“What tribe?”
“Oh, Cheyenne, first one. Big Ear. Usually a right friendly sort, but not anymore. Then I talked to a Sioux by the handle of . . . of . . . Buffalo Piss. He said one of his hunters spotted the shooter and he was a white eye. But this white eye knew the woods better than the brave and got clean away.”
Captain Cavanaugh paced his office. “Any idea who this white man might be, Mr. Chalmers?” “Could be me, but it ain’t. I know them woods and hills and streams like my woman’s left tit. Have to be some white eye who knows the area.”
“Like another trapper?”
“’Pears as how.” Loot Chalmers looked around. “Wouldn’t have a nip of whiskey now would you, Captain? Man gets mighty thirsty ...”
Captain Cavanaugh took a fifth of whiskey out of his bottom desk drawer, and two glasses. He poured a little in each and sipped his.
Loot threw down his whiskey in one shot and smacked his lips. “Yeah, ain’t had nothing that fine in years. Genuine sippin’ whiskey.”
“You saying the Indians are up to something?” “Damn right, Captain. I ain’t seem them so riled up in four or five years. Mad as hell, Captain.”
“Mad enough to make more raids on us?”
“Yeah, they’ll do that. But something else is cooking. Didn’t see in their pot, and they wasn’t saying, but something big is brewing. Heard that in an Arapaho camp, too, and in a Cheyenne village.” Captain Cavanaugh stared at the worn, dirty, bedraggled old trapper. “Sounds like you’re saying the tribes are getting ready to attack with a unified force.”
“No, sir, not me, I didn’t say that.” He took off his black stocking cap and scratched his thinning, graying hair. “I didn’t say it, but you sure as old Billy hell did. Don’t ’pear to be much else that would fit the puzzle, does it, Captain?”
“Damn!” Cavanaugh stood and strode around the office. “How many do you think are in that area you were working?”
“Around the Arikaree? Damned if I know. Could guess five hundred warriors, maybe. Not sure. Could be twice that many.”
“Mr. Chambers, could you get back into that area?”
“Could.”
“Would you go back and work as a scout for the U. S. Army at two dollars a day?”
“Two dollars ...” He looked up. “Hard money? Sixty dollars for a month’s work?”
“Right.”
Chambers held up his glass and Captain Cavanaugh poured him another shot. He downed it and blinked, shaking his head.
“Be damned. I ain’t seen sixty dollars hard money in five years.” He frowned, his hooded eyes almost closed under his thick by brows and heavy lids. He rubbed the back of his neck, then shook his head. “Sorry, Captain. I like what hair I got left. Be worth a white man’s pelt to go back up there right now. Them Indians are crazy mad.”
“I’ll make it three dollars a day.”
The old trapper grinned, then laughed. “Beats all, Captain, but a man with even ninety dollars in his pocket can’t have no fun spending the gold when his head is lopped off and the savages play kick ball with it.” He stood. “Just wanted to pass on what I knew. Up to you what you do about it.” He looked at the whiskey bottle, and Captain Cavanaugh tossed it to him.
“Thanks, Chambers. The Army will have to do its own scouting work.”
As soon as the trapper left, Cavanaugh went in and reported to Major Owensby what the trapper had said.
“You believe him about this sniper, and the possible joining of forces of the three tribes?”
“Yes, sir. Every word. A trapper who won’t make himself ninety dollars for a month’s work is damn scared. He probably hasn’t seen a ten-dollar gold piece for two years. Never seen a trapper who wouldn’t go for army gold. Not before now, that is.”
“So he’s scared but smart. We’ll see what we can find out. Any of our Indian scouts who could get friendly with those tribes?”
“Not a chance. The Crow were enemies of all three of those tribes up there.”
The major nodded. “You going to try that hide- and-seek idea of yours out at some of the outlying ranches?”
“Yes, sir. It’s been a week now since the last raid. We’ll head out in another two days and plan to stay for three days.”
“Good luck.”
The hide-and-seek program was greeted with little enthusiasm by the owners of the two ranches they picked. A man by the name of Harding gave his grudging permission for the troops to camp out in the brush 200 yards from his ranch house.
“I got me a young daughter in there. I spot any one of your men near her, I’ll shoot him dead, you understand me, Captain?”
Captain Cavanaugh assured him that the men would not be anywhere near his house or barns unless there was evidence of an attack. Leaving Lieutenant O’Hara there with half of Able Troop, he went on with the other half to the Fanfare ranch, another five miles west in the shadow of Sunflower Mountain, over four thousand feet tall and the highest spot in all of Kansas. The woman of the ranch refused to let him camp anywhere nearby, her husband being on a drive.
“Ma’am, I’m afraid you can’t tell me no. We’re trying to protect you from the Indians, and we’re here and gonna stay here for three days. You best just make the good out of it you can.”
Cavanaugh rode with the other half of the troop a quarter of a mile west to a creek with a half acre of brushy woods, and set up camp. Main duty was at night for the men. The captain told them what they were doing and how it would work. The whole troop would be on lookout duty from dark to dawn. They would be stationed around the western side of the woods and report everything they heard, even if it was a coyote call.
The first night went without incident. The men went to sleep in the shade of the trees after a hot meal of boiled beef commandeered from the ranch. Fires this close to the ranch would not be suspect by any hostiles, even if they were close enough now to spot them.
The second night, after another trooper reported hearing a horse, Captain Cavanaugh worked up silently to the edge of the brush and spotted two riders working toward the ranch.
“Advance scouts,” Cavanaugh whispered to Sergeant Young. The Indian riders were slowly approaching the ranch house.
Cavanaugh slid out of the shadows and followed them on foot. They came to within fifty yards of the ranch house and sat there until the last light in the windows went out. He watched as the two riders turned and walked their animals quietly back to the west, angling more to the north than the route they had followed coming in, then he returned to his men.
“The advance scouts are on their way back to report to the main force. My guess is that they’ll attack early tomorrow morning. The problem is, they’ll probably want to use this patch of woods to hide in until they attack.”
With daylight, Captain Cavanaugh and Lieutenant Winchester rode around the ranch looking for another hiding spot to the south or east. They found it where the small river curved around the barn and left a brushy strip twenty yards wide and a hundred yards long. They moved the men a few at a time, and well before noon the men were in place. They would sleep the afternoon away, have a good supper, and be wide awake and ready to stand guard until dawn.
Captain Cavanaugh rode up to the ranch house and was met at once by an angry man who was tall and thin and carried a six-gun on his hip.
“What’in hell is this I hear about my ranch being occupied by the damn U.S. Army?” the man bellowed as Cavanaugh stepped down from his horse. “My wife said you even took a side of fresh slaughtered steer the other night.”
“We’re on a training patrol, Mr. Henderson. But our guard noticed that two Cheyenne or Sioux warriors rode up to within fifty yards of your ranch house last night. Your night guard must have seen them.”
“We don’t have a night guard. Why would injuns do that and not hurt us?”
“They were advance scouts. Come dawn tomorrow, you’ll have fifteen or twenty of their friends paying you a call.”
The man frowned. “
You just making army talk?” “Not likely. I expect an attack on your ranch tomorrow morning. You’d do well to have your remuda spread out somewhere so it won’t be stolen. I’d appreciate every hand you have to be in the house and barn with a rifle and about twenty rounds.
“We’ll be watching all night. There are twenty-four of us. As soon as we can see the savages, we’ll move in from our position south of the barn and open fire. It’s our hope that we can rout them before they do any damage to your people or property.
“Get your womenfolk into the root cellar or the best fortified part of the house. How many hands do you have?”
Henderson was now obviously shaken. “Hands . . . yes, six, plus two sons and me. Nine. Nine more rifles. We all can shoot some.”
“Good. Make things look as normal as you can, but don’t walk out in the open come sunup tomorrow.”
“Oh, god! I heard about them other ranches. The damn Cheyenne?”
“Or Sioux. Plenty of them north and west.” Henderson sagged. “Damn heathens,” he said and hurried back into the house.
9
Most of the men of Able Troop of the 13th Cavalry Regiment slept away the rest of the day. As soon as it was dark, Captain Cavanaugh gave Lieutenant Winchester specific instructions.
“I’m going to go out in front of that little woods up north and west of the ranch house where we stayed before. I want to know for sure if the hostiles come in there during the night. If they do, I’ll come right back here. As we discussed, at the first sign of attack we’ll lay down a barrage of fire and try to pick off as many of them as possible. Then we’ll mount and charge before they can do any damage to the buildings or the people. Any questions?”
“No, sir. Good luck out there.” Then Lieutenant Winchester raised his eyebrows. “You’re going to walk, sir?”
“Yes. You ever hear of slipping away without a sound when you’re riding an army mount? Besides, I don’t want that gelding of mine to be horse talking with about thirty Indian ponies.”
“Yes, sir, I see.”
Captain Cavanaugh left the cover of the trees and walked around the ranch buildings. He didn’t want some ranch hand’s over-eager trigger finger to blast a few rounds at him. He circled the structures and moved toward the woods two hundred yards northwest of the place. When he could see them in the half-light of the quarter moon, he walked straight ahead until he found a semblance of cover. It was a small bush and the beginning of a wash. He could lie down in the wash and leave his head and shoulders even with the rest of the land, but still conceal himself under the bush.
He lay there for hours, then looked up at the Big Dipper. It was working its way slowly around the North Star on its nightly journey. By the position of the stars, he knew it was midnight. Soldiers, cowboys, and wandering minstrels were probably the only ones who used those stars for a watch.
Off in the darkness, he heard a coyote begin his mournful howling. Far off toward the mountains he heard others pick up the call. Then suddenly all the coyote howling stopped.
He listened hard, straining to hear the smallest rustle. For a long time he heard no sound, then soft footfalls came across the silent prairie. He turned toward the sound and it came louder, more distinct but still soft.
Hooves! he thought with satisfaction. Were they coming directly at him? He listened again, then stared toward the sounds. There were still no clouds, but the quarter moon’s light was faint.
Then across thirty yards of land he saw moving shadows. Horses — Indian ponies — each with a shadowed rider. They were heading for the woods. Vainly he tried to count them. A dozen, fifteen, twenty? He wasn’t sure. They came even with him, then moved on south and east, heading directly for the dark mass of trees along the stream.
He lay there listening and watching. Nothing else moved. He lifted himself up and moved away from the woods, then swung back around the farm buildings. He wondered if he should tell the Hendersons that the Indians had arrived, but decided against it. They would stay more alert this way.
As he came toward his own men, he walked upright without making any noise. No one challenged him. He walked into the brush and saw two men talking, their backs to the ranch.
He touched one on the throat with his six-inch knife.
“Trooper, you’re dead” he hissed. The private’s eyes widened in fear. “If I had been a Cheyenne, your throat would be slit and your friend would get a second knife in his belly and die in two or three hours. You’re on report, mister! Stay alert!”
Nothing happened until the first faint signs of daylight showed to the east. The troopers had their horses saddled, their weapons loaded and ready. They would fire prone with aimed shots for Indians or their ponies, then mount up and charge on command.
When they saw the first Indians, they were walking their horses slowly toward the buildings. It was just light enough to see.
“Pick a target,” Cavanaugh announced, and the command went down the line of twenty-four troopers. “On my command,” he said.
The Indians were 30 yards from the buildings. Some of them were masked by the barn.
“Two rounds, fire!” Captain Cavanaugh bellowed. The carbines barked, then the men scrambled into saddles.
“Forward . . . hoooo!” Captain Cavanaugh yelled. Then almost at once, “Charge, fire!”
The wave of twenty-four troopers and officers swept toward the ranch buildings. The Cheyenne had charged into the yard as soon as the rifles were fired. Now Cavanaugh heard firing from the men in the barn and house. The Cheyenne ran around in confusion, more used to surprising an enemy than being surprised.
Captain Cavanaugh lifted his Spencer and fired quickly at a Cheyenne who galloped toward the ranch house with a torch in one hand. The carbine .52-caliber round struck him in the chest and drove him off his mount, the torch blazing harmlessly on the dirt.
The line of cavalrymen swept forward. Some of the Indians saw the blue shirts coming and turned and galloped away. Others were not so quick to see the danger. The troopers parted as they came to the barn, swung around it and the corrals, and charged straight at the Cheyenne still mounted.
Carbines gave way to revolvers as the soldiers fired at the redskins. The six-guns barked, and four of the Indians fell, mortally wounded. Four more mounted warriors slanted around the house and fled north.
Cavanaugh bellowed at four troopers near him. “Follow me!” he barked, and they swung to the side with him and the five of them chased the retreating savages. Riding without holding onto the reins, Captain Cavanaugh brought down one of the Cheyenne with a well-placed shot from his Spencer. A trooper knocked down a horse and the other two Indians split up, heading off at sharp angles to each other.
Signaling to his left, Cavanaugh led his men in hot pursuit of the survivors. One of the Indian ponies hit a soft spot in the plains and stumbled, pitching the warrior over his head and into the grassy plains. The two cavalrymen nearest the downed rider pumped shots at the Cheyenne. One of the .45 rounds struck home and the Indian’s face erupted in a spray of blood.
Cavanaugh swung his horse around and galloped back toward the ranch buildings. He was almost there when one Cheyenne came racing toward him from out of the barn. By the time he turned to look ahead he was face to face with five cavalrymen. Three carbines barked and the redskin flew off his pony and never moved again after he slammed into the dust.
Troopers milled around still mounted, looking for more targets as Cavanaugh and his men returned to the yard. Lieutenant Winchester came riding up, a strange look on his face. Cavanaugh ignored him for a moment until he was sure the fight was over. He counted six dead Indians.
“Sergeant York, check the hostiles and make sure they are all dead.”
York saluted and walked toward the Indians lying on the ground.
“Well done, Lieutenant,” Cavanaugh said to his second-in-command. “How many got away?”
Lieutenant Winchester swallowed hard, then found his voice. “Four, maybe five. They won�
��t be telling any victory stories in the tepees tonight.” He looked relieved that the fighting was over.
“Take charge of the men and form them up over by the barn. Get a casualty report. I didn’t see any wounded, but there might be some. I’ll check on the civilians.”
The captain rode to the front of the ranch house. Two men came out on the porch, big smiles on their faces.
“By damn, we gave them sons of bitches a hot welcome,” one young man said. Behind him came the owner of the ranch.
“Any of your people hurt, Mr. Henderson?” Cavanaugh asked.
“Just some cuts from flying glass. We lost two windows, but that’s about it.” He walked over and held out his hand for Cavanaugh to shake.
“I want to thank you. I was a blamed fool for getting angry with you. How’d you know the damned injuns would come here, anyway?”
“Didn’t. Just took a chance. We covered another ranch, too.”
“Glory! How many we kill?” the young man asked.
“Seven, eight, maybe nine. Should be some Indian ponies around, if you want to round them up. They’re smart and tough.”
“Might try that,” the youth said.
“Damn, now I guess we got to bury these corpses,” Henderson said, looking around at the Indians they’d killed.
“I reckon,” Captain Cavanaugh agreed. “You tell me where and I’ll get some men to start digging, if you can spare a shovel or two.”
The younger Henderson boys stripped the bows and arrows and feathers off the dead Indians for souvenirs. Men from the barn saddled up, hooked ropes onto the Indians’ ankles, and dragged them out to a common grave the troopers were digging a quarter of a mile from the house.
Later, the two officers sat in the ranch house kitchen and drank coffee and talked with the ranch couple. Henderson’s wife heated up some cinnamon rolls she’d made the day before.
“How many horses do you have on your ranch, Mr. Henderson?” Cavanaugh asked.
“All together, I’d say about sixty. We do some trail driving to the railroad.”
“Sixty horses is a prize the Cheyenne will come after again and again. Best to keep them spread out around your ranch. Then maybe they’ll bypass you. Staying alive should be worth it. We can’t be here every time you need us. We were lucky this time, we all agree on that,” the captain added.
Cavanaugh's Island Page 8
