War Cry

by Charles G. West

  The trail was easy enough to follow, tracks of sixteen shod horses galloping toward a ravine in the hills a few hundred yards away. According to Collins, his company commander had spotted the hostiles, and said they were no more than a dozen. Looking ahead toward the hills, Will thought to himself that, if they were armed, it would not have taken many to ambush a hard- riding cavalry detachment intent upon running them to ground. He was not surprised to find his speculations were right, for they came upon the mutilated bodies of fifteen soldiers just inside the ravine. The one dead horse was identified as Lieutenant Bradley’s, but the lieutenant’s body was not among those of the other soldiers.

  “They took him captive,” Collins said as he stepped up beside Will.

  “Looks that way,” Will replied while still staring down at Bradley’s horse.

  “Why would they kill these men, but take Bradley captive?”

  “Hard to say,” Will responded, still sorting out his feelings on the matter. “Who knows why they sometimes take hostages and other times they just kill ’em?” He gave the lieutenant a sideways glance and added, “Probably because he was an officer.”

  It was a tough decision for the lieutenant to make, having been ordered to find the detail and return as quickly as possible. He stood gazing toward the upper end of the ravine, where the tracks led away from the ambush, weighing the odds of whether Lieutenant Bradley was still alive. He knew it was only a matter of time before Bradley was dead, and it might have already happened. Thinking of the men he was now responsible for, he was not eager to lead them into the hills after the Cheyenne hostiles for fear of another ambush. He took one more look at the foreboding hills before giving the order to load the bodies on their horses and return at once to the regiment, leaving Will still searching his conscience for his personal decision.

  His mind was churning with thoughts of Sarah, trying to imagine how she might react to news that Braxton was presumed dead. Had she known the lieutenant long enough to be devastated by his death? Possibly, he allowed, she might come to him for consolation. He could live with the knowledge he was second choice, he told himself. Maybe over time she would come to genuinely love him. He was almost certain that he was Emma’s choice, if that was a factor in her decision. He was still sitting there, deep in his thoughts, when the bodies of the slain were draped behind the saddles of fifteen of Collins’ detail, and they prepared to ride.

  “Well, I guess that’s about all we can do for them,” the lieutenant said, and waited for Will to turn his horse toward the village.

  Will remained motionless for another few moments. “I ain’t goin’ back,” he announced quietly. “I’m goin’ after Lieutenant Bradley.” In spite of all the thinking he had done to the contrary, he knew what he had to do—for Sarah. Bradley was her choice and he owed it to her to find out what happened to her fiancé. Dead or alive, she deserved to know for sure.

  “Hell, man,” Collins exclaimed, “there’s more than a few hostiles that got away from that village, and this bunch that took Bradley are armed with army carbines. Going after them alone isn’t the smartest thing a man could do. They’re bound to join up with the others.” He continued to search the stoic scout’s face for a moment, thinking the man was judging his courage. “Listen, I’m not saying I’m a special friend of Braxton Bradley’s. We didn’t have much in common, but, dammit, he’s a fellow officer and I’d lead this patrol after him if I thought there was a reasonable chance he’s still alive—and I was halfway confident I wasn’t endangering more lives.”

  Will dismissed the lieutenant’s concern with a casual shake of his head. “It would be a mistake for you to trot these soldiers after them,” he said. “You’re most likely right about what you’d run into. Ambushin’ is how those Cheyennes make a livin’. I’ll do better by myself. I don’t plan on lettin’ ’em see me.”

  Somewhat mollified, Collins nodded vigorously. “You’re sure you wanna do this?” When Will assured him that he did, the lieutenant said, “All right, then. I’ll tell the colonel what you’re planning to do. I don’t know what he’ll say about it.”

  “I don’t reckon it’s up to him to say one way or the other,” Will replied as he turned Spades’ head toward the upper end of the ravine. “I’ll be seein’ you, Lieutenant.”

  One of the men who had been listening to the exchange between the lieutenant and the scout turned in his saddle to watch Will ride off up the head of the ravine. “That’ll be the last we see of him,” he commented to anyone interested as Will disappeared over the top of the ridge.

  Braxton stumbled, almost falling as he fought to stay on his feet when Bloody Hand yanked the reins around his neck. Staggering along doggedly, his right arm hanging limp at his side, the blood from his shoulder drying now to form a sticky red film down his arm and over his fingers, he knew to fall would be his end. The muscular Indian would drag him to death. His boots, made for riding, were rubbing his heels raw, but the blisters went unnoticed as he struggled to keep from falling. In a few brief moments, his world had been turned inside out. He could not have imagined that he would ever find himself in such desperate circumstances. These savages held no respect for him as an officer, and he was terrified by the feeling that his death could come at any instant, depending on the whim of the fearsome warrior leading him by a leash. Could he possibly hope that Evans would send the entire company to rescue him? Even if the troops suddenly appeared, it would be a sentence of death for him, for he was sure he would be immediately killed. Still, he held on to the hope that he would somehow live, although it made no sense to think it. Foremost in his mind was the thought that it would have been more merciful had they killed him with his men. His fearsome captor seemed to promise as much with his insolent gaze.

  Well into the afternoon the party of hostiles continued until finally they stopped to rest the horses at a small stream that seemed to come from nowhere to bubble up in the midst of a stand of willows. He was certain he could not have walked another step had they not stopped where they did. As soon as Bloody Hand dismounted, Braxton slumped to the ground exhausted. He was immediately rewarded with a kick in the back and told to get to his feet. Struggling to all fours, he grabbed the slender trunk of a small willow and painfully pulled himself to a standing position. His performance was met with laughter and derision. “The old women in our village could walk farther than that and not be tired,” Brave Elk said. “When are you going to kill him?” Braxton did not know the language, so he didn’t know what was said, but he had a strong feeling that they were discussing his execution.

  “I don’t know,” Bloody Hand replied. “He amuses me. I don’t have a dog, so maybe now I do. I will keep him a while longer.” Then to Braxton, he spoke in English. “You will be my dog. If you are a good dog, I will beat you only a little.”

  “I am an officer of the U.S. Army,” Braxton started, but that was as far as he got before Bloody Hand cuffed him hard across his face with the back of his hand.

  “Dogs do not talk!” Bloody Hand raged. “If this dog talks again, I’ll cut out his tongue.” Braxton sank back against the willow, longing to drop to the ground, but afraid to.

  They had nothing to eat except what little they found in the saddlebags, which consisted of some moldy hardtack and a small quantity of bacon. After consuming that, they rested only a little longer before setting out to the north again in search of other refugees from their village. Exhausted beyond rational thought, Braxton somehow managed to take one step after another, knowing to drop was to die. Later in the afternoon, they found a group of women and children, and a few old men, who had also started out for the Arapaho village—about twenty people in all. Their immediate reaction upon seeing Bloody Hand’s captive was to hurl anything that could be thrown at him, attacking him with sticks and dirt clods. Bloody Hand made no effort to stop it, letting it continue until the women grew tired from the effort. Not seriously injured, but sore and bloodied anew, Braxton protected himself as best he could by curli
ng up in as tight a ball as he could manage. Over the next couple of days he was to learn how much of this treatment he could stand and how long he could go without food.

  The combined group of refugees, with Bloody Hand as their leader, set out again for the Saline River, but upon reaching the site of the Arapaho village, they discovered that the village had gone. Perhaps word of the cavalry attack on the Cheyenne village had prompted the Arapahos to move farther north to prevent the same fate overtaking them. It was decided that they should continue north to strike the south fork of the Solomon, since tracks of the Arapaho village led that way.

  In need of food and rest for their people, the men decided to camp there for a day and a night to hunt for game. While they were there, a few more stragglers from the raid found their way to the camp. Bloody Hand and the dozen warriors in his party had arms and horses, so he sent out three groups of hunters to search for game. Brave Elk and one other backtracked on their trail to see if the soldiers had found the bodies of their comrades in the ravine and might now be following them. The prisoner was tied to a cottonwood and left with two small boys to watch him and give the alarm if he tried to escape. Braxton did not possess the strength or the will at that time to attempt anything. He was just grateful to be allowed to sit on the ground.

  It was a slow process trailing the Cheyenne. The trail was plain enough, but after leaving the hills, the terrain was open, undulating prairie where a man on a horse could be spotted from a great distance. Often he was forced to zigzag to make his way to a rise or ravine where he could take cover. He felt that for every mile he hung back, the Indians were gaining two. Just beyond a small plateau, he came upon a point where another group joined the one he was following. This group, however, was not on horseback. It stood to reason that this second group was most likely women and children who had escaped Colonel Arnold’s purge. It also figured that the combined group would slow down to accommodate the walkers. He took a good long look at the prairie before him to pick out the next possible point to take cover. He was about to nudge Spades to continue when he spotted two Indians on horseback at the top of a small hill. They were looking back over the way they had come. He held Spades back, fairly certain they had not seen him. When they turned and disappeared, he gave Spades his heels and headed for the hill. He continued trailing the hostiles in this fashion, from one vantage point to the next as the afternoon wore on. He would be happy to see the evening, for he intended to catch up to the Indians by riding at night.

  On into the night he rode, thinking that the Saline couldn’t be much farther away. In less than a quarter of an hour after thinking it, he saw the rosy glow on the horizon that told him he was nearing the river and the hostile camp. From the size of the glow, he figured that it came from one large fire. Eager to see whether Bradley was with them, he pushed onward, even more cautious now that he was so close. Approaching the river, he was glad to see that the party had crossed over to the other side to make their camp. It would make it easier for him to get closer since he would have the cover of the cottonwoods on the banks of the river. When within about fifty yards from the river, he paused for a long minute, carefully scanning the dark bluffs, looking for anyone acting as a sentinel. He saw no one, so he continued on to the bank. Evidently, the two scouts he had seen before had reported that the army was not following them. Once inside the tree line, he dismounted and dropped Spades’ reins to the ground.

  As he expected this late in the summer, the river was low, with tiny islands rising above the water line, covered with brush, and the current divided into separate streams. It would almost be possible to walk across except for the main channel. Making his way to a sand spit near the middle of the river, he paused for a while to listen to the sounds from the Cheyenne camp. So far, there were no shouts of alarm indicating that he had been spotted, so he waded across the waist-deep channel, holding his rifle and cartridge belt over his head. Although close to the camp, he could not really see it from the riverbed, so he crawled up the bank until he could clearly see the circle around the big fire they had built.

  At first there was no sign of a hostage, and he was about to decide that he had missed Bradley’s body somewhere along the trail he had followed. He was almost relieved to think he could now report to Sarah that her groom was dead, and he could remove himself from the potential danger he now faced from a dozen or more heavily armed hostiles. As he had figured, there were at least twenty or so men, women, and children who had joined with the warriors in this refugee camp. Most of them were gathered close to the fire, and it appeared that they had been fortunate to find game to kill, for the picked remains of two carcasses could be plainly seen from his vantage point. Well, I’d better get my ass outta here, he thought, and turned to slide back down the bank. At that moment, a group of small children just outside the fire’s glow caught his eye. They appeared to be involved in some sort of game. When one of them suddenly ran toward the fire, there was a space created, big enough to reveal someone lying on the ground. Pausing to take another look, he realized it was Braxton Bradley. Lying on his side with his hands and feet tied behind his back, the lieutenant was the focus of the children’s game.

  He is alive! The thought caused Will to hesitate for a long moment. He had fully expected to find Bradley’s corpse somewhere along the way, and he had persevered in following the hostiles so he could confirm the fact to Sarah. Then she could get on with her life without the nagging worry that he might be held captive somewhere. Now he had the responsibility of having to try to rescue Sarah’s fiancé. A helluva note, he thought, but I reckon I’ll have to try—sure as hell not for that snobbish son of a bitch. I’ll do it for Sarah and Whiskers.

  Although it was settled that he was going to do it, the question now was how was he going to do it? Bradley was just going to have to hold on until he saw an opportunity to get to him. He sure as hell couldn’t walk into an armed camp and shoot his way out. There were other things to consider. He didn’t know what kind of shape Bradley was in—if he was physically able to run if he was given the opportunity. Another matter was the acquisition of a horse. He didn’t like the notion of Spades carrying double with a gang of angry warriors chasing him. It’d be a helluva lot easier to tell Sarah her sweetheart was dead, he thought, without seriously thinking of that possibility.

  There was nothing to do now but wait until the camp turned in for the night, then see what his options were. It might be that there would be no chance to get to Bradley that night and he would be forced to withdraw and continue trailing them to the next camp. Will didn’t care much for that possibility, because he had a notion that this bunch was on their way to another village, maybe on the Solomon or farther still to the Republican—leading him deeper and deeper into hostile territory. “Damn!” he swore, just under his breath. A few moments later, he whirled around, ready to defend himself, when he heard a noise behind him. He was at once relieved to see Spades casually crossing the river to join him, evidently having heard him swear. “Dammit, horse, I wasn’t callin’ you,” he whispered. “You’re gettin’ more like a dog every day.” Maybe you’re just coming over to tell me to get a horse, he thought.

  With that thought in mind, he looked below the camp where he could see the cavalry horses bunched, their saddles still on. Helluva way to treat a horse, he thought, at the same time appreciating the fact that it would save him valuable minutes. There was no evidence of concern on the part of the Indians, for there was no one guarding the horses. Impatient to act, yet knowing that there was nothing he could do until the camp settled down to sleep, he walked Spades back across the river, found a place to secure the horse, and waited.

  It was not long before the camp grew quiet. The people who had walked were tired, and combined with their full stomachs, were ready to sleep. Some of the warriors remained around the fire for a time after that, then they too laid down to sleep. Apparently unconcerned about their prisoner, they left Bradley trussed up on the ground where he had been before. F
eeling it a mistake to act too soon, Will waited until he was reasonably sure all were asleep. “All right, boy,” he whispered to Spades, “it’s time to go to work.” Leading his horse down the river to a point opposite the cavalry horses, he crossed over and walked Spades toward them. Counting on the notion that the army mounts would not shy away from the smell of him or Spades, he led the bay into their midst. Had they been Indian ponies, they would most likely have scattered as he approached, fearful of the strange smell. As he suspected, they paid him no more than a mild curious concern. He took the reins of a sturdy-looking roan and quietly walked it and Spades back to the riverbank.

  He had stolen horses before. That was the easy part. Now came the part that could cost him his life. All it would take was for one awake person to bring the whole camp down on him—or one awake dog. While he had watched the camp before, he had not seen any dogs. That didn’t mean there weren’t any, but there was a pretty good chance that none had come with the people when they escaped. Leaving the horses below the bank, he crawled up to the top and paused there, watching to see whether anyone might have noticed. All was quiet, so he carefully rose to his feet. Still there was no outcry and no dogs. He looked at the still form of Braxton Bradley and thought to himself, If you’re dead, I’m gonna shoot you for my trouble. Walking as quietly and as casually as he could under the circumstances, he went directly to the trussed-up body lying only a dozen paces from a sleeping form. Coming up behind him, he knelt down and clamped a hand over Braxton’s mouth to keep him from making a startled sound. There was no attempt to call out. The lieutenant had become so accustomed to constant beatings and abuse that he no longer had the will to protest.

  “Can you walk?” Will whispered as he hurriedly sawed away at Bradley’s binds.

  Braxton, in a state of shock, and not sure he was not dreaming, nodded, although he was not sure whether he could. His eyes grew big as saucers as his mind began to function and he recognized the angel who had come to rescue him. “Don’t make a sound,” Will warned. With Will’s help, he managed to get to his feet, and almost fell before Will caught him. Once he was steady, Will walked him between the sleeping bodies to the bank of the river where the horses waited. Braxton had to be helped up in the saddle, and fell forward to lay on the roan’s neck as Will led him down into the water. “Hold on good,” Will said, “we ain’t got time for you to fall off.” Once he was across, he held the roan’s reins and nudged Spades into a slow gallop. He had considered taking the time to scatter the rest of the horses, but decided it better to steal quietly away and hope for a sizable head start before anyone there knew what had happened.