Glory's Guidons (The Long-Knives US Cavalry Western Book 3)

by Patrick E. Andrews

  “Is that significant, sir?” Pepperdine asked.

  “It is if you would consider a full-scale Indian war significant, Mr. Pepperdine.”

  Chapter Eight

  If Delaney felt any sympathy for Pepperdine’s emotional state after his experience with the snakes and the mutilated remains of the farm family, he kept it to himself. The captain was business-as-usual when he assigned both the young officer and Wheatfall to continue scouting as a team with Jim Rivers. Pepperdine had begun feeling a little feverish as the trio went to work. He made no mention of his discomfort, however, since he realized that too much precious time had already been lost during the storm and the burying of the Indians’ victims. The young lieutenant willed himself to ignore his growing fever as he and his companions ranged several miles ahead of the patrol in an attempt to pick up Running Horse’s trail.

  Jim Rivers was usually taciturn in the manner of frontier men. That meant to say he would break his long periods of silence with explosive bouts of lengthy conversation as if the words had been storing themselves up behind some cerebral dam that suddenly burst. But that day the scout was quiet all the time, replying to remarks and questions with the fewest words possible. His face wore a concerned frown as he searched out the trail left by their quarry.

  Pepperdine dutifully checked out leads the scout wanted investigated. He knew this wasn’t the usual duty of an officer—that of errand boy for a civilian contract scout—but since Delaney was the author of this breach of protocol, the lieutenant wasn’t about to even question the reason, much less protest it.

  They picked up a clear trail at midday, but Rivers showed a curious lack of enthusiasm over what should have been an optimistic occasion. Pepperdine made no effort to conceal his own pleasure. “Now we’re on to them, right Jim?”

  Rivers nodded and scratched the growing stubble on his face. “Seems so.”

  Wheatfall scanned the terrain ahead, noting the obvious trail that mashed the thick prairie grass in a path that stretched out of sight. “They must be in a powerful hurry, Lieutenant. I ain’t seen the likes of this in the five years I been out here.”

  “Kinda makes you wonder, don’t it?” Rivers asked.

  “Wonder about what?” Pepperdine wanted to know.

  “Why’d they leave such an obvious track, Brad,” Rivers said. “That’s what oughta confuse you some.”

  “I don’t want to travel this thing like it was the glory road leading to heaven,” Wheatfall said. “It might just turn out that way.”

  “That’s why we sure as hell ain’t gonna dog ’em too close,” Rivers stated. “We’ll flank her a half mile out and see what happens.”

  “You mean split up?” Pepperdine asked.

  “Hell no, Brad! We’re gonna stick together like baby possums on their ma’s back.”

  “Maybe they’re getting careless in their haste,” Pepperdine suggested.

  “That trail we been following earlier was careless from having to move along fast,” Rivers said. “This one here is deliberate.”

  “A trap?” Pepperdine inquired.

  “No doubt, Lieutenant,” Wheatfall answered.

  “Then why proceed farther?” Pepperdine asked. “Let’s wait for the rest of the command and investigate this situation in strength.”

  “Because investigating is the scout’s business,” Rivers said. “That’s what the U.S. Government is paying me for and now you fellers too.”

  “Better to lose two or three than sixty in checking this out,” Wheatfall said. “It’s just like Jim says; right now we’re getting paid to poke around.”

  Pepperdine, sure that he could never again meet anything as horrible as the den of rattlesnakes, merely shrugged. “Then let’s earn our money, gentlemen.”

  “We sure as hell will, Brad,” Rivers said. “Follow me and keep skittish. The hair on the back o’ my neck tells me that somebody’s been watching us close for the past hour or two.”

  Now Pepperdine knew the reason behind the scout’s uncommunicative mood.

  ~*~

  The braves, horses and all, seemed to rise out of the grass. There were a dozen of them as they broke into a spontaneous charge at the three-man scouting party.

  Pepperdine, confused as to the actual situation, followed his companions’ lead and swung off his mount as he gasped his carbine. The three stuck close together as the Indians pounded toward them.

  Wheatfall and Rivers each fired once as the war party swept past them and disappeared behind a knoll.

  Rivers spat. “They picked this spot damned quick, but it was a good choice for ’em.”

  There was another burst of yelling and the Indians appeared again. It was a repeat of the first assault as the hostiles once again disappeared from view.

  “Say, Brad,” Rivers said. “I don’t want to seem pushy, but could you shoot at ’em now and then when they ride past us like that?”

  “Oh? Oh!” Pepperdine said with slow awareness. “I’m sorry. Of course. I wasn’t thinking.” He quickly fired in the direction of the now invisible enemy.

  “Oh, God! Don’t get buck fever and waste precious bullets now,” Rivers said. “They ain’t but the three of us.”

  Wheatfall looked over at Pepperdine. “Just watch me and when I start taking pot shots, Lieutenant, you go right along with me.”

  “Certainly, Sergeant Wheatfall,” Pepperdine said licking his lips. Between the mounting fever and a newly developed but persistent headache, he was feeling entirely unwell. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry. I supposed I’m a bit excited, that’s all.”

  “I was the same way in my first Injun fight, Lieutenant,” Wheatfall admitted. “And I’d fought in battles in the war too. So don’t you worry none now.”

  “Right, Sergeant,” Pepperdine said. “I shall fire when you do.”

  “You’ll do fine, suh.”

  Rivers reached over and patted the young officer’s shoulder. “Cool and calm, that’s the ticket, Brad.”

  “Sure, Jim,” Pepperdine agreed, staring in the direction of the Indians so hard his eyeballs ached from the effort.

  Another charge was mounted and this time Pepperdine joined in the frantic firing. He tried to remember all he had been taught at West Point, but his efforts were reduced to frantic jerks on the trigger, interspaced with shaky loadings of .45 caliber cartridges into the Springfield carbine’s breech. During their fusillade, one of the Indians jerked around sideways, then slowly slipped from his pony and fell into the tall grass. It was Pepperdine’s first sighting of a battle death.

  “That takes care of one of ’em,” Wheatfall said, pulling another cartridge from his pouch.

  “I don’t guess either of you noticed an item of importance,” Rivers said. “They was only nine of ’em in that charge.”

  “You mean we hit the other three and they rode on through before they fell?” Pepperdine asked.

  “I wish it was so,” Rivers answered. “But I’m afraid it means them three is crawling towards us somewhere out in the grass.”

  “They’ll be wanting to count coup,” Wheatfall said.

  “What’s that?” Pepperdine inquired.

  “It’s something the Injuns like to do in battle,” the sergeant answered. “They touch an enemy and they get a coup.”

  “It don’t work too well for ’em when they’re fighting white men,” Rivers said. Then he grinned and added, “Or coloreds either. But them Injuns don’t always get so serious when they’re fighting each other. They prefer to steal horses and women and in the meantime more or less slap each other and gain coups in battle.”

  “It sounds like a game,” Pepperdine opined.

  “Hell of a dangerous one though,” Rivers commented. “Let’s keep the talk to a minimum and the listening to a maximum. Like I said; three of them bastards is trying to sneak up on us.”

  For more than a half hour the only sound was the unrestrained breeze that gusted through the scene in momentary bursts that rustled the grass causing t
he three members of Delaney’s company to tense in anticipation.

  It was Pepperdine who was the target for the first coup.

  The brave, painted and magnificent, leaped up from a point only three yards in front of him. In one incredible second, the Indian had crossed the sparse nine feet of space and swung a trading post hatchet at the young officer. Pepperdine, yelling in alarm, dodged and darted away. The warrior swung twice more as Pepperdine jumped clear.

  “Shoot, Brad!”

  “Look out, Lieutenant!”

  Pepperdine ducked three more times as the deadly weapon whistled through the air at him. Finally he raised the carbine to waist level and pulled the trigger. The heavy slug slammed into the Indian, knocking him over on his back. The warrior sat up, blood coming from his stomach and out his mouth in crimson gushes. He spat the red stuff at Pepperdine and then rolled over.

  “He didn’t get you, did he, suh?” Wheatfall asked.

  “No, Sergeant,” Pepperdine answered. A moment or two passed before the full realization set in. “My God! I’ve just shot a man!”

  “That you have, Brad,” Rivers said. “But next time do it a little faster. Understand?”

  “Yes, I understand,” Pepperdine answered. His eyes widened in terror at the sight of the next attack. The brave was on the other side of Rivers. Pepperdine raised his carbine and quickly fired. Rivers fell to the ground with a yelp as the bullet sped past him and hit the Indian. The scout was on his feet in a second, but a quick glance assured him the new enemy was as dead as his companion. Then Rivers turned to Pepperdine.

  “Godammit to hell, Brad! You and me have become pretty fair friends and I’ll do a lot for you. But I beg you not to try and shoot through me to get to them Injuns. Yell first or something!”

  “Oh, God! I’m sorry, Jim.”

  “Sit down and relax,” Rivers said. “Breathe deep and get ahold of yourself. Remember, my woman may be white but she was raised by Redskins. You shoot me and she’ll have your scalp dangling over our fireplace.”

  Pepperdine, scarcely listening, sat down. Now he had shot two men.

  The next warrior sprung up from the grass as if propelled by some hidden force. He held a carbine in his left hand and a curved coup stick in his right. The attacker was on Pepperdine before the officer could react. The Indian struck him sharply on the shoulder before speeding off and diving back into the grass to withdraw from danger.

  “He counted coup on you, suh,” Wheatfall said as he noted the astonished expression on Pepperdine’s face.

  Rivers spat. “By God, he’ll have something to brag about around the council fire now. That was a young’un looking for some glory. An older warrior wouldn’t’ve been that stupid.”

  Pepperdine was suddenly outraged. He had just shot two Indians in battle and he’d be damned if he’d have a coup counted on him. He started to run off into the grass after the escaping hostile, but Rivers tackled him.

  “You ain’t ready to wrestle no Injun, Brad,” the scout said, dragging him back by the heels. “You ain’t got enough meat on your bones.”

  “There’s no Indian counting coup on me!”

  “He don’t mean nothing personal by it, boy,” Rivers said. “Hell, take it from me, he don’t even know your name.”

  Pepperdine would have continued the struggle but the sudden sound of galloping hooves interrupted him. Wheatfall stood up for an instant, then quickly sank down to a kneeling position. “Here they come again!”

  The Indians rode through the hasty defensive fire unharmed, but this time, instead of simply drawing off a short distance, they continued riding away.

  Pepperdine was confused. “What’s the matter?”

  Rivers pointed in the opposite direction. “They spotted Ambrose and the rest of the men,” he said.

  The top of L Company’s guidon appeared briefly on the horizon before the column came into view. Corporal Jones and his flankers made an appearance, their faces breaking out in smiles at seeing the scouting trio was safe.

  Jones dismounted. “I’m glad to see y’all alive and kicking. We was afraid they’d done you in by now.”

  “We’re fine,” Wheatfall said. “Set them flankers of yours out, Corporal Jones. We don’t want them Injuns doubling back on us, hear?”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” Jones said. He turned to the task and led his men away from the scene as Delaney, the duty bugler and guidon bearer rode up.

  Delaney took Pepperdine’s salute. “Report, Mister.”

  “We were attacked by a dozen or so hostiles, sir,” Pepperdine said. “We got three of them. Two here and one out there in the grass someplace.”

  “Aw, hell, Brad, don’t be so blamed modest,” Rivers said laughing. “Ambrose, this youngster kilt two of ’em hisself.”

  “This patrol is becoming quite an experience for you, isn’t it, Mr. Pepperdine,” Delaney said.

  “Yes, sir, it surely is,” Pepperdine replied.

  “At any rate, congratulations on your baptism of fire,” Delaney said. “I’ll send Corporal Jones out for a scout while you three rest for a while. The company will be on the other side of that knoll.”

  Pepperdine saluted. “Yes, sir.”

  Rivers and Wheatfall were picking up the spent cartridge cases in the grass. Pepperdine took a deep breath and let it out slowly as his nerves finally began winding down. “That’s strange,” he remarked.

  “What’s that, suh?” Wheatfall asked.

  “We’ve just had a battle and here you are calmly policing up the brass like we had been practice firing on the range.”

  Wheatfall grinned. “The army sticks to its ways no matter what’s going on, suh. The regulations say pick up them cases after they been fired. It don’t matter whether it’s target shooting or the fiercest battle in the world.”

  “Makes good sense,” Rivers stated. “Waste not, want not, as they say.”

  “I’ve just had a very frightening thought,” Pepperdine said.

  “What’s that, Brad?”

  “Those Indians could have wiped us out on the first charge if they’d concentrated on it,” he said. “Even if they hadn’t, they could have done away with us within a matter of a few short moments with a coordinated effort.”

  Wheatfall, his hat holding the brass he’d picked up, stood up from his work. “One thing you’re gonna notice about these Injuns is that they don’t make too many coordinated efforts. That’s why they lose so many of their men in actions that don’t call for them kind of losses.”

  “They have no discipline,” Rivers added. “Or at least damned little. These young bucks that just attacked us probably broke away from Running Horse without asking permission.”

  “No team spirit, suh,” Wheatfall pointed out.

  Pepperdine, understanding, nodded. “Too much individualism. Sounds like a glaring weakness. So our nemesis Running Horse is now three men less, and he has nothing really to show for it.

  “The brave that counted coup on you does,” Rivers said. “While that may now seem trivial to you, he considers the day won as far as he’s concerned.”

  “What would happen if the warriors—even the tribes—got together for a well organized effort and resisted the white man’s movement onto their lands.”

  “Then they’d keep their lands,” Rivers answered. “And that would be that.”

  “But they won’t,” Wheatfall said. “It just ain’t in their nature, Lieutenant.”

  “I hope it never is,” Pepperdine said.

  “I hope Running Horse don’t change things around on us,” Rivers said. “It’s gonna be bad enough as it is.”

  Pepperdine said nothing in reply. He knew instinctively that he was becoming ill. He couldn’t imagine a worse place in the world than an Indian campaign to find himself incapacitated.

  Chapter Nine

  Fort Durham, in north Texas, was a comfortable post. Its buildings were well constructed of lumber and even the barracks boasted wood burning stoves, not only at each en
d, but in the center of the structures as well. The cavalrymen of L Company halted at the edge of the garrison, staring in disbelief at the three stove pipes that jutted through each roof of the soldiers’ quarters.

  Delaney and Pepperdine left the men to ride in to report to the garrison’s commander. After tying up their horses in front of headquarters, they went inside to introduce themselves to the adjutant. The harried officer evidently balding prematurely from his pressing staff duties, greeted them in a manner that swayed somewhere between confusion and outright alarm at their unexpected appearance in front of his desk.

  “You are from where, sir?” he asked Delaney. “I don’t understand why you’re here at Fort Durham. We have six companies this garrison so there was no reason for you—“

  “I wish to report to the post commander,” Delaney stated in a firm voice. “I believe that’s the proper custom, is it not?”

  “Indeed it is, sir,” the adjutant agreed.

  “Then pray get on with it, Lieutenant,” Delaney ordered. “I have ridden a long distance and I am fatigued, thirsty and hungry. My command is in the same boat. We would like to resolve the question of continuing our mission or turning it over to your commanding officer.”

  “Yes, sir. Wait, please, Captain. I’ll tell the commander you’re here.”

  A voice sounded from behind the adjutant. “Never mind, I’ve noted their presence.” The statement came from a short, heavily mustachioed major standing in the doorway of his office. “I’ll be damned! Is that you, Delaney?”

  “Yes, sir,” Delaney answered. He studied the figure standing there. His memory suddenly flashed back to the image of this same major as a young lieutenant lying wounded on the ground after a brief cavalry skirmish at Brandy Station. It was the last time he had seen him. “Well! Johnny Morrow. A bit of time’s gone by since last we stood facing each other like this.”

  “I believe only you were standing the last time,” Morrow said. He walked over to Delaney and gazed into his face. “Damn! You’re older and grayer by a hell of a lot, Ambrose.”

  “I suppose,” Delaney said. He indicated his junior officer. “This is my lieutenant Mr. Pepperdine.”