Kiowa Vengeance

by Ford Fargo

  “Colonel Vine’s worried that Old Mountain might not be able to control the hotheads in his band. If they go on the warpath your town’s likely to be a target.”

  “Sitting duck’s more like it,” Satterlee said. “We also had some pretty nasty business with bank robbers a few weeks ago. Folks in Wolf Creek ain’t got over the shock of that yet.”

  Dent had heard about the raid and robbery. The outlaws had blasted through town, slaughtering horses to prevent pursuit and not being chary about murdering unarmed men and women, either. The schoolmarm had been shot in the back and killed as she protected one of her young students.

  “What do you recommend we do?” The sheriff finished his coffee and clicked the cup down onto his desk. Dent jumped at the metallic sound. It might have been the hammer coming back on a six-shooter.

  “I have twenty men, camped outside town along the river bank. Colonel Vine has authorized me to protect the town—coordinating with you and your deputies, of course.”

  “Of course,” Satterlee said dryly. “I appreciate the offer, Captain, but you have to realize I’m a bit skeptical of help from the Army. We didn’t get squat from Fort Braxton before—and that Danby bunch was a small army in itself. We tracked the varmints ourselves all the way into Indian Territory.”

  Dent stiffened at that. He hadn’t heard the posse had violated treaty and gone where their authority didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

  “Did you get permission from Fort Smith before you—” He cut off his question. He was a career Army officer and had learned not to ask questions if he didn’t want to know the answers—and abide by the consequences.

  “How big a force do you think Old Mountain, or the braves what snuck off while the chief wasn’t looking, are likely to have if they come at us?”

  “Not so many you—we—can’t handle them if we are prepared. I intend to recruit Charley Blackfeather to range out and bring back a warning of any impending attack.”

  “A damn good man, Blackfeather,” Satterlee said, nodding. “You can find him down at Asa’s when he’s in town, most days.”

  “The saloon?”

  “He’s developed a powerful thirst recently.”

  “After the outlaw raid on the town?” Dent read the answer on the sheriff’s face. “He hasn’t gone too far into his cups, has he?”

  “Doubt he could. Not in his nature. You see, Charley is—” Satterlee clamped his mouth shut as a young soldier burst into the office, all hot and bothered.

  The private looked at the sheriff in confusion, then turned to Dent. He threw him a hasty salute and said, “Captain Dent? Didn’t expect you to be here. I have a message.” He looked over at the sheriff, as if confused who was to receive the report.

  “What is it, Private? Don’t be shy speaking in front of Sheriff Satterlee.” Dent’s firmness in taking charge relaxed the courier. He knew who to report to now, and so he did.

  “They upped and shot at us. We was on patrol eighteen miles south of town.”

  “Kiowa?” asked Dent. He caught his breath. The trouble had started sooner than he’d expected. Too soon to rally the town properly, but not too soon to get his troopers back in the saddle. He could interdict the war party and give the sheriff time to organize resistance in town.

  “Under Stone Knife, sir. More’n forty warriors. They came across the Strip fixin’ to raid farms and steal beeves from the ranchers. Only they ran into our patrol.”

  “How large was your patrol?”

  “Ten men, sir.”

  Dent realized the gravity of the situation. The troopers were outnumbered four to one. If Stone Knife cut through the patrol, nothing stopped him from coming north to gut the entire town of Wolf Creek. With his braves filled with bloodlust from a victory, Stone Knife wouldn’t stop his braves—even if he wanted to. Dent knew, even with twenty soldiers and a town filled with civilians to back up his C Troop, the fight would be dire.

  “Did the Injuns send out any scouts?” Satterlee asked. He went to a map tacked to the wall and ran his finger along the oxbow holding Wolf Creek, then moved down a few inches to where the courier’s patrol had encountered the Kiowa war party.

  “Don’t rightly know that, sir,” the courier said.

  “Stone Knife would send scouts this way, northeast,” Dent said, studying the map. “How many?”

  “Don’t really matter, Captain,” Satterlee said. “He could send a dozen men out to scout and still have a big advantage over that patrol, ’specially since that ten-man patrol’s only got nine men in it because of sendin’ out a courier.”

  “I was ordered! I didn’t—”

  “As you were, Private,” snapped Dent. They were all on edge.

  “I’ll rustle up some help around town while you go see to your stranded patrol,” the sheriff said. “Town marshal is still stove up from gettin’ shot in that bank raid, but his deputies can be of help. Ain’t gonna be easy on any of us.”

  The sheriff stood up, just as yet another intruder charged into his office. Satterlee gave the newcomer a dour look—it was that damned photographer.

  “What the hell do you want, Marsh?”

  “Sheriff, I overheard. I want to ride along.”

  “Who are you, sir?” Captain Dent glowered at the smaller man. Shifty eyes, thin lips, a two-day stubble of beard, shabby clothing and hair all greased straight back—this didn’t present a comforting picture of a man likely to be of assistance. More to the point, no sidearm or shoulder rig was visible.

  “Wil Marsh, Captain Dent. I heard the private use your name. That’s how I know.”

  “He takes photographs,” Satterlee said with some disdain.

  Dent wanted to ask the sheriff about this obvious animosity, but there was no time. With Stone Knife’s band so close to town, every minute counted.

  “I take photographs for the Wolf Creek Expositor. You can ask the editor about that, if you please,” Marsh said.

  Dent wondered at the strange undercurrent in what should have been a simple statement. It was as if the photographer dared him to ask the editor—and yet he knew what the answer would be.

  “You ever take pictures in combat, sir?”

  Dent saw the subtle change in the man’s demeanor and wondered what that meant. He had gone from shifty to determined without seeming to move a muscle.

  “I won’t be a burden to you, Captain.”

  “I need to find my scout and—”

  “Charley Blackfeather’s at Asa Pepper’s saloon.”

  “Not much gets by you, does it, Mr. Marsh?” Dent wondered how long the photographer had been eavesdropping.

  “By the time you find him, I’ll have my wagon ready.”

  “Wagon?” asked Dent.

  “A rolling dark room. I can develop my photographs as we go.”

  “No, definitely not. Either you pack everything on a single horse or you stay. You can bring the plates back to Wolf Creek, if you choose.”

  “You ain’t lettin’ him take pictures, are you, Captain? That’s crazy.” Satterlee pursed his lips, then apparently changed his mind. “Go on, take him with you. This’ll get him out of my town and maybe get him out of my hair permanently.”

  Dent thought that was a strange comment, but felt the pressure of time on him. To the private he said, “C Troop is just west of town. Report what you’ve told me and pass along my orders to move out right away. I’ll join the column as quickly as I can.”

  “Sir!” The private saluted and dashed out.

  “You won’t regret letting me ride along with my camera, Captain. I promise.”

  “I hope not, Mister Marsh, oh, dear God, I hope not.” He spoke to empty air. The photographer followed the private out, moving even faster, if that was possible. Dent began to regret his decision, but it was too late.

  “The town’ll be ready, Captain, if they get through your line,” the sheriff said.

  Dent put his hand on the holster at his right side and knew the pistol would be used all
too soon. He went to see if Nagy had found the Seminole scout.

  ***

  Charley Blackfeather had become a fixture at Asa’s Saloon for the past couple of weeks, ever since the posse had returned from their pursuit of the Danby Gang that had terrorized Wolf Creek. Almost all the outlaws had been killed, including the leaders—but the one Blackfeather had wanted the most had escaped. Clark Davis was his name, and during the war he had beheaded a young man who had been under Charley’s protection. The Black Seminole knew that Sango’s ghost must still be restless, and would remain so until he was avenged.

  Doctor Munro told Charley that he would be avenging no one until his leg healed. It was doing well, and was coming along much better than the more serious leg wound Marshal Gardner had received during the robbery. Charley had decided that, so long as he had to stay off the limb, he might as well sit at Asa’s—that way he could get his healing, brooding, and drinking all done at the same time. He felt well enough now, and planned to return to Indian Territory soon—someone there must surely have seen Davis. The knowledge that his quarry had escaped galled the scout beyond words.

  His friends George Alberts and Emory Charleston sat with him today. They each joined him when their respective jobs allowed. They were not sure what he was brooding about—Charley was not the sort of man to say, and neither of them was the sort to ask—but they were content to keep him company just the same. The three men had become fast friends soon after Charley started bringing his furs in to Wolf Creek.

  They had more in common than just the color of their skin. Em Charleston, who worked at the blacksmith’s forge, had been born a slave; ten years ago, just as the war was getting underway, he had taken a hoe-handle to his Louisiana overseer’s head and made his escape. Now, he and Spike Sweeney were full partners in what had been Spike’s business, alone. Spike had befriended Em and made him a silent partner, though they had fought on different sides in the War. There was a bond of trust between them that Em had never had with anyone else. George Alberts, who now owned a leatherworks shop, had made a similar escape from Missouri, and had spent the war in the same colored Kansas Union regiment as Charley, although he had only known the scout then by sight.

  Charley Blackfeather was the sort of man who stood out in a crowd. He stood a couple of inches over six feet, over two hundred pounds of muscle. His hair was tied back in a long ponytail. He wore a Union-blue slouch hat, decorated with a crow feather, high-topped moccasins, and a vest with no shirt underneath in the summer. He had never been a slave, but his father was. After escaping from a Georgia plantation, Charley’s father had been adopted by the Seminoles and married one of their women. Father and son had fought against the U.S. Army for years, during the Seminole wars in Florida, and then during the Civil War Charley, like many Seminoles, had worn the same blue uniform he’d once fought against.

  Asa Pepper, the man who owned and tended the saloon, had been a slave as well. He ran the sort of place that served anyone who had the money to pay, regardless of race or position. At any given time, the saloon might feature customers who were black, white, Mexican, or even Chinese. At the moment, Charley and his friends were the only patrons, not unusual for this time of day.

  No one thought it strange, therefore, when two cavalry troopers walked in.

  Sergeant Nagy and Corporal Sligo walked up to Charley’s table.

  “Figured we’d find you here at your favorite waterin’ hole, boyo,” Sligo said.

  Charley looked up. He nodded politely to the troopers.

  “Howdy, fellas,” he said. “From the looks you’re wearin’, I reckon this visit is more business than pleasure.”

  The Hungarian sergeant nodded. “Stone Knife is raidin’,” he said. “We need to find him before a bunch of farmers and ranchers get killed.”

  Charley drained his beer in one great swallow, then brought the mug sharply down onto the table. “Let’s go,” he said.

  George Alberts looked concerned. “Charley,” he said, “you reckon that leg of your’n is healed up enough to ride?”

  Charley waved the idea away. “I hardly notice it,” he said. “I’ve fought with a whole lot worse wounds, and fresh ones at that.”

  He dug into a pouch in his belt, took out some coins, and slapped them on the table as well.

  “I’ll see y’all when we get back,” he said. “Asa, don’t let these fellas drink the place dry while I’m gone.”

  Charley followed the troopers into the street.

  ***

  Wil Marsh had to restrain himself from skipping with glee as he hurried back to his studio. This opportunity would put him in clover. He knew of no fewer than four magazines back East that paid top dollar for photographs of Indians. In war paint, dead or alive, the price went up like a Fourth of July skyrocket. He had taken many pictures of dead men for Gravely and knew how to pose them for the best effect. It couldn’t be much different for an Indian. He had seen enough Kiowas since coming to town to know they had a fierce expression at the best of times. To capture that on their dead faces—warriors killed by valiant cavalry soldiers defending the frontier—would earn him a small fortune.

  Knowing human nature as he did, there wouldn’t be any lack of soldiers willing to pose, rifles at order arms, over the bodies. Captain Dent might order his troopers to refuse such a pose, but a few dollars went a long way when the average soldier wasn’t likely to see five dollars in a month.

  He shot into his studio and did a quick inventory. Not being able to take his darkroom wagon wouldn’t be that much of a hindrance. He couldn’t carry as many unexposed glass plates and had to be more careful packing them, but he had done such expeditions in the past and knew how to wrap the exposed glass for maximum safety. Not only did he need to be certain they didn’t shatter, he had to prevent light from caressing the sweet, exposed surfaces that would make him rich!

  The camera and tripod folded up quickly. The carrying case for the plates had to be loaded in his dark room. Once on the trail, he need only use the special shutters and envelopes to maintain their integrity. In less than ten minutes, he wrestled his gear out the door and went around to the side of his studio.

  There, a lean-to sheltered his swayback horse. With enough good photographs of dead Indians, he could afford a better mount. This one had come to him through a trade of blue pictures of soiled doves he had taken in St. Louis. Marsh wasn’t sure the man who had the horse originally hadn’t skunked him. For all he knew, the horse had been stolen. But the photographs had been taken while the whore was passed out from too much laudanum, so his only cost had been the plate and developing chemicals.

  Quick, sure movements lashed the camera and other gear to the horse. He led the protesting beast out, then started to vault up in front of the pack. Marsh stopped and stared at the church south of his studio, across an empty lot. He led the animal forward a few yards, found a dirt clod and juggled it a couple times in his hand. Then he hauled back and sent the dirt sailing through the air to crash into the side of the church. He missed the window he had aimed at by inches.

  He mounted then and rode past as the Wolf Creek Community Church’s preacher, Obadiah Stone, bustled out to see what the commotion was. He saw the circle of dirt on the wall and turned to Marsh.

  “Urchins,” the photographer called. “Little sons of bitches don’t have any respect.” Before the preacher could reply, Marsh kicked at his horse and got it moving at a steady walk, heading south through Dogleg City. He overtook Captain Dent, his two noncommissioned officers, and Charley Blackfeather just this side of the Wolf Creek crossing.

  The Indian scout frowned and nudged the cavalry officer.

  “He comin’ along?”

  “Only if he can keep up,” Dent said.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stick to you like glue. You’ll have some of the finest photographs ever taken since Mathew Brady’s glory days.”

  Blackfeather said something in a low tone to the captain, who shook his head decisively and then sna
pped his reins, heading south at a trot. Marsh was hard-pressed to keep up. But he did. The lure of wealth was too great not to expend the effort.

  ***

  “That’s gunfire,” Wil Marsh said, his breath coming a trifle quicker now as excitement grew. They had scoured the countryside and found only traces of the Kiowa war party. From the spoor, the Indians were pursing the cavalry patrol, not the other way around.

  Blackfeather had ridden out on a scout, leaving Dent and his troopers to follow at a slower pace. Marsh had been able to maintain the gait without fear of his mount dying under him. Riding without a saddle proved difficult, but the less weight the swayback nag carried, the better. His camera, tripod and supplies weighed close to fifty pounds. He vowed to give the old boy a well-deserved nosebag of oats when they returned to town.

  He urged his horse to pull even with the captain. Dent spoke rapidly with his sergeant, pointing out the hillocks and rolling plains ahead to determine the best approach.

  “Sir, we ain’t got time to be all cautious. If the Kiowas are attackin’ that woeful patrol, sooner is better if we ever want to go drinkin’ with dem at the post.” Sergeant Nagy pushed his kepi back, swiped at the sweat released from under the band, then pulled it down. He took the time to secure the leather band under his chin.

  Seeing that put Marsh on edge. He knew a man preparing for a fight. This was such an unconscious gesture.

  “We go charging on and we might find ourselves in an ambush,” Captain Dent said. “Where’s Blackfeather? We need his report before tangling with a war party that might be twice our size.”

  “Won’t be twice if we join up with the other troopers, Cap’n,” the sergeant said. “Might even be ’bout equal fightin’ forces.”

  The captain chewed over this, then said to his sergeant, “When we come out from this stretch of hills, and if we sight the enemy, have the bugler sound ‘charge.’”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Where do you want me to ride, Captain?” Marsh called out.

  “Out of the path of a bullet or arrow. Otherwise, I don’t much care.” Dent’s attention focused on the meandering road ahead.