse to a friendly drink at Mickey Bledsoe’s saloon when he felt the need. Mickey’s establishment was less than a hundred yards outside Camp Supply’s perimeter. It was not the only saloon that had sprung up like a summer weed as soon as the fort was built. There were several more, but Will usually patronized Mickey’s. It was the favorite of most of the civilian scouts as well as a good many enlisted men. It never ceased to amaze him how the building of a new outpost caused an immediate swarm of saloons, prostitutes, and gamblers to descend like flies around a cow pie. This post in the northwestern part of Indian Territory, in what was called the Cherokee Outlet, was built on the North Canadian River to supply troops scheduled to participate in the winter campaign of 1868-1869 against those bands of Indians still resisting efforts to move them to the reservation. Most of the saloons were actually tents. Some, such as Mickey’s, had add-on shacks made of logs, with plans to build permanent structures that would be sufficient to house the soiled doves that followed the military.

  On this hot, dry afternoon in July, Will was idly passing the time with one of those doves, a solidly built woman of indeterminate age named Lula, when Ben Clarke, chief scout at Camp Supply, walked in. Will had expected him to show up. He had enjoyed only two drinks—not enough for Lula to start looking desirable. Some of the soldiers at the post complained that by the time a man had downed enough whiskey to transform Lula into an attractive woman, they were too drunk to do anything about it. Will was of a mind that this was a bit too harsh on Lula. She was a hardworking girl with a good heart who was just trying to earn a living with the only tools God had given her. Over the years those tools may have become worn and dulled, but they were well padded enough to offer comfort to all in need—and in possession of three dollars.

  As usual, Will had no thoughts beyond conversation with the hard-drinking damsel, although Lula may have had a more intimate agenda in mind. Always soliciting business, Lula was ready to shower her attention on any male who wandered into the saloon. But when it came to Will Cason, her interest in the free-spirited army scout was genuine. Maybe it was because, while he always enjoyed teasing her, he had never actually availed himself of her services. Possibly it was more than that. Tall and rangy, he moved in an easy manner that brought to mind the sleek motions of a mountain lion, with a ready smile for his friends that looked somehow out of place on his ruggedly handsome face—a face usually shaved clean, Indian style.

  “I thought I might find you here,” Ben Clarke said as he moved up beside Will and gestured to Mickey to pour him a drink. “I’ve got a little job for you.” With only mild interest, Will acknowledged with a nod and a smile, and waited for Ben to elaborate. “The Seventh is gonna stay here at Supply for at least another week and the colonel’s got some dispatches that gotta go to Fort Dodge—and I wanted to catch you before you drank so much of Mickey’s rotgut you couldn’t ride.” Will responded with an amused grunt. It was not the topic he had expected to discuss with the chief scout. Clarke continued. “You need to ride out first thing in the mornin’.”

  “I was about ready to wind this up, anyway,” Will said, giving Lula a wink, whereupon the buxom lady puckered her lips in a little pout to express her disappointment. “I was beginnin’ to get a bit rusty, settin’ around on my ass for so long.”

  The remark was delivered with a hint of sarcasm, which was not lost on Clarke. He was well aware that Will had just gotten in late the night before after leading a scouting party to Antelope Hills. But the colonel said the dispatches were important and requested Clarke to pick a good man to deliver them. And in Clarke’s opinion, there was no man better than Will Cason, although that was not his primary motive for sending Will. “I know you’ve been rode hard for the last couple of days,” he said, “but I need a man I can trust to get them dispatches to Fort Dodge.”

  “You’re the boss,” Will said, although he suspected Clarke had another reason for se
nding him off for a few days. “I’ll be ready to ride at sunup.” Turning to Lula then, he gave her a dismissive pat on her broad backside and teased, “You’ll wait for me, won’t you, darlin’?”

  “Talk—just talk,” Lula said with a snort, and turned to go to her wagon, which was parked behind Mickey’s shed. “Just like all men,” they heard her say as she walked out the door. Will was not even vaguely aware of the special attraction the jaded prostitute had for him. He thought that she just enjoyed the good-natured banter between them.

  The three men laughed. “ ’Preciate it, Will,” Ben Clarke said. “You’d best pick up the supplies you’ll need this afternoon.”

  “Reckon so,” Will replied. After settling up with Mickey for his whiskey, he followed Ben outside, figuring his boss had more to say.

  Pausing with his hand on his saddle horn, Ben delivered the lecture Will expected. “You’re the best damn scout I’ve got,” he started. “But, dammit, sometimes you make it mighty damn hard to keep me from firin’ your ass.”

  Will shrugged and replied, “I reckon Bridges didn’t waste any time bellyachin’ to the colonel.”

  “Hell, you shoulda known he wouldn’t,” Ben said.

  “I just told him I wasn’t hired on to be no orderly to no damn wet-behind-the-ears lieutenant,” Will said.

  “Yeah, well, I reckon you coulda told him in an easier way,” Ben said. Then, unable to suppress an amused smile, he went on. “Anyway, that ain’t no way to talk to an officer, so I think it’s best if you’re out of his sight for a while—long enough for him to cool down.”

  Will appreciated the confidence that Ben had in him, but he had hoped to get a few days off before being sent out on another patrol—that is, providing he wasn’t fired for insubordination. He never minded riding dispatch. It would afford him the opportunity for a couple of days away from greenhorn lieutenants. And what the hell, he thought, I won’t be herding a troop of soldiers. The patrol he had just guided had been under the command of Lieutenant Lyman Bridges, an officer he wasn’t partial to. The lieutenant was a brash young man, just recently assigned to the Seventh Cavalry and still primed with the sense of superiority instilled in him at the military academy at West Point. The major point of discord between Will and Bridges, other than the lieutenant’s obsession with military protocol, was the young officer’s assumption that Will answered to him just like any soldier in his command. Consequently, their relationship had started off on the wrong foot. Will had very few possessions, but among them his pride and sense of independence were foremost. He worked for the army on his terms, reserving the right to express his opinion if he was ordered to do something that didn’t make sense to him—or something that he didn’t feel was in his job description.

  Such was the case on the recently completed patrol when, after going into camp on the Washita River, Bridges suggested that Will could help set up the lieutenant’s tent. Will responded—courteously, he thought—that his job was as a guide and scout, and the lieutenant should assign that chore to one of his troopers. Somewhat taken aback, Bridges had then ordered Will to do as he was told—whereupon Will suggested a place he might stick his tent. Properly enraged, Bridges threatened to have Will court-martialed, causing Will to remind the young officer that he was a civilian. He might be able to get him fired, he told him, but that was about all. Bridges promised him that it was as good as done.

  Ben Clarke could have sent any of a number of scouts to Fort Dodge with dispatches. Will could only imagine how hard he must have argued to save his job. He couldn’t help but smile when he pictured the chief scout pleading his case to save his neck. He must have convinced the colonel that he needed me, Will thought. Then I reckon he decided it best that Bridges doesn’t have to look at me for a few days. Lieutenant Bridges might turn into a good officer once he was seasoned a bit, but Will felt reasonably sure he wouldn’t be requested to scout for him anytime soon. I guess I owe Ben one for saving my job, though.

  The big bay on the far side of the corral lifted his head and whinnied softly as Will approached. “Morning, boy,” Will called, and the gelding left the other horses grouped near the horse trough and plodded toward the gate. Named Spades for the spade straight that won Will the horse in a poker game, the six-year-old had become more like family than a working horse. Spades had delivered him out of more than one touchy situation when speed and stamina were called for to save his master’s bacon.

  After saddling his horse, Will swung by the headquarters building and picked up the dispatches. He wasted a few minutes’ time talking to the company clerk before setting out for Fort Dodge, happy to be away from the army for a few days. The Sully Trail, named after Colonel Alfred Sully, who laid it out, was the commonly used trail between Camp Supply and Fort Dodge. Nobody knew the country better than Will Cason, however, so he intended to save at least twenty miles by taking another route through Devil’s Gap, across Buffalo Creek, and on to the Cimarron near the confluence with Bluff Creek, from there to Fort Dodge. It was the less-traveled route, and rugged, with no real trail established, but he had gone that way before and it shortened the trip by almost a full day.

  There had been reports of raiding by Comanche as well as Cheyenne war parties earlier in the summer, but things had been pretty quiet for the past few weeks, so he didn’t expect to run into any trouble. Of course, it was just good sense to be on the lookout for it anytime you rode anywhere in the Cherokee Strip. Recent treaties signed with peaceful chiefs of the Southern Cheyenne had caused a split within that nation when a number of the younger warriors refused to go to the reservation. Roman Nose, principal among these hostiles, had attracted great numbers of warriors to his band, and they raided ranches and farms in the territory and attacked a stagecoach now and then. The fabled Cheyenne war leader was never hesitant to attack military forces, as well, but his propensity for daring attacks had led to his death at Beecher Island on the Arickaree River in September a year before. His death was a major blow to the Cheyenne, but Will knew that with the rapid disappearance of the buffalo in what was once Cheyenne hunting grounds, these raids were bound to continue. There was little he could do about it, so he didn’t spend a lot of thought on the subject. Take care of my ass was his creed, and all he needed to do that was a good horse, his repeating Henry rifle, and his .44 revolver.

  This principle had stood him well since he had left his home in Missouri at the age of thirteen. His father, a man he worshiped, had fallen off a wild bronc and broken his neck when Will was eleven. His mother, a handsome woman, had remained a widow for only a year before marrying a prominent lawyer and moving to the bustling town of Independence. Will endured the strict regimen of Gordon B. Wallace’s household for a year after that before hopping a ride west with a mule skinner named Seth Parker. He had been his own man ever since, doing whatever he had to in order to survive, occasionally on the wrong side of the law, but only when desperation drove him to it. At a young age, he wound up in Indian Territory, living with a Choctaw family until he signed on as a scout with Ben Clarke. Now at the ripe old age of twenty-seven, he was wondering whether he should try his hand at some other profession. He hadn’t a clue what that might be. Maybe, he thought, I’ll think on it some when I get back from Fort Dodge.

  Chapter 2

  Ned Spikes’ upper lip curled up to form a sneer when he turned to see Edward Lawton approaching as he unsaddled his horse for the night. I should have shot the son of a bitch as soon as we left the Arkansas, he thought, but he managed to fashion a crooked smile for Lawton’s benefit. “I hope your missus is about ready to cook us some supper,” he said.

  Ignoring Ned’s attempt to steer him off his intended subject, Edward jumped right into his complaint. “Ned, I’m finding it hard to believe you really know where you’re leading us. We’ve been traveling straight south for days now, when it seems we should be heading back to the west.”

  “Well, now, Mr. Lawton,” Ned replied, affecting a look of injury, “I swear it grieves
me to think you ain’t got no faith in me no more.” He pulled the saddle off his spotted gray gelding and dropped it to the ground. “Like I told you before, we have to give Fort Dodge a wide berth. They’re still actin’ like the Injuns are raidin’, so they won’t let nobody pass on through Dodge unless they’re with a wagon train. And you’re the one that said you was in a hurry to get to Santa Fe.”

  “That may be true,” Edward insisted, having heard that story too many times, “but we’ve been heading south for days. Fort Dodge must be fifty miles or more north of us now.”

  “Yeah, but they got them patrols, you see,” Ned quickly responded. “They’re always ridin’ around lookin’ for Injuns that ain’t there, and ain’t been there for over a year. And if we ran into ’em, why, they’d escort us right back to Dodge, and then where would you be?” He shrugged dismissively. “Besides, I’m takin’ you on a shortcut.”

  Unsure what he could do about the situation, and absolutely lost in this country of rolling prairies, Edward knew he was at a distinct disadvantage. He was sure of only one thing—that he no longer trusted the man to do as he had been contracted to do. To make matters worse, Sarah had complained to him that she was uncomfortable with the way Ned had seemed to be leering at her the past few days. All Edward knew now was that he wished he had never listened to Ned Spikes back in Council Grove, and his only concern at this point was to get his wife and daughter back to some semblance of civilization. “Well, I hope you’re right about this shortcut,” he said, for lack of anything more forceful to say.

  “Nothin’ to worry about, Mr. Lawton,” Ned replied, and stood grinning at Edward’s back as he returned to the wagon. Just go on back to your pretty little wife, he thought. Ol’ Ned’s had about as much of you as he’s willing to put up with. He had tolerated Lawton longer than he had planned, but he had just gotten too lazy to go ahead and finish the job. He figured that he might as well let Lawton drive the wagon for him and let his wife do the cooking. As far as the young’un was concerned, he looked forward to slitting the sassy little brat’s throat. Her mother was a different story. Ned planned to keep her around for a while until his carnal needs were satisfied. Then she would get the same as her husband and daughter. Lawton was right about one thing, though—it was time to make his move, especially now that Lawton was openly questioning his ability to lead them. What he had told them about the lack of Indian war parties was an outright lie, and he was getting too deep into some dangerous country. Cheyenne raiding parties had been active along the Cimarron for the past six months, and he wasn’t comfortable with the Indian sign he had noticed at their most recent campsite. “It’s time to skin this possum,” he muttered.