The Dragoons 4

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “There they are, sir!” Tim shouted. “About a hundred yards ahead of us!”

  Hays quickly forgot his physical discomfort as his hunting and killing instincts came alive at the sight of five of the men he hated the most in his world. These were the killers of eighteen good dragoons, tried and true, who had been treacherously shot down.

  It was the start of payback time.

  Hays kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks and slapped the animal’s shoulders. “Run! Run!” He whistled the bugle call Charge, knowing that his mount, like all those of the Army, had been trained to immediately respond to the sound.

  Tim watched in astonishment as his elderly commander steadily passed him by until the captain was several yards to the front of their two-man pursuit.

  Up ahead, the four whiskey peddlers who were being chased glanced back in fearful astonishment at the pair of locos who had charged straight into their ambush—from two different sides at two different times—and killed half their number. The outlaws had no desire to put them to any further test. Wildly and desperately whipping at their horses, the liquor men rode like banshees straight out of hell trying to escape the terrible consequences of the devil’s wrath.

  The dragoons pressed on, the anger-fear odors they emitted affecting their superb horses. The mounts, dumb as hell but patiently trained and drilled into blind obedience, responded with an equine dedication to duty. Both were willing to run until their hearts literally broke and killed them.

  The valley made a lazy turn, then dipped down into what had once been the bed of a river in which giant dinosaurs had fed on water plants. Narrow and rocky, it made the riding more difficult. It also made the whiskey peddlers nervous. One, not a particularly good horseman, lost control of his mount. The animal balked rather than leap some brush in the trail. The rider went over its neck and slammed to the bruising stones of the rough terrain.

  Hays and Tim, not slowing down in their excitement, came on fast. Hays could see that the fallen rider had staggered to his feet and stood wavering in semi consciousness. The captain pulled his carbine from its boot on the side of the saddle and swung hard as he rode by the fellow.

  The carbine’s butt splintered from the impact of the blow that sent the whiskey peddler into a quick flip that landed him straight in the path of Tim’s horse. The army mount’s hooves pounded and kicked away what remained of life from the man.

  Four more to go, Hays said grimly to himself.

  The riverbed gradually eased out where countless eons of terrain evolution had smoothed out the remnants of that ancient river until it had begun to blend into a valley gouged out by glaciers. The level ground brought the speed of the chase back up as the two dragoons continued after the quartet of men who fled like fear-crazed demons.

  The better-conditioned animals of the two dragoons had steadily closed the distance between the two groups of wild-riding horsemen. Tim, with his keen eye, decided to try a shot with his carbine. Knowing that it would be impossible to aim, he simply pointed it at the four men less than seventy-five yards ahead of them. Rather than concentrate on any one man, he first made sure the weapon was level and pointing in their general direction. Maintaining that position as best he could, the young lieutenant slowly pulled the trigger to avoid jerking the weapon out of alignment. It bucked as the paper cartridge blew the .52 slug straight and true. One of the riders threw up his arms and died right there in the saddle before even slipping off to bounce and roll along the ground like a rag doll.

  Three to go, Hays noted.

  Now the ground began to rise as the chase led back into the hills. The scrub brush was sparse and light, not affecting the speed of the pursuit. Tim would like to have gotten in another shot with the carbine, but shoving the paper cartridge into the breech on a galloping horse would have been impossible. He damned the range, wishing he could pump out a quick six shots with his Colt revolver.

  The riders galloped into the scattered trees at the beginning of the forest. Hays knew that their quarry was going to have to make some hard choices once the woods were thick enough to keep the horses down to a trot. It would be do or die time for everybody concerned in the affair.

  Suddenly the lead whiskey peddler pulled on the reins of his horse and turned to the side. He rode rapidly up a steep incline with his two friends following closely. Within a few fleet seconds they had disappeared into the thickest part of the forest.

  Hays followed with Tim right behind him. As they reached the woods, both slowed down, then came to a complete halt. Tim, taking pity on Hays’s rheumatism, decided to do whatever scouting duties were necessary. He handed the captain his reins as he stepped to the ground. The lieutenant hurried forward a few feet to get away from the sounds of the heavy breathing and restless stomping of the horses.

  He listened intently for several long moments, then returned to where Hays waited.

  “I can’t hear anything,” Tim reported. “They’ve dismounted and are waiting for us somewhere ahead.”

  Hays dismounted and inspected his damaged carbine. Although it was still fireable, it’s broken stock would keep him from being able to put the weapon to his shoulder for careful aiming.

  “Those fellows have hard heads,” Tim said. “I saw you strike him. I’ll bet his skull didn’t survive the collision any better than your carbine.”

  “His cranium probably came in a very poor second place,” Hays said. “I don’t imagine that being trampled by your horse improved his day much, either.” He rubbed his sore hips and knees and looked into the close-set foliage. “Well, those sons of bitches have worked this situation to a point where only two things are possible. One, we can simply be prudent and demonstrate our great intelligence and common sense by mounting up and riding the hell out of here to avoid the possibility of getting killed or mutilated when they ambush us. Or two, we can go big, fat, dumb, and happy into harm’s way.”

  “You’ve said many times that you and I are among the least intelligent of men,” Tim pointed out.

  “Then we shall possibly stay and fight it out,” Hays said. “We shall probably stay and fight it out,” Tim said. “We go from possibly to probably and end up at assuredly, “ Hays said. He drew his Colt. “In this dense forest, a pistol will be more useful and effective than a carbine. I no longer mourn the damage to mine.”

  “I’ll take mine along as a backup,” Tim said. He shoved a cartridge in the chamber and slung the weapon over his right shoulder. After checking his pockets for extra cylinders for his revolver, he pulled the weapon from its holster and nodded to Hays. “I am ready, sir.”

  “I suppose I am, too,” Hays said. “Fancy tactical and strategic planning is not called for in this situation. There is only one thing we can do. We must move into those woods, find those rascals, and shoot them. I suggest we position ourselves in a manner in which we can both lay down a crossfire and back each other up.”

  “How are we going to do that with just the two of us?” Tim asked.

  “It’s impossible, of course, so I suggest an old-fashioned line-of-skirmishers formation,” Hays said. “Each of Us shall be responsible for our own sides, plus the front and rear.”

  Tim, feeling nervous and wanting to get the job over with, was in no mood for more talk. “Let’s go, sir.”

  “Let’s go, then,” Hays said.

  After securing their horses to the low branches of a handy tree, the two dragoons moved into the woods. Holding their Colts ready, they kept within eyesight of each other while continually glancing around in all directions.

  Their progress was slow through the ancient forest. The tangled undergrowth that had never known the presence of human beings, offered a hazardous thoroughfare in which silent travel was all but impossible. The two dragoons stopped every few feet to squat down and listen. Their only hope for an even chance was to have their enemies moving around, too.

  But the whiskey peddlers were too smart for that.

  After a short wait, Hays signaled to Ti
m to once again begin the agonizing trek toward whatever destiny awaited them. It was hot and muggy in the shady interior of the deep forest. Sweat beaded up on their foreheads and dripped down to sting their eyes. Before long, their mouths were dry and the fatigue of moving slow made breathing difficult.

  Suddenly, the bark on a tree next to Hays’s head exploded under the impact of a bullet.

  He whipped around and fired back blindly, not expecting to hit anybody, only wanting to make them duck down and not try another shot at him.

  He failed.

  Two more shots whipped close to him, one so near it seemed to pat him on the cheek as it went past. He fired once more and went down in the cover of the underbrush. Other shots sounded and the captain could hear his young friend exchanging shots with someone in the opposite direction.

  One of the military philosophies developed by Darcy Lafayette Hays during his thirty years of army service was that the best defense was an aggressive offense.

  Rather than lie low and wait to see what would happen, the captain began slowly and silently belly-crawling toward the source of the shots fired at him. The only cautionary practices he used were to halt now and then for a short term of listening to see if his adversaries were also moving around. He heard nothing, and knew they were standing fast in whatever defensive positions they had chosen.

  After fifteen minutes of painstaking traveling on his belly, Hays reached a thick stand of trees. He made a quick, instinctive professional observation that they made a fine natural fort. Suddenly, he smiled to himself: his instincts told him that was where the man who had taken the potshots at him had hidden.

  He also noted a slight rise in the ground ahead. Gritting his teeth, he resumed his low crawl. It took some painful doing, but eventually he gained a higher position. Turning around, he could easily see a man crouched in the trees, peering intently in the direction from which Hays had come.

  There is no honor in the cutthroat warfare of the Black Hills. To give quarter was to ask for one’s own death. Hays situated himself so that he could sit up and rest his arms on his knees while aiming at the back of the whiskey peddler’s head. He pulled the trigger and saw the man lurch forward under the impact of the bullet.

  Hays told himself there were now two to go.

  A flurry of shots burst out in the near distance. The dragoon officer could recognize the bark of Tim’s Colt revolver blended in with the heavier detonations of other weapons.

  Suddenly the firing ceased as fast as it had begun.

  Hays hoped that it was another of the liquor smugglers rather than Lieutenant Tim Stephans sprawled on the thick carpet of the forest floor.

  The captain started to turn when a heavy boot appeared from nowhere and collided with his hand as its owner viciously kicked him. He saw his pistol fly off in one direction. He turned in a crouch and found himself looking straight down the muzzle of a .50-caliber buffalo gun. To Hays, it looked big enough to lob a cannonball at him.

  “Well, now,” the man sneered at him. “It looks like you just reached the end o’ your rope, Mister.”

  Hays looked up at the heavily-bearded man, whose face bore a furious frown. At the point in the proceedings, he could think of nothing to say.

  “You’re working for O’Dell, ain’t you?” the fellow asked. “I seen him back at that wagon. We done in a coupla his boys not too long ago. I reckon you’re just one more dumb bastard that’s gonna die in these woods.”

  Hays started to stand, wanting to die on his feet rather than kneeling like a cringing coward. He started to push himself up, keeping his eyes pinned on those of his captor.

  An arrow appeared to leap from the man’s neck and he dropped the big buffalo gun, turning and gurgling out what was an attempt to scream. Another arrow hit him in the chest, its point showing through his back for Hays to observe. The fellow toppled backward on the dragoon, who pushed him away to hit the ground and roll down the incline.

  Eagle Talons stepped from behind a nearby tree.

  Hays sat back on his butt. “My God!” he moaned in relief.

  The Sioux grinned. “You got big medicine, Dar-Say. I feel you call to me, but I can no see you. Then I see you. That whiskey sumbitch ready to shoot you. I get him first.”

  Tim Stephans’ voice sounded close by. “Hey! Where are you two? I can hear you talking.”

  “Over here,” Hays shouted. “We’ve got two dead ones.”

  “I got the other,” Tim said. He crashed through the brush, then finally appeared a bit to their left. He waved and walked over to join them. He could see the head-shot man down in the trees. He also noted the man with the arrows in him. “I guess that’s all of them, huh?”

  “All of this bunch,” Hays reminded him. “This job is just beginning.” He went to retrieve his revolver. “Let’s go. We have to get back to that wagon before O’Dell decides to run for it.”

  “I go for my horse,” Eagle Talons said.

  “Ours are down there,” Hays said pointing. “We’ll wait for you.”

  The two dragoons walked back down the slope while the Sioux warrior went to fetch his mount. Tim had to slow down his pace to match that of his limping captain.

  “This has really been exciting so far, hasn’t it?” Tim remarked.

  “Yeah,” Hays said taking a deep breath. “What fun.”

  “I guess Eagle Talons was following us all along,” Tim said. “But I wish he would practice a bit more cooperation.”

  “You leave Eagle Talons to his own devices,” Hays said. “I damn near got my head blown off back there. I tell you I was ready to go to Valhalla or wherever dragoons go in the afterlife, and a couple of his arrows suddenly came whizzing in from nowhere.”

  When they reached their horses, they found Eagle Talons already there, waiting. He turned and began riding back to return to the wagon as the pair of white men pulled themselves up into the saddle.

  Darcy Hays looked up at the Sioux warrior as they trailed after him. “I’m glad about one thing,” he remarked. “What’s that?” Tim asked.

  Hays answered, “That I’m not a whiskey peddler in the Black Hills with that Indian warrior running loose!”

  Seventeen

  Chet O’Dell and his hired man, Norb Walton, were still at the wagon when the two dragoons and their Indian companion returned from chasing the five whiskey peddlers. Not only had the pair of smugglers not run away; they were extremely happy to see the trio come back safely. In fact, they were downright relieved to see that their uninvited company had safely returned.

  “We heard riders coming, and we thought it might be Rollo Kenshaw and some of his boys, tracking you here,” O’Dell said. “It sounded like a whole bunch.”

  “We brought three of the dead men’s horses back with us,” Hays said.

  “What for?” O’Dell said. “We still got some o’ the animals the fellers you kilt was riding.”

  “Those are pretty sad mounts,” Hays pointed out. “Well, hell!” O’Dell protested. “I been on hard times. I couldn’t afford no thoroughbreds!”

  “We’ll keep these three,” Hays said.

  “Why keep any extry at all?” Walton asked.

  “We’ll be talking to Indians for information,” Hays said. “Sometimes it helps to give them a present.”

  “That makes sense,” O’Dell said. “Anyhow, we was really glad to see it was you and not Kenshaw that come riding up here. I got to admit, I was powerful uneasy.”

  “Well, not to worry,” Tim interjected. “We’re back, and we have some pretty fair animals with us.”

  “You only got three outta five horses,” O’Dell said. “I wish now that you had got ’em all. Since you didn’t, we could all be in for a lot o’ trouble. If’n two empty horses wandered back to the camp, Kenshaw is gonna know something happened to his boys. The son of a bitch is gonna come after us with ever’ man in his gang.”

  “Don’t worry about those horses,” Hays assured him. “Eagle Talons told us that Kenshaw
and his gang don’t have any regular camping sites for horses to home to. A couple of the horses got away from us, that’s all. Their owners didn’t.” He chuckled as he thought of how dishonest the men in Kenshaw’s gang had to be. He doubted if they involved themselves in any honest transactions, including dealing in horseflesh. “Or at least the fellows that stole them.”

  O’Dell didn’t see any humor in the last statement. As far as he knew, more than just a few of the whiskey gang’s mounts had been taken from their rightful owners. Impatient and worried, he asked, “What’re we gonna do now, Cap’n?”

  “We’re going to start tracking this fellow Kenshaw and see what it’s going to take to end his liquor operation,” Hays said. “The best place to start is with some of his most valued customers.”

  Tim asked, “You mean Buffalo Horn and the Wolf Society?”

  “The same,” Hays replied. “That’s where we’ll use these extra horses.” He nodded to Eagle Talons. “Can you take us to the Wolf Society?”

  “Sure,” Eagle Talons answered. “We find ’em. Not worry.” He went to his horse and leaped aboard. “Go that way,” he said, pointing to the northwest. “I go ahead. You follow. I come back and find you later.” With no other word or a farewell, the warrior immediately rode off into the woods.

  “What the hell’s that Redskin up to?” Norb Walton asked.

  “Eagle Talons is the ace we have up our sleeves,” Hays explained. “He’ll meld into these hills like he’s done since he was a boy. There won’t be a thing that happens in this territory that will escape his attention. He’ll have no trouble locating the Indians we need to speak to.”

  “A warning to you, O’Dell,” Tim said. “You should know that Eagle Talons does not like whiskey, and he hates those who sell it to his people.”

  “I got enough trouble with Kenshaw,” O’Dell said mournfully. “Don’t give me nothing else to worry about.”

  “Let’s get this show on the road,” Hays said. “We aren’t going to accomplish a thing sitting around here talking.”