The Dragoons 4

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “You may ride my mount, Miss Campbell,” Tim said. He helped her up into the saddle.

  Hays and Eagle Talons joined them.

  “You’ve forgotten we have the dead dragoon’s horse,” Hays said. “Miss Campbell can ride that—next to you, of course, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tim said. “That will be fine with me.” Hays smiled up at her as the young officer helped her from his saddle. “Don’t worry, Miss Campbell. We’ll have you back to Fort Laramie as quickly as we can. Then arrangements will be made to get you back to Pennsylvania.”

  Loralie, still chewing the hard meat, asked, “How did you know where I’m from, sir?”

  “We saw papers and letters at the scene of the attack,” Hays said.

  Her lips trembled and tears came to her eyes. “Did— did you—”

  “We buried them, Miss Campbell, and made note of the location,” Hays said. “Later you can arrange to have the remains disinterred and sent back to your home.” She shook her head. “I don’t suppose it really matters now.”

  “I suppose not,” Hays said.

  “Are we heading back to the garrison now, sir?” Tim asked. A dragoon had brought up the extra horse. The officer took her over to it as Hays spoke.

  “Yes,” the captain answered. “I want to give the men a rest, then draw more ammunition. With any luck at all, we can be back up here in three or four days and track down that whiskey peddler once and for all.”

  “I want to kill that whiskey peddler,” Eagle Talons said. “I go with you, Dar-Say.”

  “We can use you as a scout, if you want,” Hays said. “But you won’t be paid by the Army.”

  “I will be paid when the whiskey peddler’s scalp hangs in my lodge,” Eagle Talons said in a matter-of-fact tone.

  O’Murphy had not been wasting time as they talked. He had the men mounted and formed up, ready for the return trek to Fort Laramie. He had also set up assignments for the dragoons to trade off the jobs of riding point, flanker positions, and rear guard. The good sergeant didn’t want the same men to endure all the extra duty.

  Loralie Campbell was given another piece of meat by one of the troopers. The kind words and treatment, so much in contrast to what she had endured during the week since her capture, put her at ease. She even managed a smile of thanks to the dragoon who had handed her the food with a bashful grin.

  Hays swung up into his saddle. “For’d at a walk, yo!” he commanded.

  Tim took the reins of his horse and maneuvered himself to be close to Loralie Campbell astride the other animal. “The ladies at Fort Laramie will take you when we get there,” he said, in case she thought there were only soldiers at the post.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Hays leaned toward the young woman. “This is Lieutenant Tim Stephans,” he said. Then he added, “I just wanted to make sure you two were properly introduced.”

  “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Campbell,” Tim said.

  The patrol moved on. Although returning to their home fort, it was only for a brief rest and to reequip themselves. The whiskey campaign had just begun.

  Ten

  At the same time Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays and his men, along with the Sioux warrior Eagle Talons, were crossing the wide mountain meadow on their way to rendezvous with Buffalo Horn and the Wolf Society, the people bivouacked in whiskey peddler Rollo Kenshaw’s camp began to stir.

  The sounds made were not pleasant. No dignity or delicacy was demonstrated by the population in their greetings to the new day. Belches, farts, someone vomiting, and the angry protest of a man not yet wanting to wake up could be heard as the liquor-selling gang prepared to greet the new day.

  The first to stagger out of his shelter was Otto Bolkey. He stumbled sleepily into the trees to relieve himself. Remembering Rollo Kenshaw’s obsession with a clean camp, he stepped well out of the bivouac area to tend to his business. As Bolkey unbuttoned the front of his trousers, he noticed a man lying on the ground a few yards away. A bit fuzzy in the head from sleep and the drinking he had done the night before, he stared down at the prone figure without fully realizing what he looked at.

  “Hey!” he said. “How’s come you’re lying like ’at just

  staring up at the sky, huh?” Bolkey asked. He looked at the man for a bit longer. “Izzat you, Nebrasky Ned?” The man lying there did not stir.

  “Hey!” Bolkey said loudly. “You got flies buzzing ’round your face. Why’nt you brush ’em away?” He belched. “Did you get drunk last night? I was the only one Rollo was gonna let get drunk last night. He said he was sorry he broke my nose.” He still got no response from the man he addressed. “Hey, wake up, Nebrasky Ned.” Bolkey went ahead and gave his full attention to the primary reason he was out there. He sprayed the local flora with a generous amount of urine. With the job satisfactorily finished, he buttoned himself back up and walked over to nudge the man. Finally, the reality of the situation sank in.

  “Damn! You’re dead, Nebrasky Ned!” He stared down at the corpse for a moment more, then went back to the camp clearing.

  Rollo Kenshaw, who never got drunk during business hours, stepped outside his tent and stretched. He was well rested and alert as he yawned and belched. Then the whiskey peddler noticed Otto Bolkey. The young fellow was one of his best men. Normally he liked all his men to stay sober during the violent drunken binges of the Indians, but Kenshaw had felt bad about cuffing Bolkey around regarding the fight with the soldiers. To make up for the discourtesy, he had given him permission to get drunk rather than remain sober and help keep an eye on things.

  Kenshaw called out, “How’re you doing today, Otto?” Otto Bolkey stopped. “Fine, considering my head feels like its been kicked by a mule,” he replied. “I wish you’d get a better brand o’ liquor, Rollo.”

  Kenshaw laughed. “I’ll tell you the truth. If I could find an even cheaper kind, I’d buy it up.”

  “Who’d ol’ Nebrasky Ned have a fight with last night?” Bolkey asked.

  Rollo Kenshaw shrugged. “Nobody that I know of. He was on guard duty at the whiskey stock. How’s come you to ask?”

  “Well, he’s lying deader’n a poleaxed skunk over there in the woods,” Bolkey said.

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Rollo Kenshaw said.

  “I’ll show you,” Otto Bolkey offered. “He’s been cut a coupla different ways-—wide and deep.”

  They walked back to the spot and found the corpse of the late Nebrasky Ned. Ned lay face-up, nearly decapitated, with his throat cut. The black blood soaking his homespun shirt showed he’d received wounds in the body as well.

  “Son of a bitch!” Kenshaw swore. He hurried over to the whiskey cache. He found where the canvas covering had been thrown back. “God damn it! They’s four barrels o’ whiskey missing!” he yelled.

  “Uh-oh!” Bolkey said, knowing that was one of the worst things that could happen as far as his boss was concerned.

  “Four barrels of whiskey!” Kenshaw bellowed. “Stole!”

  “Are you sure?” Bolkey asked.

  “O’course I’m sure!” Rollo Kenshaw sputtered. “I keep strict count on all my goods.” He swung his hate-filled gaze out to the camp. “All this has the look of Injun killing and stealing to me. I’ll bet one o’ them sonofabitching Crows done this. They kilt Nebrasky Ned so’s they could steal some o’ my liquor.”

  “By God, Rollo, let’s get ’em and show ’em they can’t do this,” Otto Bolkey said. He was glad to have the opportunity to make up for the shooting with the dragoons. Beating up or killing someone Kenshaw was mad at was a guarantee to put him back in good with the boss. “It sure as hell won’t take us long.”

  “Wake up the boys, Bolkey,” Kenshaw said. “And tell ’em to come armed and ready for trouble.”

  “You bet,” he said. “Anybody that’d steal like that is a low-down skunk.” Without another thought about the dead man, Bolkey went about the task. It took him fifteen minutes t
o get them all out of their bedrolls to walk over to Kenshaw with their weapons in hand.

  “Boys,” Rollo Kenshaw said. “I’m riled as hell. They’s thieves out there amongst them passed-out Injun sons of bitches. Some of ’em kilt of Nebrasky Ned and hauled away four barrels of prime whiskey.”

  “Prime whiskey?” Bobby Slowfoot asked.

  “Well, it’s the best they is in this part o’ the woods,” Kenshaw said.

  “What do you want us to be doing ’bout that, Rollo?” Bruno Glotz asked.

  “First thing is to find the whiskey barrels,” Kenshaw said. “The thieving sons of bitches would get too drunk to be smart enough to get rid of ’em. Where we find them kegs is where we find the redskins what took ’em.” He pulled his pistols. “Move out, boys!”

  The whiskey peddlers began their search in the tepees and other shelters. The investigation was not carried out in a calm or dignified manner. Drunken Indians—men and women—were dragged by their heels from the lodges. The structures were ransacked and kicked down in the angry hunt for the incriminating barrels. The befuddled residents, still intoxicated from the effects of both liquor and sleep, sat in the dirt in absolute bewilderment. Others, not giving a damn, rolled over and passed out again.

  “All right, God damn you!” Kenshaw bellowed. “Where’s the stole whiskey? You’d better let me know, or there’s gonna be real trouble around here.” He spun around on his heel, expecting someone in the crowd to confess. “You’ll learn not to steal from Rollo Kenshaw, you feather-wearing, bead-stringing, buffalo-eating no good sons of bitches!”

  Within twenty minutes every shelter in the camp had been flattened and trampled. The Indians’ possessions were thrown, scattered, and broken throughout the area. A couple of the warriors, who instinctively fought back while being dragged around, had received bruising kicks and punches from the whiskey peddler and his men.

  Bobby Slowfoot, although young, was an intelligent fellow. He decided to investigate the matter in a more logical manner. He grabbed Otto Bolkey by the arm.

  Bolkey asked, “What the hell do you want, Bobby Slowfoot?”

  “You’re a good tracker, Otto,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “Let’s you and me go over to that whiskey stock and start from there again. We can do it nice and slow.”

  “That’s prob’ly a good idea,” Bolkey said agreeably. The activity of hunting for the thieves had cleared both his head and vision.

  The pair threaded their way through the turmoil of cursing whites and crawling Indians to the place where the remaining barrels of rotgut liquor stood neatly stacked under the tarpaulin covering. Otto Bolkey made a careful study of the ground, moving around the vicinity. Suddenly he motioned.

  Bobby Slowfoot joined him. “Did you find something interesting, Otto?”

  “I sure as hell did,” Bolkey said. He knelt down. “Looky here, at the edge of the grass. There’s some footprints that’s been walked over, but if’n you move into the trees some, they show up right nice.”

  Bobby Slowfoot looked. “Yeah!” He looked for just a moment before exclaiming, “Boots and moccasins together.”

  Bolkey said, “You suppose a coupla our boys and an Injun stole that liquor?”

  “Naw!” Bobby Slowfoot said, shaking his head. “There ain’t no reason for something like that to happen: What’n hell would one of our boys want with stealing liquor for an Injun?”

  “Maybe he wanted to sell it and make some quick cash for hisself,” Otto Bolkey suggested.

  “There ain’t none of us, including Bruno Glotz, stupid enough to risk his neck over a few coins,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “If Rollo ever found out, he’d kill the poor, dumb bastard.” He walked over to the other side of the whiskey stock and called out, “Rollo! Rollo! C’mere quick. Me and Otto has found something.”

  Rollo Kenshaw, with a dozen of the men following him, crossed the camp to the spot where Bobby Slowfoot and Otto Bolkey waited.

  “Ever’body stand back!” Bolkey hollered. “I’ve found some tracks, and I don’t want y’all walking all over ’em.”

  “Show me them tracks, Otto,” Rollo ordered him.

  “Sure, Rollo.” Bolkey took him to the edge of the woods. “Looky, they’re plain as can be here. Ever’body walked around the whiskey, so the ground is scuffed up. But it’s easy to see when you go a ways past Nebrasky Ned there.”

  Kenshaw glanced at the dead man. “We’re gonna have to see to burying Nebrasky. He’s gonna be getting ripe in this sun.”

  Otto Bolkey nodded. “We’ll tend to that,” he said. “But right now, c’mon, Rollo. There’s a coupla places where you can see it was two fellers in boots and an Injun with ’em. We can foller ’em through the trees here. They wasn’t too careful ’bout covering their tracks.”

  “It was too dark for that, I reckon,” Bobby Slowfoot said from where he walked behind the two men.

  “They even broke off some branches they couldn’t see,” Bolkey pointed out.

  “Looky how deep the prints is in the dirt,” Bobby Slowfoot noted.

  “That’s from carrying away my damn whiskey!” Rollo Kenshaw growled. “They had four barrels, for the love o’ God!”

  Finally Bolkey stopped. “Here we are,” he said. They had reached the spot where Sergeant O’Murphy and the men had waited while the mission of thievery took place.

  After studying the ground, he shook his head in surprise. “By God, they was a lot o’ fellers here! Who in—” Then it dawned on him. “Dragoons! By God, these had to be dragoons! Looky how all them horseshoes is the same.” He knelt down and scooped up some seeds. “Oats, too. They gave their horses a feed o’ oats. That’s the way the army does all right.”

  “Now, why the hell would they want my whiskey?” Rollo wondered.

  “Evidence,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “They’re gonna use it against you when they arrest you, Rollo.”

  Kenshaw looked at Otto Bolkey. “These probably are the same soldiers you had that running fight with.”

  “Yeah,” Bolkey agreed. He was thoughtful for a few moments. “Y’know, Rollo, if all of us went up against ’em in an ambush, we could prob’ly get most, if not the whole bunch.”

  Kenshaw hesitated. “I don’t like the idea of taking on the Army.”

  “Hell, Rollo!” Bolkey exclaimed. “You’re already taking ’em on. It’s too damn late to worry about that.” He pointed to the east. “They went that way, so they wasn’t heading straight back to Fort Laramie. If we could get down by the crossing there on the Platte River that they got to use to get on the other side, we could wait for ’em to show up. As soon as they do, we could drygulch ’em quick and easy. Leastways, they couldn’t get past us.” Kenshaw nodded his agreement. “If they was all dead, it would sure put a real crimp in their idea to come find me.”

  “Right, Rollo,” Bobby Slowfoot said. “They wouldn’t be able to tell no other soldiers about what they found up here, neither.”

  “You’re right,” Rollo Kenshaw said, making up his mind. “We ain’t got no choice but to hit ’em.” He motioned to his two companions. “C’mon, we’ll get the boys and get to that crossing on the Platte as fast as we can,” The three retraced their steps back to the camp, where the rest of the gang still stood where they’d been ordered to wait.

  “What the hell are you dumb bastards standing around doing nothing for?” Kenshaw roared at them. “Get packed up.” He pointed to three of the men. “I want that whiskey loaded on the wagon and taken to the Medicine Hill cache. You wait for us there ’til we get back.” He made a gesture to the others. “Ever’body else, be on horseback and ready to ride in half an hour. Make sure you’re loaded for bear.”

  “Hey, Rollo,” Bruno Glotz called out. “What we gone be doing? Fighting the soljers or hunting for bear?”

  “Bruno, you’re the thickest son of a bitch I ever knowed,” Kenshaw said.

  “Yeah,” Glotz said. “What we gone be doing, Rollo?” Kenshaw answered, “We’re going soldier hunting.” Th
e Indians in the camp, finally sobering up and coming awake, discovered the full extent of the destruction of their property. Most thought they had done it themselves during the drunken brawl the previous night. A few, those not retching, began to call out for wives to gather up their things. They paid scant attention to the white men, who were in a frenzy of preparation to leave the place.

  Rollo Kenshaw’s men worked hard and fast to get packed up and ready to leave on time. One thing they had learned long ago was that when their boss gave an order, he damn well meant it to be obeyed. There had been more than one instance when disobedience or hesitancy on the part of a member of the gang had earned the unfortunate man a bullet. If Kenshaw wasn’t really too unhappy, he got it over with quick by shooting the fellow in the head. If he was upset, he fired into the man’s belly to give him time to roll around on the ground and think about what he’d done.

  Exactly twenty-two minutes after Kenshaw had ordered them to be ready, the gang stood together with their saddled horses. They were packed and waiting for the order to get them moving. Rollo Kenshaw, on the other hand, put his gear together at his leisure. When he finally finished, after almost forty-five minutes of work, he led his horse to the head of his men.

  “Mount up, boys,” he said, swinging himself up on his horse. He pointed to the men with the loaded wagon. “Get over to Medicine Hill like I said and wait there.” Then, with a wave of his hand as a signal to follow, he galloped out of camp with his ragtag troop following.

  The Indians, still sick, watched in mute curiosity as their hosts and suppliers disappeared into the woods. The Crow women, feeling terrible, went back to their chore of sorting out personal belongings from the trash that littered the campsite. The men, for their part, simply walked over to the coolness of the shady trees. There, they squatted down to wait for the task to be completed.

  Meanwhile, Nebrasky Ned, alone, dead, and forgotten, began to swell up and rot in the warmth of the summer day.

  Rollo Kenshaw, at the head of his men, kept the pace hot. He didn’t know how much time he had to beat the dragoons back to the crossing on the Platte River. He hoped like hell they hadn’t gotten there yet and had already gotten to the other side. If that happened, he would never be able to stop them from reaching Fort Laramie with the whiskey they had taken from his stock.