The Dragoons 4

by Patrick E. Andrews

  Buffalo Horn didn’t waste any time in calling on the white men when they returned. The bleary-eyed warrior, staggering slightly and reeking of rotgut liquor, came up to them speaking in a slurry, angry manner.

  “You bring more whiskey?” he asked.

  “Hell, no!” Hays snapped. “We didn’t say we would, did we? You got all this whiskey for nothing.”

  “We take you to river where Rollo get his whiskey,” Buffalo Horn said. ,

  Hays shook his head. “No. I don’t want to go there.” Buffalo Horn frowned. “You tell me to wait here. You come back, and I show you the place on the river. Why not?”

  “I changed my mind,” Hays said. “I don’t want to go.” He wanted to get the Indian thinking along other lines. “You still have whatever goods you brought to trade to Kenshaw for liquor. So why don’t you go on up to Little Valley and deal with him?”

  “You see Rollo?” Buffalo Horn asked. “He got whiskey?”

  “Sure,” Hays said. “He has a lot of whiskey. He went to Little Valley with it. He said if you’re not there pretty damn quick, he’s going to give it away to the Crow.”

  “The Crows are sumbitches!” Buffalo Horn loudly yelled.

  “Those Crows are going to be drunk sons of bitches on your whiskey if you don’t hurry up and get to Little Valley,” Hays warned him.

  Buffalo Horn looked around. “Where go Eagle Talons?”

  “He went to see Owl-That-Cries,” Hays said.

  Buffalo Horn didn’t quite believe that. “Why he go see Owl-That-Cries?”

  Tim, standing behind Hays, growled, “I’m getting real tired of this son of a bitch. Especially since Eagle Talons said he planned on attacking us while taking us to the river.”

  Hays, smiling, turned his head slightly. “Control yourself, my boy. We don’t want trouble with these particular Indians at this particular moment.”

  “Damn his eyes!” Tim exclaimed. He pushed Hays aside and stepped up face-to-face with the Sioux warrior. “Don’t you worry about Eagle Talons, you whiskey-soaked bastard! You’d best gather up these drunks of yours and get over to Little Valley as quick as you can.” Buffalo Horn, surprised at the outburst, stepped back. He gave Tim a long, hard look. “I remember you good. You like the white woman we give back. That woman my wife for a little while.”

  Tim’s fury was more than he could stand. He leaped at the other man and grabbed him around the neck, squeezing hard. Buffalo Horn fought back, his own anger overcoming the effects of his recent drinking.

  Hays, alarmed as hell, jumped between the sparring pair and wrestled them apart. He pushed Tim back, his face contorted with anger.

  “God damn you to hell, Tim Stephans!” he hissed. “You’re about to make all this effort go for nothing.” Tim pushed back at the captain, then regained control over his temper. Taking a deep breath, he said, “Sorry, sir. I’m sorry.”

  Buffalo Horn glared at the young officer. “I am your enemy! I go to Little Valley. I come back. I kill you!” The warrior, no longer staggering, walked off in long strides. Hays watched him go, then took Tim’s arm and led him over to the wagon where O’Dell and Walton stood.

  Now O’Dell was upset. “You two are crazy! Crazy! Crazy! I don’t give a damn if you get yourselves kilt and scalped, but don’t drag me into it.”

  “Me either!” Walton yelled.

  “Shut up!” Hays said. “Everybody, shut up! All we can hope for now is that Eagle Talons gets back to us before Buffalo Horn and the Wolf Society get up to Little Valley and find out that Rollo Kenshaw isn’t there. If he does, he won’t bother acting like he’s going to take us to the river. He’ll attack straight out.”

  “Meanwhile, I suggest we make sure our weapons are loaded and ready,” Tim said. “We might also take into consideration that they’re pretty fouled right now.”

  “They’re sure as hell due a cleaning, but I don’t want everyone’s guns broken down at the same time,” Hays said. “I want O’Dell and Tim to tend to their firearms first. When you two are finished, Walton and I will clean ours.”

  A small fire was built and water heated to use to scrub the hard scum of burnt powder out of the bores. The men worked frantically, but in less than an hour all weapons were cleaned, primed, and loaded.

  At that time some noise was heard from the Indians’ village. A quick check by Hays showed the Sioux were stowing their final possessions on travois in preparation for their trip to Lithe Valley. He watched as the Sioux finally began to move out. The warriors mounted while the women and children followed on foot.

  The dragoon captain went back to his men. “If anyone is the praying type, make an impassioned plea to the Good Lord about letting Eagle Talons get back here first before the Wolf Society is able to reach Little Valley, then come tearing back here sober and mad as hell.”

  O’Dell didn’t bother to hide his feelings. “What’s the matter with you?” he demanded of Tim. “You didn’t have no call to rile that damn Injun! He was just drunk and yakking away. What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  Tim didn’t want to speak of Loralie Campbell with the liquor smuggler. “Don’t get pushy with me, God damn you, O’Dell!” he snarled.

  “I was just curious,” O’Dell said in a hurtful tone.

  “Everybody calm down,” Hays ordered. “I suggest we cook a good meal, then settle back to wait for Eagle Talons. I don’t know how far he’s going to have to trail Kenshaw to find out where he gets his whiskey, so let’s be ready for anything. That means either Eagle Talons’ return or when the Wolf Society come back, looking for our scalps.”

  The meal was duly prepared, and eaten in sullen silence. After cleaning up, the four men settled down to wait. The rest of the afternoon and evening drifted by until darkness arrived on the scene. No one was particularly worried about that first night since Buffalo Horn and his band would not have time to go all the way over to Little Valley and return. For that reason, everyone rolled up in their blankets and settled in for a good snooze until the next day.

  When dawn arrived, its light brought everyone wide awake in a hurry. Gear was quickly stowed, horses were saddled, and weapons were made ready for any emergency. The only nourishment the men felt like was hot coffee. They drank it fast, the caffeine making edgy nerves even edgier.

  The day, like those in the mountains during summer, started off cool enough, but quickly warmed as the sun began its journey across the top of the trees. By midmorning the mugginess had increased to the extent that perspiration flowed freely, soaking the men’s shirts.

  Norb Walton wiped at his forehead with a weak grin. “I ain’t sure all this sweat is from the heat. I’ll bet being nervous has a lot to do with it, too.”

  None of his companions responded to the remark.

  A sudden cracking sound came from the surrounding woods. Everyone went for their weapons. Hays wasted no time in assigning everyone a defensive position to watch so that all sides were covered.

  Silence settled in once again in the forest.

  Now no one noticed the heat. The sound that alarmed them could have been a prowling animal. Or it could have been a sober, angry warrior of the Wolf Society. “Dar-Say!”

  Hays grinned, saying, “That’s Eagle Talons.” He stood up and hollered, “Over here!”

  The Sioux warrior rode into the clearing. “I follow Rollo. He go to river.”

  “That’s what we’ve been waiting to hear,” Hays said. “This thing is going to come to a close one way or the other.”

  “Now I’m getting more nervous,” Walton said. “Hurry!” Eagle Talons said. “He go to river with his men and wagons. They stop and make camp. Stay there by the river. Come!”

  “You bet!” Hays said. “Let’s go! Everyone mount up!” With the entire crew ready to move out, it was only a matter of less than half a minute before they rode away from the scene, following Eagle Talons as he led them to the place where Rollo Kenshaw and his gang had set up a bivouac.

  They moved throu
gh the woods at a fast clip. This let the others know they had a good distance to go since Eagle Talons was not concerned about making noise. Dust was kicked up, deadfall loudly trampled, and the horses snorted as the trek continued down toward lower country.

  After a couple of hours, the Sioux slowed down a bit. He even brought them to a stop while he went forward. Then he returned and led them on toward their destination and whatever after awaited them there.

  An hour later, Eagle Talons not only stopped, but signaled them to dismount. Hays went forward. “Where are they?”

  “Close ahead there,” Eagle Talons said, pointing. “We walk a little more then leave horses. We can watch what they do.”

  “Lead on,” Hays said.

  Eagle Talons took them through another seventy-five yards of thick trees. When he reached a small clearing, he silently gestured for the horses to be secured there. When that was done, the Sioux continued leading them through the dense foliage, going extremely slowly to avoid noise. Finally he signaled a halt and motioned Hays to join him.

  Together they crept forward until they reached the edge of the tree lines. Eagle Talons pointed straight ahead, and Hays took a careful look.

  The entire gang of whiskey smugglers, along with their two wagons were brazenly and openly camped on the banks of the North Platte River. It was obvious they were not a bit nervous about being observed. Their ill-gotten furs were in plain sight, all bundled up and ready for delivery.

  It didn’t take Hays long to reach a conclusion. Taking his Sioux companion by the arm, he went back to join Tim, O’Dell, and Walton.

  “It’s easy to see they’re waiting for the boats to make an appearance,” Hays said. “I know for a fact that the river is deep enough at that point for any size craft to come right up to the bank.”

  Tim nodded his understanding. “We ought to be able to find out plenty when we see who’s on that boat.”

  “It’s obvious they’re going to put their furs aboard to have them hauled away in exchange for a fresh liquor supply,” Hays said. “That’s safe enough for them to do, since any observer will figure they’re trappers.”

  “That means we’ll have to wait until the transaction takes place,” Tim said. “We’re also going to have to be careful about how many men are involved. Remember, there’re only five of us.”

  “Don’t worry, that’s always on my mind,” Hays said. “We’ll also have to be extra careful to make sure we’re not seen or heard while we’re biding our time here.”

  Further conversation was interrupted by the sound of the approaching riverboat. Shouts from the whiskey smugglers and a couple of signaling gunshots followed.

  “By God!” Hays said. “Don’t tell me it’s the regular riverboat that delivers their whiskey to them.”

  “Clever,” Tim said. “Damned clever!”

  “Well,” Hays said. “We sure won’t have long to wait. Let’s go watch the operation.”

  The five men went back to the observation point and settled down to scrutinize the loading of the pelts onto the riverboat. It took several moments for the large craft to slow down, then throw its engine into reverse as it came to a halt in answer to the hails from Rollo Kenshaw and his gang.

  A half hour later, the boat was up at the bank. The captain came down on the lower deck and watched as the whiskey peddlers wrestled the bundles of pelts aboard. When the job was completed, members of the crew began coming out of the hold with heavy crates.

  Hays was confused for a moment when he noticed the crates being prepared to be offloaded. He couldn’t quite figure out what was in them for a few moments. Then he realized it was the whiskey, crated up to look like legal trade goods. He also noticed the passengers, including some army men, unknowingly watching a smuggling operation going on right under their noses.

  “Pull your guns, my lads,” he said to his companions. “And follow me.”

  “What in hell are we going to do, sir?” Tim asked, as he and the others obeyed.

  Hays was almost laughing when he answered, “We’re going to add to our crimes, Lieutenant. Not only are we absent without leave from our proper posts, we’re about to become pirates!” He waved his pistol. “Now, let’s go!”

  Twenty-One

  Captain Darcy Lafayette Hays, U.S. Dragoons, rushed from the cover of the trees with his four companions right behind him. In the excitement of the moment, he forgot about his rheumatism and moved quite rapidly for a man of his age.

  The whiskey peddlers were so surprised at the sight that they merely looked on as the two army officers, two smugglers, and lone Sioux warrior leaped aboard the riverboat.

  “Who the hell are they?” one asked.

  “I don’t know,” his pal replied. “Maybe they’re off’n the boat.”

  Hays rushed up the stairs to the pilothouse on the upper deck. He burst in through the door and pointed his Colt revolver straight into the face of the shocked helmsman.

  “Pull this boat out into the river or I’ll blow your goddamned head off!” Hays shouted.

  The boatman knew better than to hesitate. He wasted no time as he grabbed the speaking tube and yelled, “Full speed astern!”

  The well-trained engine crew responded without question. In an instant, the huge craft shuddered into life and the paddle in the rear began turning. With a great creaking and groaning, the boat backed away from the bank and out into the deeper water of the river.

  Down on the lower deck, Captain Hawkins looked around in confusion. Rollo Kenshaw, Bobby Slowfoot, Otto Bolkey, and Bruno Glotz were also unable to figure what had happened.

  “What the hell’re you doing, Hawkins?” Kenshaw angrily asked.

  “I ain’t doing nothing,” Hawkins replied. “But there’s some son of a bitch who thinks he’s in command o’ my boat!”

  All that Kenshaw and his boys could do was watch the rest of their gang still standing on the riverbank. They glanced about in a confounded manner, wondering what the hell had happened to disrupt the exchange of furs for whiskey.

  Kenshaw grabbed the captain. “Don’t just stand there like a damn fool! Do something!”

  “I’m on my way,” Hawkins said. He pulled himself free from the smuggler’s furious grasp and hurried up to the pilothouse. He charged in and stopped short at the sight of the five uninvited guests. “Who are you, and what are you doing aboard my boat?”

  “I am Captain Darcy L. Hays of the U.S. Dragoons,” Hays said, introducing himself. “And you, sir, are under arrest for smuggling whiskey into Indian lands.”

  “By God—” But that was all the steamer skipper was able to say.

  “Keep your gun on him, Lieutenant,” Hays said. He grabbed O’Dell. “Come with me to point out Kenshaw.” Grinning widely, O’Dell needed no further coaxing. “You bet I will!”

  The two men with Norb Walton on their heels, went down to the lower deck. It didn’t take O’Dell long to spot his old enemy among the passengers.

  “There he is!” he crowed. “There’s the no-good son of a bitch!”

  An army officer standing with his wife decided it was time to sort things out of the confusing situation. “I say, what is going on here?”

  “Stand aside,” Hays said. “I am Captain Hays from Fort Laramie, and I am on an official mission.”

  “Captain,” the man said, raising his eyebrows in anger, “I am Major Tompkins, of—”

  Rollo Kenshaw ended any hope of conversation by firing at Hays. O’Dell, not giving a damn whether he hit an innocent bystander, shot back. The bullet went wild, plowing into the wood superstructure, sending splinters flying.

  Passengers yelled and ducked down as the rest of the whiskey smugglers got into the gunfight. Now, desperate and in a perilous position, Hays cut loose with his Colt. His first round hit Otto Bolkey in the chest, knocking the man over the railing to fall into the river.

  Kenshaw, Bobby Slowfoot, and Glotz made a disorderly withdrawal around to the foredeck. The shooting they did to cover, their retre
at was effective. Norb Walton took a hit in the forehead and collapsed in death on the deck. He would never see his beloved St. Louis riverfront again.

  Kenshaw decided to head up on the second deck, but an arrow thudded in the railing by his elbow. He looked up to see Eagle Talons about to string another onto his bow. He pushed back against his two men and made a run toward the stem with both following him.

  “Who we be shooting at?” Bruno Glotz demanded to know. Bullets from Hays and O’Dell cut up the deck at his feet. “Who be shooting at us?” he asked, rephrasing the question.

  Neither Kenshaw nor Bobby Slowfoot had time to answer as they continued to race down the deck, knocking passengers to the side in their desperate and aimless rush for freedom.

  Kenshaw needed time. He yelled back, “Bruno, stop and shoot them sons of bitches.”

  “I do that, Rollo,” Glotz said. He halted in his tracks and turned around. Raising his pistol, he pulled the trigger and barely missed Darcy Hays.

  Hays fired and didn’t miss. The bullet plowed into the big man’s chest, knocking him back. For the final seconds that he lived, Glotz fought to keep his balance. He hit the deck the moment he died.

  Hays continued on, leaping over Glotz’s corpse, as he kept up his pursuit of the two remaining men. O’Dell, anxious to kill Kenshaw, tried to push his way past the dragoon captain, but the passageway between the railing and the cabin bulkhead was too narrow.

  Kenshaw and Bobby Slowfoot reached the paddle wheel on the stern. Trapped, desperate, and frightened, they turned to face their pursuers.

  “O’Dell!” Kenshaw bellowed as he finally recognized the man. He fired, hitting the other whiskey man in the belly.

  O’Dell grimaced and staggered back under the impact of the bullet, but managed to keep to his feet. With pure hatred driving him on, he shoved Hays aside and raised his pistol. But another shot, this one from Bobby Slowfoot, knocked him backward, and he went over the rail to join Otto Bolkey in the Platte River.