“Column of twos!” Hays ordered. “By the right, at a walk, for’d yo!”
The small unit formed into two lines, riding out side-by-side from the stable area. They made their way across the post to the main gate. Hays returned the salute of the sentries there, then led his men out into the open country.
They moved north, heading for the ford that would lead them onto the other side of the river. When they reached the position, Darcy continued at the head of the double column, splashing into the Platte River and coming out on the other side.
From that point on they were in dangerous country. It was territory claimed by the fierce warriors of the Sioux, Cheyenne, and Crow tribes.
“Sergeant O’Murphy, set up the point and flankers!” Hays shouted.
The sergeant sent two men to the front and saw the four men were positioned out to the side for security. At that moment, the dragoons settled into the march routine. Some men, a bit nervous and apprehensive, glanced about as if expecting trouble. Others, without the bother of point and flank duties, let their heads droop as they dozed in the saddle.
They continued their trek slowly and cautiously, halting now and then while some troopers were sent forward to scout out the area they approached. If hostile Indians were in the vicinity, it would not pay to blunder into their war parties. A small detachment of dragoons would not last long if an entire tribe joined in a battle against it.
That first day passed without incident. No signs of Indians were found, nor was any evidence discovered that showed a battle or ambush had taken place. The patrol settled into a camp in which their evening meal was quickly cooked. When everyone’s appetite had been appeased as much as possible on the government-issue food, all fires were extinguished to keep the bivouac dark during the night. Dancing firelight, showing through and above the trees, could readily attract a large group of warriors out looking for trouble. Dragoon troopers who slumbered in dark bivouacs generally were alive to greet the new day’s dawn.
The following morning was just as uneventful. The march routine continued until the midday meal. Hays, never really feeling hungry while out in the field, followed his usual custom of not eating at that time of day. He walked around and did a quick scout on foot while his men consumed a feast of coffee and salt pork. The sparse meal was easily finished in the space of only a half hour. After cleaning up and repacking their gear, the dragoon patrol continued its search for the evidence, if any, of an attacked wagon.
Late that afternoon, Corporal John Grady appeared to the front of the formation. He rode in a hurried manner, but without any sign of urgency. When he reached Hays, he flung a quick salute.
“I found the wagon, sir,” the corporal reported. “It’s been hit by Injuns. There’s three dead folks and a mess o’ trash laying around. I’d say the hostiles took all the valuable or useful stuff with ’em.”
“Any survivors to speak of?” Hays asked.
“Nary a one, sir,” Grady told him. “The Injun sign there is old. They ain’t been back through here.”
“I suppose they thought it prudent to stay out of the area for a while,” the captain said.
Satisfied with the security of the area, Hays pulled in the other point men and the troopers riding flank guard. The patrol galloped behind Corporal Grady as he led them back to where he’d found the grisly evidence of the attack.
The wagon, useless to the warriors, had been burned. One of the bodies had been tossed on it by the raiders. Two more corpses, hacked to the point of dismemberment, were scattered through the messy area. Both had been stripped, showing one to be a rather plump woman. The features of the faces were badly battered, but Hays guessed them to be in their late thirties. The charred cadaver was completely unidentifiable, except for an arm not consumed by the fire. It was easily identified as that of a man.
“Sergeant O’Murphy, set up a defensive perimeter,” Hays ordered. “Then organize a burial detail. After that, I want a half dozen men to sift through the debris and see if anything is available that might identify the dead.” O’Murphy set the instructions into action. Within the space of ten minutes, all horses were picketed in a central location, the circular guard formation was formed up in the surrounding trees, and a couple of men had begun the task of digging three graves for the final resting places of the murdered pioneers.
Hays and Tim, after turning their horses over to be tied with the others, withdrew and settled down under a pine tree. Even the young lieutenant had seen enough victims of Indians not to feel particularly shocked, though he was angry about it.
“I can understand when Indians kill people who settle on their land,” Tim said. “But I cannot comprehend wanton slayings when the people involved are only passing through.”
“It breaks the treaties, too,” Hays pointed out. Then he shrugged. “But everybody, white and Indian, does that anyway.”
“I’ll tell you one thing,” Tim said. “I am going to see Oregon at least once before I die. Whatever it has that is attracting people to the point they risk their lives to reach there must be awesome or wonderful—or both.”
“There are restless people that are never satisfied where they are,” Hays said. “It’s like the old saying about the grass being greener on the other side of the fence. Somehow, they think the farms they’ll have in Oregon will be better than those they’ve left in Indiana or Ohio or wherever.”
Tim watched the burial detail begin gathering up the remains of the three dead people. They used boards ripped from the wagon to lift the burned man up and carry him over to the hole dug for him. Nobody wanted to touch the cooked human meat with his hands. After dumping the cadaver in the grave, they picked up what was left of the others.
Hays said, “Make sure you don’t mix up those parts. Don’t put part of the woman in with the man and vice versa. Show some respect.”
“Yes, sir,” one of the dragoons replied.
Sergeant O’Murphy made a personal check of the graves, then had the dirt thrown in on the corpses. When the task was done, he came over to Hays.
“Cap’n, are you gonna say any words?” he asked.
“I don’t think so,” Hays said. “What’s done is done. Start looking through what’s left, and if anything is found that gives information on those people, bring it over here.”
“Yes, sir,” O’Murphy said.
It took the burial detail a half hour to gather up a dirty, smudged group of papers, letters, soiled clothing, and some daguerreotype photographs. Sergeant O’Murphy brought it all over to the officers, then returned to supervising the patrol’s guard activities.
It didn’t take long before they were able to determine that the family’s name was Campbell. They were from Pennsylvania and had lived on a farm in Lawrence County. Some old farm deeds and a will confirmed that.
“I guess we’ll have to send an official letter to the county government there to see if any survivors can be found back there,” Hays mused.
“That’ll be enough to discourage any more folks from there trying their luck out on the Oregon Trail,” Tim said. He had been studying the thin metal photographs. The young officer suddenly looked up. “I think there must have been someone else here, sir. I noticed that a couple of those women’s dresses seemed too small for the lady here. Look at this likeness of a young woman. Isn’t that the dress over there that is in the picture?”
Hays studied both for a few moments. “I believe you’re right, Tim. I would be very surprised if we don’t have a captive involved here.”
“She’s pretty,” Tim said.
“Well!” Hays said getting to his feet. “We’ve only two weeks to find out what happened. I think we should call on my old friend Owl-That-Cries. If anyone knows what the Indians hereabouts have been up to, it will be him.” Sergeant O’Murphy, overhearing the conversation, wasted no time in getting the men back to their horses. After forming up, the dragoons left the melancholy scene where the burned wagon and three fresh graves were all that was left of
the violent event.
Four
Captain Darcy Hays’s patrol continued its ascent into the Black Hills. The dragoons exercised great caution while traversing the uneven, rolling terrain that held countless sites of possible ambushes. The land features peaked and dived, then flattened out into meadows before again forcing the troopers into the horse-fatiguing routine of climbing higher ground in their progress toward the upper reaches of the area.
“Riders to the north!” came the cry from one of the flankers.
Hays, with Tim close behind, galloped in that direction. When the two officers reached the trooper who had spotted a group of horsemen, they reined in to assess the situation. The dragoons were at the edge of a wooded area that looked down into a rolling valley between forested hills. Their position gave them a good view of the travelers.
“Those are white men,” Tim said. “It appears they’re heading toward hostile territory.”
“We’d better warn them about Indian trouble,” Hays said. “Or we’ll have—” He counted them. “—a dozen more graves to dig.”
“I’ll go, sir,” Tim volunteered.
“Carry on, Lieutenant Stephans,” Hays said. “Give the gentlemen my compliments,” he added with a wink.
“Of course,” Tim said. “I might even invite them to tea this afternoon.”
“Just warn them about the possibility of Indian trouble,” Hays said. He was secretly glad to avoid the ride. The constant shaking and jiggling of high-country riding was making the rheumatism in his hips flare up. It was at times like that, the captain wished he were back in the dry desert heat along the Mexican border.
Tim kicked his mount’s flanks, and galloped down the slope toward a point where he could intercept the riders. As he rode along, he waved his hat, and loudly hollered to attract their attention.
“Ho, you riders!” he shouted. “Ho!”
It took a few moments before the young dragoon was sighted. When the white men finally took note of him approaching, their reaction was much less than friendly. They fired at him.
Tim immediately wheeled his horse to the side and headed for the cover of the nearby trees as bullets whipped the air around him and kicked up the dirt at his mount’s hooves.
“Sergeant O’Murphy!” Hays bellowed, forgetting about the physical discomfort of the rheumatism. “To the left flank! Move smartly! We’re under fire!”
It took but a few moments for the sergeant to appear with the rest of the patrol. The sound of the shots had already reached him. The veteran sergeant, needing no instructions, quickly set the unit into motion.
Hays gave the hand-and-arm signal for pursuit and took off in the lead at a wild gallop with his men right behind him. The experienced soldiers leaned low over their horses’ necks, ready to react to whatever was about to happen.
The civilians below welcomed the dragoons to the scene in the same manner they’d welcomed Lieutenant Tim Stephans. The riders fired straight into their midst.
Hays drew his revolver and made ready to use it when he was within range. The other army men, with their carbines pulled from the weapons boots on the saddles, now grimly went about the task of closing in. Tim, seeing the dragoons, dashed out to join them as the chase across the valley quickly built up into a hot pursuit.
The army mounts were well fed and enjoyed the top physical conditioning that excellent care provides. They gained rapidly on the poorly used horses of the civilians. The white men, knowing they were about to be overrun, reacted with more firing. One dragoon twisted in the saddle as he quickly pulled his horse to a stop. He tried to stay on horseback, but he weakened rapidly and slipped to the ground as his comrades continued the chase.
The dragoons’ return fire exploded in a ragged volley that sent a swarm of close-packed bullets flying into their quarry. Three of the riders lost their seats and hit the ground while the rest of the bunch made a quick turn into the trees.
“Comp’ny, halt!” Hays bellowed, as he signaled a stop. He knew that the men they were after could easily set up a successful ambush if the pursuit continued into the forest that grew denser in the upper reaches of the hills. “Sergeant O’Murphy, send a couple of men back to check on our wounded trooper.”
The two chosen men wasted no time in galloping away to tend to their injured bunkie. The rest of the patrol followed their captain back to the spot where three men lay in the valley grass. Hays dismounted and went to each one.
“All three are dead,” he said. He clenched his teeth at the pain in his knees as he knelt down by one of the dusty, grass-stained corpses. The captain went through the pockets, finding nothing special. Then he quickly searched the other two.
“No identification or any other indication of who they were,” he announced.
“I can’t figure out why they’d shoot at us like that,” Tim mused. “I’m sure they could see we’re soldiers.”
“Quite so, since we recognized what they were,” Hays said. He shrugged. “Possibly they had been doing some illegal prospecting or trapping on Indian lands. I imagine they panicked and, not wanting to be arrested, reacted stupidly.” The captain spat. “If they run into the same Sioux war party that hit that wagon and killed those people back there, it’ll be a fitting end to the sons of bitches.”
The two dragoons sent to look after their friend returned with him draped across his horse. Sergeant O’Murphy made a quick examination, then looked at Hays. “Meehan is dead, sir.”
“Let’s bury him,” Hays said with a sigh. “This time, Sergeant O’Murphy, there will be a service.” He reached back into his saddlebag to fetch his copy of Protocol and Ceremonies of the United States Army.
O’Murphy did not have to call out names to dig the grave. Several men quickly and silently dismounted to begin the job. They took turns digging an earthen tomb that eventually was almost eight feet deep. Others collected rocks to be placed upon the body to make sure that if by chance some animal was able to dig down to the body, it would not be able to dislodge the stones. The men in Meehan’s squad tenderly wrapped their dead comrade in his blanket as the grave digging continued.
The funeral was brief, but filled with dignity. In the mind of each dragoon was the thought that there was always a chance that the same fate suffered by Meehan would be his. The soldiers would give the dead man the same respect and consideration they would want for themselves in those circumstances.
The ceremony was properly concluded with a final salute and a volley fired into the clear Wyoming air. The patrol remounted and, in columns of twos with point men and flankers, continued on the way to the Sioux village, where Hays would be able to find his old friend Owl-That-Cries.
That tribe, like all others in the area, was nomadic, and lived to wander during their war making and hunting activities. But Hays knew where they could be found at certain times of the year. During the early summer, a particular spot on the Powder River was favored by Owl-That-Cries’ band.
The captain and his men reached the vicinity of the village in the early evening. To show his friendly intent, Hays made no secret of his arrival. His men noisily set up a bivouac a mile away from the Indian encampment. The disturbance they created showed they were not sneaking up on the Sioux and had nothing to hide.
Meanwhile Hays left his men to ride in alone to find his old Indian friend. His entrance into the village, though not greeted with hostility, was not overly friendly. He had fought these people before and was known by all the warriors and many of the women and children.
But Hays was not a hated man.
During one of the periods of peace between the soldiers and the Indians, Hays had proved himself trustworthy to the tribe. On more than one occasion he had taken their side in various disputes with intruding trappers and prospectors. He had also seen to it that a warrior falsely accused of murdering a soldier was set free. That was after the Indian had been arrested and thrown into the Fort Laramie guardhouse.
The tribe respected Darcy Hays on the one hand, bu
t on the other, they fully realized there was always the very real possibility he would become an enemy once again, albeit an honorable one.
Hays called out Owl-That-Cries’ name as he rode slowly between the lodges of the village. Finally someone pointed toward the far area of the encampment. The captain turned to follow the directions. He found his friend sitting in front of his tepee.
“Owl-That-Cries!” Darcy Hays called out.
The Sioux, the same age as the army officer, looked up and grinned widely. He got to his feet and walked toward Hays holding up his hand in greeting. Owl-That-Cries was a slim, dark man, with a face wrinkled beyond its years. He was once a fierce warrior and could boast countless coups, stolen horses, and kidnapped women and children to his credit.
“Dar-Say!” Owl-That-Cries called out, using his own pronunciation of Darcy Hays’s first name. “It is you, Dar-Say.”
Hays dismounted and walked his horse forward. “It is good to see you, Owl-That-Cries. You look more young now than when I saw you last.”
“You are a liar, Dar-Say. I am an old man,” Owl-That-Cries said with a laugh. He watched his friend approach, noting the stiffness in his gait. “You are old, too. You got hurt in your legs, Dar-Say?”
“Yes,” Hays said.
“You go to sweat lodge tomorrow with me, Dar-Say,” the Indian said. “The hurt in your legs go away.”
“Sure, I go with you,” Hays said.
One of Owl-That-Cries’ wives stepped forward and took the soldier’s horse, leading the animal over to where it could be tied up with others belonging to the lodge. The two men sat down and Hays reached into his pocket and withdrew a packet of tobacco.
“This is for you, old friend,” Hays said.
“I will smoke this tobacco, Dar-Say, and remember you are my friend,” Owl-That-Cries said. He opened the packet and smelled the contents, smiling in his delight. After putting it away, he asked, “Are you on the warpath, Dar-Say?”
“Yes,” Hays answered. “I am looking for the warriors who attacked a wagon a few days ago. They killed everybody and took away a young woman as a captive.”
The Dragoons 4 Page 4
