The Dragoons 4

by Patrick E. Andrews

  The Sioux slapped his horse and rode off at a fast canter. Since Hays and Tim needed him for a guide, they had no choice but to follow as their hangovers pounded in their skulls with each stomp of their horses’ hooves.

  The two dragoons endured the torture for two hours. Finally, damning all to hell, Hays yelled out, “Listen to me, God damn you, Eagle Talons! We stop!” He took a deep, labored breath and once more hollered, “You hear me? We stop!”

  The two dragoons officers swung into a clearing and quickly dismounted. Hays immediately took a seat under a tree while his younger companion went off to bend over as he wretched with dry heaves. Finally the gasping stopped and the lieutenant joined his commander.

  “Women are nothing but trouble,” Tim said. “They just drag a man down, that’s all.”

  “Oh, hell, count yourself lucky,” Hays said. “You’d have probably ended up with ten or twelve bawling kids and a shrew for a wife.”

  “Loralie would never be a shrew!” Tim snapped. “She’s a wonderful girl.”

  “Sure,” Hays said rubbing his head.

  “You owe her an apology, by God!” Tim insisted.

  “I didn’t say it to her face,” Hays said, defending himself. “And I didn’t make the statement in a crowd. I said it directly to you, in private. Therefore, no apology is warranted.”

  “Yes, it is!” Tim exclaimed.

  “Oh, shut up,” Hays growled. “Between your lovesickness and this pounding in my head, I have as much as I can possibly bear at the moment!”

  Eagle Talons rode up. “Maybe you drunk. Why you yell at each other?”

  “A woman would not be his wife,” Hays explained. “He is sad. That is why we drank whiskey last night. To help him with his sadness.”

  “Better not worry for women,” Eagle Talons said. “Why be sad? Lot of women. Don’t make no worry for one.” He dismounted and looked down at the sick white men. “I find trail up ahead. Wagon. Tracks are deep. I think it whiskey wagon.”

  “Let’s go,” Hays said, fighting his headache.

  “Yes, sir,” Tim said. “But you’re sure it’s not better to wait a bit?”

  “We haven’t much choice,” Hays said. “Cheer up. With any luck, we’ll be dead by noon.”

  “That is a comforting thought, I must admit,” Tim said, struggling back to his horse.

  They mounted up and rode out with the Sioux warrior in the lead. Fifteen minutes of riding brought them to an open area where wagon tracks showed through the mountain grass. Hays swung out of the saddle, and forcing himself to ignore the discomfort in his knees, knelt down to study the markings on the ground.

  “Those are heavily loaded wagons, all right,” he said. “There’re hoof marks around it, too. That means an escort.”

  “Only whiskey peddlers would be driving cargo through here,” Tim said.

  “Let’s catch up with them,” Hays said. Grimacing, he stood up. “But we’ve got to be careful. This time we’ll have to be sneaky about it.”

  “We must be like part of these hills,” Eagle Talons said. “If we become joined with the wind, we will be able to move fast and silent, the same way it does. This is how the Indian does when he hunt or fight.” He smirked. “But I think maybe white men don’t have that strong of medicine.”

  “We’ll do fine, just wait and see. We’ve managed to learn a few things from fighting you Indians,” Hays said.

  He remounted. “Come on. We might as well forget we’re hung over.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Tim said, rubbing his temples with his fingertips.

  Eagle Talons led them slowly down the double ruts in the ground. He could tell just about how long ago the vehicle had passed through the area from the way leaves and other natural debris now lay undisturbed in the tracks. He was not worried about running into the wagon or the men accompanying it for a while.

  The trailing of the whiskey peddlers continued through the morning. By the time the sun overhead was approaching its zenith, the two dragoons’ hangovers had all but dissipated. Clear-headed from a combination of the passing of time and the clear air of the high country, Hays and Tim had forgotten about the physical discomforts of coming off a night-long drinking session.

  Eagle Talons, still snorting his disapproval of alcohol, kept a careful eye on the tracks left by the intruders into the Black Hills. Finally, in mid-afternoon, he motioned his two companions over into the cover of the trees.

  “We close,” he announced. “Horseshit wet and stink. Nothing in tracks. Now go slow, go quiet. Look for ambush. Come.”

  They continued on horseback through the trees while Eagle Talons watched the tracks from the covering vegetation. It took the trio twenty minutes to cover five hundred yards of the rolling terrain.

  Once again, Eagle Talons signaled a halt.

  “Now we walk,” he said. “Very close.”

  They dismounted and, leading their horses, resumed the tracking at an even slower pace. A full hour passed that consisted of several stops while the Sioux went forward or off to the side to check out suspicious places. The two dragoons carried their carbines locked and loaded while Eagle Talons had his bow and arrows ready for any potential trouble.

  They didn’t have long to wait.

  A careless move by one of the whiskey men in-the trees caught the eyes of all three trackers. They reacted simultaneously, as if the action had been discussed and rehearsed many times.

  Hays and Tim cleared leather with their Colt Dragoon pistols and each kicked off a couple of shots. Eagle Talons swiftly fitted the notch of an arrow into his bowstring and sent the missile zinging through open space and into the throat of one of the bushwhackers.

  The man cut loose with a gurgling scream, grasping at the thing in his neck. He tried to pull, then push the shaft as he staggered and whirled around in the wooded area. Hays took mercifully accurate aim and sent a .44-caliber ball splattering into the suffering man’s skull. The impact of the round slammed him over on his back and he died with his hands still clutching Eagle Talons’ cruel arrow.

  More firing came from the front left. Acting on instinct, Hays and Tim gave themselves covering fire, and hanging onto their horses, pulled back in the opposite direction, into the deeper, more forested area.

  Eagle Talons, after taking time to loosen three more arrows, joined them. With only a muzzle-loading long gun, he had no desire to fire the weapon unless it was absolutely necessary. With plenty of arrows, he would use them in his sturdy bow to strike down the now unseen enemy, saving his firearm for later in the battle.

  Some careless rustling could be heard on both sides of their positions. Hays nudged Tim. “They’re trying an enveloping maneuver.”

  “Yes,” Tim replied. “And not too well.”

  “What do you expect from a gang of smugglers?” Hays remarked. “West Point tactics? Come on. Let’s take care of the bunch on the left.”

  Eagle Talons said nothing, but tagged along. He had respect for Hays’s war making abilities. All the Sioux wanted was more opportunities to shoot arrows into whiskey peddlers.

  Crouching low, Hays and Tim went silently through the trees toward the sound of the clumsily moving adversaries. The captain motioned Tim to the right and Eagle Talons to the left, then brought them to a halt in an area where the deadfall had piled up to the height of a man’s waist.

  The noise made by the approaching men increased. Then they came into view. Tim’s shot hit the nearest, spinning him completely around with a shoulder hit.

  An arrow from Eagle Talons whipped in the air and hit the farthest man, going completely through his body and sticking in a tree a few yards to the rear.

  Hays fired once with his Colt Dragoon revolver, knocking down a shocked and fearful gunman. The captain’s second shot, fired with the carbine because of the distance, hit a fleeing smuggler in the back of his head, causing him to go on a few more feet in a staggering gait before collapsing.

  “Now to the right!” Hays said.


  The trio went in that direction. Again, combining swiftness with silence, they moved toward the sound of the other side of the pincer movement directed against them.

  Eagle Talons, seeking a coup, slung his bow and pulled his tomahawk from its place in his belt. He veered off from the two dragoons, heading in a direction that would let him come up behind whoever it was that moved toward them.

  The Indian entered a stand of trees with plenty of space between them. He utilized the terrain to increase his pace, then once again went into the deeper woods. After only a few moments of continuing his death trek, he came up behind an unsuspecting fellow who crept with long gun ready through the woods. His companions could be heard crashing through the vegetation a few hundred feet ahead.

  Following his tribe’s custom of counting coup on an enemy by striking him, Eagle Talons slapped the man on the back of the shoulder. The whiskey smuggler, puzzled, turned and looked into the ferocious countenance of the enraged warrior.

  “What the hell’re you doing, Injun?” he asked.

  Eagle Talons answered by bring the tomahawk blade down into the man’s forehead with such a force that his face parted from his hairline down through his nose. Shuddering with nerve impulses, the victim hit the ground and flopped around on his way to death.

  Eagle Talons moved on.

  While the Sioux warrior earned his battle honor, the two dragoons were busy setting up their own version of glory. It was easy to pinpoint the location of the men approaching them, so Hays and Tim situated themselves in the undergrowth in a manner that would allow them to lay down an effective crossfire.

  Keeping quiet and barely breathing, they could hear the clumsy attackers moving closer toward them. Finally, four ragtag-looking fellows—who seemed like they would be more comfortable in the seamy side of a river town than in the woods of the Black Hills—burst into view. Bearded and unkempt, they slowed down and looked around with confused expressions on their simple faces.

  “Where the hell is ever’body?” one asked.

  Those were his last words.

  A .44 ball from Hays’s Colt punched through his jaw, carrying bone and teeth out the other side. Still alive, he sat down and put his hands up to the large, gaping wound that now gave him a hideous, monster-like appearance.

  Two slugs from Tim’s revolver and a shot from Hays’s carbine took the other three men down. Two bounced off each other before hitting the forest floor, while the other abruptly dropped in instant death.

  The two dragoons carefully stepped from their cover and walked up to the downed men. The wounded fellow, in shock, still held his hands to his face.

  Hays pulled them away and flinched in horror at what he saw. “God!”

  Tim was tempted to turn away, but looked at him fascinated. “If he survives, he’ll be a hideous sight.”

  “You’re right,” Hays said. “The only place he could go would be a circus freak show.” He placed the muzzle of his pistol at the man’s ear and pulled the trigger.

  The maimed man’s head jerked violently, and he toppled over to join his companions in the final, eternal sleep. “Now I wonder where Eagle Talons is,” Hays said: “You don’t suppose they got him, do you?” Tim asked. “Maybe,” Hays said in a worried tone. “Being an Indian, he isn’t going to yell out when he gets hit.”

  “Are we going to wait for him, sir?” Tim asked.

  Hays shook his head. “No. He might be in trouble. Let’s move toward the location of that wagon, but be careful.”

  The two dragoons took time to recharge the empty chambers of their revolvers. Then, holding the weapons at the ready, they moved slowly through the woods, taking care not to make any noise.

  The going was slow. All the deadfall, made up of dried branches, dead leaves, and other noisemaking debris, demanded great care. Each deliberate move was carefully gauged by the two experienced soldiers as they eased toward their destination. Their eyes were kept busy looking out for their Indian companion as well as potential bushwhackers who might still be lurking in the trees.

  Hays was slightly ahead of Tim. Now and then he glanced back to make a silent check on his young officer. The lieutenant always gave a wave to let the older man know that everything, at least for the moment, was fine.

  Then Eagle Talons appeared ahead. He walked toward them, beckoning the dragoons to draw closer. When all three finally joined up, they squatted down to avoid being seen.

  “I count coup, you see?” Eagle Talons said. He needed a witness in order for the deed to count.

  Hays, knowing how important such a thing was to a Sioux warrior, nodded and lied, saying, “Yeah. I saw you through the trees. You touched him with—wasn’t it your hand?”

  “You see me slap him,” Eagle Talons said. It never occurred to him that Hays would lie about it.

  “Yes,” Hays said. “That’s right. I saw you slap him.”

  Tim, not caring much one way or the other, looked around. “Did you find their exact location?”

  “Yes,” Eagle Talons said. “I see wagon. I see men at wagon.”

  “If you know where they are, let’s go get the whiskey-peddling sons of bitches,” Hays said.

  “Wait,” Eagle Talons said.

  “What the hell for?” Tim demanded to know. “Are there more of them?”

  “Not many,” Eagle Talons said. “We beat them easy.”

  Hays sensed the Indian wasn’t finished with his informal report. “What more do you have to say?”

  “Them fellers not whiskey peddlers,” Eagle Talons said.

  “Oh, God!” Tim exclaimed under his breath. “You don’t suppose we’ve ended up killing some immigrants or hunters, do you? We probably should have identified ourselves to them before we started shooting.”

  “I’m afraid I’m about to wrap up my military career with a court-martial and sentence to prison,” Hays said with a groan. He nudged Eagle Talons. “Well, let’s go have a look at these people.”

  Fifteen

  The three men squatted around the wagon and stared out into the surrounding forest.

  “What the hell d’you suppose happened to the others?” one asked.

  “I don’t know for sure,” another replied. “But I ain’t expecting the best. Especially since the shooting’s stopped and I don’t hear none of ’em whooping and hollering.”

  “Shut up, the two of you!” the third snapped. He gritted his teeth. “This is what I get for hiring drunks and jailbirds. Damn!”

  “Stop bellyaching,’-the first snarled. “You ain’t paying us shit as it is.”

  “You’ll make plenty if this trip works out, don’t worry none about that,” the third said. “I told you, it all depends on our luck.”

  “Well,” the first said. “What we got o’ that seems to be running on the bad side right about now.”

  Suddenly a voice sounded from the trees. “Ho! The wagon! Ho!”

  “Who the hell is it?” the third man at the wagon yelled back.

  “I am Captain Darcy Hays, of the United States Dragoons!” came the answer.

  “Shit!” the third man said.

  “Hold your fire,” Hays said. “We’re coming in.”

  “Do as he says, boys,” the third man said. “There could be a hell of a lot o’ them soldiers.”

  They quickly laid down their weapons, one saying, “I sure as hell ain’t gonna take on the Army.”

  “We put down our shooting irons, Mister,” the third man said. “Don’t come in here a-shooting at us, hear?”

  “Then keep your hands up and in plain sight,” the voice yelled in at them.

  Moments later, Hays and Tim stepped into view. They held their weapons ready for instant use, and kept a close eye on the three men.

  “There has been one hell of a misunderstanding, gentlemen,” Hays said. “And it has resulted in a tragedy.”

  “Where’s them other fellers?” the third man at the wagon asked.

  “All dead,” Hays said.

  “Ev
er’ damn one of ’em?” the man asked.

  “I fear so, sir,” Hays said sorrowfully. “Words cannot express the regret I am experiencing at this moment.”

  “Really?” the fellow asked in a tone of surprise.

  Hays asked, “Who are you, sir?”

  “My name is O’Dell,” the man replied. “Chet O’Dell.” He glared at Hays. “Hey! You ain’t dressed like no soldier.”

  “You’ll see military gear as soon as our horses arrive,” Hays said. “What is your business in the Black Hills, Mister O’Dell?”

  O’Dell didn’t answer. Instead, he asked, “Soldiers are always got up real fancy-like. So how come, if you’re in the Army, you ain’t in a uniform?”

  “It’s a long story, sir,” Hays said. “Will you be kind enough to state what brings you into this area? You are a ways from the Oregon Trail. If you’re trapping—”

  “Hey!” Tim yelled out. He had taken a look in the wagon. “There’s whiskey inside here. A lot of whiskey.” Then he added, after further perusal, “A hell of a lot of whiskey.”

  Hays scowled. “What are you doing with an abundance of whiskey, Mister?”

  O’Dell nervously cleared his throat. “A man has got a right to take a drink, ain’t he?”

  “There are—” Tim paused and counted. “—Twenty-four barrels.”

  “Well, now,” Hays said. “I would say you were planning on taking quite a few drinks, weren’t you?”

  “I sure was,” O’Dell said with a weak grin.

  Knowing he had nabbed a whiskey peddler rather than attacked innocent travelers caused the dragoon captain to feel a great deal of relief about the situation. “You have some explaining to do.”

  “I’ll think of something,” O’Dell said.

  Eagle Talons showed up with their three horses. He walked to the wagon and tied the reins to the wheels. “What you do now, Dar-Say?” he asked.

  “I thought you said this man wasn’t a whiskey peddler,” Hays said.

  “He not whiskey peddler,” Eagle Talons said. “I never see him before.”

  “See what is inside that wagon,” Hays said.

  Eagle Talons investigated the conveyance. “Whiskey!” he exclaimed in an angry voice. “Another whiskey peddler son of a bitch!”