“Our warriors are scattered, on their way back to the village,” Brave Elk replied. “By the time we gathered them again, we could never catch the soldiers before they reached the fort.”
“I am going alone,” Bloody Hand said. “Maybe I will catch the coyote away from the soldiers. He seems to ride out far from the others.”
Having known Bloody Hand since they were both boys, Brave Elk knew there was no changing his friend’s mind once it was set on something. He was concerned that Bloody Hand might do something foolish in his passion to kill the scout that might cost him his life. “I will go with you,” he said.
Robert Wilson walked out of the barn and stood staring toward the section across the creek where his sons, James and John were working to clear a few acres of sage. Might be a waste of time, he thought. The soil was pretty dry and poor. At least he had recovered the mule after the Indians had made off with his cow. That was something else to think about. He had to have a cow, and there were not many places to get one. I guess I’ll have to go into Dodge and see if I can trade for one with some of the folks on their way west. He shook his head at the thought. Dodge wasn’t that far away, but he seldom left his farm to go anywhere. It wasn’t often he saw strangers out his way as well.
Two hours earlier the cavalry patrol had stopped to water their horses in the creek on their way back to Fort Dodge—two of the soldiers were riding double. The lieutenant—Robert couldn’t remember his name—told him of their encounter with the Cheyenne war party and told him he should be on the alert for any more signs of Indian activity. Be on the alert, Robert thought. What the hell does that mean? What could he do against a bunch of savages that were too much for a cavalry patrol to handle? The lieutenant suggested that he might consider taking his family to the fort for a while until the army could do something to stop the raiding. “Hell, I can’t do that. Who’s gonna take care of my farm?”
“Who are you talking to?” Ruth Wilson asked, coming from the house.
“Nobody,” Robert snorted, “just talkin’ to myself.”
“You’ve been out in the sun too long,” she teased. “Where’s your hat?”
The smile on her face froze in the next instant when her husband staggered backward with the sudden impact of an arrow embedded in his chest. Paralyzed by the sight, she was unable to move as she witnessed a second arrow, this one in Robert’s stomach. Still unable to move, she screamed as he sank to his knees, his eyes glazed, stunned by the two shafts protruding from his body. “Ruth, run!” he managed to gasp.
Finally shaken from the terrible image that had rendered her helpless, she thought of the shotgun inside the door of the house, and ran to get it, screaming for her sons as she fled. A blow from Brave Elk’s war ax as he stepped from the corner of the house sent her crashing to the ground only a few steps before reaching the door.
Across the creek, James and his brother, hearing their mother’s screams, grabbed their bush axes and came running. With his rifle still strapped to his back, Bloody Hand notched another arrow and drew it back, waiting for the two boys to reach the creek. James, in the lead, was struck by the first arrow as Bloody Hand notched a second. Still frustrated by his failure to catch up to the cavalry patrol before they were close to Fort Dodge, and the lack of opportunity to catch Coyote alone, he had a need to vent his fury on someone. John was the only one left to satisfy the warrior’s blood lust. “Let him come!” he shouted to Brave Elk, who was in the process of drawing his bow. Then he stepped out of the shadow of the barn to meet the charging young boy head-on, his bow and rifle aside, his knife in hand. It was hardly a contest, more aptly resembling a slaughter. Brave Elk, aware of his friend’s need to kill with his knife and hands, stood by, watching as Bloody Hand deftly dodged the bush ax John swung at him, then struck lightning fast with his knife in the boy’s gut. Screaming in pain, John was helpless as the muscular warrior lifted him off the ground by the knife in his stomach. Holding him over his head with both hands, Bloody Knife roared out his war cry, then slammed the body to the ground, where he withdrew his knife and took the boy’s scalp.
Feeling somewhat appeased, but by no means satisfied, Bloody Hand joined Brave Elk in the scalping of the woman and the other boy, putting them out of their misery only after they had been scalped. They didn’t bother with the father since he was bald and apparently already dead. “Leave the arrows,” Bloody Hand said, “so the soldiers will know who did this.” Then they made a quick search of the house, looking for guns and ammunition before setting it ablaze. Not waiting to watch it burn, they jumped on their ponies and galloped away, unaware of the lone witness to the massacre.
Lying flat on his belly behind a scrub oak at the crest of a low ridge more than two hundred yards away, Ned Spikes watched the bloody scene being played out at the farm by the creek. Afraid at first that he had stumbled into a Cheyenne war party, he resisted the natural urge to run, and stayed to observe the raid. He was unwilling to believe there were only two Indians in the raiding party, but after lying there for the entire slaughter, he realized there were no more. So he remained where he was and waited while the family was murdered. When the warriors went into the house, he muttered, “Don’t set it on fire. There might be somethin’ in there I can use.” In a few minutes, when he saw smoke curling up from the window, he uttered an oath. “Damn.” He was gratified, however, to see the two hostiles immediately jump on their horses and leave.
Afraid to rush down to the farm immediately, in case the two decided to return, he procrastinated for several minutes, weighing the danger of it against the possibility of salvaging something before the fire destroyed everything. With greed the deciding factor, he got on his horse and rode down to the farmyard. He paused momentarily to survey the death scene, noting the bodies lying in the dust of the yard. Starting then to continue to the burning house, he stopped when he heard a moan from Robert Wilson. Dismounting, Ned went to the wounded man and knelt beside him.
“Help me,” Robert murmured.
Ned took a look at the two arrows protruding from Robert’s body and shook his head. “You’re dyin’, mister, sure as hell. The rest of your family is already dead.” He lifted the doomed man’s head so he could look directly into his eyes. “Now there ain’t no reason to take any secrets to the grave with you. If you got some money hid in that house somewhere, you might as well tell me where it is.”
“No money.” Robert groaned. “For God’s sake, help me.”
“It ain’t gonna buy you nothin’ when you get to hell,” Ned persisted. “Might as well tell me where it is.” When Robert slowly shook his head without replying, Ned shrugged. “I’ll help you on your way.” With that, he pulled his knife from its sheath, and in one quick motion, cut Robert’s throat from ear to ear. “Now let’s see if there’s anything in that damn house I can use.”
Chapter 5
“I don’t wanna go to any old dance,” Emma Lawton complained as her mother tied the sash on the little girl’s dress.
“It’ll be fun,” Sarah promised. “We’ll meet some of the other families. They might have children your age.”
“I wish Will would come back,” Emma said.
“I’d like to see Will again, too,” her mother said, “but I wouldn’t count on it if I were you. He’s busy scouting for the army and I’m sure he’d visit if he was anywhere near here. But I doubt that will happen. Now, let me look at you.” She held Emma at arm’s length and smiled proudly. “Just as pretty as a picture,” she said. As much as her daughter, Sarah missed the soft-spoken rider of the wilderness. In the few short days they had spent together on the journey to Fort Dodge she had developed a dependence upon his strength as well as a trust in his character. She had told herself that it was a natural feeling toward anyone who had saved her life and that of her child, unwilling to admit to herself that it might go deeper than that.
Looking over her mother’s shoulder as Sarah knelt before her, Emma announced, “Mama, there’s a soldier coming.”
Sarah turned to see a young officer striding confidently toward her wagon. Resplendent in his dress uniform, and walking as if on parade, the lieutenant hastened to offer his assistance when Sarah climbed down, wondering about the purpose of his call. “Lieutenant Braxton Bradley, ma’am, at your service. I’ve come to escort you and your daughter to the dance,” he proclaimed as introduction.
Properly impressed, Sarah was surprised, unaware that an escort would be arranged for her and Emma. It was obviously more of Edna Boyles’ arrangements. The sergeant-major’s wife had been a frequent visitor the past few days, sometimes accompanied by one of the officers’ wives, as they did their best to make Sarah feel that she was not alone. “How do you do?” Sarah politely replied. “I must say, this is quite a surprise, one I hadn’t expected.” She then introduced her daughter to the lieutenant, and for the child’s benefit, he gallantly took Emma’s hand, bowed and kissed it. His act had the desired effect upon the six-year-old, causing her to giggle with delight.
When Sarah ventured to speculate that the lieutenant must have been detailed to escort her by Edna Boyle, Braxton replied, “Not at all, ma’am. In fact, I requested the honor myself.”
Not certain what she should make of that, Sarah hesitated to respond. “Well, Emma and I appreciate your kindness,” she finally managed. “Don’t we, honey?”
The evening proved to be a much- needed tonic for Sarah. She didn’t realize how much until she found herself laughing happily and clapping her hands in the Virginia reel, and whirling merrily in Braxton’s arms when they waltzed. Lieutenant Braxton Bradley was more than convincing in his role as the perfect escort, and as the evening matured, she learned a great deal about the bachelor officer from Philadelphia, his ambitions, and his hopes. Sarah could not help herself from admiring his jet-black hair that framed his perfectly proportioned face to form a classic profile as he guided Emma through the steps of a reel. It was not until the dance was over and she was saying her good-byes to the other ladies who had made her feel so welcome that she suddenly was visited by a wave of guilt. She had no right to be enjoying herself and should have been wearing black instead of the print dress she had on—with Edward so recently departed. But she didn’t even have a black dress, she told herself. She immediately vowed to be more mindful of the respect she owed her late husband’s memory. But then Braxton strode across the dance floor to walk her home, and his infectious smile made her forget her guilt.
During the walk back to her wagon, under a clear night sky filled with stars, he asked about her future plans. She confided that she had chosen to return to Westport simply because she didn’t know what else to do. “I don’t know anyone in Santa Fe, and at this point, I cannot say I have any definite plans once I return to Westport. Obviously, I can’t stay here. Emma and I have a wagon and two horses, some household possessions, and that’s all.” She hesitated then, realizing she was baring her soul to the lieutenant. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you with my troubles.”
He seemed genuinely interested. When he had seen her and Emma safely back to the wagon, she extended her hand and thanked him on behalf of her daughter and herself for sacrificing his evening to provide an escort for them. He took her hand, then asked if he could see her again. Later, when Emma was asleep, she would question her reason for saying yes in answer to Braxton’s request. It seemed innocent enough when he asked, and she felt it impolite to tell him no. But now she had doubts. Was it wrong? She wasn’t sure. Oh, Edward , she sighed inwardly, please don’t think harshly of me. She lay awake for a long while, laboring with the guilt with which she now chose to burden herself—guilt for having enjoyed the evening immensely, and for a time, forgetting that she was recently widowed. I’ll worry about it some other time, she decided, closed her eyes and tried to sleep. But sleep did not come easily, for she could not escape the sobering knowledge that she had no skills to sustain her daughter and herself beyond those that involved being a wife and mother. And without a husband, those skills were useless. With Edward so recently in the grave, she was not ready to entertain thoughts of someday marrying again. And yet she knew that she might have to ignore her feelings and do what was best for Emma.
“Well, I’ll be damned . . . ,” Ben Clarke blurted when Will ambled into headquarters at Camp Supply. “I thought you were dead. What’s it been since you left here? Ten days?”
“Nine,” Will corrected. “I’ve got some dispatches here for the colonel.”
“Nine, then,” Clarke replied. “It ain’t but ninety miles to Fort Dodge. What did you do, carry that horse on your back?”
“I ran into some trouble,” Will said. “Then I rode a piece with Lieutenant Bordeaux—helped him with a little scoutin’ on the way back—they’ve had some trouble with Cheyenne raidin’ parties pretty close in to the fort. When I was done with that, I came on back here with dispatches from Fort Dodge.” He didn’t feel it necessary to go into greater detail about the skirmish with Bloody Hand’s Cheyenne war party, or his encounter on the Cimarron and Sarah Lawton.
Clarke studied his best scout thoughtfully as Will explained his reason for delay. “Well,” he said, after thinking it over for a moment, “there wasn’t much goin’ on here, anyway.” In fact, the only troop action scheduled for the next couple of days was a routine patrol south of the post, and the officer in command was to be Lieutenant Lyman Bridges. Two scouts, Bill Bellmer and Cody Johnson, had already been assigned. He could send Will along as well, but the lieutenant was still a little chafed over his most recent confrontation with the independent scout. “All right,” he said, “Lieutenant Bridges is leadin’ a patrol out toward Wolf Creek. Bellmer and Johnson are goin’ with him. You can go with them.” He paused to watch Will’s facial reaction, but there was none. He continued. “Or you can ride dispatch again back to Fort Dodge.” This time he thought he detected a hint of relief in Will’s face.
“I expect I’ll ride dispatch,” Will said without hesitation.
“I thought you might,” Clarke said, suppressing a grin. “First thing in the mornin’, then.” Amused by the scout’s anticipated response in order to avoid riding with Bridges, Clarke was not aware that Will’s decision was weighted more toward riding to Fort Dodge for another opportunity to see Sarah. Will was reluctant to admit that to himself, and more inclined to credit his dislike for the lieutenant with his decision to ride dispatch.
“Howdy, stranger,” Mickey Bledsoe sang out when Will walked into the saloon. “Where’ve you been? I thought the Injuns mighta got hold of your scalp.”
Will grinned and replied, “I’ve been up to Dodge for a spell, just waitin’ till I could get back to drink some of your watered-down poison.”
His remark was easily overheard in the compact saloon by the couple seated at one of the three tables in the tent. Her back to the bar, Lula turned to verify the voice she thought she recognized. Seeing that it was, indeed, the tall, rugged scout, she moved her chair around to get a better view, a move that seemed to irritate the soldier who had been plying her with Mickey’s alcohol for the past half hour. “I knew you couldn’t stay away for long,” she called out.
“Hello, Lula,” he replied, glancing her way for only a second. It would have been impossible to miss the couple at the table when he first walked in. And even though her back was to the door, Lula was easily identified by the expansive behind filling the chair. He also caught the deep scowl of irritation on her companion’s face, and in view of that, decided it best to turn his focus back to Mickey. Lula, however, was not content to let it go with nothing more than a nod in her direction. She had long envisioned a conquest of the untamed young scout, and was willing to jeopardize a sure three-dollar transaction to pursue one that she might not even charge for.
The slighted corporal was not at all pleased with her attention to the civilian scout, and grabbing her arm, pulled her roughly back around in her chair. “By God,” he swore, “I’m the one’s been buyin’ you drinks here. And I’m t
hinkin’ you oughta have enough in you by now to get you primed. Let’s go in the back and have a tussle while I’ve still got enough money left to pay for it.”
Being a businesswoman, Lula decided she really couldn’t afford to lose the corporal’s money, so she tried to work the two parties to accomplish both goals. “Don’t get cross with me, darlin’,” she cooed. “I’m just sayin’ hello to an old friend. You’re gonna get your ride. Why don’t you go on back in the room, and I’ll be there in a little ol’ minute.”
“Hell, I will,” the soldier spat. “We’ll go back there together, and I mean right now!”
“All right, honey,” Lula quickly replied, trying to control his agitation, “we’ll go now. I’ll just speak to my friend on the way. All right?”
“I’ll be damned,” the corporal responded, got to his feet, and pulled her up from her chair.
Aware of the altercation at the table, both Mickey and Will chose not to notice as long as the situation did not get out of hand. Will had no interest in anything Lula had to offer, and at the moment, wished that he had not teased her before. He had to wonder whether he might have eventually succumbed to Lula’s advances when the tensions below his belt became too severe if he had not met Sarah Lawton. He was reluctant to admit that she had been in his thoughts more than he felt healthy. One thing her acquaintance had done, however, was to make him realize the difference between the rough camp followers he had been exposed to and the Sarah Lawtons of the world. He was suddenly struck with a strong urge to see Sarah and Emma again and the thought of it prompted him to say to Mickey, “I’ll just have a couple of short ones, and then I’ll be on my way. I’m leavin’ early in the mornin’.”
War Cry Page 7
