Kiowa Vengeance

by Ford Fargo

  The sergeant rejoined him and nodded. Dent lifted his arm and signaled for the column to advance. Marsh fought to stay up and failed. The last of the troopers trotted past, leaving him to eat their dust. He cursed, but knew it was going to be worthwhile. The sporadic reports now became more insistent. More lead flew not a half mile beyond the hills. In his mind he framed the photographs of the dead Kiowa he’d send back East. Their warriors shaved the left side of their heads, leaving long hair on the right. A scalp lock gave them a fierce look. Some of them might have foreheads flattened by cradle boards when they were babies. He hoped those would have war-paint on. That would double the price of the pictures.

  Dead Indians all decked out for war. He might even pose one or two with bow and arrow in their lifeless hands.

  His horse faltered when the sounds of combat reached a crescendo and then fell utterly silent. The quiet got on his nerves more than the gunfire. For the first time, doubt gnawed at his guts. Turning and riding back to Wolf Creek might save his life. The Kiowa wouldn’t have spotted him.

  But he wouldn’t have any photographs. None. Fear and greed fought. Greed won.

  He forced his horse to keep a steady walk forward. In less than ten minutes he came out on a broad plain that stretched to the horizon. Deep ravines cut the arid land. Many of Dent’s troopers had dismounted and paced along the bank of a large gully. Marsh rode straight for them since they were the most keyed up of the troopers. Those still in the saddle strained to see something in the distance.

  Marsh shielded his eyes with his hand, trying to see what the soldiers hunted. A small dust devil whirled some hundreds of yards away. Otherwise, nothing moved.

  He drew rein at the edge of the ravine. A lump formed in his throat that refused to go away. When Captain Dent spoke, Marsh could hardly answer.

  “You ever see men killed before, Mister Marsh?” The captain’s bitter tone told the story. C Troop had arrived too late, perhaps by minutes, to save their comrades. Nine soldiers sprawled in the graveled ravine bottom. Some had been scalped, but all had been shot or hacked to death. Only buzzing green bottle flies hovering over the corpses moved.

  “Can’t say I have, not like this anyway. Where’re the Kiowa? The Indians they killed?”

  “Doesn’t look as if there are any bodies. Oh, they might have wounded some or even killed a few, but Stone Knife carried away any of his dead.”

  “Smart,” Marsh said. “You don’t know how many braves he’s got, don’t know how many have been killed.”

  “More than that,” Dent said. “My men likely wonder if any of the fallen managed to kill even one of the enemy. It makes the Kiowa into ghost fighters, and that wears at a man’s confidence something fierce.”

  Marsh saw that the bodies had been hastily stripped of weapons and leather belts. The soldiers’ horses were nowhere to be seen.

  “What are you going to do, Captain?” Marsh spoke to thin air. Dent had wheeled about and galloped eastward. A solitary rider approached.

  Marsh shielded his eyes again and recognized Charley Blackfeather. The scout and Dent spoke at length, then Blackfeather rode back in the direction he had come.

  “Troopers, mount up!” Dent cried. He beckoned to his sergeant. They palavered a few minutes, giving Marsh a chance to edge closer to them.

  He caught enough of the orders to know that Blackfeather had found the Kiowas’ trail, and Captain Dent intended to put an end to Stone Knife’s predations or know the reason.

  As Dent finished giving his orders to his sergeant, Marsh called out, “What are you going to do about the dead troopers, Captain?”

  “You, sir, are going to return to Wolf Creek and bring wagons to retrieve their bodies.”

  “That a good idea?” Marsh bit his lip. Dent was less focused on the decaying bodies and the condition they would be in if Gravely drove out with a large wagon than he was in finding the Kiowas responsible for the men’s deaths.

  “Do as you are ordered, sir, or be returned as a prisoner.”

  Marsh knew the captain wouldn’t do any such thing. Placing him under arrest would require a trooper to accompany him back to Sheriff Satterlee’s jailhouse. Captain Dent wanted as many soldiers as possible for the fight ahead—when he tracked down the war party.

  “As you wish, Captain,” Marsh said. Dent and the troopers were already moving at a quick gait on the trail left by Charley Blackfeather. In minutes their dust had settled, and he was alone on the achingly quiet prairie.

  He dismounted and returned to the ravine bank. Nine bodies, already beginning to stink to high heaven in the summer heat.

  Nothing if not a determined man, Marsh unlimbered his camera, tripod and carrying case, made his way down the crumbling embankment and prowled about among the bodies. If he couldn’t get pictures of dead Indians, soldiers would have to do, even if he faked several arrows pincushioning their bodies.

  In an hour, he had his photographs and turned his horse’s face back in the direction of Wolf Creek. The photos weren’t what he had expected, but they might be worth a few dollars if he played his hand right with Editor Appleford.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Wichita

  Sampson Quick added his signature beneath the round blustery likeness of Colonel Magnus McNulty. He signed the work James Reginald De Courcey. It wouldn’t do to sign his work Sampson Quick—not when there was a reward on his head for murder. While in the guise of De Courcey, he took great care to use the proper Received Pronunciation, like a well-educated Englishman, and not let his r’s betray his lower class Cornwall background. To frontier Americans all Limeys no doubt sounded alike—but Quick could not take the risk someone might make the connection.

  Since his release from a Union Prisoner of War camp, Quick, on more than one occasion, had donned a black hood and taken up the life of a highwayman and road agent. His victims were the banks, rail lines, and companies owned by those he considered war profiteers and carpetbaggers.

  There was a five hundred dollar reward for the Cornishman and former Confederate raider. He was wanted dead or alive.

  Quick stepped back and took a moment to quietly appreciate the painting. Rendered in oils, the wealthy owner of the McNulty Cattle Company stared out at his home’s sun-drenched library from the canvas surface of Quick’s masterwork. Within the borders of a gold leaf frame, Colonel McNulty affected a regal pose, complete with the nattily tailored military uniform he had worn while serving as an adjutant to General Meade, the victorious Union general who turned back Lee at Gettysburg. McNulty posed against a panorama of open conflict, the sweep of battle, exploding shells, clashing sabers, and in the background, infantry from both sides locked in mortal combat. At first glance, a casual witness to the depicted scene might assume Colonel Magnus McNulty singlehandedly stopped Pickett’s charge, routed General Lee and sent the army of Northern Virginia limping home to Dixie.

  In truth, McNulty’s war experience had been confined to the Quartermaster Corps, and the nearest he had come to danger was the time a crate of hardtack had toppled from the back of a supply wagon and landed on his foot.

  “Why Mister De Courcey, I was under the impression the portrait was completed. Yet here you stand, brush in hand.” McNulty emerged from the sun parlor at the rear of his estate and entered his study. Sunlight streamed through floor-to-ceiling windows, washed the air with a warming glow, and turned the dust motes into dancing flecks of gold. The former officer wore the uniform of a successful businessman now—a frock coat, matching brushed brown woolen vest and trousers. A checkered cloth had been tucked inside his stiff collar and draped across his ample belly. The cloth was spotted with egg yolk, coffee, and biscuit crumbs. McNulty placed his hands on his hips and paused to bask in the illusion of glory the artist’s skill had brought to life. His jaw worked slowly as he chewed a morsel of sausage.

  “I always sign my work in front of my patron, it is a tradition with me.”

  McNulty had no way of knowing the man in his study was
the notorious rascal the authorities were determined to bring to justice. Sampson Quick had been labeled a murderer. To his way of seeing things, Major Seth Allison—the Union officer he’d gunned down—was the criminal. The Major had a sadistic streak, and vented his twisted nature on his bedraggled prisoners. He was a war criminal. But the victorious Federal authorities saw things differently. After the war, Quick had hunted the man down and shot him dead.

  “Well, I am a man who can appreciate tradition, yes sir,” McNulty exclaimed. “Show me a man who values tradition and I’ll show you a man who has breeding in his background, real breeding.” McNulty placed his hands on his thick waist and studied the likeness.

  “Ever since I set eyes on the portrait you painted of Chester Longfellow, the one that hangs in the lobby of the Missouri Union Savings Bank, I positively coveted it, sir. Coveted it. I knew from the get-go that you were the man to immortalize my achievements.” McNulty sighed, ran a hand through his thinning hair, his mind no doubt filled with fabricated images, heroic fantasies conjured by one who had managed to stay as far from the fighting as possible. “We gave Johnny Reb a hiding back in ’sixty-three. Did you serve, sir? No, of course. You’re an Englishman, the war was none of your concern, eh.” He quickly appraised the artist. The man he knew as De Courcey looked to be in his thirties. He was slender, a bit hollow of chest, and plagued with a nasty cough at times. Curly brown hair hung to his shoulders. His eyes, dark as autumn leaves, seemed to draw everything in, as if the man was always watching, ever observant and poised to react.

  “Longfellow,” Sampson nodded, “I remember him well. Now that was a lengthy sitting.” Sampson had labored on the portrait until he had learned everything there was to know about the bank, its shipment schedule, and the payrolls that were due to be deposited. Late one night he looted the bank, and took all the gold…but left the portrait. Robbery was one thing—art something else, indeed.

  With his share of the haul, Quick had traveled back through the Shenandoah Valley and repaid those hard pressed Southern families who had shown him a kindness when he had ridden with Mosby’s raiders —before General Bragg had requested he lend his skills to John Hunt Morgan on his famous cavalry raid into Indiana and Ohio. Quick was captured on that Great Raid, and imprisoned at the Union camp in Rock Island, Illinois. Upon his release from captivity he made his way back to Virginia, and one of those impoverished Southern families nursed him back to health. It seemed only fitting that money from a Yankee war profiteer would help them and their kind get back on their feet.

  A week ago, he had started back to Wolf Creek and his new studio. But on the train bound for Kansas City, Missouri, a chance meeting with Magnus McNulty had “derailed” his return home. McNulty was eager for a portrait of himself, and Sampson Quick could not resist the opportunity to make an honest dollar—after helping himself to so many dishonest ones at McNulty’s expense. It had been a risky business. Then again, the wanted posters depicting Sampson Quick didn’t do him justice. He could have done much better. Portraits were his specialty, after all.

  “I am glad you approve of my humble efforts.”

  “Approve, dear fellow? Yours is a work of genius! You have captured the essence of…me. This shall hang in a place of honor. We shall have an unveiling next month. I shall invite the town fathers, all my associates, maybe even get Longfellow to come for a visit. The poor man hasn’t been the same since the robbery some months ago. You may have read of it.”

  “I believe so.”

  “Rumor has it the Hounds were responsible. The hooded rogues have been a thorn in my side on more than one occasion. But they will get their comeuppance. Mark my words.”

  “I hope so. I have no use for such thieves and ruffians.”

  McNulty crossed around the easel and the painting with its gilded frame and removed a cash box from his desk. Sampson brightened, and then had to resist the urge to pull the Sharps four shot derringer tucked inside his waistcoat and claim the cash box as his own. McNulty counted out a hundred and seventy-five dollars, placed the stack of greenbacks in an envelope and handed the packet to the artist.

  “I believe that settles the account. Elkins will show you to the door. Have a safe trip back to—Wolf Creek, was it?”

  “Yes sir. Good day, Colonel McNulty.”

  McNulty almost purred. He liked being addressed by his former rank.

  “Wolf Creek,” McNulty repeated. “There was a nasty bank robbery there a few weeks ago, wasn’t there. Even nastier than the one in Kingman the day before yesterday.”

  Quick chuckled. “I suppose it’s a good thing I have alibis placing me elsewhere for both of those.”

  McNulty guffawed. “Oh that is rich, De Courcey! Imagine you as a bandit!” He winked conspiratorially. “Why, perhaps I’d best get my alibis lined up as well, eh! Good day to you, friend!”

  A Negro manservant with salt and pepper hair appeared from a side room and motioned for Quick to follow him to the foyer. “This way sir.”

  Quick left McNulty in the study, in a room of walnut furniture and shelves lined with books he would never read, entranced by his own portrait, a grand illusion framed and signed.

  The manservant held the door for him. Quick crossed the threshold, and made his way from the estate. He needed some new oil paints and sticks of charcoal for sketching. He also needed to get back to Wolf Creek, where he had only recently established a base. But he had one very important stop to make first.

  ***

  Quick approached the abandoned shack, which was located in a draw about twenty miles west of Wichita. It had been used, and probably built, by buffalo hunters. They had long since moved on, or been scalped. Funny how touchy Indians could be when folks started killing off their food source.

  Whatever the reason, the shack’s former inhabitants were gone, and all evidence indicated that the little building had been forgotten. But it had been discovered, and put to good use, in recent months. The Hounds had made it one of their many temporary hideouts in the region. Sampson Quick knew they would be waiting for him there.

  The shack was quiet, and there were no horses in sight. Quick knew they were well hidden, a short distance away. He called out no greeting as he dismounted and approached the door—they would have been aware of him long before he reached the building, even if they had not been expecting him. The Hounds were professionals, after all—and they had each managed to survive the war. None of them was the careless type.

  Quick had known Tom LeBeau and Harlan Graves for a decade. The three of them had ridden together with John Mosby back in Virginia. He had known the Keene brothers, Chester and Bob, for almost as long—he had met them in ’sixty-three, during John Hunt Morgan’s Great Raid.

  Clay Pettibone was the wild card. He had joined the Hounds after one of their original number—another Mosby Marauder named Gip Edmonds—had fallen to a posse-man’s bullet. Pettibone was a couple of decades older than the others, and was crafty as a fox. He had been one of the Missouri border ruffians during the Bleeding Kansas years of the ’fifties, and rode with Quantrill during the war.

  The Keene brothers had vouched for Pettibone—he was a distant cousin—but Quick had always had reservations. Pettibone might have fit in fine with Quantrill, but Quantrill was no Mosby or Morgan. To Quick’s eyes, Clay Pettibone had always seemed like bad company.

  Recent events had proven him right.

  Sampson Quick sighed, more from sadness than from anxiety, before he pushed in the door. His Hounds awaited him. Tom LeBeau was already pouring his old friend a cup of coffee; the other four sat around the table, playing cards.

  “I was beginning to think you wasn’t gonna show, Sam,” LeBeau said as he offered the cup to Quick. LeBeau smiled uneasily.

  Quick took the coffee. “A golden opportunity dropped into my lap. Two opportunities, really—a chance to paint the portrait of a man we’ve been nibbling at, in his own library—all the while familiarizing myself with his home and all the pretty little
treasures therein.”

  Harlan Graves chuckled. “McNulty?”

  “The very same.”

  “I’m glad you had fun, sippin’ brandy and paintin’ your pictures and such,” Pettibone said in a clipped tone. “We was expectin’ you a week ago, and you left us here to twiddle our thumbs.”

  Quick stared hard at his subordinate. “Except you weren’t twiddling your thumbs, were you? You kept yourselves very well-occupied.”

  LeBeau cast his glance to the floor. He had been acting guilty as a whipped dog since Quick first arrived, and was no longer even half-heartedly trying to hide it.

  “I reckon you heard, then,” Bob Keene said.

  “Of course I heard,” Quick said. “Everyone in the territory has heard.”

  “Then you must’ve heard what a haul we made from that Kingman bank,” Chester said.

  “We held out your share,” Harlan said. “We figured you’d’a been with us, if you’d been back in time.”

  “It was probably even more money than you get for paintin’ your lovely pitchers,” Pettibone added with a sneer.

  “I suppose I wasn’t paying attention to that part,” Quick said. “I was too preoccupied, I suppose, mulling over the fact that the Kingman bank is a farmer’s bank, a small rancher’s bank. The railroads and large cattle companies keep their money in Wichita.”

  Chester Keene shrugged. “There’s a lot of law in Wichita, Sam. This Kingman job, hell, they was just settin’ out on the prairie—it’s like they was just waiting to hand over their cash to the first people that wanted to take it.”

  “And the deputy you killed? The teller you wounded? In fact, I heard that several citizens barely avoided being trampled to death when you made your exit.”

  Pettibone chuckled. “It does them clodhoppers good to step lively ever’ once in awhile. Keeps ‘em in shape.”

  Quick’s eyes narrowed. “I find no amusement in harming innocents, or in robbing poor people who are barely able to scratch out a living as it is.”