by J. T. Edson
‘We’ll take a look then, General,’ Dusty answered.
‘There’s no rush. I’d like you to see them before you speak to the chiefs tonight, of course, but mainly I sent for you as an excuse to get away from those dog-blasted politicians. Do you know, Dusty, when I took this assignment I did it in the hope that I’d escape from politicians for a spell. Clean forgot that there’d be a bunch of them along—and that it’s always the most pompous, over-bearing kind who come on things like this.’
‘It looks like even generals have their troubles,’ Mark grinned.
‘What rank did you hold in the War?’ Handiman grunted.
‘Lieutenant, Sheldon’s Cavalry.’
‘Well, Mr. Counter,’ bristled Handiman. ‘You never saw the day as a shavetail lieutenant that you had a fiftieth of a general’s worries, All you had to do was go out, get shot at and likely get killed. Your general had the job of explaining why it happened to some—politician who was nowhere near when it happened and still knew more about it than the men on the spot did.’
Having heard his uncle and other high-ranking staff officers of both sides on the subject of politicians, Dusty decided to head Handiman off before the General reached his full flow.
‘About these fancy weapons, General,’ he prompted.
‘Come along, I’ll show them to you,’ Handiman replied.
Accompanied by Manners, who found himself assigned to act as the general’s aide, Handiman led the Texans through the buildings to a locked, guarded stable-block on the edge of the parade squared After acknowledging the salute of the Lancer who stood guard, Handiman took a key from his pocket, unlocked and opened the door, then allowed the Texans to enter. Dusty studied the line of weapons and decided that the U.S. Government were going to considerable expense and trouble in order to impress the Comanche with the superiority of the white-eye brother’s means of killing enemies.
‘You know this one?’ asked Handiman, approaching the nearest of the weapons.
‘One of the new Gatlings, isn’t it?’ Dusty asked.
‘An improved version,’ agreed Handiman. ‘.50 caliber.’
‘A fair number of the chiefs saw that Ager during the War and it impressed them,’ Dusty said, looking at the five barreled Gatling gun on its medium-artillery carriage and estimating its weight to be approaching half a ton taken with the ammunition caisson and actual weapons ‘I reckon this might do it if you can show the chiefs how well it works.’
‘I reckon we might be able to do that,’ Handiman said. ‘We’ve brought in crack crews for all the weapons.’ He waved a hand to a small mortar mounted on a wooden bed which had four carrying handles attached. ‘How about the Coehorn? Twenty-four pounder, twelve hundred yards range, light enough for four men to carry it into action,’
‘On hosses?’ asked the Kid.
‘How’s that?’ demanded Handiman.
‘Can those four jaspers take it into a fight between ’em riding hosses?’
‘It weighs two hundred and ninety-six pounds on the bed,’ Manners put in. ‘So they’d not be able to manage it from horseback.’
‘Then the Comanche won’t be worried about it. They can haul down a village and start running faster than men on foot could move that thing up and use it.’
‘You wouldn’t show it then?’ asked Handiman.
‘How accurate is it?’ Dusty put in.
‘With a good team, which we have, very accurate.’
‘I’d show it then, General, only have it set up ready.’
‘You mean so that they don’t see how slowly it takes to move it from place to place, Dusty?’
‘That’s it,’ grinned the small Texan.
‘I saw some of these used one time,’ Mark put in, pointing to a metal box from which Manners lifted the next weapon. ‘it’s a Hale rocket, isn’t it?’
‘A Hale Spin-Stabilized rocket with high-explosive head,’ corrected Manners, holding the projectile gingerly.
‘And very dramatic too,’ Handiman went on.
Alongside the rocket box stood a metal tube five foot in length fitted with an adjustable rear sight and bipod legs. Dusty stepped forward and lifted the tube, recognizing it as a launcher for the rocket.
‘More dramatic than effective, from what I heard,’ he said, ‘What do you reckon, Lon?’
‘You could use a couple of rockets,’ the Kid replied. ‘The chiefs have seen cannon, but that’ll be something new to them,’
‘So I thought,’ Handiman said. ‘What about the Whitworth rifle here?’
When Handiman used the term rifle, he meant the 12-pounder breech loading rifled cannon next to the rockets.
‘It’s field artillery,’ Manners went on, ‘and can keep up with the cavalry.’
‘Not fast enough to catch up to a bunch of Comanches when they decide not to fight,’ Dusty told him. ‘But you could show its range and accuracy, that ought to make an impressions The Mountain Howitzer there’ll make a good showing too.’
‘Maybe even better than the Whitworth,’ Mark agreed.
On the face of it, the comment might have seemed wrong. Stood alongside it the long barreled Whitworth looked far more impressive than, and towered over, the 33-inch tube, 51-inch carriage and 38-inch diameter wheels of the Mountain Howitzers However the little gun tossed a 12-pounder shell and could be taken to pieces so as to be carried on a pack horse or mule—one animal carried the tube and shafts, another the carriage, wheels and loading gear, while ammunition rode the packs of a third.
‘The crew I’ve brought out for this gun can assemble it and get off an aimed shot in slightly under one minute,’ Handiman remarked.
While realizing the advantages of the Mountain Howitzer, the Kid said, ‘I’ve yet to see a pack-hoss that could cover more than twenty miles a day toting that kind of load.’
‘So?’ asked Handiman.
‘An Injun village on the run’ll cover thirty, bucks on their own—well, if they only go fifty miles they figure they’ve made poor time.’
‘It’s still a mighty handy weapon,’ Dusty pointed out. ‘We don’t have to tell the chiefs its limitations.’
‘You won’t have to,’ replied the Kid.
For all that, he knew what impact the display of weapons would have upon the assembled Comanches, Shrewd warriors, with an inborn ability to judge the merits and capabilities of weapons, they would begin to realize the futility of fighting against such devices as the Whitworth rifled cannon that could hurl its charge accurately over distances well beyond any weapon the Indians possessed. Maybe those jaspers in Washington were smarter than he figured. They had certainly come up with a right convincing argument to present before his people for once.
‘I’ll tell the chiefs about the different weapons, General, but without letting them know we have them on hand,’ Dusty said. ‘Then you can arrange a display of them before the signing ceremony.’
On leaving the stable, Dusty’s party found that the Lancer guard was being relieved. A mounted Lancer sergeant threw up a salute to the General and his men stiffened into a brace.
‘How about those Lancers, General?’ asked Mark. ‘Why’re they here?’
‘That’s another part of the scheme to impress the Comanches,’ Handiman answered.
‘Just how’re they fixing to do that?’ inquired the Kid,
‘Somebody in Washington came up with the information that the Comanche treat a man who carries a lance as something special,’ explained Handiman. ‘So they sent Count Przewlocki’s battalion out here to show the chiefs that we have lance carriers too . . .’
‘They’re going to demonstrate their skill with the lance,’ Manners put in. ‘You should see them in action at tent-pegging.’
‘What’d that be?’ the Kid wanted to know.
‘Sergeant!’ Manners called, then looked at Handiman, ‘With the General’s permission—?’
‘Go ahead,’ Handiman assented.
‘Have you a tent-pegging course laid out?’ Manners
asked when the sergeant rode up to him,
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then will you show these gentlemen how it is done?’
The sergeant, a slim man of Baltic extraction, barked an order to one of the sentries he had just relieved, Like all the men of his outfit, he had served in a European Lancer regiment and knew that most members of the U.S. cavalry had but small regard for the lance; which annoyed him. So he did not object to demonstrating a skill which lay beyond the capabilities of men not specially trained at the sport of tent-pegging.
While the sergeant rode his horse along the edge of the parade ground, his sentry went to where a number of wooden pegs of the kind used for securing a tent’s guy ropes lay. Taking a couple, the soldier drove them into the ground some distance apart and before the spectators. After turning to face the pegs, the sergeant set his horse moving at a slow gallop. His eyes studied the nearer peg and he measured his distance. Down lowered the lance, its tip spiking through the peg and withdrawing it from the ground. Swinging towards the General’s party, he raised the lance to show off the skewered peg; conscious that he had given a good demonstration.
‘Well?’ asked Manners, having tried tent-pegging and learned that there was more to it than met the eye.
‘Is that all?’ the Kid countered.
‘Could any of your Comanche lance-carriers do it?’
While the Kid doubted if any Comanche worth his salt would use such a prized item as a war lance for that kind of display, he felt called on to uphold the honor of the Nemenuh. Turning, he looked to where his big white stallion stood before the General’s office. As usual Thunder had not needed to be tied and so was free to answer its master’s whistle. Running forward, the Kid went up into the white’s saddle in a single bound. From a fast trot, Thunder’s pace increased to a racing gallop and the Kid guided his mount towards the second of the pegs.
‘What’s he goi—’ Manners began.
Drawing his bowie knife, the Kid swung over and hung alongside his saddle. In passing, he skewered up the peg with the same ease the sergeant showed; except that instead of a nine foot lance, the Kid used the eleven and a half inch long blade of the bowie knife, and his horse moved considerably faster than the soldier’s mount. Not content with merely picking up the peg, the Kid flicked it into the air and chopped at it as it fell. So keen an edge did the great knife carry, that it sank into the end of the peg deep enough to hold the wood on the blade. Bringing the horse around in a rump-scraping turn, the Kid thundered down towards the watching men. He left the saddle while the stallion still ran at top speed, lighting down with cat-like agility before the open-mouthed. amazed-looking Manners.
‘Didn’t have a lance,’ the Kid drawled. ‘But I sure picked up that peg.’
‘But—’ started Manners.
‘Mister,’ interrupted the Kid. ‘Any Pehnane boy past ten summers could have done the same; only without a saddle.’
‘You—You’re joshing me,’ Manners said.
Once again the Kid whistled and his horse swung back towards him. Leaping into the saddle, he gave a display of trick-riding the like of which Manners had never seen equaled. The US. Cavalry had its share of trick-riders, but Manners grudgingly admitted that none of them could touch that Indian-dark Texan. After a few seconds Manners began to wonder if bringing the Lancers West to over-awe the Comanche had been such a good idea after all.
So apparently did General Handiman. While he realized that the Kid possessed greater equestrian skill than the average Comanche, the General guessed that many of the braves approached the dark-faced youngster in ability. Enough to make trying to impress them, using the Lancers, uncertain and risky. Clearly the Kid did not regard the tent-pegging skill of the sergeant as anything special and most Comanches would feel much the same way.
‘Where’s Colonel Przewlocki, sergeant?’ Handiman asked. Surprise flickered on the non-com’s face for a moment. ‘He took the battalion, less the line guard under me, out as you ordered, sir.’
‘As I ordered?’ Handiman barked.
‘Yes, sir. The General ordered that the battalion went out to bring the Waw’ai here for the council.’
No respecter of persons, apart from Ole Devil and Dusty, the Kid swung an angry face towards Handiman even as the General exchanged startled glances with Dusty and Manners.
‘Why in hell did you do that?’ demanded the Kid hotly. ‘Any Nemenuh who hasn’t come in yet won’t be coming. The only way you could make the Waw’ai come here’d be by force and that means fighting with ’em.’
‘I know that,’ Handiman answered, so surprised by the news that he did not take offence at the Kid’s words. ‘And I never gave such an order to Przewlocki.’
‘Then who—?’ Dusty began.
‘Now there’s a real good point,’ Mark went on.
‘And one I aim to feel at,’ Handiman growled. ‘Who brought my orders, sergeant?’
‘I don’t know sir. The Colonel came from his quarters with a sheet of paper in his hand and ordered the battalion to move out. I heard him telling Captain Azarin they were to follow Elk Creek towards Lovatt City and look for the Waw’ai village, then bring in the Indians.’
‘When did they leave?’ asked Handiman.
‘At half past seven, sir,’ Manners put in. ‘I saw them go and thought they merely rode out to drill.’
‘Why not let Lon and me ride after him, General?’ Mark asked. ‘If you gave us a written order for his recall—’
‘Not you, Mark,’ Dusty interrupted. ‘I reckon Colonel Przewlocki wouldn’t recognize your writing, General?’
‘There’s no reason why he should,’ admitted Handiman.
‘Then it’d be best if one of the Fort’s officers went with Lon.’
‘Or I could send Mr. Manners here with one of the Fort’s scouts,’ Handiman suggested. ‘There is the council tonight.’
‘I’d thought about that,’ Dusty told him. ‘It’d best be Lon, unless you’re real sure about the scout you send. Happen you send the wrong man, he’ll just lead Mr. Manners in circles and make sure they either don’t find the Lancers, or find them too late.’
‘I don’t know the post staff,’ admitted Handiman. ‘Can you speak to the chiefs without the Kid being along, Dusty?’
‘Sure. Lon’s pappy made me his blood brother before we went to the Devil Gun council and I reckon it still holds good.’
‘It does,’ confirmed the Kid. ‘Once you’re made a blood brother, only death can end it. I’ll go see Grandpappy Long Walker and tell him what’s happened. Want to borrow a good hoss from him too. See that you get something that can move, mister. We won’t be letting grass grow under our feet.’
‘I’ll see to it,’ promised Manners, a little haughtily.
‘And don’t go loading it down like you soldiers most times do when you put your noses outside the walls.’
‘We won’t catch up to them today—’ began Manners.
‘That figures,’ said the Kid.
‘Then how about food?’
‘The only way we can catch up to them to do any good, mister,’ the Kid warned, ‘we won’t have time to worry about it.’
‘Go make your arrangements, Mr. Manners,’ ordered Handiman. ‘And listen to the Kid. Take his advice in everything pertaining to finding Colonel Przewlocki before the Lancers find the Waw’ai village.’
Chapter Nine – Mr. Manners Sees A Caracole
Four miles from the Fort night came on so dark that the Kid could no longer read the sign of even so large a party as the Lancer detachment.
‘Reckon we’d best night here,’ he said. ‘Could follow the stream until it joins the Elk Creek if you like.’
They had been following the smaller stream which served the Fort as water supply before joining Elk Creek and the Kid waited, showing remarkable tact, for Manners to make a reply. Sensing that the other displayed good will in even offering to share the decision, Manners shook his head.
‘You’re the one who
’s following the sign. The Lancers might turn off and us not know until too late though. I’d say bed down here.’
On that note of friendly co-operation, the Kid slid from the saddle of the big iron-grey horse borrowed from his grandfather. He had left his white stallion at the Fort, knowing his two companions could care for Thunder’s basic needs and that the horse needed a rest after the hard work done over the past weeks. Dismounting from the fine looking bay charger, one of a pair presented to him by his family on his being sent West, Manners glanced at the Kid and then set to work attending to his horse’s welfare.
Feeling almost naked without his bedroll, food supply, change of clothing and all the other items the soldier—or his horse—carried when on patrol, Manners wondered how the Kid expected them to exist until they caught up with the Lancers. Fortunately they both found time to eat a good meal before leaving the post, but that would hardly last for a day or more. From what Manners could see, the Kid did not appear to be worried by the lack of food. One thing the lieutenant noticed, the Kid clearly needed no supervision in matters of horse management.
‘They’ll do,’ the Kid drawled, when the horses had been cooled down, off-saddled, watered and hobbled on good grazing.
Suddenly Manners realized that his companion regarded him as the one who might need supervising and the feeling irritated him. After all, he was a well-educated man, a product of the West Point Military Academy and a potential commander-in-chief of the U.S. Army. Yet that Indian-dark Texan who—
‘How about lighting a fire?’ Manners asked, fighting down his annoyance.
‘I wouldn’t,’ the Kid replied.
‘But we’re not in hostile territory,’ Manners objected.
‘Anywhere’s hostile to somebody,’ countered the Kids ‘And a couple of good hosses’d make mighty fine pickings for some young buck, even happen he’s headed for the peace council.’
‘How about cooking our food?’ Manners said, suddenly conscious that he had failed to bring any supplies along.
