Kiowa Vengeance

by Ford Fargo

“Looks like they bein’ chased,” Charleston said.

  “Everybody get your weapons. Asa, get somebody and be ready to move that buckboard. We’re gonna have to let them in here.”

  “Gotcha, Sheriff,” Asa Pepper said.

  “This ain’t good,” Satterlee said, as it became clear that the men being chased by the Indians were soldiers. “Ain’t good at all.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  As Benteen, Quick, Weatherby and Cora approached the barricaded main street with the soldiers around them, somebody moved a buckboard, creating an opening in the wall. Meanwhile, riflemen up on the rooftops began firing at the Kiowa who were chasing them. They had been a mile from town, almost home free, when the large party of Kiowa suddenly appeared. Several troopers were shot from their horses before they could react, and then it made sense simply to ride for town.

  They rode through the opening in a barricade, which quickly closed up behind them. Benteen and Quick dismounted and joined the vanguard on the barricade—along with the members of C Troop—firing at the charging Kiowa. Eventually, the Indians turned and rode away from town, having taken a few casualties.

  Satterlee yelled, “Stop firing!” He turned to face Sergeant Nagy. “Sergeant, where’s your Captain?”

  “He’s ridin’ for Fort Braxton, sir, along with Charley Blackfeather.”

  “What for?”

  “They’re thinkin’ they can get Old Mountain to stop Stone Knife before he goes completely on the warpath.”

  “I think he’s a little late, don’t you?” the lawman asked. “Why didn’t you go with him?”

  “He ordered me and the troop to escort these people to town.”

  “What people?” Satterlee asked.

  “It’s me, Sheriff,” Hix said, stepping forward. “John Hix.”

  “Hix,” Satterlee said. “Weren’t you on the stage?”

  “I sure was, Sheriff, but we was hit. Me and these folks here got left on foot.”

  “Dave Benteen, Sheriff,” Benteen said. “I’m the new gunsmith. This is Cora Sloane the new schoolteacher.”

  “And who’s this?” Satterlee said.

  “That’s Weatherby,” Benteen said. “He’s a drummer.”

  “James Reginald De Courcey,” Sampson Quick said. “I established an art studio here a few weeks ago.”

  “The stage got hit,” Hix said, “driver and shotgun killed. Also the Manning place.”

  “All of ‘em?” Saterlee asked. “The kids, too?”

  “Yeah,” Hix said.

  “Charley’s okay, though?” Em Charleston asked.

  “Yeah, Charley’s fine,” Hix said.

  “Well,” Satterlee said, “if they’re gonna get back here with Old Mountain, they better do it soon. Was that Stone Knife chasin’ you?”

  “No way to tell,” Nagy said, “but we were outnumbered. And it probably wasn’t the main Kiowa force.”

  “They’ve got a lot of raiding parties out there,” Benteen said. “Once they all join together—“

  “They’ll overrun us,” Satterlee said. “Well, Sergeant, we’re glad to have your guns with us. Do a roll call and let me know how many men you have.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  C Troop had lost six troopers, including the veteran Cash, leaving them with fourteen men. Satterlee had Nagy spread them out along the barricade, and on the rooftops. Benteen, Hix and Quick also joined the men on the barricade. Weatherby found a corner to hide in. Cora Sloane was shown to the Wolf Creek Community Church, where the women and children were. The Methodist church was much larger, but it was located right at the edge of town, on First Street, and was too vulnerable.

  The defenders of Wolf Creek braced themselves for an assault.

  ***

  Every bounce of his ass on the McClellan saddle made Captain Tom Dent want to scream in pain. His piles were a discomfort on a normal ride; pushing their horses to get to Fort Braxton was making his affliction unbearable. Dent hated to even think what it would’ve been like without Charley’s poultice, which did help some. The captain supposed he was going to have to go under the surgeon’s knife—he was dangerously close to the point of being unfit for duty, and he shuddered to think of receiving a medical discharge for such a reason. Imagine explaining that to the grandkids someday.

  Assuming, of course, he lived to see grandchildren. Dent knew there was little chance of encountering any hostile Kiowa on their current course—Charley Blackfeather was confident of that, and Dent trusted him implicitly—but he still half-expected to feel an arrow between his shoulder blades at any moment.

  Dent was damned happy to finally see Fort Braxton on the horizon. The sentries were a little apprehensive when they saw one of their junior officers and their chief scout approaching the palisades hell-bent-for-leather, but quickly realized there was no sign of pursuit so they opened the gates wide and let them inside. Old Mountain’s party was already there—several Kiowa men, most of them seasoned veterans and some with white or steel gray hair, milled around on the parade grounds. They, too, grew anxious when Dent and Charley entered with lathered horses, and their worried murmurs were audible from a distance.

  Colonel Vine, apprised of the new arrivals, walked out of his command quarters. Two aides, a translator, and an elderly Indian trailed behind him. Dent assumed the Indian was Old Mountain, though he had never seen the man personally; Charley and the Kiowa greeted one another respectfully.

  “Good God, man,” Colonel Vine sputtered. “What the hell is going on here? I’m pretty sure you had a full company with you when I sent you out!”

  Dent saluted—he knew he should dismount at once, but was putting that painful action off for as long as possible.

  “I did, sir,” Dent said. “I sent them to Wolf Creek to help defend against the raiders.”

  “Raiders?”

  “Yes, Colonel. Stone Knife—at least I assume he’s leading them—he has a sizable force of renegades. They’ve hit several ranches, and were headed for the town.”

  The translator whispered Dent’s news to the old chief, and he shook his head sadly.

  “Charley and I were hoping Old Mountain would come back to Wolf Creek with us, and try to convince his son to call this off and go back to the reservation before more people get hurt.”

  Vine’s eyes narrowed. “My ass,” he said. “I’ll lead this whole regiment there, and give those traitorous savages some convincing they’ll never forget!”

  Charley spoke up. “You right, Colonel,” he said. “Smart thing to do is send a big enough force at ‘em. But it couldn’t hurt nothin’ to let us go a little ways ahead, with the chief here, and see if we can’t prevent a full-scale engagement. If’n he’s willin’.”

  Vine scowled. “I generally don’t seek tactical advice from my scouts, just intelligence. But I trust you, Charley, you haven’t steered me wrong yet. If the chief here can convince those hotheads to stand down, it might go a long way toward reassuring the local folks, not to mention Washington, that this whole parley today wasn’t just a planned distraction. Not that it does those poor ranch families any good.” The colonel chewed on the end of his mustache for a moment. “All right Captain, if the chief is agreeable we’ll do it your way—he can ride out with you right now, and I’ll have the regiment fall in and be close behind.” He turned to one of the aides. “Thompson, get these men some fresh horses.”

  A worried look crossed Charley’s face, and he cast a glance at Dent. The captain knew his friend was concerned about his ability to make another hard ride in his delicate condition. Dent answered the look with a curt shake of his head, silently imploring the scout not to mention his apprehension before the colonel. Vine had turned away and missed the exchange.

  Old Mountain stepped away from his interpreter and spoke directly to Charley Blackfeather, who nodded at his words.

  “What’s he saying?” the colonel demanded.

  “He says, him and his council come here to parley with you in good faith. He told his
son to keep the young men under control and not fly off and do somethin’ foolish—but now they done it anyways, and made Old Mountain look like a weak leader, and a liar, and he’s been shamed. He’ll make that boy mind, or else he’ll knock the little sumbitch in the head.”

  Vine’s eyebrows crawled up his forehead, and Charley shrugged.

  “Not in them exact words,” the scout explained, “I’m just givin’ you the gist of it.”

  Thompson arrived with the horses, and one of Old Mountain’s men brought his pony. At a word from the angry chief, all his companions mounted up as well.

  “Good luck, Dent,” Vine called out as they rode away. “We’ll be no more than half an hour behind you! I just hope there’s a town left when we all get there!”

  So do I, Dent thought. Or there’s going to be hell to pay.

  ***

  The men of Wolf Creek spent the next couple of days spelling each other on the line, and on the rooftops. Emory Charleston’s boss at the forge, Angus Sweeney, stood double shifts on the blacksmith shop’s roof, his .fifty caliber Austrian at the ready. He was joined on his long watches by Marshal Sam Gardner; the town marshal had received a serious leg injury in the recent Danby bank raid and was unable to stand, so a chair was hoisted up to him. Logan Munro was on hand tirelessly, medical bag always within reach—and the Beaumont-Adams revolver the Scottish doctor had carried through three wars tucked into his waistband.

  Benteen had not had much time to talk with Sheriff Satterlee, but on the third day he found himself side-by-side with the lawman.

  “I didn’t really get a chance to welcome you to Wolf Creek, Mister Benteen,” Satterlee said, coming up next to him. “You’re probably gettin’ a lot more than you bargained for.”

  “Didn’t expect a party, Sheriff,” Benteen said.

  “Wanna fill me in on Mister De Courcey?”

  Benteen looked at Satterlee.

  “Why ask me? I’m as much of a stranger to you as he is. More, maybe, since he’s been here before and claims to be one of your citizens. You talk to Hix?”

  “I did. He has nothing to say about Mister De Courcey. He does, however, seem to trust you.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “He says it was your idea to ambush a Kiowa raiding party and take their horses,” Satterlee said. “Says you saved their lives.”

  “Didn’t do it alone.”

  “That may be,” Satterlee said, “but what’s your take on De Courcey?”

  “He doesn’t strike me as the kind of man who would stop to help four people on foot.”

  ”And yet, he did.”

  “Yep.”

  “What else?”

  “He tries way too hard to be a Southern gentleman,” Benteen said. “Or maybe a Southern English gentleman, from that accent.”

  “You think he’s fakin’?”

  “I think we all got secrets, Sheriff,” Benteen said. “He’s no different.”

  Satterlee looked further down the line, where De Courcey was standing.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him. Look, why don’t you get somethin’ to eat over to the saloon and then come back in, say, half an hour.”

  “Much obliged, Sheriff.”

  “Right down the street. Some of the women are servin’.”

  ***

  Benteen entered the Lucky Break Saloon, which had been pressed into service as a sort of soup kitchen. Men were seated at tables, eating, while women served them.

  “Mister Benteen.”

  Benteen turned and saw Cora Sloane coming toward him.

  “Seems like we both got kind of involved right away, huh?” he asked.

  “I’m doing what I can,” she said. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “Yeah, I would. Thanks.”

  “Have a seat. I’ll bring you some coffee and food. I’m afraid you won’t have the luxury of ordering what you want.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  “I’ll bring it right over.”

  Benteen took a seat. In moment Cora returned with a bowl of beef stew, a hunk of bread and a beer.

  “Do you mind if I sit with you while you eat?” she asked.

  Benteen took a moment to look at the pretty schoolteacher. He actually preferred to eat alone, but he said, “Sure, why not? I don’t mind.”

  She sat across from him and said, “I wanted to tell you that you made me feel safe out there, when you took control.”

  “I just made some suggestions.”

  “Well, I wanted to thank you, anyway,” she said. “However, now that we’re in town I’m not sure I feel any safer. Would the Kiowa really attack an entire town?”

  “They would,” Benteen said.

  “Can the town be defended?”

  “It can, but not easily. The Sheriff has the main street barricaded, and has sentries on rooftops in case they try to come in from another direction, but a town this size, it’d be very hard to keep them out if they really wanted to come in. Luckily—” He stopped.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Stone Knife is a renegade who wants to show his strength. I don’t think he’ll sneak into town. I think he’ll come in the front door.”

  She shivered, rubbed her arms. “Some of the women are worried, talking about what Indians do to white women.”

  “Let’s hope it won’t come to that,” he said. He cleaned the bowl out with the last of his bread, washed it all down with the beer. “Much obliged—” he started, but was interrupted.

  A man burst through the batwing doors and said, “They’re comin’ in! Sheriff wants everybody on the barricade!”

  Benteen got to his feet and told Cora, “Get back to the church and stay there.”

  “Be careful!” she called after him.

  ***

  Benteen took his place on the line and stared out into the distance—the near distance. The Kiowa had lined up in preparation to charging. There were more of them than anyone had suspected. To his right stood De Courcey, and on his left was John Hix.

  “If they decide to hit us hard, they’ll overrun us,” Hix said.

  “Nothing we can do but fight,” De Courcey pointed out.

  “Sure are a lot of them,” Hix said.

  Benteen looked at the two men, still feeling there was something going on between them. But like he’d told the sheriff, everybody had secrets. He himself was no different.

  “Have you decided if you’re going to stay in Wolf Creek permanent when this is over, Mister De Courcey?”

  “Seems to me, Mister Benteen,” Sampson Quick replied, looking out at the Kiowa, “that might not be a decision I’ll have to make.”

  Benteen seemed puzzled, and Quick nodded in the Indians’ direction.

  “The savages,” he announced calmly. “They’re charging.”

  “Holy shit,” Hix said softly.

  “I said they’d come in the front door,” Benteen said. “I wish I’d be wrong once in awhile.”

  The Kiowas galloped toward Wolf Creek, their battle cries splitting the air.

  Sheriff Satterlee had stationed himself on the roof of the blacksmith’s, with Angus Sweeney, Emory Charleston, and Marshal Gardner. The sheriff shouted down to the men on the line.

  “Hold your fire, boys, till they’re in range good—then let ‘em have it!”

  He had no sooner spoken than Angus Sweeney’s Austrian rifle boomed and a warrior flew off his horse. The rangy blacksmith in the Confederate kepi shrugged at the sheriff.

  “Hell, G. W.,” he said. “They’re in my range.”

  Sergeant Nagy and his troopers, who had been manning the north barricade, rushed to the main line, and the defenders started firing. Indians and horses fell in tangled heaps—but the Kiowas who kept surging ahead returned fire. First bullets, then arrows, began thunking in to the barrels and wagons of the barricade. Down the line from Benteen, a cowboy went down with an arrow buried in his eye socket. Another was knocked backward by a rifle slug.
<
br />   “Howie!” one of the cowboy’s pards, Billy Below, yelled. His other companero, the Cherokee drover Jimmy Spotted Owl, limped over to help him—Jimmy was still nursing a thigh wound received in a shoot-out with the Danby gang weeks earlier.

  Howie waved the Cherokee youth back. “I’ll be fine, Jimmy, get back on the line!”

  The defenders were shooting furiously into the approaching Kiowas. Benteen could not help noticing the cool efficiency with which the men on either side of him operated—for a barber who claimed to know little about fire-arms and an English dandy with a paintbrush, they held up under fire like seasoned professionals.

  The wave of Indians collided with the tightly packed barricade, and several of them clambered over the top and dropped into the middle of the defenders. One leaped onto the back of the Lucky Break’s house gambler, Sam Jones, and dragged him to the ground. The Kiowa raised his tomahawk high to bash the gambler’s brains in; before he could do so, the bounty hunter known only as Rattlesnake Jake tackled the Indian and wrestled him to the ground, repeatedly pounding an Arkansas toothpick into his chest. Deputy Marshal Quint Croy pulled Jones to his feet.

  Nagy’s troopers swarmed over the Indians who had made it inside—after several hard-fought moments the Kiowa were dispatched, but not before they had killed two citizens and Trooper Klein.

  The withering fire from the barricades drove the other Indians back, and they wheeled around in retreat. Several citizens up and down the line cheered—but the more experienced ones knew it was only a temporary respite. The Kiowas regrouped, just out of range.

  David Appleford, editor of the Wolf Creek Expositor, ran a shaky hand through his sandy hair. He had seen a Kiowa cave in the skull of the man standing next to him on the line, and had barely turned his revolver in time to shoot the warrior in the face and avoid having his own brains dashed out as well. All his normal daily concerns seemed trite now. His only thoughts were the hope he would live to see his thirtieth birthday in September and the regret that he had ever left Denver to come out here and marry that Wichita pastor’s daughter—who had abandoned him the first time she laid eyes on Wolf Creek and gone home to papa anyhow, leaving him with no comfort save Wil Marsh’s salacious photographs.