Toby shook his head and pointed.
Now the victim was lowered another half a foot. Then the warriors added sticks to stoke up the fire. Willy screamed again, his jagged, terrified cry of torment and agony knifing through the woods and valley. Byron couldn’t keep the tears from coming. He shook his head as he watched.
“Ain’t right, nohow,” he said. “Ain’t right that Willy got to go through that. We caused him his grief. We should be out there.”
Toby laughed. “Go ahead, run out there and try to rescue him and get captured. Then the warriors will have two heads to boil, ’stead of just one.”
As the heat from the fire built up, the rawhide around his scrotum tightened, squeezing Will’s testicles like a powerful vice. The heat intensified on the now bare and blackened skull of the man, and his screams came softer and softer until at last they stopped.
More water was splashed into Willy’s face and he writhed on the end of the rope. The fire blazed higher and Willy gave one last terrible, guttural scream and passed out again.
Water wouldn’t help now.
The fire blazed higher. Now they could see blood beginning to drip out of his ears, then from his nose. A gout of blood gushed from his mouth and a slow keening began among the warriors and gradually increased in volume and pitch as the blood flowed faster from his head. The blood inside his skull was boiling.
Just before the keening reached its peak, Willy Hedbetter’s skull exploded like a dropped melon. Blood, brains, and skull fragments showered the warriors.
The keening stopped. Someone swung the body like a pendulum. When at last it stopped swinging, the warriors left the spot and went back to the two young men who were passing their test of pain.
Toby looked at Byron. “Don’t even move,” he whispered. “We just lay here without a sound until it gets dark and pray that the damned savages are heading back to their camp so we can get out of here.” Byron Foster knew he had never been more frightened in his life. If he got out of this, he’d forget all about the gold. Hell, Toby could have it. What good was a whole mountain of gold if you got caught and hung upside-down and had your brains boiled out by some friendly Cheyenne?
By late afternoon, the ritual was over and the warriors began moving downstream. The two young men who had performed the ritual of bravery had to be helped onto their horses. A warrior walked alongside each one so he wouldn’t fall off his pony. Soon the shores of the Arikaree River were cleared of all signs of the Cheyenne, except for the slowly swinging body of Willy Hedbetter.
“We should give the man a decent Christian burial,” Byron said as they lay there, muscles cramping, bodies demanding water.
Toby snorted. “You want to be the one to go out there and cut him down and dig a grave? Don’t talk foolish. Out here, it’s every man for himself. We can’t help Willy any, nohow. We just sit tight till dark, when it’s safe enough for us to get out of here with our gold and our hair.”
Foster mounted in back of Gates, leaving the ore sack on Big Mike, and they rode into the very edge of the valley and around to the second creek, then upstream where they turned toward the easiest pass through the hills.
It took them a half day longer to get back to Wallace. They lugged the canvas bag into Toby’s house and lit a lamp. Byron picked out four of the biggest chunks of pure gold he could find. He guessed they might weight two pounds.
“This is mine,” Byron said. “The rest of it is yours. Forget I ever knew you. I’m not going anywhere near that place again. I’m selling you my half share in the mine for a handshake. I won’t say anything about Willy Hedbetter, you got my word on that.”
“Damned pleased about that,” Toby said. He took Byron’s hand, gripping it hard, then jerked the man toward him. Toby’s left hand held a six-inch-long knife which he plunged up to the hilt into Byron’s belly.
The sutler gasped and his eyes went wide.
“Can’t take your word for not saying anything about Willy’s kin,” Toby said. “Hell, I know you understand.” He pulled the knife out and drove it into Byron’s chest, over his heart, and saw the lights go out in the man’s eyes.
12
The morning after Captain Cavanaugh presented his formal plan for a Quick Ride platoon to Major Owensby, it came back to his desk marked, “Go get them savages!”
Cavanaugh sat a moment savoring the situation. He was pleased whenever one of his ideas filled a need. After all, he had decided while still in West Point that the Army would be his family. His mother had died when he was young, and his father, a judge in Michigan, died while Cavanaugh was in his first year at West Point.
He found Lieutenants Winchester and O’Hara and showed them the plan. He told them what would be required, and both men seemed enthusiastic.
They would create a special platoon out of the forty-eight men of Able Troop. Thirty men and the two officers would make up the fighting unit. First they would ask for volunteers, then select the rest of the men they needed. They wanted no one overweight or too large, since that would slow down the horse the man rode, and the unit would be only as quick as its slowest man.
Lieutenant Winchester posted a notice about the volunteer platoon on a bulletin board at the end of the barracks and said he would talk to the men about it at the afternoon drill call.
When Winchester left, Captain Cavanaugh looked at Lieutenant O’Hara. “The other day on that patrol, you seemed about to tell me something about Lieutenant Winchester. Now that you’ve had time to think it through, is it something that I should know about?”
O’Hara looked away for a moment, then sighed. He nodded. “Yes, sir. It sure is. At the fight when we ran into that raiding party of Sioux, Able Troop commander turned from the conflict and rode away.”
“He ran from the fight?”
“I’m not sure if he ran away exactly. It could have been some rear-end strategy to cut off stragglers after the fight. All I know is that he turned from the battle just before we closed with the enemy and rode away. He did not even try to protect himself ”
“How was that, Lieutenant?”
“He rode at right angles to our attack, and when two Sioux broke through our assault line and galloped toward Lieutenant Winchester, he made no move to escape or defend himself. It was lucky I spotted them and got there in time to kill them myself.”
“When I talked to him after the battle, he looked strange,” Captain Cavanaugh said. “He kept repeating something about so much killing, so much killing.”
“Perhaps the pressure of leading these patrols has taken its toll on him.”
“Maybe, O’Hara. If I knew that for sure, I’d relieve him of duty and send him to Omaha for an evaluation. But I can’t be sure.” The captain hesitated. “There is a way, but it would ruin his career.”
“I’ve been thinking about that, sir. I could accuse him of cowardice under fire and relieve him of duty for the safety of the men.”
“Then I’d have to act. Are you ready to do that, Lieutenant O’Hara?”
“No, sir. I’ve had six months duty here. Lieutenant Winchester’s been in the Army for six years. If a court martial didn’t agree with me, it would be the end of my career, as well as his.”
“Let’s let it ride. We’ll try to present a realistic training exercise and see how he reacts.”
Training was the key word for the next four days. They experimented to see how light they could travel. The ceremonial saber was left off and extra clothes were reduced to one pair of socks. Ammunition was adjusted so each man carried 120 carbine rounds and fifty rounds for the new Colt Peacemaker revolvers that were coming in.
Captain Cavanaugh talked with the veterinary sergeant in charge of the stables, and they determined that the easiest pace for the average army mount was the lope, somewhere between a canter and a gallop. With the lope, the horse had an easy, natural motion that could be sustained for long periods of time without exhausting the animal. By using judicious periods of walking for ten minutes at a time, the
lope and walk could produce six miles of travel an hour.
They went on two practice rides, just Captain Cavanaugh and the veterinary sergeant. The captain chose two horses at random from the stable and had them saddled, but with no field gear. They covered a measured mile six times with the lope-and-walk regimen, and checked the time. They had done the six miles in an hour and four minutes.
Captain Cavanaugh met with the quartermaster, Sergeant James Quinn. The captain explained what he was trying to do.
“What is the average number of pounds of equipment carried by a mount in the field with all regulation gear?”
“Sir, just slightly more than 100 pounds for a five-day march.”
“I want it cut to fifty pounds at most.”
The quartermaster shook his head slowly. “Not possible, sir. The McClellan saddle weighs fifteen pounds itself. Add the halter and bridle and that’s another five pounds. Then the carbine, sling, and swivel are another ten pounds. That’s thirty pounds already. Three pounds of oats a day for the horse. Five day patrol, that’s fifteen more pounds and we’re up to forty-five.”
“Sergeant, you have a list of standard equipment and the weights?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Let’s look at it and see what we can cut out.” A minute later, Captain Cavanaugh looked at the list:
Halter, 2 lbs.
Surcingle, 1 lb.
Saber and slings, 5 lbs.
Waist belt, plate, 1 lb.
Pistol, holster, 3 lbs.
Carbine, sling, 10 lbs.
Carbine cartridge box, 1 lb.
24 rounds Carbine ammo, 2 lbs.
Pistol cartridge pouch, 1/2 lb.
12-round pistol, 1 lb.
Watering bridle, 1 lb.
Bridle, 3 lbs.
Saddle, 15 lbs.
Saddlebags (empty), 2 lbs.
Rations, 11 lbs.
Replacement clothes, 4 lbs.
40 rounds ammunition, 4 lbs.
Forage sack, 1/2 lb.
Oats, 15 lbs.
Lariat and pin, 3 lbs.
Overcoat, 4 lbs.
Brush and shoe pouch, 1 lb.
Curry comb and brush, 2 lbs.
Horseshoes and nails, 2 lbs.
2 blankets, 7 lbs.
Saddle cover, 1 lb.
Captain Cavanaugh looked at the list in amazement. “Over a hundred pounds of equipment and feed, plus the man?”
“Yes, sir. But there are things we can cut down on.”
“We won’t be taking overcoats, and if it’s a three-day patrol, we’ll have nine pounds of oats,” Captain Cavanaugh said. “We’ll live off the land, so we’ll need the minimum in the forage pack.”
“You probably won’t want saber and slings, but you’ll be carrying more ammunition.”
Captain Cavanaugh looked at the list again. “We’ll also cut the watering bridle, saddlebags, brush and shoe pouch, curry comb, horseshoes and nails, one blanket, saddle cover, carbine cartridge box. How much do we save?”
“About thirty-six pounds, sir. But you say you want a hundred twenty rounds of carbine ammunition per man. That’s an additional eight pounds. Then if you go with fifty rounds of pistol solid cartridges, that’s another, two pounds extra . . . Overall you’re saving twenty-six pounds.”
“I’ll settle for that.”
Sergeant Quinn wrote down the list of items to be eliminated and the number of extra cartridges and gave it to Captain Cavanaugh, who took it to Sergeant Long.
The men for the platoon were selected, and the following morning they went on their first training ride. Captain Cavanaugh heard some rumbles when the men were not issued any rations. They were told it was just a training ride.
Three scouts went along with the thirty men who had volunteered, or been selected for the new duty. Both the troops’ officers were along. Captain Cavanaugh angled the troops out of the fort at 6:05 A.M. and picked the gait up to a lope. He rode up and down the column of fours, shouting to the men that this was the gait they wanted to maintain.
“Feels damn strange, Captain, with no saddlebags and no blanket up front,” one corporal shouted.
“Get used to it. We’re saving twenty-six pounds on equipment. Your horse will thank you come sundown.”
They rode for a timed thirty minutes at the lope, then walked for five minutes and brought the pace up to a lope again. None of the mounts faltered, none fell behind. At the end of the first hour, Captain Cavanaugh consulted with Lieutenants O’Hara and Winchester, and they determined that they had covered almost six miles.
Just after they left the fort, two of the scouts had faded away to the left and moved out ahead of the main party. They were to meet on a tributary to the Smoky Hill River called Little Joe, that came into the larger stream in the midst of a large grove of cottonwoods that had got the name of the Hanging Woods.
The meeting place was nearly thirty miles upriver from the fort. If the troop could maintain the six-mile-an-hour pace, they would come to the rendezvous at approximately eleven o’clock.
The sun was warm that September morning, and the troops were sweating before nine o’clock. Captain Cavanaugh called a break under some trees to rest the horses and let them drink.
“Thirty minute rest for the animals,” Lieutenant O’Hara called out to the thirty men. He knew every one of them by name, first and last, and how long most had been in the Army. Only two of the men had served less than a year. A few of them were raw boned and thin veterans of the calvary, and were delighted with this new twist to the Horse Soldier’s routine.
“Might even get to like it, exceptin’ if we got to fight after about three days of this,” one veteran said and lifted his eyebrows.
Three more hours of hard riding, loping, and then walking, and the Quick Ride platoon arrived at the Hanging Woods. They saw smoke from the woods, and Captain Cavanaugh moved the men into a Troop Front as Eagle Feather rode into the woods to investigate.
He was back in no time giving the forward sign, and Captain Cavanaugh rode in with the special platoon.
The platoon’s two Crow scouts were working on a trench about eight feet long. They had built a fire in it and were filling it with wood to make a bed of coals down the length of the depression.
Lieutenant Winchester rode up to the scouts and demanded to know what they were doing. They pointed to Eagle Feather, who was leaning on his carbine, watching the men.
Lieutenant Winchester dismounted, led his horse to drink, and picketed him, then went to Captain Cavanaugh.
“What in hell are those Indians doing?” Winchester asked him.
“Call the troops around and I’ll tell them all at once,” Captain Cavanaugh said. A few minutes later the sergeants brought the men to the fire trench. By now, there was wood burning the length of the eight-foot trench, which was about a foot deep.
“You might wonder what’s happening here,” Captain Cavanaugh said to the men. “On the other hand, you might wonder why you didn’t draw any rations. Almost time for our noon chow call.”
He waved to Eagle Feather, who motioned to the two scouts. They ran into the woods and brought back twenty-five freshly killed pheasants. The heads were chopped off but the birds were otherwise intact.
“On these Quick Ride missions we might not want to carry an extra twenty pounds of food per man. Oats are heavy enough. We can do without rations as long as we have our Crow friends along. Today for noon mess you each get your fill of fresh meat. How does that sound?”
The men cheered.
“Now watch how the birds are prepared and cooked. You might need to do the same thing some time.”
The scouts slit the belly open on the pheasants and stripped out the entrails, piling the birds to one side with the feathers still on. When all were ready, they built up the fire a little more, then let it burn down to an eight-foot-long shimmering bed of coals. The pheasants were placed directly on the coals, feathers and all.
As soon as the birds were put on the fire, one
of the scouts covered them with dirt taken from the trench. Soon all of the birds were covered up on the coals.
“Men, take care of your mounts, rest up, and in about an hour assemble back here and try your hand at Eagle Feather’s field cooking.”
Lieutenant Winchester lay in the grass watching the stream near the other two officers. “How much weight did we save by leaving the saddlebags off?” Winchester asked.
“Twenty pounds,” Lieutenant O’Hara replied.
“I’ve never ridden this far without saddlebags,” Winchester commented with a touch of discontent. “Just doesn’t feel natural.”
“That’s why we’re doing this test run,” Captain Cavanaugh explained. “I want to see how the troops react to the changes, see if there’s any more weight we can shed, and see if we need anything that we’ve left behind.”
An hour later, the troops began to gather with their mess kit cups and skillets. The issue mess kit was almost universally discarded by the troopers for a six-inch fry pan and a quart-sized tin cup bought from the sutler’s store.
One of the Crows began digging off the dirt covering the first bird. When the feathers showed, he stuck a knife into one bird and held it up. Eagle Feather used his knife to slit the bird’s skin and peel it off, taking the charred feathers with it and leaving a juicy, well-cooked bird. Each cooked pheasant was given to two men, who were to skin, clean, and divide it.
Captain Cavanaugh licked off a drumstick and smiled. “All this needs is a little salt, but I guess a body can’t have everything.”
“Catch,” Lieutenant O’Hara said.
Cavanaugh looked up and caught a tiny salt shaker with paper over the screw on top. He took off the top, removed the paper and salted his bird, then passed the salt shaker to Lieutenant Winchester.
“The lad does have some good qualities,” Winchester said, and the officers all laughed.
They made the return trip to Fort Wallace covering the thirty miles in five hours and twenty minutes — a sixty-mile march in eleven elapsed hours.
Captain Cavanaugh told the major about the trek over supper in the fort commander’s quarters. His orderly had fixed a ham dinner.
Cavanaugh's Island Page 11
