Cavanaugh’s Island
Arrow and Saber Book 2
Robert Vaughan
Cavanaugh’s Island
Arrow and Saber Book II
Robert Vaughan
Kindle Edition
Copyright © 2018 (as revised) Robert Vaughan
Wolfpack Publishing
6032 Wheat Penny Ave
Las Vegas, NV 89122
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any means without the prior written consent of the publisher, other than brief quotes for reviews.
ISBN: 978-1-64119-409-9
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-64119-410-5
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
A Look at Commanche War (Arrow and Saber 3)
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About the Author
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Cavanaugh’s Island
1
Major Andrew Qwensby tracked the savage with his long gun and squeezed off a shot. He had led the charging Indian just right and the .52-caliber slug from the rifled bore of the Spencer carbine slammed through the redman’s chest and jolted him off his charging war pony.
“Yeah, by damn!” Major Owensby muttered as he levered another round into the Spencer. He shifted his weapon to the other side of the broken-out window pane of the stage line’s west Kansas swing station and fired again.
He swore and worked the lever, pumping a fresh round into the weapon, and found an attacker coming directly at him. Lifting his weapon, he fired in an instant due to long practice and a batch of natural instinct. The round hit the war-painted Indian, who was less than ten feet away, in the face, taking off half of the back of his skull. The war pony swerved around the small cabin with the dead Sioux warrior still on its back.
A rifle round caught the window frame near Major Owensby and sent splinters flying into the room.
“They gettin’ a belly full” a teamster firing from the window on the other side screeched. His name was Vern Tuttwise and he was the driver of the Butterfield Overland stage that had just pulled into the swing station for fresh horses when the Cheyenne raiding party hit. The Cheyenne had attacked without warning. “Sure as hell, they’re getting tired of being shot up,” Tuttwise said. “They’ll be hauling their red asses out of here any minute now.”
That was when the eight people barricaded in the small building smelled smoke.
“What kind of roof this thing got on it?” Major Owensby barked.
Vern Tuttwise looked up. “Shingles, and they’re what’s burning!”
Major Owensby glanced at the two women crouched beside the stone fireplace, the most secure spot in the one-room structure. They looked frightened but seemed to be holding up well. No damn tears at least.
A hardware drummer looked out the other window and snapped off a shot from his six-gun. “Get closer, you cowards” the hardware salesman shouted.
Two stable hands and the shotgun guard took turns with rifles at the third window toward the front of the cabin. The guard had traded his scatter gun for a Springfield and used it with cool efficiency. “Jeeze, how many of them heathens are out there?” he asked. He tracked a hostile on his horse and fired. The slug cut into the horse’s neck and it went down in a cloud of dust.
Major Owensby figured they had maybe ten minutes before smoke would come pouring in so thick they’d have to run for it — right into the arrows and bullets from the Cheyenne out there.
“How many Indians left?” Major Owensby demanded. He saw four out his window, three of them riding off the far side of their horses, giving a man no target.
“I got three over here,” the driver said.
“Only two back here, and one’s wounded,” one of the stable hands said.
“No choice,” Major Owensby said. “Aim for the horses. Without their mounts, these Cheyenne can’t fight worth a damn!” He looked at the women. “Excuse the language, ladies. Now cut down those Indian ponies!”
The rattle of gunfire from the cabin erupted again. The younger woman, a blonde about twenty, held her hands over her ears. The older woman frowned at her, then looked up at the Army major waiting stoically.
Major Owensby cut down two war ponies before the Indians realized the new strategy. They quickly pulled back out of pistol range and behind a small rise. As they fled, the major could count the hostiles. They had only five horses left. He opened the front door, letting it bang against the wall, and a gush of fresh air came with it. No rifle fire came through.
He sprawled on his belly on the rough wood floor near the door and checked through the opening. Smoke filtered down through the sheeting on the roof.
The creek bed, he thought, had a four-foot bank. They had to get there before the fire got any worse. Smoke spread down now all the way to the floor and one of the women was coughing. Major Owensby’s eyes began to smart. The riverbank was their only hope. He crawled over to Tuttwise.
“I’m going first with the ladies. You men cover us. Fire at the savages and keep them busy. Then the rest of you come in a bunch and I’ll cover you. Head straight for the creek. Better than getting roasted alive in this shack.” A weak place in the roof sagged in and they saw flames. A three-foot-long sheeting board from the roof fell through the burned-out rafters.
“Ladies, come up here, please,” the major said gently. He slipped the sling on his Spencer over his shoulder and nodded at the women. They came quickly and huddled beside the door. He stood at the other side of the opening and jabbed a stubby finger at the teamster. “Time to start covering us, Tuttwise. Now!” he shouted, then took the women, one by each hand, and ran out the door. Turning a hard left, he raced for the creek and the lifesaving protection of the four-foot dropoff.
Three rounds came toward them but missed. They were out of range of arrows. He jumped down the bank first, then caught the youngest woman as she teetered and fell over. The older woman sat down and skidded to the bottom. He unslung his Spencer and began firing at the cluster of Indians a hundred yards off. As usual, there was no Indian commander, or leader telling the Indian warriors what to do; each was a strategist and a general to himself. That was why the Army would eventually whip the-redskin warriors into submission, Owensby assured himself.
Suddenly, he heard a war cry and two Cheyenne warriors galloped forward. The old army Indian fighter figured that both warriors would stop, wheel around and race away from the cabin. Owensby had seen the harassing tactic a dozen times before and tracked one rider through the sights of his Spencer. The minute the redskin stopped his horse to wheel it around, the major fired. When the .52-caliber slug hit the rider, it took a chunk of flesh off his middle, dumping him over his mount’s neck.
Out of the corner of his eye, Owensby saw the five men from the cabin charging the creek. The major fired as qu
ickly as he could lever the rounds in the Spencer carbine until it was empty.
He grabbed another tube of rounds from the Blakeslee Quickloader packet over his shoulder, yanked the empty tube out of the baseplate of the Spencer, and pushed in the new tube. He charged a round into the chamber with the cocking lever under the trigger and then fired again quickly. At a hundred yards it was like they were in the same room. He’d had this personal Spencer weapon sighted by experts. He could blow the wings off a horsefly at a hundred yards and never harm the body.
Major Owensby put down another horse, then the men from the cabin began jumping over the side of the bank and started firing as soon as they got in position.
“Anybody get hit?” Owensby demanded.
“Yes, sir,” one of the stable hands called. “Caught an arrow in the leg early on, but I broke it off.”
“Damn fine work, son. Just hold on a few more minutes. We got out of the cabin, but we’re not safe yet. These has” ... he glanced at the women, “these Cheyenne will circle around and fire from the other side. We’ll have to split up so half of us go across the creek to that other bank.”
Three of the men lifted up and splashed across the ankle-deep water to the far bank twenty feet away and picked out firing positions.
The cabin burned fiercely now. They could feel the heat.
“There goes my last deck of cards,” one of the stable hands said.
“Cards? I just lost a new pair of pants and my best boots,” the other swing station worker said.
“How far from here to Fort Wallace?” the major asked.
The driver looked up. “Right on to ten miles,” Tuttwise said. “We was to get fresh horses here, but the Cheyenne kind of spoiled that.”
“No sense worrying about that now, here they come. Every rifle back on this side. You three, come back over here,” the major bellowed. “Wait until you can see them good before we fire,” he ordered. “Don’t know about you boys, but I’m getting a mite short of rounds.”
“I got six left,” the driver said.
“Ten or so here,” another man added.
The teamster had five. The two stable hands had ten each.
“Here they come,” Major Owensby said. “They’ll charge past yelling and screaming. Don’t show yourselves except to fire, then drop down. Hit those horses and we’ll have a chance.”
The Cheyenne raced forward in a line, one after the other. Three men shot the first Indian off his horse and the others slanted away from the creek.
Another horse fell in the ragged firing that followed. Then they were past and into the brush near the creek below the burning cabin. A billowing tower of black smoke climbed into the Kansas sky as the rest of the roof fell in.
“They’ll be back,” Major Owensby said. He knew what came next. The Cheyenne would creep up on them through the brush and be within easy bow- and-arrow range. He figured they had one chance in six of getting out of this alive. Damn, one in six. And to think of all of the tight spots he had been in during the Civil War and since then fighting a dozen different Indian tribes.
“Don’t worry, ladies,” he said touching the brim of his non-regulation army hat with a small plume on it. “We’ve got them on the run. They’ll be pulling out of here right quickly now.”
Vern Tuttwise looked at him and scowled. The driver knew better. Still, why paint a bad picture for the women. They’d know soon enough. He still had his six-gun. If everyone went down, he would save three rounds, two for the women and one for himself.
Major Owensby checked the Cheyenne. They had circled behind some brush where the creek bent and were now out of sight. They would regroup and catch any loose war ponies. They’d be back.
If he had even half a troop of cavalry, he’d run those savages down and blast them right into hell. The major rubbed a weathered hand over his face, tanned and windburned from many campaigns in the field. No time for wishful thinking now. He’d had a good life. Didn’t make permanent rank of light colonel, but he still had been a Brigadier General during the war. Had a whole damn division of infantry and artillery. Brevet, but what the hell? He might never get his star back now.
“Here they come,” the hardware drummer called.
Six of them, all in a pack, thundered forward heading straight for the creek bed where the six men and two women huddled.
“Knock down the front ones,” the major bet lowed. “They’ll try to overrun us!”
The Cheyenne were less than a hundred yards away and storming forward when Major Owensby heard a shot from the right. He looked that way and saw twenty horsemen at full gallop. The man in front had a guideon snapping in the breeze. The dark blue blouses and sky blue pants could only mean they were U.S. Cavalry.
The cavalrymen charged straight at the surprised Cheyenne. Army carbines barked as the platoon front of mounted men spurred toward the hostiles in an open charge so each man could fire, The Cheyenne broke off their attack, wheeled around, and galloped away from the onrushing Horse Soldiers.
“Be damned,” Tuttwise said. “Looks like your escort came to fetch you, Major.”
Half of the troopers continued to chase the hostiles, the rest swung off and raced up to the burning stage coach swing station. The mounted soldiers checked four dead Indians and three horses as they came forward, making sure the Cheyenne were only spirits now.
A tall cavalry Captain rode up to the riverbank and dismounted. He snapped a salute to the officer in uniform still leaning against the dirt bank. He was twenty-seven years old, over six feet tall, with blue eyes and brown hair. He had a “cavalry tan” and smiled at the officer in the creek bed.
“Major, Captain Marcus Cavanaugh, acting commander of Fort Wallace, at your service.”
The major waved his right hand in a half salute and scowled.
“Damn glad to see you, Captain. We jumped out of the frying pan over there into a fire. Figure we had about an hour left. Help the ladies out of here.” Captain Cavanaugh jumped down the embankment, took the younger woman’s hand, and helped her to stand, then led her up the bank. He came back for the older woman, who thanked him as she brushed the dirt off her long skirt.
The young captain returned to the major, who still leaned against the embankment. Cavanaugh was surprised at the man’s appearance. The officer was short and squat, overweight, with a scraggly beard that would never pass inspection. Beards were supposed to be kept “neat and short,” according to the new regulations. His uniform was the strangest combination of officer’s clothing Cavanaugh had ever seen. His shell jacket had a double row of buttons with a floppy sailor-type collar and knotted kerchief. The lower sleeves of the shell jacket were festooned with bright red gallons of embroidery with metallic threads, much as the Confederate officers used to show rank. His civilian dark blue trousers were store bought and his boots were polished leather that came ten inches above his knees.
The major jumped quickly up the embankment, surprising Captain Cavanaugh with his agility. “Well now, what do we have left here?’ Major Owensby asked, looking around.
The stage was intact, but the lead horse was down in the traces. The stable hands quickly ran and unhitched the animal and put it out of its misery with a pistol shot. Then they turned the stage sharply and drove the rig away from the dead horse. They harnessed a new lead horse in its place.
“Looks like you’ve got a cavalry escort into Pond Creek Station, if that’s all right with the major.” “Fine by me. But tell me, Cavanaugh, how you came to be around this part of the trail.”
Captain Cavanaugh gave a quiet order to a sergeant, then turned back to the major.
“Out on a training patrol, sir. Actually, checking to see how well the men are progressing. We received thirty new troopers last month with no training at all, as usual. Sir, I’d guess that you’re Major Owensby, the new commander of Fort Wallace, home of the Thirteenth Cavalry Regiment. Welcome, sir.”
The major looked at the captain and nodded. “Right, I’m the one, if
we ever get there. Tuttwise, when do we leave this place?” he yelled at the driver.
“A few minutes, Major. I want to check the other horses.”
The major looked back. “What’s your TO & E strength, Cavanaugh?”
“We’re assigned twelve troops of cavalry. Right now we have an average of one officer per troop instead of three, and two sergeants instead of five per troop. Instead of seventy-two privates we average about forty. Probably about the same as it is all over the army.”
“Sounds familiar. Do more with fewer men and fewer dollars. I’ve been through that.” His small black eyes seemed to stare right through the Captain. The major’s face twisted a minute in frustration. “Wanted to tell you, Captain, that I didn’t ask for this post . . . but you know the Army. Go where we’re goddamned well sent.” They walked over to the stage. “What about the headquarters staff?” “About the same, sir. We’re short about forty percent of our officer TO & E, but we’re almost up to strength on our enlisted specialists.”
“That sounds normal, too. Captain, I’m curious. How did you know that we were in trouble over here?”
“One of my outriders said he heard rifle fire, so we headed this way. We were about two miles off. Then we saw smoke and came at a gallop.”
The old soldier took off his hat, revealing thinning brown hair, and wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Captain, you got here at the right time. We might have held them off one more charge, but I’m not sure. My troops were damn thin and we had less than five rounds per man. Damn glad you showed up.”
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