Frontier America

by William W. Johnstone

  For a second, he thought about telling O’Connor to stay there and hold the horses. But he knew the sergeant would never go along with that, so instead, when he had swung down from the saddle, he said, “Private Jenkins, you stay here and hang on to these mounts for us. I’ll let you know when to bring them on up.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. MacCallister,” the trooper responded.

  O’Connor snorted disgustedly and said, “Jenkins, you ought to show that much respect to Lieutenant Davidson when you talk to him.”

  “Yes, Sergeant O’Connor,” Jenkins said. “I’ll try to remember that.” He didn’t sound very sincere about that.

  O’Conner glared at him for a second, then turned to Jamie and said, “What do we do now?”

  “Your rifles should be loaded and primed. We’ll walk ahead until we’re in range, then stop and pick out our targets. We’ll probably only have time for one volley. We might be able to reload and get off a second shot before the rest of the herd spooks and takes off. But most likely not, so make that first shot count.”

  Mackey, Albright, and Stallworth nodded. O’Connor just looked vaguely hostile.

  Side by side, the five men started forward at a deliberate pace.

  Jamie was at the right end of the line, with Mackey next to him on his left, then Stallworth, then Albright, and finally O’Connor at the left end. Jamie didn’t care how they were arranged as long as they all did what he told them to do.

  Soon they were close enough that instead of a large, amorphous dark blob, they were able to see individual buffalo and make out some details in the animals nearest to them. The huge, shaggy beasts stood with their heads down as they grazed contentedly. Jamie and his companions approached until they were a hundred yards away from the edge of the herd.

  “Good Lord,” Albright breathed. “There are so many of them. If they ever did stampede in this direction, there’s no way we could escape. We’d be goners.”

  “They’re not coming this way,” Jamie said. “They’ll run away from the sound of the shots.” He raised the heavy Sharps. “Draw your beads, and make sure none of you are aiming at the same buff.”

  The troopers lifted their rifles and pressed their cheeks to the stocks. Jamie aimed his Sharps at a massive bull that might weigh close to a ton.

  “Wait for me to give the word,” he whispered.

  Before that could happen, however, quick movement came from the other end of the line. Jamie saw it from the corner of his eye and looked in that direction in time to see O’Connor swinging his rifle to the south.

  “Indians!” the sergeant yelled. “They’re attacking us!”

  “No!” Jamie said. “Don’t—”

  It was too late. O’Connor pressed the trigger, and his rifle went off with a loud blast that echoed across the plains.

  CHAPTER 17

  Preacher knew his Sharps could bring down a buffalo at a distance of several hundred yards, but his Crow friends didn’t have that luxury. They had to get a lot closer than that for their arrows to be effective. Back in the village, there were a few old muskets, but they were even less suitable for hunting buffalo than bows and arrows.

  So as they approached the vast herd, Broken Pine said, “I ask that you not shoot, Preacher. Allow us to go among them.”

  Preacher nodded in both agreement and understanding. The Crow were good horsemen. Not as good as the Sioux, the Pawnee, the Cheyenne, and the other tribes that spent most of their time on the Great Plains, carrying out all their hunts from horseback. But the Crow were capable of riding among the buffalo, dashing alongside as the shaggy beasts stampeded, and driving arrows through their thick hides until the buffalo collapsed.

  “You go ahead,” Preacher said from atop the slight rise where the Crow hunting party had come to a halt to study the buffalo herd. The mountain man chuckled. “I’ll wait here and enjoy the show.”

  Preacher dismounted and called Dog to him. The big cur sat beside him. Preacher laughed again when he heard Dog whine quietly.

  “Yeah, I know you’d like to go out there and chase them buffs around. Hawk and his friends don’t need you spookin’ ’em, though. Just stay here with me, and I’ll make sure you get a bloody haunch later on.”

  Preacher and his friends had ridden quite a distance to the south, then swung back to the northeast to approach the herd. That way the Crow hunters wouldn’t be coming in with the wind at their backs. That would have carried their scent to the buffalo. The big beasts were a mite stupid, but they still had a survival instinct and knew to run away when they smelled humans.

  Broken Pine and Hawk That Soars rode in front of the others. As chief, Broken Pine would have the honor of leading, and he must have told Hawk to come with him. The others were close behind and would be ready to dash into the herd as soon as the time came.

  There was considerable danger in this method of hunting. The buffalo were lumbering creatures, but once they had built up some speed, they could move fairly fast. If a pony placed a hoof wrong and fell, horse and rider both were almost certainly doomed. The shaggy brown tide would roll over them, and what was left would barely resemble anything that had ever been alive. Preacher had witnessed such grim, deadly accidents before.

  It was thrilling, though, no doubt about that. Watching the nimble-footed ponies darting and weaving among the leviathans, guided unerringly by the slightest touch of a knee or a moccasin-shod foot . . . that was enough to make any man’s heart pound with excitement, even one as experienced in life on the frontier as Preacher.

  Hawk and Broken Pine were moving faster now as they urged their ponies toward the herd. Behind them, Big Thunder and the others did likewise. The warriors drew arrows and nocked them on their bows.

  Preacher frowned suddenly as he caught sight of something on the prairie beyond the hunting party. They were just dark shapes at first, but as Preacher’s keen eyes narrowed, he realized he was looking at men standing there, and even farther away, several horses. Another bunch of hunters after the buffalo . . . ?

  He saw a spurt of grayish-white smoke and a second later heard the flat boom of a rifle shot. Preacher stiffened, and his hand tightened on the Sharps he carried.

  Somebody else was out there on the plains, all right, and they were shooting at Preacher’s son and friends!

  As Preacher watched, one of the warriors jerked but didn’t fall off his pony. Preacher figured the man had been hit and could only hope the warrior wasn’t wounded too badly. And he was human enough to be glad that it wasn’t Hawk who was hurt.

  More shots boomed in the distance, accompanied by puffs of powdersmoke. Dog barked in alarm. Preacher said, “I know,” and turned quickly toward Horse. “All hell’s breakin’ loose out there.”

  He vaulted into the saddle with a grace and agility that belied his age. A touch of his heels sent Horse bursting forward into a gallop. Preacher saw that Hawk, Broken Pine, and the other warriors had wheeled around and were riding hard back toward the little swell from which the mountain man had been watching the buffalo hunt.

  But now the men who had attacked them were mounted and charging after them.

  Preacher hauled Horse to a halt and lifted the Sharps. He aimed at the attackers, who had to be close to half a mile away. The Sharps would carry that far. While hunting, Preacher had knocked down mountain goats at that range. He hadn’t been aiming from horseback, though, at moving targets.

  He pulled in a deep breath and held it as he drew a bead on one of the riders. He might not score a hit, but he figured he would come close enough to spook them and break up their charge. As his eyes narrowed slightly, he stroked the trigger.

  The Sharps boomed like thunder and kicked hard against his shoulder. In the distance, one of the riders slewed around in his saddle and toppled off his horse. Preacher smiled grimly as he lowered the rifle.

  One of the other riders slowed and turned his horse to see about the fallen man. But the others continued pursuing Hawk, Broken Pine, and the other warriors. One of
the men—Big Thunder, judging by the size of him—rode close to the wounded warrior and held on to his arm to support him.

  Preacher reloaded the Sharps as his son and friends galloped toward him. He waved them on, and they swept past him and disappeared over the rise. Preacher wheeled Horse and followed them, with Dog running and barking beside him.

  That little swell of ground would give them some cover, thought Preacher. They could fort up there . . . and then those varmints would discover that they had bitten off a lot bigger chunk than they could chew!

  * * *

  “Damn it, no!” Jamie shouted even though he knew it wasn’t going to do any good. Not at this point. O’Connor had already made a terrible mistake.

  Jamie could only hope that it wasn’t going to get all of them killed.

  The mounted Indians were too far away for Jamie to make out many details about them. He couldn’t tell what tribe they belonged to, although he didn’t think they were Pawnee. He wasn’t even sure exactly how many there were, since the shot had caused them to mill around a little.

  “Open fire!” O’Connor bellowed. “Shoot those savages!”

  “Don’t—” Jamie began, but Privates Albright and Stallworth ignored him. They had lowered their rifles in surprise when O’Connor fired, but now they jerked the weapons to their shoulders, pointed them roughly in the direction of the Indians, and pulled the triggers. Jamie didn’t think they were going to hit anything, but just the fact that they were shooting at those warriors was going to make the situation worse.

  Hoofbeats thudded behind them. Jamie looked around and saw Private Jenkins hurrying toward them, bringing the horses with him in response to urgent arm waves from O’Connor.

  “Mount up!” the sergeant yelled. “We’re going after those redskins!”

  “Blast it, stop this!” Jamie said. “You don’t have any reason to pursue those men.”

  “They attacked us!” insisted O’Connor. “They had their bows and arrows ready to shoot us!”

  Jamie knew then that the Indians must have been after some of those buffalo, too. They were a peaceful hunting party, ready to dash among the herd, start the buffs running, and pepper some of them with arrows until the beasts collapsed. He had witnessed such things many times.

  O’Connor, in his ignorance and inexperience and arrogance, had mistaken that for an attack on them and had responded violently, without thinking. Now he was trying to aggravate the problem even more.

  “Mount up!” the sergeant shouted again.

  The troopers started to climb onto their horses.

  “Mackey!” Jamie snapped. “Don’t do this.”

  The corporal had a miserable expression on his round face as he hesitated and turned to Jamie.

  “The sergeant gave us a direct order, Mr. MacCallister,” he said. “We can’t just ignore it.”

  “I’ll have you in irons, Mackey!” roared O’Connor.

  Mackey just glanced at Jamie again, shook his head, and stepped up into the saddle. The others, including O’Connor, were mounted by now, and with the sergeant in the lead, they thundered after the Indians, who appeared to be heading for a small rise not far away. Jamie figured they intended to take cover there and put up a fight.

  If they did that, O’Connor was liable to lead those soldiers blindly to their deaths.

  Grimacing, Jamie swung up into his saddle and galloped after them, hoping he could still do something to head off this disaster.

  Before he could catch up, he heard a boom from somewhere up ahead. One of the troopers jerked in the saddle and then fell off his horse. Jamie couldn’t tell which of the soldiers had been hit, but none of them deserved it. This was all O’Connor’s doing. Chances were, the Indians would have left them alone if O’Connor hadn’t shot one of them.

  The gunshot puzzled Jamie, though. From the sound of it, he thought the shot might have been fired from a Sharps like the one he carried. Some Indians had firearms, although such a thing was rare and usually the guns were old and not that effective. The Sharps was a fairly new design, though.

  The man who had been shot off his horse was lying on the ground, writhing in pain. At least he wasn’t dead . . . yet . . . thought Jamie. One of the other soldiers turned back, probably to aid the wounded man.

  As Jamie rode closer, he recognized the man on the ground as Private Jenkins. The one who’d turned back was Corporal Mackey, which came as no surprise to Jamie. The corporal was conscientious and would want to know how badly his comrade was hurt.

  O’Connor, Albright, and Stallworth continued to pursue the Indians.

  Jamie and Mackey reached Jenkins at the same time. Jamie was out of the saddle and on the ground before his horse even stopped moving. He dropped to a knee beside the wounded private.

  The upper left arm of Jenkins’ uniform tunic had a dark stain on it. Jamie didn’t see blood anywhere else. He put a hand on Jenkins’ shoulder to stop him from jerking around.

  “Take it easy, son,” Jamie said. “I don’t think you’re hurt too bad.”

  Mackey had dismounted, too. He knelt on Jenkins’ other side and asked, “Where was he hit?”

  “Left arm, looks like.” Jamie felt around on Jenkins’ torso. “Doesn’t seem to be any other wounds. Let’s see how bad this one is.”

  Jenkins had subsided a little now. He had been writhing around in panic as much as pain, Jamie thought. Now the young soldier lay there on his back, face pale and eyes wide as he panted.

  Jamie pulled out his knife, cut through the sleeve of Jenkins’ tunic, and then ripped a piece of it downward to reveal the wound. There was quite a bit of blood, but Jamie could tell that the bullet had just plowed a shallow furrow in the outside of Jenkins’ upper arm.

  “You’re going to be fine, Private,” Jamie assured him. “We just need to clean that wound and bandage it up some. Your arm will be a mite stiff and sore for a while, but there shouldn’t be any lasting damage.”

  Jenkins gulped and asked, “You mean I . . . I’m not going to die?”

  “Not from this.” Jamie glanced after O’Connor and the others. “Although I don’t make any promises about what other stupid thing that sergeant of yours might do.”

  Corporal Mackey got to his feet and said, “If Jenkins is going to be all right, I have to go after Sergeant O’Connor and Albright and Stallworth.”

  “You’d better not,” Jamie said in all seriousness. “They’re going to get themselves killed, charging after those Indians like that.” A note of anger came into his voice as he added, “That was just a harmless hunting party. They would have left us alone. Now, because of O’Connor, their blood’s up and there’s no telling what they might do.”

  Mackey swallowed hard and said, “All the more reason for me to do my duty, Mr. MacCallister.”

  “Do what you have to, son,” Jamie said as he jerked his head in a curt nod. “I’ll look after Jenkins here.”

  Mackey started to turn away and reach for his mount’s dangling reins. As he did so, he paused and said, “Wait a minute. It looks like they’re coming back.”

  Jamie lifted his gaze and saw that the corporal was right. O’Connor, Albright, and Stallworth had turned their horses and were headed this way at a hard run. A few arrows flew around them. Other shafts fell just short, burying their heads in the ground right behind the flashing hooves. That Sharps boomed again, and Jamie grunted as he saw dirt geyser into the air about ten feet to O’Connor’s left.

  Jamie closed a hand around Jenkins’ uninjured arm and hauled the private to his feet. That made Jenkins gasp.

  “Come on,” Jamie said to his companions. “We’d better pull back some, or else whoever has that Sharps is gonna be taking potshots at us before you know it!”

  CHAPTER 18

  Preacher rode over the rise, dropped out of the saddle, and swatted Horse on the rump so the gray stallion would run off for a ways and be out of the line of fire. Carrying the Sharps, the mountain man turned back to his friends.


  The warriors had dismounted and sent their ponies running on to safety, as well. As Preacher hurried to join them, he saw that Swift Water was the one who had been wounded. The sturdy warrior lay there, breathing hard as one of the men held a handful of grass to a bloody patch on his side, trying to slow down the bleeding.

  “I . . . I am ready to fight!” Swift Water managed to say. “Let me . . . fight!”

  Broken Pine knelt beside him and touched his shoulder, saying, “Rest, my friend. You will fight another day. Today, we will deal with our enemies.”

  Hawk stepped up beside Preacher and said in a low voice, “Preacher, those are white men. They wear blue and white clothes, like the soldiers we saw in St. Louis. And you shot one of them.”

  “I know,” said Preacher, his voice hard and grim. “I saw that, too, just about the time I was squeezin’ the trigger. But they were comin’ after you and these other boys, so I wasn’t gonna worry too much about what they was wearin’.”

  “The white man’s law may come after you for shooting a soldier.”

  “Right now, I don’t give a damn about that,” Preacher declared. “Those sorry sons o’ bitches might’ve killed you or Broken Pine or Big Thunder, instead of just woundin’ Swift Water. For that matter, we ain’t sure yet how bad he’s hurt, and he’s a mighty good fella, too. So I don’t care. Somebody shoots at me and my friends, he’s gettin’ some lead comin’ back his way.”

  Broken Pine said, “Big Thunder, hold this grass against Swift Water’s wound. The rest of you, come with me.”

  Like the other warriors, once the shooting started Broken Pine had put the arrow he’d had nocked back into the quiver of shafts slung over his shoulder. He drew one now and readied it as he eased up to the crest of the little rise. The rest of the hunting party, including Hawk, joined their chief. Preacher stretched out on his belly beside them to watch the soldiers riding closer.

  “There are only three of them now,” Broken Pine said, “and yet they pursue and intend to do battle with us. They are foolish, like most white men.”